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Part Of The Legend : Origins

Summary:

Optimus tries to reconstruct his life after getting expelled from the Academy. Ratchet is left bitter by the war. Bulkhead can't seem to fit along with his classmates. Bumblebee wants a chance to show he's unique. Prowl lives with the weight of guilt on his shoulders.

At least, until...


Become Part of the Legend! Join Seibertopia Tales Online!

When real is dragging you down, better take some time off and go explore the wonderful digital world of Seiberutopia Tales Online, Cybertron's #1 MMORPG. Fight rivals and monsters, go on epic (or not so epic Quests), search for treasures or just enjoy a relaxing time with friends and leisure activities.

And, who knows? Perhaps through your trials and tribulations, you'll meet the love of your life, renew with old acquaintances, make enemies for life, mend broken relationships, try to convince your friends not to commit real-life murder on your behalf, punch out legendary players in the face (repeatedly), learn to curse your (bad) luck, build yourself an unwitting harem, heal from your traumas, or find the family and home your Spark always wished to have...

Notes:

Ladies and gentlemen and other gendered beings, I welcome you *bows down*

Let's have a foreword before letting the ball rolls.

This story was my Nano project for 2018. An old idea I had for many years now, ever since I saw some SAO episodes for the first time in fact, but never acted on due to various reasons. When unsure of what to pick for Nano last november, I ended up thinking now would be as good time as any and I put myself to work, reworking the original plans until I got the current ones.
I had so many ideas and plans, so many notes -- like, almost a dozen pages worth of outline on Word, not to mention a dozen of Excel sheets with details. That should have rung my alarm bells right away. Because the story, once I started typing? It turned far more massive than I had first expected. By the end of November, I had officially reached Nano goal and went far beyond, reaching 70k worth of text. And the worse, though? Those 70k barely cover the first five points of the outline and only the five(six) 'main' characters, aka Team Optimus, whereas I had many more I wanted to add and play with. How the hell did that happen? X_X O_o

I won't lie, writing so much in so little time took a lot out of me, so I put writing the rest of the story on hold for now. That said, I wanted to still share what I wrote already, and here it is.

And you want to know the other funny/not funny thing? That story was first imagined as an honest to god comedy. I had plenty of ideas for humorous ficlets, including the Inevitable Gender Bending plot, Megatron the Angrily Clucking RobotHen (should I explain? ^^), the Ratchet Protection Squad (featuring, I must mention, a fem!Sunstreaker and her pet Insection Bob) putting the fear of Primus into people, and Optimus being goofy over learning that Primus' Champion Is My Therapist.

Instead, the 70k I wrote are... an angst feast. Seriously. All I seem to have written are Self-Esteem Issues, Bullying, referenced Trauma, implied Alcoholism, sexually transmitted diseases, and if I had continued further, comedy spots asides, I would have also included racism (though it might be in already, not sure anymore at this point), dubious ethics, gender issues and/or transphobia, and others 'niceties'. It sorta feels like no-one has a good beginning. Uh. Perhaps it's no wonder that fic turned the way it has after all <.<

*coughs*

But nevermind. The idea here was -- and still is, if I manage to get back into writing mood, which I haven't been in months -- to worldbuild and to show how the various characters came together as a team and family of choice, cue the unhappy beginning they're all in despite the fun summary. What can I say? I love worldbuilding; lots of my stories never go further than worldbuilding!

Anyway, I wish you a good reading. Have fun!

Chapter 1: Origins. Optimus 1

Chapter Text

Normally, Optimus had nothing against commercial breaks or pop ups while he was perusing through videos or accessing the Grid. While most were utter gibberish or thinly veiled attempts to brainwash you into buying products you didn’t need, there were still a few entertaining ones every now and then.

However, it was the fifth time in less than a cycle that this specific one ended up popping in his face, and it was becoming very old very fast.

Become Part of the Legend! Join Seibertopia Tales Online!

Grunting, Optimus closed the window even as the famous actor Hoist launched himself into a speech over his game avatar, a Lancer, taunting people as he did. “And you, what are you playing to?”

“Nothing,” Optimus muttered as he shuttered his optics for a moment and forced himself to relax. It wasn’t the ad’s fault, really it wasn’t. It just… brought too many memories back, some of which were still too painful to dwell upon.

“Oy, Opti! You’re done here?” Someone called over and Optimus sighed as he lighted his optics again and turned his seat to face Dirttrail. The tan and yellow mech has his arms crossed over his chest and was tapping his foot impatiently, his whole frame rattling in anticipation.

“I am,” Optimus confirmed, rising up and stretching his limbs. He hadn’t realized how stiff they had started to become. “Sorry, the computer is all yours,” he offered as he moved to the side, letting the smaller mech access to the only functional recreation terminal of their small, cramped ship.

“Finally! Thank, mech!” Dirttrail hooted and jumped into the seat without further invitation, long digits already tipping madly to open up his chosen Grid windows – and Optimus was unsurprised to see one of them was advertising mechs with, ah, a ‘relational’ kind of business. That was Dirttrail, after all; the other mech had never cared (and probably never would) if all his shipmates knew he was spending his free time (and shanix) to call phone interfacing operators.

At first, Optimus had protested; surely, Dirttrail’s occupation was, if not illegal, then at least punishable? But neither Proton Major, the ship’s captain, nor Racket, his de facto Second, had done more than raise an optic ridge or level a flat-look at Optimus when he had tried to breach the subject and Optimus had stumbled back out of the room, not daring to put in an official complaint over his superiors’ heads. That would have made living on the ship in relative harmony impossible, and making enemies out of his team was the last thing Optimus needed; he had enough of those already.

So… Optimus turned the other way when he saw Dirttrail heading for the Rec Room and pretended he had no idea what his teammate was up to while trying not to let his cheeks overheat from the embarrassment. He always made sure to only go when Dirttrail was on duty – or at least he tried to. Today was an exception, one brought up by the fact that Cordage had managed to injure himself while bending to lift containers, forcing Extensao, their medic, to start and operate him as he could (“I told him to come and see me for that cracked back strut ages ago, but did he listen? Noooo, of course! Stupid old pile of spare parts!”) and taking two of their number down from the regular work shifts.

Optimus had pulled a double himself before taking some time off, wanting to connect to the online part of the Iacon Archives to borrow and download a copy of an historical report he had heard a lot of good things about, check out if perhaps he had received new messages (of course he hadn’t; who would write to him nowadays, he thought bitterly?) and perhaps check out some ads for lodging; he still didn’t have a permanent address on Cybertron since… well, since.

They were scheduled to return in two decacycles, and Optimus still had no idea where he would be sleeping. Probably on the ship or, bar that, in the old barracks for maintenance personnel who were in-between assignments again, he thought dispassionately. It would be nice to have a place to call his once more. In a way, Optimus had looked forward that break and that search.

Sadly, since Dirttrail had finished his own shift not even a cycle after him, all his careful plans had fallen apart. The other mech had no patience, and since Optimus had had the computer to himself for a cycle already, surely he didn’t need it for more?
Optimus hadn’t seen the point in arguing.

Awkwardly, he shifted from foot to foot, trying to come up with something to say, anything. He needed to try and be closer to his team, he knew it. His therapist had suggested Optimus should try to open up to more people, and he was trying to follow the advice. But Dirttrail was… They had nothing in common, really, asides of both being Autobots and of both being assigned on a Space Bridge repair crew.

“I’ll… be going, then,” he finally said, hating how unsteady his voice sounded. Frag, why couldn’t he be more assertive?

Dirttrail hummed, not even letting his optics wander away from the screen. “Yeah, yeah.” He paused briefly, optics darting over his shoulders. “Say, my mech, you’re sure you don’t want me to try and hook you with that femme on Kammabi? I mean,” he added at Optimus’ stunned look, “You look like you could use some fun, and I swear, that femme, she has such great lips, knows how to use them too, especially on your…”

“I’m not interested,” Optimus responded swiftly and probably more coldly than he should have, but Dirttrail just shrugged.

“If you say so, mech. I just wanted to propose,” he turned back to the screen, cooing. “Alright, my pretties, now come to see Daddyyyyy!”

That was too much. Optimus didn’t run away, but he certainly walked very fast and made a point of closing the door behind him – not that Dirttrail seemed to notice or even appreciate; already, Optimus could hear him talk up to someone loudly through the door. He should let Cordage knows the noise isolation was getting shabby again – not that it would change much of anything, the red and blue mech sighed to himself. The Dion was a very old ship and it was full of little malfunctions that the crew kept repairing, only for them to pop up again and again a few orns later. Sometimes it amazed Optimus that the thing was still space worthy.

“Probably not for much longer,” Proton Major had conceded when Optimus had tentatively breached the subject with him last orn, as they were both making repairs on a section of the hull while the rest of the team was busy checking out the Space Bridge’s system. “We’re reaching the limit here; I know it as well as you. Give it a vorn, then we’ll probably suffer a critical malfunction. Perhaps that’ll decide the higher ups at Fortress Maximus to get us a new ship, but I wouldn’t bet on it, son,” he had said, biting down on a cy-gar with a look of distaste on his face. Optimus had (wisely?) said nothing.

It was no secret that the Autobots’ ship armada had suffered heavy losses during the Great War and that Ultra Magnus’ prioritized the attribution of new, well-warmed and well-maintained ships to the Elite Guard patrols tasked with the surveillance of the Commonwealth’s border and all the military groups beside. Space Bridge technicians, despite the important nature of their job, had to make do with ‘rusty old buckets’ like the Dion.

Proton Major seemed to be of two minds about it; he minded… but he also didn’t mind. Or at least, he minded that High Command wouldn’t let simple technicians have better, state-of-the-art ships, but he also didn’t really mind working on the Dion. “I served on the Dion since I was a ‘bot barely older than you, Optimus. I’m becoming old enough to seriously think about retirement and I can’t see myself serving on any other ship. It wouldn’t right, not at all. If my ship goes down, then I’ll end up taking my leave from the Autobots,” the old mustached mech had stated, looking straight into Optimus’ optics. “That’s an ending I can feel comfortable with. Don’t worry though; if it comes to that and your formation isn’t finished, I’m sure they’ll transfer you to another unit to finish your training. And if it is… well, given they named you a Prime, you’ll probably get your own ship to command. What you think, mechling? Excited by the idea?”

“… I don’t know, Sir,” Optimus had replied carefully. “It will be a big responsibility.” A responsibility he wasn’t sure he was ready to take, but he dared not say it aloud. Proton Major had just given him a joyless smile before lighting up his cy-gar.

“That it will be. Let’s see that you’re ready to face it up, hmm? Pass me that solder and watch how I do it, will you? I don’t know what they’re teaching you young ‘bots in that Academy, but you did a piss-poor job of welding those plates together! See, that’s how you should have done it…”

That had been a bard, but not a cruel one, and it had slide on Optimus’ plating like water. Proton Major hadn’t been and still wasn’t trying to hurt him, Optimus knew it. And really, the situation was… Well, jabs were expected. It was just so (un)funny.

Optimus was supposed to be a Prime and as such, have the highest rank on the ship; technically, he should have been the commanding officer… but he was also a complete novice when it came to Space Bridges. Sure, he had studied about them, but never before had he had the occasion to work on one and there were plenty of things related to their maintenance that didn’t pop up in the Academy classrooms. Plenty of things Optimus was slowly picking up as he worked under Proton Major, his official teacher on Maintenance before Optimus was deemed ready to take a command of his own among the technicians, thank to Ultra Magnus deciding that the red and blue mech could still serve the Autobots in some way, despite...

Slag, but how humiliating it was. Optimus’ only relief was that asides of Proton Major, nobody on the ship knew of his real rank; the old captain had chosen to keep it to himself, for which Optimus could only feel grateful. He didn’t want to think about what the rest of the crew would say if they knew. For all his efforts in trying to bond with them as a team, it just wasn’t working – not right, at least.

Proton Major was his teacher and superior officer officially, and Optimus felt himself obligated to keep him at arm-length, less someone would decide that their relationship was suspicious. The mustached mech didn’t share much of his past with Optimus either way. The Prime got along well enough with Cordage, who was almost as old as Proton Major though in poorer health (the back strut incident was only one malfunction among many; last time, the old mech had fissured a knee and before that, he had torn two cables in his shoulder), and he was respectful of medic Extensao, who was in turn kind to him, but… there was no close camaraderie here either. As for the other two members of the crew, Racket seemed to have taken a dislike of him on sight the moment they met, possibly thinking Optimus was here to steal his place as the ship’s Second and Dirttrail didn’t have much interest in hanging around what he considered a ‘dipstick’, unless he needed a fourth player for a cyber-poker game.

Adding the fact Optimus was technically an officer would have further doomed all of his (pitiful) attempts at building trust and teamwork with the crew of old mechs and misfits who saw no point in truly greeting an outsider in the fold.

Slowly, Optimus made his way to his quarters, taking careful note of all potential dysfunctions he could spot and adding them to the growing list of repairs he and the rest of the crew would need to handle in between two checks on the Space Bridges network. Three dead light bulbs, a leaking pipe of water running toward the washracks and a popped wall panel were witnessed before Optimus reached his destination; he even fixed the panel himself on the way, seeing no point in waiting for it to be done when it barely took a few cliks to fix. It even managed to take his mind off his current problems as he worked, which was a nice bonus.

After all, what was he supposed to do during the rest of his off cycle, he thought miserably as he let the door of his quarters slide back shut behind him? As far as quarters went, it was cramped – not exactly thought out for a mech of his size and more for the smaller, more energy-efficient frames of Minibots – and Optimus hadn’t put much effort into giving them a more ‘homely’ touch. A stack of datapad on a shelf atop the small desk, a cushion to ameliorate the comfort of the creaky chair (he hadn’t been able to resist – that thing was far too uncomfortable without one), a neatly folded pair of heat-regulating blankets he used whenever the ship’s environment-controlling systems had a hiccup (again) waiting at the foot of the berth, a frame containing the picture of a landscape filled with crystals on a wall, and another frame turned face down on the desk.

That was it.

Pitiful, really. Optimus had never been one to amass a lot of possessions to begin with, and he had had to part with a lot after the trial. Most of what remained, he preferred to keep in storage on Cybertron, thinking and arguing with himself it was better that way, that he didn’t need those things while his future was still so shaky, that he needed to find a new home before he transferred the rest of his stuff.

His optics wandered to the neat row of datapads. Honestly, they contained nothing he hadn’t read already, but his download had been interrupted by Dirttrail and he barely had five pages worth of the whole treaty out of several hundreds; Optimus really didn’t wish to read them only to discover he’d be interrupted in the middle of a sentence. Sighing, he reached for the pads. Well, he had brought those ones because they were his favorites; he could handle a new rereading of the Battle of Iacon. Then perhaps he’d catch on some recharge.

What else could he do anyway?

Chapter 2: Origins - Optimus. 2

Chapter Text

“I don’t know what Racket did this time, but I wouldn’t want to be in his place for all the shanix on Cybertron,” Estensao commented as he and Optimus moved crates of new medical equipment in the Dion’s hold. Or rather, Optimus was carrying and carefully stocking the crates and Extensao checked them on the list he held, nodding to himself and looking very cheery for once.

It was rare enough for Optimus to take notice; as far as he knew, Extensao had only two modes, aggravated and stone-faced (alright, he cracked a smile every now and then, usually when watching Sumo wrestling, during which he could also grow very lively as in, shouting acclamations so loudly you could hear him from three decks above, but it was still pretty rare; the Dion received signals that weren’t Autobot-encrypted very badly, thus why one had to arm himself with patience if they wanted to watch the screen in the Rec Room).

The young Prime grunted a bit, partly because Extensao was probably expecting some kind of answer and in part because that latest crate was heavy; Cordage would have probably broken another strut trying to move it. Thankfully, the older mech was on ‘light’ duty; the last Optimus had seen him, he was filling paperwork with the docks’ authorities on behalf of Proton Major, who was locked up in his office with Racket – and had been for the better part of the latest megacycle.

That too was highly unusual, especially because Proton Major had looked infuriated when he had summoned his Second. And Racket… Racket had both looked furious and unsurprised at the same time, so whatever it was about, the other mech knew why.

“Perhaps it’ll teach him not to drink himself into a stupor in one of the docks’ bars, this time,” Extensao commented again, crossing yet another line off the list when Optimus gave him the all clear. He sounded viciously pleased; it was no secret Racket enjoyed high-grade and highly intoxicating cocktails whenever he was off duty (and sometimes on duty as well, Optimus suspected, but he had no proof). The expression on the medic’s face was anything but nice. It always surprised Optimus how a mech who always was polite and decent to him could hold such grudges. But, then again, he had no idea of what personal history laid between the Dion’s medic and its Second.

“I don’t think it’s about heavy drinking,” Optimus said carefully as he crouched down to lift another container, this one thankfully small-sized and light – and assortment of bolts, nails and filler metals, if the tag glued to the side was right. “He didn’t get off the ship since we arrived on Epsilon VI. They don’t serve anything stronger than oil here anyway,” he added as an afterthought. Epsilon VI was a fairly small station, orbiting around one of Alpha IX’s moons and manned by inhabitants of Vehicon, who had a low tolerance for stronger mixes themselves; Optimus had visited one of those bars, once, with… other mechs. There had been loud, disappointed cries by many Cadets but Kup Minor had been very pleased by the outcome himself. The old mech had always seemed to take great delight in anything that could bring his latest batch of students to tear by sheer frustration, making a point of using it to illustrate whatever he had been droning about (not Optimus’ words, those of, well, an old friend. A once-friend.)

Extensao scoffed. “As if he wouldn’t have been able to find a cube!”

“Ah… True,” Optimus conceded, though he didn’t think that was it, else Proton Major wouldn’t have looked so thunderous. The older mech took his crew’s quirks at face value and he was both used to them and tolerating them so long the crew did their duty. Racket’s drinking, while concerning, had never been a problem (at least as far as Optimus knew, even if he disapproved almost as heavily as Dirttrail’s use of the Rec Room’s computer for interfacing phone) and unless the Second provoked a critical malfunction such as blowing a reactor, Proton Major would probably let it stand as it was.

And there had been no malfunction of this amplitude on the ship for now, so…

But he didn’t think Extensao was ready to hear it. He just lowered his head and continued to transport the containers, putting them where the medic showed him to and confirming the number. Thankfully, it was a small haul; he didn’t even need to transform to bring the last ones inside. By the time their internal chronometer marked the end of the megacycle, everything was neatly sorted. They even had time to sweep the floor.

“Good, good,” Extensao nodded, humming as they walked down the corridor toward the medbay, a modest-sized box marked ‘cabling’ tucked under his arm. “Thank for the help, Optimus.”

“It was nothing,” the Prime replied quietly, wondering wherever he ought to go to the bridge and settle at a communication console alongside Dirttrail or go and see if Cordage needed help filling the paperwork – something dull and unpleasant but that Optimus had no complaint doing himself. Before he could decide, however, his comm. unit buzzed, making him pause mid-step as Extensao looked curiously at him.

“Optimus?” the medic inquired, though he relaxed immediately when a simple gesture let him know what was happening. “Bossbot calling?” he guessed as Optimus nodded warily.

“It is,” he confirmed. Which he really didn’t understand; normally, Proton Major should have had no reason to call him at all, since Optimus had his assigned duties for the solar cycle and there had been no new problem reported since they had docked at Epsilon VI. True, the mustached mech could decide to change their schedule whenever he pleased… but when he did so, he told them directly over the comm., he didn’t ask them to join him in his office!

Optimus’ Spark fluttered nervously; what could have he done for Proton Major to make him report, right after getting in what was probably an argument with his Second? Still, he squared his shoulders, told his goodbyes to Extensao and headed for the nearest lift.

The Dion was a lot smaller than the standard Cybertronian aircrafts produced since the Great War; it lacked a secondary bridge, there were only five liquid Energon storage tanks instead of the standard ten seen on most war and post-war ships and the Energon processing core was half the size of the newer, more recent models. Not to mention things like the generally cramped living space, or the shuttle bay that could only hold one shuttle at any time. Thankfully, there was an external port allowing boarding on the side of the ship. That said, it was a very outdated model who wouldn’t quite fit with the newest systems.

Optimus winced as the lights of the lift flickered but thankfully, it didn’t stop. The last thing he needed was to be stuck in the elevator, again.

Proton Major’s office was the only true ‘room’ on that deck. Originally, it had been a big storage closet which had been converted for day to day usage because, as Proton Major had put it, ‘an officer ought to have an office on their own ship, as per the protocol’. Said office saw little use altogether because the old mech had few reasons to ever call someone up there and as far as Optimus knew, nobody ever willingly went up there to discuss potential problems with their superior Officer, unlike on an Elite Guard ship, where such meetings were common occurrences. Optimus would have known; he had served on one as part of the internship program of the Academy for three orbital cycles.

That said, the Officers’ offices on recent ships must have had a better isolation, because Optimus couldn’t remember passing by one and hearing shouts, like he currently did as he stood stiffly in front of the door, hesitating to enter. He had expected Racket to have been gone by the time he got there but apparently, it wasn’t the case.

Cautiously, he knocked on the door, wondering what it was all about. The shouting died down immediately. “Sir? Optimus reporting for duty,” he said as calmly as he could, waiting for a confirmation he could enter.

The confirmation turned out to be Racket making the door slide asides and running out, making Optimus jump to the side to avoid getting barreled into. The small ‘bot had a crossed expression on his face. No, scratch crossed, he was seething, Optimus realized as he watched him go, swearing under his breath. Proton Major emerged from the office right behind him, optics blazing.

“I’m serious, Racket! Those repairs will be paid with YOUR salary! And it’s going down in record! Try to run and I’m throwing you to the Enforcers, got it?!”

“Frag you!” the other mech screeched, hitting the buttons of the lift and making it go down… only for it to give a screeching sound in turn somewhere below, which made Optimus wince.

“Uh oh; it’s out of order again. Optimus to…” he started to say, opening a comm. channel to the bridge, only for Proton Major to put a hand on his arm, startling him.

“Let him in there a moment, Optimus. He needs to cool down and better he does it in an enclosed space.” The mustached mech was heavily frowning and looking at the lift area with open distaste.

“Sir? Is everything alright?” Optimus asked cautiously after a moment of silence. Proton Major just sighed.

“No, son, it isn’t. Come inside and take a seat, we need to have a chat.”

Well, if it wasn’t ominous, Optimus thought as he obeyed. Proton Major was munching aggressively on a cy-gar as he settled down across Optimus on the other side of the desk. The lights were lows, but it wasn’t unusual in this part of the ship. Proton Major didn’t seem in a hurry to start the conversation, so Optimus let his optics wander around. For its small size, the office was more personable than the Prime’s own quarters. The desk was old, the chairs were creaky and mismatched, there was no window, the computer on the edge had a small crack toward the bottom of its screen. But Proton Major had put in two potted crystals that gave sweet little silver reflects even in the dim light, there was an old poster of a younger Ultra Magnus encouraging you to join the Autobot on the wall right behind Proton Major, surrounded by small, individual frames showing old members of the crew and a few naïve drawing had been stamped on another wall – Optimus wouldn’t even guess at who had done them to begin with, but they clearly showed an inexperienced hand. That, or whoever had made them was not artistically talented at all.

Still, it was nice. Far nicer than Optimus’ quarters, and if it wasn’t painful and ironic, he didn’t know what it was.

“Tell me, Optimus, what would you say about becoming my Second in Command?” Proton Major suddenly asked out of the blue and Optimus blinked in incomprehension for a klik before the words settled in and his optics widened from the shock.

“M… me, Sir?” he stuttered. That… that made no sense, he thought frantically. Proton Major couldn’t… well, yes, he could, technically, he was the ship’s captain and he was free to choose his Second in Command among the crew provided they were all the same rank. If they weren’t, then there were procedures to follow and…

“… Is it because I’m supposed to be a Prime?” he found himself asking, staring at his hands which he had neatly folded in his laps.

“You ARE a Prime,” the old mustached mech replied sharply before he sighed. “Damnit, mechling. Look at me, would you?” His four digits-hand lifted Optimus’ chin as he reached over the desk. “Ultra Magnus wrote down your rank as Prime, so you are a Prime, even if you don’t have a command presently – and even if it isn’t widespread knowledge yet. But no, I’m not asking you to be my Second because you’re a Prime; I’m asking you because Racket fragged up and is getting demoted and I need someone to take the position, even if it’s mostly for show.”

Well, that last part was true, given the small size of the ship and how few times they made port on their tours, Proton Major seldom left the ship, so it wasn’t as if his Second had much to do and…

“Racket is getting demoted?!” Optimus blurted out as his CPU caught on. “But why? I thought he was doing a good job…” Or at least it had always seemed so to Optimus, even if he and Racket had never seen optic to optic. Sure, he indulged himself into more drinks than what was reasonable and responsible but those details asides, Racket was honestly the most professional member of the Dion.

Proton Major snorted. “Good job, my aft. A mech who does a good job doesn’t end up demolishing one of the ship’s Shield Generator with kicks because he flew into a rage over getting banned from a stupid game.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Optimus’ jaw dropped. “How in the Pit did he do that?!” Shield Generators were incredibly hard to break; they were reinforced structures, build up to support multiple shocks and explosions should they need to – and in a fight, they always needed to. Having a ‘bot break one with kicks was just… There was no word for it. That shouldn’t have been possible.

“Well, either he was in a big rage, or dear Racket didn’t hold up on his augmented strength,” Proton Major grunted. “He’s down on record as being able to bench-press a mech thrice his size, for information. Not someone you want to get in a fist fight with.”

“Noted, Sir,” Optimus replied with a wince. Yes, he definitely would stay clear of Racket in a bad mood.

“Good, good.” Proton Major lighted the cy-gar. Optimus did his best not to wrinkle his olfactive sensor; despite having gotten used to the smell while he trained under Kup Minor, he had never cared for it “Anyway, you see the problem, don’t you? We don’t have a brig, or that’s where I’d send him right away. For now, I can only report the incident, officially demote him from his functions as ship’s Officer and fill up the paperwork indicating HE will be the one to reimburse the cost of the generator he destroyed to the Elite Guard, the Ministry of Sciences and the Transport Guild.”

“I can understand the Elite Guard and the Ministry of Sciences, but why the Transport Guild?” Optimus asked, surprised. The ship belonged to the Elite Guard and the Ministry of Sciences furnished a lot of the equipment on board. The Transport Guild…

“Space Bridge technicians are mostly civilian workers, even if we work closely with the Guard,” Proton Major shrugged. “Plus, our job primarily benefits the Transport Guild, who is the one charged with most of the maintenance costs for the network. They give a substantial share of their profits for the maintenance of our ships – not that you’d guess it when you see the sorry state of the Dion,” he added with self-depreciation.

It was hard to contradict the Major, Optimus thought; the Dion was really derelict.

“… It’s going to cost him a lot, isn’t it?” he finally said after a moment, trying to calculate how much a Shield Generator was worth and coming up empty.

“More than there are shanix currently on his bank account,” Proton Major replied flatly. “As it is, even if he sells all his possessions, I’m not sure he’ll be able to reimburse all the costs. He’ll probably end up spending time in the Stockades unless he pulls a miracle. Frag, mechling, you’re alright?” the old mech asked suddenly.

Optimus stared at him blankly for a moment before realizing he had started to slide from his seat. Cheeks burning with heat, he straightened and sat back. “I’m sorry, Sir. It’s just… surprised me.” And brought back some very unpleasant memories too; two stellar cycles ago, it was him who had been in the same situation, although without the risk of ending in the Stockades. Proton Major must have known, because he gave him a knowing look. Of course Proton Major knew, Optimus chided himself; he was forced to take a recently named Prime on his ship and to form him to handle Maintenance, when said Prime should and would eventually outrank him.

“… are we returning on Cybertron earlier than planned, Sir?” Because the situation certainly warranted it; with one less working Shield Generator, it seriously weakened the integrity of the ship and made it vulnerable to attacks. True, there were no reasons they should encounter troubles needing the full use of all generators onboard, but it was still a major malfunction they couldn’t ignore like they did most of the Dion’s smaller issues.

Proton Major inhaled deeply, savoring his cy-gar for moment before answering. “Yes and no. We will be progressing to the next Bridges on our tour as normally planned. There are no other teams able to take up our share in this area. One of those days, Ultra Magnus should be asked to increase our budget and hire more technicians,” he added with a snort. “Anyway, we’ll be progressing up to Athenia, as per instructions. But we will not be taking the scenic road back; we’ll take the Bridge right back to Cybertron. Racket will have some explanations to give to the authorities for his outburst and we’ll get to enjoy our break a little earlier than planned. That’ll move up your next appointment with Rung but I trust you’ll be making the necessary arrangements, hum?”

The heat crawled back to Optimus’ cheeks. That wasn’t an order, but it was as good as one – and he was certain the Major would check if Optimus had done it. Besides, he couldn’t miss an appointment, else he would end up in even deeper troubles than Racket. “… Yes, Sir,” he answered quietly.

“Good. Dismissed, Optimus. Oh, and if Racket didn’t do it himself, give a call to Cordage and Dirttrail to get that lift working back up. By now, he must have cooled down enough.”

Optimus rose up slowly. Cooled down. Right. As he was reaching the door, however, Proton Major coughed. “Oh, I was almost forgetting, Optimus. Would you be interested in that thing?” The Prime turned as the old mustached mech dropped something on the desk. A familiar-looking something. Optimus’ Spark missed a beat.

On first glance, it was a simple cube. A minuscule cube that fit easily in the palm of Proton Major’s hand and would be dwarfed in Optimus’ own. It looked perfectly innocuous and unremarkable but Optimus knew that hidden in the cube itself was a complex transformation mechanism hiding ports and cables. Those ports and cables could be used to link up the cube to any type of computer… or could be linked up on a mech’s systems themselves.

A game data-holder cube.

“Sir?” he asked carefully.

“Racket’s,” Proton Major explained. “He threw it out, claiming it was useless now. Well, useless to him at any rate. Something about a key and an account frozen? I don’t know how those things work.”

But Optimus knew, him. “… Data-holder cubes act like an entry point in a game, Sir,” he explained carefully. “You first link them up to a computer to install the data and create your account, then you link the cube with your own systems to get a personal activation key. Once it’s done, you can enter the game by, uh, basically by downloading your conscience through the cube and into the game itself.”

“Sounds unnecessarily complicated,” Proton Major commented. “Back in my day, we had controllers and simple system hook-ups. None of those ‘live the adventure in your own head’ thing, and we were perfectly happy with it. Anyway, can you still use that thing?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Optimus Prime,” the Dion’s captain looked up at him seriously. “I’ve spent a lot of time observing you. You’re a good mech, Optimus, but it’s clear you need to get your mind off work and off, well, everything. No, no, don’t protest. Mechs who are perfectly right in their head don’t get appointment with the Head Shrink,” he pointed out casually, making Optimus shrinks on himself. “I’m not a big fan of those games things myself, but I know you need a hobby – and I trust you not to destroy something out of sheer frustration if things don’t go your way inside that thing. Now, I want you to have that thing before Racket decides to destroy it out of rage too. I want you to use it to get yourself some fun – provided it’s still working. It’s still working, right?”

“… it should be, Sir,” Optimus said carefully, trying not to think too hard on what his superior had just said. “I… if it’s the game I think, then I have an account already and my activation and access key is still valid.”

“Then why aren’t you using it in your downtime?” the old mech asked, curious.

“You, ah, you need the cube itself to be able to play, since it transforms into the game system link-up,” Optimus explained. “And mine was… lost a while ago.” Sold to pay his lawyer’s fees, in fact, but it wasn’t something Optimus wanted to discuss about if he could help it. “… I should give it back to Racket. It belongs to him,” he said after a moment.

Proton Major gave him a look. “You do that and that thing will end up crushed under his pedes or in a trash compactor. Better you keep it. And if you feel so many scruples, you can always lay him some money and say you’re buying it. Primus knows he’ll need all the shanix he can soon,” he added more darkly.

“…Yes, Sir,” Optimus replied, eyeing the data-holder cube warily. It didn’t please him the slightest, but he couldn’t exactly refuse the Major; the old mech would try and turn it into an order if he did, Optimus was certain of it. He coughed. “If I may ask, Sir… did Racket told you why his account and key were frozen?”

“Oh, he apparently tried to buy whatever currency you use in that game with real-life shanix and the game masters apparently didn’t like it. Got him banned from the system and his avatar frozen or destroyed, I’m not sure what,” the old mech said with a gesture of dismissal.

“Ah. Right,” Optimus winced. Game Masters never, ever kidded around with pirate credits and they tended to crack down on the culprits with all their might. Racket may have been pissed, but in the end if he had been stupid enough to break the game charter, well, he only had himself to blame. “Will that be all, Sir?”

“Once you take that stupid cube, yes it’ll be, mechling. And remember what I said; use it and try to have some fun.”

Gingerly, Optimus reached for the data-holder cube and under the Major’s intense gaze, slipped it into subspace. He saluted and moved to leave, hoping the old mech wouldn’t call him back again.

Thankfully, he didn’t. Optimus’ comm. unit crackled as he exchanged transmissions with the rest of the crew to try and deliver Racket from the stuck lift. Still, even as he did his share, even as he resumed his duties, he couldn’t help but think about the small cube in his subspace pocket.

It felt like it was burning him.

Chapter 3: Origins. Optimus 3

Chapter Text

The cube rested on Optimus’ desk and he was eyeing it as he would have eyed a coiled Razor-Viper. Oh, it wasn’t going to suddenly lunge and bite him, slicing his plating like nothing, nor was it a bomb that was going to blow in his face, but that didn’t change the fact Optimus wasn’t at ease with the small data-holder.

It was ridiculous, he kept saying to himself. It was only a game.

But it was also THAT game.

Even if he hadn’t been able to see the series of little glyphs forming the title, delicately etched into one of the faces, he would have recognized the form and the color. The company which produced them always employed a new, unique design for each of their game.

‘Seiberutopia Tales Online’, the glyphs proudly proclaimed. ‘The Greatest Adventure of All Times’.

And Optimus honestly didn’t know what to feel about. Thus why he was still sitting on his berth, hugging himself as he stared at the deceptively innocent device, not daring to actually use it and connect. It would be so simple, though. So, so simple. But Optimus felt frozen, unable to move or even take a decision.

S.T.O. was… He sighed. Oh, well, out with it: S.T.O. was a good game, one of the best Optimus had ever played. Not that he had ever been an avid gamer, but every now and then, he had indulged himself – especially with friends. Especially with Sentinel… and Elita One. All of them together, acting as a team, doing Quests and participating in Events, battling monsters and beating Dungeons, fighting Decepticon players and joking about all easy they’d be able to do it again in the real world…

All those dreams and easy talks, crushed. Elita was dead, Sentinel wouldn’t have anything to do with him anymore and Optimus… Optimus hated himself.

But it wasn’t the self-hatred that held him from just go ahead and go back to the game. At least, he pretended it wasn’t. There were other reasons as well – such as not having felt like playing ever since the whole Archa Seven mess had started. The loss of Elita, the trial, the lengthy talks with his lawyers, with the judges, the disappointed look on Ultra Magnus’ face, and the seething hatred in Sentinel’s optics when once before there had been so much warmth, his eviction from the Academy when he had been on the fast track to become Valedictorian of their promotion…

It had been emotionally and physically exhausting. When the dust had cleared, Optimus had been left standing alone in the ruined shards of his life. He still didn’t understand why the Magnus had given him the rank of Prime despite everything. Why he was still giving him a chance to work for the Autobots, one more cogs in the great machine. It felt almost cruel despite it being a mercy.

The rank wasn’t granting Optimus any happiness. He had lost too much already. All the souvenirs and possessions he had gathered over the years, anything with monetary values, he had been forced to sell to pay the astronomically high fees demanded by his lawyers as well as reimburse the Academy for the funds they had advanced for his incomplete education.

His copy of Seiberutopia Tales Online had been among them.

Oh, his account still existed, since Optimus had never deleted it from the servers, and technically his access key still existed as well. He just missed a link-up to go back online.
The question was, did he truly wish to?

On one hand, Optimus had plenty of good memories associated with that game and he had been good at it; it would provide him with a good escape from the misery he was dealing with on a daily basis. But on the other hand, many of those memories had turned bittersweet, and there were high chances he would encounter people from his past, people who hadn’t forgiven him for Elita’s demise.

Sentinel…

And that wasn’t even mentioning how pissed Racket still was about the whole ordeal. Life on the Dion had because nigh unbearable of late since the former Second had been demoted. Now he indulged in drinks even on duty, provoking Extensao’s hire, which resulted in screaming matches in the middle of the bridge. Racket had also thrashed his own quarters and was still being so furious with everything that Proton Major had finally locked him up in his quarters. That could have been the end of it, but Dirttrail wasn’t happy with the fact Optimus had inherited the Second’s position and was being snippy. Cordage pretended not to care but given the way he kept frowning, he didn’t understand Proton Major’s choice either. Extensao wasn’t giving him any grief, but that was probably because he was more busy gloating about Racket’s fall from grace.

Cybertron wasn’t close enough yet, Optimus decided.

So yes, it was tempting to just link up and play for a bit, fall back on old reflexes, let himself forget the real world for a megacycle or two, go back to exploring new areas and collect weapons and armors and items. The map was so large he could always avoid unpleasant encounters, should he make his mind to.

Tentatively, he reached for the cube, lifting it in his palm, servos reflexively pushing on the hidden, discreet transformation seams, letting a tiny cable unroll. With slightly trembling finger, he connected it to a matching port in his wrist, staying utterly still as the cube scanned his frame and operational systems before it engaged the appropriate transformation sequence.

That’s what why Seiberutopia Tales Online was so popular, Optimus thought dimly as the scan ended and the cube started shifting, changing into what could generously be described as a large earphone from which several tiny cables were hanging. Most games were only thought for certain types of frames. S.T.O. was the first one featuring a personalized access for every single type of frame out there; depending on your size, your processors speed, your energy levels, your Spark frequency, it could change into a earphone, a headphone, a complicated visor,… And once it had selected the appropriate, you just needed to plug it in your head ports, linking up your CPU and the game copy.

Simple and elegant and why MMORPG had gotten so popular on Cybertron, Optimus thought as he connected the cables, the gestures familiar and weirdly soothing.

Optimus lied down on the berth as his vision started to flicker, the download bar filling his vision as he tried to find a comfortable position to rest in while connected to the game. His Spark fluttered as it finally reached 100% and his whole vision dissolved into pixels before briefly darkening. He clamped down on his reflex to stiffen and panic; the connection always felt weird and frightening the first couple of times, but he was a long-time player by now – even if he hadn’t played in forever.

::Welcome to Seiberutopia Tales Onlines!:: the cheery voice of the AI greeted him and Optimus smiled faintly. It was good to know that despite the frequent upgrade, they hadn’t modified this part. ::Please, confirm your avatar before entering the game!::
Pixels cleared and assembled themselves into a doorway in front of which a silhouette was waiting. Optimus’ Spark sunk.

Somehow, he had forgotten how his avatar had looked.

It was… it was Optimus himself. An Optimus stylized, idealized, but it still had his face, scanned and imported in the game as per custom when one connected. Cybertronian MMO games, unlike those developed by organics, had never been exceptionally creative when it came to characters’ customization. There were no difference races to incarnate, no extravagant transformation that would allow, say, a coupe from becoming a warframe. You could alterate a few parameters, such as your height and weight and change a few cosmetic details such as the color of your optics, but what you were in the real life was reflected into your game avatar.

Primus, he had forgotten those flames patterns, red shining on blue, crawling from his pedes to his knees and from his hands to his elbows. He had forgotten that stylized helmet, that impassive facemask, and even the yellow optics he had chosen to be more ‘striking’ with his color scheme. He reached out uncertainly, digits stopping a few centimeters away from his avatar’s face. He looked… dashing. Sure of himself. A true warrior. Someone who wasn’t Optimus Prime, simple Maintenance worker who had no idea what to do with himself or with his life and who felt as if he was hanging above a deep chasm, ready to fall down at the slightest mistake.

He hadn’t been really trying to connect to the avatar. But even if he wasn’t touching it yet, the game AI had recognized the move, interpreting it as an attempt to slide into the avatar’s form and pass the doorway.

::Are you ready to connect and be a hero, Knight Optronix?:: the cheery voice asked.

Optimus withdrew his hand, feeling like it had been stung. Oh Primus above… Why was he even here?

‘Be a hero, Knight Optronix?’ ‘Be a hero?’ ‘A hero?’

”Clearly, being a hero isn’t part of your programming.”

Swiftly, Optimus disconnected, clawing at the side of his head to tear off the cables, not caring about the pain as jacks were taken out too brutally and before they had been fully inactive. He was feeling sick, suddenly.

He was only able to lift himself off the berth and grab for a recycling bin before his tank finally lost the battle against his sudden fit of nausea and he retched half of what he had consumed earlier. Kneeling on the ground, the bin pinned to his chest and wiping away the half-processed Energon still staining his lips with his free hand, he let a keen escape his vocalizer.

No, he couldn’t go back to the game. He couldn’t be Optronix again, he couldn’t play at being the valiant Knight whose dearest dream and aim was to become a Paladin, not now, and perhaps never again.
Perhaps it would be for the best if he just dropped that cube in a drawer and forgot about its existence.

And that’s what he did, until they finally reached Cybertron again.

Chapter 4: Origins. Optimus 4

Summary:

Where Optimus sits in Rung's office...

Chapter Text

“And how are you feeling today, Optimus?” Rung asked, adjusting his glasses. Lying on the reclining sofa tucked in a corner of the therapist’s office, fingers intertwined and hands resting over his chest, Optimus stared at the ceiling and tried not to immediately and reflexively answer: “I’m fine.”

Rung would never have believed him and Optimus didn’t think he could have sounded convincing anyway.

Instead, he stared hard above him as to not cross gazes with the smaller mech sitting on a chair by the sofa, stylus and datapad in hand, ready to note down anything of interest his patient would be willing to share with him.

The silence stretched for a long time before Optimus finally gave up. “I don’t know how I feel,” he sighed. There, he was being honest; surely it would please Rung?

“I am sorry,” the small orange mech said sincerely. “Did something happen since our latest session to drag your mood down? You had sounded more cheerful when we parted last orn.”

Optimus hummed. “I suppose I was,” he allowed; when he had left Rung last time, Optimus had learned he’d be getting a slight pay raise. It hadn’t been a big one, but it had been very welcome.

“And you’re not anymore? Did something bad happen?” the therapist inquired.

“No, nothing bad,” Optimus replied quietly before pausing. That wasn’t quite true, was it? And Rung had made him promise to never lie to him; as the smaller mech put it, ‘I can’t help you if you’re not ready to tell me the truth. If anything, I could do you more harm and if I did, I’d never be able to forgive myself’. Now, the other mech wasn’t what Optimus would call a friend, but he had never doubted Rung’s good intentions nor his will to help.

Granted, even if he tried to lie, Rung would probably know immediately. Optimus had no proof, of course, but he strongly suspected Proton Major was in contact with Rung – or that the therapist received reports on Optimus’ activities aboard the Dion from Autobots Command. How else would the small orange be able to systematically orientate the conversation on the things that bothered Optimus if he wasn’t?

They had talked at length about the crew and their quirks, about what Optimus found hard to swallow and what he was willing to turn a blind optic to and why, they had talked about Optimus’ troubled recharge pattern in the beginning, they had talked about Optimus’ difficulties in learning some of the Maintenance’s work while he easily picked other parts and why it distressed him or instead eased his mind. They had talked about Optimus’ plans for his leave on Cybertron and what the last digital books he had read or the latest movie he had watched.

They had even talked about Optimus’ conflicted feelings about his former friends in the Academy. They had barely brushed the subject of Archa Seven, though, and everything it entailed. It had made no sense to Optimus at first; if Command had wanted him to go and see Rung, it was because of that damned planet, wasn’t it? Surely, the therapist should have dug into Optimus’ memories of the events already and not bother to make small talks?

It wasn’t Rung’s way, however. Optimus had slowly realized that the other mech was first trying to install a climate of mutual trust before they dug into the more serious issues Optimus was facing. Words had started to come more easily once the Prime had started to understand that.

But there were things he wasn’t yet ready to talk about in depth. Rung respected it, thankfully, for which Optimus was always grateful. So no, he couldn’t and wouldn’t lie to Rung.

“… I was named Second of the Dion,” he said after a moment of reflection, wondering how to give form to what was bothering him.

“Were you? That sounds like wonderful news, Optimus.” He sounded so sincere, too, that Optimus felt a little smile tug at his lips. For any outsider to the situation, it probably sounded so too. The smile fell when Rung pursued. “Given how hard you’ve been working, I’m not surprised to learn your efforts were recompensed.”

“Ah. That’s not really how I would have presented things,” Optimus murmured, feeling his shoulders sag.

Rung tugged at his glasses. “How so?”

Where to start explaining? How should he speak about the smirks, the angry glares thrown his way when they thought he wasn’t looking? The ironical tone they used when answering ‘Yes, Sir!’ which was new as well, because before it had always been ‘Oy, newbie!’ or ‘Optimus!’? Racket’s temper tantrums that had kept rattling the door of his room until the Autotroopers came to personally escort him out of the ship and to a Station to get testimony and start the inquiry into the willful destruction of one of the Dion’s Shield Generators? Dirttrail now making extra loud noises when he was using the computer in the Rec Room and Optimus was around, knowing it was making him uncomfortable, and Optimus’ unwillingness to order him to stop because he knew Dirttrail was just waiting for it, to try and spark an argument? Cordage who always sounded disappointed, even when he was respectful, and who seemed to be trying to avoid him in the last solar cycles before their return to Cybertron?

Only Extensao and Proton Major weren’t giving him any kind of grief, and that was only because Extensao didn’t feel threatened due to his position as ship medical officer and Proton Major seemed to sincerely believe Optimus could do the job.

“And you don’t think you can?” Rung asked softly after listening attentively to Optimus’ tale. It had been slow to come out, there had been sputters and Optimus had probably repeated himself several times by accident, but it had come out eventually as Rung gently coaxed the words out of him. He hadn’t said much, just encouraged him, making him pause when he saw or sensed Optimus wasn’t at ease or potentially upset, asked small, silly things instead (“Well, of course I like oil, doctor, why do you ask? No, I don’t really have a favorite brand. Well, okay, perhaps I’ll take a Flat Tire above the other, but that’s because it’s easier to find outside of Cybertron. No, they don’t always have McGuirkess or Budweiski in the bars I saw on the outposts. I guess they don’t have a licensing contract? My crewmates? Oh, Extensao professes to only enjoy Panther Pilsner, and Cordage prefers old brands I never heard of before… Cordage? Ah. Well, things have been… different with him, lately.)

It didn’t feel like a hassle, talking with Rung, Optimus mused as he tried to formulate an answer to the therapist’s latest question.

“I… know I have the training,” he finally said, because that much was true. He had spent stellar cycles in the Academy, geared toward the moment he’d take a command. That this hypothetical command was supposed to be of a team of Elite Guard warriors or scouts or even a science division if he had decided to ask for specialization in that field and not a ragtag team of old, spiteful Maintenance workers on a derelict ship went unsaid. However, the truth of the matter was, Optimus knew how to take charge – and he was technically a Prime, even if Rung had often pointed out there was nothing technical about his nomination; if the Magnus said you were a Prime, then you were a Prime, and Optimus was definitely touching a Prime’s wages, not that he used them much.

“But?” Rung asked in a gentle voice, his optics bright behind his thick glasses.

“… But I’m not sure I can make it stick,” Optimus confessed. “I know it’s stupid,” he added after a moment. “There is no reason I shouldn’t be able to. I did it before.” Mostly during exercises pitting teams against teams in Autoboot Camp and the Academy, of course, but that counted, right? However, when things are really started to count, when there had been actual lives on the line… “… I don’t want to lose one of them,” he murmured.

Rung hummed thoughtfully. “Ah. But why would you?”

Optimus gave him a look. “They don’t listen to me, Rung. How can I hope to keep them safe if they’re not ready to follow my orders? And what if I take the wrong decision? What if I put them in danger myself and they end up deactivated because of me?”

“Do you think it can happen?” the therapist inquired neutrally, making Optimus laugh bitterly.

“Why not? That’s what happened to Elita One, isn’t it?”

“Ah. But were you in charge during those events, Optimus?” Rung pried softly.

“I… I couldn’t save her. If I had been a true Autobot, a true… “ he choked. “I’m not a hero. If I truly was… I could have saved her. She was my friend. She shouldn’t have died,” Optimus mumbled, turning his head away.

As he did so, he missed Rung shaking his head, looking desolate. Well, that wasn’t today they were going to do the big breakthrough the therapist had been hoping for. One day, Optimus would realize his guilt was misplaced and that he shouldn’t blame himself so much. One day. However, Rung could only patiently guide him toward that conclusion.

Thankfully, Optimus was an ‘easy’ patient to treat. Sentinel Major, soon to be Sentinel Prime, was another matter entirely; the mech couldn’t let go of his guilt either but instead of turning it inward into self-loathing, he had turned it outward into blaming everyone but himself and his former best friend in particular. That situation was helping neither of them. Rung had hoped that perhaps they could do a group session, bring them together in his office, have them talk it out, but he had abandoned the idea after the first couple of sessions. Until they made some real progresses on their own, bringing them in contact prematurely would only result in one or both getting hurt.

Rung sometimes wished Ultra Magnus hadn’t saddled him with the responsibility to ‘fix’ what he had referred as ‘two of the most brilliant Cadets to have ever gone through the Academy’ but the more he got to know them, the more he understood why their estimated leader had tasked him with the job.

He also wanted to shout at the Magnus that you couldn’t ‘fix’ people on a schedule, damnit, and do not let Sentinel get to Prime now no matter how urgently you need to promote someone to the rank, the mech isn’t ready and it’s not going to help his fragging healing process! And while he was at it, the diminutive mech really wanted to strangle the Magnus as well for putting through Optimus’ head the idea he was no hero material! Ah! As if coding had anything to do with it! No wonder the mech had so much internalized self-doubt!

Oh, well. He coughed and schooled his features into an appropriate, understanding look. “Nobot ever deserve to. But it was an accident, Optimus. You know it.”

“Accidents tend to repeat,” the red and blue mech replied laconically. His frame had grown tense, his armor clamping down harder on his protoform and Rung decided that perhaps it wasn’t the best time to pursue that line of thought for now. Glancing down at his pad on which, bellow his notes, he had opened a small window with Proton Major’s latest report, he tried to find something lighter to discuss.

“Sometimes they do, but most of the time they don’t,” Rung commented quietly before coughing. “But never mind. Did you try to pick up a hobby since the last time we spoke?”

Now that had Optimus sit up and rub the back of his head nervously and Rung mentally tallied the answer as ‘no’, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Rung always tried to push his patients into picking up an activity to fill their time and take their mind off their problems. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but nobot had ever complained over at least trying. He had felt very proud of himself when Sentinel Major had walked into his office to tell him he had started working on Crystal-Bonzaï care – even if it had only lasted a couple orns before he dropped them.

“I, uh, I read a few more new books?” Optimus offered, making Rung raise an optical ridge.

“That’s not exactly the kind of hobby I had in mind,” he commented, though he kept his voice amiable. Reading was good. Optimus enjoyed reading and the last thing Rung wanted was to make him withdrew from something that brought him much needed joy. Simply, Optimus had no one to share his readings with, no one with whom to comment a text, no one to give him a recommendation for his next digital book, no one to gush with over the latest adventure or romance novel to hit the stores or laugh at the bad style of the writer. If he had that, Rung wouldn’t have minded at all. But the Dion’s crew was not the literate kind and Optimus was just too wary to confide in anyone.

Even now, the gentle not-quite-a-rebute had made him flinch and shrink back on himself. “… I didn’t really search. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s perfectly understandable,” Rung provided. “Far away from Cybertron, occasions are rare to try and explore different activities. I had just hoped you might have explored different options while you were away. I have heard of a very renowned drawing class for beginner in downtown Iacon,” he suggested, lifting a finger. “Oh, and the Polihex Charity Funds left me with some pamphlets for potential new members. This year, they’re planning to knit dolls for Sparklings and Younglings living in rundown Youth Sectors across Cybertron. Perhaps you’d like to give it a look?” he smiled. “Or you could try to adhere to one of the modeling clubs? The one on Iacon’s 5th avenue is organizing an exposition of their ship models next decacycle.” And some of his owns were included, not that he was planning to share the information.

Optimus bite his lip. While they all sounded like good activities, they didn’t ring a bell with him. He wanted to politely refuse, but unless he could tell Rung he had something else planned…

Wait.

“… I have been thinking about picking video games again,” the red and blue mech said aloud. It was a slight exaggeration of the truth, but it wasn’t a lie either. He HAD given it thought; he just hadn’t followed on it.

Rung clapped his hands. “Oh my, but it’s wonderful. Any specific game? Platforms? FPS? They’re getting increasingly popular those solar cycles.”

“MMORPG,” Optimus replied. “… I have an account on Seiberutopia Tales Online,” he confessed after a moment of hesitation.

“Do you? How wonderful!” Rung beamed, which earned him a confused and vaguely alarmed look from the Prime, making him chuckle and play with the branches of his glasses. “Oh, sorry. I just happen to have played the game as well,” he confessed. “Mostly with the free test version at first, and I don’t have much time to play anymore those days, but I still log in on my account from time to time. Just between us, I sometimes think hardly anyone on Cybertron never tried it out,” he added with a wink which was sadly hidden behind his thick glasses.

“Uh, yeah, I suppose,” Optimus sputtered. He would have never pinned Rung as a S.T.O. player. He tried to imagine the diminutive therapist in the game, waving around a sword as big as him and he had to muffle an involuntary giggle behind a cough. No, no, that wasn’t possible. Rung was probably some ranged fighter class or a magician; that’d fit better with his body-type. But then again, Optimus had known a Youngling half his size who was just deadly with a mace…

“Do you mind telling me what you play as?” Rung asked earnestly, his enthusiasm dimming a bit at Optimus’ wince.

“… I played a Knight.”

“Aaah,” Rung nodded. “You’re lucky to have found the Banner of Faith; I’ve heard it’s becoming rarer and rarer and that many mechs are staying locked up in the rank of Warrior.”

Optimus swallowed. If only the Banner of Faith had been the only thing he had found… “I guess I was,” he answered cautiously. It had taken him near an orn of constant researches before he located the NPC that would hand him the item. How Sentinel had hooted in delight when he had shared the info, running across half the map to find him so he could seize his change to become a Knight too…

“Optimus? You’re feeling alright?” Rung’s voice sounded a bit distant and Optimus shook his helm to clear his thought, offering the therapist a shaky smile.

“I’m sorry Rung; I’m afraid I’m a bit tired.”

“Understandable,” the orange mech nodded, full of solicitude. “You aren’t used to Cybertron’s standard solar cycle anymore, are you? The three decacycles of leave will do you some good. Are you going to use them to catch back up on the game?”

“I… I don’t know,” Optimus confessed. “That game… It was great. But I don’t know if I can go back to play Knight again.” Go back and play a hero in a game, when he couldn’t be one in real life. Go back and continue to go forward with a character he had created with his friends, to be with them even in their down time, when those friends were no longer here or hated his metal guts.

“Oh.” Rung tilted his head. “Well, perhaps you could start over again?”

Optimus had a pale smile. He had thought about it too, but… “After so long raising that character’s levels and stats to what they currently are, I’m not sure I want to erase it from the servers either.” Not to mention, he didn’t think he was emotionally ready to erase Optronix the Knight either. It was Elita who had suggested the name, Sentinel who had found those flame-patterns and gotten him that cape. He had so many things stored in his in-game bank inherited from their adventures together. To erase Optronix would be like canceling all they had done together. It would be like turning a page he didn’t think he wanted turned. Not yet.

“What about creating a second Avatar?” Rung suggested, startling Optimus. “It is possible now, after all.”

“It is?” Optimus asked faintly. “Since when?”

“Less than half a stellar cycle. They gave the game a massive overhaul and upgraded the servers when they created a new extension and added the possibility to create a second Avatar while they were at it,” Rung mentioned casually. “Granted, it’s a paying service, one that requires a fair amount of shanix, but the price isn’t unreasonable either when you think about how much space they need to hold the datas. Interesting, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Optimus murmured, deep in thought. Starting a new character without being obligated to erase Optronix, get a new, fresh start with another type of character class… that was tempting. Very tempting. He could try to play without being a pretender, be himself, be... Well, he didn’t know what to be. “They added anything new for characters?”

Rung shook his head dejectedly. “Not as far as I know. There are rumors a fifth class evolution exists for the Scholars, but nobody was ever able to confirm it. Not that I mind, I like mine well enough.”

Ah, so Rung played a Scholar; Optimus wasn’t surprised. It fitted him. Though if he had evolved his character… “You’re a Blue Mage?” he asked politely. Rung struck him as a Blue Mage for some reason.

Rung laughed. “Oh goodness, no, no. I could have been, I admit, because that was what I had been aiming for at first, but no. Actually, I’m a Geomancer – you know about Geomancers, right?”

“Uh, no?” Optimus answered, trying to remember if he had met someone playing the class on S.T.O. but to no avail. Scholars usually became Red Mages or Blue Mages or sometimes Runecasters, but Geomancers? Though if he remembered right, there had been something other players had told him about… “Isn’t that a terrain-based class?”

Rung nodded. “Exactly. I always found it funny that the game made Blue and Red Mages Support classes instead of putting them in the Magician classes; Geomancers should have been included as well.”

“I guess they wanted to add more variety?” Optimus tried. “Plus, those spells aren’t inane, unlike for the Magician classes. You got to find a monster with an enemy skill to imitate or a tome to allow you to use the spell.”

“My, you’re a connoisseur,” Rung joked. “You seem to have done a lot of researches.”

Optimus felt his cheeks heat up. “I guess I did?” Most had been on behalf of Elita, because she didn’t want to be a Fighter class, but she hadn’t been able to decide on what she wanted instead. Optimus had spent a lot of time looking over the pros and cons of each class with her, even making schemas and diagrams to help her choose.

He had never thought that one day, he would be falling back on them for any reason.

Rung had removed his glasses and was watching him with kind optics. “It’s good to see you have such interest in the game. While I’d like for us to discuss it more at length, I’m afraid our session is reaching its end. Perhaps we can pursue this line of conversation next time? You’re here for three decacycles, right? I’d like for us to meet again before that time is up.”

“Of course, doctor,” Optimus nodded meekly, letting Rung walk to his desk and peruse through his agenda to find a free spot – which he knew from experience would be hard to find. Rung had very charged solar cycles. He was one of Cybertron’s most famous psychiatrists, after all. The Elite Guard exclusively went through him as well as many celebrities, and still Rung kept the door of his office open for everyone, no matter who they were or their social status. The downside of which was that he often had to reschedule appointments if an emergency rose up, even if Optimus only had had the misfortune to experiment it once.

(Which had mostly been because Sentinel Major had been scheduled to come on the same solar cycle and Rung had not wanted the two to accidentally cross paths.)

If you added the difficulties of Optimus being off Cybertron for the most part, finding a free spot could be a true hassle. But Rung made a sound of triumph and Optimus knew that he’d be seeing Rung faster than he would have thought.

“I got two spots free next decacycle; any preference between morning or afternoon?”

“Morning,” Optimus replied automatically. He had become an early riser since Autoboot Camp; Kup Minor had been very fond of waking them up at dawn when they expected it the least, initiating many groans from the Cadets as they run around, trying to get ready on time. Rather than always being rushed, Optimus had found it easier to just get up every day at the same time and if Kup Minor didn’t wake them up with shouts and an alarm, he’d spend the time reviewing the Autobot Code or lesson plans while listening to the heavy snoring of Sentinel on the berth above…

Frag. He’d never have thought he’d missed it someday, but crazily enough, he did.

“Well, that’s settled. I’m looking forward seeing you again, Optimus. Take care,” Rung said, smiling. “And I’m counting on you to tell me all about your new gaming experience, of course.”

“… I will,” Optimus promised. And if his voice lacked conviction, neither him nor Rung mentioned it.

Chapter 5: Origins. Optimus 5

Summary:

Choosing a game class is never easy...

Notes:

Okay, not much development in this chapter, but a lot of, say, info dump for the game itself. I hope you'll enjoy it all the same.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Rung hadn’t lied; the second Avatar option of the game really came in with a nice amount of shanix. However, as the upgrade installed itself, Optimus didn’t think he really regretted the choice to go through with it. Shanix were just piling up unused on his bank account so it wasn’t as if he was lacking in funds and so long he hadn’t found a place to live, they weren’t seeing much use.

Much to his chagrin, he hadn’t managed to find a flat by the time the Dion had docked back on Cybertron so he was currently spending his time in the barracks. On the plus side, he had managed to get an individual room for himself this time, which was rare enough to note; there were less teams on Cybertron right now, it seemed. That, or perhaps the fact he was recorded as an officer on the Dion had played up in freeing him a room, he couldn’t say.

Honestly, it wasn’t much bigger than his room on the Dion and there was a strange smell clinging to the place, making him wonder if the previous tenant hadn’t been taking drugs or circuit boosters. But at least here he had his own window, Optimus thought with irony as he took in the dim light of a few buildings – and a lot of smog. The barracks were situated on the edge of the industrial district, which made for a poor sight. If you added the lack of comfort of the barrack berths themselves and the promiscuity, it was no wonder the barracks tended to be mostly empty during the day as everyone filled out to go to the entertainment centers.

But it fitted Optimus just well. At least he knew there’d be no one to interrupt him once he started playing.

If he played. Because he was still feeling hesitant about it, despite the second Avatar option he had just bought.

He had not even chosen a class for his potential new character yet either. To be honest, however, there were a lot of options to choose from – especially once you decided you wanted to make your character ‘evolves’ and change class, which often presented multiple options. And those evolutions didn’t happen automatically, oh no; you always needed to find an item or finish a specific quest line before being allowed to do so and the higher you climbed, the harder it became.

At its simplest level, Seiberutopia Tales Online proposed players to choose between incarnating a Fighter class, a Magician class, a Ranger class or a Supporter class. The Fighter class declined itself into three basic possibilities: the Lancer, the Barbarian or the Warrior.

The Lancer used heavy Spears as weapons as well as javelins; they were quick but could take less damages. As a beginner class, they weren’t very popular. But then you had its evolutions; on one hand, you had the Valkyrie, which was rumored to be only usable by femmes (though the rumor had more or less be debunked by the game managers, as far as Optimus knew). Valkyries could take more damage and had a special Revive command that was unique to them, allowing them to bring back a KOed party member with a full health bar. They also inflicted thrice the normal amount of damages on several enemies types, though Optimus couldn’t remember which at the top of his head. Then you had the other Lancer evolution, the Predacon Knight; while its resistance was less than the Valkyrie, it came with the unique Command ‘Jump’, which allowed him to attack from above – a move that put him outside of range for most enemies spells and allowed him special attacks with large AOE when he came back down.

The Barbarian had not a good reputation on Cybertron, but it was mostly because it was a favored class of the Decepticon players – for yes, Decepticons could and did play the game, for the game concepters and providers were completely Neutral in all manners of conflict. But nevermind. The Barbarian was lightly armored, but compensated its lack of defense by heavy damage dealing blows. Clubs, maces, war hammers, broadswords were their favored type of weapons – and Optimus had actually no idea of their special moves and commands because no self-respecting Autobot ever wanted to play a Barbarian. He just knew they could evolve either into a Marauder, still lightly armored but able to equip shields and with a speed boost, or into a Berseker, the trademark Decepticon class.

Then you had the Warrior, which opened even more possibilities. Optimus had been a Warrior when he had started the game the first time around, because being a Warrior allowed you to become a Knight. And the Knight… the Knight could become a Paladin, the Ultimate class evolution for this branch. There were very few of them in game, the most famous being none other than Ultra Magnus himself. Many Autobots desired to become like him and be Paladins as well, but most stayed locked at the Knight. As far as Optimus knew, Sentinel was still searching for the Benediction of the Hand, the item allowing the player to transition to Paladin; it had been his and Optimus’ obsession, once upon a time…

He sighed and shook his head. Well, he wasn’t going to pick that again, that was for certain. He had also no desire to hunt down the fabled [Benediction of the Magi], which allowed the Knight to become a Mystic Knight instead of the holy Paladin – another rare class, whose best example was Dai Atlas. It was, however, technically easier to become a Mystic Knight than a Paladin, so that was still an idea.

But no. No, Optimus didn’t think he’d be happy with being a Warrior at all; he had no desire to be a Gladiator – another Deception-connoted class – nor its evolutions into Duelist or Swordmaster. As for Samurai… no, definitely not.

A Magician class, then? You had the Cleric, who could become a Sage or Priest, depending on if you wished to be offensive or defensive, which in turn could get you up to Shaman or Druid or Bishop or Archpriest – but then you had to deal with a pretty weak beginner class, and that wasn’t really appealing anyway. It was also damn popular and while Optimus kinda wished to be lost in the mass, a part of him still wanted recognition, still wanted something special. He didn’t think he’d found it in the Spellcaster branch either; Mage or Enchanter or Conjurer and their evolutions of Archmage, Sorcerer, Warlock or Summoner – though the Summoner class was tempting, he had to admit. A Healer, then? Healer had no class evolution, but compensated that ‘handicap’ but having access to a double job option when it came to crafting – and they were always in high demand.

But no; Optimus didn’t feel like a Healer anyway.

That left the Ranger and the Supporter classes.

With Ranger classes, you had the option to choose Scout, Grappler or Hunter. Light on their pedes, hand to hand fighting, ability to disappear in the background until you attacker and attack from the distance and with the help of a tamed pet – all good reasons to choose one or the other. Scoot would become a Wanderer, a boosted version of the class, or a Rogue, a sinister take on ‘sneaking around’. The Rogue could in turn become a Ninja, but Optimus scrapped the idea immediately. He didn’t feel like a Ninja at all. The Grappler could become a Black Belt or a Monk, depending on if he wanted to be a pure hand to hand fighter and pretend to ‘illumination’ and have access to interesting Command. And the Hunter… well, the Hunter could become a Trapper, specialized into trap-laying, very useful on battlefields, or into a Beastmaster, THE class that allowed you to tame pet and use them in combat alongside your avatar. A good class for solo players, and one Optimus was becoming tempted with.

Still, he mentally reviewed what he knew of Supporter classes. They… weren’t very popular on the whole, asides of the Archer beginner class – and who in the Pit had put it into Supporters instead of Rangers, Optimus had no idea, but it wasn’t logical! – which in turn gave access to Gunner (users of guns and rifles), which itself branched out into either Cannoneer or Sniper. You also had the Minstrel, often considered as a joke class by players whose idea of playing was to hack the enemy to death. In itself, it wasn’t that bad – but it wasn’t a class for solo players, and neither were its evolutions into Dancer or Bard. Although, Optimus thought as he recalled the articles, the Dancer class had gained in popularity upon Rosanna’s revelation she was a Dancer in game, prompting many of her fans to follow her lead.

And then, finally, last of the Supporter classes, you had the Scholar. Now, that made Optimus pause.

The Scholar was rather unassuming as far as beginner classes went; it had a weak defense, a weak to mid attack and an average speed. It had very good dexterity and dodge stats, however – and its evolutions were very polyvalent. The Scholar didn’t use magic but magical items to cast spells on its enemy. It could understand all the spoken and written languages in the game, which was interesting if you wanted to explore the map to its fullest and learn all the hidden secrets scattered around. The Scholar could become a Red Mage, who could up a dozen of spells taken from the Magician classes, albeit in a weaker version making him versatile. The Blue Mage could learn enemy and monster spells, provided he had had them cast on him first. The Runecaster… well, the Runecaster used runes to increase their party’s stats – and written Runes could be added directly on equipment to reinforce its basic stats, giving the wearer a permanent boost. Not the most popular, but highly respected.
And there was the Geomancer, Optimus mentally added, remembering Rung’s admission. And the mysterious fifth class, if it existed at all.

For a moment, Optimus hesitated. Scholar didn’t sound bad. He could actually picture himself playing as one.

“Scholar,” he murmured aloud. “Scholar Optimus.” He rather liked the sound of it; this time, he’d use his real name, not a make-up name that would make him sound more dashing than he really was. He’d be truer to himself this time around. Nodding to himself, he started to connect the earphone to his helmet. “Let’s go with it, then.”

Here’s hoping I’m not making a bad choice, he mentally added as the world around him dissolved into pixels.

Notes:

The Class system and its evolution plus hunt for relics to unlock the superior classes is something I was inspired by Seiken Densetsu 3, which I absolutery adored as a teen when my brothers found a Roms and I watched them play/played it in turn. The whole Light/Dark class evolution was great, though I always found it hard to choose lol

(Who else screamed when they saw they were finally releasing the game officially outside Japan and were making a remake during the Nintendo E3 presentation? I sure did :p)

It was going to be a little more developped originally, then I realized I might have started making too complex.

One more chapter, and we'll have finished Optimus' beginning story; stay tuned!

Chapter 6: Origins. Optimus 6

Notes:

Last chapter of Optimus' origins story; I hope you'll enjoy ;)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Beautiful,” Optimus murmured to himself as he turned on himself and let his optics wander all around him, a delighted smile on his lips.

He had forgotten how amazing the Darnaxus Glades looked. Once upon a time, players had elected it the prettiest region in the game. Darnaxus Glades formed an immense forest crisscrossed by many sheltered paths, the forest itself being divided into four different zones, each one reflecting a ‘season’ like the ones found on organic world. The Pink Wood features trees charged with pink, purple and white flowers while the Bare Wood’s trees were for the most part naked, some of them featuring black or silver thing leaves when they weren’t bending under the heavy weight of snow. Savvy players preferred to avoid this area unless they had Winter Gear, for the cold lingering in that part of the Glades added a malus to your stats.

Currently, Optimus was walking through his favorite area in the Glades, the Golden Wood. Branches charged with ruby red, brown and golden leaves stretched above him, so high and so dense you couldn’t even catch a glimpse of the sky. Fallen leaves were forming a golden carper under his pedes as they cracked and crushed under his steps. Here and there, bright flowers peeked up from under piles of leaves and mushrooms grew on and around solitary trees. If you looked right, you could see inoffensive Dexisquirrels running up the massive trunks or Turbo-foxes zigzagging between the trees. You could even hear the sound of singing Lilleths in the distance – and there was probably a quest to find by following their song, but Optimus didn’t dare leaving the path yet, not when he already had a task to fulfill.

His optics caught sight of a particularly big red flower with needle-like petals just left of the path. He couldn’t remember ever seeing one; perhaps it was a new addition to the flora due to the game’s upgrade? A Botanist would probably have found usable herbs in there, Optimus mused, wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t have chosen it as his job. But Miner was better, he reminded himself, mindlessly caressing the handle of his axe; it was the only way for him to unlock the use of axes and pikes for a Scholar.

Playing Scholar was tougher than Optimus had first though, especially when one was used to take minimal damages in melee due to having played a Tank. The moment he had left the starting zone after getting through the tutorial, a Wild IronBoar had run at him. Battling him had been… different. Without the heavy armor Optimus had been used to with his Knight and with only a dagger as a starting weapon, the monster had taken a little under half his life on his lonesome before Optimus had managed to bring it down, whereas the Warrior and later Knight he had been wouldn’t have lost a 10th of his life.

He was also much slower than he had expected, which was a problem. He could think all the moves he wanted, but his Avatar body wasn’t following. A speed boost would be sorely needed at some point, he decided as he paused under the shade of a particularly large tree on which dark green vines speckled with grey were growing. Right. That was the landmark he had been seeking. Passing left of the trunk, he started to walk away from the path in a straight line, keeping an optic out for monsters. Thankfully for him, that part of the Golden Wood seemed free of enemies, at least at the moment. It could change following the time of the day.

It was just as well, because his character sheet wasn’t exactly great at the moment.

Optimus LV. 4
[CLASS] Scholar
[JOB] Miner LV. 2
[STR] 5
[DEF] 8
[VIT] 6
[SPD] 6
[AGI] 7
[DEX] 7
[INT] 10
[WIS] 10
[LUC] 8

Yeah, he really needed to work on his strength; Optimus winced as he checked it again. He didn’t have much gold yet, but perhaps he could still find Runes to buy at the Auction House? Unless he became a Runecaster and made his owns? That would surely help. Granted, having reached Level 4 already was good, because EXP to change level was harder to come by than in his memories, but it still made him long for his Knight, who had been Level 53 when the workload of the Academy had forced him to stop playing regularly, and Level 54 when…
Better not to think about it, he reminded himself.

He would need to speed up on choosing a class evolution; staying a Scholar if he played alone would only become more and more difficult as he rose in Level and explored new regions. Monsters seemed to sense him from far even now; despite being careful about his moves, he still encountered three RubiumVipers in the fallen leaves. Luckily for him, he had made sure to stock on various basic dishes to heal up his HP. While it made him a bit of a sitting DynamoDuck, it had been cheap enough for him to fill his inventory until he reached the next outpost on the map.

Which he would definitely be heading out the moment he was done here, Optimus promised himself.

A swipe of his axe took care of a fourth and he sighed. He really needed some magic or Runes augment his chances.

By this point, he was seriously thinking of becoming a Red Mage. The quest line to access the evolution was well-known and not too complicated; the difficulties would be in finding the Tomes allowing the learning of new cells as well as choosing which ones he really wanted; the Red Mage had a limit to how many he could know. Yes, he decided. Once he left Darnaxus Glades proper and reached Woodland Town, he’d start looking for the Red Mage quest line.

Optimus progressed through the Glades at a steady pace, paying attentions to tiny details to check he was still on the right path: a stump surrounded by a ring of mushrooms here, a fallen truck covered with moss there, a stream on his left he used to orient himself in the right direction… He had spent a lot of time in the Golden Wood as Optronix, hunting down MechaGoblins brigands, Optimus remembered fondly. As such, he knew the region as well as he knew his subspace pocket. It was a good thing too, because the Abandoned AuraPine Career really was well hidden.

But here it was, spreading below his pedes. The carpet of golden leaves had left its place to rocks and abandoned excavating equipment, decrepit crates, fallen dark trunks cut in pieces, rusted axes still stuck in them. The zone was, at first glance, devoided of monsters, but Optimus still kept an optic out for them as he started to make his way down the Career. As he did so, he activated the Mining Filter, looking around for deposits he could use his pickaxe on.

A good system, he thought to himself as he headed for the nearest. Filters were used by forager such as Botanists and Miners; they usually appeared like a visor in front of an avatar’s optics and allowed the user to see flowers, herbs, ores and anything of foraging value more easily by highlighting them. Usually, as far as Optimus knew, the more radiant the highlight, the higher level the items gathered were. He wasn’t certain yet though, because as Optronix, he had chosen Fisher as a job and the system was different.

“Let’s see what we have there,” he murmured aloud as he aimed for the cluster of rocks and started to dig in earnestly. It took half a dozen of strike before the rocks broke and Optimus was able to gather 3 [Golden Rocks] in his hands. Basic material, Optimus knew, they had little interest except perhaps for perhaps Tinkers and eventually, Machinists wanting to redo old designs. Their monetary value was weak so he wouldn’t be able to sell them for much but even a few bronze coins wouldn’t hurt at this point.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he was searching for rare ores, he reasoned himself as he moved to a second cluster, then a second, a third, a fourth,… He stopped counting after a while, just checking from time to time how many [Golden Rocks] were piling in his inventory. [Broken Rock Shards] joined them from time to time, as well as the rarer [Yellow Rock Shards] – pretty to make jewelry, he noted, but not useful otherwise. No matter, no matter, Optimus repeated to himself. He was just trying to level up on his Job so he’d be able to find good items and, eventually, relics later on; you could find many by exploring Ruins and they sold well in the Auction Houses, especially the class change Relics.

It wasn’t the only way, of course. What would Sentinel ever do if he learned that Optimus had found, just by fishing…?

The pickaxe made a strange sound as it hit the latest rocks cluster, making Optimus blink and frown at the rocks suspiciously. No, there was no additional highlighting on the Filter, nothing special appearing on the screen. It was just a cluster among many others. But for some reason, the pickaxe hadn’t even made a scratch on the rocks.

“Curious,” he said to himself, crouching down and touching the rocks, poking and palpating them just in case. Nothing. It was just dumb, plain normal rock. Plain normal rock that seemed incredibly resistant to blows. Unless the clusters was supposed to be only damageable by high-level players? But no, that couldn’t be it; if Optimus tuned up the filter, he could see the rock’s ‘level’, showing it could be dug up by Miners Level 2 and up, which Optimus definitely was.

So why…?

Then it dawned brutally on him.

“Oh. Oooooh. Oh no,” Optimus shook his head in disbelief. “That’s not possible. No. No, no, no. I can’t have found a rare item already? I know Sentinel said I had the weirdest luck streak in games, but I can’t just have… Not with a Level 2 job!” Almost Level 3, actually, since the mining he had just down had helped him get his EXP points up, but still.
He face palmed. Not that he wasn’t grateful for rare finds, but seriously? If he ever told anyone about that, they would never believe him.

Of course perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it was just a particularly resistant rock. Perhaps there were rocks like that in every digging sites, to incite higher-level Miners to come back in beginner areas and mix up with lower-level players. Perhaps once he finished breaking it apart, he would only find some [Gold Nuggets] or a [Yellow Diamond].

“Right,” Optimus reassured himself as he shifted his hold on his pickaxe and started swinging it up and down again on the rocks. “Just a very resistant rock.”

Two times. Five times. Ten times. Fifteen times. The rock cracked slowly and Optimus started to lost count of how many hits he had given it. He had to stop several times, needing rest when his stamina began to run low. “A fragging resistant rock,” he mumbled unhappily as he sat down. Good thing the stamina was an out-of-fight feature only, else he’d easily be toasted. He looked up at the still half-cracked rock in distaste; the crack barely reached the middle of the cluster. “I really, really hope the recompense will be worth it.”

The Career was only filled with the sound of his pickaxe on the rock and the distant sound of Lilleths. The game background music had faded to the point of being barely audible but even if it had been, Optimus would have paid it no attention whatsoever, his entire processor focused on the task at hand.

“Woohoo!” he hooted in victory when finally the rock broke with a small chiming sound. “So what were you hiding, you…?” he started to say before the words died on his lips. He stared, long and hard, at the displayed item lists.

There was indeed a [Yellow Diamond] in the rubbles. But there was more, oh yes, far more.

With trembling digits, he lifted the [Globe of Earth] from the pebbles, his optics glued to the description scrolling down next to it.

[The “Globe of Earth” is a sacred relic from times long past, allowing the user to connect with the magic of Earth and nature and turn it to their advantage, thus transforming them in a Geomancer.]

“Of all the luck…” Optimus said faintly. Geomancer. An item to actually become a Geomancer. He swallowed. Of all the luck…

That… was leaving him in a bind. He had been seriously thinking about the Red Mage class until now but with the relic in his hands, the possibility to change immediately his Scholar into something more durable, something with magic abilities to complete his (weak) fighting skills before he even left Darnaxus Glades…

Should he try? If he did and he didn’t like the class, Optimus wouldn’t be able to change it again unless he erased his character. Of course, given he didn’t have a high level yet or involved too much into his Scholar Avatar, it wouldn’t be that bad, he supposed.

His hands stroked the [Globe of Earth] machinally. To use it or not use it. In his mind, he pictured Rung. Rung seemed so enthusiastic about his own in-game dealings as a Geomancer. Wouldn’t it be good to say to him, the next time Optimus went for his appointment, that he had tried to play as a Geomancer himself?
With a shaky nod, Optimus took his decision.

[Do you want to use the Globe of Earth? – Y/N?]

“Yes,” Optimus murmured and closed his optics as everything around him dissolved into pixels. He knew next to nothing about how a Geomancer worker, what were the spells and how to use them, what advantages it had and what inconvenient he would be sure to face. But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

It was going to be an adventure, and one he was going to try to enjoy.

Notes:

Yep, Geomancer Optimus coming up in the future, which might be very funny -- not so much for whoever will face him, though ;)

 

Next time on your screen: Ratchet, or how a grumpy medic with no interest in young 'bots hobby decided to take up MMORPG as an hobby (and more, so much more).

Chapter 7: Origins. Ratchet 1

Summary:

Ratchet makes a living in the Dead Ends. It's a not a pretty life, but at least he can be useful, can't he?

Chapter Text

“Congratulation, Frack; it’s an ITV.”

As he watched the face of the thin mech in front of him fall, Ratchet tried very hard not to feel uncharitable and to not scream. He had known it would happen for vorns now and, when everything was said and done, it wasn’t really Frack’s fault if he had picked one of the many Interfacing Transmissible Virus that run rampant on Cybertron.

Not when his trade WAS interfacing.

“Slag, slag, slag,” the thin mech bemoaned, face in his hands. He really looked panicked about it and Ratchet’s sympathy, which he had sworn to keep in check, reared its head a little. “What am I going to do now?”

“Take the necessary antivirus patches and stop interfacing with anyone, mechfriend or clients, until I say you can,” the medic replied dryly to the nonsensical question. Frack gave him a look from between his spread fingers that was part panicked and part unamused. It just made Ratchet sigh. “Please, mechling, get a hold of yourself. It’s not the end of the universe,” he said as gently as he could – which wasn’t much, he had to admit, but he was going to chalk it up on being tired and wanting nothing more than be done with his consultations for the day.

“It isn’t? But Skiff said that an ITV can melt your insides?” the thin mech before him asked in a lost voice and Ratchet sighed. For all he had tried to teach Dead End’s inhabitants prevention and how to treat less serious ailments by themselves and educate them on how serious or not serious they were if they got to a medic like him on time, the lessons hardly seemed to stick – or at least they didn’t with Frack.

Ratchet wasn’t sure it was because the mech was a bit dimwitted or because he believed all of his ‘mechfriend’ (Ratchet personally thought of that fragger as Frack’s pimp) words and advices as if they held the truth of the universe, even above a certified physician like the old medic manning the last free clinic on the block. As a medic, Ratchet wanted nothing more than to drop his ‘Healer, do not harm’ pledge and walk up to that son of a trash compactor to punch him in the face. Sadly, it wouldn’t help Frack – and it risked to alienate him from Ratchet and the clinic and that mech needed the medical help.

“ITV can’t melt your insides,” he said calmly, controlling his desire to just be sarcastic. Others diseases could have, of course, but there was no need to panic his patient further. “But they can be highly contagious and they will harm your systems if you don’t treat them quickly. What you have, Frack, is called MeChamidya; that’s why you have those burning sensations in your valve and spike. Do you remember the charter I showed you? No?” he added as Frack shook his head. “It’s alright.” Actually, it wasn’t, but it was Ratchet’s job to explain again and again, and he was going to do it. “I’ll give you another copy and new pamphlets for you to read. Just to reassure you, it’s probably the most benign ITV you could catch. That said, have you used the patches I gave you last time?”

Flack fidgeted in his seat. “Uh, well, you see, I, uh, I may have, uh, kinda… forgotten?”

How surprising, Ratchet dryly thought to himself, but he wasn’t surprised by the answer; if Frack had indeed used them, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. “I see,” he said simply. “Well, it’s a bit late for them to be efficient now so if you still have them, I’m going to ask you to either bring them back to the clinic or to dispose of them in an appropriate recycling bin. You can do that?”

Frack nodded meekly. “Yes, doc.” He would probably try, Ratchet mused, but wherever he managed to follow through was another thing entirely. He’d have to check and recheck in the next decacycle. “And… what do I do, for, you know?” he asked uncertainly, gesturing at his array’s general area with flushed cheeks.

That what reminded Ratchet that the mech in front of him was really young and naïve, in his own way. Oh, scratch that – if the mech hadn’t been some kind of sickeningly naïve Spark, he would have never let his mechfriend/pseudo future Conjunx convince him to resort to prostitution when Frack had lost his job at the local factory. But Frack wasn’t exactly special either, Ratchet reminded himself; the Dead Ends were full of mechs with such stories. Ratchet saw to dozens of ‘bots in the same situation every solar cycles. Frack just had the dubious ‘honor’ to being one of the few who accepted to regularly come to see a medic – even if he didn’t always listen to say medic’s sound advice.

“First off, you’re going to have to call of your partners in the last two decacycle,” Ratchet started and Frack looked crushed; did the mech even know the names of the mechs and femmes who had picked him up on the street corner, he wondered? “They need to be warned in order to get tested too. Most of them probably won’t have caught it.” If their firewalls were up to date, anyway. “But either way, it’s better safe than sorry. I’m going to prescribe you a nanite-charged salve to rub over your array if the burning sensations get too strong. And in the meanwhile, we are going to install a new anti-virus patch you will have to renew every solar cycle for one orn. One whole orn,” he stressed out, “it’s very important. You can’t cut it short unless you want to virus to keep lurking in your systems.” And now the hardest part. “And of course, you will have to exempt yourself from any kind of interfacing activity until the treatment is done with.”

At that, Frack made a sound that sounded midway between a choke and a whine. “But… but I can’t! I… How am I supposed to bring money for Skiff if I can’t…?”

If Skiff had the good sense of picking a job, then the question wouldn’t have to be posed. Ratchet bite back on his instinctive answer though; trash-talking about Frack’s ‘one true love’ would only push him away and Ratchet preferred to keep an optic on the mech as much as he could. “I’m sure you can find another job in the meanwhile,” he assured Frack. And possibly stay on it while he was at it, but he wasn’t holding his hopes up; even if Frack gave it a serious try, either the job would turn out to be temp thing or Skiff would persuade him to drop it because ‘he was worth so much more’ – especially with his legs spread open. Ratchet knew how it worked; it had happened thrice already. He just gave Frack a joyless smile. “I’ve heard they’re still hiring part-time waiters for that new dinner for truckers on the 8th street; perhaps you can see there if they need a set of servos? Or,” he added after mentally reviewing the ads a few companies had pain-stakily agreed to post on the monitor board of the clinic, “perhaps you can try the call center? They want people to reinforce their team for the upcoming celebrations for the end of the War.”

Frack didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue with Ratchet; if anything, he was pretty quiet as the medic started to work on him, digging through his firewalls and adding the patch needed while making sure it was reacting properly. The young mech was usually chattier but given the bad news Ratchet had shared with him, it didn’t surprise the old medic. He gave him a pat on the shoulder before sending him off. “Take care, Frack. I’ll see you next decacycle to see if the patches worked fine. And if you need to, in the meanwhile, don’t forget the clinic is always open.”

“Yes, doc,” Frack muttered, leaving without another word. Ratchet watched him go with shaded optics; he wasn’t sure Frack would come back for his next check-up. He remotely added a note in Frack’s files on the computer in case he came back at a time Ratchet wasn’t here for the other medics manning the clinic, letting them know to check if anything was amiss. Slagging Skiff, he thought as he walked over the waiting room to go pick his next patient. Hopefully the fragger wouldn’t force Frack to interface despite the ITV, but Ratchet wasn’t holding his breath; if that sorry excuse of mech wanted fast credits, Frack would be all too willing to provide him with them.

Ugh. Better think of something else. What the next patient would have in store for him, for example. He stopped at the greeting desk briefly, just nodding at the tiny femme who was manning it – slag, what was her name? He couldn’t remember for the life of him. All he was certain about was that she was a new one, you just had to look at her smile and well-maintained paintjob to know it; he wondered how long she’d last here – and picking up the upgraded list of patients still waiting for a consultation with one of the two medics on duty this evening.

“Capel?” he called out aloud in the waiting room threshold – still as shabby looking as usual, the new chairs they had managed to get were all mismatched and the walls really needed a new coat of paint – and tried not to sigh as the mech he had called got up. At least it was obvious what this one’s problem was – especially since Ratchet had already treated him for it a while ago. “Hello there, Capel,” he greeted flatly. “I see the rust infection is back?”

The big mech’s rubbed the back of his helm, vocal indicators flashing briefly. He looked unhappy, but not overly worried – then again, given it was a chronic condition, he knew what to expect. One of the many inheritances from the war which continued to plague the population despite the authorities claiming up was ‘perfectly fine now’, Ratchet thought cynically. “Yeah doc, it is. Fragging thing started up again three solar cycles ago.” It always surprised how soft and pleasant that lumberjack of mech’s voice was. He was also damn lucky his rusting was always contained to external plating; Ratchet had known mechs whose vocalizers had corroded from different variant of ruse infections.

Ratchet gave him a once over as he lead the way to his office. The mech’s massive arms were covered in spots of various sizes and a particularly large one had developed on his hip. “And it has already spread so far? Curious. Well, let’s see what we can do for you,” he said as he closed the door of the office behind him.

*-*-*-*-*-*

“Thank you for your time, Ratchet, Knock Out,” Ambulon nodded to them as he officially took his shift; Tweese had already left toward his own office without sharing a word but the mech had never been much of a talker. Personally, Ratchet envied neither of them; night shifts didn’t bring in many patients in comparison to the rest of the day but the Dead Ends were sinister at night and there had been incidents with junkies before. They had been promised a security guard ever since but it had yet to happen.

No surprise here, he thought snidely. Still, he put on a smile for Ambulon before turning and leaving, trusting the other mech to take care of himself, the patients and the clinic until the morning team came to relieve them.

“Aaaand we’re done! Woohoo!”

Ratchet glared at Knock Out’s back as the other medic walked in front of him toward the clinic’s doors, arms stretched high above his head and a bounce in his steps. “Cheery fellow, aren’t you?” he grumbled, only for Knock Out to turn and give him a look.

“Oh, light up, Ratchet; you can’t tell me you aren’t happy to see the end of the shift? Imagine; no more rust infection, no more ITV, no more systems flush for drug addicts, no more attempts at getting mechs to drop the heavy drinking,…” the red mech listed on his digits. He looked disgusted. “Gosh, the last one purged all over my pedes; I’m going to have to spend the night bathing them in disinfectant to get the stench out. I swear to Primus I’m not getting paid enough to deal with that slag.”

“You poor, poor mech,” Ratchet replied, taking a falsely commiserating look. “One has to wonder why you choose to be a medic if you’re so rebutted by the actual work.”

Knock Out made a tsk tsk sound between his clenched dental plates. “Are you insinuating I’m not a true medic, dear Ratchet? Didn’t you see the diplomas on my wall?”

“Oh, I saw them well enough,” the older mech grumbled. Knock Out made a point of hanging them in plain view every time he took a shift and took them off again when he left the clinic.

Diplomas from a second-order medical school on Vehicon, sure, but real enough, as much as Ratchet disliked admitting it. Of course, just because he had the official title didn’t mean Knock Out was a good medic – or at least, not a good medic to work in the Dead Ends, Ratchet corrected himself reluctantly. Vehicon had always been more interested in cosmetic surgeries than what the old mech considered true medicine. Knock Out would probably be more at ease working on fellow racers, giving them new tires and flashy plating, mounting boosters and injectors and other racing mods as well as taking care of the occasional benign virus, and they both knew it.

Instead, he was here, much to both his and Ratchet’s aggravation.

It was stupid, but Ratchet had never been able to really like Knock Out. He could be civil most of the time but sometimes, the red mech grated on his CPU. It wasn’t the lack of what Ratchet would call ‘proper medical experience’ because Knock Out was certainly gaining it in the Dead Ends. It wasn’t the lack of berthside manners because that would have been hypocritical coming from Ratchet himself. It wasn’t the flashy personality either, what’s with Knock Out enjoying making grand entrances in the clinic every shift he was scheduled to work there, perfectly painted and waxed and polished and screeching the moment something scratched his paint (though it probably didn’t help). It wasn’t even Knock Out’s past as a Decepticon medic during the war!

Because yes, Knock Out had been a Decepticon – at least until he wanted to be on the winning side when things had started to look sour for Megatron around the time of the Battle for Iacon. Now, Ratchet didn’t blame him for picking the Decepticons; every side in the conflict had needed medics and many of Ratchet’s fellow graduates from Protihex Medical Mechanists University had decided to remain Neutrals in the end. Those who had joined the Decepticons had done so less by ideology and more because everyone had needed doctors and nurses. They all had sworn pacts of non-aggression and for the most part, they had stuck to it.

(Funny how easy it had been to make it stick once you informed your Commanders than anyone who had purposely shot at a medic with the intent to kill risked to never wake up from his next surgery, Primus be my witness. It hadn’t been 100% efficient, but it had helped bring the number of dead medical personnel down, fast and hard.)

No, Ratchet thought; he didn’t blame Knock Out for his past as a Decepticon, just as he didn’t blame Ambulon, one of the other clinic’s medics, for the side he had been on – and as a matter of fact, he got along just fine with Ambulon. Knock Out just rubbed him the wrong way because he was, well, him.

And Ratchet was stuck with him unless he decided to leave the Dead Ends. It’d be so easy; he had had quite the reputation before the War, a lot of contacts. Even now, former teachers and fellow students sent him messages asking him if he’d be interested in joining such or such hospital or even go teach a class at Protihex. Ratchet either said ‘no’, more or less politely depending on who asked or how pushy they were, or deleted the messages without reading them. He had no interest in going back to the fold, no after what he had seen and experienced during the War. At least Ultra Magnus had known when to cave in…

Oh, Ratchet would leave, eventually; it had been decided a long time ago. But today wasn’t the solar cycle and it was doubtful it would happen in the next couple of stellar cycles either.

He wished Knock Out would do the same but so far, no luck.

“Ever thought about going back to a proper formation to earn those credits you don’t have yet,” he asked casually as they stepped outside, though both choose to hang out under the neons lighting the sidewalks rather than leave immediately.

Knock Out made a dismissive gesture. “Either I’m not interested or they won’t allow me in so I see no reason to try at the moment. It won’t improve my current situation anyway.”

True enough, Ratchet silently agreed. Knock Out might be allowed to practice medicine on Cybertron, but he was still under heavy restrictions due to his former allegiance. That was the main reason he was working on a free clinic in the Dead End, on a meager salary directly provided by the Guilds Domesticus, who were chaperoning the project.

“You could still make a token effort,” he grumbled.

“Like you?” Knock Out retorted, and they glared at each other.

Oh yeah, perhaps it was actually the true reason he disliked Knock Out so much: the constant nagging about his lack of care for his frame. Ratchet maintained himself, but not to Knock Out’s high and rigid standards, which seemed to unnerve the race car. Ratchet had no idea why it bothered Knock Out so and he didn’t care; he was a grown mechanism and he could take his own decisions. So what if he wasn’t interested in getting polished? What if he didn’t go to Maintenance Institutes for regular check-ups in order to replace old pieces?

What if he enjoyed a cube or two too many when he was on breaks?

He was half-tempted to snap at the other mech to go nag someone else but he wouldn’t wish Knock Out on anyone.

The mutual glaring continued until a joyous honking sound made them both jump and turn. Knock Out broke up into a delighted smile as he rushed forward to greet the mech who was speeding their way, transforming in a sharp turn just as he reached the clinic’s steps.

“Breakie! You could come!” Knock Out gushed as he jumped into the bigger mech’s arm, who laughed as he lifted him up and spun him around. “Eh, eh, none of that, big mech!”

The tall mech with an optic patch just grinned before bending to kiss the red medic on the lips. “Of course I came; I had promised, didn’t I?” he said fondly as the two hugged each other close, making Ratchet briefly look away from the intimate gesture. “Oh, hello there, Ratchet.”

“Breakdown,” Ratchet nodded in greeting. Knock Out’s Conjunx was a familiar sight at the clinic, often escorting his lover to or back from work when their schedules coincided. An ex-Decepticon too, Ratchet knew, but fairly polite. Sometimes, the medical team had discussed hiring him to be their much needed muscle but nothing had come out of it. Yet. As far as Ratchet knew, Breakdown had no complaint about his work as a simple worker in a demolition company and hadn’t mentioned any interest into coming to work for the clinic.

“Things going well for you, doctor?” the red-faced mech asked before Knock Out had a chance to elbow him to make him understand he didn’t want to stay for idle conversation, a feeling Ratchet shared.

“Good as they can be around those parts,” he replied blandly. “But I don’t want to keep you from leaving. Must have things to do, eh?”

“That we do,” Knock Out purred, looking at his Conjunx with hungry optics that made Breakdown straighten and cough.

“Ah, uh, yes, yes. Glad to have seen you, doctor. Want to try and race to Maccadam’s? The drink is on me,” he offered the smaller mech at his side.

“Well, if you invite me… and the loser will pay the second drink!” Knock Out proclaimed as he transformed and started to speed down the street, a yelping Breakdown following him with several precious kliks late.

Ratchet watched them disappear on a corner with a shake of his head. Young ‘bots in love… He didn’t know wherever he wanted to scoff at them or wish them all the luck. At least those two did seem to know where they were going, since they had decided to take the Conjunx Endura rites together.

Thunder cracked in the distance, letting the medic knows a storm was brewing on the horizon. He couldn’t stay in the street forever, he reminded himself. Better get on with his usual program. He briefly checked his internal chronometer and hummed to himself. He still had half a megacycle left before Cybertron Central Infirmary closed for visitors. Just the time he needed…

*-*-*-*-*-*

“Hello there, Arcee,” he said quietly as he deposited the potted pink crystal blossom on the nightstand next to the berth. “I brought you a pink one this time; I thought it matched the color of your plating.”

It brought no reaction, of course. The femme lying on the berth remained utterly still, optics shuttered, and the beeping of the various machines she was hooked to never faltered as Ratchet dragged a chair over and sat by her side, back creaking as he did so. “Slag, but those things are uncomfortable,” he complained. “You’re lucky you don’t have to try them. Well, perhaps lucky isn’t the word,” he coughed awkwardly. He paused, then continued. “I hope you’ll like the crystal. It’s a Praxian ‘Venusian Sun’, whatever that means. I admit I’m not an expert, but the seller said it was easy to care for and very resistant. I hope he’s right.”

Of course there was no answer, but filling the silence with small talks over his latest present helped Ratchet feel better.

For the longest time, patients hadn’t been allowed to receive any gift while in the Central Infirmary; the moment the ban had been lifted three stellar cycles ago, Ratchet had made a point of bringing Arcee a new one each decacycle. Stuffed Dexi-squirrels or Krystar Iron-Bears, potted crystals, even databooks he read aloud for her until a nurse let him know it was time to leave.

Most had ended up in a collecting bin set asides for her to find when she eventually woke up.

If she ever woke up.

His fists tightened reflexively as he remembered the last conversation he had with the ward manager. Fragger wanted to move her out because ‘there wasn’t much to do for her anyway, so better put her in a corner where she won’t be a bother anyway’.

The four megacycles in the nearest Autotroopers station he had earned for having punched the smug slagger in the face had been well-worth it. The last Ratchet had heard of him, the mech had made no friend by saying the same thing about a mech in the ICU – one who had turned out to be the Spark-twin of a Senator.

Suffice to say, he wasn’t around anymore and his replacement, Kaput, was far nicer to deal with.

“If only I could operate on you myself,” Ratchet muttered as he gazed down sadly upon Arcee’s unconscious face. Perhaps he’d manage to put her out of her coma. But they had ‘neither the time nor the resources to attempt that kind of operation yet’ and Ratchet ‘lacked the authorizations and specific open-CPU surgery skills needed’.

Ah! The slag he did! And the resources and time bit was a familiar song by now, which often made him sarcastically ask where all theses resources and time went. So far, he had yet to be given an answer.

A bell started to ring loudly and a pre-recorded message invited all visitors to head toward the exits. “Slag, it’s time already?” He sighed and, after a moment of hesitation, brushed a hand againt Arcee’s forehead. “I need to go, Arcee. I promise I’ll stay longer next time,” he vowed as he got up. Maybe she couldn’t hear him, but he always felt better saying the words alound.

As he walked down the aisle, he paused briefly, frowning. Uh. Curious. He didn’t remember the patient in the third berth from the door having had a visor before. A novelty item brought by friends, perhaps?

Shrugging, Ratchet pushed the matter asides and docilely followed the nurse who was gently prompting the lagers to go down to the hospital’s lobby.

It was probably nothing important anyway.

And he had another stop to make before he headed home for some much needed recharge.

Chapter 8: Origins. Ratchet 2

Summary:

When not visiting Arcee, Ratchet visits another old friend. Another friend who can answer him...

Chapter Text

“Here again, Ratchet? Don’t you have a life or something?”

Ratchet gave the foreman an unamused look as he stepped past the barriers of the worksite and took long strides toward his goal, a still in-reparation ship around which a group of red Autobot workers – mechanical specialists, curious, he hadn’t thought it was their turn to be there – were running. He could see sparks of light high above; probably a group working on a new welding on the hull.

“Strake,” he greeted tersely. “I’ll do without your comments.”

The green and black mech just had a booming laugh that shook his closed mouth plate. “Aww, but you’re so fun to tease, Ratchet. Joke asides,” he added more seriously, “you know that you don’t need to pass by every solar cycle, right? That ship is far from being repaired and it’s going nowhere, as you can see. We still haven’t found a way to correctly repair the energon rooting,” he added with furrowed optical bridges which betrayed his frustration.

Strake was supposed to be a good at his job, but he had once confided to Ratchet he may had bite more than he could chew when he had accepted the contract to put the ship codenamed Orion back into working order – or, as Ratchet thought grimly, in flight capacity; no one on the project but him, the Omega Project’s responsible and Ultra Magnus knew what the Orion truly was and it needed to stay that way, for safety purpose.

Strake thought he was only repairing one Autobot ship out of thousands that had taken heavy damages during the War. If he had known he was working on a sentient being, he probably would have been more respectful. Hopefully. He certainly did his best with the means and the teams he had, but his progresses were painstakingly slow.

“Money, my dear Ratchet,” he often confided to the medic when, on late evenings, he offered to share a flask of Ankmor Energon, his preferred drink. “It all come down to money. I’m no expert, mind you, but keeping the Space Bridges infrastructure in working order must cost its weight in shanix, yeah? And they prefer to repair the ships with less issues or commission and launch brand new ones before they get around and worry about those big, older models.” In those moments, he took a pensive look while he gazed at the Orion. “Personally, I don’t understand why they even put the Orion on the list. It’ll be a good ship once we’re done, that’s for sure, but if they wanted another Steelhaven-style ship, they’d have had an easier time to commission a new one.”

“Who said anything about the Steelhaven?” Ratchet had asked him casually, even though his Spark had skipped a beat.

Strake had snorted. “Oh, come on; I can read a schema and I did work on the Steelhaven’s renovations, you know. That’s our flagship’s twin you got here – and I can bet it’ll be a sweet ride once we can launch it. Which makes me wonder, Ratchet, why you old crochety medic self is so attached to that ship.” His optics hadn’t been suspicious. “Or why you’re listed as being a de facto crewmember whenever this thing will be ready, even if it takes hundreds of stellar cycles. Got something to tell me I should know about?”

And Primus be his witness if he truly existed, but Ratchet had seriously considered telling the foreman the truth; the mech was decent and good at his job and if he had been able to make Omega meet more people, Ratchet would have liked him to have met people like Strake. Strake, and the hundreds of Autobot workers who had made his shell and brought him online.

But Ratchet hadn’t. He had just shrugged and gave the foreman a disabused smile. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of favors a medic can accumulate in a war,” he had just stated, a hand caressing Omega’s hull as he would have a newborn protoform – which Omega technically was. “I served on that ship during the last half of the War and the Battle for Iacon. You could call me attached.”

“Aaah,” Strake had nodded along, expression nonplussed but with a look in his optics that indicated he got it, kinda. After the War was declared over, a lot of former soldiers hadn’t been able to just let go and settle back into civilian life. It wasn’t unheard of for many of them to ask to be stationed in a place which had marked them again, or to be asked to be part of the crew of a ship on which they had served. Strake probably knew mechs like that.

The lie had come out smoothly but had still left a sour taste on Ratchet’s glossa, even if it wasn’t technically a lie; just a half-truth. He had served on the Orion, then known as Omega Supreme, and he had asked to remain with him.

If Omega had still be flight-worthy, he would have been up somewhere in the stars with a motley crew. Instead, the damages his friend had suffered had been so great, the repairs so costly and deemed such a low priority in the wake of the reconstruction of Cybertron’s civilian infrastructure that Ratchet had ended up working in the Dead Ends, doing his best to take care of prostibots, drug addicts and alcoholics and mechs so poor they couldn’t afford treatment in classier, better furnished hospitals.

It wasn’t helping his faith into his fellow mechanisms, that was for sure, but at least he did some good. And the day Omega was repaired, the day he’d be able to bring him out of stasis, Ratchet would be able to tell him all about the way he had been upholding the ideals he had patiently taught to the Sentinel.

That day couldn’t come fast enough, in his humble opinion.

He missed speaking with Omega. Worse, he missed being able to speak with someone about Omega.

The technical survival of the last two Omega Sentinels was a state secret. Ratchet had no proof, but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn he was being watched to see if he let anything slip. He was given a lot of leeway because he had been Omega’s mentor and if the need came, they wanted him to take up that position again without having to wipe out the Sentinel’s processor, which would be time and cost efficient; but a lot of leeway wasn’t freedom.

Sometimes, Ratchet wanted to shout the truth for everyone to hear. Surely, popular opinion would be behind him if he asked for Omega to be brought back online properly? Or part of the popular opinion anyway; Senator Mirage was always in for the fight of individual freedom and the rights of all citizens, he’d be happy to help. But the Omega Sentinels had also frightened the population a great deal and who knew how they’d truly react if they learned two were still alive, albeit in stasis?

Strake, Ratchet thought, would probably take it in stride. Someday, perhaps he’d be able to tell the mech. Someday.

“I know,” he finally said in answer to Strake’s earlier question after realizing the green and black mech was watching him weirdly; frag, how long had he been lost in his thoughts? “But it sooths me to come and check on h… it whenever I can.”

“Which includes every night you’re not working,” the foreman shook his head. “You should consult, old mech. It’s not healthy.”

“It doesn’t harm anyone,” Ratchet shrugged, both annoyed and touched by the concern. “And there are worse quirks to have. Want me to drink myself to death? Or put fire to trashcans drones?”

“Primus above, no,” Strake chortled. “But you need a hobby, doc, mark my words. Anyway, if you want to go walk through the Orion’s hallways, you can. Just don’t venture near decks 6 to 8; they’re unstable.”

“I thought your team was working on it?” Ratchet asked with a frown.

“We are,” Strake confirmed, “but then we discovered the energon routing we did last orn didn’t take; one of the pumps broke and flooded the compartment, we had to make it a priority.”

“Damn,” Ratchet hissed. “You were able to clean out the mess?” Spilled energon could be highly flammable.

“Most of it, yes. I still got a team doing cleaning. And that’s why we’re currently working on the hull,” Strake nodded toward a group of red workers passing by. “At least outside, a spark won’t ignite the hellfires.”

Ratchet nodded grimly; he didn’t want to think how a fire would further damage Omega’s body.

“I give you a cycle; will that be alright with you, doc?”

“I had hoped for longer, I admit,” Ratchet allowed, but didn’t protest. Strake might let him come to check things over, but he had always been clear that Ratchet was only allowed on the worksite so long Strake and his mechs were around, and Ratchet respected the rules given to him. “You’re leaving early; some kind of festival going I don’t know about?”

“Almost,” Strake chuckled. “It’s the anniversary of the founding of our guild. Every Autobot worker is invited over at headquarters for a drink and snacks. They say we might even get a Windy concert,” he winked.

Ratchet shrugged; he had never cared much for singers. “Good for you,” he nonetheless said. “I’ll check out with you before leaving,” he waved at Strake over his shoulder.

“And remember! Avoid the decks 6 to 8!” Strake called after him. Ratchet wasn’t listening anymore; it wasn’t as if he had had any wish to go toward that end of the ship.

No. His target, as always, was deep in the bowels of the ships, in the secret access on desk 4 he alone had the key to.

Omega’s very own Spark chamber.

*-*-*-*-*-*

He had to give it to Strake's team, they did a very good job renovating Omega's hallways, Ratchet thought as he made his way to the 'heart' of the ship, using maintenance access -- the lifts were still being worked on and he wouldn't have trusted them anyway, not after the way they had crashed and been twisted around when Omega had fallen in the aftermath of the Battle for Iacon, slowly succumbing to the injuries afflicted to him by the Decepticons. it had bee a miracle in itself that Ratchet had managed to put him in stasis.

Still, even if the workers had done their best, the medic kept a careful optic around and slow footsteps. They may had gotten ride of the holes, the soot marks, the blackened panels left in the wake of various fires and Omega's structural integrity may have been considered good enough, but you never knew. Gently, he pressed a hand on a wall area he last remembered torn apart by and explosion. It felt smooth and cold under his digits, sturdy. Lifeless. The tentative smile he had worn, thinking that at least it wouldn't hurt his friend anymore, turned into a grimace as he remembered that Omega might never ever feel the difference now.

The quantities of energon that would be necessary to bring him fully online would have fed a whole city for a decacycle. Ratchet was no expert on energon production but he knew enough about the difficulties faced by energon farms and mines on the various colonies of the Commonwealth to realized that, with the feeding of the population coming first, the Space Bridges nexus coming second and the various new projects of the Ministry of Sciences coming third, it was unlikely the Elite Guard would gather enough energon for the onlining of a Sentinel before thousands of stellar cycles.

It was so unfair, Ratchet thought bitterly. Omega had given up so much for the Autobot Cause without ever being given a choice; shouldn’t he be rewarded in the end, with a quiet life to learn and grow like any other sentient being?

What made the situation palatable for the medic was that Ultra Magnus was stuck in the same situation, so to speak. Sure, the Steelhaven had been given priority when the plans for the reconstruction of the Autobot space float had been acted, but Sigma Supreme was just as locked in stasis as his ‘brother’. And if there was something Ratchet could grant Ultra Magnus and grudgingly respect him for, it was that once he had laid the rules, he never broke them for his own personal profit. He wouldn’t prioritize bringing Sigma Supreme back online over Omega Supreme.

“For the good it does,” Ratchet muttered to himself as he dodged down a narrower corridor. The Spark Chamber wasn’t far now. The medic looked around and listened for a long moment, making sure no one may have followed him. Strake’s team was professional and they respected his privacy, but war had taught Ratchet to be wary of everyone, even his own side.

Satisfied that nothing sounded or looked amiss, he passed the door, making sure to lock it down behind him before walking over to the console. The Spark Chamber was wide open, as usual, and Ratchet felt his usual pang of sadness at seeing it near empty, just a flicker of light playing on the wall from time to time when one looked long enough inside. “I’m so sorry, my friend,” he murmured as usual – there was hardly a visit where he didn’t utter those words or a variation of them. “Someday, I’ll make right by you. I promise,” he vowed (again). “Now, let’s see what I can do for you today.”

Sitting in front of the console, he turned up the screen and as many systems as he could, optics focused on the screen as datas scrolled down – and dozens of error messages as well. “Hmph. Looks like the last patch I vowed in your system didn’t fully hold,” he commented aloud. Even if Omega couldn’t hear him, he had taken the habit to always speak to him as if he could hear him. It made the medic feel better and made the silence less oppressing. One day, he’d get an answer, he thought as his digits pressed various keys and he stopped on various code sections for a close up. Time to continue his secret/not so secret job.

Physically repairing Omega Supreme was one thing; making sure his systems actually worked up to what they had been was another. When Ratchet had been forced to place the Sentinel under modified stasis, he had been running against time, knowing Omega was fading faster than he could work. While he had managed to do it in the end, his work had been rushed – and several of Omega’s systems bore the brunt of it, much to his shame.

It wasn’t only because he wanted to stay close to the mech he had failed that Ratchet came solar cycle after solar cycle in this room, when his schedule allowed it. No, if he did, it was also because here, he could start fixing his mistakes. Patiently, ever so patiently, Ratchet worked his way through each code line of the Omega Sentinel, fixing damaged sequences; here’s one to make the lifts work, here is one for the doors, there are lines for the cannons, there one for the weapon system, here again one for the fire suppression emergency system, and yet another for the launching of the emergency shuttles…

Some of it, he had had to wait out until Strake fixed what was physically wrong; the rest, which added to the difficulty. But Ratchet was content, knowing that once he was down, the code lines were smoothly integrated back into the network.

Nobody could even fault him for that, not even Ultra Magnus; after all, Ratchet was ready to argue, he was just doing his duty as a crew member, helping to fix his ship. And better for him to dig into the systems than a random, unknown technician who knew nothing about the truth behind the Orion, Ratchet reminded himself.

There were talks of installing one of the new Teletraan AI onboard, from what Strake had told him – not that the foreman knew much about it; his domain was the physical, not the navigation systems. Ratchet wasn’t fond of the idea, but if he could make sure the AI wouldn’t interfere with Omega’s freewill or impacted his mobility, he wouldn’t oppose the installation either. “We need to keep the cover,” he reminded himself aloud. “So, my friend, how about we fix up the code for the grapples today? It’s a terrible mess, you’d be ashamed of it…”

He had little time before him; better to make the best of it while he still could.

*-*-*-*-*-*

Without surprise, Frack hadn’t come back for his appointment with Ratchet, though apparently Ambulon saw him during his own shift.

“The patches are taking well,” the medic with the spotty paintjob had assured his colleague as they shared a cube of warm oil in the clinic’s small kitchen/rest area. “The MeChamidya will soon be an old story. I admit, however, that I worry he’ll pick something else at some point; his firewalls don’t seem very solid and I suspect there is something wrong with his automatic upgrades. Hopefully, that job he picked as a Waste Disposal technician should keep him out of prostitution for the foreseeable future.”

“You assume his mechfriend will not persuade him from the contrary,” Ratchet had replied grimly, and Ambulon’s hopes had been deflated. The other medic had been working in the Dead Ends long enough as well to know how those situations usually ended. Still, he was keeping a part of naivety that Ratchet could only envy him. “But perhaps you’re right, and perhaps this time it’ll stick.”

And perhaps pig-o-trons would learn to fly as high as Seekers, Ratchet mentally added to himself as he made his way through the corridors of Cybertron Central Infirmary. He longed to see Arcee’s face.

The day had been a hard one; in addition to the usual unpleasantness of having to flush someone’s systems full of hallucinogenic substances or illegal boosters with nasty side-effects (they had had to tackle down that one mech and strap him down with the help of several patients, some of which had taken hits Ratchet had dutifully fixed, excusing himself for the disagreement again and again), a brawl had started in the street between a group of Autotroopers on patrol (the frag had they been doing here?) and a bunch of drunk ‘bots (who shouldn’t have been here either, but hey, at least it was their home district).

Said brawl had spread, drawing semi-innocent bystanders in (Ratchet didn’t consider drug dealers innocent the slightest, and their clients were just idiots) and more Autotroopers as they called in reinforcements. In the end, the fight had spilt to the clinic’s doorstep. Ratchet and Ambulon, both on duty at the time, had ended all scheduled appointments to rush outside and start assisting the injured, as per their duty as medics – and had almost ended up arrested for their trouble thank to some Troopers being very dense and obtuse. Luckily, their CO hadn’t been an idiot, just a very tough and sarcastic lady who had allowed to finish fortune repairs on the mechs apprehended before shipping them away to the Stockades for detention until a judge decided what to do with them.

The Dead Ends were going to be either marginally calmer in the next couple of solar cycles… or they were going to turn into a powder keg waiting to explode. Especially, Ratchet thought grimly, if some of the mechs arrested worked for Thunderhoof. Sleazy slagger didn’t like it when Autotroopers butted their head in his business and the rumor said he had plenty of weapons caches to his name. Of course, it was only rumors; Thunderhoof would loudly claim he was being unjustly accused and stigmatized due to his past as a former Decepticon soldier and that he was an honest businessmech nowadays.

Gullible ‘bots might be swallowing it, but not Ratchet. And not the Autotroopers either, but without proof of any criminal activities, they had never been able to arrest him and lock him up. A pity.

No matter the way things were going to settle in the Dead Ends, peacefully or in another brawl, Ratchet didn’t think he’d be able to peacefully recharge for the next decacycle, if not longer. Oh, he wasn’t too worried about himself; the Dead Ends inhabitants seldom dared to brutalize a medic, if only because you never knew when you’d be needing him next. However, being considered more or less off limit when it came to retribution wouldn’t protect the medics or the clinic from stray shots – and plenty of people could still get hurt.

Sometimes, Ratchet wished he could forget about the world and just… rest. Moments like that almost made him wish for a coma like Arcee’s – but he immediately deleted the thought, horrified by his callousness; what was happening to the pink femme was not something one ought to wish for.

“I really must be getting tired,” he sighed to himself as he pushed the door to Arcee’s ward and walked to her bed. “Hello, Arcee. I…”

He stopped speaking, words choking in his vocalize as he took sight of the femme he had been taking care of for so long as he started to shake. What… what was happening here?! Who had opened her helmet like that? What were those cables doing her?! They snaked around her head, plugged into ports that had been revealed by slide-aside armor. It reminded Ratchet so much of the open-processor surgery which had put her in the coma to begin with that the medic briefly falter, feeling like he was going to purge as the world spun and swayed around him.

A cold rage started to rise inside his Spark. Who? Who had dared to experiment on her?! He was going to wrangle their Spark out of their casing and throw their frame into a trash compactor!

He hadn’t even realized he had moved and that his servos were locking themselves around the cables to pull them out – a stupid rookie mistake, he was a medic, Ratchet should have known better than that, should have first looked how those cables were linked and to what, should have investigated what they were supposed to do, but he was so angry -- and it was only a shout behind him that stopped him.

“What are you doing?! Nooooooo!!! Nonononono, you mustn’t touch that! The download isn’t completed, that could put the system in jeopardy!”

Ratchet recognized the wheeling sound before he recognized the speaker; as such, it came as no surprise when Kaput rolled from behind him and to the other side of Arcee’s berth, looking fretful, hands wriggling together while he swayed back on forth on his wheel.

“Kaput,” he said flatly. “What the frag do you think you’re doing to that femme?”

Normally, Ratchet rather liked Kaput. He was a nervous ‘bot who didn’t have much of a spine when it came to conflict situations, but he was also a competent medic… most of the time. He didn’t take unnecessary risks, often asked his colleagues’ opinions on tricky cases, tended to be a bit whiny when heads butted,… But he had a good Spark, and he took impeccable care of the patients in the long term recovery care.

Until today at least. Now, the only emotion Ratchet could muster toward the other mech was fury.

It must have showed on his face because Kaput yelped and rolled back, hands up in surrender. “It’s not what you think!” he managed to squeak out.

“Oh? And what do you think I think, Kaput?” Ratchet asked, dental plates gritting. “Funny, from where I’m looking, it looks dangerously like an unauthorized procedure. And I know it’d be unauthorized, Kaput, because even if I’m not down as Arcee’s Amica or next of kin or anything, I happen to read her files often to see how you are treating her here.” Which wasn’t technically legal, as he wasn’t her doctor, but Ratchet had been able to get a few favors in exchange for shutting up on WHY an open-processor surgery had been necessary on her in the first place. Ultra Magnus and Highbrow hadn’t been impressed; Ratchet had stood his ground.

Kaput fidgeted. “Well, yes, perhaps it’s not exactly officially authorized, but I can swear I have the informal authorizations from the higher up for experimental treatments and since it was looking promising on other patients, I had thought perhaps with your lady friend it could…”

“Kaput. What are you doing to her?” Ratchet cut in forcefully, knowing the other mech would go on a roll if he allowed him to talk. Kaput blinked.

“I’m only trying to do the same thing I did for the other patients in the ward, Ratchet,” the other medic explained with a whine. “It’s not dangerous, I swear, and we have obtained very good results already in the Praxus and Kaon’s General Infirmaries – okay, perhaps the patients didn’t wake up, exactly, but their processors’ activity climbed up by a margin of 15% when it had stayed unchanged for hundred of vorns beforehand, so I thought perhaps we could try it here, it isn’t like it would hurt them, you know, and…”

Ratchet’s optics ridges rose. “Kaput, calm down,” he ordered coldly. “Simple words, okay. What is she hooked up to? What are you trying to do to her?”

Kaput blinked. “I’m trying to connect her processor with the Seiberutopia Tales Online servers, Ratchet; I told you that, didn’t I?”

“No you didn’t,” Ratchet replied automatically before his jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, what? You’re trying to… connect a coma patient to a video game?” He couldn’t have heard that right, surely not. But Kaput was nodding vigorously; worse, he was even beaming.

“Yes! It’s exactly that! And it’s working too; or at least it has worked so far on every patient here. I admit, we had a few problems with Inkhorn over there,” he gestured toward a massive mech, a transport-capable vehicle if Ratchet had to judge, “but that was mostly because he had non-standard helm modifications the data-holder cube didn’t know what to do about first. In the end, it turned into two horns for him, you see them?”

No, Ratchet didn’t see, but he was seeing other things now. The visor which hadn’t been there before on a patient, an earphone he didn’t known on another, a headphone on a third and a fourth,…

He lowered his gaze on Arcee again, on those ugly cables which made him feel fright. All of that… for a game? When she wasn’t even conscious?

“Kaput… What the Pit is going on here?” Ratchet asked, unnerved.

The one-wheeler tapped his digits together nervously. “Well, you see, that’s kinda a long… short story. You, uh, mind coming to my office so we can talk about it?”

Ratchet took a look at Arcee, then at the other patients. His Spark wavered. “… Lead the way. And I hope for you it’s a damn good explanation,” he warned the other mech.

Chapter 9: Origins. Ratchet 3

Summary:

Wherein two medics have a discussion on video games and comatose patients and Ratchet decides to employ his newly gained knowledge to reactivate an old friend...

Chapter Text

“So… a video game?”

Kaput’s office was very cramped, making Ratchet wonder if it hadn’t been a cupboard for medical equipment before it was reconverted. The monowheeler had prepared them tea with an antique boiler the like of which Ratchet hadn’t seen since he had been a newly Protoformed mech. A cup, still full, was getting cold in front of Ratchet while Kaput, either to avoid starting a discussion he didn’t want to have or because he wanted to really savor his tea, was drinking from his own cup in little sips, silent. His hands were shaking though, letting Ratchet know the first option was the most likely.

“Yes, a video game,” the monowheeler finally replied as Ratchet continued to stare at him intensely, which unnerved him. “I admit, it’s a controversial idea among you estimated colleagues. Pharma dismissed it immediately when I tried to present it to the Infirmary’s councilmembers, but Remedy was intrigued and it was really his opinion that mattered in the end…”

“Kaput, you’re starting to babble,” Ratchet warned him, making Kaput jolt and spill some of tea with a swear. “Here,” the old mech handed him a rag out of his subspace pocket, mind spinning while Kaput cleaned up the spilled liquid. Pharma being against new therapies wasn’t a surprise for him; he was a good medic, but he was also very set in his way and wary of anything that could potentially tarnish his reputation as a serious practitioner. Oh, Ratchet could understand why. While he had immediately joined the Autobots when the War started, Pharma was a flight frame; he had faced a lot of discrimination to get where he was now and he had no intention to commit the slightest mistake. So yeah, Ratchet wasn’t surprised Pharma had immediately said ‘no’ to the idea of hooking up coma patients to a video game servers.

But Remedy had pronounced himself in favor and that… that was worthy of a second glance at the project. When Cybertronian thought of ancients mechs, they first pictured Alpha Trion, but Remedy was a close second in popular imagination. He probably wasn’t THAT old, but he was already ancient by the time a young Ratchet had sat in the amphitheaters of Protihex Medical Mechanisms University, where the old mech was teaching the newer generations of medics. All the ‘bots who counted in the profession had taken lessons under Remedy. Ratchet could honestly say he had been the best teacher he ever had had, a role model he had actively wished to follow.

Up to a certain point anyway.

Remedy was so now old he wasn’t an active practitioner anymore; his hands had started to lock up thousands of stellar cycles ago, rendering him unable to practice surgery and forcing to step back from active medicine entirely. However, he hadn’t dropped the medical field entirely; Remedy kept a role as a consultant to any who wished his advices and a role as an administrator of the Cybertron Central Infirmary. His reputation was such Remedy still remained THE most famous medic of Cybertron and the one whose expertise they all bowed to in the end.

If he thought there was merit in Kaput’s strange idea, then…

“Explain to me since the beginning, again. Please,” Ratchet, finally reaching for the tea cup and taking a sip to show his good faith and willingness to listen. He tried not to grimace – cold tea was just not his thing and the brew Kaput had selected by too sweet for his taste.

“Right, right,” Kaput nodded, putting his own cup down and clapping his hands. “I’m sorry, it’s possible I end up making a few digressions along the way so don’t hesitate to tell me, alright?”

“Oh, trust me, I will,” Ratchet replied dryly. “Now, where did you get that idea?”

Kaput rubbed the back of his helm. “Ah, that. Well, you see, last stellar cycle, I went back to Protihex Medical Mechanisms for a conference – it was about the survival of long-thought eradicated virus on the planets in the northern part of the Commonwealth, interesting of course but the lecturer had a voice so soporific, I would have fallen asleep if not for…” Ratchet coughed and Kaput blinked in answer. “And never mind. Anyway, while I was there, I decided to visit an old friend – I don’t think you ever heard of Rest-Q? No? A pity, he’s a great mech, you know, a really great mech – who decided to stay at Medical Mechanisms as a searcher,” he added quickly under Ratchet’s quailing look. “His last field of study was the signals emitted by mechs’ CPU while they were in the midst of recharge, in order to get a better understanding of the patterns it follows during the different types of recharge – restful, agitated, by fits,… -- in order try and duplicate the effects of the most peaceful ones to help patients with sleeping troubles. You know how many Autobots still have troubled times following the end of the War…”

“Yes,” Ratchet nodded curtly. “I do know.” At least a third of the mechs who had turned to drugs in the Dead Ends had done so because of war-related trauma. Even Ratchet sometimes had troubled nights, where he woke up and searched for a strong drink… “And your friend really thinks it can work?” Duplicating a personal signal was hard enough, but to try to find one applicable to every type of frame existing…

Kaput nibbled on his lower lip. “There are merits in those researches,” he finally said, “but I’m not sure on their eventual application. It is worth a try, however, don’t you think? But wherever it’ll work or not, I got interested by some of the experiments Rest-Q was leading in order to find what could calm a mech so his EM field and CPU’s patterns naturally aligned themselves on a ‘sane baseline’ he had come up with through the use of external stimuli. That, I found very interesting, personally,” he added, putting his chin in his hands and his elbows on the table.

“Hmm,” Ratchet nodded to himself. He had followed a few classes on a similar subject once upon a time. “What did he use?”

“Music, mostly,” Kaput confided. “At least the beginning. It does work for some mechs, but I didn’t find the results very significant. Room temperatures, too, in some cases. But what I found the most interesting was the use of video games during the recharge period. You see, part of the inability some mechs have to enjoy a good recharge is that their CPU is naturally too high-strung and can’t turn off certain functions in order to let their frame rest.”

That, Ratchet already knew; he had seen many patients with the same problem.

Slowly, he started to tap his fingers on the table, thinking. Ratchet knew next to nothing of video games, having never been a player himself, unlike several of his fellow students back in Medical Mechanisms. Oh, he knew they came in different styles and shapes, from the ones using hand-controllers (not adapted to every kind of servos, which made them very unpopular) to the arcade ones that allowed you to plug in and control the characters on the screen and, of course, the newer models, the ones that had developed alongside the RPG style many young ‘bots favored those days, where the game happened… in your head…

Ratchet’s optic ridges furrowed as he thought it over.

“So… hooking up to a game during their period of recharge allows those higher functions to find a derivative while the rest of the functions turn down and allow for rest?” he said aloud.

Kaput nodded eagerly. “That’s right! And it got me thinking about our coma patients. Their CPU… they’re still functional. Oh, perhaps not up to one hundred percent, but it’s been proved their higher functions are working, since their frames continue to run smoothly even when they’re not hooked up to machines,” Kaput added with a frown of his own. “The damaged connections between CPU and motor relays and the ones in the pathways the datas use to command the frame’s onlining are the true roots of most of our problems, as we have yet to find a way to repair them effectively.”

“Don’t I know that,” Ratchet mumbled. For the most part, those connections could only be repaired by the patient’s own self-repairs systems and… it wasn’t perfectly reliable, for a lot of the self-repairs systems were commanded by the general functions of the CPU. If those functions weren’t working, then the self-repairs couldn’t kick in.

One of the many reasons Arcee wasn’t waking up…

Kaput coughed. “So, I went thinking: ‘Hey, if hooking up on a game allows a mech to rest by diverting his higher-level functions so they can, what if hooking up to a game simulated the functions of a coma patient? I know, it sounds crazy, but I thought it was worth a try. So I asked around to the friends and next of kin of my patients to see if perhaps I could try an experiment with one of them. I didn’t have much success at first, but a Conjunx eventually agreed down in Kaon and, well, I worked up from there.”

Ratchet nodded slowly. “And you said you obtained results, right? What was it again, an increase of 15% in cerebral activity?” It may not have sounded like much, but on coma patients? That was a very significant and miraculous progression.

“On average,” Kaput confirmed. “The higher case we recorded was up to 27% -- and while it didn’t allow him to wake up, we noticed a slight boost in his self-repairs which leave us hopefully that, perhaps, eventually…” he trailed off.

“I don’t believe in such miracles, Kaput,” Ratchet dismissed, but inside he felt weird, somewhere between elated, scared and hopeful.

“Miracles or not, I know what we have. And,” he added, looking wistful, “I don’t think I saw anyone cry as hard as that femme when she managed to talk with her Amica…”

Ratchet startled. “I thought you said no one had woken up?!” he shouted, rising from his seat. Kaput jolted and almost fell out of his seat, looking at Ratchet with wide optics.

“Because they didn’t, Ratchet. She just happened to see her Amica in the game; that’s how we know it’s working, that the downloads and linking are doing fine. They’re not awake here, but they’re fully conscious and active in S.T.O. We even managed to convince the company to come up with a special tutorial to explain to the patients newly hooked up to the game where they were and how to use the commands, how to pick a character class, how to relay information with Mails to the game developers if they had issues,…” Kaput listed off on his fingers.

Ratchet wasn’t listening to him anymore; all he could hear and think about were the words ‘they are fully conscious and active in S.T.O.’.

“And that’s what you were doing to Arcee?” he asked in a faint voice.

Kaput stopped talking to stare at him. “Uh, yeah, that’s the idea. We were almost finished doing the necessary link-up between her frame and the main servers. Right now, it must be over and she may very well have starting moving around in the game. We were going to install a new monitoring device to measure up her CPU activity and see how well she’s taking to it. We got a handful of patients for whom, sadly, we had no concrete results, but…”

Ratchet tuned him out again. He imagined Arcee awake and moving, even if it was only in a fictive universe. Would the game be able to reverse the damages done to her memory banks? He dared not hope so but perhaps…? And even if it didn’t, then at least she would have a life back, a life where she could decide to do whatever she wished.

… If he went up and got a copy of the game for himself, would he be able to see her, to talk to her as well? To express how sorry he was? To atone for his mistakes? And if Kaput’s system could work with coma patients, what if it could also work for…?

“Ratchet? You’re feeling alright here? You look like you got struck by lightning,” Kaput asked worriedly, waving his hand in front of his fellow medic’s optics to try and get his attention.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Ratchet replied in a toneless voice, not even acknowledging the waving. “Just a stray thought.” His optics became far more focused at once and he pushed Kaput’s hand asides. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “But you got me curious. How do your system work exactly, and can it be used with every type of coma patient? What about mechs in forced stasis? Would they be able to use it as well?”

“Hum,” Kaput stroked his chin. “I admit I haven’t considered the idea yet, so I’m not sure wherever it’d be viable or not. Stasis implies that the frame has entirely shutdown, so CPU activity is down as well. But perhaps, with some modifications…?” He shook his head. “But let’s start at the beginning, shall we? The system in itself is very simple, you see. First, you need to…”

Ratchet listened and nodded along, making an audio record as he did so. He would probably need it later if his memory made him default. He felt shaken and vaguely hopeful.

Because, if such a system would work for Arcee… why couldn’t it also work for Omega Supreme?

*-*-*-*-*-*

The answer was, it could… with a lot of work, luck and favors called in.

It took the better of three stellar cycles, using all his free time, for Ratchet to be able to make it work – and it would probably had taken him forever if the War hadn’t allowed him to make a few friends. Once injured mechs who owned you their life often made a point of trying to pay what they consider to be their debts. Ratchet tended to refuse or suggest they verse shanix to charities instead but this time… It was for Omega, he kept reminding himself. Only for Omega.

His first action once he had left Kaput and double checked on Arcee had been to go home, drink himself into a stupor and ponder on his crazy idea as he laid on his berth, optics focused on the dirt-stained ceiling. Then he had flushed it out of his systems, connected to the Grid and started to gather information on that ‘Seiberutopia Tales Online’.

He… hadn’t exactly been impressed. Call him of bad faith, but even if he could praise young ‘bots overactive imagination and the way they kept making up whole worlds, he still considered video games as a futile way to occupy one’s time.

Or perhaps it was just the whole ‘magic’ concept Ratchet had a hard time connecting with. It was so pointless and illogical in its very conception, it just made him scoff.

But he had persevered, going through forum after forum, reading the comments of players, tracking down the official news sources and the FAQ until he had build up a good understanding of the game mechanisms, then of the way the linkup between CPU and game worked. It had been a trial in itself, because of course the society producing the game would consider it a fabrication secret!

Ratchet had bend the truth a little and called them, presenting himself as a medic doing researches on the link between games and patients’ progresses, going so far as to drop Kaput and Remedy’s names in the conversation. After that, they had been far more accommodating and provided him all the documents he had needed (after making sign a confidentiality clause, of course, but Ratchet hadn’t cared; it wasn’t as if he had been planning to divulge anything to anyone, anyway).

The reading had been informative at least. Ratchet had spent long megacycles going through each bit of the text, underlining or highlighting every passage of interest, recutting them together again and again until he had compiled the datas he wanted in a satisfactory manner.

For all he didn’t care about the games themselves, Ratchet had felt a grudging respect rise up for the game developers themselves. Coming together with a universal linkup system working for every type of Cybertronian had to have been like walking through the Pit; no wonder they kept a tight lid on game datas and servers!

Once he had known what to look for, Ratchet had started to buy copies of the games to work on. He had needed to take a few apart in order to familiarize himself with every pieces and how they interacted with each other and with a mech’s frame. One… may or may not have blown up in his face, not that he would ever admit it. But once more, he had managed to find what he was seeking and increase his understanding of the game system itself.

Which had made him realize that, in its actual state, the game wouldn’t be compatible with Omega Supreme’s own systems, even if he hadn’t been in stasis.

Ratchet had hit a very rough patch once he discovered that fact. Empty cubes had piled up in his apartment and he had stopped showing at the clinic for the best part of a decacycle, until Ambulon showed on his doorstep, ready to rip apart the door to get in and check on him. After that, things remained a bit blurry in Ratchet’s processor even today. What he knew was that, by some point, he had found himself sitting next to Ambulon, talking about hypothetical applications of gaming hookups on systems in stasis.

“Your problem, Ratchet, is that you never consider asking for help when you hit a roadblock,” Ambulon had commented. “Sometimes, you need to take a step back and have a brainstorm with someone not as involved as you. So, share with the class, doctor; I’m listening.”

Ambulon had been right, of course. Ratchet had been forced to keep things vague, but nonetheless he had said enough on his researches for the younger medic to ask questions on the leads he had followed and the ones he had previously discarded, offering theories of his own Ratchet had either shot down or carefully noted down for further researches.

“One of the problems you may be facing in the future is the size of the CPU and the normal level of activity of your patient,” Ambulon had hummed. “The game systems are supposed to be adaptable to every kind of frame, but you seem to be talking about a very big ‘bot, probably of the likes of a warframe, yeah?” Ratchet hadn’t answered, but Ambulon had continued. Better let Ambulon think it was about a Decepticon patient than the truth. “I know they had to make special custom modifications for Decepticon frames, because some of them are too out of scale to make it work otherwise.”

“I don’t think it would cut it, Ambulon.”

“Perhaps not,” the other medic had nodded. “But have you considered making the game linkup pass by several copies at once? Divide and conquer, Ratchet, divide and conquer. If you divide the CPU’s activities into several sections, then make them pass through several game systems at the same time, you can put a mech’s consciousness in the game without ill effect. At least in theory, it could work.”

And he had been right, Ratchet had realized later one, after researching the subject. It was a procedure which had already been used on variations of open-processors surgeries in which they had needed the patient to be conscientious in order to guide the reparations in delicate damaged sections.

In secret, Ratchet had started to gather heads. Not real ones, mind you, but heads from medical dummies they used in Medical Mechanisms, hospitals and clinics for demonstrations and surgical training. Inside their helm, you could find blank processors that could do nicely to hold Omega’s data simultaneously, provided he worked up on a good way to link them all together and make them run at the same speed – which had been a real mind scratcher, but one he had finally managed to pierce through after several unfortunate tries.

The smell of the grilled circuits was forever imprinted in his memories, as well as what could have happened with Omega’s processor if he had tried it directly. Brr. As if he had needed more reasons to have nightmares!

Then there has been the latest step in his plan: managing to bring Omega sufficiently online to be able to connect him to the game servers through the use of the dummies.

And that’s when Ratchet may have hit his biggest roadblock yet.

The problem was that, for Omega to be able to be brought online, he needed enough energon in his systems to make them run, and enough power to reignite his Spark to the point of getting out of the stasis. And sadly, it was practically impossible to do while staying discreet.

Oh, perhaps he could have walked up to Ultra Magnus and the Ministry of Sciences, knocked at the door with a big grin and asked for enough energon and material to bring back online a living weapon so he could hook him up on a game, but Ratchet seriously doubted his request would be greeted by amusement, even less so by a positive answer.

And still, he had searched – and called in his contacts, one per one, at suitably long intervals as to not raise suspicions, asking for energon, for oil, for a specific tool, for stocks of cabling, for pipes, for pumps, for even more energon stocks. If someone noticed a pattern, they wisely choose to shut up. Most mechs seemed to think Ratchet was asking for the Dead Ends clinic – which was technically true, since he made a point of reversing a good portion of the ‘donations’ to the clinic’s funds. Suffice to say, many ‘bots who had been near starving at the time had been very grateful for the energon boon.

And if most of it ended up secreted on the Orion in the dead of the night, when Strake and his team had left the worksite, well, who could (or would) say?

Truthfully, Ratchet hadn’t thought he’d manage to get so far and it still amazed him that he did. Either Intelligence was having a slow vorn or they had decided that whatever Ratchet was doing was not dangerous or unrealizable.

Not dangerous, he would give them that. Unrealizable… not completely.

Not once it had finally dawned on Ratchet he was looking at the problem on the wrong end.

The medic had first been set up on bringing Omega out of stasis at peak condition, with his full capacities. But clearly, that wasn’t possible. So… why not just bring his consciousness out of stasis? In the end, what truly matter was for Omega’s processor to be working, not his body. And once he had realized that, things had become much easier to work through for Ratchet.

It pained him, of course, to let Omega paralyzed, but in the absence of the necessary means to fully online his systems…

“And once he’ll be in the game, he’ll be able to walk as he sees fit,” Ratchet consoled himself as he finished his final preparations. “Primus, let it work…”

The room surrounding the Spark Chamber had changed aspect since Ratchet had started his ‘experiments’. Old battered benches had been lined against the walls, each supporting six to eight dummies heads. After some consideration, Ratchet had estimated that at least two dozens would be necessary to filter Omega’s processor activity, and he had planned on a dozen more if it proved insufficient. Cables linked those head together but also to various monitors and plugs hidden in the walls as well as to the Spark chamber itself. Said Spark Chamber was closed now while pipes were leading large quantities of energon straight inside its systems, alimenting the Spark Altar. When Ratchet had closed the door, the prongs had started to light up and send out sparks of energy. Normally, once they had reached a sufficient level of power, they would act like a ‘magnet’ that would bring up to them all that remained of Omega’s Spark Energy still lingering in the room and allow a proper Spark to reform, thus bringing him partly out of stasis.

It wouldn’t be much longer now, Ratchet kept repeating to himself as he monitored the process with a small camera, digits lingering over the keyboard, ready to communicate with the gently giant he called a friend.

Omega’s vocalizer was, regretfully, one of the systems Ratchet had to scratch up as non-essential for the reanimation process. However, Omega and him would still be able to communicate using the monitors, so hopefully it’d be enough for Ratchet to explain what would be happening now.

“Soon. Very soon.” The old medic rubbed at the side of his helm, where he had already installed his own copy of the S.T.O. linkup. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but he wasn’t sure he liked the sensation. Once Omega was online, he’d launch himself with him. According to fans’ explanations Ratchet had gathered, if two persons chose the same type of class and connected around the same time, they would both popup in the game at the same place. He hoped it was true…

There was an ominous sound in the closed Spark chamber. Ratchet’s head turned so fast he felt one of his neck cables ready to snap. For a moment, he feared the worse… then the diodes lighted up, indicating the systems were working right and his shoulders sagged in relief. “I did it,” he said in shock. “I really did it!”

Turning back to the monitor, he started to type as fast as he could.

|| Omega? Can you hear me, Omega? ||

|| … ||

|| … ||

|| Omega? It’s me, Ratchet. Can you hear me? ||

|| Rat… chet? ||

The medic’s Spark surged in happiness. || Yes, it’s me. I’m here. ||

|| Ratchet. I… do… no… understand. I… can’t see. I… can’t… move. I… can’t… hear? ||

|| You’ve be gravely injured, my friend. A lot of your systems aren’t back online. Can you feel my messages well? ||

For Omega felt more than he heard, the messages typed on the keyboard being send as an electrical impulsion tailored on the optical code in use in the Elite Guard. It wasn’t the best, but it worked, Ratchet reassured himself.

|| I… do not… understand, Ratchet. Where are… the Decepticons? ||

Of course it’d be the last thing he remembered, Ratchet sighed.

|| Long gone, my friend. You defeated them. But you were so seriously injured I had to put you under. ||

|| Under… what? ||

|| I meant to say ‘in stasis’, so you wouldn’t die. You’re still partly in stasis, Omega. That’s why your systems aren’t working as you know them; why you can see or move or hear. Would you like me to hook up a camera so you can see me? ||

He should have thought of that a long time ago! Of course Omega would be upset, of course he would need a limited vision to reassure himself! Tomorrow, Ratchet swore, tomorrow he would bring in another camera and find a way to make it work with the cables already in place.

|| Yes. Can you… repair me… Ratchet? ||

|| … ||

|| Ratchet? ||

|| I can’t repair you more alone, Omega. I’m sorry. ||

There was long moment during which no new message popped up and Ratchet grew worried.

|| Omega? Can you still hear me? ||

|| Yes, Ratchet. ||

|| Ratchet? If you can’t… repair me… what can I… do? I can’t… protect you… like that. ||

|| The war is over, Omega. You don’t need to protect me anymore. ||

|| But without war… What can I… do? ||

|| Live, Omega. Have fun. Meet new mechs who can become your friends. Learn more about our planet. ||

|| How? If I… can’t move. Can’t see. Can’t… speak? ||

|| There might be a way, Omega. Do you remember me telling about what a game was? You were watching Eta Supreme and Hot Spot Major down in the repair bay. Hot Spot Major had brought a ball bigger than him he kept pushing into Eta’s hand, and Eta kept flicking in away with his finger. ||

|| I… remember. ||

“Good,” Ratchet murmured aloud. Omega hadn’t asked for a proof of identity, but if he ever needed any, there it was. Only a few Supremes mentors had witness the event. Hot Spot Major had been a good ‘bot and one of the most invested mentors in the project. He too had longed for more freedom for their charges and he had been crushed when Eta had been destroyed in the Battle for Iacon. Had his crew not dragged him out forcefully, he would have gone down with him. Ratchet had never seen him again after the official celebrations for the new peace. Wherever he was, Ratchet hoped he was okay.

|| I explained you what a video game was, back then, didn’t I? ||

|| … You play… with a thing… in your hand… on a screen… where there are things… that aren’t real? ||

|| Close enough. Would you like to play a video game, Omega? ||

|| But I can’t move… or see. I can’t… hold the thing… or see the… screen? ||

|| It’s a special kind of video game, Omega. It’s going to happen in your head. In your head, you can see and walk and talk. And I’m going to play with you. ||

|| I do not understand, Ratchet. ||

Ah, his ‘speech’ was growing smoother, Ratchet noticed with satisfaction. Good, good. It showed his systems were recovering from any lingering lagging.

|| It’s alright. I’m going to explain everything to you as we go. First off, I’m going to connect you to the game. You mustn’t have fear, alright? You may feel a little weird but then you’ll be able to see. You’ll be in a place with a threshold. You understand that? ||

|| Yes, Ratchet.||

|| Good. Someone is going to ask you to choose a class. A class is what kind of character you want to play in a game. You’re going to say you want to be a Warrior, okay? ||

|| Yes, Ratchet. ||

Warrior wasn’t Ratchet’s preferred category for Omega, who could be so much more than a warrior in a game as well as in real life, but it was a class simple enough to use for a neophyte who had never played a game in his life – and that included Ratchet himself.

|| Good. The person speaking is going to ask you for a name; give yours, Omega. Then they may ask you what you want to look like. ||

|| Ratchet? ||

|| People don’t always like to play as they look, Omega. They like to pretend to be taller, or even smaller. ||

|| I could be smaller if they ask me, Ratchet? ||

Ratchet felt a small pang of sadness. He couldn’t judge Omega’s tone with words on a screen, but it was probably was somewhere between hopeful and longing. Omega had often wished to walk through Iacon with other ‘bots, but his size had always stopped him.

|| Yes, Omega, you could if you wanted to – in the game. Then once you’re done, you’re going to be… teleported… in a town. I want you to stay where you are in that town, okay? I’ll be coming to get you. ||

|| Yes, Ratchet. ||

|| Are you ready, Omega? || Ratchet asked, a hand over the button that would activate the game linkup for Omega.

|| Yes. ||

|| Let’s go. ||

Ratchet kept a wary optic out as the linkup started. The dummies head hummed in unison and the atmosphere grew hotter in a klik, but everything seemed to hold. Omega’s consciousness was now in Seiberutopia Tales Online.

And in a few moments, Ratchet would be right beside him. Plugging in the earphone, he allowed himself the widest smile he ever made as he reclined into his seat and let his vision dissolve in pixels…

Chapter 10: Origins. Ratchet 4

Summary:

Ratchet quickly finds out that a pair of Warriors isn't ideal to play S.T.O. Especially when one of them is kinda... trigger-happy.

Notes:

Merry Christmas everyone!

Here's the last segment of Ratchet's origins story; I hope you'll enjoy yourselves reading!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Omega? That’s… you?”

Ratchet stared long and hard at the unassuming looking mech sitting on a bench, hands folded in his lap and waiting patiently for something… or someone. For a moment, he wondered if he didn’t have the wrong person, despite the proximity alert showing the player’s handle as ‘Omega’, but then the mech looked up at him and the recognition in his optics was all the confirmation the old medic needed.

“Ratchet!” Omega said, rising up and walking up to him with a comically serious expression. Ratchet could only stare harder because…

He was small. So very small. Sure, Ratchet had gathered Omega wished to be smaller than he normally was and he knew the game wouldn’t have an option for ‘Supremes’ in its size chart but even so, he hadn’t expected Omega’s game avatar to barely reach his chest – and he was being generous.

But the face was unmistakenly Omega’s. A little rounder, a little smoother, which made him look younger, and he was lacking his distinctive domed face-protector, but that was Omega. Ratchet’s hands shot forward and before he had fully realized what he was going, he had an armful of tiny Omega pressed to his chest as he hugged him for dear life.

“Ratchet? What are you doing?” Omega asked curiously, head tilted in bemusement.

“Hugging you,” the medic replied gruffly, his hold becoming a little tighter as the knowledge he had made it work, that Omega was truly here, sunk in.

Omega’s face lighted. “Oh, like when you pressed yourself against my hand?” He hummed thoughtfully. “I think I like hugs, Ratchet.”

“I’m sure you do,” the medic said a choked laugh. It took all his willpower to finally let go of the smaller (smaller!) mech’s frame, and that was mostly because they were starting to get looks from passing players. “Well, look at you. All… small.” Oh, that was so lame, but he didn’t care.

Omega looked as if he had been chided. “Is that wrong? I listened to the voice, as you said, and I said I wanted smaller. Twice. Is that bad?”

“No, no, it’s perfect,” Ratchet replied hastily. “I was just surprised.” He smiled down at Omega. “I’m glad you listened. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find you – or that maybe I wouldn’t recognize you. Or you me,” he added as an afterthought.

Omega nodded solemnly. “You said to wait for you, so I waited. And why wouldn’t I have recognized you? You are Ratchet.”

The medic sighed, not knowing how to explain that maybe Ratchet had made his avatar look a bit younger than he really was, by a few thousands stellar cycles. But then again, Omega had no way of knowing; the process of aging was an unknown concept for him – or if it wasn’t, because Ratchet couldn’t honestly remember for the life of him if they had ever discussed the subject, then it probably hadn’t dawned on Omega that Ratchet might have gotten older. It wasn’t as if they had had a deep conversation before landing in that blasted game.

“I am Ratchet,” he just confirmed with a nod. “It’s good to see you, Omega.” He reached and squeezed his friend’s hand in his. “Did you try to look around yet?”

Omega just shook his head. “No, Ratchet. You said not to move, so I didn’t.”

“Right, right,” Ratchet mumbled. “Well, how about we start exploring this town? There got to be a tutorial quest somewhere for us to begin.”

“What’s a quest, Ratchet? And what is a tutorial?” He looked around. “The town is weird. It doesn’t look like Cybertron. Why?”

Ratchet just looked at the other mech fondly; questions, questions, questions. Omega had always been curious about the world around him, despite his simple programation (or in spite of, depending on how you felt about it). All the Supremes had been, in fact, and their mentors had always done their best to answer whatever interrogations they might have had. Oh, there had been a limit to what they had been able to share with them, imposed by the necessities of the war and the fact high command had needed the Sentinels to work with ethical or emotional qualms, but… well, they had to know about the Autobot Cause, didn’t they? Or about the cities and planets and population they were protecting, yes? And those lights in the distance, which city did they belong to? And those stars, what were they and how could they use their position to find their way back to Cybertron if their navigational computer was damaged?

Even Ultra Magnus had indulged Sigma’s curiosity, so it wasn’t as if he would have been able to have the higher ground in a discussion on teaching and morals.

So he walked alongside Omega, in the semi-crowded streets, doing in best to explain things to the increasingly more and more curious Omega Sentinel.

“A quest is like a mission; we find someone who gives us a mission, we do it, then we go back to him to say we’re done, and he’ll give us a reward. Why? Well, to thank us, I suppose, because we did something good for him… or for the city, I guess. I’m not fully sure how is work in this game. It’s called Seiberutopia Tales Online, Omega. Lots of ‘bots play it. No, I don’t know any other player yet; I’ve just started, just like you. I learned by going on forums. The aim of the game is… uh, actually, I’m not fully certain; some people say it’s to slay an ultimate evil, other that it’s to collect the best weapons and armors in the game, others still that it’s simply to have fun doing things you can’t do in the real world. No, Omega, we can’t go ‘slay the ultimate evil’! Why? Well, first because we haven’t gone through the tutorial yet. A tutorial is a part of the game made simpler so you can learn how to use the commands at your own rhythm and convenience, alright? And no, even once we’re done with the tutorial, we can’t go ‘slay the ultimate evil’ – because we don’t know where it is, for starter, and even if we knew, we certainly wouldn’t have the level yet! A level is… well, let’s see, if you finish a quest, you’re going to receive coins – money, Omega, coins are money, just like shanix – and you’re going to receive ‘Experience’. As you gain experience, you’re going to get stronger – and you’re going to change level, you understand? No, I actually don’t know what level you need to be in order to slay the ultimate evil,” Ratchet massaged his temples, eyeing Omega warily while the smaller mech was distracted by a flowerbed full of organic-styled plants he was fascinated by.

He was going to admit that Omega’s preoccupations with defeating… killing… slaying a perceived menace was slightly worrisome. Okay, a lot worrisome. But then again, it was Omega’s core programming, was it not? Omega’s main directives were to protect and to sacrifice himself if needed (something Ratchet would never, ever allow him to do if he could); to protect, you had to take down the threat as fast as possible, right? But even so, Ratchet couldn’t remember Omega being so intent… Perhaps Ratchet had made a mistake somewhere? Primus Almighty, he hoped not.

… Unless it was a leftover of Omega’s battle programming? Omega had been put in stasis while the Battle for Iacon finished raging, his weapons systems up and active, his battle programming running at its highest possible level, surrounded by enemies while trying to defend civilians and infrastructures, and focused on bringing down Decepticon ships and soldiers like the infamous Blackout, murderer of several of Omega’s ‘siblings’.

He hadn’t seemed too shaken or violent upon waking up, but… It was possible his battle programming hadn’t fully shut down before Ratchet initiated the transfer. The implications made Ratchet frowns and grimaces, because he couldn’t see a way to fix that. It was something only Omega could do for himself and the medic was unsure it’d be possible while they were in the game. They could run out on their own as Omega’s processors focused on other things, but it may take a lot of time. And he couldn’t take Omega out of the game to try and fix it immediately, because if he did he’d be forced to completely cut the system and Ratchet may not have enough power reserve to jumpstart it again. Let it run as it was now, sure, but to jumpstart it again in case of power cut…

It was a game, Ratchet forced himself to calm down as he repeated it again and again in his head. Just a game. If Omega showed himself a bit too aggressive, it would be of no consequences. And everyone needed to blow some steam off from time to time.

“Ratchet, what are those?” Omega asked as he tried to pick a flower, only for it to disappear instantly. “Why did it disappear, Ratchet?”

Back to answering questions time. Hopefully those ones would be simpler to handle.

“Those are flowers, Omega – organic plants you find on organics planets. No, not on Cybertron, or at least not in the wild, but I heard some people kept specimens in weather-controlled and airtight glasshouses. Why? Well, because they like them, I suppose. Yes, yes, they do look pretty… No, I don’t think you can pick one, unless it’s a quest objective? I have no idea if it is, we will have to find a quest giver to find out. There’ll be mechs or femmes avatar with a holographic ‘Quest’ glyph hanging above their head, Omega, so keep a look for them. Quest givers are AI controlled non-playing characters – those aren’t players at all, no; they will only have a few lines of pre-recorded dialogue like… see those two mechs there? They’re NPC. How we differentiate them from true players? It’s easy; just look above their heads. Normally, a NPC’s name and title is noted there when you wait a little. Plus, they don’t move like real players. They either stay in the same spot, or they follow a pre-recorded pathway so you can be sure of where to find them. No, they’re not quest givers if they don’t have the right glyph. Most are just there to give an illusion of life to the place; quest givers are rarer. There are probably many scattered around the town. The town is called Bordo Harbor. A harbor is a town built next to the sea. Yes, like the Cobalt and Rust Seas on Cybertron. We’ll probably see docks if we go this way. Yes, I agree, the buildings are nothing like on Cybertron, but that’s because the game programmers took cities on organic planets as models to build up their universe. Why? Well, because they wanted to have something exotic for players, I suppose… something new, something the people had never seen before, something from far away? Ah, here’s a quest giver. If we both talk to him, we’ll both have the quest. Oh no, no, it doesn’t matter; a quest giver can give the same quests to every person who comes up to him, because it’s what they’re programmed to do. Everyone has a chance to do the mission, see? Come on, Omega talk to him and then we’ll go find those MetalloMaize Flour’s bags in town, yeah? And… Omega? What are you looking at?”

“What are they doing, Ratchet?” the Supreme asked in wonder, pointing a digit toward two mechs sitting at the edge of a dock, a fishing rod in their hands.

“They’re fishing, Omega.” Ratched eyed them as well, looking between them and Omega’s face. “You would like to try?”

Omega nodded tentatively. “It look… peaceful. I can try?”

“You’d need to pick it as a job first, and we need to finish the tutorial before we can,” Ratchet replied. “So let’s go find those flour bags, okay? Remember what I told you? You’re searching for fabric bags that should be sparkling to let you know it’s a pickable item.”

“Like the one on the dock?” Omega asked.

“Exactly!” Ratchet beamed. “Now go pick it; that’ll be one crossed off in the quest’s subline.”

Ratchet wasn’t a teaching unit and he probably wouldn’t have been able to show the same patience to any other ‘bot but Omega, but he thought he handled the barrage of questions well – or as well as he could, considering he didn’t necessarily always know about what Omega asked him about. Good thing he had head on game details, or he’d have been utterly lost.

As it was, he was glad the first quests beginner players in Bordo Harbor were of the go-fetch-and-bring-back kind. It was simple, let them wander freely through the town for items (though the medic had a slightly harder time explaining to Omega what they were or why they couldn’t or couldn’t use them). “There, you see? It’s in your inventory. When you need it, you just take it from there and it’s going to heal you,” he explained when Omega asked him what was the purpose of the MetalloMaize Bread they had been given as reward.

Omega’s optic ridges furrowed. “I don’t understand how.”

“Beat me,” Ratchet shrugged, “Just a figure of speech!” he added quickly at Omega’s startled look. “I don’t know, I imagine it’s because labeling everything with a proper medicine name wasn’t attractive for players.”

That seemed to placate Omega’s interrogation for a moment.

Then they had started to get the tutorial quests for weapon use. And that when Ratchet started to really think the pair of them would have a problem.

“Perhaps I should have picked up the Archer,” he winced as Omega continued to hit the remains of the training dummies with the long sword he had picked up as the reward of their last ‘go and fetch’ quest before being send to the training field for instruction in how to use it. The single-minded attacks of Omega were starting to lead more and more weight to the medic’s suspicion about his protégé’s battle protocols. Not only that, but there was also something were startling into seeing Omega launch himself at the dummies to fight in close quarter when almost all of Omega’s weapons had been distance ones.

He didn’t think he liked it the slightest. A distance fighter might have been best, yes, he mused as he cut down a dummy of his own with a giant hammer, his own reward pick for the last quest. But distance fighters had more complicated base commands and without knowing how much Omega could handle upon a direct awakening from stasis, he had wanted to keep things simple.

Perhaps it had been a mistake.

But when Omega turned toward him and asked him if he had done good, he could only smile tentatively. “Well, the targets are destroyed,” he said carefully, “So I suppose it’s good. But you don’t need to hit them until there is nothing left, Omega.”

“Oh. Alright, Ratchet,” Omega replied after blinking. “What do we do now?”

“Now we valid the end of the training quest, and we’ll be able to get out of the town and explore the region’s map, then the rest of the game world, Omega,” Ratched said simply as he walked over the NPC standing in as a weapon master – he vaguely resembled a drill sergeant from Autoboot Camp, Ratchet thought privately. “But we’ll have to be careful about it. There’ll be enemies outside and we may not be well-equipped yet to fight them.”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Damnit, Omega!”

The small mech flinched, looking down at his pedes with a contrite look on his face. “I’m sorry Ratchet.”

The medic sighed and rubbed with forehead with his palm. He didn’t think he really had a headache, but it certainly felt like he should have gotten one. “I know you are,” he replied warily and even gave Omega a brief hug to reassure him that he wasn’t truly mad. “But you can’t continue like that, Omega. You must remember that we’re ill-equipped to take on multiple enemies at the same time, especially when they all have four or five more Levels than us,” he added more sternly. “There is a reason I told you not to leave the path.”

At least half a dozen times, Ratchet added mentally for himself while Omega kept repeating he was sorry. “Let’s go the inn, okay? I must have just enough money to buy us a dish to bring back our health bar up faster – and we’ll discuss what to do, okay.”

“Okay,” Omega replied meekly and followed Ratchet as they left the cemetery, their avatars restored to life the moment they passed the threshold.

That was the eighth time they were wiped out by a swarm of enemies accidentally picked up by Omega and, despite all the patience he wanted and had shown, Ratchet was starting to get on his last nerves.

Clearly, the system wasn’t working.

It was fully Omega’s fault, he reasoned as they installed themselves in the inn, Ratchet ordering them both a drink. Neither of them had much experience with gaming and it showed. However, whereas Ratchet could pick on the clues and strategize a course of action, Omega seemed completely impermeable to the idea that ‘Hack! Smash! Kill! Destroy!’ was NOT a good way to stay ‘alive’ in the game like it might have been in the middle of a battle of the War.

Omega didn’t fully understand level differences or aggro areas, nor that stopping to eat while the enemy still came at you wasn’t going to allow you to rise your health bar back to optimal.

He WAS trying, Ratchet thought desperately as he took a sip of the glass put in front of him – curiously, it even had a vague flavor, making him wonder how they had managed to pull that one – but it was becoming increasingly clear that a pair of Warriors without much gear, coins or healing items wasn’t going to get far.

And it was a vicious circle too; they needed to complete quests to get money and buy gears and healing items or at least to loot a fallen monster’s corpse before it dissolved, but they kept dying before they could, so whatever money they got from foraging ended paying for the damages to their present gear, thus pushing back the chance to buy better armors and better weapons that could deal more damages.

So either they had to come back to haunt Bordo Harbor’s area until Omega fully understood how to play the game… or they had to change strategy. The first option was easier, Ratchet mused, but how long would it take? And there weren’t many quests left in the area either – the downside of being a beginner area was that the programmers had reasoned players would wish to clear the zone quickly – so they wouldn’t be picking much experience here either.

And if he was honest with himself, Ratchet didn’t want to wait to leave the area. Because…

He wouldn’t find Arcee here.

He hadn’t decided to connect to this game only to have a way to bring Omega Supreme partially out of stasis, after all. He had also done so because he wanted a chance to see Arcee again. But since she had been connected in permanence since so long, she could be anywhere in the digital world – and most likely in an area for high-level players.

Ratchet had waited several stellar cycles for this chance, he knew he could handle a few more if needed… but not surprisingly, he was finding it hard to swallow.

Ratchet sighed as he finished the drink. He hadn’t wanted to do that, but it seemed he hadn’t much of a choice left at this point. “Omega? Can you wait for me here, please?” he asked his friend, who looked up at him as if he was a kicked Turbo-puppy. Frag, he really had expressive optics like that, Ratchet thought faintly.

“Ratchet? Is it the time you have to leave?” the Supreme asked, distraught. Ratchet had warned him several times that he would have to leave the game for more or less long periods because he had to go work on healing mechs, but that he would be back every time he was free. They had even picked up an area where to meet each time Ratchet reconnected; Omega just had to wait there and Ratchet would eventually be back.

“Not yet, no, though it’ll be soon now,” Ratchet shook his head. “But I need to do something. Wait for me, I’ll be right back,” he added with a smile as he opened the menu, hit the ‘Disconnect’ command and let his character fade from S.T.O.

*-*-*-*-*-*

Omega waited patiently. Had no point did he consider that Ratchet could have lied. He waited in the inn, in the exact same spot, with his half-finished drink in front of him. It was weird, being able to drink; normally, his refueling had always been done by massive pipes directly plugging in his tanks. It was funny, but it was also hard; he kept spilling the fluid on his chin, which was embarrassing – but Ratchet said it didn’t matter and he was smiling, so it was good, right?

He waited for a long moment before a familiar looking mech walked right back into the inn.

“Ratchet! Ratchet?” Omega greeted first in joy, then in confusion. Ratchet wasn’t wearing the same thing than before. Instead of the padded pauldrons and the chainmail shirt and the tabard, he was wrapped in a long fabric thing (a robe, Ratchet had said it was called when they had seen a player wearing one earlier as they explored the town) white with red edges. He didn’t have his sword anymore but a long staff in his hand.

“Finally back,” his friend sighed. “I swear, the price they charge for a double avatar…”

“Ratchet? Why did you change? Can I change too?” Omega asked curiously, a hand reaching out to touch the fabric thing hanging around Ratchet’s wrist. It was smooth. Nice.

“I’m afraid not, Omega.” Ratchet looked sorry to say it, but it was alright. Omega had only been curious. “As to why I changed, it’s because I created a new avatar to play with you. Now I’m going to be a Healer,” he explained.

“Like you are in the real world?”

Ratchet’s face twitched briefly. “Yeeesss, like I am in the real world. Except real healing doesn’t happen by ‘magic’,” he spat the word before calming down. “However, I think it’s best that I play Healer while you continue to play a Warrior. This way, we’ll face less risks of being wiped out and send to the cemetery.”

Omega bowed his head, a bit chagrined at the reminder he kept getting Ratchet fake-killed. That was wrong, very wrong. Omega could get fake-killed, but not Ratchet. Omega was supposed to sacrifice for the Autobots and for Ratchet; Ratchet wasn’t supposed to be harmed, ever.

Ratchet put his hands on the other mech’s shoulders. “Don’t worry so much about it, Omega. It’s by making mistakes you learn, sometimes. Now, would you like to come with me? I have a few tutorial quests to do for my Healer character and I wouldn’t mind some company. You’re game?”

Omega’s beaming smile was all the answer Ratchet ever needed.

He may dislike the way healing was handled in this game, finding it illogical and stupid, but if it helped Omega have a good time?

Then he would be doing it and smile all the fragging way.

Notes:

And that's all for our medic friend right now.
Next time : Bulkhead!

Chapter 11: Origins. Bulkhead 1

Summary:

Bulkhead has three things in his life: a love of Space Bridges, a worried Caretaker... and a bullying problem he'd wish to keep under wrap.

Chapter Text

"Bulky? You're coming down for dinner, Sparkling?"

"Hmm," Bulkhead replied absentmindedly to the voice that was calling out to him. Truthfully he had barely heard or understood the words; he was too busy reading an in-depth analysis on the calibration of space bridges and why a single change could make them cost-efficient due to energy saving or a total energy waste should you get it wrong -- if it didn't blow up in your face for your troubles, that's it. It was really interesting and Bulkhead wished they talked about it more at the Communal Learning Center instead of just energon production and refining.

Sure, Moonbase One's main activities were the growing of energon crystals and their transformation into edible fuel for the rest of the population back on Cybertron, but that didn't mean it was the only thing the inhabitants ought to know about, was it?

"Bulkhead? You're listening to me?"

“Hmm.” It was lucky the local library had a direct access to Iacon Archives and through it, the Sciences Databases alimented by the Ministry of Sciences. Oh, he couldn’t access everything because for the really advanced stuff you needed to have access codes only given to members of the Ministry of Sciences themselves (super secret stuff, Bulkhead had concluded, that they didn’t want potential Decepticon spies to find. He had seen the old propaganda posters and sometimes, a TV spot reminded people to always been careful with how they handled and shared datas) but what he could access was already making him feel like he had found a gold mine.

Bulkhead had found real treasures while perusing them, texts dating back from an era where Space Bridges weren’t even considered possible or were just Ground Bridges back when the warp technology was only sufficiently developed to rely two points across a single planet. Funnily, the instant Space Bridges had become a thing, Ground Bridges had completely fallen from use and now Bulkhead doubted half the ‘bots of his generation even knew they had existed and had served as a base for the newer Space Bridges…

A big hand suddenly appeared in front of his optics and pinned his datapad to the desk. Bulkhead yelped and jerked back in his seat, accidentally overturning it… and falling on the floor.

“What the Pit…?!”

“Language, Bulky! Don’t make me clean up your mouth with solvent; you know you’re still young enough for it.”

“… Blockout?” Bulkhead blinked several times, looking up at his mentor’s narrowed optics stupidly before realizing that yes, the big mech who shared his altmode (when he had been newly Protoformed, it had made Bulkhead laugh and feel special; still did, a little) was in his room. “Blockout! When did you get here?” he asked joyously before adding a contrite: “Sorry for the swearing.” His mentor was always utterly polite and insisted his charges also were – at least so long they lived under his roof and so long he was in audio range. As he himself put it, ‘I know you’ll find some comrades and shows and stories to help you get a colorful vocabulary someday, but so long you’re my responsabily, I better not catch you at repeating it, got it Bitlet?’. Bulkhead usually followed the rule but when he was surprised, well… Things got past his lips components.

His mentor didn’t look nearly as joyous as Bulkhead felt, though. In fact, he was looking at him with a worried expression that immediately made the big green mech feel bad. “I’ve been in this room for twenty kliks, Bulky, and calling for your attention for forty more,” he stated, and Bulkhead felt like he was shrinking on himself.

“Oh. Sorry,” he excused himself as he moved, trying to get back to his pedes. Blockout gave him a hand to do so, the other still clutching Bulkhead’s datapad.

“Must have been a very interesting story you were reading,” the older mech commented. He peered at it with a frown and Bulkhead tried not to fidget. “More of your Space Bridges technical texts?”

“Yeah,” Bulkhead confirmed warily. Blockout’s voice was neutral and the older mech had always encouraged him to learn about whatever he wanted, do whatever he wished to find his path if the energon farming ever became too boring for him but all the same, Bulkhead had the impression Blockout was sad. He didn’t look sad, but there was something in his voice.

“’s good to know you’re still serious about it,” the yellow, red and dark grey mech nodded once before he poked at Bulkhead’s side. “But that’s no excuse for almost missing dinner, Bitlet. Down you go, and fast; it’s going to cool down.”

Bulkhead saluted with a grin. Dinner! Wow, he hadn’t even realized he was hungry but now Blockout had said the magic world, his tanks were almost gurgling. “Yes, Sir!”

As he turned to leave his room, he didn’t see the worried expression on his mentor’s face…

*-*-*-*-*-*

Dinner that night was what the locals had dubbed a ‘crystaline stew’; basically, it was a mixture of crystal fragments, melted supplements and good oil energon extracted from the leftover energon crystals from the harvest. It was filling and tasty and a rare treat on the table, which made briefly Bulkhead wonder exactly what was going on – but only briefly, because the moment Blockout put a big bowl of the stew before him, he was digging in with gusto.

He only slowed down when he realized Blockout was barely picking at his own share and that, more surprisingly, he wasn’t talking. That was really, really unlike him; Blockout had always been loquacious, using ‘dinner time’ to ask all sorts of questions to his charges about their solar cycle, even if they had passed it with him.

“Blockout? Is something wrong?” Bulkhead asked tentatively, putting his spoon down. “… is there a problem with the upcoming harvest?” That could explain the older ‘bot’s lack of conversation; whenever something was wrong with the farm, he tended to close up.

“Nothing of the like,” Blockout dismissed easily. “You’d know it already if it there was, Bitlet. Unless you didn’t do your share of the work?” he added with a small teasing smile that made Bulkhead blush.

“Oh, I always do,” he said quickly. So perhaps he hadn’t been quite as involved as usual in the last stellar cycle, but he still spent a whole megacycle checking the crystals every morning before heading for the Communal Learning Center and another when he came back to pace the rows and note down the ‘ripe’ ones for extraction. Blockout treated them with parasites repellants while Bulkhead was away and handled the harvesting himself twice per solar cycle. When Bulkhead didn’t have lessons to attend, he also helped to maintain the machines and plant new crystal seedlings, learning which ones were the best to use for quick or slow growing, depending on what Cybertron’s needs were, what products to use to protect them against sicknesses such as the Black Rust Canker which had decimated half of Moonbase One’s production in the wake of the Great War. It was never more than a few megacycles per solar cycles though; the rest of the time, Blockout left Bulkhead free to do as he pleased; go on a walk, practice a hobby, read, go play with friends,…

“You need to see people, Bitlet,” Blockout had always insisted with fondness. “Not just an old mech like me.”

Not that Blockout was really THAT old, but Bulkhead had only been three decacycles old, his Protoform still settling, when the energon farmer had come to the Communal Learning Center and chosen him as his newest protégé. He had always been ‘Bitlet’ or ‘Bulky’ to Blockout and even when he’d be old with stiff joint and creaky plating, Bulkhead would bet he’d still be called Bitlet.

He had never been able to do wrong in Blockout’s optics. Even when Bulkhead had started getting disinterested with energon farming, he had never held it again him. “Not everybody likes the farming or is made for it, Bitlet; you wouldn’t be the first of my protégés who felt his calling was elsewhere. And besides, I haven’t picked you to have a successor; I picked you because I saw a bright young Spark who needed care and love to reach its full potential. If that potential is out there as a miner, as a builder or even as quartermaster on a ship, then I’ll be happy knowing it’s your calling and you’re making the most of it.”

For Bulkhead, it was growing clear that his calling had to do with Space Bridges, and Blockout had actually been delighted when his protégé had mentioned for the first time he wished to become a Space Bridge technician when he’d be old enough.
But lately… lately Blockout didn’t seem so happy with him anymore.

“I know you do, Bulkhead,” the older mech said, making Bulkhead startle. He was looking dead serious. “And that’s what worries me, Bitlet. You think I haven’t noticed what’s going on?”

“Sir?” Bulkhead asked warily, Spark surging. Oh no, please, let it not be about what Bulkhead suspected.

“School. Farm work. Space Bridge studies,” Blockout listed on his fingers. “Those are the only things you’re doing of your solar cycles now. I don’t see you go out anymore for a concert or a movie projection, nor to go visit anyone anymore.”

“Oh, I’ve just been busy,” Bulkhead tried to evade, but Blockout was now watching him with sad optics and he knew the older mech didn’t believe him.

“Did you know I’ve talked with Wireline, Bulky?” Blockout commented offhandedly and Bulkhead’s Spark surge. Ah. So there really was no way he could lie to him, wasn’t it?

“Oh? And what did he say?” Bulkhead asked carefully, trying not to fidget in his seat.

Blockout hit the table with his fists. “Damnit, Bitlet; what didn’t tell me they were back to bullying you?!” He sounded both angry and betrayed and Bulkhead felt his lower lip wobble uncontrollably. “Oh, Bitlet, come here,” he sighed, rising up and making his way around the table to hug Bulkhead. The green mech let the big arms surround him and burrowed his helm against his guardian’s chest. “Why didn’t you tell me, little one?”

“Didn’t want to worry you,” the big green mech mumbled, trying not to wail. “And it isn’t that bad…”

“Suuure it isn’t,” Blockout drawled, the hug tightening. “That’s why you’re not setting a foot out of this farm if you don’t have to and why you don’t do anything but work and study to be accepted on the primary exams to join the Autobot technicians corps and Autoboot Camp. Yes, Bitlet, I had noticed; I noticed a while ago,” he added for Bulkhead’s benefit when the green mech looked up at him. “Trust me, when a social mech like you start to withdraw from company, you can’t help but notice. I first thought it was just because you were going in too deep with that research job of yours, but then I noticed you weren’t even picking up or talking about your ‘Seasons of Harvest’ games.”

“Oh, that,” Bulkhead blushed. It was kinda ironic to like playing farming simulation games when you lived and worked on a real farm, but the ‘Seasons of Harvest’ series was a welcome break. It wasn’t really realistic farming – the MechaCrops they featured didn’t really exist or had been extinct since eons, their natural growth took much longer than what was showed, the tools were old and obsoletes,… Well. It was an idealized version of farming, but the world it depicted was peaceful and colorful and so, so much nicer than reality.

Blockout had bought him the whole series. Of course he’d notice when Bulkhead stopped talking about it all at once.

“… they said it was for stupid Sparklings,” he muttered against Blockout’s chest, earning himself an even bigger hug. That what he got for sharing his interest in peaceful simulation games instead of claiming to like violent ‘FPS’ like everyone else. They had teased him so much about it that the fun he felt whenever he connected had slowly disappeared and he started to freeze whenever he thought about just picking up a copy again.

“Bunch of Scraplets,” Blockout growled furiously. “I’ll be having words with their guardians – NO BUTS, Bulky,” he added sternly. “You think they’ll let it stand if they knew what their protégés were up to? Why do you think Wireline called me in the first place?”

“Uh, because I didn’t turn in my last homework?” Bulkhead tried uncertainly. Wireline was a good teacher, but he was rather absent-minded – except when it concerned his pupils’ work, in which case he turned into what Bulkhead’s fellow mechanisms called the ‘Taskmaster from the Pit’. “… my notes didn’t slip, did they?” he added worriedly.

Blockout gave him an unamused look. “Bulky, you and the other kids should stop thinking Wireline doesn’t see or hear you when you’re up to something; he’s far more perceptive than you think – and he also knows when to call a guardian to give them a head-up and a chance for a stern talking to before the Autotroopers get involved.”

“I don’t think I did anything that’d warrant the Autotroopers’ attention,” Bulkhead let out with a shaky laugh as he managed to push his head away from Blockout’s chest.

“Not you Bitlet,” Blockout let out with a laugh of his own, patting his head as he finally let go of the younger mech. “You’re perfect as you are. Some of those other ‘bots, though…” A dark expression crossed his face before he shook it off. “But let’s not talk about it anymore. Tonight, Bulky, you ain’t going back to read on those Space Bridges schematics; you need some fun. How about you come with me to hear out the Choirs of Anduria?” he said, taking two tickets out of subspace with a grin.

“Seriously?!” Bulkhead squeaked. “I thought they had cancelled!” Rosanna’s concert on Moonbase One had the THE talk on the Grid for the last six orns. All tickets had been sold in record time due to the rarity of the event. Ever since the famed singer had started going on tours, she had never before performed on the energon-producing moon. It would be a big first, one which had pushed the authorities to accelerate the construction of the Ambus Amphitheater on the northern quadrant of Moonbase One, when construction had been stalled for thousands of stellar cycles after being deemed ‘unessential’ by the Moonbase One’s authorities.

It had given a lot of work to the local construction crews and interested temp workers – Bulkhead included, who had worked for a few orns transporting construction material. It had been long and hard and thankless (the foreman was never happy or polite and took out his stress on everyone he wasn’t happy with – and Bulkhead tended to be a bit… clumsy). But it had been well-paid and Bulkhead had been happy to bring home his salary for the first time and receive Blockout’s radiant smile in return. He still had the money on the bank account Blockout had set up for him, too, Bulkhead mused. He hadn’t know what to use it for at first and then it had stopped really been important. Perhaps it’d make for a good starting fund to one day pay for his a ticket to Cybertron and a chance to become certified Space Bridge technician. Perhaps.

But that was in a far future. This was now, where his guardian was offering him a chance to go to a real live spectacle.

Once more, his mind wandered back to the effervescence that had rocked Moonbase One for dozens of decacycles. A chance to see Rosanna live and not just on as a retransmission! Lots of Bulkhead’s agemates had gushed about it, all grinning and showing off their premium class tickets for the amphitheater (and rubbing it in Bulkhead’s face, since the ‘big green lump’ had been too late to buy one). Then Rosanna had had to cancel the end of her tour due to health issues forcing her to go back to Cybertron early, skipping the last three planets she was supposed to visit – Moonbase One among them.

The news had been official for three decacycles now and there were a lot of dejected messages sprouting on the Grid ever since.

“Rosanna cancelled,” Blockout corrected his protégé, “but not the Choirs. And there are a few local stand-up comedians who decided to use the occasion to make an impromptu show in their stead Armorhide is supposed to perform as well,” he added with a light in his optics; Blockout was a big fan, Bulkhead remembered. “I know it’s not what you would have preferred, but…”

“It’s perfect,” Bulkhead said. “I prefer the Choirs to Rosanna anyway.” Which was perfectly true; Rosanna had a too high pitch for his taste. He ducked when Blockout tried to pat his helm again. “Hey, hey, no need, I’m not a Sparkling.”

“Oh yes you are, Bitlet; mine,” Blockout laughed. “Finish your stew bowl, Bulky, then we’ll be off. It’s going to be a great night. A great night,” he nodded to himself.

And it would probably be, Bulkhead thought with a smile as he sat back to the table and started to dig back into his bowl with more appetite than before. It would probably be.

Chapter 12: Origins. Bulkhead 2

Summary:

Bulkhead receives a gift...

Chapter Text

Of course, great night or not, Blockout taking him for a night out could only be a temporary patch on a wound which had been left to rust out for a very long time.

They talked a bit that night, but there were still loads and loads of things Bulkhead didn’t share with his guardian. He wasn’t certain Blockout would fully get it anyway. Oh, Blockout knew Bulkhead had been bullied before, several times. It was nothing new. Each time, his outraged mentor had charged out like an enraged BerylliumBull to confront the responsible and talk to their guardians. Usually, it had calmed things for a while – then it would start again, by another person and for another reason entirely.

In a way, Bulkhead understood why they acted like that.

Almost everybot outside of the Moonbases tended to think of the inhabitants as, well, retarded. Unintelligent. Yokels, he thought the favored word was. Who was the butt of the stand-up comedians’ jokes? The Moonbases ‘bots. Where did every dumb-witted characters on the popular shows hailed from? That’s right, the Moonbases. Who, officially, scored the lowest on the placement exams that allowed you to move up the ladder and get a better job? Yep, always the the Moonbases ‘bots.

Nobody liked being told all time they were just idiots. It made people sad and angry and unsecure. And sometimes, people who were angry and unsecure decided to become less unsecure about themselves by making sure there was still someone dumber than them, someone they could mock about in turn.

And for his agemates, that someone was Bulkhead.

Bulkhead, who was so clumsy he kept breaking things without meaning to. Bulkhead, who had tried to ice skate with everyone when the cold had been so intense it had frozen the pond outside the Communal Learning Center and who had ended unable to stand straight on the ice. Bulkhead, who destroyed chairs by sitting in them unless they had been specially reinforced – and until he had been able to get a mod to transform his kibbles to a seat variant when he needed to. Bulkhead, who was sometimes a bit slow to understand most of the subjects they were taught in school – but who was a literal genius the moment it concerned Space Bridges, as far as Blokcout and Wireline were concerned, astounded by the technical facts he could quote from memory when he couldn’t remember the list of the various mechs and femmes having held the position of Magnus before Ultra Magnus or the name of all the planets in the Commonwealth.
In short, Bulkhead was just the perfect candidate to the role of scapegoat his agemates wanted to push him in.

Most of the time, he didn’t care – or he forced himself not to care.

But sometimes… sometimes it was just too hard. Sometimes they hit too close to home and the big green mech would flinch and turn away and try not to weep while they laughed.

That was why he had stopped going to other farmsteads or to the big suburbia zones to play with the other Younglings, little by little; it never really ended well when he went because those who didn’t bully him wouldn’t defend him either, and that part had hurt more than the bullying anyway. That was why he had dropped knitting – he hadn’t been very good, but he had like it, until they all started to chuckle about the holes in his scarves or the loose points in his gloves. That was why he had dropped pottery. That was why he had dropped the choirs when he had been an avid practitioner (and perhaps vaguely caressing the idea to became part of a professional Choir when he’d be old enough; his favorite one had been the Primal Basilica Choirs; he still had a poster of them hanging in his cupboard).

And still Bulkhead tried, because what else could he do? They weren’t all bad ‘bots, per say. They were just… being jerks.

He had thought perhaps he could grow closer with a couple of them when he had let it casually slip he played video games in his spare time and for a moment, it had almost worked. Then someone had to mention that it was ‘pathetic’ to see almost adult mechs playing games like a bunch of newly Protoformed Sparklings because everybot knew that ‘games were for protoforms anyway’.

“The frag?” Blockout said flatly. They were sitting together in the living room with a board of Tri-D chess between them. Bulkhead was a dreadful player but Blockout too so it didn’t matter; they were just having fun moving the pieces and loosely following the rules. “And who was the genius who said that?”

“Mudlark,” Bulkhead mumbled. “I thought it was silly too. I mean, I know plenty of adult mechs play video games; all the ads feature adults, not Younglings like us,” he added quickly.

“You should say all adults mech play games; who do you think have the money to actually buy them. And that bunch of rabid Scraplets are all playing games too, the hypocrites! And yet you still dropped your own games, Bulky,” Blockout noted, moving the piece representing the High Lord Protector, right in the path of one of Bulkhead Primal Priest. A protection for his Magnus, or a trap to steal one of Bulkhead’s remaining pieces? He had no idea.

“Yeah,” Bulkhead admitted, lowering his gaze. “I just… I don’t know why I did it. It seems silly now.”

“It it,” Blockout confirmed. “But trust my long experience, Bitlet; people can do crazy things and things with no sense whatsoever when they’re not fine in their head.”

“You think I’m insane?” Bulkhead asked, feeling wounded.

“Oh, Bitlet, no! That’s not what I said!” his guardian replied, optics wide. “I think you are really sad; being sad is not being insane. It’s being, well, sentient. Some people manage to deal with the sadness well; others can’t.” There was obvious concern in his optics as he watched his protégé. “And I’m going to be honest, Bulky, I don’t ever want to think or see you in that second category. You’re worth so much more than what those jealous Yokels may think.”

“Yokel?! Primus, Blockout, why did you have to use that word?” Bulkhead chocked out a laugh.

“Because I knew you’d be amused,” the other mech replied simply. There was still concern in his optics but a small smile on his lips which brought warmth back in Bulkhead’s Spark. “Bulky? Promise me you’re going to be happy despite them, okay?”

Bulkhead blinked. “Well, of course I will. I mean, I know I’ll be,” he added, shuffling nervously in his seat. “I’m just having… a rough patch.” A rough patch which was lasting longer than all the rough patches he had experienced before put together, he mentally added.

“I know, Bitlet. This is why I decided I was going to spoil you a bit,” Blockout said, his small smile still in place as he reached into his subspace pocket. “I bought this for you today when I was in town for the farm owners’ meeting.”

He handed Bulkhead a tiny cube the green mech held carefully, afraid his clumsiness would show up at the worst time possible and he’d crush Blockout’s gift without meaning to. It had happened before. “A data-holder cube?” the green ‘bot asked, slowly making turn into his palm.

“Yup. For that fancy game I keep seeing ads for in town, the one where they got celebrities like Hoist and Roadhandler for their commercials. Seiberthing Takes Online?”

“Seiberutopia Tales Online,” Bulkhead corrected, eyeing the cube with curiosity.

“Yes! That’s the one!” Blockout beamed. “The seller said it was pretty good. Like, everybody plays it, he said. But then I thought, ‘not everybot, my Bulky doesn’t have one else I would have remembered about it, he always tell me a lot about the games he owns’ so I decided ‘Hey, why not?’ and I bought it. Do you like?”

“It’s… a really nice gift,” Bulkhead said carefully, still eyeing the data-holder cube. “Not usually my kind of game, though. I play simulations for the most part and that’s a RPG – a Role Playing Game,” he added at Blockout’s blank look.

“Oh. And that’s not the same thing?”

The naivety in his guardian’s voice made Bulkhead smile. Blockout wasn’t exactly ignorant of video games but as far as Bulkhead could say, Blockout’s generation had grown up in a golden era for platform games and the early beginning of simulations. He had missed the development of FPS (and hadn’t been impressed the slightest when Bulkhead had let him know what I was about; “Acting as if you were shooting someone! I don’t want any of that stuff in my house, Bulky! Why, I think I’m going to write a well-felt letter to those game developers; making Sparklings think weapon handling is safe, the nerves…!”) and the development of horror games, stealth, survival,… (“Bulky, the more you tell me about it, the more it makes me think the industry is trying to model you into future soldiers. You ain’t a warframe, Bitlet, for all you’re big. So promise me you won’t touch that either, okay?”).

“In role-playing games, you generally play as a character who has a specific set of skills – using a sword or a shield, repairing machines, healing your comrades – and you go on adventures with that character,” he explained, keeping the explication simple.

Blockout frowned a bit. “That’s not like those war games, I hope?”

Bulkhead laughed loudly. “Oh no, no, not at all. It’s not like fighting at all. Sometimes there isn’t even any fighting. It’s popular,” he added after a moment, looking at the data-controller again. “And this one is THE reference those days.”

Blockout nodded slowly. “I guess it must be, if they have ‘bots like Hoist and Roadhandler to play it. So… you don’t want to play it?”

Bulkhead flinched. “I never said it. It’s just… it’s different from what I do usually.” Not to mention, there was a high risk he’d find more jerks online than in their small Moonbase community, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk that.

“Sometimes, different isn’t bad,” his guardian said wisely. “You’re not forced to play, Bitlet. You’re not forced to do anything. But I’d like to see you smile more often again, and I thought…”

“I know, Blockout. Thank you; it is a really nice gift. I promise I’ll look it up later. Right now, however,t he only thing I want is to spend some time with you,” Bulkhead said sincerely, subspacing the cube for now and focusing back on the triple-layered board and its pieces. “Now, whose turn was it to play again?”

*-*-*-*-*-*


Become Part of the Legend! Join Seibertopia Tales Online!

“Hello, my name is Hoist and I’m a Lancer…” A tall and thin mech pushed away a Krystal iron-bear trying to claw at him with his lance.

“Hello, my name is Roadhandler and I’m a Sorcerer…” A red and yellow mech draped in a hooded cape gathered energy in his hands, ready to unleash it on an Eradicon.

“Hello, my name is Windy and I’m a Bard…” A lovely femme was playing from a harp, the music putting the Undead monster dragging its pedes toward her fast asleep.

“Hello, my name is Rosanna and I’m a Dancer…” A tiny pink femme armed with two swords unleashed a combo of slashes against a mushroom-shaped robot, literally dancing around it on a music she alone could hear.

“And you, what are you playing as?”

Who didn’t known those ads, Bulkhead thought as he connected to the Grid and accessed the official pages on Seiberutopia Tales Online? There wasn’t a megacycle where they weren’t aired on the large public screen publicists used and the Autobot Military used for announcement. It was impossible not to know about the game, at least peripherically.

And those were just the Autobot sanctioned one, the green mech reminded himself; the Decepticons had their owns, though those weren’t shown on Cybertron or in the Autobot Commonwealth, featuring their own celebrities: Sky-Byte, Sinnertwin, Trickdiamond,…

The game was accessible to every kind of Cybertronian, no matter their faction. It had been a sore point for the Autobots authorities at first, knowing their former enemies (still current enemies, even if the War was officially over and the Decepticons had seemingly accepted their exile with ill-grace, but they had still accepted it. So long they were provided with new protoforms and a looooot of things Ultra Magnus and Megatron had eventually agreed upon after long, hard negotiations. Bulkhead had sadly not paid attention to this part when they had been taught about it in class) would have access to the game as well. Even if there was peace, it was a tense one; skirmishes still happened frequently on frontier worlds, Decepticons warriors attacked fuel convoys (though Megatron denied they had anything to do with it) and of course, everyone knew that the Decepticons were only bidding their time to build back their armies before they attacked again. The last part was pretty much unofficial and just rumors, but those were persistent ones so Bulkhead supposed there might have been some truth to them.

The Deceptions had been exiled so the Autobots would never have to come face to face with them again; knowing they’d see them in the game all the time, well… Lots of people had protested. They saw it as a danger, arguing they wouldn’t put it past the Decepticons to try and hack the game as part of a move to weaken the Autobots.

Which had happened. Kinda. Someone had definitely tried – a Decepticon governor, Straxis or something? Ah, not Straxus; he had been a high-placed member of the Decepticons, if Bulkhead remembered his war facts right.

And that’s when people had quickly shut the Pit down about hacking dangers, because the game programmers hadn’t been happy about being called out on security risks and they had done their utmost to make S.T.O. perfectly unhackable.

By making sure any attempt at hacking would be answered with the mental equivalent of lethal force.

The video of Straxus and his cronies, a group of hackers he had put together for what was obviously a nefarious purpose, all lying brain-dead in their seat after the counterattacks had been launched. As far as the Paradron medics who had been detached to take care of them reported, they were still lying in the same state ever since – and it had been thousands of stellar cycles ago. Megatron himself a launched a press conference denying he had had any involvement with what Straxus had been up to. Bulkhead didn’t think Ultra Magnus had bought it but the Autobot leader had officially confirmed Megatron’s claims and the polemics had eventually died down.

People had been cautious about the game at first, due to that video. But eventually, players who had experimented it had started singing its praises, convincing more and more friends to give it a try while the company launched an impressive marketing campaign all across the Cybertronian spaces: video spots, jingles on radiowaves, toys derived from some of the main NPC characters, story books about the in-detail lore discovered by the players, real printed maps of the known zones,… They had even custom painted transport shuttles!

The rest, as they said, was history. Nowadays, even after all that time, Seiberutopia Tales Online still remained the number one in ‘Best Game’ polls published by the Entertainment Guild. And it didn’t seem like its record would be beaten any time thought, Bulkhead mused as he closed down yet another video depicting a famous mech proclaiming he was playing the game too.

For all its success, though, Bulkhead had never truly considered playing it himself before.

MMORPG just hadn’t rung any bell for him – at least until now.

S.T.O. was nothing like ‘Seasons of Harvest’ but Bulkhead had to admit it was growing tempting. Not because he really wanted to live ‘incredible adventures’ but because, when you looked at his the testimonies of players on forum, you discovered that there were actually many ways to play the game. According to a femme whose pseudo was ‘Wild4Roses’, you could simply pass your time fishing or mining, searching for material for crafting items such as jewelry pieces, articles of clothes… and bombs, apparently.

“Wow,” Bulkhead blinked at a picture of what the game called a ‘Plumbum-kin Bomb’. That really resembled the MetalloCrop from ‘Seasons of Harvest’. It was… amusing. “They even got the size right.” He wondered if the game programmer had created that bomb because they had done their researches and learned that a few early varieties of Plumbum-kins HAD been highly explosive – they were issued from experimental crossing between various types of energon crystals and well, when you mixed together two highly volatile kinds of energon crystals, you shouldn’t be surprised it tended to blow up in your face.

Bulkhead wondered if Cybertron citizens knew just how perilous energon farming had been once upon a time and could still be when they tried to come up with new varieties that wouldn’t be sensitive to parasites and sickness. Perhaps they wouldn’t think of Moonbase One as Yokels anymore if they did.

Oh, but that was just wistful thinking.

Stretching his arms above his head and groaning, Bulkhead let himself lean back in his seat and turned off his computer, thinking.

Blockout was right. Perhaps he should give S.T.O. a try. Not because he was really tempted by the dungeons and the raids against powerful enemies or by fighting Decepticons online instead of in real life, like the Great War heroes (an idea many young ‘bots were enamored with, apparently). He didn’t feel like a PvP players at all.

Not, what interested him was that, on the forums he had consulted, all the messages had been polite and the posters genuinely nice and helpful when they answered to posts of mechs who confessed being new players and needing types in order to better understand how to play. It was such a far cry from his agemates here on Moonbase One that Bulkhead had stared at the messages scrolling down his screen in perfect stillness.

{Courage! You can do it!}

{That’s really simple! First, you need to stock up on [Helioflowers Grain] you can loot on Giant Carnivorous Sunflowers – yep, they really are mech-eating walking flowers, so be careful with them. If you go fight them as a Mage, be certain you known Ice Magic first, they’re weak against it…}

{I can help you if you want; I often walk in the Plains of Keldelys. Just wait at the SugarRock Cliff just East of ToffyTuffTown, I’ll come pick you up and I’ll help you with that quest.}

And there were plenty of messages in the same vein. It made Bulkhead hopeful; surely, with so many nice ‘bots around on the game…

Surely, Bulkhead could make real friends?

Chapter 13: Origins. Bulkhead 3

Summary:

Bulkhead takes his first steps in game, with some mixed feelings but a lot of hopes in the end...

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Perhaps, Bulkhead thought dejectedly, he shouldn’t have been so optimistic. Sure, plenty of mechs were helpful on forums but in the game itself, Bulkhead had the painful impression to have fallen back into the same patterns as usual. Meaning, the moment people took a look at him, they dismissed him immediately with a disdainful look or an amused chuckle.

It almost made him quit. Almost.

But every now and then, Bulkhead would meet someone nice and encouraging and it’d remind that yes, there were still people who could care online. That, and he was getting more and more enamored by some of the game mechanisms and the wonderful background. Lock Ky-Byonix had been incredibly beautiful, perpetually frozen in dusk, the waters red with the reflection of the sun and the sky. And the Plains of Keldelys! A whole landscape composed of goodies that were, sadly, non-edible since they were virtual, but frag if they didn’t make you hungry.

Plus, Bulkhead had found a real passion for his chosen job of Tinker, ever more so since he had managed to raise it high enough to qualify for the Machinist job, an evolution that allowed him to unlock patterns far more complex than the Tinker’s.

If only he had chosen another class, perhaps he’d have been truly happy…

“I guess it’s the bow,” the tiny femme who had accepted to partner with him for a quest mused as they walked together back to Apophenia, the largest city in the Western Prayalands. Lightbright was a Sage, a type of magic-user whose spells were a mix of nature-oriented and direct attacks to enemy stats. She was rather nice, but Bulkhead remained on his guard. Still, it didn’t stop the little femmebot to chatting for two. “No offense mean, Bulkhead, but it’s kinda weird to see such a tiny bow in the hands of a mech as big as you. It’s, well, it’s funny?”

“I guess it is,” Bulkhead said ruefully. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t aware of it already. It made him almost regret of having picked up an Archer as his character avatar.

It had seemed a good choice at first, though. Bulkhead had taken the time to reflect a long time on how he wanted to play. He couldn’t fancy himself going corps-a-corps with an enemy, even armed with a sword or an axe or a mace; the idea just worried him. Sure, it wasn’t real fighting, but it was still not his thing at all. It… clashed with his personality. He had discarded the hand-to-hand fighters like the Grapplers for the same reason.

He also hadn’t been really interested in playing a Healer either because, well, it was really hard to play when you were alone (and even if Bulkhead was aiming at meeting new people and make friends, he had no idea how long it would take), even if Healers were highly sought after by dungeons and raids groups.

Hunter could have been cool, he supposed, and the pet you got when you choose the Beastmaster class. Spellcaster to become a Mage too, because it was versatile. But then he had seen the stats for the Archer, who could learn to use guns once he evolved into a Gunner, and well, it had seemed good too. Bulkhead was all for distance fighting – and guns sounded more reliable than magic spells and keeping track of your Mana reserve and their replenishment anyway and Hunter were stuck with bows all the time and that was really a downside, so…

The problem with playing an Archer, though, was that bows came in ‘standard’ size. And the ‘standard’ size was fit for a mech half the size of Bulkhead’s own.

Yes, he looked ridiculous, he had already noticed, please do not point it out.

But Lightbright wasn’t being unkind, so Bulkhead let it go and just listened.

“I’ll be easier when you get to Gunner,” Lightbright said confidently. “Then you can start looking into the Cannoneer class. I think it’ll be a better fit for you,” she mused, stroking her chin. “I know many Autobots don’t think much of it because Decepticons heavily favor Cannoneers over Snipers, but it is useful, especially if you want to take out multiple targets at once. My friend Dug Base plays as one and it works well for him.”

Bulkhead hummed noncommittally. He had already thought about it by himself and came to the same conclusions as Lightbright (though he admitted it was nice to see someone else confirm his choice wasn’t a bad one). Gunner could pick up between two evolutions, either into a Sniper or into a Cannoneer. The Sniper could shot over longest distances and with more precision, but was limited to a single target pet shot. The Cannoneers’s shots were shorter and less precise and, according to some, less powerful than the Sniper’s shots, but they had a large AOE, allowing them to touch and take down multiple targets at once.

They were considered a good fit for large mechs, which may explain why so many Decepticons favored it when they weren’t playing Barbarians and Gladiators and Duelliest and Bersekers and… Uh, about every type of class with a not-very engaging name, not that Bulkhead thought about it.

Oh, there were Autobots who played as Cannoneers, like Lightbright’s friend Dug Base or Elite Guard member Warpath, who had appeared in commercials as one, but you never heard much about them.

It didn’t stop Bulkhead to aim for the Cannoneer class anyway. He’d just have to handle the mockeries linked with the Archer class until he did. Right now, he had already made good progresses on the quests line to become a Gunner; hopefully it wouldn’t be long before he could trade the bow for a pair of pistols.

“Thank you for coming with me anyway, Bulkhead,” Lightbright commented brightly. “The Gobling-Bling isn’t really that strong but it’s a hassle to take him out alone when you have low strength. Damn those anti-magic barreers,” she mumbled under her breath.

“It was nothing,” Bulkhead rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sure someone else would have jumped at the chance of helping you if I hadn’t been there.”

“Perhaps they’d have,” Lightbright nodded, “but you were still the first one to answer and I’m grateful. Now I just need to bring back that Giant Diamond to the quest giver and blam! Come to me sweet reward!”

“You’re sure you don’t want the rest of the loot?” Bulkhead asked worriedly. Lightbright had only been interested in the Giant Diamond and had left him pick all the coins and the other items which had dropped from the monster – some White Linen, a flask of [Red Health Potion], a crossbow Bulkhead was already planning to resell in town,…

“Oh, you’re sweet, but nope, not interested. I got money aplenty already and that’d just take place in my inventory,” Lightbright shrugged.

“Still,” Bulkhead frowned. “That doesn’t seem right. You should at least take the coins…”

“Oh, sweetie, don’t worry too much about me,” Lightbright patted his hip, the highest point she could reach at her level. “I already got all I need on my other Avatar. You, however, I can see you need the boost, so please keep it all.”

“Oh. You’re not a first-time player?” Bulkhead blinked. He hadn’t realized. Sure, he knew that provided you were old enough for your systems to handle it (which wasn’t his case, sadly) and you had enough money, you could buy an option to get a second Avatar, but somehow he hadn’t thought it was Lightbright’s case. She just… didn’t fit with his mental image of an experimented player. Bulkhead had always thought they were all serious and businesslike, always talking about the high-level quests of the battlefields and the PvP mode. Not, well, smiling ‘bots who giggled at NPC dialogues and cooed at Pink Floss-Tailed Petrorabbits who darted back and forth in the Plains of Keldelys.

“Nope,” the tiny femme confirmed. “You, however, it’s easy to see are. So you should listen to an old timer like me and keep it all. If you want to sell your items, stick to NPCs until you reach Level 20 and more, unless it’s a rare item or a pattern or schema for another Job style – that, it always sell, if only because you got collectors who want to have them all. But there aren’t many players interested in low-level stuff in the Auction House, you wouldn’t get a good price for it that way,” she explained.

“Got it,” Bulkhead nodded in understanding. “And if I want new equipment…?”

“Same, you avoid the Auction House at first. Mercantyle has the high-hand on armors and weapons and they’re expensive as the Pit; you’d empty your wallet in one go.” She shook her head, disgusted.

“Mercantyle?”

“A Guild,” the tiny femme explained. “I don’t know how they do it, but they are literally inundating the Auction House with items and materials, always things you need, but which they sell at twice the normal price.”

“And they still manage to sell them?” Bulkhead asked, amazed.

Lightbright shrugged with a humorless grin. “When you need the material and you don’t know anyone who can get it for you for cheaper, you don’t have much of a choice. And they mostly do it with the high-level stuff or the hard to get material that necessitate megacycles of gameplay to find, so of course people will go for the easy option, even if it’s more expensive. You said you were a Machinist, right?” the tiny femme looked up at him.

Bulkhead rubbed the back of his helm. “Uh, yeah, I am.”

“Then I really recommend you hook up with a Miner at some point if you want materials,” she stated plainly. “That’ll smooth a lot of difficulties in the long term, trust me.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Bulkhead saluted, making Lightbright laugh.

“At rest, soldier boy,” she poked at the big green mech’s belly. “I need to disconnect soon so I can’t go with you on another quest, sorry. You’ll be alright on your own?” she tilted her head, looking at Bulkhead up and down with such knowing optics Bulkhead felt humbled.

“Of course,” he replied as calmly as he could. There was no reason he wouldn’t be alright, after all. Sure, he was probably going to come across another jerk before the night was over and the automatic clock rung and forced him to disconnect, but Bulkhead felt confident he could handle it. Lightbright had lifted up his spirit, which he had sorely needed. “I may be a newbie, but I’m not helpless,” he proclaimed, brandishing his tiny bow.

“Not what I worry about, sweetie, but if you say you’ll be fine, I believe you,” the femme replied calmly. She hummed thoughtfully before snapping her digits. “Oh, I know! I’m going to leave you a present – a thank you for going out with me on that quest,” she was already searching through her inventory.

Bulkhead shook his head. “Oh, but you don’t need to…” he protested, only to blink at the ‘Exchange’ window which popped up in front of his optics. “Lightbright!” he whined.

“Take it, silly boy,” Lightbright chided. “I don’t need that scroll and I would have sold it for a misery. Better for it to end up in the servos of someone who’ll have an use for it.”

The Scroll dropped in Bulkhead’s inventory. He sighed as he opened it, only to blink in disbelief. “… [Plumbum-Kin Bombs Pattern]?” he read, feeling elated. “Oh wow! That’s great!”

Lightbright blinked. “Ooookay, I wasn’t expecting so much enthusiasm. Funny shape asides, people tend to complain they aren’t very efficient,” she said. “I thought it’d just amuse you.”

“I don’t care what the others think, I love those bombs,” Bulkhead replied forcefully. He had bought a dozen already in town and sure, they were basic explosives, but he liked the original shape and the color and well, he had a right to love funny items, did he not? “Thank you,” he added in a breath, opening the Scroll and smiling at the [Plumbum-Kin Bomb] appeared in the list of items he was able to make under his Job’s window. “I had wanted that pattern since I first read about the Machinist’s Job.”

“It’s good to know I made someone so happy, then,” Lightbright teased. “Alright, time for me to disconnect. See you around, Big Boy.”

“What, disconnect here? You don’t want to wait to have reached the city?” Bulkhead asked worriedly. “You could get attacked!”

“Not with an automatic tent generated,” the tiny femme shook her head. “It’ll protect me. Sorry, clock is ringing in five kliks,” she excused herself. “I hope you enjoy a good night, Big Boy. Have fun!” And with a blink, she disappeared from the screen, her Avatar replaced by a triangular tent with geometrical patterns stitched in the fabric.

“Oh, so that’s what the tents look like,” Bulkhead mumbled, shuffling uneasily. It had been really fast and he regretted not being able to give Lightbright a more Sparkful ‘goodbye’. For a moment, he thought about sticking around; perhaps see her again once she connected back online. But, he reasoned, he had no idea if she was a regular player or not. If it was her second Avatar, she might be busier with it than with her Sage. Bulkhead might have to wait for solar cycles before he came across her again – and if he wanted to finish the Gunner quest line, he needed to move out of the Western Prayalands and into the Eastern part.

Sighing, he turned away. When he saw her again, he’d give her a warmer ‘thank you’.

For now, he was going to play, enjoy himself and avoid thinking too much. First, he needed to go back to Apophenia to sell the loot and pick up the next quest for Gunner (if he was right, it’d be about bringing an Alchemists components to make gunpowder, then he’d have to bring the gun power to a Blacksmith who would make a casing create bullets. The first guns were all working with powder and old fashioned bullets, you could only get lasers at an higher level). Then he was going to see if he could level up his Machinist job a bit, Bulkhead decided.

And he was going to do it by making as many [Plumbum-Kin Bomb] as he could, he decided.

A giddy laugh escaped his vocalize as he started to walk back toward the city; he couldn’t wait to be able to use them.

Notes:

And that concludes the Bulkhead chapters. Yes, it's shorter than for Optimus and Ratchet, sorry. I guess I just had less to say on Bulkhead than on the other two (for now).

Coming up next time: Bumblebee !

Chapter 14: Origins. Bumblebee 1

Summary:

Wherein Bumblebee fails at a game, thank to a nosy Enforcer

Chapter Text

His tires were devouring the road at full speed. The world was just a blur as he raced forward, dodging right and left to go past his concurrents. They didn’t worry him; he faster than them, more enduring. He was going to win, he just knew it. He was going to show them, oh yes! They thought he was a rookie, they thought he was the underdog but noooo. He. Was. The. Champion!

He accelerated again. One, two, three, four,… On his right, on his left, to the center; he was passing by his rivals with a hoot of victory as the panel ‘Final Lap’ made its apparition above the finish line. He was almost there! Just two more drivers to leave in his dusts, and he’d have won the Great Prize of Velocitron!

Determination renewed, he accelerated again despite his systems warning him he’d soon be reaching the red. He didn’t care, though; he was so, so close! And the cries of the crowd in the stands were galvanizing him. They were shouting his name (well, he imagined they did; it was pretty much inaudible at his pace) and encouraging him.

“Bee! Bee! Bee!”

He swerved briskly to go past another racer. Just one left now, he thought grimly. Just one, and a third of the lap remaining. He was cutting it close, but he could still do it. He could still…

“You’re having fun here, kid?” Someone asked casually next to him and Bumblebee shrieked in surprise (no, no, he wasn’t frightened, just surprised; he was a big ‘bot, he wasn’t afraid of some random guy appearing out of nowhere next to him). He swerved violently, losing control of his vehicle form and started to spin madly on itself until he hit a wall.

“Noooo!” he bemoaned as the drivers he had managed to leave behind went past him again and the screen became blurry as the unwelcome panel ‘Objective: failed’ filled his vision. “I was so close! Why do you think you were doing you…!” he snapped as he transformed back into his root mode while the game came back to its initial screen, pedes still strapped in the security harnesses while the game platform lowered itself back to the ground. He didn’t finish his sentence; he had just recognized the speaker. Nervously, he swallowed. “Oh, uh, hello there Officer Sideswipe; how are you?”

Frag, frag, frag, he thought desperately, looking above the Officer’s shoulder and mentally calculating his chances to manage to dodge him and go running down the hallways of the mall.

The cop gave him an unamused look. “Don’t even think about it, kid,” he warned the small yellow mech before him with narrowed optics, making Bumblebee gulp. “As to how I am, hmm, how do you an honest Officer who was looking forward a quiet day feel when he gets a panicked call from the Youth Center’s authorities informing them one of their charges has disappeared?”

“… surprised they called you, since it was just me,” Bumblebee mumbled, shuffling uneasily.

“What was that, Youngling?” Sideswipe looked at him sharply.

“Nothing, Sir, nothing! Just thinking, that, uh, yeah, it mustn’t have been cool,” Bumblebee said hurriedly, making a lot of gestures with his hands.

Sideswipe snorted. “Not, not cool at at all,” he confirmed grimly. “Did you know I was supposed to be off-duty today?” he mentioned casually. “But then they told YOU were the one who had given your caretakers the slip why supposedly going with your comrades to Iacon Fine Arts Museum. While I can’t say I’m surprised you did, do you have any idea how fretful you made poor Umbra?”

Bumblebee turned his head away with a scoff. “Sure I did. She never notices when I’m gone – she’s only afraid for her position.” And you only care about her because you want to frag her, he mentally added for himself, having seen the way the cop sometimes looked at the caretaker responsible for Bumblebee’s batch.

“You exaggerate, kid,” Sideswipe frowned. “She does care, you know. Now come with me, I’m bringing you back.”

“You’ll have to catch me first!” Bumblebee proclaimed, taking a step forward, ready to start running… and promptly fell on his face with a yelp while above him, Sideswipe made a sound between a chuckle and a sigh.

“Didn’t you forget something, kid? You’re still hooked to that game machine,” he nodded at the arcade borne Bumblebee had been enjoying himself at, the racing game ‘Speed and Need’. Damn popular with the young crowd, a mix of virtual reality while still standing in the middle of the arcade. You installed yourself on the platform, you put on the securities, you transformed and bam! You were in the game, racing inside while your wheels were spinning on the platform which inclined itself to follow your moves, making you feel as if you were really racing.

Sideswipe was not a fan of the game, but if it made unruly Younglings like Bumblebee race here rather than participate in the illegal street races happening in Iacon’s lower levels, well… Oh, who was he kidding? The little idiots went to both!

“Stupid harnesses!” Bumblebee groaned, still kissing the ground. With a sigh, Sideswipe knelt down and helped to make him go back to his pedes – but not before he installed a speed-limiter device on the young ‘bot’s legs, of course. “Hey! That’s a dirty move, Officer!” the yellow mech complained.

“Sure it is,” Sideswipe nodded with a grin. “But since you tried – again – to run away, I thought it was only prudent. No hard feelings, I hope?”

Bumblebee pouted, then started to make RoboPuppy optics. “But I didn’t really try, did I? So perhaps you don’t need to? Pretty please?”

Sideswipe snorted. “Keep the optics and the innocent voice for your caretakers, kid. I’m not that easily fooled.” Bumblebee deflated and the Officer gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Let’s go now. I don’t have all day, you know.”

“Yeah? And what were you planning to do with it again?” Bumblebee asked sulkily, walking behind the Enforcer with his arms crossed over his chest. No need to try and run again, he wouldn’t go fast with those stupid limiters (and also, he was persuaded they came with integrated GPS, even if he had no proof; it was just so unfairly rigged against poor ‘bots like him, it made him want to weep in tragedy).

“Believe it or not, I was looking forward the floral exposition,” the Officer said dryly as they reached the doors of the mall. “Now kid, you’re ready? Didn’t forget anything at the mall? You got your wallet this time?” Bumblebee gave him a short nod to say that yes, he still had it. He had to give it to Sideswipe, whenever Bumblebee complained he had forgotten an item, the Officer took him to get him back, no question asked. In that regard, he was much nicer than most of his coworkers. “Then off we go,” Sideswipe concluded. “Remember the rules; you drive before me at only at three meters in front of me max, you follow the traffic signs, you don’t try to swerve and turn into another street, and you don’t stop to talk to anybot. If you do…”

“You’ll be forced to report me as no complying with the law and I’ll have to spend time at the Station, yes, I know,” Bumblebee sighed as he transformed. He had done so twice already and wasn’t fancying another time in a cell. “Let’s roll.”

And roll they did, at a pace that made Bumblebee a little twitchy because it was. So. Fragging. Slow! Oh, okay, alright, perhaps it wasn’t that slow, it was a perfectly average speed, adapted to driving through the busy streets of Iacon. But he wanted to spread his ties and let his motor roars, not just obey the law!

Wasn’t going to happen with limiters and an Officer glued to his bumper, but Bumblebee still wished it did.

:: You lean too much on your left, kid; be careful. :: The Officer sent on far-range comm., making Bumblebee sighs as he obeyed. :: Better. Feeling tired? Have you refueled today – and I mean real fuel, not those overly greasy goodies you gorge upon when your caretakers have their back turned? ::

:: Are you going to believe me if I tell you I did? :: Bumblebee huffed.

:: Nope, :: the Officer replied – and the slagger even sounded amused too. :: At the next intersection, pull over. I’m paying you a drink. ::

:: How nice of you, :: Bumblebee ironized. He was sorely tempted to just continue rolling so he’d be back at the Youth Center and out of the meddling Enforcer’s helm circuits but, well, free drink; you could never say no to free drink, especially when all your shanix got spent at the arcade. He wouldn’t have minded a can of oil, perhaps some non-crude energon…

“Mudder’s Milk?!” Bumblebee squawked indignantly as Sideswipe walked back to the edge of the sidewalk he had been told to sit and wait at, two cans in his hands – standard oil in a dark blue can and the distinctive green can that contained the least energy-charged energon to have ever been produced. “That’s for Sparklings!”

“Which you are, kid,” Sideswipe stated plainly as he sat down next to the yellow mech. “Now drink up and enjoy.”

“I’d enjoy Fool’s Energon more,” Bumblebee mumbled.

“Oh? Want me to go get you a can then?”

“No, no, I’m good!” Bumblebee backpedaled quickly, optics wide, making Sideswipe break into a booming laugh. Fool’s Energon was notoriously awful to drink and the only reason the brand still existed was because mechs kept daring each other to drink it – and because it was, surprisingly, a hit with planet Junk’s inhabitants (which prompted a lot of questions about their drinking habits, but Bumblebee had wisely decided not to dig too much into the subject).

Mudder’s Milk was tasteless, bland… and easy on the tank. Bumblebee sipped it through a curly straw (nice little touch from Officer Sideswipe, Bumblebee didn’t know if he should be indignant or amused) while he watched the traffic, carefully avoiding to look in the red and black Enforcer’s direction.

Mechs and femmes went along their daily routine, driving, walking, chatting, laughing, buying Energon from snack barracks or digital newspapers from kiosks. Occasionally, an Autotroopers patrol walked or rolled down the street – and at one point, two of them started to pursue a mech who took flight when he spotted them.

“Ransack,” Sideswipe groaned. He looked half-tempted to join the chase but instead stayed put and patted Bumblebee’s shoulder. “Word of advice kid, you keep away from him if you want to have a long, peaceful life – and I’m not kidding,” he warned, optics hard.

Bumblebee ducked. “That will only be the seventieth time you’re telling me; when are you going to stop?”

“Once I’m certain the advice has sunk in,” Sideswipe replied evenly. “And given none of my other advices seem to have sunk in yet, I think you’re in for the long haul when it comes to tidbits from your friendly Enforcer Sideswipe.”

“Friendly?” Bumblebee chortled. “Who is going to believe that?”

“Oh, I don’t know; I haven’t broken your dental plates or any of your limbs and I’ve yet to use my baton on you. My coworkers would think it’s plenty friendly from me,” the Enforcer commented lightly, making Bumblebee scout away from him discreetly, which only made Sideswipe look down at him wryly. “Relax, kid. I don’t plan on hurting you. But seriously, kid, why don’t you listen to me more? I only want to help you, you know.”

“But why?” Bumblebee whined, flailing. “Why me? What did I do to make you follow me around like that? To make you… stalk me? Is that because you want to get into Umbra’s berth so badly? Ack! That hurt!” Bumblebee yelped, rubbing his helm when Sideswipe gave him a swat.

“Good,” Sideswipe rumbled. “You don’t talk trash about your caretaker, kid – and I’m not sticking around and dragging your sorry aft back to Youth Sector solar cycle after solar cycle because I want to court Umbra –” Ah! Bumblebee had totally called it, even if Sideswipe was being polite and replacing ‘frag’ with ‘court’! “—but because I worry about you.”

Bumblebee blinked. “Uh? You… worry? That’d… be a first.”

Sideswipe sighed. “Kid, I’ve been doing that job for a long, long time. In all my cycles of life, I’ve seen many younger ‘bots come online for the first time and learn about the world at large, find their way… and sometimes, completely lost it.” He sighed. “I seen it all; mechlings making the wrong friends and ending in a bad crowd for a taste of Circuit Booster or tainted Energon, young ‘bots dying in stupid accidents or crippling themselves for life because they thought themselves smarter than everyone else, mechlings who could have gone so much better if someone, anyone had reached out for them in time…”

Bumblebee fidgeted. “I’m not about to…”

“So you think, kid, so you think,” Sideswipe shook his head.

“I’m not about to fall in with the wrong crowd!” Bumblebee insisted. “I have no intention to! I want to join the Elite Guard, damnit!”

“So you keep saying, kid, and perhaps you really wish to – and perhaps you will, someday,” Sideswipe stated plainly. “But then, why are you doing your best to end up with a record? Because that’s what will end up happening at this rate,” he warned and started to count on his fingers. “Disobeying your caretakers, skipping your career orientation exams when not directly flunking them, running away from the Youth Center whenever you get an occasion to,…” He watched grimly as Bumblebee stilled and seemed to shrink on himself. “Minor stuff for you, perhaps, but which will end up in your files if you don’t straighten up your act, mechling. Not to mention the two times you tried to resist arrest…”

“You weren’t arresting me for real and I wasn’t really resisting either,” Bumblebee mumbled, averting his gaze.

“Lucky for you that everybot on patrol decided you were just trying to show false bravado the first time and that you got really scared by Depthcharge the second time, or else it would have ended badly. Depthcharge doest beat around the Cyber-bush with perps – he beats them,” Sideswipe warned.

“Isn’t it what you call police violence?” Bumblebee joked weakly, remembering the other Enforcer and the way he had loomed over him.

“Only if the person beaten is innocent,” Sideswipe shrugged.

“Which I totally was!”

“Mostly was,” Sideswipe corrected him. He gave Bumblebee a look of mixed fondness, pity and exasperation. “Between that and the three times you were caught racing past speed limits, you’re starting to build up a reputation. Kid… Bumblebee. I’m not trying to scare you,” he said seriously. “But if you’re serious about wanting to become an Elite Guard member someday, you need to clean up your act and fast. Soon you’ll be old enough to be left out of the direct supervision of a caretaker and be allowed a place of your own to live in on the edge of the Youth Sector. A hundred or so more stellar cycles, and this time you will considered a fully educated Cybertronian, and what you think of today as fun or a good lark will really land you in trouble. I don’t wish that for you, kid.”

“… I don’t wish that for myself either,” Bumblebee said in a small voice.

“I know. But saying it is one thing; acting on it is another. You really need to think about yourself and what you really want in life, Bumblebee, and the sooner the better.” Sideswipe sighed and rose, throwing his now empty can of oil in a passing rolling trashcan. “You’re finished with your Milk? Then let’s go; your caretakers are already worried, no need to lengthen it out and give them a Spark-attack, yeah?”

“… Yeah,” Bumblebee sighed. “Right. Not need to…”

Chapter 15: Origins. Bumblebee 2

Summary:

Back to the Youth Sector for Bumblebee...

Chapter Text

Sideswipe didn’t get it.

Oh, Bumblebee could tell he was trying and that perhaps he was genuinely worried about Bumblebee’s future for a reason that totally escaped him, but he still didn’t get it. Bumblebee didn’t know how growing up had been when Sideswipe himself had been a newly Sparked protoform, but he was ready to bet it had been vastly different.

Yeah.

How to compare the beginnings a pre-war ‘bot from one of Cybertron’s Goldenest era (if that was a word), who may had come online with a brand new frame model, perhaps even a custom-made, with that of a post-war ‘bot who was just a face with a common frame, lost among dozens of others mechs and femmes sharing the exact same frametype and who only differed by their paintjob, their kibbles, their facial traits?

Costs reduction, energetic efficiency,… Those words had been pronounced a lot when, in the wake of the War, the latest generations of Protoforms had to be brought online. Once upon a time, when the planet hadn’t been damaged by war, the economy hadn’t been in shamble and energon production was at its peak, scientists and frame designers had LOVED to come up with new frame models, with new types of motors and processors. The Youth Sectors had already existed; they had always and would probably always be the places were new protoform came online and grew up protected and cared for, being taught about their world, their systems, their future trade, the laws of Cybertron, the history of their planet…

They in themselves hadn’t changed much; plenty of dorms to lodge the younger mechs, micro-apartments for the older ones who would soon be leaving so they could learn to manage their own place while still under loose management, communal washracks, classrooms for lessons and plenty of game rooms and courtyards so they could play, race, get some fresh air between lessons… Every major city on Cybetron and on the Commonwealth’s planets counted a Youth Sector. Smaller cities and colonies usually renamed them Communal Centers due to their smaller size and the lack of included dormitories.

But if the Youth Sectors remained as they were, the world had changed around them – and in Bumblebee’s opinion, it wasn’t for the best.

Back then, patrons who wished to adopt a newly onlined Protoform could pay fortunes to have a custom-made shell brought up for them even before the Spark was inserted. It had been an era of innovation of… of individuality!

But it wasn’t the case anymore. Single onlining was a thing of the past now and the only protoforms brought online were onlined in batches of varying size, usually averaging between two to four dozens of mechs and femmes, all of them sharing a basic body-type they would customize themselves in the limits of their budget and the availability of pieces and paint. It was… bland. Uniform. Depressing. And stress-inducing, because how could you hope to become your own mech when everybody else looked like you?

Bumblebee had been particularly unlucky – twice over.

Despite having been onlined in Iacon, which was better than being brought online in, say, Polyhex or Kaon, he was still part of a batch which counted no less than eight dozens ‘bots – the largest batch to be onlined at once in three-hundred stellar cycles (the exact number had been of 99, with 97… well, actually 98 remaining; a protoform had spontaneously rejected the Spark upon introduction, another had died from a massive system crash after contracting a virus before they could install the necessary firewalls and another… had spontaneously divided itself, creating a pair of fully functional femme twins). Not only that, but every single one of them had been onlined with the 65356-9292-346 body-type, which had become THE most common body-type on all Cybertron.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have bothered Bumblebee so much if he had been able to catch the interest of a patron or a guardian who would be willing to adopt him, or even if he had managed to fit in snuggly with one of the Youth Sector’s caretakers. But he hadn’t, much to his frustration and chagrin.

Was it any wonder, in that case, if Bumblebee felt unsecure about his future?

Was it so hard to understand he wanted a way to stand out of the crowd, to be unique for once in his life? In the Elite Guard, he’d have a chance to be, Bumblebee just knew it.

He just needed to reach the right age to register and enter Boot Camp, he kept repeating to himself. He needed to be patient, to endure just a bit more. Then one day, the world at large would recognize his capacities and know his name.

Of course, applying to the Boot camp wouldn’t guarantee him a spot, Bumblebee knew it. He needed to have something special, something to put forward to be taken more seriously.
Something like speed.

Soooo… perhaps he was skipping lessons and planned class trips to museums and important landscapes. Perhaps he was kinda getting on the Enforcers and Autotroopers’ bad side given they had to chase after him and drag him back to the Youth Sector or his caretakers regularly when they should have been doing more important stuff.

But Sideswipe was wrong if he thought Bumblebee wasn’t seriously thinking about his future; he thought about it all the time.

Too bad nobody else seemed to see things from his point of view, Bumblebee sulked as they reached their destination, the walls surrounding the Youth Sector stretching high above them. Bumblebee transformed without a word and dutifully followed Sideswipe past the security check point (a big joke, in Bumblebee's opinion; nobody was ever turned away from visiting the Youth Sector, except perhaps if they had a serious record with the Autotroopers; lots of people liked to come in and check out on the growing mechlings themselves, just in case they'd see one they'd wish to 'adopt' and mentor) with his optics downcasts, refusing to look at anyone.

"Try to smile a bit, kid; the sulk doesn't suit you," Sideswipe commented as the bareers came down and they were allowed inside, the two of them walking down the large alley that lead to what the authorities dubbed the 'Administrative Center' -- which fit, Bumblebee had to concede. It contained the office of the Sector's Director, an auditorium for reunions, private offices for various workers and caretakers, lots of archives, meeting rooms for interviews,...

"Who's sulking? I'm not sulking," Bumblebee pipped, stopping briefly to wave at a couple of fellow Younglings who were crossing down another alley, giggling -- older pair of femmes, probably already living on their own in the boudaries of the Sector. They waved back, still giggling, before disappearing under an archway while Sideswipe pressed him to go faster. "What, don't got all your day, Sir?" Okay, perhaps he was getting cheeky but who could honestly blame him? Sideswipe gave him an unamused look.

"Very funny, kid. You know, normally it's not my job to hunt down a runaway Youngling, even if I'm trying to prevent him from getting into troubles bigger than him." Bumblebee huffed indignantly. "AND as I told you earlier, I wasn't supposed to be on duty. You know how many megacyles of sleep I've missed recently and had been looking forward to catch on, uh? Now, would you be kind enough to... Oh, Umbra!" the red and black mech suddenly grinned as a familiar femme rushed toward them, looking fretful.

Bumblebee barely had time to turn and take in the sight of a dark-grey blur topped by a white chevron before he was tackled. “Ack!”

"There you are!" Umbra exclaimed loudly, grasping Bumblebee's shoulders and giving him a crushing hug that made the little yellow mech gasp. "I was so worried! I feared the worst when I recounted the group and realized you weren't with us anymore! And there was that horrible crash on Eratus Street earlier today and all I could think was that you may have gotten caught in it! You're actually alright, are you?" she added worriedly, temporarily breaking the hug to hold the Youngling at arm's length, inspecting him with narrowed optics. Wisely, she didn't let go of his shoulders, probably knowing he'd try to duck and hide behind the amused Sideswipe if she did.

"Too tight, too tight!" Bumblebee wriggled, trying to get out of her hold, but the caretaker held him secure and after a moment, he abandoned and let himself be hugged (crushed) and inspected from the tip of his sensory horns to the bottom of his pedes by piercing optics for the littlest sign of injury or scratched paint. “Never been near Eratus way, I swear it,” he managed to cough out under her scrutiny. Now she had seen he was indeed uninjured, the concern and relief in her optics were getting counterbalanced by rage.

She wouldn’t hit him, Bumblebee knew it, but he was sure to get an audio-full the moment Sideswipe had turned heels and his green spoiler disappeared on the horizon.

"I don't care," Umbra scowled fiercely as she resumed her hugs. They didn’t have the warmth they had hold previously, but damn if she still wasn’t crushing him. That had to be an outlier power, Bumblebee couldn’t see it any other way. "Do you know how worried I was?!"

“Worried for me or for your job?” Bumblebee muttered under his breath. Luckily for him, Umbra didn’t seem to hear him; she hadn’t even waited for an answer before turning her head away to smile sweetly at Sideswipe.

“Thank you so much for bringing him back unarmed, Officer! I don’t know what I would have done if anything had happened to him!”

“It was my pleasure, ma’am,” Sideswipe saluted with two fingers.

“Did you find him at the arcade again?” she asked as she finally let go of Bumblebee, who took a step back and hugged himself, making sure his plating wasn’t dented.

“Same as usual,” Sideswipe nodded. “One would think he lives there instead sometimes,” he added jokingly.

Umbra sighed. “You don’t say. I do get that playing games is nice, but it’s not what’s going to help him secure himself a job out there.” She threw Bumblebee a disappointed look over her shoulder, which Bumblebee tried (and failed) to pointedly ignore; she kept giving it to him ever since his first placement exams had come back as inconclusive a few stellar cycles ago.

Among the dozen of newsparks she had personally the charge of in Bumblebee’s batch, Bumblebee knew he was the ‘problem child’ and not someone she could brag about when she and the other caretakers went on breaks together – and it wasn’t just because he kept running away.

In a way, you could say he was actually unlucky thrice over.

One, he had been onlined in a large batch, which made personal care a rarity since there always was someone else who, somehow, needed more help than him at any given time.Two, he had been onlined in one of the most common body-type found on Cybertron, making standing out visually a pain. And three… three, he had been onlined in a batch containing many, many gifted individuals taking away the spotlight.

There had been Malachite, who had long, agile fingers and an inane sense of beauty and fashion and who had gone up and got himself mentored by one of Cybertron’s most prestigious jewelers. There had been Tango and Tempo, the twin femmes who had loved to dance so much they never walked, they waltzed together wherever they went – and that somewhere had ended up to be Polyhex’s Arts and Dancing Institute, which had formed some of the greatest artists to ever walk on Cybertron and who took few students. They had been joined there in less than a stellar cycle by Clave, who was an up and coming musician already – he was set to make the first part of Windy’s next concert, something exceptional for a ‘bot who didn’t have five hundred stellar cycles yet.

And that was before the placement and career exams had started to rear their ugly head among Bumblebee’s batch. Ever since the first results had been known, it had gotten worse.

Codeblue, drafted by Protihex Medical Mechanisms University on placement exams alone. Quagma and Alidade, already working for the Ministry of Sciences due to impressive essays. Dragnet, selected for an internship with the Enforcers for his perfect knowledge of laws. Firebrand and Crosslink, offered a position in the Rescue Patrols (though in which capacity, it wasn’t yet certain; firefighter was the possibility the most mentioned). Sourdine, recruited for Radio Free Iacon as a sound technician. Voyd, who was going to become a Space Bridge technician. Blueflash, who was going to join the aerial traffic control’s crew in Tarn.

One per one, they left, most of them for prestigious positions. The caretakers couldn’t stop gushing about how far their charges were going to go in life.

The others… well, the other dealt with it as they could. It was a bittersweet consolation, but Bumblebee found solace and a strange sense of shared kinship with his fellow ‘rejects’.

Okay, ‘rejects’ was too strong a word, but that was how many of the Younglings who had failed to score sufficiently on the placement exams and as such failed to be assigned a career on the go called themselves.

“Silly mechlings,” the caretakers chided them gently. “You’re not rejects. You just need a little more time to bloom.”

Sweet words, but which didn’t stop the growing self-loathing when you saw how easily others went through them.

“You don’t all have the same processors speed or the same development rate, Sweetlings. It’s normal if you haven’t found your way already. Give it time,” Umbra often said to her remaining charges. “Study, play and rest. Talk between yourselves and with your comrades who already found a job or with our visitors. Go to the library to learn about jobs and trades. Request meetings with your counselors if you want an external advice. Don’t hesitate to make suggestions for outside trips. One of them could be the optics opener you need,” she advised.

That was why they had been out for Iacon Fine Arts Museum in the first place, Bumblebee silently reflected. Because a couple of his batchmates fancied themselves artists and wanted to speak with a curator or a painter or, well, someone who could give them tips. Plus, it had the benefit to teach every mechling in their group about art in general and about an important landscape of Cybertron in particular, something the caretakers were always eager about.

The visit hadn’t interested Bumblebee the slightest, which was why he had left the moment Umbra had her back turned. He knew he didn’t have an artistic cable in his body to begin with, so why bother?

Though he had to admit, those visits really helped sometimes. Ercles had decided to sign up as a dock worker when they had visited Iacon’s Spaceport, deciding it’d be a good place for a strong ‘bot like him, while Crimper had decided he wanted to become a fashion designer after their batch had been invited to fitness a fashion show hosted by Iacon’s upper crust.

At this rate, Bumblebee sometimes feared he’d be the last one to get to his dream career. Well, perhaps not the last, last; that’d probably be Riptide who, sadly, didn’t have the brightest processor around and had no idea what to do with himself (and frankly, the caretakers didn’t seem to know what to do with him either). But who could say for certain nowadays? After all, clumsy Claribella, who had been a close contender, had surprisingly found employment as a technician on Rosanna’s spectacle crew two decacycles prior.

“Miracles do happen,” her caretaker, Whiz, had been overheard saying in delight.

Yeah. Miracles did happen, but they didn’t happen Bumblebee’s way.

“I don’t need a job, I’m going to be Elite Guard!” Bumblebee glared at Umbra, who looked back at him unimpressed.

“So you keep saying, sweetling,” she said plainly. Bumblebee’s fists tightened on reflex. He could bet she was going to say… “But it’s not a reliable career choice; only one ‘bot out of five actually made it all the way to the ranks of the Elite. You really should consider a more stable, easier secondary option…”

Yep, he had been right; Umbra had definitely turned it into yet another speech on ‘needing a reasonable career plan’. She kept doing that, all the time.

Sideswipe coughed. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time to have that discussion?” the Enforcer offered with a tense smile. Bumblebee gave him a grateful look; the older mech was a pain in his backside but at least he didn’t try drag down Bumblebee’s dream. At least he believed Bumblebee could make it, eventually.

Umbra… clearly didn’t. Never did. Perhaps never would. And Bumblebee couldn’t say for the life of him if it was because she really thought that lowly of him or if perhaps she disliked the idea of any of her charges trying out their luck in the Autobot military.

Whatever her reasons, though, Bumblebee knew better than to hope she’d support him in his goals. Did Sideswipe see it? Did he realize that the lack of trust was contributing to Bumblebee’s ‘rash acts’? No, probably not, Bumblebee mused as he watched Umbra give one of her sweetest smiles to the Enforcer, who smiled in turn, clearly enamored. Umbra was beautiful, Umbra was kind, Umbra was only worried for her young charge; Bumblebee was just being oversensitive.

“Thank you again for bringing him back, Officer,” the dark grey femme cooed. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. I know you must be a busy ‘bot…”

“It was nothing,” Sideswipe shook his helm. “I don’t mind keeping an optic out for the kid – though I hope I won’t have to do it again this decacycle, eh?” he added with a rueful smile toward Bumblebee.

The yellow mechling sighed. “Yes, yes, I promise I’ll be nice. Officer,” he added under Umbra’s reproachful gaze. Mind your manners and all that jazz.

Sideswipe gave a small chuckle. “I hope so. See you around, kid,” he patted Bumblebee’s helm before leaving. Bumblebee watched him leave, Umbra’s hand weighting heavily on his shoulder.

“You, young mech, are so grounded,” the grey femme let him know as she frog-marched him toward the dormitories.

Bumblebee sighed. “Yes, I had gathered so. Same as usual, I’m only allowed out for daily trip to the washracks and I’ll take my meals in my dormitory, I take?”

“Right,” the femme sighed as well, shaking her head. “Oh, Bumblebee, what are we going to do with you?” she bemoaned.

Bumblebee didn’t answer; what could he have said, anyway?

Elite Guard, he thought. One day, no matter what they all thought, he’d be Elite Guard.

Chapter 16: Origins. Bumblebee 3

Summary:

Bumblebee learns some Big News and realizes he's going to have to change attitude ASAP...

Chapter Text

“Oy, Bee, you heard the news?”

Bumblebee groaned, head hidden under the pillow (blessed, blessed pillow, so comfy, he was so lucky to have gotten one and he was so going to keep it once he’d be moving out of the dorm) as he tried to ignore the loud arrival of his dorm mates. He didn’t really dislike Saetta and Shershen or Maggiolino but he had been hoping to catch a nap, slag it!

“Aww, having a processor ache again, Bee?” Saetta commiserated as he flopped on his own berth, optics full of sympathy. Bumblebee vaguely waved at him, face still buried in the fluffy folds of the pillow. No, he wasn’t having a processor ache (yet) but he wasn’t feeling so hot either. Boredom was getting to him, like it did every time. He was confined to his dorm for at least a decacycle more and this time, he wasn’t allowed out for lessons, which was a first. He had to read and do ‘homework’ from his berth instead of in the classroom and, horror, he couldn’t even go outside and change his mind by playing a game, any game or just spread his legs. He was going stir crazy here!

“That’s for your own good,” Umbra had proclaimed. “You need to cool down, Bumblebee, and to reflect on what you did wrong.”

“… is that Froid’s recommendations?” Bumblebee had asked warily, Spark sinking when Umbra had all but confirmed it. Well, slag. He should have known. Froid had, uh, never been his favorite person. The psychologist assigned to the Youth Sector just gave him the creeps for some reason and Bumblebee had never felt able to open up to him like many of his batchmates. Froid, in turn, was apparently miffed about the fact Bumblebee wouldn’t talk to him, so each scheduled ‘session’ they had was pretty much spent in silence, looking at each other and waiting for someone to crack.

Usually, that someone was Bumblebee; he just didn’t have the patience to wait out the silence. Then and only then would they talk, and Bumblebee tried not to reveal anything too personnel – especially not after Froid had covertly insinuated that no, Bumblebee never would make it to Elite and should instead look for a job benefiting the community… like being a waste disposal technician, one of the most dirty and less considered job on Cybertron. Not in so many words, mind you, but the feeling was here and it had stung.

Slagger. Weren’t psychologists supposed to help you by reinforcing positive thinking or something? Because seriously, Froid was doing the reverse here! The worse part was how Umbra seemed to take Froid’s advice to the Spark instead of Bumblebee’s.

“Froid knows what he’s talking about,” was all she ever said. “He’s a professional. You should listen to him more yourself, Youngling.”

Like slag he would, Bumblebee swore.

Sadly, there was no escaping the dorm and the semi-isolation until his punishment was deemed over by Umbra. The only company Bee’s got was his three roommates, and they were away most of the day. And even when they were present, they drove him batty; their personalities clashed too much.

Though he was ready to give Saetta the benefit of the doubt; while Saetta was sometimes overbearing, at least he seemed to genuinely worry about people’s health (which would have been better if he hadn’t also been genuinely worried about parasites and virus and didn’t use a disinfecting spray on everything he touched – and everyone he shook hands with).

Big blue optics took in the vague gesture and Saetta tutted worriedly. “I’ll take it as a confirmation. Want me to call a nurse?”

"No need," Bumblebee grumbled, still refusing to lift his head off the pillow. "I just want some rest."

"But..."

“RoboHen,” Maggiolino snorted at their dormmate as he climbed on his own berth – lucky fragger had gotten the top of his bunk berth, the one just above Bumblebee, and the little yellow mech never heard the creaks of the metal straining under Maggiolino’s weight without worry; the other mech was, uh, ‘very round’. Sure, the bunk berth wouldn’t give away under his weight, it was too sturdy for that, but… you never knew. Maggiolino was also kinda mean, much to Bumblebee’s frustration. “And I bet he doesn’t know; how could he, since he spent his time locked in here?”

"Is it something I should care about?" Bumblebee asked, trying to sound interested despite his sudden desire to just turn off his audio receptors to tune the noise out.

Shershen grunted. "Got a new patron wishing to give the Sector gifts." Lanky and quiet, he didn't speak much and always had a serious expression on his face Bumblebee had never been able to fully crack. But at least he was pleasant enough company (as in, he didn't mock the old 'The Elite Guard Wants You' posters Bumblebee had collected and hung on the wall besides his berth or his small collections of official Elite Guard goodies like Maggiolino and didn't fuss about germs and being sick or other being sick like Seatta; he didn't even complain when Bumblebee put on loud music, though he glared when he let his pillow or his blankets lie on the floor; he hated messiness with passion).

"Yeah? What's so special about it? It happens all the time," Bumblebee said, forcing himself to lift his head a bit from under the pillow and crack an optic shutter open.

Lots of big societies or museums or institutions made punctual donations to the Youth Sectors. Usually it was learning material, databooks for the Sector's library, batches of stylus and datapads, new terminals to access the grid, shanix aplenty to modernize the dorms or the classrooms or the courtyard or pay for the general education of the Younglings. Sometimes the donations was in board games for their leisure, tickets to go see a spectacle, invitations to come and visit the company's headquartes,...

It was, simply put, nothing special and rarely warranting any special interest.

Maggiolino and Seatta both snickered and Bumblebee perked up; for the two of them to be amused, perhaps...

"It's Snowstorm Entertainment," Shershen commented flatly.

"Ah," Bumblebee hummed with a nod before burrying his head anew in the pillow. Just Snowstorm Entertainment. Nothing to worry ab-...

"WHAT?!" he shrieked, optics opening wide as he sat in one swift move, tiredness forgotten as he stared at Shershen, then at the other two Younglings. "Repeat that?! THE SNOWSTORM ENTERTAINMENT?! THE biggest entertainment company ever?! THE holder of the label ‘Best Game Maker of Cybertron’ since the time of Nova Magnus?! You're kidding, right?!" He had grabbed Seatta's shoulders and had started to shake him, making the other mech's head bob uncontrollably.

"K... kid you-ou n...not!" Seatta stammered out before Bumblebee broke his hold and started to pace the room.

"OhPrimusohPrimusohPrimus! What are they giving us? Wait," Bumblebee stopped himself, suspicious. "It's not copies of those educative games they started to make last stellar cycles, I hope?" Because, okay, the company had a great reputation and gaming newsletters HAD praised the new educative games but come on, when Bumblebee wanted to play, he wanted something fun or mind-numbing or nonsensical -- not covertly learn about the cosmos while he chased after a legendary thief in red and her acolytes.

"What make you think it's games we’re getting anyway?" Maggiolino drawled and Bumblebee gave him a flat look.

"As if they'd simply give cash," the yellow mechling drawled back. It could happen, sure, but it wasn’t a grandiose enough publicity if they did. Snowstorm Entertainment could do so, so much better – and they usually did. "Okay, I'll bite; what will the Sector get? Can you tell me, pretty please?" he added, trying to make a cute pout like some of his fellow batchmates when they wanted to charm the caretakers. Of course, his dormmates were a bunch of aftholes, so they didn't fall for it, just laughed at the faces he kept making.

"Primus, Bee, stop that," Seatta chuckled, wiping away a drop of cleaning fluid from the corner of his optics. "You thought about getting into acting? Because with faces like that, you could go far."

"He won't; he's only interested in the Guard," Shershen noted calmly. He wasn't laughing, but a corner of his lips had turned up, a sign he was greatly amused indeed. "S.T.O."
Bumblebee blinked. "What?"

"The game they're giving. S.T.O.," Shershen replied, as if Bumblebee's processor was slow (which normally wasn't, thank you very much, he had a very fast acting processor but right now he had been... distracted. Right. Distracted.).

There was a moment of silence as Bumblebee processed the words while Maggliolino groaned. "Frag it, mech, why did you tell him?"

"I saw no reason not to," Shershen shrugged, eyeing Bumblebee with interest. As a mech of few words and a lurker by nature and inclination, Shershen was used and rather enjoyed to quietly watch the world around him rather than speak and getting involved in it. As such, it had left him with plenty of time to observe his fellow mechanisms and develop a good idea of how they were going to react in a number of situations. With Bumblebee, a news of this magnitude could either render him (blessedly) mute for a moment as the shock settled in, or it could...

"WOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"

... prompt him to scream his head off in delight and start jumping around the room as if he had overdosed on energon goodies. Eh. No real surprise here. Wisely, Shershen moved out of the way and went to lie against the wall, just raising an optic ridge at the display as it prolongated well-past what he had originally timed. Hmm. He may have underestimated how much appealing that game must have looked like to someone like Bumblebee. He'd have to revalue his parameters for next time.

"OhPrimusohPrimusohPrimus, it's so awesome!!!" Bumblebee gushed, making Maggiolino scoff.

"Oh please, get a grip on yourself, Bug; it's just a game."

Bumblebee stopped brutally and looked at him as if Maggiolino had become insane. "Just. A. Game?" he said slowly, shaking his head. "Magg, it's THE game! I can't believe we're getting copies! Sweet Primus on a pogo stick!" The yellow 'bot's frame was shaking in anticipation. But who could blame him? Seiberutopia Tales Online was...

There was no word to describe what he was feeling right now.

Bumblebee loved his games. They were a welcome break from a reality he often found too unkind for his tastes. They were fun, colorful, sometimes simple, sometimes challenging. He loved incarnating a racer, jumping from platform to platform to reach the end of a level, use grapples to catch goodies, fight down another players with just his hands and fists (okay, so he was using controllers for that one, Cybertron's Safety Commited had never allowed anything else when it came to fighting games outside of FPS, which was a pity, because the potential!). That was why he was enjoying the arcade so much, running there whenever he could to hook up to a machine or place a coin in a slit and unlock a controller; you could find all sort of games there, for all tastes and all boy-types (something that was hard to come up by, given how different Cybertronians could be from each others; mechs with three claws for a hand had little chance to use a standard controller to its full capacities, as they lacked the tactil range necessary to mash the buttons right. There was a reason hooking up in the game systems had grown to be so popular overtime).

Seiberutopia Tales Online, however, was a dozen categories above all the games Bumblebee had been able to get his servos on. It was... it was a class on its own.

S.T.O. was actually pretty ancient, when you thought about it. The very first version, then simply called Seiberutopia Online, had been released some time before the Great War, though back then it had only be what experts agreed to call a 'beta version' and only compatible with a handful of frame types. It had had a limited release before the War forced Snowstorm Entertainment to turn off their servers for a long, long time, but even then the critics had been unanimous about the greatness of the game. Some had praised the originality of the game play, then unknown to the Cybertronians, while others had praised the quality of graphics and others still the unique hooking system which allowed a range of moves greater than in any other games.

But praises asides, there had still been a war going on and Snowstorm Entertainment, deciding to keep Neutral (if only because half their personnel weren't even Cybertronians to begin with), had chosen to let no one access the game again while fighting was going on. Their offices on Cybertron itself were closed down and they moved out on non-strategically important planets, scattering personnel and resources and waiting out the final issue of the conflict. And while they did, they continued working on their products -- video games and board games of various importance that they sold or gifted freely to both Autobots and Decepticons to make a point on where they stood and, in the background, the developing and revamping of Seiberutopia Online, which they renamed Seiberutopia Tales Online after it outgrew the boundaries they had first set.

S.T.O. came back up again a few thousands stellar cycles after the War officially ended. It was, once again, a limited edition, a new beta version offered to only a handful of individuals, Autobots and Decepticons alike, to test the newest version of the game and see what the company could ameliorate again. Very little was known of that period because the beta testers had all been sworn to secrecy, to the point no one even knew who they were. Well, there were strong suspicions about Ultra Magnus and Megatron but no definite answer. S.T.O. servers were taken down again once the test period was finished and the beta testers' advices gathered. Snowstorm Entertainment had also lead studies in the meanwhile to calculate statistics on the game's future success, the number of expected players, the size the servers and memory banks should take,... They had ended buying a whole moon just for storing the game physical databanks, Bumblebee had read somewhere, and they were talks of them buying a second.

S.T.O.'s third version had been released some time later and immediately knew a huge success, though it hadn't yet been open to every frame-types, not like the current version. Bumblebee wasn’t an expert and he didn’t even pretend to understand the science behind it, but even he could understand that a body-type with heavy clusters of sensors in the head like the old Praxian pre-war model with its iconic chevron couldn’t be hooked up to the game the same way a Polyhexian boy-type with small sensory horns was. Then there were the really big mechs, like some of the warframes (not all Decepticons, there had been some who stayed on the Autobots side during the war, even if they hadn’t been that many), who had such complex processors due to layered battle protocols that they required yet another special kind of connector to access Seiberutopia.

It all came down to the internal laying of ports and circuits that didn’t exist from a model to the next and how to better set the connections needed to remotely access the game while making sure the internal memory banks had enough space to handle the connection in the first place and a lot of complicated stuff that had been worthy of a professional medical newsletter.

(Which, incidentally, did happy; sixty-nine articles had been published by Cybertron’s medical corps ever since the first release of S.T.O. and the way it interacted with a mech’s systems. And that was only the ones published into well-established papers; a lot more could be found either in less serious publications or directly on personal pages on the Grid.)

Snowstorm Entertainment had spent thousands of stellar cycles working on the problem, releasing upgrades after upgrades for their data-holders and their transformation sequences. At some points, they had even taken down the servers again in order to revamp the whole game systems, much to the dismay of several hundred thousands of active players.

But when they released the fourth version, adapted to every frame-type of Cybertronian origin, well, the cries had quickly been silenced.

Nowadays, it totaled several dozens of millions of players across Cybertron and its colonies and in the edge worlds on which the Decepticons had settled to build their new 'Empire'. Over time, most of those players had gathered themselves into tight-knit groups called Guilds, a new feature added with the fourth release of S.T.O. Anybody could start a guild; the game servers had recorded several tens of thousands at their highest peaks, although many of them had ended up disbanding or getting absorbed by bigger Guilds. They were fascinating, those guilds. Bumblebee had read all he could about them when he had first heard of S.T.O., especially on the major ones like Messatine, the Companions of the Claw or Bumblebee's own favorite, the Heralds of Halonix.

Guilds formed themselves around a core idea or characters, who laid bases to which all new members had to adhere, else they were out. Their standards of admission were variables, depending largely on the Guild's goals -- and on the players' faction during the War. A few historians and politicians had described Seiberutopia Tales Online as a prolongation of the Great War, without the bloodshed and under the cover of a game. Bumblebee thought it was taking things a little too far -- though it was hard to deny you weren't encouraged to create links with Decepticons if you were an Autobot and the reverse held true as well.

Of course, many Guilds didn't care or pretended not to, according to Bumblebee’s readings; Companions of the Claw, for example, only took in Hunters, Trappers and Beastmasters as far as classes went but paid no attention to which faction they originally hailed from. Fatale Ladies was made of some of the best femme players online, officialy launched by an Autobot but in truth manned by many Neutrals and Decepticons. And there were probably many others too, smaller, less famous ones which hadn’t been mentioned in the lists and articles Bumblebee had perused. The vast majority of the Guilds, though... well, the vast majority held true to their factions.

Take Messatine, for example. It was Megatron's very own Guild, in which you could find some of his best soldiers, in game and in real life both (and now that he thought about it, the idea he could cross path with THE Megatron in S.TO. might make him a little nervous. Perhaps. Not that he’d be telling anyway). Take Machinists Inc, the Guild whose members all had the Mechanist job and which was pretty much an offset of the Autobot's Ministry of Sciences. Take Chaar Conquerors, whose players were all rumored to be an elite Decepticon strike team lead by one of Megatron's best Generals. Take the Heralds of Halonix, the Guild founded by Ultra Magnus and consisting exclusively of Elite Guard members and the best Autobot players out there!

Oh Primus, to be part of the Heralds of Halonix! Maybe Bumblebee was still too young to join the Guard, but to join their online Guild if he proved himself sufficient good as a player? That'd be like living the dream by proxy! And if he managed both... winning combo! Woohoo!

Okay, okay, he knew it would be hard; just like being part of the Elite Guard, getting into the Heralds of Halonix was the dream of many players and the competition was rough. Perhaps Bumblebee shouldn’t be too hasty… but Seiberutopia Tales Online! Primus, the videos he had seen on the Grid!

No wonder if Seiberutopia Tales Online remained THE favorite game of every Cybertronian who had had a chance to experiment it.

Which, sadly, wasn’t Bumblebee’s case (yet).

He had done a lot reading, watched with bright optics all the commercials in existence and allowed on Autobot’s frequencies, even often a few goodies such as the official badge of the Heralds of Halonix and even listened to interviews of Snowstorm Entertainment’s co-owners and CEOs, Ankh and Amma about their plans for the future, but he had never touched the game itself.

Oh, he would have wished for nothing more the first couple of times he had seen the commercials, but even if S.T.O. was accessible to everyone as far as connection and gameplay went, it sadly remained quite expensive to buy. Far more expensive than what a Youngling of Bumblebee’s age could afford, as Youth Sectors inhabitants hardly had any shanix to their name. Their basic needs were taken care of until they were old enough and they received a stipend they could use to buy personal items or save in order to afford lodging and furniture once they were old enough to leave the Sector.

Bumblebee had a tendency to spend his at the arcade, bar a dozen shanix Umbra made him given up and put into a saving account each time it came in.

So, yeah. Even if he had been dying to test out S.T.O., Bumblebee never had the occasion to play and had seriously thought it wouldn’t happen until he was a proper adult with a salary or something.

And now, now his number two dream after joining the Elite Guard was going to come true, all thanks to Snowstorm Entertainment launching themselves into a charity campaign. That was too good to be true!

“Sweet Primus on a pogo stick,” he repeated, feeling like dancing.

"That's a weird mental image," Saetta commented quietly, looking vaguely disturbed by the mental image the pogo stick brought up.

"What makes you think you will even be allowed to play?" Maggiolino added snidely at the same time, making Bumblebee freeze.

Slowly, he turned his head toward the other mechling, optics wide and shocked. "What? Why wouldn't I...?"

Shershen coughed. "Privilege," he said succinctly, making Bumblebee even more confused until Saetta took pity on Bumblebee and explained. "He means that yeah, we're going to get the game, but the caretakers are sure to restrain the access. Like, probably only at or for a set time, and only for 'bots who did they homework and didn't go in trouble."

"Like you," Maggiolino added with a smirk.

"Oh, frag," Bumblebee muttered as he sat heavily on his berth, the implications slowly sinking in. He hadn't considered that potential problem, but it made sense. Of course the caretakers wouldn't just let them connect to play at any time and of course they'd make sure only the 'good 'bots' would be allowed to. That was... that was really unfair. Okay, perhaps not unfair, because Bumblebee understood that you couldn't and shouldn't reward someone who acted out, but... He swallowed. "Guess I'll have to turn into a good little obedient 'bot?" he said weakly, rubbing the back of his helm.

"Good luck with that," Maggiolino snorted. Bumblebee glared at him but clenched his dental plates to avoid retorting; if he did, it wouldn't be polite, the 'conversation' would escalate and it'd probably end up in a fist fight (which had happened a few times already in the past, as Maggiolino and Bumblebee often got on each other's processor). He didn't need an additional punishment when he was still confined to the dorms and when potential access to the greatest video game of all times was on the line.

"... got my homework done earlier," Bumblebee managed to let out after a moment to calm down, lifting the pad on which he had scribbled down his work from the small nightstand by the side of the berth. "One of you could give it a look, see if my answers seem correct before I submit it to correction?" Normally, he wouldn't have cared, but good grades couldn't hurt at this point, right?

Shershen took it and gave it a cursory look. "Answers C to F are wrong," he said calmly while Bumblebee's shoulders slumped. "You missed a step in the calculs; easy to correct."

"Frag," Bumblebee sighed, but he wasn't surprised. He had no particular affection for maths and sometimes it seemed they felt the same way toward him. "Anything else?" Shershen hummed then passed down the pad to Saetta, who looked as well.

"Uh, you may need to develop a bit your answer to question J and K," the other mechling offered. "I mean, they're technically correct, those are the right organizations, but developing their sigils and adding details on their missions might earn you one or two more points. Oh, and, uh, you misspelled a few words as well, you should recheck the whole doc with a more performing spelling corrector. Ah, I'm also fairly certain Helex is South of Tesarus and East of Tarn, not West of Tarn and South of Vos as you wrote out. You inverted Peptex and Petrex on the map, too. Come to think, you also mixed up Kaon and Nyon's places in the second map," the mechling added with a slight frown as he scrolled down to another section of the pad, "which is weird because you perfectly described their economy, their demography and their infrastructures in the accompanying essay. You even put in the right neighboring towns for each!"

"I did?" Bumblebee blinked. "How?" They weren't even in the same hemisphere!

"You may have just mixed it the glyphes when writing them down? I mean, using the old system we were asked to use for maps, they look fairly similar," Saetta offered uncertainly.

"That... might be it," Bumblebee said after a moment of sulking. He hated the mixing up of languages when it came to history and geography. They had to write the essays in Cybertronian Standard but they had to use Cyberglyphics and Old Cybertronian for maps and for writing down city names in history essays, only being allowed to switch to their modern spelling if they were treating the time period after which their names had been standardized in NeoCybex. Some managed it just fine, but Bumblebee thought juggling between all those languages was a pain and unnecessarily complicated. So long they knew the polities' names and where they stood, why should they care what they had once been called and how it had been written anyway? And to think some of his fellow Younglings had signed up to learn Old Malignus or Destron on top of it! Insane, the lot of them!

"I hate languages," he whined.

"That could be worse; we could also be learning Decepticon glyphs," Shershen shrugged.

"Frag that reformation system of theirs," Bumblebee twitched; yet another language out there he would be forced to learn about at some point, and this one he'd need to be good at. Elite Guard members were expected to know how to read and decode Decepticon messages and transmissions. "Anything else?" he asked, glancing at his pad as if it was a coiled Razor-Viper.

"Asides of your glyphs being, uh, a bit messy? No, I don't think so," Saetta offered after looking at a few more lines.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I don't have a good penbotship," Bumblebee waved. "But I can read it just fine!"

"Someone needs to have his optics checked then, because I think you might be the only one who can," Maggiolino chuckled. He made no effort to look at the pad himself, the aft. Instead, he listed on his fingers. "So, you fail at maths, your spelling is disastrous, your notions of geography are abyssal... Am I missing anything?"

Shershen gave him a look. "You have no room to talk. I saw your copy as well." Maggiolino flushed while Saetta ended the pad back to Bumblebee, who couldn't resist pulling his glossa at Maggiolino. “And taunting people isn’t nice,” he added with a raised optic ridge to Bumblebee’s attention.

“He’s the one who started!” the yellow mechling complained.

“Not the point,” Shershen replied, looking unimpressed.

Saetta facepalmed. “Seriously? What are you both, three decacycles old? Anyway,” he added quickly when he saw he was getting glared at by both Bumblebee and Maggiolino in turn, “you should correct your answer fast before Umbra comes to collect your pad. You want to have a good grade, right?”

“Right,” Bumblebee deflated, sitting gingerly on the edge of his berth and grabbing a discarded stylus before he scrolled down to the sections he needed to correct.

A good grade or two, not mouthing off to his dorm mates (even if they really deserved it), no sneaking out to go to the arcade (ugh, the torture!) for the foreseeable future and acting like a model Youngling. He could do it, Bumblebee nodded to himself.

If that was all he needed to do in order to be able to get a copy of Seiberutopia Tales Online, he’d do it with a smile.

He just hoped it wouldn’t take forever.

Chapter 17: Origins. Bumblebee 4

Summary:

After waiting forever, Bumblebee finally gets his hands on the Graal... Sort of.

Notes:

Originally, I was going to cut this chapter in two parts, but after reflection, I thought it might be best to conclude Bumblebee's arc now in order to start on Prowl next time :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“Forever,” Bumblebee groaned as he scrubbed the floor of the washracks. As he had found out, being a model Youngling was including not trying to skip his turn at the various chores assigned to each Youngling each decacycle, even those he hated with a passion like the scrubbing. But it could have been worse, he kept repeating to himself; at least it was just scrubbing, not taking out the thrash. Of course, it wouldn’t stop him from complaining. “It is taking forever.”

“I don’t see why you complain so much, Bumblebee,” his partner for the decacycle, a blue mechling called Subsea, answered as he dropped his brush and sponge in the soapy water of the bucket and rose up, hands on his hips as he stretched his back struts. “Three decacycles before they distribute the access keys back to everyone is hardly ‘forever’.”

“But it is!” Bumblebee argued, rising up as well and grabbing the bucket, ready to transport it further in the room; they still had a whole row to make. “The caretakers had it for two decacycles already, what are they waiting for?”

His mind could easily supply him with pictures of the solar cycle upon which the representative for Snowstorm Entertainment had come to their Sector, smiling and accompanied by a horde of reporters and cameras, doing a little speech Bumblebee had barely listened to before he personally handed a data-holder cube to every Youngling in Iacon’s Youth Sector n°7. The caretakers had had them all in a neat line, fretting if they put even a foot out of alignement, but they had seemed content too. Bumblebee had been giddy and elated, his hands perfectly remembering the sensation of holding that precious cube close to his chest as he came down the dais with a big, silly grin on his face…

At least until the caretakers had taken it away. Then he had thought his Spark would gutter on the spot.

… Okay, okay, it was a slight exaggeration. But he had whined and cried and begged, that much was true. Except Umbra and Whiz and Rapido and DeeCee and all the others had been untreatable: all the Younglings had to hand them their copies of the game right away, with a promise they’d get them back later.

Except they were later, and Bumblebee still hadn’t gotten his game back!

Subsea didn’t seem overly concerned with the wait himself. He just shrugged. “For their own controls to finish being installed, of course. Surely you don’t expect them to hand us a MMORPG connector without making sure they can cut or limit the access for us if they wish to?”

Bumblebee whimpered. While he could admit not being the sharpest tool in the box, he had already come up with the same dreadful conclusions. It still hurt to hear it to be so casually confirmed by someone else. “Why can’t they trust us a little bit here?”

“Probably because they know us too well,” Subsea sighed. “Come on, that floor isn’t going to finish cleaning itself, Bee.”

“For all the good it does; it’s going to be dirty again tomorrow morning when everyone will come in to shower,” the yellow ‘bot mumbled unhappily, but he grabbed a new sponge and started scrubbing again. “Shouldn’t that be the role of a drone anyway?”

“I guess they don’t trust us either not to tamper with them,” Subsea shrugged.

“Do they trust us to do anything?” Bumblebee asked dryly.

“Yes; they trust we will play nice in order to get that damn game,” Subsea smiled faintly, making Bumblebee gape at him before he pointed an accusing finger at him.

“I knew it! I knew you weren’t as unaffected as you pretended to be! So you want to play S.T.O. too, right?!”

Subsea gave him a look. “Of course I do, Bumblebee. Who wouldn’t? Especially since we’re getting it for free, something which never, ever happens. I’m ready to accept the fact we’ll be restricted in our access and that we will most likely monitored about our use – it’s not fun, it’s not ideal, but so long we’re living here, so long we’re officially dependants on the authorities and assigned caretakers, we don’t have much of a choice so it’s best to accept it and enjoy what we have. If you don’t fully understand,” he added with a shrug, “Just remind yourself that unlike you, I know there is no point in complaining every solar cycle over the ‘unfairness’ of the caretakers and wondering aloud when they will finally relent and just hand us the damn copies. We lived without S.T.O. before, we can wait a few more orns if necessary before we get to play.”

“Easier said than done,” Bumblebee said dejectedly. “We’re SO close…”

“And tomorrow we’ll be a solar cycle closer,” Subsea replied. “Try to see things on the bright side; at least while you wait, you have plenty of time to do researches and decide what you want to play as. Chose a class already?”

“Yes… no? Maybe?” Bumblebee replied, rubbing his helm. “I mean, I knew what I wanted at first, but I talked with some guys online and now it doesn’t look that great anymore…”

“See?” Subsea nodded, looking satisfied. “That’s what I’m talking about. This connection, this avatar we will be creating is going to be our only one until we’re old enough to a) have systems able to handle a secondary connection and b) have enough money to pay for a second avatar. Unless you want to keep scrapping your character and starting back from the beginning because you’re unhappy with it, then you better give yourself more time to think about what you’re going to do.”

Bumblebee sighed. Good points, all good points, he couldn’t exactly contest them. The part about the ‘one character only’ sucked, but that was how S.T.O. was. He didn’t really want to start adventuring only to discover too late he had made a mistake and just… cancel out megacycles of game in order to build up a new character. That’d feel like a waste.

Which was why he was hesitating now, he mused as he turned his attention back to the scrubbing of the floor.

Bumblebee’s first instinct had been to make a Warrior. Warriors were great! They could take a lot of damages (well, not at first, but it build up fast once you could reach the second and third town after the beginner area, according to the forums) and they could become Knights or Gladiators or Samurais and they had wicked cool swords or axes or even lances (though those were rarer, most lances were only for Lancer-types fighters). A lot of famous members of the Heralds of Halonix were Warriors and Knights so surely, they’d need one more?

Except, according to forums, they weren’t exactly searching for new Warriors anymore, since they had that part covered. Big guilds were mainly interested in Healers and Support-types classes nowadays; Healers because you always needed Healers for your party when you were going to a Dungeon or when you did a Battlefield and Support-types because… well, because a fighter needed boosts if he wanted to take down his enemies more easily and damage dealers attacking from a distance could be very useful too, apparently.

So that let Bumblebee in a bind; if the Heralds of Halonix didn’t need Warriors, then what kind of Support class should he pick in order to be useful for them, get noticed and then taken in the famous Guild? He was very tempted by the Archer, but apparently the Heralds had picked many already to reinforce their ranks so that probably wouldn’t work.

Which left Bumblebee with either the Scholar or the Minstrel if he didn’t to play Healer – and he didn’t want; he wanted a chance to hit monsters and do damages, no spend his time mending people and waiting out the issue of the fight. That wasn’t how a hero did things!

… Even if he wasn’t really a hero. It just wasn’t his thing.

Scholar seemed alright, Bumblebee guessed. It certainly had polyvalent evolutions. The Minstrel… well, the Minstrel he wasn’t certain about. He’d need to learn more about the Dancer and the Bard before he took a decision, he guessed.

Perhaps tonight, once the chores were done, the dinner dealt with and Umbra allowed them a megacycle of freedom before curfew, he’d have the time to connect to Seiberutopia’s website and see what they were saying about the two classes.

It couldn’t hurt, he decided with a nod before cursing – he had been so caught up in his thought he had almost knocked the bucket over; slag, he didn’t want to have to clean everything up again because he had been clumsy and spilled the soapy liquid!

Scholar and its evolutions, Minstrel and its evolutions, he reminded himself as he scrubbed a little harder.

Hopefully, one of them would sound good enough for him to decide…

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

::Welcome to Seiberutopia Tales Onlines!:: the cheery voice of the AI greeted him and Bumblebee grinned madly (or at least he thought he was grinning; his body and facial plates were staying immobile in the real world but his CPU was still giving the correct inputs so perhaps he was really grinning and perhaps it was all in his head and who cared anyway?).
After that interminable wait, here he was at last!

Sure, he was limited to a megacycle per solar cycle during the day for now, but it was a start. Bumblebee really hoped that the caretakers would get their act together and allow them to use the option ‘play while your body recharge’, a feature of S.T.O. that was very popular. Sadly, they were taking their sweet time granting their charges the permission due to concern over the strain this format of playing could cause on still immature systems. Medical opinions all but stated that the risks were minimal but apparently, that wasn’t enough for the adults in charge. Umbra had promised them the subject would be debated and submitted to vote, but probably not for a few orns, so they could first see first-hand how their charges reacted to standard playing.

So yeah, Bumblebee really was crossing his fingers for a positive outcome. In the meanwhile, he sure was going to enjoy his limited daily game time to its fullest.

::Are you ready for the adventure?:: the AI’s voice rung sweetly to the yellow mech’s audio receptors as he looked around, the pixels in his vision clearing and reorganizing themselves in order to create a… well, it looked like a vague landscape in faint colors. The neatest thing in his vision was an enormous doorway, the threshold shining pink – a teleporter, perhaps?

::Please, chose an avatar in order to enter the game!:: the AI’s voice continued while a translucent menu appeared in front of Bumblebee’s optics, making him take a quick step back.

“Wow! Hey, careful with where you pop those things up!” he exclaimed even as he started to look at the menu’s options. That was it! The famous class selection!

::Welcome in our menu,:: the AI piped in. ::Please select the class you want to play at. However, remember: you can only make a single choice. Be certain you’ll pick the right one. Do you want to be a Fighter, a Magician, a Ranger or a Supporter?::

“Supporter, please,” Bumblebee said giddily, watching three options disappear from his sightline. Supporter shined above three other options.

::Please pick one of the following class: Scholar, Minstrel or Archer. And remember, there can only be one.::

“I’ll go with Minstrel, please,” Bumblebee said with just a tad of impatience. Primus, he wanted it to be done quickly so he could finally enter the game proper. Thankfully, the avatar creation was supposed to be fast.

::You have chosen Minstrel; please, confirm your choice.:: Bumblebee reached forward, putting his hand on a translucent ‘yes’ block. ::Please, chose a name for your avatar.::

“Bumblebee,” the yellow mech said quickly. He didn’t want to waste time thinking of an alias. He didn’t even see the point anyway; he wanted people to know the awesome player he was going to be was him, after all. “No change to weight and size,” he added quickly as the AI started to drone out about avatar characteristics. You could make yourself taller, smaller, bigger, thinner and so, but that didn’t interest Bumblebee.

::Please wait while the computer select your beginner stats,:: the AI continued with its usual cheerful voice.

Ah, yeah, that part, Bumblebee thought as he watched a big, spinning wheel materialize out of nowhere in front of him. The infamous Wheel of Fate. Beginners’ stats, as Bumblebee had found out while browsing through forums, were normally pretty random and depended on two main things: your class and the number of points drew by the Wheel of Fate.

Your class usually had a few points already in each slot; the Wheel of Fate granted you a bonus that allowed you to ‘customize’ your characters by making it stronger or faster or smarter than the average for your class and level, giving you an edge if you knew how to use it. Bumblebee thought it was unnecessarily complicated, but a lot of people loved the ‘strategy’ aspect it gave to character creation.

The Wheel kept spinning for several kliks before slowly down, the needle stopping on a glowing 17.

::Congratulation! You now have 17 points to distribute through your stats in order to raise them,:: the AI stated. ::Do you wish for the game to automatically distribute them or do you wish to do so manually and at your convenience?::

“Manually, please,” Bumblebee let out. A lot of people on the forums tended to complain about how ‘average’ it made their avatar when they had gone with the automatic distribution; better do it himself, he had decided a while ago. That way, he wouldn’t be disappointed.

Immediately, a list came up. There were many different stats to think of in the game, Bumblebee knew. There was Strength, Defense, Vitality, Speed, Agility, Dexterity, Intelligence, Wisdom and Luck.

Bumblebee hummed thoughtfully. 17 points wasn’t a lot and Minstrels didn’t have big stats either to begin with; barely 2 or 1 in each category, which Bumblebee thought sucked. Oh, well. It wasn’t much of a surprise, after all; Minstrel wasn’t a popular class to begin with, of course the game developers weren’t going to put great beginner stats on them.
So. 17 points. He needed to come up with some priorities.

“Okay, let’s see,” he mumbled. “Intelligence and Wisdom are for Magicians and Healers so I don’t need to have them too high, I’m not a Fighter so I don’t need to be super strong but I still need some points in Strength if I have to fight in corps-a-corps. And sure, I don’t have spells and I don’t use Mana as a Minstrel, but the official guide did say that Supporter classes could pick up new abilities in exchange for sufficient Intelligence or Wisdom, so I can’t totally neglect them either. Not sure what Dexterity would serve me for given I’m not supposed to throw things and Agility is to evade blows, so I guess that can be useful. Defense to take less damage, yes, Vitality is supposed to boost up your life points and Speed to be quicker.”

And he could only add 5 points maximum to the existing stats, the AI reminded him as he reflected on how to correctly distribute them. Of course they had put in a limit, the yellow mechling thought.

Okay, he wanted to be fast. Fast was good, so he was going to put a lot of points in Speed. Then he was going to put some in Defense, some in Strength just in case, some in Vitality for more HP, some in Agility and he was going to put at least one point more in Intelligence, Wisdom and Dexterity. Luck… he really didn’t see what it could serve him for, so he was going to let it as such for now.

It probably wasn’t important anyway.

It took him a moment, but finally he nodded to himself and confirmed.

[STR] 2 [+2]
[DEF] 2 [+3]
[VIT] 2 [+2]
[SPD] 2 [+5]
[AGI] 1 [+2]
[DEX] 2 [+1]
[INT] 2 [+1]
[WIS] 2 [+1]
[LUC] 1 [+0]

::Are you sure of your choices? You won’t be able to correct them after confirming,:: the Ai reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure, just hurry up,” Bumblebee stated. Time was running fast and he wanted a chance to play before his megacycle was up.

::Welcome to Seiberutopia Tales Online, Minstrel Bumblebee. You’re now officially a Level 1 adventurer! Please, head for the teleporter in order to enter the game properly. We wish you a lot of fun in your discovery of the vast lands of Seiberutopia.::

Bumblebee grinned. “Oh, you can bet I will have fun!” he said as he run toward the doorway. It was going to be the best thing ever, he was sure of it.

*-*-*-*-*-*

To be fair, he had been having fun at first, Bumblebee thought bitterly as he dodged under a fallen tree trunk, the axe of the Eradicon pursuing him sinking into the wood instead of his head.

Oh wow, that one was close, he winced as he scrambled the hell away from the Eradicon. Eradicon who was raising his axe again, ready to take another swing at the little yellow mech in front of him. Oh frag, oh frag, oh frag, he needed to get to the nearest town and fast. It wasn’t far, but would he had enough endurance to last with the enemy on his tail, he had no idea. He had to try, though, or he’d been saying ‘hello’ to the cemetery again and he really, really didn’t want to pay for equipment repairs… again.

Easier said than done, though, because the damn thing was fast!

If he had been able to talk, Bumblebee would swear a blue streak.

Sadly for him, he wasn’t. Able to talk, that’s it. He had gotten hit with Silence, again. And when players was afflicted with Silence, they couldn’t talk on the normal conversation canals. They couldn’t use Mana and as such, spells. And when they played Bards, well, they couldn’t use Songs, which was their main weapon.

It could have been funny… if Bumblebee wasn’t a Bard himself.

Frag the day he had chosen to stop being a Minstrel and become a Bard, he silently bemoaned as he started to run faster – or tried to anyway. The Eradicon seemed intent on riding his bumper.

He should have picked the Dancer. Or stay a Minstrel.

Minstrels’ music didn’t cause that much damage, but they could use it all the time. Sure, it could be a bit tedious but at least it had been fun. Bumblebee never had any serious trouble while playing Minstrel. Sure, he had learned early on (and the hard) that he needed to stay as far away as possible from enemies if he was alone. Sure, he could only hope to take the fight against a single monster at a time. But at least it was working.

And Dancers! Dancers were great, now that Bumblebee thought about it. Dancers could have sabers and short swords. Dancers weren’t that strong themselves, but they could use double attacks when they were lucky. Plus, Dancers didn’t have to worry about being put under Silence by monsters whenever they opened their mouth to use a Song.

But nooooo, Bumblebee had decided that there were too many Dancers on the servers already, what’s with people deciding they wanted to imitate Rosanna, and he had wanted to be a little more unique in order to get to the attention of Heralds of Halonix. So he had been very, very stupid and when he had had to pick his reward for returning the lost music sheets of the Legendary Minstrel Allegro, he had picked the Beautiful Voice instead of the Graceful Steps and here he was.

He had thought Bard would be fun and nice to play. On the paper, it had sounded good; just select your Song, like the Hymn of Healing to heal yours or your party’s damage or Dark Anthem to blind your adversary, ping the cords of your harp or your mandolin, open your mouth and blam! It worked.

Sure, it wasn’t a very sought after class. Sure, it had its downside, like being weak against certain styles of spells.

But apparently, when it came to weakness, Bumblebee had the worst. Luck. Ever.

(Funnily, he never linked it with the fact that his [Luc] stats were abyssal, even after he managed to reach Level 9. Luck stats were primarily to avoid traps when opening chests, sure, but what were enemy’s spells if not traps themselves?

It’d take Bumblebee a long time and a few conversations to realize it, after which he’d be ready to beat himself over the head with his own mandolin.)

Why else would all the monsters he kept meeting have Silence as part of their own attacks?!

The axe swung again, narrowly missing his head and Bumblebee silently cursed anew. Where the Pit was the town?! He should have gotten to it already!

… Unless he had picked the wrong direction. Frag, that’d be on par with his usual luck, he internally groaned.

Let’s see. Angry Eradicon who was determinate to have a piece of his aft. No town to take refuge in with helpful NPC guards who could have taken him out.

No allies upcoming because he had been playing alone, again – he just couldn’t seem to be able to pick partners, or at least not partners who stuck around once they had what they had been after; a player had just disconnected and left their party short a member when they had been doing the Moondrop Tower Dungeon once. The lack of Tank had ended with a total party wipe-out when the mobs had come swarming in.

No way to use his main weapon, the Songs, so long Silence wasn’t lifted – and Silence didn’t lift itself, sadly. Bumblebee was out of Vocal Filter to remove it himself and unless he happened upon a Healer who could cast the counter-spell, then he was stuck with being mute.

Sighing, Bumblebee dodged again and turned heels, facing down his pursuer, unstrapping the mandolin he had been carrying on his back. He didn’t have a choice, did he? Either he continued running until he couldn’t anymore and the Eradicon would wipe the floor with him, or he stood his ground and the Eradicon would wipe the floor with him anyway.

Unless he was fast and clever and managed to dodge his bigger opponent’s blows. Which… he could do. Probably. Most likely.

Ooooh, he was so going to put more points in Agility the next time he earned himself a bonus for his stats!

From the corner of his optics, he could see the menu showing his stats.

Bumblebee LV. 11

[CLASS] Bard

[JOB] Fisher LV. 5

[STR] 5
[DEF] 6
[VIT] 5
[SPD] 10
[AGI] 6
[DEX] 3
[INT] 5
[WIS] 5
[LUC] 3

He could do it. He knew he could do it. Just be fast, dodge when you need to and be careful about your HP. He had a Health Potion left if they dropped too much. He could do it, he repeated to himself before squaring his shoulder. Grinding his dental plates, Bumblebee glared at the Eradicon.

“Come on, big ‘bot,” he mouthed silently, optics narrowed, ready to jump and beat the stupid thing over the head with his mandolin – it was’t the way he was supposed to use it, really, but since he couldn’t play it, he had to find a use for it and a blunt tool should do the trick. “Time to face the music.”

Notes:

Anyone got the feeling Bumblebee unintentionally shot himself in the foot by neglecting his Luck skill? ^^

(Spoiler which really isn't one: he totally did. Optimus has insane amount of luck in-game; Bumblebee... not so much.)

So, that's it for Bumblebee. Next time, we'll discover Prowl's side of the story. Stay tuned!

Chapter 18: Origins. Prowl 1

Summary:

Prowl has a job, mean coworkers, a small, private Greenhouse and a gaggle of Cybercats to keep him company. A mix of good and bad, that's his life. He doesn't need more... does he?

Notes:

Note on the Cybercats breed : All were inspired after seeing various fanarts on Tumblr, which really stuck with me. Then I tried to imagine my own breeds.

Here's a link, for those interested : https://wily-red-and-galeforce-gold.tumblr.com/tagged/cyber-cats

Chapter Text

The stack of datapads landed on the desk with a loud 'thud', some of them slipping from the pile and clattering on the floor. Not perturbated the slightest, Prowl didn't pause in his typing until he had reached the end of his sentence and only then deigned to lift his chin and stare at the new arrival, an optic ridge raised to mark his not-quite surprise and not-quite discontentment with the interruption.

"Cordon," he acknowledged the mech before him. "May I do something for you?" He kept his voice level and polite, remaining utterly still in his seat. All around him, he could hear the typing of the other translators, clerks and secretaries slow down or stall. He didn't need to look at them to know they were staring at them -- and most specifically at Prowl himself -- even if they were pretending not to. Prowl paid them no attention; they weren't important right now. The only thing that mattered was the scowling Detective who had dropped by unannounced.

"Yeah, you may," the predominantly white mech with black arms and a black helm and finials replied shortly. He looked crossed but, Prowl mused, it wasn't unusual. Ever since he had started working at Tesk's Third Precinct, he had seldom seen a smile on the Detective's face -- and never when he had to come down to the 'Pool' and talk with Prowl himself. Prowl wasn't certain it was because Cordon didn't like the 'Pool' workers in general or because he disliked Prowl specifically.

It was a little puzzling for most of his coworkers; as far as they knew, Prowl had done nothing to warrant the animosity Cordon and a number of other Detectives and Autotroopers showed him. Prowl himself was fairly certain he hadn't done anything wrong either -- he kept to himself, didn't pick or share on workplace gossips and generally worked fast-pace and with satisfying results. In truth, some mechs would say he was the ideal employee. But his coworkers in the Pool never had access to his full files, Prowl thought dejectedly. It was getting painfully obvious to him that Cordon, being an Enforcer with the rank of Detective, had read it -- and that he hadn't liked what he saw.

What set him off the most in the list of offenses written under Prowl’s name, however, was a mystery Prowl hadn't yet solved.

"May I ask you what you wish me to do?" he asked quietly. He already knew, of course; it was always the same thing. Saying it aloud and saying it with witnesses who could corroborate the way the exchange had gone, however was very important -- another thing Prowl had learned the hard way, once upon a time, and the lesson had stuck.

"Some busybody unearthed that stuff from a dig in what is left of Lower Tetrahex' Enforcers Headquarters; they want them translated and added to the archives yesterday and guess who's the lucky 'bot who got assigned the stuff?" the Detective shrugged, showing off the stack he had just brought with a vague gesture of the hand.

"I suppose that if you dropped them on my desk, it must be me," Prowl replied blandly, reclining his chair ever so slightly and giving a look at the documents Cordon had brought. At least twenty different datapads, standard pre-War size, at least a quarter of them obviously cracked or otherwise damaged at first glance. The others... well, he'd have to study them in detail but hopefully they hadn't suffered too much. Only way to check would be to turn them on, then to run them through a virus scan before he even attempted to connect them to the computer for data retrieval. He had lost count of the number of times they had found booby-trapped pads in ruins, purposely planted there by Decepticons wishing to infect the Cybertron Judicial Database. "Written in Destron, I take?" he asked carefully, reaching for the pad at the top of the pile and eyeing it critically. Hmm, the glass protection was chipped, but it didn't seem too bad...

"Of course in Destron; why else should I bring them to you otherwise?" Cordon snapped and Prowl tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement, keeping his face carefully blank. He was hardly the only person in the 'Pool' to understand and speak Destron, which he was tempted to point out, but it was also true Prowl was one of the few (if not the only one) who was able to understand the older forms of the dialect. Judging by the state of the pads, there were about 2 chances out of 3 it was a non-standard variant of the dialect, so yes, Prowl was probably the best person to check and translate them. It was both an advantage and an inconvenience, as he had found out early on. "Well? How much time to translate them?" Cordon asked briskly.

"It is hard to say without having first checked the state of the pads and wherever the datas inside were corrupted," Prowl started carefully. "I have to make sure they can still work under their own power and check them for latent virus. Then I need to make sure which variant of Destron have been used to wirte them and run them through the systems in case we already have a recovered copy of those reports. If we don't and we can identify the writer and can confirm they’re alive, we'll need to contact them so they can corroborate the content – same things if the writer of the original report is deceased, we will need to run their name through the databases and see if they real and legally registered. There'll be the translation itself, of course, which may take a moment. And of course, I'm still working on the previous load, which has priority over..."

"How much time?" Cordon snapped again, arms crossed and optics narrowed. Prowl fought down the urge to scowl back; would it kill the other mech to be polite?

"I can't say for certain, but probably no less than two orns. Like I said, I still haven't finished the previous load the department asked me to translate and it takes the priority," Prowl replied, refraining himself from shaking with rage. Keep cool, keep calm, he repeated mentally to himself. He had faced much, much worse than an upstart Detective with an attitude and he had nothing to hide and nothing to reproach himself. He was working at a good pace and his work was always spotless. It was enough for the Chief and Senior Detectives in charge of the Precinct.

But of course, it wasn't enough for Cordon. The glare he sent Prowl's way made someone gulp. "Oh, they are? Funny how you still haven't finished them yet, Prowl," Cordon sneered. "Why, one could say you're lazying around... Or perhaps your CPU is getting rusty? Or perhaps," he added, looming over Prowl, "you're deliberately taking your sweet time doing those translations. Perhaps you don't want their content added to the Judicial Database. Perhaps there are things on them you don't want people to see..."

Prowl raised an optic ridge. "I don't see why I would do such a thing," he replied levelly.

"Oh you don't, eh?' Cordon loomed closer. Prowl looked straight in his optics. "I wonder, Prowl, do they know what you did?" he gestured to the mechs around them, the rest of the Pool workers. "Did you tell them? What would they think of you if they knew?" His optics narrowed. "It disgusts me a 'bot like you can work here at the Precinct. You shouldn't be allowed near any law-enforcement related job!"

Prowl's optics flashed behind his shades.

"No, Detective; I don't have any idea of why you'd think I'd keep information from the reports I translate from the Judicial Database. As for my past, everybot is free to ask me about it if they wish. I have nothing to hide," he replied simply. And sure enough, if anyone asked him, he'd answer them truthfully -- but the thing was, no one ever asked. Either they had made up their own stories or they had talked with someone in the known already. Frankly, it didn't matter much to Prowl so long they were leaving him in peace, which they did. Unlike full-fledged Detectives and Enforcers, Pool workers didn't care that much about Prowl's former brushes with Cybertron justice so long he was discreet and did his share of the work, and he was grateful for that. "And if you will, I'd like to point out my job has hardly anything to do with law-enforcement itself; I'm merely a translator on the behalf of the TransTech Division. I have no contact with suspects or evidences and my work is double-checked by upstanding Officers who can attest to the quality of my work. Will that be all, Detective? As you can see," he gestured toward the smaller stack of damaged datapads he had been working on as well as a row of other documents, mainly dictionaries and translation charters and programs that he had installed on a corner of his desk, "I have a lot of work before me. Chief Blockus wants them done in short order; I've heard he wants to present them to Chief Justice Tyrest. I'd hate to disappoint him." He didn't threaten Cordon by saying that if Prowl was late, he'd blame it on the Detective, but Cordon understood it well enough.

"Be careful where you step, Prowl," the white mech growled warningly, though he retreated from the desk. "I know what you are; you can't fool me."

Prowl watched him go with a sigh, shoulders dropping in released tension. "Oh, I perfectly know what I am too, I hardly need the reminder." Shaking his head, he looked at some of his coworkers who had the good sense of blushing before going back to their own work. A few lingering gaze full of curiosity stayed on him but they eventually ducked his own gaze. With a new sigh and once he was satisfied no one was looking at him anymore, Prowl went back to his own documents, pushing the unpleasant visit away from his mind.

Those translations weren't going to run by themselves, after all.

*-*-*-*-*-*

Some days, Prowl felt like the world was out to get him.

Or not really; the former Cyberninja doubted he was important enough in the grand scheme of things for the universe to take notice of him in a good or a bad way. But there were definitely solar cycles where an accumulation of little things kept happening, slowly changing it into the living Pit.

The 'discussion' he had had with Cordon was just one of those things. Funnily (except not), it hadn't even been the start of Prowl's bad solar cycle. Technically, it had started the previous night cycle, when one of his neighbours had decided to throw a party. A very loud party. Prowl had ended up turning off his audio receptors and setting up an internal clock in order to finally slip in recharge when it had become obvious the noise wouldn't be dying any time soon and no one, not even him, was willing to call law enforcement to make it stop. Prowl probably should have, but... He didn't need problems with his neighbours. In the morning, the bad luck had seemed to stick. One of his favorite mugs had ended in pieces on the floor after the shelf it had been resting on unexpectedly broke; Prowl had been able to save all the dishes in the nick of time, excepted the mug. It had made him frustrated; if he had been faster...

But that was the story of his life. Always too late, never good enough.

The pieces picked and thrown in the thrash so no one would cut on them, he had left to work early, hoping that he'd be able to pull some overtime; some additional shanix certainly wouldn't hurt his account at the end of the month. Sadly, he had been caught in traffic jams all the way between Esserlon and Tesk and had barely reached the station in time. If getting late in itself wouldn't have been very serious, the black and gold mech was painfully aware some people at the Precint (such as Cordon) were just waiting for a mistake on his part to pounce and he had no intention to give them that pleasure if he could help it.

So music late in the night, broken dish and traffic jam. Then there had been Cordon and his mercurial temper, though that was on par with the usual so Prowl had tried to push it out of his mind. Unfortunately, it wasn't the case of everyone around him. One or two newcomers who didn't known Prowl personnally had watched him warily when it had been time for their scheduled break, whispering between them while staring and pulling away the moment Prowl made a step in their direction to try and start a conversation and perhaps explain what the scene had been all about. Hopefully, an aware coworkers would let them know Prowl wasn't a killer (as much as his record had once tried to paint him as such, once upon a time) and that he wouldn't stab them just because they dared to be in the same room as him.

Then had come the evening; acidic rains had started to fall from Glibax to Petrohex, with Tesk and Esserlon caught in the middle. Prowl had had no choice but to take the underground highways which, between its regular users and the flow of mechs searching to travel while protected from the acid rain, was completely jammed. And to add to the already uncomfortable situation as tunnels users were forced to advance almost glued to each others, two separate accidents had been reported on the lanes, Autotroopers had to be called in to regulate the flow of mechs and non-sentient vehicles and the Rescue Patrols had to intervene to evacuate a mech who had a panic attack due to the extended confinement in the tunnels.

Suffice to say, Prowl had finally managed to exit the tunnel to Esserlon very late.

It'd be so much simple, he often thought, if he could get an apartment closer to his workplace. Not necessarily Tesk itself, but still closer than Esserlon. The commuting took him at least a megacycle per solar cycle, and that was when everything was fine on the roads. Shuttles would be faster, of course, but taking a pass to use them daily was more expensive than Prowl could afford on the long term. Saving on shanix was the main reason he lived in Esserlon after all, he thought with a sigh as he transformed at the foot of his apartment building, making sure he was well protected under the canopy as he did so. The rain had momentarily stopped but the clouds were still rolling and the black and gold mech wouldn't be surprised if it started anew. Calmly, he walked inside the lobby, noting that the security scan was down again. He wondered if he should write to the manager about it again; the last three messages had stayed without an answer. Shaking his head, he started climbing the steps, mindful of where he was putting his pedes. While some of the residents made a token effort to keep the common spaces clean, not everyone particpated in the effort and it wasn't rare to find empty cans on the floor and sticky puddles of fluids better left unidentified on the walls and steps.

At least the lights were working right, which was a relief.

The climb to the sixth and last floor took him a while and made him wonder yet again if at least moving in an apartment building with a lift wouldn't be a good idea and why he was stubbornly staying where he was. It certainly wasn't for the quality of life, the proximity of the entertainment district or the closeness of the stores -- there were almost none in that area. Esserlon was mostly an industrial city, its factories specialized in the construction of various pieces used for shipbuilding. Most of their products were sent to the thriving spaceport of Staniz or in Iacon, the rest scattered in dozens of polities.

Esserlon had taken quite a few hits when the Decepticons had bombed the nearby Gygax during the War; you could still see the scars in several parts of the cities which had yet to be reconstructed. It wasn't to say Esserlon was a ruin, oh no; the inhabitants had worked hard at rebuilding the underground highway linking it to the rest of Cybertron and the small spaceport, they had build the roads back, fixed the waste evacuation system, installed canopies and covered passages everywhere when it was realized that the frequence and intensity of the acid rains had climbed up, rebuild the city's infrastructure by repairing the Youth Sector, the Town's Hall, the Autotroopers Station and the Enforcer Precint. They had even build a Cultural Center with the shanix they had left, which hosted amateur concerts and associations and let citizens have a public, free access spot to the Archives and its collections of Databases as well as to the Grid.

Esserlon had concerned itself with practicality over embellishment, a choice Prowl could respect.

So yes, the city was a little grim as a result, Prowl acknowledged, but it could have been worse. And it had a few distinct advantages, perhaps the only reasons Prowl never seriously followed on his musings over finding a better place to live. When everything was said and done, the rent was low, and the apartment itself had some advantages, such as the large terrace Prowl had transformed and the fact the owners allowed residents to have pets.

"I'm home," Prowl announced loudly as he let the door of his apartment slide back and lock itself behind him -- and not a klik too soon because obeying to his voice as much as to the tell-tale noise that announced 'freedom', a small lifeform tried to slip past his legs and make a rush for the door, only to growl and meow in frustration when it noticed that no, the door was already closed and no amount of pawning at it would make it open again.

Prowl chuckled as he crouched down, hand reaching to stroke the newcomer. “Hello there, Bracket,” he smiled as the cybercat leaned into his touch and started to make a purring sound with his little engines. “And where are you friends, hum? Hiding under the berth? Or too busy licking up their own share of fuel? Unless you eat theirs again, hum, little glutton?” Bracket purred louder at the word of ‘fuel’ and started to rub himself against the black and gold mech’s hand, his legs, his knees. It made Prowl smirk. “Ooooh no, little one, oh no; don’t try and coax me into giving you more. I know you already got fed, I measured your intake myself,” Prowl chided, giving the cybercat a light tap on the muzzle. Bracket made a small sound of disappointment; obviously he had been foiled in his attempt to get more treats. “Smart little pest,” Prowl chuckled. He still picked up the cybercat and gathered him in his arm, gently muzzling the little mechanimal, taking comfort in the sound of the buzzing engines. “Well, since your friends don’t seem interested in joining us here, shall we go seek them out?”

The cybercat purred even louder as Prowl’s rose up, holding the mechanimal carefully in the crook of his arms. He delicately patted the small frame as he made his way deeper in the apartment, whistling to try and get the others attention. A quick glance in the kitchen corner let him know the three bowls he had lined up on the floor before leaving for his work shift were all empty, so he knew his little companions all had refueled – and despite the light teasing he had given Bracket, he knew they all had their fair share. No hint of a tail there… but soon enough, Prowl felt a light brush against the plating of his leg. Lowering his gaze, he raised an optic ridge.

“And hello to you too, Scrounge,” he knell down, mindful of not hurting Bracket as he did so. Scrounge sniffed his fingers for a moment and let his small EM field extend, brushing against Prowl’s own. The black and gold mech let him, even extending his own a bit. Scrounge’s pearly white optics met his without recognition, but upon ‘tasting’ his owner’s EM field he started to purr even louder than Bracket, putting his paws on Prowl’s knee and asking for scratches.

Of course, the louder noises were not a surprise; Scrounged was quite larger than his fellow cybercat.

Bracket was a Kaonite Copper Minor, the smallest breed of cybercat in existence -- and he was quite small, even for a Kaonite Copper – the runt of the litter, which was why Prowl had picked him up when a neighbor had come ringing a few stellar cycle ago, fretfully trying to find homes to a bunch of cyberkittens which had just unfurled from his own Kaonite Copper. Truth to be told, Prowl hadn’t been planning to take Bracket. Then the tiny kitten had gotten kicked by one of his bigger siblings and started to meow pathetically and Prowl’s Spark had just melted. He had never regretted taking in Bracket.

Scrounge, for his part, was a Carpessian Tenebra, a larger breed known for its hunting prowess. There was no better hunter of glitchmice on Cybertron, connoisseurs liked to pretend. Prowl didn’t know about it, but he certainly enjoyed Scrounge’s presence in his life. He had found him in a dumpster behind the building, hunting turbo-rats to drain them from their energon. He was a beautiful specimen of Carpessian Tenebra… if not for his optics, which had apparently caused his previous owners or the mechs who had bred him to abandon him. Carpessian Tenebra’s optics were supposed to be deep purple; Scrounge’s were white, a sign they weren’t working. Scrounge was technically blind, relying only on his ability to read EM fields to navigate and hunt. His handicap, however, didn’t seem to bother the mechanimal at all.

Having grown up in the wild, gaining his trust had been hard. Still, with patience and care, Prowl had managed to. Of course, Scrounge was still a little skittish from time to time, but the Cybercat had gotten used to Prowl now and by extension, to the companionship of fellow Cybercats Bracket and Tempera.

And speaking of Tempera…

“And where is your last playmate, little one?” Prowl murmured, given Scrounge a last pat and letting Bracket out of his arms. “Care to tell me? No? Well, I guess I’ll have to find out by myself. And if I know his fuzzy Majesty, then I’ll find him lazing around on my berth. Am I right?”

Of course he was.

Cybercats in general had the reputation of being unpredictable; obviously, Tempera never got the memo for he was the most predictible being Prowl ever had the pleasure to meet. Then again, Tempera wasn't the standard breed of Cybercat either. Unlike Bracket and Scrounge, he belonged to a specific subset of the species, the AlnicoNeko. Whereas most Cybercat had smooth plating sometimes adorned with biolights patterns, AlnicoNeko held a closer resemblance to organic species -- at least in the sense where they had a 'coat', unlike other felinoid species of Cybertron. Their coat, however, wasn't really fur but an amalgamation of long, special optical fibers. Unlike other breeds biolights, the patterns they formed weren't fixed. Instead, they were completely customizable. For all the disdain or disgust organic species and organic look-alikes raised in Cybertronians, AlnicoNeko had become quite popular to own, especially for the wealthier members of society. It was probably the customization part, Prowl often thought. It certainly held a certain appeal, knowing you could make your pet completely unique-looking and change their looks as easily as you could change yours. People had come up with incredible patterns for their pets, creating intricate and unique masterpieces. It was particularly true of renowned artists such as Chromatron; Prowl remembered reading an interview where he had presented the dozen of AlicoNeko he had adopted and personally trimmed and decorated. As a result, each one of the artist's pets was rumored to be worth thousands hundreds of shanix.

Tempera wasn't worth that much. In fact, some would day he wasn't worth anything -- except to Prowl's Spark, that is.

"Hello, beautiful," he murmured, sitting gingerly on the edge of the berth, a smile tugging at his lips. As per his habit, Tempera had rolled himself into a fluffy-looking ball in the center of the berth, in between two cushions Prowl always let out for his pets' comfort. He must have been napping for a good part of the day and he would probably go back to recharge in short order, but he still lifted his head and purred when Prowl reached with a digit to stroke him under the chin. The Cybercat unfolded and rolled over, offering his belly for scratches and Prowl was happy to comply. "My, you're loud today; did you miss me?"

More purrs followed as he obediently gave the scratches the Cybercat awaited for. Tempera's three paws found themselves hitting or wrapping around Prowl's wrist in short order. "Is that an invitation to continue or to stop?" he chuckled before he lifted the ball of fluff and installed it comfortably on his lap, petting the Cybercat's back and head. Tempera handled it with good grace for a while before jumping out of Prowl's lap and to the floor, apparently deciding a tour of his 'kingdom' and socializing with his fellow Cybercats was now necessary. Prowl watched him trot away, apparently not hindered by the lack of his fourth paw.

Sometimes, Prowl thought he ought to bring Tempera to a vet to try and fix this lack of limb. But what could a vet do, really, when it wasn't a limb lost by accident but a natural occurrence? Prowl had researched the subject at length from the moment he had brought Tempera home after finding him locked in a back on the side of the road. As far as Prowl and the vet he had seen the first time could tell, Tempera had literally unfurled with a missing paw; there was no socket, no neural connector, no strut on which to work to try and rebuild him a limb, since he never had one to begin with. Operating him to try and add a fourth paw would only be long and a source of intense pain for the Cybercat since they would have to create everything from scratch -- and with no guarantee it would even fully work. Prowl loved Tempera too much to subject him to that. The final cost of the multiple surgeries the Cybercat would have to undertake was also worth a pause.

So in the end, Prowl had decided that doing nothing was probably for the best, but the idea still lingered in the back of his CPU from time to time whenever he saw Tempera having trouble following his four-legged friends in the apartment or jumping up a chair or the kitchen's counter.

Sighing, he allowed himself to lie on the berth in the place Tempera had previously occupied and shuttered his optics. He felt weary and tired and it was tempting to just slip into recharge now. But now wasn't the time, he reminded himself. He had a few things to work through first. With regret, he rose back to his feet and crossed the apartment to the door of the terrace, making sure none of the three Cybercats would be trying to follow him. "No, no, no," he chided Bracket; he had always been the most adventurous of the lot in spit of his small size. "That's not for Cybercats, Bracket," he repeated again, gently pushing the tiny lifeform away with his foot before slipping outside and making sure the door closed fully behind him.

Now, he had nothing against letting his trio of pets outside. He was, however, quite determinate in keeping them away from his greenhouse at every cost.

Asides of his Cybercats, the small greenhouse was Prowl's sole pride and joy and the main reason he was staying in Esserlon. He had build it himself after painstakingly getting the right authorizations not only for creating the structure but also to import most of the specimens kept inside -- organic specimens, especially imported from various allied planets. Getting them in the first place had been a colossal task in itself, given the inherent fear of anything organic shared by most of Prowl's fellow Autobots, but he had managed it in the end. His collection wasn't very big, since he had made a point of respecting the law and the embargos on organic products. Cybertron accepted various importations, but their nature and the quantities were limited by order of the Guild Domesticus. In the case of organic plants, the Ministry of Sciences and the Guilds Domesticus had to both agree they were harmless to mechanical beings before they granted an authorization. The list they had agreed on so far was very small to say the least and submitted to much debate on what was considered 'harmless' and what was considered 'unnecessary paranoia, it's just a non sentient plant for Primus' sake'.

Given their rarity and fragility, the greenhouse had had to be specifically tailored to their needs: oxygen for them to process, controlled temperatures and humidity, lamps for additional light, a water sprout in order to water them, pts filled with earth so their roots could grow,... The care of organic plants was tedious, but it gave Prowl a sense of fulfillment and serenity he didn't often get otherwise.

Quietly, he passed through the airlock, making sure it was working correctly and the precious reserves of oxygen weren't leaking out of the structure before entering the greenhouse proper and grabbing the nearest watering can. They had to be thirsty by now. Delicately, he versed a dose of water at the foot of each plant and took note of the state of the leaves, checking if they needed trimming. His fingers lightly probed the red-spotted leaves of a blue fern, caressed the silvery green foliage of a growing bush and plucked off the dead leaflet of a small, spiky shrub. He'd have to buy some liquid fertilizer soon, his reserves were low, Prowl noted as he put back the watering can and made a quick check up of the gardening tools and chemicals he regularly used. A few new, bigger pots would also be welcome; the Salustian bush was starting to become too big for his. Perhaps he should also free a space for a new specimen; the list of authorized plants was supposed to be amended soon and with any luck, there'd be one among the new entries Prowl could afford. Satisfied everything was in order, he checked the controls again, making sure the temperature would stay level for the next solar cycles before exiting through the airlock again.

Time for him to grab some fuel and relax before catching some much needed recharge. Perhaps the Cybercats would be up to some cuddling and he had an excellent novelto read. Well, supposedly excellent, he hadn’t had the chance to read more than the first two paragraphs yet. He needed to correct that.

Hopefully, after the chaos of the day, he’d be able to enjoy a quiet evening.

Chapter 19: Origins. Prowl 2

Chapter Text

Perhaps he should stop trying to tempt fate, Prowl thought with a heavy frown as he settled in front of the vidscreen, shooing away a meowing, distressed Bracket. Tempera, for his part, had hidden himself under the desk, hissing, and who knew where Scrounge had disappeared to.

And to think the evening had started so well!

A hot, steamy mug of oil and a few energon goodies had re-energized him to suitable levels. He had even felt good enough to work on a few katas before meditating for half a megacycle, something he hadn’t been able to do in a while. The Cybercats had kept climbing up on him all the while, crawling on his lap, rubbing against his thighs, jumping on his shoulder and purring in his audio receptors and getting progressively annoyed at their mech’s lack of reaction.

They hadn’t taken their claws out, but it had been a near thing – and to excuse himself for the ‘neglect’, Prowl had decided that a massive cuddling session was in order. He had ended up wrapping himself in a heat-regulating blanket, Scrounge and Tempera on his lap and Bracket hanging over his shoulder, a hand holding the datapad on which he had downloaded the novel he wished to read and the other, free one dispensing petting and scratches to the three Cybercats at regular interval. A classical tune he enjoyed had been playing on the radio he had set on a low volume to get a background noise while he read. From time to time, the music was interrupted by a commercial break he distractedly listened to in case it could be interesting, but he had no need to the latest polish on the market, wasn’t interest in buying vintage bottles of energon and had no reason to visit a beauty salon in Iacon.

All in one, it was shaping up like a very relaxing evening.

He had managed to read two whole chapters of the novel (which was, admittedly, not bad although he wasn’t convinced yet by the hinted developing romance between the two main characters, but perhaps he’d change his mind) when his comm. unit had buzzed, making him pause mid sentence. It hadn’t been a proper call, just a short warning an out-of-reach correspondent wished to speak with him. However, it was rare enough for him to take notice.

Then he had seen the sender’s ID and his Spark had sunk, knowing that the peaceful evening had come to an abrupt end.

Tempera was still hissing; Prowl getting up in a startle had upset him and the black and gold mech knew he'd have to make it up to his pet later. Extra petting was in order to calm down ruffled fibers.

But not now. Right, now he needed... he needed to return the call.

Slowly, he turned on the vidscreen and started to type the adress on the keyboard, face carefully blank as the signal went through the comm. channel and the video chat started. "Hello, Tap-Out," he said blandly.

The somber looking 'bot on the screen blinked briefly at him. "Ah. Prowl. I hadn't expected you to return the call so quickly," he said slowly. He didn't look particularly happy, but Prowl took no offense to it. He knew it was more or less Tap-Out's default mode since the end of the War and that it had nothing to do with Prowl himself. Unlike some of the other former students of Yoketron.

"I was free. I thought you'd want me to recontact you quickly anyway." Prowl vented slowly. He had a pretty good idea of why Tap-Out of all mechs was calling him. "I suppose it isn't a social call?" he asked nonetheless because perhaps he was wrong, perhaps Tap-Out just wanted a small, amiable chat. It had happened before, much to Prowl's bemusement; suffice to say, it had been awkward on both side because Tap-Out clearly wasn't at ease with small conversation unless you were a very, very close friend like the femme for whom he was currently playing bodyguard and Prowl himself was still surprised when anyone from the Cyber-Dojo considered calling him for something other than insults.

Tap-Out's sighs was all the confirmation Prowl needed. The black and gold mech leaned in his seat, squaring his shoulders. "You're right," Tap-Out confirmed quietly. "It wasn't. Still isn't. Sorry," he added like an afterthought after a klik of silence, shuffling uneasily. Prowl waved it off with a heavy sigh.

"It's alright. I hadn't expected otherwise," he half-lied. It would have been nice, of course, but Prowl knew better than to hope. Or at least he thought he did; he kept getting disappointed anyway. "... It's about the upcoming ceremony, isn't it?" His voice was barely more than a whisper and carried a lot of sadness. Tap-Out's gave a brief, jerky nod. His face was just as sad as Prowl but perhaps not for the same reasons.

"It is," he confirmed. "I'm sorry, Prowl, but... it's probably better if you don't come," Tap-Out finally said after a moment of hesitation.

Prowl's shoulders sagged. He had known already what Tap-Out was going to say, he had guessed already the moment he had seen the other mech's face, but it still hurt. "I see. Does Springer still oppose my presence?"

Tap-Out had a joyless smile. "Of course he does. But it's not just him, you know; Star Saber and Devcon have been pretty vocal about it too. And the others..." he hesitated, optics dimming. "Dai Atlas wouldn't mind if you came, I'm sure he wouldn't, but..."

"He wouldn't be enough to stop the others to start something if they get drunk again," Prowl sighed, passing a hand in front of his optics as he remembered prior incidents.

Tap-Out gave a helpless shrug. "He's strong, but a brawl between Cyber-Ninja Corps members in the middle of the street is the last thing Iacon needs.” Especially given how difficult it was to properly rebuild the Cyber-Dojo and the Corps already, Prowl thought cynically. They couldn’t afford to get bad press. Tap-Out probably didn’t think along those lines, though; he was probably more worried about bystanders being caught in the crossfire, something Prowl could sympathize and worry about as well. “The others may pretend not to mind your presence, but after what happened last vorn..." he trailed off, optics lost in the vague as he dealt with his own recollection of the incident. "Let's just say I'm not sure I still trust Roadhandler's reactions once he has downed a few cocktails."

Prowl's lips tugged vaguely upward. "I don't think I do either. He had a mean right hook," he caressed the side of his face, remembering how his optic had shattered under the blow. He had needed to replace it entirely, and that was without counting the added surgery to repair the heavily dented plating and torn circuitry. He hadn't even seen the fist aiming for him, too busy as he had been arguing with a passably drunk Motorarm who had been looming over him and throwing... unjust accusations at him. One moment he had been upright, the next he knew he was leaning heavily against the counter, limbs sprawled, the shards of the cube he had been holding cutting in his digits' joint and the content dripping on his chassis and on the ground, feeling dizzy and his right optic spitting statics.

He had been too stunned to feel the pain at first. It had settled in gradually as he realized what had happened. Then and only then he had cried out.

What had stung him the most, however, was how everyone had just stared... and no one had made a gesture to help him. Not a single one of the mechs whom, if events hadn't turned so tragic, if Master Yoketron had still been alive, would have become Prowl's siblings-at-arm. Then someone had broken a bottle and a real fight had broken out among the patrons and Prowl had stayed there, world spinning around him as he tried to avoid getting struck again. He hadn't been entirely successful.

More pupils of Master Yoketron had been there; Springer, Devcon, Star Upper, Motorarm, Grandus... and none of them had cared about Prowl. Some had crowded around Roadhandler to calm him down, but no one at rushed at Prowl to make sure he was alright.

No one but Tap-Out, who had been outside and came back in a rush when the commotion had started, and Dai Atlas, who had been late joining them to the bar and upon his arrival, stepped in and called the Autotroopers to take testimonies and arrest the brawlers, which had included Roadhandler for throwing the first blow... and Prowl himself for having somehow 'started the fight'. It hadn’t lasted long, thankfully, since he had quickly been cleared of the charges and sent to the nearest hospital to get examined, but he had still been arrested – and his record had gotten a new entry he hadn’t needed.

Technically, none of it had been Dai Atlas' fault, Prowl knew it; the Autotroopers had just been doing their job, and their job was to arrest everyone who looked vaguely suspect, but Prowl had seen the optics of Ultra Magnus' former right-hand mech as they picked him up and slapped a pair of stasis-cufs on him, and they had held nothing but disgust.

(Perhaps it had just been because of the messy situation; perhaps it had been something deeper. Perhaps it had nothing to do with Prowl after all. Perhaps. Dai Atlas wasn’t telling and Prowl… Prowl had long since stopped to ask for answers.)

Dai Atlas could pretend he had nothing against Prowl and even be perfectly civil with him, pretend he didn't mind if he came to the ceremonies, but Prowl would never forget those optics. He had made a point of avoiding all of Yoketron's former pupils after that, except if they sought him out first, a rare happenstance if there was one.

Tap-Out looked grim at the reminder of Roadhandler mighty punch. "He never should have done that. You had done nothing wrong."

"Asides of being here, you mean?" Prowl commented, shuttering his optics. "Perhaps he was in the right to do it. I let Master Yoketron die, after all.” The words tasted bitter and made him want to gag; saying them was harder than hearing them from others.

Tap-Out stiffened, optics flashing. “I really wish,” he said coldly, “that’d you stop saying that. We talked about it before Prowl. No matter what they think, it wasn’t YOUR fault and there was nothing you could have done.”

Prowl’s face had become blank again. “If I had been there…”

“You probably would have died too,” Tap-Out replied bluntly. “If someone was able to deal Master Yoketron a fatal blow, he would have used a half-trained disciple as a chew-toy. You were lucky that day, Prowl.”

“That’s not how it feels for me – and it’s not what the others think,” Prowl shook his head. He jerked when, deciding enough was enough, Scrounge jumped on his lap and started to meow angrily for attention, sparring the screen a disinterested look. “Not now, Scrounge,” Prowl muttered, but he didn’t make the Cybercat leave. The small weight was actually a welcome distraction from the slide his thoughts were taking.

“They’re idiots,” Tap-Out said. His face had softened slightly. “Prowl, you know you weren’t responsible, right?”

“… I know I’m not according to the authorities,” Prowl answered after a moment, avoiding looking at the vidscreen. It didn’t stop him from hearing Tap-Out deep vent of frustration.

“According to the authorities and according to common sense, Prowl. You’re not guilty! What else do you -- or they – need?”

Tap-Out was a good ‘bot, Prowl mused as he distracted himself by petting Scrounge. Perhaps, if he had gotten more people like him on his side when the whole mess had started…

But there hadn’t been. The whole Cyber-Ninja Corps had been out on the frontlines or in support positions and none of them had met Prowl before the Elite Guard had told them Yoketron’s latest pupil had been arrested on suspicions of murdering the Sensei. There had been no one who could testify that Prowl would never had harmed Yoketron, no one to defend him against the questions of the Guard and the Autotroopers or the rough-housing of the TransTech Division. When Prowl had had the occasion to finally meet his fellow Cyber-Ninja – or at least, most of them, for there were still a few he had never seen at all – they had already forged themselves an opinion on him, and that opinion had been mostly negative.

And negative it had stayed, even after he had been cleared of any involvement.

Without those cameras which had caught him at the spaceports at the same time someone had broken in the Cyber-Dojo to steal the protoforms and kill the Sensei, Prowl would have probably ended in the Stockades.

Sometimes, he wondered if it wouldn’t have been a better outcome.

Officially cleared or not, the fact he had been a prime suspect in the case of Yoketron’s murder was still on his record. From times to times, he still received the visit of a TransTech Division Detective who was reviewing the case, asking him questions for which he had no answers to give in the hope of obtaining a new lead – or perhaps to catch him off guard and make him confess he had something to do with it, after all.

How extremely convenient that Prowl had come back from his ‘optics quest’ right on the day his teacher was murdered, after all.

Besides, Prowl was a known draft-dodger, it was also in his record and another source of disdain and suspicion for many ‘bots. A mech who had shied away from his duty, who had never fought in the War when so many others had not hesitated to make the ultimate sacrifice… Suffice to say, it hadn’t helped his case, especially when Elite Guard member Warpath had testified Prowl hadn’t taken well to being brought to the Cyber-Dojo the first time around.

Who knew what kind of resentment may have lurked in that black and gold mech’s Spark?

Prowl had heard it all, sitting still and quiet in the courtroom, just staring ahead without seeing while his lawyer argued there was no definite proof of guilt, that Yoketron had written proud messages about his latest pupils to his former disciples, that Prowl had been away from Cybertron for so long he couldn’t have been part of a plot against Yoketron or the protoforms, that the security cameras had confirmed he wasn’t at the Dojo when the alarm had started to blare at Fortress Maximus…

Prowl had been past caring about what would happen to him by then. It was only later, after he was finally released, that he had realized how changed his world now was.

Cleared or not, he had been ordered not to leave Cybertron for several thousand stellar cycles while the investigation into the Sensei’s death continued. He had been asked not to come back to the Cyber-Dojo, not even to pick his remaining things. It was Tap-Out, quiet, very affected by the War Tap-Out, who had gone in his stead and brought back everything left in one piece. Prowl had never asked, but he suspected his room had been thrashed not by the mysterious assassin but by an angry and grieving Cyber-Ninja.

It drove home how little support he would ever receive from those who should have been his friends, long before Prowl tried to attend the first ceremony organized in memory of Master Yoketron and had gotten rebuffed at the door for his trouble.
Nobody had hit him that day, but… In a way, it had been worse, not being able to enter the Temple and leave a present on the altar and recite a prayer with the others. Being excluded from the mourning they were all sharing.

Prowl had continued to come to almost every ceremony anyway. Most of the time, he went in long after the others to avoid trouble. Others… others he tried to join in and they let him for a reason or another, usually because the most vocal mechs weren’t present.

Even if they had come to understand Prowl wasn’t directly involved in the Sensei’s death, they were still a fair share to estimate Yoketron’s death was still on Prowl’s hands. If Prowl had been at the Cyber-Dojo and not on that optics quest because he had failed in learning a technique, then he could have protected the Master or helped him fend off the attackers. He could have protected the protoforms, thus accomplishing his duty to Cybertron. Master Yoketron might not have died. The universe would have been a better place.

It was mostly irrational thinking; Tap-Out was in the right when he was pretending Prowl’s presence would have made no difference asides of perhaps adding another deactivated frame to desecration of their holy place but few were willing to acknowledge it.

‘You should have died instead of the Sensei!’

Prowl… Prowl often felt like they were in the right when they said that.

“I won’t come to the ceremony this year,” Prowl finally said, realizing he had been silent too long. Tap-Out looked both pained and relieved at the confirmation; he might want and defend Prowl, but who could blame him for wanting a ceremony free of the tension the black and gold mech inevitably caused by his presence alone. “… would you mind if I still sent an offering?”

“Of course not,” Tap-Out said with a sad smile. “I’d be happy to put it on the altar for you. You have my address, right? I’ll be waiting for it then,” he added when Prowl nodded. For a moment, he looked thorn, probably not knowing how to end the discussion. “… How is your job going?” he finally fumbled.

“… Not bad. I’m still translating reports,” Prowl replied.

“Oh. It’s, it’s interesting?”

“Sometimes,” Prowl gave a nod. “Learning Destron was certainly a life-saver.”

Tap-Out’s lips tugged upward briefly. “I guess it was. Good language. It always was… interesting to learn.”

They shared a look through their respective screens.

Unsaid went the fact Prowl only knew Destron because Yoketron had taught him himself, like he had taught many of his pupuls. And unsaid went also the fact Prowl only worked as a translator because he couldn’t find another job. With the investigation underway, his record couldn’t be purged, thus closing him many doors when it came to job opportunities. Anything to do with the Elite Guard or the Autobot military was out of the question, as well as anything to do with Judicial.

Technically and despite what he had said Cordon and other Enforcers, Prowl wasn’t fully certain it was legal for him to translate old police records. The company for which he worked pretended it wasn’t and most of the Detectives didn’t have a problem with him. But then again, did they have a choice about hiring him? There weren’t many mechs out of there who spoke Destron and Old Destron out there, as it had fallen out of favor a long time ago, and the Archives and databases needed to recover what may have been lost during the War thank to the bombings.

Yoketron had loved speaking Destron and had loved teaching it to his pupils if they demanded to learn, like Prowl, like Tap-Out, like perhaps half a dozen of other ‘bots out there.

Prowl finally broke the gaze and turned his head away, coughing into his fist to mask his trouble. Tap-Out had made an effort to ask about his life, he should return the favor. That was the polite thing to do, was it not? "You, ah, still work with that archeometrist?" he asked, remembering the little femme's job.

Tap-Out blinked. "Glyph? Well, yes. Although, I don't exactly work with her. I just... hang around her lab a lot," he mumbled. "And around a lot of other labs too. Bodyguarding and all that, you know."

Meaning, he had a crush on that 'Glyph' archeometrist but didn't want everybody to know about it, Prowl mentally translated. It almost made him smile. Almost. On one hand, it was nice to know Tap-Out was moving on from his own trauma -- Master Yoketron had sometimes shared his worries over his disciples with his latest pupil and Prowl had committed them to memory. Most of it was now useless, but in Tap-Out's case, it wasn't. Yoketron had often described him as a gentle Spark which the War would scar. How right the Master had been...

Perhaps it was the reason that Tap-Out had sided with Prowl since the beginning, he sometimes mused. It sometimes took a shell-shocked 'bot to recognize another and while Prowl had never lived through the same horrors as his fellow Cyber-Ninjas (something which, in retrospect, probably didn't endear him to them, as he had never fought and bled for Cybertron like they did on top of 'letting' Sensei getting killed), Yoketron's death had deeply affected him nonetheless. The old mech had changed his life and turned it around, giving him a purpose and for the first time in his life, the impression of being part of something bigger than him. If Master Yoketron hadn't died...

Had Tap-Out sensed it? Prowl had never asked and didn't think he'd ever be able to. Some things, he had decided a long time ago, weren't just meant to be shared.

Tap-Out had come out of the War as an emotional and physical wreck. He had asked for a frame transfer almost as soon as the resources had been gathered. He had left the military and official work for the Cyber-Ninja Corps, like many others, though he had remained in the field of body guarding civilians -- and never once had he used his fists to do it, which was a surprise given he was a boxer. Once, he may have been on the edge of the abyss. Now... now Prowl would say Tap-Out was doing well with himself. Having friends, a crush on what sounded like a nice femme from the little he had accepted to share, a steady job were doing wonders for him, even at a slow pace. Master Yoketron would be proud of him.

He... probably wouldn't be as proud of Prowl, though.

Because, on the other hand... Tap-Out was moving on, but Prowl himself wasn't able to do it. What was his life? Working on a job he didn't especially like, with no friends, just a few pets and plants to fill the void in his life, barred from becoming close to those who should have been there for him? How was it a life he could take pride in?

Was it even worth it?

"Prowl? For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Tap-Out said, forcing Prowl to focus back on him.

"I know," he sighed. "I'm sorry too." Sorry of being such a problem.

"... Will you be alright?" Tap-Out asked hesitantly. "I know how much it counted for you..."

Prowl forced himself to smile. Celebrating Master Yoketron's teachings and his life would always count for him, no matter how much time passed. Being forbidden to attend was a blow that would never soften, but it wasn't Tap-Out's fault and he was unwilling to further burden the other mech."Of course I'll be fine -- and it counts for you too, doesn't it? I understand that… peace is necessary,” he articulated with difficulty. “I was supposed to be off that day either way; I guess that instead of commuting to Iacon, I'll use it to... clear up the apartment," he added, looking around, lips twitching as he took in the gathering dust on his shelves. Since when didn't he clean up? "I had been meaning to do it since a while anyway. Don't you worry about me, Tap-Out," he repeated.

"I'm not making any promise," the green mech replied, optics flashing briefly. "Take care of yourself, Prowl. I'll... call you soon?"

"Yes," Prowl nodded. "Soon."

Though 'soon' probably wouldn't be for a while. Prowl ended the communication and leaned in his seat, optics shuttered. Scrounge was pressing against his belly, a warm ball of active systems and twitchy EM field as he tried to appease his 'pack mate' the best he could, sending little bursts of his own field at him, probing, 'asking' for what was wrong. Tempera had stopped hissing and was now meowing questioningly against his foot. Bracket had disappeared Primus knew all and there were good chances he wouldn't find him until he heard something fall and break on the floor. Prowl absentmindedly petted Scrounge to reassure the Cybercat, earning himself several licks on his hand.

"And now what?" he asked aloud, expecting no answer.

What indeed.

Chapter 20: Origins. Prowl 3

Summary:

While clearing his appartment, Prowl finds a few objects he had forgotten about or thought lost.

And the rest? The rest is history.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Primus Almighty, why did I even keep that?” Prowl asked aloud, raising up the badly chipped glass figurine to his face and peering at it intently. It looked vaguely like a Technohawk in flight, one of its wings broken near the basis and the other littered with tiny cracks. Prowl couldn’t remember ever buying it so that must have been an old acquisition, one he had simply kept around and picked up on habit when he had had to clear his quarters at the Cyber-Dojo. The broken parts could be explained by the Enforcers just sweeping through his possessions back when they had been searching for proofs of his guilt in Yoketron’s death…

But Prowl had the sneaky feeling there was a more recent and far closer reason for the chipped figurine. Lowering his head, he gave a stern gaze at Bracket, who was sitting in front of him, optics bright and tail sweeping the floor. “Why do I get the feeling you got somewhere you shouldn’t have -- again?” he asked dryly. Bracket just meowed happily, which Prowl took as a confirmation.

It wouldn’t be the first time one of the Cybercats decided that climbing the shelves was great fun and pushed something out of alignment and on the floor. Most of the time, Prowl was forced to admit, he was too tired to care, his CPU almost on auto-pilot. He just picked it back up without looking at what it was and put it back in its place unless it was truly in pieces, in which case he picked up the shards and cleaned up the mess and gave a stern talking-to to his pets.

Or at least, he thought he gave them stern talking-to; the Cybercats most likely didn’t understand or care.

Prowl looked back up and let his optics wander over the rows of little baubles and trinkets he had gathered over the stellar cycles, lips curled downward. Primus, how many were in the same state?

When he had said to Tap-Out he needed to clear up his apartment, he hadn’t been lying per say – but he had not expected it to be so true either. To avoid thinking about the remembrance ceremony he was missing, he had thrown himself into anything that could occupy his hands and mind to the fullest. He had already spent part of his solar cycle cleaning up the place, sweeping the floor were the tiny cleaning drone hadn’t already passed, dusting the tables and consoles and chairs, washing the linens he normally used to fill the Cybercats’ baskets for comfort and fixing up small issues he had noted but hadn’t found the willpower to work through before such as a leaking pipe in the washracks or the blinking light bulb in the closet.

Now he was going through the shelves in the living room and suffices to say, he wasn’t impressed by himself and by his pets.

“I really need to find a way to stop you from climbing up the walls or jumping on the shelves,” Prowl muttered shooing Bracket away with a tap of his foot, making the indignant Cybercat run away with an angry meow. “Bad kitty!” he called after him, but his Spark wasn’t in it.

Sighing, he took a last look at the possibly-a-Technohawk figurine, judged it irreparable and threw it in the trash bin where many other damaged trinkets were bound to follow. Truth to be told, he couldn’t remember most of them and when or why he had picked them. Very few held any kind of strong sentimental value and those he had always kept under key in a locked showcase in his room even before he had picked up the three little sweet terror he called his pets.

They were just gathering dust anyway, Prowl told himself as he rummaged through the shelves and picked one trinket after another and examined them for damages, possible salvaging or throwing out. A purple Turbofox missing its tail joined the Technohawk, as well as a half-melted meditation candle, a cracked pink and red crystal globe, a tiny chipped vase, a couple of Dexi-squirrels which may have once been part of a bigger, matched set,… He didn’t count them. He kept the less damaged ones and the prettiest ones, such as a delicate crystalline flower’s imitation with sparkling petals and the figurine of a green crystal lilleth perched on a branch, break open as if singing. That one, he could clearly remember as a gift from Master Yoketron and he felt ashamed for having forgotten about it until now. He’d put it in the showcase once he had properly cleaned it, Prowl swore to himself.

The sorting took a while but he found it easy. He still raised an optic ridge when finding energon goodies wrappers which he was certain he had never, ever put there; obviously, the shelves had also been a ‘treasure hiding place’ for Bracket, Scrounge and Tempera, something he confirmed when he found a few old, discarded toys which had been gathering the dust.

“Why do they love to play with wrappers so much, I have no idea,” he mumbled to himself, throwing them all out, though he let a squeaky Zap-mouse shaped toy on the shelf, knowing it had once been a favorite of Tempera and that the crippled Cybercat would certainly be happy to get it back. He grimaced at the amount of dust on his fingers, wiping them down on a disinfectant-soaked cloth before grabbing the duster and passing it mercilessly around.

He frowned a bit as he tried to pass it on the highest shelf, feeling it hit items he hadn’t seen from his position – the shelf stood well above his helm and he was forced to reach up with his arms in order to put or take something. Since it was large, he had probably accidentally pushed something against the wall at some point. Him, or perhaps the Cybercats.

Carefully, he maneuvered the duster to push those items toward the edge of the shelf, ready to grab or catch them if they accidentally fell. Thankfully, those weren’t fragile things. A rubber ball that must have belonged to Scrounge, an old collar he had made Tempera wear to protect him from cyber-ticks, a Praxian ragdoll (what in the Pit was it doing here?),…

A data-holder cube, so dirty with dust you couldn’t see its original color anymore.

Prowl froze.

“What…?” he murmured, reaching for the cube and gingerly holding it between two spread digits, mindful of the filth? He turned it around, mouth dropping slightly open as he recognized the item. But surely it was impossible; he couldn’t remember seeing it since… well, before the War had started, come to think. “No? I still had it?” he murmured as recognition settled int. “I thought for sure I had lost it…”

Carefully, he used the duster and the soaked cloth to wash away the grim, Spark beating a little faster as the cube took back its original coloration and he started to see the tiny glyphs carefully etched on one side.

‘Seiberutopia Online.’

“Well, talk about a collector item,” Prowl murmured, holding the now clean cube for closer inspection. It was exactly the same as in his memories. One of the first data-holders for S.T.O., from back when it was still only called Seiberutopia Online. Back when Prowl still played video games to pass time, like many of his batchmates.

He could still remember jacking in and connecting to the game for the first time, the dizzying sensation, the first moments of awkwardness before he realized his body followed near exactly the moves he was thinking about bar a slight lag which had been featured on the first version of the game…

Prowl had genuinely enjoyed the game back then. Then the War had happened and Snowstorm Entertainment had closed down the servers and Prowl had had bigger worries to face in his everyday life than a video game. Bombings, conscription, dodging Enforcers when the authorities had realized he had no intention to become cannon fodder for a war he didn’t feel himself concerned with and thought unfair, living on the run, getting eventually caught… and brought to Master Yoketron.

After that, his time had been fully taken by training to become a Cyber-Ninja and there had been little time to think of anything else.

Prowl hadn’t taken the useless cube while on the run so his surprise at seeing it was genuine. When he had arrived at the Dojo, his stuff had already been there, hurriedly packed in a couple of boxes – Autotroopers had collected everything for clues on where he had decided to run, then packed everything because Prowl’s landlord had had no interest in keeping them for his fugitive tenant’s eventual return.

Prowl could remember unpacking it in part, but he hadn’t seen the cube back then. Perhaps it had been in the part he hadn’t foraged through back then, he thought. When Prowl had gone on his optics quest, he had only took the bare necessities with him, letting the rest in his Dojo-assigned quarters, knowing Master Yoketron would see that nothing happened to them. When Prowl had later been charged with the murder of the Sensei, the Autotroopers had taken everything away again and he had only gotten all of it back several decacycles after finally been found not guilty and released. Back then, he had been too disoriented to really care about the boxes. He had been scrambling to find a place to live in, a job,…

When he had moved in Esserlon, it had been fast. He could remember emptying boxes in a hurry, haphazardly putting things on shelves and putting a berth, a table, a couple of chairs together so he had the essentials down and not feeling too crowded by the boxes. He hadn’t really paid attention to what he emptied and where he put them.

He had probably shoved the cube on the top shelf himself without realizing, Prowl thought as he sat heavily in the couch, the cube cradled in his hand, just moving his hand away when a suspicious Tempera, who had been curled on the same couch, got curious and started to sniff at the cube suspiciously. “It’s not for you,” Prowl tutted, Tempera meowing plaintively before deciding that he didn’t care after all and curled back into a fluffy ball, licking one of his paws before his head disappeared somewhere in his artificial fur.

Seiberutopia Online…

He hadn’t thought about it in a long, long while, as curious as it was. Sure, ads for the game kept filling the commercial breaks between programs and Prowl had even heard a few of his coworkers discussing the game, but somehow it had slide over him like water on a Dynamoduck.

Now though…

Carefully, he pushed the discreet transformation seams of the cube, watching with a weird sense of trepidation as it transformed into a simplistic visor. Was it even still working? The game had gone through many different upgrades since its first iteration; it even had a new name now! In all logic, the connectors had to be dead; they wouldn’t be able to work with the newer version…

And still, Prowl started to hook up the visor on himself. He was just curious, he kept repeating to himself. Carefully as to not bother Tempera, he curled himself on the couch, legs just next to his Cybercat and head propped against the arm of the couch.
He waited for the pixels to fill his vision but… nothing. Sighing, Prowl got ready to disconnect. He had been right after all, it was too old to work…

::Welcome on Seiberutopia Tales Online!:: a cheery voice made him pause as his vision filled with a download bar. ::Please, wait for the systems to finish downloading the necessary upgrades before you disconnect.::

“So it’s working after all,” Prowl muttered, surprised. He really hadn’t expected it to be so simple. His Spark gave a weird twinge. Did he really want to play?

He… didn’t know. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to play such a game. Overtime, it had started to sound terribly childish. He had even said so to Yoketron… only to discover that the old mech had also been a player of the original version himself.

”But Master, I thought we shouldn’t concern ourselves with material possessions and try to reach enlightment?”

“And we do, Prowl. But sometimes, everybot needs a break, a way to take their mind off their problems. And why not a video game? So long you don’t spend your whole life on it, that is.”

Playing with Master Yoketron… Prowl’s lips twitched. Now, that would have been something.

The download bar filled slowly. 15%, 18%, 22%,… Prowl just stayed still and quiet as he waited, almost slipping in recharge as he did so and only avoiding it due to the beeping signaling the download was done.

::Thank you for waiting!:: the AI voice called out. :Your account is now linked up with the newest version of the game. Unfortunately, the connection material you’re using is now obsolete. Please, exchange it against a newer version in one of our official store! The exchange is completely free! We at Snowstorm Entertainment would be happy to greet you back on our servers! Have a nice day!::

Prowl unhooked the visor and looked down at it with a frown. Well, that was anti-climatic but not entirely surprising. He turned the visor again and again in his hands, mind wandering. Should he exchange it at the store as the AI suggested? He had no real need to play…

But sometimes, everybot needs a break, a way to take their mind off their problems. And why not a video game?

Yoketron’s voice reasoned in his head. Perhaps… Perhaps he should listen to the deceased mech’s advice. The Sensei’s words had always been sensible and full of truth. And Prowl had to admit his life was not a fun one…

“After all, I could do with a break,” Prowl muttered to himself.

*-*-*-*-*-*

::Welcome to Seiberutopia Tales Online, Rogue Prowl! We are happy to see you again. Please note that Seiberutopia Tales Online has changed a lot since your last visit, be it in its landscapes or in its commands. A tutorial is at your disposition in the beginner zones should you wish to reacquaint yourself with the controls. If you encounter any difficulties, please do not hesitate in referring yourself to the Help menu or send a Private Messages to the moderators for explanations. Have a nice game!::

“Do they truly have to make that voice so damn cheerful?” Prowl muttered to himself as he took the teleporter. He had nothing against cheer and politeness, but the voice of the AI sounded like it was overdoing it and somehow, it grated on his CPU.

Perhaps it was just the nervousness. He still wasn’t sure he was taking the right decision, after all.

Sure, he had exchanged his old data-holder against a more recent version a decacycle ago, but it was his first connection since then. The first time he’d be playing a video game in thousands of stellar cycles.

And his last experience in S.T.O. hadn’t been that great, now that he thought about it.

Sure, Prowl had liked the game well-enough. It had been fun, pretty, colorful and he had spent many megacycles just crouched in the vegetation, observing the most peaceful creatures of the game or the various organic-style plants the game conceptors had included. They were all real, from what he had read, though they shouldn’t and couldn’t really cohabit like the game hinted at. The same went to the mechanimals, some of them since long extinct in the wild. They still held a certain level of real behavioral attitudes observed in the real specimens, something Prowl had found utterly fascinating when he had first heard of it.

In a way, he had spent more time just lying around than playing but that had been alright with him. It had been part of what he had liked so much in Seiberutopia Online.

He could have done without the prejudices of the other players, though.

Prowl flexed his fingers and made a few moves to test his reflexes as he materialized on the map. No lagging, much to his relief. He let his gaze wander around, the map informing him he was somewhere called ‘Vale of Physis Light’. The name didn’t ring a bell so he assumed it was one of the newest regions which hadn’t existed the first time he had played.

“I hope it’s worth it,” he murmured, letting himself engage the ‘Stealth’ command – an old reflex he had never managed to overcome, it seemed. Good to know the command still existed, though apparently it was weaker than it once was; as he checked himself, Prowl noticed he hadn’t become invisible but merely transparent and he raised an optic ridge. “I think I’ll have to check a few things.”

Calmly, he opened his menu and checked his character’s status.

Prowl LV. 13

[CLASS] Rogue
[JOB] Leatherworker LV. 4
[STR] 10
[DEF] 8
[VIT] 8
[SPD] 9
[AGI] 13
[DEX] 13
[INT] 7
[WIS] 7
[LUC] 7

Exactly like in his memories, he thought briefly before closing down the window and, after checking the map, started to walk in the direction of an outpost which apparently held the tutorial he had heard about and a few quests he could pick afterward. As he did so, he gave the monsters a wide berth; while Stealth was supposed to muffle his presence, he didn’t want to risk getting it wrong so long he wasn’t properly reintroduced with the fight commands. Mechanimals, he could pass by without making them twitch though, and even took a pause to watch a Dyoptase-Doe followed by her fawn cross the road before him.

That was why he had chosen Rogue back then, Prowl remembered. The ability to progress unnoticed and observe to his Spark’s content without spooking the creatures he wanted to see or getting the monsters run at him the moment he entered the edge of their perception.

It had been enjoyable… up to the moment people had started to become strangely disdainful, suspicious and aggressive toward Rogue players.

A symptom of the upcoming War, Prowl realized now sufficient time had passed. Back then, Rogue had been a popular class to play for the leaner warframes and also a class for people who had no compulsion against Player Killing. Stealth gave people an unfair advantage during duels, allowing them to disappear from sight and stab you in the back when you expected it the least (and in retrospect, Prowl realized it was no wonder they had toned down Stealth after all).

And so, a few individuals had managed to totally taint the reputation of the whole class to the point every Rogue in the game had started to get harassed.

Including Prowl himself, who had never participated in a duel.

He could still remember the angry discussions on comm. channels, the looming, aggressive players following him around when he entered a town, checking what he was up to…

It had spoiled his fun rather quickly, but Prowl had still continued to play, up until the servers were closed down. He had just made a point of hanging in spots not densely populated by other players and sells his goods to wandering merchants rather than in the Auction Houses. That meant he wasn’t drowning in coins, but he thought he had a respectable sum all the same… Unless they had changed the value system?

Damn, there was so much he was still ignoring about the new version of the game; he should have done more reading before he connected…

“That tutorial is going to be very useful after all,” he said aloud as he came in view of the outpost and the name ‘Luminex Hill’ appeared on the map. It wasn’t much, a simple fence of white and golden logs above which you could see the top of a stone tower. Two NPC guards were standing at attention on each side of the door and a couple more could be seen patrolling at random from the top of the hill to the edge of a wood.

Carefully, Prowl dropped the Stealth mode and looked around, searching for the tutorial quest givers. Nothing outside, just a few targets and dummies for target practice, more guards NPC, what looked like a merchant he’d took note of speaking to later on, but no one with a quest glyph over their helm.

“Perhaps inside the tower…?”

He walked in, looking quickly through the first floor’s rooms without meeting any – though he did find a small library with books to open. “Ah, of course; scattered lore information. Good to know they kept it,” Prowl smiled to himself as he grabbed the nearest book and opened it. The game creators had always loved to develop the universe of Seiberutopia further and further. Part of it was built up in the quest lines as you wandered through a zone, part of it in talking with the NPCs to learn more about themselves and the world at large, and part of it in dusty books like those ones, which could give interesting tidbits.

”A spirit is said to haunt the Vale of Physis Light. Travelers had sworn up and down they had seen him walking around the Miera Pond at twilight…”

“On the night of Solus’ Forging, strange lights can be seen in the darkest parts of the Everfree Woods…”

Prowl hummed as he read. Obviously, those were hints for potential quests, some of them perhaps linked to seasonal events since Solus’ Forging was mentioned. That said, they were probably for higher-level players so he’d have to tread carefully there.
Other volumes he consulted on the sly were full of similar tidbits. Another few, however, mentioned class evolutions, which Prowl looked at with more attention. Class evolution had been very basic when he had played S.T.O. the first time around. Rogue had been an evolution for the Scout, opposing the more peaceful Wanderer, but many classes hadn’t had evolutions yet.

To tame the beasts, a Hunter needs to have a Good Lure…”

“It is said a gunner can either learn to use big guns and cannons or learn to shoot from a longer distance with a rifle…”

“If a Sage learns to listen to the nature and harness its fury, then the Spirits will reward him with their blessing and allow him to walk the path of the Shaman. But listening to nature isn’t so simple if you can’t hear the Whisper of the Trees…”

“A Rogue might be stealthy, but the Ninja can Vanish and be nearly invisible…”

Prowl stopped in his reading, staring long and hard at the line. “Ninja?” he said aloud. “Since when did they add Ninja?” And if he was reading right between the lines, the Ninja was an evolution of the Rogue, too. Actually, if the Vanish skill rendered the user invisible, then it probably acted like the old version of Stealth from Seiberutopia Online.

That was… interesting.

Prowl stroked his chin in contemplation. Honestly, he was already missing the Stealth technique of old. Sure, he hadn’t had the time to really use the modern iteration yet but it didn’t seem nearly as interesting as it once was. Prowl had liked the total invisibility in order to be unnoticed by everyone, people and mechanimals and monsters alike. Exploration was so much easier when you could do it discreetly…

And while he technically wanted to play to forget about his everyday life’s troubles and, perhaps, meet nicer mechs than those he saw at work, Prowl wasn’t certain he was ready to just… mingle with people just yet. Not unless it was on his terms, at a pace he felt confident about.

Plus… Ninja. It was an attractive word, especially for him. Prowl couldn’t pretend about being a Cyber-Ninja, for he hadn’t finished his training with Yoketron and no one in what was left of the Cyber-Dojo had been willing to grant him the title, even now.
If he couldn’t be a Cyber-Ninja in the real world, perhaps it’d be a comfort to be a Ninja in a virtual world…

Shaking his head, Prowl read further. “A Rogue might be stealthy, but the Ninja can Vanish and be nearly invisible. Furthermore, his Accuracy is deadly with knives and some people swear up and down they can teleport but of course, it’s just a rumor. What is certain is that the Ninja is a secretive individual who don’t readily confide their secrets, writing them down on Scrolls they hide away in unreachable parts.”

“Isn’t that informative,” he said dryly as he closed the book and put it back on the shelf he had found it on.

So, he needed to find one or several scroll as the ‘unique’ item allowing him to change class, but there was no clue as to where he could and would find one. Lovely.

He crossed his arms over his chest and started to pace the length of the room. Slowly, he started to smile. “Well, well, well… I suppose a lot of exploration is going to be in order.”

And he was always ‘game’ for exploration.

But first, he had some remedial training to take; it was high time to finish exploring that tower and find those tutorial quests.

“Let’s get dangerous,” Prowl smiled to himself.

And for once, it was a genuine smile.

End of 'Origins'

Notes:

And that's it. The end of the first part in the 'Seiberutopia Takes Online' universe, which turned into a massive project which I used for two consecutive Nano -- and could easily use for more given all the notes I took for various stories. Suffice to say, I really invested myself in it, and I'm glad for any feedback I received in turn. Thank you to all readers, and to all who left comments and kudos.

But as you can guess, it's far from over!

The Team is now online; now they have to meet. Will it happen smoothly, or will there be a few hiccups down the road?

You'll know it soon, in the next 'Seiberutopia Tales Online' part:

 

Pax Hunters, Assemble!

Series this work belongs to: