Chapter Text
All characters belong to their original creators. Only the writing itself is mine.
“Blah” = Spoken dialogue
::Blah:: = Comm lines
“Blah” = Telepathy
Blah = Private thoughts
~Blah~ = Bonded talk
//Blah// = Sign Language
ASYLUM C24
“Don’tseemedon’tseemedon’tseemedon’t…” The whisper was a continuous background hum to the rapid pitter-patter of Wildrider’s pedes. Breakdown knelt in a corner, legs scrunched and body folded over them. He rocked in a pitiful attempt at self-comfort.
“Shut up, Breaky! Do ya want ‘em t’ kill us!?” Wildrider spun around, leaving a shallow gouge in the cell floor.
“They’ll do it anyway,” said Dead End. The red and grey mech didn’t budge from his seat in the rear corner furthest from Breakdown.
Breakdown let out a shrill whine that shook with barely-contained sobs. His two functioning gestaltmates made no motion to comfort him; Wildrider instead continued his frantic pacing.
Ironhide rustled his armor, uncomfortable at the distressingly sparkling like sounds Breakdown was making. Decepticons weren’t known for their cuddling, but he’d expected one of the other two Stunticons to make some attempt at soothing the blue mech. The Command trine’s interactions were starting to look like the exception, not the rule, among bonded ‘cons.
“What’s yer problem?” Wildrider spun to face the Weapons Specialist. His plating bristled and twitched.
Ironhide shifted his folded arms, feeling the twinge of a dozen dents and dings. An ache was blooming in the back of his helm and the Stunticons’ quareling was not helping it. Coupled with the disquieting sensation of pity, Ironhide was nearing the edge of his patience.
“Well? Y’ too good t’ talk t’ us?” Wildrider stormed to the front of the cell, hands fisted like he wanted to shake the bars.
“Ya want to talk?” Ironhide kept his EM field out of reach. There was a dampener on Breakdown, but his Sigma ability was notoriously difficult to suppress. It would be beyond humiliating to be taken down by three imprisoned mechlings. Earlier tonight had been bad enough.
Curiously, Wildrider glanced towards Dead End before answering Ironhide. “Yeah, I reckon we do. Where’s ‘Strip and ‘Motes?”
Dead End slouched sourly. “Like they’re going to tell us. We’re all going to be stripped for parts.” At that proclamation, Breakdown screeled in distress before falling silent.
Ironhide snorted. “Y’all are a mess if ya think we’re gonna execute th’ lot of ya. Haven’t ya-”
“Execute!?” Breakdown’s yellow optics appeared, blown wide with fright.
“I told you so,” said Dead End.
“Shut up, ya big cod! Yer gonna make ‘im freak out!” Wildrider sprinted to Dead End and shoved him.
The red and grey mech fell off the bench onto his aft with an indignant yelp of: “Watch the paint!”
But the racer stomped away from Dead End like he didn’t exist. “Stop it Breaky!” Wildrider’s attention was locked on his nearly-crying gestaltmate. “If ya don’t shut up, bein’ executed by th’ bots’ll be the least ‘a yer worries.”
Primus below, does he actually think that’s comforting? Watching the Stunticons quarrel was like watching a Rube-Goldberg machine. All the pieces fell perfectly to catalyze the next disaster.
“I c-c-can’t!” wailed Breakdown. His arms came up to ward off a sharp cuff to the helm. Sparkling optic cleanser spattered to the cell floor.
“That’s it!” Ironhide didn’t exactly mean to shout, but his temper was short and the brig had good acoustics.
Wildrider froze, hand upraised for another swat.
“Can y’all just si’down and be quiet fer ten minutes? Yer givin’ me a helmache an’ yer gonna split open those fresh welds.” He tried to dial back the volume and throw in some concern for the mechlings. It worked for all of two sparkbeats. Then Dead End opened his mouth.
“They don’t want us to ruin our frames before they can strip them. If we try to damage valuable parts, they’ll probably kill us sooner.” The red and grey mechling inspected his hands and the delicate components therewithin.
Incredulous, Ironhide stared at the quietest Stunticon. He had heard about Dead End’s obsession with all things death and macabre, but this was a bit extreme. Where did someone as young as him -well, they had definitely seen frames stripped for parts. It was war, mecha got hurt, and new parts were hard to come by. Even with the Earther governments’ resources; optics, vocalizers, and other specialized pieces often had to be scavenged. It had been even worse out in space.
Then Wildrider crumpled to the floor like his cables had been cut. Breakdown flinched as the greyish mechling threw his arms around him and bawled into his shoulder. The sound echoed around the brig.
“Git off! ‘Rider, git offa me!” Breakdown scrambled to his pedes, knocking Wildrider over. The other Stunticon rolled onto his back, still yowling like an abandoned cyberkitten.
Breakdown ducked into his corner, this time wedging his front end in as far as possible. His scuffed plating shook with sobs.
Wildrider wriggled onto his belly, faceplates sunken and distraught. “Please Breaky, lemme cuddle. I wanna cuddle.” The greyish mechling crawled up to his blue gestaltmate. Breakdown didn’t do anything other than sneak a look at Wildrider, but he seemed to take that as permission. Wildrider slithered into Breakdown’s space and latched on, despite the distressed noise Breakdown’s engine made.
“No, go away; go away!” yelped the blue Stunticon. He wedged an arm between himself and Wildrider, vainly trying to pry him off.
“Breaky Breaky…” wailed Wildrider. He wrapped his arms tightly around Breakdown. The blue mechling let out a strangled shriek, his engine casting wobbles through the energon bars before the dampener kicked in.
“...Primus.” Half entranced by the sudden about-face, Ironhide lifted a hand to his comm. ::Heya, Prowl? Ah’m goin’ in t’ see what Ah can do ‘bout the Stuntis. Ah don’t think they’re in any shape t’ hurt meh, but ‘ave sumun’ nearby jus’ in case.::
Prowl’s response was distracted. ::Exercise caution. We do not have many uninjured mecha to help you.::
::Got it.:: Ironhide swept his optics over the mechlings, seeking any sign this was a ploy to take him off guard. Breakdown and Wildrider appeared lost in their strange wrestling match. But Dead End’s visor was alert and suspicious, despite the hollow hopelessness in his body language.
“You behave,” he said, pointing warningly at Dead End. The mechling only glanced at his gestaltmates, then curled up in his corner. He looked utterly resigned and disinterested.
Ironhide inhaled. “Here goes nuthin’,” and keyed in the passcode. A section of energon bars dropped. Digits hovering over the ‘close’ button, Ironhide examined the Stunticons. None of them reacted, so he stepped in, signalling the bars to activate behind him. The electric buzz sent a tingle up his spinal strut.
“Wildrider, git offa him. ‘E said no.” Ironhide nudged the greyish mechling in the leg with his pede.
“Ssss!” hissed Wildrider, rounding on Ironhide without releasing Breakdown. For his part, Breakdown choked down a sob and folded up even smaller. Where Wildrider clutched his gestaltmate, Ironhide could see beads of energon from his claws.
“A’right kids. Either ya settle down an’ stop hurtin’ each other, or Ah start puttin’ ya in separate cells. ‘Rider, Ah’m talkin’ t you specifically.”
Wildrider bared his dentae. “Screw you!” he spat, hugging Breakdown even harder. The blue mech let out a noise that was almost a bark, renewing his efforts to escape his gestaltmate.
Ironhide winced as Breakdown’s Sigma ability washed over his EM field. More energon, and the beginnings of proper scratches, appeared under Wildrider’s claws.
“Kid!” Ironhide wrapped a hand around Wildrider’s scruff, not to yank him off but rather to secure him while he unhooked his claws. “Let go’a Breakdown!”
“But I wanna cuddle!” he howled.
Lemme go!” whimpered Breakdown, optics glazed with fright. Ironhide couldn't tell if it was directed at him or his gestaltmate. But he was committed to this course now. He had to at least detach the two before he could leave the cell.
A sparkbeat later, Wildrider twisted acrobatically in Ironhide’s grip. He got one hand hooked in his hip and a leg wrapped behind his knee. Before Ironhide could react, the mechling yanked himself up close to his legs.
Ironhide let out a Human curse, free hand flying for the knife in his subspace. But Wildrider wrapped his other leg around his ankles and squeezed. Already reared back in surprise, Ironhide lost his balance and toppled over backwards. He landed flat on his back, all the air whoosh ing out of him.
Wildrider did not swarm up his chassis and bite his throat out. Ironhide waited, vents wheezing and hand on his knife. The kid stayed wrapped around his legs in a very effective ankle-cuff. Other than that, he seemed unthreatening.
Ironhide slowly released his knife and withdrew his hand from his subspace. Then he remembered where he was and sat up like a rocket to check on the other two Stunticons. Dead End watched with his plating held submissively. Breakdown was still huddled in his corner, helm between his knees and armor arattle.
Ironhide let out a cough. “‘Rider… What’re y’doin’?” The greyish mechling’s EM field was full of terror that Ironhide knew should be directed at him. Except the kid was clinging to his legs with the same desperation he had used on Breakdown.
One of Wildrider’s optics appeared, peering up at Ironhide. He seemed to take in his situation and come to the conclusion that the best spot to be was right where he was. His arms tightened around Ironhide’s legs.
“A’right kid. ‘Ow about Ah just move t’this wall so Ah can lean?” Ironhide used his arms to move himself closer to the rear wall of the cell. Wildrider stayed attached, his claws digging into Ironhide’s armor. Ironhide rubbed his helm. He supposed this was better than Wildrider driving Breakdown to a meltdown. And he could see both of the other kids, so they weren’t a threat to him.
Hesitantly, he placed a hand on Wildrider’s helm. “This… whatcha want? Sumun t’ hold?”
Wildrider’s one visible optic blinked once; twice. His EM field, previously jagged as scrap metal, smoothed out a little as it meshed into the edges of Ironhide’s. “Mer-meh,” he mumbled into the Weapon Specialist’s leg.
“I guess that’s alright then.” Ironhide tousled Wildrider’s helm gently. The greyish mechling shrank into his armor, but his EM field leveled out even more. What a weird kid.
Sensing optics on him, Ironhide looked up to find Breakdown staring from under his own arm. He let out a choked noise and ducked away.
“Kiddo…” Ironhide sighed at the blue mechling.
A scrape from his other side brought Ironhide’s attention around to Dead End. The red and grey mechling paused, halfway to his pedes. Ironhide narrowed his optics at him.
Dead End broke optic contact first. “...so maybe you're not going to melt us down right away.” His shoulders tightened. “And ‘Rider… says your…” The rest of the mechling’s mumbling was lost in his collar fairing.
“What that?” Ironhide opticked Dead End suspiciously. The kid’s weapons and T-cog were disabled, but he was still a Decepticon. Ironhide sent a quick sensor burst towards Breakdown, finding the mechling exactly as he’d been.
“Speak up kid, Ah can’t hear you.” Ironhide chose his drill sergeant voice, one that worked on most battle-high frontliners.
Dead End’s whole frame went rigid. “Say’s your field’s nice!” he yelped.
“A’right.” Ironhide had no idea what to do with that information. “That’s nice Ah guess.”
Dead End didn’t move. He blinked between Ironhide, Wildrider, and a spot on the wall. Ironhide waited while the silence stretched out longer and longer.
“I was…” Dead End twisted a pede. “I was going to sit. Next to ‘Rider. You know, gestalt and all.” He shrugged noncommittally, avoiding optic contact.
Ironhide squinted at the mechling. “Well? Ah don’t bite, not ‘less you bite me first.” He moved an arm to indicate all the space next to him.
Dead End hesitated a few more minutes, wobbling between approaching Ironhide and backing off. Eventually, the red and grey mechling scraped together the courage to sit down near Ironhide. He slid down the wall and stopped, legs folded to his chassis and shoulders up to his audials.
“Are you going to be the one to execute us?” he asked morosely. On his other side, Ironhide heard Breakdown whimper.
“For Primus’ sake kid, no one’s gettin’ executed.” Ironhide nearly put a hand on Dead End’s shoulder, but the mechling’s visor locked onto it fearfully.
“At least make it quick,” mumbled Dead End. His helm sank to his knees. “I’ve put a lot of effort into keeping my frame good.”
“We’re not killin’ you fer your parts. Geeze kid. Where you git your ideas?”
~~~
“Ironhide? Ya still alive in here?” Jazz poked his helm into the brig. The hall outside the cells was dim and empty. His sensitive audial horns picked up the hum of resting systems.
Jazz scrubbed at his optics. He’d been up for a solid day and a half. The grit inherent to this planet necessitated regular cleaning cycles, which he normally ran while recharging. Coupled with all the dust from fighting last night, Jazz really wanted to rest his optics.
Hound had been down earlier to check on Ironhide, so Jazz doubted the Stunticons had mauled the Weapons Specialist. The secret grin Hound had returned with had piqued Jazz’s curiosity.
He stepped into the brig and padded to the occupied cell. “Well Ah’ll be…” he said to himself.
Ironhide was going to be sore when he woke up. His helm lolled to the side, supported by Dead End, who was settled on Ironhide’s shoulder. The red mech’s other side was occupied by Breakdown and Wildrider. Even in his sleep, the blue Stunticon had a firm grip on Ironhide. Wildrider slumped across Ironhide’s outstretched legs like a particularly large cybercat. One hand wrapped loosely around Dead End’s ankle.
Jazz took an image capture and promptly sent it to Ratchet. It pinged straight to his inbox, but another signal told Jazz the medic had retrieved it almost immediately.
::For Primus’ sake, Jazz, I only get two hours of sleep and you have to wake me up five minutes before my alarm… What’s Ironhide doing?:: asked Ratchet muzzily.
::Sorry Ratch, Ah just thought you’d appreciate this. All th’ babies ‘re down fer their naps.:: Jazz unsubspaced four cubes and placed them where Ironhide would see them.
::Yes, it’s very cute,:: grumbled Ratchet. ::But why is he in there?::
Jazz exited the brig as softly as he’d entered. ::Ah heard th’ Stuntis were a real mess an’ ‘e went an’ calmed ‘em down. Speakin’ a bitlets, ‘ow’s th’ squeaky new one? She’s th’ talk a th’ Ark.::
::Blasted twins…:: Ratchet paused. Jazz could almost see the medic stretching his tired struts as he rose from a low emergency cot. ::She’s doing fine and so is Starscream. I’ll have more to say whenever we have a Command meeting.::
Jazz nodded to a knot of chattering mecha. ::Say what ya like ‘bout th’ twins, but they’re good PR fer our refugees. Folks’re excited t’ have a sparklin’ ‘round, regardless a where she came from.::
Ratchet made a noncommittal noise to tell Jazz he was still listening.
::An’ Sideswipe’s got ‘is digits in a lotta social circles. If ‘e’s on Star’s side, more’n a few mecha’ll follow ‘im.:: Not to mention, quite a few mecha were speculating on how the sparking came into being, and they were practically spot on. If Starscream played his cards right, he could garner massive sympathy points.
A sigh rattled from Ratchet’s end. ::You don’t have to sell me on those glitches. I know they’re good sparks.::
::Ah won’t tell ‘em ya said that if ya don’t tell Ironhide Ah took that picture.::
Ratchet laughed. ::Picture? What picture?::
::Exactly, my mech,:: Jazz chuckled back.
Ratchet took a minute to encrypt the sender address of the image capture as he saved it. Jazz, likely sensing Ratchet was about to get busy, signed off and left him to his work.
The medic made his rounds of the mecha still in the Medbay. Most had been released late yesterday by First Aid, who was now taking a much earned nap. It was early, so none of the Humans were around and only a couple mecha were actually awake.
Ratchet paused to pat Bluestreak’s helm and check the replaced plating on his lower back and doorwing. The grey mechling kicked gently, optics moving under their shutters.
“Blue,” Ratchet called quietly. “Blue, wake up.” He shook the sniper’s shoulder.
“Whaz it?” asked Bluestreak, propping himself up stiffly. “Oh, hey Ratchet. How’re you doing? What time is it?”
“Sometime after four. Just letting you know you can go back to your quarters.”
“M’okay.” Bluestreak sat up, twisting his wing experimentally. “Hey, is it true there’s a sparkling here? I heard Starscream had one. Is it true? Can I see it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before.”
Ratchet grumbled, but the bright, hopeful light in Bluestreak’s optics cut right into his spark. He’d have to be some kind of monster to let the mechling down. “I’ll see if he’s awake.”
Bluestreak’s whole face lit up. “Thanks Ratchet!” he exclaimed as he hopped off his medberth.
“Shh,” ordered Ratchet. “People’re sleeping.”
“Sorry,” whispered Bluestreak, optics positively glowing.
Ratchet walked across the Medbay and keyed open the ICU door. The smell of rich energon gel wafted out, accompanied by the hum of working machines. Ratchet glanced over the two medberths crammed inside.
Optimus lay flat on his back, helm turned to avoid bumping his bad audial. His powerful systems easily accounted for half the noise in the room. Ratchet turned to the other medberth, where it looked like Starscream had lost a battle with the blanket. On closer inspection, Soundwave was wrapped up in there too, holding onto Starscream with four limbs and a datacable.
“Is that him?” asked Bluestreak, poking his helm under Ratchet’s arm.
“It’s a femme spark, but, yeah. Stay in the door.” Ratchet moved close enough to check the four mecha’s vitals. Soundwave’s angular optics appeared for a moment, just to check who was there.
“It’s only me, scarey,” Ratchet whispered reassuringly. He circled around the medberth and tested the gel’s mineral concentration. The sparkling was still furled, but her armor plates were visibly thicker. Good. She needed more insulation before Ratchet would detach her from the pod.
“Are they supposed to be so little? When’ll she unfurl? I heard the twins delivered her.” Bluestreak visibly bit his glossa, doorwings quivering in curiosity.
Ratchet sighed. “Yeah, they helped.”
The young Praxien bounced on his pedes, another question obviously jammed in his vocalizer.
“Primus save me from younglings,” muttered Ratchet, exiting the ICU. He double checked that it was locked, because now mecha had an even greater reason to want in.
“Then, it’s also true?” asked Bluestreak, hovering behind the medic as he made his way through the messy Medbay. “That, you know, Megatron got in here and he -uh- he’s the other Creator?” Bluestreak glanced around, as though worried someone who hadn’t heard yet was around.
Privately, Ratchet doubted there was a conscious spark on the Ark who didn’t know. “Yeah, actually. And just so you don’t blow a circuit trying to keep quiet, I’ll let you know everyone’s already heard. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker weren’t exactly subtle.” He couldn’t quite contain the bitter edge in his voice.
Bluestreak perked up like a watered houseplant. “That’s great! Well, not that part, but that I don’t have to keep it secret. I don’t think I could; I’m too excited by it! I’m not one of the youngest anymore!”
“And it’s about time.” Ratchet stopped at one of the lab doors. “Sorry Blue, but you’re not cleared to come in here yet. Fresh welds, and all.”
Bluestreak took note of which lab it was and blanched. “No problem Ratchet. I’ll just go hang in the Rec-room, far away from here, thanks.”
Ratchet rolled his optics and keyed open Wheeljack’s reenforced door. Bluestreak’s retreating pedesteps cut off abruptly when it closed.
Inside lay the two more seriously wounded prisoners: Motormaster and Drapstrip. Last night, the medics and scientists had been too overwhelmed to do much more than stop their bleeding and put the pair in stasis.
Today, Ratchet ran a quick scan of both to ensure they were still in stasis before approaching them. Dragstrip would be faster, so Ratchet started on the yellow mechling.
A snare set by the Humans had crushed and broken his leg. It was a painful and debilitating wound, but Dragstrip would recover quickly. He was young, and was about to be put on the best diet of his short life. Vector Sigma mecha or not, they were younglings. The near starvation faced by the Decepticons had stalled much of their development.
Ratchet hoped they would be able to catch up with their age group.
“Primus help their teachers,” he grumbled.
Motormaster was second. He sported a deep dent to the front of his helmet and a dislocated shoulder, among other wounds. His Megatron disguise had taken a lot of the damage, but Optimus had grown desperate after realizing the nature of the trick.
Ratchet accessed a medical port in Motormaster’s arm and sifted through his self diagnostic.
Hmm. Same malnutrition and deterioration. The medic marked it down in the grey mech’s brand new medical file. As he moved onto his antiviral records, Ratchet paused.
Hello, what are you? You’re not supposed to be here. He centered in on the anomalous lines of code. They linked to other subroutines that were attached to still more programs and files.
Ratchet blinked hard. If he didn’t know better, he’d say this was drone coding. But…
He whipped out a scanner and ran it over Motormaster’s broad chest. A sparkbeat sounded, steady and strong. It was fast, though, faster than a mech this size should be.
“What’s going on with you?” asked Ratchet.
Motormaster made no response.
“I see we’ll have to do this the hard way.” Ratchet pushed his overrides at the mechling’s armor locks. They shifted with an audible scrape, but refused to open.
The medic scowled and shoved his overrides back with the air of someone who expected to be obeyed. The chestplates remained stubbornly closed.
“Well, who went and modified your locking codes? For Primus’ sake, what if you had a fractured sparkchamber?” Ratchet sighed at the nonresponsive frame restrained on a hastily cleared lab table. “Hard way it is,” he groaned.
Unlike his racer gestaltmates, Motormaster had heavy armor. Soot and dirt and other debris trickled out as Ratchet wrestled each plate up and felt around for the appropriate clasps. It was hot work that had Ratchet longing for a shower before he was halfway done.
One by one, the overlapping plates detached and were set aside. Equally grey and grimy protoform appeared underneath, like a table under a puzzle.
Ratchet paused, pulling a refreshing breath of air into his heated engine. As he reached for a cube of coolant, Ratchet visually examined Motormaster’s bare protoform. The thin plates were littered with scars from blades and burns. Under the rise and fall of breath, Ratchet could discern the rumble of a high performance engine, buried under layers of plating and cables.
Vertebrae cracking, Ratchet stretched out his arms. “Let’s see what was so important, huh?” Gently, Ratchet levered open Motormaster’s chest. The grey protoform moved aside with little resistance, slotting smoothly in between his lateral protoform and armor.
Ratchet’s plating went stiff. “Holy Unicron on a unicycle,” he breathed.
~~~
Soundwave was in the middle of explaining why vocals and lyreharp was superior to karaoke when his comm pinged. He held up a hand, blocking Jazz’s agitated faceplates.
::Wheeljack, Soundwave; can you two meet me in the overflow Medbay? It’s urgent.:: Ratchet sounded tense. Soundwave could teek a storm of unvoiced thoughts frothing under the simple comm.
Wheeljack clearly didn’t catch the direness of the situation. ::Ya mean my lab? Which ya hijacked while I was concussed?::
::I needed it!:: Ratchet exclaimed.
::Soundwave: Enroute.:: He lowered his hand and fixed a firm stare on Jazz’s visor. ::Soundwave: Required elsewhere. Discussion: NOT over.:: As he turned away, the Host pinged his symbiotes with the location change.
“What’s goin’ on?” asked Jazz, almost trotting to catch up with the taller mech.
Soundwave paused in the doorway of the Officer’s Rec room. Jazz was keeping tabs on the rumour mill that was the Ark, and he said most of it was favourable for the (ex?)Cons. Still, Soundwave wanted no unexpected encounters, especially with the more raucous Autobots.
Jazz peeped his helm between Soundwave’s body and the doorframe. “Looks clear t’ me. What’s gotcha in such a tizzy?” He strolled out, hands clasped behind his back.
::Orders: Report to overflow Medbay. Source: Ratchet.:: Soundwave stepped out and followed Jazz, touching their EMs just the tiniest bit to convey his gratitude. Jazz didn’t have to escort him everywhere.
The saboteur cocked his helm. “Can’t be Ratch in trouble, or Ah’dve heard ‘bout it. Y’think it’s sumthin’ with th’ Stunticons? Motormaster an’ Dragstrip got put in there ‘till a medic could treat ‘em.”
::Possibility: High.:: Soundwave frowned, turning it over in his helm.
They reached the door to the lab-turned-Medbay and Jazz slapped a hand to the access pad, preventing Soundwave from requesting entrance. The Host recoiled, wishing for his facemask so the wounded fear didn’t show on his face.
“Jus’ so yer all caught up,” said Jazz in a low voice. “Screamer thinks one a th’ Stuntis might be one a ‘is sparklings. Ah doubt Ratch’s had time t’ scan their sparks, but…” He shrugged, hand falling away from the panel.
Spark still spinning, Soundwave nodded shakily. ::I- I’ll look,:: he said.
“Thanks, ma mech.” Jazz patted his arm as he passed.
Soundwave paused for a moment to steady his vents. Jazz hadn’t meant to frighten him. He didn’t need to brace himself to flee.
When he felt stronger, Soundwave pressed the door chime. It clicked open immediately, accompanied by Ratchet’s gruff summons. Soundwave entered quickly and checked that the door locked behind him.
Wheeljack was already there, leaning over Motormaster’s open chestplates with Ratchet. Something in Soundwave’s spark unwound at seeing the orange and white mech. His blue optics flashed as he looked up, briefly making contact with Soundwave.
“Well, come here and take a look,” invited Ratchet, gesturing at the unconscious Stunticon.
Soundwave approached slowly, quietly. Motormaster’s internals entered his view layer by layer, like the mouth of a volcano.
His breath caught in his throat. ::Is that...?::
Ratchet dipped his helm, arms folded. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “That’s why I called you here. I figure between you and Jackie and I, we can get him out without killing him.”
As if in a dream, Soundwave lowered his hand to the slumbering sparkling’s face.
~~~
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE