Chapter Text
“Ratchet, what happened?”
“Sorry. I don’t know what’s going on.” Ratchet scowled at the bridge controls. Did they always have to act up in the most inconvenient moments? He stalked over to the monitor. Yep, coordinates were right, somewhere in the country of Korea, right next to the potential energon ping he had found that morning. He turned back to the controls and popped open the wiring access panel. Nope, nothing fried again. He had inspected the frame itself with Raf just an hour ago. What in the world had made the ground bridge shake and sputter like that? “I have no clue, Optimus. Whatever happened wasn’t our technology’s fault.”
Optimus had a look of polite concern on his faceplates. He and Bumblebee had volunteered to check out the ping and had been about to cross through the bridge when its readings had started spiking erratically. Ratchet was glad he had been able to shut it off before either of them managed to actually enter it.
“[Could it have been a solar flare?]” Bumblebee chirped as Optimus walked over to inspect the monitor himself.
“No, that didn’t seem like one,” Raf piped up from his spot on the balcony, laptop sitting on his outstretched legs. “There was one last month, remember? And the readings on that one looked way different. More like a burst on the graph than the increasing and overlapping sine waves it showed just now.”
“Right, right,” Ratchet muttered. “Well. I could just try it again. Maybe it was a one-time thing. Hooked the electromagnetic field of the planet incorrectly, perhaps. Stand back, you two.”
“Bridges can hook the electromagnetic field?” Raf asked curiously as Ratchet put in the coordinates again.
“It’s certainly not out of the question. Alright, turning it on again.” Ratchet pushed the lever down and the bridge burst to life again. It immediately looked and sounded much more stable but Ratchet double checked the telemetry readings on the monitor (all normal) before waving Optimus and Bumblebee through. They shifted into their alt modes and drove cautiously into the green light. Ratchet watched the bridge, servo gripping the controls, and relaxed only when a confirmation ping came from Optimus.
“We have made it through safely,” Optimus relayed over comms. “Proceeding to the potential energon signal now.”
“Good. Ping me when you need a bridge back.” Ratchet cut off the ground bridge and the strong winds quieted down to bring relative silence to the base once more. Arcee and Smokescreen were in the washracks after a particularly muddy patrol in Louisiana and Bulkhead had taken Jack and Miko off-roading today, so only Ratchet and Raf were in the common area at the moment. Ratchet certainly didn’t mind the peace and quiet.
“That was weird, huh?” Raf said, leaning on the balcony railing. “You really think it was electromagnetic interference? We’ve never had that happen before here.”
“I’ve never encountered it myself,” Ratchet remarked as he switched the monitor to a map with comm signals off to the side. “Can’t rule it out, though. Earth’s magnetic field can be strange about creating a temporary rift in space, if you can believe it.”
Raf giggled then suddenly frowned at his laptop. “Hey, Ratchet, remember how we made that program to sort through posts on the internet that mention robots or aliens? Look at the one it just flagged down.”
Ratchet navigated to the small window he had running to find and remove mentions that might jeopardize their secrecy and scrolled through. “Why? No one’s reported being spotted recently. Is it Decepticons?”
“I’m… not sure,” Raf furrowed his brow. “It’s hard to tell.”
“Wheeljack?” Ratchet started to mentally admonish the Wrecker for being careless again as he found the post Raf was talking about. It was tagged as being in New York City, accompanied by an over-the-top caption about speculations over a new film in development. The photo attached was a little shaky, but… very clearly not Wheeljack. Or any Decepticons on Earth. Ratchet leaned in closer to the monitor.
“Do you recognize them?” Raf asked curiously. “Here, I’ll make it more fuzzy. You take the clearer picture before I change it.”
Ratchet flicked aside the photo to download it and enlarged it on the screen. It was a capture of a construction site on a dingy street in (presumably) New York City, tarps and scaffolding covering half of the photo. The other half, however, showed the back of a red and black mechanical humanoid with large wings(?) and a blurry, strangely-angled shape (or a Cybertronian mid-transformation, Ratchet realized) smudged blue and white beside it. Something bright green glistened on the ground around them. Ratchet was less worried about humans and their chemical leaks, however, than the very clear image of Cybertronians in broad daylight. Decepticon or not, they were risking revealing the presence that Optimus had worked so meticulously to keep hidden.
Ratchet clicked back to the post and traced the location to the coordinates where it was taken. New York would be annoying to navigate, but he could do it. Or he could send Arcee and Smokescreen again. He pinged their comm lines.
“Either of you two finished? We got a sighting of unknown Cybertronians in New York City, and I’d prefer to have an escort in case it’s ‘Cons.”
“I’m done, Ratchet,” Smokescreen responded immediately. “New York, oh boy! I’ve always wanted to check it out, and you’ve never let me patrol there!”
“Because it’s filled with traffic and pedestrians running around underfoot,” Ratchet grumbled. “Curb your enthusiasm, this isn’t a joyride. We need to find these two before they cause any damage.”
“I’ll come too, Ratchet,” Arcee chimed in. “I don’t know if Smokescreen is the best choice of safety escort.”
Smokescreen started to sputter an indignant, “Hey!” before Ratchet interrupted.
“No, Arcee, someone has to stay behind, and I’d honestly prefer it be you. You’ve had more experience with the bridge and it was acting up a little just now.”
“Acting up? Okay, fine, I’ll stay. But you two stay away if it turns out to be ‘Cons. Am I clear, Smokescreen?”
“Crystal,” Smokescreen cheerfully replied before the comm line cut and he walked into the common area.
“Raf, you’re in charge of the bridge while I’m gone as well, got it?” Ratchet turned to the boy, who gave a serious nod.
“Me and Arcee can handle it, Ratchet.” Raf’s expression faded slightly into worry. “But really do be careful, okay?”
“Of course.” Ratchet put in the coordinates and checked the telemetry again. All good.
“Don’t worry, Raf, I’ll fight off any ‘Cons that come our way. They’ll have to get through me before they can even scratch Ratchet’s paint.” Smokescreen punched the air a few times before jumping into his transformation. Ratchet rolled his optics and transformed as well, rolling into the green light and barely hearing Arcee’s voice behind him go, “No one’s fighting anyone!”
Ratchet followed Smokescreen out into an empty side street, fumes filling his vents and the sounds of a big city crowding into his audials as the ground bridge blinked away behind them. He sent the enhanced image of the Cybertronians to Smokescreen.
“Those are the two we’re looking for. A potential flier on the left there, see? Keep an optic to the sky,” Ratchet kept his voice low as he relayed the information. “Let’s see if they’re around here somewhere. The construction site is right around the corner. There should be a gate right there, the tarp’s covering it. Just stay in alt, obviously.”
“Yes, sir!” Smokescreen rolled forward and cautiously pulled through the concealed entrance to the construction yard. Ratchet followed, nearly taking the tarp with him but eventually shimmying through without any extra coverings over his windshield. Smokescreen was still, standing in the middle of the courtyard.
“Look, Ratchet, what is this?” He shifted back and forth on his wheels next to a puddle of the green stuff Ratchet had seen in the photo. “It looks weird.”
Ratchet rolled forward next to him and inspected the liquid as best he could from his alt mode sensors. It had a strange sheen to it, but it wasn't quite oil. Not gas or coolant, either, from what he could tell. “I have no clue. Humans are so careless with their building materials that they barely even check to make sure the stuff they use isn’t hazardous to their health,” Ratchet grumbled.
“Ratchet,” Smokescreen said slowly. “Do you think this is from the two in the picture? I mean, the flier looks super weird. Like, the plating makes no sense, you know? Maybe they’ve got different… you know, inside stuff, too. Like, different coolant or something.”
Ratchet was about to pull back but stopped and rolled a little forward instead. Indeed, the liquid was unlike anything he’d seen before, and from what he could make out of the flier’s construction through the photo, the frametype did not register to any he had ever worked on. “Hm. Now that you mention it… I suppose they do look strange. My medical database isn’t bringing up any examples of such a frametype. I have no idea how that’s possible. But if it’s true… that means one or both are leaking something. They could have gotten injured here.” Ratchet inspected their surroundings and, sure enough, more of the green liquid was splattered around them and on some snapped metal support beams. “We need to find them, now.”
“Should we follow the trail? I think there are some more drops over there,” Smokescreen turned and drove to the other side of the yard, following the drops of translucent green smeared in that direction. Ratchet followed, concentrating on sensing a field or hearing heavy pedesteps in the surrounding rubble and scaffolding.
The trail led them out of the construction site and onto a few more back alleyways, cramped enough that Ratchet barely made it through some tight corners. Eventually, as they approached a derelict-looking parking garage, Smokescreen froze ahead of him.
“I hear something,” came a silent comm. Ratchet turned up his audials. Yes, he could hear something too: the shuffling and shifting of metal echoed from inside the concrete structure. He was fairly certain there was a voice emanating from that direction, too.
“What do we do?” Even over comms, Smokescreen’s tone had a hint of nervousness to it. Ratchet drove around him and into the garage, stopping near the entrance.
“Transform as quietly as you can. We want our weapons available.” Ratchet slowly shifted his plating to transform into root form, taking a minute or two to do it as softly as he could. Smokescreen followed suit and transformed his left arm into a blaster once they were both on two pedes again. The sounds were still occasionally echoing from the same direction and Ratchet nodded at Smokescreen.
“Now we go. Quietly. And carefully.”
Smokescreen nodded back and stepped carefully in front of Ratchet, gingerly making his way towards the scraping. Ratchet followed suit, transforming one of his servos into a blade as well.
The trail of green fluid continued through the garage. If this was a leak, it was a serious one, Ratchet noted with growing concern. He could distinctly make out a voice saying something quietly as they approached the shuffling, with another occasionally introjecting weakly. Smokescreen suddenly paused before they turned a corner. He quickly peeked around the wall then ducked back and glanced at Ratchet.
“They’re to the left, against the wall. I’m… pretty sure they’re not Decepticons. No brand and no red optics, from what I could see.”
Ratchet mulled over their options. “Let me go first. I’m in medic colors, and if they’re Autobots or neutrals they’ll recognize it and won’t immediately attack.”
Smokescreen looked conflicted but stepped aside a bit to let Ratchet through. Ratchet transformed the blade back into his servo and stepped around the corner, arms raised placatingly.
He could immediately tell something was wrong, his medic code kicking into overdrive. One of the mechs (blue and white) was leaning heavily against the wall, clutching his (her? their? English pronouns are always annoying to determine) side with a puddle of green next to them. Another mech (ah, the flier from the picture) was crouching next to them, seemingly consoling them and trying to help stem the flow of whatever fluid they were rapidly losing.
At Ratchet’s appearance, however, both jumped in shock or fear, prompting the injured one to let out a static-laced groan and the black and red flier to shift defensively in front of them, wings out and plating flared like a cornered animal. Ratchet tensed, preparing to switch his blades in again, but the flier didn’t lunge forward and only stared apprehensively with wide, strange-looking optics. Ratchet didn’t dare move, and settled on looking the unfamiliar mech up and down while giving them a chance to do the same. The mech in front of him was slightly shorter than him. Like Smokescreen had noticed before, their plating had seams in unusual places and their proportions were different from anything he had seen before, a mask covering their faceplates and wings positioned in a strange configuration. And was that an eagle head on their helm?
The injured one suddenly said something, static and pain evident through their tone. The flier didn’t take their flat, green optics off of Ratchet but softly replied before biting out an accusation? A question? Biting out something at Ratchet in a slightly lilting, quick paced language. Ratchet pointed one digit in a motion he hoped they understood as “wait” and tilted his helm slightly as he parsed through the database Optimus had acquired on human languages, referencing each with the tones and sounds of the mechs. It took a few seconds but his processor pinged it as Korean. Interesting. Ratchet met the now slightly confused and wary optics of the other, taking another few seconds to adjust to the refiguring of his vocal pack.
“Hello,” he said to the flier in Korean. It certainly felt strange to use another language when English had been all he had needed so far on Earth. Ratchet reset his vox. “I do not wish to harm you. What is your faction?”
The flier looked taken aback for a second but settled back into apprehensiveness quickly. “Faction? We do not associate with any vigilante group or pirating crew.”
It was Ratchet’s turn to be taken aback. “No, I meant- Autobot or Decepticon? Do you ally with either of them? Or are you neutrals avoiding the war?”
“War?” The flier’s optics widened more and a weakly surprised noise came from behind them (him, probably, if going off of vocal inflection). “What war? When?”
Ratchet frowned. “The civil war we’ve been fighting for four thousand years. How are you on Earth and unaware of this?”
The flier squinted his optics. “Four thousand… impossible. Machina was destroyed one thousand years ago.”
“Machina?” Ratchet blinked. “I am from Cybertron. Have you heard of such a planet?”
“No.” The flier cocked his helm. “...I think there has been a misunderstanding. You do not look like a Metal Cardbot.”
“I most certainly am not that.” Ratchet untensed minutely at the calmer tone of the other. “I am a Cybertronian. An Autobot medic by the name of Ratchet. What is your designation?”
The flier did not relax his frame. “We do not want any part of your war. Our home planet was destroyed and we will not contribute to the death of another.”
“Ours was too and we would dearly like to avoid that as well,” Ratchet retorted, then softened his tone. “Autobots stand and fight for peace and cooperation. We have made great steps towards coexisting with the native population of Earth, and I would very much like to secure a new home for whoever is left of our kind. You don’t have to join our battle; it is ours to fight. But I see that your friend is injured. Like I said, I’m a medic. Please, let me help them.”
The flier hesitated and finally turned his helm away from Ratchet. “Blue?”
The other must have given a sign of assent because the flier stepped to the side to let Ratchet closer. Ratchet paused before approaching, however.
“I have another ally with me. He will not harm either of you. Smokescreen.” Ratchet waved the nervously waiting mech over and he gingerly stepped out and waved.
“Hi,” Smokescreen said, in Korean as well. He must have searched through the database while the others were talking. Smart kid.
Ratchet stepped forward to crouch next to the injured mech. They were smaller, around Arcee's size, looked like a police car alt (mostly blue and white with yellow accents), and, strangely, had a pink visor with their optics displayed like an LED screen.
“Hello. I don’t know if you heard, but my name’s Ratchet. You are?”
“Blue Cop.” Their (no, his, if going off of voice again) visor flickered a little as he tried to sit up and point with one servo. “That’s Fleta Z.”
“Stay down,” Ratchet reprimanded (gently, he didn’t want to scare the mech). “I’m going to move your servo, I need to look at the injury. What happened?”
“I- agh!” The LED optics blinked into two arrows like the mech was squeezing them shut as Ratchet lifted up his servo. The plating on his side was cracked and something was wedged deep between a seam, the translucent green fluid leaking around it and dripping onto the ground. “I fell onto something. A- augh- a pole, or support beam, and part of it pierced through. I tried to transform to maybe- maybe pinch the line shut but that made it- urgh- worse, I think.”
Ratchet nodded and guided Blue Cop’s servo back to the wound. “Keep pressing on it. Stop the flow as much as you can. It was the right call to not take the debris out, that might be preventing further leaking. What is this green fluid?”
Blue Cop blinked his optics to look down. “The- the green-? Oh, that’s… well, there’s not a good translation for it but we- agh- call it oil, though it’s not exactly- like the Earth fluid. It’s what brings power to-to each component- of… of our frames.”
“Leaking it out is very dangerous, then.” Ratchet frowned. If he understood the mech right, the oil had a similar function to energon, and if that was the case, he needed to get Blue Cop on a medical berth as soon as possible.
“Yep, leaking it out is not- not good, heh,” Blue Cop huffed out a weak laugh then squeezed his optics shut again as another static-laced moan crackled out from his vox. Or whatever vocal component they had. Ratchet kept forgetting these were not Cybertronians (and somehow unaware of their war– but that would have to be a discussion for later). He stood and turned to Fleta Z, whose optics were upturned in a way that made him look worried.
“I need to get him to the medbay to fix this, and that would require going to our base. Are you okay with that?”
Fleta Z’s optics flicked to Blue Cop, whose vents were ragged and optics slivers of light as if they were closed, then back to Ratchet. “Yes. Is it far?”
“We have teleportation technology. It will be only a second of travel-“ Ratchet paused as Fleta Z rapidly shook his helm and Blue Cop’s optics snapped open to an almost comically frightened or surprised expression.
“Is it possible to get there without teleportation?” Fleta Z’s bright green optics had widened and the pupils had shrunk to give him a look of concern and fear. Both of these mechs had incredibly emotive optics, Ratchet noted. Perhaps to make up for the lack of articulate faceplates. “We are in this situation in the first place because of an Earth-made vortex. I desperately wish to avoid a repeat of such a mishap.”
“Lucky for you, then, that we have a groundbridge, not a vortex.” Ratchet frowned. “We’re too far from base to even think of going by land, and Blue Cop needs medical attention now. I assure you, the bridge is entirely safe to pass through and is a guaranteed quick route to rest and fuel.”
Fleta Z hesitated. Ratchet stayed still, watching him glance at Blue Cop again. Ratchet didn’t want to force these two evidently scared and disoriented mechs to do something they didn’t want to, but Blue Cop’s erratic venting kept reminding him of the police car’s precarious position. He couldn’t do much to help with the tools he had on him.
Blue Cop’s vox crackled with another groan. Ratchet resisted the urge to tap his pede impatiently on the ground. “Fleta Z, Blue Cop will leak out if he stays here.”
Ratchet let out a vent as Fleta nodded slowly. “Alright. Fine. Let’s go to the bridge, if you’re certain it’s safe.”
Ratchet nodded. “I’m certain. I need to request the bridge, hold on a second. Pick him up, please, as carefully as you can, and be ready to walk through. Keep pressure on the injury. Smokescreen, you follow behind them, got it?”
Smokescreen nodded and Ratchet turned off to the side, taking a few seconds to switch back to English before pinging Arcee.
“Arcee, we’ve found the unidentified mechs. They’re allies. One is hurt, please clear out the path to-” Ratchet’s focus was diverted by a sudden cry of pain that dissolved into sharp intakes and groans behind him and he whipped around to find Fleta Z, a slightly panicked expression in his optics, trying to keep a writhing Blue Cop steady in his arms.
“-Blue Cop! Blue! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know it hurts, but we’ve got to get to their base,” Fleta was saying, glancing up to meet Ratchet’s optics. “I don’t know what to do, I’m afraid he’s making the injury worse!”
Ratchet could still comprehend Korean but speaking would require switching out his vocal pack again, so he waved impatiently to a worried Smokescreen, said, “Tell him that Blue Cop might not be aware of what he’s doing, try to calm him down if you can,” then switched focus over to his comm line, where Arcee was rapidly firing questions into his audials.
“-you and Smokescreen okay? Did something happen? Do you-”
“Arcee!” Ratchet barked, frustration and urgency sharpening his tone. “I need a groundbridge to my coordinates, now! Clear the area!”
Fleta’s shout of “Ratchet!” cut through Arcee’s reply. Ratchet turned his attention to the other mechs again to now find Blue Cop limp with visor dark in Fleta’s grasp, oil dripping from his side and through Smokescreen’s digits where they were pressing against the injury. Ratchet shook his helm in frustration and concern and stepped closer, pushing Smokescreen’s servo into a better position to stem the flow.
“Hold it like that, yes, there, try to walk together,” Ratchet growled then switched to comms again. “Arcee! Groundbridge!”
“Primus, Ratchet, I just got Optimus and Bumblebee through, give it another few seconds!” Came the frustrated reply. “It’s not my fault you all decide to comm in at the same exact time!”
Ratchet shook his helm again and turned to look at Fleta Z, who was holding as still as possible but tracking Ratchet’s and Smokescreen’s servos with panic in their optics.
“Fleta, stay calm.” Ratchet leaned forward to catch his optics before remembering he couldn’t understand him through his current vocal pack. “Smokescreen, reassure him.”
“What?! I don’t know how-” Smokescreen replied but reset his vox at Ratchet’s glare. “Fleta, Ratchet says stay calm. The- uh, the groundbridge is gonna be here any second, the medbay is right across from it, and Ratchet’s a really good doctor, he’ll get Blue Cop-”
A bright burst of light and a strong gust of wind interrupted Smokescreen’s rambling and Ratchet pressed a servo to Fleta’s back as the flier flinched away.
“Finally, Primus, let’s go. Walk!” Ratchet pushed Fleta forward as the mech started to freeze up, and Smokescreen barely managed to stumble along and keep his servos in position as the light consumed their surroundings before being replaced with the familiar walls and balconies of the Autobot base. Ratchet met Optimus’ worried gaze before hastily guiding Fleta to the medbay, replacing Smokescreen’s servo with his own before cautiously easing Blue Cop onto a berth.
“Smokescreen, go brief Optimus, tell Fleta to stay here.” Smokescreen’s quickly retreating pedesteps were the only answer to the order that he heard. Continuing to stem the flow with one servo, Ratchet used the other to pull out clamps and medical patches from a side compartment positioned near the berth and roll a small platform closer. He clamped both ends of two fully slashed lines, stopping the leaking of green oil from one and a dribble of some kind of clear liquid from the other. The debris (snapped metal pole, it looked like) was still sticking out between seams, visibly blocking the flow of a few lines. Once it was taken out, more leaks would immediately make themselves known. Ratchet glanced over his shoulder to see Fleta Z nervously watching from behind him and jerked his helm to signal him to approach closer, resetting his vocal pack to Korean again.
Fleta hurried to his side and Ratchet pointed at the clamps on the berth. “You trained in first aid? Know how to clamp a line?”
Fleta Z nodded, looking a bit more composed than he was in the parking garage. “Our medic made us learn how to do basic first aid. I know how to.”
“Great, okay,” Ratchet muttered and shoved a handful of clamps into his servos. “I’m going to remove the obstruction and I want you to clamp the lines that are fully severed on that side. I’ll help once I get the debris aside, got it?”
At another nod from Fleta, Ratchet propped one servo on Blue Cop’s plating and transformed the digits of another into thinner forceps that could grip the metal better. Gripping the pole, he shot a quick, “Doing it now,” to Fleta, then gingerly pulled out the debris and quickly set it on the platform before transforming his digits back and leaning in next to Fleta to help clamp the newly-released flow of oil. Fleta had already clamped one end of a line that looked to be major; that was probably what had caused Blue Cop to leak out so quickly. Ratchet secured the other end of it, then, seeing no more fully disconnected lines, switched to patches to stem the few lines that had smaller lacerations.
Once he had patched all visible punctures, Ratchet did a quick surface scan to confirm nothing else had a leak in the vicinity before turning to Fleta again.
“I want to do a deep scan to ensure nothing else is damaged before welding these. Would you object to a hardline scan for him?”
Fleta blinked. “No, if you need a medical scan to help him, do what you need to. Why would I object?”
“Well, hardline scans can be a bit too personal than some prefer. Hm.” Ratchet glanced over Fleta’s plating. “Though I suppose our ports wouldn't necessarily be compatible, would they? I’d rather not risk it right now. Nevermind, I’ll do it with a scanner. It should suffice.” He pulled out a more advanced scanner than his built in one and attached it to a servo.
Fleta glanced around the medbay politely as the scanner did its analysis. “This is a very well-equipped place. Our team’s medic would be very intrigued by all these tools. I’ve never seen some of them.”
Ratchet followed his gaze. There weren’t even that many tools in sight or in general here; the medbay was less stocked than he wished it could be. That did not paint a good comparison to what Fleta’s medic had. “Your team doesn’t have much in terms of medical supplies?”
“Not particularly. Our medic is technically unlicensed and didn’t have much with him when we had to leave the planet. We’ve been relying on his knowledge, a human mechanic, and the Metal Breath’s regenerative properties to recover from injury.”
Primus, these mechs were on an alien planet and didn’t have any proper medical care. It’s a wonder they were in as good a shape as they were. And what in the world was a ‘Metal Breath’? One thing in particular stood out in relevance to the current moment, however. “Did you say human mechanic? Have you also established a connection with the native species here?”
Fleta perked up. “Yes. You have as well? We’ve tried to keep knowledge of our presence limited, but we have a strong connection with the holder of the Metal Breath and a few other select humans, including the mechanic.”
Ratchet shifted the scanner to better get Blue Cop’s core readings. “Hold on. You keep mentioning a Metal Breath. What is that?”
“You don’t- hm, yes, it’s only logical you wouldn’t know.” Fleta inclined his helm slightly. “I apologize, I don’t know if now is a good time to explain it, as it would involve our planet’s deep cultural history and hierarchy, and I would assume the mechs in the other room would be interested in it as well, so perhaps I should relay it later.”
“Yes, sure, that’s a good idea, actually.” Optimus would certainly want to hear about another mechanical race they’ve never had contact with. The scanner signaled the completion of core readings and internal leakage assessments. Ratchet scrolled through them mentally and nearly stumbled backwards in shock at one of the pings labeled ‘fatal’. “Blue Cop doesn’t have spark activity. How the frag-” he still had color, but maybe their nanites worked differently- “What other injuries did he have? That couldn’t have been because of fluid loss-” but, wait, it showed warm lines leading from a functional pump and stable processor activity, how…
Fleta was staring at him, plating tense and expression confused and nervous. “Ratchet, what’s wrong?”
“Fleta, this scan is showing zero spark activity. Blue Cop should be offline. Can your race survive without it?” Ratchet thrust the scanner in Fleta's now-panicked face.
“What- offline? He’s not- is he?”
“No. Somehow.” Ratchet frowned at the readings. Something was off.
“You said zero spark activity? I’m not familiar with the term, sorry, I don’t know what you're talking about,” Fleta squinted at the readings then glanced at Blue Cop lying blissfully unaware of his own spark failure. Ratchet frowned harder. Something clicked in his processor.
“You don’t have sparks, do you?” Ratchet nearly laughed with relief that he hadn’t just accidentally let a patient die. “Frag, that was terrible.”
“No, nothing in our biology is referred to as a spark.” Fleta still sounded confused and now mildly irritated. “Is Blue Cop alright?”
“Should be right as rain,” Ratchet replied as he transformed a digit into a welder and began to integrate the clamped lines back together. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are your core components and what do they do?”
Fleta paused to think. “The processor stores memory, logical and emotional circuits, decision making pathways, all of that. The core takes in and stores power, which then is distributed through either oil with the central pump or circuitry across the frame. Those are the most vital ones.”
Ratchet frowned. “No transformation cog?”
“No, we don’t have a specific part necessary for transforming.”
“This will be a fascinating conversation for later.” Ratchet continued welding Blue Cop’s lines as he mulled the new information over. “You said you’ve established a connection with humans. You’ve been on Earth for some time, then?”
“It depends on the mech. I’ve been here for around eleven months of this planet’s calendar, but I met my human friend a month and a half or so ago. Heavy Iron crash landed here only three months ago.”
“We’ve been here four years. The government’s certainly not gotten any easier to deal with,” Ratchet muttered. “A few of the team was spotted by local children some time ago and placed a target over their heads so they scurry around the base all the time now.”
“Ah, my human friend is a child, too!” Fleta brightened. “His name is Jun.”
“We’ve got Miko, Jack, and Rafael. And Agent Fowler is our government liaison. You shouldn’t have to interact with any of them, though, so don’t worry about switching out your language pack.”
“Thank you. I would need extensive time on the internet for that, anyways. I don’t have a language analysis program.”
“It’s not a problem for us. Once I finish with the welding, Blue Cop should be stable enough for us to go and figure out what to do with you two.” Ratchet remembered how nervous Fleta and Blue Cop had been at the mention of teleportation. “I never asked what exactly happened. You said something about a vortex? You do have somewhere you wish to return to, correct?”
“Yes,” Fleta said, sounding ashamed and a little annoyed. “One of the mechs on my team attempted to recreate teleportation technology from our home planet with debris of an escape pod and Earth materials. He was supposed to go through to a storage warehouse nearby but somehow Blue Cop and I got teleported instead. I don’t know what happened to the others, but I wish to return as soon as possible and sort everything out. I’ve tried contacting them through comms but my signals must have been scrambled by the vortex because nothing is getting through.”
“Well, let me do this last weld and we’ll head to the command center.” Ratchet quickly sent an internal comm in Cybertronian, why not, to Optimus, saying, “Fleta Z and I are coming back soon. Switch to Korean, please, he doesn’t have quick language analysis,” and immediately received an affirmative ping in return. He finished the last bit of welding and did one last quick surface scan (no leaking, stable flow. All good).
He quickly washed off the oil from his servos and plating (Fleta followed by example) and the two of them walked around the central pillar to the central control panel, where Optimus, Arcee, Bumblebee, and Smokescreen were all gathered, Raf nowhere to be seen. At Ratchet and Fleta’s approach, conversation cut off and Optimus (battle mask on) nodded politely to Fleta, who only came up to about his windshields. Blue Cop had looked much shorter; if Ratchet had to guess, he’d be right up to Optimus’ midsection.
“I’d like to formally welcome you to our base,” Optimus said in Korean. “The circumstances of your visit are certainly far from ideal but I am glad to meet you nonetheless. I am Optimus Prime. You may call me Optimus. I am the leader of the Autobot team here on Earth.” Ratchet fought the urge to roll his optics at Optimus’ (in his opinion, at least) overly casual demeanor. He was the Prime, for frag’s sake, not just another general in an endless war. “This is Arcee, Bumblebee, and you’ve already met Smokescreen.”
“A pleasure. I am Fleta Z.” Fleta dipped his head in response. “I’m certain that my team will be glad to make your acquaintance as well once we have figured out the mess our vortex made. This is your… bridge, where we came through, correct?” He motioned to the empty tunnel across from the panel.
“Yes. Come, can you tell me the coordinates or city where you reside? We can get you there easily.” Optimus motioned for Fleta to stand next to him in front of the monitor and Ratchet approached as well.
“I want your medic to take a look at Blue Cop as soon as possible,” Ratchet added as Fleta typed in the name of a city in the internet database and hit enter. “I did my best but I don’t know your anatomy as well as a Cybertronian.”
Optimus wasn’t surprised at this information (Smokescreen had hopefully explained everything already) but had an excited glint in his optics nonetheless as he looked down at Ratchet. Of course Optimus would be excited at the prospect of new allies or, at least, another species like theirs.
Fleta had gone silent, furiously typing on the keyboard and parsing through multiple searches before pausing and staring at the browser. Optimus inclined his helm. “Is something wrong?”
Fleta didn’t take his optics off of the monitor. “I… don’t know how this is possible, but the city I’m from is not showing up on the internet.”
What? “What?” Ratchet frowned and moved closer. “What do you mean? Are you typing it correctly?”
“Ratchet, I’m sure Fleta Z knows how to spell his home city,” Optimus said gently as Fleta nodded rapidly.
“It’s a well developed urban area with more than a million and a half residents. I have searched it up before. It’s how I met Jun and the others in the first place.” Fleta’s voice was firm with conviction. “Is your internet connection faulty here?”
“Well, it might be a different search engine but there’s no way a city as large as that wouldn’t appear as a result.” Ratchet started to shake his helm then paused. “We did have trouble with the groundbridge earlier today. That shouldn’t have had any effect on the internet connection or results, but who knows with Earth technology.”
Optimus was suddenly still. “Ratchet, what are the coordinates Bumblebee and I were sent to earlier today?”
Ratchet frowned again. Why was that important? “Let me find it. Here it is.” He zoomed in to the pin on the map: a dot next to the coast. In Korea. Hold on, what was Optimus thinking?
“Fleta, do you recognize this location?” Optimus was watching Fleta intently. Ratchet pinned his gaze onto him as well.
Fleta stared at the dot. “That’s Motown.”
Optimus shook his helm. “I was there twenty minutes ago. It is an uninhabited coastline, no human settlements for miles.”
Fleta stare gained a distant quality. “How is that possible?”
“I’m not certain. I have a guess, although it is quite far-fetched.”
Ratchet glanced at Optimus, his processor whirring. The Autobot bridge and the other mechs’ vortex had malfunctioned, seemingly at the same time. The two groups were both advanced, mechanical-based spacefaring species yet Fleta had never heard of the infamous million-year-long war and Ratchet never knew of a planet called Machina. They had never encountered each other on Earth despite coexisting for nearly a year, at least. “Wait, Optimus, you don’t think…”
“Like I said, it is a far-fetched idea, but what I can see in this situation is that your vortex was located near or even exactly where we aimed our ground bridge to land. Perhaps it was something on your end with unstable physics calculations or perhaps the pull of spacetime warped too strongly, but either way, you seem to have been placed here from an alternate, or parallel, universe.” Optimus was entirely serious, looking down slightly. “There are discrepancies that Smokescreen informed me of that cannot be explained otherwise.”
Ratchet could see Fleta holding his composure together as he leaned heavily on the control board. “Right. Right. I know nothing about quantum physics and mechanics, so I suppose that makes logical sense, even though it very, very much does not.” His vents caught slightly and he paused. “Apologies. This is a lot to take in.”
“Of course, do not apologize,” Optimus said gently. “This isn’t the only explanation, but it seems like the most likely. This information would be hard to process for anyone.”
“Ratchet?” Ratchet whips around at Raf’s hesitant voice coming from the tunnel leading to storage. The boy was standing sheepishly with his laptop balanced on both hands in front of him. Ratchet glanced between Fleta (still staring down, optics unseeing), his team (wearing expressions ranging from confused to concerned), and back to Raf as his language pack refigured itself again.
“What is it, Raf?” His tone came out snappier than he had intended and Raf furrowed his brow a little with nervousness. Frag, he hadn’t meant to reprimand the child.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but another post has popped up that I think you should look at. Tokyo, four minutes ago.”
Another sighting? If Decepticons were planning something right now in a major metropolis, it would certainly take first place for the worst timing in their stay on this fragging planet. Ratchet pulled up a separate hologram keyboard (seeing as the bigger one was still being leaned on by Fleta) and quickly pulled up the flagged posts, scrolling to four minutes ago. Location: Tokyo, yep, showing a blur of a mech in motion, and, oh frag, no one he knew had that kind of bright yellow plating other than Bumblebee, who was standing next to him and chirping a worried string of binary. Ratchet quickly reset his language pack to bring it to Fleta's attention but Optimus beat him to it.
“Fleta,” Optimus said, gentle but firm, “do you recognize this mech?”
Fleta glanced up and stiffened. “That looks like Dexter. And that bit of red… could be Mega Ambler. Our medic. This image, was it…”
“This was posted from a location in Tokyo five minutes ago.” Optimus turned to Ratchet. “Prepare the ground bridge, please. Smokescreen, Arcee, please go with Ratchet to retrieve these mechs. Fleta, would you like to come along? Your teammates might be quicker to trust us if you are there as well.”
Fleta shook his head, analyzing the image. “I have a flying alt, I would not be able to blend in. Dexter has a drill, he and Mega Ambler probably went down into the ground.”
Great, a tunneler underneath an enormous urban landscape. “I think I could create a distraction for Arcee and Smokescreen to get in the tunnels without interference if they did dig down.” Ratchet punched in the code for a parking garage near the location of the image. “Fleta, stay with Blue Cop and comm me immediately if anything seems off.”
Fleta nodded and straightened fully. “Thank you. Thank you all. For taking us in with such kindness.”
A smile barely brushed Optimus’ optics. “Of course. We would never refuse assistance to someone in need.”
“Don’t thank us yet,” Ratchet grumbled as he pushed down the ground bridge handle. “We’ve gotta get your friends out of Tokyo first. As easily as with you and Blue Cop, if Primus is looking favorably on us today.”