Rating: M
Chapter 1
C.M.D: Back by popular demand!! This is my most recent, popular, currently running fic, inspired by the wonderful Kittycon/Autodog mythos of DA users such as Krazifreak, SallyChan and many more. Seeing as how my holidays weren't as busy as I thought they'd be, I managed to finish editing all chapters and present it again to all my faithful readers for the New Year! Chapter titles were not recoverable, so those won't be included. Not that many people will notice. Originally posted on FF.net, and will be available again on there, as a censored version.
Things to note, I do use an age system, to assist with the passage of time and correlation of events. Full age charts are available on my DA; also, characters do age and will be noted when it becomes important again to the story.
Younglings: 12-18 yrs
Sparklings: 2-11
Age of consent for sex and marriage with guardian consent: 16 yrs
Ratchet wasn't entirely sure why he was
here.
“You really need to start accepting
others,” the vet growled, rubbing at the bridge of his olfactory
sensors. The other 'bot before him, also an autodog, merely shook his
helm; empty, calculative blue optics remaining fixed on Ratchet.
“Unnecessary,” Perceptor answered
in his emotionless vocalizer. As they usually did, the border
collie's ears were perked up in constant attentiveness. They did not
twitch or fold, even as the mech continued his explanation. “No
other autodog qualified.”
“Qualified?,” Ratchet snorted,
grabbing a steaming mug of hot oil off his desk. He took a drink from
the cup, revelling in the feel of the black liquid bringing his
sensors to full capacity. Feeling more active now, the labrador
turned his focus back on Perceptor. “That's a fancy way for saying
that you don't trust any of the other mechs in this whole slagging
department.”
Perceptor did not respond.
Ratchet released a weary intake,
setting his cup down and picking up the datapad that Perceptor had
first brought in with him. He had put it off to the side initially,
intent on refusing the border collie what he wanted -after all, the
autodog would have to eventually come out of his shell. All this
withdrawal and lack of interaction with the others was a hazard to
the scientist's already hectic life. But apparently, Perceptor was
not going to back down on this, and the vet was feeling just a little
too tired to bother fighting with the mech this day.
“They're younglings now, yes?,” the
labrador asked distractedly, pouring over the datapad's contents.
“Correct,” came Perceptor's answer.
Ratchet frowned as he scrolled down the
file. “They haven't had a check-up or shot since they were wee
sparklings? And -wait, what, I was the last 'bot to administer both?!
Perceptor!” The labrador growled at the motionless border collie,
who, to his credit, remained amazingly unmoved by the vet's wrath.
“Just what the slag were you thinking?!,” Ratchet yelled.
“Sparklings require constant scans. They can get infected, break
servos and whatnot, develop viruses -a responsible parent is supposed
to bring them every few months for check-ups.”
Perceptor blinked.
“Why have you waited so long to get
them looked at?,” Ratchet continued, his growl seeping further into
his shout as frustration grew. Perceptor could be so fragging
apathetic sometimes. “What the slag am I to do with a medical
background like this?!”
“Perform all necessary scans and
administer necessary firewalls and binary coding,” was the other
autodog's answer.
There was an audible grinding noise as
Ratchet's jaw snapped shut, denta plating screeching against one
another at the vet's scandalized shock. Perceptor must of have had
some serious cybertronium-steeled back struts to talk to him like
that. Cycling a couple heavy intakes to calm himself down, the
labrador dutifully turned his back on the smaller mech, shuffling
through the rest of his datapads. “Very well, Perceptor,” the
'bot acquiesced. “Bring your sons in; I'll give them the mandatory
scans.”
“I am grateful for your acceptance,”
the border collie replied. The scientist turned on his pede and left
the room quietly. Releasing another exasperated intake, Ratchet
gathered all necessary materials, discarding his mug of oil still
sitting on his desk and exiting his office.
If he was going to do this exam, then
he would need something stronger to keep his systems running fully.
xxXxXxx
Downtown of Iacon was like one giant
plaza. All major facilities were positioned in a hexagonal formation
around city hall -the hospital and medical research department, the
science department, the communications department, the energon
processing plant- with several smaller businesses and a mall thrown
into the mix. Border collie tails wagging merrily, two younglings
stepped out from a small ice cream parlour just beside the hospital;
a cone in each of their servos. Atop of each of their helms, one set
of golden and the other orange kittycon ears twitched with the
passing breeze.
“Nice so, yes brother?,” one asked,
visor lifted to the beautiful blue sky as he licked at his energon
cone.
“Mhmmm,” the other answered, mouth
occupied with his own ice cream. He finished his mouthful before
properly replying to his brother. “Yes, Jetstorm. Nice very being
today. 'Bots outside should be, indoors not.”
The mixed mech identified as Jetstorm
grinned at his twin's -Jetfire- words. He could only agree with his
brother -today was very nice. The weather was moderate for late
spring, just touching on the summer heat, with a warm gentle breeze
drifting by every once in a while to stir lazily about their helms or
knees. The sun was out and there were only a few clouds in the sky;
flat and fluffy, they hovered in the air above, sliding along almost
sluggishly. A perfect day to be out and play, have oneself an energon
goodie or two. Still, despite the distraction, Jetstorm couldn't help
but to wonder....
“Brother, presence making necessary
be inside?,” he asked his twin, lowering his cone as he turned to
Jetfire.
The other mech turned his attention to
his brother. “Meaning I be, Uncle Wheeljack being insistent we stay
the put,” Jetstorm continued, trying to explain his slight worry to
his sibling. Jetfire merely smiled at his twin's words, sidling
closer and grasping the other's free servo.
“Not worry, Jetstorm,” the other
'bot replied. “Not doing the bad are we; just going out. Back we be
shortly.”
The blue hybrid still had some doubts,
but he soon agreed to his brother's train of thought. It wasn't often
that they were allowed outside, especially on their own. Usually they
were stuck indoors for lessons, or granted exit for small outings to
the supermarket or other such necessary facilities. The twins were
hardly ever given the chance to simply hang out at the mall or at the
park. The constant restrictive lifestyle they led could be
excruciatingly wearisome sometimes.....
“Where heading next we be go- oomph!”
Jetstorm was cut off from his next
inquiry as he accidentally slammed into someone, the intakes being
forced from his slight form with the collision. Tripping over his
pedes as he tried to back-pedal, the youngling fell to his aft;
Jetfire attempting to reach out and catch his twin before that
happened, but failing. The hybrid mech rubbed at the pain on his
chassis, lifting his helm to apologize to the other 'bot that he had
bumped into. The words stuttered and then disappeared in a streak of
static in his vocalizer as he saw the hateful expression on the
stranger's faceplates.
“Stupid half-breed!,” the mech
growled, cat ears twisted back on his helm with rage. His red optics
glanced down on the energon ice cream soaking into his shirt, before
snapping back up to Jetstorm. “What, can't you watch where you're
walking?”
Beside the kittycon, his two friends
leered down upon the twins; their sneers menacing and twisted.
“That's disrespect isn't it,” said the 'bot on the left. “Dirty
blooded Pit-spawns like yourselves should be more respectful to your
superiors, dontcha think? Making a mess like this.... You've sullied
his shirt now with your nasty germs, so how do you plan to pay for
it?”
“P-pay?,” Jetfire stuttered in
shock. “I-i don't....”
“If you don't have the credits, there
are certainly other ways for you to pay us back,” the third
kittycon smirked, optics darkening with lust. Their leader -the one
with the energon stain on his shirt- grinned along with his comrade,
reaching forward and pulling Jetstorm to his pedes by the neck of his
sweater.
“I agree....,” the mech rumbled.
The sound was disgusting to hear to the two younglings, who had
finally clued in to what the kittycons were talking about. “Let us
go and find a nice, quiet spot and we can do our....
negotiations..... there.”
“Not we think!,” Jetstorm
protested, pulling against the larger 'bot's hold. “Not be going
with you any of the where.”
The kittycon snarled at the protest,
lifting the hybrid higher, pedes kicking through the air as Jetstorm
tried to return to the ground again. “Let go him!,” Jetfire
shouted, running forward and swinging at the mech. In surprise at the
youngling's ferocity, the kittycon complied to the command..... by
throwing Jetstorm into his approaching twin. The both of them fell to
the ground, skinning knee and elbow joints in the process. Laughing
cruelly, the kittycons watched as the twins struggled to quickly rise
to their pedes again, disentangling themselves from the other.
“'Let go him'?,” one of the 'bots
taunted. “What, can't you speak proper cybertronian or something?
What kind of malfunction do you have?”
“Listen,” the leader started again,
ignoring his chortling comrades, “It doesn't have to be this way.
Just be good little femmes and follow us. We promise it'll be a good
time..... More than what you half-breeds deserve.”
“No,” Jetstorm and Jetfire answered
simultaneously. They glared at the kittycons, feeling disgusted,
enraged and confused, all at once. Disgusted because the big oafs
were under the presumption that the younglings would willingly follow
them anywhere, where they would more than likely be beaten and then
forced into a unwilling interface after. Acting as if by doing all
this, they were performing a charity to the twins. They were enraged
because people always seemed to look at them strangely when they were
outside -averting obvious glances or ignoring their presence
altogether. Sometimes though, people were just a little mean to them,
and without reason it always seemed. Today though had to be the first
time anyone was so verbally insulting to them, calling them
half-breeds and being quite cruel. And they were confused too,
because..... well.....
The kittycons stepped closer, and the
twins fell into a defensive stance. They knew that as respectful
citizens it would be proper for them to simply turn and leave, but
with the other mechs being so persistent it was unlikely they would
be allowed to walk away peacefully. As the thugs took another step
forward, Jetstorm and Jetfire glanced at each other, sharing a silent
message with their optics. Fists clenching, they waited for the
moment when the looming 'bots would be just a little closer; enough
for their servos to reach out and-
“Oww!”
The twins jumped at the head kittycon's
shout, watching stunned as the mech stumbled forward a little bit,
grasping his helm between his servos. His ears were flattened against
his helm, and as he regained his balance, instead of turning to face
the younglings, he turned and looked behind him -to the old autodog
standing behind the trio, a frown on his faceplates. In one servo was
a heavy medical datapad, which had obviously been the object that had
caused the kittycon pain from the way that the labrador held it. In
the autodog's other servo was a large cup of oil, hot and fresh from
the nearby PawBucks.
“If you know what's good for you,”
the stranger growled, “the three of you will scatter, before I
decide to perform some..... necessary..... medical amputations.
Without morphine.”
The kittycons' tails bristled at the
subtle threat, but their faceplates paled considerably at the thought
of what the irate vet might do to them. Gathering themselves quickly,
muttering threats and possible half-sparked apologies under their
intakes, the mechs quickly dashed off; soon disappearing out of sight
altogether. Jetfire and Jetstorm -still stunned by the sudden
intervention- could only blink at the kittycons' departure, hardly
noticing the old labrador approaching them. They eventually snapped
out of their trance, when the autodog waved a servo before their
optics, drawing the twins' attention.
“Hmph,” the labrador sniffed as the
younglings looked up at him. “Well, at least you're fully
functional. If I may, I suggest that both you ladies head on home
now. No need to have another run-in with those overcharged mechs.”
His piece said, the stranger turned about on his pede, walking off
and towards the hospital from whence he had first come from.
Jetfire and Jetstorm continued to
remain where they were standing, fully baffled now. Slowly, their
cheekplates began to heat up; sparks spinning erratically in their
chassis as their fuel tanks sputtered in strange, quirky patterns.
They both turned to face each other, noticing the blush evident on
the other's faceplates. “B-brother, you....?,” Jetfire asked.
“Y-yes,” Jetstorm answered, not
needing to hear the rest of his twin's question to understand what
was being asked. After all, he could feel it too....
That slow-enacting emotional
programming that was the prequel to a crush. Stupid really, their
logistics argued, considering the chances of them ever meeting the
autodog again were awfully slim. All the same, that had to be the
first time that anyone -aside from their family and tutors- had
looked at them, like, really looked, and treated them as if
they were a person as well; without disgust, scorn or any other
similar, negative emotions on their faceplates. And the mech had been
so gracious as to defend the younglings as well against those
thuggish kittycons..... though the act was not really necessary. The
twins were quite capable of handling their own in a fight. Still,
such treatment..... they had never received such before, and Jetstorm
and Jetfire couldn't help the oncoming crush that arose from the
mysterious vet's chivalrous deeds. They were quick to overlook the
fact that the autodog was older than their own creator and obviously
a bit of a grouch as well, focusing on his rugged, tempered good
looks and fortitude.
“He..... he was.....,” Jetstorm
swooned, cupping his servos to his chassis.
“Oh, not be gotting his name
though!,” Jetfire bemoaned, still blushing as he thought about the
labrador. Jetstorm noticed this as well and quickly became subdued as
well. It was only by perchance that he glanced at the watch about his
wrist, noting what time it was.
“Ah! Brother, must back we go to
Uncle Wheeljack!,” the blue hybrid exclaimed, waving his arm before
his twin. “Late it being, late really! Worried they be will if not
we hurry.”
The orange 'bot managed to finally
glance at the hands displayed on his brother's watch and felt his own
ears perk in surprise. It really was late! They had taken much longer
than either had anticipated, what with those kittycons trying to
start some trouble, and now they were super late returning to their
engineer babysitter. No doubt they would be getting a stern lecture
for this. Moving quickly, the twins turned about and began running
back to the science building, from which they had first come from.
Only when they were within sight of the
building did Jetstorm turn his helm to his brother, and ask the
question that had been on both of their processors since the fiasco
with those brutish kittycons, “Why all 'bots femmes are the
believing we be?”
xxXxXxx
“What's taking them so long?”
Sitting in the only chair in the
examination room, Wheeljack attempted to speak up, but the irate
labrador's pacing shut him up real quick; the bulldog shifting his
gaze off to the side when Ratchet's optics landed on him. “I was
under the assumption that Perceptor was a stickler for punctuality,”
the vet growled, turning about on his pede again and starting another
revolution.
“Well, he is,” Wheeljack replied.
“But, I mean.... the twins, well they've got..... this, ummm, habit
you know, of, well.... sneaking..... off.”
“Why doesn't that surprise me?,”
Ratchet grumbled to the air, pacing back and forth. His optics fell
on the meek engineer, frown pulling at old lip components. “And you
had trouble keeping an optic out on two full-grown boys?”
“C'mon, Ratchet! Give a mech a
break,” Wheeljack groaned. “They're wily, those two. They've got
all of Perceptor's genius pretty much; none of his introversion. Bad,
bad, bad combo.....”
The labrador rolled his optics at the
excuse, increasing the speed of his pacing. “I worry about
him....,” the vet began. Wheeljack's ears perked at the soft-spoken
words, the bulldog's attention fixing entirely on the other autodog.
“You know how Percy is, Ratchet,”
the engineer mumbled back. “He's fine as long as he's got his
projects and his sons. Doesn't need much else.....”
“That's not true, Wheeljack, and you
know it,” Ratchet replied, coming to a pause once again. “I know
I've let many things slide over the years, but I just can't let this
continue. I may not have known the both of you before the night of
the twins' birth, but even I can tell when a 'bot has self-mutilated
themselves.”
“S-self mutilation....?!,”
Wheeljack gasped, staring at Ratchet in shock. The labrador turned to
the sitting bulldog, lip components pursed seriously.
“Mutilation doesn't just represent
itself in physical harm, Wheeljack. Any damage done to the processor
or inner circuitry as a direct will of a 'bot, going against one's
natural coding, is considered mutilation. Can you really sit there
and tell met that Perceptor was always so detached and withdrawn from
everything around him?”
Wheeljack dropped his gaze to the
floor, staring at the space between his pedes. Ratchet's explanation
had been clear and precise, and even the engineer was hard-pressed
not to admit that Perceptor's personality was incorrect coding; but
to confess that out loud..... “There's just some things I can't
say, Ratchet. You know that.”
Ratchet sighed at the evasive response,
shoulders slumping with defeat. “I do, Wheeljack. I do. I just want
to be able to help you both better,” the vet said softly. “I
can't do anything if I don't understand the whole picture. And
you.... don't tell me that this self-destructive behaviour of
Perceptor's isn't affecting you either.”
The bulldog didn't respond this time.
Frowning again, Ratchet began his
pacing for a third time. He was pulled out of his rhythm when the
door to the examination room finally opened; turning to it in time to
see Perceptor walk in. “Took you long enough,” Ratchet growled.
“I'm off-duty, Perceptor, the least you can do is keep appointments
you feel the need to harass me f-”
The labrador cut himself off as two
other 'bots followed the scientist into the room, optics widening
slightly in surprise at the two 'femmes' he had run into earlier.
“.....these are your sons?,” the vet asked, keeping his voice
neutral, crossing his arms across his chassis.
“Yes. We apologize for our lateness,”
Perceptor said. “There were come complications during our arrival
here.”
“Fine,” Ratchet replied, dutifully
keeping his optics off of the twins standing behind their creator
still. “You can sit in my office until the examination is over
then. Feel free to ask the front desk for some oil and the like.”
At the dismissal, the border collie
inclined his head slightly, turning to both of his sons. Ratchet
peered out of the corner of his optic as he turned around and
shuffled through the datapads sitting on the counter; watching as
Perceptor patted each of his younglings' helms before kissing them
each on the forehead. It was almost humorous to watch -the two mechs,
nearly as tall as their creator, received the awkward affection with
welcome; while the scientist seemed utterly perplexed and
uncomfortable with his actions, in that apathetic manner that
Perceptor did everything with. Ratchet quickly looked away when
Perceptor made to draw back, listening as both border collie and
bulldog exited the room, door closing behind them as they left.
Waiting a few astroseconds longer,
Ratchet finally turned around and faced the younglings standing
almost uncertainly at the doorway, feeling a frown pull at his lip
components. “I must apologize,” the vet started. “For
earlier.....,” he elaborated, when the twins blinked in confusion.
“I meant no insult, calling you femmes. I wasn't aware that you
were Perceptor's sons.”
“Oh,” both younglings said. Ratchet
blinked, frown growing a little more as he waited for them to say
something more. The younger 'bots seemed to realize this because they
glanced at each other, towards the vet, and then to the floor. “W-we
confused are for mistake..... but the sorries we be accepting from
you.”
Oh, they were confused? Ratchet lifted
an optic ridge, looking the twins over. The clothes they were
wearing, though sweaters and capris, were obviously of femme style
and accentuated their frames' curves. Were they really not aware of
how they appeared? Shaking his helm, the labrador decided to push
that train of thought aside and get back to the task at hand. “It's
been a long time since your last check-up, so there's a lot of scans
and coding that needs to be done,” Ratchet began, switching over
into professional mode. “We'll start with the easy stuff first. Hop
onto the berth please.”
Pulling standard medical devices out of
the drawer, Ratchet picked up the otoscope, turning to watch as the
twins hurriedly climbed onto the examination table; settling servos
in their laps and sitting up straight with attentiveness. “Jetfire
and Jetstorm, right?,” Ratchet asked, glancing at the younglings'
medical datapad before approaching the berth himself.
“Yes,” they answered together. “I
Jetfire,” the orange 'bot said. “And being Jetstorm I,” the
blue one added. The labrador nodded his head in acknowledgement, not
bothering to question the oddity of their speech patterns. If that
was the only strange thing they had developed under Perceptor's
rearing, then there was nothing really for him to be concerned about.
“Name's Ratchet, kids. Though I'm
sure Percpetor's already informed you of that. You're hybrids, aren't
ya?,” the vet said, gently grasping Jetstorm's ear and putting the
otoscope into the furry appendage. The youngling squirmed a little,
but otherwise did not protest to the action. “I can recognize the
border collie tails, but your ears are distinctly not of the same
type associated with that breed. The possibility of other autodog
genetics are slim..... the shape and fur are much too unalike. I
would assume Kittycon CNA in that case.”
Ratchet, satisfied, pulled away and
went to check Jetfire's ears. He paused, when he noticed how tense
the twins had gotten. “Don't be like that now.....,” the autodog
began. “I'm not gonna judge you. These days it's not uncommon to
find interspecies bondmates, and I've never made it a habit to form
opinions about 'bots I hardly even know. I'm a vet..... there's no
room for such silly prejudice in the work I do. I'm just making an
observation. I suppose that's why your creator finds it necessary to
keep a constant optic on you. Not many others have adjusted to this
modern change.... and I know a lot more are outright hateful to a
'bot bearing mixed heritage. Like those punks earlier today.”
“Making sense.... that what you
saying,” Jetstorm mumbled softly. “Y-you not minding really?,”
his brother asked, jolting against the otoscope as he tried to look
at Ratchet. The vet frowned, putting the medical instrument aside.
“No, I don't. Now would you just sit
still and let me conduct your scans? The sooner we're done, the
sooner your creator can have you back.” Appeased with the
younglings' obedience, the labrador turned to the rest of his tools;
mentally listing the number of things he had to do before they were
finished. Honestly, what had Wheeljack been talking about? The twins
were very well-mannered and behaved for their age.
Jetfire and Jetstorm could feel their
cheekplates heating up, and tried their very best to hide the rising
blush.
This had to be Fate.
Primus, the chances of meeting the mech
that they had fallen for again were slim to none. And yet, who else
should be the vet to give them check-ups than the very autodog that
had valiantly saved them earlier that joor! It had been near
impossible to cover their surprise when they entered the room; harder
still to hide their excitement and nervousness, now that they were
alone with the labrador. Ratchet, they had to remind themselves, the
autodog's name was Ratchet. And he didn't care that they were hybrids
either! Such information made their sparks pulse in large, happy
swells.
Not knowing what else to say, and quite
content to simply bask in the vet's presence, Jetfire and Jetstorm
remained silent as Ratchet went about his tasks; obediently following
through each of the autodog's requests willingly. Through their bond
-a typical development between twins- they chattered gaily.
'So handsome, he not is, brother?,'
Jetstorm sent over, visor fixated on Ratchet dreamily as he attended
to Jetfire. The orange youngling had his sweater off, baring his
chassis to the vet, who was at the moment intently studying the
catches and seams precedent to the hybrid's spark casing.
'Yes.... And servos gentle much,'
Jetfire practically purred back as Ratchet's servos lighted on his
chassis, fingers stroking into the seams. Jetstorm felt a little
envious of his twin, but quickly squashed such negative feelings when
he felt phantasmal touches brushing along his own still covered
chassis.
'He check spark, brother?'
They had not really been listening as
Ratchet explained all the medical procedures he'd be running them
through. 'Suppose yes, brother,' the orange mech replied.
Jetfire couldn't suppress the giggles that rose as the vet attached a
series of tiny cables around the outside of his spark chamber.
'T-tickles does....'
'D-does!,' Jetstorm laughed
back, as Ratchet approached him and put him through the same
procedure. He could feel his spark swell exceptionally as those
skilled servos brushed along his metal flesh, lost in simulations of
being swept into those arms; having his ears and tails stroked by
talented fingers, while Ratchet placed kisses on his lip components.
He was almost startled to hear the labrador speak up again,
interrupting his day-dreaming.
“Alright, well your sparks seem to be
in good shape. A little erratic.... but nerves have a tendency of
doing that,” Ratchet said, removing the sensors from Jetstorm's
chassis. “We're almost done. If you'd be so kind to remove your
pants and bend over the side of the berth please -I'll take a look at
your interface equipment.”
Jetfire himself slid off the
examination table without a second thought at the instruction,
fingers already pulling at the belt buckle of his capris. It took him
a nanoklik to notice the heavy-like nauseous feeling in the pit of
his fuel tanks, before he was turning to his focus to his brother;
noticing the pale, frightened look on his twin's faceplates.
“Brother?,” the orange youngling asked, stepping closer to
Jetstorm.
Jetstorm flinched at his approach,
before pulling Jetfire close and burying his helm in the other's neck
cables. Ratchet, having turned away for a moment to put away the rest
of his tools, turned back towards the hybrids to find both of them
still fully clothed. “What's the problem now? C'mon, the faster
your do this, the faster we can get out of here.”
“No!,” Jetstorm cried from
Jetfire's shoulder plating. Jetfire tried to calm his distraught
twin, but he could feel the blue mech's own fear and anxiety seeping
into his own spark, making him suddenly just as jittery. His servos
tightened around his brother's form, the both of them shrinking away
from Ratchet.
“W-we not wanting that do,” Jetfire
stammered, hiding his faceplates from the suddenly silent vet.
“P-please m-making us do not.”
Ratchet sighed, trading the instruments
in his servos for the needle on the counter. He understood when the
twins flinched as he approached again, but it did not lessen the
frown he wore all the same. “Don't worry, this is just a shot,”
he explained, pushing back Jetfire's sleeve and injecting the needle.
“Basic nanobots to increase your system's defense coding. I won't
force you to show me your interface equipment -considering it's been
so long since your last check-up, it's not all that surprising that
you're scared. Next time though, I hope you'll be just a little more
braver and can trust me.”
He finished by giving the same shot to
Jetstorm, before retreating from the younglings' side. “Alright,
I'm just going to collect your creator. Feel free to join us when
you're ready.” Scooping up the twins' recently adjusted medical
datapad, the labrador exited the room, leaving Jetfire and Jetstorm
still sitting curled up inside.
“Brother?,” Jetfire prompted again,
once they were alone.
Jetstorm shifted, but did not emerge
from his spot. For a while, the orange mech simply stroked his
brother's ears; waiting for the moment when his twin would have
calmed down enough to respond to him. Jetstorm eventually lifted his
helm, wiping away the coolant that had started to pool about his
visor. He kissed Jetfire on the mouth, trying to assure his brother,
though the other hybrid could still feel his fear over their bond.
The blue mech could tell that Jetfire was waiting for him to answer,
and he sighed, preparing to reply to his brother's silent probing.
“I-i..... Not handling see him
t-that,” Jetstorm whispered in explanation. “H-he of the disgust
being me think seeing of o-our broken seals.”
“J-jetstorm?,” Jetfire asked. He
was slightly puzzled. As twins, born from the same spark, it was not
uncommon that they participated in everything together. Even when
their first heat cycle had come, they had partaken in interfacing
with each other; not concerned about the seals of their interface
equipment, having not fully understood the suggestive importance
placed upon them by the rest of society. There had never been any
shyness or uncertainty when it came to being bare before others,
especially between themselves, so the orange mech was having a
difficult time understanding his brother's evasiveness to Ratchet's
inspection.
Wouldn't baring the innermost important
parts of their circuitry to the mech of their sparks be a good thing?
Words obviously could not describe what
Jetstorm was feeling, so he shoved all his thoughts and emotions
across their bond, and watched as Jetfire's face became pale and
withdrawn as well. The other hybrid lowered his optics, cheekplates
burning with shame. It all made sense now..... As younglings, they
were meant to be untouched, and as contained as they were, that would
be the popular assumption. Even though Ratchet had been accepting of
their mixed heritage, no doubt he would be disgusted and as well as
repulsed by the sight of their broken seals. No mech would want a
half-breed as ruined as they were.
“.....n-not give still up the hope,”
Jetfire murmured, lifting his optics resolutely and catching his
twin's gaze. Jetstorm stared back, stunned. Slowly though, a small
smile tugged at his lip components.
“Saying so, brother,” the blue
youngling said, “Then hope keeping I do. Not wish the giving up of
Ratchet sir yet just.” Happier now, he nuzzled the other mech,
purring when his twin returned the affection. “Let now go us find
mommy.”
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