Rating: M
Chapter 8
When the hybrids came in for their
classes Monday morning, they noticed right away that something was
off. Optimus was still smiling and being kind to them, but when
Sentinel spoke, he was promptly ignored by the secretary. And it was
only Sentinel, they noticed, that was getting this treatment, because
Optimus was quick to respond to Jazz's greeting and chatted easily
with Rodimus on the way back to his desk.
“Now, I believe we are continuing on
with Language today. If you'd so kindly take out your datapads-”
“....U-uncle Optimus....,” Jetstorm
interrupted nervously.
“Yes, Jetstorm? Is anything the
matter?”
“Umm.... well....”
“I-is mad at Uncle S-sentinel you
are?,” Jetfire asked.
The german shepherd shuttered his
optics, turning to his computer for a moment. “We are having a sort
of disagreement at the moment, yes. Something that he's done which
has greatly insulted me, but he is unaware of it, nor does it seem
likely that he would apologize even if he was. But,” he said,
turning back and smiling at the younglings. “That is nothing you
need concern yourself with. Just silly adult affairs. Now, let us
continue with your studies.”
Despite what Optimus said, Jetfire and
Jetstorm were still worried. They had never seen the secretary so
upset with the other autodog and their sparks pulsed in confusion.
They didn't want their little family to be torn apart! With such
fears filling their processors, the hybrids knew that there was no
way they could possibly focus on their lessons today. Fiddling with
their datapads some, the twins debated on their next course of
action.
Noticing that Jetfire and Jetstorm were
no longer paying attention to him, after he had already begun
talking, Optimus sighed; setting aside his lesson plan. “I'm
sorry,” he sincerely apologized. “I didn't wish to make you
worried, but it seems that's already so. I doubt we'll get much done
today anyways.... so is there something else you'd like to do while
you're with me?”
“O-oh, yes!”
Jetfire put aside his datapad, inching
closer to the german shepherd. “Uncle Optimus, is way learning to
of basic medical skills?”
“Umm.... well,” Optimus replied
slowly, thrown off by the unexpected inquiry. “There is yes. You
can take a standard CPR course, which teaches you the basics of first
aid, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and the Heimlich. It's usually a
short course -nothing less than a week and nothing more than a month-
and at the end of it you receive a license stating that you have
acquired these skills. Most days, you need such a certification to
get a job, especially if you're in charge of watching over a small
group of 'bots. The hospitals usually offer these courses for a small
fee, but I'm sure if you're interested in learning these things, we
can get a vet like Ratchet to come and teach you.”
The sound of the course, which had been
a spur of the moment question, greatly intrigued the hybrids now;
their tails set a-wagging when the autodog mentioned their favourite
mech. “Uncle Optimus, knowing is Ratchet?!,” they exclaimed
excitedly.
“Huh? W-well, yes..... Ratchet is
very famous for the work he has done, and though he has the aptitude
enough, refuses to be promoted to Head of the hospital,” the german
shepherd shared with his young students. “I believe it's because
the vet enjoys working with his patients.... even if he does mostly
grumble about it. But in either case, yes, I know him. To most of the
'bots within this immediate area, Ratchet has been like a family
physician. He already knows all our medical history and he's treated
each of us over the years, so he's the one we usually go to when we
need a check-up.”
The twins were beaming at this
revelation. “Is lucky you are,” Jetfire said.
“Ratchet, sir, greatest is!,” his
brother purred proudly.
“Yes, yes he is,” Optimus chuckled
lightly; the first real smile they'd seen all orn showing up on their
tutor's faceplates. “I'm guessing that Perceptor took you to meet
him as well for your check-up?”
Two helms nodded back at his question.
“Uncle Optimus?,” they chirped, shuffling closer to the
secretary. “Tell of us more, please? Wanting know we are.”
The german shepherd welcomed their
closeness, scratching the hybrids' behind their ears. “More?,” he
enquired. “You mean about Ratchet?”
“Mhmm.....,” came back two, pleased
purrs.
Optimus smiled softly. Honestly, the
twins' curiosity was so refreshing. “Well, alright. I'll tell you
as much as I know,” the autodog agreed, to the delight of his two
charges. “But you must sit still and listen, okay?”
“Okie for dokie!” Jetfire and
Jetstorm settled back into their seats, bringing legs to their
chassis and hugging themselves with anticipation. Seeing that they
were ready, the older mech made himself comfortable as well.
“Alright then,” Optimus began. “As
far as I can remember, Ratchet had always been very good at medicine.
He picked up a medical datapad when he was a sparkling and was
promptly fascinated..... or so the nurses say. From there onwards, it
wasn't hard to believe that Ratchet was going to be a vet. He studied
hard in all his classes, and was accepted two years before his high
school graduation into the Academy's prestigious medical
program.....”
xxXxXxx
Jazz watched as Optimus walked off,
with the jettwins trailing behind him, seeming for all the world as
if the german shepherd should have been stomping away. Confused, the
dalmatian turned to the other security guard standing beside him.
“What the slag did ya do to piss OP off?”
Sentinel stiffened at the accusation,
looking at the smaller autodog with narrowed optics. “What makes
you think that I'm the one at fault here?! I haven't done slag! The
bornling was the one to up and decide he's gonna ignore me.”
“Uh-huh.....sure,” Jazz replied,
crossing his arms over his chassis. “And I'm to believe ya didn't
provoke this response whatsoever?”
“What are you saying?,” the
rottweiler growled.
“Ah, gimme a break, SP,” the
security guard sighed in exasperation. “Ya keep doing this lil'
run-around with Optimus, when it's obvious ya have a soft spot for
the mech. Why do ya gotta mess things up between ya two like that?”
Shocked, Sentinel hurried to distance
himself from the dalmatian; circling around the security desk and
distractedly shuffling through the reports there. “You're
delusional Jazz,” he muttered back. “Too much time spent down in
the service tunnels. Gas is glitching your processor.”
Jazz quickly circled the other side of
the desk, leaning over and into his superior's face. Sentinel
startled at the unexpected action, leaning back with a growl. “Don't
ya tell me that I'm delusional! Mech, I've been watching ya and
Optimus dance around each other for the past few stellar cycles,
almost afraid like, as if one of ya was about to make the wrong move.
By the pit, I could feel the tension between ya two the first orn I
started! Sure as slag surprised me when I found out later that ya
weren't actually in a relationship of any sort.....”
“Didn't your creator ever tell you
things about 'not judging a book by its cover' or something?,”
Sentinel shot back defensively. “And why the frag does my private
life have anything to do with you?!”
The dalmatian didn't know who he wanted
to hit more: himself or Sentinel. Because any physical aggression
towards the rottweiler would no doubt end with the security guard
pummeled or out of a job (possibly even both), Jazz settled for
smacking himself in the forehead. “Ya're kiddin'..... please, for
the love of Primus, tell me that ya're jokin'.....” The black and
white mech fixed the other with a stern gaze, visor flashing with his
anger.
“So maybe I don't have a right to
pry. Yer business is yer own,” the smaller autodog agreed. “But
when yer hard-helmed stubbornness threatens to destroy a life-long
friendship and break two of my friends' sparks, I got a right to say
something. And yes, I know that ya and Optimus are whatcha call
'childhood friends.'”
It was almost funny to watch the
rottweiler's grey visage blanch further, optics flaring anxiously.
Jazz was honestly curious to see how Sentinel would react.
Surprisingly, the taller autodog did neither of the things the
dalmatian half expected him to do; which essentially was a list
involving his superior throwing a fit, hitting him or otherwise
blushing and/or confirming his feelings for Optimus in another
discrediting motion. What Sentinel did in fact, was the last thing
the security guard would have thought the big mech capable of.
Simply put, Sentinel denied the entire
conversation had just happened.
Expression going neutral once again,
the rottweiler rose to his pedes, grabbing his stack of datapads.
“It's time for rotation. Man the front here Jazz while I go and
check the hallways. I'll relieve you for lunch half after.”
Gaping, Jazz watched as his superior
turned and started heading down the hall; not a word spoken in
reference to the scolding he had just received from his more
easy-going co-worker. “Aw.... c'mon!,” the dalmatian shouted,
finally regaining function of his vocalizer. “Ya can't be serious?
Sentinel, mech, don't be such a glitch!”
Jazz cried out in frustration as he was
dutifully ignored, despite having insulted the blue mech. “Fine,
whatever! Pretend like ya don't actually care! But ya better
apologize to him, Sentinel! Optimus deserves that much!!”
Sentinel rounded the corner, still
having yet to respond to the other autodog's yelling. Huffing
irritably, Jazz plopped down into the desk's chair, resigned to his
post for the rest of the orn.
xxXxXxx
It was quiet in the lab, just as it
usually was. Respectively, Wheeljack padded further into the room,
doing his best not to make too much noise. All the same, his
pedefalls were loud enough that the other autodog working was well
aware of the engineer's entrance. “Good afternoon, Wheeljack,”
Perceptor spoke up. He remained glued to his screen for a few
astroseconds longer, typing in the tail end of one of his numerous
calculations.
Wheeljack waited patiently,
understanding the delicate nature of these formulas and not wanting
to risk even one variable being mistyped. Only when the border collie
had finished and turned to face him did the engineer speak. “Hello
Perceptor. Been keeping busy?”
Perceptor cocked his helm slightly at
the bizarre question. “I have many assignments. My position as lead
scientist depicts that such a heavy schedule I will have. Why do you
ask?”
“Well, uh.....,” Wheeljack smiled
wryly at the smaller mech's confusion. “Just making light
conversation. How goes that work for the Space Bridge department?”
He walked closer, until he was standing next to Perceptor.
“It's been finished,” the border
collie answered. He got up, shuffling through the stack of datapads
by his console delicately. “They should begin updates on their main
systems this week. My main objective now is to produce a reformatted
conversion formula for the Fusion Inc. company.”
“A commission, huh?,” the bulldog
whistled in awe. “It's not often that you get those. Usually you're
just doing work for the other departments or independent projects.
And for such a big company..... you ever get the mech's name?”
Perceptor inclined his helm in
gratitude as Wheeljack offered to take his things. Loading up the
engineer's arms with his datapads and science texts, the border
collie responded to his friend's inquiry. “No, but a meeting is
scheduled for the next orn. He wishes to introduce himself, as well
as bring in some further requests to his commission. Also, the
schematics for his company's own production procedure shall be given
to me then, so I may have a base to work from.”
“That's a lot for you to do....,”
Wheeljack noted. His optics lit up with a smile, helm fins flashing
in his merriment. “Aww, I'm real proud of you Perceptor! Who would
have guessed that you'd accomplish so much..... and only at thirty
stellar cycles! Truly, you are unmatched!”
The scientist shuttered his optics
behind his glasses, stalling a moment in his actions. It seemed as if
he didn't know what to do with himself at the bulldog's sudden
praise. After a long klik, the smaller autodog jolted back into
motion, collecting a few other things before turning to the door.
Wheeljack followed at his heels devotedly. “Compliments are
unnecessary,” Perceptor said. “It is merely my job- I do as is
required of me. Various circumstances position me in a place of high
demand; such a case can be easily corrected should another exceed my
own limitations.”
Wheeljack shook his helm behind the
border collie. Perceptor always had a habit of humbling himself, even
using logic as his basis. It was forever adorable and somewhat
infuriating at the same time. “All the same, can we expect a nice
vacation after you're done this newest project? We are getting
awfully close to the twins' creation day,” the bulldog pointed out.
“I know they'd be ecstatic to have your undivided attention, even
if it was just for a week.”
Perceptor mulled it over, black ears
going rigid with his contemplation. The engineer tried not to look at
them too long, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the floor and his
pedes, to hopefully lessen the risk of tripping foolishly. He still
couldn't get those lovely appendages out of his processor though.....
“Proposition valid,” the scientist
eventually answered. “If work proceeds uninterrupted, there shall
be time enough in the schedule to allow for a small reprieve between
tasks.”
“Glad to hear it!” Wheeljack wagged
his tail excitedly, lifting his helm again in his joy. “If there's
anything you need -any assistance or the like- please don't hesitate
to ask! You shouldn't have to spend longer than what is required on
this formula anyways, and I'll do anything you want if it'll mean you
get to take a break faster.”
“Thank you,” was all Perceptor
said. It was enough to keep the bulldog's tail wagging for the rest
of the evening.
xxXxXxx
“So, how was your meeting with
Wheeljack?”
Ratchet looked up at his assistance,
before shaking his helm and turning back to his datapad.
“Gruelling....,” the labrador grumbled. “I just don't
understand young 'bots these days. Doing stupid, half-bolted
things....”
First Aid giggled lightly, stacking his
files together neatly on the older vet's desk. “Well, that's love,
is it not sir? It makes everyone act a little foolishly.”
The other autodog snorted, tossing his
datapad onto his desk top. His assistant immediately took it, placing
it neatly with its brethren. “Love. Yes, because Cybertron could
use some more morons running around, gun-ho on the notion that they
are madly and deeply in love...... Tell me, how do you even know so
much about Perceptor and Wheeljack?,” Ratchet asked, eyeing the
australian shepherd suspiciously.
The smaller vet merely smiled
innocently. “Nurses,” he answered, to the chagrin of the older
mech.
“You've been hanging around with
those nurses too much.....”
First Aid shrugged. “All the same,
sir, Wheeljack and Perceptor have been very important subjects of
discussion. If not because of how well-known they are, then because
of the few 'bots who still remember their first trip to this
hospital. It's really such a shame that they have not bonded after
all this time..... even though it is more than obvious that Wheeljack
loves Perceptor.”
The labrador sighed, grouching further
under his intakes as he rubbed at his forehead. “First Aid.....
make me a cup of oil, would you?,” the vet asked.
“Of course, sir. Right away, sir!,”
the younger autodog chirped joyfully. Ratchet offlined his optics,
trying to rub his impeding processor-ache down to the bare minimum,
as he listened to the australian shepherd scurry to the back of the
room; clicking and clanging softly as the other mech set about making
his superior his requested oil. “I suppose your meeting with
Wheeljack had something to do with his suppressed feelings, sir?,”
First Aid asked.
The vet lowered his servo, leaning back
further in his chair. “I don't see how any answer on that would
benefit your cause, First Aid, let alone decrease the number of
rumours spewing about the hospital. And yes, I am aware of all the
gossip, especially the fact that there is a betting pool going on for
how long Wheeljack and Perceptor will stay as friends before one or
the other does something drastic.”
There was the sound of something
dropping, giving away First Aid's surprise at the unexpected
revelation.
“W-well, umm....”
“But if you must know,” Ratchet
started again, cutting off his assistant's sheepish stuttering, “Yes,
I am talking to Wheeljack about his feelings. Primus knows the pup
needs to speak to someone.....”
Silence, except for the shuffling of
the australian shepherd as he cleaned up his mess. “I'm glad to
hear that, sir,” First Aid replied, after a klik. The small autodog
made his way back to the older vet; a skip in his step and a smile on
his face. He set down the mug of hot oil and a plate of oil biscuits
for the labrador. “And you are correct in what you say. It's not
healthy to keep things bottled up inside for extended periods of
time.”
The other mech merely grunted his
agreement, reaching forward and grabbing the cup. As he drank deeply,
Ratchet made another grab for a lone datapad on his desk; pulling it
to his face and reading the fine print on the screen. Not minding the
quiet that had elapsed between them, First Aid hurried to busy
himself with other tasks that needed to be done -namely, filing away
the recently adjusted medical files. Taking a handful at once, the
australian shepherd crossed the room again, to the line of filing
cabinets situated along the length of the left wall.
“Seems like that over-eager pup
Bulkhead is taking things too far again.....,” the vet grumbled,
returning the datapad back to his desk. “That's three admittances
this week alone. If he doesn't calm the frag down soon, the pup will
really be in here for something serious.”
Ratchet paused in his tirade to grab
one of the biscuits, popping it into his mouth. “Mmmm..... First
Aid, these are spectacular. Where did you get them? And this mug.....
is this new? Such a fine make.....”
“Ummm.... Ratchet, sir?,” the
assistant said uncertainly, turning to face his superior. “Sir,
those were already there on the counter when I went to get you a
drink. Don't you remember? I believe they are both gifts from those
two hybrids.”
It was amazing that the vet didn't drop
his cup in shock. “W-what.....?,” he choked, optics wide with
growing dread. A quick glance to the back counter confirmed the
australian shepherd's story. There now sat two empty boxes, their
shredded wrapping paper sticking out from within the boxes' confines.
“They're really nice gifts, aren't
they though?,” First Aid chirped. “I mean, I don't think anyone
would ever care to put so much time and effort into making me a
special gift like those two did. Especially when it comes to things
you like! I mean, a handsome, sturdy oil mug and a case of your
favourite treats? You sure are being treated nicely, sir.”
First Aid thought to say something
more, but noticing the slightly confused and anxious look Ratchet
wore, the assistant kept quiet; letting the secret die on the tip of
his glossa with a smile. The labrador merely groaned, tossing his
helm back against the helmrest of his chair.
xxXxXxx
“Wow.... you sure work fast.”
Tracks turned to the speaker of the
snide comment, winking at the yorkshire terrier who was coming up to
his side. “Well, of course, love,” the taller autodog replied. “I
do have an audience waiting.” Tracks turned to the lobby windows,
gesturing to the world just beyond the glass. “Can't keep them too
long.”
Rolling his optical sensors, Mirage
shook his helm. “Only you could make the time between interfacing,
changing and going out with another mech both a challenge and an
honor. I retract my earlier comment -you really have no shame.”
The pomeranian chuckled lightly,
pulling out a tube of gloss from his jacket pocket and leaning toward
the closest mirror-covered pillar by the door. “I've got better
things to do,” he said through pursed lip components. Applying a
generous amount of the gloss, Tracks smacked his lip components once,
twice, before blowing a kiss to his own reflection. Smirking at his
own sexiness, he turned to face the other autodog. “You know, they
really should make it a sport. Maybe then I could win some lovely
trophies as well.”
Mirage suppressed the sigh that rose,
crossing his arms over his chestplates.
The yorkie glanced behind him quickly,
but was turning around not an astrosecond after, his cheekplates
lightly tinged pink. Not that Tracks noticed, as busy as the
pomeranian was primping his already perfect appearance. “A-and,”
Mirage cleared his vocalizer anxiously, “Just what are you doing
anyways?”
“Waiting for the limo.”
“Waiting for the limo?”
“Yes,” the multi-coloured mech
elaborated. “Mr. Soundwave sends for a limo to pick me up, and drop
me off back home again every date thus far.”
The smaller autodog was understandably
surprised. “He must be very rich..... This is, what, your fifth
date so far? Not many clients are known to constantly use a stretch
limo as a means of transportation.”
“Oh, he doesn't use it himself,”
Tracks said, straightening up from his intense self-scrutiny. The
pomeranian patted himself down, randomly playing with his jacket's
lining. “The limos are exclusively for myself. The driver just
takes me to where Mr. Soundwave already is for the evening. I'm
certain that the mech has his own car, to get himself around. Maybe a
porsche or a bentley.....”
This time, Mirage really was shocked. A
limousine, just for an escort?! “And?,” he asked, expecting more.
“And what?,” Tracks responded back,
looking equally as perplexed as the yorkie.
“What? That's it? Usually you have
all sorts of things to brag about this time. The gifts he bought you,
how good the interface is......” The yorkie twisted his servo
whimsically as he talked. “That sort of thing.”
“I do no such thing,” the other
autodog sniffed in disdain.
The look the ex-Noble gave him then
could have froze the entirety of Iacon right then and there.
Oblivious as usual, Tracks finished adjusting his collar, glancing
out the window again as he did so. He was just in time to see the
usual sleek, black stretch limo pull up to the condo's curb. “Ah,
looks like my ride's here. Have a goodnight, 'Rajy,” the pomeranian
said, blowing a quick kiss to his still irate companion.
Mirage merely sighed in annoyance,
before turning and walking in the opposite direction. That left
Tracks to head outside by himself. The driver exited out of the
vehicle at the sight of the escort, walking down to the end where the
autodog would sit, and opening the door for him. They exchanged no
words, the two mechs; the pomeranian slipping inside and onto the
leather seats within. The driver closed the door after him, before
then returning to the wheel.
It was quiet as Tracks felt the limo
finally roll into motion.
He stared ahead at the small gift box
sitting on the opposite seat, his servos folded neatly on his lap.
After a moment, and a long hesitant pause, the pomeranian eventually
moved forward and collected the box. His servos were almost trembling
as he slowly undid the ribbon, easing the lid off. Inside, nestled on
a satin bed, was a small crystalline figure of abstract design. It
was tiny, enough to fit into his palm easily, with a glittering, blue
sheen to it. The statue was beautiful, and thoughtful and.....
Soundwave had given him two just like
it at the start of their last two dates.
Tracks put the lid back on the box,
quickly turning his optics to the window.
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