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The first thing she noticed was burning in her right shoulder, and then the smell of burning metal. A scream escaped her intake, though it was rasped. Her optics finally turned on, revealing the bright, sterile room she was in. Her blue optics flickered to her shoulder and arm. Well, what should've been her arm, instead it was a mess of wires and clamped tubing. ‘Omega Supreme!’
She turned over onto her left side, only to be grabbed and pulled onto her spinal strut. An overhead light swung softly, casting a shadow on the figures face as both of their servos held her down. They flicked their welding shield up, tealish optics staring down at her.
“Arcee, calm down. Let me disable your pain sensors.” He reached over to the back of her helm, only for her to turn it, bite his servo, angle her frame and kick him away. He crashed into his equipment with a swear, and she ran off the medical slab.
The entire room was piled high with equipment and beds and data pads. Wires matted the floor, making it almost impossible for her to make it to the double sliding doors. Almost. They slid open, revealing an even brighter hallway with white, matte metal walls with a blue line in the middle. She found her legs again and ran. The Decepticons couldn't have gotten her, could they? The concrete floors thumped with every step. Where? Where? She turned left, then right and then right again only to be met with another set of doors. She pressed the keypad, pounding a weak fist against it. It buzzed in denial.
“PLEASE!” Pede steps rang close. Arcee turned, faceplate to faceplate with three over bots: one pink, one green, and one mostly white. She was on her in a klick. It didn't matter how much Arcee tried pushing her away with her only remaining arm or attempted to bite, the older femme had her pinned down–even her legs.
“Arcee, please, look at me,” her familiar voice rang out. “You know me. Please.” It was soft and stern all at the same time.
Only then did she allow herself to finally look at the people around her. Fluids welled in her optics at the sight. She choked out the name, almost in prayer, “Elita. Is–is it really you?” She strained at the end.
She looked so much older now, with grooves in her faceplate from making so many expressions over so long. Her optics had dulled but were still their perfect shape. The metal paint that once coated her derma had faded to the faintest trace of blue-grey. A single, deep scratch cut through the metal right below her left optic; despite all these new changes, it was still Elita. Her close-knit EM field proved it.
“Yes.” Her grip relaxed, gently pulling away and to the side so that her next request could be complete, “Now, let's get you standing and have Ratchet finish fixing your arm. We'll talk about all that you've missed after.” Softness, that's all that Arcee could describe herself feeling towards the older femme.
Arcee found herself being lifted up by Springer with Elita-1's arms wrapped around her to keep her supported. The small group wandered through the concrete and metal hallways, each almost the same as the last with only the colored stripes changing. Red, green, purple, darker red, and finally blue. There above the door was a hanging sign that read, “MEDIC,” in bold letters. Ratchet opened the sliding doors once more, taking Arcee from Elita and setting her onto the slab, almost as if she was some fragile art piece of glass. Springer paused at the door, his large frame hunched over in on itself while his faceplate had been twisted with an expression she couldn't make up. Every fiber and atom of her being wanted to tell him to stop looking at her like that.
Ratchet reached for a small controller, pressing a button to make half of the medical slab raise so that she was sitting up. His servos found the spot in the back of her helm, unscrewing a panel and hooking something into her processor. The datapad glowed green, illuminating him as he tapped at various things–no doubt her medical forms.
“We didn't know if you would ever wake up.” Guilt soaked his voice.
“Just fix my arm for me.” She couldn't find it in her to look at him, some strange emotion pool in her spark chamber. She couldn't even remember why.
There was no feeling in the entirety of her right side, even split down her face plate and pedes.
The room was a complete mess, but with aisles so that Ratchet could make his way through. There were eight beds against each wall, each with various tools shoved in drawers between them. In the far wall there was a half-open, undoubtedly broken door with red letters that simply said, “Storage.” The floor tiles were chipping and blue seemed to stain between them. Machines hooked up to the walls–most of their wires were bound together to keep them out of the way. Closest to the main door, was a pile of toppled over boxes, spilling multi-colored wires and tubing.
Moving her left legs back and forth to keep herself busy, she ignored the sparks coming from her body and the mech beside her. How could things have turned out differently? How long was she asleep? Why were the last few years so fuzzy? She chewed on the inside of her mouth.
She sighed but only half of her faceplate reacted. She touched it, feeling the smoothness of her metal. Did she look older like Elita? Or was she frozen in time? What a terrible thought. It couldn't have possibly been more than a few deca-cycles couldn't it? Why had Elita looked so aged? Arcee shoved that thought down, instead she traced the cracks in the walls with her optics.
Hours passed and suddenly Ratchet was behind her helm again, unplugging things and reattaching the panel. He grunted and mumbled under his breath as he moved. Feeling returned almost within the snap of a klick. Arcee finally looked at her new limb. Red and black with mix-matching as if it had been reinforced with scrap pieces of metal.
“What? Don't like the color?” There was that stupid smile on Ratchet's face–which quickly faded with a glare. “Sorry. ‘Trying to lighten the mood… How about we get you some Energon? Your body needs some after this whole ordeal.” He stood up, strutting to a locked cabinet and grabbing an energon cube, cupping it in his servos before passing it off to her.
Pressed it to her derma, Arcee took slow sips of the liquid. It flowed through every part of her body, and it felt as if it had been ages since she had drank any. She left a groan except her, optics closed. Barely turning any part of her frame, she questioned him.
“What are you staring at, Ratchet?”
He looked away, optics back on the data pad in front of him. “You were out for so long. You missed a lot. It's good to have you back.” He swallowed thickly, turning his chair so that there wasn't even a chance that he could look at her. “I'll have Elita-1 give you a run down on everything once you're done with that unless you want to get some more rest.”
“I think I've had enough rest to last me centuries. I just want to know what's going on. You know I hate being in the dark about things. Not even Optimus kept me in the dark about things.”
“So be it.”
There were still some things that flashed in her processor whenever she tried to look back. Names and faces mostly, sometimes snapshots of scenes and battles would sizzle in. The most vivid one being of all those sparklings and young bots she had taken care of. It had been a dream teaching them, even with her limited funds and all those shifts at the factory but she always tried to spruce up her apartment that she taught out of. Where were they now? Either dead or soldiers in this endless war. Now, it was her turn for guilt.
She finished the last of the energon, helm upturned to try and get every last drop. Arcee set it on the work table, digits tracing lines in the slab. “You can call her now.” Ratchet just grumbled in response.
Arcee continued to stretch out her new digits, allowing her other hand to feel along the grooves. It would take some getting used to, of course.
The sound of Elita’s heel struts clicked into hearing range and suddenly, the sliding doors were open. She more put-together this time, arms folded behind her back and a semi-pleasant expression on her face. She glided all the way to the end of the bed–not even caring for the mess of wires– and extended her servo. It was a steady thing, not a single tremble despite being covered in scratches and scuffs. They were healing beautifully, as if she had not actually had a challenging fight in ages. The only thing that would hint that she had recently seen battle or spar was the long groove running up her forearm.
Taking the other’s servo, Arcee was pulled from the bed onto her pedes then guided through the halls. They walked silently for the most part, the only sounds coming from the other bots running around the hallway. There were only a few that she could name: Springer, Jazz, Moonracer, Cliffjumper, and Kup. They all wore the Autobot insignia somewhere on their frames and whenever she would pass a group, they'd get quieter and optics went wide.
Finally, they made it to another set of doors. These ones not as clearly labeled. Elita pressed her palm to an electronic panel, causing the doors to slide open and reveal the inside of the room. It was round, with arched windows set into tall walls. The floor was tiled in a checkered pattern of black and blue–and on closer inspection, the blue tiles had flecks of gold. The center of the room was lower than the rest, and it gave Arcee the distinct impression of an operating theater with the stairs and rows of seats. There was a railing to stop any on-lookingers from falling down into the middle, made of ornate yet old metal. In the pit, there was a large telescope. Her optics followed it to the ceiling. It was domed and made almost completely of glass–or possibly acrylic. Most importantly, past the clear panelling was Cybertron. Their beautiful home turned war-ground.
Elita-1 found a seat on a bench flush against the wall. “Come sit with me. I have much to tell you.”
Arcee complied, servos in her lap. “What happened? Why are we here?”
“We lost the war. Megatron rules Cybertron with her Decepticons.”
“What?”
“Don't make me repeat myself.” Elita looked up to the beautiful sky, almost in longing. “We had made our last stand at the Temple of Primus. We had gotten word that it would just be Megatron and several of her closest warriors. We hadn't even realized that Starscream wasn't there. We didn't realize until there was a sea of warships. Optimus was trying–” She closes her optics, “–He was trying to get us to fall back. He turned his back strut and Megatron took her chance. He entrusted me with the Matrix until we find the next Prime.”
Arcee let out a choked noise. Oh Primus. Scrap. Scrap. SCRAP! How long had it been? What were they going to do?
“You were offline for a very, very long time, Arcee. You have to understand.”
She must've spoken out loud. “How long?”
“Five hundred stellar cycles, give or take. But you're here now. We finally had the resources to bring you back.” She reached for Arcee, EM field finally unfurling to reveal the sea of emotions she was feeling. Guilt, just so, so much guilt. Sorrow. Grief.
Liquids leaked from Arcee’s optics, servos clenched in her lap as she choked on her own emotions. She found herself sitting on the ground, helm pressed between her poleyns and servos against her faceplate. Five hundred stellar cycles. Five hundred. This had to just be a terrible dream. No, no, it was real. Almost everyone she had loved and had loved her would surely be dead. Circulating air through her vents was getting hard. What the frag was she going to do? Were they just going to live on the moon base until the end of time? Surely, the Decepticons would come looking and they'd have to run. Where would they go? She stuck the side of her servo into her mouth and bit down as hard as she could. She didn't even stop when she tasted Energon and blood.
Elita-1 stood up, reaching yet hesitating. “I'm going to get Ratchet, stay right here.” She'd never been good at these types of things.
‘Don't please me. Don't leave. Don't leave. Please. Please. I'm tired of being alone.’ She didn't allow herself to say it–just continued biting as tears ran down her faceplate.
The coldness of the observatory nipped at her metal and she could help but sob harder. They had lost the war. Surely, everything else was lost too. What had happened to Ultra Magnus? Why couldn't she remember? ‘Remember. Remember. Remember,’ she begged herself. Her processor couldn't pull anything up before seven hundred stellar cycles.
The doors slid open once more, though Arcee just stared at a single blue tile in the distance. A heavier frame sat on the floor beside her, setting down a bag or container of some sort.
“Arcee, give me your servo.”
She didn't comply this time. Instead, she focused on that tile. It was dark just like all the other ones, speckled with gold–even at the edges. ‘Ultra Mag–’ She shoved the name deep in her spark, trying to keep it down but it just bubbled back up. She choked one more time.
“I can only help you if you give me your servo.”
She released the side of her servo from her clamped denta. He held it tenderly in his, murmuring softly to himself before stating, “Oh, it's just superficial. It'll heal nicely and you'll be able to use it in no time. You still haven't stopped biting yourself. Some things really don't change. ” He turned his body, grabbing something from his medic bag. Metal mesh, cutters and a small medical lighter.
He worked quickly with nimble servos. Arcee focused on him, how he cut the mesh and applied it to her servo. She hadn't even realized the tears had stopped as she rested the side of her helm against her poleyns. Ratchet heated the mesh in increments and it stuck to her metal.
“I swear I'm typically stronger than this.”
“I know. You've had some hard cycles.” He placed her servo back down–putting the supplies up–and with his gruff voice he offered, “How ‘bout we get you a room? I'm sure Elita and Jazz will excuse you from roll call in the morning so get some rest.” He stood up, swaying on his pedes and gripping the bench for support. He grabbed his medical bag, tossing the strap over his shoulder.
Arcee pushed herself up with the bench, balance off and swaying. Still, for the third time that cycle, she followed someone down the hallways of the moon base. Tiredness weighed down on her plating and wiring. They did eventually manage to get an open apartment. This one was close to the medbay, on the same blue hallway. The door slid open with a simple press of a button, revealing the room that she would be staying in.
“I'll just be down the hall if you need anything.” And with that, he disappeared and the door closed. Arcee flicked on the lights, taking it all in. Everything was plain. There was a berth against the left wall–similar in size to the medical slab. While the slab was mostly dense rubber atop of a metal base, this was a thick layer of foam wrapped in a two inch thick rubber. It sat atop of a metal base too, though this one was attached to the floor with storage compartments. The right wall was primarily just storage compartments in various sizes, while the wall across the door had three large–and reinforced–windows
Next to the berth was another light switch; she smiled at that. Letting herself fall on top of it, she smiled at its surprising warmth. She reached over to the lightswitch and hit it. She let the darkness encapsulate her as if it was her protoform shell.
Light filtered in through the windows of her room, covering it in a warm glow. The pale green sky greeted her. She pushed herself up from the berth, looking down at her red arm. How could she have possibly lost it? What had happened? She turned herself so that she now faced all the empty storage containers.
Her pedes touched the ground, her spinal strut compressing as she looked out. Beautiful, everything was beautiful. Cybertron was known to be rather barren besides the crystal forest and the blue reeds, its moons on the other hand were full of lush plant life that allowed for cover. Even from Cybertron, they appeared green in hue. From her room, she couldn't see her home, but she could still picture its streets and burned into her processor were the faceplates of all those she used to teach.
Finally standing up, Arcee moved through her room with ease, making it to the door. Springer was behind it, standing as tall as ever. He looked the same as the day she could last remember him. No, he wasn't the same. He was covered in scratches and he had a mesh covering right above his abdomen; it was already merging in with the rest of his frame. He seemed so much more mature. Now, that sent a chill through her wires.
“I didn't get a chance to speak to you yesterday.” He shifted his weight to his other pede.
“Between waking up after five hundred stellar cycles and learning about the Decepticons. I think I had a rather busy day.”
He cracked a smile. “How’s the new arm? ‘Bothering you any?”
“No, it's fine. I'm not sure if I'll ever get used to it. My question is what happened to you.” Her optics flickered to the mesh fusing into him once more.
“Oh! That… yeah, turns out a lot of the others don't mess around when it comes to sparing. Don't pull your punches around here. You'll get the scrap beat out of you.” He leaned against the door frame, a hand on his hip. “I missed you.”
Arcee nodded, taking in how he smelled like plants. “I missed you too, Springer, but what are you doing here?
“Is it wrong that I just want to see one of my best friends after not seeing her for so long? But, in reality, Elita told me to show you around. We don't need you getting lost. I'll introduce you to anyone you don't know, try to smooth things out.”
He was doing her a favor, really, yet she couldn't help but feel bitterness pump through her hollow tubing. Would this be her life till the end of time? Would they treat her like a young sparkling? The idea nearly made her nauseated. No, it in fact did make her nauseated.
“Tell Elita that I'm not ready yet. I just woke up anyway.”
His face twisted–his EM field snapped closer– before melting back to something happier. “Okay, that's fine. Maybe later today then?”
“Sure, Springer. You can come get me near the end of the day. I'll probably be more prepared by then.” She gripped the door frame. “I'll talk to you later.” Taking a step back, she clicked the panel and the door slid shut. Her frame moved without her will and simply found a star-warmed spot on the ground and laid there.
Like some strange life form, Arcee soaked up the light. It was either this, or go back to biting. She spread out her digits, servos on either side of her body. Her left knee was bent and sticking up like a mountain. Part of her could still imagine the feelings of working in the factory, spending hours simply putting parts together. She could still imagine the feeling of picking up a blaster, the weight of it, the feeling of the trigger. Laying on the floor seemed like an excellent way to spend her day, though she knew it wouldn't last forever.
She turned onto her side, huffing. She traced over the grooves of the metal base of her berth, thinking of patterns. It felt cool against the tips of her digits, almost like some. Her apartment back on Cybertron had always been cold, the only room that had been warmed by Cybertron's star was the nursery–where she watched sparklings whenever she could. ‘Omega Supreme,’ her processor whispered but gave no images to. Surely, she could ask someone and they might've known who that was and what it had to do with her, but that would mean getting on the floor; Arcee did not want to get off the floor. If she had seen someone else lay on the floor like this seven stellar cycles ago, she might've judged them. Oh, how things changed.
The floor itself was warm, made of metal instead of concrete and held its heat quite well. Surely, the spot where she had laid would be much warmer after she had left, absorbing the lost heat from her components.
She watched as the star rose from the west, and as the sky turned into a much darker teal. Clouds darkened it, no doubt soon to rain. Rain had always been rare on Cybertron, maybe that's the reason why nothing could grow. Well, that and the Rust Sea. Her warmth was taken from her. Pity. Almost as soon as she was going to get back up and crawl back onto her berth, there was a knock at her door.
Groaning in frustration, she climbed back up and slugged her way to opening it back up. Instead of Elita, Springer or even Ratchet, it was a familiar red bot behind it. He flashed her a sheepish smile that traveled all the way up to his optics with a small wave. From the light of her room, his golden jewelry–his olfactory sensor ring and horn adornmentd–glittered. When he opened his optics, he always opened his mouth, but she spoke faster.
“Your faceplate… it's so scarred now.” The scratch below his left optic had always been there, ever since she'd known him; the star shaped scar that started below his right optic and went halfway through his neck was new. So was the one on his olfactory sensor and chin
“That tends to happen in war, Arcee. Though, I think you've got me beat. I haven't needed a limb replacement before.” He motioned to the arm. “Hey, we kinda match. Isn't that nice. Maybe I should get mine colored pink.”
Arcee let a scoff escape her. “Oh really? I think the day the twelve primes start walking again is the day that you're gonna go pink.” She rested one of her servos on her hip, finally noticing the box in his hand.
Now, it was his turn to interrupt. “I thought you might want a lazy morning so I brought the game to you. We used to have fun playing Lusio together, remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“Just vaguely?” His smile dropped, grip tightening on the box just a little bit more.
“Just vaguely, Cliff. You can't expect me to be at one hundred percent.” She bit the inside of her cheek.
He took a step back, apologizing look plastered on his dark faceplate. “I know. I know… I just missed you. Let me in?”
She stepped to the side and he passed her, closing the door behind him. He stopped, pointing out, “No table yet? Yeesh. We have got to find you some furniture.” Arcee rolled her optics, pointing to the spot on the floor she had just laid at.
“I hope you're not scared of sitting on the floor.”
“Who do you think I am?”
He found a nice spot, dumping out all one hundred twenty four pieces and began setting it up. Each player getting ten face up pieces and seven face down ones. Arcee sat in front of him, the rain starting almost immediately afterwards. She looked at all of her pieces, arranging her face-up ones. He did the same, servos moving in such a sure way. Could she ever get to that point? Could she catch up?
“ ‘You good?”
“No… but I will be.” She looked towards the window once more, to the water sliding down the glass. “I never thought that rain could be so beautiful.”
His red helm turned with hers.“Huh. You're right. I guess that's something you get used to after a while.” He looked back, placing down one of the diamond shaped pieces. “Your move.”
She grinned, using her new servo to place down a red piece. The gentle tapping on the window soothed her burning spark. Her frame and plating relaxer into the moment, simply playing a game with her friend.