[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]The Weight of Victory [Closed]

[Optimus Prime]

Episode 3.5 | Week 1 | Day 7




Omega One was an active environment during the day, filled with individuals who were going from here to there, either on their way to or from their assigned tasks, or even seeking their own ambitions and goals with their free time. It could be busy, sometimes to a detriment when more remained within than tended to be comfortable. It made one long for times when they had larger bases to call their own, where things were sized for their kind, and not a cage built from the abandoned remains of an old missile silo created for a species a mere fraction of their scale. To look down upon such a blessing was not an option, however, as they truly had a safe place to be, even if it wasn't always the most fitting.

It was simply something that needed to be adapted to, as basic as needing to get used to the weather patterns, and more notably the shift in timelines. The day-night cycle was an atypical one to conform to, Earth certainly not lining up with Cybertron, though it was what it was, and they needed to acclimatize in order to be able to use the daylight hours effectively and interact with their human allies when needed with greater ease. It was this that was being relied upon to avoid others' involvement, heavy solid thrum of footfalls walking down the abnormally still hallways of the night hours. They moved with calm purpose, unwavering in their gait, making their way up to the front of the Medical Bay door, before a single momentary pause formed.

Hesitation.

How easily so much of this could go wrong. How easily things could get turned upside down in a brief flicker. That which was trying to be rectified could be damaged forever in an instant, or it could all be resolved as simply as the turn of a key. That was life in a way, however, a path littered with grandiose unknowns, though often many of its hurdles could be translated and seen beforehand to plan accordingly... yet how could this be planned for when he didn't fully understand that which he held?

Cyan optics drifted down to the strange object in hand, the drive as innocuous as could be in its appearance. Easy to be cast aside as nothing... so easily in fact that it had been. Unintentionally placed in a box of overstock from the Medical Bay when someone cleaned the room to try to help after Ratchet's fall. Simple assistance in good faith and intentions resulting in prolonged suffering. Though, found long ago or not, damage had been done, and wounds had been made, ones that would take more than simple time to sooth. It was with this thought that the object was gripped a little tighter in hand, not enough to risk breaking it, though enough to represent the displeasure felt when looking down at its shape.

Progress needed to be taken.

Reaching his free hand forth, Optimus pushed the door aside and moved into the still Medical Bay, the sterile room almost haunting in the quiet of the night where none roamed its confines. He reached over and turned on the switch with a tap, one of the overhead bulbs flickering briefly before illuminating with the others, tired eyes looking up to make sure it wasn't about to burn out completely, before he stepped further within to let the door close behind him. Even now under full light it still felt the effects of the time of day, the closed-off room somehow coming off that much more isolated and cold, a vacant area that he then continued to walk, approaching a doorway tucked to the side that could be missed in its placement.

Where Ratchet would undoubtedly be.

Stopping before this threshold, Optimus reached his hand up, using the back of two knuckles to gently knock on its surface. While it would not be ideal to potentially wake the other mech should he be resting, it was better to approach this dilemma when the chances that others could intervene would be slim to none. No one rushing in from an injury out scouting... nobody needing mesh patches or some paint after messing around the base to invite problems upon themselves... no one even entering simply to try to locate another who may have eluded them in the small outpost unknowingly, deeming this room simply one pitstop on in their comb of the base. Only individuals who would find themselves here were those who had ongoing medical ailments that may have crested when they themselves were trying to seek rest.

It was secure now. Safe, if such a term could be used... and so Optimus stood, and waited, listening for sounds within as the mystery object that was clutched in his hand was held down low at his side, not drawing focus towards it.

[Ratchet]

It was being a hard night for Ratchet.

Sometimes, the loudness of the day, the commotion of many individuals coming and going, could be suffocating and confusing. Sometimes things were seen or heard that almost triggered something within his processor. A ghost of deja vu that surfaced, then vanished into the depths again, like a leviathan stirring in murky waters. It could be frightening, when he didn’t know what it was going to bring with it. However, there was usually so much going on that Ratchet could push it away from his thoughts, and watch what the others were doing. Picking up on things here and there.

In the night, it wasn’t so easy.

The quiet. That’s what got to him. How still it all was. The silence. And within that silence was a faint murmur of consciousness. A sort of memory of the leviathan that stirred during the day. Only here there was nothing to save him from it’s presence. The voice was louder, at night. The strange, insistant voice that was starting to become almost painful to accept.

Ratchet didn’t tell anyone...how could he? He was living with a ghost in his head – a ghost of himself that had died when he had awakened. A whole, other self that had lived and experienced things he had no knowledge of, knew people he didn’t….it was insanity.

How could he be aware of this ghost? For all intents and purposes, the other Ratchet was dead. He had attempted to fry his own processor as a fail safe to keep his knowledge of Cybertronian systems and biology from MECH. But if that was the case, why did he sometimes almost hear him speaking? A voice so like and yet so unlike his own? Had he been killed? Or just stuffed away in some background, a shady corner of the mind? The processor was so complicated – and Ratchet didn’t know much about it, really. But he knew that it could survive things that should destroy it….and could be destroyed by the simplest injury.

He had seen a documentary on the human television not that long ago, about humans who had a condition called epilepsy. And if severe enough, one of the treatments was to sever the bridge between the left and right hemisphere. Doing so forced the portion of the brain that was having the seizures to be locked away where it couldn’t actually do any damage. But in doing so, it created a situation where there were now two individuals inside the mind, only...one of the presences was a captive. It couldn’t speak, couldn’t do much at all. They only knew it existed because often one arm was doing something completely independent of what the individual in control wanted. While getting dressed, the other arm was attempting to undress the individual. While sitting and watching television, the other arm was moving, wandering, the hand reaching about, seeking something, it’s intentions unknown to the dominant presence. It was upsetting, and Ratchet found himself wondering if that’s what was happenning to him. Was he he dominant presence, and this other Ratchet, the old Ratchet, was a prisoner inside the processor, trying to break out? If he did, would there be two of him, both trying to be dominant in a single processor?

Unsurprising, then, that some nights he couldn’t recharge.

On those nights, he paced. Sometimes within his tiny room in the Medical Bay, sometimes actually outside, roaming the hallways, trying to find something to occupy his attention until the other presence grew quiet again. The halls were empty then, and all his own.

He had been about to leave again, to start walking, seeking only ease of mind, when a soft rapping sounded on his door.

It was so unexpected, that he paused for a moment, not quite sure he had actually heard it. Who would be knocking on his door this late? The knock almost sounded hesitant, as if not sure they really wanted to knock or not.

Knowing it wasn’t a medical emergency they were contacting him for, he decided to just see who it was. A visitor would be even better at distracting him than a walk. He only hoped it wasn’t anyone important. He didn’t really feel strong enough to be able to hold a sensible conversation with anyone at the moment.

Moving to the doorway and pushing the button to open it (it groaned in protest. The doorframe was still slightly warped from Optimus’s violent forcing it open, although repairs had been attempted), Ratchet was silently dismayed to see the large heavy frame of the Prime himself standing there.

His tank churned slightly. Since his arrival, Ratchet continually felt like the Prime was judging him, and finding him severely lacking. He felt like the Prime’s disappointment in him was a palpable thing – a color or mist that moved and flowed around him. The mech never seemed to smile around him, always spoke in a level tone, as if guarding himself not to actually tell Ratchet how much his presence was damaging to the Autobots. He was useless, after all.

He had tried to be helpful, tried to contribute as much as possible, and tried to be open and friendly towards Optimus, yet this just seemed to make the Prime more disappointed. He always seemed to be looking at Ratchet with a sour expression, or at least that’s how it always seemed to Ratchet.

Why was he here, now?

“Oh, Optimus, sir. I...I wasn’t expecting you, it’s rather late. Er….what can I do for you? Is there anything you need?”

Ratchet’s optics were fixed on the Prime’s face, looking for some clue as to why he was knocking on Ratchet’s door in the middle of the night. He didn’t see the item Optimus held in his hand.

[Optimus Prime]

The dismay that the other mech felt upon seeing him was obvious, to say the least, and it was not a feeling that was exclusive to him alone. It was a feeling shared by Optimus as well every time their paths had crossed. Peering at Ratchet, looking into the eyes of a needed entity who simply wasn't there, an experience of drowning, while being able to see the surface of the water mere inches away yet unable to quite reach it. It caused his features to steel that much more, an uncomfortable tension twisting in his chest as he mulled over all the things he felt he wanted to say, all of which were neither warranted nor productive at this moment. He had to keep things in perspective. Had to not let the curling poison that was taking hold consume him and his goals for this meeting, knowing things could take a step in the positive, or they could be one more failure smeared as a new layer atop all the previous disappointments.

"Follow."

No greeting. No 'I am sorry to possibly wake you at this hour'... no... Just a firm, singular word that neither apologized nor left an opening to be argued with. It was with this order that Optimus went so far as to lean his weight back to then turn and begin his walk into the Medical Bay, not giving an opportunity for an affirmation of a yes, nor even a possible decline or excuse as to not obey. There truly was no illusion of choice granted, even if Ratchet could technically dig his heels down and ask for more before stepping out into the unknown.

Whether he followed or not, Optimus' stride would continue, the gait calm, and solid... heavy footfalls almost calculative to punctuate every passing moment like the drawn-out tick of a dwindling timer. It would carry him past one of the medical slabs that were set as a horizontal surface, cyan optics casting down to peer at it while stepping about, turning as though to place it between him and the other mech. It was only once this tabletop was before them that movement was made, and the object that had been held low to his side was planted upon its surface, slid forward beneath squared-off fingertips as if to nearly 'shove' it in the direction of Ratchet.

Accusatory.

No...

Angry.

"Do you recognize this."

Tense. Strangled and held back. The displeasure within his voice often lingered in the shadows when speaking to the stranger in the days after the incident, kept at bay by a paper's width from becoming too upset at a soul that did not deserve such emotions. Yet this was different now. There had been little to no hope before, a somber idea that things simply were what they were, with a chance that the normalcy they had known would never come back, so it was pointless getting upset at an innocent individual... though the guilty party was now in the room.

And Optimus was ready to have words with him.

[Ratchet]

He had been expecting an apology for the late interruption. It was normal for one to do so, and despite everything, Ratchet learned that Optimus Prime was polite. Polite to the point of being almost soulless, to be honest. Until now, Ratchet had found himself wishing the leader of the Autobots wasn’t so formal, so distant and polite. More….more open.

Now, though…

He had a bad feeling, like he was about to be yelled at.

The short, blunt word, almost barked in his direction made him inwardly flinch. Not even a hello. This was going to be bad, whatever was about to happen. The Prime was exuding an emotion of...well...anger. Anger held in check, but anger all the same, and the unpleasant feeling just grew.

He watched as the much larger mech turned and moved into the Medibay, clearly expecting to be followed. Ratchet supposed when you were the leader of an army, you became used to people following orders.

As he pushed forward to take his first step, a faint, ghost-like sensation moved through him; a level of anger meeting the Prime’s. It was there, and then gone, so quickly. Like a quiet growl of a hidden, unseen animal, a soft warning.

When it vanished, it left him feeling cold and sickly. He did not want to lose control of himself like before and become angry at the Prime. Didn’t want to yell or...or...anything.

Silently following behind Optimus, Ratchet’s smaller but no less heavy peds thumped along the floor, watching as the Prime moved around a bench, turning to face him. He stopped several steps away from the bench, feeling slightly thankful there was a bench in between them….not that he thought the Prime was going to lunge at him and attack….although a part of Ratchet felt so uneasy, as if that were an actual threat.

He remained silent as Optimus laid something down the bench, with enough force it made a sound, and then was thrust towards him in a strange, accusatory motion.

“Do you recognize this.”

It wasn’t even a question. No inflection, but the tone….oh the tone was angry.

For a brief second, Ratchet’s processor didn’t want to work. The way the object was shoved at him was in a manner it should have been something more serious. A weapon, perhaps, a dagger or rife. His processor didn’t want to make sense of the small object lying there. As if accusation could be made solid in the form of a disk.

He started to open his mouth, to speak his confusion. Yes he recognized it – it was a disk. There were literally hundreds all over Omega, used to hold information to be read when needed….how on Cybertron could he not recognize it?

But…

Another ghost, moving through his processor.

Alarm.

Shock.

Relief.

Joy?

His body felt detached.


****

His processor….his mind felt like it was twinning again, splitting in two, past and present. Before him he saw the disk on the bench, saw the massive form of the mech standing behind it, eyes locked down on him.

A second image was overlaid on the first – the same disk, held in his hand as he looked down at it. Behind it, the darkness of the Medibay, shadows looming. His hands….scarred, dinged, tiny dents here and there. None of the damage was important, nothing to cause any impairment in his work. Some scrapes had origins he remembered, some didn’t. Scuffs picked up from a day’s work reaching behind machinery to repair circuits, pull out fuses….a million and one small jobs that never seemed to end.

His voice, sounding different, but so easily recognizable, low and quiet in the darkness of the empty medibay.

“I hope I never have to use you.”

****

Before Optimus, Ratchet’s optics focused on the object the larger mech pushed forward. Suddenly, Ratchet’s frame seemed to stiffen, spinal strut going rigid. His optics – the unique shape and pattern each Cybertronian carried within – suddenly dimmed, the shape within seeming to become blurry, as if losing the sharpness of focus. The other mech seemed locked in a program that had suddenly booted – or was locked in a repeating echo of the past.

The voice that spoke was the same one Ratchet had just spoken with a few minutes ago….and yet different. It’s tone and timbre different, it’s inflections.

“I hope I never have to use you.”

Ratchet fell silent, unmoving, optics still pale and slightly unfocused, yet still looking toward the disk on the bench. He was silent, like a computer awaiting instructions. He remained that way for several long seconds, the only sound the ticking of the human-granted clock hanging on the Medibay wall.

With an almost audible click, Ratchet suddenly moved, blinking, taking a step backwards, bringing a hand up to his face. He covered the right side of his face and optic, as if pained.

The other optic, the one that could be seen, was now sharper again, now focused. When he spoke, Ratchet sounded uneasy.

“Yes...yes, of course I recognize it – it’s a data disk. Why wouldn’t I?”

[Optimus Prime]

Every second that slipped past was carefully observed, Optimus' focus unwavering without the faintest of deviations or glances to the side, keeping his attention solely on Ratchet in these moments. His gaze could be considered intimidating on the best of days, the smaller glow of the contracted apertures creating an intensity that couldn't be helped, though right here in the now it would be felt all the more, especially when a single statement was cast out from the other mech that took a familiar tone shift. It was almost refreshing in some ways to hear, seeing a glimmer of hope in the darkness, however, it also brought on its heel the morality of the situation at hand. If this disk truly was a copy of his old friend, just waiting to be returned to his frame to bring back the one they knew so well, would using it to override what was now there be an equivalent of killing him?

A dilemma. A debate of ethics. The fact their minds, and effectively their personalities, could simply be etched down onto a drive challenged the reality that they were true organic beings in their own way, mechanized organics for sure, but a species rather than a thing that simply thought it was. It was a debate that could swing in one way or another, one that Optimus did not intend to address directly anytime soon, if at all, yet here he was. Faced with the potential reality that he was killing for the sake of convenient recovery. If the drive even was a clone that is, it not being something he particularly knew anything about.

The Matrix of Leadership... it gifted much to him, though it wasn't always what one may think it to be. It wasn’t a computer database just waiting to be conveniently pulled from, so much as it was an instinctual feeling or push in certain directions. Or, perhaps it was more of a resource of information than he realized, integrating in such a way that it was him now and there was no longer any form of line separating it that he could perceive. The details didn't matter. The reality of that didn't matter. All that mattered was the fact he couldn’t know what lay within the drive simply by looking upon it, not even knowing if it even was a copy, though perhaps Ratchet would.

The real one.

"What is on it."

Data disks weren’t all identical in appearance, it's color and shape sometimes an outward indicator as to just what information was stored, just as USB drives were profoundly varied to humans. While there could be multiple visual duplicates, adding cloudiness in what was already murky water, it was this that Optimus was relying on, hoping that its appearance would continue to unlock whatever memory the other mech seemed to be struggling with. The way that he had moved back did not incur any reaction from him, simply watching, waiting to see if the individual he knew was truly in there and needn’t be overwritten, or if he would need to take it in hand and figure out what to do with it himself.

He was no medic, he wouldn't know the first step on how to even approach things, though if push came to shove, he certainly would reach out to Blades to seek his perspective on it. He didn't wish to do this however, as it was between the two of them, and he wanted to have words without others lingering nearby waiting for how that discussion would go without offering their own opinions to possibly influence or steer in one way or another. Joy? Gratitude? Bitterness? Upset? All of the above? It was exactly why he was here at this hour.

[Ratchet]

“What is on it?”

Ratchet lowered his hand from his face, his gaze moving from the disk, to the Prime’s face, back to the disk again,

What an absurd question. How could he possibly know what was on it? He didn’t have x-ray vision – not that x-rays could reveal anything put onto such a data disk. There was no possible way of knowing.

Speaking, his voice sounded annoyed and irritated.

“How should I know what’s on the disk? You just showed it to me, I don’t own it.”

He made a movement, as if to take another step back, perhaps to turn and start moving away, but the motion was arrested. Instead, Ratchet took a step toward the bench, toward the disk, half leaning forward to study it further. A hand raised, fingertips lightly resting against his chin, forefinger ligtly tapping. A familiar motion – one seen many times before as the CMO of the Autobots put his mind to something. When he spoke, his voice was cool and collected; a faint trace of piqued curiosity.

“It’s a Processor disk. Small, but their creation is fascinating. The data written in one of these can curl around and even double back on itself without being overwritten. They’re extremely rare.”

The hand that was raised now started to lower, as if to reach towards the disk, when it faltered. Ratchet’s arm dropped lightly back to his side for a moment.

Now Ratchet took another step back, raising both hands to wipe at his face for a second, rubbing at tired optics.

“I don’t know if any of this is real or not. Everything in my head is all jumbled up. I don’t know if I’m awake or not anymore. I don’t know if the things I see in my head are dreams or memories, or things my processor just made up on the spot.”

He looked up at the Prime, “I don’t know if I was any help to you or not, sir. I’m sorry.”

[Optimus Prime]

"-I don’t own it."

"Except that you did."

A sharp correction.

Whether the stranger in front of him believed it right here in the now or not was irrelevant, as the truth of the matter was that it was a memory drive in some form or another, it an override, recovery, or whatever else it was labeled as. It may hold Ratchet's old self, or it simply may be completely blank or damaged... Yet at the end of the day, it would still belong to him in some form or another when the Medical Bay was his to run. That was all Optimus knew however on his own, as he didn't even know how to check the contents. Could it simply be plugged into any terminal to check if there was data on it? Or did it require a specialized device to properly scan it? The person who knew was just in front of him.

It was almost like trying to scream through iron shuttle glass. A profoundly thick barrier separating the two of them, one that let them see one another with no obstruction, yet impaired communication to a point that yells for clarity or help were hazed over into dull tones. He could see Ratchet. He could SEE him in the mannerisms of the stranger! Familiar motions and quirks... lingering ghosts of what was there that was out of immediate reach... Piercing this metaphorical glass felt like an impossible task on his end where he had nothing, while the other mech held all the tools needed to break through if he woke enough to realize they were in his hands. It was why it was so frustrating on new levels when he seemed to be backing away from it, both physically and conversationally as though that would permit everything to stop.

"Disregard apologies."

Optimus did not want the other mech to retreat behind such words as they felt like a closure of a discussion that was not going to simply halt because it made him uncomfortable. There was no hiding here, no option to slip away under a veil of uncertainty and confusion. While it was understandable that there would be distress when someone felt as though their mind was being assaulted unfairly so, there simply was no other option, as whether or not they did this the ghost would continue to haunt him, creating an uncomfortable existence where every flicking trigger compounds. No. Even if it hurt in the now, it was a hurdle that had to be taken. Because of this, Optimus continued, his tone of voice stern and direct, not offering any 'outs' for Ratchet to run from this moment.

"You would not make up such information."

Why would he? It seemed entirely implausible that both the stranger and Ratchet would be spouting out lies and false facts simply to fill a moment. It had to be sourced from experience in some form or another by either side, and given the fact that the mech before him would have absolutely no training to know otherwise? Well. The conclusion was clear.

"Lean into your disjointed thoughts. How is this used."

Just as pointed as other questions thus far, Optimus' words were unwavering, there no filler added in to help soften the blow. He would not dance around this topic, nor assure that things would be okay, as from the few fleeting interactions he had since the incident with Ratchet, it seemed that direct confrontation incurred the best results. The most FAMILIAR of results.

"What does it plug into."