Visiting Hours

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

A gust of wind, combined with the suddenness of the voice, shook Io from her thoughts.  “Yes,” she said softly, fluttering her wings and lifting her head so that she could meet the gaze of the large, orange-and-white medic standing beside her.

Ratchet was worried.  Even if her spark wasn’t saturated with his concern, one look at his face-plate would have told her everything that was going on in his processor.  

She could understand his fear. A prison was not a nice place under any circumstance—she had her fill of them in Kaon—but even if the Autobots ran a safer ship, her limited mobility put her at a greater risk for problems, abundant guards or no. Added to this were his imagined fears of the dark parts of prison life, as he had never visited one himself.

Thus, she did not belittle him by trying to “calm him down.” If their relationship had taught her anything over the stellar cycles it was this: Once he started down a particular emotional path, like worrying, there was little that could be done to divert him.  All she could do was comfort him and explain the reason for her choice.

Smiling, she threaded her claws through his fingers, being careful not to cut him.  
“I know it’s hard to process—Primus knows I’m still coming to terms with it—but...” She said almost wistfully.  “Crossarm imprinted on me.  And as strange as it is to consider, he’s…” The femme paused as she wracked her memory for a word that she could use to describe the unique relationship that had developed between them.  “Family.”  She decided upon after a time.  It was an alien word, something that she’d heard in a movie, but it seemed to fit.  “He’s family.”

A brief sense of questioning nudged her spark. It was mirrored by the medic’s faceplate.  

“A family is an organic concept; small, close-knit groups of individuals usually related by genetic material.”

“Interesting…” He mused, trying to sound cool and level.  However, a slight curl to his lip suggested contempt and his spark twitched with indignation, all but replacing his worry.

She smiled despite herself. Not that he would still cling to an old mechanocentric view of the universe—Ratchet was very much entrenched in the anti-organic bias that plagued Cybertron during the Golden Age—but that his fear could be mitigated by something so mundane.

“And might I ask how he constitutes ‘family’?”

“Well in families, two older individuals are involved not only in the siring but in the education of the younger generation. As a sparkling, he would therefore be the na’veh or ‘child’ of the family. Once he was forced to drop his façade, he looked to me as his… ‘mother,’ I suppose.”

“Wait. ‘Mother’?” She could tell he was getting confused. His worry had decreased to a small buzz.

“The one who gives birth to and usually raises the child.”

This time Ratchet actually turned to look at her with a look of mild revulsion.  “’Give birth?’”

Io laughed.  “You’re probably better off not knowing.” She could only imagine what Ratchet would think about being called ‘father’ and what that entailed. Or, as she thought a little harder about it, how Crossarm really had many father-like figures—Ratbat, Contrail, Tecate.

He cocked a brow-ridge in her direction, sensing her amusement, but thankfully he didn’t inquire further.  She probably wouldn’t have entertained him even if he had.  

At least not in public. Where everyone could watch him squirm. And listen to his outbursts of alarm. His humorous outbursts.

“Anyway…” She said, changing the subject, realizing she was distracting herself from her worry and the task at hand, and probably sending him the oddest emotional sensations.  “It’s just…I feel obligated to see him.”  Her expression darkened.  “And I might not get another chance.”

Ratchet’s optics flickered, he nodded, and then he turned away, brow-ridges low and apprehensive.  At the exact same moment, her spark began to resonate with a shared sense of foreboding.

It was no secret that the main Decepticon front was nearing Tyger Pax, a small settlement ringing the Well of AllSparks.

Protected from the outset by taboos stronger than hatreds, Tyger Pax had been ignored in favor of more fruitful fronts, both sides holding it in a sort of neutral reverence. This didn’t prevent the establishment of expansive, fringing ambassadorial camps, a city around a city, waiting to make silver-tongued speeches to win over the emerging protoforms and enlarge their ranks. But none had tried to directly control the very development of their society.

Megatron appeared now willing to change that.

Decepticon forces were disappearing from satellite fronts all over the planet.  Industrial zones long-since conquered and ignored had rekindled overnight, pumping out drones, w-platforms, and munitions.  Decepticon-owned energon mines were working overtime to produce as much of the substance as they possibly could. One didn’t need to be a strategist to realize Megatron was planning a sudden shift to the game, a new total war, and it could only mean one thing:  he had his sights on the Well.

Though the flow of newborn sparks had slowed to a veritable trickle in the last few vorns, if Megatron controlled the Well, all would fly the Decepticon banner, and the Autobots would be at an even greater disadvantage.

Optimus Prime clearly understood this.    

Even now, in Iacon—the last major stronghold of the Autobots—troops were mobilizing in preparation for a battle that was now only a matter of time.  Even the clinic was abuzz with new life these days, their trine of groundbridges running all the time, transporting soldiers, medical personnel, and supplies back to Iacon where they could be easily re-mobilized.

As Io gazed up at Ratchet, it was hard to believe how such a simple sentence about wanting to see Crossarm could say so much. Or how seeing him at all could hold such importance in the face of what might be the final and total loss of their homeworld.

And yet it did.

Ratchet’s optics flickered, thoughtfully, as if he was aware of her entire train of thought.  “You’re right,” he admitted, wearily.  “Just…” His voice faded to static as he fixed her with an almost pleading stare. “Please promise me that you’ll exercise caution.”  His brow-ridges narrowed.  “Prison has a way of changing ‘Bots…and not, always, for the better.”  

An understanding smile claimed the femme’s lips, and she trailed her claws affectionately along his wheel-well before disappearing through the large, double doors of the Decagon to the security checkpoint beyond.

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“We don’t get many visitors here…” A green security guard mused as he scrolled through a series of documents on his computer console.  

The most recent in a seemingly never-ending series of law enforcement officials, the elderly mech would pause from time to time, scribble something into his personal data-pad, and then continue talking as if the pause were of little consequence.  

Stifling a sigh, Io shifted her weight from trod to trod and tried to appear interested as the guard launched into a story about their last visitor, and how he very nearly incited a riot by punching out the ‘Bot that he’d come to visit.  Best to let him talk, she thought to herself.  With everyone’s focus on the war, Io was probably the first ‘Bot outside of the law enforcement community that he’d conversed with in a very, very long time.  

Plus, the way Autobot bureaucracy tended to go, if you tried to speed it up, it would slow down out of spite. It was as if everyone involved in municipal government from the actual politician to the simplest data handler all had to make a big show of their relative importance.

She stifled yet another sigh and settled in for the long wait.

As the guard recalled another amusing anecdote, Io tilted her head and tried to decipher some of his writing, but the mech’s pen-bot-ship was so awful as to be illegible.  The only the only things that she could make out were the glyphs for “femme” and “liability.”  

After a time--and another cascade of cheerful chuckles--the guard pushed himself away from his desk and fixed Io with a bright smile.  Now that he was standing fully beneath the only light fixture in the room, Io could make out some of the finer details of his face.  His helm design was…unique, for lack of a better word, boxy with chevron-like extensions on the front, blue, swept-back panels in back, and pointed audio-receptors behind his cheek-pieces.  As his smile matured, his visage began to resemble a weather-beaten turbo fox.  “Now…” He said finally. “Who did you say you were here to visit?”

“Crossarm of Iacon.”  

The guard shuttered his optics, surprised.  “Really?”

“Is that a problem?” Immediately, the femme began to wonder whether or not he thought that this was going to be a conjugal visit, something that must have carried over into her voice given the sudden, shocked expression on the guard’s face-plate.  

“Oh…oh, no! No. Nothing like that.” He insisted, waving his hands as if trying to sweep his earlier statement through the grate.  “It’s just…I was always under the impression that he didn’t have anyone on the outside that cared about him.  He hasn’t received so much as a bit in the six stellar cycles that he’s been here, and that’s quite out of the ordinary.  Even our hardest cases still have at least one ‘Bot out there to keep in touch with.  Friend. Relative. Spouse.  What have you....”    

Io’s spark squeezed painfully at this revelation, though she wasn’t surprised.  Crossarm, himself, had hinted at this very sad reality during their time in the Amertas Basin.  

For several, long moments, the only sound that passed between them was that of their own trods clicking against the textured, metal floor.  Then, just as Io opened her mouth to ask about how the former sergeant was adjusting, or if she actually needed to declare the reason for her visit, a row of lights snapped on ahead of them revealing a state-of-the-art, full body CT scanner.  “If you would step through there, please,” The guard said, pointing at the elliptical opening.  “I can get you scanned and on your way.”

Without hesitation the jet stepped into the machine and raised her arms over her head. She was familiar with the scanning process; the clinic used modified CT scanners to make detailed circuit maps of their patients.  

A lens in the wall to her left flickered to life, bathing her body in green laser light.  At the same moment, a gratifying tingle spread through her mesh, starting at her trods and quickly moving up her legs.  The sensation changed slightly upon reaching her midsection and mantle, pain and discomfort slowly overcoming pleasure.  Luckily the deeper scan didn’t take long, and within a matter of astroseconds the discomfort was gone.  It was now a matter of patience as the guard studied her internals, a safety measure intended to prevent visitors from smuggling non-body weapons or drugs into the building.

“Do you have VTOL capabilities?”  He asked suddenly, and Io turned her head to look at him.  A scan of her left trod could be seen on his computer screen, enlarged, to show the details of her turbine assembly.  

“The turbines are cosmetic,” Io said in a neutral tone.  “I used to be a hovercraft, but was reformatted to a Jet in Kaon.”  Despite her best efforts, a sigh slipped past her lips.  “My y’vst  felt that I would be more marketable with them than without.”

The guard stared at her for a full cycle, optics wide.  “Oh…” He managed after a time.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know…” He added, quickly, averting his gaze.  He looked uncomfortable.  

Io tried a disarming smile. “It’s ok; you’re just doing your job.”  

The old mech nodded and reset the scanner, clearing away all digital traces of her anatomy with a swipe of his hand.  “I-I’ll just…” He was doing his best to sound cheerful, but his lateral plating told a different story, fluttering nervously against his mantle.  “I’ll need some energon before you go.”  He opened a compartment in his bracer and withdrew a small energon sampler, similar to those used by taverns.  “It’s…for the database, so that you can get past the security barriers…”  

Io nodded and proffered her index claw, silently reprimanding herself for being so forward.  Older ‘Bots were generally a lot more conservative, and as spark prostitution wasn’t illegal—it was heavily looked down upon—he’d probably had very little contact with thosts or their panhandlers.  

Luckily, the chime of the energon sampler interrupted the silent awkwardness and the guard instinctively responded by opening a panel on the wall nearby and inserting the sampler into a small computer.  He waited patiently as a few lines of code streamed across the screen.  When everything cleared, the guard closed the computer and pointed down the hall toward a glowing security barrier.  

“Do you see those lasers at the end?” He said, all trace of nervousness gone from his voice.  “That’ll take you to the M-wing.  Crossarm’s cell is the third one on the right.”  His optics followed the length of the hall and seemed to dim, slightly.  “Because he’s been known to act out violently, I’m afraid that you’ll have to converse with him from outside…”

“Wait, wait…” She interrupted looking shocked.  “He’s the last ‘Bot I would ever expect to attack someone…”

The guard refocused on the small femme.  He looked troubled.  “Crossarm has had a…hard time here.”

Io blinked rapidly and lowered her head; her spark felt heavy in her chest.  

“He’s better off now that he works in the Chem. Lab; he hardly comes into contact with the other long-termers anymore.”  The mech elaborated with soft tones.  “We have a vested interest in keeping Crossarm as unmolested as possible given his aptitude for alchemy.”

“Save only what’s valuable, right…” Io commented, bitterly.  

The guard studied her face for a full cycle.  He wasn’t angry.  If anything, he seemed contemplative.  “For what it’s worth, I understand your frustration.  But it’s a different world down here, and the ‘Bots under my care are little more than slaves until they serve their time.”  He sighed and allowed his optics to travel down the length of the corridor.  “Crossarm’s a good kid, deep down.  And I only wish I could do more to help him.  But my hands are tied.  Showing favoritism would only make him an even bigger target.”  

“I can imagine,” Io replied, heavily but sincerely. The few times Decepticons had been inclined to take pity on someone, the results had been less than pretty. And while the Autobots were unlikely to take offense to the level of the ‘Cons, she could believe in their potential for evil all the same. And this was prison.

As the awkwardness descended between them a second time, the guard looked at her fully with a mixture of pity, sadness, and support, all of his lengthy and laborious duties regarding her concluded. This just added to her discomfiture and she hurriedly left the area lest their unease actually break forward into speech.

Unfortunately, she could feel his optics attach to her, the only thing in his domain worthy of attention, and they seemed to follow her down the corridor. Finally, as she neared the lasers, the weight of that attention seemed to lift and she could only surmise he had been called away to other matters.

She sighed thankfully and considered her surroundings. Wards branched off of the main corridor on this side of the lasers, four in all, stretching into the distance such that their ends weren’t visible. She could imagine space for hundreds if not thousands of ‘Bots—a larger number than in Decepticon prisons as they tended to kill their hard cases rather than incarcerating them—but that wasn’t the idea that gave her pause. Crossarm and other ‘Bots like him were housed beyond the lasers as if they were considered a greater risk than these many prisoners.

Add to this the realization that the high-powered lasers leading into the M-ward were strong enough to melt right through her plating, and she could only imagine the experience that Crossarm was having. Thankfully, her stored genetic code allowed her to pass through with only a momentary feeling of discomfort, allowing her to prepare for the possible shock up ahead.  

Beyond the barrier was a long, brightly lit hallway that seemed to stretch on and on for several klicks.  It was definitely longer than the surface footprint of the building, and from what Ratchet had told her, this was just one of several dozen identical hallways stacked one on top of the other, all the way down to sub-level three.  

Ceiling-mounted turrets, with their sleek dark barrels, sat poised at the entrance to each cell, and motion sensors glowed at regular intervals. With such heavy security, it was therefore a little surprising when she realized that the doors to each cell were constructed of simple steel, rather than additional laser barriers.

After a moment, Io surmised this too made a little sense. While electricity was much more abundant than energon on Cybertron, it still required raw materials, and with Megatron constantly harassing them, even these were becoming harder to obtain. She recalled that old axiom: “Why use a torsion spanner when a simple wrench would do.”

The echo of her own trodsteps followed her down the hall.

She passed the first two cells.  The one on her left was empty; the one on her right housed a burly soldier with a jarring purple and yellow color scheme.  He watched her pass with cold, disapproving optics.  A tattoo carved into his bracer—which ended in a harpoon, she couldn’t help but marvel—suggested that he’d killed at least twenty, high-ranking Decepticon lieutenants over the course of his career.

She could only imagine what unspeakable act he must have committed to warrant removal from the field, and she moved quickly on.  

The next two cells were occupied, but the ‘Bots inside were resting in power-down.  The one on the left was in terrible shape.  His plating had been heavily dented over a large portion of his body and scorch marks blackened his face-plate and wings.  They weren’t lethal injuries, but a quick pause and glance revealed them all to have been left untreated.

The femme clenched her fist.  Granted, this prison was orders-of-magnitude more humane than anything she’d seen in Kaon—or anywhere associated with the ‘Cons—but still, it irked the medic inside of her to see someone in distress and to be unable to do anything about it.

As she approached the third door on the right, a sudden wave of apprehension slowed her pace.  She couldn’t trace it to one source, and if anything the emotion seemed to stem from a series of concerns largely centered on Crossarm’s well-being.  However, her more rational side realized that she only had a limited amount of time to converse with her former C.O. and so, with a fair deal of effort, she buried the apprehension, and moved to stand just outside of the door to Crossarm’s cell.

The tiny space was dark and through the barred window she could see him sitting upright against the far wall, knee-pikes to his mantle, with both arms resting comfortably across his pelvic-plating.  They had replaced the arm that he had lost during the Orsis Incident.

Given the way that his chin was resting against his collar, he was likely in power-down mode.  At his trods was an empty energon cube, possibly the smallest she had ever seen outside of the gag-gift market.  For a mech Crossarm’s size, it would have provided only enough fuel to keep his body functioning, but not allow him access to his weapons or wings.  

Unfortunate, but understandable.  

“Crossarm?” She asked after a time, gently, lest she startle him.

Instantly, the jet awakened, and as his t’vre flickered to life Io noticed that he was missing his left optic.  In its place was a primitive, scrap-metal patch so hastily welded that she was convinced that the “doctor” who had done the surgery had been either drunk or blindfolded. Or both.

“Your optic…” Io began, but Crossarm leapt for the door, and exclaimed “You’re alive!” with such delight that her voice quickly faded to static.    

“Primus, I’d hoped…” He added, this time sounding strained; his lone optic dimmed sadly.  “After we’d made it through the bridge…and I saw…” He lowered his head, hands clutching the metal bars of his cell; several, raw mechanical sobs tore his voice box.  “I-I thought you were dead.  There was…t-there was so much energon…”

For several, long moments the femme could only stare at her former C.O in shock. Then his surprise finally dawned on her. “You mean...they never told you that I had survived?”

His head shook slowly and his shoulder caps sagged; he didn’t look up.  “N-no.”

“That’s…” The femme cursed under her breath, but her anger quickly fizzled as foreign despair began to trickle into her spark.  Despite having not seen Crossarm in over six stellar cycles, the empathic link that she’d forged with him in the Amertas Basin was as strong as ever, and she quickly checked her emotions lest she upset him further.

Moving closer to the door—leaning against it on trod-tip, really—she rested her hands atop his.  

He stiffened briefly before lifting his chin to meet her gaze; a single bead of energon appeared at the corner of his good optic.  “I’m sorry…” He said, voice quavering with emotion.  “I’m just…” He shook his head; the first bead moved aside for several more which trickled down his face-plate.

Concerned, Io squeezed his fingers.

Laughing through his tears, he returned the pressure; smiling broadly.  “I’m glad you’re alive.” He said at last. “Glad.”

Io smiled back.  He meant every word.

For a time both jets stood there, silent and contemplative.  Io, especially, had no idea where to begin as she had only thought through a portion of their conversation prior to her visit.  And the realization that she could still sense his emotions, coupled with his surprise, didn’t help matters any.  

“How’s Ratchet?” Crossarm asked suddenly, snapping the femme from her thoughts.

Io cocked her head, astonished.  Out of all possible topics she could have prepared for, this was not one of them.

It was, however, completely understandable.  There was no sense, after all, in asking her how she was or what she had been up to these past six stellar cycles if he had only, now, just found out that she was alive.  And as Ratchet was one of the few living ‘Bots with whom he had meaningful if strained contact… “He’s…” She began, but then giggled and shook her head.  “He’s fine.  Better, now, that I’m looking to make a full recovery.”

A slight wisp of remorse drifted through her chest, but surprisingly the smile never left Crossarm’s face-plate as he listened.  In fact, after a moment, her spark felt… encouraged to elaborate. “Ratchet worries.  I know he doesn’t seem like the doting type, but when he invests himself in someone, he doesn’t half-aft it; he charges in with an army.”  Io paused; a wistful smile lifted her lips.  “It’s an amazing` thing, really.  That someone so cantankerous on the outside can have a spark of gold.”  Her words conjured a host of memory data, all of it passionate and lovely.  She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the imagery before shaking her head meeting Crossarm’s gentle stare.  

He regarded her with a look of peaceful vicariousness.  Not awkward in the slightest, it was as if he was drawing strength from her revelation.

She smiled back at him. “He’ll never admit this, but he’s very grateful for how much you helped me during the Orsis Incident.”

The sparkling seemed taken aback by this.  “I…”He paused and shook his head.  “You’re just saying that…”

Io squeezed his hand.  “No, I’m not.”

“But…”

“You went back for me when I was downed by that missile.”

“But it was my fault that everything fell apart in the first place!  I botched the mission; I killed all of those ‘Bots!” He pushed himself away from the door with a huff and turned away, wings low. “Interlink… and…”  He fell silent and Io’s spark began to churn with remorse.

She paused, unused to the barrage of emotional energy.  True, she received the full gambit from Ratchet –anger, sadness, amusement, passion–but as a sparkling, Crossarm’s energy was unregulated by experience, much easier to understand but harder to accommodate.  And he shifted so quickly!

When Crossarm had first come to the realization of his guilt during the Orsis Incident, the emotions that she had felt from him had been raw and visceral, as if there were a link connection between her spark and his.  

Today, however, she noted a difference.  

The emotional feed was dull, for lack of a better word, as if he were revisiting an argument that he had already beaten to death in his own head.  The Orsis Incident was done, behind him, and years of solitude had allowed him to fully come to terms with his actions.  His protesting was a testament to his overall good character.

“Crossarm, don’t do this to yourself,” Io said in gentle tones, moderating her spark to convey the sense of ‘you’re past this and you know it.’  

The mech’s shoulder-caps lifted as if he were considering her words.  Io leaned closer to the bars and pressed her point.  “You’d have to really search to find someone on this world without energon on their hands, myself included.”  

His right wing twitched irritably though the foreign regret clouding her spark began to lift.  

“Crossarm, can you look at me?  Please?”

The mech sighed and shook his head, but eventually he managed to tear himself away from his thoughts and was back at the window, looking down at her, glumly.

“You’re at a very tenuous stage in your life.” Io said placing her hands atop his.  His features gentled at the contact, and he rested his helm against the door as he listened to her talk.  “Sparklings, as per their nature, are impressionable; they have to be.  They’re expected to operate at the same level as everyone else the moment they step out of The Well.” She shook her head.  “As a result, they tend to cling to the first ideas, experiences, and people that they encounter.”

Crossarm’s optic flickered, regretfully.    

“Ratbat and Contrail were your first role-models,” Io said softly, noting his expression.  “They didn’t create you, but they were responsible for much of your early learning.”  Her gaze darkened.  “And they molded you in their image.”

“What does this…?” Crossarm began, but Io cut him off with a raised finger. She was glad that she still held some semblance of authority because he quieted right up.

“Your actions before the Orsis Incident are understandable.  You were doing exactly what you had been taught to do.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” He protested.

“True, but that same impressionability made you less able to understand the consequences of your actions.”

Instantly, he opened his mouth to protest, but then paused as if her words had finally steeped through his processor.  He seemed surprised, as if considering this revelation for the first time.

“When you chose to participate in the mission, some part of you had to know that your motivations were impure.”

His wings lowered.  “Y-yeah, I guess so…”  His optic dimmed.  “I just…” He paused and shook his head, regretfully.  “It never dawned on me that a simple, selfish decision could have consequences outside of my own comfort and safety.”

Io nodded.  “That’s my point.  When we’re young, we emulate. In emulating, we act blindly, not really understanding the ‘why’ of things.  We just do what we see others doing around us.  Sometimes we’re met with success, sometimes failure.  Regardless, we start to understand the nuances of ‘cause and effect’.  We know if we do ‘X‘ then ‘Y’ happens.  Mentors are there to take a lot of the guess work out of our lives.  They can tell us ‘hey, don’t stand on top of a building during an electrical storm,’ because they’ve learned from others, or painfully on their own, that doing so is dangerous.”  A reassuring smile claimed her lips.  “But you didn’t have that.  Ratbat didn’t teach you the practicalities of politeness, or how to best respect others…he only taught you how to be selfish…because that’s all he knew.”  

“Contrail was a little better…” Crossarm offered, hesitantly.  “I mean, he’s the one that made sure I had a never ending stream of supplies for my alchemical work.”

“Did he ever have you make any compounds for him, specifically?”

“Well, yeah…but…”  Crossarm’s optic widened and his t’vre pinned as if he were running a series of calculations through his processor.  Then, “That lying sack of…” He stopped himself before he said anything untoward.  A cocked brow-ridge from Io convinced the young jet to elaborate.  “I created a mixture that I wound up calling ‘nightmare fuel.’  It was a stimulant, but had some…strange side-effects.  I didn’t see any use for it, but Contrail praised my work and suggested that it could be retooled into medicine.” His optic dimmed.  “A lot of pro-caste legislation got passed around that time…”

Io studied the young jet with sad optics. “You and I are a lot alike…” she managed after a time.  “Being used like that…and hating ourselves for it.”  She shook her head as her processor began revisit old memories, dark roads pot-marked with regret.  “When Nova Cronum was destroyed…I nearly tore myself apart with guilt.”  

She felt his fingers tighten around hers and she cursed herself for bringing up the past, even if it was to make a point.  “Anyway…”She said with effort, shaking her head and brutally repressing any lingering attempt by her processor to pester her about her past.  “That’s behind me.  Nova Cronum is behind me.  My time as a thost…that’s behind me, too.” She shook her head a second time and forced a smile to her lips.  “We are the sum of our experiences.  And much as losing my home was…difficult, I am who I am today because of those experiences.”  Her gaze grew thick with meaning.  “You’re here because you took responsibility for your actions, and while that might seem a step backwards, look at how much you’re matured.  Had you stayed at the clinic, you would still be a piston rod, plate-deep in drugs and thosts and power.” Io lifted her chin and fixed him with a glowing stare.  “There’s no happiness down that road, trust me.  You’d just spend the rest of your life trying to fill an ever widening hole in your soul…and that’s just the emotional side of things.  Interfacing through a niv’a’a causes your waveform to deteriorate over time.”

Crossarm listened for several moments after her voice faded to silence.  He seemed shaken, unsure.

Best to get him thinking like a scientist…  She thought, prompted by one of those beautiful moments of insight, and she held out her hand, palm-side up.  “If you don’t believe me…you might want to look at this.” An aperture in the center opened and a holographic readout of her vital statistics flickered like a sad candle before Crossarm’s optics.  “Remember how I taught you to read waveform spectrographs during our time in the field?”

He nodded, slowly.  There was just enough uncertainty and confusion in her spark to tell her that he hadn’t expected the conversation to go in this direction. “Yeah?”

“Here’s a reading taken when I still lived in Nova Cronum.” A bar resembling a square rainbow appeared.  Every now and then, the seamless gradation of color was punctuated by a vertical, black bar.  Io indicated one of them.   “Look carefully at the position of the absorption lines as I change to a contemporary reading.”

Another nod, this time with a sense of focus.

The spectrograph disappeared and a new one took its place.  All of the absorption lines from the previous image had been shifted toward the red side of the spectrum.  “The red-shift that you see is similar to what you might observe in a bot that’s ten thousand stellar cycles my senior.”  

“I hardly believe…” he interjected, but she cut him off.

“The more partners you have and the more ‘adventurous’ you get with the settings, the faster your waveform deteriorates.  And the so’vas don’t tell you this, but you become addicted to niv’a’a use once your spark degrades beyond a certain point…and you slowly kill yourself trying to feed that addiction.”

“You’re serious…?” He asked looking ill. From the expression on his faceplate, he knew that she was, but being confronted by it so matter-of-factly and when the conversation had started along such different lines…  

“Very.” Io replied.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.  He seemed uncomfortable for a time, the sort of discomfort that comes from realizing one’s own mortality.  But within a few cycles, the emotion had left his spark and he was smiling back down at her.  “Then, I guess I’m doubly in your debt.”

Io frowned. “Please, don’t ever think of it as ‘debt.’  You don’t owe me anything, and I don’t want you burdening yourself.”  

“You’re not a burden,” Crossarm exclaimed, suddenly.  His fingers tightened around hers and he lowered his head to hide a sigh.   “I…I care about you too much to ever consider you a burden.”

From his spark, she could feel the weak projection of warmth, as if he was genuinely claiming a deep connection but unsure just exactly how that should “feel.”

Io stared at him sadly for several cycles.  So here it was:  The truth after nearly a breem of seemingly random conversation. It was obvious that he had been infatuated with her all throughout her career as a shield, but once he had been forced to tell her the truth of who he was—and allow his sparkling-nature to incorporate new programming—it was only logical to assume he would try and maintain those feelings, especially in prison, isolated, with nothing to fall back on.  He would cling more strongly to the bond that had developed between them and, having come so far in such a short time, convince himself that his feelings were best described as “love.”

“Crossarm, you know…” She sighed and shook her head.  Her instincts told her to be direct and forthright. “Ratchet and I are mated.”

His wings drooped and the warm feeling snapped backward as if severed.  “You’ve…spark-bonded?”

Io smiled, wistfully. “Yes.”  

He lapsed into silence for a few moments, and Io’s spark became a veritable hive of conflicted emotions; hers and his.  “That’s…” He tried again, but once more his voice-box fell short.  

Io tried to force as much compassion and happiness through their bond as she could; anything to make this revelation easier to bear.

Unfortunately, this did little to lift his spirits, and it took a full cycle before he was able to form a complete sentence, let alone meet her gaze.  “So, you feel…nothing for me?”

Stifling a sigh, Io reached forward and gently captured his face between her hands. “Don’t do this,” She said even as she ran her thumbs along his cheek-pieces; a friendly, soothing gesture that she hoped would convince him to hear her out.  “You’re intelligent enough to know that such a question, phrased that way, is unanswerable.”  She attempted a wry smile.  “Only a sparkling would say such a thing.”

He blinked rapidly.  He was still struggling to accept her admission, that much was obvious, but a slight flicker in her spark told her that he understood her statement as a joke, intended to ease tension. “You do realize that I am a…”

Io cut him off with a few clicks of her glossa. “You’re only going to make me angry if you keep this up.”

His lone optic shuttered, embarrassed.  He let her continue.

“Before the Orsis Incident, you saw me as a conquest, not as a friend or even a colleague.  I was everything that you had been trained to find attractive, and a former thost to boot.  You wanted me, and because I never told you ‘no,’ you assumed that physical intimacy was just one, clever turn-of-phrase away.  Then, overnight, you imprinted on me.  Why?  Because you were forced to confront your own limitations; you realized that you needed someone to teach you.  That you needed guidance. That you needed a sense of identity that you should have received hundreds of stellar cycles ago.”

He tried to speak, but she kept on talking. He needed to hear this, all at once, in a former-to-sparkling lecture voice.

“You feel lost and, to top it all off, you’re being held in isolation.  This is the time in your life when you should be honing the basics:  Studying, apprenticing, modeling…” Io expression gentled.  “You are, quite literally, trying to figure yourself out.  Now, I’ll help you however I can, but…” Her voice faded as a pained feeling began to fill her spark. “But, whatever you think I am to you, I can’t be.  So don’t even entertain the thought of ‘when I get out, then…’ The more you pine for me, the less you’ll be able to focus on who you are, on your own happiness, on your own future.”

“A future that won’t start for another 4,994 stellar cycles, give or take a few orns...” He said heavily.

Io kept her features and spark neutral lest she supply him with her misgivings about the war effort, and she fixed him with a stern gaze, the kind that said “that’s not an excuse.” “There’s an old saying: ‘Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can begin today.’” He rolled his optic at her tone, but she got him to refocus by touching his hand.  “If you’re truly serious about turning your life around, you should prepare for your future as much as you can.  Now.  Mastering any discipline, even alchemy, can take thousands of vorns.  Do you think Ratchet became an expert in groundbridges overnight, nor I, an enerologist, by chance?”

He seemed to ponder this for a time.  “True,” He said, finally.  “But it’s not like I’m blessed with an abundance of tools and reagents,” he gestured at the tiny space behind him.  “I don’t even have a berth.”

“While that might be true right now, should the war escalate any further you’ll be called on to perform more complicated tasks, and that’ll mean a change in standard of living.  It’ll have to.” Io nodded her head in the direction of the security checkpoint.  “The guard tells me that you’re working in a lab…”

Crossarm tapped at his chin-plate, seemingly embarrassed. “Well, yeah.  It’s nothing glamorous, but at least I’m helping the war effort…”  

The corner of Io’s lip lifted in a polite half-smile.  “Does that not hold any interest for you?”

He smiled sheepishly.  “I guess I would be lying if I said ‘it didn’t.’”

“Then let your imagination run wild,” Io cocked her head and smirked up at the larger jet.  “Don’t tell that in all the time that you’ve been working at the lab, that you haven’t concocted dozens of new, recipes.”

Again the embarrassment.  “Three hundred and forty four, actually.”

Io smiled, understandingly, and patted his hands. “Crave those moments, especially if they decide to run you through a few chemistry courses.  Be a willing and attentive pupil and you’ll be amazed by what you can learn in a short amount of time.  I have faith in you.”

Crossarm returned the expression, but before he could say anything, an announcement crackled across their coms. *I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your time’s up.*

*Please, Kup…just a few more cycles?* Crossarm pleaded, looking at the nearest security lens.    

*No can do, kiddo.* There was a pause, and Io could almost imagine the guard crossing his arms and shaking his head, sadly.  *Rules are rules.  Once you get out of Max, then the board will consider lengthening your visitations.*

A note of foreign irritation tweaked Io’s spark, but was quickly subsumed by a more profound feeling of sadness. *Ok…* Crossarm said after a time.  A heavy sigh fluttered past his lips as he refocused on Io’s face.  More emotions threw themselves on top of the already extant crowd in her chest.  He opened his mouth to say something then paused to reconsider.  “I…” He shook his head.  “I’m glad you stopped by.”

“I only wish I would have done so sooner,” Io said, softly, honestly.

Crossarm shook his head.  “I…” Another pause.  “You’ve…given me a lot to think about, and I give you my word as an Autobot that I will do what I can to take your advice to spark.”  A bit of his old bravado resurfaced in a hearty chuckle.  “Learn and grow.  Sounds straightforward enough…” He made to continue, but a sudden pang of sadness punctuated the joy, and for a time all he could do was look at her, melancholy.  Then, bolstering what may have been the last of his resolve, he smirked—in a way that only his faceplate could pull off—and lifted her right hand to his lips.  “It’s not every day that a mech has such a lovely and amazing teacher.”  Another chuckle tickled the back of her hand, but when he spoke his last words to her, it was as if each word had been forged from pure spark energy. “Thank you…for everything.”

Io hid her surprise with a sad smile.  Even though she had withheld any information about the war, he had discerned enough from her spark to arrive at the same conclusion she had:  This would likely be the last time that they would see each other.  And not for lack of wanting; it had been hard enough to visit him, today.  It might be vorns before she’d be allowed another audience.  

And it was becoming ever more evident that their world probably didn’t have that much time left.  She squeezed his fingers and smiled the last of her reassurance.  “Take care of yourself.”

He nodded.  “I will.”

Io released his hand, and watched with a heavy spark as he retreated back into the darkness of his cell, slipping almost immediately into power-down mode.  Before his optics darkened, however, his lips drew up into a contented smile.

Then, just like that, his face went slack and he was gone.

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“So…was it everything you hoped for?” Ratchet asked when they were reunited.  There was no condescension to his tone; he knew all too well how much she hated to leave Crossarm behind.
“I don’t know…” She admitted even as they began walking.  Unsure of what to say beyond that, or even how to assemble her emotions into words, she diverted from the main pedestrian walkway so that she could follow a narrow side-street toward a plaza called Ravo’s Overlook.  

It was fall in the northern hemisphere.  Even at midday, Hadeen never rose more than four degrees above the horizon.  Short days and long nights were a prelude to the perpetual darkness that would soon envelop everything north of the Polar Circle.  Sighing, trying to shut out a nagging sense of failure, she moved to stand near a safety railing at the plaza’s southern end.  From here she could look out over the glistening sub-levels beyond the Grand Pavilion terrace.  She trailed her claws along the rail, enjoying the sensation of the cool, non-living metal against her mesh.

A gust of wind caressed her armor.  “I hope…” She paused; a frown creased her features.  “I just have this terrible feeling that I forgot to say something important.  That I should have said more, or encouraged him more, or…”

She felt Ratchet’s hands close gently over her nacelles.  This simple contact was enough to quiet her processor for a time.  “Knowing you, you said exactly what he needed to hear.”

“But…how do I know for certain?”

The old medic smiled and shook his head.  “You don’t…and you never will.”

“Thanks, dad,” She huffed with a sigh.  It was a statement born of the moment and imbued with a petty anger—at herself, at Crossarm, at everything—and alien strangeness at her choice of nouns, but from the sensation coming from her partner’s spark, he was neither confused or unnerved. “You know, I’m trying to be serious…”  

“I know.” He replied, pulling her against him.  “If you’ve never taken any of my advice to spark, please consider this:  A ‘Bot would have to know the mind of Primus to fully understand the consequences of a misplaced word or phrase.  You’ll drive yourself crazy if you start to question the consequences of every, single thing that you do or say.”

“I know,” she was forced to reply. But that didn’t immediately lift the sense of sadness that hung over her. Immense trepidation had started her visit, and now that it was over…
Io sighed and rested her chin on his bracer. “So then…?”

“Then don’t worry.”  He smiled down at her.  “Were you honest with him?”

A logical choice of words, but given the nature of her conversation with Crossarm and the emotions of the moment, she imagined a suddenly concerned older ‘Bot wondering if she had divulged any dark secrets.

Io chuckled, and the sound actually seemed to ease her internal tension. “Very.”

Ratchet cocked a brow-ridge down at her. He would have clearly felt the sudden shift to determined mischief.  

“I didn’t go into the details of our relationship, se’vei; that would have been inappropriate.” She laughed reaching up to swat at his chin plate.  The orange-and-red medic took the abuse with a playful smirk, if a partially confused one.  “I…gave what advice I could, drawing from my own experiences throughout the war.”  Then, suddenly serious, she lowered her head.  “I don’t want him to make the same mistakes I did, or lose hope so early on in his life.”

“’A selfless word is worth its weight in energon, and will oft benefit the listener fifty-fold.’” Ratchet said quoting the Covenant of Primus.    

Io sighed hyperbolically and then she smiled.  “You and your books…”

“You’re just as much as a bibliophile as I am,” the old medic snarked back with a haughty shake of his helm.  He opened his mouth to continue, to point out her love affair with all written things alien, but at that moment, the last glowing visage of Hadeen slipped below the horizon.  A dazzling green lens of light flared like a distant explosion and vanished.  “You know, I think I’ve only ever seen a green flash twice in my life…” Ratchet mused, thoughtfully.  

“A rare occurrence, that,” Io chided.

He rolled his optics then smiled again. “Not that I believe in this, mind, but they’re considered by some to be an omen, foreshadowing strife, famine, or good fortune.”

Io laughed.  “’Strife, famine, or good fortune?’ An omen that can’t make up its mind, is what it seems like to me.  Or, maybe it’s Primus’ way of telling me not to beat myself up about things that are beyond my control.”  She relaxed, resting the most of her weight against Ratchet’s pelvic plating and smiled, wistfully.  “I did what I could for Crossarm, now it’s up to him to take my advice to spark.”  

Looking out into the growing darkness, it too served as a sort of omen. Or an explanation. And whether she should have been comforted by it or not, she allowed herself to put the matter to rest so that she could enjoy the remainder of the cool, fall evening with her sparkmate.