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Cramped cramped, it’s cramped in there.
There is the need to move, to stretch the limbs and explore, but the world is reduced to a solid bubble all around.
It is cozy, it has been cozy, but now there is the wish to know more.
Hands wiggle and feet kick. It always prompts a response, an echo from the outside. It’s a powerful yet soothing rumble that vibrates around and inside the body.
It’s a lullaby without notes and without lyrics. It’s a lullaby she loves.
There is darkness and then there is less darkness. There is the feeling of sound, of noises that form words and words that form sentences and sentences that belong to voices.
Voices she knows. Voices that are friendly — family.
“…ready yet?” High-pitched, excited, always talking.
“…ask the same… annoying…” Grumbling, low, often exasperated, sometimes fond.
“Shut… almost over…” Cranky, old, affectionate. Friend?
Hands wiggle and feet kick. Want to see, want to know family.
“She moved!” Tired, soft, serious, loving.
“She always moves.” Rumbling, protective, familiar, lullaby with words.
Parent.
The need to see is stronger and stronger, until finally eyes snap open.
Lights, lights everywhere. It’s blurry but everything is shining. There is the wish to touch the lights, who blink and get closer.
“…giving me a weird cute look. Weird, but cute.” Curious, peculiar, questioning.
“WHAT?!”
More noises, wordless sounds. More lights looking at her, it’s a firework.
“Hi! Hi purple!!”
“We’re not calling her purple.”
“Can she see us?”
“Not sure. She reacts to sound stimuli mostly, but maybe her vision is starting to develop.”
“Organics are really slow for everything.” Nervous, distant, reluctant.
“Shut it, pinhead. Like what you see, purple?”
“We’re not. Calling her. Purple.”
The voices are loud but nice, the lights are calming but it’s cramped here, it’s impossible to move and reach them, it’s not fair. When is it possible to get out?
A new light appear, there is another rumble. Tiny hands press against the glass.
“Hey, kid.”
Safe, it’s safe, when can she touch the safe light?
“We can’t wait to properly meet you.”
She cannot wait either. Eyelids drop, tired.
Soon, very soon…
“I think the Scavengers are up to something.”
Swerve whispers this sentence in such a conspiratorial tone he looks like he’s sharing a deadly secret.
Fortress Maximus, settled at the corner of the counter, simply chuckles.
“When are they not up to something?” he genuinely asks, twirling his sparkling gold drink, the sweet taste still lingering on his glossa.
“That’s the thing, they’re always up to something!!” Swerve exclaims as if it’s the most evident thing in the universe. “But it’s painfully obvious when they’re about to cause mischief and chaos. And now they’re being secretive and all and it’s very suspicious.”
“Secretive?” Fort Max repeats, surprised. As far as he knows, the Scavengers are as discreet as a herd of equinoids galloping through a mall, no offense meant.
“Yeah! Besides, you’re the one who complained about them spending less time with you.”
“It’s true we don’t play Shoot Shoot Bang Bang as much as we used to,” Fort Max admits a bit sadly, “but a few days ago Spinister promised me this situation was only temporary. He said something about an emergency drawing near?”
Swerve’s visor glints with unrestrained curiosity.
“What kind of emergency?”
Fort Max shrugs, for he doesn’t have the answer. He does remember Misfire ineffectively slapping his servos against Spinister’s faceplates to silence him and announcing it’s a Scavengers-only emergency, before dragging the helicopter out of sight.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he sighs.
Swerve grabs a glass and starts to vigorously swipe it. Oh boy, he’s going into full gossip mode.
“Spinister has become Ratchet’s student-slash-apprentice-slash-whatever-the-heck-you-call-it, right?”
Fort Max nods, unsure of where this is going.
“So he would spend a lot of time in the medbay, right?”
“Yes.”
“But only him though. Normally other people don’t spend their time in the medbay on a regular basis unless they're a medic or have chronic illnesses, riiiiiiight?”
“Yes?”
“So why, in the last two weeks, were the Scavengers staying in the medbay until late in the night? Like, all of them?”
“Maybe they were sick?”
“Heck no, Lotty said they looked perfectly fine. Besides, five bots sick at the same time? C’mon! Lotty also noted they were speaking in hushed tones with Ratchet, when they were not locked up in his office doing Primus knows what. If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is!”
Fortress Maximus frowns. This whole situation is indeed intriguing, but whatever the Scavengers are preparing, he has a feeling it’s far from being ominous.
Swerve pulls him out of his thoughts by waving his glass, caught up in his still-going speech.
“But that’s not all! Hoist told me Fulcrum fixed his generator — the guy’s a good technician, it seems — and in exchange he asked for a good chunk of his cloth supply, lotta organic stuff he brought back from his travels and/or trades. Silk, cotton, wool, linen, you get the idea. Hoist agreed and when he asked why, apparently Fulcrum pulled a face and muttered, I quote, ‘you don’t wanna know.’ Also according to Rodimus, Drift’s begun to craft a weird thingie with his crystals, which is unusual since he always leaves his crystals untouched according to some purity nonsense—”
Roar of engines cut him off and Fort Max snorts in his drink. Speak of the devil…
A pink tornado screeches to a halt just before the bar’s entrance and transforms with a symphony of oiled pistons and smooth hydraulics. Looks like Ratchet taught a thing or two about maintenance to Misfire — maybe with some wrench-waving, who knows.
The jet has a big grin on his face, the kind that either spells trouble or promises good surprises. His wings give a cheerful flutter as he makes his way through Swerve’s.
“Mis-fire!” someone shouts in the corridor, exasperated. “How are we supposed to arrive all together if you outpace us?!”
And here comes Crankcase, followed by the rest of the Scavengers. Curiously enough, Krok is walking in the center of the group, as if everyone is trying to hide him. Grimlock is right behind him, occasionally glancing over the strategist’s shoulder. Fortress Maximus follows his stare and catches a glimpse of a white cloth tied around Krok’s chestplates. Is it him or does the cloth form a lump…?
He can’t dwell on it for too long, for Misfire stops in front of Swerve, servos on his hips.
“Oi, Swerve! Sorry to pop out like that but I got an announcement to make so I’m gonna have to borrow this.”
‘This’ meaning the counter on which he jumps before standing at full height.
“Attention, people!” Misfire calls out, ignoring Swerve’s demands to get down while the Scavengers gather around the jet. “We’d like you to meet the newest crew member of this big ol’ ship!”
That gets him the interest of the patrons, who give Misfire a curious look. No one heard anything about an arrival…
Fort Max keeps eyeing the cloth Krok is wearing, but he remains silent, not wanting to spoil the surprise. Misfire smiles broadly with excitement.
“Don’t be fooled by her atrocious facial tattoo, she’s a total sweetheart! She wasn’t quite ready to meet y’all but now she is! BEHOLD!!”
With exaggerated dramatic flair, Misfire unties the scarf around Krok’s torso and holds out the package Lion King style.
The bots blink.
The chubby, purple-skinned baby blinks back, before letting out the most adorable giggle in the universe.
And then the bar goes wild.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!”
A firm warning glare from Grimlock prevents the patrons from surrounding the Scavengers and smothering them with questions, but that doesn’t stop them from cooing at the oversized human baby. Misfire hands her back to Krok, then he starts the tale of a crazy scientist and his even crazier plan of making fleshy Decepticons.
That must explain the insignia, Fort Max thinks as he watches the cute thing nestled in the crook of Krok’s arm. Her coal-black eyes discover her surroundings with wonder, curiosity painted all over her face. She’s wearing a dinosaur sleepsuit — figures — and her minuscules fingers grip one of Krok’s digits. He could easily pry it off, but judging by the look in his optics, that is certainly the last thing he wants in the universe.
“So that’s what kept you all occupied,” Fort Max smiles as Drift sits next to him, both still locking optics with the baby. She’s pressing her nose against Krok’s digit now, nuzzling the metal like a cyberkitten.
“Indeed. It was quite a surprise when they all barged into Ratty’s office and Grimlock opened up his chestplates to hand him a purple egg.”
Fort Max doesn’t know if the image forming in his mind should be disturbing or hilarious or both. His thoughts must be reflected on his face, because Drift lets out a soft chuckle.
“I admit I didn’t expect that either. They tell me they found something special during their adventures and suddenly I have become what Earthlings would call a dad.”
Fortress Maximus notices the fond expression, the little smile tugging at the swordmech’s lips and the relaxed yet protective stance as he watches the atypical family. Misfire has begun to explain the fun in making pillow forts and how they often end up destroyed with feathers flying everywhere (Spinister bounces on them as soon as he sees one).
“You don’t seem to mind.”
“I absolutely don’t,” Drift declares proudly. “She cries and she fusses like any human infant would do, but one look at her smile proves that Connie’s existence is a blessing from Primus himself.”
“Connie? That doesn’t sound like a Cybertronian name.”
“Because it’s not,” Drift grins. “You have to thank a binge-watching session of Steven Universe for that. Misfire sang ‘Stronger than you’ during weeks.”
Fortress Maximus fights back a snicker. Can’t say he’s surprised. He wonders if his friends want to end up with a knife daughter.
Connie yawns, a typically human gesture, and the gathered bots fall more in love with her. Krok gives her to Grimlock and the fearsome warrior, the battle-hardened Dynobot cradles her with the utmost care, as though she’s a precious piece of glass. He holds her against his chestplates and rumbles a purr, a deep bass that Connie seems to know and appreciate since she babbles happily, her tiny hands clinging to the warm plating. It’s soft, it’s sweet and it makes everybody melt.
And then Misfire, still on the counter, walks toward Fortress Maximus and whispers-shouts with a grin, “Hey Max, how’s about you become an uncle for Connie?”
He knows what it means, thanks to Earth movie nights, and although a part of him thinks he’s too massive, he might break the little thing, he readily says yes and Misfire whoops in victory.
La piccina laughs at her dad’s antics. She sounds just like the crystal chimes Drift hung above her crib.