By Tomorrow's Grace

Chapter V: Youngling

The youngling came into consciousness not by inches, but in a startling eruption of movement that had both mechs hovering above him jerking back reflexively. Ratchet's monitor leads snapped free, and the tray of equipment nearby was overturned by a flailing white tail and was sent scattering to the floor.

"Hold him down!" Ratchet bellowed, and Optimus quickly reached for the youngling's limbs. The size difference between them made it an easy task to pin down the panicked mech's arms and legs, but he was surprised nonetheless by the sheer desperate strength the mech was capable of.

The energon feed between Optimus and the white mech had broken free in the commotion, spraying all three mechs with flecks of pink fluid, and the first thing Ratchet did was seal it as well as he could.

"Easy, youngling," Optimus's low rumbling voice attempted to soothe. "You're going to hurt yourself—"

The mech beneath him continued to struggle for a while, making pathetic, desperate noises as he did so. Optimus's spark sank at the look of terror in the blue optics, the only expressive feature he could see of the youngling behind his smooth mask.

Eventually, he began to tire, body trembling from exertion until Optimus finally felt safe enough to loosen his hold a little. "That's right," he said gently. "No one here wants to hurt you. Take it easy."

The frightened optics locked onto Optimus, widening marginally, and that was all the warning he had before the Autobot commander suddenly found himself with a youngling clinging to his torso. The white mech latched his arms around Optimus's midsection as far as they would reach, body pressed so close that Optimus almost imagined he could feel the fluttering spark hidden beneath his armor. It was such a complete turnaround from their previous situation that Optimus was momentarily stunned.

"…Creator…" the youngling mumbled, in a voice almost too low to be heard.

Ratchet and Optimus exchanged glances, and Optimus opened a private comm line with his medic. Ratchet, what…?

I don't know, but I suggest you do what you can to keep him calm, Ratchet returned.

Optimus nodded. He laid a hand on the youngling's back and patted him carefully. Cybertronians were not, by nature, a very tactile species, at least compared to humans, but younglings were a different story. Even before the war, Optimus had rarely had the chance to interact with them, despite being one of the mechs closest to the All Spark. But now, faced with the first youngling he'd seen in countless vorns, he found himself reacting to his distress almost instinctively.

The moment didn't last. After a while, the youngling froze, a look of stunned confusion settling in his optics as he stared at Optimus. He let go and began to back away. "…You're not Creator."

Optimus and Ratchet hid their surprise. Just who had Optimus been mistaken for? "I'm not your creator," the Autobot Commander admitted, tactfully allowing the strange mech to retreat to the other side of the berth. "But I do want to help you. What is your designation?"

The youngling just continued to stare. Designation? He ran a search for the answer to that, but his processor turned up none. He knew he had one, could almost hear it in his head and feel it on the tip of his tongue, but it danced just out of reach.

And then, realizing that his audience was still awaiting an answer, he settled for the best he could give.

"I can't remember."

While Ratchet gave him an odd look at that, Optimus only nodded patiently. "Let us know when you do, then."

To say Ratchet was dumbfounded when it came to the newest arrival at the base was something of an understatement. As they'd waited for the energon transfusion to reactivate the white mech, he'd conveyed to Optimus what his scans had revealed.

The mech was indeed a new spark—but Ratchet was stunned by how new. His time of activation was dated to less than two hours before the Autobots had arrived to find Sam's body. Ratchet had searched for signs that this log had been tampered with—not that he had ever heard of such a file being forged—and found none. But it had to have been falsified, because it simply didn't make sense otherwise. The All Spark had been destroyed two years ago, and the two pitiful fragments of it that had survived Mission City were gone now too. And for his activation time to coincide so closely to Sam's death was…baffling.

But his other observations had led him to conclude that the youngling was unlikely to be of any threat to Ratchet and his comrades. He had no weapons to speak of, only the most preliminary firewalls, and no internal communications systems whatsoever. If Ratchet had to draw a comparison, he would have likened it to a sparkling freshly built and sparked, back when the All Spark had still given new sparks.

In fact, he seemed so new that he still had trouble coordinating himself. Ratchet watched as he left the examination platform and attempted to get around on his own. The clumsy, awkward gait was akin to that of any young creature still trying to learn control over its own limbs.

But despite whatever misgivings he had, one undeniable fact remained. This mech was the first youngling since the attack on the Youth Sectors centivorns ago, and that was precious beyond reckoning. It was a sad irony that this should happen on the same day they had lost Sam. Ratchet was of the belief that true coincidences of this magnitude were few and far in between, but he could not fathom what, if any, relationship existed between these two events. He supposed only time would tell.

"Ratchet is our medic," Optimus was saying, kneeling on the ground in front of the white mech. "He is a fine officer and will help you if you feel injured or ill. You can trust him."

Trust, Ratchet thought, would take time. The youngling had not even lifted his mask yet. And who could blame him, with the spectacularly violent introduction he'd had to the Autobots?

But the youngling surprised him again. "…okay," he said in a small voice, before crouching onto all fours and beginning to move around the enclosed room this way. His legs were longer than his arms, folding like a jackrabbit's on either side of his body, and a strong tail trailed out behind him, knocking into tables and walls awkwardly as he made his way around.

Ratchet wondered who had made his frame. Though the youngling was still as uncoordinated and clumsy as a fledgling bird, his body, with its long, digitigraded legs and sturdy tail, was clearly built for agility and speed. But from the almost-invisible transformation seams Ratchet could see, he could tell these were only alternate modifications, much like Sideswipe's pede-wheels and Bumblebee's battle mask: useful when needed but otherwise usually kept retracted.

It was all in all a very specialized form, and the implications were both disheartening and disturbing. Back before the war, new sparks were never onlined with such specialized modifications. The general philosophy had been that younglings should have the freedom to choose their own upgrades as they grew and came to terms with their identities and desired functions.

There had been no new sparks created during the war—at least, not until now. That this youngling had been sparked into a body clearly built to run, and run fast, meant that his design had been influenced by the conflicts he was sure to encounter almost from the moment he was activated.

Ratchet watched as the youngling pulled himself up, tail held high for balance, and attempted a few wobbly steps.

Sparked for war…

Ratchet's shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

The youngling wasn't sure why the two larger mechs in the room were watching him with such intensity, but it set him on edge.

His awakening had been chaotic and frantic. He hadn't wanted to leave the haven in his mind or Creator, and he had been fearfully certain that outside there were monsters hiding, waiting to break his bones, peel his skin back, and make him bleed.

And then he'd seen a mech who, in his hazy, panic-ridden mind, had borne a striking resemblance to Creator, and for a moment, he'd thought that perhaps Creator had followed him out of his head to keep him safe outside.

But he'd been mistaken. The mech wasn't Creator, even if he spoke with a similar deep, comforting voice and soothed him gently. The youngling had been disappointed, but the names the two bigger mechs gave him quieted some of the anxiety inside him. Ratchet and Optimus felt safe enough, and something in the back of the youngling's mind had stirred very quietly in recollection as Optimus helped him off the platform and set him on his feet.

As he noticed the medic watching him carefully from the corner of his optics, he wondered if Doc Hatchet was going to let him out of the repair bay any time soon.

The youngling paused. Where had that nickname come from?

Over his head, the two big mechs were talking about him in urgent tones, as if he was not there or could not understand. This annoyed the youngling greatly, but he chose not to protest in favor of listening to what they had to say.

"—in the best interest of everyone involved if we keep the others, especially Bumblebee, from meeting him for a few days at least," Ratchet was saying. "We don't want to overwhelm him."

Optimus seemed to agree. "We'll have to keep a close optic on Bumblebee." He sighed deeply. "He was very close to the boy. I fear his grief may manifest in…undesirable ways."

That piqued the youngling's interest. Mention of this new mech's name stirred a sense of familiar nostalgia in him, and an image of vibrant yellow flashed briefly before his mind's eye. "Bumblebee?" he piped up. Two pairs of optics turned his way, and he shrank back, suddenly wishing he hadn't drawn attention to himself.

"Yes," said Optimus. "He is one of the mechs here." And then, recalling the very violent and traumatizing manner by which Bumblebee had introduced himself to the youngling a few hours ago, he hid a grimace.

"You'll meet him in due time, along with the others," Ratchet offered.

"Oh." The youngling sat down with his tail curled around him, legs folded close to his body and hands resting on the floor. He looked around listlessly, and Optimus felt a brief pang of pity for him. He must feel terribly lost, to have just come online to the company of mechs he didn't know and in the middle of a conflict he knew nothing of.

The youngling's next words confirmed this.

"What's going to happen to me?" he asked in a small voice. The question spoke volumes of just how vulnerable he felt.

"You will be taken care of here. And you may stay with us for as long as you wish." Optimus knelt to put himself on closer grounds with the youngling, who looked up at him uncertainly. "Our race has not been blessed with new sparks in more eons than I can count. You are more precious than you realize."

The youngling didn't quite know what to say to that.

"Optimus has much to do today," Ratchet said. "And I will be working in this med bay for most of the morning. But when I am finished, perhaps you would like a tour around the base? We can see to setting up some private quarters for you, if you wish."

That earned him a shy smile from the youngling. "I'd like that."

Optimus left not long after, and Ratchet watched him go, noting the slight heaviness in his steps, imperceptible to all but those closest to the Autobot commander. Ratchet cycled his intakes deeply, and the cool rush of air over his systems relieved some of the tension that had been building over the last few stressful days.

He didn't envy Optimus, not in the slightest. Sam's death weighed heavily on all of them, but Optimus was the one who would have to deal with the human government, explain to them why four of their own had been taken from their homes and executed.

The fallout would not be pleasant, Ratchet knew. It was one thing when human soldiers died fighting alongside the Autobots, but the deaths of civilians—two of them still children in their country's eyes—would invoke anger and fear.

The exposure fiasco from several months ago in which the Fallen had broadcast Sam's face across the world had been written off as an elaborate hoax. Optimus had not approved, but the human governments had been in unanimous consensus that the public was not yet ready for the truth. Ratchet could guess that Sam's death, as well as the deaths of his procreators and mate, would similarly be covered up as well.

Ratchet spared a downward glance at the white mech, who returned his stare with wide blue optics behind the still-drawn mask. And now there was an additional complication as well.

How were they going to explain the presence of the youngling?

A soft chirrup was uttered, and the youngling was glancing to the side and down as though looking for something with which to occupy his attention. Ratchet started towards the door, and the youngling turned around so fast that his tail smacked loudly against the wall. The medic made a sound of amusement; it had been a very long time indeed since he'd been in the presence of an awkward new spark.

"You can follow me once you've learned how to walk," the medic told him. "Get familiar with your motor relays first. I'll be working just outside—" he pointed beyond the wall-to-wall window at the rest of the med bay. "You can watch me and work on walking."

"…okay."

Satisfied, Ratchet propped open the door and walked out. To his amusement, the youngling tracked him with his optics from the other side of the window the entire way.

Arcee was awake—the other two sisters of her unit were powered down, optics dark in stasis.

"New patient, Ratchet?" she asked cheekily, looking behind the medic at the youngling staring at them through the glass. The white mech quickly pretended to have been watching something else.

The medic snorted, bending down to collect the equipment he needed. "I see you're feeling better."

"I wasn't the one that got her head almost blown off."

"No, but holding Flareup's spark here strained both you and Chromia," Ratchet said severely. One of his fingers split open to reveal tiny pincer-like tools, and he began picking at Flareup's open chassis. Arcee watched on in interest. "Why aren't you in stasis?"

"I've been in stasis for months. Your med bay's rather boring," the pink femme stated blithely. And then, her tone more serious, she lowered her voice and asked, "So, did you find Bumblebee's human boy?"

Ratchet paused in his work. He didn't turn around or give an answer, and Arcee didn't need one to discern what had happened. The atmosphere turned somber.

"Oh." Although Arcee hadn't known Sam personally like some of the other Autobots had, she'd respected him for what he'd done for them. "Do you think Bumblebee will be alright?"

Ratchet recalled Bumblebee's mournful wails upon seeing Sam's body. No, he thought. Not for a long while. That was what he wanted to say. But instead, he only answered, "Bumblebee was very attached to Sam."

Inside the isolation room, the youngling was tottering about—mostly on two legs but dropping onto all fours occasionally when his precarious balance gave out. Ratchet wondered when he would feel comfortable enough to retract his mods and mask.

"Who's the new bot?" The tactful change of subject was not lost upon Ratchet. "Did I miss new arrivals while I was out?"

"No…we found him alone while we were out earlier."

That earned him a curious look from Arcee, but when he did not offer an explanation, she went on. "What's his designation?"

"We don't know." Sensing impending questions he was not ready to answer yet, Ratchet sighed and returned to his work. "We don't know much about him yet, only that he's not a danger to us."

Arcee peered at the white mech curiously, and Ratchet sensed there were many questions she wanted to ask. He could hardly blame her—the youngling's circumstances were baffling to say the least.

But thankfully, Arcee left it at that.

It took Ratchet another hour and a half to repair Flareup's tertiary sensory net to his satisfaction, and in that time, he and Arcee conversed on various matters around the base—on Sideswipe's most recent run-in with human local law enforcement, the base's renovations, and the political red tape surrounding the reestablishment of NEST.

On this last matter, an unlikely ally had appeared in the form of one Reginald Simmons, who had, following the events of Egypt, found himself filling the shoes of a recently dismissed Galloway.

Ratchet hadn't been overly fond of Simmons when they'd first met, but he had to admit, the man's actions in Egypt had redeemed him in some ways. And as annoying as Simmons could be, at least he didn't inspire twitchy trigger fingers in both Autobots and his fellow humans as Galloway had.

"Oh, Ratchet. Here he comes!" Arcee's whisper drew the medic out of his musings, and Ratchet turned around to see that the white youngling had finally left the isolation room and was now walking uncertainly towards them.

His motor control was still a little shaky, Ratchet could see, but the progress was profound considering he'd only been online for less than a day.

"You learned fast," he remarked.

The youngling shrugged, a casual gesture that seemed rather odd for a new spark of his age to have. "It's just walking," he muttered.

Arcee was lost. "Ratchet repaired your motor relays?"

The youngling peered up at her. "I wasn't damaged."

An impossible suspicion dawned upon Arcee and her optics brightened suddenly in surprise, and Ratchet felt an internal comm line being opened. Ratchet, is he—

A new spark? The medic groused. How astute of you.

Arcee ignored his sarcasm. Where did you find a youngling?

The youngling, ignorant of the conversation taking place over his head, idly picked up one of Ratchet's instruments to inspect. The medic promptly plucked it out of his hand and set it back down.

We don't know where he came from. We're hoping to get him settled in first before grilling him with questions.

The femme took the hint and wisely did not press the matter.

"Hello," she said kindly, and her tone had the youngling looking at her oddly. "I'm Arcee. Welcome to the Autobots."

"Thanks." The white mech didn't offer his designation in turn, but then, perhaps he hadn't chosen one yet. "Nice to meet you, Arcee."

"Oooh, he's polite too," the femme said approvingly. "I like this one, Ratchet." The medic snorted. "My sisters will like you too. This is Chromia—" She patted the frame beside her, nearly identical in all respects but for its color, which was a rich, deep blue. "—and Flareup." She gestured to the purple frame Ratchet had been working on. "They'll be waking up in the next day or two and you can meet them then."

The youngling straightened up on his long legs to look at Flareup, or rather, at the open gap in her chassis Ratchet had been working on. Most of the damage had been repaired already, a testament to Ratchet's skills as a medic. Flareup's frame had been near unrecognizable when they'd gathered her up from the battlefield in Egypt, the only thing tethering her spark to this world being her sisters.

"Is she okay?"

"She will be," Ratchet said, patting the child's head. The youngling ducked away from his touch like a skittish fawn, and Ratchet obligingly did not try again. "I'm going to let Flareup's self repair integrate the new repairs, and then I'll be back later. Arcee, if you feel well enough, you have clearance to leave the med bay, but if you strain yourself, I will know about it and you will be sorry."

"Got it, doc Hatchet," the pink femme said with a flippant tone to her voice. She got up, and grinned at the youngling who watched curiously as she balanced effortlessly on her single wheel. "I'll see you around, new spark."

When Arcee was gone, the youngling stood there thinking about something she had said. "Doc Hatchet?" he muttered, and though this was mostly to himself, Ratchet heard and grimaced.

"You don't need to remember that, youngling. It's just something that Sam—"

The youngling waited to hear more, but Ratchet had cut himself off and was now busying himself cleaning up his work area. It took him just a few minutes, and then he was heading towards the same direction Arcee had left. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Coming, youngling? The base is pretty large, lots of things to see."

Previous conversation quickly forgotten, the youngling perked up. "Yeah yeah yeah!"

No, this fic is not abandoned. :)

I accidentally uploaded this chapter on 'Today, Tomorrow, Forever.' Sorry to raise anyone's hopes who got an alert for that story.