Well, thought Ironhide through a haze of static and pain, at least I know what's waitin' on the other side this time.

Around his shattered form, he could still dimly hear the sounds of combat - explosions, metallic crunches, weapons fire, battle cries. For those he had sworn to protect, the fight was far from over... but Ironhide could do no more to help them. His chassis was wrecked, his systems crashed, his laser core sputtering. Unable to enter stasis lock, he would bleed away those last dregs of energy soon enough, and then it would all be over. He'd fallen in battle again, so at least he could hope for another trip to Valhalla.

I've been no use in my second go-'round among the livin' anyway, he reflected bitterly. An antique spark in a newfangled shell, too old to learn the new tricks. Maybe it's for the best. Just wish I wasn't goin' out by blowin' a mission. That ain't the way I wanted to be remembered.

A small but perceptible surge of energy flowed into his mangled systems, returning him to a slightly less faint awareness of the world outside his broken shell. He peered through the interference clouding his intact optic and saw the diminutive blue-and-white form of Makeshift, the Minicon medic, kneeling on what was left of his plastron, his left hand's resuscitator probe jacked into the emergency port on Ironhide's laser core - the Transformer equivalent of open heart massage.

"Makeshift," Ironhide grated, his vocabulator barely operational. "You're... you're wastin' your energy." He tried to raise a hand and put it on Makeshift's shoulder - given the scale difference between them, it would've covered most of the Minicon's body - but his sole remaining arm wouldn't move. "Best thing... to do now... is just put the old dog down."

"Can't do that, soldier," Makeshift replied brisky. "Chief Surgeon Ratchet would never forgive me," he added, his battle visor hiding the faint grin flickering beneath the expression of concentration and pain on his face. Had Ironhide been a little more with it, he'd have noticed that Makeshift was wounded as well, the armor on his right shoulder blown away by an exploding shell, leaking lubricants running down his arm.

Beyond Ironhide's limited sphere of awareness, the battle raged on. He dimly heard someone calling for covering fire, someone else demanding that a portable FFG be set up to shield the recovery operations. He cursed inwardly. They were going to evac him? He was three tons of dead weight, no damn good to anybody. They should just clear the hell out and leave him, what did he care what happened to his shell anyway?

"He ain't gonna forgive... neither one of us... if you throw away yer life tryin' ta save mine," Ironhide told Makeshift. "I know... there ain't no savin' me now." With a rattling, wry chuckle, he added, "I been here before."

"Be quiet and let me work," said Makeshift flatly. "I know what I'm doing."

Ironhide might have argued further, but at that point the medic's desperate gamble paid off. By feeding his own energy into the Autobot's systems, he'd managed to not only negate Ironhide's energy loss, but actually build up his reserves enough that Makeshift could induce stasis lock in him without extinguishing his spark.

Now, if he could just get it done before the energy drain on his own systems killed them both...

Monday, May 20, 2391
Cybertron

Ratchet wasn't on duty in the Reactivation Center when Protoform Chamber 1-194 reached the end of its stasis cycle. The duty surgeon at that hour was Mercy, a Minicon doctor whose tiny stature by Transformer standards belied her courage as a battlefield surgeon. Mercy was a creature of great gentleness and even greater patience, and it had given her much satisfaction to see the results of Ratchet and Rhinox's bold experiment emerge from their stasis pods and re-enter the world.

She responded to the signal from 1-194 with her usual quick efficiency, looking forward to learning which of the legendary Valhalla Autobots had awakened this time. Mercy entered the cubicle just in time to see the pod hatch swing open and its occupant climb slowly, hesitantly out.

"Easy, there," she said, climbing the steps to the catwalk that ringed the room at big-Transformer head level. "Welcome back, soldier."

The big red and grey Autobot who had emerged from the pod shook his head, his blue optics dimming and brightening again, and then straightened up with a groan.

"Wha... " he murmured. He looked at his hands and arms as if surprised to see them, turned his hands over, and then stood silent for a moment while he ran some internal diagnostics.

He didn't seem to like what they told him. Straightening up, he turned to her with a combination of confusion and nascent outrage on his face.

"Is something wrong?" Mercy asked, looking concerned.

Before he could speak, Ratchet entered the cubicle, his face breaking into a grin of delight.

"Ironhide!" he said, throwing his arms wide in welcome. "You old dog, I can't believe how good it is to see - "

"Ratchet, what th' slag is this?" Ironhide interrupted.

Ratchet pulled up short. "... What?" he asked, puzzled.

"This!" Ironhide replied, holding out his own hands as if to indicate his body.

"... That's your new body," Ratchet replied blankly.

"New body," Ironhide repeated in a tone combinining disbelief and distaste. "What happened to my old one?"

"It was lost," Ratchet replied.

"LOST?!"

"We built a mausoleum ship after the war and set it adrift as a memorial," Ratchet started to explain, but Ironhide cut him off again.

"You built a memorial and then set it randomly adrift in space?! Whose flamin' brilliant idea was that?" he demanded.

"Uh, well - " Ratchet began, feeling faintly embarrassed - in retrospect it HAD been a rather silly idea - but Ironhide abandoned the inquiry and went on to the next question.

"So you don't have any way of findin' this mausoleum?"

"Well, we would," Ratchet said uncomfortably, "but it was, uh... destroyed during a Quintesson plot a few years later."

Ironhide gave his old comrade a very dubious look. "A Quintesson... plot. Well, that's just great. What'm I s'posed to do if a Decepticon shoots at me now? Try to distract him with my sleek modern stylin'?" He thunked the scarlet paneling of his vambrace with an experimental finger and scowled. "'Cause this 'armor' sure ain't gonna do me much good."

Ratchet's patience exceeded its design limits. He'd had a long, trying last few months and he had a lot of patients on his hand; the last thing he needed now was a dose of Ironhide's old attitude, however welcome the old bastard's resurrection was.

"Look, Ironhide," he snapped, "your new body is on the absolute cutting edge, it represents the very finest Autobot body technology we have to offer nowadays. No, it's not armored with trithyllium steel like your old body, 'cause guess what - nobody knows how to make that stuff any more. The formula was lost long ago, and if you'll recall, it cost an absolute fortune to make."

Ironhide blinked, rendered momentarily speechless by the doctor's sudden outburst.

"Now a lot of Autobots have gotten by for a lot of centuries without trithyllium armor," Ratchet went on, "and you know, a few of them just do happen to get shot at from time to time. So suck it up and drive on, old buddy, 'cause this is all I have to offer you right now. We did the best we could, and if you're not prepared to show a little gratitude, then just say the word and I'll shut you right back down again. Cool?"

Ironhide stared at his old comrade for a few seconds, then relented, just a bit shamefaced.

"Aw, hell, I'm sorry, Ratchet. It's just... I got awful used to the way I was, you know? I only ever got rebuilt once, when we first went to Earth, and in Valhalla I felt the same as I ever did. It's just... gonna take some gettin' used to."

Ratchet kept glaring at him for a couple of seconds, then relaxed as well, grinning. "Yeah... I'm sorry too, old buddy. I'm just tired. It's been a hell of a long month, and I've got a hundred patients on my hands."

Ironhide nodded. "Well... thanks." Then he cracked a wry grin and added, "It ain't much, but I guess it beats bein' dead."


Over the next few weeks, Ironhide was to privately reconsider that statement.

Along with the other returning Transformers, he worked to master his new body and get back into the swing of things as regarded life on Cybertron at the same time. Most of the others settled right back in like they'd never left, but Ironhide had problems with both facets of the transition.

Cybertron without war unnerved him in a way he wouldn't have thought possible during the wars themselves. He could never quite believe that the war was really over, the Decepticons really defeated, and kept scanning the skies as if watching for the next sneak attack.

The younger Autobots, especially those created since his death in 2005, were as alien to him as if they came from a completely different planet. He was actually more comfortable with the few dispossessed Decepticons who had remained on Cybertron when the bulk of their force fled following Galvatron's defeat. At least he had something in common with them. A lot of these newer Autobots had never been in real combat before.

His biggest problems, though, were in adjusting to himself, not his new world. His new body was quicker and more sophisticated than his old one, required less maintenance, consumed less energy, and was in many ways superior - but he found that he was so accustomed to the way his old one worked that -all- the differences, whether improvements or not, worked against him.

Determined to overcome these obstacles, he worked harder - and only succeeded in making things worse.

The matter came to a head one day on the vehicle skills course, where he was testing the limits of his new vehicle mode when a training group from Hot Rod's newly organized 7th Autobot Cavalry arrived to use the facility.

Ironhide felt their optics on him - youthful and, he fancied, mocking - and gritted his mental teeth. He'd show these youngsters that he could hold his own. He hurled himself harder at the track, pushing his limits -

- pushing them too far. His new vehicle form was based on the Salusian JR5 military utility vehicle, a sturdy and reasonably speedy truck/van-type ground vehicle. In most ways, it was superior to his old, slow, clunky van mode, but it did have a couple of problems. One was the fact that, in faithfully reproducing the JR5's shape and performance, it also reproduced the JR5's infamous top-heaviness.

Ironhide lost control in the final turn, overturned, and plowed through the sandy runoff area. He tried to regain control by transforming, but his instincts for what that would do for him were off as well, and the redistribution of weight and parts only made matters worse. Completely out of control, he tumbled, cursing, through the runoff area and crashed heavily into the barricade.

The squad from the 7th Cav rushed toward the cloud of sandy dust to find him in a dented, scuffed, tangled heap against the wall. A few made sounds of concern, but one, a big, chunky blue-armored young warrior named Offroad, burst out laughing.

"Where'd you learn to drive, old-timer?" he inquired.

Ironhide got himself more or less upright on one knee, shaking his head, and snarled, "Why you tin-headed little punk! You shut yer yap before I shut it for ya!"

Offroad snorted. "You and what army, Ironbutt? You think you can take me on? You can't even stay on the road!"

Offroad's squadmates backed away a little - clumsy old scrapheap or not, you just didn't talk to one of Optimus Prime's old guard that way - but stayed silent, taking the scene in with horrified fascination.

Ironhide's fists clenched. "Awright, rookie, that's it. You just bought yourself a one-way ticket to - "

As he tried to rise, something in Ironhide's knee sparked and then exploded, sending a minor spray of shrapnel around and dropping him back to hands and knees with a cry of pain.

"Oh, what, did you bust something in that little crash?" Offroad demanded incredulously. He made a beckoning gesture. "Come on, old-timer, I'm ready for ya. I'll take you on... if you can even get up."

Another Autobot drove across from the entrance to the proving ground, transformed, and stepped between Offroad and Ironhide, who was still trying to get up. Though the newcomer was much smaller than Offroad, with light armor painted a friendly yellow color and a thoroughly non-threatening demeanor, some of the onlooking Autobots drew back slightly.

The yellow Autobot folded his arms across his chest and said, "Leave him alone, Offroad."

Offroad snorted again. "Or what, short stuff?"

Bumblebee, Chief of the Autobot Intelligence Service, smiled slightly.

"Or I'll make you," he said matter-of-factly.

"Big talk from such a little bot," Offroad scoffed. "I was the top hand-to-hand student in my training cadre. I went three falls with Optimus Prime. You get up in my grille and I'll take you apart. Bet on it."

Bumblebee's little smile faded slowly, replaced by a look of complete seriousness. Calmly, deliberately, he shifted into a fighting stance. With a soft hiss, a retractable armored guard closed over his flex-metal face, hardening his usually friendly visage into a faceless mask, its single eyeslot lens glowing with the light of his blue optics behind it.

"I'll take that bet," he said, his voice flattened and made even more metallic by the mask's transducers. "Consider me 'up in your grille,' junior."

Ironhide, who still remembered Bumblebee as the eager but none-too-tough little mascot he'd been on the mission to Earth, stared in horror. Offroad was a punk, sure, but he was a big punk, and he looked like he knew how to handle himself. Ironhide had no doubt that he could back up his boast.

Roaring with anger, Offroad lunged, his big hands balled into fists like wrecking balls.

Forty seconds later, Ironhide was still kneeling in the same spot, his face now slack-jawed with astonishment. Bumblebee retracted his battle mask and dusted flecks of blue paint from his hands.

"Come on, Offroad," he said affably. "Is that all you've got? Three falls with Optimus Prime? I mean, I know you lost them all, but still, I expected you to last longer than that."

Offroad tried to get up, felt something give in his elbow, and collapsed again, rolling onto his back this time.

"What... did you... do to me?" he panted.

Bumblebee shrugged. "Nothing much, really. I let you do most of the work. On Earth they call that taijutsu." The yellow Autobot crouched down next to his fallen adversary, put a hand on his shoulder, and went on in the same friendly, helpful tone, "Maybe next time you'll think before you put your mouth in gear. Yeah?"

With that advice delivered, he straightened and went to Ironhide's side.

"Easy, Ironhide. Let's get you down to Repair. Looks like you tore up that knee pretty bad."

Ironhide's embarrassment at having to be helped burned through his astonishment at what he'd just seen little Bumblebee do to Offroad. He tried to yank his arm out of the smaller Autobot's grasp, snarling, "I don't need your help to get to Repair!"

Bumblebee didn't release him - damn, where'd the little guy get such a grip? "Hey," he said quietly. "This isn't one of Hot Rod's new punks you're talking to, Ironhide. Now don't be stupid. Here. Lean on me. Easy does it."

After hoisting the larger Autobot to his feet and getting him moving, taking most of the weight meant for the damaged leg onto himself, Bumblebee looked back at the students.

"Class is canceled for today. You guys had better get Offroad to a repair bay too."


Bumblebee took Ironhide to the medical wing and helped him onto one of the exam tables, then went looking for Ratchet. The chief Autobot medico was just coming out of one of the automated-care rooms, where he'd supervised while the 7th Cav newbies dumped Offroad into a chassis restoration tank for auto-repairs.

"The kids tell me you happened to Offroad," he said.

Bumblebee nodded. "Ironhide needs some work."

"What happened?" Ratchet asked as the two walked back toward the room where Bumblebee had left Ironhide.

"He flipped on the vehicle skills course. His new vehicle mode is faster than he's used to, and top-heavy. Tore himself up pretty bad, and then Offroad got into him about it. You know how he is. Ironhide wanted to take him on - you know how he is - but he could barely move. I broke it up, Offroad wanted to start some slag with me... " The yellow Autobot shrugged. "... I obliged him."

"Well, I'd hate to be the one who has to explain to Hot Rod what happened," Ratchet mused.

"Yeah, I suppose I better go file something about it," Bumblebee replied. "Take care of Ironhide, willya?"

"That's my job," Ratchet replied with a grin. Then, while Bumblebee went off down the corridor, Ratchet thumbed the door to the exam room open. "Well, sport, I guess you're not quite ready for Le Mans this year, huh," he declared.

"Shut up an' fix mah leg," Ironhide grumbled.

While Ratchet worked on the damaged knee joint, Ironhide could no longer contain his curiosity.

"What th'slag happened to Bumblebee while I was gone?"

Ratchet chuckled. "He met a girl."

"... What?!"

To be continued...

"Lost Technology" - Part 1 of a 3-part Future Imperfect Mini-Serial by Benjamin D. Hutchins
Plotting and setup assistance: Philip J. Moyer
Special to the Eyrie Productions Discussion Forum
© 2007 Eyrie Productions, Unlimited

Ratchet chuckled. "He met a girl."

"... What?!"<<<<

Awwwww yeeeahhhh! 'Bout damn time too.

Thanks, I needed that :)

[...] in order to be a realist you must believe in miracles.
-- David Ben Gurion
EPU RCW #π
#include <stdsig.h>

When I read that line, I suddenly had a vision of Alita training a bunch of Minicons.

I never watched Transformers as a kid, never owned any of the toys, and haven't seen the movie; but in spite of that I really liked this fic.

Well done.

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We pray for mercy because we would be fools to pray for justice.