Chapter Text
“Um, Ratch.” Bumblebee shuffled into the medbay with his hands behind his back. This was not an unusual posture for Spec Ops. “You busy?”
“Whatever you've detached, put it in the tray and get on the berth.” Ratchet had seen mecha ambulating with all sorts of bits not where they should be. Patients missing limbs had hopped away from him to avoid his wrath. On one memorable occasion, Jazz, minus both peds, had walked on his hands all the way to a secondary aid station.
“Ah, sure, okay.” The yellow mini-bot edged around to the berth indicated by the Wrench of Doom. “It's just, it's not detached as such.”
“If you have something welded to your aft, I promise I won't laugh while you're in the room.” The CMO temporised. He'd laugh later in the privacy of his office. He eyed the Volkswagen narrowly. Surreptition aside, there was no awkward shifting bespeaking of a blockage somewhere intimate. No embarrassing magnet mishap locking down something internal either. Ratchet knew the signs. “If you've handcuffed yourself and can't get loose, I have override codes.”
“It's not that.” Everyone in Spec Ops had a funny story about that time they were practising and oops. Even better when it was off-shift or in company or both. Mirage had once manacled himself to Hound's berth before a spectacular overload wiped the unlock code from his memory. They'd had to call Prowl. No one wanted to top that.
“I'm not getting any younger. 'Fess up.” Ratchet ordered, patient index primed for some novel idiocy.
Bumblebee complied. He got the medberth between him and the medic, pulled the small bundle out from behind his back and set it on the padded surface. Carefully, he unwrapped the dirty blanket from around the object. Who blinked up at Ratchet with confused red optics.
“I found them in a dumpster.” The scout explained. “There'd been some 'Con sightings. Well, reports of some 'Con sightings. No activity detected and no high value targets but with the new deployment strategy they're trying, Jazz thought it worth a look.” A lone stealth patrol in an urban environment was good refresher too. “I was trialling Wheeljack's quick-change temp-coat so I was ducking in and out of side streets.”
“Were they wrapped up or did you do that?” There was a big difference between stashed and dumped.
“The lid was bent open at the corner and they were in there on a pile of cardboard, in the blanket. Not obvious but easy to get out.” Bumblebee wasn't sure whether that arrangement had been for safety or so the sparkling could eventually climb out. “I picked up a faint EM field. I knew it wasn't a deployer. They're better at ambushes. So I had a look and there was baby.”
“Hello, sprocket.” The medic said gently to the sparkling. He dropped to a crouch to approach. His knees didn't appreciate it but he didn't want to loom and frighten the little mech. Not a newspark, barely. The bitlet had a little colour coming in on their peds and hands; a dark blue-purple.
The sparkling waved at him in response to his greeting, Ratchet smiled, reassured they had been socialised enough to react though the human gesture was worrying. If the little one had been around the locals enough to have picked up their kinetics, the security implications were not good. The dumpster wasn't great either.
“Doesn't talk much.” Bumblebee had tried several different languages. Some sparklings learned to communicate fast. Hosts could talk before they could walk. “They can hum though.”
“Good acoustic recognition is an early sign of the linguistic suite initialising.” Ratchet observed as he scanned the sparkling lightly. The only reaction he got was the bitlet grabbing their own peds. Not sensitised or not particularly sensitive. The latter was fine, useful even, whereas the former wasn't. Not sensitised meant no prior medical scans. “Would you like a rust stick?”
That got an enthusiastic nod; another human gesture.
The CMO fetched a treat out of the locked drawer containing his personal (meticulously counted) supply. He handed it over, tracking the sparkling's hand/optic coordination. A little clumsy but they could make a closed fist and get the stick to their intake to gnaw on it.
“Om nom nom.” The sparking said.
“That's English.” Ratchet remarked. “Did you try any human languages?”
“Um, no.” Bumblebee admitted. He did a lot of communicating with various people and enjoyed it. Downloading a lexicon and phonetics was easy but nuance took time. And accents! They were so much fun. Lots of his comrades were really into tweaking their vocal registers just right. The social implications of dialect were fascinating. But a sparkling picked up the language spoken around them. “Does that mean humans had them?”
“I don't know. I think you should report to Jazz. I'll ping Perceptor and we can do some tests, non-invasive, to get some answers.” The medic suggested as he ran another scan, this one for trace contamination. No salt residue, some surfactants, which was an interesting find given the organic muck of the dumpster. The sparkling wasn't dirty, though they were a little sticky now from the treat.
Ratchet had the bitlet cleaned up, weighed, and wrapped in a clean thermal covering when Jazz sauntered in to inspect their newest little problem. The Polyhexian whistled a greeting to the sparkling, who looked towards him as the source of the noise but gave no particular social response.
“Probably not Poly, then.” The spy observed then switched to English. “Hey there, lil guy. Can you talk a bit for Uncle Jazz?”
“Vroom?” The sparkling asked, not quite talking though the onomatopoeic engine noise was definitely a word rather than a rev. They were a little young to have control of their engine, though some frame-types could make quite a racket if they were agitated.
“Just a sec.” Jazz moved a tray out of the way and transformed, bouncing on his tires to attract attention rather than gunning his high performance engine. Ratchet had Views on mecha hooning around his medbay.
The bitlet immediately called out in binary; a noise so deep coded it could be termed instinctual. Caste, frame-type, alt mode, colony, whatever, it didn't matter. All Cybertronians made that noise as sparklings to call to their caregivers.
“Who do we know who's an irresponsible Porsche?” The CMO asked the walls and Teletraan as he watched Jazz transform back to root. The 3IC immediately picked up the sparkling for a cuddle, the little one happily magnetising to his chest-plate with another 'vroom'.
“Carrier or sire might be a racer frame. Not sure how much a lil bit can tell alt makes apart.” Jazz petted the sparkling's helm gently, digits tracing the tiny bumps that would eventually be vents. “That said, the 'Cons don't have a lot of light or fast grounders. I'll eat my fender if this munchkin has any Seeker in 'em.”
“I would be surprised if they did.” Ratchet agreed. “I've pinged Perceptor. We'll do a CNA screen and some more in-depth scans once he's finished whatever high priority science he's doing right now. More energon refinements, apparently.” The 'not now' response to his summons had been polite if inconvenient. “I can't see any distinctive polity markers, but that's more what they're not than what they are.”
“Prowl, very very casual-like, asked me to ask you if you can confirm if the bitlet was the result of cross-factional shenanigans.” The saboteur cycled his optics behind his visor. He had not been fooled by the former Enforcer's mild request. If an Autobot had been interfacing with a Decepticon there would be CONSEQUENCES.
“That's a straightforward assay. We have nearly all Autobots on file, spark print and CNA. If any of us on the planet helped make the sparkling, I'll find out.” Ratchet was confident he could identify the carrier and probably the sire(s) if they had ever spent time in his care. The Ark had medical records going back to the early days of the conflict and he'd made sure to document everything since the crash.
“On the quiet, any consent violations?” Jazz didn't usually iterate around an issue. He'd dealt with all sort of slag during and before the war. But if someone had reported something that hadn't crossed his desk, he didn't want to drag them through it if it wasn't relevant. He did need to know, though.
“Not likely.” The CMO was sure. “Not around the little one's sparking date, and not anyone who's had a full physical in the last vorn.” Ratchet considered the possibility. He had unfortunately had a fair amount experience with 'consent violations'. War crimes of that sort were, thank Primus, rare but some mecha didn't mind feeling their victim's pain. One of the few upsides to having Soundwave on the other side was he did mind and removed (usually permanently) any 'Con who indulged.
“I'll ask Smokescreen to ask around.” The 3IC didn't like to think he'd missed something that serious. There was always slagging Vortex but the 'copter didn't like being touched and anyone who was interrogated by him got the full work-up plus counselling. “Though if I were a betting mech, I would put shanix on the Stunticons.”
Ratchet made a thoughtful noise. Young, impulsive, uneducated, and the appropriate frame-type. To test the theory, he softly booped the sparkling on their nasal orifice. He got a giggle not a hiss or bite. Well socialised, which he would not have expected from a Decepticon raised youngling. But they didn't get those precision targeting red optics by chance.
“I'll have more data once Perceptor is available." Ratchet shelved the issue for now. “What I need is a security assessment. How quiet are we keeping this and did you tell Bumblebee to keep his comm silent?” If one mini-bot knew something, they all did unless actively restrained or unconscious. “They're safe enough here and I know several mecha who'd arm-wrestle for the chance to mind a sparkling.”
“Red Alert's not happy.” Jazz stated, pro forma. Red was rarely happy. “Prowl recommends a complete mute until we ID the carrier.” That would last as long as it lasted, gossip being a fundamental force of the universe. “How much people-time, you know, medically, does the widget need? In Polyhex, the code-line or the neighborhood raised sparklings cooperatively. All thrown in together with a couple of adults to make sure no one ate the little ones.”
“Moulding you into the fine, upstanding citizen you are today.” That sounded like chaos to Ratchet, who'd had a mentor and structured playtime with other newbuilds scheduled around his lessons. Socialisation was an important part of development and shouldn't be left to whoever had an afternoon free. “At this age, they can be alone for a little while, if monitored. But not for long and not in a slagging dumpster. If you're asking about shifts, we'll need someone for each one though they won't need to hover.”
“Make a list of approved minders and send it to Prowl. He can bitch on his own time about adjusting the roster.” Jazz nuzzled the sparkling, switching from Iaconian to English. “Our bestest grumpiest Praxian likes playing with the rota, yes, yes, he does.”
The bitlet laughed at the spy's jolly tone and hummed. He and Ratchet listened quietly to the tune, trying to place it. The medic wasn't particularly musical though he knew dozens of lullabies, useful for patients too young for sedation. Jazz's optics brightened after a moment.
“Sunny day, sweepin' the clouds away.” He crooned, and the sparkling clapped. “On my way to where the air is sweet.” Music spilled out from his speakers to accompany the lyrics. The spy hadn't had it in memory but the tune was easy to find online. “Can you tell me how to get? How to get to Sesame Street.”