Memoriam

Before the war, Ratchet had been of the opinion that the cybs that had gone around breaking statues and defacing buildings hadn't had much sense.

He understood much better now -- three hundred-some years later, at least three hundred-some years late, he felt. Now he had to drive past those new statues twice every day, at least twice, and after nearly ten years of that, he was just about ready to tear them down himself.

Fortunate for everyone, then, that he'd never be able to manage it. The Council had learned from their past mistakes -- oh, had they ever -- and there were security cameras embedded into the statues themselves, in order to catch any potential malcontents. Ratchet had never been superstitious, but it made him feel like the statues themselves were watching him, some days.

Those weren't particularly good days. The statues might have been of people Ratchet had known, and even cared about -- many of them -- but they were also of people who had never existed.

There was a plaque under each one, with a name as a short description. And the Council had made things... so... simple.

There was Ratchet himself, and that was unpleasant enough. Optimus Prime, of course -- their centerpiece. Ultra Magnus, Arcee, Bulkhead, Wheeljack, Bumblebee, Smokescreen. Even Cliffjumper. Even Knock Out. Alpha Trion, as well, as if more than two of them had ever been in the same room as him. And, mixed in among them, Megatron and Starscream as well.

Thirteen statues. It hadn't been hard to see why, even in those initial moments of shock upon seeing them for the first time. There was something almost elegant about it, something elegant in the plaques as well, elegant in a way he could only call evil.

(He remembered the councilman's wide, friendly smile, his outstretched arms, his eyes, as he'd complimented them all. Remembered how long it had been since he'd seen or even heard of many of those people who had been so lifelessly remade in these cold statues. Yes. Evil.)

Thirteen Primes, thirteen statues. They'd been immortalized as heroes, practically deified, simplified into something bite-sized and palatable for the masses, and told to shut their mouths. Ratchet had realized, slowly over the course of years, that he had been told to shut up for centuries, far more subtly than these people could manage. He certainly recognized it now.

And so the statues stared, strangers with familiar faces, and told stories Ratchet only barely recognized. Optimus was the chosen of Primus, whose selfless sacrifice had, his plaque proclaimed, made their current world possible. Megatron was as evil as the Fallen Prime from whom he took his name -- his forgiveness by Optimus unmentioned, lightly sidestepped. Starscream was only slightly more subtly equated to Liege Maximo, the traitor, though who had been betrayed and how was left unclear. Cliffjumper was the martyr; Knock Out was the redeemed. Ratchet himself was the brilliant physician, which periodically made him angry in ways he couldn't even hope to explain.

At first he'd stopped, nearly every time he'd passed them. Looked at those engraved words and up at their faces, and tried in vain to feel any connection there to the people he had known. Even Starscream, admittedly practically a stranger to him, he just couldn't connect to that block of stone. Optimus was the only one whose statue had ever seemed close to true, and frankly, that vast emptiness being so true to life had made him feel ill for some time.

And so he'd stopped looking at them entirely. Especially his own statue. It was a terrible thing to not recognize yourself.

It was easier in the mornings, somehow. He could concentrate on the day ahead of him as he drove into work, go back over what they'd done the night before and where they'd need to pick up today, and who they'd need to check back in on, and there was so much ahead of him that he sometimes legitimately didn't notice them. At night it was worse, because he left the building alone by necessity. By law. His partner, the closest thing he had to a friend these days, a minicon named Undertone, well. Minicons were not allowed to leave their duty stations. That was another law that had returned, worse than ever by Ratchet's account. Undertone was mostly quiet, and at night he nodded to Ratchet and headed to the small room he had been given in the medical building itself, like just another tool, and Ratchet drove home past the statues in the twilight, and that was when he wanted to bring them down.

This wasn't what any of them had fought for. Not just the way the minicons were treated, not just the return to caste and alt assignments and gender assignments, but Autobot branding out of the well, now, and blue optic lenses by default, and statues that whispered in Council voices "this is what these heroes and these villains did, like the gods themselves..." while they, themselves, the people who had actually done things -- not those things, not really, not exactly, but real things -- were drowned out and pushed aside.

So, yes. Nights were hard. And some nights he wanted to put that trip home past those statues off for a little while. It being darker didn't help much, but at least he could try to be less angry.

Additives was in the exact opposite direction, which made it ideal for Ratchet's purposes. It didn't matter that the drinks weren't that great, because he never went there to get drunk, or even particularly tipsy; he still had to drive home, after all, it was too far to walk. It was somewhat out of the way, and quiet, and the bartender didn't mind if he ordered one drink and nursed it for a while, which was what he tended to do. It was more... a place for him to sit and relax, which he was only just starting to get used to again. He'd gone so long without having anywhere to do that.

So every few weeks, he'd go there, and sit, and try to recharge, to make it through a few more weeks. He didn't talk to anyone there except the bartender, and them only minimally, and no one went out of their way to talk to him, and sometimes he couldn't keep himself from wondering where the people he'd known had gone.

He wasn't wondering that night, but he still found one answer.

There was a red sports car sitting nearish to Ratchet's usual place at the bar, and that was one thing you could say for Knock Out: When you saw him, there was no wondering if maybe you were mistaking someone else for him. And it was more of a relief to see him than even Ratchet -- who had spent years wondering what had happened to nearly everyone, who had known what a terrible position Knock Out specifically had been in when the Council had returned -- might have expected.

Ratchet crossed the bar to the stool next to him, but didn't sit immediately, deciding at the last moment to refrain in case Knock Out seemed opposed to the company. "Knock Out-- It is you. I haven't seen you in years."

He was honestly enthused, but when Knock Out startled and turned to look at him, that banked some into concern. Knock Out seemed more than honestly surprised. For a moment, he looked uncertain, almost alarmed, like he might get up and retreat, and then to Ratchet's surprise a relief that mirrored his own flitted across Knock Out's face before it even out closer to a practiced neutrality, Knock Out tilting his head with a faint smile and a slight raise of his eyebrows.

"Ratchet," he greeted. "I'll admit, I didn't expect to run into you in a bar, of all places. How long has it been -- ten years? Twelve?"

"Fifteen," Ratchet was specific, a much less casual, offhand, I-haven't-been-counting, and Knock Out gave him a thoughtful look.

But that cultured, controlled look couldn't erase exactly how different Knock Out was, after those fifteen years. Oh, he still looked the same, superficially. Other than the Autobot symbol, which was a slight shock when Ratchet finally noticed it, small and unassuming and a purple to match those odd designs on his doors, nothing much had changed, and he was obviously still taking care of himself, getting enough fuel and so on, staying polished up. He was still, frankly, gorgeous.

But he also looked exhausted. There was something under that veneer that seemed frazzled and worn, though something in him brightened up slightly seeing Ratchet, which was... odd. They'd never been particularly close, even though for the few years they'd been 'teammates', after a fashion, after Optimus's death, they'd gotten along better than Ratchet had expected them to. Knock Out had seemed to appreciate something in him, and quite frankly, Ratchet had been willing to cede early on to the fact that Knock Out wasn't just a much better doctor than he was -- which would not have been hard to achieve -- but was something of a genius.

And Ratchet had, back then, given him more respect than he'd seemed to have been expecting. And Ratchet remembered, clearly even after so many years, giving a big fake smile and a bright thank you! as he'd hidden the synth-en formula behind his back, and the way Knock Out had been brought up short, seemed to look at him with new eyes for a moment, and smiled. You're welcome. Rear view vision was 20/20.

In any case, Knock Out didn't seem to be chasing him away now. Ratchet went ahead and sat down on the stool next to him. "How have you been?" he tried, a bit awkwardly; it felt entirely inefficient.

"Oh, you know," Knock Out said lightly. "Same old same old. What about you? You look like you're doing well." His eyes flicked down over Ratchet's body before looking back up to his face, and Ratchet vented out a little hotter, a bit embarrassed. But he could tell that Knock Out was sidestepping talking about himself, and he allowed it with nowhere near as much blustering as he might have in the past.

"It helped to start refueling properly," Ratchet admitted, and it was true. He knew that what Knock Out had said was true, too; he looked better than he had years ago. It wasn't just a new coat of paint, and it certainly wasn't the re-scanned Cybertronian ambulance alt. Cosmetic touch-ups might have helped when he'd never had the time or inclination before, but the real problem was that he'd been significantly underfueled, giving himself lower rations in order to make sure everyone else would be healthy, not really bothering to supplement with anything because they had such limited supplies of everything back then.

Knock Out rolled his eyes. "I could have told you that. Actually, I did, and you kept waving me off. How far below the safety line were you? Halfway?"

"Hah." Ratchet couldn't actually argue with that; he'd been keeping himself barely above the level of 'medical emergency' for years. Knock Out had told him he'd looked underfueled, too, two or three times, and Ratchet remembered brushing him off about it each time. "Well. I have better habits now. You look..." Exhausted? "As good as ever," he tried, and Knock Out looked appreciative, shooting him a smile.

"Very sweet," he noted approvingly, almost purred, and raised his drink in indication, nice thick clearish motor oil with flecks of gold and brass (maybe literally, maybe not), and Ratchet was surprised to notice one other change besides his Auto-brand, his sharp nails slightly more elegant, and gold. "Drink-worthy sweet. May I?"

Ratchet flustered slightly. "You don't need to spend credits on me."

Knock Out's eyebrows went up. "One drink won't bankrupt me," he pointed out, but added oddly gently, "But I won't push."

"No... It's fine." If Knock Out wanted to buy him one drink, well... Ratchet was going to accept the gesture for what it was. Or at least for a friendly, catching up, good-to-see-you overture, and something he could maybe even return another time. "I usually get warmed petrol with a fifth of gallium."

"Fancy." It was hard to tell if Knock Out was approving or teasing, or both somehow, and Ratchet vented out warm embarrassed stale air as Knock Out motioned the bartender over and ordered for him. "So, at the risk of sounding like a terrible cliche..." Knock Out turned back toward him, tilting his head and smiling faintly, "You come here often?"

Ratchet didn't at all get what was cliche about that, but other than a faint, unavoidable air of confusion, ignored it. "Only some nights. When a shift has been... difficult."

Knock Out 'tsk'd sympathetically. "I hear you."

"But I certainly haven't seen you in here before."

"Mm, I'm not surprised we've missed each other. I don't make it this far east very often. They have me stationed so deep in the west end of Iacon I might as well be in Alfer."

Ratchet barked a surprised laugh at that as he took his drink. Knock Out grinned, and when his expression lightened it brought a spark of animation back to him that Ratchet was glad to see. "This is only my fourth time here, over the span of about three months," Knock Out added.

"Then it's fortunate we ran into each other so quickly." Ratchet meant it, too, though Knock Out blinked twice in quick succession, something that -- if Ratchet remembered correctly -- was a fairly sure sign that he was trying not to show surprise.

Something about Knock Out was very closed off, even his joking and purring seemed surface-level, and Ratchet couldn't blame him, even if it was disappointing. Knock Out had never been in a good position with them, and there was no way he wasn't feeling alienated in this city, Ratchet was very aware that he didn't seem to be doing well, and he knew he couldn't expect closeness from him. Knock Out had no real reason to want to be his friend.

The disappointment was in how scrapping lonely Ratchet was, though. Alienated himself, unable to talk to anyone about his experiences or his discomfort with everything, the statues, the Council, this city. The entire planet, Cybertron resurrected but not the way he'd wanted, this wasn't anything like what he had imagined, what they'd been fighting for. None of the young Cybertronians, sparked these past twenty years, would understand, they had no context. And Ratchet just flat-out didn't know where most of the rest of 'Team Prime' was, and the few he did know the location of he could never manage to visit, they were all busy, and scattered throughout the city.

Almost as if the Council had wanted to keep them apart...

And now here was Knock Out. And surely Ratchet couldn't be blamed for wanting a connection, but neither could Knock Out be blamed for not wanting one. He knew that, accepted it.