Neos Mnestis

Part 11: Neos Soma

      "What's been bothering you." Sandstorm asked Springer as the slightly shorter green mech stepped into the small recharge room the four Cybertronians and been sharing since the Kaonnite gladiators picked up the two triple changers from a prison ship. "You haven't been yourself since, well, since we dropped Devecon off." He gestured for the younger Cybertronian to take a seat next to him. Wrapping a yellow and orange arm around the green shoulders, he pulled Springer closer. 

       "What's up bro?"

       "I don't think you'll understand." As good as his brother's intentions always were, and as empathetic as he could often be, Springer doubted Sandstorm's ability to help.

       "It's about her, isn't it?" Sandstorm's voice was hushed, faintly reminding Springer of long before the war, before Sandstorm left home. "You can talk to me. You know that."

       The green mech didn't reply, he merely lowered his helm, staring at the overly polished floor.
"Or..." The single word drug out as Sandstorm's grip tightened around Springer.

       The Wrecker's helm shot up. He knew that tone of voice, remembered it from when he was a youngling. He tried to scramble off the berth, but his older brother's arm clamped firmly around his thick neck cabling. Sandstorm preceded to place Springer in a helm-lock with his right arm, his left fist knuckling hard against the ticklish spot between his helm crest and right helm ridge. The younger triple changer struggled to free himself from the vise like grip, slamming his elbow repeatedly into the side of his attacker's broad chassis; to little avail. He silently cursed Sandstorm for having such thick plating. Though truth be told Springer's was just as think, and said thickness saved their hides way more than once.

       "Esses." Springer choked out his brother's nickname, servos clenching around the yellow forearm encircling his neck. "Can't vent." He gasped.

       Sandstorm may not've been a Wrecker, but he still knew when to use force and how much to use. He quickly let the gasping mech go. "Whoops, forgot Cybertron's not so big on venting panels." He patted Springer lightly on the back. "They're all the rage on Paradon." To illustrate his point he raised the panels along his sides, revealing the grates that allowed for cooling. "Was." Sandstorm's cheery mood faltered as he thought about the cyber-organic planet he'd called home after leaving Cybertron.

       Giving his black helm a little shake, Sandstorm's smile returned, maybe a little forced around the edges. "But we're not talkin' about that. We're talking about your femme."

       "I don't think there's anything to really talk about." Springer insisted, rubbing gingerly at the abraded protoform of his neck. "The possibility she's still alive-"

       "Don't you dare finish that." A large black servo grabbed a hold of Springer's high shoulder plating. "You don't know she's gone!" The one-time Paradonian exclaimed, orange hued optics burning into his brother's harlequin green. "She's alive 'til you know differently! She's alive 'til your spark bond breaks and you feel that black emptiness. Until then, she's alive!" Sandstorm leaned in, slight nasal ridge bumping against his little brother's. "'Cee's out there and you're going to find her and you two'll be happy together with lots of little creations."

       Springer bumped his helm against his beloved brother's. "Alright." Maybe Sandstorm truly did understand how he felt.



       "What did you do to me?" Arcee stared at her strange reflection on Knockout's highly polished chassis. Of course his curves distorted her image, but she knew that this was totally not right.

        "Well," the suddenly much shorter reconstructive surgeon said smugly, "other than the obvious part about saving your protoform, I upgraded the ball actuators in your-"

       Arcee raised an unusually colored servo, placing a white tipped digit against the doctor's pale lip plates. "Short run down please." Softly rounded optic ridges lowering to a glare.

       "Yes, ahem, the short and the long of it is... You got a complete upgrade--pro bono of course." Knockout's excitement was almost testable. He hadn't the chance to do what he loved since the war got going. Recreating damaged soldiers or upgrading mechs for battle was just not the same as taking something ordinary and turning it into something extraordinary. That was what he had lived for for almost as long as he could remember, and having the chance to do it again was amazingly rejuvenating.

        "You-you..." Arcee was at a lost for words.

       "Saddly," the former Decepticon continued, oblivious to Arcee's shock, "All that was on servo was a few unmissable Vehicons and that scrap metal Chromia brought in: infirior materials. It will do for now."

      "What?!" Round light blue optics in a slightly pink face plate widened. "You disassembled Vehicons to build me?" Her circular helm met hard with an upraised servo.

       Knockout pulled a face, turning he pulled a tray of neatly sorted washers from one of his large cabinets. "Don't be so morbid my dear." Rolling his startling red optics he held the tray out for the Iaconian to examin. "I'm not the morbid one. I used spare parts."

       "Oh." Arcee considered herself doly reprimanded and returned to contemplating her warped reflection.

       It wasn't long before the surgeon slammed his narrow servos down on his work table and turned a peeved glare onto the femme. "Do you mind not staring into my plating for the rest of the day! It's not like I don't have a mirror you could use."

       "Heh heh." Arcee laughed breathily. "That would be nice." She followed the now shorter red mech to his office. Inside, unsurprisingly, was a full body mirror.

        "Holy sire of... Who am I!" A complete stranger stared back at her. The femme in the mirror was tall and strongly built, with practical yet beautifully crafted armor.

       "You're Arcee 2.0 obviously." Knockout nonchalantly sat on the edge of his desk, shining his tallins on a chamois.

       "Why do I look like Elita One?" Sure she'd told him she admired the leader of the femme special forces--Jazz and Elita used to argue good naturedly about whether or not special forces and special operations was the same thing and who the actual leader was--but she was almost sure she'd never told him she wanted to look like her idol.

       "What can I say... Primus knows how to design a kick-aft femme." The doctor set the chamois aside, giving up his cleaning to walk a slow circle around Arcee.

       "Stop that." She snapped, her helm was starting to buzz from everything that was happening. "I think I need to go." Turning, she strode quickly out of the med bay, heading for her quarters. Knockout's final words following her all the way there.

       "Your medical records say nothing about a bondmate."