Chapter 4: Sparring Session Gone Electric
The faint echo of Strongarm’s distorted voice seemed to cling to Sunstreaker’s plating as he and Sideswipe walked away from the main corridor, the canister of grease forgotten in his hand. The bunker’s usual hum felt different now—charged, like the air before a lightning strike.
“Talk, huh?” Sideswipe finally broke the silence as they entered an empty storage bay, its walls lined with crates of spare parts. “So, talk. Did you run into a scraplet swarm down a service hatch or something? You’re all… tight.”
Sunstreaker leaned against a crate, arms crossed. “Strongarm. She had a data-stick hidden in a sub-level maintenance conduit.”
Sideswipe’s optics brightened, then narrowed. “A secret stash? For what?”
“I didn’t look. It doesn’t matter. What matters is she was watching me, following me. She called the twins’ bond ‘selfish.’ A threat to the unit.” His voice was flat, omitting the cold fury that had gripped him in the tunnel.
Sideswipe let out a low whistle, a grin spreading across his face, but it lacked its usual mirth. “So the cadet’s playing spy. Figures. She’s been itching to catch us out since I got here.”
“She’s not just playing, Sideswipe.” Sunstreaker pushed off from the crate. “She believes it. She sees us as a vulnerability. A security risk.”
“We are a security risk,” Sideswipe said, the grin turning genuine. “We’re the best kind. We’re chaos that works.” He bumped his shoulder against Sunstreaker’s. “Let her watch. She’ll just see how awesome we are.”
Some of the tension bled from Sunstreaker’s frame. His twin’s effortless irreverence was a familiar anchor. “She’s a problem.”
“Problems are for punching,” Sideswipe shrugged. “Later. Right now, Ratchet’s gonna weld my doors shut if I don’t deliver this grease. Come on.”
They made their way back toward the med-bay, but the scene they approached was not the one they’d left. The main doors were open, and the sterile scent of antiseptic was undercut by something sharper, sweeter—the high-grade smell of fresh enamel and polish.
Inside, Ratchet stood rigidly on a low platform, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Knock Out circled him with a polisher in one hand and a data-pad in the other, his crimson finish glowing under the surgical lights.
“—just a few subtle upgrades, I promise,” Knock Out was saying, his voice a smooth, persuasive purr. “Enhanced sensor arrays in the shoulders. Nothing garish. And this brilliant white for your primary plating, with the red accents sharpened to a proper racing stripe. Those twins you’re so fond of will love it.”
“I am not ‘fond’ of them,” Ratchet grumbled, staring fixedly at the far wall. “They’re a pair of walking structural catastrophes. My professional concern is keeping them functional.”
“Mmhmm.” Knock Out didn’t even look up from his work, running the polisher over Ratchet’s newly painted forearm. The old, scuffed white was gone, replaced by a deep, pearlescent shade that caught the light. “Of course. That’s why you let Prime think you were running a systems diagnostic for six hours while you realigned their sparks. Pure professionalism.”
“It was a delicate procedure!”
“And this,” Knock Out continued, ignoring him, “this reinforced joint articulation here? Sunstreaker will appreciate the engineering. Clean, efficient, strong. And Sideswipe,” he tapped Ratchet’s newly streamlined hip armor, “will just think it looks cool. Which it does.”
Ratchet ex-vented loudly. “Are you almost finished? I have actual work to do.”
“You know they like you,” Knock Out said, quieter now, the whir of the polisher dropping to a low hum. “They let themselves take minor injuries just to spend time with you. They’re a force to be reckoned with, there’s no way they let these low level escaped prisoners get the drop on them so often. Just enough to warrant a trip to the med bay only when you’re on shift.” He paused, meeting Ratchet’s offline optics. “It’s almost cute.”
“Preposterous,” Ratchet snapped, but his protest lacked its usual fire. The idea, once voiced, unfolded in his processor with damning clarity. The suspiciously timed sprained axle after a simple patrol. The shallow armor scratches that “stung worse than they looked.” The way one or the other would always linger after a repair, asking unnecessary questions about metallurgy or Cybertronian physiology. A pattern emerged from the chaos, and it left his spark feeling too large for its chamber.
The med-bay doors hissed open. Bumblebee walked in, freezing mid-stride as he took in the scene. A slow smile spread across his face. “Well. It’s about time you had some self-care done, Ratchet.”
Knock Out flicked his optics toward Bee, his smirk deepening. “I could do you next. I really like that reverse paint job you had back on Cybertron. I’d love to see it again.”
Bee shrugged, leaning against a console. “Sure. Why not?” He crossed his arms, his gaze shifting between the flustered medic and the smug ex-Con. “What made you finally agree to all this, Ratchet?”
Ratchet onlined his optics, glowering. “I was coerced under duress. This charlatan—”
“He has some Lambos to impress,” Knock Out cut in, his voice singsong.
Bee laughed, a bright, buzzing sound. “You finally noticed the massive crush they have on you? About time. I swear they’re getting hurt on purpose just to get to see you.”
Ratchet’s composure shattered. “Shut your intakes before I shut them for you. Permanently.”
Knock Out snickered, powering down the polisher with a final, dramatic spin. “Alright, alright. I’m finished anyway.” He stepped back, gesturing with a flourish. “Behold. The new and improved Ratchet. Less ‘field hospital,’ more ‘cutting-edge clinic.’“
Ratchet stepped off the platform, his movement smoother, the new joints whispering instead of grinding. He caught his reflection in a shiny instrument tray and stiffened, as if seeing a stranger. The paint was flawless. The lines were cleaner. He looked… cared for.
Sideswipe’s voice rang out from the doorway, loud with genuine awe. “Whoa.”
He and Sunstreaker were standing there, having witnessed the last part of the exchange. Sideswipe’s optics were wide. Sunstreaker’s were calculating, taking in every modified contour.
“Ratchet!” Sideswipe strode in, circling him. “You look awesome! Like you could actually outrun something now!”
“The joint reinforcement is a significant improvement,” Sunstreaker noted, his tone approving. “The weight distribution is better.”
Ratchet felt a wave of heat behind his faceplate. He busied himself with a scanner on the counter. “It’s just paint and some basic retrofits. Don’t you two have a patrol? Somewhere that isn’t here?”
“We’re going, we’re going,” Sideswipe said, still grinning. He shot a look at Sunstreaker, who gave a barely perceptible nod. A silent conversation passed between them. They turned to leave.
As they reached the door, Sunstreaker paused and looked back, his gaze finding Ratchet’s. “It suits you,” he said, the words simple and final, before following his brother out.
The silence they left behind was thick. Knock Out was beaming. Bumblebee was trying and failing to hide his amusement.
Ratchet finally turned from the scanner, his new, polished armor reflecting the overhead lights. He pointed a stern finger at Knock Out, then at Bumblebee. “Not. A. Word.”
But it was too late. The words were already out there, buzzing in the air between them. The twins’ poorly-kept secret, now laid bare. And Ratchet, for all his grumbling, couldn’t find a single logical reason to undo the upgrades. He ran a hand over his smoother shoulder plating, the finish cool and perfect under his touch.
Somewhere down the hall, the sound of Sideswipe’s laughter echoed, bright and unreserved. Sunstreaker’s low response followed. Ratchet listened, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to calculate the decibel level or the probability of impending property damage.
He just listened. And the new, silent joints didn’t ache at all.
The silence lasted only a moment before Knock Out waved the polisher dismissively. "See? An improvement. Now, about that other matter, Bee." He glanced toward the training facility doors, his tone shifting from playful to purposeful. "A private word? The sparring ring's free, and I need to calibrate my reflexes after all that meticulous detail work."
Bumblebee's antennae twitched, a subtle sign of curiosity. "Sure. Ratchet, you good?"
"Ecstatic," Ratchet deadpanned, still examining his reflection with a mix of horror and fascination. "Go away."
The training arena was a vast, echoing space of polished combat alloy and holographic targeting projectors. The lights were low, casting long shadows from the obstacle course structures. Knock Out transformed his polisher back into his hand, the gentle whir shifting into the sharper click of his fingers adjusting.
He paced a slow circle around Bumblebee. "Your reaction time against the last Vehicon incursion was point-zero-three clicks slower than your standard operational baseline," Knock Out stated, his voice losing its melodic edge, becoming clinical.
Bumblebee crossed his arms, leaning against a reinforced pillar. "It was a minor skirmish. We handled it."
"Minor skirmishes are where habits form. And degrade." Knock Out stopped in front of him. "I reviewed the footage. You hesitated when the third Vehicon flanked Sideswipe. You assessed instead of acted."
"He had it under control."
"Did he?" Knock Out stepped closer, into Bee's space. "Or were you calculating the risk to me, stationed at the rear? My defensive capabilities are more than sufficient, Bee. Your primary focus should be your team, not... peripheral assets."
The accusation hung there, sharp and unexpected. Bumblebee straightened up, his blue optics brightening. "You're part of the team."
"Am I?" Knock Out’s smile was thin, lacking its usual warmth. "Or am I a complication you’re still learning to manage? Your protocols are fighting your instincts. It’s making you slow." He gestured to the open mat. "Show me. No weapons. Pure hand-to-hand. Let’s see where your processor really is."
Bee cycled a vent, then nodded, stepping onto the mat. "Try not to scuff your finish."
"Oh, I won't," Knock Out purred, and launched himself forward.
He was faster than Bee anticipated, a crimson blur closing the distance. Bee dodged the first grab, pivoting to slam an elbow toward Knock Out’s side. The medic flowed around it, using Bee’s momentum to hook a leg behind his knee. Bee stumbled, catching himself on one hand before hitting the mat.
"See? Overcommitted," Knock Out taunted, dancing back.
Bee pushed up, attacking again. They became a whirl of motion under the arena lights, the clang of alloy on alloy echoing through the vacant space. Bee was stronger, a brawler by nature, but Knock Out was fluid, precise, exploiting the slightest imbalance. He was right; Bee’s processor was divided. A part of him was cataloging Knock Out’s techniques, another part acutely aware of the dangerous grace of his opponent, the way the light caught the seams of his crimson armor.
Knock Out slipped under a wide punch, moved inside Bee’s guard, and drove a sharp, precise jab into a primary transformation seam on his torso. Bee grunted, systems flashing a minor pain signal. Knock Out pressed the advantage, forcing Bee back, a series of controlled, efficient strikes aimed at joints and sensor clusters.
It was overwhelming, methodical, and intensely personal. Bee’s back hit another pillar with a dull clang. Knock Out’s forearm pressed against his throat, not hard enough to dent, but enough to pin. The medic was close, his crimson faceplate illuminated by the glow of Bee’s optics.
"Your focus is compromised," Knock Out whispered, his voice a low vibration. "You’re distracted by… extraneous data."
Bee’s systems were humming, the rhythm of combat syncing with the pulsing of his spark. The analytical part of his mind shorted out. He stopped trying to calculate the next move.
He just acted.
In one fluid motion, Bee dropped his weight, breaking the hold on his throat. He surged up, not to strike, but to crush his mouth against Knock Out’s.
The kiss was not gentle. It was a collision of metal and intent, a searing transfer of heat and charge. Knock Out’s victorious smirk dissolved into a static gasp against Bee’s lips. Bee’s glossa invaded his mouth, tracing the seams of his dental plate, tasting the sharp ozone of his systems. Their armor scraped together, friction generating tiny, visible sparks that danced and died in the space between them.
Knock Out’s hands, which had been poised to deliver another precise strike, came up instead to grasp Bee’s shoulder pauldrons, gripping hard. He kissed back, fiercely, a low groan escaping his vocalizer. The clinical distance he’d fought to maintain evaporated, burned away by a deeper, more urgent current.
Bee pulled back first, his ventilations coming in heavy bursts. Knock Out’s optics were offline, his forehead resting against Bee’s with a soft click.
“Extraneous data,” Bee murmured, his voice rough.
Knock Out onlined his optics, their glow bleeding into the narrow space between their faces. “A critical processing error,” he conceded, his usual smooth tone utterly shattered. “One I think merits… further study.”
“Later,” Bee said, his processor finally, blissfully quiet, focused on a single, overwhelming point of input—the feel of Knock Out’s frame against his. “We have duties.”
Knock Out leaned in, his lips brushing the audio receptor by Bee’s head. “Understood, Commander.” The title, usually formal, was anything but.
That night, Ratchet paced the length of the med-bay. The soft glow of diagnostic screens painted the empty berths in cool blue. His new joints moved silently, a constant, ghostly reminder of the day’s events.
Knock Out’s words cycled in his processor. They let themselves take minor injuries just to spend time with you. Bee’s confirmation. The way Sunstreaker had looked at the upgrades—not with casual approval, but with a craftsman’s keen appreciation. The way Sideswipe’s awe had been utterly unguarded.
He stopped before the main console, bracing his hands on its cool surface. Was he that transparent? Had his professional concern, the one fortress he’d maintained through millennia of war, developed such obvious cracks?
The med-bay door hissed open without a chime. He turned, expecting Fixit with a report. It wasn’t Fixit.
Sideswipe leaned against the doorframe, a grin on his face. Sunstreaker stood beside him, holding a bottle of Synth-En 12, a particularly rare and potent Cybertronian high-grade. Its viscous, silver liquid shimmered even in the low light.
“Knock Out said you were brooding,” Sideswipe announced. “We brought a solution.”
Ratchet straightened, crossing his arms. “I don’t brood. I ruminate on critical operational inefficiencies. What do you want?”
Sunstreaker simply held up the bottle, tilting it so the liquid caught the light. The label was unmistakable, the vintage one Ratchet had mentioned offhandedly cycles ago as being irreplaceable since Cybertron’s fall.
Ratchet stared at it. He looked at Sideswipe’s hopeful, mischievous face. He looked at Sunstreaker’s impassive, golden visage. He sighed, a long, deep ex-vent that seemed to come from his very spark. He was, it seemed, completely incapable of saying no. Not to that particular high-grade. And certainly not to them.
“Fine,” he grumbled, turning. “But keep your voices down. And if you get over-energized and wreck my quarters, I will weld you both to the med-bay ceiling.”
He led them through a side door into the small, spartan suite connected to the bay. It was all function: a recharge slab, a data-desk, a few storage lockers. A single, moderately comfortable couch sat against one wall, salvaged from a human dwelling.
The twins sat on the couch, their frames making the furniture seem doll-sized. Sideswipe immediately stretched out, taking up most of the space. Sunstreaker sat with perfect, poised rigidity, placing the bottle on the low table.
Ratchet fetched three plain cubes from a cabinet and poured a measure of the shimmering high-grade into each. He handed a cube to Sideswipe, then to Sunstreaker, who took his with a slight, silent nod. Ratchet settled into the solitary chair opposite the couch, sipping his own. The high-grade was smooth and complex, a taste of a lost world. It burned a pleasant, warm path down his internal systems.
For a while, they just talked. Sideswipe recounted, with dramatic flair, a completely botched attempt to teach a local raccoon to fetch. Sunstreaker offered dry, cutting commentary on the structural integrity of Earth fast-food architecture. Ratchet found himself laughing, a rusty, unfamiliar sound in his own quarters.
As the high-grade level in his cube lowered, Ratchet noticed a change. Sideswipe was always tactile, slinging an arm over Sunstreaker’s shoulders, nudging Ratchet’s foot with his own. That was expected. Sunstreaker, however, became less a statue and more… fluid. His critiques softened into dry wit. His gaze, usually so assessing, lingered on Ratchet.
“You know,” Sunstreaker said, his voice a low, warm hum, “those reinforced struts do more than improve mobility. They change your silhouette. Streamline it.” He took a slow drink, his optics never leaving Ratchet. “It’s a significant upgrade.”
Sideswipe watched, his grin widening into something delighted. He clearly loved this version of his brother.
Ratchet was used to Sideswipe’s playful, broad-strokes flirting. It was a game, a constant back-and-forth of ego and affection he knew how to deflect. This was different. Sunstreaker’s attention was specific, intense, and utterly serious. There was no game in it. It was an observation, delivered with the weight of a verdict.
Ratchet took a larger sip from his cube, suddenly needing the distraction. The high-grade’s warmth pooled in his core. He had no protocol for this, no medical expertise to apply to the quiet, focused attention of a beautiful, lethal mech who was, against all logic, looking at him like that.
Sunstreaker held his gaze, and the silent med-bay quarters felt ten degrees hotter.