Chapter Text
With a loud frustrated shunt of heated air through his vents, Ironhide resumes the course he has been patrolling for the last 4 orns.
He, along with 4 others, have been assigned to this excavation team from the science and historical division of Iacon as security guards. Basic routine of guard and protect the expedition team from threats both seen and unseen. Despite the area itself being considered a dead zone, long abandoned and corroding, situated a good 6 orn land based hike from his home city of Tyger Pax that didn’t mean there weren’t dangers to be had.
No mech in his right CPU would come out here without prior surveillance and weapons. It may appear to be a quiet desolate ruin, but there had been reports of some of the Allspark's feral creations stalking the area; scuttlers, frame-eaters, rust-burrowers are just some of the names used for them.
Little is known about exactly when they were created or their original function amongst Cybertrons relatively limited range of drone like fauna and various silicate and crystal based flora. Some believed them to simply be opportunistic scavengers there to help maintain the surface structures by clearing up decaying matter and help manage the population of other creatures but anyone who had the displeasure of seeing some of the largest incarnations of them in action believed them to be dangerous predators and a menace.
The creatures themselves, like many of the other fauna, are relatively small ranging from 2 to 6ft in length. These particular creatures sport simple segmented bodies usually pock marked and stained dark ruddy colours to blend in with their surrounds. Multiple spindly 3 joint legs varying in length and configuration between types allow for fast sharp movement and scaling of various surfaces though have shown to be of very low in intelligence. Their overall behavior tending towards animalistic instinct and almost hive mind like movements.
The danger factor from them came in the fact they moved in packs of a handful to several hundred individuals and could pile up and look like a lump of rubble or slip down and hide in cracks and natural seams in the planet’s surface. Though they generally stayed to the unpopulated areas the smaller varieties were known to occasionally nest in the lower planes of outer city areas around the cities that shared borders with empty zones. If an unfortunate mech stumbled across a nest of the small variety they’d come away with some nasty bites and tears in the plating and protoform, but if they were to wander into a decent sized nest of the large ones, and was unarmed, their chances of getting out a live were slim. Fast and voracious they attack in waves employing sawing denta, pincers and powerful corroding chemicals to weaken and bore their way through light outer armor to get at vital fluids and the slightly softer metal of the nutrient rich protoform underneath. If they didn’t kill a mech outright they would leave him with debilitating injuries.
That's why he and his team are here. Regularly scout the area to make sure the scientists are well guarded from such dangers along with any rogue mecha that may be scouring the area for valuable salvage. Though they can do nothing for the inherent physical underlying dangers of such a degraded zone.
The ground structure itself had already proven to be as incredibly unstable as early surveys had warned. Warnings that were ultimately acknowledged, but mostly set aside in favor of the expedition going ahead as planned. They had already experienced one near miss last orn when a small section near where they were excavating had collapsed. Thankfully no one had been damaged, aside from a few minor dents and scrapes.
Surveying the area in wide arcing sweeps he notes how unnervingly silent it is in both audial and energy sensory fields compared to the constant background noise of populated areas. The site supposedly dates to just before the great cataclysm some 8,500 vorns past. He’s heard the stories of the original 7 Primes and the Great War between them and one of their own who had turned his back on their values in pursuit of taking the Allspark and all its power. It was said the once Prime - stripped of his very name and now only known as The Fallen - fought his brothers for complete control and wrought a genocidal massacre upon their kind that purportedly brought their entire people towards the edge of extinction. All in the name of his overwhelming greed and need for power.
The stories say that the seven generations of spark-split offspring of the great Primes were hunted down and murdered by the Fallen's army along with any who sought to fight against him and refuse his rule. Even those who sought to stay neutral and uninvolved in the conflict weren’t spared. Allegedly well over three quarters of Cybertron’s relatively small population and large swaths of land that once contained flourishing cities and small towns were lost during the 100 vorn long war taking with it all early all records of Cybertron’s history, leaving very little behind. Some said the first Primes sacrificed themselves to hide the power of the Matrix from their insane brother finally stalling all his plans bring the end to the war and their true lineage with it. Others believed the remaining first 6 lived on, out there somewhere amongst the vastness of space and were simply waiting for the time when they would return with the Matrix, reunite it with the Allspark and bring Cybertron back to the glory of its past.
Little solid factual information had been gathered thus far to thoroughly prove or disprove these stories of near extinction wrought by this now nameless Prime and his brethren. The basic structures of a civilization passed still existed in crumbling wasteland areas like this where habitation was a near impossibility, but any forms of legible written history were incredibly rare finds. To Ironhide, the stories of the war and the destruction could well be true given the lay of the empty zones and the evidence of a civilization past, but the idea the Primes being great beings, almost god like and the evil monster that was the Fallen in stories were just that. Stories. Fanciful little tales told to hatchlings and younglings by their guardians to entertain and sometimes used as a means of scaring them into behaving.
He could fondly remembers his own guardian frequently using the story of the wicked Fallen coming in the darkest part of the orn to snatch up badly behaving young and spiriting them away to the nightmarish sub-dimension he had been banished to where they would be his eternal slaves in attempts to scare him straight. It never really worked and only saw to him testing his guardian even further much to the poor mechs chagrin. He'd been a restless, boundary pushing, rowdy little pain in the aft back then and for the most part still is now.
His canons twitch and roll a few times with audible clicks and whirs. Internal mechanisms flick, hiss and whine with the itch to shoot something. Anything! Just to break this monotonous boredom and nerve rending sense of isolation. But he has already been warned that the area is volatile. Full of uncharted tunnels and catacombs amongst the smatterings of 100 quartex high mountain like jagged pinnacles containing pit knows what, that could easily cause a massive ground collapse if disturbed, so firing off a couple of low charge rounds isn't an option.
Seeing the same near rough monochromatic area sparsely pock marked and scored all over with collapsed holes and spires of ugly, ragged planes and crumbling beams clawing towards the skies like the talons of some long dead beast, over and over is driving his CPU up the proverbial wall. He is a military mech, a mech of action and tactics. Not a slagging youngling sitter to a bunch of pathetic, thin plated science nuts! He is seriously second guessing why he let his team commander talk him into this assignment.
Another irritated huff slips from the dark mech as he rolls and stretches each shoulder, gears and cables softly popping and creaking. Shifting his bulk from side to side to loosen up his stiff legs the layers of grit and rocks under his peds grinds, cracks and screeches in protest momentarily culling the silence.
:: Hardtop to Ironhide. ::
:: Ironhide here. There a problem? ::
A little spike of excitement curls through his spark. He might finally have something to do!
:: Just had a minor tunnel collapse. One of the old historians, Theta Trion, is trapped, but says he’s fine. Almost have him out already, a joor at most. Got a report from Raze, there's been some audible rumbling and level 2 ground tremors in his area to the south. You got anything? ::
Wide range sensory scans pop, mapping his surrounds looking for anomalies like vibrations or unusual movement. He is about to report back in the negative when a thunderous rumble causes the ground to shudder violently. Rocks and pebbles dance wildly around his peds with the near sustained vibrations, nearby structures loudly groaning and shucking off layers of dust and chunks of corroded shale.
Stumbling back under the onslaught, Ironhide fights to keep his equilibrium in check as a part of the decayed ruins close by splits open and collapses in on itself with a screeching moan of decayed metal and audible whump of displaced air sending a vast thick plume of reddish-grey dust and rotted metal powder billowing into the atmosphere. Spreading his arms for balance Ironhide quickly skips backs away from the new tear in the ground and cloud of dust to hopefully more solid ground.
Through the audial shredding clamor he can hear Hardtop yelling through the comm. line.
:: Ironhide. Ironhide! Report! ::
:: Keep ya skid plate on. I’m fine! Level 5 tremor in the west sector. 17.38 nano-klik duration, 48.19, 66.91 epicenter, with structural collapse. ::
Scoping out the area again he finds what he thought was a patch of solid, debris littered ground has developed sizeable cracks, large portions sunken almost 3 feet into the ground. The sensors in his feet and legs continue to pick up deep level rolling vibrations driving him to move back a few more paces.
:: Hardtop, I’m still registerin’ deep vibrations. This place clearly been givin’ me false readin’s of stability an solidity an it’s already dropped a chunk a ground. I don’t wanna be here when it decides to drop anymore. I’m moving out back to the main site. ::
:: Right, you’re clear to move. I’ve forwarded to Striker and Raze your movements. They’re coming in too. We will discuss the continuation of this expedition once all are accounted for. Hardtop, out. ::
Setting the comm. link to idle, filtering basic data on real time locations of each member of the party, Ironhide scrutinizes his surroundings one last time plotting a course that will skirt the largest portion of the both raised and hidden structures on his way back to the main camp while keeping travel time to a minimum. Last thing he wants is to have the ground drop out from under him while traveling in alt mode, pit knows what he could end up stuck in or how big a potential drop awaited.
Turning to leave, several odd scrapping noises in the settling quiet drive him to stop mid motion. Cannons shifting to stand-by he holds his position, scans bursting around him, nasal plating twitching and sampling the thin air for the telltale signs of those vicious little rust-burrowers. His sensors are met with a reading that leaves his CPU reeling in confusion.
It isn’t the distinct acrid scent of putrefied energon and burnt coolant one associates with predatory behavior of the rust-burrowers, but something else. Tuning his audios more sharply he listens intently for movement, body primed and ready for an attack or the need to run should the ground giveaway. Sudden soft taps against his lower leg armor sees him spinning around cannons pointed down ready to fire… only to freeze in place.
There at his feet, standing on long thin legs, spindly arms clutched tightly to its delicate, shivering frame is a hatchling. The nutrient gel from its pod, liberally coated in metal dust, clinging to its thin minimalist plating. Wide golden optics look intently up at him almost as if waiting for something.
All the dark mech can do is dumbly stare back, his processor nearly locking up at the sight. There is a newly born hatchling standing out here in the middle of a empty zone and it's looking at him like it expects him to do something. Logically this should not be possible.
Resetting his optics a few times while his CPU rights itself he tucks his canons away watching as the little things bright optics intently track the movement as the canon parts split, fold and shift into their holding areas. Once out of sight its attention quickly turns back to his glowing blue optics, keenly watching with sharp scrutiny.
Golden optics flitting across his features then his frame. Its uncontrolled faint energy field gradually expands, swirling and flitting around, tendrils of energy barely touching against his. Each unrestrained fleeting brush emphasizes the sense of searching, of needing something from him leaving the big mech highly confused, yet unconsciously accepting of the questing little brushes allowing each subsequent fumbling touch deeper within his own field.
His vocalizer flicks and resets a few times before the words finally emerge.
“Ah…err…Hello there little one. Where did… what are ya doin’ out here?”
Ironhide immediately wants to smack his head into a wall for his stupidity. It is a hatchling, it can’t answer him. Chances are it barely has the CPU development and connectivity to understand what he is saying to begin with.
The question of where it had come from is obvious. A glancing behind it reveals scrape marks in the dirt and small patches of depleted nutrient gel mixed with spots of weak energon leading back to a small gap that had opened in the sunken ground close by. What it was doing out here, in a section abandoned some thousands of vorns before the warrior himself was even sparked, is another matter entirely.
Leaning down a little for a better look he abruptly reels back as the little hatchling shudders, mouth opening to emit a small pitiful bleat that jabs sharply at his spark. Its golden optics dimming to a muddy yellow, as its knees suddenly buckle.
Faster than most would think the bulky mech capable, he drips down large hands sweeping out to catch the fragile little body before it hits the ground. An instinct he didn’t know he even possessed, drives him to lift and hold the frighteningly light frame close against his chassis.
He almost drops the hatchling when a sharp shriek and hiss peels from its tiny vocalizer, body writhing and flailing in his firm grasp. Ridged with spark wrenching fear, processor screaming in panic, his grip lightens as he stares wide opticed down at the small form dwarfed by his broad hands.
Has he hurt it? Did he grip it too hard? To his mild relief the audio grating cries and thrashing swiftly stop as his grip lessens to simply cupping the shivering body. Small vents hiccup out stuttered whimpers as the little one loosely curls up within the space of his hands, big optics never once leaving his face. Flaring his energy field he swaths the others reeling, out of control energies with soothing calm and reassurances of safety and protection. He receives back a jumbled hard to discern mix of hurt, fear, need, safe? the last causes Ironhide to pause momentarily before giving a passing agreement. Yes, they were safe with him… he guessed. That draws a soft, dare he say happy, chirp from the little thing a tiny hand reaching out to grasp one of his thick digits in a surprisingly firm grip.
Taking a moment to scan over the hatchling, he finds himself silently cursing. It’s thin scarily soft, blue grey plating is covered in little dents, scrapes and long thin gouges. One arm pressed defensively to its body is partially dislocated at the shoulder and elbow joints, the delicate plating bent and slightly twisted out of place, displaced thin wiring, fluid lines and tension cables jutting out. No wonder the little things in pain.
It brings him some relief to see he could not have caused an injury such as this just by picking it up, but his spark still constricts at seeing something so young in pain. Unconsciously he gently brings the little frame to rest against his chest, listening intently as the soft little sounds of distress and shivering die off. With a soft clicking churr, it wriggles around releasing his finger in favor of curling in closer the warmth of his broad chassis before bright optics flicker and droop, the hatchling rapidly slipping into recharge.
Dumbfounded for a moment at the amazing display of complete naive trust, the tautness in his body slowly slips away as tension cables relax and hydraulics hissing with release. A small smile twitches at the heavy mech’s face plate as he adjusts his grip, shifting the hatchling to rest more securely in the crook of his arm. Skinny little fingers instinctively paw at his plating quickly latching on to the first hard edge in reach securing its place in his hold as the little body wriggles turning toward his side, then falling still once again.
Ironhide stares in wonder at the tiny form – so delicate, so breakable - snuggled into his plating, energy fields flowing in soft undulating waves, the sense of calm, affection and safety now quite clear above the general noise of an unconstrained, still weak field. It disturbs him more than he’d ever admit how much he finds himself unconsciously reciprocating the feelings.
His status as a warrior class with massive canons and a love for using them, plus an abrasive personality meant he has few he can honestly call true friends and even fewer who want to be within his energy field range. The fact this little one, this precious new born in pain and so worryingly fragile and vulnerable is trusting enough to fall into recharge in his powerful hands that could so easily crush it sent a strange, warm little tingle through his hardened spark.
Shaking himself he gathers his scattered wits, logic and tactical programming coming to the fore. He needs to get the hatchling to a medic quickly as possible. He has some basic medical training, but that is only for general battle damage and basic injuries. There was nothing in it about how to deal with a new born hatchling, thusly he doesn’t know if its behavior or weak, erratic energy field are normal.
With nowhere within his alt to securely store the hatchling without potentially causing further harm he locks his arm securely in place covering the tiny form held therein with his free hand and sets off. Wide feet pound the brittle ground at speed as he runs back to the main camp, pushing his lumbering body to its limits.