Chapter Text
It was with a growing dread that Ratchet tracked the progress of Firestarter's growth. From the moment they had emerged he had kept a careful watch on all the milestones they would need to hit to be growing at a proper rate. There were a terrifying few deca-cycles where their progress had slowed, especially with their weak spark condition.
But now they were back on track, which brought problems of its own. Namely, Firestarter's last big growth spurts and the lack of resources on hand to aid them. If Ratchet didn't scrounge up the materials to feed them in order for their frame to bulk up into their adolescent and adult upgrades, the poor kid could end up stunted.
There aren't many options left. Every Autobot has an allotted ration specific to their frametype needs. And the distribution of these rations is carefully controlled. Ratchet's been to enough command meetings to know that they're living supply run to supply run. Even the desperate measures aren't enough anymore. Despite the taboo outside of wartime, the Autobots have been siphoning and recycling unprocessed energon from their dead's frames. But that still isn't enough to make up for the noticeable deficit.
There are no margins left, and the troops can already feel the strain after being stuck in transit for so long without a restock.
But it's worse for a developing bot. Firestarter's intake of energon and raw metal additives will need to increase until it more than doubles. There's no telling how much they will need going forward until their frame stabilizes into its adult form.
Firestarter is already half Ratchet's height, the top of their helm reaching his elbow joint. If they end up in the same size class as him, their final growth spurt will be extreme. It'll be hard enough for them to deal with the sudden changes occurring to their frame without worrying about fuel intake.
He considers the avenues at his disposal. He can take some of the additives needed from medbay supplies. It's a gamble, but Firestarter needs them now and the next battle could be tomorrow or not until they land on another planet to restock anyways.
The energon is more difficult. Ratchet has already started the official process to appeal for a change in Firestater's allotment. But resources are tighter than ever, and he knows it will take a while for the distribution to be adjusted, making sure that no one goes without.
Ratchet looks at the chart he'd laid out again. Firestarter is set to start their next growth spurt any cycle now, and after that they won't stop developing until they've reached their final size.
He does some quick calculations. With all of the medbay supplies he can spare and half of his own energon ration, he can just barely scrape together the minimum Firestarter will need.
It will have to work. He made a promise to himself when he discovered his sparkling's existence, that despite the war, he would give anything to ensure that they grow up happy and healthy.
The bot now known as Dent was too big to crawl into Carrier's berth when they got scared and couldn't recharge during the night-cycle.
Still, they padded as silently as they could to the door to Carrier's room. From there, they could make out the faint sounds of his deep, steady vent cycle. It soothed some of the fear still dancing around their spark.
But they still couldn't calm down enough to recharge. And they didn't want to wake Carrier up, not when he was so tired from working all the time.
So instead, Dent shuffles out of the hab they share with Carrier and the other medics and wanders out into the halls of the ship.
While travelling in space, the boundaries of "day-cycle" and "night-cycle" are different. Bots call them "on-shift" and "off-shift", and there's always someone awake.
Dent ignores the first few bots they see passing by because they don't know who they are. But they perk up when they spot someone they do.
"Uncle Rod!" They call, scampering over to him.
Hot Rod turns toward them, pausing from where he had been carrying a crate down the hall. "Aren't you supposed to be recharging?"
Dent wilts a little. "Yeah. But that's boring. What are you doing?"
Hot Rod hefts the crate. "Hauling things every which way. It's gotten to the point where we've been in space long enough that Prowl wants to reorganize the ship's whole inventory."
"Can I help?" Dent clings to Hot Rod's arm, peeking at the crate.
"You can walk with me to the hold. Then I've got to return you to your hab or your Carrier will have my helm." Hot Rod crosses his optics and sticks out his glossa, demonstrating just how dead he would be if Ratchet found Dent playing with him instead of recharging. "Errk!"
Dent huffs. "No fair!"
"Yes fair!" Hot Rod starts walking again, and Dent scurries to keep up.
He leads them to an elevator, which they ride down to the ship's hold. Dent had been there before, helping Carrier stock up on supplies for the medbay.
The storage racks span almost the entire length of the ship, all loaded with crates magnetized to the shelves. Hot Rod weaves between the rows. "Help me look out for section 21-Z, I can't remember the exact right way to go."
Dent has long since learned to read already, so they keep an optic out for the label. But the endless shelves and the dark corridors where the automatic lights haven't switched on spook them, and they stay close to Hot Rod rather than running ahead to search.
In the distance down one long corridor of shelves, they can see someone standing in a lone patch of light. Dent tugs on Hot Rod's arm. "Who's that?"
"Let's see." Hot Rod starts towards the mystery bot. Dent clings to him the whole way.
When they get close enough to see detail, it becomes clear that the bot is Prowl. But he doesn't look like the stern yet fair sparkling-sitter Dent had come to know. Prowl paces in a tight circle, his optics bright with stress. He clutches a datapad in one hand, the other holding his chin in a nervous gesture.
"Hey, Prowl. Where did you want this box again?" Hot Rod asks.
Prowl snaps out of his trance, looking at Hot Rod like he's seeing right through him. "What?"
"You asked me to help reorganize? Remember?"
"Right, that. Sorry, I just got…" His gaze lands on Dent. "…very bad news. It's Deadlock related."
Hot Rod winces at the name. "Oof. Okay, I'll just set this wherever then."
He puts the crate down and immediately sits on top of it. Dent climbs up next to him, barely squeezing onto the surface.
"Who's Deadlock?" They ask.
Prowl and Hot Rod exchange a look. Hot Rod speaks up first. "Why don't you ask your carrier that?"
"Yes, that would be best." Prowl says. "I have to get to the command center right now. I'm afraid I don't have any more duties for you, Hot Rod."
"It's alright. I'll get the sparklet back to berth and then report to Ironhide. You gonna be okay?"
Prowl sighs deeply. "I'll make a plan. I can fix this."
He marches off down the row of shelves, the automatic lights spotlighting him the whole way.
Hot Rod turns to Dent. "Recharge time itty-bitty!"
Dent sticks out their glossa at him, glaring. "I'm not a bitty anymore!"
"Sure you aren't. You wanna ride on my shoulders?"
Dent huffs, then extends their arms to be picked up.
By the time Hot Rod has carried them all the way back to their hab, Dent is drifting off. They lean against Hot Rod's helm, cheek pressed to his crest.
They have to wake up a little to give Hot Rod the door code to the medics' quarters. But they've almost fully slipped into recharge when he slides them off his shoulders and lays them in their berth.
Dent awakens and remembers their unanswered question. They jump out of their berth, filled with the burning need to have it answered.
Carrier's door doesn't have a code, so Dent just has to hit the open button to slip inside. He's still in recharge, so Dent carefully climbs up onto his berth. They lean over his face. "Riri…"
"Hm?" Carrier slowly begins to wake up, his systems gently whirring as they online.
"Who's Deadlock?"
Carrier's optics online in a flash and Dent flinches away. He sits bolt upright. "What did you just say?"
Dent's finials pin back with fear. But they are still determined to get answers. "Uncle Rod and Uncle Prowl said to ask you. Uncle Prowl said something about a bot named Deadlock."
Carrier vents deeply. His strange expression clears, and he pulls Dent into his lap. "I'm sorry for scaring you. I was just surprised."
"S'Okay." Dent snuggles in close, listening to Carrier's spark spin. They used to be able to feel a connection between their spark and his, but it's faded to nothing now.
"I think this would be better told as a story." Carrier says. "It all started with a bot named Drift. Before there were Autobots and Decepticons, there were just bots, trying to get by. I helped Drift when he was in a tough spot. I never expected anything in return. But he gave me everything. Companionship, dedication, loyalty. Love." Carrier boops Dent's nose. "And you."
"Me?"
"Yes, when two bots fall in love they can make a new bot. One carries, the other sires. Drift was your sire. But something terrible happened. He changed, and he decided to become a Decepticon named Deadlock."
Dent gasps. "No!"
"And I became an Autobot. I never saw him again." Carrier turns Dent around in his lap so they face him. "Now, I need you to be a big bot for me and not tell anyone who your sire is. Can you do that?"
Dent nods furiously. "Uh-huh! I promise!"
"Good. Now let's never talk about him again. He doesn't deserve you thinking about him."
Dent frowns. They had wanted to ask more, to find out what their sire was like before he became a Decepticon. Maybe they could find out what features they shared. Did they look alike? Sound alike? Did they have similar interests?
But Carrier had moved on, getting out of berth to start his shift. Dent follows after him, their helm still swirling with questions.
From then onward, Dent can't help but to notice every time they hear Deadlock's name. They keep their promise, they never talk about him. But sometimes it's hard to avoid.
Like when they're hanging out with Bee and Jazz, who has somehow wormed his way back into Carrier's good graces. Bee watches as Jazz lies on his back and props Dent on his knees so they can pretend to fly, holding onto their hands to keep them steady.
"Brrr! Is it a plane? No, it's Dent! The amazing flying Autobot!"
Dent giggles, letting go of Jazz's hands to spread their arms out like wings.
"Why is it that there aren't that many Autobot fliers?" Bee asks.
Jazz tilts his helm thoughtfully. "Mostly politics. Vos was a big supporter of the Decepticon movement so a lot of its citizens got recruited."
"Ew, politics." Dent complains. They squirm off of Jazz's knees, landing in a heap on the floor.
Jazz yanks Dent over to scrub at the top of their helm with his knuckles. "Since when do you know that word?"
"Me an' Uncle Prowl have very intel-ec-tual conversations." Dent defends huffily, wiggling out of Jazz's grasp.
"Of course it's Prowl's fault."
"We can talk about something more interesting." Bee says. "I'm sure I can think of some sparkling-appropriate war stories."
"I'm not a sparkling!" Dent exclaims.
"'Course not. You wanna hear all the gory details." Jazz says with glee.
"Just don't scare them." Bee warns.
"I would never!" Jazz sits up fully, leaning over into Dent's space. "Now what do you want to hear, little one?"
Dent thinks about it for a minute. They know that most of the bots in their life are big bad warriors who go out to fight the evil Decepticons. They've seen the wounds that their cadre of uncles and aunts come back with.
"What's the most dangerous fight you've ever gotten into?" Dent asks.
Jazz leans back again, looking at the ceiling and making a show of searching his memory banks. "Hmm. Ah-ha! I know just the story. Once upon a time, there was a terrifying Decepticon general named Turmoil. This mech was the meanest, cruelest creature to ever grace the surface of Cybertron."
Dent's optics go wide. They shiver at the description, picturing a horrible monster that barely resembles a bot.
"Now Turmoil is pretty clever. He's good at following orders and following along with Megatron's strategies. And he's got one of the Decepticon's most dangerous assets on his team, an assassin named Deadlock." Jazz pauses. "Do you know what an assassin is?"
The mention of Deadlock makes a stab of fear pass through Dent, worried about revealing that they have a secret. But they want to hear the story still. "No."
"An assassin is someone who sneaks up on people and attacks them without them knowing they're coming. Deadlock is a very sneaky mech with a lot of guns."
"That's one way of putting it." Bee mutters.
Dent absorbs this information greedily. Their mental image of their estranged sire is still vague, but now they add sneakiness and guns. In their mind, Deadlock is a shadow with the blocky outlines of weapons along his frame.
"Now I am also a very sneaky mech. And I was there to sneak past the Decepticon front lines and gather information on the next strategy briefing they had gotten from Megatron." Jazz gets to his pedes and mimes walking silently, helm swivelling around. "But just as I had gotten into their base, I was ambushed!"
Jazz feigns surprise, jumping into the air and looking shocked before falling into a ready stance. Bee laughs. "There's no way you actually reacted like that."
"How would you know? Anyways, it was Deadlock! He drew his blaster and tried to shoot me. I dodged and pulled my own blaster." Jazz acts the scene out, bouncing on his pedes as he dodges and mimes drawing his gun. "Then he rushed me and tried to wrestle my gun out of my hands. And he clawed my face!"
Jazz reels back dramatically, spinning on his heel from the force of the imaginary blow. "And I did this."
Jazz sidesteps and leaps into the air, kicking off one wall then the other and gaining enough height to sail right over Bee and Dent's helms. He lands neatly, tucking and rolling before popping back to his pedes. "And I ran like a cassettebot out of the pits. That's the most dangerous fight I've ever been in because I wasn't sure if I would make it out alive."
"Didn't Deadlock shoot you in the back and nearly hit your spark?" Bee asks.
Jazz waves one hand dismissively. "Details, details."
"Right." Bee replies, rolling his optics.
Dent rocks back and forth excitedly. "How did you survive?"
"There was a very talented medic who found me shortly after and patched me up enough to drag me home. Your carrier was my hero that day."
Dent jumps to their pedes. "I'm gonna be just like him."
Jazz pats them on the helm. "That's a good plan. We definitely need more bots like him."
The praise is so nice, and the story so distracting, Dent almost forgets about the fact that Deadlock almost killed Jazz.
The realization doesn't hit them until later, when they're trying to fall asleep. They had known that their sire was a Decepticon. But they hadn't quite connected that that meant he was a murderer until that moment.
Dent understood death. They had been there when Carrier had returned to their hab after a shift and went straight to berth because he had lost a bot on his operating table. Carrier had explained in simple terms that when a bot's processor or spark fails completely they cannot be revived and are gone forever.
The concept of 'forever' was still too difficult for Dent to fully understand. But they thought about what would happen if Jazz left on another mission and didn't come back.
When Carrier couldn't save a bot, his mood was down for cycles, even deca-cycles. If his close friend was gone, he would be devastated. And for Dent there would be no more games, no more jokes, no more Uncle Jazz.
They sit awake during the night-cycle, thinking about it. How could a bot end another's existence so easily? Did they not know how special a mech like Jazz was? Why would they want to take that away?
The thoughts are so scary and sad that Dent can't stand to be alone in their berthroom any longer. Even though they were far too big now to go to Carrier because they were scared at night, they wanted his comfort now.
Dent slips into Carrier's berthroom and stands at the side of his berth. "Carrier? Can I recharge with you tonight?"
"Of course, bitlet." Carrier gathers them into his arms.
With Carrier's protective bulk surrounding them, Dent finally falls asleep.
Because of Dent's rapid growth, they had to get more regular checkups. Every time, First Aid would measure just how tall they had gotten.
This time, he measured them and ran some calculations. "From what I can tell you're going through your last growth spurt. After this, you'll be your final size."
Dent sits hunched on the medberth. The rapid growth causes them constant discomfort. Their plating rubs against itself, and sometimes they can't transform because some of their parts haven't caught up with the others.
Plus they're hungry all of the time, and have cravings for the oddest things. Carrier brings them small chips of metal to crunch on, and their fangs have worn dull from the constant chewing.
"Thank Primus." Dent says, getting down from the berth. They don't even have to jump down anymore with how close their pedes are to the ground.
They're also almost at First Aid's optic level, barely having to tilt their chin to look up at him. First Aid sighs wistfully. "It seems like just last cycle that you were too small for your own spark. Now you come into the medbay every cycle with a new set of dents and not a care in the world."
"Yeah, yeah." Dent rolls their optics.
First Aid finishes their checkup and sends them on their way. Dent tries to stay in the medbay but they are shooed out. The Autobot forces are returning from battle soon and they don't need untrained bots getting in the way.
Dent wanders the empty halls of the ship, bored out of their processor. The Autobots had landed and they hadn't even gotten to see what the surface of the planet was like. All their friends went off to battle and since they were a grown-up mechling now, they didn't need a sparkling-sitter to stay behind and watch them.
The other bots treated them strangely now. Where before they always had time to play, now they told Dent to find something else to do. There was always another battle to prepare for or recover from. Even Carrier didn't have much down time to hang out with them.
What Dent wanted was to be trained as a medic. But they were still too young and Carrier was too busy to take them on as an apprentice.
So instead they were left to wander around and entertain themself. They had already broken into the restricted areas they had been banned from as a sparkling. The engine room got boring fast. Crawling through the vent system had been fun, until they realized it was already the favorite pastime of many minibots. They got sick of running into other bots and stopped exploring the vents.
There was one thing that still held their curiosity: their mysterious sire. Everyone had tales of Deadlock on the battlefield. But no one knew him before he became a Decepticon. And no one revealed details that would scare a little mechling and send them running to their carrier. Even though Dent was way too brave to be scared by war stories anymore.
With everyone off the ship or working in the command center, maybe they could find some answers.
Dent knew that the ship held an archive, they had visited it before with some of their sitters. Usually they would pull a sparkling-safe story or song or holovid from the library and leave again. But Dent had also heard that the archive was where Autobot intelligence was stored.
They sneak across the ship, walking in the silent way that Jazz taught them. They're certain there's no one to catch them, but they want to be careful.
The archive is an innocuous room on a lower deck, protected by a locked door. Dent tries to remember the code they had seen their sitters type in. Gritting their denta, they type in what they hope is the correct sequence.
Error. Wrong password.
Dent gives a frustrated sigh. Time for plan B.
They find the nearest vent cover and pop it off, squeezing inside. They've grown a lot since they last did this, and it's a tight fit. Slowly, they make their way through the vents up and over the archive room.
Dent pops off another vent cover and carefully stows it in the vent shaft. Then they lower themself through the opening and drop, landing lightly on the floor.
When they access the nearest console, they encounter another problem. Everything beyond the public library is locked, the access codes presumably only known by high command.
Dent is determined not to turn back now. They flip through the publicly available documents until they find a list of links that list various Decepticon criminals. When they tap on Deadlock's name, a series of files open up.
What looks like police reports, followed by mission debriefings about him. Dent scrolls all the way back to the earliest date and starts reading the report.
It's not a police report at the start, rather it's a medical record. Dent pauses at the designation at the top. This report was written by Ratchet.
They remember the story he told them as a sparkling, about helping Deadlock when he was just a bot in a tough spot. Turns out that tough spot was a stim overdose. Dent skims over the details and flips to the next report.
Petty crimes, still under the designation Drift. Theft, siphoning, more drug use. Dent starts skipping past them.
They pause again as the dry police reports are interrupted by a wanted poster.
WANTED: DECEPTICON CRIMINAL DEADLOCK
Below is an image capture of the mech in question. He's slightly blurry, face in profile as he glares at whoever is taking the picture. His fangs are bared in a snarl, and energon stains his cheek.
Dent leans in so close that their nose almost touches the holographic projection. They can see themself reflected in that image capture. The same diamond-shaped crest, the same pointed finials, the same deadly fangs.
They reel back from it, unable to look any longer. This is the murderer who has tried to kill so many of the bots they consider family. And they have his face.
How could anyone stand to even look at them? How could Carrier?
Tears well in Dent's optics. They close out of the documents frantically and stumble to the door. It unlocks easily from the inside. They stagger through and practically sprint across the ship to find an out-of-the way nook to curl up in.
Emotions rage in their spark. Fear, anger, and pure, boiling hatred.
This is why Carrier never wanted them to even think about their so-called sire. That evil bot didn't deserve to occupy their thoughts like this.
That poor excuse for a mech wasn't worth being called their sire. Dent would claim no relation to a monster such as him.
Their tears dry as resolve sets in. They are going to be a medic. They will save bots, not destroy them. They are going to become everything that Deadlock isn't.
They will be the greatest Autobot hero the universe has ever seen.
When Carrier returns from battle with the rest of the forces, Dent finds him in the medbay. He's busy, patching and welding the bot on his operating table.
Dent stands just out of his way. "Carrier, Ratchet, I want to become your apprentice."
"Now? Bitty, it's not a good time."
"I'm almost fully grown." Dent steps forward, meeting his optics. "Please, let me help."
"Fine." Ratchet points to where bots are waiting to be treated. "Take a medkit and start patching minor injuries. I'll check your work in a klick."
Dent salutes him by tapping a closed fist to their chest. "Yes, sir!"
Just like that, Dent starts the long and difficult road to becoming a fully fledged medic. And they'll do absolutely anything to get there.