Chapter Text
Hedonia
The problem with a shuttle full of intoxicated Cybertronians, it would be reflected later, was that none of them was apparently capable of responding to anything in a timely or effective fashion. So when the sun started edging over the horizon, and neither their captain nor their third in command were anywhere to be seen, the first reaction was to stare at the empty door with a sense of betrayal.
The sudden activation of the emergency locator beacons for both Rodimus and Drift forestalled whatever the second reaction would have been, sparking an argument instead.
“But they’re emergency beacons. We’re supposed to go get them.”
“Hey, Roddy was the one who said if anyone was late, he gets left behind. That was the deal.”
“But we’re talking about the captain here. And Drift,” was added almost as an afterthought.
Under most circumstances, Ultra Magnus would have stepped in and stopped the argument before it even started; the events of the night, however, meant that the XO was still thoroughly incapacitated and in no condition to make any kind of decision whatsoever.
“Has anyone tried actually calling either one of them?” asked someone, acidly.
That brief spark of hope that someone else would take responsibility for what was turning into a total mess was dashed when neither Autobot answered, and in the resulting spate of confused arguing, no one noticed when Whirl disappeared.
“All of you shut up. I’ll handle this.” Cyclonus spoke in calm, measured tones, and those of Swerve’s crew who had been at the bar – excluding Tailgate – glanced at him in surprise before edging away just in case he broke into another bout of sudden raging tantrum.
From what little could be gleaned of Rewind’s recordings afterward, it took very little time for Cyclonus to determine that Rodimus and Drift had somehow managed to break some kind of law, and that they had been tried, judged, and punished according to the laws of Hedonia. It was at that point that Cyclonus’ diplomatic capabilities sputtered out, because not only were both of their superior officers were currently being held in stasis in a Hedonian prison ward, but the prison refused to do business on a holiday. Which, of course, it was, as was the following day, and the sun slowly rose over a shuttle full of increasingly cranky Autobots and a very frustrated not-now-and-never-was-a-Decepticon.
“You want me to wait three days,” Cyclonus said carefully, his voice perilously even, wishing that Ultra Magnus was conscious enough to beat the Hedonians over the head with their own red tape and yanking Swerve back inside by the ankle. That made more escape attempts than he could count, but if he could control nothing else, he could at least make sure everyone besides Whirl stayed put.
“Now would be a good time to go,” Whirl’s voice said from the door of the shuttle. Whirl himself was invisible behind two stasis pods, one carelessly stacked on the other. “Like, a really good time. Right now.”
Cyclonus, to his credit, barely hesitated before slamming the doors shut and lifting off, and it was a full three and a half seconds before Hedonian law enforcement started chasing the shuttle.
“More than enough time to rendezvous with the Lost Light and jump,” Whirl said, not at all helpfully, and the resulting confusion meant that the Lost Light was well out of communications range of Hedonia by the time anyone thought to take the two stasis boxes (and Ultra Magnus) out of the shuttle.
Lost Light, Medibay
Faced with all three in a neat little row, Ratchet solved the simplest problem first and went for Ultra Magnus. “Idiot,” he muttered, checking the XO over for any damage other than the obvious.
“It was Whirl’s fault,” Swerve said from near the door. Ratchet wasn’t entirely sure that everyone who’d gone on shore leave wasn’t clustered in the hallway, gleefully watching their entire command chain in its current state of incapacitation.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” he said, smirking as Swerve spluttered in indignation, and slammed the door closed. He locked it for good measure. Ultra Magnus was in no danger, he decided, just in for some nasty morning-after symptoms. “Next time maybe you’ll think before downing weapons-grade nucleon,” he muttered.
It was possible that Ultra Magnus giggled. For his own sanity, Ratchet decided to pretend that nothing of the sort had happened and left him on a recharging berth to recover.
“Hey,” came a voice behind him.
“I thought I locked the door,” Ratchet said without looking at First Aid.
“You did, but I was already inside,” First Aid said, fingers resting on the seal of one of the stasis boxes. “But what’s important here is the error message.”
“What do you mean, error message?” Stasis boxes – or at least that particular brand of stasis boxes – weren’t supposed to put out error messages. They were complex and finicky machines that either worked, or they didn’t, and if one component failed, the entire machine shut down. They certainly didn’t display error messages.
“Exactly what I said. Error message.” First Aid pointed at the display on the nearest box.
“Error: Atmospheric composition incompatible,” Ratchet read off, and blinked. “That’s ridiculous.” He pushed the release command again, and the error message repeated. This time it was followed by “For more information, click below.”
First Aid reached around him and pushed the button. “Required atmospheric composition: 78% nitrogen, 20.95% oxygen, 0.9% argon,” he read from the resulting display, ignoring the slightly longer list of trace elements.
Ratchet started to experience a distinct sinking feeling.
“That sounds like a requirement for an organic species,” First Aid said, now tapping at something else. “It says the temperature is within acceptable range, though.”
“Perceptor,” Ratchet said through the comm system and waved at First Aid to be quiet. “The medical bay is going to be quarantined for the forseeable future.” There was simply no other way to maintain atmospheric integrity; the Lost Light wasn’t outfitted for organics.
Perceptor’s surprised reply overlaid with First Aid’s louder “What do you mean, quarantined” to provide a truly impressive level of dissonance. “First Aid, stop talking,” Ratchet said over Perceptor’s request to know what in Primus’ name was going on.
“I see,” Perceptor said after a very brief and probably somewhat incoherent explanation. “There’s no need for quarantine,” he added.
“Cybertronian ships don’t –“ Ratchet started.
“Ultra Magnus specified that the ship chosen be capable of supporting organic life. Specifically, human life.” Ratchet knew from Perceptor’s voice that the blasted bot was smiling. Inexplicably, Perceptor found something funny in the situation. “I believe he did the final modifications himself.”
Ratchet stared at the currently unconscious form of the XO on the recharging berth across the room. “Of course he did,” he muttered.
“Uncle Magnus,” Swerve said from outside the door, somehow having managed to bypass the lock and pry it open. “No, really, this explains a lot. Well, it doesn’t really, it raises more questions than it answers.”
The door was slammed shut again with more force than was strictly necessary.
“I can have a human-breathable atmosphere holding shipwide within the hour,” Perceptor assured him, and signed off.
Ratchet wondered briefly if he could just jettison both stasis pods and claim an accident. By the time he concluded that Ultra Magnus would just drown him in paperwork and turn the ship around, Perceptor was back on the line confirming what Ratchet’s external sensors had already told him; the Lost Light was swamped with oxygen, nitrogen, and argon. First Aid, who had made himself scarce during the delay, perched on the regeneration berth next to Ultra Magnus – well out of range of any potential incident – and proceeded to watch. Ratchet elected to ignore him entirely.
“I don’t even know how they would have built human bodies in such a short time frame,” he said to the stasis pods, pushing first one release button and then the other. The lid on the closer pod hissed and rose, eddies of fog swirling around the edges. The dense mist cleared to reveal Rodimus – in his proper body – curled on his side, facing away from Ratchet. “Atmosphere, my aft,” Ratchet muttered. “Wake up, Rodimus,” he said irritably.
“Ugh,” came from inside the stasis box, and the voice was all wrong. Ratchet froze. “Ratchet?”
The voice was definitely all wrong; it was Rodimus, but coming from a throat much smaller and clearly organic. Ratchet peered into the stasis pod, over the limp body of the ship’s captain. A distinctly human form was climbing groggily to its – his – feet, clutching at Rodimus’ torso to keep his balance.
“Rodimus?” he said.
“Ow, not so loud,” said the human, rubbing one hand over bright blue eyes. A shock of bright hair, reddish-orange except for the pale straw patch directly in front, stood almost straight up along one side. “Wait.” The human – probably Rodimus - blinked, looked down at himself, and blinked again. “What?”
Someone on Hedonia had a sense of humor. They’d given the human pants, boots, and a jacket that closely matched Rodimus’ paint job. They’d even given him bright yellow gloves.
“Oh, Primus,” the human – definitely Rodimus – groaned. “Please tell me this is some sort of offline hallucination.”
“It is not a hallucination.” Drift somehow managed to sound almost exactly like himself, perched dramatically on his own mechanical shoulder, organic arms folded across his chest. His dark hair was impeccably smooth, framing eyes almost the exact shade of blue as Rodimus’. “Your aura and mine confirm that we are both very, very human.”