Chapter Text
Clank knew better than anyone that, half the time, he did not know what was going on. People said things that confused him. He had difficulty determining what was meant to be taken literally and what wasn’t. At Holostar Studios, “get the lead out” was a phrase that had left him hopelessly puzzled for weeks on end, too embarrassed to ask the director (or anyone else, for that matter) for clarification, before looking it up on his own time. Apparently, it only meant “hurry.”
He was relieved. There was no lead and no place out of which to get it. It was merely a figure of speech.
His findings left him more amused than irritated. Certainly, it would save time if the director said precisely what he meant and left it at that—no point in overcomplicating matters, especially if one was in a hurry—but, despite the impracticality, Clank did not mind idioms. On the contrary, he rather enjoyed them. He collected and categorized them; he incorporated them into his daily speech.
It was fun, like a game. He was not so pragmatic that he couldn’t see the value in playing harmless, pointless, time-and-energy-absorbing games. He especially liked—or, one might say, “got a kick out of”—using idioms that Ratchet had never heard before, just for the pleasure of seeing the look of cluelessness on his face, and then explaining them to him.
Ratchet smiled after the third or fourth time he did this.
“You have a lot of those,” he said. “Let me see.”
Clank proudly handed over his index cards. “It is a wonderful pastime,” he said. “One must always be learning new things.”
Ratchet flipped through the cards. “Alphabetized and color-coordinated? You really know what you’re doing.”
“Thank you.” Clank beamed. “You are welcome to refer to my database whenever you wish. I trust you implicitly.”
“I’m honored.”
Ratchet had his own pastimes. For the most part, he liked modifying things—especially things with an engine—but, to a noteworthy degree, he also enjoyed pranks. When he found a prank he liked, he played it over and over…usually on Clank.
Fortunately, Clank had a good sense of humor. With few exceptions, he found Ratchet’s pranks, much like the pointlessly convoluted and confusing labyrinth of figurative speech constituting the intergalactic standard language, to be more amusing than irritating. Sometimes he even laughed at them. When this happened, Ratchet fairly glowed with pride.
Clank had long since ascertained (from a series of simple calculations) that Ratchet was far more likely to repeat a prank (eighty-six percent more likely, to be exact) if it made Clank laugh. Repeat in this instance having the definition of beat into the ground.
Today, for example, Ratchet recycled his hologuise prank for what felt like the hundredth time. He waited for a moment when Clank was busy, activated the hologuise, sneaked up behind him, and, without warning, broke the tranquil silence of the apartment with an all-too-familiar maniacal cackle.
“Tremble before me, my archnemesis, for today is the day you meet your doom!”
Clank turned around and found himself face to face with Dr. Nefarious. Tall and imposing, with a protruding jaw, transparent cranium, and glowing red eyes, the overall effect was most convincing. Clank giggled.
“Oh, dear. Whatever shall I do?”
“You dare laugh at me?” Ratchet—or rather, Dr. Nefarious—raised his hands and wiggled the claws in a manner that Clank found too comical to be threatening. “I’ll show you the meaning of fear.”
“Perhaps I shall run away,” Clank mused, tapping a finger against his chin. “But who shall protect my index cards? I cannot leave them vulnerable to attack.”
“This is your last chance to run.”
“I am staying right here.”
Whereupon Ratchet swooped down on him, and he found himself being lifted and hugged against a body that was too warm and too soft (and, frankly, too small) to belong to Dr. Nefarious. He laughed again and struggled to escape.
“Release me, villain!”
“Soon the galaxy will be mine.”
“Help! Ratchet!”
“Your precious Ratchet can’t save you now.”
“What have you done with him?”
“I fed him to my pets.”
“How awful,” Clank said. “For your pets.” He reached up and closed his fist around what appeared to be empty space but was in fact Ratchet’s left ear. It was silken and soft to the touch; he pulled on it. Ratchet broke character.
“Ow!”
“Serves you right. How you get amusement from terrorizing me, I have no idea.”
“You’re smiling.”
“Only because I feel sorry for you.”
“Oh, yeah? Let’s see who feels sorry for who when I turn you into a blanket burrito.”
“No!” Clank struggled to get free, but it was hard to do anything when he was laughing this much. He resorted to threats instead. “I’ll kick you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Ratchet squeezed tighter, reverting to his Dr. Nefarious impression. “I am your overlord.”
Clank invariably won their little fights. As much as Ratchet loved to pounce on him, he would never actually hurt him. He was always careful, always gentle…which gave Clank a considerable upper hand. By the end of their tussle, Ratchet was lying on the carpet, pretending to be dead, while Clank sat victorious on his chest.
“All in a day’s work,” he said, quoting his show, before reaching for the gadget on Ratchet’s arm and deactivating the hologuise. The image of Dr. Nefarious dissipated, replaced, to Clank’s relief, by his best friend’s fuzzy golden-brown face. A quick glance at Ratchet’s feet informed him that he had achieved the illusion of height by wearing stilts. “I must admit, your skills are improving.”
“I think you bruised my ear,” Ratchet groaned.
“Nonsense. I barely touched you.”
“You beat me up.”
“You started it…as usual. You are always looking for trouble.”
“This is how I go out.”
“I did not intend to hurt you.” Clank hesitated, his smile fading. “I am sorry. Do you require medical attention?”
“Nah, I’m joking around.”
“I thought as much. You like to aggravate me.”
“It’s just so much fun.”
Clank raised his hand, wordlessly threatening a healthy bop on the nose to teach Ratchet a lesson. Ratchet’s eyes widened and he shielded his nose with his hand. “Okay, okay! I’m sorry.”
“And yet you will do it again tomorrow.” Clank lowered his hand.
“Yeah, probably.” Ratchet sat up, grinning, watching as Clank slid to his lap. “And you’ll pretend to be mad but still play along.”
“Most likely, yes.”
There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other. Then Clank stood and, rather unnecessarily, dusted himself off. He felt strangely awkward. That was no surprise. If he was honest with himself, he was simply out of his depth. There were no books, scientists, search engines, or help desk girls that could tell him why he felt this way about his best friend; he was completely “in the dark” and preferred to keep his feelings quiet, for the time being.
What other solution was there? He had a girlfriend. Ratchet did, too.
“It is late,” he said. “You have to stick to your sleep schedule.”
“I know.” Ratchet continued to grin, seemingly oblivious to Clank’s inner turmoil. He was so cute Clank could scarcely bring himself to look away from him. “You gonna come with me, or would you rather hit the books?”
“I will be there in five minutes.”
Ratchet went off to bed, and Clank lingered at the table, looking at his index cards, but thinking about other things.