all knowledge is good knowledge!

"Ahaha, whaaa?"

When another cursory glance around the place produces nothing, Fluorite's eyes fall back on the human, skeptical amusement creeping its way onto her face as she makes her approach.

"Now I know THAT 's not true, because you-" A playful finger reaches out to tap the tip of his nose, stopping just short of actually doing so. "-are clearly an organic lifeform, and Cybertronians can't shapeshift like gems do!" Well, Ratchet was bound to return sooner or later, and what better way to pass the time than to learn more about this strange Earthling claiming to be a twenty foot tall alien robot?

Abandoned on the counter lay the source of their tearful frustration: a cutting board covered in chopped onions. The most nefarious, sinus scorching kind— yellow onions.

    There was rarely something surprising about cultural and physical differences when meeting another species from other planets to Ratchet. It was not a first for him. Fluorite, however, certainly seemed to have significantly less experience in interacting with other species. So, he simply listened with an occasional nod.

    “Doctors,” he clarified, but otherwise did not interrupt.

    “Mrhm…” The references to purpose and being ‘made for’ anything did not inspire the fondest associations, but Ratchet was not about to get into a lengthy and depressing background of said associations, especially in a first meeting.

    The last of her words caused him to blink, because that did surprise him. He did not expect the kind observation, and for several moments, he simply stared, unsure how to respond.

     “… Well, thank you.” That would have to suffice, he decided. “And I hope, regardless of hwat may be considered normal for your culture, you do not allow that to prevent you from pursuing your own interests or passions.” She had not mentioned having a designated purpose, but he felt the need to comment about it, just in case.

“Yes, that’s why I came all this way!” Visions of the desolate, colorless pits of Homeworld’s kindergarten gnaw at the back of her mind even now, kept at bay only by the novelty of meeting a fellow outsider to Earth (as well as her sustained curiosity about this precious little creature he’s swaddled in a shock blanket, something she still mistakenly believes was part of his body). Speaking of which...

“Say, do you have any friends here, or are you all alone? You can come back to the temple with me if you want; there’s a warp pad just a few “mile markers” away!” Rubbing her chin, she considers this further. “Mm, he’s maybe too big though? No, no— I’ve seen Sugilite use it before...”

While Garnet has proven herself a bit of a tough read, Fluorite already knows Pearl will give her the lambasting of a lifetime for bringing an unknown variable back to their home; Rose and Amethyst, however, would be thrilled, and from what Fluorite has seen Pearl always bends to Rose’s whims— a fact both she and Amethyst have used to their own advantages on more than one occasion.

    Ratchet continued to watch Backtrack, rather than the others (it was not exactly new or different to witness Bumblebee flailing around right in the middle of something he had undoubtedly started in the first place). The ridges of his helm arched as Backtrack’s tone changed for his demonstration. He blinked once he finished, then shook his head.

    “Now that was plain copying,” he observed, half grinning for brief moment, “And I’m sure everyone would agree that one ornery old bot is enough.” Similarity was one thing, duplication was another.

    “… The idea of taking a stasis nap until they’re finished is very appealing, however. I might do just that.”

Backtrack laughs aloud, stilted and similar in rhythm to the sputtering of a dying engine. “And leave me all-all-all-alll-allllone with these firecrackers until Prowl and Optimus return? ...Honestly, I couldn’t blame you.

“Sure looks like they’re having fun, though,” he says fondly, idle legs swinging gentle arcs back and forth over the edge of the workstation Ratchet had been tinkering at before Bumblebee began carrying on. Bulkhead and the human, predictably, had been sucked into his disorderly conduct shortly thereafter. “That little Earth one” —Sari, he would later recall— “is awfully brave to get between them like that. Or those two are awfully reckless... maybe both.”

    Ah. Because rodents chewed on wood, and sawdust is wood. He understood after a brief moment, although it did not inspire a laugh. Their ghoulish pun did not inspire one either. He simply half frowned, and waited for them to continue.

    “Penny,” Ratchet nodded in delayed greeting, adding the name to memory. Their popping noise as they stretched caused a grimace, but he was soon too distracted by the additional unnatural information to worry about whether or not popping was normal for their body.

    Once they had concluded, he shuttered his optics, several times, as he processed the claims that they had, apparently, made someone a ‘ghost’ as the result of a failed test? And everyone, including Penny, was all right with that?

    “… This is, the usual sort of occurrences where you live– exist– …where you are educated?” It was considerably complicated to classify someone as sentient yet unliving in language.

“Seems that way! I’m pretty fresh to the whole “school” scene —‘least as far back as I can remember— but y’know, who doesn’t help their classmate feed a rude substitute teacher to a carnivorous plant, or tape paper bags full of brown recluse spiders to the gymnasium ceiling fans to get class cancelled?”

Given the appalled silence they should probably assume that no, their experiences are not universal, but such a trifle isn’t going to stop Penny from continuing to dig their own grave.

“Okay, just between us? The first thing wasn’t my idea and I still feel kinda weird about it, but try saying no to a genocidal mer-princess who could bite through your arm like its a biscuit! ...The second thing was my idea. And I would do it again.”

With no moisture in the air and no body of water for miles, the deserts of this world have never been a favorite of hers. Much like the vast, endless expanse of the cosmos, they make Lapis feel small. Small, and far more vulnerable than she’d ever care to admit.

So easy it would be to shed these worries, to kick off and fly out toward the ocean that sings to her so sweetly of security, of comfort. Of power. But the cool, rocky shoulder of the I-5 keeps her grounded, and as she gazes up at the brilliant arm of this Milky Way galaxy the humans call home, she can’t help thinking that maybe it’s a good thing to be reminded of her smallness once in a while.

Cars pass here and again, interrupting her silent reflections with their rumbling motors and bright headlights, but none have actually stopped. Until now. Slowed down, perhaps, before the split-second decision that engaging isn’t worth the risk and carrying on their merry way, but not stopped, and certainly not backed up to greet her.

Noting the voice’s strange, tinny timbre, Lapis raises a brow at what appears to be completely empty vehicle.

Clark winced at the light. But he did not back away. 

“I… Everyone keeps calling me some kind of clerk. Or… Clark? A bookish name if I ever heard one. I received the keys to an apartment belonging to a scientific mind, albeit one prominently engaged with media analysis.”

There’s a moment to try and recollect Entrapta. The bond they shared together. It was a little easier since she was being so careful around him. Certain feelings seem to stir, if not an encyclopedic reference of their prior history together. All five senses respectively hone in on the details they can catch. And the senses all basked in it. Now Clark simply wanted to understand why that was the case.

“I have been told I was a scientist. The work… I couldn’t answer questions about it easily, even if I thought really hard. But when I get down to work, it’s like I know where to put something or how to treat it.”

“Fascinating...” she considers his words carefully as gloved hands make a cursory feel over his scalp for any sign of swelling or contusion, anything that might elicit a hiss or a wince on being touched even gently. Nothing. Satisfied at this, though all the more curious for it, Entrapta withdraws her tape recorder.

“Memory Log, Day One: Clark appears to be exhibiting symptoms of amnesia. Degree unknown. Cause unknown. No outward signs of head trauma or neurological malady. His procedural memory remains intact and he has alleged that assertions of identity from outside sources have stimulated no response. This leads me to believe it is dissociative in nature. Further investigation required.”

Click.

“What about you, though?” Just like that she’s talking to him again, rather than about him right in front of his face. Her ponytails gently push Clark back down into his chair before being used as a makeshift seat of her own, legs pulling up off the floor into a criss-cross. “I mean, aside from what you’ve learned from all these other people, is there anything you were able to recall on your own? Where you were, what you were doing? Any impressions that stick out, like smells or sounds?”

“Oh..?” Waffling somewhat at the unexpected reaction, Entrapta allows her hands (and hair) to fall back down to her sides so as not to cause any further alarm —the Clark she knows isn’t optimally responsive when his hackles are up like this. Naturally, her mind goes right to work, both an instinctive response and an attempt to drown out the whispers of dread.

“Well I’m Entrapta,” she begins, approaching a little more carefully than before. Amnesia is a concerning turn of events, often caused by some manner of head trauma, but there are no immediately visible signs in his behavior other than what he’s just told her.

“Cannibalism, huh? I never– HEY!”

Clark slapped away at Penny, trying to get those glassy eyes out of his face. Clark couldn’t believe he almost entertained their nonsense this time.

“I’m not eating brains or people flesh or any of that! Even if I could as a werewolf or something people are full of weird chemicals and high cholesterol!”

Penny throws their head back with a cackle, allowing him his little one-sided slap-fight, “All the barmy ideas I toss your way and THAT’s the one that almost hooks you in? You sure you’re not hankering for some people-bacon, Rautabaga?”

Arms flail as if on cue, a useless bid to assault the source of this most grievous offense, “HEY MAN WHAT GIVES, I CAN’T SEE!”

Muffled only partially by the bowler hat, the impossible voice erupting from their exposed trachea is rife with the sort of petulant indignation you might hear from a middle aged suburban mother arguing with the grocery store manager over the matter of her expired coupons.