Chapter Text
The Novalian settlement was in disarray. Families hastily packed belongings while keeping a nervous eye on the sky, occasionally ducking at the sound of passing birds. The blarg attacks had become more frequent, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before Drek's forces returned in greater numbers.
Clank was led to a makeshift hangar where three evacuation ships sat in various states of disrepair, looking like they'd been assembled from spare parts and optimistic thinking. A group of Novalians gathered around, eyeing the small robot skeptically, some whispering about whether he needed a booster seat to reach the controls.
"THIS is your mechanic?" one particularly large Novalian asked doubtfully, his voice booming like thunder. "He's barely taller than my toolbox! What's he going to do, cute the ships back to working order?"
"Size is not indicative of capability," Clank replied calmly, managing to sound dignified despite having to look almost straight up to make eye contact. "As the old proverb states: 'Judge not a robot by his casing, but by the processing power of his central core.'"
"That's not a proverb," muttered someone in the back.
"It is now," Clank responded, approaching the nearest ship with professional confidence. He conducted a quick visual inspection, identifying the problems immediately. "This vessel has a ruptured fuel line, damaged navigation array, and compromised shield generator. The stabilizers are also misaligned by approximately 3.7 degrees, and someone has inexplicably installed the bathroom sink upside-down. With the proper tools, I can have it operational within three hours."
The Novalians exchanged surprised glances, some looking impressed, others looking offended about the sink comment.
"Well, I'll be dipped in Blargian sewage," muttered one. "The little guy knows his stuff. And he noticed the sink! I told you it looked wrong, Harold!"
Clank set to work immediately, his precision and efficiency soon winning over the skeptical onlookers, even Harold who continued to defend his unconventional sink installation as "avant-garde plumbing." As he repaired the first ship, he engaged the Novalians in conversation, gathering information about recent events in the galaxy while occasionally asking them to hand him tools that some of them couldn't even pronounce.
"Have you encountered any lombaxes in your travels?" he asked casually, rewiring a damaged circuit board.
"Lombaxes?" A Novalian mechanic's assistant laughed so hard he nearly swallowed his gum. "Those are just legends, little robot! Like affordable healthcare or politicians who keep their promises! No one's seen a lombax in these parts—ever."
Clank paused, his gears turning so intensely you could almost hear them grinding. This was different from his original timeline. In his world, lombaxes were known to have existed but had disappeared. Here, they seemed to be considered mythical creatures, like dragons or customer service representatives who actually help.
"What about Veldin?" he pressed, trying to sound casual while reconnecting a power coupling that sparked dangerously. "Have you heard any news from there? Perhaps about a young mechanic with a penchant for reckless invention?"
"Veldin's been quiet," another Novalian replied, handing Clank a wrench that was comically oversized for him. "Just a backwater planet with nothing much happening except the occasional sand storm and terrible local cuisine. Though rumor has it the Blarg have it on their target list. Something about its orbital position being perfect for Drek's new world. Personally, I think he just hates planets that start with 'V.' Very petty, that Drek."
This aligned with Clank's memories. Drek had planned to destroy Veldin to make room for his new planet. Ratchet must be there, perhaps working on his ship, unaware of the danger approaching—and unable to leave without a robotic ignition system. The thought made Clank's circuits tingle with urgency.
By nightfall, Clank had repaired all three ships, earning the gratitude of the entire settlement and several marriage proposals from particularly impressed mechanics. The Novalian elder approached him as he was finishing the final calibrations, her ancient face creased with a smile.
"You've saved many lives today, little robot," she said warmly, patting him on the head like a pet. "As promised, we can offer you passage to any nearby planet. Where would you like to go?"
"Veldin," Clank replied without hesitation. "I must reach Veldin as soon as possible. It is a matter of universal importance, and I mean that quite literally."
The elder frowned, her wrinkles rearranging themselves into a new configuration of concern. "Veldin is quite far from our evacuation route. The closest we could take you is Aridia. From there, you might find other transportation. Though I should warn you, Aridia's tourist board greatly exaggerates the appeal of their 'magnificent sand dunes.' It's just sand. Lots and lots of sand."
Clank considered his options. Aridia wasn't ideal, but it was a start, and he'd faced worse detours—like that time with the space pirates and the karaoke machine. "That would be acceptable. Thank you for your assistance. I shall endeavor to avoid the sand dune tours."
As he prepared to board the evacuation ship, Clank found a quiet moment to examine the Plumber's part again. With some of the tools he'd borrowed from the Novalians (and fully intended to return, minus perhaps that nice calibrator that fit so perfectly in his chest compartment), he began to modify it, integrating it into a small device of his own design while occasionally muttering equations that would give most physics professors migraines.
"If my calculations are correct," he murmured, connecting a tiny wire with surgical precision, "This should allow me to track quantum signatures across vast distances, dimensions, and possibly through time itself. And if Ratchet retained his signature from our original timeline... and assuming the quantum entanglement principles still apply in this altered reality... and factoring in the possibility of dimensional bleed-through..."
The device hummed to life with a sound like a purring cat with hiccups, its small display showing a faint signal. Clank adjusted the settings, turning tiny dials and occasionally giving the device a good shake when it made stubborn beeping noises. The readings were confusing—showing two potential locations, one in Solana and one far beyond, possibly in the Polaris Galaxy.
"That cannot be right…" he whispered, his optical sensors narrowing in confusion. "According to these readings, there are two quantum signatures matching Ratchet's pattern. But that would mean..." His voice trailed off as the implications sank in. "Oh my. This is either a fascinating temporal anomaly or …a serious warranty issue."
His thoughts were interrupted by the call to board the evacuation ships, which was being announced by a Novalian with a megaphone and questionable volume control. Tucking the device away, Clank joined the Novalians, his mind racing with new questions and possibilities that ranged from "slightly concerning" to "existentially terrifying."
Aridia was a desert planet that made Veldin look like a tropical paradise, its barren landscape broken only by the occasional rock formation, the scattered remnants of ancient civilizations. The Novalian ship dropped Clank off at a small trading post before continuing on its evacuation route, the captain clearly relieved to be leaving the sand-covered wasteland.
"Good luck, little robot," the pilot called as Clank disembarked, trying not to sound too happy about leaving him behind. "And thank you again for your help. Remember, if you're ever in the market for a slightly used evacuation ship with an unconventional bathroom sink installation, you know who to call!"
"I shall keep that in mind," Clank replied politely, making a mental note to never, ever call.
The trading post was a haphazard collection of buildings that looked like they'd been assembled by someone who had only heard architecture described secondhand. It was populated by a diverse mix of species from across the galaxy, most of whom appeared to be either hiding from something or looking to sell something that had recently been "liberated" from its previous owner.
Clank made his way through the dusty streets, his tracking device occasionally emitting soft beeps that earned him suspicious glares from passersby who assumed it was either a bomb or an extremely annoying musical instrument. He refined its calibration as he walked, occasionally giving it a gentle tap.
Inside a rundown cantina that smelled like a combination of engine oil, cheap cologne, and questionable life choices, he found a group of smugglers discussing recent jobs with the subtle discretion of a parade. Clank approached their table, his polite demeanor at odds with the rough atmosphere that included at least three ongoing arm-wrestling matches and what appeared to be a knife-throwing contest using a waiter as the target.
"Excuse me," he said, having to repeat himself three times to be heard over someone's enthusiastic rendition of "Space Pirate Shanty #7: The One About The Tentacles." "I am seeking transportation to Veldin."
The smugglers looked down at him, then burst into laughter so loud it briefly paused the knife-throwing contest.
"What's a fancy service bot like you want in a dustball like Veldin?" one of them, a burly Agorian with more muscles than brain cells, asked between chuckles. "You lost your cleaning supplies? Or did your rich owner dump you there when the warranty expired?"
"I am not a service bot," Clank corrected patiently, standing as tall as his diminutive frame allowed, which was still roughly eye-level with the table. "I am searching for someone important to me. A friend who may be in grave danger, though he doesn't know it yet, which is admittedly a common state of affairs for him."
A Markazian woman at the table leaned forward, her interest piqued and her eyes sharp with the calculation of potential profit. "Important enough to pay well for passage? Because charity cases get left at the charity case depot, which is conveniently located in the middle of nowhere."
Clank studied her face, a surge of recognition flooding his circuits like a power surge. Talwyn Apogee. The daughter of the famous explorer Max Apogee. In another timeline, she had been their ally, their friend, a crucial part of their adventures. But here, now, she was just another smuggler who had never met him and who was eyeing him like he might be worth something if melted down for parts.
"I have limited funds," Clank admitted, keeping his voice measured despite his internal excitement at finding a familiar face, even if that face was currently looking at him with mercenary calculation rather than friendship. "But I am skilled in repairs and navigation. I could work for my passage. I am also proficient in 73 forms of card games, though I should warn you that my poker face is literally unchangeable."
The smugglers exchanged glances, considering the offer with all the deep thought of people deciding between two nearly identical lunch specials. Before they could respond, a commotion at the cantina entrance drew everyone's attention, including the knife-throwing target who took the opportunity to flee. A group of Blarg soldiers stormed in, weapons raised and looking like they practiced their scowls in the mirror each morning.
"ATTENTION, SCUM OF THE UNIVERSE!" their leader barked with the subtle diplomacy of a sledgehammer. "By order of Chairman Drek, we are conducting a search for fugitive robots from the Quartu manufacturing facility. All robots must submit to scanning immediately! Resistance will be met with extreme prejudice, moderate violence, and strongly worded citations!"
Clank froze, his processors calculating escape routes with the desperate speed of someone doing tax calculations on April 14th. Talwyn glanced at him, noting his reaction with the sharp eyes of someone who made a living noticing things others missed, then casually slid a tarp over him like she was covering a birdcage.
"Stay still," she whispered as she stood to confront the Blarg, her voice barely audible. "And if you make any robotic noises, I'll sell you for spare parts myself."
While she distracted them with exaggerated flirtation that involved hair-flipping, strategic leaning, and comments about how impressive their weapons were, Clank slipped from under the tarp and behind the bar, where he found a service entrance leading to the back alley.
Once safely away from the cantina, in an alley that smelled like poor waste management, Clank activated his tracking device again. The dual signals confused him—one appeared to be coming from Veldin, as expected, but the other was much farther away, beyond the bounds of the Solana Galaxy, possibly in Polaris or perhaps in another dimension entirely.
"Most peculiar," Clank muttered, adjusting the device's settings with the precision of a watchmaker with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. "Perhaps one is an echo or a false positive. Or perhaps the universe has developed a sense of humor even more questionable than the Plumber's."
A shadow fell across him, and Clank looked up to see Talwyn approaching, her hand resting casually on her blaster in a way that suggested she knew exactly how to use it and had done so on numerous occasions, some of which might even have been legal.
"You're pretty quick for a little guy," she remarked, leaning against the alley wall with practiced nonchalance. "And those blarg seemed mighty interested in finding you. What'd you do, short-circuit their boss's favorite coffee maker?"
"I believe there has been a misunderstanding," Clank began with diplomatic caution, calculating a 78.3% probability that she might shoot him if his answer displeased her. "I simply left my previous employment without providing the customary two weeks' notice."
She cut him off with a raised hand and an eye-roll that suggested she'd heard better lies from drunk space pirates. "Save it. I don't care what you did to tick off Drek. Anyone who's on his bad side is good in my book, which admittedly has a lot of names in it. Some with helpful notes like 'shoots first' or 'owes me money.'" She extended her hand, which Clank noticed had several interesting scars that suggested stories involving sharp objects and poor decisions. "Name's Talwyn Apogee. I captain a ship called the Arcadia.
Clank hesitated for just a microsecond, his processors running probability calculations faster than a gambler counting cards. In his timeline, he had met Talwyn much later, under very different circumstances. Their friendship had been forged through shared dangers and a quest to find the Lombax Secret—not in a smelly alley behind a cantina that apparently doubled as the galaxy's most enthusiastic health code violation.
"I am Clank," he replied, shaking her hand and deciding to keep his knowledge to himself, lest he be mistaken for a malfunctioning fortune-telling machine. "And I am most grateful for your assistance in the cantina. Your diversionary tactics were most... colorful."
"You haven't seen colorful until you've watched me negotiate with Goons-4-Less after they've had too much rum," she said with a wink. "But you seem... familiar to me somehow," Talwyn continued, studying him with narrowed eyes that missed approximately nothing. "Have we met before? Maybe at that robot rights convention on Endako? Or that underground tech swap on Snivelak where I definitely wasn't selling slightly illegal weapon mods?"
"I do not believe so," Clank answered carefully, his voice modulator maintaining perfect pitch despite the metaphorical sweat forming on his non-existent brow. "I would certainly remember meeting someone of your... reputation. My memory banks are quite thorough, except for that unfortunate incident involving a magnet and a very enthusiastic souvenir vendor."
Talwyn raised an eyebrow so high it threatened to leave her face entirely. "My reputation? What exactly have you heard about me? Because that thing with the Goon-4-Less leader's pet blargian slug-beast was completely blown out of proportion. It was already that color when I found it."
"Only that the Apogees are known for their explorations and discoveries," Clank replied smoothly, with the diplomatic skill of someone who regularly prevents interplanetary incidents. "Your father's work is quite renowned throughout the galaxy. His paper on 'Quantum Fluctuations in Ancient Lombax Technology' was particularly fascinating, even if most of the scientific community thought he was, as they say, 'one bolt short of a full chassis.'"
A shadow crossed Talwyn's face, darkening her features like someone had dimmed the lights on a previously cheerful party. "Yeah, well... Dad's been missing for years now. Went off on one of his expeditions and never came back. I've been looking for him, but..." She shook her head, visibly shoving the emotion back into whatever compartment she kept it in. "Anyway, you still need a ride to Veldin? Or were you just asking around the cantina for the ambiance and delightful aroma of spilled Blargian ale?"
"Yes, please," Clank nodded eagerly, his head bobbing like a dashboard ornament on a bumpy road. "It is of utmost importance that I reach there as soon as possible. The fate of the galaxy—possibly several galaxies—depends on it. No pressure, of course."
"Well, you're in luck, tiny and dramatic," Talwyn said with a crooked smile. "I've got a delivery heading that way tomorrow. Some 'agricultural equipment' that definitely isn't modified weapons for the resistance against Drek. You can tag along if you help with the cargo loading tonight." She eyed him curiously, her gaze calculating but not unkind. "What's so important on Veldin anyway? It's mostly sand, rocks, and people who couldn't afford to live somewhere better."
"I believe someone there needs my help," Clank said, his voice softening with an emotion that his manufacturers would have sworn was impossible for his model. "Someone who may not even know it yet. A friend who... matters more than my programming should allow."
Talwyn studied him for a moment, her expression softening slightly as if recognizing something in his words that resonated with her own experiences. "Sounds like you've got quite a story, little robot. Maybe you can tell me about it on the journey. I've got a bottle of premium-grade oil that's supposed to be the robot equivalent of aged Rilgarian whiskey. We can swap tales of questionable decision-making."
As Talwyn led him through the back alleys to a small warehouse where her crew was preparing crates for transport, Clank considered how much he could safely reveal. The timeline had already been altered significantly. Meeting Talwyn here, years before they should have crossed paths, was proof of that. Like finding the dessert course before the appetizer at a formal dinner—chronologically confusing and potentially messy.
While helping with the inventory, occasionally lifting boxes that made the crew stare in surprise at his unexpected strength, Clank continued to ponder the dual signals on his tracking device. If one was indeed coming from Veldin, that confirmed his theory that Ratchet was there. But what could the other signal mean? A copy? An echo? A dimensional variant? And how would this Talwyn—different from the one he had known, rougher around the edges and with more weapons concealed on her person—factor into their new journey?
"You look like you're calculating the meaning of life over there," Talwyn called, interrupting his thoughts as she tossed him a small crate that probably contained something illegal in at least seventeen systems. "Relax a little. We've got all night to load this 'completely legitimate agricultural equipment' before we head to Veldin tomorrow. Though if anyone asks, you're my new navigation system with a quirky personality module."
"I shall endeavor to appear more navigational and less existentially concerned," Clank replied with a small smile, catching the crate with surprising dexterity. "Though I feel compelled to point out that at least three of these crates contain modified Blargian pulse rifles, not farming equipment, unless agriculture has become significantly more combat-oriented since my last database update."
Talwyn's laugh echoed through the warehouse, genuine and warm. "I think you and I are going to get along just fine, little robot! Just fine indeed."
Planet Fastoon - Science Building Floor 03 - Lab C 19, Lombaxia High
Ratchet had faced many challenges in his life—battling planet-destroying supervillains, navigating deadly space stations, surviving gladiatorial combat on Dreadzone. But nothing had prepared him for the sheer terror of Advanced Galactic Quantum Chemistry II at 9:40 AM on a Monday morning.
"Now remember, class," Dr. Isotope warned, her safety goggles magnifying her eyes to comically large proportions, "when combining Liquiferrium extract with Gelatonium solution, precision is key. Too much heat, and—"
She didn't get to finish her sentence because Ratchet, who had been absentmindedly twirling his Bunsen burner like one of his blasters, accidentally cranked it to maximum power just as his lab partner added the Liquiferrium.
The resulting explosion wasn't technically large enough to be classified as "catastrophic" by Fastoon Safety Standards, but it was certainly impressive enough to trigger every sprinkler in the chemical laboratories.
"STERLING!" shrieked a soaking wet lombax named Percival, whose meticulously groomed tail had briefly caught fire before the sprinklers doused it. "I SPENT TWO HOURS BRUSHING MY FUR THIS MORNING!"
"MY NOTES!" wailed another student, watching as her carefully color-coded chemistry equations dissolved into a soggy rainbow mess.
"MY DIGNITY!" lamented a third, whose wet fur made him look like he'd been shrunk in the wash.
Dr. Isotope, somehow still perfectly composed despite being drenched, simply removed her goggles and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Mr. Sterling, while I appreciate your enthusiasm for chemical reactions, I prefer them to be intentional and, ideally, contained within the appropriate safety equipment."
"I-I am so, so sorry!" Ratchet stammered, looking around at his dripping classmates, most of whom were glaring at him with the special hatred reserved for people who make cats wet. "I didn't mean to—"
"MY TAIL!" Percival interrupted, holding up his singed appendage. "Look at this! I have a bald spot! A BALD SPOT, STERLING!"
"It'll grow back?" Ratchet offered helpfully.
"IN SIX TO EIGHT WEEKS!"
"Class dismissed," Dr. Isotope announced, her calm voice somehow cutting through the chaos. "Please dry yourselves off and change if necessary. Mr. Sterling, a word."
As the other students filed out, shaking water from their fur and shooting daggers at Ratchet with their eyes, he approached the professor's desk with the enthusiasm of someone walking to their own execution.
"Professor, I'm really sorry about the explosion and the sprinklers and Percival's tail and—"
Dr. Isotope held up a hand, silencing his rambling apology. To his surprise, she didn't look angry—just puzzled.
"Ryder, you've been my top chemistry student since you started your freshman year. Last semester, you corrected my equation on the quantum properties of Liquiferrium. You could practically teach this class." she studied him with scientific curiosity. "So I'm wondering why you suddenly seem to have forgotten basic lab safety protocols?"
Ratchet shifted uncomfortably. "Bad day?"
"Hmm." She didn't seem convinced. "Well, accidents happen, even to the best scientists. Clean up your station, and perhaps review the safety manual before Wednesday's class."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you for not, you know, expelling me or feeding me to a Snagglebeast or something."
Dr. Isotope's lips twitched. "We save the Snagglebeast for students who fail to turn in their homework, Mr. Sterling."
Ratchet couldn't tell if she was joking.
The locker room was a special kind of humiliation—the kind that would make even a seasoned galactic hero wish for the sweet embrace of a black hole. As Ratchet squelched his way inside, leaving wet footprints on the gleaming floor like a slug with commitment issues, several other drenched lombaxes from his chemistry class turned to glare at him with the collective fury of a thousand irritated Agorians.
"Here comes the walking disaster," muttered one, his ears flattened against his head. "The lombax who puts the 'hazard' in 'hazardous materials.'"
"Nice one, Sterling," said another, wringing water from his tail with such vigor you'd think he was trying to extract raritanium from it. "Really living up to your reputation as the professor's pet today, huh? What's next—setting the cafeteria on fire for extra credit?"
"Hey, at least we got out of class early," offered a third, slightly more forgiving student, his whiskers still dripping. "And I was totally bombing that pop quiz anyway."
"Yeah, but at what cost?" Percival wailed dramatically, still cradling his singed tail. "My beautiful fur! I had a date tonight! How am I supposed to impress Sylvia Stardust with half my tail looking like a burnt matchstick?!"
"I said I was sorry," Ratchet muttered, making his way to what he hoped was his locker. He tried three combinations before giving up and moving to another locker that looked vaguely familiar from this morning. "Come on, come on... work with me here..."
"Need help remembering your own locker combination, genius?" Percival sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm thicker than Gadgetron industrial lubricant. "Maybe Professor Yosef can give you a memory enhancement serum—assuming you don't blow up the entire science wing trying to open it!"
"Lay off him, Percy," came a familiar voice that cut through the tension like a Plasma Striker through warm butter. Dex emerged from around the corner, already changed into athletic wear for his next class. He took one look at the soaking wet lombaxes and burst out laughing so hard he nearly doubled over. "What happened to you guys? Fall into the fountain while practicing synchronized swimming?"
"Your friend here," Percival jabbed a finger at Ratchet with the dramatic flair of a soap opera villain, "decided to turn chemistry class into a sprinkler party. And set my tail on fire! MY TAIL!"
Dex's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "Wait, seriously? Ryder 'Safety Goggles' Sterling caused a lab accident?" He turned to Ratchet with newfound respect. "Dude, are you feeling okay? Usually you're about as rebellious as a library book that returns itself early."
"I'm fine..." Ratchet grumbled, finally finding his locker and getting it open on the first try. "Just having an off day."
"Hey, everyone has those," Dex said, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to make Ratchet stumble. "Besides, Percy's overreacting as usual. Remember when I accidentally set off the emergency evacuation alarm because I thought the big red button was for the vending machine?"
Dex turned to the group of still-glaring lombaxes and grinned wickedly. "And let's not forget when Trevor over there sneezed during the school photo and his image had to be digitally reconstructed because he looked like he was being electrocuted?"
Trevor's ears flattened against his head. "I had allergies..."
"And Marcus!" Dex continued, on a roll now. "Remember when you accidentally set off the anti-gravity generator in gym class and Coach Ironhide had to peel half the freshman class off the ceiling with that giant spatula?"
Marcus suddenly found his shoelaces fascinating.
"Oh, and Percy—before you get too high and mighty, wasn't it just last semester when you called Vice Principal Zephyra 'Mom' in front of the entire assembly?"
Percival's face turned a shade of red that clashed horribly with his fur. "That was... I was... It was a simple verbal miscalculation!" he spluttered, then pointed an accusatory finger at Ratchet. "And you! You clumsy, incompetent disaster! You're a walking safety hazard in chemistry class!"
"A walking safety hazard I may be, but at least I'm not named after a cragmite who tried to wipe out our entire species," Ratchet muttered just loud enough to be heard.
The locker room fell silent for three glorious seconds before erupting in snickers.
"It's a family name!" Percival protested, his voice rising an octave. "My great-grandfather was named Percival before that walking insect was even hatched!"
"Sure, sure," Dex nodded with mock sympathy. "And I'm sure it's just a coincidence that your middle name is 'Nefarious.'"
"IT IS NOT!" Percival shrieked as the other lombaxes howled with laughter.
Despite himself, Ratchet snorted a laugh.
"See? You're smiling already," Dex grinned, nudging Ratchet with his elbow. "Don't worry about Percy. His tail needed a trim anyway—"
"I can hear you!" Percival called from across the room, attempting to style his singed tail fur with emergency hair gel from his locker.
"I know!" Dex called back cheerfully, cupping his hands around his mouth for maximum projection. "That's why I said it out loud instead of sending you a private message on my Neural-Net!"
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Seriously though, don't sweat it. By lunch, everyone will be talking about how Mr. Marsden got his bow tie caught in the probability generator again."
"Thanks, Dex," Ratchet said, genuinely grateful.
"No problem. That's what friends are for—talking you up when you're down, and mocking you mercilessly when you set classmates' tails on fire." Dex checked his chronometer. "Gotta run! See you at lunch?"
"Yeah, see you then," Ratchet agreed, pulling a dry shirt from his locker. "Save me a seat?"
"Always do," Dex called over his shoulder as he jogged off. "And hey—if you're planning any more impromptu science experiments, give me a heads-up! I want to be far enough away to watch safely but close enough to record it for posterity!"
The other lombaxes gradually dispersed, their collective annoyance diffused by Dex's masterful deployment of mutual embarrassment. As Ratchet changed into dry clothes, he made a mental note: in this timeline, he might not have his arsenal of weapons or his heroic reputation, but he had something just as valuable—a friend who had his back, even when he accidentally set their classmates on fire.
By the time Ratchet made it to Advanced Quantum Physics IV, he was dry but still nursing an emotional bruise from the chemistry disaster. He slid into an empty seat next to Cressida, who acknowledged him with a curt nod—chilly, but at least not openly hostile.
Professor Lunaire, a wiry lombax with spectacles so thick they made his eyes look like they belonged to different galaxies, paced excitedly at the front of the classroom. Holographic equations floated around him, their complexity making Ratchet's head spin.
"And so," the professor continued, his voice quivering with enthusiasm, "When we apply the Quantashrödinger principle to trans-dimensional particle acceleration, we can clearly see that the resulting probability matrix follows a predictable pattern of unpredictability!" He beamed at the class as if he'd just announced free ice cream for everyone.
Ratchet stared blankly at his datapad, which displayed equations that might as well have been written in ancient Latinish. Beside him, Cressida was rapidly taking notes, her fingers flying across her screen with practiced precision.
"Mr. Sterling!" Professor Lunaire suddenly called out, making Ratchet jump in his seat. "Perhaps you'd like to explain to the class how these findings might apply to practical applications of pocket dimension storage technology?"
Every head turned toward Ratchet. He froze, mouth slightly open, mind completely blank. In his own timeline, he'd learned mechanics through trial and error, not theoretical physics in a classroom. He knew how to fix a broken hyperdrive, not explain the quantum principles behind it.
"I, uh..." he stammered, frantically searching for something—anything—that might sound intelligent.
Professor Lunaire's expression shifted from expectation to confusion. "Ryder? This should be right up your alley. You wrote that brilliant paper on this very topic last semester."
Ratchet swallowed hard. "Well, you see, the thing about pocket dimension storage is... it's all about... the pockets?"
A few snickers rippled through the classroom. Cressida was staring at him with growing concern.
"And the... dimensions?" Ratchet continued weakly. "Which are... small? But also... big? On the inside?"
Professor Lunaire's whiskers drooped with disappointment. "Are you feeling alright, Mr. Sterling? This is quite unlike you..."
Before Ratchet could dig himself deeper, the bell rang, signaling the end of class. Never in his life had he been so grateful for a bell.
"Saved by temporal acoustics," Professor Lunaire sighed. "Don't forget, your five-thousand-word analysis of quantum entanglement as it relates to interdimensional communication is due tomorrow morning!"
Ratchet's heart sank. Five thousand words? On quantum entanglement? He barely understood what those words meant individually, let alone strung together.
As he gathered his things, Cressida approached, her pink fur almost matching the color of the datapad she clutched to her chest.
"Are you okay?" she asked, genuine concern in her voice. "Your performance in class was 87.3% below your usual standard. It's... concerning."
"Just tired," Ratchet replied, avoiding her gaze. "Didn't sleep well last night."
"You've been saying that all day," she pointed out. "And you've been acting strange. You're not focusing like you usually do. Plus, you're carrying your bag on your right shoulder instead of your left, you didn't bring your color-coded notebooks, and you haven't mentioned the Lombax Physics Olympiad once."
Ratchet blinked at her. "You're very... observant."
"We've been study partners since fifth grade, Ryder," she said with a hint of hurt in her voice. "I notice patterns. And right now, you're breaking all of yours."
Guilt twisted in Ratchet's stomach. This girl clearly cared about Ryder—possibly more than just as a study partner—and here he was, an impostor in her friend's body.
"I'm just going through some stuff," he said, which wasn't entirely a lie. "Need to figure some things out."
"Well, if you need help with the quantum entanglement paper, we could meet at the library after school," she offered, pushing her glasses up. "Like we usually do on Tuesdays? The probability of finishing it alone the night before is approximately 22.7%, based on your previous attempts."
"I can't. I'm grounded," Ratchet said, then quickly added, "But thanks for the offer."
Cressida's eyes widened. "Grounded? You? What did you do, forget to alphabetize your sock drawer? Or was it that unauthorized extra credit project you've been hiding in your closet?"
"I tried to steal my dad's ship this morning," Ratchet confessed perhaps too earnestly.
Cressida's datapad clattered to the floor as her grip failed completely. "You attempted grand theft starship? But that's—that's—" she sputtered, her normally precise language centers clearly malfunctioning. "You did WHAT? But you hate flying! You got sick on the hover-carousel at the Spring Festival! You wrote a three-page paper on why the gravitational forces made you nauseous!"
"People change," Ratchet said, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading for the door.
"People don't undergo complete neurological rewiring overnight!" Cressida called after him, hastily retrieving her datapad. "Ryder, wait! The statistical outliers in your behavior suggest either extreme psychological distress or—"
But Ratchet was already moving into the crowded hallway, desperate to escape before she could ask more questions he couldn't answer. He navigated through the sea of lombaxes, feeling increasingly out of place. This was his species, his people—yet he'd never felt more alien.
As he rounded a corner, his attention divided between escaping Cressida and checking his schedule for his next class, he failed to notice the janitor's hover-cart until it was almost too late. The cart, piled high with cleaning supplies, blocked most of the hallway as the elderly lombax janitor struggled with a mop.
Acting on pure instinct, Ratchet executed a perfect aerial flip over the cart, tucking into a roll and landing gracefully on the other side—only to immediately clutch his leg as a sharp cramp seized his calf muscle.
"Argh!" he groaned, hopping on one foot while massaging the cramping muscle. "What the—?"
The hallway had gone silent. Ratchet looked up to find at least twenty lombaxes staring at him in shock, including the janitor, whose mop had frozen mid-swipe.
"H-Hey!" Ratchet greeted the janitor, trying to act casual despite the pain. "How's the, uh, mopping going, sir?"
"Sweet mother of Orvus!" the old janitor breathed, his eyes wide. "Did you just... flip? Like, in the air?"
"Just a little hop," Ratchet said, wincing as he put weight on his cramping leg. "No big deal."
"No big deal?" a nearby student exclaimed. "Ryder, you've got a doctor's note excusing you from Phys Ed because you're 'physically allergic to athletics'!"
"I've been working out?" Ratchet offered weakly.
The Janitor whose name tag read: TORRIX shook his head in disbelief. "In all my years at this school, I've never seen anything like it. Normally, you tripped over your own shadow, and now you're doing acrobatics in this hallway?"
Before Ratchet could respond, a familiar voice called out from behind him.
"Ryder! Since when can you do that!?" Rivet demanded, parting through the crowd with Dex close behind.
"Do what?" Ratchet asked innocently, still rubbing his leg.
"That ninja move!" Dex exclaimed, eyes wide with admiration. "Dude, that was awesome! When did you become a secret agent?"
"It… it was nothing," Ratchet insisted, increasingly uncomfortable with the attention. "Just... reflexes."
"Reflexes?" Rivet repeated skeptically. "Ryder, your reflexes are usually limited to ducking when someone throws a paper airplane. Last Semester you walked into the same glass door three times in a row."
"…I'm a late bloomer?" Ratchet suggested.
The crowd began to disperse as the warning bell for the next class rang. Rivet and Dex flanked Ratchet as they continued down the hall.
"Seriously, what's going on with you today?" Rivet pressed. "First you stand up to Evalina, then you actually participate in Interdimensional Ethics, instead of sulking, later you cause a lab explosion, and now you're doing parkour in the hallways?"
"Maybe he's been replaced by a doppelgänger from another dimension," Dex joked, nudging Ratchet with his elbow. "That would explain the sudden interest in the Dimensionator too!"
Ratchet nearly tripped over his own feet. "What? No! That's ridiculous! Totally impossible! Absolutely not what happened!"
Rivet and Dex exchanged glances.
"Relax, it was a joke," Dex said slowly. "Though your reaction is weirdly defensive..."
"So what's your next class?" Rivet asked, clearly trying to change the subject.
Ratchet checked his schedule. "…Advanced Theoretical Astrophysics II with Professor Kline."
He groaned internally. Another science class he had no hope of understanding. At this rate, he'd be exposed as an impostor before lunchtime.
"I'm in that class too," Rivet said. "Though I'm surprised you're still taking it. You were complaining all last semester about how boring it was because you already knew everything."
"Yeah, well, maybe I forgot some stuff over the summer…" Ratchet muttered.
"You? Forget academic material?" Dex laughed. "Next you'll tell me you don't want to go to the Advanced Lombax Research Center Intern summer program! But seriously, bro, if you hate that class so badly, why don't you switch electives?"
Ratchet stopped walking. "Wait, I can change my classes?"
"Sure, until the end of the week," Dex replied. "As long as there's space in whatever you want to switch to."
A glimmer of hope sparked in Ratchet's mind. If he could drop all these advanced science classes for something more manageable, he might actually survive this school experience.
"Where do I go to do that?" he asked eagerly.
"Academic counselor's office," Rivet answered, looking at him strangely. "Second floor, east wing. But why would you want to change your schedule? You've been excited about these classes since last year."
"I'm... reassessing my priorities," Ratchet said carefully. "Trying new things."
"Like suddenly doing backflips?" Rivet asked dryly.
"Exactly!" Ratchet grinned. "Speaking of which, I should go talk to the counselor right now!"
"W-What? But we have class in three minutes!" Rivet protested.
"This is more important," Ratchet insisted. "Cover for me?"
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed toward the stairwell, leaving Rivet and Dex staring after him in confusion.
"Did he just ask us to help him skip class?" Dex asked incredulously. "Who is this lombax and what has he done with our Ryder Sterling?"
"I don't know," Rivet murmured, watching Ratchet's retreating form with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. "But I'm starting to think your doppelgänger theory isn't as crazy as it sounds..."
"Weight Training and Fitness Fundamentals, Beginners Hoverboot Maneuvers I, Intro to Firearms & Heavy Ordnance, Ballroom Basics, Essential Piloting Skills for Future Aviators, and Artistry in Motion: The Craft of Origami… along with an interest in suddenly joining JROTC….?"
The academic counselor, Ms. Quantumleap, a middle-aged lombax with reading glasses perched on her nose, looked up from her datapad with an expression that suggested Ratchet had just proposed launching the school cafeteria into orbit.
"Mr. Sterling, is this some kind of elaborate prank? Because if so, I must inform you that your father's sense of humor has not, in fact, been genetically transferred to you."
"No ma'am," Ratchet replied, trying his best to look earnest while fighting back a smirk. "Those are the elective classes I'd like to switch to. Immediately. Like, yesterday-immediately."
"But these are completely different from your current schedule!" Ms. Quantumleap protested, waving her datapad as if it might somehow rearrange the offending course selections. "You're dropping Advanced Quantum Physics, Advanced Theoretical Astrophysics, Advanced Robotics, Advanced Chemistry, Calculus VII, and Advanced Galactic Quantum Chemistry... essentially every class with the word 'Advanced' in the title. All courses you've been excelling in, I might add, with the enthusiasm of a Leviathan at an all-you-can-eat plankton buffet."
"I'm just looking for a change," Ratchet explained, leaning back in his chair with a casual confidence that made the counselor's left eye twitch. "Something more... practical."
"Practical?" Ms. Quantumleap repeated, as if Ratchet had suggested they communicate via interpretive dance. "Mr. Sterling, you've been on the fast track to the Center for Advanced Lombax Research since before you learned to tie your own shoelaces. Your academic record is so impeccable it makes other academic records feel inadequate. Your father is the Minister of Defense and on the Elder Councilmen's Board of Directors in that very Center. One of the most respected scientists in Fastoon. And now you want to take... ballroom dancing?"
"I hear it improves coordination," Ratchet offered with a grin. "Plus, ladies love a guy who can foxtrot. At least, that's what the holovids say."
"The holovids also suggest that blowing up moons is an appropriate response to minor inconveniences," Ms. Quantumleap deadpanned. "Not exactly a reliable source of life advice."
She removed her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose so hard Ratchet worried she might actually push it through to the back of her skull. "Ryder, is everything alright at home? Is there something you'd like to talk about? Did you perhaps suffer a concussion that no one has reported to the school nurse?"
"Everything's fine," Ratchet assured her, trying to look as innocent as possible—which, given his track record of galaxy-saving heroics in another timeline, was not very innocent at all. "I'm just... exploring different interests. Broadening my horizons. Expanding my... horizonal... broadness."
"Horizonal broadness," Ms. Quantumleap repeated flatly. "I see your vocabulary skills remain as impressive as ever."
"Look," Ratchet leaned forward, deciding to try a different approach. "Haven't you ever felt like you were stuck in a rut? Like you were living someone else's life instead of your own?"
The counselor's expression softened slightly. "Ah, I see. This is about the Keeper Legacy, isn't it? The responsibility you've been so vocal about rejecting since the start of your freshman year…"
"Right! Yes! That thing! Exactly that thing that I definitely know all about!" Ratchet nodded enthusiastically, accepting the cop-out. "The Keeper Legacy! Well, I've decided that's not such a bad thing anymore! So I'm more opened to inheriting the responsibility!"
Ms. Quantumleap's eyes widened in disbelief before narrowing with scrutiny. "Ryder, you've been vehemently against following in your father's footsteps for years. You've written three separate essays arguing that the Dimensionator should be dismantled and the technology permanently sealed away. You've made your position quite clear and now you're out of the blue considering such a change of stance?"
"Well, maybe I'm developing a more nuanced view," Ratchet suggested, trying to recover. "People change, you know. Evolve. Grow. Sometimes overnight in completely inexplicable ways that definitely don't involve interdimensional displacement."
"And this sudden evolution involves abandoning all your academic interests and embracing military training?" Ms. Quantumleap asked skeptically. "The same military you once described as—and I quote from your rather passionate speech at last year's debate competition—'a fossil-fueled dinosaur of outdated thinking that perpetuates conflict rather than resolving it'?"
Ratchet winced. Apparently, Ryder had been quite the pacifist. "I'm... severely reconsidering my position?"
"Severely reconsidering your position…" Ms. Quantumleap repeated, each word dripping with disbelief. "The position you've maintained with such conviction that you once got into a shouting match with General Vivar during Career Day that ended with you calling him a 'warmongering relic' and him threatening to have you court-martialed for insubordination?"
"That sounds... intense," Ratchet admitted, struggling to imagine himself—or rather, Ryder—standing up to a general similar to Alister. "But maybe I've realized there's value in understanding something before criticizing it? You know, walk a mile in their combat boots before judging them?"
"Hmm." Ms. Quantumleap didn't look convinced. "Well, it's your education. I'll make the changes to your schedule."
Ratchet's heart soared, and he struggled to contain his overwhelming joy. He could feel tears of happiness prickling at the corners of his eyes. "Thank you so much!" he exclaimed, his voice a little too high-pitched.
As the counselor turned to input the data into her system, Ratchet silently celebrated with a tiny fist pump.
Goodbye Advanced Quantum Physics with your incomprehensible equations!
And Advanced Chemistry with your explosive tendencies? You definitely won't be missed!
Calculus VII, with your endless derivatives and integrals? I won't shed a tear at our parting!
No more pretending to understand concepts that made his brain feel like it was trying to escape through his ears. No more sitting through lectures that might as well have been delivered in ancient Fongoid for all he understood.
Ms. Quantumleap paused, noticing his reaction as she turned back, and hesitated for a moment. "Are you alright, Ryder?"
"Yes! I'm absolutely fine!" Ratchet assured her, his grin practically splitting his face in two. "Just... really happy about the classes!"
The counselor raised an eyebrow but nodded slowly, a small smile creeping onto her lips as she tousled her datapad. "Alright then. Your new schedule will be effective tomorrow. Now, do be careful, or I'll have to keep my stress balls under lock and key."
"Got it!" Ratchet responded, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. "Thanks again!"
"As for JROTC, the tryouts will be held near the end of the semester. You must go to one of their enrollment seminars to qualify," the counselor said, tapping at her datapad with perhaps more force than necessary. "You'll finish out today with your current classes. And Ryder?"
"Yes?"
"If you ever want to talk about what's really going on my door is always open. Though I recommend knocking first, as I've been known to throw stress balls at unexpected visitors."
"Noted."
"Good. Now, unless there's anything else you'd like to discuss—perhaps your sudden interest in origami, which I must admit has me the most puzzled of all your selections—I suggest you get back to class before your absence is noted."
"Right, yes, absolutely," Ratchet said, standing up. "Thanks for your help. And for not, you know, immediately calling the psych ward."
"The day is still young, Mr. Sterling," Ms. Quantumleap replied with a hint of a smile. "Don't give me reason to reconsider."
By the time the final bell rang, Ratchet was mentally exhausted. He'd managed to get through Advanced Theoretical Astrophysics by keeping his head down and pretending to take notes, narrowly avoided another catastrophe in Advanced Robotics III by letting his lab partner do most of the work, and somehow survived Advanced Temporal Mechanics despite understanding approximately zero percent of the lecture.
Farewell Advanced Theoretical Astrophysics and your mind-numbing theories about black holes!
So long Advanced Robotics where I almost electrocuted myself!
And Advanced Temporal Mechanics is no longer my problem as of now!
Ratchet hummed a merry tune under his breath as he waited at the bus loop for his ride home, when Rivet appeared beside him, looking uncharacteristically excited. "So? Did you actually do it?" she demanded without preamble.
"Do what?" Ratchet asked, confused.
"Change your classes," Rivet clarified, rolling her eyes.
"Oh, that," Ratchet nodded. "Yeah, I did it. New schedule starts tomorrow."
"Really?" Rivet's eyes widened in genuine shock. "I thought you were joking! What classes did you switch to?"
"Let's see," Ratchet said, holding up his thumb. "Weight Training and Fitness Fundamentals—you know, for these noodle arms."
Rivet's eyebrows shot up.
"Beginners Hoverboot Maneuvers I," he continued, raising his index finger while Rivet's expression shifted to disbelief.
"Intro to Firearms & Heavy Ordnance," he added with his middle finger, and Rivet's jaw began to slacken.
"Ballroom Basics," he said, raising his ring finger as Rivet's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.
"Essential Piloting Skills for Future Aviators," he continued with his pinky, and Rivet started making a strange choking sound.
"Artistry in Motion: The Craft of Origami," he finished, using his other hand's thumb, at which point Rivet's face was a perfect mask of stunned bewilderment.
"Oh, and I signed up for the JROTC info session," he added casually, as if mentioning he might try a new sandwich for lunch.
Rivet's jaw dropped completely. "... A-ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"
"Nope," Ratchet said, folding his arms. "All official. Starting tomorrow! And I couldn't be ha-"
"But you HATE physical activity!" Rivet exclaimed, cutting him off. "You get winded climbing a flight of stairs! Remember that field trip to the Fastoon Historical Observatory last year? We barely made it up the first landing before you started wheezing like an overheated hovership! Dex had to carry you piggyback-style the rest of the way up those three hundred steps while you kept moaning about your 'impending death' the whole time."
"T-That wasn't entirely my fault!" Ratchet protested, though he had no memory of that embarrassing incident. "...uh, I probably had a cold that day. And anyway, people change!"
"Not overnight they don't!" Rivet countered. "And JROTC? You've been vocally anti-military since that documentary on the Cragmite War made you cry in seventh grade! You said the military-industrial complex was, and I quote, 'a festering boil on the backside of civilization.'"
"Maybe I'm developing a more nuanced view," Ratchet suggested.
"And ballroom dancing?" Rivet continued, ignoring his comment. "You have the coordination of a drunken Puffoid on land! Remember the Spring Festival from our last year in middle school? You tried to do the Electric Slide and ended up taking out the entire refreshment table!"
"I've been practicing," Ratchet lied.
"When? In your sleep?" Rivet's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What's really going on, Ryder? You're signing up for classes that go against everything you've ever stood for? It's like you've been replaced by a pod person."
"Not a pod person," Ratchet muttered. "Just... expanding my horizons."
"Hey, what's going on?" Dex jogged up to them, backpack slung casually over one shoulder. "And why does Rivet look like she's about to explode?"
"Tell him," Rivet demanded, crossing her arms. "Tell him your new class schedule."
Ratchet repeated the list, watching as Dex's expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief to outright hilarity.
"Weight training!?" Dex wheezed, doubled over with laughter. "YOU? The guy who once asked for a doctor's note to get out of carrying your own backpack?"
"It wasn't that heavy," Ratchet protested.
"It had one datapad in it!" Dex howled. "And you said it was giving you 'acute spinal distress'!"
"And firearms?" Rivet added, warming to the theme. "You faint at the sight of blood! Remember when I got that paper cut last year and you had to put your head between your knees?"
"It must have been a really deep paper cut..." Ratchet muttered, his ears flattening against his head as he caught second, third, and fourth-hand embarrassment hearing about his alternative self. Ryder was literally a walking embarrassment that he would not have caught dead next to. Ratchet crossed his arms and his tail twitched agitatedly behind him as he asked, "Are you guys done making fun of me yet?"
"Not even close!" Rivet replied, but her expression softened slightly. "Look, if you really want to try new things, that's great. I'm just worried you're having some kind of... I don't know, identity crisis or something."
"I'm fine," Ratchet insisted for what may have been the 40th time today. "Just changing things up a bit."
"Well, if you're really committed to this new you," Dex said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, "you should come with us to Galaxy Burger tonight. They've got this new challenge—the Supernova Burger. Six patties, four types of cheese, and sauce so spicy it comes with a legal waiver. The old Ryder would never have tried it, but the new, adventurous Ryder? I bet he would!
"That sounds awesome," Ratchet said sincerely—it really did—"but I can't. Grounded, remember?"
Rivet's ears perked up, her eyes widening in surprise. "Whoa, wait—grounded? You? Since when are you grounded?!"
"Yeah, what she said," Dex added, equally shocked. "Did the universe flip upside down today? Next you'll tell us Percival got detention for fighting-"
"And why am I just hearing about it now?" Rivet pressed, leaning forward with intense curiosity. "When did this happen!?"
"Since I tried to steal my dad's starship this morning," Ratchet replied with a shrug.
"WHAT?!" Dex and Rivet exclaimed in perfect unison, their eyes widening to comical proportions.
"You tried to steal Minister Sterling's ship?" Rivet gasped, looking completely blindsided. "The Aphelion? Are you INSANE?"
"Hold on," Dex held up his hands like a referee calling time-out. "Let me get this straight. You—Ryder 'I-won't-even-jaywalk' Sterling—tried to steal a military-grade starship from the Minister of Defense? Your own father?"
"The same Ryder who once turned himself in to the hall monitor for accidentally taking two napkins from the cafeteria?" Rivet added incredulously.
"It was more of a... borrowing attempt," Ratchet explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't quite work out."
"Didn't quite work out?" Dex repeated, looking both horrified and impressed. "Dude, that ship has more security protocols than the Galactic President's personal bathroom! How are you still alive?"
"My dad caught me in the act," Ratchet admitted. "He wasn't exactly thrilled."
"I can imagine," Rivet said, still looking stunned. "Ryder Sterling, certified pacifist, trying to steal a military-grade starship. What's next? Planning to rob the Planetary Defense Force armory?"
"Don't give him ideas," Dex stage-whispered, nudging Rivet with his elbow.
"Why would you even try something like that?" Rivet asked, genuine concern in her voice.
Ratchet shrugged, not wanting to explain his desperate need to find Clank. "Just felt like an adventure, I guess."
"An adventure that got you grounded," Dex noted, shaking his head with a grin. "Man, Ry, the one time you decide to do something wild, and I miss it. This is so unfair."
A sleek, high-class hover-car pulled up to the curb, its polished surface gleaming in the afternoon sun. An impeccably dressed lombax stepped out from the driver's side, his posture as stiff as his perfectly pressed uniform.
"Master Dexon," the driver called with practiced formality. "Your mother requested I collect you promptly today. The charity gala preparations require your attention."
"Hey, Reginald!" Rivet called out cheerfully, waving at the driver. "Still letting Dex control the hover-car's sound system?"
The driver's professional demeanor cracked slightly as he suppressed a smile. "Miss Silvermane, always a pleasure. And no, after last week's... incident with the bass-boosted Courtney Gears remix, I've implemented certain audio restrictions."
Ratchet stared at the luxury vehicle, then at Dex, suddenly realizing his friend must come from serious money. The casual way Rivet greeted the driver suggested this was a completely normal occurrence.
Dex groaned dramatically. "A charity gala? Today? But we were supposed to go to Galaxy Burger!" He turned to Reginald with pleading eyes. "Reg, couldn't we swing by Galaxy Burger first? Just for like, twenty minutes? Thirty tops?"
Reginald checked his watch with military precision. "I suppose we could accommodate a brief detour, Master Dexon. Your mother's exact words were 'get him home before he causes another public relations incident,' which does leave some room for interpretation."
"Yes!" Dex pumped his fist victoriously. "You're the best, Reg! See, this is why I keep arguing against replacing you with a robot."
"Your advocacy is noted and appreciated, sir," Reginald replied dryly.
"Need a ride, Ryder?" Dex offered, gesturing toward the hover-car. "We can drop you off after Galaxy Burger."
"Thanks, but I can't," Ratchet said, genuinely disappointed. "Grounded, remember? My dad would probably extend my sentence if I showed up late."
"Right, the whole 'attempted grand theft starship' thing," Dex nodded sympathetically. "Bummer."
The school transport for Ratchet's subdivision began pulling up to the curb, and other students started boarding. Ratchet spotted the grumpy-looking driver behind the wheel and sighed.
"That's my ride," he said, hitching his backpack higher on his shoulder. "See you guys tomorrow. Try not to have too much fun without me."
"Impossible," Dex grinned. "You're the entertainment! Who else am I going to watch nearly blow up the chemistry lab?"
"Or flip over a janitor's cart like some kind of ninja?" Rivet added with a smirk.
"Or attempt ballroom dancing tomorrow?" Dex finished, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Man, I should sell tickets to that class!"
"You're both hilarious," Ratchet deadpanned, but couldn't help smiling. Despite barely knowing them, he found himself genuinely enjoying their company. "Later, guys-"
"Wait a sec!" Rivet caught his arm before he could walk away. "All joking aside, are you sure you're okay? You've been acting strange all day..."
For a moment, Ratchet considered telling her the truth. In his timeline, he'd always valued honesty with his friends. But how could he possibly explain that he was from another reality, that he wasn't really Ryder Sterling but a version of him who had grown up alone on Veldin until Grim took him in out of pity?
"I'm fine," he said instead. "Just... figuring some stuff out."
"Well, if you need to talk..." Rivet offered, letting her sentence trail off as she released his arm.
"Thanks," Ratchet said, genuinely touched by her concern.
"Try not to get into any more trouble today," Rivet advised in all seriousness for once.
"No promises!" Ratchet called back with a grin.
"Master Dexon, we really must be going," Reginald reminded, checking his watch again.
"Yeah, yeah," Dex sighed dramatically. "The life of high society calls. See you tomorrow, Ryder! Can't wait to see you attempt a pirouette in Ballroom Basics!"
"And I can't wait to see you attempt to explain that new dent in your dad's hover-car," Ratchet retorted, noticing a small ding on the passenger side that Reginald was pretending very hard not to see.
Dex's eyes widened comically. "Reginald! I thought we fixed that!"
"We applied what you called a 'temporary cosmetic solution,' sir. Also known as colored tape."
"Busted," Rivet snickered as she headed toward Dex's hover-car. "See you tomorrow, Ryder! Try not to steal any more spaceships before then!"
As his friends departed in Dex's fancy hover-car, Ratchet boarded the bus, greeting the scowling driver with deliberate cheerfulness.
"Afternoon, sunshine!" Ratchet called. "Beautiful day for driving, isn't it?"
The driver's scowl deepened. "Well, if it isn't the son of the great Minister Sterling," he said sarcastically. "Deigning to ride with the common folk again today?"
"Nice to see you too," Ratchet replied cheerfully, deciding to kill the driver with kindness. "How's your day been?"
The driver blinked, clearly taken aback by the friendly response. "Uh... fine?"
"Great!" Ratchet continued, taking a seat near the front. "Weather's nice today, isn't it? Perfect for driving a transport. You know, I've always wondered how these things handle. The gravitational stabilizers must be impressive to keep it so steady during turns."
The driver eyed him suspiciously in the rearview mirror. "What are you playing at, kid? You barely acknowledged my existence before, and now you want to chat about gravitational stabilizers?"
"Just making conversation," Ratchet shrugged. "Is that a new hat? It really brings out the color of your eyes."
A few of the other students on the transport snickered. The driver's ears flattened against his head in annoyance.
"Your father reprogrammed my navigation system to speak in pirate slang," he growled. "It took three weeks to fix, and I still occasionally get 'YARRR, TURN STARBOARD YE SCURVY DOG' when I'm trying to make a right turn."
"That does sound annoying," Ratchet agreed. "But technically, wouldn't starboard be a right turn? So the directions were still accurate."
More snickers from the other students. The driver's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel.
"Just sit down and be quiet," he muttered. "Like father, like son—both of you think you're so clever."
"I'm already sitting," Ratchet pointed out helpfully. "And I'm being quiet... relatively speaking."
The driver's response was to slam on the accelerator, throwing everyone backward in their seats as the transport lurched forward. Ratchet grinned to himself. At least he'd found one similarity between himself and Ryder's father—they both enjoyed annoying authority figures.
The rest of the ride passed without incident, though the driver made a point of stopping so abruptly at Ratchet's stop that he nearly fell out of his seat. As he stepped off the transport, the driver called after him.
"Tell your father that if he messes with my transport again, I'll file a formal complaint with the Transportation Authority!"
"I'll be sure to pass that along," Ratchet replied with a cheerful wave. "Have a wonderful afternoon!"
The transport doors closed with unnecessary force, and the vehicle sped away, leaving Ratchet alone at the stop. He turned toward the Sterling residence—his home in this reality—and was surprised to see a sleek hover car pulling into the driveway. A female lombax emerged, carrying grocery bags.
Mirabelle.
His mother.
The concept still felt foreign to him. In his timeline, he'd grown up without parents, never knowing who they were or what had happened to them. It wasn't until he met Alister that he learned anything about his father, and even then, the details had been sparse.
But here she was—the mother he'd never known. And she was... struggling with her grocery bags.
Ratchet jogged over to help, reaching for the bags that looked in danger of spilling. "Let me get those for you!"
Mirabelle looked up in surprise, and Ratchet was momentarily struck by her appearance. Her cream-colored fur with elegant tan stripes seemed to glow in the afternoon light, and her striking lilac eyes held a warmth he'd never known.
"Oh, Ryder! You're home early," she said with a smile that transformed her already pretty face. She relinquished the bags gratefully. "Thank you, sweetheart. These groceries are apparently training for the Galactic Weightlifting Championship."
"No problem," Ratchet replied, easily balancing the bags that would have given Ryder's less athletic frame trouble. "Where do you want them?"
"Kitchen, please," she said, grabbing the remaining bags from the hover car. "Your father won't be home for dinner tonight, I'm afraid. There was some kind of emergency at the Center—a security breach, from what I gathered from his rushed call. So it's just us two criminals tonight."
"Criminals?" Ratchet asked, confused.
"Well, you tried to steal a military-grade starship, and I once stole your father's heart," she replied with a mischievous wink. "Though admittedly, your crime carries a slightly longer sentence."
Ratchet couldn't help but laugh. "How about I make it up to you by helping with dinner?"
"Hmm, attempting to reduce your sentence with good behavior? Smart move." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I was planning on making your favorite—cosmic chili with cornbread?"
Ratchet had no idea if that was actually Ryder's favorite meal, but it sounded delicious. "Sounds perfect."
Ratchet carried the bags inside, taking in the home he'd seen only briefly that morning. In daylight, the Sterling residence was even more impressive—spacious and elegant, yet comfortable, with large windows overlooking the Fastoon cityscape.
Holophotos lined the walls, showing a happy family through the years: Kaden and Mirabelle on what appeared to be their wedding day; a tiny infant Ryder in Mirabelle's arms; a young Ryder riding on Kaden's shoulders; the three of them at various landmarks and celebrations.
A life he'd never had. A life that should have been his.
"Ryder?" Mirabelle's voice broke through his thoughts. "The kitchen is this way, remember?" There was a hint of humor in her tone, but also confusion at his hesitation. "Unless you're planning to prepare dinner in the hallway, which would be an interesting culinary experiment, but terrible for the carpeting."
"Right, sorry," Ratchet said, following her to a large, modern kitchen. "Just... distracted."
He set the bags on the counter and began helping her unpack them, a strange domesticity to the action that felt both foreign and somehow right.
"So, how was school?" Mirabelle asked, storing vegetables in a cooling unit. "Did you ace Professor Lunaire's pop quiz? He always gives one on the first day back."
"It was... educational," Ratchet hedged, not wanting to admit he'd probably failed spectacularly.
"Educational? My goodness, that's diplomatic," Mirabelle remarked, arching an eyebrow. "When your father says something was 'educational,' it usually means someone nearly blew up a laboratory or accidentally created a miniature black hole."
"No black holes today," Ratchet assured her, then paused. "...though I may have caused a minor explosion in chemistry class."
"Ah, there it is," Mirabelle said with a knowing nod. "The Sterling family tradition of causing controlled chaos in educational settings continues. Was anyone injured? Besides Percival's pride, of course."
"How did you know Percival was involved?" Ratchet asked, surprised.
"That boy has been your academic nemesis since kindergarten when you corrected his coloring technique," she replied, deftly chopping an exotic-looking vegetable. "Some rivalries are written in the stars."
Ratchet laughed, finding himself instantly comfortable with her quick wit. "His tail may have gotten slightly singed."
"Well, his fur was always a bit too perfect anyway," Mirabelle said with a dismissive wave. "A little asymmetry builds character."
"That's one way to look at it," Ratchet grinned, accepting a vegetable to chop.
"So," Mirabelle began, her tone casual but her eyes sharp, "about this morning's grand theft starship attempt..."
Ratchet winced. "Yeah, about that..."
"I'm particularly curious about the 'why,'" she continued, stirring something that smelled increasingly delicious. "Most teenagers start with something simpler—sneaking out to a party, perhaps, or downloading unauthorized holovids. But you? Straight to felony spacecraft theft."
"Go big or go home?" Ratchet offered weakly.
"You certainly aimed high," Mirabelle agreed. "Though technically, you were already home, so half that expression doesn't apply."
"I just..." Ratchet searched for words that wouldn't reveal too much. "I needed to go somewhere. Important."
Mirabelle's expression softened. "Important enough to risk your father's wrath? That's quite the urgency."
"Yeah," Ratchet admitted. "It was."
"Well," she said after a moment, "next time you feel the need to commit grand theft starship, perhaps consider asking first? Your father might surprise you. He was quite the rebel in his youth, you know."
"Really?" Ratchet asked eagerly, hungry for any information about Kaden.
"Oh yes," Mirabelle smiled, her lilac eyes dancing with mischief. "Did he ever tell you about the time he decided to build a hoverboard from scratch as a tween, tested it off the roof of his school, and ended up stuck in a tree for three hours before anyone found him?"
"No," Ratchet replied, genuinely interested. "What happened?"
"The propulsion system worked perfectly—too perfectly, in fact. As I was told, it shot him fifty feet into the air before the steering mechanism failed. He landed in the tallest tree on the school's grounds and was too embarrassed to call for help," she chuckled. "Allegedly it was Alister who finally found him after Kaden missed three classes in a row."
"And Alister never let him forget it, I bet," Ratchet said, smiling at the thought.
"To this day, Alister gives him tree ornaments every Cosmic Solstice!" Mirabelle confirmed with a laugh. "Your father pretends to be annoyed, but he keeps every single one in his office drawer."
Ratchet laughed, imagining the dignified Minister of Defense stuck in a tree. "Sounds like something I would do."
"The acorn doesn't fall far from the tree—or in your father's case, doesn't stay in the tree," Mirabelle quipped. "Though I'd hoped you might have inherited some of my common sense along with his impulsiveness."
"Maybe it skips a generation?" Ratchet suggested.
"For your future children's sake, let's hope so," she replied, handing him another vegetable. "Now, make yourself useful and chop this before I decide to extend your grounding into the next century."
Ratchet accepted the vegetable and the knife, grateful for the simple task. "So... you're not mad about the ship thing?"
"Oh, I'm furious," Mirabelle replied cheerfully. "But I've found that simmering rage pairs wonderfully with cosmic chili. Besides, your father's handling the punishment, and I've always believed in letting natural consequences teach their own lessons."
"That's... surprisingly reasonable," Ratchet said.
"I'm full of surprises," she winked. "It's how I keep your father on his toes after all these years."
"So, what have you been up to lately?" Ratchet asked, trying to sound casual as he chopped vegetables with surprisingly competent knife skills. "Any interesting projects?"
Mirabelle looked up from the cosmic chili she was stirring, a flash of surprise crossing her face. "You mean besides the Heritage Festival I've been talking about non-stop for the past three weeks?"
"The Heritage Festival?" Ratchet repeated, genuinely curious now. "Right! That sounds... important."
"Well, yes, though I'm just taking a background role this year," Mirabelle explained, adding a generous pinch of some exotic-looking spice to the pot. "Coordinating the historical exhibits and helping with the traditional dance performances. Nothing as high-profile as your father's opening address or the Sterling family's traditional role in the ceremonial lighting."
"That sounds really interesting," Ratchet said, trying to cover his ignorance with enthusiasm. "I bet you'll do a great job with it."
Mirabelle paused her stirring, looking at him with undisguised shock. "Who are you and what have you done with my son? You're usually rolling your eyes and groaning dramatically whenever the festival comes up. Last year you called it 'an archaic celebration of outdated customs designed to reinforce arbitrary social hierarchies.'"
"Did I really say that?" Ratchet winced. "That sounds... pretentious."
"It was quite the dinner conversation," Mirabelle chuckled, returning to her stirring. "Your father nearly choked on his trillium soup. Then you two debated the cultural significance of traditional ceremonies for almost three hours while I quietly ate my dessert and contemplated taking up meditation."
Ratchet laughed, trying to imagine himself in a heated philosophical debate with Kaden. "Sorry about that. But hey, people change, right? Maybe I'm developing a new appreciation for cultural heritage and traditions."
"In the span of 24 hours?" Mirabelle raised an eyebrow, but her eyes twinkled with amusement. "Well, I certainly won't complain about the change. It's refreshing to have support instead of sarcastic commentary."
"You'll do great with the exhibits and the dancing," Ratchet said sincerely. "The whole festival will be better because of your work."
Mirabelle studied him for a moment, then, to his complete surprise, leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Thank you, sweetheart. That means more than you know."
The simple gesture of maternal affection hit Ratchet like a physical blow. In all his years, he'd never experienced anything like it—the casual, unconditional love of a mother for her child. His throat tightened with unexpected emotion.
"Are you blushing?" Mirabelle teased, returning to the stove. "My goodness, I haven't seen you get embarrassed by a mom-kiss since you were twelve! Should I start doing it in front of your friends again? I'm sure Rivet would find it adorable-"
"Please don't…!" Ratchet managed, his voice slightly hoarse as he tried to process the unfamiliar feelings washing over him. "I have a reputation to maintain."
"Yes, as the boy who tried to steal a military starship," Mirabelle replied dryly. "Quite the reputation indeed."
Looking at her—this beautiful, witty woman with her cream fur, tan stripes, and mischievous lilac eyes—Ratchet suddenly understood exactly why his father had fallen in love with her. Her sharp tongue and quick wit would certainly give anyone a run for their money, even the formidable Minister of Defense.
In another life, another timeline, she would have been the mother he'd always longed for.
And in this strange new reality, somehow, she was.