#tranformers

I drew ratchet again but this time based on the design of tfa and although in the series they want to make him look old in my heart he needs love and I would love to see him as young as the others

An ambitious cross-over work of fanfiction seeing the coming together of the heroes and the villains of Marvel, Harry Potter, Star Wars, Transformers and a special guest from the Mirror Visitor Quartet.

COLLIDING MULTIVERSE: CHAPTER 1

A fist crushes the crystal goblet it is holding. Fragments of glass jingle on the floor with the remnants of what used to be an iced Martini, now dripping on the hand, the bare feet and the floor. The man to whom the hand and the feet belong, however, barely notice.

Tony Stark’s wide eyes keep rushing from a diagram to the other of the many holographic screens hanging in mid-air all around him, checking the numbers again and again, zooming in on the peek in the graph that should not, in any way known to God or to Tony Stark, be there. He raises a hand to graze his chin thoughtfully, but when his Martini’d fingers collide with his skin, he grimaces back to his senses.

«-for fuck’s sake!» Tony shakes his hand and finally takes notice of the mess on the floor.

He hates it when it happens. But even more, he hates it when his detector of gravitational waves yells at his face that the universe has just broken. He glances at the watch on his wrist and shakes his hand again, swearing under his breath. Four in the morning. This isn’t possibly going to be a good day.

«Jarvis.»

«Good mor-»

«Don’t bother to say that and call Bruce. Right now.»

He dashes to a nearby storeroom to get a cloth and water, determined to clean up the mess. If he is going to find a way to save the world once again, he would not do it risking to break his neck on a slippery floor.

«But sir, it’s four in the morning. You should consider that doctor Banner may still be sleeping.»

«If I know him well enough, he’s already on his way here. Get a move on, now, and get me another Martini.»

«Calling now, sir.»

Tony gathers the broken glass from the floor, scrubs it quickly to get rid of the liquid and then throws the cloth away mindlessly, returning to give his full attention to the projections. A zoom-in here, a zoom-out there. Open and close windows, insert numbers, recalculate. The results don’t change.

«Tony? I’m on my way» Bruce Banner’s nervous voice echoes across the whole laboratory.

«Tell me you didn’t see it.»

«I wouldn’t be on my way.»

«Is it not because you miss me?»

«X-ray emissions went wild at three forty-four this morning» says Bruce. Tony already knows that. It is the time when the alert alarm has woken him up, not too long earlier. «At first I thought it was a neutron star nearby, a sudden outburst or something, but no, no source. It was coming from…»

«Everywhere» Tony finishes, bitingly.

«Parking now. I’m there in a minute.»

And after a minute, the elevator doors open, revealing a dishevelled Bruce Banner who clearly hasn’t had time to comb his hair. 

He springs out of the elevator. «The labs in Chicago, Ginevra and Hamburg have already confirmed. We still need to hear from New York and Novosibirsk, but I don’t see how they’d change the game» he says, reaching Tony at his diagrams. «The only thing I could link those numbers to was the cosmic microwave background, know what I’m talking about?» he resumes, gesticulating hysterically with his hands and staring at Tony’s focused side profile. «The Big fucking Bang! Now this isn’t exactly something I see as possible as there is no- wait, what is that?» 

Tony turns and, as he notices his colleague’s gaze on his now second goblet of iced liquor,  he raises it to him. «Dry Martini, want one?»

«A wh- Tony, it’s four in the morning!»

«No, okay» he shrugs and takes a sip from the glass, returning to the diagram and tapping on it. «See that peek? It shouldn’t be there. The second law of thermodynamics doesn’t like it and I sure hate it.»

Bruce turns to focus on the graph with a sigh and furrows his eyebrows. «Nothing can break the second law, Tony.»

«Exactly» he convenes. «But it just happened. The universe just broke. See?» he taps on the graph with his knuckles again.

The doctor steps forward, squinting at the numbers and passing his hands through his hair, either to fix it or out of despair.

«What is this supposed to mean?»

Receiving no answer, he turns around, face flustered. «Tony, what-»

The man interrupts him by pushing the goblet of dry Martini into his hands with a mindless, abrupt gesture. His eyes are fixed somewhere beyond the diagrams. Beyond the large windows of the laboratory. On the other side, the skyline of New York is a pitch black silhouette against a nocturne blue sky. City lights shining like stars.

He walks around the counters to approach the glass and scrutinise the view. «Someone» he says. «Someone just flew past this window. On a broomstick.»

«Who- a what?»

Bruce glances down at the goblet in his hands with a bit of apprehension.

When he raises his gaze again, the impossible happens. It’s quick, confusing, and too dark to understand. But beyond the window, right in front of Tony Stark’s figure, a man in large clothes and mounting what really looks like a broomstick, whizzes at a high speed from right to left and disappears at the sight in a flash.

Tony turns back, eyes wide open, as if expecting an explanation. But Bruce stands there, speechless and unbelieving, raising his free hand as to say or ask something but unable to find the words, once again unable to call upon one of his PhDs to give this an answer. The engineer springs into a run without any further word.

«Wh-where are you going?»

«Witch hunt, it seems» he yells back. «Jarvis, my suit!»

Bruce looks down at the goblet again and, without another hesitation, he brings it to his lips and pours it all into his mouth.

             It is the slowest elevator in the world and today it seems even slower than usual. She has been inside the cabin for at least twenty minutes now, and it is going to take ten more to get to the destination. 

Ophelia keeps her eyes on her scarf, gently picking lint from it as to calm it and to calm herself. It has been a rough few months. She hasn’t seen her scarf in so long and now it demands all her attention, but Ophelia can’t really blame it. Not only her scarf, in truth, but all the furniture inside the cabin have been creaking and squeaking in trepidation since her entrance. Her emotions have always had the bad habit of reflecting onto the objects around her. That is part of being born an Animist.

So, to sum it all up, several months earlier she left her home to reach the Pole and marry the most unpleasant and despised man on Earth, she was maneuvered by his family here and there around the court of the aristocracy, forced to pretend to be someone else, to endure being beaten up to maintain the façade and to hide her identity until marriage. And now that her identity is revealed, she is on the verge of meeting the Family’s Lord to hopefully obtain his protection.

But Ophelia is feeling more fragile than ever and her broken rib keeps pulsing in pain. Another shot and she will shatter to the ground, she thinks in apprehension, picturing the even more hostile world she is about to enter in a few minutes now. Anger boils in her stomach. She has no intention to fake smiles at people who disregard her because of her future husband without even knowing her, and who only see her as a pair of hands. Those reader hands that allow her to read the past of objects and the emotions of people that have handled them through history. An incredible tool the court fears and can’t wait to use for their own ends at the same time. The only reason she was chosen for the damned marriage.

Her umbrella falls from her hands again, but she doesn’t bother to pick it up. A sneeze shakes her body and her broken rib screams. She takes out a tissue and blows her nose, when her gaze meets itself in a reflection. A mirror.

Ophelia stands up from her seat and approaches it slowly and curiously. The last time she went through one she remained stuck in between. Such an embarrassing memory, but for a second she considers escaping. Where to, though? No other mirror that she knows of is close enough to the elevator as to allow a full transition and she really has no intention to remain stuck again.

She has no way but to face her destiny, and she tells herself that as she observes her reflection. Her pale, skinny face, under a cluster of knotty dark hair. The scar on her cheek. Her tired, angry eyes hiding behind the grey lenses of her glasses, resting on her reddened nose. “You can only cross a mirror if you’re brave enough to face your true self,” her godfather used to tell her.

Ophelia raises her hand and dives the tips of her fingers into the mirror that turns liquid under her touch. “Where to escape?” she wonders. But Ophelia is too proud to escape. She lowers her hand, resigned, when her reflection starts distorting. She only has time to see her eyebrows furrow in confusion, when an unexpected and unknown force pulls her in. 

Last thing she knows, she’s not in the elevator anymore.