Chapter Text
“-ello? Hellooo? Earth to Ratchet, wake up!”
“Gmvfhghmffhgr…” optics slowly blinking open, it took him a moment to realize that none of what he’d just said was Cybertronian.
He could hear snickering in the background and tried again with a grumbled growl. “Give me a fragging minute…”
“No can do!” chirped a far too cheery voice. “Soundwave sent us to come an’ getcha!”
“And why the frag would he do that?” Stretching and wincing at the tension in his cabling, Ratchet almost swore when he realized exactly why it didn’t feel like he’d recharged in his own hab; he was still in the fragging medbay.
“I dunno!” the cheery voice (manic was starting to seem like a better descriptor, though) said. “One of his cassettes just popped down an’ told us to take a cycle off to keep an’ optic on you!”
Turning to face the aggregation of mechs—who he quickly realized were Stunticons—it was obvious that he’d not only spent the night in the medbay, but spent it recharging on his pedes too. “I have got to stop falling asleep like this,” he muttered to himself, though apparently not quietly enough to avoid being heard by his audience.
“Glad to see that someone else around here realizes that things like berths are inconsequential,” droned the semi-monotonous voice of Dead End. “At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter where we recharge, we’ll just die all the same.”
Trying to work some of the stiffness out of his back strut and shoulders (wincing at the loud pops his joints made), Ratchet frowned at the young race car. Far too young to have such a nihilistic outlook. “How you found me was because I neglected my physical health and fell back on bad habits. Proper recharge in a proper berth will make or break your cycle and your health.”
Dead End shrugged dismissively, but before he could do or say anything to try and change the kid’s attitude, a voice piped up from the other two Stunticons.
“Don’t bother tryna reason with him,” Wildrider drawled, grabbing Ratchet’s arm and nearly dragging him off his pedes as he speed-walked towards the exit. “He’s a mope an’ he’ll always be a mope.”
“Yeah, only good thing ‘boutcha’s your finish,” laughed Drag Strip in what was clearly meant to be taken as a scathing jab.
Dead End just shrugged dismissively again in response, much to the yellow sports car’s displeasure.
Wrenching his arm out of Wildrider’s grip, Ratchet held up both servos to fend off any more pseudo-kidnapping attempts, spots dancing in his field of vision as a woozy, off-balance sensation almost sent him to the ground. “Alright, alright, enough of this. I want to know exactly what you three think you’re doing, and then we’ll go from there, alright?”
While he tried to blink away the visual snow, the mechs in front of him remained silent until Drag Strip spoke up to ask, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Before he could explain and say, “Well, I happen to be a bit unstable because I haven’t fueled in Primus knows how long, you scraplet, now answer my question,” Wildrider cut in with a panicked, “You aren’t dying are you!? You can’t die on us now, we haven’t even had time to bond!”
“Shaddup motormouth!” Drag Strip hissed, before he was drowned out by a new voice shrieking, “He’s dying!?!”
“Ohforprimus’sake, I am fine.” Ratchet announced with a growl, scowling at the assembled Stunticons.
Wildrider and Drag Strip paused mid-fight (or, mid- starting a fight), both mechs staring at him while keeping a firm grip on each other’s kibble, arms cocked back, ready to deck each other. Dead End was resting against the far wall, an expression of not-quite-disinterested curiosity on his face. To his right, having apparently come up to see what was taking his brothers so long, was a frazzled-looking Breakdown, his plating rattling in a way that heralded the use of his own peculiar outlier.
“I need energon,” Ratchet said in a calm-but-clearly-tired voice, turning to face the panicky sports car. “Why don’t you grab my ration from the mess, and we’ll meet you…”
Turning back to throw an expectant glance at the three who’d woken him up, he was rewarded with Drag Strip’s patronizing, “You’re spending the cycle with us, remember?”
“…in your hab,” he finished in what he hoped wasn’t too much of a defeated voice.
“Oh, uh… yeah- Yeah! I can do that!” Breakdown stammered out, nodding furiously before he turned on his heel strut and booked it down the hall like he was being chased by a pack of cyberwolves.
Inventing deeply to brace himself, he sent a quick comm to Hook. :: Soundwave has me sparklingsitting the Stunticons this cycle. I am trusting you to run the medbay efficiently and properly. You and your gestalt take care, and I’ll wrap this up as soon as possible. ::
__________________________________
Wildrider barely waited until his brother was out of sight before he grabbed Ratchet’s arm and began dragging him down the hall again. Despite his best efforts to get a word in edgewise, the race car talked about a mile-a-minute, completely drowning him out. Either the Stunticon truly didn’t hear him or had forgotten about the mech he was literally dragging by the elbow.
If he wasn’t so underfueled, he’d’ve wrenched his arm free and gone to the mess himself to get out of listening to the kid talk his audial off.
For all that Bluestreak voiced every last thought that entered his processor, at least he was still aware of when it was inappropriate. Wildrider talked like if he stopped, the world would end. Either he and Blue would get along famously, or they’d drive the rest of the Ark mad. Great, like I need more problems to worry about on top of pulling off the escape of the century.
Thoughts turning to the logistics of integrating upwards of three dozen mechs into the Autobot ranks, Ratchet couldn’t help but feel the same old worry gnawing at his tank. Would Prowl even let them stay? Prime? ‘Jack? And what about the others? Red Alert’s going to have a spark spasm, to say nothing of the twins! And what about my- the other ‘Cons?! At least Hook and his gestalt will probably behave themselves, but what about Onslaught’s? Or Motormaster’s? Primus knows he’ll be a pain in the aft, but the rest of his brothers? There’s no way Breakdown won’t panic, or spook, or hurt someone on accident and then-
“Don’t worry ‘bout ‘Breaks,” Dead End said lazily, jolting him out of his thoughts and adding “You’ve got that look on your face when you’re worried about someone. It’s pointless, given our brief existence on this mortal coil, but since you probably won’t let it go, he’ll be fine.”
Apparently Ratchet’s poker face needed work.
“Weirdaft slagger. Hates it when people look at him too long,” Drag Strip cut in with a scoff, stepping in next to Wildrider. “He thinks there’s optics in the walls and that kinda slag. Sorta like you,” he added pointedly at Ratchet’s pseudo-guide.
“I don’t see optics in the walls,” the race car defended, sticking his glossa out at his brother. “I see all sorts’a things! And not just in the walls.” The mech said it like it was something to be proud of, and not a serious processor disorder.
Taking advantage of his distraction and wrenching his arm free a second time, Ratchet stared between Drag Strip and Wildrider in disbelief. “What do you mean, you see things that aren’t there?”
“Aw, c’mon!” the race car whined, “It ain’t that bad! ‘Sides, s’not like I’m the only one with issues!”
“Speak for yourself,” Dead End grumbled alongside Drag Strip’s, “I’m perfectly fine. It’s the rest of you nut-cases that give us a bad rep.”
Sweet Solus, how have any of these sparklings made it through the war in one piece!?
“None of you are fine!” Ratchet yelled as they passed by the open door to what looked like a rec room. “None of you should be seeing things that aren’t there! Primus, I wouldn’t even be surprised if you all were hearing voices in your helms too.”
That earned him a deadpan look from all three.
“You mean our gestalt?” Drag Strip asked condescendingly, crossing his arms and puffing out his chestplate like he’d won some kind of intellectual debate.
“Obviously you should hear your gestaltmates in your helm, you self-absorbed peacock!” he snapped back, scowling at the sports car. “What you shouldn’t be hearing-” he said, looking pointedly at Wildrider- “is anything other than theirs or your own thoughts!”
Looking a little stunned, like someone learning they’ve been polishing their plating wrong their whole life, Wildrider let out a thoughtful, “Ohhh,” and went back to staring at everything and anything but the hallway in front of them. Drag Strip just muttered something under his vents and scowled, crossing his arms tighter.
Primus, is everyone on this ship fragged in the helm or is this just a gestalt specialty? Ratchet wondered as they continued deeper and deeper into the Nemesis’ lower decks.
Despite the fact that condensation had started to drip down onto their helms and the walls creaked like they might buckle under the ocean’s pressure at any moment, none of the Stunticons seemed to pay any attention to their precarious surroundings.
“Are you sure we’re headed towards your hab?” he asked Wildrider, skeptically raising an optical ridge. “Because I’m pretty sure this is the way to the brig.”
“Eh, Motor picked too many fights, so Megs tossed us down here bit less than a week ago, so if we cause any more trouble, the brig’s already right next to us,” the race car shrugged.
Guilt swept through Ratchet’s spark as the mech’s words brought a memory file to the surface of his processor.
“You let that pathetic excuse of a Cybertronian near his gestaltmates or my medic again, and there will be an unfortunate accident on this ship, doImakemyselfclear?”
In the moment, he’d been more than furious about the semi’s actions against Hook, but he hadn’t meant for something like this to result from it. Once again, he was being harshly reminded that what qualified as punishment to Autobots was nothing compared to how Decepticons interpreted the word.
“Besides,” Dead End chipped in, drawing his thoughts back to the present, “when the bulkhead finally gives way and the water outside pours in to crush us, we’ll be the ones who die first.”
“How in Primus’ name is that a perk!?” Ratchet demanded, resisting the urge to throw his servos into the air.
“Well, I’d rather die quickly than in a drawn-out, agonized production,” the mech said like it was the most obvious reason in the world.
Before he could say anything to the tune of ‘the second I get you lot out of here, you’re all going to therapy’, Drag Strip threw his servos into the air, face scrunched in disgust. “Primus, why are you so fucking morbid?!”
“We’re all going to die eventually. Might as well decide the best and quickest way while we’re still venting.”
“Okay, so, you’re going to shut the fuck up right now, or I’m-”
Intercepting the sports car’s arm as it wound back, Ratchet forced his way between the two Stunticons. Glaring at Drag Strip, he held on as the mech tried to wrench his arm free. “What you’re going to do,” he said icily, “is stand down and try to learn how to process your emotions in a mature fashion. Starting now.”
Tuning out the sports car’s indignant protests and threats, Ratchet rounded on the snickering Wildrider. “The same goes for you, too,” he growled, fixing the race car with a glower.
Only when Drag Strip stopped fighting him and Wildrider sheepishly shrunk back did he finally let go of the sports car’s arm, the mech quickly putting space between himself and the medic.
Sighing and turning to face an unsurprisingly placid-looking Dead End, Ratchet gestured towards the end of the hall and asked, “Can we continue, or am I going to need to break up another fight?”
Taking the silence as an answer, he turned back around, trying his best to ignore the woozy fatigue that made his helm spin. He could hear the quiet pedesteps of the others behind him as he kept walking forward, the almost-too quiet that indicated they were talking over bondspeak.
Both the hallway and time seemed to stretch on into infinity as they walked in silence, a sinking feeling growing in the pit of Ratchet’s tank the deeper into the Nemesis’ bowels they went. Primus, they’re practically being held prisoner by their own faction…
Around them, the ceiling and walls continued to creak and groan until finally, Wildrider spoke up tentatively. “You… you’re not mad at us, right?”
Taken by surprise, Ratchet stalled a moment before shaking his helm with a huffed exvent. “No, no, I’m not mad at you—any of you. Am I disappointed? Yes, but I’m not mad.”
“Why not?”
Despite the condescension in Drag Strip’s voice, there was an undertone of uncertainty. Like the sports car was afraid that he and his siblings were in some kind of danger. Equal amounts of sparkbreak and anger coursed through Ratchet’s frame; appalled, but not surprised.
“Because you lot are barely older than sparklings. Put simply, you quite literally don’t know better most times you mess up.”
“We aren’t sparklings!”
“Trust me, kid, you all are,” Ratchet grumbled, coming to a stop just before a thick steel door with a door roller and an exterior lock. Anger coiled in his intake and before he did anything he might regret, he took a deep vent and stepped aside. “I take it this is your hab?” he asked, forcing an even tone.
“The one and only,” Dead End deadpanned as Drag Strip shouldered his way past his brothers and typed in the access code.
As the door swung open on rusted hinges, the faint chemical smell of freshly spilled energon greeted them, alongside what looked like the scene of a break-in. Ratchet hesitated at the doorstep, instinctively sweeping an arm out to stop Drag Strip from going in, his other servo raised to his lips in a silent warning to stay quiet. Concern turned to confusion, though, when Wildrider barked a laugh and pushed past him, waltzing into the hab unperturbed.
When he turned back to see Ratchet staring at him with open confusion, he said offservoedly, “What? It looks like this most of the time. Motor’s probably just in a mood or somethin’ today.”
As if summoned to confirm the sentiment, a rough, gravelly voice growled from somewhere in the hab, “Get. the fuck. out.”
“See?” Wildrider gestured, as if hearing his clearly pissed off gestalt leader was supposed to be comforting. “S’all fine!”
Before the race car had a chance to become one with the pseudo crime-scene, though, Ratchet lunged forwards, blocking out the dizzy spell that followed, and dragged the Stunticon back out into the hallway by his kibble. Behind him, he could hear Drag Strip scoff disdainfully, “Oh, quit the theatrics. He’s always in a mood, we can handle it.” The quiet tremor in his voice said otherwise, though.
“Mood or not,” Ratchet growled, hauling Wildrider out of the hab and turning the both of them so that his frame blocked the entrance, “You are not going in there with a mech who clearly has unchecked anger issues.” He knew he didn’t look even remotely convincing—staggering from fatigue and hunger, words slow and tired—but the three mechs in front of him made no move to challenge his decision.
If anything, they looked concerned for him.
In the end, it was Dead End that broke the stalemate, his usually monotone voice carrying a hint of anxiousness. “The mess should be pretty empty, and Breakdown’s takin’ forever.”
The implied ‘we should go there instead’ wasn’t lost on Ratchet, but in his fatigued state, he couldn’t manage much more than a halfsparked nod.
The three mechs shared an apprehensive look before Wildrider stepped forwards, pulling Ratchet’s arm over his shoulder despite his weak protests. Another crash resonated from inside the hab, making the remaining two Stunticons jump and scurry to help their brother support the half-conscious medic back down the hallway. For all their bluster about putting up with their gestalt leader, it was clear that that was mostly for show.
“You’d better hope we can still get some decent engex off Astro this late in the morning,” Drag Strip commented with a grumble, keeping at least two paces ahead of his siblings while acting as if he was being dragged into something against his will.
“I’m more surprised the ‘Structies haven’t cleaned him out already given-” Wildrider cut off, casting an awkward glance down at Ratchet. “Y’know…”
“My audials still work, you scraplet,” he growled, optics shut against the static encroaching in his field of vision.
“Right, right, sorry.” The racecar surprisingly sounded sheepish, but given the fact that his tank was presently trying to eat itself, Ratchet didn’t find it in him to pay the thought any more processing power.
__________________________________
While it only took a servoful of minutes to reach the mess hall, Ratchet was barely able to keep his optics open, relying almost entirely on the two mechs supporting him to get his frame to a table.
Murmurs and comm chatter buzzed around them as they sat down, and he could feel the defensive aggression and anxiousness pouring off the Stunticons’ fields in waves.
A second later, rapid pedesteps approached the table, followed by several somethings thunking against the weathered metal as a voice hissed, “Why does he look dead!? What have you done?! If Scrapper an’ Hook find out that we killed him they’re gonna-”
“Shutthefrageup!” hissed another voice—Drag Strip’s—followed by the sound of a servo clamping over someone’s mouth. “He’s fine, just underfueled, so give me the damn energon.”
A second later, and a lukewarm cube was being pushed into Ratchet’s servos alongside a whispered, “Can you please fucking drink that and stop looking so dead? We’re gettin’ a lot of dirty looks from a lot of mechs we don’t wanna get jumped by.”
Taking his cue—as if his HUD wasn’t screaming at him to get his tanks up past the dangerously low 5% they were sitting at— he slowly pulled the cube towards himself and downed it in almost one gulp. As his tank processed the fuel, the pounding in his helm slowly dulled, his processor no longer occupied with hunger-induced pain.
No sooner had he finished the first cube then a second was pushed into his arm. Cracking an optic open, Ratchet glanced at the worried face of Breakdown, the sports car pushing the energon towards him again. Sitting up with a groan, he waved the mech off with a tired, “M’fine, kid. I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need your ration.”
“Please take it,” the Stunticon whispered back, panic in his voice. “I don’t need it, not really. I’ll be fine without it.”
“I told you, kid, I’m fine. You need that energon to keep functioning, so drink it,” Ratchet said with a sigh as he pushed the cube back towards the panicky mech.
“An’ what about you?” asked Drag Strip, a quick glance in his direction showing that the sports car’s arms were crossed with a frown marring his face. “You’re supposed to be our medic! What kind of medic would prioritize someone else’s life over his!?”
Biting back an annoyed “any with a solid grasp on morals”, Ratchet just pushed the cube further towards Breakdown. He could see the insult for the thinly-veiled concern that it was.
“There’s more energon in my hab,” he said instead, pushing a soothing calm through his field. “I can fuel again later.”
Drag Strip let out a sound of disbelief, turning his helm away as if disgusted by the idea that someone might think he cared about anyone’s wellbeing but his own. Content to let the matter drop, he was about to turn his attention back to Breakdown—who was still attempting to give him his ration—when Wildrider popped his helm into Ratchet’s field of vision.
“But, like, just to be clear, you’re not dying anymore, right?”
“No, I’m not, and I wasn’t dying in the first place. At worst I would’ve passed out and needed to rely on my energon reserves until my primary tank rose past the red zone.”
The racecar sat back in his seat with a mollified—and slightly queasy—look while Dead End said, “Well, don’t do that while we’re stuck down here. It’s an undignified way to go.”
“I just told you, I wouldn’t’ve offlined.”
“Yeah? Well you could’ve.” Drag Strip snapped, rejoining the conversation to glare at Ratchet. “And why the hell didn’t you fuel before, huh? That kinda stuff doesn’t happen unless you miss at least a cycle’s worth of energon, so what gives? You’re gonna give us a bad name.”
Now why on Cybertron does he know that?
“If you must know,” Ratchet said with a growl, “I was busy saving your Air Commander’s aft after he took a beating from your leader— beating, I’ve been told, he didn’t even deserve—and making sure your crewmates don’t die because of that idiot Shockwave’s cruel incompetence, so it was a bit hard to find time to fuel.”
Despite the continued chatter around them, you could’ve heard a pin drop at their table.
Drag Strip held his gaze for a second before dropping his optics, becoming engrossed with the table while Breakdown shifted anxiously in his seat, bumping into Dead End and prompting the morose mech to elbow him back, sending his brother skittering away again. Wildrider had gotten up to go somewhere when the conversation had turned sour—and the obvious avoidance struck Ratchet’s spark with a furious ache.
Parental concern warred with rational thought as his fatigue-ridden processor tried to figure out how to steer things back into less tense territory. His first instinct was to apologize, to promise that he wasn’t upset with any of them, to try and explain that his behavior was entirely on himself. Based on everything he knew about the ‘Cons, though, the most an apology from him would do would be to sound like something an abuser might say in an attempt at love-bombing. Primus, he hated how even the most genuine of words sounded like veiled threats to these mechs!
Without thinking, he drew in a deep vent—mostly just to try and restore order to his train of thought, but the mechs seated around him collectively tensed, as if expecting a blow of some kind, and again Ratchet’s spark broke.
Making a deliberate show of exventing in a slow, calm manner, he forced his plating completely lax and let his frame slouch into his seat. Treat them like wounded turbofoxes, he repeated in his helm. Slow movements, soft words, back off if they freeze up.
“I know I said this before,” he began slowly, trying to be as judicious with his word choice as possible, “but I’m not mad at any of you. Whatever scrap mood I happen to be in is entirely my own problem and in response to situations that none of you have anything to do with.” His optics searched the assembled mechs for the barest scrap of proof that they were listening. Breakdown seemed to have unfurled slightly from the ball of limbs he’d managed to tuck against his chest, so he kept going. “You all have little reason to trust that I mean anything I say, and I understand that. I just want you to know that whatever I do, it won’t be your fault.”
For a moment, a gnawing worry settled in his tank at the semi-distant looks in the Stunticons’ optics, then Dead End finally muttered, “You shoulda saved that for ‘Rider. He’s a sucker for that sentimental shit.”
Like a veil lifting, the unnatural silence that had fallen over their table dissipated as Drag Strip took a swipe at his brother, hissing “You ruined the moment!” under his vents.
Across from him, Breakdown seemed to relax further, the rattle in his engine dissipating as he unfurled his limbs fully to scoot away from the brewing fight.
Just as Ratchet was beginning to relax too, his thoughts turned to Wildrider and where the race car might’ve gone off to—or, what trouble he’d gotten into. His train of thought was interrupted, though, by the faint thunk of an energon cube being set down next to him.
Sighing, he turned to rebuff Breakdown’s latest attempt at pawning off his ration, only to see Wildrider standing next to him, holding a second cube in his servo. “This one ain’t mine, so you can drink it,” the race car said with a small puff of his chestplate.
He deflated a bit when all he got in return was a confused stare, and added, “You didn’t want Breaks’ ‘cause he needed it to fuel, right? So I’m giving you this one, and this one-” he held the cube in his servo aloft for emphasis- “I got from Astrotrain! Problem solved!”
Points for effort, I’ll give him that, Ratchet had to admit, asking no one in particular, “Will you lot stop pestering me if I do?”
“Dunno. You gonna stop acting like a stubborn baby about it? Honestly, old man, it’s a bad look,” Drag Strip fired back, detangling himself from Dead End to cross his arms.
Taking the cube, Ratchet turned to face the sports car with a wry smile. “Oh, believe me I’m hardly the one acting like a sparkling here. Besides, considering the living conditions around here, I doubt one extra half-ration will make or break my looks. Your vanity will survive.”
The mech huffed indignantly before digging his digits into his arm plating and scowling. “It’s not about that!”
“Oh really? It isn’t?”
“No!” Drag Strip banged his servos down on the table in anger, only to sink back into his chair when the mess fell momentarily silent.
“Y’know what? Just forget about it. Doesn’t fragging matter anyways,” he grumbled under his vents.
There was a pause of silence as the rest of the mess quickly returned to a dull buzz of chatter, and then Breakdown whispered, “He’s just worried ‘bout you.”
Turning to give the kid a curious look, Ratchet raised an optical ridge.
“‘Cause you’re nice.”
“You look out for your own,” Wildrider filled in from his other side, voice equally low. “An’ you don’t get mad an’ kick our afts if we frag up.”
Staring now at the racecar, Ratchet fought the urge to… do something.
Half of him wanted to hug these poor abused mechs, the other half wanted nondescript, vengeful violence. He wasn’t even sure at this point who he was more furious with: Megatron, for creating these mechs and subjecting them to trauma far too young and far too often; the long-offlined Senate, for setting up the perfect conditions for war to break out under and leave these mechs to grow up in the middle of it all; pit, even Optimus, for endlessly trying to change his enemy’s processor instead of putting a blasterbolt through the twisted mech’s spark and ending things once and for all!
Instead, he let out a soft exvent and said, “I see.”
Standing up from the table, he held up a servo to stop the rest from following as he addressed them. “I need to have a quick chat with someone, but I need you all to not tag along, alright?” When assorted, hesitant, nods answered him, he nodded and continued. “Great. In that case, you four are going to head up to the medbay and stay there until I give the all-clear. If Hook asks you for help, you will, and I expect you all to be on your best behavior, understood?”
Again, confused nods answered him along with looks of mild panic from Wildrider and Breakdown. Drag Strip seemed completely befuddled by the sudden turn of events, but Dead End had an expression of grim understanding on his face. His visor flickered momentarily, and like a flipped switch, his gestaltmates turned in unison to stare at the morose race car. Breakdown’s engine rattled anxiously as he frantically shook his helm while Drag Strip slammed a servo on the table, the other one sweeping wide to refute whatever it was their gestaltmate had said.
Waiting until their debate died down to chime in, Ratchet was saved from breaking up any fights by Wildrider cuffing his brother’s helm while gesturing towards him, then the exit—presumably referencing Hook or the medbay. That seemed to be enough to placate Drag Strip and Breakdown, and with a quiet exvent, he turned to leave.
“If you die, make it quick!” Dead End called after him as he and the rest of his gestalt got up and started making their way towards the medbay.
Rolling his optics at what was clearly the Decepticon version of ‘good luck’, he called back, “I’m not going to die, you scraplet!” as he ducked out of the mess and back down the hall.
With the rest of the gestalt safely out of the way, he was going to have a nice, long, chat with a certain short-tempered gestalt leader.
__________________________________
When he got back to the Stunticon’s hab, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see that the door was still ajar, the room inside still a perfect replica of a break-in.
Stepping over the threshold, he carefully picked his way through the mess towards what he assumed was Motormaster’s room: a steel door with a disturbing amount of dents bulging out of it, like someone had tried desperately to break out. Multiple times. Like with the hab itself, a lock was affixed to its exterior.
Dammit, I didn’t mean for something like this to happen.
Taking a deep vent, Ratchet rapped his knuckles against the door in quick succession. “Motormaster? We need to talk.”
The sound of someone shifting around was all he heard for a moment, and then, a growled, “Go away,” carried through the door
Crossing his arms, Ratchet held his ground and called back, “This is not up for debate, kid. You and I are going to have a nice long talk about you and your gestalt whether you like it or not. Your only choice in this is whether you want to have it here in the living room, like a civil mech, or in the medbay after I drag your aft there.”
Another growl, more feral this time, emanated from the door before it slammed inwards, hinges squealing in protest as Motormaster wrenched it open.
Meeting his furious gaze helm-on, Ratchet just stared back, casually pulling a spare wrench from his subspace and crossing his arms. “I take it you’d rather have a chat here?” he offered, tilting his helm to indicate the space behind him.
“You are gonna leave. Now. Before I decide it’s worth the trouble to tear your spark out.”
That might’ve been the most polite threat he’s heard yet. Despite it, though, the mech made no move to make good on it. Good to know he’s at least got the processing power to know what’ll happen if he does something stupid.
“We are going to have a chat. Now. This is not up for debate.” Ratchet replied, turning the mech’s cadence back on him.
The cringe-inducing sound of grinding dentae filled the room as Motormaster glared down at him like he wished he could incinerate the medic by sheer force of will, but eventually, the mech relented, stomping over to the ratty, worn out couch that Ratchet could’ve sworn was a pile of heaped-up trash.
“Well? The fuck are you waiting for!?” the semi snapped, glowering at him when he didn’t move fast enough.
Refusing to take the bait, Ratchet calmly walked over and took a seat across from the mech in what appeared to be another couch, albeit, a bisected one. “You and I both know I’m starting to overstay my welcome here,” he started, keeping a close optic on the Stunticon’s reaction.
Motormaster just snorted derisively, leaning forwards menacingly as he asked, “Oh really? ‘Cause last I checked you had those strutless morons wrapped around your digit.”
“Precisely my point,” Ratchet said with a sigh, doing his best not to bristle in defense of his mechs. “It won’t be long before Megatron notices the favoritism and decides I’m worth more offlined than alive.”
A bark of harsh laughter forced Ratchet to resist the urge to flinch as Motormaster leaned back, slapping his leg. “An’ whaddya want me to do ‘bout it!? Want me to go to the boss an’ be all ‘Oh, Lord Megatron! Wouldja please spare the ‘Bot? These strutless aftkissers really like him!’ ? Please.”
The semi leaned back down to rest his elbows on his legs, his bright red optics boring into Ratchet’s blue ones. “The day I decide to pal around with the likes of you is the day I let one of those organic meat-bags into my cab.”
Ignoring the wave of apprehension that washed over his frame, Ratchet kept an intentionally placid expression, pretending like he wasn’t viscerally aware that he was treading a very, very fine line.
“I’m telling you this,” he growled back, common sense be damned, “Because I won’t be the only mech caught in the crossfire.”
“What? You expect me to care about those losers?!” Motormaster asked incredulously, narrowing his optics. “You’ve got some screws loose, old man.”
His original plan long since tossed to the wind, Ratchet leaned forwards to hiss, “Do you really want to bear the brunt of your lordship’s wrath when you and your brothers are the only mechs left on this graveyard of a ship?! Because that’s what’s going to happen! You’ll be the only ones left here and the only ones dear old Megs will have to take his frustrations out on. Is that what you want for you and your gestalt!?”
Engine roaring to life, Motormaster shot out of his seat to tower over Ratchet, dentae gritted as he snarled, “Was that a fucking threat?”
Sitting back like he wasn’t facing potential gruesome death, Ratchet shook his helm. “No, that was the truth. With the other gestalts and most of your faction’s officers gone, there won’t be anyone else for Megatron to target but you and your gestalt.”
Seconds ticked slowly by as the semi glowered down at the medic, seemingly weighing the merit of his words, before he slowly retook his seat, still glaring daggers, his internal weaponry peeking through the seams of his plating. “I don’t know why the fuck you think every mech on this ship’s gonna fuckin’ disappear, but let’s fuckin’ see. You have one minute.”
That may be the most restraint I’ve ever seen from him, Ratchet thought to himself as he sat up, expression as calm as he could manage.
“You can’t stay here,” he started, raising a servo to cut off any interjections. “And I don’t just mean here, in this jumped-up prison cell, I mean here, with the ‘Cons. Your rations are watered down enough to pass for water, I’ve never met more emotionally stunted or physically abused mechs in my entire life, and your leadership is clearly insane. You have to leave.”
Silence reigned between them as both mechs stared each other down, tension like taught razor-wire mounting at the seconds dragged on.
Finally, Motormaster sat back with an almost growl-like exvent. “Say I do believe ya,” he bit out, “Just how in the fuck is any o’ that s’posed to work? What, we’re just s’posed to hope and pray and magically *poof!* outta here? ‘Cause that’s the worst plan I ever fragging heard.”
Grim expression softening to a frown, Ratchet leaned back as well, crossing his arms. “Well, you would be leaving with me,” he said, resisting the urge to wince as Motormaster’s engine stalled, then roared to life with a vengeance.
“THE FUCK YOU MEAN YOU’RE LEAVING?!” he shouted, the hab’s flooring creaking as he shot to his pedes.
Staying seated and taking a centering vent, Ratchet pretended like there wasn’t an unstable, explosive mech towering over him. “I asked you for a conversation, not a screaming match,” was all he said, letting the silence do the rest of the work towards forcing the Stunticon to take a vent. “Do I need to revisit where we’re having this talk?”
After a long three seconds, the mech finally relented, retaking his seat with muttered cursing. Taking a deep vent, Motormaster fixed him with a piercing stare, practically growling as he asked, “So, how. the fuck. is that supposed to work?”
Mentally bracing himself, Ratchet calmly admitted, “The Constructicons are working on that. And the Combaticons are likely on board as well. All that remains,” he gestured towards Motormaster, “is you and your gestalt.”
In a shocking display of restraint, the semi’s face cycled through several apoplectic expressions before settling on a haughty sneer. “And you think I’m just gonna go along with this ‘cause you said so?”
“If you care about your gestalt, yes.”
“An’ who said I gave a frag ‘bout them?”
“Well, in that case you won’t mind if I leave them here with you.”
Gripping the sidearm of the couch so hard it left dents, Motormaster seemed to be physically fighting the urge to lunge at Ratchet as he snarled, “You fuckin’ do that an’ I’ll make sure the only way you leave this ship is in pieces.”
Seconds ticked by as the two stared at each other, waiting for one to make a move. Instead of lunging across the short distance between them, though, the semi sank back into the couch with a growl of resignation, realizing that he’d been baited. Across from him, Ratchet waited patiently for the mech to collect himself, glad to see that, for all the posturing and violent threats, Motormaster wasn’t all that different from a tantruming Grimlock. If Grimlock was, in fact, twice as likely to brutally maul the object of his aggression, but still, the same basic principle applied.
A full minute passed in silence before the mech finally muttered almost inaudibly, “You’d better get us outta here in one piece or I’ll rip your arms off an’ feed ‘em too ya.”
Forcing his face blank to keep from letting a small smile escape—knowing full well that his audience would take it incredibly poorly—Ratchet simply inclined his helm in a small nod. He waited another moment before slowly standing up from his seat, pretending not to notice the way Motormaster tracked the movement like a wary turbofox.
“Well, I’m glad we had this talk,” he said amicably. He briefly considered offering for the semi to join him and his brothers in the mess as a show of good faith before ultimately thinking better of it. No reason to jeopardize the progress he’d made right after he’d made it.
Ratchet was about to thank the mech for his patience when hurried pedesteps and a frantic EM field made themselves known, followed by the jumbled sound of multiple mechs trying to talk at once—and over each other.
Before either of them had a chance to react, Hook skidded into the hab with what sounded like the rest of the Stunticons hot on his heels.
“YOU!” the Constructicon accused, marching forwards while jabbing a digit in Motormaster’s direction. “What did you do to him!?”
“I didn’t fuckin’ do nothing!” the semi defended, bristling as he shot to his pedes, marching straight into Hook’s space.
“Oh, really? ‘Cause from how I see it, you all tried to kidnap him from us!”
“Primus your fucking ego could float this fucking ship! He showed up here by his fuckin’ self, not ‘cause we fucking kidnapped him you slageating idiot!”
While the two circled each other, posturing in a manner fit for sparklings and looking like they were about to start throwing punches, the rest of the Stunticons quickly shoved their way into the room, each looking equal parts anxious and relieved—though Dead End and Drag Strip kept their expressions much more controlled than their brothers’.
“You’re alright, right!?” Breakdown whispered, panic lacing his tone as Wildrider demanded, “Motors didn’t like, try an’ hit you or anything, right?!”
“Primus fucking hell, the both of you need to get a grip,” Drag Strip groaned, roughly dragging Breakdown out of the way and stepping forwards to appraise Ratchet himself. “He’s fine, you morons. See?”
From his side, Dead End chimed in, “Toldja he wouldn’t be dead.”
“No you fucking didn’t!” Wildrider squawked indignantly, crossing his arms and taking an aggressive step into the race car’s space.
“Ye-yeah… You- you said that Motors- that Motors prolly killed him while- while we were coming down!” Breakdown managed between frantic gulps for air to cool his overheating frame, and Ratchet finally felt his patience snap.
“EVERYONE SHUT THE FRAG UP!”
Immediately, silence reigned over the hab. To his left, Motormaster and Hook both stared at him slack jawed, the beginnings of a bruise blooming on the plating of Hook’s lower jaw, while energon trickled from the semi’s nose, accompanied by a faint dent in his nasal plating. In front of him, Dead End and Wildrider and stopped mid argument, fists still balled, ready to fight. Drag Strip looked the least shocked, but he still took a hesitant step back like he wasn’t sure whether things would escalate to violence or not.
“Hook,” Ratchet growled, glaring at the medic, “Stand down, and I’ll meet you back in the medbay.”
“But-”
“But nothing. Medbay. Now.”
The mech stared defiantly back at him for another second before dropping his optics and trudging out of the Stunticon’s hab, a protective anger lashing out of his field towards Motormaster as he left.
When he heard the semi snort, Ratchet rounded on him, pinning him in place with surprising ease as he said, “As for you, I recommend you discuss— calmly —what we talked about with your brothers.”
Turning to address the rest of the Stunticons, he added, “You all have my comm frequency. If you need something, reach out.”
When he got a semblance of nods from the mechs, he sighed and headed to follow after Hook. “Just try and stay out of trouble, alright? I’ll see what I can do about your hab,” he called over his shoulder.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” “No problem!” “S’no point in doin’ that, but whatever you say.” “Fuck off.”
With that small bit of fanfare following him out of the hab, Ratchet waited a moment outside of the hab—just to make sure nothing happened in his immediate absence—but when he didn’t hear the sound of anything breaking or being broken, he let out another quiet sigh and began the hike back up to the medbay.
***
“So, uh, what was all that about?” Wildrider was the first to ask, rocking back on his heel struts while his brothers quickly scooted away from him, unwilling to become unintentional targets should Motors’ mood take a swing for the worse.
Instead, and to their collective shock and confusion, Motormaster’s optic just twitched as he grit out, “The medic thinks we shouldn’t live here. Wants us outta here.”
The other four exchanged a glance before Dead End asked, “So? It doesn’t matter whether we’re in this ship or not, we’re gonna die eventually either way.”
“It matters-” Motormaster spat, glaring at the empty space Ratchet had recently occupied- “Because he says he’s gonna get us outta here. He’s bringin’ the other fuckin’ gestalts too. Thinks his kumbaya bullscrap’s gonna work out.”
Silence reigned over their hab before Breakdown—softsparked, naive Breakdown—asked, “That- that doesn’t sound- that doesn’t sound like such a- such a bad thing?”
“HE WANTS US TO FUCKIN’ JUMP SHIP TO THE ‘BOTS!” their gestalt leader roared, taking a menacing step towards Breakdown as their panicky brother bolted backwards and fell to a cowering heap on the floor. “THAT’S MY FUCKING PROBLEM!”
“‘Least we’d get some actual fuel with the ‘Bots,” Drag Strip grumbled, to Wildrider’s left, then let out a panicked squeak when Motormaster rounded on him, optics blazing with anger.
“What did you just say?”
“Our rations are jus’ kinda scrap right now, y’know?!” Wildrider chimed in, drawing their leader’s attention off their brother. Out of them all, he made the best punching bag and knew how to take a hit and not crack. Best if he took the punishment his brothers couldn’t.
“I mean, c’mon, they taste like motor oil, right!” His laughter filled the deathly quiet hab like some fucked up plea for mercy.
To his shock, though, Motors’ raise servo never came crashing down against his face. Instead, it just… hung there in the air. Then, after a few moments, it lowered. Still clenched and shaking, but it lowered.
Motors never just lowered his fists.
They all flinched when the semi exvented harshly and stomped off towards his hab. “Fine. We’re leavin’ with him,” is all he said as he slammed the door to his hab shut behind him, leaving his brothers in a state of shocked bewilderment.
“What the frag was that?” Drag Strip murmured aloud as Dead End drifted over to check on Breakdown. At least the mech hadn’t sent them all crashing to the floor with his outlier.
“Did he… did he just… leave?” Wildrider asked, his processor feeling a thousand miles away from his frame.
“Well, either Ratchet knocked some sense or somethin’ into Motors’ helm, or he’s havin’ some kinda crisis,” Dead End supplied as he helped guide Breakdown’s frame over to the couch, their brother’s optics glazed over and distant. “Either way, s’gonna make our deaths more drawn out I’ll bet.”
Settling down next to Breakdown, Wildrider watched as Drag Strip took the chair across from them before saying, “I’d kinda like to see what’s out there.”
“Fuck you mean, ‘what’s out there’?” Drag Strip snapped, glaring at him.
“I dunno! More of those leafy-tall things an’ shit! I wanna see what the sun does right before it goes away or comes back up! Just the scrap we can’t see stuck down here!”
Silence fell over them as Dead End settled down on Breakdown’s other side, leaning back so he could rest against their brother’s bulkier plating, when suddenly, the sportscar came out of his daze to whisper, “I-I’d like- I’d like to see- to see what- what it looks like. A-after a- after a rainstorm. S’posed to look… it’s s’posed to look pretty.”
Letting his helm loll back to rest against his brother’s shoulder, Wildrider stared up at the ceiling, frame relaxing incrementally. [You really think we can get outta here?]
[No, but Ratch seems to] Drag Strip replied, his tone devoid of his usual disdain. [I mean, he’s already pulled off a miracle and a half gettin’ Motors to agree to whatever it is he’s planning. So maybe he can]
[It’d be nice to see a rainbow] Dead End added, a strange wistfulness in his emphasizers. [Be nice to die under something so pretty]
[Whatever you weirdo] Drag Strip said with a roll of his optics, but even that lacked his usual bite.
As Wildrider started to drift off to recharge, trying not to pay too much attention to the shifting, amorphous shapes prowling around the edges of his vision, he let the small argument of his brothers’ act as white-noise, drowning out everything else in his processor. Maybe Ratchet can actually get us out of here, he wondered as recharge stole the remainder of his consciousness.
***
The medbay was an absolute mess when Ratchet finally made it up.
Oh, the actual medbay was fine—shockingly clean, even—but he could hear the arguing from down the hall.
“Why in Primus’ name did you think that was a good idea!” Scrapped could be heard shouting while Hook shouted back at the same time, “What was I supposed to do!? Let that brute murder him because his poor little ego got hurt?!”
“You coulda gotten Ratch hurt, Hook,” Long Haul chimed in with a growl as Ratchet rounded the last corner and caught the entirety of the Constructicon gestalt red-servoed in the middle of an argument-turned-fight.
“Ratchet can look out for himself,” he grunted as he stalked past the assorted ‘Cons towards the front desk, taking a second to skim over the medical reports of the cycle. “And in the future, when I say I can handle myself, I expect you lot to believe it, understood?”
An awkward shuffling of pedes followed in the wake of his words before a smattering of “Yes, Ratchet,”s answered him.
“Good. Now, I know you’ve all been incredibly busy, but I need to add one more factor to our plans.”
Groans went up from Bonecrusher and Long Haul, but Scrapper just nodded his helm and gestured for Ratchet to continue.
“We’re adding the Combaticons and Stunticons to our escape.”
Just as he’d anticipated, the moment the words left his mouth, he was met with cries of, “Oh, frag no!” and, “No! No fragging way!”
Thankfully, Scrapper seemed to keep a half-way decent handle on his reaction as he asked, “And why are we adding them?”
Sighing, Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because, I cannot, in good conscience, leave those mechs to the whims of your esteemed leader.”
“Do we have to?” Mixmaster whined. “‘Tex is alright, but the rest are awful!”
“They’re coming with us,” Ratchet reiterated, fixing the chemist with a sharp look. “I don’t expect you to like them, pit I don’t expect you to share the same space for longer than necessary, but they are leaving this ship with us. Once we’re all out and safe, then we can split and go our separate ways.”
That seemed to placate Mixmaster and Bonecrusher, but Hook and Long Haul still looked like petulant sparklings. Ignoring them for the moment, Ratchet turned to Scrapper and said, “Should the cycle go well tomorrow, I can head down to your hab, and we can go over the details.”
“Sounds fair,” the gestalt leader acknowledged, then added, “By the way, you look like absolute scrap. What the frag happened to you?”
Not wanting to risk endangering the aid he’d given the Combaticons, Ratchet just shrugged and said, “Didn’t recharge enough and woke up underfueled. I’ll have it fixed by morning.”
With that, he turned to leave for his hab, missing the worried, determined glances the Constructicons were sending each other behind his back.
Primus, he just wanted one night of a good recharge followed by a cycle of as few shenanigans as possible. At least with his new hab door, he could at least accomplish one of those goals.
As he crashed onto his berth, listening to the hiss-click of his hab’s locks, he drafted up a brief, strongly-worded comm to Soundwave regarding the Stunticons’ hab placement before succumbing to the fatigue that spread rapidly through his frame and drew him into recharge.
Above him, two pairs of red optics watched him closely as one sent a comm to the TIC. :: ‘Wave? We have an idea we want to run by ya. S’important. ::