Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As far as bad days went, this was shaping up to be the mother of them all. 

It had been a quiet day on the Ark for once: no mechs running around and crashing into one another, Wheeljack hadn’t blown a limb off, and the Decepticons were—for once—not being a pain in the aft. Naturally, that meant it all had to go to Pit the second Ratchet looked away.

Sitting in the brig of the Nemesis, outfitted with stasis cuffs and a modelock, Ratchet was fairly certain that if Primus did exist, then he was a cruel and vindictive god. Either that, or his luck was astronomically bad. Go figure that the one cycle he tried to get some ‘R&R’, as First Aid put it, he was kidnapped.

Glancing around his cell he could see rust creeping along the seams in the walls, spider webbing across the floor. It was a rude (and admittedly tank-churning) reminder that he was being held deep below the ocean’s surface. Even without any open wounds or lesions on his frame, he knew that a rust infection could set in just as easily if he stayed there too long. How any of the Decepticons managed to avoid it was beyond him. Regretting his curiosity, Ratchet schooled his thoughts away from images of energon stained, rust covered frames.

At least there’s nothing organic in here with me, Ratchet thought sardonically, though he had no doubt that if he were taken lower in the ship, there would be a plethora of aquatic organisms just waiting to get their servos on his plating. The small comfort of his dry quarters too was trumped by the ever present reminder that for every second he was here, Autobots, his friends, could be dying. The Decepticons could’ve already launched an attack against them, using their captured medic to their advantage, and causing who knows how much devastation. First Aid was a competent medic, but he spooked easily and second guessed himself far too often. Skids could step in too, he supposed, but the theoretician was about as focused as a cyberkitten on circuit boosters.

Abruptly, the distant clang of pedesteps on the metal pulled Ratchet from his morose thoughts, helm turning to look for whoever was finally coming to see him. Half of him wanted it to be Megatron. He might be a genocidal lunatic, but his history with Optimus meant that he’d probably want to try and ransom Ratchet—or at the very least keep him alive long enough for him to find a way out. He truly hoped it wasn’t Starscream. He’d worked on enough POWs and heard plenty of stories of the seeker’s imaginative cruelty for his protoform to crawl at the thought of the SIC coming to see him.

To his surprise, Soundwave, the Decepticon’s TIC, came into view, stopping just out of reach of the bars of Ratchet’s cell and flanked by two of his cassettes: Ravage and a minicon Ratchet didn’t recognize. Despite his current predicament, he was tempted to scoff at the excessive caution being taken around him, though e supposed the TIC had a point. The bars of his cell weren’t energized, and it wouldn’t be all that hard to shimmy out of his insultingly loose stasis cuffs. Still, even if he could take down Soundwave, those two cassettes of his wouldn’t let him leave alive.

The two mechs stared at each other for a long time before the blue-and-purple minicon finally piped up. “Uh, Boss? What’re we s’posed to be doin’ with him again?”

Ratchet watched fascinated as Ravage smacked the back of the minicon’s helm with his tail, only to be shot a look from Soundwave, both cassettes straightening immediately. Must be bondspeak then.

“Affirmative. Cassettes communicate using bondspeak.” The slightly monotone voice snapped Ratchet back into the moment, confusion and alarm blaring in his helm. There had been rumors that the Decepticon TIC was an outlier—that he could read minds—but Ratchet had dismissed the claims as nothing more than scared recruits building up the enemy in their helms. His tank dropped as Soundwave cleared that confusion up. “Negative. Rumors are mostly correct.”

In the background, Ratchet registered the sound of the two cassettes arguing with the tape deck, but it felt like the walls were constricting around him. Like his intake had clamped shut and he couldn’t vent. How do you protect yourself from a telepath? How could someone even defend against that kind of mental intrusion? If the Cons dug into his processor, Ratchet would become the biggest liability to the Autobot cause known to Primus. Oh Primus... He’d been friends with Wheeljack—with Optimus—for millennia! If he was the reason something happened to them-

Enacting a manual override on his intake, Ratchet took slow, measured vents until the internal temperature warnings disappeared from his HUD. Panic would do him no good right now. As the facts stood, he was a Decepticon prisoner and it was his sole, singular duty to keep his friends safe and stay silent. He was the Primus damned CMO! Unpredictability was practically a staple of his cycle-to-cycle life! This was just one of the more off-kilter moments. Once he was confident that his vents were under control, he slowly combed through the rest of HUD warnings, taking his time to clear as many as he could. It was only then, when the worst of the pop-ups were taken care of, that he realized he had garnered an audience. Soundwave stared at him, helm cocked to one side like a curious turbofox (the tape deck’s arms crossed, no doubt having read Ratchet’s thoughts again, and he sent him a very brief, very pointed thought), while the two cassettes peered at him curiously.

“Mech, that was weiiiird,” murmured the purple one. When Ravage cuffed him again with his tail, he batted it away, his annoyance palpable. “What?! You prolly thought so too, didn’t he, Boss!?” He squawked as the panther-like cassette swiped a paw at him.

Soundwave ignored his cassettes, visor still fixed on Ratchet. “Query: What were you doing?”

An unintelligent, “Huh?” was all that could make it past Ratchet’s lips, his processor still split between, Why the frag should I tell you? and, Watch your thoughts, he’s listening.

“You stopped moving. Why?” There was a hint of curiosity in the tape deck’s voice now, his frame minutely leaning towards his cell. If he didn’t know better, Ratchet would hazard a guess that Soundwave had sought him out out of boredom, rather than to try and glean information from his prisoner.

Ignoring the sound of the two squabbling cassettes, Ratchet cast a scrutinizing gaze over his interrogator. “Just clearing my HUD, nothin’ special,” he finally huffed, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees (he really wanted to lean against the wall, take some weight off his back strut, but the accumulated rust there kept him at bay).

The tape deck cocked his helm at him again before a loud crash resounded from somewhere down the hall. To his credit, Ratchet didn’t flinch (the joys of tending to Wheeljack’s neverending lack-of-limbs), but Soundwave’s visor flickered with the tell-tale sign of annoyance. “Ravage. Frenzy. Desist at once.” 

Ah, so the blue one’s Frenzy. Ratchet filed the information away in his patient database. Turning his gaze back to Soundwave, he gave the mech’s frame a quick once-over. There’s rust gathering in his joints no doubt, definitely chronically fatigued and underfueled, and his paint job is starting to flake. Optics returning to the tape deck’s visored face, Ratchet was left with even more questions. If this is what the third in command looks like, then how are the rest of them even functioning?

Soundwave’s voice cut through his musings once more. “That is the purpose of my visit.” 

Primus fragging damnit. Ratchet was truly going to have his work cut out for him keeping his thoughts to himself.

The tape deck gestured to the ship around them. “Problem: Decepticons in need of proper medical care and lack the supplies and expertise.” Turning back towards Ratchet, he held out a servo to him, as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “Solution: procure a competent medic.”

“Or, ya know, we could always toss ya out an airlock or somethin’,” the minicon, Frenzy, interjected, shrugging his shoulders and dodging a swipe from Ravage.

“Negative. Ratchet is the Autobot’s Chief Medical Officer. He will be useful to the Decepticon cause.” 

Ratchet had to check his faceplate from pulling into a scowl. Glad to know that’s what’s keeping me alive right now, he thought sarcastically, not caring if Soundwave was listening. To be honest, he was more surprised that the tape deck hadn’t just used bondspeak, but then again, he was probably trying to prove that he meant no harm.

Snorting derisively, he stood up from the bench and glared at the gathered mechs. “For the record, when you want somebot to help you, you usually don’t go about it by kidnapping ‘em,” he grumbled, directing his gaze towards the tape deck. A pause fell between them, and Ratchet sighed. “But, I can’t, in good conscience, do nothin’. If this is how bad you look,” gesturing to Soundwave and ignoring the affronted shouts from the cassettes, “I can only imagine how much worse off your crew is.”

Watching with baited vents as the trio processed his response, Ratchet felt a knot of fear uncoil in his chestplate as the tape deck nodded in agreement with him. A second later, and the door of his cell swung wide, granting him borrowed time and a whole host of new problems to worry about. What in Primus' name had he gotten himself into?

As his captors led him up the hall and out of the Nemesis’ brig, Ratchet could only hope that a rescue team arrived soon. Very soon. Until then, though, his first priority would be ensuring that he didn’t end up offlined by some trigger happy Con with dreams of short-lived glory. Oh joy.

_________________________

To be honest, Hook had been having a somewhat decent cycle when Soundwave had commed him, asking him to make the medibay presentable. Naturally he’d scoffed at the request (as if he didn’t keep the place spotless) and dismissed it, more concerned with arranging what little decor existed on his makeshift desk. Pit, maybe the tape deck could learn to leave a mech well enough alone for once.

He bit back a growl when he was pinged again with a much firmer, ‘do as I say or face the consequences’ toned comm. Pinging back confirmation that he’d received the message loud and clear, Hook checked the ventilation shafts for prying red optics before groaning in frustration. Couldn’t a mech get one cycle to himself? It was bad enough his gestaltmates refused to give him piece of mind—though it was far better than being stuck with, say, Vortex or Deadend—but now that Primus damned tape deck was bossing him around?! Like he didn’t have enough to do already, keeping the, frankly, suicidal ranks of the Decepticon army from tearing each other apart. This was supposed to be a break for him for Primus’ sake!

Walking away from his desk, No, I’m not being a pout or a mope, Mixer. Frag off, he trudged over to where the beat up berths stood on shaky stabilizers. Honestly it was a miracle they hadn’t collapsed already. Wiping imaginary dust off of them Hook let his processor wander, and really, who is Soundwave to critique my workmanship?!  

His helm ached as teasing, jibes, and insults poured in from his teammates. Frag off, all of you, unless you want me to leave your sorry afts behind the next time one of you gets injured on a raid! he practically yelled across the bond, though careful to avoid directing any malice towards Scrapper. Gestalt bonds were strange, enigmatic things, and while one couldn’t truly ‘direct’ a thought to any one mech in particular, you could usually leave behind a specific intent. Like, say, 'Frag everyone, but not really you, specifically'. It was honestly all that stood between Hook and sudden, instantaneous annihilation at any given moment. Not even a medic’s privilege would spare him from Scrapper’s wrath if their leader thought he’d pushed too far.

To his everlasting (and by everlasting, he meant for the next few breems) gratitude, the chatter of his gestaltmates processors faded away to a dull roar in the back of Hook’s helm. As he searched for something to distract himself until Soundwave’s inevitable ‘check-in’, he was interrupted by the sound of the medibay’s doors screeching open.

Rounding on whoever had dared to disturb him, Hook quickly bit his tongue as Soundwave, flanked by two of his stupid little cassettes, stepped over the threshold. Unable to truly help himself, though, he asked condescendingly, “What? One of your birds get its wing twisted or something? Maybe try keepin’ ‘em out of vents in the future.”

“Negative. Reason for entry: To introduce Constructicon Hook’s new assistant.” 

The truck’s optical ridges furrowed, both confused and insulted, I don’t need a fragging assistant you kiss-up. I can work perfectly fine on my own, before rising to his helm ridge when a new voice piped up from behind Soundwave.

“I should damn well hope I’m not going to be some medic’s lackey! I’m a fragging medic in my own right, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to put me in training wheels!” Whoever was currently laying into the tape deck had struts of steel, Hook decided, not sure whether to be in awe of their courage or stupidity.

To his mounting astonishment, Soundwave barely reacted to the tirade (though Frenzy was snickering and Ravage’s audials were pinned), simply stepping further into the medibay and out of the way of the newcomer. The mech in question had a simple white paint job with red accents and grey chevron, and if Hook didn’t know any better, he looked shockingly similar to-

“Hook: Will assist Autobot Ratchet in repairing members of the Nemesis’ crew.” 

Soundwave’s voice left him feeling like he'd come untethered from his frame, staring in irrationally angry disbelief at the Autobot CMO. He could feel his optic twitch beneath his visor. What kind of bullscrap joke is this?! No way did the Autobot goody-two-shoes defect! No fragging way! Then, a nagging fear crept into his processor. Am I being replaced? Are they replacing me with him ?! No. Nonononono this isn’t fragging happening, they can’t do this slag to me! Furious outrage roared in his helm, begging to turn the Autobot medic into scrap metal, but Soundwave’s watchful gaze stopped Hook in his tracks. No, he couldn’t kill the medic in broad daylight. That would have to be a private affair.

Taking a vent to calm his overtaxed vocalizer, he gave a lopsided sneer to the Autobot before turning his attention to Soundwave, who looked like he was about to lecture him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it," he growled, "He’s gonna work with me ‘an I can’t do scrap about it. Won’t touch a nanite of his paint job.” He mockingly held up his servos and tried to pull his best ‘admonished’ look. He knew that the tape deck knew he meant none of it, but if it got the mech off his back, he’d take it.

Giving him one final warning glare, Soundwave and his little spies departed, leaving Ratchet alone with Hook. Turning back to where the Autobot stood, he was about to lay down the ground rules of his medibay, only to find that the mech had up and disappeared. Panic ran down Hook's back strut. Scrap! He didn’t make a run for it did he?!

Turning frantically to see where the medic could’ve gone, he was forced to deal with his gestaltmates distracting questions. [What the frag are you whining about now?] Long Haul. [Autobot? You’ve got a 'Bot up there with you!?] Mixer. [Shut the frag up, all o' you, b’fore I make you! I’m tryna take a damn nap here!] Bonecrusher.

Hook genuinely felt like he was on the brink of blowing a neural fuse when a grouchy, disgusted voice spoke up from behind him. “You call this a medibay!?”

Whipping around to face the object of his ire, Hook seethed at the shorter medic who was inspecting the berths nearest to the wall. “Got a problem with it?” he grit out, arms crossed, servos digging into his plating to keep from lashing out.

“It’s a biohazard at best,” Ratchet growled at him, the venom in his voice taking Hook by surprise. [Thought ‘Bot medics were s’posed t’be nice…] Scavenger.  

Pulling himself together, Hook felt his plating flatten against his frame, anger rising in his intake. “Oh really?” he asked, putting the bare minimum effort into keeping his voice calm. “Well, sorry, but we can’t all be prim and polished ‘Bots with fresh solvent and energon at our digit-tips,” he spat out, glaring down at the medic.

Seeming entirely unphased—and earning another begrudging point in Hook’s mental tally of mechs he respected—Ratchet just glared back at him. Great, now we’re stuck in a staring contest like a pair of younglings, he grumbled to himself.

When the Autobot showed no signs of backing down, Hook was forced to concede, depressurizing his frame and allowing himself to vent out the heat that had built up beneath plating. Either the 'Bot wasn’t phased in the slightest, or he just had a higher heat tolerance than most mechs. Benefits of—probably—being a forged medic. Go figure.

In an attempt to stop the awkward silence from growing even louder between them, Hook coughed, resetting his vocalizer. “Well, it hasn’t been a pleasure at all meeting you, and I hope you don’t wake up tomorrow-" Turning away from Ratchet he strode towards the door- "But hey, if you’re still around and kicking by then there’s plenty o' mechs who’ll need repairs in here,” he called over his shoulder. Not bothering to ask if the ‘Bot knew where the habs were (or if he’d even been given one), Hook ducked out of the medibay and stormed down the hall toward's his gestalt's habsuite.

As he approached the hab, the trickle of his gestaltmate’s thoughts grew to a deafening roar. Shaking his helm to try and clear it, Hook sidestepped over a pile of metal plates (their hab was always under some type of renovation or another) and plopped down on their shared couch, right between Mixmaster and Bonecrusher as they argued over the best chemical compounds for structural stability. Usually it was right up Hook’s alley to insert his own—and correct—opinion into the mix, but he could give two frags less right now.

“So, there’s an Autobot who’s gonna be workin’ with ya in the medibay?” 

Peering up as Scavenger’s shadow loomed over him, Hook grumbled unintelligibly, grabbing a pillow from behind Mixmaster and burying his faceplate in it to scream. His gestaltmates carried on, already used to what they termed as ‘his theatrics’, but Scavenger still sent him a sympathetic teek.

Letting the pillow fall into his lap, Hook supposed he could live with such a blatant display of niceness. He was the one who was going to have to deal with the pesky little ‘Bot at any rate, he might as well drink up what sympathy he got for it. As the debate between Bonecrusher and Mixmaster got more heated, both he and Long Haul retreated to their berthrooms before their gestaltmates’ fighting got physical. Scavenger had the unfortunate luck of getting caught in the crossfire, but Hook doubted it was anything he couldn’t patch tomorrow.

Unable to fall into recharge quickly, Hook cursed the Ratchet’s name to any deity willing to listen. He had to rectify this… situation… as fast as possible before a fragging ‘Bot of all mechs sent him packing down the pecking order. As if his cycle could get any worse.

Chapter Text

Waking up in his hab—a glorified storage closet really—Ratchet did his best to roll the tension out of his neck and shoulder cables. He supposed he should be a bit grateful that he wasn’t being made to share a room with anyone, but when all the hab consisted of was a berth and a small energon storage unit, it made one question one’s options. Honestly, it made even the Pit-forsaken apartments back in Nyon look like luxury suites.

Processor turning to the medibay, he swung his legs off the berth and reached over, activating the pitiful little energon dispenser. A small, watery-pink cube tumbled out, and again Ratchet wondered again what deity he’d pissed off to warrant this kind of punishment. Downing the cube and grimacing at the bitter, low-grade taste, he began to ask himself how he’d even make it to the medibay. He was lucky that Soundwave had bothered to give him a layout of the ship with ‘important locations’ highlighted. At least somebot within the Con ranks had some decency. He had half a processor to tell that Constructicon (Hook was his name, he recalled) off for bolting on him the night before. Honestly, would it kill a mech to have some basic manners? 

Huffing in derision, he ignored the pinpricks of red light in the vents above him—really, did these cassettes take for a senile fool?—and moved towards the hab’s door. Casting out with his EMF sensors as it slowly ground open, too much sand in the joints, he tried to see if anyone was lurking in the hall. It never hurt to be cautious on a ship full of murderous lunatics. 

Nothing registered, except for a peculiar little blank spot, conveniently positioned in the vent above his helm. “Nice try, kid,” he called behind him as he walked out into the hallway. And no, he did not snicker when the sound of somebot scrambling in the ventilation duct reached his audials. What do you take him for, a sparkling? 

The mirth was short lived as the route to the medibay, though clearly marked on the map, became a nightmare of twisting, turning hallways. It reminded Ratchet of the city streets of Polyhex, only this was far more infuriating to navigate. Despite the long, winding path, Ratchet didn’t run into a single Con. Though it did feel like there were optics watching him at every turn. Great more slag for me to deal with.

__________________________________

The medibay doors were already wide open as Ratchet approached, spotting Hook already finishing up with a patient who was obscured by the medic’s frame. He’d apparently come at just the right time to catch the tail end of their conversation. “You pull a stunt like that again and I’ll let you bleed out. Ain’t worth the time puttin’ you fraggers back together just for ya ta waste resources gettin’ slagged again.” Hook sounded bored and clearly done with whomever he was talking to. Not that Ratchet couldn’t sympathize with the sentiment, but he didn’t like the medic’s tone. It sounded too close to being a promise rather than a ‘stay-in-line-so-help-me-Primus’ warning.

“It wasn’t my fault! That fraghead Astrotrain started it!” whined a different voice, probably whoever Hook had just treated. Whoever it was, he clearly didn’t sound intimidated by the medic’s threat. 

Were death threats common in Con ranks then? This was a different community after all, Ratchet supposed. It figured that the social structures would be different too. Adding a note to his medical logs, he stepped over the threshold as a cone-helmed seeker with a red and white-accented paint job exited the medibay at the same time. Disdain rippled out of the seeker’s field as he tried to shoulder Ratchet aside. Tried.

Squaring his shoulders and bracing himself, he easily bounced the seeker off him instead. Glaring up at the mech’s stunned faceplate (he recognized him as one of the Coneheads, but couldn’t place his name), he crossed his arms and raised an optical ridge. A smirk flickered across his faceplate when the seeker’s field bled cowed sheepishness as he muttered something akin to an apology and sidestepped Ratchet, quickly slipping out the door.

Continuing into the medibay himself, he took in the surprisingly well lit room—in comparison to the rest of the Nemesis at least. Medical berths line the far wall, though it looked like they wouldn’t survive a strong breeze, let alone an adult Cybertronian’s weight. To his right, a cubicle with the words: 'Medic’s Office' written in shaky Kaonite on the door took up a corner of the room, no doubt Hook’s.on his left, diagnostic and triage equipment lay in organized chaos across multiple shelves and desks. That would be a helmache and a half to properly sort into an efficiently accessible order.

“Took you long enough to drag your aft up here,” scoffed Hook, drawing Ratchet’s attention back to him.

Scowl settling back on his faceplate, he marched towards the energon soaked berth, pulling a cleaning kit from his subspace. “Did no bot ever teach you to clean a berth after you’ve gotten energon on it?” he asked sarcastically. Just his luck that the Con decided to haze him on his first shift-

“No bot’s ever complained ‘bout it b’fore.” Hook’s blasé tone made Ratchet’s engine stall. 

He had to be joking. No way in the Pit would any medic worth their salt would let such a flagrant health hazard fly! Forget how unhygienic it was, how did none of the Cons not see the obvious health risks to being treated on energon-soaked berths? The urge to send something blunt flying at the Con’s helm nearly overwhelmed Ratchet, but he took a deep vent. Maybe they lack the supplies to clean a berth properly. Soundwave mentioned that I was kidnapped basically out of desperation.  

It wasn’t his style to let something like this slide, but if it was an issue of resources, then it wouldn’t do much good, chewing out a medic who couldn’t do anything about it. That at least could explain Hook’s subpar attitude, Ratchet reasoned as he finished with the one berth and moved on to the next, if he’d been made to go without supplies, he doubted he’d be in the best of moods either. 

Did he still think that the kid deserved a lesson in respect? Absolutely. But he could at least empathize with his predicament.

What little slack Ratchet was willing to cut Hook died as their next patient walked—was dragged—in by two other Cons: a blue and grey chopper-frame and a beige colored shuttle. The bot they were carrying was navy green tank-frame. “Brawl picked a fight with Dragstrip!” crowed the chopper, far too excited for Ratchet’s taste.

Hook shot the trio a look that screamed ‘get the frag out’, another point Ratchet was going to need to have a word with him about, before beckoning them in. “Put the little glitch over there,” he growled, indicating the berth Ratchet had just cleaned. 

Stepping aside to let them pass he watched as the shuttle and chopper argued back and forth, even as they dragged their third forwards. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over Ratchet, inaccessible memory files pinging his HUD. Setting up a new patient file as they heaved their friend onto the berth—which groaned like it might collapse at any moment—he gave his helm a shake and ignored the feeling. Regardless of if he knew them or not, their names would come up eventually. 

Once Brawl was settled, he turned to shoo the other two away so he could get started on a diagnostic when he was stopped by the sound of Hook saying, “Hold on, I got this.” Turning to stare and then gape, Ratchet watched in horror as the Decepticon medic strode towards the berth, a thick piece of rebar in servo.

“And just what in Primus’ name do you think you’re doing?” Ratchet asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“S’easier to check ‘em out if they ain’t awake,” Hook shrugged, visor blinking like he was rolling his optics.

“So you’re just going to whack him over the helm and hope it doesn’t kill him!?” Ratchet could feel incensed anger burning beneath his plating. Lack of resources or not, there was no excuse for such a callous, reckless disregard for a patient’s safety and well-being. 

The two who’d carried Brawl in had already moved out of the medic’s way, staring at Ratchet with a mixture of fear and awe. Not that he paid them any mind. Taking a step towards Hook, he crossed his arms, daring the medic to make good on his threat. 

“Yeah, basically.” Hook growled, glowering down at him, his field pricklier than a quartz cactus. “Yer Autoglitch sensibilities got a problem with that?”

Standing his ground, Ratchet ignored how their small audience had retreated to the far side of the medibay ( little fraggers want a show, he grumbled to himself). 

It wasn’t long before Hook made a grab for his shoulder—no doubt to shove him out of the way. Knocking it aside with practiced movements, Ratchet stepped in close to Hook’s frame, turning towards the arm that held the rebar. Self-defense and techniques to disarm rowdy patients had been mandatory courses at the Academy, and they were kept fresh by Ratchet’s vorns as a combat medic. As such, it was sparkling’s play hitting the pressure points in Hook’s wrist and elbow joints. 

Letting out a cry of angered disbelief as the rebar fell from his limp servo, clattering to the ground, Hook stumbled away from Ratchet. “What the frag?!” He screeched, visor sparking in shock as confusion and fury ripped through his field. “How the Pit did you do that, you fragging slagheap?!”

Tuning out Hook’s ego-bruised rant, Ratchet turned his focus towards the half-conscious Brawl. That particular helmache could wait until after he was satisfied with his patient’s health. Claw marks marred the mech’s faceplate and though they barely went deeper than the epidermal layer, it was clear this ‘Dragstrip’ had meant to leave a mark. Various sized dents littered Brawl’s frame as well, some new, most old, and again, Ratchet had to wonder just how had the Cons made it this long in such poor condition?

Hooking the mech up to an energon drip—scrounged from his own subspace, he didn’t trust anything in this medibay after Hook’s stunt—he went through basic first-aid checks; venting, fuel line pressure, energon circulation, sparkpulse, optic reactivity. The basics. It wasn’t long before he attracted a crowd consisting of the chopper, who had left his position at the exit to hover behind him like a curious sparkling.

He was tempted to bark at him to give him space—he was going to start getting in the way if he got any closer. Grumbling under his vents, Ratchet finished up Brawl’s diagnostic, turning to glare at the Con. “I don’t know if anybot’s never told you, but unless you’re interning, you don’t hover over a medic like that,” he growled, “You get in my way, you could get somebot killed, got me!?” Glaring at the chopper, he was met with a bemused look.

Seemingly not understanding that Ratchet was talking to him, the chopper just shifted from pede to pede, trying to peer around his frame. Sighing and dragging a servo down his faceplate, snapped his digits towards the fidgety mech. “Just spit it out, Kid, what’s your question?”

Bright red visor turning to face him, Ratchet immediately regretted asking. “What’d you do to him? He looks… calm?”

Holding back from throwing his servos in the air and asking if no bot here had ever met a proper medic, he took a deep vent and collected his thoughts. “That was just a routine check of his systems to make sure nothing was wrong with him.”

“Yeah, we get that,” interrupted the shuttle, field exuding bored contempt as he sauntered over, “we’re not stupid.” Frowning when Ratchet raised an optical ridge at him, he gestured annoyed in the direction of the chopper. “‘Tex wants to know what that tube you’ve got hooked up to his arm is for.”

‘Tex? Ratchet ran a quick drive search for any Cons by that name, coming up only with a ‘Vortex’; a Con in the Bruticus gestalt. Ah, Combaticon. In a gestalt with the other two I’d bet.

So that was where he knew them from.

Listing the chopper as such in his database, he made a similar note in Brawl’s patient file. Turning his attention back to the two Cons, he answered slowly. “It’s an energon line… ?” Searching their faceplates for any sign of understanding, he was dismayed to find none. How do neither of them know basic first aid!? “To keep his energon levels and internal temperature stable in case I need to perform repairs on him… ?”

Vortex and the shuttle—Blast Off if he had to hazard a guess—exchanged a look, and Ratchet couldn’t take it any more. “Have none of you lot ever even seen an actual medic before?!” 

All but confirming his fears, Blast Off shrugged at him. “Hook works well enough for these simpletons,” he said offservoedly, as though they were discussing something as mundane as the weather. “‘Sides isn’t like what you do’s all that special. Any bot can do that easy-as-you-please.” It was only his lifetime of experience working under pompous, self-righteous mechs that kept Ratchet from cuffing the shuttle’s audial and sitting him down for the chewing out of a lifetime.

“I do better than ‘well enough’ you half-form glitchspawn!” Only adding to his mounting helmache, Hook had apparently pulled himself out of his self imposed, pity-party sulk to come over and yell at Blast Off. 

“Please,” Blast Off scoffed, “You couldn’t weld a planting tear properly to save your aft.”

Ratchet now completely forgotten, forced to watch as the already bad cycle just spiraled down the drain. Clearly, Primus had a sick sense of humor. As the two Decepticons’ plating bristled as they squared up to each other, Vortex, in a stunning lack of self-preservation, circled around the two eagerly, ready to see fresh energon. Just when he felt his last thread of patience begin to fray, Brawl began to wake up, haphazardly swiping at his IV line. What little was left snapped in a nanoklik.

“SHUT THE FRAG UP!”

Four engines simultaneously as three helms snapped towards Ratchet—Brawl had the luck of already facing the seething medic. “ARE YOU SPARKLINGS OR CYBERTRONIANS?!” he roared, gesturing to the three Cons in front of him, “THE ONLY ONE OF YOU WHO HAS AN EXCUSE RIGHT NOW IS HIM-” stabbing a digit towards Brawl- “AND THAT’S ONLY BECAUSE HE’S BARELY FRAGGING CONSCIOUS!”

“You,” he growled, stalking towards Hook who looked visibly perturbed, “You wouldn’t know proper medical procedure if it shot you in the face because your entire faction's a bunch of trigger-happy, reckless, slag-for-brains fools!”

The Constructicon opened his mouth to snap back, but Ratchet barrelled over him. “I could care less about a fragging lack of resources, it happens in war! You find a way to deal with it! What I can’t stand-” he took a step forwards jabbing a digit into Hook’s chestplate and forcing him into a backpedal- “are mechs that think they can cut corners just. because. they. Can. You wonder why you and your lot are losing so badly, WELL LOOK AROUND!”

He could feel the barely contained anxiousness in Hook’s field as he continued forcing the Constructicon back. Now pinned between Ratchet and the wall, Hook’s visor flickered erratically, plating flattened to his frame. “You call yourself a medic? Please! I’ve seen scraplets do better work than this!”

The sound of pedes shuffling behind him had Ratchet whipping around to catch Vortex and Blast Off attempting to slink out of the medibay. “Ah-ah-ah! I’m not done with you two!” Marching over to the Combaticons, he singled out Blast Off first. “You think you can do better than me? Great! Love to see the enthusiasm!” His voice dropped an octave as he grabbed ahold of the shuttle's chestplate and yanked him down to optic-level, “But want to insult my work? My skill? The time and effort it took for me to get where I am today? I suggest you find another bot to pick on, or it won't end well.” 

Releasing the shuttle who scrambled away from him, clutching the abused kibble, Ratchet rounded Vortex. “And I could care less whether you want bloodshed or not, Primus knows you Cons all have your wires crossed and fried, but keep that slag out of my medibay.” The chopper, to his credit, bobbed his helm obediently (though whether that was because he was listening or because he just wanted out was anybot’s guess).

Sighing and waving the duo out the door, he just added, “If you want to learn first aid, I’m more than willing to teach, but I don’t do sessions while on the clock.” To his surprise, Vortex sent him an appreciative teek. 

Blast Off just backed away from Ratchet like he was a primed bomb, field shocked and tense. He felt a bit bad for spooking the shuttle, but at the same time, he’d worked too damn hard for some young upstart to go around telling him that just any mech could do his job. At least Brawl had settled back into recharge. That would make the remainder of his diagnostics easier.

Hook on the other servo, who had slunk towards the office door, was not going to get off so easily. Clearing his intake forcefully, he felt a twinge of satisfaction when the Con minutely flinched. “I’m not done with you, either.” The Constructicon’s plating flared as Ratchet marched back over to him, ignoring the fanged snarl on his faceplate. Coming to a stop only a few paces away, he put his servos on his hips and waited expectantly. 

“If you think I’m just gonna roll over like one a’ yer little Autobot subordinates yer wrong,” Hook spat, glaring down at Ratchet. “This is my medibay, and I’m the only mech who’s say goes here.”

Tapping a digit against his arm plating, Ratchet glared back, watching as Hook’s plating flattened reflexively. “And if you think I’m letting your slag slide, you’d better ask your dear old leader Megatron for a career switch.”

Sensing another mech approaching the medibay door, he pointed towards the office. “You are going to stay in there for the rest of the cycle. I’m going to deal with patients, and if I hear one peep of complaint out of you, I swear to Primus you will be begging to change jobs faster than you can vent!”

Mollified and clearly taken aback, Hook nodded seemingly on reflex, already inching away from him and towards the office door. Not for the first time that cycle, Ratchet asked himself how his life had gotten to this; schooling grown mechs who should know better.

Sharply exventing, Ratchet turned towards the medibay’s entrance as a pissed off Skywarp hobbled in, plating warped and scorched like he’d stepped directly on top of a landmine. What a joy this cycle was turning out to be.

________________________________

Sitting in his office, Hook was still reeling from what had just happened. Had he just gotten chewed out by the Autobot? Was that what had happened? Between his racing processor, spark, and his gestaltmates incessant chattering, it was hard to focus on exactly what had gone down. He remembered flickers of it: he’d been about to knock Brawl out—standard procedure—when the little Autobot had done… something to his arm. Input had still come through it, but he hadn’t been able to move a single digit! No! I wasn’t sulking afterwards, shut the frag up, all of you!  

His memory jumped forwards to Blast Off insulting his abilities, he remembered that clearly and had promptly gone about setting the record straight—let’s see the shuttle call him incompetent when he was at his mercy—and then… then Ratchet had been in his face, forcing him back. The rest of that time was fuzzy, but he had the distinct feeling that he’d been insulted, patronized, and above all, that he’d felt bad about it!

[Hook got schooled by a ‘Bot~] Mixer’s thought echoed in his helm, overlaid with Scrapper’s condescending [I swear, I run an outfit of imbeciles and strutless idiots]

Gritting his dentae, Hook focused on the datapads in front of him, a veritable sea of resource acquisition requests that had gone unfilled. While the Autobot (loathe as he was to admit, but the medic was much less intimidating if Hook thought of him as just ‘The Autobot’) handled whatever mess Skywarp had gotten himself into—probably fragged up one of his pranks—he pulled the closest datapad towards him.

If he at least filled out one of these damn things, maybe the medic would get off his back. If he didn’t though, there was no doubt in Hook’s helm that the ‘Bot would ream him out for not getting anything productive done and just sitting on his aft. By the fifth supply requisition form, though, he was about ready to put his helm through the wall. How in Primus’ name had the medibay run out of everything?!

Frustrated annoyance nipped at his heelstruts as he paced his office, scrolling through the medibay’s inventory logs. All they had was a measly few nanite patches, two spools of weld-safe filament, and a servoful of circuit boosters that he knew for a fact the Autobot would have his helm for. A shiver ran up his back strut and his plating involuntarily rattled at the thought of facing Ratchet’s wrath a third time. 

Just trying to stand against—not even up to—the medic the last time had been an effort and a half just to keep himself from ducking his helm and backing down as soon as Ratchet had locked optics with him. Not an experience Hook wanted repeated.

Much to his irritation, his gestaltmates seemed to find the whole ordeal hilarious. [Guess there’s somebot ‘sides Scrapper that can make ol’ Hook toe the line.] Bonecrusher. [Finally, some entertainment! It’s been so boring around here…] Long Haul. [Maybe we should get the ‘Bot somethin’ for bein’ able to make Hook back down on somethin’?] ugh, Scavenger. [He deserves a damn award far as I’m concerned.] Scrapper.

If not for the fact that their foreman would kill him for it, Hook was half-tempted to forego repairing his gestaltmates in the aftermath of whatever their next raid was. Primus damned leeches preyin’ on my downfall, he grumbled to himself, ignoring the affronted and indignant protestations from Long Haul and Bonecrusher.

______________________________________________

Lost in thought, he nearly jumped out of his plating when the door to his office slammed open. Helm snapping up to stare at Ratch- the Autobot, Hook was insanely thankful to his visor for obscuring how wide and panicked his optics were. The medic looked between him and the small stack of filled-out supply requisition datapads and huffed a tired vent. “At least you got something done,” he acknowledged, stepping into the office and pouring over the contents of the pads.

It felt like his wires and cabling were squirming beneath his plating as he waited for the medic to finish looking his reports over, a feeling he only truly had associated with being chewed out by Scrapper. Primus, I’m losing it aren’t I? He asked himself, only slightly hysterical. I’m so fragged after this. Not one fragging cycle and this glitchspawned afthole’s gonna get me sent packing down the pecking order! Not that he was going to try and voice any of that to the ‘Bot.

He wanted to, very badly, but some instinctual coding in his helm kept his jaw wired shut and his intake locked to prevent any wayward noises from drawing the medic’s ire. Primus, he was headed up the river. Somewhere in the back of his processor, he registered that Ratchet had finished reading the reports and had turned back to face him, but he didn’t notice it until the ‘Bot spoke, sending his sparkpulse racing with a flash of fear once more. “Not bad for the piss-poor job of a first attempt you made,” the medic scoffed, holding out a much taller stack of datapads towards Hook. 

“Rewrite the first five, using proper terminology,” the ‘Bot fixed him with a sharp glare that made Hook want to duck his helm, “and fill out the rest using the list I’m sending to you.” Filing the subsequent ping as ‘High Priority’ (and only because he feared was concerned what might happen if he didn’t follow through), he looked for a way around the medic and out of the medibay.

To his immense relief, the Autobot turned his back to him, walking out of the office while still talking over his shoulder like Hook was some kind of orderly. The thought made his tank churn, but he held his tongue. Now was not the time to poke a cyberbear over a matter of wounded pride. No matter how well deserved the verbal lashing would be, it wasn't worth the consequences. At the very least, Soundwave would definitely have his helm if he did something to the medic—Scrapper, if the tape deck didn’t get to him first.

Caught up in his own helm once more, Hook startled when he bumped into something solid. Looking down, he reflexively took a step back when he met Ratchet’s disapproving glare. “Did you get any of what I just told you?” asked the medic in the same tone that was used with misbehaving sparklings.

Grinding his dentae but keeping silent, Hook minutely shook his helm, glaring daggers at the Autobot. Fragging slageater thinks he can order me around like somebot’s orderly and then treats me like a sparkling!?

“I’m going to hold a seminar on proper medical procedures starting tomorrow after our last shift.” Fixing Hook with a look that could melt steel, he added, “This is mandatory. If I don’t see your aft there, I’ll drag you there myself, you got me?”

Forcing his faceplate into something other than a scowl, he nodded and was met with a content helmbob from Ratchet. “Good. Tomorrow will run the same as today: you'll work on requisition forms and I'll attend to whatever patients we get.” The Autobot said it with such certainty, Hook was tempted not to question it. It was the same authority that he heard from Scrapper and Megatron. The kind that said, ‘you’ll do as I say and you’ll like it or else’.

Adding to his confusion, the ‘Bot wished him a ‘good night’ before heading out of the medibay and turning down the hall towards—presumably—his hab. Whatever the Autobot was dosing on, Hook needed a hit of it because clearly the medic’s wires were irreparable fried. Who in their right processor chewed a bot out, ousted him from his place in Con hierarchy like it was nothing, and then wished him good night?! An insane fragger clearly on something, that’s who.

Trudging out of the medibay himself, Hook dreaded the inevitable jabs and insults that awaited him when he got back to his hab. It wasn’t his fault he got stuck with an insane Autobot, but he had to deal with the repercussions regardless. If Primus truly did exist, then he hated Hook’s internals, he decided. Only the cruelest of gods would force a bot to go through… this nonsense.

_________________________________________________

The datapads Ratchet had given him weighed surprisingly heavy in his subspace as he keyed in the hab’s entry code, his gestaltmates’ jeering thoughts and voices greeting him at the threshold. 

It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

To Ratchet's suspicious surprise, the medibay was near spotless when he walked in on the third cycle of his internment on the Nemesis. 

Well, as spotless as it could be, being Primus knew how many miles under the water, but clean nonetheless. Cautiously stepping into the medibay he kept a wary optic on Hook and asked, “What’s the occasion?”

A derisive snort answered him, the Constructicon turned away from him, organizing a stack of datapads on the reception desk. “Never seen a clean medibay b’fore?”

“Not here, no,” Ratchet replied, ignoring the murderous intent that rolled in waves from Hook’s field, the ‘Con’s plating flaring.

“Well, maybe if you’d been here literally any other cycle, you would’ve,” he growled, metal groaning from how hard he was gripping the desk before forcefully unclenching his digits, laying his servos flat against on its top.

Ignoring him, Ratchet continued his inventory check, pleased to find everything had stayed in its proper place. Moving on to the berths, he called over his shoulder, “In my experience, a ‘bad cycle’ doesn’t mean you neglect your duties as a medic.” 

The ‘Con mockingly parroted his words under his vents, but he elected to ignore it. 

Content with the state of the medibay, Ratchet sighed and dusted off his servos, turning back to walk over to where Hook was still having a contained fit of pique by the reception desk. Taking the top-most datapad off the stack, he looked it over, humming in approval. 

“Not bad, kid. Not bad.” The thrum of the truck’s engine abruptly halted, his field recoiling close to his frame. Looking up from the datapad, Ratchet raised an optical ridge at the surprised, wary stare Hook was giving him. “What? S’not perfect, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a helluva lot better than before.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Reading over your supply requisition forms? Letting you know you did good for doing what I asked?” Whatever conniption the ‘Con was having, Ratchet was getting really tired of it. That, and the swearing (not that he, himself, didn’t, but the kid was going to need to learn to watch his mouth regardless). “Honestly, kid, I’m getting real tired of you giving me the run around.” 

“That!” Hook shrieked, jabbing an accusatory digit at Ratchet’s chassis, his winch whining in protest as he spooled and unspooled his tow-cable at faster and faster intervals. “All of that! One second, you’re biting my helm off and the next you’re playing buddy-buddy!” he cried in incredulous confusion. 

A pause fell between them as Ratchet tried to parse out what the ‘Con meant. Does he seriously not understand why I scolded him, or are the social dynamics here so backwards that kindness is perceived with suspicion and cruelty?! I swear to fragging Primus if I have to explain what being nice is I’m going to lose my processor.

“That isn’t how shit happens around here,” Hook finally said, confirming the latter of Ratchet’s suspicions, his arms crossed tightly against his chestplates, “You pull that slag when yer tryna keep a mech on their pedetips or stab ‘em in the back. It’s survival of the strongest here, so keep yer kitschy slag to yerself.”

Letting the information sink in, Ratchet couldn’t help but feel the insane urge to laugh because why not? Clearly, Primus had no love in his spark for him, if this was the idiocy he was going to be forced to wrangle into a half-competent medic. 

Taking a deep vent to keep his reaction in check, he grabbed the next datapad in the pile. “That ‘kitschy slag’ is called manners. It’s a good tool for a medic to have,” he said without looking up from the pad. Sensing the disbelieving expression on Hook’s face, he added, “And I only scolded you because you’re a Primus damned fool who thinks you’re above the rules.”

The ‘Con opened his mouth to protest, plating flaring defensively, but Ratchet held up a servo, silencing him. “Tell you what, kid, I’ve had a very long night trying to figure out how to knock some common, medical sense into your thick helm, so how about you just finish the rest of those datapads in your office, and I’ll man the medibay, got it? Great.”

It was a gamble, using what Silverbolt had called “The Tired Mom Voice”, but he was banking on the fact that because it worked with the Autobot gestalts, it would work with the ‘Cons’ as well. 

(Both the Aerial and Protectobots consumed more Earthen media than Cybertronian—had thought that Ratchet was completely unaware of their inappropriate use of the Internet to boot—and as such, they responded much better to Earth culture, slang, and mannerisms. If Hook’s usage of English swearing was anything to go by, he had to assume that the same had happened on the Nemesis, if not much more freely than had happened on the Ark.

Ratchet himself had been fine with Superion and Defensor’s gestalts checking out the Internet on their off-shifts until Streetwise had told Red Alert to “get that gigantic stick out of his ass” and Hot Spot had subsequently cuffed the back of his helm and told him to “shut the fuck up and get his shit together.” 

First Aid had had to explain what the words meant to Ratchet during their off shift, leading to an instant ban list on what could and could not be researched, said, or referenced in regards to Earthen media—much to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s dismay.)

After a beat of silence—and to his immense relief—Hook complied, though not without slowly edging around Ratchet, watching him warily like he was a primed bomb. It was reassuring to know that he wouldn’t need to constantly be yelling at the mech to keep him in line, but he could do without the ‘Con treating him like a live grenade. For the time being, though, it would work to his advantage. It seemed a bit of healthy fear went a long way on the Nemesis, and until the mechs around him shaped up, Ratchet intended to keep it that way.

__________________________________

As with the cycle before, it wasn’t long before a ‘Con stumbled through the medibay’s doors, energon leaking from a deep laceration in his side, staining his black plating a garish pink. Wildrider’s bright blue optics flashed as he grinned maniacally at Ratchet. “You should really see the other guy, Doc!”

A few kliks after convincing the Stunticon to sit down, ‘the other guy’ came in, dragged by two other mechs. “Just fraggin’ take ‘im!” one of them demanded, voice pained, as the mech carried between them (one of the Battlechargers his memory logs supplied, Runamuck) pitched to one side and purged his tank.

Grabbing the half-conscious mech from the two ‘Cons’ arms before they could dump him on the floor, Ratchet shot them both a murderous glare that sent them scampering away before carrying the poor sod over to a berth about three away from the still jittering Wildrider. 

“Whatcha gonna do with ‘im, Doc?” The racecar asked, leaning so far off his berth that he looked about to fall.

“I’m making him stable so that he doesn’t bleed out and offline on me,” Ratchet growled back, projecting as much frustration as he could towards the Stunticon. 

“Yeesh, don’t get your tailpipes in a twist old man, the guy had it coming,” Wildrider complained, dramatically flopping back onto the berthpad.

“Oh really?” Ratchet asked, barely able to keep the contempt out of his voice, “And what, pray tell, did he do to deserve a blaster bolt through his rotator cabling and seven stab wounds to the abdomen?”

“He said he could outrace me,” came the pouty, flippant response. As if the normal reaction to a mech claiming they were better than you was attempted murder.

Thankfully, either Wildrider had no idea how to put force behind a blow, or he’d been too jittery to stab properly since Runamuck’s wounds barely penetrated past the basement nanite layer of his plating. Fixing them would simply be a matter of welding the lacerations shut. The blaster bolt to his rotator cabling would take more time to fix though. Nothing Ratchet couldn’t handle, but it would take significantly less time if he had an extra set of servos.

Not that he was about to bring Hook back out onto the medibay floor. That was the last thing he was going to do until the mech learned proper medical procedure. 

Unfortunately, Wildrider finally seemed to have also picked up on the fact that his usual medic was nowhere to be found. “Hey, uh, quick question, but uh… Did you do somethin’ to Hook?”

Tuning the Stunticon out only seemed to make him more persistent. 

“‘Cause, like, if you did, how’d you do it? I mean, big bot like him? Tiny bot like you? That’s like askin’ an astroant to try and take on a technohawk, y’know? Anyways, didja hide his frame anywhere cool, like in the walls?” The breakneck pace the mech talked at reminded Ratchet of listening to Bluestreak chatter about any and everything under the sun during his annual checkup. A pang of loneliness struck his spark, but he pushed it down, focusing on stemming the streams of energon from Runamuck’s chestplates.

Letting out a long suffering sigh he said, “I did not offline Hook.” The last thing he needed was some abysmally stupid rumor making its rounds around the Nemesis and her crew. “All you need to know is that, for the foreseeable future, I’ll be the primary medic in the medibay, end of story.”

Satisfied with his work, he walked over to Wildrider, gesturing to the arm on his wounded side. “Now, can you try and lift your arms above your helm? I need to see how deep that laceration goes.”

The Stunticon stared at him like he’d spoken Primal Vernacular, and for the second time that cycle, Ratchet had to wonder if politeness and professionalism was something that Decepticon culture had tossed out the garbage chute. 

Still, the racecar obliged, though he eyed Ratchet like a wary turbofox the entire time. 

The laceration tore deep into Wildrider’s mesh, though, miraculously, it missed any major fuel lines. Do they all need a lesson on how to stab somebody? Ratchet thought idly before pushing the thought aside. The last thing the Decepticon army needed were competent combatants. Still, there was a silver lining to it in that it made for wounds that, while life threatening, weren’t immediately fatal—at least, not under the care of a competent medic. 

Clearly, the Stunticon had tried to patch it himself—and had quickly given up if the half-sealed nanite patch was anything to go by—but it had done its job well enough in getting the exposed energon to clot, thus helping make Ratchet’s job that much easier.

What didn’t help was the racecar trying to scramble off the berth when Ratchet pulled out antiseptics and a soldering iron. Trying to reason with the mech fell on deaf audials as Wildrider tried to simultaneously shove him away and wrench the iron out of his servos, screeching about how it was against a medic’s coding to kill their patient the whole time. In the end, it’d taken Ratchet juggling his tools into one servo and using the other to pin the Stunticon to the berth to get the mech to take a vent and realize he wasn’t in danger of being offlined.

Once he was properly patched up, Wildrider gave him an awkward, stilted apology that amounted to blaming imagined servos reaching for his optics as the catalyst to his outburst. It was slag by Autobot standards, but Ratchet would take what he could get with the ‘Cons. 

He did, however, make a mental note to run a processor check on the young mech later. He didn’t know of any ‘Bots that suffered audio-visual hallucinations (save, maybe, Red Alert), but he knew enough about processor glitches to know that it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility—especially with all that both sides had suffered during their war.

Shifting gears to repairing Runamuck’s rotator cabling, he let Wildrider’s yammering fade to white noise in the background, only occasionally tuning in if he heard something particularly outlandish. With the worst of the repairs over, he actually gleaned quite a bit from the Stunticon in regards to the rest of his gestalt, furthering Ratchet’s hunch that they all suffered from processor glitches of one kind or another—Breakdown in particular worried him, but he’d have to deal with that at a later time. He could do without hearing how much Wildrider wished he could offline his fellow ‘Cons for seemingly petty and vindictive reasons, though.

As the mech went on yet another tangent about how he was going to offline Dragstrip for stealing his polish, Ratchet let out a long-suffering sigh. If he wasn’t so sure that they’d traumatize one, he had half a processor to recommend that every mech on the Nemesis go see a therapist at once.

__________________________________

Once Wildrider was released, courteous enough to walk out the doors instead of speeding out in alt mode as he claimed to usually do, Ratchet circled back to a drowsy Runamuck who was slowly waking up, scratching at his nanite patches like a turbofox with mange. In the end, Ratchet had released him with padded gloves cuffed around his servos. He hoped they stayed on long enough for the patches to absorb.

His next patient; a tipsy blue ‘Con with a white, pointed chassis and flared helmfins not unlike those depicted on the helms of merfolk from human mythology, only promised more of the same nonsense. As did the mech behind him, clearly trying to hide a dislocated arm (but not, for some reason, the savage gash that split the side of his faceplate).

___________________________________

By the end of the cycle, the only ‘Con so far that had been anything close to cordial to Ratchet hadn’t even been a patient, it’d had been Ravage. The jaguar had just leapt down from one of the ventilation ducts, claiming to be checking up on the medic.

When he’d asked about the supply requests, the cassette had assured him that they were being dealt with in the standard blasé tone of voice he’d come to expect from the ‘Cons. Still, Ratchet thanked him, earning him the eleventh confused stare that cycle, and offered to get the door for Ravage. 

The cassette had opted to just leap back up into the vent he’d come from, shaking his helm and muttering something about weird Autobots and their weird smells.

Finishing up with his last patient, he sent a ping to the Constructicon to come out of his office.

__________________________________

Ratchet would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a bit of satisfaction at the way the ‘Con slunk out of his office like a scolded mechling, but, in that same vent, he didn’t want him mortally afraid of him either. The dirty looks sent his way proved that he wasn’t that afraid, though. Good to know he isn’t the type to roll over at the first hint of conflict, he thought to himself with a mixture of sarcasm and pride. A back strut was a good thing for a medic to have, it was just that Hook in particular lacked any of the other positive qualities one needed to be a competent and useful medic.

“They’re done,” Hook announced with a derisive snort, though he still shied away from Ratchet when he strode over to inspect his work. “Got ‘em all finished for ya.”

At least his attitude’s intact, Ratchet thought sarcastically, Primus forbid the mech learn any humility.

To Hook’s credit, though, he had finished the veritable ocean of datapads and arranged them in very neat (almost obsessively so) piles along his desk. 

Ratchet cast the ‘Con a sideways glance before striding towards the office. “I’ll comm you when I need you back here,” he called over his shoulder. “Do not make me drag you back here myself.”

Fixing Hook with a sharp glare, he was rewarded with a quick helmbob and a “Right, got it,” as the mech inched his way towards the medibay’s exit.

Waving his servo in a ‘go and do what you want’ gesture, Ratchet closed the office’s door behind him, settling into and readjusting the chair before pulling the nearest datapad towards him.

***

If there was one thing Hook hated more than having his work called into question, it was being bossed around by a medic half his size but with an attitude fit to rival Scrapper’s. After last cycle’s debacle, in an attempt to avoid a second round of getting screamed at, he’d left his gestalt’s hab in the middle of the night and scoured the medibay for any last bit of grit or grime. Much to his disgust, in the process he’d realized that Ratchet had been right; the medibay was filthy.

It’d made Hook’s plating want to crawl straight off his frame when he’d found a colony of barnacles under the shelves in the back, and he’d promptly gone on a scorched-earth rampage of decontaminating every and any surface he could reach. When he’d finally come out of the tunnel-vision haze, the medibay looked brand new, and a sense of pride welled up in his chassis (Let’s see the Autoglitch criticize my work now, he’d thought to himself, sure in the fact that the medic would take him more seriously now).

He was immediately proven wrong when Ratchet, upon walking into the medibay, narrowed his optics suspiciously. To add insult to injury, he’d started walking around the medibay like he was personally assessing Hook’s workmanship! As if he’d put forth anything less than a perfect product (his fellow Decepticons, though, were far less deserving of the full utilization of his talents as far as he was concerned). He’d even gone as far to say as much to the judgmental Autobot, though he instantly regretted it when he’d seen the sharp look in the medic’s optics.

And again, the ‘Bot caught him off guard when he’d looked over Hook’s requisition forms. What kind of mech goes from shouting to complementing in the span of a cycle?! Furthermore, what kind of mech wasn’t using it as a tactic to gain the upper servo?! Ratchet, clearly, but Hook had to incredulously marvel at how the Autobot hadn’t been offline yet. If that was how he treated mechs, he doubted the medic would last till the end of the decacycle. He was, however, content to watch him fail from the comfort of his office.

Still, watching as the medic dealt with that glitch Wildrider and a half-comatose Runamuck, he had to admit, the mech knew what he was doing. The ‘Bot surprised him again when, after the Battlecharger was stabilized, he bothered with cleaning up the mech’s spilled energon. Pit, he even managed to keep the insane Stunticon still enough to patch the gash on his side (a feat Hook had only accomplished by literally welding the mech to the berth). 

Maybe Ratchet had a point to all his bleeding spark Autobot scrap.

[Aw, you goin’ soft on us?] jeered Bonecrusher, followed by Scrapper’s condescending [At this rate, we might as well toss you out to rust if a slagging Autobot is outperforming you.]

Hook grit his dentae and took a deep vent, held it, and blew it out.

[I mean, c’mon mech, you’re literally a stick-in-the-mud perfectionist and some ‘Bot’s doin’ better ‘n you? S’pathetic s’what it is.] Long Haul.

With a vicious swipe of his arm, the datapads stack on his desk went flying off it, crashing against the walls and floor. “You motherfuckers!” he whisper-growled, putting as much venom in his voice as possible. His gestaltmates’ thoughts went quiet in his helm, though piqued curiosity drifted over from Mixer and Scav while Scrapper’s presence took on a bored amusement.

Optics flickering over to the window to make sure Ratchet wasn’t privy to his outburst, he switched to internal comms. :: If any one of you lazy, scrap-for-brains, assholes wanna come up here and deal with him, be my fucking guest! In fact, I’m getting dragged into some stupid fragging ‘medical training seminar’ bullshit, so you’re all coming the fuck with me to it! See how funny it is when the ‘Bot decides to bite your helm off. :: Adding indicators for disdain and scorn towards Bonecrusher and Long Haul in particular, Hook crashed against the back of his chair, seething. Only adding to his anger, their foreman said nothing, but across their bond it was apparent Scrapper was howling with laughter.

How fucking dare they act like he had any fragging say in any of this?! How fucking dare they!?

Shoving away from his desk and picking up the datapads he’d scattered, Hook took a deep vent and let his fans kick on. Alright, fine. The little Autobot wants to prove a slagging point? Wants to prove he’s better than me? Fine. Game-fucking-on.

__________________________________

Like a mech possessed, Hook finished every single datapad that resided in his office before Ratchet was finished with his last patient (a very confused and disorientated Waspinator who was surprisingly calm despite being impaled). A smug smile flickered across his face when the medic pinged him to come out, but he schooled it quickly, opening the door and stepping to the side to grant the ‘Bot access to his office. (No, he was not intentionally keeping his distance from the Autobot. Just… being reasonably cautious.)

Ratchet shot him a suspicious glare, prompting Hook to glare right back, but to his surprise, the medic’s field softened once he looked inside the office and saw the neat stacks of datapads, impressed surprise pulsing through it. A flutter of pride swelled in his chassis before he scrambled to stamp it out. No fragging way was he going to let a fragging Autobot get in his helm with phoney compliments!

As soon as the medic let him go, Hook bolted for the exit, beelining not for his hab, but for the mess hall. After the slag he’d gone through, he was pretty sure he deserved some high grade, or at least a double ration.

__________________________________

Hook was halfway through his second glass of high grade when an unfamiliar comm signature pinged in his HUD. :: Come back to the medibay. :: No other context, no signature, just a single demand. He was tempted to ignore it when systems reserved for avoiding his foreman’s wrath whirred to life.

Small pricks of fear skittered up his back strut. That’s Ratch- the Autobot, isn’t it? As much as he wanted to just ignore and blow the medic off, the thought of Ratchet storming down to drag him back to the medibay was a much more effective threat than Hook wanted to admit. The sheer humiliation of being publicly bossed around by a ‘Bot of all mechs had his tank dropping to his pedes.

Shoving away from his seat with a growl, Hook ignored the incensed cry of “Hey, that don’t come for free ya know!” from Swindle—making a mental note to be as lax as possible the next time the jeep landed in the medibay—and strode out of the mess hall, attracting the blatantly curious looks of the rest of its half-drunk occupants.

By the time he was out in the hallway, a tipsy Vortex was already trailing after him; his gestaltmates, Brawl and Blast Off, shadowing the insane rotary. Whether it was out of concern or morbid curiosity was anyone's guess.

“Sooooo where you goin’~” 

Snorting in derision was the only response Hook deigned to bestow upon the rotary, continuing his walk of shame (not that anyone else needed to know that, though) to the medibay. “Hook~” Vortex cooed in the most grating falsetto he’d ever heard, “Whatcha doin’~”

Only the downward twitch of his lips gave away his disdain for the rotary as Hook took a slow vent and maintained his composure. If he just ignored the Combaticon for long enough, he’d get bored and go pick a fight with some other mech and he wouldn’t be Hook’s problem anymore.

Unfortunately, his silence only seemed encouraged the rotary’s two shadows to become more bold, and while Blast Off knew when to keep his mouth shut (only because the little slagger thinks he’s better than the rest of us, Hook scoffed to himself, as if that absolves him of the lunacy of the rest of his gestalt.) Brawl did not. “Yeah, you sped out of there like yer tailpipe was on fire,” the tank commented, his field shifting between confusion and curiosity. “Where ya headed?”

Now Hook grit his dentae, exventing harshly and glaring at Vortex who’d drifted far too close to his frame, shoulder knocking against his arm. He was a nanoklik away from swinging at him when a scoff from Blast Off that finally stopped him in his tracks, turning his full attention and ire towards the gathered Combaticons. “He’s prolly running back to the Doctor of Doom,” the shuttle said with a dark chuckle. “Ratchet gave Hook the business, and now he’s at the ‘Bot’s beck and call,” he explained to a confused looking Brawl, helm tilted slightly to watch Hook’s reaction.

Rage boiled in his fuel lines and static buzzed in his audials as Hook glared daggers at the offending ‘Con, daring Blast Off to say one more word.

The shuttle’s field flared with malicious satisfaction as he added to Vortex, “Besides, it isn’t like we didn’t see him give Hook a dressing down for the ages ourselves. Honestly, I’m surprised he’s still letting you near the medibay after that!” he finished with a vindictive laugh.

In a nanoklik, whatever patience Hook had had (and that itself was an infinitesimally small amount to begin with) snapped. 

Closing the space between himself and the Combaticon in the blink of an optic, he grabbed the shuttle by his chestplates and slammed him against the nearest wall. Face twisted into a furious snarl, he took pleasure in the abrupt fear that flashed through Blast Off’s field. “The day that fragging medic eclipses me in the medibay is the day Megatron fuckin’ defects to the Autoglitches, you hear me?!” he growled menacingly.

Despite being at his mercy, Blast Off’s visor flickered and his helm jerked in an ‘I’m rolling my optics at you’ gesture, a vicious smile sneering up at him. “So why’s Wildrider going around saying that that ‘Autoglitch’ put you in timeout?”

The Combaticon wheezed as Hook’s servo found his intake. 

Now backed into a corner, Hook, caught between either admitting that, yes, technically Ratchet had done that, or letting his silence sing his guilt, wordlessly snarled at Blast Off and tightened his grip. He might not have been forged a medic, but he’d seen and studied enough corpses to know where the major fuel lines were on a mech’s frame. If the stuck up shuttle wanted to fuck his reputation over, then Hook was going to take him down with him, venting or not.

In the background, he was mildly aware of the remaining two Combaticons hesitating on what to do. It was no secret that of all the ‘Con gestalts, the Combaticons had the least loyalty to each other, but on the other servo, they were still gestaltmates. Blast Off’s death would definitely have an impact on them, whether he was actually liked or not, and both Vortex and Brawl knew that. 

They also knew that, as a medic, Hook wasn’t to be harmed by any of the crew. Under any circumstances.

If anything he wanted them to pick a fight. Wanted them to just try and take him on. Let him blow off a bit of steam, patch them back to mostly working order, and leave them all with the reminder that Hook wasn’t some soft-strutted mech who would let any mech just steamroll over him.

“WHAT IN PRIMUS’ NAME IS GOING ON HERE?!”  

A furious voice rang out from the head of the hallway, startling Hook enough that his grip on Blast Off’s intake slackened, giving the Combaticon enough leeway to plant a pede on Hook’s abdominal plating a kick out, sending him stumbling backwards while the other mech fell to the ground with a resounding bang.

Snorting at the crumpled heap of a shuttle gasping on the floor, Hook looked around for the source of the voice. 

In the span of the klik it took his processor to realize who it was, his spark dropped and tried to play dead. There, standing at the head of the hallway, was an incandescently furious Ratchet, wrench grasped in one servo, gripped like he was trying to (and succeeding at) warping the metal.

A quick glance at his surroundings told Hook that Brawl and Vortex had shrunk back towards the far end of the hallway, completely abandoning their gestaltmate in favor of their own survival. Blast Off having regained enough energon to his helm to realize that trouble was brewing, but lacking a path to safety that didn’t take him past Hook—not that he would’ve noticed if the mech had tried—had done his best to flatten his frame against the wall, visor sparking. His gaze flickering back to Ratchet, the urge to cower almost overrode his motor functions at the sight of the medic’s furious glare, his arms crossed and pede tapping as though he actually expected an answer.

“Well…?” the medic asked, confirming Hook’s fear.

“Blast Off mouthed off to Hook, so he tried to kill him!” piped up Vortex from the end of the hall, and any fear Hook had for Ratchet was eclipsed by the sudden, overwhelming urge to murder the rotary in the most gruesome fashion he could.

“YOU MAKERFRAGGER!” he roared, charging towards Vortex who promptly abandoned his cover from behind Brawl to meet Hook helm-on.

He only made it a few strides towards Vortex when pain burst in the back of his helm, sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap, his visual feed blacking out, along with his HUD.

__________________________________

When his visual feed came back online, he was treated to the sight of walls moving past him and the fearful yet amused looks on Brawl, and Blast Off’s faces, both mechs towering over him. Craning his neck up, Hook realized three things: one, he was being dragged down the hall by Ratchet (a feat a mech of his size shouldn’t, by any reason, be able to accomplish), two, Vortex was being dragged along in the medic’s other servo, and three, his servos and pedes were bound (so were the rotary’s, but his? seriously?). 

The trek to the medibay was easily the most humiliating moment of Hook’s entire life, made even worse by the audience of Combaticons privy to it. His only consolation was that Vortex was also being dragged with him, ensuring that neither Brawl nor Blast Off would make any mention of the incident for fear of sending their already abysmal reputation to new rock-bottoms. 

That small comfort was offset by Ratchet unceremoniously tossing him forwards into the medibay, sending him to a skidding halt face-first to the floor. Struggling up onto his pedes, Hook watched in stunned shock as the ‘Bot hefted the confused and disorientated rotary over his shoulder and stomped over to an open berth.

The medic hadn’t stopped muttering and cursing under his vents since Hook had regained consciousness, and at the rate he was going, he was set to rival some of Starscream’s best tantrums. Only difference was that when the seeker threw a fit, he mostly made empty threats. Ratchet clearly meant to follow through with every threat he made.

At least, that’s what Hook’s coding told him. He understood, on a mental level, that the Autobot medic would not, in fact, scrap his plating for spare parts and ship the rest of him to Unicron, but he nonetheless believed the threat with his whole spark. So did the two Combaticons, if their flattened plating and wide-opticked stares meant anything. Pit, Blast Off made a squeaking, panicked noise when Ratchet snapped his digits at him, impatiently gesturing for him to take the berth next to Vortex.

On reflex, Hook reset his vocalizer, and the glare of ice-cold fury Ratchet sent his way almost made his spark stop. [I think ‘Hatchet’ is a better name for him now…] Long Haul’s thought echoed with tones of nervous apprehension in Hook’s processor. A few others drifted through at the edge of his consciousness too, and were getting louder—indicating that they were getting closer. So, his gestaltmates were coming to this ‘training seminar’. Good. Now they’d finally get off his aft about… what had Blast Off called Ratchet? The Doctor of Doom? 

Looking over at the still ranting medic (and honestly a little impressed at how the medic still worked efficiently while cussing out every mech in the medibay but Brawl), Hook couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. Doctor of Doom indeed.

As Ratchet stalked towards him and the spark signatures of his gestaltmates registered not too far from the medibay, Hook's hopes of surviving the next lecture, much less to see the next cycle, dropped faster than the sinking feeling in his tank.

Chapter Text

The air in the medibay was tense like a live wire sparking nearby; not immediately threatening, but able to turn deadly in a sparkpulse. Hook’s gestaltmates—who’d been elbowing and snapping at each other a moment prior—sat on either side of him, most fidgeting uncomfortably in place. Behind them sat the three Combaticons who had been roped into all this in a display of the phenomenon ‘wrong place, wrong time’. Standing by the reception desk, arms crossed and glaring at everyone in the room, was Ratchet.

The quiet hum of bondspeak filled the silence as Hook’s gestalt argued amongst themselves. [What if we just…. leave?] Scavenger asked, a hopeful look in his optics as he glanced at Scrapper. [Yeah, Boss, this whole scrapshow’s Hook’s problem,] Bonecrusher griped, arms crossed boredly, [Why do we hafta deal with the fallout with ‘im?!]

Before their foreman could respond, the sharp sound of a mech clearing his intake brought everyones’ helms up, alarm cutting through their gestalt bond. All of Hook’s instincts told him to run for cover as he met the medic’s scathing glare, a feeling that caused Long Haul to snicker under his vents only to be elbowed sharply by Mixmaster, the chemist displaying uncharacteristic seriousness. 

The dump truck pulled his lips back in a snarl, ready to snap at him, when Ratchet coughed louder. Immediately, every mech straightened up, their fields commingling, awash with anxious anticipation. 

“Are you lot done acting like scraplets yet?” 

Fear flashed across their gestalt bond, Scrapper shooting them dirty looks, as they all silently—and somewhat frantically—nodded their helms.

“Good. Now pay attention, this is important.”

The medic paced back towards the reception desk, grabbing an industrial bucket off of the counter before turning back to face his captive audience. “This,” he said, gesturing to the bucket, “is what you’re going to use to clean each and every surface and tool you’ve used while treating a patient.” Ratchet glared at him specifically, enunciating, “After. every. patient.”

Hook felt his plating slick flat to his frame, the odd sense of embarrassed shame settling like bad energon in his tank. Around him, his gestaltmates snickered, his processor slowly reaching its data limit as their thoughts jeered at him. 

“Nah-ah. None of that.” 

Ratchet’s voice pulled their collective attention back forwards, and surprisingly, he was glaring at everyone but Hook. “He-” the medic jabbed a digit at him- “at least knows how to use this scrap. He just doesn’t care enough to.” Hook wasn’t sure whether he should gloat the medic’s defense of his character to his gestaltmates, or be insulted at the backhanded attack to it. “You lot,” Ratchet gestured to the rest of the assembled mechs, “wouldn’t know clean solvent if it came out of a shower head.” He chose to keep his helm down about it.

Behind him, Blast Off made a strangled scoffing sound, wings hiking as Scrapper bristled next to him. Under normal circumstances, he’d be trying to edge away from the loader before he blew up and tried to offline the nearest mech, but there was quite literally nowhere to run. Ratchet, however, remained unfazed. 

A silent, crackling tension filled the room, like a loaded gun waiting to be fired. From the murderous fury rippling in waves from Scrapper’s end of their gestalt bond, Hook was fairly certain their foreman was about to leap from his chair and offline the ‘Bot. If not that, then he was gearing up to start what could easily be one of the loudest shouting matches in Decepticon history (possibly even beating some of Screamer and Megatron’s best hits).

Blast Off, however, broke tradition and started the shouting match first. “Who the pit are you to tell me that-”

Correction, tried to.

“Ah-ah-ah,” the medic admonished, wagging a digit, “I’m CMO, and as such I get to give you a reality check, free of charge.” Stunned, the Combaticon fell back into his chair with a dull thunk . “If you think for one nanoklik that anyone in your entire faction has the capabilities of even the simplest cleaning drone, then I’m not all that sorry to tell you, but you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Oh yeah?” Scrapper challenged, glaring daggers at Ratchet, “An’ what if we don’t take too well to you sayin’ that?”

“Then you can take it up with Soundwave,” the medic dismissed with a bored wave; like he was dealing with a bothersome mechling and not a ‘Con with a history of anger issues and violent tendencies. “Now, if you’re all done bellyaching, we have a schedule to adhere to.”

Across their gestalt bond, Scrapper seethed at the Autobot, causing both Mixmaster and Bonecrusher—in a shocking display of survival instinct—to surreptitiously scoot their chairs away from their foreman. Ratchet just snorted in derision and continued on with his lecture. Either he’s suicidal, or the Autobots have more fuses blown than we do, Hook thought with morbid curiosity. No mech has that bad of a fight or flight response.

Still, no one in either his or the Combaticons’ gestalt made a move to try and leave, so he figured that Ratchet must have made his point to them somehow. Pit, he was only half-paying attention to his ramblings, but even that was surprising to Hook, given that he typically didn’t care enough to even try and listen when the higher-ups decided that dragging him into a meeting was ‘paramount to the Decepticon cause’ or some such slag. 

As the ‘Bot switched topics to disassembling and disinfecting the various medical tools in the medibay, he realized that he was leaning forwards in his chair, and scrambled to fix his mistake.  A smattering of snickers echoed in his helm as he slammed back against his chair’s backrest, plating flaring before he could depressurize his armor. Hook desperately hoped that Ratchet hadn’t noticed anything, but the slight pinch of the medic’s shoulders told him to brace for the worst.

And yet, the ‘Bot said nothing. Confusion and curiosity rippled through the gestalt bond as Ratchet just… carried on with what he was doing, turning around to ask questions every now and again, but never acknowledging that anything was amiss or had happened. It was… nice. Not that Hook would ever admit (or even acknowledge) it.

__________________________________

Half a joor later—Ratchet’s (first) lecture finally coming to a close—and Hook’s memory storage was sending frantic pings to his HUD about a lack of available data space. Taking a long vent and shutting his optics, he sent a quick command to shuffle the data to short-term storage. It was a temporary solution, but it’d hold long enough to get through the rest of the cycle. Probably. He was going to need a full processor defrag when this was all over, though.

“Any questions?” the medic asked, looking over his audience with narrowed optics.

A beat of silence passed before Scrapper, wholly nonplussed by the atmosphere around him, asked in a bored voice, “Sooo, are we going to get a… Hook, what’dja  call this thing? A medical seminar?” When he gave him a hesitant nod, their foreman slung an arm over the back of his chair, lazing back with a sneer. “Yeah, that. Are we gonna get an actual medical seminar, or are our audials going ta rust ‘fore you say a word ‘bout it?”

Ratchet glared at Scrapper, and for a klik, Hook was concerned that he might be witness to a murder (more so that he gave Ratchet the better odds) or worse. Then, a humorless grin split the medics face, and he realized there were much, much scarier things to worry about. 

“Well, I suppose we have our first volunteer, then,” Ratchet said with faux niceness, “Hook, why don’t you come up here too and be our stand-in medic,” he added, beckoning both mechs forwards.

On reflex, Hook stood up and took a step forwards, only to freeze mid stride when a bark of laughter came from behind him. 

More specifically, it came from that Primus damned rotary. 

“Oh Primus, oh my fragging Primus!” Vortex howled, doubled over in his seat while his fellow gestaltmates tried to edge away from him, flinching at the scathing glares Hook’s gestalt aimed at them. “I can’t fragging believe it! You really are the ‘Bot’s lapdog aren’t you?! Holy fragging Primus!”

Somewhere, in the swells of his and his gestalt’s anger, an even angrier, yet somehow equally calm, field descended over him. 

“On second thought,” Ratchet’s voice snapped Hook out of the haze of fury that had eclipsed his processor, replacing it with a cold chill that skittered up his back strut. “Hook, sit back down. Vortex, you’ll be our medic.”

Hook robotically took his seat as Scrapper rose out of his, smiling smugly at the rotary as his optics flicked left and right, looking for exits. Brawl had already scooted his chair back behind Blast Off’s, no doubt trying to not get caught up in one of Vortex’s violent fits of paranoia-induced panic, while the shuttle’s plating had slicked flat, the low hum of defensive weaponry coming online emanating from his frame. 

“Now,” Ratchet commanded, pede tapping impatiently.

Vortex’s optics snapped forwards and locked onto the medic, before, to their collective shock, he stood up from his chair and hesitantly walked over to stand in front of Ratchet, eyeing Scrapper like he was still debating whether or not to pick a fight. [S’pose anything is possible at this point] Long Haul mused with bored curiosity. [‘Cons gettin’ bossed around by ‘Bots. What a world.] If not for his utmost desire to not face their foreman’s—potential—wrath, Hook would’ve agreed with the dump truck. What a world indeed.

“Alright,” Ratchet began, clapping his servos together, optics scanning the assembled Decepticons to make sure everyone was paying attention, “I’m not going to beat around the bush, none of you know scrap about medicine, much less how to keep a wounded mech alive. I am going to change that.”

“Really?” Scrapper asked with a yawn, eliciting nervous laughter from the Combaticons and Bonecrusher, “Not tryna be rude or nothin’~” their foreman drawled with a sardonic chuckle, “but I don’t think yer softsparked Autobot slag’s gonna do much ‘round here. We don’t need it anyways. Been doin’ just fine so far.”

“Yes. So far,” Ratchet countered, an unnatural placidness in his voice. Then, in the blink of an optic, the medic dropped low, leg whipping out and sweeping Scrapper off his pedes, their foreman crashing to the ground with a deafening bang. 

Instantly, Long Haul and Bonecrusher were out of their seats ready to defend themselves, while Brawl floundered out of his chair as Blast Off abruptly stood up, tripped, and staggered back. Vortex stood stock-still, staring at the downed Scrapper, and Mixmaster remained seated. From the chatter across their bond, though, it was clear that his processor hadn’t quite caught up with all the action. All that kept Hook from being caught completely by surprise were the modifications he’d gotten for his optics after being (voluntold) appointed as CMO of the Nemesis. 

No mech that bulky should be that fast, echoed in the back of his processor, a weird amalgam of his and his gestaltmate’s thoughts—something that only ever happened when they were all in agreement about something.

Their helms all snapped back towards Ratchet when he rapid-fire asked, “Vortex, he’s just been shot in the chassis, what do you do!?” 

Caught off guard again by the sudden question, the rotary floundered, optics wide with surprise, mouth agape. “This mech’s bleeding out right now! Think! What do you do!?” Ratchet demanded, dropping to one knee to keep Scrapper pinned to the floor. Not that it did much, though; their foreman was still too stunned to move. 

The Combaticon’s field fluctuated wildly, his weight shifting from pede to pede like a nervous equinoid while he wrung his servos. 

“Vortex! What do you do?!”

“IDON’TKNOW!IDON’TKNOW!IDON’TKNOW!” screamed the rotary, optics flaring as he stumbled back from Ratchet and Scrapper, his blades rattling together in a threat display.

With a snort, Ratchet got up from the ground, offering a servo to Scrapper who venomously batted it away. 

Unfazed, the medic turned to the rest of them. “And that is why knowing what to do in both combat and non-combat situations is so important,” gesturing over to where Vortex and Scrapper stood half-mortified next to him, “You freeze up like that and your pal, your friend, your teammate? They’re deader than a scraplet in the arctic, you got me?”

Everyone sat in stunned silence before a flurry of furiously nodding helms rippled through the small crowd, spurred on by the piercing look the medic gave them.

“Good.”

Turning back to his ‘volunteers’—[I think they’re sacrifices at this point] Scavenger thought with indicators for nervous laughter. [No shit!] Bonecrusher whispered back—Ratchet clapped his servos together. “Now, let’s try that again. You,” he called pointing at Scrapper, “Come back here and lay down. You’re our casualty for now.”

[You didn’t fragging tell him who we were!?] Cringing at the furious look Scrapper sent him, Hook hoped the loader would forgive him for not introducing his gestalt. Still, their foreman stomped forwards and lowered himself back onto the ground, laying flat on his back. Satisfied, Ratchet snapped his digits at Vortex. “Now you, grab that med kit and come here.”

[Is that psychopath actually listening to him?!] Long Haul asked incredulously, optics flicking between his gestaltmates and the spectacle before him. [Shut the fuck up and focus you nitwits] Scrapper growled through the bond, silencing them all. [If we have to do this slag again, I’m going to personally weld each and every one of you to the hull of this ship.]

[Aw, c’mon Boss,] Mixmaster whined back, [you wouldn’t do that! We’d rust! We’re too pretty for that!]

Before Scrapper could come up with a scathing riposte—not that any of it would carry an actual threat—Ratchet interrupted with a disgruntled huff as he knelt down next to the loader, beckoning Vortex to follow his lead. “Let’s say, for the sake of basic triage, this mech-” “It’s Scrapper,” their foreman ground out- “Right, Scrapper here has been shot through the chassis by a blaster bolt. What do you think you should do?”

Vortex hemmed and hawed for a klik before asking, “This is, like, if we were on a battlefield, right?”

“No,” Ratchet shook his helm. “We’ll cover combat-medicine later. For right now, this is happening in the medibay post battle. What should you do?”

The rotary paused again, blades twitching subconsciously as he thought. “Stop the bleeding first?” he offered, with a hesitant shrug.

The medic sighed in what Hook could only assume was disappointment, but said, “That’ll do for now. Yes, you want to make sure your patient doesn’t bleed out while you’re treating them. Here-” Ratchet grabbed the medkit from Vortex’s servos and pulled out tweezers, gauze, and medical-grade solvent. “You want to wash the wound out first; make sure no foreign bodies are present so that infection doesn’t set in.”

“But, uh, aren’t we, like, metal?” piped up a voice from behind Hook. “I thought organic stuff didn’t affect us?” Helms swiveled around to look at a confused Brawl and a pink-faced Blast Off who looked like he wished the floor would swallow him whole.

“Yes, we are,” Ratchet answered, not bothering to pick his helm up, “But corrosive agents can be found in even the smallest organisms and materials. You do not want any of that stuck in your internals.”

“Oh. Okay.” Mollified, the Combaticon leaned back forwards, resting his elbows on his leg plating, clearly invested in the lesson.

The rest of the Constructicons, Hook included, just turned back forwards to stare at the Autobot. 

Truthfully, this wasn’t the first medical-orientated… thing… they’d had to sit through. It’d been led by Soundwave, and any ‘idiotic questions’ were met with the threat of being sent down to clean the lower decks indefinitely and left unanswered. 

Never, in their combined functioning, would Hook and his gestaltmates have thought that a stupid question could be met with anything other than ridicule. Much less be given an earnest answer.

“Now,” Ratchet continued, “once the wound is clean, check to make sure there aren’t any exposed struts or torn major fuel lines.” He gestured for Vortex to do as instructed, then immediately grabbed the rotary’s arm to stop him. “Don’t actually pour solvent on Scrapper. This is just practice, not the real deal.”

“Oh.” Vortex stared dumbly at the medic, then slowly put the container of solvent down and hesitantly reached towards Scrapper’s chestplates. That earned him a smack to his servos from Ratchet.

“Don’t just go sticking your grimy servos in another mech’s chassis!” making a shooing motion at the Combaticon, the ‘Bot let out a sharp exvent. “Primus, have none of you ever heard of hygiene before!?”

“I thought this was just pretend,” Bonecrusher whispered to Mixmaster, though clearly not quietly enough; Ratchet’s (now trademark) glare catching him when he raised his optics again.

“Pretend or not, the small details are what can make the difference between saving a mech’s life, or watching them offline in your arms.” There was a dead-seriousness in Ratchet’s voice that made any further joking around die across the gestalt bond. If Hook had to guess, it was the not-quite-there look in the medic’s optics. The kind that said a mech had seen too much. That they’d left too many pieces of themselves with the dead and forgotten. 

It made his protoform want to crawl off his frame.

A klik of tense silence pressed down around them before Ratchet cycled his optics and carried on. “When you’re in the middle of a battlefield, this kind of hygiene can be ignored, you’re just trying to keep your patient alive as best you can.” He fixed Vortex with an icy glare and added, “In the medibay, I don’t want to see a spec of dirt on your servos when you’re treating a patient, understand?”

The rotary bobbed his helm frantically, then pantomimed cleaning his servos off. “There, all clean!”

Ratchet sighed and nodded towards Scrapper again. “Alright, now that he’s stable, you want to keep pressure on the wound, make sure it doesn’t open up and start bleeding again while you check his vitals.”

Plucking the spool of gauze from the ground, Ratchet tossed it to the rotary. “You want to wrap this around his chassis enough times to completely cover both the entrance and exit wound. Making sure that pressure is evenly distributed and that you keep the tension the same.”

Watching as Vortex carefully wound the gauze around Scrapper’s chestplates, Hook noted how gentle Ratchet was when correcting the rotary’s technique (even if said help was often followed with a barb of some kind). It wasn’t something he could ever see himself partaking in, but he could certainly see the appeal of its use—at least among ‘Bot ranks. 

As the medic invited (ordered) each of them up to copy what Vortex had done, and correcting them all in much the same manner, Hook couldn’t help but be relieved at not needing to fear corporal punishment for screwing something up. It was nice not worrying about getting a beating for not immediately memorizing what he’d been told. His gestaltmates seemed to be in agreement too, if Scav’s awestruck look and Bonecrusher’s cautiously curious field were anything to go by.

It took Brawl the longest to get it right, but once he did, Ratchet gave the mech a solid pat on the shoulder, and the Combaticon immediately short-circuited and shut down for a nanoklik. When he came to, he quickly scrambled away from him and Scrapper and hurried back to his seat, spikes of wary confusion jutting out from his field. As he took his seat, Ratchet beckoned Vortex back up to the front.

“Alright, now that he’s no longer bleeding, we need to make sure his vitals are stable. Shock can kill a mech as quickly as a blast bolt, and that’s not even taking into account helm or internal trauma.” The medic pointed in quick succession to Scrapper’s helm, intake, and primary fuel line. “C. V. P,” he enunciated, “Consciousness, Venting, Pulse. Those are the most important things to check when treating a patient, regardless of the injury.”

“But wouldn’tcha wanna check, like, pulse and venting first?” asked Scavenger, while Bonecrusher and Long Haul facepalmed at the interruption. 

“If they’re conscious, and can respond to you, it means that they’re venting and have enough energon circulating to maintain a lucid state.” Hook’s mouth moved before his processor caught up with him, parroting old, old information from the medical data packets Soundwave had given him back when he’d first started in the medibay with Shockwave. “If they’re unconscious or unresponsive, that means they could have more internal damage that could’ve damaged or blocked their vents, intake, field pump, or spark, or that they’ve suffered helm trauma.”

Cycling his optics, Hook snapped his mouth shut, satisfaction and panic running through his processor. Would Ratchet be pissed that he’d spoken out of turn? Had he even said the right thing?! Optics skittering over towards the medic in question, he was stunned to find a surprised, yet proud smile on the mech’s face.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Ratchet praised, waving for Hook to come up and join him by Scrapper, “Vortex, why don’t you sit back down. Hook will be better at demonstrating this.”

Preening, Hook rose out of his chair and walked over to Ratchet, shooting a smug smirk at his gestaltmates and ignoring the returning jeers across the bond. Coming to kneel next to Ratchet, he waited as the medic instructed, “Alright, Scrapper, you’re going to be unresponsive to Hook’s questions and stimuli, got it?”

“Whatever you say, Doc,” the loader replied with a grumble, shuttering his optics all the same and letting his limbs go lax. [Fuck this up and I will dismantle you and let the cassettes dig you out of the vents] he growled at Hook across the gestalt bond.

“Now, Hook, would you kindly demonstrate how to properly check for consciousness, venting, and pulse?”

Nodding with a smirk (and shifting it to something more ‘appropriate’ when the medic scowled at him) Hook shifted so that he was next to Scrapper’s helm. “Scrapper? Can you hear me?” he asked with more politeness than he’d ever given a mech in his lifetime. When his foreman failed to respond, he repeated himself, louder this time, while shaking the mech’s shoulders. After that didn’t work, he shuffled over to access his right arm.

Grabbing Scrapper’s right arm in one servo, he pinched the protoform of his exposed elbow joint. That got an immediate reaction, the loader’s plating flaring out as he cussed loudly, yanking his arm out of Hook’s servo. “What in the Primus’ damned pit was that about!?” he demanded as he drew himself to a sitting position eyeing both Hook and Ratchet with measured caution.

“That was testing your reaction to physical stimuli,” Ratchet explained unbothered, taking advantage of the loader’s distraction to grab him by the arm and drag him back forwards. 

“If the verbal questions don’t work, you can try comms instead, but physical reactions are much easier to gauge, as you’ve just seen,” he said, turning towards the crowd as he talked. “Now lay back down and quit yapping. Trauma patients don’t whine about pinched protoform,” he ordered, pushing—shoving—Scrapper’s shoulder down until the mech was back supine against the ground.

As his foreman shuttered his optics again, Ratchet turned to address Hook. “Now, he’s proven unresponsive to verbal and physical stimuli, what now?”

“Check venting and pulse points,” he replied, already turning his helm to hover his audial just above Scrapper’s chestplates. A spark of pride lit in his chassis when approval radiated off Ratchet’s field. His taunting and teasing gestaltmate’s could go frag themselves; here, he was being proven that he knew what he was doing without a doubt.

As if his foreman somehow understood the point of the assignment, Hook could barely see any shift in Scrapper’s chassis, much less hear any kind of venting from his intake. Sitting back up, Hook pressed his middle and foredigit against the protoform of the loader’s intake, just beneath his jaw. 

“What Hook is doing,” Ratchet explained to the crowd, “is taking Scrapper’s pulse. You have two jugular fuel lines that run up either side of your intake. If you can’t get a pulse read with those, check the junction between a mech’s forearm plating and the beginning of their servo.”

Taking the cue, Hook shifted his position to grab Scrapper’s arm again, ignoring the slew of swearing that exploded in his helm—mostly centered around threats of bodily harm if he pinched his protoform again. A quick check revealed a consistent sparkpulse with what he’d found on his foreman’s intake. “Oh, and don’t use your thumb!” he half-shouted, half-snapped behind him. “A prominent fuel line runs through it, so you’ll get false feedback if you try an’ take a pulse with it.”

“Yes, very good,” Ratchet complimented, already on the other side of Scrapper, waving Hook off Scrapper’s frame. “You can go sit now. Vortex, come up here!”

A smug, self-satisfied smile on his faceplates, Hook stood and walked (sauntered) back to his seat. Maybe having the ‘Bot around wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Settling back into his seat and watching as Ratchet cuffed the side of Vortex’s helm for knocking on Scrapper’s helm (and marvelling at their foreman’s self-restraint), it seemed the rest of his gestalt agreed. [So, we agree that Hatchet’s, like, gonna be our wine aunt, right?] Long Haul asked as the medic release Vortex and called up Bonecrusher. [Primus you lot watch too much Earth TV] Scrapper griped from his position as medical dummy. [Even I can’t understand half the scrap you say, and I’m the fragging gestalt leader.]  

[Yeah, well, I kinda like him too] Scavenger cut in, [He’s nice. And I like that!]

[Of course you do you big fuckin’ baby!] Bonecrusher groaned, only for Mixmaster to defend their strutless sixth. [You’d rather deal with Shockwave and Megatron’s moods?] A simple question, but it was enough to silence everyone in the bond. [At least the ‘Bot won’t beat us if we frag up, and besides,] the chemist added, [from the look of it, if we buddy up with him, he’ll protect us!]

Silence fell over the bond again, and Hook looked up to see every mech, sans Scrapper, staring at him, waiting for his opinion. With a sigh, he looked between Ratchet (and the presently struggling Brawl) and the rest of the medibay. [He’s not CMO for nothing] he finally admitted. [If he takes to us, he’ll protect us. Trust me, I’ve seen it first-hand.]

[More like been on the receiving end of it!] Bonecrusher scoffed alongside Mixer’s [You mean when he bit your helm off? Three times!?]

[Go frag yourselves. You know what I mean] he growled back, glaring at the chemist and dozer. [On-Only if you-you watch!] Mixer jeered back to muffled snickers from the rest of the gestalt.

And now he's getting overexcited. Just fragging great. Hook just flipped him off and crossed his arms. [I gave my fragging piece, alright? Just make up your minds before you take up more of my precious processor space.]

It didn’t take them long to come to a conclusion: Ratchet was to be an honorary Constructicon, whether he liked it or not (it certainly helped that if it worked out, they’d have someone to dump Scav or Mixer on when they got to be too much too). Smiling to himself, Hook had to admit, this seminar had actually been productive.

***

To his pleasant (and suspicious) satisfaction, his seminar had gone off—mostly—without a hitch. Had he needed to put a mech in their place here or there, sure. But that was par for the course with Autobot trainings too (especially when Spec Ops needed their annual skill touch-up). That was a small universal comfort: no matter where he went, mechs would always think they were the best thing since compressed energon, and he would always get the opportunity to put them back in their place.

To be honest with himself, it had been extremely satisfying, putting the Constructicon, Scrapper, on his skidplate. More so when he’d been able to get and hold the other ‘Cons’ attention. Ratchet wasn’t one to really consider himself a fighter, but he was still a combat medic, emphasis on combat. Between the war and running his clinic in the slums of the Dead End, he’d gotten into his fair share of fights—and after the second mugging, he’d made sure that he won all of them.

Still, it was a pleasant surprise that Scrapper (and what was he to the Constructicon gestalt? The others seemed to defer to him, but also interacted with him like an equal. Was he the gestalt leader, or simply the most assertive of the group?) had listened to him after he’d pulled his little stunt. Honestly? Ratchet had expected a full on fight to break out—had been fully prepared to subdue the front-end loader—only to be momentarily caught off guard when the mech had complied with his demands. Vortex too, was an oddity, but an oddity he’d have to deal with later. Compared to Whirl, the rotary was a vent of fresh air.

Another pleasant surprise was that he’d gotten through most of what he’d intended to with his seminar: Sanitizing procedures? Check. Medical maintenance? Check. Triage assessment? Check. They’d run out of time to cover anything other than cleaning wounds, dressing blasterfire injuries, and checking consciousness, venting, and pulse, but that was a better start that Ratchet had planned to hope for, so he took it in stride. Blunt force trauma, Torniquetting, and battlefield first aid could wait for another cycle.

He had to laugh, though, at how obvious it’d been that the Constructicons had been talking to each other over bond speak. As if Ratchet hadn’t raised two gestalts and been wrangling the twins since the day they joined the army. 

An abrupt pang of guilt stuck in his chassis, like razor wire winding around his spark. First Aid, Grimlock, Silverbolt, Wheeljack. Were they doing alright? In his haze to instill medical common sense to the ‘Con’s CMO, he’d completely forgotten about his own family back on the Ark. Did they miss him? Were they worried about him? Scrap, did they even know he was alive?

Primus fragging damnit! I can’t even get a comm out to tell them I’m alright without Soundwave noticing! The slagger’s probably listening in right now, isn’t he? Fragging damnit!

Ratchet’s grip tightened on the handles of the medkit, the sound of strained plastic reaching his audials. Blowing out a harsh exvent, he forcibly loosened his hold, and closed his optics. They’ll be fine. Jazz will send someone to come get me any cycle now. I’ll be back before I know it, I just need to live long enough to make it home in one piece.

It was a bit depressing, he had to admit, knowing that he might not even get to say something to Wheeljack one last time: might not cuff his helm for starting a fire again, might not get to gently bap his nose with a wrench again, might not get to see the scientist's fins light up with excitement upon unveiling his latest and greatest (his words, not Ratchet’s) invention. 

Pit, he might not even see First Aid again! There was so much the young mech needed to know; like how proud Ratchet was of him. Like how he knew, despite ‘Aid’s reservations, that he’d make a fine CMO one cycle. That, despite everything that had happened during the course of this Primus’ forsaken war, the medic’s unfaltering attempts to stay positive meant more to those around him than he realized.

As he trudged back to his hab, the ruminations in his helm grew louder and louder, drowning out every other thought. Would he die here? Deep beneath the Earth’s surface, never to see those he cared about ever again? Surely that couldn’t be where his story ended, right? He was the Primus damned CMO of the Autobots! He’d lived through everything from the Clamp-down to now, and he was still in top shape! And yet, better mechs than you have died in much less dignified ways, his processor reminded him. We don’t all get to offline with a smile in the arms of our conjunx. The best most of us can hope for is a painless, quick death.

With that morbid thought in processor, Ratchet stepped into his hab and was about to flop onto his berth when he spotted a small package at its foot. Picking it up, he gave it a cursory look over before giving it a light shake. The sound of liquid sloshing around caught his attention, and the small card that fell out from underneath it kept it.

Scrawled in hasty Kaonite was a letter that essentially boiled down to asking if Ratchet would be willing to continue hosting his seminars, but with more of the crew present. Clearly, Soundwave’s cassettes had written it for him, but Ratchet had to admit, it felt nice to have his efforts be noticed and appreciated. He wasn’t looking forwards to trying to teach empathy and doctor-patient confidentiality to the likes of Starscream or Shockwave, though.

It was oddly endearing, too, to see a small postscript saying that if he ever decided to beat up a mech, there wouldn’t be any cameras pointed his way. 

Snorting and shaking his helm, Ratchet tossed the card aside and tore the thin packaging off the cube, revealing it to be slightly diluted high grade—not the intoxicant kind, but the high-performance fuel kind. The kind that seeker’s fueled on. How Soundwave’s brats had gotten their grubby servos on it was beyond Ratchet, but he wasn’t about to look a gift turbofox in the mouth (he was, however, going to make sure it wasn’t spiked, though. He wasn’t a newforged idiot). After a properly thorough check revealed no intoxicant agents, he peeled a corner of the cube back, sitting down on the side of his berth as he took a swig of the stuff.

It was bitter, like he’d expected—ground-frames weren’t built to imbibe this type of energon on the regular, and as such, hadn’t evolved the taste receptors to appreciate it—but he could already feel the color returning to his frame, his less-than-optimal fuel levels quickly rising back within healthy parameters. Swallowing the rest of his drink, Ratchet resealed the top of the cube and stowed its half-filled contents in the pathetically small energon storage unit next to his berth. Better to save the rest for later, in case he needed it.

Laying back against the cool, hard metal of his berth, Ratchet replayed the cycle’s events in his helm. ‘Con culture truly hinged on prowess over others, didn’t it? Respect was given to the mech who could best you, and not a klik before, or so his preliminary data had shown. It was strange, ‘Con social dynamics. Friends and partners seemed more decided by who would help you get away with something, less by who you could trust. Likewise, it seemed that kissing up to stronger ‘Cons were how the rank and file kept themselves protected amongst the ever changing cliques and gangs that made up the Nemesis’ crew.

Ugh. If he was going to keep adding to his growing folder on ‘Con social dynamics, he was going to need to start keeping external hard drives on servo to store all this information.

Rolling onto his side, Ratchet shuttered his optics and curled in on himself. The next cycle was coming, whether he liked it or not, and he’d need his wits about him if he wanted to keep surviving here. That was, he decided, his new, second mission: survive until he could get home.

Recharge came shortly after, plunging his processor into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Primus had to be laughing at him. He just had to be. 

No sooner after he had awoken and stepped out of his hab than he was greeted by a Constructicon bouncing on the tips of his pedes right outside of his door, a bright smile plastered across his face. “You’re a deep recharger, y’know?!” the ‘Con commented cheerfully.

Staring in shock at the mech before shaking his helm and recovering, Ratchet schooled his expression to a flat glare and crossed his arms. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked sarcastically, already trying to think of a way to distract the ‘Con long enough to slip by. 

“I’m your escort for today!” chirped the mech, the excavator bucket attached to his back curling in and out, in what Ratchet could only assume was an expression of excitement. Then his processor caught up with what the mech had said.

“My what?” 

Any hope of escaping the ‘Con plummeted as the mech nodded furiously. “Yep! I’m s’posed ta follow you around so that the others don’t get any funny ideas, or-“

“I know what an escort is, kid,” Ratchet cut him off (and kept the fact that he’d never once been approached by another ‘Con outside of the medibay to himself). “I’m asking what you’re doing playing at one.”

“Well…” the Constructicon shifted his weight back, helm tilting side-to-side so he was never looking directly at Ratchet. “Soundwave sent a memo to all the gestalt leaders that ya were gonna educate ‘em, an’ we all thought-“

“We?” Ratchet cut him off again, annoyance and confusion running rampant in his helm. 

“Yeah! Scrapper talked it over with all o’ us, an’ we decided to take turns makin’ sure none o’ the others try an' do anythin’ to ya!” 

Then, after a moment’s pause, the ‘Con added, “And I’m Scavenger, by the way! Most call me Scav, though.”

Realizing that the kid wasn’t going to take no for an answer, Ratchet let out a defeated sigh and gestured down the hall. “Can we get moving, then?”

“Oh yeah! totally!”

Like he’d practiced it, the Constructicon stepped to the side to let Ratchet out of his hab, falling into step behind him as they walked towards the medibay. This could be worse, he told himself as they went, tuning out Scavenger’s disconnected train of thought musings. Better this than them breaking in and offlining me in me recharge.

Something about that thought settled like an itch in the back of Ratchet’s helm, imploring him to replay the beginning of their conversation in his helm. A horrifying realization shot through his spark like a blaster bolt. How fragging long was he outside my hab!? He’s a fragging Constructicon for Solus’ sake! How do I even know he didn’t tamper with the door locks?!

Taking a quiet vent to calm his nerves, he did his best to appear nonchalant as he turned to Scavenger and asked, “How long, exactly, were you outside my hab?”

“Not that long! Only about half a joor!” Came the chipper reply, the mech’s red visor tilting to look at his curiously. “Why?”

Sighing and pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge, Ratchet let out a short exvent. At least he’s upfront. “Has no mech ever told you to give recharging mechs privacy?”

“Well, yeah… ? Scrapper put Long Haul through the wall once for interrupting his recharge-“ Ratchet’s spark almost stopped at that. The ‘Con had said it so… casually that he almost missed it too- “but what if someone wanted to attack you at night?” the ‘Con continued unperturbed, as though the words that had just left his mouth were simple common sense. “And please don’t tell him that I got here late,” he added, nervousness curling in his field. “I was supposed to take night watch too.”

“Is that really necessary?” Ratchet asked, trying his best to keep the incredulity out of his voice while simultaneously making another mental note that all of the ‘Cons needed therapy at the earliest possible convenience. 

Scavenger just nodded his helm solemnly. “Mhmm. Lotsa mechs go missin’ at night. Even Soundwave doesn’t have enough optics ta watch everyone.”

Well, that’s certainly… informative, Ratchet thought to himself as he took the information in, rounding the last corner before reaching the medibay. He’d known that the ‘Cons were volatile as a general rule, but a chill crept into his spark at the realization of just how vulnerable he’d been leaving himself at night (or the closest approximation at the bottom of the ocean). Maybe I should ask for a better door lock, he mused as he approached the open doorway leading into the medibay.

“Well, my shift’s up!” Scavenger called with a wave as he pulled away, heading down the hallway towards what Rachel assumed was the mess hall. “Have fun with Hook an’ ‘Haul!”

Turning back to take a closer look at the medibay’s occupants, he realized that the Constructicon was right. Kneeling on the floor, furiously scrubbing at something, was Hook in the process of berating a very lost-looking Constructicon who Ratchet had to assume was ‘Haul’, though he doubted that was the ‘Con’s actual name.

As he walked in, he caught the tail end of Hook’s rant at his gestaltmate. “You know WHAT!? It was a fragging mistake even letting you NEAR the medibay, because you couldn’t point to a solvent container if it SMACKED YOU IN THE FACE! Honestly, a WASTE disposal drone has more processing power than you do! PIT! The TWINS could’ve done a better job, and I don’t think they’ve washed their plating since before the FUCKING WAR!”

Walking past the reception desk, it became apparent that ‘Haul’ had tried to start cleaning the medibay, and mixed pure sodium into the solvent mixture. Scorch-marks littering the floor, some of them still smoking from under the power of whatever suppressant the fire had been put out with. It also made the medibay a temporary biohazard as well, and for the first time since meeting the mech, Ratchet felt a spark of respect kindle towards Hook.

Haul, on the other servo, fell somewhere around where he’d usually put idiots like Sideswipe or Huffer.

“Oh, you’re here!” came the relieved voice of the mech in question, the Constructicon beelining for him, pulling up short as he caught the scowl on his face. “Listen,” he tried regardless, gaze flickering between Ratchet and his gestaltmate, “can you tell Hook to, like, calm the hell down?”

Frown deepening to a scowl, Ratchet gave the ‘Con a once-over before shrugging. “Personally, I think he’s being incredibly lenient, given that you seem to have forgotten lessons I taught you less than a cycle ago,” he glared at Haul, servos on his hip plating (and one discreetly reaching into a subspace pocket for his wrench if the ‘Con decided that he was going to mouth off).

“Thank you!” Hook exclaimed from the floor, exasperated appreciation radiating off his field. The Constructicon paused his scrubbing to turn and ask, “And pass me the hydrogen peroxide wouldja? I’m out and someone-” he shot his gestaltmate a withering glare- “can’t be trusted with anything more complex than a sparkling’s toy.”

Grabbing the aforementioned bottle, Ratchet spared a second to turn to Haul, pointing to the chair behind the reception desk. “Stay there, and don’t touch anything. Got it?”

The ‘Con bobbed his helm furiously and wasted no time darting behind the desk prompting Ratchet to roll his optics as he walked over to Hook and handed him the bottle. “Take it Scav toldja ‘bout the other gestalt’s listenin’ in on yer little seminar?” the Constructicon asked, his bored tone of voice doing a poor job of masking his curiosity.

“Yes, he did,” Ratchet replied curtly, pulling a cloth from his subspace and heading over to work on one of the larger of the scorch marks. “And I’ll have you know that I don’t need babysat like some newforged sparkling. I’ve been a combat medic for longer than you lot combined have been alive for.”

“Tch,” Hook snorted, annoyance rippling through his field. “Well, that wasn’t my idea, so don’t go blamin’ me.”

“So I was told.” 

__________________________________

With their combined effort, the damage to the floor lifted easily enough, but the force needed to get them up had started to strip the paint from Ratchet’s knuckles. For a brief moment, he’d considered dragging the other Constructicon back over to fix his mess before immediately thinking better of it. He’d gone through that trial-by-fire with the twins before, and it’d taken him three cycles to clean up the mess they’d made of his office (and only half of one to find the two scraplets and drag them into Prowl’s office).

Off to his right, Hook let out an annoyed sigh and pushed to his pedes. “Well, that oughta do it.” 

Grunting in agreement, Ratchet slowly straightened up, joints audibly creaking as he stood up. Stowing the cloth back in his subspace, he glanced around to see Hook staring at him, plating flattened and a horrified look on his face. “What?” he snapped, glaring right back.

“Are you dying!?” The ‘Con’s voice was strangled, like he couldn’t believe what he’d seen. 

Primus, I am not awake enough to deal with one of his hissy fits.  

“I’m really not in the mood for one of your conniptions,” Ratchet growled, only for Haul to interject, “No, no, I’m with Hook on this one. You sounded like someone cracked open a fucked up glow-stick. That ain’t right.”

What the pit is a glow-stick? “It’s called aging you scraplet. And in my line of work, it doesn’t happen gracefully, I’ll tell you that.”

“That still don’t seem right,” Haul muttered, while Hook continued to stare at him like he’d contracted the Rust Plague.

Then, in a flurry of motion, the Constructicon crossed the distance between them, and pressed—forced—a small, metal container into Ratchet’s servos. Staring down at it, processor stuck halfway between curiosity and indignation at having his space invaded, he only half-listened as Hook rattled off a grocery list of instructions. “Apply it to the seams of your plating and the edges of your joints, that should deal with the worst of the squeaking, and use it at least twice a cycle. Three is your best bet, but you’re a stick in the mud, so I’ll assume you’re a lost cause there. Make sure your plating is thoroughly cleaned beforehand or it’ll congeal and flake-” the ‘Con paced back and forth, ticking items off his digits as he talked, while Haul and Ratchet watched the spectacle unfold (the former bemused, the latter growing more annoyed by the second)- “Oh, and don’t recharge in it, it needs movement to properly seep in.”

A pause hung in the air as Hook turned towards him, arms crossed. “You got all that?”

“If by ‘got all that’ you mean ‘listened to an unprompted verbal onslaught’, then yes, I got it.” Likewise crossing his arms, Ratchet glanced down at the container held in his servo, raising an optical ridge. “What even is this anyways?”

“What- What even is that!?” Hook asked (shrieked) incredulously, servos flying into the air. “Primus, have none of you goody two-shoes ‘Bots ever heard of maintaining your frames?! And you want to get on my case about cleanliness!”

Taking a deep vent, Ratchet tucked what he now understood to be some kind of grease into his subspace and tried to curb the less… polite words that he wanted to say. He’s trying to be polite here, he told himself. You’ve seen him be rude, and this is probably the closest thing to politeness you’ll ever get out of him. “My joints acting up isn’t a sign of a lack of maintenance. It’s age. Nothing more,” he said slowly, careful to keep his field in check.

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do something about it!” Hook countered. “You’re supposed to be CMO, how do you not have time to maintain your frame!”

“Because I spend most of my time trying to keep mechs from bleeding out and dying on me!” Ratchet snapped back, his patience reaching its breaking point. “Not all of us have the luxury of putting our personal priorities before the lives of our patients, much less have the time to worry about something as vapid as the polish of our plating!”

His fans whirred quietly in the ensuing silence as Hook stared at him, a shocked and somewhat guilty expression on his face. Haul, too, had gone silent, doing his best to appear occupied behind the reception desk. Dammit, I forget how young they are, Ratchet chastised himself. 

How many times had he scolded Mirage and Sunstreaker for abandoning their duties in favor of touching up their finish? How often did he need to remind the Aerialbots to focus on training their skills rather than goofing off the way all sparklings liked to do? Even if they were ‘Cons, and even if they were far more lackadaisical than any of the quote-unquote ‘problematic’ Autobots, the Constructicons were still incredibly young—barely older than the Protectobots. It was something he needed to keep in processor more often.

Breaking the silence, Ratchet finally said, “I’ll try to use it, thank you.”

Sensing the unspoken apology, Hook awkwardly nodded his helm with a halfhearted, “Good, you’d better,” before he wandered over towards the reception desk. 

The mech stayed there as Ratchet puttered around the medibay, wrangling chairs and supplies into place for the eventual presentation, though Haul would occasionally jump in when—as best he could guess—he thought Ratchet was trying to move or carry something too heavy. It was both a tad endearing and patronizing, but help was help, and no one was cursing, so he considered it a win.

The Constructicon had been helping set up a whiteboard (where he’d found it from was a mystery Ratchet didn’t particularly care to solve) when Hook called out, “Long Haul, go get Scav. He isn’t listening to me or Scrapper.”

“He’s prolly overcharged off his aft,” the dump truck snickered. Then, when Hook glared at him, he casually put his servos in the air. “Alright, alright, I’m going!”

Got it. So Long Haul’s his name, Ratchet thought to himself as the Constructicon sauntered lazily out the door, updating the ‘Con’s patient file.

Turning to him for the first time since he’d snapped at him, Hook asked, “So, how—exactly—do you plan on dealing with Motormaster and Onslaught’s crews?”

“Depends on how they decide to behave themselves,” Ratchet shrugged back. Then, gesturing for the ‘Con to join him, he added, “Come over here. There are some talking points you’ll be better suited to deliver, but we need to hammer out the pacing first.”

Suppressing a knowing smile when he sensed a burst of pride flicker through the Constructicon’s field, Ratchet just turned back towards the drawn-up diagram in front of him, scouring it one last time for any mistakes he might’ve missed. Even with Hook’s recommendations, though—and he did have to give him credit, the kid knew how to compact a lecture—he still had a feeling that the cycle was going to be a long one.

***

Hook knew, from the moment he sensed the spark signatures of Motormaster’s band of psychotic idiots barrelling down the hall, that the next few hours would be an exercise in extreme patience. A quick glance at Ratchet told him that the elder medic had come to the same conclusion. At least I won’t have to be stuck next to them, he thought to himself—or, tried to.

The gestalt bond didn’t technically allow for any personal thoughts, let alone being alone in your own processor, but there were layers to it: the less you paid attention to the bond, the less you heard from it, and the more relaxed you let your thoughts be, the less everyone else heard them. Ironically, trying to think quickly only made them louder, as Mixmaster had found out the hard way.

As the first of the Stunticons, Wildrider, launched himself around the corner, skidding to a stop just before the medibay entrance, Ratchet leaned over and whispered, “Go grab the splints and backboard from the back.”

It took Hook a second to realize that he was being given an out from having to deal with the oncoming helmache, but he quickly bobbed his helm ‘yes’ and scurried off, letting the ‘Bot deal with Motormaster’s crew. Though, from the sound of it, Wildrider was actually making an effort to be… polite? At least, for a Stunticon.

Peering out from behind the shelving unit he was currently digging through, no, I’m not stalking them Mixer you fragging creep! He watched in morbid fascination as Wildrider prattled on and on about… something. Alright, he was talking a mile-a-minute, and Hook couldn’t make heads or tails of what was being said, but Ratchet was maneuvering the mech around like a seasoned pro, herding the twitchy ‘Con into a seat in the back row of chairs.

Not long after he got Wildrider settled, Dead End and Vortex strode through the doorway, the latter chatting animatedly to the former. Both took their seats with little fanfare, though ‘Tex whined about sitting on the opposite side of the room from Dead End. [Are they, like courting, or somethin’?] Bonecrusher asked, followed by Long Haul’s [Primus he’s a fuckin’ whiny mech.]

Hook was about to reply with his own opinion (the chances of Vortex actually courting someone were astronomically low), when a frantic, panicky field washed over the entire medibay, setting every mech on edge. “PRIMUS FUCKING DAMMIT BREAKDOWN!” Motormaster’s voice roared, echoing in the enclosed space and sending the already panicked sportscar sprinting into the medibay with a static-filled cry of fear.

Everyone already there froze in place, the assembled ‘Cons waiting with baited breath to see what would happen next (and hoping the deranged gestalt leader wouldn’t notice them) while Ratchet’s attention remained fixed on the shuddering, terrified lump of shaking metal that was Breakdown. C’mon Ratchet, Hook urged in his helm, c’mon you useless old man, move before he gets here!

The medic, against all logic, moved to the Stunticon’s side, speaking to him in a low, calm voice, servos moving slowly. Move dammit, move! Hook wanted to scream, fear curling around his spark as Motormaster’s furious field drew closer and closer—but it wasn’t fear for his own safety.

[Get him out of there!] Long Haul and Bonecrusher shouted in tandem alongside Scavenger’s panicked [Hook! Do something!!!]  

He was afraid for Ratchet.

The demands of his gestaltmates quickly rose from a dull ache to a roar in his helm as Motormaster finally rounded the corner to the medibay, roaring something about useless mechs, but it all sounded like static to Hook’s audials. The semi easily dwarfed Ratchet, bearing down on the medic like an unstoppable force of nature. And Ratchet, ever the noble Autobot, rose to meet him, stepping in front of Breakdown to shield him.

Hook had seen a lot in his (admittedly short) lifetime, but despite it all, he’d always been able to do something. Even if that was just choosing to observe, he’d had a choice. But as Motormaster drew closer to Ratchet, lips pulled back in a feral snarl, he found himself frozen in place. The semi drew his fist back, and Hook shut his optics, ducking back behind the cover of the shelving unit. A sickening crunch, followed by a reverberating bang, like a frame hitting the floor, echoed through the medibay. His intake locked up, even as his HUD pinged him about needing to offset the heat trapped in his frame. 

His gestaltmates screaming died to a hush in an instant, and somewhere in the bond, he could sense them all rushing towards the medibay. They won’t make it in time, he told himself. Motormaster was easily the heaviest hitter the Decepticons had, and when he wanted a mech dead, it tended to happen. One way or another. Still, Hook couldn’t bring himself to abandon his cover and bear witness to whatever fate had befallen the Autobot’s CMO. His tanks churned just at the thought, and somewhere deep in his spark, he was shocked. Shocked and horrified.

[I didn’t think anything could actually hurt him] came a stunned, reflexive whisper from Mixmaster, wholly in line with Hook’s own halting train of thought.

Just as reality slowly began to sink in, a booming voice broke Hook out of his spiral. 

“Alright, everyone pick your jaws up off the floor and stop gawking! You’re all going to give the kid a spark attack!”

No fragging way, he thought to himself, frame moving of its own accord to peer around the shelving unit once more. Holy fragging shit.

There, kneeling in front of Breakdown in all his white and red glory, holding the Stunticon’s servo to his chestplate as he spoke in hushed tones, was Ratchet. 

[What the frag?!] Scrapper shouted in incredulous disbelief, the sensation of his gestaltmates rushing towards the medibay abruptly breaking off at the same time.

Casting his gaze around the rest of the medibay, Hook saw Vortex standing on top of his chair, rotors raised like a crystalwolf’s hackles, while Dead End and Wildrider had both taken cover behind theirs, the black race car clearly more visibly frightened than the red one. Optics drifting to the door, he noticed the Combaticons had not only arrived, but held themselves in unusually tight formation: Onslaught and Blast Off taking point (the former in a much more aggressive posture than the latter) while Brawl and Swindle tried to peer around their teammates to get a better view. Off to the left of them, Drag Strip was trying to surreptitiously edge his way to a chair without going near the center of the floor.

Finally following the Stunticon’s nervous gaze, Hook’s engine almost stalled in surprise. Lying splayed out on his back was a very unconscious Motormaster, energon staining his face even as it dripped off it and onto the floor beneath him. [Holy fuckin’ Primus!] Long Haul practically shouted. [Ratch took down Motor!?]

[So it would seem] Scrapper commented idly, praise and admiration woven through his thoughts. [It would appear that you lot actually picked a mech worth our time to hang around.]

As if I’d ever bother wasting my precious time with someone beneath my abilities, Hook scoffed, finally turning away from the now-calm scene and returning to looking for the backboard and splints.

[I'll say! Hook gave ‘im some of his personal stash!] Long Haul butt in, and Hook had to suppress the urge to try and psychically strangle the dump truck. The feeling only grew when Bonecrusher, Mixer, and Scrapper all chimed in with various phrasings of “No he fucking didn’t, no fuckin’ way”. 

[Yes way] Long Haul confirmed [Saw ‘im give it to ‘im myself!] and then proceed to share a memory across the bond—though generously left out Hook the part where he got scolded, so he supposed he had to give him that.

Chatter across the bond eased to its usually back-of-processor itch as Hook located the needed items and strode back to the front of the medibay with them in tow. By the time he had the center floor in sight again, Motormaster had been dragged into a sitting position against the far wall, his servos and pedes bound, and a strip of metal welded over his mouth (the same kind that Hook knew were only supposed to be used if a mech’s face had been cracked open, and a shudder ran up his back strut). Breakdown had somehow made it into a seat at the far end of the row, next to Dead End.

The Combaticons, on the other servo, seemed to have taken their seats with little fanfare, though from the glances they (Brawl, Swindle, and Vortex) kept stealing towards Motormaster, they were still in disbelief of what had happened. Onslaught and Blast Off kept their helms resolutely forwards, though Blast Off’s optics did follow Hook as he walked over to Ratchet. 

Said medic was in the process of sketching diagrams onto the whiteboard Long Haul had scrounged up, and didn’t even react when Hook announced, “Got the stuff ya wanted. Wheredya want it?”

“Put it over by the braces over there,” he said, not even taking his optics off his work, which appeared to be a diagram of superimposed leg and arm struts. Optics focusing on the medic’s servos, he caught sight of dried energon on one and dark grey paint transfers on his knuckles; both of them. [Are we sure we’re the ones who need to protect him?] Scavenger asked and was promptly met with a flurry of “No, but it’s the principal of the matter”s.

Giving a grunt of affirmation, Hook filed his findings away for later and headed over to the small pile of braces as instructed. He carefully set his items down next to it before the itch to arrange it for ease of access grew unbearable, and he began messing with the arrangement. Dusting off his servos when he was finished and looking over his work, he almost missed the presence of his gestaltmates appearing in the doorway.

Bonecrusher and Mixmaster were the first to enter, helms swivelling to look for Motormaster, and visors flickering with surprise once the found him. Long Haul and Scavenger were the next in, both of them glancing from the Stunticon’s gestalt leader to Ratchet and back again, guilt flickering across the bond. Hook supposed he should feel a bit guilty too; he’d technically been on rotation to watch out for the medic too, but honestly, what was he supposed to have done against fragging Motormaster!? Besides, Ratchet had lived, so it wasn’t that big of a deal.

At least, to Hook, it wasn’t. The sharp glare Scrapper sent him as he walked through the doors and passed him told him that this was something that would be discussed later. For the time being, though, his gestalt leader took his seat in the front row, sandwiching himself between Bonecrusher and Mixmaster (the former being unceremoniously ousted from his chair with minor—for Mixer, at least—protests).

A quick teek pinged Hook’s field, causing him to scramble to suppress his startled reaction, helm turning to try and discreetly look for the teek’s source. Another teek registered, followed by the sound of someone quietly clearing their vocalizer, and Hook realized that they’d come from Ratchet. Doing one last quick check-over of his frame, he straightened his back strut, servos clasped behind his back (and trying not to cringe under the disapproving glance he felt the medic shoot him) as Ratchet turned to address the audience.

“As you all know by now, Soundwave has requested that I knock some medic sense into your thick helms, so if anyone has any complaints, now would be the time to voice them.” 

Hook watched with smug satisfaction as not a single mech in the audience made so much as a peep—even motor-mouthed Wildrider kept his trap shut—though that was definitely helped by the scathing look Ratchet sent Onslaught when it looked like the general might protest at being insinuated as an idiot. Primus, was he glad to not have to endure that look anymore.

“Well, with that out of the way,” Ratchet announced, clapping his servos together, “Let’s start with the basics of Combat First-Aid.”

Chapter Text

For the most part, Hook found himself sidelined as Ratchet went over procedures for securing, assessing, and moving wounded patients; relegated to passing supplies to the medic, or demonstrating proper technique. Where usually he’d despise being treated as little more than a fetch-boy, it was all made worth it as he got to watch ‘Con after ‘Con get scolded and reprimanded, while he received praise for his efforts (gloating the special treatment to his gestaltmates and reveling in their silent jealousy).

A tired, long-suffering sigh from Ratchet drew his attention back to him and subsequently to Brawl, who was on his fifth attempt at setting a neck brace. The victim of the cycle was Dead End, and, for all his nihilistic patience, the Stunticon looked two degrees separated from murder. “That’s good enough,” the medic said, voice tired and strained. Waving the Combaticon off the Stunticon’s frame, he pointed back to the rows of chairs. “You can go back to your seat, now.” 

[I’m surprised he hasn’t hit ‘im with somethin’ yet] Scavenger commented offhandedly to varying murmurs of agreement.

Slowly, the tank got to his pedes, field wavering between concern and apprehension. He walked back to his seat, greeted by jeers and glares from his teammates, and Hook was tempted to agree with them, only keeping a mocking snort trapped in his intake at the sensation of Ratchet’s frustrated field registering on his EMF sensors.

“In a combat scenario, you need to react within a reasonable timeframe, yes,” he growled at his audience, glaring at the Combaticons in particular, “But there’s no use in being perfect out there. As long as you can do something half-decently well, you’ll be doing a helluva lot more than if you can’t do anything at all.”

Silence fell over the medbay as the medic searched the audience for any would-be dissenters, optics narrowed and icy. When he felt satisfied that he’d gotten his point across, he turned and walked over to Dead End, who was trying to subtly pry the brace off his neck. “As if none of you ever messed up something before, Primus, you’ll never learn a damn thing if you never give yourselves the chance to try!” he grouched to himself, though his voice carried easily in the pin-drop silence.

Once the brace was off the race car’s neck, the Stunticon tried to make a break for it, shooting to his pedes, engine rumbling to life as he tried to scurry back to the safety of the chairs. Ratchet was faster, and if he hadn’t been in the middle of an argument with Mixmaster, Hook would’ve barked a laugh. 

The medic’s servo clamped down on the Stunticon’s arm in an iron vise-grip, optics narrowing as he raised an optical ridge. “Going somewhere?” he asked nonchalantly, helm tilting ever-so-slightly to the side.

There was a second’s pause before Dead End visibly deflated, shoulders sagging as he yanked his arm free of Ratchet’s servo, the medic letting go without a fuss. “I’d prefer to die in a more dignified manner then choked to death by a lumbering oaf,” he grumbled as he walked back over to the designated ‘wounded patient’ area.

“Lovely,” Ratchet deadpanned, catching Hook’s attention with a quick ping and beckoning the Stunticon back towards them. “In that case, leaving you in Hook’s servos should be no problem.”

Pride and confusion swirled in Hook’s chestplate as the medic patted Dead End’s shoulder and strode back to the center of the stage area. “Hook is going to explain and demonstrate how to prep and insert an IV line. Once you’ve got your patient stable and secure, your first order of business is making sure they don’t die from overheating.” Taking a step back, Ratchet gestured from Hook to the audience, opening up the floor to him. 

Anxious excitement flooded his fuel lines, screaming at him not to fuck up. [Do NOT mess this up Hook] [If you make us look bad in front of Hatchet I’m not letting any of you near the engex stash again!] [This is going to be a disaaaster…] Apparently, his gestaltmates were thinking along the same lines.

Vocalizer resetting with a soft click, Hook turned his attention to the audience and straightened his back strut. “Prepping and inserting an IV line is the easiest and easiest to mess up procedure you will ever learn.”

Letting his words settle over the assorted mechs, Hook spared a glance at Ratchet, pride surging through his spark at the small quirk of a smile on his face and the approving nod he gave. “Now, you might think an IV’s just coolant, but you’d be dead wrong, aaand so would your patient.” Emboldened by the medic’s approval, he felt the last of the anxiousness slip away, casually pacing around the makeshift stage as he talked. “IV’s are predominantly filled with coolant, yes, but there also needs to be at least a two percent energon content in there as well as microdoses of key minerals so that the coolant can bind with the energon in your fuel lines.”

Pulling an IV bag out of the personal medkit in his subspace, Hook let his audience watch as he demonstrated the correct concentration of liquids and minerals that needed to be mixed to create a proper IV. Once he was finished, he jerked his helm, calling Mixer up to the front to try it himself. 

Not all that surprisingly, it took his gestalt collectively less that two attempts per mech to get the ratios right (no doubt thanks to dealing with Mixmaster’s chemical spills that constantly—intentionally, as far as they were concerned—escaped his lab), but it was surprising when he called Vortex up and the rotary got it right the first try. 

Now, did Hook—and everyone else on the Nemesis—have his theories? Absolutely! Was he about to ask? Hell fragging no!

The rest of the Combaticons gave him little trouble, but when he got to the Stunticons, he began to truly wonder how the hell Ratchet could put up with any of them. Breakdown’s servos had shaken so badly that he’d splashed the coolant mixture onto Hook’s finish. Twice. Drag Strip he’d had to strong arm into paying attention to the measurements, and Wildrider he wasn’t even sure was aware of where his frame was anymore. At least I don’t have to deal with Motormaster, he reassured himself, clinging to the infinitesimally small thread of silver lining keeping his temper in check.

The gestalt leader in question was still bound by his servos and pedes in the far-back corner of the medbay. He’d regained consciousness half an hour ago and had sat there seething at everyone ever since. Muffled shouts and the on-again-off-again plate-rattling rumble of his engine was really the only indicator that he was aware of his surroundings. The semi’s field was downright murderous, and Hook was eternally glad that the gag over his mouth had held up so far. All he could hope for—what they all hoped—was that it (and the rest of his bonds) would hold through the end of the lesson.

As Dead End finished measuring out and adding the proper minerals into the coolant (his third attempt and he was taking his dear sweet time with it), he looked it over and proclaimed it good enough—not a perfect balance the way he preferred it, but the desire to get the mech out of his space overruled his own neurotic tendencies. Sending the Stunticon back into the audience, he jerked his helm towards the space behind him. “Blast Off, get up here.”

The shuttle’s wings flicked in annoyance, a scowl etched across his face. Glowering back at him, Hook growled, “You’ve got the densest plating of any of us, so get your sorry aft up here before I drag you up here myself.”

Ailerons flexing as he grumbled something inaudible, Blast Off shoved out of his seat before, inexplicably, taking a vent and walking up to the front of the room like a calm, collected mech. [Is he possessed?] Scavenger asked, followed by Bonecrusher’s [That is NOT Blast Off. Who the fuck is that!?] and Mixer’s [Since when has HE had manners with US?]

He's probably trying to show off for Onslaught or some scrap like that, Hook snapped back, rolling his optics beneath his visor.

The shuttle’s wings settled back down to a relaxed position as he stopped in front of Hook, visor flashing as a ‘what-the-frag-do-you-want-from-me’ settled on his face. “Just sit over there and don’t faint,” he growled, jerking a thumb over to the IV set up off to the side.

Blast Off let out an annoyed huff, but dragged his pedes over to it and settled onto the mobile medberth Ratchet had apparently set out while he was talking. Turning his attention back to the audience, Hook clapped his servos together—and only realized that he’d mimicked the ‘Bot when hoots of laughter poured across the gestalt bond. 

Glowering at his gestaltmates, he paced over towards the seated shuttle. “Inserting an IV requires more focus than setting a brace or bandaging a blaster wound, so pay attention before you slag a teammate in the field,” he snapped. 

Striding over to the IV stand next to Blast Off, he grabbed the capsuled end. “Before you even think about jabbing a needle into some mech’s frame, you have to find the primary-”

An incensed, strut-chilling roar of someone gunning their engine filled the medbay, Hook’s words breaking off and dying in his intake. 

Helms snapping to where Motormaster sat, he felt his tank drop at the sight of angry red weld lines on the mech’s snarling face, the gag crumpled in his fist. “ YOU PATHETIC, SORRY, ASS-KISSING EXCUSE OF A MECH!” he roared, sending the Stunticons scrambling out of their chairs to get away from him. The Combaticons seated nearest to him likewise abandoned their chairs, Swindle notably diving behind Brawl’s back, clinging to it like an Earth-koala (the comparison only registering in Hook’s processor thanks to listening to Mixmaster rave about their toxic properties).

The semi’s wild red optics darted around the room [If he makes a go at Ratchet again…] The unspoken threat hung between them as Hook watched Motormaster with baited vents, the servo hidden from the gestalt leader’s view reaching into a subspace pocket for anything remotely sharp. Fortunately, it wasn’t Ratchet who’d drawn the Stunticon’s ire. Unfortunately, said ire was directed at Hook instead.

Motormaster barked out a harsh, grating laugh, a fanged snarl twisting his ugly face into something somehow uglier. “You’re PATHETIC, you know that?! Heeling to that fucking Autobot like a good little turbopup, WHAT’S NEXT!? You wanna join the ‘Bots?! Wanna fuck off and go lick their pedes like the little ass-kisser you are?!” 

Metal shrieked and groaned from excessive strain before the bindings on his pedes snapped apart, metal shards flying in every direction (and hitting some of the Stunticons and Combaticons who hadn’t moved far enough away). 

“It’s no fucking WONDER your gestalt’s a fucking JOKE!” he laughed—a hollow, sharp thing that hardly sounded genuine—and took a menacing step forward (That’s ironic coming from the mech who can’t control his own gestalt, Hook thought hysterically, subspace pocket coming up empty). 

To the left of him, the Stunticons shrunk against the far wall, Breakdown and Wildrider taking shelter under the medberths, both quaking messes, while Dead End and Drag Strip bristled like cornered turbofoxes, weapon systems cycling up. Vortex’s blades were bristled straight up and back, rattling in a threat display while Onslaught and Brawl held blasters at the ready. Swindle, naturally, kept himself tucked behind his ersatz shield. Behind him, Blast Off scrambled out of the medberth and ducked behind it, taking cover from the approaching harbinger of death.

He saw none of it. Instead, the all-encompassing rage that flowed off Motormaster’s field held him frozen in place. They were almost the same height, but Hook felt like a petrorabbit facing down a cyberwolf. Every instinct in his frame screamed at him to move (as did his gestaltmates over their bond) but his pedes stayed glued to the floor. 

Time slowed to a crawl as the Stunticon advanced on him, Hook’s processor a mess of unintelligible warnings and comm pings. All he could focus on was the sadistic look in the semi’s optics and the sensation of all of his lived experiences flooding his helm with useless information. With a calmness that belied that pounding of his spark in his audials, he wondered, Is this really how I die? Torn to shreds on the medbay floor?

Then, in his peripheral, a white mech stepped forwards, servo clenched around… something. A bright red medic’s insignia was emblazoned on his shoulder pauldron, and a black chevron adorned his helm. In its overtaxed state, it took his processor a moment to put the pieces into place. Distantly he could sense the furious panic of his gestalt, could see Scrapper shoving out of his chair to round on Motormaster, but all of his energy was laser focused on Ratchet as the medic braced his legs, the arm that held the wrench winding back until-

In the blink of an optic time seemed to fracture apart as the medic released the wrench. In the back of his helm, he was aware of Bonecrusher marvelling at the velocity Ratchet had achieved with his throw and Scavenger’s awe, but it barely held a candle to his confused bewilderment. 

His optics tracked the flight path of the wrench as it spun end over end with a sniper’s accuracy towards Motormaster’s face. When all at once, time snapped back into place like an overextended rubber band. The wrench shot through the air blindingly fast, connecting with the Stunticon’s helm and sending the mech crumpling to the floor like a sack of bricks. In the next split second, Ratchet had crossed the distance to Motormaster and had grabbed the gestalt leader by his back kibble, dragging him towards the door like he weighed nothing more than an energon cube. 

Hook watched as the medic shouted something, but the roaring static in his audials refused to let him hear it. It wasn’t until something, then multiple somethings, crashed into his frame, gripping him tightly from all sides, that he brought his attention back to the medbay. Who in the-? A flurry of frantic pings hit his HUD at once, only adding to his confusion. What the pit is going on?!

His visual feed spat nonsense at him, refusing to identify the mechs in front of him, and he tried to take a step back, only to find that his pedes were still stuck firmly in place. Panic began to climb back up his intake, the scratch of static clawing at his vocalizer as he tried to speak, when a calm, warm field abruptly washed over him. A moment later, the servos gripping his arms let go. A few final pings hit his HUD before the presences in front of him finally retreated, and a blank calm took hold of his processor.

__________________________________

The darkness only lasted what felt like a moment, and Hook blinked furiously to try and clear his optical feed, sending a manual command to open his vents and relieve his frame of the heat that’d built beneath his plates. Cool air washed over his internal systems, and he drank in the cold relief as the adrenaline pumping through his fuel lines ebbed away, leaving him feeling drained and shaken. 

As his vision cleared, a white helm with a black chevron swam into view; concerned, warm optics meeting his visor at… optic level? Come to think of it, where was he? Not on the medbay floor, that was certain, but the shelves around him looked familiar. “Where- where am I?” he asked, vocalizer coughing out static before leveling out.

“We’re in the storage closet. No one’s here but us.” Ratchet’s reassuring voice was a soothing balm against the fluxes of panic and anxiety that wracked his spark, and for once, Hook didn’t have the energy to be embarrassed by it.

[You good, Hook?] Scavenger asked over the bond, the rest of his gestaltmates pulsing concern and curiosity towards him as they sensed the shift in his processor. He took a quick look around the space they were in, noting how he seemed to be seated on the floor, the medic crouching in front of him.

“Where… What happened…?” Thoughts still dragged through Hook’s processor like they were stuck in tar, but Ratchet stayed patiently quiet while he tried to piece a coherent sentence together. “Did you- Did you hit me with a wrench?”

Concern flashed through Ratchet’s optics, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Kid, do you know where you are?”

Ugh, I’m not concussed, just answer the- Wait. Slagging dammit, I worded that like an fucking idiot! Hook groaned internally, bringing a servo up to ward off the medic’s nannying. “Couple cycles ago, when I got into a…” his processor scrambled to find a better phrase than ‘attempted murder of a crewmate’. “…A fight with Blast Off. Did you hit me with a wrench?”

“What do you think?”

To Hook’s surprise, he wasn’t even all that mad at the confirmation. [Ya were bein’ a dick, t’be fair] Bonecrusher laughed, followed by the echoed humor of his gestaltmates. 

“And Motormaster…?”

“You’d be surprised how often I’ve had to do that on the Ark,” Ratchet snorted, field pulsing humor before sobering as he focused back on Hook. “Granted, most of ‘em aren't slag-for-brains idiots who threaten my medics, but it happens enough.” 

Wholly unused to the feeling of being fussed over (and sure, his gestaltmates all took care of one another, but it was never anything… soft), he fidgeted in place as the medic did a vitals check, trying desperately to keep his harebrained field from showing just how excited he was to be considered under the ‘Bot’s protection. The words “my medics” stuck in his helm; his panic-ridden processor latching onto them like a lifeline.

After a couple moments, the medic hummed in satisfaction and rocked back on his heel struts. “Stay here. I’ll deal with the rest,” Ratchet ordered, standing back up, his back strut cracking in a way that made Hook think that there was no way he hadn’t just broken a strut. 

Just before he left, the medic turned back to him and said, “Take it easy, I’ll send the rest of you gestaltmates in soon,” and in his frazzled state, Hook was more than happy to comply.

As promised, a servofull of minutes later, his gestaltmates piled into the storage closet: Scavenger and Mixmaster crouching next to him while Long Haul, Bonecrusher, and Scrapper took up positions at the far back corners and by the door. It took Hook’s processor a moment to realize that they were taking up the same defensive positions they used when they were watching out for an attack. [No one’s getting in here, trust me] Long Haul growled in reassurance, giving Hook a quick nod.

Scrapper, on the other servo, seethed from his position at the door. “First he tries to lay a digit on Ratchet, and now he tries to hurt our medic!?” he snarled under his vents, “When I get my servos on him I’m going to rip him in half an weld his helm to the fucking BOW!”

A chorus of murmured agreements joined Scrapper’s declaration, Mixmaster reaching out a servo to pat Hook’s leg with a whispered, “He won’t pull slag like that again.” 

Normally, he’d detest that kind of action—he worked hard to keep his finish pristine for fuck’s sake—but instead he hummed wordlessly, helm sagging forwards as fatigue took hold of his frame. To his right, Scavenger tugged on his arm, and Hook let his helm settle against the excavator’s shoulder, a spent exvent escaping his intake, oblivious to the worried fields of his gestaltmates.

__________________________________

He woke up a while later to the sound of pedesteps approaching the storage room door, fear shooting through his spark and kicking him into overdrive as he sat bolt upright—crashing into Mixer in the process. Scrapper and Bonecrusher likewise stiffened, before relaxing as Ratchet’s voice floated through the doorway, addressing their gestalt leader. “The coast is clear if you want to head back to your hab now, unless you think it’d be better if he stayed here?”

“You’re the medic,” Scrapper said, confusion tinging his voice, “why don’t you tell us?”

“Just because I’ve raised three gestalts does not mean I’m an expert on them!” the medic scoffed. “Trust me, you understand your needs better than I do, so I’ll ask again: Do you want to leave, or stay here?”

Respect and awe flickered across the gestalt bond as Ratchet’s words sunk in— [We are SO keeping him] Mixer’s excitement bleed over the bond. Bonecrusher let out an amused snort and earned himself a smack to the shoulder from Long Haul.

“‘M fine t’move…” Hook slurred out, voice tinged with static from disuse and fatigue.

“Good to hear,” Ratchet called out (though he didn’t sound entirely convinced). “Rest up, I’ll deal with the rest of the lessons tomorrow, so no need to push yourself.”

A surge of alien warmth flooded the gestalt bond, equally as soothing as it was confusing, stunning all of them for a moment. It was neither any one mech’s emotion or one of the occasional gestalt emotions they got from Devastator. No, this was something entirely different, but also not entirely unwelcome.

Scrapper recovered first, bidding the medic an awkward, “Good night,” and watching as he left the medbay, pedesteps fading into the distance.

They stayed in the storage closet for another few moments when a comment from Scavenger kicked them all into a flurry of motion. “What’re we gonna do when he leaves?”

Scrapper delivered a disciplinary cuff to the helm and Bonecrusher barked for him to “Shut yer trap!” as Mixer helped Hook to his pedes. Conversation died back off, though, as they exited the medbay and headed back to their shared hab. 

An odd silence had fallen over the Nemesis’ halls, unusual for the early evening that was typically buzzing with overcharged mechs for the rec room and ‘Cons about to head out onto night shift rotation, but none of them paid it any mind. All that anyone’s processor could focus on was getting back to their hab and recharging for the next eternity.

It wasn’t until they reached the threshold that Bonecrusher asked, “So, just to be clear, we’re gonna go back tomorrow, right?”

“Duh,” Mixmaster rolled his optics at the dozer. “You see the way the Stunticons were lookin’ at him?! We leave ‘im alone and they’ll snatch him up!”

“I’m more worried that he’s gained Onslaught’s respect,” Long Haul snorted. “Blast Off’s gonna be so jealous ‘bout it.”

“Yeah, well, what isn’t he jealous about?” Bonecrusher shot back, flopping onto the worn couch in the middle of what could only loosely be called their living room.

“When he’s got a crush more obvious than a scraplet swarm on his gestalt leader? Ev’rything,” The dump truck snorted, earning a snicker from Mixer and a laugh from Scavenger. Both mechs took up spots on either side of Bonecrusher while Scrapper headed into the communal kitchenette.

Settling himself onto the plusher side of the couch—conveniently left open despite Scrapper’s preference for it—Hook relaxed back into the cushions, recharge pulling his overtaxed, addled processor down in a sparkpulse.

***

There were quite a few things Ratchet was proud of himself for, chiefly among them: his patience—or better put, his tolerance of other mechs’ idiocy. 

But when he’d seen Motormaster stalking towards Hook like a cyberwolf after a lame rotodeer, all he’d felt in his spark was white-hot, blinding rage. The wrench was in his servos before he’d even realized it, arm winding back and releasing it with as much strength as he could put behind the throw (which was a lot, given his experience wrangling every mech on the Ark from Prime himself to a tantruming Grimlock).

The Stunticon had barely hit the floor before he’d grabbed ahold of the mech’s back kibble and was stalking towards the door, Motormaster’s frame dragging behind him like a sack of loose scrap metal.

“SOUNDWAVE!” he roared down the hallway, figuring that it would be the easiest way to get the TIC’s attention (and wanting to make his fury blindingly obvious).

The tape deck showed up only a servofull of minutes later, two of his cassettes, Frenzy and—who he had to guess was—Rumble trailing after him wearing twin expressions of shocked awe. He’d all but shoved the limp mech’s frame towards them and growled, “Deal with him, or I will.”

The cassettes bristled at the commanding tone Ratchet used with their boss, but Soundwave simply bowed his helm. “Motormaster: Will be dealt with appropriately. Ratchet: Is unharmed from the altercation?”

“M’fine, just make sure that one-” he jabbed an accusatory digit at the sorry waste of space and oxygen that was Motormaster- “Stays the hell away from me and my medics.” He spat the last word out like it was poison, glaring at the useless lump of metal that dared call himself a Cybertronian.

With a single twitch of the tape deck’s digits, the two cassettes scurried forwards and, with strength that belied their small frames, began to lug the semi truck’s frame down the hall, snickering to each other as they no doubt spoke over their bond. 

“You have another request?” Soundwave’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, drawing Ratchet back to the present.

Not even bothering to concern himself over the mental intrusion, he sighed and ran a servo down his face. “I am a medic. You brought me here… to be a medic, yes?”

“Affirmative…” Confusion lay heavy in the tape deck’s voice, helm tilting to study Ratchet. 

“Then here’s my advice, free of charge. 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, do-I-make-myself-clear?” he hissed, glaring at Soundwave.

Silence stretched between them, before the TIC bowed his helm again. “Fulfillment of advice: May prove difficult. Advice itself: Will not be disregarded.”

“That’s all I ask,” Ratchet sighed, turning back to the whirlwind of chaos that had descended over the medbay in his absence. “Have a nice night,” he called over his shoulder as he headed back into the mess, not bothering to wait for a reply (though, he thought he felt a twinge of respect ping against his field—it was gone as soon as it came, but he’d definitely felt it).

__________________________________

Hook’s gestalt, to their credit, had been trying to calm their gestaltmate down using the techniques he’d taught them, but when they were all trying (and shouting) at once, it just added to the medic’s stress, the telltale signs of framelock making themselves obvious in his posture and field.

“Ep-ep-ep, stop crowding him!” Ratchet had barked, forcibly pushing his way to the center of the gestalt dogpile, placing himself between Hook and the five other mechs. “You two,” he pointed at Long Haul and Scavenger, “Try and gently get those four back over here. Gently,” he emphasized, waiting until he received acknowledging nods from both mechs before sending them on their way. 

“The rest of you,” he pointed at Scrapper and the other two mechs beside him (Mixmaster and Bonecrusher, though he wasn’t certain who was who yet), “Take point by the door, no one comes in here without my say-so, got it?”

The three mechs gave varying degrees of nods, Scrapper muttering something about it being a shame he hadn’t been sparked a foreman, before hustling off towards the medbay’s entrance, leaving him with Hook.

The Combaticons were still stuck halfway between a defensive formation and scared scrapless, so Ratchet just barked a quick, “Stay right there,” before quietly starting to coax Hook into following him, the Constructicon’s processor clearly elsewhere. Luckily, he managed to get the medic into the storage closet and seated with little fuss, crouching down to keep a close watch over him as he waited for the ‘Con to come back online.

__________________________________

Primus had the kid scared him when he’d woken back up and asked if Ratchet had hit him with a wrench. He’d cleared it up soon after, but he was getting too old for scares like that, dammit! Once he was confident that Hook wouldn’t framelock while he was away (more than a little concerned at his uncharacteristic compliance), he’d stepped out of the storage closet to deal with the rest of the mechs who were still effectively trapped in the medbay.

He wasn’t all that surprised to find the rest of the ‘Con medic’s gestalt watching him anxiously—though he doubted any of them would ever admit it—for whatever he had to say. A familiar pang shot through his spark as he looked at their faces; eerily similar to the ones the Protectobots had worn when Hot Spot and Groove and been seriously injured during a skirmish. 

He let them go tend to their gestaltmate shortly after making them swear not to overwhelm him.

Once they were out of audialshot, he was left with the remaining Stunticons and Combaticons: Breakdown and Wildrider had migrated from the medberths to their chairs, Drag Strip standing at attention nearby, plating flared out like he was waiting for an ambush. Dead End was seated over by the Combaticons next to Vortex, the two of them locked in a hush argument that the rotary’s gestaltmates seemed intensely keen on tuning out. 

Speaking of, Swindle had come down from his perch on Brawl’s shoulder, having used the tank as a living shield as best Ratchet’ could guess, while Blast Off had returned to his gestalt leader’s side, field reigned in tight. Onslaught had remained seated, a picture perfect model of calm and collected, but his tense posture and flattened plating betrayed his fear.

Taking a deep vent, Ratchet cleared his vocalizer, drawing every optics back up to where he stood at the front of the medbay. “Given the untimely interruption, I’m going to draw this lecture to a close. There will likely be a follow up to finish what wasn’t covered tomorrow, but wait until you hear from me or Soundwave. I will not deal with your whinging and whining because you lot didn’t check your comms, understood?”

A flurry of nods followed in the wake of his words, and he gestured towards the door with a sigh. “You’re all free to leave. Contact me if you have any questions about the material covered or if you feel that you need more servos-on practice.”

The Stunticons, minus Dead End, bolted out the door first, followed quickly by Swindle—earning the jeep some choice words from Brawl and Vortex. Dead End meandered next to the still-jabbering rotary while Blast Off fell into step beside Onslaught (almost glueing himself to the truck’s side) and glowered at Ratchet when his gestalt leader gave him a respectful nod, an impressed air ringing through what little of his field he could sense.

Personally, he could care less about the personal drama of the ‘Cons, much less relationship drama, but he was not about to get into some idiotic fight with a jealous shuttle. Fixing Blast Off with a reproachful look as he passed by, Ratchet was pleased to see him deflate a bit, though his wings stayed hiked up in a threat posture.

You can’t fix ‘em all, he sighed to himself, waiting until the last mech was out of the medbay before heading to the storage closet to check on the Hook and his gestaltmates, relieved to sense relatively calm fields from within. He wasn’t entirely convinced that the medic was fit to move, but again, gestalts understood how far too far was better than the average mech, and he’d been bitten one too many times by that lesson in taking care of the fledgling gestalts on the Ark.

He was, however, pleased that Scrapper had bid him a ‘good night’ when he’d turned to go, returning the peasantry with a polite nod and smile. Maybe there was some hope for these mechs after all.

_________________________________

Back in his hab, another cube of high grade sat perched on his berth, with another note attached—the writing even more scratchy and illegible than last time. Thankfully (or regrettably, depending on how you looked at it), he was both used to reading over his own illegible notes and his conjunx’s illegible notes.

(If you asked, both he and Wheeljack would agree that while Ratchet’s penmanship needed work, only he and Unicron himself could read the scribbles that constituted the scientist’s research logs.)

Still, he briefly considered adding writing lessons specifically for Soundwave’s cassettes to his itinerary before tossing the idea. Although, the note did ask for his presence in the TIC’s office for a debrief of events. Maybe he’d get a change irregardless. At the very least, he planned to bring several things to the tape deck’s attention, first and foremost what his tenure on the Nemesis was going to look like.

A pang of loneliness echoed in his chestplate, but he pushed it down. Now was hardly the time to get bogged down in the doom-spiral of what-ifs that swirled ominously at the edge of his consciousness. He had mechs to take care of here, and that had to be his priority.

Finishing off his energon ration and the rest of the high grade he’d already stored away, he put the new cube of high grade into the energon storage unit and flopped onto the berth, optics staring up at the plain durasteel ceiling, absentmindedly counting the small imperfections and divots that decorated its surface.

Time seemed to stretch on and on as he waited to slip into recharge—hindered in no small part by his own processor refusing to calm. Eventually, he switched tactics, calling up every memory he had of his loved ones: spending long nights in the lab with Wheeljack, reattaching the scientist's limbs when they inevitably got blown off with sharp yet playful teasing; watching the Dinobots grow and learn the world around them, engaging everything with childlike wonder after the initial suspicion wore off; watching First Aid grow more and more confident as a medic and the Aerialbots develop into their own persons.

A somber, nostalgic warmth settled in his spark as the last of the memories cycled through his processor, consciousness settling into a deep, dreamless recharge.

Chapter Text

Ratchet awoke the next morning (or whatever his internal clock deemed ‘morning’) not to his the pounding of his spark in his audials as he shook off the last remnants of a nightmare, but to the sound of muffled arguing outside his hab. 

Cautiously slipping off his berth and padding over to the door, he tried to make out what was being argued over.

“-move your sorry ass myself!”

“Shut the frag up! Do you WANT to wake him?!”

“He’s older’n stardust, he’ll recharge right through this.”

“I’ll recharge through what?” Ratchet asked, opening the door to find Long Haul and another Constructicon staring slack jawed at him, panic and surprise written across their faces.

When an answer failed to make itself known, he crossed his arms, frowning at the two mechs as he cleared his intake. “Ahem…?”

“Well, uh, y’see…”

“This’s Bonecrusher’s fault, not mine!” Long Haul shouted, skittering away from the dozer while levelling an accusatory digit at him. Ah, so that’s his name, the back of Ratchet’s processor hummed.

“IS NOT!” the other Constructicon roared, gearing up to charge his gestaltmate and vividly reminding Ratchet of the time that Fireflight had tried to blame a mess on Grimlock. The amount of time it’d taken to scrub the char off the Ark’s bulkhead was almost as impressive as the chewing out the Aerialbot got once he and Wheeljack had separated the two.

“A-HEM!” he cleared his intake louder, pulling both ‘Cons’ attention back to himself. “I don’t care which of you started it! If I don’t get an answer in the next minute, you’ll both be cleaning the medbay from top to bottom until it shines brighter than Crystal City, understood?”

There was a beat of silence before the two mechs gave a simultaneous, cowed, “Yes, Ratchet,” and sent him for another loop. His processor drew up memory files of apologetic Aerial and Protectobots.

Blinking his optics to clear the images, he waited a second before prompting, “Well…?”

Both Constructicons exchanged a look before Long Haul rocked back on his pedes, Bonecrusher turning back to face him; a clear tell that they’d just argued over—and come up with—a suitable excuse over bond speak. “We, uh… we were jus’ havin’ an argument over what materials make the sturdiest weld-material! Y’know, since yer teachin’ us ‘bout all o’ this, we figured you’d be best to weigh in!” the dozer laughed nervously, visor flickering.

“Mmhm. Want to try again?” Ratchet asked, not bothering to uncross his arms, but raising an optical ridge.

“Well…. We, uh…. We….” Bonecrusher trailed off, casting a pleading glance to his gestaltmate who visibly slumped at the realisation that the two of them weren’t getting out of this without some kind of explanation.

“We want to reinforce your door,” the dump truck finally admitted after a glaring frown at Bonecrusher. “After-”

“Ya put Motormaster on his aft. Twice,” the dozer cut in, holding up two digits for emphasis. “If ya weren’t on his hit list b’fore, y’are now. Ain’t safe ta recharge with thin doors no more.” 

Silence hung in the air as Ratchet took the information in, genuinely taken by surprise at the admission. “And you thought the best way to do that… was to install it while I recharged?” he asked as he tried to process what he’d just heard. 

To be perfectly honest, he had admittedly grown more than a little protective of the Constructicons (they were far too young to be taking part in the war at any rate, ignoring if they even knew what they are fighting for) over the past few cycles, but he’d assumed that their newfound protectiveness over him was a tactic to gain his trust and little more. 

While it was apparent that his teachings were rubbing off on them little by little, he wasn’t at all prepared to grapple with the idea that they actually cared about what happened to him.

All of this hit him like a runaway train as he watched Long Haul and Bonecrusher fidget nervously in front of him and left him reeling for some semblance of stability. Primus, I- I can’t just leave them here now! But how in the world am I supposed to get them off the Nemesis with me!? What would I even say?! “Hey, time to leave everything you’ve ever known behind and join the Autobots who just so happen to be sworn enemies of all ‘Cons?!” How would I even get them past Soundwave!? Pit, past Megatron!?

“It was s’posed ta be a surprise, but if you, uh, want, we can jus’, like, go back to takin’ shifts ta watch yer hab at night?” Bonecrusher’s offer violently dragged Ratchet’s processor back into the moment, his concerns briefly set aside to focus on soothing the two anxious ‘Cons in front of him.

“No, no. If it helps you lot recharge easier, then sure, reinforce the door to your spark’s desire,” he relented, servos up in an admission of defeat. “Just leave my stuff alone, alright?”

Both Constructicon’s fields lit up like the decorative trees humans displayed during the early-winter season. “Don’t worry a single neurocircuit over it! We’ll be in and out faster’n you can blink!” Bonecrusher promised, Long Haul bobbing his helm furiously behind him.

The whole act pulled an earnest chuckle from Ratchet's chassis, taking both mechs aback for a moment. “Take all the time you need,” he reassured, stepping past the dozer and waving a short goodbye. “I have a meeting with Soundwave, though, so let Hook know I won’t be in the medbay and to behave himself.”

“Sure thing, boss!” Long Haul called, giving a mock-salute while Bonecrusher did his best to hold back his laughter until Ratchet was out of audialshot. Not that it mattered much when the moment he was out of sight, howls of raucous laughter echoed down the hall. 

Shaking his helm fondly, Ratchet made his way to the closest turbolift, following the instructions in his HUD and pushing down a knot of worry. 

__________________________________

Of the few ‘Cons he passed in the hall, they all wore identical looks of fearful awe; giving him a wide berth like he was some kind of dangerous, unpredictable mechanimal. Guess news about Motormaster got out, he grumbled to himself. 

On the Ark, gossip had always run rampant through the lower and upper ranks alike, but somehow, he’d hoped that the ‘Cons would care at least a little less about other mechs’ business.

__________________________________

The turbolift came into view as he rounded another corner, and Ratchet let out a sigh of relief. The Nemesis’ halls were a veritable maze, and what sparse signage did exist was written as though someone had let a sparkling scribble on a plaque after using it as a chew-toy. 

He had just pressed the call-lift button when thundering pedesteps echoed down the hall to his right, growing closer and closer with each passing second.

Ratchet’s weapons might’ve been seized during his capture, but he still had more than enough medical supplies at his disposal to defend himself. Widening his stance and bracing himself as the pedesteps drew closer, he took a deep invent; discreetly reaching into his subspace pocket, digits closing around a laser scalpel. A hulking shadow appeared on the far wall and he prepared himself for the inevitable impact when-

“Oh! Hi there!”

Ratchet blinked dumbly up at the blue and white seeker in front of him, patient files taking an extra second to boot up as his processor blue screened.

“Um… Are you… Are you okay?” Thundercracker asked, concerned optics peering down at him, his wings flicking back nervously. 

Shaking off his initial shock, Ratchet let go of the laser scalpel, his frame depressurizing with an audible hiss. “Why, for the love of Primus, were you charging down the hall like a runaway robobull?” he asked, unable to keep the tired exasperation from his voice.

“Oh, uh, right…” the blue seeker massaged the back of his neck, a sheepish smile on his face. “I did come in a bit fast, didn’t I? Hope I didn’t startle you too badly.” 

“There’s easier ways to give me a spark attack, that’s for sure,” Ratchet grumbled. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

The ding of the lift distracted the both of them, Thundercracker darting into it the moment the doors opened wide enough and Ratchet following after him with a disgruntled snort. Kids these cycles and their need to get everywhere five minutes before they leave the house.  

“You going up or down?” the seeker asked, earning him a small point back in the respect category.

“Up, top deck. You?”

“Same!” Thundercracker’s wings fluttered, excitement and nerves bleeding from what little of his field Ratchet could sense. Unlike Skywarp who’s field had damn near transmitted his every thought to everyone around him, Thundercracker kept his field as close as he feasibly could without drawing the suspicion that an absent field brought—which, naturally, was incredibly suspicious.

Ever the nosey mech—though if asked, he’d deny it adamantly—curiosity burned in the back Ratchet’s helm. There was no inherent risk in the seeker letting others sense his field, which could only mean that he was trying to keep something secret from the rest of his crewmates. That, coupled with the jittery energy that radiated off his frame, didn’t bode well for a peaceful cycle. Hopefully a question or two would get him some semblance of a perspective on what the cycle’s nonsense would look like. If he’s planning some kind of scrap-brained prank, at least I’ll get a tip-off on it.

“Where’d you say you were headed?” he asked as casually as he could manage—which was to say, only marginally better than when the twins tried to cover up a prank-in-progress.

“Oh, I’ve got some reports to drop off to Soundwave!” Thundercracker chirped, wings fluttering again. “And you said… actually, I don’t think you said anything about why you’re headed topside.”

“Meeting with Soundwave to go over how things in the medbay are running,” Ratchet clarified nonchalantly, carefully studying the seeker’s reaction. I am not going to deal with a fragging prank in the middle of this meeting, so help me god.  

The phrase rattled around in his helm for a second before he felt strut-deep annoyance seep into his processor. Ugh, I’ve been watching too much Earth media with Wheeljack.

As anticipated, the seeker’s wings dipped, a frown flickering across his face. That’s right. You really wanna pull stupid slag on your own fragging medic?

“Oh, uh, well, I could always come back later, I guess…” Thundercracker trailed off, wings drooping even further.

That was… odd. Usually—and granted, his primary frame of reference was the twins—if a prank opportunity soured, a quick pivot was all a mech needed to pull it off later (and more effectively). That Thundercracker was visibly crestfallen implied that maybe it wasn’t malicious intent that brought the seeker to the top deck. Given his chosen trine, though, it was still a hard-to-discard suspicion.

Testing the waters, Ratchet waved a servo dismissively. “It won’t be that much of a hassle for me to wait until you’re done. You’re just dropping off reports, right?”

Immediately, the seeker’s wings perked back up, optics wide and staring at him like he was some sort of savior. “Really?! You wouldn’t mind!?”

“No. Why, should I?”

“Yes-! I mean-?! No-! I mean-” Thundercracker shook his helm, vocalizer resetting with a series of clicks. “Most mechs… Most mechs woulda laughed me off.”

“You’re delivering reports…” Ratchet said slowly, confusion seeping into his voice. “What on Cybertron would there be to laugh about?”

“I, uh… well… y’see…” the seeker fidgeted in place, pedes scuffing the lift’s floor as his wings flicked up and back, blatantly avoiding meeting his optics. “It’s complicated,” he eventually settled on, embarrassment seeping through what little of his field he’d let slacken. 

For a moment, Ratchet was tempted to push the subject, but ultimately opted to drop it. 

Thundercracker’s soft-sparkedness was one of the ‘Cons’ worst kept secrets, and if this had anything to do with it, then he was probably already getting enough flack from his trinemates without a cranky medic adding his two shanix to the pile. Letting out a tired sigh, he leaned back against the wall of the lift. “Ain’t that the truth.”

His response pulled an involuntary chuckle from the seeker, and the two of them spent the rest of their trip up in relaxed silence.

__________________________________

When the door eventually slid open to reveal the Nemesis’ top deck, Ratchet had planned to bid Thundercracker farewell—and look for a spot to wait until the seeker was done dropping off his reports—when a servo grabbed his arm, halting him.

“You can, uh, come with me if you want? I know the way to Soundwave’s office, and I wouldn’t mind the company. Probably better than wandering around here aimlessly anyways.” 

The offer caught Ratchet off guard, regarding the seeker with open suspicion. 

“I’m just dropping off reports-” Thundercracker reassured, letting go of his arm to hold his servos up defensively- “I promise.”

Ratchet studied his face for another moment before sighing and letting his servos drop to his sides in a shrug. “Sure. Why the pit not?” Gesturing for the seeker to lead the way, he let out a long exvent. What’s the worst that could happen? he asked himself wearily, apprehension coiling in his spark. 

__________________________________

As it would happen, Thundercracker was quite the chatterbox once he got going. He’d put Bluestreak to shame if they ever got to know each other, his processor griped as he tuned out the seeker’s latest tangent about how Earth’s aquatic fauna were fascinating in a way that the terrestrial fauna weren’t. 

He had honestly tried paying attention at first, but about five minutes in (and for the sake of retaining his patience) he’d zoned out, blindly following the seeker down hall after hall. Honestly, was this ship designed by someone high on circuit speeders or by a sadist?!

“-atchet? Uh, Ratchet?”

Snapping back to reality, Ratchet blinked at Thundercracker, then took a glance at their surroundings. They were in another hallway, but this one was wider, and lined with doors, and the one in front of them had a plaque that read- Primus dammit.

“I was trying to ask if you wanted to come in or wait out here,” the seeker clarified, amusement glinting in his optics. “You sure your audials don’t need recalibrating?” 

The tease garnered a scowl and a glare from him.

“Right, right, sorry!” Thundercracker laughed, either unbothered or just used to being on the receiving end of such looks. Knowing Starscream, probably both. 

Turning away from him, Thundercracker reached the door in one stride and rapped his knuckles quietly against the metal. A moment later, it slid aside to reveal a spacious—and surprisingly tidy—office space. 

__________________________________

Soundwave sat behind a simple metal desk, seemingly engrossed in the datapad he had clutched in his servos; the epitome of dutiful diligence. Only centuries of taking care of the living embodiment of ‘duty-before-rest’ that was Prowl gave Ratchet the ability to pick out the miniscule tells that the Decepticon’s Communications Officer was extremely stressed: his optics were a shade duller than they’d been the cycle before, the cabling in his neck was pinched, and his plating lay purposefully flat, the faint glisten of condensation building at the seams from trapped heat that couldn’t vent out.

Curiously, Thundercracker seemed to pick up on this too. Though there weren’t any tells that Ratchet could point to that could’ve tipped him off (even the mech’s field felt normal), the seeker’s field pulsed out a wave of soothing calm as he walked forwards, pulling both a small stack of datapads and an energon cube from his subspace.

Soundwave picked his helm up from his datapad at the sound of his pedesteps, visor focused solely on Thundercracker as the seeker set the pads and cube down on his desk, completely oblivious to Ratchet’s presence. “These’re the reports you asked for, plus a few Star hasn’t gotten around to submitting,” he said without prompting, pushing the stack towards the tape deck.

“Reports: Sufficient. Inquiry: Why bring energon?” The seeker’s back was to Ratchet, so he could only guess at his expression as he watched Soundwave track the movement of said cube as it was likewise pushed towards him, a lone thread of confusion weaving its way through his field.

“Well, you didn’t show at the mess, so I figured you’d gotten too busy and forgotten to fuel,” Thundercracker chirped, wings flicking up as a quiet burst of pride zipped through his field. 

“Your thoughtfulness is… appreciated,” Soundwave said after a short pause, helm tilting as he looked between the cube sitting innocently in front of him and the seeker who’d brought it. “You may return to your duties.” 

Again, Thundercracker’s wings flicked up as something warm but sad flickered through his field—there one moment, gone the next—almost too fast for Ratchet to catch. As the seeker bowed and made his exit, sparing him a quick wave goodbye on his way out, he was left alone to ponder what he’d just witnessed. 

He wasn’t ignorant of the wing-language that fliers employed—often it served as the quickest tell when one of the Aerialbots got it in their helm to try something stupid—but there were subtle differences between generic fliers and seekers. Perceptor theorized that this was due to the majority of seekers having been sparked in Vos while standard fliers and shuttles could be found all throughout Cybertron’s polities. That kind of pseudo isolation naturally bred different cultural interpretations of the same gesture.

That being said, what he’d initially assumed was nervous excitement regarding soon-to-come tomfoolery hadn’t held up to what he’d just seen or felt in Thundercracker’s field. Shaking off the urge to pry into the interaction deeper, he schooled his processor and tried to focus back on the task at hand. He’d trekked up to Soundwave’s office to discuss himself and his medbay, not to theorize about Decepticon interpersonal drama. Even if the drama was practically begging for his attention.

__________________________________

Once the seeker had left, the only sound in the office was a faint rustling from the vent above Soundwave’s helm and the tap of metal against glass as the tape deck scrolled through Thundercracker’s reports. Even the hallway outside seemed to have fallen dead silent. If he wasn’t so used to being dragged into the office’s of mechs like Prowl—who kept it in an atmosphere much similar to this—it would’ve been thoroughly unnerving. 

They sat in silence for almost a minute before Ratchet’s patience wore out.

Clearing his intake to catch the tape deck’s attention, Ratchet uncrossed his arms and strode over to Soundwave’s desk, dragging an empty chair with him and setting it down so that he could sit facing Megatron’s TIC. 

He waited a beat before prompting, “So, do you want a report, or did I just drag myself up here because you were bored and wanted company?” 

Back on the Ark, Jazz was often prone to such nonsense, as was Bumblebee. Neither mech seemed to properly understand that Ratchet leaving his medbay was a flashing neon sign to the universe to open the gates of the Inferno and wreak havoc in the form of two adrenaline-crazed, attention-starved Lamborghinis.

The barbed question earned him a glance up from the reports held in Soundwave’s servo, before the tape deck dropped his gaze again. After the longest seconds of Ratchet’s life, he finally asked, “Inquiry: What provoked Ratchet into attacking Stunticon Motormaster?”

“Answer: He threatened my medic,” he deadpanned back, mimicking the TIC’s robotic, monotone inflection. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure why he insisted on speaking that way—vocalizer glitch sprang to processor, but he’d just seen him speak mostly normally to Thundercracker. Maybe it was simply based on how well he liked a mech. 

Or maybe he’s just not in the mood to hold full sentences. If it’s a vocalizer glitch, then he probably has to work harder to form a complete thought instead of its simplest root form. Old analytical protocols kicked in as he scanned over his interactions with the ‘Con’s TIC in the span of a nanosecond. It made sense, especially given Soundwave’s semi-monotone inflection, and guilt briefly flickered through his chestplate. It didn’t stick long, though. If he was going to be pulled from his medbay, it’d better be for a question that required actual processing power to answer.

“Answer to inquiry: Assumption correct. New Inquiry: Was Hook unable to defend himself?”

Adding the tidbit to his medical file on the tape deck (and ignoring the knee-jerk urge to chastise him for intruding into his helm), Ratchet hummed to himself, pulling up his memory files and looking back on the event. The longer he studied them, the more he felt a smoldering rage grow in the pit of his spark and promptly dragged himself out of his helm before he considered doing something excessively rash. 

With a sigh, he focused back on Soundwave who was now giving him his full attention. “The kid froze up, and honestly, I wouldn’t blame him. I’m sure that if I hadn’t done something, his gestaltmates would’ve, but no, he wasn’t about to fight back, if that’s what you’re after.”

The tape deck leaned back in his chair, face blank but a contemplative air in his field. Ratchet felt his hackles instinctively bristle and he growled, “If you so much as think about doing something to him, you’ll be wishing that you’d never brought me on board this Primus’ forsaken ship do I make myself clear?”

The tape deck just casually raised a servo to stop him. “Ratchet: Is mistaken. Hook: In no danger of being demoted or replaced.”

With a disgruntled huff, Ratchet settled back into his chair, watching Soundwave with a guarded expression. “Anything else you’d like to know about?” 

Now, was it a smart move to antagonize a mech who could literally tear his processor to shreds if he so chose? No, probably not. But Ratchet had long been told that he tended to throw caution to the wind when he perceived his mechs to be threatened, and, on a personal level, he wasn’t all that fond of being strung along by any mech.

“Ratchet: Wishes to know what is to become of him.” Soundwave leaned back forwards, helm tilted curiously to the side.

“That’s one way of putting it, sure.”

Silence stretched between them to the point that Ratchet considered checking his audial input was still functioning from how quiet Soundwave’s office had become. Half of him was tempted to break the silence and prompt an answer one way or the other, but the other half refused to crack first. On the slim chance that this was some stupidly convoluted test, like pit was he going to give the tape deck the satisfaction of letting his patience wear out first.

Speaking of, Soundwave’s visor flickered the way it did when a mech was lost in their processor, his helm tilting slightly so that Ratchet was just out of his field of vision. 

He’s avoiding something, Ratchet realized, processor immediately spinning through what could possibly be so damning that it couldn’t be said in plain Cybertronian—and quickly jumping to the fairly logical conclusion that, in a twist that wasn’t all that surprising, his tenure with life had recently expired.

Startled when Soundwave’s helm snapped up, he scolded himself for letting his thoughts float freely for the telepath to listen to. “Ratchet: Will not be terminated,” the tape deck promised, holding up his servos as if to show his sincerity. “Source of disquiet: Internal conflict.”

Now it was Ratchet’s turn to be confused, frowning as he asked, “As in, conflicted over what to do with me or conflicted over orders for what to do with me.” One would certainly take more weight off his spark than the other, but he kept that to himself—or, tried to.

“The former,” Soundwave admitted after a pause. “Ratchet: Has improved overall troop health and medical know-how. Ratchet: Is also still an Autobot. Autobots: Will not wait forever to mount a rescue.”

Now THAT is one pit of a conundrum, isn’t it? he mused to himself before saying, “Well, I’m not going to flip sides just because your medical knowledge and supplies came from the Rust Age, just so we’re clear on that.”

In lieu of response, Soundwave bowed his helm in acknowledgement, likely having anticipated the refute far beforehand. 

Absentmindedly rolling out his neck cabling, Ratchet mulled over the problem in his helm. On the one servo, Soundwave was right: without him, he wasn’t sure the ‘Con’s could’ve held up much longer with their meager supplies and non-existent training. On the other, there was no way in the Inferno he would stay on the Nemesis indefinitely. Even if he didn’t have the crew’s worth of mechs that were his family no doubt gunning for his return, he was one of the higher-ranking mechs in the Autobot army. His knowledge of its inner workings would necessitate a rescue op all on their own.

“Agreed. Ratchet: Understands crux of the matter.” Soundwave’s voice cut through his thoughts, echoing his own evaluations. And startling him. Again.

Shooting the tape deck a sharp look, Ratchet crossed his arms over his chestplate. “It’s considered polite to keep out of another mech’s helm unless invited, you know,” he snapped, glaring into Soundwave’s visor until the other mech yielded and dropped his gaze.

“Apologies. Outlier: Only able to be focused, not shut off.”

“And I’m too close in range for you to avoid listening in,” Ratchet finished for him, bringing a servo up to massage his temple. “Just great.”

“Affirmative.”

Unable to stand the way their conversation kept wandering away from the point, Ratchet let out a sharp exvent and squared his shoulders. “So then, what’s the plan? Going to chain me to the medbay reception desk or toss me in the brig?” he asked, pinning Soundwave with an intense stare. “Because the way I see it, those are your only two options right now.”

“Ratchet: Is not… incorrect,” the tape deck affirmed, if hesitantly. “Ratchet: has overlooked another option, though.”

“And that would be…?”

“Ratchet: Has grown close with Constructicons. Ratchet: Has also earned respect of Stunticons and Combaticons. Conclusion: Ratchet could be swayed to join Decepticons.”

A second passed.

Then five.

He- He CAN’T be serious, can he?!

An incredulous laugh bubbled up in Ratchet’s intake, morphing into a wracking cough as he fought to stop it from coming out. In a fit of hysterical bafflement, his processor tried to take Soundwave’s hypothetical seriously. “You-! You think- You think I’m going to jump ship because your fragged-in-the-helm gestalts took a shine to me!?” He asked incredulously, vocalizer halting several times as he tried to compose himself. “That’s your grand plan!?”

“Does Ratchet see another option?”

The earnesty in the question brought the hysterical laughter threatening to spill out of his intake back under control, his processor sobering as he took a long vent. 

Blowing out a weary sigh, Ratchet waited a beat before admitting, “No… Either you find a way to keep me here, or I’ll be back on the Ark, one way or the other.”

Silence stretched between them, neither mech seemingly inclined to break it, when a small, overly curious voice above them asked, “But you, like, do care ‘bout the Constructicons, yeah?”

Snapping his helm up, Ratchet easily spotted the cassette nestled in the air duct above Soundwave’s helm. Annoyance, more than surprise, flickered through his helm, more displeased that the little eavesdropper had made his presence known than the question itself. 

“Rumble: Desist and exit the vent,” the tape deck called to his cassette, eliciting an annoyed groan as the mech’s optics briefly disappeared from sight.

A second later, the vent cover was pulled back and the red cassette hopped down onto Soundwave’s desk. “Seriously, though-” the cassetticon continued, turning to face Ratchet- “you do care ‘bout them, right? I mean, ya looked pretty feral when me an’ Frenzy dragged Motors off, an’ if we’re bein’ honest-”

Fixing Rumble with an icy look, Ratchet scowled at the uninvited guest. “That’s none of your business, kid.”

***

Soundwave watched with passive interest as Rumble sat down, kicking his pedes over the edge all while Ratchet glared at him in much the same way he did when he felt the need to discipline his cassettes. Though the Autobot was still the enemy, he could still respect his ability to wrangle the younger members of their faction.

“I’m jus’ curious s’all!” the red cassette protested. “An’ besides, we’re all wonderin’ ‘bout it!”

“And ‘we’ would be…?” the Autobot medic crossed his arms, optics narrowing further and causing Rumble to start to squirm uncomfortably. [C’mon Boss, get ‘im off my back! All I did was ask ‘im a question!]

“Rumble: Is interrupting an important meeting. Provide a reason, or return to the hab.”

The red cassette promptly flopped back against his desk with an overdramatic groan like a petulant sparkling—and if not for having cared for him for over a millennia, Soundwave would’ve expected such behavior out of, say, the Stunticons. “C’mon Boooss!” Rumble pleaded, only giving up when he sent a disciplinary pulse across the bond.

Amusement and intrigue played in Ratchet’s field as the cassette grumbled but got back to his pedes and shimmied back into the vent he’d come from. [Tell Laserbeak and Frenzy to go back to the hab as well. I will not have your desire for gossip undermine any trust that may be built here] he reminded him as Rumble disappeared from sight. 

From the other two cassettes lurking outside his office, he sensed both their embarrassment at being caught, and ire towards Rumble for getting them caught. 

As if Soundwave hadn’t sensed their presence all of two minutes after Thundercracker had left him alone with Ratchet. Call him soft-sparked, but he’d been perfectly fine to let the three indulge in a bit of eavesdropping—especially if it kept them from weaponizing their boredom against their crewmates—so long as they kept to themselves.

“So, I trust that your little menaces have been listening in this whole time?” Ratchet’s voice pulled Soundwave back to the present; his calm, relaxed tone catching him by surprise. 

How in the- How had the medic known that Rumble wasn’t the only one listening? Had he just ruined any chance of getting the Autobot CMO to trust him? 

If he couldn’t sway Ratchet into joining their cause, there was no doubt in his processor that the ‘Cons would fall. They simply lacked any of the resources necessary to sustain themselves in the long-term, and raids would only work for as long as they kept a tenuous lead over the advancement of human technology (and the latter was gaining more ground than could be made up with every passing cycle). The only chance of any kind of success that he could parse out rode on the hope that they could use Ratchet’s (unlikely) defection as leverage against the Autobots to force a cease-fire at the very least.

Well… Technically, they could just threaten the medic’s life—get their leverage that way—but something about killing him sat like bad energon in Soundwave’s tank. 

He wasn’t sure whether it was because he was a medic—perhaps because of the unspoken rule that, no matter the side, medics were left out of the fighting—or if it was because he felt an odd kinship with the mech. After all, they’d both taken in strays of one sort or another: his cassettes, and the Autobot’s gestalts— And now ours too, he reminded himself. Either way, while the thought had crossed his processor, he had no inclination to act on it, and had lobbied hard to convince their Lord that Ratchet would serve a better purpose alive and as a medic than as a pawn to dangle over Prime’s helm. 

__________________________________

“Oh, don’t give me that look!” Again, the medic’s voice snapped him back out of his helm, visual feed rebooting to show an amused, if guarded, look on the Autobot’s face. “Puh-lease, even without raising a dozen or so mechs, I’ve been taking care of the twins and Blue since the start of the war. I’m no stranger to prying audials.”

The twins? Soundwave searched his database for any possible matches. Does he mean Sideswipe and Sunstreaker? How in Primus’ name does he put up with—let alone manage—them?!  

“Soundwave: Does not understand. Cassettes were quite discreet.”

“Yeah. That’s my point,” The medic huffed, fixing him with a curious look. “What? Don’t tell me you can’t tell when they’re trying to get away with something. Mine always— always— go dead silent.” Ratchet let out a raspy laugh, nostalgic warmth filling his field. “They always think they’re being so clever,” he chuckled, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “As if I can’t tell when they’ve been silent for too long.”

For a moment, Soundwave felt the urge to bristle at the medic’s comment before realizing that he meant it in a conversational way, not an insulting one. Speaking from one parent to another. “Cassettes: Are not subtle in plotting mischief,” he agreed, relaxing back in his chair.

Across from him, Ratchet relaxed back too, though a small grimace pulled the edges of his face down, his plating not-quite flat. Images of the Autobot gestalts flashed through Soundwave’s processor, tinted in nostalgia and sadness, a cold warmth washing over him as they shifted from the medic’s adopted charges to the Autobot scientist, Wheeljack. The mech clearly meant something to Ratchet, but he was unsure of the nature of their relationship with each other. 

Unlike a vast majority of the rank and file who would tear into whatever gossip they could get their servos on regardless of the faction it originated from, Soundwave preferred to ignore either sides’ drama unless it held a tactical advantage. Maybe he should’ve paid more attention.

Like a stream of coolant, the memories began to slip through Soundwave’s digits faster than he could stop them, flashing by in a blur of color and too fast to read emotions, but the sparkache that followed them was unmistakable, sliding into the seams of his plating like daggers of ice; burning and freezing at the same time. 

Above it all, he could make out a repeating phrase that looped around and through the memories. *I miss you*

__________________________________

As abruptly as they’d come, the memories ebbed away, leaving Soundwave feeling like he’d plunged into a frozen lake. Forcing his plating still to keep it from vibrating in an attempt to bring his core temperature up, he took measured vents to calm his spark—all the while aware that it wouldn’t do well to give the medic any inclination that he’d, albeit inadvertently, been in his helm again. The three simple words that still looped through the Autobot’s helm lodged somewhere in his spark casing like shards of shrapnel that he couldn’t extract. Maybe that was why his mouth moved before his processor could intercede.

“Ratchet: Has concerns about family?” he asked before he could stop himself, curiosity beating out common sense and the rising urge to cuff his own helm.

Ratchet, predictably, glowered at him, but relented with a sigh, likely not wanting Soundwave to frisk the answer from his processor—not that he ever wanted to jump back into the freezing, aching void that currently made up the medic’s memory banks if he could help it—or, perhaps, wanting someone to confide his troubles in. “How would you feel, if our roles were reversed?” the Autobot asked out of the blue.

The question caught Soundwave off guard, giving him pause. “Elaborate,” he prompted, trying to figure out where the medic was trying to lead him.

Ratchet grumbled under his vents before dragging a servo down his face, blowing out a long exvent, and letting his shoulders slump. “Okay, you know what, fine, here we go.” The medic clapped his servos together, pointing them towards Soundwave. “Let’s pretend, for argument’s sake, that you’re just minding your business when we kidnapped you and force you to help out Blaster, who, for some reason, cannot do his job to save his life.”

Now Soundwave felt both intrigued and insulted. He was more than aware of Ratchet’s predicament, so why was the medic breaking it down to him like he was a sparkling? Yes, he could sympathize with the Autobot’s predicament, but how in any way did it relate to him?

Oblivious to (or actively ignoring) his less-than-enthused audience, Ratchet carried on. “And let’s say that you decide that Blaster’s doing such a slag job as Communications Officer that you start teaching the kid despite the fact that he’s the enemy and you really shouldn’t, hmm? But you do, and in doing so, you start to care about the scraplet because you’re pretty sure he’d die without supervision, and you can already think of a few mechs just. like. him back home. And then you remember that you’ll probably never see those mechs again.” 

Slowly, as though his processor was dragging itself out of a tar pit, a sinking feeling grew in Soundwave’s tank. “And you know, deep down in our spark, that you’re never, ever, going to make it out of the Ark because if you did, it’d be in a coffin.” 

Across from him, Ratchet’s plating flared and clamped down at random. Anger and anguish lashed out from his field, sparking where it brushed up against Soundwave’s own. “And despite it all, you know that you can’t do a damn thing about it because dammit, you’ve got mechs to take care of there now, and they need you just as much as your own mechs do.” The medic’s processor was a swarm of iron wasps, loud and angry and buzzing with a frenetic energy that made it jagged around the edges and hard to hold on to. “Am I making sense now?”

Soundwave took a moment to let his processor catch up with him before letting his plating—that he hadn’t realized he’d clamped shut—depressurize. He didn’t need to think more on the hypothetical to know that the very concept of being separated from his cassettes would send him into an (albeit silent) tailspin, He’d certainly lose recharge worrying over their well-being at the very least. 

Though he’d been more than a little aware of Ratchet’s concerns regarding his family and friends on the Ark, Soundwave hadn’t cared much to probe deeper once he determined that the medic had no intention of forming an escape plan (ignoring, of course, his epiphany that morning). He’d be a poor excuse of a TIC if he didn’t keep something of an optic on their sole high-profile POW, but he still tried to uphold a semblance of decorum.

Turning his focus back to the mech in question, he was glad to at least find that the worst of the turmoil in the medic’s helm had quieted, though the silence that had fallen over it was equally unnerving; as though they were in the eye of the hurricane, not out of it. 

Clearing his intake, Soundwave locked optics with Ratchet. “Soundwave: Understands Ratchet’s point. If separated from cassettes…” he trailed off, intake involuntarily clamping shut.

“Soundwave: Could offer a temporary solution?” The offer fell from his lips a moment too late for his processor to stop. He hadn’t even thought about it before speaking it into existence, and now that the offer was out there, he desperately wished that he could take it back.

The medic’s gaze hardened, field recoiling tight to his frame as he scanned Soundwave’s visor for any trick or deception. “And what would that be?”

In for one shanix… “Soundwave: Could pass a message to an Autobot of Ratchet’s choosing. As reassurance of his continued functioning.”

“You’re kidding.” Despite the medic’s flat tone, interest sparked in Ratchet’s optics, fragile hope flickering through his processor. *He can’t. He CAN’T be serious about this.*

“Soundwave: Swears by his honor.” Now that he’d put the offer out there, the least he could do was use this as an opportunity to garner some trust between himself and the Autobot in front of him. And of the consequences of going behind his Lord’s back to do so? Well, that was a bridge he could cross later. Hopefully, much, much, later.

*He honestly expects me to believe he won’t go running to his master with whatever I tell him?! But, if he’s not lying- NO! No. We can’t just TRUST him like that. We just can’t.* Though not surprised by Ratchet’s train of thought, it certainly drove a wedge between the possibility of establishing a line of trust between himself and the medic. 

Then, in a move that caught Soundwave completely off guard, Ratchet asked, “And how do I know you’ll keep your end of this bargain? What do you get out of this?”

“Soundwave: Cannot offer more than his word. Motive: To establish trust between Autobot Ratchet and Soundwave.” Maybe blanket honesty would do the trick?

“And you… what? Expect me to just trust you with what I have to say to my fellow Autobots? What if I just decide to go spilling what I know of the Nemesis?” The medic raised an optical ridge at him, posture tense as he leaned back in his chair. *Your move now, afthole.*

Is he cognisant of me reading his processor, or is he simply acknowledging his attempt at shifting the power dynamic between us? Soundwave wondered to himself. Unable to detect any ulterior motives from the unnervingly calm waters of the Autobot’s processor, he took a steadying vent. “Threat: Logical, but flimsy. Damning information: Would not be passed along.”

Ratchet held Soundwave’s gaze as he rolled the information around in his helm, searching for any way to turn the interaction back in his favor. He had to hand it to the Autobot; some of what he came up with was rather clever but—as the medic soon realized, too—wouldn’t actually succeed at bypassing Soundwave’s notice. After what felt like an eternity, he finally let out a tired sigh, the mental back-and-forth struggle of ‘will-I-won’t-I’ drawing to an abrupt close. “Swear on your life.”

“?!” A wordless, startled noise came from Soundwave’s intake, plating flaring involuntarily in a surprised threat display.

“I won’t, and frankly, can’t, trust you on just your honor. As far as I’m concerned, you lot lost that a long time ago, so swear on your life that whatever I tell you stays between you and me alone,” Ratchet explained, leaning forwards in his chair, but not relaxing his plating. “I’d hate to see what would happen if you didn’t.”

__________________________________

The threat hung in the air like an executioner’s axe as the silence ticked on between them. Both Soundwave and Ratchet knew that he could rip his processor apart piece by piece if so incentivised—not that he had ever done anything even remotely close to that, but the potential was there, he knew—but it still shook him to his core. Apprehension coiled in his chestplate as he skimmed over the medic’s thoughts, a cold chill skittering up his back strut at their unnatural silence.

Where usually a mech’s thoughts betrayed their fears when laying down threats (fear of not following through with them, fear of retaliation), there was nothing but ice-cold resolution in Ratchet’s processor: If Soundwave failed to keep the medic’s message under wraps, he was more than willing to burn everything in his wake to make up for it.

That kind of all-or-nothing outlook was something Soundwave usually only saw in one of two places; dying mechs on the battlefield, too injured to live, but not injured enough to stop fighting, or in the optics of Starscream usually just before a brush with death during one of his famous coup attempts. He wasn’t sure which scared him more: whether he saw that same, grim determination in Ratchet’s optics, or that the medic had fallen into one of the aforementioned categories without him noticing.

Quietly exventing, Soundwave drew his field around himself protectively so as not to let a single one of his own fears slip through. “I swear on my functioning life,” he rasped out, pouring his focus into ignoring the furious ache in his processor that came with forcing his glitched vocalizer to work properly, “that your message will be received and sent in absolute confidence.” 

The moment he stopped talking, his vocalizer gave out with a quiet burst of static, fans kicking on to combat the heat that’d built beneath his plating, condensation already rolling down the side of his face beneath his mask and visor. On the other side of the table, Ratchet scrutinized him for a moment before he finally leaned back forwards, plating relaxing incrementally. “So it’s a deal then. You take down a message of mine and send it to the Autobot of my choosing. Discreetly. Without any outside interference.”

“Yes,” Soundwave managed to rasp out with a nod of his helm, voice feeling like glass scraping up the sides of his intake.

A tense quiet fell over them before the medic pushed abruptly out of his chair, rising back to his pedes. “Is there anything else that needs discussed, or can I go back to my medbay?”

Shaking his helm, Soundwave gestured towards the door, hoping the medic wouldn’t comment on the abrupt muteness. 

Thankfully, he only stared at him for only a moment before turning and heading out of his office. To his surprise, though, Ratchet paused at the threshold, turning back to look at Soundwave, his thoughts pulsing between two inscrutable poles. The pounding in his helm made it impossible to interpret what the medic’s mental argument was over, and quite frankly, he didn’t care all that much to decipher it. 

“If you ever want your vocalizer checked out, drop by the medbay after 23:00. Any cycle. Hook should be long gone by then, but if not, I can kick him out for privacy’s sake.”

It took the words a longer-than-necessary moment to translate in his helm, but as the meaning settled in, bemused incredulity rose in his processor. He’s offering-? Why is he offering me something of that nature?! Is this some shoddy attempt at a power-grab? Offering me something outside of my reach to get back at me for my own offer???  

The pounding in Soundwave’s helm only worsened as he tried to unravel the nature of Ratchet’s offer, optics under his visor squinting as though he could parse out the medic’s intentions by sight alone. Is this an Autobot custom? Trust for trust? I offered him mine, so now he’s offering me his?

“Primus, I’m not asking for a sparkbond!” Ratchet exclaimed in exasperation, drawing his attention back to him as the medic threw his servos into the air. “Just- If you want to reach me, you know how.” 

Turning on his heel strut, he called over his shoulder, “I’ll send you the message and who to deliver it to by tomorrow morning. Don’t renege.” This time, the threat bounced harmlessly off Soundwave as he politely nodded his helm. 

Turning his scattered focus back to trying to go over Thundercracker’s reports, he chose to ignore Ratchet’s annoyed huff as he stepped out of his office, the door sliding mercifully shut behind him. 

All his time spent pouring over security cam footage of the medic—not taking into account the amount of time he’d spent in the mech’s helm—had given him a glimpse into the many, many minute changes of inflection that the medic used, and though what he’d just said was a threat, he didn’t mean it a fraction of as much as he’d meant the threat against his life.

__________________________________

Despite the knowledge that he’d gained ground in earning Ratchet’s trust, Soundwave couldn’t convince his spark to not hammer away in his chestplate now that he had the privacy for a small panic. Even the most incompetent of medics (he tried to keep his thoughts from drifting to Knockout, even if only to pretend to be polite) knew Cybertronian frames back to front and had the medical clearance to access a mech’s personal chambers. Not that he thought Ratchet would break into his hab—Primus he hoped he wouldn’t—but the idea that he could sent another cold chill racing up his back strut.

Shaking his helm in an attempt to physically shake that train of thought loose before it gained purchase in his processor, Soundwave abandoned the datapad in favor of pulling the energon cube that had sat forgotten at the corner of his desk towards him. Peeling back the corner, he took slow, measured sips, letting the cool liquid re-energize his internal systems. Much to his relief, a flurry of warnings he hadn’t even noticed disappeared from his HUD, drastically improving his visual feed. 

Maybe Thundercracker was right, he mused, that he’d been overworking himself as of late. The seeker always did have a knack for sensing when he needed energon, space, or even just company. I should thank him later, he thought, already adding a memo for it to his already overflowing calendar of ‘things-to-do’ (which included but were not limited to: Determine a sustainable source of energon not reliant upon human technology, Propose possible methods to end the war to Lord Megatron, and Find time to listen to Ravage and Laserbeak’s playlist of human songs—whatever that means). 

Tagging it as priority—which did little, given the massive amount of  ‘priority tasks’ that he had yet to complete, but did add it to the list in the corner of his HUD—he sagged back in his chair, entirely spent from his interaction with Ratchet.

Before he realized it, his optic covers started to droop, his thoughts slowly to a crawl as exhaustion set in.

__________________________________

Soundwave’s HUD woke him what felt like only a moment later, his processor groggily trying to parse out his surroundings while the events of the last few hours slowly fell back into place. With a jolt, an acute awareness of how vulnerable he was—half awake in an unlocked office—woke him up the rest of the way, frame jerking as he sat up too quickly, arm smashing into the edge of his desk.

With a pained hiss, he tried to block out the pain as his cassettes’ messages trickled through his HUD.

[Hey, Boss, you alright?] Rumble asked over bondspeak, followed by Ravage’s [What happened between you and the Autobot? He smells angry and confused.]

[Do we still trust him?] Laserbeak asked right on the jaguar’s heels.

Drawing in a deep vent, Soundwave retrieved the abandoned cube on his desk. Gulping down the rest of the energizing liquid, he took another long vent before replying. [I am fine. I simply offered to send a message for him as a show of trust. He’s probably still debating whether to place his trust in me or not. Nothing more.] No need to worry them by including the medic’s threat.

[If you say so, Boss] Frenzy’s tone sounded unconvinced, but was quickly drowned out by Laserbeak and Rumble demanding [So who’s he gonna send it to!?] and [You’re gonna let us see what he wants to say, right!?]

A frown crossed his face, and he pulsed a firm Stand-Down command across the bond. [No. I promised Ratchet confidentiality, and I will not compromise on that front.]

[Awww c’mon Boooss, that’s not fair!] the two complained, only for Buzzsaw to snap back [Oh, quit your whining you big sparklings! ‘Wave wants us to butt out of it, so butt out!]

Of all his cassettes, Buzzsaw was certainly not the one he’d expected to defend his ruling—the flier was almost as contrarian as Rumble and Frenzy were rambunctiously chaotic—but he sent the cassette an appreciative pulse all the same.

__________________________________

A soft tapping in the vent above him drew Soundwave’s attention upwards, the quiet hum of Ravage’s processor making his presence known. *Want me to keep an optic on Hatchet for ya?* the jaguar asked, his spark signature pausing just before the mouth of the vent.

With a sigh, Soundwave turned his attention back to the small, untouched stack of reports on the corner of his desk. [No, he has suffered enough stress without me adding to it. And I would ask that you refer to him by his proper title. He is a CMO, and deserves to be respected as such] he admonished.

“Yeesh, alright! Don’t get your plating in a twist!” Ravage complained, jumping down out of the vent and landing with a light thump on Soundwave’s shoulders. The jaguar’s engine idled at a relaxed purr as he laid down around his neck like a scarf, paws and helm resting on his shoulder plating. “Just tryna be prudent, s’all,” he grumbled to himself.

Realizing his vocalizer was still fried, Soundwave reached across the bond again to get his cassette’s attention. [And I appreciate the effort. But I believe Ratchet has enough to deal with already with the gestalts without our interference or surveillance.]

“Ain’t that the truth,” the jaguar chuckled, turning his helm to peer at him. “And for the record, Long Haul started the whole ‘Hatchet’ business, not me.”

[Still, he has earned the title of CMO, and that should be respected.]

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ravage rolled his optics, helm settling back on his paws, his tail lashing against Soundwave’s cheek. “Still, the offer stands. He smells weird.”

[And again, the intention is appreciated, but unnecessary] Soundwave reiterated, reaching a servo over his shoulder to scratch behind the cassette’s audials, smiling to himself at the quiet purring that followed. As he turned his attention back to reviewing Thundercracker’s reports, the knot of tension in his tank shrank, but didn’t disappear—though the snoring cassette draped across his shoulders certainly helped.

Maybe the next cycle would be less stressful, his eventual treason notwithstanding.

Chapter Text

“I don’t give a flying frag about supply issues! My conjunx was KIDNAPPED! Why haven’t there been ANY plans made to rescue him?!”

Wheeljack’s outburst drew the optics of all the mechs in the crisis meeting towards him and Prowl, the latter currently looking like a rotodeer in headlights. “WELL?!” he shouted, not caring one bit about who might overhear him outside.

Seconds ticked by as the tension in the room mounted, growing more and more charged with each passing moment.

“Ratchet’s rescue is a priority,” Prowl said slowly, optics flickering the way they did when his Tac-Net was running too many background calculations at once, “but without proper supplies and fueling, there can be no plan made to attempt it,” he hissed as though he’d prefer to try and hammer his point through Wheeljack’s processor instead. 

Silence had fallen around them, disturbed only by the furious whirring of both of their fans, and in the back of his processor, Wheeljack was faintly aware of an electromagnetic buzz at the edge of his field.

Now, the smart move would be to apologize, sit down, and wait until they had a more private moment to tear each other’s helms off, but when had ‘smart’ and ‘Wheeljack’ ever been used by mechs in the same sentence? ‘Brilliant’? ‘Eccentric’? ‘Dangerous’? Now those were all words used in frequent association with his name, but ‘smart’? No, that was a word that he only ever heard from Ratchet—and unfortunately for Prowl, he wasn’t there to stop him.

“Well, I’m sorry that this is messing up your perfect little calculations,” he spat at the tactician, aggressively stepping into the Praxian’s space, jabbing a digit at him, “But some of us actually have a SPARK beating beneath our chestplates.” 

The barbed words hung like a dark cloud in the air, both mechs staring each other down, plating flared in threat displays. Across from him, Prowl’s doorwings hitching up a micrometer was the only sign that his words had struck true. The way his lips twitched down, though, meant he was probably preparing some scathing response back. Dentae gritted beneath his blast mask, Wheeljack welcomed the oncoming attack.

Around them, even mechs like Prime and Ironhide seemed to be holding their vents; either too shocked or too worried about accidentally instigating a fight to react. From his peripheral vision, though, he saw that Jazz seemed more or less at ease. 

Just as Prowl drew in a vent, optics flashing angrily, the saboteur made his move.

“A’right, so b’fore we all become accessory to murder, how’s about ev’rybody take a deep vent ‘kay? Take a teensy-weensy step back from rippin’ intakes out, y’know?” Jazz’s calm, laid-back voice broke the tension, every helm in the room whipping around to stare at him. To his credit, the head of Spec Ops didn’t so much as flinch at becoming the center of attention, his servos spread out in front of him in a ‘let’s-all-calm-down’ gesture. 

To every other mech in the room, it looked for all the world as though he was earnestly trying to diffuse the situation. To his absurd number of off-the-books, experimental mods, though, Wheeljack picked up on the way his field was frantically pulsing a low-frequency calm to the gathered mechs. 

Jazz’s field fluxed erratically, meshing with other mechs’ fields seemingly at random, until he realized that the saboteur was calming the more jittery mechs first—pointedly avoiding him or Prowl. One of his go-to interrogation tactics when working with multiple prisoners. If one mech calmed, then it encouraged the rest to calm too, and subconsciously trust their interrogator. Wheeljack felt his hackles bristle at the unspoken comparison.

“Prowler,” Jazz started, servos raising higher when the Praxian’s doorwings pinned back angrily, “I get thatcher worried ‘bout supplies, an’ that’s a good thing ta be worried ‘bout, but ‘Jack’s got a point too, babe.” 

“It is Prowl,” the tactician growled, claws unsheathing as his digits twitched by his sides. Like he couldn’t decide whether to lunge at Wheeljack, who he was still glaring daggers at, or ball his servos into fists. 

If that worried the saboteur in any way, it didn’t show on his face, Jazz’s visored helm turning to pin Wheeljack in place with a hard stare. “An’ you needta chill out too, mah mech. Ratchet’ll be back here faster’n you can blink, butcha can’t go gettin’ yer gears in a twist over it. We’re all tryin’ here.”

Now it was Wheeljack’s turn to glare, only just barely keeping his thoughts to himself as he tried to mentally burn a hole through the saboteur’s visor. The infinitesimally small amount of self control keeping him in the crisis meeting was all but gone; as was his ability to stand these mechs who seemed more worried about supply shipments than their fragging CMO—than his fragging conjunx—returning to them in one piece. 

“Wheeljack, c’mon mech, I needja ta listen to me here,” Jazz wheedled, bringing him back to the present.

The urge to snap something he’d really regret bubbled up in Wheeljack’s intake, but before he could say anything, a Stand Down order pulsed across his HUD—and everyone else’s, by the look of it—forcing his mouth shut.

All helms in the room turned again to see the imposing frame of their leader towering above them all, a disappointed frown on his face.

“Wheeljack, I understand that you are concerned for your conjunx,” Prime’s deep baritone echoed through the room along with a pulse of soothing calm from his field, “believe me, we all are. But you have to trust that we will bring Ratchet back to us as soon as we can.”

Under Prime’s sympathetic but steely gaze, shame coursed through Wheeljack’s lines, optics sliding towards the floor as his plating lay back flat against his frame. From the Praxian’s field, he could tell that Prowl had been likewise cowed, though he refused to give the mech any modicum of satisfaction by looking for himself. 

Around them, everyone else’s plating settled too as the danger of the largest blow-up since Megatron and Optimus seemingly ebbed away before their optics. 

Slowly, and probably more thanks to the subtle teek Jazz sent him, the tactician retook his seat, though Wheeljack could still feel the icy fury of his optics boring holes in his plating. His own optics he kept doggedly fixed on the floor tiles, not once looking up to acknowledge Prowl or Prime. He wasn’t in the mood to give even a fake apology.

Another infuriating pulse of Matrix-infused calm washed against the edges of his field and set his dentae on edge. Do they all seriously think I’m some traumatized sparkling who can’t handle himself!?  

“Please understand that we all sympathize with you, but-”

In a nanosecond, the last of his fraying patience snapped. “With all due respect, Prime-” he cut in, glaring at their stunned-silent leader- “go frag yourself.”

The room around him descended into chaos: mechs screaming at each other, shouting at Wheeljack, Prowl’s doorwings pinning back as his optics flickered violently, Jazz rushing over to his side to steady him, and Optimus, staring in disbelief as Wheeljack turned on his heel strut and stormed out the door. 

__________________________________

It was all he could do not to slam his fist into the nearest wall as he stomped down the hallway to his lab.

 The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that he’d face the scolding of a lifetime from Ratchet over the broken digits that would undoubtedly result from it. 

His spark twinged at that thought. Was there any real chance that his conjunx would come back? Even if just to scold him?

Forcibly pulling his processor away from that train of thought, he tried to find any other excuse to not do something stupid. What about- No. Any other medics-? First Aid!  

Right, First Aid was the current CMO given Ratchet’s… for the time being. The kid was under enough stress as it was being the only experienced medic on the medbay floor without Wheeljack going and breaking his servo in a fit of destructive redecoration. Speaking of which, he really needed to check in with him at some point. 

Of all his children, the Dinobots were taking Ratchet’s capture the best, though that was admittedly a bit of a stretch. As much as he hated lying to them, Wheeljack didn’t want to see what would happen if they realized that Ratchet wasn’t on a cross-country supply run with no definable return date. The last thing he needed to deal with was five fire-breathing, hair-trigger tempered sparklings on a warpath. 

The Aerialbots were doing as well as could be expected; Silverbolt was doing a phenomenal job keeping his gestalt’s morale up. It hurt that he’d shouldered that burden in the first place, but Wheeljack was spread dangerously thin as it was trying to keep himself and fifteen other mechs’ mental states together. It was painfully obvious, though, that he and the rest of his gestalt were hanging on by a tenuous thread. 

The Protectobots, on the other servo, had taken it the worst—second only to Wheeljack himself. First Aid and Groove had all but become shells of themselves, completely shut down except when they snuck down to Wheeljack’s lab to sob their optics out. ‘Aid, the poor kid, blamed himself for encouraging Ratchet to take the day off, and no amount of reassurance would change his processor. Blades spent every spare minute of the cycle in the training room sparring—to the point that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker of all mechs had voiced their concerns—and though they’d tried, Streetwise and Hot Spot had worn themselves out in under a cycle trying to keep their gestaltmates together. The two mostly kept to their shared hab now; despondent and functionally dead to the world.

It had helped, a bit, when Wheeljack had decided to do a little impromptu renovation. 

__________________________________

It'd been to every mechs’ surprise on the Ark when the periodic explosions that tended to echo up from Wheeljack’s lab had all but ceased as he took to reorganizing the space into somewhere where his kids could go to get away from the rest of their crewmates. 

Every crucible, bunsen burner, distillation set-up, and beaker of acid had been put away or disposed of and replaced with as many blankets and pillows as he could get his servos on (most were stolen, but surprisingly, Mirage had actively helped with getting the vast majority of them. “It’s no problem darling,” the ex-noble had reassured when asked why, “You and yours need them more than any of these mechs do.”). 

At this point, he was pretty sure it looked more like a sparkling’s nursery than a lab. Blanket nests and pillows spanned the lengths of the walls with crates of energon goodies spaced at easy-to-access intervals. All that to say, he was fairly certain that his kids spent more time in his lab than they did in their own habs. Which, in turn, invited conflict, despite his best efforts.

True to form, as he got closer to it, the sound of a rapidly escalating argument reached his audials not five feet from the door. Taking in a deep vent, Wheeljack braced himself and punched in the access code.

__________________________________

“-you MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE!” Blades screamed at an equally angry Slingshot, rotors bristling behind him with a dangerous rattling noise.

“Aww, too stupid to admit that you’re a delusional moron?” the Aerialbot cooed back, saccharine venom dripping from his voice.

“Guys… please…?” First Aid pleaded weakly from where he sat huddled under an assortment of blankets in the corner, visor dark blue from crying. On the far side of the lab, Swoop, Skydive, and Fireflight sat nestled together, their fields disturbingly vacant.

“What? Just ‘cause I’m not throwing myself a pity-party like a big fucking sparkling, I’m delusional?!” Blades growled, the tell-tale hum of weapon systems onlining filling the room as he took an aggressive step forwards. To his left, ‘Aid pulled the blankets over his helm.

“If by ‘fucking sparkling’ you mean, ‘realist who understands what’s going on’, then yeah, I am ,” Slingshot snarled back, standing his ground and glaring back at the Protectobot. The Aerialbots on the far side of the room flinched at they way his field took on a darker tone, no doubt picking up whatever unspoken threat their gestaltmate had made over their bond.

“Oh yeah?! Well how about I-” Whatever Blades was about to say died in his intake as his optics wandered towards the doorway and finally spotted Wheeljack. 

Instantly, the Protectobot’s hostile posture deflated, rotors clanging together their base as they dropped in shock. His fists slackened, weapons powering down to stand-by.

With a scoff, Slingshot rolled his optics. “Puh-lease, you’re not getting me to look away just so you can suckerpunch me. I’m not stu-” The Protectobot’s mouth froze, vocalizer cutting off with a pop of static as his optics unconsciously followed Blade’s line of sight anyways.

Both mechs stood stock still, as though maybe, if they didn’t move, Wheeljack wouldn’t notice them. As for himself, he’d known that tensions had been rising between the combiner gestalts, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t get as bad as what he’d just seen. At least they weren’t physically fighting yet? his processor offered, trying to cling to whatever sliver of silver lining he could find. 

With a quiet sigh, Wheeljack stepped out of the doorway and into the lab, walking over to the two quarrelling mechs. “Alright, both of you, stand down. What in Primus’ name were the two of you fighting over?” he asked, unable to keep the disappointed tiredness out of his voice.

“He started it!” Blades accused, jabbing a finger towards Slingshot’s chestplate.

“Only because you won’t see the plain facts!” the Aerialbot growled back, baring his dentae at the helicopter, weapons powering up with a low whine.

Sensing things devolving back into a screaming match—and wishing to Primus that he had any semblance of Ratchet’s tact with handling these spats—Wheeljack stepped between the bristling mechs. “Alright, alright, this is going nowhere. You-” he pointed at Slingshot- “Go and sit over there, and you-” he turned to point at Blades, “go sit over there. I want both of you to stay there until you can handle holding a mature, civil, conversation. Got it?”

With muttered curses and grumbles, both mechs shot each other one last glare over Wheeljack’s helm, but trudged over to their respective ‘time-out’ spots as Spike had once called them. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Wheeljack let out a tired sigh before walking over to where First Aid had cocooned himself in at least four different blankets. Time for damage control.  

Kneeling down, he pulsed calm through his field towards the strung-out medic, letting his blast mask retract so that the kid could read his expressions better. “Hey, ‘Aid, you doing alright? Feel up to talking at all?”

First Aid looked between him, his gestaltmate, and Slingshot before giving his helm a minute shake, shoulders scrunching up so that his face almost disappeared beneath the blankets. With the best soft smile he could muster without looking too sad, Wheeljack patted where it looked like a shoulder might be. “S’all right kiddo. You don’t have to if you don’t feel like it.”

The medic gave the tiniest nod he’d ever seen before his helm actually disappeared beneath the blanket mound. Guilt and remorse clenched around Wheeljack’s spark as he pushed back to his pedes, sending the Protectobot one last comforting pulse as he turned towards where Swoop and the other Aerialbots sat at the opposite end of the room. He had no intention of grilling Fireflight or Skydive, but the pteranodon might be able to explain things.

Beckoning the Dinobot over, he waited as the gangly mech carefully extracted himself from the half-cuddle pile and slowly made his way over, optics darting warily between the still seething Blades and Slingshot. “Wheeljack need help with something?” he asked with innocent earnestness, helm tilted to one side.

“Yeah, I do, kid. You know why their fight-” he jerked his thumbs towards both mechs- “started to begin with?”

A thoughtful expression overtook the Dinobot’s face before he said hesitantly, “Him Blades say Ratchet be back soon, but him Slingshot don’t think so. Called each other lotsa rude words.” Swoop paused for a moment before leaning in closer to Wheeljack, his voice dropping worriedly. “Ratchet… be back soon, though, right?” A quiet desperation laced the pteranodon’s voice, echoed in the way his wings twitched back and down.

For the briefest moment, Wheeljack considered telling the sparkling the truth, only to be checked by the pleading look on Swoop’s face. There was so much hope in his optics that he couldn’t bear to watch it die. “I don’t know when he’ll be back, but I promise, he’s perfectly fine, and misses us very much,” he reassured him, hoping against hope that the white lie would hold up long enough for Ratchet to get back before he ran out of excuses. “Thanks for explaining things, though.”

The Dinobot smiled brightly at him before stooping down and whispering in a concerned voice, “Them Aerialbots and Protectobots, them all miss Ratchet. Them not doing too well.”

The sinking feeling that had formed in his tank since Ratchet’s disappearance grew into a yawning, bottomless pit. “Don’t worry your processor over them. That’s my job, not yours,” he reassured the Dinobot, patting his shoulder and nodding his helm towards the exit. “In the meantime, why don’t you go corral your siblings and head to the mess. Don’t think I didn’t notice you skipping out on breakfast this morning.”

Straightening up with a sheepish laugh, Swoop gave him a thumbs up before scurrying out the door, sending First Aid a wave goodbye as he went. A bit of the tension in Wheeljack’s chestplate slackened when he saw the Protectobot wave back, helm still hidden beneath blankets, but didn’t leave as he refocused his attention on the despondent Aerialbots leaning against each other in the corner.

__________________________________

To his immense relief, when he sent a quick ping to their comms both mechs reacted; Fireflight’s frame twitched and Skydive’s helm jerked in either surprise or acknowledgement. Okay, okay, they’re still at least somewhat conscious, he reassured himself, careful to keep his pedesteps even as he walked over. Maybe he was being overly paranoid, but the last thing he wanted to do was set off a pair of already-spiralling mechs. 

Stopping only to grab some energon goodies, Wheeljack carefully maneuvered between the piles of blankets and pillows that had been constructed over the last few cycles. Kneeling down in front of the two Aerialbots, he held out the goodies in lieu of a greeting.

A horrible pang of fear gripped his spark at the distant, blank looks in the two fliers’ optics, only slackening when Skydive’s brightened, blinking slowly as he peered at the cubes in Wheeljack’s servos. “…Whuzzat?” he asked tiredly, nudging Fireflight with one elbow while his other servo scrubbed at his optics.

“Some energon goodies, the sour ones you both like,” Wheeljack prompted gently, holding them out to the Aerialbots again.

Hesitantly, Skydive reached out and grabbed a small servoful, followed by Fireflight’s uncoordinated grab, almost spilling the rest on the ground. “These’re nice,” the red flier slurred, already starting to nod off again, helm falling to the side with a dull thunk against Skydive’s shoulder. “Thanks ‘Jack.”

“Yeah, thanks,” his brother echoed, tucking his knees up against his chestplate as he subspaced the goodies.

“Y’know, you can eat them if you want,” Wheeljack encouraged, sitting down across from the two mechs.

“‘M not hungry,” Skydive murmured, not meeting Wheeljack’s optics. “I’ll eat ‘em later.”

“Will you, though?”

The silence that followed was answer enough.

“Skydive, you have to eat something. Even if you don’t think you’re hungry, that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been here all cycle,” Wheeljack pushed as gently as he could. “You have to be at least a little peckish?”

The Aerialbot looked like he was about to argue when Fireflight cut in. “What’s the point anyways!?” he wailed, sorrow and anger plain in his voice. “Ratchet’s not coming back, and if he does, he’ll be dead!”

Wheeljack wanted to wince at the way the shrill cry echoed in the silent lab, already dreading the ignition of another fight. He didn’t have time to worry about that, though; the sobbing flier in front of him demanded his attention. 

“He will come back,” Wheeljack said firmly, placing a comforting servo on the flier’s shoulder and waiting until he brought his optics back up to look at him to continue, “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but he will come back to us in one piece.”

“And how do you know that?!” Fireflight cried, tears streaming down his face even as he tried to scrub them away. Beside him, Skydive flinched away and dropped his optics, no doubt thinking along the same lines. Even the grumbling engines of Blades and Slingshot had gone silent, the air of the lab turning tense with apprehension.

Taking a deep vent, Wheeljack tried not to let his own misgivings show. “I know that he’ll come back because I know my conjunx. If anything, he’s probably running the ‘Con’s whole operation right now an’ soon enough, they’re gonna be begging us for an unconditional surrender.” Alright, so maybe he was overselling it a little, but one, he was actually fairly certain that Ratchet would give the ‘Cons grief one way or another, and two, it brought the ghosts of smiles back onto Skydive and Fireflight’s faces.

“Ratch probably took one look at ‘em and scolded them to the Inferno and back,” Skydive laughed weakly, wiping the tears off his face.

“Remember that time he caught Air Raid stealing energon goodies in the middle of the night?” he asked Fireflight with a small chuckle, the flier’s own flood of tears starting to slow. 

“How could I not? He was on cleaning duty for a whole decacycle.”  

“That’s got nothin’ on when he caught Sides and Sunny mid-prank!” Blades hollered from his corner, rotors relaxed and flared out to his sides in excitement. “You could hear him shouting from ten miles out!”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that. He had them put on garbage duty for a stellar cycle, right? Or did he toss them in the brig?” Slingshot seemed to have relaxed too, a contemplative look on his face.

“Garbage duty, but they got off in a few cycles or so, but only because Prowl needed ‘em for frontliner stuff.”

“Oh riiiight…”

Quickly, the conversation around him devolved into trying to list the worst chewing-outs and punishments that Ratchet had doled out on the Ark, coupled with absurd hypotheticals for what he was doing to the ‘Cons at that very moment. Even First Aid somewhat joined in, though it mostly consisted of the young medic poking his helm out from under the blankets and occasionally humming in agreement. As the minutes ticked by and no one fell back into serious arguing, Wheeljack felt a large portion of the tension in his spark slip away.

__________________________________

After what felt like a few minutes (but his chronometer told him had been an hour), he got back up to his pedes, joints creaking as he sent one last pulse of warmth across the room. “Alright, well, I’ve got some work to get done, so no one start any fights while I’m gone, got it?”

“Yes Wheeljack,” chorused the mechs scattered around the room, Fireflight and First Aid both looking like they were fighting back laughter.

Just as he reached the door, Blades called out, “Can me an’ Slingshot get outta our corners now?” followed by a smattering of lightsparked snickers.

“Are you going to pick a fight with each other again?” he asked, glancing between the two mechs with a raised optical ridge.

“Nosir.” Blades shook his helm vigorously, copied by Slingshot.

Wheeljack waited one second, then two, before letting out a tired sigh. “Fine, just… don’t burn the lab down,” he conceded, waving a servo at the two combiners.

“That’s a you problem, not an us problem.” First Aid’s small but teasing voice caught him off guard, helm snapping down to stare at the medic, before an involuntary snort of laughter rose in his intake.

“I swear,” Wheeljack sighed, fighting back laughter as he shook his helm in defeat, “You all took after Ratch, an’ no one else.”

He let their laughter nip at his heel struts as he left the lab and headed back up the hall towards his hab, glad to know that at least some of his kids were doing a bit better now. 

Hopefully, the rest of them were doing alright too.

__________________________________

Drowning himself in busywork only worked as a distraction for a couple hours before the loneliness finally got to him. 

Despite his best efforts to ignore that too, the emptiness of his hab quickly pressed down on Wheeljack, as if the room he was sitting in was breaking the very laws of physics to constrict around him.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been alone in his hab before—and when, exactly had he stopped thinking of it as their hab? (Probably when the spark ache got to be too much). Between his and Ratchet’s work schedules, it was wont to happen, but there was a sort of foreboding finality in knowing that his conjunx was never going to join him in the hab. Wouldn’t shake him awake to let him know he’d missed dinner. Wouldn’t drape a blanket over his frame or press a kiss to his forehelm. Wouldn’t bitch to him about whatever shenanigans the twins, or Bumblebee, or their kids had gotten into over high grade. Wouldn’t wake up next to him.

The finality of it all gnawed at the back of his helm like a Polyhexian hound worrying its favorite strut. Lurked at the corners of his processor, waiting for him to be all alone before pouncing.

At first, back when news of Ratchet’s capture was making the rounds, he’d tried sequestering himself in his lab—drowning himself in his studies and inventions to avoid the ache—only for Skyfire of all mechs to drag him out on the grounds that recharging next to volatile chemicals was a historically famous (and stupid) way to die. The next time he’d tried to pull that stunt, Sky had brought Ironhide with him, and that was the end of that coping mechanism. 

After that, he’d started burying himself in whatever unnecessary datapad work he’d been neglecting since his enlistment in the Autobot forces. 

That had obviously raised red flags with Prowl when he’d abruptly received at least a hundred overdue reports that he’d given up hounding Wheeljack for. He’s sent Sky and Percy up to check on him, only for the two to run into him on their way over (he’d gotten to report 150 when the empty isolation of his hab grew to be too much and his options became either break down, or seek company).

Now though, when things had cooled and they were stuck waiting for the Decepticons to tip their servo, he was too tired to try and socialize—hindered both by his behavior at the crisis meeting and his own abysmal social skills—and still too upset to not care how alone he was. 

Like a yawning chasm opening in his helm, Wheeljack’s thoughts spiralled. What if they’ve handed him over to Shockwave?! What if they jettisoned him into the ocean and the rust killed him!? What if he's being tortured!? Why isn’t ANYONE doing ANYTHING!?!

Ratchet had been gone a decacycle and not a single mech that Wheeljack had called a friend had done anything to organize a rescue for him or run a covert-ops recon to see if he was even still alive! He could be dead and neither he, nor his kids, would know until Megatron finally decided to dump his grayed frame on their doorstep to gloat!

In the very, very, far back of his helm, he recognized that he was probably taking things to their extremes, but the thought made it nowhere near his conscious processor as a futile anger bubbled up in his chestplate.

__________________________________

Wheeljack sat in the silence for another full minute, fuming in his seat, when all of a sudden, a tranquil calm settled over his processor and frame.

In a move that would’ve met Prowl’s standards of tantrum-throwing, he swept his arm across the table, sending the datapads he’d been working on flying. The sound of plastic and glass shattering filled the room as he shoved away from the table, almost knocking it over in the process, and stormed towards the kitchen.

In a blind rage, he ripped cabinets and drawers open, grabbing anything that looked remotely smashable and hurling it at the nearest surface. Static roared in his audials, muffling the din of glass splintering against the floor and walls. All he could hear in his processor was the pounding of his spark and the furious buzz of his rage. 

Something flashed in his HUD, but he barely noticed it, brushing it off without a second thought. 

It wasn’t until the warning flashed directly across his vision, forcing him to acknowledge it, that he noticed the sensation of something dripping off his digits. 

Looking down, his processor still in a haze, he stared in confusion at the beads of energon rolling down his servos from a thousand miniscule cuts. Blankly, he turned his helm to search his surroundings for any possible culprit.

All around him, broken glass littered the floor, the walls, and the counters, gleaming like a thousand malevolent stars. A part of him hated the way they seemed to mock him, wanting nothing more than to grind them into oblivion under his pede, but another part cautioned against it. Glass… can get stuck between my transformation seams or under my plating, he remembered. Ratch isn’t around to help get it out if it gets stuck… and he wouldn’t be thrilled if the kids got hurt by it either.

Moving on autopilot, his processor still dumb, he reached under the sink and grabbed the broom and dustpan stowed there. Slowly and methodically, he began sweeping up the broken glass and shards of metal that’d been chipped off the counter and walls. Somewhere, deep in his processor, something felt extremely wrong about the situation, but he had neither the energy, nor the ability to wonder why. 

Everything around Wheeljack felt dull and fuzzy—the kind of feeling he got whenever he half-woke from recharge, half his processor still stuck in whatever flux he’d imagined—like he wasn’t present in his frame, but observing from outside it.

__________________________________

It was only after the last of the glass had been swept up and he’d disinfected and cleaned his wounded servos that reality slammed back into Wheeljack like a freight train. 

Without prelude, tears flooded his optics, blurring his visual feed; a choked sob catching in his intake. His blast mask retracted as he gasped for air to circulate through his frame, backpedalling until his back hit the far wall, servos twitching at his sides. Time seemed to slow down around him even as his thoughts spun up too fast for him to react to, the room feeling like it was pressing in on all sides.

Sinking down onto the floor, servos covering—clutching onto—his face now as he drew his knees up to his chestplate, Wheeljack tried vent only to immediately feel a hiccuping sob rise in his intake. Tears still poured down his face, staining his servos and faceplate as he tried and failed to regain his composure. What have I done!? What have I done!? What have I done!?

It wasn’t just that it was gifted and expensive glassware that he’d shattered, it was that they’d been his and Ratchet’s . Probably some of the first stuff they’d ever bought together or been gifted by their friends after they’d conjunxed. And now it was all gone forever. Shattered into a thousand tiny fragments like they’d meant nothing.

A quiet sob, then another escaped Wheeljack’s vocalizer as he curled even further inwards, burying his helm in his knees, arms wrapped around his legs. Tears poured down his face as his chestplate was wracked with silent sobbing. I’m never going to see him again! I’m never going to see him again, and I destroyed some of the only things that carry his memory. I destroyed them and I didn’t even THINK ABOUT IT! I’m never going to see him again and it’s all my fault.

“Are… Are you okay?”

Sniffling, Wheeljack didn’t bother raising his helm as he snapped, “Go away Skyfire! ‘M not in the mood to talk right now.”

“No, seriously. You smell—Primus, you look—two seconds away from a breakdown. And you literally just had one.” The statement was followed by a dull thunk, like something had jumped down onto the table.  

Scrubbing at his optics to try and clear them, Wheeljack slowly picked his helm up. The voice didn’t sound like Skyfire’s at all, now that he thought about it, and it was far too close to be someone speaking from outside his hab. Given that no other mech besides Prime himself could get his door open if he didn’t want it, that meant… 

There’s a Decepticon in my hab, he realized, a more hysterical part of his processor responding to the revelation before he could stop it. 

“If you’re here to kill me, I’d prefer a quick death if you don’t mind,” he called out to whoever was in his hab, too annoyed and tired and drained to care about not pissing off whatever ‘Con was about to ambush him.

The silence stretched on for what seemed like an eternity, his vision clearing enough for him to look around the hab, before the voice spoke again. “Y’know, that’s usually not the response mechs have to finding me, well, anywhere, let alone a habsuite.”

“Yeah, well y’know what?” he asked, helm swivelling to look for the voice’s source (and double checking everything since his processor still felt like it’d been kicked to Luna 1 and back), “It’s been a scrap cycle of a scrap decacycle.”

“Still…” the voice sounded genuinely concerned—and off to his left—but the moment Wheeljack locked optics with the ‘Con, he almost let out the hysterical laugh that bubbled up in his intake.

Sitting on his desk, tail lashing softly across its surface, was Soundwave’s cassette, Ravage. 

The jaguar’s helm was tipped to the side, studying him with what looked like concerned curiosity, and if he wasn’t already trying to process why he was in his hab, Wheeljack would’ve laughed. It figured, of course, that when everything around him was going to pit, one of ‘Wave’s spies would make an appearance because why fragging not!?

“So, what? Here to kidnap and murder me too? Good ‘old Megs get bored of killing medics?” The sarcastic venom dripped from Wheeljack’s voice as he scowled at the cassetticon.

To his surprise and confusion, the jaguar reeled back on his desk, audials pinning to his helm in disgust. “What the-! NO! What in the-” the cassette abruptly got to his paws, pacing back and forth along the desk’s length. “What do you think we did with him!?”

“I’m gonna ask real nice that you don’t insult my intelligence.” Wheeljack bristled, glowering at Ravage. “We all know that you ‘Con’s don’t care one bit whether a mech’s a bystander or a soldier. If you can’t ransom them, you kill ‘em.”

“Wha-!? He’s- He’s a fragging MEDIC!” The jaguar cried incredulously, sitting back down and looking at Wheeljack as though he’d just grown a second helm. “He’s in our MEDBAY!”

The words took a second to sink into his processor. Then another.

“Ratch- He’s ALIVE?!”  

Scrambling to his pedes—and completely ignoring that it was an enemy spy he was talking to—Wheeljack bolted towards Ravage, optics searching the jaguar’s face for any sign of deception. “Is he alright?! Is he hurt!? Has anything happened to him!?” Prowl would have a fit the likes of which would put Screamer’s best hits to shame when he found out about it, but all his processor could focus on was that his conjunx was alive.

“Whoa, hey! Watch it!” the jaguar hissed, swiping a paw at Wheeljack and skittering back. Taking a vent to gather his composure, the cassetticon gave him a grouchy look before saying, “Alright, fine. In order; yes, no, but he beaned Motormaster— twice apparently—and yes, but nothing he couldn’t handle.”

It took Wheeljack a second to process what he’d just heard before he glared at the cassetticon—the name Motormaster sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place why. “Someone picked a fight with him?”

“Again! Nothing he couldn’t handle!” Ravage snapped, glaring right back. “Besides, s’not like ‘Wave woulda let anything really happen to him. He’s having me deliver this, after all.” The jaguar fell into grumbling something about sticky digits and annoying busybodies, but Wheeljack’s processor stayed stuck on the last thing he’d said, replaying it in his helm as he tried to make helms or tails of it.

With more than a little disbelief in his voice, he said, slowly, “Soundwave… asked you… to deliver something… to me.”

“You want it or not?” the cassetticon shot back, pulling a plain datapad from his subspace and setting it on the desktop. “It’s from your mech anyways.”

“Ratchet… sent this?” Wheeljack asked, hesitantly plucking the datapad off the desk and holding it at arms length while he studied it. “And what makes you think he’s ‘my mech’?” 

(Neither of them tended to venture outside the Ark during what precious down time existed between Decepticon raids and navigating human politics, but even when they were on the battlefield together, they never had time to stick close to one another. How a cassetticon of all mechs had figured out their relationship was something he intended to get to the bottom of ASAP.)

“You mean other than the fact that you just confirmed it? I mean, seriously, are all you ‘Bots this dense or is it just you?” Ravage asked, giving him an amused look, to corners of his muzzle twitching up into what looked like a smirk. “And of course Hatch- Ratchet sent this, who else would? You got a deep cover mech we don’t know about?” 

Standing up, the jaguar leapt up onto the top of a nearby bookshelf. Turning his helm to look over his shoulder he added with a shrug, “Oh, and it wasn’t that hard to figure out. His scent’s all over this hab. So’s yours. Doesn’t take long to put two and two together.”

Pulling his attention away from the datapad he was currently scanning for viruses, Wheeljack peered curiously at the cassetticon. “Y’know,” he commented offservoedly, “you’re awfully calm, being this deep in enemy territory.”

“Eh, been doing this a while now. Not that hard once you get the hang of it,” Ravage shrugged, bunching up his legs before fluidly leaping back up into the vent he’d come from. “But seriously, go find, like, a pal or something and sob your optics out to. ‘Cause whatever you’re doing right now sure as slag ain’t healthy.”

Mollified by the cassetticon’s strange interest in his emotional well-being, Wheeljack froze momentarily. “I’ll, uh, take that into consideration,” he called up awkwardly, waving the datapad in his servo, “And thanks. For what you’re doing, I mean.”

“It’s nothing. This’s just to get ‘Wave to stop worrying so much about your medic at any rate.”

“Still, thank you.”

Ravage didn’t reply, but Wheeljack thought he sensed a slight bit of pride in the jaguar’s field as he turned to leave. 

__________________________________

He waited all of ten minutes after the cassetticon left before setting the datapad down on his desk and fumbling his chair off the ground and back into standing position. By some miracle of fate, it hadn’t broken during his rampage.

The datapad was so simple in its functions, it was almost sparkling-proof but there was a single file he could access on it, titled To Wheeljack.

Apprehension filled his processor, digit hesitating just above the glass screen, before he took a steadying vent and clicked the file’s icon. Text filled the screen in a nanosecond, and as Wheeljack started to read, the tension that had rested around his spark for the past decacycle finally slackened.

[Wheeljack, first and foremost, I am fine, I am uninjured, and there isn’t a single moron on this ship I can’t handle. Secondly, I’m neither being held captive (not technically at least) nor being tortured. Unless you consider being saddled with gestalts with more ego than common sense torture.]

Any doubts that anyone other than his conjunx had written this evaporated, an astonished laugh bubbling up in Wheeljack’s intake as he continued to read. Only Ratchet would know exactly where his processor would wander in his absence, and only his Ratchet would write a ‘hi, I’m not dead, don’t worry’ letter like a medical report.

[Soundwave has offered to deliver this message in absolute confidence, so if he rats me out, or his cassettes decide to snoop, it’s on their own helms.]

That… also fit with what he knew of his conjunx, both to his amusement and concern. He sincerely hoped for Soundwave’s sake that he had kept things hush-hush.

[I’m going to keep this short in the interest of not putting you or anyone else at risk, but know that I miss you and the kids dearly, and I promise, I’ll make it back to you somehow. There’s been somewhat of a hitch in my plans to get off this pit-forsaken ship, but I’ll figure it out. In the meantime, I’m sure you’ve been doing the best you can to take care of everyone, and I am so sorry I can’t be there to help. Let ‘Aid know that I’m incredibly proud of him and to not blame himself—I know that he probably already has, but still. Let everyone else know that I love them, and to not drive themselves mad worrying about me, that’s my job, not theirs.

And ‘Jack? Take care of yourself. I’m not there right now to stop you from doing something harebrained, so please, don’t burn yourself out looking after everyone but yourself. 

I love you, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.

          - Ratchet, CMO]

Tears welled in Wheeljack’s optics, blurring the text on the screen before falling onto the datapad with a quiet drip-drip-drip.  

Bringing a servo up to scrub at his face, Wheeljack stood up, subspacing the datapad as he walked towards the berthroom he hadn’t slept in in cycles. He’d go and talk to Prime and Prowl later about this, after letting his kids and Skyfire know, but recharge seemed like his best course of action at the moment. Better to approach the scrap storm that would come out of this with as level a helm as he could manage.

__________________________________

His berthroom was cold, blankets still askew from the last time he’d woken up there, but as Wheeljack laid down, drawing the covers around himself and curling into a ball, the silent emptiness no longer felt so overwhelming. 

The small warmth of reassurance he’d gained stayed in his chestplate as he replayed Ratchet’s message over and over in his processor, a sad, relieved smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.

The berth was still too big, the room still too cold and empty, but his conjunx’s words warmed his spark, a promise that the worst would eventually end. A promise that the mech he loved would come back to him.

With that in processor, Wheeljack shuttered his optics and let the recharge he’d been avoiding drag him under. The last thought to flit through his helm was what did he mean, there’s been a hitch? before his consciousness faded into the bright, nonsensicality of recharge flux.

Chapter Text

At first, when Ratchet had returned to his hab after his meeting with Soundwave, his door had appeared the same as any other, save that it was clearly almost a foot thicker. He was incorrect, however, in thinking that that was all the Constructicons had done for him, as Scavenger had eagerly explained with minimal prompting. 

“It’s got spark-reader tech, so it’ll only open if you or one o’ us tries to come in! Not even Soundwave could get this open!”

Baffled, and more than a little skeptical, Ratchet asked, “Really? And who, pray tell, did you get this ‘spark-reader tech’ from? Swindle?” The jeep’s sleazy sales tactics were as infamous as his tendency to try and scam his way out of any problem. 

“Oh, we didn’t get it from him. That’d risk lettin’ him put his or someone else’s spark signature down,” Scavenger reassured him, as though he’d made an obvious, if expected, mistake. The excavator proudly hooked a thumb towards his chestplate and announced, “Me an’ Scrapper built an’ coded it ourselves!”

A thousand emotions ran through Ratchet’s helm as he tried to process what he’d just heard, the Constructicon taking his silence as an invitation for demonstration and ushering him forwards. “Just you watch, it’ll work! It only caught Bonesy’s heel strut once!”

When he gave him a thoroughly disapproving look, he quickly added, “Kidding! Kidding!” and gave him another nudge forwards.

Resigning himself to this nonsense, Ratchet took a step forwards, only to be stunned when the door actually slid open before he even reached for the access panel. “You-? You really managed to program this by yourselves,” he marveled, half amazed, half incredulous.

“Yep!” Scavenger preened, puffing his chestplate out like the proud sparkling that he was. “I mean, Scrapper did hafta help keep ev’rything ‘on-task’ ‘cause I tend to space, but we got it done!” the excavator chuckled, beaming down at Ratchet with the most unabashed pride he’d ever seen on a mech’s face. “Pretty neat, ain’t it?”

“More than just ‘neat’, I’d say,” Ratchet murmured in awe, ignoring the nagging concern that if a sparkling with the attention span of a hummingbird could pull off something like this , then what could he manage if he actually applied himself to the ‘Con’s war effort? 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re brilliant?”

“Wha-? No, I-! Why would anyone-!?” The compliment had Scavenger tripping over his words, simultaneously trying to hush Ratchet and scan the hallway to make sure no passersby had heard him. 

“Ya can’t go sayin’ stuff like that!” he whisper-yelled, grabbing him by the shoulders. “That ain’t how things work ‘round here, an’ you know it!”

“I do,” Ratchet replied evenly, shrugging off the excavator’s grip and patting his arm comfortingly, “But I’m not one of you, and I’m sure as pit not going to play by your rules. You did good work, and that deserves praise.” 

“I guess when ya put it like that…” the Constructicon mumbled, mollified as Ratchet walked into his hab, the door shutting quietly behind him with the tell-tale hiss of magna-clamps locking into place. If he wasn’t absolutely convinced that the Constructicons as a whole were actively looking out for him, the sound would’ve had him searching for any ventilation covers to pull loose and escape through.

Instead, he simply shut his optics and stole back what little recharge he could before morning came with all its wonderful problems.

__________________________________

Waking up, the first thing he should’ve noticed was the unusual, suspicious, quiet outside. Usually there was at least one fight echoing down the halls. 

To his sleep-deprived processor, though, it was as normal a cycle as any other.

Yawning and stretching out the cabling in his neck and arms, Ratchet swung his pedes off the berth, grabbing both his energon ration and what was left of the high grade Soundwave had gifted him from his energon dispenser. Pulling a spare hard drive from a subspace pocket, he plugged it into a port at the back of his helm as he finished off the last of his high grade. 

As he waited for the data transfer to complete, he absentmindedly pulled the container of grease Hook had given him for his subspace. Unscrewing the lid and applying it to the joints and seams of his shoulders, neck, and upper back, he let out a relaxed sigh as the soothing coolness seeped into his protoform. Guess the kid wasn’t kidding about this stuff, Ratchet thought to himself with an amused shake of his helm. I cannot believe I’m letting these scraplets grow on me.

Drawing his attention back to the present, his HUD flashed with the message: EXTERNAL DOWNLOAD COMPLETE, prompting him to remove the hard drive from the base of his helm.

He’d drafted up a letter to Wheeljack on his hike back from Soundwave’s office the evening prior, and after a bit of polishing, it was good enough to send over to the tape deck. Now all that was left to do was hand it over to the mech’s cassettes and pray to a deity he’d stopped believing in that the TIC would keep his word. 

To no one in particular, he announced, “I’m leaving this here for one of you nosey troublemakers to take back to your boss. Wouldn’t try reading it yourself though, viruses are nasty buggers to sort out.” 

The last bit was a complete lie, he had neither the tools nor the time to craft anything remotely hazardous nor did he want to inflict something like that given that it would just loop back around to being his problem—but, as he’d learned with Blaster’s cassettes, a little threat went a long way when it came to securing privacy.

Proving his point, no sooner had he pushed the hard drive through a slat in the vent than he heard small, muffled pedesteps and arguing. “You heard what he said, don’t touch it!” squawked an indignant voice, unfamiliar to Ratchet’s audials.

“Yeah, and? We’ve stolen shit from Swindle of all mechs. Whatever virus he put in here’s not gonna do scrap!” Ah, now that one, he recognized. The red cassetticon from the previous night. Rumble, if he remembered correctly.

“Fine, open it, but when ‘Wave puts you on garbage duty for eternity, I’m not sticking my neck out for you,” growled the high-pitched voice.

“Yeesh! Fine, alright, I won’t mess with it!” Rumble whined. “You birds are never any fun. All bluster and no bite.”

“That’s because we have common sense, unlike some mechs,” came the distant, haughty reply, followed shortly by the sound of two cassetticons duking it out in the ventilation shafts.

Well, as long as they didn’t hurt each other too badly, they were Soundwave’s problem, not Ratchet’s.

Letting out a tired chuckle, he rolled his optics and took a step towards the door. And almost ran face-first into it. Trying to open it manually was a complete failure as it didn’t budge one inch. At first, he fought back the urge to groan in frustration. Of course the kid’s stuff only works the one time I try to get in but not when I’m trying to get out , he thought to himself, resigned to comming their leader, Scrapper, and demanding that he remove the door and debug it in front of him himself.

That was until he sensed three spark signatures hovering right outside his hab. 

He recognized them as Constructicons, but couldn’t place which spark belonged to whom. (Wheeljack always liked to tease him that it was the old age getting to him, but Ratchet maintained that the nature of gestalts muddled up their spark signatures.) 

Based on how close they were, the door’s mechanism should’ve opened it for them, and the fact that none of them were attempting to break their way in meant that the door was supposed to be closed. Of course they have manual override codes, why didn’t I anticipate this!? he chided himself, stepping forwards and pounding a fist against the door.

“OPEN THIS RIGHT NOW OR SO PRIMUS HELP ME YOU WILL BE CLEANING THE OUTER BULKHEAD FOR DECACYLES!” he roared through the thick metal.

There was a beat of silence, and then the hiss-click of magna clamps disengaging.

__________________________________

Stepping out of his hab, he was greeted by Long Haul, Bonecrusher, and Mixmaster, who were all looking at him with guilty expressions on their faces, their optics pointedly avoiding his. 

After a long second of sustained silence, he cleared his intake.

Bonecrusher and Long Haul startled at the sound, but Mixmaster actually moved closer, stepping directly between Ratchet and the hallway leading towards the medbay. “H-h-hey, so we-we were all thinkin’,” the cement mixer stammered, swaying side to side, his servos fidgeting nervously with each other, “You’ve-you’ve-you’ve been doin’ a-a-a lot a lot fer all o’ us-us, so how-how about we-we-we do somethin’ do somethin’ for-for you! We can we can show ya th-the mess, the rec-rec room, where-wh-where Astrotrain’s engex supply is-”

The Constructicon abruptly cut off when Bonecrusher elbowed him in the side, his vocalizer spitting static. Huh. Is the stuttering stress-related or is it a processor glitch that’s flaring up because of stress? Adding a few notes to Mixmaster’s file, he made a quick memo to check out the cement mixer’s language processing center later. 

“What Mixer means ta say is we all think ya deserve a break,” Long Haul interjected, slapping a servo over his gestaltmate’s mouth.

“Yeah, an’ we didn’t really know what ‘Bots like you like to do in their free time, so we figured we’d ask you yerself!” Bonecrusher added, chestplate puffed out in false bravado.

“Really? And locking me in my hab is the new way to ask a mech to hang out I take it?” he deadpanned with a frown as he crossed his arms.

The three mechs shared a worried glance between themselves before Mixmaster, pulling Long Haul’s servo off his face said sheepishly, “We-we-we didn’t we didn’t mean it-it t-t-to be ru-rude. Hook j-just wa-wanted us to-”

Again, he took a sharp jab to the side from Long Haul and a hissed, “Shutthefragup!” from Bonecrusher.

Taking a moment to process things, Ratchet looked between the gathered Constructicons, the hallway, and, just to test his developing theory, shifted his weight right, looking past Mixmaster and down the hall.

Just as he suspected, Bonecrusher shifted his weight left, blocking his view, his optics flickering between Ratchet and his gestaltmates. From the cement mixer’s left side, Long Haul took a half-step closer, cutting off access to the other branch of the hallway. 

Primus they have all the subtlety of Sideswipe mid prank, his processor grumbled. 

He’d seen it once, he’d seen it a million times across a million different stations; when something embarrassingly bad happened, someone was always sent to keep the on-duty medic away from the chaos. And if not for the fact that he was on the Nemesis, and leaving ‘Cons to their own devices was a recipe for disaster, he would’ve found the three mech’s not-so-subtle attempt at redirection amusing. 

Instead, though, these were ‘Cons and he was fairly certain that, collectively, they had no more than two brain cells to spare between all of them—both of which, if he had to guess, resided with Soundwave—which meant that if they were trying to stop him from seeing something, it was in dire need of being seen. Even if that was only so that Ratchet could fix whatever idiotic injuries resulted from it.

“Bonecrusher,” he said evenly, tone firm, “I need to get to the medbay.”

“I… I uh, get that,” stammered the dozer, anxiousness rising in his field as he glanced helplessly at his gestaltmates, “but uh, y’can’t…uuuh… go there jus’ yet?”

Raising an optical ridge, Ratchet looked between the three mechs, none of their optics meeting his. Sometimes, silence worked better to force an answer, but then again, gestalts just tended to talk amongst each other to escape the pressure. 

Sensing that he was getting nowhere, he let out a tired sigh, arms falling to his sides. “Listen, I get that I’m still technically your enemy, but right now, I am the most experienced medic on this ship, and I’d prefer to be kept in the loop regarding any patients that require my attention and care.”

After another solid three seconds of silence, concern started to worm its way into Ratchet’s chestplate. “This… isn’t about one of your gestaltmates, is it?” 

Back when the Aerial and Protectobots had first come online, they’d tended to close ranks if one of them got hurt—gestalt coding telling them to keep any outsiders out of it—and if that was happening here…

“It’s nothin’ like that, promise!” Long Haul cut in, waving his servos in front of him. “An’... An’ it ain’t ‘cause yer a ‘Bot. Screamer just-” the dump truck broke off with an angry hiss as Mixmaster stomped on his pede, sending him a pointed look.

Optical ridges furrowing, Ratchet could feel a frown creeping onto his face. “What does this have to do with Starscream?” he asked, his suspicion rising in the ensuing silence. There were rumors on the Ark, of course—given how Megatron treated his Air Commander on the battlefield—about what happened behind closed doors, but he’d naively hoped that the rumors were just that; rumors.

“Please don’t go,” Bonecrusher whispered, cringing as he spoke and all but confirming the sinking suspicion in Ratchet’s spark. “He doesn’t even like letting Hook treat ‘im. Prolly wouldn’t take too kindly to you barging in.” 

His sentiment was mimicked by his gestaltmates’ nodding helms, concern and worried protectiveness leaking out of their fields. That was never a good sign, but he was still a medic, and he still had a duty of care towards his patients, homicidal seekers or otherwise.

Gently brushing Bonecrusher aside, the bigger mech barely putting up a fight, Ratchet was careful to keep his voice and field calm. “And you really think I can’t handle that oversized peacock on my own?”

“No!” “‘Course not!” “No way!” chorused the three as they swarmed around him, matching him step for step as they trailed after him. 

“We’re jus’ worried… ‘bout…” Bonecrusher trailed off, Mixmaster picking up with, “Screamer’s g-g-got some got some w-w-wicked sharp-sharp claws. Don’t-don’t wanna watch Hook un-un-un-disembowel y-you.”

Snorting to cover the way his spark momentarily missed a pulse, Ratchet kept on walking. “So does Prowl. And the twins. Pit, just about all of the scouts have ‘em! If I can handle those idiots, I can handle whatever mess Starscream’s gotten himself into and the hissy fit he throws after it.”

The silence that fell over their little group was far from encouraging, but he pressed on. By that point, though, they’d reached the last corner before the medbay’s entrance, his three tagalongs stopping dead in their tracks as he continued forwards. 

It was foolish, Ratchet knew, to expect any ‘goodbyes’ or ‘good lucks’ from them (Decepticon emotional constipation at its finest) but from the worried fields that followed after him, he got the picture all the same. 

As he rounded the final corner, poking his helm through the medbay’s entrance, his spark momentarily stopped as he took in the scene inside.

__________________________________

Sprawled on a medberth, arms laying limply by his sides, frame coated in more energon than paint, lay an unconscious Starscream. His right wing was folded forwards like human origami, his left, nowhere to be seen. A gauze-covered wound decorated his midsection and one of his finials was blown completely off. As if to complete the macabre scene, his cockpit was completely shattered, the frame buckled inwards like he’d fallen on it. Hard. 

Transfixed by the horrific sight, he almost missed Hook’s frayed, panicking field as the medic ran into view carrying an IV stand and an armful of medical supplies ranging from pain inhibitors to solder and nanite wraps. Blinking dumbly as the mech sprinted from one end of the medbay to the other, he was caught completely off-guard by the previously undisplayed sense of urgency that propelled Hook.

Kicked into action when the spark monitor gave a warning beep, Ratchet strode into the medbay without a second thought, stepping in next to the younger medic as he hung the IV bag connected to the seeker’s arm from one of the stand’s hooks. 

“His spark pulse’s at 200 rotations per minute, fuel pressure is 30 over 40,” Hook informed him, not even bothering to comment on Ratchet’s abrupt appearance, as he hooked a bag of energon up on the other side of the IV stand. “Been trying to get him stable for the past hour an’ a half.”

He should be dead, how is he not dead yet?! was the first thought that ran through Ratchet’s helm, checking the monitors hooked up to the seeker’s frame just to make sure. How in the Inferno did this happen?!  

Instead of catastrophizing over Starscream’s condition, though, he asked, “What do you need?” scanning the younger medic’s haphazard triage cart for anything that might be missing.

“Gauze. Needed way more than I thought. And a welder.”

Booking in the direction of the storage closet, Ratchet pushed his surprise at how efficiently and diligently Hook appeared to be working to the back of his helm. The kid clearly knew what he was doing, but more importantly, knew Starscream better than he did. In terms of patient care, Hook knew better in this one particular instance—or so he hoped.

Gauze and welder retrieved, he jogged back over the Hook, grabbing a laser scalpel off the cart as he handed the items over. “Cockpit’s slagged to pit,” he grunted, moving over to the seeker’s other side to get a better look at the damage.

“You deal with that and I’ll deal with his helm,” Hook agreed, finishing hooking the seeker up to a ventilation machine that looked uncharacteristically well-used considering the rest of the medbay’s appearance, and grabbed tweezers and sterilizing solvent from the cart.

__________________________________

The bulk of their work passed by in relative silence, only broken when they needed to ask for tools—and when Starscream abruptly coded while Ratchet was working on patching the worst of the blaster wounds. They’d had to scramble to hook his spark up to a volt-harness, shouting orders at each other as they tried to stabilize the seeker. It was uncannily familiar to how he worked in his battlefield clinic; him and ‘Aid working around each other with a frenetic energy, trying to save as many lives as they could on borrowed time. 

But this wasn’t his clinic, and Hook wasn’t First Aid. And yet, there was little to no difference in Ratchet’s helm.

Watching the younger medic work reminded him intensely of the first few times ‘Aid had shadowed him in surgeries, only, unlike him, Hook didn’t flinch at the screaming alarms or the blaring spark-monitor. Where the mech lacked in work-ethic and manners, he made up for it in his ability to think and adapt on his pedes at a moment’s notice. If they hadn’t been in the middle of trying to keep Starscream alive, he would’ve taken the time to properly compliment him on it.

Once that mess had been dealt with, it was of course then that the wound on his midsection reopened. Hook had cursed up a storm and immediately ran to grab more weld-safe solder while Ratchet stripped the old bandages, and pressed a clump of gauze against the wound, taking what little time he had to study it.

It was at least fifteen centimeters in diameter and from the charred, warped protoform, the heat generated from the blast that had caused it would’ve needed to reach temperatures only found when fired from, say, a fusion cannon. The moment Starscream no longer needed his attention, Ratchet was going to storm right into Megatron’s throne room and beat him to death with his own servos he promised himself.

Enemy commander or not, no one got to hurt the mechs under his care. Ever.  

Thankfully, he was pulled from his murderous musings by Hook’s prompt return, the younger medic slapping both a welder and the solder into his servos. When he shot the kid a confused look, the cable truck threw his servos into the air defensively. “I ain’t got steady enough servos for that scrap! Screamer’ll kill me if I frag it up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he grumbled, rolling his optics before pulling the wad of gauze back to check for any internal bleeding. Content that the energon had finally congealed properly, he began the slow process of closing the gaping wound.

__________________________________

While he finished sanding and polishing the weld lines, Hook set about wheeling a supply cart over to a berth on the other side of the medbay. On said berth was Starscream’s missing wing, ironically, in far better condition than the one on his frame. 

When asked, Hook had jerked a thumb towards the joint seam where the wing met Starscream’s back strut. “Woulda taken the damn thing off myself, but the cabling’s tangled to shit, and I’m not wasting the next fifty vorns trying to detach each and every wire.”

Looking for himself, Ratchet let out a grunt of agreement. “Well, it’s not ideal, but it should be able to bend back into position without too much trouble. There doesn’t seem to be any internal tearing, so its confirmation should readjust with minimal issue.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinkin’ too. You take that one, an’ I’ll finish this?” the younger medic offered, all but begging for a simpler job. Primus, he and ‘Aid were so uncannily similar.

Nodding as he grabbed the triage cart and dragged it with him, Ratchet said, “Just let me know when you’re done so I can inspect it.” 

Fixing the younger medic with a soft glare as Hook’s plating flared, mild indignation on his face, it was all he could do not to roll his optics as he exclaimed, “Oh, so you’ll trust me to perform reconstructive surgery on a mech’s frame, but fixing up a detached, sterilized wing is too much for me to handle?!”

“First of all, kid, you did good stopping him from dying, but as I recall, I did the majority of repairs, and second, I am your senior in both age and experience by over a millennia. Don’t get sharp with me.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he grumbled as he grabbed the tools he needed and strode over to the lonely wing.

Free to roll his optics with the younger medic’s back to him, Ratchet adjusted the angle and height of Starscream’s medberth, bringing it upright and down so that he could easily access the mangled mess of the seeker’s right wing.

Hook’s attitude reminded him so much of how he’d been during his residency; so certain that he knew it all and horribly put-off when it turned out that he didn’t. Where First Aid took after Wheeljack’s kind spark and curious soul, Hook was a stark reflection of his younger self: sharp angles and fueled by spite and a need to prove that he was right.

As he inspected the folded wing, he rolled the comparison around in his helm. Hook wasn’t his kid, not really. He and his gestalt had been raised on the Nemesis—arguably the least growth-conductive environment in the universe—but he couldn’t help but wonder what it would’ve looked like; all of them growing up with his children. Well, we’re going to see it one way or another once I get them off this Primus forsaken ship, he grumbled to himself, dreading both dealing with getting the gestalt off the ship and with integrating them into the Ark.

Annoyance prickled in the back of his helm that he hadn’t been able to communicate his predicament to Wheeljack in his message, but with Soundwave vetting it, he couldn’t afford to take the risk. 

As he powered up the heat inductor in his servo, spreading the coils along the length of the fold until the protoform was malleable enough to be pliable he tried to quiet the buzzing thoughts in his helm. Usually, a servo-held torch would be used to bend bent plating back into place, but the delicate sensors housed within a flier’s wings required a much softer servo and an even temperature if he wanted to avoid needing to replace those too.

Thankfully, the damage—though seemingly irreparable to someone unfamiliar with flight frames—was purely cosmetic. Had his wing been bent any farther forwards or at any other angle, though, and Starscream would’ve needed a replacement. 

As he finished straightening it and pulling any remaining dents out with a dent stylus, he took note of the pattern they formed: four two inch deep, close together dents crowned the top of Starscream’s wing with a fifth, inch-deep one offset to the left on the back of it. As if someone had grabbed the seeker by the wing. And judging by how the wing he was working on had been bent, well… 

Picking his helm up to look over at Hook, he called, “Notice anything off about the top of his wing?” indicating the affected area when the cable truck looked up.

“That’ll be Meg’s work,” the younger medic called back, not so much as bothering to inspect the top of his wing before turning his attention back to his work. “Probably chucked Screamer across the room this time.”

Returning to his work, Ratchet started applying a thin nanite adhesive to where the wing had been bent in half while Hook’s words sunk in. Of course it was Megatron. That barbaric bastard!  

In the blink of an optic, his spark ran cold. Looking down, it wasn’t Starscream he saw on the medberth, but Silverbolt; the young flier’s plating twisted at all the wrong angles, energon splattered against his cockpit and face. The kid’s face was screwed up in a mix of agony and terror.

Sucking in a sharp vent, he squeezed his optics shut to try and block the horrible image out. Keep a calm helm, you know that’s not what’s happening here, you know that Sliverbolt’s fine. They’re all fine. It’s Starscream who’s in need of repairs, he reminded himself, taking slow, deep vents and forcing his servos steady as he finished applying the patch.

Going through the motions of checking Starscream’s pulse and fuel pressure were enough to ground him, but not enough to distract him from the cause of the seeker’s mutilated frame. 

There were a thousand different cracks in the Decepticon faction’s foundation, but now it seemed like the rot beneath was bursting out at an unprecedented speed. How are any of them able to fight under these conditions?! Pit, how are any of them still loyal!?

Sparing one last glance at the recharging seeker, he turned and headed towards where Hook was repairing the left wing. With the rot that was Megatron’s leadership laid bare before him, he needed to see just how deep it ran. And if this was what he was willing to do to his Air Commander, just what did he do to his troops?

As he approached his station, Hook picked his helm up, plating rising in apprehensive indignation. His expression faltered, though, when he noticed the anger written on Ratchet’s face.

***

Hook, loathe as he was to admit it, was incredibly relieved that Ratchet had shown up when he had. 

He’d sent his gestaltmates down to head off the medic when Soundwave had commed him to let him know that Starscream—for once not as a result of his scheming and plotting—had taken a beating from Megatron. The first and last time he’d made the mistake of letting someone in while tending to the seeker, the preening devil had buried his claws into Hook’s chestplate and promised to offline him if it ever happened again, to say nothing of what he’d threatened to do to Ramjet. 

It wasn’t all that uncommon for Screamer to be sent in for repairs, but usually he left not long after the worst of the damage was patched to fix the rest by himself. That the TIC had made it a point to specify that the seeker would be staying for full repairs in his message had been the first red flag.

__________________________________

Their leader had a legendary temper, they all knew it. 

It came with the territory of being a gladiator and a revolutionary, or at least that’s what the older members of their faction claimed—not that any of the gestalts save Onslaught’s had any means of fact-checking that. What they did know, though, was that Megatron’s wrath was as infinite as his hatred of the Autobots, and every cycle they remained stuck on this planet, scraping by with raids and getting their afts handed to them time and time again, the more and more prone he was to taking it out on the nearest living thing.

Which usually ended up being his high-ranking officers. Specifically, one particularly mouthy, scheming seeker.

It was no secret that Starscream was Megs’ favorite punching bag—especially after the Skyfire incident, Primus, had he been furious about the shuttle’s defection—but as of late, their leader had gotten much more volatile. As such, Hook should’ve known, from the moment he watched Skywarp teleport into the medbay, his limp trine leader in his arms, that he was in far too deep over his helm. 

That was red flag number two.

__________________________________

To his own surprise, when Skywarp had dumped Screamer onto a medberth he’d snapped at the seeker to be more careful, followed by an internal groan of, Oh frag this, I’m turning into Ratchet!

And then he’d shooed the black and purple seeker out of the medbay with threats of violence after he set Starscream’s detached left wing down on a—mercifully—disinfected table. He barely had the time to be embarrassed about it before the medical protocols he barely listened to on the regular started sending his HUD ping after ping regarding Screamer’s condition.

One glance down told him everything he needed to know, and more than he wanted to.

Reaching out to Scav and Scrapper through the gestalt bond, he tried not to project too much of his anxiety. [Screamer’s in bad shape. I need you two to keep mechs away from the medbay for as long as possible. Whole cycle if you can]

He didn’t even wait for the affirmative pulses back before yanking IV bags and a fuel pressure cuff from his subspace. Hooking up the cuff with one servo, he dug around in his subspace for coolant and energon for the IVs. 

When he glanced back down, his spark almost stopped. 30 over 40?! 30 over 40!?

His free servo flew to the seeker’s other arm, fumbling for the joint between his wrist and servo as he cut his audial feed to focus on the sparkpulse beneath the thin protoform. 

After thirty seconds, he dropped the wrist like it’d burned him, panic pounding in his helm as he sprinted over and grabbed a triage cart from a nearby berth to drag back to where Starscream lay dying. Because that was what was happening. He was going to die and his survival literally depended on Hook not fragging this the fuck up and applying proper medical procedure. 

He didn’t even acknowledge the way his helm unhelpfully pointed out that, again, he was emulating Ratchet. As far as he was concerned, if he managed to keep Screamer online, he would praise Ratchet’s teachings as though they were the word of fucking Primus himself—he wouldn’t, really, but that was besides the point. This was all, of course, dependent on his ability to recall the lessons the medic had been trying to hammer into his helm over the past couple of cycles.

Find a prominent fuel line, insert the needle, apply tape, set up the drip, he chanted in his helm as he moved, acting more on instinct than anything else; as though he’d been doing things like this for forever. For the first—but certainly not the last—time that cycle, Hook was incredibly grateful for the fact that Ratchet’s preferred teaching strategy was ‘you’ll practice this until you can do it in your sleep so help me Primus’.

__________________________________

The process of trying to get the seeker’s condition stable enough to begin repairs flashed by in a blur of motion, but by the time he was done it was clear that fixing the damage to his frame was far beyond his current skill set. Yes he had a well-earned reputation as a perfectionist, and yes, he hated leaving a task unfinished, but even he knew where the limits of his abilities lay. 

There was still the problem of a dying Starscream laying on a medical berth, though, so he was still darting to and fro grabbing whatever materials he thought he might need while internally cursing himself for not having the equipment in an easy-to-access location (followed up with mental images of a stern, disappointed Ratchet that did more to crush his ego than any chewing out from Scrapper ever had). 

He didn’t even notice said medic’s appearance at the medbay’s entrance through his haze of panic or Bonecrusher apologizing for letting him out of his hab.

It wasn’t until Ratchet had just appeared out of thin air next to him that he noticed the medic’s presence, rattling off Starscream’s pulse and fuel pressure while still fumbling with hanging the IV bags off of a proper stand and not just the one he’d jury-rigged on a moment’s notice. 

There was so much confusion in his helm at how seamlessly the medic had integrated himself into his business (and at how willing he was to take orders from him of all mechs), but he kept all of it firmly contained in the back of his processor. The last thing he needed at a time like this was to let his focus wander from the mech who was still bleeding out—if at a decidedly sluggish rate—despite his best efforts.

As such, it was to his great internal relief when Ratchet took charge of repairing Starscream and even more so when he’d let Hook patch up the wing that he’d disconnected and set off to the side for repairs. Anything was better than hovering over the seeker’s frame and knowing that he barely knew how to fix it. 

As he worked, though, he could sense a steadily growing anger from the medic’s side of the medbay.

It didn’t make much sense. After all, it was clear that he wasn’t angry with Hook, and there weren’t any other patients for him to be mad at—per his own orders to his gestaltmates—so who in the Infernal Pit was pissing him off so badly? He almost felt sorry for whatever poor bastard had crossed him. 

And then, as Ratchet stomped over towards him, a deep scowl etched across his face, it hit him. 

He’d asked what’d happened to Screamer’s wings. 

And Hook had told him that good ol’ Megs had probably launched the seeker towards the nearest hard surface. As the veritable specter of death loomed over him—even though he knew that none of the medic’s anger was directed at him specifically—the small thought of, oh scrap, I’m in so much trouble, floated up in the back of his helm.

“What happened to Starscream?” Ratchet asked coolly. Much more coolly than someone with a field that screamed murder should’ve been able to.

Swallowing down the urge to shrink back, Hook cleared his intake with a burst of static. “Well, uh, y’see… Patient confidentiality?” he tried, the excuse sounding abysmally lame to his own audials.

With a sigh, Ratchet crossed his arms, fixing him with an expression that looked halfway between worried and furious. “Kid, in this medbay, any patient who comes in here is my business as much as they are yours, so I’d prefer to not have to drag an explanation out of you.”

[Don’t tell him scrap!] Long Haul and Bonecrusher shouted in tandem, followed by Scavenger’s [Please don’t! If he finds out what Megs did, he’ll go after him, an’ Megs’ll kill him!]

They were right, Hook knew. Unless he could find a way to convince the medic that, somehow, this wasn’t Megatron’s fault, there wasn’t a doubt in any of their helms that Ratchet wouldn’t go barging into his throne room and attempt murder on the spot. Still, he’d probably do it either way, explanation or not.

To his immense surprise, though, it was Scrapper’s weigh-in that decided it for him. [Follow your gut, but if you’re going to tell him, tell him everything.]

Drawing in a deep vent, Hook looked up to meet Ratchet’s optics. “He, uh… He… Screamer took a beating from Megatron,” he started slowly, keeping careful watch on the medic’s facial expressions. “Didn’t even do nothin’ this time, just said the wrong thing at the wrong time, I guess.”

“You guess?” Ratchet sounded skeptical.

“Soundwave let me know he was comin’ an' why,” he shrugged. “Didn’t give me much else to go off of. ‘Sides, he’s probably the one that found him before Skywarp showed up to bring ‘im here.”

The medic was silent for a moment, optics glancing between Hook and the still unconscious Starscream, before asking, “And this happens regularly?”

“Uh, yeah, kinda?” Resisting the urge to fidget in place under Ratchet’s steely gaze. “I mean, it’s gotten worse since we crashed here, or so the rest of ‘em say, but yeah, they get into spats every few cycles or so.”

He waited with baited vents as Ratchet’s face cycled through the five stages of grief and added at least six new expressions on top of them. After another second of tense silence, the medic blew out a sharp exvent and gestured towards the wing Hook had been touching up. “Finish what you’re doing then bring it over so I can reattach it. We’ll talk more once we’re finished.”

With that, Ratchet turned on his heel strut and stomped back over to the unconscious seeker. 

[What was that?] Long Haul demanded.

[Are we in trouble? Does he hate us!?] Scav was quick to ask after him, projecting a wave of anxious energy through the bond.

[He doesn’t hate us, you moron!] Bonecrusher snapped back [But seriously Hook, what the scrap is goin’ on over there? Need some backup?]

[No, no. I can handle this]  

[If you say so…] came the uncertain, clearly unconvinced reply. [But what do we do if he does go after Megs?]

[We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it] Scrapper announced with an unspoken “this conversation is over” finality. There was a smattering of unintelligible grumbling across the bond, but one thing was distinctly clear: none of them were comfortable with the prospect of letting the medic dash helm-first towards his death, but none of them were all that comfy with taking a stand against Megatron either.

Studying the wing carefully for any remaining dents or blemishes, Hook chewed the inside of his cheek worriedly. If push came to shove, and there was no way it wouldn’t, what would they do? What could they do?! 

Taking a deep vent, he shook his helm to clear it and called out, “Hey, Ratch! I’m done!”

Resisting the urge to snort and instead rolling his optics under his visor when the medic beckoned him forward with a wave, Hook pushed his fears to the back of his helm. We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it. We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it.  

__________________________________

Watching Ratchet reattach Screamer’s wing was mesmerizing. The medic’s servos moved so quickly that they were little more than a red blur. Is that just practice or were his servos forged like that? Hook wondered, debating whether to risk humiliation and ask or just keep it to himself.

He must’ve sensed the staring because, without looking up from his work, Ratchet commented, “Most of this’s eons of practice. Anyone who says Primus blessed medics with steady servos is blowing smoke up your exhaust.”

“I didn’t say anythin’,” Hook grumbled, ducking his helm, embarrassed.

“Didn’t have to,” came the nonchalant reply, “‘Aid wanted to know the exact same thing first time I let him shadow me.”

“...Aid?”

“First Aid, he’s… well, technically he’s CMO while I’m on my little staycation here.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Hook searched his memory banks. The name sounded weirdly familiar, and of course his gestaltmates were no help in putting a face—or frame, or altmode—to the ‘Bot, so he bit the bullet and asked, “He anything like you?” equal parts curious and jealous of this mystery mech who got to grow up being taught by the Ratchet.

The elder medic let out a tired, bittersweet chuckle, still not looking up from where he was finishing soldering the torn plating together. “No, no, ‘Aid took after my conjunx more than anyone else. Kid’s a sweetspark, not the cynical old mech that I am.”

Ignoring for the moment the fact that Ratchet—the mech who’d gone toe-to-toe with Motormaster of all mechs to protect him—had called himself cynical, Hook’s processor froze, skipped, and stalled on the first part of his sentence. Across the bond, he could vaguely sense his gestaltmates confusion and shock too. Then, like a dam breaking, everything flooded into his helm at once. 

“You have a CONJUNX!?”

Finally pulling his optics away from his work, the medic sighed and put his servos on his hips in a ‘what nonsense are you blabbering about now’ kind of way. “Kid, for the love of Primus keep your voice down. I don’t need my love life shouted to the entire ship.”

“But- But you-! How?!” he didn’t even have the capacity to cringe at his own poor choice of words. All he could focus on was that there was someone else in Ratchet’s life that he cared about probably more than him and his gestalt (Scav like to tease that Hook was the easiest mech to make jealous in the universe, and right now it was becoming increasingly difficult to disprove that).

“I met him when I got assigned to the Ark and because I had to reattach his fragging limbs every other cycle, we bonded, and I realized that I loved that moron too much to let him do foolhardy nonsense on his own,” Ratchet said as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Why? Got a problem?”

“You- I- We-!” Again, the words stuck in Hook’s intake until he took a deep vent, glaring at the medic. “You’re supposed to stay with US! WE care about you! WE want you to stay!” In his helm, his gestaltmates were screaming at him to shut up, but in a haze of his jealous panic, he tuned them all out. 

“You can’t just leave us and go back to him like we don’t matter!” he shrieked, hating the way coolant pricked at the corners of his optics. “You can’t… You… You just can’t!”

There was a beat of silence where Hook half expected to be met with the back of Ratchet’s servo, or, maybe, for him to look at him like the pathetic excuse of a Cybertronian he was, but instead, the grounding weight of a servo came to rest on his shoulder. “Kid, I’m not gonna leave any of you behind, I promise.”

“Liar ,” he spat with a pathetic sniffle.

Instead of getting angry, though, or shouting, or just blowing him off, a second servo found his shoulder, squeezing in what he guessed was supposed to be comforting. And somewhere in the back of his helm, it actually really was. “Listen, Hook. I refuse to leave you and your gestalt here to rot in this Primus forsaken death trap, so, when I make it out of here, with you all, and back to the ‘Bots, you’re all welcome to stay.”

“But… why…?” his own pathetically weak words were echoed by his gestaltmates in his helm. Why was Ratchet telling them that he planned to escape? Why was he being so nice about it?! Why was he offering to take them with him!?

“Because, you lot deserve a life outside of this damn war, and I’m a softsparked old fool who doesn’t know when not to get attached.”

Unable to stand the humiliation of being so… open anymore, Hook tore himself free of Ratchet’s grip with a snort—pretending not to notice how the medic let him go without a fight. “Psh. That’s stupid. ‘Sides, even if we could go with ya, what about the other gestalts? Ya care about them too, don'tcha?” He prowled around to stand behind Starscream’s berth, unable to stand standing still any longer. “They're gonna take the heat for ya leavin', ‘cause they sure as pit can’t.”

And suddenly that cold, scrutinizing glare was back on him, pinning him in place. The same look he’d seen when he’d brought up Megatron’s treatment of Starscream. “What’s stopping them? I’ve been on this ship a decacycle, and I can tell you that there’s barely a microbe of loyalty between the lot of you, so tell me honestly. What’s stopping any of you from leaving?”

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Hook weighed his answer for a moment before ignoring his gestaltmates’ pleas a second time and saying, “Well, I can’t speak for the rest of ‘em, but I know why Onslaught an’ his crew’s stuck here.”

“And why would that be…?”

[Primus, Hook. You’d better know what you’re doing] Mixer murmured apprehensively. 

Yeah, me too, Mixer. Me too.  

“Loyalty coding.”

From the way Ratchet reacted, he might as well have dropped a lie grenade right in front of him: optics blowing wide before narrowing in anger, the medic’s plating flared out as if to frighten off an imaginary attacker, his field tucking tight to his frame. “They can’t so much as think against Megs or it’ll start tryna tear their processors apart. Threatened the rest o’ us with it too if we stepped too far outta line.”

The Combaticon’s… predicament was a mercifully under-the-radar problem that really only affected their gestalt specifically, but on a larger scale was something that threatened and terrified every single ‘Con. Even taking the dumpster fire of that gestalt into account, they all knew—especially the remaining gestalts—that it was something that could easily happen to them too. Soundwave liked to make that painfully clear when he video-called in every other solar cycle.

Of course, now that the cybercat was out of the bag, it was anyone’s guess as to what would happen next. Distantly, Hook could almost hear the sound of Bonecrusher of all mechs praying over the sound of his sparkpulse in his audials.

“And they all have it?” Ratchet growled, startling Hook from his processor and almost making him jump out of his plating. “The Combaticons, they all have the coding?”

“I, uh, yeah- Yes. They’ve, uh, all gotten it. Megs had Shockwave install it when he hooked ‘em up with the combiner tech.” Dammit Hook, stop just telling him everything! At this rate you might as well hand over the ship’s schematics and the access code to the space bridge! he scolded himself, wishing he could slam the butt of his servo into the side of his helm to try and knock whatever coding was giving him loose lips back into place.

“Can it be removed? Did Shockwave alter the coding in any way?”

“Uh… yeah, I mean, probably? To answer your first question, anyways. Never went digging to check for myself if Shockwave added any surprises though. Don’t have the skills to fix anything if I fuck it up.” Hook carefully left out the part about not trying because he was terrified that if Megatron found out he went looking for a way to circumvent the coding, he'd have the mad scientist install it in his gestalt too.

“Hm.” The medic studied his face with a suspicious scrutiny a not-quite-there look in his optics. Like it wasn't really Hook he was seeing in front of him.

As he waited for Ratchet to make his decision, the anxious energy coursing through his frame prompted Hook to start going through the motions of flushing the general sensor dampers he’d used to keep the seeker from waking up and clawing his optics out mid-repairs out of his system. He could sense the elder medic watching him peripherally as he worked, sending him occasional teeks of approval even while lost in his own helm.

It was surreal, having just watched him go from fuming and furious to quiet and contemplative. If anything, the calm was almost scarier than the anger.

Checking Screamer’s vitals one last time before initiating manual wake-up protocols, Hook almost jumped out of his plating when Ratchet asked, “Is this always what it’s been like? Living here?”

Recovering from the mild spark attack, Hook fluffed and settled his plating, turning to give the medic a (well deserved) sharp look. “Whaddya mean?”

“I mean-” taking a deep vent, Ratchet gestured to Screamer, and then to the ship around them- “This! The beatings, the coding, the not knowing who to trust and needing to watch your back because if you don’t then someone’s going to put a knife in it! This isn’t living, pit this isn’t even surviving!” Throwing his servos up into the air, the medic began to pace back and forth. “These aren’t conditions any mech should live in!”

“It’s not that bad,” Hook lamely tried to defend, sending a comm to Skywarp to pick up his trine leader before he woke up and tried to skewer the both of them. “This’s just… one of the worse cycles. It’s not always this bad.”

“One of the worse cycles?” Ratchet parroted back, crossing his arms, “One of the worse cycles?! You just told me that things have been getting progressively worse by the cycle. At this rate, I’d hate to see what you people think a good cycle is!”

Unable to come up with a response that wouldn’t lower the elder medic’s already floor-level evaluation of his faction, Hook mirrored the medic’s crossed arms. After a beat, though, he felt a responding anger welling up in his chestplate. “Well it’s not like things are gonna get any better ‘round here when it’s you ‘Bots who keep cutting off our energon!” he snapped, glaring at the other mech. “We’re starving! Of course it’s rough when there’s barely enough energon to go around!”

“That’s no excuse for any of this!” Ratchet shouted back. “And we have to interfere because if we don’t then human lives are put at risk!”

“So what!? What have those fleshies ever done for us!?”

“They-!” the medic cut himself off mid-shout with a sharp exvent. “No, you know what? This conversation is tabled for later.”

Floundering at the abrupt shift, Hook stared dumbly as Ratchet strode past him, plating shifting to expose built-in diagnostic equipment. “Not bad, not bad… good job remembering to flush the sensor dampers out of his secondary filtration systems… ah, good IV insertion, well done…” and on he went, murmuring compliments as though they hadn’t just been screaming at each other.

He was still stunned silent when Skywarp teleported into the medbay, the seeker faltering when he saw Ratchet tending to Starscream, his wings flaring out in shock.

“Ah, Skywarp. I take it Hook commed you in to take him back to his hab?” Ratchet asked with a perfectly normal tone.

“I, uh, yeah. I- Yeah.” Casting a confused glance between the two of them, the purple seeker gathered his trine leader into his arms and disappeared in a brilliant flash of light.

__________________________________

It was only after Skywarp had left and Ratchet had begun putting supplies away when Hook’s senses finally returned to him.

“What in the pit was that!?”

“Hm? What do you mean?”

Servos caught halfway between gesticulating and being thrown in the air, Hook made an aborted gesture towards the medberth previously occupied by Starscream. That!” He whisper-shouted, voice strangled. Wha- How-!? Why!?”

“Why what? Use your words, kid.”

Annoyance overriding common sense, Hook crossed his arms, fixing the medic with a disapproving look. “We- You- I just picked a fight with you, and then you… just… brush it off? Like it never even happened?! What the frag!?”

Sighing and dusting off his servos, Ratchet let his digits hook into the seams of his hip plating as he gave Hook an amused—if tired—once over. “Kid, you’ve been a ‘Con for, what? Your whole life? It’s not your fault you were brought online on this side of the war, and it sure as pit isn’t your fault that life dealt your lot the most slag cards possible.”

“So you’re not… you’re not mad?”

“I am, but it’s not with you. Mostly. I’ve seen the sparks you lot have buried beneath all that bravado you put on, and I’m not just going to stand by and let that imbecile you call a leader get you all killed.” Striding back over to him, Ratchet sent him another, reassuring teek. “That doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you keep thinking that that scrap they’ve got drilled into your helms is how things work, though, ‘cause that sure as pit won’t fly on the Ark. It’ll be a hard adjustment, don’t get me wrong, but I think you’re all up to the challenge.”

Turning his attention back to putting supplies away, the medic called over his shoulder, “Only trick left is smuggling your loud afts off this ship without drawing the wrong attention.”

Processor moving at a snail’s pace, Hook blinked in stunned confusion. [What’s he mean, ‘you’re all up to the challenge’?] Scavenger asked. [He’s gonna bring us with ‘im if he tries to escape?] followed Bonecrusher, wholly failing to keep the hopeful excitement out of his thoughts. [I dunno guys] Mixmaster chimed in nervously. [We sure that jumping ship to the 'Bots is such a good idea? We've been their enemies for, like, forever, y'know?]

[What do you think about it, boss?] Long Haul finally asked, the rest of them falling silent as they awaited Scrapper’s decision.

[If we can’t convince him to stay, Megatron’s going to have him killed. I refuse to let that happen. I say, if he leaves, we go with him.]

Oblivious to the maelstrom of chaos and uncertainty Scrapper had just thrown them all into, Ratchet patted Hook’s shoulder as he passed him. “Why don’t you take tomorrow off? You’ve given me plenty to think on, and I’ve got some things I need to take care of anyways. Besides, I think you’ve earned a break.”

Nodding mutely, Hook watched as the elder medic began sanitizing Starscream’s berth, servos moving in that fluid, practiced blur from before. It’s already tomorrow, he wanted to say when his processor finally catching up to him, chronometer proudly displaying a god-awfully early time that he really didn’t wan to think about. 

Pausing at the entrance of the medbay, he hesitantly called out, “See you… soon…?” Primus, trying to be polite was awkward as hell.

“Yes, I’ll see you around,” Ratchet called to him as he left the medbay, Hook pointedly ignoring the way the medic had chuckled at his abysmal attempt at pleasantries.

__________________________________

Just before he reached the mess, set on bullying whatever engex he could out of whatever poor sod had been slated for night shift, Scrapper’s voice echoed in his helm, deafening in its authority. [Gestalt meeting. Now.]

With a resigned sigh, he turned on his heel strut and marched his way down the opposite hallway, all but dragging his pedes back to their shared hab. The Constructicons, as a whole, never did things in half measures, and now that it was clear Ratchet wouldn’t be sticking around for much longer, they needed to come up with a concrete plan of escape. And that required a level of discretion none of them had practice with.

Oh what joy, espionage and treason. 

Caught up in his helm worrying over not just what would happen to him and his gestalt if they got caught, but about what would happen to Ratchet, Hook failed to notice the twin pairs of ruby optics peering down at him from the vents above.

***

“Think ‘Wave’ll wanna hear this?” Frenzy whispered to Ravage, crouched next to him, one servo braced against the vent’s ceiling.

“No, I say we wait. See how this plays out first,” the jaguar whispered back, turning to follow the Constructicon through the ventilation above him.

“Riiight because letting our construction team who know this ship back to front plan an escape is suuuch a good idea!” the blue cassette whispered in a mocking tone.

Stopping mid stride, Frenzy bumping into him with a startled “Oomf!” Ravage rounded on him, audials pinned back. “I don’t give a turborat’s aft what you think is a ‘good idea’. I’ve seen what’s going on on the other side, and I think we should let them bust him out,” he growled, baring his fangs.

“Have you lost your mind!?” Frenzy all but shrieked. “Seriously, did some ‘Bot, like, fry your processor or somethin’!? ‘Wave’s gonna have you scrapped for this, you know that! What’s wrong with you!?”

“Actually,” Ravage purred, turning back around and letting his tail smack the blue cassette across the face, snickering, “I think he’d agree with me.”

Turning his helm to peer at his fellow cassette with a smug expression he added, “Don’t tell me you haven’t been paying attention to his thoughts over the bond? He’s clearly fond of the medic, and I, for one, agree with him.”

“I have, for your information, I just-” Frenzy cut himself off, clearly conflicted. “We’re really gonna trust a ‘Bot?”

“We already committed treason for him,” Ravage shrugged, turning a corner and leaping down into a maintenance tunnel, “I don’t see why we can’t turn a blind optic a second time.”

Following with a quiet thump, the blue cassette grumbled wordlessly. 

“All I’m saying is that we’re playing with a lotta fire right now,” He finally said, throwing his servos up in the air defensively. “A lot of fire.”

“I’m aware. Now shut up, I want to hear what they’re saying.”

Both cassettes hunkered down to peer through the slats in the ventilation duct that sat right above the Constructicon’s hab’s main room. “Want one?” Frenzy asked, offering an energon stick to Ravage.

The jaguar was quick to swipe the snack out of his servos as he settled down onto his stomach plating, helm resting atop his neatly tucked paws. Whatever these mechs were planning, it was bound to be the juiciest gossip either of them had ever gotten to witness.

Chapter Text

In accordance with the abysmal state of the rest of the medbay, when Ratchet went looking for cerebral diagnostic equipment he was entirely unsurprised to find it all sequestered away in a closet in the back. What gave him pause—and serious cause for alarm—was the unsettlingly well-kept trauma kit, spare spark monitor, and a chilled energon storage unit. 

“That’ll be Meg’s work. Probably chucked Screamer across the room this time.” Hook’s words, casual and unbothered, echoed in the back of his helm, stoking the simmering anger in his spark. How often does that bastard send his officers to the ICU?!

Gritting his dentae and resisting the urge to commit murder, he took a deep vent and reminded himself of why he was searching for the machines in the first place. You need to run a processor check on the Combaticons. You can commit murder after you’ve dealt with them.

__________________________________

Once he’d dragged out and set up all the equipment he needed, a second problem arose in the form of summoning the gestalt to the medbay. He had none of their comm channels, and he wasn’t about to drag his kid- the Constructicons into this mess anymore than they already were.

Hmm. I wonder…

A quick check through his contact list displayed Soundwave’s comm ID front and center.

Eh, might as well.  

:: I need you to get the Combaticons down to the medbay one at a time. Once you get one up here I’ll let you know when to send the next one. ::

It was a gamble, bossing the TIC around like an orderly, but if nothing else, he technically outranked everyone on the ship when it came to medical care and wasn’t above pulling rank—Primus knew he’d used that excuse hundreds of times against Prime himself.

Instead of a proper reply, the tape deck sent him five commlinks and a picture file. 

Curiosity beating out common sense, Ratchet opened the file first. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but photos of his children and conjunx were certainly nowhere near the list. 

A stunned gasp caught in his intake as he saw captures of Wheeljack, unmasked with tear streaks staining his cheeks, but smiling down at a datapad. 

In the next, he saw his kids: First Aid, bundled in blankets, laughing, while Blades flipped off a cackling Slingshot. To their left, Skydive and Fireflight sat next to each other in similar blanket burrito-wrapped states. 

In another capture, Hot Spot and Silverbolt were huddled next to each other in the Ark’s kitchen, baking what looked to be a human cake under Carly’s direction scaled to Cybertronian proportions. That could only end well, and a part of Ratchet’s processor grumpily hoped that the inevitable mess was cleaned up by the time he got back to the Ark. 

In the last one, he saw Skyfire in Wheeljack’s lab, his conjunx passed out with their kids curled up on either side of him. The shuttle appeared to be in the process of draping blankets over them. It was dated to 11 AM.

Confused, Ratchet squinted down at the timestamp again. I only just sent that message to Soundwave. How in the pit did he get it to Wheeljack that-

Something flashed in his peripheral vision, and upon consulting his HUD, he felt embarrassment course through his lines. 

There, loud, proud, and undeniable, was his chronometer telling him that it was, in fact, noon. He hadn’t even realized he’d been in the medbay for over a cycle, and for once was thankful that Wheeljack wasn’t around to scold him for it.

(Not that the scientist’s work habits were any better than his, but Skyfire could at least be reliably depended on to keep him from burning the candle at both ends as it were.) 

In the medbay, and by sheer virtue of his position as CMO, there were few—if any—mechs who dared to suggest that he take a break. And that Wheeljack had was honestly what had drawn Ratchet to him in the first place.

He’d been reattaching the scientist’s arm for the third time since they’d met when the mech had commented, “Y’know… you’ve got, like, the worst optic bags I’ve ever seen.” Followed by, “I know taking a break is a mortal sin for you guys, but seriously mech, I’d maybe lay-off pulling all-nighters. And I’m speaking from experience!”

Shaking his helm fondly at the memory, Ratchet focused back on the small note attached at the end of the file.

:: Thought you might like to see how they were doing too. :: 

Tears pricked unbidden at the corners of his optics, his spark torn between genuine thankfulness and aching homesickness. Scrubbing at his face, he tried to keep his shaky vents under control even as he sent another comm to Soundwave thanking him.

__________________________________

In an attempt to keep his processor from his more morose thoughts, Ratchet turned his attention to inspecting the bundle of commlinks the TIC had sent him.

Opening the first commlink, which the tape deck had helpfully labeled ‘Onslaught’, he hemmed and hawed over how to surreptitiously convince the gestalt leader to send over his troops over one-by-one without arousing suspicion before giving up after about ten seconds and jumping straight to pulling rank. :: I need to check over yours and your gestaltmates’ helms, so send them down one by one until I get to you, and don’t even think about ignoring this! I am your CMO, and unless you’d prefer me dragging your sorry lot here myself, you’ll get their afts down here now. ::

There was a beat of silence before a short, affirmative response pinged in his HUD alongside a residual feeling of tired annoyance. Much like how Silverbolt and his brothers refused to function before the midafternoon, it seemed as though the Combaticons were equally allergic to mornings. Well, hopefully they’re still tired enough that they won’t have the energy to be obstinate little scraplets, he thought naïvely, knowing full well that these mechs would be anything but model patients.

__________________________________

Almost fifteen later, and Ratchet could hear echoed grumbling and the sound of heavy, dragging pedes from down the hall. To say he wasn’t surprised when Brawl round the corner, visor dim from recharge, would be an egregious understatement.

“Heya, doc,” the tank muttered one servo raising in a halfsparked attempt at a wave.

At least he was trying to be polite.

“Good afternoon to you too. Now, have a seat, I need to run a brain module scan of your central processing unit.”

“Uuuh… what?”

Sighing and striding over to physically guide the half-awake Combaticon onto the medberth, Ratchet repeated himself again, slower this time. “I’m going to check your central processing unit to make sure nothing’s amiss. It won’t take more than a minute or two.”

His words seemed to take a moment to sink in, but once they got through Brawl’s recharge-clouded processor, the mech recoiled away from him, plating rattling defensively as panic shot through his field.

“Nuh-uh, nonononono. You’re not gettin’ anywhere near my brain module, y’hear me?!”

“Brawl, I have it on good authority that there is something dangerously wrong in your helm. I just want to help you.”

“No! No you don’t! You’re jus’ gonna root around in my processor and put some new fragged up slag in there and hurt us!” The Combaticon shouted, pressing himself as far back as he could against the medberth, visor flaring bright orange as the hum of weapons powering up filled the medbay.

Ratchet slowly raised his servos, taking a step back and projecting as much calm into his field as he could. “I promise you, I have no intention of ‘making it worse’, but if I don’t do this then I know for a fact that it will get worse.”

“You’re lying!” Brawl spat, his false bravado betrayed by the way his plating shook like leaves in a hurricane. The tell-tale glow of his tank cannon arming itself gave him pause, though, caught between trying to calm the ‘Con and avoiding being shot.

What did they do to you? he wanted to ask, spark aching at the terrified, cornered-mechanimal look in the Combaticon’s visor. 

For all the Autobots liked to joke that the ‘Cons didn’t have enough common sense to know when to be afraid, it was now painfully obvious to him that these mechs were just as affected by the war as they were—it was just that ‘Cons had a nuclear waste-level toxic culture of don’t-ask-don’t-tell.

Holding his ground and keeping his servos where the tank could see them, he asked, “Brawl, I need you to tell me five things you can see.”

“I-! …what?”

“Five things you can see,” Ratchet repeated, lowering his arms but stopping when the Combaticon’s field flared with panic again. “Anything you can see, just name five things.”

There was a beat of tense silence, and then, slowly, like a spooked rotodeer, Brawl lifted his helm to look past Ratchet and around the medbay. “I, uh… there’s… there’s the door. An’ the, uh, the reception desk Hook’s usually behind… uh, there’s you, an’ that monitor thingy over there?”

“A spark monitor”

“Yeah, that. An’, uh… the floor…?”

“Good. Now, what are four things you can feel with your servos?”

There was a longer pause before Brawl spoke. “I can, uh, feel the berth pad, my sparkpulse, uh, my plating, an’, uh… the side table,” he finished, reaching a servo over to tentatively pat the top of said table.

Not quite what I meant, but good enough. “And what are three things you can hear?”

“Uh… I guess that’d be you, the AC, and the lights,” the tank said, plating finally relaxing with a depressurized hiss . “I dunno why, but they’re buzzing pretty loud.”

Alright then, a bit of banter. That’s better. “Two things you can smell?”

Ratchet wasn’t sure if Brawl was catching on to what he was trying to do, but he was glad to see the mech relax bit by bit as he answered more confidently, “Disinfectant and energon.”

“And finally, one thing you can taste.”

“Uh… also energon. Grabbed a cube on my way here.”

Resisting the urge to chuckle at the ‘sparkling with his servo in the energon goodie jar’ look on Brawl’s face, Ratchet gave the tank a weary smile. “Good. Fueling in the middle of the cycle is something most mechs don’t think is all that important.”

“Yeah, well, uh, thanks?”

Pushing a bit more approving calm through his field, Ratchet carefully walked back over to the tank’s side. “So, feeling better now?”

Brawl still recoiled a bit, but his field felt much less volatile this go-around. “Yeah, I guess so… But what was all that? With the counting an’ stuff?”

“It’s a grounding technique,” Ratchet explained as he slowly went about taking the tank’s vitals, projecting his movements as slowly as possible. “Listing things that relate to specific senses helps distract the processor from whatever it’s latched onto.”

Letting out a mollified, “Huh,” Brawl finally let his plating relax when he went to attach a fuel pressure cuff to his upper arm. “So why didn’t you teach us that in your lecture thingy?”

“Because I was trying to give you lot the tools to keep each other alive in the field. During combat, it’s more important to fix the physical injuries as soon as possible and worry about the mental ones once the fighting’s died down.”

“Oh.”

“Now, before I do anything else, care to tell me what your processor’s latching onto? Because whether you like it or not, I do need to take a look at your brain module.”

Brawl quickly dropped his gaze, taking sudden interest in the walls and floor instead, as his plating flattened against his frame. Not tightly enough to cause alarm, but enough that Ratchet knew to back off and let the mech work it out himself.

Almost a full minute passed before the tank spoke again. “It’s jus’ that… We don’t like to…” he trailed off, fists clenching at his sides in frustration as his plating alternated between flaring and flattening. “We got this… thing in our helms, an’ if we say or think or do the wrong thing, it…”

“It hurts you,” Ratchet finished for him. When Brawl’s helm snapped around to look at him distrustfully—no doubt assuming, even if correctly, that someone had informed him of his gestalt’s condition. Even if he hadn’t wrangled an answer from Hook, he knew the signs of loyalty coding. It would’ve been impossible to hide, especially here.

“I know what loyalty coding is,” he said calmly, servos spread in a calm, peaceful gesture, “The Senate used it on more mechs than I can count—especially on their own people.”

“An’ you know how to fix it?” Brawl guessed, a weak hope brimming in his field.

“Yes, which is why I need to take a look at your brain module. That way, I can find and isolate the coding.”

“But you can’t remove it.” By the quiet, mournful tone in the tank’s voice, it was clear he thought that Ratchet’s offer would only be a temporary fix.

“No, I can’t. But by isolating it, your own coding will be able to recognize it as a virus and neutralize it on its own. I’ll just be adding some firewalls to help it recognize it as such.”

There was a second of silence while Brawl processed Ratchet’s words, and then the tank surged off the medberth, gripping him by the shoulders with a frenetic, hopeful, desperation. “You mean that!? For real!? You’re gonna get it outta me!?”

Wincing at the sudden increase in volume, Ratchet gently removed Brawl’s servos and directed him back onto the berth. “Yes, and that goes for the rest of your gestalt, too. Now, would you kindly lay down and let me do my damn job?”

“Yessir!” the mech shouted, all but slamming himself onto the berth, a giddy smile plastered across his face.

As Ratchet set up the diagnostic equipment and attached the neural relay sensors to Brawl’s helm, he couldn’t help but feel a mix of pity and pride for the mech. 

To be forced to carry something as horrific as loyalty coding from the time you were brought online to when you presumably died was about as cruel and inhumane as it could get. He’d seen enough mechs who’d opted to deactivate themselves rather than live with it to know that it was a personal Inferno to endure, and yet Brawl and his gestalt had been shouldering that burden for their entire lives. If nothing else, he admired their determination to keep going despite it all.

He still wanted to drive a rebar pole through both Megatron and Shockwave’s helms, but since Elita One already had her own strut to pick with the sadistic ‘scientist’, settling for just Megatron would have to do.

As he’d promised, finding the coding took less than a minute, though isolating it took considerably longer. For an academy trained scientist, Shockwave had somehow done worse than a hack job at installing the loyalty coding. It damn near infected every nook and cranny of Brawl’s processor. At least the Senate had had the processing power to only install it over Oratio’s area!

In the end, it took him half an hour to isolate the coding, and another two to install enough firewalls to keep the coding from reinfecting Brawl’s processor. The entire time, the tank was a surprisingly model patient; he sat perfectly still while Ratchet swore up and down, servos alternating between the mech’s helm and the computer terminal he’d hooked it up to to monitor the status of the isolated coding.

From the erratic, alternating burst of emotion from the tank’s field, he was both terrified and excited. At first, he’d taken it for the jittery nerves of someone about to have total control over their thoughts given back to them, but not too long after that, he realized that the mech was terrified that Ratchet was essentially rooting around in his helm. What he’d initially read as obedience was actually Brawl going into soft framelock (a harmless stress response, but not ideal if he’d needed his cooperation with something). 

Thankfully, the more time that passed, the more his frame unlocked bit by bit.

__________________________________

“Alright, how’s it feel in there?” Ratchet asked, rolling out his neck and wincing at the sharp pops of tense cabling. He’d forgotten how stiff his cabling got after hunching over a patient for hours on end.

Brawl’s visor flickered, face scrunched and lost deep in thought, before a bright, almost hysterical smile spread across his face. “It’s quiet,” he whispered, before turning to Ratchet and crowing, “IT’S QUIET! IN MY HELM! I CAN’T HEAR IT ANYMORE!”

In the next instant, the Combaticon was off the berth, arms wrapped tightly around him as he squeezed Ratchet in what he could only assume was a hug, but felt more like death by strangulation. “THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU!”

“It’s… no… problem…” he wheezed out, immensely thankful when the tank finally let him go and he could vent again.

“I’M GONNA GO AND SEND ‘TEX UP!” Brawl shouted, energy bursting out of his field, one pede already out the door. “WE OWE YA ONE, DOC!” he called as he ran down the hallway, heavy pedesteps and an overjoyed field echoing in his wake.

Adding a few extra notes to the tank’s patient file, Ratchet sighed and began a cursory wipe-down of the berth he’d used. The tank’s vocal modulator seemed to get stuck at its highest volume when he got excited, and if not for the fact that he was already hard of hearing thanks to vorns of war, he’d be worried about his audial receptors shorting out. 

At least when the newforged Dinobots had kept the entire Ark up for decacycles after they’d come online, it got him used to that kind of noise.

__________________________________

As he finished cleaning and turned his attention towards re-prepping the cranial sensors, he suddenly felt a horrible, pit-in-tank-opening feeling. 

I can’t just leave them behind now either! he realized with an abrupt jolt of horror. When Megatron realizes what I’ve done, either he’ll kill me, kill them, or just have the code put back into their helms once I’m dead! I can’t just abandon them to that!

As if that weren’t bad enough, a second realization hit him like a punch to the tank. I can’t leave the Stunticons behind either, can I? If I make it out of here with two gestalts, it’ll only get a thousand times worse for them! PrimusFRAGGINGDAMMIT!  

Digits clenched around the terminal so hard the quiet groan of strained metal began to reach his audials, Ratchet took a deep vent and fluffed out his plating to let out trapped heat. One thing at a time, Ratchet. One thing at a time. Focus on fixing the mechs who need help first, and then worry about trying to smuggle three ‘Con gestalts off the Nemesis without anyone noticing. Just take it one thing at a time.

Pushing his newfound dilemma to the back of his helm as he sensed Vortex’s spark signature approaching the medbay, he took one last steadying vent. He had a job to do right now. He couldn’t afford to let future problems distract from the ones that needed his attention in the present.

__________________________________

With every successive Combaticon that entered the medbay, Ratchet became more and more sure that not only was he going to murder Megatron, but he was going to kill him in the most gruesome, spinal strut-chilling way possible. These mechs hadn’t been forged as a gestalt. 

It’d started as an inkling while he looked over Vortex’s language and central processing cortexes but had been solidified when he’d gotten to talk with Blast Off.

“I don’t see why… Why it was more… effective to make us into combiners than to keep us as infantry,” the shuttle had complained while Ratchet had been elbows deep picking through his coding.

“If you have a complaint, save it for when I’m not actively rooting around in your brain module,” he’d growled back when the loyalty coding had flared up and made Blast Off wince—no doubt because the shuttle had made a sideways, snide remark towards Megatron.

Still, his comment had given Ratchet pause. 

Traditionally, gestalts had been rare, but naturally occurring on Cybertron. 

Hot spots, if seeded with enough unstable metalloids, could produce linked sparks that allowed mechs to combine with each other. Normally the phenomena produced pairs of two, but (probably if war hadn’t broken out) they might’ve seen something like the Constructicons or Protectobots forged under normal circumstances.

On the flip side, reframing technology did have the hypothetical capacity to create combining teams. He knew of a particular few long-dead senators who’d campaigned to try and test as much but had been—for once—shut down on the grounds of dubious ethics. One such concern had been that what a procedure like that could do to a mech’s processor was anyone’s guess, and if the Combaticons were anything to go off of, it was nothing good.

Their personality matrices—what he’d originally thought to have been corrupted from Shockwave’s hack-job—seemed to have overlapped and interlaced themselves, resulting in not just the compounding of their own quirks and glitches, but the additional stress of everyone being privy to everyone else’s problems. 

In a normal gestalt—at least what he’d learned from his own—thoughts could be easily sorted into ‘mine’, ‘not mine’, and ‘ours’ (when everyone agreed on something, or when the gestalt itself made itself known). With these mechs, though, they were intimately acquainted with the contents of each other’s helms, and moreover, had severe difficulty distinguishing where they ended, and their gestaltmates began.

He had a working theory that providing Onslaught with a neural patch to allow him to filter his gestaltmate’s thoughts would cascade into filtering the others perception of each other. Theory, because he was hoping that, as the gestalt’s leader, Shockwave had at least had the sense to program his thought-relay processes with a scaffold system as opposed to allowing blanket coverage between the entire gestalt.

It wasn’t something he could spend much time wondering about, though, since he was still working to patch Blast Off’s brain module, and couldn’t afford such lapses in his concentration.

When he finally released the shuttle, who had spent half of his time in the medbay complaining about how ‘unhygienic’ it was and the other half taking not-so-subtle jabs at Ratchet’s finish and paint job. 

As if to add insult to injury, once Blast Off was gone, he realized that it meant that Swindle was next.

__________________________________

Ratchet harbored little love for the back alley shyster, but considering he was also affected by the coding, it meant he was also a patient. 

That didn’t mean he was all that polite when the jeep said things like, “Now, I know you Autobots have your hang-ups on processor-altering substances and all, but I’ve got a great deal on circuit speeders right now! Might be good for your attitude, doc,” and, “You know… with a paint job like that, it’s no wonder you’re single. I happen to have some polish on servo if you’d like to put effort into your appearance… for a price.”

The first comment had earned the jeep a sharp look as Ratchet was none too gentle with setting up the scanner, and the second earned him a clipped, “Well, I’d say my paint job is doing alright considering I have a conjunx,” which shut Swindle up instantaneously. 

Apparently, the concept that his acting medic might have a life outside of the medbay was just as jarring to him as it’d been to the rest of the Autobots when Wheeljack had drunkenly told Blaster about their relationship. 

(Not that Ratchet had done any better, having confided in Prime himself mere hours earlier.)

Unfortunately, the peaceful silence only lasted five minutes before Swindle switched tactics, trying to find an in wherever he could. “Okay then! So relationship junk is off the table! Fine! What about those joints of yours? Awfully rusted, aren’t they? Need a solvent?”

Ratchet’s withering glare only served to make the jeep talk faster. “Okay! Okay! Touchy subject!” 

Somehow managing to contort his frame to look up at him without disturbing the equipment strapped to his helm, he asked, “Well, what about energon? Rations sure are running low these cycles. Usually, I’d charge you double, since you’re not a regular of mine, but since you’re doing all of us this service, How about forty percent off? And trust me, I’m being real generous with that offer.”

“Do you mind?” he growled at Swindle, one servo abandoning the monitor to shove the jeep back down onto the berth. “Frankly, if you’re not going to shut up, then, kindly, don’t talk to me like I’m one of your slagging customers. I’m not sure about the rest of your faction, but I have something called self-respect, so save your sales pitch for some other down-on-their-luck mech.”

Stunned, the jeep sat silently for almost half an hour while Ratchet worked on his processor. Eventually, the click-hiss of a reset vocalizer signalled that his mollified silence had come to an end, the mech asking, “Some other down-on-their-luck mech? No offense, doc, but compared to everyone else here, you’re living the high life.”

“Oh really? And how do you figure that, exactly?”

“Well, for one, you’ve got the ‘Structies wrapped around your digit,” Swindle offered, ticking off a digit, “and then there’s the fact that you’re doing this. I mean, who else could just go straight under-” the jeep winced, a static squeal escaping his mouth as his coding lashed out at the perceived slight against his leader.

Swearing, Ratchet lunged for the monitor, hastily isolating the angry code behind as many temporary firewalls as he could. Turning back to glare at the jeep, he snapped, “At least try not to make my job harder, could you?”

Waving him off with a lazy servo, Swindle pulsed a nonchalant calm through his field. “Oh don’t pull the worried medic card on me. That’s beneath you, y’know.”

Snorting and turning his attention back to properly isolating the loyalty coding, he asked with halfsparked interest, “And pray tell, what, exactly, is ‘beneath me’?”

“Puh-lease,” the jeep sneered, catching Ratchet completely by surprise, “We both know you’re just doing this to garner favor with Onslaught and the rest. That way, when your buddies come to get you, no one here’s gonna want you dead so they’ll just let you leave. It’s the oldest trick in the book, and it’s beneath you to act like you actually care.”

“Alright, first of all you little money-hungry scraplet, not everything in this world’s a transaction. I know empathy may be a tough concept for you to understand, but some- times people just want to help each other. Secondly-”

Swindle just scoffed at him. A cynical laugh rattling his plating. “You really think that, don’t you!?” he asked incredulously. “You actually think you’re helping us with all this!”

Before he had a chance to reply, the jeep turned around to face him, anger and disgust written across his face. “You think I don’t know a con when I see it!? You think I’m some newforged sparkling who doesn’t know a damn thing?! I’ve been in this game since I was forged and let me tell you, I know how to spot ‘em because I’ve run them!”

Ratchet’s requests, then demands for Swindle to calm down and sit straight fell on deaf audials as the jeep worked himself further and further into an incandescent fury.

The only silver lining was that, when he tore himself off the medberth to jab a digit into Ratchet’s chestplate, the patch to cordon off the malignant coding was already complete. Didn’t mean he didn’t wince as the expensive equipment was torn off Swindle’s helm, though. “The moment you get out of here with you pals,” he spat, “Megatron’s going to have Shockwave stuff that slag right back into our helms and all your hoity-toity help won’t do us scrap.”  

Just before he could try and explain that, ‘no, you little cheat, I’m not a cold-sparked monster who’s going to leave you to the whims of that bastard,’ the jeep went stock-still, plating locking together with an audible click.

__________________________________

“Alright, what problem is that nuisance causing now?” growled a deep voice. 

A moment later, Onslaught’s huge frame rounded the corner to the medbay, a deep scowl set on his face.

Swindle shot an accusatory glance at Ratchet, as if he’d orchestrated the appearance of his commander, and stormed out the door, muttering vulgarities under his vents.

Glaring himself at Onslaught, Ratchet grabbed the fallen—but thankfully intact—equipment off the ground and began wiping it down with a cleaning cloth. “I wasn’t done with him yet,” he growled in the gestalt leader’s direction.

“Trust me, whatever you wanted to say, that glitch wasn’t about to listen,” the mech huffed back with the annoyance of someone who just wanted it all to be over so he could get back to doing whatever it was he’d been doing before this.

“That isn’t the- No, you know what? I don’t know why I bother. You all left your manners and your sense back in the Rust Age,” he griped, moving on to cleaning the berth while Onslaught hovered impatiently behind him. 

At one point, the Combaticon moved too close, like he was trying to silently bully him out of the way, and had immediately startled and backed up when Ratchet had growled at him, shooting the mech a withering glare. 

(It was a bad habit left over from his academy cycles of fending off Towers mechs from stealing his work that had earned him the nickname of ‘Monster of the Medbay’ from Smokescreen. Thankfully, he’d gotten better about snapping like a feral mechanimal whenever someone encroached too far into his personal space. Mostly.)

It only took a few minutes to finish cleaning things off, but by that point Onslaught was tapping his digits against his plating, tamped down impatience barely leaking out from his field. If nothing else, Ratchet had to applaud his restraint, though he almost snickered at the way the mech almost bolted to sit down on the berth but held himself back at the last moment.

“Let’s just get this embarrassment over with,” the Combaticon grumbled as he attached the cranial sensors.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just insult my work, and you’re going to rephrase that,” Ratchet said sharply, digits flying across the keyboard as he went to work trying to isolate the loyalty coding. 

As he’d suspected, the layout of Onslaught’s helm was much more complex than his gestaltmates’, supporting his earlier theory that installing a neural patch would work to filter their thoughts out.

“I have heard nothing but ‘Ratchet worked a miracle!’ this ‘Ratchet’s a miracle worker!’ that for the past nine-and-a-half hours,” the mech growled, fists clenching at his sides, “Not to mention, Swindle won’t shut up about being pissed at you, Brawl’s about to start a fight over it, and Vortex is egging him on, so you’ll have to forgive me for being over all this scrap.” 

“You are not, in fact, forgiven, and honestly I think you should be a bit more grateful given that I’m actually going to help with that little problem of yours.” Attention diverting from the monitor to glance at Onslaught, Ratchet raised an optical ridge at the annoyed, skeptical look on the Combaticon’s face. “Anything you’d care to add? A ‘thank you’ would be nice.”

“How in the pit are you supposed to help my hearing those idiots’ thoughts every second of every cycle?”

“First of all, I’m getting really tired of my skills being doubted, and secondly, it isn’t rocket science. It’s doable if you’ll just sit still and quit complaining every other sentence.” 

Not bothering to look away from the monitor, he grumbled, “You carry on worse than Sunstreaker when his finish gets scuffed.”

There was a stunned pause of silence from Onslaught before the Combaticon twisted his upper frame off the berth to stare at Ratchet. Before he could scold the mech, the Combaticon shouted, “Not rocket science?! Not rocket science!? You are rearranging the very coding in our helms! Offering to make it so that their thoughts stop bleeding into mine every fragging second of the cycle! And that’s NOT rocket science?! What the frag is then!?”

“Fine, it’s neuroscience, not rocket science. Still, any mech with a bit of technical training can do it.”

Onslaught let out a skeptical snort, but the excitement that whipped out of his field before he could check it was unmistakable. 

Then, a grimace of annoyance flickered across his face. Ratchet waited as the Combaticon growled, groaned and sighed under his vents—seeming to go through the five stages of grief in point-five seconds. “The rest want to know why you didn’t do this… whatever it is, with them,” he grit out after another moment, like he was being forced into it.

“In simple terms,” Ratchet started, still laser focussed on his work, “since you’re the leader of the gestalt, your brain module works as the central hub that theirs are all linked to. If I make a patch to help your processor filter their thoughts, it’ll work to help filter theirs out of everyone else’s as well.”

Onslaught winced again, his visor flickering, before saying, “Well, Swindle’s calling bullscrap on this, and frankly, I’m inclined to agree. What, exactly, are you looking to get out of this?” His voice pitched down at the end of the sentence, a clear threat that Ratchet was honestly far too tired to care about.

“That, I will gladly discuss with you after I’ve fixed the damage that imbecile of a scientist did to your processor, understood?”

The telltale whirr of a cannon powering up made him bite back a grumble of annoyance as distrustful anger flickered in and out of Onslaught’s field. “I’m not a fan of being strung along, doc,” the mech growled, a servo whipping out to catch his arm in a vise grip.

Reacting on instinct, Ratchet whipped around, his held servo jabbing into the sensitive joint seam of Onslaught’s wrist, causing it to spasm and release his arm, and the other hooking under the kibble of his chestplate apply pressure just below his rib struts, the Combaticon’s frame spasming as his vents locked up. “Do not threaten me in my medbay,” he hissed, free servo shifting to unveil a particularly sharp scalpel that looked for all intents like a giant knife. “I am not some guileless idiot you can push around, and I have been incredibly patient with taking insults from your lot while fixing a processor glitch that will kill you in time, so, kindly, I’d appreciate if you cut it with the threats, understand?” 

Just to push his point, the servo under Onslaught’s chestplate dug in a little deeper before he released the mech and strode back over to the computer terminal and monitor, frowning at the way the loyalty coding had eaten away most of the firewalls he’d set up while he’d been distracted. “If you had just waited ‘till I was done to discuss this like mature adults, I wouldn’t have to start all this over, I want you to know that,” he snapped, not really caring that he wasn’t being exactly all that mature either.

Thankfully, Onslaught seemed to get his point; slumping back against the medberth as he massaged his chestplate. A strange mix of awe and anger wafted through the mech’s field as Ratchet grouchily went back to replacing and reinforcing the firewalls on top of installing the neural patch. Primus, if this lot is being this difficult, trying to get the Stunticons to listen is going to be worse than getting Jazz to show up for his physicals, he griped to himself, wishing desperately for something to squeeze until it popped—like those trinkets Carly used for ‘stress-relief’. He wasn’t sure what they were called, but anything would be appreciated at this point.

__________________________________

By the time he was done, it was almost midnight and he was thoroughly tired and entirely uninterested in anything other than recharging for the next two centuries.

Unfortunately, Onslaught had questions he wanted answers to, and he had promised the mech he’d answer them. 

“So, what do you get out of this?” was the first thing out of the Combaticon’s mouth as he glared expectantly down at Ratchet. An image of a pissed-off Prowl floated to the surface of his processor unbidden, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the two would get along swimmingly, or tear each other’s helms off when they finally met.

“Technically, nothing,” he admitted freely with a tired sigh. “And before you get picky about details, I saw what this did to mechs back in Iacon’s ‘glory cycles’. It’s barbaric and any mech who puts something like that in someone’s helm deserves worse than the Inferno.”

“So what? This is all out of the charity of your spark? Because you feel sorry for us?”

Pretending to ignore the way Onslaught’s plating bristled at the perceived slight, Ratchet leaned back against the reception desk to mask his frame’s fatigued tremors. 

In front of him, the Combaticon was standing, arms crossed, like a drill sergeant dressing down a recruit.

“Again, I-” Breaking off, he held up his servos and shook his helm. “No, you know what? Let’s try this again. I did not do this under any assumptions that it wouldn’t be found out. What I did? That’s impossible to keep secret for long, especially with your gestaltmates.”

Onslaught watched him with confusion written plainly across his face, like he couldn’t believe anyone would do anything that stupid. “Then- What-?” taking a deep vent, the mech tried again with an anger-strained voice. “Why on Earth did you do it, if you knew you’d get caught!?”

“Because, I plan on all of us being long gone by the time anyone realizes it.”

It took his words a couple seconds to register to the Combaticon, but once they did, all he could manage was a strangled, “Us…?”

“As I was trying to explain to Swindle,” Ratchet said slowly, glaring at Onslaught, “I’m not doing this just to watch idly by as it’s all undone in front of my optics. Whether you like it or not, I fully intend on getting your lot, the Constructicons, myself, and a few others off this ship in one piece.”

To his credit, the mech was taking the information surprisingly well, even seemed to still be vaguely following the conversation. “Once we’re in the clear, you can choose what you’d like to do, but if you’d like, I’m sure we can find accommodations on the Ark.”

Pushing off the desk, he forcefully ushered the slack jawed Combaticon towards the exit, sending him off with a short, “Think it over with you gestaltmates,” before shutting the door and slumping against it, fatigue threatening to pull him into recharge right there.

Run inventory check, he reminded himself, slowly pushing off the cool metal and trudging over to the supply shelves.

Inventory check, and then recharge. Inventory… he didn’t even register his frame locking up as his consciousness faded away.

***

From the vents above, Ravage let out a long, wide yawn, startling Frenzy out of his half-asleep state. “Primus above keep those fangs away from me!” the cassette yelped, earring himself a smack from his tail.

“Keep it quiet you moron. Do you want to wake him up?”

“No…”

“Good, now come on. We’ve got some eavesdropping to do.”

Turning away from the perplexing sight of the Autobot medic recharging while standing, both turned and began heading back down the ventilation duct towards the Combaticon’s hab. 

Soundwave would be happy to hear that Ratchet had fixed the primary issues in those lunatics’ helms—their over- shared thoughts—given that that was what primarily crippled them in combat. (Ravage briefly wondered if this would also improve Bruticus’ overall intelligence, or if that was something no medic could fix). ‘Wave’d be especially glad that the loyalty coding had been dealt with.

They all loved the tape deck, but the times that ‘Wave had tried to argue that the Combaticons would function more efficiently without the coding had been the most nerve wracking, anxiety-inducing conversations they’d ever listened in on. Not that Megs had listened, but they all knew it was only because ‘Wave was singleservoedly carrying the war effort that he hadn’t been punished any more than having his rations cut in half (and even that the mech had tried to hide from them, bolstering their own rations with what little he got himself).

“You think they’ll actually go with him?” Frenzy asked, pulling Ravage out of his helm.

“Maybe… Brawl and Vortex definitely would and Blast Off’ll go wherever Onslaught goes, but I can’t speak to Swindle’s stance. His scent was too… all over the place.”

“And what if they do go with him?” the blue-violet cassette asked nervously as they rounded another corner. “The ‘Structies are already dead-set on leaving, and Ratch said himself that he was looking to take more’n just them. We’re already gonna lose one gestalt, if we lose two…” Frenzy broke off, digits fidgeting with each other.

Ravage pondered it himself for a moment before offering, “What if he’s planning to take us, too? Gonna grab ‘Wave and us with him.”

Snorting, Frenzy shoved him playfully. “Yeah, because the ‘Bots are sooo keen to take on the special intelligence operatives of the opposite faction.”

“I mean, he offered both gestalts a place on the Ark,” Ravage countered. “Why not offer that to us as well?”

“I dunno mech, I don’t plan things!” the other cassette defended, crossing his arms petulantly. “I jus’ frag scrap up.” 

There was a small, damning sensation of hopefulness in his field, though—not that Ravage himself was in any position to judge. At this point in the war, they all wanted out before either Optimus or (more likely) Megatron went too far. 

(They all wanted Soundwave as far away from the inevitable epicenter as possible. As far away and safe as possible.)

About to hint as much, Rave opened his muzzle to speak, only to cut himself off as the sound of muted arguing echoed up the duct. A quiet “Bingo,” from Frenzy told him that his fellow cassette heard it too. 

Audials pricked forwards, careful to stay light on his paws, he crept forwards, his fellow cassette trailing stealthily behind him. Both slowed and settled in to watch as the forms of the arguing Combaticons came into view through the ventilation slats.

***

“So what!?” Swindle shrieked, pacing back and forth, servo gesticulating aimlessly, “He’s a ‘Bot! They’re the biggest liars since yours truly!”

“He’s helpin’ us though, isn’t he?” Brawl cut in with a growl, plating rattling in a threat display.

“All the more reason to distrust him.” Swindle growled back, displaying a previously assumed-to-have-been-forged-without back strut. “Now that we’re free of that slagging code, we’ve all got targets on our backs. We can’t trust anyone, least of all him!”

Despite how close things seemed to be to spiralling out of control, Onslaught felt an unfamiliar sensation of tranquil calm settle over his helm. 

As far as fights usually went in their gestalt, this was barely worse than friendly bickering. 

Where usually their anger and frustrations boiled into each other’s thoughts, amplifying and escalating it, now his gestaltmates’ thoughts barely registered except with a distinctly ‘not-his’ sensation in the back of his helm. In fact, this was the quietest his helm had been since he’d been brought back online.

Still, Vortex looked about ready to throw his own two shanix in, and whenever that happened, energon got spilled. 

“Alright, alright, enough,” he ordered, pushing authority into his voice and field.

“You three, back down. Swindle, I’m going to need a better excuse for why we shouldn’t trust him other than on the basis that he’s the enemy.”

“Greaaat. Mister ‘tactics-are-my-lifeblood’ is siding with the medic. Just great,” the jeep grumbled but relented and turned to face him. 

“You want to know my problem? I grew up running cons. I’ve stolen shanix out from under the wealthiest senators and I’ve cheated more dangerous mechs than Megatron, so I know that when something looks too good to be true, it is.”

A pillar of stony patience, Onslaught waited for Swindle to gather himself before continuing. 

“He’s promising to get us out of here,” the jeep said, ticking off a digit like these were items on a contract, “he got the coding out of our helms, and he gave you-” Swindle paused to point an accusatory digit at Onslaught’s chestplate- “a patch so that we finally get a little peace and quiet in our processors. Now, I don’t know much about medicine, but he’s been working on us all cycle, so why do that and expect nothing out of it!?”

“Since when have you cared about our wellbeing?” grumbled Blast Off from the corner, pretending to study his digits for grime while he listened in.

“Since I finally have a chance to never, ever have to deal with all of your slagged up problems for the first time in my life!” Swindle screeched, causing them all to wince at the volume.

In the ensuing silence, there was a rustling sound that was probably just ‘Tex’s blades shifting against each other, but could also be a certain cassette or two listening in the vents above them. Darting forward, Brawl was quick to slap a servo over Swindle’s mouth, the jeeps frame jerking as he put up a pointless fight against it. To his right, Vortex’s blades bristled up like the fur of those Earthen felines did when threatened. Blast Off had gone deathly silent, optics trained on the vents for any subtle shift of the shadows.

A small knot of tension that came when uncertain variables presented themselves unravelled in Onslaught’s chestplate when he noticed. If there were any of Soundwave’s brats in the vents, if they moved so much as an optic lid, Blast Off would spot it. 

Of course, if there were cassettes in the vents, they were unilaterally and irrevocably fragged. One single word to Megatron’s TIC and they were deader than Unicron. Would be in worse trouble than a mech in the deepest pit of the Inferno. In Swindle’s own words, royally fragged beyond repair.

“Boss, I get that we can’t hear each other all the time no more, but your thoughts are really loud,” Brawl complained, earning him an elbow to the gut from Swindle. The tactic seemed to function not just to shut him up, but also to provide an escape route.

When the tank doubled over, sucking in a sharp vent of pain, it gave the jeep the space he needed to scurry away like the insect he was. Oddly enough, though, where usually they would hear and feel Brawl’s silent, furious cursing, all any of them heard was, [You slagging tiny little makerfragger!] and an emotional indicator for anger. Nothing else.

Primus, it was creepy after having gotten used to living with four extra voices and a thousand other emotions and memories in his helm.

When nothing continued to not move in the vents above them, they collectively let out a sigh of relief. 

Frame relaxing incrementally, Onslaught turned to address his gestaltmates. “Swindle,” he started, pinning the jeep in place with a sharp glare, “For once in your sleazy life, your concerns are warranted. However, I have reason to believe that not only does Ratchet mean to keep his word, but that there is a significant chance that we can manage a successful escape.”

Holding up a servo to ward off any arguments, he plowed on while he still had everyone’s attention. “He’s planning on taking the Constructicons with him, possibly a few others. While I can’t speak to the unknowns, I do know that if Scrapper and his crew are working on this insane plan, we have a solid chance of pulling it off. Our main priority now is keeping this under wraps, understand? I hear a single word of this vented to anyone, and I will personally send whoever’s responsible back to Shockwave. Got it?”

A flurry of “Yes boss!” and “Yep, totally got it!” filled the ensuing silence as Onslaught nodded his helm, still deep in thought.

There were still far too many unknown variables for him to be comfortable with, but for now, he had to trust whatever insane, half-baked plan the medic had come up with. 

As the rest of his gestalt began winding down for recharge, arguing over the merits of playing nice with Scrapper’s gestalt and which Autobots would make the best roommates, he cast on last glance towards the vent slats. Even if there was a solid plan in motion, the more mechs that got added to the plot meant the more chances of someone getting loose lips. So many unknowns and barely enough information to fill the blanks. Dammit.

[Boss, recharge already wouldja? The light’s killing my optics!] whined Swindle, who’d somehow mastered this new form of inter-gestalt communication faster than any of the rest of them despite being essentially the last to receive it.

[Y-#h, !’m tir(d, an^ we’^e b#-n up al@ cy%*e!] Vortex added, his words only really being understood through the tone modifiers for fatigue and annoyance he haphazardly shoved through their fledgling gestalt bond.

With a resigned sigh, Onslaught abandoned his post by the door and trudged over to his berth, flopping into it with all the grace of a beached sonarwhale. A tired processor yields no fruitful results, he told himself, shutting his optics and trying to will recharge to find him. A tired processor yields no fruitful results.  

As he slowly began to drift off, he felt a strange, ‘not his’, but also ‘not theirs’ thought bubble up in his helm. [I wonder how Ratchet is doing?]

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. ::

Chapter Text

The second the medic was out of audialshot, chaos erupted in their hab.

“Frag no!” Bonecrusher shouted, crossing his servos like that might physically ward off their current situation. “No fragging way are we teaming up with them!”

“But… Ratch said-”

“Don’t care! We ain’t doin’ that!” the dozer snapped, cutting Scavenger off. “They can find their own damn way off this ship!”

“We aren’t leaving them behind,” Scrapper cut in with a growl, his authority as their leader the only thing keeping the rest of them from immediately shouting him down. “Ratchet won’t leave without them, and we aren’t leaving without Ratchet. Understood?” 

Grumbles answered him, so he added, “Or we can all just stay here and watch Megatron execute him.”

That finally brought about a reaction in the form of angry protests, but eventually those turned to resigned nods and yeses.

“Good. Now, all of you idiots are going to get some recharge, and we’ll draw up a proper plan of action next cycle, got it?”

As his gestaltmates slowly filtered into the respective rooms, Hook shoved past him with an icy anger in his field. :: If Ratchet ends up dead ‘cause of this, your helm’ll be on a fragging pike. ::

The use of comms caught Scrapper off-guard, unused to being addressed by his gestalt outside of their bond. Staring incredulously at their medic—usually one to avoid confrontation with him like the Rust Plague—who was glaring right back. Still half in shock, he gave a short nod and said, “Noted. Now get the frag to berth.”

Hook growled in response, but relented, stomping into his room like a sparkling throwing a tantrum. Still, the aggressive protectiveness was a new development that necessitated being taken into account. They’d all grown more attached to Ratchet over the past few decacyles, sure, but their medic seemed especially clingy. The last thing any of them needed was someone picking a fight over who got the medic’s attention.

Sighing and trudging to berth himself, Scrapper all but crashed onto his berth, reflexively starting to count the bolts in the ceiling to coax his processor into recharge. Ratchet’s curveball of an inter-gestalt teamup had hit them all like a suckerpunch, but it honestly fit within the medic’s M.O. 

That being said… If things went wheels-up next cycle, he was going to weld someone to the hull of the Nemesis, ‘ally’ or not.

***

The following morning went about as well as it could’ve, given that he was trying to wrangle five tired, underfueled mechs into forming a coherent plan as well as re-explaining why they were going to involve the other gestalts.

Primus help him, but if he heard one more, “But why do we hafta work with them?” he was going to commit murder.

“Okay, so, we all agree on the plan?”

Scrapper’s question was met with noncommittal grunts of affirmation and a snort of indignation from Hook, and he internally let out a long-suffering sigh. It was the best he could hope for, given the circumstances. Any chance of his crew playing nice with the Combaticons was miniscule at best, but the Stunticons? Even less so.

“We get it,” their medic growled, a pulse of stubborn contrarianism flickering across the bond. “Now can we just get this fragging over with already?”

Letting out an audible exvent and pinching his nasal ridge, Scrapper gestured towards the door, already weary and anxious of the cycle ahead.

__________________________________

The Combaticon’s quarters were… sub-par, to say the least. Five bunk berths squeezed into a room fit for three mechs max. It went a long way towards explaining their almost unnatural intolerance of each other, at least.

Across from his team stood Onslaught and Blast Off, the latter bristling like an agitated turbofox while the former listened with poorly disguised interest. [Ratch kinda mentioned they were already on board, but didn’t say why. Think he helped ‘em or somethin’?] Scavenger asked, keeping a wary optic on Vortex, who was perched on the far top bunk like some kind of rustvulture.

[Yeah, must’ve] Long Haul answered, giving a lazy wave to Brawl as he did so. [They’re, like, waaay too calm ‘bout all this] there was a lengthy pause, and then he added, markers for disbelief and suspicion, [Speakin’ of, I don’t know if they’ve ever been this calm]

Ignoring his gestaltmates, Scrapper gestured to Onslaught’s crew and asked, “So, I take it we can count on your support?”

There was a long, tense, silence as they all waited for the Combaticons’ response, when a jolt of whiplash snapped across their gestalt bond. All optics snapped towards Hook, who wore the subtle expression of a mech witnessing the impossible.

[He fixed them] was all that came from their medic’s side of the bond, ominous enough that when Mixmaster finally asked, [Uh, Hook? What the fuck?] he just repeated [He fixed them] with a shocked, distant look in his visor.

[Fuck you mean, ‘fixed ‘em?] Bonecrusher asked, crossing his arms and shooting the assembled Combaticons a curious look.

[THEY’RE TALKING TO EACH OTHER THROUGH THEIR BOND!] Hook all but shrieked  back, a tremor shaking his frame as he jerked his helm towards the mechs in question.

[I’ve never seen their processors, but I know for a fragging fact that they don’t have the filtration subroutines that we have to keep their thoughts separate. The only possible way they’re doing this] he stopped to jerk his helm towards the still-silent Combaticons who, Scrapper now realized, were way too silent, [is if Ratchet fixed their fragging coding]

Immediately, a flurry of arguments exploded over the bond, but it all sounded like static to Scrapper’s audials. 

For as long as they’d been on the Nemesis, the Combaticons’… problem… had been something of a worst-kept secret. The kind that was talked about behind closed doors and with whispered voices. Taking another long, hard look at the mechs in question—watching as their faces jerked and twitched from arguing over their bond —it was clear that Hook was right; Ratchet had fixed them. Well and truly fixed what everyone else had assumed was a permanent condition meant to remind any ‘Con about what would happen if they were caught thinking about defecting.

An unfamiliar wrench in his spark made itself known as he sent a quick pulse out to his gestaltmates to get them to quiet down and focus. The kind that told him if he didn’t get these mechs on board, they’d die the instant Megatron found out about Ratchet’s little act of altruism. Dammit dammit dammit, he cursed as he refocussed his attention to Onslaught as the mech and his gestalt turned back to face Scrapper and his. 

Across from him, the missile truck crossed his arms and asked, “So, what’s the plan?”

***

To say things were going well would be… well… Honestly, it’d be accurate.

To an extent, Hook hated it. Hated that he had to be here and not in the medbay, where he could at least keep an optic on the medic who’d decided it was worth it to risk his neck for a bunch of mechs who—in his opinion—didn’t deserve it.

On a more personal level—and one he was comfortable with acknowledging given that the rest of his gestalt felt the same—he hated having to share the medic’s attention. Anxieties and paranoia gnawed at his spark, only amplifying as his gestaltmates picked up and added to it. Were they not good enough for Ratchet’s attention? Too needy and overly-forward? Too angry and protective?

A quick reprimand from Scrapper’s end shut them down, but the feeling lingered between all of them, bitter and sour.

Across from him, Brawl was chatting amicably with Scavenger. Leave it to the ditzes to group together, he grumbled to himself, ignoring their blooming camaraderie in pursuit of keeping an optic on the rest of their two gestalts. To his right, Scrapper was talking in hushed tones to Onslaught and Blast Off while Swindle, usually a powerhouse of socialization, sulked on the bunk beneath where Vortex perched as the rotary chattered at Mixer, their chemist kicking his pedes idly as he sat next to him on the railing. It all felt far too calm and relaxed for what they were discussing.

Hook knew he should focus on what was being discussed. 

On the plan they’d painstakingly drawn up and created six different back-ups and alternatives for.

But he just couldn’t. His helm was full of static and racing thoughts, and he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to claw his plating off or not when he thought about the fact that he didn’t know where Ratchet was, or what might be happening to him.

The situation from last cycle certainly didn’t help things.

Primus, he’d almost torn Dead End’s helm off when the race car had casually stated that the medic had gone down to their pigsty of a hab to ‘have a talk with Motormaster’. As if he wasn’t admitting to being accomplice to murder!

Of course, he’d found Ratchet sitting on a chair across from the semi like they were having fragging midcycle enertea, but his point still stood. He didn’t trust Motormaster further than he could throw him and that was to say, not at all. That the medic had deemed that fragged-in-the-helm gestalt as important enough to be included in the escape brought him no end of frustration.

Honestly, what he even saw in them, Hook had no idea.

Abruptly, a crash sounded from not far outside the Combaticons’ hab, setting everyone on edge; Onslaught and Scrapper’s weapons systems firing up while Vortex and Scavenger shifted nervously, optics darting from the door to the vents and back again.

Once the initial panic wore off, though, Hook couldn’t help but grind his dentae at the seeming slew of misfortune being thrown his way.

[Stand down. It’s the fucking Stunticons] he let his gestalt know, already forcing down the ire threatening to spill out of his mouth as Wildrider barrelled through the open door, followed by the rest of his gestalt and, much to everyone presents’ supreme surprise and displeasure, Motormaster.

If they were packed in tightly before, there was barely room to think now.

“Heard you guys were havin’ a meeting ‘bout Ratch’s plan!” the sportscar shouted far louder than necessary, at least four mechs shushing him frantically, lest the wrong audials overhear him.

“Yeah, what’s with keepin’ us outta all this, huh?” Drag Strip cut in, arms crossed and face contorted in his signature sneer of disapproval. As if he was somehow better than his fragged-in-the-helm brothers.

Quickly stepping between the sports car and Scrapper before his gestalt leader could do anything to the smart-mouthed idiot, Hook sharply pointed towards the corner he’d just vacated with a quick, “Over there, now.”

Turning his helm to address his and Onslaught’s gestalt and ignoring the low growl from Motormaster, he added, “You five, over there-” indicating the corner farthest from the Stunticons- “and you guys over there,” pointing his gestalt towards the corner adjacent to the Combaticons.

Nine visors and one pair of optics stared at him, baffled and bemused, before he snapped, “Now!” and both gestalts moved where he’d indicated with minimal grumbling.

Turning back around to see that—much to his surprise—the Stunticons had actually gone where he’d told them to, Hook gave himself a servoful of seconds to gather himself. Keep a cool helm. Keep a cool helm or Ratchet will kill you for strangling them.

“What. Are you five. Doing here?” he asked, doing his level best to keep the venom out of his voice.

“Weeeell, funny story actually, but-”

“The fucking medic’s fucking leaving, and we ain’t gonna fuckin’ stick around for the goddamned aftermath, slag-for-brains,” Motormaster cut in with a snarl, shooting Wildrider a silencing glare as he stepped out in front of the rest of his gestalt.

There was a long pause as the semi’s words hung in the air.

Behind him, Hook could feel his gestaltmates exchanging glances at the, frankly, worrying, lack of physical aggression from the semi. Weirder still, but it almost seemed like he was intentionally putting himself between his gestalt and theirs. Like he was trying to protect them.

[The pit’s he playin’ at?] Bonecrusher asked, indicators for bafflement and annoyance. [Since when’s Motor ever bothered stickin’ up for his gestalt?]

[Since now apparently] Hook grumbled back. [Probably due to whatever he an’ Ratchet talked about last cycle]

[Well make him stop. S’fraggin’ creepy] Long Haul chimed in, a shiver of revulsion flickering out from his end of the bond.

“Got somethin’ you wanna say to my fuckin’ face?” Motormaster growled, drawing Hook back to the present as he refocussed his attention on the glowering Stunticon. “Better watch it. The medic ain’t here to cover your sorry aft this time,” the mech leered.

Behind him, several engines roared to life in response to the threat. Before any serious trouble could start, though, Hook found himself slicing a servo through the air in a stand down gesture towards the rest of his gestalt. “Stand the fuck down,” he ordered, staring down Motormaster with an intensity even he was surprised by.

“You want off this ship? Fine, whatever, who gives a frag!” he barked out, servos flying up in exasperation, “But this isn’t some snatch and grab from those fleshies’ factories.”

Striding forwards until he was close enough to jab a digit in the semi’s chestplate, Hook continued like a mech possessed. “I don’t give one single frag about you or your frag-up of a gestalt, but we all fragging care about that fragging medic, so get your shit together and act like you actually give a fuck, or we all die, Ratchet included.”

Finished with his tirade, Hook let out a sharp exvent as he held Motormaster’s furious gaze, a voice in the back of his helm wondering if this was how he really died: crushed under the fist of a pissed off, mech-sized sparkling. To his utter bewilderment, though, the semi finally let out an aggressive snort after several seconds before stalking back over to his gestalt.

Wholly unprepared for that turn of events, it took Hook a moment to gather his thoughts enough to process what had just happened, but once he did, he turned to address the rest of the room. “If we want this , frankly, insane plan to work, we all have to work together on this. If any, and I mean any, of us step one pede out of line, we’re all as good as dead, got it?”

He waited a beat until he saw helms halting nod before continuing. “Now, does anyone have anything they need to fragging say before we finally put our helms down and get to work?”

“Got room for six more?”

The entire room collectively jumped in panicked surprise as the question floated down from the vent in the ceiling. A second later, and at least eight different mech’s weaponry were pointed up where the cassette was hiding.

Despite having literally nowhere to run, one of Soundwave’s brats—Rumble, if memory served—slid the vent cover aside and smoothly hopped down onto the nearest bunk. “I asked-” he repeated, a slag-eating grin on his face- “if you had room for six more. It really isn’t that hard of a question, y’know.”

Holding up a servo in an effort to keep the cassette alive long enough to figure out what his gambit was, Hook stepped forwards, arms crossed. “You’ve got ten seconds to explain what the frag you think you’re doing before we send you back to the tape deck in a jar,” he growled, satisfaction thrumming in his spark at the split-second flicker of fear across the cassette’s face.

“Jeez, you guys are so paranoid,” Rumble complained, kicking his pedes lazily over the edge of the berth. “But fiiiiine, whatever. You guys are gettin’ Ratchet off the ship, yeah?”

Not waiting for a response, the cassette plowed on, examining his digits with an air of forced calm. “Well, we want ‘Wave off the ship too. So we’re gonna help you.”

“Why should any of us believe you?” Onslaught questioned, the malice in his voice unmistakable.

“Becaaause we have information that you don’t~” Rumble announced in a smug, sing-song voice, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his legs, grinning like the cybercat who caught the springbird.

“And what would that fragging be?” Motormaster’s voice carried with it a silent threat, his field joining Onslaught’s to create a palpable sensation of oncoming violence in the small hab.

“Meg’s ain’t stupid,” the cassette said plainly, sitting back up and regarding them all with what might’ve been the most serious expression they’d ever seen from one of Soundwave’s brood. “We can’t stall ‘im forever. He’s gonna figure you out soon enough, and we want Ratch and ‘Wave outta here before that happens.”

Turning the new information over in his helm, Hook tuned out the sudden explosion of noise around him as all three gestalts began arguing with each other and Rumble, insults and threats being hurled at a rate that heralded a coming brawl. Just as the chaos around him reached a fever pitch, he felt his last thread of patience snap.

“SHUT THE FRAG UP!”

All of a sudden, the clamor of noise ground to a stunned halt, and Hook realized that the bellowed command had come, in fact, from himself.

Taking a quick vent to organize his thoughts, he turned first to address his fellow gestalts. “I know none of us trust those turborats-” he ignored Rumble’s indignant shout- “further than we can throw ‘em, but they ain’t liars when it comes to their boss. If he says that Meg’s gonna catch on, then we’re running on borrowed time.”

Turning to address the cassette, he added, “I don’t fuckin’ like you, and I never will, but since we owe you for the tip-off, we'll work Soundwave into this. You just keep getting us the info we need, and we’ll call it even.”

“Done and done!” Rumble saluted, already clambering back into the previously vacant ventilation shaft. “And don’t worry ‘bout Ratch, ‘Wave’s lettin’ ‘im know ‘bout all this,” he added as he pulled the vent cover back into place and disappeared from sight.

[Well... guess we don’t needta go over all this with him later, then?] Mixmaster asked, his personal brand of absurd levity enough to calm some of the sharp tension in their bond.

[No, I guess not] Scrapper affirmed, turning his attention to Hook. [And since fragging when do you step up and give orders?]

Ignoring the pointed tease, Hook focussed on addressing Onslaught and Motormaster instead. “Alright. Now that we have Soundwave on board, we can lose some discretion, but we still need to be careful. We don’t know how much Megatron knows about this, but we have to assume we’ll need to act in the next few cycles or so. Scrapper’s going to send both of you the plan, and we’ll meet back here next cycle to discuss who’s doing what.”

There was a beat of silence, and then, Motormaster ground out, “This better fuckin’ work,” as he half shoved, half herded his gestalt out of the Combaticons’ hab.

[Fragging weiiird] Long Haul whispered as they watched the Stunticons leave.

Ignoring his gestaltmate for the time being, Hook turned around just in time to see Scrapper hand Onslaught what looked like a data slug. "Figured you'd want a physical copy," their leader commented with a shrug. "You've always been weird 'bout digital files."

Snatching it out of Scrapper's servo with more force than necessary, Onslaught grumbled back, “I’ll look it over and let you know what flaws I find."

“Please. You think I would've let any flaws slip through the cracks of my plan?” their gestalt leader challenged, arms crossed.

“I’ll let you know if I find any,” the Combaticon repeated, unwilling to back down.

Holding back a sigh of resignation, Hook snapped his digits twice in quick succession to break the tension. “If we’re done here, I’d like to get back to our hab,” he said pointedly at Scrapper. 

Turning on his heel and striding out of the Combaticons’ hab, Hook got about halfway down the hall before a wave of realization crashed into him. Primus fragging dammit, I’m turning into Ratchet! he realized with no small amount of embarrassed horror as he played the last few hour’s events back in his helm.

I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I? he lamented as he heard the tell-tale thump of heavy pedesteps as the rest of his gestalt hurried to catch up to him. 

It was going to be a long walk back to their hab.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the Nemesis’ War Room was tense as Thundercracker and his trine waited for their Lord to speak.

To his right, Starscream lazily picked imaginary flecks of dirt out from under his claws, their trine leader lounging in his chair like it was a throne. To his left, Skywarp had his pedes kicked up on the table, doing his best to appear bored out of his processor.

They were all on edge.

It was one thing for Megatron to order their presence for a meeting; they were all part of the Command Trine, after all. It was an entirely different beast for them to be summoned to the War Room alone.

[Was Star scheming again?] he asked Skywarp, optics darting between their Lord and their trine leader.

Brief glimpses of memories flickered from the purple seeker’s side of the bond before the mech finally replied with confusion, [No… at least nothing that I remember… You think Megs’s gonna try an’ make an example of him again?]

The reminder sent a shudder down Thundercracker’s spinal strut as he forcibly pushed that particular cycle’s events out of his helm. [Don’t think so] he said slowly, glancing back over at Starscream. [He would’ve started throwing things by now if he was]

[Will the two of you shut up?!] their trine leader’s voice cut over both their thoughts, his wings tensed back in masked agitation. [All your stupid worrying is giving me a helmache.]

[Sorry, Star] Thundercracker quickly apologized, wings dipping while Skywarp rolled his optics and went back to counting the bolts on the ceiling.

[And for Primus’ sake, stop fragging apologizing! It makes you look weak]

[Sorry…]

[Both of you shutthefragup!]

Skywarp’s panicked voice snapped the both of them out of their argument, optics snapping forwards to see Megatron staring the three of them down with predatory intent.

Straightening in his chair as a cold chill shot down his spinal strut, Thundercracker could see Starscream do much the same, though with an air of bored indifference.

“My Command Trine, the three mechs I entrust to maintain order not just within the ranks of my seekers, but throughout the Nemesis,” their Lord began, drawing out each word like he was sharpening a blade, “do I not give you recognition enough for your efforts?”

Whiplash snapped across the bond, all three seekers subtly glancing at each other in confusion. 

“Do I not applaud your efforts?”

[Is he bein’ rhetorical or some scrap? The pit’s this?] Skywarp asked, a flash of annoyance shooting out from his end when Starscream shot him a dirty look and snapped back [Shut up you imbecile before he decides to shoot us! Once he’s done waxing poetic, the idiot’ll get to the fragging point]

[Dunno, Star, he isn’t usually like… this] Thundercracker cut in, optics fixed on Megatron like a rotodeer eyeing a cyberwolf.

“Have you grown so discontent with my leadership that you would allow TREASON to fester WITHIN OUR RANKS!?” their Lord roared, slamming his fists down hard enough to leave deep dents in the table. Crimson red optics bored into each of them, a depthless fury blazing within just waiting to be unleashed.

“M-my Lord, I don’t-” Thundercracker started, only to have his words die in his intake as those burning optics found his, what was left of his courage giving way to self-preservation as he ducked his helm and shrank back in his chair.

“Keep your lackeys in line or I will do it for you,” Megatron growled at Starscream, irritation flickering out from Star’s side of the bond along with a subtle, defensive, downwards flick of his wings.

Seemingly satisfied with his intimidation, their Lord straightened up and let out a sharp exvent. “Our Autobot prisoner has become a pest that has been allowed free reign of my ship and crew for too long. Given such, I am left to assume that either your scheming lot or my communications officer has taken to plotting behind my back. With reinforcements from Shockwave so close at servo, our victory is all but assured unless poison has been left to fester unchecked within my soldiers.” As he spoke, Megatron turned to look sharply at Starscream who glared right back, unwilling to bow down in the face of a challenge. “So, which. is. it?”

[Seriously, Star, what’s going on?!] Skywarp demanded, followed by Thundercracker’s own, [Please tell me you aren’t really scheming again! We can’t handle being left in the dark like last time!]

Neither of them got an answer.

“Who is to blame?!” their Lord continued, each word barbed and laced with venomous fury, “My disloyal band of seekers whose functioning remains as such because of their military prowess, or my Third in Command who has faithfully led us through our war without as much as a single malcontent thought!?”

[With the way the war’s going I wouldn’t be surprised if Sounders finally did decide to screw us all over and defect] Skywarp muttered. [And who’s he calling traitorous? That’s all on Star, not us!]

[Hey! Soundwave wouldn’t just throw us to the cyberwolves!] Thundercracker bristled, wings flicking up as he shot his trinemate a deep frown. [And even if he did, I’d think that he’d at least let someone know… He’s not the type to just… abandon mechs]

[You’re only saying that ‘cause you like him!] Skywarp snapped back, wings flaring wide to accentuate his scorn. [It sure as pit ain’t us to blame for whatever’s got Megs’ turbines in a twist, so it’s gotta be him. Face it TC, he doesn’t give a frag about any of the rest of us, ‘sides his cassettes]

[Oh, shut up! The both of you!] Star’s voice cut across both of theirs, laced with annoyance and exasperation. [There isn’t a chance the tape deck’s plotting anything—yet. There are only two mechs on this ship that afthole respects, and, loathe as I am to admit it, Thundercracker is one of them. He’d have told him something if there was a plan in the works]

[So you ARE saying you’re plotting something!] Skywarp accused, wings hiking up, purple energy arcing between them.

[No, you moron!] Star snapped, [What I’m saying is that that stupid medic’s the one scheming, and he’s about to do something that’ll get him killed!]

As if sensing that the argument between his Command Trine was drawing to a close, Megatron cleared his intake sharply, three pairs of optics immediately snapping to him. “I am not in favor of repeating myself, Starscream,” he growled, optics boring into their trine leader’s. “So which. is. it?” 

A beat of silence passed as Starscream idly picked imaginary dirt out from between his claws before finally glancing up to meet Megatron’s baleful gaze. “Honestly, do you truly take me for some run-of-the-mill cuckoo in the nest?” he asked with faux-boredom in his voice. “If I were to attempt something of that calibre, don’t you think I’d be more discreet about it? Really, you wouldn’t even know a coup was staged until you felt a blaster pierce your spark if I orchestrated it,” he scoffed.

“So you would place the blame on Soundwave?” their Lord asked, narrowing his optics.

Whether it was the insult to the communications officer’s integrity, or the underlying knowledge that Megatron would punish the tape deck for a crime he—probably—hadn’t committed, Thundercracker found himself pushing out of his chair and swiping a servo through the air as if to physically negate the idea. “Soundwave would never!” he cried, wings flaring out as he stared down their Lord.

Crimson optics turning to bore into his, Megatron’s voice dropped dangerously low as all of Thundercracker’s instincts screamed at him to run. “Is that so, Thundercracker? You would willingly throw your own trine on the tracks to defend the honor of a mech more than capable of defending it himself?”

The urge to cower and back down surged in Thundercracker’s spark, strengthened by Skywarp’s panicked insistence that he apologize and sit the frag down right this second, but a quiet, barely-there teek of encouragement from Star strengthened his resolve. “I- I’m- What I’m trying to say is- is that neither of us did anything. I… I’m not sure what Ratch- the Autobot is doing, but maybe it’s just… something… they just… do? They, uh, get pretty bent out of shape over stupid stuff, right?”

Resisting the urge to wince at his poorly worded defense and pray that Megatron’s fusion cannon didn’t aim for his spark, the next servoful of seconds were the most anxiety-inducing of Thundercracker’s life, but eventually their Lord let out a long exvent, the rage in his optics not abating, but lessening all the same.

“It would do you well to watch your tongue, seeker,” he warned, Thundercracker quickly taking the hint and slamming back down into his seat, “but perhaps you have a point. Optimus does lead a disgustingly softsparked bunch, doesn’t he? Still, I remain unconvinced that turborats do not infest our ranks.”

Turning to address Starscream, their Lord added, “If I am to see any unsavory behavior from my warriors, rest assured, it will fall upon yours and your trinemate’s helms to deal with the problem, lest it become mine. Understood?” 

“Yes, Megatron, sir!” Skywarp butted in, wings tensed back as he lurched out of his chair to grab both Thundercracker’s and Starscream’s shoulders. 

A second later, and they were enveloped in a storm of purple energy, the weightlessness of teleportation being the last thing Thundercracker registered before they landed in a tangled heap back in their hab.

__________________________________

“What in Unicron’s name was that FOR!?” Starscream screeched, shoving Skywarp’s frame off him as he dug his way out of the dogpile they’d landed in.

“He was gonna blast your helm off!” their trinemate defended, servos thrown up in exasperation like his point was clear as day.

“Oh for the love of Primus! You and your nannying is going to be the death of me!”

“Riiight, because good ‘ol Megs is totally known for being calm and reasonable!”

“He did look bloodthirsty back there…” Thundercracker threw in, hesitant to add to their trine leader’s growing conniption, but unwilling to leave Skywarp defenseless. At the furious look in Star’s optics, though, he might’ve made a slight error in throwing his own two shanix in.

Just when it looked like the two of them were in for the chewing-out of a lifetime, Starscream suddenly froze mid invent, then deflated, muted horror echoing from his side of the bond.

“...Star?”

“That idiot’s going to get himself killed,” was all their trine leader said with an air of delayed realization. His pedes scuffed against the floor in subconscious anxiousness before he abruptly pivoted and smashed his fist into the wall. “He’s going to get himself killed!”

“Uh, Star? Whaddya goin’ on about?” Skywarp asked, walking up next to Thundercracker with a confused, worried look on his face.

Usually, Starscream’s fits involved a lot more shouting and posturing. It wasn’t often—rarely, even—that he actually got physical about anything.

“That stupid, moronic, idiotic medic!” Star finally shouted, turning to face them. “That imbecile, Ratchet, is going to get himself killed!”

“And why d’you care so much?” their trinemate asked again, earning a jab to the side from Thundercracker’s elbow for it. “Ow! Hey! I’m just askin’!”

In front of them, Starscream’s face was bright pink in indignation, like he was angry at being found out, not that his ‘subordinates’ were questioning him, and in that second, the dots connected in Thundercracker’s helm.

“It’s because he repaired you, isn’t it,” he said somewhat dumbfounded, “After Megatron…”

“After Megatron decided to use me for target practice, yes, yes, that,” their trine leader snapped flippantly, waving a dismissive servo in the air.

“So? Hook’s fixed you plenty of times, an’ you’ve never so much as tried to stick your neck out for him,” Skywarp cut in before Star could say more, stepping forwards and crossing his arms. “What’s the big deal here?”

This time, their trine leader held his tongue, and a knot of worry began to form in Thundercracker’s tank. “You… after ‘Warp brought you back you said it wasn’t that bad,” he started, anxiety clawing at his spark. “But we felt your end of the bond go dead. As in, for a solid minute. You don’t do favors unless you owe someone your life.”

Silence reigned from Star’s side of the room, only reinforcing the sinking feeling shared between him and Skywarp. Beside him, he could feel his trinemate coming to a similar conclusion he had.

“I get that you shut us out a lot, and we both get why,” Thundercracker started, servos out placatingly in an attempt to diffuse what he knew was going to become messy incredibly fast, “Even if you don’t think we do, we understand, but that was different. Neither of us could feel you. At all.”

Chiming in from beside him, Skywarp added, “Yeah, that wasn’t normal. Seriously, Star, what happened?”

Another long pause stretched on before their trine leader finally snorted and said flippantly, “It wasn’t that serious, you ninnies. That moron Hook just didn’t know what the frag he was doing. If Ratchet hadn’t stepped in, I’d be buffing imperfections out of my plating for the next century, that’s all.”

Exchanging grim looks, Thundercracker stepped forwards and fixed their trine leader in a firm glare, spreading his wings out, arms crossed over his cockpit. “What happened?”

Effectively trapped, their trine leader shot both him and ‘Warp looks of betrayal before snarling, “Alright, fine! You want the truth so fragging badly?! So what if I might’ve gone into frame-lock!? It clearly wasn’t serious enough to kill me, so I’m fine! Now back. off.” Spitting the words out like they were poison, Starscream bared his dentae, not backing down while holding Thundercracker’s gaze. 

Recovering his bravado as the silence dragged on, their trine leader eventually bit out, “Well, if you two are finished with your little interrogation, I’m going to find Astrotrain. I need a drink.”

Hiking his wings up a little higher, Thundercracker was prepared to take a tongue-lashing if it meant having a proper spark-to-spark only to stop when Skywarp discreetly sent him a teek through the bond. The silent “give him some space” enough to make him back up and step aside, allowing their trine leader to storm his way out of their hab, muttering under his vents as he went.

__________________________________

Waiting until Star was out of audialshot, Thundercracker turned to shoot his trinemate a disappointed look. “You can’t keep letting him run away whenever either of us digs too deep for his liking, you know,” he said as he walked over towards their hab’s small kitchen.

“And you can’t keep prying when all it’s gonna do is make him clam up more,” Skywarp snapped back, wings flicking up as he trailed after him. “I get that you’re tryna help, I do, but you’re goin’ about it the wrong way, TC.”

“So what? I should just let things fester—should let him leave the two of us in the dark—until things finally reach a breaking point? That isn’t healthy, ‘Warp!”

“Primus, TC, of course it isn’t!” his trinemate shouted back, servos flying into the air as purple energy crackled off his wings. “But do you honestly think there’s ever gonna be a time or place where he’s actually gonna be open with us?! ‘Cause I don’t!”

Fidgeting in place, his pedes scuffing the floor, Thundercracker dropped his optics. 

To a point, Skywarp was right, but that didn’t make it right. Of course, though, neither of them could really see a scenario in which Star ever properly opened up to either of them—because, at the end of the cycle, that was the crux of the problem: the ‘Cons as whole had had the concept of openness beaten out of them (himself and scant few others notwithstanding, but still) and as long as he and his trine were Decepticons, that would never change.

But what if…

“What if we weren’t?” he said abruptly, helm and wings snapping up, startling his trinemate.

Recovering with a shake of his helm, Skywarp stared at him like he’d grown a second pair of optics. “What if we weren’t what?” he asked, optical ridges furrowing as he tried to parse out Thundercracker’s—understandably—vague statement.

“If we weren’t ‘Cons. What if we weren’t ‘Cons? What if we left, if- if we just disappeared! And took Star with us! Then we-!”

“Whoa-whoa-whoa! TC!” Skywarp shushed frantically, shoving a servo against his mouth as his optics frantically searched the room for anything—or one—that might be listening in. “You can’t just go sayin’ stuff like that!” he hissed, glaring at his trinemate. “Not after that death-threat Megs just laid down!”

Frowning and pulling his trinemate’s servo off his face, Thundercracker fluffed out his plating and took a step back, arms crossed. “I’m being serious. We’re the fastest of the seekers—of anyone—here. We could leave, and no one would know it until we were too far away for them to find us.”

“TC, listen, I get that you’re tryna think of what’s best for Star right now, but I really need you to stop for a second and actually think about what you’re saying. You’re proposing treason.”

“I know that.”

Throwing his servos up in defeat, Skywarp stormed away from him, frustration pulsing out of his field. After taking a lap around his side of the room, he rounded on Thundercracker and demanded, “Do you have a death wish?! Did you hit your helm on something?! Did you, like, completely forget what Megatron just told us!?” Do I need to drag you down to Ratchet and get him to check your helm out!?”

Silence hung in the air for about thirty seconds before Thundercracker let out a sigh and took a step towards his trinemate. “I… I’m not trying to get any of us killed, least of all myself. I just- I just think…”

Sensing his trinemate’s distress, Skywarp was quick to bridge the gap between them, placing what he thought was a comforting servo on his arm. “Hey, hey, I get it, you’re just trying to look out for all of us, like you always do. Butcha can’t go around sayin’ things like that without thinkin’ about who might hear you!”

“I know that,” Thundercracker growled, pulling away from Skywarp, “You don’t need to act like I’m some newforged sparkling.”

“I kinda do,” his trinemate shot back, a clear sense of him trying to tease him rippling across the bond. “You’re too softsparked, that’s all. You just gotta get it through your helm that we can’t all hold servos an’ be nice to each other like Autobots, ‘cause we’re not those scraphelms.”

Frown morphing to a scowl, he turned his helm away from Skywarp, glaring at the far wall. “I don’t need you patronizing me either. I’m not an idiot. I know that I’m soft. Honestly with the way everyone around here acts, I’d rather be one of those ‘Autobot scraphelms’ than the only Decepticon here with a spark.”

“Hey, whoa, I didn’t mean it like-”

“Well that’s what it sounded like!” Rounding on his trinemate, Thundercracker’s anger was quick to abate the second his optics met Skywarp’s, guilt clawing at his spark as soon as the words left his mouth. “I’m gonna go find Soundwave and fill him in on all this,” he murmured, dropping his optics to stare at the floor. “I’ll see you later.”

Turning on his heel, Thundercracker sped out of their hab, pointedly ignoring Skywarp when he tried to call out after him.

__________________________________

Dammit, dammit, dammit, you stupid idiot! he scolded himself as he strode down hall after hall, absentmindedly keeping an audial out for the sound of any of the tape deck’s cassettes in the overhelm vents as he walked. Why did you think that would go over well?! Of course ‘Warp thought it was a stupid idea! You should’ve just kept it to yourself like you usually do! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

“Thundercracker: Is not stupid.”

Startling like a spooked equinoid, Thundercracker jumped backwards from the figure in front of him, spark pounding against his chestplate as he stared bug-opticked at Soundwave, who seemed to have materialized out of thin air. 

“Wh- what-? What are you doing here?” he asked, trying and failing to keep his voice from shaking as adrenaline continued to course through his frame.

“Soundwave: Overheard Thundercracker’s thoughts and became curious. Query: Is Thundercracker alright?”

“O-oh. You, uh, heard all that, did you?” Shaking his helm when it looked like the tape deck was about to reply, Thundercracker quickly added, “No, nevermind, it’s not important.”

Casting a quick glance at their surroundings, he abruptly jerked his helm towards the direction of Soundwave’s office and asked, “Actually, do you have a moment? There’s something I need to catch you up on.”

There was a beat of silence where he was uncertain whether the tape deck was scrutinizing him or not, but then Soundwave nodded and lengthened his stride to match Thundercracker’s, the two walking side-by-side down the hall (and followed by at least one of his cassettes in the ceiling vents. It was honestly really sweet how they looked out for him).

By the time they reached his office, though, Thundercracker’s helm was a storm of worries and anxieties, each compounding the others and worsening his already fragile resolve. I have to do this, he kept repeating over all of it. I can’t just leave him out for the cyberwolves.

__________________________________

“Query: Cause of Thundercracker’s concerns?”

Seated across from Soundwave, Thundercracker’s optics darted everywhere but towards the tape deck’s visor, another surge of anxiety tugging at his spark as he considered his options. Should he tell Soundwave what their Lord had told them? What he himself was planning? 

Thundercracker was truly, genuinely, terrified of losing their relationship, and yet here he was, risking it all on the basis of nothing other than their decades of built-up respect and rapport. (That, and the, frankly, terrifyingly overwhelming affection he felt towards Soundwave that, despite his efforts to keep under wraps, prevented him from lying to him)

“Megatron… he called us in for a meeting this morning. He, uh, had some things to say ‘bout Ratchet and how he’s handling things,” he started, digits fidgeting with each other as his optics stayed fixed on the desk in front of him. “He’s not too happy with his whole ‘you’ll-let-me-help-you-come-Inferno-or-acid rain’ M.O. He thinks that you’ve got something to do with it,” Thundercracker confessed, finally lifting his helm up to look the tape deck in the visor. “He’s looking for a scapegoat.”

Before Soundwave could say anything in response to the news, he quickly added, “Listen, I- I know you’re loyal, and I’m not calling that into question, but it’s not safe for you—for any of us—to stay here!” 

A beat of silence passed and in it, Thundercracker whispered, “You can’t stay here.”

The seconds seemed to stretch into infinity as he watched Soundwave’s visor for any hint of what might be going on in his processor, Thundercracker’s agitation only growing as the silence became deafenning.

And then, finally, a crackle of static broke the tension, the tape deck tilting his helm to the side—like he was curious—and stating, “You propose desertion.”

Jaw locking shut as he tried to sort out his words, Thundercracker fidgeted in place. It wasn’t often Soundwave spoke in full sentences, but when he did it always carried weight—especially since he mostly only did so with him.

He wasn’t really sure where to go from here, now that his intent to commit treason was out in the open. But Soundwave wasn’t towering over him, or trying to rip his processor apart, or dragging him towards the Throne Room so Megatron could rip his spark out. And that gave him enough courage to reset his vocalizer and say, “I- I don’t have much of a plan—well, technically, no plan, really—but myself, ‘Warp, and Star are the fastest of the seekers. If we can just make it to the surface, there isn’t a Cybertronian alive who can catch us. I can carry you and- and ‘Warp can take your cassettes, and we can go wherever the pit we want to! No Megatron, no war, just find a quiet place where we can settle down and just rest for once.”

His piece said, Thundercracker sat back in his chair, curling in on himself—part of his processor still expected swift and violent retaliation. His entire frame felt like it was under a microscope. Like he was being dissected molecule by molecule. “I just… I can’t take watching anyone I- I can’t watch anyone else I care about getting hurt,” he murmured, optics locked on the floor beneath him.

“You… would be willing to desert?” Soundwave’s voice, though warbling slightly, sounded uncharacteristically hesitant. Like he was testing to see if this wasn’t some elaborate ploy.

Picking his helm up to stare at the tape deck, confused, Thundercracker hesitantly replied, “Yes…? I, uh, kinda just told you that.”

Again, that same, odd hesitance surrounded Soundwave as he glanced up at where his cassette lay hidden behind a vent cover, then back to Thundercracker. Static crackled wildly through the air—a sign he knew to mean that the tape deck was grappling with something big in his helm—when the mech finally said, “Cassettes: Have- Know of a plan.”

Caught off guard, Thundercracker just stared at him, confused and shocked, before his processor finally caught up with him. “Wait, wait… What?!”

“Ratchet: Gathering gestalts to escape the Nemesis.” Soundwave said, a wobble in his voice. The tape deck had never explained why he spoke the way he did, but it never escaped Thundercracker’s notice how shaky his voice sounded after he’d managed a ‘normal’ sentence. (The fact that it seemed to cause him, if not pain, then at least discomfort, was never lost on him either, but it’d never seemed appropriate to ask if there was anything he could do to help.)

“So he is planning something?” he asked, clarifying when it earned him a confused look, “We kinda drew up some theories of our own back in our hab.”

When Soundwave nodded in confirmation, Thundercracker asked, “And what about you? Are you going to join him?”

There was a lengthy pause before the tape deck finally admitted, “Cassettes… Agree with Thundercracker. The Nemesis: Unsafe for collective continued functioning. The War…” at that, he trailed off, visor flickering in a way that said that Soundwave was about to confess to something he didn’t want to. “The war is unwinnable.”

Only a little guilty at how unsurprised he was at the pronouncement, Thundercracker nodded his helm in understanding. “How can I- How can we help?”

At that, Soundwave seemed to startle, visor flashing as he made a reflexive, questioning sound.

“Star doesn’t want Ratchet to die,” Thundercracker explained, carefully omitting his own fears for the tape deck’s safety. “I- It’s complicated, he- He’s got a hang-up over Ratch repairing him. After… y’know…”

Nodding in agreement, Soundwave tipped his helm to the side, as if asking, “And what about you?”

Stumbling over his words for a moment, it took a second for him to organize his thoughts into something coherent other than outright saying, “Listen, I do care about them, but I really care about you, and the thought of me not trying to help and risking you dying is literally unconscionable to me.” Instead, Thundercracker drew in a steadying vent and asked, “Ratchet’s trying to get the gestalts out of here so he can take them back to the Ark, right?

When Soundwave nodded in affirmation, he continued, saying, “Well… I- I think he’s right. It- it isn’t healthy, living here. We’re starving all the time, and when we’re not fighting the ‘Bots, we’re at each others’ intakes! We can’t survive like this- we can’t live like this anymore.”

Ducking his helm, he murmured, “I can’t keep standing by and watching as the mechs I care about get hurt.”

“Your trinemates?” Soundwave asked, letting out an understanding hum when Thundercracker mutely nodded. 

A large part of him wanted badly to add that the tape deck was included in those he was worried about, too, but he kept his processor purposefully devoid of those thoughts, all while reminding himself, Leave him out of that! He’s already got enough to deal with without you lumping your feelings on him too! Drop it!

Thankfully, he was spared from being left to stew with his thoughts by Soundwave drawing in a vent and asking, “You’re sure they’ll agree to help?” his voice wavering at the end as he stood up from his seat.

Likewise rising to his pedes, Thundercracker flashed the tape deck what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll get them on-board no problem!”

From what little of Soundwave’s field he could sense, he could swear he felt a wave of relief sweep out from him, the mech’s visor glowing brighter (and if he retracted his facemask, Thundercracker was pretty sure he’d be returning his smile with one of his own, albeit probably a tired one).

As he watched Soundwave pass him, probably going to tell the other gestalts or Ratchet about their plot’s newest accomplices, Thundercracker was caught off guard when the tape deck abruptly stopped in his tracks, whipping back around fast enough that it seemed to startle both of them. 

“Thank you.”

Stunned, Thundercracker just stared at him, his train of thought grinding to a halt as confusion replaced anxiousness. After what felt like an eternity, he finally managed a stilted “You’re… welcome?” still unsure of what he was being thanked for. 

From the way Soundwave’s visor flared bright (almost pink) red, he could almost swear that the mech was blushing in embarrassment as he added, “For the energon. I-” Small pops of static cut off his words—a tell that he was pushing his vocalizer too far—but despite the confusion in his helm, Thundercracker was quick to put the pieces together.

“Oh! That!? That was nothing, really! It’s not worth the thanks, honestly!” he insisted, waving his servos in front of him.

Soundwave just crossed his arms and repeated more forcefully, “Thank. You.”

Both mechs held each other’s gaze for a servoful of seconds before Thundercracker finally dropped his gaze, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as he finally ceded with a small chuckle, “Okay, alright, I get it.”

At that, the tape deck seemed to straighten, as if proud of himself, and made to leave his office.

Stopping him again, though, Thundercracker couldn’t help but ask, “Wait! Where are you going?”

This time, though, when Soundwave went to answer him, a static screech ripped free of his vocalizer instead, the mech almost dropping to the floor as he pressed a servo to his intake.

Immediately, Thundercracker was across the room helping the tape deck back up while Frenzy, who up to that point had elected to remain in the ventilation shaft, hovered in front of his boss, servos fidgeting restlessly with his plating. “Whoa, whoa, easy there,” he reassured as he let Soundwave brace himself against his frame. “Are you…” Biting off his words, he was tempted to swallow them, but steeled himself and asked, “Are you alright? Do you need to see Ratchet?”

In front of them, before the tape deck could respond, Frenzy chimed in with panicked yet scolding, “See, Boss!? Even he agrees with us!”

Now it was Thundercracker’s turn to stare down at the mech practically clinging to his frame for stability—who’s field was all but screaming that this was a conversation he wanted badly to avoid—he demanded, “Your vocalizer’s been getting worse and you haven’t gone to see Ratchet?!”

More static spilled from Soundwave’s intake as the mech, presumably, tried to defend himself, but only succeeded in sending him into a coughing fit as he doubled over again, almost dragging Thundercracker down with him. “Okay! Okay! Point taken!” he cried out as he struggled to keep the tape deck upright, anxiety curling around his spark—he was out of his depth right now, and really didn’t want to go against the mech’s wishes, but Soundwave was clearly in pain and he was pretty sure that the easiest solution for it was currently wandering around the medbay wearing a bright red Autobrand.

While Frenzy was busy having what seemed to be a silent argument with the tape deck, Thundercracker reached across the bond to Skywarp. 

[I need help. Get to Soundwave’s office, now]

A second later, and confusion rippled out from his trinemate’s end as he asked (demanded), [What did you do]

[Nothing! Just get over here, now!]

[Okay, okay! Primus!] 

Moments later, and Skywarp appeared in a flash of purple light, residual arcs of energy crackling off his frame and grounding into the metal around him. “Alright, TC, what’s the big-”

Groaning internally as he sensed his trinemate stare at the scene he’d stumbled onto, Thundercracker did his best to refrain from sounding snippy as he called out, “‘Warp! Focus! I need you to-”

“Primus, TC, when I said you needed to grow thicker plating I didn’t mean you should fragging kill somebody!” Skywarp squawked, cutting him off much to Thundercracker’s annoyance. “Seriously, how the pit are we going to hide his frame!? Mechs are gonna notice if-!”

“I didn’t kill him!” he snapped, still struggling to haul Soundwave upright while Frenzy continued to have a silent face-off with his boss. “He’s just hurt! I can’t drag him to the medbay on my own, so can you please teleport us there!”

In the silence that followed, Thundercracker could feel his patience erode further and further and was about to just say ‘frag it’ and try and drag Soundwave’s frame down to the medbay himself when Skywarp finally blew out a long exvent and walked over to him. “You’d better not have killed him,” his trinemate grumbled under his vents, “or I’m going to lose my shanix and bragging rights to Starscream.”

Rolling his optics, Thundercracker muttered, “Do I even want to know what you two were betting on this time?” He had a hunch (after all, you can only mock someone for their crush for so long before mechs start to take it seriously), but honestly, he wanted to pretend his trinemates were slightly more supportive of him for a little bit longer.

Shrugging and confirming his suspicions, Skywarp gave a half-sparked, “Nah, probably not,” before placing a servo on Soundwave’s shoulder. In an instant, the world around them transformed into a maelstrom of crackling purple energy as they teleported away, leaving behind a confused and disorientated Frenzy.

__________________________________

Reappearing outside the medbay, Skywarp was quick to disengage from the two of them, shooting finger-guns at his trinemate as backed up, energy still arcing between his wings. “Weeeell, this has been fun but I’vegottabouncebye!” And with that, their trio was once more down to two.

“Soundwave?” Thundercracker quietly asked, optics checking the hallway around them for any wayward optics, “You okay to move?”

A groan of consciousness answered him, followed by the tape deck using the arm he was using to hold him up as leverage to push back onto his pedes. :: I will be alright. :: he commed Thundercracker, taking a few, staggering steps away from him while holding a servo up to ward him off helping. :: I… appreciate your… help, but I can handle myself from here. ::

Sensing he’d fragged up, Thundercracker was about to apologize for his actions in the heat of the moment, but the medbay doors were already closing shut behind him. He was about to walk in after him—and suffer any tongue-lashing from Ratchet for it—when Starscream reached out over the bond to both him and Skywarp. [Trine meeting. Get to the hab, now]

Casting one last apologetic look at the now closed doors, Thundercracker sighed and began the hike back up to his trine’s habsuite.

***

Soundwave’s cycle so far had been slag. Complete and utter slag. Not that it was truly any one mech’s fault, but just- with everything that was going on—on the surface and especially below it—it was hard not to develop a stress-helmache.

His cassettes practically strong-arming him into allowing Ratchet’s escape plan? Sure, that fell within reason. (And even if he did decide to try and stop them, what, exactly, was he supposed to do against three gestalts who all seemed irrevocably loyal to one of the most combat-experienced medics of their race?)

Them insisting he involve himself in the escape effort? Why not, he’d already committed a fair bit of treason, might as well go all in at this rate. 

Asking that he leave the Nemesis with Ratchet? At that point he was pretty sure if he’d said no, they would’ve manually activated his transformation protocols and carried him out in a sack. Besides, with how the war effort was going, it was hard for him to not give in to their, at this point, pleading, what with Laserbeak and Ravage had become increasingly protective and worried over him.

Even just then, during the incident with Thundercracker, Frenzy had taken the seeker’s side—something he’d never done before—with an air of anxiety truly atypical of the usually brash and boisterous cassette.

And, of course, there was also Thundercracker. The blue seeker was one of the few mechs that, if he sensed their processors, it put him at ease, rather than on-edge. He was surprisingly good company too, but that also came with the unfortunate downside of Soundwave trying to speak to him in a more ‘normal’ voice—often to his own detriment, though up until now it had, he assumed, gone undetected by the seeker.

If he were being honest, he truly did appreciate and enjoy Thundercracker’s presence, and the way the seeker lit up over the smallest of things always brought an odd warmth to his spark (something that had begun occurring with notably more frequency over the past few decades, he’d noticed, too). That being said, it had taken him by complete surprise when the mech had not only confided in him his own desires to leave the Nemesis, but that he would be more than willing to help get his trinemates on-board in assisting with Ratchet’s escape plan. Any help was welcomed, granted, but with so many moving pieces on the board, Soundwave couldn’t help but worry that their coordination—and, by proxy, their covertness—would suffer.

If what Thundercracker had said about his trine’s meeting with Megatron was true, though, then they really didn’t have time to be worrying about logistics.

So now here he was, vocalizer fried, helmache building, all while Ratchet ran through preliminary diagnostics.

“-ey, HEY!”

Jolting in surprise, Soundwave jerked his helm up to see a frowning Ratchet looking back down at him. Letting out a tired huff, the medic went back to holding a scanner against his intake as he said, “I said, what the pit’d you do to cause damage this bad?”

:: I was… speaking with Thundercracker. :: he admitted after a second of weighing his options. 

“You don’t exactly strike me as a ‘sit-down-and-spend-an-afternoon-chatting’ type.”

Again, Soundwave was forced to weigh waiting until his vocalizer was repaired to deliver the news against ripping the nanite patch off now. Neither seemed like a good option, but it wasn’t exactly like it would go over all that well, if Ratchet’s escape plan went off, only for him and his cassettes to show up mid-way through to announce that more frames were being added into the mix.

At his hesitance, though, the medic put the scanner away, stepping back from the medberth and crossing his arms. “What happened,” he demanded, a note of concern playing in his voice. “Did that idiot trine leader of his break his welds? I swear, if I head upstairs to find him bleeding out on the ground, I’m stripping the paint off his frame once I’m done rewelding him together and repainting him neon green.” 

Biting the proverbial bullet, Soundwave pulled up Ratchet’s commline. :: It does not have to do with Starscream, though he is a portion of the reason. ::

At that, Ratchet uncrossed his arms and planted his servos on his hips.

:: I am… aware that you intend to escape the Nemesis with our gestalts. ::

“That, I do. Got a problem?” A wrench was now clasped in one of his servos, his digits digging into it as protective fear lashed out from what little of the medic’s field wasn’t reigned in against his frame.

Slowly holding up his servos both to placate and refute the unspoken accusation, Soundwave tried to put as much emphasis into his next comm as he could. :: Neg- No. The- my cassettes do not wish to see me in harm’s way when the fallout of your plan comes to pass. They- we have agreed to join in aiding your cause. Likewise, Starscream feels indebted to you for saving his life. He and his trine will also help us. ::

Silence stretched between them as seconds turned into a minute, then Ratchet’s posture abruptly slumped, all the tension bleeding out of his frame as he gave a dry chuckle. “Oh, thank Primus. I really wasn't looking forwards to getting rid of you if you weren't on-board with this whole scheme-thing." Pausing as he let out a relieved sigh, he said almost to himself, "Well, might as well pile ‘em on at this rate, huh?”

Tilting his helm to the side, Soundwave didn’t have the time to ask what the medic meant, but got the distinct feeling he was witnessing a mech under immense pressure just rolling with the punches as Ratchet strode over to him, weary amusement sweeping out from his field. “Eh, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised,” he commented with an amused shake of his helm. “Welcome to the team, I guess.”

Presumably at the confusion in his field, he clarified, “Those cassettes of yours. Not the subtlest bunch—better than Blaster’s by a long shot, don’t get me wrong, but still noisy as hell when they think no one’s paying attention. Granted, most of the time you can’t hear them over the creaking as the ship settles into the seafloor, but when you’ve dealt with cassettes breaking into your office for the purposes of pranking for as long as I have, you develop sharp audials.”

:: You knew they were watching? ::

“More like made an educated guess,” the medic shrugged casually. “Have you noticed that they’ve been moving around in the vents a lot more than usual? I did. Wasn’t exactly hard to guess why—Primus knows it was a stretch to hope things would stay under the radar with so many mechs involved—but when that rustbucket of a leader of yours never came knocking, well... there’s only so few conclusions you can draw from that.”

Stunned silent, Soundwave just stared at Ratchet while a cacophony of shouting erupted from his cassettes over the bond. [How the frag did he know we were up there!] [‘Wave, I swear we were quiet as turbomice! There’s no way he heard us!] Rumble and Frenzy protested, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw chiming in to snipe [Well, it certainly wasn’t us he heard. Besides, you two wouldn’t know stealth if it smacked you upside the helm. He had to have heard you.] 

[It doesn’t matter who he heard or how, you birdbrains] Ravage said firmly, cutting off dissent from the other four, [All that matters is that we have him on our side now, and the medic’s going to help us get out of here, so shut up]

Sending a quiet thanks to the jaguar, Soundwave returned his focus to looking for Ratchet, who had apparently disappeared into the utility closet while his processor had been preoccupied. He hoped that it wouldn’t take too long to get his vocalizer fixed and reset—there was much to do and very little time to do it in.

Idly kicking his pedes back and forth as he waited for Ratchet to get back—and partially curious as to how Thundercracker was doing—he reached out with his processor, scanning over the thoughts of those one the Nemesis, hunting for one seeker trine in particular.

*That slageater thinks he can steal my ration out from under my nose!?* Nacelle had apparently lost a meal to a not-so-stealthy Reflector.

*I can do it! I can do it! AAAAHHHholyscrap I can’t do it!* Ion Storm lost a game of… something called ‘Chicken’? to Ramjet.

*Blitz, please, for the love of Primus, that won’t work* Astrotrain was apparently in the middle of trying to talk the triple changer down from some prank. An interesting pair those two were—and the subject of many a betting pool over whether they were romantically involved or not—but not who he was looking for.

*Primus, this is a disaster.* Ah-hah! Starscream. Now he was getting somewhere.

Power off his visor so he could better concentrate, Soundwave let his processor be pulled towards the other mechs in the room with the SIC. 

Starscream’s helm he was already familiar with: sharp and calculating, far more so than the average Decepticon—or ‘Bot—gave him credit for, but always paranoid, both for his and his trinemate’s safety (though the latter was buried so deep, it was almost imperceptible unless he went looking for it). It was also not who he wanted to hear from.

Skywarp’s helm was a storm of chaotic, hard-to-follow thoughts; flitting from one topic to the next like a hummingbird to flowers, but beneath all of it were calculations that were running at a near-constant rate—judging velocity, geographical positioning, his own energy levels, and more. Likely a skill he needed to keep honed in order to utilize his outlier to its fullest effect. An interesting and useful fact to know, but still not who he was looking for.

The third active processor in the room, the only other one he hadn’t skimmed yet, by process of elimination, had to be Thundercracker’s. Unlike his trinemates’, the blue seeker’s helm had a much quieter sort of freneticism. More like a stream of thought in constant motion than the tidal wave of activity in the processors of the other two. 

Zeroing in on Thundercracker, Soundwave tried to parse out what was being discussed between the three. 

*’Warp, c’mon even Star’s siding with me here!* They must be talking over their trine bond. 

*I know, I know, but do you see any other way we make it out of this unscathed?! Lord Megatron will want answers, and we’re going to be the only ones available to blame! I refuse to let him hurt either of you when our chance to leave for good, to be safe is right THERE!* 

Presumably, Thundercracker’s trinemates had fallen silent, though his helm was now a riot of noise and emotion—almost too much for Soundwave too handle at that. Before he could listen in any further, though, he was brought back to reality by something blunt being tapped against his forehelm.

Visor rebooting immediately as he jerked back, Soundwave stared up at a mildly amused-looking Ratchet.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said dryly, motioning for him to lie back on the medberth. “Sorry to interrupt your eavesdropping, but I need you to power down.”

Shooting him a confused look, the medic clarified, “I need to take a closer look at the circuitry of your vocalizer. Shouldn’t take more than an hour, tops.”

Testing Ratchet’s words for sincerity and finding them to ring true, Soundwave nodded slowly before sending his systems into a soft shutdown. Hopefully, this wouldn’t take long.

__________________________________

Coming out of shutdown felt like breaching the surface of a tar pit. 

All of Soundwave’s limbs felt sluggish and unresponsive, his processor slow to parse out his surroundings; though, he could make out the blurry outline of Ratchet as the medic looked over what appeared to be a datapad. Anticipation prickled in the back of his helm at the tense atmosphere he’d woken up to.

Testing out his vocalizer’s functionality, it had only just crackled to life when Ratchet was abruptly in front of him, a servo pressed against his facemask—functionally doing nothing to stop him from speaking, but startling him enough not to anyways.

For a brief instant, Soundwave’s visor locked with the medic’s panicked optics, and in that moment, dread curled around his spark. 

The alarm in Ratchet’s optics faded once it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything, though, and he finally let go of his face, stepping back and letting Soundwave right himself on the medberth before anyone said or did anything else.

Once the medic seemed to decide he was lucid enough to understand him, he said slowly, “Alright, so, before anything else, whatever you want to say or ask, do it over comms.”

Soundwave was briefly tempted to be contrarian and ask his question aloud anyways, warnings be damned, but that was more out of his own stubbornness than anything else—that, and while Ratchet might not be a ‘Con, he severely disliked being seen as vulnerable, even to his own cassettes. All that being said, though… there was something lacking in the medic’s tone that made him take his words more seriously.

:: What happened? :: he asked over comms, arms crossed. :: What did you find? What was the damage? ::

Don’t panic, don’t jump to conclusions, he reminded himself. It may simply be something that you can find someone else to fix for you, it’s just that he lacks the tools or resources to do so. 

But he’s the Autobots’ CMO. If this isn’t something he thinks he can fix…

Pulled from his anxious musings by Ratchet clearing his intake, Soundwave reoriented himself so that they were looking optic-to-visor with each other. Sighing, the medic dropped his gaze momentarily before looking him dead in the visor and saying, "Alright, first of all, quit the catastrophizing, your vocalizer isn’t slagged to the pits.”

At that, Soundwave straightened. So maybe it’s just a berthrest issue?

“Nah-ah-ah, none of that,” Ratchet snapped, wagging a digit at him. “You still put some serious stress on your vocalizer. If I were you, I’d stick to comms for at least a stellar cycle.”

Striding away from him and inspecting the datapad now back in his servo, he commented, “I did find what’s wrong with your voice, though, so I guess you could call that the silver lining if you want.”

:: And what is it? ::

Sighing, Ratchet paused, hesitance in his field. Soundwave’s apprehension only grew as the medic turned around, a somber expression on his face. “It’s a hardware issue, not a processor, or coding one. Your voice modulator wasn’t built to handle the input from your vocalizer. This should have been caught when you were younger! If someone had gotten to it soon enough, it could’ve been fixed better than what I can do now and-”

:: I could not receive treatment because of my outlier. I would have been turned over to the Institute. :: Soundwave said plainly despite the disappointment settling in his spark. It stung more that his glitch could’ve been fixed long before it’d become such a staple of his image, than that there wasn’t much Ratchet could do for it now.

“I know that! It isn’t right, though! You shouldn’t have ever been put in a position where your survival depended on an absence of medical care!” the medic raged, pacing fast enough to wear a line in the tile beneath his pedes. “The fragging Senate. Still slagging scrap up, even after they’ve all been dead for millennia,” he grumbled under his vents.

Despite his own disappointment, Soundwave was intrigued by the venom with which Ratchet spoke of the Senate. Most Autobots—in his experience—while they didn’t speak kindly of the former ruling class of Cybertron, they didn’t often speak terribly ill of it, either. Curious, he asked, :: You agree with the fall of the Senate? ::

“Puh-lease. Those functionist scumbags got what was coming to them,” Ratchet spat before pausing mid-stride and drawing in a long vent. Letting out a sigh, he turned back to Soundwave. “That doesn’t mean I agree with your faction’s methods, though. Instigating anarchy and leaving a power vacuum in place of leadership only leads to the downtrodden being further trampled in the ensuing power struggle. You can’t fight injustice with a scorched-earth policy.”

Left to mull over his words, Soundwave’s processor drifted as the medic strode back over, saying, “Now, before we got sidetracked, I was explaining the cause of your vocalizer’s glitch. Believe it or not, while I can’t fix it in full, I think there are a few things I could do to mitigate how broadly it affects your ability to speak.”

Snapping back to the present, Soundwave’s visor was locked onto Ratchet as the medic began listing some options to him, his voice fading into inaudible static as his processor kept skipping over what he’d just heard. He can still do something about it? But at what cost? What would he demand in return for such a favor!? No, no, he’s an Autobot, they do things like this all the time. But could he really do anything, or would he just frag it up further?!

[‘Wave! Hey, Soundwave! ‘Wave!] Ravage’s voice cut through his thoughts, clearing a path through the storm in his helm.

When his cassette realized he’d caught his attention, his side of the bond noticeably calmed. [The medic commed us to give us an update on your condition] the jaguar explained. [He told us he can do some work to fix your vocalizer?]

[He… yes, he believes that there is a possibility he can restore some normal functioning to it]

[That’s great! Then you could stop worrying us every time you want to have a conversation with the blue seeker]

[His name is Thundercracker] Soundwave admonished lightly, the tension coiled around his spark slipping away as he felt a snort of amusement from Ravage.

[Yeah, yeah, whatever, ‘Wave. Anyways, Rumble covered for you and went to tell the gestalts about us getting in on the plan. He forgot to mention Starscream’s trine, though. Ditz] 

Letting out a fond sigh, Soundwave reassured, [Leave him be. I can handle filling in the gaps for him just fine. Don’t worry too much about it, alright?]

[Whatever you say, ‘Wave. And say “hi” to Ratchet for me. He smells too stressed]

[Sure] he replied, zoning back in to the conversation the medic was presently having with himself over… something. In all honesty, Soundwave had more or less blocked out everything he’d said since the initial offer to repair his vocalizer to the best of his ability.

Apparently, he’d chosen a good time to pay attention, as Ratchet rounded on him, optics flashing and field hectic. “You did tell the others that you’re joining us in the escape, right?”

Nodding Soundwave almost made to answer the medic’s question aloud, before he thought better of it and switched to comms. :: Rumble has informed them of our involvement. :: 

As Ratchet nodded solemnly, a memory file of Thundercracker's conversation with him floated to the surface of his helm and he quickly commed the medic with indicators for urgency. :: Megatron believes you are up to something, as well. Given his current leadership patterns, I predict that he will act on his suspicions within the next few cycles. We need to leave before then. ::

Helm snapping around to stare at him, Ratchet’s expression of shock quickly morphed into one of grim determination, his nod much more curt this time. “Good to know, thanks.”

Nodding in affirmation, Soundwave hopped off the medberth, following after Ratchet as the medic strode away towards the medbay’s front desk. “Well, we’ll need to get everyone together so we can coordinate our movements, but that can wait until tomorrow,” the mech commented over his shoulder, rifling around in one of the drawers and eventually straightening up with what looked like several circuit dampers in servo. 

“For now, what we need is rest and fuel. Everything else can come after that,” he said as he extended the pain suppressants to Soundwave.

Confused, at first, then shaking his helm no, he tried to push the offered medicine back to Ratchet. :: I will be fine. :: he commed.

“Yeah, don’t care. Your intake’s going to feel like you swallowed lava for the next decacycle and we can’t risk any of us being compromised if we want this plan to work. I know it’s harsh, but so help me Primus I will get your cassettes to sneak these into your system while you recharge if I have to, understand?”

:: I feel fine now. ::

“Because I already gave you circuit dampers while you were out!” Ratchet said, exasperated, like a parent tired of trying to explain a simple subject to a child who wouldn’t listen. “Just… please believe me when I tell you that if you don’t take these, it will make your life like the Inferno, and if you come complaining to me about it, you’ll get no sympathy, understand?”

Hesitantly nodding his helm, Soundwave reluctantly took the medicine. He didn’t want to deplete what little supplies they had left, but then again, Ratchet’s logic was sound. They were in too deep to risk a weak link now. :: Should I organize a place for us to meet? :: he asked. Just because his vocalizer was presently fragged didn’t mean he had to sit around uselessly and wait for something to happen.

Opening his mouth, then closing it, then opening it again, Ratchet finally said, “If you can find us some place secure, I’ll gather the rest,” and placed a reassuring servo on his shoulder.

Nodding both his understanding and his thanks, Soundwave turned to leave the medbay, already reaching out to his cassettes through the bond. There was much to do, and little time to get it done in.

Chapter Text

The sound of pedesteps and water droplets falling into puddles were the only sounds to break the still silence of the Nemesis’ lower deck as Ratchet led his entourage to the cargo bay Soundwave had set their meeting-place at. It was almost at the lowest point in the Nemesis and, as such, functioned perfectly for their covert first—and likely, final—meeting. 

No other mech wanted to be punished with the duty of being forced to patrol down there, so they ran no risk of being overheard or discovered, and those who might venture down anyways would give themselves away thanks to the instability of the floor beneath their pedes. The sheer racket they were creating with all this creaking and groaning would certainly give away any untoward eavesdroppers. As long as no one managed to rub the ‘Cons collective two neural circuits together and wonder where all sixteen of the loudest mechs on the ship had wandered off to—and that was a very unlikely possibility—they would be perfectly fine. 

Acting as a sort of vanguard, the Constructicons walked ahead of him, Scrapper spearheading his gestalt with Bonecrusher, Long Haul, Mixmaster, and Scavenger fanning out to either side while Hook took up the rear, keeping pace next to Ratchet. Flanking him were Onslaught’s and Motormaster’s gestalts, the Combaticons on his right, the Stunticons on his left. Around him, he could feel the tense crackle of anxious fields brushing up against each other the closer they got to the meeting-point. 

Honestly it was a miracle that no one had spooked at the creaking of the walls and floor yet because he was fairly certain that if anyone so much as coughed, someone would get shot, and he was not about to give a practical demonstration of wound-dressing no matter how useful it would be, given what they were about to do.

“Y-y-you sure that this- that this is a good- a good idea?” Mixmaster whispered, having dropped out of formation to trail next to Ratchet, his servos fidgeting restlessly with each other. “We-we-we don’t really need- need him to get out of here, r-right?”

“We might be able to escape without Soundwave’s help, yes,” Ratchet nodded, extending a comforting field to the mech which seemed to soothe the worst of his fidgeting. “But with his help, our odds of escaping without any injuries or casualties increase exponentially.”

It looked like the chemist was about to try and argue his point some more but he abruptly cut himself off and scurried back to his place as his gestaltmates came to an abrupt halt. Glancing towards Scrapper, Ratchet was momentarily confused as to why the Constructicon had stopped, then looked past him to see that they’d finally reached the gigantic bay doors leading to the cargo bay. He’d been so caught up trying to listen for any sounds that hadn’t belonged to their group, that he’d forgotten they’d even had a destination in mind in the first place.

Sighing and striding forwards until he was even with the mech, Hook at his side and the other two gestalts closing ranks behind him, Ratchet nodded for Scrapper to open the doors.

__________________________________

The inside of the cargo bay was more-or-less what he’d expected: half-flooded from the giant puddles dotting the salt-encrusted tiles and stacked floor-to-ceiling with shipping crates that looked like they hadn’t been opened in over a millennia, it looked like a rust infection just waiting to happen. 

There was, however, an open space that had either already been there or—the more likely answer—had been cleared by Soundwave prior to them getting there near the front of the room big enough for all the gestalts to fit in comfortably. 

The tape deck himself was seated on one of the towering stacks on the far side of the clearing, his cassettes perched higher up and only identifiable by the red glint of their visors and optics. Oddly enough, two were missing, though. (Likely Frenzy and Rumble, since their visors were the largest out of Soundwave’s brood)

As he stepped into the room, the Constructicons fanning out behind him as the Stunticons and Combaticons took up position on either side of the clearing, he greeted Soundwave with a polite nod, receiving one in turn. To his left, he heard Hook mutter disdainfully, “Kiss-up,” under his vents, but elected to ignore it.

For a brief moment, the tense atmosphere they’d entered under dissipated a little, the choking anxiousness at the unknown loosening its hold on them. And then, a voice that made Ratchet want to pinch the bridge of his nose droned, “Oh look, you finally made it. Took you long enough.”

Across from Soundwave, casually pushing off the stack of crates he’d been leaning against and stepping into the faint light flickering out of the barely-functional overhelm bulbs, Starscream inspected his clawed digits, though his optics occasionally flicked up to look over Ratchet and his entourage appraisingly. “And here I thought your age had finally caught up to you and you’d gotten lost,” he said in a bored voice, though his wings relaxed incrementally.

Immediately, several mechs honked angrily behind him as the room’s collective field took a nosedive into barely restrained animosity, Hook leaning in to quietly hiss, “Ratch, what the frag’s he doing here!?” as the rest of the Constructicons bristled in his defense. To his left, if Motormaster’s (and the other Stunticons’) bared dentae and clenched fists were anything to go by, they were barrelling straight towards a fight they couldn’t afford to have this late in the game—no matter how antagonistic or deserving of it Starscream might be.

“Starscream,” Ratchet greeted pointedly, stepping out from the defensive wall the Constructicons had formed around him, shooting a quick look at Motormaster when it looked like the semi might actually charge the seeker. “To what do we owe the displeasure?”

“He thinks he can “Provide better clarity to this suicide mission than your moronic cassettes”,” Laserbeak squawked before Starscream could reply as he played a sound-clip of the seeker’s voice, gliding from the top of the crate-stack to perch on Soundwave’s shoulder. “We wouldn’t’ve let him come, but ‘Wave made us,” he commented, earning himself an admonishing look from the tape deck as he took off and flew over to where Buzzsaw was perched nearby.

Clearing his intake in annoyance, Starscream spared the cassette a scathing look as he said, “As I was trying to say, there have been some new complications, and I saw fit to deliver the news myself, given how my trine and I are key players in assisting in this little… jail-break of yours.”

“You think you’re key players?” Onslaught barked from the corner of the open space the Combaticons had claimed for themselves, “What even makes you think you’ve even been invited in!?” His challenge was backed up by shouts of agreement from his gestaltmates and surprisingly, some of the Stunticons. The only reason none of the Constructicons jumped in, Ratchet suspected, was because Scrapper was keeping them in-check.

“Because,” the seeker drawled, grinning viciously. “I-”

“Because they’re the ones who told Soundwave about Megatron catching wind of our plan,” Ratchet cut in, shooting Starscream a rebuking glare as he stepped out farther into the center of the room. The last thing he needed was for him to provoke a fight this close to their escape. 

“Starscream and his trine have agreed to help us get off this Primus forsaken ship under the condition that we bring them with us too,” he directed to the gestalts, already bracing for the inevitable backlash.

“I’d rather drink acid!” 

“No fragging way!” 

“I’d hug a sparkeater first!” 

“But it’s Starscream!”

Wildrider’s indignant, befuddled, protest managed to rise above the rest, all helms turning towards him as the race car shrunk back behind his gestaltmates, optics anxiously darting around the enclosed space. Stepping in front of him, Motormaster glared back at everyone, all of the Constructicons but Hook taking a subtle step away from the Stunticon’s leader. In the ensuing silence, though, Swindle had no qualms picking up where the race car had left off. 

“For once—and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—I’m with that nutcase,” he declared, hooking a thumb towards Wildrider while his other servo pointed accusatorily at Starscream. “I might be a shyster, but backstabbing’s in his CNA. He’ll have us waking up in the After Spark faster ‘n we can blink if we let him join this.” He punctuated his small speech by crossing his arms, his declaration seemingly taking everyone but his target aback as Starscream pantomimed yawning in boredom.

After a second of silence, Swindle seemed to notice the odd looks he was receiving, and honked indignantly. “What!? I want off this death-trap as much as the rest of you! Just because I think you’re full of slag-” he turned to glare at Ratchet- “doesn’t mean I wanna get shot in the back right after I taste freedom.”

Brawl turned towards him, clearly saying something over their bond, to which Swindle flipped him off, leading to Onslaught and Vortex both joining in on the argument—though one was clearly trying to calm things down while the other was trying to instigate a fight. It wasn’t until the jeep flipped off his gestalt leader that Blast Off finally involved himself in the fight.

Sighing as the Combaticons began squabbling over their bond, Ratchet raised his voice and carried on—not noticing the stunned look on Starscream’s face as the seeker stared at the gestalt. 

“Like I said, he has agreed to help us. Untrustworthy though he may be-” he ignored the affronted cry of “Hey!” from Starscream- “that isn’t the point right now. As it stands, we all have our reasons for leaving this ship.” His optics drifted first from the gestalts, then to the seeker, then to Soundwave (whose other cassettes had descended the crate tower to sit nearer to their boss), “and until that happens, there won’t be any backstabbing. Understand?”

As his optics roved over the three gestalts, he was unsurprised that the most nodding from the Constructicons, followed by the Combaticons (who’d wrapped up their argument far faster than Ratchet had expected), and finally the Stunticons. Breakdown and Dead End both seemed on-board while Wildrider, Drag Strip, and Motormaster all still bore angry scowls. Still, no one had attempted to actually start a fight—verbal or physical—so he counted that as a win.

“Good. Now I’m going to let Soundwave explain why we’re here.” Stepping back to stand amongst the Constructicons, Ratchet had to suppress the urge to frown and sigh when he felt a surge of pride burst out of the gestalt’s collective field—no doubt holding his choice to stand with them over the others’ helms.

The crackle of comms immediately broke up any brewing arguments, though, as all optics snapped to Soundwave. :: Megatron knows that something is afoot :: he began, stepping away from the crates and toward the center of the cargo bay. :: He will make a move against us soon, and we cannot be here when that happens :: 

The unspoken, “He’s going to do something to Ratchet,” was not lost on the gestalts, several engines revving and growling in response while murmured threats against the grey mech mingled with the background noise of water droplets falling into the puddles dotting the abandoned bay.

:: Starscream’s trine is going to ensure our safe exit to the surface by running joint interference with Frenzy and Rumble :: Soundwave continued, pacing back and forth as he gestured to the relevant parties. :: Along with that, the method of escape will be altered as well. One team will leave with Skywarp to the surface while the other exits via the Nemesis’ surface tunnel. I trust you have the explosives to take it down once you are through? ::

“Damn right we do!” Bonecrusher shouted proudly, Mixmaster and Long Haul elbowing him to keep quiet as Scrapper nodded his helm, a skeptical look settling on his face.

“What changed that makes us using his harebrained trinemate as our ticket outta here a better option than all of us goin’ out through the tunnel?” the Constructicon asked, arms crossed tightly over his chestplate as one servo’s digits drummed against his plating impatiently.

:: There will not be enough time for all parties to exit the Nemesis before Megatron catches up to us. Once the plan is put into motion we will need to move as quickly as possible before our intent is discovered. ::

“Tch. Still coulda told us we were goin’ with Plan C before we got here,” Scrapper grumbled under his vents even as he nodded in agreement.

“I thought usin’ ‘Warp was Plan E?” Scavenger whispered confusedly to Long Haul, doing a very poor job of not letting himself be overheard.

“Nah. Plan E’s the one where we fire up the Nemesis’ engines and either fly ‘er outta here, or blow ourselves to kingdom come,” the dump truck loudly whispered back.

Cutting across the conversation, Motormaster called out, “So if we’re just throwing the entire fuckin’ plan out the window, why don’t we just storm into Megatron’s hab ourselves and beat the shit outta him an’ call it good? It’d be easier than all this plannin’ an’ schemin’ bullshit.”

 Of everything Ratchet had ever heard him say, that was probably the least aggressive, and he couldn't help but be somewhat proud of the semi for it.

And because there hadn’t been enough tension yet, from the other side of the room, Blast Off’s voice mockingly called out, “Riiiiight. Because barging in guns blazing is always the smartest course of action!”

“You tryna say somethin’ ‘bout me?” Motormaster growled dangerously, whirling towards the shuttle as his gestaltmates shrank away from their bristling leader.

“Well, since you apparently need it dumbed down-”

Blast Off didn’t get the chance to finish his taunt before Motormaster charged him with a furious roar.

As panicked and angry shouts alike filled the air, the semi closing the distance between himself and the shuttle faster than seemed possible, Onslaught and Brawl were already moving to step between them while Swindle threw himself clear of the danger zone and Vortex hopped up on a nearby stack of crates to observe the ensuing fight. Bonecrusher and Long Haul, however, were moving to intercept the raging Stunticon as the other four Constructicons fell back around Ratchet.

Well, they tried to.

Hook was the first to realize he’d slipped away, but by then Ratchet was already across the hall, beelining for Motormaster. The medic’s panicked shouting barely registered to his audials as he took a brief moment to assess his situation: the semi was far beyond reasoning, now—he likely wouldn’t even recognize Megatron in his current state—and, loathe as he was to admit it, he was going to need to use force to keep him from hurting Blast Off or himself.

Ignoring the shouting of the Combaticons who’d realized what he was doing, as well as that from the other Constructicons, Ratchet took a deep vent and focused on his target.

I’ll deal with them after this, he thought to himself as he brought his left servo up to catch Motormaster’s right arm as the mech tried to swipe backwards—presumably to shove or throw him aside. Quickly anchoring his right arm over the arm he had a hold on and grabbing his own wrist, he pivoted fully behind the semi’s backplate and threw his weight to the mech’s other side, letting momentum do the rest.

Caught off-balance, and having been jerked sideways at an odd angle, Motormaster had no time to course correct before he fell forward, coming within a hair’s breadth of smashing his face into the tile floor. The only reason he didn’t was because he’d been able to get a leg and an arm under himself in time, bearing the brunt of the impact on his knees and elbow instead of his nose—though the sharp whine of pain he let out left no illusions that it hadn't hurt.

Leaning heavily against the semi’s backplate, keeping a firm grip on his wrist so that the Stunticon didn’t try anything else, Ratchet sent a quick comm to Hook as he poured his focus into making sure the cursing mech couldn’t get up until he’d calmed down. :: Get Onslaught’s crew away from him and give us space. He won’t calm down until all the Combaticons are out of his line of sight. ::

In his peripheral, he could see a sudden bustle of movement and flashes of green and purple and smiled faintly to himself. Kid’s good at following directions and taking charge, he thought in the back of his helm. It was nice to see when his influence on other mechs paid off.

Refocusing on Motormaster when the semi tried to shake him off, Ratchet maintained his grip on the semi’s wrist—he didn’t twist it and he didn’t tighten his hold, he just kept the arm where he could use it as leverage to keep the Stunticon from going on a rage-fueled rampage. As time dragged on, the slew of insults being spat at him gradually diminished until finally, the semi growled, “I’m not fuckin’ fightin’ ya anymore, so can you get the fuck off?”

That’s probably the most polite thing I’ve heard from him yet, Ratchet thought as he asked calmly, “Are you going to go after Blast Off again?” 

Normally, he’d be more tactful when trying to deescalate a fight, but what worked on Grimlock and his brothers (and pit, even Sideswipe and Sunstreaker) wouldn’t work on any of these mechs—at least, not yet, and not right now, when they were still stuck here.

There was a pause of silence, and then Motormaster growled wordlessly before finally saying, “I ain’t gonna rip his spark out, alright?” which was probably the best that Ratchet could hope for—not that he was going to give the semi a chance to go back on that, though.

Releasing the Stunticon’s arm and stepping back, Ratchet resisted the urge to cross his arms as he let Motormaster pick himself off the ground, sparing only a single moment to shoot the mechs behind him a sharp, silencing glare when he heard faint snickering. He wanted his servos free in case another incident happened and so that the mech could see what he was doing.

“Motormaster,” he said evenly when the semi wouldn’t turn around, his fists clenched at his sides. “Motormaster, I understand that you’re still angry, so would you like to step outside for a bit and come back when you feel calmer?”

Instantly, the Stunticon rounded on him, optics blazing, and behind him, Ratchet could hear several mechs shouting in panic. Then, like a punctured balloon, all the rage left Motormaster’s frame as the semi immediately deflated. He still glared daggers at the mechs behind him, but his fists were back at his sides, and his optics weren’t sparking. “I ain’t a fucking sparkling who needs a time-out,” the mech growled, an undertone of hurt to his voice.

“And this isn’t a punishment,” Ratchet clarified calmly-but-firmly, staying exactly where he was, but extending an open field to him. By the way Motormaster let his frame relax ever-so-minutely, it was clear all he really wanted was to not be treated like, well, a sparkling. “Your response to Blast Off was disproportionate, but your anger was justified. I’m just asking if you’d like it more to stay here or wait a few minutes outside to collect your thoughts.”

There was another pause, more confused than angry, and then Motormaster slowly nodded his helm, staring down at him as if stupefied that anyone would ever take his side in a dispute. “Yeah, uh… yeah, sure.”

“Anything we discuss outside of comms, I’ll fill you in on once you come back in,” Ratchet promised, walking with the Stunticon both to make him feel less like he was being kicked out, and also to make sure that if anything set him off a second time, he’d be there to intervene.

It wasn’t until Motormaster was outside, awkwardly sitting with his back against one of the cargo bay’s doors, that Ratchet turned and stormed towards Blast Off, the shuttle’s gestaltmates (those who had followed him over to the Constructicon’s side of the room, that is) quickly scrambling away from him. Likewise, only Hook and Scrapper held their ground behind him as the rest of the gestalt retreated several feet behind them.

“I don’t care how stupid someone’s plan is, you don’t critique it like that!” he spat venomously at the now cornered shuttle. “He gets told enough by everyone else on this Primus damned ship that he’s stupid and worthless, and I won’t have any of you-” he turned to address everyone else in the room- “adding to that, do you understand me?!”

“Do you understand me?” he directed at Blast Off after a short pause, fixing him with an angry stare. 

In an attempt to find some back-up, the shuttle turned to look at the Constructicons behind him for support, but, upon receiving a blasé shrug from Scrapper and a firm, unsupportive glare from Hook in turn, crossed his arms as he flared out his plating defensively. “I don’t see why that lunatic deserves to be treated all nice and Autobot-y,” he sniped back, visor flashing angrily. “He’s a fragging psycho!”

“He’s been abused his entire life!” Ratchet shouted back, sweeping an arm out to gesture at the Stunticons in the far corner of the room. “They all were! And I’d love to see you go through their lives and come out any different.” That last bit Ratchet spat out like it was poison, his gaze barely containing the fury roiling in his spark. “So yes, I do expect you to treat them with the same respect you treat Onslaught, or Soundwave, or myself with. I expect all of you to treat each other with respect.”

Having said his piece, Ratchet flushed his vents and let the slightly-fresher air of the cargo bay cycle through them, the protective anger in his chestplate quickly fading and replacing itself with a cold tiredness. “Just- If you can’t say anything kind, keep your mouth shut. Please.” he added with a weary bite as Blast Off, now staring at him like a spooked rotodeer, hesitantly nodded his helm, already trying to edge around him and back towards his gestalt.

Stepping aside, he let the shuttle scurry back over to his gestaltmates, watching him from the corner of his optic as he walked back towards the Constructicons—all of whom were split between either also glaring daggers at Blast Off, or keeping an optic on the bay doors for when Motormaster came back. Behind him, he could faintly hear a hushed conversation from the Combaticons and what sounded like Onslaught and Vortex backing up his call (though the rotary was undoubtedly doing so more to irritate his gestaltmate than support Ratchet’s decision).

Glancing over at Soundwave and Starscream, Ratchet was unsurprised to see that the tape deck seemed completely unfazed by the scuffle, deescalation, and ensuing chewing-out, but the seeker seemed completely stunned, wings held low and optics peering at him like he was trying to figure out what angle he was playing at. He was quick to school his features once he realized he was being watched, though, but Ratchet simply pretended like he hadn’t noticed. He’d already had more than enough drama for one cycle, and he had a feeling things were only going downhill from here.

When his optics finally drifted over to the remaining Stunticons, though, he was more than a little surprised at the awestruck expressions on their faces; even Dead End was looking at him with something resembling admiration. As a whole, they’d stayed completely silent through the whole ordeal, but from what little of their fields he could make out, they’d gone from panicked and stressed, to oddly contemplative.  Primus, he hated that something as minimal as asking that everyone treat each other with respect was taken was this momentous thing that no one had ever done for them before.

Probably because no one has, he reminded himself, letting out a long, tired sigh.

“So, any other developments we should be aware of?” he finally asked, determined to get this meeting somewhat back on-track.

“Well… as he said,” Starscream began haltingly, still clearly thrown by what he’d just witnessed, “Skywarp and Thundercracker are going to help his brats keep that grey-plated moron from-” the seeker abruptly broke off, optics glazing over as he froze mid gesture. Likewise, though only Ratchet and seemed to notice, off to the side Soundwave also froze, along with the rest of his cassettes.

“Should we, like, knock on his helm or somethin’?” Bonecrusher asked off to his left after a moment, seemingly directing his question both to no one and his gestalt as a whole. 

“We can’t hit him!” Scavenger cried incredulously, the arm of his scoop lifting up behind him like a startled cybercat’s tail. “He’s Starscream! He’ll have our helms made into energon glasses just for venting near him!”

“Primus, Scav, get a grip,” Hook groaned. “He’s just talking to his trine. They both are. Well, technically only he is—‘Wave’s talking to his cassettes—TC or ‘Warp’s probably relaying new info or some scrap.”

So he noticed it too, Ratchet noted, optics flicking between the frozen SIC, TIC and the medic. Good optics. 

It wasn’t all that uncommon for spark-bonded mechs to freeze up when more than one of their bond or gestalt was talking to them at the same time, but that both mechs had frozen didn’t bode well.

“Both…?” 

“Yes, both, boltbrain, look, right over there-” Hook’s retort was interrupted by a sudden flurry of movement as Soundwave suddenly staggered backwards, just barely catching himself on the stack of crates behind him. Starscream likewise unfroze just as abruptly, startling the entirety of the gestalts when he lurched forwards, optics darting wildly around the room before locking onto Ratchet’s. 

“Change of plans,” the seeker said so quickly that it almost sounded like one, incoherent word as he beelined for Ratchet. “We’re leaving. Now.” His steps were quick and purposeful as he continued, pointing at Scrapper and ordering, “Get everyone in here and barricade the doors with whatever you can. Let no one in.” There was a desperate, almost manic edge to his voice that sent a chill down Ratchet’s back strut; it was never a good sign when a mech like Starscream showed genuine concern.

Before the seeker could reach him, though, Scrapper and the other Constructicons stepped in front of him, blocking his path. They were soon joined by the Combaticons and Stunticons closing ranks on either side of him—though Blast Off was still shooting him dirty looks. 

“Watch it, Screamer,” Scrapper growled, crossing his arms. ”You don’t get to order Ratch around like that.”

“I get to when we’re about to have every mech on the Nemesis bearing down on our position!” the seeker screeched back, wings hiking up as his defensive weaponry activated with a low whine.

All the shouting seemed to have gotten Motormaster’s attention from outside, the semi running back in then pausing, a confused expression on his face—like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be getting involved in whatever fight was about to break out or not—before edging over to the rest of his gestalt. For the moment, though, Ratchet ignored him. Quickly shoving his way to the front of the group, he shot a quick ‘stand-down’ pulse through his field to Scrapper as he turned to face Starscream. 

“What do you mean, ‘we need to leave now’? What happened?” he asked, optics darting between the seeker and Soundwave, who still had a servo pressed to his helm as he leaned on the crates near him for support.

When his question went unanswered, he stepped forwards servos out preemptively—though whether that was for defense, should Starscream get aggressive, or to try and calm him, Ratchet wasn’t sure. Ignoring him, though, the seeker followed his line of sight towards Soundwave, wheeling around to stab a digit at him while shouting venomously, “This is all your fault! Your useless brats were supposed to keep an optic on the vents!”

Arching his back strut, Ravage hissed at the seeker as Laserbeak and Buzzsaw swooped off their perches to land on Soundwave’s shoulders. “Back off, Starscream,” the jaguar warned with a growl, his tail lashing behind him as he flexed his claws.

“Yeah, beat it!” Laserbeak squawked as Buzzsaw shouted, “That menace of a combiner got the drop on ‘em! They didn’t get the chance to fight back!”

“You mean to tell me our best saboteurs got taken down by a fragging CAMERA?!” Starscream shrieked back, wholly oblivious to the audience behind him.

“You mean to tell me they got past your trine?” Laserbeak jeered. “And here I thought they were the best optics-in-the-sky we had!”

Snarling wordlessly, Starscream looked almost ready to lunge at the red cassette, but before anything further could happen, both Bonecrusher and Long Haul rushed forwards to grab the apoplectic seeker. 

Immediately, he began to kick and thrash in their hold, Long Haul losing his grip at one point and having to dodge to the side to avoid an elbow to the face. Brawl and Wildrider were quick to join in to help them—the Stunticon seemingly having joined in purely to be a part of something given he barely contributed—and soon enough, there was a, frankly, absurd amount of mechs holding back a furious Starscream.

“Get your filthy servos off me, we’re all about to DIE!” the seeker screeched, blazing red optics glaring furiously at the mechs restraining him. “We need to get off this death trap NOW!”

Before anyone could say anything else, though, across from the ongoing scuffle, Soundwave finally recovered himself enough to hold up a servo to get everyone’s attention. :: Release him. Now ::

Winding around the tape deck’s pedes, Ravage bared his fangs at Starscream as the four mechs holding him back (though the seeker was no longer fighting against them) exchanged uncertain glances.

Sighing and stepping forwards, Ratchet waved them off with a curt, “Let him go, he’s not going to do anything stupid.” There was a bit of unsure grumbling, but eventually they let go, drifting back to their respective gestalts as they waited for an explanation to what had just happened. Turning to address both Starscream and Soundwave, he asked, “What happened?” 

He did his best to keep his voice even, but he had a terrible suspicion that something had gone very, very wrong. Fear and anxiety coiled tightly around Ratchet’s spark at the thought of mechs who’d trusted him to get them off this ship in one piece already being hurt, but he wouldn’t allow himself to fall apart until he could be certain everyone escaping with him was well and truly out of harm’s way.

“That fragging lunatic knows what we’re doing!” Starscream snapped, wings flicking rapidly up and down as he paced short steps back-and-forth. “He had that snoop, Reflector, spy on us!”

“How?” Ratchet asked skeptically, audials now finely tuned to every little sound around them as paranoia crept into his processor. “Soundwave would have-”

“Oh, please! He’s been too focused on making sure his precious cassettes were safe to notice!” 

“Leave ‘Wave outta this!” Buzzsaw screeched, flaring his wings angrily as Ravage growled, “None of us can see or smell for scrap down here! None of us woulda spotted them!”

“HOW!?” Starscream shrieked, throwing his servos in the air incredulously. “You’re our best spies and saboteurs! How, in Primus’ name, did you miss three of the nosiest mechs to ever exist?!” 

“It doesn’t matter who fragged up!” Ratchet shouted, cutting both parties off abruptly. He spoke quickly while Starscream and the cassettes stared at him dumbfounded, unwilling to waste any more of what precious time they still had left. “What matters now is what we do about it!”

“Don’t you get it?” Starscream asked with a dark, defeated chuckle, having recovered himself first, “We’re already out of time!”

“Can it, Screamer,” Scrapper snarled, stepping forwards as his engine growled threateningly. “You want out of here just as bad as we do, so get it together and tell us what happened.”

:: Reflector’s components saw us coming down here :: Soundwave interjected stepping between Starscream and his cassettes, shooting both looks that Ratchet could only describe as ‘focus-on-what-matters-right-now’. :: They were afraid of being discovered and so do not know what we discussed, but it will not be long before Megatron sends his forces down to intercept us ::

“So we fight then!” Bonecrusher piped up, followed by murmurs of assent from the mechs around him. “‘Warp’ll take Ratch an’ anyone else he needs to to the surface, an’ the rest of us’ll brute-force our way to the tunnel!”

“Absolutely not!” Ratchet shouted, turning to glare at the bulldozer. “I will not let you imbeciles throw your lives away on a suicide mission like that!” Turning back to Soundwave, he asked quickly, “Are there any other ways to make it to the surface tunnel? Any way we can divert their attention long enough to use it?”

:: …Yes :: the tape deck nodded, his field hectic but dawning with realization as he followed Ratchet’s train of thought. :: Unused maintenance tunnels branch from here to every part of the ship. They have not been used since our crash-landing, but most are operational ::

“And how can you be sure of that?” Onslaught asked, skepticism heavy in his voice. 

“Because we use them all the time, duh,” Laserbeak scoffed, Buzzsaw nodding next to him. “How do you think we get everywhere so fast?”

“Alright, enough,” Ratchet said curtly, nipping the brewing argument in the bud. “Send Scrapper and Onslaught the schematics to the tunnels,” he ordered Soundwave, processor moving rapidly through new plans almost faster than he could keep up with, “Starscream-” turning towards the still-stunned seeker, he snapped his digits impatiently- “Starscream, focus, where are your trinemates right now?”

It took the seeker a second to compose himself, but after a moment, he shrugged and frustratingly said, “They’ll be here soon enough.”

Keeping the less-than-polite retorts to himself, Ratchet said more pointedly, “That’s not what I asked.”

“Like I said. They’ll be here soon. enough.” 

Patience reaching its limit, Ratchet was about to snap back when a strut-rattling BOOM shook the Nemesis, followed shortly by a purple flash of light that heralded Skywarp as he teleported into the room with Thundercracker, Rumble, and Frenzy in tow. 

All three tumbled onto the ground in an uncoordinated heap as the purple seeker staggered off to the side, seeming very unsteady on his pedes. “Time’s up!” Skywarp gasped through panting vents as he braced a servo against the wall of crates next to him, anticipation and panic crackling off his field like the arcs of purple energy jumping between his wings.

Acting as if he hadn’t just been acting like a madmech, Starscream lazily said, “See? I told you.”

Several of the mechs around him grumbled dangerously, but thankfully kept it to themselves as Ratchet grit out, “Not. Now.” 

Turning back to Skywarp, who seemed to have recovered somewhat and was now looking confusedly at the gestalts around him, he asked, “Who can you take with you first?” 

The purple seeker stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then understanding dawned and he awkwardly said, “I mean, anyone? I guess? Might take me longer with them, though-” he pointed at the Constructicons- “S’a lot harder taking six mechs than five. Pit, getting them down here was a helmache and-a-half,” he chuckled anxiously, nodding his helm to where Thundercracker was helping Rumble off the ground. Soundwave was already there next to him, collecting a battered Frenzy into his arms as Ravage and the birds guarded his exposed back.

Sparing Starscream another sharp look Ratchet took a second to quell the urge to sigh heavily, then clapped his servos together to get everyone’s attention. Turning to the Stunticons, he said quickly, “Motormaster, your gestalt will go with Skywarp to the surface first. Once you’re up there, have Wildrider and Drag Strip head for the coordinates I’m about to send you and inform whoever’s there that we need back up immediately. Answer any questions they ask, but get them to our location ASAP.”

“You want us goin’ to the ‘Bots for help!?” the semi blustered indignantly, bristling even as he accepted the data packet Ratchet sent his way. “Ain’t no fucking way we’re doin’ that! We can take Megs without begging for help like-”

“No you can’t!” Ratchet shouted, cutting off the Stunticon, a desperate, almost pleading edge bleeding into his voice. “You can’t. None of you can, and even if you could, I’m not putting you in harm’s way like that, so you will send Wildrider and Drag Strip to the Ark and you will bring. in. backup!”

That seemed to mollify Motormaster (and everyone else in the room, though some hid it better than others), and the semi nodded his helm despite muttering something inaudible and annoyed-sounding under his vents. The rest of his gestalt, though, was looking at Ratchet with expressions of awe that broke his spark to see. He was doing the bare minimum to get them out of their slagged situation, and even then he was doing a slagged job of that. 

Pushing the deprecating thoughts from his processor, he pointed towards Skywarp and said, “Good. Now go, quickly.” 

Turning towards Scrapper—not bothering to wait and see if the semi would follow his orders or not—he asked, “How quickly can you and your gestaltmates set up a barricade? It doesn’t need to be good, it just has to hold long enough for us to escape though the service tunnels.” Somewhere behind him, a purple flash lit up the room, accompanied by a sharp crack of energy.

Scrapper stared back at him dumbfounded for a moment before quickly recovering from his confusion as he rolled out his shoulder cabling. “Oh, I think we can do better than ‘just long enough’,” he said confidently, the rest of his gestalt nodding their assent, an excited glint in their optics.

Nodding his helm, Ratchet watched with only mild concern as the Constructicons moved towards the cargo bay’s entrance, Hook and Scrapper locked in silent argument as the other four broke off into groups of two as they divided up tasks. 

A part of Ratchet was worried just what he’d just unleashed, but then again, it had probably been a while—his door notwithstanding—since they’d gotten to build something appropriate to their skill level. At least, at minimum, it could serve as a means to calm their nerves, he hoped.

Turning to leave them to their work, he was startled by the sudden appearance of Onslaught in front of him. He didn’t even have time to say anything before the Combaticon cut him off with a curt, “Vortex and Blast Off will keep an optic on the vents. No one that we don’t want getting in here’s going to without getting shot.” He punctuated his words with a sharp glance at the aforementioned mechs, both snapping to attention and nodding curtly—though Vortex’s visor flashed in a way that made Ratchet truly hope no one tried to get past the rotary. 

Nodding his agreement, he was quick to catch Onslaught by the arm when the Combaticon turned to go. “When Skywarp gets back, your gestalt is going with him,” he instructed firmly, optics locked onto the gestalt leader’s visor. “You will rendezvous with the Stunticons and whatever Autobots they’ve brought back with them and myself and the rest will meet you there.”

The Combaticon stared at him like he’d grown a second helm, then shook his helm, arguing, “No, you fixed our coding, our helms. We aren’t letting you out of that debt that easy!”

“This isn’t about debt!” Ratchet whisper-shouted back, both entirely fed up with the fact that almost no one seemed to believe anyone could ever act altruistically and tired of watching the mechs he tried to protect insist upon throwing themselves into dangerous situations just for his sake. 

Gripping Onslaught’s arm tighter when the mech looked like he wasn’t listening, he said in a slow, firm voice, “I did what any good mech would’ve done after seeing your situation. No debts, no strings, just plain old-fashioned kindness. I helped your gestalt because I took an oath to help injured mechs, no matter who they were, and if you want to repay that ‘debt’, then you’ll do it by not trying to sacrifice your lives thinking it’ll make me happy, or ‘even our score’ because it won’t, and that won’t because there was never a score in the first place. Understand?” 

It took Onslaught what seemed to be several seconds for his processor to catch up with what he’d just heard, but soon enough he gave a shallow nod, at which point Ratchet released him to go back to his gestalt. He could almost swear he felt thin tendrils of respect and admiration creeping out from the mech’s tightly reigned-in field. “When Skywarp gets back, I want all of you going with him to the surface!” he called to the retreating Combaticon, smiling slightly when he saw Brawl give him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. He was a good kid. Could do with learning to solve more things with words than fists, but a good kid all the same.

As he began to turn back to supervise whatever barricades the Constructicons were building, he felt a presence behind him and turned only to almost run face-first into Soundwave, the tape deck accompanied by an anxious-looking Thundercracker trailing a few feet behind him.

“… Need something?” he asked, confused. Weren’t they supposed to go with Skywarp? Shouldn’t they be preparing for that?

“Soundwave, he, uh- Well, I mean, we all discussed it and-” Thundercracker started, servos gesturing aimlessly as he spoke before cutting himself off by taking a long invent and starting over. “We’re going to stay with you and the Constructicons. Me, Star, and Soundwave, that is.”

Staring between the two as the tape deck nodded his helm, Ratchet blinked once, then twice, then asked incredulously, “What do you mean you’re staying!? The entire point was to get you out so that there would be as few mechs left to get caught in the crossfire! Pit, the only reason they’re staying behind with me-” he jerked a thumb towards the Constructicons- “is because they’d rather offline than let me deal with your scrapheap of a leader!”

“Well, uh… The thing is-” :: Megatron will be less likely to aim to kill if I am with you :: Soundwave supplied, relieving Thundercracker of the duty of negotiating with him. :: With Starscream and Thundercracker’s support, we will also stand a better chance at escape through the surface tunnel. Thundercracker is the fastest of the seekers and Starscream the most maneuverable. Together, they will be able to provide cover that the Constructicons cannot :: From the corner of his optic, Ratchet noticed the blue seeker’s wings hike up slightly at the complement.

“And what about your cassettes?” he retorted, arms crossed. “I saw how Frenzy looked when Skywarp brought him in, don’t think I’ll let you bring him anywhere until I’ve checked him over.”

:: Frenzy suffered minor injuries to Reflector, yes :: Soundwave acknowledged, but refused to back down. :: Since Thundercracker is the most armored of the Command Trine, they will go with him ::

“You trust him with their lives?” 

Soundwave nodded solemnly. :: Should things take a turn for the worse, he will get them to safety ::

The certainty in the tape deck’s tone, paired with his memory banks quickly pulling up everything he could remember having heard or seen regarding the two their relationship to one another, quickly painted whatever lay between them in a much different light than what Ratchet had initially interpreted. Glancing towards Thundercracker, the seeker’s expression equally serious, he let out a tired sigh. “I suppose that neither of you are going to take ‘no’ for an answer, are you?” When they shook their helms in unison, he sighed again and shook his helm half in defeat, and half in tired amusement. “Well, just promise you won’t do anything stupid, alright?”

That got him a warm teek from Soundwave’s field, while Thundercracker cracked a weary smile. “We’re ‘Cons, it’s what we’re known for,” the seeker joked, even as he and the tape deck turned to head back towards where Starscream sat next to Rumble and Ravage. Above them, the birds were circling the cargo bay’s ceiling, looking for anyone trying to get in through the vents.

As he watched the two leave, Soundwave clearly sending Thundercracker something lightsparked-yet-scolding for his joke, he couldn’t help but notice the way the two seemed to instinctively drift towards each other as they walked. Smiling to himself, he turned to leave them be; whatever they had going on between each other, he hoped it turned out well for both of them. 

Walking over to where Scrapper was overseeing what looked to be the last welds in an admittedly very fortified-looking barricade, Ratchet was about to call out to the Constructicon when an explosion on the other side of the cargo bay’s doors shook the room, almost throwing him to the ground. In a sparkpulse, he was surrounded by the Constructicons, someone—probably Scrapper or Hook judging by the voice—distantly shouting something as his audials rang.

Pushing his way to his pedes and waving off the worried, anxious servos offering help, he reoriented himself just as Skywarp teleported back into the room, his plating askew.

“If you’re planning on sending anyone else up, I’d do it now,” he warned, optics darting towards the barricaded doors, the arcs of energy crackling over his plating jumping off his frame and letting off small pops as they connected with the salty air. “We heard that explosion from all the way up there,” he indicated with a thumb towards the ceiling. Behind him, Starscream, Thundercracker, and Soundwave were already hurrying over. Ravage ran beside him, but the tape deck’s other cassettes were nowhere to be seen.

Nodding quickly, Ratchet motioned for the Combaticons to go with him before straightening and turning to address the remaining mechs in the room as the seeker and gestalt disappeared in a brilliant flash of purple. “Alright, here’s the new new plan: we use the barricade as a diversion while we take the maintenance tunnels to the surface tunnel, use it to get off this Primus forsaken ship while Starscream and Thundercracker make sure no one attacks us inside it, and rendezvous with Onslaught, Motormaster, and whatever Autobot back up they manage to scrounge up.”

“You don’t think the ‘Bots are gonna show?” Long Haul asked skeptically, wincing as another, smaller explosion shook the cargo bay, sending a small deluge of water cascading through the leaks in the ceiling.

“We have to assume we’ll have zero support from them,” Ratchet said curtly as the other three mechs caught up to them. “For all they know, I’m already dead, and this is just some ploy to stage an ambush. We have to be prepared to fight with only the numbers that we have.”

Scrapper and Hook both nodded in unison as a flurry of “Got it, boss,”es sounded from the rest of the gestalt.

Taking a deep vent as all optics turned towards him, he took a moment to push down all the spiralling thoughts of the worst possible outcomes of their, frankly, harebrained plan. He couldn’t afford to panic just yet. Not when so many lives depended on him keeping a cool helm. Raising his voice above the BANG of another impact against the barricade he half-shouted, “We all understand the plan, yes!?”

When all the mechs around him nodded, he let out a quick vent, then clapped his servos together. “Alright then. Let’s get to work.”