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.