Chances of Survival

by accursedelf

Summary:

Since Luna-1, no one knows what to do about Pharma. The rogue doctor awaits his pending fate in a makeshift cell on the Lost Light, with his wings bound and alt-mode restricted. After the apocalyptic events of Dark Cybertron, Pharma doesn’t expect he’ll survive to trial. Even Megatron’s fate has been put on hold until Prime and the Autobots salvage some kind of legal system. In the interim, the Lost Light remains grounded. Injured and infirm bots overrun the med bay team. Since Rodimus won’t depart Cybertron until their ship, crew, and allies are up and running, Ratchet suggests they put their captive surgeon to work. First Aid is less than pleased.

For his part, Pharma never thought he’d join a quest. He knows he won’t last long once his past–and the D.J.D.–catches up with him. It’s only a matter of time.

Notes:

Reading MTMTE for the first time with 2 dearest friends, I have been infected with favorite character syndrome. (Currently on #28!) This fic explores Pharma’s arc if he survived Luna-1 and joined the Lost Light after Dark Cybertron. With Megatron’s predicament post-DC V2, I thought it’d be fun to throw Pharma in a similar situation! This story mostly follows main events, with some canon divergence.

Please note: this story contains mature themes. Not everything may be tagged. I won’t list warnings every chapter, but this one gets a bit rough. We've got...(checks notes) panic attacks, paranoia, suicidal behavior, goading, fixation, medical sedation and combat.

Note 2: Don't use my writing to train gen-AI or any artificial intelligence models.

Chapter title is from "cut hands" by Deftones (their newest album is lovely, highly recommend!)

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: I see you clamor at a dead vine, there's no one online

“No. No. Absolutely not! Have you finally fried your logic circuits?”

 

“First Aid...”

 

“Because it would be understandable, really, after avoiding the literal collapse of our universe! We’ve been working nonstop. I’m still coming to terms with it, too. But you want me to let you, let him, into our med bay?!”

 

“It’s not a matter of want.” Ratchet rattles off a sigh. “Listen, kid—”

 

“No! You didn’t work under him for four million years on Messatine. The things I—” There’s a pause. Static from a vocalizer being reset. First Aid flounders. “I’m sorry, Ratchet, forgive the insubordination. I just mean to say...you don’t know him, or what else he’s capable of. None of us do.”

 

“These are the tough calls you’ll have to make as CMO, one day. Consider this a test. Rodimus won’t leave Cybertron until everyone’s accounted for. Everyone. We need all the help we can get.”

 

“So tell Rodimus to send out a broadcast for aid! Or—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—get Megatron up to speed with the basics. He has nothing better to do, and at least he wanted to be a medic.”

 

“Are you—no. That’s not going to happen. We need another surgeon. I’m not suggesting we set Pharma loose. There’s steps to this.” 

 

“Have you forgotten what that monster unleashed at Delphi? All the patients he killed? Ambulon? What he did to y—”

 

“That’s enough. First Aid, you’ve done good work running this pit in my place today. Take the rest of this shift off. I’ll comm you if anything comes up.”

 

“But Ratchet—”

 

“Go. Get the rest while you can, kid.”

 

---

 

Rust rains down from a long gouge in the cargo bay ceiling. It flakes away like energon from a dried wound as each step of the Autobots’ CMO-in-training shakes the corridor above, echoing with unspoken insult. 

 

Trouble in paradise?

 

Pharma sinks back against his cell wall. Though insulation muffles the medics’ conversation, he can already picture the face Ratchet makes as First Aid storms off. Pharma had often been on the receiving end of that look, in their Deltaran days. Ratchet would pinch the bridge of his nasal ridge and count down until he was ready to cycle on his optics, then stare toward the ceiling like a plea to the universe—funny, coming from an atheist. Ratchet always had a comment for everything. The fool cared too much for his own good; but he always ensured the job got done, no matter how difficult the crew. And that, damn him, Pharma still admires. 

 

Heh. Funny which details stick with you about old friends. And what mysteries remain, even after you've seen their insides. 

 

Did anything about him stay with Ratchet? Besides the new appendages, that is. The Autobot CMO’s words on Delphi echo back to Pharma; and sometimes, he plays them back from his memory banks to fill silence. 

 

“You died a long time ago...”  Except he hadn’t, had he? Messatine had warped Pharma, or unleashed something over the millennia his colleagues never noticed until its disease crossed their threshold. Now his secrets lie strewn out in the open, a feast of fresh viscera rotting for any encroaching carrion-feeders. Pharma shudders. He won’t think about it. He won’t.

 

In the long cycles that pass, Pharma wonders how recent many lives Ratchet has saved with his hands. They flash red in his memory, where his old friend already painted them over. He flexes his new digits as much as the restraints allow, feeling the twinge of what's missing.

 

Shifting, Pharma grunts at the tension in his bound wings. He resists the urge to stand and deepen the marks in the floor where he circles his four-by-four pace cell, twelve times a cycle. There’s no way to sit, stand, or lie down without bending his wings in a direction they’re not meant to go. Adventure novels always spoke about bound limbs going numb in captivity, but his pain hasn’t ceased. Instead, it jolts him in concentrated bursts when he moves. The surgeon knows exactly what’s happening to his body: cut circulation. Eventual nerve damage. Atrophy. Deformation. Loss of function.

 

He cycles out a sigh of his own. One trait Ratchet never harbored was cruelty, neglecting a suffering bot. Maybe Pharma’s old buddy is avoiding him. Maybe he’s just busy. End of the universe, and all that. Pharma actually resents missing the big event; he’d kill for the chance to witness something so grand as Shockwave collapsing and consolidating spacetime, and learn how he managed it. 

 

Hell, at this point Pharma would kill for a trash novel and a half-decent cube of high grade. Anything to alleviate the monotony. He picked up traces of Shockwave’s spectacle from secondhand conversations and bots bustling about. But in the chaos, a guard had isolated and locked him down with the cargo for transport to Cybertron. They’d kept him out of the action to prevent his escape. Not that he had anywhere to go. Everyone Pharma knew was dead and rusting in a scrap heap, or wanted him there among the body count. 

 

Where could he run to, really? The ruins of his nonexistent habsuite in Vos, or Iacon? The empty portal on Luna-1? The D.J.D.? Oh, that would be a laugh. These soft-sparked Autobots wouldn’t send him back. Surely. 

 

Pharma doesn’t care for the way that thought burrows into his circuits and gnaws at him. Or the tune he sometimes hears stirring in the silence. Every large pede-fall sounds like him. 

 

At every top of the hour, the ship’s quantum engines churn during repairs. Trn. Trn. Trn.

 

To focus himself, Pharma spends any chance he can eavesdropping on the Lost Light crew. He memorizes the face of each bot who enters the cargo bay. He compiles physical and psychological profiles on them, pondering why they joined the Lost Light’s merry band. The ship had weathered quite a bit of damage. Pharma often considers which crew members he’d take apart first… if he ever slipped his bonds. 

 

Every few cycles, Ultra Magnus of all bots usually brings him energon rations. Tyrest’s former enforcer never says anything. Magnus watches the captive surgeon at all times, but never makes any sign of acknowledgement. And not for Pharma’s lack of trying. Jokes, threats, insults, idle conversation, questions, even feigned pleas and apologies--nothing earns him so much as a proper glare! It’s maddening. 

 

There was one guard Pharma almost took a liking to: the chatty, unstable ex-Wrecker with marks of empurata. Pharma suspects someone sent that one down to torment him . Perhaps to remind Pharma what his actions could have cost him several million years earlier. That Swords Enthusiast—Drift?—had already taken his hands. Why not go for his head? Pharma was losing it anyway! Hah. Well, that joke escalated from one thing to another; and their little chat ended with the Wrecker nearly dicing him through the bars of his cell. Pharma hasn’t seen Whirl since. Pity.

 

“The least you could do is shoot me,” Pharma calls out into the empty space. 

 

Only stacks of crates and debris linger around to listen. A cracked light above him flickers on, then off.

 

“The monster rotting in your basement? The Butcher of Delphi? Murderer of Ambulon and a few dozen incapacitated patients? Hello ? Anyone? ”

 

As usual, no luck. Pharma strains to stare into the darkness. The persistent thoughts merge and multiply and mutate until they’re clawing at the confines in his helm. What if the crew kept him bound indefinitely? What if they forgot him down here? What was he supposed to do then? 

 

A cackling laugh bounces off the walls of the cargo hold. Was that his? When the D.J.D. inevitably caught up and located Pharma, what part of him would their leader take apart first? Pharma sent off the last of Delphi’s T-cog supply with a bang. He didn’t need wings to operate. Didn’t need optics, either, for the single procedure he’d performed hundreds of times. 

 

He’ll never practice medicine again. Never research. Never innovate. There is one thing the D.J.D. will keep him alive for—

 

Pharma’s processor runs fast and hot enough to melt ore. Suddenly he’s back on his pedes and prowling the circuit of his cell like a caged cyberrat; twitching wings and fingers he can’t twitch, darting wide optics about, tuning his audials to every little shift in the air. His ex-vents run shallow. 

 

You’re overheating, he thinks. I’m overheating. Hyperventilating. Tunneled vision. Telltale signs of a panic attack. Funny! So that’s what they’re like—

 

When the doors swoosh open to the cargo hold, Pharma jolts out of his plates and crashes into the far wall. The pain sends a white-hot shock to his system.

 

It’s not the leader of the DJD leering down at him, but the Autobot CMO.

 

“Finally stopping by for a visit?” Pharma manages. “Oh, Ratchet, I’m touched. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me!” 

 

For a beat, Ratchet says nothing. Pharma frowns. That isn’t like his old buddy at all. Then his optics flare, and Ratchet jerks his chin to the side. “Get up.” 

 

Pharma shuffles forward. He leans into the bars, and grins. Dim light filters in from the open bay doors, and a streak of cold blue light bisects Pharma’s face like an incision, painting the other half in shadow. “So it’s the cold shoulder now? I suppose that’s understandable, given the circumstances. But really, Ratchet, you aren’t even a little curious—”

 

Suddenly the door to his cell clicks and swings open, and gravity drags the doctor faceplate-first to the floor. He impacts the metal with a clank and a bitten-off curse. The world around him reels. After countless cycles of isolation and a quarter-full tank, the pain in his wings and wrists is enough to silence him. Then a very familiar hand grabs the back of his neck and hauls Pharma to his feet before he can even laugh at the irony. My own hands dealing me justice. A cackle bubbles up in his throat, choked tight by the building sense he’s about to meet his maker.

 

If Primus exists, at least the sadistic slagger sent him Ratchet. 

 

“I’m going to explain this once,” Ratchet starts. “And you’re going to listen.”

 

Pharma lifts his chin. He startles at the proximity of their faceplates. How many times had he envisioned this? No, perhaps not like this, with Ratchet’s optics hard as the ice crust over a shadowed asteroid. “Well?” he croaks. “I’m listening.”

 

Ratchet’s—his own—fingers dig into his jaw. “You’re going to trial for your actions at Delphi and Luna-1. You are going to stand, walk with me out of here, and go through the process with the dignity of a medical professional,” Ratchet explains. “And don’t get any funny ideas.”

 

There’s something off with his old friend’s words, festering under the cold-cut professionalism. Trial? His processor spins. What trial? Tyrest had escaped to Cyberutopia. Their planet’s infrastructure lay in ruins. Optimus Prime rescinded his title to become Orion Pax, the last Pharma heard. There wasn’t a Prime, period! They were all guilty, all of them, soaked to the helm in spilled Energon. Who was left to pass any judgment on him but the dead?

 

That tune whispers through his audios again. Shadows of stacked crates shift in the darkness. The top of the hour strikes, signaling repairs, and every shuddering churn of the Lost Light’s engines chants his name. 

 

Tarn. Tarn. Tarn.

 

“No.” Pharma jerks and flounders in Ratchet’s grip, “No. ”

 

Ratchet scrambles to keep a hold on him. “Pharma, calm down—”

 

“Get away from me.”

 

Pharma throws his weight sideways, willing the top-heavy imbalance of his bound wings to bowl them both over. No luck. Ratchet growls and staggers, but catches him with both hands. “Pharma!”

 

The jet-former snarls, rears back, and slams his helm into Ratchet’s with all the strength he can muster. Ratchet releases him. Pharma’s plates spark and hiss with the surge of desperate energy he redirects into the hit, agony tearing through his wings as he throws himself shoulder-first into the CMO. This time, they both go down. 

 

The fight is more of a wriggling struggle, ugly and graceless. All thrown elbows and knee-jabs Pharma definitely hasn’t practiced in an age—and at one point, he bites. Pharma knows he is weak, injured, and quite possibly clinically mad. But he won’t let them drag him to Messatine. He won’t be another bleeding Decepticon’s pet doctor. If the lives on his hands and friendly little vivisection session haven’t convinced Ratchet to kill him personally, Pharma will give his old buddy incentive! Or one of those trigger-happy friends watching through the security feed. 

 

“Come on, do it,” he hisses, venting hard. The words flow freely, and he hardly registers them. Pharma pushes past dignity now, clambering over the medic pinned under him to purr into his audial. “Don’t disappoint me, Ratchet. You’ve got the use of a superior doctor’s hands now. I nearly killed you and your friends twice over! I still think about finally sinking my new fingers into your circuitry, too. How you sang for me.” He flicks his glossa over his fangs, savoring one last time the way Ratchet shudders. “That was a neat little trick you pulled with the gun, after Ambulon. You wanna show me again?”

 

Things halt abruptly when Ratchet slugs him in the jaw. Stars explode across his vision before everything shorts out. When Pharma comes to a few moments later, he’s on his back. Ratchet straddles his waist, grips his helm, and jams a weapon under his chin. Sparks gush from their dented armor. Energon trickles down the CMO’s lip plates and a bite wound in his neck cabling. Damn. What a final sight. Ratchet looks just as fierce as he was on Messatine, liquefying into rust under Pharma’s virus. Bright as the piercing burst of his spark. 

 

Through a cocktail of pain, exhaustion, panic, despair, and a thousand other emotions Pharma never wants to sort through, he cycles out hot hair. “Not bad, you old crankshaft. Are you finally ready to finish the job?” 

 

“You arrogant, slag-sucking tailpipe. What are you on about now?” Ratchet snaps. “You realize you just made all this ten times harder for yourself?”

 

“I’m saving myself. If anyone’s going to rend and strip me for spare parts, it has to be you,” Pharma growls. He lunges closer to Ratchet’s blaster, pressing his face to the barrel like he’s pleading penance. His spark pounds. The width of his grin strains his faceplates, flaring into his optics. 

 

“What?!” 

 

“Only you, Ratchet. Call it poetic justice.” Pharma seizes the barrel between his forearms. He dares to pull himself up and meet those defiant optics one last time. His helm crest clanks into Ratchet’s. “Don’t make me beg you for oblivion.” 

 

A crimson palm covers his faceplates. Ratchet shoves Pharma back against the floor. While Pharma can’t see his old colleague’s expression, pure, undistilled disgust drips from his tone. “Pharma, now you’re just embarrassing yourself. Am I going to have to sedate you?” 

 

Panic seizes the med-jet all over again, a supernova detonating inside his spark. Pharma scrambles at the hand over his face, the weapon, clawing toward part of his former friend that still bleeds mercy. “Don’t you dare, Ratchet. Don’t send me back! He’s going to–...”

 

A needle pierces his main fuel line, flooding his system with sedative. No. No, no, no, no.

 

The rogue doctor thrashes and curses and fights any way he can. He struggles until his traitorous limbs fall away from Ratchet’s. His own former hands hold him down. After a few wheezing cycles, Pharma slumps back. He watches the sharp mosaic of Ratchet’s faceplate shatter and bleed into a red-white-magenta splatter. Ice pours through his system, dragging him down.

 

He hallucinates his old friend leans over and clutches his shoulder. There’s no regret, but maybe some kind of disappointment in Ratchet's words. That voice goes so, so quiet. “For what it’s worth, Pharma, just for this — I’m sorry.”

 

“No,” Pharma rasps to that beautiful bloody delusion, to no one. “You’re not.”

 

…

 

“Uh…wow,” Rodimus says. He leans back from the security feed, running a hand over his helm. 

 

“That’s it?” Ratchet throws their young commander a quizzical look. “You usually have more to say about…well, everything.”

 

“You should have called for backup,” Ultra Magnus intones. 

 

“If Pharma’s going to work in the med bay, he’s my responsibility,” Ratchet says. “…unfortunately. I’ll be the one to handle him.” 

 

“That is still under consideration. I don’t see evidence a war criminal is stable in any capacity to treat our injured. Given Pharma’s personal history with two of our crew, Optimus Prime is the best equipped to decide.” Ultra Magnus straightens, facing their commander. “Rodimus?”

 

The Lost Light’s leader looks ready to march down to Swerve’s and empty everything in reserve they have. Hells, Ratchet wants to join him. He’ll even buy. Pharma is only one line on the ever-growing list of problems they face before resuming their quest for the Knights of Cybertron; injured comrades, low supplies, damaged quantum engines... There are only so many problems they can turn into solutions. 

 

Finally Rodimus states, “I think I’ve seen enough.” 

 

“I haven’t,” Whirl chimes in. “That was practically foreplay. How d’you know that guy again, Doc?”

 

Three sets of optics swivel toward the blue bot lurking in the open door frame. A thick silence passes. Ratchet briefly considers sublimating into fumes.

 

“What? Things have been downright dull around here without the universe ending. I say keep him, cuff him, and put him to work.” Whirl gestures over his shoulder. “Or toss him out the airlock so we can leave."

 

“You wanted to kill him three cycles ago,” Rodimus deadpans.

 

“Still do. You say the word, and it’s done. But you have to admit, it’s kinda interesting we’ve finally got someone on board more cranked in the case than me,” Whirl muses.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol with Cyclonus?” Ratchet asks.

 

“He is,” rumbles Ultra Magnus. “Get to it, soldier.”

 

Whirl turns that big yellow optic on him and shrugs. He bids them a lazy wave and salute before sauntering out of the security room.  

 

“Returning to the matter at hand,” Magnus continues, “This ‘trial’...We don’t exactly have a functional legal system at present. And Megatron just joined the Autobots.” He paces back and forth in the small space, pauldrons casting harsh shadows over the monitor feed. “If we try to handle Pharma ourselves, that’s crossing more lines than I have time to list this shift.”

 

“So get Prime to clear Pharma for a psych eval, then expedite him to community service until trial,” Ratchet reasons. “I provoked him, he provoked me. That won’t happen again.”

 

Magnus pins the CMO with a stare. “Even without considering every glaring flaw in that plan, why didn’t you sedate Pharma in the first place, before trying to move cells? He’s only demonstrated he’s a threat to himself and others.”

 

Gesturing back at the video feed, Ratchet huffs. “We’re the ones deciding his fate. A bot should be conscious for that. Prime’s got enough on his plate, with Megatron, and Starscream , and….hey, don’t give me that look. First Aid’s my only backup, and he looks ready to collapse every cycle we start shift. I wouldn't argue for this scrap if things weren’t dire.”

 

Ultra Magnus regards Rodimus once more. “I’ll defer to you, sir. You’ve heard my thoughts. What’s your verdict?”

 

Rodimus runs a thumb over his chin plating absentmindedly, worrying at a scratch in the pristine red-and-yellow finish he still hasn’t tended to. Dire, indeed. “Optimus does have enough to deal with here. I don’t want Pharma fleeing across Cybertron the moment we leave, or some overworked guard shuts their optics.” He turns around, leaning against the console. “But if we keep him, I want everyone on board to have a final say. We’ll still proceed with a proper trial and ceremony. Ah…once we work out the legal details.”

 

Ratchet folds his arms over his chest, cocking one optic ridge. “I’m sensing a second ‘but.’”

 

“Pharma’s dangerous, even if he’s...given up. We need a third--fourth?--opinion when I take this to Optimus.”

 

Ratchet nods. “I’ll comm. Rung.” The CMO turns and heads for the door. Ratchet lingers a moment, wondering what in the pits he’s getting them all into. 

 

“Oh, and Rodimus?” He calls over his shoulder. The commander perks up. “Drinks are on me.”

 

Chapter 2: I'm illusory, I'm upside down

Summary:

Rodimus and Ratchet grab those drinks, Rung evaluates Pharma, and Skids stumbles into a curious predicament in Swerve’s, while on guard duty. Everyone’s going through it.

Notes:

[1] Please note: this chapter leans into psychological evaluation + psychotherapy, including discussions of medical discrimination. Jump to the second story divider line / third section if you prefer to skip!

[2] Music today: chapter title from “Bury" by King Woman :3

The music at Swerve’s pulses with the force of a firing brigade, but it’s still not enough to drown out the thoughts pounding through Ratchet’s processor. The triple-filtered engex only magnifies everything.

 

Pharma, leaning into the path of his blaster. Pharma, contempt in his optics like a plea as he grins, plunging a blade into Ratchet’s severed spark. Pharma, slicing Ambulon helm to groin. All because Ratchet challenged him. 

 

‘You declared war on my body, Ratchet. I’m retaliating.'

 

Competition had always been their way in Deltaran as colleagues; and in Iacon before that, as med students. Pharma provoked Ratchet. Ratchet provoked Pharma. Again, and again, and again. And now Ambulon was dead for it. Why hadn’t Ratchet paid attention? He never searched for Pharma’s body on Messatine, despite taking the mech’s hands; despite wanting to find his old colleague. Maybe some part of him dreaded knowing Pharma’s fate. Ratchet rarely thought to plan ahead for the consequences; he jumped in to solve the problems right in front of him, to save lives, to save face. Did he really care so much about preserving his pits-forsaken legacy?  First Aid was right about him in every capacity. 

 

Ratchet covers his face with one palm and ex-vents hard. The damn engex was liquefying the barriers between compartments in his brain, flooding everything together. Nothing made any of this slag easier.

 

“Hey, Ratchet.” Rodimus clinks their glasses together. “You’re galaxies away.”

 

“Argh. I was slipping into recharge,” Ratchet lies. He straightens to sit upright at the bar, and squints under the barrage of spinning blue, red, and pink lights overhead. Of course during ship repairs, Swerve’s got shortlisted. “What were we talking about, something with Prime? Megatron’s trial?”

 

“I was telling you about the latest additions to our crew.” Rodimus grins. His smile doesn’t falter, but it stretches awkwardly like he’s willing it to stay. “You need that nap already, old timer?”

 

“More than you know,” Ratchet grumbles, and stares into his drink.

 

The commander’s faceplate falls. “Yeah. I can see that.” Rodimus rubs the back of his helm, then observes the crowd of bots laughing, chatting, bickering, and overcharging. “Tough as things have become around here, you’ve kept this place running.”

 

Ratchet grunts and waves him off. He taps the bartop for a refill. “This is all Swerve.”

 

“Noooooope.” Rodimus wags a finger at him. “None of that modest veteran scrap today. You do . You should be commended.” He pauses again. “No, wait, that’s not right either. That’s some slag a senator would say, ‘Good job for keeping us alive, have this medal’...”

 

Stop trying to get on my good side, kid. I don’t have one.

 

“Bah. Don’t go all soft and sappy on me. Save that for--” Ratchet halts. His vocalizer catches on the name. Drift . Best not to mention Drift, the missing body in their crowd; the fool’s spark of hope amidst their chaotic crew. Drift’s absence fills the gaps in his days, bleeding into every space he doesn’t cram with patients and problems to solve. The more Ratchet thinks about him, the more his worries fester. He wonders where Drift is; if he’s still alive among the wreckage of a near-universal spacetime collapse. If those Spectralist messages Drift followed so closely led him anywhere nice. Drift, like Ambulon, like Pipes, like even Pharma; another mech he couldn’t– Slag. Nope. Too sober to go there. 

 

“For Tailgate,” Ratchet finishes too late.

 

“Good save.” Rodimus leans back against the bartop. His gold optics dim. “It’s okay. I…miss him too. Even if I’ve got no right to say it.”

 

You don’t, Ratchet thinks. He huffs, neither confirming nor denying the claim. Instead, he tosses back the last of his drink and wills it to corrode away his anger, all the resentment toward Rodimus for every reckless move that led them here. For endangering the crew. For stranding and stripping Drift of his rank. Pits, Drift had worked for that Autobot symbol harder than anyone– Nope. Still not going there. Not today. 

 

Not when Ratchet just asked Rodimus for the impossible. Mechs like Megatron and Pharma don’t atone for their crimes; they answer for them. 

 

Ratchet and Rodimus sit quietly for a klik or two, stewing beneath the bass and camaraderie around them. Unspoken accusations chafe and blister between them, and have for some time now; matters harder to bandage and continue working as the cycles pass. When Ratchet glances over, he finds Rodimus studying those scratched numbers in his plating again. The fraction of mechs who voted to remove him as captain. Does he know? 

 

“Stop dwelling on numbers,” Ratchet tells him. “You survived the Dead Universe, helped Prime, and got most everyone on this ship back to Cybertron alive. And in enough parts to fix. Focus on that.”

 

Rodimus chuckles softly. “Hard not to. It’s…I get it, if you blame me.”

 

“The only thing I blame you for is being a mopey-aft drunk. We’re not here to get sad.” Ratchet grouses. He twirls his hand in a lazy circle, indicating the room. “Got enough misery raining down out there without me covering your tab.”

 

“We’re all carrying something,” Rodimus says. Then immediately, “Sorry. You’re right. Let’s chat about something else, yeah?”

 

“Shoot.”

 

---

 

With a held breath and whirring spark, Rung moves in. His shadow falls over the desk. The tweezers tremble in his grasp as he steadies a fiberglass piece smaller than his knuckle digit. The tiny accessory nearly tumbles to the floor, taking his spark with it. Yet with a wrist flick and huff, he finally adheres the ship model’s wingtip into place. A grin splits his faceplates. 

 

“Perfect.” Rung steps back with a contented air, his hands on his hips. The final damage to his warship collection had been repaired! And in record time. 

 

Once he secures the model, he returns it to the new protective cases on his shelf. Then the psy-ops specialist hastens back to his desk. His optics flick to the time and his list of appointments. A few kliks to spare. Good. Rung valued the bots in his care; but he’s savored every bit of downtime he’s reeled in these last few cycles. There is much to review. Opening his systems, he reviews the previous day’s session transcripts.  

 

[Patient Log: First Aid. Session 1. Appointment type: General]

 

“Greetings, First Aid. This is officially…[there are sounds of data-pads rustling] the first time we’ve spoken.”

 

“I’ve been ordered to come here.”

 

“Yes. Given recent surges of activity in your daily tasks, some individuals on the ship expressed concern for your health.”

 

“Rung, you don’t have to tell me Ratchet’s worried.”

 

“Did Ratchet tell you that directly?”

 

“No, but you know how he is. He gave me an ultimatum. But I’m fine, see? You can clear me for duty any time."

 

“No one is revoking your medibay access, or your position as CMO-in-training. In fact, I’ve heard nothing but exceptional reviews. You perform your duties well.”

 

“Thanks-–I think? I was a doctor before…” [First Aid pauses, then continues with a closed off tone.] “Before.”

 

“Before…?”

 

“I’m not talking about Delphi.”

 

“That’s up to you. You control these discussions, First Aid.”

 

“Discussion. This is a one time thing.”

 

“Well, for this discussion, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Nothing that crosses doctor-patient confidentiality, of course.”

 

“...go ahead.”

 

“How are you faring at work, in general?”

 

“Fine, like I said. Busy.”

 

“Do you keep a routine?”

 

“I take fuel with minerals and power down to recharge every cycle, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“That’s good. Can you tell me more about your daily routine? On shift.”

 

“There’s no real “shift” system right now. I wake up, grab an engex-booster, and I’m on call. When I get to the medibay, Ratchet and I split and handle patients in order of critical priority. Sometimes we’re lucky and get temp nurses…Other times, we have to fill in for each other. When everyone’s accounted for, I’m dismissed. I stay on call until it’s time to recharge.”

 

“I see. When was your last cycle off-call?”

 

“Can’t say. That’s ‘the life’, you know?”

 

“Ratchet chose an incredibly dedicated bot to succeed him. You work hard. Does it ever concern you that–...”

 

“Pass.”

 

“But…I haven’t finished the question.”

 

“You’re going to ask me about how I’d feel about help.”

 

“That’s not–”

 

“Truth is, I’d love help. But we have to make do. Wartime or not, lives are on the line. I won’t fail them.” 

 

“First Aid–”

 

“I’ll be sure to tell Ratchet I’m fine. I’m in one piece, aren’t I?”

 

[Static fills the microphone as First Aid stands. A comm link beeps. The doors whoosh shut.]

 

[End Transcript]

 

Notes: First Aid displays considerable amounts of long-term grief and stress. He is attentive, organized, driven and creative—but stubborn. Lately, prone to overworking and isolating himself. Complicated history with workplace colleagues prior to his demotion to nurse, and promotion to pending CMO. Suggestion: Build rapport. He collects Autobot badges, I collect ships. Maybe there’s a Wrecker model…

 

Rung watches the cursor blink a moment, before shaking his helm and clicking through the next recording.

 

[Patient Log: Ratchet. Session 15. Appointment type: Walk-in]

 

“Ratchet, it’s good to see you! It’s been a while.”

 

[Metal creaks as Ratchet slumps into a chair.] “...Right.”

 

“What’s on your mind?”

 

“He’s right, ya know. I have no fragging idea what I’m doing.”

 

“He? May I ask whom you are referring to?”

 

“Slag. Them. First Aid. Magnus. Rodimus. Everyone who’s been lookin’ at me lately like…like I’ve blown some vital line trying to… Forget it. I think-–” [A vocalizer cracks with static.] “Did ya chat with First Aid yet? He’s…he won’t leave his hab these days.”

 

“Ratchet?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“...did you come to this session inebriated?"

 

“...”

 

“Ratchet. This is important. You know I can’t conduct sessions like this.”

 

[The sound of an ex-vent and sigh.] “...Yeah. S’been a tough vorn, Rung. I’m not on call right now. Wouldn’t…do this otherwise.”

 

“Let’s reschedule, and get you back to your hab…”

 

[End Transcript]

 

Patient Notes: For all the time and care he extends to others, Ratchet seldom seeks out his own. He seems to be—

 

Rung pauses in his typing when the door to his suite chimes. His brow-plates lift as he smiles, and he gestures for the new arrival to enter.

 

“Welcome in, Pharma.”

 

“...”

 

“Please, make yourself comfortable.”

 

As the med-jet shuffles in, Rung notes the change in his restraints: someone swapped his wing bindings for inhibitor-joints, tertiary devices blocking access to his alt. Pharma sports two sets between his wing and shoulder hinges. A secondary pair attaches at his wrists, under the laser-cuffs. 

 

“You have sixty kliks,” Ultra Magnus calls. “Rung, I’ll be stationed outside if you require assistance.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Pharma purrs. He shakes his cuffs at Magnus. “I won’t bite.” 

 

Adjusting his lenses, Rung carefully modulates his tone. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Thank you, Ultra Magnus.”

 

“Sixty kliks begins now.”

 

The suite doors whoosh shut. Pharma loiters by the recliner slab in Rung’s office. He curls his lips and tenses his posture like the furniture threatens to bite him once his aft makes contact. A fine start.

 

Pharma stares at Rung. Rung stares at Pharma.

 

“Forgive me. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced–...”

 

“I know of you,” Pharma drawls. “Rung, psy-ops specialist of the Autobots and author of Autopedia.” He flings one wing in contempt. “Here to add one more article to your collection? Or do I get auto-filed to the list of defectors and traitors?”

 

“That’s not what this session is about. This is an evaluation, nothing more,” Rung explains.

 

“That’s what you’ll tell me, officially.”

 

Taking his seat, Rung asks, “Have you been through this process before?” 

 

“Once, before the war. High Command evaluated my skills, credentials, experience, and psyche for my first post. The report said—and I quote, ‘highly organized, driven, resilient, uncompromised.’ The perfect fit for a lead trauma surgeon role.” The jet-former’s smirk twitches. “Turns out they were wrong.” 

 

Rung considers his approach. “Would you care for a lite-engex?” He asks, and gestures to the tray of miniature treats and bright purple pitcher at his side. “I keep several varieties.”

 

The rogue doctor straightens, towering over him. Pharma creeps forward, flaring his wings in a display that makes him appear larger, even cuffed. The warm overhead light carves harsh shapes into his features, deepening the darkness beneath his helm crest and eyes. There is something wrong in the crook of his grin. “You have a war criminal in your office, and you’re offering me a snack?”

 

Visibly unruffled, Rung indicates the tray again. “It’s optional, of course. Some find it upsets the tank.” He pats his data pad. “We have four million years of history to catch up on, after all.”

 

Pharma spends another interminable time studying Rung—to waste time, to find some weak point to jab, to calculate his escape—before he relents, grabs a tiny engex cube, and sinks onto the recliner. Rung represses a shudder. Good. 

 

“Now, let’s begin. Autobot code mandates health professionals receive regular counsel and screening. It ensures patient safety, and medics’ continued function in wartime.” Scrolling through Pharma’s file, Rung frowns at the medical history. “Why were your sessions skipped entirely?” 

 

“Wartime, as I’m sure you’re aware, makes rules a little lax,” Pharma sneers.

 

“Tell me the reason on record.”

 

“Hm. We lost most of our staff that first year. Messatine was a mining colony. Cave-ins, attacks, accidents happen. One day, our psy-ops expert went out to reach this trapped, panicking worker, and stumbled over a Decepticon explosive.” His faceplates contort with disdain around the word, and his fingers tighten around the cube. “High Command couldn’t spare another.”

 

“Back then, most specialists were sent to warships,” Rung says. “The loss to your team sounds detrimental.”

 

Pharma examines the now-empty engex-treat in his hand, and reaches for another. “Ah. Now, Rung, that’s a very polite way of saying it’s impressive we aren’t all headcases.”

 

Rung tilts his helm. “Is that what you consider yourself?”

 

A dry laugh escapes the surgeon, who nearly doubles over before realizing he can’t balance multiple fuel cubes in his lap. “Well, I suppose you have an official diagnosis. Impaired empathic circuits? No, wait! I’m a sociopath, but not psychotic because I can still tell what’s in front of me. My actions on Luna-1 must have been some temporary psychotic break…”

 

Rung adjusts his lenses again. “Those are highly misunderstood terms. Not to mention grossly misdiagnosed. For the sake of both our professions, put those terms behind you. Your field is mecha-physiology.”

 

“Actually, it’s several. Anatomy and mecha-physiology, pathology, cyber-genetics, general surgery, emergency medicine, vaccine development—” Pharma pauses. “Aw, don’t get cross with me, Rung. Here I thought we were becoming fast friends!” 

 

“You don’t have friends, do you,” Rung states. 

 

That cuts him off. Rung makes a note to implement the ‘deadpan tactic’ more often. Very effective with getting chatty bots to listen. 

 

He quickly adds, “That’s not an insult. Allow me to clarify: today I’m assessing your mind, and current suitability for work. There are many steps to this, but… If you remain in your field, I’m requiring on record you review all standard texts of the Cybertronian processor. Biological and psychological. Then Medical Ethics. More to be determined. After, you will be re-assessed on that knowledge.”

 

“By whom?” Pharma chuckles. “What medical board? My license is all but ash now.” He leans forward again, leering. “Or did you miss my body count?”

 

“The Chief Medical Officer, secondary CMO, and myself,” answers Rung, without missing a beat. He finishes writing out the proposal to High Command. 

 

Pharma openly gawks. The engex cube slips from his grasp, spilling a streak of magenta down his blue leg plating. He curses. When he reaches for a cloth, he nearly knocks the snack tray over in the process. “You’re joking. What do you mean, ‘steps?’”

 

“A special circumstance. Right now, Cybertronians here need additional medical expertise. You happen to fit that bill.” Rung sits back, arching both brow-plates. “Someone recommended you.” 

 

The habsuite falls silent as a tomb. 

 

“What are your thoughts, Pharma?”

 

“That’s impossible. No one would vouch for me.” The surgeon works his jaw, voice echoing far away. His gaze snaps to the engex bleeding between his plates and the chaise. “Why bother with hypotheticals? I’ll never practice medicine again.”

 

“Is that what you want?”

 

Despite his neutral faceplate, Pharma’s shoulders clench. “...no. But it’s a fact.”

 

“Please refer to my prior statements. You’ll catch up.” Rung continues typing.

 

“You—” Pharma stops himself. He levels a sharp stare at the specialist. Then that nasty smile returns. “You mean to say, the Autobots need me?”

 

“I think you need this an equal amount.” After a moment, Rung passes him a cloth. “Could you get that, please?”

 

Startled out of his intimidation attempt, Pharma takes the cloth. He retrieves the fallen engex cube and resolves the spilled fuel without so much as an insult. 

 

A smile flashes behind Rung’s datapad. Progress. “Thank you.” 

 

Flicking his wings, Pharma sits up. “Hm.”

 

“Typically, I’d wait until the end of our session to tell you, but…well, I’m wondering something.” When Pharma meets his gaze, Rung asks, “Did you ever enjoy working with any of your colleagues?”

 

As the cold seeps back into his expression, Pharma hesitates. His optics focus somewhere far away when he murmurs, “Yes.”

 

“I don’t mean, ‘enjoyed the work’. Was there anyone you trusted? Someone you could rely on in an emergency?”

 

“Emergencies were daily occurrences. I ensured my team was competent.”

 

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

 

A harsh vent, a twitch of the wings, the rattle of metal plates straining. Pharma says nothing, but every word echoes in his silence. 

 

“You seem ecstatic about research and finding solutions,” Rung remarks, as a buffer. “Perhaps more than the patients or care itself.”

 

Pharma flashes his dentae. “Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?”

 

“No. In fact, that trait makes you a good fit for medicine, when balanced. Some mechs enter your field to save others, then burn themselves out when they realize they can’t.” Rung sets aside his datapad. “There is such a thing as caring too much.”

 

“Are we speaking about me, or our dear doctor now?” 

 

“We’re talking about priorities and connections. And the fact it seems you’ve had none in four million years,” Rung clarifies. He cycles a breath and clasps his hands together. Finally, the spark of the matter.  

 

“How very touching,” Pharma croons. “You think I harvested all those patients’ T-cogs because I was lonely? The D.J.D., my only friends?”

 

As he weighs the risks of saying too much, too soon, Rung decides to continue. “I think, perhaps, you saw no other choice. Perhaps they offered better protection than Autobot High Command. You kept Delphi open to save Autobot lives. But in the face of losing everything once discovered, you couldn’t. Selfish, yes. But I don’t think you enjoyed it. Who would have helped you?”

 

The surgeon tenses further, grinding his dentae. Every gear creaks like he’s coiled to spring. “Bravo. Well done. A true sob story defense for the ages, Rung. Do you think that’s going to stop your friends from extinguishing my spark?"

“Humor me,” Rung says. “Consider any alternative where you live. There was Delphi. And on Luna-1, you tried to escape. Here, you constantly try provoking your guards to violence. Yesterday, you asked Ratchet to offline you before someone else–-”

 

“We’re done here,” Pharma snarls.

 

Rung presses on. “My point is: there’s more, isn’t there. You’re afraid.” He leans forward in his seat, optics bright. “What are you running from, Pharma?”

 

Metal screeches when Pharma lurches to his feet. The tray of engex crashes to the ground. Glass shatters and magenta splatters the floor, weeping into the seams between plates. The doors wrench open and suddenly Ultra Magnus is there, filling the entryway and advancing on the doctor. Pharma flinches.

 

“Wait! Magnus, he wasn’t attacking. He was trying to leave.” Rung stands and waves toward the mess. “There’s no need to shoot over spilled engex.”

 

“I am not taking any chances,” Ultra Magnus rumbles slowly. He takes Pharma’s arm, pulling him toward the exit none-too-gently. “If you and Ratchet wish to, that’s your prerogative. My objective remains to maintain security and order on this ship.”

 

“How noble,” Pharma spits. “Threatening an unarmed prisoner is your definition of order? How many articles does that break?”

 

Ultra Magnus ignores him. To Rung, he says, “Sixty kliks have passed. I regret intruding on your domain, Rung, but there are matters we both must attend elsewhere.” 

 

“Of course. Oh! One thing–-” Rung quickly darts behind his desk, then returns with a stack of datapads he passes to Ultra Magnus. “Here. Screen them if you see fit, but ensure Pharma has access to these.”

 

“You’re…giving him homework?” Magnus inquires. Between him and Pharma, Rung can’t tell who looks more perplexed.

 

“Not quite, but….something like that. I still need to complete Pharma’s evaluation. But I have enough to send High Command my recommendations.” 

 

---

 

Homework. Homework? 

 

Rung’s task would insult him if it wasn’t so baffling.

 

For once, Pharma can’t summon the energy to comment as Ultra Magnus leads him away. The past cycle blurs under the haze of panic, anger, desperation, and…something else he can’t name. His routine shifted overnight from constant isolation, to confronting and being confronted by more bots than he’s seen since deployment. Now, Pharma faces three possible outcomes: death, at the hands of the D.J.D.; death, at the hands of the Autobots; and…not-death. This impossible, secret third opportunity the Lost Light Crew was offering him. Or, considering for him. But why?

 

Who had vouched for him? Pharma signed his death warrant the moment he murdered that first patient. No, he muses, the moment he surrendered that first T-cog. His patients, his facility, his bargain, his victims.

 

Pharma almost misses the ground dropping off into stairs before gravity pulls him back. 

 

“Keep moving,” Magnus orders.

 

With a growl, Pharma trudges forward. He scans the stairwell, flicking his gaze over new sets of doors and rooms. Where am I?  Every path tangles with another on this accursed little quest ship, high ceilinged corridors and low-hanging passageways tumbling together in a crumbled mess of mismatched metal. Much to his disdain, he fails to map the way back to Rung’s office. Or his cell.

 

“So, Magnus, where does this little adventure take us, hm?”

 

Rather than answer, Ultra Magnus steers Pharma down another hallway. At the end, a set of plain grey doors part, and a blue, grey and red mech emerges–a face Pharma recognizes. The theoretician. 

 

“I got your comm. Sir. What’s this? We’re giving prisoners the grand tour now?” 

 

“No, Skids, you’re on guard duty. Ratchet is behind schedule, and I have a meeting with Prime.” As he hands the doctor off, Magnus inclines his head down the corridor. “Just watch him outside the medibay. Ratchet will comm. you when he’s ready.”

 

“But—why’s he out of his cell?”

 

“I sure love being talked about like I’m not here,” Pharma interjects. But for all his irritation, another critical piece of his circuitry stutters at the mention of Ratchet. He smirks. Did you change your mind about stripping me for parts, old friend? Were there any other parts of his machinery Ratchet would integrate into himself, his legacy? A little jolt travels down his spinal strut.

 

“Read your comms, and you’ll find the details there, soldier. I’ll return soon,” Ultra Magnus tells Skids, and then shoulders past them both. To Magnus’ credit, it’s not attitude so much as his armor bulk dominating the width of the narrow corridor. Both mechs watch his retreat–hurried, clanging steps.

 

Something about Magnus’ demeanor perturbs Pharma. And not merely the ease with which the officer passed him off. ‘Ultra Magnus, Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord’, and ‘distracted’ seldom shared the same sentence. Even if his title now used the past tense. What’s going on?

 

Pharma thinks he hears the tactician mutter something like, ‘whatever you say, Mags’ , before shoving him forward. Twisting, the med-jet scowls. Skids’ posture switches immediately from contemplative to contained, any expression locked down. His yellow optics assess Pharma for the fourth aggressive stare-down he’s had since sunrise.

 

“Well, Skids, is it? Do you intend to stand there and glare, or are we going somewhere?” 

 

“I remember you.” Skids steps closer, and the cool circle of a handblaster jams against Pharma’s back turbine. “Aye, doc. We’re gonna find a quiet spot, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t pull that little wrist trick again with your bonds.”

With fluttering wings, Pharma flashes a taunting smile, “I’ll be on my very best behavior.”

 

Another shove. Skids’ optics flash. “Get movin’.”

 

“As my Duly Appointed Jailor commands.” Pharma jeers. Brute.

 

A few hallways down, a gaggle of voices spill from inside a cracked doorway. The flash of gold staggers Pharma mid-step, as the hulking, battered body of a pits-damned Legislator stares him down. The gargantuan armor-droid appears static, for now. Flickering neon signage above it reads, ‘Swerve’s!’ And below that, ‘No Guns, No Swords, No Briefcases.’

 

…Briefcases? 

 

“A liiiittle to the left. No! Your other left. Hm.” A pause. “Nope, your other other left.”

 

“What? Did they invent some third definition of left while I was away?”

 

“Yes!” an enthusiastic voice calls in tandem with a rumbled, “No, Tailgate.”

 

Before Skids can drag him away, a grinning white and red minibot sticks his head through the gap–the picture-perfect match to his logo. Swerve waves, and his blue visor brightens. “Ey,  Skids! Come on in, buddy. You’re just in time!” 

 

“Hey, Swerve, I’m kinda busy,” Skids says, lightly shaking the doctor like he’s waving a shopping list. “What’s going on here?”

 

“I’m glad you asked!” The barkeep pushes the doors all the way open and clasps his hands together. “We ah, might need your help.”

 

“That doesn’t answer the–...”

 

A loud crash interrupts Skids. Inside the bar, a white and blue minibot balances atop a violet warrior mech’s spiky shoulders, searching the Engex distillery tanks for…something. The warrior mech supports him, but shoots a glare toward the tipped-over tank on its side. And Whirl.

 

The blue helicopter mech waves his claws. “I swear on your spark, that wasn’t—!” He cuts himself off, spotting Pharma, and puts his hands on his hips. “Well, well, well! They’ll let just anybody in here these days, won’t they?” 

 

“Time to go,” Pharma grumbles to Skids, and shakes his laser-manacles again. “Take me away.”

 

“Sorry, Docbot. I’m gonna need to borrow your guard real quick,” Swerve interjects, and pulls Skids—and Pharma, by proxy—into the bar. 

 

Something clicks on in the Legislator. The droid lunges in behind them and seizes Skids. A less than dignified noise scrambles out of Pharma’s vocalizer as he’s suddenly airborne and kicking; but the barkeep hastily intervenes. 

 

“Ten, he’s clear!” Swerve exclaims. “You can put ‘em both down!”

 

Without ceremony, Ten, the apparently repurposed Legislator, drops both Skids and Pharma in a heap by the entrance, sans Skids’ gun. Pharma glances rapidly between the slaughterbot-turned-doorman and Swerve. Who could have reprogrammed it? No. Him?!

 

“Sorry, Ten’s a nice guy, really. He’s just doing his job!” Swerve explains. “I take it you read the sign outside.”

 

Pharma rolls prone on his back turbine for a moment, staring up at swirling vats of brightly-colored engex. Speakers. Stools and cubes and tables. Even a stage. When was the last time he stepped into a bar? Why did a quantum spaceship even have a bar?

 

Frowning, Skids clambers to his pedes. “Swerve, I mean it. Mags’ll roast my rims if I don’t—“ 

 

The bodily jolt of being tackled prevents Pharma from hearing the rest. A distinct blue mech suddenly whumps into him, throws an arm around his shoulders and clanks his helm against Pharma’s like they’re old friends. The ex-Wrecker’s frame is dense enough he holds Pharma down.

 

“Hey, doc, doc, doc,” Whirl says, settling onto his hip plates, “You got any new jokes for me? I’ve got a few for you, since our last little chat!”

 

“Get. Off,” Pharma growls, struggling and squirming to kick Whirl away. New joints or not, he’s well done and through with mechs manhandling him like some youngling’s toy.

 

Whirl raps his claws on the side of Pharma’s helm–and not lightly. “Bluestreak told me this one’s a favorite back on Earth. Knock, Knock, Doc.”

 

“What?!” 

 

“You're supposed to say, ‘who’s there?’ And I say, ‘anyone seen my hands?’”

 

Pharma opens and closes his intake, optics straining so hard against the confines of his skull with pressure, he’s sure they’ll shatter. “My hands?!”

 

Whirl leans back and shrugs with an air of theatrics. “Close enough. Well, I saw them, but you might wanna check the Toolbox! Right by the Ratchet-...”

 

Before the doctor can add another war crime to his list, the spiky purple mech intervenes, grabbing Whirl and dragging him off of Pharma.

 

Whirl claws at the larger bot’s digits. “Hey, Cyclonus , watch the blades! I don’t go for your sword! Even if it is nuclear-powered–!”

 

“Whirl,” Cyclonus grumbles, shooting the mech a murderous red stare. “Not. Now.”

 

“He gets a ‘not now’, but all I get is a ‘shut up’ for throwing off the narrative? That’s not fair, guys,” Swerve muses. “Goes to show ya, everyone’s got a favorite character–!”

 

“Swerve.” With Pharma now back-in-hand, Skids gestures sharply to the engex-tanks. “Before I drag this cuffed quack out of here and we forget all this happened, what’s this really about?”

 

“Someone planted a bomb in the bar last night. Supposedly,” Tailgate says, raising one small digit. 

 

“A bomb?” Skids stutters. “Are you out of your processor? We need to get everyone—“

 

“No, no, no—a Glitter bomb!” Swerve exclaims, waving his hands placatingly. “There’s no bomb-bomb, or anything. Even those Seeker NAILS know the rules. But those glitcheads said they left me a few party decorations to go off tonight if I didn’t cough up the free drinks. Any o’ that slag gets in the engex, it’ll throw the whole flavor palette off! I’ll be ruined!”  

 

“Say bomb-bomb again,” Whirl says. Then, “Ow-!” As Tailgate climbs up his side, and pokes the heli-former upside the head.

 

For all the snide, smarmy, snarky remarks he could spew right now, Pharma finds himself well and truly at a loss for words this time. This was the crew that had narrowly beaten Tyrest? 

 

“Buddy, it’s a prank.” Skids pats the barkeep’s pauldron. “You’re a friendly guy and a great barkeep. Probably the only bar operating this side of Luna-2. Some slag-suckers are gonna tell you anything to get free stuff.”

 

“I saw them!” Swerve protests.  “Flyin’ around, messing with the vats-...”

 

“They were pretty overcharged. It never hurts to check,” Tailgate remarks. 

 

“Look, I’ll come back in a few kliks to help,” Skids comments. “First, business.”

 

Suddenly, a deep silhouette cascades over Phama, a nightmare carved from the heart of a dark star itself.

 

“I’ll accompany you,” Cyclonus says.

 

Pharma sneers up at Cyclonus, despite the dread congealing in his fuel lines. “I already have a guard, ‘con. But don’t worry. I’m sure he'll come back to throw you in the basement later.” His smirk creeps into something vile. He dares to lean closer. “Or maybe they’ll lock you up with me, as one final favor.”

 

“Cyclonus is one of us,” Tailgate snaps, all friendly demeanor evaporated. The minibot marches forward, boldly wedging himself between the definitely-a-Decepticon knight and Pharma.

 

Cyclonus backpedals, then reaches for his companion. “Tailgate.”

 

Something softens in Tailigate’s words toward warrior mech. “No. It’s been the same song and dance every cycle since we got here. Rodimus and Mags made it official. You never wore that badge. Even if you had, it wouldn’t have mattered.” Tailgate twists back around, then jabs the med-jet’s leg plating. “War’s over. And you of all mechs don’t get to talk to him that way.”

 

Oh Primus, Pharma thinks miserably. He rolls his optics toward the ceiling. Spare me. They’re disgusting.

 

“You know this guy?” Swerve asks Tailgate.

 

“Not really, no.” Tailgate relents and steps back, finally letting his friends cycle out a breath. Conflict hangs heavy on his shoulders. “But he is one of the main reasons I’m alive.”

 

“Here we go,” Skids says, at the same time Whirl settles onto a low table top and crosses his legs.

 

“What?” Pharma and Swerve echo. But the barkeep beats him to the punch. 

 

“Him?! That’s Pharma?” Swerve asks, visor flashing. He scuttles up and scrutinizes the doctor with a mixed expression; and for a longer period of quiet than Pharma’s heard since they walked in. “Hey, so this is gonna be a little awkward. I’d offer you a drink for helping me and Ratchet save my second best friend’s life, or something. Buuuut we kiiiinda can’t skip past the whole you-helping-Tyrest thing yet. Autobot or not.” 

 

"What do you mean, how did I--..."

 

“Or Ambulon,” Whirl chimes in, over the surgeon.

 

“Oh. Oh no no no.” Swerve quirks his thumb toward the exit. “Yeah, airlock’s that way, buddy. Sorry.”

 

“I was just leaving,” Pharma snarls. “You can take your little friends, and opinions, what you think you know, and cram them up your–”

 

“What in the Pit is going in here?” Ratchet growls. 

 

Six helms swivel to face the entrance. The Autobot CMO storms in, optics blazing.

 

“Hey, Ratchet,” Pharma purrs in greeting. He sinks back in his bonds; his wings flare out minutely, and flutter.

 

Ratchet points to Skids first, who withers just a little. “You were supposed to bring him to me!”

 

“Sir, I-...” Skids flounders.

 

Ratchet twists around. “And the rest of you have assigned jobs outside this bar! Shift’s not over. Don’t make me compile a list for Magnus, ‘cause I will. And we’ll all regret it when he reads us the memo and punishment, lined and spaced.”

 

“Sorry, sir–” 

“But we were-” 

“There was a–” 

”...”

 

“Aaaap, yap, yap.” Ratchet spreads his hands wide, commanding the room’s attention. The shadows beneath his eyes speak to a long and arduous shift, on minimal recharge. “No excuses! The next mech I catch slacking off volunteers himself for medibay cleanup duty. Until further notice.” He takes a step forward, and Pharma enjoys watching some mechs shrink back like the tide. “And trust me, even you battle types don’t have the tanks for what I’ve dealt with lately.”

 

“Oh, but I do love seeing you in your element. It takes me back,” Pharma croons. He saunters closer and leans against the bartop, sliding toward Ratchet. “You were looking for me?”

 

Ratchet’s lip plates curl. He doesn’t turn around, but raises a hand. “Wait your turn, Pharma.”

 

“Gladly.” Pharma smirks.

 

Glancing rapidly between the two medics, Whirl’s optic thins to a gold line. “Oh. Oooooooh, gross.” Tailgate almost projects a perfect question mark over his helm, and looks up at Whirl. Cyclonus inclines his helm.

 

“Now. All of you, get back to it,” Ratchet orders. “Skids, report to Magnus when he returns. I’ll take over from here.”

 

“Aye, sir.”

 

The entire group almost snaps to attention; Whirl most likely complying to avoid having to hear whatever transpires next between the doctors. 

 

“Doc?” Swerve calls, and both Ratchet and Pharma face the barkeep. “Can I still borrow the guys, after? There’s still the matter of the engex.”

 

“Whatever you like, after hours,” Ratchet offers tiredly. Then he grabs Pharma by the arm, and starts to lead the med-jet out of Swerve’s.

 

“Ah, scrap. I was really hopin’ we’d find the…”

 

BOOF.

 

As if the accursed universe hadn’t thrown enough at him this cycle, Pharma has all of a nano-klik to lurch backward, the same time as Ratchet pulls forward; and the two of them stagger face-first into a cloud of iridescent, colorful, adhering metal shavings. 

 

“What in the– ”

 

His old friend’s string of curses boasts the same number of colors as the confetti now dousing them both in cheerful squares of gold, hot pink, silver, blue, green, and more. Pharma coughs and splutters and wipes a hand over his optics, fury splitting his faceplates. Oh. Oh. Someone was going to pay.

 

“I told you I wasn’t making it up!” Swerve tells a shocked Skids, while Whirl howls. Cyclonus and Tailgate race to find the room’s power breaker and close up the vents. 

 

When he comes to his senses, Skids rushes over with a handful of cleaning cloths. 

 

“No, no.” Ratchet waves Skids off, now eerily calm and still. “I’ve got this.”

 

Pharma slips and slides in the effort to stand, cursing every deity and bot in power he can recall. “Ratchet, you can’t just–...”

 

“And you,” Ratchet growls, facing Pharma, “Are going to keep your intake shut all the way back to the hab suite. I just finished with my last patient, and I’m past the fragging limit today.”

 

Wait. Pharma blinks. His processor struggles to load and play back that last statement. “...you mean my cell?”

 

“No. Didn’t Rung or Magnus tell you?” Ratchet covers his face, and rattles out another ex-vent, grumbling. “You’re getting a new hab suite. Right next to mine.”

Notes:

Thanks for reading!

I’m sliding a snack or beverage your way for nodding along with the swiss cheese logic of this fic. After everything, canon Rodimus is ready to get repairs and leave Cybertron as fast as possible, content with Megatron being convicted as guilty. Here, he has a few melancholy days before that frustration builds up!

Many apologies if anyone leans more OOC—I went a little overboard wanting to fit in some levity toward the end. I adore every bot on the Lost Light, and intend to give them something beyond the one-liners!

See ya next chapter!

Notes:

Thank you for reading! :D

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Comments are most welcome!

Moderation is turned on only to filter out art scam “pay me to make this a comic!” comments. (Which….unfortunately have shown up twice in the last 30 minutes I posted.)