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"Ratchet, my dearest friend and fantastic medic."
Ratchet groans as his optics flicker on along with his commlink. It's still night. More importantly, it's still night in the middle of his off-shift. He shouldn't be getting contacted by anyone, especially not for medical emergencies.
"Knock Out?" Ratchet groans, reading the caller ID. "What's the matter?"
"I've got a teeny tiny consultation question," Knock Out says. "Won't take two ticks."
Ratchet pushes himself upright. "And you couldn't call the on-duty medic, why?"
"You want me to bother poor overworked First Aid?" Knock Out tuts. "Well, if you insist…"
"No, no," Ratchet says quickly. Nights are usually quiet, but if there's a chance he can solve this issue then he should. For the good of everyone. "What's the problem?"
"I knew I could count on you, Ratchet," Knock Out says, somewhat smugly, as if he's gloating to someone else. He's probably got the patient in front of him; Ratchet foresees another mandatory sensitivity training course in the near future. "Now, do you have a copy of a knot driver you can send me to install?"
Ratchet blinks. It takes a slow, recharge-addled moment to connect the dots.
"Someone's spike isn't depressurising," Ratchet states. "Well, even with a knot mod, you should be able to insert an extractor to drain the hydraulic fluid and force depressurisation enough to get the modesty cover back on. They can visit the clinic in the morning for a driver update."
"There's a slight issue with getting to the spike," Knock Out says.
It takes Ratchet another long moment to parse that. And another to bite back a nasty curse (Ambulon's set up a swear jar in the clinic and Ratchet is by far the biggest contributor, despite Decepticons making up two-fifths of the staff).
"Some idiot's gotten their spike stuck?" he hisses.
"Yes."
Ratchet rubs his optics. "And you can't separate them, I take it? Have you tried extra lubricant?"
"What kind of a medic do you take me for?" Knock Out says haughtily. Thankfully he continues before Ratchet can answer that. "It's a three size class disparity."
Ratchet has a brief moment to wonder how that even fit in there to begin with. He gets up and checks his medical supplies. He's only got a few software update sticks and he doubts any of them are interface-focused.
"Any pain reported? On either end?" Ratchet asks as he scoops as many of his medical tools as will fit into his carrying crate.
There's the buzz of someone talking over a muted commlink, then, "No. Some numbness on the valvular side."
"That's not too surprising," Ratchet mutters. He stops at his door. "Wait," he says with a sinking feeling low in his tanks, "why can't you just go to the clinic and pick up a new driver for the patient yourself?"
"Because," Knock Out says in a long-suffering voice, "it's a bit difficult to stroll across town with my valve this occupied."
Medics make the worst patients. Ratchet takes an extra second to grab a high-octane shot (he's supposed to be cutting back and he's trying, but medical emergencies are medical emergencies and he's one of the only two fully qualified medics planetside) and shoulders his way out the door.
"I'm on my way."
Knock Out's habsuite is further away from the clinic than Ratchet's. He claims it's to help him keep his work and home-life balanced, but Ratchet's long suspected that its proximity to the Lithium Flats where racers like to play was the deciding factor.
He swings by the clinic on his way to get copies of their drivers. First Aid is in the middle of repairing a broken shoulder joint when Ratchet arrives. He's polite and cheerful as ever, even splattered with oil and coolant, until Ratchet begins to offer advice.
"You're off-shift," First Aid says firmly, stepping in the way whenever Ratchet tries to get a closer look at the busted ball joint.
"Reattaching an arm is a two-mech job," Ratchet tries.
"Which is why you did three solo arm ops last week," First Aid says.
"I'm trying to teach you to be better than me."
"You're being a control freak again," First Aid says, herding Ratchet towards the door.
"You've been hanging out with Knock Out too much," Ratchet grumbles.
"I've been hanging out with him as much as I've been hanging out with Pharma and Ambulon," First Aid says. "You'd hang out with us, too, if you ever accepted a drinking night invitation."
Ratchet makes a point of avoiding those outings. Putting up with other medics in the workplace is something he does out of necessity. No one wants to listen to him go over the day's procedures in a healthy level of detail over drinks — according to Pharma, anyway.
"I could just —"
"No."
"If you'll let me —"
"No." First Aid punctuates the word by giving Ratchet a firm shove out the door. "I'll be fine and whoever you've picked up those drivers for is in more urgent need than Bonecrusher's arm."
Ratchet hesitates as Bonecrusher starts to complain, but then the door is shut on his faceplate.
"I'm on call if you need me!" Ratchet shouts.
"Ambulon's on call, not you," First Aid yells back.
Technically true, but Ratchet's awake now, so he should make himself useful. He should never have agreed to share a clinic with the rest of them, centralised medicine being useful or not. He tucks the drivers into his crate, transforms around it, and sets off again.
Since Ratchet was press-ganged into helping Knock Out set up his habsuite (along with the rest of the clinic staff, which meant it turned into a gossip session over engex while Ratchet did all the work), he knows which door in the endless corridors and storeys he needs to buzz. Even if he hadn't, the stack of empty red paint cans outside waiting to be taken to the recycler is a big clue.
Ratchet shifts his crate half onto his leg enough to free up a hand to press the buzzer. There's a long, long silence before the door finally whooshes open and Ratchet is met with Knock Out's upside-down faceplate.
"About time," Knock Out grumbles.
"Hello to you too," Ratchet says sharply. He looks past Knock Out to find the last mech he ever wants to see.
"Good evening, doctor," Megatron says. He's unbearably smug, as usual, despite the fact that he's holding Knock Out by the leg and back to support him while they're — literally — joined at the hip. Even though he's gotten rid of the worst of Unicron's spiked armour upgrade, he's still stupidly tall; barely a few centimetres of air separate the top of his helm from the ceiling.
Ratchet hopes those dents he can spy on the ceiling are because of him and that they hurt.
"Are you going to let me in, or do you want me to take a look out here?" Ratchet says loudly.
Megatron steps back — Knock Out winces and claws at his arm for support — and Ratchet lugs his crate inside. The hab is far more decorated than the last time Ratchet saw it. Holo-posters cover the walls, displaying everything from the latest racers to travel agency adverts. Ratchet can even spy a small corner dedicated to the postcard-sized movie posters Earth produces.
Thankfully, Megatron leads Ratchet through to the berthroom and takes a seat on the berth without having to be asked further. Ratchet's heard that the end of the war has mellowed him out somewhat (Ratchet has his doubts), though his current acquiescence could simply be from being stuck with Knock Out's sparkling personality for hours on end and wanting this sticky situation over with.
"When did the problem start?" Ratchet asks. He might dislike the mech but he's damned if he isn't going to be professional about this.
"About three hours ago?" Knock Out says with far less certainty than Ratchet wants from a professional medical colleague.
"It should have been recorded in your logs," Ratchet says, glaring at Megatron.
Megatron makes an odd noise. "Logs, yes." He looks up at the ceiling for several long seconds before finally nodding to himself. "My last overload was at 26:37."
"Why did that take so long to find?" Ratchet asks suspiciously.
"Does it matter?" Knock Out says. "I'm stuck and would like to get unstuck before my next shift."
Ratchet drops it and grabs a sanitising gel pouch from his crate. He bursts it between his hands and rubs them vigorously together. Knock Out pulls a face, but thankfully stays silent. Ratchet really doesn't want to get into an argument over types of sanitiser with him right now (especially when Knock Out is prone to prioritising scent over anti-rusting properties).
"Alright, lie back and let me have a look."
It's difficult to get in close and even harder to see anything useful. Knock Out is correct that draining the hydraulic fluid is going to be impossible without cutting open Megatron's spike and hoping the hydraulic tubing is accessible from the incision. Ratchet's in-built scanner keeps throwing up errors when he tries to get a look at schematics due to Knock Out's equipment being in the way, but he gets enough half snapshots to make a rough guess and it doesn't look pretty.
"And you've tried manual depressurisation?" Ratchet asks Megatron.
There's a suspicious pause before Megatron answers: "Yes."
Ratchet narrows his optics. Knock Out busies himself examining his claws. Megatron eventually sighs.
"I don't have knot depressurisation protocols," he finally says. "General spike depressurisation hasn't worked."
"You don't have — What kind of hack installed a knot mod without the proper protocols?!" Ratchet shouts. "It's basic standard practice! It shouldn't even pressurise without them!"
"Don't look at me!" Knock Out tries to flinch away from Ratchet's suspicion, but winces when he gets caught on the stupid swollen spike that caused this all to begin with.
"Unicron," Megatron says heavily.
"Unicron," Ratchet repeats in disbelief. "You just decided to go ahead and use something implanted on you by the Unmaker?"
"It's never been a problem before," Knock Out mutters.
"You've used it more than once!?"
The urge to put his helm in his hands in despair thankfully loses to millennia-old medical habits; it's only because his hands were sanitised recently that saves Ratchet from smearing Knock Out's lubricant all over his faceplate.
Because of course, Decepticons would be arrogant enough to play around with Unicron's spike mod — they were stupid enough to play around with dark energon in the first place — and, of course, they'd get stuck and leave Ratchet cleaning up the mess.
"Fine, no depressurisation protocols. I'll have to do a fresh install. And here I thought doing an update might be fiddly," Ratchet sighs. "Give me medical port access so I can see which driver will integrate best."
Another pregnant pause.
"Any port," Ratchet says, fuel tank sinking. "Something to give me internal systems access. Even an audio jack will do in a pinch."
"Unicron was thorough," Megatron says gravely.
"You've had how much bodywork done and never gotten a medical port installed?!" Ratchet shouts. Those extraneous shoulder spikes didn't just fall off on their own.
"It seemed unnecessary," Megatron says.
"I always use a wireless scanner," Knock Out protests when Ratchet's glare returns to him. "Digging through code manually is disgusting."
"Disgusting or not, you need write permissions to install a driver from scratch," Ratchet groans. "Permissions that you can't get with wireless alone."
"No one told me that when they were forcing me through a remedial mechanics course," Knock Out says snippily.
Great. Just great.
Ratchet checks through his crate, though he already knows he doesn't have the necessary parts or tools for a port install procedure. He'll have to update his home medical kit in case this happens again. Which means he'll have to expand his shelving unit. Again.
"Okay," he says, instead of what he wants to do, which is more yelling with some swearing thrown in for good measure. "Fine. Let me call the clinic to see if we have the parts in stock."
They do, but First Aid insists on bringing them over himself, leaving Ratchet with nothing better to do with his time than to get confirmation from Knock Out's logs that he's telling the truth about his estimated damage. It's that or make small talk for twenty minutes, which Ratchet doesn't do with the clinic staff and he's sure as hell not doing with Megatron.
For some reason, when First Aid arrives, Ambulon is trailing after him, holding a selection of durabyllium drills. The point of calling the on-call medic if you need to leave the clinic is to get them to hold the fort while you're away, not invite them along like it's the Cube finals.
"I can handle it on my own," Ratchet says, insulted.
"I'm sure you can," First Aid says cheerfully. "But isn't this also a fantastic teaching opportunity?"
Ratchet opens his mouth, then closes it again. He's for patient confidentiality, in theory, but medics are a nosy bunch and it's unlikely that anything filed under Knock Out's medical records will stay secret for long anyway.
And he really hates Megatron.
"I'm here to take notes for the new medics' courses," Ambulon says, fishing a heavy datapad out of his armful of drills.
"And gossip, no doubt," Ratchet says.
"Do you want Knock Out distracted or not?" Ambulon says. He doesn't have First Aid's innate cheer, but there's definitely an aura of vindictive glee about him.
Ratchet works with a bunch of sparklings.
He takes them through to the berthroom anyway. It's not like he has a choice. Thankfully, Megatron hasn't moved and is reading something on one of those popular flimsy new datapads, while Knock Out is buffing his claws with —
"Is that my microfile?" Ratchet demands.
"Finders keepers," Knock Out says as though that means anything. He glances over at Ratchet and he frowns when he sees his company. "Oh joy, just what I wanted: to have my interface life be the talk of the office."
"That's exactly what you want," Ambulon says. He pales when he spots Megatron. "Uh, Lord Megatron?"
Ah, yes, Ambulon is a Decepticon. Was. Was a Decepticon during the war. Ratchet still finds it hard to blur the lines now that everything's said and done. It's not helped when Decepticons kowtow to Megatron more often than not. Old habits die hard.
"Is their presence necessary?" Megatron says. It's more of a threat than a question.
Ratchet, who had been considering tossing them out on their audial fins if they made one more cheeky comment, decides, "Yes. They're staying."
Megatron's engine thrums unhappily, but he returns to his datapad instead of terrorising Ratchet's coworkers further. Emboldened by the lack of attention, First Aid drops his crate of supplies next to Ratchet's and approaches the problem.
"Can you unlock your hips any further?" First Aid asks Knock Out curiously.
"Does it look like I can? How do you think I got this far?" Knock Out says sharply. "My legs are disconnected as far as they can go while still being attached to me."
"It looks like your pelvic plating's in the way," First Aid says. "Otherwise we could solve this by taking a leg off, couldn't we?" his speculation gets uncertain towards the end.
"Most valves are built into the pelvic plating and lower abdominal struts," Knock Out says, tracing the channel of his valve on his plating. "It's not just hanging loose in there, you know."
"I know," First Aid says quickly. "I just meant, if there was a thinner plate, or maybe if you didn't have to put weight on it when you walk, maybe you could cut through there and give your valve more room to stretch."
"How much more room do you think I have?!"
Ratchet draws a rectangle on Megatron's forearm with the surgery marker. The nanites glow neon yellow. After he's capped the pen and thrown it back in the crate, he realises he probably should've asked the others to try and figure out the best spot to install a medical port. Remembering that he's supposed to be teaching is an uphill battle.
"This might be a stupid question…" Ambulon says slowly.
"There are no stupid questions," Ratchet says. He smacks Knock Out's leg when he scoffs at that (and then forcefully ignores the intrigued raised optic ridge Megatron gives his berth partner).
"Spike reattachments are pretty easy," Ambulon says. "I had to do plenty during the war. Can't we just —" he makes a chopping motion with his hand, "— and fix it up after?"
It's not a bad idea. Ratchet should've thought of it before now; he's gotten distracted with the port install. High-octane shots keep him awake but a bit less aware than he'd like during complicated diagnoses.
"If you can figure out a good angle, sure," Ratchet says, moving back. "Though it also depends on the materials involved and the size of the cutting lasers needed."
At the end of the day, Megatron is Unicron-reinforced and dark energon-infused. Ratchet had a hell of a time trying to get Optimus's systems up to code after the Matrix rejigged his frame to Primus standard and again after the Forge.
"The opposite is true too," First Aid adds. "Valves are mostly detachable if you can get into the —"
"You are not slicing me open," Knock Out interrupts. "I don't trust any of you to close a weld neatly enough for my standards."
Cosmetics versus function is an argument that Ratchet continually has with Knock Out. The fact that Pharma is on Knock Out's side nine times out of ten is the icing on the mud cake (he holds that a truly professional medic should be able to fix a wound so thoroughly that the mech in question doesn't look injured at all afterwards, whereas Ratchet always prioritises patient health over looks).
"Wow, Knock Out, you're really on there," Ambulon says from where he's crouched between Megatron's legs, peering at their joined arrays. "Not much wiggle room." He sits up and makes a note on his 'pad. "And a lot of tungsten. I don't know that I've got the dexterity for that precise an amputation with the heavy-duty scalpel."
"Let's call spike amputation plan b," Ratchet says, not entirely sure he's alert enough to manage it either. "If there isn't a need for surgery, don't do surgery."
"You say while preparing to do surgery," Knock Out says.
"Medical ports are necessary," Ratchet retorts. "How has this never come up before?"
"Not all of us have the privilege of knowing what is and isn't necessary for a fully functioning frame," Megatron says, a weird echo of the slim window of time when the Decepticons were more than just his ruthless grab for power.
"That's an excuse I'd buy from Smokescreen," Ratchet says flatly. "Not you."
First Aid unearths the box of new medical ports from his crate. The fresh metal gleams with its factory oils. It feels like a waste to use such clean new parts on a frame as pitted and scored as Megatron's.
"Do you know if any of the wiring for your cannon is still there?" Ratchet asks, frowning when his scan comes up blank; too much lead alloy in the way. "Splicing into existing wires will help new ports integrate quicker."
Megatron shrugs. Which is odd to see and not a behaviour he usually indulges in. Ratchet wonders if he's the type of mech who uses interface as a way to initiate recharge and, if so, whether he was planning to shut down after his encounter with Knock Out and is currently running on a heavy defrag debt.
"I'm going to make an incision in the dextral ulna plate," Ratchet decides aloud, partly for Ambulon's note-taking efforts and partly because he's much better at judging if something sounds stupid after it's come out of his mouth. "Ideally, I'd be in a sterile work environment with clear scans, and I'd be making the install closer to the core, however, since I don't have those, it's safer to make sure the surgery happens away from the main organs to reduce risk of infection and limit potential neural damage."
"Neural damage?" Megatron repeats darkly, suddenly much more alert.
"I'm installing a medical access port," Ratchet says slowly, "it's going to have to integrate with your neural net. Obviously," he adds in a mutter.
"Infinitesimal chance," Knock Out soothes, petting Megatron like a turbopup. "No worse than an arm transplant."
Ratchet stares. For as long as he's known Knock Out, he's known that Knock Out doesn't have a bedside manner. Where was this kindness and patience when Beachcomber came in with a broken axle?
"Are you going to induce stasis?" First Aid asks worriedly.
"No." Ratchet belatedly fetches a packet of pain dampeners and strings them around the incision point. "It's a small cut, relatively speaking, and it's better to have fully live wires when attaching a port like this."
"Won't you get zapped if they're live?" First Aid asks.
"No. Because I'm going to isolate and ground them when necessary," Ratchet says. "Live wires give you more immediate feedback if something isn't working and allow the new part to warm up and connect faster. Now, if there are no more questions, I'm going to make the primary incision."
First Aid fidgets, but doesn't distract Ratchet further. Ambulon and Knock Out are out of his field of vision, probably doing something Decepticon-y. Ratchet doesn't care what it is as long as he gets the peace he needs to do surgery.
It's relaxing, the smell of scorched iron; part of Ratchet relaxes now that he's finally got a chance to do his job properly. Nothing quite beats knowing that a mech is alive because of his hands and knowledge.
"Why is the clinic closed?"
The three other medics wince as Pharma's high-priority message hits their HUDs. Ratchet's had enough practice working during surgeries and other high-stress situations to take it in stride. Plus he set a permanent downgrade to the priority of Pharma's communications before the war and hasn't seen a reason to change it since.
"I thought Pharma was getting back tomorrow," First Aid says with a little less of his usual cheer.
"It is tomorrow," Ambulon says.
"He still should've waited until 'sensible' hours to travel," Knock Out chimes in, like they're clustered around the reception desk gossiping again. "The next time he berates me for driving at night I'm going to hold this over his helm."
"Do you mind?" Ratchet snaps. "I'm in the middle of something. Someone message him back and explain the situation."
There's silence. Ratchet hopes that means one of them is doing as he asked and they're not all just waiting for someone else to do it. He catches Megatron's optic and they share a moment commiserating the uselessness of the non-accredited clinic staff until Ratchet remembers that a) he's in the middle of surgery, and b) he hates Megatron.
He finally gets into Megatron's wiring, leaving a perfectly neat entry point (if he does say so himself) before Pharma opens a commline with everyone. Ratchet's tempted to decline the call, but he'll be more distracted by overhearing half a conversation than listening to the whole thing.
"Hello, Pharma," First Aid says bravely. "How was your —"
"Why is the clinic closed with only a commlink posted to the door for explanation?" Pharma demands.
"I'm on a house call," First Aid says.
"A house call," Pharma states flatly. "Why isn't Ambulon covering the clinic then?"
"He's here too," First Aid says, despite Ambulon's wild gesturing. "To take notes for the new —" he cuts himself off.
"You shouldn't be performing the kind of surgery we're planning to put in the new medics' courses," Pharma says suspiciously. "Not without supervision."
"I'm here too, Pharma," Ratchet says. "It's just a medical port install, I could do it with my optics off."
"Of course you're there, Ratchet," Pharma sighs. "What kind of prehistoric mech doesn't have a port?"
"Excuse me," Knock Out says. "I'll thank you not to question my tastes, Pharma."
"Why is the entire clinic staff involved in a simple operation that should be happening in the clinic?" Pharma demands.
"Funny story, that," Knock Out says with significantly more good humour than his current predicament deserves.
Ratchet sets an alert to notify him when his name is mentioned and then pushes the call out of primary audial pickup to focus on the task at hand. He's not going to let anything distract him from picking through internal wiring.
"Tell me you haven't stripped those wires completely," Pharma says by way of greeting when he stalks past First Aid into the berthroom.
"It's standard practice to help them take the solder better," Ratchet says.
"From the Rust Age, maybe," Pharma sniffs. There's a soft pop of a gel pouch and the astringent waft of Pharma's preferred sanitiser, and then Pharma's hands appear in Ratchet's narrow field of view. "Let me look at what you've done."
Ratchet relents. He's got the beginnings of a processor error threatening, as it always does after he takes high-octane. At least his work is consistently good, even if it isn't perfectly modern.
There's an audible whirr as Pharma's optics find the right focal length. He tuts over Ratchet's wire braiding, but thankfully doesn't kick up a fuss. The clinic already has too many contradicting instructional manuals from their differing approaches to procedures.
Pharma finishes soldering the last few wires in place and screws the port casing into Megatron's arm. It's too hot for Ratchet to plug his medical lead in yet.
"Okay, run a system analysis and tell me if there are any errors," Ratchet says, while Pharma connects the cut panel back on in such a way that it can be opened with a t-cog call. "Then we'll do a white-noise check before I plug in."
Megatron nods and presumably does so. Ratchet can't tell from the outside.
"So," Knock Out drawls in the same voice he uses when he's about to (in his words) 'spill some juicy goss', "did you have a nice trip, Pharma?"
Pharma stiffens. It's only because Ratchet's toggling through his optic filters, including infrared, in an attempt to reduce his processor ache that he picks up on the rising heat in Pharma's faceplate. Why on Cybertron would stoic, sensible, hard-working Pharma blush at Knock Out's suggestive tone? He was supposed to be on an important trip to look into reports of a new spark field, not doing whatever Knock Out's implying he was doing.
"Have you overloaded since getting locked?" Pharma asks sharply instead of responding to the provocation.
"No," says Knock Out, still grinning.
"Either of you?"
"I think I would've noticed," Knock Out says, rolling his optics. "No, neither of us have overloaded."
"Isn't overloading after — during, in this case — an interface injury a bad idea?" Ambulon says. "It's usually easy to tell when there's been damage and the mechs kept going, because there's significantly more damage after."
"It's usually a bad idea," Pharma acknowledges. "However, there isn't any tearing or dislocation and it should be easy enough to stimulate the other array to provide enough charge. Try to overload."
"Why?" Megatron asks warily.
"It could provide the soft reset your systems need to depressurise," Pharma says.
"It's a slim chance, but I'll never say no to spending more charge," Knock Out says. "How about some priv—" he cuts off as Megatron's frame locks up and crackles with electricity.
All five medics stare. Megatron blinks and rolls his shoulders languidly.
"Hmm," he rumbles, satisfied. Ratchet could've gone his whole life without knowing what Megatron sounds like post-coitus. "It will take some time to discover if that made a difference."
"You could fake it this whole time?!" Knock Out's voice box does a fair impression of Starscream's screech.
Megatron looks nonplussed. "You can't?"
"Of course I can't!" Knock Out says, furious. "Overloading on command isn't a default setting."
"The only mechs with that kind of software are…" Pharma trails off, apparently even he's not willing to say the word everyone's thinking in front of a (supposedly non-volatile) ex-warlord.
First Aid perks up. "Gladiators, too, right?"
"Yes, correct," Pharma says with no little relief. "Anyone expected to… perform for picky clientele."
"Makes you wonder why we can't do that," Knock Out muses. "Given how picky my patients can be."
"Could a forced premature overload have glitched the depressurisation protocols?" Ambulon suggests, smirking at Knock Out with unprofessional glee.
"It better not have," Knock Out hisses, digging his claws into Megatron's chest plate.
"I overloaded spontaneously earlier tonight," Megatron says with a threatening edge that works better when he's looming over everyone and merely sounds petulant now. "Though I had to force it a few days ago when there was an emergency at the mining site. During self-service," he adds with a roll of his optics at Knock Out's furious glare.
Oh no. Is this not only a regular thing but an exclusive thing? What is the world coming to? If Megatron starts showing up at the clinic for dates with Knock Out, Ratchet doesn't care how many sparks go out, he's going to quit.
The white noise jack pings to notify them that it's finished. Ratchet pounces on the excuse to talk about anything other than Megatron's overloads.
"Right, I'm plugging in," Ratchet says.
He uses a buffer out of habit. A fresh install shouldn't have rust, however, who knows what bugs and ITVs Megatron has.
Bumblebee once described his short sojourn into Megatron's mind as unsettlingly malevolent. A bit of excessive hyperbole, in Ratchet's opinion. That opinion changes when Ratchet initiates the standard medical hookup handshake and he can't shake the feeling of being watched by something dark and insidious, despite Megatron agreeing to the connection.
There's an unexpected lag when Ratchet requests connection array write permissions. It's only once he's received access that he finally notices what's been bothering him the whole time he's been plugged in.
"Why are your date and time set to three and a half days ago?" Ratchet asks furiously.
"A stopped clock will do that," Megatron says flatly.
"But the only way your clock would stop is if —" Ratchet bites the words back. He knows what happened to Megatron, he just hadn't realised how many consequences Megatron had been living with after the fact.
"Is if what?" First Aid asks.
Ratchet really should've hung up on Knock Out and returned to recharge. He shouldn't be messing with core programming in the state he's in. However, now that he's here he can't not fix it. Not if Megatron's been running any log calls through an algorithm to return the correct date and time, as evidenced by his lagging systems.
"Sometimes you'll run into a patient who has suffered temporary processor inactivity," Ratchet says slowly. "And I mean full inactivity. There's a chance their systems will patch the damage on their own, but most of the time you'll need to fix it for them." He hesitates, but the extra optics over his shoulder will probably keep him from making a stupid mistake in his recharge-deprived state. "Plug in, I'll show you."
"Three and a half days?" First Aid says. "But to be offline that long —" he cuts off when Ambulon kicks him.
"Didn't you hear how the war ended?" Ambulon hisses.
"Oh?" First Aid shivers as he plugs in. "Oh! Right. I remember."
That had been a wonderful three and a half days when Ratchet didn't have to worry about Megatron popping up and destroying things for his own twisted pleasure. Over far too soon.
Pharma passes an extension cord over to Ambulon and Knock Out, and then plugs all of them in too. Ratchet had only intended to show First Aid, and maybe Ambulon after the fact. Now it's too late to put up a fight about it.
"I know what I'm doing, I have done this before," Knock Out says, grimacing as he overrides Megatron's vicious firewalls to gain core access in an effective but inherently Decepticon way. "On this patient, too."
"Well, now you're going to learn to do it properly," Ratchet says. "In a way that persists."
Knock Out grumbles, but Ratchet spots his tag appear on the section of code defining clock ticks.
It's a straightforward fix, the only tricky part is freezing Megatron's timing module for exactly half a tick to allow the change to be fully accepted. Ratchet copies over a standard algorithm that will keep a specific separate log for the next month so they'll have an easy reference point if anything fails. Easy.
"For the sake of decency, leave comments, Ratchet!" Pharma cries.
"My variables are sensibly named and the code itself is clear and readable," Ratchet says. "Anyone with any sense will know what it does and how to edit it."
"You haven't even left a timestamp for when you made the edit!" Pharma wrestles control away from Ratchet to start writing a comment. He even punctuates it.
"If you look at the logs you'll be able to cross reference and find out when it was last edited," Ratchet snaps. "Leaving comments is redundant and a waste of time."
"It's good etiquette," Pharma says. "I won't have you passing on malpractice to the untrained."
"I learnt about commenting back at medical school from one of my teachers," First Aid says quickly, lest he become the subject of Pharma's ire. "I comment as often as I can."
Ratchet doubts that. In his experience, medics only start to properly comment once they've been forced to by colleagues. His commenting standards have, admittedly, slipped somewhat for being the only medic on the team for centuries. He still holds that the code itself should be readable first and anyone relying on comments to make it clear just writes bad code to begin with.
"I've heard of commenting," Ambulon says when Pharm raises an optic ridge at him. "But it's not like I was poking around base coding much, so I haven't had much chance to do it."
"I've never commented on anything in my life," says Knock Out, because he can't stand staying silent whenever there's the slightest opportunity to throw in his two cents.
Ratchet feels vindicated for all of two seconds, and then he realises it's purely Decepticons agreeing with him and his mood sours further.
"There." Pharma backs off, leaving Ratchet's code alone now that it's practically blue with comments. "Now, which driver were you planning to install?"
"I hadn't decided yet," Ratchet admits. "Clock resetting took priority." He sends a request to Megatron's communication array and is pleased to discover that it's responding at an appropriate speed.
"I recommend the latest flow decompressor," Pharma says.
"The curb application is a more stable build," Ratchet argues.
"Flow decompressor has passed all necessary benchmarks and has proven more reliable within newbuilds," Pharma says.
"Megatron is hardly a newbuild," Ratchet says.
"But the mod was only installed in the last five years, correct?" Pharma says.
"Installed is a strong word," Knock Out says. He glances at Megatron for confirmation before continuing. "Unicron made the change."
Being a medic tends to have a dampening effect on a mech's religious leanings. However, Pharma's hands twitch towards the sign of the Thirteen, while First Aid and Ambulon share a perturbed look when they hear that the Unmaker is involved.
"Be that as it may," Pharma forges ahead, "the latest direct flow decompressor has more recent performance reviews."
"If you two can't agree, then it's going to be patient's choice," Ambulon says.
Ratchet sets his jaw. Pharma looks no closer to backing down than he ever has. First Aid breaks the standoff by plugging a driver stick into the tangle of their connections.
"Sorry, Pharma, I couldn't find a decompressor," First Aid says. "It'll have to be Ratchet's app."
Ratchet isn't a good enough person to not gloat while Pharma seethes. It serves him right for trying to steal Ratchet's operation from him.
"I'm sure Ratchet wouldn't dream of harming a patient," Megatron says smugly.
"Don't tempt me," Ratchet mutters.
Ratchet can be professional, no matter how much his patient tries to provoke him. Okay, if he didn't have four other medics watching he might not have followed procedure exactly for this particular patient, but he'd never break anything important or leave a patient unfixed.
The driver installs as smoothly as Ratchet hoped it would. There's only one small hiccough where he winds up reinstalling a minor piece of software governing transfluid production. Pharma doesn't say anything, though he radiates smugness, as though his chosen driver wouldn't have dared to have such a messy install.
"Okay, try calling that now," Ratchet says to Megatron.
The muffled hiss of a depressurising spike is music to Ratchet's audial receptors. First Aid even goes so far as to cheer, before Megatron glowers him into silence. Ratchet unplugs, glad to be out of Megatron's twisted mind.
Knock Out shifts, frowns, and then fails to get up again. Megatron, out of his limited patience, grabs Knock Out and lifts.
"Ow — ow — ouch!" Knock Out yelps. He slams a hand down on Megatron's chest with a clang. "Stop!"
Megatron lets go of his hips and drops his helm back with a gusty sigh. "Now what?"
"I don't know," Knock Out says. He gingerly tries to push himself off again, but winces and gives up. "It hurts. And considering I haven't been able to feel anything in my valve for the past two hours, that's saying something."
Ratchet has an inkling of what might be wrong and judging by the twist of Pharma's mouth he does too. However, as First Aid pointed out earlier, this is something of a rare teaching opportunity.
"Any ideas?" Ratchet asks the junior medics.
"Barbs?" First Aid suggests with a grimace that can be seen even behind his mask. "Or some other sort of locking mechanism? Though it's weird to see more than one on a single spike, isn't it?"
"It could be melted silicone?" Ambulon offers. And then, because he apparently spent the whole war putting interface arrays back together, he adds, "You wouldn't believe how often I had to scrape that out of spike platelets."
"And how would you check?" Ratchet says.
Ratchet can spot the exact moment both First Aid and Ambulon twig what he's asking them to do, because there's suddenly a subtle don't-pick-me-I'm-not-volunteering shift to get behind one another.
"You're both going to have to do it," Ratchet says, at the same time as Pharma orders: "Ambulon, scrub up."
To Ambulon's credit, he doesn't complain, even as his shoulders slump. He sanitises his hands and then pauses halfway onto the berth.
"Did we remember to bring lube?" he asks First Aid with dawning horror.
"Who do you take me for?" Knock Out says. "There's lube under the berth."
"Nope." Ratchet scruffs First Aid before he can go rummaging through the depravity Knock Out keeps in his interface kit on Ambulon's behalf. "Medical grade lubricant only. The last thing we need is an allergic reaction — from anybody. There's a tube in my crate. It's always a good idea to have lubricant on hand."
Ambulon squirts some lubricant onto his fingers, looks at what he's going to do, and adds some more. He nudges Knock Out's back with his elbow.
"You'll have to lean forward a bit," Ambulon says. He presses the tip of one finger against Knock Out's valve and flinches at the reflexive kick it triggers. "Sorry, it's cold."
"Warning," Knock Out hisses.
Ambulon pushes his finger in. There's a long silence, only broken by an occasional squelching noise as he feels around. Ratchet entertains himself by watching Megatron grind his fangs hard enough to cause sparks.
"It's not melted," Ambulon says at length. "And there's nothing sharp. It almost feels… did you shove a magnet up your valve, Knock Out? You know that's not a useful contraceptive."
"I'm amazed you think there's room enough for that," Knock Out grits out.
"First Aid, it's your turn," Pharma says.
Ambulon scrambles off the berth as fast as he can. He's usually pretty professional. It's probably Megatron's proximity that's making him so twitchy about everything. Most Decepticons have a habit of falling apart under his direct supervision and those that don't tend to wind up with worryingly unconventional approaches to their work.
"I see what you mean about a magnet, Ambulon," First Aid says once he's knuckle-deep in Knock Out. "Nothing feels significantly damaged, just weirdly magnetised."
"Knowing that transfluid is ferrous and valve callipers form a mild electromagnet, what do you think happened?" Pharma asks.
"That's just an urban myth," Knock Out says, horrified.
"It's rare, but possible," Ratchet says. "Given how long you've been stuck together it wouldn't surprise me if you've managed to magnetically align your arrays enough to yank Knock Out's callipers out of line when you try to pull out. It probably wouldn't be more than an uncomfortable sting if you hadn't already forced them out of shape by straying outside your size classification."
First Aid takes his hand back and gratefully takes the cleaning cloth Ambulon passes him. Being splattered in energon and coolant is one thing, but transfluid's distinctive shimmery silver has a habit of stripping paint if left on plating for too long.
"Should we try to insert something non-magnetic?" he asks. "I guess it would have to be pretty thick to be a good enough barrier."
"Or something with opposing polarity?" Ambulon suggests. "Though getting it in could be difficult."
"I've already given you the answer," Pharma says sternly, folding his arms.
An embarrassed silence falls as the junior medics try to remember what Pharma's said and how they can use that to fix this issue. They're bright mechs, Ratchet wouldn't want to be mentoring anyone else, but they don't respond particularly well to Pharma's specific brand of harsh questions.
"I can't get my calliper electromagnets to run backwards," Knock Out says in a tone that suggests he's just spent the last ten seconds trying to do just that.
"You can't, but we can," Pharma says. "First Aid, scrub up again. Ambulon, find a voltage adapter. I'll monitor vitals and close."
"You've just finished a ten-hour flight, let me take lead," Ratchet says.
"You're twitching. And I'm not going to let you continue your commentless code propaganda," Pharma says snootily.
"We're not even messing with his code!"
"Excuse me." Knock Out leans over to poke Ratchet in the pauldron. "I'm the patient here and I'd prefer the medic who can weld in a straight line."
"I can weld a f—" Ratchet cuts himself off when Ambulon looks at him sharply. Ratchet grits his dentae. "I thought you were only going to enforce the swear jar when we're in the clinic."
"This is an official house call," Ambulon points out.
"I refuse to believe any medic cares about my language," Ratchet says. "And the other patient is literally the Scourge of Kaon."
"No cursing while practising mechanics," Ambulon says firmly.
Megatron's openly grinning at the exchange. Ratchet hates him so much.
"So, I'm trying to get to the central calliper controls?" First Aid asks, clean hands and a laser scalpel ready to go. "That's here, I think."
"Have you correctly marked and anaesthetised the area?" Pharma says pointedly.
"Uh —"
"Don't you dare use that pen on my finish," Knock Out snaps.
"It washes off," Ambulon says, wielding said pen. "It's not even going to be on any red."
"Do you think I don't polish all of me?" Knock Out says, affronted. "Get that thing away from me, it's bad enough you're going to have to cut into me. You don't have to add insult to injury by marring my finish."
First Aid takes a better scan of Knock Out (one he actually stays still for) and marks his intended surgery area with a string of magnetic anaesthetics. Despite the patient being a coworker, his other coworkers watching like hawks, and the slagmaker himself present, First Aid's hands are steady as he switches on the laser scalpel and gets to work.
Ratchet has nothing to do but supervise in a non-invasive capacity. He can't entirely see what's going on, given that Pharma and Ambulon are both crowded around. However, he doesn't want to switch off and be out of reach and unprepared if they need him, no matter how comfortable Knock Out's tarp-laden couch looks.
Megatron's making full use of his ability to ignore them, a luxury Ratchet envies.
"And just running the volt adapter in reverse on the triple C will fix it?" First Aid says sceptically.
"Slowly," Pharma warns. "You don't need to fully reverse the polarity if you can neutralise it instead."
"Okay…" First Aid turns the dial. "Is that enough, Knock Out?"
Knock Out rises up and Megatron's spike finally slips free from his valve. Knock Out collapses sideways on the berth with a relieved moan. Megatron vents heavily. They're both acting like they've been in a fight with their sparks on the line.
Pharma removes the volt adapter and seals the incision with his usual speed and precision. Ten-hour flight or not, he's still the best of the best. Ratchet wishes he'd been on Earth with him, it would've made keeping Team Prime in good health much easier.
"Finally," Megatron says and then, with more sincerity than Ratchet has ever heard from him, "Thank you."
He slowly sits up. He hisses when he feeds his sore spike back into its housing. Ratchet feels a thread of pity under his relentless hatred, that can't have been comfortable.
And then Megatron stands up. Ratchet's threat detection software blares a warning now that he's dropped the patient tag. First Aid and Ambulon take a step back, while Pharma's wings stiffen. Knock Out's the only one who appears entirely unfazed by Megatron's glower, possibly something to do with all the dark red paint transfers he's left on gunmetal grey plating.
"You're going to need a follow-up consultation," Knock Out purrs, sidling up to Megatron.
"Don't you dare put yourself down as the medic for that," Ratchet says sharply. "Have you never heard of conflict of interest?"
"Like you're one to talk." Knock Out rolls his optics. "Maybe once you let anyone else treat your little team…"
"I'm not fragging any of them!"
Ambulon resets his vocaliser. Ratchet glares at him. He's not paying the stupid swearing fine for using the word in the appropriate context.
"I can't believe this turned into a whole three-ring circus," Knock Out bemoans. "I called Ratchet specifically because he doesn't have a social life."
"Is that why you called me on my off-shift?" Ratchet asks, annoyed. "Because I didn't go to Maccadam's with you overcharged gaggle of gossips last week?"
"Obviously," Knock Out says. "Now, someone tell me what state my valve is in so I can brace myself the correct amount before I look in a mirror."
Ratchet folds his arms in refusal. They'd be able to see energon by now if it was life-threatening. Knock Out can deal with the soreness he caused himself with his own stupid life choices.
Ambulon, with a surprisingly soft spark for a Decepticon, turns on his headlight and kneels down to get a good look. "Your biolights have all burnt out, but the lining itself looks okay. There'll probably be bruising, but that won't show for a day or two."
"Grand." Knock Out closes his panel with a wince. "Ooh, that will be a nasty bruise in a few days."
Ratchet packs away his tools and tidies up the discarded gel pouches. First Aid puts the clinic equipment in its crate, fishing more than a few tools out of Ratchet's crate as he does so. Technically, they belong to the clinic, Ratchet was borrowing them in case of emergency. He'll get them back when he doesn't have a post-high-octane helmache battering at his processor.
"You should come out with us next time we hit up Maccadam's," First Aid says to Ratchet.
"No, thank you," Ratchet says.
Megatron snorts. Ratchet glares at him.
"Something funny?"
"Just the thought of you doing anything other than work, doctor," Megatron says mockingly.
"Now that is a funny thought," Knock Out says with a nasty smirk.
"I do plenty outside of work!" Ratchet protests.
"Yeah?" First Aid asks brightly. "Like what?"
"I have friends," Ratchet says. He winces internally at how defensive it comes out.
"It must be terrible to work with those you don't trust," Megatron says.
First Aid wilts. Performatively. Pharma gives Ratchet a knowingly disappointed look. Even Ambulon appears resigned to it in a put-upon way.
"I don't know why we keep inviting you to come drinking with us," Knock Out says. "It can't be because we enjoy your company or anything."
"I'm sure Ratchet has far more important things to do than to reassure his fellow medics that he isn't overworking himself," Megatron says.
First Aid manages to look even sadder, quite a feat given his mask and visor.
Ratchet's aware he's being manipulated — Megatron is hardly subtle — but that doesn't mean he can back down. They've trapped him.
"I suppose it wouldn't be… terrible to socialise with my colleagues, from time to time," Ratchet says grudgingly.
"It might even be fun!" First Aid says, all cheer again. "So we can count on you to come to Maccadam's with us next week? Pharma will be on-shift then so you don't have to worry about it just being me in charge of the place."
"I'm not worried about you being in charge," Ratchet says.
It doesn't look like anyone believes him. Ratchet feels insulted. He has plenty of faith in the other medics, it's just that if he's able to solve a problem he might as well, instead of putting more work on their plate.
"I'll take my leave," Megatron says. He takes Knock Out's hand and bends down to press a kiss to his knuckles. "Until next time, doctor."
Knock Out's engine gives a pleased little thrum. Ratchet looks away, lest he gag. He purposefully ignores the other goodbyes and refuses to make optic contact with Megatron. He knows he's being immature, but Megatron brings out the worst in everyone.
"He's leaving," Knock Out says exasperatedly, as though Ratchet can't hear heavy pedesteps move away. "Honestly, would it kill you to be polite for once in your life?"
There's a loud thwack and Megatron swears loud enough to wake Unicron. Ratchet smirks when he pokes his head into the main room and spots the new dent above Knock Out's door.
"So, Maccadam's?" First Aid prompts.
"I'll think about it," Ratchet says, purely to buy himself time. By the Allspark, he needs to recharge.
"I can't believe you fragged Lord Megatron," Ambulon says to Knock Out, half disturbed, half awestruck. Apparently it's okay for him to swear. "Of all the spikes to try to ride."
"I'll have you know it feels excellent," Knock Out says. "I'm rather attached to it."
"You're lucky you weren't permanently attached to it," Ambulon says.
"Enough about my interface life," Knock Out says. "I want to know which tank left those tracks on Pharma."
"And I want to know when you're going to reopen the clinic," Pharma says, deflecting again. "You're on shift in twenty minutes, Knock Out."
Ratchet is too. Just the thought of dispensing medical advice makes him feel exhausted. He'll have to swing by a back alley street vendor and grab more high-octane to push through it.
"You expect me to work after all this?" Knock Out demands. "I haven't had a chance to recharge all night and I'm limping." He underlines his protest with an exaggerated hobble around his room.
Ratchet shakes his helm in disgust. "You should've thought of that before you hopped into berth with that —"
"Just look at the state of my paint!" Knock Out continues. "I can't be seen like this."
His paint does look rather scratched up. It's more obvious on him because he usually takes such care in his appearance. If it was Ratchet who'd had a night of rough interface, the extra scratches and occasional dent wouldn't show up significantly against the rest of the scratches and dents he's accrued over the years.
"No one cares what you look like when they've cracked their fuel tank," Pharma says mercilessly. "Go to work."
Knock Out mutters unsavoury things under his breath as he collects an unreasonable amount of cleaning cloths and tucks them into his door pockets. Ratchet and First Aid pick up their respective crates.
"Everyone out," Knock Out says. He grabs an energon pouch from his refrigerated storage unit and pointedly doesn't offer anyone else one. "I'm not leaving any of you alone in my hab."
"Afraid we'll stumble across your illicit vids?" Ambulon teases.
"Out." Knock Out points imperiously out the open front door. He follows them out and locks up after himself. He has a lot more locks than Ratchet has on his door.
"I'll drive you back to the clinic?" First Aid asks Ratchet. "Then I can drop off this stuff and sign out."
Ratchet has a feeling that he's going to spend the whole ride fending off suggestions to go out with the rest of the clinic staff, however, he might need the tools First Aid has and he won't let some poor mech suffer just because he didn't want to put up with small talk.
"I'm going via a dispensary," Ratchet warns him.
"That's fine by me," First Aid says cheerfully. "I was going to head to one once my shift was over anyway."
"Don't waste time fueling when you could be saving sparks," Pharma says.
"We won't," First Aid promises.
Pharma gives them a nod, transforms, and flies off. Ratchet and First Aid transform with their crates and start driving. It looks like Knock Out and Ambulon are going to walk (and probably gossip the whole time).
"So…" First Aid says, swerving close to Ratchet. "There's a new place towards the shuttle district that has darts, would you be interested in coming along if we go there?"
"If I say no will you drag me along anyway?" asks Ratchet.
"I'm just trying to work out a rough schedule," First Aid says. "There are things we all don't like doing. Pharma never wants to come clubbing with us and Knock Out refuses to go to The Trainyard, despite it having the best saltpetre shots you'll ever find. So we do those things when that person is on-shift."
"Are you saying I'd get a say in what we'd do?" Ratchet says suspiciously. "Even if what I want is a quiet night in?"
"We've done data-file and high-grade evenings before. Or holo-vids sometimes," First Aid says. "It's not about getting wasted all the time, it's about having fun with friends."
"I'll… I'll think about it," Ratchet says more sincerely this time.
First Aid nudges his bumper and then returns to a safe distance. Ratchet can admit in the silence of his own helm that — recharge-deprivation and dealing with Megatron aside — it hadn't been unpleasant to spend time with his colleagues and chat. It might even be more pleasant to do so without a medical emergency hanging over everything. And maybe Ratchet could even find out the truth of Knock Out's insinuations about Pharma's trip.
Cybertron is at peace and maybe Ratchet should take advantage of that once in a while.
