When Wise Mechs are Banished -- Ratchet
Title: When Wise Mechs are Banished -- Ratchet
Word Count: 1611
Summary: Prequel to Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread. How and why Ratchet was sentenced to base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E.
Rating: T
Sentinel Prime didn't often go out and fight on the battlefield. When he did, he was always surrounded by guards, and if he did any real fighting, it was only the few weak, small mechs the guards let past.
This time, though, a Decepticon sniper caught the Prime in his sights. It was a lethal wound, but only if not repaired immediately.
So Sentinel Prime was rushed to the nearest capable medic. Who happened to be named Ratchet.
The red and white medic hurried to patch lines and stop the leaking as soon as he met up with the Prime's bearers out on the field. Once the Prime was stable, he called for a transport and accompanied the offline Prime to the nearest base with a medical facility to complete repairs.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
“That was a slagging stupid thing to do,” were the words that greeted the Prime as he onlined. The massive red mech groaned and lifted a hand to his helm.
“What was stupid?” he asked, and a quiet growl met the query.
“You went out on the battlefield. Look, I know it does a lot of fragging good for troop morale, but getting yourself slagged pushes that same morale of the Autobots off a cliff in the other direction. Seriously! I have to deal with stupid frontliners and crazy saboteurs, and all kinds of other things! I really don't need to deal with a glitching suicidal Prime as well!”
Sentinel had onlined his optics sometime in the middle of this rant to see the medic looming above him. A heavy looking wrench was clenched in a red fist, and icy blue optics stared daggers at him out from under a sharp, gray chevron. The medic growled again, glaring down at the Prime.
“Slaggit, I know you aren't a warbuild. The Matrix and the best frame modifiers can't change that. Not at all. Your programming is that of a peace-time leader! You can change every fragging thing you want, but I know a thing or two about coding, and I know a thing or two about the Matrix and its bearer. The coding you had before getting it is hardwired into your spark.” The wrench was waving above his helm now. “Maybe you can lead an army, but you can't go out and fight! You aren't built for it, and the Matrix won't allow reprogramming. You weren't ready or capable of fighting before, you aren't now, you stupid, idiotic Prime!”
Sentinel revved his engine and sat up. “Listen, medic-”
“No, you listen, Prime! My Med Bay, my rules, no matter who or what you are! I don't like repairing idiots who get injured because of their own idiocy!” The wrench descended, and there was a loud clang as it struck the red helm of the Prime. “Listen here, Prime. Be careful who you choose to be your successor. Choose someone who can fight, but doesn't like to. Not someone like you who likes to fight but can't.”
Sentinel rubbed the new dent on the back of his helm and glared at the medic, suddenly feeling like a rebellious youngling. He didn't like that at all. So he stood up and loomed over the audacious medic.
“Listen here, Autobot. I am the Prime. I am the Commander of the Autobot forces-”
“What?” Ratchet snorted condescendingly, “you think I don't know that? I was called in here because you needed the best, because we couldn't loose our precious Prime. I was called away from the front lines to treat you. I don't know how many soldiers, Autobot soldiers, good, loyal soldiers, are dying because I’m here lecturing your aft, not out there doing what I can. So all due respect, Prime, but at the moment, I don't really have any for you.”
With that, the medic walked out of the Med Bay, calling over his comm for a shuttle transport.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
“Get me the name, rank, file... everything about the medic that treated me,” Sentinel ordered as he strode into the Command Center. Every mech saluted him, then returned to their jobs. One mech, Sentinel's personal assistant, Notecard, stepped forward.
“Of course, sir. Just a moment, sir.”
The file was found quickly, and put on a datapad to be handed over to the Prime. Sentinel skimmed through it, frowning. An expert medic. There wasn't a better medic on Cybertron. But he had been prosecuted over and over again for assault, to both officers and subordinates. That wrench had made contact with quite a few helms before Sentinel's.
A low growl rumbled in the Prime's chassis. “Notecard?”
“Yessir?”
“Record a message for me. Send it to the medic. Ratchet.”
“Yessir.”
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
Ratchet stared at the datapad, standing in the middle of the chaotic Med Bay. Soldiers lay, moaning or offline, or silent, on the berths. Medics rushed around, flitting from patient to patient, doing what they could.
And Ratchet stood there, in his own bubble of silence, datapad held in his too-tight fist, face blank.
Then he subspaced the datapad and went back to work.
Only one mech was aware enough to see and comprehend what had happened. A large, red, frontline warrior, sitting at the side of a berth containing a similarly framed yellow frontliner.
The frenzy of post-battle repairs died down as the orn finished, and, as usual, Ratchet was the last medic still working.
Sideswipe rose from his silent vigil, walking over and taking the welder gently from the medic's hand.
“Ratchet... what was that datapad about?”
The medic was silent. His empty hands shook. He shuttered his optics and ducked his helm.
“Ratchet?”
“I've been reassigned,” he whispered, and even the red Twin, who was standing so close their arms brushed, had a hard time hearing it.
“Why? What did you do?”
A dry, harsh laugh barked from Ratchet's vocalizer. “I finally hit the wrong mech. I was called out last orn, remember? To help the Prime. Heh. Guess I shouldn't have hit him over the helm.”
Sideswipe froze. “Ratchet... what base did he assign you to?”
“84G1-07MVE-VR5E.”
The red frontliner was silent and still for a long moment. “I've never heard of it.”
“You wouldn't. It's a little base, way out on a moon, which orbits a large gas giant in a far solar system. There's no real reason to have a base there. Very few usable minerals, no nothing. So far out of the slagging way... Nothing happens out there.”
Sideswipe leaned gently against the medic's shoulder plating. “Ratch'... I’m sorry. When do you leave?”
“Next orn.”
“Primus.”
“I know.”
“Well, let me tell you bye, before you leave.”
Another dry laugh. “Sides, I’ve got to pack. I leave as soon as I’ve got everything.”
The frontliner's vents cycled a heavy draft of air. “Then let me help with the medical supplies. I’m in here often enough I know what most of it is and where it's at.”
“Thank you, Sideswipe. Thank you.”
“No problem, Ratchet. And... Sunny and I’ll miss you.”
“I'll miss you too, you slagging scoundrel.”
“Hah! You love us too much.”
“Of course I do. Not.” Ratchet paused and looked down at the tools he was shoving into his subspace. “Sideswipe... don't get into trouble while I’m gone. I...”
“Hey. Ratch'. You practically raised us. Sunny and I both know that nobody wastes your time, and if we offline, that'd be a big waste.”
Ratchet smiled. “Right. Don't go wasting my time, Sides. Tell Sunstreaker the same thing. And thank you. I’ll... I’ll see you later, Sideswipe.”
“Bye, Doc Bot. Fair travels.”
Ratchet started slightly at the very old farewell before returning the traditional response. “And smooth roads to you.”
One more nod to each other, and the red and white medic left. Sideswipe returned to the chair next to his brother's berth and vented heavily. “I'll miss you, Ratch'. Who's gonna patch us up now?” he whispered to the silence of the Med Bay, occupied only by himself and the stasis-locked injured. It suddenly seemed very large without the warm, if a bit rough-around-the-edges presence of the red and white medic.
.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.
Ratchet stepped off the shuttle to see a black and white Praxian framed mech waiting for him.
“Uh... Sir,” he mumbled, nodding respectfully, fully aware that after his demotion, he would most likely be the lower ranked bot, no matter who this was.
“Hello. Medical Officer Ratchet, I presume?” the black and white asked primly, doorwings twitching slightly.
“Anyone else you're expecting on this Primus-forsaken rock?”
A faint smirk twitched at the edges of the Praxian's lips. “Not particularly,” he answered.
Then something else he had said registered in Ratchet's processor. “Wait. You said Officer. I ain't no officer. Not anymore.”
“True, Sentinel demoted you. But our only other medics are actually someone with only basic field training and... well, Swoop, while very interested, has only had so much training available. So now, you are the most experienced and highest ranking medic, even with your demotion. So I am promoting you, and as Base Commander, I have the power to do so. You are now the Chief Medical Officer of this base.”
Ratchet blinked slowly. “That mean I can give a good whack to whoever needs one?”
“Perhaps.”
“Heh. Maybe this place ain't so much of a Pit after all.”
“Medic, you have no idea.”