Fic: The Glories of eBay, Chapter 2
Author’s Note: I hope everyone had a great holiday season! I certainly did, though it was extremely busy. I’ve barely had any time to sit down and read since November, let alone write. Just a short note about that pesky thing called real life: mine (read: the Minnesota hockey season) will be getting in the way here for the next couple of months, so expect my updates to be quite a bit slower than they have in the past. Rest assured, I’m still writing, but at a much less prolific pace.
Anyways, I know a couple of people have been waiting for the second chapter of this story, and again, I apologize for the simply egregious amount of time it’s taken me to get it written. I need to start clearing out some of my backlogged projects before the bunnies swallow me whole and I figured this was a good place to start. As always, enjoy and if you’re so inclined, a review would be lovely!
Warnings: No food or drink would probably be advisable.
Disclaimer(s): Nothing recognizable is mine. Don’t sue. Also, please don’t try the pranks. On paper, in execution and in shock/laugh value, they rocked, but the consequences? Not so fun.
Chapter 2
Click to back to Chapter 1
Ironhide made the conscientious decision long ago not to trust Sunstreaker or Sideswipe any further than he could throw them. Never having to use the policy in the past, it was only due to recent events had he vowed to put that choice into practice because, by Primus, he was not slipping. A mere two days had passed since what had become known around Diego Garcia as the “Chair of Doom” incident, and the seasoned bot was rightfully wary in the ‘Vette twins’ presence. But cautious or no, training still had to commence and Ironhide was still the best hand-to-hand and weapons combat teacher the Autobots had.
It just didn’t mean ‘Hide had to go easy on the sources of the biggest bruise his ego had ever suffered.
“That was passable, you two. It wasn’t good, but it you’d survive,” Ironhide grunted as he wiped his hands on a shammy, effectively scrubbing some dried energon from the space between his knuckles.
Sunny looked up from his seated position at the armory table and tried to crack a smile. His face painfully contorted once his bashed faceplates bent in the wrong direction. “Thanks, ‘Hide. Glad to know it.”
Sideswipe gave an identical grunt. “Yeah, ‘Hide. Good training session. We needed that, you know. Keep us in shape for the ‘Cons.”
Pausing, Ironhide tilted his head and then nodded. He rose swiftly to his feet and exited the training area. “Good. I’ll see you both tomorrow, then? Same time, same place. You both know the drill.” The weapons specialist didn’t bother to wait for a response, instead ambling his way out of the armory and back toward Ops.
As soon as the black mech was clear of the door, Sunny and Sides both exhaled, their postures going limp. The sounds of self-repair systems whirling to life filled the armory staging area. Both twins wound their arms around their midsections in pain and reached for the sterilizing wipes for the multitude of cuts and abrasions all over their chassis. Ironhide was ruthless and had given no quarter, but the ‘Vette twins’ pride demanded that it not be asked for.
“Oh, maan!” Sides groaned. “So uncool!”
“You knew this was going to happen, Sides,” Sunstreaker said while dabbing at a particularly sensitive spot near the corner of his mouth.
Sideswipe shot his brother an irritated glare as he contemplated the best way to keep his optic supports from collapsing. “Yeah dude, I did, but it doesn’t mean I had to like it.”
“Should we do it?” Sunny asked, laying down prone on the floor, face down.
“Do what?” Sides whined.
“You know. What ‘Hide said.”
Sideswipe leaned back in his chair and put a hand over his face. He carefully cycled his vents. “Even if Ratchet tries to offline us, at least it’ll get old Ironaft to stop thinking about new, creative ways to make us bleed.”
Sunny lifted his head and hissed in pain. “So that’s a ‘yes’, then?”
“Definitely yes.”
========
According to the Autobots’ Chief Medical Officer, interplanetary politics were woefully overrated.
Since he had no assistant on Earth, Prime suggested the Hummer train Mikaela to be his second. But until he prepared the teen to the point of being able to run the medical wing on her own, Ratchet was stuck pulling double duty as both the Autobot CMO and medical liaison to NEST. The job of CMO he relished; he didn’t become the Autobots’ premier medic just because he got the whim up his tailpipe. Snarky and cranky as he may be, Ratchet truly embraced his duties and took it quite seriously. To be CMO, there were no diplomatic requirements, but rather only technical knowledge, sure hands and a steady processor used as the tools of the trade.
It was the second half of his duties on Earth that routinely tied the medic’s processor in a knot. Ratchet was rapidly growing to despise the word “liaison” and he couldn’t believe that Prime saw him fit to work with the humans to forge a medical alliance. Diplomacy was Optimus’ job, after all, not his. He worked with his hands, not his words and never claimed to have anything remotely resembling proper beside manner.
Today, it appeared that every human within a mile radius of NEST was hell bent on playing twenty questions with the chief medic, and it took every iota of self-restrained Ratchet possessed to actively stop himself from “accidently” stepping on someone. The budgetary meeting in the morning with Galloway’s resident bean counters did not start his day off well. The morons in suits nit picked over nearly every penny spent, assuming he could easily recount it on the basis that the CMO was a sentient alien robot from the planet Cybertron. As the day wore on, the sheer amount of stupidity within the human element of NEST’s medical facilities did little to improve Ratchet’s sour mood.
“Slagging pitiful excuse for a human! The next time Megatron wants to destroy his miserable planet, I think I’ll just let him! The Bureau Bum thinks my spending is excessive? This country’s debt is in the trillions!”
Epps and Lennox leaned up against the wall of NEST’s main hanger, the former munching from a bag of Cheetos. Business hours on the base were drawing to a close, and the shifts were beginning their changeover. Will always felt that, as the human commander of NEST, he should observe the change before becoming a civilian for the evening. Epps was next to him because he was just Epps and enjoyed a ranting Autobot as much as the next guy.
As the blur of angry yellow Hummer stormed past them in his bipedal form, Lennox shouted, “That meeting with the accountants must have gone well, then?”
Ratchet only returned the Major’s question with a withering glare and kept walking.
“You didn’t kill anyone, right?” Epps piped in.
Ratchet halted in mid-stride, his momentum carrying him forward to the balls of his feet. Spinning in a quick 180-degree turn, the medic took two short steps back toward NEST’s human element. Leaning down, Ratchet did his best to keep his voice level. “No, Major, it did not go well, but much to your disappointment Sergeant, I did not squish anyone. I was sorely tempted, however.”
Will laughed. “Don’t worry, Ratchet. We all feel that compulsion every once in a great while.”
“Yeah, man. Like once a week!”
Lennox elbowed his Sergeant and rolled his eyes. “I’d better be off. Sarah and Annabelle are waiting for me.”
The medic’s faceplates softened at the mention of the Major’s family. He truly liked Sarah and he adored Annabelle, though he’d deny it to his last cynical, snarky exhalation. “Give them my regards, Will.”
“Of course.” Lennox tilted his head in salute. “Go find a quiet part of NEST, or Ironhide’s firing range and let off a little steam, Ratch. It’d do you good.”
A deep, slightly accented gruff voice cut into the conversation. “Oh no, he most certainly will not. I don’t allow the mentally unqualified to be on my range without supervision. ‘S not safe.”
Undeterred at both Ironhide’s sudden appearance and pot shot to his processing power, Ratchet retorted, “Then that would disqualify the instructor. Piss off, ‘Hide. Or did you forget about your service appointment in the morning?”
The Topkick began his transformation sequence, readying to take Will home to his family on the other side of the spacious base. “Nope. Didn’t forget. I’ll be there, bright and early.”
Ratchet snorted. “I’ll bet. If I have to drag your aft out of your berth tomorrow morning, your intakes will feel it for a week!”
Epps and Lennox were quite enjoying the show. Deciding he should break up the spat before it turned into anything besides that, Will said, “All right. Come on, ‘Hide. Let’s go. Ratchet, go get some rest and some high grade. You look like you could use it.”
Ratchet bobbed his head in acknowledgement as Will waved a goodbye to him and Epps. As Ironhide’s tail lights disappeared in the dirt of Diego Garcia, the medic cast his eyes downward. “Well Sergeant, there’s a cube or three of high grade calling my name and I don’t intent to wait any longer to consume it.”
Epps made a shooing motion with his hands. “Don’t let me stop you, man. That’s bad karma to get in the way of a dude and his beer.”
Trudging down the hall, Ratchet made his way back toward the sanctuary that was the medical wing. He was hoping to get a shower, a bit of energon, and few hours’ recharge, though not necessarily in that order. He entered his code in the panel beside the massive blast door and waited for the hiss of the breaking seal. Ratchet stepped inside, not bothering with more than the emergency lighting in the room. Going over the high grade dispenser he kept stashed in the closet, the medic flipped it on and procured himself a large cube. Downing it in one swift gulp, he made another, polished it off, made a third and then put the machine away for the evening.
Ratchet dropped unceremoniously into the overstuffed chair he kept by his desk and idly picked through some errant paperwork laying on his desk. Sorting the various reports, he placed some in the file bin and the rest in a pile to be completed tomorrow. Leaning back in the chair and putting his yellow feet up on the desk, a content sigh escaped the Hummer’s vents. His optics shuttered involuntarily. More often than not, the chair doubled in purpose as his recharge berth, and it appeared this day was no different. Before Ratchet could properly execute his override command, his recharge program dropped him into mechanical sleep.
On the side of the chair, the blue piping and giant NHRA logo glinted in the dim emergency lighting.
========
“Dude, be careful! He’ll wake up if you’re not!”
“Shut up, Sunny! I got this.” Sideswipe waved a dismissive hand in his brother’s direction as he slowly steered Wheeljack’s Chair of Doom, complete with the Autobot medic, out from the loading docks situated in medbay. “Did you get the other part set up?”
“You bet. I wasn’t taking any chances this would get fragged up. Then we’d have ‘Hide and Ratchet to pay, and that just wouldn’t be cool,” Sunstreaker replied.
Though they could be rash, impulsive, childish and downright disgusting at times, Sunny and Sides were good soldiers. They hadn’t survived so long during a war that had taken so many without being a bit observant. So when ideas began to fail them earlier in the day, the two ‘bots resorted to what they knew about the Autobot chief medic. Most specifically, they resorted to knowing he was a creature of habit, and that he positively despised political meetings.
That, and a little help from Lady Luck didn’t hurt.
Sideswipe carefully maneuvered the chair down the ramps of the loading docks and out into the desert night, thankful that he and his twin repaired every facet of the chair, cameras and microphones included. They hoped Ratchet ingested enough engergon to keep him offline through the ride around the base, and that if he did happen to wake up, the twins could find a place to hide before being squished by an angry medic.
Sideswipe giggled. “This is like Grand Theft Auto. You know, the San Andreas one. Remember that mission where you get to sneak into that old man’s house to steal some crates of weapons? This is just like that, only we’re sneaking our medic around in a chair instead of sneaking out weapons!”
Sunny rolled his optics. “I knew I should have done the driving. Concentrate, bro!”
“No way, dude. You drove last time. If Ratchet is going to murder us, I want to at least be able to say I did more than just stand there and watch.” Sides shook his head and cycled his vents. “All right. We’re almost to the storage tanks.”
The words “Organic Waste Storage 1” loomed through the view screen of the camera on the Chair of Doom. It truly was a pity the world couldn’t observe the technological gem that was NEST. Optimus had insisted early in the planning phases that Diego Garcia be completely self-reliant in everything from electricity production to waste management, mainly because the giant leader felt there would be less human government interference that way. Always the diplomat, Prime told the humans the need to be environmentally conscious was at the forefront of his processor, though that was not the honest-to-Primus truth. In either case, that promise meant building a facility that was capable of recycling all the byproducts of the humans and their Cybertronian allies.
Sideswipe made good use of the rotating camera and eased the chair up the makeshift ramp the two constructed earlier that afternoon. He nudged his way across the support beams, set up to span the diameter of the deepest tank. Tank One, with it’s dimensions of seventeen feet high and twenty-five feet in diameter was originally planned to be the only solid waste disposal tank on base, but the rapid growth of NEST in the two years since Diego Garcia’s initial construction forced the government to expand the infrastructure as well. And after Skids and Mudflap discovered The Simpsons, the accompanying cherry bombs and somehow managed to clog up the plumbing with one of their stunts, having a back up became quite a good idea.
Making sure he was plump in the middle of the suspended boards over the open-top tank, Sideswipe spun the chair so Ratchet’s feet dangled over the edge of the two beams holding the chair up. He engaged the parking brakes, because, in his mind, it truly would be a crime if the actual chair took a dunk, and not just the medic.
“This is going to be awesome. Did you set up the other cameras?” Sunny asked.
“Oh yeah. If we’re going to have our exhausts turned inside out, which is very likely I remind you, I at least want to remember why I did it,” Sideswipe answered.
“Great. Let’s go. We’ll wake him up right before shift change. 0615,” Sunny answered. “Now, hide all the fragging evidence.”
“Done and done. Let’s roll, bro.”
========
“You two better have a goddamn good reason to drag me out here at 0600 on Friday morning, otherwise I will find a creative way to punish you,” Lennox grumbled from his position in Sunstreaker’s alt mode.
The speakers crackled to life and Epps’ equally irritated voice rang through. “I’m with him, man. I swear if this isn’t cool, I’ll shove dog food up your mufflers so it chokes out your Catalytic converters.”
“That’s a little harsh, isn’t Sergeant? You haven’t even seen what we did,” Sunny admonished through his radio.
“Yeah, dude. Have faith. You know us,” Sides added.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Will mumbled under his breath. The quartet pulled up to the Autobot quarters, the humans exiting the alt modes of the Autobots so the latter beings could transform. Upon entering Sunny and Sides’ shared space, Will saw a video feed, apparently of Diego Garica’s environmental area. On top of Waste Tank One was…Lennox’s mood went from annoyed to intrigued, finally settling on a little worried. “What the hell?”
“’Hide told us we had to find a way to distract Ratchet from his service appointment today as payment for the Chair of Doom thing, and we thought this was a pretty good plan,” Sunny said.
Will stifled a laugh. “And this was your idea?”
Epps couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Oh man. This is gonna be so great. You both are so screwed, but hot damn will it be funny!”
========
Ratchet woke slowly, his systems still a little slugging from the rather rapid intake of high grade the night before. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle his drink, but that he wasn’t used to drinking so much so fast. As a medic, he knew better, as the processing of foreign stimulants or depressants was specifically dependent on time. He checked his internal chronometer. 0600. He still had another forty minutes before he needed to be in the medical bay to prepare; Ironhide’s appointment wasn’t until 0730. Shutting his systems down to minimal power, he set to wake again at 0630.
Just as he was dozing off, a shrill voice screeched over his internal comm.
“Ratchet! Skids and Mudflap found some Cemtex! They’re giving to Wheeljack to do some experiments!”
Ratchet’s systems jolted on line, his CPU and processor both going to full power. He snapped his optics open and jumped out his chair, fully intending to hit the floor in mid-stride.
There was only one small problem. The medic’s foot didn’t find the floor when he jumped up in his haste to aid his fellow Autobots. Instead, Ratchet found himself falling. And falling. And landing in the most disgusting, vile and foul-smelling liquid sludge he’d ever seen. He threw his arms out to his sides to try to find something solid to grab to keep his head above…water. Instead, he caught only air, and good Primus? What the slag was that in his mouth?
Ratchet sank all the way into the tank, his head ducking below the surface as his knees bent to absorb the impact of his fall. His sensors, now on full alert, told him he was in the human’s sewage waste tank, and judging by the height of the tank, he figured it was Tank One.
It was only years of training as a medic and his very strong conversion systems that kept Ratchet from spewing all over at the thought of what he was literally swimming in. Instead, he walked over to the side of the tank and hauled himself out, dripping various unsavory bits all over the desert floor. With the scowl plastered all over his faceplates, even Megatron may have run if he saw the thunderous expression of rage in the medic’s optics.
Ratchet hoofed it in robot form into the Autobot hanger, leaving wet, nasty footprints in his wake. Thankfully, it was still early enough that most humans and Autobots weren’t yet awake, but those who were stopped in their tracks, stunned. A few gasps and plenty more gags due to the putrid smell emanating from the medic could be heard as he passed. Ratchet ignored them, fully intent on reaching his target without interference.
Practically mashing in the override code (being the medic did have its advantages), Ratchet just about kicked the door down. He stormed into the unsuspecting bot’s quarters, still dripping all over the floor. From the berth, one black armored hand lifted up to scrub at a tired face.
“I still have time. Go ‘way, Hatchet.”
Ratchet’s anger finally reached a boiling point. “IRONHIDE! I SWEAR TO PRIMUS IF THIS IS YOUR DOING, I WILL INSTALL YOUR CANNONS UP YOUR AFT BACKWARDS AND THEN PERSONALLY CONDUCT A QUALITY CONTROL TEST!”
Ironhide’s olfactory sensors finally registered the putrid smell permeating his personal quarters. He sat up and cracked open one craggy optic. “What the frag happened to you? And get the pit out of quarters! You’re a mess!”
Both Autobots turned their heads toward the door as Ironhide caught a flash of blue and red passing through the hallway. “Optimus! Get your aft in here now!”
From down the hall, four beings, two human and two Cybertronian tried their damndest to stifle their choking laughter.
========
Note (2): God help me, there will be a third and final chapter to this story. It’s fully outlined and being written now, and hopefully will be edited enough to be up by next week. I promise it won’t take me the three months it’s been in between chapters one and two, though. *hides in shame*
========
Anyways, I know a couple of people have been waiting for the second chapter of this story, and again, I apologize for the simply egregious amount of time it’s taken me to get it written. I need to start clearing out some of my backlogged projects before the bunnies swallow me whole and I figured this was a good place to start. As always, enjoy and if you’re so inclined, a review would be lovely!
Warnings: No food or drink would probably be advisable.
Disclaimer(s): Nothing recognizable is mine. Don’t sue. Also, please don’t try the pranks. On paper, in execution and in shock/laugh value, they rocked, but the consequences? Not so fun.
Chapter 2
Click to back to Chapter 1
Ironhide made the conscientious decision long ago not to trust Sunstreaker or Sideswipe any further than he could throw them. Never having to use the policy in the past, it was only due to recent events had he vowed to put that choice into practice because, by Primus, he was not slipping. A mere two days had passed since what had become known around Diego Garcia as the “Chair of Doom” incident, and the seasoned bot was rightfully wary in the ‘Vette twins’ presence. But cautious or no, training still had to commence and Ironhide was still the best hand-to-hand and weapons combat teacher the Autobots had.
It just didn’t mean ‘Hide had to go easy on the sources of the biggest bruise his ego had ever suffered.
“That was passable, you two. It wasn’t good, but it you’d survive,” Ironhide grunted as he wiped his hands on a shammy, effectively scrubbing some dried energon from the space between his knuckles.
Sunny looked up from his seated position at the armory table and tried to crack a smile. His face painfully contorted once his bashed faceplates bent in the wrong direction. “Thanks, ‘Hide. Glad to know it.”
Sideswipe gave an identical grunt. “Yeah, ‘Hide. Good training session. We needed that, you know. Keep us in shape for the ‘Cons.”
Pausing, Ironhide tilted his head and then nodded. He rose swiftly to his feet and exited the training area. “Good. I’ll see you both tomorrow, then? Same time, same place. You both know the drill.” The weapons specialist didn’t bother to wait for a response, instead ambling his way out of the armory and back toward Ops.
As soon as the black mech was clear of the door, Sunny and Sides both exhaled, their postures going limp. The sounds of self-repair systems whirling to life filled the armory staging area. Both twins wound their arms around their midsections in pain and reached for the sterilizing wipes for the multitude of cuts and abrasions all over their chassis. Ironhide was ruthless and had given no quarter, but the ‘Vette twins’ pride demanded that it not be asked for.
“Oh, maan!” Sides groaned. “So uncool!”
“You knew this was going to happen, Sides,” Sunstreaker said while dabbing at a particularly sensitive spot near the corner of his mouth.
Sideswipe shot his brother an irritated glare as he contemplated the best way to keep his optic supports from collapsing. “Yeah dude, I did, but it doesn’t mean I had to like it.”
“Should we do it?” Sunny asked, laying down prone on the floor, face down.
“Do what?” Sides whined.
“You know. What ‘Hide said.”
Sideswipe leaned back in his chair and put a hand over his face. He carefully cycled his vents. “Even if Ratchet tries to offline us, at least it’ll get old Ironaft to stop thinking about new, creative ways to make us bleed.”
Sunny lifted his head and hissed in pain. “So that’s a ‘yes’, then?”
“Definitely yes.”
========
According to the Autobots’ Chief Medical Officer, interplanetary politics were woefully overrated.
Since he had no assistant on Earth, Prime suggested the Hummer train Mikaela to be his second. But until he prepared the teen to the point of being able to run the medical wing on her own, Ratchet was stuck pulling double duty as both the Autobot CMO and medical liaison to NEST. The job of CMO he relished; he didn’t become the Autobots’ premier medic just because he got the whim up his tailpipe. Snarky and cranky as he may be, Ratchet truly embraced his duties and took it quite seriously. To be CMO, there were no diplomatic requirements, but rather only technical knowledge, sure hands and a steady processor used as the tools of the trade.
It was the second half of his duties on Earth that routinely tied the medic’s processor in a knot. Ratchet was rapidly growing to despise the word “liaison” and he couldn’t believe that Prime saw him fit to work with the humans to forge a medical alliance. Diplomacy was Optimus’ job, after all, not his. He worked with his hands, not his words and never claimed to have anything remotely resembling proper beside manner.
Today, it appeared that every human within a mile radius of NEST was hell bent on playing twenty questions with the chief medic, and it took every iota of self-restrained Ratchet possessed to actively stop himself from “accidently” stepping on someone. The budgetary meeting in the morning with Galloway’s resident bean counters did not start his day off well. The morons in suits nit picked over nearly every penny spent, assuming he could easily recount it on the basis that the CMO was a sentient alien robot from the planet Cybertron. As the day wore on, the sheer amount of stupidity within the human element of NEST’s medical facilities did little to improve Ratchet’s sour mood.
“Slagging pitiful excuse for a human! The next time Megatron wants to destroy his miserable planet, I think I’ll just let him! The Bureau Bum thinks my spending is excessive? This country’s debt is in the trillions!”
Epps and Lennox leaned up against the wall of NEST’s main hanger, the former munching from a bag of Cheetos. Business hours on the base were drawing to a close, and the shifts were beginning their changeover. Will always felt that, as the human commander of NEST, he should observe the change before becoming a civilian for the evening. Epps was next to him because he was just Epps and enjoyed a ranting Autobot as much as the next guy.
As the blur of angry yellow Hummer stormed past them in his bipedal form, Lennox shouted, “That meeting with the accountants must have gone well, then?”
Ratchet only returned the Major’s question with a withering glare and kept walking.
“You didn’t kill anyone, right?” Epps piped in.
Ratchet halted in mid-stride, his momentum carrying him forward to the balls of his feet. Spinning in a quick 180-degree turn, the medic took two short steps back toward NEST’s human element. Leaning down, Ratchet did his best to keep his voice level. “No, Major, it did not go well, but much to your disappointment Sergeant, I did not squish anyone. I was sorely tempted, however.”
Will laughed. “Don’t worry, Ratchet. We all feel that compulsion every once in a great while.”
“Yeah, man. Like once a week!”
Lennox elbowed his Sergeant and rolled his eyes. “I’d better be off. Sarah and Annabelle are waiting for me.”
The medic’s faceplates softened at the mention of the Major’s family. He truly liked Sarah and he adored Annabelle, though he’d deny it to his last cynical, snarky exhalation. “Give them my regards, Will.”
“Of course.” Lennox tilted his head in salute. “Go find a quiet part of NEST, or Ironhide’s firing range and let off a little steam, Ratch. It’d do you good.”
A deep, slightly accented gruff voice cut into the conversation. “Oh no, he most certainly will not. I don’t allow the mentally unqualified to be on my range without supervision. ‘S not safe.”
Undeterred at both Ironhide’s sudden appearance and pot shot to his processing power, Ratchet retorted, “Then that would disqualify the instructor. Piss off, ‘Hide. Or did you forget about your service appointment in the morning?”
The Topkick began his transformation sequence, readying to take Will home to his family on the other side of the spacious base. “Nope. Didn’t forget. I’ll be there, bright and early.”
Ratchet snorted. “I’ll bet. If I have to drag your aft out of your berth tomorrow morning, your intakes will feel it for a week!”
Epps and Lennox were quite enjoying the show. Deciding he should break up the spat before it turned into anything besides that, Will said, “All right. Come on, ‘Hide. Let’s go. Ratchet, go get some rest and some high grade. You look like you could use it.”
Ratchet bobbed his head in acknowledgement as Will waved a goodbye to him and Epps. As Ironhide’s tail lights disappeared in the dirt of Diego Garcia, the medic cast his eyes downward. “Well Sergeant, there’s a cube or three of high grade calling my name and I don’t intent to wait any longer to consume it.”
Epps made a shooing motion with his hands. “Don’t let me stop you, man. That’s bad karma to get in the way of a dude and his beer.”
Trudging down the hall, Ratchet made his way back toward the sanctuary that was the medical wing. He was hoping to get a shower, a bit of energon, and few hours’ recharge, though not necessarily in that order. He entered his code in the panel beside the massive blast door and waited for the hiss of the breaking seal. Ratchet stepped inside, not bothering with more than the emergency lighting in the room. Going over the high grade dispenser he kept stashed in the closet, the medic flipped it on and procured himself a large cube. Downing it in one swift gulp, he made another, polished it off, made a third and then put the machine away for the evening.
Ratchet dropped unceremoniously into the overstuffed chair he kept by his desk and idly picked through some errant paperwork laying on his desk. Sorting the various reports, he placed some in the file bin and the rest in a pile to be completed tomorrow. Leaning back in the chair and putting his yellow feet up on the desk, a content sigh escaped the Hummer’s vents. His optics shuttered involuntarily. More often than not, the chair doubled in purpose as his recharge berth, and it appeared this day was no different. Before Ratchet could properly execute his override command, his recharge program dropped him into mechanical sleep.
On the side of the chair, the blue piping and giant NHRA logo glinted in the dim emergency lighting.
========
“Dude, be careful! He’ll wake up if you’re not!”
“Shut up, Sunny! I got this.” Sideswipe waved a dismissive hand in his brother’s direction as he slowly steered Wheeljack’s Chair of Doom, complete with the Autobot medic, out from the loading docks situated in medbay. “Did you get the other part set up?”
“You bet. I wasn’t taking any chances this would get fragged up. Then we’d have ‘Hide and Ratchet to pay, and that just wouldn’t be cool,” Sunstreaker replied.
Though they could be rash, impulsive, childish and downright disgusting at times, Sunny and Sides were good soldiers. They hadn’t survived so long during a war that had taken so many without being a bit observant. So when ideas began to fail them earlier in the day, the two ‘bots resorted to what they knew about the Autobot chief medic. Most specifically, they resorted to knowing he was a creature of habit, and that he positively despised political meetings.
That, and a little help from Lady Luck didn’t hurt.
Sideswipe carefully maneuvered the chair down the ramps of the loading docks and out into the desert night, thankful that he and his twin repaired every facet of the chair, cameras and microphones included. They hoped Ratchet ingested enough engergon to keep him offline through the ride around the base, and that if he did happen to wake up, the twins could find a place to hide before being squished by an angry medic.
Sideswipe giggled. “This is like Grand Theft Auto. You know, the San Andreas one. Remember that mission where you get to sneak into that old man’s house to steal some crates of weapons? This is just like that, only we’re sneaking our medic around in a chair instead of sneaking out weapons!”
Sunny rolled his optics. “I knew I should have done the driving. Concentrate, bro!”
“No way, dude. You drove last time. If Ratchet is going to murder us, I want to at least be able to say I did more than just stand there and watch.” Sides shook his head and cycled his vents. “All right. We’re almost to the storage tanks.”
The words “Organic Waste Storage 1” loomed through the view screen of the camera on the Chair of Doom. It truly was a pity the world couldn’t observe the technological gem that was NEST. Optimus had insisted early in the planning phases that Diego Garcia be completely self-reliant in everything from electricity production to waste management, mainly because the giant leader felt there would be less human government interference that way. Always the diplomat, Prime told the humans the need to be environmentally conscious was at the forefront of his processor, though that was not the honest-to-Primus truth. In either case, that promise meant building a facility that was capable of recycling all the byproducts of the humans and their Cybertronian allies.
Sideswipe made good use of the rotating camera and eased the chair up the makeshift ramp the two constructed earlier that afternoon. He nudged his way across the support beams, set up to span the diameter of the deepest tank. Tank One, with it’s dimensions of seventeen feet high and twenty-five feet in diameter was originally planned to be the only solid waste disposal tank on base, but the rapid growth of NEST in the two years since Diego Garcia’s initial construction forced the government to expand the infrastructure as well. And after Skids and Mudflap discovered The Simpsons, the accompanying cherry bombs and somehow managed to clog up the plumbing with one of their stunts, having a back up became quite a good idea.
Making sure he was plump in the middle of the suspended boards over the open-top tank, Sideswipe spun the chair so Ratchet’s feet dangled over the edge of the two beams holding the chair up. He engaged the parking brakes, because, in his mind, it truly would be a crime if the actual chair took a dunk, and not just the medic.
“This is going to be awesome. Did you set up the other cameras?” Sunny asked.
“Oh yeah. If we’re going to have our exhausts turned inside out, which is very likely I remind you, I at least want to remember why I did it,” Sideswipe answered.
“Great. Let’s go. We’ll wake him up right before shift change. 0615,” Sunny answered. “Now, hide all the fragging evidence.”
“Done and done. Let’s roll, bro.”
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“You two better have a goddamn good reason to drag me out here at 0600 on Friday morning, otherwise I will find a creative way to punish you,” Lennox grumbled from his position in Sunstreaker’s alt mode.
The speakers crackled to life and Epps’ equally irritated voice rang through. “I’m with him, man. I swear if this isn’t cool, I’ll shove dog food up your mufflers so it chokes out your Catalytic converters.”
“That’s a little harsh, isn’t Sergeant? You haven’t even seen what we did,” Sunny admonished through his radio.
“Yeah, dude. Have faith. You know us,” Sides added.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Will mumbled under his breath. The quartet pulled up to the Autobot quarters, the humans exiting the alt modes of the Autobots so the latter beings could transform. Upon entering Sunny and Sides’ shared space, Will saw a video feed, apparently of Diego Garica’s environmental area. On top of Waste Tank One was…Lennox’s mood went from annoyed to intrigued, finally settling on a little worried. “What the hell?”
“’Hide told us we had to find a way to distract Ratchet from his service appointment today as payment for the Chair of Doom thing, and we thought this was a pretty good plan,” Sunny said.
Will stifled a laugh. “And this was your idea?”
Epps couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Oh man. This is gonna be so great. You both are so screwed, but hot damn will it be funny!”
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Ratchet woke slowly, his systems still a little slugging from the rather rapid intake of high grade the night before. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t handle his drink, but that he wasn’t used to drinking so much so fast. As a medic, he knew better, as the processing of foreign stimulants or depressants was specifically dependent on time. He checked his internal chronometer. 0600. He still had another forty minutes before he needed to be in the medical bay to prepare; Ironhide’s appointment wasn’t until 0730. Shutting his systems down to minimal power, he set to wake again at 0630.
Just as he was dozing off, a shrill voice screeched over his internal comm.
“Ratchet! Skids and Mudflap found some Cemtex! They’re giving to Wheeljack to do some experiments!”
Ratchet’s systems jolted on line, his CPU and processor both going to full power. He snapped his optics open and jumped out his chair, fully intending to hit the floor in mid-stride.
There was only one small problem. The medic’s foot didn’t find the floor when he jumped up in his haste to aid his fellow Autobots. Instead, Ratchet found himself falling. And falling. And landing in the most disgusting, vile and foul-smelling liquid sludge he’d ever seen. He threw his arms out to his sides to try to find something solid to grab to keep his head above…water. Instead, he caught only air, and good Primus? What the slag was that in his mouth?
Ratchet sank all the way into the tank, his head ducking below the surface as his knees bent to absorb the impact of his fall. His sensors, now on full alert, told him he was in the human’s sewage waste tank, and judging by the height of the tank, he figured it was Tank One.
It was only years of training as a medic and his very strong conversion systems that kept Ratchet from spewing all over at the thought of what he was literally swimming in. Instead, he walked over to the side of the tank and hauled himself out, dripping various unsavory bits all over the desert floor. With the scowl plastered all over his faceplates, even Megatron may have run if he saw the thunderous expression of rage in the medic’s optics.
Ratchet hoofed it in robot form into the Autobot hanger, leaving wet, nasty footprints in his wake. Thankfully, it was still early enough that most humans and Autobots weren’t yet awake, but those who were stopped in their tracks, stunned. A few gasps and plenty more gags due to the putrid smell emanating from the medic could be heard as he passed. Ratchet ignored them, fully intent on reaching his target without interference.
Practically mashing in the override code (being the medic did have its advantages), Ratchet just about kicked the door down. He stormed into the unsuspecting bot’s quarters, still dripping all over the floor. From the berth, one black armored hand lifted up to scrub at a tired face.
“I still have time. Go ‘way, Hatchet.”
Ratchet’s anger finally reached a boiling point. “IRONHIDE! I SWEAR TO PRIMUS IF THIS IS YOUR DOING, I WILL INSTALL YOUR CANNONS UP YOUR AFT BACKWARDS AND THEN PERSONALLY CONDUCT A QUALITY CONTROL TEST!”
Ironhide’s olfactory sensors finally registered the putrid smell permeating his personal quarters. He sat up and cracked open one craggy optic. “What the frag happened to you? And get the pit out of quarters! You’re a mess!”
Both Autobots turned their heads toward the door as Ironhide caught a flash of blue and red passing through the hallway. “Optimus! Get your aft in here now!”
From down the hall, four beings, two human and two Cybertronian tried their damndest to stifle their choking laughter.
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Note (2): God help me, there will be a third and final chapter to this story. It’s fully outlined and being written now, and hopefully will be edited enough to be up by next week. I promise it won’t take me the three months it’s been in between chapters one and two, though. *hides in shame*
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