[Bayverse] War Without End: Ratchet - Part Two

[dracoqueen22]

War Without End: Ratchet

Part Two

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“You are agitated.”

Ratchet snorts, focusing intently on the wiring in Thundercracker's lower left knee.

“A vast understatement.”

Fingers shifting into tweezers, he carefully plucks out bits of stone and other detritus caught in the delicate joint. It also serves as a useful distraction for not explaining further. Not that either Seeker seems to notice.

“Care to share why?” Skywarp pipes up from where he's lounging on a slab of concrete. An assortment of human bedding in various shades covers the heavy stone, a blinding clash of colors that the two ‘Cons have scavenged over the course of their convalescence.

“No.”

Ratchet shifts his weight, getting more comfortable as he cycles his optics and magnifies his view. Fragged Seekers and their tiny, tiny joints.

Thundercracker's quiet hum resonates throughout his chest cavity. “With that vile trill in your energy field, you probably should.”

“I'm not about to tell my woes to a pair of Decepticon Seekers,” Ratchet retorts, free hand pulling a spare hydraulic line from his subspace.

“And here I thought we were all friends, Ratchet.” Skywarp levers himself off the berth.
“How cruel you are.”

The medic shifts his attention briefly, and he aims a glare at the annoying pest.

“Friends would be stretching it, Skywarp. You are my patients. Nothing more.”

Hah. That argument could’ve sufficed a week ago. Not anymore though. The two Seekers are, for the most part, repaired enough that they could leave Earth if it were possible. They couldn't get very far, not with that glitch in Thundercracker's thruster, but if they could avoid the weapons watching the sky, break atmo, and hit the freedom of space, Ratchet supposes it wouldn't matter afterward. It's not like the humans or the Autobots could chase after them.

Then again, where would they go? Who would finish their repairs? Where would they get energon? Thundercracker certainly can't make it beyond this solar system. Ratchet would hazard a guess that the Seeker isn't actually capable of passing Earth's moon, but he doubts Thundercracker would admit to such weakness.

And so they stay.

Skywarp drapes himself across Thundercracker's back. Blatantly invading his companion's personal space and gifting a smirk down at Ratchet.

“You say it, so it must be true. Let me guess. Prime is kowtowing to the fleshbags again?”

He’s unable to hide his flinch or the resulting shiver in his energy field. “This isn’t our planet,” Ratchet says, neither confirming nor denying Skywarp's accurate statement.

Thundercracker's wings twitch in annoyance. “No. Our planet was destroyed to save this one.”

“I don't need that reminder,” Ratchet grunts and pulls back, his work complete. “Any other grievances I should know about before I go?”

Skywarp tilts his helm. His crimson optics take on a decidedly impish glow.

“Now that I think about it, I've got a kink in my energon line that--”

“Warp!” Thundercracker snaps, reaching up and flicking his wingmate in the forehelm. “Don't be crass.”

“But it's so much fun,” Skywarp purrs.

Ratchet rises to his pedes, reminding himself that this annoyance is suitable punishment for betraying his Prime and his fellow Autobots. He's also learned that it's in his best interest to completely ignore Skywarp's teasing and pretend he never heard it.

“I'll bring more energon next time. Anything else?”

There's a touch of impatience in his tone. Skywarp has the ability to annoy him far better than Sideswipe ever managed, though Ratchet attributes that to the whole fact they used to be mortal enemies.

Now? Now, Ratchet isn't sure what to define them. Hardly comrades. No longer foes. He doesn't seek their deaths; they seem to tolerate his existence. They haven't expressed any interest in retribution for Starscream's offlining. Although, touchy subject that it is, all three of them have wisely steered away from controversial topics.

Thundercracker leans forward then. “Tell me what it is that has you so rattled.”

“I fail to see where it is any of your concern.” Ratchet purposefully doesn’t look at him.

“We're trapped here, medic,” Skywarp retorts with a huffy expelling of air. “And we figure that the moment your Prime finds out we're not a pile of busted mech parts, he'll try to take us out. Tell me I'm wrong.”

Ratchet inclines his head. “I cannot.”

Once, long ago, he might have been able to accurately anticipate what his Prime might choose. Not anymore. What Prime has become is ruthless and unpredictable. Vicious, too.

Much like his brother as a matter of fact. It’s been a growing concern that Megatron's offlining has affected Prime more than he’ll admit. Both the first time and this second time, which is compounded by the death of Prime's mentor. No bot, no matter how strong-willed and touched by the Matrix, handles such betrayals easily. Yet, Prime has sought help from no one, least of all his medic.

Once upon a vorn, Prime might’ve gone to Ironhide. But that option as well is no longer available to him. Prime's entire support system has gone to dust. It’s no small stretch to believe his Prime is... unbalanced.

“Ratchet,” Thundercracker puts in firmly, a tone he no doubt acquired in becoming Starscream's second. “Tell us what the Prime has done.”

“You assume it was him.” Ratchet crosses his arms over his chestplate, an all-too-human move that he’s adopted, but this one, he doesn’t mind so much. “There are other grievances.”

Skywarp drops down onto a piece of concrete masquerading as a chair. “Spill it, Autobot. We don't have anything better to do.”

It’s a waste of effort to glare at Skywarp. He seems to feed off of the irritation he causes.

“Earth isn’t home,” Ratchet bites out, and it's strange how much his joints loosen at the admittance. “It will never be home, and with every day that passes, I’m further reminded of this. The humans will never accept us. What Prime hopes for is a pipe dream. A sparkling’s memory fragment.”

“To be fair,” Thundercracker replies, shifting forward, stretching first one and then the other wing out behind him. “I don't think it's possible to say what Prime wants. I don't think he knows. We don't really remember anything but war. We don't know how to function outside of it.”

Ratchet exvents loudly. His fingers dig into his forehead, which twitches with phantom pains.

“And here I am, pouring my disappointment to a pair of ‘Cons. Ironically, the only two who might understand my inner conflict.”

“What was it this time?” Skywarp leans back, making himself comfortable. “Don't tell me he finally agreed to hand over our weapons tech.”

“He has yet to make that mistake. But I don't think the humans will be satisfied by anything less.” Ratchet seeks out his own piece of debris, feeling weary beyond words. “And with the war over, we’ve lost all bargaining power we might have once had.”

Thundercracker croons a note of agreement. “Protecting against ‘Con incursion is the only reason the humans tolerated an Autobot presence. And even then, just barely.”

“Precisely.”

“So what's the big deal?” Skywarp rolls his shoulder in semblance of a squishy shrug. “We don't have to stay here. Earth's not the only planet in the universe.”

Ratchet shutters his optics. It’d be nice if they could make Earth home. He's so fragging exhausted. There’s much about Earth that is acceptable and intriguing. But Earth will never be Cybertron, and the humans demand all but the energon in their frames as payment for a scrap of land. It's not worth it.

“Prime won't leave,” Ratchet replies, and he can't even tell them why. He doesn't understand his leader anymore.

“Why would he?” Skywarp snorts, a flicker of disdain edging into his energy field. “He chose Cybertron over the humans. He will always choose the humans over his own kind. And he dares call Megatron the traitor.”

Ratchet wisely doesn't comment. It’s one of those disparate opinions that only serves to ignite tensions between them.

Ratchet is loyal to his Prime. Mostly.

The Seekers are loyal to Megatron. Somewhat.

Either way, it will take more than a little mercy and some repairs for either of them to admit that one side or the other is wrong. They tolerate each other for now. They have conversations lacking in threats and raised weapons. That, in Ratchet's opinion, is the best any of them can hope for at the moment.

As much as Ratchet regrets Prime's decision to destroy Cybertron in favor of Earth, he understands it. In all fairness, the humans don’t deserve the destruction of their home world or enslavement. Ratchet cannot truly blame Prime for making that terrible, terrible choice.

He can – and does – blame Prime for all the other decisions he made which forced their hand in the first place. He also blames himself. For never speaking up. For not standing his ground when the opportunity arose. For not doing more to make sure their Prime wasn't falling into pieces, decaying on the edges.

Ratchet onlines his optics.

“When was the last time any of us actually performed burial rites for the fallen?” he asks, voice a solemn echo in the speculative silence. “When was the last time we didn't have to cannibalize the fallen for spare parts? When we didn't have to leave our comrades to rust on the battlefield?”

He supposes they’ll never truly know the actual spark count of all the Cybertronians who had perished in their war. There's no way to be certain. It's not as though they can go back to all the frontlines on all the worlds and count grey frames. Or count the particles on vaporized battleships. Or remember whose parts belonged to which fallen comrade.

Once, Ratchet could have done it. He'd kept a steady log in the back of his memory banks. Back when it was possible to keep track of who had donated which part and who had received said part. Back when they could still count and notate every one of the fallen.

Sideswipe probably still has Camshaft's secondary fuel pump.

Ratchet's reasonably certain that Bumblebee owes his life to Cliffjumper's brave, if foolish, sacrifice.

Ratchet had once reinforced Prime's backstrut with Broadside's, a slapdash field repair that had held through three clashes with the Decepticons before Ratchet had been able to get Prime on a real medberth.

Ironhide--

No.

Ratchet briefly shutters his optics, dragging his processor away from the gruesome catalog he still carries. Most of it corrupted, other bits deleted as more and more mechs died and it hurt more to keep track of them all.

This realization is one of the greater tragedies of their war. At some point, the dead really are just tick-marks on a list that will remain forever incomplete.

Maybe Prime has it right. Maybe Ratchet is grieving for all the wrong reasons. Maybe he finally has lost his grips on his processor.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He doesn't really know what to believe anymore.

It's been vorns since their war had any real purpose. Long, long ago it had started for a reason, take his pick. Megatron's lust for power. Prime’s determination to ensure that all Cybertronians remained free from his brother. The desire for a certain equality amongst all the designs. Fighting for whatever a mech put his faith into. A petty disagreement between brothers that devolved love into hatred.

Long ago, they all fought and killed and died for their principles. In the wake of their war's end, Ratchet's realized that their fight had become nothing more than a continuation of old grievances. Peace was never an option, not anymore.

They fight because they don't know any different. Because no one can forgive. Because there are only the two sides who survived, loathing each other. The cruelest of the Decepticons. The most ruthless of the Autobots. Very few soft sparks made it until the end. Soft sparks don't survive war. Not in any real meaningful way. They either die. Or become something else. Someone else.

“We’re in a war,” Thundercracker murmurs, filling the loaded quiet and dragging Ratchet from his thoughts. “There’s much we’ve surrendered in the wake of it.”

“Who can remember that far back?” Skywarp asks, words flippant but tone lacking that trivial edge. “Honorable burials and all that slag.” He expels a loud gust of air, a disdainful sound. “We soldiers were leaving pieces of ourselves on battlefields long before this stupid war came along. Civvies are the ones with rites.”

Thundercracker tilts his optics upward. “Warp's got a point. Those old rituals, they don't mean much now. And they never meant much to us war-builds anyway. No one cared what happened to us while we were functioning. Why would they care when we died?”

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. “I know good and well you weren't always a war-build.”

“Yes, I was,” Thundercracker corrects. “But I wasn't always a soldier. There's a key difference.”

“Besides,” Skywarp interjects cheerily, legs swinging back and forth like a sparkling eager to play. “Sometimes, war is the better option. Sometimes, there are worse things.”

Ratchet's comm unit chirps before he can respond to that vague statement. He half-turns away from the ‘Cons.

--Ratchet here.--

--Prime's looking for you,-- Sideswipe tells him, sounding a touch irritated to be playing messenger bot. --Why aren't you on base?--

--Needed parts.--

He doesn't flinch at the lies anymore. After two solid weeks of sneaking out to repair the Decepticons and bring them necessary supplies, Ratchet barely stirs at the little white falsehoods.

The connection bristles with static, a pause of disbelief.

--Huh. Whatever. I'd get back before Boss Bot really flips his lid. Something's got him pacing. And I'd guess it was a squishy.--

Mearing. Or even higher perhaps. Ratchet can't hazard a guess, and a part of him doesn't care to. The humans in charge are interchangeable. In their politics, the only thing that remains the same is their greed and lack of respect. Can't trust any of them, save perhaps the soldiers who’d been with them from the beginning or Bee’s sidekick.

The medic makes an indistinct sound of annoyance.

--Very well. Ratchet out.--

He shifts his attention back to the Seekers, who are making no secret of the fact they’re openly interested. Thundercracker probably could’ve hacked into the comm if he’d really wanted, but he hadn't even tried. Out of courtesy or disdain, Ratchet doesn't know. He doesn't ask either.

“Duty calls, I take it?” Skywarp asks.

Ratchet hauls himself up. The squeak and hiss of unmaintained joints accompanies the motion.

“As always.” He waves a dismissing hand. “You know the drill by now. Stay out of sight. No transmissions. Etcetera, etcetera. I'll be back as soon as it's feasible.”

He turns to leave, no longer uneasy at giving his back to a pair of ‘Cons. It used to make his plating twitch. Even as his armor clamped tightly to his frame, and battle systems hummed in anticipation. Not so much anymore though.

“And when we're repaired,” Thundercracker begins, making Ratchet pause in the midst of ducking under a support beam, “what then?”

Ratchet's fingers rap over the metal of his thigh. “I don't know,” he answers honestly. “I've not figured out that far yet.”

He can feel both of them staring at him. He doesn’t turn around.

“Why did you do it?” Thundercracker questions yet again.

“I don't know the answer to that either.” Ratchet slides out from under the beam, preparing to drop into alt-mode as the ceiling becomes much lower from here to the street. “I'll return as soon as I can.”

Ratchet leaves the collapsed building and his two Seeker patients behind. He takes a meandering path back toward the warehouse that serves as NEST's temporary base while they manage Chicago's cleanup. Too much alien tech has been left lying around in the wake of the battle and no one – human or mech – is comfortable with that amount of equipment ripe for the taking.

All of Chicago is under martial law. No one gets in or out, mech or human, without the military's permission. Not that it's managed to stop the scavengers. They've all seen the postings on Ebay, things recovered from the massive battle and sold to the highest bidder. They don't have nearly enough staff to track down all the missing pieces. At least, not from this end. And there’s no telling what the government has already done with what they’ve managed to confiscate from the idiotic humans too stupid to not sell their goods openly.

Prime's hope that the humans never gain their weapons tech is a pretty distant reality by now. The humans are an ingenuous species; Ratchet will give them that. They won't need much to reverse-engineer anything, only limited by the materials that Earth can currently provide. Substandard compared to Cybertronian alloys. Yet, the threat is real.

Another reason that Earth will never be home, in Ratchet's opinion. When it comes down to it, and the humans find themselves capable of taking down the Cybertronians with their own technology, what then? They're already dying as a species. Who's to say the humans won't decide it's in their better interest to accelerate the process?

NEST's makeshift base is a whirlwind of activity when Ratchet arrives, more than when he’d left. Something has sent the soldiers into a flurry of excitement. A new arrival perhaps? Ratchet can only hope.

He pulls into the main warehouse, scanners seeking out Prime first and foremost. His leader, however, is on the far side, speaking with what appears to be Lennox. Perhaps issuing orders.

Ratchet slips out of alt-mode and snags Leadfoot as the Wrecker passes.

“What's going on?”

“Energon sensors're pinging in Brazil,” Leadfoot answers, eagerness buzzing in his field. “More Decepticreeps coming out of hiding. Sideswipe, Topspin and me are gonna take care of it.”

Ratchet can't share Leadfoot's enthusiasm. He frowns.

“What did they do?”

“Do?” Leadfoot's optics cycle down, squinting up at Ratchet. “What d'ya mean?”

“Did they attack the humans?”

“Uh, no.”

Leadfoot looks honestly confused. He shifts his weight, craning his helm to look around Ratchet like the transport's going to leave without him.

“But the locals don't much like squatting ‘Cons and neither does Prime.”

Something drops into Ratchet's tanks and roils unpleasantly. “So we're going to hunt them down and extinguish their sparks.”

It feels uncomfortably like extermination to be honest. The war's over, isn't it? Why the frag are they still fighting?

What the frag happened to til all are one?

“They're ‘Cons,” Leadfoot says, as if Ratchet has forgotten this key indicator. A statement that pretends like it’s all the answer Ratchet should need.

They are Decepticons. Therefore, they must be destroyed. One does not equate the other. Not anymore.

Ratchet's shoulder slump. “And peace won't come until every last one of them is gone,” he says, subvoc and rhetorically, but Leadfoot hears him anyway.

The Wrecker gives him a strange look, but he brightens quickly enough as he misinterprets the comment.

“That’s the idea.” He gives a little shimmy step to the side. “See ya later.”

Leadfoot hustles past Ratchet, heading for the massive open doors of the warehouse and the waiting transport. Sideswipe and Topspin are already there, the former rolling back and forth on his wheeled pedes. A contingent of soldiers are performing last minute checks of their equipment, and from this distance Ratchet can identify Graham as their commanding officer.

Careful of the humans darting around, Ratchet moves to the open doors, peering into the bright sunlight. The three bots are the first to load into the transport, shifting into their alt-modes as it’s more comfortable for the humans. Then, Graham and his team embark. Minutes later, they’re in the air.

Ratchet wonders who they’ll be murdering this time. For a slaughter it will be. The remaining ‘Cons on Earth are scattered, hiding out in ones or twos, underpowered and without leadership.

Two Wreckers, Sides, and a team of fully trained NEST soldiers? They won't stand a chance.

They'll fight to the last drop of energon. Surrender never existed in the vocabulary of the ‘Cons. Truth be told, Ratchet doesn't think his side understands the word either. Decepticons aren't known for mercy. And the so-called soft-sparked Autobots have abandoned theirs.

Shoot first. Shoot for the spark. Let Primus sort them out. If Primus even cares anymore. If Primus even exists.

Ratchet's proximity sensors ping with the approach of something larger than a human, returning with the familiar signature of a Cybertronian. An Autobot. Prime.

“Ratchet--”

“No need to remind me, Prime,” the medic retorts, cutting off whatever he’d meant to say and ignoring the screeching in his programming. One doesn't interrupt the Prime. “I am aware of my duty.” Coding conflicts keen within him, and he's sick to his very spark. “I'll be done by dawn.”

He can feel Prime's optics on him, like heavy weights on his plating.

“Your diligence in this matter is appreciated.”

Ratchet's tanks roil quite unpleasantly, but he can't decide if the disgust is aimed at himself for his submission or at Prime for forcing him into this corner.

“Don't thank me,” he mutters, turning away from the doors and facing his leader. “I'm obeying orders. That's all.”

By the Allspark, don't thank him.

He doesn't know which is worse. The feeling that he's betraying his principles, that he's betraying his fellows, or that he's been ordered into doing it.

Prime says nothing, and Ratchet takes it as tacit dismissal. He steps past his Prime, drawing his field tightly so as not to reveal the dark turmoil of his emotions.

It hurts. He doesn't enjoy this inner conflict with Prime. Once, not so long ago, he had admired this mech. He had trusted Optimus, and his Prime had earned all of his loyalty. Ratchet isn't sure he can pinpoint exactly when that devotion started to stutter, when it began to dim and flicker.

Maybe when they’d landed on Earth. Maybe the moment when they had to leave Bee in the hands of the humans because Prime hadn't wanted to harm them. Or when they'd handed over the last piece of the Allspark to the US government as a goodwill gesture. When they’d let the humans dictate every aspect of their daily existence.

Maybe it was just one act. Or maybe it's a combination of all of the above.

Ratchet sighs, stepping carefully around the humans, their equipment, their insentient vehicles. In the end, he supposes, it doesn't matter what caused the first flicker of disappointment and inspired the first act of rebellion. The fact of the matter remains. Prime values the lives of the humans and their planet more than he values the continuation of his own kind. A gross oversimplification of the twists and turns this war has taken, but such is the way Ratchet's spark is interpreting the current events.

He doesn't return to his tiny corner of the warehouse, where Dino's arm waits to be repaired. There is Prime's order to take into account first.

The humans have kept the remains of the fallen in a large locked and guarded room attached to the warehouse. It is under constant surveillance and patrols, and it can only be accessed with the express permission of Director Mearing. Imagine that. Ratchet cannot tend to his deceased comrades without the approval of another species. They have become owned, haven't they?

“State your purpose,” the armed human drawls in a bored tone, leaning against the panel that controls the electronic door and lock.

Ratchet bites back a stream of impolite vitriol. Or perhaps the urge to make this human extra squishy.

And wouldn’t Prime just love that?

“Final rites to the fallen. Prime's orders and, I presume, Mearing's as well.”

The soldier gives him a long look. “I'll just confirm that,” he says, and Ratchet's sensors pick up the low-band transmission of the human radioing to his commanding officer.

After a moment of conversation, the soldier nods at his armed partner. The both of them step aside, one hitting the release switch on the lock.

“You got one hour,” the man says, his tone lacking any hint of warmth or respect. “Better get to it.”

Clearly, he's not an original member of NEST. Ratchet doesn't recognize him, and the human radiates distrust and disapproval. Lennox would have had his head for his insolence alone, and no one like this would’ve lasted this long under Ironhide.

“You're too kind,” Ratchet retorts, his tone saccharine-false.

The human either doesn't notice or doesn't care as he waves Ratchet by. The medic just steps into the dark room, lit by a bare minimum of fluorescent bulbs overhead. The doors slide shut behind him and locking him in, granting a privacy he hadn't expected to be given. He stands at the end of the double rows, Autobots on one side, Decepticons on the other. There are more of the latter than the former, consequence of the fact the ‘Cons employed dozens of drones and, as the losers, suffered more losses.

For now, Ratchet avoids the line of them.

Jolt is first amongst the Autobots. Of them all, he’s the most intact. A single shot to the spark chamber, searing through his chestplate, eliminating all chance for Ratchet to save his life. He had been killed before his frame hit the ground. Spark snuffed out as though it were as delicate as a lit match.

Beside him are Skids and Mudflap, what remains of them anyway. Sentinel's blaster had been two powerful for their smaller frames. And his blade had finished the job. There's a thoroughness here that makes Ratchet's spark tighten with disgust.

That thoroughness, however, is nothing compared to the brutality of what the Decepticons did to Que. Shot first by a drone and then slaughtered by Barricade, only to be mocked in his death. Que is an assemblage of scattered parts, only half a helm and disembodied kibble. Some of which Ratchet can't identify.

The tiny crate, last in the line, is the worst of them all. Shot in the back by a weapon no mech can withstand. Cosmic rust leaves little left that’s identifiable. A finial here. A cannon coil there. A chip from a spark chamber. All four tires, rubber immune to the attack, but scorched by the heat of the blow nonetheless.

Ironhide.

Survived countless millennia of war against the Decepticons, only falling to the betrayal of an ally. Sentinel's last words a mockery of the dedication and sacrifice Hide had given to the Autobots. And before that, to Sentinel himself.

Ratchet drops to his knees, feeling a keen building in his vocalizer. The room thrums with a deafening silence that makes his audials twitch. His fingers clench and unclench.

He can't count the number of friends and companions and family he's lost over the millennia. There's a list in his memory core somewhere, all the designations and memories associated with them. Part of him is numb to those losses by now. He doesn't know why these deaths have struck him so deeply this time.

Because they are – were – among the last?

Ratchet doesn't know.

He can't do this. He hadn't been able to strip Jazz's frame of useful parts, and he can't do it here. Even if there was anything remaining of the fallen to be of use.

Que's processor survived mostly intact. There are probably libraries worth of knowledge tucked away within it. Jolt's electro-whips are still functional and could easily be transferred into another mech along with the associated subroutines, provided they have the frame to support and ground the currents. The twins' optical imaging scanners are very useful and survived the blast, too.

Ratchet takes none of these things. He’s supposed to, according to orders given by his Prime, but he doesn't. He can't, and he won't.

Instead, he cleans each frame to the best of his ability. He arranges each fallen Autobot into some semblance of dignity, though he knows it'll be ruined by the humans during transportation toward the burial at sea. In a moment of weakness, he slips the fragment of Ironhide's sparkchamber into his subspace. It is the only piece he allows himself to keep.

Then, he turns his attention to the Decepticons. Shockwave and Soundwave. Barricade. The Dreads. Nameless drones. Megatron. The humans also, without understanding the confusing tangle of associations and loyalties and broken sparks, have laid out Sentinel with the ‘Cons. By taking that decision out of the hands of the Autobots, should Ratchet consider it a kindness?

Moreover, he wonders if that is what Prime considers his mentor. Is Sentinel a Decepticon? Does his betrayal mark him as something other than Autobot? Someone, he notices, has gone through the effort of scratching through the Autobot symbol that still remains on Sentinel's frame. The etching looks deliberate and not the result of battle damage. It also looks to be the effort of a Cybertronian, not a human.

It should be easier to strip the ‘Cons of anything useful. But it's not. In death, all Ratchet can see are more Cybertronians, lost to the horror of war.

It should be a simple task. All he has to do is look at the line of fallen Autobots behind him for inspiration. Ratchet should be furious. He should be filled to the brim with thoughts of payback, tearing into the remains of the Decepticon frames with a vengeance.

He slumps, hydraulics depressurizing with a noisy hiss. He's tired of this, tired of everything. He doesn't have the energy to hate anymore.

Ratchet's helm lowers, optics shuttering in grief. No amount of time is going to make this easier.

****
On to Part Three