[Bayverse] War Without End: Ratchet - Part Three

[dracoqueen22]

War Without End: Ratchet

Part Three

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“How's that?”

Dino flexes his left arm, testing the repair work.

“A little stiff.”

“It'll pass,” Ratchet replies, turning from the mech and putting away his tools. “Give it some time.”

“Hunh.” Dino rolls his shoulder, giving the joint a few more experimental twitches. “Time is what we have in spades now.”

“So they say.”

Dino tilts his helm. His optics focus on Ratchet with that eerie intensity he sometimes lets slip through the impatience.

“You don't believe it?”

Ratchet purposefully does not look at the red mech, busying himself with rearranging his tools in the small space of his medcorner. Not that there's much else to do with them.

“We thought the war over when Megatron was destroyed by the Allspark.”

Dino considers that.

“Yes, but at the time, most of the Decepticon command was still functioning.”

Command.

Ratchet barely refrains from snorting in disdain. He makes a noncommittal noise instead.

Dino rises to his pedes, alternatively shifting his arm from weapon and back again. “They're leaderless now. All that's left is to mop up the dregs. Right?”

“Apparently so.”

Peace through destruction. Why does that sound like Megatron's special form of propaganda?

History is written by the victors. The turn of phrase seems uncomfortably apt right now. If in the end, Megatron had won, would the Autobots have been painted the villains?

Of course. They were the oppressors.

“That means the war's over.”

“So they say,” Ratchet repeats and glances over his shoulder. “You're fixed. Kindly go find Sideswipe and send him in. He's late for his maintenance. As usual.”

Dino gives him a shrewd look. “You don't sound convinced.”

“I'm a medic, Dino. It's not my function to decide these things. I just put you pieces of slag back together after you're done getting yourself scrapped.” He turns, places both hands on Dino, and pushes the mech out of his corner. “Don't lift anything heavy. Let the welds set.”

“I know the drill,” Dino replies with a touch of annoyance, but he's at least stopped his line of calculating questions. His plating lifts and clamps closed. “I'll go find Sides.”

Ratchet turns back into his workspace. There's nothing of import left waiting for him. Everyone on the list has been repaired to the best he can manage.

They still haven't found Wheelie and Brains. Ratchet suspects that they're only going to find grey frames, if they find anything at all. And he also suspects that the delays in the so-called funeral are due to the missing bots. The humans don't want to waste resources on two burial rites. That would just be ridiculous.

Ratchet huffs and surveys his workspace. Routine maintenance is all he has left. He thinks of the stack of solar collectors waiting for him in their base in Washington, DC. Eventually, he'll get back to those if they weren't destroyed by Sentinel's rampage. And all the other, smaller projects that Prime had given him. Stuff that would help cement their “alliance” with the humans.

Never mind that the humans can't even bother to give Ratchet all the supplies he needs. Or that they can't afford the Cybertonians any element of privacy. None of them have private quarters. All of them recharge in their alt-modes and resort to car washes to get clean. Ratchet can't remember the last time he managed to scrub all of the grit and grime from his joints.

This is the world that they destroyed Cybertron and Jazz gave his spark to save.

Ratchet shakes his head. It's been five years, and it doesn't feel as if anything has changed. This bitterness is new though, and he can't seem to shake it either.

“Attention!”

Ratchet's awareness snaps outward, registering the flashing overhead lights and the warehouse-wide broadcast.

“Incoming energon markers detected.”

Incoming. Ratchet hasn't heard of any Autobots making contact. His long-range scanners aren't picking up anything either, but that doesn't mean much. They can't pierce the upper ranges of the atmosphere in this state of disrepair.

Yet another thing to blame on their lack of supplies.

“All Autobots report to ops.”

He hurries out of his medcorner, heading for the main console of their temporary warehouse, which receives real-time feed from NEST headquarters in DC. Prime and Sides are already there, optics locked on the huge viewscreen that’s currently displaying the arrival vector of the incoming Cybertronians. They're using protoform shells instead of a spaceworthy transport craft.

“Identity?” Ratchet inquires as he steps up to Sideswipe and peers at the screen.

Arms crossed over his chest, the warrior shrugs. “Unclear. Either they’re some ballsy ‘Cons or Autobots who don't know any better.”

“That leaves out Prowl then,” Dino jokes as he arrives, taking up a position on Prime's other side. “I'm betting on Decepticreeps.”

“Sucker's bet,” Sides retorts with a smirk.

Ratchet's optics are locked on the screen. Three different markers. Three new arrivals. They can't possibly know that the war is over. Nor can they be aware of the special defenses that NEST deployed around the globe. They wouldn't have been able to decrypt Prime's message.

“Prime, have you attempted to make contact?” Mearing demands, and only then does Ratchet realize she’s present. He had been under the mistaken impression she had left for DC yesterday.

Prime shifts his weight, glancing down the small female. “We cannot initiate communications while they’re in protoform state, Director Mearing.”

She frowns, her brow drawn tight. “Then you'd better figure out if they're a threat. Because if they get any closer, I'm blowing them out of the sky with or without your confirmation.”

“That won't be necessary,” Sides protests, rocking back and forth on his heels. “We can be at the LZ, take 'em down if we have to.”

“No.” Mearing's eyes narrow, one hand lifting to push her glasses up further on her nose. “They could land amongst civilians, and I'm not risking any human lives. Or collateral damage.” She turns, gaze searching the screen. “They'll be over populations in less than fifteen minutes. Better make it quick, Prime.”

A growl builds in Ratchet's vocalizer, and he has to force himself to lock it down.

“You can't just assassinate them.”

“Can and will.” Mearing's voice is firm, allowing no exception. “I’m not taking any chances. Not with human lives.” She whirls toward Prime, head straight and uncompromising. “Are they or are they not allies?”

“Not,” Leadfoot answers, slipping in between Sideswipe and Ratchet to point firmly at the screen. Or more particularly a line of code. “See those readings. Only 'Cons got those.”

Mearing brightens, triumphant.

“There. Problem solved.” She turns back toward the console, one hand gesturing to the soldier at the comm system. “Tell them to fire as soon as they have a clear shot.”

Ratchet's spark surges.

“They haven't done anything,” he protests, but it's weak. Too weak.

Sides spins on a wheel and gives Ratchet an odd look. “They're ‘Cons, Ratch. What's it matter?”

“They might not know the war is over,” Ratchet argues, his optics locked on the screen, and the tiny blips that indicate the incoming mechs' positions. “With Megatron deactivated, they might be willing to stand down.”

And though Ratchet has never been a mech who ruled his life with a warrior's honor, he imagines that it's simply disgraceful to shoot a mech from the sky while he's defenseless.

“Might?” Mearing repeats and scoffs loudly. “Unless you have immediate, plausible proof that they aren't going to attack, I don't want to hear it.”

Ratchet's attention shifts to his Prime. “Prime, they are still Cybertronian.”

Prime doesn't look at Ratchet.

“This is war,” he says, as though that is all the answer Ratchet should need.

But the war is supposed to be over.

“Defense system activated,” one of the soldiers states. “Impact in ten seconds.”

Ratchet swings back toward the screen, staring with a growing sense of despair. He's the only one who seems to remotely disdain the idea of shooting bots from the sky. He's the minority opinion.

And there's nothing he can do to stop the missiles from taking out the protoforms mid-flight, turning them to dust and scattered bits of debris that rain down on the Pacific. There won't be enough left to salvage, nothing to recover. The government won't have to worry about arranging for another deep-sea burial.

How efficient of them.

No human weaponry should have been capable of destroying a Cybertronian in protoform. At least, nothing short of a nuclear attack, but not even Mearing is that foolish.

But this isn't human technology. This is something built hand-in-hand with the Cybertronians with the intention of protecting both from Decepticon intrusion. Like the stronger sabot rounds given to the NEST soldiers.

The humans might have fired the shots, but Optimus had given them the bullets. And this is what it brought them.

Ratchet's tanks roil. His fingers curl into fists at his side, coding screaming at him, torn in too many directions. Obey the Prime. Save the wounded. Be impartial.

Decepticons are Enemy.

“Targets destroyed.”

The announcement over the intercom seems to echo in Ratchet's audials. There's a tremble in his frame, and he's not sure when it started.

“All right. Show's over.” Mearing claps her hands and looks at them. “Back to work, people. We still got the enemy to hunt down, a city to rebuild, and a mess to clean up. Time's wasting.”

A dozen phrases crowd Ratchet's vocalizer. Horror and contempt churn in his processor. He doesn't spare the effort to glare at Mearing. She wouldn't notice. She wouldn't care.

Ratchet turns on a pede and stalks toward his medcorner, ignoring the strange glance Sideswipe gives him. He feels... He doesn't know quite what he feels. Disgusted? Betrayed? Torn, for sure.

He should be exultant that more ‘Cons have been destroyed. That’s their goal, is it not? To win the war? That's not what Ratchet remembers signing up for. A long, long time ago, winning had not meant the termination of all Decepticons.

It's wrong, and he can't quite put into words why it is so. Words are failing him. He can't pinpoint when it shifted for him either. He'd thought that part of himself had shriveled into nonexistence a long time ago.

Maybe he'd sealed his fate the very moment he'd saved Thundercracker and Skywarp's sparks. Perhaps that had been the beginning of his end.

He's supposed to be saving lives. He's a medic. He's not supposed to be advocating execution. There's no better term. Those Decepticons never had a fighting chance, whoever they were.

No wonder Primus has forsaken them.

“Ratchet.”

Prime. Of course, it would be Prime.

He keeps his back to his leader, staring angrily at his makeshift desk and the scatter of tools across it. He doesn't have a project to distract himself. Unless he counts Sideswipe's pending maintenance.

“If Sideswipe knows what's good for him at all, he’ll be here soon,” Ratchet responds curtly, pulling out a drum of fresh coolant for the required flush and another crate of salvaged fluid lines. Knowing Sideswipe, the glitch will need several replaced. “And I have a shift in recovery detail in a few hours.”

In other words, make this quick. Or better yet, don't speak at all.

“Sideswipe's been assigned to investigate an energon reading detected in Tibet,” Prime comments, and only then does Ratchet realize that he can't sense anything from him. The mech's field is so tightly contained that it might as well not exist. “We must talk.”

“I'm listening.”

It's borderline contempt, and Ratchet ruthlessly aims his vocalizations more toward neutral.

There's a hiss of hydraulics as Prime shifts his weight. “You seem troubled, old friend.”

Overstatement of the millennium, Prime.

“No more so than usual,” Ratchet allows, a twitch cascading down his backstrut.

Silence sweeps between them. Ratchet can practically hear the younger mech tapping into his politics subroutines and searching for a diplomatic way to ask what the frag is going on.

“Then, I would ask what you would have me do,” Prime finally asks, each word carefully measured with curiosity, a hint of rebuke, and also, a degree of confusion.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“We cannot risk the lives of innocent humans, Ratchet.”

His tone holds an edge of exasperation, as though it's an argument he's had too many times before. As though Ratchet should know this very obvious fact.

“The Decepticons are sure to bring destruction.”

Ratchet performs a systems check, if only to keep himself for a scathing reply. He goes through several versions of possible retorts before settling on something that's the closest to polite.

“Of course, Prime. The safety of Earth's humans is paramount.” His right hand twitches, and Ratchet clamps his plating. “I was merely offering an alternative course of action. We are so few now after all.”

Prime steps forward, laying a hand on Ratchet's shoulder. An action that’s meant to be comforting. It isn’t. The edge of Prime's retracted energy field flickers against Ratchet's with a sickly wave of undefinable emotions that make Ratchet's tanks churn. He wants nothing more than to recoil from the dark twist of fury and hunger.

“Your concern is understandable. This is their planet, and they’re perfectly within their rights to dispatch threats.”

He shifts out from under Prime's hand, his plating crawling with echoes of that diseased energy field. “The war is over,” Ratchet replies, his tone soft. “Isn't that what you said?”

Finally, he turns toward his Prime, able to see each expression etched into those mobile faceplates.

“Yes.”

“And the surviving Decepticons?”

Prime cycles his optics. “It has been eons since any ‘Con has sought to defect. It stands to reason that they don’t intend to begin now.”

“But if they agreed to lay down arms?”

“If that should happen, however unlikely, I’d be willing to listen to their requests.” Prime pauses, exvents out in a passing semblance of a sigh. “The humans may have a different opinion on the matter. After all, the Decepticons aren’t apt to leave them in peace.”

In other words, a Decepticon presence isn’t conducive to playing nice with the humans. They don't want possible defectors; therefore, the Autobots won’t abide by them. If there is even another Autobot left who believes such a thing might be possible.

Ratchet stands alone apparently.

He squares his shoulders.

“You never gave them the chance to choose,” he says, unable to keep the accusation from his voice.

Where is the freedom now, Prime? Is he too abandoning his principles like his traitorous mentor?

“I put the safety of this planet and our allies above all else, Ratchet,” Prime returns without hesitation.

Disappointment cascades through his spark. But Ratchet can't pinpoint exactly why.

“I understand.”

And he does. Prime has done nothing but make himself abundantly clear.

Earth above all else. The Cybertronians had their chance.

Ratchet dips his head in a semblance of polite deference.

“Now, if you could excuse me, since Sideswipe can't make his appointment, there are other matters I must attend.”

Anything to get out of Prime's presence.

He feels a sudden need to be surrounded by ‘Cons. At least they are honest in their intentions.

Prime doesn't try to stop or question him. Ratchet is free to leave his tiny corner and the warehouse altogether. Free to head into the radius of destruction that is Chicago and the lair where he's hidden his pair of Seekers.

“Who were they?” Ratchet asks, bursting out of alt-mode and ducking into the limited space that houses the two. “You know, don't you?”

Thundercracker and Skywarp exchange glances.

“Nice to see you, too, medic,” Skywarp says with a fake chirp, hands busy as they pluck at something in the wiring of Thundercracker's wing.

Ratchet's hand slices through the air. “I don't care about pleasantries, Skywarp. Not right now. Who were they?”

Thundercracker lowers the datapad he's been scanning. It dangles from his claws, the screen dark.

“If you're referring to the three ‘Cons your allies just ruthlessly shot out of the sky, then yes, we know who they were.” Crimson optics flash with a tangible fury.

Skywarp's tone is light, but his words are accusing. “Why should you care anyway? They're just the enemy. Doesn't matter who they were.”

“It does to me.” Ratchet feels shame spread over his faceplate. “I have to know who we murdered.”

“A strong word.” Thundercracker arches an orbital ridge. “Murder? We are – or were – at war. And yet, you call it murder. Curious.”

Skywarp snickers. “You sound like a scientist when you say it like that.” He snaps a panel on the back of Thundercracker's shoulder shut and circles around his trinemate. “Can't you see how guilty he looks? Mech's practically seething with it.”

“Don't mock me,” Ratchet retorts, but it falls short of being scathing.

Skywarp's right, after all.

“That's what is so interesting about it.” Thundercracker's claw taps thoughtfully over the datapad. “Guilt? For a ‘Con's death? My how the tables have turned.”

“We did get an identity ping,” Skywarp adds, investigating the curve of his own hands, idly picking dirt and grime out from under them. “But as you know, protoforms are unable to receive communication transmissions. Pity that.”

They're playing with him. A growl resonates in Ratchet's chassis. No wonder they are Starscream's trinemates. Both of them excel in word games.

“Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Terradive. Jetblade. Sunspot.” Thundercracker recites with a bored tone and stares at Ratchet. “Does that ease your guilt, medic?”

Somehow, knowing their designations makes it worse. Ratchet's processor snatches up the names and applies them to the database he keeps in a separate partition, matching designation to file. All three of them fliers, lower-ranked Decepticons, no doubt seeking some member of high command for new orders. Perhaps their original mission was the lengthy search for the Allspark.

“Of course, it doesn't. You could probably knock out a mech with how vile Ratchet's field is.” Skywarp clicks a derogatory sound at Ratchet. “But that's not all that's crawled under your plating, is it?”

Ratchet's shoulders slump. He leans back, bracing himself against a piece of crumpled steel.

“Tell me about Starscream.”

Again, the Seekers exchange a look.

“You're full of demands today,” Skywarp remarks and holds out a hand to Ratchet, crooking his claws. “What do we get in return?”

“I saved your life.”

“Oh, yes. And what a life it is, this existence huddling in the remains of a fleshbag's warehouse.” Thundercracker flicks his wrist, datapad vanishing into subspace. “And all the while, your merciful Prime is a mere jaunt away, all too willing to slice off our helms. Yes, we have much to be grateful for.”

Skywarp waves a hand. “What you want to know about Starscream anyway? He doesn't matter anymore. He's dead.”

“He was your trinemate.”

Ratchet frowns, confused. He feels like he's missed something here.

“Yeah, well, he's not the Screamer he used to be either.” Skywarp's optics flash, field flaring with something before it draws back again, tightly contained. “He was dead long before your human blew his helm to shreds.”

“That simpering, cowardly aerial you saw? Not Starscream.” Thundercracker's lip components curl with disdain. “That's what he became in a vain effort to please Megatron. A shadow of the Air Commander we all followed.”

It sounds... uncomfortably familiar. Some of the very same thoughts Ratchet has begun to harbor about his own leader. A mech he once admired but who has so thoroughly changed over the eons that Ratchet doesn't recognize him anymore.

“His death doesn't bother you?”

“Not like you think it does.” Skywarp's wings flutter, betraying his discomfort with the topic. “We mourned Screamer eons ago.”

Thundercracker leans forward, pinning Ratchet down with his gaze. “Why all the questions, medic? What does it matter what we think about our glorious leader?”

Ratchet pulls an item from his subspace and thoughtlessly turns it over in his fingers. “Prime had me tend to the recovered frames of the fallen. Did I waste my time retrieving this for you?”

The thin piece of metal, Cybertronian in nature, bears the surprisingly intact etching of a Decepticon symbol. It’s all he could justify removing from Starscream's empty frame. He didn't know what ‘Cons might consider of import, if they even bothered with such a weak thing as sentiment.

His fingers tingle as one of the two Seekers scan his hand and the item he carries. Skywarp shifts closer, crouching in front of Ratchet, claws lifting toward the metal scrap and pausing.

“This was Starscream's.”

“You can tell from a scan?”

Thundercracker shakes his helm. “Not from the metal, no.”

He stands and leans over his comrade, plucking the metal from Ratchet's grasp. One talon scrapes over the painted metal, shaves of it flaking to the ground before he removes something impossibly tiny.

“From the ident chip,” he clarifies. “We all have them.”

“Embedded in your primary markers?” Ratchet's orbital ridges lift; it's not unlike the human military and their dog tags. “Clever. Very clever.”

“Among other locations, yes.” Thundercracker peers intently at the chip, his features softening. “We couldn't always go back to battlefields, but when we could, it helped identify the fallen. If only for Megatron to realize how many troops he had left.”

Ratchet winces, watching as Thundercracker passes the chip to Skywarp. He in turn cradles it with a reverence that belies their earlier statements of apathy regarding Starscream's fate.

“How many, do you think?” Skywarp asks, uncharacteristically solemn. A tiny croon builds in his vocalizer, a wordless sound of grief that ends nearly as soon as it begins.

“How many?”

“Of us are left,” Thundercracker clarifies, straightening.

Now standing, he towers over both the kneeling Skywarp and the sitting Ratchet. Strange that he doesn't feel threatened.

“With Cybertron gone, what is it? Thousands? Hundreds?”

Thundercracker sounds unexpectedly saddened.

“Dozens?” Ratchet finishes, tone vibrating in symphony with Thundercracker, their energy fields overlapping in a surge of sorrow that surpasses factional lines. “I don't know. We were scattered across the universe while searching for the Allspark. Many have died on Earth. More have died over the course of the war.”

He debates for all of a moment before continuing. What does it matter of the Seekers know how many of the Autobots are living?

“As of right now, there are eight Autobots on Earth. There are an untold number of ‘Cons in hiding, but those numbers are dwindling by the day. The humans won’t abide by any Decepticon presence, no matter how small.”

“They're hunting us,” Thundercracker observes.

“Yes. Ruthlessly.”

Skywarp curls his fingers over Starscream's ident chip and tucks it close to his frame. “Then we, as a species, are facing extinction. We're the last, dying revolutions of a fading spark.”

It is a sobering realization. Even optimistically, Ratchet can hope for a population grand total in the low thousands. Realistically, low hundreds. They have done a very good job of wiping each other out, and what have they to show for it? What were they fighting for?

No Allspark. No Cybertron. All they have are handfuls of refugees collecting themselves on this uninviting planet, while they mercilessly terminate any of the opposing faction. Further contributing to their species’ extinction.

Skywarp's words are haunting. Ratchet doesn't have anything to refute his statement. Neither does Thundercracker.

He leaves not long after, not overcome by anger but rattling with despair. Ratchet doesn't have answers to offer. Just the unrelenting truth. They are dying; they cannot revive themselves. Their Prime seems to think it a worthy sacrifice in order to ensure Megatron's destruction and any ambition that the Decepticon leader had left in his subordinates as well.

“Ratchet!”

The medic shifts into his root form, sensors scanning and locking down on the form of one William Lennox.

“Colonel,” he greets. “Did you need something?”

After all, it's not often that Lennox hollers his designation mere moments after Ratchet returns to their makeshift base.

“Got a minute?”

Ratchet hesitates. “I do have matters to--”

“It's important.” Lennox's expression is firm, unyielding.

“If you insist.” Ratchet scans their temporary headquarters, but no one seems to be paying any attention to the byplay. “To my medcorner? Or does this require a measure of privacy?”

Lennox crosses his arms. “You probably don't want anyone to overhear.”

Privacy then. Not that there are many options available. Everywhere Ratchet looks are observant eyes, eavesdropping ears, curious soldiers and recording equipment. There’s nowhere on base that is suitable.

Ratchet drops back into his alt-mode. He swings open the driver's side door.

“Get in.”

“Where to?”

Curiosity does not prevent the colonel from accepting the invitation. He gingerly takes a seat, avoiding the pedals and steering wheel, and Ratchet belatedly recalls all the practice Lennox had with Ironhide.

“Somewhere with privacy.”

Ratchet backs out of the warehouse and aims for the outer gate, which leads back into Chicago. If anything, there can't possibly be functioning recording equipment in the ruins of the great city. Though he’ll be carefully avoiding the sector in which he's stashed his Seekers.

He pulls up to the gate, but the bar is down, preventing him from leaving, which is a curious and recent change in protocol. It wasn't lowered a mere week ago.

“State your reason for leaving.” The soldier sounds bored. Like he doesn’t really care about the alien at his gate beyond the fact that he’s paid to do this.

Ratchet rocks back and forth on his wheels.

“The gate's never been lowered before.”

“Things change.” The man looks up from his computer, glancing out the window at Ratchet as his armed compatriot shifts restlessly. “State your reason for leaving.”

“Roll down the window, Ratchet,” Lennox requests.

He complies. The colonel leans out of it, smiling at the two men in the post. They snap to attention.

“We're heading out to do some recon. Got several sectors that're still hot.”

“Sorry, sir,” the armed soldier says. “We didn't realize...”

Lennox's smile widens, but they don't notice how it tightens around the edges. Ratchet sees it though.

“No harm. Just want you to let us through. Copy?”

“Yes, sir!”

The soldier at the computer drops back onto his stool and inputs into the console.

It's amazing how much having a human onboard changes their perspective. Most of the time, if Ratchet's using one of the other, more patrolled gates, the soldiers give him the third degree about his intentions. He usually has to lie about needing to strip the battlefield, obtain supplies, or some other nonsense.

The Autobots will never be trusted. It’s a disappointing realization. For all the Earth is to be their home, the humans will never treat the Autobots as though they belong. Earth cannot replace Cybertron. And the humans will never be kin.

Inquisition averted, Ratchet takes Lennox deep into Chicago, where the destruction is the worst, survivors are nil, and reconstruction is slated for absolute last. If the humans choose to rebuild at all. It's quiet here, a warzone, a grave reminder of the battle from several weeks back.

Lennox exits as soon as the door swings open. Ratchet eases into his root mode.

“Okay, Ratchet,” Lennox says after a careful glance around. “Spill.”

“To what matter are you referring?” He looks down at the much, much smaller human.

“Should I give you a list?”

Lennox quirks an eyebrow at him.

Ratchet gropes around behind him for a suitable perch. He finds a handy stack of empty vehicles that creak and groan as he sits.

“Lennox, I have neither the time nor the patience for games. What is it?”

“I saw you.”

“Yes. I frequent the base quite often.”

Lennox rubs his forehead. “You protested shooting the Decepticons down.”

“I’m a medic. My coding tends to err on the side of saving lives.” Where exactly is Lennox going with this?

“I don't think that's all there is to it.”

Ratchet ventilates noisily. “If you already know the answer, why bother asking?” Irritation coils within him.

“Come on, Ratchet. I'm not Mearing. You can trust me.”

This and that are two different things. Ratchet looks down at Lennox. Brother in arms, Ironhide's favorite human, someone who has fought beside them from day one. Someone who would die for them.

“I wish that were true, Colonel.”

And he means it. Lennox is one of the few humans that Ratchet feels is worth the air they breathe. Samuel, Epps, and Graham are also included on that small list. Lennox’s men, his mate and offspring round it out.

He has yet to make up his mind about the Spencer femme. Dealing with Mikaela's abandonment is difficult enough, particularly with the way she treated Bee at the end. The fact that Sam ultimately chose Bumblebee over her is a point in his favor, however.

Lennox shifts his weight. “I've always been on the Autobots’ side.”

“In spirit,” Ratchet concedes. “You aren’t your own man though. And I do not trust the hands that hold your reins.”

All signs of disagreement disappear from Lennox's expression. His eyes are too old for his face then.

“I don't blame you for that,” he acknowledges. “Sometimes, I'm not sure I trust my government. They have a history of making bad decisions. Case in point.” One hand gestures behind him, encompassing the destruction that is Chicago.

Interesting. But even more intriguing is Lennox's face. The emotion that flickers so tangibly into his eyes. Disappointment in his government, himself perhaps. Grief over what they lost.

Lennox's gaze flicks up to Ratchet. “So you think I'll be forced to reveal whatever you tell me. That as long as it's an order, I'll obey.”

Granted, Lennox does have a history of ignoring orders he doesn't agree with. But still, there are other aspects to consider.

“You have a family. You have a responsibility to protect them. Earth is your home. You can risk neither.”

Once, long ago, Ratchet had had family, too. A home. Now, he has neither. But he won’t have Lennox’s stolen from him. Not for this.

The human frowns thoughtfully. “But Earth is supposed to be your home now. That's what Prime said.”

“I don't believe your government approves or will allow it. The war’s over after all. The Decepticon threat is minimal at best.” Ratchet leans back, lifting his optics to the sun peeking through the remains of a building. “We have outlived our usefulness.”

“Is that why you protested?” he asks like he already knows the answer. “To give us a reason to let the Autobots stay?”

“No. I don't think you could understand my reasoning. It goes against everything we've done for the past five years as allies.”

No human, no matter how trusting, can comprehend why Ratchet regrets. Why he aches from his spark outward.

“Try me.”

“Lennox--”

“No,” the colonel cuts Ratchet off. “I get why you think you can't trust me. I do. But I get to go home and tell Annabelle why she won't see Hide again. And I can't even tell her that he died for a good reason. Not without lying.”

Silence swells between them. Lennox steps back, finds his own piece of apocalypse to make a seat.

Ironhide had trusted Lennox, more than could be expected for their working relationship. And Lennox had trusted him back. Had taken him countless times to see his mate and child. Had made him family of sorts. Offered Ironhide a home at their farm.

Maybe that's all the proof Ratchet needs to be truthful. Within reason of course. He doesn't think spilling the secret about his hidden Seekers is logical right now.

“Ratchet,” Lennox insists. “I just want to understand.”

The mech shutters his optics. “It’s a concept I don’t think you could understand, William.”

“I think I'd get more than you think.”

“Would you?” He cycles his optics on, meeting Lennox straightforwardly. “And if I told you that destroying the Decepticons is something I regret, would you understand that?”

Lennox flinches, his gaze shifting away.

“They were the enemy.”

“Yes. They were.”

“They killed Jazz. And Ironhide. And so many others”

It’s Ratchet's turn to flinch.

“Yes, they did.” His vocal tones are as quiet as the colonel's.

“They helped destroy your planet.”

A quiet ventilation escapes Ratchet.

“A fact I do not dispute.”

And all arguments he has had with himself over and over for the past few weeks.

“But you regret it.”

Ratchet lowers his helm, leaning forward to put himself and the human on more even ground.

“Once William... many eons before Earth was ever habitable, once we were merely Cybertronians. Not Decepticons, not Autobots, but one interconnected web of kin.”

He waits for Lennox to protest. To claim that the past is the past, and it can't possibly matter anymore.

Instead, Lennox doesn't speak. He waits. For Ratchet to explain himself?

Ratchet lets the silence build for a moment as he contemplates how much he should tell Lennox. Everything? Just enough? Maybe it's time for a little honesty.

“When the war first started... the majority of Cybertron rallied under Megatron's banner,” Ratchet begins, slowly at first. “What he desired, what it seemed he desired, was the sort of ideal that many of us craved deep in our sparks. And one I think you in particular would understand.”

Lennox inclines his head.

“Freedom.”

“Yes. Freedom. The right to choose. The opportunity to become something more than the path you were given.” Ratchet drums his fingers over his thigh plating. “You see, Cybertron was split into two broad categories: soldiers and civilians. Those were then further subdivided. Soldiers – war-builds – fought our wars. Protected us. Died for us. And in return, the civilians ostracized them.”

Lennox is studying him now. Clearly giving his utmost attention.

“What do you mean?”

Ratchet lets out air and feels the guilt of millennia. “We were afraid of the war-builds. They were bigger. Stronger. So we tried to keep them in chains except when we needed them. They didn't fit into our shining Golden Age.”

He shutters his optics, processor calling up the memories, the archives. All the things he himself had thought and done without a spare flicker to the consequences.

“They weren't allowed true citizenship. Didn't have access to the same privileges as civilians. They couldn't apply for mentorship, become an apprentice, or attend the academy. Much less, change their occupation. They were locked in a caste, so to speak. It was what the Council had decided was best for Cybertron.”

“So only the soldiers were unhappy?” Lennox frowns. “You can't tell me that soldiers outnumbered civilians.”

“No, they didn't.” Ratchet tilts his head and looks at nothing. “There were others who felt similarly discriminated. Miners. Constructicons. Laborists. They were treated little better. Even though, they had more supposed rights, they weren’t allowed to exercise them.”

“But not all ‘Cons were war-builds, right? And not all war-builds were Decepticons. Hide was one.”

Ratchet's orbital ridges lift. Ironhide had been more open with his charge than any of them even realized. Even now, most mechs wouldn’t admit if they’d begun as soldiers. At least, most Autobots wouldn’t.

“It is, after all, a choice. But yes. In the beginning, the Decepticons wanted freedom. And the Autobots wanted to stop them from mindlessly slaughtering and seeking power. Megatron could be charismatic. And perhaps back then, he meant what he claimed. After all, he was our Lord High Protector.”

“Must've been a long time ago.” Lennox draws up his knees, curling his arms over them.

Ratchet gives a nod.

“So... all the fights, what were you aiming for? How were you going to win the war?”

Ratchet now shifts his gaze to the horizon. The sunset is painting the dull sky in shades of reds and orange. Ironic that such beauty is caused by pollution.

“Prime always believed that defeating Megatron was key. That the path to peace and freedom could only be obtained through dethroning Megatron.”

“And now?” A contemplative hum rises in Lennox's throat. “Is this the victory you fought for?”

Ratchet offers a derisive snort. “This wasn't a victory.”

“But the war is over.”

“So they say.” Ratchet looks directly at Lennox, grief and disappointment leaking into his field in such a manner that even a human could feel it. “Our rallying cry used to be til all are one. Now, it's become till all ‘Cons are dead. Tell me how that's freedom.”

“Old grudges are hard to forget.” Lennox offers him a grim smile. “And you all have them now. Maybe a truce isn't possible.”

Ratchet's hands form fists at his side, a tremble in his frame testament to the roil churning beneath the surface. His coding and his spark are in conflict once again.

“Maybe,” he admits. “But we won't know unless we try.”

“You know that Mearing would never allow defected ‘Cons to live here. Not unless they were bolted to a table and maybe not then.” Lennox rubs his face, scruffy with unshaven beard. “She barely tolerates the Autobots.”

“I'm aware. And Prime, in the end, will side with the humans. Even if it means surrendering us to extinction.” He pauses, the weight of their condition sitting heavy on his shoulders. “Though that may be a moot point without the Allspark.”

“Do you really think a ‘Con would surrender? Or even agree to a truce?” the human poses.

“I just want to give them a chance to choose.”

Ratchet sinks down on his hydraulics. His frame is heavier than it should be, and his spark feels like lead in his chassis.

“Once,” he says as Lennox exhales heavily, “we all fought for what we believed in. Once, this fight actually meant something. Once, there were actual sides.” Ratchet lets out air, too. “I just don't know which was the right one anymore. If there ever was one.”

***
(on to part four)