dracoqueen22 | [Bayverse] War Without End: Ratchet

War Without End: Ratchet

Part Four

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“Energon readings detected in Sydney. Prime… Prime, report to ops. Repeat: Energon readings detected in Sydney...”

Ratchet lifts his helm as the announcement comes through the PA system.

“That's the second time this week.” He lowers his welder, giving Sideswipe a temporary reprieve from fixing shattered armor.

“And here I am, stuck under your tender mercies.” The frontliner groans dramatically.

Ratchet darkens his optics and turns away, activating his comm. --Prime, it's been weeks. Their energy reserves must be low.--

--Then it will make them easier to subdue. Thank you, Ratchet.--

He exvents loudly, though Prime can't hear the irritated noise.

--That's not what I meant! I'm suggesting diplomacy.--

Surely, Prime remembers what that is?

But no luck. There's a notable pause in Prime's response, whether he's listening to the humans or praying for patience, Ratchet doesn't know.

--We've discussed this before. It's not an option.--

--Why not? Because the humans say so?--

--Ratchet…--

--Prime, the war is over. We need to move beyond this!--

The Prime's rising annoyance filters through. --We can't afford the risk of a second chance. The humans--

“Slag them! They think us war machines! Worse that I can't argue different!”

A finger taps over his arm plating. The ring of metal on metal cuts through the tension building in Ratchet's energy field.

“Uh, Ratch?” Sideswipe pokes him again.

Ratchet swings toward Sides, who taps his audial and visibly winces. Ratchet flinches, realizing that he'd transmitted the last over an open comm. Every Autobot within range had heard him snapping at their leader.

Fraggit.

Performing a much needed systems check, he struggles to get his temper under control, opting instead for the diplomatic coding still buried in the deepest parts of his processor.

--Prime, please--

Be the Prime you used to be. The Prime we all need right now.

A sharp rebuke sends a whine of feedback through the private comm.

--This is not up for debate right now. We'll discuss this when I return.--

Prime ends the transmission before Ratchet can reply. The medic knows better than to contact him any further. The decision has been made.

Ratchet mutters an invective and turns his attention back to Sideswipe. The bladed menace is watching him with that eerie way he has, the kind that makes shivers crawl up Ratchet's backstrut. When Sides looks like that, Ratchet's always felt like Sunstreaker's looking back at him and not his brother.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing of concern to you,” Ratchet dismisses brusquely. He waves at the berth. “Get back up there.”

Sideswipe arches an orbital ridge. “When it's got your field that sickening, my curiosity compels me. Do share, Ratchet. My spark's got to know.”

“I think your spark will keep on spinning regardless. Sit.”

“No need to get snappy with me.” Sideswipe hops back onto the berth, lying back as though taking a vacation, the very image of indolence. “I'm just an innocent bystander.”

Ratchet's mouth quirks. “Bystander you may be, but innocent you have never been.”

“Blaster to the spark!” Sideswipe makes a grand, faked gesture of injury. “You always know how to wound a mech.” He reaches out, knuckles brushing over Ratchet's plating. “C'mon, you know I can keep a secret.”

“Ratchet!”

The sharp tones in a distinctly human voice make Ratchet go very still. His very cables and joints tighten as he turns, ever so slowly, to greet the unwanted visitor. The lack of privacy in his medcorner is never so apparent as when any human can just wander in, Lennox and their friendly allies notwithstanding.

“If you don't mind, Director Mearing, I'm with a patient,” Ratchet says, concise and careful, as he directs a gimlet optic down at the woman.

She stands ever fearless. Her face is pinched with the very expression a caretaker might give a youngling.

“Sideswipe can wait.” Mearing gestures sharply to her assistant who scurries to hand her a bag and what appears to be a sheaf of documentation. “I need to know what in the seven blazes do you think you need with eight tons of acetylene.”

“Medical purposes,” Ratchet replies.

If she wants details, let her grill her tech people. Ratchet's not going to make it any easier for the humans to understand their biology or technology. Not when it's been proven that they will turn on the Autobots all too quickly.

“Medical purposes,” Mearing repeats. Her tone is flat, skeptical. “Not, for instance, weapons?”

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. “We have our own. Why would we need your substandard weaponry?”

“Why do you need eight tons of our supply if you have your own?”

“This and that are two different arguments, Director. I need acetylene to ensure that the Autobots are in healthy, working condition.”

Ratchet knows, without even checking, that Prime is gone, off to kill some Decepticons. He’s on his own against the humans. As always.

She doesn't look convinced. “We'll consider it.” Mearing consults her notes. “And for your information, we will not be supplying you with mercury, platinum, or palladium.”

Sideswipe makes a noise, a tonal sound that would mean little to the humans but speaks paragraphs to Ratchet. He tosses Sides a warning look and directs his attention back to Mearing, reaching for every polite bit of coding he owns.

“May I inquire as to why?”

“Too dangerous. Too expensive. Not worth the investment.” Mearing checks something off with her pen, looking up at Ratchet from above her spectacles. “Or are they medical supplies, too?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Her frown deepens. “As for plutonium... not as long as I draw breath. The answer is a firm, no argument, no.”

The request for plutonium had been a long shot anyway, but Ratchet had hoped that by asking for something outrageous, the more reasonable requirements might be given with minimal argument.

“Very well,” Ratchet concedes. “Nevertheless, I am in need of those supplies. The Autobots still require numerous repairs after the battle for Chicago.”

Mearing looks up from her notebook, closing it with an audible thump. “I’ll put your requests under consideration. There are procedures to be followed after all, and I’m not the only one with hands on the budget.”

“I don't recall so much bureaucracy surrounding my last supply requisition.”

Her lips twitch. “Things change.” She tucks the notebook under her arm. “Now, if you'll excuse me.”

Mearing turns on a perfunctory heel and strides out of his medcorner, her assistant scurrying to keep up and nearly dropping her bundle of assorted bags. Ratchet watches her leave, tracks her progress across the warehouse, and doesn't turn back toward Sideswipe until he's sure the director won’t be reappearing.

“Primus, if ever there was a squishy that deserved to be squished,” Sideswipe mutters, subvocally and in Cybertronian for good measure.

Ratchet looks at him. “However true that may be, don't let Prime hear you saying such a thing. He might think you mean it. And then, where would you be?”

Dead with the Decepticons probably.

“He just doesn't get my sense of humor.” Sideswipe puts in with a verbal grin, thankfully missing Ratchet’s unspoken addendum. “Not like you.”

“I'm honored.” Ratchet reaches for a scanner in preparation for dealing with Sideswipe so he can finally get the noisy nuisance out of his medcorner.

“You should be.”

For a moment, there's comfortable silence. Ratchet dares think that Sideswipe's been suitably distracted from his earlier line of questioning.

Until he feels those sharp optics on him again with that same eerie gaze that Sideswipe bears sometimes. It's enough to make a mech uneasy, want to back up a step. Except that Ratchet never backs down from anything.

“What?” the medic demands as his clunky scanner starts up with a whine of terribly outdated hardware. He might as well have a polaroid and pickaxe for all the good it does him.

“You never answered my question,” Sides replies almost sing-song and painfully familiar.

Jazz, dead though he now is, still has a lingering and unfortunate influence.

“I never said I was going to either. Be still,” Ratchet orders.

Sideswipe retracts his tires, pedes emerging to prod at the berth. He's at least learned his lesson about track marks.

“Can't. Mystery's afoot. Does it got anything to do with what happened last week?”

As in, last week when Ratchet protested the shameful act of shooting the arriving ‘Cons out of the sky. The decision hadn't seemed to bother anyone else. Yes, of course his recent ill behavior is a result of that, but Ratchet isn't about to tell anyone that.

“I need to concentrate,” he mutters instead and aims the scanner at Sideswipe, checking all the basics first, fuel levels and the like. The frontliner has been known on occasion to forget to top off his fluids.

“Uh huh. An avoiding answer if I ever heard one,” the silver mech decides. “Do I need to get Prime involved?”

Ratchet nearly flinches. “I outrank you, Sideswipe.”

As a matter of fact, with both Jazz and Hide gone and until – if – Prowl arrives, Ratchet is second-in-command. How easily they all forget that. How easily he forgets that.

“Hmm. So it has to do with Prime.” Sideswipe tucks his arms behind his head, an all too human gesture of repose. “Prime, who's off hunting down Decepticons. I think I'm starting to see a pattern here.”

Slag it all to the pits. Sideswipe is not as dumb as he pretends to be. He can and does know how to read between the lines, and his oddly tangential way of processing information ensures that he arrives at answers and bypasses all barriers. Often mere seconds before Prowl, whose linear, logical center makes him the perfect tactician.

Ratchet should’ve thrown Sideswipe out the very moment the silver bot expressed his curiosity, his maintenance be fragged.

“You're running low on coolant,” Ratchet comments instead as the scanner finishes its achingly slow examination and transmits the results to his HUD.

“Yeah. And my knee joint's scrap. I've got grime in my articulators – Sunny's gonna kill me when he finds out – and I need a coil of platinum yesterday. Tell me something I don't know.” His hand slips out, fingers coiling around Ratchet's arm, forcing the medic to look at him. “Gotta let it out somehow, Ratchet.”

The medic jerks his arm free, turning away to rifle through his crates of supplies. He's got to have a twist of assorted metals here somewhere and maybe a bit more lubricant for that knee.

“You're relentless.”

“Course I am. ‘Cons don't go down easy. Not even the drones.” Sideswipe's vocal tones turn musing, stating a simple fact.

Ratchet gives up his fruitless search. “I don't have any platinum,” he says with irritation. “Mearing's probably not going to give me any either.”

“Weird, isn't it?” Sides shifts as though to sit up, and when Ratchet doesn't protest, he drags himself completely upright. “Eons of war and we're right back where we started, at the bottom of the heap trying to climb our way up.”

Ratchet braces his hands on the edge of the crate, which creaks under his additional weight. Sideswipe is one who could have probably joined the Decepticons, so many eons ago. He would’ve wanted the same freedoms they proclaimed. He had been at the bottom of the social hierarchy. And Ratchet's not blind or stupid. He knows that there are many Autobots who think that Sideswipe and his brother are on the wrong side. That they’re more Decepticon than Autobot.

Eons of war and now they’re no longer Cybertronian. They are Decepticon or Autobot. As if the two are completely dissimilar, perhaps even separate species.

“It makes you wonder, doesn't it?” Ratchet questions, intending rhetoric but also fully curious as to Sideswipe's opinion on the matter. “If the Decepticons were right after all.”

The silence that falls is heavy. Sides’ energy field betrays his surprise.

“Is that what's grinding your gears?”

Ratchet waves it off. “Never mind.”

He lifts his hands, trying to dismiss the line of conversation. It's frag near treason, isn't it? And he's already crossed the lines by saving the two ‘Cons. He doesn't dare drag Sideswipe into it, too.

Sideswipe, however, is like a sparkling with an energon goodie. He's not letting it go so easily.

“I have wondered,” he murmurs very softly. Too softly.

Ratchet looks at Sideswipe, whose gaze has turned distant, optics focused on something only he can see. There's a distinct glaze in them that indicates the accessing of old memory files.

“Me and Sunny chose to be Autobots, but with our origins, we should’ve been the first in line on ‘Con sign-up day.” Sideswipe frowns, his optics dimming. “Sunny didn't trust the Council, but he trusted Megatron's intentions even less.”

And wherever Sunstreaker goes, Sideswipe follows. It goes without even needing to be said.

“You could've been neutral.” Ratchet braces himself against the crates.

Sideswipe grinds a few gears together, a sound of disdain. “Not an option. Not after the war trampled our livelihood. Prime and Megatron were fighting over every scrap of real estate on Cybertron. Nowhere was neutral.”

He has a point. All neutrals were potential Autobots to Megatron. Prime, for the most part, granted them their impartiality, but Megatron was ruthless.

“You chose the Autobots as the lesser of two evils?”

Ratchet doesn’t even have to feign interest. He honestly wants to know.

“You could say that. We've done a lot in the Autobot name. Dismantled more mechs than I can count.” Sides pauses, lifting a hand and unsheathing a blade, watching it slide free with the molten blue of heated metal. “We're not the mechs we used to be. Can't be again.” He drops his hands and shifts toward Ratchet. “I have to believe we picked the right side. Cause if we were wrong, I'd have to turn my blades on my own spark.”

It's a heavy confession. Ratchet never knew that Sideswipe had his doubts. The silver mech has always seemed so certain of himself. He never hesitates; he’s the first to dive into battle and doesn't flinch at the dirty work.

“Sunstreaker?”

“He's still alive. I'd know if he wasn't.” Sideswipe thumps his chest pointedly. “Trust me. And he'd tell you the same thing.”

“No matter what?” Ratchet folds his arms over his chassis.

Sideswipe inclines his helm. “We gave our vow to Prime. That's what matters.”

“Even if he's strayed from the path?”

“Who hasn't?” Sideswipe lifts his shoulders in mimicry of a human shrug. “Diplomacy. Truces. That slag isn't my job. Prime aims. I shoot. I have to believe in that.”

“It's that simple?”

“Because I need it to be.” Sideswipe's mouthplates curve in a crooked grin, spreading his arms out helplessly. “So you gonna fix me or what?”

Conversation concluded. Change the subject, medic. Though this has definitely been revelations for pondering.

Ratchet lifts his optics to the heavens and shoos the silver mech back up onto the berth. “Didn't you hear, Mearing? I shouldn't waste my resources.”

Sideswipe throws his helm back and laughs, his amusement carrying through Ratchet's medcorner and no doubt attracting attention. Neither he nor Sideswipe particularly care.

o0o0o

The next morning dawns crisp and bright. The sky is awash in shades of color they’d never have seen on Cybertron. For all that Ratchet misses his home planet, there are certain things about Earth that are pleasing. The sunrises for instant.

The beauty of the scenery, however, does little to distract from the somber pall hanging over their temporary headquarters. Whether out of respect for the Autobots or the fear of being squished, the humans are being suitably cheerless. Mearing has chosen today, of all days, to serve as a funeral for the Autobots lost in the line of duty.

It's been three months since the battle in Chicago. Ratchet isn't sure he should be insulted that it’s taken so long for the ceremony to be performed. Was it intentional? Were there other important things?

No way to know without asking.

Human recovery has been done with for weeks. A month really. All survivors are either passed or in stable condition, sure to recover. Homeless residents of Chicago have been moved to temporary living facilities or provided transportation to family members who can house them.

True, they are still actively hunting down the hiding ‘Cons, but a brief delay in that line of orders couldn't hurt. It's not as though said Decepticons are harming human population. No, they are desperately concealing themselves, trying to forestall the inevitable. Oh, sure there have been thefts here and there, mostly fuel or supplies for repairs. But interestingly, there’ve been no fatalities.

Despite this, it's taken three months to arrange a ceremony for the Autobots. What that says about their alliance, Ratchet is reluctant to contemplate.

There’s nothing Cybertronian about the funeral, save for those being “honored” and those participating. The hanger housing the empty frames has been thrust wide open. There's a paved road between it and the aircraft waiting to transport the shipping container and its contents to burial at sea.

Humans and Autobots alike line up to either side of the road. Ratchet stands somewhere in the middle, between Sideswipe and Dino, Lennox perched near his collar. Bumblebee is here as well, though missing Sam and Carly. Prime’s closest to the aircraft, silent. The Wreckers are on the other side. NEST soldiers fill in the gaps with Mearing and her entourage standing opposite Prime.

Someone starts playing a song, instrumental only, a human melody. Ratchet could probably access the internet, find out the name, but he doesn't care. It's not Cybertronian. This is a concession to human sensibilities, nothing more. There’s no honor in being dumped at sea, shoved together into a cargo container, parts all jumbled and mismatched. It's a desecration.

The humans bring out Jolt first. As the most intact of the fallen Autobots, his frame is the most recognizable. He's been laid out on a flatbed, a mimicry of recharge repose. As he passes, the NEST soldiers snap into a salute, one that they maintain.

The procession moves on until the end, where Prime lifts Jolt's frame and places him inside the cargo container. His hand brushes Jolt's chestplate, over his nonexistent spark, and he bows his helm. He says nothing, but the air is humming with energy fields emanating grief. In this, for once, the Autobots are all in agreement.

It's a tangible thing. Surely, the humans can feel it. All of the surviving Autobots and their fields synching, creating a low, audible hum of sorrow.

The rest emerge in the same fashion. Skids and Mudflap, together in death as they had been in life. The pieces of Que, neatly arranged and carefully welded in semblance of a full frame. The surviving remnants of Ironhide, placed in a small container with his spare weaponry arranged around it, carefully emptied of any technology the humans might try to steal when they think the Autobots aren't looking.

They had elected not to bury Sentinel with his former brethren.

Prime is the one who seals the shipping container, the back of it painted with an enormous Autobot symbol in bright red. And for a long moment, no one says anything. The humans wrap up their song, and silence reigns supreme. Ratchet's already mourned, but it's hard not to get caught up in the moment.

He said his goodbyes a long time ago, but the ceremony has succeeded in making the pain rise afresh. What did they die for? To protect a planet that will never be home for them. For ideals the Autobots have forgotten.

The cargo container is loaded into the aircraft and the bay closed. As the plane taxies toward the runway, contents safely stored, Ratchet feels his spark give a lurch. It's not right, his processor tells him. His spark agrees.

“All right, gentlemen.” Mearing's voice cuts through the solemn atmosphere, pitched loud enough to be heard by all as she claps her hands together sharply. “We’ve work to do. Decepticons to track down, and we're moving into Sector 16 by the end of the week.”

Like a broken string, the joined resonance of sorrow snaps. Ratchet's own energy field shifts to irritation, sparks with anger. Barely five minutes of respect is all the woman can offer?

A low growl builds in his vocalizer.

Lennox's hand, warm and comforting, pats Ratchet's face. “Not now,” he murmurs, voice barely loud enough to be heard. “You can't make a scene.”

Oh, but he wants to. This is ridiculous. Uncivil. It stomps up and down their supposed alliance. And Prime stands there, not so much as a blip of protest in his field. He says something to Leadfoot, not that Ratchet can hear what it is, but he's fragged certain it doesn’t have anything to do with the funeral. And--

Wait a klik.

He turns away from the crowd.

“Did she say Sector 16?” Ratchet asks of his companion, who has yet to disembark.

“Yeah. It's next on the list. We're to tag buildings for either reconstruction, demolishing, or preservation.” Lennox sounds confused. “Why?”

To anyone else, it would mean nothing. To Ratchet, it's everything. Sector 16 is where he's stashed Thundercracker and Skywarp. They are well concealed from passing cameras and satellite imagery, but from energon detectors and scanning soldiers? Not so much. No way that NEST will miss two conscious and capable Seekers.

He has to move them. They are both capable of flight, but where would they go? Off planet? The long range defense system would shoot them down before they could clear the atmosphere. Even if they could make it, where would they go from there, as low on energon and still in need of some repair. Skywarp's processor still glitches, Thundercracker's thrusters are wonky, and both of them desperately need maintenance and a good, long defrag.

Ratchet realizes that he's going to need some kind of help. In order to move them. In order to find a place that they can safely remain. In order to continue concealing their presence.

“Ratchet?” Lennox prompts him again, a touch of concern in his voice.

The medic lifts a hand, gesturing for Lennox to move from his shoulder and onto his palm.

“Lennox,” Ratchet whispers as the man completes the shift, looking up at Ratchet and completely at ease twenty feet above the ground. “You once said that I could trust you. Now, I'm afraid I must test that promise.”

“What's going on, Ratchet?” He folds his arms over his chest. “Is this about Mearing?”

“I can't explain it here.” Ratchet glances around.

The Autobots and gathered NEST soldiers have dispersed to their respective duties. The aircraft has already risen into the air, heading for the Laurentian Abyss. Prime appears to be deeply in discussion with Mearing. No one is paying them strict attention, but that doesn't mean no one's listening. There are too many eyes and ears on the base.

“I'm asking for trust, William,” he continues, optics catching and holding the human’s blue eyes. “I need your help, and time is against me.”

He doesn't know if it's the gravity in his vocal tones or the anxiety that runs across his plating in a tangible shudder that convinces the colonel. But Lennox nods sharply.

“Okay,” he says. “Let's talk.”

Ratchet lowers his hand to the ground so Lennox can step down and then drops into his alt-mode. His passenger door swings open in invitation.

Lennox doesn't hesitate, not even for a second. He climbs into the seat and settles comfortably. Ratchet swings the door shut and heads toward the gate. This time, no one stops them, the guard waving them through without a second glance.

“What's this about?” Lennox asks, once they’re in Chicago and out of the line of sight of their comrades.

Ratchet drives in silence for a moment, steering toward Sector 16. He considers what he's going to say, how he's going to approach this. He's taking a huge risk here. Lennox could just as easily turn on him, tell Prime the truth, have Ratchet in the brig for his betrayal and the Seekers executed.

Ironhide had trusted him though. With his past. With his life.

For that, Ratchet will take this chance.

“What I'm about to tell you, Lennox, could put both our lives at risk.”

The colonel stares pointedly at the radio dials. That’s where most humans seem to direct their attention toward.

“I'll take that chance.”

“Lennox--”

“Are you a terrorist, Ratchet?” he interrupts, eyebrows lifting. “You gonna assassinate the president or kill Prime in his sleep?”

“No!” Ratchet is horrified by the mere suggestion.

“Then tell me!” Lennox insists. “I can take it.”

Ratchet turns down an adjoining side street, one thankfully clear of detritus. There is no way to say this than other to be blunt. Tact won't help him here.

“Ten weeks ago, I discovered a pair of Decepticon Seekers in Chicago's ruins. They were alive.”

Lennox doesn’t even pause before saying, “You didn't kill them.”

“No.”

“And you didn't tell Prime.”

“Again, no.”

Lennox takes a deep, audible breath. “You fixed them.”

The colonel's tone is perfectly neutral, which makes it difficult for Ratchet to gauge his opinion. But so far, things seem to be going well.

“They are not fully operational yet but essentially, yes,” Ratchet replies.

Silence fills the space between them, filled with the negligible shifts as Ratchet steers over and around the debris-strewn road.

“Why?” Lennox finally breathes.

“For reasons you can't understand.”

“Try me.”

Ratchet cycles his cooling system and pulls to a stop inside an alley just across from the warehouse where his Seekers are hidden. He sinks down on his hydraulics.

“We are so few now, Lennox. And what we do we have left to fight over? Once, I used to be a diplomat and a healer. If the war is truly over, then I long to be so again.”

Lennox scrubs a hand over his hair, slouching down in the seat. He exhales audibly again, a touch of frustration accompanying the noise.

“Humans go to war all the time. We've never wiped ourselves out like you guys have.” His frown deepens into a scowl. “I can't imagine fighting until there's no one left. I'm a soldier, Ratchet; it's what I do. But even I don't get how Prime or Megatron could let things get so far.”

“Neither do I.”

Perhaps the human can understand this. There’s a point, several of them even, that the war could’ve ended. But both Prime and Megatron had kept on fighting through it. Until the reasons for the fighting in the first place were drowned beneath a deluge of pain and death.

“You're telling me this now.” Lennox rubs his palms down his thigh. His gaze shifts to the window and the enclosing dim of the alleyway. “So I can only guess that something's happened.”

“I've kept them hidden, but they’re in Sector 16. This sector.”

“The one next on Mearing's list. You'll need to move them then.” His eyes narrow in thought. “You said they were Seekers. Like Starscream? Couldn't they just fly?”

Ratchet flags their current status and skims it. “Skywarp is capable, but Thundercracker's thruster is unstable. He can't make sustained flight.”

“And the evil, ruthless ‘Con won't leave his friend behind.” Lennox's words are thick with bitterness. “What can I do?”

Were Ratchet in his root mode, he would’ve cycled his optics in surprise. As it is, he reboots his audials.

“Do you realize what you're agreeing to, Lennox?”

“I damn well get it, Ratchet,” he retorts fiercely. “I'm an adult. I know what I'm doing. So what do you need?”

A surge of affection pulses through Ratchet's spark for this human, this one man who is the best his species could offer. One of the few that Ratchet can dare consider kin.

“A place to hide them. A means to get them there. And a glitch in the systems to conceal their relocation.”

“We can detect Cybertronian hacks now. I see why you needed some help.” Lennox nods, inhaling with deliberation. “Okay. We got two days. I know where you can keep them. Just have to figure out how to get them there.”

“Where?”

“You know that my grandfather died last year. Left me this huge house up in North Dakota, but who the hell wants to live there? So it's sitting empty.” Lennox's lips curve with a smile. “There's acres of open land and very little populace.”

“That is most kind of you.” Ratchet stumbles, uncertain how to word himself properly. “I owe you many thanks, Lennox. This goes above and beyond--”

“You don't owe me anything,” the human puts in firmly and reaches out, tentatively patting Ratchet's dashboard like he has probably done so many times before with Hide. “You guys gave up everything to protect Earth, and the best my government can do is make you sleep in a warehouse. It's enough to make me hate my own kind, you know.”

Ratchet swings open the door so that Lennox can get out. Then, he slides into his bipedal form, stretching his limbs comfortably.

“We brought our war to you first.”

“But you didn't have to stay. You didn't have to protect us. It would’ve been easier, I know, to just let the ‘Cons have Earth and keep going. Especially after the Allspark was destroyed.”

He looks down at the small human. “Nevertheless, I will find some way to express my gratitude.”

Ratchet straightens and peers out of the alley, into the street. No intelligent life to be found.

“For now, allow me to introduce you to my patients.”

“They're not going to try to kill me?” Lennox poses. “Because this isn't the way I want to die. I haven’t even had the chance to threaten any of Annabelle’s future boyfriends.”

A small chuckle leaves Ratchet as he crosses the street and ducks under the collapsed pillar that hides the opening. Ironhide was right about this one.

“As long as you’re with me, you should be fine. I would, however, suggest that you let me do the talking. At least at first.”

“Gotcha.”

Lennox falls silent and lets Ratchet take the lead. He moves carefully through the delicately balanced debris, sending an identity ping ahead of himself so that Thundercracker and Skywarp know that he's coming. He wraps a warning that he's not alone with it.

“Primus, TC, he's even worse today. Mech needs to cross cables and soon,” Skywarp drawls as Ratchet steps into view. At present, the darker Seeker is crouched on the ground behind Thundercracker, who leans forward so that Skywarp can peer into his left thruster.

Ratchet tosses a glare at the irritating mech. “Get your digits out of his thruster. I don't want you to frag up my hard work.”

“I'm a Seeker, medic. I know more about this than you do,” Skywarp retorts with a sneer, optics flashing.

“You know field repairs. Not delicate fine-tuning. Claws. Off.”

“Warp,” Thundercracker says, waving a hand at his trinemate. “He's right.”

Skywarp huffs, dropping his hands and rising to his pedes. “You were the one complaining about an itch in your sensory line. See if I help you again.” He shifts a glare to Ratchet, dropping heavily onto the makeshift berth. “You said you weren't alone. Forget how to count, medic?”

“He has a human with him,” Thundercracker corrects, his optics glancing past Ratchet to Lennox who’s wisely hovering behind Ratchet's left leg. “Fine tune your sensors, scraplet.”

“Older than you,” Skywarp grumbles and nibbles on the end of a clawtip. “What did ya bring a fleshbag for? I don't need any more toys.”

“He's not a toy,” Ratchet replies with a noticeable rev of his engine. “Lennox is here because I need his help. And so do you.”

“From a human? Unlikely.” Thundercracker straightens and fails to hide his wince as something pinches in his dorsal armor. Likely whatever had prompted him to make the ill-conceived request of Skywarp to take a look.

Ratchet ventilates loudly and storms between the Seekers, circling around Thundercracker and gripping the back of his neck. He pushes Thundercracker forward to get a better look at him, activating his personal scanners. A crimped sensory line is the obvious perpetrator and a pressed cydraulic line, too. No wonder he feels... irritated.

“You have to be moved,” Lennox says, speaking for himself now that the Decepticons haven't instantly aimed to kill. “NEST operatives will be moving to clear this sector soon, and there's a high chance they'll find you.”

Skywarp makes a rude noise. “We can handle humans.”

“But can you handle the Autobots that'll accompany them?” Lennox challenges defiantly. “You know Prime's not going to ask you to lay down your arms. He's shooting to kill.”

Thundercracker hisses through his denta as Ratchet frees the crimped line but doesn't pull away.

“Such a wise and honorable Prime,” he sneers.

“We have a plan,” Ratchet informs them. “You can either let us help you. Or become another set of statistics for Prime and the Autobots.”

Skywarp's helm swivels toward Ratchet, an almost malicious look in his optics.

“You say that like you're not an Autobot, medic. You defecting? You a ‘Con now?”

“Of course not,” he snaps and tugs on Thundercracker's plating a bit too hard, prompting a snarled curse. “I know where my loyalties lie.”

Thundercracker's wings flick. “Do you?” Unlike his trinemate, his question is sincere, not a mockery. “You don't sound certain.”

“I’m not a Decepticon,” Ratchet responds decisively and steps back, having completed the brief repair work. “I'm not having this discussion now. We don't have a lot of time.”

“Ratchet's right.” Lennox dares another few steps forward, running hands over his hair. “In a day or two, this sector will be swarming with soldiers. We need to move you now.”

Skywarp sits up, wings shifting behind him. “What's the plan?”

As Lennox starts to speak, outlining a brilliant plan that is all the more impressive for how quickly he must have concocted it, Ratchet looks upon the situation with nothing less than disbelief. An Autobot, two Decepticons, and a human.

This is a punchline worthy of Jazz. And he knows the mech would be laughing his armor off about right now.

An Autobot, two Decepticons, and a human. All lying to their respective factions, all reaching for something more.

What that something is, however, has yet to be named.

***
(on to part five)

[Bayverse] War Without End: Ratchet - Part Four

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