Chapter Text
Ratchet has just about had it with the sheer number of new idiots waltzing into his medbay.
That doesn’t actually mean anything. If he knew for a fact that any of said idiots in said medbay wouldn’t collapse in on themselves for it he’d be complaining, not because he’s truly angry at any of them, but because he likes complaining. It makes him feel better.
The newest idiot in question is currently sitting in one of the remaining empty beds, with a thermal blanket and all of the heating implements Ratchet could scrounge up on short notice, staring blankly into the empty space somewhere above Ratchet’s shoulder.
Speaking of that, Jazz is also here. Ratchet can’t tell if they’re asleep or lightly dozing or just being quiet, but they’ve been stuck to his shoulder through means unknown for the last few hours. If they are asleep, great, sleep is good. If they aren’t, they’re still out of their mech, which was apparently slowly killing them the entire time, not that they would’ve mentioned something like that as anything other than an offhanded comment.
Ratchet takes a breath. It’s fine. Probably. Jazz may understate absolutely everything about their physical and mental condition at all times, but they aren’t dead and aren’t dying.
Back to the task at hand. Thundercracker’s general condition is. Well, it’s not great, but it could be much worse.
The fact that he might’ve helped Ratchet discover several new forms of environmental damage is beside the point, since anything Ratchet would be able to do to help immediately would require full-on joint replacements.
Naturally, this isn’t something Ratchet wants to do. He doesn’t think Thundercracker would want to do that, either, and in any case he doesn’t have the resources to do that in a way that would meaningfully improve his quality of life.
So Ratchet’s going to leave him to his blankly staring into space and get back to that in favor of checking in on the other four injured idiots in the local area.
“Raaaaatchet,” Trackie says, waving one of their hands like they’re trying to flag down a taxi. “Ratchet, can I get up and walk around now?”
“If your knee joints have spontaneously repaired themselves, then yes,” Ratchet dryly replies.
“My legs are fine!” Trackie says. “I can move my feet and everything! Also, hey, what’s that on your shoulder?”
“Not the same thing,” Ratchet says. “And that’s Jazz.”
“Oh, huh,” Trackie says. “That’s cool. Didn’t know they could do that. But uh- could I at least have, like.” They turn a little to look at the nearest wall, obviously blanking on the word. “...Like, a, uh, a stick. For leaning on. Can’t remember the name.”
“...Not a bad idea,” Ratchet says. “They’re called crutches. Honestly, I probably should’ve given some to you before now, but...” Ratchet waves his hand vaguely.
Trackie seems to catch on anyway. “‘Cause a bunch of stuff happened between then and now, yeah. I get it. It’s okay. But can I?”
“If I can find any,” Ratchet says, dryly. “Shouldn’t be too hard to make some if I can’t, but that might be a while with the number of things that won't stop happening.”
“Yeah, that’s fair...” Trackie says. “S’just that it’s really boring in here. Even with Bowie and Shortie. ‘Cause Bowie’s asleep all the time and Shortie’s just tired of... everything, I think? Yeah.”
“No, I’m sorry. You deserve more time to be able to talk to people and do things that are actually interesting. You’re a kid. I’ve been forgetting.” Ratchet says.
“I- huh? Thanks?” Trackie says. “You’re really nice. That’s kinda weird. Shockers said Autobots were evil, but also he chopped my arm off once for no reason, so I think he’s probably wrong about a lot of stuff,”
“He- he what-” Ratchet says.
“He gave me it back! Eventually!” Trackie replies. “Then me n’ Shortie had to work together to weld it back on and I think we did a pretty good job, even if my shoulder still kinda twinges sometimes.”
Ratchet narrowly resists the urge to bury his face in his hands and scream. “...Can I please take a look at that, then,”
“Oh yeah, course you can. It’s, uhh,” They pause for a second, rotating one shoulder in its socket and then the other, pausing on their left shoulder with their face slightly scrunched. “Yeah it’s this one.”
Ratchet once again entertains the possibility of getting Soundwave and Blaster to turn the ship around to go kick the scrap out of Shockwave’s corpse.
Leaning in, he can see that Short Fuse and Trackie did a fairly good job getting their arm back onto their body, especially for being literal children with next to no supervision. It is for this reason that Ratchet isn’t making the comment that if this were an actual doctor’s handiwork he would think they were trying to be as torturous as possible.
“Is it that bad...?” Shortie asks.
“I’m kind of ashamed of myself for missing this the first time,” Ratchet says.
“No, s’okay, Bowie was kind of dying. You had bigger problems.” Trackie says. “And anyway Shortie’s really good at painting stuff like that over so nobody could tell unless they were lookin’. Better that way! Usually.”
“That doesn’t make this any better,” Ratchet says.
Trackie’s actual shoulder joint is, first off, slightly out of its socket. Not enough you could see it from a distance, but if you’re looking at it, it’s kind of obvious that it’s a little further out and down than it has any right to be.
The joint itself is mostly held in by not particularly precise welds and protoform scar tissue. There are semi-old weld marks seemingly trying their best to get the major lines together, not particularly straight but with some effort put into them to make sure they stayed on target, barely visible under the paint and plating. Those were probably Short Fuse.
“Mostly I’m just wondering how you can even move your fingers,” Ratchet says.
“Uhh. Shortie spent a really long time trying to line up all the fuel lines and everything. And an even longer time welding it all together. Kinda don’t remember it all.” Trackie says.
“Well. Okay then,” Ratchet says. “Good news: if you’ve made it this long without anything terrible happening, it’s probably at least mostly stable. Bad news: there’s not much of a way for me to fix this without having to cut a lot of that out.”
“Oh, okay,” Trackie says. “Yeah, that’s fine. Um. Maybe when stuff stops happening that can happen, but. I dunno, it works good enough. You don’t have to do anything.”
“I won’t do anything about it that you don’t want me to,” Ratchet says. “...How are Bowie and Short Fuse?”
“Uhh,” Trackie starts. “They’re both asleep right now, but Shortie’s been complaining over comms about being bored. They said they wouldn’t mind having a temp voicebox until you can get one that actually sounds like them, though.”
“Okay, that’s good,” Ratchet says. “...I should probably go check on Meister again.”
Ratchet already cleaned up most of the issues with Shortie- they didn’t have too much wrong with them other than the shattered voice box, and with the shards removed and sealant put in to make sure their body didn’t try to forget it ever even had one, they were mostly good to go.
Bowie’s issues were more difficult to deal with, but since they’re evidently extremely difficult to kill and have a self-repair that works faster than Ratchet would’ve assumed physically possible, he’s inclined to leave them as is and check up on them just to make sure it’s all healing properly.
“Oh, okay,” Trackie says. “Have fun?”
“I’ll try,” Ratchet replies.
Meister, on the other, third hand, is almost certainly the most stable he’s been in years, but also back to his old habits of waking up at inopportune times and spy-instinct-panicking himself into the walls. It’s annoying, but it’s not the worst thing in the world. At least now he’s on painkillers that, if Ratchet remembers correctly, don’t make him as loopy.
Ratchet walks into the room and is greeted by an already-awake Meister sat up and visibly considering whether or not he should get out of bed.
“...Hi, doc,” Meister says, after a long pause. “Where... where am I?”
“You asked this last time, too,” Ratchet says. “You’re on the Lost Light. We made it out.”
“Oh. Oh, alright, that’s.” He squints, hand coming up to his face. “...Head hurts. No, actually, everything hurts, but not as bad. Scrap, how long have I been out?”
Ratchet pauses long enough that Meister visibly stiffens. “Doc. Doc, how long have I been out?”
“It’s been almost exactly a vorn since we all made it off Cybertron,” Ratchet says.
“Oh,” Meister says. “Oh, okay. Goddamn, that’s a long time to be actively dying.”
“Yeah,” Ratchet agrees. “Wait, how’d you know that?”
“I mean,” Meister says, gesturing with his good arm to his general being, “You know me, right?”
“...Fair point.” Ratchet says. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Was, uh... think we were planning something? Or. I... don’t know. That’s not good, is it.” Meister says.
“It’s not, no, but the fact that you can string sentences together at all right now is a good sign,” Ratchet says. “You almost certainly don’t remember it, but you woke up earlier and I had to get some help to fish you out of the vents.”
“Huh. Yeah, I don’t remember that at all.” Meister says. “That’s fun. Maybe I’ll remember later.”
“Might be better that you don’t, to be honest,” Ratchet replies.
“That bodes well,” Meister says, evidently trying to smile but expression twitching into a small frown after a second. Probably because moving a faceplate that’s still got holes in it would hurt. “Uh. Who’s... who’s the little buddy?”
“Long story short, smallest loadbearer you’ve ever seen in your entire life, also an alien.” Ratchet says. “Their armor looks a lot like us, so they spent the first good chunk of meeting us assuming we’d crush them flat if we knew they weren’t mechs. They’re also the help I had to get to drag you out of the wall.”
“Oh, okay. Pleasant. Can I go back to bed now...? S’too-” Meister looks up at the ceiling, immediately recoiling a little and covering his eyes with his good hand. “Feckin’- it’s bright in here. Why are the lights so bright?”
“It’s ‘cause you have brain damage. And, yeah, you can. I’ve made sure you’re cognizant and not dying. See you later.”
“Ohh, yaaay, that’s festive,” Meister says, proceeding to not particularly lay down as much as suddenly stop sitting up. “Ow.”
Ratchet turns to walk out the door. “Don’t give yourself any more.”
“Youuu got it, doc..!”
As Ratchet walks back into the main medbay, he is greeted by Thundercracker staring ominously in exactly his direction with the wide-eyed, unblinking look of a prey animal recently graced by Primus himself.
“...Still not convinced you’re real,” TC says, fidgeting with one of the heat packs Ratchet gave him. “Been a long time since we’ve seen each other and we weren’t actively trying to. Y’know. Kill each other.”
“...Yeah, it has.” Ratchet agrees. “I’m not in the business of killing patients, though, and you never tried to shoot me. To be honest, I might be getting complacent, I haven’t had any ‘actively trying to shoot me and/or escape’ patients in a while. To be honest, I’m much more worried about having to corral Megatron or Starscream in here.”
“It’s-” TC starts, suddenly snapping his mouth closed not even two words in, the way you would if you just realized you were going to let loose a secret. “Starscream- no. Both of them. They’re... they’re different now. Less predictable. I’d- I’d leave them both behind and just get out of here if... if I didn’t need to know.”
Ratchet frowns. There’s several possibilities for what any of that could mean, but Ratchet’s willing to give TC the benefit of the doubt here. He seems genuinely afraid. “Know what?”
Thundercracker takes a long breath, like he’s trying to steel himself. “Starscream’s not himself,” he says. “Hasn’t been himself. Not really. It’s close- sometimes it’s so close- but it’s not him. And I need to know why.” He accidentally splits the heating pack he was fidgeting with open with his claws. He looks down at it as he continues. “...don’t think Megatron was ever himself.”
“...What makes you think that?” Ratchet asks.
“I know him. We’re trine.” Thundercracker says. “If it were him, he wouldn’t feel so distant. I would know if it were him. It’s not. It looks like him, but it’s not.”
“No, I believe you about Starscream, I meant the Megatron comment,” Ratchet says.
“O-oh. I.. I didn’t think you would,” TC says.
Ratchet frowns. Thundercracker is probably the only reliable source of information on Starscream, which includes Starscream. Why wouldn’t Ratchet believe him?
“It’s.. well. We’ve been part of the Decepticons since the start of the war, you knew that. Me and Star and Warp have known him for a long, long time now- and he’s changed since then. Has been changing. He’s not really a person now as much as he is... angry. Just a walking incarnation of rage. If you’ve ever thought he always seemed murderous, you had no idea. Always, always, always angry. Like he’ll drop dead if he ever stops.”
“...Can’t say I’ve known him any other way,” Ratchet says. “Or at least not enough to see it happen.”
“He was different at the start. I don’t know what happened. What’s been happening. But I know he’s worse off for it now.” TC says. “Can’t really remember what he was like, though. Less angry, maybe. Too much has happened since then.”
“Alright. So Starscream’s... indefinably wrong and different, and Megatron has been off since forever?” Ratchet asks.
“Yeah, essentially.” TC shifts in bed, reaching to pull the thermal blanket up to cover more than his shins. Ratchet can hear his joints squeak as he moves. “...Do you have anything to fix that..?”
“Having your piston lubricant freeze and evaporate isn’t a usual health problem I get, but seeing as you can still move the tactic I already tried seems to work,” Ratchet says. “That’s a long-winded way of saying yes. I’ll go get it.”
As Ratchet walks over to one of five cabinets he could’ve left it in, he notes Jazz stirring from their place on Ratchet’s shoulder- at some point they migrated to be closer to his neck, still firmly stuck on there using means unknown.
“Mmmmmmi’m awake. You make a pretty good napping spot, Ratch,” Jazz says, voice filtered and slightly doubled through Ratchet’s comms. “What was that, six hours? That’s gotta be a personal record.”
“Isn’t your species meant to sleep about nine hours for every twenty-four?” Ratchet asks.
“Mmmmyeah but I don’t. For a few reasons taped together. Probably should, though. ” they reply. “Can’t believe a giant alien ambulance is getting on me about my sleeping habits. That’s something only my mom should be doing.”
“It’s my job to make sure you don’t keel over,” Ratchet replies blithely. “I’m just happy you’re out of your mech for once.”
“It’s not THAT bad,” Jazz says. “I’ve made it this far with all my terrible health habits,”
“Yeah, and that’s a miracle, as far as I’m concerned.” Ratchet grumbles. He pulls open another cabinet and starts rifling through (the first one was completely empty.)
“Anyway, enough about that, how are all the idiots doing?” Jazz asks. “I know I said I was fine with people seeing me napping on you but I do really need to know what they thought.”
“Meister and Trackie were the only ones who asked, and both of them essentially went ‘oh okay that’s cool’ and then moved on,” Ratchet says. “Everybody else is either asleep or Thundercracker, who didn’t seem to care.”
“...Thundercracker’s the guy that Roddy helped drag in, right? Got stuck in the snowstorm?” Jazz asks. “What’s up with them again?”
“The very same,” Ratchet says. “To make it short, freezing-related joint problems. To make it long, temperature-related damage usually is from overheating since the average mech can’t take their body temperature below the freezing point of their joint fluid, but as it turns out, being buried in a snowstorm is a great way to get past that. It tends to sublimate when unfreezing is the issue, and it’s the main mechanism behind the majority of deaths by freezing.”
Jazz makes a vague i’m listening noise. Ratchet takes this as a pass to continue. “That being all your joints freeze up and you starve sometime after your body shuts down trying to conserve fuel,” he says. “The other is that if it’s cold enough, as in vacuum of space kind of cold, your body can’t produce enough heat to keep your spark spinning, and it snuffs,” he says. “I have so many of these morbid fun facts, I’m realizing,”
“You can keep talking if you want, I think they’re interesting,” Jazz says.
“No, I’ve got to go actually get this to TC, it’s what I came over here for to begin with,” Ratchet replies, hand closing around the little canister he’d been looking for. “Don’t know why I didn’t just set it on the counter, but at least I found it.”
Ratchet walks back across the room to go hand it to TC, who accepts it wordlessly, and then walks out to stand in the hallway and think about things he should probably be doing.
“Hm,” he says aloud. “I think there was something I wanted to do, but I have no idea what it is anymore.”
“Uhhh,” Jazz says. “I’m gonna be honest, I have no idea what your job is around here other than be a doctor.”
“At this point, I don’t know either,” Ratchet says. “I have been meaning to ask, though- how are you sticking to me?”
“Oh, those’re my suit magnets,” Jazz says. “Usually they’re for catching yourself if you fall off your mech, ‘cause maybe popping your shoulder out of your socket and scraping the complete crap out of your paint is still WAY better than a possibly fatal spinal injury from falling twenty feet and hitting every catwalk on the way down.”
“...Pleasant,” Ratchet says. “How often would you say that happens?”
“What, falling off your mech? Never, if you’re paying attention. Only every once in a while if you’re not.”
“Good to know.” Ratchet turns and takes a few steps down the hallway before he actually remembers what he was going to do. “Oh, right, I was going to go see how bad the snowstorm is so I could maybe try and estimate how long Thundercracker’s been stuck out there.”
“Fine by me, I’ve got nothing better to be doing right now.” Jazz says. “Probably shouldn’t go out, though, even disregarding the whole air situation, ‘cause it’s gonna be way colder than I can handle.”
“Oh, that’s true. Would you mind just being left inside for a bit while I went out and looked, then?”
“Yeah, sounds fine. The airlock outside is only like, one hallway over, isn’t it?”
It is. It’s built specifically like that for ease of hauling dramatically injured mechs into the medbay as quickly as possible without having it be a straight shot for anyone trying to invade.
Thus, the walk over there is quick.
“Oh, hey, didn’t know your outdoor airlocks had windows. Did you guys build a specifically windowless one for me n’ Roddy’s room?” Jazz asks, and then continues before Ratchet can respond with “Oh, hey, I think there’s a person out there, is that-”
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ratchet says, stopping dead in his tracks about three paces from the airlock door. “It’s Starscream.”
“-somebody you know..?” Jazz lamely finishes. “Yup, okay then, glad to be sure.”