Ep. 1.5 - Missing - (Closed)

[Deleted]

Set in Week 2, Day 7, roughly 11pm – three hours before ’SOMA’!

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At times, even he succumbed to the temptation to hang on to bad code.

No, not bad. Just stupid.

Ratchet grumbled to himself as he scanned the final file. He had just written the last of a script that would interface directly with Access and insert parsed data into the control database using QSL queries, where it would then run and create the prototype to an analysis tool. And now as he sat and stared irritably at the script - marvellously dense with complex code – he reflected to himself that he had wasted more time cooking up this solution than probing through the control code by hand would have.

Ratchet growled to himself. And then, after a wary glance revealed that the control room of the Autobot base was still dark and quiet – and empty – he sighed and leaned forward and let his forehead fall upon his waiting hands. The control monitors for the ground bridge loomed above him, silent and green and glowing, non–judgemental.

An hour at least. That was how long he had been plugging away at this, this – this distraction, this absurd solution to the corruption issue the ground bridge had been suffering since one of the monitors had been shot up. Create a tool to analyze and debug the control code for you! A natural solution. And time consuming, a waste of his skills and what precious few hours he had left to himself.

Even worse, Ratchet hated working with code. Despised it. He was a decent programmer, but a grudging one. He preferred to work with his hands, to set them against physical challenges - ruptured fuel lines, shattered plating, seared neural circuitry. Taxing, delicate tasks that demanded precision, knowledge, and solid, intelligent decisions made under the greatest of pressure. Not this garbage, where one keystroke could obliterate all evidence of sloppy work while still allowing you to feel so smugly clever.

Ratchet rubbed his hands down his face. He had a critical patient in his medical bay who needed him more than the ground bridge did. So why was he wasting time poking at this fiddly nonsense again?

He cast a guilty look back over his shoulder at the entrance to the medical bay. It glowed a dim blue; he had left a monitor on inside.

Because there was something still terribly wrong with his patient, and he had no idea what it was. And he had come out here to di – to dist –

He heaved a sigh. No. He had to admit it. To distract himself from the ugly problem waiting for him back in his isolation ward.

A beep from the monitors alerted him. Ratchet looked up wearily. Well. The prototype was ready. Since he had wasted all this time on creating it already, he figured he might as well test the thing.

A keystroke activated it, filling a side monitor with lines of scrolling code. Ratchet shut down the ground bridge protocols and grabbed a seat and settled in to wait. He paged idly through another screen as the debugger ran, flipping through search string results to an earlier query he had made of their piecemeal database.

Mnemosurgery. Not one of his favourite subjects, but Primus – he was getting desperate.

[Deleted]

In Haven was another mech who should have been resting, or at least conserving his energy. Instead, Layby was pacing the length of the Atrium and the Medbay combined in slow, echoing steps. His hands were clenching and opening at his sides, his blast plates shifting and twitching in a constant wave that may have been funny if his demeanor weren't so disturbed.

He was pinging once a minute, now, her aggravation be damned. Private channel, heavily locked and shielded, and silent on one end for the better part of Thirty-six hours. Thirty-five hours and forty-two minutes... forty-three...

Layby was going out of his mind.

The old soldier hadn't told anyone else of the situation, hadn't indicated that there might be cause for concern. Cleaver took herself out on material-requisition trips all the time. She'd been doing it for years, confident in this world with her holoprojector in a way that Layby doubted he'd ever be.

MECH hadn't been a clear and present threat for years, though, and this was the first time she'd missed a check-in by more than three hours. Three hours was how long it took to repair a hardware error in a comm. unit when a rodent chewed through a wire in the dash, and there wasn't an internet cafe nearby where she could update Cat. He'd given her hell for that, and been satisfied to receive 'I can take care of myself you clutch-sucking slag' hell back, because that had been part of her being back and safe and in sight.

He'd give anything right now for a ten minute avalanche of abuse over the comm. for pestering her like this.

Thirty-five hours and forty-five minutes.

Layby took himself into the Medbay and pulled the door shut. He stood against the first examining berth, setting his pedes into the worn-smooth ovals in the stone where she usually stood, and resting his knuckles on the metalmesh.

::Neutral base to Autobot Ratchet. This is Layby. You receive me?::

Aloud, and inadvertently over the comm.line as well, he uttered to the ceiling, "Primus please let this just be glitchy comm.s."

[Deleted]

Ratchet's optics had begun to droop when the Autobot base commline chimed.

A new communication window popped up on one of the monitors, complete with call controls and other UI elements. Startled, Ratchet leaned off his hand and sat upright. A call at this hour - and not from an Autobot on patrol either.

He checked its ID. The Neutral base.

Ratchet frowned and rubbed his jaw. The Neutrals took pride in their self-sufficiency. It was a rare day when they placed a comm. Casual discussions between friendly bots were typically restricted to private frequencies rather than being shuffled through the main Omega commline. Which meant this had to be official business of some sort.

And yet, it was directed to him personally rather than Optimus Prime or the base in general. That was odd. A medical issue, perhaps?

Warily, Ratchet tapped the screen to open the line.

"Layby, this is Ratchet," he said. He rubbed the weariness from his optics with his finger and thumb and tried to sound brisk. "Good evening. Or rather, good morning to you, I suppose. I receive you. Is there something I can help you with?"

[Deleted]

Ratchet's tone, the weariness behind the civility, didn't register. Layby was just grateful that the medic had been the one to receive the call, instead of one of the many other Autobots who could have been manning the comm. station. He'd only met Ratchet once, but had heard enough about him through Cleaver to know he was efficient, effective and trustworthy. He didn't think he could have handled talking to one the chattier Autobots just now.

He was pacing again. Hadn't noticed. Layby returned to the spot at the berth and forced himself to stand still. Composure under fire had always been one of his strengths, but now he was feeling rattled as a greenhorn on his first sortie.

It must have been because there so many unknowns that he couldn't rationalise to himself, couldn't keep grounded and methodical as he could have if one of the mine shafts had collapsed or Megatron up and announced that he'd changed his mind about the whole DMZ thing. He didn't know beyond rumour and speculation about MECH. He didn't know what they were realistically capable of.

And it was Cleaver. The helo had been a constant, comfortingly stubborn jab in his side of centuries. She couldn't just be not here, without a sound or a warning.

Irrational. It had been a stressful few months of great change in a confined space. He couldn't approach this irrationally.

Cycling a deep ventilation, Layby tapped his thumbs on the berth and kept his voice neutral. "Yeah. Have yeh heard anything from Cleaver since yeh last saw her earlier this week?"

He pinched at the plates between his optics, pressing down. "Maybe mentioning needing to go into radio silence in Utah?

[Deleted]

Instantly, Ratchet was wide awake.

“Cleaver?” he said.

He frowned. It had been days since he had last seen his fellow medic. Having not heard from her since then, he had assumed that she was safely entrenched back at the Neutral base. The audible unease in Layby’s voice suggested otherwise, however.

Ratchet did not know the bartender well, only that he was former Defence Force. Layby did not strike him as someone who was prone to getting nervous over imagined problems. If he was worried about Cleaver, then it stood to reason that her unusual disappearance warranted concern.

He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Layby – I haven't heard a word from her all week. But stand by. Let me consult our radio logs to see if another Autobot on the monitors picked up a call from her.”

All inbound and outbound transmissions to the Omega base over its official frequency were logged, partly for security reasons and to provide a record that could be tracked should an Autobot go missing. A tap of another screen pulled up the log list for the week. Ratchet scanned it, his brow furrowed.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I don't see any messages from her logged in our system. Not even an ID ping.”

Ratchet leaned back in his seat, unsettled. “How long has it been since she went silent? And did you say she was last in Utah?”

[Deleted]

Layby nodded to himself as Ratchet made the checks on his end, going beyond his initial query. Efficient. Smart.

Once he'd said that Cleaver hadn't spoken to him, the solider hadn't expected anything to come of looking at communications with the other Autobots. Of all the Neutrals here, Cleaver had the biggest chip on her shoulder about self-sufficiency - with a particular emphasis on the self. If she'd run into trouble and failed at dealing with it herself, she would have called Layby, and been bitching under her breath the entire time.

Not even an ID ping, though. The sinking feeling in his tank managed to plummet that bit deeper.

"Utah, yeah. No coordinates logged, so can't narrow down more'n'that." Layby rubbed his optical covers with the heels of his hands, then went back to leaning into the berth. "She 'bridged out forty-one hours ago. Supposed to comm. in after six. Not heard her at all."

And what did he expect them to do about it?

The poisonous, logical little voice drew Layby up cold. Cleaver wasn't an Autobot. She'd put her hand inside of Megatron's and been peaceable with his Decepticons. The 'bots owed them nothing when it came to events outside of the DMZ, and Utah was a long way away.

He'd go himself. Slag, Layby wanted to go himself. But that would leave Haven dangerously empty of anyone who could protect it. Without an anti-groundbridge field, they couldn't truly 'shut' it to visitors from the factions, either, and someone needed to be here to oversee and enforce the rules. Or tell them to git the Pit out, as the blue mech was inclined as of the last...

Thirty-five hours and forty-seven minutes.

His fists clenched until his joints squeaked, the hydraulics up his arms and across his shoulders bulging with a surge of tension and tightly-reined power. He could tear this mountain down with his bare hands but he couldn't find his own cohort.

"I know yeh can't..." Layby exhaled through his dente, shook his head and swallowed back the unprocessed fuel that was trying to curdle back up. "Just... let me know if yeh hear anything."

[Deleted]

Ratchet's mind filled in where the unspoken ellipses ended.

He pressed his mouth into a line. Layby believed they would not be able to send a scout team out looking for Cleaver. And in a sense it was true. They did not have her coordinates, and Utah was a large section of land to search by foot, full of mountains and deep gorges. There was also the fact that the Autobot base itself was, if not on alert, then on a higher security level thanks to the threat of MECH. Any patrols they did send out required monitoring, as well as back-up on standby. It was a tense situation.

Ratchet rattled his fingertips on the panel, frowning.

"Affirmative, Layby," he said. "I'm sorry I don't have any better news for you. But at least now that are aware that she is overdue for a report we will know to cycle through common en route frequencies and keep a sharp ear out for any word from her. I will constantly monitor all distress frequencies from here on out as well. If she is in trouble and broadcasting on one of them, I will detect it, I assure you."

Comm failure. A poor transmission range. Mechanical issues. All were simple things that could contribute to silence from a bot in the field. It would be foolish to assume the worst right away.

But still Ratchet felt uneasy. Cleaver was one of the few of their kind on Earth that he considered, if not a friend, then at least a comrade with whom he was on amiable terms with. The thought that she was missing made a chill run through his spark.

His frown deepened.

"And Layby," he said. "If she has still not reported in to you within another six hours and there are any Autobots up in the skies near Utah, rest assured that I will be sure to route them over the state in order to search for her. It's a lot of unfamiliar ground to cover. But if she is indeed missing we will do our best to help find her."

[Deleted]

They'd look. Not right away, but when they could, they'd put some optics over, and were going to monitor the airwaves in the meantime. They weren't obliged to help, weren't asking for anything in return, and Layby felt his spark warm a little with gratitude.

"Thank yeh," he croaked. "Ah'll comm. on this channel if I have any news."

In the next six hours. If not, then he'd be comm.ing with the fact that Cleaver was still missing, still gone, and then he'd go right back to waiting and wearing a trench through the Atrium.

Layby knew he couldn't search for her himself, and couldn't ask one of the other Neutrals to do so either. It made the waiting even harder, more futile, with his processor supplying him endless depictions of what could have happened to the helo and how his presence could bring her home if he'd only been there. Not doing anything aside from calling Cleaver for an answer on top of not knowing anything was insufferable.

But knowing that someone was going to do what he couldn't, someone with a few resources and some mech-power behind them, made it more bearable. He ought to have asked if the Prime would consent to what Ratchet proposed, given that it was the Autobot medic making these assurances and not the unit commander of the base. Ratchet spoke with an alluring certainty of conviction, however, promising that even if Optimus Prime did disagree (remote as chance as that would be) the old medic would certainly still get his way.

"Thank yeh, Ratchet," Layby said again, and he wanted to say more than those paltry few words. To convey how much this help meant to him. How significant just the act of caring about a missing Neutral was.

Words escaped him utterly, however, and he could only hope that Ratchet at least got an impression of what he couldn't say.

[Deleted]

"You're welcome, Layby," said Ratchet.

He spoke with gravity. He could only hope that his words did some good towards reassuring the bartender. Ratchet knew all too well what it was like to remain behind and tensely wait for a call, a confirmation that everything in the field was all right. The anxiety wore at you, no matter what you did to distract it.

That it was Cleaver who had neglected to place that call was worrisome. She was not known to shirk her responsibilities or to run fast and loose with safety procedures.

Ratchet leaned back in his seat and ran his hand over his mouth. If only there were more the Autobots could do.

"I only wish I could be of more help," he said. "Is there anything else I can do for you in the meantime? Is there anything Haven needs of us?"

[Deleted]

"No, we're alright here," Layby replied, standing back from the berth. He laced his hands together behind his broad neck, squeezing until his dorsal plates ached. Then, under some strange urge to confess, he added, "'ve not told anyone. Didn't want Cat or the others t'worry."

Which was true, though the main reason he'd kept out of the way of seeing anyone who might ask after Cleaver was that he was struggling to contain his own worry and frustration. He didn't want to volunteer to help take care of anyone else's before he had to.

The inhabitants of Haven were a diverse bunch, from as wide a range of backgrounds as anyone could find. In the Defense Force, Layby had been accustomed to sharing the burdens of combat fatigue, defeat and fatal loss. They had all been cohort and kin, sparked to the same ideals and core values that made empathy and understanding easy and automatic. He didn't have that here.

They would find out soon, though. Haven was small and Cleaver's absence had moved from unusual to exceptional. And if something had happened...

Layby shook his head, resolving not to think about that right now. At least, not this second.

"G'night, Ratchet," he murmured, shuttering his optics against a fresh wave of exhaustion. His voice was turning rougher with it. "Ah'll call yeh. Thanks again."

[Deleted]

"Think nothing of it, Layby," said Ratchet. "Good night to you as well. Ratchet out."

He touched the screen to disconnect the line. The abrupt silence that fell upon the dark control room seemed filled with an unknown menace.

Ratchet scoffed to himself and leaned back, his arms crossed over his chest. He irritably shook off his sense of unease. It was ridiculous to see danger in shadows simply because they were shadows, and it was imprudent to assume that Cleaver's lack of response was an ill portent, a sign that the worst had occurred. He did not believe in omens. But try as he might he was unable to rid himself of his lingering concern for his fellow medic.

He found his gaze drawn to the entrance of the medbay, where his most troubling patient lay in a dark stupor. Air Raid had disappeared too, for a while. That time, there had been a similar lack of contact. Until...

Ratchet smacked the edge of the console.

Fretting was doing no good.

He put the monitors on stand-by and stalked back to the medical bay, his face set in a scowl. This was getting him nowhere. There was important work that needed doing. He was not helping anyone by standing about like this.

Time to get back to work.





and a wrap?