We are a literate, intermediate to advanced AU Transformers RPG Based off of the first season of TFP with dashes of other incarnations sprinkled here or there. Characters from any continuity are welcome however must be restyled to match the TFPrime universe.
Active, with ongoing plotlines, we are always willing to integrate new characters into storylines once incorporated into the setting.
After the news of Cleaver and Ironhide the first thought for Ratchet was how Cleaver was doing. As such Ratchet went to the ground bridge. He would get yelled at. (How often did that happen? Not even Optimus yelled at him and he would be one of the few who would.) Cleave would not want someone checking her but Ratchet did not want any chance of trouble to be missed. Bumblebee’s trouble had shown him more than he wanted to remember.
As such soon after the news and welcoming and congratulations for Ironhide, Ratchet made his way to the ground bridge and activating the ground bridge he went to the control room of the neutral base.
((ooc: let me know if I need to change something!))
The control room's coordinates were not freely given out amongst either the Autobots or Decepticons, forcing the majority to 'bridge directly to the base's outer entrance and sacrifice their weapons at the storage locker on their way in. The internal groundbridge destination had been supplied to the faction leaders and their medics only - and Cleaver hadn't expected them to be used before the Neutral base was full operational.
With the Medbay positioned just off the control room, Cleaver heard the unmistakable sound of the vortex over her welder, shutting down the tool to investigate. Stepping into the atrium, she greeted the Autobot medic with a smile.
"Ratchet - what can I do for you? Prime's arm's still healing well after the surgery, I hope?"
((ooc:I am sorry this is so late! I am not sure where I read Cleaver was Ratchet’s teacher. I wrote this as if she was. If I am wrong let me know I will fix.))
See Cleaver come out of the medbay was like nothing was new. Ratchet walked to meet Cleaver. “No he is doing well.” It took a lot of will power and over riding a few programs and codes to not cycle his vents. “I am to check on you. I know you can look after yourself but medics are hard to come by. We all have to make sure we are in top form.” The fact Ratchet would start one of his lectures if it was him in Cleave’s situation was not the point.
<<OOC: She was a supervisor for him in a class in Med School. Thought it'd be cool if they had some history. ^^ We talked about it briefly aaages ago, so no worries. ^_~.>>
Cleaver set a blade tip into the rough-hewn ground and rested her weight into it, field flashing amusement and a touch of genuine gratitude. It had been spark-warming to see a former student alive and well, but to have him confident and excelled as well... She was a little proud, if she were honest with herself.
"That's very good of you, Ratchet. Thank you." She tipped her helm, one optic ridge rising. Her tone was a mix of dry humour and genuine, serious inquiry. "Did Ironhide tell you to come?" Because she'd have his helm if he was sending bots to do his fretting on his behalf...
((ooc: now that you say it I half remember. I am sorry I forgot.>w< Maybe we can talk and figure more of their back story? I have been wanting to get into back story for everyone. X`D))
Watching Cleaver it was clear she was in good shape. In truth Ratchet knew Cleaver would be. Ratchet almost smiled at the question of if Ironhide and sent Ratchet. “No Ironhide did not. In fact I do not think his processor is working much beyond a few nano-kilk.”
It was pleasant to see the joy a sparklying gave. And Irohide was one who had the joy in over abundance.
With a nod to the med-bay Ratchet went back to the point of the visit. “As we talk shall we move to med-bay?” No reason to waste time just standing and talking . Ratchet had a lot to do in a day, and he was sure Cleaver had a lot as well.
Cleaver nodded at the semi-suggestion/near-order, gesturing with one blade in the direction she had just come. Inside the tall room, still fresh with the acrid smell of welds and chemical cleansers, she moved to lean back against the nearest berth and watched the Autobot doctor familiarise himself with the facility.
"It's all operational in here. Only thing I'm still working on is the decontamination bay out back," she explained with a nod, and the source of the smell. A thin smile, because she had been on the other end of this sort of scenario and knew she wasn't going to get away from his interest now. "So, have at, Doctor."
Giving a node Ratchet went to the med-bay. It was strange to be in a medical facility which was not his. Ratchet had been the head medic in so many place and as such helped to build them up the feel of not knowing where everything was made me remember his first time in the field, and so many other firsts, not something he wanted to remember. Looking back to Cleaver so Ratchet could start the check he pulled the scanner out of subspace.
Cleaver watched the results on the scanner as they came up, automatically ticking them off as within range and making some mental adjustments to the kinds and quantities of mineral supplements she'd be needing to get hold of. Living in a mine would make that easier. Everything she needed in excess was energon-derivative, and would occur naturally in the walls. All she needed to do was locate it, chip it out and process it into something reasonable to ingest.
Whilst he made his initial evaluation, Cleaver looked over Ratchet's frame in turn. His armour was just as chipped and scratched as hers, the nanite scars on the areas of himself that he couldn't well reach much rougher than everyone else. He'd been the only medic for a long time. Pit of a pressure in a war, particularly when you were teamed with the Prime and perpetually on the front lines. Or looking to be.
"Have you monitored a carriage before?" Cleaver asked, no hint of scepticism in her tone. If he hadn't then she was content to be the learning model for him, and Primus knew she knew the ins and outs well enough. Even if this was his first time, he was still a highly proficient medic, and the extra optics and sensors would be of great help in the future.
Ratchet vented softly, slanting her a sideways glance from his observations of the scanner. "I have the theory," he told her, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him in a twitch. "Can't say as I've had the practicum hands on, no."
Cleaver didn't look surprised. She would, he thought, probably have been more surprised if he had said 'yes', though if Ratchet had remained in the Towers clinics he supposed it was remotely possible that he would have seen the course of a carriage through at least once, if only in an assisting capacity. Still, manufacturing was, on some levels, just like any other manufacturing, notwithstanding the complications of the tiny bright burning spark that was at the center of this production.
Another thought occurred and Ratchet frowned slightly, skimming the scanner back across Cleaver's chassis and, when its readings weren't enough, repeating the gesture with his own internal scanners. "You're going to need supplements," he told her absently, "but I'm sure you already know that. I'm more concerned about this." He tapped a blunt fingertip lightly against the upper side of her chassis, above the chamber. "You've got a bit of weld scarring, there. Is it going to be an issue?"
Mouth slanting at a wry angle to match the low-pitch rumble of her engine, Cleaver's optics drifted towards the cabinet that housed the small batch of pre-processed supplements. The scarring was from where her voltaic stabilizer had been removed by the one and only chop-shop "medic" she'd been near not long after she'd arrived in lower Kaon. Her credits wiped out from the fines that accompanied her expulsion from the Iacon Medical Association, selling surplus equipment out of her frame had been the quickest way to stop her systems cannibalizing themselves. The function of the part was one that she could improvise with controlled power surges, and as it was relatively small and not directly tied into a vital system, she'd trusted a cheap repair bot to take it out.
She'd recovered from her Tower-bred naivety sharpish when he'd gone on to see what else he could hack out of her expensive frame whilst she was open. Fortunately his statis induction had been weak, and her system overrides strong.
She'd done her best with her own repairs afterwards, but the evidence of the lesson to not be so fragging stupid remained.
"Only in terms of comfort. Heat'll soften it after the first quarter, though, and help with expansion. Just gonna need to be careful it doesn't split in delivery." The older medic flared and contracted her rotors slowly, as if with a slow sigh. "Doing my best putting supplements together. Processing from the native materials is slow going, though, and I don't have many of the metals I'd like to have left."
Mouth set in a sharp line, Ratchet snapped the scanner off. He couldn't, he found, quite meet the older femme's optics - habit, an old one, from when it had been her voice that had been guiding the instruction module in his first term at the Academy.
Millions of vorn and nearly as many deaths before, when he had been a student with unlikely aspirations and Cleaver had been a sharp opticed instructor who's abrasive vocalizer had kept them all riveted to their seats and in terror of their performance rating. It was a long way from there, so long he could barely recall the feeling, but habit had his gaze down at her pedes all the same and it was only with effort that he dragged it up again, focusing solidly on her chassis. "Give me a list," he told her shortly. "What you need, what you really need, what would be useful but you can do without. We have contact with the local government that I requisition supplies through when we're low. I may be able to help with some of it."
A bare klik later and a data transfer request was pinged to the Autobot CMO, followed by an acceptance and the immediate transmission of the written file. The 'really need' column was short, cut to the absolute necessities for a safe carriage. Technically the femme could generate the sparkling without any supplements, but it was grossly inefficient and would take several times longer than was safe for the Cybertronian to remain inside the gestation chamber. As good a repair as she'd managed to keep herself in, Cleaver was well aware that the age of her frame was against her.
"Anything you can negotiate would be a big help, thank you," Cleaver replied, watching the top of Ratchet's bowed helm. As he processed the list, she glanced him over with a critical optic.
Both dedicated medical frames, they were of a similar build and mass save for the differences in their grounder/flier parts. Modifications telling of the addition of weaponry would be very apparent to another of the profession, and Cleaver felt a pulse of pride when she didn't find so much as a trace of such a change in the mech's frame.
"Reckon you could use Ironhide as a delivery mech," she added with a suppressed smile that turned drier as she went on. "Keeps on about wanting to help, and I'd rather see him doing something remotely constructive than just fussin' at me all the scragging time."
Ratchet could no more hide the expression his face plates pulled into than he could the pulse of sheer dread and irritation in his field. Cycling a deep vent, he half reached up to cover his face with one hand before checking himself and lowering it. "About that," he began, then found he had to stop and clear a bit of static from his vocalizer, and now he wasn't looking at her at all which was simply beyond ridiculous. Shaking his head, he forced himself to meet her gaze squarely. "About that... I'm very happy for you, I'm sure. Both of you. But about Ironhide... Have you - that is, has anyone spoken to you about..."
Primus, he didn't even know where to start. Memory files, date stamped before the Exodus, filtered up from his archives with more incidents than he cared to remember regarding a tiny Praxian sparkling and an overzealous Guardian. Ratchet suppressed a groan and decided blunt might be the best tactic. "Has anyone told you about Ironhide?"
On automatic instinct, Cleaver responded to Ratchet's uneasily shifting posture with a short, low-frequency buzz: Academy short-hand for straighten up and act like a medic.
"Jazz," she replied, dry as the desert outside. "He had diagrams."
Orange brow plates lifted until they were almost hidden by the white overhanging ridge of her helm. "And graphs."
With Ratchet's initial scans completed, Cleaver shifted her arms out of their natural configuration. She tucked her hands around her chassis when she folded her arms, tucking the tip of one pede behind the heel of her other. "All of this is foreign to Ironhide, so much so that he doesn't appreciate his part in it. I do, though, so I can't reject all of his... overzealousness."
Ratchet shook his head, frowning. "Of course it's foreign to him - he's a military manufactured frame. His entire function class was. We had to explain what Bluestreak was when we found hir." He grimaced. "Which, mind you, did not stop the big glitch from pulling a gun on my senior med tech five kliks after he had Bluestreak in hand, apparently because the mech was standing too close." He flung up his hands. "Or moved too fast. Or, Primus forbid, dared to cycle a ventilation near the sparkling."
He gave her a sour look. "I will tell you now, Cleaver, I sedated Ironhide rather than deal with him when we had to have Blue in for checkups. Passive scan checkups. Primus help us all when it came time to do frame upgrades. He may not have the single faintest idea what it means to be a sire, but he has the protection instinct in spades."