Ep. 1 - Castled - (Closed)

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A flicker of bright light went through Rook's optics like the briefest of runaway stars.

Twenty minutes. He could be anywhere in twenty minutes; he could --

Actually, no, he couldn't, and the Aero's mouthplates ground for a moment in further frustration, the sound like nails on chalkboard. In one of his usual haunts, the underground, poorly powered and labyrinthine bases where he'd deployed from so often, Rook could have vanished for hours. Days, even. Omega Base, however, was a concrete-lined hole in the ground, with a glaring red god sitting attention upon its scant nooks and crannies. He would have had to get out of the base to pull any sort of long-lasting disappearing trick, and short-term would only get the CMO torqued off in increasing levels of bad.

Rook's mind ran in angry circles - he could have, should have, been able to escape so easily, and yet he couldn't, and it was probably his own stupidity. He was moving - belatedly, he realized that standing there like a lump might incite Ratchet to retract that permission to move out of sight, when his overworked processor threw him a crumb.

"Here." Rook stopped walking, and turned to look at the brightly colored medic; one hand gestured slowly to the room around them, dimly lit and cavernous - and not a medbay. "Here, you said."

Because Rook could do the control room. He could stand, sit, and do cartwheels on command in said room if the medic so wanted. His taut, wary slinking had faltered, and while he didn't fully turn (that knee really wanted him to faceplant), there was definitely a question in the sooty lines of his faceplate.

[Deleted]

Ratchet regarded him blankly.

"Here?" he said. "Here as in - ah."

He glanced around the darkened control room. His gaze fell upon the gently glowing doorway of his medical bay, and after a moment of puzzled silence his expression changed.

"Very well." Ratchet folded his hands behind his back. He gave Rook a hard look, though one that was not without a glimmer of understanding. "I will indulge you this one time. Return here, to this very spot we are standing. I will bring the necessary tools. Luckily, they are negligible for the scan. Twenty minutes."

His look grew warning. "I will be expecting you."

[Deleted]

The assassin winced slightly; he hadn't meant to be so blatantly transparent. And yet, it was working in his favor, after all.

And yet. And yet.

Everything in him rebelled at giving away even the smallest kernel of data about himself, because from the senior medic's reaction it was obvious he had not known what passed for control-n-containment SOP for Rook.

Or he didn't have a pneumatic dart gun.

Nonetheless, Rook could tell when it was time to cut losses. That, too, had been a lesson well-beaten into him by several of his trainers. He ducked his head and took a moment to rub sooty residue off his faceplates and optics with one hand; it was time he used to pull back into himself once again, though he could do nothing for the frissons of pain at the surface levels of his field. His other hand tapped a count for math that would have distracted his processor: ninety second walk turned into three, four minute hobble; four minutes to get to the washrack, four minutes to come back; ten under a blessedly cool spray.

"I'll be here punctually, sir." Rook paused to consider what he'd just said and added, just a touch sheepishly and trying to add some measure of humor to the situation. "Unless I fall on my face and can't get up again, but I'll let you know if that's the case, I promise that too."

He started moving, slowly, mentally whipping that knee into good behavior. "I appreciate the leniency, sir." The Aero, optics dim and expression completely neutral, threw the most passing of glances towards Wash. "I can just about assure you it will not be needed again."

Not if I can help it, anyways.

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Wash had the good grace to look a little hangdog when Rook's gaze fell upon him. He coughed and rattled his fingers on the keypad as he typed his report.

However, he did not budge from the controls of the ground bridge either, which meant that there would be no escape from medical scrutiny through an event horizon this time.

The rat.

Ratchet's expression thawed at the joke.

"I suppose so long as you let me know you are lying prone somewhere and require assistance," he said drily. "In which case I will be sure to come find you. Very well! I trust you to honour your words. I will be sure to be ready myself, and to conduct the scan with all due alacrity. Then you will be able to rest. It would probably be safe to assume that you shall be assigned only light duties for the next twenty-four hours, depending on the extent of any injuries I uncover. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Wash, and return promptly."

As he turned to the medical bay to retrieve his equipment the old medic lifted a hand in a gesture that was half a farewell, half a warning. "I will see you shortly."

[Deleted]

Rook could have spent hours under the sluicing water. He did his best thinking in the quiet, with a faucet running over him and the steady flow of either water or diluted solvent tracing the scars and seams of his life.

He'd found a quarter bottle of one of his many wash solutions and thrown it over what parts of his anatomy he could reach without threatening to offline, or faceplant, or both. It hadn't been nearly enough, but just the chill water coming up from either the recycling tanks or the aquifer felt like a blessing. It always did. It always felt like something close to forgiveness.

Rook was in the dark, though he knew there was one camera catching a partial shot of his feet and a handful of sensors going off. At the very least someone would have known that his hand was keeping the sluice valve open and letting water pour out. He wasn't going anywhere.

The grate below his feet was muttering quietly, while the sluice clinked faintly to the water's passage. For the first minute or so it had hurt like some new devilry, washing over burnt-bare bits and blasting away charred scabs; but eventually it had worked its magic on him. Rook's field had vanished, held close to his metal skin once again. His mind had let go of the rush and snarl of the mission. Questions, ideas, odd bits and ends had been filed away to be brought up later, or to be examined in private... but overall everyone had gone home in one piece that ought to. This one went under the 'win' column. He'd done good.

Until next time, a low rumble of a memory's voice taunted him.

Rook ignored it. Nothing to do about that. His internal chrono pinged and, with a low vent he let the valve snap shut and stepped back. While the lining of his hands was still thoroughly damaged, there was enough for him to brush off the majority of the water. The rest would be dealt with the very reason he liked this off-the-beaten path, make-shift washing area - it ran under a bunch of the ventilation exhausts for the base.

By his count, he'd be making it back to the control room, mostly dry, with two minutes and thirty or so seconds to spare. Was he hurting? Absolutely. Was he damaged? More than he was willing to admit, even to himself. But he was in a much, much better state of mind to lie about it, if need be.

First, Ratchet. Then, his tiny room. Then rest, until next time. One took one's peace wherever it could be found, one astrosecond and spark-beat at a time.

[Deleted]

The control room was just as Rook had left it.

Almost.

Wash was gone. His post at the control monitors was empty, though the monitors themselves continued to shed a soft green light in the gloom. Evidently he had received a cursory debriefing and been dismissed. Full reports were likely to come later.

The control room was as quiet and private as it ever would be. Even the softest tread would echo up and down the dark silo.

Ratchet waited patiently. The old medic sat on a white container near the monitors, salvaged from the Ark. He looked tired but resolute, his elbows on his knees and his fingers laced together.

There was a small kit at his feet. And another container sat beside him.

When he spied Rook he leaned upright.

"Ah, good, you came back," he said. "And with time to spare. I'm pleasantly surprised. I'm used to dodgy antics with this crew."

He pointed to the empty seat. "Now, park it. And I'll give you that scan."

[Deleted]

At the senior medic’s tone and words, Rook spread his hands lightly and kept his tone friendly, his smile lazy, his optics dim. He was back to his old, usual, unassuming self, giving away as little as he could, taking in all that was given, offered or otherwise. “I try not to dodge if it can be helped, doc. It tends to make medics angrier and a lot pointier.”

There was the briefest sparkbeat of hesitation at the sight of the seat, one hand tapping on his hip… but the knee had been behaving so far; it was still hurting, but it was behaving. Still, Rook sat obediently, vents rattling all but silently. For a moment he held himself still and steady, until he decided it was just too much effort anymore. It was stupid of him to believe he’d not get his aft knocked to bits and back at least once, not here, not with the Prime and Megatron drawing the war’s frontline basically at each other’s doorstep. Ratchet was the one medic the Autobots had, and in the end it would do the assassin more ill than good to be at odds with him.

The Aero hunched down slightly, elbows on his legs and hands laced between his knees; he blew out a low sound, half sigh and half huff, an affectation meant to clear one’s vox without actually making a sound that he’d picked up from his first boss. His optics were fixed on the floor between his pedes, and he seemed entirely willing to let Ratchet do as he would.

“You don’t have my med-data.” Two fingers gestured lightly to the statement. “I mean, I thought maybe you’d have partial access to databases somewhere, what with the Prime here and all. But you don’t have mine.”