Ep. 1.5 - Overwhelm - (Closed)

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It was something of a relief, that Ratchet trusted him enough to not press matters further and prod him for a more in-depth response. He had nothing to hide from the other mech, no worrisome new ailment or poorly healing welds to report; he simply didn’t like talking about his medical issues. Call it what you will, a knee-jerk response, or a behavior learned through negative reinforcement - whatever the case, the end result was the same: discussing medical problems made Red Alert uneasy.

Just the thought of being judged, or doubted, or primus forbid pitied, was enough to make him grimace with distaste; hence why his field flickered briefly, mutedly, with quiet gratitude when Ratchet let the subject drop. Unfortunately, whatever relief Red Alert may have felt died a quick and sudden death when the medic changed the subject to a topic he dreaded even more than the previous one.

Immediately his field betrayed him, flaring out in a mixture of protest and sharp unease, before he reeled it back in and smothered the life out of it before it could betray him further. He carefully did not look at Ratchet, nor did he let his discomfort with the subject show itself on his face. Instead, he simply stared downward at nothing in particular, a quiet sigh filtering through his vents as he wondered how to respond to that question without...well, without having to think about the matter it was referring to. Naturally, he found this to be somewhat difficult.

He brought a hand to the side of his head, fingers rubbing absently at the angry welds that trailed off his helm and continued down across his face. He didn’t know why he kept touching them--he knew they were still there, so there was no need to check. It was just a bad habit, he supposed. A nervous habit. Fitting, given the nature of the question he had just been asked.

After stalling for slightly longer than he thought he could get away with, Red Alert finally sighed once more, his hand dropping from his face and returning to his side as he picked his gaze up off the floor and turned it back to Ratchet.

“Better than we have been.” He admitted at last, his tone somber and drained, as if his words exhausted him. “...Still not as well as we used to.” He added quietly, after a long pause.

Despite his efforts to keep it hidden, a shadow of regret flickered through his field.

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Ratchet watched as he touched the side of his head in what was seemingly a reflexive gesture. The weld seams were stark and clear, painfully plain to be seen. But if the medic thought anything of it he did not say. He simply leaned back and watched Red Alert slowly falter through his reply, his gaze calm and inscrutable.

“Mm,” he said.

He glanced down onto his glass and reached for the flask. A quick shake revealed that it was empty. Ratchet made a face and sat back again, his glass resting on his knee.

“I only ask because Dusk’s – how shall I put this – mopiness, is fairly obvious to any and all who know what to look for,” he said. “I don’t take him to task for it because he is an excellent medic in his own right and works well with whatever assignment he has been set to. If someone can function well enough to do their job I am generally satisfied enough to keep my mouth shut. Still. Have you spoken to him at all since the day he brought you here to the medical bay?”

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Red Alert did not need to be reminded of Dusk’s uncharacteristically gloomy state. He was all too aware of how dejected the other mech had been as of late, how his field flickered with melancholy whenever he happened to wander close enough to feel it, when he crossed paths with him in passing. It was hard to miss, knowing the mech as he did, being as accustomed to seeing his face fixed in a permanent grin as he was. He couldn’t ignore the glaring changes in the normally terminally-chipper mech’s mood, not when they were so obvious.

Not when he knew he was entirely to blame for them.

What’s worse, there was nothing he could do to correct things, either. At least, nothing that wasn’t entirely out of the question. His recent encounter with Flatline had only reinforced his already firmly held belief that keeping Dusk at an arm’s length was for the best - he was certain, after his brush with near-death, that it was kinder to keep his distance make the mech stop caring for him than it was to let him in and set them both up for a far worse kind of suffering when one of them inevitably died.

He had to be cruel to be kind. As much as it pained him to pain Dusk, he just...he had to let the mech go. He had to put distance between them, so that one day when the other went off like a bomb the other wouldn’t get caught up in the blast radius.

If only there were some way to speed the process along, to care a little less about one another a little more quickly. It was exhausting, being this goddamn terrified of losing someone, and he was just...so very tired. Tired of caring, tired of worrying...tired of a lot of things, really.

It was a pity rest was a luxury he could rarely afford.

“...We have, actually.” He admitted, sounding almost remorseful, as if he had somehow betrayed himself by just speaking to Dusk.

“I, ah...unfortunately I’m not much for socializing, so you can imagine how things went.”

It was a kind way of saying he wound up awkwardly killing most of their interactions with his own reluctance to participate in them.

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"In essence, poorly," said Ratchet.

Though his voice was dry his gaze was not without a flicker of sympathy as he sat back and sized the security director up. He hummed, and absently rubbed his chin.

"Well, while I can't say that I fathom your thinking, I am at least sure that your reasons for this self-imposed estrangement are your own, and no one else's," he said. "Particularly Dusk, who has been walking about as of late looking like a kicked turbohound. I'm not sure whether I pity him or simply want to drape a sheet over him so that I don't need to look at his sad face."

Despite the cantankerous words, Ratchet sighed glumly.

"At any rate, would you do me a favour?" he said. "At least try to speak to him now and then, beyond a simple hello or goodbye. We must all learn to live here together, and this base is much too small to permit much physical avoidance. All of us rub elbow joints from time to time in tight quarters like this, and we might as well accept that. At least don't go out of your way to deliberately avoid him. That would be too cruel. Stick to small talk if you wish to remain at a distance. About the weather. The local... sports... team. Bah! Whatever you please."

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Red Alert did not believe Ratchet was fully aware of just how much he was actually asking of him, in requesting he speak to Dusk. If he was, he doubted the mech would call the request a simple favor.

He vented inward, holding in a cycle of air for a few moments as he rubbed tiredly at the space between his optics with his unmarried hand. The fingers on the other one still weren’t quite up to the task of articulating properly, and he didn’t particularly want to risk accidentally prodding himself in the optic because his joints were reluctant to bend.

He released the invent in a quiet sigh, his hand dropping from his face as he leaned back in his chair, helm dropping back against his shoulders as he stared up at the ceiling. For once, it wasn’t to avoid making eye-contact, but rather, simply to give himself a blank surface to focus upon as he gathered his thoughts.

As much as he hated to be reminded of it, Ratchet’s words were all too true - it might have been the lesser of two evils, but avoiding Dusk entirely was still a cruel thing to do. Especially since he hadn’t even told the mech why he was doing it.

Though, after the recent incident with Flatline, and his subsequent near-death experience, he realized, grimly, that Dusk likely had something of an idea now. He couldn’t recall much from his rescue--he had been fading in and out of consciousness the entire time, and in those fleeting moments of wakefulness, he had been robbed of lucidity by the extensive blood loss he had suffered. Violent hemorrhaging tended to make focusing on details and basically anything other than the fact that one was actively dying a bit difficult.
But even so, he remembered how Dusk had looked when he nearly bleed out right in front of him. The image was burned into his memory, right along with those burning red optics and grinning maw filled with sharp, needle-like teeth. Dusk had been afraid. Afraid of losing him.

Afraid of having to deal with the death of yet another brother-in-arms, amongst the countless others they had both already endured.

He didn’t think Dusk would fault him much for wanting to soften that particular blow when it eventually came, in light of that, but even so. Ratchet had a point. It...he didn’t suppose it would do much harm to at least let the other mech know he didn’t hate him, to at least speak with him in passing.

So long as he didn’t try to rebuild what time, and life, had destroyed, then things could still work out fine.

...Right? Right.

“I…” He hesitated, not wanting to promise the medic something he wasn’t sure he could deliver on.

“...Alright. I’ll see what I can do.” He said at last, turning his optics away from the ceiling and back to the medic.

“Just...don’t get your hopes up.” He added quietly, his tone vaguely apologetic.
“This is not my area of expertize.”

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“I had noticed,” said Ratchet. He sounded amused, but his eye on Red Alert was still sharp, pensive. “But I trust you’ll stick to your word and attempt to come to some sort of mutually satisfying resolution. It’s only a shame that–”

All at once the medic went silent. He sat up, alert, and touched the side of his his head.

’Comm from Optimus,’ he mouthed.

For a less than a minute he remained that way, attentive and frowning as he responded to the internal communication. Then he let out a sigh and pushed back his seat. It scraped loudly against the floor.

“It would appear that I am needed outside of the base,” he said. “It seems that Optimus and Wheeljack caught up with Fortress and require a medic. Not for anything serious,” he added hastily, knowing that Red Alert would begin to catalogue a list of worse case scenarios if left without any further information. “Minor damage. But with the ground bridge out I am required to drive to their location. Lovely.”

Ratchet gave a sour grunt as he began a search for his portable field kit. Glancing back at the security director, he said, “Is there anything your require of me before I go? Don’t worry about the ground bridge controls – I’ll repair them once I return. But if there is anything I can do to help alleviate the workload that this recent incident has undoubtedly placed upon your doorstep...”

His gaze was meaningful.

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Red Alert watched, with no small amount of concern, Ratchet sat up straight in his seat after cutting himself off mid-sentence, his attention tearing from the conversation to turn towards his comm. He straightened a bit himself, his eyebrows knitting together worriedly as he stared intently at the other mech, hoping that whatever it was he was being told wasn’t nearly as bad as what his treacherous processor wanted to think it was.

Ratchet had not at all been incorrect in his assumption that Red Alert, when left with even the slightest hint of uncertainty, often found himself poised over a pool filled with all the worst case scenarios imaginable, ready to jump at the slightest provocation.

He had already been preparing himself for the worst when the medic hastily assured him that, no, actually, things weren’t nearly as bad as he immediately assumed them to be. Unfortunately, even with the medic’s assurance that he was not being called away for anything serious, Red Alert still found himself more worried than perhaps he ought to have been. This was hardly a new occurrence for him, as his default state tended to be one of perpetual and (often excessive) concern, but even so, he did not look terribly confident that all was as well as Ratchet claimed it was.

He stood shortly after the other mech did, and when he looked upon him he tried not to read too much into the meaningful glance that was sent his way.

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine--” He insisted a bit too readily, as if the reply was prompted by instinct rather than careful thought.

Seeming to realize this, Red Alert grimaced slightly, and held up a hand. “--Sorry. ” He muttered, remembering too little too late how much Ratchet was tired of hearing him say that two word-phrase.

“I’ll be alright.” He corrected, hoping the modified phrasing would be a little less poorly received than its overused predecessor.

“Just...take care of Max.”

Unspoken, but obvious: the mech needs you a lot more than I do right now.

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Ratchet snorted, but seemed a little mollified by Red Alert’s hasty correction.

The field kit was found among the cluttered contents of the tool trolley and perfunctorily inspected. Ratchet swung it off the trolley and hefted it. Luckily it was a small kit, and not heavy, containing mostly the smaller equipment that was not integrated into the design of his own hands.

“I will,” he said. A flicker of regret passed over his face, to be quickly replaced by his usual stern look. “No one sounded in a panic, so I’m going to hope that means any injuries are light ones. I don't know why they aren’t returning to the base to conduct repairs, but I suppose I shall discover the reason once I get there.”

He shook his head, partly in annoyance and partly to conceal his worry.

“Regardless. I will comm you once I know more, or if I have an update to the situation. In the meantime, I don’t suppose we have any security footage of the control room that would give us an angle on the location the incident occurred? I am willing to give Thundercloud and Carbine the benefit of the doubt, but that sort of thing always goes down a little easier when it is backed up with concrete evidence – at least, in the paperwork it does.”

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Ratchet’s question earned him a pause, and a slight raise of Red Alert’s brow.

He realized the medic was simply asking for confirmation that the did indeed have footage of the events which recently occurred in the control room, and not actually asking if he had thought to put security cameras in the area to begin with, but even so, Red Alert felt somewhat taken aback that Ratchet even felt the need to ask in the first place.

This was, after all, his security system they were talking about. Though he was often mocked for what was commonly deemed “excessive” measures, mecha rarely complained about his extensive security measures in moments such as this, when they were unspeakably fortunate for having cameras strewn about in every corridor, pointed in nearly every conceivable direction.

Nearly everything that happened on base (outside of the select few areas where he had yet to install cameras, of course) was, in some capacity, monitored and recorded. There were few places mecha could go (barring their own rooms, as personal quarters were off-limits) where their actions would not be, if not seen, then at the very least overheard by cameras.

That being said, Red Alert hoped Ratchet would forgive him for his mildly amused expression.

“Do you really need to ask?” He replied dryly, before shaking his head to dismiss his own mildly sarcastic remark.

“I’ll check the footage, let you know what I find.”

He was far less inclined than Ratchet to give anyone at all the benefit of the doubt, but even he couldn’t deny that all signs seemed to be pointing in the convicts’ favor, as much as he hated to admit it.

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Ratchet let out a barking laugh.

"Ha! Right. Forgot who I was talking to," he said.

He strode past Red Alert, walking with heavy and clanking strides. When he reached the doorway he paused and looked back over his shoulder at the security director.

"And thank you," he said. "Please keep me informed as to what you discover. I'll let you know what the situation is with Maximus once I know a little more myself. Either way, let us both keep each other in the loop in regards to what we learn respectively. A shared responsibility is one more easily borne by all parties."

Ratchet lingered a moment longer, his gaze shrewd. Satisfied by whatever it was he saw, he nodded once in farewell before trooping on into the control room. The distinctive sound of transformation echoed back a moment later, followed by the roar of an engine that swiftly vanished up the access tunnel to the surface.

Red Alert was left alone, in a room whose gently beeping and glowing equipment would not be unfamiliar to him.