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.
As Ratchet watched, what was supposed to be a nice little test to make sure Thunder wasn’t lagging in any sense, instantly turned into an utter mess.
Because of course it did.
Primus forbid he be allowed to finish his work in what would be a normal manner, in a normal amount of time. No. Not with these two. Everything had to be a fight, a scrabble. Even when he decided to give in and try to be nice and let them play around, they had to go and turn it around and spit on everything.
This is what happened when he tried to accommodate the more “unusual” of the Autobots under his care.
He was just about to open his mouth and drive Carbine from the Medibay altogether, when to his horror, Thunder turned and literally threw the beast at Carbine.
“Thunder, no, don’t -!”
Ratchet took a step forward, waiting for Carbine to be injured, Bolo to be injured, perhaps Patch to be injured, all three of them, and a good quarter of the medibay destroyed.
So harmless. So minuet. Such a gentle little action from a mech so large, and in response, of course the young femme turned her helm. Hooked white digits to his… Nose? Mouth? Either way, Patch figured he was showing her a smile. An heir of confusion as she smiled back at him.
As the hand was placed upon her back, Patch allowed herself to be easily guided. Though, once it became clear that Carbine was returning her gaze to what she’d been looking at in the first place, she passed him an odd glance over her shoulder. “...What are you doing?” Spoken through a smile. A quieted phrase, as not to distract from the patient. The data-pad in her servo drifted down as she followed the ex-cop’s digit back to Thunder and Bolo.
And THAT’S when all hell broke loose…
A split second of silence. Like the instant that passes right before one grounder collides with another. The drawn out spark pulse between someone’s fist and your face. Patch’s optics suddenly widened with everyone else's as the eye of the storm suddenly thwacked the cold, sterile peace in that little well-lit room against a wall, and into pieces. Two little words falling out of her intake before it was cut into any farther... “Uh oh.”
Okay… Now the two of em were starting to test her nerves.
Couldn’t Carbine just accept the fragging success?! HE’D JUST gotten away with fucking MURDER!! WHY would he haul off and test that AGAIN!? They could have had a nice game, a simple procedure performed with the extra variable/treat of the dog, but NOOO. Carbine just had to haul off and make a mess. Not thinking about the future- In which Ratchet would probably not let Bolo in sickbay, ever again!!
And then THUNDER hauled off and- Oh… Oh fuck what was he doing? What was she saying!? she knew exactly what he was doing; he was winding up! She heard Ratchet suddenly squawk in protest, and-
Bolo didn't really understand what was going on at first. One second he was twisting to try to pop free, the next he was being held out away from Thunder at an odd angle. He didn't seem to be just getting him away from being able to reach and punch kick him more however, as he was not making eye contact after and he was also not keeping a hand tucked under each arm to support him... He instead was being grabbed by his harness which if it had been pretty much anyone else Bolo would have protested. There was a small moment where the canine's back legs paddled a little, a confused movement before everything changed again.
A pat on the side, a heft back...
Then he was flying.
Bolo was no stranger to being thrown. Master did it a lot to give him a head start when it came to chasing people down. Even on the battlefield he has been thrown! So it wasn't the action that confused him most. What WAS a bit atypical however was being thrown AT Master's back like this. There was only a brief moment for his peanut processor to try to put together what to do, and in that second it snapped into familiarity, forepaws swinging up and forward to aim, as the wrist down of his joint snapped out of the socket and folded under to expose the end connector of the leg that part transformed.
Carbine meanwhile had been laughing.
THIS was the ultimate test! If Thunder could play nice for Ratchet and do his little strut across the room than it was bound to prove everything was great! It had to be foolproof right? No drunken mech could even try to manage this level of weight being flung around in their grasp. To Carbine this was amazing! But it didn't seem Patch was as amused as he turned some to look down at her. Maybe she didn’t get the situation? Oh no... what if she had the ability to get a stick up her tailpipe too like Ratchet!? Noo! Whatever the case he didn’t get much time to react before something clicked in his processor, the softest warning blips that Bolo was returning to dock.
WHY was Bolo returning to dock!?
A loud kerthunk sounded out then, Bolo's forearms locking hard into the two sockets on Carbine's back. The sound was deep and resonated from his core, it revealing just how far the canine's limbs gored into his inner frame when they docked. Carbine made a startled noise at it, but it was for sore more spooked than it was actually hurt, his frame lurching forward hard from the shift of momentum. This was like a parent trying to catch a child shooting out of the end of a slide! Only the child was the equivalent of a hulking dog. The black and white mech went to hatchet his left leg forward, aiming to slam into the ground to stop his fall, only to remember Patch was there.
A snap of hands down to her upper arms, a whap of his leg cutting past her to try to catch his balance at a different angle... In a wide swooping turn to further dissipate momentum, Carbine swung Patch around him as he spun, pulling her off the floor so that the space she was within was now open territory for clambering peds and his general mass. In just a flickered moment they basically had flipped places, Carbine's frame arching back to try to bleed out the rest as Bolo's scrabbled hind legs only then fully vanished behind him with the familiar sound of transformation.
Oh this wasn’t good.
As awesome as that maneuver even was, for Thunder to pitch Bolo, Carbine actually 'CATCH' him, and to avoid barreling over Patch all in one go? Ohhh... Carbine could be dumb as a box of rocks at times but even an idiotic animal could sense danger and know when to flee. For only a flickered sparkpulse he stood there, continuing to hold Patch upright so she didn’t stumble and fall from the fast spin, before he pulled his hands free and kicked off the ground.
"S̴o͟r̸r̵y! ͝G̡o͏i͜ǹg k̷͜kz̢͡z̵͏̧t̵̷͏t I͠'̢ḿ!͠"
Carbine hoped Ratchet would be too pleased to simply be RID of him to scream he had done what he did. He was willing to bet his brilliance wasn’t appreciated and it wouldn't be Thunder being blamed. Or maybe it would be both... Whatever the case Carbine was making a beeline to the door, effectively abandoning his prison bro to the guards for now so that both of them didn't get slammed into solitary.
As long as there were no direct orders to stay, and as long as the door actually still slid aside, the ex-cop would be rocketing down the hall.
Post by Thundercloud on Jan 12, 2020 13:17:55 GMT -5
The thing about telling Thunder not to do something is that, because he's such a contrarian little shit, it's a surefire way to get him to do precisely the opposite. Unfortunately for Ratchet, his warning came too little too late, but even if it hadn't, it wouldn't have been heeded - Thundercloud had already made up his mind that a dog was going to be thrown, and neither hell nor high water nor basic civility was going to stop him.
So off Bolo went, soaring through the air like a dog-shaped missile on a collision course with Carbine's turned back. Now, Thundercloud didn't wanna brag (except no, he totally did) but his aim was generally pretty damn good. He couldn't shoot a gun to save his life, but when it came to hand-held projectiles he had some pretty decent moves. He usually didn't demonstrate said moves by hurling live animals across the room, but hey, you make do with what you got. In Thunder's case, what he had was a problem and a solution that just happened to involve YEETING his best friend's better half straight into his dock, because fuck him, that's why.
Of course, Thunder hadn't expected Bolo to actually, y'know, dock in seamlessly. He had anticipated a lot more flailing, scrambling, Carbine getting knocked on his ass. The stuff that usually happened when they hung out. Instead, Bolo clicked right into place and made Thunder look wildly more competent than he actually was - like, he knew his aim was decent, but a trickshot like that was definitely wasn't indicative of his baseline level of skill. It was a one in a hundred chance, but apparently the odds were in Thundercloud's favor that day -
Or at least they were until Carbine up and decided to get the hell out of dodge before he could face the consequences of their frathouse bullshit, thus leaving Thunder to bear the full brunt of responsibility for their collaborative jackassery. He wasn't as quick as Carbine, not by a long shot, but that didn't stop him from trying to reach out and snag the sneaky bastard's arm, or one of his rotors, basically anything that might put an end to his little escape attempt.
"Oh no you don't you son of a -"
His words dissolved into a growl as his fingers caught air, narrowly missing the black-and-white bastard he begrudgingly called his friend of convenience.
Throwing his hands up in frustration, Thunder turned to face the firing squad - namely Ratchet - and jerked his thumb towards the door, where Carbine had just fled.
"Ugh. Can you believe that guy?"
It was clear by his tone, if not expression, that he knew precisely how ironic his words were.
Ratchet watched as Bolo returned to dock with a rattling clunk, watched as Carbine almost bowled Patch over, and watched as Carbine then made a hasty retreat out of the Medibay and down the hall.
He let out a long, suffering ex-vent.
Ratchet opened his mouth, about to speak, when Thunder turned to him, speaking.
Completely unimpressed, Ratchet just gave Thunder a very flat stare of death and decay before speaking in an acidic tone, “Imagine the nerve.”
Grunting, he turned, lifting his data pad, and started entering data.
“You did manage to complete your test – as best as you were able – so you won that one.”
He started walking forward, towards Thunder, still entering information, checking off boxes on the screen as he clumped forward, “Alright. Your motion algorithm is working, visual and audio coding is working, there’s just a little stiffness there that will work itself out. One last thing to do, and then you’re done.”
Lifting his gaze from the data pad, Ratchet met Thunder’s optics.
“I want you to balance on one foot. Keep the other one as high as possible, and remain in place.”
Ratchet raised an arm, and opened a panel on his forearm. Removing a small, pen-like object, he stepped forward, and without giving Thunder any warning, stuck the end of it in his mouth.
"Keep this in your mouth. No talking."
The doctor took a few steps back, and looked at Thunder expectantly, waiting for him to start balancing.
Pressure, on either shoulder. A sudden LURCH of movement, and in an instant Patch’s peddes were wrenched from the floor. Had it been an enemy performing such an action? This was where the young femme would have made quite a nuisance of herself with squirming and scratching…. But Carbine was the one doing this. He was keeping her safe by doing this. So… No, she didn’t need to writhe against him, according to her twitch-instincts.
What she could do to HELP, however, was simply not fast enough on the draw.
“Whoa!” A startled pop of a sound, as the potential shriek that could have been, was caught and clubbed to death by pride in her voice-box; because of course Patch wasn’t going to allow herself to screech like agirl in front of these two badaftsidiots and her boss. Her legs swung out slightly, with the centrifugal force. Her frame limp in the hooked white digits as her knee-jerk reaction simply sputtered and failed to respond. Like a kitten being scruffed, she simply flew the distance she’d been moved without argument, or… Response, for that matter.
Once her peddes were clunked safely down upon the clean, stable ground once more, Patch’s freckle-dotted face simply stared at the ex-cop for a spark pulse. She was speechless. The young soldier’s expression a wide-eyed, open-intaked, stupefied mix of 'The fuck was THAT?' And 'That. was. AWESOME.'
Her white and red shoulder plates dropped a little, once she’d been released. Revealing that she was in fact relaxed through this ordeal, despite the position into which her shoulders had been hiked by Carbine’s actions. Patch simply watched -still astonished, still standing where he’d plopped her- as the ex-cop darted from the room.
Her attention was lightly grasped, by the scrabble of digits and rotary blades, before it settled on the femme, once and for all, just how disappointed she was that Bolo had been IN SICKBAY, and she hadn’t even gotten to say hello! Not one singular itchy-rub had been delivered by her, and that in it of itself was a crime. BUT! It would seem that was not the only pressing issue at this moment… Doc was MAD...
If past experience was anything to go by? THIS was probably gonna be the right time to hang back, chill out, and let whatever was about to go down just happen. As the surgeon began to cross the room once more, Patch simply lowered her helm and ducked back down to look at her own data-pad still in her servos. Ready to take a more non-invasive approach. Only advancing if called upon. But then… Ratchet explained the procedure, which… Didn’t sound like any procedure Patch had ever heard of. It prompted her to flick her optics up.
Was… that a pen-light in Thunder’s intake?
Oh…
Was Ratchet slagging with Thunder right now? Cause, it kinda looked like there was about to be some hazing goin' down here… Granted, she still coulda been wrong. But… Patch had been a medic for literallymillions of years and for the life of her, she couldn't discern what this test was for.
SO… As the notion settled, as to what exactly may have been in store, she simply stood there. Hip-width apart. Weight equal between both peddes. A slightly wicked expression spreading across her round little face. A wide, closed mouth smile as she stared down at the screen in her servos, and lifted her optic ridges. After all it wasn't like the mech hadn't earned it.
Post by Thundercloud on Feb 3, 2020 2:38:51 GMT -5
As a testament to how much of an unapologetic troublemaker he was, Thundercloud somehow managed to withstand Ratchet's withering stare without falling to his knees and begging forgiveness. He did not look the slightest bit apologetic, because he wasn't, but he at least had the decency to drop his smile down a notch or two so it wasn't so obvious that he was entirely unashamed of himself and the company he kept.
He considered offering some sort of paltry excuse for Carbine's behavior on the other mech's behalf, just to smooth the Doc's feathers a bit, but he wasn't about to do the mech any favors. He had left Thundercloud out to dry, so whatever ire he incurred for himself was his own problem to deal with. Thunder wasn't gonna cover his ass this time - or at least, that's what he told himself. He certainly planned to stick to his guns and not jump to Carbine's defense the next time someone called him out on being awful, but whether or not he'd actually follow through was a hard call.
Of course, before he could make himself any promises, Ratchet started rattling off more medical stuff which meant Thunder had to start paying attention again. It seemed like he was fine, that he'd checked most of the boxes, that he was basically totally ready to be cleared for release -
After one last test, which for some reason involved holding something in his mouth while he balanced on one leg like an idiot. It seemed like a total scam, like something Ratchet was asking him to do just to screw with him, but whatever. He had already pressed his luck with the CMO enough for one decade, he wasn't about to keep pushing and find out if all those rumors about blowtorches were true.
Instead he just looked at the stick thing that was suddenly and unceremoniously shoved in his mouth, then to Ratchet, then back to the stick. After a moment he shrugged, deciding to just get this slag over with so he could go hunt Carbine down and get caught up on everything he had missed while he was under.
Only -
While he was standing there on one leg like a damn flamingo, making an ass of himself for what had to be the stupidest medical test ever, he couldn't help but think about a little technicality in Ratchet's order.
See, way back in the day, right after he got arrested, he learned something kinda neat about Cybertronian biology that he probably should've been able to figure out without needing to get his throat sawed to shreds - something he was real keen on sharing with his captive audience.
"--So. This a bad time to mention I know your mouth ain't actually where the sound comes from?"
His words came out a bit muffled and stilted, since the sound was coming directly from his vocoder without any helpful shaping and amplification from his mouth, but somehow he still managed to sound like a smug dickhead.
Ratchet continued to tap away on his datapad, entering the last few notes he needed. Simply put, having Thunder stand on one leg really was a good way to make sure his inner gyro was completely up to par. Frontliners generally didn’t have a lot of finesse when it came to balance – they were built like bricks and could hit as hard. A fine sense of balance wasn’t needed when you were thundering your way across a battlefield ready to cleave someone in half. So if Thunder could perform this little job this soon after being brought out of an induced coma, he was ready for just about anything life was going to throw at him.
Not looking up, Ratchet spoke directly to Thunder.
“Not at all. Is it a bad time to mention that tool you’re holding in your mouth can spray a fine mist of concentrated hydrochloric acid? If you want your vocoder to be the only way you can talk for the rest of your life, keep it up.”
Was the tool just a light? Only Ratchet knew, and as usual, the doctor’s poker face was perfection.
A few more taps on the datapad, and Ratchet lowered it, turning his attention back to the patient.
“Put your leg down. You’re good to go. Just try to keep yourself in one piece for at least a month? Just because we’re no longer in an energon crises doesn’t mean I want your frame in here again.”
Ratchet turned to walk away, pausing only for a second to turn back, and snatch the “pen light” from Thunder’s mouth. He neatly tucked it away again, and started back to his computer desk.
“Patch, once Thunder has left, I’d like a word with you for a second.”
Ratchet thumped himself down in his chair, and rolled it back to the terminal. There he started to upload the medical file on Thunder to the main computer at Omega.
((Permission for small assumptions has been granted.))
Aww, was that all? Just a simple balancing act? That wasn’t any fun! And it sure as all the pits wasn’t gonna teach anyone a lesson, but… At least Ratchet didn’t seem too terribly mad anymore. Still handling things well. Still being a 'mature authority figure' and all that scrap. The acid thing was a little intense, but Patch knew that sure as all hell had to be a fib (or, one of his “jokes”) so she didn’t find herself terribly concerned.
... Uh oh.
Of all the people in base Patch was afraid of, Ratchet was probably close to the top of the list. Yeah, some of the other folks here could probably beat her up easy. And yeah, she knew by now that Ratchet (unlike one special CO in her past) absolutely wasn’t going to try to strike her. Ever. In fact the young medic wanted to believe that if anyone else ever tried, they’d be in a world of hell with him. No. That was not the concern.
Frankly? Ratchet was important to Patch. She saw him every damn day, of course she cared about him. Yes, he drove her crazy sometimes with his reliable lack of faith in people, and the -very nearly- ever present scowl. But Patch still liked him. She respected his skill, and (though shedidtest him with relative frequency) Patch did, fear Ratchet’s disappointment.
But the little femme was nothing if not brave.
As Thunder began to leave the room, a tiny, minuscule hint of nervousness managed to tap it’s way into the small medic’s field. Not enough to perturb her, of course. Just a hum, that she quickly acknowledged and shoved to the back of her brain, as she couldn’t rightly turn it off.
Her expression was soft, and unchanging as she quietly swallowed. Optics dancing lightly about the polished floor for less than a second in thought, before her small, bulky, lanky frame rolled into motion. A couple quiet pedde-steps. Loose, and at a normal rhythm to shift herself to face that big ol’ desk, and the big ol’ mech behind it.
She didn’t look uncomfortable. Not outwardly, not even slightly… But she did look a bit shy… Which the surgeon would likely know by now was a veryloud sign for the otherwise very much extraverted femme that she was nervous, and being careful because of it.
“Whaaat, did I do now?”
She said, as her chin cocked slightly toward her left shoulder pauldron. Young voice a bit softer than usual, as to try and avoid sounding flippant. Her Peddes a little closer together than hip-with, servos folded lightly to her back. Looking the sitting mech optic-to-optic, her own quirked slightly out the corner at him in concern. Her voice wasn’t fearful in the traditional sense. ((At least not... terribly so)) though it absolutely wasn’t playful either. Genuinely... aware, of her current situation, and genuinely confused as to what specifically she’d managed to fuck up.
Post by Thundercloud on Feb 15, 2020 19:27:36 GMT -5
See, the thing about being a smug jackass who liked causing trouble was that sometimes, people caused you trouble back. Thundercloud had absolutely no way of knowing if Ratchet was serious, if a single word that came out of his mouth was the truth - he knew next to nothing about medicine, and he didn't know the Doc well enough to make any sort of accurate judgement call on how his humor worked. For all he knew, Ratchet could have been pulling his leg, messing with him to get back at him for the scene he caused with Carbine earlier. Or he could have been entirely serious, and Thundercloud was putting himself in legitimate danger by not heeding his warnings.
It said a lot about Thunder that his response to this uncertainty was to just go ahead and take the gamble, assume everything was gonna work out no matter what happened, and keep on being an obnoxious little thorn in the side.
He went crossed for a moment while looking down at the tool in his mouth, not in fear or concern but with newfound respect for how purportedly dangerous it was. Thunder, like most frontliners, had a healthy appreciation for anything that could be used to seriously hurt a guy, and if this little pen-looking thing could completely wreck his vocoder, well, more power to it.
Then Ratchet went and snatched his little friend away, leaving Thunder to wonder if it was nearly as volatile as the CMO claimed it was.
Once he was back on two feet, and Ratchet had finished giving him a short lecture about taking it easy and trying not to incur any grievous bodily harm in the near future, Thundercloud gave his stiff shoulders a roll before snapping a jaunty, semi-facetious salute.
"No gettin' my ass kicked, got it." He smirked a little, not unkindly.
"Next time I get into it with somebody, I'll let 'em know my doc says I ain't allowed to lose."
He paused then, sparing Patch a quick glance over his shoulder, gauging how far away she was, and how quietly he'd have to speak so she wouldn't overhear.
Then he leaned down a bit, reaching out to catch Ratchet's shoulder so he could speak to him a little more privately, his tone low and oddly sincere.
"For real though, Doc, I owe you one. You ever need a favor, you lemme know."
And with that he turned to beat a hasty retreat from the Medical bay, intent on chasing Carbine down and making him pay for being an absolute shitheel. Without turning around, he raised a hand, bidding the two medical 'bots goodbye with a lazy piece sign as he made his way out the doors, to freedom.
Ratchet glanced back at Thunder as the mech left, wondering if he were attempting to play yet another joke or if he was serious. He sounded serious....but Ratchet really didn’t know just how good of an actor Thunder was.
He was taken from his train of thought when Patch approached his desk, speaking hesitantly. Her quieter voice, her slightly downcast face. It all added to the look to make her look even younger than she was.
Inwardly, Ratchet sighed. These were the things he hated. While he loved his job, had at one time loved teaching and working with others....over the years, things had changed.
He had changed.
Ratchet was perfectly aware the others saw him as a complete sarcastic jerk who seemed to live to berate others, to ruin all their fun, all their enjoyment. He wasn’t blind to the looks others around him often shared between them, looks that said “Oh, there goes Ratchet again, Mr. Killjoy.” And normally, he didn’t care.
But it was always the same damn story, wasn’t it? Try to help, try to teach, try to give advice, and it was taken with a fake smile, a pretend nod, and when the back was turned, eyerolls and grimaces. People didn’t have to take his advice on things, of course not...but if they could just see what he had seen...
Looking at Patch now, he had single thought of despair.
Primus. Was I ever that young?
Ratchet pushed back the keyboard and stood up from the chair. He turned, resting back against a counter, hands resting on either side of his frame. He almost seemed to study Patch for a moment, before he began.
“You’re doing a good job here, Patch. Your methods are a little....unorthodox at times, but you’re doing well. You’re knowledgeable and you have a surprising skill set for a medic, even one posted where you were. If this war ends and we’re all still alive, and if you’re interested, I’d have no trouble writing you a letter of recommendation for entry into medical school for training to become a doctor. You still need to learn a great deal to go from medic to doctor, but I think you show you’re capable of that.”
A gentle pause. A sterner tone. Much sterner.
“But I’m going to give you a little advice that I hope you take to heart. You don’t have to....there’s nothing forcing you to, and you probably don’t want it, but I’m giving it anyway.”
Ratchet shifted his weight some, now resting his backpack-like back of his frame on the edge of the counter he leaned against. It gave him some balance, and took some weight off his peds.
Ratchet raised an arm, and pointed towards the Medibay doors.
“Those doors are a boundary. They represent an area where people come when they are in need of help. It might be something simple like a dent, or it could be an area where someone is fighting for their lives.
This Medibay? People have fought for their lives. And lives have been irreversibly altered here.”
Ratchet lowered his arm, but his tone remained tight and severe. He wasn’t yelling, he was speaking calmly, but it was clear he was not pleased.
“Outside those doors you can be as carefree and open as you want. You can be silly and foolish, you can carry on with your friends as much as you want, playing, joking....quietly snickering because you think your superior officer is too stupid to realize a patient is attempting to flirt with him to try and relieve the pressure...you can do that all you want. Out there.
In here? You are professional. You perform your duties to your utmost with a calm demeanour. You respect your position, your patient, and where you are.”
Ratchet’s voice started to get a little harsher. He still wasn’t yelling, but his irritation was clear.
“Now I don’t know if you had any friends where you were posted before you came here. Not because I think you can’t make any, but because I don’t think that environment was conductive to making friends. Comrades, yes. Friends? I don’t know. But here’s the advice. Outside those doors, you have friends. Inside those doors you have patients. Because if your friends don’t see a clear and marked change in you when you’re in here versus when you are out there, one of these days, when the slag hits the fan and everything has gone south, you are going to be in a situation where your friends are injured, everyone is panicking, and you will lose control of the situation. Because they won’t see a medic, they will see Patch their friend. They will need someone who represents authority, someone to turn to for help, and they won’t see that. They’ll see the same person who was giggling with them the last time you were welding their injury, and people will die.”
He fell silent for a minute, before speaking again. When he did, his voice was normal. Still sarcastic sounding, and somewhat harsh, but no longer angry.
“Alright. I’ve said my piece. Make sure the bench Thunder was using is cleaned, please. I have to get back to entering this data into the system.”
Ratchet pushed off from the counter, and moved to the chair, sinking into it again, and sliding back to the keyboard. He felt drained.
Last Edit: Feb 15, 2020 20:16:15 GMT -5 by Ratchet
Her expression was quietly blank, as Ratchet studied her.
No movement from her, as she simply stared back. Smartly. Fearlessly. Servos at her sides, peddes loose, field steady. Not at attention, though Ratchet had all of it. She was used to this by now, and she was sure whatever it was he had to say she deserved it.
'You’re doing a good job here, Patch.' Wait what?
That wasn’t how this sort of thing usually started, and the young femme’s expression portrayed it all. A small quirk back of her helm, as optic ridges lowered in confusion. The settling of soft, speckled features into a… Well frankly an almost defensive sort of surprise. This- what- Why… Wasn’t he yelling at her? She’d acted like a straight up child not moments ago, she'd laughed at something funny. Patch had figured THAT was what this would all be about… But, he was assuring her that she was doing well- something an officer had absolutely no obligation to do. WHERE, exactly Ratchet would write a letter of recommendation to was a fairly serious question, though most certainly one for another conversation.
“Thank you.” A very soft, quiet quip she managed to sneak in between the words.
She watched as Ratchet’s arm rose, then flicked her rather blank expression back to the surgeon. THERE it was…She felt a weight descend upon, and settle to the bottom of her spark, with the words that followed… THIS, Patch did know how to deal with. She did know how to take it, where to put it. In some sense it was almost a relief that he was reprimanding in the technical sense now, rather than just… Guilting or the like. It felt productive.
But as he continued… The young spark’s attitude shifted.
Never once, had Patch made fun of Ratchet to anyone but him. And YEAH, she’d thought he was oblivious to Thunder, because she figured he’d hit back if he wasn’t! Take it in stride! Make it a joke! Twist it around, that’s how Patch figured it was supposed to go! And NO, she wouldn’t have liked it if it had been directed at her, but… But- but it was different with Ratchet! He was-… Well he was… Bigger. Stronger… An adult. She didn’t figure he’d been… Bothered by it… If she’d known he had been she’d have fought back on his behalf…
‘You are professional. You perform your duties to your utmost with a calm demeanor.’
A hint of a smile managed to sneak across her features at this, as her jaw dropped. Optic ridges rising in surprise, almost respect that Ratchet would DARE, go here. Touch this; as who he was, and who Patch was, and what they were trying to change with this war. Small and quiet, big and loud, that’s how it always went with shapism, wasn’t it? Two-wheeler listens to the tank and obeys- Almost certainly not what the surgeon had meant, but it IS what the little rebel heard...
As the heat laid on further, of course, Patch settled herself once more. Flicking her optics away and falling into a nod as her glossa rolled into her cheek. A borderline ‘oh by Primus, he is reallysaying this to me right now’ in her demeanor as the young femme continued to silently listen. A quiet flippancy to it now. An ire. An unspoken ‘Yup. Nope. I gotcha.’ because now? NOW the only logical explanation to the flustered young medic was that Ratchet didn’tunderstand.
Once he was through, Patch stood in that silence. She didn’t try to speak. She didn’t move, she didn’t fidget. She simply stared back up at Ratchet. Dwarfed by the surgeon and entirely unafraid. A calm defiance to her posture as her chest stayed up, and her chin stayed down, and her shouldered remained relaxed. Ready for more if he still had any in him. Ready to take it, and hold it, and accept that it stung.
But then there wasn’t more. There wasn’t a break, there wasn’t room for her to argue. It was just… It was just back to business as usual, and Patchdidn’t like that. She WANTED to haul off and start spitting her side of the story. There was SO MUCH there, that the young soldier felt the need to unpack, to explain… But the words didn’t come. They simply started, then scrambled in her brain, then fell apart as she simply stood there shocked, for a solid seven seconds.
There shouldn’t have been more. There wasn’t supposed to be more, Patch knew that much. She was supposed to shut up, --probably salute, if she hadn’t gathered Ratchet didn’t like it by now-- and do as she was told… With a cock of her helm, and a half-shrug the femme nodded to herself in acknowledgement to what she’d just heard- almost assuring herself, that Ratchet had in fact just hauled of and said all that.
“Yes sir.” Two words, both calm, her optics quiet. The latter sharper than the first.
She turned and started through the room. Quiet ‘pa-dunks’ to the cabinet of cleaning supplies, a bend, a shift of bottles till she found the one she favored. Another few steps to where they kept the rags, then over to the slab. She didn’t even mind the work, it was ordinary. It was easy enough to be good at, though… Once she actually got to the bench she paused… She opened her intake, then closed it again, as she huffed out the air she was planning to use.
She was putting thought behind the words, for once, before saying them.
Finally, she took a breath again. Optics falling to the wall across from her for a moment, before she turned her helm above her shoulder to look at the doctor.
“...What would you have had me do?” A genuine question. Voice gentle, and sincere. Serious. Poignant. A light cock of her helm as her optics softened at the mech. An idle hum of… A grey space, between indignance and amusement; all of it dampened, of course, beneath a padded, muffling layer of respect. Quietly the red, cylindrical bottle of disinfectant clunked atop the slab, as her servo drifted down, and allowed it’s weight to settle. The rag still in her other servo, as it came up to prop upon her hip. Optics unshifting, frame unshifting as she continued to not quite smile at him over her shoulder.
Ratchet had been typing away at the monitor when her words interrupted him.
He had, in fact, been feeling somewhat poorly for how he had spoken. Ratchet wasn’t used to having to explain himself. It had been a long, long time since he had worked alongside another doctor. Once he had been made CMO of the Autobots, his job had been to teach, to oversee, and to follow the Prime and aid him any way possible. He had been on planets where he had overseen hospitals with six other doctors, full surgeons, and a field of medics. His job had been keeping them all up to speed. Ensuring any doctor that developed a new technique on wounded soldiers taught it to the others. He had been the one to study new resources, and if need be, trade them with other races, in order to increase the Autobot’s chance of survival. At times he missed just being a damn good doctor. But he had been needed, and he stepped in to fill the role Optimus needed.
The years had passed, and he grew more and more used to overseeing, working on his own, independently running a full medibay. Orders given to other doctors for the day, being constantly updated on injuries and deaths, to pass on to Optimus.
Now, here on Earth, he found himself working alone once again, just like old times. Although it was more frustrating, because he had to invent new materials out of thin air, with seriously lacking earth material.
Having another medic, a full medic, and someone who had clearly been doing things well beyond what her scope of practice should have been, had at first been like a breath of fresh air. He had been very hopeful that Patch would be a great assistance to him. Free him up to do other things that needed doing around the base. Fixing generators, and working the kinks out of the Ground Bridge, that so desperately needed it. Ratchet didn’t care about Patch’s frametype. He had never been a fan of the old class system, thought it idiotic.
He was well aware of the fact that sometimes, when trying to explain something to Patch, he fell back into his old “teacher” ways, going far more into detail than he needed, probably trying to teach her something she already knew. It was hard for him not to do that. Her youthfulness reminded him a great deal of the eager, bright faced students that he had once taught, so long ago. He tried to keep that “professor’s” tone from creeping into his voice, but sometimes he simply forgot. Eager to teach again. To advise, to help aim another towards the medical field.
Patch, though...wasn’t what he was expecting.
She seemed to have a drive for medicine....but sometimes seemed to lack the maturity for it. He had been well aware she had been running a constant war to try and annoy him by doing silly things around the medibay – why he had no idea. What was to gain by annoying him? He was easily annoyed, it was hardly a feat. He knew she must have seen some truly horrific things, and done some truly horrific things to try and save lives, so close to the front lines....and yet at times it seemed like she mocked it all. Perhaps it was her age. Perhaps she just hadn’t seen enough to have it ingrained in her processor yet. Looking back that long hall of all the patients lost, no matter how hard you tried to save them. They all became a blur, and yet each face and each name was engraved on his spark.
When he looked over at her, and saw her looking back at him, with that look in her face....an almost faint hint of mockery, maybe not there, and maybe there, and he was instantly struck by two thoughts at the exact same time:
Primus, she reminds me of me at that age. How far have I fallen?
And:
Does she think this is funny?
Swivelling in his chair so he could face her better, he gave her a faint, cool look in reply.
“If you haven’t figured that out by now, I doubt anything else I could say would help.”
It had been a slow decline, into the relationship Patch and Ratchet seemed to have.
When she’d first arrived at Omega, It had taken the young femme a solid few months of progression from formality, to the more casual comfort she had with Ratchet now. And even now Patch was aware working in sickbay was a privilege- one she did not take lightly. She was always on time (for report and scheduled procedures alike). She never shied away from extra duties. Even her ordinary ones she did with commitment, and efficiency.
Between those serious moments, however, she’d taken to humming every once in a while. Or calling across the stillness to ask a joke of the surgeon. Every once in a while, in recent weeks, she'd taken to leaving things she found amusing, to see how long it took for him to find them. Of course, days Ratchet seemed cross she still knew better than to bother him; at least not with more than quiet questions.
Today, seemed to be ‘one of those days’ Patch’s want for joy, and Ratchet’s want for professionalism seemed to be clashing. She’d been looking for an answer, with her query, yes… But more than that she’d been looking for an opening. Testing to see if it was likely he'd let her talk, or shut her down…
Close enough.
“Okay so here’s the thing-” She started, her words quick, tone undefensive as her attention turned down to the bottle. As though the two of them were simply having a casual conversation on any other day. “You’ve… Got a lot of experience.” She said, as she unscrewed the cap, then tipped it onto the rag. “I wanna give you credit for that. You know stuff,” The open bottle shifted to plunk against the center of her chest as she looked up, and addressed herself. “you’ve taught me stuff- I acknowledge I don't always make that easy, and I appreciate you for it.”
Still watching the surgeon, she tipped the bottle to dampen the cloth, then -without looking- placed it on a table beside the slab. A bit of an edge to her voice now. “But gaining respect, gaining authority,works different for me, than it does for you. I’m sorry, it’s just true.” Her attention turned down to the slab as she flipped the rag over her servo and set to work. “I don’t have rank, I don’t have age, I do have experience but Idon’t look it, and I don’t feel I have the luxury of a physical threshold to determine when I am and am not serious.”
To the outside observer, it may have appeared the young femme was taking some amount of aggression out on the slab as she spoke, with the speed at which she worked, and the pressure she was applying, as she threw her frame into each and every movement. Ratchet would know by now this was simply how Patch always cleaned things- regardless of her mood. Ever efficient, ever pushing to the limit of her capability to get things done rightly and quickly.
However… The outside observer may not have been wrong, in this instance...
“I didn’t have that luxury before. And yes! People DID die. You’re right! Because people die everywhere. It isn’t specific to sickbay, Ratchet. It’s what people do. They are stupid, and they get hurt, and they get ruined, and they die.”
At this she reared around to face the surgeon. Rag still in hand as she pointed down at that clean, sterile floor... She stood there for a second, still as stone, optics hard. Posture proud, A heavy dose of hurt behind the brightened blue fire in her gaze.
When she spoke, her voice was steady. “My demeanor is a choice... Everybody’s is. I choose to be pleasant, be happy with people as often as I can, because I do know, that it’s not gonna stay. It never does.” There was a waver to her voice by the end of the phrase... One which was quickly squished by the soldier. The change only visible in the twist of her lips as she hardened her jaw, and forced herself to stand up a little straighter.
Ratchet had turned his chair even more to look at the young femme as she spoke, and said nothing. He took it all in, her words, her face, her actions, the way she was attempting to kill the berth via friction. He didn’t interrupt, although he could, just to try and explain away a few more things, but he let her speak and get it all out, because he knew she wasn’t really understanding what he was saying. Not that that was a shocker – few people ever really understood what Ratchet was often trying to say, because when it came to some things, Ratchet was simply terrible at explaining himself.
As he watched her, he was struck, yet again, at just how much she reminded him of himself so many, many years ago.
And that was the problem.
When she had stopped speaking, Ratchet set himself. He didn’t want to sound angry or disapproving. He knew he had an acidic tone, a sharp tongue. He knew he had a tiny amount of patience, and it could evaporate like dry ice on a hot day. At his age, he had decided long ago he didn’t really care. Those he cared about knew how he felt. Those he didn’t? They weren’t a priority. Ratchet had learned life was too short to tip toe, and the unfortunate side effect of that was a bluntness that could be brutal.
So when he caught the tiny waver in her voice at the end, he forced himself to bench his usual, no-nonsense attitude, and at least attempt to not sound like a drill sergeant.
“Patch, I’m not saying I want you to be like me. I’m not saying you have to be a bitter, jaded spark. I’m trying to...”
He faltered, and gave an ex-vent, and tried again.
“This is probably going to terrify you more than anything else I could possibly say, but when I look at you, I see myself, back when I was young, and learning to be a doctor. Full of life. Full of zest. Wanting to grab the world by the horns and wrestle control. It’s natural. Your spark is still new. I know you hate having your age pointed out, but young isn’t synonymous with stupidity, at least not to me. It means just that. Youth. And all the fun of life that comes with it.”
There was another pause as Ratchet leaned back slightly in his chair, “That really happened, you know. The example I gave you? It happened. It happened to me. Believe it or not, when I was your age, I was known among my peers as a party animal. It was a complete mystery to them. I could be out until all hours of the night, drinking and enjoying myself, and be up at dawn attending classes and lectures. My spark burned bright and it burned hot, and I had a large group of close friends. We were fools together, all of us.”
Ratchet raised a servo and tiredly rubbed his face, “One night, in one of the luxurious apartments in a high tower, a cargo plane lost control and hit the tower. A lot of people were injured. And right when I was needed most....none of my friends listened to me. Too busy panicking, too busy being frightened. I wasn’t a doctor to them, I was a friend. No position of authority. And some died because of it.”
There was a pause.
“I decided then and there that I had to build a divide. A second personality. One that existed outside the medibay, and one inside. It was hard, at first, but my friends accepted it. Inside the medibay I was an authority figure, outside I was still foolish and foolhardy.
Patch, I know you’ve seen and done a lot. You’ve done things far above and beyond what a simple medic is supposed to do. You have skills that far exceed what they should. If I didn’t think you were capable of it, you would not be left unattended in this medibay. Period.
I just don’t want to see you end up like me. I don’t want you to have those same regrets. I’m not asking you to not be happy and cheerful. I’m asking you not to play the fool when you’re in here. You’re disrespecting yourself, what you went through. You deserve respect for what you’ve done, and acting like a sparkling – in here – is wrong. You deserve respect, not fear, respect, but unless you start acting more professional in here, you’re not going to get it.”
The chair he was sitting in creaked slightly as he shifted his weight.
“What you were in? Before? That’s gone. You do have that luxury now, Patch. You’re no longer on the front lines, not exactly. Yes, you’ll face death, but not like you did before. And yes, your sense of humour might be what got you through before, might be what helped you survive...
But I’d like to see you live and thrive, Patch. Not just survive.”
Last Edit: Mar 13, 2020 19:05:52 GMT -5 by Ratchet