[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Unstable [Carbine, Patch]

[Carbine]

Go figure the scanner would act up. Out of all the times in this universe it could decide to have an error, or get stuck in 'sleep mode' or whatever it was that was wrong with it, it simply had to pick this one moment right here and now? It felt like another spit on him from Primus, Lady Luck, Fate, or Karma whatever someone believed in swinging around to then kick him when he was down. It caused his spark to pulse faster, his fear to step higher, and his aggression to well up as time ticked on and Patch snarled back at him.

A low growl slipped out from the mech, a sound that came from him rather than Bolo, a noise of irritation and building hostility while his hands clenched the edge of the berth even tighter with an audible creak. It wasn't often he let himself make such a noise, his Cassette taking up that mantle, yet here they were. Finally, however, the device seemed to cooperate, and with barely a second to realize it was fixed, the beam of light would cast over him.

No going back now.

There were a good number of expected notes that populated the device's screen first. An injury on his right hand, the fact the generator that supplied his taser was shorted out, a minor blockage in vents that wasn't cause for concern, a small defect in his left eye, as well as elevated spark rate and fuel pressure due to overall stress and anxiety. His system was running hot with pent up fight or flight, it pulsing even higher as the beam of light finished its pass across his helm. Carbine's head would turn to the side as it did, the yellow projections squinting hard in reaction to the blinding effect as ghosted shapes muddled across the black surface.

If Patch had been hoping for information on Carbine's fuel tanks to explain the vomit, she would be disappointed. The containers seemed to be fine, no overt damages or issues within, no rust or ruptures of any kind. If anything, there was some irritation akin to 'inflammation' on the bottom that more likely than not just signaled an upset stomach from something consumed that didn't settle right, or some solid Energon food that rubbed weirdly. Whole, intact, and perfectly functional. However other readouts would pop up instantly that were far more vital, little red blips with exclamation marks that shoved the other data down as a non-issue.

The first and most notable listing on the scan was severe processor damages, which... was to be expected given Carbine's outward quirks, prominent glitches, and his medical records. Massive warnings that screamed of concussion trauma, as well as the fact that an entire section of the processor itself seemed to not even be present. A gaping void of some kind that meant either a piece of the system was straight up gone, giving an implication that it had been carved completely out, or it was missing a connector to make it appear as if it were invisible to the device. Logic dictated the latter given he was functional.

Mostly.

There was an additional crisis of rust that pinged urgently, yet there seemed to be so much of it to the point the scanner couldn't really pinpoint anything beyond the most generalized idea of 'helm'. The only area it managed to narrow down with heavier warnings was on the top left side. There was evidence of attempts being made to manage this situation, fresh scrapes and abrasions that had scratched off surface layers of mesh, seeming to dig alarmingly deep into the metal in places, yet it seemed to have done little to stop the rampant corruption and infection from chewing away.

This was paired with old scarring, some surface mechanisms supposedly missing, though these seemed to not be a large concern versus earlier readings.

None of this significant damage showed on the exterior portions of Carbine's helm. No rust, no scrapes or impacts that went beyond the normal wear and tear of a fighter. The only notable and visible damage was the prominent crack that etched across the glass that acted as his faceplate. The fissure truly appeared to be the worst thing at a glance ((ignoring the one discolored eye)), etching from the scarred slashes on his left jaw, up and across towards his right forehead. This injury however did not show on the medical scan.

-

There was profound... relief... once the scan had passed over him and everything was said and done. Carbine recognized that there was nothing he could do now. He couldn’t erase the readout from Patch's processor, he couldn’t suddenly yell he had changed his mind and make her stop. Slapping the tool out of her hand would accomplish nothing but further betray his fears, and if he freaked out bad enough that he assaulted her? Well... it would be the death of his place in the Autobots. Everything was now out of his control, and this sobering fact was somehow a thing that he didn't realize his spark was... craving?... A relief that was far more powerful than any of the previous times this had occurred.

Likely because of the rust's progression and his NEED for medical help.

Carbine's rotors and shoulders sagged, a heavy exhale slipping out with a wet crackle from the vents on his back. All of the exhaustion he showed before due to all the labors he’d endured now returned tenfold, the black and white mech almost looking as though he had been running a marathon and hadn’t slept in weeks. Beat down, emotionally and physically drained... The fight was kicked out of him hard for what felt like the millionth time since he had been put in 'time out'.

He just hoped Patch wouldn't instantly start shrieking at him for not doing something sooner. He didn't want to have to try to gather up the energy and motivation to fight back to the standards he demanded of himself. Carbine wasn't even sure if he could at this point all things considered. Even the strongest in Garrus if pushed too far could collapse under enough pressure, and Carbine was nowhere near the strongest to walk those halls.

Tired, yellow optical projections looked over at Patch.

[Patch]

During a scan like this there would almost always be little annoyances. Surface scratches healing through, muscle cables drawn in a bad direction sorting themselves out...

But then… There was more...

Her helm moved away from the screen a small ways, as she stood up straighter. A soft cycle of air, in and out as young blue eyes remained steady on the reading. “... That-...” The young femme drew silent a moment as she looked at it. Her helm quirked to the side like a dog’s trying to play, though her brows remained down.

A low tone fell out of her. More disturbed at the device’s sure malfunction than any fear of it was indicating. Young optics narrowed at the object with dubiousness.

“That can’t be right.”

The damn scanner was glitching. Of COURSE it was! First the screen malfunction, now THIS? Latching onto what damage was there and throwing it so far out of proportion... Patch had seen a lot of scrappy scanners in her day, and even still she’d never seen anything quite like this.

Even through the internal denial, however, Patch's tank ached. No it didn't make sense, but...

But still it continued. Tiny digital cries of second hand anguish on Carbine’s behalf. Fear and alarm through the red and the flashing, squeaking beeps as it damn near quivered in fear in the young medic's servos. SURELY this was all a mistake, but- it...

It was being so specific…

It couldn’t be. No. It absolutely couldn't be. Carbine was walking, and… Sort of talking. Only yesterday he’d been more active than nearly any of them! What with Avalanche putting him through the ringer downstairs… He… He couldn’t be. He would have been exhausted. He would have shown SIGNS.

Desperation slowly crept into the young spark’s eyes. A somber steadying of small features from annoyance, to denial, to… Well her face went blank. Silver, turned down, speckled features shrinking down to a state of inertness Carbine may or may not have recognised upon her. One pedde shuffled a little closer to the other as shoulders drew in to fold over the device ever so minutely. A bit more intention to her posture, as the light of the device's screen cast up upon her pensive face.

Her ventilations remained steady, though, she became more aware of them, it seemed. They drew softer in volume. Smoother, as the only true hint to what was in her mind remained locked behind the glowing weight of azure blue.

Her helm popped up, at the crackled exhale. Eyes right on his, almost startled, like a dear at the crack of a branch. She reset her voice-box, with a small pop. Took yet another steady invent, then. Tentatively began to step to the other mech. Smoothly and carefully crossing toward him. Her optics dropped back to the scanner.

When close enough, without a word, the young form placed her free servo upon the slab, whipped her frame around, and hiked herself up to sit beside Carbine. She allowed her peddes to dangle down beside the larger soldier’s. Her’s were not long enough to reach the floor, her frame laughably smaller than the convict’s; that simple fact accentuated heavily by their new proximity. She settled a bit within the mech’s personal bubble. Close enough to lean over and touch his arm with her shoulder, though she didn’t.

The small, round helm turned and looked up to him. She cocked the scanner in his direction, it’s auditory warnings now silenced, though the very alarming readouts still very much present. It’s settings switched over to the wireframe option of Carbine’s structure, with each and every red mark of damage and infection atop and throughout it apparent.

Gently. Innocently, and yet so knowingly the young femme watched his very spark through the projections of his optics. Letting him look.

She didn’t say a word.

[Carbine]

Confusion, not an abnormal reaction if Carbine were to guess. He perhaps expected a more violently energetic response though instead. If she believed it? Well... confronting him. If she thought the device was broken? He would have anticipated her to hit it to jostle it into cooperating, or turned it off and on again to do another scan to start from scratch and compare the two readouts. Yet, she grew tense, she was quiet, limited words while her frame pulled closer in on itself. Was this a defeated look? Or was it a coiling before a strike? Carbine was likely projecting what he expected however, her stance not reading at all like someone who was bottling a more violent reaction, yet he read it improperly to try to see what he wanted to see.

Movement.

Patch crossed the couple steps over then, before swinging up to sit on the edge of the berth beside him. While his crackled exhale had startled her, this action seemed to catch him off guard in a similar way. The rotor posts upon his back flicked up a bit, the long slats of metal scraping against the bed, while his shoulders tightened a small amount and helm whipped over to look at her. While his yellow eyes danced across her body language, the rings that were mounted on his back would twitch slightly in clicking whirls. This tension, this on guard reaction, it could not be held for longer than a moment, Carbine having no more energy to devote to such things. Ss soon as he had tensed, the action deflated, his arms pulling up to rest across his lap.

Calmly, his left hand moved to rub at his right once again while Patch presented the scanner.

There was nothing there that Carbine could understand when it came to the words and readouts. Glyphs seeming to jitter and pop to different shapes... words with three letters seeming to smear into four before returning... But what he couldn't understand in the terms, he could see with the wireframe, though that offered nothing he wasn't already aware of. The only bit of information he could pull was the fact it was red instead of orange or yellow, a warning icon beside it that he could only differentiate because of its color and shape, though he knew it had an exclamation mark even if he could no longer see it.

"I c-can't r̷e͜ad i̢t, b-b̛u̢t I ͘do̡n͞'͝t ne̶e͟d tǫ."

As to not trigger a poor response, attempts to read causing issues at times, his gaze averted away.

"I'm t-tired. I'm sic͏k̵. I̶ c͟o̕n-n̡-̡st͏aǹt͢ly feel like trash. I've tried to m͘-̧m̸an̸age it,̡ ͏b̨u͞t Thunder g-going into Stasis... Earth... it all g̀-g-̀g̨-̴k͞zt́t-òt ou̶t̀ ͏of ̢control so fast."

A low rumble, feeling an ingrained fear and shame and hate welling up inside him that he was demeaning himself enough to show vulnerabilities. To show reality. He didn't want to have this visible; he didn't WANT others to know where his weaknesses lie. Lock them away, play the invincible asshole! That was his MO and it was difficult to try to step outside of it. Yet, personal beliefs and habits, no matter how deeply rooted, they could be shifted aside, fought, and strangled to some extent with self-preservation was on the line. The pain of fighting against who he was paling in comparison with the crippling concept of one's mortality.

"I n-need... help. I don't need͏ i͢t ̨a-a-c̢hch͏c̷-all fi͘x́ed, I just need it sta-̛ble͏. I w̨a͏nt͏ ţh̀e ̴pa͠in to just S̸TO̢P."

Caged away, it all had all been numbed to an extent as a background noise, yet since he truly FOUGHT the issue with Bumblebee... when he aggressively tried to handle it the other day and exposed it all to open air... it had throbbed and ached. Needles at the surface, biting and chewing. He was so confident with the Scout he had it handled, but now it felt even more out of control than it had been. It was maddening, nagging at the back of his processor, multiple voices both his as well as Thunder and Bumblebee's telling him to DO something about it.

Well, he was.

Or, he was trying to.

His left hand reached up then, pointer finger digging some at the underside of his jaw, a sort of nervous motion.

"W-w-͜h̀at̕ do w-͢w̢e do͘ n͏ow?"

Carbine still didn't look over at Patch, his gaze settled on the far wall ever since he rejected the scanner's results. He knew if he looked over and saw a damn CHILD he wouldn't be as open as he was. Though, it may not just be the idea she was a 'child', more so than the fact she was another soul that was possibly processing and judging him on his weaknesses.

[Patch]

Once Carbine looked away, Patch pulled the scanner close to cradle in both hands, and look at on her own once more. She could scarcely believe it- and yet… It made so much sense...

Why hadn’t he told them...

The young femme was offended that he hadn’t trusted her. It burned her a little that she hadn’t seen it until now. It ached that he hadn’t had the trust to come forward. Sure! On SOME level she could understand why; It was a scary thing to show you were hurting- only scarier if the origin belonged to something you were afraid of, or hated, but STILL!

This was about more than Carbine.
THIS was about his UNIT.

Patch believed -with her whole damn spark- that when someone joined a unit, the unit joined them. If they put themselves at risk? They put EVERYONE at risk. Carbine did not have the right to do that. There were people, on this team, Devoted to not only ‘maintenance of the tools’ but each individual member’s care, comfort and stability.

Carbine was unstable. And Patch did take that personally.
It was, after all, Her Job to prevent, and his, to let her.

She also understood, however, beneath that festering sense of fear, and betrayal in her spark, Carbine wasn’t the only person to blame here. And now was absolutely NOT the time...

There would be plenty of that later...

Looking at the scan alone, this had likely been a problem since long before he’d gotten here; it was nowhere NEAR her fault it hadn’t been noticed upon his arrival. How Ratchet -of all mechs- had missed it as long as he had was beyond her but EVEN then, he was hardly the only mech who could be held responsible.

Damn right she was going to address this with command. Patch intended to address this with EVERYONE; something like this could NEVER be allowed to happen again.

Not on her watch.

All of this quietly churned away behind distant optics still trained on the scanner.
It was not lost on Patch that Carbine wasn’t looking at her.

He had just been exposed in such a way no one ever deserved to be. It had gone on so long- he had hidden it so long- it had likely become a part of him; the illness and the lie. Now, he was about to be stripped of both- and though that change was likely almost entirely positive… It would be painful, on all counts.

Now was the time to be gentle.

She didn’t need to make him feel even worse. Shaming him about it wouldn’t do anything, now she knew, that was what mattered. Now they could take steps forward.

Still looking at the scanner, the little medic in-vented, and, through the exhale softly and casually spoke. “I need to go talk to some people.”

“I’ma get you outta here. Have a closer look in sickbay if that’s okay with you?” Her helm turned to look at him once more. A genuine question, though, she didn’t really expect a negative answer at this point.

[Carbine]

Ratchet 'missing' it all wasn't that big of a consideration when taking into account the rust was likely recent. Missing chunks and bits, the damage to his processor... it was akin to simply losing a limb, it merely being an absence that was what it was. They didn't exactly have components and pieces that could re-configure the chunk of his processor, and even if they did? Well... that kind of surgery alone could be large with their current resources. Logic dictated the supposedly absent chunk had to be just a miss-reading of some kind from its installation anyway, since he could actually cobble words together and didn't just spit sounds to articulate. No... Ratchet was not negligent; it was Carbine who did nothing when the infection started to spread and run rampant like wildfire upon a grass field after a drought. He was negligent and now he was right here in this situation.

When Patch finally spoke to cut through the stagnate silence, Carbine shifted a small amount, a subtle twitch as if he had intended to look over at the voice, only to cut the motion short so that it didn’t complete. Light shined across the visor at this angle, the yellow projections staring straight ahead. With Patch sitting next to him, she could likely see the small white pinpricks of his pupils, their hazed glow of a shape flicking as if darting across small marks or bits of dirt on the far wall. The twitching gaze seeming rather quick as he tried to take in what she was saying, the optics widening a small amount.

"W͞h̸at̕? Ņ-no... I do̢n't wa̛-aw̷-w̕ąńt éveryo͝n͏ę k̕n̨o̷w̢in̢g̢."

Tired words, a statement that in any other situation would have been yelled. A hostile bark, a want to shut her down... followed up with a 'This is my secret, my weakness, and you will NOT stab me in the back like that!', yet, he did not have the energy to do so. His words merely came out as soft protest, a muttered request. Though it was not yelled, he still felt it strongly, his eyes then closing before he dared to angle his helm over to look at the small Medic with a half lidded gaze.

"M̀e͡d͟ic con̵fi͞de͢nt̴i̡al͞i͏t͏y?"

That was his weapon of choice. He may not have had the energy to shriek and intimidate, but he could calmly try to use loopholes. That said, it may not work with the wartime femme. Forged in fire, thrown into existence when the war raged, she may not be bound to the same moral codes as those who came well before her. Not trained how serious such a thing could be. She could retreat back and try to work a different angle to respect this request, or she could simply give it a scoff and declare it worthless.

"I ͞w͘-w̶an̢t́ to j͘us͝t̛ g̕o t-t-t́o si̷c̴k b͟ay."

A low grumble, a shifted crackle of an exhale sliding between the vents on his back. It was after he made this request his helm angled forward again, his forearms folding along his lower abdomen to try to keep them busy and occupied so he would stop fidgeting and rubbing at his right hand. He could feel the ache in it, he knew its presence and could be reminded of the silent vow he made to himself without messing with it, he didn’t have to keep agitating it anxiousness to keep himself in line anymore.

This decision likely would not last long.

[Patch]

"W͞h̸at̕? Ņ-no... I do̢n't wa̛-aw̷-w̕ąńt éveryo͝n͏ę k̕n̨o̷w̢in̢g̢."

"Not ‘everyone’ just… Whoever I need to get through to get you upstairs.” A slight, lightened optic roll with the first few words, then right back to earnest. Attention back to look up at the mech. Her voice was still mild, even through the slight roughness at the beginning.

As he looked down upon her, and asked the -seemingly- quite small, likely (once upon a time) expected boon, the young femme simply flattened her lips and turned a sorry smile up at him. A kind, and quiet sort of ‘you know I can’t do that’.

Honestly, it hardly crossed the young soldier’s mind that… Maybe he wouldn’t want the whole base to know. Privacy wasn’t a luxury Patch had ever been afforded, never one she’d come to expect, though... It made sense, to some extent, now that it was spoken out loud.

The problem was, in order for Carbine to be permitted to leave, Patch damn well knew she was gonna need prior approval. Even if she didn’t technically ‘NEED’ need it, as the current -acting- chief of medicine… She was still very new to this position, and she was absolutely NOT about to test her newfound authority in practice like that.

She did, however… Hear the other mech… Even if she didn’t quite understand herself, the young femme could still empathize. Still, on some level, grasp what he was afraid of, and respect it.

She could… Try. To keep it amongst the officers- at least she wouldn’t tell anyone else directly. Not yet. They could discuss the details of that later, for Now, all Patch wanted; all Patch needed, was to get Carbine out of this cell, and into a fragging decontamination bath; as efficiently as possible.

To do that, she would need Red’s approval… Potentially Prowl’s, as well…Maybe Avalanche. Quite frankly, the young femme expected everyone in charge would want -and need- to know.

One person, however, took absolute priority…

“I’ll getcha' there. Just… Gimme a minute.”

With that, the young femme reached over to pat the top of the mech’s rather hulking black, scuffed up forearm. Just one little plunk. Not soft, but not hard. Her deft, solid silver servo quite small compared to his rather chunky one, their difference in size punctuated yet again. With a soft smile and slight push, the little soldier’s aft slipped off the berth. Her peddes clunked down in unison, then set right off across the room to open and close the door and leave.

Though the large door itself would lock behind her, she did not re-initiate the cell’s shielding. She didn’t think she needed to, for more reason than one.

Once outside, two small, speckled digits -on the convict’s forearm only moments prior- lifted to press to her round, silver audial. Her tone was calm. Low. Perhaps overly steady, just slightly- though it was clear she was in no immediate, or physical distress.

::Sir, I’d like to talk with you; as soon as you're available.::

Her voice grew a bit more solemn, a bit heavier.

::It’s about Carbine.::

[Carbine]

When Patch moved to pat his arm, Carbine eased away a small amount, as if finding her touch poisonous in some way. He didn’t wrench away, her hand still made contact to pat, but he seemed uncertain or apprehensive over the idea. The concept of being touched didn't bother the black and white mech, so long as it wasn't his back where Bolo was located. Carbine himself was not above whapping a hand on someone else's shoulder sarcastically or pulling them around! However, it was the sentiment with the motion he was averse to. Placating, trying to calm, akin to patting a spooked animal to attempt to get it to mellow out... It came off as pitying, looking down upon him in a way, which plucked at his psyche and malicious views on such things.

He didn't need her PITY... he just needed medical help. Just needed whatever supplies would curb this before it went even more out of hand. He needed things to stabilize... but he didn't need nor WANT her looking at him like he was broken. That said, he warned her this would be the case, and deep down he knew it would be in some way, yet speculating and discussing was far separated from actually living it, and that was what he was experiencing now. As such, after her hand pulled away and she moved to get off the berth, Carbine's own limb would move up closer to his frame, as if to keep it away should she opt to try to pat it again for some reason or another.

With his arm tucked back, Carbine would lean forward and push himself to a stand as well. Slender triangular peds clicked down first, followed by the dull rubber tap of the wheel that created his heel as it absorbed his weight and mass dropping down upon it. He would ease into a stand, cables and systems aching while he readied to depart and follow her from the cell.

It felt surreal for a brief moment to step beyond the threshold of what had been his home for a few days without being 'escorted' by some angry femme... which was odd considering he was only in there a flicker of time barely worth the mention. It made him realize just how familiar any jail was to him, old habits dying hard where being trapped wasn't a huge drama, and stepping outside that zone was weird. This bothered him a small amount, though he didn't have much time to think about it...

Patch closed the door to the room behind her.

Carbine stopped in his blind follow then, blankly looking at the door while trying to process what had happened. Was he meant to go back? Assume she forgot the cell activation somehow? No. She wasn't that dumb, and with that thought he reached forward to try to push the slab open thinking he had been too slow to grab it in her wake, only to realize that it was locked.

Yellow eyes narrowed at this realization, before a snorted heave filtered through the vents on his back with a wet crackle. Her words in hindsight made it apparent she was ditching him, yet it wasn't until then he consciously realized the implication, his frame turning about face to walk a few strides away so he wasn’t standing by the door like a lost puppy. He didn't know how long it would take all things considered, so he grabbed the top of the chair Patch had been using earlier, and spun it around so the back faced the doorway.

With a clunk of armor, Carbine sat on the chair backwards, the hooked armor of his cassette, and his rotors, making sitting in it traditionally uncomfortable.

He waited.

-----

Over the communication line, an even voice replied, no real clue or hint to the emotion that was in play.

"Proceed"

[Patch]

Whenever Patch sat beside someone, she often slapped at them a little when she rose. Not always, of course, but it was not uncommon. Hence, as she turned and left the room, she did not give the gesture so much as a second thought. No notion that it may be perceived as patronizing- it was a sturdy pat, after all, for someone of her size (even if not so much for the likes of Carbine). A mere extension of her support. Contact for the sake of contact; the young femme would rarely pass that up, after all.

Without so much as looking back, she swiftly crossed the room. Ever efficient- especially so as she now understood her next objective.

Unfortunately, the after effects of surviving not one, but two rotations on the frontlines did a number on one’s audials. That, in addition to the fact she was already planning her words… Patch did not hear Carbine rise to follow her. That, in conjunction with her efficiency, led to an unfortunately timed, unintentional, entirely remorseless shutting of the very heavy door in his face.

As she stood in the hallway, and waited but a moment, the young medic -oblivious to the rattles of the door’s inner handle- clutched her scanner tightly at her hip in her un-lifted servo. Though she now understood, this had been going on for months, she felt a great sense of urgency about getting Carbine cared for as quickly as she could. He was her responsibility now, and she wouldn’t- couldn’t let him down.

::He’s sick, sir. Chronically.:: The undertone of radio settled beneath, and lightly garbled the femme’s young voice. A slurry of emotions behind an opaque veil of heavy seriousness. There was some amount of delicacy as she broke the news as, though she didn’t know him terribly well personally, it scarcely took someone observant to realize Optimus Prime carried a metric frag ton of worry and respect for his people.

There was also, perhaps… Some level of annoyance, as well. Command at this base had just put Carbine through a grinder these last few days; Patch heard his breathing, noticed his posture, she could SEE his vitals- he was weak. His frame needed every OUNCE of energy he had to spare right now just to hold off the infection and he had none. They had drained him.

Perhaps it was not Optimus who suggested heavy labor- certainly not if he had possessed any notion of the soldier’s condition; which Patch knew he couldn’t have… But it had still happened, it had happened under his watch, and Patch simply didn’t have anyone else to blame for that besides herself.

For this reason, she carried both less, and more empathy in her tone, beneath the depth of disciplined professionalism.

::I have no idea when it started, but it’s clearly been around a while, and this planet's atmosphere hasn’t made it any better. I’m requesting permission to move him to sickbay- immediately if possible. I need the equipment there. It’s-... It’s bad, sir.::

Besides perhaps some understanding of Patch’s general demeanor, Optimus had doubtlessly seen the femme's service records by now. He more than likely had enough experience himself to know… A medic like her, having seen what she had, would not say those words lightly.

---

Once seated, on the table some small distance away, Carbine would find the assortment of objects and instruments Patch had brought down with her; now spread out beyond the metallic borders of the silver tray upon the table itself, to make the items easier to access.

Among the instruments sat a rotary tool with an assortment of heads, and a half-opaque, half-full container of blue fluid. Large pliers, a few bits of rubber tread, a rather scary looking needle (capped, and lacking a syringe) beside a matter of vials. There were a few bite-size bits of re-solidified energon, carefully removed from the corner of a stabilized cube. Spread farthest from the tray were a small assortment of cloths and containers- one of which still lightly wet, from before.

[Carbine]

The comm line did not immediately crackle back to life, there a certain delay to it as Optimus thought over what Patch had just said. It could come off as him trying to consider how to nicely deny such a request, telling her to make do in the cells or other barbaric approach, yet this couldn't be further from the truth. It was in actuality a pause as he considered the fact that Patch did not grasp the situation that she found herself in. She would need to be reminded now, and perhaps in the future, of her newfound role and the power that it gifted her within this army.

::As acting Chief Medical Officer, do as you see fit to preserve any Autobot life::

Decisive and direct, almost an order in its own way to make her hear his words and truly take them to spark. She had ultimate authority when it came to medicine at this time, even able to command Optimus himself with certain situations. If it was a medical necessity? She had last say other than in very specialized situations where Optimus would need to override for a greater goal, though that was not even a flicker of a thought on the Prime's processor.

-----

Carbine patiently waited from his position on the chair, his arms folded across the top edge of the backrest. With a series of light clunks, white fingertips drummed atop his own forearm in a slow rhythmic motion to stall and pass the time. It was simple things like this that could occupy him awhile, able to zone out and loaf around when he knew he was trapped and could do nothing to change it. It was while he did this, his gaze would drift over however, eyeing the assortment of supplies and tools. Upon seeing this, the top edge of an optical projection would crook up as if raising a brow, quizzically staring at the small blue chunks with newfound interest and sharp focus.

Easing upright, Carbine stepped away from the chair just enough to grab and lift it up. Unlike previous times when he would drag it around with some attempt to be 'badass' or intimidating, making a shrill screech of a noise as its legs scraped, this time he picked it up fully, before placing it closer to the table and re-taking his seat with a rough rattle of the rotors clicking on the concrete floor. A momentary flinch formed from this impact, but it was fleeting, attention latching back down.

With a second of hesitation, as if he knew what he was doing wasn't good, Carbine reached forward and picked up one of the blue pieces between his pointer and middle finger, lifting it up near his visor to get a better look of it. It looked like Energon, it LOOKED like a treat of some kind, possibly for Bolo, yet... he couldn't be certain since it was beside other questionable medical tools. With a calm movement, Carbine hooked his arm back as if he were going to scratch along his spine with the blue rock, tapping it against the hooked armor panels near seams.

A stir, a shift...

Judging by the feeling of his Cassette twisting in his dock and a pulse of interest from their connection, Carbine had a good bead that Bolo got a small whiff of food back there, which confirmed it well enough for him. With this validation, he plucked the second piece up between middle and ring, and the third between ring and pinky, holding the three chunks to eye them.

Try as he might to be good, as much as he told himself he was changing the last few days, trying to make a turn for the better! His processor wanted nothing more than to store them away in subspace for Bolo later. They were small, they wouldn’t be truly missed. Patch would either think she forgot them, dropped them from their small size on the walk down, or very likely could know he took them and wouldn’t care since it'd go to the dog she loved so very much... yet, if he knew she'd probably most likely give them to him anyway... why did he feel this compulsion to just steal them?

The black and white mech stared at the small glints of blue. Something so cheap, something so disposable, something so incredibly WORTHLESS in the grand scheme of things... it was almost like his processor equated them to diamonds in value, telling him to pocket them. Telling him to just DO it and assure he'd get away with it because he almost always got away with absolute trash when it was a small enough affront... yet... he told himself he'd be good. He told himself he would really try after current events. He thought about Windshield, that moment he realized he had become absolute trash over the eons... and this right here was another aspect of it.

But he wanted them.

This was so incredibly STUPID! It was not even a bite worth of food! Why was he making it out to be this life crisis? This entire internal debate just set him more on edge, systems wanting to rev up into his fight and lack of impulse control self, yet, he didn’t have the energy.

With an irritated snorted huff of defeat, Carbine flung the three rocks onto the tray with a clinking clatter, before his helm swung forward to clunk onto his arm on the backrest, resting his forehead with a frustrated sigh.

[Patch]

This time it was Patch’s turn to pause.

:: ...Understood.:: Another pause, then a more decisive ::Thank you sir.::

The line cut off.

Patch stood alone in the hallway a moment, the top of the door towering over her as she dimly gazed with glassed over optics at the corner where the wall met the floor. She took a slow, heavy cycle of air, simply processing the words a moment more. Optic ridges low in thought.

Patch knew she was in charge… Objectively. But even after the initial shock of finding out this was her position now, she… Well things just kept smacking her every so often. New realizations kept popping up that YES, she was the physician. She was now an authority.

In the army, it was important -and encouraged- to know, and understand the rank above your own; so if or when one got promoted, there’d be less need for acclimation. The problem with THAT was, with Omega- nae, the AUTOBOTS, so desperately short on medical staff… The rank “above” Patch’s was in fact several DOZEN ranks above her own, in a formal sense.

In non-medical terms, she’d, in essence, just the other week been punted from a glorified, overworked courier to a fragging COMMANDER. Expected to oversee and organize the health, sanitation, preventative maintenance, pain management and trauma care for a unit of 24, which included, but was not limited to, the single most important mech in not only their military but their entire culture. (what was left of it anyway…)

And she’d just revealed her ignorance of ALL of that, to him...
Thank the Allspark he understood there’d be an adjustment period...

Even still, it… It frightened her a little, for a moment. Just a blip in which she felt suddenly, crushingly alone in her new position, with no chance of backup in the event of a mistake...

With a quirk up of her chin to look the wall in the eye, the young femme took a sharp and shallow breath in, and nodded as she snorted it out, just once on the exhale. She could do this. She was able to do this. Just one step, then the next, that was all. And at THIS very moment… She did know what to do.

She turned to input her code again, then smashed her shoulder hard into the very large door to get it open for her with a small low grunt. The weight of it evidently designed to fall closed if left idle, so. She held it as she stood and spoke.

“Alright. Sorry about that. Let’s getcha outta here. Could ya hand me that tray?”

Maybe not the most traditional request from a medic for their patient- Especially not if they actively knew them to be in poor condition. Though, there was more than one reason behind Patch’s informal obscurity.

First, standing still was harder than walking, any medic worth their ration knew that. Though if Carbine couldn’t stand here and hand her something he wasn’t fit to traverse the base under his own power- not alone, at least. Not that far. Patch damn well knew she couldn’t hold him up; down maybe, if he was weak and she was desperate, though she wanted to see just how bad he was in action, without deliberately asking for a display.

Second, she didn’t want the copper-chopper thinking for an instant she would patronize him through this process. She wouldn’t dare. He’d been through enough. Besides, Patch was aware Carbine had a history on the frontlines too. If he had more than half a rotation out there -regardless of where he was stationed- this was surely not the worst he’d ever been; and if it was? Again, she wanted to know that before they started walking through the base.

Last but not least, of course… She just... genuinely wanted the help.
Patch had small servos, after all, and both of Carbine’s were still perfectly good.

“Oh and hey- would ya mind carrying the bottle there, and the rags? You can go ahead and take the energon too. Might need it later for Bolo, I wanna have a look at him once I’m done with you.”

Each word was quick, low. Conversational, though serious- almost in somewhat of a rush to get him upstairs. Efficient. She was being efficient, in her tone. Her chest up tall, pressed wide against the door as she reached out for the instruments.

Patch was absolutely not one to let herself lose track of food. Small though they may have been, even for someone her size, those three little pieces could be the difference between a day of misery and an hour or so of relative comfort; she knew that from experience.

Whether he’d noticed them already or not, the femme was sure he’d see the energon pieces once he moved the tray. She was pleased to see they were still there. quietly proud, in a smaller sibling sorta way. Even still, however, the young medic was positive his mind would be way more at ease with the morsels in his hip compartment than if she simply left them out.

[Carbine]

When Patch slammed her shoulder into the door to push it open, Carbine's helm that had been resting on his forearms would swing upright with a lurched pop as makeshift adrenaline surged a second at being startled. Paired with this his hands would grasp tighter upon his own limbs, while the rotors on his back flared out to either side with the blades fanning out. The leftmost ones however clunked against the side wall near the table, a flinch forming from the reverb jostling up the panels to the posts on his back.

Realizing it was just Patch making a... dramatic entrance... Carbine tried to relax, the rotors on his back quivering some before managing to sheer against one another not unlike scissors, folding neatly at his back again.

"H̡u̕͠h͘...?"

There was a stall, as if she had spoken gibberish at him. Still settling after going from zero to sixty on the alert level. This stall was fleeting, yellow eyes flicking over to the table as things clicked together and he caught up to what had been said. As such, Carbine unfolded his arms, placing his palms on the backrest before he stood upright and stretched his spine out a bit. While they didn't flare out on either side, the rotors flexed a short distance away from his center mass behind him, trying to 'shake off' the vibrations that irritated his left side.

"Ah, y͘-̢y͜e͟ah sure."

Carbine was a clever individual, or... he liked to think he was a clever individual. Sometimes he could read others and get a good bead on why they may do or not do something in situations like this. However, as 'smart' as he may be, he was a hundred and ten percent ignorant to what it was that Patch was really doing by making her request. To him, she simply didn't want to walk over and get the tray herself, focused more on holding the door for one reason or another. It was viewed more as laziness than any sort of trickery to evaluate how he could function. As such, Carbine didn't give it a second thought.

Moving to the side to step away from his chair, Carbine would spin it around and push it back to place at the small table, being kind enough to not abandon it out of place. It was then Patch spoke again, and his gaze would flick over to her.

See you sack of garbage? She is giving them to you anyway. You didn't need to steal them.

Feeling a wave of guilt, which was a new nauseating feeling he did not appreciate one bit, Carbine turned back to the table and picked up the extra supplies. With care he placed the bottle and rags atop the metal tray, before he gingerly plucked up the small Energon chunks he had flung a moment prior, clutching them in a fist. With a tired movement, Carbine reached his right hand back and whapped the bottom edge of the compartment on his upper thigh, the top pivoting out not unlike a laundry chute. With it open he dropped the crystals in, before pushing the manual storage closed.

"Wh̀a͘t d-do͘ you ǹee-͠ee-̛d to do to Bo͘lǫ?"

Not an argue, just... a question.

While asking his question Carbine reached forth and grabbed the outer edges of the tray, easing it up and walking towards Patch. He didn’t seem to waver and stumble, there was no overt difficulty in walking nor signs of dizziness, though he seemed lackluster and just worn down. It was no surprise however, labor, sickness, and flinging himself into a blind rage day after day to defend himself had a way of catching up to someone.

With a hiss of hydraulics, Carbine would ease to a stop beside Patch, pushing his leg out so his ped clunked down in front of the door's edge behind her while presenting the tray. His intent was to hold the door ajar with his foot so she could take the tray and walk through first, wanting to follow her rather than lead to the Medical Bay.

[Patch]

“Just a scan. Maybe listen to his vitals, check his vents. Since you’re symbiotes I don’t think I’ll need samples.” A mild implication she’d be taking fuel from Carbine, though Patch expected little in the way of pushback at this point.

She wanted to find out just how bad whatever Carbine had was, and a great way to do that, was to check and see if it had spread to Bolo yet...

In addition, Carbine didn’t seem to be breathing all that well, and the young femme figured an excellent way to figure out what that was based in was to use the dog as a control. He had been exposed to whatever infection may or may not have been present in Carbine’s lines, or organs, or whatever else- though HE, had not (she had to HOPE) performed any manual labor yesterday.

The wheezing may very well have been from dust kicked up in the process of knocking down walls. In that case, Carbine And Bolo’s filters would be full of the stuff, potentially needing to be replaced, the shafts possibly cleaned if it was really bad… But if it wasn’t the dust? If it was something to do with the infection being exacerbated by the work? Carbine would likely be the only one to display signs of ventilatory distress- as he had been the one to exert himself; or so was Patch’s train of thought.

“-And. Of course. His pads still need looking over.” She recognised that had been skillfully avoided so far. Just because it was a lower priority now didn’t mean it was off the list. Granted, she may not wish to do anything about them today- now with TWO major patients and a cassette to worry about… The young medic still intended to check them, however. Ya never knew what kinda slag you could miss by shoving a small wound aside until it was a REAL problem...

Ehem...

As Carbine approached, Patch reached up for the tray, placed her scanner upon it and accepted it from him. Mindful of the other mech’s pedde in the way of the door, the medic gladly took point. The stark lights of the small room thankfully fell behind them as they entered the cavernous hall once more.

He looked fine. That was good. He was moving well- quite well, even if lacking in enthusiasm. Patch made a point to lock that little morsel of information away in case future demonstration revealed more... prominent signs of fervor or fatigue, depending on what he may wish to get into, or out of.

Before they made it up to where there was more chance of others overhearing, the small soldier began to quietly drone. “You wanna tell me how long this has been goin’ on?”

Not snide, but a millimeter closer than it could have been. Low in pitch, and monotone. Flat optics and a slight raise of the brow as her chin popped mildly over her shoulder for an instant to meet the mech’s eyes, then back to her path once more. The tray held comfortably at waist level in front of her.

[Carbine]

There indeed would be no pushback about offering fuel unless something were to go horribly astray. The scan, getting it out there that he was sick and was vulnerable, breaking his personal illusion that he was an invincible bastard that would keep bouncing back? It seemed to have kicked the fight out of him. Offering fuel itself for testing had never been a real concern though anyway. He had to do so quite a bit when the disease went around and he tested positive. It was always things from the collar up that he was resistant to. As such, Carbine didn't even falter at the implication, content that he could offer Energon instead of trying to draw it from Bolo. The canine would, he could behave himself, but it was an added challenge that needn’t be there.

Content, the black and white mech moved to follow Patch out and let the door close in his wake, listening to her last question.

"D̷-dep̡end͞s on whąţ p̴art y͡ou méan."

Carbine was not a hundred and ten percent certain he knew what element of the issue she was referring to. He didn’t know what that scan had ACTUALLY said beyond color cues, however, he had a good idea. She likely meant the entire issue overall, though... it was really two things equaling this crapass day, rather than one item to evaluate and try to address. Because of this he let out a low grumble of a sound, gaze drifting from the back of her helm to look over her down the hall.

"T́hè o͞v̶-͞ov-̴er̶a͢ll dama̧ge? Garrus."

It could be hard to really call any specific day the worst in a prison as hellish as Garrus. Every moment a scrabble for power and survival on some levels, whether from physical damage, or mental from the power grabs or long stretches of voided silence being alone. Or, even the opposite of constant noise and rabble that didn’t seem to sleep for even a second. Yet, Carbine certainly could pick out his worst day without a blink of an eye.

It started out like any other, the beginnings of it were not remarkable or notable. In fact, Carbine didn't even remember what happened then, or possibly a few days prior. Things were a bit jumbled up, but they were not important. What was important was the specific event itself that rooted itself down into his processor before a chunk of it was taken out.

That was the worst day in his time in that prison.

Worst day of his life.

"Th͘e w͜ho̴le MESS ͘m-m̷-ess part?"

Carbine lifted his hand up, gesturing wildly to his helm and visor, more trying to indicate the concept of the rust and infection itself. This may not have been the clearest however, not really articulating well.

"Eart̴h-i͡sh. Mino͘r̀ bur̀-́de̶n until it wasn’t̢."

'Until it wasn’t' was one heck of an understatement.

With a loose flop, Carbine's raised arm slumped back down to his side, footfalls clicking lightly in the large hallway. He was tired, the yellow projections of his eyes part closing into a relaxed look.

"So... how is the n͠ew job?"

[Patch]

“Pffth.”

“Not good.” Spoken with a smile, strangely enough. An almost ironic, boisterous sort of half-joke. The blue of her optics became visible again as she peeked up at the mech over her shoulder. As she returned to her path, she shook her helm softly.

“I don’t even know where to start sixty percent of the time. There’s just so much to do.”

A slight pause, before her voice settled down a little farther. An admittance. A crime.

“I haven’t really been sleeping.”

Related to the workload, or related to the reason for it, it didn’t terribly matter. Patch often struggled to find long-enough stretches of recharge in between the post traumatic night terrors and straight up weird-ass sleeping hours most everybody had at this point on this planet.

It had been a lot better lately, with the stability of Omega-1; the first thing, at least. The safety. The assurance. The people she knew were watching over her and her people. With Ratchet gone now, however, It felt like a harness she’d been climbing with for the first time in a long time had suddenly failed… It was hard. It sucked. The world felt a lot riskier now- not only for her, but for everyone she was supposed to be in charge of.

Smallish peddes continued clunking down the smooth stone hallway alongside the larger’s sharp clicks. The fixtures overhead poured over them, if sparingly, with intermittent light as they passed beneath them.

“What were you up to yesterday?”

Again, a low phrase. Perhaps in some small part to direct away from her previous statement, though… She figured it likely still held validity as a medical question. Sure she may have been personally curious as well, and yeah she… She had audials. Of course she KNEW Carbine had been chipping out rock, though she figured more specifics, if any, may prove useful additional pieces to the puzzle.

[Carbine]

As Patch spoke, Carbine's half lidded gaze turned to look off to the side with listless energy, trailing along the pipes and conduits that tucked near the bottom edge as if there was something of value to even be found there. He kept her within his line of sight, but only at the outermost edge to his right so that he would not barrel into her if she were to stop moving for one reason or another. He didn't want to actually focus in on her when she was admitting to the stress and lack of sleep, not taking the bait for the subject change.

"D̛o̸ǹ't w-w̕orr̛y about t͘ḩat..."

What happened the day previously, was in Carbine's opinion, completely meaningless now. He was tired, he was worn down, and that was it. He didn't really want to re-live that entire adventure and the ordeal of dealing with Avalanche. Besides, Patch's previous comments still stuck, a discomfort flicking through him as the rotors on his back tucked close to Bolo who was mentally drifting until Carbine showed stress. The Cassette's white rings flicked slightly before slowing to a stop.

"I'́m sorry I dum͜péd t̴hįş z͠k͡k͟t d-d̨-̶umped this on you w͜hen y͏ou are alo̡ne...?"

The words were pitched oddly, and it wasn’t because of his glitching.

Carbine seemed to stumble over the sentiment and apology, as if he himself wasn't certain if he truly believed it or not. He felt like he did. He liked to think he did. He really WANTED to believe he did! If Ratchet were still around it would be dealt with better instead of slamming it onto a stressed out nurse turned CMO who had bigger issues to worry about. Patch didn’t deserve to be tortured, she didn't deserve to have to clean up his mess... yet... to say he was sorry implied that if he could change the past he would do so, and that in itself was an odd double-edged sword.

On one hand if he had come out sooner and reached out, he would be able to get said help by both medics together. If he had choked down his pride and asked for this, perhaps he would have the bravery to get his processor looked at. If he had that kind of inner strength, maybe he would have willed himself to ask for an attempted fix and not just stabilizing. He could have had Ratchet see if he could unweave whatever wires got crossed! Ratchet WORKED on processors back in the day! That was his one chance! His one moment!

On the other hand, Carbine knew he wouldn't have ever had this kind of strength to admit his weakness without real fear to challenge his traumas of medical aid from the collar up.

No... he may be sorry on some kind of level, he may want to be sorry, but if he went back in time? He would be right here all over again, beating himself up and grieving the loss of Ratchet in a self-centered angle that had nothing to do with the loss of the other mech, and all to do with the loss of his skill as a doctor.

Carbine knew this was wrong, and while he could roll with the lie in the past and apologize without caring or blinking an eye? He was trying to care now... yet... it was like looking at a reflection that was a bit delayed. Weird and unsettling.