Ep 1.5 - Housecall - Closed

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<< ooc - set after Shadow returns, before any of the rest of the major plots. starts on the 'Bot side but migrating over to the DMZ. >>


::I heard you the FIRST time,:: Ratchet had said, with glyphs that spoke clearly of his annoyance but were undercut, in the fourth subsidiary tier, with notes of resignation, ::and I shall attempt to put this in terms you might understand, you utter glitch - 'what have you done for ME lately'?::

::Stayed out of yer medbay and off yer list?:: was the immediate reply, and it was, he had to admit, true enough. Not, Ratchet noted privately, that Ironhide had had much opportunity to do otherwise - confined to base and, by personal choice (because the other mech could sulk with all the flair of an overly dramatic newspark when he wanted to), to quarters, there had been precious little mesh or metal to be seen of the lumbering frontliner, and not even a duty roster assignment to drag him out of his self imposed exile. It was ridiculously juvenile, in the medic's opinion, but on the other hand it HAD lead to a very quite base instead of one ringing off the walls with the former Guardian's temper.

Truth be told, after vorns spent serving in the same command as the frontliner, and more vorns spent with their Prime, the quiet was more than a little unnerving. Ratchet was starting to think he would almost rather have audial deafening arguments going on instead of Ironhide holed up hiding with half of his damned cohort and Optimus all but ghosting around the base like some sort of basic image hologram. It had almost been a relief to have Ironhide's heavy, inflected glyphs pinging at his comms.

And of COURSE the glitch wanted a FAVOR.

::If I do this for you...::

::Thanks, Ratch'.::

::I said IF, you half-throttled giant sparkling - IF I do this, you ARE going to get Shadowrunner up here at some point, aren't you? She was out there for weeks, unprepared - I want to make sure she didn't take any damage to anything besides her topcoat.::

The response was slower in coming. ::She's a full framed femme, doc'. Pretty sure she'd notice if anythin' were wrong.::

Even over comms, Ironhide was enough to try anyone's patience. ::That was a politely worded suggestion of an order, not an optional bartering point,:: Ratchet had snarled back. ::And it goes double for you. I didn't even see you after the raid, and don't you DARE try to tell me you didn't have a scratch on you.::

::Ah won't,:: Ironhide had shot back, ::'cus Ah did, but Cleaver fixed it up right as factory fresh. Yeh wanna take it up with her?:: His glyphs had shifted, quick as mercury, from snapping to sincere concern underscored with need. ::Look, Ratch', Ah'm just askin' for a quick favor, there an' back. Need t' know her an' th' bitlet are okay.::

Alright, THAT was just fighting dirty.

Which was how Ratchet had come to be scheduling off time he didn't have to waste and trudging across the groundbridge to the DMZ, comms pinging ahead of him. ::Cleaver? Do you have a little bit of spare time?::

[Deleted]

There had been no indicators of urgency, panic or dread along the comm.line, and Cleaver cycled back down from the system-wide lurch at the communique. Ironhide wasn't coming. The Autobot medic didn't need a consult or assistance with a serious injury. This was something else.

::Of course - let yourself in.::

Cleaver sat back a little on the stool, blades resting across the medberth where Cat was receiving a tutorial. The young woman had become remarkably proficient in basic maintenance procedures that were suitable for her size and strength, and they were now moving on to simple repair jobs.

Laid out on the berth was deconstructed finger for Cat to reassemble. Currently Cleaver's assistant-in-training was cleansing the tools, new screws and linkages necessary for the repair in a bucket of mild cleanser. Cat was in her full safety gear - boots, trousers, jacket and gloves. They were treating this as real - and contact with energon (though the finger components were completely clean and dry) was highly hazardous.

Once she heard the groundbridge close in the Atrium, she sent a location ping out. "In here, Ratchet." Then, to Cat. "Alright, medic: satisfied that those are clean enough not to cross-contaminate?"

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"Yep." Catherine continued past the call of an unfamiliar name, now withdrawing the materials to set in order on an equally thoroughly decontaminated surface. Without fail she pulled out tools in a specific order, just something she had adopted when learning the name of each tool Cleaver had given her and what it did and what it was used for.

Satisfied with all materials laid out before her she turned back to the disassembled parts with a feeling of excitement. It wasn't up her usual line of work, she could magically write it all back together, but she was finding more and more sense she moved in that hands-on mechanics were… fun. She enjoyed this about as much as sitting in front of a screen, into things she shouldn't be.

"So…" She began, pausing in sorting the disassembled finger into something that resembled 'first, second, third steps' only to attempt to peer around one of Cleaver's blades at the door opening. "Ratchet? Guessing... Autobot medical savvy being...?" She flashed Cleaver a grin before she began working through the first set of instructions Cleaver touched on before they started all this.

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Ratchet came to a halt in the doorway of the medbay, rocking back on his heels. There was... no, surely not... oh Primus, there was a small organic on the medberth, laying out the pieces of what looked like a class 4N servo unit, and it was only the fact that a) the organic was wrapped head to toe in protective clothing and b) Cleaver was right there which kept him from surging forward to pluck the little thing away from possibly dangerous contaminated parts. There was a reason the children weren't allowed into medbay if he could help it, and the caustic nature of half of a Cybertronian's internal fluid content when applied to either oxygen or human skin was nine tenths of the list of reasons right from the start.

"Ratchet, Autobot Chief Medical Officer," he replied as steadily as he could to the human - 'she' was probably the correct pronoun, by the pitch of her vocalizations. At the same time his comms flared to life, repeated urgent query pings of alarm to Cleaver, because really, protective clothing or no - what in Primus' name was the human doing??

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Cleaver's pings back were reassuring and authoritative, a reply to a background flurry of frequencies to which Cat was unaware of taking place. The older femme beckoned Ratchet in with a rock of one blade atop the berth, her optics moving back to the lesson.

"Currently, Doctor, we're ensuring that the Proximal, Medial and Distal joints are sufficiently lubricated before beginning a preliminary attachment of the phalanges," Cleaver announced, reiterating for Ratchet's benefit more than Cat's at this point. She looked back to the Autobot now that he was no longer hammering her comm. "Here, micro-tools and native materials have improvised to suit the stature of my trainee assistant, who has been thoroughly trained in the safe handling of our internal mechanics and corrosive fluids."

They had a drawer full of turkey basters and tweezers of various sizes, several of which were laid out ready now alongside a full welding mask, crowbar, soldering kit, micromesh tapes, pliers, wrenches, and a tin of glittery silver paint. Because this was to be Cat's first full construction, and apparently it was going to look 'fabulous'.

"Cat, this is Ratchet - top medic of his class and bane of many a nurse's existance thereafter, but a miracle worker in the field," she introduced, withdrawing her right blade so that the human could better see the mech. "Ratchet, Catherine Bravocci - resident of Haven and nurturing a talent to earn her keep." The last was spoken to Cat with a brief darkening of one optic - an affectionate wink.

Satisfied that Cat could apply the lubricant to the joint hinges without complete supervision, Cleaver pushed up and away from the berth to face Ratchet. Her field was a complex swell of concern, relief, anxiety, weariness and determination. "What can I do for you, Ratchet?"

::Is everyone alright? Shadowrunner? Ironhide? Jazz and Bluestreak?::

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It wasn't so much slow-going as it was just plain tedious. Lots of steps, lots of routines to go through that all went into the completion of one task; one task of many that went into the completion of the overall objective. So she was still very much on the lubrication process when she adjusted herself to look around Cleaver and catch a glimpse of the medic. White with red, literally the coloring of an ambulance, and a face that… did not look as though it smiled often.

Cat ducked back around to continue work before she could giggle, and by the time introductions were about done she was about half way through the lubrication process. …But paused in time at least to cast a bright grin up at Cleaver, and then shine it past her and up to the white medic. "Hey Ratchet! Nice to meet you."

She didn't turn away completely, but she did have a little consideration to look down and at least appear focused on her work.

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Ratchet vented hard to cover the click of his vocalizer turning over and shot a glare at Cleaver - who knew very well the position she had put him in - before clearing vents and vocalizer alike to manage a gruff reply to the little human. "Yes, well... Catherine? Very nice, I'm sure."

Irritated glyphs followed the glare, but were only the surface layer and wound in with pointers through the rest of his response as well to direct Cleaver to the utterly infuriating behavior of her sparkling's other creator as well as half of the entire cohort in Ratchet's opinion. "Just here for a courtesy call," he told her aloud for the human's benefit. "I wanted to see how you were doing." ::Or rather:: he added across comms, ::that scrap headed glitch of a pain in my aft Guardian has his circuits in a loop and wanted me to come make sure you and the sparkling are alright, since he and Prime are still banging helms. They're fine, all of them - as far as I know, not that any of them have the bearings to come talk to my face - he's just worried about YOU.::

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Cleaver smiled a little despite herself: at Ratchet's grudging professional politeness to Cat; to his mix of affection buried under great exasperation and irritation with Ironhide; and to the news that everyone was alright. Ironhide's cohort - back together and safe like he needed them to be. And now sending the Autobot medic here in his place to check on her, as he was still apparently confined to base.

The medic's comm.s blipped open to reply across the same channel, but the sound of Cat's welding mask being adjusted to fit snug over her face gave her pause. Cat had turned into a trusted friend and remarkably adept medical assistant - and had done more than she could have anticipated or hoped for her comfort and the sparkling's safety during this carriage. From minor breaks and leaks to filing down and pulling away displaced parts, she'd been a constant and supportive aid, and Cleaver wanted to continue that. Not only to cultivate the young woman's confidence in her skills and usefullness, but because Cleaver found some peculiar measure of comfort in Cat's small hands, cheerful voice and ongoing willingness to listen, learn and act as directed.

"Alright, all told," Cleaver ultimately replied, aloud for Cat's benefit. She cast a critical optic over her apprentice's handiwork as she pinged across some stats to Ratchet.

Alot of the figures had shifted since Megatron's arrival at he Neutral base, and had not recovered in the fallout. Protomass growth had shrunk to almost nothing, the manufacturing plant was down in efficiency and productivity across the board, and there were multiple stress points across her own systems from negative feedback from the chamber and poor energon conversion.

She was finding it difficult to make an objective opinion of it all. "Could use a second opinion on the sparkling, if you've got the time? Been a... rough few weeks, and I think my numbers are off."

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"Of course," Ratchet replied immediately, because that was a sharp spike of worry that was all his own worming its way through his processor. Far too many things that could go wrong, compared to a scant few that he could say for certain they were doing right.

He had started to reach out towards Cleaver - an offer of assistance, a gesture, something to get her up on her pedes and over to at least the next berth, leaving the little human to do whatever it was doing - and ran smack into the solid wall of the senior medic's field. Ratchet's optics narrowed. Cleaver met his gaze calmly, helm tipped slightly towards her human.

It was an old exchange, familiar from the Academy, and not one that Ratchet had ever actually won with the older femme. It took all of two seconds, start to finish, in a flurry of silent glyphs and EM spikes, and in the end - too briefly for the human to have noticed anything wrong - Ratchet huffed and grudgingly backed down, gesturing sharply for Cleaver to turn towards him. "Let me run my own scans - could help to calibrate through two systems. Have you been having any trouble?"

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Cleaver's expression didn't so much as flicker when Ratchet ultimately relented. She had never been good at being told what to do, and was now, in her opinion, too old to learn. She did, however, rise to her pedes to face him as he directed.

"Leaks, shears, general grievances from a frame too old to be doing this. Nothing Cat hasn't been able to assist with. She's been getting all of her hands-on experience from my systems, as of late." Her words were hedged with glyphs for reliance, needed, make do and no one else. "Maintenance is alright. Development is a concern as it's ground to almost nothing."

The medic had made it a point to speak aloud and in Cat's vernacular when she was around, not wishing to exclude her with the barriers of Cybertronian speech, silent glyph exchanges and comm. lines within the woman's home. There were, however, times when Cleaver simply did not want Cat to worry, and ignorance was the easiest means to achieve that.

::Too far along now for it to be dismantled and reabsorbed if it fails. Would need a manual extraction,:: Cleaver informed the other medic with a tone of cool, clinical detachment. It was a worst case scenario, but one that had never been far from her mind.

Aloud, and overlapping the comm. burst, she went on: "Defrag glitches because of fluxes are becoming a problem." Which wasn't surprising given the hellish events and ongoing dread and uncertainty. "Coding was never my expertise, though, and I definitely don't want to attempt anything on my own 'lines."

She looked down to Cat with a thin smile. "And you're a very long way off helping with that."

::Scan away. I... appreciate the consult.::

[Deleted]

Ratchet didn't reply to the comm, only the narrowing of his optics and a professionally reassuring brush of his field signifying his receipt of it. "I can't say it's my specialty either," he warned Cleaver, "but it's significant lengths better than trying to cobble together patches on your own active subroutines."

He stepped forward, hands an impersonal brush against the side of Cleaver's plating, a thoughtful frown crossing Ratchet's face as he ran scans through her systems. After a minute he shook his head slightly with a distracted glyph that meant only work in progress and tapped a finger against a ventral medical port that was recessed between two plates, plugging in as soon as the femme opened it.

His coding touch was as crisp and quick as his hands, combing through her recent logs with a brisk thoroughness. As he progressed back through daily intake, output, and processing logs, to the date stamps of the DMZ Incident (as he tended to think of it), his optics narrowed, a thoughtful wave filtering through his field. He went back over the same logs twice, his optics unfocused as he reviewed the data internally. "Generative systems are in stasis," he said at last, pulsing a quick reassurance at the older femme. "Nothing wrong, just on standby. Which, if I'm not mistaken..."

CLANG!

The motion was abrupt enough to catch Cleaver off guard, Ratchet's free hand coming up sharply to catch her a quick clip upside the back of the helm as he refocused on her, glaring. "Overcharged?" he asked, scathing disbelief dripping of his tone. "Honestly? Really?" He vented a short, sharp huff, unplugging from her systems. "As the saying on this planet goes, physician heal thyself! You've scrambled your energy feed until it doesn't know which way is up. Small wonder the generative systems went into stasis. Flush out your tanks, run a seventh level defrag - uninterrupted - and get some slagging recharge!"

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Cleaver almost hit him back, reflex for an uppity student who needed to be taken down a rung or five, but stopped before her left blade did more than twitch upwards. Your medic hit you if you were stupid: you never hit your medic. She settled for glowering at the mech instead.

“Thanks for the consult.” Her look could not have been more withering, but the tight arrangement of her face plates in no way an accurate reflection of her field. The femme’s relief was immense, and she was chagrined. If their positions had been reversed, she’d have delivered a suitably prescribed helm-slap as well.

Medics made the worst patients.

Beneath the overhang of her helm cover, Cleaver arched a rueful brow. “Primus help you if you’re ever on my table.”

Stasis. She should have been able to figure that out herself. But then, Cleaver reflected as she turned her attention back to Cat and the loosely-assembled finger, she’d been missing the obvious a lot lately.

Cleaver nodded fractionally, closing up the access port with a click. “Flush and defrag. Now that things are… quiet, I’ll get on that.”

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Ratchet tensed when Cleaver did, almost ducking - almost, because while he remembered how heavy her hand could be quite well but it had been a very long time since he had been a student. More vorns than he wanted to count of being a military medical officer in his own right had forced him to learn to never flinch in the face of nearly anything if he could help it.

He could read the quicksilver flutter of embarrassment in her field. It might have been humorous under other circumstances - the more experienced the medic the less capable they were of diagnosing themselves, it sometimes seemed, and Ratchet had been guilty of the same on more than one occasion - if she hadn't been honestly afraid, at a level only to be found in carriers and caretakers, for the sparkling she carried. Ratchet pulsed silent reassurance at her, the supportive glyphs never reaching his face.

He also didn't miss the hesitant skip of her vocalizer over the status of 'quiet' and it made him frown, the in progress glyph flashing again as he scrolled back over the logs he had pulled from her. Insufficient recharge or processor defrag, erratic fuel intake, all symptomatic of system stress since The Incident - it deserved capitol letters - with Megatron. Ratchet could trace a good deal of it, by date stamp alone, to the tail end of that period. An earlier discrepancy, however, had caught his attention, and he reached out to press firm fingers to Cleaver's arm blade as though the comm might be more secure plate to plate with only their own signals listening. ::Level eight electrical discharge, indicative of weapon grade, date stamped here - it's within your tolerance but is this something to be more concerned about?::

Aloud, for the benefit of the human on the table, he huffed a sharp exvent. "A sedative round wouldn't be amiss. Or - and you can correct me if I'm wrong," he added magnanimously, "as I'm certain prior personal experience trumps the data packs I'm quoting out of - should I go spring that red glitch of yours out of confinement?" He let his voice take on the same tone Cleaver herself had once used in front of classes. "Solitary carriage, particularly in the later portion of the production cycle, may put an unnecessary strain on the carrier's protocols as the manufacturing process begins to read internally as a compromised system. This can be alleviated to a greater degree by a safe, non-stressful environment and the attendant presence of the sire or close trusted kin units." Ratchet arched one brow ridge at her. "Unless the data manual is full of smelter scrap?"

[Deleted]

She'd stopped working and started listening a long time ago; a little habit of hers she knew Cleaver was aware of, and so felt no guilt that she was 'eaves dropping'. Considering anything they wanted to keep secret, Catherine wouldn't have even been able to hear anyway. She did at least have the appearance of having purposeful movements (mostly).

Then, CLANG!

She turned around at that, mouth hanging slightly agape as she looked on quietly… anxiously… between Ratchet and Cleaver. Like there was a bear in the room, and she didn't want its rage brought upon her. She'd never seen Cleaver get hit. Cleaver hit things. Things did NOT hit Cleaver. And by the way she was looking at Ratchet, she was almost expecting his not-so-swift and painful death any moment now.

But that never came.

Actually, as Ratchet went on as if that little glitch in the Matrix never happened, she began to learn that it was probably… deserved. A smack back to reality, if nothing else, between medics. So it was when Cleaver turned around to look at her that she left all of these thoughts on her face clear to see. Gave her a meaningful Look that seemed to combine 'sleepDAMNIT' and the usual softer, fond undertones that always seemed to underscore the expressions she used to quietly communicate with Cleaver. A small, flash of a smile was added for reassurance. Quiet now for sure-- things are good, she can sleep.

[Deleted]

"No, the manual's correct on those points," Cleaver replied testily, optics moving between Ratchet and Cat in equal turn.

Cat's expression was softer - her thoughts and feelings communicated with open ease. Ratchet was, as he'd always been, a medic with a mask. It had become more impenetrable in the centuries since the Academy, doubtless a standard requirement in the face of frontliners and senior-in-rank-only-not-on-my-berth. Most of his communication was between the frequencies of his field, and even that was heavily muted and censored.

Cleaver, exhausted and torqued and with more slagging awful days in the last few weeks than good ones, was not so controlled. Field a bristling heat and blades clamped solid, she met Ratchet's glower and went on: "The manual also precedes the war and doesn't take opposing factions, neutral bases or house arrest for military misconduct into account."

In the back of her mind, Cleaver knew that she was more riled up about the internal communications, and the unwanted reminder of the clusterfrag that had been Sideswipe running parrallel to the clusterfrag that had been Megatronus. Taking out that frustration and associated shame on Cat and Ratchet helped nothing, and was an unfair and unnecessary bite.

::It's nothing:: she replied, taking a klik to reel herself back in with an apologetic pulse. When Ratchet's helm twitched, highly sceptical, she continued the dismissive. ::My own fault.::

The heavy exvent was as much for Cat's benefit as for dumping heat out of her systems, the equivalent of a sigh that the human could recognise. Cleaver tipped one blade out to bare the flat, conceding. "I'll run the defrag and put twelve hours solid recharge in, but absoutely no sedatives." To Ratchet specifically, she added: "And no upsetting things any worse than I already have back at your base."