Chapter Text
The mecha around Ratchet were acting… strange.
He tried his best to ignore the instant attention he garnered when he walked into Swerve's bar. Damn it, he was not in the mood for this slag right now, so he glared at anyone foolish enough to meet his optics and sat down at his regular place at the bar. He knocked on the top with a little more force than normal, signaling Swerve to give him his usual: triple-filtered high-grade in a tall glass with no embellishments.
Swerve immediately put a cube in front of him, so fast he must've already had it waiting.
Ratchet stared at it for a moment before shoving it right back. He was very certain that he had never ordered an additive-rich blend of coolant and high-energy mid-grade in this bar. That wasn't a drink, that was a medical ration, something he'd prescribe for a patient recovering from severe stress to their systems. He had to smell this slag all the damn time in the medbay and being reminded of that place right now was enough to make both fists clench. "You know what I want and it ain't this," he told the bartender.
Swerve fidgeted a little but slid it back in front of him. "Trust me, doc, you don't want your usual right now, it'll only make it all worse. This is what you need, promise," he said nervously.
"Don't tell me what I need." Ratchet had been looking forward to drowning his frustration in a glass of high-grade all day and fragging recovery blend wasn't gonna cut it. He pushed the cube at the bartender and glared when Swerve reached out with the clear intention of giving it right back to him again. "Put that swill in front of me one more time and you'll be the one choking it down," he growled. "Cube and all."
The little bartender looked like he really, truly wanted to argue, and the only thing he wanted more than that was to run away. Finally he picked up the cube and set it aside, and while it was still within Ratchet's reach, the medic could pretend it was gone. Swerve reluctantly gave him his usual this time and Ratchet almost snatched it from him. Swerve squeaked and yanked his hand back, very nearly spilling the high-grade everywhere in his eagerness not to touch the medic, and Ratchet felt like hitting him. Despite that, Swerve didn't walk off. The damn mech was hovering and Ratchet didn't like it. "Everything trying my damn patience today," Ratchet growled, glaring at Swerve until he edged back a step, but he still didn't go away.
Ratchet pointedly ignored him and stared down into his glass like it held the answer to all his problems. This entire day had been slag from start to finish. He'd woken up with a churning tank and a processor ache, as though he'd gone to berth overcharged even though he hadn't had a drop of engex in days. He'd taken a dose of painkillers and skipped his morning fuel, unable to face it with his tank so unsettled and his joints aching. Frag, he must've gotten some bad energon when he'd fueled last night. He made a mental note to mention it to Perceptor so he could test their supplies for contamination, then dragged his miserable aft to duty in the medbay.
If he thought fuel sickness was going to be the worst of his day, he was sadly mistaken. Some practical joker had apparently snuck in and pranked every single piece of equipment in the medbay. Everything Ratchet touched malfunctioned on him, and even the troubleshooting protocols he'd run–repeatedly!–had all shown that nothing was wrong with them, which had to be wrong because nothing was working right. This kind of prank was stupid and dangerous and it meant that everything had to be recalibrated, and what if someone needed medical attention before they were done?
First Aid had volunteered to take care of all of the necessary repairs and Ratchet, his processor still throbbing despite the painkiller, had agreed against his better judgment. He was the Chief Medical Officer, he was responsible for all of this gear, but First Aid had pointed out it was a very slow day in the medbay and after all, this kind of thing was important for a CMO in training to learn. It was a good point and it helped to shut down Ratchet's protests.
But come to think of it, First Aid had been acting funny all shift, too. He kept moving Ratchet's things–oh, he said he wasn't, but he and Ratchet were the only ones in the medbay and Ratchet couldn't seem to find anything. It had to be First Aid fragging up the equipment and moving things around! It wasn't a funny practical joke at the best of times, and to continue after being caught was just pathetic–two things Ratchet hadn't hesitated to tell him.
First Aid had persisted with his protestations of innocence, and Ratchet's things kept moving, and nothing in the entire damn medbay fragging worked right, and there weren't even any patients to distract him from his frustration with his second.
In fact, First Aid had driven him up the wall all shift. The junior doctor kept muttering nonsense at him, or offering to take over even the simplest tasks from Ratchet, or asking him repeatedly if he was sure he didn't want to take the rest of his duty shift off to relax, or staring at him behind his back. Ratchet had never actually managed to catch him staring, but he could feel it. When he'd found the other doctor actually trying to slip a dose of a mild sedative into his midday fuel, Ratchet had had enough and unleashed the full force of his temper on him. First Aid managed to dodge the cube Ratchet had flung at him, but he couldn't dodge Ratchet's shouts. First Aid had kept well out of his way after that blistering dressing-down, but the staring–and the equipment malfunctions, and the lost objects, and the fragging muttering–had continued.
So Ratchet was truly not in the mood for Swerve trying to deny him this drink. The medic lifted his glass and tossed the contents back in one long swig–
–and nearly spewed it all right back up again. His throat burned and his tanks churned with instant nausea, even worse than this morning. Heat rolled up through his internal mechanisms, flashing out in a wave all the way to his fingertips before it finally dissipated.
This wasn't bad fuel. What the frag had Swerve put in this damned drink?
He remembered the look on First Aid's face when he'd caught him trying to slip that sedative into his midday ration and Ratchet shot a suspicious look around the bar now. The other medic was nowhere in sight, but that didn't mean he hadn't bribed Swerve to succeed where he'd failed. Coughing and choking, he reached across the bar to grab the little bartender, intending to beat some answers out of him.
Swerve practically fell over to evade his hands. "Hey hey hey now, whoa there, doc, um, maybe you shouldn't be touching anyone just yet, huh? And especially not me because it's not like I wouldn't like to, I would totally like to but I think everyone knows I'm not in the running, not against everyone else on this ship, and speaking of all the other mecha around here, maybe you want to be somewhere that's not so, ah, full of breakable things right now? Cuz I think we both know what's about to happen and it would probably be a really good idea for it to happen in a different–hey!"
This last was in response to Ratchet losing his patience with the annoying mech's babbling and grabbing at him again. This time Swerve really did fall over backwards to avoid him. "C'mon, doc, you trying to get me killed?" the minibot squeaked, scrambling well out of reach before he got back to his feet.
"Like to do it myself, actually," Ratchet growled, wishing the little fragger would hold still so he could get his hands around his neck.
But that spiked drink was really making him feel strange now. One glass of high-grade shouldn't make his processor swim like this or his optical input go fuzzy around the edges, not even on an empty tank. His equilibrium still seemed fine–he had no trouble getting to his feet and making his way toward the door–but his tanks cramped and his plating itched and burned with irritation.
The medbay… he needed to get to the medbay. Right now he couldn't afford to care that First Aid had been acting like he wanted to take over as Chief Medical Officer by shoving Ratchet out of the job himself. He needed to find out what the hell Swerve had put in his drink because he was reacting to it badly, and First Aid had by frag better have finished recalibrating everything. His armor throbbed and his EM field crackled out of control, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop venting much too fast. It would be just like these fragging jokers to give me something I'm allergic to, he growled to himself as another wave of heat scalded his internals. A systems flush would put him right, but damn it all, spending the last twelve hours confined to the medbay had felt like torture today, and he was not thrilled to be going back.
His expression must've been as thunderous as his temper because no one blocked his way to the exit. In fact, a wide path opened for him, every single mech standing aside as he stalked past.
And all of them were staring at him.
Was the whole damn bar in on First Aid and Swerve's prank? Ratchet fought to hold back a snarl and wasn't the slightest bit successful. He could feel their gazes crawling over his plating but not a single one of them met his optics. Brave enough to poison me but too cowardly to face my wrath, he thought, glaring at all of them as he finally reached the door.
Just wait 'til the next time one of these glitched-out slaggers got hurt. He'd show them what happened to mecha who were stupid enough to prank the medic. It wouldn't be the first time some stupid fragger had woken up in Ratchet's medbay with their hands welded to their own aft.
The bar door didn't close behind him after he passed through it, though. Ratchet glanced back and his disquiet grew.
Some of them had followed him.
A lot of them had followed him.
Ratchet bared his denta and snarled again, ready to tear the Primusdamned hands off anyone who dared to touch him, and deep in his rapidly-fogging brain, part of him was shocked at his behavior. Snarling like an animal–what the hell was wrong with him? But the rest of him was too busy feeling darkly satisfied when they backed off to pay attention to that small voice, and he spun around and marched down the hall without looking back again.
He didn't need to look. He could feel them following.
Another part of him was strangely glad about that. The rest of him did not give a sweet damn what they did. They could all drown themselves in the oil reservoir for all he cared, so long as they left him the frag alone while they did it.
Several more strange things happened in rapid succession. He passed Chromedome and Rewind's hab suite just as their door opened and the minibot stepped out. The medic had barely an instant to recognize him before Rewind looked at Ratchet–and everyone following Ratchet–and squeaked in alarm. Chromedome reached out and pulled his conjunx endura straight back into their suite, snatching him completely off his pedes and slamming their door behind them like he thought Ratchet was going to attack the little archivist or something.
Weird.
Ratchet turned a corner and came face to lack-of-face with Whirl. The rotormech took one look at Ratchet and his optic flared with distress. Half a second later, he flung himself past Ratchet and plowed straight into Ultra Magnus–wait, when had Ultra Magnus started following Ratchet? He hadn't been in Swerve's–the Duly Appointed Encorcer of the Tyrest Accord did not frequent bars. Ratchet didn't have time to wonder about that before Whirl slammed a clenched claw into Magnus' chestplate. "I just assaulted an officer. Arrest me!" Whirl demanded as he pummeled the SIC with all his strength.
Ultra Magnus hardly seemed to notice. In fact, he looked more than a little dazed. "I don't… a warning, perhaps… under the circumstances…" he began, but Whirl cut him off by punching him right in the mouth.
"Arrest–" punch "–me–" punch "–right–" punch "–now!"
Crack.
This time Ultra Magnus caught Whirl's claw in one enormous hand and squeezed. The rotormech yelped but his field broadcast relief loud and clear as the law enforcer dragged him toward the brig. "Good luck, doc!" Whirl shouted over his shoulder.
Ratchet didn't bother answering. In fact, he couldn't remember if that kind of thing was something he should be concerned about or not. He kept walking as the pair departed, but he'd forgotten where he was going now. It didn't seem to matter much, anyway. His pedes knew where they were going and he didn't try to figure it out. That peculiar fog had pretty much taken over his processor at this point and he couldn't care much about that, either. His plating still felt strange, but instead of itching and burning, now it tingled and felt too tight in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.
He reached the large portal to the main hangar bay and paused as it slid open. Ratchet wasn't sure, but he didn't think this was where he'd originally set out to go. Still, it felt right. Something about being in an open space, with room enough to hold lots of mecha… yes, that was what he'd been looking for. This was where he was supposed to be. There was a crate against the far bulkhead that looked perfect to sit on and wait for… something. Ratchet stepped inside–
–and would've walked right into Tailgate if Cyclonus hadn't shoved the little bot aside at the last second. Tailgate fell hard and looked up at his roommate with hurt writ large in his field. "What was that for?" he said, starting to get up.
Cyclonus shoved him down again. "Stay put," he hissed, his optics glued to Ratchet as the medic walked by them without so much as a glance.
But Tailgate had gone almost rigid. He vented in deeply, staring at Ratchet, every inch of his little frame quivering. "No, I need to follow him," he said, his words coming out slurred.
Cyclonus grabbed his shoulder hard enough that Ratchet heard the metal creak. "You don't stand a chance," he bit out, finally dragging his optics from the medic to the crowd behind him. "That isn't for you." His already-deep voice dropped an octave, dripping with intent. "It's for me."
"Don't stand a chance at what?" Tailgate asked as he tried to get up once more and was pushed back down again. He struggled uselessly against the much larger mech's hold. "What's for you and not me? Let go, Cyclonus, I need to–"
The purple warrior growled and pinned him right back to the deck with both hands on his large shoulder kibble. "Stop it! Are you trying to get killed?" he snapped, but Tailgate still struggled and finally Cyclonus swore and picked him up. "You are making me miss this and you will make it up to me," he growled, and shoved through the gathered mecha to carry the still-confused minibot out of the hangar.
Normally he wouldn't have stood by and watched Cyclonus overpower the sweet little mech like that, but just now, Ratchet didn't seem to have the ability to care.
In fact, by the time Ratchet reached that crate and sat down, his processor was too hazy and warm to worry about much of anything. Nothing mattered but the heat pulsing through his frame, the gazes of the mecha surrounding him, the ache settling protoform-deep in his struts.
Instinct told him that this discomfort wouldn't last long. Everything would be all right soon.
.
Red Alert burst onto the bridge, nearly frantic. "We need backup in the main hangar! Dispatch a team in full containment gear!"
Drift spun in the captain's chair, already checking his HUD. No alarms had sounded from the brig and there was no evidence of an attack. "What's going on?" he demanded, rising to his feet and wishing that whatever had happened could've waited another twenty fragging minutes so he could've foisted it off on Ultra Magnus. "Why full containment gear? Is it some kind of chemical or biological contaminant?"
"You could say that," Red Alert groaned as he rushed to Drift's side and pulled up video footage of the hangar. "See for yourself."
Drift's jaw dropped at the sight that met his optics. It looked like half the crew of the Lost Light was brawling down there. A blue blur flew across the screen and he thought he recognized Skids before the amnesiac fighter dove right back into the crowd. Gears and Hound, who Drift knew damn well were very good friends, were throttling each other like they wanted to tear off limbs. Several mecha were lying motionless on the deck, their injuries completely ignored by their crewmates. The swordsmech started to open a line to Rodimus to alert the captain to the situation–
–and then spotted the red-and-gold speedster right in the middle of the melee, trading punches with… holy Primus, was the captain actually fighting Fortress Maximus?
"What in the name of the Matrix," Drift whispered, but Red was already answering him.
"Ratchet's gone into heat down there," the Chief of Security said. "I sealed off the ventilation system, but we have to–"
But the rest of the sentence was lost in the squeal of tires and the roar of a powerful speedster engine racing off at full speed.
Drift was already gone.