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Ratchet awoke, as he did every morning, at 4:15am LLST (Lost Light Standard Time). No alarm needed. He sat up, arms over his head as he stretched his creaking joints briefly, then bent over to give a quick peck on the forehead to the mech splayed across the other half of the berth next to him. Drift grumbled and swatted him away, still mostly in recharge. Ratchet huffed in fond exasperation. He would have thought his conjunx would be an earlier riser considering his obsession with wellness lifestyles, but apparently in this particular venue Ratchet had him beat.
Skipping breakfast, as always, he barely stopped to swallow a handful of variously sized and colored pills before chasing it with bitter extra-concentrated energon and trudging out the door towards the medbay. Technically speaking, Ratchet was no longer considered the Autobot’s CMO. He had officially handed the reigns to First Aid, and now was peacefully retired. The arrangement had lasted all of two days before he got sick of it and went back to work.
Halfway to the infirmary Ratchet paused in front of a particular door. It was locked by a passcode and the exterior was perpetually covered in long black scorch marks no matter how many times it was cleaned. Hesitantly he pressed the side of his head against the door, listening. Faint shuffling could be heard inside but nothing more.
Ratchet frowned and stared at the door for a long moment pondering before coming to a decision. With a practiced hand he punched his medical override into the number pad and the door swooshed open. Behind it, Brainstorm looked up, startled, from the desk he had been standing over. The desk was an absolute mess, covered in tools, spare parts, and unidentifiable loose liquids, one of which was most definitely eating a hole through the table. On the far side of the room a bulky something was made indistinguishable by a large white sheet.
Brainstorm and Ratchet stared at each other for a good long while, fellow denizens of the dawn crossing paths in an unlikely manner. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Eventually Ratchet narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the weapons engineer from head to foot. Whatever he was looking for, it seemed he hadn’t found it. The door closed and Ratchet moved on.
The first hours of Ratchet’s job were always quiet. It was just him, alone in the medbay with the sterile white lights allowing for reading and filing paperwork. It wasn’t until about an hour after his arrival when Nickel arrived. After her came Velocity and First Aid, and just like that they were fully staffed.
“How can you always be here before me?” First Aid complained. “I’m your boss now, why did you show up first? What kind of example is that setting?”
“Not my fault you needed your beauty sleep.” Ratchet mumbled.
“Whatever. I’m not giving you overtime!”
Life was never peaceful on the Lost Light and it was barely half past lights on when Ratchet’s first patient wandered in to complain.
“It hurts real bad!” cried Smokescreen, who then stared expectantly. Ratchet raised an optical ridge.
“What does?”
“Uh. It.” Smokescreen replied. “I must have gotten hurt somewhere.”
“What the hell are you talking about, kid?” Smokescreen groaned dramatically and clutched his middle in apparent agony.
“Look I’m in pain here, alright? There’s no time! C’mon, Hatchet, just prescribe me some pain inhibitors and send me on my way, yeah? The good stuff, preferably...”
“You’re not getting anything but a foot in your ass if you don’t stop wasting my time. Next!”
Somehow while Smokescreen had been putting on his show an honest to god line had formed outside the examination room despite daylight barely having broken. It was shaping up to be one of those days.
Smokescreen stomped out of the room, muttering in indignation at his failure. Taking his place in the doorway was a frantic jittering mess of a hot pink seeker jet.
“You’ve gotta help me, doc!” Misfire yelled. He cradled his left arm in his right and shook like a chihuahua in the wind. “Spinister said we’d have to amputate but I want a second opinion!”
Ratchet sighed. Patient two and he was already developing a headache. He waved Misfire over to the table anyway and turned around to grab his tools. The jet stumbled over and inelegantly hopped up onto the edge of the table.
“What’s the problem?” Ratchet asked, turning around to start calibrating his diagnostic scanner. He frowned at the dead pixels on the readout and slapped the side of the machine. Meanwhile Misfire had started rambling, something starting with ‘we were eating lunch yesterday-’ and ending with
“And it feels like there’s lava in my wires and I can barely move it and I think I’m going to die and I don’t know whyyy!”
Ratchet put his hand out in a ‘give it here’ gesture and started inspecting the offending limb. He turned the arm this way and that, making Misfire flinch and yelp with every move. Something caught his eye and he squinted, peering into the darkness of the interior elbow joint.
Meanwhile Misfire kept yapping. “I told Spinister to frag off when he tried to hacksaw my arm off. I said ‘thanks, but no thanks, ya quack!’ no offense.”
“None taken.” Ratchet grumbled as he pulled out a flashlight to look between the gaps.
“Anyway now I’m starting to think he was right though, ya know? What if there’s like a gross infection in there? Or what if my berth got infested with scraplets and they’re eating me from the inside out as we speak!? Give it to me honest, doc, am I gonna die!? But I’ve barely even lived- OW!”
Ratchet pulled back, removing his fingers from where they had been digging around in Misfire’s arm and holding something up to the light for them both to see. Pinched between his fingers was a bright orange foam dart.
“This was jamming one of your gears.” He said, voice dripping in disapproval.
Misfire was silent for a very rare moment.
“Oh.” He finally said. “Can I have it back?” Ratchet sighed and tossed the dart at the jet who scrambled to catch it.
The morning continued in such a manner until at last the queue of irresponsible mechs had dispersed. Again, Ratchet reached his arms over his head in a long creaky stretch. A glance at the clock had him frowning all over again.
Ever since the end of that whole Knights of Cybertron business Ratchet had been making an effort to get his patients in for regular checkups. Different universe meant nowhere familiar for pit stops after all, it was up to him to keep his people healthy.
Unsurprisingly, this had been an unpopular movement and his success rate for getting mechs in for their appointments on time was hovering in the low twenties. On a good day.
Such as was not today. Cyclonus was supposed to be in twenty minutes ago for his regular physical and sure enough, not a trace to be seen. Ratchet sighed as he sent off a message to who he had promptly labeled in his databanks as ‘the fugitive’ and got ready to go looking. He had no doubt in his mind that the message would go ignored.
Stomping down the halls in search of Cyclonus, Ratchet paused briefly once more at that scorched door. He stared again. It took less time to decide this time. Much like that morning, Ratchet typed in his override code and stuck his head over the threshold. Brainstorm looked up in surprise from where he had been crouched over something on the floor on all fours like some kind of mechanimal. It seemed like he had spilled some bubbling green liquid and was trying to… lick it up? He froze in his bizarre position and stared at Ratchet with wide optics, blinking innocently.
Ratchet frowned down at the liquid on the floor, then his gaze pulled back to Brainstorm’s face, a question in his optics.
“It’s called Kool-Aid.” Brainstorm said plainly, as if relieving Ratchet of some misunderstanding.
Ratchet said nothing and closed the door before returning on his way.
It took him an annoyingly long time to find Cyclonus, and when he did he was extremely displeased to find that he wasn’t even doing anything that could qualify as an excuse. He’d just been standing around one of the hallways with Tailgate, as glued to his leg as ever, staring out one of the large bay windows at the passing nebulae.
“Cyclonus.” Ratchet said icily as way of greeting. The mechs in the hallway turned their heads in response, their faces scrunching up in irritation as if upset that their nothing had been interrupted.
“Ratchet.” Cyclonus replied. “Did you need something?”
“No, you need something I’m afraid.” Ratchet spat. “Your appointment was over an hour ago!”
“I do not require medical assistance.” Cyclonus replied cooly. Ratchet narrowed his optics.
“I should hope not. I meant your regular appointment. I sent you over ten reminders. It’s mandatory every six months, I had Ultra Magnus post the official notice weeks ago.”
At last Cyclonus had the decency to appear slightly awkward.
“If I’m not unwell I don’t see why I should waste the precious resources and time of our medics.”
“It’s a social welfare thing.” Ratchet said.
“In the olden days I saw medics for battle damage and nothing more! I don’t see why that of all things should have to change now.”
Tailgate laughed from somewhere near the floor.
“Just go to your damn appointment, Cyclonus, I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”
“You say that as if I am afraid of discomfort.” Cyclonus retorted.
“No of course not. You’re very brave. They may even give you some rust sticks when you’re done.” Tailgate chided, slapping Cyclonus on the knee in mock reassurance.
Ratchet glared down at the minibot.
“I want to see you in there too, Tailgate.” Tailgate startled and looked up in disbelief.
“What!? No, I was just in there! Like a few weeks ago!”
“You have a history of severe spark disease, I want to have you in every two months.” Ratchet said sternly.
“No! What!? THAT’S SO UNCOOL!!!” Tailgate cried in dismay, plating rattling.Sparks were already gathering in his visor while his voice pitched up to frequencies nearly undetectable to the average mech.
Ratchet clapped his hands over his audials and grimaced.
“Need to get you something for those panic attacks while I’m at it.”
Cyclonus was patting Tailgate on the head in mock reassurance.
“Perhaps if you comply they will give you some rust sticks when you’re done.”
“Frag you!” Tailgate snipped, tiny fist slamming into Cyclonus’s shin and doing absolutely no damage.
In the end Cyclonus and Tailgate relented to their checkups under the condition that they were allowed to go together. It was all very inconvenient…
By the time they were both given as clean a bill of health as possible given the circumstances it was time for Ratchet’s next scheduled check up. Luckily this one actually deigned to show up on time, though he perhaps had ulterior motives.
“Come give me a real good look over, doctor~” Drift crooned from where he had lain dramatically across the exam table in a completely inappropriate manner.
“Open your mouth.” Ratchet said blandly, picking up a narrow flashlight.
Drift propped himself up on one elbow and cocked his head.
“What are you gonna do with it, huh?” He asked, scandalized.
“Stick a wrench down there if you don’t stop screwing around...” Ratchet replied.
Ten minutes later an appropriately chastised Drift had been very professionally and impersonally examined and was now corralled into a proper sitting position being scanned.
“You all just came back from that ocean planet the other day right?” Ratchet asked.
Drift nodded.
“Aquafer IV. It’s a good thing you didn’t go, Ratty, you would have hated it. All that rain… At least Nautica and Riptide got to have fun for once.” Ratchet nodded absently.
“Did you find any rust when you came back or feel any unusual itchiness?”
“No, I would have mentioned something like that, c’mon give me some credit…” Drift answered woefully.
“Well.” Ratchet finally stood back, hands on his hips. “You look pretty good all around.”
Poor wording left an opening and Drift seized the opportunity with a wink and a smirk.
“Oh I look good do I?” It was lost on Ratchet who had already turned around and started rummaging through his drawer. “Is that flirting? So unprofessional, doctor. Can’t help yourself when you see something you like?”
Ratchet turned around holding the largest needle and syringe Drift had ever seen in his life.
“I’d like to give you an update on your anti-oxidant booster.”
Drift stared at the weapon (It could only be classified as a weapon) in stunned silence. The needle had to be as long as his forearm. He looked up at Ratchet and laughed nervously.
“Oh Ratty, you and your jokes!”
“Do I look like I’m laughing?” Ratchet deadpanned.
“But-!” Drift cried “You said I’m fine! I don’t have any rust!”
“And you’re not going to.” Ratchet replied in that same flat tone.
“This isn’t necessary.” Drift bargained. He had scooted off the exam table and was backing slowly towards the door. Ratchet followed at the same sedate pace like a predator stalking his prey.
“Your last shot was after Delphi, that was years ago.” Drift’s back hit the door and he desperately started tapping the ‘open’ button. “You should understand that I of all people have a vested interest in your survival.”
“And this is how you show it!? Can’t you just say ‘I love you’ like a normal person!?”
Ratchet closed the gap and put a reassuring hand on his conjunx’s shoulder. He met his gaze and cracked a rare smile.
“No.”
“Please.”
“The doors were locked when you came in, Drift.”
A few moments and an embarrassingly loud shriek later, Drift was finally allowed to indignantly stomp out of the medbay, muttering in irritation and swaying slightly with lingering wooziness.
Ratchet, a little smug at his victory, was relieved to finally be at the end of his waitlist for the moment when a sheepish looking Sunstreaker stuck his head through the threshold. Ratchet sighed.
“What is it?” He asked, resigned.
Sunstreaker held out his arms, a limp, dull-plated insecticon hanging from his grasp.
“Bob keeps throwing up…”
“I am not a vet!” Ratchet protested.
“We don’t have a vet…” Sunstreaker said, sorrow in his voice. Ratchet groaned, but motioned them in.
When lunchtime rolled around Ratchet did not intend to partake. He never made it a habit, nor did he see a need to take a break when he was perfectly capable of fueling while maintaining his work flow.
But this routine had been shut down frequently, so Ratchet wasn’t quite surprised when a dour still-grumbling Drift now sporting a large mesh patch over his upper arm stalked into his office and started shepherding him out towards the cafeteria.
“Wait, wait hold on!” He protested, but Drift said nothing and just continued pushing him down the hall. “I’ll go, I swear!” Ratchet promised. “Just let me check something.”
Drift sighed, but relented, allowing Ratchet to jog over to a burn-blackened door and type in a pass key for a third time that day.
The door swished open to reveal Brainstorm hanging upside-down from the ceiling, head obscured by the fact that it was underneath the large white sheet from this morning. Whatever was under it had nearly doubled in height since then…
Hearing the door open Brainstorm pulled his head out, revealing smears of oil and grease across his mask. He stared at Ratchet, unblinking. Ratchet stared back, eyes narrowed. This went on for quite some time until Drift got impatient and went back to shoving Ratchet towards their destination. All the while Ratchet’s gaze never left Brainstorm until they were out of range and the door closed automatically.
Ratchet would be hard pressed to admit it but he actually did feel better returning to work after his break, no matter how childishly Drift had sulked the entire time they were eating.
His newfound energy was now being drained rapidly by their captain, who had, supposedly arrived for a by-the-book facility inspection.
“Alright, so you know how Nautica’s chestplate is like:” Rodimus made a curving motion with his hands over the front of his own chestplate. “Do you think you could give me some of those?”
“Are you planning on immigrating to Caminus?” Ratchet asked, utterly unamused. Behind him Anode snorted from where Velocity was examining a bent wing.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” she muttered.
Rodimus shook his head vigorously.
“I’m not saying I actually want you to, but could you?”
“Goodbye, Rodimus.”
“What about Megatron?”
“Goodbye.”
At long last the day came to an end. Ratchet packed up his few belongings and shut off the nonessential devices. The others had long since finished their shifts, but rise early and recharge late. That was Ratchet’s motto.
He started towards the door when a chill ran down his spine, freezing him in place. He snapped his head around, causing his neck to crack uncomfortably.
There, at the end of a dark hallway, bathed in shadows, a softly glowing blue visor stared back at him. For a long moment Ratchet couldn’t react. Then, slowly, he relaxed.
“First Aid, I thought you went home.” He said. The figure didn’t respond, but it took a step closer, just enough light hitting him to reveal red and white plating. “Did you forget something?” Ratchet tried again.
“No.” First Aid finally said. His voice was flat, giving away nothing. “But you did.” Another step forward.
“Oh?” Ratchet asked. Though he feigned nonchalance, he had started sliding a foot backwards. “And what would that be?”
“Six months, Ratchet.” First Aid said, continuing his slow stalk forwards. “It’s time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ratchet stuttered. His own voice took him aback. It was rare to be so flustered like this. “I’m taking care of it myself, there’s no need for that.”
“You know that isn’t what we all agreed on.”
“On paper, yes. In reality? It’s not necessary.”
“You need your prescriptions updated, Ratchet.” First Aid’s voice had reached a dangerous tone. “It’s easier for us both if you don’t fight me on this.”
Ratchet huffed. “Fine. You win. Just let me-” And like a shot he was off running, sprinting out the door like a hunted mechanimal.
First Aid was hot on his heels, clearly having anticipated this outcome. Ratchet turned a corner, only to suddenly smack into a solid wall of heat and sound as a side door ahead of him in the hallway exploded outwards.
Flames poured out of the room along with screams of agony and the grating sound of scraping metal. Ratchet stepped over flaming wreckage and looked into the room for the source of the screaming.
Brainstorm lay half crushed, crying out in pain underneath some kind of hideous overturned machine, scraps of burnt white cloth clinging to its edges as it sputtered sparks and flames.
“Can’t it happen when I’m actually on the clock for once!?” Ratchet yelled, taking in the scene in dismay mere moments before First Aid slammed into him in a flying tackle.
An hour later Ratchet was right back in his medbay, patching together torn and melted metal and glass on Brainstorm while First Aid stood over them scanning Ratchet. Neither of them received overtime.