Human Tales
Disclaimer: The human and Transformer characters belong to Hasbro. Some human own-characters may find their way in here and they belong to me.
Summary: G1 Optimus Prime said, with his first meeting with Spike and Sparkplug, "Hmm… you could be of some use to us" – or something along that vein.
Face it, humans are useful to Transformers, and in this collection of stories (probably 10 stories, and maybe more) I will try my best to think of how we are useful to Transformers.
Most of us would agree that the humans in Transformers are a little more than a pest, I agree, and beg to differ.
Tale No. 1: The Handy-Dandy Walking Spanner
Ratchet hated life right now.
It was life, the dastardly abomination of life that had pushed him into the battlefield, not as a medic but as a warrior, much like the dastardly twins, Ironhide, Trailbreaker, all those who have gone under his hands and scalpel.
He would have thought of this once in a while, but this was the first time it had occurred to him: to be downed within the first few minutes of battle.
Chiding him for not watching his own back (It was Bluestreak's job, not his!) the wounded medic had hauled himself behind some large boulders the desert had to offer as cover. Right now he had a most livid wound on his shoulder cuff and another on his thigh. His trademark red cross on that shoulder was blasted to bits and both wounds were leaking fluids that should not be seen.
He cringed as a blast of laser fire ricocheted off his rocky cover.
He would have loved to fix his wounded self right now, but due to a case of hi-grade and a skirmish last night, he had no laser scalpel or other mentionable tool he could use to fix himself.
If life could not get any worse, but knowing the situation right now (the Seekers were firing at the Autobots' skidplates, last he recalled) it always would.
And it did.
"Ratchet!"
The white Autobot spun his head at the voice, expecting to see someone he recognised as silver, black, and who was going to get his audio receptors rattled off for not protecting the resident CMO.
When he saw that no one was standing before him, or kneeling next to him beside the rocks, he thought he was hallucinating.
A sharp clang from below and the surge of pain through his leg wound told him he was not.
He shoved his leg in a visceral reaction.
"Ratchet!"
The voice came from below.
His optics glanced down and saw the miniature form of Sparkplug, minus the weight he had on the sides, peering into the thigh wound, roughly the size of the human's head. A spanner was in hand, and an open toolbox was a few steps away from the human.
"Spike! Get out of here!"
"Nuh-uh," the boy reached into the wound, spanner and all, and Ratchet felt a servo pop somewhere in his leg.
"Get the slag out of here-" another round of laser fire exploded behind the rock near Ratchet's head, causing him to crouch. Skywarp had seen his chevron sticking out of the rocks like a sore index.
"Not until you're fixed, Ratchet! You're badly hurt!"
Something hissed in his leg. Thanks to the boy's back covering his work, Ratchet could not see what he was doing, or even guide the human child.
In fact, he did not feel comfortable about a human boy fixing him up. He always insisted that patients get the best treatment possible, and that was through him. He could trust himself to fix his own wounds, but Spike had just grasped his skills from his father while he was Iacon's best, and he merely started this week!
"Ratchet! There are others injured out there! Sunstreaker's out cold, Prowl's nowhere to be seen, Optimus has a big hole in his arm and Bumblebee's badly hit! We need you out there now, but you need help."
He started. The others were severely hurt, if Spike spoke the truth. Of course he did. He never doubted the boy: he had been true to his words from the start and had wormed his way into everyone's sparks 'cause of that, and became part of the Autobot family.
Now the family was scattered around the desert, some grievously hurt, and this human boy had miraculously found his way to the medic's side and-
"I did what I can with your leg, Ratchet. Let me see your shoulder-"
Oh slag, he had said the same words to Sideswipe when a past battle saw the red Autobot doing his jet-fighting martial arts and nearly scrapped his leg and shoulder. Spike had been there, watching intently as the medic worked on the warrior in the medical bay, even if he said he was writing an essay.
"Forget the shoulder, lemme see the leg," he gruffly replied, and moved his injured right limb to see.
The gaping hole was still there, but to his surprise there were some weld marks noticeable, along the tortuous 'transmission' lines and circuit relays, one close to the hydraulics but not touching the vital part. The piston had – of all things – a wing-nut fitted snugly into a hole, where he suspected all the fluids had been spewing out from. Coagulated energon and lubricants still covered the parts and connections, something he would have left alone himself to protect the rest of the circuitry as a 'shield'.
He could not hide a small smile, despite a final gunshot that was aimed at the boulder – and missed.
"Not bad, kid."
"Thanks," the human replied sheepishly, "Dad taught me a bit, with Sideswipe opening himself up after most repairs so we'd learn and see how you do it."
That was spark-warming, the medic had to admit. He paused, a little stunned, but recovered quickly enough. His sour mood was replaced with a lighter one.
"Well, I'll have to bolt that red devil up. Can't have you ruining my work, eh?"
Spike, having clambered up the boxy 'bot with relative ease, looked up from his inspection of the shoulder cuff with something of a frown.
"I was joking, lad. That shoulder isn't too bad-"
"Sunstreaker had a gaping hole, last I saw. You'll need a welder with this arm."
"The main connections and nerve relays are still intact, Spike. It's fine, but where can I get a welder?"
The human boy pulled something out of his pocket – a handheld welder which was the birth child of Wheeljack – and was about to pass it to Ratchet when he noticed the size difference.
He stowed it away.
"Wheeljack brought a spare, I think. He's behind that boulder, with Gears-"
At the indication, Ratchet was up on his ankles, a hand propping himself up. Gunfire was far behind him – the Seekers were picking on a soon-to-be patient, he bet – and the set of rocks Spike pointed to was no more than a stone's throw away. It gave away the blue glow of his friend's head-fins, and he bet he could hear the sour whining of the Minibot from where he was.
"Stay on my shoulder, and don't get off till I tell ya."
"Huh? Why?"
Ratchet looked at Spike. He's still a kid, much like Bluestreak, even if he had some better traits from his father (especially not yammering at a hundred words a minute).
"I'll need a second pair of hands, that's all."
A/N: Murder me. Murder me now. That boy always had a knack of getting into trouble. We all don't like him 'coz he's always in the way!
This is some new light for me on him, and I realised why people don't try:
It's downright CORNY!
(Edit: Revisited and edited.)