Okay, Chapter 2! A lot of stuff, possibly slightly longer than the first one. Three won't be up for a moment.

Ratchet moved down the hallway towards the brig. He had medical supplies stored in his subspace, in case their captive's injuries were too severe to be delayed repair. As he approached, he wondered about Deathstrike's supposed insanity. He was considered beastly and insane on the battlefield; he had repaired gruesome wounds caused by his accuracy and had heard horrific stories about how the Deception assassin would suddenly become feral, snarling and snapping with the ferocity of a mad Predacon.

The brig was dark when he entered. There was more than one cell, the biggest and farthest from the door being Deathstrike's. Had he not been a Seeker—they were known for becoming stir-crazy if they were confined too long—he would have had a smaller cell. At the moment, the Decepticon was sitting on a lounge berth, his side to the door. His helm was bowed and his wings were raised high and straining, the ominous creaking reminding him of Arcee's story. There were faint traces of Energon in the nearby waste bin, and the medic narrowed his optics unconsciously, searching for a reason on why there was expelled Energon.

"What have you come to bother me about now?" The Con's voice was deep, nearly as low as Optimus', and was tinted with a strange accent, maybe even a hybrid one.

"I've been told you were ill."

"You believe I cannot repair myself?" He turned his helm slightly, optics narrow and filled with irritation and exhaustion. "I am the Decepticon medic."

Shock hit the Autobot like a physical attack. "You're the Decepticon medic?"

"That is what I said." His wings creaked, and the faint groan that came from the restraints worried the medic only slightly. The one he was speaking to was a Decepticon, after all.

"You are known for your occupation as an assassin." The Autobot crossed his servos.

A growl came from the other. "Fear is an essential factor in the Decepticon ranks."

"You Decepticons and your ridiculous philosophies."

The Decepticon faced him completely and his cold, black optics pierced him to the core. He was scowling, and the glint of light on metal exposed his fangs. "You Autobots and your inconsequential heroics."

"Enough with the distractions," Ratchet snapped. "Why are you ill? You fought the others perfectly fine earlier and now you're coughing up your own life-blood. Why?"

Deathstrike's wing restraints creaked. "It is a condition I have," he began. Ratchet opened his mouth to speak, and suddenly the Decepticon was dangerously close. "And I do not wish to speak about it."

The CMO scowled, not at all put off by the other's close presence but taking note of Deathstrike's well-shown irritation. "Then how am I to help you?"

Deathstrike snarled. "I do not require your help. Have your teammates let me rest." He turned and headed back to his seat on the berth.

Ratchet scoffed, but could not help but notice the strong limp the other had in his leg. "You know I can't do that."

The Decepticon turned to look at him, and the Autobot was surprised. Were his optics flickering with their last light? Was he really dying? He ran a scan of the Decepticon's vitals. They were dangerously low and rapidly deteriorating.

"You are dying and refusing help?" His voice sounded even more incredulous then he felt.

Deathstrike didn't answer. A violent shudder racked his frame, and he grasped the berth for support as his body tipped slightly, his claws tearing deep slashes in the refined metal as his wing restraints creaked and protested at the movement. His helm was bowed and his optics seemingly shuttered. His intakes rattled within his chassis, hoarse and uneven. It only made the medic worry even more.

"Deathstrike?"

The assassin shook his helm, his claws digging into his berth. Ratchet was at a loss on what to do. He could go in and try to help, but that would most likely end in Deathstrike lashing out or killing him. He could leave him and inform the others of his worsening condition, but if the entire group of Autobots poured into a room with an insane and sick Decepticon assassin, it would not end well.

Finally, he made up his mind.

The Autobot took a tentative step forward.

The Decepticon sensed the movement and snarled, glaring at the Autobot. Ratchet raised his servos, somewhat surprised at the sudden ferocity of the other. He could see the cracks forming on Deathstrike's wing clamps, and made a mental note to build stronger ones; he was aware that the said strong ones in their possession were currently on the enraged Decepticon before him.

"Deathstrike, what is wrong?" Despite the assassin's obvious resistance and fury, his medical instincts still kicked in and forced him to make sure his patient was well—or as well as one could be while coughing up their own life-blood.

The other did not respond, his optics narrowing to dangerous slits as he tracked the Autobot's moves. Was this the insane Decepticon everyone was worrying about—or was it something else?

Ratchet had seen these symptoms before, in two of his old teammates, though their locations were unknown as of present. It had been the result of an outbreak, millennia ago, and to this day they were still coping.

It was obvious the same thing had happened to Deathstrike.

And it only made him more dangerous.

The Autobots turned as Ratchet entered the med-bay. A look of black anger was on his faceplate, as well as the minutest traces of worry and fear.

"Ratchet, what is it?" Arcee approached the obviously raging Autobot.

"Stay out of the brig," was all he said.

"Why? What happened?" Smokescreen demanded, his optics shining and doorwings twitching in excitement. "Is he loose?"

The medic whirled on him, his armor flared. "Don't be a fool, Smokescreen! If he was loose, would I be alive?"

The Praxian took a step back, his doorwings twitching and showing his obvious alarm.

"Whoa, take it easy, Ratch. He didn't mean anything," Bulkhead insisted, staring back when the CMO's fiery glare turned on him.

"Ratchet." Optimus' voice sounded, and he appeared with silence belying his mass. "Is something wrong?"

"Optimus." The Autobot looked up at him, and the Prime could read the look in his gaze—he was worried and frightened. "May I speak with you," he began, glancing at the others, who were watching curiously, "Alone?"

The Prime dipped his helm with a quiet, "Of course," and led the medic to the clearing on the cliff.

"What troubles you so, old friend?" The massive Prime watched the medic pace the length of the cliff.

"It is Deathstrike."

"Deathstrike worries many. It is in his nature."

"He does not make you worry unless you're on his strike list. He uses fear as a weapon."

"As does Megatron."

The medic glanced at his leader. His pacing slowed and stopped, his cerulean gaze fixed on some lone object, clouded with the hazy look of one lost in their thoughts.

"Do you recall our two comrades Prowl and Jazz?"

Optimus nodded. "I do, but I fail to see the relevance of them to our captive."

"The outbreak."

Optimus paused for a moment, his thoughts going back to the incident. "Deathstrike is one of them." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Yes. That is why we must stay out of the brig."

"No. If Deathstrike is one of the Changed, we both know he is strong enough to break out of the brig."

"Well, we can't just let him roam and refuel off of us," the medic scoffed.

"Nevertheless, should he regain enough strength to break from his containment, it would be catastrophic."

"How will we let him refuel? We sure as Primus won't let him feed off of us or give him any rations from our already limited stores."

"We do not." Ratchet narrowed his optics ever so slightly, and the Prime raised a hand before he could object. "Deathstrike would be tempted, should we allow him any options of refueling. We will wait and he will come out of his homicidal tendencies." The massive Prime headed to the door.

"How can you be so sure?"

Optimus stopped in his tracks, turning his helm to fix his gaze on the medic. "He has no choice." The Prime's voice was grave and held the slightest hint of restrained anger. "Should he break free, or show any means of harming my team, I will not hesitate to use whatever force is necessary."

"He will not hesitate in retaliating should he feel threatened." The medic met the Prime's gaze with defiance. "Optimus, with all due respect, he is my patient. I am seeing to his wellbeing, and being threatened by anyone—let alone a massive Prime like you, the ruler of his enemies—will be detrimental to his health."

Optimus considered the CMO's words. "Very well. Keep my warning in mind, but do what you must to heal him."

Ooh, a little overprotective Optimus! Did you like?

Oh, Note: The Outbreak is mentioned in Deathstrike's biography. For those of you who did not read it for some unknown reason, I will explain it.

A viral outbreak occurred during the Golden Age in a Circuit Su and Cyberninja training facility. Little was done to contain it, for it had happened in the slums of Kaon near the Pits, and every being there was infected with an incurable virus that made the infected become overwhelmed by a vampire-like rage. Only the strongest of will were able to control the rage while others drove themselves mad and attempted to terminate the wrong people. Deathstrike is one of the infected, and while he has most control over his "second personality," he is known to let it take over on the battlefield, hence Ratchet's memories of the stories of Deathstrike's supposed insanity.

Hope that explained! R&R, pleaze! :)