The Favor
Chapter 2
Author's Note: It gives me great pleasure to present you with chapter 2 of this story and yet makes me sad that it isn't an update to my other stories. I would also like to thank my reviewer for the last chapter, Deception is Decepticon. This story is going to be a bit of a mash-up between movies and cartoons to answer your question. Thanks for reading!
Flashbacks are in italics.
Summary: In all the vorns that Ratchet had known Wheeljack, he certainly couldn't recall the mech ever mentioning having a sister.
Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers.
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Cybertron
The next evening found Ratchet waiting at the Tram station for Wheeljack's sister as promised. He had shown up early after tactfully declining yet another invitation from Titania to go out for energon and had settled himself down on a bench to bot watch and pass the time. His thoughts still lingered on the medical receptionist, however, and he found himself wondering how he had strayed so far from his own ideals and principles. Perhaps, he mused, his engineer friend had better observational skills than what he gave him credit for.
In the past, he would have never given a femme like Titania a second glance. Oh, sure, they were nice to look at with their flashy armor and also quite delightful to touch but often offered very little else outside of that short lived physical gratification. Ratchet, being a more intellectually inclined mech, had always preferred substance over fashion in a companion. Certainly attraction had its role to play in any relationship but personality had always been a huge part of what he found irresistible in a companion. In Frost Fire he had believed that he had been fortunate enough to find the best of both worlds.
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They had met, appropriately enough, in the med bay. It had been a late night and the medic had found himself bombarded by patients who, in his opinion, had done more to contribute to their own injuries than anything else. It was one of those cycles where Ratchet found himself lamenting over the fact that while he could rebuild broken bodies, he could do very little to fix stupidity. Cursing and wrench chucking had been the order of the day and the medic was more than looking forward to escaping back to his humble abode for some well-deserved rest and defrag.
"Um, excuse me?"
The soft, lilting voice drifted over to where the medic stood on the other side of the med bay restocking the medical supplies that had been used up during his shift. He had been so caught up in completing his task and escaping back home that he hadn't even heard the door slide open. His shoulders slumped slightly as he realized the conversation he was about to get himself involved in would probably mean he would not be leaving anytime soon. Stealing himself for whatever came next, he turned to face the newcomer.
"Yes, can I…" He found himself suddenly looking into the eyes of the most beautiful femme he believed he had ever seen. His spark fluttered and his speech faltered which was a rarity for him. "Help you?"
"I hope so," the femme smiled shyly. "I was looking for the CMO. You wouldn't happen to be him, would you?"
It took Ratchet a moment to realize the femme had asked him a question. It took him another moment to realize she was waiting for him to give her some sort of an answer. "Y-yes, I am. I am Chief Medical Officer Ratchet." He cursed himself for stammering like a youngling. Quickly, he straightened himself and let his professional demeanor take over. "How may I be of assistance?"
"My name is Frost Fire and I just transferred here from Crystal City. I'm a Tech Specialist. I was supposed to come by earlier today for an indoc physical but I got stuck in the Security Director's office and, well, didn't know if he was ever going to let me out." The femme, Frost Fire, chuckled.
The sound, to Ratchet's audios sounded like the tinkling of bells; a pure, beautiful sound. It made his frame warm pleasantly and his spark pulse faster.
"That mech is quite…thorough," Frost Fire finished with a crooked grin.
"Red Alert, thorough? I suppose that is one way to politely phrase it." Ratchet snorted. "Clinical paranoia is my official diagnosis." The femme laughed again. Ah, that beautiful sound was doing wonderful things to the medic's internals.
"Paranoia aside, we did manage to come to the conclusion that I am not a Decepticon Army spy sent to infiltrate the Autobot ranks and wreak havoc nor am I an intergalactic mercenary bent on universal domination. And it only took us the better part of a day to figure it out!"
"Well, that is comforting to know. I feel much safer about having you in my med bay." Ratchet chuckled and motioned to the medical berth closest to him. Suddenly, he really didn't care all that much about going home. "Come on in and hop up onto a berth we'll get that physical out of the way."
"Now?" The femme looked at him wide-opticed. "I mean, I know it's late and you looked like you were getting ready to leave. I can come back in the morning if that's better for you. I really just wanted to check in and make sure you knew I wasn't just blowing off a doctor's appointment for the fun of it."
"Nonsense," Ratchet disagreed. "This is the perfect time. It was a madhouse in here earlier. Plus, it isn't the first time Red has held one of my patients against their will during indoc so you can rest assured that I won't count it against you."
"Are you sure?" Frost Fire took the last few steps forward to close the distance between them and tilted her helm back to look up at the CMO questioningly, a soft smile pulling at her lip plates. "I really don't mind coming back in the morning."
"I'm positive." Ratchet looked back down at her warmly, his spark humming happily. "Now up on the berth you go."
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The rest, as they say, is history. Ratchet vented harshly and stood. It did no good for him to continue to dwell on past events he couldn't change. What he had once looked back on as happy memories now only contributed to his current state of misery. He had often wondered if there was anything he could have done or said differently to change what had happened between himself and Frost Fire.
What if he had sent her away that night? What if she had come back in the morning when First Aid was there instead of him? Would things have been different? Could he have saved himself the spark ache and continued on as if he'd never laid optics on her? Or would he still have ended up a bitter, cynical mech whose only joy in life had become fumbling, lust-filled encounters with random femmes whose designations he didn't even bother with learning half the time? She had ruined the mech he had once been, he knew. There was no denying it. Pit, even Wheeljack could see that much.
Shaking his helm to clear it, he checked his internal chronometer. The last scheduled Tram of the evening was due to be arriving at any moment. He moved closer to the platform. Sure enough, from his new vantage point he could see the Tram in the distance approaching the station. It brought with it another train of thought which the medic was more than eager to embrace. Namely, just who was Wheeljack's sister?
"Caliper," Ratchet tested the name and chuckled. With a designation like that he figured the poor femme was destined for some kind of engineering work. He still couldn't believe Wheeljack had forgotten to mention her. Then again, Ratchet knew his friend's one track processor had a way of omitting any information that didn't revolve around one of his many inventions.
Ratchet also realized in his haste the previous evening, he had forgotten to even ask Wheeljack what his sister looked like and so he really didn't know who he was looking for. His processor had concocted its own composite of what it believed a sibling of the explosion-prone mech should look like. Ratchet's version came complete with the stocky-blocky, rugged frame common on engineering mechs, a pitted blast mask, tiny Wheeljack inspired helm finials, and plenty of dings, dents and scorch marks like the ones Wheeljack often sported after a shift in his infamous laboratory. The result was, needless to say, not an attractive one.
Ratchet suppressed a shudder as the Tram finally came to a stop at the platform. Bots, both mechs and femmes, began the departure process. He observed as family units excitedly came back together after time apart. At the far end of the platform grand-creators were meeting their creation's sparkling for the first time and the scene brought a smile to Ratchet's face. All around him lovers embraced and long-lost friends reunited but no one caught his optic as 'belonging' to Wheeljack.
A few more moments ticked by and the platform began to clear as bots filtered out of the station to destinations unknown. Still, Ratchet had yet to find his friend's sibling. As the last pair of bots wandered off arm in arm, Ratchet felt the first inkling of worry for a femme he had never even known existed. He contemplated comming Wheeljack and was just about to make the call when the Tram doors slid open once again and the sound of hurried movements and shuffling pede-falls filtered out to his audio receptors.
"Alright, sir. Wait here for just a click. I'll be right back."
Ratchet heard her before he could see her. Her voice was raised as if speaking to someone who could not hear well. It was a voice full of youth and determination with underlying tones of compassion and concern. It was only a couple clicks later that the femme came bounding down the Tram steps, quickly depositing a large rolling trunk and a much smaller tool bag on the platform and just as quickly bounded back inside before Ratchet could get more than a brief glimpse of her.
"Ready when you are, sir. Just take it slow."
Ratchet watched with great interest as the femme gradually came back into view, backing her way slowly out of the Tram and down the steps to the platform. A pair of rusty, brown servos clenched almost desperately at her bright white shoulder plates as she gingerly made her way down.
"There you go!" The femme praised the painfully ancient mech using her frame as support, beaming up at him happily. "You're doing great! Just a few more steps and you're home free!"
The mech smiled kindly back at her, his amber optics glowing in appreciation, "Thank you, miss…"
The mech had obviously seen better days. As he came further into view Ratchet could see that not only was he terribly old, he obviously hadn't been well maintained. His tall, thin frame was warped and bent in places and in ways no frame should ever bend. His dull, brown armor was pitted and dented, some areas rusted through completely. Tremors racked his frame intermittently and his gait was terribly off. Ratchet's medical programming automatically ran through a list of possible diagnoses based on observable symptoms without any conscious thought from his processor.
"Chronic Degenerative Nanopathy." The diagnosis tumbled quietly from his vocal processors and the medic shook his helm. It was a rare but fatal autoimmune disease. A bot's own nanites turned on them, treating their own protoform like a foreign body and slowly breaking it down from the inside out. He'd only treated two cases in his entire medical career and the debilitating nature of the disease had made intervention difficult in both cases. Comfort measures were about the only treatment one could give. The main focus being on treating the unimaginable pain the patient undoubtedly experienced as the disease state progressed. By the looks of the mech, he wouldn't last much longer, that is, if he was lucky. The mech was in complete contrast to the picture of youth and health assisting him.
Ratchet shifted his attention to the femme who, hopefully, was Wheeljack's missing sibling. His first thoughts being that his imagination had been way off the mark. Her armor was a clean, bright white which was about the only characteristic the femme seemed to share with her bother. However, Wheeljack's armor never shown with as much luster since his armor was nearly always covered in scratches and dents. Where Jack had red and green detailing, this femme had splashes of aquamarine. Her armor was obviously tailored for function rather than fashion, allowing great range and ease of movement, but it hugged all of her softer, feminine curves nicely and she wore it well. She was petite and compact and Ratchet wondered if she would even reach his shoulder bolts if they stood side by side. It also made him wonder how she kept the larger mech, larger than even he, upright and stable as they moved together. He continued to watch, moving slowly closer without really thinking about it, as the femme helped the crippled mech to sit down on a bench and then proceeded to drag his rolling trunk to within an arm's reach.
"Are you sure you're going to be alright sitting here?" The femme continued to watch the older bot with concern. "Is there someone I should comm?"
"I'll be just fine, miss," the mech's frame trembled nearly uncontrollably. "I've already commed my creation's spark mate and he's on his way here now. I shouldn't have to wait longer than a couple breems."
"Okay," The femme nodded. "If you're sure. I don't want to abandon you here all by yourself or anything."
"Nonsense," the mech smiled. "You've already been more than kind to an old, broken-down bot. I really can't thank you enough. I don't get around as well as I used to so a little help is appreciated sometimes. I apologize if I've held you up." He began rummaging around in a subspace pocket, pulled out a few credits, and offered them to her. "At least let me give you something for your trouble. It isn't much but…"
"Oh, no, no, no!" The femme shook her helm, refusing payment, and smiled kindly back. "No thanks are needed. I was happy to help."
"Hey, Pops!" Both bots' helms snapped toward the sound of the shout to see a large, red mech with glowing blue optics approaching them.
The femme smiled. "That your ride?"
"Yes," The mech nodded and laughed. "That's him."
"Alright," the femme turned back toward him. "I'll get out of your way. Enjoy your time with your family."
"You, too," the mech sighed. "And…think about what we discussed, okay? Things are getting pretty tense and providing engineering support to the armada may not be the safest thing for a nice, young femme such as you to be doing. Just think about it."
"I will," the femme agreed. "I promise. And you take care of yourself."
"Will do."
The femme gave the mech one last smile before moving away to retrieve her own luggage. She hefted the tool box, slinging the strap over her shoulder and turned quickly to walk away only to slam faceplates first into what felt like a solid wall of florescent green metal.
"Oof!" The femme staggered back, nearly tripping over her own pedes and falling on her aft if it weren't for the two strong hands that shot out to grasp her arms. She craned her neck struts back to look at the mech she had basically just helm-butted squarely in the chest plates, her sky blue optics wide in embarrassment. "Oh, Primus, I'm so sorry! Are you okay? I wasn't paying attention. I didn't know you were behind me."
"It is I who should apologize." Ratchet made sure the femme was steady on her pedes before releasing her and allowing his arms to fall back to his sides. He took a moment to take in her facial features realizing that, once again, his imagination had failed him. Up close she was all shiny chrome and smooth, clean lines that made up her delicate and distinctly feminine features. The overall impression she gave off was not the in-your-faceplate type of sultry beauty that Frost Fire or even Titania exuded and projected to the world but rather a modest and understated simplicity that downplayed any physical attributes. For someone supposedly related to Wheeljack, Ratchet admitted, she was lovely. "I should have announced myself. You wouldn't happen to be Caliper by any chance, would you?"
"I'm Cali, yes," the femme confirmed and then quirked an optic ridge. "And you must be the famous Ratchet, I presume?"
"Guilty as charged," Ratchet snorted. "I'm not all too certain about the famous part, however."
"Believe me," Caliper started with a friendly smile. "Anyone who can piece Jackie back together on a daily basis after one of his experiments deserves some modicum of celebrity. That certainly isn't a job for the weak of spark."
"Well, I certainly don't disagree with you there," Ratchet mused.
"Still, I appreciate you rising to the challenge. Jack's the only brother I've got and I'm rather fond of him, you know? Also," Caliper's optics darted away, seemingly embarrassed. "I'd like to apologize…"
"Again?" Ratchet smirked. "I thought we'd already gone through that just a moment ago."
"Oh no, not for that," Cali shook her helm. "I mean, yes, I'm sorry for running into you but I meant for Jackie recruiting you to spark sit me. I'm sure you probably have a million other things you could be doing right now besides this." The femme vented. "He's gone into full-on big brother mode and is convinced that I'm incapable of taking care of myself without some sort of help."
"He cares about you," Ratchet stated a matter-of-factly, "And with good reason. Things here…haven't been the greatest lately. I don't mind helping out a friend and there is the added bonus that I get to see a lovely femme safely home. All in all, that makes for a pretty decent evening in my book."
"Still…" Caliper seemed unsure and a bit self-conscious at the mech's words. She fidgeted a bit; shifting the tool box she carried to her other shoulder. "I don't want to impose…"
"Impose? Bah!" Ratchet waived off her concern. "Don't be ridiculous. The pleasure is all mine." He reached for the strap of the tool bag in order to relieve her of its weight.
Cali sensed his intention and immediately tightened her grasp on the bag. "No! It's fine. I can carry it..."
"Femme," Ratchet looked down upon her sternly. "I don't doubt that you can but I'm trying to be a gentle-mech." He didn't remove his hand from the strap; he simply waited patiently for her to acquiesce.
A click or two ticked by and Cali finally vented and agreed, reluctantly allowing the medic to take her luggage and swing it over his own shoulder bolt. "Fine…but just this once."
"Just this once," Ratchet agreed with a nod of his helm. He then offered the femme his other arm. He lifted an optic ridge in amusement as he watched her debate with herself over whether or not to accept it. It was obvious to him that the femme wasn't used to accepting any type of courtesy. It was a shame, he thought, but he wasn't going to let her off so easy. "Shall we?"
After a moment, she seemed to reach a conclusion. Hesitantly, she linked her arm through his and threw a timid and slightly uncomfortable smile up at him. "We shall."
End of Chapter 2
I'm so excited. My schedule at work changed so now instead of working 5 eight-hour days I only have to work 4 ten-hour days with Fridays off. Hooray for three-day weekends! Hopefully that means I'll have more time to write and get some extra school stuff out of the way. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and if you do feel so inclined, I'd love to hear what you think about it so far.