Not in Tarn, not in Vos, nor any establishment around was Ratchet safe to transverse into. Even the sub levels of the cities were too familiar with Ratchet and his convictions. He had to journey further.

The aspect of leaving Cybertron sounded all too appealing to the once-medic despite the ache in his circuitry. But because of the nature of his situation, he couldn't quite go to any congregation and lose himself. After the broadcasting and post-analysis of the case, Ratchet was often recognized and once he was the alienation flooded in. Carriers would move in the opposite direction, the youths would be urged to divert their paths by older counterparts, militant 'bots would keep him within their radars, and citizens would murmur, most words Ratchet could pick up, none at all too kind.

It was a lifestyle Ratchet never foresaw for himself. He wasn't at all prepared for such harsh realities and yet he found himself continuing to move at an avid pace. At least until he felt he found a place he could disappear.

It was in Kaon's sub levels where he found his solace. Still wrapped in a cloak, Ratchet kept his frame and face shadowed. No one there looked upon him, no one there found any reason to. Yet, even after some semblance of relief, Ratchet found the woes of the planet clumping together in the crevices he moved through.

Aging, discrepancy, disease, malfunction, and absolute disrepair cluttered the sub levels. Even in the northern settlements, Ratchet can't quite provide a good statement of witnessing anything as unfortunate as the individuals currently around him. Medical programs still ran through his processors, and with each automatic scan, the state of the 'bots hanging onto the corners and rolled into the ditches was enough to make Ratchet want to break himself apart if just to offer much needed parts.

Rubbing at the cracked corner of his helm, Ratchet recalled an altercation with a more than erratic sire. For no other reason than falling into the public's hate of him, the mech had slammed his fist against Ratchet, luckily only clipping the side of his helm, but that wasn't the only near-mobbing Ratchet had to escape from. Following such incidents he learned to wear a covering and keep from the more populated regions. After all of that, he couldn't abandon his safety simulations and kept to himself amongst the desolate.

Thoughts of fuel and upkeep provisions began to stream through his processor. Ratchet knew he'd need to find a way to obtain both if he was going to be able to prolong his life. From where he stood he could see junkyards, each mass infested with damaged, run-down, and troubled 'bots hoping to find something to help. Not ideal, but a place Ratchet would need to get to know soon.

At a corner, Ratchet sat himself down for a short rest. His joints could use a good lubing, it had been a while since he was even able to do so. The scuffs on his once pristine white paint were many and dated. It wouldn't be too long before Ratchet mirrored those around him.

In his personal examination Ratchet noticed a misplaced screw wedged in the corner of his knee joint. Not one of his own, but somehow embedded within. He must have picked it up during a drive.

His hand bent away and a pair of pliers slung out. Despite the top-tiered equipment being taken from him, Ratchet was fortunate enough to find discarded machinery, or pieces thereof, and after some adjustments, crafted the tools for himself. Rough and a little more challenging to handle, Ratchet made due with them. The pliers were able to latch onto the foreign screw and pick it clean of the 'bot's frame.

"Almost feels like new," Ratchet muttered to himself, managing a quiet chuckle as he swung his leg. It's been a while since he resounded so much as a pitch that rang similar to a laugh. Perhaps there was still a chance at saving Ratchet's sanity.

Standing up, Ratchet looked across the walkway. A fairly large junkyard lay there. With his route in objectives, Ratchet began making his way toward it. However, something came across the walkway that prevented him from reaching his destination.

The streets, while congested, clogged more so and began to move in a fluid direction. Ratchet tried to fight its current, but ended up being pushed along with it. The flow eventually piled into a square full of simple shops and flickering lights. After its halt, Ratchet shook his bearings in place and began to sift his way out of the crowd, hoping to return to the destination he was previously at.

"How long, my brothers! How long must we suffer in the gutters, in the waste stations, and the junkyards?" Ratchet paused for a moment. Turning, he was just close enough to notice a group of mechs standing atop an elevated marker, their vocals echoing around the square as they upheld a datapad. They were reading excerpts. "Should we pile the grounds with our shells only to grow their cities out of our energies? Should we fade our lights so that theirs can shine brighter? Nay. It is our hands that form the foundations of our states, our pedes that carve the pathways into the core of this planet. So why not let out vocals spread into every crevice, corner, and square? Declare your sentience, uphold your individuality, and guard your sparks!"

Great, Ratchet washed into an Anti-Fuctionist gathering.

With a huff, Ratchet carried on in his objective to get out of the crowd. He didn't personally have anything against anti-fuctionists, but coming from city-states such as Iacon, he found them more than a little annoying and their arguments pointless. The movement itself was inspired on a series of anonymous writings. And whoever the writer was didn't seem to concern themselves as much with their pieces as other clinging 'bots.

It would fade out eventually. Until then Ratchet would keep his opinions to himself and slip away, shutting off his receivers from further prattle. He's had plenty of time and reason to develop a well-endowed character of aloofness, and would continue to use the persona.

Pushing and bumping past spectators with minimal interaction was simple enough, but one 'bot teetered farther than expected, and habitually Ratchet reached out to stabilize him.

"I'm so sorry." Ratchet noticed the mech's shaking frame, as well as his decent. "Are you alright?" Methodical scans ran and just as the 'bot further collapsed and convulsed on the ground, Ratchet realized his emergency. "Sir? Sir!"

Habitual protocol took over, and immediately Ratchet found himself tilting the mech's helm upward while pressing into plate seams to unlatch his chassis. Even with the tremors, Ratchet was able to slide his digits into the 'bot's core wiring. After gliding over a certain lump, Ratchet slung out his pliers and reached down to snap the cord.

"Slag! What happened?"

"Dugnode!"

Now the crowds began to notice? Ratchet would have further ignored them hadn't one reached down and took hold of his wrist rotators, halting any further advance.

"What are you doing to him?" Hysteria laced the vocals, and more than a dozen fear whirling optic lenses peered down at them.

"I'm trying to help!" Ratchet pulled his arm away, attempting to return to the mech in need, but more uncertain 'bots reached out, grabbing a hold of him.

"Help? No, no you're trying to harvest him! He's not even offline and you're trying to harvest him!" That reasoning seemed to run through many of the processors surrounding them, and it was from that misunderstanding that had Ratchet clamped down, at least until one ripped off his cloak.

There was a sound of surprise and then silence as a small perimeter was made. Despite a few dents and scuff marks, Ratchet's well-kept paint was a higher level than any of those present. And no doubt they've seen him on the channels.

"An upper?" Murmurs full of this term began spreading. "What are you doing down here?" Ratchet was surprised none had recognized him. To them, he was simply a 'bot from topside, an "upper."

"Please, I'm a medic. You're friend's just collapsed from transition clutter, let me help." Ratchet tried to plead to their senses, but his efforts were backsliding as the 'bots began encroaching, optics shades darker.

"Why are you here?"

"Your kind doesn't belong!"

"Is there nothing left up there that you have to come down here and take what's left of us?"

Ratchet held up his hands. He did not want to fight, and more importantly he did not want to get mauled. "I was just passing through. I'll be on my way if you just let me help."

"You shouldn't be here, upper!"

"Scamper back from where you came from!"

Their enclosing pushed Ratchet back, however it only pushed him into the other observing crowd. He came to this conclusion when he bumped into a large mech. Turning, Ratchet gave him the same submission.

"Will you really help?" The large silver mech's scarlet optics bore into Ratchet's very core, and from the stance, the medic was certain his own expiration balanced in his forthcoming answer.

Nodding, Ratchet said, "Yes, I will."

It was then the large mech turned on the enraging crowds. "If he wants to help, let him help!" While there were shouts of opposition, there was nothing enacting physically. For good reason, considering the size of the silver mech.

He turned back toward Ratchet, motioning toward the downed 'bot. "Help, if that's what you're going to do."

It was under the scrutiny of the crowd and the silver mech's heavy scarlet glare that Ratchet knelt back down and shoved his hands into the 'bot's chest wiring. He located the clogged tube. From there he squeezed it, watching as crystalized energon clumped out. Primus, what kind of fuel had this 'bot been in-taking?

"Does anyone have a welder?" Ratchet looked at the observing faces. There were 'bots of all functions, there should be someone. The silence and reluctance, however, continued. And so Ratchet turned toward the silver mech and met his gaze. "I need a welder."

After a short pause the mech turned back toward the crowd. "A welder." His command was met instantaneously and as soon as one was placed in his hand he leaned over and handed it to Ratchet.

With a nod of thanks, Ratchet started up the device and bent back over the ailing 'bot. It didn't take more than a few nano-kliks for the job to be done. After so Ratchet closed and fastened the chassis.

Green optics began to glow again, and as the 'bot moaned those around reached out, helping him back to his feet. For a moment he simply stood there, a hand over his chassis as if processing, feeling. He then looked toward Ratchet. There was surprise in his features, but he kept his silence. And at the behest of his companions he was ushered off and away, the remaining witnesses turning their own fields away, ignoring Ratchet for the sake of his achievement.

Finding the trampled cloak, Ratchet once more wrapped himself in it and then turned toward the silver mech. He held out the welder. The owner never spoke up claim of it and so he offered it back to the one who handed it to him.

"It's of no use to me," the mech said. "And, unless you want to use it on yourself, I suggest you leave this region."

Ratchet understood completely, and yet he still couldn't help but scoff, his line of vision falling down to the grime-covered streets underpede. "Believe me, I would if I could."

Ratchet had grown used to the high crash of crowded volumes, but not so much a returned response. Much less from one with no intentions to harm him. "Even you." Ratchet looked toward the mech, curious over the lack of hostility and prejudice coded in his verbal frequency. Even with such an intimidating mass there was an understanding—even for an "upper."

With a beckoning motion, the mech turned. Ratchet debated on following him. He just stood there as the silver 'bot moved through the crowd, their distance growing. It was then Ratchet realized he personally didn't have anything to lose if he followed, so he did.

The silver mech led him onto the upper sub level. Not much a distance from the crowded square. It was there a complex of apartments were carved into a hanging hull, and one of those homesteads belonged to the 'bot he was following.

"When was the last time you refueled?"

Ratchet was barely past the threshold of the door, resorting to standing in place as he observed the area. The 'bot was currently rummaging through the cabinets.

"It's been . . ." Ratchet paused. Primus, has it really been that long? He came out of processing when the mech turned and tossed him a medium-sized cube.

"It's not much, and will not taste the best, but it's all I have," he said, taking a cube for himself and moving to sit at a small table. There happened to be one more chair.

Staring down at the cube in hand, Ratchet wasn't sure what came over him. A wave of emotion he'd bottled in washed over his senses. He caught it just in time to keep himself steady and upright.

"Thank you." He turned to the mech who continued to closely observe him while leisurely drinking.

"What's your designation?"

Ratchet paused for a moment and then he slowly made his way closer toward the table. "You don't know?"

With a brow plate raised the silver mech inquired, "Should I?"

Had Ratchet really reached the corners of Cybertron where the public faded and a completely new culture rose? Perhaps. Perhaps he had.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Ratchet's digits dug into the energon cube, breaking the seal. "It's Ratchet." He took an experimental sip. Definitely not anything he's ever had, and something taste modules would have to adjust to, but Ratchet's body gleamed with the replenishment. "Might I ask yours?"

"Megatron," the mech answered, crumpling up the empty container until its outer sealant faded away. "And, how long, might I ask, will you be keeping in Kaon's sub levels?"

Ratchet turned his focus away from the cube in hand, back toward the silver mech. "Is there a preset time limit I should be aware of?"

A quick smile twitched Megatron's lip plates. He shifted, crossing his arms while relaxing in his seat. "Not quite. Take it as an optional guideline. You might have found a region where no one recognizes you, doctor, but down here they'll see you as something else."

"An 'upper,'" Ratchet recalled.

"I was going to say, 'spare parts,' but that term is appropriate as well," Megatron replied.

Ratchet nodded, his digits tightening around the half absorbed cube in hand. "With all due respect, Megatron, I think I've garnered enough experience to be able to care for myself, even in the sub levels."

Megatron made no further comment, simply sat and observed. Ratchet felt no discomfort, not when he finally found a place to hide away from everything.

"What was it that you did?" Ratchet had just finished his cube when the other spoke up again. There was no need to elaborate further, not when past logs shifted through the medic's processor.

"I killed a carrier and her litter." Ratchet didn't detail further. He looked at the mech with a hard-pressed glow in his optics. If he needed a reputation in this city to keep 'bots from looking his way then he'd nurture it.

"And they let you keep your life, helm and hands."

Ratchet rotated his shoulder cogs. "They did."

Nodding, Megatron rose. "I've learned one shouldn't question destiny when it provides a pass. In these parts, your expertise is in high demand." He paused, waving his hand. "Not the killing carriers and litters part, but your medical experience. Especially in my line of work."

"Your line of work?" By estimate, Ratchet deduced Megatron's form to fall within the lines of Manual, but the usual identifying stripes were nowhere present on his frame. And the mech didn't seem to lean towards clarifying or confirming suspicions. No, there was a simple nod and Ratchet was once again following his lead.

To say Ratchet was surprised when Megatron lead him to a gladiatorial arena was an understatement, as well as an overstatement. The sense of it all began clicking into place when he moved through the underground campers, passing 'bots who were too familiar with Megatron that could be explained away.

Ratchet had never observed a gladiatorial fight, not in channel or present. His tastes were elsewhere. And so to be underneath an arena, staring at contenders bristling themselves certainly was a new experience.

"And here I was: beginning to think you actually wouldn't show up." Ratchet, as well as Megatron's attention was pulled toward a blue mech. He was prepping titanium knuckles in place when he turned to look toward them. The mech's attention naturally fell to Ratchet. "It's not like you to bring visitors."

A startled sound purged from Ratchet's vocals when someone had rounded and flicked up the hood of his cloak. He tried to reach back for it and conceal himself again, but too many already took notice of his face and paint.

There was a low rumbling whistle. "Well, I don't see why not." Another mech, the one who let curiosity uncover the guest. "He's a cutie."

"Overlord, Barricade," Megatron named in succession. "We've known each other for some time now, enough for the both of you to understand just what would happen should I find this mech treated with any less respect from the both of you."

Barricade was the first to submit, holding up his hands and giving them both a perimeter. "I got it, I got it. No touching."

Overlord only kept to his corner, leaning against the grated wall, his optics scanning curiously.

"His name is Ratchet. He's new to the city. I brought him here so he can be of service." Megatron looked toward Ratchet who still had his bright optics on those around them.

"And what does he provide?" Overlord questioned, scrutiny in his gaze. "Weapons expert, metallikato instructor?"

"Doctor," Ratchet finally spoke up after clearing his pitching frequency, and sliding his hood back on to shield himself from more than deviant optics aiming his way. "I'm a doctor."

There was a laugh that hailed from Overlord. He leaned away from the wall, approaching his fellow warrior and the 'bot he brought. "Couldn't take old Painkiller and finally got yourself your own medic."

"Oh, I won't be the one needing him," Megatron replied, his lips curved in the same manner as Overlord's. The blue mech let out another laugh, not quite threatening, but not quite one filled with comradery.

"Hey, if you're even an iota above Painkiller, you can count me as a regular," Barricade mentioned, already looking to Ratchet for the care he'll need.

There was a pat on Rachet's back. Megatron motioned to him before moving toward the weapon's hanger. "This occupation is entirely up to you. Down here, if you don't like a 'bot, you certainly don't have to help them. But I can assure you the pay would be worth your while."

Ratchet watched Megatron mull over the stacked racks, his optics leaning toward the maces. Watching him test the balance of a few of them alerted the medic's sensors that this 'bot knew how to handle his frame in a fight. His motions of practice were too precise for a once-assumed manual.

Trying to keep to himself was proving difficult for Ratchet. His frame couldn't compare to a number of the 'bots present, and his stance was one that had many curious sensors zoning in on him. Despite it all, Ratchet found himself gravitating toward Megatron's perimeter. There was a warped sort of comfort even in his obvious dangerous range.

"How . . ." Ratchet was almost mesmerized by the way Megatron prepped his components for the upcoming match. "How long have you been a . . ."

Pausing mid lunge, Megatron turned his scarlet gaze on the smaller mech. "A gladiator?" Straightening, he ran his processors for a moment. "Quite a long time now."

Ratchet couldn't ignore the fact that his audial sensors continued to pick up the sounds of metal crunching metal and faint cries of pain in the distance. "Do you enjoy this line of work?"

Ratchet detected the scoff in Megatron's vocals. "Hardly. But, after the mines were automated, there weren't many other options I was able to choose from."

Processor frames whirled as Ratchet connected the details. "Wait, you were a miner?"

Megatron's smile was pleasant, even as a pinging alarm flashed across the hall. And then a staffer shouted, "Megatron, Shatterram! You're up!"

"A story for another time." And then Megatron turned and moved down the hall, being joined by his opponent just as the gates were raised. It was then Ratchet could see the lay of the arena, scattered with obstacles and bordered with spikes. He then wondered if every match ended in an offline.

"You wanna watch?" Ratchet turned to look at Barricade. His arms were crossed and optics flickered toward the closing gate. "There's an observational window just down the hall."

Collecting himself, Ratchet stuffed down his curiosity. "Oh, no. It's not my scene."

Barricade shrugged. "If you say so." He paused for only a moment before he crouched down, hand rubbing his knee joint. "Then can you take a look at my rotators? Nothing serious, but ever since the last fight there's been a weird kink that's been driving me bolts and nuts." Despite his disposition he looked up at Ratchet with a beg in his expressions, very similar to a youth asking their parent for an energon goodie. "Come on, you're a doc, aren't you?"

Yes, he was. And if Ratchet was going to manage any small amount of survival with the life he's been given then he'd better learn to start taking the opportunities laid out for him.

Kneeling, Ratchet began the examination. "A kink you said, where at exactly?"

"Right here," Barricade pointed, tapping the exact spot. "It sort of feels like an unbalanced gear, but I don't suffer from those often, and, well, I'm no doctor so . . ."

Ratchet pulled out a few of his tools, nodding. "Right, I'll take a look."

. . .

"Doctor? Doctor Pharma?"

The aerial didn't even realize he'd zoned out of the present and buried himself into his internal processor. But it was his patients' vocals that pulled him back into reality. Shaking his helm, and dilating his optical panels, Pharma turned to the two seated in his office and returned to the task at hand.

"Oh, right." He moved, picking up a case and then slipping in a stack of vials. "Take two of these within the next cycle and then two more following. If the symptoms persist contact me."

The two 'bots smiled and nodded in gratitude as they took the case and left. Once Pharma was alone he sounded a sigh and reached into his desk to pull out a datapad. On it was filled with back logs, a portion opened and observed while the majority remained to be researched. Any chance that he got, Pharma took to running through them, a tedious task, but one he met.

It was but two kliks later that he received an inbound call. He sounded another sigh until he noticed the ID. "Thunderclash?"

'Pharma, I just had a meal with Gunterpipe.' Pharma leaned forward on his desk, interest peaked. 'He told me that the evidence involving Ratchet's case had been dated past expiration when they got it. Protocol had them toss out a majority of it.'

Pharma's optics darkened, a groan seeping past his grit dentals. "And none of them even bothered to question it? Slaggin' Primus, our systems are run by androbaboons."

'Well, the good news is I know where the waste went, and the 'bots in charge there are so backlogged that the chemicals in their possession hail from the First Age. I'm currently on my way to meet with them now.'

"Did you tell Orion already?" Pharma heard Thunderclash sigh.

'I couldn't manage to get a hold of him. With how busy he's been, I'd have better luck just relaying in person.'

Pharma nodded. "After my shift, I'll be sure to do it."

'How about your end? Any luck with the orders?' Pharma looked back down at his datapad. "Which one?" There was a pained chuckle, one that even Thunderclash picked up. 'Keep it up, Pharma. You're still doing a vital part.' Even though there was no need to, Pharma found himself shaking his helm, a hand coming up to rub down his tensed facial plates. "I know, but Primus, sometimes it feels like I'm getting nowhere, and when I'm getting nowhere we go nowhere, and when we go nowhere Ratchet . . . Ratchet remains banished and homeless and fuelless, and, frag, I worry so much for him."

'You're not the only one. But we've known him for a while, and we both know he's got ways of handling himself.'

Pharma let out a small laugh. "Yes, yes he does, doesn't he?" After a short pause he straightened in his seat. "Alright then, off with you. I've got backlogs to get into."

. . .

"Oh, you again?" The staff 'bot didn't look annoyed per say, but Orion did try to remain optimistic.

"I'll only take a moment of your time. Please, could you answer some questions for me?" This was the fourth time Orion moved outside of Senator Proteus' home. More than a few other times he managed to track down staff members on their routinely chores. He just happened to catch this one as they were hauling in a shipment of energon grade.

"I've really told you all that I know," the staff 'bot said, laying down his crate and crossing his arms, an opportune stance in Orion's optics.

"No, it's not about that day. I just want to ask you what your relationship with the medic was." Primus knows how many interviews Orion has logged—on his own. And every time he reviews them he comes up with further questions.

"Relationship? Didn't really have one. Ships in the night is all."

Orion nodded, coding everything in. "From your perspective, how would you have described him?"

"Well, he seemed fair enough. From the times I did happen to pass by he never really gave me any doubt that he'd turn on the family." The 'bot rubbed his chin. "Though, I suspect that simply is the case with most malevolents."

"If I may ask: were there any others in the staff that carried tension with him?"

"Tension? No, can't say that I recall anyone like that." He waved his hands. "Look, we all just do our parts. He did his too, until then."

Orion moved to ask another question, but the sound of approaching motors and then a transformation shift turned his attention away. There was Senator Proteus himself, in tow was four of his personal guards. He must be returning home.

"Ah, Officer Pax. I would say you're a sight for malfunctioning optics, but then I'd be lying." Proteus wore a smile, his previous comment laced with jest, but Orion suspected dismay as well.

The staff 'bot said nothing and only picked his crate back up and carried on with his job. Orion was left alone within the Senator's range.

"The Enforcement is really lucky to have you, Pax. Determined and persistent. Noble qualities," Proteus said, keeping a smile Orion wasn't sure how to decipher.

"Thank you." Orion inclined his head politely. "I just want to make sure justice is left in the end."

"Justice? But it was, wasn't it?" Proteus shifted. "You exhaust yourself for no reason. Your superiors already helped to assist me and my family. I continue to wonder why you keep coming back to a closed case."

"According to regulation I-486, the proceedings of the case did not meet the proper time capacity. The regulation was written in law to give observational, enforcement, and investigative departments compliant room to determine correct analysis." Orion didn't at all have any qualms with quoting the law to the Senator, too aware he likely overlooked a majority of them.

"How amusing you are; relaying law to a senator. It was a governmental case. Naturally the investigative process would be pushed for priority. Simple as that." Proteus reached out, swinging his arm around Orion in a friendly manner, but the hand patting his chassis was firm, almost threatening. "Look, I know that you and that medic were old Academy colleagues. No one wants to believe their friends are capable of unspeakable atrocities. It's hard to process, and certainly harder to accept. I still find myself struggling to come to terms with just what happened. I suggest you do the same. Our dear Ratchet's made a mess for himself, we wouldn't want that mess falling on you, now would we?"

Orion's optics narrowed. "I suppose not, sir."

Proteus patted his chassis again and finally let go. "Good. Now do yourself a favor and get back to your proper work. Wouldn't want you to get into trouble with your superiors."

When Proteus left with his escort and disappeared inside his estate, Orion Pax was left standing, observing, and loathing. He promised Ratchet from the day of his arrest, even after the time of his banishment, that he would find him justice even if he had to be the only one searching for it.

Fortunate enough; Orion had the likes of Jazz, Thunderclash, and Pharma on his side. They weren't the best nor ideal group of investigators, and their different departments often created a clash of schedules, however, it also created opportunities to look into pieces of the case previously overanalyzed. While Orion did have his share of duties every day, he worked overtime to ensure he garnered enough time for his own investigations. This only led to restless as well as wearisome shifts.

His current shift had him feeling depleted. After a routine patrol Orion was just returning to the station when he bumped into a 'bot. With lower than ideal fuel lines and in much need of a proper recharge, Orion hadn't processed the mech's field quick enough to avoid collision. Luckily there were only minor scratches.

Both transformed at the same time. "Apologies," Orion called, giving the mech a scan down to assess the damage.

The mech seemed in brighter spirits than Orion. "Oh, no, that's quite alright. Almost made me feel like I was back in Praxus." He patted the small dent on is chassis, but otherwise waved off the offense.

"You're from Praxus?" After an assessment Orion could conclude that the mech looked foreign.

With a nod the mech held out his hand. "Name's Prowl, transferred yesterday, but arrived in the city too late to begin my position, so today's my first day."

"Orion Pax." With a proper shake Orion's curiosity peaked. "New cadet?"

Prowl shifted. "Sort of, mostly security at the Grand Imperium."

"Impressive, I wonder how you managed to snag that kind of job," Orion teased. Prowl smiled back at the comment.

"Oh, just my dashing feats back home," he carried on. The two laughed for a moment before Prowl spoke up again. "So, does Iacon give their patrollers four thousand mile routes or are you just ill-equipped for the shift?"

It took longer than it should have to process Prowl's quip. "Oh, no. I've just been expending myself in my own investigations."

Prowl's optic panels whirled with curiosity. "Your own investigations? Now that's something I don't hear often."

Orion garbled his vocals for a moment, the slight static ping to it notified his exhaustion. "For a friend, one I believe was wrongly sentenced."

Prowl's attention seemed to be zoning in, and by the way he stepped closer it was clear he was opening his audio receptors. "Now that's something I've been hearing quite often lately. Might I ask what became of him?"

Orion shook his helm, meeting Prowl's line of sight. "You should already know what happened to the medibot accused of killing Senator Proteus' mistress."

Prowl's optics flashed brighter for a klik. "That case? Why, everyone and their neighbor's neighbor tuned into that. The doctor was your friend? I'm quite sorry."

"I don't want your pity." Orion caught his emotion, but not until after he forced heavy words out. "Forgive me. I don't expect you to understand."

"No," Prowl offered. "Perhaps it was I who jumped to conclusions. After all, I haven't been a firm believer in Cybertronian justice these days. Though, it is common for relations to glitch out rational personalities."

"So I've been told," Orion mentioned. Scrutiny and guards aside, Orion straightened himself for a proper welcome. "Thanks for the honest conversation, Prowl, and welcome to Iacon. I wish you the best in fulfilling your role."

Prowl nodded. "And I wish you the best in you fulfilling yours, both of them." Prowl's smile was genuine; it was becoming a rarity in those parts.

Transforming, Orion continued his drive toward the Station, unaware that his resolve spurred an interest in the other mech.

TheThirdTimesACharm: Ok, so, remember, Ratchet is still quite young. It wasn't that long ago that he graduated from the Academy. And Megatron here has yet to actually become the face and head honcho of the Anti-Functionist movement; all for plot convenience. We'll get there though!