Since his… make over, his feathered room mate was rather infatuated with the medic. Apparently, unlike a great deal of animals on this mud ball, chickens weren't colour blind – something about needing to view the ornate feathers of the male for reproductive purposes. The chicken without a name was hopping all over the large, jovially decorated mech. It flapped its stumpy wings furiously and landed on his head. The doctor continued his work, rearranging digi pads, emergency medical supplies and the usual array of machinery needed to save and diagnosis injured patients.

Suddenly alarms blared throughout the base.

"Great, that's all I need, bloody Cons".

Ratchet took the chicken off his head and placed her in her box.

"You gotta stay here, its gonna get pretty active soon".

The medic pushed aside his rage, forgot his colour scheme and began the usual gathering of supplies and activation of machines that would no doubt be needed if Megatron was in a bad mood.

--

It was about three chrono-noughts, which came close to equalling 30 of the humans' minutes, before the first trickles of battle's results came limping in the door.

Jazz came hobbling in, he was supporting an equally mobility impaired Blaster.

The communication expert had a large metal shard through his shoulder joint, his friend; the head of special operations had scorch marks up his left leg that continued onto his torso which had a range of shrapnel holes.

"You know the drill, gentlemen".

The medic waved his hand towards a few of the side berths; he gathered up a bunch of general supplies and wandered over. He performed some quick diagnostic scans of Blaster, whose injury was in more need of attention given the flow of energon that ran down his body.

"You got lucky. It missed your linkage branch and major fuel lines".

There would likely be worse injuries, Blaster could probably not sit there until the more serious of boo-boos would be attended to, and all warriors knew that the time it took to deactivate "pain" receptors or the introduction to the fuel system of "numbing" agents often didn't exist in the aftermath of a battle in Autobot repair bays. Ratchet grasped the metal and pulled straight out, dropping it on the table to the side of the berth. The skilled surgeon picked up a welder and a piece of repair metal and grafted it over the exit wound. He did a quick, but by no means inefficient or lax job of repairing the damage to the minor fuel lines that had been severed. After the ooze of energon had ceased, and the doctor was satisfied with the result, he welded a piece of metal over the entry wound.

"Thanks doc man".

Blaster got up off the berth and Jazz took his place.

Ratchet scanned over the burns.

"These are superficial, nothing a new paint job won't fix".

The doctor scanned over the areas where the shrapnel had entered.

"Not in too deep".

He was talking more to himself then to his patients. He removed each of the 42 pieces and dropped them into a dish. He brushed over the holes with a special polymer that would fill the small holes. There was no time to buff the roughness they'd leave. Jazz was up before the filler had even dried.

"Much obliged to ya, Ratch man!"

The two were soon out the door and back into the thick of the mess. He'd seen it millions of times before, repair the minor injuries quickly and send them back out. Sure, they'd probably come back with worse afflictions, but deal with that when it happened. Other warriors would be in here soon enough with ranges of injuries, but generally, the "walking wounded" would stumble in first, then rush out after. The more serious injuries would take place at the end of the battle when the Decepticons would get desperate, angry or decided to unleash some major weapon or explosive as a deterrent to being followed as they retreated. It also detracted any attention to any damage or item they may have taken during the assault.

--

As it was, as it always tended to be – especially since arriving on earth. Ironhide was the Autobot with the worst injuries. Hoist, Wheeljack and Perceptor worked under the experienced doctor as they fought to save him. Ironhide had taken a running dash at Megatron as the Decepticon commander was trying to take off with a minor leg injury and a swag of Autobot intelligence files. But even damaged, Megatron was a walking trigger of harm. The Commander simply raised his scuffed fusion cannon and let rip.

So, Ironhide now lay on the operating table, missing both arms, half his face, most of his fuel processing cables – or intestines, and half a leg. First Aide came barging into the room, having been called from the city to assist with the moderately injured while the more veteran medics worked on grizzled officer. Despite the pools of energon, the smell of smouldering cables and singed armour, the whinging of some and the muffled moans of others, First Aide still managed to stop dead in his tracks and utter a Cybertronian outburst of surprise as he gazed at the multi coloured Doctor.

"Would ripping out your optics help your concentration, Aide?"

Ratchet asked without even looking up from his patient – it actually didn't take a genius to figure out what caused the surprise from the young doctor.

"Ah… no sir. I'll just go help… ah… those guys…"

His language somewhat stinted as he attempted to process the rainbow violence that was splattered on his superior. Even the chicken perched on the lights above the operating table didn't warrant such astonishment.

IF there was one thing the young mech had learnt in his visits to the Ark, it was really, anything goes.

--

Ironhide's surgery was successful. He'd remain offline in statis for a good few cycles just to ensure he didn't have a chance to go hang out with Wheeljack or pound a few wayward Cons. Ratchet had just finished cleaning up his med bay, and then shooing out the last few hypochondriacs amongst the ranks – namely Gears who was grinding his mouth components as he raged about his pelvic structural integrity not being up to scratch and how he needed a replacement linkage processor.

"Bla, bla, bla, et cetera! GET OUT OF MY MED BAY GEARS!"

The multi-coloured medic screamed. Even Gears wouldn't take on Ratchet on his best days. And this was certainly not his best day. The chicken without a name added insult to injury and dropped a parting gift on the small mech's helmet, the liquid excrement running quickly down his face.

"Haha! I'm really starting to like you, feather ball!"

Ratchet laughed. The medic gathered up a few of the unused supplies and walked to the cupboard where they belonged, the doors opened at his verbal command as his arms were full. And suddenly, his day got even more… annoying.

At least five tonnes of the human fuel "spaghetti bolognaise" catapulted out of the cupboard and splattered all over the doctor.

It was still warm.

"…"

Ratchet growled in such a way that it could have been mistaken for a demon's sneer.

"…The twins…"

A wad of spaghetti flopped from his head and onto the pile of medical supplies, now damaged beyond use.