8. Fateful Meeting

Diego Garcia

Hangar Delta 2

Ratchet bustled over the repair frame. He was really beginning to irritate Barricade. Which, admittedly, didn't take much. So Barricade was doing his best to return the favor. "Stop it," Barricade squirmed, trying to turn his face out from under Ratchet's attempt to scrape the dried energon and coolant from the armor plating. He'd been here for…solars apparently, and no one had risked taking him to a proper washrack. "Think I'm handsome enough for this already."

"Stop…moving," Ratchet muttered, pinning the 'con's head to the back of the repair frame with one hand, while he daubed a dilute solvent on the dried-on gunk.

"Ow!"

Ratchet sat back. "Oh, come on, Barricade. After what you've been through, you don't think I'm going to buy that the sting of a little solvent is torture to you?"

The 'con shrugged one-shouldered. "Worth a shot."

"You have a very odd sense of humor."

"Could say the same about your bedside manner."

Ratchet sighed. "Look, Barricade. I know you're nervous. It's okay. You don't have to put on this abrasive act. I'd be terrified if the humans were taking me, too."

"See? That's what I mean about your soothing bedside manner. And I'm not scared." I'm dead already. Just a matter of time until reality catches up. And it's not an act.

"Sure. Anyway, just so you know," Ratchet lowered his voice, as if he wasn't supposed to tell Barricade this, "I have installed the motion-blocks in your legs. The same as you had put in Ironhide."

Barricade grunted. "A little guarantee of good behavior, served with a delicious sauce of irony, huh?" He met Ratchet's eyes, level. "Only issue I have with that is getting that fraggin' psychopath's used parts."

Ratchet shook his head. He was used to hearing too much from his patients—they normally opened up to him, telling him things they'd never told anyone. Perhaps the repair process bored them, or, unlikely, Ratchet's persona seemed to emanate trustworthiness. But Barricade hadn't opened at all; remained like a tightly coiled prickly animal. It reminded Ratchet of something he had scene on a human television show. A porcupine, he thought it was called. Or prickly-pig. Something like that. But it suited Barricade.

A tap at the door—they hadn't ever installed proper Autobot door chimes, and now there was no point, so they all stuck with the human custom of knocking. Impossible to do, Ratchet had noted many times with increasing irritation, when one's hands were full. "Yes."

The door rolled open—despite himself, Barricade turned to look. A blue cycle bot holding a small human-sized chair, and next to her, apparently, the human for the chair. Male, middle-aged, hair a faded blond. Uniform: military. Barricade spent the first few seconds translating the uniform: Master Sergeant. Sternburgh. Air Assault. HALO. Jumpmaster. Hello, human. Barricade determined to be unimpressed.

He turned his gaze insolently to the cyclebot. "You must be Chromia." He switched to English, so the human could play along. He enjoyed the flicker of emotions across her face, from surprise to how she figured out he knew her name. "Good to see they brought someone so brave to guard the human against vicious big bad me." He flexed his sensor blocked talons, watching them respond slowly, inefficiently. "Heard you went at it with Starscream."

"Shut up, 'con," she barked.

"Chromia," Ratchet soothed, gesturing her back against the wall.

"What?" Barricade blinked in feigned innocence. "I just wanted to know how her repairs were progressing. I hear she lost an arm." He winced, showily. "Painful."

"Con, shut UP!" Chromia said. Ratchet shook his head, warningly. As if Barricade actually had to listen to him. Right.

"How's Flareup, by the way?" He felt a little dirty asking this one. Part of him actually wanted the answer. Chromia rolled forward, arming her missile launcher, her face a hard mask of fury.

Between them, the human, who had settled himself in the folding chair, started laughing uproariously. A little too much, but then again, Barricade was throwing acting subtlety out the window himself. "Jesus H Tap Dancing Christ!" he laughed, "You are gooooood!"

"Supposed to care what you think, human?" Barricade snapped. Still, it was a little gratifying to have his work appreciated. Maybe.

"Only if you want to live."

Barricade rolled his optics. "Really. Well then, take me to the fraggin' casting couch."

The human sat forward, eyes glowing. "You," he said, "are going to be so much fun."

"To break? Try me." Already broken.