Scene ii

Megatron started violently, and shoved the Autobot Commander away from him as if the red mech were infected with scraplets. Optimus fell onto his repair platform in a groaning clash of metal.

"Ratchet, you sneaking little slag-sucker!" the Decepticon swore, "How long have you been spying?"

"Spying is for amateurs," the Autobot doctor retorted. "I'm your Medic. I know all." He strode up to the two mechs, stopping beside his crumpled Commander.

Optimus muttered a few choice words regarding his bond-brother's origin while Ratchet examined the welds on his dented frame. All held sound.

"If it turns out you've damaged your dear brother just now," the Medic glowered at Megatron, "I know you'd be a lot more upset than you'd let on. Of course-" He grinned evilly. "But that's nothing to how you'd feel after I was through with you..."

The white medic shone a blacklight along crisscrossing seams, and tested a few joints. But he seemed satisfied.

"You're fine; quit complaining," he told his CO brusquely. He smacked the two larger mechs heartily. "Silly glitches," he remarked, a fond smile slinking across his face. "I ought to bash your fool heads together."

Optimus winced, "Why is it that the bots who say they want me healed are the ones knocking me around today?" he grumbled.

Ratchet brandished an admonitory finger. "You'd have hardly felt that, if you'd been resting quietly as you know you should. How many times have I told you not to exert yourself until you're fully repaired?"

"Exactly 39,596,482 times, old friend." Prime's optics twinkled.

Ratchet's response was too muffled for them to hear, but perhaps that was for the best. He emerged from the depths of a low cupboard, holding a cylinder of the specialty energon that he and Wheeljack had formulated for emergency transfusions. The stuff was so potent that a few drops could accomplish what it normally took a full cube to do. He hung the glowing container from a hook above the repair berth, and ran a thin cord down from to it.

The Autobot Commander barely twitched as his doctor deftly inserted the transfusion line into his neck.

"It's just as well this damned war is over," the white mech muttered. "It'll take away your last excuse to need this stuff. I was worried you might be growing addicted to it."

Running out of lectures for Prime, Ratchet moved to Megatron's side and put a hand on the Decepticon's scuffed shoulder. "Any other problems while I was away?" he asked.

The big mech flashed a furtive glance at Prime. "Uh, nope. No problems, Doc. It looks like he will live." He grunted. "...As usual."

Ratchet gave the Decepticon a friendly pat. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll still think of you as a monstrous, mech-eating butcher if you want me to. But if you didn't care about him, you wouldn't have called me last night. We all love him; we can't help it." He winked. "It kinda sneaks up on you."

He turned to his Commander, and jerked a thumb back at Megatron. "Prime, this big heap o' slag here hasn't shut down or moved from that chair since we brought you in here over nine cycles ago."

"It was pure self-interest, I assure you," the gray mech growled.

But Ratchet was already ignoring him. With the exultant air of a seasoned general returning victorious from battle, the white Autobot moved briskly through the medbay, confidently gathering instruments from various drawers and cupboards. He placed the tools he'd collected on a wheeled, flat-topped cart, and pushed it over to Prime's and Elita's repair platforms.

Intent on his work as he examined the small femme, the Autobot medic began whistling a simple, almost-forgotten tune from before the war. He ran a scanner down the length of her still frame, nodding to himself as the instrument beeped steadily. His smile broadened as he noticed the way Prime had once again interlaced her fingers with his.

"She's going to be fine," he replied to the unasked question in his commanding officer's intent optics. When Prime looked unconvinced, he added, "Truly, Optimus. There should be no lasting ill-effects. Just give her a little more time to recuperate, old friend." Picking up a long-handled wrench and gesturing with it for emphasis, he added, "And don't fail to grant me the respect that such a miracle-worker deserves!" He tested the tightness of a few bolts in the femme's knee and elbow joints, and suggested, "Remember the bot who saved your sorry afts when it comes time to distribute the high-grade, or the-"

Megatron interrupted him. "I assume you'll be sharing a portion of your spoils with Rumble and Frenzy. Or had you conveniently forgotten them?"

"The Cassettes?" demanded Prime, feeling he had suddenly fallen behind.

Back at the Autobots' forward command base near Talus, the two Cassetticons were engaged in a fiercely-competitive game of skill and chance with Smokescreen, Bumblebee, Mirage, and Trailbreaker. The Autobots seated around the table had all sustained wounds during the storm; and since they were unfit to assist in the clearing of the battlefield, they had volunteered instead to keep watch over the still-somewhat-unstable Cassette twins.

The two diminutive Decepticons were raised up in their chairs by wobbling stacks of datapads, but they paid no mind to the precariousness of their positions. They shouted taunts at the other players, threw their markers with abandon, and gleefully gathered up armloads of chits when they won.

And they won often. "It's unfair," Mirage protested in mock indignation, as he lost yet another round. "They have the advantage over us. We've all had ages to learn each other's tells, but we have no practice in reading these two little slaggers!"

Rumble chortled gleefully. "That's right, Mr. Shiny-Shafts; practice your excuses!" He reached out toward a stack of orange chits in the middle of the board.

"Not so fast, punkaft." Smokescreen flourished a winning combination, grinning wickedly as he spread the cards out on the table. He counted out loud as he moved his piece ahead five spaces.

"Laugh while you can, rust-bucket," grumbled Frenzy, passing a disordered mixture of markers, cards, and chits across to the grinning Autobot.

Laugh while we can, eh? he radioed his brother, his dark tone devoid of humor.

'S better than spending our last breems crying in a corner, isn't it? returned Rumble with a shrug.

"Once again!" He called out to the table full of Autobots. "All in!"

"...And so," Ratchet explained, "Those little twerps worked on the fiddly bits that ol' Megsy here was too club-fingered to manage-" (Here he dodged a swipe from a heavy black hand) "...And I soldered you two together as best I could with rust and axle grease, and hoped to Primus it would hold."

The white medic turned to confront the Decepticon Commander. "And now, my friend, it's time for you to relieve yourself of guard-duty." He lifted a peremptory hand, as Megatron rose from his chair to protest. "No buts. You've seen for yourself that he's going to live. But you will not be so lucky, if you don't recharge. I don't know what you did to get yourself so thoroughly scrapped yesterday, but when I came in, you looked like warmed-over slag. And it's only gotten worse since then. So no more excuses. You're going to spend a few breems taking care of yourself, or you'll be completely useless for your big presentation this evening."

"What about Elita?" demanded Megatron, just as Prime asked, "What big presentation?"

"She's doing fine. But it's possible she'd be disappointed to find you dead when she comes out of stasis," the white Medic warned.

He gestured to his CO to wait a klik for his question to be answered. Then he planted his hands on Megatron's shoulders and began propelling the much larger mech toward a low recharge bunk along the far wall. "Half a cycle," he declared. "Shut down now, or I'll do it for you!"

There was no gainsaying the old white mech. Much to his own surprise, Megatron allowed himself to be pushed onto the bunk. He tried not to show what a relief it was to finally lie down.

Working speedily at a task he'd done countless millions of times, Ratchet checked the connections and adjusted the settings of the power berth's mechanism. "Now, this won't be a standard recharge," he explained. "Thanks to your big announcement, we don't have the time for that. Wheeljack and I worked out an emergency mode for use during battle."

He retrieved the glowing cube from Prime's berth, withdrawing the cord from the Autobot Commander's neck with a muttered, "You've had enough, you big faker."

Back beside Megatron, he spoke jauntily, "On the plus side, you'll be getting some of Prime's special energon. On the minus side..." He shrugged. "You're probably not going to feel so great when you come back online. This charger is configured for Autobots, and although I've done my best to rewire it for you, I make no promises. It's a quick and dirty process; but there isn't time for slow and clean. It'll give you what you need to keep you on your feet, anyway."

"Quick and dirty," the Decepticon growled, "Is something I am good at."

"Well, here's your chance to prove it," Ratchet returned bluntly. He plugged the gray mech into the bunk's power cells, pushed his shoulders firmly down onto the platform, and rapped him sharply on the browplate. "Good night," he said with a grim smile.

And Megatron's optics went dark.

"What do you suppose they're planning?" Huffer asked apprehensively, as he and Gears prepared to haul away a load of scrap from the battlefield. The two of them turned to stare gloomily up at the now-notorious hillside. Rumors flew; but like the rest of the Autobots without leadership rank, the two small transformers had been give no definite information apart from the two brief messages that had been sent out to 'Bot and 'Con alike. The first had come a few breems after dawn on the day following the Ceasefire:

Attention. All hostilities shall cease from this time forward. Anyone found in breach of this ceasefire shall immediately be put into spark containment. Optimus Prime and Megatron have entered into a permanent truce by means of a spark-bond. They soberly declare that the Great War is ended.

And late last night, a new message had been sent out:

All Cybertronians, regardless of faction, are to assemble at the Talus quadrant in the forth orbit of Tarn. Upon arrival, all able mechs will work to clear the debris from the area, in order to make room for such a large assembly. All those off-world are to return immediately via space-bridge. Those with medical training are to bring their equipment and patients with them to this location, as well. No living Cybertronian is to be absent. At one cycle before sunset, your leaders will initiate the new joint government.
-Till All Are One

It wasn't that Huffer wanted the Great War to continue. He hated fighting. But it all seemed so strange, so sudden, so downright impossible. He couldn't believe in it. How could a peace based on the bond of only two mechs possibly hold? "After all," he grumbled to himself, as he glared balefully at a group of Decepticons working a little way off, "It's not as if any of the rest of us made such a commitment!"

Ratchet tapped a gauge on Megatron's berth with his forefinger, and walked jauntily back to Prime. "I've got to be honest, Optimus; it has been odd having him around. Having him helping..."

He cracked his knuckles, resetting the joints. "If you'd told me last orbit that I'd be content to leave Megatron alone in my medbay, so he could watch over you and Elita while I caught up on my recharge..." He raised an eloquent brow. "I'd have bet my best high-grade on the impending return of the Chaos Bringer. I mean, what else could possibly bring about such a thing?" He smiled down kindly at Prime. "You never cease to amaze me, my friend."

Ratchet planted his feet, then took a firm grip on his Commander's hand. "Time to sit up, old man."

Prime allowed the medic to pull him upright; then made a few careful movements, testing his body. He still felt awful, but he was growing stronger. "Ratchet," he asked, "Why no C.R.? You know I'm the last to disparage your work, but I would have preferred a few quiet orns in a tank to-" he broke off and winced, gesturing at the welds that criss-crossed his frame, "...All this. What's going on?"

Ratchet shrugged. "I would have liked nothing better than to stick you in a CR tank for the next two weeks myself," he said. "But I didn't have the two weeks."

"That 'big presentation' tonight?" Prime guessed. "So Megatron did try to take over the planet without me?"

"He didn't have time to try it. He was too busy sobbing over your battered corpse."

Ratchet drew out a handful of tools from a drawer, and dropped them onto a tray with a clatter. "But he did tell Prowl and Shockwave that you two would resume command tonight." He shuffled noisily through the clattering pile of instruments, and selected a long-handled spanner. "They'd started pestering him about the troops growing restless." He shrugged. "How was he to know..."

The white medic selected a spanner, and hitched a rolling stool over to Prime's right side. "Anyway, under the circumstances, it didn't seem prudent to broadcast the fact that you and Elita had been so seriously injured. So I patched you up the old fashioned way."

Activating a little spotlight on the side of his head, the Autobot lifted his leader's right arm, and examined the mechanism of the shoulder joint. "How does this feel?" he asked, tapping the spanner on a newly-repaired linkage.

"No worse than any other piece of me feels," Optimus replied, grimacing.

Ratchet chuffed. "After you sort all the slag out tonight, I'm throwing the three of you into the tanks just to make certain you finally heal. And I'm not taking no for an answer. But for now, you're going to have to make do with a weld-and-wire patch job."

Optimus gradually settled into the routine of examination. He activated servos when Ratchet told him to, but otherwise sat still and let his mind wander. A thoughtful quiet settled over the two veteran mechs.

"I'd really like this to be the last time that I'm called on to repair battle wounds, Prime," Ratchet murmured after a while. His words were distorted by the drill bit he'd stuck in his mouth for safekeeping.

"So do I, old friend," the red mech replied. "Fervently!"

He'd been staring down at his open right hand. Suddenly he noticed that the blue paint was worn off on the inside surfaces of the thumb and palm, where the grip of his gun so often rested, and on his forefinger, where it would be poised against the trigger. He looked closer. It wasn't only the paint; his hand had actually been molded by the gun handle. The mech and the tool had worn into each other. It was an unpleasant reminder of how long he had been at war. Yet despite that he'd always claimed to be a peaceful being. Now who was he trying to fool?

"Ratchet?" he asked, his voice low and uncertain. "Do you think I can ever be anything but a soldier?"

The white Autobot set down the wrench he'd been using, and crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you talking about, Optimus?" he asked.

"I finally have a real chance to win the peace that I've spent my entire life fighting for..." Prime stopped, and chuckled dryly. "Fighting for peace. Such impossible nonsense. And yet," he went on, his focus returning to Ratchet, "Now that it is at last within my grasp, I feel unsuited for it somehow. Perhaps it all comes down to programming." He sighed. "All those long vorns ago, I was built to be a soldier. I think I've forgotten how to be anything else." He straightened out his long legs, clasped his hands behind his head, stretched, and popped an errant back-strut with a groan. "I think I'm going to have to reformat myself, somehow..."

Ratchet considered his friend thoughtfully. "We all have a lot of changes to make, Optimus. I don't think that the future you want will allow any of us to remain the same mechs we have been up to now." He dropped his arms to his sides, and blew out a hiss of air from his vents. "Quite possibly, that is a good thing..."

The CMO rose, lifted an extendable backrest out of the stool he'd been using, then flipped it around and sat down on it backwards, with his arms folded across the narrow, curved bar. "I think we've all been a little bit warped by this war," he said. "I don't think any one of us has kept much of the programming we were formed with. I'm certainly not the same mech I was when I was created." Ratchet's optics dimmed in memory. His face was grave, and even a bit wistful.

Prime looked across at the medic, and remembered the days long ago – so long ago that he could hardly recall them – when the medibot had been the lively focus of most of the high-spirited gatherings in their social group. "I do miss your laugh, Ratchet old friend," he said. "I'd almost forgotten. But it was good to see you smile today."

Ratchet shrugged. "Yes. It felt good to have something to smile about." He quirked a sardonic brow. "Even if it was over the welded-together bodies of two of my closest friends."

Optimus slammed a fist against the bunk he was sitting on. "We must make this work, Ratchet! I do not believe we will be given another chance, if we foul this one up."

His optics burned bright in concentration. "I need to make some sort of sign," he said thoughtfully. "Something... not only to remind everyone around me that things must change, but to remind myself as well. Something to remind me of the mech I was meant to be, before everything got twisted in this blasted war..."

Suddenly he lifted his head, and his gaze glittered fiercely across at the medic. "Ratchet! What about-"

His optics flickered, as uncertainty began to cloud his conviction. "Ratchet," he began again, "Do I... Do I by chance have a functioning mouth underneath this faceplate?"

Ratchet burst out laughing. "You have to ask?" he chuckled.

"I never needed to know before!" Prime remonstrated. "It wasn't important! I always assumed a working mouth was surplus to requirements! Especially..." His voice dropped, "After I received the Matrix and was reformatted as the Prime..."

Ratchet's face grew serious once again. "Yes Optimus," he replied. "You do have a mouth." With friendly chastisement he added, "I've had to piece your head back together enough times to know."

Prime leaned back. "I thought you might."

The Autobot Commander sat still, as if frozen."I wonder if I can-" He hesitated. "I don't know if-"

"Is that the sign you're considering, then, old friend?" Ratchet interrupted, his voice full of compassion.

The red mech did not reply. He sat for three full kliks without moving a servo.

Then, "Do it," he ordered.

In a rapid, decisive movement, Optimus lay back onto his repair berth. He took hold of Elita's hand, tilted his head back, and shut down his optics.

Ratchet took up a laser scalpel in his hand, and looked down at the waiting Prime lying still – too still; the Medic could hear his Commander's servos whining in tension, and knew that Optimus was not as quiescent as he appeared. "Last chance to back out, old man," he said kindly. "Are you certain this is what you want?"

The tall mech's optics twinkled to life for an instant, and squinted up at the white Autobot in what was, for Prime, a smile. "Do it, my friend," he said. "Before I have the chance to change my mind."

Blaster had worked hard for four cycles, and was now bent on enjoying the short time he'd been given to rest and refuel. Passing the door to one of the anterooms of this makeshift base, he was surprised to hear a rush of laughter coming from within. He paused, and backtracked to the open doorway. His jaw dropped.

"I'm crushed." The orange Autobot made his entrance with one hand pressed theatrically over his 'wounded' spark. "Crushed, I tell you," he repeated. "Here you all are, holding the first Bot-Con union party of the New Era, and I wasn't invited?"

Bumblebee laughed, and waved him in.

Still feigning indignation, the communications specialist grabbed an empty chair, and flopped into it with a huff. He threw one foot up onto his knee, and waved an arm dramatically. "It's not a party until I by-Primus say it's a party," he growled, glaring at each of the mechs at the table in turn. He waited, holding their attention like a magnet.

"Now it's a party," he declared. And he began playing thumping techno music through his speakers, ignoring Mirage's pained expression.

"So kind of you, your Party Czar-ness," Rumble chuffed. "Now can we get on with this round, please? I'd like to finish trouncing you all again."

Blaster scooted his chair up behind the two Cassetticons, to where he could peek over their shoulders at their holdings. "I won't give away your next move," he assured them. "I just wanted to know if you two were as good at cheatin' your way through this slaggin' game as Eject and Rewind are."

Rumble snorted. "You kidding? We practically invented this game. Should have, anyway. Could have..."

"Point is," cut in Frenzy, "We're, like, geniuses when it comes to this game."

"Yeah. Watch closely, an' ya might learn something," Rumble finished, fanning his cards with a flourish. "We could teach Primus himself a thing or two."

The first thing Elita became aware of was the familiar pressure of her bondmate's well-worn fingers against her own. As her audios rebooted, she began to hear the sharp clink of tools against metal, and the steady, trusted voice of Ratchet. He was speaking too softly for her to catch the words, but this did not trouble her. Optimus was with her. She felt safe.

Time passed. In mild curiosity, she increased the sensitivity of her receptors so that she might listen in on the conversation taking place next to her.

"You do realize that Elita's probably gonna throw a rod." That was Ratchet. What might she have to be so upset about?

Optimus's reply was indistinguishable. His usually robust voice was strangely muffled.

But the pink femme couldn't seem to force her sluggish processor into being too concerned about whatever it was the two mechs were talking about. If necessary, she'd 'throw a rod' later, when she had the strength.

Ratchet's voice again: "Stupid mech. Forever charging ahead, and be damned to the consequences..."

This pronouncement was interrupted by a heated, though inaudible, rebuttal from Prime.

"The personal consequences, then, you ridiculous hunk of scrap. I do realize that you care very much about the big picture, Optimus."

Elita lit up her optics, and turned her head in time to see the Medic place a delicate tool carefully onto a tray, and straighten up with a hissing release of cydraulics.

"I'm finished," he said.

The white mech stepped back, and dropped something small and silver onto Prime's boxy red chest. Her optics were still too blurred from reboot to see it or her bondmate clearly. "There it is, Sir." There was a strange, heavy note in the white mech's world-weary voice.

Optimus picked up the object with slow care. To the watching Elita, his movements seemed unexpectedly tender, yet also strangely fearful. She saw him put a hand up to his face, and move his fingers over it in careful exploration.

"What do I look like?" he asked with uncharacteristic apprehension.

Ratchet shrugged, and gestured toward a polished counter-facing along the far wall. "See for yourself."

Optimus rose haltingly, and limped away across the room, where he bent down to examine his reflection in the chrome. The pink femme watched her bondmate's powerful shoulders rise in a long intake of air, then hunch in awkwardly.

"Well, it's done," he said flatly. "I just hope Elita will understand."

Though her voice was still raspy and garbled with static, Elita summoned the energy to ask, "What do you hope I'll understand, Optimus?"

Both mechs spun around at the unexpected sound.

"Elita! You're online!" cried Optimus, overjoyed.

And as the pink femme watched, Prime's unmasked mouth split into a broad grin.

The challenge had been heard, and Blaster's two mech-formed Cassettes were signaling frantically to their guardian. The little bots demanded that he let them out to answer for themselves.

"All right, you two, stop yer yammerin'." Blaster had barely opened his chest compartment before Eject and Rewind jumped free.

"Let us in on this action," the black and white Cassette demanded, looking up at the circle of mechs seated around the table, his hands on his hips. Rewind glared at the two Decepticons, his optics crackling fire behind his visor.

Meanwhile, Eject had clambered up onto the table and plunked himself down on one corner, startling Trailbreaker into laughter. "Y'all ready for this?" he called, as Blaster pumped up the volume on a piece of high-energy Earthling music that had often been played at the beginning of sporting events. "Game on!"

But then, without a whimper, Frenzy slumped sideways in his chair.

His head cracked sharply against the table's edge, as his small, limp body tumbled to the floor.