Okay, Chapter 10, finally! Sorry for the wait!
I hope this is enough Swiftlock? *hesitant smile*
Enjoy!
Arcee entered the main medical bay, her thoughts on Blurr's words. Prowl didn't seem to be acting stranger than what she was used to, but who was she to judge? Blurr had known the mech for centuries, and she'd met him only a few weeks ago.
Her gaze fixed on Ratchet, who was looming over a silent Prowl, his scanner out and running over the mech's body. She guessed by the look of fury on the medic's faceplate that the Praxian had somehow not bothered to tell him about some injury he had.
"Ratchet, Blurr is in the recharge chamber down the hall." Arcee avoided the ninja's cold stare, her engine revving lightly in discomfort.
"For what reason? I thought he was recharging out here?" Ratchet did not face the female warrior.
"It was his decision." She shrugged almost nonchalantly. When the CMO whipped around, she met his glare defiantly. There was no way she was showing weakness in front of someone—a said patient sitting in front of them—who could read her so easily.
"Arcee," the medic muttered, his engine growling ominously, "What happened?"
"He wanted to recharge somewhere else, isn't it obvious?" She crossed her servos.
Ratchet's cerulean optics narrowed before he faced the waiting Praxian. "Rest. I'll deal with you in the morning."
Prowl stood noiselessly, his doorwings flicking the air as he left the room for his assigned quarters.
Ratchet watched him leave, and then fixed his stare on Arcee.
"What?" She put her hand on her hip.
"What did you do?"
"What makes you assume I did anything?"
The medic scowled. "Arcee, Blurr is far too weak to have made it to the medical berths on his own. You must have helped him, but given his obvious dislike for you, that scenario is highly unlikely." His armor flared out and he seemed even bigger in his near livid state. "So, I repeat—what happened?"
She vented, somewhat irritated, and inwardly knew that Ratchet would not back down until she gave him a reason. She knew that he was fiercely protective of his patients, no matter the ways they had procured their injuries, and one of them leaving unexpectedly would induce his ire and worry.
"He told me about his past." She cleared her vents and continued. "You know how he was an Elite Guard? Did you know about the horrors their new recruits were put through? The methods they used for complete obedience and control over them?"
The medic was silent as he crossed his servos and turned away.
Arcee glared up at him. "You knew? Ratchet, did you even know about the horrors they were put through? It was torture, Ratchet. Torture! Why didn't Optimus do anything?"
Ratchet froze, eerily silent. Then he scoffed, speaking slowly in a quiet voice. "Why didn't he do anything?" He turned towards her slightly, his voice low and menacing. "Why didn't he do anything?" His armor flared out, and his optics blazed so brightly they were nearly white. "Why didn't he do anything?!" The medic snarled, facing the small but powerful femme, who glared back boldly, wanting answers.
"Arcee, "he hissed, pacing the room with his servos clenched into fists. "He did nothing because he was not allowed to do anything! When Optimus was made a Prime, despite being one, he was still a rookie! Even the Primes younger than himself had more experience on the battlefield than he did! Who was he to question their authority after just being appointed a Prime with no evident strong suit?"
He whipped around to face her, a scowl on his faceplate. "Yes, I knew about the Elite Guard's methods. Did I favor them? Pit no. But there was nothing we could do. Would it have been running now, Optimus would put a stop to it, I assure you." He vented in deeply, his armor settling back on his chassis. "If you'll excuse me, I need to see to my patients."
With that, the medic was gone, leaving a slightly bewildered Arcee behind.
He paced the room, the one designated as his private quarters. He was too restless to recharge, and the Prime did not favor it if one of his members left without his knowing. Especially someone like him.
But he needed to get out. His wings were cramping, and so were his joints. He had not transformed in millennia—having not followed the Commander's suggestion of using his alt-mode the last time he had been allowed out to look for the strange Praxian—and the aching was driving him insane.
He had to see the medic.
The medic was the only one who understood him. Why, he did not know. He greatly respected the mech. He trusted him, more so than the others that were so eager to belittle him and blame him for petty things such as a human female child going missing.
The Prime knew who he was; therefore he knew what his reactions to certain matters would be. Despite this, the Prime's intentions were still unclear. He could seem trusting one moment, the emotion clear in the burning depths of his intense cobalt gaze, the next; he would be hesitant and wary, traits he could taste in the massive mech's energy field.
His pedes were moving, taking him to the medical bay before he realized it.
The CMO was standing at a monitor, watching the results of a scan with the look of one lost deep in their thoughts. Swiftlock had heard the others speaking about one of their youngest members waking from a coma he had been in from severe Energon loss. Said young one was stretched out on a berth on his side near the medic, optics shuttered and a somewhat calm yet pained look on his faceplate. His doorwings twitched from time to time, and an occasional moan escaped him.
It made him wonder: how could someone so young play a part in such a gruesome war? The mech, designated Smokescreen, was only a few vorns older than their scout Bumblebee.
His thoughts shifted, turning his attention back to when he had trained the little mech. Oh, how he had been so energetic, so eager to learn. It was a trait that could be easily disposed of, his excitement. He remembered how he had become frustrated when he did not perform a move the correct way, and when he had offered help, Smokescreen had snapped at him that he could get it right, that he would get it right. That sheer determination to prove, to show that he could do something— he would always respect the little mech. He would protect him even if it left him within an inch of his life.
Swiftlock headed towards the medic. His back was to him, his digits moving swiftly over the keys of his computer console. Swiftlock let out a deep growl, signaling his approach.
"Yes, what is it?" Ratchet seemed to never start when Swiftlock appeared. The massive warrior moved within the other's peripheral vision, snarling quietly as he nodded at the recharging Praxian before them.
"He is as well as he can be, Swiftlock. His rations will be increased to make up for the amount he lost earlier—"
Swiftlock cut him off with a low hiss and a questioning tilt of his helm.
At this, Ratchet faced him. "You mean you do not know?"
Know what? The Predacon's stance became hostile.
"Calm yourself." The medic vented softly, pinching his olfactory ridge. "Do you not know how Smokescreen was injured? No one ever briefed you on the mission before Prowl went missing?"
Swiftlock growled, a rumbling noise echoing deep in his chassis.
"I am hesitant to tell you, Swiftlock." When the Predacon began to object, the CMO whipped around, glaring. "Listen to what I have to say before you object."
Swiftlock stared, tasting the heady scent of irritation and exhaustion. He had learned that when Ratchet was in a mood as horrible as this, it was best to just let him vent and calm down on his own.
"Everyone here knows what happened to Smokescreen, but we are not favoring the idea of telling you right now. We need enough hands as it is, and you going on a murderous rampage won't help anyone. When he feels well enough, if Smokescreen wants to tell you himself, then so be it. But do not go about trying to pry the information from him. He's as scarred as it is."
The Predacon merely nodded, his gaze lowering to the small Praxian.
Ratchet sensed his worry and turned. "Swiftlock, he'll be okay. I promise you that." The faintest trace of sincere concern for his patient flashed across his faceplate, before it slipped back into the controlled professionalism of an expert. "Now, was there anything else you wanted?"
Swiftlock began to answer, only to cringe and growl lowly as pain stabbed through his neural net. Ratchet whipped around, his optics narrow. "Sit." The word was not a suggestion, and power rang throughout his voice, reminding Swiftlock that the medic had just pulled rank on him.
"Now, Swiftlock." Ratchet growled, forcing the Predacon onto an unoccupied medical berth as he ran his scanner over him. Swiftlock grit his dentia as the aching fire ran through him again, making the medic glance at him in concern.
"Why didn't you tell me before?" It was all too obvious Ratchet had located the problem.
Swiftlock snarled, his optics blazing.
"Of course I was busy; I have other patients besides you!" The medic vented, calming himself. "Your joints and transformation seams are seizing up. You need to transform."
Swiftlock shifted, shaking his helm.
"After everything you've done, you still want Optimus' permission, don't you?" At the Predacon's nod, Ratchet vented in exasperation. "Fine. Give me a moment."
Optimus Prime entered the medical bay, his intense gaze sweeping across the room. Smokescreen was recharging fitfully on a berth, and Blurr was on one across from him. But the reason for his being there was currently seated on another berth, his body rigid but softened only slightly with the tell-tale slackness of one experiencing intense internal pain.
"Ratchet. You wished to speak to me."
The medic nodded, keeping his attention fixed on his conscious patient. "Yes. Swiftlock here is experiencing tremendous pain. He hasn't transformed for millennia, and his joints and transformation seams are shredding." Ratchet looked at him. "What he needs is your permission to leave the base in order to 'stretch his wings', as he puts it."
The Prime looked down at the two. "Your authority supersedes my own in medical expertise, Ratchet. If you believe Swiftlock's health will improve by his transforming, then you have my permission."
On the berth, Swiftlock snarled, his optics flashing.
"He just gave you permission," the medic snapped, approaching the seated Predacon. "Come on. I'll bridge you to a place where you won't be seen." When the other hissed, the CMO scowled. "Yes, I'll be coming with you. I need to be there in order to see if anything else is wrong with your transformation sequence." He tapped in a set of coordinates to the ground bridge controls, and it roared to life. Urging Swiftlock through, Ratchet stopped and looked back at the slightly amused Prime.
"Wipe that smirk off your face before I weld your mouth shut," Ratchet snapped, although there was a light humor hidden in the statement. "If Smokescreen or Blurr wakes, contact me."
Optimus nodded. "As you wish, old friend."
With that, he watched the two exit the base.
Next chapter: Swiftlock's alternate mode! It'll be a while, possibly a few days to a few weeks (sorry *apologetic grin*). I start school tomorrow and I have marching band rehearsal and violin/cello lessons, as well as figuring stuff out on how my mom's going to pack me lunch with barely anything in the house. So, apologies!
Read and review, pleaze! Any questions/concerns/suggestions, PM or leave in a review!
Bye!