Acknowledgements: Thanks to hydraling110 for doing a great job betaing this chapter.

Warnings: Story contains slash.

Disclaimer: Transformers doesn't belong to me in any shape or way.

Ratchet was totally unprepared for the heavy body that collided with his from behind, and neither did he have the time to shout a warning to his recharging comrades before a hand had taken to viciously squeezing his throat, incapacitating his vocalizer. Fear clenched his spark as he felt his feet being hoisted off the ground as his airborne attacker rose with him into the air.

He tried to wriggle free of the arm that was wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides, but it only held him firmer. Desperately, he tried to turn his head around to at least see his attacker's identity, but the hand that still held his throat in a strong grip effectively prevented the movement. Not knowing who had assaulted him only made it worse, especially considering that this was Kalis and everyone knew what kind of stories flourished about this place.

He made another effort to free himself, but to no avail. This time, his struggle was met with a cruel voice that wheezed into his audio receptors, its harsh edge sending chills along his back.

"If you keep that up, I might drop you, and seeing how you ground-huggers can't even fly, you don't really want that. Unless you have a strong desire to end up as a scrap heap, that is."

Ratchet instinctively looked down, and immediately wished that he hadn't. His insides churned with dread at the highly uncomfortable distance between himself and the ground beneath. He gulped, and tensed.

The voice was filled to the brim with smugness as it spoke again, Ratchet's terrified reaction having clearly not gone unnoticed by his attacker. "Yeah, I thought so," it stated self-assuredly.

Then it turned more urgent as it continued. "Luckily for you, I need your services, so as long as you don't struggle or try anything stupid, I won't harm you."

The words weren't exactly comforting, but Ratchet knew that nothing good could come out of trying to fight back at this altitude, so he relented. He had no idea where he was being taken, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know what nefarious plans he was expected to participate in. But at least the derisive term "ground-hugger" had hinted that it was a Decepticon – probably a Seeker – who had abducted him. It made him feel marginally better that at least his attacker was a normal mech of metal and cables and circuits, and not... well, something else.

He couldn't resist the perverse temptation to look down again, flinching as he saw the world rush by in blurry, fuzzy shades. Why the 'Con wanted him, a simple medic, was a mystery, but he was sure he would find out soon enough. Perhaps that was the reason he had been picked over his comrades, since medbots normally didn't carry large arsenals of weapons and had less combat experience. That was the typical display of cowardice one would expect from the Decepticon faction, always targeting those weaker than themselves.

After what seemed like an eternity, his kidnapper slowly dropped his altitude and made for the streets below, to Ratchet's great relief. Instead of touching ground, though, he came to a halt a few arm lengths above it, where he hovered for a moment. Without warning, he then quickly and unceremoniously let go of his load, who fell the short distance and tumbled onto the ground, yelping as he landed with a dull thud.

Rolling around, the medic angrily came to his feet, ready to give the other mech an audio-full for this unnecessarily undignified treatment, Decepticon or not. His words stuck in his vocalizer, though, as he came face to face with a laser cannon, barrel pointed straight at his head.

"Like I said before, there's something I need you to do for me," the mech before him stated simply and to the point. There was a note of stubborn determination in his words that would accept no protests.

Ratchet studied his kidnapper, optics taking in the sleek form and black and purple paintjob that had more than a few recent scratches in it. Yes, it was definitely a Seeker, but he didn't know the name of this particular one out of Megatron's innumerable cronies. It wasn't the infamous Starscream, at least that much Ratchet could tell, but there were no other visible clues as to this one's identity.

"And what makes you think I would agree to aid a Decepticon in anything?" The challenge was all but spat out by the medic. As scared as he had been earlier when hoisted up into an element unfamiliar to him, having solid ground under his feet again brought back some of his courage, despite the threat of the weapon that was aimed squarely at him.

Snorting derisively, the black and purple Seeker let his laser cannon speak for him, a couple of well-aimed shots kicking up debris at Ratchet's feet. A gasp escaped the medic's throat as his lower extremities were sprayed with gray dust, and his fuel pump pounded viciously as he waited in dull shock for his pain receptors to kick in and tell him that at least one of those shots had torn through his armour. But nothing of the sort happened.

"Because then I will let you live, Autobot!" came the caustic reply, accompanied by a minute but expressive upwards jerk of the arm on which the now smoking weapon was mounted.

Ratchet fought back the no small amount of insults that were burning in his vocalizer, deciding it would be a wise move not to antagonize the violence-prone, brutish Decepticon any further.

The Seeker interpreted his silence as compliance and grabbed hold of Ratchet's arm, roughly turning him around and pushing him a few steps forward.

The medic stumbled at the ungentle ministrations but didn't offer any protests. That didn't mean that he was going to go along with whatever heinous plans the 'Con wanted him to take part in, though. He'd rather be off-lined than aiding the Decepticons in their war effort.

"Fix him," the Seeker suddenly ordered as he gestured towards something on the ground. "Fix him, and I'll let you go."

Ratchet stared at where the black hand was pointing, the lack of light forcing him to strain his optics before he was able to make out what the dark shape was. And the realization made his optic ridges shoot up towards his chevron.

It was another mech. A Seeker too, by the looks of it.

Now that was unexpected. And for more reasons than one.

He briefly glanced at his kidnapper, half expecting to be offered some sort of explanation – who this other Seeker was, what he was doing here, how he had gotten his wounds – but was only met with another wave of the cannon.

Well then. He was a medic, after all.

He crouched down beside the fallen Seeker, noticing the dried, flaking energon on the ground. There was no need to conduct any detailed examinations to see that the mech was badly damaged. One of his wings had a big chunk missing in the middle of it and the limbs had been torn out of their joints, the latter probably the result of an unplanned landing. Or a crash, as it was more commonly referred to.

But the worst was the damage to his side, the gaping hole that exposed the circuitry and wirings of the Seeker's inner anatomy, sealed off stumps of torn fuel lines sticking out from it. Somebody – the black and purple Seeker? – had obviously performed some sort of rudimentary first aid on him. Scanning the results critically, Ratchet almost frowned at how crudely it had been done. Clearly the work of a bumbling amateur with no medical skills whatsoever.

Although, to be fair, it probably had saved the life of his comrade.

Ratchet turned around to face the other mech, who towered above him impatiently. "He's badly damaged and I don't have all the equipment I need to perform the necessary surgery," he stated as a matter of fact, his clinical professionalism having already taken over. At the sight of the visibly darkening face, he quickly added, "I will do what I can, though. But he will need to see a real medbay after I'm finished."

"Whatever. Just make sure he'll be able to fly," the Decepticon ordered, a veiled menace behind the words to remind his captive what would happen should he fail to meet expectations.

Ratchet turned his attention back to his patient, silently praying he would be able to do what he was being asked. Or ordered, as it were. He always carried his most basic tools with him – he wouldn't have been much of a medic if he didn't – but they could only do so much. And he didn't have any spare parts either.

But as a good medic, he would be able to improvise. A small welder was part of any medic's standard equipment, and with that, he could solder the fuel lines back together. Some of the wires could be temporarily reattached as well with the other tools he had. As for that disturbingly gaping hole in the Seeker's torso, Ratchet didn't have any extra metal plates lying around, but he could remove some of the armour that covered the Seeker's legs and reattach it as a temporary cover for the wound. It would be a very inelegant solution, but it was better than leaving things in their current state. Exposed wires and circuitry were never a good idea, especially not in a delicate area like that.

He didn't know if the black and purple Seeker would keep his promise and let him go when he was done, though. Decepticons weren't known for honouring their promises, especially not those made to an enemy.

But being severely outgunned, he would have no choice but to comply. He could think of no other alternative route that offered him any chance to get out of this situation in one piece.

Reaching into his subspace pocket, he pulled out his trusty collection of tools and set to work.

Skywarp watched impassively as the Autobot slowly welded the ends of Thundercracker's severed fuel line back together, the occasional flame shooting out from deep within the mangled chassis.

He had always disliked seeing medical procedures performed, this being no exception. Perhaps it was because they reminded him of the fact that, powerful Decepticons as they might be, they were neither invulnerable nor immortal. Of course he knew that, but the thought of needing repairs like a simple, broken vehicle still disconcerted him.

After a while, the bluish glow from the welder died down, and the Autobot put the tool back onto the ground.

"Did you manage to weld it together? Is it functional again?" Skywarp blurted out, clueless as to whether the performed operation was technically complicated or simple standard procedure.

The white and red mech looked up and studied him for a while before answering.

"I did. Large fuel lines like that are fairly easy to repair." He cast a glance down at the open chassis wound before continuing. "Reattaching the severed cables and wires will be more difficult and take longer since they're thinner and more delicate."

"How long?" Skywarp asked, growing suspicious that the medic might be trying to stall for time so that his comrades would notice he was gone and come looking or him.

The medic shrugged. "Impossible to say. It depends on how clean the cuts are and how much rewiring needs to be done."

"Start with the most important wires for his flight and transformation systems," Skywarp ordered, clearly dissatisfied with the vague reply, but deciding not to push the matter any further.

The white and red 'Bot scowled slightly at him. "It's not that easy. Reattaching only some wires of a damaged system can cause it to short-circuit when a mech is brought back on-line. I need to do more or less full repairs on one system at a time; I can't just fix the main wires of each one." There was a tint of annoyance in his voice, the kind that could only have been caused by an amateur telling a professional how to do his work.

Skywarp had no reply to this. Perhaps it was true, or perhaps it was just some mumbo-jumbo that the Autobot tried to pass off as medical fact. Either way, he had no way of knowing.

The medic had gone back to his work, hands deep into his patient's chassis. A low-frequency hum could be heard from the tool he was using to reattach the torn wires.

Then: "So how did this damage come about? What did he get shot with?"

Skywarp's optics narrowed. "What's it to you, Autobot? Just get him fixed already!" He didn't like the question at all, and it was none of the medic's business. Probably he just wanted to gloat at the incompetence of an enemy who had gotten himself gunned down like this.

He was rewardedwith a stern glare, as if he had been a new recruit in need of a reprimand, before the medic answered. "Because being hit by a large, mounted laser weapon as opposed to a hand-held laser rifle is more dangerous. Such blasts are more potent, not only when it comes to ripping a mech's chassis apart, but if cables get hit there is a greater risk of the circuitry getting fritzed up. Simply put, if your friend was shot by one of Kalis' automatic defense systems, there could be complications I need to take into account when I repair the torn cables."

"Fine. He did get shot down by one of those things."

Ratchet nodded. "I suspected that much. But I wanted to make sure."

A few breems passed by, and then the red and white mech spoke again.

"So your friend got left behind, huh? And none of your comrades are coming for him?" The words were more statements than outright questions, spoken by someone who already knew the answer.

"Shut up."

The medic ignored the unfriendly advice. "Sometimes I don't understand what it is that makes you 'Cons willing stay in your faction when it doesn't even cover for you when you need it the most. Since you had to go as far as to enlist the services of your enemy, it's rather apparent that there is no help forthcoming from your own army. And just leaving someone behind like that to die…" The words trailed off as the medic shook his head in disbelief.

Skywarp snorted, his upper lip curling in disgust. Such typical, pointless Autobot soft-sparkedness. "Because we're not weak, pathetic creatures like you are. We follow the way of the strong, which means there will be inevitable losses on the way. Fawning over fallen comrades will only result in losing track of the way to victory. And every mech has to fend for himself; someone who must depend on his comrades isn't a worthy or useful addition to our faction anyway. That's how we foster strength, Autobot!"

Straight out of the books, almost to the letter. Megatron would have been proud of him, had his leader only been here to hear him.

"If that's so, then how come you stayed behind for your comrade's sake?"

The question took the Seeker aback, and his immediate reaction was to throw the medic an angry glare. Of course that wasn't the same thing! Even a mere Autobot should be able to see that.

Not that he could really express why it was different, but surely that should be obvious? It's not like he, the mighty Skywarp, acted out of the same sentimental weaknesses as those Autobots did whenever they stubbornly refused to leave one of their own behind. It was preposterous of the medic to even hint at such a thing.

"He's a valuable part of our trine, and replacing him means having to go through the trouble of training a new flier for the position. Letting highly skilled soldiers go to waste like that will not benefit our cause. And seeing as how he's my bon... wingmate, the duty to bring him back, if possible, falls on me," Skywarp answered, irritated by the direct question.

The white and red 'Bot regarded him for a while, one optic ridge questioningly raised. "If you say so." He shrugged and returned to fully focus on his work.

Stupid medic. Skywarp felt a new wave of annoyance rolling over him, but it all dissolved into thin air at the other mech's next words.

"I've done as much as I can, given the conditions. I'm going to on-line your friend now." A white hand, shaking slightly, reached out towards the still dented, blue metal.

Not daring to breathe, Skywarp watched in a mixture of apprehensive horror and fascination as the Autobot executed the necessary maneuvers to – hopefully – bring his wingmate back to the world of the living. For a few agonizing astroseconds, nothing seemed to happen, and the sprawled body might as well have been a lifeless hunk of metal for all its inanimation. But then there was a small, almost imperceptible flicker in the gray, dead optics, as they slowly started to come to life.

It was followed by a muffled groan, a spastic shudder, a clenching and unclenching of a black hand, and a joyous shout.

"TC, you're alive!"

Skywarp's enthusiastic greeting was met with a pained mutter.

"Sheesh, don't scream like that, Skywarp. My head is already hurting enough as it is." There was some slurring in the voice, but the words were fully understandable.

Thundercracker brought up a shaky hand to his helmet and rubbed at a rather impressive dent on its left side. Then something seemed to hit him, and he stared in confusion at his wingmate, who had pushed past the medic to kneel in the rubble at his side.

"What happened? I remember being shot down, and then... " There was a pause as he searched his processor for the missing link between then and now, but he drew a blank and turned to his wingmate for clarification. "How did I get repaired? While Hook might not offer his patients the kindest of care, not even he would leave his patients to recuperate on a pile of jagged rubble, so I'm obviously not back at base."

Skywarp grinned at the other's pathetic attempt at a joke. Usually, Thundercracker's rare attempts at humour more often resulted in Skywarp rolling his optics towards the heavens than anything else, but seeing his wingmate brought back from the brink of permanent off-lining was enough for him to make an exception.

Explaining just how the repairs had come by might require a bit of tact, though. Having an Autobot saving one's aft was a source of mortal embarrassment as certain as any, but he would do his best to break the news to Thundercracker as gently as possible.

"I kidnapped an Autobot medic and made him repair you."

Then again, tact had never been his strong suite.

Skywarp didn't think he had ever seen a mech's optics widen to such a ridiculously huge size, as Thundercracker gaped at him in surprise and shock.

"What did you just say?"

"You heard me. He's right here, just look to your left si..." Skywarp turned around to gesture at the Autobot, but there was no one there.

Sneaky medic. Apparently, he had taken the opportunity to slip away while Skywarp was busying himself with a newly on-lined Thundercracker.

Oh well, that wasn't important now. He might even have let the medic go in the end anyway. Maybe.

But the Autobot would make it back to his comrades sooner or later, and it would be a wise move to be out of here by then. There would be plenty of time to elaborate on the details later.

"We need to get going. You can fly, right?" the black and purple Seeker inquired hopefully.

There was a vague dimming of Thundercracker's red optics as he meticulously scanned his systems to appraise their level of functionality.

"I think so. There's still some not fully repaired damage, but it's relatively minor. As long as I don't have to fly at top speed or execute any advanced maneuvers, I should be able to make it back to base."

He made to stand up, but then froze mid-motion, a pained expression taking shape on his faceplates.

"So let me get this straight... You mean I actually owe my life to an... Autobot?"

The huge, impish grin on Skywarp's face stretched all the way to his audio receptors as he replied.

"No. You owe your life to me."

End note: Sooo... just being curious here, how many of you guessed that the Autobot medic would turn out to be Ratchet?

Actually, I've had a scene like this pictured in my mind ever since I wrote "Captured" and put in a reference (which I'm sure nobody remembers, but anyway) in that story about how Ratchet had once, long ago, repaired an unnamed 'Con. I thought to do a small spin-off one-shot about that, but never got around to, and instead the idea turned out to fit quite neatly into this story instead.