Disclaimer – "Transformers" and all related characters, events, and concepts belong to Hasbro, Takara, and any other related owners/distributors/producers. We get no monetary benefit from this. Our benefit is the enjoyment of dealing with beloved characters.
"The Ties That Bind"
by Yellow_Ideya & DragonDancer5150
Chapter 12 – The 11th Hour
Are you upset, little friend? Have you been lying awake worrying? Well, don't worry…I'm here. The flood waters will recede, the famine will end, the sun will shine tomorrow, and I will always be here to take care of you. – Charlie Brown to Snoopy (Charles M. Schulz)
Ratchet purposefully cut power to his own vocalizer and moved forward when the Decepticon holding him shoved at his shoulders. Walking hurt like the Pit, each step sending jolts of pain up and down his back struts, but he maintained his pace. ARS was working to dull the sensory arrays around the damaged sectors, but it wasn't instantaneous. At least they were being given some more time. They might not have bought Wheeljack's lie, but perhaps there was still a chance.
Eventually the Autobots would come . . . right?
8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8
Wheeljack's optics dimmed nearly off, head bowing – he maintained only enough outer awareness to keep from tripping – as he and Ratchet were manhandled out of the maze that was the lower levels of the PsySci building and into a cargo bay. Up at ground level once more, the two could hear the distant sounds of combat, seeming as fierce as ever. Maybe more so. Had the Autobots arrived at last?
It seemed that they would never know as they were shoved into the hold of a small transporter along with a handful of other wounded, weary, and frightened student prisoners. Wheeljack dropped to the ground against a wall and curled up, withdrawing, his hands in tight fists behind him, face buried against his drawn-up knees.
Even if the Autobots were here, it was too late for them – too late for him, his new friend, their fellow students, all of them . . . wasn't it?
8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8
As they exited the building, Ratchet straightened as much as he was able, optics scanning the war zone around them. Was that the sound of return fire? Were the Decepticons fighting against someone now? He was shoved along despite his efforts to spot something – anything – in the haze of smoke and cooked atmosphere.
"Hey, empty the med-bot's compartments first," he heard one of the Decepticons call from the entrance to the transporter, and he suddenly found his arms yanked around by a new set of hands.
"Stop- augh! Get your servos off me!" He yanked on his arms, but even if he hadn't been in an advanced state of energy depletion, he probably wouldn't have been able to do much against the larger mechs. He let out a wordless mix of pain and anger as the tool compartments in his forearms were either wedged or bashed open, the components inside ripped out and thrown to the ground. Fraggit, those were expensive and delicate instruments!
A pair of stasis cuffs was strapped around his wrists then – manacles that prevented access to subspace as well as physically binding a prisoner – and he was shoved inside with everyone else. Everyone inside the transport looked like roborats that had been through the grinder one too many times, but at least they were alive. He recognized a face or two but no one from Medical. They all looked equally as downtrodden.
Cycling a slow intake of air through his vents, Ratchet turned away and moved over next to Wheeljack, carefully easing himself down to the floor at his side. Behind them, his fingers searched for his friend's, trying to find that little bit of support. "How're you holding up?" he asked quietly, leaning close and nudging his shoulder against the other mech's to get his attention.
8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8
Wheeljack had similarly been searched, what few compartments he had ripped open and emptied. Their captors couldn't get at the contents of another's subspace compartment, but that was one of the functions of stasis cuffs – to make sure the wearer couldn't either. They'd not thought to check his hands, however, so he still had the mini-tools he'd built into his fingers. Not that they'd do him any good. Even if he could reach anything to try to use them on, he didn't dare. He knew how these things worked – if he were caught at it, he'd be punished . . . likely through someone else while he was forced to watch, with their captors making sure everyone knew who had brought this on them. He couldn't do that, not to the others and not to himself.
The engineer was exhausted, in a lot of pain from his many wounds, and nearly beyond his capacity for fear into a blank state of numbness. At this point, all he wanted was to turn his back on reality and pass out for a while. There was nothing more he could do anyway. He'd . . . he'd tried. He'd failed, but . . . at least he could say that he'd tried. His only real regret was that he'd not tried harder to save Ratchet from the same fate.
He shifted, turning a shoulder into the bulkhead next to him and tried to force himself into at least a light stasis. He stiffened slightly, but did well to hide it, when someone settled behind and next to him, praying they'd leave him alone if they thought he was recharging. But then, fingers were groping at the back of his hip and along one forearm. It startled a yip out of him, and he cowered away on reflex even as he twisted over his shoulder to see who it was and what they wanted of him.
"Ratchet!" Relief and guilt flooded through him, warring for dominance. "I-I'm sorry...Primus, I'm sorry!" The words tumbled out in a sob. "Y-you shouldn't...I never shoulda letcha come with me! A-an' how're you still alive? Those...those shots! I-I thought...thought sure they'd-" His voice cut out, unable to say the words . . . and his crushed flange hurt too much to speak more than he had to anyway.
8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8
"Hey, hey, don't apologize," Ratchet cut in, his voice low and soft. Between them, his fingers finally found Wheeljack's, and he squeezed in some small measure of reassurance. "It's all right. I'd rather be beat up and with you than alone and dead."
His optics dimmed momentarily while he turned his attention inward, a quick diagnostic scrolling past his vision. "Redundant systems took the hit. Backups are at twenty-seven percent." But steadily falling. Eventually, even his medical systems would have to lock him down into forced stasis, but for now they were enough to keep him more or less alert. "Still hurts like the slaggin' Pit, though."
He paused then and fixed Wheeljack with a look that was a mix between some sort of resigned sorrow and a grim understanding of their situation. "Whatever happens, I'm glad I met you. You're a good friend."
8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8
What about alone an' alive? An' free?
It was moot at this point, so Wheeljack didn't bother to say it aloud. Ratchet's bound hands had found his, and he curled his fingers into the other's grip, hanging on as tightly as he could. They were almost back-to-back with each other so their hands could reach. As much as it pulled on his banged-in chest and wrenched and impacted shoulders, he ignored the cold pain arcing through his sensor arrays to twist and try to meet the medic's optics over his shoulder.
Twenty-seven percent! Wheeljack choked audibly. Barely over a quarter! Is that even enough ta run on? Obviously it was, at least for the moment . . . but how long would that hold?
He went very still at the last, searching the other's optics. F-friend… It was true that he'd come to think of Ratchet as such, but he never dreamed the medic might deign to feel the same. He'd never actually had a friend before, not a real one. "Y-you too." His voice was thin, weary from horror, but he meant it. From his spark, he meant it. "Took a lotta courage ta keep choosin' ta follow when ya had ever opportunity ta get away. I-I'm sorry you're here, I really am, an' that you're hurt . . . but also I . . . a-an' it's terrible ta say this, but . . . I-I'm . . . I'm really glad you're here." The movement was awkward, and it made him hurt even more, but he didn't care – he leaned a bit, twisting a little more to rest his head against the other's shoulder, fingers still entwined, both giving and accepting the comfort of a friend's presence.
8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8
If Ratchet was going to be honest, he felt that it would have required more courage to leave Wheeljack than to stay with him. When there was someone else standing there with you, it was easier to pretend that you could handle whatever happened. But 'alone' was a terribly frightening concept to imagine.
He shifted, untangling his fingers from his friend's to get into a better position for him to rest his head. "It's not terrible and I'm not sorry," he said. "I'm glad you're here too." He dimmed his optics and leaned his own head back against the wall of the transport, waiting for the inevitable. Outside, the sounds of fighting were growing louder even as the transport took off, but he couldn't tell if it was just escalating or if it was getting closer...
At least until there was a sudden commotion from outside the ship – Decepticons shouting and laser fire close enough that it sounded like it was coming from right outside the doors. The transport lurched suddenly, the noise of engines flooding the hold, and Ratchet braced himself, pressing closer to Wheeljack as new panic flooded through his systems and put them all back on high alert. More shouting, more laser fire and then an explosion, deafening and thunderous, and it rocked the transport hard, sending the students gathered within sliding across the floor.
"Wheeljack!" The whole ship lurched and a sudden, tank-wrenching sensation of falling washed over Ratchet a split second before the transport smashed back into the ground. The impact knocked Ratchet back into the wall before skidding him down towards the front of the hold.
Had they just been shot out of the sky? What was going on out there?
8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8
Wheeljack was reluctant to let go until he got what it was Ratchet was doing. Then, gratefully, he shifted and settled against the other's chest, head resting on his shoulder. Some might have called it unseemly – mechs "didn't snuggle", except maybe those who were spark-bound (and he was so not looking for a relationship) – but he didn't care. He knew he was an unusually contact-oriented person . . . and he needed this right now.
He sat huddled against Ratchet, trembling softly as he tried to ignore the sounds outside and the noise of terror and a rampant imagination within, his taxed systems slowly working to control the damage – far more slowly than a medic's. The terrible sounds of battle grew louder-
Shouts and shots just outside the cargo hold made everyone jump and look around, frightened gazes casting about as the prisoners silently asked one another what was going on. The engineer and the medic pressed and huddled into one another, both braced for . . . what, they didn't know. But then, it seemed their answer came with a massive concussive force that shuddered through the entire structure, the transport tilting to a crazy angle and pitching the prisoners around.
"Primus, save us!" a few voices cried as the lights in the hold flickered and dimmed and Wheeljack was slammed hard into the bulkhead next to him, Ratchet into his other side, and several of their fellows piled up on top of them both from across the hold.
"O-okay, w-who let Wheeljack near the rockets again?" a mech asked unsteadily as the prisoners attempted to untangle themselves.
Wheeljack recognized the voice of one of his classmates, an atmospheric science student and the class joker, usually the one to break up tensions between people. "Ha, ha, funny, Theophatron," Wheeljack deadpanned, for just a moment able to pretend they were piled up in the aftermath of one of his (failed) experiments and not the imprisoning hold of an embattled Decepticon transport.
"Guys, guys, shut up!" someone squeaked, his tone panicky. "I-I think that was one of the main engines we just los-AHHH!"
Several terrified shrieks went up, Wheeljack's included – and he thought he heard Ratchet call his name – as the ship lurched again and then dropped without warning, slamming the ground with the impact of a meteor. Or anyway, the engineer thought it must be what a meteor felt like. Primus, why am I even contemplatin' this!
Once more, he'd wound up part of a heap of tangled bodies, this time in the far corner of the hold. The lights in the room had gone out, plunging the space into blackness lit only by pairs of wide optics. Everyone started to disengage themselves again but then froze in terror as the sounds of battle started anew . . . this time from decidedly inside the ship! No one moved for several spark-wrenching kliks as the small, wretched company tried to track the sounds and make sense of them, preferably in a manner that meant a positive outcome for them. At last, the hold doors were forced open, and a dozen armed troops spilled into the room, flashlights clicking on to survey the scene. Even in the dimness, the new soldiers' stark red sigil, the Autobrand, were bright and unmistakable. Wheeljack nearly fainted in relief.
