Wow! So many awesome comments on the last chapter! On a quick note, several of you were wondering why/how Ratchet and the other 'Bots didn't notice Switchshade's injuries/attempt to make it to the groundbridge. To put it simply: they're a bit distracted. Ratchet's processor is trying to comprehend how to fix the groundbridge and how to lure the scraplets out, his medical coding is screaming at him to assess the damage of all the injured 'Bots in the area, and he's extremely worried about the short time frame before the scraplets attack and the three still trapped in the Arctic slowly freezing to death. Bulkhead and Bumblebee are in a similar state. So, it is not due to any animosity or apathy that they haven't yet noticed that anything's amiss (beyond the obvious), Switchshade's just doing his level best to hide it, and they have a lot of immediate issues to deal with. Hope you all enjoy this next chapter, and my thanks to everyone who's stuck with me so far!
Through holes in the ceiling and cracks in the walls, as well as the open hallways, hoards of scraplets swarmed out into the common area, drawn like moths to a flame to Switchshade's suddenly-increased frame heat. Now essentially a glowing beacon calling the scraplets to him, Switchshade dug his claws into the floor of the base to drag himself faster across the floor, astonished that none of the Autobots had noticed his movements yet. He had made it nearly all the way as the swarm of scraplets came nearer and nearer, nearly in a frenzy as they descended upon his wounded frame. Switchshade offlined his remaining optic, and dragged himself blind the last few feet to where he needed to be, unwilling to watch his death coming for him.
"Ratchet! All systems go!" Jack's voice reached the dark mech, and he took a final glance behind him, a tiny rueful smile touching what remained of his faceplates as he saw the humans one last time, running back into the main room after apparently having been successful in repairing the groundbridge. "Fire it up!" Miko demanded, hot on Jack's heels, with Rafael beside them.
The medic staggered to his pedes one final time, optics unfocused; as he muttered stumblingly, "Groundbridge" and leaned on the lever, pulling it down to activate the groundbridge, the momentum of just his servo moving down enough to unbalance the wounded mech enough to send him to his faceplates on the ground. Switchshade spared the yellow scout and green Wrecker a farewell glance as well, and finally allowed his optics to rest on Ratchet as the groundbridge began to power on.
A pained groan alerted Switchshade that the hardy old medic was still functioning, and the dark mech felt a tug on his spark even as the swarm of scraplets finally attacked, beginning to block his view. Thank you, for all your kindnesses to me. Unlooked for, and undeserved, you have treated me with incredible mercy and compassion. It is an honor, to end my functioning to preserve the life of mechs like you… and Lord Prime.
The tearing agony began again as the first of the swarm reached him, the pain strangely muted now, as Switchshade forced himself onwards using up the very last dregs of his strength. The glowing groundbridge enveloped him, and he managed to feel only briefly, a light tinge of frigid air, before darkness took him, and he knew no more. As he succumbed, he thought he could hear Bulkhead murmuring something that sounded like, "Bait, huh?" and he flinched, realizing that, even in this, he was a failure.
Darkness. Pain. A deep, oddly reassuring voice murmuring something incomprehensible. The lightest touch of an impossibly gentle servo brushing across the top of his helm, and then darkness returned.
For a moment, a hazy light came into focus, that deep voice speaking again, this time further away, stating, "-may be small, but they are strong-" and then an organic's scream. Blearily, Switchshade tried to get up, wanting to help without fully understanding why, but gentle, firm servos pushed his chassis back down, and the now-familiar darkness embraced him yet again.
*Clang!* "Stupid, incessantly foolish, utterly-" *crash!* "Can't fragging believe that little slagger actually-" A thud, and then the odd noises were momentarily silenced. Switchshade onlined his optics slowly, his vision a mere blur, before he cycled them several times, allowing the room to come into focus. Something seemed off, and it took him a moment to realize that it was because his left optic had somehow been repaired, and he now had two working optics once again. Is this… the Allspark? …
"Hey Ratch-"
*Crunch!*
"Creator Fraggin'-!"
"Cliffjumper! What the slag did I tell you about lurking around in here?!"
"It's not his fault, doc. We're just worried about 'Shade. Has there been any change?"
Nope, definitely not the Allspark. But then… I'm alive?
He cycled his optics again, daring to actually take a look around, and the wall and ceiling of the Autobots' makeshift medbay came into view. A sideways glance towards the door revealed a disgruntled Cliffjumper glaring darkly at a wrench on the floor at his pedes, a servo protectively cradling the side of his helm. Ratchet stood in front of the cocky racer, his back to Switchshade, tapping another wrench idly against his thigh plating, while Bulkhead stood between them, servos up placatingly, though his wary optics were locked on the wrench in the Hatchet's servo.
"As I've told you, Optimus, Bumblebee, Arcee, and the humans, I will comm. you as soon as his condition changes. He is stable now, and those concerning spark fluctuations from excessive energon loss and extreme physical trauma have ceased, so he is likely to wake any time. However, when he does, he doesn't need to be instantly pestered by anybot until he has recovered a great deal more. And once he has, I'll be the one to kick his tailpipe from here to Cybertron for pulling such an absolutely insanely idiotic stunt like that. Until his condition changes and I comm. you, get out. Now."
Switchshade quickly offlined his optics again, laying quietly on the med-berth and muting his field so as to mimic unconsciousness. Perhaps it was safer, to be unconscious just right then. His audials picked up the sounds of Bulkhead and Cliffjumper wisely making a hasty retreat, and then the heavier footsteps of the medic approaching his berth. Ratchet lowered himself to sit on a chair nearby, releasing a weary ex-vent before muttering gently, "I know you're online, kid."
Switchshade cycled his optics, his plating tensing closer to his frame as he chanced a glance over to Ratchet. He did not dare attempt to meet the medic's optics, knowing full well the rage and disappointment he would see in his gaze, and instead allowed his own gaze to fall to that sturdy, bulky orange and white chassis. "R-Ratchet…" he acknowledged, his own rough, low voice rather hoarse after countless screams.
"Switchshade. How-By the Allspark, I'm not gonna slag you! Would you please quit it with the wounded cyber-pup optics?" Switchshade tilted his helm in mild confusion, only then daring to meet Ratchet's optics. Despite his words, his tone had been gentle, and his optics held no rage. Instead, a small smile crossed the usually-grumpy medic's faceplates when Switchshade actually met his gaze, and his optics were fond when he spoke again. "You gave us all quite the surprise, there. I've never seen Arcee so worried for anybot other than Cliffjumper before. Bulkhead was about ready to nurse you back to health himself after he carried you back through from the Arctic. Between the two of 'em, Bumblebee and Cliffjumper have scarcely left your side, despite my direct orders that you needed peace and quiet to be able to rest undisturbed as your frame integrated with the repairs. Even Optimus… Well." And then the medic turned away with a tiny smile, refusing to speak any further on the matter. Still, Switchshade was struck with the sudden memory of a familiar, deep voice reassuring and soothing him when he was still confused and disoriented, half-awake in the midst of his repairs before the blank darkness had taken hold of him again.
As he spoke, Ratchet transformed the end of his right servo into a scanner, and began running it over Switchshade's frame, picking up a few, minor faults, although it seemed, for the most part, that the black mech had been left with nearly no lasting damage. "Ratchet, I-"
"Save it." Ratchet spoke briskly, holding up a servo to stop him from speaking any further. "Explanations, apologies, and whatever the slag else you think you need to say can wait. Right now, I want you to focus on resting and healing, and only on resting and healing. Am I understood?"
"Y-Yes s-sir." Switchshade answered without even a trace of irony, allowing his helm to fall back on the berth, and offlined his optics once more. "Ratchet? … Thank you" he whispered, a tiny smile on his faceplates as he fell into a deep, healing recharge before he could make out the medic's reply.
