"Agent Fowler, open a ground bridge and remove the children from the vicinity IMMEDIATELY."
Fowler's eyes widened at the flat, dark tone of Optimus's voice. He had heard the Prime angry before, had heard his patience stretched thin, but never, NEVER this black.
This was one order he wasn't going to question, no matter how strange. "All right, you heard the big man," Fowler said. He jerked a thumb to the elevator. "My car's up top. We can squeeze everyone in."
"I'm not leaving Bulkhead!" Miko cried out immediately.
Fowler didn't hesitate to grab her arm before she could run off and say to Optimus, "Optimus, Miko is—"
"Miko," Optimus's voice interrupted severely, "you will leave with Fowler and that is an ORDER."
Her eyes popped, and as Raf hurriedly reopened the ground bridge, Fowler hustled all of them into the elevator. The door closed just in time to shield their eyes from Optimus coming in while carrying Nightstalker who was sinking into stasis.
"Ratchet."
The medical officer, in the middle of a delicate repair of Bulkhead's back (whose spark was still fluttering with the imminent threat to flat line again) flicked his eyes up irritably to Optimus. His servos froze as he saw Optimus carrying the devastated Nightstalker, and his energon tanks rolled.
"By the All Spark . . ."
It took the CMO half a nano-click to snap into motion. "Get her on my medical berth," he snarled and pointed. "NOW. Arcee, Bumblebee, lay Cliffjumper there," and he gestured to the nearby floor, cursing the fact that they only had two medical berths. He shuffled medical instruments as Optimus laid Nightstalker as gently as possible on the medical berth, and Ratchet shooed him off. "Optimus, you're in charge of Bulkhead," and he sent him a detailed data burst of the former Wrecker's condition and the medical attention he required. He could trust Optimus with that—the commander may be uncomfortable with medical works as he felt he wasn't qualified for the job, but he had steady hands and a will of steel.
"Bumblebee, I need energon!" he roared. He had barely said the words before the wired scout took off down the halls of the silo. "Arcee, tend to Cliffjumper. I need that leg disinfected and cauterized immediately!" He shuddered to even THINK of adding an infection to the list.
"What about his arm?" Arcee asked shakily, disturbed at the thought of having to perform medical proceedings she wasn't qualified for. And, with his arm blasted right through and energon pooling everywhere, she quaked at the thought of what kind of medical surgery Ratchet would want her to perform.
"Clamps on any bleeding energon lines, cauterize it, and I'll get there!" Ratchet spat the words as his optics roved restlessly over Nightstalker's critical condition. Uncharacteristically, his servos shook, nearly dropping his tools.
I don't even know where to start.
Knockout staggered against his medical berth when a wave of cold fear washed over him.
The frag?
His spark writhed as he shook unwillingly, bewildered at this sudden terror that slashed its way into being, and there was pain. Oh Primus, he'd never felt pain like this! It ripped him asunder from the inside out, and something was screaming in desperation. Knockout's servos shook, and he braced himself on the berth, spark beating with jagged irregularity.
There was only one answer for a phenomenon like this, and it had to be Nightstalker. She was in pain. She was scared—deathly scared. She needed help and was projecting so violently over the half-formed bond that he could feel it. He could FEEL it, feel her, her terror, her pain, her desperation. It bundled up tightly in his spark, threatening to explode and take him down with her.
"No!" The word shouted from his vocals, and his claws tightened on the berth in fear.
This wasn't supposed to happen. The bond was only half formed for a reason! That meant they were connected, but not like this! He shouldn't be able to feel anything from her! They had never been so close to full connection like they were now—!
Shackled down by a sister? With the threat that she would die and he would pay the price? No! This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. He WOULDN'T let it happen like this.
Knockout slammed the door on the bond as hard as he could. A begging plea slithered its way in, but he blocked that too, shaking with the fear that Nightstalker should somehow make the bond stronger and want to make a full bond. He wouldn't allow it. He had himself to take care of! He didn't want to be dependent on her nor did he want to have to take care of her!
Knockout sank to his knees, shuddering with his jaw clenched as he forced her away as violently as she had invaded him. She sought solace from whatever she was suffering, but Knockout?
He was afraid of it.
He didn't know what was going on, only that he didn't want a part of it. He shoved her away with all his might, ruing the day he had made the connection.
"You weren't supposed to mess it up," he muttered tightly. His servos hit the ground, fingers digging into the floor, and he shook his head. "You weren't supposed to try for more! Be happy with what I gave you! Not—" A sharp hiss interrupted his words, and a hand leapt to his aching chassis, fingers clawing and scratching his own paint the pain was so prominent.
Pure despair. It seeped its way in around the edges, pulsing and pressing with the swelling strength of oceans against the wall he held up. Knockout fought it back, terrified of what would happen if he opened up and allowed her in.
"Leave me," he rasped to her. "You aren't my sister! You never were! No, no . . ." It was a phenomena that left him with no words, only a ragged gasp of fear and guilt as the pressing faded away. She gave up, swallowed in her despair, and he allowed it to drag her down.
The heavy weight that had pulled on him faded away. Knockout shivered, servos clenching as he knelt on the ground.
This was why he never did commitment. He just wasn't cut out for it. This was why he never let himself care about people other than himself. Care, friends, love—it just lead to pain and suffering. Every time. It wasn't worth the hurt he would feel, and he wasn't going to risk it now.
It was unreal what Ratchet could really do in a short span of time when three lives weighed down on his shoulders.
Bulkhead was finally stabilized and Cliffjumper had a firm patch job done on him, his wounds not as pressing as others. But Nightstalker . . .
Ratchet had slaved over her nonstop for hours. The long hours stretched as Bumblebee quickly and efficiently replaced energon cubes that dripped themselves dry to fuel Nightstalker hooked to an IV. Ratchet's hands had begun by taking his instruments and removing the broken and ruined parts from Nightstalker, clamping closed her energon lines to preserve the life there and stop the energon from gushing out. After clearing the shattered metal and broken bits and sliced lines, he mopped up most of the energon so he had a fairly clean working area and could actually see the problem.
That was when things began to get difficult.
He tackled her neural and motor lines first, worried that it would affect her neural network or overall transformation sequence, and he repaired what he could. Moving body parts back into position was a task that had him wincing, and he had to completely remove her coolant tanks, make delicate repairs with his welder and smooth them down carefully before replacing the pulped tanks. He pinched together fluid lines and used the dissolvable electrical tape to hold them together. He pushed her hydraulic pistons back into place and focused on piecing together her lubricant stores. He poured an energon tampered with healing liquids over the scratches and grooves left on her spark, praying to Primus that the spark break he could see engraved there would slowly soothe and the marks from Megatron would heal. The extensive work he poured into her barely scratched the surface over the days compounded with Cliffjumper and Bulkhead's delicate repairs, but he finally pulled her together enough that she finally seemed to resemble herself. Her hips were still horribly broken, the fluid lines would take weeks upon weeks to actually heal, and her neural and motor lines were so corrupted it would be a wonder if she could move on her own again, but for the most part, the medic had done all he could.
For the first time in over two days, Ratchet surfaced back to the world of the living with a distressed grumble, pinching his aching brow and cracking his tight neck.
He looked up, sensing a worried gaze on him. He found Optimus leaning against the wall, and the Prime stepped forward and extended an energon cube to him. Exhausted, Ratchet took it and drank, astounded that he could even keep his hands steady he was so low. Optimus didn't speak, but Ratchet noted his pinched brows and the troubled gaze that grew distant at the far wall.
"Optimus."
The great Prime looked up at him, and Ratchet set aside his half-finished cube. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head. "You do not need the added stress," he finally murmured.
"I'm a medic," Ratchet stated. "I signed up for the stress when I took the job. It's you, our leader, who cannot have his processor divided at a crucial time like this. Now, what is it?"
A harsh breath left him. He lifted his servo, pressing it to his forehead. "Ratchet . . . I am a fool." When the medic did not interrupt, Optimus clenched his jaw, shaking he was so consumed with regret for his actions. "Ratchet, I . . . This is my fault. All of it. If I hadn't told Nightstalker . . ."
Ratchet finally shifted. "Told her what?" he asked warily.
Optimus winced. "Ratchet," he finally whispered, "Nightstalker has been secretly seeing Megatron in the night." The medic started in shock. "And I—I allowed it. I let her go, and because of my decisions . . . I've . . . I've ruined her."
Ratchet gaped at Optimus, not sure what he was hearing from his leader. No . . . just—no. Not Optimus. This wasn't the Optimus he knew. The tense beats of silence were punctuated only by the foreboding pace of his patients' spark beats.
"Optimus," he finally rasped quietly, "no . . . You mean . . ." His hands clenched as recognition finally set in and his arms began to shake. A hard burst of Cybertronian curses made Optimus cringe as Ratchet rarely ever resorted to cursing. "You mean to tell me you KNEW Megatron was fragging her!"
Guilt ripped its way across Optimus's features. Finally, finally he nodded. "Yes," he muttered. Unable to look the irate medic in the optics, Optimus turned his face away, spark aching low.
"Are you out of your fagging mind!" Ratchet exploded. "Optimus, that's TREASON! In the VERY least! I can't believe you let her go to him! What were you thinking?"
Optimus winced slightly at the acerbic words, but he knew they were well-directed. "It was . . ." Optimus squeezed his optics shut, servos slaking in shameful defeat, "a wretched lapse in judgment," he grumbled painfully.
"A lapse in judgment?" Ratchet spat, almost quivering he was so furious. His hand slashed through the air. "Optimus, what in the All Spark were you THINKING! You can't just LET her go to Megatron and—and—" Overcome with stifling passion, Ratchet gesticulated angrily towards Nightstalker on the medical berth. "What the FRAG were you thinking!"
Optimus trembled. His helm dropped. "It was selfish," he finally admitted softly. His hands clenched helplessly in frustration at himself. "She said she could see Megatronus in Megatron when she was with him, and I . . . I let her go because I thought she could bring my brother back," he whispered shamefully.
There was a beat of incredulous silence. "Megatronus," Ratchet finally repeated in scorn. "MEGATRONOUS?" He threw up his hands. "Oh, that's just priceless! Optimus, the mech you knew as Megatronus has been dead for MILLENIA! Get it into your thick processor, Megatronus will NEVER be coming back!"
"I know," Optimus said quietly.
Ratchet, infuriated beyond belief, gestured aimlessly in frustration as he began to pace restlessly back and forth. "Megatron! By the All Spark, Optimus, what is going on with you! How could you let her go to him? To get FRAGGED no less! If I didn't know you any better, I would strap you down to my medical berth and defrag that twisted processor of yours! Oh, right, I forgot," and Ratchet's words seeped with hateful irony, "my medical berths are full right now," and he gestured to Cliffjumper, Nightstalker, and Bulkhead. "Full of YOUR soldiers, Prime!"
His pride pricked at his tone. "I know that, Ratchet," he growled.
"To MEGATRON!" Ratchet exploded again. He made indefinite motions full of outrage and disbelief. "Optimus, I can't believe you! She's been abused by him long enough, WHY did you let her go back!"
Optimus latched to Ratchet's words immediately. He straightened, looking down on his agitated CMO. "Abused?" he repeated.
"Yes, abused!" Ratchet snarled. He whipped around to face the Prime, poking an accusing finger out at him. "Do you think it was mere CHANCE that Nightstalker was Megatron's frag partner? She's been fragged against her will almost all her life! Do you think someone just out of her youngling years would have gone WILLINGLY to Megatron? Of course not! She was too young to even PERCIEVE how wrong it was! And YOU let her ruin herself further," and Ratchet jabbed that finger into Optimus's stomach plates with a vile glare, "and let Megatron RAPE her! And I'm not talking about just this!" Ratchet threw a furious arm towards Nightstalker's tattered form barely clinging to life. "I'm talking about EVERY time that foul, despicable, disgusting wretch ever TOUCHED her! That was BEYOND contempt, BEYOND disgraceful every time you let her walk into Megatron's trap! And THIS is what you have to show for it!"
Ratchet pointed to the comatose Nightstalker, and before Optimus could formulate a response to the aggressive attack on his leadership, a quiet, strangled bleep broke the silence. Both mechs' helms whipped around, and Optimus froze at the sight of Bumblebee standing in the entrance to the main room of the silo. His optics were dilated tight with pain, and silent tears slipped down his face.
Optimus took a step towards him. "Bumblebee—"
*You—You—!* Unable to speak around what he was feeling, Bumblebee fled from the room with a high-pitched wail of despair, and Optimus felt a knife cut through his spark. When he made a move to follow the distressed scout, Ratchet's voice stopped him short.
"Let him go! You've caused enough damage as it is!"
Optimus stiffened and turned, glaring down at his medical officer that was taking risky liberties. "Ratchet, I KNOW," he stressed. Something hitched in the back of his systems, but he ignored it, focused on dressing Ratchet back down to size. "You do not think I KNOW how wrong it was now? Do you not think I carry that guilt in my spark for what I allowed to happen? I understand that this is MY failing, Ratchet, and I understand it fully. I am VERY aware that I made a mistake, one that Nightstalker and Cliffjumper have paid the price."
"Look at her, Optimus!" Ratchet shouted back, voice stretched thin with passions. He quaked with fury. "Look at what's left of her!" His voice broke momentarily with horrified, disturbed and rising tears before he seized his anger again. "Can you even begin to IMAGINE what Megaton did to her? Can you imagine his spike shoving into her repeatedly, over and over, ripping apart her valve? Can you imagine his claws tearing open her chest plates, mutilating her spark chamber, and defiling a place so sacred! Can you imagine the energon spilling everywhere—!"
"I KNOW!" Optimus bellowed, momentarily shocking Ratchet into silence. In fact, Optimus hadn't been able to even begin to perceive how horrible the rape was, but Ratchet's vulgar words gave him a shock back to Earth, no matter how disturbing. "Enough, Ratchet! I know what I have done was wrong, and I will carry the guilt of it within my spark for all time, I do not need you bringing me lower than I already am. Am I not allowed to make one mistake in my entire life? Is it because I am a Prime?" Bitterness bled into his tone, and Optimus set his jaw, jealous of not having the weight of the Matrix on his spark and drowning in resentfulness towards himself. "Is that why I am perceived as perfect, that even I cannot make a single mistake?"
Ratchet narrowed his optics and leaned forward, meeting Optimus's dangerous leer head on. "Mistakes are inevitable," Ratchet hissed, "but THIS was deliberate. You did not stop her from meeting Megatron even though you KNEW it was wrong. You didn't believe you were doing right, you were CONSCIOUSLY aware that it was wrong, and you did it anyways." Ratchet glared darkly as his snarling voice finally tapered off. For a minute, their optics crackled with rage and stress, but it was finally another voice that broke the silence.
"All right, enough. Both of you. Your yelling is scaring Bumblebee."
Both mechs looked over at Arcee whose cold optics were digging holes into them. Her gaze shifted to Optimus. "And what does he mean, 'you did it anyways'?"
"Yes, Optimus," Ratchet growled derisively. "Tell her what you did. Tell her! You always make examples of our failings, so now's your chance to use yourself!"
Arcee's optics shifted as she crossed her arms, assessing the tense situation before her and Ratchet's undeniable fury as he double-checked the levels of his patients, nervously making sure they were still stable. Uncharacteristically, Optimus's peds shuffled as he turned, and his shoulders slumped.
"I . . ." The words tangled. His articulators fused together. Arcee raised an uncomfortable brow, suspicious. "I . . . It—" Optimus shook his head, and everything about him deflated, leaving nothing but defeat. "It was my fault," he mumbled. "I let her go to Megatron. I had the chance to stop this, and I didn't. I am at fault. Her energon—possibly, her life—is on my servos."
Arcee stiffened. She stared at Optimus in shock before she chose not to say anything at all. If she lost it in front of the Prime, she wouldn't be able to control herself. Instead, she spun smartly on her heel and marched out of the silo with servos clenched, vowing to tell Bulkhead and Cliffjumper when they woke up. They deserved to know. That wasn't something you could hide.
A sinking feeling stole over Optimus's spark that had more than just dealing with Nightstalker's rape. Primus, it was betrayal of his own bots. He had betrayed their trust, and now their view of him was skewed; his leadership was flawed; he had hurt them all.
Oh, Primus, how do I fix this?
After checking on his patients for the umpteenth time, Ratchet, quivering with so much rage he could barely contain himself, barked at Optimus, "I'm going to the back. Watch them, if you can, and tell me of even the SLIGHTEST change."
A small and dutiful, "Yes, sir," followed Ratchet out of the medical area, and the medic stalked to the back to find Bulkhead's punching bag that was chained to the ceiling. Balling his servos into tight fists, Ratchet began to punch the bag with all the force he could muster, trying to burn out as much resentment as he possibly could.
You aft, Optimus! You fragging aft!
Ratchet attacked the bag vigorously, jabbing and hitting like he hadn't done for thousands of years since he was a young, hot-headed mech on the field of battle. Optimus was his victim in his mind, and every blow he gave to the bag he imagined it was Optimus. The Prime needed some sense beat into him. He wondered how Optimus had managed to make such a faulty decision as he had.
The punches came faster. As Ratchet's anger at Optimus burned out, his hatred towards Megatron rose. That despicable wretch! His blows gained extra force, the bag slinging on the chain. That heathen deserved to rot in the Pit! Ratchet had never felt such bloodlust as he did now, beating and beating and beating the punching bag until he began to overheat from the stress.
As Ratchet vented his frustrations on Bulkhead's punching bag, Arcee blew off her steam as she ripped across the roads at blinding speeds. Bumblebee cried hysterically in his berth room. He couldn't understand it. Not only was he distraught at Nightstalker's physical and mental condition, but Optimus . . . He sobbed harder. That wasn't the Optimus he had looked up to all his life. It wasn't right, it was all wrong, all wrong . . .
Optimus stood in the front in the medical area, optics staring listlessly at Nightstalker. Everything Ratchet had said was so true—it terrified him to his core, both the Prime and Orion quaking at what he had let happen to Nightstalker on behalf of his own selfish wants. Trembling, Optimus sank to his knees next to Nightstalker's berth, and the guilt began to infect his systems.
Dear Primus, why . . . How could I have been so foolish . . .
Optimus shook. He wanted to reach and take Nightstalker's hand, press it to his face as if to stop the lubricant leaking from his optics, but even her wrists were broken. A hitch echoed in Optimus's systems. She couldn't have even tried to protect herself!
Bowing over her, Optimus began to weep bitterly, consumed with sickening resentment.
I could have been the one that did this to her.
He quaked with guilt and terror. It hadn't once slipped past his processor that it could have SO EASILY been he who would had raped her. His servos shook uncontrollably, and the weight on his spark increased.
Oh Primus . . . Megatron was the least of her worries. I could have raped her, I could have been the one to do this to her, tear her to bits for the sake of my own lust—!
He rocked, terrified of himself.
Ratchet's blows came fast and furious, and his in cycles were rapidly venting in his infuriated frenzy. The chains jangled like metal snakes above his head as the bag slung back and forth. Outraged still, there was only one thing that broke through the haze of red.
His right hand threw a powerful punch, and when his servo collided with the punching bag, he felt the metal of his fingers dent in from the sheer force behind the hit. He hissed slightly in pain, but that pain snapped him out of her fervor. Shaking, Ratchet sank to his knees and pressed his helm against the bag. He carefully flexed his fingers, feeling the slight resistance from the bends, but it didn't hamper his movements enough to require immediate medical attention.
I have to keep my servos. Without them, I can't repair anyone. I would be useless . . . I have to keep my hands in function for them. Cliffjumper. Bulkhead. Nightstalker.
With a great effort, Ratchet calmed himself. He controlled his in cycles and stifled the rage with thoughts of his duty towards his patients waiting in the other room. He needed to get started. They were counting on him; they relied on him. He couldn't falter now. Now was not the time for unreasonable breakdowns.
But when he returned to his patients, he found his Prime on his knees, weeping broken tears.