Part 6
The twins lay silent on their respective berths, the electrical currents in their neurological circuitry slowed by a potent cocktail of sedating chemicals to finally allow them a few blessed hours of uninterrupted rest.
First Aid and Wheeljack hovered over the motionless warriors, keeping careful watch over their systems. Perceptor was studying their neuro-scanner displays with a critical optic. And Ratchet was standing slightly off to one side, arms folded and optics narrowed as he glared at the display units, mentally demanding that the inanimate and inarticulate machines be gifted speech and tell him what the slag was going on with his boys.
All his years of training, first at the Academy and then as an intern, had drilled into him the golden rule of sanity for any wartime medical professional. Disassociation. Never learn your patient's names. Never treat one any differently to another, nor develop any kind of personal link. Each and every body that is dumped onto your slab is simply a medical problem that must be overcome. No more, no less.
But despite it all, his years of service with this unit had worn away his resolve to maintain the emotional armour plating that his calling demanded. In his own gruff way, Ratchet cared for each and every sorry soul that crashed with this ship, taking the injuries this war caused them like a personal insult.
And he would be slagged first before he gave any of them up without one Pit of a fight.
"Diagnosis!" He ordered.
"Preliminary analysis suggests an outside interference with specific memory engrams." Perceptor reported.
"What kind?"
"I am unsure as of this moment. It will take some further investigation." The scientist replied, tactfully ignoring the muttered oaths that came in response.
Ratchet stalked to Sunstreaker's display unit and glared at the screen, one hand planted on top of the housing. He watched the jittering lines for a moment and growled something unpleasant sounding, his hands curled into fists.
"Ratchet?" Wheeljack ventured.
"What?"
"Threatening the scanner ain't gonna make it cough up the answers." Wheeljack said. "When was the last time you got some recharge?"
"Just before the start of my shift last night." Ratchet snapped.
Wheeljack pointed in the direction of the CMO's office. "Take a break and come back in an hour. You're no good to them if you can't read the scanner. They're stable for the moment, and I promise I'll wake you up if there's a change."
The CMO levelled Wheeljack with a look so intense that it would have made Devastator step aside, but the Lancia stood firm. "That doesn't work on me." He said calmly. Ratchet held the glare a moment longer before uttering a grunt of irritation and walking away in the direction of his office.
Prowl and Jazz had been watching the whole exchange from the relative safety of the far end of the ward, only approaching when the office door slammed shut.
"So, er, what were ya meaning by an 'outside interference'?" Jazz asked curiously. "It a virus or a hack or somethin'?"
"If it was, I would have said so." Perceptor answered crisply.
"What is their current status?" Prowl queried.
"Offline and in deep recharge." First Aid replied. "We've artificially suspended part of their higher neurological functions, so the memory can't register during their NSF cycle."
"Yeah, but, what's wrong with them?" Jazz asked.
Wheeljack let out a frustrated sigh. "Somebody deliberately planted something into their programming code. Right now we're not sure what, but hopefully we can track it down soon."