I didn't like this one as much as the one before it. I don't love how I introduced the newest Personal, and I actually seriously debated cutting him from the story for the sole reason that I couldn't figure out how to not make his entrance seem abrupt, but the fact of the matter is... it is abrupt. Like his back story and the circumstances... there's no way it can't be abrupt. And unfortunately, I need this character. Like, no getting around it. I need him, so... suffer through it. The action...ish will begin next chapter. Or rather, Jazz makes his first serious appearance next chapter, and I'm super excited. Vote in my poll, please

Thanks to SilverStorm05 and Autobot Delta for the reviews! Serious, y'all made my day. Feedback helps me know this thing isn't a complete snooze fest. Damn my need to please other people.

Chapter 2: The one with the medibot

9,900 words

May 27

Wash-N-Go had a small-town feel, despite being in the center of the bustling hubbub that was Hulen Street, and a good majority of the patrons, I had found, were older ladies and stay-at-home moms. It may be due to the hours I was forced to keep, but I couldn't find it in myself to complain that particular patronage. Most of the others kept to themselves while doing their laundry, but those who didn't weren't awful to talk to. Of course, if there were kids, all bets were off. Of course, if my damn washer hadn't decided to quit this morning… What a nightmare.

"Ugh! Goddammit! I hate this fucking washer!" I bellowed as I sprinted across the apartment into the laundry room to smack the stop button on my top loading washer, which was making a convincing impersonation of an earthquake. On the third floor. At two in the blessed AM. I bet my neighbors hated me.

"Lieutenant!" Optimus barked as he dashed after me, having to take three steps for every one of mine. "Language!"

I turned my glower over to my Personal only briefly before returning it to the offending piece of machinery as it slowed its shaking. "I'm getting' a new one. I swear ta God, I'm buying a new washer. This's bullshit." My scathing growl was accented by a loud click as the washer's lid unlocked.

You know, there were some things I felt I couldn't complain about. I mean, some people couldn't afford clean clothes at all, and as such, as a principle, I didn't complain about hand-me-downs of any sort. In fact, most of my furniture was secondhand from family and friends who were happy to part with stuff. I thought the mismatched house stuffs brought a little bit of personality to my apartment, even if it was stuff that people were glad to get rid of. This stupid washer, though, had been in the family for fifteen years, and it was a rare day when it didn't unbalance randomly.

"Tex, foul language doesn't help the situation—"

"Oh, but it makes me feel bettuh, Optimus," I spat as I lifted the washer's lid. I removed two of the four towels in the large drum before dropping the lid back down obnoxiously. It wasn't like I had to worry about waking anyone up. The damn washer had already taken care of that. "I need a towel ta shower t'night. Jus' one. Do ya think you c'n wash jus' one towel?" I snapped sarcastically at the inanimate object before smacking the resume button. The washer immediately whirred to life, no doubt properly chastened by my scathing remarks.

And then it shut down completely.

"No," I whispered in denial. "No, no, no, God, why?"

"Likely because you took His name in vain."

"I don't need yer sass, Opt'mus!"

"My apologies. I sometimes mistake your sarcasm for seriousness."

"You've known me fer eight years—"

"Seven."

"Ya know what? I'll use a kitchen towel to dry myself off. Ugh, this's bullshit!"

"Language, Tex."

"I am allowed ta cuss when Ah'm d'stress'd."

"Your mother says that one who uses foul language isn't—"

"Ain't smart uhnuff t' think up some'in' better ta say. I know'ut my momma says, Prime. You only had ta deal with it fer four years; I had ta grow up with it."

"Of course," Prime soothed, though his amused optics betrayed him. "My apologies."

"Fraggin sarcastic pitspawn of a—"

"I know you aren't referring to your commander, correct?" You know, Optimus sounded more and more like a Southern Momma every day, it seemed. Part of me wanted to laugh at the words while the other part gulped at the warning tone hidden behind the deceptively calm façade.

"No, Prime," I responded meekly as I strode away with my head dipped in defeat. Beaten down by a washing machine and a pint sized robot. If that didn't fraggin end the day… and at two am. "Okay, so new plan. I need a towel for tonight, and my scrubs are also all dirty."

"It sounds to me like you will have to make a trip to Wash-N-Go tomorrow morning," Optimus hummed. "The question remains as to whether you are willing to go before the crowd hits."

"Because Wash-N-Go is such a hoppin' joint," I mumbled in response as I began my rounds, picking up laundry as I shuffled moodily through the apartment rooms.

"If you wish to grab the 5-loader, then haste is of the essence." And he wasn't wrong. Amongst the morning laundry crowd, the single 5-loader was the coveted washing machine, the crème de la crème of easy chore completion. What can I say? We have to get our kicks where we can, okay? Six thirty in the morning was pushing it, but if I could get there before the stay-at-home-mom crowd arrived, I had a chance of using a single washer instead of two, possibly three.

I ended up using three washing machines and all but two quarters from my last $20 bill. Christy had brought all five of her children and had commandeered the 5-loader long before I pulled up. The children screamed, cried, and ran around the mat like psychos, while I hovered over my laptop like a blonde gargoyle, silently daring one of the little monsters to approach me.

And all this because of my stupid fragging washer. I definitely would've taken a mallet to the unreliable appliance for the troubles it was inadvertently causing me, you know, if it wouldn't end with a likely visit from the cops and a trip to the mental hospital. It might almost be worth it, though. I heard hitting things with a hammer was quite cathartic, and frankly, after the tense experience that was dealing with ill-behaved children, I could do for some easy stress-relief.

"Ok, Op, let's go," I sighed as I heaved myself out of the car, still recovering from the two-hour excursion at the laundrymat. Low seats sucked sometimes, even if they were pretty comfy on long drives. The 8-lb weight latched to my shoulder didn't help, either. Optimus clung to my upper arm like a monkey, hands fisted in the shoulder material of my tee and legs wrapped around my arm. The image still made me giggle sometimes, the noble leader of the Autobot forces wrapped around my arm like a toddler, but mostly, it was just a part of my life now. I opened the back door to pull out my laundry basket and bag of laundering necessities before manually locking the doors. I pocketed my keys and pulled the handle of my rolling laundry basket behind me as I began the long journey from my car back to my apartment building.

The complex was a large one, made up of some 20 buildings that offered anywhere from single-room apartments to three-room apartments and everything in between. I was lowkey looking forward to when one of the two-story townhomes became available. I didn't mind my third-floor apartment, but my assigned parking spot was nearest to the townhomes, and I really wouldn't mind cutting out the uphill trek to my building in exchange for the minor uptick in rent.

"Be careful nothing falls from your basket," Optimus cautioned, as he did every time we made this trip. It was a logical recommendation as the laundry was currently piled higher than the basket's rims.

"I know, Prime." Because I had done this a thousand times. You'd think he could trust me to keep all my clothes in the basket, or at the very least, notice when one jumped ship.

"God, it's so hot," I moaned as I pulled the basket up onto the sidewalk leading up to my building, passively noting a man getting out of a silver car right in front of the building. I instinctively gave him a wider berth as I walked, feeling a small prick of jealousy that he had managed to snag a premier parking spot. Then again, he could have the same luck as me. Maybe he lived two buildings over.

"Summer in Texas. I would have assumed you had grown used to it," was Prime's bland response as he shifted on my arm and began to expertly scale my arm. His hands used fist-fulls of my shirt to lift himself higher until his upper body slid across the small plateau my shoulder made. I slowed on instinct as he pulled the rest of his body onto my shoulder, shifting himself to sit comfortably with his legs dangling over my collarbone and his hand resting on the side of my head.

He wasn't wrong, but then, Texas heat isn't really something you "get used to." Don't get me wrong, I missed it during trips out of state, especially when travelling somewhere cold, but heavens, if I could have just a little relief, a small breeze, I wouldn't complain near as much. It probably wouldn't have been as bad if I hadn't spent the last two hours in a laundry mat without AC.

The temperature inside had been only slightly cooler than outside, the heat from the many dryers cancelling out the air conditioner's valiant attempt to fight off the Texas heat. Ceiling fans circulated the humid air, offering little relief to those fortunate enough to find a seat under one. Of course, elder Mrs. Canston had already commandeered the lone seat under a working fan. Not that it would matter. If she had shown up when I was in that seat, I would've given it over. My momma raised me right.

"You helping with dinner tonight?" I questioned as I meandered past the bushes that lead up to my building, my sights locked on the nearing cobblestone staircase.

"That all depends on whether you can restrain yourself from catching the pan on fire." I snorted at his statement, a wry grin rising to my mouth.

"I'll have you know—"

"'Scuse meh." A velvety voice broke into our conversation, and I strongly repressed the urge to jolt at the sudden sound as I whirled around to face the intruder, a single hand rising to steady my Personal when the sudden movement jostled him. God, I hadn't even heard this guy walk up! My gaze locked with electric blue eyes set in a milk chocolate colored face, and I felt my brain zone out a little. He wore a small sideways grin, almost boyish in how playful it looked, and it matched the laugh lines in the corners of his eyes.

And what eyes! Dark blue circled his pupil, fading out to an almost icy blue midway through. Small lines of white, like lightning, spread haphazardly through the colouring. They were the most unique eyes I had ever seen, and they gave the dark-skinned man an exotic look. They stared into my squinting hazel orbs searchingly, and I wondered for a moment if he found beauty in eyes like I did.

Then his eyes flicked to Optimus, whose small frame had shifted slightly toward my head with one hand on my forehead and the other on my ponytail for stability, and the moment broke. I snapped my mouth shut as I whipped my gaze down toward the concrete to my left, eyes wide in growing horror.

Oh, my god, I had stared at him for, like, 20 solid seconds! Primus, he must think I'm such a creeper! See this is why I'm still single: because I'm the awkwardest potato this side of the Mississippi. I resisted the urge to facepalm as his eyes flashed back to mine, snatching my attention again. The smile morphed into a small smirk as he held his hand out to me. I blinked as I followed the movement until my eyes locked on the article of clothing held in his hand like a peace offering at a negotiation.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," I muttered as I snatched the lacy red bra, my face burning. 'Well, at least it wasn't a pair of panties,' my mind chortled, because that made it so much better.

"Ya dropped that," the man explained without a drop of remorse or embarrassment as he gestured with one hand to the piece of lingerie in mine. If anything, the amused smirk grew by my response.

"I'm sorry!" I squeaked. Why the hell was I apologizing instead of thanking him!? It's not like it was dirty! The guy looked down and shook his head a little as he laughed, a low raspy sound that made my face heat up even more. Good god, how could any guy have a voice like that? As if his eyes weren't enchanting enough, he had to have that smooth, bedroom voice that made every female hormone in my body surge to life.

"Ain't no thang, swee'heart." His eyes locked with mine again, a sideways smile lighting his face, and a chocolate brown hand reached out. "I'm Jasper from 113. Friends call me Jazz."

"L-Lizzie." Frickin son of a—could I ever not be awkward?! "I'm Lizzie." I offered him a weak smile as I held my hand out to meet his, silently feeling awful for subjecting him to my social blunders. And to think that in high school, I was able to flirt like a—oh, good god, the bra was in that hand! Frag, frag, frag! I snatched my hand back down and shoved the bra into my basket of clean clothes with a squeak as I looked off to the right in an attempt to avoid this beautiful man's eyes. Shit, had I really squeaked? "In 314." You know, I had to appreciate his valiant attempt to not laugh at me, even if the mirth made his eyes light up a little more.

"Nice t' mee'cha, Lizzie fr'm 314." His eyes shifted a little, a calculating light entering what I had thought were expressive orbs. My brain caught for a second on that thought. What could he be calculating about me?

"…Thanks…" I mumbled belatedly, noting again that I had been staring at him blankly like an idiot. Maybe that was what he was thinking about: why the frick he had introduced himself to the weirdo upstairs. God, why had I thanked him instead of returning the sentiment like a normal human being? My brain battled with my mouth for the next words, struggling for something smooth that would also fix my last error, and much to my chagrin, the word "Thater," a Frankenstein version of "thanks" and "later," was the result.

'Welp, we done sank the ship. Might as well abandon while you can still swim.'

I spun on my heel and strode away as fast as my dignity would allow, my face aflame as I all but sprinted up the stairs, leaving a bemused Jazz behind.

"Well… that went well." The prime's sarcastic drawl was rewarded with a glare.

"Mute it, Prime," I mumbled back as I shoved the housekey into the lock.

"Of course. However, Lieutenant… I did tell you to take care not to drop anything from your basket."

Jazz's smile dropped the second he heard the door close. The little Optimus certainly acted like his prime, from what little he could see. He hadn't missed the suspicious yet intrigued glances the small robot kept sending his way, especially after he introduced himself. The bot's expressions matched up with his leader's to the point of being eerie, even with the facemask covering his lips, and the voice… Despite his tiny stature, the little bot sounded almost exactly like the Autobot commander, only without the booming volume that Optimus was capable of achieving. It was intriguing.

It was concerning.

What wasn't as concerning was the human femme that the small bot had been hitching a ride on. If that chick was an agent, she was a fragging good one. 'Thater.' Primus. He rubbed his eyes even as he felt his lips quirk upwards. Fraggin adorable. He could remember dealing with femmes like that on Cybertron, but rarely. Most femmes that approached him held confidence that rivaled his. Femmes like Lizzie… well, he doubted she would have ever approached him in a crowd, even if he sent her the subtle signs that he was interested. She just didn't strike him as that kind of girl. No, he would have to approach her and keep her interested.

Luckily for him, he was the Meister, the mech that could charm the plating off any femme he needed to, and unluckily for Lizzie from 314, she was his mission. Nothing quite like a challenge to make any mission more interesting, and Jazz had no doubts that getting the info he needed from this femme fleshy would be simple enough.

The sound of canned laughter wafted out the open windows of the lit apartment, a beacon of light in the otherwise dark, cloudy night. The apartment was on the third floor, and most of the other apartment lights were out, the inhabitants all asleep in preparation of the workday. Many of those apartments were empty, though, abandoned by the college students that had once called them home. It was kinda funny how peaceful that area of town became during the off months, the only traffic being during the early weeks of July when the university would host various summer camps. Even then, though, the apartment complex generally stayed fairly quiet.

It was eight thirty at night, and I was procrastinating on the couch with cross-stitch in hand, watching as Five O'clock Charlie tossed a bomb from the back of his plane, garnering cheers from the 4077 personnel, all of whom had placed bets on Charlie's shoddy aim. It was my favorite MASH episode. I liked Hawkeye's and Trapper's awful posh British accents.

The second the theme song had started playing, Optimus climbed up onto the L-shaped couch beside me expertly, having seven years of practice to gain his technique, and the viewing session began as Hawkeye Pierce and Trapper John lazed and worked their way through the Korean War. You know, of all my tv shows, I hadn't expected Optimus to latch onto this one as strongly as he did. He could appreciate the humor more than I could, which was saying something because I absolutely adored MASH humor. We shared a deep love for Colonel Potter, whom Optimus claimed reminded him of Kup in a strange way. If I squinted just right, I guess I could see how they were similar. Mostly, Optimus just liked how someone else could recognize the insanity that was running a military camp, even if it wasn't as zany as the 4077th was.

Then again, the crazy antics his crew was partially known for might have given the 4077th a run for their money. Hawkeye would take that bet… and so would Smokescreen, probably.

My hair, still wet from the shower, dripped onto the blanket wrapped around my shoulders, protecting my tank top from the stray droplets. It was a little illogical to wear a blanket when I could just turn the AC up, but after living in Momma's subarctic house for a good twenty-three years, I still couldn't shake the habit. Instead, I let the apartment sit at 70˚F and bundled up like a hibernating bear while sitting in front of the TV.

"I think Charlie reminds me of Starscream. It always astounded me how the commander of the seeker armada could have such atrocious aim," Optimus remarked absently as we watched Frank Burns scream about an air raid.

"In his defense, the writers couldn't let 'im have good aim, or he'd've killed y'all midway through the episode." Optimus raised an eyeridge at me.

"Are you questioning my mechs' ability to dodge plasmafire?" I mirrored his expression.

"You're the one that said that 'Scream's aim was what kept y'all alive."

"I don't recall mentioning anything about life expectancy," Optimus refuted lightly, rolling his optics when Frank and Margaret stormed into their commanding officer's office without any respect to the man's privacy or station.

"Hm, maybe I misheard ya then," I mumbled back as I reached over to pick up my cross-stitch, ignoring Optimus's snort at my idle hobby.

Comfortable silence fell between the two of us after that, the fourteen-inch robot engrossed in the sitcom while I stitched away. It was how we spent most of our nights now that we were on our own again, and I had no doubts that it was how we would spend many of our nights now that my friends had moved back home.

In honesty, I liked it this way. It was peaceful.

"Are you planning on making dinner anytime soon?" I had wondered how long Optimus would last before finally asking.

"I'm working myself up to it." And I very pointedly continued counting my stitches, trying without success to ignore Optimus's disappointed sigh.

It was an ongoing battle between me and Optimus: I despised cooking, probably because I was awful at it, but I had also burned myself out on all the easy-make food over the past two years of my life. Starving college student food no longer appealed to me. The smell of cooking Raman actually made me gag. Unfortunately for Optimus but very fortunate for me… though heavily unhealthy, I had grown used to just eating once a day over the past year. I always felt nauseous in the mornings, so I never ate breakfast, but I always ate a big lunch. Dinner was hit or miss, depending on how late I worked and how much effort I felt like putting in. More often than not, dinner was a bowl of cereal or an apple.

The problem had only grown worse in the past week, too, though in a roundabout way. The clinic scheduled every tech in eight-hour slots with lunch break set as more of a "grab a bite when you have a chance and keep working" sort of setup. Unfortunately, because it was a 24-hour emergency clinic that was wildly understaffed, there was rarely a moment to stop even for a bite. I hadn't had an actual lunch in four days. I was literally surviving on Double-stuffed Oreos and Dr. Pepper at work. I tried to make up for it with a big dinner… but I was discovering that after eight to ten hours of work… food wasn't nearly as important as a shower and sleep. I wasn't having dizzy spells, so that was a plus, but there wasn't a single moment since graduation that I didn't feel exhausted.

Plus… we hadn't been joking earlier about me setting a pan on fire. Cooking was not my calling.

"I read that Personal: Prowl is 'bout t' go on sale." My voice held a hedging tone, hesitant, yet hopeful. Prime hummed in response, so I continued with, "With my budget, I could get 'im. Would you want that?"

"I have no reservations to having my Second in Command returned to duty." Optimus allowed the change in topic, but the stern glare he sent me told me the conversation wasn't over.

"…But…?"

"However… I am uncertain how you will adjust. Prowl is not known for clutter or wasted moments such as the one we are currently enjoying." I paused in my stitching to stare at the prime incredulously.

"Prowl's gonna cut our TV time?" Optimus cut a sideways glance in my direction.

"It is possible. The mech was always on my aft whenever I sat down to a holovid. Primus, one would assume he and your mother were cut from the same cloth." It always made me happy to hear a southernism come from Optimus Prime's mouth. I hummed lightly as I tied off the thread and moved to the top of the cloth.

"I'll do more research before I d'cide then," I promised, and silence returned.

Time seemed to change pace as we lost ourselves in the sitcom, taking simple joy in each other's company. These were my favorite moments, the moments I knew I'd cherish as life grew more hectic as I knew it would. The thing that I was discovering about having a fulltime job was that you never really had any free time, and what free time you had, you didn't want to spend it doing anything because you're just so tired. Adulting kinda sucked.

Laughter filtered from the TV again as the two "heroes" of the show screwed with Major Burns's aim of the giant anti-aircraft gun he had procured, and Optimus chuckled along. I wondered idly how he was coping with my ever-increasing absences from the apartment. I know if I felt like I lived at work, then he must feel the absence in some way as well. Not that I would assume that I was the center of his world or anything, but I was the only human he really interacted with. And people wanted to label Optimus as an extrovert.

The last week, however, we hadn't had much of a chance to spend time together. My shift-change from four hours to eight had cut into our normal free time, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. Never in my life had I considered myself too emotionally drained to talk to my little Personal, but over the past week… I just didn't have the energy to chat once I came home. I didn't want to think about my job or the clients I dealt with. I didn't want to muse about the future of mankind or make ironic jokes about how Ratchet would be doing in my shoes. I was Optimus's only companion, and even though it had only been a week since our last one, I found myself missing our little viewing sessions. My gaze flicked down to Optimus in thought, and I caught when his optics dimmed as he turned his helm toward the front door to our right.

"Lieutenant… I believe someone is at the door," Optimus murmured, his plating puffing up just the slightest as he shifted his frame in the door's direction.

"Really?" I blinked down at him. I definitely hadn't heard anything, but the small robot's optics whirred, delicate metal sheets constricting as his optic covers narrowed suspiciously. I felt worry seed in my own gut at the unusual situation. I wasn't exactly anything close to what you'd consider sociable, and never had guests at my door during the day aside from the occasional Jehovah's Witness and Girl Scout, much less during the night hours, and nine at night was exceptionally late for a summertime guest.

With another small hum, I pushed myself to my feet and slunk to the door's window, crouching down a little as if that would make me less visible through the thick blue cloth that covered the window from curious eyes. Room darkening panels were on my to-do list, but at the moment, I was more concerned with keeping casual glancers at bay than surprise nighttime guests. I barely pulled the curtain back as I peered out with one hazel eye, then I opened the curtain all the way when I couldn't see anyone suspicious.

"Huh," I mumbled, glancing back at my Personal with raised eyebrows and a frown. "Nobody there."

Then the knock came again… originating from the bottom of the door. I shoved my face against the window in an attempt to see the concrete of my doorstep, and my heart almost stopped at the creature standing there. Good heavens, how had he even gotten up the stairs?

"Lieutenant!" Optimus snapped when I hastily began unlocking the door. He dropped onto his belly on the couch, flinging his bottom half off the side to slide down as I opened the door. "What are you thinking!" I wasn't listening to his overprotective protests, though. I knelt down in front of the very confused bot standing before my door, watching me with wide blue optics.

I had never actually seen a Personal: Ratchet before, but I was pretty sure that red wasn't supposed to look that faded and the majority of his frame was supposed to be white, not dirty gray, shaded even darker by the dim lamp above my door. Like most Personal: Autobots, this Ratchet appeared to take on a G1 appearance. He stood about 11 inches tall, his bulky frame painted gray with the exception of his hands and helmet, which were painted a faded red. A single band of red wrapped around his wrists, and his upper arms sported the Autobot emblem. Emergency lights were mounted on his back, both flashing red without sound. A thick black chevron graced the center of his forehead, bringing my focus back on his cerulean optics, fully dilated in a mild sort of panic.

"Can I…help you?" My voice was hesitant and measured. His optics scrutinized my face before sliding past me to the bright living area rumbling with artificial laughter. His optics brightened slightly at the noise, some strange emotion that I couldn't really place lifting his armor as he took in the dim light and uplifting noises. Those bright blues landed finally on the Autobot leader who now stood by my side, and his whole frame slumped in disappointment.

"They're gone…" His voice choked out into silence, though the pitch of his voice led me to believe he meant to say more. Cerulean optics dimmed as they sought out mine, his expression holding dismay as he searched my face for something. I wasn't sure what he was looking for, though, and I forced a weak smile on my face. Obviously, that wasn't what he was hoping for, judging by the sudden slump of his shoulders.

"Your owner used to live here?" I questioned gently as I moved to pick him up. The medibot gave no struggle as I pulled him into my arms. He shuddered as I held him, and I rapidly debated putting him back down, even as I stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind myself. He may be discouraged at the moment, but he was still Ratchet, and the Ratchet I knew would not appreciate being held or cuddled. But then, when I shifted to place the smaller mech on the counter, his hands fisted in my shirt in an easily translatable request. The fists relaxed when I held him a little tighter.

"My owner and his parental units," Ratchet responded to my question. His owner must've been under eighteen then, if he still lived with his parents. But then again, I lived with mine until I was twenty-three, so could I really judge?

"How old was your owner?" Because who leaves behind a Personal: Ratchet? This bot easily cost three of my paychecks. Okay, maybe one and a half with my new hours, but still. The small medic glanced up into my eyes solemnly.

"Seven," he whispered. Shit. "Much too young to own a medibot." So that was the issue, I realized with a jolt. His programming was stunted. The Ratchet in my arms knew about the war and his involvement in it, but it didn't really feel like those experiences were his own. It would be the difference between someone experiencing the Battle of Normandy versus someone who watched Saving Private Ryan. One would be forever scarred by the event, whether mentally or physically, while the latter would simply have a changed perception of war.

Since the Personal: Ironman ended up having so many issues with severe PTSD and survivor's guilt, Persobots Inc. had decided to "stunt" the programming of future Personals to prevent their memories and backstories from affecting them to a degree that they were either nonfunctional or less than ideal as a companion. I could only imagine how difficult life would be for my Optimus Prime to be owned by a child who had no way of understanding the struggles and trauma he had survived through.

"I see," I murmured, though that was only half true. I wasn't sure why age mattered so much for a medibot. After all, Personal: Ratchets were purchased to act as nurses of sorts for chronically ill humans or as mental support for medical personnel. If this child had some sort of long-term illness, having a medibot to assist in treatments and medicating sounded like a fantastic idea. "How 'bout this: I'm gonna run you some warm water to clean off with, and you c'n use Prime's brushes to get the gunk outta yer joints, and while you do that, I c'n give your owners a call."

The look of hope sent mixed feelings of affection, irritation, and genuine hate through my brain. He was kinda cute, in a lost-puppy-that-you-would-normally-think-would-attack kinda way, and what the heck kind of horrible owners left their Personal behind without so much as a note to the new tenant? I would've called them when their missing Personal showed up if they had left behind a number. It irked me that the owner's parent hadn't had the foresight to update her address so that her son's Ratchet could be shipped to them. Instead, the poor guy was forced to show up at the last known address and pray that his owners still happened to live there.

Then again… I had lived here for the better part of the year. How far away had they lost this Personal for him to just now be returning home? Could I really blame them if they had lost the bot in Waco or something and thought him gone forever? But Personals were built to be locatable by their owners. Optimus had a tracking chip that I could link to my phone or to the communicator that he came with. Plus, he was able to track my vocal patterns well enough to track me down during the homecoming game when one of my mini-cheerleaders had misplaced him. How much of an excuse did the past owners have?

Optimus trailed after me silently as I padded silently across the apartment to the bathroom beside my room. It wasn't a large bathroom in the least, containing a small bathtub with a sakura shower curtain, a toilet and a sink with a cabinet all lined up against the south wall. A towel rack hung from the north wall, leading up to the entryway. Optimus's little tub wasn't that ostentatious; it was a just a medium sized plastic tote beside my tub with his cleaning supplies off to the side. Bath time was a time we enjoyed together, as he could clean his joints carefully while I soaked in the larger tub with a book.

"Lieutenant," Optimus called. I paused in my movements to gaze down at the Autobot commander. The larger, cleaner Personal frowned a little at the medibot then pointedly snapped his mouth guard in place when he turned his gaze to mine. "I would speak to you before that phone call." Ratchet mirrored the mech's frown but gave no verbal response as I nodded.

The water was drawn easily enough, though Ratchet was quite determined to remain in my arms during the process, and I put a small dab of Persobot Detergent into the warm water before placing the basin and Ratchet on the ground beside the larger tub. The medibot rambled out a phone number before I had a chance to grab my phone or even a pen and paper, optics locked on the translucent liquid like it was the first time he'd seen water in days.

My concern grew as he climbed into the water without a backward glance and began cleaning himself, obviously uncaring about what Optimus had to say to me, even if it likely had something to do with his immediate future. Maybe he was unused to a Personal/owner relationship where the Personal's opinion actually held a significant amount of weight in decision making. That in itself was kind of sad. Everyone should have a say in their future. Or maybe I was just really anthropomorphizing them. If Ratchet was used to being the Persobot of a seven-year-old, maybe he wasn't programmed to care about major decisions, and in the end, if he hadn't been overly personalized... well, they were just robots when it was all said and done.

I closed the door behind me in a habit of offering privacy, though I knew from experience that he didn't need it. Personals didn't remove their "armor" to clean like a normal Cybertronian might, and they didn't view nudity as humans did at all. Seven years of living with Optimus as a companion had all but removed any insecurity I had about bathing in front of the robot. Of course, he could just be a really sneaky closet pervert, but I felt like that didn't really click with the Optimus Prime personality.

"Tell me you caught that number," I begged lightly as I crouched down to be closer to my prime's level.

"I don't like this." Optimus cut his gaze to the door between us and the wayward medibot. "An expensive Personal like a Ratchet model does not simply 'get lost.' That adult would not have ceased searching for that bot until he showed up."

Nothing creeps me out as much as Optimus voicing my thoughts aloud, mainly because thought I miss the mark sometimes, Optimus is very rarely wrong. "Let's not think 'bout it too much right yet. If I was the parent to an annoying 7-year-old, I probably wouldn't waste hours huntin' down a Persobot, either. I mean, my mom wouldn't put that kinda effort into searching for you." Optimus's rolled his optics up at me, his posture shifting more towards irritation than concern.

"I've linked the number into your phone," he stated without preamble, an obvious dismissal if I'd heard one. I rose to my feet and stepped over his head in a smooth movement. My phone was on the table, and though I hated talking on the phone in general, I would make an exception for this. The line rang twice before it was picked up.

"Hello?" The man who answered sounded tired but young. Maybe only a few years older than myself, unless he was an older guy who just happened to have a youngish, tenor voice. There was a fair likelihood of that, because god knows I sucked at guessing ages. He definitely sounded how I assume I would if I was in the process of trying to get a seven-year-old to sleep.

"Hi! My name's Lizzie," I introduced, trying to sound as friendly as I could. I think I did a pretty good job considering how much I hate talking on the phone. "I moved into your old apartment, and your Personal: Ratchet just showed up at my door."

"My what?" I couldn't tell if he sounded confused or angry.

"Your Persobot? Ratchet? He gave me this number as his owner contact."

"'Owner'? What the hell you on, lady? You think I got some sort of slave or something?"

"No, no! Your Personal!" I negated quickly. Oh, my god, what person jumped to slavery when talking about a Persobot?!

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about. If this's a prank, it ain't funny. Don't call me again." And he hung up.

What the hell was that? My face twisted in confusion as I pulled the phone away from my ear to stare at.

"Well, that was… odd." I glanced down at Optimus, who had his arms crossed over his chest. "Who pretends they've never heard of Persobots?"

And stranger still, who gives up a perfectly functional Personal: Ratchet that they've spent so much time and money on procuring and programming? The Optimus Prime by my side was universally different from the one I opened seven years ago, and all that was thanks to countless memories and self-learning that could be no easier replaced than the memoirs in my own mind. I couldn't imagine just… giving him up, even if he did something irredeemable. It would be hard to find something that my Prime could do that would fit in that category, though.

Still, how strange was it that a Ratchet Personal had just fallen into my lap a mere week after I had spoken to…

"What if you could afford one, though? Ratchet Personals are pretty useful. I know one would fit my plans perfectly."

I blinked away the glowing image of the tattooist's woodland green eyes, somehow haunting in my memory, as I turned my attention down to the bot standing at my calf. His optics were narrowed in thought.

"Perhaps Ratchet did not fit with his ideal Personal, and he did not wish to pay the reprogramming fee," Optimus surmised, tapping a pointer finger on his lips as he paced back to the living room.

"I don't like this," I murmured, inadvertently echoing Optimus's previous opinion on the matter. "It feels…" I trailed off, grappling for a word that would mean 'predestined in the worst sense.'

"Ominous?" Optimus supplied. Not really what I was looking for, but it would do.

"Be it far from me t' look a gift horse in th' mouth, but… yeah." Optimus grunted, cutting his optics back to the door where our guest bathed.

"We will give him the benefit of the doubt for now. I will keep an optic on him, and together, we will face whatever challenge he poses."

"That's what worries me," I mumbled. "I'm kinda tired of facing challenges."

"And here I thought you rather enjoyed a good challenge." Optimus favored me with a wry smile, his helm tilting upwards and sideways to watch my expression

"In moderation, Prime," I grunted back, stepping toward the bathroom door to confront the smaller bot again. Perhaps he could explain the strange behavior. He had given that phone number fairly quickly, and though I didn't doubt Optimus's memory, perhaps it had transferred incorrectly, or Ratchet had accidently given a wrong number.

"Hey, Ratch?" I knocked on the door before opening it. He looked a fair sight better once he was clean, I decided as I stared down at the sparkling medibot currently drying himself haphazardly with a terrycloth towel. His small fingers barely fit around the thick material, and he mumbled under his breath as he struggled to get the larger cloth to do what he wanted it to.

I didn't laugh. Honest, I didn't, and to this day, I still hold a fair bit of pride at my restraint, because there's something hilarious about watching Ratchet the Hatchet cussing out a towel because he can't find a dignified way to dry himself off with it, especially when my small Optimus Prime had figured out his technique years ago. I did snort once, and Ratchet's dour glare lifted my spirits a little. Good to know he still had some of his spunk.

"Could you tell me a little more about your owners?" I crouched down in front of him, fully unable to hide the smirk on my face.

"My owners?" Ratchet repeated gruffly as he dropped the towel beside his white and red frame. He was still scruffy, I decided, with little scuff marks on his shoulders and knees, the faded quality of his paint. I would have to look into some model paint that would work with Persobot plastics if I was gonna keep him.

Wait! No! I am not keeping him! I mentally shook my head to shove that distinct hope into a far corner. I had felt those yearnings before, usually when I passed the animal shelter, but there was no way I was going to keep this bot. Someone out there was looking for him, of that I was absolutely certain. Thinking about him in a long-term fashion would only lead to disappointment.

"There's not really much to say. My owner lived with his femme and mech creators."

"A man answered, and he seemed…" I trailed off, my face scrunching as I struggled for the right word to explain the man's strange jump in logic, "a bit confused about your existence."

"From what I can gather," Optimus interjected with no small amount of censure, "he was quite rude to Tex on the phone." As if that was Ratchet's fault.

I imagined Ratchet's confusion ran along the same lines as mine until he repeated, "Tex?"

"Oh!" I gasped, clapping my hands together as I realized we had missed a crucial part of our introduction. "How rude of me! My name's Elizabeth, but Optimus calls me Tex, has called me Tex since high school."

"So the two of you have known each other for significant amount of time?" I couldn't place a finger on his tone. It wasn't really probing, but it… kinda was. Like he was looking for an answer, but not necessarily to that question. Before I could question him, though, Optimus spoke again.

"Yes, but that is hardly relevant to the conversation." Optimus was leaned against my left leg, arms crossed as he narrowed his optics at the other robot in the room, that mouthguard still hiding his inner emotions from the uninitiated. "Why wouldn't your owner's creators claim you?"

"I honestly don't know," Ratchet responded with a shrug. "Life with them wasn't memorable."

"Really? How long have you been online with your owner? How much adaptive programming have you processed?"

"It wasn't long—"

"Because within a month, I had adapted to my lieutenant's preferences, and I had learned the proper way to interact with her family unit."

"Lieutenant?"

"You were not programmed to refer to your owner by a title?"

"Well, I was, but—"

"Optimus." I rarely raised my voice to my commander, but the trick worked. The two bots went silent as they broke from their glaring contest to stare up at me. Since when did Optimus give anyone the third degree? "That's enough." The gentle rebuke worked. Optimus's arms dropped to his sides, and his glower turned toward the floor. "He's gone through enough stress without you adding to it."

"We know nothing about him, Lieutenant," Optimus reasoned, his optics flicking back up to meet m hazel eyes. "We should send him to Persobots where he can be returned or reprogrammed."

"Don't reprogram me!" Small red hands latched onto my oversized t-shirt, and I blinked down at the medibot as he stared up at me with wide optics. I rarely saw desperation on a Personal's face before—Optimus never had the need to display such an emotion—but I could see it in every inch Ratchet's face. The way his eyes focused unblinkingly on my face, the way the ridges above his eyes furrowed as his mouth pulled into a grimace. It honestly looked a little like he wanted to cry. Good god, what had they done to this bot to make him this terrified of something as a reprogramming? Yeah, it was a four-letter word on Cybertron, but this bot had stunted programming. He shouldn't fully comprehend the implications that came with reprogramming and shadowplay.

"We're not going to reprogram you." The assurances loosened the medibot's fists, but his optics remained locked on my eyes, searching out any deception. "Ratchet, we just need some more specific information so that we can get you back where you came from."

"Please, can I just stay with you?" The little medibot's voice held more than just a simple plea, his voice filled with that desperation that I had never thought to see on a Persobot's face. "My last… owner… we-we never got along. He didn't—he wasn't—" Ratchet's optics darted around feverishly as he struggled to find the proper words before locking in on my eyes again, "he didn't like that I was always making comments about his not working out, not eating properly, and probably twelve other Primus-forsaken things he wasn't doing right."

I hesitated a moment before answering, feeling a little shallow as I said, "Sometimes. I don't know if I'd want 'im picking apart my health and daily habits."

"Ah," Adrian huffed with a wry grin. "The not eating thing?"

"And the not working out, not drinking enough water, and twelve other things I'm sure I'm doing wrong." Adrian huffed another amused laugh through his nose.

"So only a mild Ratchet fan."

"Sorta."

I broke from my weird moment of déjà vu to find that Ratchet was still talking, his voice taking on a frantic tone. "I'll track your moods and dispense your depression medication and assist in your career and-and I can edit my programming to adapt to your—"

"Ratchet, Ratch!" I broke in finally, unable to handle the poor bot's anxiety any longer. Primus, the bot was going to send me into an empathic spiral if he kept on like this! "First off, a Persobot can't edit their own programming, but I appreciate the offer." Even if it kinda creeped me out a little bit. And sorta depressed me. How bad was his life before that he'd be willing to change an integral part of himself to make himself… I dunno, wanted? Needed?

"O-oh," he stuttered. It was so weird. I never would have imagined Ratchet the Hatchet, CMO of the Unmaker and Medic of Doom… to be a mess of anxiety like this. Especially if his last owner was a child. From what I read, Personals programmed for children were supposed to be tamer than their adult companion counterparts. Their backstories and programming were tapered down a little to prevent stress to the child, and their personalities were rounded off a little. For instance, an Ironman programmed for an adult, like Megan's for instance, might be more inclined to cuss, talk about drinking and partying, and encourage their owner to have more fun versus finishing work. A child's Ironman would be more likely to encourage good morals, help with homework, and assist in the formation of good habits.

For a Ratchet Personal to have this level of anxiety, especially with secondhand programming… it just didn't make any sense. His primary concern should be whether this kid has gotten his meds; he shouldn't even really have the capability to desire a new owner, and even if it was a glitch of programming, he shouldn't have reached this level of desperation. And now that I thought about it, the bad language was really strange considering his programming.

"And second…?" Optimus's voice broke me from my musing. Oh yeah, I was in the middle of saying something, wasn't I? Well, hell if I could remember where I was going with it. I blinked down at the little red and white bot slowly relaxing against my torso, and I suddenly felt exhausted. God, why did this always happen to me? A stress-free purchase of a Prowl Personal pushed aside to make way for dramatic Ratchet Persobot with more baggage than I had. I wanted to keep him—I was a sucker for abandoned creatures—but the thought of a psycho ex-owner loomed over my head. Was it even worth hunting his owner down if they so obviously didn't put in the work to open an avenue for return should he be found? I mean… free Personal. Who was I to complain?

"Look, I'll be honest, that last convo took the last of my energy reserves." I rose to my feet gracefully, letting my hips lead the way as my arm instinctively curled under the medibot when he refused to released my shirt. "You can stay tonight, and we'll deal with everything tomorrow."

"Lieutenant, are you certain you wish to–"

"Op, it's fine. Let's just… not worry tonight."

I could hear him padding after me, and his gaze burned through my back as I locked the front door and flicked off the light. Blue optics blinked up at me from the ground a few feet away before turning back toward the bedroom.

"Elizabeth," Optimus rumbled in a warning tone when I passed by the small kitchen area. I groaned, slumping like a teenager as I turned my eyes down onto the authoritative form of my oldest Personal. I hated it when he used my first name. It was a rarity, and he always said it in that commanding "do what I say or else" tone that I'm pretty sure only Optimus had perfected. After all, even into adulthood, I was completely incapable of disobedience when that voice was involved.

"I'll eat first thing tomorrow morning."

"You'll eat tonight." I growled. You know, growing up, my mom had been just like this, overly concerned about how much I was feeding myself. My body and I had a system, though: if I was hungry, I ate, and if I wasn't hungry, but I had to work out, I ate. If I wasn't working out, though, my body didn't require as many calories, so I didn't eat as much. Evidently, Optimus was taking up where she had left off.

Ratchet remained strangely silent as I yanked an apple from the fruit basket, locking eyes with my commander as I took my first bite. Optimus may have gotten me to eat, but he would know that I was under protest. I could feel Ratchet's movements as I chewed, his head jumping back and forth between me and my oldest Personal as we continued our staring contest. Awkward silence reigned while I finished the… well, I guess it's not really a meal, but for the sake of admitting defeat, I will claim it as such.

I finished off the apple in less than ten minutes and tossed the core away, ignoring Optimus's hum of approval and the internal elation that sound always brought. The rest of my nightly rituals went by quickly enough. Ratchet stood silently on the bathroom's countertop as I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I tried really hard to ignore his stare, but my motions were a little stilted at how weird it felt to have someone studying me so closely while I performed the mundane daily actions of the stereotypical human. The taste of spearmint mixed with the acidic aftertaste of the Granny Smith apple, pulling a grimace to my face, but I finished the job as I always had.

"Happy?" I questioned as I scooped up the medibot, who yelped an expletive in response, and stepped over the Autobot leader's head after flicking the bathroom light off.

"Indubitably." I rolled my eyes, though a small smirk still rose to my face as I shook my head good-naturedly. After all, I knew he's only looking out for my health. I should be grateful I have somebot who cares.

My room was small in comparison to my relatively large living/kitchen area, which suited my needs well enough. It wasn't like I tryna impress any guys with my giant bedroom. I guess a better phrasing would be, "it wasn't like I was bringing home any guys period." The moonlight filtered through the closed venetian blinds, and the dim light panned across ocean-themed wall decorations that I had only just started putting up, despite having lived in the apartment for running on eight months.

Despite being a self-proclaimed fangirl, no Transformers posters or pictures adorned my walls. I was a little like Breakdown in that the idea of eyes watching me kinda freak me out, and that includes eyes on posters. I know, logically, that it's a piece of paper, and the printed image isn't staring at me, but… I dunno. I think being a Transformers has affected me in weird ways, like how I refuse to be naked around any electronic, aside from my Personals. Autobots aren't real, but my brain still whispers that my straightener might be a perverted robot.

So, I'm weird. Sue me.

"You can sleep in the bed, but the pillow is Optimus's." I gestured to the pillow beside mine on the full-size bed as I climbed in, settling the medibot down beside me as I scooted under the sheet. Hopefully, my AC could keep up with the outside heat tonight. I really didn't want to hunt down a fan. As I settled in, two blue lights appeared from the other side of the bed as Optimus finished climbing up the decorative headboard leg and hauled himself onto the mattress with a finesse that I know I wouldn't have managed if I was that size.

"Thank you." Ratchet's voice pulled my attention down to the set of blue lights closest to me. I couldn't see his expression, but his optics flashed with emotion as he settled down beside me. "I will not complain about my recharging arrangements. I'm just happy to have a safe place to rest." The "finally" went unspoken but implied in his tone, and a small flitter of pity wound its way around my bleeding heart. How long had this poor Personal wandered around, hoping against all fortune that he might finally reach his home? How many nights had this little robot had to hide under rickety shelters, and how often did he get run from those temporary havens by dogs or ill-meaning humans? How long had it been since this little bot had felt safe?

"We'll talk some more in the morning before I leave for work. For now, rest." I laid back, pulled the thin sheet up to my ears as pressed back into my silk pillowcase, curling my arms above my head and nuzzling my face into my bicep. Yeah, tomorrow, I'd be more up to figuring out this whole mess. Maybe I'd be able to find this little robot's real owner, and this whole mess would clear itself up easily.

"Rest well, Lieutenant," Optimus hummed as he settled down to recharge. I felt Ratchet shifting up towards my pillow, and his light weight plopped down against my torso just under my left arm.

"Night, Prime. Night, Ratch." The medibot didn't reply, but I picked up the low whir of his systems winding down, and when I glanced down at him, his optics were fully offline. I smiled softly to myself, feeling absurdly as if I had just taken in a stray cat. What an odd day.

As my mind began to sink into darkness, a little thread of concern decided to make itself known, a tiny thought whispering across my mind as it sank into oblivion… how did Ratchet that I struggled with depression?

And there's the next one. Review, please!