Pest-i-Side
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"Decepticons, retreat!" Megatron called, jumping into the air and flying away with his trigger between in his legs.
Sunstreaker went tumbling through the air courtesy of a skip warp from the crazy black jet. Sunstreaker yelled in alarm, seeing the ground rush up to damage his plating. An unexpected energy field surrounded him and lowered him safely to the ground.
"Thanks, Hound," Sunstreaker called, seeing the green Jeep lean against a blistered Trailblazer.
"No problem," Hound said, offering a faint smile. He knew if Sunstreaker landed roughly and scratched up his paint, he'd be inconsolable and caustic until he was lustrous once again.
As it was, he only faired a few scratches and dings with his run in with the seekers. Black and blue adorned his golden paint in a pretty mosaic that only earned a scowl from the artist's critical optic.
Sunstreaker went looking for his brother. He knew the idiot was still alive, if the giddiness filtering over their bond was any indication. The moron probably found something to play with here at the human establishment.
It wouldn't surprise Sunstreaker. His brother was simple that way.
Sunstreaker's gaze swept the collected assortment of junk until his optics alighted on a collection of glass chunks in a miasma of colors. Some resembled uncut jewels, others look like they were smelted and the dross broken into segments.
The colors were mesmerizing to the artist.
The booth was one of the few that had survived the battle, and Sunstreaker poked the cash register, making it ding as the drawer opened. He withdrew some human money from his subspace and stuffed it in the till before taking all of the glass pieces.
He had several projects going that required something unique, and he knew he just found the focal point. He hoped the seven hundred dollars he put in the till for the humans was enough. He made a note to remind himself to return later and ask if he paid them enough. And possibly inquire for any extra pieces for purchase.
Brawn was complaining while Bumblebee extracted the minibot from a long nylon cord that had been displaying a collection of human tee shirts with funny pictures or sayings. The table nearby was smashed but the shirts still looked good, if not a little out of order.
When Brawn stood up, he had a twisted coat hanger sticking out from his crotchplates that made him grunt and extract the offending metal before it did any damage to his favorite relay.
Jazz was helping Prowl assist a shaking Bluestreak who had a hole punctured though a doorwing. Prowl was trying to keep the sniper lucid and talk him through shut down protocols to cut off his pain receptors before he went into stasis shock. Jazz was using a pretty multicolored quilted clothe to press against the wound and prevent him from damaging delicate circuitry by making the doorwing flap around. The quilt provided padding to the sensitive appendage while sensors were systematically taken off line.
Smokescreen hobble from the smashed chairs and benches that were made from rustic wood, a twig poking out from his aft plates and from both knee joints. His jaw was dislocated, his lower mandible unable to hinge shut. He looked like he was trying to attract nanoflies.
Sunstreaker smirked, realizing the Praxian probably tried to talk to a Con and they hit him. Wouldn't surprise Sunstreaker if the processor doctor had tried to analyze a Con and got decked for his troubles.
Served him right.
Tracks had typically found a large oval mirror and was admiring himself until he noticed the scuff marks. Honestly, the mech thought battle didn't get messy. Sunstreaker was as vain as they came but even he knew the consequences of beating the slag out of another mech.
In fact, knowing he was sustaining damage to his paint was what fueled his anger and made him more vicious. If the Cons attacked with mattresses, cotton balls, and bubble wrap, Sunstreaker would probably limit his retaliation to bitch slapping.
Ironhide stomped by, shiny bits of human accessories falling out of his joints and landing with little tinkling clatters onto the concrete below. His step faltered, causing his hips to shimmy back and forth. The action caused a couple of decorated knives to fall free from his hip joints and bounce under a table.
"Hold still you worthless slagger." The words allowed Sunstreaker to hone in on the two mechs he hated to love the most.
Ratchet was knelt over Sideswipe, who as usual, was lying on the ground, an injury keeping him from dancing away from his favorite demon.
"That hurts!" Sideswipe protested like a little sparkling. Honestly, his brother was such a child sometimes.
"It's supposed to!" Ratchet snapped before whacking Sideswipe upside the helm. "Now hold still and let me finish the graph so I can move on."
"So, move on already," Sideswipe smarted, earning another whack to the head.
Sunstreaker wondered if his brother didn't enjoy the pain Ratchet inflicted. He certainly earned more medical discipline than any other in their ranks.
"Ruptured hoses are sealed." Ratchet informed his patient as if the two weren't verbally sparring. "I'll have to put a patch on you until I can affect proper repairs."
"Good… go mutilate someone else," Sideswipe griped, though he winced when he tried to move.
A missile to the torso would make anyone flinch. He was just lucky it was a low charge and only blew a portion out of his lower abdomen. If he had ribs, the lower half would have been shattered. Thankfully, the ruptured hoses were easy to seal and Sideswipe's injuries weren't as bad as Ratchet originally assumed.
Ratchet always assumed the worst when the twins were involved. It was never a quick, simple, clean, easy task with those two. But, Primus smiled on them today, for Sideswipe wasn't in any immediate danger and Ratchet could focus on other patients.
"I believe Bluestreak is in need of your medical care," Sunstreaker said, watching as Sideswipe tried to shove Ratchet away and the medic pushed him back. Honestly, they were worse than two bullies in the playground, jockeying for position of King of Recess.
"I'm on it,' Ratchet said, evacuating Sideswipe and heading to the trembling gunner. Sunstreaker heard Ratchet mutter about a clean, precise through and through and couldn't help but feel a little empathy for the sniper. He knew how sensitive the appendages were.
Sunstreaker helped his brother to his pedes, Sideswipe grousing under his breathing function about landing on rustic human furniture. His optics narrowed at the sign as he was steered away from the destruction, Sunstreaker picking bits of organic matter out of his brother's joints.
Ironhide was in charge of corralling the wounded into Prime's trailer. Sideswipe didn't want to go, but as Sunstreaker pointed out, if he transformed, he'd probably lose his transmission on the highway. With grumbling reluctance he entered the trailer, holding out his arms for Bluestreak who was numbly placed in back for the ride home. Prowl and Jazz left the gunner with the Lamborghini, knowing he was in good hands.
The ride back to base took forever to the injured mechs, Sideswipe attempting to distract them by reciting his tussle with Blitzwing. Bluestreak whimpered at every bump, his now lax doorwings wrapped in several heavy quilts to prevent damage and laying flat along his back as their neural circuitry was rendered offline.
Though they were offline now, there's a chance that phantom signals could cloud Bluestreak's sensors when they were turned back on. Sideswipe shushed the Praxian, one hand pressed against his bumper over his spark chamber, his thumb stroking a circular pattern on the trembling plating.
Sideswipe learned along ago that Praxian's were prone to going into processor overload or sensory shut down. To keep them in the current reality, one had to keep talking to them and offering tactile contact. The bumper was the best point of contact, the sensors linked directly to the spark chamber and keeping a panicking spark at ease. Sideswipe nearly terminated when he learned that information, and the first one he had to implement such a thing on, was Prowl.
He had never seen the Praxian lose his cool before. To see him a confused, simpering mass of monochromatic metal was disconcerting, and Sideswipe never wanted to see him in such a fragile state again.
Prowl was one of the strongest mechs he knew. He never allowed physical things to affect his professional demeanor. It took one errant blow to the helm to knock his systems haywire and make him a blithering mess.
Sideswipe had a panic attack at Prowl's panic attack. All in all, it wasn't a good day for either of them.
But now he used his knowledge to keep Bluestreak calm and centered in reality. Any inquiry he made was only answered with nods and the occasional hum of agreement. Bluestreak was struggling and losing his grip on his emotions.
As soon as Prime's doors opened in medbay, Prowl was marching inside and extracting Bluestreak from Sideswipe, and escorting the wobbling gunner to the operating theater. Ratchet was barking orders for everyone to take their assigned berths and Wheeljack would see to their injuries. Wheeljack and Perceptor were already on stand by, ready to help the medic. Ratchet would need Perceptor's help with the intricate task of repairing Bluestreak's doorwing.
Prowl already had the gunner on the table, making sure he was secured for before ordering him to power down into stasis. As Ratchet collected equipment, Prowl used cloths to wipe down the lax doorwings and threw a sheet of heavy duty plastic over Bluestreak's body.
The injured wing was freed of such coverings, and as Prowl held the limp wing aloft, Perceptor placed a heavy rubber mat between the sheet and the door wing. Prowl eased the appendage on the black rubber that would prevent any sparks or melted pieces from damaging Bluestreak's back while Ratchet rebuilt the sensory network and welded the new circuits into place.
Finished with the prep, Prowl left, shutting the door behind him and allowing the two the chance to help Bluestreak. He didn't acknowledge Sideswipe as he exited.
Sideswipe sat on the med berth for all of five minutes before he was and heading for the door.
"Sideswipe, wait! I haven't repaired you yet," Wheeljack said, helm fins flashing bright red.
"Doc bot said it was minimal and there's other bots in worse shape. I'm going to go grab some energon and when you're ready for me, comm. me."
Wheeljack didn't have a chance to answer as Sideswipe was already out the door. The frontliner was right.
Cliffjumper had twisted his knee and sparks were shooting out of the appendage in a pyrotechnic display. Energon dripped down the appendage and over the edge of the berth.
Huffer had a busted windshield and headlight, the glass tinkling into his frame to chaff his joints and eroding hoses. There was also a cough in his engine that sounded ominous.
Gears was complaining about his busted shoulder and while he was there, he should have the hydraulics in his legs checked over. A few Autobots had dings and dents, but it wasn't anything life threatening. They exited the medbay to attend duties and write their reports, ready for Prowl's immediate compilation. The mech was scarily efficient.
Sideswipe meandered down the corridor and found a sight he wasn't expecting. The two humans, Spike and Carly, were in a passionate embrace. He watched for a moment, secretly filming their tryst for possible blackmailing prosperity later. When he had enough footage he cleared his vents, scaring the two teens. They jumped apart faster than Skywarp could move, both red in the face and wide eyed.
"Aren't you two a little young for mating?" Sideswipe asked, secretly ecstatic when both went a deeper shade of red. Oh, they could give him a run for his credits with their color scheme!
"We weren't mating," Carly said, her ears redder than her face. "We were just kissing."
"Kissing that leads to mating," Sideswipe interjected. As predicted, both humans burned red hot.
Hoping to change the subject, and distract the red Lamborghini, Carly noticed the strange addition to Sideswipe's side.
"Umm, Sideswipe?"
"Yeah?"
"What is on your stomach?" Carly asked, staring at the strange ribbed silver contraption wedged between armor plates.
"Ratchet had to improvise," Sideswipe said, tapping the metal and making a 'zing' noise. "It's a human thing."
"Is that a… washboard?" Carly asked, having seen one of the old time contraptions her parents used as a display piece with antique family photos.
"Yup," Sideswipe said, sending another little 'zing' into the air. "I now have washboard abs." He waggled his brow plating. "You impressed?"
"Very," she said with a giggle.
Sparkplug chose that moment to appear. "Spike, where have you been? I've been calling. Wheeljack needs some help in the repair bay."
"Sorry, dad, didn't hear you," Spike said guiltily.
"They were mating." Sideswipe supplied, hoping for a good show. He wasn't disappointed.
"What!" Sparkplug thundered, glaring between the two teenagers.
"We weren't mating!" Spike corrected Sideswipe, his face so red, he looked ready to explode. "It was just a kiss!"
"I've seen the movies," Sideswipe said, raising his hand to ward off Spike's thin explanation. "And when humans move their hands over the other's chassis, the coverings are close to coming off."
Carly turned a violent shade of crimson, unable to lift her gaze from the floor.
"Carly, please wait in the Command Center until Spike and I are finished assisting Wheeljack," Sparkplug said tersely, glaring daggers at his son. "Then we will take you home so I may have a nice long chat with your parents."
"Yes, sir," Carly muttered. Without looking to Spike she turned and sprinted down the hall.
"Sideswipe, I'm sure you have something to do," Sparkplug said, grasping his son by the arm and marching him in the direction of the medbay.
Sideswipe watched the two humans leave with an amused expression before heading to the rec room to get some energon. Happily he ran his fingers down the corrugated metal along his abdomen, sending a little 'zing' into the air.
It was early the next day when Sideswipe was called back to the medical ward to receive treatment. The only other patients were Bluestreak, who was still under sedation while his repair nanites integrated the new circuits in his doorwing, and Brawn, who had managed to hide the fact he had another coathanger crammed into an uncomfortable place, and was too proud to admit the problem until severe damaged had already been done. He was currently hiding behind a dividing panel, allowing him to nurse his injuries and his pride.
"Be gentle with me," Sideswipe whimpered in a pathetic tone, lying down on the berth.
Ratchet moved the instrument tray close by and smacked the ruby Lamborghini in the face. "Shut up and hold still."
"Typical date then." Sideswipe deadpanned, before a growling oath followed him into unconsciousness.
When Sideswipe woke it was to find Sunstreaker sitting nearby, absently rubbing the back of his neck while glaring daggers around the ward. As usual, his mood was sour.
"How long was I out?" Sideswipe asked, tenderly touching his right side. To his disappointment, there was no 'zing' to answer his strum.
"Six hours," Sunstreaker grunted, turning his stare toward his brother.
"Oh, Ratchet must be losing his touch." Sideswipe knew better than to attempt movement, so he merely reclined on the berth, enjoying the peace and quiet.
Then the door opened and in walked Gears. The minibot glanced about the room, a surly look on his face to match Sunstreaker. He muttered something inarticulate and left without acknowledging the two bots watching him.
"Must be looking for Ratchet," Sideswipe supplied after Gears left.
"He left about ten minutes ago to get some energon." Sunstreaker supplied, rubbing his forearm vigorously. He withdrew a chamois from his subspace and began to buff.
Sideswipe sighed, knowing his brother was correcting imaginary slights, but after five minutes, Sunstreaker began to scratch at his arm, cursing under his breathing function.
"Now what?" Sideswipe asked, throwing an exasperated look in his brother's direction.
"Plating itches."
"So? Take a bath."
"Did." Sunstreaker grunted, shifting his attention to the other arm and scratching along the transformation seams.
"Did you scrub along your seams too hard?" Sideswipe's brow ridge quirked in a perfect imitation of Prowl's. "You've been known to irritate those circuits with rough cleaning."
"I was itching before I scrubbed," Sunstreaker said, huffing as his chest plates started itching.
"Have Ratch look at you," Sideswipe suggested just as the medic entered the medbay. Sideswipe's expression shifted to worry upon finding Ratchet in an unusually foul temper.
Ratchet grumbled under his breathing function, stomping across the ward, his fists clenched in anger. The look he threw to the twins was enough to freeze their fuel lines. Wisely, both remained silent. Ratchet was a couple feet from his office when Gears entered the medical wing, his gaze fixing upon The White Specter of the ARK, and marching toward his doom.
Tracks followed close behind, but his step faltered upon noticing Ratchet's disposition. To give himself time to gauge Ratchet's mood, Tracks joined the twins, glancing over Sideswipe's still healing torso.
"How's Ratchet's mood?" Tracks asked lowly.
Sunstreaker nodded toward the distance, where Gears was within striking distance of a tsunami. "Watch for yourself."
"Ratchet, I need you to scan my chest," Gears said, stopping short of Ratchet's reach as the medic halted in the doorway to his office.
Ratchet turned in slow motion to regard the fool who had disturbed him. His engine rumbled threateningly, but Gears plowed on.
"I think you missed something."
"For the last time, you don't have any bugs or viruses!" Ratchet snarled in a tone that was usually reserved for Lamborghinis. Sideswipe flinched on principal, though he was unable to put his gaze away from the spectacle happening on the other side of the ward. "You are in perfect, operational health. You don't even need a defrag!"
"But Ratchet, I'm sure you missed something," Gears protested.
CLANG
Gears dropped where he stood, his protests fading into ghosts.
"Ouch," Sideswipe winced. "Guess Ratchet gave him an iron defrag. He'll be down for at least an hour."
Tracks offered a shudder, noticing Gears lying on the filthy floor. Subconsciously, he rubbed his arm, fretting over his situation.
Ratchet snorted obscenities and entered his office, slamming the door on the tirade of idiots.
"You going to get checked out?" Sunstreaker asked Tracks.
"While Ratchet is in that kind of mood? Slag no." Tracks shivered at the thought of lying on the medbay floor.
"Why's Ratchet in such a slag eating mood?" Sideswipe asked.
"Bots been pestering him about some sort of infestation," Sunstreaker answered. He didn't possess a battle computer, but like lights flicking on in his mind, he put pieces of a strange puzzle together.
Since the battle early that morning, bots had been meandering in and out of the medical bay, each complaining about the same symptoms. Itchy plating, raw sensors, sensations of something crawling under plating. Sunstreaker had heard the complaints since he stationed himself by his brother's side after surgery.
Now that several hours had gone by, Sunstreaker realized there was nothing wrong with his own plating, other than listening to others complain about their systems all day. The sensations were merely a byproduct of other's, meaning he was basically infected with their ghosts and not suffering from some sort of malady.
The thought made Sunstreaker scowl.
This is why he hated being around others. You pick up things. Even things that didn't exist.
Ratchet exited his office and checked on Bluestreak who was still slumbering soundly. Ratchet's demeanor changed instantly, his hands tender on Bluestreak's doorwing as he examined the circuitry.
Tracks rubbed at his arm, a frown on his face. He was debating on whether or not he should take his chances. In the end, his worry won, sending the Corvette to the medical demon of the hospital bay.
"Ratchet, can you take a look at my arm?" Tracks said timidly.
Ratchet spun from Bluestreak to glare at his latest patient, his face hardening in anger.
"Why?" The question was low. Dangerous. Coming from the very bowels of the Pit Maker himself. And by the ominous rumblings, he was about to belch forth some acerbic dross.
"It's been tingling," Tracks said, trying to look contrite. "And a few times, it went numb."
Ratchet's brow ridge shot up, but he didn't offer further grumbles of doom. He grabbed his scanner and ran it over Tracks arm, the Corvette remaining immobile.
"There is a pinch in the main conduction relay," Ratchet said after a moment.
Normally, such a thing would garner a whooping from the motherly medic, berating the patient while affecting repairs, but Ratchet seemed abnormally appeased by the diagnosis. He retracted the piece of armor and set to work, adjusting the pinch and soldering the wire into place to prevent further injury.
After a few moments, Tracks was repaired and ordered from medbay. Ratchet narrowed his optics when Ironhide stepped across the threshold long enough to pause, gauge Ratchet's mood, then spin on his pede and beat a hasty retreat. Satisfied, Ratchet made for his office when a flash of gold and red caught his attention.
The building storm known as Ratchet, materialized before the twins, ready to unleash unholy vengeance. Most would have shied away or perhaps sought escape, or even shelter. Not Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Both immediately adopted their usual roles.
Sunstreaker crossed his arms, scowling in disapproval as he was confronted by a wall of white. Sideswipe waved like a maniac, wide split grin, and glazed over optics.
"Hey, Ratch, baby!" Sideswipe crowed, earning himself a smack to the faceplates.
"Either of you have complaints?" Ratchet thundered, rattling the walls of the medbay.
"Only how much I've missed you!" Sideswipe chirped, trying to dodge when Ratchet made to strike him again. Hoping to ward off the excess attention, he jerked his head toward his twin. "Sunny's arm has been itching. Said a bath and scrub didn't help."
Ratchet's lava-like glare turned to Sunstreaker, but the gold did not melt, nor flinch. "Well?"
Sunstreaker offered a half hearted shrug. "Psychosomatic reaction."
Sideswipe's grin faltered, replaced with a curious expression. "Say what?"
"Symptoms adopted by others and shared by mere suggestion rather than experiencing the symptoms themselves." Sunstreaker supplied with a bored tone.
"You been hanging out with Smokescreen?" Sideswipe countered.
"Hardly," Sunstreaker said, emitting a long suffering sigh.
"Since when do you self diagnose?" Ratchet gripped, pulling out his scanner and sweeping the light over Sunstreaker's upper body.
"New upgrade. Prevents me from arguing with a lunatic medic." Sunstreaker deadpanned.
Ratchet snorted, appreciating the humor. The last few hours had been wrecking havoc on his nerve circuits.
"If I ever find out what started this whole fiasco of parasitic infestations, I'm going to commit murder." Ratchet threatened, popping off a piece of armor on Sunstreaker's forearm and checking his scanner again. Sunstreaker remained motionless, allowing the doc bot total control.
"Eh?" Sideswipe asked, curious as to what could be infesting the mechanical bodies. He hoped he wasn't infested. The thought made him shudder right down to the core.
"For some strange reason, everyone believes they are covered with minute parasites called, 'fleas,' and have been bombarding me with their stupidity." Ratchet turned Sunstreaker's arm at an angle, frowned, then yanked on a wire.
"Ouch!" Sunstreaker shouted, arm drawing back ready to throw a punch. He caught himself before he could throw said punch. He learned a long time ago, when you hit Ratchet, he hits back.
HARD!
"You had a twisted relay," Ratchet said, satisfied with the results now scrolling along his scanner.
"Feels better," Sunstreaker said, gingerly rotating his arm. "I guess you can fix things. Occasionally."
Ratchet offered a disgruntled huff and turned, heading toward his office. The door slammed shut with its usual grace.
A minute passed by with absolute silence, before Sideswipe offered a soft, wistful sigh.
"What?" Sunstreaker asked, already regretting the question.
"I miss my washboard." Sideswipe whined.
CLANG!
Sunstreaker performed a perfect imitation of Ratchet, knocking Sideswipe cold.
Ratchet's door opened, his hellfire optics narrowed at the source of the noise.
Sunstreaker jerked his head toward his unconscious twin. "Idiot wanted to go back to the flea market."
Ratchet's colorful vocabulary echoed into the med bay long after his door shut.
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