Title: Call of Duty
Warning: Porn and pornstars. Power imbalance? Fantasies and libidos spinning out of control. Read at your own risk.
Rating: NC-17
Continuity: G1
Characters: Constructicons, Ratchet
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.
Motivation (Prompt): Voter incentive prompt for Missouri - "Ratchet/Constructicons".
[* * * * *]
Part Six: The Real Cost of Healthcare
[* * * * *]
Scrapper had the odd feeling that despite winning the war, the Decepticons were still somehow under the loser's thumb. In the repairbay, at least.
It boiled down to supply and demand. Cybertron had the demand, but the Decepticons were falling short on supply. It said something about their healthcare system that the Constructicons were in charge. When buildmechs were all that were left to head the medical community…
Look, medics were a tough bunch of fraggers. Nobody marginally intelligent bet against a medic in a fight no matter how good the odds, if only because the medic's colleagues immediately blacklisted anybody rooting for the other fighter. Medical personnel on both sides of the battlefield had looked out for each other no matter what their respective superiors threatened, and their tactics bypassed questionable long ago. Things turned ugly on both sides whenever a medic went down. Ratchet had spent the last third of the war with a 'Capture Don't Kill' order on his helm from High Command's justifiable fear of what the Decepticons' doctors would do to the poor soldiers who took the final shot. Retaliation started at the bottom and worked its way up from there.
It hadn't always been that way. It had taken the profession a long, painful time to ensure nobody thought it smart to specifically target the opposing side's medic. Best way to make sure enemy soldiers didn't make it was to take out their source of repairs, right?
The Autobots had attempted from the beginning to protect their medical personnel from the worst of war, but the Decepticons didn't bother until it was nearly too late. The medics who'd come out the other end of the war were the exceptions. The survivors. The ones willing to cheat, blackmail, pick their battles, and cut their losses. No one else made it through the war. Medical personnel nowadays were vicious, and they tended to band together in close-knit packs watching the world around them with optics made wary by experience. They had carved a reputation for collective retaliation out of too many instances of dying. They helped each other because they fought side-by-side against an enemy that wore no faction emblem, and they did whatever it took to fight the good fight.
By the end of the war, corpsemechs on either side had the largest repertoire of absolutely evil close combat tricks outside of Special Operations. Nobody with a molecule of common sense stood between the frontlines and a mass charge of stretcher-bearers. Those guys were scary. Their version of talking shop sounded as though they intended to clear all injured mechs from a battlefield then burn it to the ground behind them.
The most reliable way to pick out a Decepticon EMT was to look for the person with the shiftiest optics and bandolier crammed with intermingled first aid equipment and extra ammunition. Wise officers learned to Not See when some of that equipment got chucked toward a 'BotMT working in the next trench over. No 'ConMT would work on a wounded Autobot out on the field or vice versa, but EMTs casually aided each other and gave their officers bland looks of 'What of it?' when called out.
Nurses doubled as escape artists. Many of them practiced advanced Circuitsu. Anybody who'd ever thrown a nurse into the lock-up learned the hard way they could disappear in an instant if a bedridden patient anywhere in a 10-mile radius hit the call button.
Full-fledged medics had become as rare and feared as Jazz among the Decepticons, and even a half-trained Autobot doctor fought dirty. They couldn't save their patients if they couldn't save themselves, after all.
Going into the war, most medics had started with a far different mindset. They did things like risk their lives for a patient or care too much. At all, Hook argued, but Hook wasn't a medic. Medics had to care in order to commit to such a thankless job. In the longterm, however, Hook's philosophy of not giving a scrap benefitted a selfish mech's own health. Caring burnt a spark down to cinders in a slow grind or a fast flare. What was left guttered out, one way or another.
Scrapper had read so many reports of the downward spiral, he could see the indifferent shrug in every subject line. Sure, the sole medic for the entire fortress drank himself into a stupor every night. So what? This was war. If he couldn't handle the pressure, he could shove a gun in his mouth and take care of the problem himself. Or maybe he'd get smart and numb up. Then he wouldn't yell at them so much. Yay.
Nobody lifted a finger to solve the obvious problem. Looking back at the start of the war, Scrapper could see how the intentionally uncaring live-or-die mentality among the rank-and-file had shot their faction in the foot. Rule by strength and cunning forged a wonder of militaristic culture out of the dregs of the Golden Age, but professions that needed a lighter touch didn't adapt well to Megatron's grand scheme. Decepticons didn't go out of their way to protect the weak or stupid, and anybody who didn't think about it mistook medics as both.
Scrapper knew better. Empathy took effort. Compassion took strength most people lacked in the middle of war. Those were valid reasons he worked with machinery, not people. Machines were simple compared to people. He wasn't ashamed to say he made a technically perfect repairmech and a perfectly lousy doctor.
Hence why the Constructicons had thrived in war while medics died in droves. Unable to see the bigger picture, individual commanders and units hadn't thought ahead. They didn't see what was happening right under their noses. Jamming a profession meant to repair and support straight into the middle of a war didn't seem wrong to them. A ruthless culture of advancement via internal and external warfare had done the ranks well, sharpening combat ability through competition. It had turned normal people into killers. Surely the constant practice of their skills served to improve a medic the same way.
Every collapsed medic seemed an exception, in that light. By Decepticon logic, the next medic would be stronger. The strong thrived and the weak died among the Decepticons. There were always stronger soldiers to put on the front line. There was always someone eager for a promotion. There was always another medic ready to take over.
Right until there wasn't. Right until the Decepticons were replacing surgeons with half-trained interns, and nurses with orderlies who'd seen their last doctor hit critical and stop caring. Or even just start caring less. That was almost worse. Scrapper could read casualty reports and predict which doctors and nurses were on their way out. They got sloppy, and they grew callous. The lucky ones learned to operate under those conditions. The unlucky ones died before they went crazy.
The Decepticons lost the majority of their nurses in the first two millennia of the war. Guessing conservatively, Scrapper judged they'd lost 50% of their doctors. They lost half of the remaining ones to the Autobots after that, even after he wrestled Health and Safety out from under Shockwave's command and into Engineering's area of control. The medical community was a finite resource, and they needed to preserve what pitiful remnants had survived this long. Yes, he knew what Megatron thought of the weak, but there was a huge difference between a mewling coward whining to be saved (Scrapper carefully hadn't looked at Starscream during that point in his presentation to High Command) and somebody pouring his spark, mind, and body into saving their afts.
Toughen up? A good idea. War had hardened them all. They'd become stronger, meaner versions of what they'd started out as. It kept them alive through battle, but their medics did more than their bad attitudes ever could. And their medics weren't making it. If they didn't change the rules, they'd end up dead from inadequate healthcare, or worse: monsters in the repairbay.
"To put it bluntly," Scrapper had told Megatron, "we're creating a division of Hooks. Hook is many things, Lord Megatron, but a trained medical surgeon he is not. People are afraid of Hook, Lord Megatron. They know they'll survive surgery, but they're terrified of needing it because he's not a medic. He is a surgical engineer, and he works on machines. People are not machines. Medics repair people. Mechanics put parts back together. Hook doesn't value life, and everyone knows it, and that's why they'll do anything in their power to be worked on by anyone else. Scientists," he'd pointed at Starscream, then more grudgingly at Shockwave, "technicians, their own friends, even neutrals! Decepticons can survive with a mechanic, but you can't treat us like machines for long without it backfiring. We break down in ways a mechanic can't repair. Every unit with a mechanic instead of a real medic has higher casualty rates from sheer, blockheaded neglect. Orders to report to the repairbay after battle don't help with depressed body functions from lack of pain-patches during treatment or inadequate post-treatment care. Soldiers conceal injuries to avoid more pain, or cripple themselves from plain, simple fear of getting the treatment they need. Medics are a necessity, not a luxury!"
Most of High Command had been convinced by his speech. Scrapper left the rest to Hook, who temporarily took over all medical care for the Decepticons' highest ranked officers. As Scrapper had warned them, his gestaltmate was many things. 'Doctor' wasn't one of them. Neither was 'nice.' A score of maintenance appointments and the aftermath of three battles ground the point in. Survival of the fittest required competent healthcare.
The threat of assigning Hook permanently as his primary care physician had been enough to coerce even Shockwave into agreeing to Scrapper's terms.
Scrapper had issued orders to protect their precious few remaining medics, and aggressively promoted training programs. The more fragile doctors on the verge of cracking were pulled back to safe locations to train field medics and EMTS. They were productive, and praised, and the great hospitals of Darkmount and Kaon guarded their medical knowledge like the treasure it was. Anyone, anyone who showed interest or aptitude was yanked into medical training.
The nurses Scrapper could pin down for more than a day became Circuitsu instructors, training acolyte-nurses who vanished to postings as if they'd never been. They were paired with two soldiers as orderlies at a minimum (if the soldiers could find them and keep up), and those orderlies were immediately shunted into more and more intensive training intended to promote them up to nurse or field medic in their own right.
Corpsemechs who stuck around long enough to learn from their EMT found themselves shanghaied into the program before they knew what was happening. Soldiers who headed into the worst of the explosions to get their friends out were handed a stretcher and sent back in, and the close-knit network of medical workers enfolded them into its ranks without pause.
And still it hadn't been enough. Glit hadn't escaped trial for treason because he cleverly avoided attention while treating wounded Autobots. No, he'd done it in full sight of his commander, cursing out whatever Decepticons dared protest and browbeating his patients into stunned silence. He wouldn't leave the frontlines to retire to a hospital, and he ran on full throttle all the time. It was his peculiar way of cracking under pressure. He provided care for everyone on the battlefield because he could no longer function any other way.
Of course Megatron ordered him executed more than once and punished him multiple times, but Glit didn't stop. He couldn't. The Decepticons simply learned to look away.
Scrapper had intervened so often he should have given up on the Cassette surgeon at the millionth year point, but he hadn't. He refused. Hook had threatened to hide the drunken sot in a hole somewhere if Megatron actually tried executing him for treason, and Scrapper agreed to dig the hole. Lose Glit, and the Decepticons lost their best surgeon. There wasn't anyone left with his skill, and once the Decepticons lost his medical knowledge, it was gone for good. The way the war had been going, Scrapper had been convinced Cybertron's entire medical community would consist of Decepticons when they finally won the war, and there were so very, very few real, trained, professional medics left among them. The ones that were left, well…they made Glit look sane.
At the end of the war, Glit had declared himself unfit for duty and resigned his post, which was a fair representation of Decepticon medical personnel at that point in time. Scrapper had given every bartender in the city orders to water the little glitch's drinks down, yet Glit still drank energon wine by the box on karaoke nights. Scavenger knocked on his door once a week to make sure he hadn't overcharged himself offline.
He had a bad case of self-medication going on, and he was one of many cases Scrapped monitored. Quite frankly, none of the remaining Decepticon medics were doing well, and while their race was a long-lived one that could afford to recover slowly, Cybertron's rebuilding efforts were outstripping its healthcare system. Scrapper needed more than jittery EMTs and scary-aft corpsemechs, now. He needed general practitioners and surgeons and mental health specialists to set up clinics in the rapidly expanding cities.
The nurses were pretty much the same as before the war, actually, so they'd be fine once someone frisked them for smoke bombs. They just needed doctors to work beside.
That left Scrapper searching for medical personnel able to teach well. The next generation of medical professionals had to come from somewhere.
He'd turned to the Autobots. It'd seemed like a fine solution to smooth integration of the defeated faction. The Autobots had taken better care of their medics from the start. They had more left, and they were in better shape overall, mentally stable and well supported. Better yet, they were used to an ad hoc internship program Ratchet had apparently set up to train Autobots with medical aptitude. Scrapper had figured they'd jump at the chance to teach in an academy setting.
But nooooo, Ratchet had to set the absolutely wrong example like the contrary fragger he was. Even Hoist was refusing to teach! The closest he even came to practicing anymore was acting, and don't get the Constructicons started on First Aid. So much potential. So much, but would First Aid practice as a medic? No. He'd agreed to assist Mixmaster in pharmaceutical manufacturing, but it was a huge step down from full-fledged medic to lab assistant. Fixit had taken it a step further down by working in the entertainment district as a bartender. Pharma had flat-out nosedived out of the profession. He'd gotten as job as a welder. He was good at it - how could a surgeon not be stellar at welding - but it was an intentional insult, a slap to the Decepticons' face.
The Autobots wouldn't help their oppressors, not even in setting up the Decepticon Empire's ongoing healthcare system.
Scrapper really, really wanted Ratchet to teach a blasted class. More than one, preferably. Lacking that, he'd all but gotten on his knees trying to persuade the cranky old medic to agree to an intern at the very least, but Ratchet flat-out denied the request. There had been a rational argument on the topic on a bimonthly basis ever since. It wasn't going anywhere.
Hook regularly tried screaming arguments. Except for the volume of his shouting, Ratchet seemed to sort of enjoy those, although the nights usually ended with Hook tossed out the door. This despite the fact that it was the Constructicons' repairbay. Ratchet saw nothing strange about tossing Hook out of his own operating room. The funny part was that Hook went along with it.
Ratchet inevitably ended up in Hook's surgical suite to discuss whatever case they had referred one way or another. He recognized Hook's skill as a surgical engineer and would pass on patients that fit his specific skillset. Hook recognized that Ratchet's skills on pretty much everything else far surpassed his own, and he'd pass on Autobots who'd much rather be treated by the former CMO anyway. So they cooperated professionally, but there was no way in the Pit they got along. Hook started out reasonable but escalated quickly when faced with snark, which Ratchet was filled nigh to the brim with. Hence their screaming fights and Hook being tossed out of the room to cool down.
Again, it was an argument going nowhere.
Long Haul tried the practical approach, making himself available to do supply runs for Ratchet's clinic out in the Autobot sector. Ratchet had politely thanked him after Autobot businesses started up, and Long Haul found himself replaced by an Autobot hauling service staffed by minibots.
He shrugged at Scrapper when he came back from the final supply run. "I tried."
"You did." Scrapper glanced toward Hook's operating room. Black bad mood vibes radiated from it. "Alright. Scavenger, you had an idea?"
Scavenger always had ideas. They were sometimes awful, sometimes worse than original problem, and occasionally the most brilliant bits of social insight any of the Constructicons could imagine. He sweet-talked Ratchet into at least discussing the Autobot patient files stuck in his protected databanks, which was more than they'd had prior to Scrapper giving Scavenger full run of the supply warehouses on Ratchet's behalf. Mixmaster leaned a bit on First Aid, too. Between the gifts and First Aid's reluctant agreement, they persuaded Ratchet to give an intern a second thought.
He still said no after thinking about it, but hey. Small victories. The Constructicons savored what little triumphs they got.
"My turn," Bonecrusher said after Hook's angry yelling and Scrapper's moodiness died down. He went straight down to Ratchet's clinic, sat down on an exam table, and proposed the plot of something he'd bought on Pay-Per-View last night. With such detailed obscenity that an indignant complaint was promptly sent all the way up to Optimus Prime.
Who burned rubber, he stepped on it so fast over to Megatron's office.
Whereupon Scrapper found himself hauled in to explain why exactly his gestaltmate had lewdly propositioned Ratchet. "Because his talents are wasted in a general practice clinic," sounded like a feeble excuse, even though it was true. At least the Prime asked for more of an explanation. Megatron just glared.
Bonecrusher, oddly enough, didn't come back to the repairbay until the next morning, and he walked in a weird manner with both knees turned in, hips stiff. Twinges of pain came through the gestalt links. He looked shellshocked and tired.
Scrapper took one look at him and subsided from the rage that had been building all night. "What happened?"
Mixmaster peered out of his personal chemistry warren. "I take it he refused to teach."
"Oh, he taught me something," Bonecrusher said faintly, waddling his way toward the nearest repairslab. "He's better than we thought at giving lessons."
Scrapper did a double-take at the scuff marks on Bonecrusher's aft as he passed. That hadn't been the instruction he'd been thinking of, sending Bonecrusher in, but some mechs were natural teachers in the oldest profession. "I…see."
"Did you learn anything useful?" Hook asked as the demolitionist settled on the slab facedown, aft-up. "No, wait, don't answer that." He didn't want to know. Bonecrusher looked entirely too comfortable positioned like that, hands curling over the edge as if anticipating a need to brace himself. Anything he found useful would probably leave Hook's processor in dire need of bleach.
"Answer it!" Long Haul promptly demanded.
"Yeah, answer. I'm curious," Scavenger said.
"You're a pervert." Mixmaster thought for a moment. "Which makes me a pervert."
"Probably."
They shrugged at each other. They were okay with that.
"Ratchet's not a fan of the Sarge movies," Bonecrusher said a little dreamily as Hook began prodding the deepest dents. "He got so angry…I thought he needed some stress relief, y'know, offered to hook him up with Sarge after we bribe Soundwave to tell us where he is, and he just 'bout ripped my head off and purged down the hole."
They all paused to picture that. Gross.
It was standard Decepticon disciplinary procedure, however, and Hook sighed. "Of course you're into that."
"A mech who can drag me to the floor on top of him know what he wants. I dig it."
They stopped to picture that, too. Their fans kicked on this time.
"So…Ratchet yelled to the Prime…" Scrapper swallowed, trying to lay out the sequence of events. Without picturing the laying-out, as it were. Oh, scrap him, too late, he was picturing it. The whirrrrrr accelerated.
"And at me." Bonecrusher's fans rattled on their hinges. They'd had quite the workout throughout the night. A whole night. That kind of endurance was on par with Sarge's legendary stamina, and he was already a huge fan of the pornstar. Now if they could manage to wring Soundwave dry for information, and Bonecrusher set up a threesome, that would be epic! "He's noisy when he gets going."
Scavenger giggled. Mixmaster grinned. Hook sighed, even more exasperated this time, but he kept his mouth shut. He was just as much of a pervert as the rest of the gestalt, and he wanted to hear the nasty details.
Bonecrusher didn't deny what they were thinking "Yeah. Yeah, like that, too."
Scrapper covered his visor with a hand. Chewed out by Megatron and Optimus Prime! He had to remember the consequences, here! Taking a deep breath, he dropped his hand. "Right. He yelled at you. Then he fragged you?"
Bonecrusher looked up at him and rolled his hips against nothing in graphic illustration. "For hours."
"I would have never guessed he's into hurting his partners," Hook said. He attempted to not imagine Bonecrusher thrusting between wide-spread, white-and-red thighs. "Huh. If the rustbucket's into that, I'm going to have to rethink our bet." Autobots came off as such goodie-goodies. It's why the Constructicons had wagered against Sarge being an Autobot during the war. The betting pool was citywide and featured on the news every night, along with the mech-hunt as people searched for the mysterious celebrity. Most people were betting Decepticon out of faction pride, but Hook honestly didn't think an Autobot could have that much attitude.
That's what he'd thought, anyway, but there were a lot of scuff marks and dents on Bonecrusher's thighs and aft. Ratchet must have whaled on him.
"Sarge isn't a medic," Long Haul reminded him. "He just did a few during Physician, 'Face Thyself."
"Autobots can be mean slaggers in their own right," Mixmaster said, but that had been his argument all along. "Ratchet doesn't represent the faction. That'd be the Prime or something."
"Anyway, a smack on the aft isn't abuse," Scavenger added. "I like a couple swats now and then."
"He didn't hit me," Bonecrusher protested. "Those are from his heels."
They blinked at the damage. Hook shut off his visor and wished for bleach as a vivid image of red-and-white thighs wrapped tightly around Bonecrusher's legs flashed through his mind. Heels had made the dents while drumming for more, harder, faster.
Mixmaster snickered. "You're not much of a spikemech, are you?"
"Hey!"
"He had to keep you going, didn't he?"
"Well, he…I…er…look, it's not like I've had a lot of practice." Bonecrusher deflated when Long Haul and Scavenger joined in the laughter. "Shut up! I did better than you would!"
"Ha!"
"It's true! I at least got him off! You'd have come when he grabbed you to guide you in!"
Mental image! Mental - arrrrgh, no. "Stop talking, stoppit, I have to work with him," Hook muttered as he determinedly bent to work on the dents.
"It'd make your arguments a lot more fun."
"Shut up."
But the idea lodged in the Constructicons' thoughts where it wouldn't be denied, and Hook gave Scrapper the panicked look of a cornered petrorabbit the next time Ratchet visited the repairbay. The meeting had been scheduled weeks ago, but Bonecrusher still lit up. He strode to meet the Autobot and escort him across the repairbay. Ratchet eyed him warily but allowed it. Apparently one-night stands with buildmechs didn't rattle his composure.
Which was more than could be said for the buildmechs. Hook beat a hasty retreat to the surgical suite. "Busy!" he said over his shoulder. Long Haul and Mixmaster held a brief rock-paper-scissors contest - Earth had taught them some strange but useful habits - and Long Haul followed after.
Scrapper pretended he didn't know any of them. "Ratchet," he said, standing up from the table to greet their guest. They'd been having these meetings long enough they both knew the customary question-and-response. He knew what to expect. "Have you given any more thought to taking an intern?"
"Yes. I've decided I will," Ratchet said blunt and cold, and Scrapper almost fell over.
"What?!" in surround sound.
Hook's head popped out of the surgical suite like magic. He was pushed down by Long Haul climbing over him to see. Crashing sounds came from the junkpile in the corner until Scavenger burrowed out of its depths to gawp. Bonecrusher kept walking forward, twisting around to keep staring, and tripped over the table. Mixmaster stood frozen halfway to the table, mouth drooping open.
Ratchet gave him an arch look and helped himself to a chair, sitting down to face Scrapper, who'd fallen back into his own chair from the shock.
"I-I mean, that's, I didn't expect," Scrapper stammered. "You said you'd never - nevermind. An intern! Great!"
*"You're on permanent spiking duty if this is all it takes to change his mind,"* he said over the team channel at the same time, and Bonecrusher darn near tripped over the table again.
"Who's your student? Will this be a surgical or general practice internship? What kind of time frame do you predict? Do you need any funding?" Scrapper pulled a tablet out of the stack on the table and quickly opened a new document, ready to take notes. "I don't suppose you've reconsidered allowing us to film your surgeries for educational purposes?" A long shot, but since a miracle had already occurred, it couldn't hurt to ask.
Ratchet leaned forward to set his elbows on the table and give him an unpleasant, grim smile as he steepled his fingers together. "You should ask why I changed my mind, Decepticon." He made their faction into a curse.
"No need to be so hostile," Scavenger said, wounded. Everyone ignored him.
An important question, but one that called for tact. "I don't want to insult you by saying why I think you changed your mind," Scrapper said as delicately as he could. Bonecrusher revved his engine in crude hinting from down on the floor.
Ratchet glanced down at him. "Don't flatter yourself. I've had better."
The revving cut off, and Scrapper winced in sympathy for the burn. Ouch.
Cold optics returned to Scrapper. "I want something in return."
Ah, so it wasn't a miracle or a night of inadequate spike. Ratchet had merely reached the point where he was ready to bargain. Good. Scrapper had been ready to deal since the end of the war. He sat back and gestured at the table between them. Let negotiations begin. "You must believe we can supply this…something."
"Yes. I even believe you'll find it a reasonable price for what I'm offering." Ratchet tilted his head, one finger lifting to match. "One intern of your choice. I will do the best I can to train that candidate, with the understanding that anyone I train will be granted access to the Autobots' medical records at the conclusion of their training." He seemed unmoved by the Constructicons' outright gaping, ignoring Scrapper's sputtering and Hook's sharp inhale with aplomb. The Autobot CMO's medical records?! "That means they have to meet my standards, however. Any intern of mine either graduates with honors or flunks out. I'll accept nothing less." His non-smile faded into a more appropriate disgusted glare. Scrapper got the distinct feeling this deal seriously compromised some Autobot ethics. "And interns have no rank or faction. Anyone you send me better be prepared to file off his faction emblem and forget he's anything but a civilian medstudent starting from the very basics."
There was a sudden crash from the surgical suite, and Mixmaster pivoted to sprint into the room. Scavenger scrambled out of the junkpile to disappear after him. Four voices talking low and fast resulted in muddled background noise. Ratchet paid no attention.
Bonecrusher fumbled onto a chair, still gazing at the Autobot in utter disbelief. "Your files..? You're not joking, are you?"
Ratchet flicked a narrow look in his direction. "No."
Hope strangled Scrapper with a hundred plans previously out of reach. A third of Polyhex's population consisted of Autobots. They hated going to the Darkmount hospital for anything, and prying information about prior health problems out of them was a nightmare. Just last week, Sunstreaker had been in a relatively benign fender-bender and ended up in Intensive Care for two days when he refused to fill out the emergency room filework. Turned out his firewalls had a severe glitch reaction to a common software pain-patch. And that was just one mech out of hundreds the Decepticons' already strung-out medical staff had to somehow care for.
Scrapper was responsible for the Autobots' healthcare by proxy, and it had been driving him off the freeway. In his wildest dreams, he'd dared contemplate Ratchet's cooperation. This? This was above and beyond cooperation. Access to Ratchet's locked files simplified everything.
Dazzled by the possibilities, he sat back in his chair and stared across the table at Ratchet. After too long, he finally found the words for what he was thinking. "I'd ask what you want in return, but I'm afraid to know." One side of Ratchet's mouth quirked up in a humorless smirk, and Bonecrusher shot him an unnerved look in agreement. The whispered argument in the other room peaked in another resounding crash. Scrapper readied himself. "Tell me."
"I want Soundwave dead."
Both Constructicons' visors narrowed, then slowly widened as that sank in.
"Urk," Bonecrusher said.
"Deal," Scrapper said, and Ratchet nodded, smirk warping into a snarl that made Scrapper wonder what exactly had happened. He decided he didn't care. One dead mech in return for potentially thousands was a small price to pay. "But it'll take time," he cautioned.
"So will training an intern."
"What guarantee do I have you'll give us - him, the intern - access to your locked files?"
"What guarantee do I have you'll kill Soundwave?"
Touché. Scrapper pushed his hands against the edge of the table and tapped his fingers. "You're not foolish enough to trust me."
Ratchet dipped his chin in a nod, spreading his hands in a small gesture dismissing the very idea. "True. But I do know you want what I have."
"Do you? Do you really know how much I want it?" Scrapper said, and he jerked his chin toward the surgical suite. This was how badly he wanted those files, Ratchet. "Meet your intern."
Ratchet looked. He looked back to Scrapper. "No."
"Yes."
"No!"
"Yes. Or the deal's off, Ratchet."
Ratchet shut his mouth. He looked again.
Hook continued to stand in sour-faced silence, rank-marks and faction symbol erased by fresh paint. A mech lining up for execution would show more enthusiasm.
Ratchet didn't look any more thrilled. "You're a surgical engineer, not a surgeon."
"I'm aware of that." Hook caught Scrapper's cut-off signal and pressed his lips into a thin line before grudgingly adding, "Sir."
The Autobot stared at him for a long minute, then shook his head. To Scrapper, he seemed more bewildered than angry. "You don't have the emotional capacity to be a medic. I'll never graduate him," he said, turning to Scrapper. "Pick someone else."
"Does he have the technical ability?" Scrapper said instead of arguing.
"You all do! You all have the ability but lack…you just…he'll fail any practical I set him, Scrapper. Pick someone else."
"Did Pharma fail his practicals?" Scavenger asked from the doorway. "'Cause he's a cold-sparked slaghead." More Autoboty than Hook, but everybody said Pharma was an uptight arrogant afthead with an ego wider than his wingspan. That seemed dead-on for Hook.
Ratchet shot him a withering glare. "You've never seen Pharma with a patient, so I'll thank you to shut off your ignorant vocalizer."
O…kay. Scrapper shook off frostbite. "Will it hurt you to try? None of us have formal medical training. Anything you can teach him will be of use, even if he can't manage patient care. Fail him for it if you have to. We can find another candidate later, if you'll agree to take him now." Hook grumbled bitterly onto the team channel, but nobody was saying anything he didn't know about himself. It stung to hear it said aloud, but they'd sacrifice his pride for this chance.
"I don't like banging my head against immobile objects," Ratchet said incredulously. "What possible good would come from taking him as an intern?"
Direct control of the Autobot medical files, that's what. "Don't tell me you won't enjoy ordering him around."
Ratchet spluttered. "I don't - that's not the point!"
"Just relax and enjoy it," Bonecrusher stage-whispered to Hook. Ratchet spluttered some more.
Scrapper crossed his arms on the table, leaning forward. "Your price is steep. All we're asking in return is a bit more effort on your part. It's not like it's going to kill anyone you haven't already planned on, now will it?"
That stopped Ratchet cold. This time, he gave it actual thought. Interns didn't operate without supervision. Nobody would die from training Hook…except Soundwave.
He turned to look at Hook again. Hook sullenly looked away, sulky but resigned.
"I get veto power for the next candidate," Ratchet said at last.
A fair stipulation. "I'll make a list."
Ratchet sucked air in through his teeth. His optics dimmed to a frustrated dusky blue that made Scrapper think regular stress reduction via Bonecrusher might be a good thing after all. "Fine. Are we agreed?"
Mixmaster and Long Haul yanked Scavenger back into the surgical suite so the cheering wasn't so obnoxious. Scrapper just nodded. "We are. One assassination for one intern, full medical record access included." A good bargain all around.
Although Ratchet hesitated when he stood to leave. "If you get the chance to take Jazz out at the same time…"
"Two interns?"
"I'll think about it."
Yesssss.
[* * * * *]