Ratchet had been sitting there for hours, staring out of the glass screen of the medbay into the hallway when he finally heard footsteps approaching him from behind. Slowly, cautiously, as though they weren't sure whether he would welcome their company or not. Or maybe they were just as unsure if he even needed any. They didn't have to worry about that. Ratchet wasn't going anywhere.
He didn't turn around when he heard the mech approach, but he didn't need to see them to know who it was.
"Hello," said Ratch, quietly. His voice sounded so far away. The same one he used back in the war. Back when everything he had ever known was ripped away and left behind. When he still thought himself a hero. Back before he even realised what was really happening to him. "How are you?"
The other mech paused, then said, "Well. I suppose that depends on your definition of well. I am doing better now, however. You did a good job on me, Ratchet. And I appreciate it." He paused again, then added, "Do you think you will ever feel like yourself again? Before this is over?"
Ratchet chuckled, then shook his head and replied, "Not likely." He looked at the other mech, then continued, "What do you mean, after this?"
"After… whatever this is. After the war is done with, I suppose. We have already spent so much time fighting it – our whole lives - that we don't even realise how long the war has lasted. How many years of suffering there has been for us all." The mech stopped speaking and just stood there for a moment, as though waiting for Ratchet to say something. When it became apparent that Ratchet wouldn't, he sighed and said, "If there is one thing you have taught me during these past few vorns, though, Ratchet, it's that there's never really an end to war. It just becomes less and less violent. And, eventually, less necessary." He hesitated for a moment, then continued, "I wonder sometimes, if we could go back in time and undo all that violence. If we knew enough to fix it. I know we didn't before the war started, but… Maybe someday we might find a way. And then we wouldn't have to fight wars anymore."
"Maybe," Ratchet murmured. "But that won't happen for another hundred vorns, or ten thousand. This war is not over yet, and it won't be for hundreds or thousands of years."
There was silence for a while before the mech finally spoke again, saying, "You have been very busy these past few vorns. You've been working tirelessly to keep us safe and alive – which is commendable. But what I mean by work, Ratchet, is the constant effort you put into keeping others safe and healthy – especially the ones you care about most in the world. As much as I admire that, I also want you to rest and get some rest. Not too much, mind you; nothing extreme. Just... stretch, take a walk around the ship, and go to sleep. Don't make yourself crazy with all the work and stress you're under, Ratchet. You'll burn out, or worse."
Ratchet stared blankly at the glass, not really listening, wondering why the other bot cared so much. The only thing he'd actually done was try to stay alive. Try to keep everyone else – including himself – alive. So, what was one more day of work? Another vorn of hard labour? A cycle of endless fighting and endless dying? More death? More loss? And, somehow, he still managed to be useful. Even in spite of the pain and exhaustion. Still managing to contribute to the cause of freedom and peace. Despite the fact that, up until a couple hours ago, he hadn't been able to remember who he was or why he fought in a war that, ultimately, would cost so many innocent people their lives. He was a good doctor. He had helped a lot. But that was not his purpose in life. That was not his reason for being. What did all that matter now? Nothing mattered now except that his patients died and he went on living with nothing more to look forward to than more death and destruction. More suffering. More senseless death. He couldn't imagine anything worse than that. He couldn't imagine anything worse than the endless cycle of death and destruction that he lived through every single day.
He couldn't think of anything worse than that. No wonder he hated wars so much, and so intensely. Because they never changed. Never allowed room for anyone to move on and start anew. They never ended. All they ever brought were tragedies, deaths, pain, hopelessness, failure, and pain and misery. And then there was the constant threat that something bad would happen again – that the cycle would repeat itself over and over again without pause. But that was not his problem. The cycle was never his concern. Never. He was supposed to save lives. That was what he was good at.
The medic took a deep intake and reluctantly tore his gaze from the glass, turning his chair to face the other mech. He opened his mouth to speak – to ask the mech why he cared so much. Why he insisted that Ratchet rest and take breaks, but decided against it halfway through the sentence, remembering how difficult it was for him to accept help – and he wondered if the other mech understood that, too. Perhaps not, given how hard he had been pushing Ratchet to talk about the real reason that he didn't have a family or friends of his own to rely on. To tell him things. For him to be someone other than a cold shell. Ratchet shook his helm, clearing his processor of these thoughts and focusing on the other bot instead.
On his kind, understanding optics and concerned expression. Those who wanted to take care of him, who wanted to help him, and didn't want him to die because of their efforts. Someone who saw the best in Ratchet despite all the terrible experiences he had gone through.
The medic closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to take a steadying breath as he forced his words out. "Thank you, Bluestreak. I know it must be tiring for you to watch me constantly. Every second of every shift. Every moment of every cycle of my life."
The mech – Bluestreak – cocked his helm, puzzled, then nodded slowly. "Yes, that is true. But you are worth the trouble, doc. You deserve it more than any of us, and you have done enough for this cause."
He paused for a moment, then asked hesitantly, "Are you sure you can't take a short break? Maybe get some energon? Recharge? Something?"
Ratchet scoffed at that suggestion. Of course not. He would never take a minute off from tending to the wounded. From helping them find their feet. He owed them more than that. Much more.
"Of course I'm sure," he replied dismissively. "I'm fine, Bluestreak, honest. Now go get some recharge yourself," Ratchet instructed, pointing over his shoulder toward the door behind him, "and leave me alone."
Bluestreak frowned, obviously reluctant to let the topic drop. But, then, he seemed to come to a decision. He nodded slowly, then turned around and left the medbay. The door slid shut after him, and Ratchet sat staring unseeingly at the empty space where Bluestreak once stood.
A sigh escaped the medic's lips as he reached down and gently picked up the small glass. He placed it carefully onto a shelf next to him, careful not to knock over the vials or bottles that were sitting next to the glass, then looked around the medbay again. There were a number of other mechs sitting here and there, some resting, some chatting amongst themselves, some meditating, some sleeping. Some of them were injured or missing limbs. Others had simply collapsed after their injuries had taken a little too much of their systems. But all were alive and well. None seemed to be in any sort of serious condition, Ratchet noted. None of them showed signs of illness. None of them were dying. Most of them appeared to be just as healthy as they always were. Well rested and fit and capable of continuing the fight.
That should give him hope, shouldn't it? But, no – it didn't.
It didn't.
Because, whether he liked it or not, he was a part of this army. He was part of this cause – and a vital part at that. He wasn't free of it, he was one of its victims. And, he had to continue to do what was needed until the end. At least – until the battle had ended. Until there were no more battles left to fight. But, for now, his role seemed to consist solely of trying to heal those who would suffer most from such injuries, to ensure that the war was won. Or at least that no one suffered far worse. That everyone got what they needed and survived.
And, even though he knew that he was doing everything he could, he couldn't help but feel like he was failing. Like he was letting everyone down.
He sighed again, shaking his head slightly as he leaned back in his chair, closing his optics briefly. He felt exhausted. Tired. Empty inside.
He thought about what the others said about him needing more rest. He probably deserved it. He certainly had earned it after the last couple of vorns. He had worked nonstop, night and day, since before the war began. He hadn't seen a recharge period in quite some time. And, even then, it was only during rare times of relative peace when he could manage to catch a wink or two here and there.
But what could he do? He couldn't just lay down and stop doing what he did!
It would have been selfish. He had to keep moving forward. He had to keep working. If not, he knew full well he wouldn't be able to cope with the mental anguish caused by all the death and chaos he had seen throughout his existence. It had nearly destroyed him already. It almost did destroy him now. How long could he continue like this? How much longer could he put up with the pain of losing so many?
How many more would lose their lives, their bodies, their minds, because of the endless conflict? Would it ever stop? Was the war ever going to end?
Would the pain and anguish ever truly end?