By the time Ratchet reached the ship, it was already over. Diff and Rim had been taken wholly by surprise, probably assuming the planet was so big it would take the Decepticons time to get to them, assuming they even knew the Autobots were here and therefore not watching as alertly as they should have been. Overconfidence breeds carelessness.

For all that, the two were badly shot up, but still alive. Evidence suggested, however, that they wouldn't be if a third party hadn't intervened. Two Decepticons had been dropped, shot from behind. Both Rim and Diff were together next to the ship, and Ratchet was reasonably sure that's where they'd been when the fighting started. There was only one explanation: somehow despite the brutality of the battle with the Decepticons masquerading as Autobots, at least one Autobot had escaped death.

Diff's report seemed to confirm that, "There were five of them. After those two dropped, the other three got spooked and took off. Something was chasing them."

"Something?" Ratchet queried, "You mean someone?"

"No," Rim shook his head, "It didn't move like us. The way it darted through those," he gestured towards the trees, "It couldn't possibly have been one of ours."

"And it made this noise," Diff added, "Like Basic Speech, but without the words. Just... a kind of a growl. We didn't get a good look at it, it stuck to the trees. But it was yellow, and it was big too. A lot bigger than the things on this planet are supposed to be."

Comprehension struck Ratchet like a blow, and almost involuntarily he whispered, "The Scout."

"The what?" Diff asked.

"You two stay here," Ratchet said, "And watch for more Decepticons."

"Where are you going?" Diff wanted to know.

"To save our Scout from himself."

Diff and Rim looked at each other, but didn't understand. They didn't comprehend that years on Earth had taught the Scout how to move among the trees as naturally as if he was built for it. Career Scouts already moved differently from run-of-the-mill Warriors, and this was the Scout for Earth, Ratchet was sure of it. The Basic Speech confirmed that. Basic was from a time when Cybertronians were simpler lifeforms, developing before they really had language. Though they all knew the sound by instinct, and could understand it clearly with minimal practice, there was only one Cybertronian Ratchet knew of that actually spoke it aloud, and he only because he had no choice.

Ratchet knew this, because he was the Medic the battered, broken Scout had been delivered to when the Decepticons had abandoned him to die. Ratchet was the one who'd been able to save the Scout's life, but not his voice. There had been so many Ratchet couldn't save, and so many like the Scout that he could – but only barely. Ratchet hadn't read the initial reports of the Scout on Earth, instead he'd read the more refined, scientific analysis of that information that had those raw reports had been distilled into by others. But he had read the message to Optimus from the Scout.

He'd heard enough bots on the edge to recognize the tone. The choice of words, the turns of phrase. The Scout had stepped back from a ledge, only to find the ground falling out from under him. Maybe there was no bringing him back after all he'd been through, no way to catch him and stop his fall. But Ratchet had to try. He'd already failed this Scout once. He couldn't let that happen again.

Already it had been a long day of running back and forth for him, something he was no longer used to and had been unprepared for. He was not as immune to the shock of Earth and all its strangeness as he would have liked to be either. Add to that the stress of the long hours leading up to the landing on Earth, where he knew that he would more than likely face death, that the Earth-based Autobots were probably dead and that Decepticons were awaiting them, and this final shock concerning what was seemingly the sole survivor of what might as well have been Armageddon.

Ratchet was near exhaustion, and shaky from it all. As he made his way through the brush, his senses were assaulted by a thousand unfamiliar sights, sounds and smells, all of which impressed themselves urgently upon his consciousness. He needed time to adjust to the environment. Time he did not have.

It was quickly obvious that the Decepticons hadn't been given time either. They'd been here longer than Ratchet, but they'd fled in clear panic. It made them easy to follow, as they crashed through brush and trees, kicking aside boulders in their path, leaving a swath of destruction cleaved through the wilderness. The Scout, meanwhile, left no obvious trace of his passing. Ratchet did not try to detect the trail of the Scout. He knew that if he found the 'Cons, he'd find the Scout.

The only reason he hadn't found the Scout with the two downed 'Cons near the ship was because there had been more fleeing. Their flight had drawn the Scout away. Otherwise... well there was no telling what a Rogue might do. That's why they were so dangerous and so feared. Rogues killed without cause or conscience, and the only reason Ratchet thought the Scout might yet be saved was that he'd left the Autobots still alive when he took off after the Decepticons.

A true Rogue was an indiscriminate killer. The nearest living thing was its first target.

Or perhaps Ratchet was just trying to be optimistic because he wanted the Scout to be okay. Or maybe he had a more selfish reason. Ratchet was a veteran of many battles, from an age when even Medics were also Warriors. But that was far behind him. Surviving assassination attempts was one thing; trying to take on a Rogue Scout with years of experience behind enemy lines was quite another. With the former at least, there was always the possibility of aid from other Autobots. But Ratchet was heading into foreign land on an alien world, chasing a Scout who probably knew the territory as well as he had ever known any part of Cybertron. If he was wrong, and the Scout tried to kill him, Ratchet wasn't sure he stood much of a chance. And no chance at all if he didn't put the Scout down immediately.

Scouts killed quick. They had to.

Less than half a mile from the ship, Ratchet found the first of the Decepticons. This one had been eviscerated, pounced on from the shadows provided for his assailant by the forest, armor punctured in the weak spot just below the chest plate, essential cables and wiring yanked out and ripped in half. It was astonishing how little energon was spilled using this technique, only two or three drops of the precious lifeblood. Death was nearly instant.

Ratchet moved on, leaving the Decepticon where he'd been dropped. The empty shell of the enemy harbored no interest for him, morbid or otherwise. His concern was, as ever, with the living.

He knew he was catching up when he spotted a cloud of dust up ahead.

But when he reached the area, what had stirred the dust had since departed, leaving only a second Decepticon behind for the dust to settle back on. This Decepticon was in worse shape than the other. The kill had been rapid, efficient, but for no apparent reason the Scout had torn this body up more than the first. It wasn't a good sign. Killing was in the job description. Doing so in ways that could be looked on as cruel or cowardly to an ignorant outsider was simply a matter of survival when you were a Scout alone with who knew how many enemies lurking around every corner. But savaging a body already dead? That was not the action of a rational being. There was nothing pragmatic about it.

This second body told of a vicious killer from whom sanity had departed.

Nervously, Ratchet continued. He couldn't go back now. He had to finish what he'd started here.

Dimly he realized it was self preservation as much as anything. If the Scout had indeed gone Rogue, now might be the only chance Ratchet would have to find him, and to stop him. If he lost the Scout now, the Rogue might come back later to finish him and the other Autobots off. That's what Rogues did. They killed whoever, whenever and wherever they could. It was as if they forgot how to do anything else. They were not Autobots or Decepticons, but servants of Death, and Death alone.

Ratchet was scared, of course. Anybody in their right mind would be. Everyone knew there was something terrible and strange in the fractured nature of a Rogue. Autobot and Decepticon alike feared them, and had been known to temporarily set aside their differences to destroy them.

But a part of him didn't believe, couldn't accept. Not until he knew for certain could he give up on the Scout. If there was any chance, any chance at all, of bringing him back to who he was, Ratchet had to give it to him. The Scout deserved that much at least, after all he'd gone through.

It was pure chance that he heard the crack of a fallen branch. To a human, it would have sounded like a gunshot. To a being the size of Ratchet, accustomed to large sounds, it was barely noticeable, especially given all the other strange noises assaulting his audio receptors. But instinct honed by eons of battling just to survive froze him in his tracks, and snapped his optics in the direction from whence the sound had come. Despite this, it was almost too late.

A shriek of metal heralded the arrival of a body, which came flying through the trees aiming for him. Despite the protests of old, abused joints, he ducked down swiftly, and the assault missed. A fierce snarl made him flatten to the ground as a flash of yellow shot past him to land bare feet away from him. Near-black eyes turned in his direction, a harsh squall of electronic noise shrieked out of what Ratchet could only faintly recognize as an Autobot. The Scout.

His spark thudded in his chest as the other gazed upon him with almost predatory hunger. The Scout crouched as an insecticon might, defensive and alert. If he attacked, would Ratchet have time to shoot back? No, there would only be time for hand-to-hand. He was bigger than the Scout, stronger too, he was sure. But would that be enough? Did he want it to be?

Ratchet wasn't sure if he should speak, or simply stay still. If he moved, would the Scout kill him? If he tried to speak reason, would the Scout be set off before he could hear the words? If he didn't move, would the Scout take that as permission to move in for the kill? So much was at stake, and Ratchet knew so little of this Scout. It came to him dimly that little was known about Rogues either. There simply was never time. Inevitably, the need to destroy a Rogue before it caused too much damage outweighed any curiosity over exactly what psychological glitch was at work. Rogues were too dangerous to study, particularly in the middle of a world-consuming war.

For long seconds, Ratchet and the Scout simply stared, crouched and motionless as the dust settled around them, each gazing at the other, neither comprehending the other, both too scared to move, each knowing the wrong move would lead inevitably to his death, neither knowing what would be the wrong move and what would be the right, each knowing yet not knowing, and so not moving, terrified that the slightest motion or sound would break the stillness, end the truce, and begin the bloodshed.

But stillness and silence cannot last forever.

Ratchet said, "I know you."