Warnings: Swearing, violence, and further attempts at suicide.
Rating: M
Disclaimer: If I owned Transformers, I'd clarify the long-standing issue of Cybertronian sex. But since I can't, I'll just let the Internet fill my head with absurd fantasies. Besides, it's much more fun to fantasize. :D

Summary: Day one of recovery begins. Many things are said, some for the better, and others, for worse.

Author's Note: Wow. I was really taken aback by all of the different reactions to the last chapter, especially the ones concerning Ironhide. Some of you readers could sympathize while others downright hated his circuitry. I was really amazed by such contrasting reactions.

In response to the reviewer no name peanut butter, thanks for reaching out. Believe it or not, the family member who survived the two attempts is now doing well as a part time photographer and real estate agent, so all's well that ends well. Just goes to show that life, believe it or not, does get better. Because a lot of those who commented were so expressive, open, and honest about personal experiences, I wanted to reciprocate. Fair is fair. Once upon a time, I suffered from severe anorexia and depression, coupled with a suicidal longing for the pain to end. My pulse was 30 beats per minute. I used to be afraid to sleep at night for fear of never waking up. Then, my friends and family showed just how much they cared. I got help. I was saved. I volunteered to speak at my school about eating disorders and depression. In a way, writing this story makes me believe that one day someone will read it, and their life will be saved, too. Maybe this tale will give someone else hope. And maybe—just maybe—I'll help someone else breathe a bit easier because I lived.

As per usual, my thanks go to the latest reviewers Stjarnas Alskare, Sideslip, Acidgreenflames, DemonSurfer, no name peanut butter, iNsAnE nO bAkA, Shizuka Taiyou, renegadewriter8, Fianna9, Morrigayn DeWyvern, and Richard'sQueen aka LGFS.

Two other important tidbits: This story will be updated "regularly," which means in Alex-speak "as often as I can find the free time." Secondly, there won't be any Jazz/Prowl in this story, although I am a diehard fangirl of the pairing. An upcoming fanfic, Experimental, however, should satisfy some of your…shameless muses, along with a few of mine.

Chapter Four: Catalyst

"Circumstances define us; they force us onto one road or another, and then they punish us for it."

– Ivan Turgenev

Automatic systems scans engaged. Reviewing…

Scan complete. Structural integrity: 74%. Status: unstable.

Backup energy generator unlocked. Charging…

Structural integrity: 87%. Status: operational.

Stasis lock retrieval instigated. Commencing…

Stasis lock retrieval complete. All systems online.

With a violent wrenching gasp for air, Prowl onlined. Data at once flooded through the tactician's neural net, a relay of sensory input so overwhelming that seconds passed in which he just ignored it. Numb and fatigued, he refused to acknowledge his surroundings.

Rather than utilize the necessary processing power to understand his circumstances, Prowl focused on his body instead. The hum of circuitry vibrated throughout his chassis, electricity jumping between the internal pathways. Wires brimmed with an energized charge. Gears rotated and collided against each other in endless repetition. Coolant, water, and lubricants created a backdrop echo that rushed through his piping. Pumps, propelling the fluids; filters, cycling out impurities and wastes; hydraulics, transporting each liquid substance to its respective destination.

Most prevalent of all the sensations, however, was a powerful vibration that came and went in a pattern of calm pulses.

Thud.

His spark.

Steady. Loud. Existing.

A whirlwind of panic replaced the calm as Prowl came to one conclusion that he wasn't prepared to face:

He was alive.

Vents heaving, the tactician unshuttered his optics. At the sudden brilliance of overhead light, he was forced to adjust the spiral of his lenses. Reducing them to the dimmest setting, he assessed the limited view he had from his back. From his supine posture Prowl was able to take in his surroundings—or rather, lack of. Confining, square walls of white-toned silver composed the bare quarters. Frantically Prowl jerked his helm side-to-side, the extension cables in his neck twisting. A telltale beep emanated to his right; just at the edge of his periphery vision the white-and-black mech could distinguish a monitor. Three different screens were visible, each relaying a set of vitals: Energon levels, processor activity, and sparkbeat.

Through narrowed optics Prowl followed the bundle of cables that dipped to the floor. The tendrils wound out of sight before traveling over the side of the berth and hooking into a panel squarely above his chestplates.

Fear—raw, suffocating, instinctive—crashed headlong into him, dominating every analytical capability he possessed. With a violent thrash Prowl jerked his frame, howling when an electrical backlash subdued him. Harsh gasps escaped his parted mouthplates. Louder than his exvents were the pings that the machine responded with. Meanwhile the R wave climbed higher on the screen, its wavelength shortening with the increased pounding inside his chest.

Again the Second attempted to roll off the medical berth, screeching from an amalgam of rage, panic, and agony when another zap followed. As Prowl labored for breath he fought to raise his helm off the polymer surface. Escape required leaving the berth. Leaving the berth required the unknown obstacle being removed. And as rudimentary as his assessment was, he needed to identify the hindrance. Wide optics focused and magnified on what he recognized as high-voltage stasis cuffs shackling his wrists and ankles to the berth. Hopeless and inane as the effort was, Prowl yanked at the chains once more. Electromagnetic energy surged from the metal to his frame.

No…

Already the black-and-white Autobot was tearing through his neural net in search of his weapons cortex. Upon reaching that string of coding, he frantically slammed the activation sequence into place.

Battle protocols offline. Access to all weapons denied. Authorization required.

Authorization…? Those were his systems! To have them tampered with… He snarled back somewhat hysterically, Override now! Activate acid pellet rifle—

Error. Override command negated. Authorization required to access firearm inventory.

In that fragile moment of anticipation, something shattered.

Beads of coolant burned behind his lenses. Subjected to a rare feeling of abject loss, Prowl wailed.

Static crackled in his vocalizer with each sob that couldn't be bit back. Logic and justification be damned, Prowl wanted out. No; he needed to escape. Each second spent writhing against his bindings led toward scenarios he didn't dare consider. Repercussions. Responsibilities. Explanations. Glares that would no doubt come from his colleagues as they demanded answers that Prowl simply couldn't give. At this point the Praxian was beyond caring if he continued to inflict pain upon himself. Life, he deduced, was the ultimate punishment, and now, more than ever, Prowl prayed for death. A tainted retribution he no doubt deserved.

The results gained from his deactivation would repair so many mistakes.

The Autobots' success in battle would increase. His comrades could recharge peacefully knowing that their lives were no longer endangered. Far within the abyssal reaches of his processor Prowl conjured every morbid means of self-terminating. It would satisfy those darker desires crowding at the edge of his mind, breaking it.

Self hatred. Guilt. Shame. Regret. Rage. Each sentiment was powerful enough to make the black-and-white spasm.

"Get out of my head," Prowl begged. Uttering the words stung his throat, a feeling akin to glass shredding his intakes. "End it…!" The tactician's cries rose an octave higher. "Kill me, please! Let me die!"

The hiss of a door panel sliced across Prowl's screeches, bringing with it an oppressive silence. Ominous calm replaced his throes, an icy stillness put into place by the medic who had stepped into the room.

Unreadable faceplates were fixed on him, devoid of expression and carefully neutral. As Ratchet slowly approached the berth Prowl shrank back. Animal instincts screamed predator at the CMO. However irrational the feeling, he could neither suppress it nor deny his sudden fear. While the Praxian was acutely aware of his open display of dread, he did his best to compensate by stilling his vents.

At last the dusky yellow medic towered over the foot of the polymer slab, arms firmly crossed over his chestplates in an unreadable gesture.

"You're awake."

Such a casual statement had been the last thing Prowl expected to hear. Nonetheless, he kept his guard up, his optics never leaving the medic. With deliberately slow steps the yellow Autobot moved to the monitors on Prowl's right. Either the CMO's timing was coincidence, or Ratchet had surveillance cameras established within the room.

A powerful throb pounded in his spark when Ratchet spoke: "Approximately three orns have passed since you were emitted to the ICU. No doubt you have discovered that some of your regular faculties are currently offline. Given the events that brought you here"—a sharp swing of his helm brought the two mechs into optic contact—"I would deem that wise."

Prowl refused to respond. The Pit, there was a part of him that felt like his vocalizer would fracture if he tried to form words. Save for the monitor's vicious beeps mimicking his pulse there was no other noise.

Pensive faceplates leaned closer, bringing Ratchet almost within tactile distance of Prowl's. Vulnerable and exposed as he was, he felt the danger of the unknown breathing across his face. While certainly not programmed to operate in a fight, Ratchet wasn't helpless. Rotating saws, diamond-sharp blades, and an arsenal of other serrated equipment lay dormant beneath the medic's hull. Access to a variety of potent chemicals and a knowledge of Cybertronian anatomy made Ratchet deadly. Shrewd intelligence, coupled with a fiery temper, made him unpredictable.

Whatever remnant of his logic computer remained tried to draw his attention to the Autobot decal on the medic's shoulder. The symbol that allied the two by faction should have reminded him that his comrade posed no threat. Yet he refused to relinquish the idea that the other Autobot might attack.

"I need to know what happened, Prowl," Ratchet said. "You may not like what I'm about to say or want to hear it, but you have little choice in the matter." Spark all but pounding in his throat, Prowl chose to test the stasis cuffs again. They jolted electricity through his limbs, forcing him to grit his denta for fear of crying out. The pained shift of his frame was not lost on the medic, who at once reached out to touch him. Too late, he was unable to conceal his panic-induced wrench to get out of reach. The chains released electrical waves that forced his frame to stop twitching. His chassis heaved from the backlash.

Hands pressed against his chestplates, invasive, cautious, and knowing.

"You know that trying to move is useless," Ratchet commented. Digits pressed more firmly against him, and with every shift Prowl was acutely reminded of the strength of those servos, and just how exposed he was. "In fact, I believe that it was you who helped Special Ops design them." Hands slowly retreated, returning to the medic's sides. "Listen to me: I want to help you, but I need your cooperation. Until I can assess the state of your mind, you will remain here for your own protection."

Don't speak. Don't respond. Be it instinct, logic, or a byproduct of his emotions, Prowl couldn't confide in Ratchet. He couldn't bring himself to trust his eons-old comrade. Too many unknowns were involved, too many gambles, too many risks. Relinquish, and suddenly everything would spiral beyond his control.

Not that it hadn't already.

Ratchet knew what he had done. What he had tried to do. Without understanding Ratchet's intentions, or that of the other Autobots', he couldn't confirm if an ulterior motive lay in wait, if they wanted to punish him for his actions.

The desire to die swept through his sensor grid like a frigid caress, numbing him for a klik. It was intoxicating and excruciating all at once, driving his thoughts toward the single need to offline.

Now.

"I'm going to ask you several questions," murmured Ratchet. "I need you to answer as honestly as you can. We need to understand what made you want to die." While the dusky yellow mech's voice remained calm, the way his optics focused was intense.

Under the scrutiny Prowl shifted, immobilized by the morbid thoughts his processor offered.

From his subspace Ratchet withdrew a datapad and stylus. "Why did you cut yourself?"

The doorwinger trembled but held his tongue.

The Chief Medical Officer jotted something on the screen before looking at Prowl. "Fine. Another question, then: When did you last refuel on your own time?"

Silence. This time it was drawn out for almost a breem before Ratchet heavily sighed. "Have you had any confrontations with other officers?" the medic inquired, a little more stiffly than before. At the brittle tone Prowl flinched. There was the threat he had been trying to confirm. Sensing the other 'Bot's calm waning, his logic center flared to life. Calibrations, statistics, and simulations immediately began to formulate scenarios for escape. The only way out was the door just ten feet away. Factors included Ratchet, whom he had to maneuver around, and the stasis cuffs, which he had to remove from his wrists and ankles. Without weapons, he would have to rely on surprise and evasion, just long enough to improvise an alternate death.

Ratchet's grip tightened on the datapad and stylus. "Prowl…" His vocalizer dropped to a lower register as the medic repeated, "You need to talk to me. I can't make it better unless I know what's going on in your head." The tip of the stylus tapped the glass screen. "Are you currently being abused in any way by another Autobot?"

When there was no forthcoming answer, the broad-shouldered medbot took a step closer, looking torn. On a subconscious level Prowl was urged to shy away and was immediately subdued by an electric pulse.

"Is your current post as Tactical Advisor and Second-in-Command too stressful to manage?"

As the tendrils of residual charge slipped across nodes, his systems sifted through the energy, analyzing it. It played against his internal generators and turbines. While the electrical release was meant to restrict his movements, it was also energy. Energy that the Praxian's frame was designed to absorb, just like any other Cybertronian's.

"Did you plan to kill yourself in advance?"

The realization was brought to the forefront of his mind so abruptly that Prowl rebooted his optics in surprise. It had been during a particularly strenuous training session when Jazz demonstrated the full capacity of his magnetic amplifiers. Absorbing, harnessing, and discharging electromagnetic pulses in concentrated bursts were skills that Jazz claimed weren't quite as uncommon as once believed. In a brief reprieve from the sparring match, the saboteur had commented on the ability, citing it as retention of energy and its redistribution. Specialized equipment in his systems allowed his talents to be refined to concentrated EMP blasts, but electrical discharge was a skill inherent in the basic anatomy of all Cybertronians.

Innocently enough, he'd offered a few pointers on the technique. That conversation felt lifetimes away.

"When did you start feeling suicidal?"

Jazz…

Using the technique now only felt like a betrayal. But it has to be done. For the friends who no doubt hated him. For the comrades who could only be trusted to despise him. For the life that needed to end.

All reasoning waylaid, the Second tentatively twitched his joints. As expected, the stasis cuffs released electricity into the sensors. Rather than be stunned by the pain Prowl willed his systems to register the charge and incorporate it. His spark beat uncomfortably against its casing as wires and circuits sparked.

"Was this your first attempt?"

Pistons pumped harder and faster with each electrical burst. Focused as the Praxian was on his subtle motions, he never noticed the way Ratchet's fist clenched.

"Have you been experiencing insomnia or been unable to recharge?"

Uncomfortable as the building charge was, Prowl could feel the overflow of energy lending new strength to his frame. Jerking his wrists a little harder this time, the tactician winced, experiencing a rush of adrenaline when the buildup reached critical. Systems scans reported a backlash soon approaching from the excess electrical storage. So close…

He never saw it coming.

With a snarl of impatience Ratchet tossed his datapad and stylus aside. The collision of the two items against the floor jolted Prowl out of his concentration. The medic's expression hardened as he shoved his faceplates mere inches from the tactician's. The medic's harsh ventilations and the SIC's panicked ones permeated the shared vicinity, fogging the glass lenses and metal on each others' faces.

Ratchet latched his digits around the monochrome shoulder plating. "Look at me, Prowl," the yellow medic snarled, denta bared. "I need answers! But believe me, I won't keep standing here and wasting my time if you refuse to cooperate! Fine. You don't care. Yay for you. Maybe it's what you really wanted all along. But you know what?"

It took all of the tactician's effort not to whimper as Ratchet hissed into his faceplates, "What you want no longer matters."

Releasing him roughly, oblivious to the stasis cuffs' discharge, the CMO glared. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" spat the medic. His vocalizer shot up an octave as he all but screeched, "Your little stunt has the entire base in a state of panic! I've been buried up to my fragging headlights in paperwork that your suicide attempt caused, because Primus forbid that I shouldn't have more work to do than the war already gives me! Is that what you wanted, Prowl? Well, congratulations. The emotional stress around here is at an all time high because of that public display you pulled off!"

He snorted. "Why do I even bother?" muttered the pale yellow mech. "I'm wasting my time and energy on a 'bot that doesn't even care if he lives. Perhaps I should be saving them for soldiers who don't want to die."

When Prowl shivered and emitted a strangled sob, the medic bit off, "Don't you even dare cry. If you were really upset over this, you would be giving me answers."

Struck dumb by the barbed comment, Prowl's intakes hitched. Just as his numb CPU began to process what the medic said, Ratchet leaned in slowly. No longer bothering to conceal his emotions, the Praxian could read every detail on Ratchet's face. The curled lips. The deeply furrowed creases around his optics. The convulsions of barely-restrained servos. The narrowing of his optics until they were dark slits.

"Why are you doing this, Prowl?" Ratchet demanded. This time his tone had become less shrill, and raspier with suppressed rage. Although their bodies were close in terms of distance, the glaring medic refrained from reaching out. However long the desire would be squelched was undetermined, and Prowl struggled harder, charge building. "Don't you care that your brother was beside himself when he found out? Don't you care that your friends were hurt when they had to look at you covered in your own Energon?" When the only response he got was Prowl's unyielding speechlessness, the last of Ratchet's professional demeanor snapped. The dusky-yellow mech lunged.

"Ratchet!"

Ratchet stopped inches away from Prowl. The SIC's spark throbbed against the internal glass compartment, a painful reminder that he was still alive. As Ratchet painstakingly rotated to face the speaker Prowl stared down the length of his berth. Hovering at the door was First Aid, hands clutching at a medical instrument of some unknown design. Light blue optics between the violently shaking supine 'bot to his superior, who at last straightened in response to his name.

Cycling a harsh vent, the larger of the two medics inquired, "Yes?"

For an astrosecond the Protectobot fumbled, clearly uncertain how to address the situation. Finally coming to a conclusion, First Aid hastily explained, "I had a question…regarding"—hesitantly his gaze shifted to Prowl, causing the latter to tense—"you know…'it.' What we were discussing earlier."

Shuttering his optics, the broad-shouldered mech at last dipped his head in a nod. "Very well. I'll call Wheeljack and we'll go over the diagram." He lingered alongside the berth, face never straying from his apprentice's, as if the elder medic was dependent on it to keep himself in line. Footsteps rang hollowly in the enclosed quarters as Ratchet at last urged his pedes into action. He shouldered past First Aid into the medbay.

That left Prowl, spine-first against the polymer covering, with the Protectobot loitering in the doorway.

Electricity was all but visibly twining around his internal circuits, zapping the exoskeleton beneath his armor.

Worry tinged the Protectobot's faceplates. Before Prowl's processor could dictate a derivative, First Aid relented and padded into the room. Not sure what to make of the second medic's visit, the black-and-white tensed, jaw firmly clamped shut, waiting.

He stopped just three feet short of Prowl's chained ankles, gaze averted as he turned his helm to study the tiled floor. With increasing desperation the SIC struggled not to cry out, cringe in fear, or convulse. First Aid was a threat, albeit a different kind. The longer the Protectobot remained in the ward, the less likely his chance at escape became. Each passing second only corroded at what little patience and self-control Prowl had left before the instinct to flee took over.

"Please understand," the smaller 'bot pleaded, "he's not angry at you. He's just…upset. He r-really does care. It's just hard…for Ratchet to show it." Forcing down an audible swallow, First Aid cleared his intakes and looked anywhere but at Prowl. "I—"

Whatever he was about to impart next was cut across by an incessant ping from the nearby monitor. Jumping at the sudden sound, First Aid hastened to the flashing screen and began to type into the keyboard. A long, jarring, electrically-charged shiver ran down the length of Prowl's frame as the smaller medic evaluated a reading.

"Sparkbeat accelerated," murmured the Protectobot. He darted a look at Prowl. "Systems registering a…" Realization dawned on First Aid's face. Just as he whirled around and prepared to shout for Ratchet, Prowl struck.

The critical charge swept through the floodgates relentlessly. Jagged arcs of electricity surged over the surface of his frame, chords of the refined plasma electrocuting everything they touched. With a primal scream Prowl arched off the berth. Uncontrolled as it was, Prowl had no way to direct the charge as it tore through every sensor his relay possessed. Wires along his engine literally snapped and frayed from the piercing sensation.

Too close to escape the sparking field, First Aid was likewise hit by the voltage. With a yelp of pain the red-and-white apprentice staggered into a wall.

The metallic cuffs sparked and sputtered. With so much electricity the restraints were forced to short-circuit and snap apart. Identical clicks filled the room amidst the fading crackles of energy.

For a fleeting moment the tactician lay limp and exhausted, cycling oxygen furiously through his intakes. The scent of burning chrome tinged the atmosphere.

He was free.

With the realization came an onslaught of voices and emotions in his processor. Each scratchy whisper, each searing sentiment, however different in nature, guided Prowl back toward his initial goal.

Everything around him blurred. Unfeeling. Uncaring. Save for that last desire to die, he took no heed of his environment. The doorwinged mech swung his legs over the berth, letting his fist connect solidly with First Aid's jaw in the same movement. Simultaneously the cable that had been plugged into the panel in his chest popped out. Before the Protectobot could stumble away from the inertia, Prowl had slid into the medic's frame and jammed his elbow into the other's abdomen. A wrenching gasp croaked out of First Aid's vocalizer.

Once upon a time, Prowl might have balked at the way he bastardized his old Diffusion teachings. The martial arts form was purely self defense, not provocation, yet as he delivered a final skull bash to First Aid's helm, he couldn't bring himself to care.

Without remorse he abandoned the crumpled form at his pedes and turned. Already breaking into a run, Prowl felt a jolt of panic when Ratchet moved into the doorframe. Nonetheless he ran directly at the medic. Coupled with the speed of his gait, Prowl slid, flattening his spinal strut against the metallic floor and gracelessly passing between the medic's legs.

Upon clearing the second obstacle, Prowl twisted, propelling himself upright by palming the ground and forcing the weight onto his shoulders. Pedes solidly connected with the surface underfoot as Ratchet whipped around. Vorns of training already had Prowl anticipating the next move. As the Chief Medical Officer made to palm his chassis, Prowl countered, arm sweeping aside the attack. In retaliation his left hand reached for the cage of bars across Ratchet's chestplates. He pulled inward, sidestepping to avoid his opponent's fall as the other 'bot's weight turned against him. A heavy crash filled the medbay.

Left to his own devices the Praxian stepped further into the massive room, doorwings shaking. Time was limited. Biting his lower lip, Prowl scanned the far right side of the medbay where a majority of the supplies were kept. What would it be? A quick slice with a laser scalpel to the throat? A stab through the head with a blade? A whirring drill burrowing into his spark chamber?

A shiver of anticipation ran down his body. There could be no room for error or miscalculation. No loose ends. Just an end to the dark desires crowding at the edge of his mind that would, at last, be satisfied. Finally, the pain would go away.

Prowl never had the chance to act.

A much heavier frame rammed into his. End-over-end in a screeching tangle of limbs the two Autobots rolled. The newcomer came out on top, and it was with surprise that he recognized Wheeljack's face gazing down into his.

"Prowl—" The inventor's words were cut off as he thrashed beneath him. A long, desperate wail rose out of his vocalizer when his struggles did nothing to help.

"Ratchet!" yelped Wheeljack. Burly hands slammed into Prowl's chest, pinning him to the floor. "I need back-up, pronto! Get him neutralized!"

More pressure abruptly descended upon his legs, reducing his kicks to feeble jerks. From his back Prowl was barely able to snatch a glimpse of a very battered and dented First Aid pushing down on his legs.

Reduced to instinct and brutal terror, the black-and-white mech doubled his efforts to dislodge the two. Every time he writhed beneath them his vocalizer would crack on a scream that said more than words could. Vaguely the Second-in-Command was aware of Wheeljack yelling something else, but amidst the roaring in his audios, he couldn't decipher it.

It became painfully clear when a shadow fell across the contours of his face. With a stony expression Ratchet leaned and knelt down next to Prowl's helm, one servo holding his chevron while another wielded a syringe.

Beads of coolant fell unbidden from the tactician's optics. In a final bid for freedom Prowl struggled harder, begging as the needle came closer and closer to his face: "Please…stop! Don't do this to me! No!"

Ratchet shuttered his optics, breathed hard, and pushed the syringe forward.

The bite of the needle tip in his neck sent a wave of heat rolling through him. Blackness tugged at the edge of his vision as more of the sedative was drained into his Energon lines. Strength slowly gave way, and the more Prowl tried to flail his limbs, the faster the drug passed through his body. Even with the weight on his chest and legs he still tried to break free, however useless those actions were rendered.

Before the last dregs of consciousness could be taken from him, Prowl managed to cough out a plea at the yellow faceplates inches from his own.

"Please…don't…"

His voice trailed off into white noise when the shadows at last claimed him. Under the influence of the tranquilizer his head fell lifelessly against the floor.

Author's Note: Prowl's escape plan was loosely based off of the idea of a rechargeable battery. The way I figured, mechanical beings would need a way to deal with ambient electricity, and what better way than to retain and release it? I always imagined that it would be a common part of Cybertronian physiology. Jazz is different because his systems were specifically designed to allow him to harness electromagnetic energy. EMP blasts, charged electrical release, clinging to metal by polarizing their surfaces, and magnetizing nearby objects are inherent skills that he refined over the centuries.

This chapter was so hard to write, namely because the information regarding what happens when patients first wake up is so limited. There's next to nothing on the Internet about this phase of the recovery process, so I had to improvise. I didn't want to ask people because I was afraid I'd be sending the wrong message about myself, and I certainly wasn't about to interview the family members who went through this. No need to bring up unhappy memories.

Needless to say, things got really out of hand in this chapter, no thanks to Ratchet. It really doesn't help when your attending physician is also one of your closest friends.

To reward all of you for being so patient and supportive, here's the title of the next chapter.

Chapter Five: Fine Lines