AN: Just so you know, it's not over yet.
The Nemesis:
Ratchet woke up to an unfamiliar sight – the medical bay in shambles, lines of Cybertronian glyphs carved into the worktable, tools and various other things thrown to the ground in complete disarray. He got up, carefully examining the text. It was in a neat spiral, twisting about in a complex system of runes.
He read the message, surprise nearly choking him as he realized who it was to.
The Autobot medic knew that most of the Decepticons couldn't read Ancient Cybertronian, so there had to be a translation program somewhere on the Nemesis' database.
Just as he suspected – Knock Out was stupid enough to give his enemies a fleeting chance to locate him.
He turned his attention to the machine behind him whose relentless beeping was driving him insane. Critical. Critical. Critical. Of course, Ratchet had nearly forgotten the reason for Knock Out's impromptu call to the base.
Ratchet surveyed the damage to the Decepticon Second-in-Command, a worried frown creasing his faceplate when he recognized the erratic pulsating of a dying spark, kept alive only by an emergency energon pump.
It made his spark twist painfully at the mere thought of repairing an enemy soldier, but he was forced him to. The oath both he and Knock Out took when they graduated from their apprenticeship stated that because it was not their duty at fight, they were to dedicate their skills to healing the injured – no matter their faction – unless there was nothing they could do.
In this case, there was something he could do.
A Bit Later:
Starscream sat up, wincing at the pain he found in the simple action.
Pain. Pain's good. It means you're still online. The seeker thought, staring at his repaired arm. The last time he had seen it, there had been nothing more to see than a ragged, gaping wound that stretched all the way from his wrist to his shoulder. Now, his armor was flawless, the metallic paint glinting in the half-light.
It wasn't Knock Out's work, that much was clear. The Decepticon medic paid far too much attention to detail, rather than to the repair. If Knock Out'd done it, the topcoat of paint would be a silver-flecked gray – much more suited to the seeker's style, as the red sports car once told him. This, however, was cautiously repainted in plain gray, barely concealing a weld mark where the gash in his arm used to be.
The question was, who fixed him?
Still On the Nemesis:
Ratchet glared defiantly up at Megatron. "I'm sick of being on your warship, so just let me go now."
"Why should I?" There was a faint hint of amusement buried deep in the Decepticon leader's tone.
"Look, I'd love to just blast my way out of here-"
"But that would end in your untimely demise." Megatron interrupted.
"Exactly," Ratchet said, crossing his arms tightly across his chestplate. "Which is why I decided to ask you civilly to allow me to leave."
"I have given it much thought, and with all due respect-" Potent venom dripped from his voice – Megatron never had any respect for anyone but himself. "-no."
Autobot Base:
There was no time to consider any type of plan. They had to act now, or else it was all over.
Breakdown raised his hammer for the final blow that would guarantee that Knock Out's spark would be extinguished.
But Bulkhead stopped him just in time. The two archenemies battered each other with their preferred weapons of mass destruction, giving the others just enough time to grab Knock Out and get him out of there.
Arcee hauled Knock Out to his feet, ignoring his small cry of pain, and half-dragged, half-carried him to the medical bay. She laid him down on the worktable, glancing nervously up at Optimus. "I can fix small stuff – Ratchet showed me how – but this…" her voice trailed off, and she looked down at the shredded armor and twisted plating. "I just don't know."
A loud crash came from the command center, at which Bumblebee rushed out, his arm-mounted blasters firing rapidly.
The sounds of fighting drew closer as the blue femme struggled to close off one of the many severed energon pipelines. It was no use. It would take a skilled medic to repair Knock Out at this point, but Ratchet was on the Nemesis, and the only medic here was in no condition to repair himself.
Arcee muttered Cybertronian curses under her breath as her hands became stained with spilled energon. As another expletive escaped her lips, she felt a hand brush hers, and glanced at her patient to see his dim crimson optics staring at her, a ghost of a smug smirk playing about his faceplate. He weakly pointed to one of the many tools in the medical kit, a soft moan escaping him.
"Use it," he hissed, crying out in agony when the welder in Arcee's grasp slipped, dropping onto his heavily damaged leg.
"Sorry," she quickly snatched it up, banging into his arm as she bent over to grab the tool he pointed to.
"No," she growled fiercely when she realized what it was designed for. "I won't do it, Knock Out. You don't deserve to die, not like that." She set it down on the edge of the worktable.
He sighed, the sound like sandpaper over a chalkboard. "Yes, I do. I deserve much worse than that." He coughed up what small amount of energon he had left, weakly pressing the device back into Arcee's hand. "Please, I want to die."
Somewhere in the Time-Space Continuum:
Ratchet wore the scars from his latest run-in with Megatron proudly. Wait until the others see! He thought, a smile passing over his normally troubled features. Bulkhead would be impressed, Arcee less so, and Bumblebee just surprised he made it out alive. Knock Out would probably make some sarcastic comment about the extent of the damage. But Optimus… well who knew what the Autobot leader would think.
He kept walking steadily through the GroundBridge, surprised when he ended up inside the base. He looked around and saw, to his shock, Breakdown battling it out with the other Autobots. Only, Arcee and Knock Out were missing.
Ratchet immediately that something was wrong. Neither Arcee nor Knock Out were liable to miss a fight, so either they were on patrol, or Arcee was injured.
Then he heard Arcee's stern voice come from inside the medical bay. "No, I won't do it, Knock Out." He didn't listen to the rest because he charged past the mechs fighting, and into the medical bay.
He found Knock Out severely injured, and Arcee holding the only instrument Ratchet had that didn't have a name, as it had never been used in all the years since he'd been given it. It was meant to painlessly end the life of and transformer that couldn't be repaired, and was only used when absolutely necessary.
"What are you doing?" He yelled, startling Arcee.
"He-he told me to use it," she replied, staring at the floor. "He said he deserved worse."
Ratchet sighed, that was just like Knock Out. "Arcee, go join the others. I'll handle this."
The Next Day:
He had done all he could. It was up to Primus to decide if the young medic's life was over yet. Even if the transfusions worked, and he lived, someone would have to tell him that he could never travel faster than sixty mph again. If he did so, it would be suicide. The stabilizing equipment implanted in his circuitry would malfunction under the strain, leading to a slow deactivation.
The steady beeping from the spark monitor sped up, and soon it was nothing but a high-pitched drone. It kept on going, pausing at random intervals, jumping occasionally to a lower pitch. And then, all of a sudden, it stopped. The line on the monitor jumped twice, then fell completely still.
Ratchet glanced sadly away from his former apprentice, murmuring a well-known verse from the Medic's Oath. "To save all those that can be saved-"
"-and to ease the suffering of those gone too far," the rusty voice shocked him out of his reverie.
"Impossible…" Ratchet whispered.
"Uhh… who made Megatron mad?" Knock Out groaned, his words slurred and hard to decipher. "'Cause my head feels like someone's been using it for a drum set."