As soon as he had gotten the bypass wired, and done a quick test of his range of motion, Ratchet had limped straight back to ward six with his toolkit to deal with the blown heat regulators and every 'bot else in line. At least DCC sent more techs down: two full teams, in fact, to help with triage and to begin dealing with the structural damage to the ward. Ratchet growlingly worked around them, though he was in fact pleasantly surprised to discover that one of them was a senior grade engineering tech whose specialization in systemic design meant he could actually be trusted with even secondary level salvage work. Even better, he'd recognized the need himself.
"Looks like you've got less support than you need, and we've got a lot of bodies, unfortunately. You got any salvage priorities?" the 'bot, whose prominent cranial signal strobes marked him as built for the airless orbitals or else for the deep underground power and mining shafts, had pulled him aside to ask.
"I've got a list of them. You're sure you can do this?" Ratchet had demanded.
"I've worked a med bay before when our squad medic was short-handed, which was always," had been the reply, and he'd flicked a panel on his wrist open, revealing access ports. Ratchet had nodded. It was a quick transfer, then Ratchet disconnected.
"What's your name and comm code?" he'd asked.
"Wheeljack," the other had answered, and pinged Ratchet's comm himself, leaving his own code with its tell-tale prefixes. The medic gave a soft whine of surprise.
"You're with Optronix's company?"
"Since day one. Anyhow, I'm going to take that corner and make it my space; there are one or two others on my team I know can help with this, so I'll collect them. You need something, shout."
Wheeljack had been as good as his word and his rating, which had earned him Ratchet's undying gratitude as the long line of triage patients and repair stretched out with no apparent end in sight. He wasn't sure when hostilities officially ceased – he had shut down his link to the tac-net as a useless distraction – but nevertheless, he marked the aftermath of battle by the sudden, massive influx of walking wounded. Injured, but not seriously enough to prevent them from continuing to fight, command had finally determined that they could afford to send them back for repairs.
Preoccupied as he was with patients and with managing his little team of salvage assistants, time had continued its jagged passage without him marking so much as an hour of it. But at a certain point, he paused in his work and realized that he had no new admissions. And with a dull sense of shock, he realized, too, that it was the day after the day after tomorrow: he'd worked straight through without a stop or a second thought or anything resembling recharge.
At least he had a new set of assistants: all air lift medical techs had been freed up with the end of the battle, and after a shift recharging and getting patched and retanked themselves were rotating in to help the surgeons on the triage wards.
"Where do you need us?" Skypax asked him, a pair of his brethren at his not inconsiderable back.
"Walk the wards – do rounds and second pass repairs on anyone tagged a priority three," Ratchet replied. "I'm going to check our priority twos and make sure they're holding."
"What about salvage?" one of the others asked.
"Taken care of, though in a couple of hours, you can take over that duty – tell Wheeljack and his crew I said so. Mean time, get on the ward – call me if any of the threes start to crash."
It took him almost three hours to work his way through the priority two list on his ward, during which time, he took six calls from his assistants, to say nothing of dealing with a couple of serious cases himself who'd needed quick attention before their condition could worsen. By the time he finally blue-lit the last name on his list, low spirits had joined dwindling energy. The ragged, broken signatures of every 'bot on the ward had soaked into the very air of the place, literally radiating agony despite unconsciousness, and Ratchet felt as if he were in a windstorm – every way he turned, hurt washed over him like a wave of hot needles that made him twitch with the need to soothe them, or at least quiet them. But there was nothing more he could do – not right now, and of a sudden, he could not get off the ward fast enough.
"Ratchet to Flashflare," he said into his comm, once he'd checked the roster to see who had post-battle ward monitor duty. There was a slight pause, then:
"Ward monitor here, go ahead," his brother's voice came through his speakers.
"Ward six is clear: all patients are stabilized," he reported.
"Noted." There was a pause, then: "Listen, Ratchet, I know you're working injured, but I need you to take Quickstart's rotation on scrap analysis and repair."
"How is he?" Ratchet asked, tiredly.
"Not well." There was a brief pause, then: "I'm sorry, Ratchet, but – "
"He didn't make it." Ratchet's tones were flat as they were certain, and his engine gave a low whine when Flashflare said only:
"No, he didn't." Another pause, then: "Are you all right?"
Ratchet vented, feeling heat trickle slowly out. "I'm fine," he lied. "It happens." He gave himself a brief shake, winced at the feel of shards grating internally, then said: "I'll report for scrap analysis – just give me five minutes to pull a team together."
"Thank you. I'll post you to Flicksaw's staff board," Flashflare replied. "Just hold steady. We're going to short-shift the rotations: Darklight will replace you in two hours."
"Right. I mean 'copy.' Whatever," Ratchet vented, abandoning all pretense of proper comm protocol, as he pressed hard over that troublesome forearm tensor that of a sudden blazed with white heat. He heard Flashflare give a weary rumble – pallid, tired amusement.
"Two hours," the other promised, and then cut the line.
~0~
Ratchet's recruited scrap team consisted of one of the air lift med techs and one of Wheeljack's more promising DC techs, which had the virtue of at least staggering their progress towards useless exhaustion. Nevertheless, by the time Darklight and a pair of medical field techs appeared to replace Ratchet and his team, the DC tech was swearing every other word, the field tech was running at half power, and Ratchet was so far past exhausted he was suffering the misery of sensory 'gravitic burn.' Everything – even air – seemed to press too dense and hot and close, and to swirl and swell with alarming disproportion with every movement. He went carefully, therefore, struggling with the cool anaesthesia of vision against the painful exaggeration of teeking, and made sure the field tech double checked his work to avoid stupid mistakes.
"You're relieved," Darklight told him. "Get some rest."Ratchet merely grunted softly.
"You heard him," he told his techs. "We've got two hours before we're back on the wards, so don't waste them."
"Aye, sir," they murmured. Ratchet stood a moment, contemplating just how tired he felt, then flashed Darklight a farewell and headed out. Glancing down the hall, he caught sight of his techs making for the medics' recharge berths. He likely ought to follow suit, but after a moment, feeling himself too unsettled yet to fathom resting despite his exhaustion, he turned and headed back towards the ward, pulling up a list of berths and occupants, searching until he found his patient.
Barrage wasn't conscious, which was fortunate – Ratchet had no desire to test his memory at the moment. He did, however, check the readout on the berth's side-wall projector, and found it much as he'd expected: no irreparable physical damage, though he might suffer some irretrievable memory loss. It was too early to tell.
Ratchet's engine gave a little whine, as armor plating pulled in tightly, and he shut down vision for a moment. The whole room felt like fragging acid. He felt gritty inside – probably from the amount of dust and debris that'd gotten inside his armor from the wall and ward five and ballistic damage. Really, he had no business on a ward, unless to get his own injuries tended to, which he really ought to do.
Instead, he turned and headed for the commons.
The commons, unsurprisingly, were filled with base personnel intent on boosting energy levels before heading back to their tasks. Ratchet cringed to teek them all, but he fixed his sight on his goal and resolutely marched into the thick of things to collect a pair of medic's ration packs. Then stepping carefully and striving to ignore the way the room and tables and 'bots seemed to swell and waver to overstimulated sensors, he made straight for an out of the way table where he was unlikely to be bothered.
Once he'd claimed his place, he sat there for a few moments, contemplating the tabletop. Then with a cycle of his vents, he logged into the medical hub. It was filled with post-op chatter, but he passed by that and went directly for personnel records, searching Quickstart's. Not that he couldn't guess how it must have gone, but...
"So, doc, mind if I sit?" asked a too-familiar voice just then.
Ratchet flinched – violently. The data on the sidebar of his HUD vanished almost instantly – exhausted as he was, his concentration was shot, which did not make him any better disposed toward the special ops tech who backed a dramatic pace and held up his hands placatingly. "Whoa, little frightenin' there, Ratchet! Look like that, a 'bot might think you were set to kill someone."
Ratchet glared at him, but did not dignify that little dig of a joke with any more answer than that. "Will you turn those dampeners off?" he demanded instead. "You're standing right in front of me!"
"Sure thing," Jazz replied, as his signature flashed like magnesium across Ratchet's much abused sensors, making him hiss softly. Then, gesturing to the empty side of the table, he asked: "What about it, doc? There a seat free here?"
With a low growl of his engine, Ratchet replied caustically, "Of course there is – I just sit in the corner by myself because I'm hoping for company! Maybe a gun in my face just for the fun of it." He paused a moment, waiting for the comeback. The special ops tech's lengthy string of disciplinary citations for back talk practically guaranteed one. But Jazz didn't say anything, and Ratchet realized, as the seconds ticked by, that he was still standing there, apparently waiting for an invitation. The medic shook his head, sharply.
"Don't play with me!" he warned, with a rather impressive harmonic vibralto, and if something of distress bled into his bass tones, he didn't bother to censor it.
"Ain't playin'," Jazz assured him, and seemed actually sincere. Surprised and still rather suspicious, Ratchet slouched down a bit in his seat, the better to stare up at the other.
"Why?" he asked at length.
"'Cause there's two kinds of tables in the world, doc, but they got one thing between 'em," Jazz replied, and paused. Ratchet, after a moment, vented, but he asked the required question:
"And what might that be?"
"They don't stand having games played across 'em. Trust me on that one, I've been at both and sat all sides," came the enigmatic response. Then: "So – you want company or not?"
No, Ratchet thought, feeling heat and hurt throb through him. He did not want company; he especially did not want to deal with Jazz when his mind felt rather like a heat sink. The heat sink perhaps was why, instead of telling Jazz off, he gestured at the space across the way and said, "Have a seat."
The special ops tech blinkered his thanks, then stepped forward onto the scan-pad, was scanned, and then the back half of a line of superdense metal laid into the floor shot up. It formed itself into a seat to conform to his model, supporting him as he sank down onto it.
"You look like one of your patients," Jazz said conversationally, and Ratchet felt the other's scan crawl over him, fixing swiftly on the bullet wounds. He blenched, and Jazz instantly ceased. "Friendly fire?"
Ratchet gave the other a long stare, trying to decide whether that meant more than it said, before saying pointedly, "I'm fine, thanks for asking."
"What's the situation in there?" the other asked, more seriously this time as he nodded back over his shoulder in the direction of the med bay.
"We're full up," Ratchet said after a moment spent collecting himself, and then reached for one of the energon rations. Breaking the seal, he continued, "The ERB back in Iacon is probably at capacity, too. From what I've heard reported, we took some forty percent of the med-evacs from Nova Cronum, and the majority of the wounded from Praxus. Some of the code ones and twos went to Iacon towards the end, but the military is attempting to tend to its own, since Nova Cronum's civilians need so much care." He paused briefly, then added: "We're also down one surgeon on the wards."
Jazz's engine crooned softly. "Heard about Quickstart – ain't no way to go, if you gotta go," he declared, and shook his head. Then eying Ratchet, he queried: "You okay, doc?"
Nevertheless, despite the apparently genuine concern, Ratchet's response was quick, short, and quelling: "You needn't worry about me." And he pressed on swiftly: "What about our position? We couldn't have taken all the wounded from Nova Cronum, not even with Iacon opening its bays. They must have one ERB operational still – at least, they did two days ago..."
Ratchet trailed off, and looked a question at Jazz. The special ops tech gave a low growl of his engine, but accepted the change of subject without comment. "Nova Cronum's still painted our colors, but it's a faded sort of red. That bout of nastiness in Praxus was cover – the 'Cons slipped a wing of jets out of Praxan airspace while they had us pinned down and preoccupied. Lightning strike – couldn't hold what they hit, but they hit good and hard." Jazz shook his head, undertones flaring in a discordant minor key, like an auditory grimace. "Took down the comm cluster, tore up the roads and knocked out two of the main generator complexes. Power grid's all kinds of messed up. ERB took a hit, too, but it wasn't direct, and they're still receivin' patients from what I hear."
Ratchet stared at him a moment, then frowned, confused. "So Nova Cronum was the feint, then?"
Jazz cocked his head. "'The feint'?" he repeated, apparently just as confused as Ratchet for once. "What was the other option?"
"Just something Flashflare said," Ratchet explained tiredly. "When the call from Nova Cronum came in, he wondered whether Praxus might be a feint, whether the Decepticons might've always been aiming for Nova Cronum. But it doesn't sound like it was..." He trailed off as Jazz chuckled softly. "What?" he demanded, an edge creeping back into his voice.
"Don't worry, doc – comes to Flashflare, I got respect," Jazz assured him, still sounding amused. "It's true, as a rule, I ain't much for medics, but Flashflare's all right – good 'bot, good medic, helped patch me up after my little 'incident.'" The special ops tech waggled a pair of fingers, making the brief, low-level pulse of their electromagnets "ripple" coyly. "But if you ever need a quick couple of credits or someone to pull the dead shift for you, go a few rounds of Strategix with him, 'cause you can't lose. Outside matters medical, he's got all the strategic sense of a light post."
He shook his head again, then tipped his chair back a bit so he could draw a leg up onto the seat edge. Clasping his hands about his knee, he explained: "Praxus was never a feint. The 'Cons went for Praxus because it's our biggest production center for flyers. All our 'bots topside can work in low gravity or no gravity, but not a lot of 'em are transatmospheric, an' if you put 'em in atmosphere, they can't fly any more than you or I. Since the war started, Optronix has had his hands full dealing with Decepticon flyers – who generally are transatmospheric jets, bein' military models – stationed further out or from other stations they took over. Unless we get Praxus back or expand production elsewhere and fast, we can't keep up. We can't keep up, we can't hold the sky, an' speakin' tactically, that's when things get real fun here on the ground."
The special ops tech grinned crookedly at him. "By comparison, Nova Cronum's more symbol than substance, but that don't mean it ain't worth the risk of getting shot down by SELDoSD."
"'SELDoSD'?"
"Sky-eye look-down-shoot-down systems," Jazz spelled it out. "They're anti-aircraft gun mounts on the earthside of stations – pretty specialized, good at picking up stealthed targets. They're part of what's helped us hold onto topside and our bit of earth as long as we have."
"So what happened four days ago, then?" Ratchet demanded.
"Four days ago was a month since the 'Cons attacked Praxus and got their claws in it." And when Ratchet just stared at him, he elaborated: "Well, they ain't had any luck repairing that flyer production facility – got pretty badly damaged by some high-density explosives when our 'bots got pushed back to the northeastern half of the city. An' the Praxus comm cluster's still down, an' they've been coolin' their jets between cute little get-nothing skirmishes for weeks."
Jazz spread his hands briefly, then laced his fingers together against the electromagnets that flared to life, repulsing each other. Ratchet, who'd never been overly fond even on a good day of the way same-pole magnets teeked in proximity, twitched a bit across the table, as Jazz finished: "Time on their hands like that, it's not too surprising that somebot's managed to get a half dozen high-powered EW drones up and running – sent a couple of 'em to broadcast blinders at SELDoSD, seeded their flight wedge with the rest. Played merry hell with tracking."
There was a lengthy silence, during which Ratchet struggled to process what he'd been told. "You're saying they did it because they were frustrated?" he finally said, unable to keep his horror or his incomprehension out of his voice. Or his disgust, of which there was plenty.
A shrug. "More or less. Likely they want to make sure we know they're there, an' that we ain't clipped their wings. See, morale's got two sides in a war zone," Jazz said, trilling his secondary tones a bit when Ratchet grimaced. "Fun, no?"
"Primus," Ratchet muttered.
"In-forms us all, but that don't help us win the war," Jazz quipped, and when Ratchet hissed through his vents, asked: "Still wanna be here, doc?"
Vents cycled decisively then, and Ratchet shook his head. "What did I tell you?" he growled warningly.
"Still ain't playin'," Jazz answered, and lifted his chin slightly. "Just being direct."
The light emphasis on that last word was unmistakable, and Ratchet's engine gave a low rumble in response. "Your timing," he said flatly, "is appalling."
"Depends on your answer," Jazz countered, idly tracing magnetized circles on the table with one claw.
Ratchet gave a queer little whine of his engine, staring at Jazz with some suspicion. "Why the interest in my answer? What's your stake, Jazz?"
"What makes you think I've got one?"
"The remarkable consistency of rumor and hearsay with your psych file," Ratchet shot back. "Or because you're not playing – pick your motive, I don't care which, but answer the fragging question or I'm leaving."
"Hm." Jazz hummed and scanned damaged plating again, this time simply canting an optical ridge when Ratchet flinched and growled. "Hurts, don't it?" he observed.
Ratchet shook his head. "Leaving it is," he said, and made to rise.
Or he would've. He got as far as "Leaving – " before Jazz moved neatly to intercept, flowing out of his chair to lay a hand on Ratchet's shoulder – right over the lodging point of Barrage's bullets. He flicked his electromagnets on. Ratchet gave a strangled little trill as debris and one or two of the bullets, in response to that low-level field, shifted to the feeling of shooting pain.
"Stay awhile, doc," Jazz said pleasantly, though that steely undertone was back, as he pretended to press Ratchet back into his seat, before reseating himself. "You're still pretty far underpower, you know."
Incensed, Ratchet stared at him in shock. "What under the double moons – ?" he hissed, but was cut off.
"Like you said – I ain't playin'. And like I said, I've sat all sides of this table, so I know: ain't one of 'em that's pretty." Jazz shrugged.
Ratchet spluttered. "Are you threatening me?"
"No."
"Then what the frag...?"
"We both want answers, doc. I'm not gonna get mine if you walk off. An' you won't get yours either if you leave. And you know you'd hate it if you left, 'cause then you'd be thinkin' about this all day."
"What makes you imagine I'd waste a single slagging minute remembering this?" Ratchet demanded, scathingly.
"'Cause I was all set to go my way last time – leave you to yourself. You were the one who couldn't take that. Face it," Jazz said, tones all too reasonable, "if you'd walked out just now, it wouldn't matter how far you went, you wouldn't ever leave the table. I'm just lettin' you feel it, that's all. So," he invited and gestured to the chair, "sit and talk – convince me you're not wantin' a little bit of burn right now, 'cause you know how this is gonna look on the outside."
"How what is going to look to which outside?"
"C'mon, doc," Jazz adopted a chiding tone. "Everybody knows the back-line ERB ain't supposed to be battlefield medicine – that's how you got into this gig, by pushin' that line with Flicksaw. An' he an' the board bought it. Barrage, though," he vented, and shook his head in mock regret, "he never was in on the deal an' he don't much care about oughts." Laying his hands flat on the table, Jazz leaned forward to say, with disturbing relish: "How many casualties you got comin' out of that mess? How many fatalities? Thirty? Forty? Fragger killed one of your brothers, an' not cleanly – slagged him good and hard first."
The special ops tech paused a moment, before continuing with sudden sharpness. "You were the medic on deck. Way I hear it, you took a slagging huge chance to try an' save Quickstart when he was already dyin' – could've easily got yourself fragged. You got luckier than anybody's got a right to, but you've still got the bullets in your bolts. It's been almost five days since your last off-shift. You're gonna be back on shift in less than two hours, and I'm thinking you won't find time between now and then to get those fraggers pulled. I know you're not one to cross purposes, but care to speculate how your neuropsych file's gonna read after this?"
Ratchet shuttered his optics, venting long and low so that vents barely lifted. Finally: "I am notsuicidal," he stated, in a tone that would permit no disagreement. "Nor am I guilt-ridden – I know my limits. I've lost patients before."
"Not like this you haven't," Jazz countered. "And not bein' suicidal ain't the same as not punishin' yourself."
"I'm not – look, we couldn't get supplies out of Logistics in the middle of a battle, and that was two days ago," Ratchet snapped, every tone sharp with impatience. "I'm functional – I'm below a priority four, all right?"
"Ah, ah – don't be modest, doc," Jazz admonished, eyes brightening. "You went up against a tank, and came out a priority four – which is a win by anyone's standards. And most wards couldn't pull what they needed out of Logistics 'cause it was going front-line and to surgery, but you did. Nice work, by the way, usin' those couple of luckless fraggers. Like the way you play!"
"I don't play on the job!"
"If you say so," Jazz replied easily, waving a dismissive hand as he leaned back in his seat, dangling one arm over the back. "Fun diversions aside, though – " blue eyes brightened further at Ratchet's exasperated flare of vents " – on the matter of your medical non-priority, if you asked, somebody'd at least solder a plug in and clip the cords down, 'cause bypass cabling's just askin' to be pulled. You haven't asked, though.
"And you're still sittin' here after I've put the burn on you not once, but twice," he said, eying Ratchet speculatively, and Ratchet felt every coil in him clench. "Means either you're scared to move, or you don't really mind the pain. You don't scare that easily – I know it – which leaves option number two, which, you gotta admit, is all kinds of interesting."
"Only to you," Ratchet shot back.
"That's 'cause I'm what you'd call a deviation, an' not the standard one, either. But back to you an' your psych file," Jazz replied, without missing a beat. "You know what I'm gettin' at, doc, an' it ain't the simple fact that you lost some 'bots today, not even that you lost Quickstart. That's not why we're at this table." He paused. "You gonna make me say it, or are you gonna own up to the obvious?"
A brief, intense silence followed. Then:
"You're a real mismake, Jazz," Ratchet said quietly.
"Never claimed otherwise," the special ops tech replied, matching him tone for tone.
"What happened in ward five is public record. How I feel about it – that's between me and the board. I don't owe you an accounting."
"No, you don't," the other admitted. "But I'm offerin' to let you, nonetheless."
Ratchet gave an amazed chuff of air through his vents, and shook his head. "Is that supposed to be funny?" he demanded, honestly baffled.
"Not really, though a good joke's never a loss," Jazz answered.
"Yes, especially when the laugh is on someone else, I imagine," Ratchet said acidly. Jazz turned a palm up, flickered his lights, acknowledging the hit. The medic shook his head. "You're a piece of work!"
"Can't deny it. But I'm still offerin' to take your account."
Another silence settled between them. Jazz just sat there, tracing slow infinities on the tabletop, seemingly quite absorbed in this activity. Despite exhaustion, however, Ratchet was not fooled, and after awhile, demanded, in terse, low tones: "What makes you believe you're qualified to be anyone's confidant, let alone mine?"
The silver 'bot cocked his head, as if considering his quarry, before hazarding, "I can keep a secret?"
Ratchet gave a disdainful flare of bass tones. "I don't trust you worth a damn, Jazz."
"Don't expect that you do," the other replied, without fuss, "but lemme ask you this: who would qualify? Flashflare?"
"He comes to mind." The special ops tech gave a soft croon and rumble.
"Sure he does. He'll probably ask quietly, maybe get a little upset with you for not talkin' sooner, just 'cause he'll be a lot more upset with you for goin' up against Barrage like you did, but he'll be understanding. He won't push you, 'cause he'll think you need the space to 'come to terms'," Jazz said, pulsing his magnets, one after the other, to set off the phrase. Then, in an apparently random change of topic: "He got any theories about you and that pain problem you got goin'? You know, the one where you can't seem to get your tool transformations down, save the one you don't want?"
Ratchet frowned. "Not that it's your concern, but it's an adaptation issue – it'll pass with practice."
"And you believe that? Well, of course you do – and of course he does. Anyhow, Flashflare's perceptive – astute, even. And he's pretty good at listening. But he ain't gonna make you talk," Jazz said, with certainty.
Ratchet canted an optical ridge. "Most people would say that's a virtue."
"Most people would, yeah. But that ain't you or me." The special ops tech lifted his chin slightly, regarding Ratchet a moment. "Look, doc, talk to your brothers – talk to Flashflare, talk to Flicksaw, let the monotone neuropsychs crawl into your head. Do all that," he urged. "You should. You're gonna have to. But when you're done with that, an' you're set to blow a breaker over gettin' treated like broken parts, call me."
Ratchet stared at the other, nonplussed. "Call you?" he repeated.
"Sure."
"And the reason you think I would do this would be…?"
"'Cause I ain't interested in fixing you." And in the face of a rather intent stare, he shrugged. "You wanna fight your war – the one that nobody else is fightin' except for you – I got no problem with that. But you gotta know your enemy, an' I'm thinkin' that that's where you're gonna fall down unless you figure it out and fast."
Jazz tilted his head then, as if checking his message queue. "I gotta go," he announced, then pinged Ratchet's comm, leaving his own code. "Talk to you later."
With that, he unfolded from his seat, rapped the table top once in farewell, then slipped away.
Ratchet watched him go, and after a few moments, he checked his chronometer: one hour 'til he was back on shift. Primus, he thought, groaning inwardly. Quickly injecting the rest of the energon, he rose, cleaned up his space, and then paused a moment, hesitating between the lure of something like rest and the ward. It's one hour, insisted the merciless voice of efficiency, or perhaps evasion. With an exhausted cycle of vents, Ratchet headed back for the ward.
Fragging tables!