Trigger Warning!

This chapter contains mentions of Rape, and mentions of Suicide!

And most likely highly inaccurate depictions of electrical systems. I only know enough about electricity to not fry myself making toast.

Cursing could be heard through out the Autobot base. Dialects from all the different sectors of Cybertron blended into English, French, Spanish and every other language the Autobots had downloaded during their exodus. Bulkhead chuckled as a new round of swearing began, earning himself a glare from over Ratchet's shoulder. The wrecker lightly supported the medic from behind as he attempted to will his body into a sitting position.

Not even half of the way through the sit-up, Ratchet slumped back into Bulkhead's hold. His rapid ventilation conveyed his exhaustion. Bulkhead waited for him to cool down some before nudging his shoulder. "Five."

Ratchet groaned, "Now I understand why my PT patients loathed me so much." Which a deep intake he forced himself back into the exercise.

Bulkhead hummed in good nature. "Then you're going to hate me. Fifteen more to go."

Ratchet shook his helm. "My fault," he grunted through gritted teeth. "I set the number." He made it closer to vertical than he had the last attempt, just as was true with each prior effort. Five more attempts and he'd triumphantly made it into a sitting position with Bulkhead gently guiding him up.

"Okay," he breathed, "I know I said twenty but that's enough for now." Bulkhead eased Ratchet back to the berth and rounded to his front. The medic had spent all of the previous day's morning showing the wrecker how to assist him in stretching and he believed he had a fairly good grasp on what to do but he still hesitated. With Ratchet's reassuring smile he hefted up the medic's right pede and gently pushed it back towards his chest until he met resistance. The tension cables in Ratchet's legs were stiff from disuse and not nearly as flexible as they should have been.

"You did pretty good today," Bulkhead attempted in an effort to fill the silence.

"Decently," Ratchet grunted as the cables in his thigh stretched to and slightly beyond their limit. "I'd like to be progressing faster."

Bulkhead moved to Ratchet's other leg, repeating the exercise. "Don't blame you. Don't know what I'd do if I was injured badly. Probably be pretty mad."

"Mmm," Ratchet hummed. "Yes, yes. Probably." He watched with dulled optics as the other worked his pede joints. Bulkhead paused, gently placing Ratchet's foot back on the berth.

"You okay there, Ratch?" He asked, tilting his helm in worry. "Not going to seize on me are you?"

"Hm?" Ratchet jolted his gaze up, optics refocusing. "No, no. I'm fine. Just thinking." He held a hand up, silently asking for help sitting up. "You don't have patrol until tonight, do you?" Bulkhead steadied Ratchet as he used his upper body to lift his legs over the edge of the berth. With minimal help he managed to transfer to his chair. Normally the medic could preform chair transfers on his own but he was exhausted and sore from the morning's physical therapy.

"No patrol until five. Arcee's out next shift." He followed Ratchet over to his work station, taking up a stool there.

Ratchet pulled out a datapad and a scanner from the storage under his desk, handing the scanner to Bulkhead. "Hold this, don't press anything." Bulkhead watched adamantly as the medic connected the two devices with an assortment of colorful cables. The scanner sung a series of beeps as it started up.

"A sub-cortical scan?" Bulkhead asked as Ratchet input settings into the scanner the wrecker was holding.

The medic glanced up, giving him a surprised look. "Close. Sub-protoform, yes. Sub-cortical, no. We'll be scanning my backstrut but it still looks for the same action-potential firing pattern."

Bulkhead nodded, understanding only some of the explanation. "The settings look similar to the one's in your book," he explained.

"My book?" Ratchet didn't pause his work. "My thesis paper on Chronic Circuit Glitch? You read it?"

"I wouldn't call it reading." The wrecker shrugged. "Just skimmed through it really. I didn't know a lot of the words and we don't have much of a dictionary anymore but the pictures helped a lot."

Ratchet paused, glancing up at Bulkhead. "And you understand what a sub-cortical scan looks at?"

Bulkhead's optics scrunched up and his brow drew in tight. "It looks at the, um, the electricity in the processor." Ratchet nodded minutely.

"In a general sense, yes." He returned to poking at his datapad with a frown. "How would you feel about learning a little more in terms of anatomy. I could use someone with more than basic first-aid training."

Bulkhead handed the scanner back when the medic gestured for it. "You want to teach me to be a medic? I don't think that's such a good idea, Ratch."

The white mech chuckled lightly, tapping in a few final settings and handing the scanner back to Bulkhead. "Scan just below the ports for my subspace. Just above the break." The wrecker moved to do as asked while Ratchet leaned forward in his chair. He knew from the basic first aid training Ratchet had made everyone take when the Ark first launched not to move the scanner until the scan completed. A small beep signified that it had. Ratchet took the scanner back from him and set it aside while it compiled the data.

"I don't intend for you to get your medical certification, only learn up to the level of a field assistant." Ratchet explained. "Basic Cybertonian anatomy, field medicine, some pharmacology. Nothing beyond an entry academy level."

Bulkhead's gaze dropped down to his hands resting in his lap. "I never had a chance at even applying to the academy."

Ratchet smiled softly, turning back to the now finished scan. "It's not the academy but it's something." He trailed off, intensly studying the datapad in his hands. Bulkhead glanced over his shoulder.

"There's no change," Ratchet whispered after a long moment of silence.

"I thought you said-" Ratchet raised a hand, cutting the other off.

"The connection is minimal. My self-repair should have done more by now." Ratchet put the datapad down gently, staring unfocused at the far wall. Bulkhead placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, watching the medic carefully. Stress had been a trigger for seizures in the past. Eventually, however, Ratchet simply shook his helm and shoved the scanner back into the wrecker's hands. "Run a scan on my self-repair hub." When Bulkhead hesitated Ratchet scowled. "Under the left audio receptor and slightly towards the back." Once the scan was finished Ratchet placed it aside to finish calculating the data.

The medic sighed, turning reluctantly away from the desk. "Rafael only informed me yesterday that some of the wiring in the ground-bridge is frayed. I'll need some panels moved." Bulkhead followed in silence, wanting desperately to ask after the medic's well being but he knew better.

By the time the pair reached the main ground-bridge controls, Ratchet had mellowed some. His frame had relaxed greatly and the frown had vanished from his face. Optimus stood at the main computer controls, monitoring base activity while filing what reports he could from outside his office.

"Did therapy go well?" The Prime asked as Ratchet came to sit by his side.

"Same as yesterday," Ratchet answered flatly. "and the day before."

Optimus' brow scrunched under the edge of his helm. "Is something wrong?"

Ratchet sighed deeply, expression dropping again. Optimus found a place to sit on one of the large storage crates next to Ratchet's wheelchair.

"Bulkhead," Ratchet addressed the wrecker, "would you mind removing the panels for the ground-bridge. I'll join you in a moment." The other mech simply nodded, unsure what to say. Prime placed a hand on Ratchet's shoulder, gentle and light, and waited for his companion to speak.

"It's really nothing yet, Optimus." Ratchet began reluctantly, "I'm rendering some scans. I'll know more once they are done."

Optimus vented deeply, frame tighter than he intended. "You are not relapsing, are you?"

"No, no," The medic quickly assured. "My processor is healing nicely. Everything else..." He trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nasal plating, searching for the correct words. "Much more slowly than I had hoped."

The Prime nodded slowly, understanding and sympathizing. "But you are healing, even if slowly?"

"I don't know." Ratchet shook his helm. "I don't know. The scans should tell me, but it's possible my self-repair has stopped working on my back for whatever reason."

"If you need to speak to someone, I am always available." Optimus squeezed Ratchet's shoulder, careful of the exposed protoform. The medic reached a hand up to cover his Prime's.

The comfortable silence was broken in part by Bulkhead dropping a heavy panel cover and his following mumbled apology. The rumbling opening of the base elevator door was mostly drown out. The human shout that followed was not.

"Prime!" Fowler called in his usual manner, the moment the elevator doors opened enough to allow him to do so. Optimus glanced up from his seat next to his medic. At the serious look to the Agent's face he stood and strode over to the catwalk, giving Ratchet a parting glance that promised further discussion at a later time.

"What can I do for you, Agent Fowler?" He held out a hand for the human when Fowler began climbing over the railing. He stepped into the Prime's hand with no hint of worry that he would fall.

"Situation's changed, Prime," Fowler began. "Need to speak with you. In your office, preferably." Optimus nodded, both to the human in his hand and to Bulkhead and Ratchet, who had gone back to fiddling with the ground bridge.

Optimus set Fowler down on the usual place on his desk before settling himself. The clutter in office had lessened somewhat as the Prime had time to clean. With ratchet caring for himself again, all of their schedules had opened up a great deal. The children had especially enjoyed the amount of time they'd had with their guardians lately.

Fowler settled in his chair on the Prime's desk. He crossed his arms over his broad chest with a sigh. "Starscream's moved, we've lost sight of him."

Optimus hummed. They'd expected the group to move eventually. The hope was that they would remain stationary until a motive for their reason was uncovered. "Is it known where they moved to? Or if they've detected our surveillance?"

"We don't think they did. We've got troops combing the sight as we speak. So far it just looks like they scraped what they could out of the mines and ran." Fowler explained. "You've been analyzing the photos I gave you?"

"I have." Optimus tapped a few keys on his computer, pulling up one of the images displaying Starscream. Next to him sat one of the smaller eradicons. They appeared to be conversing, Starscream leaning subtly against the other. That by itself was unusual. Optimus stood, rounding the desk so he stood next to the projected image. "It's difficult to make out due to Starscream's natural coloration," The Prime began, gesturing to the tips of the silver Decepticon's wings. "But it appears that he is graying slightly."

Fowler rubbed at his chin, squinting. The difference in color was subtle, the polish slightly darker and the sheen dulled to a matte finish. The graying was no-where near as prominent as it had been on Ratchet. When the medic began to gray the discoloration began on the tips of his chevron and his pedes. The visual signs of disease had spread in a blotchy, creeping pattern across his chassis and limbs. Paint flaked in its wake, nanites falling off his form as they ceased to function, revealing the lackluster gray protometal beneath. Starscream retained none of the paint on his wing tips, indicating that the nanite death was slow moving.

"So he's sick?" Fowler looked back up to the Prime.

Optimus remained staring at the projection. "I regret that I have not yet consulted Ratchet on this, as I only saw it this morning, but I believe so, yes." Fowler frowned, disappointed by the uncertain answer.

"Okay," he breathed, "what does this mean for us."

"I am unsure," Optimus sighed through his abdominal vents, dispersing a wave of heat into the air. "However, I do not believe it is in Megatron's nature to keep Starscream past his usefulness. If Starscream is indeed ill, he surely realizes this."

"You think he's already split from the 'cons." Fowler's tone indicated that he already knew the Prime's answer. He didn't wait for the other to respond before continuing. "I'll let my superiors know. Might quell some of their fears. They're scared the cons are allying themselves with other countries, specifically the middle east. We've detected at least two more groups in the area."

Optimus hummed, returning to his seat with heavy steps. "I doubt that Megatron has allied himself with any human government. He believes your race is far below our own."

"His loss," Fowler grumbled, irked by the idea even if he was immensely relieved by the Prime's opinion.

"Understand, Agent Fowler," Optimus rumbled, optics narrowed. "If another power attacks the United States under Decepticon influence we will defend against any cybertronian, or cybertronian weaponry, but we will not turn our weapons on any humans, despite their allegiance.

Fowler chuckled, easily dispersing the serious atmosphere Prime set. "You made that very clear to us three years ago. General Hallen has no interest in crossing you on that again."

"I have a great deal of patience, Agent Fowler," Optimus rumbled with a smile. "However, I believe you understand when I say that I have little tolerance for your government or military."

Fowler smiled back, nodding sagely. "Probably picked the wrong career then, huh? Is Ratchet done with PT for the moment? Or can we pull him in to talk?"

Optimus rubbed at his finial, scratching behind the audio receptor. "He's currently repairing the ground-bridge. Though his mood seems somewhat low today. From what I gathered therapy did not go as well as planned."

Fowler hummed. "So not the best idea to get an opinion from him right now?"

"Ratchet is a professional and will behave as such," Optimus reminded, activating his comm to ping the medic. While the reply was not immediate, Ratchet indicated that he would be there shortly. Months ago, Fowler would have been annoyed at the Prime's silence and distant look, he now understood this as a sign that one of the bots was radioing another and patiently waited.

Eventually the Prime glanced back down to his human company and Fowler assumed he'd finished his conversation. "Quick question, Prime. If the Decepticon command structure were to collapse, all head officers either taken out or defected from the cause as Starscream seems to be, where would trooper loyalties lie?"

Optimus considered for a moment. "Most likely with the highest ranking officer remaining. It's possible that they would form their own faction of sorts. Megatron may deny it, but his troops are more than just drones. Based on Intel from when he first began creating eradicons, we believe they possess a social and command structure within their own ranks. They may fall back on that."

The special agent sighed heavily, weighing his thoughts. "How hostile towards your troops and humans do you think they'd be on their own?"

There was a knock on the office door, which slid open to admit the Autobot medic. "One moment, Ratchet," Optimus nodded towards his eldest friend. The medic silently parked his wheelchair against the wall next to Optimus' desk. "From our prior experiences with eradicons separate from any specific orders against humans, they are not inclined to harm your race, though I suspect there will be a good deal of animosity towards our faction. Whether that will translate into violence has yet to be seen."

"They aren't naturally violent," Ratchet spoke up. "When I was prisoner to the Decepticons, until ordered otherwise, the vehicons were fairly polite. The eradicons somewhat less so but I suspect that's mostly due to flier superiority rather than anything else." Optimus' frown deepened as Ratchet spoke, not because of the content of his words but instead the tone with which he said them. It was evident he was agitated, his speech clipped and acerbic. Underneath that, hidden as best as Ratchet could manage, the medic was subdued, far withdrawn behind his barriers. While he had been opening up a great deal as he recovered, Optimus feared even a minor event could send the medic spiraling back into depression. Though no longer ill, Ratchet was not healed. He was wheelchair bound, seizure prone and still extremely weak.

"So we have a chance of swaying them to our side?" Fowler asked, breaking Prime from his thoughts.

"Not while Megatron still stands," Ratchet shook his helm. "They may not respect him as much as he believes but he does frighten them. They won't betray him so easily. Of all the officers, though, they seem to respect Breakdown the most." Ratchet adjusted the quilt on his lap as he spoke. His foot twitched with some spacticity.

Optimus hummed in agreement. "We have some chance swaying Breakdown to neutrality if not allying himself with us. Though only as long as Knock Out agrees as well."

"They seem fairly close, yes," Fowler agreed absently. Ratchet and Optimus glanced at each other but silently agreed not to comment on the nature of the two's relationship. Fowler waved the topic off, "How about we take a look at those photos? We can work out logistics around the 'cons once we have more information."

Optimus agreed, queuing up the photo on his monitor for Ratchet to see. "I noticed some graying on Starscream's wings this morning and was wondering your medical opinion."

Ratchet stared at the photo with a distant look, optics unfocused. After a moment of silence Optimus called his name, fearing the medic had entered an absent seizure.

Ratchet's gaze focused immediately, belaying any fears. "I'm hesitant to breach doctor-patient confidentiality but yes, he's ill."

"You examined him?" Optimus asked, somewhat peeved that he'd not been informed earlier.

"He came into the medibay while I was aboard the Nemesis. I was not allowed to treat him, however," the medic explained. Optimus nodded his understanding. Ratchet continued with a tightly drawn expression. "There's no gentle way to put this, and I expect it to not leave this room. Starscream has a good deal of spark contamination, both through penetrative interface and spark rape."

Optimus was silent, chin resting heavily in his hands. Instead it was Fowler who spoke up. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

Ratchet vented, having hoped to never have to explain this aspect of their society to the humans. "We have the ability to be intimate with one and other, and thus that intimacy can be forced."

"And a rape can cause illness?" Fowler looked equally confused and distraught.

"The spark is a delicate thing, Agent Fowler, there's a reason it's so heavily protected." Ratchet silently shared in the others horror at what had happened to the Decepticon seeker. "During a spark merge, both participants must consent to a sharing of energies and, as a result, memories, thoughts, and feelings. If one party does not consent to a merge and attempts to resist, their sparks can be damaged. One merge won't do much, as the tear can heal. But if multiple forced merges occur in close proximity the injures compound upon themselves and can eventually snuff a spark." Ratchet waited patiently while Fowler absorbed the information. As of yet, none of the Autobots had revealed to the humans that they could and did participate in any form of intimacy. Luckily, Fowler seemed more focused on the concept of spark rape than the other form of physical intimacy Ratchet had mentioned.

Finally Fowler spoke. "This damage is killing him, then. How long does he have?"

"From what I saw, at least twenty more years. I would only give him ten before he loses flight. And his frame type has been prone to commit suicide once they lack the ability to fly. Another year and the damage won't be reversible, however," The medic explained.

"You still believe it reversible?" Optimus asked, sounding distressed.

Ratchet sighed. "For a while? If the contamination is removed now his spark is not likely to continue shrinking. His wings are graying because his spark is losing the ability to power his frame around the tears in it. It's fixable now, but if they grow or, I hate to say it, but if he's raped again, the damaged area will be too much of his spark to remove."

Optimus hung his helm, optics dimming. "I fear for how far Megatron's sanity has fallen if he believes this an acceptable act, whether he is the one committing it, or allowing it to continue."

Ratchet placed a hand over Optimus' arm, though he had to lean forward precariously to do so. "I don't think he believes it's okay. He simply doesn't care."

The Prime nodded. "Fowler, please alert me once you find Starscream's location. I wish to contact him."

"Of course, Prime. Just be careful, we both know how Starscream can be." He swung down onto the ladder hooked to Optimus' desk. "I'll talk to the higher-ups and get back to you. Keep in touch."

"Of course, Agent Fowler," Optimus intoned. "Thank you for keeping us up to date." The Prime waited quietly while Fowler left. The motor to Ratchet's wheelchair whirred to life but Optimus stopped him. "Ratchet, a moment please." The medic turned to the Prime's desk, leaning back in his chair in a more relaxed manner. Optimus pulled a cube of sweetened mid-grade energon from his desk and poured it into two smaller drinking glasses. Ratchet accepted the drink gratefully, knowing Optimus saved such treats for only informal and friendly conversations.

"I promised we would speak further," Optimus said after a small sip of his drink. "Have you gotten the results of your scan yet?"

Ratchet nodded, burying his expression in his glass. "My back's not healing," he breathed, never looking up from his energon. "My self-repair center isn't recognizing the damage."

Optimus wanted to reach out a comforting hand but resisted. "Why did it heal in the first place?"

"I'm not positive." Ratchet sounded as defeated as he felt. "It's possible that a few repair nanites in the CR chamber escaped reprogramming. It healed just enough to allow for minor movements, and some spasms, but nothing strong or as fine as needed for walking." The medic swallowed air, optics distant. "I won't walk. Unless we have the materials for a full surgery or a few months of CR time, I won't heal."

"The injury is that severe?" Optimus asked.

Ratchet placed his glass on the desk, staring at the glowing liquid within. "It's not a matter of severity. My self-repair isn't recognizing the damage. If I were to enter the CR chamber it would be of little use unless we let my back heal completely." Ratchet sighed, frustrated. "This is fairly common with these types of injury, and with processor damage."

Optimus hummed, optics soft and concerned. "And you? How are you handling this?"

Ratchet's frown deepened. "I'm... frustrated. Disappointed, I suppose." He ran a hand over his face. "Optimus, I wanted so badly to walk again."

"I am sorry, Old Friend." This time Optimus placed a hand on his eldest companion's shoulder. Ratchet leaned into the touch, taking comfort from it. The Prime moved about the desk to kneel in front of his medic. "If there is anything I can do to help, please do not hesitate to ask."

Ratchet nodded, but remained otherwise still. Optimus watched silently, allowing the stillness to stretch on.

The sensation of going from soundly in recharge to wide awake was never pleasant. It usually left Ratchet unsettled and twitchy for the rest of the day. And now, with a lack of abdominal strength the attempt to sit upright sent the medic slamming back into the berth. Ratchet ignored the aching in the base of his helm in favor of dragging his wheelchair closer. He missed the bar above his berth twice before his shaking hands finally managed a secure grip. He grunted with the speed he pulled himself up and swung into his chair. The lock on the front wheels squealed as it attempted to slide away from him. Ratchet had to catch himself on the edge of the berth and readjust before he could exit his quarters. A door slid open behind him as the medic sped down the halls but he payed it little mind.

The main room was dark except for the eery green glow of the monitors spilling out onto a half asleep Bulkhead. He turned at the whir of the medic's wheelchair. Ratchet ignored his tentative "good morning", instead allowing the medibay doors to slam shut behind him. The ex-wrecker's look of confusion only deepened as Arcee trotted into the main bay after Ratchet.

She paused, staring at Bulkhead with wide optics. "Ratch go into the medibay?"

Bulkhead nodded. "What's going on?" He asked, brow furrowing in concern.

Arcee shrugged. "No idea. He woke me up cursing. Seemed pretty intent on something."

Bulkhead pressed a few buttons on the computer keyboard, setting it to sound an alarm in the case of any significant changes and stood. "Should probably go see what he's worked up about." Arcee followed him silently into the medibay.

Ratchet was rummaging about in a cabinet, the floor around him obscured by discarded supplies. Arcee stepped carefully about a set of scattered wrenches to kneel next to the medic. Ratchet payed her little mind, mumbling to himself while he sifted through a box of multi-colored cables. He pulled out a long blue one and dangled it over Arcee's lap. "Hold this." A red cable was tossed to the side and another several landed in Arcee's hands before Ratchet pulled away. His wheelchair clanged heavily as it ran over discarded tools.

Arcee jogged behind him back to his desk. She placed her bundle of cables off to the side. Ratchet heaved the small engine on his lap onto his desk. He flipped the switch on the side but the machine only gave a sputtering cough before falling silent. Ratchet cursed, slapping a fist against the side of the engine.

"Bulkhead," He snapped, now pulling the engine's fuel tank open. "Hand me a jar of energon. Top shelf."

The green mech glanced nervously to Arcee before doing as asked. He rummaged about in the cabinet for a moment, coming up empty. "There's only synthetic energon in here, Ratch."

"Well hand it over." Bulkhead hesitated a moment too long and Ratchet twisted about in his chair. "I'm not going to drink it! It works just fine on non-sentient machinery." The vial was placed gently in his hand.

With a fresh does of energon, the engine sputtered to life. Ratchet proceeded to rip off a panel that jutted from the side.

Arcee startled, grabbing his hand and pulling it away from the now exposed circuitry. "What on Cybertron are you doing?" She snapped. Ratchet wrenched his hands from her hold, glaring.

"Never grab me when I'm working near a power source," Ratchet snarled in return. With a shake of his helm and a calming ventilation he returned to the still active motor. A switch on the side shut the machine down, leaving the once buzzing medibay in an uncomfortable silence. Ratchet reached for the bundle of cables Arcee had placed on the work bench, selecting a blue wire. With a quick snip of the existing cables inside the motor, the medic had the battery pack removed and the blue wire woven neatly in it's place. Several more cables followed before he finally stopped, took in a deep bout of air and turned to face his companions.

"It might be possible," he explained, "to wire a sensor into the base of my spinal column that detects electrical activity and redirects it around the break." He held up the bundle of cables in his hands as if to emphasis his point. "It all depends on whether or not my nervous system will accept a foreign charge. Normally a new sensor grid would be wired to subvert the break, but we don't have the supplies for that or any other medic to preform the procedure. An external charge might work, but I'm not positive."

Bulkhead stepped forward from his place across the room. "And you're attempting to test that using an old motor filled with Synth-En?"

Ratchet rolled his optics. "I told you already, synthetic energon works perfectly fine on non-sentient machinery. Only thing the slag is good for actually." With a short nod and dismissive wave Ratchet handed a clamp to Arcee. "Attach that above the L5 strut. It's magnetic."

The femme hesitated, looking confused. Bulkhead stepped forward and took the cords from her. "L5 is just below your subspace clasps, right?"

Ratchet glanced over his shoulder, smiling. "Yes, very good."

Arcee watched, curious. "How'd you know that, Bulk?"

The wrecker shrugged. "Ratchet showed me during PT last week."

"And you remembered it?" Arcee didn't intended to be condescending, but Bulkhead had never been known for his intelligence.

Bulkhead shrugged, looking nervous. Ratchet answered in his steed. "Turns out he just needs hands on learning instead of texts. I had a few students like that back in the academy." He paused, fiddling with the motor on the desk. "Will one of you hold my shoulders? I'm only going to send a small charge but seeing as this is connected to my nervous system as a whole, it's going to tense every cable below the break, not just one."

Arcee came around Ratchet's side while Bulkhead took hold of his shoulders. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Not necessarily." Without any further warning Ratchet turned the motor on and tapped the two ends of cable in his hands together, one leading to the motor and the other to his back, completing the circuit. His lower half tensed, pede's curling inward and legs straitening halfway. His knees turned at an odd angle, knocking against each other. With a gasp of static the medic jerked the cords apart.

"Little much," he panted. "Works though."

"You know," Arcee leaned against the desk, arms crossed over her chassis. "I used to think you were smart."

Ratchet leveled her with an exasperated glare. "It was a test, nothing more. One that worked. If this is a viable solution, I'll use my own power supply to run it."

"Wait, wait, wait," Bulkhead threw a hand up, palm flat. "I thought we were testing to see if a charge from an outside power source would work?"

Ratchet shook his helm. "No, no. We're testing to see if an externally applied charge would work. It doesn't matter where the charge comes from." He held out a cable towards the wrecker expectantly. "Now help me get some more nodes placed."

By five in the morning, just as the sun had begun to crest over the horizon, Optimus stumbled out of berth and into his office. He pulled a cube of energon from his personal stash, gave the pile of datapads on his desk a long look and decided his time was better spent away from paper work for the moment. At least until he'd woken up some.

Cube in hand, he made his way to the main room of the silo. A flair of agitation crept into the Prime's normally calm EM field upon finding the main monitors unmanned. The computer beeped an unanswered notification. He ran a quick scan of the data over the last hour, praying no Decepticons had slipped passed their radar while Bulkhead had been absent. He'd have to speak to the wrecker about leaving his post. Auto-alert only went so far.

Assured that no human base had been raided in his absence, Optimus flicked over to the notification flashing at the top of the screen. It was a distress signal, labeled as neutral, to his surprise. The Prime skimmed the signal, hoping to find a location attached to the beacon. Instead he found that it was heavily encrypted. Optimus raised a brow. Why send an encrypted distress signal knowing it would take the receiver time to decode the message in order to provide aid?

With a sigh, the Prime began the task of fishing the signal's origin from the transmission. A few lines into scanning the text, however, he froze, recognizing the pattern the symbols had taken.

Medic's crypt. An old form of encryption.

Long before civil war had even been a thought in the minds of miners, the class system had run strong. Nobles competed for the senate's favor, investing innumerable funds and time into improving their reputation while discrediting their friends and neighbors.

An off world trip and improper decontamination resulted in an almost invisible infection in the Polyhexian middle class that hindered low-grade energon consumption. As the noble class only drank more refined fuel, this was not a serious concern for anyone with enough credits to fund research into a cure. For the lower classes it was more problematic and spread through the workers quickly.

This alone would not have been enough reason for a revolution of the medical system, however the illness was only spread through penetrative interfacing. When a noble contracted the virus they were labeled as one who slept beneath their class and thus shamed before his peers, even if he'd contracted the illness through a fellow noble.

Black market operations began to hack medical archives, which were not heavily encoded, in the hopes of gaining leverage over their wealthier clients. Fellow nobles often hired hackers to gather the information to smear their competitor's reputations. Medic's Crypt was put into use to protect patient confidentiality. While it was possible for a non-medic to decrypt the information, it was time consuming and over complex. Most medics carried keys that would give them access to the majority of the information but a CMO's key was needed to see every aspect of the file. Luckily, Ratchet had been one of the highest ranked medics on the planet even after he'd dropped out of politics. He most likely had the most current decryption key.

Prime locked down the computer and went to fetch his medic. The medibay doors slip open silently, revealing Bulkhead crouched behind Ratchet, attaching a set of electrodes to his lower back. The medic was weaving wires into a distributor panel with Arcee's help to steady his hands. Optimus cleared his throat. "Ratchet."

The medic's head snapped up, shoulder's twisting to look back at his commander. He grinned broadly. "Come look at this, Optimus." The Prime began to protest but Ratchet cut him off. "Real quick. It'll only take a moment."

Optimus sighed, shaking his helm but strode over none the less. Ratchet motioned for him to sit on one of the mediberths. The Prime looked curiously over the wires tangled about the medic's frame. Wires ran from a switch board on the desk to snake beneath Ratchet's armor on his legs and lower back. A set of cables even extended down to his pedes. Simple scotch tape held wires against his frame, while electrical tape pressed the exposed circuitry to his protoform.

With a wide grin Ratchet flipped a switch. His left leg lifted from the foot rest of his wheelchair. His lower leg still hung limply, until the medic hit another switch. His leg snapped out, catching Bulkhead in the thigh. Ratchet mumbled an apology, turning the circuits off.

Optimus returned Ratchet's smile, hesitantly. "I'm sorry, Ratchet, but I'm still unsure what you're doing."

Ratchet waved his confusion off. "This is only the first step. I'll have to build a support structure to hold all the wiring. And the sensor grid will take a while. Might have to bargain with the humans for some more micro-circuits." Optimus' confused expression only deepened. Ratchet's smile broadened in return, his optics scrunching up. "My back might not be healing, Optimus, but I'll walk again."

The Prime shuttered his optics, fighting to hide a sigh of relief behind a genuine smile. "I'm happy for you, Old Friend." He placed a hand on the other's shoulder. "Do not mistake my changing the subject for apathy over this development, but I require your help in the main room."

Ratchet switched off the switch board on the desk before turning off the generator he'd been using. It powered down with a rattling sigh. "Can't do much more with this right now anyway." He pulled wires up, careful to pull the tape up with them. "Do you remember if we had any leg braces on the Ark? I know I had at least one. I'll have to see if we had more. Or if they even survived." Optimus smiled softly, listening to Ratchet's excited rambling. The medic caught the look and frowned. "Come help me out of this if you want my help so badly."

Arcee patted Ratchet on the shoulder before she and Bulkhead took their leave to pick up the children for school. Optimus rose to help his companion out of the tangle of wires he'd gotten himself into. The Prime's flat fingers proved useful in picking the scotch tape off Ratchet's plating where the medic's round one's could not.

"What do you need my help for anyway, Prime?" Ratchet asked, halfway through bundling up a set of cables.

"We received a transmission, "Optimus explained, placing the last cable on the desk. "It's in medic's crypt."

Ratchet hummed. "Hopefully I have the key they used. Any idea who it's from?" He followed Optimus out of the medibay, nodding to Bumblebee as the scout went to retrieve his morning ration.

"No, that was encrypted as well." The Prime entered his personal override to unlock the terminal. Ratchet hummed, studying the code before uncoiling a data cable from his wrist and plugging into the computer.

His brow furrowed. "Fragging human computers. This will take a moment." Prime nodded, waiting patiently.

"So you do have the key?" Optimus asked, a hand on the handle of Ratchet's wheelchair.

"It's old and fairly low level, but yes." Ratchet pulled his cable from the computer. "Should be accessible now. I didn't read any of it yet."

Optimus stepped forward when Ratchet made room for him. The message opened upon command. It became immediately obvious that the distress signal had been sent only on Autobot frequencies. The document contained only a short message, asking for intimidate medical aid and sanctuary. A comm code was attached, one belonging to Knock Out.

"I suppose we should comm. him, then," Ratchet mumbled, concern over the plea for medical aid hidden behind a thin veil of apathy.

"Remember that we agreed to provide Knock Out and Breakdown with asylum in exchange for the Synth-En research and your medication," The Prime rumbled, opening a communication link. Ratchet nodded in acknowledgment.

"That's almost what worries me." The medic rolled lightly back and forth in his chair. "If he's calling us then something big's happened. And with Starscream splitting from the 'Cons..." He shook his helm. "This could be very good for us, or very bad."

Optimus smiled down at his friend. "We'll have to hope for the best." The computer beeped its success in opening a communication line. Both Autobot's turned their attention to the screen. The camera didn't capture low enough to get more than the tip of Ratchet antenna in the frame. He minded little.

The image that came through from the other end showed a battered and scuffed Knock Out, framed by dim cavern walls. His headlights and optics provided the only source of light in the cave, casting his normally pristine features in eery shadows. He seemed almost shocked to see Optimus at the other end of the comm..

"Oh, thank Primus," he breathed, frame visibly relaxing. His left optic was dimmer than the right and a large scratch stretched from his right eyebrow to the base of his left optic. Even through the comm. it was obvious the lens was cracked. "I need help, quickly. I've stopped most of the energon loss but there's a crack in his spark chamber and-"

Optimus held up a hand, speaking over the distraught race car to get his attention. "Slow down, Knock Out."

"You promised to help us!" The 'Con medic lurched forward, an angry set to his thin lips. "That was the deal."

Optimus nodded placatingly. "We will do everything in our power to help you, Knock Out. But you need to calmly explain what happened. I will not send my troops into a potentially dangerous situation we know nothing of."

Knock Out took a deep vent, visibly forcing himself to calm. "Megatron's gone mad. He attacked Breakdown, I don't know why." The sports car curled in on himself a touch further. "I stopped what bleeding I could find but his spark containment is failing. I don't know what medical training any of you have. I just need supplies. A life support system, or a CR Chamber if you have one. I know it's not much but I was Megatron's best medic. I can do the same for your troops." Ratchet chose to remain silent and out of the camera's range for the time being. The Decepticon was obviously working under the assumption that he'd succumb to the glitch.

Optimus cut the mech off with a nod. "Do you believe Megatron will return for you?"

Knock Out shook his helm in small, rapid motions. "No. He's refused to leave the ship for three weeks. He's not going to change that now."

The Prime nodded. "I'm sending Bulkhead and Bumblebee to retrieve you and your partner." He tapped at the keyboard, entering the coordinates into the ground bridge while he commed the two soldiers.

Ratchet rolled backwards into the camera's view while his leader worked. Knock Out's optics widened in disbelief when the Autobot medic spoke. "Why won't Megatron leave the ship? He was never particularly sane to begin with but it sounds like he's snapped."

"You're alive," Knock Out breathed. Optics darting to the side and brow furrowing as if he were recalculating his place in the exchange. After a moment he shook himself, rattling the thoughts free. "No, no it's... it's not just madness, it's..." He paused, rearranging his thoughts. Optics blank and mouth at a hard set, he breathed deeply. "Soundwave is dying."

End

While this story is over, the series is not. The tale will be continued in Linchpin.

Thank you everyone that has stuck with me and with this story for the last three years. And a huge thanks to anyone who has commented; you've kept me writing.