Thanks to everyone who followed this story over from the old location! This was originally posted in the movie Transformers section before I realized that it would be better placed over here. And thanks for all the reviews and favs! Things were getting a little too dark for me so I tried to make this chapter a little lighter while still getting out what needed to get out. Enjoy!
At first, there was certain sort of comfort in routine. On a normal day, Ratchet would wake up in the barracks with the other mechs who shared his shift, drink his morning ration and then hurry to the medbay for his double shift. For the most part, the days were peaceful at HQ. Battles rarely got close enough for injured to be brought in to the bay, and on those rare occasions where mechs were flown in from the field, Ratchet was pushed aside to let one of the more experienced medics handle it. Unless they were overwhelmed, Ratchet was usually assigned to grunt work; software updated, maintenance checkups, inventory, all things that no one wanted to do, but still needed to be done.
Ratchet didn't really mind as the alternative was periodically being sent to the battlefield like the rest of the medical staff was. Even Spec would disappear for days at a time to the battles raging at the edges of Kaon and now Praxus, only to return exhausted and streaked with grime and dried fluids. After their long talk half a deca cycle ago, he and the older medic had come to a certain, unspoken understanding about what Ratchet would and would not do concerning the Decepticon forces. Being killed on the field for a cause he didn't believe in was not something he would do and Spec seemed to respect that.
"I know what it's like to be forced into something you don't want," he'd murmured to Ratchet when the young medic had dared to speak his fears. Spec said that as long as he did his job well and without complaint and kept his head down, he would stay off of the field.
Spec wasn't CMO or even a high ranking mech inside of the medical staff, and Ratchet knew he had to pull some strings to keep Ratchet in the bay. He tried to thank the mech but Spec just waved it off. "I told the CMO you're worthless under stress," Spec had said with a wry grin. "Said you'd probably do more damage than help—hey don't give me that look! Better to let them think you're incompetent than have you sent out there."
Even though he hated to admit it, the damage to his reputation was worth being kept off of the field. Besides, he was beginning to find that he actually liked the busy work around the medbay. Little things like software updates and maintenance checks were, in a strange way, kind of fun. He actually got to relax a bit and talk to the mechs that came through. It made everything feel a little less lonely when he was listening to another tell their story. Not all the mechs that came through were social, and some where even downright mean, but Ratchet gave each one of them the attention they deserved before sending them on their way.
It was a routine, cyclical and Ratchet fell into the pattern of it easily, but soon, the repetition started to wear on him. He didn't know if it was because he was the new guy, or if it was because he wasn't technically affiliated with the Decepticons, but either way, Ratchet hadn't gotten a day off in the three deca-cycles he'd been at HQ. Waking up every day to more drudge work without an end in sight was taking its toll on the young bot. The routine of his day slowly turned from comfortable to sour and he wondered if the monotony or the pace would kill him first.
But then, on his list of bots waiting for maintenance, a mech named Meister popped up. The mech was long overdue for a maintenance check and no one on the medical staff had managed to cajole, order or otherwise bully him into the medbay for a scan. The mech seemed to think it was a game. Unfortunately, no one but him was willing to play anymore.
Spec chuckled as he read the datapad over his shoulder. "Ooh don't even bother with that one," he said. "He's been at HQ for the past vorn and still has yet to step foot in this medbay."
Ratchet raised an optic ridge—that was a long time to go without maintenance. Most mechs would be fritzing bad by now. "What's his deal?" he wondered.
"Special Ops," Spec said with a snort. "Mechs are fragging paranoid but at least this guy has a sense of humor about it. He kinda turns it into a game for himself—how long he can dodge a medic before they give up. CMO's even put a bounty of sorts out for him. Anyone who manages to bring him in for maintenance gets three days of leave."
Ratchet whistled. The medical staff was small and for anyone to get a day off was a rare treat. Two days off was practically unheard of. Three days of leave was unheard of. "Primus. Do all Spec Ops mechs give you guys such a hard time?" he wondered.
Spec chuckled. "Sometimes. They carry a lot of classified info. Don't like anyone rooting around in their systems if they can help it," he said. "Usually we just wait until they come in injured before we give 'em the updates. Meister though… I don't think the mech's gotten any worse than a scratch since he's been here."
"He must be good," Ratchet said even as he brought out a datapad, accessing the profile info on everyone in base with a few quick taps of his stylus.
"He's slagging good," Spec said. "Rumor says he's provided some important Autobot intel. He's moved up the ranks quickly—they have him reporting directly to Soundwave now."
Ratchet whistled again as he pulled up the mech's profile, taking a look at the logged picture. He was an unassuming, common build—no way to determine a city of origin, though only native Praxians had any obvious distinguishing features if you didn't look at building materials. He had a simple black and white paint scheme with a red visor that obscured the top half of his face and he was one of the few mechs that was smiling in his ID picture. He didn't look that tough. "I'll get him in here," he said.
Spec laughed and shook his head. "We've all tried Ratchet. Not a one of us has managed to do it," he said. "Meister takes his games seriously and he always wins."
Ratchet flashed a grin. "Yeah, but you don't realize how badly I want those three days off," he said. "I'm the grunt, remember? I don't get days off otherwise."
Spec snorted, realizing that he was serious. "Keep it to your off hours," he said. "And don't say I didn't warn ya."
The hunt was over before it even began. After his shift ended, Ratchet had planned on getting his rations and head to the barrack that the mech was supposedly sleeping in, but he only got as far as his evening cube before he found him. Or rather the Meister found Ratchet. Ratchet hadn't even been paying attention until the black and white mech walked straight up to him as he was grabbing his energon from the dispenser, plucked the cube out of his hand and took a deep sip.
"Heard you were lookin' for me," Meister said, flashing a bright grin as he twirled the half empty cube in his fingers. Through his shock, Ratchet had the vague thought that the picture on his file failed to reflect the arrogance in the slag-eating grin the mech wore. Ratchet opened his mouth to retort but the black and white mech cut him off, making his glossa seem to shrivel up. "Naaw, don't even bother asking how I know. If ya have to ask, ya don't deserve ta know and if ya don't deserve ta know, why would I bother t' tell ya? Now, let me give ya the head's up, Ratchet," Meister said as he flung an arm around Ratchet's shoulder, steering the shocked mech to an empty table in the corner as he pressed the cube back into his hands. He sat him down with a gentle push but stayed standing, leaning heavily against the table. From this angle, the mech towered over Ratchet who slid back on the bench a little, holding his remaining energon close. "I ain't going to medical. I've told those medibot friends of yours I'm just fine handlin' myself and I don't want then hurlin' the newbie after me in hopes I'll take pity on your poor spark, ya dig? Might as well just tell them ta give up and send ya back ta cleaning tailpipes," he said with a grin that could charm rust off of metal.
Ratchet gaped up at the mech, trying to think of something to say and failing miserably. Was off-balancing people a talent of Spec Ops mechs? Ratchet wasn't sure—this was the first time he'd ever met one. Meister chuckled and shook his head, seeming to interpret Ratchet's silence as something to laugh about. He tapped the mech's cheek in a gentle pat. "I'm glad we had this talk," he said. He made to straighten up and stop looming over Ratchet but something seemed to catch his optic. He leaned in close and gently reached for Ratchet's collar, tugging at the little strip of metal with his fingers. Ratchet tensed nervously as Meister traced the roughly painted Decepticon sigil on the band with his thumb and frowned. "What is this?" he asked.
Ratchet shook the mech off with a glare, his shock finally dissipating and leaving his glossa right where it was supposed to be. "If you have to ask, you don't deserve to know," he retorted and Ratchet saw the slight brightening of the mech's optics behind his red visor as a smirk quirked the corner of his lips. There was something dangerous in that smile and Ratchet suddenly wondered if he had just made a terrible mistake.
Meister straightened up and scratched behind one of the sensory horns on his helm as he looked down at the medic. Ratchet dared to lean forward and grabbed his cube, finishing off what was left of his rations though he didn't take his optics off of Meister. He was trying his best not to look intimidated by the crazy mech even if every ounce of his common sense said three days off was not worth it.
"I think I like you," Meister said at last, tilting his head to the side as though he was examining a very interesting animal. "You're not like the others—you might actually have a chance at this game." Ratchet raised an optic ridge and tried to keep his face impassive even as the visor covered optics seemed to read him like a datapad. The mech didn't sound sarcastic… in fact, he almost sounded intrigued. "What's the bounty the good Doc's put on my head now?"
Ratchet gave a tentative grin, which Meister actually returned. Ratchet dared to relax a little. "Three days of leave," he said.
Meister barked a laugh. "Slag, I'm worth that much to him? I'm flattered," he said.
"Flattered enough to come with me to the medbay?" Ratchet asked, but the smirk on the mech's face was all the answer he needed.
Meister patted Ratchet's cheek like a creator indulging his sparkling. "Not a chance." He flashed another one of those perfect grins before straightening up, giving Ratchet his personal space back. "The game's on m' mech. It's my move."
Three days later, Ratchet was regretting every assumption he'd made about the Spec Ops mech. He was not charming, he was not crazy and he was not harmless. He was the spawn of Unicron and no one could convince Ratchet otherwise.
"I warned ya," Spec said cheerfully and clapped Ratchet on the shoulder as the young mech stared, dumbstruck at the fruits of Meister's latest labor. At first, it had been small things. His ID missing, his daily rations mysteriously gone before he'd even gotten his morning cube—annoying, but not unbearable. But this… this was Meister taking his game to a whole new level.
Ratchet ran a hand over his face, pinching his cheek to see if he was actually awake or not, because this had to be some sort of bizarre nightmare. His work station and all of the contents within—the one area of this Primus forsaken base that was specifically given to him had somehow, miraculously even, been magnetized to the ceiling. Even as Ratchet stared up at it, he saw that everything from his cup of styluses to his sanitized laser scalpels were perfectly in their place, minus the fact that they were currently stuck to his desk that hung a good 40 feet off of the ground. Ratchet was a decently tall mech at 24 feet, but there was no way he could reach his work station, even if he could figure out how the slag to get it unstuck.
"How did he even do this?" Ratchet asked, spotting his ID card stuck perfectly on the corner of his work station. That was certainly not something he'd left behind overnight. The thought of Meister somehow managing to sneak into his barrack while he was sleeping and steal his fragging ID out of subspace made the seams in his armor close reflexively. Not to mention, he'd be without his rations until he got the card back. Another day going hungry for him, it seemed.
Spec looked cheerier than Ratchet had ever seen him before. In fact, he looked downright jolly. "Well, look on the bright side Ratch—you got him into the medbay," he said jovially and another one of the medics choked on his laugh.
Ratchet glared balefully around the medbay, seeing that the majority of the staff was trying their best not to laugh. The rest of the medical staff must enjoy Meister's games as well, at least when it wasn't them on the receiving end of his pranks.
"Spec, I need you to do something for me," Ratchet said. This needed to end—he had work to be done, but all of his inventory sheets were in the drawer of his desk.
Spec chuckled. "Oh no, you're not dragging me into this," he said. "I had my run with Meister. I'm not waking up with wings bolted to my berth again."
Ratchet growled in frustration and looked around the medbay. "Anyone? Does anyone in here have the ball-bearings to help me?" Ratchet snapped and heard a snicker from somewhere at the far end of the bay. Ratchet sighed petulantly. "Fine ya droid-humping cowards," he muttered, even as his optics fell on the two guards that stood by the door. They changed out randomly, but they were all similar builds—big, bulky and packed full of weapons. "Hey you two," he called and the two guards looked up. Ratchet reached into subspace, pulling out his remaining creds. It wasn't a lot—just what he'd taken with him to the club back in Praxus, but it might do. He walked over to the guards and held up the datapad with Meister's picture grinning mockingly up at him. "I got 50 creds for each of you if you bring me this mech."