This is a chapter that's been sitting in my head for awhile and thank you guys for motivating me to get this far! Thanks again for reading! It's only gonna get crazier from here!

Landslide had not been happy. An understatement, actually. Landslide had been furious. As soon as Ratchet and Spec had broken the news to the grey mech, Ratchet had suddenly found himself pinned against a medical berth, hands wrapped around his neck in the second attempt by a triplechanger to choke the lights out of him. He should have been used to the treatment, or at least have expected it, but Landslide was deceptively fast for such a big mech, and had a rather in-depth knowledge of pressure points on his frame which he had targeted them with near perfect accuracy.

Rathcet had blacked out almost instantly from the well-placed choke and had woken up a couple of hours later back on the injured roster with a crushed vocalizer and quite a few crimped and damaged lines in his neck. Spec had said he was well on his way to replacing Commander Starscream for the "slagged most often" award, but Ratchet couldn't bring himself to care too much—it gave him and Perceptor a chance to talk. Though the crushed vocals Landslide had given him made it difficult to answer the numerous questions the young scientist had, Ratchet tried his best.

Before his vocals could be repaired, Perceptor had asked his questions out loud and Ratchet used a hardline connection to give his replies. He was glad for the half privacy. Between the slow diagnostic scans he ran on Ratchet to the careful deadening of his sensors, he could tell that Spec was listening to them. Ratchet had given him the same lie as he had given everyone else, saying that the loss of energon had caused the corrupted memories. Something about the hard look Spec had pinned him with made him feel like he was talking to one of his old professors, and it was… distinctly unpleasant lying to him. Especially because he knew the Con was able to see through his web of lies, at least partially, even if he couldn't figure the whole story out by himself.

And Ratchet's deceptions just seemed to ad up with every question Perceptor asked. Between half truths and whole lies, he was having trouble remembering exactly what answers he had given, and Perceptor was far too bright to overlook such slips.

"Wait, I thought you had said you didn't know what we were working on? Now you're saying that it was… some sort of weapon?" Perceptor asked. The young scientist had finally gathered the strength to get off of his med berth and he currently sat next to Ratchet's table as Spec calibrated his vocals.

"Slag it—I don't know Perce," Ratchet said, his voice nearly two octaves higher than it normally was. Spec couldn't stop a laugh at the squeaky, high-pitched voice that had erupted from the mech and Ratchet turned a glare at him even as he continued. "When I saw Wheeljack, he mentioned you and Landslide were working on some sort of project," he said, his voice slowly lowering to its normal register as Spec toggled the settings. "I guess I assumed it was a weapon because I heard Landslide works on slag like that."

Perceptor looked pensive, optics glossed over as he thought. "Maybe I should… speak to him about it?"

"NO!" Ratchet said, his voice booming so loud it crackled with static and Perceptor jumped back.

"Slag, sorry," came Spec's muttered voice as he adjusted that setting as well. He flicked Ratchet's chevron. "What the slag did I tell you about yelling? You'll blow all the hard work I've done, you glitch."

Ratchet glared at him again, but Spec just flicked his chevron again and leaned a little closer to his throat before he returned to his adjustments, optics zooming in for a better look as he adjusted the delicate settings. Ratchet turned back to Perceptor and sighed. "I don't think that's a good idea, Percy," he said. "I mean—you saw what he did to me. He's not a nice mech. I think it's better that you avoid him as much as you can."

The young mech slumped tiredly back in his chair and rubbed his face, a quiet groan escaping him. "This is just… so much to take in. I mean, according to you and Spec, the last time you saw me was the first night we were here! There's just so much I'm missing… it's incredibly frustrating." He slowly pushed himself to his feet and under two sets of wary optics, he paced in front of the berth, steps very slow and careful so he didn't aggravate his recent repairs. "What if I lost something important? There's so much information I could have learned that's just… gone now.

"From what I read of HQ records… Landslide is a genius. His public profile says he's done work with different methods of base programming, integrated weapons systems, even synthetic energon!" he said. "As… unstable as he may seem, I feel like I'm missing out on a cache of knowledge." Ratchet just barely managed to keep his mouth shut, letting Perceptor fantasize. "Spec, you're a Kaon built mech—I'd say you were a designated aerial warrior class by your build? You know what energon rationing for your caste was like. If we could find a stable synthetic energon, there would be no need for harsh rationing like that! This war could be over!"

Spec snorts and his optics narrowed as his fingers paused over their delicate tinkering. "Youngling, rationing wasn't the half of why this war started," he said. "Sure, you can listen to the Autobot Senate blather on about how energon rationing from caste to caste helps to properly oil the great machine of Cybertronian society and all that slag, but you don't realize what real damage that caste system has done." He shook his head, an almost annoyed expression on his face. "You little glitches are too young to remember, but the caste system used to be more… fluid. If you were a mech like me, yeah, an aerial warrior by build—if you were determined and you were smart, you could work out of your caste. You could become something more than what your build designated you to."

Ratchet knew he had heard this story, at least in part, but Perceptor looked fascinated. "But… why would you want to?" he asked. "I always knew I was going to be a researcher… I didn't know what type, but my programming led me towards that route."

Spec snorted. "It's simple. I didn't want to fight. You upper caste mechs don't realize that even if we're programmed towards a certain field, we don't want them! You really think a mech wants to be blown up or crushed in a mine? Sure, we have the aptitude for it, but it doesn't make us like the job any more."

"I never thought of it that way," Perceptor said, optics bright with interest as he looked at the older mech.

"Of course you haven't," Spec snapped. "You're an upper-caste mech. Your job doesn't threaten to kill you every time you get to it. You have your interests and your position in society allows you to explore them as part of your functioning! Are ya starting to see how lower caste mechs get shafted? Now it wouldn't be as much of a problem if mechs of a lower caste shows an aptitude above their level and is allowed to move up in the world, but that ain't the case! I never trained up with the military forces in Kaon, despite the fact that my entire slagging life, that was all I was ever told I could do. I wanted to help people for as long as I could remember and there was no denying I had the processor for it—I was patching injuries since before I was your age," he said and poked Perceptor in the chassis. "And for awhile it seemed like I could—I joined the Peacekeepers in Kaon. I was on the fast track to becoming an emergency medical technician. I was going to help people."

Perceptor frowned. "But… surely they saw that?" he asked. "I mean, the mechs in Kaon HQ who were assessing you. Surely they saw that you had the ability."

"That's the slag of it," Spec said. "You think they would have, but no—they didn't look at my outstanding test scores or my exemplary aptitude for it, they looked at my build and my optics and said that I would be better suited elsewhere. I learned everything I do in here from taking people apart in an interrogation room," he said and gave a short, bitter laugh. "Do you realize how unfair that is? I worked my aft off for vorns studying and preparing and when I finally found my chance, a mech of a higher caste shrugged me away and said that I would be better suited hurting people all because I was a poor, red opticked warrior caste mech who didn't seem to know his place. Classism at its absolute worst," he spat. "And even though I self-taught myself everything, I'm still one of the best slagging medics in this joint. Just imagine what I could have been if someone had given me the chance to study at an actual University like you two did?"

Rathcet couldn't help but notice how Spec's optics lingered on him for a moment, and for that split second, he saw the envy and jealousy and resentment that resided in the older mech like a virus. Spec tore his gaze away and sighed. "A lot of lost opportunities and bitter, angry souls—that's all it creates. Imagine what sort of society we could be if everyone was allowed to fulfill their potential?"

Even though Ratchet had heard parts of that particular story, Perceptor looked gob smacked. He stared at the older mech, mouth slightly agape. "I didn't realize—" he began.

"Of course you slagging didn't," Spec snapped, a hint of that anger bubbling out. "Just by looking at you two, I can tell you were made to fit one of the highest castes. It took a lot of work to create such precise and fine tuned machines as you two when I was created in the breeding factories not even knowing who my slagging creators were! Ever since you were sparked, you two have been given nothing but privilege while I've had to fight servo and pede to get where I am." The older mech gave a derisive snort, and looked at them with something close to disgust. It made Ratchet feel very small and somehow… very guilty for something he couldn't possibly control.

"Until I joined the Decepticons, I was helpless in every aspect of my own fragging life—I couldn't change my fate, I couldn't save my mate, I wasn't even able to help myself…. Oh look how the times have changed," he muttered and leaned down, making some final adjustments to Ratchet's vocals. "You're done," he declared and dropped the tools carelessly on the table beside the berth.

Both Ratchet and Perceptor watched him walk away, neither of them uttering a word. The old medic's words had cut deep- deeper than Ratchet would have thought possible. He couldn't help but imagine what his life would have been like if his and Spec's places had been switched. Would he hold such a strong resentment towards the world as the older mech did? Would he have suffered just as much?

It was a disturbing thought, and one that Ratchet wasn't sure what to do with. He couldn't change his past any more than he could change his present, but somehow, he felt guilty for the privileges he had had in his life. Even worse than that—he felt guilty for the privileges he hadn't even realized he had.

It wasn't until late the next day that Spec so much as looked at him. Ratchet had inadvertently been keeping an optic on his mentor, as though waiting for a perfect moment to say... something that would derail the tension, but that chance never came. Instead, Ratchet had watched the CMO emerge from his office, just long enough to call Spec over to him. A short conversation had followed, and Ratchet watched the two talk, though he couldn't help but notice the growing concern and defiance on Spec's face. Knockout ended the conversation quickly, and though Ratchet couldn't hear what they were saying over the noise of the bay, it seemed like it ended with an order. Spec had swallowed, stood a little straighter and gave a half-sparked salute before he looked up, optics locking with Ratchet's.

Instantly, Ratchet knew something was wrong and he stood rooted to the spot as Spec approached him. He wasn't sure why, but something about Spec's slow, defeated walk scared Ratchet more than anything else he had witnessed in Kaon, as though part of him knew what had been said. Spec put a gentle hand on Ratchet's shoulder.

"Take the Decepticon oath, Ratchet," Spec muttered.

Ratchet's energon seemed to freeze in his lines. "Why?"

The hand on his shoulder squeezed gently. "You're being sent to the front lines. You should at least die a free mech."

"Ratchet, you can't do this," Perceptor said, his voice shaking. "Please, you can't leave!"

Ratchet's head was still spinning from the news and he frantically tried to think, but Perceptor's anxiety was not helping him concentrate. "Perce, I don't have a choice," he whispered and cupped the young mech's helm. "If I refuse to go they'll put a gun in my hand and send me to the front lines anyway as another body to shield the real soldiers."

Perceptor's vocals let out a small whine of distress, even as he tried to muffle it. "Let me come with you," he said.

"Slag no," Ratchet snapped. He wanted so badly for the young mech to come with him. Even if he would be subjected to a whole different type of danger, at least he would be far away from Landslide. Even so, he knew it was an impossibility. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Perceptor's fate was now out of his hands. "You're still recovering! Even if you were running at one hundred percent, I wouldn't let you come anyway! You're not a fighter!"

"Neither are you!" the young mech shot back.

Ratchet winced at that and shook his aching head. "And I'm not going to be- I'm there to fix people, not shoot at them," he said, trying to reassure himself. "I'm going to be away from the fight."

Perceptor looked at him helplessly and Ratchet saw the terrified youngling that he really was. "What if you don't come back?" he asked in a small voice.

Ratchet swallowed and pulled the mech into a tight embrace. "As soon as Spec gives you the all clear, I want you to go down to Engineering and find Wheeljack. Maybe he can get you re-stationed down there. Take the oath if you have to, but do not let Landslide near you, understand?"

Perceptor's engine hiccuped, his embrace painfully tight. "Please let me come with you," he whispered.

Ratchet sighed and gently pried the mech off. "You know that isn't possible, Perce... as soon as you set foot off of this base, that collar will fry you. Even if you could manage to stow away, where is there to go?"

Perceptor looked around the medbay, watching a combination of medics and soldiers compiling supplies and mechpower for the latest shipment of reinforcements. He leaned in close. "Charr has a large network of natural passageways underneath it. Carrier drones used to be programmed to the tunnels for deliveries between the northern and southern territories. I-I know most of them must have been caved in by now... but maybe there's one still open. Some of them even stretch as far as Polyhex," he whispered.

Ratchet's optics widened at that and his hand tightened on Perceptor's shoulder. "If that's true, I'll go and get help," he whispered. "I promise, Perce, I'll do everything I can to get you and Wheeljack out of here."

Blue optics studied him for a long moment before Perceptor wrapped his arms around him, holding him like a brother. "Please be careful," he whispered.

Ratchet returned the embrace, not wanting to let go. "I'll be fine," he promised, trying to ignore how his voice shook as he said it.

"Ratchet, it's time," Spec said, calling over to him through the noise of the busy medbay.

Perceptor held onto him for a moment longer before finally letting go. Ratchet gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze before meeting Spec on the far side of the medbay. His mentor looked him over, expression neutral through his optics glowed with anxiousness. "I need to give you your insignia and stripes," he said.

"Sure you can't skip the insignia?" Ratchet asked.

Spec snorted though his lips quirked up in amusement. "I'll use cheap paint," he promised and gathered the supplies. Ratchet stood very still as Spec centered a stencil on his chassis before using an air brush to fill in the design. When he pulled the stencil away, a purple Decepticon insignia stood out starkly against the white of his paint.

Ratchet looked down at it and reminded himself again and again that it wasn't for real. He would say the oath hollowly and take the sigil, but he knew no loyalty to the cause. It was a necessary lie, and according to Perceptor... potentially what was necessary to help him obtain true freedom again.

"Hold your arms out," Spec instructed.

"No oath?" Ratchet asked, looking at the mech in surprise.

Spec snorted. "Somehow, I feel like making you recite the Decepticon oath is a waste of both of our time," he said.

Ratchet couldn't stop a small smile as he held out his arms. "Thank you, Spec," he said quietly.

The older mech didn't reply even as he changed the color of paint from purple to red. This was never how it was supposed to happen. Getting his stripes was supposed to be a special day, a sign of his accomplishments at the University. But no, not today.

"Why bother with the stripes?" Ratchet asked, his voice shaking as reality slowly started sinking in. He tried to blame it on his newly repaired vocals, but both he and Spec knew the real reason.

The older medic carefully sprayed the red crosses on his shoulders with the highest quality paint, using another carefully placed stencil so the lines were immaculately straight. "The soldiers need something familiar to look for," he said. "They're told to look for the red stripes when they get blown to pieces."

Ratchet swallowed and closed his optics as the mech moved to his other shoulder. "And you think the same with happen to me?" he asked.

Spec was quiet for a long moment. "The Autobots target the medics' tent on the front lines," he said, still keeping his voice low. "They do their best to keep it hidden and out of the way, but it can and does get hit. You're being sent to the border between Kaon and Charr and it's one of the hottest combat areas. We've lost more medics there than any other area, Ratchet. After seeing what you did with the repairs of your friend, I think the CMO's sending you there on purpose out of slagging spite for hiding your skills." The mech sighed quietly and pulled the stencil away, checking his work and wiping away a stray drop of red before it could dry. "What I'm trying to say... is I want you to be careful," he said at last.

Ratchet finally opened his optics and looked back at the other mech. "Do you really?" he asked, an edge to his voice.

Spec leaned closer, spraying another careful line down his shoulder. "Look... I'm sorry, alright?" he grumbled. "I didn't mean what I said."

"Yes you did," Ratchet said, shoving the weak apology aside. He was quiet for a long moment. "And... it's alright. I understand. I... would hate me too."

Spec scowled audibly. "I don't hate you, Ratchet," he said and he could hear the sincerity in his voice.

Ratchet gave a small laugh, relaxing just a little bit. "I don't hate you either, Spec."

The older mech's lips lifted into a small grin and carefully finished up the last line on his shoulder. He walked around to the front of him to admire his handy work. "Congratulations, Ratchet. I know this isn't how you expected to get them... but you've earned your stripes," he said and Ratchet was able to detect sincerity and many even a small amount of pride in the older mech's voice.

Ratchet gave a small, wavering smile, wishing so badly that different circumstances had brought him to this point. For a moment, he imagined the graduation ceremony he would have gone through, getting his stripes in front of the most esteemed minds on Cybertron. But no, he hadn't passed some final exam, he hadn't been assessed by his betters—no, he had instead worked inventory, patched injuries, saved lives. He had done more than just get his stripes. Somehow, during his time in the hell of Kaon, he had earned them.

He looked down at the pristine red that adorned his boxy white shoulders and lifted a finger up to trace one of the lines. "Thank you, Spec," he said quietly.

"You're welcome. Just one more thing," Spec said before going to one of the locked cabinets on the wall. He scanned his ID before pulling out a rather intimidating device from the shelves. It looked like some sort of plug for a dataport, but the middle was hollowed out. Ratchet gave him a wary look and Spec just snorted. "You'll be happy about this part, I swear," he promised before stepping behind Ratchet.

The young mech yelped as the device was closed over the dataport on the back of his helm, causing an uncomfortable pressure around the locked cable that connected him to the collar around his neck. Warnings flashed up on his HUD before there was a click and suddenly the pressure was gone. Another small click sounded and Spec gently removed the unlocked collar from around his neck.

Ratchet ran a shaking hand over his neck and gave a small laugh. "Primus... you have no idea how good that feels," he said, fingers exploring the dataport on the back of his neck in disbelief.

"I can only imagine," Spec said, amusement in his voice, even as he set the collar down. He turned the young mech to face him before pulling him into a tight embrace. "Take care of yourself out there, okay?" he asked and Ratchet felt Spec discreetly slide the unlocking device into his hand. Ratchet smoothly subspaced it and returned the embrace, closing his optics tightly.

"No matter what happens... you won't be seeing me here again," Ratchet said.

Spec nodded and held him at arms length. "I didn't expect to," he said, a sad smile tugging at his lips. It faded quickly and he squeezed his shoulders one more time before giving him a gentle shove. "Hurry up. They want you on the Beta deck in less than a breem."

Ratchet took a fortifying breath and gave a short nod before heading towards through the medbay doors for the last time.