Title: A White Knight Rating: K Continuity: G1 Characters: Ratchet Disclaimer: Don't own. Prompt: 1. Setting: a waiting room
Ratchet was, perhaps, one of the most feared mechs in lower Iacon. Most of the lower class bots respected him more than anyone else. Most of the higher class bots looked down on him.
Yet everyone feared him. The former senator had an acidic glossa and a good arm, and wasn't afraid to use either. Actually, he was quite eager to use both.
Despite this, however, the waiting room for his clinic was always packed. His was a charity clinic, which was why the upper class bots looked down on him. He was a wonderful medic. One of the best. Perhaps even the best. Yet no number of credits would bribe him into becoming a noble's personal medic. Nothing had ever managed to convince him to leave those beat down, rusty, trash-filled streets. He stubbornly clung to his little clinic, surviving on donations, running it with help from volunteers.
And the people of the lower classes of Iacon loved him for it. Loved him more than the Prime. They cared for him. Everyone knew that he made no income, so they all made sure he had what he needed. None of them had much to spare, but they managed.
He repaired anyone who entered his Med Bay. Gladiators, druggies, sparklings, younglings... Mechs and femmes of every occupation and frame type.
It stood to reason his waiting room was always crowded.
He had help. There were a few regular volunteers. Wheeljack, a mech who had quit medical school and took up engineering, but still knew enough, and was a fast enough learner, to be of use.
First Aid, one member of a gestalt, who was interning in Ratchet's Med Bay in order to complete his medical certification. He had been one of many applicants, and thanked Primus every orn for being chosen.
First Aid's brothers, who were not medics, but picked up quite a bit from their brother. All of them had the inbuilt need to protect, to help. They did the little patch jobs, the heavy lifting, and the odd jobs that Ratchet, Wheeljack, and First Aid never seemed to have time to do.
Sometimes other mechs from other clinics came to volunteer as well, when they had the time. They learned quickly that Ratchet's Med Bay was not like others.
No payment was ever demanded. Ever. Quite a few medics had been kicked out on their skidplates because they had asked for a fee.
Ratchet was also the head honcho, and his word was Law. If someone defied that Law, they quickly received a wrench, or some other durable instrument or tool, to the helm.
But he was still loved. Respected. Cared for. Because he would do what no one else would. He would repair and encourage the lowest of the low. He never asked questions, save for when he suspected abuse, never turned anyone away, never demanded anything.
He was the city's healer and caretaker. Iacon's White Knight.