Baby Bone Lullaby

by P.A.W.07

Soundwave decided to strike out at Optimus but Sentinel got in the way. The Con had never realized how different he was from Cybertronians and decided to experiment with the extra 'bits'. Now Sentinel never wants Optimus, anyone, to know what happened that night in the Con's clutches. It is a manner of honor and he'll try to suffer the consequences alone. Mpreg. Also on AO3.

31. The Butcher's Better

Time Scale: Nano-Klik: second ; Klik: Minute ; Groon: an hour ; Joor: day ; Orn: 13 days ; Steller Cycle: year ; Vorn: 83 years.

Chapter 31: The Butcher's Better

Ratchet would have stood there frozen for eternity, looking at those little optics. They were mirrors of Optimus' in depth and color. He might have even glitched from the surprise of it all if the youngling hadn't suddenly clung to him like a dying mech, pulling him back to reality.

"P-p-please," came young vocals, static nearly drowning out any words. "H-help my-y alma. Ppppplease."

Pulling the little mech into his chassis, unable to look at that little face a moment more without gut wrenching guilt, regret and self-loathing drowning out every medical program he owned, Ratchet turned his attention to Breakdown. The larger mech struggling to pull himself up along with all of Sentinel's dead weight. The other medic didn't even cringe as Ratchet threw a scan over the two of them, too focused on Sentinel.

The younger medic's tone was entirely too clam though … like he saw this coming.

"His spark beat is erratic and his EM field is stressed and incoherent. We need to get him into a medical berth … both of them actually."

Finally getting to his feet, Breakdown lifted the blue Minor up into his servos, his engine slightly taxed as he spoke, "Take Echo to exam room one. Check his spark. It nearly guttered out when he was born and has always been weak. He needs spark-flux donations to keep a steady spark-beat. I gave him one barely three joors ago. Nonetheless, please check his spark chamber and give the poor thing a mild sedative while I take Sentinel to exam room two. I will deal with him there."

Ratchet, clicking to the sparkling and EM field bleeding forward and entwining the little thing, watched as the blue medic marched into exam room two. The door shutting with a loud click behind him, hiding the Minor. Forcing himself to look away, Ratchet petted the back of that small helm as the sparkling wailed loudly and tried to not be insulted that the other medic had shut the door behind himself.

Pushing away the thought, Ratchet tried to step back and collect himself. He couldn't dwell on the obvious right now if he wanted to be an effective medic. He couldn't dwell on … who this little mechling's sire might be when the alma was so obvious. Instead, he needed to concentrate on the small form in a medical manner. So, reserve pulling medical programs up instead of emotional circuits, he quickly headed to the other exam room. He clicked a few more moments before finally putting the small body down onto the medical berth, EM field washing over the small form in a comforting way.

"There, there, little one. Can you try to calm down for old Ratchet?" said the medic, his words almost an admonition. "I know you are scared, but your … alma … can't take any more stress right now. Not even through the creation bond. Can you try to vent for me and be strong for him? Can you be strong for your alma?"

Little engine hiccuping, helm nodding as he tried to vent, the youngling struggled valiantly to calm himself.

Nodding, glad the little mech knew how to listen, Ratchet quickly opened some subspace cabinets. He tried not to grouse at the disarray of the place. Personally, he felt there was no order to this place and the equipment he needed was either in shambles or older than him. The EMFR looked like it was held together by magnets and Earthling duck tape. He sighed at that and hooked the somewhat calmer youngling into the medical berth. The berth, thankfully, seemed to be fully functioning if not an older model. The EMFR, though grizzly looking, seemed to be functioning just fine as well.

He would give Breakdown that. He seemed more like a medical equipment specialist than a fully trained medic with the way he was keeping things together. In fact, he seemed more the assistant type than an Unit Head caring for his own clinic. He was a mystery that Ratchet wanted to unveil … especially now that Sentinel seemed deeply intertwined somehow with the blue healer.

Watching the holo-screen over the medical berth pop up and come online, the aging medic watched it for a moment before he threw another chevron scan over the youngling that was still hiccuping but trying his darnedest to gather himself. Ratchet could already tell that the youngling was a good kid.

'Just like Optimus,' came a wayward thought that Ratchet quickly squashed. He needed to concentrate on the here and now.

Placing a hand against the youngling's back, Ratchet's sensitive hands picked up vibrations from the young engine. Good, it was calming down. Still hot, but getting the sparkling away from Sentinel was the best thing Breakdown could have done.

"Alright, very good, young-bot. You are really helping your alma by calming down. If your spark is composed it may calm your carrier down as well, okay?" said Ratchet as he ran a soothing servo down the youngling's back, trying not to look for more features that were Optimus'. Frag, the kid sure looked like his alma. He did have a few splashes of silver like kind of reminded Ratchet of Optimus, but the sparkling was all Sentinel. He even had the same earfins. He was … well … he was adorable, but thankfully he didn't have Sentinel's chin. It was still prominent, but it obviously took some coding from elsewhere.

Swallowing, telling himself he shouldn't be making deductions without supporting evidence, Ratchet turned back to the dreaded cabinets. He needed a different type of scanner … something that could make digital copies for reference. He need to make a digital copy of the sparkling's spark … in order to compare it to Optimus' spark signature. He could also make sure the young-spark was stable at the same time.

Digging through the cabinets, finding an attachment for the EMFR reader that could take digital scans for medical reports, he turned back to the small mech. He eyed him for a moment looking for any signs of a hysterical relapse. After all … his questions had to be careful right now. Just a few.

"So," said Ratchet warmly, coming forward, EMFR scanner firmly in hand as he started powering it up. "Echo is your name huh?"

The youngling nodded suddenly seeming shy as he looked away.

Frag, kid was adorable.

Smiling a little warmer, EM field projecting calm feelings and trust, he continued, "That's a good name. And, Breakdown's your usual medic?"

Floundering slightly, somehow pushing away his bashfulness, the small mech choked, "Y-yes, he's me and alma's medic. H-he and alma argue sometimes, but he always makes me better … e-especially my spark. He gives me a lot of medicines though. I don't always like those."

Nodding, nearly thanking Primus verbally when Breakdown finally sent him Echo's medical file by comm ping. Ratchet nearly wept in thankfulness … just what he needed. Not only for Echo's immediate care, but for future reference if he needed it. He was already making a copy.

Just skimming it, Ratchet couldn't help but cringe. Poor thing. How many pain killers and medications did Breakdown have him on? It looked like he just made a condensed medical cube to encompass it all. Well, the kid seemed coherent and actually was on his own feet, so the blue medic was doing something right.

Turning back to the small mech, storing away a reminder to ask Breakdown where he learned to mix medical cubes like that for it was a sought after skill by Unit Heads, Ratchet waved off the question, "Now, little mech, can you lay down and open your chassis for old Ratchet? I just want to take a peek and make sure you are alright. Okay?"

Frowning, the young mech sat there a moment before slowly nodding. Ratchet even helped him lay down an astro-klik later allowing the small mech to push at his EM field questioningly before retreating and pulling his EM back in close. Kid was intuitive and yet seemingly weary at the same time … like he hadn't been around many bots before. Not surprising … given Sentinel's rambling about someone finding out about the youngling. Just how sheltered was the poor thing?

Pressing off the thought for another time, Ratchet carefully released the locks on that blue little chassis. A small click soon filled the room as Echo usefully opened his own chassis. Ratchet tried to keep his vents from catching … as he was greeted by a golden spark. It was like the final nail in the coffin as Sumdac had once said. Where Echo looked very little like his alma, his spark was a golden copy of Optimus'.

His sire. It … had to be.

Swallowing that thought for later, Ratchet focused on the weak little thing. The spark was small, even for Echo's age, but it was fighting. It refused to give up. A fighter this little spark was.

Just like his creators it would seem.

Scanning the spark, watching the little thing's pace grow a little calmer with each passing klik, the medic couldn't help but frown. Usually, for younglings or weak sparks receiving spark-flux donations, there was a bit of color corruption. Now, it wasn't something that truly harmed the spark, but generally a spark receiving donations wasn't one consecutive color. There would be splashes of red, pink, orange, blue or any color really. It depended on the donor. Basically, whatever color of spark that was donated would stain the receiver. A parent spark, if giving a donation, was generally fully absorbed since the spark recognized it, but a donation was never fully absorbed. The color would actually burn off in time.

Echo's spark though … not one taint of color. It was a pure deep gold, with maybe just a touch of blue. Likely Sentinel's color.

Ratchet grimaced. Now, that didn't make sense. Breakdown even said that he was giving Echo spark-flux donations. It said so in the medical files as well. Why wasn't there any color corruption? Even if all the donations were from golden sparks -unlikely at best- there would at least be slightly darker splotches here and there, deeper shades of gold.

Since there weren't any stains … where were all the donations coming from? And why didn't the medical file say? There were serial numbers for those type of donations. They were tracked.

A thought hit him like a semi truck … Sentinel's continual sickness suddenly making sense. No. No. No! Sentinel wasn't donating from himself, was he? It was fine for a parent to do so, yes, but not too often. A sparkling was already feeding off of their parent's bond. Even an adult spark could only take so much stress.

Swallowing thickly, recalling Optimus' words of worry about Sentinel's health, he clicked the small chassis shut. He gave the youngling a smile that made his jaw ache with its lie. He then grabbed a small cube, a sedative finding itself quickly in the glowing liquid.

It seemed an eternity for the youngling to drink his energon and fall into recharge, spark weak but skipping calmly along. Then, once his scanners were telling him the youth was stable, Ratchet all but barged into the other exam room, nearly making Breakdown jump as he finished hooking up what was obviously a spark support machine.

"How stupid are you?!" snapped Ratchet as he stomped across the room, glaring at the blue mech on the other side of Sentinel's now offline form, the ex-Prime's chassis open and throwing pale blue light all around the room. "You will kill him taking spark donations from him! If he dies, given how weak the youngling's spark is, they both die!"

Breakdown immediately bristled, EM field lashing out slightly as he snapped back, "Do you think I don't know that?! I am not blind old mech! And don't even start lecturing me about legal spark-flux donations! Those are heavily regulated and basically put single mechs and femme on a list of obligatory bonding. Some might see that as fine and good, but Sentinel isn't some single middle class creator that can find a good match. He was Magnus … he made enemies."

The next words hit the older medic like a shot to the spark.

"You know they'll accuse him of Decepticon relations if he doesn't give up the sire. And honestly, given that he refuses to even speak of the sire, I can't say for certain it wasn't a Decepticon," said Breakdown, glare so intense Ratchet was almost tempted to look away. "And Sentinel would rather deactivate before the day he allows someone to call his little Echo a half breed."

Frowning, part of knowing that some mechs would do that to Sentinel if they for petty revenge, Ratchet shook his helm. "It doesn't change the fact that you are killing him. Frag, did you even tell him what could happen?"

Optic dimming in irritation, the blue mech went back to his tools, setting each down a little more violently than needed. "You think I didn't tell him? He bloody well knows. And before you ask, I did it regardless because I knew that if I didn't do it … he would get someone else to do it. Somebot that didn't care if he and his sparkling deactivated. I at least try to keep the donation as small as possible and I try to encourage rest and … sexual relations."

The blue medic then added in a soft grumble, "Not that he listens to the last one."

Nodding, knowing the pride of Sentinel Minor all to well, Ratchet agreed, "I don't doubt that. It still doesn't make what you have done right, kid … but lets see the damage. No point in wallowing about it."

Breakdown glared the kid comment, honestly preferring butcher, but he said nothing as he opened the chassis further for the aging medic. Just looking at the old red and white ambulance, there was no doubt in his mind that he was still a young thing compared to Ratchet. Ratchet had probably been pushing it when the war began. Breakdown … had been barely a few vorns old. Knock Out was honestly older than him as well … still didn't mean he was a kid though.

Shrugging off the insult, Breakdown allowed the older medic to come closer.

Ratchet immediately sighed not even bothering with his internal scanners when he looked down at the blue orb. The spark was ... scarred. You could tell just from a glance. It was stressed and agitated as well. Sentinel could offline from this. He honestly needed to share his spark with some-bot and take some charge off of theirs in order to stabilize his own. It wouldn't be a complete fix, a straight-lace medic would encourage getting a new bonded. Not that he saw that happening either. Given whatever happened during the Soundwave incident, Sentinel obvious now had an aversion to sexual contact now.

Nonetheless, there was something else that could be done.

Scanning the spark once just to confirm his suspicions, he titled his head to the other medic. "We can give him a spark-flux donation. It won't be as good as spark sharing, but it will at least get him out of the red and buy him some time."

Hands twitching, Breakdown nearly snarled, "Didn't we just have the spark-flux argument?! Even a reputable medical just can't walk into a clinic and ask for some. They would need to know the medical facility, the patient, and the spark defect at the bare minimum. That is not going to happen without throwing Sentinel under the bus!"

Then, voice almost soft, the bulky medic added, "He trusts me … And dare I say it, I think I'm the closest thing he has to a friend on this planet right now. I won't do that to him."

Engine rumbling slightly in irritation, the older medic grumbled, "Well, if you consider him a friend in turn, you should put his well being before his pride. So, I ask you butcher, what are you going to do about it?"

Optic blinking at the butcher comment, unsure now if he preferred kid or butcher given the amount of resentment Ratchet used in the latter, Breakdown decided to ignore it for now and quickly searched his programming for possible treatments. He picked one that had been used before spark-flux donations existed. "An energon expedient, berth rest, minor electrical treatments to the spark chamber, and offlining all unneeded systems until his spark can recover."

Huffing, knowing that old treatment too well from the war, Ratchet waved a servo in irritation. "And what about when he wants to go to work or, more importantly, when little Echo needs another donation? That ain't going to work, young-bot. He needs a spark-flux donation or one hell of a good fragging."

"Well," barked Breakdown, his EM field flaring dangerously as the medic poked at his temper. "You going to get on top of him then? You going to take his spark and valve like he's a whore-bot? Are you going to do that to him?! Don't think I haven't offered, his confidant, to frag him and he's still turned me down. I am not forcing him through something … that might hurt him."

Breakdown quickly looked away. Pit. He said too much and now his lack of medical professionalism was showing as well. A fully trained medic would have just fraggen done something for Sentinel… not pussy footed his way around the issue. The silence that followed was almost deafening. The blue medic, short of running out of his own clinic, would have done almost anything to escape it.

"So," said Ratchet carefully, optics search for the smallest of micro expressions from the makeshift medic's body or EM field. "He said he was raped? Did he … say by who? Where? How?"

Sighing, hating himself for offering to do a consultation for another medic and now this was happening, Breakdown bitterly admitted, "I … honestly don't know. Given his aversion to sex, it at least was a negative experience like a drunk party night or borderline date-rape. I … think it might have been partially consensual given he kept Echo and seems to be keeping it mostly together. Tonight was honestly the worst I've ever seen him. And, honestly, the kid seems one hundred percent Autobot. I haven't seen a lick of Con programming or features in him. So I can't say for certain and Sentinel has never felt inclined to give me details."

Ratchet nodded … slightly irritated he had no further answers. Even a hint of what exactly happened that night with Soundwave would have been better than nothing. He didn't want to ask the source, but he felt that there wasn't going to be any other way.

That wasn't a conversation he was looking forward to.

Nonetheless, they had current problems. Ratchet wiped down his face, interrupting the growing silence. "Even so kid, we need a donation … And I think the answer is right in front of me."

Ratchet then made a show of it, walking around Sentinel's slowly stabilizing form and right up to the taller mech. He even motioned with his hands for him to open his chassis as he verbally added, "Open up. We'll see how healthy your spark is first. Given the size of your frame and past occupation … I'm sure its rather large and probably could give two or three donations with few ramifications."

Lip curling in disgust, Breakdown drew back a little, irritation making his plates pull tight. "This is my clinic, old mech. I should be the one collecting the donation, not you. I can't afford to be down for a joor or even half a joor after a spark-flux donation. I have patients to attend to."

"Do you?" growled Ratchet, his chevron crackling slightly with a building charge. "I don't even know if you have an actual license or for that matter, legal medical programs. The treatment you just recommended has been outdated since the end of the war."

Breakdown wanted to flare his plating, beat the Autobot down and then throw the fragger out, but his medical programs were going haywire the longer he was around the cranky old medic. The challenge to be Unit Head, the superior medic in a team, was still causing his programming to war against his will. It wanted to relent, to get his systems scanned and to update … It wanted to update so badly. Another medic could offer that. And it had been such a long time since ... Knock Out had gone.

"Don't make me challenge you, Breakdown," grumbled Ratchet, breaking through the din of Breakdown's thoughts.

Optic's going bright, Breakdown's struts going straight, the blue seemed to battle with himself … and then he slapped Ratchet's hands away.

Ratchet almost smirked at the challenge.

...

"Frag, is all of your equipment older than me?" groused Ratchet as he followed the larger mech into the rooms downstairs, tool tray in hand , down into Breakdown's living quarters. The clinic only had two fully furnished exam rooms and two fold out berths just in case. For such a delicate procedure and given the rest Breakdown would need afterwards … Ratchet felt this procedure best be done in his own berth.

"It is all I have. I have to make a lot of my tools. After all, my clinic doesn't make enough money nor have enough clients for anything better," … and my license barely passes as legal,' thought Breakdown as he slowly made his way to his berth across the main room, light cascading across the floor for the first time all day.

His quarters really weren't much honestly. The most decorative piece was his shelf of digi-pads and a sparring dummy he hadn't used in ages given his now-sensative hands. The whole room was open and was almost spartan in its emptiness, except for some mementos strewn about. He … had kept what he could of Knock Out's things. Despite himself, he looked at the item he cherished most. It was a decorative box that held what remained of Knock Out's detailing paints: golds, reds, blacks … and a few blues just for Breakdown. Suddenly, he regretted allowing the older medic down here even if he did need a secure place to lie down. He should have just used the floor. Not only was he baring his spark to another for the first time in countless vorns. He was also baring his most private place. His living quarters. It was his sanctuary where he waited in his bitter hope to ever see Knock Out again.

Ratchet frowned, grunting through his vents, oblivious to Breakdown's inner turmoil. "I will admit I'm impressed with your resourcefulness if you are indeed building most of these tools, but you need to go through the proper channels for some of these parts. I know you want to keep off the grid, but you shouldn't be working like this. No wonder they call you the butcher. In fact, I … can help you with some connections if you want."

Breakdown, turning away from his berth, glared at the other medic as he came up behind him. Besides, himself, his hands pulled in closer to his form, his plates pulling close. What was he supposed to say? His medical license and programs were a lie? Knock Out had gotten them off of a dead medic during the war after all. It passed enough too open a clinic early on, but he would never be able to get any grants. Iacon Medical Board would see the holes in his license and training a mile away.

Noticing that Breakdown's hands were pulling close, the older medic immediately sighed and put down the tools on the berth-stand next to the recharge slab.

"I'm sorry about the earlier EM field. I'll look at your hands quick to make sure they are re-calibrating correctly," the next words almost pained the Autobot to admit. "I was angry you weren't relenting and I didn't mean to use that setting. It wasn't meant to short out your hand's and chevron so severely. Now, please get onto the berth. I would like to scan your systems first before taking spark-flux donations … but given Sentinel's condition. Its best we do that now."

Grunting in acceptance, Breakdown reluctantly crawled onto his berth and onto his back. He tried not to twitch as Ratchet stepped over him. He suddenly felt completely mortified about what was to come. Breakdown couldn't even get his chassis to unlock. If Ratchet noticed though, he hadn't commented on it. Yet.

"Alright, lets look at those hands first. No arguments," said Ratchet as he carefully picked up the slightly bigger servo. Breakdown's servos were beautiful work honestly even if they were a bit bulky and made for taking a beating. Likely, these hands were upgraded long ago, probably right before the end of the war. The hands, though entirely functional, seemed to be wired oddly like the medic that had done the work wasn't officially trained. Not too surprising … most Con medics were self-trained after all. And there was no doubt what side Breakdown had been on during the war.

Pushing a warm EM field into his hands, he immediately started running his fingers over the small joining plates in those servos. Breakdown, in turn, immediately tightened in reaction. Ratchet knew the touch was probably more intimate that the blue mech expected, but in real medical facilities, especially on small colonies or ships, this is something a true Unit Head would do. A Unit Head needed to be reassuring and yet grounding to reduce panic and errors in their medical team, like a finely tuned clock. And Breakdown, with how taunt his hands were, likely had never interacted with a real Head or another medic in such a way. Not surprising, Ratchet doubted that Decepticon medics taught lessons through calming reassurance.

Regardless, if this hand treatment went on for too long or with the right tweeking, such an action would slowly become arousing. Generally, he would never work another medic up to that point, but since he would be overloading Breakdown's spark a few times tonight to get his spark-flux donations … it was best to get started now.

So slowly, feeling out the design of the hands, Ratchet soothed away any of the too-harsh slaps he had inflicted on them earlier. Breakdown had honestly lasted quite a while until he finally bleated out in pain and pulled his hands close to his chassis. He hadn't even wanted Ratchet to touch them even though he had asked repeatedly up to this point.

Honestly, it had been such an odd feeling to win and then assigning himself as a Unit Head, especially since he wasn't even technically part of the clinic. He knew he shouldn't even be investing time in this butcher, but this was for Sari and Reboot and … now little Echo. And, if he was truthful with himself, after speaking with Breakdown it was obvious that the blue needed some help as well. Ratchet, personally, had been looking for something more to do with his time than teach cadets first aid. Maybe he should stay in this little clinic, actually become the Unit Head. Maybe he could do more than blind little half breeds and clip off wing nubs.

Maybe he could offer something more than crippling solutions.

Breakdown, trapped in his own thoughts, officially hated the old medic. Not only had he come into his clinic and challenged him to be Unit Head and won … but now. Now he was working him into overload just by touching his hands! Yes, Knock Out had loved hand massages and they usually led to mind-blowing fragging afterwards, but Ratchet was an older mech. Not saying he didn't have a spike and needs, but Breakdown felt he shouldn't be getting aroused by this. He just wanted the medic to zap his spark with a low EM charge and get his samples that way. He had the tools. Breakdown … didn't have to be aroused first.

That was a luxury for his patients, not for him.

Not that Ratchet felt that way apparently.

F-frag. He was building up heat fast. His fans were just begging to come online and he could … he couldn't keep the building heat in anymore. He was going to start melting wiring. Fraggg!

And so, with a whine he wasn't proud of, Breakdown finally relented under Ratchet's ministrations, his fans suddenly kicking on and throwing hot air into the room, showing his arousal. He was ashamed to say he even felt his valve and spike come online under his cod piece. He would have covered his face in mortification if Ratchet still wasn't molesting said hands at this very moment. Here he could berth sparklings and ram his hand up valves and not even feel a trace of sexuality … but he couldn't take another medic touching his hands?

Well, it had been a while.

But by Megatron's cannon … were all Unit Head's infuriating perverts? He had just thought it was Hook and then Knock Out's thing, but maybe it was all naturally-inclined medics. Primus. Were Unit Head's meant to crush your pride and make you feel like a youngling all at the same time? Knock Out had never done that … maybe Hook. Then again, Knock Out had just upgraded his hands barely an orn before he was caught. It was a last ditch effort for them to blend, to live on Cybertron peacefully at a little clinic and detailing shop.

How painfully quickly some dreams were crushed though as well as any hands on learning.

Breakdown personally always regretted not going to the Lost Colonies and New Kaon like the rest of the escaping Cons, but Knock Out had wanted a sparkling. And out there … it probably would have starved to death. Cybertron could support a new life.

Not that they ever got to have one.

"Fraggen about time," finally growl Ratchet as he felt hot air blow up at him, ignoring the other bot's mortification as he stopped rubbing down those medical hands. "I was worried I had damaged a sensor. You should have been squirming kliks ago. Regardless, your chassis now unlocked, young-bot?"

This time Breakdown moaned in horror and covered his facial plate. Ratchet had notice. Sweet Primus … was this nightmare night ever going to end? He just wanted to go back to being the butcher, a medic everyone secretly hated … not, whatever this was. Ratchet was acting like his business partner, a true Unit Head instead of one that had just walked off the street that he had barely known for more than a few groons.

That was the last time he gave a consultation to another medic.

Pulling his hands away, staring at the ceiling because he didn't' want to meet the other medic's gaze, Breakdown grumbled, "Just cut my spark up and let me recharge in peace."

Nodding his helm, Ratchet motioned for the younger bot to open up. With a sigh, Breakdown offlined his optics and snapped open his chassis.

There had been more than one reason he didn't want to loose the Unit Head slap-o-fest (certainly there had to be a less embarrassing way to decide who was superior. Why were Autobots so weird). He honestly didn't need another lecture. He already knew he was going to get one about the sorry state of his programming, but his spark … he could already feel the sympathy bleeding off of Ratchet's EM field.

"Oh, Breakdown … I ..."

"Yes, I know. There's more than enough charge there for probably six or seven flux donations. Just use your EM Generator and get it over with," groused Breakdown as he refused to online his optics.

He didn't want to see that expression … He didn't want to see the pity on any Autobot's face. He knew it was bad. Not deadly like Sentinel's condition, but it was tale-tell with how much charge hung around it, almost like a miasma around his spark. It was something that happened when sparkmates, Conjunx Endura, were separated for extended periods of time. The spark got almost fuzzy with extra charge … trying to reach out to its other half.

It was even more painful then seeing a broken spark-bond, especially after the war. It was like a agonizing hope that ones partner was still out there … but had yet to return. Perhaps they wouldn't. Perhaps they were trapped somewhere, in stasis or … lost without a way home.

Hope is painful. Cruel even sometimes … especially when matched with longing.

Plus, there was always a worry about suicide with mechs with the condition. Sometimes said mechs were even encouraged to take on a second bond, but … looking at this clinic now, Ratchet thought he understood Breakdown more.

Breakdown … was waiting for his other half.

Placing a hand on the side of the chassis to keep it open in case he accidentally offended the younger medic, watching the painfully deep blue spark swirl and swivel in trepidation, Ratchet said carefully, "You know Ultra Magnus encouraged …. conjugal visits … to stop this very thing from happening. You shouldn't … you shouldn't be suffering like this Breakdown."

Huffing, wishing he could snap his chassis back shut, Breakdown bit out. "Yeah, sure … so he can find the bots that aren't in the stockades and put them there, every Con knows that."

Ratchet, wishing Breakdown would at least look at him, sighed. Well, at least that answered where his sparkmate was. Deep in the stockades … likely suffering just as badly as Breakdown was. In fact … he now wondered how many Cons were secretly suffering like this, sparks reaching out for their sparkmates yet never able to answer.

Primus, it was probably driving some weaker Cons mad. Did the stockades medics even know what was going on? What to look for? He had heard a brief rumor about growing suicide rates in the stockades, but now it was chillingly real. After all, Cons were generally kept in small cells and none were allowed to be alone together: to plot. Apparently even conjugal visits were supposed to be monitored. Still, Cons were probably too scared to take advantage of said conjugal visits. They were probably afraid it would reveal their partner and reveal a weakness.

Pah. Stupid, stupid, war models!

Resisting the urge to grumble, Ratchet decided to focus on the problem at hand.

His voice even and calm, Ratchet slowly lowered his hands into the chamber, watching the electric overcharge draw towards his fingers and then rush away at the unfamiliar EM field. "We are far from done talking about this … but for now, lets concentrate on Sentinel and his sparkling. Now, I'm just going to start with some simple touches, slowly arousing your spark. If something hurts, let me know. If I need to slow down, let me know. If we need to take a small break, let me know. There will be a sting towards the end, but for a spark as engorged as yours … you might not even feel it. Now, just breathe."

At the first touch … Breakdown nearly came off the berth, his crystal casing so sensitive it almost caused him to yelp. It didn't help that Ratchet was using the EM fields in his hands or the way he was speaking oh so softly, like a lover almost.

"There we go. Come on. Don't be ashamed. This is all natural. Overload whenever you are ready," said Ratchet softly, his voice almost a whisper, hands curling around the back of the spark chamber in a knowing manner.

Despite himself, hating himself for how quickly he was coming unwound, Breakdown kicked out at his berth, a whine forming in his throat. "F-frag. Nnnnnnng. C-couldn't you have j-just used a-an EM field to o-overload my spark?"

Ratchet, huffing, asked bitterly, "And would you do that to any of your patients Breakdown? Cold EM overloads can be painful and given the cut that comes on the end, it just adds to the agony. I am not going to do that to you … not with a spark that likely hasn't known overload or the touch of another bot since the war's end. Now, just relax."

Ratchet then threw out a small scan from his hands, bouncing it around in the other bot's chassis. Breakdown nearly blubbered in ecstasy, hands curling into the soft mesh on his berth as cleaner started to gather in his optics. Oh frag. Knock Out used to do that … Knock Out, Knock Out … his beautiful spark and mocking hands. Maybe if he offlined his optics he could imagine those hands were red and sly and beautiful.

Oh, frag. Oh frag. Sweet merciful Primus!

The next thing he knew, Ratchet was telling him he was doing great and then he was rearing off the berth in overload, a single tear streaming down his cheek as he cried out the name of his lost lover. "K-knock Out."

It was barely a whisper, a plea of desperation and love and want … If Ratchet heard it, he said nothing at all. He merely collected his first sampled, watching Breakdown's helm lull left and right in overdue bliss as he came down after his first overload.

Ratchet, nodding at Breakdown's successful spark overload, was suddenly glad he had two babysitters at home for this was going to be an all night project. He didn't have to, but he was going to overload Breakdown's spark as many times as he safely could. The more donations Sentinel and Echo got, the better.

Nodding in agreement with himself, Ratchet placed the dense donation in an electric little box so it wouldn't fade. He then took a cleaning rag and oh so carefully wiped streaming tears off of Breakdown's face, his hands EM field bouncing comfortingly off of the younger mech's chevron. If the younger medic felt either at all, Ratchet could only guess. He was just going to patiently wait for the blue mech's afterglow to fade somewhat before he forced the blue mech back into another overload.

Given the state of this place, of Breakdown, maybe it had been a blessing Sari was the way she was. It had led him here … and to Sentinel. Some mechs just didn't know how to ask for help. Neither of the blue mechs … especially Sentinel.

Oh Primus, that was something else entirely. Something he didn't even want to dwell on. He honestly hoped the ex-Prime took a while to wake. He didn't know if he was ready to speak with him. He didn't know if he was ready to face the consequences of Soundwave's torture and of his own ... negligence.

Nonetheless, the truth was slowly bearing itself to the world, and he was here now. He wasn't going to let the young-bot run away this time. He wasn't going to let this slip through his servos without a fight. No, not this time. Sentinel didn't get to run away … because neither could he.

None of them could.

…

Elsewhere, across the universe, there was a mech pacing back and forth as he waited for his ride off this planet, dust drifting from his footsteps in the low gravity. He was not an Autobot. He technically was a Decepticon. Well, officially not yet. He wasn't old enough for the Decepticon badge … though he honestly was considering denouncing his beliefs in the Decepticon cause as well. After all, his creator had all but abandoned him after all.

Stalling at the thought, the young mech kicked the dusty surface, fuming.

He wasn't crazy! He wasn't glitching! Did his creator think he wanted to be this way? Seeing things, hearing things that weren't there? No, no he didn't. He wanted to be a famous sword-mech like his carrier. Instead, his sire and his uncle both agreed that he needed treatment. Decepticons, even with New Koan and the Lost Colonies, didn't really have any official psychologists. Apparently, a weak mind was something rarely tolerated. It didn't matter if you went crazy as long as you did your fraggen job!

So his creator had sent him for treatment with the mental health mechs in Docker City. Just because Cybertron refused to recognize the colony as anything but a backwater collection of rejects, his creator knew better. The Docker City medics knew their CPUs as well as any part.

… Given all the rape and all the other unpleasantness they dealt with.

Regardless, Dreadwing, his sire, had committed his youngling, Deadlock, to the psych ward of Docker City's main hospital.

It, honestly, hadn't been too bad at first. The whispers around the corner had stopped and Deadlock could finally think enough to practice his swordsmanship just like Saberhorn and his sire had been teaching him before he left, but then he had seen him. It was just a glimpse of yellow at first, out of the corner over his optic. And then, like a horror story, the figure kept getting closer and closer and closer.

He had tried to ignore it, but then he noticed a disturbing reality … every time he looked into a mirror or even a shiny surface … the yellow blur would draw closer and closer.

Needless to say, Deadlock had quickly become terrified of mirrors and shiny surfaces. He had refused to look at them to the point that he had tried to gorge his own optics out once with a scalpel he had managed to snatch. Luckily, or unluckily for him, the orderlies had caught him in time.

His creator had even come all the way to Docker City because of the incident, frag all the Autobots in the area, just to come and see him personally.

He could still remember the disappointment in his large creator's optics. He hated that look. He would take Skyquake's or his mentor, Saberhorn's, badgering any joor over that disappointed glint in his sire's optics. He hated it. He hated it so much that he had stood before a mirror that night in the dark washroom, hoping the yellow shadow would come and end him. There was but a single light outside the room as he stared, unyielding, at a mirror. He had stood there, armor rattling as the yellow figure drew closer and closer from the shadows. For honors sake he would rather deactivate then listen to his creator discuss treatments with the medical staff and at-home care. He would rather be disemboweled here in this medical care station than watch his uncle hide every pointy object in the habitation suite … including the swords he was meant to inherit when he got into his final upgrades.

Those were his alma's, Wings, first set of swords … and they were going to be his first real sword set as well. At this rate though, he could never be a sword-mech. He was all but a burden to his creator and uncle, and there was no worse fate in Decepticon culture.

And so he had stood still, clawed digits digging into his palms as struggled to remain still, cleanser tears dripping down his face plates as his vocals threatened to click in stress. The youngling was two astro-kliks from wetting himself.

Then, just when the figure was close enough to touch his shoulder, Deadlock offlined his optics and expected the ghostly touch to burn or scorch or something. Instead, it felt like a breeze had rushed through the room, a cool fresh sent carried with it that reminded him strangely of organic flowering vegetation … and then, finally, a whisper tickling against his audio.

"We must find the Seer and the Seeker, young Bridge. You must carry my soul to Cybertron. You must be the bridge for us all."

It had been too much. Too much for the young bot. He had ran away that night. Afterward, he had tried to ignore the soft pleas that followed him around from mirror to mirror. The yellow blur refused to desist and now followed him like a shadow. It just continued to whispered about confused young seers and a treasure without measure and about him being a bridge. A bridge. A fraggen bridge to what? For who?! Ghosts? No thank you.

Not that telling the yellow blur to leave would work. It would just make him look crazier than he was if he started speaking to it out loud.

Nonetheless, the ghost gained more and more form, a yellow mech of shift petals. He sounded like a cyber-ninja honestly … and his voice just kept getting louder and louder, less of a whisper.

Then one night … it wasn't a yellow shadow that greeted him in the dark of his locked room. It was something darker, something cruel, old and oh so hungry for mechs and femmes with fates. It wanted him to rip out his wrists and his vocals and just bleed and bleed and bleed away everything. It had even taken his carrier's face, Wing. The shadow had made those once kind lips say terrible things over and over again. The shadow had made Wing tell him that he was an unworthy son, that Dreadwing was suffering now because of him, that he could not move on since Deadlock wouldn't die. He was killing his sire slowly with his broken bond... just like he had killed his alma.

And Deadlock quickly wanted to do it. He wanted to end his sire's suffering. He wanted to stop being a waste of space, a broken thing. He was never going to be anything now. He would never be a sword-mech like his carrier. He would never be anything but some mad mech.

The shadow had nodded in silent agreeing with his alma's decaying face. And just when he had started to peel off his wrist plating, trying to get to the tender energon lines below, there was a burst of blooms, yellow and swirling like a thousand little daggers. They struck out at his alma despite his screams to stop, to spare Wing. But the petals kept swirling and slashing until … until he saw something beside his alma.

It was a rotting thing, a shadow of something older and crueler than he could possibly imagine.

And then it was silent, the shadow gone, the petals gone, and there was only the yellow mech-ghost standing over him.

Once again the yellow shadow told him he was the bridge … and that the shadow had found him. He wasn't safe here anymore. They had to go. They had to go now.

Terrified out of his mind, Deadlock agreed, only asking one question: the name of his savior.

"My name is Prowl," whispered the spirit as Deadlock fell the last few feet out of the window he had climbed out of, really to head to the docks and off planet.

Deadlock, pulling his training swords close, had slowly nodded in acknowledgment. Then, thinking for a moment, he carefully added, "And my name is Deadlock, but you can call me … Drift. I mean I can't just sneak onto Cybertron with a name like Deadlock, can I?"

The ghost, the delusion, or whatever it was, merely smiled at him softly, stating simply, "Drift seems a fitting name to me. Now come, you have bridge things to do."

Whatever than meant, Drift didn't know. He kind of felt like Prowl was making it up as he went as well.

XXX

Paw07: Totally geeked out with my forming Ratchet-Breakdown … bond? Bromance? Pff, I don't know. None of us know. It just is. Knock Out will always be his sweet spark either way. As for the chapter end … Drift! Fangirl squeee! I totally made Dreadwing his creator and I don't regret it one bit. Wing is also his deceased alma. So we now start to get into the Decepticon part of the story. I wasn't originally going to have anything with them, but bam, its there now. Also Prowl? Where have you been this whole time? We are on Chapter 31? We need some ninja action stat!