Trigger warning: Light depictions/mentions of injury and blood. Potentially sensitive material will be placed between ▶▶ and ◀◀
Optimus had punched the table with so much force I was certain he must have left a dent, but when he pulled away the only visible marks I could see were the fragments of my obliterated phone.
I clutched my aching arm. My phone was gone. It was smashed to pieces. My pictures, my texts, my memories of home. It didn't feel real. The pictures of my dad and brother that I might never see again, of messages from friends I won't get to read back on, the last time I'd hear my favorite music, perhaps any music…
I tried as hard as I could, cycling through the same list over and over. But, as I stared at the small scattering of phone-pieces, of everything I had just lost for good, I couldn't manage to feel anything. Numbness, I supposed. I stared and felt numb.
"Gotcha!" Optimus shouted; a writhing black robot had been slammed and pinned down on the edge of the bar.
I flinched. What had even happened? I remember being knocked flat and I swore I heard someone screaming. Had that been me?
The robotic creature Optimus had briefly wrestled with looked oddly animalistic, with four legs, a robotic tail, and curved claws. It was around the size of a dog, though bigger than any dog I'd seen before, on second thought, it was probably closer in size to an absurdly large wolf or tiger. Thankfully, it was no match for Prime's forearm which was actively keeping the writhing creature in place.
"Call Ultra Magnus," Prime ordered. He briefly lifted and slammed the robotic creature against the table again and its thrashing died down. However, it had done nothing to stop the harsh grating noise that was coming from its maw. Was it laughing?
▶▶ Prime looked my way. I had no idea how bad I must have looked, I was trying to not focus on the blood around me or the taste of it in my mouth. Whatever had happened had left smears of it on the bar. Surprisingly, though, there was barely any pain, just a slight stinging across my body. ◀◀ It was shock, I realized. I must be in shock.
"Someone get Ratchet," Optimus ordered, "And send word to Mainframe. I don't know how much he managed to send through Katherine's device, but our coordinates will be one of them. The Decepticon fleet will be upon us soon."
I sat. It was my fault. All my fault. Instinctively, my hand reached for my pocket where my phone had been, the fabric of the pocket had been torn open and underneath I had been given a few shallow scrapes. It had used my phone to send coordinates. The words were taking far too long to assemble in my head. It meant I brought their war to them. That wasn't comprehensible, the idea of an army of evil robots coming our way, and coming our way because of me.
"Oh Primus, Kathrine, are you ok? Talk to me!" Misdirect was at my side, I realized. He placed his arms and hands loosely around me, walling me off. He sounded like he thought I was on the verge of dying, the tone in his voice was remarkably similar to when my oxygen had run out. But I felt ok. Stunned and a bit sore, but ok. How would I know though, would me being in shock just mean I was oblivious? I flexed my fingers, wiggled my toes, and stretched my back a bit; everything seemed to be in working order, nothing broken.
▶▶ I looked passively down at my arms. Some red was seeping through on the left sleeve, but when I pulled it up, the cuts were hardly bleeding anymore. They were long but rather thin and clean, like the edges of a papercut, and didn't seem particularly deep. I rolled my sleeve back down, giving the struggling robotic creature another look. Its long claws must have been razor sharp.
"I'm ok," I said, feeling a bit more relieved. No organs peeking out, no ever-growing pools of blood, and no crippling pain: in my book that was as good as it gets.
"Are you sure?" He studied me, "You're leaking that red stuff. Is this energon? You know what I mean, like organic-energon?" ◀◀
"Just a few cuts, nothing that bad," Despite my relief, I still wasn't sure how much of a lie that was.
"Ok," He seemed to take something equivalent to a deep breath, "So you're not fading on me? You're ok?"
"Just shocked," I said. I felt a greater pit in my stomach for my lost phone than any of my wounds. Some part of me was hoping that maybe my phone could have caught a signal, as unlikely as it were, and I'd at least be able to talk with my Dad. But that was truly impossible now.
"I'm fine," I said again, but I hardly registered the words myself.
"You sure?" Misdirect didn't sound convinced, "Don't worry, Ratchet will be here in a nanocycle."
I nodded. I had thought it wasn't possible to feel any more homesick, but I was wrong. I glanced back at the robotic creature. Optimus had it pinned with seemingly little effort at all.
"What is it?" I asked.
Misdirect gave the thing a short venomous glance, "A Decepticon, one of the minicons. He must have snuck on during our last battle, if I had to guess."
"Ravage," A scratchy grating voice announced. It was from the attacker in question. Glowing eyes peered at us, its head pressed against the bar at an unnatural tilt. "Ravage," It choked out again, the voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I swore it was grinning at us.
Misdirect shifted to block it from view, his voice was full of annoyance, "I guess he's calling himself 'Ravage.' That piece of slag. Come on, let's get you out of here, we can meet Ratchet on the way."
I was scooped up without a second word. He strode down the hall alarmingly fast. I couldn't blame him for being worried. What was this, like the third time my life had been threatened?
"Ravage?" I asked, trying to distract myself as our surroundings zoomed past.
Misdirect didn't look down, clearly still angry, "He picked a name he thinks will scare you, those useless pieces of scrap always do it. Last organic planet we were on they actually had the nerve to call themselves things like 'Screamer,' 'Flesh Crusher,' or 'Maim.' It's obnoxious and frankly pathetic."
He skidded to a halt as Ratchet rounded the corner, based on how close we came to colliding with him, he was rushing faster than even Misdirect. I clung onto Misdirect's hand in a panic. Even with Misdirect's other hand springing up to shield me when he came to the sudden halt, sitting on a giant palm felt like I was teetering on an oversized bar stool, at least I had fingers to hold onto.
I half expected the medic to reprimand us, I figured he wouldn't have been thrilled to find out we were in the bar to begin with, but no such remark came.
"I heard what happened," he said simply. Blue light fell over me as he scanned, "Scans don't indicate anything that looks life-threatening, Kathrine, is this accurate? How do you feel?"
"I think I'm ok," I stammered out.
"What do internal diagnostics say?" Misdirect asked me.
"She's organic, she doesn't have any," But Ratchet seemed to second guess himself. "Right?" He asked.
"I don't think so," I said.
Ratchet squinted down at me, "Let's get back to the medbay."
I had been dropped off on the same medical table as before, and Ratchet had disappeared, apparently gathering what supplies he needed. Brainstorm and Perceptor were working near the back of the room. They hadn't even looked up when we entered, and I noticed that the large machine Brainstorm had lugged in had now been connected to a wide variety of cables, it also seemed that it had stopped dropping pieces of itself. Amusingly though, I could still see a few wayward parts on the floor that had fallen upon its first arrival.
I was feeling better by the minute, if I had to guess the shock must have been wearing off. I felt far less dazed, and reality seemed far more solid. On the downside, pain was starting to trickle in again. As if offended that I had forgotten about it, the goose egg on my head throbbed to life.
Misdirect was looming around me, occasionally asking me a few questions. For the most part, it seemed like his worrying was happening internally. I wished I could have reassured him more, but nothing I said seemed to help.
Avoiding his worried stare, I shrugged off my jacket. Ratchet would probably want me to take it off, and maybe actually seeing the damage would help calm my anxious friend down.
I dropped my jacket to the side, and when I realized what shirt I was wearing I immediately winced. The black T-shirt was an older one, with blocky colorful text announcing to the world "Good Vibes." In 8th grade the shirt had seemed cool, but now as a junior in high school I couldn't help but cringe. I forgot I even had it, that morning I had picked whatever from my dresser, and in fairness, it usually didn't matter. Rain or shine I usually wore my green zip-up hoodie, I hardly left home without it.
The air in the medbay was just a tad colder than room temperature, and "Good Vibes" were not doing much to help, but between the smell of disinfectant and the hulking towers of medical equipment around, it was hard to feel comfortable here.
▶▶ I did another self-examination. Two cuts on my left arm, one on my thigh, one on my left hip, along with my ruined pocket, and "Good Vibes" on my chest had gotten three slices, luckily only one had reached my skin. My arms and stomach had smears of blood where the fabric had spread it around, but despite the theatrics, it was clear nothing was really bleeding anymore. That didn't mean bloodstains weren't a thing though. My jeans now had a large splotch on the right thigh, and I reluctantly examined my green hoodie. Around the two clean slices through the chest of the olive fabric were some smaller stains, it looked like the sleeves weren't so bad, other than the cuts and stains on the left one I had seen earlier. ◀◀
My heart still plummeted at the sight of my hoodie though. My dad had gotten it for me, it was my favorite. I could patch the cut fabric, I reassured myself, and the stains should come out with the right stain removers, I would get my hoodie back to brand new, I had to.
A thump jarred me as Ratchet set a large metal container on the table with me, he snatched something from it, it looked like a roll of white fabric.
"I've collected medical supplies from the organic worlds we've encountered, but this is something I made while you were away as a precaution, it shouldn't react with your biology."
That was hardly reassuring, "Shouldn't?" I asked.
Something thin and apparently sharp extended from one of Ratchet's fingertips and he began cutting the fabric into smaller strips. "The fuel sample you sent us, the 'Protein bar,' I took samples from the wrapping around it and derived this wound dressing from similar components. My thought was that if it was safe for you to handle, as well as to store your food, it should be non-reactive to your organic tissue."
He was speaking quickly, but if I was keeping up it seemed like he had literally invented his own polyester bandages from the plastic food wrapper. Literally insane.
"Do you happen to know what disinfectants can be used to clean your wounds? I assume water-based solutions would be where we start?"
"Yeah! Yeah, we can use water" I said, looking down at the mess on my skin," Any chance you guys have soap?" I joked.
He paused a second, "Soap," He repeated, "A substance used with water for washing and cleaning, made of a compound of natural oils or fats with sodium hydroxide or another strong alkali. Is that the correct definition?"
I shot him a confused look but nodded. He continued, "Sodium hydroxide will not be an issue for our fabricator. But the natural oils and fats…" He lingered, "Kathrine, do you mind if I take a small tissue sample?"
I felt my face drain, "Where exactly are we going with this, Ratchet?"
"I may be able to derive a 'soap' using your own oils and fats."
"Oh, no no no no no," my hands shot up in alarm, "We are not doing a Fight Club." When he gave me a questioning look I dismissed it with a wave, "Forget the reference. Look, that…that sounds awful, a Human soap?"
He seemed to understand my disgust, but his voice remained stern, "Infection is our biggest worry. This medbay is sterile, but the rest of the ship could have any number of dormant foreign bacteria or viruses from all the worlds we've visited. I will not take that risk."
"I don't have a choice here do I?"
"Normally, yes, you would have a choice," He said much more gently, "But as your acting practitioner, I am insisting on sterilization for your safety."
No way we'd be making Kathrine soap. I wracked my brain for anything else we could do. And, to my luck, the answer came in the form of a stupid joke from chemistry class:
Two chemists are at a restaurant. The waiter comes up and asks them for their drink orders. The first chemist says "I'll have H2O." The second chemist says "I'll have H2O too."
The waiter comes back with the drinks, but after both chemists take a sip, the second chemist drops to the floor, dead. And then there was usually some quippy line about making sure to label your elements correctly, and how otherwise points will be taken off on homework, blah blah blah, The end.
"Hydrogen Peroxide!" I announced, "H2O2, Hydrogen Peroxide. Two hydrogen, two oxygen. It's a disinfectant we use for cuts and stuff."
"Ah I see," Ratchet said, fervently typing something on the data pad next to the box, "Wonderful Kathrine, that will be very easy to fabricate. heavily diluted with water, it should work perfectly."
"So, no Kathrine soap?" I asked.
"Afraid not."
Ratchet's special Hydrogen peroxide brew didn't take long to make. And soon I was bubbling away while Ratchet wrapped the gauze-like fabric around my arm at lightning speed. Despite being as big as me, his hands moved fast and precisely, barely even brushing my skin. When I closed my eyes it was easy to forget that a giant robot, and not a human doctor, was wrapping my wounds. Once I had gotten used to being under the full attention of the looming medic, I could hardly look away from the mesmerizing way he worked. Despite my underlying unease, a movie scene came to mind that made it hard not to smile: Toy Story 2, when Woody was getting fixed. I was frankly feeling very sympathetic for the toy.
"Am I going to live?" I joked when he paused from his work.
He was busy tapping away on the large data pad, pure concentration on his face, "Injuries appear non-life threatening. If infection can be avoided, recovery should proceed smoothly."
▶▶ I didn't have the energy to clarify my joke. "Am I going to need any stitches?" I asked.
Ratchet furrowed his metal brow.
"Need what?" Misdirect piped in, he had been leaning in, watching carefully as the medic worked.
"Stitches. Nothing looked deep to me, but what do you think?" I asked.
Ratchet set the data pad down, "What do you mean by 'Stitches?' Your dictionary says two likely definitions, a loop used for sewing or a muscle cramp? I'm not sure how those apply."
"Oh. I guess the first one? I'm surprised it's not, um, in there," feeling awkward, I rubbed the back of my neck, "Right, it's when they use thread to sew up the skin, when the cut is too deep to heal on its own— heal correctly on its own."
Ratchet didn't look surprised, but Misdirect looked downright horrified.
"Sew your skin?" Misdirect said, "You can't be serious. Why not just put another piece on?"
Surprisingly, I found myself unfazed by the question, "I can't be the weird one here, right?" I looked at Ratchet. "Can most other people in the universe just replace parts, detach an arm, slap a new one on?"
"Depends," Ratchet sighed, rooting through the box resting on the slab with me, "I've seen some that can regrow limbs. I assume that's not the case for you?"
"Definitely not," I said.
Misdirect looked so shocked that, were he actually capable of it, I was certain his face would have gone pale, "So what do you do? How do you repair yourself?"
I shrugged, wincing a bit as the motion pulled at my cuts, "The body just heals. Like the stitches, for example, you stitch the skin together and the pieces will heal together, don't put the stitches in and you might get a crater scar, I guess, where the skin had to heal over the gap. But that's just for deep stuff, surface level scrapes, and what not, heal fine on their own."
Ratchet looked up from the box, "Kathrine, I'd rather avoid doing anything that pierces your epidermis further. I'm wrapping the bandages so that the lacerations will be closed, for now I'm sure that will be plenty."
So no stitches. The thought was relieving.
"But limbs don't heal?" Misdirect asked me.
"Oh, no. Once they're gone they're gone," I said, "Sometimes if you reattach it quick enough it could heal, but otherwise… well, you just wouldn't have that limb anymore. It heals over, it just doesn't grow back."◀◀
"So there's no way to make major repairs? Replace old parts?" Misdirect asked.
"I mean prosthetics exist, or like hip replacements and stuff, but they're not perfect."
"How long does it take?" Misdirect asked, "Before things wear out?"
Both Misdirect and Ratchet seemed off now. They had shot a quick glance at each other, and Ratchet had stopped rummaging through the box. Had I said something wrong? "As I get older things will start wearing out. But, I mean, don't worry: I have a bunch more years before that starts happening," I tried to give a small laugh to ease the mood, but it was met with silence.
Didn't they age? The thought wandered into my head, but I immediately dismissed it. Of course they aged. But why did Misdirect seem so shocked? I had to remind myself that they were robots, parts seemed pretty replaceable, I mean when we had walked in I had seen that Brainstorm already had a brand new arm. I guess from that context, things could seem concerning from Misdirect's point of view. But I wasn't exactly on my deathbed here.
"So," Misdirect said carefully, "Parts just wear out, and that's it? You just…?"
I could infer what he was implying, but why were we still talking about this? "We die." I finished for him. "Sure, eventually. It's probably not all that different from how you guys age, assuming for you it's just a lot longer."
Misdirect and Ratchet shared another glance.
"Look," I huffed, "Since for some reason we're still on this topic, I can say proudly that my family has notoriously made it to their 100s if that makes you feel any better." When I forced out another small laugh, I found it was fueled by a bit more nervousness than before, "So rest assured that you'll have a long time to put up with me if I decide to stick around."
Misdirect was frozen. For a moment he looked small, bearing the exact same look on his face when he had first told me about their war. I felt like I had just told him someone had kicked his dog or something, or that Santa Claus wasn't real.
I was starting to get nervous too, and I felt my cheeks flush. "Is something wrong? I-I was just joking, of course I want to get home."
"Right, of course," Ratchet said after a beat, giving Misdirect another quick look. I got the feeling that this conversation wasn't truly over. Another roll of bandages was pulled from the box, "Arms out. Let's finish getting you patched up."