"Wait, Jazz, where are you going!? I need help!" Ratchet raged, with his hands hooked underneath Optimus Prime's shoulders, dragging him backwards as blood puddled everywhere. "Jazz, grab his legs! I can't move him around like this!"
"Can't! I'm busy grabbing time-shy intel on that comet!" Jazz yelled, leaving black skid marks as he ran past. "ALL the groundbridge portals have been coming out ALL sketchy due to ALL the atmospheric interference ALL up in the sky – but – I finally got a NORMAL ONE to spawn!"
"Jazz, COME BACK!" Ratchet screamed, but it was useless.
"Comm Bumblebee!" Jazz shouted, just before backflipping into a whirling green groundbridge, which snapped shut without ceremony.
There was no time to process Jazz's absence.
Ratchet was left to stare at empty air, as Optimus Prime bled out more and more.
"Jazz, come back!" Ratchet sounded close to hysterics. "Come back!" His servos shook as Optimus's shoulders began to sag. The Prime felt more and more slippery to hold onto – his armor had become saturated by blood. Seconds became agonizingly slow to Ratchet, as he dragged his longtime friend "The Prime," slowly towards the clinic doors.
Optimus Prime was a big, tank-class mech – and not necessarily a patient a medic would be expected to carry into a clinic alone.
Bulkhead used to help Ratchet carry the Prime.
And Optimus would help carry Bulkhead, when one of them inevitably got injured.
But now, there was no one around to help Ratchet.
The Autobot-base felt barren and empty, once Jazz had backflipped away.
:"Bumblebee, where are you?": Ratchet had commlinked the scout, but only a commlink-response of :"Do. Not. Disturb.": went off inside his audials.
Ratchet could only hope whatever was going on with Bumblebee, wouldn't be a mess he'd have to fix later.
"I wish I had an assistant." Ratchet said, out loud, without a thought – and he clenched his teeth so tightly together, that he felt his internals blow a fuse.
"Why hello, mister gorgeous doctor!" Knockout said from a corner, quite suddenly. He didn't look the most flattering, draped in chains and dead-grey scratches.
Mister gorgeous doctor was startled – Out. Of. His. Mind.
"Get the PIT away from me!" screamed Ratchet – his chassis so full of worry – and rage.
"All-owww….meee–iiieee, Rat-chat!" And then, "The Predacon," approached from his own creepy corner – his walk a strange flirtatious gait, with his tail held up high like a happy cat's.
"Both of you get away!" And Ratchet felt utterly helpless as he held a bleeding out Optimus Prime in his arms.
He had no more energy to scream as the predacon transformed in front of him.
Into a mech.
A strangely handsome one, for a creature so foul.
And Ratchet shut up, his optics widened slightly, when the creature reached down to grab Optimus Prime's legs.
Ratchet should've pulled away, kicked, screamed, anything – and yet, the predacon did not injure the Prime.
Instead, Ratchet was finally able to put Optimus Prime onto a well-deserved berth. Optimus's legs had been carefully laid across the surface by the predacon – sparing the Prime potential exacerbated injuries due to Ratchet's well-meaning, but brutal manhandling.
Ratchet's servos couldn't afford to shake, especially after that ordeal. He began to repair Optimus Prime immediately, welding bleeding cuts shut.
…
…
…
While Ratchet worked, Knockout and "Cliffjumper" sat quietly on a nearby clinical bench – neither daring to move – or to try their luck – when tensions ran so high.
Arcee had gotten bit.
What scraps remained of her Jetfire-chewed leg had been professionally stapled together; but, it did very little – to change the fact – that the limb looked like the flattened nightmare of a compacting machine accident.
Ratchet was arguably the best medic around, and even he wasn't well-versed in cosmetic surgeries.
To his understanding, all such specialists had perished, long ago.
…
…
…
"Ratchet? What happened to Jack?" Arcee was magnetized to the berth, but Ratchet clicked a button somewhere below the slab.
Zzzzzziiittttt.
And Arcee was allowed to sit up; but, her legs remained tethered to the berth.
Ratchet had a small smile as he considered Arcee's question. "Jack is fine, he just went 'to bed,' as the humans say. I wasn't about to let him stay all night in the clinic."
Arcee rolled her optics. "Yes, he would try to do that, wouldn't he."
"Raf too. He cares." Added Ratchet.
Arcee looked glum – suddenly – she had recalled Miko, and Bulkhead.
And now Smokescreen.
"What's wrong?" Asked Ratchet, noticing her sudden shift in expression. "Did the painkillers wear off already? I can give you-"
Arcee shook her head for "No."
"There's not a lot of us left, is there Ratchet?" And Arcee didn't expect Ratchet to flinch of all things, considering the serious and professional mech he typically was.
But he flinched, hiding his sadness behind a grimace.
Ratchet's clinical veneer seemed to crumble so quickly from mere words. He also couldn't help but to think of Miko, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen.
And Prowl, though that mech was long dead.
"We need to kill Jetstorm." Arcee said with a finality, watching as Ratchet retreated into a corner. His back pressed up against the wall like a terrified animal.
Something about that imagery pleased Arcee.
"He killed Wheeljack, don't forget." Arcee pressed further, trying to stand up from the berth.
Only to remember she couldn't.
Ratchet looked at her oddly. "Yes, what Jetstorm did was unforgivable…but…" He paused, rethinking his words.
He was still staring at Arcee.
She struggled atop the berth openly now. Her arms flailed wildly, as if to grab any nearby object she could.
Anything. To. Detach. Her. Legs.
"What are we doing here, Arcee?" asked Ratchet, his optics looked past her, as if remembering better times. "On this planet, so far away from other cybertronians?" And Ratchet fell silent.
But Arcee urged him further, to speak.
She had a wild look in her eyes.
"What do you mean, Ratchet?" She quirked a brow. Her flailing ceased as she became distracted.
"Jazz reported that the asteroid colonies near Velocitron are healthy, that they-"
"Aren't Autobots." Stated Ratchet.
"What?" Arcee paused, and then shouted, flailing again. "No! Don't tell me they're Deceptions?!"
Ratchet snorted. "Calm down, Arcee. I don't want you tearing your leg, open, again." Arcee glared at him. "No, the colony-bots are neither. They're just neutral. Just-"
He paused to put a tool aside, his chin up as he seriously thought.
"-they used to be Autobots, before the Ark crashed landed on Earth. Then we stayed in-stasis, buried in the ground for four million years…" Ratchet scoffed. "It was foolish of us to think that those colonies would still care about the war."
"No, that can't be right, we-" Arcee began, but Ratchet held up a hand, to say more.
"Everyone thought we were dead, Arcee. The team and the Ark disappeared! Everyone thought Optimus Prime had died – that Megatron had died."
Arcee stopped her flailing, hanging by Ratchet's every word.
Arcee sat up as far as she could, magnetized to a berth – her face flush with a sort of feral-rabid confusion.
"For four million years, the war between Autobots and Decepticons has been considered over. We just…got the memo late."
Arcee miserably looked down. The idea that perhaps her friends Miko, Bulkhead, Smokescreen…
And, oh, Cliffjumper…
That perhaps...
They had died for nothing.
Went unsaid.
"Does Optimus know all about this?" Arcee finally asked. She wanted to be furious, but she was also – exhausted…
Slowly, she collapsed fully against the berth.
"Of course. Optimus is the one who told me, in the first place." He said.
"What-...How-..." Before Arcee could formulate a question, she felt a prick against her arm.
A syringe, filled with a sloshing blue liquid, had whipped outwards from Ratchet's fingertip.
"You're supposed to be asleep, Arcee."
…
…
…
The time ticked by.
…
…
…
"I won't be making the same mistake I did with Jetstorm." He said, to himself.
…
…
…
"What do you mean, Ratchet?" But Arcee answered all the same. Her voice was a whisper as her head laid twisted against the berth.
…
…
…
But her arms raised up across the berth – towards Ratchet.
…
…
…
"It doesn't work!" Ratchet snarled, and he lunged forward.
Before Arcee could comprehend what happened, a shock-baton struck her head.
Ratchet then retreated into a corner, his back pressed against the wall with a shock-baton in hand.
Arcee was supposed to be asleep.
Ratchet was besides himself with exhaustion. He could barely keep his optics alight, as he stared down at Jetfire's dessicrated corpse.
Only now did Ratchet find the time to address the issue.
The Prime was safely tucked away into a recovery-induced stasis-lock.
And Arcee was "peacefully" snoozing away in recharge
In the rush to give Optimus Prime and Arcee medical attention – Jetfire's corpse had been left to fester in the hallways of the Autobot-base, thrown like a ragdoll across the ground – and was, for all intents and purposes, a bleeding-black pile of scrap.
Ratchet wanted to throw the body into the clinic's furnace – only Jetfire wouldn't fit.
His adult-armor was thick and precarious – more like an insecticon's exoskeletal-shell than any plating Ratchet ever recalled working upon.
Jetfire's armor was denser than the typical cybertronian's metal, which was already a titanium-alloy; in fact, it was known as the strongest metal in the galaxy by most civilizations.
Yet Jetfire, offered something new and terrible.
And the fact that the Star Saber had been able to pierce such a creature, was utterly amazing to Ratchet.
The discovery was worrisome enough to warrant further study – when Ratchet could blacksmith himself new chainsaw blades, which had been ultimately shredded, when he tried to pry Jetfire apart – for the forge.
Jetfire had spilled a disgusting black sludge everywhere.
Ratchet suspected it was energon, corrupted by some Decepticon scheme.
And the good doctor could only hope it wasn't contagious.
For Arcee's sake.
…
…
…
Eventually, looking at Jetfire grew unbearable…
Once, that mechling had requested to become his apprentice.
Once, Ratchet had given him a chance, to prove himself.
But Jetfire was a monster – Ratchet's instincts had been right not to teach him.
And that.
Had been that.
…
…
…
Tired as he was, Ratchet was about to put Jetfire on ice – into the base's closest equivalent of a morge.
But.
Some instinct in the back of his head urged him not to.
Instead, Ratchet followed the normal procedure to be done when a patient expired.
He opened up Jetfire's spark-chamber, witnessing with his own eyes the dark and empty husk which laid there.
He didn't bother to poke or to prod his servo inside for any sign or heat of a spark-signal.
Ratchet already knew the mechling was dead.
No one could survive a Star Saber embedded deep within their processor.
But Ratchet hummed, feeling he was missing something. Jetfire was still a stark-fire orange – his nanites hadn't drained away into the severe shade of grey expected of the dead.
But.
Ratchet's further investigations could wait until tomorrow. He didn't have the time nor energy to play scientist with a corpse.
So without ceremony, and a hint of disgust, he wheeled Jetfire away, using a transportation-berth, into the closest equivalent of a morgue -- a dusty and cold storage unit.
Autobots, once-upon-a-time, had built morges into all of their bases – when their numbers were high enough to demand such an expensive accommodation.
But now.
On Earth.
The numbers were so few…
When Optimus's Team of Mechs first awoke upon the alien planet, all of them had been hopelessly optimistically convinced that no one would die.
Now Ratchet was forced to store Jetfire besides the shredded remains of Smokescreen and Bulkhead's bodybag.
And Wheeljack had long been rendered into an unassuming stack of ingots -- reserved for use in explosives and weapons of mass-destruction.
Just like the mech had always "wanted to be."
'But who is going to make those piles of weapons and bombs that you always "wanted to be" Wheeljack?' Ratchet petted Wheeljack's pile of ingots, with an uneasy smile. "Bet you didn't think of that, huh?" He said, out loud.
There was no one left to build weapons and bombs.
Wheeljack had been one of the best weaponsmiths the Autobots had ever had...and now...he was dead...just like that...
It wasn't far.
His friends deserved better.
And Jetfire, he hoped to Primus.
Was in The Pit.