Summary: Pharma haunts Ratchet in an unexpected way.
.o
Whilst on Hedonia, the crew had acquired a few artifacts that few bots on the ship seemed to have experience with yet wanted to learn how to handle. Skids seemed to be a natural at learning to play the holophoner; Cyclonus and his violin; Rewind and his drum set; Swerve and his clarinet; Whirl had gotten an electric guitar and tuba, but the tuba was later given to Huffer once Whirl realised he wouldn't be able to play it.
For some reason, the synthetic keyboard had pulled at Ratchet's spark, which was why it sat in front of him. He'd never played a piano before, never had an interest in it nor hearing it back on Cybertron, until it caught his optic in the musician plaza. Every line of coding told him to buy.
So Drift bought it for him.
Drift enjoyed music. It was one of the few things that had brought him joy while serving his time as a siphonist in the Dead End. Music allowed him to escape from his reality. Lyrics bringing him to situations he'd never been in but longed so strongly for. It gave him mental freedom.
As bots became more proficient in their musical practices, Drift found himself spending more and more time at Swerve's mini-distillery, simply existing as he swayed to the beat of the band composed of amateurs. It wasn't great, but it soothed his spark in a way that brought back a healthy nostalgia for simpler times—even if those times were being viewed through a rose-coloured visor.
Ratchet never deigned to join their cacophony. The keyboard gathered dust in his room until one day, he decided to make good on not wasting Drift's money.
Ratchet didn't care for music. But he forced himself to because it meant caring for Drift.
He skimmed his fingers across the keys, pressing one gingerly to hear it sing a strong A flat. The note was just a sound to him, but there was something in his hands that seem to draw themselves to another key, B sharp, and another key, and another, and another, until the hands were playing an etude that Ratchet had never heard before. He was shocked, watching his servos as though they were possessed. They had to have been—he'd never played a day in his life! When they finished dancing, he sat there, flummoxed. The only explanation he could think of was that Pharma had been practicing playing the piano, but he could never recall the jet expressing an interest in music, either.
When Drift came to his hab suite the next time, he demonstrated this newfound ability. Ratchet didn't understand the music one bit, he didn't wholly understand these tunes that the hands produced, but it made Drift smile. It made Drift happy. And that was enough for Ratchet.
.o
Pharma sobs as Tarn's voice lashes against his spark, scolding it like a toddler is scolded for touching something it shouldn't. He curls in on himself, cockpit pressing a discordant harmony into the keys of the piano.
Tarn plays the keys perfectly, slowing down to show the strokes that Pharma had stumbled on. With a cheerful twinkle in his eyes, he turns to Pharma. Pharma can't see Tarn's face, but he knows there's a smile.
"Again," Tarn says, gesturing to the keys that are ruining Pharma's mood. His hands are made for surgery, not for fiddling with a silly instrument!
He shakes, mustering up the resolution to straighten himself out. His hands find their correct starting position, and begin playing again. If he plays well, Tarn will reward him with one less T-cog per correctly-performed piece.
He stumbles in the same place, the combination of pede movement on the pedalboard of the piano in conjunction with the complex demands of the servo composition making it difficult to master in a single session.
Pharma sobs, cowering yet unable to escape from the suffering that Tarn's Voice wrings upon his very soul.
Tears wrought from pain falls onto his trembling servos. He used to enjoy music here and there, just listening to it, but Tarn has taken away any ability for it to bring him pleasure.
He has to learn, even if it means rewriting some of the programming installed locally in his hands. If it means saving more patients instead of staining his hands with energon, he'll do nearly anything. The casket for his tears would replace the caskets of the dead.