TFA Fic- Medic of Doom

TF Animated - Medic of Doom

“’Scuze me! Comin’ through!” Robots dove left and right to avoid the lumbering giant of a mech and the tiny organic that sprinted after as they barreled through the central living area of the base.

“Bulkhead!!” one called after the high-speed behemoth. “What’s the rush?!”

“Sorry, Prime!” the green goliath shouted over his shoulder. “No time t’ talk! Emergency!!” With no further word of explanation, the bizarre pair disappeared into the medbay, followed by the pneumatic hiss of the door closing.

Glancing around nervously, the mech called Bulkhead shuffled over to an operating table and tried to drop the pile of what appeared to be spare parts from his arms to the table surface as gently as possible.

“Owch!” yelped the head clasped in the organic’s hands. “Careful! My wires are still attached to those, ya know!”

“How the heck are we gonna explain this to Ratchet?” the child pondered. “We used up all our good excuses last week.”

“Then ya’d better start thinkin’ up some new ones,” an ominous, rasping growl stated. The two bipeds still in control of their motor functions jumped in surprise and whirled to face the source of the voice. The disembodied head made do with a scream. Standing there, arms akimbo, was Ratchet, repair expert and Autobot mechanic extraordinaire. Unfortunately, he was also known as the Medic of Doom, and for good reason. His temper and lack of patience for stupid injuries were legendary. And this particular injury was probably the stupidest yet.

Ratchet sighed irritably. Looking past Bulkhead’s enormous—well, bulk—he surveyed the carnage. Bumblebee had truly outdone himself in the field of self-mutilation this time, he had to admit. No two limbs (all of which were stacked in an untidy pile on his workbench) were properly connected to the main body at this point and mech fluid and energon were beginning to seep from some of the more serious gashes. His right hand, lying on top of one of his legs (it was so mangled, Ratchet couldn’t tell whether it was the right or the left), twitched spasmodically, occasionally giving off violent sparks in a miniature of what the organics called a fireworks display. The last filament, though, was the sheepish face of the stunt addict himself. One way or another, the youngbot had managed to completely separate his head (which was covered in dents and smoking in several places) from his chassis, save for the all-important primary wires that kept the energon and mech fluid flowing at a steady rate throughout his frame. These, thank Primus, seemed to be untouched. Ratchet shuddered slightly on thinking of the likely outcome if he had been forced to attempt reattaching even one of those lines. To put it simply, they had a name for cases like that back at the Medicademy on Cybertron: scrap metal. The little glitch didn’t know how lucky he was.

Resting a metallic fist on each hip, Ratchet directed a glare of pure asteroid ice at the youngbots and their human cohort. “On the one servo,” he said in his trademark gravelly tone, “I feel compelled to ask what in the name of Primus you three were doin’ to cause this much damage in the two point six-five megacycles since I repaired you last.

“On the other servo,” he continued seamlessly, ignoring the winces of the youngsters at each emphasized word, “I’d probably fritz a cerebral circuit tryin’ ta puzzle out the mish-mash of an excuse you’d probably try to make up on the fly. In my own interest, therefore, I’m gonna pretend like we’ve already covered that part of the proceedings.” Drawing his optics slowly away from the muted threesome, he began making some manual adjustments to the device embedded in his left forearm. While he did so, he laid down the schedule for the rest of the day. “Bumblebee, I’m gonna put you out with a dose of EMP so I can get to work reassembling this hunk of junk you so fondly call your body. In the meantime, Bulkhead, Sari, I want no interruptions. Make sure Prime an’ Prowl are aware of this.”

The two friends nodded the affirmative, deferring from speech lest they interrupt the medic’s instructions.

“When I’m done, I’ll call you in, Sari, and you can put that Key of yours to good use.”

The human girl fingered the small device around her neck and nodded again. A gift from the AllSpark itself, that Key had reversed a dire situation for the Autobots many times before.

“After that, Bumblebee, I want you to stay on these premises for the next twelve megacycles so I can observe you to make sure all yer parts got reconnected properly.” Seeing the gleam of sly defiance in the younger mech’s optics, Ratchet barked, “An’ don’t even think about sneakin’ off before that time is up! If I catch you leaving this building, alone or in the company of anybot else, I swear to Primus I will personally turn all guilty parties into femmebots!! Do I make myself clear?” His optics narrowed dangerously.

Bumblebee couldn’t help but think how much more intimidating the mechanic looked now that his vantage point was several Earth feet shorter. He gulped nervously (an organic gesture, but one that had become integrated into his protocols, nonetheless) and managed a small chuckle. “As Suronian crystal, Docbot.”

“Good,” Ratchet replied gruffly. He activated the EMP generator and deftly tuned it to the appropriate frequency. “Sari, set his head down on the table.” The girl complied and steadied the cranium when it started to roll toward the table edge. At a motion from the ambulance, she then hurriedly moved back next to Bulkhead’s foot.

“All right then, Bumblebee,” the repairbot said, leveling his left arm at the disassembled mech before him, steadying it with his right. “Say g’night.” A series of low-level EMP waves gently surged out from the generator, bathing the young ‘bot in a pale golden light. The yellow mech’s optics flickered for a second or two, then went dim, his faceplate relaxing into a peaceful expression.

Sari and Bulkhead watched the process with fascination. They had heard a little about EMPs in general as a result of the Lockdown incident, but Sari had never seen it used for herself, and even Bulkhead had only witnessed an EMP sedation a few times in his extensive life.

They were startled from their private thoughts by Ratchet, who had, by now, finished with the sedation and put away the generator. He had used his vocalizer to imitate the sound humans made when they cleared their throats, an intimation of impatience the Autobots had observed in several of the numerous Earth vids Sari had brought for them to watch over the past few orns. Bulkhead was the more surprised of the two; he hadn’t thought oldbots could adapt their CPUs to alien mannerisms the way younger mechs could.

“If you two don’t mind,” the oldbot in question said with some sarcasm, “I’ve gotta patient to piece together.”

The youngsters decided to take the hint without argument. They stepped from the medbay, Sari following her larger companion.

Just as she was about to leave, the human paused in the doorway and turned back. Ratchet was already hard at work, using the high-rez magnifier in his left optic to inspect individual pieces of Bumblebee’s inner components as he held them aloft with an electromagnetic charge.

“Um . . .” Sari hesitated, not quite sure how to proceed.

“G’won, kid,” the medic grumbled, not looking up from his work. “I gotta job t’do.”

“Well,” Sari began, “I was just wondering, wouldn’t it be easier if I just used the Key on Bumblebee now, instead of making you fix him up first?”

The old repairbot sighed and set down the piece he had been levitating carefully on his workbench. He turned to face the little organic. “In theory,” he said, “you’d be right. In practice, however, the major functions I’ve seen your Key perform have mainly been recharges and small, localized repairs, with one exception.”

It went without saying that the exception Ratchet was referring to was the near-deactivation of one of their own as a result of his struggle with the Decepticon, Starscream, for control of the AllSpark. That had been a very close thing, indeed; Ratchet himself had pronounced him beyond help before Sari used her Key in sync with the AllSpark to reactivate him.

Ratchet continued after a short pause. “You could try using the Key before I finish puttin’ Bumblebee back together, but there’s no tellin’ what that’d do to his circuitry. In other words, it’d give his spark an extra charge, but the healing of the severed wires before they’re reconnected might mean they can never be properly connected again.”

“Oh,” said Sari in a small voice. Having grown up around robots and watched their construction her whole life, Sari had a fairly good idea of how the robotic body worked. Her Autobot friends, however, were on a completely different level from the automatons her father had always invented, and her Key seemed to have no other mission in life than to defy all previously held limits of mechanical ingenuity. With so many doors open, almost anything seemed possible. It wasn’t very surprising, therefore, that she hadn’t expected there to be so many factors to consider. She hadn’t even imagined that a poorly-timed use of her Key could leave her friend a cripple. To be sure, it was a humbling thing to contemplate.

“’Sides,” the medic went on, returning his focus to his patient, “Y’ can’t expect all his parts t’just fly back together with a twist of a Key. Just ain’t practical.”

Sari blushed slightly. That had actually been exactly what she had envisioned would happen.

The red-and-white ‘bot spared her a small glance and silently noted her embarrassed coloration. She was so self-assured, it was sometimes difficult to remember that she was really quite young, even for a human.

He was a little gentler when he said again, “Go on, kid. I’ll be at least a couple megacycles patching this glitchhead up.”

The humor of this phrase seemed to brighten Sari’s mood once again. She giggled and ambled toward the exit. “You’re sure you don’t need any help?” she asked.

“I’m sure,” Ratchet replied. “You run along an’ make sure Prime doesn’t fritz a circuit worryin’ over this loose screw.” He rapped a servo joint against Bumblebee’s helmet. “I swear, that ‘bot’s got a spark o’ gold an’ a guilt matrix the size of a planet. He’ll try t’find a way t’blame this fiasco on himself, just you wait.”

The girl giggled again and said, “Don’t worry, he won’t bother you. I’ll be waiting outside.” With a little more bounce in her step, Sari left the medbay, the doors hissing closed behind her.

Ratchet smirked a little and spoke to his unconscious ward as he reactivated his electromagnet. “Kid’s gotta good spark, too. She’d make a decent Autobot.”

* * *

Outside, Bulkhead was trying (and failing) to distract Optimus Prime, the leader of the Earthbound Autobot squad, from the topic of Bumblebee. Sari, upon leaving the medbay, dashed around the former (who stood before the medbay door in a very solid, wall-like fashion that demonstrated how desperate he had become in preventing his superior’s entrance) and stopped near the feet of the latter.

“Bulkhead,” the fire truck was saying in his no-nonsense, worried-leader tone, “I know you and Sari left with Bumblebee last megacycle. You two returned alone and immediately ran to the medbay. You were carrying something, from what I could tell. If it was Bumblebee, then I need to go in there and check on him!”

The megalithic mech, it seemed to Sari, was at the end of his rope (or whatever it was that giant alien robots got to the end of). Just when it seemed Bulkhead was sure to give in and let his superior pass, the girl intervened. “Aw, c’mon, Optimus. If you really wanna know what happened, you could always ask us.” Here she fixed the lean red-and-blue ‘bot with her most convincing “helpful perky human youngling” smile.

This seemed to do the trick. Prime looked askance at the door behind his green-armored subordinate for a moment, then turned to face the Earth-child. With a sigh, he said, “Fine. Give me the details.”

Bulkhead stepped forward and said, “Well, when me ‘n ‘Bee ‘n Sari went out earlier, we decided t’go on patrol of the city.”

Sari took up the narrative, while simultaneously drawing the group out into the main room and away from the medbay. “Then, while we were lookin’ around, we kinda got a little lost in the part of town that’s still busted up from that last Decepticon attack. An’ while we were there, we found this big old highway bypass bridge that was only half blown-up.”

Again, Bulkhead stepped in while the expression on Prime’s faceplate grew grimmer with each word. “An’ so Sari’d brought along some organic fuel an’ we were tossin’ a . . . uh . . .”

“Orange,” Sari provided.

“Yeah, yeah, orange! We got to tossin’ one of those around. An’ then – ya know that vid Sari showed us a couple orns ago? The one with the humans flyin’ around in black coats an’ dark optic visors?”

“‘The Matrix,’” Sari prompted. “And I think you’re thinking of sunglasses.”

“Right, right!” Bulkhead confirmed cheerily. “Well, we started tossin’ an’ dodgin’ the orange like those guys in ‘Th’ Matrix’. Y’know, with all that slow motion an’ bendin’ over backwards an’ stuff.”

Sari came in again, Prime’s faceplate, by now, looking as though, if he were an organic, he’d be very close to being physically ill. This sort of detail from Bulkhead was never a good omen. “Anyway, one of my throws went pretty low, so when Bumblebee tried t’duck under it, he sorta fell on his can. Only, ‘cuz the bridge was at that funny angle, his can kinda just kept on rolling. An’ then, when he got to the bottom, he was goin’ so fast, he kinda bounced off this car that was lyin’ there an’ flew into this wood chipper, an’ then—”

“Enough!” Optimus nearly shouted, looking more frazzled than ever. “I don’t think I want to know anymore. I’m just gonna go check—"

“Can’t,” Sari interrupted smoothly. “Ratchet doesn’t want any visitors.”

“Fine,” Prime sighed again, defeated. “Then that’s all I need to know. Thanks, you two.”

Bulkhead and Sari glanced at one another with a look of what Prime couldn’t help but call self-satisfaction. They walked a ways away quite solemnly, but the fire truck was fairly certain his audio receptors picked up a whispered duet of “Yesssss!” and a flesh-on-metal high five at right about the time the pair would have been just around the corner. He didn’t bother to turn around and confirm this. Instead, he moved slowly over to the TV area and slumped down in one of the oversized seats with a groan.

He was startled when a voice immediately behind him said quietly, “Well, that went well,” but he managed to contain his surprise to a gasp. The only thing that had kept him from reacting with a swing of his rocket-powered axe (a likely possibility, considering the state of his processor at the moment) was the familiarity of the voice.

“If you could call ‘well’ the most stressful briefing I’ve had in my entire career, Prowl,” he replied.

Sure enough, it was the black-and-gold ninjabot who strode around into Optimus’ line of sight and took a seat opposite him. “Honestly,” Prowl said in a measured tone, “I thought you handled the situation as well as could be expected.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward very slightly. One wouldn’t quite call it a smile, but it was certainly more than the stoic expression he usually presented. “Though you really shouldn’t worry so much.”

“I know,” Optimus said wearily. “I just wish those three wouldn’t try so hard to push their luck. If something like this were to happen in the middle of a mission or far from help, they’d be—”

“They would be perfectly capable of dealing with it themselves,” stated the motorcycle firmly. “Bulkhead and Bumblebee are incredibly skilled in their respective specialties, and Sari is, in her own way, better able to defend herself than one would think. They would be fine,” he reaffirmed with a small nod.

Prime understood this and implied as much with a sort of noncommittal grunt. Still, he couldn’t help but feel responsible for what had happened. A leader should be able to keep those under his command in line so that this sort of dilemma wouldn’t be an issue. So that they would be safe.

Prowl seemed to pick up on his superior’s self-accusatory mood and said practically, “What could you have possibly done to prevent this? Even if you had been present, they probably would have insisted on doing the same thing all over again, with the same results.”

“I know, I know, you’re right,” the red-and-blue mech admitted. “Still, I just wish that—”

He was cut short by a resounding explosion coming from the medbay. It was followed by a roaring torrent of curses and oaths so strong, the two startled ‘bots wouldn’t have been surprised to see their paint peeling. The medbay door slid open, releasing a belch of smoke and a very aggravated-looking Ratchet, who seemed to be having enough trouble venting to allow his swearing to die down somewhat. The oldbot braced his servos against his knees for a moment or two, performing the robotic equivalent of coughing, until he could vent properly again.

He then looked up and, noticing the alarm on the faces of the two now-standing ‘bots near the TV, held up one hand. “Don’ get yer wires crossed, I’m fine,” the medic said hoarsely. “Everything’s under control.”

His head whipped around in reaction to something his sensors had picked up. With a bitten-off shout of “Slag!” he plunged back into the medbay. Moments later, he was backing slowly out the medbay door, shooting streams of fire-dousing foam (donated by the local fire department) from the repair room’s ‘bot-sized fire extinguisher. Prime had mandated the installation of several of these modified units throughout the base after a fire had sprung up while the team was out on a mission. Also, Bumblebee had been restricted from being the last to leave the base or in possession of any of Ratchet’s welding tools for the following month.

Eventually, Ratchet seemed to judge that it was safe to cautiously advance back into the room. There were a few seconds of total silence, then a yelp as Ratchet sprang back once more, again brandishing the fire extinguisher. After several long bursts of the anti-flame spray, and one more short one for good measure, Ratchet craned his neck around to assess the damage from a distance. He winced a little and said, “Ooh, that can’t be good fer th’ paint,” before re-entering his domain and allowing the doors to hiss shut behind him.

Optimus and Prowl stood frozen where they had been when they had first been interrupted, their previous conversation forgotten. The stress of the day as a whole suddenly and visibly drained the young Autobot captain, who again collapsed into his chair. Resting a servo palm on his optics, he muttered morosely, “What I wouldn’t give for a cube of high-grade right now.”

Prowl’s optic visor obscured the visual sensors beneath, but he still managed to indicate, with a slight quirk of the visor’s angle, that his opinion of this wish was dubious, at best. “Considering what you told me of your last day at the Autobot Academy, do you really think that would be the best course of action?”

For a very long time, there was utter silence in the room. Optimus contemplated the black-and-gold mech’s words carefully. Not long ago, he had allowed something very personal regarding his expulsion from the Academy to slip out while he had been talking with the other members of his crew. Afterward, Prowl had, to Prime’s great surprise, sought him out to enquire further into the matter. Considering he had been trying to get Prowl to open up to him for practically as long as they had been on the same team, the fire truck had opted to explain his slip of the tongue rather than maintain his silence. The event itself had been exceedingly embarrassing, especially because it might not have occurred if he hadn’t taken that dare. To make a long story short, the debacle had involved the Academy flagpole, a Sharpie-drawn™ likeness of the Decepticon leader, Megatron’s, face, and exorbitant quantities of extremely high-grade energon homebrew. It had ended very badly, and was one of the numerous reasons why Optimus and Sentinel Primes were on such bad terms. Beyond that, even Optimus himself didn’t like remembering much.

Finally, after at least a minute had elapsed, Prime leaned forward, elbows on knees, head bowed; he mumbled a single, almost sullen, “No.”

* * *

The sun had set several hours ago. Detroit was beginning to think about turning in for the night, as the birds had before it at the day’s end. Being a couple miles just outside of town, the Autobots’ warehouse base was partly shielded from the noise and light pollution that oozed from the city nearly twenty-four hours a day; this gave them a small pocket of peace and visibility at night not available for miles around. Through the sky-scudding clouds, the pale, peaceful moon was like the face of a beautiful lady glimpsed in strobe-light fashion through the windows of a passing subway train as it silently thundered between her and her invisible admirer.

A silhouetted figure appeared in the suddenly-open door of the warehouse, stretched two freshly-repainted arms above its head, and settled into a relaxed posture, hands on hips.

It was a good night to be functional, Bumblebee decided. All his parts were back together, none of his protocols were malfunctioning, and, best of all, he now had the whole night to put them through their paces. Sure, the docbot had told him to stay put for observation, but Ratchet wasn’t the one who used these servos every day; Ratchet wasn’t familiar with how each cog ought to feel as he accelerated down the highway or executed a hairpin turn. Bumblebee was, after all, the expert on his own body; if he wasn’t, then who the slag had the right to be? He knew a few laps around the city would be far more informational than any amount of observation, by Docbot or anyone else.

Of course, Ratchet wouldn’t see it that way. Being an oldbot (in every possible sense of the word), how could he? That was why Bumblebee had broken into the medic’s personal stash of high-grade and wheedled the oldbot into first one, then two, then seven rounds of the stuff. The poor guy had gone down like a one-legged khazabeeste after shot number twelve. Bumblebee chuckled at the image stored in his memory core of the normally grouchy medic’s deliriously happy face as he sang some nonsense Earthling song the yellow mech had dredged up on the Internet. In fact, even now, a few strains of the ditty wafted out to his audio sensors through the open warehouse door. Something about cellular bananas, whatever that meant. It made no sense when sung sober, and proportionately less when sung by a robot from a distant planet who was over-charged out of his CPU. The yellow police car snickered again.

After a decent period of soaking up the ambience and basking in his own cleverness, Bumblebee stretched again and said to himself, “And now to take me out for a little test drive.” He quickly transformed into vehicle mode and revved his engines. Because all his comrades were either recharging or otherwise incapacitated, he felt it safe to crow aloud, “And awaaaaaaaay we go!!” as he floored the gas pedal.

For a few seconds, Bumblebee was confidently content. Then, he gradually became aware of the fact that something was sorely amiss. With a start, he realized he wasn’t moving. He cranked into second gear and gunned his engines full throttle. Still he didn’t move – not an inch! Suddenly, he had the sensation of being dragged backward. With panic sending his fuel pump into overdrive, he laid rubber as fast as he could, but to no avail; he transformed back into robot mode as a sudden wrench of whatever force had him sent him flying head over wheels through the air. He let out a yowl of terror that lasted until his flight came to an abrupt and jarring halt.

It took several moments for his gyros to recalibrate themselves. When they did, Bumblebee blearily took stock of his surroundings. A squeak of fear following this survey evidenced his severe dislike of his new situation.

The unfortunate youngbot found himself suspended upside-down in an electromagnetic field, his face inches away from that of a horribly calm Ratchet. Bumblebee quailed under the cold glare the medic treated him to. He opted to improvise, gave a nervous chuckle, and said, “Oh, heeeeeeyyyy, Docbot! I was just heading off . . . to . . . recharge . . .” His excuses dissipated under the stern optic the ambulance directed at him. Evidently, he was unmoved.

Suddenly, and to the yellow mech’s horror, the old medic gave a smile that made Bumblebee’s spark shiver. “Y’know,” the red-and-white ‘bot drawled unhurriedly, “yer lil’ charade mighta worked on some other sap. But, ya left one piece outta yer calculations: I’m a veteran of the Great Wars. I’ve been holdin’ my own in drinkin’ games since b’fore you were assembled!” His optics blazed with furious, semi-inebriated triumph as he noted the slow dawn of realization creeping over the features of his forcibly-captive audience.

True, no ‘bot could be expected to perform at one-hundred-percent processing capacity when over-charged, but Ratchet had learned long ago how valuable a skill it was to present a harmless appearance to a foe. It had become second nature for him to conceal exactly how many drinks it took to put him out of commission, something his comrades in the Wars had come to respect as well as resent. What was truly a feather in his cap was that he had picked up on Bumblebee’s game immediately and been able to keep up the façade through twelve rounds of high-grade in order to catch him in the act. Of course, just because Ratchet was sober enough to plot didn’t necessarily mean he was sober enough to come up with a reasonable punishment.

Bumblebee’s chassis clattered as he shook like a leaf – he hadn’t figured on needing a Plan B in case his ruse was discovered. When he spoke, it was with a frightened stammer. “W-w-what’re you gonna do? T-turn me into a-a-a . . . a femmebot?”

Ratchet cackled unpleasantly. “Femmebot? Nah, that’d be too easy. I got somethin’ much worse in store for you.” He leered unpleasantly at the hapless youth before stalking away, the electromagnet on his right arm towing the airborne mech behind him.

At Bumblebee’s loud protestations, the other Autobots emerged from their respective quarters and converged in the central room. They gave the mechanic and his prisoner a wide berth, their optics confused and not yet fully online. The look on Ratchet’s faceplate and Bumblebee’s continued cries of, “Somebot help me! He’s gonna slag me t’Primus come!! I DON’T WANNA DIIIIEEEE!!!” gave them the distinct impression that they had missed something vital and, somehow, twistedly humorous.

Optimus raised a servo as if to call after the retreating figures, but caught sight of Prowl out of the corner of his optic. The motorcycle had a look on his faceplate that said, “Is it really worth it?” Lowering his arm, Prime answered the look aloud. “On second thought, I think I’ll just head back to berth. G’night, Bulkhead, Prowl.”

“At least,” Prowl mused, more to himself than to Bulkhead, “he’s learning to choose his battles.” With a shrug and a nod of farewell, he too returned to the safety of his room to recharge.

For a time, Bulkhead stood alone on the warehouse ground floor. When he heard Bumblebee’s screams of terror emanating from the general vicinity of the medbay, he seriously considered going to his friend’s aid: “Maybe I oughtta . . .” He was cut off by a peal of maniacal laughter that froze the energon in his tubes. “. . . Nah,” he muttered; he shambled back into his room and closed the door.

END.