2018-12-01 We Accomplished Something
From Transformers: Lost and Found
|We Accomplished Something|
|Participants||Ratchet, Minimus Ambus|
|Summary||Ratchet and Minimus contemplate the true end of the war.|
Some messes require different levels of time and effort to clear than others. In the aftermath of the battle, there are probably few who have had more to oversee than Ratchet, and Minimus is never the easiest patient to wrangle into sitting down and getting himself taken care of. In this case, his primary interests were elsewhere than his own well-being. Once they rendezvoused with Prowl and the damaged, abandoned shell of Maximus Ambus, Minimus threatened to overtake Rodimus's unconscious frame from Soundwave in a big giant hand, but permitted himself to be outvoted in no small part because his medium frame has been so badly smashed up that he wasn't sure about how well it would integrate with the larger systems.
Into the active triage, then, of a post-battle medical facility, Minimus is more a hoverer after Rodimus than he has been willing to sit down and let anybody take care of his arm. The fact that another of his fingers literally falls off shortly after Rodimus's comatose body has been installed in a berth is-- you know, inconvenient. He crouches to pick it up in his good hand, scowling.
Ratchet is tired. He's been at this since the assault began. Energon and other fluids are caked into all his joints, layer upon layer of the stuff from dozens of patients. The medical wards on every ship are full, including the Lost Light. It was a ghastly battle, and now it's Ratchet's job to keep it from getting ghastlier as the hours and days roll on. He couldn't have done it in his old body, but the new one is holding up well. Ratchet wouldn't let anyone else oversee Rodimus's treatment. Let Knock Out handle the Decepticon wounded. He hears Minimus lose his finger as he rounds a corner from checking on a few other critical mechs. The doctor arches a brow. "You look like the pit. I'd get you fueled up but I'm afraid most of it would leak out of you." He gestures. "Find a berth, Minimus."
To pretend he isn't falling apart when he literally just picked his finger up off the floor would be ludicrous, but Minimus still frowns as he palms it, not quite staggering but walking measuredly on his own two legs. "At least I'm upright. I was certain Soundwave was dead."
"I don't question it anymore. Our proximity to miracles." Ratchet replies. He pulls up a stool and sits down next to the wounded Minimus. He goes through the usual checks, making sure there's not some wound that isn't immediately apparent. "I know that sounds funny coming from me. But, it is what it is." Ratchet looks at Minimus's ruined arm. He looks up and asks the question: "Is he really dead?"
As Ratchet checks Minimus over, he mostly finds the raw remnants of his battling without any real surprises. He's lost more fuel than he should have just from all his insistence on stomping around without getting himself taken care of, but he is, of all things, a fairly hardy and hard-to-kill soldier, all told.
He's quiet for a moment, frown weighted at his brow. "Yes," he says. "I could have tried to stop Soundwave at the last, but ... I didn't. It was his choice. And it's... probably better that it's over." He waits a beat and then says, "I trust that is confidential between you and me." And totally given in aid of diagnosis, right. Diagnosis: exhaustion.
"I told Rodimus to kill him." Ratchet admits plainly. He might be exhausted as well. The doctor examines Minimus's ruined arm. "Probably better that Soundwave did it, yeah. Always thought it would be Prime, but, well, didn't work out that way. I still don't quite believe it. I'll be waking up a hundred years from now and there he'll be." Ratchet runs his thumb over a jagged piece of Minimus's ununtrium coated structure. It neatly slices a gash into Ratchet's armor. "Well. This is a problem." He remarks. Famous bedside manner and all.
"I was going to secure his arrest," Minimus announces to the surprise of no one. About to say more, he sets his jaw as he looks a little startledly to the harm he has done to his physician, and he slumps a little where he sits, shoulders dropping. "Oh. I'm sorry," he says. Then: "I was expecting to have to fight with Rodimus and Prowl about it. I had prepared several arguments. In the end, it wasn't my call."
"Not the cut. This is ununtrium. I can't weld a new arm onto an ununtrium base." Ratchet notes. The gash isn't much, it barely seems to bother him. "Though maybe with the end exposed I can graft onto the underlying structure...I'll have to think about it." The exotic problem addressed he goes about the usual tasks: patching any open fuel lines and replacing lost fuel. "Runnin' low." Ratchet says while tapping a suspended energon tank. "We'll need whatever reserves they've got on Cybertron." He's silent for a moment. "The less fighting the better, but...I don't know if it's justice, if Soundwave did it." Ratchet shrugs. "Not sure I care."
"I would grant Soundwave his portion of justice," Minimus rumbles, low in the depths of his frame. His shoulder wiggles a little, shreds of broken off pieces of arm wobbling in the air like so many trailing ribbons of a windchime. "Those closest to the tyrant were the most deluded. It is not the same as what the rest of the universe suffered, but it isn't... undeserving of redress."
Ratchet shapes some softer metal caps and uses them to cover the jagged bits of ununtrium sticking out of Minimus's shoulder. There. Now he won't hurt anyone else who might try and grab him suddenly. Or passionately. Ratchet won't judge. "Sure isn't." Ratchet agrees with that. Minimus's patches are ugly, but they're functional. He'll retain fuel. "So, what now? You think you'll move down to Cybertron? I figure it's only a matter of time now, right? Cons can't keep fighting."
Minimus frowns at the question. "I hadn't considered it," he admits, and after an extended pause as he browses over it in his mind, glancing down at his patches, he says, "We'll see. There is much work to do to restore this place, and I have some ideas for some of it. Do you plan on staying?"
"No." Ratchet replies matter-of-factly. He doesn't look at Minimus when he says it, focusing instead on a screen that monitors his vitals. "When we get things cleand up here, and when it looks like we might actually have peace? I'll be resigning from the Autobot army." He hits a few buttons. "I already told Rodimus. But, he's not technically my commander. As Chief Medical Officer I answer to Autobot High Command. So, you. But, gotta make sure this peace sticks, first."
Minimus Ambus seems taken aback. He opens his mouth, as though there is an argument behind his lips, but then he closes them again. He shifts a little, and then says, "You may not be the only one. The world I hope to see is one ... full of honorable retirements." Ratchet sits back on his stool. He's smiling a little bit, the weariness showing in his shoulders. "I hope I'm not. I'll turn it over to First Aid, or at least recommend him." Ratchet flexes his fingers. A phantom concern: his joints flow beautifully. "Now I'm just thinking about rebuilding your arm and it's giving me a headache. You mind if I leave that for First Aid?"
Minimus glances down at his arm, and then looks up at Ratchet. For a moment he's silent, and then, with the ghost of a smile lighting his own features, he says, "If I am to grow accustomed to having another doctor work on me, I suppose I might as well get started."
Ratchet laughs. "You keep hurting yourself, you might as well get First Aid more familiar with this frame." He agrees. Ratchet sighs, shoulders slumping as he looks at the ceiling and works the bridge of his nose. "Do you know what Rodimus will do? We never really did achieve our goal, did we? The universe kept collapsing on the way."
Minimus's gaze is drawn back to Rodimus's supine form, and the cycle of his vents leaves him the hissing puff of his sigh. "I don't know what he'll do," he admits. "Assuming he survives--." He breaks off and lowers his gaze, staring down at his hands. "We might not have achieved what we set out to do, but we achieved something."
Ratchet glances over at Rodimus too. He folds his arms. "Maybe Drift was right." He replies. "You remember one of his crazy early theories? We went out. We found the long lost colonies. We reunited Cybertron and Unicron and started a new generation. Now, with a bit of luck, we've brought lasting peace." Ratchet looks back to Minimus. "Are we so sure /we're/ not the Knights of Cybertron?" He grins, but it's only a half-grin. And maybe a half-joke.
Minimus doesn't quite smile, but the slant of his gaze is pretty dry. His lips press thin, and his good hand turns over, palm up. He says, "No one tell Starscream."
Ratchet laughs again, short and derisive. "I hope to never have to talk to him again, but I'm sure I'll see his face." Ratchet looks over at Rodimus again. "Vitals are...steady. He'll hold on if we take care of him and his spark holds. It's just...wherever the matrix is concerned, I don't offer a guess."
"He'll hold on, then," Minimus Ambus says with absolute certainty. He has faith in few things like he has faith in Rodimus, apparently. Still, as firm and certain as his tone is, his gaze still flicks with undeniable anxiety in its saccade over Rodimus's frame.
Ratchet reaches over to pat Minimus's leg. He pushes himself up. "He'll hold." Ratchet asserts. "Everyone just needs to rest for a bit. You included. It's...been a long day. No one should make any decisions right now, is my medical advice." An alarm buzzes in Ratchet's ear and he reaches up to hear the code. "I need more damned energon." The doctor grouses. "I gotta see to this. You're free to walk around if you really need to. I'll get First Aid on this immediately."
"Thank you." Minimus doesn't, however, immediately spring up and start storming around. He's just going to sit quietly for a little while. He gives Ratchet a grave nod, glances once more over towards Rodimus's berth, and then slouches back into his own. He's just-- yes. Going to sit here. Just for a little while.