robothell | Bedside Manners

Who: Red Alert, Sentinel, and anyone
Where: Medical clinic somewhere in the city
When: Two weeks after arrival (Or whenever really)
What: Red Alert finds a medical clinic and works on getting it up and running
Warnings: Red Alert's bedside manners

The medical centre is in somewhat decent shape. She does have some problems though. For one, she's having trouble getting power to certain parts of the station. A medic she may be, but a technician she is not. Luckily, she manages to get some crucial machines working, but if anyone needs any surgical work done, then they're very much out of luck. Still, this is more than she had before, and she's quite pleased with the progress she's made.

She asked Sentinel to help her, and he did. In return, she fashions him a (semi)brand new hand. It isn't pretty, but it is functional. He's just have to be happy with that. Now, she really, really, really wants him to leave. To her credit, she at least tries to be subtle about it.

"That's all for today." She says, shortly after Sentinel had moved a piece of furniture from one side of the room to the other. "Now please leave."

Later on, after finally getting rid of Sentinel, Red Alert is found outside the clinic, trying hard to dislodge a piece of debris from what used to be a window. Sure, she could have Sentinel do that for her, but she had forgotten to ask him in her haste to get rid of him. Unfortunately, her small, thin frame is no match for the hunk of rock. That doesn't stop her from trying.

After that, she could be found indoors, doing whatever medics do when they don't have reckless idiots to scold.

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Ratchet eyes the grip on his wrist, then transfers his gaze up to Megatron's face, looking annoyed but not overly worried. He's been threatened by patients much bigger and more unreasonable than Megaatron has been, but he does keep relatively still.

"War's over, when I'm from. And having my number of charges go from several million to about two hundred gave me the time I needed to make sure everyone did proper routine maintenance." Swerve. How he'd ducked so many shots and exams, Ratchet had no idea. You'd think a metallurgist would know better.

"Anyway, if you don't trust me not to inject you with acid, why the hell are you here in the first place? Don't tell me you're this frightened of needles, come on."

"Find another site," that sounded like a cold order.

"Get the other ones over with. But the ones at the base of the neck - find somewhere else to insert them."

He keeps his hold on that wrist, insistent but not overly forceful. It was more caution than an attempt to intimidate.

Ratchet opens his mouth, looking steadily more irritated before he meets Megatron's optics and something in them makes him stop dead. His own optics flicker, just faintly, his expression shifting slowly until all of the petty annoyance is drained out of it to leave a kind of icy, sick realization, transparent as smooth crystal. His wrist goes slack in Megatron's grip, and hard of the heels of that nauseated understanding is a hot flare of something sharp and bare and uncomfortably close to rage before he looks quickly away, letting warm air from his vents in a slow, shivering hiss. His voice is quiet and very level when he speaks again.

"All right," he says, his gaze even as he looks up at Megatron again, still not pulling out of his grip. "...all right. They can wait, the extra ones. I can put them somewhere else after the other maintenance is done, if you'll come in for a follow-up."

Edited 2015-01-07 05:18 (UTC)

There's a pause, and Ratchet's wrist is let go. He wasn't expecting the Autobot to concede so easily, but he was glad there was an unsaid understanding. He'd rather not explain any further.

The miner's plates relax, and he settles back into the slab. He was getting a little more comfortable with this doctor.

"Get going."

"...yeah."

Ratchet watches Megatron's face for another moment, tanks churning. He almost asks--who it was, what they took--if he knows what they took. But it's not his business, not really, and it's not like there's anything to be done about it now.

"Yeah, all right. Hold still." He takes Megatron's elbow and presses the syringe to a major line bared by the hinge of the joint there, pressing the plunger and watching it empty with a soft, pneumatic hiss. He does this twice more before he lets Megatron go and steps back, looking suddenly very tired.

"Go on, sit up. One more thing and you can go." He starts collecting some of the chemicals they've managed to scrape together, his mouth set into a thin line and his optics dim.

It isn't his business, and given how fresh the event was in his mind at his point in time, it's be unlikely he'd be willing to share any of the details. Not like this.

Unsurprisingly, he watches Ratchet as he inserts the hypo into his line as the blue-pink fluid was swept up into his system. The other two are pressed in with no struggle from him, and Ratchet will find him to be quiet and tolerable for the rest of that procedure.

He gives Ratchet a curious look as he sits up again, wondering why the doctor suddenly looked so exhausted. But he doesn't say anything, opting to drink the rest of the energon while he prepared a chemical solution.

"You're done? Good. Drink this next."

Ratchet presses the mixture into Megatron's hand, his mouth twisting.

"It's going to be disgusting, not to mention uncomfortable, but it'll burn some of the buildup out of your lines. It's the best I can do right now, anyway." He steps back, sweeping over Megatron with a dispassionate, critical optic before he looks up at him again.

"And I want you back in a few days for a follow-up, to make sure. Anything else you can think of, while you're here?"

Megatron gives the solution a good whiff before twisting his own expression a little bit. He was far from afraid of discomfort, but like with the rest of the check-up, he liked to know what he was tossing in his tanks.

"It smells like the proppant we used on Nova Peak." Similar purpose, he supposes.

But Ratchet had plenty of opportunity to hurt him if he wanted, so it was bottoms up. He could feel the burn immediately as it washed down his throat, and it's clear in his expression. He actually needs to pause for a second - halfway done, gripping the edge of the table, to relax and cycle air through his vents.

After a few seconds, he drinks the rest, leaving the container empty and looking slightly sick as the fluid made its way past his tanks and into his pumps. No warning signs from his systems, at least, but it certainly did feel as awful as Ratchet warned him.

Edited 2015-01-07 12:30 (UTC)

"Yeah, I bet it does," Ratchet snorts, looking almost amused as Megatron drinks one half of the mess, then the other. He hesitates, watching Megatron's face narrowly, his own expression closed.

"You all right?"

Soon enough, the feeling subsides enough for his expression to fall back to a neutral stare. Looks like the answer to Ratchet's question was yes.

Megatron reconsiders his original plans for ending their little meeting on a threatening note, given that his tanks were still churning. He does cross his arms as he looks back at the tcog laying on the counter behind Ratchet's head.

"Consider that a donation to the clinic," he looks back to the doctor,"As long as it doesn't end up back where it started."

Ratchet vents a crack of black laughter, his optics glittering.

"I'm more worried about someone else I know is around getting his grubby little addict's hands all over it, but I won't be so unkind as to undo all the hard work you put into removing it in the first place, don't you worry."

Bedside Manners

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