Ratchet stops, staring down at his hands, his expression closed and unreadable for a long moment, but whatever else has passed between them, he owes Drift this, at least, doesn't he? The truth about his own actions, whether he's carried them out yet or not. When Ratchet looks up again he looks calmer, and his voice is very level, but he's still rubbing the ragged, welded seams in his wrist absently.
"We went to Messatine, you and Pipes and I, to investigate some oddly consistent patient deaths. It turns out that the commanding officer there was murdering patients to harvest organs for the DJD, and had engineered a virus to kill everyone on the base so he could get off clean. We all contracted it, you asked me to kill you before you could be captured if it was the DJD's doing, I told you to go to hell. I went after Pharma and got the antidote to the virus, but not before I nearly rusted out. He was hanging off the edge of the roof about to shoot me to death when you somehow managed to haul your disintegrating chassis out of a medical slab and up to the roof and chopped his hands off, sent him over." Ratchet holds up his hands, painted red now, but faint smudges of blue are visible through the chipped red if Drift looks closely. "Mine were failing, so I took them. I would have had to stop practicing months ago if you hadn't done what you did, even if I had managed to survive being shot point-blank by Pharma's cannons."
Ratchet drops his hands and shrugs, a little helplessly, his optics focused on Drift's face, watching for his reaction.
"...you saved my life. Twice over. So, no, I'm not dying. Not anymore."
no subject
Ratchet stops, staring down at his hands, his expression closed and unreadable for a long moment, but whatever else has passed between them, he owes Drift this, at least, doesn't he? The truth about his own actions, whether he's carried them out yet or not. When Ratchet looks up again he looks calmer, and his voice is very level, but he's still rubbing the ragged, welded seams in his wrist absently.
"We went to Messatine, you and Pipes and I, to investigate some oddly consistent patient deaths. It turns out that the commanding officer there was murdering patients to harvest organs for the DJD, and had engineered a virus to kill everyone on the base so he could get off clean. We all contracted it, you asked me to kill you before you could be captured if it was the DJD's doing, I told you to go to hell. I went after Pharma and got the antidote to the virus, but not before I nearly rusted out. He was hanging off the edge of the roof about to shoot me to death when you somehow managed to haul your disintegrating chassis out of a medical slab and up to the roof and chopped his hands off, sent him over." Ratchet holds up his hands, painted red now, but faint smudges of blue are visible through the chipped red if Drift looks closely. "Mine were failing, so I took them. I would have had to stop practicing months ago if you hadn't done what you did, even if I had managed to survive being shot point-blank by Pharma's cannons."
Ratchet drops his hands and shrugs, a little helplessly, his optics focused on Drift's face, watching for his reaction.
"...you saved my life. Twice over. So, no, I'm not dying. Not anymore."