robothell | if you pray to god for rain, don't you complain about the lightning

Entry tags:

ratchet | asafepairofhands

if you pray to god for rain, don't you complain about the lightning

Who: Ratchet and YOU and also whoever else wants to set up threads in here
What: Ratchet's limping around on crutches, feel free to put yourself in the line of fire
Where: Red Alert's clinic
When: A little while after Drift is conscious
Warnings: YELLING? yelling probably

Well, it had been a few days and nobody had nearly died again so Ratchet starts to let himself relax a little.

Not much, mind--Drift and Nautica are still bedridden, if not critical, and there are people in and out all the time. This is completely ignoring the fact that Pharma and Tarn are wandering around out there somewhere, probably terrorizing the general populace or maiming things or doing whatever else psychotic killers do in their clearly abundant free time. Ratchet has no such luxury, and he works, maintaining the patients he already has on top of trying to handle anyone else who comes in the door. He's just not necessarily pleasant about it.

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The sound of someone shuffling out of the clinic rouses Sixshot somewhat. He relights his optics in time to see Ratchet's horrified expression before the medic regains his composure and starts heading back in.

There's the quietest little chuff of amusement from behind Ratchet.

Well. A very brief reunion then.

Ratchet stops and drags in a slow, hissing vent of air at that laugh, keeping careful hold on his rapidly fraying temper--but despite the initial, instinctive flash, he finds himself strangely unafraid. He shifts on his crutches for a moment, then turns back around, his jaw set.

"Can I help you with something?" he says irritably--then shifts, optics flicking over Sixshot's frame. "Are you injured?"

"I only came to visit." Well. Kind of. Sixshot's definition of 'visit' seemed to be a little off as he's waiting in the back of a clinic instead of actually... visiting. Not that the latter would be very well received.

Ratchet will note that there is a fading black mark burnt into Sixshot's right shoulder, but it was superficial at worst. Most of the burn damage seemed to have been taken care of with Sixshot's own self repairs.

Speaking of injuries however, the Sixer turns his attention to Ratchet's missing leg. "Tarn?"

Ratchet's lips peel back from his teeth in something that only bears passing resemblance to a smile.

"However did you guess?" he asks sweetly. "Yeah, he seems to be making the rounds--I'm not the only one he's roughed up, and I got off light." He nods to Sixshot's shoulder. "Who was dumb enough to try to do that to you?"

"Tarn." Sixshot's own teeth flash in a strange beastial expression of amusement. "He loses his head a bit when he's being temperamental."

In this instance, it was Tarn who got off light, really.

"He's trying to punish Megatron by ruining the lot of you." The giant death wolf dims his optics again, seemingly ready to doze off once more. "How futile."

"Considering the fact that I sincerely doubt that Megatron gives a single damn about any of us, yeah, that doesn't sound like a particularly airtight plan," Ratchet says, his anger mounting steadily. "Why the hell is he still conscious and walking around, in that case?"

"Because." Insert vaguely annoyed huff here.

That's all Ratchet was getting as far as the matter of Tarn not being squished went. He's not talking about the strangely calm aftermath of that brief fight to anyone.

"Megatron does care, you know." Sixshot rumbles instead of answering, lazily flexing his gigantic claws against the rubble. "Tarn is his hound, just like me. Loyal hounds know their masters well, and both of us knows that Megatron cares enough that maiming any one of you will tick him off quite royally."

"Yeah, well. You could have gone and done everyone a big favor, you know."

Ratchet adjusts his grip on his crutches, his lips thinning.

"I don't see why he'd care," Ratchet says, a little bitterly.

"Perhaps."

He doesn't doubt for a second that Tarn would have put his name on the List too if he'd known about Sixshot's defection. The DJD leader should have been disposed of. Things had gotten... complicated though.

"Salvation? Redemption? Mid-life crisis?" The Sixer snorts. He only knows how his master feels- not WHY he feels so. "Whatever it is, he's already tossed us under the bus for you."

Ratchet actually snorts a short, helpless laugh.

"Hey, wasn't our choice," he says, shaking his head. "It certainly wasn't mine, anyway. You're welcome to him."

"Don't look at me. I'm not asking for him back," Sixshot grumbles, but he almost certainly sounds amused. "You're stuck with him for the next four million years now. It's only fair."

"Optmius' fault for not keeping the receipt," Ratchet mutters, sounding disgusted. "I don't suppose any of you would take joint custody."

"Optimus Prime needs to start keeping better track of his paper work," Sixshot volleys back, sitting up with a sleepy rumble. "And you're looking at the wrong mech to ask about that too."

"That's not exactly news," Ratchet says, sounding a little peeved, though not at Sixshot. "Maybe Starscream will show up and they can annoy each other for a while, or whatever, and leave us to ourselves. Goodness knows I'm tired of monitor duty."

Sixshot actually throws his head back with a bark of laughter.

"If you think Starscream arriving here is going to give us any manner of peace at all, you're in for an awakening." They'll probably flatten another city with their ridiculous sexual tension too, let's be honest.

"... Primus, I'm going to really miss being able to get drunk then."

"Yeah, yeah," Ratchet says, shaking his head. "I took off from Cyberton in part to get away from the little parasite, I know. Can't blame me for wishful thinking, though."

He looks at Sixshot curiously.

"Can you not at all? I imagine there's someone in this barren rustpile that has to be brewing their own high grade by now. It's not like we have much else to do here but that and killing each other, and we seem to have tired of that as a species lately." He shifts on his crutches. "With a few notable exceptions."

“Obtaining energon’s not the problem,” Sixshot admits with an awkward canine shrug.

“As you know,” because Sixshot yakked about it in the fight after he’d chased Ratchet down. “I was reconstructed with a regenerative dark matter fission cell.”

“I cannot consume energon anymore. I am not capable obtaining of the energy high that results from energon consumption.”

"Right," Ratchet says, remembering now. He's recalling that whole chase more vividly now, actually.

"Well, you have my deepest sympathies. Or something."

Sixshat makes an odd face at that, stance suddenly stiff and awkward. He should probably leave.

Like, right now.

After a moment of internal debate however, he stays put, eyes drifting to the clinic.

"... How is First Aid?"

Ratchet watches Sixshot tense and goes taut himself, his optics sharpening.

"...he's been better," he asks, his voice flat. "Why?"

"Met him at the crater," Sixshot murmurs distantly in answer. Eventually, his attention returns to the medic before him, taking in the sudden change in demeanor.

With an internal shrug, he finally, wordlessly raises himself up onto his four feet again and turns to leave.

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if you pray to god for rain, don't you complain about the lightning

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