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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After the talk with Megatron, Aftermath makes a quiet change to his current routine. Instead of driving off in hunt of clues that might explain the emptiness of this world, he stays nearer now. In light of recent events, he was needed here instead of out in the empty urban wilderness anyways.

He needed to know more about what had happened. Megatron had already given him his piece, but it was always good to get as many sources of information on an event as possible. Perhaps it would help them predict what Tarn's next actions were.

Stepping cautiously into the clinic, the first person he sees is one of the very people he'd been hoping to talk with.

"Ah, hello," he greets. And because it never hurt to make sure, the old truck adds, "Are you Ratchet?"

Ratchet turns when he hears his name, setting down the set of tools he was cleaning and sterilizing to eye Aftermath warily.

"Yeah," he says, jerking his chin up and taking firmer hold of his crutches to turn and face Aftermath properly. "Can I, uh. Help you with something?"

"I'm Aftermath. Journalist." He flicks the credentials out of his wrist compartment and holds them up. "I was hoping you'd be willing to answer some questions regarding what happened with Tarn."

Ratchet's optics go very, very flat.

"Depends on the questions," Ratchet says, his voice sharp. "We've got two critical patients here, and it's a little more complicated getting everything I need to do done now that Tarn has sawed off one of my legs. I don't suppose you can make it quick."

"It would be no problem for me to come back at a better time," Aftermath points out gently. It wasn't the first time he's drawn back for the sake of the people he'd intended to interview.

"But I can also be quick."

Ratchet vents a crack of black laughter, genuine amusement warming his optics for a moment.

"Exactly how long do you think you're going to be waiting for a 'better time' at the only emergency medical facility on the planet?" he asks, teeth flashing in a brief grin as he shakes his helm, limping smoothly to the other end of a counter to start organizing some of the motley assortment of tools they've managed to collect. "No, if you're just going to come back, let's get this over with. What do you want to know?"

Well, he wasn't about to look the gift horse in the mouth. Stepping further into the clinic, he's careful not to knock anything over with his rather larger than average frame. It was a bit cramped in here for the grey truck.

"Time of the day, location, a date stamp and a basic description of what happened before, during and after. You don't need to go through the explicit details if you don't want to." He flips a little microphone out and gestures to it. "I will be recording you on this."

"And if you need help with things while you talk, I have no qualms doing that too. Is that alright with you?"

Ratchet gives Aftermath an exceedingly dry look, then sighs.

"Why do you want this?" he asks, eyeing the microphone warily. "If you're trying to build a case against Tarn, for some insane, pointless reason, you certainly don't need my testimony to flesh it out. He's well-documented as a monster already--that's the point of him. He makes sure everybody knows what he's done, otherwise what's the point? Why are you so excited to give him a platform?"

"Because the people he's hurt or killed still matter." Aftermath lowers the mic, gently covering it with his palm, expression unreadable. "This isn't about glorifying Tarn's brand of violence, it's about what it's done to the person, what it can do to a community. I hope that discussion will make people think about what can be done about it, not only in regards to dealing with Tarn and his like, but about healing in the aftermath as well."

Looking up, he adds, "Besides, I'd like to know the perspective on matters such as these from people who aren't Decepticons."

Ratchet actually stops what he's doing and sets the tools down, putting his hands back on his crutches so he can turn and look at Aftermath, his optics sharp and focused.

"Yeah," he says finally, nodding slightly. "Yeah, all right. Well, it was right here, a few days ago. Didn't get the exact time. Megatron--the one from the past, I mean, if that even helps since there's a half-dozen of them running around--brought Tarn here to be fixed, not really knowing who he was, and left a bit after. Tarn wanted a t-cog transplant, too, since he'd nearly worn through the one he was using. I told him to shove it up his tailpipe."

Ratchet's optics gleam a little, but his voice is mostly flat as he continues, watching Aftermath's face. "He didn't take too kindly to that and started tearing drawers open and dumping things on the floor. So, I jumped him." He has the grace to look at least slightly sheepish. "Not really the most complex plan I've ever executed, but it's not like I could outrun him if I did get the hell out of there, and he would have ripped the medibay apart anyway. We've only just got it in working order and we need it here. So, anyway. It was a lot of him yelling at me to tell me where the t-cog was and me telling him to go to hell, and he crushed my knee joint in one of his hands before he grabbed a saw from an upturned drawer and gave me one last chance to tell me where it was." Ratchet shrugs a little, helplessly. "I'm stubborn, I guess. So he cut my leg off and then realized Megatron would be back shortly and booked it. I managed to patch it myself before I bled out, and that was it."

He cycles his vents in a rough sigh, leaning a little harder into his crutches.

"Look. I'll treat pretty much anyone who shows up in my medibay, Decepticon or not. It's my job, and refusing care has never been an option, not for us. But just--not him. For a lot of reasons. I just want it be clear it's not our policy to randomly attempt to stab people coming to us for help, all right?"

At the sudden agreement, Aftermath nearly fumbles and drops the mic. That- well! Usually it took a lot more wording at people to convince them to do interviews!

Fortunately, the old truck recovers with relative grace, bringing said mic back up. He didn't have much in way of features, but one could still see the growing expression of horror begin to somehow write itself across his face as Ratchet went through the events.

"I... don't think anyone would blame you in the least for that particular exception," Aftermath manages to utter after a moment of blank staring. He's heard stories of Ratchet. Actually getting the story from Ratchet, blasely told as if it were a bar fight and not a smack down with the leader of the DJD, was a bit... different.

There's one little detail that catches his attention though.

"It's strange, but this is the fourth time I've heard Tarn being linked to a busted t-cog."

"It's not strange at all," Ratchet says, then stops for a moment, debating. "...hell. I usually care a lot more about patient confidentiality, too, for the record, but screw it, it's not like keeping it a secret will make anybody's internal organs safer. Tarn's an addict--addicted to transforming, I mean. I have no idea how many t-cogs he's burned through, but it's a lot, and he's been known to steal them from people who are still using them if he can't just find one lying around, so I'd be careful."

He watches the shock blossoming visibly over Aftermath's face and cycles his vents in a rough sigh.

"Look, it wasn't heroic or anything, all right? Tarn's not some sort of sparkeater--I know, because I've seen one, by the way--he's a mech, and a small, petty, selfish one at that, who just happens to be good at hurting people. The less he's given room to exercise his talents, the better, but being scared of him is what he wants and he's the only one it benefits. It's pointless, and I'm not going to let it get in the way of my work, and neither should anyone else." Ratchet's optics flash and he settles a little into his crutches, flexing his fingers slowly.

"And, for the record, the face he makes when he gets kneed in the pelvic block doesn't exactly inspire spark-shattering terror. I wish I'd taken a picture."

"Ratchet," Aftermath utters, sounding rather stunned. "Tarn is part of an army where one out of twenty five soldiers have personally been smacked sober by Megatron himself. This is the first time I've heard anything about Tarn having an addiction."

He's heard of the DJD collecting t-cogs, but where they'd ended up had always been a mystery. In hindsight, it probably shouldn't have come as such a surprise that the DJD themselves would have been hypocritical on the matter of addiction.

"This is kind of surreal, is all," he says, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "You've basically just fought a mech I've been conditioned to think of as some kind of boogeyman for most of my military career. I know he's not, but..."

Although the description of Tarn getting kneed in the crotch has the journalist smothering an amused grin behind his mask.

"Yeah, by doing permanent, traumatic damage to their FIM chips without their explicit consent! Do not even get me started--" Ratchet says indignantly, then stops. Not the point.

"Tarn," he bites out, lips curling back from his teeth, "has been indulged. Like all of Megatron's favored creations. I knew people who were on Garrus-9, understand? I've actually fought Overlord. But when they're not being indulged, whatever poor behavior they're participating in is willfully ignored, so it comes out to about the same."

He cycles his vents and leans to one side to free up a hand so he can rub his forehelm, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly.

"I mean, I get it. I've had Decepticon POWs beg me not to save their lives because they'd rather just die than risk being put on Tarn's stupid List. But however much they want to think they're special--however much Tarn wants to think he's special--he's not. He's just another petty torturer in a war full of petty torturers, and I'm picking up the mess. It's tiresome more than it is anything else."

"The point of eliminating addiction was to ensure we're all in tip-top shape to keep fighting for the empire." Aftermath looks quietly away. "Overlord is supposed to be the way he is, at least up until the moment he went rogue; a soldier who will kill and destroy, devoid of all other distractions."

"All Decepticons are supposed to be that way." The DJD went after Overlord because he'd let himself become distracted from serving the Cause and deserting his post. Not because of his self indulgent murder arena. Not even in regards to all the Decepticon soldiers he'd killed. It was specifically just because he stopped being useful to the empire.

"Addiction to engex just tended to be treated more lightly because it was so common." FIM chip damage was 'light' by Decepticons standards, really. Very, very light.

"Yeah, well. It doesn't shock me that Megatron would make an exception for one of his most precious murderers. The DJD didn't exactly fight for 'the empire,' either," and there go the finger quotes, "not according to any Decepticon I've ever met. The idea that they were actually helping only makes sense if people fight better when they're trapped and terrified and angry, which hasn't been the case in my experience."

Some of the fight drains from Ratchet, leaving him looking tired.

"Though I guess that's more of an ideological difference than a strictly practical one, ignoring the fact that we technically won the war. Whatever the hell that even means." He shrugs a little, remembering the microphone abruptly and straightening on his crutches, self-conscious.

"Is there anything else you wanted, or is that it?"

The ideological and cultural differences between Decepticon and Autobot society was vast and deep. Aftermath had been struggling for years to put things into words, trying to explain, trying to understand it himself.

It wasn't the sort of thing that could easily be discussed with time constraints however, and he doesn't try to push the subject. He'd already taken up a lot of Ratchet's free time.

"That'll be more than fine, thank you," the old truck nods, flipping the microphone away and shutting off the recording software.

"Before I leave however, I've found some potential supplies while I was out and about. Not sure if it's anything too useful, but..." Sliding a medium sized crate out of his inventory, he looks at Ratchet expectantly. "Would you like me to leave it here for you?"

Ratchet's optics widen at the box, peering into it before something close to an actual smile flashes over his face, brief and bright.

"This is great, thanks." He vents a soft half-laugh. "Keep bringing stuff like this and you can come in and ask all the questions you want."

"Well," Aftermath chuffs, pleasantly surprised at the reaction. "I'll keep my visor peeled for anything useful then."

Especially if he gets to be regaled with more tales of Ratchet kicking over-powered sadists in the groin area.

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

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