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Captive (3/3)
Title: Captive (3/3)
Rating: R
Warning: Torture, sadism, dismemberment, a certain Combaticon interrogator being off his leash
Characters: Vortex, First Aid
Universe: G1
Summary: Rescue comes, but are they too late?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
“Doc?” Streetwise called, stepping into the medbay, a brown-paper package tucked under one arm. He glanced around, taking in the exceedingly clean tools and berths with a worried frown.
“I’m here, Streetwise,” Ratchet called back, stepping into the main room. “What do you need? How is Blades?”
“Climbing the walls,” Streetwise said. He shook his head. “He’s frustrated. Wants to be out there looking.” He managed a lopsided smile. “Told him that he isn’t going to be much help if his rotors pop off at a few hundred feet, but he didn’t seem to appreciate it.”
“It’s hard,” Ratchet said with a sigh, “Being the stuck waiting while others search. How are you holding up?”
“Worried,” Streetwise admitted, optics troubled. “I want my brother back, but pacing’s not helping, so I’ve been trying to make myself useful.” He looked pointedly at the cleaning rag and drill in Ratchet’s hands. “It helps to have something to do.”
Ratchet followed his gaze, then made an embarrassed cough, setting both rag and tool aside. “Yes, it does,” he agreed.
“A package came in,” Streetwise said, holding the box out. “Addressed to the medbay, marked ’extremely urgent.’ So I volunteered to bring it down.”
Ratchet took it, turning the label to face him. “Probably test material for Perceptor to run,” he said. “Or something Wheeljack asked for, though that usually goes directly to him...” He trailed off, carefully removing the paper and unsnapping the latches on the shipping crate underneath. “If you’re still looking for busywork, I’m sure I can come up with some-” he broke off, cooling fans going still.
“What is it?” Streetwise asked, alarmed. He stepped closer, peering in to see what it was that had got such a reaction from Ratchet.
Ratchet didn’t answer, reaching a trembling hand into the box, brushing fingertips down smooth Cybertronian metal. “Go get Prowl,” he said finally.
“What is that?” Streetwise asked. “Is it something to do with First Aid? Ratchet?”
“Go get Prowl,” Ratchet repeated, voice steadying.
Streetwise hesitated, torn between finding out what was happening and obeying.
“Now, Streetwise!”
Streetwise turned and ran.
x-x-x
“Tell me that isn’t what it looks like,” Prowl said grimly as he strode into the medbay, Wheeljack on his heels.
“I really wish I could,” Ratchet answered, carefully setting the finger strut next to the others, keeping his optics down, avoiding Wheeljack. If he saw what he was feeling mirrored in Wheeljack’s expression, he’d lose the tight grip he had on his composure.
“I know this is hard,” Prowl said, stepping closer. “But we need any clue we can gain from this. The smallest thing may tell us where and how First Aid is being held.”
Ratchet’s grip on the edge of the shipping container tightened. Didn’t Prowl think he was aware of that? “I know,” he said sharply. “The outer wrapping is in a bag behind you. Maybe Perceptor can find something.”
“I’ll take it,” Wheeljack said hastily. He paused at the door, bag in hand. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”
Prowl hesitated. “Ratchet,” he said in a gentle tone that Ratchet wasn’t used to hearing from him, “You have always had a very close relationship with First Aid-”
“My judgement is not impaired,” Ratchet snapped.
Prowl looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I am merely suggesting that it might be beneficial to have Hoist finish the examination.”
“No!” Ratchet vented air, trying to control the trembling in his hands. “No,” he repeated, quieter. “I’m the chief medical officer. I’ll finish it.”
Seeming almost relieved to give in, Prowl nodded briskly. “Very well. Is there anything you can tell me so far?”
“A great deal, most of it horrifying and very little useful,” Ratchet sighed.
“The smallest detail may prove the crucial one,” Prowl told him.
Irritation and frustrated anger flared. “I fail to see how the type and size of scalpel used could have any bearing on getting First Aid back!”
“Perhaps not,” Prowl said, unfazed by the anger. “But is there anything that can give you a hint to First Aid’s condition?”
Ratchet forced himself to let go of the shipping container before it cracked in his hands. “He’s alive,” he said quietly. “At least, he was when the hand was removed.” He motioned to the lubricant tubes laid out next to the struts. “Each line shows marks from line clamps. If...” His voice shook, and he had to stop to gather himself. “If he was deactivated, there wouldn’t be enough pressure in the lines to need the clamps.”
“That’s something, at least,” Prowl said with surprising gentleness. “Keep me informed, Ratchet.”
“Yeah,” Ratchet said hoarsely. “Will do, Prowl.”
It wasn’t until after the door hissed closed behind Prowl that he could bring himself to reach back into the crate and carefully lift out the next piece, a section of flexible palm plating, feeling so cold and dead - it shouldn’t feel any different than an unused part, but somehow, it did. His pumps clenched as he looked down at it, slowly turning it over... and stopping short. A series of numbers had been scrawled across the plating - a comm frequency. Under the numbers in tiny, cramped handwriting - tell no one or he dies.
Ratchet stared at the numbers and wondered what the frag he was supposed to do now.
x-x-x
“Took you long enough,” a voice answered Ratchet immediately, heavily accented with Kaon twang and sadistic cheer. “I was startin’ to think y’all didn’t like my present.”
“I didn’t,” Ratchet growled.
“Aw,” Vortex affected a whine. “I’ll do better next time, Boss, I promise!”
Ratchet’s fingers twitched. First Aid called him “boss.” It’s a cheap trick, he reminded himself. He’s trying to push your buttons, get you off guard, get you to act rashly. “What do you want, Vortex?”
“Want? Me?” Vortex laughed. “I already got what I wanted, Boss. I just thought I’d be nice, see if you wanted the rest back, but if you don’t want it...”
“No games,” Ratchet snapped. “Where’s First Aid?”
“But I like games! I got one all ready for you, too. You want what’s left of the little medic-bot - why’d you make him so pretty, anyway? I really just couldn’t help myself, he’s just so... so... soft and pretty...” His voice changed as he spoke, lowering to a rough croon.
Ratchet’s tanks churned, and he couldn’t help but imagine Vortex looming over a helpless and terrified First Aid, speaking to him in that same hideous caressing purr. “How do I know he’s still alive?” he said sharply, trying to drag the Decepticon back to a safer ground.
“Hm? Oh, didn’t you wanna talk to him?” The radio clicked and hissed, then Vortex’s voice came back, more distant on his external comm. “Wakey, wakey, Aidy! Daddy wants to talk to you...”
There was a soft groan that made Ratchet’s spark ache.
“There ya go. Come on, Aidy, tell Ratchet all about the fun we’ve been having. Don’t worry about me, I can wait.”
And hang on every word, the sadistic fragger, Ratchet thought angrily. He pulled air in his intakes, trying to steady himself before he spoke.
“No.” First Aid’s voice broke in before he could.
“No?” Vortex repeated, curious.
“I told you,” First Aid said, voice tired and pained but unshakable. “I’m not going to play your games.”
Vortex laughed in delight. “I love this little bot! Isn’t he so cute?”
The comment was directed to Ratchet, but First Aid answered anyway, flat and hard and final. “No.”
“Hang in there, Aid,” Ratchet said quietly. “I’m coming for you.”
“Oh, that’s what I was gonna say before you got me distracted with Aidy’s pretty little face,” Vortex broke in cheerfully. “I’m perfectly willing to give him back - but only to you.” Vortex’s voice turned dark. “If you fail to show, or I spot so much as an Autobot tire track, he dies and I mail you back the pieces.”
He’d expected no less. “I get it. Where and when?”
Vortex told him the coordinates, and the comm went dead.
x-x-x
The air was hot and still as Ratchet approached the old storage barn. His scanners registered one Cybertronian inside - too small for Vortex, and he could only hope it was First Aid.
Nothing like walking into a trap to get the fuel-pump going, he thought wryly. A soft rhythmic whump-whump could barely be heard at the edge of his audio range. And there’s the bastard now. He waited, but the sound faded again.
He forced his fans to restart and headed for the barn door. Each step felt like a ton of rubble crushing down on him, dragging him down with fear and dread. He unholstered his weapon as he reached the door, all too aware that he could be opening the door to the barrel of Swindle’s latest illegal weapon.
He stepped to the side of the door and pushed it open, wincing when the sliding hinge squealed with rust. So much for the element of surprise. He ducked quickly through the door, weapon up, ready to duck out of the way.
Nothing moved inside. The smell of spilled coolant and used lubricants hit his olfactory sensors, an all-too familiar combination. “First Aid?” he called, scanning the interior. One Cybertronian lifeform, behind the tangle of fallen beams.
“Ratchet?” First Aid’s voice was raspier than he could ever remember hearing it, but it was undeniably him.
“Thank Primus!” He holstered his weapon and made his way around the tangle, a clinical detached part of him noting the drying pools of fluids, spreading out below a set of beams wedged tightly to the wall. Not wedged, he realized suddenly. Glued.
And huddled next to those beams, First Aid, curled in on himself and shivering.
“Aid?” Fluid loss, shock, the clinical side assessed, even as he reached for First Aid.
First Aid jumped at the touch. “Ratchet? Is that really you?”
“Yeah, kid, it’s me,” he said, keeping his voice reassuring and even. Outside, he could hear the rhythmic sound of rotors again. “Come on, we need to get you out of here-” he faltered as First Aid lifted his head. Ragged, empty sockets where First Aid’s gentle optics should be- I’m going to kill that fragger.
“You have to get out of here,” First Aid rasped. “It’s a trap-”
“I know,” Ratchet managed. “But I’m not leaving without you.”
“I can’t transform, and you need to go now, before he gets back!” First Aid moved, as if to grab for Ratchet’s arm. Vortex hadn’t just taken the one hand, Ratchet saw with a sort of numb horror, he’d taken both.
“We’re leaving together,” Ratchet said fiercely. “No arguing.”
A heavy thump outside told him that they’d run out of time.
“Aw, ain’t this cute!” Vortex blocked the doorway, wrist-mounted lasers trained on the medics. “So nice of ya to answer my invitation. Now, if ya wouldn’t mind puttin’ the gun on the box right over there, I won’t feel the sudden need to shoot your little friend in front of you.”
Ratchet could feel First Aid’s vents hitch. “I’m sorry,” First Aid whispered. “I’m so sorry, this is my fault. You shouldn’t have come-”
Ratchet put a finger to First Aid’s lips to silence him. “Stop it,” he said gently. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
“So sweet,” Vortex cackled, head turning to watch Ratchet put the gun down, but keeping the lasers trained on First Aid until Ratchet had moved back to the injured mech. “There’s just something about medics, y’know,” he mused, half-turning to pull the door closed behind him. “So pretty and sweet and just beggin’ someone to come take advantage.”
“Two problems with that assessment,” Ratchet said flatly. “First, I didn’t come alone. The others are waiting outside sensor range for the signal I gave them the second I saw First Aid. I figure you have less than ten minutes before this place is swarming with Autobots.”
Vortex cocked his head curiously. “Figured that,” he said. “But interestin’ that you’re riskin’ the little ‘bot by tellin’ me. I did say I’d kill him if you brought ‘em, didn’t I?”
“You won’t,” Ratchet said flatly, standing and stepping towards Vortex. Frag, the Decepticon was big, much bigger than himself, taller than Optimus, even. “Because you’re not done with him. He’s stronger than you, and you couldn’t break him, could you?”
Vortex laughed. “Yet,” he corrected. “I haven’t broke him yet. But I will.” He fanned his rotors. “And you, too.” He unspaced his rifle, adjusting the settings.
Now or never. Ratchet unspaced his hold-out weapon and fired point-blank, catching the helicopter squarely in the midsection. Vortex yelped in surprise and pain, staggering back into the door and taking it right off its rusting hinge. “Secondly, I carry more than one weapon, fragger,” he growled, and fired again.
Vortex scrambled up and out of his line of sight. “Ha! I think I like you!” he called from around the side of the building.
“The feeling’s not mutual,” Ratchet growled. The rumble of approaching jet engines made him smirk. “You know that ten minutes you had? That wasn’t factoring in the Aerials. I figure it more like ten seconds for them.”
Vortex swore, and took off in a flurry of rotors.
“We got a visual, Ratchet,” Silverbolt’s voice came over the comm. “We’re in pursuit. Are you okay down there?” Ratchet could tell he wanted to ask about First Aid, but was restraining himself. He was just as glad - what could he say?
“We’re secure,” he said instead. “Get him, Silverbolt.”
“Roger that.”
Ratchet crouched down by First Aid, reaching out to pull the younger mech into his arms. “Come on, Aid. Let’s go home.”
Rating: R
Warning: Torture, sadism, dismemberment, a certain Combaticon interrogator being off his leash
Characters: Vortex, First Aid
Universe: G1
Summary: Rescue comes, but are they too late?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
“Doc?” Streetwise called, stepping into the medbay, a brown-paper package tucked under one arm. He glanced around, taking in the exceedingly clean tools and berths with a worried frown.
“I’m here, Streetwise,” Ratchet called back, stepping into the main room. “What do you need? How is Blades?”
“Climbing the walls,” Streetwise said. He shook his head. “He’s frustrated. Wants to be out there looking.” He managed a lopsided smile. “Told him that he isn’t going to be much help if his rotors pop off at a few hundred feet, but he didn’t seem to appreciate it.”
“It’s hard,” Ratchet said with a sigh, “Being the stuck waiting while others search. How are you holding up?”
“Worried,” Streetwise admitted, optics troubled. “I want my brother back, but pacing’s not helping, so I’ve been trying to make myself useful.” He looked pointedly at the cleaning rag and drill in Ratchet’s hands. “It helps to have something to do.”
Ratchet followed his gaze, then made an embarrassed cough, setting both rag and tool aside. “Yes, it does,” he agreed.
“A package came in,” Streetwise said, holding the box out. “Addressed to the medbay, marked ’extremely urgent.’ So I volunteered to bring it down.”
Ratchet took it, turning the label to face him. “Probably test material for Perceptor to run,” he said. “Or something Wheeljack asked for, though that usually goes directly to him...” He trailed off, carefully removing the paper and unsnapping the latches on the shipping crate underneath. “If you’re still looking for busywork, I’m sure I can come up with some-” he broke off, cooling fans going still.
“What is it?” Streetwise asked, alarmed. He stepped closer, peering in to see what it was that had got such a reaction from Ratchet.
Ratchet didn’t answer, reaching a trembling hand into the box, brushing fingertips down smooth Cybertronian metal. “Go get Prowl,” he said finally.
“What is that?” Streetwise asked. “Is it something to do with First Aid? Ratchet?”
“Go get Prowl,” Ratchet repeated, voice steadying.
Streetwise hesitated, torn between finding out what was happening and obeying.
“Now, Streetwise!”
Streetwise turned and ran.
“Tell me that isn’t what it looks like,” Prowl said grimly as he strode into the medbay, Wheeljack on his heels.
“I really wish I could,” Ratchet answered, carefully setting the finger strut next to the others, keeping his optics down, avoiding Wheeljack. If he saw what he was feeling mirrored in Wheeljack’s expression, he’d lose the tight grip he had on his composure.
“I know this is hard,” Prowl said, stepping closer. “But we need any clue we can gain from this. The smallest thing may tell us where and how First Aid is being held.”
Ratchet’s grip on the edge of the shipping container tightened. Didn’t Prowl think he was aware of that? “I know,” he said sharply. “The outer wrapping is in a bag behind you. Maybe Perceptor can find something.”
“I’ll take it,” Wheeljack said hastily. He paused at the door, bag in hand. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”
Prowl hesitated. “Ratchet,” he said in a gentle tone that Ratchet wasn’t used to hearing from him, “You have always had a very close relationship with First Aid-”
“My judgement is not impaired,” Ratchet snapped.
Prowl looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I am merely suggesting that it might be beneficial to have Hoist finish the examination.”
“No!” Ratchet vented air, trying to control the trembling in his hands. “No,” he repeated, quieter. “I’m the chief medical officer. I’ll finish it.”
Seeming almost relieved to give in, Prowl nodded briskly. “Very well. Is there anything you can tell me so far?”
“A great deal, most of it horrifying and very little useful,” Ratchet sighed.
“The smallest detail may prove the crucial one,” Prowl told him.
Irritation and frustrated anger flared. “I fail to see how the type and size of scalpel used could have any bearing on getting First Aid back!”
“Perhaps not,” Prowl said, unfazed by the anger. “But is there anything that can give you a hint to First Aid’s condition?”
Ratchet forced himself to let go of the shipping container before it cracked in his hands. “He’s alive,” he said quietly. “At least, he was when the hand was removed.” He motioned to the lubricant tubes laid out next to the struts. “Each line shows marks from line clamps. If...” His voice shook, and he had to stop to gather himself. “If he was deactivated, there wouldn’t be enough pressure in the lines to need the clamps.”
“That’s something, at least,” Prowl said with surprising gentleness. “Keep me informed, Ratchet.”
“Yeah,” Ratchet said hoarsely. “Will do, Prowl.”
It wasn’t until after the door hissed closed behind Prowl that he could bring himself to reach back into the crate and carefully lift out the next piece, a section of flexible palm plating, feeling so cold and dead - it shouldn’t feel any different than an unused part, but somehow, it did. His pumps clenched as he looked down at it, slowly turning it over... and stopping short. A series of numbers had been scrawled across the plating - a comm frequency. Under the numbers in tiny, cramped handwriting - tell no one or he dies.
Ratchet stared at the numbers and wondered what the frag he was supposed to do now.
“Took you long enough,” a voice answered Ratchet immediately, heavily accented with Kaon twang and sadistic cheer. “I was startin’ to think y’all didn’t like my present.”
“I didn’t,” Ratchet growled.
“Aw,” Vortex affected a whine. “I’ll do better next time, Boss, I promise!”
Ratchet’s fingers twitched. First Aid called him “boss.” It’s a cheap trick, he reminded himself. He’s trying to push your buttons, get you off guard, get you to act rashly. “What do you want, Vortex?”
“Want? Me?” Vortex laughed. “I already got what I wanted, Boss. I just thought I’d be nice, see if you wanted the rest back, but if you don’t want it...”
“No games,” Ratchet snapped. “Where’s First Aid?”
“But I like games! I got one all ready for you, too. You want what’s left of the little medic-bot - why’d you make him so pretty, anyway? I really just couldn’t help myself, he’s just so... so... soft and pretty...” His voice changed as he spoke, lowering to a rough croon.
Ratchet’s tanks churned, and he couldn’t help but imagine Vortex looming over a helpless and terrified First Aid, speaking to him in that same hideous caressing purr. “How do I know he’s still alive?” he said sharply, trying to drag the Decepticon back to a safer ground.
“Hm? Oh, didn’t you wanna talk to him?” The radio clicked and hissed, then Vortex’s voice came back, more distant on his external comm. “Wakey, wakey, Aidy! Daddy wants to talk to you...”
There was a soft groan that made Ratchet’s spark ache.
“There ya go. Come on, Aidy, tell Ratchet all about the fun we’ve been having. Don’t worry about me, I can wait.”
And hang on every word, the sadistic fragger, Ratchet thought angrily. He pulled air in his intakes, trying to steady himself before he spoke.
“No.” First Aid’s voice broke in before he could.
“No?” Vortex repeated, curious.
“I told you,” First Aid said, voice tired and pained but unshakable. “I’m not going to play your games.”
Vortex laughed in delight. “I love this little bot! Isn’t he so cute?”
The comment was directed to Ratchet, but First Aid answered anyway, flat and hard and final. “No.”
“Hang in there, Aid,” Ratchet said quietly. “I’m coming for you.”
“Oh, that’s what I was gonna say before you got me distracted with Aidy’s pretty little face,” Vortex broke in cheerfully. “I’m perfectly willing to give him back - but only to you.” Vortex’s voice turned dark. “If you fail to show, or I spot so much as an Autobot tire track, he dies and I mail you back the pieces.”
He’d expected no less. “I get it. Where and when?”
Vortex told him the coordinates, and the comm went dead.
The air was hot and still as Ratchet approached the old storage barn. His scanners registered one Cybertronian inside - too small for Vortex, and he could only hope it was First Aid.
Nothing like walking into a trap to get the fuel-pump going, he thought wryly. A soft rhythmic whump-whump could barely be heard at the edge of his audio range. And there’s the bastard now. He waited, but the sound faded again.
He forced his fans to restart and headed for the barn door. Each step felt like a ton of rubble crushing down on him, dragging him down with fear and dread. He unholstered his weapon as he reached the door, all too aware that he could be opening the door to the barrel of Swindle’s latest illegal weapon.
He stepped to the side of the door and pushed it open, wincing when the sliding hinge squealed with rust. So much for the element of surprise. He ducked quickly through the door, weapon up, ready to duck out of the way.
Nothing moved inside. The smell of spilled coolant and used lubricants hit his olfactory sensors, an all-too familiar combination. “First Aid?” he called, scanning the interior. One Cybertronian lifeform, behind the tangle of fallen beams.
“Ratchet?” First Aid’s voice was raspier than he could ever remember hearing it, but it was undeniably him.
“Thank Primus!” He holstered his weapon and made his way around the tangle, a clinical detached part of him noting the drying pools of fluids, spreading out below a set of beams wedged tightly to the wall. Not wedged, he realized suddenly. Glued.
And huddled next to those beams, First Aid, curled in on himself and shivering.
“Aid?” Fluid loss, shock, the clinical side assessed, even as he reached for First Aid.
First Aid jumped at the touch. “Ratchet? Is that really you?”
“Yeah, kid, it’s me,” he said, keeping his voice reassuring and even. Outside, he could hear the rhythmic sound of rotors again. “Come on, we need to get you out of here-” he faltered as First Aid lifted his head. Ragged, empty sockets where First Aid’s gentle optics should be- I’m going to kill that fragger.
“You have to get out of here,” First Aid rasped. “It’s a trap-”
“I know,” Ratchet managed. “But I’m not leaving without you.”
“I can’t transform, and you need to go now, before he gets back!” First Aid moved, as if to grab for Ratchet’s arm. Vortex hadn’t just taken the one hand, Ratchet saw with a sort of numb horror, he’d taken both.
“We’re leaving together,” Ratchet said fiercely. “No arguing.”
A heavy thump outside told him that they’d run out of time.
“Aw, ain’t this cute!” Vortex blocked the doorway, wrist-mounted lasers trained on the medics. “So nice of ya to answer my invitation. Now, if ya wouldn’t mind puttin’ the gun on the box right over there, I won’t feel the sudden need to shoot your little friend in front of you.”
Ratchet could feel First Aid’s vents hitch. “I’m sorry,” First Aid whispered. “I’m so sorry, this is my fault. You shouldn’t have come-”
Ratchet put a finger to First Aid’s lips to silence him. “Stop it,” he said gently. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
“So sweet,” Vortex cackled, head turning to watch Ratchet put the gun down, but keeping the lasers trained on First Aid until Ratchet had moved back to the injured mech. “There’s just something about medics, y’know,” he mused, half-turning to pull the door closed behind him. “So pretty and sweet and just beggin’ someone to come take advantage.”
“Two problems with that assessment,” Ratchet said flatly. “First, I didn’t come alone. The others are waiting outside sensor range for the signal I gave them the second I saw First Aid. I figure you have less than ten minutes before this place is swarming with Autobots.”
Vortex cocked his head curiously. “Figured that,” he said. “But interestin’ that you’re riskin’ the little ‘bot by tellin’ me. I did say I’d kill him if you brought ‘em, didn’t I?”
“You won’t,” Ratchet said flatly, standing and stepping towards Vortex. Frag, the Decepticon was big, much bigger than himself, taller than Optimus, even. “Because you’re not done with him. He’s stronger than you, and you couldn’t break him, could you?”
Vortex laughed. “Yet,” he corrected. “I haven’t broke him yet. But I will.” He fanned his rotors. “And you, too.” He unspaced his rifle, adjusting the settings.
Now or never. Ratchet unspaced his hold-out weapon and fired point-blank, catching the helicopter squarely in the midsection. Vortex yelped in surprise and pain, staggering back into the door and taking it right off its rusting hinge. “Secondly, I carry more than one weapon, fragger,” he growled, and fired again.
Vortex scrambled up and out of his line of sight. “Ha! I think I like you!” he called from around the side of the building.
“The feeling’s not mutual,” Ratchet growled. The rumble of approaching jet engines made him smirk. “You know that ten minutes you had? That wasn’t factoring in the Aerials. I figure it more like ten seconds for them.”
Vortex swore, and took off in a flurry of rotors.
“We got a visual, Ratchet,” Silverbolt’s voice came over the comm. “We’re in pursuit. Are you okay down there?” Ratchet could tell he wanted to ask about First Aid, but was restraining himself. He was just as glad - what could he say?
“We’re secure,” he said instead. “Get him, Silverbolt.”
“Roger that.”
Ratchet crouched down by First Aid, reaching out to pull the younger mech into his arms. “Come on, Aid. Let’s go home.”
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Oh shiny
Re: Oh shiny
Oh! You mean to First Aid! X3 (I'm ornery before I get my caffeine, can you tell?)
Re: Oh shiny
Right, there. With extra espresso even. Yes, to First Aid, you goose!
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Also, did I tell you recently how much I love how dark this is? :P
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I loved it! So dark and awesome! And even though I loved how horrifying and dark it was, I was very very happy by Ratchet saving the day at the end.
Thank you!
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