Rated T for generic humor, romance stuff---no porn (sorry
), wartime violence, blood, Cybertronian cursing, and an eventual bar fight...
Ratchet used to hate Saturdays.
Humans, for reasons that the seasoned medic could not fathom, lumped seven of their solar cycles into a unit of time called a "week," the first five cycles of which were mostly devoted to education, work or a combination of the two. The last two cycles of the week, colloquially known as Saturday and Sunday, seemed to function as a sort exaggerated holiday, whereby the humans would, on the whole, abstain from work or school and recreate in various ways.
Jack, Miko, and Rafael--the human children who had, inadvertently, stumbled into the middle of their millennia-old, civil war with the Decepticons--were no different from other humans, except that their recreational activities spanned the gauntlet from quiet calibration assists--as was often the case with Jack--to Miko's cacophonously irritating "music."
The latter of which there was no escaping given the layout of their base, a former missile silo.
Ratchet's research required solitude, long periods of quiet contemplation whereby he could focus his intellect. One couldn't very well manipulate ancient Verio-wave equations, or ground bridge vorticity-flux simulations while distracted.
The humans, in his optics, were a potential liability; a veritable petro-thorn in one's carapace. They were small and weak, gnats in a war between giants. By protecting them, they were putting their own lives in danger. Was a human life honestly worth more than that of a Cybertronian?
Before the scraplet incident, he would have vehemently argued for the later.
Now, the medic condescended to tolerate their presence.
For the most part.
The ground rocked violently beneath Ratchet's trods, as if someone had just spike-lobbed an entire aircraft carrier.
A round of riotous laughter followed, human and Cybertronian.
Gritting his dental plates, the medic narrowed his optics and tried his best to refocus on the equation that he'd been working on for the last two weeks--a recipe for synthetic energon--though it still shook wildly along with the rest of the computer.
This was going to be a long weekend.
"Hey, Ratchet!" Miko's voice called out after several blessed minutes of silence.
The medic sighed. "Yes, Miko?" He replied after a moment, his optics still glued to the computer screen.
"We're playing a game."
"Yes, I've noticed." He replied with a sarcastic chuckle.
"Would you like to play?"
"Aww, you're no fun
"That's right." The medic replied absently, pouring over a new batch of calculations.
"Hmph, fine."Miko stumped off in a huff, her footfalls heavy enough to imitate Bulkhead.
Ratchet smirked and then shook his head. At least she stormed off somewhere else
, he observed dryly.
For a time after, much to Ratchet's surprise, the humans and their guardians were remarkably quiet, except for an occasional--yet tolerable--din of merriment.
The console beeped faintly as another set of calculations appeared. Ratchet stepped back from the station and rubbed at his chin plate, cross-checking the numbers with those that he had computed using his own processors. Something was off, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it.I wonder if
Ratchet's thoughts evaporated
as did the equations that he had just been processing.
Startled out of him by Bumblebee's sudden, and unexpectedly ridiculous outburst--the electronic sounds emanating from his voice synthesizer translating as "I am the mop king."
Now genuinely angry, Ratchet left his console and stormed out into the open. "WHAT IN PRIMUS' NAME IS GOING
Ratchet's voice cut off in mid-sentence; his optics widened and his jaw dropped.
What he saw
was not what he expected, to say the least.