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The medics always knew. People looked to Communications for the secrets hidden behind bureaucratic walls, but those were dead ends. The ones who were in the know in that field, already knew you were coming for answers. But in reality, it was the medics who held the secrets of their society’s real horrors.
Who else was going to patch up their mistakes?
Ratchet was assigned high security. The dangerous mechs who somehow slipped by the executions when the rebels were first rounded up were kept alone and isolated together in a mass cell. It was inevitable that they’d tear into each other once in a while. Ratchet had bets they were bored. But, they were too rowdy, too dangerous even tied down, for a doc with less bedside manner than old Ratchet the Hatchet.
So it was his job to tend to the idiots.
“Drift, if you keep breaking this arm, I might just lop it off and be done with it,” Ratchet said, yanking the arm straight on the table. The back plating on the forearm was cracked, and the wires sparked underneath in need of re-attachment. The rest of the mech was strapped face-down to the table, via each limb and a strap around his neck. They never failed to take extra precautions with this one. “This is the third time this week I’ve had to fix it.”
“That’s not my name,” Drift said, softly. He glared at Ratchet through unfamiliar blue optics, irritated by more than his restraints. Ratchet imagined the effect would have been more menacing if the red optics hadn’t been stripped from all prisoners. “Stop calling me that.”
“Your designation is Drift. It was Drift when I found you in the streets before the war, and it’s Drift now. Hate to break it to you, but Megatron didn’t have the power of courts to legally change designations,” Ratchet repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. He wasn’t calling this kid ‘Deadlock.’ He refused. “So sit tight and let me reattach your arm.”
“If my designation was 'Drift’, I wouldn’t be locked up in here, would I?” Drift said, twitching the fingers on his arm. He glanced at the guards watching down on the open med-bay, and it’s rusted walls and floors. They didn’t care what went on down here. Ratchet knew that for fact, but someone above declared medical care was a right in some twisted logic. The injured prisoner laughed at Ratchet, “'Drift’ was a druggie who was hopped up on neural boosters. 'Deadlock’ was the Decepticon Rebel. Last I checked, only that second group were hidden away under the city.”
“Trust me,” Ratchet snorted, “All the drug addicts are dead. Wiped away with the officers.”
“A clean sweep,” Drift said, his voice almost wistful.
“Yeah,” Ratchet sighed, moving his tool to a new area on the damaged arm. He picked the end of a wire and gently pressed the metal against the torn end. He welded it gently. An edge of static whispered under his words. “That’s what they called it.”
“Why do you do this?” Drift asked again. He always asked. Ratchet’s shoulders hunched, and he prepared for the assault. Guns and swords were not the only weapons at a mech’s disposal. Ratchet thought those were the kinder options at the end of the day. Those wounds he could repair. Drift continued, “Why do you fix us to live again? You could be helping so much more, you know. The other doctors do it for the minimum security inmates.”
“I’m not like other Doctors,” Ratchet said, concentrating on the wound. Connect, hold, weld. Repeat. It was steady work. Block him out.
“I know,” Drift answered. He moved his finger slowly back and forth on the arm Ratchet had under his care. The gears moved, escaping the tool’s reach. Making it difficult to repair. “That’s why I want you to do it.”
“Drift.”
“I love you, Ratchet,” Drift said, his voice whispered lies. He gripped his hand into a fist, tightening a pump and jerking Ratchet’s tool. It struck a burn across the edge. Drift stayed bolted to the table, but Ratchet felt as if he were hovering behind the back of his neck. “Love me, too.”
“Don’t you dare,” Ratchet hissed, slamming his hand into the back of Drift’s palm and straightening the fingers out. He lowered his voice, and gripped his hand into a fist around his welding tool to stop the tremble. “I already told you I wasn’t going to do it. Stop moving.”
“Ratchet, please,” Drift said, with the same inappropriate sugary sweetness most mechs reserve for seducing others to the berth. “Be kind.”
“It’s not kindness,” Ratchet said, the room around them grew darker and heavier by the minute. The medical lab smothered him, the walls shrinking in around him without moving. “Don’t ask me that.”
“Then what would be a kindness?” Drift asked, his body resting limp on the table. He flicked his optics on and off, a small shutter of movement. “What is, Ratchet? How instead will you love me?”
Ratchet placed his tools on the table, and scooted his chair back. In view of the cameras and guards, he wheeled over on his stool and placed both hands on the table. On on each side of Drift’s helm they rested, his ground. The doctor leaned down close, and rested his helm against Drift’s to the side.
“I’m keeping you alive,” Ratchet whispered, digging the tips of his fingers into the table top. Drift stared straight ahead, but he listened. Ratchet pursed his lips, and touched the top of Drift’s shoulder with an extended finger. “When I met you, dropped on my table burnt out of your mind, I saw something special. I told you as much. I still believe that, Drift. This won’t last forever. You’ll survive it, I know you will, and I’m going to make sure I do everything I can to make sure that happens.”
“You would have made an amazing Decepticon, Ratchet,” Drift said. He turned his head enough to kiss the edge of Ratchet’s lip. “But it’s okay, I can wait. Be selfish.”
“Stupid kid,” Ratchet said, shoving away from the table hard enough to rattle the legs. He closed the outer panel on Drift’s arm, and collected his tools. It was time to go. Ratchet left the room, the mech behind on the table to his back. “I’ll be selfish all I want.”
Ratchet refused to hear the sobbing.