The Energon Pub

I wrote this a while ago.

G1. Normal (relatively) universe. Main characters, Ratchet, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe.

Some violence. Some naughty language. Some mild rude things mentioned by not detailed.

Chapter One

“WHAT ARE THOSE?!?!”

Optics widened.

“WHAT ARE THEY DOING IN MY MEDBAY?!”

Mouth agape.

“HOW DID THEY GET IN HERE?!”

Fists clenched.

“In answer to your first question, Ratchet, I believe they are of the genus Gallus, the epithet, gallus, also known as Gallus gallus domesticus – or chickens. I believe they are engaging in common Gallus gallus’ behaviour, pecking, gathering, clucking, brooding. The males are engaging in…”

“PERCEPTOOOOOOOOOOOOR!!!”

“I was simply answering your queries”.

The scientist found bright blue optics that were so focussed on his form that if he wasn’t so well versed in structural mechanics he would have feared that glare piercing his body. He calculated better odds of a snow ball sustaining its structural integrity in a smelting pit then he had of getting out of this functioning at maximum efficiency if he remained here or further added his knowledge to the situation. The scientist smiled gingerly and then cautiously backed away, leaving the medic to the mess organic poultry was depositing in his infirmary.

A quick scan by the medic’s keen visual sensors indicated ten thousand, four hundred and twenty eight chickens, the majority were females however, the two thousand, one hundred and fifteen males were more then making up for their sparse numbers. A group of them were involved in courting rituals, in particular fighting each other for the affections of the females, while others were chasing the females, others were engaged in mating. All of them were making a mess. The end product of their biological fuelling processes was splattered on every surface, feathers, claw marks, blobs of blood added to the sheer magnitude of the mess someone was going to have to clean. Vast amounts of ovum’s were shattered and smeared on a great deal of places. And then there was the noise. The cluckings, broodings, squawking, well, it just wasn’t a pleasant sound for the Autobot’s audios.

The surly medic needed no proof, he needed no second guesses, he needed no assistance, it was pretty damn obvious who had visited this destruction upon his personal space; he just hoped that Sunstreaker was left in a similar condition from catching and transporting these birds. Of course, knowing those two retro rat bastards, they’d probably show up in the med bay after for help just to annoy him further. It was about the time Ratchet started imagining what he could inflict to Sunstreaker’s finish with a flamethrower that the chickens decided they didn’t like him and thusly, attacked him. Obviously an organic creature covered with feathers, the size of a ball attempting to push back a giant robot with a bad temper wasn’t going to end well for them. However, led by one of the more audacious rosters, a large throng of chickens were enough to have Ratchet loose his balance, fall backwards and land hard on the floor – and a few of the slower chickens.

A flash of light suddenly caught his attention as he lay there, covered in grumpy chickens, feathers and their smelly leavings. The medic focused his optics and found the source. A red mech standing there with a camera in his hands.

“Oh man! This is gonna be priceless!”

“Its going straight on my Facebook page, bro!”

The two laughed and then made their escape. Ratchet’s groan was a little more frustrated and a lot more vengeful. A chicken landed on his face and pooped on his nose. He exhaled through his oral vent, a stray feather floating upwards and landing in the poop that ran down his cheek plates.

--

Beachcomber had had a field day when Ratchet approached him and asked him to clear out the chickens. It meant the medic was going to have to put up with Beachcomber’s silent treatment once the hippy-bot discovered the few unlucky chucklers that hadn’t moved fast enough – of course, that was nothing that was going to eat at the medic’s sensitivities. But as much as Beachcomber was a “stoner”, often supplementing his energon with variables, he did manage to get all of the chickens out, find them a new home – some bleeding fuel pump liberal humans with an overt love of animals ran a reserve near by. The medic also gave the hippy credit as he had conned Red Alert into cleaning the lab. Something about the infectious nature of chicken deposits and how it could adversely affect the functioning of the security sensors if it seeped into the wiring. Skids joined in the cleaning when Beachcomber told him of the horrors of some microscopic life form that dwelt in the leavings that if humans came into contact with could fall very ill and actually cease functioning – which would be a PR nightmare if it happened to befall a visiting politician or human dignitary.

Within eight hours of coming upon a medbay full of chickens, it was spick and span as the human phrase noted.

It didn’t, however, solve the problem of the twins and what pain filled torture or revenge Ratchet could drop down upon them once he got a hold of them. Something did tell him that perhaps Prowl would step in and increase their usual punishment; he was not one to go in for their shenanigans. And Optimus, well, rumour abounded that he was sick and tired of their antics, he was fine when it was a moral booster, but that meant nothing was harmed and messes weren’t made.

So it was quite odd then, while Ratchet was running system checks to ensure no internal damage to his computer scanners and diagnostic equipment that he heard the familiar clucking. He sighed as robots did, and leant over the side of the machine and his optics rested upon the large rusty brown hen that was sitting in the corner.

“Booooooooooooooock, bock, bock, bock, bock, bock, booooooooooooooooooock”.

It made quite a rhythmically soothing sound. Ratchet lent down and picked the hen up and sat it on the table next to the computer. It was rather calm and didn’t seem too fussed about the antics that had exploded about it not so long ago.

“Well, now, chicken friend, what do you expect me to do with you?”

The medic noticed a bag of seed that Beachcomber had left sitting on a shelf. He picked it up and scooped out a few for the chicken, who was more then happy to peck them up. It was actually quite calming to watch, but more so because the medic was imagining it pecking the twins’ optics out. The chicken finished its meal then made itself quite comfortable on the desk, tucked its head down into its front… somehow, and began its recharge cycle, which rather then angering the medic, gave him the reminder that it was probably time for his.

--

Ratchet lay in his recharge berth trying to initiate his cycle, but finding himself unsuccessful. His olfactory sensors kept alarming. He sat up and flared his nasal vents in an attempt to better gather in more information about this… absolutely foul stench!!

“HOLY PRIMUS!”

He roared as the full horror reached his CPU. Whatever was causing that smell it was absolutely horrendous. The medic was up and out of his berth, commanding the lights in his quarters to activate his optics began a scan of the area. It was so overpowering that even when he shut of his nasal scents he could still smell it!

“Seesh!”

He again, didn’t need any second guess as to who was responsible for that ghastly aroma.

There was a slight distortion in the colouring around the top of his berth. He reached down and with careful digits wiped along the edge. Something came off on his fingers, it was a greasy, oily sort of sensation, and was obviously oozing off whatever was causing the smell. He lifted the top head panel off his berth and discovered a stash of different coloured pieces of material. That’s when the stink hit him. The sheer ferocity of it was enough to make even Megatron sob like a little human girl. Ratchet stumbled backwards, his hands releasing the panel and coming up to his nose in an attempt to limit the fumes that were making it up his nasal vents, the panel of course was taken by gravity and slammed into his foot.

“DAMMIT ALL!”

The medic swore loudly as he began hopping about the room.

“Primus above!”

He growled as the smell continued to waft even further into the surrounds.

The Autobot activated the ventilation units in his quarters, thankfully he had a room with a view and so the vents would release the smell directly out into the night air and not into a corridor or a neighbouring room. So repugnant was this stink it’d be an awful crime to inflict it on any others. After a gust of fresh air rushed up his nasal vents, he covered his face with his hand and approached the open compartment – he had been in the thick of war on all worlds and had come across sights and smells that would make even the staunchest of Decepticons cringe, he had no excuse no to further investigate.

Socks.

Well, that was what he thought the human word was.

They were a piece of material that was fashioned to encase the human foot to provide both warmth and comfort when the human wearing a “shoe”. And those socks looked pretty… manky – another human word. While the medic could still calculate as to what the colours had once been intended, they were now somewhat yellowed, browned and some even blackened – colours the organics could produce if they didn’t properly adhere to regular hygiene practices.

It was truly foul.

Ratchet removed his laser from subspace and blasted the pile of socks. The black dust wafted upwards. A burst of one of the most powerful antiseptics in existence removed the oily substance the socks had produced and leaked about his berth. The problem was solved.

Unfortunately it wasn’t, and the smell lingered in his quarters for at least six months.

Chapter Two

Ratchet stood outside the Ark watching as the snow covered the landscape. Snow. It was such a strange substance. Water was a strange substance. Perceptor had once given an exhausting lecture on how water was something that shouldn’t exist. It was made of two gasses, yet was liquid. This contradiction just ate away at the scientists logic circuits and he had dedicated a great deal of his time on earth to proving there was something else, something the humans were missing, that was combined in the process. Snow was apparently frozen water or a variation of it – this drove Perceptor even more insane with OCD. So here was Ratchet, watching Perceptor walking around in the cold, white, powder collecting samples as other Autobots balled the substance up into balls and turfted it at each other – on the instructions of a somewhat too mature Spike. This was an unusual geographical area for snow to land, last time it had fallen here, the Decepticons had been responsible.

The twins.

There they were, those two pain in the diodes. They noticed they were being watched, grinned mischievously and then took off in a direction away from the Ark. Ratchet knew from war tried experience that when the twins parted the company of the general populace and disappeared along a rarely travelled road, it either ended with an explosion, a public apology by Prime to the people of earth, or ten thousand, four hundred and twenty eight chickens packed into the sparse space that passed as the med bay. Ratchet had to put his processing of their MO to the side as Prowl approached and asked for a moment of the medic’s time which was needed for a discussion that could only take place in the privacy of the tacticians office.

Essentially all Prowl had wanted was to discuss general first aid training for the Autobots as more often then not, humans were injured and many died waiting for assistance from human health professionals. The issue became a problem when Prime refused access by humans to the disaster areas for fear of Decepticon weaponry left un-exploded. Ratchet had made a sarcastic and glaringly unoriginal comment about First Aid teaching first aid. Prowl accepted this, thought out loud that this might boast the Protectorbot’s confidence, apologised for the waste of the medic’s time but then thanked him for his idea.

Ratchet spent the rest of the daylight hours wandering the Ark. The Cons had been quiet lately, and Teletran’s findings were that they were not responsible for the unseasonal winter drop of snow. Prime was still unsure and had ordered Hound to scout about. Cosmos and Powerglide continued their usual patrols and the Aerialbots were asked to patrol the skies over the Middle East. Skyfire was “confined” to quarters to rest and recharge after recent injuries.

At the human chronological designation of 2200 hours, and with no signs of Decepticon attack or Autobot stupidity coupled with boredom causing any mischief, the medic decided to return to his quarters. He decided he best check in on his new feathered co-worker. He’d found that Beachcomber and co hadn’t done such a great job cleaning after all. There were tiny pieces of corn and other chicken fuel dotted around the edges of the bay, the chicken was more then happy to wander about pecking at the grains and having a “grand old time” as Perceptor had phrased it – but added the advice to make sure she didn’t go near Jack’s lab, as the majority of Autobots found the odour of cooked meat unsavoury and couldn’t understand how humans could eat, and enjoy, such a fuel.

Ratchet entered his med bay and activated the lights. He found the chicken asleep on one of the vital signs consoles; obviously the warmth of the machinery had provided the ball of feathers a comfy roost. The chucky bird stirred and “bock bocked” at him. Ratchet sighed.

“Guess I should take you home, huh, can’t leave you here alone to tear the place to shreds looking for more corns, though; chances are there’s plenty still here”.

The doctor carefully, gently, scooped up the chicken and headed to his quarters for a well earned recharge.

--

Ratchet met up with the tactician in the halls. The logistical genius would often traverse the halls at night while the majority of Autobots recharged. Ratchet suspected it was to ensure that no “hanky panky” was going on, especially with the rediscovery of the femmes.

“Doctor”.

The tactician acknowledged.

“Prowl”.

Ratchet mirrored the tone, but didn’t arse about with titles or positions.

“I see you have a chicken”.

Prowl stated, bluntly, blandly. Ratchet suppressed the horrifically sarcastic remark he had brewing.

“Yes. A chicken.”

“Are you planning on keeping it as a pet”.

“Yes I am.”

“Have you gave it a designation. It is my understanding that an owner selects a designation to their pet”.

“I'm trying to decide between Shitstreaker and Sideshit”.

“Seems an unfortunate name for a chicken”.

“Perhaps”.

Ratchet arrived at his quarters and entered the code. Not caring if the officer saw his code as he’d never bother with breaking into the room.

“WHAT THE IN THE PIT!”

Ratchet’s bellow of shock put fright into the poultry who then proceeded to flap its wings ineffectively, it managed a few metres on a downward cline until its feet were attempting to grasp onto Prowl’s chest. Prowl garbled in surprise and that only served to frighten the chicken even more… the medic’s continuing profanities didn’t help calm the Gallus gallus. Feeling itself start to drop the small animal began to panic. Its wings flapped violently and it flailed its feet outwards, unfortunately for Prowl, it scrapped the tacticians chest plates. The bird squawked so loudly that his audio sensors actually ached, and of course, like most frightened animals, it crapped all over Prowl.

Ratchet on the other hand had already stormed into his quarters and stared at the massive, melting snow man. A red helmet was placed on the head, a carrot nose, two buttons for eyes, a blanket ripped in half to pass as a scarf, even on the shoulders were crosses crafted with of all things, red feathers!

Ratchet could feel the rage building up inside, again, he knew damn well who was responsible. But the snow man… mech, well, it wasn’t what had caused Ratchet’s superfluous cursing… it was the fact the snow was stained yellow and was giving off the strong odour of ammonia… it had been soaked in urine, which had made a large puddle that was now spreading out into the corridor.

“Primus dammit”.

Ratchet then noticed the camera.

“PRIMUS DAMMIT!”

Then he noticed that the camera was sending a live feed to another source.

“PRIMUS DAMMIT!”

He slammed his fist through the urine soaked snow mech, which was probably a bad idea considering… well… the urine. He turned around after hearing a loud thump from behind. Prowl had stepped back at some point and slipped in the urine and landed on his back. The chicken still somewhat panicked, but calming… but not after covering the tactician in further black and white editions to his paint job.

The door opposite his quarters opened and Perceptor stepped out.

“Oh my…”

He looked as though he was going to say something else, but thought better of it when he saw the look on the medic’s face. Percy retreated back into his room, and the sound of the door locking from the inside joined with the clucking and the quiet swears coming from the logistics expert.

--

Chapter Three

After a lengthy and incredibly boring lecture from Beachcomber as to the cruelty of not only using “****” in a chicken’s name, but also naming it for the Twins, Ratchet had agreed to give it something less… demeaning. Ratchet was sitting at the operating table in his med bay. A mug of rather thick and unprocessed oil sitting there, steaming away – the transformer equivalent of coffee. The chicken sat in its box, Carly had brought it in, once she found the surly medic had himself a pet she decided to “assist” in teaching him the finer points of caring for a smaller animal. Ratchet pointed out he was older then her entire species, and the majority of her species evolutionary ancestors and so, in his time, had had, pets. This didn’t deter the young woman, as she gave him an equally lengthy rigoror about chickens. Something about not wanting it to end up a “battery hen”, Ratchet thought that was odd, and decided not to push the question, not wanting to know where “batteries” would be inserted in the animal to make it such a hen. Its box was simply a box that had held a human fuel called “bananas” from his understanding, some kind of fruit that was actually an herb.

Still nameless the chicken clucked away pecking at a piece of apple Carly had given her. Ratchet groaned as he started to look over the large pile of digi pads. The top one was a drawn out and completely gratuitous report on the events of the urine snow mech. The medic noticed Red Alert’s signature on the top. Another groan, and with it the digi pad went flying across the room and into open vent that was often frequented by a security sweeper. (The vent served as Ratchet’s personal shredder).

“What report? Red Alert. I didn’t get any report from you. Are you sure you left it on my desk, because I’m sure I would have noticed it! Oooh, I hope a spy hasn’t infiltrated our ranks! Just think, Megatron could be reading about the yellow snow mech right now!”

Ratchet sarcastically chimed to himself as he stood and stretched out his linkage. The chicken perked its head and looked towards him. The truly horrific thing was that no one had been able to properly identify the urine’s source. Perceptor had said at first it was from a swine, but then later said he was incorrect and it was actually from bovines… then it was human, then Perceptor pointed out it seemed to be a mix, and so rushing off to his lab, his genius finding the idea of identifying and separating all the urine types quite taxing and thusly intellectually enjoyable.

“Mech needs to get ‘faced!”

Ratchet grumbled, taking a large swig from his oil.

“Aahhhh”.

His whole form relaxed and he gave his feathery friend a scratch on the back, it clucked thankfully.

“Well, now, you are a happy little chicken. Still need a…”

Ratchet paused, groaned uncomfortably, put his mug down and grabbed at his the area of his form where his fuel holding tanks were situated, his “abdomen”. The tanks churned violently, he added his other hand, his optics widened, brightened, and he suddenly turned and ran to the excess fuel depositing station, basically a “slagger”.

The medic made it just in time, the violent churning of his tanks was too much for his CPU and so his processor decided enough was enough and opened the aft vent.

IF he was human, what just happened would be classed as a “violent bout of diarrhoea”.

The Autobot doctor ran an internal systems check and found that the oil he’d ingested as his daily “coffee” fix, was tainted with an additive he’d give to patients who’d taken in faulty or poisoned energon, or who had a rare systems failure where crystals would form in the fuel tanks. Given to a healthy mech, it simply resulted in a complete and utter, and ever so violent evacuation of the fuel tanks and there was only one passage that fuel could take. The second problem with the whole situation was the additive would bind with energon already in the system so the experience of fuel evacuation would continue over a period of one planetary rotation, sometimes two.

“THOSE SLAGGING TWI…. Aargh!”

--

After 43 hours of “fuel evacuation” Ratchet felt secure enough that he could enter recharge without fear of FE taking place during the cycle… which could happen and was always unpleasant. He shut his optics off and found himself well and truly into voluntary stasis.

Upon reactivation he felt so rested, so peaceful; it was as if the horrors of the past few days had never existed. He sat upwards and spun his legs over the edge of the berth… he paused, and screamed.

Gone were his clean, sanitary, white paint job. The whites of his body was replaced with the ever so bright, ever so aesthetically offensive, florescent marbling that passed as the human art form of “tie dying”.

The squeal that passed his lip components could have been mistaken for something that came out of the mouth of a female human child, or a homosexual man noticing a spider (according to the images he’d seen on the human media). He jumped up from his berth and quickly looked over his forms. Every portion of his body that had once been white was now not. The bright colouring a sickening warning that he should probably talk to Red Alert about upgrading his access methods. It was so ghastly, so horrific, so… so…

“!!!!! SLAG SLAG SLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG!!!”

--

Ratchet was sure he was going to explode an optic when Perceptor had finished analysing the structure of the dye and informed him that it was rather long lasting and would take at least two months to degrade. When the medic growled something about a paintjob the scientist took a few steps backs and then delicately broke the news that white paint, of any Autobot variation would interact with the paints on his form and result in a florescent pink.

Optic twitched.

Flickered.

Fists formed.

Lip components shuddered.

Ratchet said nothing. He stood and walked from the lab.

Walking down the lab, passing other mechs, all of who knew better then to snigger, point or otherwise stare in the general direction of the medic – knowing the kind of horror that would befall them if the surly doctor noticed. Even Jazz would retreat to the safety of the rec room to burst a line laughing.

Ratchet stormed into the main chamber to find the twins at duty, watching the images Teletran deemed important. Sunstreaker noticed him first and the grin that passed over his face was rather impressive. Sideswipe pulled out his camera, laughing, aimed it in the direction of the approaching death.

The Autobot medic swatted it from his hands.

“Hey! What the slag?”

“Cut the crap!”

Ratchet grabbed Sideswipe and slammed him up against the wall, staring intently into his optics.

“I swear to Primus, I will get the last laugh!”

He dropped the lambo and turned to Sunstreaker, who actually took a step back, the look of amusement decreasing somewhat when he saw an expression on his victim’s face that hadn’t existed in a long time.

“I swear it”.

Ratchet’s voice was so full of malice that even Sideswipe had to consider the words.

The medic turned and stormed from the chamber.

“OOoooh, I think you guys have gone a little too far with that one”.

Bumblebee stated.

“Shut the slag up, shrinky dink”.

Sunstreaker grumbled, as he contained his chuckles.

“Yeah, like we’re scared of a doctor! Haha! What a gip. Let him do his worse!”

Sideswipe laughed victoriously.


Chapter Four


Since his… make over, his feathered room mate was rather infatuated with the medic. Apparently, unlike a great deal of animals on this mud ball, chickens weren’t colour blind – something about needing to view the ornate feathers of the male for reproductive purposes. The chicken without a name was hopping all over the large, jovially decorated mech. It flapped its stumpy wings furiously and landed on his head. The doctor continued his work, rearranging digi pads, emergency medical supplies and the usual array of machinery needed to save and diagnosis injured patients.

Suddenly alarms blared throughout the base.

“Great, that’s all I need, bloody Cons”.

Ratchet took the chicken off his head and placed her in her box.

“You gotta stay here, its gonna get pretty active soon”.

The medic pushed aside his rage, forgot his colour scheme and began the usual gathering of supplies and activation of machines that would no doubt be needed if Megatron was in a bad mood.

--

It was about three chrono-noughts, which came close to equalling 30 of the humans’ minutes, before the first trickles of battle’s results came limping in the door.

Jazz came hobbling in, he was supporting an equally mobility impaired Blaster.

The communication expert had a large metal shard through his shoulder joint, his friend; the head of special operations had scorch marks up his left leg that continued onto his torso which had a range of shrapnel holes.

“You know the drill, gentlemen”.

The medic waved his hand towards a few of the side berths; he gathered up a bunch of general supplies and wandered over. He performed some quick diagnostic scans of Blaster, whose injury was in more need of attention given the flow of energon that ran down his body.

“You got lucky. It missed your linkage branch and major fuel lines”.

There would likely be worse injuries, Blaster could probably not sit there until the more serious of boo-boos would be attended to, and all warriors knew that the time it took to deactivate “pain” receptors or the introduction to the fuel system of “numbing” agents often didn’t exist in the aftermath of a battle in Autobot repair bays. Ratchet grasped the metal and pulled straight out, dropping it on the table to the side of the berth. The skilled surgeon picked up a welder and a piece of repair metal and grafted it over the exit wound. He did a quick, but by no means inefficient or lax job of repairing the damage to the minor fuel lines that had been severed. After the ooze of energon had ceased, and the doctor was satisfied with the result, he welded a piece of metal over the entry wound.

“Thanks doc man”.

Blaster got up off the berth and Jazz took his place.

Ratchet scanned over the burns.

“These are superficial, nothing a new paint job won’t fix”.

The doctor scanned over the areas where the shrapnel had entered.

“Not in too deep”.

He was talking more to himself then to his patients. He removed each of the 42 pieces and dropped them into a dish. He brushed over the holes with a special polymer that would fill the small holes. There was no time to buff the roughness they’d leave. Jazz was up before the filler had even dried.

“Much obliged to ya, Ratch man!”

The two were soon out the door and back into the thick of the mess. He’d seen it millions of times before, repair the minor injuries quickly and send them back out. Sure, they’d probably come back with worse afflictions, but deal with that when it happened. Other warriors would be in here soon enough with ranges of injuries, but generally, the “walking wounded” would stumble in first, then rush out after. The more serious injuries would take place at the end of the battle when the Decepticons would get desperate, angry or decided to unleash some major weapon or explosive as a deterrent to being followed as they retreated. It also detracted any attention to any damage or item they may have taken during the assault.

--

As it was, as it always tended to be – especially since arriving on earth. Ironhide was the Autobot with the worst injuries. Hoist, Wheeljack and Perceptor worked under the experienced doctor as they fought to save him. Ironhide had taken a running dash at Megatron as the Decepticon commander was trying to take off with a minor leg injury and a swag of Autobot intelligence files. But even damaged, Megatron was a walking trigger of harm. The Commander simply raised his scuffed fusion cannon and let rip.

So, Ironhide now lay on the operating table, missing both arms, half his face, most of his fuel processing cables – or intestines, and half a leg. First Aide came barging into the room, having been called from the city to assist with the moderately injured while the more veteran medics worked on grizzled officer. Despite the pools of energon, the smell of smouldering cables and singed armour, the whinging of some and the muffled moans of others, First Aide still managed to stop dead in his tracks and utter a Cybertronian outburst of surprise as he gazed at the multi coloured Doctor.

“Would ripping out your optics help your concentration, Aide?”

Ratchet asked without even looking up from his patient – it actually didn’t take a genius to figure out what caused the surprise from the young doctor.

“Ah… no sir. I’ll just go help… ah… those guys…”

His language somewhat stinted as he attempted to process the rainbow violence that was splattered on his superior. Even the chicken perched on the lights above the operating table didn’t warrant such astonishment.

IF there was one thing the young mech had learnt in his visits to the Ark, it was really, anything goes.

--

Ironhide’s surgery was successful. He’d remain offline in statis for a good few cycles just to ensure he didn’t have a chance to go hang out with Wheeljack or pound a few wayward Cons. Ratchet had just finished cleaning up his med bay, and then shooing out the last few hypochondriacs amongst the ranks – namely Gears who was grinding his mouth components as he raged about his pelvic structural integrity not being up to scratch and how he needed a replacement linkage processor.

“Bla, bla, bla, et cetera! GET OUT OF MY MED BAY GEARS!”

The multi-coloured medic screamed. Even Gears wouldn’t take on Ratchet on his best days. And this was certainly not his best day. The chicken without a name added insult to injury and dropped a parting gift on the small mech’s helmet, the liquid excrement running quickly down his face.

“Haha! I’m really starting to like you, feather ball!”

Ratchet laughed. The medic gathered up a few of the unused supplies and walked to the cupboard where they belonged, the doors opened at his verbal command as his arms were full. And suddenly, his day got even more… annoying.

At least five tonnes of the human fuel “spaghetti bolognaise” catapulted out of the cupboard and splattered all over the doctor.

It was still warm.

“…”

Ratchet growled in such a way that it could have been mistaken for a demon’s sneer.

“…The twins…”

A wad of spaghetti flopped from his head and onto the pile of medical supplies, now damaged beyond use.

Chapter Five

Author’s NB: This is a little rude in parts, might be found offensive by some. Or none. Or all.

Humans could be so disgusting, or at least their fuels could be. His chicken friend was certainly unable to clean up all the spaghetti – and even if it was in chicken portions, the medic felt he wouldn’t be able to call himself a doctor if he fed the greasy, fatty, blobs to the feathered ball. Sure, there was nothing like a hot mug of bubbling oil, but it had additives to it to prevent it “clogging”. As much as the medic essentially worshiped the black liquid he didn’t like the sensation of grease upon parts of his mechanism that didn’t require it. Right now, all his tactile circuits were screaming at him over the sensation of grease, and no matter how hot the water was that he showered under, no matter how many coats of a de-greaser, or wax he lathered into his brightly coloured form, no matter how many sprays with some concoction Perceptor had come up with, he just couldn’t shake the sensation.

“Slaggin’ twins”.

He grumbled.

The filthy sludge didn’t even have the common curtsey to remove the tie dyed effect! Sighing he decided he better get back to checking his inventory to see what he would need to replace and why – was it used in the recent Decepticon attack or because it was covered in spaghetti and thusly collateral damage?

Chicken without a name was clucking about the room, pecking at little treats Ratchet had hidden in an attempt to keep the feather duster from bothering him when he was busy – which was a lot now considering the twins latest antics.

“Ah… Ratchet?”

The medic turned to see the newcomer who had managed entrance without being noticed.

“What’d’ya want?”

“Ah, Prime wants to see you… now…”

“Really, now? He wants to see me, now? Does he? Now?”

“Ah… yes, that’s right, Doctor”.

“Well, then, why don’t you just scurry back to Optimus and tell him I’m busy!”

“He said if you said that to tell you that its really important that…”

“IF PRIME WANTS TO SEE ME HE CAN COME AND CLEAN UP THIS **** MESS THOSE TWO LACKIES OF HIS CAUSED IN MY MEDBAY!”

“…”

The young mech, who’s name Ratchet didn’t know, left the med bay quickly, with his tail pipe firmly between his legs, for lack of a better phrase.

Ratchet’s inner sanctum wasn’t that messy at the moment, sure, the five tonnes of spag bol (as Spike called it) had left greasy stains all over the floor, and the smell still lingered strongly in the air, and occasionally he was still finding strands of spaghetti and chunks of beef in nooks and crannies. It was really wearing thin.

Hopefully Prime was too busy to come and suggest patience on the doctor’s part – after all, as the commander’s verbalisation of his logic would begin, those two provided a moral boast to the troops.

Sure, doctor, you’re unevenly on the receiving end.

Sure, doctor, you have to put up with chickens, socks, urine, tie dying, meat, but that’s okay because other bots were happy.

Sure, doctor, it is a pain in the aft, the mess they leave when they pull these pranks, but as long as everyone else is having a laugh, you don’t matter.

The medic growled inwardly as he imagined how Prime was going to reword those comments into something that sounded merciful and considerate of the CMO personal space.

“I just had an idea, chicken”.

Ratchet chortled.

“Since Prime thinks that those two pulling pranks is good for morale, I might just have to pull a few of my own – can’t have the team getting low on happy!”

The chicken looked up, sloped its head slightly to the left almost as if it was actually acknowledging him before it then started clucking and pecking about.

Ratchet was in the middle of a loud and malevolent sounding laugh that would rival anything Megatron could churn out. Chicken without a name perked up and clucked loudly, interrupting Ratchet’s rabid amusement. The chicken’s odd look at him gave him a moment to think of his appearance, regained his composure and returned to his work all the while imagining the level of horror he was going to reign down upon the twins.

--

The doors opened and the commander walked in. Ratchet knew he was there as he continued to stock the cupboard that had once held one too many tonnes and was essentially ignoring him.

“Doctor. A word?”

Ratchet gave an irritated sigh that he made loud enough so the other would hear.

“Ironhide’s in the next room, still in statis until next week”.

Ratchet noticed he’d been on this planet too long that he was now using human chronological designations.

“I’m glad he’s recovering ahead of schedule, but that’s not why I’m here”.

“Oh?”

Ratchet feigned ignorance as he turned to face the bearer of the Matrix, in no real mood for the lecture he was probably going to get.

Optimus stood there, his arms crossed over his chest and his optics slightly narrowed – the pose he took when annoyed and about to let loose, albeit with a rather spooky calm and controlled demeanour.

“Ratchet, I am well aware of the events of the past few days”.

“Well those Decepticons are a prickly bunch”.

“I am not referring to the Decepticons”.

“Aflora is not that much of a bother, seriously, and I think its good for Spike to have other humans around – even ones as accident prone as her”.

“I don’t think her designation is Alfora”.

Of course, Ratchet was well aware of that.

“Not to be rude, then Prime, perhaps you need your circuits defragged; your CPU’s coherency seems to have diminished”.

“Cut the slag, Ratchet, I’m talking about this bloody puerile feud you and the Twins have going on”.

Only in private and only with or in front of a select few of Autobots did Prime rant, rail or resort to profanities.

“In case your intelligence has failed you, Prime, those twins have been nothing but a pain in my aft plates! I haven’t retaliated at all against them!”

“That’s my point! I’m here to warn you against any such action. There are others who are dealing with the Twins”.

“Well, Prime you might need to change the babysitter, cos whoever the slag heads are “dealing” with the twins, they’re doing a slag job”.

“You just worry about your own…”

“My own what? Prime? My own sock filled, urine soaked quarters, or perhaps my chicken infested, spaghetti bolognaise crammed medbay, or perhaps even my lovely new paint job!! For Primus’ sake, Optimus! What do I have to do to get some peace and quiet? How the Pit am I supposed to do my job when those two are getting into my private quarters and messing up the infirmary! Even if you don’t care any which way about my own little room, you should be concerned about the Twins doing damage to the med bay – what happens if the Cons attack of Wheeljack has a “bright idea”, what am I supposed to do about saving lives if my supplies are damaged and my repair bay a slag storm?”

“You’re a big boy, Ratchet, as the fleshlings say. You need to deal with it, as we’re dealing with it on our end”.

“Like I said before, Prime, great job”.

Ratchet was inwardly impressed with the level of sarcasm he was able to muster.

“Just ensure you control yourself. I will not have this turn into some petty little war – we have enough problems with the Decepticons and other niches in the ranks, I don’t need our senior doctor getting involved. Mechs look up to you Ratchet; you need to set an example to the younger ones”.

And with that, minus any farewell, the Autobot leader walked out.

Ratchet was less then impressed. He had basically been ordered not to defend his honour. Something else was probably going on behind the scenes with those other “niches”, he was well aware of Cliffjumper’s and Mirage’s recent feud, which was starting to spill over and get out of hand. Brawn had forgotten his previous vow to protect Perceptor – in fact, that only lasted all of two earthen rotations! And then there was Beachcomber and the trouble he got in from human authorities when they discovered his crop of various banned flora. This of course had Prime attempting to explain to said authorities that the geologist’s interest was for his own personal use, and not to make money on the side by selling it to humans. There was so much bad behaviour amongst the ranks, whether it was boredom or war weariness it was starting to grate on the tactile sensors of the officers. Even Jazz was getting annoyed with some of the recent shenanigans. Prime also have to smooth over the stink Wheeljack caused with one of his inventions which went off a little too close to a human neighbourhood.

Ratchet laughed.

Actually, the “invention” had been 100 kilometres away, and such was the force, it flattened three schools, a series of industries, devastated an air field and tore apart a series of human dwellings. Thankfully there were no cessations of life cycle functions, and only minor injuries, it had been a “holiday” so none of the schools were opened. Anyway… Ratchet quickly pulled his CPU back on track.

Revenge on the twins? He was just going to have to do it on the sly, to ensure no one, not even that paranoid schitzo Red Alert would be able to point the finger. Prime could think it was the CMO all he wanted, but without proof, the commander wouldn’t push the matter.

--

It was mid evening, the sun had already disappeared below the horizon and Ratchet when reflecting upon his day had found it rather uneventful after the visit from Prime. There was a busted strut belonging to Bluestreak who got a little to adventurous during drills and a shattered optic belonging to Slingshot who whinged and moaned and lamented and then blamed it on those idiot, moronic, stupidic, Dinobots. Ratchet told him to shut up, and that “stupidic” wasn’t a word. When Shot replied with “well it should be” Ratchet accidently severed his vocaliser cable.

The doors to his medbay opened. He was starting to notice even on “quiet” days he seemed to get bothered. Perhaps a sign saying “Unless you’re injured and will cease function without assistance, SLAG OFF!!!” The CMO was inwardly thankful his thought of signage had prevented him from expressing a rude greeting, turning around he noticed Elita One standing there.

“Greetings, doctor”.

She said. So prim and proper.

“What can I do for you?”

Which was the most manners he could muster.

“As you know, my soldiers are now spending time on earth to further training and education”.

Ratchet managed to stifle the chuckle he wanted to express… femmes as soldiers? While it was true femmes were well trained, dangerous and adroit at their primary functions, it just sounded cutesy when she said it.

“I would like to ask two favours. Firstly, it’s actually more prudent then a favour, I’d like you to organise maintenance for my soldiers. Secondly, is it possible to place one of my field medics in your care as to further her education? She is well versed in general repair techniques, but the more complicated methods are beyond her, and the rest of us. We can not rely on Alpha Trion for every major repair”.

“Both sound like good ideas, and I’ll be happy to help. Maybe you could get one of your soldiers to spend time with First Aide, he’s one of our greener doctors, but the best way to learn something is to teach it”.

“Yes, that sounds acceptable. Not to bother you further, but are you able to give me a time table as to when the maintenance can begin?”

“Sure, I’ll just pull it up…”

Ratchet went to his computer, punched a few keys and looked up as the large wall sized screen appeared.

“Oooh, ooh, ooh, Oooh GOD! OH GOD! YEAH! THAT’S IT BABY! RIGHT THERE! OH! YOU’VE GOT IT! !!!!!!!!!!!”

Ratchet staggered back in horror! Activated on his screen was the rather graphic, largely displayed and very loud antics of a human interface movie.

“RATCHET!”

Even the femme commander, who’d seen many horrors of war and Primus only knew what else was mortified. Her mouth agape.

“You’re such a dirty girl! Aren’t you, bitch! A dirty, filthy, skanky whore!”

“Oh yeah, master! I’m a bad little slave girl, I need to be punished!”

Another series of naked, slimy, pink dread was plastered all over the screen. The five males were dressed in skimpy, revealing outfits created from bovine hide, whereas the single female was wearing a dog collar… and nothing else.

“Yeah! You’re a bad slave, but you can make up for it if you pleasure my friends!”

“RATCHET!”

Elita gasped again.

As if the CMO’s humiliation wasn’t complete, the doors opened and three young femmes walked.

“Oh, there you are Commander, we were wonde… OH MY GOSH! HOLY PRIMUS! WHAT IS THAT?”

“Does the master’s friend like what I’m doing with my ear?”

“Oh yes, you naughty slave you”.

“Master, why don’t the rest of your friends come and join in, I have plenty of holes!”

“OH PRIMUS!”

“MY OPTICS!”

“Get out of here, now girls!”

Elita bellowed.

The femmes stumbled back into the door way, as it opened for their escape, the sounds of the naked awfulness reached out into the corridor, grabbing the attentions of Prowl, Prime and Ultra Magnus.

“What’s going on in here, Ratc… what in the name of the Creator is that?”

Prowl asked, optics wide as he stared up at the rather unpleasant looking mingle of human limbs and other appendages.

“Ah… its…”

As if fate hadn’t finished decimating Ratchet’s reputation enough, the images changed again.

“Hey Bruce, big boy, why don’t you come over here! I have something to show you!”

“Oh, I just love your surprises, Jeff! Oh, look at that, can I sit on your lap!”

“Only if I can put my face in yours!”

“With all due respect, do you consider this appropriate behaviour for your CMO, Optimus Prime?”

Ultra Magnus who had been on Earth only three weeks stood there firmly, his arms crossed over his chest.

“And in front of femmes who I would still consider sparklings”.

“OH !!!!”

“Make it stop!”

One of the younger femmes cried.

“It won’t! I can’t! Its on a continuous loop! I can’t!”

Ratchet panicked.

“Optimus! If these are the kinds of mechs you have operating as medics I will be filling our maintenance and education needs else where!”

Elita said angrily as she stormed out.

“Elita! Wait!”

Prime ran out of the room after his life cycle partner, nil concern with what others thought of their Commander chasing the pink and white femme through the halls.

Magnus shook his head in disgust and left.

“We’ll be having words, Ratchet. Words”.

Prowl departed.

Ratchet found himself alone with the naked, active images of Jeff and Bruce, and the company of the pecking chicken without a name.

“THOSE PRIMUS’ DAMNED TWINS! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGH!!!”

Chapter Six

Even though he knew it was just a big ball of burning gas a good 8 minutes and 50 odd seconds at the speed of light away, it was a very pleasing sight to see rise over the spring horizon. The season humans gave the name “Winter” too had passed. “Spring”, was a time where humans seemed happier, the domesticated animals would birth their strangely cute offspring, various species of flora would churn out brightly coloured flowers to attract the bees that were now also active. The heavy, oddly out of place snow had now all but dissolved away there were a few puddles and piles around the higher sections of the mountain the Ark resided under, but generally the white fluffy substance had left the roads and plains.

Of course, Spring meant other activities for the Autobots around the globe. The Decepticons weren’t as soft as the majority of Autobots, and wouldn’t reserve their raids for nice, sunny days with a gentle breeze. They’d attack in the dead of night in the middle of a hurricane – Megatron believed firmly in the weak nature of Autobots and would often find some horrid weather condition to decide to go a stealing. What it meant would be Wheeljack out of the lab and in the open, dried spaces of the local geography, he’d spend his entire winter deep in his lab building, creating, mixing and then finally when the first rays of spring appeared he was out exploding… well, he called it testing. Oftentimes, bored mechs would look death in the optic and go with the inventor. It also meant those wretched twins would be up to go no good on the outside of the Ark. During the winter months they’d be cooped up inside, Sunstreaker not wanting to venture out in the cold because it gave his tires a cramp. Sideswipe was happy to go on a mission or recon, but without his brother he wouldn’t bother while off duty… which of course left them in the Ark, in the cold, dark winter months, to torment the surly mech.

But now it was over. Winter. Hopefully the twins would refrain from any more of their pranks, which didn’t stop at the naked images of humans engaged in acts of reproduction – though the doctor was sure no reproduction would be taking place and if it did, well, humans had ways of dealing with it. His disgust at the irresponsibility of humans and certain Autobot brothers aside, he had other concerns. Perceptor had asked to be transferred to the human city where the Protectorbots were based – he had told Prime he believed First Aide needed more training in the sciences, which would better assist his medical practice. The reality of it was, well, Perceptor was traumatised, for lack of a better word, at his role in removing the illicit files from Ratchet’s computer. He’d tried to avoid looking, he’d tried to shut down his audios, but the knowledge that it was blaring above his head as he worked in the inners of the computer’s circuits unsettled him… even when he tried to explain to the doctor how to go about removing it… the poor chap just couldn’t manage it.

Of course, it also gave Perceptor a chance to get away from the likes of Slingshot, Brawn and a few of the other less enlightened. It was also Prime’s insistence, out of audio shot of the Scientist, that it would force him to learn to socialise outside his very small circle, he’d be around humans and living in their city, he wouldn’t be able to escape their curiosity. It’d hopefully teach him some patience with those who weren’t as intellectually gifted, or programmed as he. Prime was only too happy to approve the transfer. It would only be temporary of course, once Autobot City was built he’d move his lab and all associated knick knacks there.

Ah, but the Twins… their antics hadn’t desisted… the porn, well, that wasn’t as bad as gerbil incident, even after telling Beachcomber, those two retro rats hadn’t been given anything more then a slap on the wrist with a wet noodle… as bad as it was for Ratchet, it had to be worse for the little fluff ball, especially since its life cycle functions ceased. The rotten fish inserted behind the panels in his personal computer was also pretty nasty. Being registered as a sex offender by the Twins was also pretty repugnant, especially when he was approached by police when visiting a human school – a PR event organised by Prime, the officer had approached, told him up front that he couldn’t be within five of the human miles of a school or children, the immature humans were just old enough to understand what “sex offender” meant and next thing the white medic was listening to the chants of “stranger danger” and “you are a gross old robot” and other things that shouldn’t be repeated… ever. OH! And then there was the event that had him spitting led… after a hard day, returning to his quarters to find everything missing. When he craned his neck and looked up in exasperation, readying to curse out Primus and the Twins, he saw all his furniture attached to the ceiling! The box of skunks that arrived with Perceptor’s mark on it didn’t strike him as suspicious, though now he knew better. The recording of a human baby screaming, well, he wasn’t able to find that for three planetary rotations, that were just irritating, he ended up sleeping in the medbay until the four tonnes of human garbage was found. That’s when Prime stepped in and put a stop to it. Something about a corrosive agent that melted through the wall into the general air vents which sent the foul odour throughout every section of the ark, and even outside. It was so atrocious, poor Sparkplug had had another heart attack! Carly had gone very, very pale, though a little green around the eyes and lips, and then… as the humans called it… vomited… on Tracks, who complained about it for weeks – concerned the acid in human disgorges would melt right through his structure. Of course, Ratchet preferred the vomit to the huge image the twins had managed to carve into the near by rock face… an image of the medic as the human Marilyn Munroe, who according to Sparkplug (when he saw the photos while in CCU) had the exact pose, down to the pouty lips. It wasn’t enough that it ended up on most of the human television broadcasts, the bloody thing could be seen from space and actually registered on Google Earth as having the most hits any portion of the planet had ever had.

Slaggin’ twins.

So now it was spring, Prime had told Ratchet, even after the rock image and the garbage, no reprisal. Which, the medic took to mean “What ever you do, just make sure I don’t find out its you!” How the hell did those two bumbling idiots manage to haul in five tonnes of spaghetti and four of garbage? He sighed.

Slaggin’ twins.

It was time for revenge.

The medic boarded SkyFire. Several other mechs sat near him. It was off to the human city of New York.

--

Ratchet sat in his vehicle mode in the dark side alley of a dingy old fish processing plant. A human male approached. The Autobot opened his door.

“Hop in, buddy”.

“I got your message… didn’t think you robot types would bother with pen and paper”.

“I needed to make sure it wasn’t intercepted by another Transformer”.

“Figured that”.

“Did you destroy the message after you memorised it?”

“Yeah, right now its part of a McFish burger in some danky restaurant in Harlem”.

“So you know what too do right?”

“Absolutely”.

“Fantastic. You get the money okay?”

“Yeah”.

“Good luck, then”.

“Ahaha, yeah!”

The man got out and left Ratchet alone to ponder what was it with humans and little pieces of paper with pictures of dead humans? Ratchet of course hadn’t stolen the money, he’d come across it in the rubble of an old building neighbouring an oil field the cons had raided in the Middle East. The sack it was held in was ragged and inside with the currency was a small day planner from the human time domination of 1973. Ratchet had taken it and stashed it for safe keeping, never knew when one might need the native currency.

--

The twins missing was really nothing new. Prowl wasn’t overly concerned, nor was Prowl. Jazz made some flippant remark about them visiting the well known joke shops in the area. Ratchet was busying himself with upgrading the medical facilities at Sparkplug’s garage, if anything; he had to be given the title of blameless in the shenanigans that would ensue. Autobots had been so busy in New York no one had noticed the medic leave the small base for 30 minutes, and he wasn’t stupid enough to leave the cameras and other security protocols pointed at his departure.

It’d been one planetary rotation when the transmission came in. Sideswipe was calling… he was weak… panicked, an unusual demeanour from the usually confident warrior. He was rambling about he and Sunstreaker being ambushed, something was really wrong… they needed help.

Optimus of course dispatched assistance immediately, leading the charge to rescue himself. Not concerned with the concept of a trap, as the Twins, as annoying as they were, were an important part of the operation on earth, they played an important role in the war, and most importantly, they were Autobots. Ratchet had been requested by the commander to attend, they were probably injured, they could require emergency maintenance. The medic feigned a manner of both professionalism and intent on getting to them as quickly as possible, accessing them effectively, and repairing them as they needed. Life cycles were at stake!

--

The convoy arrived at the underside of the massive bridge. There was no signs of laser burns, no screaming humans or dead ones, no broken buildings or burning cars, no evidence at all, of any Decepticon intervention… so whatever had happened to the Twins, it wasn’t caused by Megatron’s forces… Chumly, perhaps? Last Prime heard the generous sized human was serving a life sentence in a Russian Gulag – despite that government’s assertions that such places no longer existed, but he was a tricky man, he could have escaped and come after the Autobots for revenge.

Prime transformed, his mechs followed suite.

“Exercise extreme caution, Autobots”.

He said firmly.

“Sunstreaker! Sideswipe! Are you there?”

Jazz and Prowl stood on either side of the Matrix bearer, Ironhide walked forward and stood in front of his commander. Bumblebee, Mirage and Tracks took steps back and began to form a perimeter, to ensure no one could ambush them from any angle. The medic had transformed and was standing just behind and to the left of Prowl. They all stood, waiting, not sure if some rabid gang of feral humans would attack them. If it was a familiar enemy. Or if it was a Con trick.

Movement.

It was so slight, so minute that human eyes wouldn’t have noticed. The keen and well programmed and carefully maintenance optics of the Autobots that stood had, however, noticed.

“Come out!”

Prime said firmly.

“I swear to Primus, if any of you laugh, I will disembowel every last one of you”.

Sunstreaker’s polished voice rung out, though it seemed to have lost a good deal of its usual lustre and self-assurance, or arrogance depending who you asked.

“Sunstreaker! Are you alright?”

Prime asked.

“And what’s the situation?”

Prowl asked, wanting, more then anything, to know what was going on so he could begin to tactically, logically generate their best course of action.

“We got… ah… stolen”.

Sideswipe’s voice replied.

He stepped out slowly.

Ratchet felt his fuel pump race with sheer, devious joy!

The once shining mech, who took a level of pride in his form – though not as much as his Twin, was stripped of his armour and plating. His tires were gone, even the seats were missing! He’d been completely striped by human criminals! Oh, it was just too delicious! He couldn’t wait to see what Raoul’s old contacts had done to Sunstreaker.

The Autobots were a mix of shock, surprise, amusement, and absolute inner smugness at the punishment Karma had meted out to this mut. Of course, Sideswipe wasn’t such a bad guy… but it was Sunstreaker who was the one they all wanted too see.

“You gotta do it, bro; they’re going to see eventually”.

“Ah man… slag”.

Sunstreaker stepped out into the dim light of the early evening of a New York Spring.

Ironhide started laughing, his thick accent coming through heavily.

Bumblebee actually giggled.

Jazz gave a “woooh, man!” and chuckled.

Mirage had to turn away to have a good, albeit quiet, laugh.

Prowl optics flickered, his CPU trying to understand how humans could do such a thing. His spoke out his shock in an ancient Cybertronian language known only to a few.

Optimus, well, he just stood there, took a step forward and uttered:

“Oh my”.

The once pristine and well groomed Autobot was a right royal sight. His once golden panelling had been covered in a human written form… “Graffiti”. All manner of human curses had been sprayed in violently offensive colours. It didn’t stop with simple swears, things like “Jack was here”, “Who ate all the pies?”, “Buck is queer”, “For a good time, phone Annie….” Even his face hadn’t been spared the revulsion of unsteady human hands armed with paint. His headlights had been smashed, his tires slashed, windscreen shattered, and parts of his armour that wasn’t completely covered in the rainbow effect of wayward flesh creatures – had been “keyed”.

Oh it was so delicious.

Ratchet chuckled. Then lost control and burst out laughing, he buckled over, grabbing at his sides.

“RATCHET!”

Prime growled, shocked, but unsure how to respond to the situation.

“Oh come on, Prime, its about time fate came along and kicked those buggers up the aft! My only regret is I didn’t think to do it!”

“You would have never been able to get near me with a spray can, you bushy old codger!”

“What’s worse, Sunny? Being sprayed by Ratch or sprayed by humans?”

Mirage asked, the Autobot Spy was certainly not a member of the “I love Sunny Fanclub” and so was going to thoroughly enjoy the lambo’s humiliation.

Sideswipe was able to maintain a manner of self control over his embarrassment, but his brother, well; he just stood there, flashed his optics, and then screamed a string of words that should never, EVER be repeated.

--

Ratchet’s explanation was that the technology needed to re-panel Sideswipe and spray Sunstreaker’s form was not in New York. Not only that, the technology in question had been moved to the now almost complete Autobot City, and so, instead of being offered some manner of protection and respect for their dignity, provided by the diminishing staff at the mountain base, they were going to have to go to the most heavily populated Autobot centre. It was at that point, when the Twins were feeling very sorry for themselves that Ratchet told them that the repair bay at the city was in the largest structure, in the centre of the facility, which to get to, would involve walking up the main road – walking, as both were unable to transform.

Sure enough, the sight of the seriously fashionably impaired Twins walking up the main street in the new Autobot city, surrounded by gasping mechs… and femmes, was really too much. Ratchet was delighted! It was delicious he could taste it. He had brought along his little feathery friend, who still didn’t have a name. Something told the doctor that Prime was suspicious of the medic, but the commander couldn’t prove a lick of it. The doctor really wanted to give those humans a bonus, but figured it might give him away. Oh, they did a wonderful job. Ratchet had wished it was him, slowly spraying neon green, black, pink and Primus only knew what else on Sunny’s bright yellow finish, polished to a shine that would rival the Matrix’s inner core! Sunstreaker had been planning his arrival to the City for months, he had been so excited to show off his beauty, to let those pathetic whelps what real Autobots looked like, what real pristine, Autobot craftsmanship and creation was! Yet despite all those plans of grandeur, of parties, of social networking and “pressing the flesh” to use a human phrase, all of those plans – they now officially meant nothing.

At one point, someone started laughing. Ratchet would later learn the young mech’s name was Hot Rod. Inexperienced in all aspects of life, brash, and ever so youthful, well, his laughs were music to the doctor’s audios. It didn’t take long before a huge throng of mechs and femmes were standing around laughing. At one point a group of humans arrived, and an immature human amongst them made a comment “Look mummy! Look at the funny clowns!”

And the comment came right at a moment of silence before the laughing began!

Oh Ratchet was so happy!

Ratchet had been careful to instruct the humans not to seriously injure the Twins.

He had been equally careful to ensure the humans disposed of the small EMP grenade that would only knock the two out for a few hours, but would ensure they couldn’t retaliate or identify the small flesh creatures.

Even though the “walk of shame” only last five minutes, it was the most joyous time of Ratchet’s life. Once in side the med bay Ratchet was able to begin the “repairs”. It didn’t bother him in the least that he was the cause of his work, or the waste of resources and his time. It was so worth it. Sunstreaker was complaining, again, as he had been and would be for the next five years.

“Look at this damn mess… this… whatever this mess is!!”

The chicken bounced down from Ratchet’s shoulder and onto the formerly yellow mech’s shoulder, it pooped on him.

Ratchet had a name for the chicken.

“Graffiti”.