Searching For Redemption (Horror! Reader)

Chapter 4: Life After the Big Bang

"Take a seat, Doc. What can I get you?" Swerve asked. I was sitting in Swerve's new bar, at the counter, eatting something. "You've... opened up a bar?" Ratchet hesitantly asked, sitting down on the stool next to mine. "I know. Isn't it the coolest thing you've ever seen?" Swerve asked. "Does Rodimus know? Does Magnus?" Ratchet interrogated. "Not yet, but – it's fine. I'll invite them to the official opening. It's fine." Swerve answered.

Ratchet looked over at me, and his expression turned into one of shock. "What the hell are you eating?" He asked. "Oh, just one of the limbs of the Sparkeater. The rest is stored in mine and Rung's hab suite." I nonchalantly stated while chewing. "Why?" He asked, giving me an expression mixed with shock and 'are you serious' kind of expression. "Why not?" I asked back. I swallowed the piece I at before opening my mouth to take another bite. When my mouth opened, it revealed that my teeth were sharp and uneven, and black drool slightly dripping out from the sides before I took a bite.

His attention was pulled away when Swerve spoke up. "On the house. To celebrate finding ourselves on the map." Swerve said, giving Ratchet the drink that he'd just made. "Either it's very far away, our you invented the world's smallest drink." Ratchet stated, putting his head at the same level with the drink, squinting his eyes. "It's free. Shut up." Me and Swerve said at the same time, before I took another bite out of the Sparkeater's limb.

"Now, you wanted to talk about Fisitron's Datalogs..." Swerve started. "You were a subscriber, right? Like me. You had Wreckers: Declassified beamed directly into your brain." Ratchet said. "...Yep. 'Til Fisitron died. Ironfist. Whatever." Swerve confirmed. I zoned out their conversation, feeling bored by just listening.

Then I snapped back into reality by the sound of glass shattering. "Dammit! Sorry- My hands keep freezing up. I've worn them out." Ratchet informed.

"Why not get Tailcorn, or whatever his name is, to make you some new ones. You know, the guy who carries a briefcase." I suggested. "His name is Brainstorm. And actually, don't. He'd probably give you an index finger that fired surface-to-air missiles, or-or a thermonuclear thumb." Swerve accused. "These hands are irreplaceable. And when they stop working, that's it – I officially cease to be of any use." Ratchet explained.

"So, er, last night's data log..." Swerve brought up. "Okay, so the 'random numbers' were actually statistics – medical stats. Survival rates, to be precise. I don't know who sent the data log, or when – these things take time to travel through subspace – but i know it came from Delphi. I recognize the diagnosis codes." Ratchet informed.

"The statistics start two years ago, and at first they fluctuate: between 0% and 20% of patients are dying every month. Tragic, but within normal parameters. But then the death rate starts to climb, and plateau, and climb, and plateau. And for the last six months, precisely half of all patients have died every month." Ratchet continued to explain, showing the both of us the chart.

"Swerve, Y/n, whoever sent that data log is trying to tell us something." Ratchet stated. "We're not far from Delphi, you know..." Swerve suggested. "I know – and I think it's time I made a house call." Ratchet said. "Y/n, your coming with me. If it turns out that someone is killing the patients, you seem like an expert with killing." Ratchet added. "Sure. It was getting boring staying on this ship." I said, getting up from my seat as I ate the last bit of the Sparkeater's limb.

---

The Planet Messatine.

Five Miles from Delphi.