Transformers: The Cross

Chapter 11 - Just Call Me Romanoff

     For a while, I didn't move. My limbs were growing increasingly stiff as I stared at nothing, like I did every time I had that dream. Only this time, I noticed, it was cut short. Maybe because of stress. But it didn't matter, it was always another scrape at the hole in my chest.

     It was then that I realized something was amiss. I listened attentively, and heard nothing. No shuffling of tools, grating of metal, hum of machines and monitors.

     I sat up, brushing off the heaviness in my limbs and looked around. Ratchet was nowhere to be seen.

     Pushing myself to my feet, I stood, feeling a poke of irritation as I remembered my mission. How could I pursue it from here, on an island in the middle of a gigantic room?

     I growled lowly, frustrated I had to depend on someone else to get around.

     Why had Ratchet left anyway?

     I looked to the countertop which housed all of the medic's various tools. Some of the monitors were still running and the brush he had been using to clean that tube-looking thing earlier was left astray.

     An idea popped in my head, and I searched for the tube. I found it to be hooked to a large metal container with black barrels nearby, like the ones that were on the trucks soldiers were driving around the base. Some of their lids were peeled open like a can of beans, and a black substance dripped from the sides.

     Oil, I realized with a start. Duh.

     It made sense. The whole set up reminded me of an IV line in a hospital, except super-sized. But was oil their blood?

     A frown carved its way on my face. It seemed wrong...somehow. The thought of Ratchet injecting himself with oil made me cringe.

     But what else could they use?

     I walked closer to the edge of the platform, where the drop-off to the floor was. Across the space in between my island and the counter, the long, thin rubber was spiraling down toward the ground.

     I smirked. Perfect.

     Using a good eye, I made an estimation of the distance, then backed up. I picked up my jacket and tied the sleeves around my waist, bouncing on my toes to get my heart pumping. Once I felt ready, I dashed full speed, eyes trained on my target.

     I leapt smoothly through the air, my twists whipping behind me. My arms wrapped quickly around my shins, tucking myself into a ball. Then I unfurled, my hands reaching out to latch onto the tube.

     I grunted as I slipped against the material before gripping it tightly, swinging against the wall of the counter. My feet snapped around the cord-like object, and I began descending. I made a small rhythm with my hands and feet, like going down a rope.

     Once I reached the end of the tube, I looked down to determine how far down of a jump it was to the floor. Fortunately, only about ten feet.

     Using my legs, I swung them back and forth to gain momentum. When I had enough I released my grip on the tube, then tucked myself forward. The ground rushed up at me as I angled my shoulder downward, the ground rolling under my back, slamming down with my foot.

     I ended sitting on my butt, my shoulder aching, but not too painfully. A rush of pride went through me as I had successfully made it to the ground, but soon enough it was squandered by another issue: a way out. 

     Well, if Ratchet is a big hulking body of metal...., my thoughts trailed, combing for an exit. My spirits lifted as I spotted a garage door at the far end of the room. Even better, the door was left wide open.