In These Hands

Dreams

There was a reason the Gladiatorial Games weren't Ratchet's scene. He was a medibot, and programed as such he was coded with the task of piecing together dysfunctional, malfunctioning, broken 'bots adequately and professionally. And so when he was constantly met with familiar frames baring habitually occurring injuries then it was very reasonable why one such as himself would want to rip their own helm off in frustration.

"That's it." Ratchet tossed down his tools, letting their echoed sounds clatter into the casing they came in. Wide optics watched on in silence and patience as the red and white medic huffed. "This is the third time in a single mega-cycle that I've had to attach your left leg ligament."

After wisely waiting a few kliks, Barricade spoke up. "So my opponents like ripping my legs off." He shrugged, unsure what else to say or how else to approach this wary situation.

"Legs?" Ratchet shook his helm. "No, just one, and not just any one, the left one."

Barricade didn't see why that was bugging the medic so much. It's not like he was the one dismembered. "So then . . . can I have my leg attached back?"

Ratchet huffed one last time before reaching back into his tool case. Pulling out a welder he then took a hold of the detached part. "I really shouldn't, not if you're going to just keep losing it." The flame from the weld tore into a few cords for only a short moment until the gates opened and in walked Megatron. A victor of his round, but the exposed shoulder rotators and the sizzle of torn wiring alerted the medic to his condition.

As if on instinct, Ratchet turned. His scanners browsed over the severity of the wound. They had just enough time to categorize it as Minor-Medium before the glow from Megatron's gaze tore through the systematic scan.

"I'm fine," he said, waving away the worry and moving toward the weapon's hanger to return the one he clung to.

It was easily determined that Megatron was one of the best arena fighters in Kaon from the lack of repairs he required. Ratchet hadn't seen an opponent render any sort of damage on the silver mech until after a good few deca-cycles since he'd been working at the arena. Even then most of the damages were simple abrasions or clippings, and so it became normality for Megatron to return sporting the damage replying with a simple, "I'm fine." Because he was.

Despite that, Ratchet couldn't help but gravitate toward those simplistic injuries.

Without a word, Ratchet halted the limb reattachment and scampered off after Megatron's trail.

"Aw, come on!" Barricade bemoaned. "You were just . . . couldn't you at least not leave me midway?" His complain was ignored as well as the other displeased murmurs of the lined 'bots in wait for Ratchet's expertise repair.

"Let me take a look at it," Ratchet called, trotting up beside Megatron. Without any form of consent he tried assessing the damage more properly. His hand came up and noticed the clipped shoulder plate, dangling, attached only by a few sensory wires.

"I said I'm fine," Megatron insisted, shirking himself away and leaning over the racks to clip his selected weapon away. "You've got a line, doctor. They've been standing there long before I have."

"And they can wait," Ratchet dismissed, once more leaning up to look at the sparking wound. With a sounded sigh, Megatron relented and knelt down to give Ratchet a better reach. A few kliks later and Ratchet garnered a better assessment of the damage. "Just what I thought; he severed a few radiator cables. Your rotators are intact, but aging. I suggest you begin looking in the market for replacements." He sighs, turning to look back toward his waiting patients. "A better diagnoses than many of those dumbafts. Primus, they make me feel like such an inadequate medic. My programs tell me to put them together and then gives me satisfaction when the tasks are done. And then they end up like that," he waves to their status. "All. The. Time. Sizzles my circuits."