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War and Wings: Chapter 11--Repercussions

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Rated T for generic humor, romance stuff---no porn (sorry), wartime violence, blood, and Cybertronian cursing
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Tap.

"...three heavily damaged energon tanks, and the ven'sle distillery will be inoperable until they can import another sc'eth from Kalis.  Fortunately only the dregs will give a slag about that.
 
Tap.

"...a hole in the north wall big enough for an entire platoon of wreckers...

Tap.

"...forty-three shattered tables, including one that was deemed unrecoverable by the maintenance team as it somehow found its way under the car in the drop shaft...and that doesn't even include the entire bar which somehow ended up at the bottom of the oil fountain in Sub-Level Seven!"

BANG!

Io straightened her posture and flexed her nacelles out of startlement at the loud clatter that Crossarm's data-pad made as it scuttled across the surface of his desk.  Optics blinking rapidly for a few frantic moments as she forced her processor to re-focus, she resisted the urge to track her agitated CO, instead masking her inattention behind a steely, blank facade.  

This wasn't the first time she had been verbally disciplined as an Autobot--or as a Decepticon, for that matter.  Granted, "verbal" discipline among the 'Cons basically amounted to assault with some colorful language thrown in for good measure.

In either case, she knew better than to do anything other than stare past her CO, arms firmly at her sides, and wings lowered as a sign of submission, but also to convey willingness toward redemption.

And given Crossarm's penchant for the dramatic, remaining quiet and unobtrusive was the most she could do to assuage his anger.  Anything else would just provoke him further, making their inevitable punishment all the more severe.

The jet paced in front of them for several, silent moments; his expression dark and focused.  Finally, he paused before Ratchet, and all but shouted.  "I don't know how you got into such a sorry state," with a wild hand gesture, he indicated all of the dents, dings, and lacerations marring Ratchet's normally well-kept finish--"battle scars" from his involvement in the bar fight.  "But considering the sheer magnitude of the damage that was done to one of the oldest establishments in Iacon..." he fixed the medic with a nearly apoplectic glare. "I don't care."

Flaring his wings, suddenly, Crossarm leaned in closer.  "Do you have any idea how this makes the clinic look?  How it makes me look!? You have not only disgraced this institution, but, as you are under my charge--something you seem to increasingly forget--you have disgraced me!"  

Unconsciously, Io's fists clenched.  

Crossarm should have been screaming at her.  After all, she was the one who attacked Foray.  Ratchet had only gotten involved because of her.  But either because Ratchet was her immediate boss and thus was deemed the more responsible party or because Crossarm could finally get out his latent aggression at the larger mech, her charge was forced to bear the brunt of it.

Unfortunately--well, depending on the point of view--the effect of the lecture was lost on both dressed-down 'Bots, and in Ratchet's state, this only threatened to make the situation worse. Crossarm's smaller stature made him look a sparkling admonishing its former... and it was obvious he was clearly enjoying the tirade too much to be taken seriously.

It wasn't every day that he had the opportunity to tear down one of the most highly-regarded 'Bots at the clinic and make himself seem authoritative in front of her, after all.

But their lack of response didn't deter Crossarm--he would flare his wings at a post if he could convince himself it felt threatened by his position--and he worked himself into rare form, devising all manner of punishments and situations in which Ratchet--and Io, but of course he never really seemed to include her--might find himself for his indiscretions.

Io all but stopped listening after just a few astroseconds, especially when her CO made some comment about Ratchet tidying the Sea of Rust in a tone that said he was half-serious if he could just convince Optimus to allow it. Which of course seemed highly probable as he described the Prime as one would an old war "buddy," in a tone that said he was decidedly sure Optimus would easily lay down his spark for the small aerial-Bot if it would save him the slightest discomfort.

True, she didn't completely turn off her audio receptors, and bits and fragments of his exposition reached her from time to time--she recalled him lamenting the loss of one of the last remaining bottles of jorisit--but in the mind-numbing interlude that could easily last an orn she decided it was best she pay attention to who truly mattered.

Ratchet.

The  old medic stood at attention, though his posture was all wrong; the byproduct of a horrifying injury to his entire left side.  But even as he swayed on unsteady trods, and even as his optics stared, unfocused, at an invisible spot on the wall behind their angry, preening CO, a bemused smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Almost as if he found Crossarm's pontificating as fake and as funny as she did.

A brief smile visited her lips.  

Under normal circumstances, Ratchet was about as expressive as a sheet of aluminum.  Seeing him so laid-back, and seemingly at ease with the severity of his "transgression" was delightfully... out of character.

Io's spark fluttered pleasantly at the thought, and her smile deepened.
 
"We are supposed to function as a unit!" Crossarm continued, snapping Io away from her thoughts.  He seemed oblivious to her inattention and, also, to the subtle smirk that was still trying to claim Ratchet's face.  Spinning smartly on his trods, the jet resumed his agitated pacing.  "Such disruptive behavior is not at all conducive to teamwork, to harmony!"

He waggled a finger excitedly at nothing.
 
Io rolled her optics, and as Crossarm paused in front of the large, panoramic window that looked out over Iacon, the former 'Con turned her head so that she could scrutinize the more severe damage along Ratchet's side.

The bright lights evidenced a grisly picture.

All of the plating--especially the beautifully curved sidereal plates under his arm--had been severely inverted, and in some cases, the twisted metal had actually punctured the confining armor of his chassis.  And as Io looked on, alarmed, fresh energon seeped from the wound in a inconsistent but significant stream, plopping against the floor where it had formed a large puddle.  The loss--though not lethal--was sufficient, and would have to be addressed soon.
     
*Ratchet?* Io memed via his private com-link frequency.

The large mech swayed dramatically on his trods, his optics darting wildly around the room as he searched for the mysterious source of the voice.  Then, after an astrosecond of consideration, he turned and fixed her with a bright, aquamarine stare.  *Io?* He smiled.  *Hey! What's up?*  His thought "voice" sounded giddy.  

*You're leaking.  Baddly.*

*What? Really?* The seasoned medic looked down, first at his right side, then, after a quick shake of his head, he focused on his left.  *Oh, would you look at that...* He mused, and a light chuckle drifted through their link to dance merrily in the back of her head.  Then, for reasons that Io could only blame on his overenergized state, Ratchet finished his comment out loud.  "A present from Old Rocky if I must..."

"Are you even listening to me!?" Crossarm roared.

Io snapped immediately to attention.  Ratchet on the other hand, was a little delayed in his reaction.  His posture necessitated an about-face unleashing a full-body sway replete with raised arms for balance, knocking a container of energon goodies off of the CO's desk and requiring a two-step lurch to get back into position. Several of the goodies crunched under his trods, but he seemed not to notice.

Crossarm, on the other hand, become even more irate if that were possible and, stalking menacingly across the room so that he could glare up at his underling, his wings steadily lowering into a threat position.

The blue mech considered Ratchet with a face that was decidedly unamused.  "So, insubordination is the name of today's game, is it?" He growled, crossing his arms over his chest.  

Crunch.

Crossarm grimaced even harder and Io was surprised he didn't shatter his jaw.

"I would have thought someone like you, Doctor 'holier-than-thou-because-I'm-a-compendium-of-all-knowledge' would be above such antics... For such a... 'well-respected'..." Crossarm's voice faded to silence as an unusual sound caught his audio receptors.

Io's optics widened--she had heard it also--and she turned so that she could gape up at her mentor in shock.

For the second time this evening, Ratchet had laughed aloud.

Crossarm's reaction was instantaneous.  "So you think this is funny!?"  he roared.  He stood up on the tips of his trods and attempted to look Ratchet in the face, but due to his smaller stature, had to settle with yelling at Ratchet's chin-plate.  While sufficient in Crossarm's optics, it only served to ruin the effect and prompt the red-and-white medic to another bout of bemused chuckling.  "You dare mock a superior officer!?"

Another chuckle.

Crossarm gritted his dental plates; his fists clenched tightly.  "Let's see if you're still laughing after a tour of energon tank duty.  All fifty of them."

Ratchet's laughter faltered for a moment, as if part of him realized the severity of his punishment.  But, this pause was momentary, and within a few astroseconds the seasoned medic was back to chuckling to himself like an over-energized sparkling after their first visit to Maccadams.

Io's spark leapt into her oral vent.  Cleaning out one energon tank was bad enough, but fifty?  Such a thing would take orns.  

Her chest tightened at the thought of being separated from her mentor for that long, but what could she do or say that would change Crossarm's mind?  

Of course her default thought, even after fifty stellar cycles as an Autobot, was to use her feminine wiles to persuade the young mech to either abandon the punishment altogether, or to at least convince him to reduce the sentence, but after glancing quickly at Ratchet, the thought stalled.  

First, toying with Crossarm's emotions would have been grossly inappropriate given all that Ratchet had done for her, but as it was because of hints of this very action that the fight had started in the first place, such would be the height of hypocrisy--especially if Ratchet ever found out.

Secondly, no matter how much she wanted to save him from an incredibly excessive and tedious assignment, she just couldn't will herself to get close to Crossarm, let alone touch him.  At even the brief entertainment of the notion, a strange sort of disquiet filled her spark and, concomitantly, a feeling of physical illness or nausea gripped her internals.

Odd... The femme mused.  That's never happened before.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she reconsidered the two mechs.  Ratchet was still giddy and non-compliant, and Crossarm--having since returned to his flats--was thoughtfully tapping at his chin, almost as if he were trying to work out the logistics of relocating the obstinate mech to the basement.

And whether he should send Ratchet to the tanks straight away.

Her processor whirred thoughtfully.  She would have to approach the situation like an Autobot: with tact and finesse.  She may not be able to persuade Crossarm to abandon the punishment, but the least she could do was try to buy Ratchet enough time to process the extra energon in his system, and to administer some basic first aid.  

Generating a bit of static with her voice box to get the jet's attention, she said.  "Crossarm, Sir?"

The clinic's HMO turned his head and considered Io with a look of surprise.  Granted, it was clear from the low angle of his wings that he was still "angry"--there was no getting around that, not when Ratchet was completely indifferent to his authority--but he was clearly intrigued by her tone.  She had never called him "sir" or verbally admitted this same authority, and because considering her and not the situation seemed a welcomed way to focus his attentions, he eagerly responded.  "Yes?"

"Sir, I'm afraid I must protest your decision."

The blue jet cocked his head in a way that was oddly reminiscent of her usual mannerisms.  His brow ridges narrowed slightly, though he seemed more amused by her statement than angry.  "For what reason?"

Io straightened her posture to fight the sudden fluttering in her energon cistern.  "Ratchet drank nearly two stellar cycles worth of recreational energon at the bar.  In all honesty, putting him on energon tank duty, in this state, could be disastrous."  

Crossarm clenched his fists and stomped one of his trods like a belligerent sparkling.

Crunch!

At the sound, the jet all but exploded. "I don't care if he drank the equivalent volume of all the clinic's oil baths in three cycles! He caused more damage to Mccadam's than if it was on the front lines at Praxus!" He fixed her with a stern, blue glare, optics flashing.  "He must be punished and immediately!"

"But I'm just as culpable..." She began angrily, but was cut off by Ratchet who decided at that moment to launch into song. The words were foreign to her audio receptors--possibly middle Golden Age--but it had an interesting tone--in fact, it almost sounded like a lively pub song.

"See what I mean?" Io indicated the intoxicated mech with a dramatic wave of her hand.
Crossarm shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose-plate, and for a long moment he said nothing. When at last he spoke, it was as if he had composed himself and had replaced uncontrollable anger with the cool logic of an executioner.

"If I don't discipline him in some, obvious way, Optimus may get involved."  Dropping his arms to his sides, he considered Io out the corner of his optic.  "We're at war, and this is something that Optimus and his staff do...not...need...to...deal...with. "

He made sure to enunciate each word.

"In fact," he mused sardonically. "I don't think they would.  Prowl would just deflect the issue to the disciplinary council, and if you've ever had to deal with that wreck, they would regard the whole incident as a grievous misuse of their time, and they may be tempted to do something drastic, like force him to go back to medical tech, or, when it dawns on them that we can't be without his services no matter how unfortunate such an absence would be on all of us..." The mech trailed off and a licentious smirk began to tug at the corner of his mouth, replacing his cruel sneer.  "They might even force me to reassign his shield."  

Io's optics narrowed.  

She could almost see the cogs turning in his processor.  To someone with a clear-cut case of  "small mech" syndrome, separating her from Ratchet would be a sure-fire way to proclaim his "dominance" over the older medic, where age and experience clearly couldn't compete.   It was this very sort of objectification that the femme reviled, and she would sooner relegate herself to the Pit than find herself shackled to Crossarm as his "shield."  

The same tidal wave of anger that had goaded her to violence at the bar threatened to break once again.  Optics narrowing to slits, the femme opened her mouth to express her displeasure, only to find that she had been "beaten to the energon," as the saying went.  

Ratchet, moving almost too quickly to be believed, reached forward, and snagged the slender, cobalt spire compromised the ventral surface of Crossarm's nose-plate.  "I am Unicron, the chaos bringer!" He shouted happily and began pulling the fixture side to side, almost as if he were using a targeting stick to shoot down enemy aircraft.

"Oww! By Primus...ow! OWW!"  Crossarm grabbed Ratchet's fingers and tried to pry them off of his helm.  "Y-you'll pay for this...this...indignation!" Crossarm lashed out at Ratchet's bracer, but as his head was cocked at a weird angle, he had no leverage and managed only to leave a small dent.

This did nothing to deter the inebriated medic.  

Side to side the Sergeant's head went, and after several oscillations coupled with futile attempts by Crossarm to dislodge the larger mech, the CO's voice actually switched from fury to alarm. Turning his head--as best as he was able, given the circumstances--he looked at Io, pleadingly.  "Can you...OW!  Can you stop him or something?" He yelped.  "He's going to break it off!"

"Who painted Sunstreaker pink?" Ratchet demanded, giving the spire another hardy tug.

Io crossed her arms, and fixed her CO with a look that practically screamed "I told you so."  

"Still want to put him on energon tank detail?" She asked softly, stepping forward so that she could meet the jet's furious but beseeching gaze.  

"He's not getting out of this." Crossarm growled as much from discomfort as from the thought that Io was trying to get her friend's sentence commuted.  "Especially not after this...OW!!  WILL YOU STOP TUGGING ON THAT!" He raged suddenly.

Io considered Ratchet through pinched optics.  She couldn't help but worry about her mentor's well-being.  Angering Crossarm like this was incredibly unwise, even if he couldn't help himself, and he would have to pay for this uninvited advance.  As Crossarm was their CO whether they liked it or not--and whether Ratchet was inebriated or not--his actions could easily be interpreted as assault, no matter how embarrassing.

"I realize that," She replied softly.  "But he needs some time to sober up."

As if to agree, Ratchet smiled and . "Yes, Optimus, all of the energon cubes have been fired; it's only a matter of time before they commune with the Thirteen."

Crossarm's optics looked confused and, like Io standing next to him, his mouth stood agape for several long moments.  Then, finally, the jet sighed.  "And what, exactly, would you propose?" he asked, head still tilted at an odd angle.

"Three groons for detox and addressing his wounds." She pointed at the floor at the pool of energon that was steadily creeping toward the Sergeant's desk. "This may have something to do with his affected state."

Crossarm followed her finger and considered the energon that marred his floor.  He shrugged his large shoulder-caps as if it was of only minor consequence. "Perhaps," he said indifferently.  Turning his head, he studied her face for several long moments.  There was a questioning look in his optics, almost as if he were wondering why she cared so much about Ratchet's well-being.  No doubt he was still holding out hope that she would choose him as her partner.  "Tsk, fine; three groons it is." He snipped.  "But not one astrosecond more.  And afterwards, I want him in the energon tanks until all of them are clean. And I don't mean tolerable, but assembly line new."

A relieved smile flexed Io's lips.  "Thank you, sir." She replied with a slight incline of her head, gratitude clearly evident in her voice.  "I really appreciate you doing this."

Crossarm's optics widened slightly, almost as if he was truly surprised by her tone.  Then, after an astrosecond of contemplation, he smiled.  "It's...no bother, really."

Sounding sincere, the situation may have been acceptable if she could forget Crossarm wasn't a creep... and wasn't standing with his head cocked at an odd angle, motion controlled by her charge's drunken nervous system.

Io briefly returned the expression before she turned her head to focus on her Mentor.  She approached him slowly, arms outstretched.  "Ratchet?"

The mech turned and considered her through distant optics.  He swayed slightly on his trods, which resulted in another--yet seemingly, accidental--tug on Crossarm's spire.

"OW! Really!?" The jet protested, loudly.

After regaining his balance, Ratchet did his best to focus on Io's face-plate.  A smile briefly entertained his lips as he continued to sway unsteadily.  "Io?"

Io smiled and lightly touched his hand, the one that effectively immobilized their CO.  "Can you do me a favor and let Crossarm go?"  She spoke slowly and reassuringly, making sure to enunciate every word in a way that would hopefully penetrate the intoxicant-derived haze dulling Ratchet's sensibilities.

"No!  My toy!" Ratchet recoiled from her touch the way someone might after touching something that was highly caustic.  Doing so caused Crossarm to lurch forward suddenly, eliciting a string of flustered curse words from the jet's lips.  "Grrr." He growled after the larger mech had stopped moving.  "You are so going to regret this..."

Io narrowed her optics, squared her nacelles, and stomped after him.  Backing him into a corner, she jabbed her clawed index finger at his medial plate.  "If you don't drop him this instant, I'm going to file off your rivets the next time you recharge!"

Ratchet's optics widened, and he immediately released Crossarm's spire.  

"And what do you say?" She demanded, indicating Crossarm with a wave of her hand.

"Um...sorry?"

Crossarm was rubbing at his spire, all the while muttering under his breath, complaining about having to re-finish the fixture. Even so, he still managed a simple, "Yes, fine.  Just go."

Io nodded, took hold of Ratchet's hand, and guided the swaying and still smirking mech toward the door quickly, before Crossarm could change his mind.
Chapter 11 went from being potentially one of the shortest chapters in the fanfiction, to be one of the longest, necessitating a split. So, here's chapter 11, dealing with the immediate consequences of chapter 10. The rest of chapter 11--now newly minted as Chapter 12--will focus more on the continuing development of Io and Ratchet's relationship.

As we'll see then, there's a lot more to Ratchet's "drunken" actions than meets the eye.

This part was a joy to write, and there were times when I actually laughed aloud. X3 This chapter, along with 12 is intended to have more of an upbeat tone, considering how depressing the rest of the story actually is.

Also, this is the first time that Crossarm has appeared in person since chapter 4. It's been a bit of a running gag to have him appear indirectly in each chapter.

Ne-who, enjoy!

Previous chapter: War and Wings: Chapter 10--Maccadam's
Rated T for generic humor, romance stuff---no porn (sorry), wartime violence, blood, and Cybertronian cursing
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Abandoning his alt-mode in favor of a pair of trods, Ratchet made his way slowly through an ever burgeoning crowd of 'Bots toward the famous marquis of Maccadam's Old Oil House.
 
This section of Iacon was always crowded, one of the main thoroughfares stretching from the High Council Pavilions to the Energon Pools, but it was the position of the brewpub that turned typical congestion into a veritable roadblock.

And for good reason.

Existing

Next chapter: War and Wings: Chapter 12--Revelation
Rated T for generic humor, romance stuff---no porn (sorry :D), wartime violence, blood, and Cybertronian cursing
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Io waited until Crossarm's office door had closed behind them and they were partway down the hall before she rounded on her charge, drunken or not, and unleashed upon him the thoughts that had frolicked about in her processor from the moment they¬ had first suffered their CO's ire.

"I cannot believe you of all people would do something so... so... foolish," She rumbled disapprovingly.  "Attacking Crossarm, getting involved in the fight with Fo


I don't own Ratchet or the transformers universe, I just like messing with them. Crossarm and Io are my OCs; don't use them without my permission.
© 2013 - 2024 praxcrown5
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HyperEnergetic's avatar
XD "I am Unicron the chaos bringer!" and "Yes Optimus, all the energon cubes have been fired." They got laughing so hard!