Chapter Text
“Nickel, iron, cobalt, chrome
He’ll eat your soul
Turn your spark to stone
Nickel, iron, cobalt, chrome
Run, little robot, run away home”
The speedster’s tires squeal as he turns around a corner at breakneck speeds, transforming back into root mode as he’s thrown into the hallway with the inertia. He sprints through the halls, dodging bullets and energy blasts that skim his plating and singe his metal.
“Frag.” He growls, voice deep and gravelly and altogether more pissed than anything else. Maybe he was scared. If so, even he wasn’t aware of it. He was too busy planning how to kill everyone chasing him.
He turns another corner and gets whiplash from the harsh grip that lands around his throat, stopping him so suddenly in his tracks. He lurches forward and chokes, grasping at the giant blunt fingers on his intake.
The Decepticon tightens his grip and drags him towards the science wing. “You have no idea how happy I am to finally put you in your place.” He says, not a hint of emotion on his visored visage. The smug crawl of revenge, sickly sweet, is still blatant in his voicebox.
Eventually he hands the racer off to a group of heavies, who give him no chance to escape in the switchoff. The doors to the lab are less than a few mets away by now, anyway.
“Who the frag do you think you are!?” He hisses, gnashing fangs and swinging claws at the tank ‘cons dragging him along.
“Shut up.” One of them says, droll and unimpressed.
They enter through the double doors, and he watches as they swing shut ominously behind him. He has no idea what lies in wait for him here. Even as a high-ranking lieutenant, he never had any reason to visit this part of the Nemesis. He sees the silhouette of a gun in someone's hands before someone else- tall, slender, cold blue optics- sticks something sharp and piercing under his plating, and then it all goes dark.
Ratchet sets down his eighth datapad of the day and groans.
He is utterly, infallibly, undeniably, bored.
He stands from his chair and sighs, walking to his pantry and eyeing his energon stores like they’ll do something for him. Snacking during a war, a war whose outcome has come to hinge heavily on the energon crisis, leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Figuratively and literally. He shuts the cabinet and places his hands on his hip plates, eyeing the humble living space he’s been occupying the past few months.
It’s not like he’s part of the war anymore, anyways.
A sour expression crosses Ratchet’s face- a common occurrence. More common than usual lately.
Whatever. It’s dark. He should be getting to berth anyway.
He’s only two steps towards his berthroom when the sound of glass shattering reaches his audials, loud, clear, and close.
His helm snaps towards his study, the room just before his berth. There’s rummaging noises, a few loud thumps.
Is he seriously being burglarized right now? Way out here, in the middle of nowhere?
Ratchet steadies himself, inching down the hall, passing the door with the danger behind it. If he can just get to his room, he has a blaster there…
He listens to the sounds coming from inside the study as he passes by, quiet on his pedes as best a mech his size can. Shuffling- frantic, loud. He hears a low growl, like irritation, come from a voicebox inside.
So it’s no turbofox, animalistic as it sounds.
He manages to pass the door and make it to his habsuite, where he retrieves the blaster under his bed with haste. He inches back towards the study and takes a deep cycle of air through his vents before kicking the door open, blaster at the ready.
There’s a mech inside, leaned over his desk. Drawers and datapads are strung throughout the small room, like they were hurriedly torn through.
The mech looks at him and grins, which isn’t a good sign. He’s at least half a helm taller than Ratchet, and more slender, like a racing frame- though he’s a little bulkier than someone like Hot Rod- he’s covered in armor and warframe adjustments. His optics are ruby red and glowing, and his plating and armor dark- blacks, greys, whites, and golds. There’s a healthy dose of purple on his chest, where a Decepticon brand sits plainly. Heavy duty guns sit on either side of his hips.
Which is just great, for Ratchet.
“It really is you.” The con says, evil grin still growing.
Ratchet tightens his grip on his gun. “What the hell does that even mean? What do you want!?”
“I want you to cure me.” He says, like Ratchet knows at all he’s talking about.
Quite presumptuous, in Ratchet’s opinion. “Don’t the Decepticons have their own doctors?” He tsks, annoyed. He knows they do- not enough, and they’re slag at what they do, really, but they do.
The speedster’s grin falls. “Sure they do. But they aren’t really fans of mine right now.” He says, face now cold.
Ratchet’s expression hardens, partially because he knows himself, and he’s pretty sure that if this con actually is hurt, he’s not gonna stop himself from fixing the damn idiot, because that’s just who he is. It’s what a medic does.
“How did you find me?” He asks instead, because he’d really rather this go any other way. The con doesn’t look sick. Not at first glance.
The con grins again. “Wasn’t hard, just cost me a little. Who would’ve thought the Autobots’ CMO would retire at the height of the war?”
“I’m not retired!” Ratchet yells all of a sudden, temper flaring. “I’m-” He hesitates, frowning. “I’m on leave.”
The con laughs, long and raucous. “Ha! No need to get upset Doc, happens to the best of us. You and me, we’re similar like that.” He takes a step forward, and a splurt of energon lands loudly on the floor. Ratchet follows it- slag, the con is injured. It’s coming from his back.
“Stay back.” Ratchet barks, readjusting his aim to keep it steady on the con. “Put your servos up. Tell me your designation, rank, and exactly what the pit is wrong with you.” He orders.
The con chuckles. He looks Ratchet up and down, and pauses with that smarmy grin like he knows something that Ratchet doesn’t. But finally he shakes his head, answering through a crooked smile. “Sure, sure. It’s Deadlock. Lieutenant. And I have a couple DJD-grade bullets lodged in my back. But that’s not what I came here for.”
The DJD? Is this bastard trying to get him killed? “The DJD is after you!?”
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t followed.” He takes another step forward and Ratchet warns him, raises the blaster again with a steady hand.
“You expect me to believe that!?”
Deadlock shakes his helm. “Nah. You don’t gotta.” And then, inexplicably, Ratchet thinks his optics are glitching as long, thin, razor-lines tendrils begin to rise from the mech’s back. “But I recommend that you do.” He says, taking another forward. Ratchet is frozen for only a moment in shock and fear, but it’s long enough for one of the tentacles to tighten around his gun. He jolts into action and grips it harder, and a blast rings out in the struggle.
Deadlock staggers back, stiff and unsteady. There’s a hole in his shoulder, but the energon leaking from it, now that Ratchet gets a closer look, is an odd, sickly seafoam green…and glowing.
His tentacles shudder. They zip back into hiding, fast enough for one to knick Ratchet’s plating, and Deadlock’s red optics glow brighter for just a moment before he hitches his breath, bites his lip with fangs a little too sharp for standard ‘con grade, and falls stiffly to the ground as his optics burn out.
Ratchet looks down at the lifeless body below him, infrequent twitching the only sign the mech still functions. The damage to his back is severe- more severe than he should have been able to fake being okay with. In fact, the mech should probably be dead.
Then again, this is, apparently, no normal mech. Ratchet looks quickly for any other sign of those blasted tendrils, and when he finds none, curses to himself before heaving the mech over his shoulder and into the living room.
Well, at least he isn’t bored anymore.
Deadlock wakes with a heavy groan and bleary optics. His HUD is filled with old notifications of critically low energon levels and impending spark failure, none of which he’s sure even affect him anymore.
There’s also a perpetually slag-tempered medic peering down at him, so undeniably exasperated that Deadlock might not even have the benefit of scaring him into helping him out.
Deadlock’s optics look two centimeters to the right. Ah, and he’s found his blaster again. Wonderful.
“What in the pit are you?”
“I’m doing better, doc, thanks for asking.”
The blaster is shoved in his face. “Answer the question, con.”
Deadlock groans and lets his helm thunk back against the berth. “Good fragging question.”
“Is this what you wanted a cure for? Because I’ll be honest, I have no idea where to start unless you tell me what the frag is going on.”
Deadlock sits up, and though Ratchet has a steady hold on the gun, he lets him. He places a clawed hand to his helm and bites back the pain of a headache (and a distant hunger) in his processor.
“You ever heard of sparkeaters?”
Ratchet stares at him with a blank face. “You’re joking.”
Deadlock growls. “I’m not! You saw the tentacles! That’s not normal!”
“No, it isn’t, but I’ve seen some crazy modifications, too.”
“You think this is mods!? I got shot with a blaster from some fragaft scientist and now I’m this,” He says, gritting his dentae as those serrated cables start to slink out of his back again.
Ratchet takes a step back. He’ll admit, it’s strange…He’s seen mechs with prehensile cables before, but none like this. And he’d checked over Deadlock’s vitals after he went offline, but things were….Off. His energon was discolored and gave off the barest hints of radiation; his claws and dentae a little more than just Decepticon-grade sharp, his spark pulse was abnormally slow, and he showed signs of starvation no matter how much energon Ratchet seemed to pump into him.
…Ratchet slowly lowers his gun.
“Promise to behave, and I’ll take a look.”
Deadlock lowers the tendrils flowing behind him, but does not put them away. By the way they twitch and the Decepticon frowns, Ratchet would pitch a guess that he doesn’t know how to.
He steps forward with a gruff sigh, setting the gun down within easy reach.
Examining the con is…odd. It’s nowhere near the first time he’s examined a Decepticon patient, but the tentacles that emerge from the other mech’s back plating seem to watch him as he looks Deadlock’s anatomy over.
The tendrils emerge from a concentric point around the back of his spark chamber, which glows a little too off-color and a little too noxiously. The pulse of his spark, the pulse of his lines- both are just as slow as they’d been earlier. He brings out a scanner, double checking further, and then checking new points only to his continued confusion.
The medic then hurries over to a small lab setup- hastily assembled on his dining room table- where he removes what looks like an Energon sample and a readout from the machine beside it. He looks over it with glasses hanging in front of his optics, transformed from his various medical-based mods.
Finally, he steps back, pushing his built-in glasses up and transforming them away again.
“Well?” The con asks, smug and curious at the same time.
“...I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Ratchet says, both impressed and irritated. “Your body is starving, and seems to be overcompensating my pushing excess energy into your spark chamber to a detrimental degree. Conversely, all your inner functions have been slowed to conserve energy. But I’ve tried feeding you, and nothing seems to be doing the trick.”
Deadlock makes a face at him. “Yeah, like I said. Sparkeater.”
“I’m telling you, there is no such thing!”
“And what’s your explanation for these, oh wise one?” He wiggles the tendrils from his back in a somewhat controlled manner. They still look ridiculous.
“Probably a little too much engex and a drunken visit to a mod shop that you don’t remember.” He huffs.
“...Now you’re joking.”
“I don’t joke with Decepticons.” He throws the clipboard he’s holding haphazardly onto the table with a loud clack. “Speaking of, this isn’t a holding cell for POWs. Either get out, or I’m calling Autobot High Command to come get you out.”
“What? I thought you never turned away a patient in need!”
“You thought wrong. And besides, I treated your wounds. Whatever you have going on is outside my area of expertise.”
The Decepticon growls in anger, though a slight current of fear runs through the desperation on his face. “I need you to treat this!” He grabs at his chest, where his abnormal spark lay. “I'm starving. You think I haven't tried downing energon since I broke out, either? Well it hasn't done scrap, and I'm just getting hungrier. You send me out there like this, and I'm going to die. That, or…Someone else is.” He says, looking away, almost nervous.
Ratchet looks at him like he's crazy. “Have you blown a fuse!? Don't tell me you're actually considering trying to eat somebody.”
Deadlock pulls something out of his subspace. A small container, in which sits a few vials of energon and one glowing, effervescent orb of light contained in a specially made box. They clink together as he lifts them up to present them to the medic.
Ratchet's fuel tank twists. “Is that- Is that someone's spark?”
“They had a stash of these stored in the lab where they were experimenting with the Sparkeater technology. Several specially preserved sparks, and energon taken straight from someone's lines, not a dispenser. I’d hedge a bet that these are the only things that could satiate me. I could leave now and figure it out myself,” Deadlock shrugs. “Or I could do it with medical supervision.”
Ratchet scowls at him. “Stay or no, there's no way I’m letting you attempt to ingest a spark. Ethics and medical counsel forbid it.”
“Fine. Energon it is.” And before Ratchet can protest, Deadlock's popped open a vial and poured the contents into his intake.
Ratchet makes a disgusted expression. Yes, the fuel that runs through the lines of Cybertronians technically isn't any different from the fuel they ingest- both are Energon. But drinking the energon straight out of a mech’s body is, for that reason, considered highly taboo, and also, well, cannibalism.
But Deadlock seems to brighten almost immediately after consuming it, and then he's aggressively popping the lid off a second vial before Ratchet snatches it out of his hand.
“That’s enough of that, thanks,” He frowns. He confiscates the vial, his hand twitching slightly as he does so. He tries to hide it, though Deadlock’s optics follow the slight glitch in his servos with a knowing expression.
Ratchet takes the spark, too, and sets it behind him. Then he grabs the scanner from before, and plugs into Deadlock’s diagnostics port for one more look over the con’s vitals.
“Pretty sure stealing a soldier’s rations is some form of war crime.” Deadlock says, almost bored.
Ratchet ignores his patient.
The diagnostics are…enlightening. Remarkably, they look better. His spark pulse is still abnormally slowed, and his spark itself is still atypical, but signs of starvation have lessened, and his spark seems to be marginally improving in stability and strength.
He steps back and ponders.
Deadlock has little patience. “Talk to me, Doc.”
“Your spark pulse is still irregular, but your overall levels have improved, and the diagnostic is no longer showing you as malnourished. It doesn't make any damn sense- Energon is energon. Unless…” He places his servo to his chin, furrowing his brow. “I suppose by flowing through a mech's body, energon taken straight from someone's lines may have an added trace of sentio metallico.”
“Sentio what?”
“Sentio metallico. It means ‘living metal’. The very essence of your protoform; the parts of your body that you were forged with. It also refers to the parts of your frame directly in contact with your spark. Regardless, if this is an issue of the spark like it seems to be, than I suppose it'd make sense why spark-contaminated nourishment would remedy the problem.”
“So I'm some kind of vampiric nightmare, but you still won't call me a sparkeater.”
Ratchet doesn’t dignify that with a response.
“You aren't malnourished anymore, but your fuel levels still read out as much lower than they should have considering the amount of energon in that vial. Something else is at play here.”
Secretly, he's starting to wonder if maybe he should keep Deadlock here. Aside from the interest of public safety (which it would be whether he was a Sparkeater or not, considering Ratchet’s heard numerous stories about how murderous the assassin is), Ratchet would like to get to the bottom of this. It could be a new condition that would help future cases should they crop up.
“Look.”
Ratchet turns back around at the other's voice. He frowns, expectant of some new idiocy.
“Let me stay here, and there'll be something in it for you. A mutual relationship, yeah?” The con cocks his helm with a smile; those ridiculous finials make him look like a slippery turbofox, and his smarmy grin doesn't help. “You cure me, and I get to pretend this never happened. I help you find the cure for a brand new disease, and I'll protect you from any ‘cons that happen to come this way, too.”
“I’m a highly ranked soldier in Autobot high command. I can take care of myself,” Ratchet asserts.
“You’re a highly ranked medical officer and you can’t even pull a trigger with those faulty servos,” Deadlock counters, gesturing to Ratchet's suddenly shaky digits. Right. Deadlock came here with the knowledge of his…administrative leave.
“Frag off. There aren't even any cons out here to protect me from!”
“Not yet there aren't. But whether I stay or go, the DJD will eventually track me to this location. And I don't think they'd leave the Autobot CMO alive if they found him, retired or not.”
Ratchet almost crushes the scanner still in his hands. “Wh- The only reason I’m in danger in the first place is because of you, that's hardly an arguing point!”
“Well, it's true, and there's no changing that fact. Besides, don't ya think it would feel good to get to work that medic magic of yours again? Maybe you could prove an old cydog can still learn new tricks. Maybe they’d even let you have your position back.”
Ratchet has decided he hates this Decepticon. Maybe even more than he usually hates them. But he still doesn't want the idiot to die a painful, dangerous death- not when he has the opportunity to put it to a stop right here. And medic code does advise he helps those in need. Besides the grief this could save in the future, should any one else get struck with this ‘Sparkeater’ disease.
He looks over the impish, sharp toothed grin before him a little too long before, finally, he sighs and relents.
“Fine.” He begins, and Deadlock brightens (if you could call it that). “I’ll see what I can do.” He hates that the helper in his spark wants to glow at Deadlock’s grateful expression.
“But let me be very clear. You try to jump me, you're dead.” Ratchet makes a cutthroat gesture with his servo, followed by a reminder that he has Deadlock’s guns confiscated and safe somewhere out of the con’s reach.
“Don’t worry, Doc. I know not to bite the hand that feeds me. Or, cures me, in this case.”
“Yes, and I’m sure you’re so true to your word.”