Rating: M
Chapter 4
Jetstorm set down the plates, turning
them this way and that, before he decided he didn't like where they
were placed period, moving them to another spot. Jetfire watched his
brother's fussing and almost had to laugh. The sun was shining, the
sky was blue; the weather was good and mild, and the scent of flowers
surrounded them from the little meadows situated about the park.
Everything was as perfect as a 'bot could wish for.... not that the
blue hybrid could see that. He was too busy riling himself up over
Ratchet's arrival.
“Down of calming, brother,” the
orange youngling grinned, shifting closer to his twin. Jetstorm
ignored him for an astrosecond before sighing and sitting back
restlessly.
“B-but brother...... Ratchet here
coming. Worried being are I.....”
“Why?,” Jetfire asked, reaching up
and stroking the other's flattened ears. “Plan working, yes?
Ratchet seeing of more, and soon be may of wanting us. Then bond are
us and all being happy, yes?”
Jetstorm merely shook his helm, pushing
his feelings across the bond. His twin sighed at the silent messages,
wrapping an arm about the blue youngling's waist and hugging him.
“Okie being, brother,” the orange hybrid assured, pressing his
face into the other's neck cables. “Ratchet liking food will.
Bestest cooker are you.”
The other hybrid dipped his helm, about
to say something, when another voice cut him off. “Hey boys,”
Wheeljack greeted, coming over the rise, “Sorry that we took so
long.” The bulldog was exceptionally grateful to find both of the
younglings exactly where he had left them. He had been so anxious
that they would have run off by now.... and that was only part of the
reason why he had been able to coerce his guest to come along so
quickly.
“Just what are you -Wheeljack?!,”
Ratchet growled, coming up the hill behind the other autodog. His
hackles immediately rose upon seeing Jetfire and Jetstorm; vibrant
smiles appearing on both of the hybrids' faceplates just as quickly.
“I thought you had said they'd run off,” the labrador said lowly,
turning on the engineer.
Wheeljack smiled wryly behind his blast
mask, lifting his servos in what he hoped was a placating manner. It
was doing the opposite effect of calming the vet though. “L-let's
just sit down and enjoy a good meal, o-okay? And I swear to Primus, I
really thought they would have run off by now!”
At the invitation, the younglings leapt
to their pedes, racing forwards and looping an arm about each of the
autodogs' arms. “Yes, yes!,” they agreed wholeheartedly, “Come
eat! Liking food will, promises!!” The engineer practically used
Jetstorm as a shield as he was guided over to the picnic the hybrids
had set up in his absence; Ratchet being strangely docile as well,
albeit with some quiet grumbling, while Jetfire wheeled him to the
blanket. Sitting down a safe distance away from the labrador,
Wheeljack scratched the twins behind their ears, studying the
saran-wrapped dishes and the tupperware containers just full of
energon goodies.
“It's a magnificent spread,” he
praised. “Isn't it Ratchet?”
The vet glanced down at the dishes,
before turning his hardened optics back up to the bulldog. “Very,”
the older mech replied blandly.
Oh, Wheeljack could just tell that he
was going to be in trouble later on for his lying. But, thankfully,
that time was neither here nor now. With Jetfire and Jetstorm
present, Ratchet would mind his manners, and even if he didn't, the
enthusiasm of the younglings was a hard thing to ignore. Pleased by
the compliments they had received and the guests they now had, the
blue and orange hybrids set about dishing up the meal they had so
lovingly prepared; handing a plate to each of the older 'bots.
Wheeljack accepted his from Jetfire
gladly, sparing a moment to retract his blast mask before digging in.
The bulldog glanced up in time to see Ratchet finally take the plate
that Jetstorm was anxiously holding out for him, the labrador staring
at the food almost disinterestedly. “No need to worry,” the
engineer grinned about his fork. “Just enjoy yourself a free lunch,
and you can skulk back off to the hospital, I promise.”
“I don't skulk,” the vet grumbled,
lifting his own utensil and jabbing at some of the servo salad. It
crunched pleasantly, and tasted just as good once it touched his
glossa. Not that the labrador was going to admit that.... especially
not with two sets of gazes locked on him intently. Maybe he should be
double-thinking those negative effects about a sparkling being raised
by Perceptor he had half speculated on earlier.....
Pushing those thoughts aside, Ratchet
attempted to eat through his meal, without making it seem like he was
in a hurry to get out of there. Which was true, but he didn't need it
to appear as such. For the first breem or so, Jetfire and Jetstorm
did not partake in the food themselves. It wasn't until after a
confused inquiry from Wheeljack did the hybrids finally dish a plate
for themselves. From there on, they only picked at their food, too
focused on the vet that sat on other side of them; committing each
action and sound to memory. Completely oblivious to this oddity, the
bulldog ate his fill of the picnic -nearly all that had been packed-
before complimenting the younglings profusely, and handing them a
small amount of credits to go and get themselves an energon cone from
a nearby trolly.
“You really don't eat much, do you?,”
Wheeljack commented, once Jetfire and Jetstorm had skipped off.
Ratchet, grateful to no longer have
those unshuttering set of optics on him, quickly put aside his plate
of half-finished food, scowling at the bulldog. “This company was
forced on me quite suddenly..... it leaves my fuel tanks churning.”
Wheeljack scratched at his ears
sheepishly again, putting his blast mask back in place. “I
apologize, I really do Ratchet. I had been hoping that Perceptor
would join us today, but he's locked himself up again in his lab. I
didn't think it would be right to let the twins' plans to go to
waste..... Not after they were looking forward to an outing,” the
white autodog explained. His optics dimmed just the slightest as he
recounted these events to the vet. “It wouldn't be fair to them.”
“No.... I suppose not....,” the
labrador sighed, rubbing at his olfactory sensor in exasperation.
These were situations he did not like getting into, and yet recently
that's all that seemed to be happening to him. “But still, why me?”
The engineer shrugged, glancing over
his shoulder plating fleetingly. “Jetfire and Jetstorm seem to like
you,” he replied.
“So I've heard....,” Ratchet
grumbled further. Shaking his helm, the labrador looked up and stared
at the other mech unblinkingly. “The question is now though, why
the slag didn't you just drag that pup out of his lab? He spends
more time than is necessary there as it is. These are his sons after
all.”
“Don't I know it.....,” Wheeljack
mumbled. “But I just can't hog-tie him and force him to soak up
some light.”
“Why not.... it's what I'd do,” the
labrador retorted lowly. The bulldog wisely did not respond to that.
“Besides, Percy has his reasons. His
work is beneficial to all, and he enjoys what he does. I don't want
to take that away from him,” the engineer tried to reason. “Would
you like a drink?,” he then asked, holding up a canister of cool
oil.
“Yeah, yeah; alright,” Ratchet
agreed, allowing Wheeljack to pour him a cup. He took it silently,
drinking a mouthful before returning his attention to the other
autodog. “Now stop skirting the issue. You've been practically
coddling that pup since I've met you. He's full-grown, Wheeljack, and
with younglings. He needs to start acting like the responsible parent
that he is.”
“But, Ratchet-”
“I'm not about to dispute anything
he's done up 'til now. I've seen 'bots do a worse job, and be better
off than Perceptor. But he does need to talk to someone,” the
labrador interrupted. “I want to schedule some therapy sessions for
him. If nothing else, then perhaps someone -someone more qualified-
can help him not be so afraid. Those boys don't need to have that
sort of burden on their shoulders..... not as young as they are.”
Wheeljack shuttered his optics in
surprise. “And.... and you think this will really help Perceptor?,”
the bulldog asked, his tone conflicted between anxious and almost
hopeful.
“Only if you cooperate. Then....
we'll see.” Ratchet nodded. Wheeljack wanted to ask the vet some
more questions, but Jetfire and Jetstorm were bouncing up behind him,
energon cones in their servos -nearly finished.
“Slow being are we sorries for,”
the orange youngling apologized, popping the last bit of his cone
into his mouth. He crunched it down quickly, grinning at the older
mechs. Jetstorm merely blushed a little behind his own treat, taking
tentative licks from it every couple astroseconds.
“Liking meal, did?,” the blue twin
asked, settling down next to Ratchet. He looked at the vet intently,
ears half-lowered against his helm; as if they couldn't decide
whether to perk with curiosity or flatten with anxiety.
The labrador looked first from the
timid youngling, then to his brother, and lastly to Wheeljack -who
was silently pleading with the older 'bot to be nice- before he
turned his attention back to the hybrid. “It was.... filling,”
Ratchet slowly answered. He tried to refrain from flinching when he
saw Jetstorm's visor flare brightly, cheekplates flush with pride and
joy. Slag, even the youngling's tail was wagging with unrestrained
glee.
“But!,” the vet quickly
interrupted, before things could get out of hand. “I must be going
now.”
Two whines came, long-winded and
spark-brokenly, and even Wheeljack looked somewhat disappointed. “You
sure you can't stay longer, Ratchet?,” the bulldog questioned.
He quailed a little under the glare the
other autodog sent him. “You know exactly why I can't,” Ratchet
growled back. The engineer quickly scratched his ears a third time in
embarrassment.
“Well, thanks for coming anyhow. I
hope you have fun at w-”
“No, yet not!,” the twins cried out
quickly. Wheeljack and Ratchet startled at the shout, Jetfire and
Jetstorm scrambling about the picnic set-up frantically. They
unearthed two presents: one from the picnic basket, and another from
the orange hybrid's knapsack. These they immediately presented to the
labrador.
“Umm, what.....”
“Jetfire? Jetstorm?,” the bulldog
started in puzzlement. “What's with the boxes?”
“Ratchet is for,” Jetfire answered;
his gaze was fixed entirely on Ratchet, same as his brother. “Gifts
of thanking for him.”
“And why would you need to be
thanking me?,” Ratchet replied suspiciously. The hybrids were still
holding the presents out, waiting eagerly for the vet to take them.
“That's what I'd like to know as
well.....” Wheeljack mumbled in the background. No one paid him any
mind. After a klik though, Ratchet finally folded and took the gifts.
“Now, I've really gotta go,” he
grumbled, rising quickly to his pedes. The younglings bowed their
helms, hands placed neatly on their laps.
“Again thanking for company we are,”
the twins said in unison. They lifted their faces and grinned equally
at the vet. “See of time next!”
Wheeljack smiled at the labrador as
well. “Guess we'll run into each other later.”
“Oh, we definitely shall,” Ratchet
smirked. That vile grin made chills run down the bulldog's back
struts. The older mech really wasn't going to let that go....
Glancing warily at the two hybrids, Ratchet again turned to
Wheeljack, nodding his helm. “We'll talk later.”
Without another word, the vet turned
and walked down the hill. The three mechs watched him go, before the
younglings crumpled, mewling in disappointment at the other autodog's
hasty departure. Wheeljack leaned forward and patted both of them on
their helms, drawing their attention. He smiled, even though he was
still greatly confused. He had never known Jetfire and Jetstorm both
to make individual presents and give them to a 'bot before, at least
not one they had known for so short a time; their sadness for
Ratchet's quick exit was a bit of a surprise in itself as well.
Definitely, the bulldog would have to
ponder this conundrum later..... if he remembered.....
For now, he had two younglings to cheer
up.
“Hey..... it's almost break time for
the research department. Wanna swing by and share what's left with
our beloved Percy?”
Well, that perked the hybrids up.
Jetfire and Jetstorm wagged their tails merrily at the proposition;
rising to their pedes quickly and packing their things up. “Go
Uncle Wheeljack, go! Mommy see now!”
The orange twin was actually pulling
and pushing at him now, since he wasn't hurrying as fast as they
would have liked. Laughing deeply, the bulldog finally rose to his
pedes, smiling softly at the younglings as they attached themselves
to his arms as per usual. “Well, then,” Wheeljack chuckled some
more. “Let's get going.”
Perceptor was going to be in for big
surprise.
xxXxXxx
Well this was interesting.
Jazz slowed in his pace, eyeing the
other autodog up ahead. The stranger was languidly striding down the
hallways, optics flickering from door to door. It was obvious that he
wasn't a city hall employee, despite how smartly he was dressed,
because he was practically wandering about -for what, the dalmatian
didn't know. His job -his duty- then was to find out just what the
other mech did want.
“Hey,” Jazz greeted, coming up to
the stranger. The slim autodog turned about, a smile touching
rouge-coloured lip components.
“Hello,” the stranger replied,
vocalizer smooth and charming. Blue optics sparkled behind silver
frames, making pleasant chills run up and down the security guard's
back struts. “Is there a problem, sir?”
For a few astroseconds, Jazz was unable
to answer. His mouth was slightly agape, vocalizer making strange,
little clicks as he attempted to speak. Clearing his throat, ignoring
the burning of his cheekplates, the mech returned his attention to
the other autodog. “No problem. Just can't let ya wander the halls
down here. This area'd be private offices, but if ya like I'll be
happy to escort ya back to the front desk.”
“Oh, but I have an appointment,”
the pomeranian said. It had taken awhile for the dalmatian to
recognize the other's breed, and yet he wasn't so surprised to notice
the pedigree. The multi-coloured 'bot's protest was light and easy,
spoken with a smile on his face that could charm lesser 'bots into
piles of satisfied goo. Jazz was grateful he could keep his cool so
easily.
“Well, if that's the case, I'll be
happy to guide ya to where ya need to go,” the security guard again
offered.
“That's alright. I wouldn't wish for
you to go out of your way,” the stranger once again waved off the
proposition. “Besides, I know where I'm going.”
That was odd..... Jazz opened his mouth
again, about to question just where exactly the pomeranian was going
and who had given him the directions in the first place, but another
mech strutting down the hall drew both of the autodogs' attention.
“Forgive the intrusion, Jazz,” Rodimus called. “But that mech
is with me.”
“Really now?,” the dalmatian asked,
actually perplexed. The stranger turned to the golden retriever, and
Jazz caught the flash of recognition behind his glasses. Well, at
least the security guard could be certain in the fact that the two
mechs knew each other. To his inquiry, Rodimus nodded his helm,
coming to a pause beside the pomeranian.
“Yes, he is. Do not worry, Jazz. We
will go along our way and leave you to continue your patrol,” the
younger autodog assured. Rodimus inclined his helm forward again in
farewell, before turning away and gesturing politely that the
multi-coloured 'bot follow after him.
The pomeranian smirked, waggling his
fingers at Jazz as he sauntered off after the golden retriever.
The security guard only watched the
pair walk off, before releasing a heavy intake; one servo scratching
behind his ear. Man..... Sentinel was going to blow a gasket when he
heard about an unchecked, unescorted civilian wandering about private
hallways.
xxXxXxx
“Help! Someone, I need help!”
A lone autodog, adorned with white
ears and a stumpy little tail, ran up and down the street, optics
wide and flashing brightly with fear and anxiety. Even the fins at
the side of his helm were flashing a series of red lights. Stopping
at the corner, the mech turned around and started his dash back down
the street again. He did not stop yelling, calling for help in the
darkness; hoping, praying, that someone would eventually hear him.
Another mech up ahead was just crossing the street. Catching sight of
him, the bulldog ran frantically toward the other autodog.
“Help! Please, I need help!” He
grabbed the stranger's arm, all but shaking the other 'bot
“Woah- hey!,” the labrador
growled, yanking his limb free. “What do you think you're doing?”
“I'm sorry, so sorry....,” the
bulldog rushed in apology. “But I need your help, please! It's
urgent! M-my friend, he....he's....”
The older mech stared at the other
for a short klik, before he turned his narrowed optics down the empty
street. “Where?,” he asked.
“Uh....t-this way,” the taller
autodog flustered. Not hesitating a nanoklik longer, the bulldog ran
back down the street, stopping half-way and ducking into an alley.
The labrador followed behind quickly, slowing as he came up to the
alley's entrance. He peered in suspiciously, not wanting to take a
step further.
The old 'bot took a cautious step
backwards as the bulldog stumbled out of the alleyway, optics wide
still. “P-please, he really needs help. H-he's...,” Something
crashed in the background, and the mech whirled about quickly,
disappearing back into the darkness. The stranger stayed exactly
where he was.
The shuffling continued further,
until the taller mech was limping out of the alley a second time.
This time, he was not alone. His arms were wrapped around the middle
of smaller autodog, a border collie, who was grasping his swollen
chassis with pain. “P-please, h-he's gone into-”
“Labour! Yes, I can see that!,”
the labrador snapped, rushing forward immediately. He helped the
bulldog lower the third mech to the ground, trying to make him as
comfortable as possible. Pressing his servos carefully along the
border collie's protruding middle, the stranger continued directing
his words to the other mech.
“How long has he been like this?
Why haven't you called for an ambulance yet?”
The taller autodog bit his lip
components for an astrosecond, taking the shorter mech's servo when
it flailed for him. He gave it a good squeeze, to which the border
collie weakly rested his helm against the other's chestplates.
“A-about half a cycle now....,” the bulldog answered.
“And you didn't think to get him
to the hospital!,” the labrador yelled. “These contractions are
serious; your friend must have been having them for longer than half
a cycle. Any minute and he could be protoforming all over the
sidewalk, and you were too busy running about, screaming your spark
out!!”
“I-i'm sorry!,” the other
autodog apologized again. “I-i wanted to get him to the hospital
right away.... B-but we're new here, and we don't have a phone set up
at home, nor a cell. I th-thought if a-anything, c-coming outside
would t-turn out more helpful.”
The older mech lifted his helm,
staring intently at both border collie and bulldog. He could see how
young they were now.... the tall one that had begged for his help
couldn't have been more than a few stellar cycles out of his
youngling years. His friend, possibly younger. And sparked to boot.
“.....they just get younger,” the labrador muttered to himself,
pulling a cellphone out of his coat pocket. Flipping it open, he
pressed it to his ear; free servo pushing along the smaller mech's
abdomen again, testing how far along the contractions were now.
“First Aid, yeah, it's me. Listen,
I need you to get an ambulance to my location stat. Yeah, I'm not
far. Just about round the corner, west-side,” the stranger was
saying into the mouth piece. “We've got two mechs here, and one is
sparked. Tell the drivers to prep for a quick and sudden birth. I
don't think we've got much time before the bornling starts to come
out....”
Silence for a nanoklik, as the
labrador listened to something his companion said across the line,
the border collie clenching his denta tightly and leaning heavily on
the bulldog. With a grunt of affirmation, the older mech snapped his
cell close, slipping it out of sight once more. “I need you to help
me lie him out more,” the labrador ordered. “We need to get your
friend to relax as much as possible. The ambulance should be along
shortly, but these contractions won't wait or ease up. If I have to,
I'll deliver the bornling myself, here and now.... anything to keep
from having complications rise up.”
“C-complications?,” the other
autodog squeaked, shifting his friend so that his back struts were
touching the concrete now; helm resting on the bigger mech's thighs.
“Yes, complications,” the
stranger replied. He pushed the border collie's legs open, servos
resting on the trembling knee joints. “Such as death. As uncommon
as it is these days, things like that still happen.
Unfortunately..... Hey, listen you,” the labrador growled, peering
at the silent autodog suspiciously, “I need you to breathe alright.
Nice, deep intakes. You hear me?”
“I-i am,” the small mech gasped.
He hissed at another painful contraction, falling quiet again, and
seemingly not breathing as well.
“Quiet friend you got there,”
the older 'bot remarked, looking up at the bulldog. The other mech
had the decency to look somewhat ashamed, and the labrador was
certain that if the younger autodog's servos hadn't been resting on
the border collie's shoulders, they would have been behind his ears;
scratching them guiltily.
“Yeah..... he's always been that
way.”
“Hmmmm..... Name's Ratchet,” the
autodog said after a klik. “I'm a vet over at the hospital.”
“Wheeljack,” the bulldog
replied. He smiled gratefully at the labrador, exhaustion in his
optics. “Thank you so much for stopping to help us, Ratchet. I
don't think I would have been much use to Perceptor.”
“Don't worry about it, kid,” the
vet waved off his thanks, just as the ambulance was pulling around
the corner. It shrieked to a stop, sirens still blaring, as the
paramedics jumped out from the cab. Ratchet rose to his pedes,
barking orders as the other 'bots quickly and as gently as possible,
lifted the border collie onto the gurney; raising him back up into
the ambulance.
Wheeljack shuffled behind the vet's
pedes, lurching forward worriedly as Perceptor was secured. “I need
to come with you!,” he exclaimed.
The labrador, climbing up into the
cab, paused, looking back at the other autodog. “We're packed as it
is, kid. If you just go in this direction, you'll come up to Iacon
square. The hospital is just past city hall there. You can see your
friend again later.”
“No!,” the bulldog protested,
throwing out his servos and catching the doors before they could be
closed on him. “You don't understand! I have to stay with him
-Perceptor's afraid of the h-hospitals. If I'm not there, I don't
know-”
“Wheeljack!,” came a weak,
pitiful whimper; confirming what Wheeljack was saying.
Ratchet stared at the border collie,
slowly starting to squirm and shake with panic. Though the mech made
no sound -same as when he had been in pain because of his
contractions- his optics were still wide open; flaring brightly with
anxiety.
“You're not the father, are you?,”
the labrador questioned, turning back to the autodog still standing
out on the street.
The bulldog hesitated to reply, but
slowly he did so, lowering his helm almost ashamedly. “No....,”
he whispered in reply. “But he needs me.”
“.....Alright,” Ratchet sighed,
pushing the doors open again. He ignored Wheeljack's stunned
expression, shifting aside so that there was more room. “Hurry up
and get in.”
At the invitation, the younger 'bot
scrambled into the ambulance, immediately taking up post by his
friend's side again. Perceptor whimpered only once, servos clasping
for Wheeljack's larger ones, before he fell silent again. The bulldog
though was avidly whispering things to the border collie as the
paramedics hurried about setting up their equipment and making sure
that the smaller 'bot's readings were stable; the ambulance lurching
forwards as they raced back to the hospital.
xxXxXxx
Ratchet
onlined his optics, staring dazedly at his servos for a few more
astroseconds before he lifted his helm, releasing a weary vent. His
chair creaked as he shifted in it, but the autodog wasn't too
bothered by the nasty shrieks that rose from the chair's coils.
Shuttering his optics a few times, the labrador looked about his
office, amazed that he had even been able to get a few breems of
rest. Anytime he attempted to go to the on-call room with the
other vets, he was always intercepted by somebot and then dragged off
to some menial or boring task. Getting some recharge while on shift
was impossible; but if he waited long enough, 'bots would eventually
stay away from his office and the old mech could get some sleep then.
Not that it had been that pleasant of a
recharge to begin with.
The vet reached across his desk,
picking up the two small packages sitting on its surface. They were
gifts, wrapped in blue and orange paper, bearing matching bows as
well. The tags on both of them read that they were for Ratchet, and
were from Jetfire and Jetstorm.
What a night that had been....
Perceptor had been so young, and so had
Wheeljack really. Yet, these two younglings came from the tiny
scientist; they were amazingly strong and sure of themselves, albeit
somewhat naive. So much like their creator.... and yet, not.....
The twins were getting pretty attached
to him as well. Being a fairly private mech himself, this was
actually starting to unnerve Ratchet. There hadn't been a bot before,
whether kittycon or autodog, who had placed so much attention on the
labrador. Naturally, it just made the vet want to run off in the
other direction, but he couldn't. Not now. For sixteen stellar
cycles, he had known Perceptor and Wheeljack. Sixteen long stellar
cycles.... and the mysteries, questions and half-truths have held for
this long.
The vet had meant what he had said to
the engineer before: Jetfire and Jetstorm were too young to carry the
burden of their creator's irrational fears. Worse than that, the
hybrids were growing as well. They would soon be full-grown mechs,
and with that came ambition and the freedom to make their own way in
the world. The twins, Ratchet was certain, would fare fine on their
own. They had all this “family” looking after them, obviously.
But Perceptor....? It was hard to say how the scientist would handle
this separation. It had taken a while, but the labrador had noticed
over the years that though the border collie was seemingly
emotionless.... he wasn't entirely.
Underneath the surface boiled a well of
restrained feelings; long repressed and festering unsupervised. It
was what made Perceptor so afraid to branch out from the niche of a
life he had weakly carved for himself. It also made him fiercely
possessive of those closest to him, especially of Wheeljack and his
sons. Losing either of them, whether literally or figuratively would
topple the scientist's already unstable world and possibly send the
other autodog into a series of panic attacks. More than like, that's
when that ocean of tapped down emotion would swell over Perceptor's
guards; drowning out his apathy and rendering the scientist weak
before such an onslaught.
Medically, it would mean the border
collie's own demise....
Such a future was becoming more and
more of a reality everyday. Slaggit all, if Ratchet couldn't help but
admit that he had grown somewhat of a soft spot for the younger mech.
He didn't wish to see any of this happen to Perceptor -not after all
these years of watching that cold, apathetic youngling take on the
duties of a parent and scientist so valiantly. And succeed for the
most part as well.
Oh, but what was he going to do with
those two vibrant younglings, the labrador wondered, staring at the
gifts further. He'd have to see more of them while he was helping
their creator, and it was something Ratchet was not looking forward
to.
If he wasn't so convinced otherwise, he
could almost slag near believe that Jetfire and Jetstorm had a crush
on him.....
No, the vet thought, shaking his helm
and rising to his pedes. He grabbed his datapads, heading for the
office door. It would be best not to think about things like that, he
surmised. Especially if he wanted to retain some fraction of his
processor in the long run.
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