Chapter Text
He was already tired from an endless work day of hearing bots in perfect condition pester about dust pecks stuck in their rear seams, and yet the most important part of his day had yet to be accomplished.
The underground districts were far from secure. It was dark, dirty and reeking of low-grade coolant discharge.
Ratchet was slowly walking toward the clamor of an excited crowd.
From the even tone of the cheers, he knew the fight must’ve just begun. The energon-thirsty fraggers that came here to watch such fights emitted a cacophony of savage roars when the end of the match approached. Ratchet knew it from the endless times he’d heard them above his helm, clamoring for others’ pain like the processorless beings they were.
The cheap, non-permanent paint he’d smeared on his frame was a serious pain in the aft. The jet-black liquid covering his every component was going in seams it wasn’t supposed to.
It was uncomfortable as slag.
However, he preferred being obliged to thoroughly wash his frame of the cheap paint than being recognised or targeted.
In this particular district, bright or pale paint were a sign of a privileged life, most of the time of bots from the upper districts. Said bots who were courageous enough – or crazy enough – to come down here with these types of paint most of the time were left in detached pieces or even sometimes – tough rarely - sparkless.
Ratchet had witnessed it once. It was a sight that sometimes kept him up at night.
He was getting closer to the jubilant sounds.
The crowd’s cries had became erratic in a matter of seconds. The fight was about to see its end.
In the distance, he saw the dark alley he would turn into, like every fight night, to find the secret door that led to the underground tunnels of the Pit.
He made sure for the umpteenth time that his mask – the key element of his disguise – was secured correctly to his audial stacks and took a deep breath.
-
In the center of the room Ratchet walked into laid the unconscious form of Brounder - a veteran fighter of the Pit that Ratchet was well used to treat by now.
Ratchet frowned. While he was used to heal him, he was also used to him being awake, for this particular bot being the usual winner. Except in exceptional cases, such as this one.
He wasn’t even in that bad of a shape, some shallow dents and light cuts on normally badly damaged cables.
The reason for his loss – and unconsciousness - was however very clear. A deep, uneven dent had left his helm considerably gouged.
“You’re the medic ?”
The voice had came from the right corner of the room, of which only two red optics were visible – and locked on him.
During his analysis of the unconscious mech, Ratchet had forgotten that there was also another bot waiting on his care. While Ratchet was surprised that the fighter hadn’t yet intimated him into taking care of him before the other bot who needed it more, he was even more surprised to note that his voice sounded so...young.
“I am indeed a medic.”
Ratchet always forced his voice into a deeper tone for the sake of his disguise. It wasn’t like he had to talk a lot, anyway.
The bot stood up.
Oh.
He was big. Even bigger than Brounder, who was in himself an imposing bot. No wonder he won.
He started walking toward Ratchet slowly, the darkness slowly letting its grip off of him.
He was in rough shape, most of his grey frame covered in sizable dents, the left corner of his intake still blue from the energon leaking from - by what Ratchet could tell – torn protoform. He was also slightly limping. Left pede.
Once he was coming too close for comfort, Ratchet took a step back, thinking the intimidation was simply coming late, but the bot simply passed him, no longer looking at him, and said ; “I’ll be outside once you’re done with him.”
He closed the door behind him.