Chapter Text
It starts with a panicking dockworker shouldering his way through the front doors, a limp and dirty frame in his arms. “Help! Please, you have to help him!”
Ratchet was in the back of the clinic, unaware of the commotion brewing, working with the first shift intern, watching over as they correctly placed the intra-linear feed and began running a hydraulic line flush. The patient had presented with too much water in their system to let their own filters handle it, but not quite enough to justify having to in-patient them for the day to put them on a secondary system while they drained and flushed the tank manually. This was the happy medium, it would take a few joors to complete and was good practice for Gimlet who was only in their first vorn of their residency. And Ratchet would have actually complimented the work except there was a slag ton more screaming coming from the front than there should have been (the correct amount was none). Gimlet looked up at him, a little bright opticked but nodded and stayed with the patient, pulling the curtain around to give some privacy.
Hauling aft through the ward door, he made sure to lock up behind himself, more than half expecting either a leaker screaming for energon or one of the perimeter gang members trying to hustle them for stim-packs. What he wasn’t expecting was for Hackjob to be standing at the triage desk, shouting at what appeared to be neither a leaker or a gang member.
“What the frag is going on up here?” It was hard not to bellow, to keep his voice even so as not to add to the volatile situation but Ratchet had vorns of practice, even if some orns were harder than others to draw on it.
“What’s going on is this, this junkie is looking for a fix and won’t leave! He’s been screaming and causing a scene and all the real patients are getting distressed because this piece of slag won’t leave!” Hackjob screamed and stood taller with a little hop, gesturing rudely at the blue and red mech who looked about a breem away from a stress shut down.
“I’m not! He needs help! I’ve been trying to tell you he’s overdosing and the halt-chip I gave him is only going to hold it off for so long!” The large framed labor mech shouted back, before Ratchet could get a word in edge wise.
“How about everyone calms down and brings the decibel level down several notches? How long ago did you administer the chip?” Ratchet moved around the desk, getting a clearer look at the light grey racing frame. A few steps was all it took for him to see the circuit boosters that had been jammed directly into the cranial ports and the very obvious halt-chip that had been forced in between them. Taking a vent to save himself from yelling at the discriminating second vorn intern, he glanced back as he got closer to take the racer from the labor class mech. “Hackjob, go ahead of me and prep bay two for a full hook up!”
The red and blue mech’s optics were bright with stress, his plating starting to clatter as he hesitantly released his burden. “I-I want to say about twenty breems ago but I’m not entirely sure. I panicked when I found him. Our f-first aid classes don’t really prepare us for this sort of thing. I know he’s probably just going to go do it again but I couldn’t just leave him. There were a couple of mechs watching him, I don’t know what they wanted but it probably wasn’t good.”
“Hey, look at me. You did good kid. You did the right thing ok? We’ll do our best for him. I’m going to take him now, alright? Once I have him I want you to go sit down in the waiting area, ok?” Gently the medic lifted, reassuring the other as he took the racer and moved quickly back through the ward doors. A stretcher would have been more ideal but at this point he didn’t want to risk the extra few breems it would take if the halt-chip wore off sooner than it should. A half glance back let him know that the laborer had sat down where he’d been standing, too rattled to make it the dozen or so steps to the seating area.
Putting the laborer from his cortex for now, Ratchet focused on the dying mech in his arms. He ran his internal scanners, which weren’t as good as the hand helds or the ones inbuilt into the med berths, but it gave him a baseline to ping back to Hackjob. He moved as quickly as he dared, careful not to jostle his load on the off chance he could dislodge the halt-chip. Intermittent ventilations, overheating cortex, cold to the touch and greying extremities, all classic signs of an over dose. Poorly functioning pumps, unequal spark output and thinning armor with weakened struts all spoke of chronic malnutrition.
Getting into bay two, the medic carefully placed the limp racer frame down on to the med berth and sterilized his hands and arms quickly. “Get a transfusion with diluted med-grade hooked up, I don’t want to shock his systems.” As he spoke he was already in motion, placing sensor patches along the frame, followed by a secondary ventilation support system. “If we’re lucky the halt-chip will hold off long enough to start getting some extra carbon in to him.”
“Don’t know why we’re bothering, he’s just going to go right back out there and jam more of those into his helm.” Hackjob muttered, though he didn’t hesitate in hooking up the unconscious mech to a energon feed.
Part of Ratchet wanted to give the second vorn intern a dressing down, but it wouldn’t fix anything and only set the medic in-training on the defense. It also wasn’t the first time that the little two-wheeler had said disparaging things about the lower caste and street-folk that the Free Clinic treated. “Its not our place to judge. Our job is to treat those that come to us. A lot of these folks don’t have the means to anything better than what they already have down here.” He just finished hooking up the spark support cable when the halt-chip suddenly gave up and their patient started seizing, monitors screeching their dismay.
“Slag! Get a full dose of carbon and inject it, half a dose at a time and keep an optic on those pump read outs as you do!” The medic activated the in-berth magnets, halting the flailing and jerking limbs. It wasn’t good for the compromised frame but it was the lesser risk of trying to jab a needle into the fuel filter and missing, never mind the damage he could do trying to remove the circuit boosters. He ripped open a closed surgical tray, grabbing three sets of forceps while he engaged the magnification in his optics, zeroing in on the chip and boosters. Carefully, very aware that he could cause processor damage if he removed the boosters wrong before they finished their uplink, he used two sets to stabilize the circuit boosters and the third to gently remove the halt-chip. The two boosters followed, all of the forceps set haphazardly in a tray.
A raspy gasp and harsh coughing brought their patient’s ventilations into a better rhythm though Ratchet didn’t disconnect the secondary system. Spark output was still poor and all of the mech’s pumps were stuttering, making the medic frown. The monitor showed everything rise up and stabilize briefly before rising and dropping erratically as Hackjob injected the carbon. And that should have been enough for the two boosters, with the racer frame’s compromised readings it could just be too much for the mech’s frame to handle. But… Reaching under the patient’s helm, he palpitated the thin plates where helm and neck met. “Frag, there’s at least two more. Give him another half dose, these feel like they’ve been forced in deep. There’s no way he put these ones in himself.”
The frame was still seizing and Ratchet didn’t dare demagnetize the berth, risking the possibility of the processor damage versus the damage that Hackjob would cause if he missed the fuel filter. He ran a micro-transformation, the last two digits on his left servo forming together and opening to a small mirror so he could see while he carefully worked out the third booster followed by a fourth and then a fifth with his right servo.
Almost immediately some of the vitals improved, and the seizing stopped, though the poor racer frame wasn’t in the clear yet. At this point Ratchet and his intern had done all they could, it was up to the mech on the med-berth to pull through, and the medic had seen his fair share of deaths from over dose here in the Dead End, even after treatment. Some of them didn’t want to pull through, some times the already compromised systems couldn’t handle the shock from going from one extreme to the other.
When the racer didn’t suddenly flatline after a few breems Ratchet relaxed just a little bit. Of course that was Primus’ sign to frag him off. The racer gurgled, optics brightened with the faint hints of consciousness and began to try and purge and choke on the regurgitated energon, still magnetized on his back.
Ratchet sent the code to de-mag the berth and rolled him, quickly tucking him in to a recovery position. Partially processed energon splashed on to the berth and floor as the racer heaved again, coughing and gasping but thankfully not fully choking or aspirating on it.
“Ugh, gross.” Hackjob grimaced and took a step back, hands up and despite only being two joor into his six joor shift, very clearly done with the day. When he had gotten into medicine, this was not what he had envisioned himself doing.
Frowning the medic held back some choice words and rolled the racer back so that he was laying supine again, fans rattling and vents wheezing but ventilating under his own power again. “Hack, why don’t you go back to the front now? We shouldn’t leave it unattended any longer than we need to. If I need more help I’ll call Gimlet in.” He kept his field even, not wanting to stress the partially aware mech on the berth.
“Yes sir.” Hackjob skittered off, as if sensing Ratchet’s displeasure, he made sure not to meet the medic’s gaze.
“Alright kid, lets get you cleaned up… Seems like you’ve had a pit of an orn.” He opened a pack of sterile, damp wipes and began to gently clean off the plating that had gotten splashed with the partially processed energon. A fair layer of grime came off as well, causing Ratchet to sigh to himself. As much good as he knew that this little clinic provided to the people in this little corner of the Dead End, there was plenty of basic needs that weren’t being met for a lot of people down here. A mech needed access to wash racks to be able to keep themselves clean. Not only for things like frame maintenance and integrity but for their mental health as well. Not to mention how society at large viewed those that couldn’t keep themselves clean – for whatever reason.
He kept a half optic on the read outs, cleaning up the berth and floor as well. The racer frame was still only partially aware and didn’t seem to be in a hurry to boot up fully. The diluted med-grade seemed to be helping quite a bit though it would take a quartex of good, regular fuel before this poor spark saw any true benefits. Still, it was no excuse not to do what he could. He flicked the scanner in the med-berth to start a full frame scan, poor kid would probably be in over night unless he miraculously recovered enough to walk himself out in the next joor or two.
Aware that he was puttering around, (he was waiting on the scan he told himself), the medic didn’t really want to leave the racer alone, half aware as he was. While he wanted to think and hope the best he wasn’t stupid. Many people tried to steal things from the clinic, whether because they truly didn’t see any harm in it or just didn’t care, it happened. Never mind the harm someone could do to themselves coming online in a panic after such a harrowing experience – even if it was self inflicted.
Pinging both interns for updates, Ratchet settled himself onto a stool and resigned himself to do some of the paperwork that had piled up during the orn. (The same paperwork he had put off because he hadn’t want to do it at all). He quickly got pings back letting him know that Gimlet had stepped up and triaged those waiting while he adjusted charts at the front desk and would be heading back to the first bay now that Hackjob was back at the front. Some orns he had a hard time believing that Gimlet was the first vorn intern and not the second given how they both behaved.
Distressed moaning pulled him from his musings and paperwork, the frame on the berth squirming as optics brightened to full dilation. Fans ran at an even rate, if a bit rough sounding and the med berth pinged its finished scan to the data pad in Ratchet’s hands.
“Wha-wha…? Nnnn??!” The racer squirmed more, ventilations begin to cycle faster as he started to panic at seeing a strange ceiling on top of the feeling of being plugged in to in multiple ports. The heavy scents of some type of cleanser and spilt energon cloyed their way into his olfactory sensor, distressing him further.
“Hey, shhhhh, shhhhh, you’re ok. You’re ok. You’re safe, I promise. You’re at the Free Clinic and my designation is Ratchet, I’m the leading medic here.” Hauling his heavy frame off the stool and to the berth side, Ratchet set his data pad down on the trolly and made sure he was in the racer’s line of sight. He refrained from touching him for now, and took a moment to glance at the monitor to make sure everything was still stable now that the patient was fully booted up. “Can you tell me your designation, and what you remember last?”
The racer stared a moment, ventilations still pulling too much air but he wasn’t squirming like he was trying to get off the berth anymore. Optics a little over bright, (stress? Or residual effects from the boosters?) the mech stared a breem longer before he spoke. “I-Drift. My des is Drift.” His voice was rough but he was quiet a moment and looked at Ratchet fully before he glanced around himself quickly, taking a longer klik to stare at the energon feed. “Why am I here?”
Concerned that the patient, Drift, didn’t remember what he had been doing to end up in the clinic, the medic frowned slightly. “I’ll go over that shortly, I just need you to tell me what the last thing you remember is.” Seeing the hesitation still in the racer’s face he tried to reassure him a little more. “I’m just trying to make sure there isn’t any processor damage, short term memory is usually the first thing that’s affected in situations like yours. You aren’t in trouble.”
“Oh…” Drift looked back over, staring the medic straight in the optic in an unnervingly long breem. “I…” Brow plates furrowed and the long plating of his finials shifted and flared slightly as the racer clearly struggled internally for a moment before realization washed over him and he looked away, not wanting to meet the medic’s gaze. “Was boosting. Got a good pay out from a customer and she tipped out a booster on top of the creds….”
“Ok, do you remember how many you used?” There was no judgement in the medic’s tone as he picked his data pad back up and began filling out the chart more fully now that Drift was talking.
“Uh… I dunno, two maybe three? Why?” Drift’s voice was full of suspicion and the defensiveness of a mech used to having to fight over the smallest of things. Of being judged over the smallest things.
“Alright, there’s no worry if you aren’t fully sure. And, well, to be honest Drift you must be one pit of a stubborn mech because we pulled five circuit boosters from your helm. The only reason we were able to save you from the overdose is because a good samaritan not only administered a halt-chip but they also brought you here.” The medic reached over and adjusted the secondary ventilator as he spoke, dialling it back to five percent. He planned on leaving the racer plugged in for the time being, the poor mech’s spark could use the extra charge.
Drift was clearly taking a moment to process that, visibly hesitating as he spoke. “You… you saved me?”
“Of course.” It’s my job was on the tip of his glossa but something in his spark held him back. There was such a raw, vulnerable look on the racer’s face plates that he didn’t want to crush it. “You’re special kid, I can tell. Not just anyone could have survived what you did.” He reached over, slowly to give the other time to pull away and very lightly and carefully placed his servo on top of the younger mech’s servo. He let it rest there a moment before giving it a gentle squeeze and let the other feel his field, steady and truthful before he pulled away.
Yellow optics were over bright again, stress or high emotions, fans protesting more as Drift stared again. He wanted so very badly to believe the earnest seeming medic in front of him. But… That wasn’t how people were to mechs like him. Mechs like the medic in front of him always wanted something. Whether that was to feel superior, credits or other things. They didn’t do things like fix a dying leaker who’d shoved one too many boosters into his ports (even if he was really sure he hadn’t put in more than three.)
“And what’s all this saving gonna cost me?” He didn’t want to fight a medic, a real doctor unlike the hacks that preyed on the people of the Dead End, but he also wasn’t going to let some medic part him out because he owed him. “I don’t got no creds.” Especially not for fancy treatment like this. This looked like a real clinic. It smelled clean and looked so neat.
Though… The medic was broadly built, clean lines with a handsome enough set of face plates. Drift forced his lip plates in to a coy, coquetteish smile and ran his free servo up his thigh and let it rest at his hips, digits pointing in towards to his pelvic plates to draw attention to the charcoal grey and yellow that were meant to draw the optic. “I wouldn’t mind paying in more… direct ways for my hero though.”
It was only Ratchet’s very firm self control that kept him from grimacing (the same self control that kept him from telling Senators and Towerlings that they were idiots). “No. No…that’s not necessary. No one pays at for treatment here. Besides, you should be resting. Your frame and cortex were put through quite the ordeal.”
“You sure doc? I promise I can show you a real good time.” He wasn’t quite sure why he was pushing, he wasn’t much a fan of interfacing in general, but it was work that kept him and his cadre fed. He didn’t want to look a gift zap-pony in the face if it was true that he didn’t actually have to pay.
“Yes, I’m very sure. Even if it wasn’t free, I have a conjunx.”
Drift held back a snort at that. Plenty of conjunxed people still hit him and all the other acting pleasure-bots up. Vows didn’t stop them from trying to get their spikes wet at any opportunity. Still, it was kind of sweet that the medic was loyal like that. Or at least loyal enough not to frag around with a skiv like him. “Well then, I’m not gonna stop you if you wanna fix me up.”
Ratchet smiled at that and adjusted the drip to feed a little faster since the energon was settling well in to his frame. “I’m glad, because if you’re ok with being admitted for the night that would give your systems time to recover better and give me time to get some more energon in to you.”
“….you’re going to feed me?” That seemed like it had to be fake. No one just gave people energon. Especially not down here.
“Well, it will be med-grade, but yes. You could really use the additives.” Ratchet frowned a little. “Once this bag is finished intergrading I’d like you to drink a cube and rest for at least four joors before we discharge you to make sure everything is being properly absorbed and there’s not any underlying reasons for the malnutrition I can see in your scans. I’m assuming that it’s largely from energon insecurity given the scarcity down here but it never hurts to make sure it’s not something else.”
Drift didn’t know what to say to that. No one gave up energon just like that, especially not something as valuable as med-grade, specifically because of all of those additives. It felt too much like a trap, like if he slept he was going to wake up and find his t-cog missing or some other important organ ripped from his frame. “K…”
“Will you be alright on your own for a bit, while this drip finishes? It should take about a joor. I have some other patients to see still before the clinic will close for the night.”
“Yeah, I’ll be good.” It felt demeaning to say it like that but the racer didn’t really know what else to say. The lure of maybe more energon was just too strong. Never mind the bag of it that was being fed directly in to his lines and the charge cable. Worst case he could snatch the bag and try and run out of the back of the clinic if things got weirder. It felt wrong to think about betraying the medic that way but the practical part of his processor knew that he needed to look after himself first. No one else was going to do that for him.
“Alright, I’ll grab you a blanket before I go. Some times after such a strain your frame will have trouble self regulating temperature.” The medic pulled a warmed tarp from one of the cabinets beside the berth and unfolded it with a practised flick of his wrists. Tucking it around Drift’s pedes and chassis he gestured to the side of the berth, “There’s a call button here, press it if you need anything or if you start feeling unwell in anyway.”
Drift nodded and watched as the medic left, the door closing with a soft woosh of its tracks. Everything felt surreal, like he had taken an extra hit of syk and reality was a step sideways. He settled back a little more in to the berth, fisting at the tarp blanketing him and warming him – he hadn’t even realized he was cold, too used to ignoring his frame and it’s needs.
The scent of cleanser in the medbay, the warmth of the tarp, the extra energon in his system, the stress on his frame of apparently nearly dying… It was all a bit too much for the racer’s strained frame and despite his unwillingness to let himself be any more vulnerable in this apparent sanctuary, he slipped into a restful recharge.