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Chapter Text

Halfway through the morning shift, Pharma takes a klik to reflect upon his plans. Barring any real change in circumstance, he'll soon have no choice but to act against Delphi. This decacycle, however, he is fortunate to have met his quota early. He is fortunate, after that tragic cave-in which granted an extra fourteen cogs. A pity, that those fourteen miners could not be saved.

He might go for a flight, weather permitting. He might, for a joor or two, fill his processor with nothing but Messatine a blur beneath his wings. To have a bout of fresh air blast against his sensors, a short reprieve from the monotony and dread. Pharma peers through a window into the bright outdoors, already planning on the joy of a simple excursion.

Tarn is early this orn. Far too early.

Pharma spots him on Delphi's threshold in broad daylight, where anyone could see, with his entire miserable squad of miscreants and...a turbofox? Since when? No matter; if Tarn is in a hurry to have his t-cogs, Pharma won't be the mech to delay his satisfaction. The sooner he can send him on his way, the better.

Apparently he underestimates Tarn's haste, for no sooner has Pharma taken the cogs from storage then he hears the commotion outside his door. Then into his office bursts through the rumbling swagger of warbuilds, here to collect their due. With them is a snarling mechanimal, goaded by what sounds like encouragement from the electric chair, that lieutenant of Tarn's who plausibly might be one to benefit from a second pair of optics, actually, not that Pharma has ever examined him up close, although whether any added advantage could merit the trouble of leashing a—

First Aid yelps when the mechanimal nearly nips him. Ambulon mumbles something in response.

Just as Pharma had feared, the nurse and ward manager are here to witness this exchange. Whatever Tarn has planned, he does not look forward to explaining.

Needs must. Pharma turns from the all-important box of cogs now sitting on his desk and straightens, facing the crowd, where a quick sweep tells him one precious nanoklik is all he'll have left to figure this out.

With more confidence than he feels, Pharma addresses the DJD. "Your presence is unexpected," he says. Placing one hand to rest upon the box meaningfully, he adds, "If this is about some protection racket, we're prepared to offer—" He cuts off speaking at Tarn's approach. When Tarn crosses the room to tower over him, he simply meets that casual glower in silence instead. When Tarn stops short of bumping him into the desk at his back, he refuses to retreat a single step. He has to lower himself, however reluctantly, when Tarn comes ever closer. He has to shrink away, to avoid scraping his chevron against that momentous chassis intruding upon his space, and tip his gaze upward, to not break contact with that fearsome stare.

Tarn slowly reaches for the box beside them, while his optics are still trained onto Pharma's. Then, without even looking inside the box, he nudges a push with just enough force to send it over the edge. Pharma suppresses a flinch as the contents hit the floor crashing. He fails to suppress the next flinch, when Tarn touches him with those same sharp fingertips, foil-light beneath his chin.

"Doctor," Tarn enunciates softly, "You presume much of my intentions." His touch recedes but soon travels downward; his talons trace the outline of Pharma's Autobrand, induce the faintest shudder. "This time," Tarn continues, "I have something else in mind."

Pharma ventilates. Inwardly he curses. He does not reply, not yet. He tries to glance past Tarn, hoping to gather some indication of what's to come from those subordinates who are present; although the tank's mass is blocking his view, he catches glimpses here and there. Alas, none of the DJD will give off any clues that he can read. There's a new mech, smaller and more angular than the others. The expression on that one is especially unclear.

Tarn chuckles. "Let's see you preempt our next move, shall we?" Nonchalantly he backhands Pharma aside, nearly sending him to the floor.

Pharma grips onto the edge of his desk with absolute certainty that he refuses to collapse any further than he has. An old wave of anger washes through him, revived. To suffer such treatment once would have been unfathomable, but that was vorns and vorns ago. He tamps down on his resentment and pulls himself upright; he lifts his head and dares a look at the masked mech above.

Tarn sends him sprawling across his desk with that same easy violence as before. A datapad cracks upon impact, and Pharma catches himself wondering if there's a way to salvage it. The absurdity of caring at a moment like this. When Tarn's grip catches on one of his ailerons hauling him up, Pharma grits against wincing.

"So you thought you could keep our deal off the books," Tarn is saying, "You Autobots and your secrets; you're selective about information on a need-to-know basis. I can respect that." His grip tightens. "But the pretense! Doctor, did you really intend to play innocent? As if you haven't been flirting with me for ages, hoping for a sweeter outcome."

Pharma could deny, call it a ruse, but what would be the point? Whether his reputation holds or breaks after today, whether he'll be smeared as a Decepticon-loving traitor—

Tarn's not done talking. "Don't you worry, Autobot, I'll grant you better than you deserve. How you here comport yourself is outside our purview, after all; it's not up to us how management works in your faction, is it? Think of this more as a...favor. A little team-building exercise I've put together on your behalf."

Pharma makes eye contact with Ambulon, who looks equally confused. The shared sentiment does nothing to ease the churning in his tanks.

"Here is what's going to happen," Tarn explains, with measured patience, as if speaking to a particularly stupid new protoform, "We're going to bring your mechs up to speed. On the same page, as it were, about what you and I have done. I'll give them a summary of events." To Pharma's dawning horror, he adds, "And you're going to confirm. With your spark." His free hand taps on Pharma's canopy for emphasis. "Let's begin, shall we?" When he turns to survey the room, he releases his grip over Pharma. He gestures to where the other two medics are now huddled together beyond reach, for one or the other to step forward.

Pharma is still digesting the meaning behind those words. How could Tarn possibly benefit from this? He turns the question over and over in his processor; he knows better than to demand an explanation from that impossible mech. Or to delay against an order. (Even one framed as a favor. From Tarn? As if.) He can only comply. He hears Tarn chuckle at one of his mechs' approach, and so he holds steady to the best of his ability as he starts to open up, half-hoping his spark will extinguish itself, either spontaneously or at Tarn's behest. All the while he's fuming, venting, sprawled across his desk. Opening his spark chamber bathes the approaching mech in the light of his spark. Were it not for their audience, he could almost pretend...then Pharma looks up, and he sees Ambulon staring down at him with grim resolve.

Chapter Text

With his spark chamber on display to the whole room (what feels to be the whole world) Pharma has never felt so exposed. He tries not to dwell on his current predicament, he really does. But when another's spark touches his, the impact is more than a glancing blow, and he can feel...oh he can feel Ambulon sifting for answers.

Tarn is giving directions.

Pharma reaches for Ambulon to steady them both—and to anchor his thoughts from sinking inward. He does his level best to tune out those words which, damning as they are, are at least free from the weight of compulsion. So instead he listens in on other voices: First Aid is frantically posturing at the DJD, claiming to have already signaled for help. The smelter and the electric chair are laughing it off, but the nurse is insistent. Something about hacking Wreckers Declassified. And statistics on patient mortality...

Oh slag. Definitely not a line of thought Pharma should be following, if he has any hope of concealing his guilt. Hurriedly he tries to scutter back out from the sparkmerge, and Ambulon lets him. Tarn, however, does not, and shoves Ambulon—who grunts, unresisting—back into the embrace of his spark chamber straightaway. Pharma cries out, not at the heft of the mech in his lap but the renewed intensity. Blazing hot, it's enough to snap his focus, and he cannot cannot think a single thought, without absorbing its implications into the all-encompassing scrutiny of their merge.

So much for damage control. Pharma consoles himself with the knowledge that the one observing him at his new low is Ambulon. Unassuming, patchy paintjob Ambulon, who could never measure up to the likes of Ratchet. Ratchet. Pharma allows himself to wallow on that tangent, on Ratchet. On the fact that Ratchet isn't here. Ratchet wouldn't be. Ratchet left without saying goodbye when—Ratchet was gone, and then Delphi, where Pharma...this was what awaited him, here on Messatine, in the DJD's clutches with nowhere else to go.

And here he is, with staid soft-spoken Ambulon, whose field even now does not waver. Not while he pines for Ratchet, and not while his guilt echoes to the beat of Tarn's voice.

Calmness envelopes him, and he clings to this presence which has not yet lashed out at him for his faults, has not rejected him for his errors. He clings to Ambulon like a guttermech lapping at a rivulet of spilled fuel, when Tarn wrenches them apart. The sight of Ambulon's open chamber mirrors the vulnerability of his own revealed spark, and he is hollow, so hollow, even as Ambulon is shoved aside and First Aid brought forth.

First Aid not only opens up with less hesitation but roots around with absolute vigor, once he's gotten the hang of searching through the merge. Answers, answers, he wants answers. And answers he will have.

Tarn, perhaps sensing his proactive nature, doesn't bother with repeating the same spiel.

As First Aid rifles through memories new and old, there's a frantic, electrifying fervor which casts the searing heat of Pharma's previous sparkmerge in a far more tepid light. A difference of magnitudes, Pharma could almost quantify, if he weren't so preoccupied with holding himself together in front of a crowd.

Pharma grips onto the edge of his desk, rather than give into temptation to shove the nurse hard. A whiff of acknowledgment passes through the merge—in many ways their mutual aversion is familiar ground. He bites off a retort; First Aid already knows (and doesn't care) and no one else in the room needs to hear. He puts his concentration on keeping his face and his mind blank, not so much because he has a whole lot else left to lose for Aid to find, but because the indignity of it all. Here he is, laid out for the DJD's amusement, while his staff takes turns delving into his spark. Here he is, dreading what's next, and Tarn has the gall to pretend this is for his own good.

Tarn is speaking again. He's dropped references here and there for First Aid to navigate, and now he's back to describing the arrangement he had with Pharma. He lavishes more detail than he'd given in the first telling. He's reminiscing, Pharma realizes. He's—no, please no.

Tarn is narrating lyrically, like a singer reading off the verses of a well rehearsed song, what exactly happened that first (and only) time Pharma missed a quota.

He had been four cogs short. Had known there would be consequences, but. The quota had increased, and Pharma had yet to resign himself to total compliance with Tarn's demands. Back then, only when a patient was close enough to the brink, would he (could he) dare help along another demise—

"...and did our doctor deliver what I asked that day? He did not." Tarn had welcomed him on board the Peaceful Tyranny and then marched him right back out into an oncoming snowstorm. Pharma had thought it quaint, that the leader of the Deception Justice Division might want such a backdrop for his execution. Pharma had assumed his remains would be used to paint a pretty picture for others to find. Tarn was that sort of an artiste.

But no, his execution was not to be. That had been the time Tarn dragged him along to hunt for stragglers in the snow. He'd made Pharma watch, as the DJD procured fresh stock for the scalpel. Healthy mecha, who'd happened to be caught outside in the storm. Tarn was requisitioning his cogs by pressing those mechs into service, and Pharma's role was to extract transformation cogs from the hapless mechs held captive...

The first mech had stared wide-eyed in surprise from start to finish. Pharma had worked fast, as fast as he could with both his subject and his own hands shaking. He hadn't stopped to think, and then Tarn had yanked that mech out of their makeshift restraints, to give to the team to torment some more. For the next mech, Pharma made sure to detour his knife.

For that, Tarn had twisted one of his wingtips, in warning. The message was clear: Pharma could not prevent additional suffering, however needlessly their suffering would play out.

"...the third, the fourth," Tarn recites, "and when, at last, our doctor held the final cog, the mech from whom he took it? Turned to look him in the eye and said..."

Stop, stop stop! Pharma could scream but he can't, not if he is still to exert some measure of self-control.

A pulse of sympathy emerges—this foreign feeling that isn't his—even as First Aid continues on rummaging through his spark with no sign of stopping.

Stop, STOP. Pharma doesn't want the nurse's pity. He doesn't want it smothering his spark all soft and dim, when what he really wants is understanding and total absence of being. Pharma takes his surge of anger and barrels through that fog of pity to slam the opposition with high-octane rage, stunning him momentarily. First Aid stumbles back, but Tarn is there to guide him forward and—no, Tarn is simply holding the nurse in place. Tarn is lying in wait for the next move, and all of Pharma's triumph turns to dread. Where before he had wanted Tarn to stop, now he wants nothing more than for Tarn to continue. He wants nothing more than for this trepidation to end. Yet exhaustion threatens to offline him, while he can least afford to opt out of Tarn's games.

Chapter Text

Pharma stays frozen where he is, his processor on high alert. There is a phantom soreness in his spark. That's to be expected, after two merges in rapid succession. His body wants rest. Wants comfort, wants safety. He can have none of that. His merge partners aren't even—

They're his subordinates. His responsibility. And he can't even keep them in the dark, keep them from Tarn's idea of a...what did Tarn call it? A team-building exercise?

Pharma briefly considers entering stasis voluntarily. Maybe he'll wake up and the DJD will be gone by then. Maybe he won't wake up at all. But no. He is Chief Medical Officer of Delphi. Not First Aid, not Ambulon. He has to see this through, whatever Tarn intends, no matter how much he's bound to regret this before the day is out.

And then he sees Ambulon cautiously edging towards the wall. Where the door is. From what he can tell, the mech isn't trying to run, just stay out of the way. The DJD however, has a different interpretation. Or perhaps all they want is an excuse to attack a former 'con. Or harass an enemy medic. Any outlet for their boredom, really. Two of them shift away from their posts to start circling their target. Their affect may be lazy as they stalk their prey, but that could change soon.

Slag it, Pharma is going to have to do some begging, before his ward manager winds up joining the scatter of cogs on the floor.

Pharma propels himself upright to beseech the only one who can do something about this. "We had an agreement!" he protests, pointing to the rogue Decepticons, "Tarn, please." His chestplates are still open, when he grabs for the hands gripping his nurse by the shoulders, when he looks up into red optics to implore the mech behind the mask. "Please," he repeats. "I've done everything you've asked." That's when he leans forward too far—and closes the gap with the nurse trapped in between.

Oh frag. Not again.

The gravitational tug of their sparks has them wedged in an awkward embrace. Before Pharma can break free, curiosity floats through their reconnected merge, prodding around more sluggishly than before. Finally sated, little nurse?

With some effort, Pharma takes a step back. He releases his hold on Tarn's hands, uncertain.

Tarn lets him stew in silence for so long that Pharma fears not only for Ambulon's life but also for his own. But then Tarn answers. "Tesarus. Vos." Vos? Pharma could've sworn that designation belonged to a different mech. Tarn gestures dismissively. "That's enough."

The mechs comply. They part ways, leaving behind Ambulon, who now unfolds from a position of self-defense, looking roughed up but not yet obviously injured in any way that matters.

Pharma does not exvent a sigh of relief. Nor does he object, when Tarn shunts First Aid aside to pull Pharma in toward himself, to cradle like a sparkmate.

First Aid takes this opportunity to dart away. He rushes over toward Ambulon but then stops and slows to a painstaking shuffle, keeping his distance from the exit. The mech with the mechanimal uses this moment to put a bit more slack into the leash, just for the pleasure of making Aid jump when the leashed mechanimal lunges at his pedes.

Pharma notices all this from the corner of his eye. And then Tarn puts a hand on one of his wings, encouraging him to turn to press his back against him and face everyone else. While that hand lingers, the other caresses his helm. The warm thrum of Tarn's plating would be soothing, were that plating not attached to Tarn himself. Pharma may as well be limp against it, with how firmly he is held. Shame swells inside him, not for the first time, but the fact that he's leaning on Tarn with his spark showing, as if they could be lovers engaged in public indecency—

"What do you think of our Pet?" Tarn asks.

What sort of inanity is this? Fine, Pharma will indulge him. "It looks like an ordinary turbofox," he declares. "Which someone's painted like a toy." That earns a few stifled sniggers, from those members of the DJD who presumably had not been the one(s) responsible for the turbofox's appearance, while the one holding the leash stiffens at their response.

"A toy," Tarn muses, "How apt. What is a domesticated creature, but a toy at our disposal?"

Pharma can sense a trap in the conversation, though he cannot pinpoint where. "Is this," he asks carefully, "a new toy?"

"Very observant. Indeed it is," Tarn replies jovially. "Bring the Pet here, Kaon."

Kaon walks the Pet over at a steady clip. Along the way, the Pet makes a beeline for (though doesn't quite reach) First Aid and Ambulon before Kaon has it stop in front of Tarn.

The DJD leader then heaps praise for the Pet's training, the speed and thoroughness with which it has joined the household, and launches into a tale about domesticity and unit integration, the gist of which is probably a metaphor about mastery over one's resources, blah blah blah.

Pharma is more concerned with how increasingly queasy he feels when Tarn's touch descends onto the outer rim of his spark casing. Then—of course—Tarn's wandering fingers dig right into his spark. Alternating touches between expert and abrupt. Pharma groans, reluctantly, at a sudden scrape right along what feels to be the fault line of his entire being, and he shuts off his optics, however brief.

"Return to the ship," Tarn is telling his mech, "and kennel the Pet for now. Tesarus, go with him."

Tarn's fingers continue onward; meandering, mapping, exploring.

Pharma tries to settle his spark but he can't, with those damn fingers where they don't belong.

"Doctor, you've taken this so well," Tarn murmurs into his audials, "Better than I imagined, in fact." Damn fingers are stroking circles along the surface of his spark. "Time for a reward. Wouldn't you agree?"

Pharma does not want whatever supposed reward Tarn has in mind, though he suspects he has no choice. As usual.

He waits a moment too long to reply, and a pinch on his spark has him gasping incoherently.

"Please," he manages to get out of his vocalizer. He needs those fingers out of his spark chamber. As soon as possible. "Whatever would please you," he adds faintly.

Tarn leans in close, helm to helm. "It does please me, to inform you that your gamble has paid off." One talon pries into a spot behind his spark and scratches, before fully withdrawing from his internals. Tarn then taps him lightly in such a way that indicates permission, and Pharma takes it, grateful to shut his chestplates after having been exposed for so long. His spark is safely shielded once again, though nothing is ever safe, not truly, around Tarn.

Pharma finds himself spun face to face. Or face to chassis, as the case may be. He aims a soft scowl upward, flashing his optics at Tarn. For handling him like this and for...what was that last thing Tarn had said?

"My gamble?" he asks. He drops his scowl, dreading the answer. "What gamble?"

Tarn pulls Pharma closer by the girdle of his hips. "My dear doctor," Tarn croons, "you've succeeded in seducing me with your charms, and my spike you shall have."

Pharma freezes. Really should've seen this coming. Too late by now, but still worth a try. He presses a palm against Tarn's chest, right below the Decepticon badge. "Such an honor," he minces, "I couldn't possibly—"

"You can. And you will." Tarn accepts no refusals. But, "I surmise, however, you are not ready."

Pharma's spark lurches a little further out from fear and into relief. Whatever delay he can get, he'll accept.

Both of Tarn's hands wander off in search for some fresh new locale of interest. One hand gropes his aft, while the other slips underneath his crotch plate, to trace a talon along the seams of his interface panel. Pharma does not bat these hands away, not with everything on the line, much as he hates this—and he does, he does. He hates Tarn so much.

The hand on his aft squeezes possessively. "You may not be ready yet, but that won't be a problem," Tarn tells him with a chuckle, "We can have your mechs here help you get ready."

Chapter Text

Pharma looks up at the mask, stunned. He can't believe—no, he can. Part of him has always known. Whatever Pharma has already ceded to Tarn's sickness, demand never fails to return for more. No wounding of his pride, no violation of his morals or his frame, will ever be enough to satisfy for long. There is only the barest leeway to bend before he breaks, to struggle in vain with the goal to appease this brute, until he is well and truly trapped at every turn. How could he have hoped for any different? Tarn craves power and delights in his pain.

Tarn is tracing the seams of his panel and touching the small of his back, underneath his turbine. Tarn is supporting his waist and gripping him by the—Pharma blanches, when one palm lays flat against the panel covering his array and pushes. He is being hoisted up with no regard for—no, this is exactly the intention, to have him squirm.

Tarn lays him supine on his desk, facing the ceiling. Prone would be easier maneuvering, he thinks. For the shape of his frame and their collision of parts. And for his processor to roam someplace else. He doesn't try to turn, though. What Tarn wants, Tarn gets, and Tarn wants Pharma to see.

The hand over Pharma's panel lingers a moment longer. "Open," Tarn purrs his command.

Pharma obeys. And tries to relax. He really does. But his body knows what's in store, and relaxation does not come so simply. He lets his vocalizer hitch, when the fingers that had been within his spark chamber now stroke his bared array. Are now delving to part his valve. His valve which has not had an intrusion of such size in years. Not when it has only had Pharma's own fingers since, since...

Tarn swirls a finger through the smear of lubricant now leaking from within. "Why, doctor, I do believe I like you better this way."

Pharma gives off a breathy ex-vent to...to what? To express his willingness to cooperate? He lets himself vent a little louder when Tarn withdraws.

Tarn beckons, and Ambulon is coaxed back into the fray, with a push and a shove and jeers from the DJD. First Aid is fighting against following his footsteps, in a way he hadn't at the prospect of merging their sparks.

It is with a bitter flare of pride that Pharma watches First Aid take a beating.

Ambulon, meanwhile, is delivered into Tarn's hands and steered toward the parting of Pharma's legs, spread open for whomever Tarn wishes. When Ambulon demurely tries to turn from the sight, Tarn braces his helm between the palms of those sturdy warbuild hands, threatening to bust his head in if he dares look away.

That gets his optics back onto Pharma's...hips. Torso. Cockpit, canopy. Chevron. Ambulon flicks his gaze over just about everything else, before sweeping back down to Pharma's array, where he stares with an intense concentration not unlike when...Pharma doesn't much care to think about that. He thinks, instead, about what sort of report he'll have to write, if he were to write, about today.

A sudden jolt of contact, directly on the node tucked above his valve. Pharma jerks from the touch, but Ambulon is unrelenting, working at manual stimulation with the same focus, the same work ethic as ward manager taking charge over maintenance, as if fingering Pharma is part of some routine.

Pharma doesn't pull his knees together or kick Ambulon away. Doesn't hiss whether this is how Ambulon does this, by the book, doesn't scorn the effort which, despite how unwelcome it was at first, is clearly getting them somewhere as Pharma loosens up.

Tarn speaks over Ambulon's shoulder, "That's enough. Use your spike." When no change is forthcoming, "Use it or lose it," he adds.

The sound of a panel sliding away, transforming. Ambulon is pressurizing now. He dips a couple fingers deeper inside Pharma then touches himself, rubs the slick on his fingers over his spike, which he lines up and—

He's...well, he's not small, exactly, but Pharma can take it. Has taken larger, with less experience, before, with partners some of whom were equally inexperienced. Pharma can handle having Ambulon inside him with his own spike still housed, and it's not bad, this leisurely fragging, this gentle spiking, as if, where before Ambulon had dutifully performed to get Pharma ready with rote obligation, now the mech is afraid to cause injury by force.

He could be more forceful, though, if he wants. Pharma wraps a leg around his waist.

Tarn laughs. He leans down to grasp Pharma by the chin, tilting this way and that, as if to study for some sign of surrender. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks, and then he lets go. "You there," he says to First Aid, who has begrudgingly trudged over beyond reach. "Get in."

Ambulon takes that as his cue to switch places. He backs off, pulls out of Pharma halfway, only to bump into Tarn's hand preventing him from leaving. Comprehension registers, and Ambulon stays where he is.

Pharma cries out when Tarn grabs them both and hauls them, spins them around and pins Ambulon to the desk underneath him, letting Pharma clatter on top of the mech to whose array he is still attached. He is thankful, that the size of the spike inside him is no more than adequate.

And then First Aid is at his back, hastening to fumble at his aft port. It's not an act Pharma enjoys, but he can bear it if he has to.

"No." Tarn instructs, "Go for the valve."

Ambulon holds still, as First Aid starts nudging a couple fingers alongside his shaft, not that there's much for him to do, flat on his back. Pharma rests a hand on his abdominal plating for support and leans forward to offer First Aid easier access.

Pharma has never been so ambitious as to try to fit two spikes inside one orifice at once. Not in the hedonism of his youth, nor since. Personally, he'd much rather have both aspects of his array play a role. It just makes sense. When in a position to service two (or more) mechs' pleasure, use the whole damn thing.

But if that's not an option here, he can at least release his spike to relieve some of the pressure—

"No," Tarn tells him, "Keep it inside."

What? Pharma is flummoxed, frustrated, then angry, when he realizes what Tarn means. He's not surprised, however, not anymore. And he doesn't have the luxury of wrestling with his feelings, with Tarn here, none too patient, clearly willing to threaten compliance out of anyone who isn't instantly and sufficiently obedient to every command.

It takes all his self-discipline to signal his confused array to pull his spike back inside its housing. It's...difficult, with the fullness of his valve pushing for that same limited space, and he curses Tarn to the Pit and back for doing this to him.

That's when a second spike breaches his valve.

It is too much! Too much, by far. One or the other, Pharma could take, but the both of them...with his own spike packed in tight...

Desperate for distraction, he runs a quick account of everywhere else he hurts. The ache in his wing joint, where Tarn had grabbed him earlier. Or his back struts, where he'd smacked against the desk. And along his turbine—

"Sorry," First Aid mumbles into the gap between his turbine and his auxiliary wing. "Sorry, sorry."

Pharma blinks away the coolant from his eyes. Some of it drips onto Ambulon beneath him. He keeps his helm up; Tarn is the one he looks at. The one he looks to, to determine how to proceed. He's straining shakily around the spikes inside him, when he takes note of how Tarn's optics track across his body. Pharma arches his back, baring his throat, and splays his wings wide, presenting himself like one of those dancers, the type eager to tempt a couple hundred more shanix out of their customers to make rent.

He can do this. He can match Tarn move for move to keep himself alive. And preserve his staff, their little lives, the very same mechs who are depending on him right now and—ow, yeah, he can probably safely reduce his sensitivity now. There's a glazed look Tarn's wearing, though the mask makes it hard to tell, but Pharma is fairly certain he can play-act without being found out.

One by one, he turns down the relevant sensors and dismisses the warnings that pop up. He takes a moment to declutter his HUD. When he feels himself jostled by competing thrusts, he exaggerates a moan and a wince, and he begins thinking up how he's going to get through today to tomorrow. If Delphi still stands, if explanations will prove necessary. How will he portray today's events, with the correct measure of indignation and blindsided surprise? Competently, without giving away his—

He's startled out of his thoughts by the extra hands on his waist. Tarn is picking him up and flipping him over, putting him back down with his turbine to the desk, the surface of which has already been cleared. He's dripping from his gaping empty valve, and Tarn is, Tarn is standing between his legs. He can feel Tarn looming over him, can feel the vibrations through the tightened grip on his thighs. He's already dampened his sensors as much as he dares. He lacks the means to mute them all the way. And even if he could, he wouldn't. Tarn will be expecting a performance, so Pharma will have to...be emphatic. He will have to be convincing, by whatever measure that matters, whether it's his pain or his pleasure Tarn's after. He'll do whatever he has to, not that he has much of a choice.

Tarn is positioning himself when a security patrol finally shows up.

"Don't—" Pharma tries reflexively. A warning? A plea?

Too late. The first mech to barge in has just enough time to widen his optics at the sight before him before he's put out of commission by the DJD. So are the two, three, other mechs behind him, down but not yet deactivated. More witnesses. Pharma stares at their crumpled forms, wishing them gone. He's wished for a lot of things to be different, but somehow, somehow this intrusion really underscores the depths to which he's sunk.

Pharma lets his gaze slip from the fallen mechs, one of whom is fading fast. Tarn is starting up once more, engines rumbling in preparation, getting ready by rutting outside his battered entrance. He tries to ignore how Tarn grabs him by the hips and—Pharma winces; he can't help but to feel. And to follow the flicker of motion in his direct line of sight: those biolights which concentrate at Tarn's midsection then angle upward, so as to draw the eye higher...though Pharma refuses, looking elsewhere. When next he turns his head, his attention shifts over to Ambulon by mistake. That moment when they lock eyes is when Tarn enters him—fully pressurized—to the hilt, and he lets out one piercing cry in both shock and agony.

The pace Tarn sets is brutal from the onset. Pharma screams and thrashes, blunting his fingertips when he scrabbles for purchase. He stutters out static as he struggles to adjust, to stay online, to play his part, while Tarn strokes his face with false tenderness. Whether or not his distress had ever been partially feigned, he begs for real and then he begs some more. He cracks in front of every set of audials listening, every pair of optics watching. While his rapist croons mocking praise to him, softly lilting, until Pharma finally (finally) overloads against his will.

Chapter Text

Tarn and his people had, according to First Aid, swept out of the facility with nary a word on what to expect next. Pharma is strangely OK with that. In the aftermath of their departure, all his processor can handle is the fact that his life may already be in shambles, but there is still work to be done. He still has a plan to piece back together; he just needs a couple kliks to think! If that means letting Ambulon and First Aid do it all, putting their latest patients into stasis lock and then transporting them one by one, so be.

High Command, insofar he's aware, hasn't yet been informed the extent of his collusion. And won't be, if he has any say in the matter. His staff... His staff members have only a partial picture, so far. More than they should have gotten, much more, but what's done is done. There could have been no concealment, no obfuscation against Tarn's damning speech, while his spark had pulsed the truth. That they had been able to glean so much...was inevitable. What spark-merging had not yet uncovered, however, Pharma would himself now reveal. If there's one upside to this disaster, it's that he no longer has to hide from his own staff. He'll deploy the virus he's designed to end Delphi more swiftly—cleanly—by executing every step with both the ward manager and the nurse also in on the plan. So he tells them, while they're wrestling him onto a spare slab, when it's his turn for treatment.

It's a relevation which First Aid fails to appreciate. Thus the yelling that follows. "You were going to release a plague?!" And the dropping of tools—how unexpectably clumsy—as he gesticulates wildly while he shrieks.

Pharma wishes he'd had the forethought to recalibrate his audials. "You would have been safe," he replies matter-of-factly from his perch, while Ambulon helps First Aid pick up and resanitize.

"Because you'd sabotage my t-cog?"

"Yes!"

"And everyone else?" Aid insists on asking.

"Would have died painfully, if Tarn had gotten to them first."

"That doesn't mean—"

"Yes. It. Does. Now give me that." Stitching his valve back together himself will give him something to focus on. "Hold this mirror," he instructs Ambulon.

Aid is still blubbering. "We...we can't—"

"Yes. We. Can."

"I won't help you kill our patients. I won't let you kill our patients." First Aid pauses. "Ambulon, say something!"

Ambulon pointedly watches Pharma's hands at work.

"He knows I'm right, nurse," Pharma can't help but crow. "And now that you're both aware of the plan, you'll be instrumental to the next phase, in which every mech here can be put down comfortably and painless—"

"Pharma! Have you lost your mind??"

"...you published those stats as an issue of Wreckers Declassified," Pharma belatedly recalls. "You weren't bluffing, were you."

"Help could already be on the way."

Pharma clamps down on the pain of welding a tear shut. Perhaps he shouldn't have foregone dampening his sensors further; the distraction is starting to be a bit much. If "help" does arrive before he has a chance to properly assess and control the damage...he sighs. "To punish my indiscretions, you mean."

"Yyes—no? Yes. NO, no!" The nurse nearly pops a screw with how much he isn't ventilating. "You can stop killing patients, you know."

Pharma rolls his eyes. "And the cogs I've already harvested," he ventures, glancing at the nurse's visor. Then at the ward manager, whose optics still appear glued to his array.

First Aid isn't one to back down. "Look," he says, "You did what you thought you had to do. That was then. Now, we're going to do what we can do. The right thing."

Pharma holds back from laughing. Why not. "The right thing," he echoes. "Which is...?"

First Aid leans in close. Close enough to flick the mask and visor off his face, if Pharma were so inclined. "Leave this outpost. Take along everyone that we can, as many mechs as can fit."

Of course. "And if whoever answers your call doesn't have the space?"

First Aid seems to reconsider the proximity he's forcing here, and he withdraws to a spot beside Ambulon. "At the very least," he replies, "they'll have room on board for one of the best doctors in Cybertronian history." Flatterer. That still doesn't account for what could happen next.

Ambulon sets the mirror aside. He manages to finally look Pharma in the eye when he speaks up. "First Aid is right," he says, "We'll stay if we have to. You've already done so much, let us handle the rest."

"But—"

"Pharma. We can't let you deal with Tarn, not after what's been done."

What's been done? Pharma can hardly stand to listen as a note of bitterness wells up into his throat. He ignores it. Concentrate on the matter at hand. "But what will you do when Tarn—"

"Let's just hope we won't have to yet." The newfound resolve in Ambulon's field shimmers weakly but holds, strikingly unsubsiding. He lays a gentle touch to feel out a dent in Pharma's wing, and Pharma consciously chooses not to shake him off. "Tomorrow we can discuss a plan. Today, let's first—"

Pharma stops him there. "Understand," says Pharma, as he looks at each of them in turn, "Repair only what's necessary to get me flight ready. We're not going to look pristine for visitors. Do you understand?" They nod. "Good," he continues, "Patch up your own bodywork where your injuries could interfere with function." He pauses then, contemplating what he'd rather not, with the evidence staring him across the slab. "And clean up any signs of interface," he adds, "Get rid of those paint transfers. Otherwise, whatever you've suffered from the DJD, leave 'em. When we get out of here, we emphasize how understocked our facility was, what with the number of existing patients we had, and then the attack." He frowns a little, recounting gaps in his memory. "How many new patients do we have so far?"

"Not counting ourselves, six as far as we know, all from Security," First Aid answers, "And four more dead."

Security. Ha. What good was Security? "Ran into the DJD on the way out?"

"They were making the rounds, yeah."

"There might be more bodies in the snow," Ambulon supplies, "Considering the direction taken."

Wonderful. Just wonderful. And to think Pharma had begun the day believing today would be a lighter load. "Plenty to keep us busy," he says, as he tries to ignore the sensation of fingers checking over his joints. "Completely understandable that we won't have the time or resources to make ourselves presentable."

First Aid shifts a little uneasily. "Should I get started on..."

"Yes. We'll talk more later. You go take care of whatever needs doing. When we're finished up here, I'll see whether we have any more new patients to bring in." One way or another, he's getting in some flight time today. He allows himself to dwell on that for a bit, before breaking the silence again. "Ambulon," he calls.

"Yes?" The other medic stops puttering around on his plating.

"Did the DJD do anything to you?" Although this particular worry weighs less than usual in comparison, he still has to know. "Have they—" Have they broken Tarn's promise, he doesn't completely say.

"No," comes Ambulon's soft reply. "Not more than..." He hesitates. "First Aid had it worse, arguing with them like that."

That nurse. "Well then. Are we done here?" Good enough for now. "Let's go check whether we have more mechs outside." He stumbles getting to his pedes.

Ambulon is there, bracing an arm around his waist. Which then abashedly withdraws. "I..."

"Go help the nurse. And have him look you over too." Pharma eyes the gouges on Ambulon's shoulder seams, briefly, before pulling his gaze away. "I'll be back soon. See you both in a joor." His wings stretch out in anticipation; he can already taste the air. With any luck he'll be able to forget, if only for a moment.

Chapter Text

Pharma scoffs at how easily he let himself be bullied into submitting an official letter of resignation. Citing personal distress sounds weak no matter the phrasing. But what could he do? It's still a sight better than being declared unfit, or outed as both a coward and a traitor or a whore. He wouldn't put it past the nurse and ward manager to find a way to force him out, if they didn't have his cooperation. So resignation it is; Pharma did submit that damn letter like they wanted, and now they wait. He did also send out a request for pickup, because they are not relying on First Aid's random datalog packet, not if they truly do intend to leave this base, to put this all behind them.

The request he sent was actually a general broadcast for an urgent patient transfer—for the comatose warden, to be specific— and, to garner some chance of response, signaled under Pharma's name in his capacity as Delphi CMO. (For however long his position remains; certainly he does not expect to hear back from Prowl anytime soon.)

But CMO or no, what are the odds of hailing a passing ship? One inclined and able to offer them assistance, without a direct order from above. And the odds that one such ship would be captained by someone willing to overlook their ruse, to take on not only their whole slew of personnel but every patient under their care...well, that merits rethinking, doesn't it. Beyond a matter of willingness, how could any ship expect to accommodate them, without a full manifest? They'd have to reveal their numbers. Except, they can't exactly reveal the fact that they're planning to abandon their post. Even if that fact is plainly evident from recent changes to their behavior, even if anyone on-site could see what they're doing, could surely suss out the obvious interpretation. They have to keep up the ruse, so as to not tip off anyone off-world who might yet interfere.

It's not the course of action Pharma had wanted to implement. But what choice does he have? First Aid and Ambulon are watching his every move. They don't say it but they don't have to. They distrust him, of course they do. He, however, has no choice but to trust. And to go on one day at a time, like he doesn't have a metaphorical bomb ready to explode in his face. What choice does he have left?

Cycle by cycle, the three of them continue their preparations for the base to shut down. Best case scenario, to be honest. And it's highly probable someone will have to stay behind, so they have to prepare for that eventuality, make plans for divvying up his responsibilities, as if the potentiality exists for Delphi to continue operating. As if Delphi would not cease to function, without Pharma or a replacement worth his rank to take over immediately. But that's not up to him, is it?

In the meantime, they still have a facility to run. And so, Pharma continues with the safekeeping of his post, whatever that entails.

Hence his arrival at the current coordinates given, ready for Tarn's appraisal with his boxful of (mostly) undamaged transformation cogs. As always, Pharma is punctual, because he must be. Whereas Tarn does occasionally wait out their appointment, as is his prerogative.

Which now leaves Pharma standing around on the far side of the chasm that borders Delphi, staring up at the DJD's pride vessel, the Peaceful Tyranny. It is a marvel of Decepticon engineering, sleek and hostile and oh so striking. Not that Pharma would ever admit to it. But while he's waiting, he does take a moment to appreciate the design. This will, hopefully, be the last he ever lays eyes upon this ship.

Standing out here, idly he wonders how far the trek would be, from this location to the DJD's hidden base, and indulges in a fantasy of finding that base and then—what? Give Tarn a surprise in return? Not unless Pharma intends to escalate. Not unless he can get away without fear of retribution.

Pharma's goal has always been to survive. There are moments, however, when he wants more than that. Revenge against Tarn for...for everything would be sweet. And yet, not enough.

No more of that idle fantasy. He has to stay alert. And he does. Klik by klik, he continues to wait in the cold. He is wavering, now, over his decision to flaunt the scars of their last encounter. With the other medics at Delphi, there had been something reassuring about the visible reminders of shared victimhood. Now, he feels flimsier. As if, without his usual finish, so too has the veneer of his confidence been stripped away.

Pharma stands around in the snow and stands around some more.

The ramp finally lowers before him, finally, and yet too sudden, too soon. He takes a step forward, then another and another, and so on and so forth, willingly walking to his potential doom, to where Tarn above is waiting.

Tarn waits to speak, until Pharma has reached close enough to stare level at that cannon of his. "Kaon tells me you've elected to resign from your post," comes the light remark.

Pharma looks up. Carefully, "I have."

"Why is that?"

A flare of anger, which Pharma keeps in check with some degree of success while he ascends to the top of the ramp. He then unfolds his wings, outstretched directly underneath Tarn's gaze. "You want to hear me say it? That you're the reason I need a sabbatical?" With no response forthcoming, he ventures further, goes so far as to drop the box of cogs under Tarn's shadow. "That so called—that idea of yours," he spits, "that you said was for me." As if! As if the whole ordeal hadn't been for Tarn's own sick gratification. "After that, how was I supposed to go on? As an unfeeling automaton? Insensible to what you did to me in front of my staff, in front of all those witnesses? I was respected, once." He is shaking, he realizes, with pent-up rage.

"Doctor," Tarn deigns answer, "Pharma," and lays one hand to still the quiver in his wing. "Had I known you would be so...fragile, I might've done differently."

His optics nearly white-out at that as he all but screeches, "I, fragile? No, you—"

"Hush now." Tarn has the audacity to start petting him.

Pharma finds himself drawn into an embrace he does not resist. Tarn leads him away from the brink, and the ramp is shut, ensconcing them within the ship. They stand like that for a klik, away from the harsh brightness outside. His venting fades to normal, Tarn's hold slackens, and he pulls away then. He turns, not wanting Tarn to look him in the face. Another klik passes. "I did everything you asked," he says, "And then you..." His optics shutter. "You took everything else that was left."

Tarn's field—that formidable menace—grows near.

"I don't know what I'll do now," Pharma admits, "without the standing I had."

Tarn embraces him from behind. His back, his turbine, his wings are pressed to Tarn's chest. There is a hand stroking the joint between his hip and his thigh. Tarn is venting over his shoulder, and in the quiet, surely, the other mechs here must be listening.

Tarn cups his hand lower. And lower.

Pharma recalls that spike, by far the largest he's ever had—and how Tarn wields it as a weapon. He tries not to tremble as he lays his own hand over Tarn's, right over where his valve would be, hidden underneath his panel. "I won't—I won't be able to fly back, if..." A sudden frightful new thought: surely Tarn wouldn't be planning on keeping him here?

Laughter. Tarn is laughing.

Pharma turns a backward glance at the sound, and Tarn's mask smacks him on the side of his helm in some poor imitation of affection. He forces himself to hold still for a second assault, this time on the corner of his mouth.

"Just the two of us," says Tarn from behind the mask, "in the privacy of my quarters, and a little engex; how's that?"

Pharma isn't mollified by these reassurances. He has to accept, nonetheless. He had accepted, long ago, that he would do anything Tarn asked, if only Tarn would allow him a thin veneer of pride.

And so, he lets Tarn lead him away, for Tarn to fill his audials with poison and sweet nothings while lain in berth together. He grants Tarn access with only the faintest resistance to every part of himself, within and without his chassis. And when Tarn has retired for the night, he slips back out under the watchful silence of a mech without eyes and a mech without a face.

Evening drapes the terrain grey and blue, by the time Pharma returns from his liaising with Tarn. Tarn who proved to be gentler, without an audience. Less demanding, or not as cruel. For Pharma, the experience might've even been passable, were it not for the sensitive welds he still sports on his valve. There goes the delicate work he'd already done.

At least his body is in decent condition to fly. Small favor, that. Would have been mortifying, if he hadn't been able to get back to base quickly in the dim.

He coasts over the short stretch of what could've been a long crawl in the snowy expanse after dark. Thankfully no one is there to greet him when he returns. Pharma takes his time transforming back to root mode, with just enough speed to prevent toppling over in an ungainly tumble. He touches down gingerly onto the landing pad, mindful of further tearing, and limps his way into the nearest supply closet to find what he needs.

While he's touching up his repairs, who should appear but Ambulon.

"You were with the DJD." The observation is made quietly, near enough to sense a subdued tinge of sadness.

Pharma pretends to require the utmost concentration as he finishes up his work. "I was," he finally replies, after running one more stroke over his valve lining to make sure his nanites can handle the rest. His interface panel slides back into place and he lays down his tools, just as he lifts his gaze to meet the other mech's.

Ambulon holds steadfast. Though he does not vocalize his thoughts, the question is implicit.

Pharma looks away. "Tarn and I had a deal," he says, "I upheld my end." And more. "We'll be safe until—no. We will be safe." The assurance is for the both of them, although whether either believes it...

"We will," Pharma repeats.

Chapter Text

Someone did hear their broadcast, has heard and reached out affirmatively in response. When the news is relayed that a ship has set course for their base, Pharma insists on waiting to reply until they can do so at close range. Now on the cusp of contact, they can wait a little longer, can't they? And lower the likelihood that someone else other than their intended recipient will tap the next transmission.

A ship is coming to Messatine. It will be here soon enough, before his doubts can spiral any deeper into doubt. Here, before High Command can divert the resources necessary to deal with this mess he's made of Delphi. Or before his burdens can obligate him to scrounge up additional transformation cogs for a Decepticon who might just decide to destroy him anyway, purely for entertainment, regardless of any promise made to keep the peace.

A ship is coming, possibly to take them away, to wherever, to anywhere else but here. They could be getting off the planet safely after all, with no one the wiser to stop their escape. The very thought has him giddy, itching to fly, even though nothing is certain, not now, not yet. When he informs the ward manager and the nurse of the ship in their vicinity, he is only slightly taken aback by the group hug which First Aid initiates.

The nurse whoops and runs off. Pharma allows himself a smile. And decides against sending a reprimand over comms.

When Pharma glances over at the ward manager, it's as if the mech has become inert. What gets this one talking again is by asking whether the base is prepared to evacuate.

Pharma half-listens to the answer. He half-listens to the state of their inventory, their staff, which of the patients are still awaiting treatment before they can be relocated, the weather conditions, etc.; Pharma hears it all, but he's also thinking, well, he's thinking about that datalog, the one the nurse had gotten through unmonitored. That was, he has to admit, inspired. He'd commend First Aid for pulling it off, if Aid's Wreckers obsession weren't so appalling. And if this sneaky little datalog packet hadn't threatened Pharma's operation to keep them all alive. Isn't still threatening Pharma's livelihood.

"Keep me informed if anything changes," he tells Ambulon. "And if..." If anyone else has figured out what transpired between them three. Or if First Aid is freely giving away all his secrets without a second thought. "Nevermind," he concludes, and he goes instead to check on what the Head of Security has to say next. And to hear any updates Communications may have.

The ship blocking the horizon is far larger than Pharma had envisioned. And to think, all that fretting over whom to leave behind. But those details hadn't been important, not really. What matters most, how this pans out still remains to be seen. With Ambulon and First Aid waiting beside him, watching the Lost Light touch down in the distance feels like one long extended moment of truth. If they've chosen to conspire behind his back, Pharma has no way to verify. (Not unless he wants to merge sparks, but no, not that. Not that, not ever again. Not unless—no.) They've had plenty of time to confer with one another, so he has to accept the possibility. These past cycles, he's been almost past caring. Almost.

He most definitely cares to discover that Ratchet is a crew member of the ship which has arrived on Messatine. Seeing Ratchet disembark, his annoyance at the joyful vindication radiating off of First Aid is sidelined. He is aghast, he is unmoored.

Of all the reunions they could've had! This was not what Pharma had imagined. Had hoped for, in the long nights and longer days.

He used to dream of what he'd say to Ratchet when they'd meet again. Had idle scenarios of the war coming to an end...and making his confession. Or of Ratchet confessing first. (Ha, imagine that.) But then the war did end, just not for Messatine. Not until now. And here they are, Ratchet with a helm and optics so much like Pharma's own, and Pharma not looking too bright these days.

He's been less like his usual self, ever since Tarn dropped in unexpectedly. He'd counseled his staff against fixing themselves up afterward, had reasoned there'd be no shame for them in having endured, and he himself to follow suit, letting the proof show upon his plating.

Part of him had wondered if he should have committed fully to this bid for attention by leaving his modesty panel off for shock value, but no—that would've been absurd. (And besides. The repairs, those repairs, are already done. The scarring will be immaculate; not even another medic could discern the damage, not without their hand all over his array.) Thank Primus he hadn't gone down that route. Bad enough that his plating's in such poor shape overall. For him to parade around a torn valve to Ratchet of all mechs? He still has some dignity left to muster.

Pharma summons every last ounce of authority within himself to handle this farce he's made. When Ratchet approaches, he forces a smile onto his face. And his wings to extend outward just because. He doesn't gush—it's not quite the mood for that—but greets his erstwhile friend warmly, "Ratchet! It's been too long." He smooths down his anxieties with all the grace their respective positions deserve. Gesturing toward his staff, he indicates, "You remember First Aid? And this is Ambulon, our ward manager."

He leaves Ratchet there with them, to talk among themselves (although he does keep an audial attuned to what they might be saying) as more people make the trek down from the ship. With the natural poise of a flier, he goes to receive the ship's captain and second-in-command. "Rodimus, Ultra Magnus? Such a pleasure to finally meet. And we're so glad you were able to answer our call. What brought you to this sector of the galaxy?"

"We were in the area to uh." The captain glances up toward his towering second, who does not immediately jump to his aid. "Well you'd have to ask Ratchet about that," he ends up explaining on his own, "But we're happy to be here! Happy to help."

"Ratchet's idea, was it?" That is reassuring? Pharma at least hopes so.

"Yeah." The captain stares off at his ship and scrunches his nose in thought. "Yeah, there were some confusing weird numbers coming from here, he said he wanted to investigate." Ohh scrap that sounds like—

"But we can deal with that later!" continues the exuberant young captain, grabbing onto a mech whom Pharma notes had been in hushed conversation with Ambulon prior (about what, what mutual acquaintances would those two even possibly have?) and who has now resigned himself to letting the captain introduce him with gusto. "This is Drift!" A speedster, by the looks of him, not a racer but a fighter, equipped with a gratuitous load of weaponry strapped to his person.

"Uh, hi," says Drift, uncharacteristically shy for one armed with so many swords.

"Drift is our third-in-command," the captain goes on to declare.

"I see." It's not that Pharma means to be terse, but he can't help but to notice how Ratchet tenses. Perhaps Ratchet thinks the captain too often confers with this mech? A mech whose opinions may not align with his own. Ratchet does tend toward a rather low tolerance for what he perceives as foolishness within the upper ranks. Whether or not, either way... "A pleasure," adds Pharma.

The mech, Drift, smiles at them. He's a prettier sort, easier on the optics than your average warbuild, yet his engines hum with obvious power underneath that compact armor, like he could very well have taken part in a select role guarding the elite. Then he opens his mouth and...is that a Spectralist saying? Oh, that's interesting. Pharma glances over at Ratchet, who is clearly struggling not to roll his eyes.

The captain, Rodimus, doesn't seem too keen on that either, but responds gamely with a winning smile of his own. Pharma patiently listens to them banter, before inviting them to confer with, hmm, oh look there's Dent. Who is sufficiently knowledgeable and, moreover, available to keep this trio occupied. Ultra Magnus politely takes the cue.

His own staff, he gives another half klik or so to finish exchanging pleasantries before rushing them along. And Ratchet. "Come inside," he says, "Let's go down to the ward."

The four of them go together. Although a couple mechs in Security do try to trail after them, Pharma sees to it that these get a door to the face somewhere along the way. The Lost Light's third-in-command, who also had the same idea to follow their group of medics—rather than go on a tour of the facility, which his fellow officers are presumably having, at this time—has wisely kept his distance after Pharma begrudgingly let him tag along.

Pharma leads them to where they supposedly need to be, if for no other reason than to match the expectations set by that transfer request which brought the Lost Light here to Delphi. He tries to ignore the ship's third-in-command skulking along the walls. The mech is quiet enough to be nearly forgotten, despite being heavily armed, and yet so obtrusively, blindingly out of place.

They gather in the section dedicated to the facility's longterm patients. Ambulon veers off from the group to tend to his various duties. Meanwhile First Aid sticks by Ratchet, their old colleague Ratchet, who has eyes only for Fortress Maximus lying comatose in front of them.

"So this is...he seems stable." A nod toward the setup they've got for him, in accordance with the conventional standard of care. "What's changed about his condition?"

If only that was their real problem. "Oh, Ratchet." Pharma explains with a sour smile, "That request of mine was a ruse; it's not just one patient who needs to leave Delphi, not when...let's just say that staying is untenable for all of us. And we can't wait for Prowl to agree to a transfer. Not that he would let us shut the place down until it's altogether too late."

"Pharma, I don't—"

"We can't stay, you have to understand. The Decepticon Justice Division has upped the stakes. Their commander, Tarn, he...brought them here, to Delphi. To make some sort of statement, playing games with us. I don't know what he'll do next. Last they showed up, his mechs attacked my staff while he watched, and then—" And then he spiked me, Pharma doesn't quite complete the thought out loud.

First Aid finishes it for him. "Tarn raped Pharma. After he—"

Pharma hurries to interject, "Let's not get into that now." He has to steer the conversation, just in case, before anyone can complicate this situation beyond what he's prepared to handle. "We need to leave as soon as possible," he tells Ratchet, who is looking at him with a softness which he'd hunger for—under any other circumstance but this. Pharma stares back coolly and asks, "Can your ship take us?"

When Ratchet nods, that aggravating expression on his face persists with something akin to pity. "I'll comm the captain," he replies.

Whatever phrasing Ratchet used or however much he chose to tell—and Pharma dares not ask—Rodimus, that soft-sparked mech, says yes.

Cycles later, they're overseeing the last of the patients among them load onto the ship. And then it's time to board. Pharma delays going until the other medics have gone up first, waiting for him to join them, then he follows. At the top of the ramp, he stops to turn for one final glance at Delphi, which, from this vantage point, is little more than a dull silhouette laid flat against clouded skies.

After all these years, contingency after contingency, and all those deaths he's dealt from the inception of his post, now his time on Messatine is over. Finally over, at last.

Chapter Text

The Lost Light is a spacious ship. So spacious, in fact, that not only have they graciously invited on board all of Delphi but, even with what their numbers are now, were they able to offer Pharma the choice of a single occupancy room.

He'd turned it down. Said it wasn't necessary. And it isn't; he's not so fragile that he has to hide away—and more importantly, he has to keep an audial on things. What better way to do that, than to room with one of his staff?

For a roommate he'd expected to get either Ambulon or First Aid. He doesn't have a preference which. (And even if he did, he still has some semblance of propriety to observe, so he can't just pick a subordinate to name to share a hab.) Leaving his choice of roommate a toss-up to the powers that be, however, has brought him results hitherto unforeseen.

Turns out, the nurse and ward manager had asked to room with one another. Which does make sense; in their position, he'd do the same. But that leaves him with...Dent? With whom he is not particularly well acquainted. Although they did transfer from post to post together, back when Dent was still Prowl on the roster, at a time when the other Prowl was assembling a team to station at Delphi. And what awkward fun that had been, going over their roster with Prowl.

Now, here on the Lost Light, he'll get to familiarize himself with some mech he's only known in passing for the past couple millennia. How nice. He'd rather start fresh with a complete stranger, but it is what it is. He now has a rooming arrangement befitting neither his (former) rank nor his goal to watch over certain mechs who might still pose a risk. Certain mechs whom, at least, he can count on to be found most often at—where else?

As of now, First Aid and Ambulon are hammering away and helping each other buff out the last of their scuff marks, in the comfort of the ship's medical bay. He, meanwhile, gets to be with Ratchet (who, after much prodding, he'd gotten to thaw from that irritating inability to look him in the optics with something other than pity) and as such he's earned himself a blast of that particular brand of concern.

"This is what you call 'a few scratches'?" Ratchet hovers, exasperated, turning him this way and that to examine the grooves on his plating. "The Pharma I knew wouldn't have—"

"Yes, well. I had other priorities." The Pharma that Ratchet knew had been an ignorant, happier mech.

"If you would tell me—"

"Tell you what? Tell you, at length, all the ways in which Tarn has hurt me?" Pharma says before he can stop himself. He nearly says more, far more he'd be bound to regret, and is relieved when Ratchet doesn't rise to the bait. Still he is stuck squirming under the glare of the medbay lights, sniping at Ratchet for—for what? Pharma can't even say for sure.

It had seemed a good idea at the time, opting to keep some trace of Tarn on his body as proof. It had seemed strategic, to leave more than just a few scratches. In less obvious areas he had kept some of the paint transfers too, of the type he'd told First Aid and Ambulon to erase. A deterrent to keep curious mechs from asking too many questions for fear of seeming rude, he'd thought. It had seemed a good idea. That was when he hadn't known Ratchet would be here to scrutinize him up close and personal.

He sits down and drops his hands in his lap. The marks left on his thighs are all Tarn, no question. At least his panel is clean? Is scrubbed and refinished. And behind his panel..."I'm telling you, I've already dealt with everything major that needed fixing."

Ratchet sighs. "I'll take your word for it. Let's just get to work on your 'scratches' then."

By the time his shape is completely restored from neglect and his paint touched up to its former glory, Ambulon and First Aid are long gone. He wants to see what they're up to, but he is also loathe to leave Ratchet's company. Especially since he's in the middle of what ought to have been a routine session, with Ratchet's hands all over his plating. It has been too long, far too long since he's had this.

The conversation, however, is like hail beating down upon his canopy, ugh. "No, I'm not going to speak with that hack," he says, for what feels like the tenth time.

"Rung's not a hack."

"Says who."

Ratchet continues polishing. "Just give him a try, will you?"

"Why, do you speak from experience?"

"You're impossible."

"And you're—wait." Feels like, feels like the abrasives are heating up. "You've been going over the same spot for the past klik, haven't you."

"Uhh." Ratchet pulls back from where he's spent the last klik making the same figure eight.

Pharma turns to check. "Look at this," he complains, circling a finger where his plating is now so shiny it's gauche.

"We'll even it out, no problem."

Trying to 'even it out' takes twice as long. And the resulting shine is...that shine is all wrong. He's supposed to blend in respectably with everyone else, maybe look a notch more polished at most. Not this. He grouses, "I'm going to look ridiculous." This level of polish brings to mind a higher class of buymech. Or, he supposes, debutantes and celebrations, performing troupes and advertisements, back when such things did still exist. Yes, that's a better thought. But still. "Doesn't this look ridiculous?"

Ratchet hums noncommittally.

Pharma simmers down, thinking it over while Ratchet goes to fetch the wax. "Maybe it'll be all right. Mechs these days probably won't even discern the difference," he consoles himself. Within easy hearing distance, although he receives neither agreement nor a word to the contrary.

He gets one whiff of the wax being brought out, which then promptly turns to suffocating sweetness when Ratchet fumbles the pot and dumps it all over his chassis.

Could be worse (could smell like burnt fumes) but hey, he's in a mood, so he grinds out a few choice words at that.

"I'm sorry," says Ratchet, who's trying to stuff as much of the semi-solid wax as he can back into the pot, "It's my hands."

Pharma helps collect a few clumps. "What about your hands," he asks flatly.

"I've worn them out. They malfunction every now and then."

"No, that's not—"

"That's a fact."

"What, are you dying?" Can't be. Can he? Not now, not soon. They'd only just...

"Just my hands," is Ratchet's stoic reply.

"As if the rest of you won't follow?" Hilarious. Regular wear-and-tear might wear out some parts faster than others without the implications of spark burnout, true, but there's so very much that can't be ruled out as probable cause. Pharma takes the jar from Ratchet and puts it down before demanding, "When did you last perform a self-exam?"

"I don't need—"

"Unbelievable. You'll give me grief for a few scratches, but you? You probably haven't looked inside yourself since, oh, that mission to Earth, maybe?"

"Pharma."

"Tell me I'm wrong."

Ratchet looks him in the eye and says nothing but proceeds to work with whatever's still left of the wax on his plating.

Pharma patiently watches him work the remainder of the wax into a protective coating until the silence becomes unbearable. "Raaatchet. Say something." Anything.

"Now that you're here," says Ratchet, slowly, quietly, "I can retire." A pause, while those stiff fingers of his continue steadily working. "One of the reasons I joined with Rodimus rather than stay on Cybertron was to find a replacement CMO." Before Pharma can reply to his face, he sidesteps to apply wax where assistance is needed most. He's reaching underneath, pressing a hand to the joints below the turbine, when he goes on to say, "For the ship, of course, but also, as I told Bumblebee..."

What, Ratchet wants Pharma to take over his job, now that his hands are failing him? Is Pharma supposed to thank him for the privilege? Offer a grasping smile, promise to do him proud? Picture clambering over poor retiree Ratchet, as if Pharma has anything to prove...

What Pharma actually says is, "I'll think about it." It's not as if he has anything better to do. Ship CMO, certainly. As for...well. Might take some convincing, after that letter he sent. But what's the timeline for this, anyway? They likely won't be returning to Cybertron anytime soon. And besides. Is Ratchet really going to step down just like that? Pharma turns around and grabs Ratchet by the hands, pulling him upright. "But if I were to accept," asks Pharma, wanting to hear his answer, "you would obey my every instruction?"

"Of course," Ratchet replies easily. "Whatever you say goes, within reason."

Pharma smiles. "So you'll take better care of yourself then?"

"I'll try." Ratchet humors with a smile of his own.

Not long after leaving the medbay, Pharma passes by a red and yellow mech who stops to gawk snidely. "What's the occasion?" the mech teases.

Pharma doesn't even bother with a withering sneer as he strides down the hall. He's on his way to his assigned hab, the one he shares with Dent, when Ambulon and First Aid emerge from theirs.

First Aid is trying to convince Ambulon to accompany him to Swerve's. "Come on," he pleads, "We haven't been yet. Let's just go see who's there."

"I'll go with you," Pharma offers. Mainly to keep an eye on the nurse.

First Aid startles a little at that. "Uh yeah." He turns to Ambulon. "So how about it? Let's all go check it out."

Ambulon is still lingering in the doorway when he opens his mouth to reply. His optics dart over Pharma's chassis back and forth a few times, then down the corridor, before he finally answers. "Fine," he tells Aid, "What could happen, why not."

The local drinking establishment turns out to be a dingy unlicensed bar, but it's the only bar on board, so for mechs to congregate here is only natural.

Pharma keeps his wings folded close. The crowd here...it's not that busy nor unfriendly, but the open stares that greet them...in a way, he shares Ambulon's reluctance. Why come here?

Their new crewmates are a motley lot. Who knows what lurks among this assortment of veterans and the odd civilian. Or what they've done. Ratchet's recommended shrink likely has no shortage of work.

The nurse and Delphi's former ward manager have grabbed a couple seats at an empty table in the corner. Pharma waits a moment longer to take in his surroundings before following over to join them. Or that was the idea; where else would he go? He does intend to stick with them, he just doesn't actually get around to joining their table just yet.

Instead, he's standing with a clear view of a mech identifiable as a helicopter (and empuratee, his processor is quick to supply) lounging against the bar countertop. Although he'd meant to give only a cursory glance, what registers first are the rotors, which jitter idly at the copter's elbows with every tap of those claws. Then there's that restless shift of a brawler's stance, and the elongated head casing in lieu of a regular helm. It's the single optic staring back across the room, however, that he eyes with a curious sense of unease. Not the empurata itself, but the intensity with which the copter is watching him in return. But then another mech, lankier and top-heavier than himself and carrying two glasses of engex, comes over and blocks his view of the bar and the copter both.

"Hello, Pharma," says this mech, whose helm has finials fanned out framing both a visor and faceplate. The look is vaguely similar to...to someone he must've met only once or twice in his life.

He takes the proffered glass. "Hello," he echoes in return, as he tries to recall where he's felt this energy signature before, ages ago. An emergency at the New Institute? The one where they'd lost Trepan. "Tumbler?" he wonders.

"Everyone calls me Chromedome these days but," the mech replies, "Tumbler is fine."

"Oh."

"Brainstorm is here too. You probably remember him as Genitus." Tumbler, or Chromedome, waves at one of the tables. Several of the mechs there wave back.

Genitus, hmm. There had been a mech with such a name, yes. When the DMF dispatched him to answer the call from the New Institute, there had been such a mech he'd seen to, afterward, who had hardly taken any damage. Tumbler, on the other hand, had been lucky with the response time of his arrival. Those injuries had been severe. And the flight from Rodion had been harried by enemy fire.

Reminiscing does wonders for his mood, perversely. Anything to set aside the recent past. Or perhaps he's simply glad to see an old patient of his doing well; that must be it. He downs his beverage in one go.

"Domey!" A minibot practically tackles 'Domey' out of nowhere. "Who's this?" inquires the bot, falsely sweet.

That piques Pharma's interest. Any distraction will do for the moment, and he does so happen to be sporting a rather spectacular finish. The little mech can be forgiven for making assumptions. Or at least deserves a proper greeting, which Pharma offers with his full credentials, crisp and clear.

The bar is a little quieter after that, save for the sudden collision of a thrown object and—a mortified Ambulon, who is left transformed into a combiner's leg. By the bartender's instigation? So this is the sort of company they keep aboard the ship, hm. Pharma drops his emptied glass off at the bar and then turns to leave.

Where to next? Pharma isn't particularly inclined to return to the hab suite he's supposed to share, although that's not something he can postpone for long. Nonetheless, he makes his way to the bridge first. There's something else he has to do; may as well get it over with now.

When he gets there, the captain is present, along with the second and third and their security officer. Pharma's not especially loud about entering, but nor is he silent, and so he doesn't have to say anything to interrupt. Captain Rodimus spins around from where he and Drift had been up to who knows what.

Rodimus breaks into a smile. "Pharma! How are you?"

Pharma demurs answering with a smile of his own. "I was wondering, Captain, if I could record a message to send to Cybertron. To, ah, keep Prowl updated."

"Of course! Go on right ahead." Four pairs of optics then stare at Pharma expectantly.

Oh so, they're all going to be here while he talks into the camera for Prowl. OK. Of course they are. "Do I begin now?" he asks just to confirm.

"Here," says Red Alert, "Let's get this set up and you can, in half a klik."

Pharma murmurs his thanks and takes to the fore. He considers, for a moment, backing out. Not that there's any real reason to do so. He's already stepped down and left the planet; this is just a formality. He is safe here, deep in space, where no one can reach him, catch him unawares. He'd see them coming, at least.

And as for any errors he might make unscripted, what does it really matter? He can do this. He may not look the part—he looks like an advert model, rather than an officer reporting unpleasant news to his superior—but this is fine. His finish is fine. In person, it might glare obnoxiously but on camera? If it were up to him, he'd dim the lights, but this fine. He'll be fine.

The camera light blinks on. "Hello, Prowl," he starts, and he doesn't hesitate to speak glibly. "You've most likely received my letter of resignation by now." No point in trying to look grim; Prowl can read whatever Prowl wants into this. Pharma brushes an imaginary speck of dust from his wrist and cants his gaze back at the camera with just a hint of remorse. "I'm sending this message to let you know, if you were thinking of sending a convoy to pick me up, there's no need. The Lost Light has already dropped by, as you can tell from the encoding on this transmission. Captain Rodimus and his people were ever so kind to let us join their crew. And yes, 'us' being, well, all of us. The base is empty. No one is stationed there as of now. Yes, I took the entire staff with me, and I expect you'll have some things to say about that." Pharma smiles at the camera. "You can yell at me later. But first, if you do plan to station anyone else at Delphi, you should be aware of the dangers that lurk on Messatine, although I can't imagine that you had no idea..."

Later Pharma might regret saying all that. He might, later. On the way down to the habs, he is buoyed by a feeling of triumph. There had been something exhilarating, about standing in a room full of nominally important mechs and saying his piece. To stand in front of the enforcer of the Tyrest Accord and the rest to, to...not to give Prowl what for, exactly, but to let loose and speak his mind, if only a little. That had been exhilarating. Although, the thought does occur to him now; it really will be an effort, won't it, for Ratchet to convince High Command to make him CMO after this, if this little outburst of his doesn't rule him out entirely, portray him to be an even poorer fit than before. What High Command wants for the position is someone rather more low-key, accountable, and respectably solid. Someone like Ratchet.

If this doesn't pan out...sorry, buddy. Whatever happens in the future, they can figure it out then. Cybertron is far off and so are its attendant issues, and every single one of those can wait. Here on the Lost Light, there's enough to worry about for now. Like why is First Aid skulking around the corridor outside their rooms, looking lost in thought. 

"How's Ambulon?" Pharma asks, just because he can.

First Aid stops and looks up, sullen. "He's in recharge."

"Napping is he? Or moping? And I suppose that explains why you're out here, pacing."

With the visor, it's not easy to tell, but Pharma is fairly certain that First Aid is glaring at him.

"Well," says Pharma, "If that's that, I'll be over in my—"

Aid rushes to interrupt, "We need to talk."

"Do we."

"Yes."

"Here, in the hallway?"

First Aid looks left and right. "There's no one, so I'll keep this brief. I need to know when are we gonna tell Ratchet about...Delphi."

That has him brought up short. "What do you mean, when."

"We're going to tell him, aren't we? Since he was already on his way to investigate before the hogwash about Fort Max."

"Has he asked..."

"No, not yet. He suspects I authored the datalog, I think."

"You think, or you know?"

"I...what am I going to do when he does ask? Yeah, I sent those stats. And yeah, I know what they mean now. But I'm just gonna lie to him? Or else...I don't know. What are we going to do?"

"You can't just play dumb?" It wouldn't be the first time the nurse has, but now suddenly this is a problem?

"No."

First Aid is in danger of blabbing. He knows it, has known this, but what can he do? "What do you want?" Pharma whispers. "What can I offer you in exchange for your silence?" He reaches for First Aid, who backs away, horrified.

"No! That's not what I meant. Pharma..." First Aid looks at him helplessly.

Pharma doesn't want to see Aid like this. Doesn't want to be seen like this, so close to begging on his knees, ready to make amends like he—like he had, with Tarn, whenever necessary, whatever the situation required of him. He, who had been at the top of his class and is one of the—is arguably the best surviving doctor Cybertron has to offer. He has now been reduced to bartering with his dignity at the first sign of trouble.

This was supposed to be a fresh start, joining the Lost Light. But it's futile, isn't it, trying to escape from the past.

Pharma walks away without another word. He opens the door to his hab. The suite is occupied, so he straightens his posture when he goes in, leaving First Aid in the hall.

Chapter Text

By morning, Pharma's thoroughly regretting his visit to Swerve's. He's sending his regrets down the drain and cursing the proprietor of that substandard venue (that glass of swill he had yesterday must have been contaminated somehow, or poisoned) when the thought occurs to him: Swerve may not be to blame. An old memory prods at him unbidden, from what feels like another lifetime before the war, when he was young. Pharma had felt queasy then too.

He had been young, then, and had more or less enjoyed himself, up until that discovery. He had had a brief stint of denial and then, before the facts could threaten his future, he had dealt with the problem as best he could. And that had been that, he had put it out of mind, and he had gone on to excel in his chosen field.

If he's sparked again, well. He has all the tools at his disposal.

Pharma wipes himself off and hurries to the medbay. No one sees him enter. With any luck, no one will know why he came. He grabs a scanner. There, lo and behold, within the outline of his spark casing is a bright new interloper, a parasitic keepsake from what may well have been the worst day of his life.

He grabs a pair of pliers. Steady now.

Pharma has done this once before, eons ago back in school, after youthful indiscretion had taught him what could happen. This he can fix, just as quickly and with no one else the wiser. A quick operation, nothing to it. Simpler even, than a—

He nearly drops his pliers when the doors swoosh open and in walk the other medics, chattering among themselves.

Three pairs of optics stare straight into the blaze of his spark, where the speck that hadn't shaken loose still clings insistently to the origin from which it'd split.

The nurse is the first to rush over.

He all but stick his hands inside Pharma's chest cavity to confirm the obvious. "You're sparked up," he exclaims, pressing his face closer. Pharma contemplates what the others might do, if one well placed strike were to shove him to the floor. First Aid continues babbling, "It's so, so small! Yet bright! I've never seen a newspark inside a casing before! Is it going to stay this bright when it grows bigger? They do grow, right, splinter sparks, to a normal size? What am I saying, of course they do. But they descend first before they get to that size, I remember reading..." He continues in this vein for some time, either uncaring or unaware, until, faltering, he remarks, "You've got pliers." How observant. "Are you going to transfer the newspark somewhere else?"

Ratchet informs him, "It's too soon for that."

"Oh," says Aid, now subdued from that bout of mania, and steps back to a more acceptable, safer distance. Still within firing range, though, point blank. Not that Pharma would.

"I'm not keeping it," Pharma declares bluntly, daring anyone to gainsay him. First Aid flinches.

"Of course you won't," says Ratchet, who lays a hand on his arm, as if to soothe. Or to steer. "Whatever you need, OK? Just ventilate."

Pharma shrugs him off. "I need to take care of this myself. Later, after I refuel." He gets up and leaves.

What scrap. Not only is he already some sort of victim, now they know about his ability to carry. Functionism might purportedly be out of favor, but he knows Ratchet. At best, the other physicians here are going to follow the CMO's lead, keep their distance and ice him out from the important tasks. And CMO? He can count on that offer rescinding. Sure, Ratchet might claim to respect bodily autonomy, might even believe it one hundred percent...

Pharma would almost rather be treated as an incubator outright. Almost, not quite. Bad as that would be, at least the logic to it would be impersonal, to assign utilitarian value to one more aspect of his body. His hands, his wings, why not this part of him as well? Whereas the attempts at careful handling feel like an affront. As if he is too delicate to function.

He supposes things could be worse. None of the patients currently in the medical bay are out of stasis, at least. If the fact of his newspark's existence, however temporary, gets out—and it will—he's going to need a plan. Another plan, on top of everything else. Lest he has to grapple with nothing to work with, when all his secrets unravel.

Fueling first was unwise. He had forgotten in the moment, should've known how this would go. Pharma purges in the washracks. Again.

The public washracks are open, so when someone approaches, Pharma turns around, frantic, only to see that it's just Ambulon and he can relax. He turns off the stream of solvents overhead, barely rinses off, and waits for Ambulon to speak. Ambulon doesn't, so he breaks the silence himself. "If you're here to ask me to reconsider..."

Ambulon cuts him off quietly, "No, I'm not." That field, however, is dubiously mournful.

"Oh?" Pharma takes a step closer, noting how Ambulon refuses to look him in the eye. "You wouldn't rather I keep the newspark?"

"What I want doesn't matter."

Pharma appraises Ambulon, from the slouch of his shoulders to the loosely clenched fists and the paint that is too new to flake off but is already chipped along so many edges, and asks, "Then why are you here?"

"Just to...I didn't mean to intrude, but—" The excuses stop when Pharma lays a hand upon him and leans in, near enough to bite.

"Didn't you? Mean to intrude?" Pharma challenges softly, not to reprove him but to tease out his motivation.

Ambulon stares up, open-mouthed.

"You want me," declares Pharma.

"...I do."

"Then show me how m—" Pharma doesn't get to finish when Ambulon lunges forward and the distance between them is closed with a kiss. He quirks a smile against the mouth that's on his and gasps when Ambulon pulls him in tight, chassis to chassis, with both hands firmly upon his hips. Lazily he turns on his fans, just for the sake of spinning them, and moans, performatively, at the way Ambulon endeavors to touch him with both their panels shut.

Afterwards, when they've broken apart, Ambulon is looking up at him, asking, "Why?"

As if there's a decent answer. With a shrug, "Maybe it's protocols acting up." In a huskier tone of voice, he goes on to add, "Or maybe I simply—" Pharma then curves a hand across his own mouth and touches a pair of fingers to the ghost of their kiss. "—wanted to," he says. And he winks at Ambulon, whom he leaves behind in the washracks alone when he saunters off back to the medbay.

Back at the medbay, when the doors part for him, Pharma overhears First Aid appealing to Ratchet about the possibility of reviving Fortress Maximus.

"You had ample opportunity with the equipment in an actual hospital," Ratchet is saying, "And you decided to wait to try it here?"

"He wants your approval," Pharma cuts in, "As CMO, are you going to give it to him?"

Ratchet turns with a critical expression. "You didn't give yours at Delphi."

The doors shut behind Pharma when he steps forward from the hallway. He joins the other two medics, congregating by the cabinets a good distance away from the patient's berthside, and stands facing Ratchet with arms folded and a wing cocked at the troublemaker nurse. "I did not," he agrees, "sign off on any such experiment. But that was because we were already short-staffed, and were anything to happen during, that would've been burdensome to the rest of us."

"It's experimental treatment, not an experiment," First Aid defends. Then is caught off-guard, when he comprehends the rest of what was said. "Wait, are you saying you'd be OK with it now?"

Yes, First Aid should go ahead now and risk getting hurt. Might even put himself out of commission for the duration of their voyage, which would be one less thing to worry about. "No," Pharma corrects him, "I said I had my reasons. Whether the CMO here takes them into account—" Here he smiles brightly at Ratchet. "—is up to him."

Chapter Text

What could happen, if the CMO does grant permission? What could happen, if the nurse leaps at this chance to, what did he call it, jump-start the patient to attempt spark resuscitation?

Pharma considers the possibility of sabotage. And dismisses the idea, tempting as it may be.

First Aid is waiting with a hope in his optics that not even that visor of his can obscure. He takes the lack of refusal as a sign the CMO can be convinced. He reiterates how he intends to arrive at the desired outcome and skips merrily over the potential downsides. Barely a klik passes, but Ratchet hems and haws long enough for Ambulon to join the fray.

When Ambulon enters the medbay while First Aid is still speaking, Pharma has a flicker of worry. Ambulon only offers him a glance of acknowledgment, however, before launching into a passionate tirade against First Aid's unnecessary risk-taking.

Ratchet looks on, bemused, as First Aid responds with equal fervor, and Pharma has to suppress a laugh, watching Ratchet watch these two rehash every argument they've had at Delphi.

As he stands there watching them, he feels a wave of fondness and—how maudlin. Is this how his emotions will carry on until he rids himself of the newspark? He hadn't really meant it, when he'd blamed protocols for that impulsive act in the washracks but. Protocols could be to blame, both for any number of changes to his systems and for draining energy from his frame.

He ought to get rid of the newspark. The sooner the better, before carrying can further confuse him or empty out his fuel tank. If he's going to be rid of it, why wait?

And yet, he hesitates. Carrying is an inconvenience, yes, and the newspark a hindrance. What would he do with a newspark, clinging to his person? If he keeps it, lets it grow. But he had wanted, he remembers, he had wanted that, once, when the choice would have been impossible, would have kept him from becoming a doctor, would have kept him from where he is now. And where he is now, where he is now...is ever so precarious. They know—First Aid and Ambulon know what he's done. (What he did to protect them all, on Messatine, but it's not like High Command would approve.) Ratchet will know too, if Pharma doesn't do something to prevent discovery. If he doesn't do something to lead Ratchet astray.

A plan begins to form. It's not what he'd envisioned himself doing but he has to stay flexible, as always, and make the pragmatic choice. He will carry to term if he has to, yes, to keep the others on his side.

How ironic, that the newspark he wanted he couldn't have, whereas this one he is willing to nourish from his body if that means his secrets will be safe. Pharma has always done what is necessary to secure his future. To endure and survive.

He slips out from the medbay while they're still debating the merits of First Aid's ideas.

When Pharma goes to the energon dispenser for the second time that cycle, someone takes notice.

It's the same red and yellow mech from before, who happens to be idling nearby. "Back so soon," comments the mech, "Weren't you just here?"

Who is this, the rations police? "Slag off." He's not proud of his reaction, but right now he has more important things to concern him. Pharma heads for the exit as soon as his cube is three quarters full. He doesn't expect for that impertinent mech to insist on following him out of the mess.

"Er, maybe we got off to a wrong start. I'm Atomizer, by the way." When Pharma declines to reciprocate, Atomizer continues with the introduction. "Weapons engineer at Kimia. And interior designer," he supplies, "Maybe you've seen my work around here?"

"Can't say I have," Pharma replies primly.

Atomizer takes that as a chance to tell him all about it while they're walking down the hall past a couple of scientists and a former senator headed in the opposite direction. Atomizer tails him all the way back to the medbay, where Pharma ignores the mech as he assembles the ingredients necessary for his task. He pulls what he needs from the cabinets with no one to question him; there's no other doctor in sight, Atomizer knows nothing, and the diagnostic drones haven't the range.

Pharma sprinkles a few additives into his cube and stirs. When Atomizer makes a joke about giving Swerve competition, he has to twitch a smile at that.

When the concoction he's preparing is fully blended, as ready for consumption as it'll ever be, Pharma finally turns to look Atomizer in the eye. "Something you require?" he asks. Let the mech comprehend that Pharma is busy tending to medical needs. His own, actually, but who would know?

"Uh," replies Atomizer.

The doors open to reveal the nurse is here, back from break.

"First Aid," Pharma calls out, "Will you come look at this mech? Designation: Atomizer. Give him a routine checkup."

"Ha, that won't be necessary." Atomizer flashes a quick tilt of the helm, with the light glancing off those wide sweeping finials, and waves them off. "You have a good day, doctor," he says, before finally disappearing into the hall. The doors slide shut behind him.

Pharma waits a fraction of a klik. He then glances toward the nurse. "Yes?"

First Aid is staring openly at the concoction Pharma's made. "What is that for?"

"It's fuel. For me." And he takes a sip, which somehow tastes worse than any slag he's ever had, including the last time he tried this blend. Unpalatable stuff. Primus he does not remember it tasting this bad.

"What did you put in it?" comes the question.

One of the drones, Pharma notes, is also paying attention. He glances to the cube in his hand and then back at the nurse. "Why are you asking?"

"Is that part of the termination process? I'm just trying to understand..."

"It is not."

First Aid seems marginally relieved. As if even having to watch Pharma take some sort of abortifacient orally would've been too much for his weak sensibilities.

Before anything else can be said, Ambulon re-enters the medbay, carrying a datapad. "OK, so. How many faders are we rotating out?"

First Aid gestures to a patient whose prognosis has not been good. "Switch out this guy. We can come back to him after."

Ambulon nods at the patient Aid indicated. "Just that one?"

First Aid is taking the closest diagnostic drone into his arms and patting it like a pet. "Well, we're still making progress on—"

"Or, get this," says Ambulon, "We move Fortress Maximus, who should never have been given a slab out here."

Aid lets go of the drone and turns, facing Ambulon. "Not until we try my way first."

"And then what?"

"And then we'll have another slab to spare!"

"Ha. Haha. OK." The datapad Ambulon's holding isn't chucked but set down rather forcefully.

Pharma doesn't get involved. If these two are stressing over this, so what? Yes they've had to downsize. No ship's medbay, not even this one, can compare to a purpose-built facility. They have a couple empty circuit slabs reserved for new patients while the rest are filled with mechs in stasis, and more bodies are in cold storage due to space limitations. So what? They'll manage as they always have.

First Aid, for his part, again appeals to Ratchet, who has just returned. "Lemme do it," he says, "I can get Fort Max up and running."

Ratchet brushes him off. Has eyes only for Pharma, who has to stay calm as Ratchet approaches, to hold still and vent accordingly next to Ratchet, who is there with a field full of open curiosity. "So long have you known?" Ratchet asks. "That you could carry."

It's not the question Pharma had expected, but it's provocative all the same. He counters, "Is that an accusation?"

"No! No. I was just wondering. Since you didn't seem surprised," Ratchet replies, indifferent to the other two medics now lurking behind him on standby with uncertainty written all over their faces.

Pharma scoffs. "Surprised? How surprised should I have been, that the situation in which I find myself has gotten increasingly worse? I had to frag on a Decepticon's command, with both my spark and my valve, and that was difficult enough to bear. But gossip is already making the rounds—" Among his former staff, the security team. Inevitably the rest of the ship too, sooner or later. Word must've gotten out by now, which had been part of his plan, yes, for mitigating the real damage, but that won't make the rumors any easier to swallow. "And now I'm a carrier? And then I'm going to be dreadfully bored when you decide that carrying means I'll be unfit for anything else."

"Wait. You've decided to keep it?" Ratchet asks, borderline incredulous. "Also I," he then tries to refute, "I wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't you?" Pharma questions, "Relieve me of my duties?"

Ratchet gives up with a huff. "Can we talk about that later? After we find out whether we need all hands on deck if First Aid doesn't survive his experimental jump-start?" he tries half-humorously, as if now's the time.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," says First Aid, having found the courage to come closer, before Ambulon can argue against letting him proceed at all. He sidles up to Pharma, pressing for an answer. "You really are keeping the newspark then?" he asks.

"I've changed my mind, yes. I could, I suppose, change my mind again, but until I..."

"It's your choice," Ratchet affirms, looking glad to be treading on safer ground. "We'll support you, whichever you choose. If you do decide not to keep it, we'll support that too."

Pharma smiles at Ratchet. "If I do change my mind again, I'll wait until it's stable enough to transfer." He can feel, on his periphery, a mixture of relief and anticipation coming from First Aid.

"OK, well, either way." Ratchet pauses. "Hold that thought. I have to go answer a call from..." He trails off, excuses himself, and leaves.

How convenient. While they're on the topic, Pharma does have a few more words just for First Aid and Ambulon to hear. So he directs the drones back to their stations to recharge and, when Ratchet has well and truly left the vicinity, remotely locks the medbay doors.

Ambulon and First Aid exchange a glance. They won't need much of a preamble, will they? What's been on his mind ought to be at the forefront of theirs too.

"You can probably surmise what we're about to discuss," says Pharma, "I imagine you also have questions. Why I've deigned to keep the newspark, what's going to happen, and what we're going to say. Starting with, I'm willing to let nature take its course, if that helps with morale. A little distraction will do us all good, I think." Thinly he smiles; he can almost taste how their dumbstruck outrage sours into impotence. "And the two of you could use a reminder what's at stake..."

Chapter Text

After their little talk, First Aid bolts out the door. Ambulon follows, but not without a backward glance.

Pharma minds his own. Let them go and wrangle each other; he's said his piece, and there's so much else to be done. He stays in the medbay, surveying the work ahead. The patient in poor condition, whose spark rate he measured yesterday, should be re-examined before the next rotation. Any changes observed over time, both before and after placement into cold storage, ought to prove useful. To study, at least, if not to provide a cure to this hapless patient of theirs.

Fuel first. He takes that horrid cube and finishes the rest of it in one gulp. Then he has one of the little diagnostic drones boot up mid-charge. It hovers into the air then chirps at him, ready to begin. With this drone assisting, he goes over to the circuit slab where their patient is waiting and set outs to find the gap in the spark flow.

He's pinpointing the precise location around which he expects an elusive zero point to hide, when Ambulon and First Aid return without a word to him or to each other.

He's halfway through recording all the known variables when Ratchet re-enters the medbay.

There's something meditative about this, with the four of them here, working independently on a row of patients in stasis. Or would be, if circumstances were different. Ruefully Pharma considers how much more pleasant this could've been, if he hadn't had to extract promises of cooperation under duress. But he had. He had needed to make sure they understood.

One of the diagnostic drones, fully charged, begins to beep.

At the end of the day, Pharma returns to his hab suite alone. When he goes to lie down, recharge evades him. He pretends to be offline, when Dent enters the suite. By the time Dent is asleep, a cycle has passed, and Pharma is still lying in berth with an active processor and about ten thousand threads running in parallel. And at the very top...

He should be in recharge. He should be at peace. There's no need to fret, no more than usual, not when he's made the right call. And he has, hasn't he? He's chosen a good path. No one else will be hurt. Not even the newspark.

The newspark...

This newspark inside his chest cavity is just a splinter, just a piece of him that's broken off, insensate to the world. Soon, however, it'll develop into its own person. It will be helpless, as all such sparklings are, and rely heavily upon others for the first vorn of its life. But it will develop, it will think for itself, and it will come to know an inkling of how it came into being. Won't it? Inevitably, it will. Pharma cannot fathom the lengths to which they'd have to go, to keep it ignorant of its origins. Perhaps not keeping it would be kinder. If he were doing this for the newspark's sake, which he isn't. He's doing this, feeding it from himself, to maintain his hold over what he can of his situation. He's protecting his weaknesses with a new weakness of his own devise, another weakness which can be turned against him, and isn't that just perfectly asking for trouble? Although, by the time the newspark is of age, none of this will matter. When the sparkling is old enough to know, old enough to think, to hate, Pharma will either have found a way to be free of all this by then, or he'll have failed. Either way...

The sparkling won't stay with him. They'll find a mentor for it. There'll be someone else with the proper disposition, the right qualifications, vetted to tend to the sparkling with the utmost care. Someone else to soak up all that uncomplicated newspark love.

Something inside him twinges at the thought. This sparkling is his, but it won't be, not really. And even if it could be, he's not prepared to raise it himself. Not now, not ever. Not with all this uncertainty, nor after. He'll carry to term and then part ways. He'll have to. What else could he do?

Recharge. Right now he needs to recharge. But there's an itch in his fuel lines, and a heat under his panel and...he's having cravings, he realizes, from a lack of nutrition. The additives in his energon may have been enough to keep his fuel down but weren't intended as a substitute; he has yet to supplement the nutrition the newspark needs to build its protoform. He hadn't thought to take care of that—has neglected to do so, because it hadn't been necessary before, in the dorms, with the sort of lifestyle he'd led back then.

Now, he can run back to the medbay and hope not to draw attention to himself, when he scrambles for a solution from whatever supplies they have on hand. Or, he can get back into the habit of interfacing regularly. With whomever's safest.

After a split klik of indecision, Pharma comms Ambulon.

Pharma is standing in the hall when Ambulon opens the door, bleary-eyed, and steps aside to let him in. "Is First Aid awake?" he whispers.

Ambulon whispers back, "He will be, if we don't keep quiet."

"Well. This won't take long." He waits for Ambulon to close the door and get back on the berth, and then he goes over and—

"How do you want this?" Ambulon's plating is hot against his.

"On your back," Pharma replies.

Ambulon acquiesces, and Pharma clambers on top. He grabs a hold of the spike that's already half-pressurized, transforms away his own panel, and—

His valve clenches on the intrusion. Pharma forces himself to relax. He's chosen this. He's choosing this. He can do this. He can.

He ventilates, and slowly, slowly he sinks. He presses his groin to Ambulon's, he takes that spike and rolls his hips and...

It doesn't take long for Ambulon to come. It doesn't satiate but it's enough, and Pharma gets up to go, except Ambulon is holding onto his wrist and, and he ends up lying down, side by side, somehow, with a leg brushed against his knee and an arm wedged next to his. There is something soothing about resting against another's plating, being a little less alone. Pharma lets himself have this—the soft vibration of another mech's touch, ventilation, a drowsy field—and he slips into recharge while in Ambulon's berth.

However many times they cross paths in the medbay—and Pharma does go out of his way to test this—First Aid is pointedly still not looking at him. That's all right. He has no intention of staying over again, or even if he did, what does he care?

Pharma exchanges greetings with the maintenance engineer who stops by. "Why don't you go help him?" he suggests to the nurse, who looks about to protest but thinks better of it.

That leaves him and Ratchet for however long before First Aid or someone else comes back. Pharma waits until the doors are shut again to speak.
"The 'jump-start' on Fortress Maximus. Do you intend to allow First Aid to proceed?"

Ratchet looks up, like he'd been deep in thought, then shoots a glance over his shoulder at where First Aid used to be.

"Everyone would appreciate an answer soon, don't you agree, and seeing as how you're still CMO..."

"Pharma," asks Ratchet, "What is this really about?"

Feeling emboldened, Pharma walks up to him and then turns aside, brushing his elbow with the tip of a wing, so that they're facing the same direction while Ratchet works. "I want to know where we stand. On this, that, and the other thing."

"Huh. 'This, that, and the other thing.'"

"Can't you guess?"

"Spell them out for me."

"Oh, Ratchet. Meet me halfway?"

"I would, if you'll tell me—" As Ratchet stops working and turns toward him—

Pharma blurts out, "C—M—O. You're not going to resign, are you." He takes up the task of soldering that Ratchet has dropped, just to give his hands something to do.

Ratchet doesn't stop him from interfering. In fact, steps back some to make room. "That was the plan."

"Was," he enunciates.

"Pharma. Do you...is that what you want? To be CMO?"

No. Not like this. Pharma bites his lip. "I want you to tell me," he says, "That whether you've changed your mind about appointing me as your successor has nothing to do with the fact that I'm carrying."

Ratchet hedges, "Do I have to be able to say with absolute certainty?"

He pretends to think about it. "Half will do."

"Then I'll go with...no, not because of that, but because. It's because you won't go see Rung."

At that, it's Pharma's turn to halt what he's doing. "Ratchet!"

Ratchet takes the mock admonishment with a grin. "What? It's true."

"You're so hypocritical, you rusty bucket of—"

"Oh shut up." Ratchet grabs Pharma by the wrist when he takes a swing and pulls him forward, then grabs him from the other side and traps him into a hug. "Wait, don't tell me..."

"Say a word about protocols and I'll stab you."

"With which hand? I've got them both."

One long hiss utters from the sliding doors as Lancet walks into the medbay and, upon seeing them, backs right out again.

Pharma titters. "He's probably gotten the wrong impression."

"Has he?"

A reply like that is quick and thoughtless, Pharma knows, and so he responds with the same sort of ease, "Why, do you want him to be right?"

Which is essentially the same remark flipped back, but it gets Ratchet to stop and think. "Wait. Are you serious? Are you being serious right now?" Ratchet asks.

Pharma pulls free from his grasp then flicks a wing, nudging him as if to imply how cramped that hug had been before Ratchet loosened his grip (although it hadn't, not really). "I could be," says Pharma, "Could you?" When Ratchet appears to be stuck speechless, Pharma winds up elaborating, "I do have this situation now where I find myself with a newfound need for, ah, transfluid."

"Right! Right..." Ratchet is still at a loss, it seems.

Pharma lays down the tools from his hand and steps away. "I have to go refuel," he says with a brittle smile. "Small doses. You know how it is." What he really wants is highgrade, not that he could tolerate it right now. And is there even any decent engex on this ship? Probably for the best if there isn't. Or that he hasn't replenished his own private stash in years.

He'll just have to make all his bad decisions sober. Like he has been.

Which is fine. He'll just...he'll manage, somehow, as he always has. He leaves the medbay and doesn't look back when he exits. He looks past the various mechs he passes, the shape of Lancet among them, along the way; he's staring straight ahead as he aims for the hab suites instead of the mess hall for, if no other reason, an early recharge, that's what he needs.

That evening, Dent is conveniently out at Swerve's, when Ratchet drops by their room.

Pharma doesn't recall the exact details, doesn't even remember opening the door; he had just dropped off into recharge when he heard a noise, and then Ratchet...

Ratchet is here, with him. He grabs for that familiar shape in the dim and finds the plating moderately warm to the touch. Pharma vents softly. "You came," he murmurs.

"You did ask," Ratchet replies.

Oh. "For the newspark?"

An affirmative grunt, and they're tumbling to berth in a tangle of limbs. But now that they're here...

Not at Deltaran had he tried to have this. And at the Academy...that was before they'd gotten to know each other; that didn't count. At any rate, they had been different back then, not just Pharma but Ratchet also; they aren't who they used to be, haven't really interfaced together, not in a way that matters, not truly.

Where to begin?

He skims his fingertips across Ratchet's windshield. He takes one of Ratchet's hands and places it against his array, pushes it toward his opening. Feel how wet I am for you, he doesn't say.

When Ratchet fumbles at fingering his folds, he takes that hand again and presses a kiss to those unresponsive fingers. He grinds their arrays together, spike to spike, and then he lifts himself up and sinks down onto Ratchet's, squeezing with his valve until he elicits a groan.

However long this lasts—and he does want this to last, no matter whether there's more to come—he urges Ratchet to keep going. With his hands, his lips, and his valve, he pins Ratchet down in the here and now, urging onward, yes oh yes—forever yes.

When they've finished—not explosively, not like he remembers, but it's still good, it's so good that Ratchet's here—he slips free to lie down beside his beloved, satisfied. Tonight is everything he needed. Tomorrow...who knows what tomorrow will bring? Recharge is blessedly easy, tonight, and all his worries fade from thought.

Chapter Text

Pharma onlines alone in his berth. If not for the pleasant ache in his valve, he might try to convince himself he had dreamed that Ratchet was here. As is, he can only refuse to name the source of his discontent.

He will simply go about his day as usual, he decides. First a quick stop at the washracks, then a cube from the dispenser, filled to three quarters. And then the medbay. Yes.

In the medbay, during a spare moment when nobody else is nearby, Ratchet casually walks behind him while he's working and asks, "How often should we interface?"

What.

Ratchet crosses into his field of view and repeats himself, and then Pharma understands.

It's not as if they had talked over expectations, had they. What exactly did he think would happen? Of course Ratchet would want to set a schedule to be helpful. Of course! "Every day would probably be unnecessary," he replies, "though it wouldn't hurt."

Ratchet nods. "We can do every day." Oh can they?

Pharma should probably be thanking him for volunteering like this.

Ratchet doesn't seem to require any further response, however, and leaves Pharma to it, where Lancet and Ambulon later find him staring at a wall, motionlessly contemplative—which he can afford to be, given that he's only working on reconstructing a couple of joints on the tail end of a spinal column, nothing time-consuming or sensitive, at this slab.

Ambulon hesitates to approach. "Are you...?"

Pharma replies, "I'm fine, be back in five." And clears out, job unfinished, before they can say anything else, to go spend the next quarter cycle somewhere without prying eyes.

Every day, sometimes twice a day, not at regular intervals but close enough, Ratchet comes to him for a bout of interface then comes inside him without fail. Always Ratchet's spike inside his valve, after a klik or two of foreplay. Habitual. Efficient. Perfunctory.

Sometimes it's a quickie in the closet, next to where the anti-corrosives are kept. A couple times, Ratchet takes him against an operating table, right out in the open, just bends him over and taps his panel, then rubs at his node for a bit before they begin. Which ought to be thrilling, interfacing with Ratchet at work while it's just the two of them with their colleagues absent, in those moments Ratchet finds for them when schedules happen to line up. It ought to be thrilling, and instead it feels like he's getting treated for a health issue he is unable to treat on his own. Which is basically what this is, he realizes, to Ratchet, and he can't decide whether this is better or worse than before.

He might be the only mech Ratchet is fragging these days, but Ratchet isn't fragging him out of desire. They're fragging because he asked.

Maybe he ought to tell Ratchet to skip the foreplay, just shove it in. More honest and efficient that way. But no, he wants this, he still wants Ratchet to touch him, whenever however they can be together, and he won't give that up just because his feelings are in a snit.

But oh, how that rankles. To be yet another task which Ratchet—kind, selfless Ratchet—is willing to take on.

Pharma tries to enjoy himself while he can, but. He can feel himself physically losing interest. One of these days maybe he'll tell Ratchet where to dip that spike before sticking it in, so they can be done in under a klik. Less agonizing that way, not to prolong their pity frag while hoping for more. Just keep lubricant on hand, or leave it out on his berthside.

Sometimes they do, in the berth, do it there. Pharma's, never Ratchet's, and somehow always while Dent is nowhere to be seen.

Turns out, Ratchet has been negotiating some sort of schedule with Dent. Or not; Dent apparently has a different perspective. Dent corners Pharma about it one morning while they're leaving the hab suite.

"Hey," says the mech, with an anxious smile, "Could you talk to Ratchet?"

Pharma eyes him askance. "What for?"

"How often he's coming around the hab. Could he—could you—take it somewhere else, sometime?"

"We do, though...?" Pharma rather thinks they could frag around less often in the medbay, actually. What is a hab suite for, if not privacy? And Dent hasn't said anything up until now, hasn't even been around? "How does that affect you, when you're not even here when we—"

"Yeah, yeah, it's just...whenever Ratchet lets me know he plans to drop by, it's not a lot of notice and I'd like for that to change?"

Oh. Oh. "Ratchet didn't tell me he's been asking you to leave."

"Um. Well he has," Dent sheepishly admits, "and it's getting kinda inconvenient, y'know?"

"I see." Pharma studies the grooves on the walls and ceiling. He avoids looking at the floor. Or at optic level with—

Dent mumbles, "Yeah, so..."

"I'll tell him to stop."

"Great, really appreciate—"

"Mm, don't mention it." Pharma steps around Dent and turns a corner, hurrying off to work at a reasonable pace. Not at all like he's trying to get away from a mech whose opinion doesn't really matter to him. Or from the knowledge that Ratchet is out there informing other people—or has been, behind his back, making arrangements on his behalf without telling him...

He's all worked up by the time he's standing outside the medbay. He is incensed, and he. He can't be; he needs to calm down and bring in his field to a normal activity level. He needs to present himself as the professional that he is and get to work and...

He's just so angry! Who else has Ratchet been telling? Telling all these mechs to steer clear when it's time for them to clang? Has Ratchet also worked out a schedule with the entire medbay; is there a calendar set up for all their colleagues to see? Do First Aid and Ambulon know how often they do it? Does Lancet? Hoist? Who the frag else is in on Ratchet's fragging memos about this?

The doors open, and he dreads to discover who on the other side is to be standing this close to his field, but it's just Ambulon with a datapad. Ambulon, who stops him to ask whether he's fueled yet, who leads him to the mess hall. Where he then takes a cube to the dispenser automatically and fills it to three quarters capacity, as he has been doing as of late.

He's still seething at Ratchet but. Can't stay angry, can he? He has work to do. People to see.

When Ambulon leads him over to a table, Pharma finds himself absentmindedly explaining how he mixes his fuel in the medbay. Ambulon nods along to how he lists off the mineral additives in order by weight and volume, from the main ingredient to trace amounts.

"So do you have to prepare it fresh every meal, couldn't you make a batch all at once?" asks Ambulon, "Or will it lose potency over time?"

"No, it's stable. I do have a few packets prepared," Pharma explains, "But I've been hoping to be ready for regular energon soon." He snorts at his own optimism and tests a sip of his cube. Probably will have to take a longer draught to find out, though he's not eager to risk being wrong.

A little too offhandedly, Ambulon says, "I tried looking up what to expect. Maybe I don't know how to navigate the system, because I didn't come across any information about special fueling needs or how that might change over time, for someone with your...condition."

Pharma stiffens. That sort of information isn't readily available, even with all the library access the medbay has to offer. It's too esoteric, too irrelevant these days, goes the conventional thinking, with how few of their number are known to have carried. The information is still out there, some of it, preserved for further research, but. Someone interested in the topic would have to know what they were looking for, where to find it, and not simply peruse any old archive. Several millennia ago, however, when cold construction was still controversial, and active carriers weren't unheard of—though seldom seen in public—such material may have been easier to find. He'd certainly acquired what he needed to know, and the difficulty had been with waiting for an opportunity to surreptitiously borrow another student's credentials, not searching the database itself.

He doesn't think Ambulon is here to report back to Ratchet. Nor does he think an admission would lead to anything actionable, even if that were the case. The Functionists aren't in power anymore and he doesn't have to fear what might happen, beyond a bit of prejudice. Nonetheless. Why admit beyond what he already has?

Seeing how Pharma refuses to engage, Ambulon apologizes for overstepping.

Pharma, for his part, continues to say nothing and ventures another sip.

"I'm aware," Ambulon persists, haltingly, "That things used to be...different, in society. I wasn't around, back then, but I've read..."

Pharma huffs. "You've read the histories, have you?"

"I know about some of the issues of the time."

"Oh, did the Decepticons manage to put together a comprehensive educational program for their newbuilds?"

Ambulon doesn't flinch at that. "Yes, in fact they did," he says.

"How fortunate for you." Pharma looks down at his cube, still three-fifths full, and tips it toward himself, pondering whether or not to push his luck. He angles it on the cusp of spillage and, with Ambulon watching, sets it back down on the table. He'll take the rest into the medbay, let it sit for another cycle before his next sip. Here in the mess hall...

"Education," Pharma muses aloud, "isn't what it used to be."

Chapter Text

The conversation with Ambulon is grounding in its own way. They talk of shapism and vocation, what he has seen versus what the Decepticon programs have taught, and what life was like for MTOs. How it is now, how it was...well. Onlining for the first time on a battlefield, imagine that.

They talk about the prevalence of cold construction since the war and speculate, now that the war is over, whether public opinion will shift.

They don't talk about the newspark or his condition. Not anymore.

Pharma swirls the remainder of fuel in his grip. He thinks about explaining why the additives are necessary or speculating on what was different, compared to their primordial history, in the days of the Thirteen, what had made carrying so much simpler back then. But, if he tells, Ambulon might worry about all the potential pitfalls, and they don't need that, do they? He doesn't need anyone else fretting over something beyond his control.

He gets up and leaves, taking the cube with him, when he is as ready as he'll ever be to face the medbay. Ambulon accompanies him, and no one notices them enter, not the other personnel and certainly not the bodies laid out in stasis. No one notices if they walk together oddly close, not Ratchet (who is going through the motions of shooing the ship third-in-command from his workspace while they banter) nor First Aid (who is equally preoccupied with pretending he isn't engaged in leisure reading) and they're not at Delphi anymore, are they? He's not CMO, and this isn't his ward manager he's not seducing, not exactly.

Pharma gives Ambulon an encouraging smile, and Ambulon looks away—even as his EM field flutters with interest—long enough for Pharma to catch the mech unawares with a brush of the lips against the side of his helm before going their separate ways.

True to his word, Pharma does what he can to take the next round of interface over to Ratchet's. Or, rather, not the next round but the round after that. (The next round is spent in the medbay, as so frequently happens, this time with both of them upright against the cabinets for half a klik.) At the end of the day, around the time Ratchet usually clocks out, Pharma sets himself up in the threshold to Ratchet's hab suite and waits.

He counts down the nanokliks and—

No, those aren't Ratchet's footsteps, and that's not Ratchet. It's the pretty warbuild, the ship third-in-command who's coming down the hall. The captain's friend, the one with the sturdy-looking finials.

A pair of finials...yes, Pharma can see the appeal. Ratchet has had finials, before. Nothing so large nor firmly secure to the helm, though they still made for nice hand holds. Yeah, that had been nice, the first time he and Ratchet had—

No, don't think about Ratchet at the Academy. Think about how awkward this is going to be, when Ratchet stops tarrying and returns to the hab suite, only to find that Pharma and Drift here have formed a welcome committee. And then the three of them can stand around awkwardly to get through what is sure to be an excruciating exchange, figuring out who is imposing upon whom for what in which order, to the embarrassment of all involved and not a worthwhile use of anyone's time, navigating that, not when they could be—hmm, maybe...

Drift is shorter and slimmer than Ratchet. He's not dainty though, not this warbuild, and Pharma finds himself wondering what he'd be like in the berth. Idle curiosity, that's all.

Pharma has no idea how Drift will react to a proposition like that, has no idea how to weigh the odds. Drift can either say yes or walk off from the awkwardness and put some distance between them. Either way, whatever works. So Pharma goes for it. Why not? What's this mech going to do, slug him? Here? Not damn likely.

He stares down Drift while he works out how to phrase the question. Whether the mech would be interested in interfacing with him and Ratchet together sometime? Yeah. He lays out his proposition with a smirk and looks at his target looking at him, waiting for the mech to recover from that dumbfounded expression and tell him exactly what he can do with—oh. That's not indignation, that's...well, he shouldn't be surprised, should he, that the answer is yes. Why wouldn't Drift (why wouldn't any mech) be interested? He knows the effect his frame has on other people. As for a threesome, why wouldn't someone want Ratchet? Ergo, the answer makes perfect sense.

He'd rather been hoping to offend, to chase Drift away from Ratchet's door, but if this is what's going to happen, sure, why not. Drift is an attractive mech, and he can reconcile himself to the notion of another donor for the newspark. What's not to like? At the very least, they won't be fragging on a medbay circuit slab as if interface is just some routine procedure. Assuming Ratchet does agree to the three of them doing this.

Drift can do the honors of passing along the suggestion. And with the eagerness in those eyes...this might be something to anticipate after all.

Pharma struts past Drift as he removes himself from Ratchet's doorway. "See you soon," he says, bumping the slight warbuild on his way out. Then he sashays a few steps farther down into a half turn, delivering a wink and a smile, and when he gets back a blank stare? He laughs and keeps on walking.

No need to wait up for Ratchet, not anymore. He trusts that Drift will pass on the message. As for how Ratchet takes it...

Pharma can't wait for his reaction.

Pharma is on break the next day when he finally does hear from Ratchet. He's in the middle of allowing Atomizer to regale him with stories of Kimia when he gets a call on his communicator.

"Excuse me," he tells Atomizer. A sliver of a klik later, he's off in a relatively empty wing, watching the ship's science officers have a spirited debate from afar, when he answers the call. "Yes?"

"Is it true?" Ratchet demands to know.

"Is what true."

"That you invited Drift to join us for sexual interface," Ratchet sputters. If only Pharma could see his face. Where was the forethought to have this conversation in person?

"Oh. That." Pharma smiles to himself. "Yes, we may have arrived at an accord, Drift and I—"

"An accord? Is that what you're calling it?"

"Oh fine. I take full responsibility. Don't be angry, all right? I thought it'd be funny."

"So this was a joke? A joke to you. Because Drift seems to think—"

Before Ratchet can accuse him of misleading poor earnest Drift, Pharma corrects him. "No, no it's not. It's very real, if you want it to be." Frankly he'd be a little disappointed if they don't go through with it now, even if that hadn't been his original intent.

"Huh."

"Yes. If you want," Pharma reassures him.

"I, um." He pauses. "I don't know if..."

"Drift wants it, I want it, if you want it too, we can. If not, well then."

"I...let me think about it, all right?"

"All right. You're hosting, though, if we do this. In your habitation suite, not the medical bay," Pharma has to clarify.

"Got it."

"Talk to you later." Pharma ends the call with—OK, he ends it with a great big smile, yes; he's smiling like a newbuild who's just discovered flight, people are staring, and in the moment he doesn't even have the means to scowl.

He still has a few kliks before he has to get back to work. He doesn't much care to pick up where he'd left off with Atomizer, so he circles around the long way, where he happens upon the nurse talking with the maintenance engineer.

First Aid stops talking when he sees Pharma. The maintenance engineer does not.

"There's not much we can do for his original set, is there? And he's adamant about not getting them replaced. Which is a little strange, if you ask me. I mean, if my hands suddenly stopped working I'd—uh."

Pharma stops on the edge of commingling with their EM fields. He looks at the two of them and asks, "Does Ratchet know you're discussing his hands?"

"What do you think?" First Aid retorts, sharply enough that the other mech—Hoist—startles.

Pharma is in too good of a mood to want to dress him down. Nonetheless, one can only indulge so much of this sort of behavior before problems accrue. "Careful," says Pharma, "Why don't we talk about this?"

First Aid at least isn't completely without tact. Pharma has a sense for what he would say, if Hoist weren't also here. As is, First Aid stays silent but his field is hostile, just like that time when Pharma had locked the medbay doors to talk. Well, if he's still upset about that...

A peace offering, perhaps, but not yet. Pharma turns to Hoist instead. "Ratchet's mentioned retirement, have you heard?"

That agitates First Aid only further. Enough that he finally speaks. "Ratchet," he says, "isn't going anywhere."

"No?" Pharma teases, "He's not going to step down and make you CMO?" Then to Hoist also, "Perhaps an intervention; if everyone gets together to discuss with him his options, he might be more amenable to getting some help for his hands."

First Aid relaxes at that. "So we'll all get together in the medbay and have a chat with Ratchet? He'll take advice from the majority opinion then?"

Pharma reconsiders. "Mmm, probably not. Might have to tie him down and operate, make him let us look inside what's wrong."

"That's not funny."

"Come on. It's a little funny. What, you don't trust your colleagues to fix Ratchet? Certainly you don't trust Ratchet to fix Ratchet, do you? He hasn't and he won't."

Hoist shifts from side to side uncomfortably, looking at them both. And then, when it's apparent no one else has more to add, queries Pharma for clarity. "Assuming that surgery can fix the problem. In this scenario," he asks, "you'd be performing the procedure?"

"Naturally," replies Pharma, "Who else?"

It's a short walk back to the medbay with First Aid and Hoist, who seem amenable to making a plan, thought it's too early to say for sure. It'll be fun, to pester Ratchet. It'll be good too, to give him another distraction, to badger him with so much more on his processor he won't have a spare thought left for a silly little datalog from Delphi.

In the meantime, Pharma finds opportunities to...not make eyes at Ratchet, no, not quite. But a bit of prolonged eye contact here and there is enough to get ole Ratchet flustered. Enough to the point that even First Aid notices.

"You OK, Ratchet?" asks the nurse.

"Yes," comes the grumble, "Could you please fetch more petrolex?"

Pharma starts humming to himself while he works. He keeps his gaze contained to the slab in front of him and lets his thoughts drift over to...oh yes, that warbuild whom he has impulsively opted to involve. The pretty one, whom he's noticed hanging around the medbay, antagonizing—no, being antagonized by Ratchet, who has always enjoyed lively banter but...so caustic now, with a non-stranger? (A friend, an ex, or...?) Maybe that's what Ratchet's into nowadays, something a little rougher...

Pharma glances down at his work. Feels like he's been acting on autopilot more often than he ought, but the work has been all so very rote, lately, that he doesn't have to dedicate more than a couple threads at a time, laboring over these patients. He's certainly not going to skip over to digging the more interesting cases out from storage just for a challenge. He has enough to deal with for now, and he's only begun to find his footing. Aid is still a wildcard, and Ratchet...

Ratchet is still capable of unraveling Pharma's everything.

Best not to think about that now. Think about the immediate future, think about his current problems, including the newspark and all the trouble it's brought. Think about his issue with fueling—and no, he's not going to hack around tasting slag, how much longer can it be? Not a whole decacycle, surely? He can tolerate the occasional dose now that the worst is over. No need for disabling any sensors or planting a solid lump of additives to disintegrate inside his fuel pump.

Think about that irritating need for supplements. And the plan for group interface, which Ratchet hasn't shot down yet. Yes, group interface with Ratchet and that warbuild could be just the thing.

It'll be invigorating, he thinks, to try something new with Ratchet. And if they bring in someone who wants to join them, in a way that'll get his roommate Dent back to being easily ignored, that'll also be an end to the workday hookups, won't it. He'll have access to another supply, and they can stop clanging next to a bunch of bodies in the medbay.

Another donor for the newspark, and a warbuild this time, hmm. Although he doesn't know for certain, he does suspect that the more donors there are to influence development, the easier it might be to confuddle assumptions on whatever shape the protoform will take. Still won't change the past—no amount of variety will overwrite the initial dosage, or whatever passes between two sparks—but one can hope for ignorance to prevail. And this donor, this prospective new donor, might have something to offer, even if transfluid coding is ultimately a minor contribution to make.

Pharma glances up, when he goes to rinse off his hands, and catches Ratchet staring. It's Ratchet this time who is caught unabashedly staring and not working, and Pharma has to resist the urge to preen. Yes, it's Ratchet's turn to do something, and Pharma's to wait; it's his turn to ignore anything less than a clear overture of interest, so he holds Ratchet's gaze for a moment longer before turning away.

It's not until Pharma's left the medbay that he gets a comm. Ratchet's agreed.

Chapter Text

A bit pointless, putting in the effort to re-detail his frame. But he wants this to be memorable, doesn't he?

He is reassured of his decision when he meets with Drift in the corridor outside Ratchet's habitation suite and sees how Drift—who has had his own frame polished to a mirror shine—gives him the once over, from pede to helm. Which Pharma returns likewise approvingly, with a hint of a smile and an extra long look in the eyes.

Aren't they a pair? Anyone would be disarmed by such a sight. Anyone but Ratchet that is, whispers a sullen thread of thought. But now is not the time for bitterness; Pharma flaunts his field unfazed and walks up to Ratchet's door—which opens at first knock.

Drift steps aside gallantly and then enters after—and boldly rests a hand lightly upon Pharma's hip. Pharma takes those fingers loosely; there is something enticing about coming to Ratchet like this, with a pretty mech trailing behind him for an evening of, well. A refreshing change of pace.

Ratchet is seated on the berth with both pedes on the floor and his hands on his knees. The very picture of respectability, except for a certain slackness in his expression. Pharma slinks over to him, tugging along their guest, whose hand he then releases to climb onto the berth. It's his first time here in Ratchet's hab suite and he's sharing it with a mech with whom he's barely ever spoken, but so what? Pharma positions himself onto Ratchet's lap, while their guest stands there hesitantly waiting, and Ratchet—

Pharma takes advantage of this moment to give Ratchet a kiss. (Their first, but Drift doesn't need to know that.) Softly, slowly, with as much showmanship as he can offer, Pharma kisses Ratchet—with the low-simmering desire which he still harbors for his beloved despite everything.

Then, in the spirit of generosity, he turns to Drift and beckons with the crook of a finger; he kisses that pretty warbuild with the same lips that had Ratchet, right in front of Ratchet's face. Pharma holds Ratchet's eye for as long as he can, but then he cuts himself grazing against a fang, and Drift is lapping at his mouth apologetically and then...and then...and they topple over, the three of them, with Ratchet flat on the berth. There they lie, and when Pharma languidly stretches his limbs he ends up batting Drift on the nose with one wing. Drift gamely goes for more, grabs a hold of his aileron to facilitate kissing his plating where they'd hit—and then starts tonguing the cross emblazoned on his wing and oh, he should've guessed, he should've known their guest would turn out to be one of those mechs, those warbuilds who so adore a medic's trappings.

That's all right. Pharma lets Drift lick his fill. Beneath them, Ratchet stirs, so Pharma puts a palm upon that windshield and presses. Stay.

His other hand, Pharma invites Ratchet to suck every one of his fingertips in quick succession. He then reaches down and circles over Ratchet's modesty panel while he transforms away his own. Ratchet responds soon enough, and so Pharma grasps the spike head, now pressurizing within his grip, aligns it to the opening of his valve.

That gets Drift's attention. He lets go of Pharma's wing and stares hungrily at Ratchet's spike, engines ready. Pharma turns a glance at him and smirks, takes that spike—still pressurizing—into himself and sighs. Ratchet bucks up, and Pharma meets each and every thrust with a cant of his hips while their guest watches with those eyes, those eyes which can't seem to look anywhere else but here between his legs...

"You like that, Drift?" Pharma asks, "You want to feel his spike inside me?" And winks. "Come here."

He reaches out for Drift's hand, which he then guides to trace along his entrance (and perhaps linger near his node) to feel how full he is like this, occupied by Ratchet's spike. Drift stares in wonderment, as if this intersection of their arrays could hold some revelation that the little warbuild is just beginning to parse.

Pharma lets go, letting those fingers wander on their own as he continues to ride Ratchet, hopefully to completion. He'll take Ratchet's transfluid and then Drift's, if he can, or maybe Drift can have a go at trying to get a taste of Ratchet off his valve lining first, and then they'll—

Drift is prodding around his entrance with those clever fingers. Pharma smiles a little uneasily. He's facing forward now, leaning over Ratchet, but there is something about the way Drift is moving behind him, not inexpertly and yet...First Aid had done this. Had nudged a couple of fingers inside him and prepared him to—

No, that's not. That's not what's going to happen. Drift is just touching him, touching them, not...

First Aid and Ambulon inside him, together. With his own spike hidden away, like it is now, and his valve stretched so full that he couldn't, he can't—

Drift has wrapped a hand around Ratchet's shaft, and when the next upward thrust catches those fingertips knuckle-deep inside his channel, Pharma recalls exactly how Aid had felt inside of him, preparing for two to compete for space, readying his valve for Tarn, for Tarn to—no! Please don't—

Pharma realizes belatedly, after all movement has stopped, that he had called out to Tarn for mercy.

He ventilates in the quiet. He's heaving with the effort of staying where he is; he needs, he needs to extricate himself, needs to—

No, he doesn't. He needs to recalibrate his sensors or something; he ought to refresh data processing or...or...

He's fine. He's—he has to collect himself and salvage the situation, has to let them know he's OK. If only he could, no matter what his field says, convince... "I'm fine, don't stop," he begs them to understand.

"No, you're not." Ratchet grunts and sits up, then scoops Pharma into his arms to separate their arrays and—

Tarn. Tarn had maneuvered Pharma to—

Flailing and kicking, Pharma snaps at him, "Put me down!"

It's not Tarn who deposits Pharma onto the desk—no, a berth, Ratchet's berth, which Ratchet has vacated, after dropping Pharma, to stand alongside their guest who had to witness this. Ratchet is standing next to their guest, Drift, who also caught a pede while Pharma was struggling, if that new streak of red on his chassis is any indication. Well. Red already appears to be one of his colors anyway.

Pharma props himself up in Ratchet's berth, venting as he remembers to shut his panel, now that it seems they're no longer going to interface.
Or at least not with Pharma, not here tonight.

Half a klik passes, and they're both watching him, waiting, just waiting for...? A sign? Or for him to collapse into hysterics again.

If Pharma has to suffer the weight of his own humiliation for a nanoklik longer, he'll—

He gets up from the berth and bolts.

Chapter Text

All he can do now is crawl into his own berth and wait for tomorrow to come. Tomorrow, Ratchet will likely insist that Pharma see the ship's therapist at once. He will refuse, of course, and Ratchet might issue an ultimatum, and then he'll try to wheedle some bargain that'll have them both at an impasse, with therapy for him and a full workup for Ratchet, and neither will make any progress on getting the other to accept a course of action as intended as such—

Pharma has already unlocked the door to his hab and stepped through when he realizes: Dent is here.

Dent is here but not in recharge. Nor is he in base mode. He's...Pharma's been aware that the mech is a Predabot, has had glimpses of his alt before. At Deltaran, at Delphi. Here in their hab suite, however...

"I thought you'd be out for longer," says Dent, who gets up to stretch then walks over on all fours. "Weren't you at Ratchet's?" Before Pharma can think up an answer, the Predabot has moved to scoot by, underneath one wing, as if he means to get through the doorway to the other side. Suddenly, however, he stops and sniffs. With his snout aimed at...

Pharma maneuvers away from the Predabot and over to the control panel for the door. "Are you in, or are you out?"

Dent doesn't verbally answer. He does return to the foot of his berth, where he'd previously been lounging on the floor, and lie back down without another word.

Beastformers. Pharma shuts the door, dims the lights, and goes to his own berth. He ought to clean up his paint transfers, but he'll do it later, when he doesn't have a Predabot watching him like he's...Pharma glances over and, yes, big pair of optics over there, watching him in the dark. Pharma lies down on his front and tries to ignore that. Out of sight, out of—it's unsettling, is what it is, having some strange creature watch him try to offline for the night, although he has to admit he prefers this over having a roommate in root mode do the same. Beast mode is more palatable, somehow, like that isn't a person there, judging the scrap out of him. Which is ridiculous; that's still Dent either way, no matter the shape. But somehow, somehow this is sort of OK.

What's less OK is onlining to the sight of that beast looming over him—with both fore paws up on the edge of the berth—which sends Pharma crashing into the far wall in his haste to put some space between them.

Dent backs up a bit, planting both paws down onto the floor. "You were muttering," he explains defensively.

"Was I."

"Yeah, erm. I'll just...I'll just be over here now." Dent retreats to the other side of the room, hops onto his own berth, then turns a baleful look to Pharma as he circles into a comfortable position with the flick of a tail.

Mech is lucky that Pharma's weapons system has never been the fastest at boot up. "What did I say?"

"Huh?"

"You said I was muttering. So what did I say?"

"Oh, um. Not too sure exactly but uh, I think you were dreaming of Delphi."

Great, just great. "Nothing significant then."

"Uh. I guess." Dent swishes his tail again. "Although..."

"What?" snaps Pharma.

"I don't know much about medicine but." With another twitch of his tail, Dent asks, "Aren't night terrors bad for the newspark?"

How Dent found out about the newspark, Pharma doesn't bother to inquire; he goes straight to getting the mech to swear not to tell. Not that he expects for secrecy to hold, but he would like to forestall the whole ship knowing, for as long as possible. People already know about his rape. The specifics aren't public knowledge but it's still bad enough that everybody knows. To accept their assumptions, unspoken or otherwise, is one thing. To have to bear condolences or—worse, congratulations for carrying a newspark? No, he's not ready. He needs to...he just wants everything to be normal, everything to go back to the way it was before...well. There's so much he'd be grateful to change, if he could. Would it be too much to ask, to try to erase his most recent error? To be able to pretend, at least, that he hadn't gotten that foolish notion into his processor, to invite himself and a third mech into Ratchet's berth. The epitomy of foolishness, that; he's definitely outdone himself there.

Pharma does his best to act as if nothing is amiss. He gets himself cleaned up and ready for the medbay, stops by a dispenser along the way, and even makes small talk with another mech next to him in line. Some minibot or another, who isn't the brightest but that suits him just fine. And what the hey, he consumes his fuel right there in the mess hall, like a normal mech would. He smiles and nods and keeps his field steady as he can, and when it's time for work? He thinks he might be finally ready to face Ratchet's concern.

Ratchet, however, isn't in yet. Nor are the others; it's just Pharma and the drones, which is just as well. A nice slow easy start, that's the ticket; let them see how busy he is with inventory and prep, why not. He can spend his time on routine tasks when he needs something to do and these tasks need doing, even if ordinarily such tasks would be, not beneath him, no, but assigned to someone else to perform. Nice and easy, and then he'll work his way up.

But then Drift ambushes him in the medbay.

Pharma nearly yelps when the warbuild appears right as he turns from checking the cabinets for extra buffer plates. "What are you doing here?" he demands. By which he really means, why is Drift here bothering him and not Ratchet, the usual target of these medbay appearances that the mech will make from time to time. But Ratchet isn't here, right now, and there might be a reason Drift is, in Ratchet's absence. Pharma backs a step along the wall of cabinets while he considers this, not because he believes Drift could mean him harm but simply because how uncomfortably close they are when he'd rather be alone. Less sharply, he asks, "Did Ratchet send you?"

Drift makes a placating gesture. "I'm here," he says, "because I want to see how you're faring."

Pharma turns away at that. "Well now you've seen. So you can go."

Drift glances down at the floor with a gentle laugh. Pharma despises how much he likes it, that deprecating sound.

"You're still here," he remarks.

"I am," Drift agrees, "But I'll leave, if that's what you want. I just hope you could tell me first—" And here he looks up at Pharma with one of his disarming smiles. "—what happened last night?"

Every strut in his frame tenses at the thought of explaining to this mech, when he can barely explain it to himself, how he had all of a sudden remembered certain inconsequential details that shouldn't have mattered by now, not after he's been interfacing with...not just one but with...

"Drift," says Ratchet, who is here, now. (Where was he several kliks ago, when Pharma wasn't yet a mess? Why couldn't he have been here to witness how not a mess Pharma was, before Drift dropped in...?) Ratchet is here, and behind him is First Aid, who does not need to be present for whatever this is. Please.

They're all looking at him, waiting. Pharma should've called off today. The point of coming in was to show that he's doing just fine, but not like this, not if everybody's going to crowd him and demand answers when he can't, when he hasn't yet figured out what he'll...he should've figured, by now, that nothing ever goes right. He'll always be stuck cleaning up his last mess, and right now, right now he really needs an excuse to leave, doesn't matter if that leaves a bigger mess for later; he'll think up of something eventually, he will. As for now? The best he can do, in the moment, is to lean into the rising lurch of nausea he's now having from that unadulterated cube he inadvisably downed this morning, to let it out and see where they go from there. Yes, OK, good. He can expel some energon and go.

He holds it in just long enough, with a hand over his spark, then makes as if to dart past the obstacles in his way. That's when he spews out this morning's fuel, which just happens to splatter all over First Aid—mask, visor, and chassis too.

Chapter Text

"You did that on purpose," First Aid mutters the accusation, once they've entered the washracks together.

Pharma braces both hands against his thighs and hunches over the drain to dry heave at the floor for a bit, just to prolong the silence before he answers. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says without glancing up.

A nanoklik later, he hears a faucet turn on abruptly.

And off again. First Aid continues talking, with a note of petulance, "I haven't, by the way, said a word to Ratchet, so you're welcome."

If they were standing face to face, Pharma would have trouble concealing the crack in his veneer of indifference. As is, enough with the posturing; nobody else is here to watch him retch. He straightens up and looks the nurse in the eye. "Glad to hear it," he says, "Now was there anything else, or should I leave you here to sulk?"

First Aid glares and turns the faucet back on.

Pharma leaves first. A thin excuse, hiding in the washracks to wait out his symptoms when he could've taken that bout of nausea over to the nearest sink. Best to get back to the medbay, regardless of whether or not a particular conversation has to resume when he returns.

On his way out, he catches a glimpse of himself in the row of mirrors on the wall: not the consummate professional he once was, but a mockery of what's become of him. Seeing his reflection, he has the urge to scrape his plating raw. To take the shine off his finish and start afresh. But this is how he was last seen, so this is how he'll have to be, until this luster fades on its own. He'll just have to hold himself together, however conspicuously desperate he looks, and be ready to work. Yes.

He returns to the medbay, where he is relieved to discover a distinct lack of non-medical personnel milling around. There is, however, a patient present, one who isn't in stasis lock.

Ambulon is actively tending to the patient—some mech Pharma does not recognize, who must have walked in while he was out—with verbal input from Ratchet, who isn't personally laying hands upon the patient, despite the complexity involved with rewiring a nervous system. Interesting.

Interesting, also, that they've elected to keep the patient aware, while Ambulon is taking instruction. Part of what makes the learning experience more memorable, having to listen to the patient's increasingly strident complaints? Not that there is much basis—for an MTO, Ambulon does good work—though distress is understandable, if the assumption was for the CMO himself to tend to whatever it was that had led to wiring issues. Problems with feedback from infrequent discharge, perhaps? Understandable, for a mech with such problems to be distraught over being roped in as training material.

Pharma joins in as an observer. Feeling sufficiently even-keeled enough by now to allow their fields to overlap, he takes up a spot beside Ratchet...and flicks a meaningful look towards Ratchet's hands, when Ratchet glances in his direction. He doesn't ask whether they're malfunctioning; he doesn't have to. Ratchet creases a frown at him and says nothing.

He observes the lesson a while longer. It's pleasant enough, letting himself be idle while he listens to Ratchet talk over the patient's whining. But then the doors open—First Aid is back—and he doesn't trust his field not to reveal his unease.

So Pharma busies himself with his own work thereafter. And when Ambulon's lesson is concluded, when Ratchet is free to...do something else, he can't help but to notice. Every time he spots Ratchet out of the corner of his optic, Pharma expects to resume some iteration of that chat they'd had on his first day in this medbay. And every time, when Ratchet draws near, their fields barely touch before Ratchet veers off like a comet in somebody else's orbit. So brief a burst of contact, and yet Pharma pauses in wary anticipation every time. At the lack of follow-through, he is both rattled and relieved.

He doesn't get much accomplished, with these frequent breaks in concentration, and then he clocks out without any hassle at the end of the day, with not another word on what he has or hasn't done nor what he plans to do. He almost expects to be chased down the hall for a talk, but no, Pharma manages to walk all the way to his hab suite unscathed.

The next day, when Pharma picks up his cube of energon then goes to sit at an empty table, he's ruminating on how Ratchet hasn't pressed him any further on the topic, hasn't yet pestered him into therapy. It feels inevitable that Ratchet will say something, and yet. If this keeps up, is he to book an appointment of his own accord? Was that the idea all along, to prolong his torment until, sooner or later, he caves? Preposterous.

He hasn't exactly been careful with keeping his thoughts or emotions in check, when someone approaches his table.

It's Atomizer. "Mind if I sit here?"

"Actually, yes. I do." He offers a wan smile just short of apologetic. "But I was about to leave anyway."

And he is. He is leaving the mess hall when he tries to walk by a trio in front of him: a couple of minibots and...what was the name? Chromedome. The group stops just as his field passes through each of theirs, and they turn to look at him.

"Would you like to join us?" Chromedome asks, "We're going to—"

"No, thank you."

"But it's—"

One of the minibots interrupts, "He said no, Domey. Come on, we're going to be late to the demo."

"Since when do you care about disappointing Brainstorm?"

"Since you decided that we're going to be there, so we should be there when you say so." The two companions enter a light round of bickering over this and that and continue on their merry way.

The third mech, whom Pharma recognizes from waiting at the fuel dispenser yesterday, lags behind long enough for Pharma to expect him to say something, but he doesn't and catches up to his friends instead. And that's that, or so Pharma thinks, until later Chromedome appears alone at the medbay.

Pharma imagines that he can detect some residue off of Chromedome's plating. "Accident in the lab?" he asks, "Should we anticipate more people coming in?" He and the diagnostic drones, if the load is light. If not, he'll call in Aid and Ambulon, maybe Lancet.

Chromedome replies in the negative. And then starts rambling some sort of leading question which, when Pharma doesn't immediately answer, is followed by furtive allusions to what traumas he must have accumulated, from his ordeal with Tarn and everything. Pharma is offended and confused, until he realizes what Chromedome means, and then he is simply offended. This is an offer of assistance via mnemosurgery.

The gesture may be sincere, but Pharma turns it down. "Absolutely not! Thank you."

Chromedome doesn't linger afterward, because apparently that was the sole reason for stopping by the medbay, to ask Pharma intrusive questions and recommend he undergo an even more intrusive procedure.

It does make a certain amount of sense, but.

Why now? What could Chromedome know to make such an offer at this time? Did Ratchet...no, Ratchet wouldn't tell, would he? He's not that obtuse. Or is he? Pharma really has no idea anymore. Who else would say something? Drift? Or maybe Chromedome doesn't actually know anything except old gossip, just happens to think that Pharma seems a little out of sorts, lately, and he does, doesn't he. He's trying to hold it together but, this constant scrutiny is too much.

He is still fuming over his suspicions when First Aid returns. His field is in absolute turmoil, when First Aid approaches, and there's no point in trying to hide that fact. He tries to maintain composure, anyway, and be the first to speak.

"Something on your mind?" he asks, without looking up from the slab in front of him.

"Actually, yes."

Pharma stiffens for whatever slag Aid is about to pull, but it turns out the nurse is simply determined to move forward on that pet project of his. He demands support to proceed with the jump start and wants Pharma to vouch for the attempt, if Ratchet asks.

That is possibly the best possible news Pharma could've wished for, if he were to wish for such a thing. He is secretly elated. His relief is palpable, but not so flagrant yet that he can't put some distance between them before he fakes some reluctance and agrees.

First Aid leaves him alone after that. There is peace and quiet in the medbay.

The respite doesn't last.

Ratchet is finally done waiting for Pharma to come around. "We need to talk," is the first thing out of his mouth when he next sees Pharma, regardless of the company they keep.

"Right now?" asks Pharma, wrist deep in some poor bot whose gait will never be the same without a proper transplant, but one makes do with the options available.

"Soon," says Ratchet. "Today," he adds.

"Why not right now?" Pharma breezes, "We can discuss your plans for retirement right now."

"That is. Not."

"No? Then what did you want to discuss? Because I think that's fairly urgent, wouldn't you agree? The fact that your hands have stopped working periodically. You had to have Ambulon do your work for you, didn't you? Or was that always your intention, to help him expand his repertoire like that?"

"Pharma."

"You could get back into teaching, I suppose, and perhaps you might not need your hands all the time for theory. But you should still look into getting a working pair of hands. Really, Ratchet. If your original set can't be fixed (and frankly I doubt you've even tried) then any pair will have to do. It'll be an adjustment, having a new pair of hands, but if they function—"

"Pharma!"

Pharma withdraws and wipes his hands. He notes that First Aid is watching, is probably wondering if this is the angle he truly means to take, to pressure Ratchet into action. How could he explain that, under other circumstances, it would be different, so very different, that he wouldn't speak to Ratchet so. That he would be, could be, so much better?

He exits the medbay before anything else can be said.

He steers clear of the bridge and the bar and wherever else mechs congregate, but after a half cycle of aimless meandering he wants at least the appearance of purpose, and he parks himself in front of the bulletin, which is posted with fliers galore. Including Ratchet's, reminding people to visit the medbay. Ratchet's medbay, which is what it is. And will be, still, no matter the condition of Ratchet's hands.

Not that Pharma actually wants to force the issue. Not truly. What does he care about this ship? Not a whit. But Ratchet, if Ratchet could be less stubborn about accepting change and staying alive...

Pharma is resolving to go back and restart the conversation to end less abruptly, when he nearly stumbles over a mech lurking behind him. Someone short, slim, and unobtrusive, it's no wonder they nearly collided in his haste.

"I do apologize," says Pharma.

"Quite all right," says the mech, who peers up at his...wings and the crosses he bears on his plating. "You must be Pharma."

Ordinarily, Pharma wouldn't give much thought to how his reputation precedes him, but here on this ship, after Delphi? He is dismayed at the thought, but what can he do? "I am," he confirms. "And you are?"

"Rung," the little mech replies brightly, "I'm the ship's—"

"Therapist. I'm aware." Unfortunately.

"Ah. And the directions to my office are right here on the bulletin, if you ever—"

"I don't think I will."

Rung assesses him with a frown that reminds him of some bureaucrat or another. A professor, maybe. Must be the spectacles.

"I'll think about it," Pharma amends with a lie.

"I hope so," Rung replies, "and that you remember you're not alone in your struggles."

"Mm, plenty of people have suffered worse, I'm sure."

"No, no comparison. It's just that you should keep in mind that others also have their share of suffering. And especially consider those who were with you, during your worst—"

It sounds as if..."What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, whatever you hope to achieve by denying the truth—"

It sounds very much like..."And what would you know about that? I wasn't aware that a reputable therapist would act on hearsay."

To that point, Rung has nothing to say. Is the entire profession built upon guesswork? Figures. Therapy's more akin to spiritual advice than doctoring. Want real results? Get a personality adjustment.

Pharma is determined to put this encounter out of the picture. He's aware that he's easily spooked, given his present state of mind, and a few vague words here and there could do the trick. But he won't let that get to him, he decides, not when there is so much else to occupy his time, and he sets off in the direction of the medbay. But no sooner has he stepped away from the bulletin and that little mech who is supposed to be some sort of therapist, then he sees Ambulon walking this way. He sees how Ambulon's demeanor changes upon noticing him here...and how it changes again, reacting to Rung. Or, rather, to be specific, their proximity to one another, he and Rung, and he realizes that Ambulon knows something that he doesn't. From the way Ambulon's composure slips? Pharma's not the only one with secrets.

Chapter Text

Until now, he had been prepared to move past whatever mind games the therapist meant to play. But there is something here to uncover, and he can't not investigate.

Pharma backs up a half step and turns toward Rung, without taking his eyes off of Ambulon. "Tell me again," he insists, "what your assessment was, that I should keep in mind...?"

When Rung instead replies, "If you'd like to schedule a—"

Pharma cuts him off. "No! No, I would not. I want you to repeat what you said and explain. Please."

Ambulon is staring at them like the Unmaker itself has appeared where they stand. There is a mere moment's suspense, before Ambulon runs off and Pharma gives chase.

It's unseemly, running after his former ward manager like this, and doubtless will provide more fodder for the little therapist to add to his file, but what else is he to do? Stand back and wait? No, he will not be blindsided again while he still functions, not by anyone, especially his own people; he will get to the bottom of whatever this is, negate any threat hidden as of yet, if there is a threat, if it exists.

Pharma catches up right as they enter an isolated corridor. "Where are you going in such a hurry?" he asks, "Wouldn't happen to have anything to do with...what was that mech's name? Rung." He maneuvers to cut off—

Ambulon stumbles, narrowly avoiding a collision. "I was just—"

"Look at me." Already his own field is too active not to interfere, could cancel or amplify any clues too weak to contradict. And Ambulon has never been the loudest mech in the room.

"Pharma, I—"

"Ambulon. Look. At. Me." Pharma almost reaches out to grab on—but thinks twice and asks, "What do you know about him?"

"About..."

"Rung!"

"Nothing! I don't know anything." Ambulon blinks up at him as if this confrontation might be no more than an interrogation about something as trite as which party was responsible for cross-contaminating dirty implements during an off-shift.

"Really."

"I've never spoken with the mech, and it's none of my business what they talk about when they...uh."

"'They'?" Pharma seizes upon the usage.

Ambulon squares up. "He and his patients. Whoever that might be."

"I see. So you know nothing about this mech, but you are aware that he does talk therapy with patients, and you were able to recognize him from twenty paces."

"Did I?" Ambulon counters, "'cause you did mention that mech was Rung, and I, um...I've been familiarizing myself with the ship roster."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not."

"What aren't you saying?"

"I...I don't have to tell you everything."

"Oh? What is so important that you'd withhold—"

"It's a matter of principle."

A shot in the dark: "Does this 'matter of principle' have a name?"

Although Ambulon doesn't verbally respond, the answer is written all over his face.

Pharma deduces as much. "First Aid put you up to this, didn't he."

He has nowhere to vent his fury. Not here in the hall, where anyone could interrupt, nor in the medbay, where he last lashed out at Ratchet.

How devious, that the nurse could scheme to...to what? Pharma musn't rush to a conclusion. If he missteps now, he has fewer avenues than ever for help. And if he raises a ruckus with no one on his side...he may end up resorting to blaming protocols for the outcome.

But he won't have to, he hopes. The situation he's in is, is still under control.

He doesn't glance at Ambulon on the way back to the medbay, where he intends to apologize to Ratchet. He thinks about sending a comm instead, but no, he has to do this in person. He has to tell Ratchet, face to face.

He doesn't get the chance. When they enter the medbay, they enter to find an impromptu celebration taking place.

Fortress Maximus is awake. Their longterm patient, the red-eyed former warden of Garrus-Nine, is conscious and seated upright, is being fussed over by the other medics in the room, who alternate between running diagnostics and handsily congratulating First Aid on the success.

Pharma can feel the sense of wonderment beside him match his own.

He goes to grit out his own congratulations to the nurse, before turning his attention to Ratchet, who's hanging back from the rest of the medical staff, arms crossed. "So you finally said yes to him," he opens by way of greeting.

Ratchet replies with a scoff. "Retroactively, maybe."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he was in the middle of running the procedure by the time I came back and, well."

"And you didn't see fit to interrupt, lest that kill them both."

"More or less."

"So First Aid banked on having your forgiveness, not permission, and went for it."

"Yeah, he managed to swing that in his favor when he was able to prove that jump-start of his does work."

Pharma watches the nurse talk with Ambulon. "Good for him."

"He always show this much initiative?"

Ambulon is darting glances in their direction. And probably not at Ratchet, who is also...

Pharma smiles lightly. "He tries."

Ratchet is still looking at him for a reaction. "And you lend him your support, when you see fit."

There's a speck of grime on the floor by their feet, he notices. "I do," he replies, "when that seems reasonable. And I gave him my word, this time. Although I'm not sure how much that means at this point, given that I—" Pharma falters at broaching the subject he came back here to say. When he glances up—

"Save it," says Ratchet, "Let's keep the focus on Fort Max for now."

Pharma murmurs in agreement. Later, Ratchet will be so gracious as to forget, and he...he won't muster the courage to speak on this again. But that's alright, for now. "So which tests have you run so far?"

Ratchet tells him. Pharma finds an excuse to insist on a couple more that were left out. He insists, actually, upon supervising First Aid run a bunch more diagnostic tests, with Ambulon and Lancet watching, while Ratchet is ready to go out the door and spread the news.

Pharma asks Ratchet to hang back and take Fortress Maximus along when they're done. "I also want to examine First Aid, afterward. Make sure there haven't been side effects. The rest of you go on ahead while I take care of that with Aid."

"You sure?"

"Yes," Pharma replies, "The tests I'm preparing can be performed solo."

Ambulon looks uncertain. Crucially, he does however keep quiet.

Pharma tells him, "I suggest you go help share the news; this may take a while. I'll call you when the hero of the hour is ready for his retinue to escort him to whatever party you can go get set up."

First Aid fidgets. "I don't need..."

"Nonsense. Get on the slab."

First Aid wants to fight the command, Pharma can tell. The nurse wants to diminish his authority, wants to remind him that he isn't CMO aboard this ship, that in some regards they are equals now, or will be.

But then the fight goes out. He sees how the tension slackens from those struts as the nurse resigns himself to compliance, and though he suspects that has more to do with Aid's read on the potential blowback than any real deferral to him, Pharma will settle for what he can get. If carrying gives him an advantage, so be, even if everyone patronizes him as lesser for it.

Time to hash out a few things with the nurse, now that they're alone. Starting with that claim First Aid made yesterday in the washracks. "So remind me," says Pharma, "You haven't said anything to Ratchet."

First Aid catches on quickly. "I haven't told anyone anything about the T-cogs, I swear."

"Nothing about Delphi?" Pharma presses.

"Uh what. What, specifically, do you mean?"

Pharma smiles down at the nurse. "I was hoping you could tell me, why Rung might seem to have any ideas at all..."

Chapter Text

He lets that sink in for a klik, for First Aid to process and respond accordingly. While he waits, he keeps himself occupied by proceeding down a maintenance checklist. The list is the usual; there's nothing on it specific to what they could be dealing with here, but he'll be able to say he performed due diligence, checking for irregularities. And why shouldn't he? It wasn't entirely a ruse, directing the nurse to stay behind. He does have a battery of tests to run, to which the nurse submits. Nothing especially invasive, nor administered under stasis lock, and he is even gentler on the nerve circuits than need be. Not to mention, when First Aid does get to talking...

Pharma doesn't interrupt. He listens to a litany of how unreasonable he has been with his stipulations. How unreasonable it is to expect them to behave as if Aid and Ambulon had been mere bystanders, as if their involvement had amounted to nothing, how it's no concern of his what the therapist is told, that the therapist is the only outsider who knows what they've done, what they were made to do, and he should accept that if he were reasonable...

Reasonable? He can be reasonable. If First Aid thinks he's unreasonable now, when all he's done is try to make the best out of a bad situation...

An unproductive line of thought, that. He has to stay in the here and now, and work towards securing a future free from worry. If such a thing were ever feasible.

His mistake was in trusting a mech like this one not to act out. What was he even trying to achieve? He hardly remembers. He was supposed to keep them in line, he knows, and questions at bay. But. Sooner or later...

It's not too late to switch to a different tack, if he cares to. But he doesn't. Not now, when he has a chance to speak candidly with little to lose. And less to gain, but why should that stop him?

Pharma looks down at the nurse. "Was unburdening your spark to Rung worth it?"

"It was," First Aid replies. "Is," he adds. The mask and visor combination may obscure his expression, but his field is near enough to sense, full of frustration and suppressed vitriol.

"Would you recommend him as a therapist?"

A glimmer of confusion amid the anger. "I guess?"

"Ratchet wants me to see him," says Pharma conversationally, "although I don't see the benefit. But if you think he's been good for you..." Here he tilts a glance to the ceiling as if in thought, before shaking his head. "No, still not interested." He pauses. Then picks up a scanner and mimes skimming it like a datapad, tapping on the screen to skip through irrelevant info. He sets it back down and smiles at First Aid. "All these cycles you've spent talking with your therapist, and he still hasn't sent us a recommendation on having you reinstated, has he? Nurse."

Pharma is careful to avoid direct contact when releasing the nurse from the circuit slab. First Aid bristles nonetheless. When Ambulon arrives to receive their guest of honor, Pharma bids him stay to help place another body onto the newly freed slab. First Aid lingers, unwilling to leave Ambulon behind, and the three of them retrieve one of Pharma's choosing from cold storage. They work in silence as they hook the body into place, and then Pharma dismisses the other two. As he stays behind, watching them go, he gets to thinking. How many cycles ago had they last argued about vacating this slab for the next patient? And now Fortress Maximus is out and about, among the living.

And the newspark, that newspark he had decided to keep all those cycles ago, how much more mass has it accrued since he last looked? How much longer can he put off supplying the protoform with more of the nutrients it needs, now that its cumulative growth must be at least ten times what it was?

Pharma spares a glance to the body he had laid out on the slab. It's the one he'd tinkered with as a case study on spark flow stoppage, more test subject than patient at this point, and he'll have it moved back into storage after collecting more data. It can wait, however, while he rummages through the cabinets without any pesky onlookers around.

The search isn't entirely fruitless. But unless he wants to go to a chemist to synthesize a few key ingredients, he won't have the supplements. And it's not that he has to substitute transfluid, it's just...which donor is he going to use, if he doesn't go with a substitution? He doesn't want to have to ask.

Perhaps he won't have to. He could have an unwitting donor attend to the newspark's needs, if he finds a donor, any donor, willing to spike his valve with no questions asked. There's something distasteful about it, but he doesn't exactly have the luxury of choice.

He still has time to decide, though. It wasn't that long since he and Ratchet interfaced. Since they stopped after he...

That was a mistake. It won't happen again. Now that he knows his limits, he'll...

Later. He'll deal with that later. Here and now, he has a project to keep his processor occupied. The body of a mech to save from the scrap pile if he can, and if he can't, well, he'll have tried.

After more than half a cycle of working alone, with none for company but the diagnostic drones and the patients in stasis, Pharma's feeling close enough to baseline to show himself outside the medbay. Maybe he'll go see what people are up to, whether celebrations are still underway. Not that he has any real intention of joining in, but he should be seen to partake, in public, if he can. He should be seen to engage in the niceties, among colleagues at least, and perhaps mingle with strangers. Not necessarily to—but oh, that's what he's thinking, isn't he? He's got interfacing at the forefront of his thoughts, like he needs it to survive. Like he needs this newspark to protect him, so he'll do whatever it takes to keep it satiated, and if that means to act a fool with his array, he will.

His decent mood has dissipated. He should return to the medbay, try to get some more work done, rather than show up, as is, at the rec room or Swerve's or wherever, with his field in a tizzy. But then the elevator doors open, and out steps Ratchet, who is most likely heading down that path, in which case Pharma won't be turning back. Ratchet is standing right there as he wedges past—and then follows him inside the elevator before the doors are shut.

They stare at each other for a split klik. And then Ratchet speaks.

Pharma turns away. He doesn't want to hear it, the entreaty for him to get help, no matter how nicely Ratchet tries to couch it this time.

When the doors open, neither steps out. Ratchet inputs a different floor number, and so they ride the elevator a short while longer.

When the doors open again, Pharma keeps his helm low and makes no move to exit. He's not surprised when Ratchet reaches for him, and he allows himself to be tugged along.

Ratchet takes them to the hab suites. Ratchet's hab suite.

Pharma ventilates. Did Ratchet bring him here to...to, for the newspark...

"Sit," says Ratchet.

Pharma sits on the berth, with Ratchet next to him. They sit together, with Ratchet's hand on his, and if circumstances were different he'd—

"Drift is worried about you."

Drift?! What the slag does he care what Drift thinks? If this is what they're here to discuss, he can get up and leave right now, and he's about to tell Ratchet so, when—

Ratchet chortles softly, "Got your attention there."

Pharma huffs and pulls away, folds his arms across his chest and flicks a wing at Ratchet.

"I do wish that you'd talk to Rung."

"Keep wishing."

"Pharma..."

"What," he snaps, "are you going to drag me into his office and strap me down, shine a light in my optics until I agree to pour out my spark? Because that's the only way you'll get me in there talking to that charlatan."

Ratchet sighs. "That's, no. If you hate the idea that much—"

"I do. I hate it at least as much as you hate having anyone else take a look at you to give you a prognosis you didn't already decide for yourself."

A flare of resistance. "Why do you have to—"

"It's true!"

Ratchet's irritation emanates like the buzz of a churning grinder. "I can't talk to you when you're being like this."

"Then don't! Don't talk to me at all."

"Pharma."

"Just spike me now and be done with it."

"Pharma."

"You don't want to? That's fine. I'll find someone else to spike me. There'll be no shortage of volunteers, I'm sure." That catches Ratchet off-guard. Good. "I'll find someone with—" He could end this here, he should end this now, and yet, once he's gotten started, how is he to stop? "—with hands that work."

The silence is deafening. Pharma folds his wings in close. He keeps his helm down when Ratchet stands up; he doesn't look to see what's going to happen, so it's with some surprise that he hears Ratchet self-service in a corner of the room.

It's awkward, to say the least. That awkwardness is not dispelled by the fact that Ratchet returns with a glass in hand, containing, yes, transfluid, freshly expressed.

"Here." Ratchet holds out the glass.

Pharma hesitates. It'll tide him over, he knows, and yet he can't bring himself to chug it like a shot just yet. He'll have to, though. He has to. When he finally goes to take it from Ratchet's grasp, the glass slips. He stares at the floor.

Ratchet curses. And motions as if to clean up.

"Don't," Pharma finds himself saying, "Don't move. And don't...don't say anything." And then he lowers himself to sup from the transfluid spilled on Ratchet's pedes and on the floor; he crouches down; every last bit he can reach, he licks off drop by drop. When he is finished, he gets up and goes, unhampered.

The taste is bitter on his tongue. Not as bitter, though, as within his spark.

Chapter Text

That humiliating drink at Ratchet's pedes tides him over. He doesn't feel any hunger pangs in his fuel lines, doesn't bother to check on the protoform building in his gestation tank, doesn't really care to see what progress the newspark has made.

He estimates he has half a decacycle before the newspark loosens. One decacycle, tops, before it descends into the protoform. If he's going to change his mind about keeping it, now's the time.

A transfer. He could have it transferred. But then, once the sparkling is out of his care, what will become of him?

He could be back to normal again. He could have a cleared processor, free from unwanted code cluttering up his thoughts, and a frame that isn't pumped full of additives. He'll also be fully responsible for every impulse he lets loose. And he'll be more susceptible to any plots to take him down, once the sparkling is gone. Once it is no longer reliant on him exclusively, he'll certainly have to watch his back.

In the meantime, while he yet carries, he needs to source more transfluid. And consume more energon as well. He had been under-fueling, when nausea was ever present. Now, though, with the newspark growing, he'll have to start fueling twice as much. Which is easy enough, swiping more than his usual rations. Sourcing transfluid, however, could be trickier.

It shouldn't be, given that he did have a supply, before. But damn if he's going to ask Ratchet again anytime soon.

And yet.

If he doesn't start supplying again, will the little parasite strip his frame for the nutrition it needs, or will it shrivel up and wither away? It won't perish, he thinks, as long as he fuels himself on energon, but it might emerge stunted and misshapen, too malnourished to be of any use. There is leeway in his promise of keeping it, to allow that to happen. Idly he wonders...but no, both as a personal point of pride and a matter of proper conduct. To present an ill-made sparkling to the world, when he could easily have arranged for everything to be done right? That would be wrong on so many levels.

He could easily arrange for everything to go according to plan. He could even look up the recommended rate of donation at each stage of development.

He could, easily. If he could just get over his distaste for...for...

It's not the spiking itself he objects to, not really. He just doesn't want to put himself out there, to be made vulnerable and exposed.

Day by day, he puts off the decision.

But it's a responsibility, isn't it? His responsibility.

The next time he fuels, he makes sure to scan the room first. Atomizer is there. Good. He sidles up to the mech, cube in hand, and keeps the mech talking all the way to the medbay.

When Atomizer stops and turns to go, Pharma lays a hand on his arm to entice him to stay.

"Why don't you come in," Pharma says coyly, "and I'll fill you a scrip for some one-on-one attention."

Atomizer is surprisingly reluctant to cross the threshold.

Pharma blinks at him, waiting for the mech's processor to catch up. If there's a scheduling issue..."Or perhaps later, this evening?"

"Uh," Atomizer hedges, "You're very attractive and all, but I don't know." What? "Don't get me wrong, I'm not always one to take things slow, but. I want to know what I'm getting into here?"

"Interfacing!" Simple spike-in-valve interfacing, what is the problem here.

"OK," replies Atomizer, "Maybe I'm making this more complicated than it needs to be, but you've been hot and cold on me, so I'm not sure this is gonna work. And no offense, but your field is kinda wack."

What. "I'm not asking for commitment, just a quick romp."

"Sorry, doc." Atomizer leaves, unswayed. The medbay doors finally slide shut unobstructed.

Pharma doesn't quite understand where he went wrong. His field is 'whack'? His field has never been sunshine and crystals in the (short) history of their acquaintance on this ship. Did or didn't that mech want him for his frame? Surely all the signs were there; Pharma doesn't think he misinterpreted. What was so hard about making casual interface happen? He doesn't recall ever encountering such an obstacle. Granted, it's been a while but. It's not as if he's aiming out of his league, or approaching people with no forethought for their preferences or relationship status or whatever relevant bit of intel could apply to picking a partner. What could he have possibly missed that would lead him to fail? Is it an ego thing? Did he say something to offend? Or was there not enough of a challenge; did he show too much interest all of a sudden, was directness a turnoff? Was that it? Well forget that. The next donor doesn't have to be Atomizer. Pharma ex-vents then turns and—

Turns out, First Aid had been in the supply closet, up to who knows what, and shows up now to needle him. "Why were you trying to persuade that bot to clang you? In the medbay."

Does Aid want to hear him say it? "You know why."

"Did that bot know why? He didn't, did he. You weren't going to tell him, were you, you were just going to—"

"Does that matter? I'll find someone else."

"I don't see anyone else lined up for a turn."

Pharma's patience with the nurse is running short. "I won't beg to suck your spike."

"That's not what I—"

"Get over here and frag me, already." If the opportunity is presenting itself...

"Right here?"

"Your hab suite, then."

First Aid balks.

Pharma rolls his eyes. "You're roommates with Ambulon. What's the problem?"

"We're still on c—"

"Fair point." Pharma walks up to the nurse, grabs a hold of one of his ski runners, and pushes him back inside the closet. "This'll only take a klik."

First Aid skitters along in his grasp. "Pharma!"

"Are you going to refuse?" He lets go and waits for an answer. When he doesn't get one, "You can comm Ambulon if you're not going to step up. You can comm him anyway, if you are. We're going to need more than whatever piddling amount you have to offer to make up the difference of these last few—"

"Geez, really put on the berth talk, why don't you." First Aid is already digging out his comms link and dialing. "Hey, Ambulon? You going to clock in soon? The slag-in-chief has an appointment for your spike in the supply closet when you get here. Hurry, before he explodes." He ends the call. And dodges a slap on the wrist to get behind Pharma, and then it's Pharma who's trapped between First Aid and a wall.

Not a wall. Rows of shelves, digging into his plating. Pharma squirms.

"Are we doing this, or what?"

No. "Yes," answers Pharma, who's left bracing against the shelves with his legs spread apart, as First Aid starts touching him, is touching his girdle, his inner thigh. He shudders.

This was a mistake. He should've had First Aid spend into a cup, like Ratchet, even if that isn't the most efficient way to process transfluid, through the fuel lines. Less efficient, maybe, although with enough volunteers he could easily make up for it with volume.

Too late, though. He signals his panel to open anyway, instructs Aid to hurry up. "Spike me already."

First Aid obliges. The spiking is fast with no preamble. The spike is small enough that it doesn't hurt too badly.

Pharma thinks he hears the whir of fans, though he can't imagine Aid is having much fun either. But maybe this is how Aid likes it, rough and dry. Like an exhaust pipe. Which is where Aid had tried to stick it, that time when...before Tarn redirected...

Pharma resets his optics. They're on the Lost Light, in the medbay supply closet. They're interfacing because they have to. They're doing this for the newspark, because this is the most direct way for the protoform to be supplied with transfluid to build itself. And First Aid is a sensible choice for a donor. Might even be the donor, not that it makes much of a difference.

First Aid is fragging him, some distance from completion, when Ambulon darkens the doorway.

"Nearly there, one nanoklik," Aid tells him, before pulling out from Pharma with a muttered curse.

Pharma stays facing the wall as Ambulon trades places with First Aid. He can feel transfluid begin to dribble down his thigh without any stoppage. And then a spike, Ambulon's spike, fills the void. Or no, not a void; a void wouldn't be this sensitive upon contact.

Pharma winces—almost shies away within what limited space he has available to move, wedged like this with a mech at his back—but catches himself and holds still. Won't be much longer now, he'll just have to endure...

Ambulon stops. Hasn't even started yet, but he stops and admonishes Aid, "Did you prepare him at all?"

"He told me not to!" Aid shouts back from the exit.

They exchange a few heated words, and then First Aid stomps off into the medbay proper.

Ambulon sighs.

"I did," Pharma tells him, "tell him to go ahead."

"I should go get some—"

"Don't you dare. Hurry up and be done with it so we can get on with the day."

Ambulon sighs again. Then gets to fragging Pharma with the fluids Aid left behind as the only lubricant, while Pharma goads him to go faster.

In the end, Pharma's ventilating hard against the shelves when Ambulon withdraws. It hurts, it hurts so much, but damn if he's going to show it.

When Ambulon kisses the upper edge of a wing, asking, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he insists, "I just...I just need a moment." He rests his helm against a shelf at eye level and waits for Ambulon to leave. One moment becomes a klik becomes...however long it is, until a diagnostic drone comes looking for some thing or another inside the closet, and he bats away the little thing from seeing the state of his frame up close. One more moment, then he'll get cleaned up. One more moment, and then he'll get out there and work like the doctor he is.

Chapter Text

Twice in a row was a mistake. Not warming up was a mistake.

Not the worst mistake he's made on this ship, but when Pharma slinks back into the medbay after a too long stint in the closet, it's as if he's got every set of optics set on his frame. Which is absurd, this feeling, when realistically everybody should be busy working. He keeps his gaze straight ahead nonetheless, en route to his station, and evades whatever errant glances may stray his way.

It's quiet, in the medbay, when Pharma begins his work. And then a drone chirps and First Aid answers; Lancet enters and banters over hearsay; Ratchet and Ambulon are murmuring low in the background, on the outer range of standard reception; and Pharma tunes out their chatter.

It's at the end of the shift when anyone stops by to nudge his field with theirs. Ambulon stays behind, even after Ratchet has left the bay (not without a grimace of concern, which Pharma did his best to ignore) and all the drones but one are powered down to conserve the batteries when not in use. Ambulon is here at his side, field to field, and holding...

"Will you let me take a look at you?" Ambulon asks.

Pharma glances at the container he has in hand. Wax salve, for—"I don't need."

"No, you do. Get on a slab. Please."

Fine. Whatever. He doesn't have the energy to argue. He did already rub on some salve, himself, but that was cycles ago. Pharma goes to climb onto the nearest empty slab then sits facing Ambulon, who comes over to rearrange him with both pedes up on the slab surface and his slit angled upward—

Reluctantly he reveals his valve, and Ambulon applies a thin film of salve to the lining. They don't talk, during the application. But then Ambulon stoops to set down the remainder of the salve and lean in close enough to almost bury his face inside Pharma, and Pharma...Pharma instinctively reaches out to rest a hand upon Ambulon's helm to stop him from looking up close.

They pause like that for a nanoklik. And then when Pharma pulls his hand away, catching his thumb on a corner of the chevron on that helm, Ambulon grabs that hand and runs his own fingers—still covered in residue—over the non-existent cut...intimately, more intimately, somehow, than the clinical attention on his valve mere moments ago, cradling his hand like that.

Pharma opens his mouth to speak. Nothing comes out. He's staring at Ambulon and he has nothing to say, and then he sees how those yellow optics drop to his—

Right. He should shut his panel.

Ambulon picks up the container of wax salve and excuses himself. Pharma is still sitting on the slab when he leaves, and it's only after he's gone that Pharma notices the one diagnostic drone keeping watch was turned toward them, with its single optic pointed straight at where they used to be, where Ambulon had taken care of that frag burn with a tenderness Pharma didn't ask for or deserve.

Pharma keeps to himself as best he can.

Work is work, and he finds satisfaction in completing his tasks. His work is undeniably important, and his skills are beyond compare. Even so, there is something amiss. This self-enforced separation of his, refusing to engage beyond the necessities, is unsustainable, he knows. Whether the desire for company is due to carrying protocols or the plain old Cybertronian condition, sooner or later he will have to bend.

The day the patient with the zero point miraculously revives, Pharma doesn't feel particularly self-congratulatory. Ratchet, however, is happy to praise him, and Pharma accepts with a tepid smile.

He keeps his smile on for the patient, who struggled upon waking, who is struggling after reboot. Consciousness is no easy feat, and Pharma administers a filtration patch to the nerves, just in case. The patient continues to struggle.

"Shh, you're safe now," he says. "Can you give me your designation?"

The miracle mech looks at him...slows down and really looks at him with dawning recognition, and his smile slips. Pharma knows full well who this mech was, where this mech had been, and yet is still unprepared to hear what this former guard has to say. A rambling sparkfelt apology, on behalf of their unit, for failing to stop the Decepticons, sinks his spark straight to the floor.

That fateful day in Delphi, this mech had entered his office and found him mid-rape. Had been struck down and held captive, with the rest of the unit, to watch the trespasser they could not stop repeatedly ram a too large spike inside their outpost CMO. This mech had offlined shortly after, with that scene in mind, with that scene stored as the most recent memory to reload. A memory of that time when Tarn and his so-called Justice Division had attacked, to relive (and share) anew upon revival, here and now.

Pharma has no words.

He'd put this mech back into stasis lock, no questions asked, if he could. He'd claim, if he has to, that the body is still in such critical condition that he deems involuntary stasis lock to be necessary for the time being. If not for the fact the rest of the staff would object, he'd do it right now and move onto the next patient in line...

But he can't, not with Ratchet and everyone else here to observe. His every interaction with the patient is being recorded and interpreted by the rest of the medical staff. If he is seen conducting malpractice in full view without an airtight explanation?

He can't rid himself of this mech like that. But he can still remove himself from the room.

He unplugs. Turns away from the patient. Brushes past the staff members crowding around the slab, exits the medbay, no explanation to suffice.

First Aid finds him pacing the floor in a storeroom adjacent to the far end of the morgue. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Pharma could pretend ignorance, could make First Aid repeat himself, but why bother? "No," he says, "I do not."

Aid nods for a bit and then asks, "Do you need anything?"

He scoffs at that. "You know what I need." What the growing protoform needs, more voraciously than ever.

First Aid hesitates. "How soon will we need to..."

Pharma replies carelessly, "I don't know."

"Don't you?"

"The newspark's been fine so far." As far as he's aware. Not that he's had it looked at, since that interrupted abortion attempt cycles ago. Which doesn't count. There hasn't been an examination so far, not really; he hasn't yet felt inclined, and surely a newspark as tenacious as this one doesn't need to be monitored as much? "Could go a few more days without assistance, probably...a few days of starvation won't hurt."

"What?" First Aid is flabbergasted.

"It's not at risk of dying, is it? A little hunger might even make it stronger." Dubious, but he's just saying whatever he can fling around at this point.

The nurse's electromagnetic field flares up. "How can you—"

"You're welcome to do the research yourself and figure out a schedule, if you like."

Aid calms a little, brings his field down to normal. "How often did Ratchet donate?"

"Daily." Pharma watches, as First Aid realizes what's to be expected from taking up the mantle of ongoing donor responsibilities.

"That's...that's, yeah, OK," Aid verbalizes to himself. Then asks, "Will that be enough to keep up? With its current size?"

"We've been over this. I don't know." He could extrapolate, but why should he have to? Let First Aid do the work, for once. "Could be all right for a while longer. Could be not enough, I don't know. The growth trajectory isn't something I've analyzed. But it should be fine. It can't be that hungry; I haven't felt the symptoms since—"

"You were feeling—why didn't you tell us sooner?"

Pharma cants a sidelong glance at the nurse. "Oh, so it's my fault if the newspark goes without?"

"That's not what I meant!" First Aid has the sense to look abashed.

"Clearly." How else was that to be interpreted?

A pause. First Aid gestures helplessly. And then: "Yeah, OK, so do we..."

Does Pharma have to do everything around here? He gets down in front on his hands and knees, folds away the centerpiece of his girdle, and then unveils his interface array to his reluctant accomplice. "Righto," he says, then crooks up a smile at this mech who is still standing in place, staring down at his newly exposed state, and bites out the words to get things moving. "Go ahead and spike me, nurse. The sparkling's welfare is depending on you."

Daily interface isn't that different than it was with Ratchet. Donation gets the job done, and the act itself...well. It is what it is. He alternates, First Aid and Ambulon, and each serves the role dutifully in their own way, when it's their turn. He takes longer than before to get ready to receive, and they don't let him rush the process again.

It's after a round with First Aid, that Pharma leaves the hab Aid and Ambulon share—and finds Ultra Magnus looking for him next door. That's...unexpected. Pharma can't think of a reason for the enforcer to be here, despite his certainty that he's the target of this search. Dent is just too much of a non-entity to draw attention to himself for the second-in-command to come by personally. Whereas Pharma...

If Pharma's to be arrested and taken to the brig, the enforcer would probably be accompanied by a couple more personnel. Probably.

Magnus is in the middle of knocking, when Pharma clears his throat. "Looking for someone?"

The oversized enforcer stops and turns, takes a step back from the door, and doubtfully double-checks the room numbers after seeing Pharma.
"Why yes," replies the mech, "Could I have a word?"

Play it safe. "What seems to be the problem, officer?"

"It's come to my attention," Magnus states, "that you've been exceeding ration limits and removing cubes from the mess hall premises. I must remind you, that energon from those dispensers is for personal consumption only. If you require regular fuel-grade energon for other purposes, it's essential that you first submit a form—" and lists out the full identification of said form.

Pharma blinks up at the mech. Well. He should've seen that coming.

Before he can decide how else to react, First Aid steps through the doorway behind him and interjects. "The energon is for personal consumption."

"Pardon," says the enforcer, "I don't see how this matter concerns you."

"Maybe it doesn't," retorts the nurse, "but it does concern the newspark."

"The...newspark?"

"Yes, the newspark! Pharma's carrying," First Aid declares.

Ultra Magnus stammers out an apology. He explains how it would be best for everyone if the ship's officers could be kept apprised of such information and then asks, would it be all right for him to share the news on Pharma's behalf?

Pharma smiles at him demurely. "I'd rather you didn't."

"Very well," Magnus acquiesces. Then goes, lumbering out of view without another word.

That leaves Pharma lingering near the doorway with First Aid, the spunky little nurse, who pulls away when Pharma casually tries to resume relations after the enforcer's departure.

"I don't regenerate that quickly," says Aid, as if anyone would expect him to. And he walks off, leaving Pharma alone outside the hab.

Whenever Pharma attempts to work First Aid during their trysts as insurance against the future, he is met mostly with indifference or the occasional exasperated backtalk. The nurse is very good at holding a grudge. That, or only has eyes for big Wrecker types.

Ambulon, by contrast, is far too easy. When Pharma runs a hand along the surface of his own interface panel, Ambulon watches, captivated. And when Pharma reaches down after a bout of interface to wipe a smear of fluid from his thigh; when he brings it to his lips and consumes the excess off his fingers...he observes how the temperature rises, how the air is thick with charge, how the heat of Ambulon's plating seldom subsides in his presence.

Every now and then, Pharma plays with himself in full view, just a touch here and there...until Ambulon begs to do more for him than provide transfluid, and then he proceeds to lie back and enjoy the ministrations he permits Ambulon to make.

The first time Ambulon sucks his spike, it's cute how the mech tries to bring Pharma to climax. It's cute, how he stares at Pharma's spike as if he's expecting a prize for his efforts, as if there's any extra transfluid left to expend. Pharma doesn't laugh—does redirect him with a smile to the rest of the array, to the nodes and neglected seams whose functioning have not since changed. Transfluid production has been rerouted automatically ever since the first trimester of carrying; it's one of the more obvious clues Pharma had learned when he was young. And if, at Delphi, he had been the type to self-service more often, if he had found his spike wanting and discovered the newspark sooner...odds are he would've dealt with it back then. He wouldn't be here now, in Ambulon's berth.

The thought has him conflicted, but what's past is past. Here in the present, he gives himself over to the donors he's chosen, the donors he's had to choose.

He still wrestles with that, sometimes. During the past millennia of war, this body of his had grown accustomed to solitude. Has had to, in short order, adapt to intimacy with mechs who aren't strangers nor Ratchet...not that Ratchet was ever truly his.

On the occasions he overloads, Pharma holds back his vocalizer from letting out a name, knowing it would still be Ratchet's. He holds back from crying out any sound at all, chokes down any semblance of a designation which could slip from his mouth. He still thinks of his beloved, his beloved Ratchet, whether he has Ambulon inside him or First Aid fingering his node. He still wants...no matter how he tries to strangle his hopes, and every utterance he makes could speak to that truth.

He allows himself, in the privacy of his thoughts, to wonder what Ratchet is doing now, without him. He lets his processor run through scenarios of Ratchet self-servicing, alone in the hab, or serviced by Drift, now that he's no longer there to hoard Ratchet's emissions. Serviced by or servicing Drift, the permutations are endless. He begins to picture himself—not between them, no, but substituting either or. He pictures himself displacing one or the other, taking their place, taking their attention and all the calcitrant affection owed. And then he imagines—yes, in his fantasies he can pretend. Yes, he can pretend that he could situate himself with both, he could interfere in their budding romance and then ever so graciously withdraw, only to be drawn back into their...

He feels more than a little pathetic, fantasizing about that. Ratchet and Drift aren't together. And if they were, they wouldn't want for him to be there, a gap in their flow.

He persists, nonetheless, imagining himself in Ratchet's arms, getting spiked or eaten out by that warbuild. Or by Ratchet, while the warbuild watches. Like before, but without his frame betraying him in a moment of weakness.

It's during one such daydream that First Aid interrupts. "About Ambulon..."

Pharma isn't the most coherent post-interface, but he still has the presence of mind to reply. "What is there to discuss?"

"How do you feel about him?"

Is Aid asking to...? Pharma rolls over and pokes him in the chestplates. "I don't care if you two frag in your own time. You're not triangling me. Ever." Not ever again.

"That's not...I wasn't. I just want to know how you feel. About Ambulon."

Pharma deigns not to respond. What is there to even say?

"I ask," says First Aid, "because he's falling in love with you. And if you don't feel any sort of way in return—"

Pharma rebuffs him, "How is that any of your business?" And gets up to leave, before First Aid can counter with one of his sharp retorts, to go to his own berth next door, where Pharma can expect to rest undisturbed.

Except now the implied accusation lingers, left unsaid. Pharma can't not think of Ambulon and what he means to do with this love which he has no intention of squandering.

Even if he cannot return Ambulon's love...

No, not love. Infatuation. An infatuation is all it is. It will run its course and fade, forgotten. And he is no more responsible for Ambulon than Ratchet is for him. Much as he might wish otherwise, private matters of the spark are borne for however long the burden lasts. Who can say when is the time to set them down?

Chapter Text

Not too long ago, Pharma would have been thrilled to have Ratchet idle at his side. He would have enjoyed having Ratchet watch him as if there's all the time in the world to wait for him to be done with work too...and do whatever it is they would've gone off to do, the two of them after hours. When they were at Deltaran, not so long ago.

Now, he does his best to ignore Ratchet, who is hovering. Ratchet is hovering in that way which indicates he has something to say. Something important, that he'll wait until he has Pharma's undivided attention to tell. It could be, important. It could.

They're still not talking, or at least Pharma isn't, but that doesn't mean they don't coordinate at work. Order must be kept, and if the Chief Medical Officer requires something, who is Pharma to deny?

Pharma cleans off his hands and turns to face his erstwhile friend. His commanding officer. He's not so petty as to forget.

"Listen," says Ratchet, "I know you're about to go on break, but I thought you should know. Ultra Magnus came by and started asking questions."

"Questions," Pharma repeats. Questions about him?

"Yes. He asked me whether I had any change in plans for staffing. Asked all sorts of questions about what we do here, what a typical assignment is like, what's next on the schedule for us, all sorts of details. It became painfully clear that he knew about your present state but didn't want to out and say it."

"I see."

Ratchet tenses like he's expecting a reaction. "I...reassured him I was already aware."

"OK." Pharma doesn't give him the pleasure.

"And I told him I'd reassign you less work." What. Why? "Not that I've really been handling assignments, since we've been a lot more casual here than—"

"You're going to assign me...?"

"Well," Ratchet begins, looking decidedly uncomfortable now, before pushing onward to say, "Should you still be working, when you enter the third trimester?"

What is that supposed to mean. "Should I not?"

"That's why I'm asking. Ultra Magnus seems to think—"

"Ultra Magnus is not a medical professional. Yet you've given him the impression that you agree with whatever preconceptions he holds!" Pharma has to remind himself to ventilate.

"...I don't disagree."

"Ratchet!" Pharma wants to shake some sense into him.

"Should you really still be working?"

"You..." What recourse does Pharma have? "You can't deny that my work hasn't been as excellent as ever."

Ratchet has on that expression like he does when he's humoring a visitor. Now he's humoring Pharma. "Yes, your work is impeccable. But I see how you're suffering to meet those standards and—"

"What? What have you seen? You haven't seen anything. If I seem stressed, it's because. It's because..." Is Ratchet staring at him with pity?
Pharma grits his teeth. "And no, I won't see Rung."

"You won't see Rung, sure." Ratchet sounds almost amused. "Yet did I or didn't I hear you? Recommend him to your own patient the day before yesterday."

Oh. Oh he wants to go there, does he? "Only because I assumed that's policy, since I knew you would've," Pharma replies, "You did send Fortress Maximus his way."

"Yeah, and I'd also send y—"

Pharma talks over him. "Surely Rung must be fully booked by now."

Ratchet grunts what he thinks of that.

"The point is," says Pharma, "I'm still the most effective member of this medical bay, and you can't deny that."

"I don't know. First Aid is doing—"

"First Aid?" Yes, the nurse has plenty of potential, but. "You'd compare me to First Aid?"

Ratchet holds up a hand. "Let's not with the comparisons."

How can he not, when Ratchet is planning to take his work from him? "On what grounds," he spits, "on what grounds are you putting me on leave?"

"Pharma. I haven't said anything about that. We're just talking reduced hours, OK?"

"How reduced are we talking." Because if Ratchet plans to cut his load by half or more, there will be spilled—

"Look. Why don't you go fuel and then we'll talk?"

Tell him to fuel up and then talk more later? Patronizing aft.

Pharma goes anyway.

Infuriatingly sedate, that Ratchet. High and mighty and benevolent, Ratchet. If Pharma didn't love him, he'd...he'd be a soot stain by now.

Pharma has to try to calm himself on the way to the mess hall. He tightens up his field to try to avoid notice, but maybe that's worse? He's too laden with ill will to hold for long. Like a storm. Any tighter, and he'll burst.

He takes a longer route than usual. The elevator is blessedly empty, and he spends the ride replaying a clip of white noise to allay his nerves.

When he gets to the mess hall, there are people milling about, chatting at the tables. And around the dispensers. Anywhere, really. The mechs who break fast toward the middle of the day tend to be like that, a bit more social, on average, than those who prefer to start or end the day with fuel.

There's no real line here, not even a vague hint of a shape that could be construed as a line, so Pharma picks his way through the crowd with his wings close and his field closer, increasingly ravenous as he weaves across the room for a cube. How, he wonders, is he this low on energon already. How. After only half a day.

The mech in front of him steps out of his way unasked. The next mech over takes that as a cue to also let him pass. Because of his field? His storm cloud of a field? Or...no, it's something else. Just like Ratchet, these mechs think he's some sort of invalid. Pharma deigns to bestow upon them the faintest of nods and ignore the curious stares at his frame. What exactly were they hoping to see? His frame hasn't outwardly changed. Or maybe his signature has? Behaviorally, certainly. With his frequent trips to the mess hall, it was only a matter of time. And with the rumors circulating about Delphi...

No wonder he's been the recipient of so many sad smiles and looks as of late.

That grates on him, but what can he do? Pharma takes his cube and then sits as far as he can, facing a wall. He forces himself to sip slowly, when he'd much rather dump the whole thing in his mouth, and sit a little longer, listening to the sounds of the cafeteria like so much white noise before he goes.

On his way back to the medbay, Atomizer crosses paths with him in the hall.

Pharma keeps walking.

"Hey." Atomizer catches up and starts keeping pace.

Ugh. He stops. "Go away. I found someone else." Plural, but who's counting.

Atomizer gives him a considering look. "So it's true. That you're carrying."

So he's heard the news. "Full marks, you've guessed correctly." Pharma tries to walk past him again. Why is this so difficult? He's not even big. Is it the engex? It's the engex, isn't it. Day drinking at Swerve's. Of course.

A noise like a muffled chuckle. "I was wondering why you came onto me all of a sudden. You should've said so, I might've—"

"Too late now."

"Is it? Too bad. If I knew you wanted my CNA for your newspark..."

Pharma refuses to meet his eyes. Or visor. "Think what you like."

Atomizer places a hand over his chest, miming that he's wounded. "Aw, doc, don't be like that."

Pharma glares at the gesture. Why is this mech mocking him now? Just because he'd made an awkward approach that one time...

"Can I see the newspark?"

"What? No!"

"Figures."

Pharma stares at this bold-aft mech. Who even asks like that?
So maybe Atomizer isn't mocking him for his previous show of desperation. Genuinely just wants to..."Why do you want to see? Why do you even care?"

Atomizer is buzzing now. "Are you kidding? It's a newspark!"

Pharma feels like he's missing something. "Yes. And?"

"I've never seen one before. Inside a person." Atomizer clasps his hands together.

"You're not missing out on much," Pharma tells him.

They stand there in the hall, Pharma with his chestplates firmly shut and Atomizer conducting some sort of restless recalibration in his ankles. And not engaging his FIM chip when, in Pharma's opinion, maybe he ought.

And then Atomizer breaks the silence. "So this might be kinda rude." Oh? Is he only just realizing, or is he about to say something newly outlandish and rude by his standards? "But have you ever carried before?"

"Yes, that is rude," Pharma agrees. "I didn't join the Lost Light to be interrogated like this."

"Oh slag. That's right." Atomizer even seems embarrassed. A first. "You came on board with that after your, uh, grand escape from the Cons' special crew."

Grand escape? That's one way of putting it. Are they really talking about that now? This is the most excruciating conversation ever.

"Hey, don't worry." Atomizer reads into his discomfort. "We'll get them eventually." Them? The Decepticon Justice Division? As if Autobot High Command cares. The DJD primarily goes after their fellow Decepticons. Pharma was just...unlucky, having allowed himself to be stationed on the wrong planet, not knowing any better. Or he did, actually; he knew Messatine was bad news, and allowed himself to be sent there anyway. Because if he was going to be separated from Ratchet, why not put on a brave face and do whatever needs doing? But nevermind that now.

"I'm not worried," he says, "Now if you'll excuse me..."

Atomizer compliantly stops blocking his way, and Pharma is free to return to the medbay. Not that he wants to resume the talk with Ratchet, but where else would he go? He is still an active-duty doctor as of yet.

When he gets back, Ratchet is there. (Whereas the junior staff are either off-shift or still on break.) May as well get the conversation over with then.

Whatever Ratchet had hoped would happen, talking after fueling goes no better. Pharma isn't trying to make things worse, but. Ratchet's responses are impossible. How could he not escalate?

"Unless you're offering to carry for me, you can shut it!" Pharma finds himself yelling loudly enough for all the drones to notice him at once. "You think it's too early for me to be this affected? You want to criticize how I am? Why don't you give it a try then?" Why not indeed. Especially since he's now surpassed Ratchet in every aspect of practicing medicine—and not just because Ratchet's hands are too worn out to effectively perform surgery. "Unless you think your tired old spark can't handle having to support more than your own systems running." Which is, in fact, a distinct possibility, that. But it's not concern that drives Pharma to keep talking. "Wouldn't want to have you run down prematurely, would we? Any more than you already are." It's too much, he's said too much. But he's not like Ratchet, he can't back down now.

He can only, afterward, run and hide. Ratchet won't follow. Never has.

Chapter Text

That evening, when Pharma recounts his day to Ambulon, he skips over the argument with Ratchet in favor of complaining about the audacity of a mech who would ask a near-stranger for a peek inside his chest cavity.

As he's detailing just how drunk he believes Atomizer had been to try a thing like that, First Aid enters the hab, and Pharma stops. He's learned to stop talking, if he doesn't want Aid to add any little insights, and he surely doesn't want any right now.

First Aid plops onto his own berth face down. Then lifts his helm up to look over at Ambulon and Pharma, who are lounging together with their limbs entwined. He drops his helm again, mumbling, "Ratchet was in a Pit of a mood today."

Ambulon asks, "He didn't yell at you or anything?"

Aid props up onto his side and starts picking at a groove he made in his berth. "He was just extra morose and moody. Less like himself, more like..." First Aid stops here. Thinks he's being clever, does he?

Pharma is too tired to fight him on it. Yelling at Ratchet took out a lot of energy, faster than expected. And not even the third trimester yet. If more or worse is coming, maybe Ratchet was right.

Ambulon readjusts their positioning, slides an arm under Pharma's turbine and places his other above a hip socket, then begins to work his fingers in the seams.

Oh that's. That's nice. Pharma leans into him, and First Aid looks away, disgusted.

It's not real, Pharma thinks, the show of disgust. Not as much as Aid makes it out to be. He's just annoyed, that Pharma won't promise not to break Ambulon's spark. Doesn't he understand, how little control anyone could have over such a thing?

First Aid kicks up his pedes and flips over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, with his arms outstretched. "So what were you saying earlier, before I got back?"

Pharma doesn't start to speak until Ambulon comes in for a kiss, which he redirects to his neck. Kisses turn into nibbles at his cables, gently pinching with little risk of puncture. Nonetheless he is tense, while telling Aid about Atomizer's bold request.

"Oh?" Curiosity piqued, the nurse turns to look. "So did you—"

"Of course not! What do you take me for?" Shareware for all and sundry, just because he's fragging them both? He pushes Ambulon aside to sit upright, is just about to clamber down and go over there to give First Aid what for—

"Hold on," Aid defends, "I didn't mean it like that."

Maybe so, but the implication isn't off the mark, Pharma reflects bitterly. If he has to make every inch of his frame available to survive, he'll do it. If he has to frag the whole ship, he will.

Timidly, tentatively, Ambulon reaches for him again. Pharma allows himself to be taken, to nestle into the space made for him on this berth.

If he wants to be charitable, he could understand how First Aid was only thoughtless. He could interpret Atomizer's request as merely unusual and not so terribly untoward. He could conceive of its innocence, a simple desire for knowledge and connection. To see another's spark, to see a newspark...

But he's not feeling charitable, and nor is he inclined to let this go, whatever First Aid did or didn't mean.

He's still trying to figure out how he's going to respond, now or later, when First Aid scoots over to the edge facing them and kneels there, on the berth.

"Would you consider," Aid sounds out slowly, "showing us, at least?"

Pharma stares at him. "...the newspark?"

"Yeah," he replies, sounding contrite—no, hopeful.

Ambulon's field resonates much the same, and Pharma is reminded of how eager they must be for a sparkling. And they must be eager, to have tolerated him and his demands for this long to obtain the thing that only he can give.

Pharma will indulge their request. The newspark is due for a checkup anyway. And it's not as if they haven't seen inside him, before.

First Aid crosses the room and joins them on Ambulon's berth when Pharma shifts away his plating to reveal his spark.

There's nothing unusual about his spark, fecundity notwithstanding, and as medical practitioners they're accustomed to looking inside the chest cavity, whether a patient is in stasis or no.

It's not his spark that has their attention, but when First Aid reaches out, almost touching, Pharma has to stifle the urge to shut his plates. When that hand retracts, it brushes against the rim of his spark casing; Pharma jerks aside with a silent whimper and First Aid sits there sheepishly at his feet, as if waiting to be kicked from this corner of the room. But what good would that do? Better for Pharma, for First Aid to feel indebted, than to spend whatever goodwill this grants him by lashing out over a small accident in the berth.

The thought occurs to him that he could let First Aid have a way with his internals. He could tolerate being touched, if it means gaining a foothold on this mech. He can picture it now: a mouth on his spark, a spike in his valve, while he cries out to be kept.

No. No, he won't. Not yet. He's not so desperate, yet.

"Have you had your fill?" he asks them.

First Aid nods vigorously, suddenly eager to please. Whereas Ambulon is reluctant to answer.

Pharma closes up his chest. "You can look again in the medbay," he says.

First Aid makes no move to leave this berth. "And the protoform too?"

With a scanner, sure. "And the protoform too."

Aid gets settled in at their pedes, sitting in the middle of this platform as if all of a sudden he doesn't mind watching Ambulon fondle Pharma in front of him. "What are you going to call it?"

"Hmm?" Pharma has one of Ambulon's hands currently running charge up and down a hinge.

"The sparkling!" Oh.

Pharma stills the hand that was starting to make his wing twitch with a touch of his own. "Naming it, you mean?"

"Yeah!"

He lets his hand fall along the elbow of his other arm as he rests the side of his helm against Ambulon's where the ridges are. "Why bother?" he ruminates out loud, "Every mech decides a designation for himself."

"Eventually, but—"

"No need to pick out a name that won't last."

"Then what are you going to call it in the meantime?"

He leans onto Ambulon fully, like recharge could be found like this. "Why would I have to call it anything? It's a newspark."

"Aw come on. I've got some names we could try..." And First Aid proceeds to launch into what could only be a series of Wrecker-inspired suggestions.

Pharma counters with unserious suggestions of his own. "Snowball. Snowflake. Rusty."

To which Aid indignantly replies, "You can't call a newspark rusty!"

"Why, nurse, haven't you heard of irony?"

"You're not even trying." First Aid turns to Ambulon with a slap on the pede, "You've got any ideas?"

Ambulon doesn't dignify the slap with a response.

"Come on, let's hear 'em."

"I'm partial to Solarus. Or Catalyst," he offers.

Pharma hadn't expected him to have an opinion. "You are?"

Ambulon shrugs. "But it's a newspark. A name...doesn't matter."

"Augh," says First Aid, "You're such a..." He fumbles for half a klik. "Nevermind." And then he lies flat on his back, on his runners, in the middle of Ambulon's berth.

"Are you...if you're staying," Ambulon begins to say.

"Huh? I'll get up in a moment." He pauses. "Did you clang yet?"

"Aid!" Ambulon admonishes.

"What, you can do it in front of me whenever but we can't talk about it happening?"

The brewing conflict Pharma detects is a new iteration on the same old clash of personality. Who has the energy, though, when they could be resting? He cuts into the exchange, telling First Aid not yet they haven't. And then can't help but to add, "Why, are you volunteering?" Which has Ambulon's field prickling with irritation, but he ignores that in favor of watching for Aid's reaction instead.

"Uh yeah? Maybe." First Aid is looking at him like a flustered young mech who's being propositioned for the first time, receptive and unsure. As if they haven't fragged a hundred times already. As if Aid hadn't skipped out on the afterglow of nearly every session in a cloud of resentment and aggravation.

Now's his chance, Pharma thinks, to bring First Aid back into the fold. And with Ambulon present...he'll be fine, he thinks, so long as he keeps them apart, lets one mech at his array at a time.

"Pharma?" Aid asks.

Pharma crawls forth from Ambulon's side, reaching for First Aid's hidden spike. "Ambulon can go first," he says huskily, into the seams of that panel which is shifting open under his breath, "but that doesn't mean you have to wait." And he presses a smile to the housing now exposed to his lips, while his own modesty panel unveils for the ardent participant at his back.

Chapter Text

Before politics and war and all the complications that ensued, Pharma's goal—insofar as he had one—was always to excel. For Pharma, that meant as a physician. Perhaps, if in another life, he had been prescribed a different role...but in this one he had grasped his calling with both hands, once he had known he would become a doctor. And he had. He had become the best damn doctor any Cybertronian would be lucky to have. He still is, even now, even if he no longer can operate as before at the same capacity, with the same ease and aptitude, even if his peak performance could only approximate to an off day for the Pharma of yore; he is still that doctor who once completed a four-way fuel transfusion with himself as a donor.

He is still that doctor, except now he has to work to prove Ratchet wrong. He has to work harder than ever to keep up with appearances; he has to expend the energy to make everything seem more effortless than it is. And he is tired, so very tired. Why couldn't split-spark mechanisms made the old-fashioned way be as low maintenance as the constructed cold?

No matter. When all is said and done, his struggles now won't matter in the greater scheme of things. He'll have the sparkling and then, if all goes well, he'll get on with his life. He'll go back to contributing to the field of medicine, unfettered, and forget that there was ever a period where his output was lesser.

For now, he'll just have to wait. He'll have to take whatever hours Ratchet lets him have, do whatever he has to and prove he belongs at work, and entertain any buffoon here to badger him for a klik of his time.

Ordinarily he would not mind to see a mech come to him cowed and contrite but. Primus, he does not have the energy to hold court. He has to prep, he has to...

Atomizer is trailing after him like a hellpup while he flits. "Doctor, I want to apologize for yester—"

Pharma spares a look between opening up the diagonistic drone he's just grabbed and plugging in. "No need."

Atomizer persists. "I was out of line. I hope we can...still be friends?"

That would presume they were friends to start. Pharma however chooses to answer affirmatively. "Certainly," he says.

"So uh." Atomizer idly scratches at the back of his helm. "How are things, here in the medbay?"

Funny how now the mech wants to linger and talk. "I'm really quite busy," Pharma replies, "but you're welcome to stay." He isn't welcome, not really, but which of these offlined patients is going to complain?

The little drone in his hands chitters conversationally. Pharma contemplates turning off its berthside manner, while he's already in there modifying the subroutines he is going to need for this drone to keep up with him during surgery. To help him keep up, actually, now that he's...slower. He used to eschew drone customization—what was the point, when he's always been able to identify any complication that arises on his own—but he's had to adapt. He tears off a piece of colored tape and applies it to visually mark this drone as the one he'll be using later today.

Atomizer doesn't end up staying. After another cursory look around the room, he walks to the exit and—"Woah," he says, "Easy there."

A growl on the way in. Dent in alt mode again?

Pharma glances over at the entrance, unplugs, and releases the drone, which he sends to his station to wait for him there. Did Dent come out this way for medical attention...? Maybe Pharma doesn't do hab calls these days, but for his roommate he'd make an exception. Seeing as how they still live together, technically. Or are essentially neighbors next-door, now that he spends the night out more often than in his own berth.

Pharma stares down at his roommate. "Why are you here?" And not lazing about in the suite.

"No reason," says his roommate, who has quietly reverted to a mild-mannered persona, as if the speed of Atomizer's departure were mere coincidence. "I felt like it." And then starts padding around the room examining the equipment, just as that other mech had a klik ago. Pharma ought to tell Dent to leave if he's not here on business, but...

"Whatever. Don't get underfoot."

The next quarter cycle passes without incident. One of the other diagnostic drones is trailing Pharma while running inventory. He's keeping busy, he is, but he's also taking a break from the more focus-intensive tasks available to him, while Ratchet isn't here to observe. He needs to save those for when Ratchet is here and not exert himself when Ratchet isn't. He may as well power down and take a nap, for all that he's doing right now, but he can't; he has to look busy, and isn't that just? He didn't use to have to plan like this. He used to be the poster mech for his field, the up-and-coming genius who could perform self-surgery in a pinch without breaking a strut.

Now, everything is effort. Because of the newspark.

Pharma turns around and catches Dent batting at the diagnostic drone with his paws.

"Stop that."

Dent stalks off across the room mumbling about how medibots should be built more durably then, fluttering around like that, if they weren't meant to be roughhoused. Pharma watches him warily, checking that the other drones are nowhere near his path.

The doors open, and Pharma is about to check who might it be this time, when a sudden squeal sends roommate Dent the Predabot into a low stance, ready for action.

Dent takes one look at the source of the noise then darts out from the medbay. Turns out, the one responsible for that noise? Of all mechanisms aboard the ship, the impressive Fortress Maximus.

"Who was that?" the large warbuild asks with youthful wonder. "I've seen 'em around from afar, but I've never..." He trails off, still staring at distant shadows.

Pharma busies himself with decontaminating the drone Dent had caught. "You might try to introduce yourself, next time you see him."

Chided, Fort Max says nothing. Just stands there, waiting.

One last swipe, and Pharma sends off the drone. There's almost something endearing about the new scuff marks. Like battle scars.

He means to ask what the warbuild is here for, when the doors open again.

"There you are," says Ratchet, striding over, "Ready for your checkup?"

Fortress Maximus nods.

Pharma takes that as a cue to dip out to the mess hall for as long as he reasonably can.

When Pharma gets back, he finds Ratchet alone in the medbay. He's about to open his mouth and—say what? Try to offer yet another meaningless apology? When they're only going to retread old ground, over and over? He isn't sure what he'll say, or how he could bring himself to say it, to pretend as if he'll do better next time. But he has to break the silence.

Ratchet beats him to it. "I've been thinking."

Pharma glances up from the floor, expecting a look of consternation, not...whatever form of resignation this is. Seeing Ratchet like this should feel like winning, but it doesn't.

When no reply is forthcoming, Ratchet continues, "You were right. It doesn't make sense for me to limit your hours."

Oh. That's...good. That has to be. Pharma steps closer when it's apparent Ratchet isn't done yet.

"You're a good surgeon, a good doctor," says Ratchet, "even though carrying has definitely impacted your performance, and it's quite obvious we can't have you go on struggling like that."

Pharma can feel the resentment rising from within. No, don't. Don't make a fuss yet. Not when Ratchet has just said—

"I think you and I, we should...uh. Let's postpone everything we've got lined up for today and tomorrow, until—"

"What?"

Ratchet holds up both hands. "Let me finish."

Pharma ventilates. He ventilates and looks around for that drone Dent had dinged up. Which one was it? He'll get it polished like new.

"We'll postpone everything until after we get the newspark transferred. I'll take over from here, all right?"

Pharma has only just located the drone, the one with the scratches, when he lets go upon hearing what couldn't have been a real suggestion. Could it be?

"So we'll schedule sometime when First Aid and Ambulon are both available to proceed. How's that sound?"

Is that...is that what they're going to be doing? He'd only brought up the possibility in anger. He hadn't meant for Ratchet to...to what, prove that carrying is no big deal, so long as you're willing to kick up your pedes and lie down for half of it? That Ratchet can be better suited, can be much less irrational with protocols, have an easier time with all the changes and—no, that isn't a fair portrayal; Ratchet is just looking for solutions in his usual analytic manner. Pharma has two hands that work and Ratchet doesn't, so if Pharma gives Ratchet the newspark—his newspark, forged from his own body—to carry...

"Pharma?"

Pharma vaguely wonders what Ratchet would do, if he were to power down on the spot.

Pharma had begged off giving a straightforward answer. He had ended the conversation by saying he wanted to check their schedules first, make sure there was nothing there that couldn't be delayed, and if so, well. It'd make sense to find out, also, whether their staff would be up to the task. It would, Ratchet had agreed, of course. And that was that. Except, Pharma hadn't been able to focus on anything else, afterward. How could he?

He should be happy, that Ratchet is making the suggestion. He ought to be elated, to pass the third trimester onto somebody else. Slagging delighted, that Ratchet will be sharing the experience, lending out his own body for Pharma's sparkling. And yet he feels diminished at the very thought.

It's a possibility, though, one he won't preclude just yet.

He shares it with First Aid and Ambulon, while they're eagerly studying the protoform developing inside him with a scanner. All it takes is one mention that they might yet soon open up his tank, take out the protoform and get a closer look, for First Aid to be simultaneously fascinated and appalled. Pharma soothes away whatever worrisome thought the nurse is having with an explanation, of how Ratchet might carry the newspark.

That then brings up a new concern. "Is he...are we going to have to, with Ratchet, continue donating?" First Aid wants to know.

Pharma stares at the nurse. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"I...maybe? It's just weird, to me, if we're going to clang in every configuration minus Lancet. And Hoist. I mean, it's not weird weird. I just...I've never done the whole med school gangbang? That was a thing, right? Or so I heard. It wasn't a thing anymore by the time I matriculated, after Sentinel's crackdown on, y'know..." First Aid looks to Ambulon for help.

Sentinel's crackdown on public indecency. As if Ambulon would know anything about that.

Ambulon, in turn, looks around the room without making eye contact with anyone. "Uh. I didn't have the...campus experience, but I guess I would donate, if Ratchet asks. I don't think he will, though." Not because of the lack of formally accredited schooling but because—"I'm an MTO." Yes. That. Ratchet would care about that. "So I think you're on your own for this," he tells First Aid.

First Aid hides his face in his hands.

"Don't fret," Pharma reassures him, "I'm sure Ratchet will be able to arrange for his own donors from a different pool of volunteers." Or one specific volunteer with a strong set of finials and motors.

First Aid incrementally lowers his hands to look at Pharma. "He will?"

"Yes, I'm certain he will."

"Who's he got lined up?" First Aid is leaning forward now, with both hands well clear of his face.

"That's Ratchet's business." Which Pharma doesn't much care to think about any longer.

"Oh come on," Aid presses, "are we still keeping secrets?"

"Yes...?" Confidentiality is not a thing of the past?

"But I want to know..."

"And it's none of your business," Pharma tells him firmly.

"But you know who it is." Is the nurse seriously trying to gossip? "Wait, wait. Did you and Ratchet's new donor...?" Have a rivalry? Try to interface together? It doesn't matter what First Aid's suspicions are; he isn't getting any juice.

"We're getting ahead of ourselves here. The transfer hasn't even happened yet," Pharma reminds him.

First Aid is practically bouncing. "You didn't answer the question!"

Ambulon smacks him across the helm with the scanner and changes the subject. "So the transfer...Pharma, are you sure?"

"I think so." As of this nanoklik, yes.

"When?"

Pharma offers a faint smile. "Whenever. When you're both available. If you're feeling up to it. If it doesn't seem beyond your abilities—"

"Not a problem, the transfer should be easy," First Aid breezes. And he's not wrong. But nor has he ever had his hands inside Pharma quite like that before, and Pharma, frankly, isn't too keen. "What I want to know, is Ratchet in any condition to, y'know..." Carry a newspark?

"We'll find out," replies Pharma, "We'll go through with the transfer if everything's within reasonable parameters, and if something turns up later we'll do a reversal. Ratchet will carry only if his body can handle the strain." Pharma hadn't put any stipulations on that yet, but he shouldn't have to. At the first sign of trouble he'll just take the newspark back, yes? Would be a bother, having to open up his gestation tank twice with no apparent benefit to him except, perhaps, a few cycles of freedom. But if that were the case, then surely Ratchet would have to pay attention to the signs? There would be that, at least. The closest thing they'll get to irrefutable proof of Ratchet's downward decline. Not numbers on a screen, divorced from raw meaning, but something insurmountably substantial.

First Aid reaches over into Ambulon's personal space and gets the scanner after a brief tussle, just to spin it around in his hands. "So..." he prompts, "Transfer first thing tomorrow then?"

Chapter Text

Ratchet had kept his word, cleared their schedules, buckled down and gotten examined—and oh what fun that had been. And Pharma...well, there's no turning back now. They're ready for the operation. The staff has been instructed on both the procedure itself and other responsibilities for the day. Lancet had looked at them strangely, but that was probably because he didn't take to the notion that they could be leaving him responsible for the medbay for a cycle or two. Only as a precaution, of course, and what did he expect? He's already shouldering less of a load since Pharma's team joined the crew.

First Aid is ecstatic, vibrating at the prospect of transferring the newspark, or of being the surgeon to handle the protoform when they carve open Pharma's tank to extract it. He's talking like he'll get the chance to pick it up with both hands, like he'll be able to rotate it like some new addition to one of his collections, when in reality he won't be supporting the protoform but holding the tank. He'll still get to have his fingers on the protoform itself, scraping it off the walls, guiding it into Ratchet as he pours, and Ambulon will be on standby lest the protoform gets any ideas about breaking free.

Other than that, it's really quite simple. They'll disconnect Pharma's gestation tank, open it up, bring it over to where Ratchet is laid out waiting, transfer the protoform, pluck the newspark out of Pharma's chest and drop it in, then seal them back up. Easy.

Pharma nonetheless watches his staff prep with trepidation.

It's not that he doesn't trust Aid to settle down in time. It's this transfer. What this transfer means, for Pharma, for the future. For Ratchet, also, the risks that they're taking. And for what? For Pharma to be rid of a mechanism who is not yet a person, in a way that will keep him in all their good graces, or so he hopes.

His thoughts are full of what-ifs.

He almost hopes for a reversal. For a reversion to the status quo, if only because the uncertainties are so daunting. He could still call this off, but he won't; he'll just have to push through and find out what awaits him on the other side, once he longer has the newspark to protect him. He has to trust that his people will still keep his secrets for him though there is no real incentive that he can offer. He will not hope for Ratchet's failure as surrogate; that would be too selfish, especially because Ratchet is doing this only for him.

For him and, perhaps, the newspark. Ratchet might be wanting more of a connection with the newspark. Ratchet had readily supplied it, after all, with nary a word of protest after he'd gotten over the initial shock. He might even want not just to carry it to term but to keep it, to mentor the mechling. That seems like something Ratchet would want to do.

First Aid's next words break Pharma out from a reverie of Ratchet running after a mechanism painted in red and white and a few traces of blue. "Hm?" he queries.

First Aid repeats himself. "Are we ready?"

Pharma turns to Ratchet. "Any second thoughts?"

"No," Ratchet replies, "You?"

Pharma only smiles.

Pharma opts to stay lucid.

He has his nerves dulled on a timer, of course, but not so much that he cannot feel. The entry point is beneath his canopy. Though it is not the most direct path, going in at an angle, it has the benefit of not disturbing his spike housing and more besides. It is not the most direct path, but it will do.

A weight is lifted once they've dislodged his tank. When they remove it, Pharma feels an echo of what should be pain. He can feel, also, the residue clinging to his internals. The droplets that fell out of his tank, his tubes. Protomass in the first stages of development, he guesses, no more sentient nor autonomous than the transfluid that helped build it.

On the operating table, his gestation tank is being cut open. If they had done this sooner, that would be unnecessary; they could pour directly from either end of the tank, with no resistance from the protoform. Of course, if they had done this sooner, the newspark would not have been ready, and the protoform—if it could at that stage be referred to as protoform—might not have been worth the hassle to bring over. Still it would be something of value, perhaps, in the hypothetical, worth retrieving to spare the surrogate the effort of accumulating all that from scratch. If the extra step helps prevent Ratchet from having to interface furiously with that warbuild day and night, well, by all means, let them crack open his tank and rummage through it. He can tolerate that much.

Ratchet is already cut open to receive. His tank is still connected to its tubing on both ends but pulled out and placed upon his pelvic plating for ease of access. They had talked, briefly, about the possibility of just disconnecting the valve end and shoving the protoform through the opening, but that had been deemed needlessly traumatic, as if the newspark would remember. Interestingly, First Aid had been the biggest proponent of what they're doing now.

He's quite a force of personality, First Aid. And talented too. Pharma understands that Ratchet didn't mean it as an insult, when they had argued and Ratchet had mentioned, had suggested that Aid might be a viable candidate in his stead. It had still hurt, to be passed up like that. Potentially. If Ratchet had been serious about that plan.

They'll have to talk about it later. Not immediately nor soon—Pharma won't do that to him, not after what he's done for Pharma—but sometime, they will. They'll talk about Ratchet's plan for the future, and Pharma will find out where they stand.

Now? He waits. He waits for the newspark to be taken from his chamber, for that faint pull of it leaving his orbit, now that the newspark is so loosely detached, hardly any force is required to remove it. Once it is gone, he shuts his chestplates as if it had never been.

And then he waits to be put back together, while Ambulon and First Aid are attending to Ratchet. He doesn't watch, when they complete the transfer. He doesn't look to see how the protoform is doing, in its semi-solid state, dripping its unfinished self over Ratchet's internals. He can hear the splatter, can hear Aid coaxing it to calm down. And then the union of spark and sentio metallico...he can hear that moment, also, mainly by how Ratchet groans as they rush to seal the tank. He can imagine Ambulon's hands holding it down while First Aid welds it shut.

And then they come to him, to close him up with those same hands that worked on Ratchet, only there is no urgency, no newspark, just the three of them. Like in Delphi.

Chapter Text

Surgery isn't an impediment to getting back to work, for Pharma, who was up and running as soon as he had his canopy put back into place. He at least doesn't have an upset little creature to contend with inside his freshly resealed tank, unlike Ratchet, who is watching him move about freely with an expression akin to envy.

Ratchet is still sitting on the slab, catching up on secretarial work. Or making personal calls, whichever. Meanwhile, Ambulon and First Aid have a walk-in to tend, a victim of some spirited game of tag. Pharma half-listens to the recounting of that story while he carries out his own tasks. Yesterday's cancellations won't resolve on their own. As he goes down the list, however, his processor can't help but to be drawn back into the precarity of his place here on the Lost Light. He's given his trust, and yet.

His eyes dart over to where First Aid and Ambulon are patching up their patient. They appear to be in good spirits, First Aid in particular, and that bodes well, he thinks. (Or hopes.) The nurse isn't the spiteful type, as far as he knows, but it doesn't have to be spite to do him in. A sense of obligation, to some moral imperative, some higher calling? One confession would be all it takes. Unless...

Unless he's sparked again. That would shield him, wouldn't it? He could tolerate carrying. The first trimester was no trouble at all. To follow through, however...no. He couldn't. He shouldn't. Even if he were to make another transfer, he'd be trading one trap for another. To chip away at his spark again so soon would be disastrous for his health in the long run. He'd be choosing a slow death over a quick end. But would that be so bad? All living things die eventually; Cybertronians aren't exempt. However long the lifespan, immortality is a lie.

"Pharma," calls Ratchet.

A reprieve from his thoughts. "Yes?" He wipes off his hands and walks over.

"I uh, I've informed Ultra Magnus that the operation was a success. I also told him I don't intend to announce the newspark for some time until...later. I hope that's all right with you."

"I suppose you'll have to announce sometime, to explain your impending bedrest," he tries to make a joke of it, though his delivery is rather flat.

"Oh?" Ratchet squints at him with feigned wariness. "You're prescribing me bedrest are you, doctor?"

Pharma has to smile. "Not a prescription. Merely a prediction." Toward the end of the third trimester anyhow.

"Ah. What else is in the forecast?"

"I don't know." Impishly, he adds, "Are you feeling dizzy yet?"

"Is...is that one of the symptoms? That's one of the symptoms, huh," Ratchet muses.

"Could be."

"I'm regretting this already."

"Are you?"

"No."

Why not, Pharma nearly asks, but he already knows the answer. This way Ratchet gets to feel useful, more useful than his hands have allowed.
The thought occurs that if Ratchet wants to be useful, Pharma could arrange for him to continue to be useful, but no, that would be absurd.
Outsource the final trimester to Ratchet for however many sparklings? Preposterous.

"So," Ratchet begins, "Any input on where the additional transfluid is going to come from...? 'cause I was thinking—"

Pharma hurries to cut him off from naming the mech in question. "I'm sure whomever you've chosen will be a decent choice."

"Huh." Ratchet stares down at the floor.

It would be fun to tease Ratchet, so easy to suggest that, if he's having doubts, to discuss and pick apart this mystery donor's eligibility, or something along those lines, except it really would be best to move on. "Are you ready to try standing?" asks Pharma.

"Your kid is a total gearstick in the making."

"Your kid now."

Ratchet laughs. And then vents with a curse, as he sets one pede down and then the other to take his first load-bearing step.

First Aid wanders over to check on them. "How are things?"

"The newspark is still adjusting to the transfer and therefore being a nuisance," explains Pharma. "Does the attending have an opinion?"

"Uhm. You want some drugs, Ratchet? We've got...options. I did do some research, though I'll have to double-check the dosage—"

"No, I'm fine." Ratchet waves him off, with one hand still firmly on the slab. "I'll just have a...oh, I can't drink anymore, can I?"

"You can in moderation," answers First Aid, "Safest not to imbibe of course, but that doesn't mean you can't. Hold on, there might be a chart..."

Ratchet looks at Pharma. "You didn't drink, did you?"

"I didn't." Except that one time, before he knew he was carrying. "You could, though. You could even get it hopped up on nucleon, I won't mind."

"Pharma!" First Aid nearly pops his visor.

"What?" glibly he replies, "We used nucleon in the ward all the time."

"I...I'm not going to take the bait," says First Aid resolutely, turning away from Pharma. "OK, overall, the fuel concentration you should aim for at this stage of development..." Soon enough, as Aid starts to share what he's learned, he veers from informative into speculative conjecture over the course of a klik—and counting. And Ratchet, as his recipient, sags into accepting that there appears to be no apparent end to a lecture such as this.

Pharma leaves them to it and gets back to work.

Ambulon and First Aid's habitation suite is next door to his. Over the past decacycle, he's gotten so accustomed to staying over that he doesn't think twice about following First Aid to their door. When they coincide there at the end of the day, he doesn't think at all, until.

First Aid stops and turns to ask, "Pharma, do you need something?"

That jolts him into stopping before he can set foot inside the doorway. First Aid is standing there, watching him apprehensively, waiting for an answer. What is Pharma to say? "No, of course not."

First Aid nods and shuts the door in his face.

Well then. He should simply go one door down and retire for the night, forget that he hadn't come directly to his own hab like he'd originally meant. And if he enters to find that his roommate is out and he has the place all to himself? It's not as if he hasn't led a solitary existence before. He'll lie down and recharge, maybe do some reading first. Wasn't that why he came down this way, to get some rest?

Pharma lingers in the corridor for a whole klik as he wrestles with the realization that he does, in fact, want company. That he has come to expect it, the chatter, the warmth. The conflict, also. Whichever will fill an empty room.

So he trods his way over to—where else? That unlicensed venue known as Swerve's.

How is it still operating unmolested without a license, he has no idea. How is it that an individual person risks getting cited over a few misplaced cubes of regular energon, and a whole bar can stay hidden from the authorities? A mystery, truly. Not that he has any complaints to file, at the moment. Pharma's only just gotten here; it's not in his interest to shut them down.

Swerve's is still as he remembers, with the scrappy drinks and the cheerful facade.

"Hey, long time no see!" says the minibot bartender. "What can I get ya?"

"Whatever's on tap," Pharma replies and gears up for a taste of absolute swill. He opens a tab, why not, and stands there at the bar, nursing a drink he doesn't actually want just for the novelty of being here again, with something to do. The last time he came here was to keep an eye on First Aid. Now he's here for some form of companionship, because he's forgotten how to be alone. Pathetic, perhaps, but it is what it is.

A quick glance around nets him a couple possibilities. The mnemosurgeon and friends—no, he will not be joining them. That helicopter with a single optic who's been staring? He's not too keen on an introduction there either. Lancet, who appears to be on his fifth drink and back for another...OK, sure, why not chat with Ratchet's assistant; it's about time they've had a proper talk.

Once he's gotten around to that side of the bar, however, Pharma can't resist interfering. Just as the bartender is about to serve Lancet another order, he parks his own glass in front and clinks them together. "Cheers," he says. And then—before Lancet can respond, after Swerve has already turned away—he pushes Lancet's across the counter, out of reach.

"What the slag, Pharma?" Lancet objects.

"Come now, you've had enough."

"One last drink, and then I'll be done when I say I'm done."

"One last drink? You sure about that?"

"No." Lancet strains to grab at the glass without having to lift a pede to move.

Pharma lets him. "You always drink this much?"

Lancet pulls his drink close and hovers over it, as if it might get taken again. "What do you care? Go frag Ratchet."

There are so many reasons why that isn't going to happen. And so many more ways to answer. The simplest might be to say..."I would," Pharma replies, "except I'm low on fluids at the moment."

"Is that why you're here? Replenishing fluids?"

Eye roll. Is Lancet that poorly educated or just that drunk? "Nevermind about that," he says, "Tell me what you're doing drinking alone."

"I'm not alone! I was...I was..." Lancet flounders, looking around.

Pharma takes the moment to also re-examine the room from this angle. He spots Dent in base mode for once, a rare sight these days—which answers the question of whether their hab suite is occupied or not—sharing a table with the theoretician from the Diplomatic Corps.

"Anyway," says Lancet, "I don't drink more than Ratchet does. Or did. Is that why you put your bitlet inside him? Get him to stop drinking? Well you're not going to do the same to me."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Now there's a hilarious thought.

Lancet takes a swig, down to the dregs, and then another, just to catch those last drops. "Right. You'd have to have your kernel missing to try something like that."

"I wouldn't trust you with drone maintenance, much less a sparkling." He's not even banking on Lancet being too drunk to remember. It just feels good to snipe back.

Lancet turns a thoughtful expression toward his now-empty glass. "You and me both," he mutters, "you and me both." And then his attention wanders to the drink sitting out in front of Pharma.

Pharma pointedly takes a sip. "Are you going to engage your FIM chip now, or do you require assistance?"

"You are a smug aft, you know tha—" Lancet looks confused to find a hand on his arm, attached to another mech. Atomizer.

"How about you walk it off?" Atomizer suggests. "Nice and proper."

Lancet leaves amid a string of curses.

"I won't thank you for that," says Pharma.

Atomizer chuckles softly. "I don't expect you to. What's with that guy, anyway?"

"Who can tell." Who cares.

"I mean, a guy like that, he's still medbay staff, why?"

"You'd have to ask Ratchet if you want a more in-depth answer, but he has his uses." Pharma takes another sip. "As does Hoist."

"Hoist! Now there's a reliable guy."

"Yes he is." Pharma peers over the rim of his glass. Dent and the theoretician are gone now—no, they're still talking; they've joined the mnemosurgeon's party. So has the helicopter.

"Something on your mind?"

Pharma pulls his gaze back to Atomizer. "Oh, not much." He forces a smile. "I was just observing how popular this place seems to be. Is it always...?"

"Pretty much, yeah. I guess you don't come here often, which makes sense, given that uh..."

Let him keep his assumptions. Pharma swirls the glass, remarking, "Awfully thoughtful of Swerve to dilute the drinks for everyone."

"Ha, yeah, that's true." Atomizer leans one elbow against the counter, close enough to mingle his brightening field with Pharma's. "He tries not to be too obvious about it, but it's noticeable, right? It is."

Pharma notices how Atomizer starts to waver as the nanokliks of silence add up. Eventually he takes pity on the mech. "Tell me, do you know him well?"

That was clearly the question to ask, which gets Atomizer talking about his various coworkers from Kimia for a good quarter cycle. From the sound of it, just about every last one of them wound up signing on with the Lost Light.

"Do you miss it?" asks Pharma. "Kimia." He would, if he had spent more than a week there. It was so very state-of-the-art, the facility. After that last conference he'd attended, returning to his post at Delphi was enough of a letdown, and that had only been after a couple days in a new environment, before he had any chance to get comfortable. Imagine working there for years. Pharma sighs into his cup. And then sips at his room temperature beverage. Eugh.

Atomizer shrugs. "Yeah, I guess." More thoughtfully, he adds, "If the station hadn't crashed, and everyone went back to work after the invasion, we'd all still be there probably. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed being on Brainstorm's team but, uh, what's past is past. New adventures, right? Or quests, as Swerve would call 'em."

"Swerve. He used to be a..."

"A metallurgist."

"And now he's a bartender. Hmm."

Atomizer leans in with his field aflutter. "What's that?"

"Just thinking," Pharma replies with a smile, "If we had Swerve in the medbay and Lancet working the bar..."

"Oh that's no good." Atomizer laughs. "Can't have the barkeep deep-diving into his own supply."

Pharma has to laugh also.

That's when he sees Ambulon coming this way, and his thoughts take a turn for the reflective. If his field betrays a more somber mood, well, that can hardly be helped. Regardless...

He manages to keep his smile on. "Ambulon," he says, "You just missed Lancet."

Atomizer snorts.

"Is he always such a heavy drinker?" Pharma goes on to ask. "I didn't want to let him leave with his chip off, but if this is how Lancet's always been..."

"I..." Ambulon starts to say, then subsequently amends to, "You'd have to ask First Aid."

"Oh? Are they friends?" That would make sense, for the two of them to build up a rapport. Aid always did seem like he could thrive somewhere else.

"I don't really know." And then, "I didn't come here to talk about Lancet. I came to ask you..." Ambulon drops off talking to shoot a meaningful look toward Atomizer, who promptly backs off, out of range.

"Hey, don't let me keep you from your doctoring business," says Atomizer, field subsiding. He then tilts a nod to Pharma. "See you later," he drawls, and he's gone in a flash.

Pharma isn't quite sure what to make of that, but at least one-to-one he'll have a better handle on whatever Ambulon is here to discuss. He sets his glass down on the counter and leans appraisingly into a field full of want. Oh. All right, then.

Ambulon withdraws a little, pulls his field back to a semblance of normality.

A bit late, for that, but if it helps him not to clam up? Pharma's willing to pretend. "What did you come here to say?" he asks.

Ambulon hesitates.

"Let's go for a walk," says Pharma.

He leads Ambulon through the crowd, and then he lets himself be led throughout the ship. Ambulon takes him to, of all places, the oil reservoir.

Pharma stares into that dark expanse.

"I've missed you," Ambulon admits.

How is that possible, Pharma thinks to himself. Then he turns his eyes to this mech who is gazing at him in earnest. Coyly, he asks, "How much?" And he steps forward—so close, any closer and their fields could overlay concentric, and from there he submits to the ravishing he's come to enjoy, at the guidance of one so young yet worldly.

Ambulon has him laid out on the platform floor on his side, has him gripping his own leg out of the way for Ambulon to get at his array with those lips, that tongue, and oh yes, he could live like this.

He moans, just to be heard, and he arches at how that tongue flicks over his node again and again and he would rather prolong this. "Spike me," he demands. Not for the newspark now, just for the hell of it, to feel a spike inside his valve, for no reason other than because they can.

Ambulon gives it to him, gives him a spiking like he hasn't had in ages, long and languid and unhurried. And then repositions Pharma for a deeper fit.

He no longer has one leg in the air. He's on his knees, looking out into the dim, with Ambulon at his back with both hands on his hips and that spike, oh that spike...

Ambulon could stick that spike anywhere, right now he'd say yes.

But he is content, also, to let them be. Pharma is content with whatever direction they take, until—

"I'm coming," murmurs Ambulon.

In a fit of inspiration, Pharma asks for him to finish outside of the array.

And he does; after a hasty reposition, he pulls free to spray Pharma's array with a smattering of his fluid, from valve to spike housing and beyond. After which Ambulon devotes himself to erasing the evidence, reprising his opening performance.

Pharma couldn't ask for more.

At the end of the night, when they return to their row, Ambulon lingers with him in the corridor after opening the door. It's the suite Ambulon shares with First Aid, who is surely in there, if not unsuspecting, then reluctant to welcome his company.

And so, despite the gaze that beckons to him, Pharma smiles and stays behind. Perhaps he'll impose another time. Tonight, he waits out the moment for the door to close between them; he watches while the door is shut, with Ambulon standing on the other side, and then he goes to palm for entry to his own room, to return to his own berth, where recharge awaits.

Chapter Text

By now, every patient they brought with them from Delphi has been looked at and worked on, if not successfully then at least extensively. Including the one miner who had been a last-klik addition to their roster.

Pharma isn't quite sure what they'll do with that one, now that the mech is awake. The cranial restoration was a success. The rehabilitation, less so.

First Aid is repeating for the nth time what the mech can expect, now that Messatine and the Serp mines are lightyears away. There are no mines here. There are no other miners, sorry to say. No, they will not be turning the ship around.

Pharma doesn't interfere. He and First Aid have been...frosty, lately. Which is perfectly fine.

Ever since carrying protocols have faded, he doesn't quite care as much how they interact. As long as they each keep to their obligations and the medbay runs as it should, he can try to put everything behind him, like an episode of poor defragmentation, and forget that the past few decacycles ever happened. He can't, of course. But he could almost pretend.

Lancet is in the room, watching First Aid repeat himself again.

Pharma goes over with a datapad which he shoves at the assistant. "If you have time to gawk, you have time to help Hoist pack."

Lancet grumbles and takes the datapad. "I thought Ambulon was supposed to..."

Pharma ignores him. Maybe Ambulon was or Ambulon wasn't, but Ambulon at least is a doctor, who can help the maintenance engineer verify that the team assigned to the upcoming away mission is fit for the trip with no surprises. Which is what those two are currently doing, paying visits to every team member, while the medbay is cluttered with the bodies emptied out from cold storage.

That had been nice, cleaning the bodies out from storage. It had been satisfying, to empty out their backlog. The mess that is the medbay now hasn't dampened that satisfaction. Pharma does what he can to make progress, as do the other members of his staff.

Ratchet's staff, actually. They haven't talked yet, he and Ratchet, about what the plan is for the future, despite however many days it's been. There is so much that is still unspoken between them, and Pharma, for one, is not overeager to begin. So long as Ratchet doesn't hassle him to therapy, he'll count their standoff as a draw.

It's not much of a standoff, really. Pharma works largely uninterrupted, with assistance where needed, and Ratchet...

Ratchet has taken more of an administrative role. Their CMO is more frequently found on the bridge these days, presumably to advise the captain, or to cavort with the other officers such as...well, that doesn't bear thinking about, does it? Except such thoughts as these are often too intrusive not to entertain.

Ratchet is interfacing with Drift regularly. Pharma knows this, because he's seen Drift wandering the halls looking vaguely forlorn—like some long-desired goal has been attained and fallen short of expectations, short of however many hopes and dreams—basically looking exactly how Pharma had felt, once upon a time. That has been vindicating, to know that someone else is aching just as he had. And yet, the bitter proof he's replaced himself with this mech at Ratchet's side...awakens that part of himself which resents letting go of his claim on Ratchet, not that he ever really had one, not that he ever really will. However unhappy Drift may be, Pharma still envies him. And curses this farce of his own making.

Not that he wants the newspark back. Certainly not. Balanced against his desire to have Ratchet back in his berth, he'll take his freedom over the other option, regardless.

And yet he still thinks of those days, in the first and second trimester...

There are nights when he chases his own release, thinking about the opportunities he had to lure Ratchet closer, which he'd squandered in his fits of pique. More than once, he's come to the thought of what could have been, while he lies alone in his berth, with his valve empty and his spike still conveniently unable to spill.

Cleanup is easier that way. And besides. Not even if he were not impotent would he try to get at Ratchet now. It would hurt his pride too much, if Ratchet were to...not even to decline—a simple look of bewilderment, and Pharma would be mortified. So, no, by night he keeps to himself, and by day...

By day, he runs the medbay when he's the only senior doctor around. Pharma does his own work and supervises the staff, and he steers clear of excess entanglement, or he tries to, when he can. There's a reason he sent Ambulon rather than First Aid out with Hoist, but there will not always be errands by which to avoid time spent together. Over a long enough duration, chances are...

Ambulon is not so daring as to press his case in public. And in private, Pharma does not expect much more of an effort. But if he can spare them both the trouble...

He hopes Ambulon will take the hint before he has to be abundantly clear that their liaison was just that, a temporary thing.

True, it did not come to a halt immediately after the transfer, but it was bound to end. That they did fumble around a few more times does not change the fact that there is no future in which they can continue to have an affair. With the newspark as the impetus, that had been permissible, and they had both answered to Ratchet at the time, but now? Ratchet may technically still be CMO, but his role has changed, as has Pharma's.

Although Pharma does not imagine they can slot so easily back into the same hierarchy that they had at Delphi, he does have to do his part to restore order. And how difficult can shifting gears be? Without protocols amplifying every fleeting impulse, surely he can say what needs to be said, when the occasion arises, and hold himself to it. No matter how good the interface was, he can pass on ever having it again with Ambulon.

In the meantime, he avoids making eye contact—like the coward that he is—when Ambulon returns from making hab calls with the maintenance engineer.

Pharma keeps his gaze down low when Ambulon reports back, as if the mech on his slab requires a share in his every moment of attention.
"All went well?" he asks to confirm.

"More or less."

"Good." Pharma keeps his hands moving without pause. Or he tries to, up until Ambulon's field joins the vicinity. Pretending to focus becomes more difficult then.

"How are things here?"

Pharma ventilates quietly. He glances up toward where First Aid had been, where that one mech is still sitting on that comparatively undersized slab, looking somehow more lost than Fortress Maximus had, despite the shorter span of stasis. The mech is hunched over staring at the floor.
"That miner," Pharma states the obvious, "is having trouble adjusting."

Ambulon considers this. Pharma chances a glance to check that he is watching the miner at the very nanoklik he happens to turn back.

Pharma quickly drops his eyes back to his work. He doesn't pick up working again, not immediately, but he does rearrange the plating to be less sensitive to prying eyes. Anyone could walk into the medbay and he...doesn't expect to finish anytime soon.

Ambulon uses this moment to step between his turbine and one folded wing. Any closer, and they'll—

A touch underneath his aileron. Several fingers skim the surface. "Not in the medbay," Pharma warns.

Slag, that implies yes outside of it. Ambulon's EM field pulses with the equivalent of a smile.

Whatever. Pharma will fix this blunder later.

Ambulon withdraws and slips around into clear view. He rests a hand on the edge of the slab where Pharma's patient rests, but his eyes are on the miner across the room. "He knows that we won't go back to Messatine?"

"First Aid only told him about twenty times."

"How's he taking it?"

That miner hasn't moved an inch in the past quarter cycle. "How do you think?"

A pause, and then. "He has to know that we couldn't have left him behind. He would've died."

Yes, he would have, after an accident like that. It had been right as they were loading onto the Lost Light, when several of his fellows brought his body to their door. Which had been a small delay to their departure. Any later, and they would have had to leave him behind.

They had tried to leave the mining community in decent shape before they left. Inevitably there would be more accidents and avoidable deaths, but they had tried, while waiting for a ship to take them away, far away, to ease their absence on Messatine.

The miners in their care...there weren't supposed to be any left; they had done their best to prioritize getting the miners back to full health, while their own injured staff could wait in stable stasis, and handed over a few supplies and instructions for basic aid, what little that would do. It would have to be enough, until Prowl can send reinforcements. Or shut down operations for good.

As if. Pharma is still waiting for a reprimand, not that he's in any hurry.

"You might go talk to him," he says, "and talk him through how to start over. A new life."

Ambulon looks at him as if unable to decipher whether he's teasing.

Pharma isn't too certain, himself. At any rate..."Where's Hoist?" he asks.

"At Swerve's."

Pharma wipes down his tools, his hands. "Swerve's hab suite, or the bar?"

"I uh, I'm not too sure. The latter, I assume, from the way he said it, but he might have meant that he wanted to do another checkup. Last time we looked, the results only just skated by, barely."

"And yet, you deemed him well enough to stay on the roster."

"Swerve was adamant that he felt fine. And it wasn't that bad, for the time being."

Primus, is the metallurgist another one of those types? Thinks he knows a little something about the Cybertronian body so there's no reason to pay attention to his own frame? Pharma would comment on this irritating tendency among their ranks, but Ambulon is not the one who needs to hear it. Instead, somewhat futilely he instructs, "Keep an eye on Swerve after the mission."

"Of course."

Pharma starts for the exit. He doesn't have much of a reason to go look for Hoist, doesn't have any reason really, but it's an excuse to go off separately from the medical bay.

Perhaps he'll even talk to Swerve, the metallurgist who, apparently, has much in common with Ratchet. Perhaps that'll help him pick apart the mindset of whatever is going on.

The hab suite then, or the bar? Either or is a place to start. The bar first might be a better bet—and conveniently doesn't call for a lookup in the directory or calling ahead. Pharma can just drop in and ask for a moment of Swerve's time.

He might say hello to Hoist too, while he's at it, if Hoist is present, just so that everyone understands where they are, with preparations underway.

He's feeling rather all right with the proceedings, with how everything is going right now, when an unholy shriek reverberates through the air and just as suddenly cuts off into silence. He stumbles mid-stride and trips upward through a rip in the walls to find himself floating outside the ship now, rapidly drifting past. He struggles, in that vacuum, to find purchase on the hull. In the nanoklik that he has to not fall behind, he reaches out desperately and grabs on, several floors away, singlehandedly. But the space trash that shook the ship was not so neat as to strike in a mere few chunks, and Pharma is rendered helpless under another barrage of debris. He is severed from his hold. He barely has any time to panic, before the next impact knocks him out.

Chapter Text

Warning after warning clutters his HUD. He sees nothing but warnings, the most urgent of which he scans at top-level down...

He offlines. He onlines in a brig. Not a brig, a hangar. With cargo.

There are voices.

He onlines again, in a brightly lit laboratory. A shape looms over him, crowned with—

That's the Chief Justice who's leaning over to examine him with a critical eye. The Chief Justice, Tyrest, is watching over him as if observing a patient, or an experiment, or whatever else could occupy that steely gaze.

Tyrest was once an engineer, he distantly recalls.

This has to be the most bizarre episode of defragmentation he's ever had. And that's saying something, considering.

Pharma allows himself to slip back into unconscious lack of thought.

The next time he onlines (not on the floor but on a circuit slab) there's no doubt about it. This is Tyrest's domain. Tyrest, who has not been seen since—

"You're awake," Tyrest declares.

Pharma isn't sure how to respond.

This is just bizarre. He could just as soon imagine waking to the Prime or Primus himself. It's not his imagination at play, however. He can't just lie here in ignorance and risk offending...

He glances up at the Chief Justice. His savior, he supposes.

Well, that's good, right? To have woken up in the care of the esteemed Chief Justice, rather than smashed to bits between a bunch of asteroids...? It has to be.

"Where am I?"

"My base," Tyrest answers, "on Luna One."

Luna...One?

Primus be damned. He's found the Chief Justice and the missing moon all in one go.

His first thought is that Prowl would be tickled to hear of this, if he could get a message across. His second is to question whether Prowl already knows. But then, if so, why hasn't the news spread? If not of Tyrest's continued existence then of Luna One at least?

His next thought is that there might be a reason why the Chief Justice and the moon have been in hiding, a peculiar reason why the Autobots have been unable to locate either or. And with that thought returns the creeping trepidation from when he'd woken in a daze. It is a reminder, frosted over his frame. No matter what his Autobot allegiance ought to indicate, he is certainly not safe yet. Pharma is no safer here with Tyrest on the moon than he was with...

With Tarn, back on Messatine. On those occasions when Tarn had seemed almost civil.

He tries to disguise that chill of reminiscence with a display of gratitude, bolting upright and off the slab to kneel (collapse) at the Chief Justice's feet. Whatever that might mean for his future, for him to kneel here as if he pledges a debt.

"Rise," says Tyrest, sounding amused.

Pharma stands, flexing his struts, which are more than a tad too stiff for his liking. At the odd sensation movement provokes—an atypical feeling, even after the extensive period of inaction he's had lately—he looks down to his left side. Attached to his arm is...that's not his hand. That's some feat of engineering built to an uncanny likeness, but it's not his hand, nor his wrist, which...

He must've lost that part of himself, when he was flung into space.

Tyrest must have noticed how he's testing the joints of the replacement, how he's acclimating himself by clenching and unclenching a fist, for the question comes: "How do you like it?"

It is not his hand, but. "It's perfect. Thank you, Chief Justice. For this gift. And for saving my life."

Tyrest nods. "Follow me." And he walks off in such quick strides that Pharma, who has grown accustomed to working alongside persons of a shorter stature, at first has trouble keeping up.

Pharma is led into a spacious brightly lit chamber. The laboratory, he thinks to himself.

At its center is a strange device, tall and flat. Tyrest indicates this device—lest it might be possible for him to miss this obstruction which clearly occupies a place of honor?—with all the elegance of a tired maestro.

"If there is one thing you must know during your stay here," says Tyrest, "This is what I refer to as the 'universal killswitch'; it is the necessity by which I intend to open a path to Cyberutopia, and the reason for which you were brought to me. Do not touch the killswitch, or else."

A killswitch to get to Cyberutopia? How is the means to find utopia a killswitch? And why would Pharma ever want to interfere? Although, if this switch is the reason he'd been brought here...

There are so many questions he wants to ask but, upon closer scrutiny, he realizes Tyrest is covered in scars: puncture wounds all over the body, including one deep above the eyes.

At the sight of that hole bored into the brain, he is jolted to a conclusion: he can do nothing but nod. If the Chief Justice is truly so unhinged as these wounds would suggest, there is no need to say anything that could make the tyrant cross.

"Do not concern yourself with the killswitch. You have already done your part to confirm it will not harm a forged mech, and there is no further need for you in this room. Come."

So many questions on the tip of his tongue, and Pharma will not risk any of them. Surely there will be opportunities later, to learn of what fresh nonsense is happening here?

Maybe it's not nonsense. Maybe Pharma would agree that it all makes perfect sense, if only Tyrest would explain.

Or, perhaps, if Pharma were to have languished in space a little longer, he would be of no sound mind to object to whatever awe-inducing logic is at play.

Who knows.

Tyrest leads him back to the medical facility, where he had awoken on a slab that second time. Here, he realizes, is an unusual assortment of equipment, all piled around the room. Now that he has the presence of mind to look around, he can see that the perimeter is littered with what looks to be an incredible hoard of innovative technology. Kimia could never.

"All this." Tyrest gestures at that obscene wealth with a flourish. "Will be yours now," the Chief Justice states magnanimously, "Do with these toys as you wish."

Pharma is speechless. If this is to be his cell, at least he'll never die of boredom.

"I will call for you if or when I have need of you. Until then, here, you are free to do as you please. As for the rest of the compound, there are few places off-limits, although there will be some sensitive, hazardous locations."

"Understood, Chief Justice. You have my undying gratitude." Or something along those lines.

"Star Saber will help you get situated."

"...Star Saber?" Pharma can't help but to wonder. Star Saber, as in the Dark Evangelist? That Star Saber?

"Yes. Star Saber," Tyrest replies, in such a tone as would suggest that this unnecessary question is already an immense liberty to take, delaying the Chief Justice from far more important tasks. Further impositions, his tone implies, will not be brooked without consequence.

Pharma bows his head meekly and waits. Only silence follows, punctuated by the susurrous sound of the Chief Justice's departure. To where, Pharma dares not ask.

He spends the next cycle pacing his new research center, too nervous to settle in and study any one thing, too stimulated not to start touching every object that he can with his hands both new and old, to investigate and learn. If all this is now his, where to begin? Experimentation awaits.

When the doors open again, Pharma looks up from handling a gyroscope of some sort. Star Saber is standing there, looking exactly like in the holos.

Oh hell. The Dark Evangelist is here to be his tour guide. Pharma sets down the gyroscope, on top of a translucent cabinet filled with unknown liquids, and turns toward the exit.

"Come with me," intones the Evangelist, whose voice is so laden with judgment and gaze rife with menace, they speak of an eternal march to war.

If Pharma were a lesser mech, unaccustomed to dealing with persons of stature or other such threats, he could spontaneously offline from this speck of attention bestowed upon him by the Evangelist. As is, he falls into step, grateful to be out of sight.

He trails after the Evangelist into the hall, from room to room, with only clipped sentences to introduce him to the function of each facility. Pharma rather thinks he could do without the tour if only they would give him the layout of the base on a map, but he dares not speak out of turn. This is Star Saber, the aspiring author of a holocaust, and this first meeting of theirs will not go awry if he can help it.

The tour concludes outdoors. Pharma gazes out into the vastness of space overhead, before his eye is drawn to the...cell blocks up ahead? A structure completely built or partially in the process, he cannot tell for sure.

Star Saber stands beside him now, assessing his line of sight. "That is where we will house the apostates and heretics of Crystal City," Star Saber openly tells him, "when I take our forces to defeat Dai Atlas."

Pharma looks up at the mech now towering over him. Even clear-headed as he is, he is still susceptible to the casual intimidation of a warbuild of this size.

Star Saber, at least, isn't Tarn. And he himself is no longer in the position of an Autobot menaced by a Decepticon warmonger; here he is the newcomer to this strange new realm, currently conversing with a...mech of mutual affiliation, albeit one who would battle an old senator. As simple as that.

Well. He would be conversing, if he could trust himself not to offend. But he knows next to nothing of this Evangelist, and what little he can ascertain of those mannerisms he's observed brings to mind the few occasions he's had to wait on Sentinel Prime. It had been drilled into him, then, not to let himself be a distraction. The likes of Sentinel would not want to be nattered at, so that same sense of self preservation applies here.

Then again, Star Saber is here to be his guide. Some chatter is to be expected.

Pharma is deciding what to say, when a brutish Decepticon hunkers into view. This particular Decepticon comes decorated with an inadvisable number of modifications on the frame, too numerous, in his opinion, to not overtax most systems or the spark. He could be wrong; maybe this Cybertronian was forged (constructed?) that way but. Probably not.

Pharma apprehensively eyes that too familiar badge, wondering what the brain-damaged Chief Justice is doing with Decepticons on the moon, and then glances away. "Who's this?" he has to ask his unreactive guide, before sneaking another peek at—

The Decepticon brute twinkles at him. "Aw, sweetspark, don't you remember me? My guys and I were the ones who pulled you from the wreck."

"The wreck."

"The wreckage of Metroplex, yeah."

Oh Primus, that's what hit them? Pieces of Metroplex, the Titan. "I suppose I should thank you...?" Unknown Decepticon who, unfortunately, has seen him in a state of disrepair. Or, worse, was with him for who knows how long, during that vulnerable time, with a bunch of other Cons he hopes to never have to meet.

"Name's Lockdown," says the Decepticon with a grin. "And I know all about you, Pharma Fancy Hand."

Pharma stares at this Lockdown momentarily. And then turns to Star Saber, who seems to be bearing with their conversation, much as a member of Sentinel's Elite Guard might have tolerated (ignored) any antics that didn't call for an immediate beatdown.

Star Saber returns a look of cool disdain. Whether it's for him or for the Decepticon, Pharma is unsure. Either way...

"Are we done here?" Pharma asks.

The Decepticon named Lockdown answers. "Sure thing," he says, "soon as you're gone, Sabers and I have business to discuss."

The otherwise indecipherable Star Saber lets off a vent which Pharma can only assume is a contemptuous scoff at one who would presume such familiarity with the Evangelist.

Pharma is both disappointed and relieved, to see the Decepticon still standing unharmed despite this overt display of annoyance. A sign, perhaps? That the Dark Evangelist is not as unreasonable as the stories would have one believe. Pharma nonetheless puts some distance between them, just in case.

"You and I have no business that cannot wait," Star Saber tells Lockdown. He then turns swiftly on his heel. He is almost at the gate, by the time he stops to glance behind him.

That impatient glare has Pharma hurrying to catch up. As he does, he ventures to ask Star Saber whether that Decepticon is a...how to put it? A regular contractor of Tyrest's.

Star Saber pauses to answer. "The Chief Justice," he says, "has many associates," and leaves it at that.

Unspoken are any thoughts on Lockdown specifically, but Pharma hears them all the same.

Star Saber takes him back inside, away from the site of that empty internment camp, and courteously drops him off at his new quarters.

Compared to the fantastical research facility he has just received today, Pharma's new quarters are equipped with a paucity of things. They are still relatively lavish, for someone who's been sharing a standard-issue hab on a starship. He is reminded, a little, of his suite back in Delphi. For one, the bed is of a decent size. And two, the amenities here are complete with private washracks, which is something of a relief.

"Here's my comm," says Star Saber, who, when Pharma has taken it, teleports away without further ado.

Oh is that a thing around here, casual teleportation, just like that? No one has a care here, whatsoever, for their health?

Alone in his quarters, Pharma picks at the seams of the walls, the furniture. Everything here feels...new.

It's still early yet, according to his chronometer, so he finds his way back to the research facility. Along the route he takes, he passes no one of note, just those drones who stand guard, those golden giants. What were they called? Legislators? The tour had included a stop at the (inactive) factory.

Pharma picks up the gyroscope he'd been examining previously and proceeds to have another look.

The next few cycles pass uninterrupted in a blur of new contraptions and machinery.

Pharma could be content, if he weren't so anxious still. About his place here, with the Chief Justice, with Star Saber. And the Decepticon, who can't be the only one of that faction. There most be more, he thinks, more mercenaries for the...fight with Dai Atlas? What is there even to fight for, now?

That evening, in a strange new room on a strange old moon, Pharma takes the time to relieve himself of the charge that has been strangely building throughout his array. There must be something wrong with him, for him to self-service at a time like this, when he knows not whether he is guest or prisoner or conscript on these grounds. Pharma does not know yet where he'll stand with these mechs, each of whom has him outclassed in size and might. Any of them could destroy him in an instant and. There must be something wrong with him, to be touching his own panel at that thought.

There is something very wrong with him, for Pharma to be replaying image captures—nothing in archival quality, just the broad strokes—of the mechs he's met today. Perhaps when he was put back together, some wires had gotten crossed. He'll have to perform a self-exam tomorrow. He will, so that these impressions can stop haunting him and his array. That is one thing he can do, before he...

Pharma has no idea how long he has to stay here at Tyrest's base. The thought that it might be forever does nothing to dispel the lead-up to his overload, which he reaches with a muffled cry, with his new fingers between his teeth.

When he is spent, he lies awake in the dark with a vague sense of self-loathing, wondering when will he work up the courage to ask permission to borrow a shuttle and leave.

Chapter Text

There is plenty to keep him occupied at his new research center on the moon, if he will allow himself to submerge into its wealth and sink into (re)discovering the cutting edge of Cybertronian medicine. The riches at his disposal come from every unauthorized corner of science's intersection with crime. They include contraband of the utmost illegality, collected throughout the ages. He is sure of it. He has no complaints, of course. Whom would he even tell? Prowl?

Prowl, he thinks—he knows—would be envious.

And Ratchet? Ratchet would be envious too, if he had the imagination to sense what else is out there, to strive for more. Or perhaps that's not giving him sufficient credit; Ratchet did work at a research university, for a while. They weren't friends at the time yet, but they were acquainted and—

Inevitably, Pharma's processor pulls up memories of the very start of their acquaintance, when he had been an undergrad feeling rather low that semester, and Ratchet...

No, stop. Do not think about those days. Ratchet probably thinks that he's dead or lost in space, and he will not pine for a mech who could not be bothered to find his body.

No, that's not fair. Tyrest's people had him whisked away before anyone else could retrieve him.

Or had they? Pharma doesn't actually know the details. Nor does he know whether he is free to go. If he requests to...to not so much as be released from service, no, but to take a leave of absence, could he—and return?

No one has told him his station outright nor declared him to be a prisoner here; he has every indication that, if not exactly their equal, he is not quite their inferior either, to Star Saber or to Lockdown, and they come and go as they please. So he could, he thinks, raise the question. But how, without upsetting the Chief Justice? Pharma would appear unappreciative of his generosity, to broach the topic so soon. And yet to keep waiting...

Tomorrow, he tells himself each day, tomorrow he will ask. But there is never a time during which Tyrest seems in a receptive mood to see him, and so tomorrow passes on, day by day, with this one goal of his unmet.

Time passes, and he does everything there is to do on this moonbase, except approach Tyrest about, if not borrowing a shuttle, then at least sending a message through subspace. Pharma does whatever else there is to do, of which there is plenty. The terrain to explore, the toys that would put Kimia to shame, and...there is also the prisoner. A real prisoner, one single prisoner behind bars, and not a coward who hasn't yet figured out how to ask a slagging question of a mech who has not in any way demonstrably meant him harm—who has, in fact, given him everything when he had nothing...

The point is. Pharma knows of one clearly designated prisoner on the premises. There is one single prisoner to fill the otherwise vacant cells he has seen, not unlike how their concentrated base of operations sits on this vast empty moon. The prisoner, Pharma learns, is named Getaway.

The golden guards—the Legislators—don't react when he visits. Neither does Getaway. Not at first.

Bit by bit, however, as they stare at each other across the bars...

"Come to gawk?" A show of bravado, from one so helpless.

Pharma doesn't think he's shown any sign that he's here to taunt a mech in jail, but the prisoner can be forgiven the assumption. And perhaps, well, why not? See what else the prisoner has to say. "Just so you're aware, I'm not usually in the habit," he tells the prisoner, "of gawking at failed assassins." Pharma doesn't know the full story—another one of those things he's been meaning to ask—but he's picked up the gist along the way.

Getaway snorts. "I'm not in the habit of staying caught. And I wasn't an assassin. Just so you're aware."

"Hmm. You're an Autobot."

"Correct." The answer is brimming with sarcasm and a thousand unspoken quips.

Pharma lets that slide. "Whom do you serve? Or did you go rogue?"

"Come again?"

"When you attacked the Chief Justice. Were you following orders?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

That's about as much cooperation as he could expect. Doesn't really clarify whether he's dealing with an unlucky opportunist or an agent of an unknown power, whether within their faction or without, or some poor unfortunate sap who'd gotten caught up in a complicated plot, and it's not as if he really needs to know. But Pharma looks the prisoner over, really studies what he sees sitting behind bars. A smooth faceplate, a serviceable frame. Without access to the med specs, he'd guess built for speed, more recently than not, although whether that's new or an original...

"You weren't outfitted with much for your mission, were you?" he asks. "Didn't carry a lot of equipment, for a special agent. So what are you, a honeypot? Did you move too fast and anger your mark?"

Getaway isn't offended. Or is at least too well trained to show it. "Is that what you think?"

"You said you weren't an assassin." And the bot does have a nice chassis, handsomer than most.

"So according to your processor those are the two main options, huh." Getaway slouches against the wall as strutlessly as possible without risking slipping off the bench. "Maybe you're the real honeypot in action. I could tell them that, get you thrown in here with me."

The thought has crossed his mind, before, that If he is seen to be conversing with the prisoner too often, regardless of his intentions, if this is considered to be interfering...

"Listen," says Getaway, "You really want to know what's the deal here? Your boss Tyrest is wackier than a leaker running on fumes transported into the body of a sparkeating turbofox, and he's only going to get worse. I was supposed to...play a role in damage control. Things didn't work out, but we tried, and I'm warning you now: watch out, and get out while you can."

Inspirational, really. "I should get out of here," asks Pharma, "and take you with me?"

"Ideally. But I'm not pausing my processes waiting for rescue, you feel?"

"Mm yes, you have much better things to do with your time."

"Pit yes I do. Like counting sheepacrons, or having a staring contest with that shiny oversized drone..."

"You could ask for a rematch."

"Huh?"

"Did you lose the last contest? Ask for a rematch from that Legislator over there."

Getaway laughs. A pause, then, "You going to be sticking around for much longer? Someone could see us conspiring, might decide to make you my cellmate. Not that I'd complain, of course."

"Of course." It's true; he shouldn't linger.

"See you around," Getaway calls out behind him. While the Legislators stand guard neatly, with no other mechs in sight coming this way. Pharma is the only one to roam these halls, this moment. A whole palace on the moon, and often he's the sole courtier to be found.

He's not cooped up in his facility—no one's confining him here—but he may as well be, for how sparse the company. And what reason does he have to sight-see? Go out and look at the rocks on the ground? Or stare up past the lack of atmosphere, wonder where the Lost Light is at now?

He has his gadgets, his projects. Here he has all the enrichment he'll get, left to his own devices like a sparkling in a tank.

How many decacycles has it been now, since his newspark split into existence? He hadn't even planned ahead, when he gave it to Ratchet, what sort of setup they would have, when the time would come for the new mechanism to have its own little enclosure. He'd had the vague notion of a tank on a cart, to wheel it around the medbay, but other than that...there were diagrams for this sort of thing, he recalls, to keep sparklings occupied. So that they could get up to speed a little sooner, or so the theory goes, catch up to planetarily forged mechs with less effort, less involvement from their caretakers. Mentors and carriers were still supposed to spend an inordinate amount of time on sparkling care but. They could get away with less, with the right environment.

It's a funny thought, being analogous to a sparkling with Tyrest as his mentor.

His sparkling, at least, is in good (if non-functioning) hands. He has no doubt about his choice of surrogate, now more so than ever. Imagine trying to raise a sparkling here? Perhaps Tyrest would be so kind as to engineer a perfect little playtank for them. But it would be a lonely existence; Cybertronians, young ones especially, aren't meant for longterm isolation. Pharma would have to take the sparkling out for walks, making the rounds. Hello, friend Legislator, daily outing again, yes. Hello, Chief Justice, and goodbye. (Sorry to be a bother, sir.) Hello, Lockdown and company, you scrappy Cons. (No, don't repeat that.) Hello, prisoner Getaway. Hello, Star Saber, why yes, more tales of Primus would be lovely...

All in all, it is for the best that he is here without it. Pharma can stay here and focus on his research now—he is more researcher than practitioner now, though he has made a few attempts to offer medical advice unsolicited. Even Lockdown's crew, fat lot of good that would do; they took his attempts as an opening to...well. Bounty hunters, that lot, weren't they? Decorum can hardly be expected, even if some of them do sound surprisingly well educated.

So he keeps to himself now for the most part, whiling his time away writing up conjectures and testing them with such efficiency, the likes of Jhiaxus would be jealous. Pharma engages in experimental research, flouting convention on the regular. What's the worse that could happen? He makes a mistake, takes the whole grid down with him? There is so much that is of value in this place, and yet what of it truly matters? None. Except his notes, if ever he has a chance to share them.

How reckless he's become could render First Aid a dutiful student by comparison.

Pharma is tinkering in the facility when Lockdown strides in to badger him again. Whatever he is working on at times like these, Pharma has learned, will have to wait.

"Yo, I've been thinking. Would be nice ta have a change of spike."

"A change of spike." Spoken as casually as other people would speak of a change of spark.

"Yeah."

"You come up with that line just now, or while you were fendered?"

"I'm serious." Said with a smile.

"Uh huh."

"Think you can put some more bells and whistles for me down there?"

Slap on another mod on top of whatever Lockdown's already got? No. Go in and haul for a partial reframe? Maybe. But no need to tell him that. Instead: "I'm not a cosmetic surgeon."

"It's not cosmetic," Lockdown happily argues, "It'll be functional!"

Pharma turns a skeptical set of optics at the Decepticon's groin. "I'm not going to mess with your array only to have you come back crying that the overloads aren't the same."

"Doctor of your skill, I'm sure that won't be a prob—"

"No."

"Just a few tweaks, I've got a blueprint here—"

"I don't have to do anything for you. So unless our lord and master has left explicit instructions for your spike..." And what an image that conjures! Can't terminate the thought fast enough.

"Pharma. Doctor. Come on."

"No."

"Hey! Who found you adrift, picked you up and dusted you off, and brought you back here?" Lockdown lays a hand on one wing, rubs his greasy fingertips along the surface like some start of a massage. "You should play nice."

Pharma shakes him off. "Oh? So I have to play nice, because you delivered your cargo like you were supposed to, and I happened to be a part of it?" A flick of both wings for emphasis. "Get out of my medbay."

Lockdown cracks that long neck of his from side to side, appraising Pharma with an unfriendly glint. "You sad sack doctor, I could've let 'em scrap you for parts or worse. An Autobot like you, they would've loved taking you apart."

Is he supposed to feel grateful they didn't desecrate his frame when they had the chance? "Get out, before I call Star Saber."

"HA! Sabers? He doesn't answer to you. And neither do I." Lockdown nonetheless hunkers out, but not before he gets in one last parting shot. "Sooner or later, one of these days. Doctor Pharma, one of these days you're going to know just how much nobody here likes you." And then, with a grunt and a grumbling shake of the head, Lockdown steps through.

Waiting outside is the Con's lieutenant who, once the doors open, stands smartly at attention with a rather pointless announcement for his boss.

Lockdown pats him patronizingly on the arm. "Nice of you to deliver the message in person, Barrage," he says, "That could've been a comm."

There is something toothless about Lockdown, despite appearances to the contrary. However many more Cons he has under his command, he is not as fearsome as Tarn. And the way in which he makes a general nuisance of himself...

Pharma is struck by an absurdist thought. How might a combiner comprised of Tarn and a bunch of more harmless Bots behave? Like that quirky weapons engineer. Or the chatty bartender, the (former?) metallurgist.

He might be losing his mind, to be having these thoughts, but all his scans came back clean. At any rate. There is something about Lockdown that makes venting his buildup of frustration at the Con safer than the other choice.

"You've taken an interest in the prisoner," Star Saber notes while out on a flight with Pharma one day. They sometimes fly together, as an excursion. And each time Pharma has the same fleeting thought, if he isn't still a prisoner that Star Saber is monitoring at the Chief Justice's behest, albeit one far more comfortable than the would-be agent of chaos they have locked up in a cell.

"Have I?" Pharma replies, as airily as he can. "I don't mean to sound bored, but there is only so much to do, outside of my quarters, and he is a better conversationalist than any of the Cons." Which is a bit of a disservice to Lockdown and the others, actually, not that it matters. "He's not a danger now, is he?"

Star Saber ignores the question. "If you have not," comes the warning, "take care that you don't." And with that, they land together on the far side of the large prison compound that is still empty as of yet.

The site of an internment camp to be filled in the not-too-distant future by the conquest of a city, and here it's just a landmark for their excursion.

Pharma has yet to attempt veering off course when they fly. Star Saber lets him lead, sometimes, but that is, if anything, more uncomfortable than being bid to follow. Star Saber's gaze is like a target upon his back.

Occasionally the thought does occur to him, that perhaps Star Saber has sought him out simply for his company from a rather limited pool. The Dark Evangelist is only a mech, after all; perhaps he, too, has grown lonely here on the moon.

Chapter Text

Pharma spends his days in isolation, inside the facility he now thinks of as his lab.

At first he had been overwhelmed by the many instruments at his disposal. The extension of his left arm, for starters, is a contraption worth marveling over a vorn, if not for the many puzzles he has yet to explore. In his lab he has access to an endless world of possibility, where he need only apply focus and drive.

And yet. Breakthrough after breakthrough, and not even a plethora of record-setting discoveries could distract him from the troops' victorious return, with new prisoners in tow.

Reluctantly, he goes out to greet the Chief Justice and the Evangelist, with their assembled legions, and to catch a glimpse of...yes, that is indeed Dai Atlas, the old senator. They have captured Dai Atlas, the apparent nemesis of the Dark Evangelist, who saw fit to utilize the Chief Justice's considerable resources for revenge—or punishment, as the Evangelist likes to claim.

And with Dai Atlas are scores more new faces. A city's worth of people, all part of the same cult. Whatever schism has brought them Star Saber's wrath, Pharma tells himself he does not care.

But then he witnesses the factories replenish the Legislators' dwindled numbers. And he sees, and he hears, and he dreams of Delphi all over again.

Pharma dreams of burnt cogs and melted faces, of prisoners turned patients turned Legislators, too numerous to count. He dreams of bodies wetly gleaming: identically bright and brassy, then uniformly tarnished, dark as night. He dreams of red optics. He dreams...

And he wakes feeling like his chronometer's askew.

It isn't, of course. He's simply disoriented from the imagery that's plagued him during defrag for several recharge cycles in a row. He hides away in his lab, but it's no use; Pharma knows full well what's happening out there, now that the factories are running.

He hides, because he cannot face the perpetrators, nor can he face himself.

The Chief Justice has been good to him.

The Chief Justice is murdering dozens every day.

The Chief Justice will not stop. And Pharma...

Pharma can do nothing but pretend this isn't happening. He throws himself into his research but he cannot focus, he cannot think; even in his rooms far away, he hears the phantom cries across the base; no matter how low he desensitizes his audials, he can still hear, oh he can hear, echoing inside his brain module, the struggles of the dying.

Guilt is eating at him day by day, and in his frustration he upturns a table at the next Titan hunter who dares disturb him in his lab. What noise! And what a row, when Lockdown takes affront at the insult to one of his lackeys. Pharma does so enjoy an opportunity to bicker.

They clash, again and again. With or without an audience. With or without one or both of them slinking off to lick their wounds.

After their fights, Pharma is once more alone with his thoughts, those useless thoughts which swirl around and around, day and night.

Why, he asks himself, should he intervene. Can he not just do his work? Is it not enough, to uncover answers that have been long sought after, for the betterment of all mechs? Must he also lay his life on the line for these prisoners? What obligation does he have, to risk himself, his research? He is so close to halting cybercrosis. Even if the root issue of burnout is unsolvable, the very fact that cybercrosis need not be a death sentence—surely that is cause for, at the very least, a delay?

A delay? A delay would imply some course of action he would take, once his research is complete. If he is honest with himself, he would not; he would not act against the slaughter. Even if he were to solve every mystery tomorrow, he would not venture to intercede on the prisoners' behalf. Pharma would not lift a hand, lest he lose it. These prisoners are not his patients, and even his own patients he did slay to spare the rest.

At first he had simply stolen from the deceased; what did that matter? And then he had let slip the more difficult cases at Delphi; that too had been easy enough to excuse. And all the while he had told himself that he had no recourse but to sacrifice the few for the many...

And what are these prisoners but a few cultists, against the many of the Cybertronian people's future?

But he could, couldn't he, preserve his notes somewhere safe, and then...

And then what? Stop the machines, assassinate Tyrest? Hopefully accomplish both, before Star Saber cuts him down?

Perhaps he could create a distraction long enough to steal a shuttle. Pin the blame on someone else. If he releases Getaway...

Getaway.

What is so special about Getaway, that this prisoner could languish in their cells in solitude? What is so different about him, that has spared him the fate of countless others? Now that Pharma knows how Legislators are made, he can see how these holding cells are meant to stand, empty, except on those rare occasions the Chief Justice receives a deluge of fresh stock for the factory.

Against his better judgment, Pharma finds himself back to staring across the electrobars at their special prisoner Getaway.

"Why aren't you dead yet," Pharma wonders aloud.

Getaway squints up at him. "How do you want me to answer that?"

"Most prisoners don't last as long as you have," Pharma deigns to add, "What's keeping you here?"

Getaway sprawls on the flat surface of the bench as if it were a full-size slab, the very image of repose. "I reckon they like to keep me around looking pretty..."

"Very funny."

"Hey, I'm not the one who brought up honeypots."

"You're still mad about that?"

Getaway sprawls a little further. "I'm not mad."

"Oh?"

Seated upright now, palms over thighs, quick as a blink: "I'm a professional."

"Oh, you're a professional...what, exactly? Neither honeypot nor assassin, or so you claim, so what are you?"

"I'm a professional secret keeper." The sound of a smile.

"All right then." He won't press, if Getaway won't tell. "Whatever you are, you must be valuable, yes?"

"I suppose." The reply is nonchalant, but the eyes, they're attentive now.

"You're valuable enough, the Chief Justice would certainly want you kept alive. Perhaps might even insist you be brought back from the brink of death?"

Getaway narrows his gaze. "What are you saying?"

Pharma has to resist the urge to speak as giddily as he feels. "I'm saying," he begins slowly, "if you were to require medical attention..." And he waits for Getaway to get the gist.

Sure enough, the self-professed secret keeper understands. "Oh yes, doctor," he replies, "I am this close to deactivating for good, I tell you. Have I mentioned they keep me smoldering in this, hmm, variable voltage harness half the time? There's gotta be a recommended limit on those things. As if anyone here cares. I doubt your pal the sadist has been following instructions..."

There has to be some way to contrive an incident that will permit him to remove Getaway from the cell. There has to be some way, to induce the appearance of a serious enough injury, without killing the mech. It won't be easy, given Tyrest's own expertise with construction, but perhaps something esoteric might slide? It would have to be at least a little theatrical, though, and they can't rely on Getaway's acting skills...nor can he sabotage the harness, but. Without access to the harness itself, he could, maybe, cause a mech to still appear unusually susceptible to its influence? To the point that a physician would have to be called if they wish to proceed?

Pharma stops two paces from re-entering his lab. There, blocking the entrance, is Star Saber.

What else can he do? On the fly he decides to pretend that waiting for him is some cantankerous alt-exempt fool here for an impatient last-klik appointment, and why not? This mech has, whether by political intrigue or honest warfare, put down a rival Senator, so why not act like yesteryear they would have ranked the same.

"Star Saber! Have you been kept waiting? How may I be of service?" He tries to feign enthused interest as innocently as he can, but it rings false even to himself.

Star Saber stares down at him, unmoving. "I did tell you to stay away."

Pharma pretends not to comprehend. "To stay away," he echoes.

"Yes."

"Stay away from...?" he ventures, as insipidly as he can.

"The prisoner," Star Saber bites out.

"Oh." Pharma glances the way he came and points, then makes daring eye contact with the Evangelist, who may not be standing close enough to read his field but is definitely close enough to hack him to pieces with a few casual flicks.

He gets the sense that Star Saber is giving him enough wire with which to hang himself.

Pharma smiles faintly and lowers his arm to his side. "I thought," he starts to say, "I thought you meant to warn me not to heed him as a person lest I fall under his sway." He smiles again. "I didn't think you meant I ought to disregard him entirely as a mechanism, whose fluctuating health could require—"

"Getaway," Star Saber informs him, "has withstood far worse. Do not concern yourself with his health; he will have a trial and execution soon."

Has Getaway not already had a trial? "Soon?" Pharma has to ask.

Star Saber answers, "When we catch his fellow conspirator, they will die together."

Ah. Interesting. "Very well. I will try to refrain from seeing to the prisoner."

Star Saber steps away from the entrance, towering over Pharma as he passes. "Try harder."

Pharma musters the courage to double-down on his act, while staring at Star Saber's retreating back, and has to hurry to catch up before it's gone.

Star Saber, at least, slows down. And Pharma isn't dead yet.

So he smiles and lightly asks, "Where are you going?"

"That is none of your concern."

"No? Then when will you be free later?"

Star Saber cants an indication Pharma can only assume is permission to speak.

"I saw you very briefly only once after your return from battle," he elaborates, "and I have nothing about your records from before. I think another exam—"

Star Saber brushes him off. "You will know when I want your aid."

Feeling oddly bold, Pharma steps right into the Evangelist's shadow. "As your physician, I insist."

That stops him short. "As my physician?" Star Saber enunciates the question.

"Yes," says Pharma, "Am I not? Given that the Chief Justice has retained my services not just for himself..." And here he smiles yet again.

Star Saber breaks eye contact almost immediately for what might be the first time. "Tomorrow," he says, "I will come see you." And then he is off at a newly invigorated pace.

Well. That went well? Although having an actual appointment—an ominously vague one, at that—with Star Staber may be more worrisome than he'd like, Pharma is still a doctor, with a doctor's responsibilities, and he will do what has to be done.

He might try, also, with Tyrest and have a look at those puncture wounds, see how deeply they've penetrated. Get a chance, also, to assess the neurological damage.

Tyrest might refuse him, and that would be fine; he'll have done what duty requires of him, as a doctor. What he's really after is an excuse to hover—to make conversation and observe. There is so much to discuss, and that was before. Now, it is high time that he strive to ingratiate himself to the Chief Justice. If he can get Tyrest to gainsay Star Saber's command, all the better. (Though that might be pushing it.) The plan he had in mind, he hasn't quite committed to bringing to fruition. And yet, now that he's begun to think it over...surely there must be, if not myriad ways to attain the same end, one alternative that won't cost him? That won't risk his life at the outset, to break apart the Chief Justice's diabolical schemes.

There is one place to find Tyrest most days, and so Pharma heads in the direction of the Chief Justice's all-important killswitch. He does not often come this way, having been warned off, from the day they met, against anything that could be construed as interference. He will have to be careful, how he presents his case for making an unexpected appearance in the control room. As he approaches, he slows to collect his thoughts and. A whiff of energon—not just any type but a trace of innermost, coasting through the air. Pharma can smell it in the hall. There has been spillage, as recent as the rebuilding of the Legislator army, and the realization dawns on him, that not all the cries of distress he has heard around here originate from deep within the smelters.

Whatever trials Tyrest is conducting with the aptly named killswitch is causing its share of terror. Pharma finds himself reluctant to disturb the Chief Justice at work—even though he has met the killswitch and survived its operation, or so he's been told—knowing what he may find.

More than ever, he wants off this moon. But it is too late now, to ask permission, and too difficult without it, try as he might. Pharma is stuck here with a tyrant and a zealot and their amassment of the dead. Pharma is stuck here, quite possibly, up until the day he dies. There is every likelihood that he will be stuck here forever, with none for company but the dead, the dying, and the deranged.

There is the smallest consolation Pharma tells himself. At least his newspark is safe with Ratchet.

Chapter Text

Does Star Saber think him a nuisance? (Pharma would, in his place.) He calls Star Saber over to him for physical examination, time and time again, with half-truths and suggestions, until the mech is surely tired of hearing about therapeutic treatments to delay spark burnout, form fatigue, or teleportation's detrimental effects after frequent use. But Star Saber suffers these summons in silence, until Pharma himself tires of the game.

When he thinks Star Saber has had enough of him, is when he feels free to test the waters again. It is understandable, he thinks, that he cannot always be occupied in his lab. It is understandable, that he might wish to roam the base. But he does not look for an excuse to return to the prisoner Getaway, no; he cannot try to free that mech just yet. With the warning he has now twice received, it would not do to arouse suspicion further. Any plots concerning Getaway will have to wait.

What he can do for now—what he does do—is venture outside where the Circle of Light is held, waiting to be decimated again and again, like livestock in their pens.

"Dai Atlas," he greets.

The old senator peers at him from one cell block of many. "Doctor...? We've met before."

"Yes," he says. It has been quite some time. Pharma studies the old senator, and then he lets his gaze skim over the other prisoners, none of whom show any inclination to interrupt this conversation they're about to have.

"Are you here to treat us, or..." Dai Atlas leaves the rest unspoken.

Pharma knows what he means. Are you in cahoots with that villain Star Saber, he has no need to say, and Pharma feels no urgency to answer. From this vantage, Dai Atlas is diminished, despite his imposing size, his vigor, his former glory.

The senator stares back.

"I wish I could help," Pharma tells him, "I am unsure, however..." To commit wholesparkedly, there must first be a plan. Where to begin is simple enough. But to follow through...

"You need only release us," Dai Atlas implores with confidence, "And we will do the rest."

Pharma glances around. Hypothetically yes, he could brute-force his way through the hatches, and these walls will no longer have power to hold Dai Atlas's forces. Yet..."I'm not sure it's that simple."

"Is it not? Let us out of here, point us the way to the armory, and we will cut down these drones that watch over these grounds. Better to die fighting, than locked up like chattel. Let us out now, and the question of finding a starship can wait until..." Dai Atlas falls forebodingly silent.

Pharma turns around. Star Saber is there. In the distance, yet approaching at speed.

If he runs, that will prove his guilt. If he holds, he has a chance. So Pharma uses the split klik remaining to settle his field, as best he can, and stand tall, awaiting Star Saber to confront him.

"Star Saber," he greets, as if he is about to schmooze with yet another senator for more favorable legislation or an opportunity to serve.

"Pharma," comes the reply, and oh, there is something seething under the surface.

"How are you today—"

Star Saber grabs him by the forearm that Tyrest built for him and forcibly drags him away from the site where the Circle is kept, ostensibly ignoring the old senator's pleas for a modicum of civilized behavior—ineffectual, of course, but Pharma nonetheless follows suit, as one of the only avenues available to him now in his delicate position.

He cannot allow fear to overtake him. He cannot, if he does not want Star Saber to interpret it as guilt. Pharma, for his part, plays up the outrage of a mech of his class being mishandled by someone two size classes larger. "Unhand me!" he cries indignantly, "Stop towing me around, you brute."

No sooner has that last word left his mouth, then Star Saber flings him to the floor.

The impact hurts but. So far so good? Pharma's not dead yet, and nor has Star Saber drawn his sword. But that could change at a moment's notice, if he decides that they're done, here and now, if he decides that he's done with Pharma. If he does? Death will at least be swift.

The nanokliks tick by.

Fine. Time to play-act some more. Pharma will use this chance to convince Star Saber he meant only to gawk at the old senator. Except, what comes out is more provocative than that. "You've made your feelings clear," he says. "What I don't understand is. Do you intend also to execute Dai Atlas promptly as well," Pharma asks, "or am I not permitted to see to him for some other reason you've withheld?"

"You—!" Star Saber grits out, and Pharma half expects to be smitten then and there.

"Apologize or don't," he pushes his luck," I won't tell the Chief Justice this time." And he dusts himself off, taking extra care to look unbothered as he rises. And when he walks away—barely daring to ventilate with his back turned, even as he walks off with a proud gait and prouder cant of his wings—Star Saber lets him go without another word, scuffed but otherwise unharmed.

Star Saber leaves him alone after that. Pharma also doesn't go back to see any of the prisoners, so it's hardly a win. He's at least saved his own neck, but for how long? Sooner or later, he'll have to try something or the other, and he has a limited arsenal at his defense, as every confrontation proves. That last encounter with Star Saber...

He's invoked the Chief Justice's name many a time before and since, and he has to wonder just how much weight it can hold.

Nor does he know Tyrest well enough to determine how best to act. Fawn more? Fawn less? How to properly ingratiate himself to the one in charge?

He is strategizing again, how to gain an audience wherein he can make a convincing ploy to...maneuver his way into making some progress, on his plans, without ending up in another stalemate or getting himself killed, when he is unceremoniously summoned forth by his benefactor.

It's not much of a summons. Pharma is already in his lab. All he has to do is wait for Tyrest to arrive and—

Tyrest, who is no small mech, bursts into the room carrying Ultra Magnus in his arms. Wait. Ultra Magnus is here? Is he not serving aboard the Lost Light as second-in-command?

Pharma can only stare at the injured enforcer before his training takes over, and then he is racing to save a spark before it gutters. Tyrest watches him work all the while, as if he cannot be trusted. That, or Tyrest is impatient to see the enforcer well and alert.

And why wouldn't he? The "Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord" answers to him. And him alone? Pharma hopes not. It would be nice, to have someone else in this place with whom to discuss the situation in which they find themselves, someone who is neither a useless prisoner nor a murderer who has signed on with the Chief Justice's every move. That would be nice. And Ultra Magnus is a reasonable mech, Pharma thinks, although the same could've been said for any number of persons, before they revealed themselves to be otherwise.

Ultra Magnus might be a reasonable mech, but Ultra Magnus is also a mech with an identity built upon deceit. As Pharma finishes up the most crucial repairs and starts to check over the rest of the body, he finds his attention starting to slide. There are deflectors at work, and given the irregularities of the spark he's seen to...yes, there is a loadbearer nested inside the form known as 'Ultra Magnus' whom the deflectors are trying hide. There is a loadbearer who, for all intents and purposes, is Ultra Magnus. But who is the mech underneath the Magnus persona, he has to wonder. Who is this mech he has restored back to health?

It doesn't matter right now. And he shouldn't be surprised. If Tyrest can gift him a hand like he has, it makes sense that Tyrest could engineer a highly articulate outer shell, to be armor nigh indistinguishable from a mech.

When the patient is ready to return online, Pharma gives Tyrest the signal. And then, to give them some privacy for their reunion, he makes himself scarce for however long it takes.

He roams throughout the base, staying away from the Circle of Light, staying away from Getaway, and with his lack of options he ends up crossing paths with Lockdown, who presses him, "What's the news, doctor?"

"A successful recovery, you'll be happy to hear." Did Lockdown know about Ultra Magnus? The Cons on Tyrest's payroll do have patrols to run, so perhaps they were there to see Ultra Magnus land on Luna One. Via shuttle? Or a ship? Could it be—

"And our friend Sabers," Lockdown wants to know, "Is he happy too?"

"Why shouldn't he be? It's not as if Ultra Magnus is a threat." He doesn't want to talk about Star Saber. He wants to ask—

The Con keeps talking. "No? That's interesting. You'd think they'd be at odds, the new guy and the old. The...what was it, Duly Appointed? Yeah, that. You'd think."

Pharma isn't here to provide Lockdown with speculation. "Did you see Ultra Magnus arrive?"

A grimace of a smile. "Maybe I did," says the Con.

"Was there a shuttle—"

"Yeah there was a shuttle. Why, you wanna rummage through the ruins?"

"The ruins."

"Yeah, it crashed."

A crash landing, hmm. And it's not as if he had any passing familiarity with the Lost Light's shuttles with all their signifiers intact. Nevertheless, he turns his back on the Con and aims for the exit.

"There's nothing good to salvage! We already checked," Lockdown shouts after him, while he's still within range.

The site of the crash isn't much to look at. There's clearly a shuttle that's been broken into and will require significant repairs, if anyone cares for it to become a space-faring vehicle again. Other than that...what is there to say? Pharma could check it out, but he doesn't. He doesn't bother to land, simply circles a few times, and verifies for himself that there is no ship nearby, as far as he can tell. Whether or not the shuttle came from the Lost Light, the Lost Light is not remotely near.

Pharma circles once more, then he flies off at random and...over the Titan graveyard. How lovely. Perhaps he should have realized from the start, what atrocities Tyrest would willingly oversee. Someone who would destroy the last of the Titans to salvage for parts would not blink to make construction materials out of fellow mecha.

With the Titans, there is at least an argument for putting the defunct out of their misery. The wholesale slaughter of a defeated citizenry, however, less so. And the killswitch...

If Tyrest's rambling speeches were spoken true, the killswitch cannot be allowed to be deployed. It is a sinister device, designed to...

And yet, what can Pharma do? He is but one mech.

And who is he to judge the Chief Justice? If he'd had more time on Delphi to craft his virus...

Star Saber finds him in the air. They coast in silence together, until Pharma can't help but to speak.

"Am I not permitted," he asks, "to fly alone?"

Star Saber doesn't deign to answer, or so he thinks, but then. "You are a capable doctor. Brilliant and rare."

Never has a compliment sent such a chill down his spinal strut, his rudder.

"A shame, that you are so intent on hurrying to your own demise." Ah, there it is. The implicit threat made clear.

He begins to ready a retort—fear as he might, it's starkly obvious that Star Saber has not yet prepared to pass final judgment upon Pharma today—when he receives a comm that the medical bay is open for cleaning.

What is he, janitorial service? He doesn't have to be told when to clean up his own lab.

He doesn't snipe back over comms—he hasn't gotten that comfortable yet, and nor does he ever expect to—but icily informs Star Saber of his soon-to-be whereabouts and changes course. There's a certain novelty, a thrill, to leaving the Evangelist in his wake, with none of the usual trepidation, with a given command as his shield. Half a klik later, however, when he sees Star Saber follow at his rear, his spark lurches, until he realizes that Star Saber must have also received a call.

Pharma touches down and goes back to his lab. He has scarcely begun to tidy up when, shortly after, another comm arrives. This time he is called to help re-assemble the full suit of Magnus armor, absent its occupant. That is when he sees the loadbearer—and what a sad image this demoted mech makes—who, of course, sees him too. Pharma looks down upon that mech, whose features he thinks remind him of someone, and watches recognition ripple across those features which so resemble one particular aristocrat he doesn't quite remember, with that peculiar insignia on that face, front and center.

Chapter Text

The last Ultra Magnus turns out to be Minimus, of the House of Ambus.

That scarcely means anything to Pharma, for whom the bygone pre-war days are still but a distant—if oft consulted—memory. Whoever this Minimus was, he is now a sad little bot. A sad directionless thing, after a lifetime of serving as the duly appointed enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. Pharma would be sympathetic—he ought to be—were it not for the fact that Minimus Magnus has shared an ever so brilliant plan to lure Captain Rodimus of the Lost Light to the Chief Justice for guidance, which meshes ever so well with the Chief Justice's own plan to capture and interrogate (and execute) Getaway's partner, Skids.

Magnus is in for a rude awakening if he thinks there could be a desirable outcome to all this joint planning.

"Just to be clear," Pharma interjects, "The crew of the Lost Light. What will happen to them?"

An impertinent question, of a sort he wouldn't ordinarily pose to Tyrest, but he wants to see how Minimus Magnus reacts to Tyrest's impending reaction.

No such luck. Tyrest must be feeling expansive, or perhaps more forgiving after having already given out one demotion, today.

"Why, I suppose they will have to be detained along with their captain," Tyrest replies.

"Peaceably?" Pharma presses.

"If possible." Tyrest smiles. "But they would have to declare their arrival to our patrols, who will then bring them in. And if Rodimus resists, and his loyal crew rushes to their captain's defense...it would be up to Star Saber and the Decepticons to decide how to mitigate any losses."

So that's a no. "Could we tell the patrol to focus exclusively on Rodimus?" Pharma asks. Have them tackle the captain and go for a quick teleport, in and out.

Minimus Magnus adds his thoughts to the discussion. "In order to prove their innocence, they will need to believe they are exchanging grievances with a fellow prisoner who was also wrongfully held. The more members of the crew who share a cell and are inclined to speak freely, the better."

Magnus, you clod.

"That's settled then," Tyrest declares, before sweeping out of the room to go "have another word with Star Saber about preparations" without them.

What now?

It is a rare opportunity, to be inside the control room without Tyrest's supervision. But Magnus is trusted personnel, even after the demotion, and so here they are, the two of them, standing around.

Pharma glances over to where the repository is kept. "He isn't as you remember, is he," he asks.

"He is not," Magnus replies rather stiffly. He pauses for a brief moment then. Abruptly, he starts to say, "I am—" and stops there. With a bit more reserve, he goes on to add, "I am glad," he says, "to find you looking well."

Oh. "Appreciated, but we don't have much time for niceties."

"When you went missing, the crew did search—"

"Listen," says Pharma, "We have to tell the Lost Light to turn around."

"The plan is to—"

Pharma stops him there. "People are going to die, Magnus. You don't know about the killswitch yet, or why an Autobot agent was sent after Tyrest." Neither does Pharma, but that's besides the point. "You haven't seen the holding cells filled with Crystal City's—"

The doors slide open. Star Saber is here.

"Er," says Magnus, "What is the killswitch of which you speak?"

How is Pharma to answer, with Star Saber in the doorway? "The, ah, killswitch? You see that thing over there?" He gestures toward the device in question. "Marvelous contraption. The Chief Justice spends all his time on it, preparing for Doomsday. Did I say Doomsday? I meant Doomsday only for the people who the Chief Justice says deserve it, if you catch my drift, um. Star Saber, do you have anything to contribute?" Pharma clasps his hands together firmly and tries not to fidget his wings.

Star Saber stares at him for a fraction of a klik, unimpressed. "I am here," Star Saber informs them—and points to Magnus, "to lead you into position. The ship will be encroaching soon."

Minimus Magnus nods and follows Star Saber out of the control room, just as Tyrest is returning down the hall.

Ah, Tyrest.

Pharma grits his teeth with a smile and unclenches. "Your orders, Chief Justice?"

Tyrest waves him off. "Stand by for the arrest. Attend to whichever injuries ensue, I suppose. You might trail the Decepticons' patrol if you wish. Just stay out of the way; I'd rather not have to fix you up again myself, at such a crucial time as this." And with that, Tyrest turns to the repository, to rewrite the laws some more.

What other adjustments there are left for Tyrest to fine tune, Pharma does not know and right now does not care. "Yes, Chief Justice," he answers, making his exit as meekly as he can, while mentally he is kicking himself.

He really should have asked for Magnus's personal hailing frequency, first thing, before trying to explain.

Ultra Magnus has successfully dangled himself as the bait. The Lost Light has been sighted, and yet, as far as Pharma can tell, no one has attempted to make contact so far.

Suppose he could try to send a warning? If he lurks around the communications room and successfully hails the ship, or if he reaches out to Ratchet's personal frequency...

But what can Ratchet do, even if Ratchet does listen, doesn't try to interrupt? What can he or Pharma do, to prepare for the inevitable fight? They cannot stave off Skids from entering Tyrest's clutches and condemning, in all likelihood, the entire crew.

In all probability, they will not have sufficient time to communicate, in the time between the Lost Light arriving within range and Lockdown's patrol team launching an attack.

Their demise is as good as guaranteed, if Pharma does nothing. And yet, what can he do this late in the game?

He can ensure that Ratchet isn't in the thick of things. Ratchet won't be, with the ongoing surrogacy, he thinks, but he has to be certain, that the damn ambulance isn't so foolish as to follow Rodimus into whatever trap is set.

Pharma will find out when and where Lockdown plans to launch the patrol, and figure what to do from there.

But first.

He runs to catch up to Star Saber, who is leading Getaway from the cell which he expects Minimus now occupies, waiting for Rodimus to appear.

Star Saber has Getaway on a lead with not a lot of slack, and so when he turns to see what Pharma wants with them, his hand jerks the unfortunate prisoner into a stumble.

Getaway doesn't glare, however, even seems rather relieved at this turn of events.

There's not much Pharma can do for the prisoner, though the thought does occur to him, the plan. He had barely begun to scheme how he could release this prisoner for chaos, before Star Saber deterred him, and if he could fulfill that hope...

But would it not be better now, for Getaway to stay put?

If only Pharma could borrow a tactician to consult. His only strategy, right now, is to appease Star Saber with a smile and inquire as to the current state of affairs.

Star Saber regards his question duly and informs him that the prisoner will be strapped down in the control room, under the Chief Justice's supervision once more, until such a time that the newly (not as of yet) detained can be interrogated without any interference from this prisoner, who will then rejoin the cell to await their shared fate.

"Is execution a foregone conclusion?" Pharma has to ask.

"Is it not?" Star Saber returns.

Well, he can hardly protest, but. "The plan, I thought, was for—"

"This...Minimus Ambus," Star Saber says to him, "wishes to delay proceedings in accordance with his ideas, and the Chief Justice has agreed."

Pharma can't discern what Star Saber's thoughts are yet, so he waits, keeping his optics locked onto his target with a blank look on his face. He keeps his optics firmly locked on from diverting his attention, from checking on exactly how the prisoner is faring: hunched over in what might be a stranglehold with the way that Star Saber clutches the lead in both fists.

"Minimus Ambus says he wants minimal casualties," Star Saber continues, in what is probably meant to be an offhanded manner.

"Oh did he? That's very thoughtful of him," Pharma opines. And then, as casually as he can, he asks, "You'll try, won't you?"

"Try?" Star Saber scoffs. "I will disarm each and every opponent so they may live to hear their crime and sentence."

Well. That is the sort of reassurance that the Evangelist would provide. Pharma offers a small smile in return.

With a note of derision, Star Saber goes on to add, "I speak only for myself. What others might do—what they are capable of doing in the heat of battle—is no concern of mine."

How sweet, how thoughtful. And it is, probably, by Star Saber's standards, to give Pharma such a reminder. Lockdown's forces may have the numbers, if Rodimus brings only a small search party for Magnus, but that does not mean they have the skill—even if they could be persuaded of the intent—to wrangle Rodimus's party without losses to either side.

Pharma finally allows himself to glance down at the prisoner in detail. Getaway looks much the same as before. Or would, if it were not for the encumbrance required for prisoner transport.

Pharma turns his attention to Star Saber again. "Who is going to take point? Will you be leading the troops to retrieve the captain of the Lost Light for his audience with Minimus?"

Star Saber glances down at the prisoner by his side. But it is not as if Getaway could do anything with this information, however sensitive it might be. "I will be responsible for locating and bringing in this cretin's co-conspirator, who has previously escaped the Legislators' clutches," Star Saber answers.

Emboldened, Pharma smiles. "I'll just follow Lockdown then, shall I? They'll probably have more scrapes to worry about, over there. Don't hesitate to ping if you need me, though!"

Outside, the patrol is assembled on a small fleet of cruisers designed for flight-challenged mechanisms.

Lockdown grins at him, when he arrives. "Look who's finally here just as we're about to leave. Thought you might wanna sulk in your room instead."

Pharma has scarcely reconfigured to land upon his pedes, when he retorts, "We'll see who's sulking after the fight. If you don't want my help, I'll go."

"Nah, doc, you can stay. Just try not to get your prissy wings all sooty—gotta have you looking spic and span on the sidelines for morale."

Pharma rolls his eyes and doesn't reply. He takes off after the others, when the signal is received, and coasts from on high.

There. A party of eight or nine, led by a red speedster. They're staring at the ground? Which...

Whether or not that's a hot spot, there's no time to focus on that now. Pharma can see that Rodimus has taken First Aid along for a medic, so the other doctors must still be aboard the ship.

Pharma peels away from the patrol and comms Lockdown his intention to fall back.

An irate reply comes through. "Slagging ruining my ambush, you ditzy doctor! Why'd you even come along if you're not gonna stick around? Thought you said you'd be here to help."

"I changed my mind," Pharma replies, "I figure you have things well under control, so I'm free to go off and admire Star Saber's sword-wielding prowess instead," and ends the call (cutting short a stream of curses) as he sets course for where the Lost Light must be.

In his rear view he sees Rodimus's party fleeing on their MARBs as the Decepticons give chase.

They'll be fine, he thinks. They'll have to be.

Whereas those who will be taken into custody by the Legislators...

Pharma isn't sure how refined the coding is, on those drones. He hasn't looked, has only verified how they operate in response to commands, and it feels shortsighted now, that he's failed to properly investigate with all the time he's had on his hands up until now. Even if he couldn't have guessed the wrench that Magnus would present, bringing the Lost Light along, he could have studied them in closer detail, could have examined their inner workings and searched for faults in the encryption. But he had deemed that an unlikely avenue of escape at the time, once he understood the hierarchy the Legislators follow and a cursory glance at the code had shown no obvious flaws. He had directed his energies elsewhere, and now...

He needs to get to the medbay; he needs to get there and override the Legislators from hurting Ratchet before it's too late.

He needs for Ratchet to be in the medbay. If he has assumed wrong—

But he hasn't. Pharma is relieved, to find Ratchet as expected. And oh there's also Ambulon, and one of the diagnostic drones too is still functioning—

Ambulon is still pointing a pair of handguns at the Legislators crowding the medbay and is gaping at him now. So is Ratchet, standing in the back with a pistol of his own. They're staring at him as if he were an apparition from beyond the grave.

"Hello," says Pharma, "Did you miss me?"

Chapter Text

"Pharma, are you with these guys?!"

A very relevant question, and yet he can't help but to feel a little hurt that that's the first thing Ratchet wants to know.

Ambulon, at least, asks how he came to be on the moon.

"It's a long story," he tells them, "and there's very little time to explain. I told Magnus he shouldn't have led the ship here, but it's too late now—"

"You talked to Ultra Magnus," Ratchet tries to confirm, "He's OK?" Why yes he is, and Pharma's the one who fixed him, but there really isn't the time to indulge.

"Just. Listen. And put your guns down. These Legislator drones are the work of Chief Justice Tyrest. I've jammed the signal, for however long the battery lasts." He pulls out the fob in question and starts fiddling with it to reduce its range to their immediate vicinity. That might get them another half cycle, maybe. "When the Legislators reconnect, don't attack them and they'll leave you alone. Stay out of their way while they pursue the accused."

"The accused?" Ratchet repeats.

Does it really matter who? Whatever. They need to move on. "The theoretician, Skids."

"What did Skids do?"

"That's not important right now! Skids is a wanted mech, and the Legislators are going to deliver him to Tyrest for sentencing." No need to mention the role Star Saber plays yet.

"...Ultra Magnus is the enforcer of the Tyrest Accord," Ratchet recalls aloud. "Does that mean they're working together?"

"Like I said. I told him he shouldn't have done what he did, but you're here now—"

"If these drones grab Skids and leave, they'll stop rampaging throughout the ship? Is Tyrest going to compensate for damages, because—"

"Stop interrupting me!" Pharma is ready to fling the fob at Ratchet when he glances up at where Ratchet is now gesturing, in a conciliatory manner, for him to continue and—is that his hand? On Ratchet's wrist?

Ratchet notices him staring.

So does Ambulon, who blocks his view by walking up to him to deliver a quiet explanation. "We looked for you. We did. But when all that was found was your hand, and Ratchet needed it—" And here, an odd fluctuation, in both voice and field. Ambulon pauses. Then more firmly goes on to say, "First Aid and I installed it for him. Ratchet needed it and...there wasn't a reason to keep him from having it installed."

How very utilitarian. "There wasn't a reason?" Pharma asks with a bitter spark.

"There wasn't a good enough reason," Ambulon amends.

Pharma wants to hit him.

And that's when—fzzt—who else would phase in but Star Saber?

How timely, that Star Saber should appear—at the very moment Pharma is ready to give up trying to fix this—to berate and interrogate him as to why, exactly, some of the Legislators on this ship have been behaving irregularly.

"You've tampered with their function, haven't you," Star Saber declares, before Pharma can formulate an answer.

Pharma lifts his chin to look Star Saber in the eye. "So you'd think," he says, "Or! These Legislators have secured the room and are now on standby. As you can see, this is the ship medbay, and here are two doctors whom I recognize—and I'm sure Magnus can also vouch for them—who can safely sit out the little fiasco with Skids, don't you agree?" When Star Saber doesn't answer, he presses his luck. "Where is Skids, anyway? Have you found him yet?"

Star Saber takes a step forward, sword in hand. The blade tip is angled downward but pointed, nonetheless, toward Pharma.

Pharma does not flinch. He does shrink away, however, which seems to satisfy the brute, who either does not or cannot be bothered to notice Ambulon bristling beside him. As for how Ratchet might react, Pharma dares not turn to look at Ratchet. He cannot let slip just how invested he is. Or was. How much Ratchet's welfare had meant to him.

Does he still care? Does he? For a friend who could salvage what was left of his frame? While he was out here on Luna One, losing his mind from being stuck here alone amid the turmoil of everything that is wrong with this place.

Yet how can he not? All these years, he has loved...for millennia, he has kept his beloved echoing within his spark.

Pharma stamps out the thought. If he is still doing his part to keep Ratchet safe, that is because he owes Ratchet for taking on his newspark. Ratchet is harboring his newspark at non-zero risk to himself. Ratchet is providing for Pharma's newspark, which would not have existed at all, if not for Delphi. And he might not have gone to Delphi, if only Ratchet had stayed to...

No. Focus on the here and now. Standing here is Star Saber with the unspoken threat of violence hanging between them. Star Saber is here, with his blade drawn and hackles raised, and Pharma has not the wherewithal to persuade him. But then Star Saber speaks, and all Pharma hears is not today.

If he dies by Star Saber's hand, it is not today. And there is a part of him, there is, there is a part of him that would have relished it, would have welcomed dying in front of Ratchet's eyes to stop the pain.

But Star Saber has vanished, leaving him alive to face Ratchet and Ambulon, and what is Pharma to do now but gaze numbly at the drones blockading the exit.

The drones, the Legislators, are a motionless wall but not for long. And Pharma will not let the choices he has made today be for naught.

He turns to Ratchet now, with coolant seeping from his optics. His core temperature is on the rise, and he can no longer contain himself, with Star Saber out of the picture.

"Sit," he tells Ratchet, "Sit on the floor and don't move when these drones reactivate." Just stay here and stay safe. That's the least Ratchet can do.

Ratchet makes no move to obey.

Pharma is torn between deciding whether to have Ambulon watch and make sure Ratchet listens or to bring his old subordinate along when he—

His communicator buzzes. It's Tyrest, telling him to return to base. Pharma allows the harmonics of his voice to fritz as burnt out as he feels. "I can't," he replies over comms, "I'm sorry, Chief Justice." And he is sorry, but not for this: crushing the comm link with the hand Tyrest made for him.

It could be easy, he thinks, to throw his lot in with Tyrest more sincerely than he has. It could be easy, to stand by the mech to whom he owes a life debt. What has the rest of the world, what has anyone else done for him?

He has already made his decision, however.

"This isn't over," he tells Ratchet, "You and I will talk later. Here." He tosses the fob to Ratchet, who catches it. "See what you can make of that. Or just stay put and...handle communications or something. Ambulon, with me."

"Handle communications?" Ratchet asks, "How am I supposed to communicate with you when you just destroyed your link?"

"You can comm Ambulon just fine." Pharma is in a foul mood but cannot wallow. He has already wasted too much time exchanging words here, when he needs to go and see what Tyrest is doing.

He has a moment of regret for destroying his comm link, but it had felt right, in the moment. What's done is done. Whether or not Ratchet is convinced yet of the threat the Chief Justice poses beyond the recklessly indiscriminate apprehension of a criminal, Pharma cannot stick around to find out. Time is of the essence, and Ambulon doesn't have any vehicular mode, so Pharma will have to make an exception for this occasion.

He grabs a hold of Ambulon and teleports them inside the base.

Fzzt. His lab is a safe enough place to start. Pharma picks up a couple of pulse rifles he'd tucked away and passes one to Ambulon, who is gawking at their surroundings without comment. The weapons he has are nothing like what the Legislators use, but just the weight of holding onto something is more reassuring than none.

His spark still aches, but there is no time to tend to his feelings. Tyrest will want to grandstand before opening the portal, but that does not mean they have forever. Once the purported criminals have been apprehended and the sentencing has been passed, Tyrest will turn on the killswitch, and then...

Pharma considers explaining what could happen—what will happen, if they're too late—but then thinks better of it. Ambulon is an MTO and does not need that extra worry weighing down his processor.

Ambulon, turns out, has other things on his mind.

Just as Pharma is about to tell him where to go, Ambulon closes the distance between them in a desperate clatter and smashes their mouths together in a kiss. Pharma limply tolerates the kiss for a nanoklik then bites the tongue that tries to enter.

Ambulon withdraws. He isn't dissuaded, however, from saying what he wants to say next, a hurried ramble imploring Pharma to, what, run away with him? Together?

Pharma can't help but to scoff. Even if they were to successfully steal a shuttle and get off the moon without a hassle, it's not going to be the romantic adventure Ambulon imagines, if the killswitch works as advertised. It'll be Pharma and a corpse, drifting into space, leaving all his troubles behind. It would mean abandoning what he's trying to accomplish, which he won't; he can't give up. And yet, despite himself, Pharma has the sudden urge to push Ambulon against a slab and...

They could, he thinks. Pharma could drop the rifle he's holding, forget about storming over to interrupt Tyrest operating the killswitch. He could let himself have this: interface with someone who makes him feel wanted, who could convince him that this is love. He could let himself be convinced, to set aside everything else and give himself to pleasure. One last hurrah, a sendoff of sorts.

But Ambulon takes his enduring silence for rebuke, and that's probably for the best. Pharma isn't exactly keen to learn how the experience would be, to overload on top of a dying mech.

He smiles wryly at the mech whose field is now a haze of...what might well be furious self-recrimination. "We'll talk later," he promises.

If they survive. Which he expects to, at least. Whereas Ambulon...

Ambulon could very well die. Ambulon could die sooner rather than later. He could die two paces from now or ten. He could die in a klik or five. He could die just like that.

Pharma reconsiders offering him a choice of where and when.

Chapter Text

There are voices in the control room. A collective thud then rings out loud and clear.

And then Ambulon collapses beside him with a wretched unending groan, and this is it. The moment, the killswitch.

Pharma walks onto a floor covered in the disabled and the dying. He carries his rifle with both hands, with his right hand on the trigger, pointing askew. As he walks past the bots stunned at his feet, he counts them one by one. Still alive, he reminds himself. Still alive. They didn't die in the chase, and they won't die now.

First Aid is here among them, and isn't that a relief? Pharma might not be able to save them all, might not be able to save Ambulon, but the robust little nurse is alive and—

"Pharma, there you are," says Tyrest, who stands in full regalia, with staff in hand, at utopia's gate, "I feared you might have been compromised."

Rodimus on the floor is sputtering in confusion.

Not too far off is Minimus, that poor inflexible piece of slag, leaking energon from where his head ought to be, generally looking like raw material for the smelters.

Still alive, Pharma reminds himself. Still alive. And he strides up to Tyrest before the portal.

Tyrest his savior, his benefactor. And Pharma is here to repay the debt with betrayal.

"Chief Justice," he greets.

"You're late," the Chief Justice grouses. "But no matter. I will now be able to—you ungrateful creature, how dare!" And Tyrest pulls back on the staff Pharma has tossed aside his rifle to seize.

Even with all his might, even with the advantage of surprise, Pharma cannot easily seize the Chief Justice's personal staff from that ironclad grip. What Pharma really should have done was to shoot first then take the staff, but he couldn't, when it comes down to it, he can't shoot to kill Tyrest just yet. So they tumble to the floor, he and Tyrest, wrestling for control over the staff which controls the room.

Pharma has never been good at hand-to-hand combat. For someone of his size, his stature, he has always been the opposite of a heavyweight within his own class, and for him to grapple against Tyrest, who is so much larger, who is old but fierce, who is sturdy and strong, even with all those holes pitted across that plating, is unwise. As for whether there may be a way to utilize those vulnerabilities, those open wounds...

He is slow to react, and thus a direct hit cracks his canopy right down the middle. One more proper hit, he's guessing his canopy could withstand before it shatters, and then he's going to have to pick out the shards and splinters from his midsection, inside all the fiddly little controls—but forget that! He'd forgotten just how much fighting hurts. He really should've shot Tyrest first, or chucked his rifle straight to the face. But it's too late now. It's too late for regrets. All he has to do is push the right button; he doesn't have to wrest the staff from the Chief Justice, he can just...if only he can get a feel for which one of these buttons it might be...

As Pharma twists away to evade a strike aimed at his eyes, he spots movement approaching amid the fallen bodies. While they've been rolling around vying for the staff, there appears a member of Rodimus's crew has not been disabled with the rest: one of Chromedome's little friends, a minibot who is making his way over now, who is scrambling through the maze of bodies on the floor to get to them with a look of determination which says there is only one clear course of action.

Pharma lets go in order to grab Tyrest by the helm, and the next blow reverberates throughout his chest. He's given up on self-defense to hold Tyrest's helm firmly between his hands, for now's the time. There, the minibot is here, with fingers small enough to-yes, right between the eyes, and Tyrest cries out from the intrusion that fits just so inside his open wound. Tyrest loosens his grip, and Pharma can finally force him to release it all the way.

Pharma takes that staff and skims a touch along the handle for the button that must be there. But Tyrest's strength is resurgent, so Pharma flings the staff away and does what he can to pin down his larger foe.

The minibot scrambles ahead of Tyrest to press the button—off-center somewhere on the shaft?—to turn off the signal paralyzing the room, and Tyrest, in his frustration, turns toward Pharma once more, lashing out. Ungrateful creature that he is, Pharma is soon preoccupied with fending off the drill-claws at his throat, but then there is a blast, and Tyrest's body collapses upon his. Pharma shoves his way free and peers up into—

Minimus who is smaller than ever, carrying one of the Legislator's guns, nearly twice his size. Minimus the loadbearer is standing over Tyrest's body with a ready quip, and Rodimus is on the cusp of a meltdown over the fact of the loadbearer's miniature size.

Tyrest's staff clatters to the floor. The minibot rejoins his friends, and Pharma looks around the room. First Aid is tending to their cold constructed compatriots—Getaway among them—and Ambulon is still out in the hall, minutes 'til death. The killswitch...

Pharma goes over to inspect it. He's never been permitted to touch the killswitch, has no idea where to begin, and if they only have kliks left...

The scientist Perceptor arrives at his side. A quick glance and a theory, of reinstating the spark code to restore the constructed cold, and Pharma is helping to wire Rodimus—and the piece of the Matrix he carries—while Minimus looks on. Once the wiring is in place, Pharma leaves them to it; he has to trust that they can bring about this reversal to save the dying, that Tyrest was not stopped in vain.

Pharma glances at Tyrest. Still alive.

They will deal with him later. Pharma will patch him up later, will perhaps speak for him later.

What is imperative now is that he be there, if Ambulon wakes—when Ambulon wakes. Pharma trusts that Perceptor and Rodimus can fix this. Will fix this. So Pharma leaves the room. There, in the hall, right where Pharma had left him, is Ambulon, lying motionless on the floor. Pharma kneels beside him and—

Pharma glances up at the hand on his shoulder. First Aid is here. First Aid is here, kneeling beside him now, laying hands on Ambulon, who is still alive.

"He loved you," First Aid says simply.

"I know," Pharma replies. Or at least Ambulon believed he did, enough to ask those things of Pharma, to leave everyone else behind and—Ratchet. Ratchet is still on the ship. "Comm Ratchet," Pharma instructs, "Tell him what we're doing."

"You want me to comm him?" First Aid asks to confirm.

"My communicator is broken." No need to over-explain why. "You should also update him on the situation with the killswitch. If...when everything is back to normal, we'll meet him on the ship. Or he can come here." With an escort. "But not until then."

"Yeah, I'll give him updates. I guess I'll go check to see whether Rodimus is gonna make it too. Or let him know in real time that we're about to lose the captain." First Aid pauses. "I'm glad you're OK by the way." And Aid goes back inside, where there are so many more bodies to monitor.

Pharma turns his gaze to the body he now pulls into his lap and cradles to his chest. The places where Tyrest struck him still hurt with a dull sort of ache, but it's nothing he can't handle. It'll be nothing, if everything turns out fine. If Ambulon survives.

He embraces Ambulon, who cannot respond to his touch, not yet, but soon. Ambulon, whose life signs are returning within the norm, who is stirring, whom the Matrix has just saved. Pharma kisses the oil streaking from those optics, and Ambulon reaches out one hand to touch him, to know that he is near.

Welcome back, Pharma doesn't say.

Ambulon smiles anyway. And then he frowns, as the thundering sound of marching grows ever closer.

Pharma turns to look, right as the Legislators appear an endless sea of gold in the distance. A band of Legislators is close upon them, closing in, and soon there are Legislators, here in the hall, filling as far as the eye can see and chanting, chanting all around them. The Legislators are prepared, Pharma realizes, to storm the control room for the Chief Justice in his final cycle, and Pharma has a thought for the repository, the computer on which it's stored, before he and Ambulon are separated, before they're lifted up and wrenched apart. And the sea of Legislators flows onward, ready for yet another lopsided fight.

Chapter Text

The Legislators are too numerous to count. They're caught up at the entrance while yet more drones continue to pile through, as if every single Legislator on the moon has been summoned forth to defend the Chief Justice. Pharma is trapped in their clutches, unable to move and too frustrated to think. If only he had been more prepared, if only he'd still held onto that—but how's a dinky little interference fob going to be of use, even if he were to have it on him now? It would be, though; it'd still be better than nothing, a fob like that. And if he'd replaced the batteries at the outset, if he had planned ahead, or if he had kept multiples with which to ward off a few choke points...

If, if only! But if he can't block the signal, there still has to be some way to end the transmission, or a way to break the programming. There has to be some way to neutralize the Legislators en masse. It had seemed impossible, to override the work of an engineer of that caliber. Countermand one of Tyrest's orders? It hadn't seemed worthwhile to try. But there has to, there has to be a way in, either from Tyrest himself or...

The repository. He's circled back to thinking about the repository, the root of this endless stream of Legislators and their incessant chanting. The computer which hosts the repository in the control room. There'd be no need to hack it, if Tyrest is still signed in.

Pharma strains uselessly against the Legislator that has him off the ground. The tension at his joints is...not ideal, but it's better than being pulverized to pieces. If he goes limp for a moment...

All of a sudden he drops onto his helm.

...did that work? Was he able to somehow slip away?

No. All of the Legislators have stopped. Those drones are no longer receiving the signal. Or the signal has been rendered meaningless. Pharma gets to his feet and wanders through the crowd. While the Legislators have fallen motionless, everyone else is finding their footing.

That same minibot from before is standing triumphant at the scene, perched upon the very computer console Tyrest so favored to edit his laws.

Pharma stares for a moment longer, before turning his eyes to the rest of the room. First Aid is checking on the injuries people have sustained. He should. He should likewise do the same...

Ambulon catches up to him. And publicly reaches out to touch—oh. Ambulon's hand comes away from his neck wet with energon. Tyrest must've nicked his main fuel line. Pharma daubs at the cut with his own fingers. A pinprick, really, nothing more, but he'll need to have it patched soon.

A crash at the terminal catches everyone's attention. The minibot who stopped Tyrest has malfunctioned? Is now facedown flat on the floor.

Although he can hardly stand to look at Ratchet right now, they have work to do, and Pharma strives to maintain a professional front. They're dealing with late-stage cybercrosis, that much is obvious, and Ratchet has confirmed a recent diagnosis. No treatment plan, which is understandable; the symptoms were already so advanced there could be no conventional means of treatment. And now? Not even Pharma's research has a lead on a case like this.

That isn't to say there is nothing to be done. There might be something, yet. Here in these facilities with all that is at his disposal, at their disposal, he and Ratchet and everyone else. The metallurgist, Swerve, is here. So are First Aid and Ambulon, who are here now, who have other patients, don't they, whose prognosis they could check on besides that rush job on Minimus Ambus's inner shell, but the novelty of the situation is such that Pharma didn't have the spark to chase them away when they arrived on the scene, even though there's no call for all of them to squeeze around the same slab.

Someone's missing, though; Lancet? The unlicensed assistant. Lancet isn't in the room. Pharma doesn't ask for an explanation. Nor does he inquire after Ratchet's warbuild friend, who would so often flit around Ratchet like a satellite in orbit. That warbuild, Drift, who...wasn't Drift the donor Ratchet was using? Have they had a falling out? Pharma has no idea, and he's not going to ask Ratchet about something like that. Not now, nor later. If later can be postponed, if that talk he's promised can be held off indefinitely, never to resume. Pharma doesn't want to think back to that moment, when he'd been so relieved to find Ratchet only to see...what is there to say, after that?

He doesn't want to talk to Ratchet. He doesn't want to deal with Ratchet, knowing how little he has meant to someone who meant so much to him.

But work is work, and so Pharma strives not to stare at Ratchet's hand which was Pharma's hand, no matter how Ratchet persists in waving it within his field of vision. Pharma strives not to look at Ratchet at all, which he is finding increasingly difficult as the med team runs out of viable suggestions to pursue. Focus, he tells himself. Focus on the patient. Focus on the benefit of another medical breakthrough.

Every ingenious tool at his disposal, here on Luna One, and Pharma had not the foresight to pursue this avenue of research to the very end. Of course not. Of all the possibilities, how was he to know that this minibot, Tailgate, would appear with an urgent need? Or, rather, that Tailgate would reappear, with symptoms so grave the disease could no longer be overlooked. This is not the first time they've met, he and this bot; he did serve on the Lost Light, after all. And if he had been less introspective, if he had been more interested in the crew, might he have noticed and remembered, might he have tried...

There's no use in thinking over what-ifs. Pharma powers through another few kliks of not glancing at Ratchet, of not glancing at his hand, before he gives up. Let Tailgate be a martyr, if they must. He's done here for today.

First Aid looks startled when Pharma excuses himself. Yes, he's the lead researcher, but so what? Let a fresh pair of eyes deal with this code.
He's done now. He's done.

Pharma leaves them behind. He leaves the room in search of some other task. Tyrest? Perhaps. But Tyrest can wait; the body will keep. And Pharma does not particularly want to deal with Tyrest, any more than he wants to think about Ratchet.

Ratchet, his old friend. Whom he has always known would not, could not return his love, if Pharma is honest with himself. Whom he has gone on loving anyway, believing that something of them still mattered. That he still mattered, to Ratchet. That he—

"Pardon," says Minimus, stomping about in the calves and pedes of Ultra Magnus. "Could you help me with these? Reassembling the armor is rather difficult to manage on my own."

Pharma is both grateful and embarrassed to be found wandering the halls without a clear-cut goal. Are there not enough problems to keep him occupied with some useful task? Has he somehow convinced himself that he, that one of his profession, can indulge in idle self-pity at a time like this?

Helping Minimus to snap the pieces into place isn't so different from assembling the empty suit of armor back together. That the end result contains a person instead of an empty shell isn't so different, either, although Pharma could do without those optics staring down at him.

"There you go," he says, when the final components are in place and the visage of Ultra Magnus is as it ever was. "Anything else?"

"Yes, actually. I was hoping we could talk."

Hmm. "About?"

"About Tyrest. About everything that's transpired. About how I could've listened, I suppose."

Pharma glances up into that earnest expression Magnus wears. "We all have our regrets. Perhaps you could be more specific."

Minimus sighs. "Where do I even begin?"

"Let's talk about the future," Pharma suggests. "Tyrest, for instance. What will become of him?" May as well get that question out of the way now.

"There will have to be a trial, of course."

"Of course." High Command will have to hear of this. "Will you speak for him?"

"I...what is there to say on his behalf?" Minimus seems taken aback. Which is only natural. After all, who would speak for someone who would do something so atrocious as to wipe out half the Cybertronian race? Preposterous. There is no benefit to be had in defending Tyrest.

There is no need for Pharma to pursue this line of thinking, and yet. "Tyrest could die, and none would mourn, except for how he used to be. But. You saw how he was so addled with guilt, he took to hurting himself. And his injuries were so severe, he gave himself brain damage. It was only after doing so he created the killswitch, that he set out to annihilate the cold constructed, based on an interpretation he might not have reached if not for the state of his faculties."

A pause. "You mean to say, in your opinion, he'd be unfit to stand trial? Or that he shouldn't be held accountable."

"No." Too daring by half, to openly suggest Tyrest ought to be absolved. "No, I don't mean that. I only meant..." What did he mean? It's difficult to say, with how Magnus is staring at him now. "I meant, that his sentencing ought to reflect his inability to think. Wouldn't you agree?" And that's true, isn't it? Tyrest must not have had proper brain function, sustaining an injury such as that hole in the head. The capacity for reasoning must have diminished, not that it ever seemed to interfere with an ability to get things done.

Minimus is not unconvinced so much as reluctant to ponder the implications. "Had he succeeded, we could show him no leniency. As is..."

"Just something to think about," Pharma hastens to say. There's no call to seem overly invested in the outcome, for him.

"Ah yes, I'll let the new enforcer know your thoughts." The new enforcer? Well, it hardly matters who. "I'll speak with him about how he plans to address the issue, before we leave. Speaking of which, will you be joining us when we set off?"

Pharma has to laugh a little at that. "Did you think I stayed on the moon with Tyrest because I liked it here?"

"I didn't want to assume."

How to explain why he felt he had to, even though no one was keeping him under lock and key? "I won't rule out returning but. I'll be glad to leave. There is so much here that is..."

Minimus nods.

"Like I said. We all have our regrets. We did what we could with the information we had." That's all anyone can really ask, isn't it.

"We did."

Pharma sighs. "Do we know what happened to Star Saber?" There has been no sign, as far as he can tell. Lockdown and the Decepticons, he figures, have already fled.

"I'll have to ask."

"It...doesn't matter." Not really. "I should go see how Ratchet is doing with Tailgate." Much as he loathes the idea. "Care to accompany me?"

Minimus, the mech inside the Magnus armor, leans forward to meet him at his eye level. "It would be my pleasure."

The walk back is a short one, though he feels marginally better with a bulked up loadbearer by his side. Pharma is a mite more apprehensive, however, when they arrive at his lab to find the team dispersing at the door.

He stops when the nurse looks up sharply at their approach. "What's going on?" he asks.

It's the metallurgist who answers. "Ratchet thought we should give them a moment, before we try anything else. Let him and Cyclonus have a chat while he's still lucid. I've got to tell you, Tailgate might be putting on a brave face right about now but he was really hoping for one of your miracles to come through."

"Oh knock it off," says First Aid, "Pharma can't do everything. Where were you, anyway?"

"He was with me—" Minimus begins, just as Ratchet is the last to step through.

Ratchet.

Aid and Ambulon move to make room for Ratchet to stand clear, to let the doors shut to give Tailgate and company their privacy. And now all of them are standing in the hall to discuss...what exactly?

Ratchet is looking at him expectantly. All optics are on him, expectantly. As if deferring to him in his domain, here on Luna One.

"There is other work to be done," he says. There are other patients to see. "Let's attend to what we can do and put aside what we cannot."

First Aid frowns at him. Or at least, he thinks that's a frown. "So that's it?" Aid asks.

"What's it?"

"For Tailgate. There's nothing else we can do."

Pharma stares down at the nurse. "I have no further recommendations. Do you?"

First Aid says nothing. They haven't completely run out of options yet. However, none of it is risk free, they can't offer the patient a fully informed decision, and there won't be time for trial and error. First Aid knows this, just as Pharma knows this. If he wants to pull something as reckless as his jump-start, now's the time to speak up.

Pharma brushes past him and Ambulon and the rest. They could get another look at the patient, though they'll have to intrude—

The doors open to the sight of a sword blazing through the patient's spark, as Pharma steps through.

Chapter Text

Pharma is no stranger to delegation.

He let First Aid do the work, with Ratchet advising, to see Tailgate on the mend.

He lets First Aid take care of Ratchet, with Ambulon as backup, when Ratchet has carried to term.

His first thought, when he gets the call on his new communicator, is that the sparkling is early. But if it's here, it's here, no matter what the calendar says, and they don't need him to be there to handle it.

"I'm busy," he says, once he understands that the nurse expects him to fly halfway across the moon for the big event. "Didn't one of these cultists turn out to be a blacksmith?" Not the same field, but close enough. "Go talk to him. Or handle it yourselves. Ambulon is with you, isn't he?" And he hangs up.

The cultist whose fractured wings he's welding back together is glaring at him, he thinks. It's hard to tell, in alt mode, what a mech is feeling, when the EM field is buzzing with anxiety and pain.

"I do apologize," he says, "for referring to your Circle as a cult."

When the cultist stiffens to hear him say so, Pharma allows himself the unlikely assumption that the mech is simply bracing for his next move. He's seen plenty of patients behave uncomfortably on his slab, which is why he prefers to have the patients in his care powered down before they begin. But out here, among the detritus of Titans' corpses...

"What were you even doing out here, anyway? Didn't the maintenance crew have you queue for a checkup first?" He recalls there were a few engineers alongside other medical professionals numbered among them, when they tallied up the survivors.

The reply he's given is evasive, something about the value of scholastic pursuits.

But of course. "You were lucky this time," he tells his patient, "that you didn't have very far to plummet when you stalled out."

His patient huffs irritably in response. Pharma can imagine the unspoken argument: that it wasn't good luck but a calculated risk taken by this scholar, who just couldn't wait to chase after whatever is to be had out here in the ruins but was at least self-aware enough to not get himself killed while doing so.

That's a not uncommon strain of thought among a certain type of intellectual. Whether or not it applies to his patient, Pharma keeps his extrapolations to himself, choosing instead to work in silence for the remainder of their repairs.

First Aid calls again during the tune-up, which he tries to ignore.

Pharma has his patient reconfigure and transform again so that he can observe the flexing of every joint and strut.

"What am I supposed to tell Ratchet?" First Aid complains over comms.

"Tell him whatever you want. I'll have a look at the sparkling later." And before Aid can object, Pharma repeats, "I'm busy." Which he is.

The call ends just as his patient questions him, "Why wait? Go see the bitlet."

"We're not finished," he replies, as he refits a loose part with more percussive force than is strictly necessary.

"I can move freely, as soon as you release me," says his patient, "and find my own way from here. There's nothing so important that must be done now which can't wait until later."

"Is that so." Pharma has his doubts, but if this mech would rather he leave, so be. Someone who doesn't appreciate his efforts can go see another doctor or engineer. Better not tarry too long about it, or else, but that isn't for him to decide.

"This isn't exactly life or death. There's no urgent call for you to stay and help."

So that's what this is about. The fact that he stood by and did nothing for them, while the Circle was imprisoned.

Dai Atlas would have died sooner, had Pharma been the one to free them. But he won't argue this point with a cultist who still believes, so away he goes, flying back to his...it's not his lab anymore, is it. It's not his, anymore.

But it still is, in a sense. And moving on autopilot feels a little like he's answering a summons from Tyrest, when he's soaring over the bodies littering the lunar terrain to return to that sprawling base where a few Legislators yet linger on these premises...

There has been talk of recycling them all. The Legislators are a blight upon the landscape; raw materials would be less offensive to the Circle survivors who remain, or somesuch argument on the basis of dignity for the deceased. Which isn't how he sees it. The dead are already dead and do not stand to benefit from any objections made on their behalf. The pragmatic thing to do would be to keep the Legislator drones as is and repurpose their function, but Pharma has kept his mouth shut on the topic. Better not to remind people of where he stood before the fight that brought Tyrest low, even if it would be a pity to lose the Legislators. It would be a pity, especially since they could be so much more useful now, without Tyrest's overrides, with the commands which Pharma can access yet cannot use because he has to keep a low profile.

Pharma has to keep a low profile, here on Luna One, and it isn't always easy, dodging people and deflecting questions. Today, however, the trouble he has isn't the usual field-tingling suspicions keeping him on edge.

Today, what troubles him are the congratulations, the celebratory mood. Pharma ignores every mech who steps out of his way; he breezes past their knowing smiles, their well-wishing greetings. Word has gotten out, and he hates it. It should be a good thing, that people know the sparkling belongs to him, that no one's conspired to erase him from the picture, to dispose of him, and yet...and yet, he's not ready, nor will he ever be.

But ready or not, the sparkling is here, and he is out of excuses to meet the creature Ratchet helped him to carry. Pharma spares a thought for the fantasy of fleeing in a stolen shuttle rather than face Ratchet or his sparkling, but inevitably he has to make his way across the base to see them both.

When he enters the room with little fanfare, he finds First Aid and Ambulon are conspicuously absent. So's the rest of the staff. They had to have guessed he'd be coming over now, they had to have known that he would, so they've cleared out to, what, give him some privacy? Pharma doesn't want it, doesn't need it. This doesn't even feel real, the fact that the sparkling is here and...and...

Ratchet is smiling at him. Despite how exhausting the surrogacy must've been, Ratchet is smiling at him, and Pharma offers back a brittle smile. He can feel his resolve thawing. He can feel the resolve to keep this meeting brief melt away, and what's left is that old obtrusive desire for reciprocal love, lurking in his spark.

Pharma is once more tempted to pretend that Ratchet could someday return his feelings, could love him back. He is tempted to...but no, best not. That way lies nothing but grief and delusion, and he's better off sparing himself the effort in vain.

The sparkling, however...

Pharma glances at the bucket where it's presently resting, shapelessly aglow. And glances again at Ratchet. "Thank you," he says.

Which nets him a good-natured scoff. "What for?" asks Ratchet, "We're friends, aren't we?"

Pharma's smile stretches thin as he is forced to agree. Yes, they're friends. Yes, they are, because he won't be the first to say that they aren't.

They don't talk about the past. They don't address the chasm of resentment between them. They move right along to the logistics of sparkling care, on which they concur: to go straight to setting up the nursery aboard the ship, since takeoff could be any cycle now. Any cycle now, the ship will leave...and leave behind the remnants of Tyrest's madness.

Pharma doesn't look at Ratchet again, unless he absolutely must, nor at his hand on Ratchet's wrist. He'll just have to write it off as a fair exchange, for his sparkling. A costly exchange, an exorbitant price to pay for a rental service, but it's not as if he lacks a replacement for his loss of limb.

He'll just have to deal with it, even if he would still prefer to have his original, even if the phantasmal difference he feels still itches at his circuits. But to belabor the point would be too obstinate, for one of his precarious standing. He can't have everything, can he, so he'll just have to be content with what he has. His situation could be worse, a lot worse. He reminds himself of this, every time he glances past Ratchet to search for some hint of what First Aid might be thinking, now that the sparkling is here—and Pharma has little else with which to bargain. Would First Aid reveal the truth of his actions at Delphi, force him to come clean? Would Aid risk an upset within their faction—risk upsetting Ratchet, now that the surrogacy is safely over? He can find no evidence, just as there was none to be found after the transfer, all those cycles ago. But just in case...

Pharma relents to every suggestion First Aid throws his way. Let the nurse be the one to rig the fuel dispenser? Not a problem. Let a committee decide the new tank specs? Sure. Permit open visitation during the nurse's shift? Yes, within reason. Give his bitlet an actual name, so that people can refer to it like a proper mechling? Whyever not?

He puts his pede down, however, when Aid suggests a name which reeks of Wrecker worship. Agreeing to one of these now would be suspect, he thinks.

First Aid accepts his veto with grace. "What are you going to call it, then?"

"Not that," Pharma can't resist saying.

"OK yes, you've ruled that out, I hear you loud and clear," Aid replies, with what might be more than a trace amount of exasperation. "Aside from what you won't be naming it, have you figured out what it will be yet? Because, Ultra Magnus said he wants to add in the sparkling when they update the crew manifest before we leave, and—"

"Oh did he?"

"Mm-hm. Magnus wants everybody who's anybody aboard the ship documented like they should be." First Aid waggles a finger inside the tank they've set up for the bitlet in a relatively secluded corner of the medbay. "That includes you. Yes, you! You wriggly proto-pooh."

Pharma watches his sparkling attempt to copy the spinning motion the nurse is now making. "Stop that, you're going to confuse his brain module."

"How can I confuse his modules when they haven't even come in yet?" And First Aid continues bobbing that finger up and down.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. So does Sparky here." And Aid reaches all the way in to pet the undulating protoform, which now attempts to subsume Aid's fingers within itself.

Bite him, Pharma thinks encouragingly, not that his sparkling has an actual maw yet, nevermind teeth. And then he realizes what it is he's just heard. "'Sparky'?" he asks. That's what First Aid is calling his sparkling?

"Well it's not like you've given a name to use!"

"I'll think of something." Maybe Magnus can help, if he's so eager to see the sparkling accounted for on the roster. "Don't call him Sparky."

"Fine, fine, I won't."

Pharma leaves the medbay. He's still well within range—the doors haven't even shut yet—when he hears First Aid cooing at his sparkling.

"You're not gonna grow up to be such a gearstick, are you, Sparkles? No you aren't, that's right. You're gonna grow up to be..."

Pharma doesn't stick around to hear what, if anything, First Aid has in mind for his sparkling's future development.

There's no reason he has to go find Ultra Magnus this very moment. It's just something to keep his processor preoccupied and an excuse to get out of the medbay. The longer he stays, the sooner he'll have another unavoidable encounter with Ratchet or Ambulon, and Pharma's in no hurry to deal with either one if he can avoid them.

So Pharma finds his way to the bridge of the Lost Light, where the second-in-command happens to be present. At the moment the captain's absent, but guess who isn't? The CMO.

Ratchet is pouring over some document or other at Magnus's elbow. An urgent matter, perhaps? Pharma is ready to turn around and try again later when—slaggit—he's spotted by them both. Which is fine, perfectly fine.

Pharma forces himself to smile.

Ultra Magnus nods at him politely. "Pharma, what brings you here?"

Oh, nothing really, but he may as well say it. "I was told," he says, "that you intend to update the crew manifest as soon as possible?"

"Yes, that's true."

"So the sparkling..."

"Has a name been chosen? Excellent." And Ultra Magnus pulls up the roster to begin editing the data entry with an air of great expectancy.

Pharma can hardly explain that he doesn't actually have one for his sparkling. Well, he could, but what sort of absentminded dolt would he sound like, to admit he doesn't have a name ready by now? Ratchet is sure to judge him for not caring enough, if he asks them to help him pick.

Well, he doesn't have to look at Ratchet while he decides; he can look at the roster instead and stall for time as he maneuvers to share the screen—and he's caught off-guard by what it shows.

Placeholder of Vaporex, it says. Not on the roster, as he had thought, but on a file Magnus had apparently begun drafting to report the new mechling's existence, which has been ascribed to...whom else? Ratchet of Vaporex, apparently.

Typical. Just, typical. Why would he ever have expected differently? Pharma stares at Ratchet. Then looks at that line again. Then back to Ratchet, his surrogate who has, apparently, supplanted his place on the official record.

"Uh," says Ratchet, "We'll get that fixed."

"Don't bother," Pharma replies, before storming off the bridge.

Not many mechs can match his stride. But little Minimus Ambus, wearing the Magnus armor, has such a size advantage that it's no trouble at all for Ultra Magnus to keep up.

Pharma slows to a stop right around the next bend. Evading pursuit would be pointless, if this mech's mind is made up to catch him.

"I wish to apologize," Ultra Magnus begins, "It was my mistake. I'd gotten a start on the paperwork while you were indisposed. I made an assumption which I failed to correct in a timely manner. I didn't even notice the error until just now. It was not my intent to cause undue distress—"

Pharma cuts him off. "That's the appropriate appellation, isn't it? Technically speaking."

"Pardon?"

Pharma ventilates in preparation for giving up this chance to right a wrong. Now that he's thought about it, he can allow the so-called error to stand. It could be for the best, for himself and his sparkling both, but how to explain his reasoning? He can't, so he has to act like he intends to defer to some external authority on the matter. If he could cite the right passage word for word, that would be ideal, but it shouldn't take much to get the gist across. "Whoever brings forth a new being from their frame," he reminds Magnus, "gives not only of their body but their name."

"Yes, that is correct. The transitive proper—"

"That means the sparkling is entitled to use his surrogate's place of origin."

"I don't believe that is the intended interpretation—"

"Let him have it," Pharma argues, "Though his spark did split off mine, ultimately he was built by Ratchet of Vaporex, who completed the process to bring him where he is today."

Ultra Magnus looks skeptical. "You are certain about this? I do hope to make up for any—"

"Let him be of Vaporex." Let the records say that he was Ratchet's. Probably better for him this way.

"Then, ah, the personal designation. Will you be choosing it, or...?"

A name for the mechling. Pharma vaguely recalls that there was one he thought sounded all right. Glancing away, he says, "Catalyzer. The—his name is Catalyzer."

"Catalyzer of Vaporex," Magnus sounds out. "A decent name."

"It is," Pharma has to agree. It is, dammit, it really is.

Chapter Text

The official name is filled out accordingly without further ado, and Pharma returns to his sparkling's side. Or he would, if the medbay were not filled with people, and his EM field entirely askew. So he steps into the medbay long enough to grab a few boxes and dips back out, while curious optics follow him to the door.

Out in the hall is no respite either. Twenty paces away there's Atomizer, who's apparently made friends with Getaway, and the two of them stop and turn to stare at him.

Oh for Primus's sake. Pharma tries to nudge past without making eye contact—

Atomizer offers, "Need help, doc?"

Pharma grimaces a smile. "No, thank you."

"Must be a lot of work, packing up the office," Getaway comments.

Pharma doesn't bother to respond. These boxes are just a ruse to look busy, and the sooner they stop talking, the sooner Pharma can leave and—

"Pharma!"

What is it now, he nearly snaps, but the little minibot who's running up to him doesn't deserve that.

Tailgate stops, far away enough for Pharma to see past the stack of boxes he's carrying, and waves hello at Getaway and Atomizer.

Atomizer waves back. So does Getaway.

Tailgate is bouncing with a restless sort of energy which does not bode well for wrapping up this encounter as quickly as Pharma would like.

Tailgate is waiting, he realizes, for him to respond.

"What is it?" he asks, as calmly as he can, before appending the next thought that comes to mind. "You're supposed to take it easy, not run around as if—"

"Yeah, rest more, run less, or you'll put me under, yeah, yeah. I heard," says Tailgate, "I heard that you've given the sparkling a name!"

Pharma stares down at the minibot. How has the news spread already? It hasn't even been a quarter cycle since Ultra Magnus finished filling out the documentation at his behest.

"You did, right?" asks Tailgate, beginning to sound a tad uncertain, "You named him Catalyzer?"

"Yes. I did." Catalyzer. Yes, that's the name. Ambulon's pick, he dimly recalls, and he only chose it in the heat of the moment. But it's a good name, and Pharma dares anyone to say otherwise.

Getaway meets his gaze, saying nothing.

"Rad," says Atomizer. "When do we get to meet him?"

Pharma is relieved to have an answer that could close this conversation. "First Aid is with him in the medbay right now. You're welcome to go see."

"Cool, cool."

If Getaway has anything to add, he keeps it to himself, and the pair heads off in the direction from which Pharma came.

Tailgate, however, remains.

Pharma is about to ignore him and simply move on, when he finally speaks.

"Back in my day," says the minibot, "people had viewing parties. Maybe not as grand as the picnics at a hotspot ignition, which were loads more exciting, but usually there'd be refreshments and some assorted—"

Listen, you stripped bolt of a bot, Pharma doesn't start off like he wants to. Instead, he manages to answer, "That's swell, but this isn't those days."

To which Tailgate replies, "It's kinda strange. You'd think with fewer sparklings around, there'd be a bigger celebration."

Pharma is sorely tempted to dump these empty boxes to shut the minibot up. If they were standing closer, he could drop the stack right on top.

Luckily for Tailgate, a third party shows up before he can give in to temptation.

"Oh hey," says Swerve, who steps right over with a friendly nudge at Tailgate's elbow. "When I said you didn't have to wait up, I thought you'd be in the medbay by now."

The medbay, that's right. Funny that Swerve should mention. "Will you be in for a checkup soon?" Pharma asks.

Swerve glances up. "Who, me? Didn't we just queue for a scan?"

Pharma just knows the metallurgist is being obtuse. Nonetheless. "I'm talking more in-depth than just checking off functionality for the next decacycle or two."

"I've got the all-clear, remember? When Hoist and—"

"And how long ago was that?"

"Uhh..."

"You're due for a follow-up," Pharma tells him, "and I'll brook none of your arguments to the contrary. Unless...you're determined to wait until nothing can save you, except for a resurrection like your friend has had. Is that what you're counting on, for someone to put their own spark at risk to save yours in some last ditch effort to keep you alive?"

While Swerve is sputtering about how he doesn't think that's a fair assessment, Tailgate is shifting from side to side. "Um..."

Pharma peers down at the first minibot. "You're dismissed. Go."

Befuddled, Tailgate does, although not without muttering a few words which Pharma chooses to ignore.

Meanwhile, Swerve is still insisting that he's fine.

"Oh? You're fine, are you? Then we can confirm that with a checkup, can't we?"

"Look, I appreciate the thought, but I'm busy, I've still got cleanup to do, things to take care of, I—"

"You're busy," Pharma repeats. "Too busy to stop in for a few kliks, when you're already here?"

"Wha, now as in now? Like now-now? 'cause I wouldn't wanna keep you from whatever you're about to..." Swerve gesticulates vaguely at the stack of boxes in Pharma's arms.

Pharma pictures, for a moment, dropping everything and forcibly dragging Swerve into the medbay. Not that he actually would. "Ambulon will be back soon. Or First Aid could see you." When Swerve still hasn't budged, he adds, "Didn't you pick up a Legislator? Get a few more. Reprogram them to help."

"I don't know, these guys take up a lot of space, one is enough—"

"Are you concerned that reprogramming will be a hassle? I could show you the preprogrammed commands, if you'd rather," Pharma says with a smile.

Just when he thinks Swerve has run out of excuses, he spots Ambulon coming down the corridor. Right on time.

"Ambulon," he calls out. And he watches as that taciturn expression Ambulon so often wears turn to something softer.

"Yes?" Ambulon answers, when the distance between them is nearly closed.

As Ambulon's gaze tracks down to where Swerve stands, Pharma smiles at the prospect of one problem solved with another postponed and asks, "You remember what we agreed, when you signed off on his inclusion on that mission with Hoist? That Swerve would be OK to go, with one caveat?" Even though they hadn't, they hadn't discussed the subject in such uncertain terms, it's not as if anyone else would know what was or wasn't said.

"I..." Ambulon hesitates. "Yes."

"Then you know what to do." And Pharma walks past him, entrusting Swerve to his care.

"Oh come on," says Swerve, "You patched me up afterward! You know I'm good to—"

Pharma tunes them out. Whatever Ambulon does or doesn't do next, doesn't really matter to him. Whatever impasse they do or do not resolve, he leaves the two of them to it, and he disembarks the ship with his decoy task unquestioned.

What he really wants is to get Ratchet to open up. But that isn't for him to decide. They have become like strangers, now more than ever. Ratchet won't listen even if they weren't, and there is no one else among them to argue for treatment. The blacksmith? The blacksmith has been all but useless on that front. First Aid? First Aid cares naught beyond the basics, whereas Ambulon...

Ambulon is too ineffectual, against the likes of Ratchet.

Not that it matters anymore, to Pharma, what, for Ratchet, the future has in store. That doesn't matter anymore. It can't matter. For Pharma, there can be no doubt about this chasm he feels..

All too soon, he is standing outside the quarters Tyrest assigned to him.

Pharma palms for entry and steps through, letting the door shut automatically. He drops the empty boxes haphazardly onto the nearest surface and kicks them aside when they flop to the floor. He then grabs the nearest object and sends it flying—it crashes into the washracks with a resounding echo—before flinging himself at the bed where he's spent so many nights alone, wondering if he'd ever find his way to Ratchet again, wondering when his ordeal on Luna One would end. Pharma lets himself wallow, lying in his bed, a proper bed, where he can cry in private for a cycle or two without being seen, while there is still somewhere to hide where no one will look, to indulge while he can, before he has to be back.

Pharma wakes to a call he'd rather let go directly to voicemail, but he answers anyway. "Yes?" he asks.

First Aid's on the comm, demanding, "Where the Pit are you?"

"I'm..." The obvious answer falters from his lips.

"What?" Aid wants to know. "You are returning to the ship, aren't you?"

Where else would he go? "Yes, of course. I'm...packing."

"Really," says Aid, sounding unconvinced. "Well hurry up! You're worrying Ambulon. He's practically—no hey, hands off! What do you mean? I didn't even tell him—"

Pharma hangs up.

He hadn't meant to slip into recharge, nor did he plan on packing any of the material possessions from this room. Why would he? All the things that matter—his notes, the tech that they could use—are already aboard the starship. But he can't go back emptyhanded now, after what he's told First Aid, so he vents quietly to himself and proceeds to sort through the remnants of his life under Tyrest's generous patronage.

He packs his boxes, the odds and ends, none of which he needs but had been a distraction at the time. What he doesn't keep, he can give away or let his sparkling have, as souvenirs from a carrier who has been largely absent...

What role is he to fill? Pharma has no idea. He had, he thought, already determined that he would have nothing more to do with the newspark once it's become its own person, but now that his sparkling is actually here, is and will be Catalyzer of Vaporex...

The petty, unforeseen sorrow of relinquishing his claim, he airs out within the private washracks where he lingers after cleanup, and then he lingers at the threshold, standing halfway in the hall. The quarters Tyrest gave him are as empty now as when Star Saber had led him here. This chapter is closed now, and he will forget...he will try fruitlessly to forget, just as he has not forgotten Delphi.

First Aid doesn't call again. Pharma takes his boxes full of pointless junk to the habitation suite he still shares with Dent. He drops them at the foot of his slab, and then he drops himself onto that narrow ship-standard berth, flat on his face, as if he hasn't just come out of recharge recently on a more comfortable bed.

He should, he should get up and report to the medbay. That is his domain. He should be there. He can't hide here forever...

Pharma rolls onto his side and sits up, just as the door opens. Dent is here in the room, padding on all fours, then here on his berth; Dent joins him with a casual leap and a nudge of that beast head against his torso—firm enough to tip him over, were he not already seated—and settles down behind him, purring.

Pharma lets himself lean into the beast. Together they sit in silence, and he is soothed, resting with Dent in beastmode at his back, rumbling more comfortingly than any vehicular engine could. Pharma is soothed by Dent's efforts, by Dent's wordless company, huddled here in their quiet corner; he is soothed, until he remembers. The exit he had planned for Delphi, if he had had more time, to deploy the virus he developed and a vaccine...

Pharma remembers, crystal-bright. In his plan, he had not devised a way to spare any of their staff, except for First Aid, Ambulon, and himself.

Chapter Text

Guilt gnaws at him. But what's past is past, and Pharma never did release his virus upon Messatine. His people are safe aboard a starship. They're safe from him, at least.

They're safe, yet so much has happened during his absence. Who could've guessed all the tragedies that would befall their ship? That stashed upon the Lost Light was none other than Overlord, who broke—no, was set free. (And to think, their third-in-command had been, although not the direct culprit, the one ultimately responsible for Overlord's release.) Who would've guessed? Or that Fortress Maximus would snap, for all the good that therapy had done.

If Pharma were less encumbered by the weight of his own deeds, he would have words for First Aid and Ratchet both, about what has occurred. As is, he does not often seek out conversation with either one of them. Or any of their staff.

He'll miss Lancet, he thinks. Like he might even miss Lockdown, that nattering piece of slag...how strange, how he could almost feel something for a Con like that. Not that the stupid Con is dead like Lancet; Lockdown probably isn't, but who knows? He could be wrong. Anything could befall a mech, anything at all. Lockdown and Star Saber and the rest could be deactivated, Pharma would have no idea.

Pharma puts them out of mind. He manages, most of the time. He tries. Tyrest too, he tries to forget. His benefactor, whom he betrayed. No, don't think about that.

He could've stayed, on Luna One. He could have. They could use a doctor, couldn't they? But the specter of the former Chief Justice...

No, he couldn't. It's for the best he's rejoined the Lost Light, whatever baggage that entails. Things could be worse—could always be worse—so what's a bit of awkwardness, having to deal with everybody else who's on board this ship? Just grin and bear it, and may as well get to know the crew.

Except, Pharma doesn't much care to stay and listen to any of their stories, so he excuses himself whenever he can, from whatever company he keeps, whether that's Atomizer or Getaway, or the rambunctious minibot Tailgate's crowd of friends. Pharma excuses himself with work to be done—really can't stay—it's a thin excuse, now that the load isn't what it used to be, but he deploys it all the same. The only trouble is, of course, if he does follow through, if he returns to the medbay, well. It's not his medbay, is it? It's Ratchet's and, from what he gathers the way things are headed, going to be First Aid's.

No matter. Pharma will pick up a new assignment off this ship, at the earliest opportunity. He'll take whatever post he can get, take whatever dressing down he has to first endure for the debacle at Delphi, then leave this all behind. So what if he has to wait a little longer, stuck here with the rest of the medical staff? No matter what his issues are with Ratchet, First Aid, or Ambulon, being here among them is just temporary, for however long temporary could be.

And besides. The sooner he gets off this ship, the sooner he'll have to say goodbye. Not that there is anything difficult about that! Pharma's absolutely prepared to go their separate ways, he is. Or he would be, if he'd have any idea what to say when it's time to go. Certainly he'll have to say something. Something right and proper, unlike—nevermind that. What's past is past, and the future is distant yet. There's no real hurry to figure out whether he'll tailor a message to each and every one or drop a succinct farewell on them as a group. Pharma has plenty of time to decide just exactly how he wants his exit when he leaves.

In the meantime, while he's still here, he'll do his part to stand watch over his sparkling. It doesn't need him, not really, not when there are so many others around to help, but he should be seen doing his part, even if he can't bring himself to devote every spare moment. Pharma should be there at a respectable frequency, and why not? All he has to do is be on standby.

It's exceedingly simple, really. Go stand in front of the playtank, multitask with some light reading, then clock back out.

And yet. It always takes him a klik to get moving. As if this basic task could pose some challenge and, no, the trouble isn't in deciding what to bring along to read. It's frustrating, that he has to motivate himself to go, when this ought to require no processing power whatsoever.

By the time he's done dragging his feet, he's missed the window of time he's calculated the medbay would be empty. Ambulon and First Aid are both there, huddled together chatting in the corner. He hasn't a clue what they are saying, but the tail end of their discussion sounds as if an agreement has been reached, and his processor stutters at the possibilities.

It's not like that makes a difference, though. They have ample opportunity, whenever, wherever, whether he sees them talking or not.

Pharma keeps his tone light, when he asks, "How many bots does sparkling-sitting require? Are we already at that stage where it's time to install a lid?" Although Catalyzer isn't so unruly yet, isn't that precocious as far as he's aware, a lid probably would be good to have.

First Aid and Ambulon exchange glances before they turn to face him.

Pharma has to remind himself to ventilate.

"Actually," says First Aid, "we think the bitlet might be ready to go free-range. He's getting kinda restless and—"

Annoyance cancels out Pharma's newfound sense of relief. "Are you kidding? He'll get lost."

"Developmentally he needs—"

In this idealistic scenario that First Aid has envisioned, Pharma demands to know, "Who's going to watch him while he's roaming the ship?"

"Uh. We could take shifts?"

"Right. Because we don't have enough work to do."

"We don't," says Ambulon, "There's not much that we haven't—"

"Just because the workload is lighter now doesn't mean much," Pharma replies. "If at any point in time we might need to pick up the pace—"

"We've already gotten through the backlog—"

"If we're talking about the bare minimum, then yes, we certainly have—"

"What exactly are you so worried about right now?" First Aid steps forward. "What do you think is going to happen?"

Anything and everything. Pharma glares at the nurse.

"We're not going to lose him, and if we get busy again, we'll just put him back in the tank. I'm saying, if Cat gets a chance to explore a little, it'll probably help him to calm down more, and then when we put him back, he'll—"

Wait. "What did you just call him?"

"...Catalyzer," First Aid corrects begrudgingly, before taking a step back. "Look. I'm not saying we should set him loose immediately. I'm just saying that he needs a change of scenery."

"A change of scenery," Pharma repeats. "Like he doesn't get enough visitors in the medbay?"

"People are important, sure, but it's also the environment, right? Sparklings need stimulation even as protoform."

"So put some wheels on his tank! Give him more toys." After a pause, Pharma gives in, "You can take him outside if he's still restless then."

"Outside his tank or outside the medbay?" First Aid pushes, and Pharma grits his teeth.

He's not arguing just for the sake of arguing. He's not. But then, if he isn't, what is he doing? He's not supposed to become more invested than he planned. He's not supposed to be this involved, when all this is temporary, just temporary...

Ambulon is at his side, with a hand on his arm.

Pharma glances down at the touch. They still haven't talked, he and Ambulon. He keeps putting that off, a problem for another day. How much easier it is, to talk of anything else. But until then, if he continues to allow...

"Let's discuss it when we get there," says Ambulon, "Now about those wheels..."

Who should appear, while they're in the middle of rigging the tank onto a new base to cart around the sparkling? Who should appear, other than dear old Ratchet (who is looking as well as can be expected, for someone who has not yet fully recovered from the considerable strain of carrying to fruition, with all the underlying stress that entails) dropping by to check on the state of his medbay? There's a moment where Pharma thinks Ratchet might throw in a quip, but he doesn't. Pharma wishes that he would. There is a part of Pharma that wishes Ratchet would, that he'd stay and linger, but if he had? Surely they'd only argue. Whether or not Ratchet has the spark for an argument, Pharma could find a way.

As is, Pharma can only resist the urge to take his feelings out onto everyone else. Tempting as it is to critique First Aid's design or, for that matter, how Ambulon has installed the brakes, Pharma won't give in to the urge, not while he's holding his sparkling. He has to model calmness for Catalyzer, who is growing smarter, more solid, by the day, who can surely intuit if not the meaning of his words then the tone and signals of his field.

When they're finally finished, the playtank sits snugly atop its new set of wheels. Pharma looks at it and sighs.

"What?" First Aid asks, indignant, "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"I didn't say anything," Pharma replies, as he puts his sparkling back inside.

Catalyzer isn't having any of that, however, no matter how he tries. The protoform is still fresh enough to stick to his plating when it wants to cling, porous and hot and sticky...

"See!" says Aid, "He wants to be outside."

A pause.

"Or," says Ambulon, "He wants Pharma to be around more."

Great. Neither interpretation is what Pharma wants to hear, but he can hardly refute either. Which is how he finds himself with one hand stuck inside the tank, petting his sparkling while trying to read.

Multitasking has just gotten a lot harder than before.

To observe from outside is one thing, to interact from within is another. With his hand now inside the tank, Catalyzer is more difficult to ignore. The feedback is nigh constant, and so is the experimental shape-shifting. When Catalyzer turns from a cylinder to a cube-like entity with rounded corners, Pharma pets the top side of the cube encouragingly, and it ripples in response before reverting to a blob. By now, the spark is firmly hidden from every angle; at the next stage, the protoform will soon take shape in greater detail, with the nerve circuits clearly visible...

First Aid comes over and puts in a color-changing geometric tile for the tank, to give Catalyzer something edifying to...chew on?

"Before you ask," First Aid begins preemptively, "Yes, the material is non-toxic."

Doesn't mean it's safe. But what Pharma counters with instead is, "You think my sparkling is stupid enough to poison himself?"

That gets First Aid flustered. "I...he's a sparkling! All sparklings—"

"Relax, I was joking." Pharma strokes Catalyzer along a fluctuating crest. "First Aid should relax and take it easy, isn't that right."

"You're a," stammers First Aid, "awful, uh."

"Oh just say it." Pharma is feeling magnanimous today. "He'll learn the vocabulary eventually anyway."

Just as the doors slide open and shut, "Learn what?" asks an all too familiar minibot, who is this close to getting put on berthrest for overexerting himself running around the ship like he isn't still in the middle of recovery.

Pharma is debating whether to remind him so, when First Aid responds to him first. "Never you mind," says Aid, "You ready to proceed?"

"Yeah, yeah," says Tailgate, "but first I have a present for the sparkling." And Tailgate walks up to Pharma to pass him a flat pane of brass, while he's still got one hand holding a datapad and the other in the tank.

Pharma lowers his datapad and holds it flat, so that Tailgate can lay the 'present' on top. "What's this?"

"It's a nametag!"

Pharma balances the datapad onto one corner of the open tank (out of reach) and picks up the 'nametag' for a closer look. Tilting it in the light reveals the glyphs etched into the surface: CATALYZER OF VAPOREX.

"You can put it on his habitat," Tailgate explains, "I wanted to have Swerve help enamel it, but he suggested we wait until we find out what his favorite color is, and I think that's a great idea."

Pharma runs his thumb over the grooves as he passes the nameplate to First Aid. "The favorite what now," he asks.

"His favorite color! Everyone has a favorite color."

No. No, everyone most certainly does not. Pharma humors the minibot anyway. "Yes, that...that does make sense." And maybe it does, maybe a favorite doesn't have anything to do with the actual color wavelength but the taste of the pigment particles. Not that they're going to let Catalyzer get a taste just yet. "Swerve's going to help, you said?"

"Mhm. Can I help put the tag on?"

"Er. I suppose you could, after your exam." Pharma glances at First Aid, who nods and sets the nameplate aside.

"Can I also take him out for a spin? I promise to be careful."

First Aid is watching Pharma for his reaction. He may not have liked First Aid's proposal earlier, but Tailgate's request...

Pharma pauses for a moment, long enough to keep them both in suspense. "We did just add some wheels, so I suppose, if you want to go out for a stroll..." There. Whatever. He doesn't particularly care. "And go slowly," he tacks on the reminder, though he suspects Tailgate will be hard-pressed to remember.

First Aid is still staring at him. What? What does Aid want from him?

Pharma chooses not to think on all the possibilities when he leaves the medbay, leaving them with instructions to notify him if anything odd or unusual should happen, while he takes his reading elsewhere.

Without a sparkling on his arm, Pharma nonetheless finds it hard to concentrate. Eventually he gives up and puts his datapad down midway; he heads back to the medbay, resolving to clear the air with First Aid if he has to, if there's anything at all he can do to ensure that all is well, or as well as can be.

He's on his way back, keeping his optics to himself, when Getaway blocks him in the hall.

Of all the impudent, insolent—"Do you mind?" Pharma struggles to keep a polite tone with this mystery operative he has no desire to see.

"I just want to say hello," says Getaway.

Pharma glares point-blank.

"OK there's more," Getaway amends right away, "I'm here to do recon for a friend."

"Recon," Pharma echoes skeptically.

"Yes," says Getaway, a little less cocksure than before, "I'm here to sound out a very casual survey on how you're feeling today, from a scale of one to five, with five being the happiest and one the least..."

What the—? "Are you fragging kidding me?"

"...I'll take that as a one. Two? One point five?"

"Shut up, and get out of my way."

"Yessir," drawls the reply, and the way is cleared with such promptness that Pharma could almost regret being so abrupt. But honestly. What did Getaway expect, hounding people with a stupid question like that?

Pharma is still too perturbed by the encounter to face off against First Aid, so he takes a moment to smooth over his field before entering the medbay.

And then when he does feel ready enough to step in, of course First Aid isn't there. But of course.

Well. He's hardly going to go back out, if he gets the medbay all to himself. So Pharma goes around tidying up and checking on the diagnostic drones, going through the logs. He's jotting down his own notes, when invariably his eyes keep sliding back to a certain spot on the floor. His sparkling, he's noticed, is still not back from the stroll. He'd expected Tailgate to get bored soon and rush it right back, but who knows. Perhaps First Aid is also out accompanying them? That would make sense.

Pharma's done signing off on drone maintenance, when he spots movement on his periphery.

The old warrior, Cyclonus, is here at the threshold, to return Catalyzer sans tank and trolley. "I believe this belongs to you," says Cyclonus, who then walks off as soon as Pharma has taken back his gibbering sparkling, before any questions can be asked.

With no one else left to confront, Pharma glances down at the bitlet in his arms. "Had fun, did you?"

Catalyzer garbles a nonsense gurgle, gesturing toward the door.

Pharma sighs. Then comms First Aid then Ambulon, both, to go check on a status update for the missing playtank, while he attempts to pry his sparkling off his plating, to its ever flashing delight. "Don't get used to this," he warns. A reminder to himself, also: all this is only temporary...can only be temporary, nothing more.

Chapter Text

He should've stayed, on Luna One. Pharma should've taken his sparkling and stayed off this ship, away from this propensity for seeking out trouble.

He should have, when he had the chance. Pharma may be a doctor and an Autobot, which means he has a duty to render aid wherever he goes, but does that have to mean following a bunch of scrap-for-brains on a quest to uncertain doom? It does not. It should not.

He's not even doing any doctoring right now, barricaded inside the medbay alongside First Aid and Ambulon, with a few of their old staff, and their new longterm patient, Tailgate, whose non-stop nattering would grate even the calmest of nerves. (How anyone else here hasn't snapped yet, he hasn't a clue.) If it were entirely up to Pharma, Tailgate would be in stasis for the duration of...whatever mission this is that has the Lost Light chasing some elusive target through the watery depths of hell. If it were up to him, stasis lock would be the way to go. Instead, Tailgate is taking this opportunity to chat up Dent and those other members of their old security detail who've elected to be here, on their perimeter, standing by.

The persistent chitchat might be an annoyance but at least isn't too out of place for their situation. Currently they're idle enough, here in the medical bay, to tolerate distractions during this dreadful wait, cut off, as they are, from the rest of the ship. Communications told them to bunker down and be ready, but there has been no further word since.

Pharma can feel his sparkling squirming inside his cockpit. If Catalyzer were softer, more malleable—more tolerable—not already so well developed and fidgety...but he can't exactly blame the bitlet for raising a fuss, when his own electromagnetic field must be a mess right now; he's all keyed up for a confrontation he is in no state to take on with a sparkling in tow, while the ship is taking water...

If they could get the shields back up, that would help, but already they are ankle-deep on this level. They could regroup on higher ground, but. Nowhere on board is really safe. Not with those mechanisms out there looking for a fight.

Though there has to be, for his sparkling at least, somewhere safer than his cockpit, if only he'd had the foresight to arrange...

Ambulon reaches out—in full view of everyone—and takes him by the hand, then, when he doesn't refuse, locks their fingers together firmly, steadily, and gently rubs at the joint of his wrist, and Pharma finds himself flexing his seams for better access, as if they're about to frag any klik now, not that they actually will.

Well. Maybe they could? Pharma's long since given up on trying to be discreet. And if they're going to die...they could do so much more than just hold hands, if not for the company they keep.

One of the guys in the rear clears his intake with a cough. Ambulon lets go and steps away.

At that instant, Catalyzer starts kicking again.

Forget interfacing; if Pharma had his choice of activity with any one person in this medbay right now, he'd have Dent do a little lullaby rumble for the bitlet. Scratch that; he'd have Dent do a whole routine for himself too. Not that he'd ask, in front of all these people. Not that he isn't glad, that Dent brought some of their other personnel to the medbay to join him and Ambulon and Aid. It had been unexpected, seeing these familiar old faces show up. Which was nice, in a way. If they're going to die here, they'll get to die together. How very nice and tidy, a Delphi reunion. Plus one minibot.

"Who is attacking us?" Tailgate asks no one in particular.

"Minicons," supplies whatshisname, the one with the antenna and flip visor, who used to trek out to the mines all the time, until he was caught smuggling contraband filmography.

"Stentarians," Dent corrects, pacing the floor in robot mode, "from the Ammonites faction."

"Huh. Looked like Cons to me."

"You weren't on the bridge," remarks a third mech, whose unusually hobbled gait has persisted through every repair and even a reframe, at no small cost. "How would you know?"

"Neither were you," the first bot defends, then it's a quick descent into bickering over what doesn't sound like anything relevant to the situation, at the moment, but an old argument rehashed.

Pharma would've liked if Dent could've swapped somebody else for these two, but pickings are understandably slim. All their best people are out there, either on assignment with Ultra Magnus or otherwise roaming the ship to meet the enemy head on, not holed up in here, waiting for the Stentarians, the Ammonites, to come to them.

Still. Surely somewhere there's crew to spare.

The two layabouts are still poking at each other, sloshing around waving about, increasingly agitated, when the bot stationed furthest from the group gestures for everyone to hush. "They're coming." A simple statement, but no more needs to be said.

In the ensuing silence, Pharma turns up his audials and oh yes, he can hear the scuttling approach of...who knows how large a force, dampened by distance and this rising stretch of water seeping through every seam in the walls and floors, but the vibrations are undeniably there. The Ammonites are coming.

His ventilation hitches. Catalyzer kicks him. Pharma tries his best to calm his field but. This could be it. This could be the end, and he is not prepared, not like this, hunkered here without...

How many cycles ago, did he allow his last convo with Ratchet to go poorly, not knowing they were about to part again, possibly for good? How many cycles have since passed, and not only has Orion Pax taken off with the captain and the rest of their adventuring party, but Ultra Magnus has also left the ship with his pick of the crew.

Of the officers who remain, Pharma has to assume they're preoccupied with leading the defense. He tells himself that no news is good news, that radio silence is better than the crackle of—

"I don't hear anything," Tailgate complains, "Does that mean I'm not fixed yet?"

The contraband smuggler answers. "Yep, probabl—ow."

"Means you're not a scouting unit," says the smuggler's friend, with one more cuff on the shoulder for emphasis. "They're about, uh, how many paces away would you say they are?"

"Five hundred," mumbles the smuggler.

"Two hundred," says the bot at the door. "Get ready."

Slag. Pharma is not (and never will be) ready to face a fighting force of combiners. But if that's what coming their way, then they'll just have to do what they can. He tightens his grip on his weapon—the same one he had, with Tyrest—and forcibly relaxes again, adjusting over and over, as if he could guarantee perfect aim with the right grip. Pharma's confident he could take down at least four or five of those Ammonites with a few shots each, but if their little group gets overrun, if he has to go hand-to-hand with a swarm in these waters...

He never was made for close quarters combat. A deft touch at the operating table means nothing in a fight. If he had known he would have to fend off an enemy he's never met before, if he had guessed that this is how he'll die...Pharma desperately wishes he hadn't yelled at Ratchet. And for what? Just because he overheard Ratchet introduce his sparkling as 'Cat' and surmised that's where the entire medbay picked it up? Pharma still doesn't much care for it—some diminutives are worse than others, in terms of how silly they sound—but it really was a stupid thing to argue about, whether putting some disrespect on that name now will prevent Catalyzer from finding professional success in the future. As if there could be any future for that to matter now.

And what a scene he'd made. Pharma had stormed up to Ratchet, stood underneath the repurposed old banner welcoming Orion Pax to the Lost Light, and accosted his old friend without a care who else was there. Most of the bystanders at Swerve's were busy doing their own thing, but that's no excuse, this is how he's going to be remembered now; this is how Ratchet is going to remember him. Of all the ways, bringing down the mood while people were trying to socialize...that will be the final impression he'll have left behind, and all because hearing Ratchet drop a few syllables had dislodged a plethora of old resentments, once buried deep, and the dismissive response he'd gotten had goaded him into raising his voice.

So now their last conversation will have been about whether Catalyzer would care, or perhaps even come to appreciate saving the hassle of writing out the few extra strokes of his name. He could just as easily have been called 'Cat' from the very beginning and the mechling wouldn't know the difference; it's not a designation Catalyzer chose for himself but one that was assigned to him, after all, one he could just as easily choose to change someday, which, while true, it's the principle of the matter; if they have to give a name, then bestow a name worth having, don't saddle a mech with anything less! Ratchet's unwelcome conjectures about whether 'Dr. Cat' would be happier signing forms more efficiently (or end up going by something else entirely) can go get stuffed.

With a start, Pharma realizes that an attack should've broken his reverie by now. There should be Ammonites blasting down the doors and swarming in, wading through the waters or—swimming? Is the water deep enough for them, for the so-called minicons to swim in now? Do they have aquatic alt modes? Pharma has no idea. He has no idea what they'd be dealing with, here.

But the Ammonites aren't here yet, aren't going to be here at all, it seems, with the sound of their steps retreating, changing course. Where could they be going instead? Pharma doesn't know, doesn't question this turn of events. The nanokliks are adding up, and still no sign of the Ammonites' return.

No word yet either, from Blaster's team or anyone else, what's going on.

"So uh," Tailgate begins to say.

A younger mech in the back, who'd been quiet until now, pipes up. "Is that it? Are they gone? Dang, I'd been hoping to see some action."

"What," asks the bot who'd coughed earlier.

The young mech takes that as his cue to ramble on, "Y'know, at Delphi, I missed everything exciting that happened 'cause it was my off-shift, and I just feel like—wait, I didn't mean it like that."

The other bot stares, flabbergasted. Pharma isn't quite sure what to make of that either, when First Aid strides over before anyone else has made a move.

First Aid reaches up and pistol-whips that mech who wanted to fight. First Aid strikes him from side to side, right across the helm. When in his surprise he goes down with a crash and a splash, the hits continue as First Aid follows him to the floor, saying, "You want to see some action, huh? Is that what you want? I've got your action, right here!"

Nobody intervenes.

Another kick in the cockpit reminds Pharma to open up and let out his bitlet, who immediately proceeds to warble a counterpoint to the beat, once it has a front-row view. Hearing the commotion of First Aid beating that hapless mech into the floor inspires Catalyzer to carry on quite musically for nearly half a klik, before First Aid finally stops.

There is a pause, then one onlooker (the smuggler) has the temerity to whistle, and Catalyzer happily begins to sing again, loudly and off-key.

Chapter Text

Catalyzer is still babbling a playful tune when a message from their pilot blares over the intercom.

"Hey all, get ready for a rough landing on Cybertron!"

...Cybertron? The ship is headed for Cybertron? The message doesn't explain how they came to be even remotely in Cybertron's vicinity, but there's no time to process that right now. Any moment now, the Lost Light will hurtle onto the surface of their home planet, Cybertron, and they need to be ready when it does. A rough landing could be a crash landing, and Pharma has to secure Catalyzer before then.

To say that Catalyzer is not well pleased to be shoved back inside his cockpit is an understatement, and Pharma has to wrestle his squirming creature into submission. A part of him wants to let his uncooperative sparkling have it their way, see how they like it when they learn what a crash landing feels like without being strapped in—surprise!—but that would be irresponsible, wouldn't it, to let his sparkling learn the hard way. But irresponsible or not, soon he'll no longer have the choice—physics will decide for him—if he doesn't hurry this up. The message from Mainframe is barely enough warning for them to get themselves in order before it's too late. First Aid is lying on the floor, practically hugging the dazed mech Aid had just beaten, bracing for impact. Any moment now, the Lost Light will crash, and Pharma is still fumbling with his rebellious bitlet.

They don't have time to negotiate a tantrum! Pharma is nearly ready to call it quits, to simply cradle Catalyzer in his arms and hope for the best, but then Ambulon is here with him, reaching inside to help hold Catalyzer still, and they manage to get it settled nanokliks before the crash.

His canopy lid has only just fully clicked shut when the collision throws them across the room. Pharma smashes helm first into an empty slab along the way, but it's his turbine that takes the brunt of the wall that meets them on the other side. It's not the worst landing ever, but it's bad enough, rough enough to jostle every strut in his body. The outcry from his sparkling is muted, more felt than heard, cushioned inside his cockpit. Welcome to Cybertron, he thinks, and Pharma grimaces at the fresh new tantrum that will surely follow, as he tries to ignore his nerve circuits and the system notifications that have popped up on his HUD. Welcome to Cybertron, he thinks again to himself. This isn't how he planned to return, but with the pain comes a sense of relief. They're on Cybertron. After all this time, he's back on Cybertron; he's survived, and he'll survive whatever comes next too.

After the landing, after the crash, he gradually begins to disentangle himself when he realizes how he's clung to Ambulon and then, all right, fine, let the sparkling out first, why not. Pharma passes his fussy sparkling over to Ambulon then closes back up, before he slowly gets to his feet. His sensors are awash in input, though when he skims through his notifications nothing major demands his attention. First Aid rushes over, as he's getting his bearings standing upright; First Aid rushes past him to take the sparkling from Ambulon, who passively gives it up without a fight.

First Aid isn't any less inept at hushing those cries, but if he wants to handle this, fine! Pharma meant to have Ambulon hold Catalyzer only for a moment while getting himself sorted, but this is good, this is better; Pharma can get a few sparkling-free kliks to ventilate and assess the situation on the ground. Pharma can go get situated to figure out what to do from here, because if there's any constant in life, it's that there's always, always something new, something else unexpected, to dash whatever careful plan has been laid. Nevermind that Pharma doesn't have any actual plans right now—just the mere outline of hope masquerading as a plan—but there are unknown threats to assess and preparations to be made, and Pharma will not be caught unawares. Whatever is out there waiting for them, waiting for him, Pharma intends to be among the first to find out.

Cybertron. They're on Cybertron. Except that's not the Cybertron Pharma remembers. Iacon was rebuilt...and demolished once more? Whatever. They're alive. He's alive. His sparkling, Catalyzer, won't stop fussing, but that's to be expected, and Pharma lets First Aid deal with that now. There is so much uncertainty eating at his processor, and he does not need the distraction that Catalyzer presents, nor does he want to explain to any of these curious onlookers how his sparkling came to be; let First Aid deal with them all. Pharma pushes past the slowpokes crowding the exit to make his way down the gangplank but then stops short.

From this vantage on the outskirts of Iacon, there is little for him to see—aside from the Titan who brought their ship here—but what he does see now are Decepticons. There are Decepticons milling the ground before them. There are Cons here, and not just rank-and-file but important Cons, high-ranking Cons. (The highest! Is that Soundwave? And Megatron?) Intellectually, Pharma understands that this is what post-war society will look like, with the enemy interspersed among their people, but...

Well. It's not as if he has to get to know any of them up close and personal. He will not waver at the sight of them now. And look! Over there, that's Prowl. A stickler, but a constant, and isn't that a relief in these uncertain times? Pharma will just go over there and, rather than wait for a summons, awkwardly address the fact of how he abandoned his post. After Prowl is done with Hound and Blaster and whoever else. Pharma can wait, will just wait over here. Yes. If he's lucky, he'll get off easy for abandoning Delphi, and he can pick up his next assignment, which will probably be right here, in Iacon, in the thick of working with neutrals and Decepticons, and that's not a problem if so, not a problem at all. Pharma's a professional, no matter how distasteful the company. He's patched up prisoners of war before, and he's not averse to working alongside medics from the other side. He has and he can. But, to train up a doctor the Autobot way is one thing, to be expected to defer to an outsider's methods is something else. Could he tolerate it, if he had to take orders from a Con? Or lend his expertise to one of their commanders, to Megatron himself? 'cause having to help Megatron might not be a hypothetical, from what Pharma can tell.

He won't think about that now. He's waiting to speak with Prowl, who appears to be done conversing, and it's only now that he sees an opening that he realizes he's been standing here all this time dripping in filth. (Or, rather, coated in dried splatter.) He had rushed out, just to be stuck waiting, when he could have taken a moment to get cleaned up. Oh well. It'll make a nice contrast, at least, to how he looked the last time he...

How exactly had he relayed the news in that recording he made so long ago? When he was newly on the Lost Light, still giddy with relief...and perhaps not as respectful as he should've been, addressing a superior. If his holovid is still fresh in Prowl's memory, he may have made more trouble for himself, more trouble that he'll have to face today. Pharma sorely wishes he had been less insolent at the time, but what's past is past, and perhaps Prowl will forgive him the impertinence.

Perhaps. Nothing for it; Pharma makes his way over, helm held high. Whatever he's in for, it'll be better to know now than to wait.

Pharma stops before their fields can overlap. Prowl is staring at him inscrutably, with not even a frown.

"You were at Delphi," says Prowl.

"I was." Pharma tries for a hint of a smile. "But as I explained when I messaged you—"

"What message."

Is Prowl being purposefully obtuse? "After the letter of resignation I sent? I sent it to—"

"Why? Why would you do that? Resign? Wh—" Prowl scoffs and looks away, muttering, "We needed those mines. If you're not there on Messatine..." His doors jut out with an agitated creak, and Pharma has to hold back on recommending that he oil his hinges.

"I explained in my message," is all Pharma can say. "Did you not receive it?" He doesn't know whether that's better or worse, having to explain everything from scratch. He'd been counting on Prowl having already heard, so he's thrown for a loop, thinking of where to start. It's OK though, it's OK if the Lost Light never sent out that recording; it's perfectly fine to consign that to the ether. But for Prowl to not have received his letter of resignation, which he personally filed at Delphi...he has to ask. "Did something happen at the office? I used the latest coordinates, I thought. You should have received my letter, at least."

Prowl pinches the bridge of his nose and ventilates loudly in response. The hinges on his back continue to creak.

Pharma can't help it. "If you're out of oil," he begins to say.

Prowl lowers his hand. "I don't have time for this," he replies without looking. "We'll talk later."

"When?" Where? If headquarters isn't what it used to be...

"Later," is all Prowl will say, and Pharma is dismissed, with hardly a better grasp of the future than he had before they spoke.

Pharma mulls over the possibilities of how his next meeting with Prowl might go, even as Ratchet talks at him while they reorganize the medbay.

"The best treatment!" Ratchet is grumbling, "and he wants it for Megatron."

"Mmm," Pharma murmurs sympathetically while sorting through the spare components on his tray. For once, he is glad that Ratchet is everybody's go-to around here. If he had been called upon to be Megatron's surgeon? Oh what a test that would be. "What's 'best' is relative," he says, lightly, with his optics on the pile in front of him, and then trails off without glancing up. "Given the extenuating circumstances..."

One clink of a bolt drops with an air of finality as Ratchet stops sorting. Pharma can practically feel his disapproval from across the table. "I still have to do what's right," says Ratchet.

"Of course," Pharma readily agrees. "Just as Bumblebee had requested." Ratchet was never going to not comply.

Over by the supply closet, First Aid snorts.

Pharma glances over. "Something funny, nurse?" First Aid's not a nurse, not really, but the demotion hasn't been officially rescinded yet.

No biting retort, surprisingly enough. Aid just slips in a sly comment instead, about how reintegration seems to be going well, and then tosses an offhand remark about Ambulon segregating from the rest of the team. Ambulon is, apparently, out with "some guy named Flatline" whom First Aid saw hanging around here, not too long ago.

"Flatline?" The name does sound familiar.

"One of the top Con docs," says Aid. "I heard he engaged in fisticuffs with Fixit."

"Did he." Of course First Aid would have all the gossip.

"Sure did, and Fixit didn't stand a chance. That guy is huge for a medic. He's tall, taller than you, and twice as hefty—"

"Yeah, he would be," says Ratchet.

"Oh, you know him?" First Aid perks up at the potential new snippet of intel Ratchet has just dropped.

"Uh. I guess?"

"It's a yes or no question, Ratchet."

"Yeah, yeah." Ratchet pulls out another jumbled tray to start sorting. "Yeah, I knew him. We were classmates until." A pause, indecisive, and then a shrug. "He transferred out, after an altercation. Good to know he hasn't changed."

"You talking about me?" In swaggers the Con, with Ambulon lurking behind him, and oh was First Aid right about the size of this mech.

Pharma doesn't think they ever met at Iacon. He would've remembered a mech such as this.

The Decepticon, Flatline, saunters like a warbuild making his way to the center of the medbay and then stands there, staring down Ratchet with what has to be a smirk behind that faceplate. "Been a while." An observation spoken with levity and gravity all at once.

Ratchet grunts. "Sure has. Why don't you come here and make yourself useful," he says, gesturing at their trays of sorting odds and ends scattered from the crash, but it's not the trays that have Flatline's attention.

Pharma has to step back to clear some space away from the sudden embrace which has Ratchet swept into Flatline's clutches without further ado. He glances over at First Aid, who has chosen at this moment to pass them by, en route to the exit, as if to get a gander at how constipated Ratchet must look, up close, straining to keep both pedes on the floor while practically held aloft.

Whatever surprise or hesitation Ratchet initially felt, he nonetheless pats Flatline on the back, saying, "OK yeah, I missed you too."

Still watching the show, Pharma detects a prickle of interest on the edge of his field. Ambulon is here at his side, so he folds his wings to make room, and Ambulon takes that as invitation to stand so close, he can feel the heat radiate between their plating.

Flatline has released Ratchet from that all-encompassing hug and is looking at them now. "You must be Pharma," he says.

Ambulon's told me so much about you, Pharma mentally fills in...and is surprised at what Flatline actually has to say next.

"Your full name suits you better," Flatline declares, in a casually appreciative tone that suggests he ought to be flattered rather than offended. "There was a lyrical ring to it, y'know?"

Hm? Since when did Flatline know his name? As far as he's aware, this is the first time that they've talked. Not that talking would've been necessary. If Flatline had stayed at Iacon long enough to have spotted him on the roster for a course? Maybe. But none of the instructors, none of the teaching assistants, had been so...

Before Pharma can demand an answer, Flatline is looking down at Ratchet, saying, "Sometimes the scenic route is worth not taking a shortcut, you know what I mean?" And then laughs at Ratchet's reaction.

Ah. He isn't actually trying to charm Pharma. He's teasing Ratchet? And Ambulon too, if the prickliness in the air is any indicator.

"Aw, don't be like that." Flatline reaches over to cuff Ambulon lightly on the helm. "I'm not trying to steal your mech."

Pharma can't see Ambulon's face from this angle. He can, however, easily picture a sullen, hapless frown.

"He's not my mech," Ambulon bleats out, but there is something happier, if bittersweet, about his field after the reassurance.

With another laugh, Flatline thumps him on the shoulder. "I'll see you bots around," says Flatline, "Do take care of ole buckethead for us, Ratchet."

Ratchet scoffs at that.

On his way out, Flatline takes a moment to wave at Catalyzer (who mimics the gesture from inside its playtank) and then pauses by the door to acknowledge First Aid with a nod.

First Aid, even after lurking around the threshold all this time without leaving, turns and just stands there to watch him go.

Huh. Has First Aid set his sights on a mech more attainable than his favorite Wrecker? Pharma doesn't comment, just glances at Ambulon, whose downcast optics won't be met.

Ratchet, though. Ratchet returns his gaze with an obstinately fond shake of the head.

When First Aid flounces over to their table, Pharma hands him a tray to sort.

"So your friend Flatline," Aid starts to say, even as he is quick to resume working. "How well do you know him?"

Ratchet shrugs. "He was friends with Thunderclash."

"You were friends with Thunderclash," Pharma points out.

"And Thunderclash was friends with everybody in the program. Doesn't mean I knew them all equally well."

"But you did know him," First Aid insists. "Did you stay in touch after he transferred out?"

"Of course not. I was too busy trying to—"

At that moment, Pharma's communicator goes off. It's Prowl.

"Yes?" Pharma answers. If Prowl's ready to see him now, and he still hasn't decided how exactly he's going to explain himself...

Prowl is as direct as ever. "Meet me on the bridge." Yet doesn't specify a time.

"Right now?" He assumes so, but clarification would be helpful.

A brief pause. "Do you have something more important?"

"No, sir. I'll see you on the bridge."

Prowl hangs up, and Pharma puts his comm-link away.

"I have to go," he says, "Prowl is expecting me."

It's almost crushing, the wave of concern which envelopes him. Pharma would ignore them talking over one another, but then when Ratchet asks, "What does he want with you?" Pharma can't not answer.

He has to try for a nonchalance he doesn't quite feel. "To explain why we pulled out of Delphi, I imagine." He offers a smile. "Apparently Prowl only just found out, despite my messages. An unpleasant surprise, I suppose, on a long list of unwelcome developments after an eventful day."

"If Prowl tries to give you a hard time—"

"Oh Ratchet." Pharma smiles more brightly. "I appreciate the thought, but I can handle a dressing down from Prowl." What's Prowl going to do to him, with the Autobots in disarray? Nothing, that's what. It's terrible news, that the Autobots have been squabbling unsuccessfully with the Cons and NAILs for control over Cybertron, but for Pharma it's great. As a senior physician in the faction, he's too useful for Prowl to truly punish him now.

Not that Prowl couldn't still make him regret what he's done, now or later. Which is why Pharma will need to work to stay on Prowl's good side, even if the odds seem favorable for now.

The odds would be more favorable, he thinks, if he could get Prowl to sympathize with his plight. Not that Prowl does sympathy, no, but arguing the numbers is getting him nowhere fast. Stuck reiterating how long the mines ought to tide over without support, it won't be long before Prowl tires of his presence.

Pharma has tried to argue for the value in saving their medical staff from harm, had started out by explaining the dangers the Decepticon Justice Division posed to their facility, and has somehow now resorted to blabbering excuses on how the miners are probably doing just fine, no really.

Fortunately they're no longer on the bridge—it was a short walk to whichever office Prowl had commandeered—so there's no one else to witness his poor attempts at an explanation. But that's cold comfort in the face of how close he is to coming apart at the seams in front of Prowl, it's cold comfort considering how relieved the other people on the bridge had looked when Prowl left the area, and Pharma is still scrambling to say something, anything, justifying how he could abandon Messatine just like that.

Anything but mention Tarn's demand for T-cogs, that is.

But he doesn't know what else can he say that won't inevitably lead to revealing the facts of his collaboration with Tarn, and so they're stuck at this impasse at which Prowl is surely ready to tell him to shut up and wait for a court-martial.

"...and the supplies should tide them over until the next shipment if, um, the schedule hasn't changed," he finishes lamely.

Prowl glares at Pharma a proper glare. Not the one he gives to dumbaft soldiers, the one he reserves for dumbaft officers. "When I offered you the position at Delphi," Prowl enunciates frostily, "I assumed you would last longer than a few years. But not only did you resign," and here Prowl leans forward with a sharp cant of his doors which, Pharma notes, are a lot quieter now, "you pulled the entire medical and security staff out from Delphi, leaving Serp and its people with zero support."

"I—"

"Had you relayed a need for more protection, we would have found a way to provision more forces."

"But—"

"And now that you are here, you can't even tell me why you were unable to wait for reinforcements! I asked you to describe the dangers, and all you would say is that Decepticons broke into the facility to menace you with their perverse predilection for cruel and unusual games, and that is why you had to get off-planet immediately?" Prowl's incredulity is evident in his voice, in his field, and from his eyes to the thin twist of his mouth. How could he ever have trusted such an incompetent failure, his entire demeanor seems to say.

Pharma can't even explain how it hadn't been his idea to leave. That had been at First Aid's insistence. But it would hardly be a defense of his actions as Delphi CMO, to try to pin the blame on a subordinate.

With a sharp vent, Prowl steps back but isn't finished. "There's something you're not telling me, and I intend to get to the bottom of this. So you can tell me now, or I can—"

What Prowl can do, Prowl doesn't say, because Ratchet has burst into the room and is now standing between them, even though Pharma has said he didn't need...had said that...

The first thing Ratchet says is, "Hound said I might find you here." The next thing Ratchet says is, "Whatever problem you have with one of my medical personnel, you can start by informing me."

Hearing Ratchet speak so in his defense, Pharma almost loses the last threads of composure then and there. It's all right, though, it hardly matters; Prowl is staring at Ratchet squarely.

"Are you here to take responsibility for him?" asks Prowl. "Because I'm starting to think you've also got something to hide."

Pharma might not be able to see Ratchet's expression, but he can feel, oh he can feel that righteous anger aimed at Prowl.

Ratchet moves in close, closer than Prowl had with Pharma. When he speaks, his cadence is even, is steady and level, and yet his voice brims with feeling. "You want to talk about responsibility and hiding scrap?" he asks, right in Prowl's face. "Yeah, you'd know all about secrets and being responsible, wouldn't you. I'll bet that Rodimus didn't concoct the fool idea to take Overlord all on his own. Did you twist his arm to have Overlord brought aboard?"

"I did no such thing."

If Ratchet notices Prowl's curling sneer, he pays no heed. "You're right," he says, "You didn't have to force him. All you had to do was suggest the idea, and the idiot would jump right in."

"Rodimus is not the current topic under discussion—"

"Yeah? Well I'm getting there, give me a klik." And Ratchet backs down to a polite distance, still standing between the two of them, while Prowl folds his arms and waits.

Prowl is looking over Ratchet's shoulder with an expression cool and calm...and full of judgment. Pharma should say something now, before Ratchet really draws out that ire. He is grateful, he is, that Ratchet is here, but he can't have Ratchet fighting his battles. Pharma still has no idea what else to say, though. And Ratchet has found new footing, is picking up steam.

"I don't know the details on Overlord but I do know how you operate," says Ratchet, "You think you see the big picture, that you have what it takes to make the hard choices no one else has to make. You plan and you plot, and you've got your eyes on the prize when you move your pieces across the board. And you lose a few. Maybe you meant to sacrifice them as part of your strategy, or maybe you didn't. I'd like to think that you didn't. I want to believe you didn't mean to keep Fortress Maximus waiting—he's doing better now, if you care to know, but I still worry. I still worry about him and the other mechs you've sacrificed." He pauses. "You ever have regrets, Prowl?"

An incriminating scowl. "I don't see how that matters."

"I have regrets," says Ratchet, softly, "I regret letting a friend of mine get sent to Delphi," and goes on to elaborate why.

After his spiel in Prowl's makeshift office, Ratchet walks out—and takes Pharma along with him. Ratchet leads, and Pharma follows in a daze. After that spiel, after listening to him talk with such fervent conviction in his voice, Pharma's spark still hasn't settled by the time they return to the medbay. When they get there, Pharma nearly stumbles when Ratchet stops.

First Aid is there at the entrance, heading out, and looks at them curiously without a word.

Inside, all the trays have been put away, everything restored to how the medbay once was. No one else is here, except for a visitor with Catalyzer. Dent, sitting on his haunches in front of the playtank, turns a glance their way and then goes back to watching Catalyzer, who is experimentally trilling like a stuttering engine running low on fuel.

One of the diagnostic drones is hovering nearby at a safe remove.

Ratchet clears his throat, and Dent glances their way again. Slowly (reluctantly?) Dent stands on all fours and approaches. You don't have to go, Pharma hesitates to say, but Dent has just bumped a gentle nudge in passing and is already walking past.

Catalyzer trills again. And then bonks the glass for attention until Ratchet grants some, going over there and picking him up. The trilling continues in spurts and starts, and Pharma realizes that, were it several octaves lower, it would sound a lot like the sort of sounds a Predabot can make.

"Noisy, aren't you?" says Ratchet, and Catalyzer is emboldened to let out a rapid stream of what now sounds a lot more like a rotary malfunction, less like the Predabot Dent. Ratchet chuckles. "You've got something to say? Can't wait until you can actually talk."

Pharma smiles. He ventures closer, but Ratchet takes that as a sign to pass Catalyzer to him. All right then. Pharma holds his bitlet close, waiting for the excitable little creature to quiet down. Eventually, inevitably, Catalyzer settles, and Pharma smiles at Ratchet, who now turns aside to...send the nearby drone over to its charging station?

Pharma ventilates, waiting for whatever it is that Ratchet has to say. He waits, as Ratchet steps closer, and then...

"I meant it, you know," says Ratchet, "what I said to Prowl."

"I know." And it's strange; it should've been exactly what Pharma wanted, to hear Ratchet confess at a moment like that, but it's been years and years since Ratchet left him hanging on a goodbye. In those intervening years, on cold lonely Messatine, Pharma has had ample time to fantasize a love that might never materialize. The concern Ratchet has shown him now? Pales in comparison.

"And maybe I...maybe I said too much, but I'll make sure Prowl doesn't give you any more trouble. He won't harangue you, I don't think, for the things I said, but..."

Oh, Ratchet.

"I couldn't help thinking, you know, when I told him how badly Delphi affected you, that it's true. You've changed. I think it did something to you, being there, not just what those Decepticons did, but being stationed on that planet, away from everybody else. That changed you, I think, made you jumpy and snappish, less able to relax."

What? What does Ratchet mean by that?

While Pharma is standing there with a frozen smile on his face, Ratchet continues, oblivious. "Sure you had First Aid, and Ambulon, I suppose, along with the rest of your staff," says Ratchet, "but it's not the same. You were basically alone out there, and I wish I'd known just how badly you needed not to be. It must've been hard out there, for you, on Messatine, even before the DJD showed themselves. I mean, for you especially."

Well! If that's what Ratchet has to say, how's he supposed to take it? As a simpering, blubbering mess of a mech, grateful for the belated intervention? As if! But before Pharma can retort how thankful he is now to have Ratchet grace him with such astute company, the medbay doors slide open and in walks First Aid.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," First Aid announces with strained cheer, "Just want to let you know they're about ready to bring Megatron in for the operation."

Ratchet sighs deeply.

Pharma gives his sparkling over to First Aid to hold, before making himself scarce. They don't need him in the medbay for the operation and, what's more, he doesn't want to be there with Megatron, of all people. Nor with them, with Ratchet, not after he's just discovered precisely what Ratchet has thought of him now and since. It bites, it does, and Pharma has only himself to blame. No matter how hamfisted Ratchet might be, it's true; whatever impression of him is to be believed, Pharma isn't who he used to be, is no longer the same unbroken mech Ratchet remembers. He has had to prioritize survival, on that forsaken planet of Messatine, to try to get through each new decacycle with no nasty surprises and, in doing so, has sanded off the finer aspects of himself. Pharma has changed...and not for the better. But what's done is done, and he's already accepted his losses long before the Lost Light ever showed up. Who he is now is all that is left.

Pharma is about to return to his hab suite to hide (he half-dreads half-hopes that Dent might be there to interrupt) when he realizes he could, instead, choose to venture outside. Here on Cybertron, he could go outside for a flight. What's to stop him from going? Absolutely nothing. Pharma has not been entrusted with any urgent, important tasks at this time (perhaps not ever again) by Prowl or Bumblebee or anyone of note. Pharma is now free to do as he likes. For a little while, at least, he is free.

So he goes, flying alone, and takes in the view. Pharma goes and enjoys the unsettling view of Cybertron, marveling at just how much their home planet has, in his absence, also unrecognizably changed, surviving the war.

Chapter Text

After his flight, after a tour of new old unfamiliar Cybertron, whatever gripe Pharma still has left fades away to normal. It was good, to fly again. It was good, to soar unencumbered for a klik and forget his petty resentments. He had needed it, for that chance for whatever ill will he still held to subside to residual nothing, and it has allowed him to stay civil, so very civil, while he works alongside Flatline and Ratchet as they prepare for their next patient.

Their next patient is a formidable fighter, ancient yet in excellent health. Now that the battle is over and the wounded are stable, they can carry out the more elaborate project of planning out a reframe. He isn't entirely sure why, if they aren't here to equip this fighter with an extensive new arsenal, to give her an upgrade. He doesn't ask. Pharma limits himself to studying the specs...and admiring the near-perfect condition of the spark. A Trinity in balanced harmony, even after an extended stay in spark extraction? He could marvel, and he could lament how this is not the common standard for all their people. The Cybertronian body is not as ageless, is not immune to entropy, as was once believed; this is a fact he has long deduced beyond a shadow of doubt, and yet it is still difficult, for him to comprehend just how much a mech scarcely older than himself could already suffer from decay.

Neglect. Ratchet's problem is self-neglect and disrepair, after millennia of hard living. But Pharma won't think about that now, not while he has the schematics for a reframe to occupy his full attention, even if he is not the only surgeon tasked to do the work.

Pharma studiously ignores First Aid loitering in the room for as long as he can, but he cannot help but to notice how Ambulon stomps out after a brief conversation, how First Aid disappears too, shortly after, where before Aid had been loitering alone, content to watch them—to watch Flatline—from afar. A few words with Ambulon, and First Aid has disappeared off to who knows where.

Those two. He has to scoff. How many nanokliks has Pharma frittered away, minding their antics, fearing the worst? As if the worst would come to pass the moment he tries to relax? Pharma shakes his head and goes back to assisting Flatline, who has paused checking under the hood to glance at him now.

He tries on an effacing smile, but his mind has already begun to wander. No matter how he tries to assuage his worries, he cannot help thinking there is something amiss. And maybe there is. First Aid and Ambulon may not be plotting against him, but those two are surely doing something behind his back. What, though? What could have their attention now, or could dislodge First Aid from loitering in the corner like a soppy oversized drone? Is it...Pharma hesitates to think, but then how can he not. Did something happen? He didn't think so; didn't seem like First Aid was in a rush, but Pharma doesn't know what else could've called the bot away. If there is something wrong with Catalyzer...

He wouldn't know. He had other concerns after the crash. He had been relieved, even, to be largely absent after he delegated his sparkling to another's care. He wouldn't know of any potential new developments unfolding out of reach, and he won't have the means to find out until...

"Are you with us, Pharma?" Ratchet is staring at him with a furrowed brow.

Automatically, he answers, "Yes," like the unconvincing liar that he is.

The first chance he gets, he excuses himself and makes a beeline for the habs. He strives to look unhurried as he goes, but it's hard, when he sort of wants to teleport straight inside his hab suite.

Why, oh why had he agreed to move his sparkling out of sight? Let Catalyzer be rowdy in the medical bay. Let Catalyzer be disruptive. If people find that distracting, it doesn't matter, so what. Peace and quiet are an unnecessary luxury, and the noise wouldn't last forever anyway. Overstimulated or not, sooner or later a sparkling would have to fall into recharge, so why did they ever bother with rearranging the setup? As if there isn't enough to do around here, but at least the time spent on interior redesign didn't cost them personally much attention; the structure here was built by Atomizer, Getaway, and Skids. It's good solid work, he has to admit, the way that the new habitat is designed to fit as a partition which can be monitored from both sides, but the old tank was still serviceable, so why bother? Sure, there'd been a whole host of sensible reasons for the move. The hab suites are private, so the sparkling won't be overwhelmed by newcomers barging in whenever. Fewer visitations, to limit undue influences, and easier this way, to keep an eye out during the off-shift. Plus they do have a drone to spare, as a dedicated cam to monitor proceedings from First Aid and Ambulon's side of the tank. Right now, however? None of that matters. None of it changes the fact that the habs are so very far from the medbay, he has to walk past so many sets of eyes while trying to appear unfazed.

It is an excruciatingly long time before Pharma has finally arrived outside his room. He didn't have to walk all this way; he could've called First Aid for an update on his sparkling, but he'd rather see for himself. He's probably worrying over nothing, so he'll just make sure that everything's all right without tipping off that he ever thought something was wrong just because Aid and Ambulon were hashing out whatever silly little problem they might be having between themselves. First Aid doesn't need to know just how much he's read into their every move.

He opens the door and—

Standing in front of the wall-sized tank, illuminated by the new wading pool where Catalyzer is soaking, is none other than Prowl.

Before Pharma can ask, Prowl turns to him with an expression as unreadable as ever. "Ah. There you are." Then turns to Dent, whom Pharma now notices sitting stiffly a pace away in Prowl's shadow, further back, "Now if you'll excuse us?"

Dent scampers off with a disgruntled growl.

Pharma thinks about asking Dent what's going on. He thinks about getting within range of Prowl, to make some sense of this, field to field, just what sort of conversation here he should expect, but he stays rooted in the doorway, even as Dent has to squeeze past his legs to leave.

"Come inside and close the door," says Prowl, "This is one discussion you won't want Ratchet to intervene."

Slowly, steadily, Pharma complies. He dreads what he is about to hear, and yet there is a certain sort of serenity in facing the inevitable. No matter what Ratchet had promised, getting involved has made things worse, just as he knew would happen. That pointless bout of righteous interference? Ratchet had meant well, had cared. Pharma will just deal with whatever the outcome, like he always does, and not begrudge the mess he's dealt.

It's just a talk, he tells himself, but his nerves will not, cannot settle. He takes a different angle: Prowl is here to deliver bad news; his fate is already predetermined. There's no use in worrying about it now. Only one way forward, just accept whatever he has to, do whatever is asked of him. He'll survive. He's survived thus far.

Pharma does not let eye contact linger to face his judgment. When he has walked over within reach, he looks instead to the lit expanse inset within the wall, where Catalyzer seems happy to nap without a care. The lazy little bitlet is lazing half-submerged, lounging against the rocks. (Dubiously sourced rocks, but which Swerve has assured are safely ornamental.) Probably nothing wrong with it, he decides, but he keeps his eyes on his bitlet anyway. There is almost something charming about the scene, like a landscape in miniature, featuring a lone figure partially concealed among the shallows. There is something idyllic about it that draws the eye. He has to credit the joint effort, that with this new setup there is now a naturalistic habitat where he can watch his sparkling roam. As can anyone on the other side. A passing shadow through the glass—is there someone in the other room? Hmm, it's not as if eavesdroppers can hear. Whatever Prowl needs to say can be said regardless, and Pharma will hear just fine.

But the quiet stretches on with no interrogation forthcoming, no scolding rebuke. Prowl stands beside him seemingly content to also remain like this, enjoying the view.

At last, after a full klik has passed, Prowl breaks the silence, saying, "I spoke with your roommate, Dent." Prowl speaks carefully, as if uncertain about remembering the name. "We talked, about Delphi. He was under the impression that the attack on the facility was a singular, unpredictable event. No one could have seen it coming, that the Decepticons would strike the outpost, with such precision, for the sole purpose of—as they say—demoralizing our troops."

On the far side of the glass, there is a hint of movement. Pharma pictures Dent, after being chased out of their own hab, barging in on the other side. Imagine that.

"Tell me." Asks Prowl, "Was the Decepticon Tarn responsible for your recursion?"

Yes, in a manner of speaking. "Yes," he mutters to the wall.

"Did you merge with him?" A pause, where Pharma ought to answer, followed by, "What did you see?"

There is no good way for him to put Prowl off the trail. Pharma turns to face his interrogator. "If it's intel you're after, I'm afraid I don't have any—"

"Of course not," says Prowl, "because Tarn never showed you his spark. Or if he did, it was certainly not during that visit which, if I have to hazard a guess, was probably not his first."

He is stunned. He is gaping, he realizes, and he shuts his mouth.

Prowl closes in on him now. "Need I say more, or are you ready to confess?"

What, and admit his complicity? Pharma offlines his optics. This is happening. This is finally happening. "What," he begins, "do you want me to say?"

EM field full to bursting, Prowl harrumphs into the diminishing gap between them. "The truth," says Prowl, "Tell me the truth!"

Pharma leans strutlessly against the wall. The glass is cool, he thinks, and he wonders whether Catalyzer can feel the outrage wafting through the room, whether will slumber poorly for it or soon wake. Why do they have to have this conversation here, but it is a kindness, he knows, it is a kindness to grant him privacy while he is falling apart.

"How can I help you," Prowl is saying, "if you don't tell me the truth?"

His processor falters. "Help me?" he echoes.

"Yes!" Has he ever heard Prowl so frustrated?

"You'll help me," he says dubiously. Prowl will help him out of this conundrum? He tries to anchor that thought. Too strange to stay, it slips from his hold like quicksilver.

"Of course I will. Do you think I want to lose one of our best medics while we still have to contend with Decepticons running amok? With Starscream as ruler of this planet? I'll do what's in my power to keep you safe."

Pharma doesn't know what to think anymore. He resets his optics and concentrates on Prowl's face coming into focus. Always so stern, a constant, though he might've glimpsed Prowl smile once, from afar. A fleeting thing, a real smile.

"You have to tell me everything," Prowl goes on to say. But of course.

Pharma hesitates.

"The transformation cogs," Prowl insists none too gently. "How many were there?" Not a bluff, then. Prowl really does know. Pharma can't bring himself to ask how he found out.

"At first I took only from the deceased," says Pharma, though Prowl did not ask, "I violated the dead, so that the rest of us might go on living. You understand, don't you?" He is wheedling now, he notes with dismay, and once he has started he cannot stop. "At first it was only one cog a decacycle," he answers, "so minor a price to pay. Tarn promised, if I complied, no harm would come to us. He did, and I...had no choice but to believe him."

Prowl grimly says nothing.

"What problem was there," rhetorically he asks, "in stealing from the dead? Some of them had even willed their bodies for recycling, were just sitting in storage. We had the sufficient parts, or so I thought. We could manage, like nothing had changed. But then Tarn wanted more and more, and when I ran short, when there were no more cadavars to be had..." It was at that turning point, when he realized just how much trouble he was in. In far too deep, what else could he do? "I thought about our worst-off patients in the ward, how easy it would be to put them to rest. I had already let a few faders slip, whom I might've saved if I had tried." Were their operations botched, or had he already euthanized a few? What difference does it make? In the end, his reservations were for naught. At the time, though. "I only needed a few more cogs to harvest. But I couldn't, not yet. I kept waiting for another incident, another death, to spare me the decision, and then it was too late. It was time, and I thought I would die."

"But you didn't."

"I did not." Would it have been better if he had died? But he didn't actually want to, not really. He wanted to live, even as he accepted... "I was ready, I thought, for what Tarn might do. I thought he was going to kill me, when he took me out into the snow. But then he dragged me toward the mines." In that storm in which they found stragglers seeking shelter. "He was going to have his cogs one way or another. Since it was the first time I had failed to deliver, he would be merciful, he said. A short delay, he could accept, so long as I made up the rest of the batch then and there." In that cavern where Pharma was then forced to extract t-cogs from the living—to the expected number plus one extra, an extra witness, the final straggler inside that cave—and the last of his resistance toward murder was stripped away.

Catalyzer is still asleep, by the time Pharma has finished.

Pharma has told Prowl everything that transpired at Delphi. How he hadn't wanted to leave. How he had planned to deploy a virus in retribution, how willing he had been to destroy everyone on Messatine. How close he had come to acting...and how he chose to flee, instead. There are no more secrets left by the time he is done. What more could he admit? The very moment he agreed to Tarn's bargain, from the first cog he was damned. All the rest which followed has simply been the avalanche brought forth by that significant pebble, with all the consequence thereof waiting to collapse upon his helm.

He is hollowed out after sharing his story. At some point he had begun to lean on Prowl, who has borne his weight while listening to him monologue, who has scarcely said a word since Pharma confessed, and with that realization Pharma steps back to collect what is left of his dignity.

Prowl doesn't care, of course. Prowl has all the information, as complete as he could give. For an unenforceable promise, Pharma gave it up quite readily.

He has said too much. Prowl knew enough, but still he's said too much. All for a promise of safety, but how safe can he truly be? To have withdrawn from Messatine without permission is one thing. To have aided and abetted the enemy, to have killed so many of their own, for even a good reason...is there any outcome to his actions he could bear? Whatever Prowl has claimed, Pharma cannot count on his value as a doctor of their faction to save him. The war effort is over; he is not as valuable as he once was.

Or perhaps he still is...and more. Pharma glances at his bitlet resting inside its new habitat. He has Catalyzer now, as proof of his fecundity. A bitter thought. How much worse, worse than life imprisonment, worse than death, is the worst case scenario he could face? He would rather execution than split his spark endlessly. He would rather die, than take spike day after day until his body is too broken to produce any more newsparks. Or would he? He should know himself well enough by now, how easily he bends to every circumstance—

"Iacon." One word from Prowl cuts off his spiraling thoughts. "You'll go help treat the civilians in the city," says Prowl.

"Yes," Pharma duly answers. He will comply. Prowl's protection is contingent on obedience, and it's not as if he had other plans.

"I'll figure something out," as if it is inevitable that something must be done. Perhaps it is. If his damning secrets are out there, how his indictment could be cushioned remains to be seen. "In the meantime," Prowl adds, ventilating rather irritably, "Do keep a low profile. No more surprises, please."

As if Pharma could choose. There are no more secrets left unshared.

When Prowl turns to leave, the soft glow of the tank illuminates unobstructed, and Pharma is struck by the urge to say something, anything, to have the last word. But words he has none, and so he keeps silent, studying Prowl's retreating form for a sign. What Pharma is searching for is unclear to himself—confidence, perhaps? Or resignation? Whatever it is, there is no indication he can read in a too distant field or the tilt of those doors, and so he simply watches, as Prowl exits the room into the hall, letting in the bright exterior light.

But then Prowl exchanges greetings with a familiar voice, and every nerve circuit in Pharma's body fires off with sudden incandescent fury to hear them talk outside his door.

He rushes out to see exactly what is going on...

First Aid, that traitor. First Aid was the one who told Prowl. Pharma lunges without thinking. The little nurse ducks away from his grasp.

Prowl has him by the turbine. "Report to the ward on Iacon," says Prowl, as level as ever, "See what else they need, and bring along the sparkling; it'll be good for morale." Then lets go and turns aside. Pharma stumbles unmoored into the wall.

First Aid is saying something fast and mumbly, to which Prowl responds, curt and soft, too soft to hear. Pharma is sinking to the floor, has sunken to his knees, dumbfounded, with one arm braced beneath his helm. They're in the hall, he finds himself focused on that fact, where anyone can see. He should get up, but why. Does it even matter anymore? His people have betrayed him at the first chance to Prowl.

Prowl. Prowl is looking down at him now. And Pharma remembers that Prowl had promised him help, without specifying what exactly that help might entail, what the future would hold. Prowl had extracted his confession on a flimsy promise, and he can do nothing but wait and see. Whatever Prowl has planned for him could well easily change, and his life would still be forfeit.

Will this uncertainty never end? Pharma is tired, so very tired. He should get up. He should stand, except his struts refuse to listen, even as Prowl towers over him now.

"I will deal with you later," Prowl says to him, as if he needs to be told, "Don't even think about running."

A hysterical quip about why should he run (when he can fly) dies on his tongue.

Pharma stays there, kneeling on the floor, as Prowl walks away. First Aid is still here, watching him warily, neither of them inclined to make a move. What is there to even talk about? To speculate what Prowl will do, or to ask First Aid a reason why? Why did Aid wait until now, why betray him at all, when they had agreed...

Pharma does not trust himself to speak without flinging accusations. He levers his arm (his real arm, the one that's still him) against the wall to lift himself up, and he does so without speaking. As he props himself up, as he gets to his feet, he bites his tongue and holds it. Bad as his situation is now, things could be worse, could be so much worse, and he must be careful not to give cause for them to worsen. First Aid is a clever bot, whom he cannot trust.

Sure enough, what he hears next has him ready to drop back on his knees. It's an explanation of the inevitable, of why they never should've tried to hide the truth, but all he hears, in the midst of it, is First Aid pointing out how Ratchet does not yet know what Prowl has learned. At the mention of Ratchet, at the reminder that Ratchet has yet to be informed of his failures, his crimes, and the suggestion he infers from this, the course of action First Aid wishes to take, he is ready to beg and plead.

"What do you want?" What does First Aid want? "Do you want to be Catalyzer's mentor? That can be arranged. Do you want there to be another sparkling? We can—" He chokes down his pride and says, "We can make that happen." He can feel First Aid's rising horror at his show of desperation, but there's no stopping now. Undeterred, he adds, "We can make a newspark right this moment, if you want." And gradually he shifts his plating to reveal himself...

"Stop."

Pharma freezes. He can neither move forward nor retreat; he cannot undo the shame of how willing he was for a merge, how the light of his spark has, as of now, shown through the loosened seams across his chest. Even if he were to hide himself away, he could not erase the fact of how readily he has begun to open up of his own volition, with no threat of force to move him, only fear.

First Aid approaches, and he allows himself to be maneuvered against the doorframe of his hab. First Aid steers him, until his back is pressed against the surface, and presses lightly on his chestplates to encourage him to set himself to rights; presses gently, firmly, until he does.

First Aid's EM field has always been overactive. Loud and obtrusive. In this moment, however, its presence is reassuring, like a weight keeping him anchored through the storm of his thoughts.

"I won't tell Ratchet," says First Aid, "but that doesn't mean he won't find out." The meaning in Aid's warning is clear; if Pharma intends to control how Ratchet finds out the truth, he'll have to do it himself before it's too late. Now's the time to take the initiative, to shape how his story unfolds.

Suppose he does tell Ratchet everything from start to finish. What then? Ratchet might understand, or Ratchet might not. Ratchet, who holds such exacting standards...is that a gamble Pharma is willing to take? To admit the full extent of all the hardship he has had to endure. To irrevocably unveil the truth, to reveal just how much he has sacrificed for safety, for survival, and let it be known that he is not as blameless nor unblemished as he used to be before Delphi. Could their friendship withstand his revelation; could he put it to the test? Pharma could be tempted. He could, and let the chips fall where they may.

Or. He could let Prowl handle what happens next. For Pharma to invite outside involvement now would be defiant as well as risky. He'll just have to stew in his own unease and do nothing and let Prowl determine his future yet.

But if Ratchet finds out...if Pharma is not there to dispense the details himself...

He shudders at the very notion.

Someone coughs. Dent is in root mode, with optics averted, waiting to access their room while First Aid still has both palms resting on Pharma's chest and oh, what his field must feel like right now.

"This isn't what it looks like," says Aid, faintly exasperated.

Dent doesn't reply, just waits for them to shuffle out of the way to open the door.

Pharma is still wedged between First Aid and the wall, when Dent has deemed there is enough space to get through.

"Sorry," Dent mutters. Whatever for?

And then Pharma is alone again with First Aid in the hall. First Aid, whose field is fairly calm, all things considered, and whose plating is...

First Aid backs off, creating a more conscientious gap between them. Pharma could slide back down to the floor, if he so chooses, but he remains standing, leaning against the wall.

"I'm going to go back to the medbay." First Aid takes a step in that direction and pauses. "Are you going to, uh...?"

"Eventually." It's not as if he has to go right this klik. Prowl hadn't specifically said that Pharma has to be there as soon as possible. He is in no condition to go anywhere representing himself, nevermind the faction. For now, he can only ventilate, standing where he is, a crumbling wreck.

First Aid watches him a moment longer, before walking off without another word.

Chapter Text

He had anticipated leaving the Lost Light, he just hadn't expected it would be so soon. Pharma takes his time packing, not because he means to, but because all his processes and circuits respond like sludge. He had stood in the hall, idling for who knows how long, until Dent had left again (throwing him quizzical glances he chose to ignore) and then he had come inside, where he stood some more, staring at the wall until, eventually, he came to his senses in a fogged up way. So he does his packing slowly, not that he has all that much to pack. Not that he has need of any of these material possessions he could just leave here with Dent.

"I could leave you here too," he finds himself telling his snoozing sparkling. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? If I let you stay." Not that he would, and not just because Prowl's orders. Catalyzer is his, his responsibility for now. When he gives that up...that will come later, not yet. When exactly, he isn't sure, but that's the plan, or a notion of a plan, which he has had from the very beginning. In the meantime, he is still responsible, and there are arrangements and adjustments to make. He will have to rouse his bitlet to disembark, after he locates their means of transport, which will have to be the old tank which was reconstructed like so much salvage. It's a pity Catalyzer will have to go back inside the old tank, since the new enclosure is so much less portable, as seamlessly integrated as it is. Surely, even a small old rickety tank must be preferable to containment inside his cockpit? It will serve. As soon as he goes and gets it. Catalyzer's old contraption is presently sitting in the medical bay supply closet, stacked from top to bottom with all sorts of supplies. Fetching the thing will not be a quick dash in and out. He will have to unload the thing without making a mess, then walk past everybody in the medbay...

On second thought, maybe not. There have been enough explanations today. Catalyzer can get used to riding with him until they're grown. He'll bundle Catalyzer inside as soon as he's done packing. As soon as he has everything cleaned up and put away. Dent would probably appreciate if he could clean up after himself.

A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts. He entertains the possibility of pretending to be out. Whoever it is knocks again. And again. So he elects to open up before the insistent knocking inevitably turns to pounding down the door.

Whoever it is turns out be Getaway, here with the tank-and-trolley Pharma dreaded having to go fetch.

Pharma begins to say, "I wasn't expecting—"

"Boss sent me to come get you," Getaway explains, entering the room, then gestures down at the trolley cart. "He didn't mention you'd have luggage. I guess there's space? I grabbed this 'cause he did say the bit will be coming too."

"Ah, yes. That's, um, rather thoughtful." Pharma goes to grab the first of his boxes to load onto the lower levels of the cart. And then pauses. "Did he," Pharma hesitates to ask, "Did he say anything else?"

Getaway walks over, pulling the cart along, and takes the box from Pharma's hands. "Maybe he did or maybe he didn't," he says, as he shoves the box below. "Either way, you're coming with me."

"Of course." Loading is quick, now that there is another person in the room to rush things. "Where did you find the old playtank?"

Getaway turns, casting Pharma a glance with what could well be a smirk underneath his faceplate. "I knocked at the medbay and asked very nicely," says he, "and First Aid brought it right out as if he had read my mind." He drums his fingers against the lid. "It's a fine old thing, isn't it? Sturdy, if not much to look at. If it breaks again, an easy fix, though I don't expect it will. Still got the nameplate that Tailgate made, so you'll get some more mileage out of that. Too bad the boss didn't say where you'd be going before we built the new one, though. It's a shame. All that grand planning with one specific purpose, and now—"

"We'll be back," Pharma says with a conviction he does not feel, "The reassignment is just to help out. I'm only there until the situation is stable."

"Sure you are. That's why you've got everything all packed up." Now that, that has to be a smirk lurking beneath the mask.

Pharma looks away.

Getaway slides the last box into place and asks, "You gonna get the bitlet out, or what?"

"He's resting." They could disturb him now, but...

Getaway mutters incoherently on the importance of nap time. Less quietly, "Must be nice." Before Pharma has processed his snide remark, he pops open the access panel in the wall to get at the controls, lowering the dividing pane on this side of the habitat, and announces, "Hey, kid, you ready for a fun trip to go see the planet?" as he reaches in for Catalyzer, who scarcely has time to react before being scooped up in one hand. "Yeah, it's gonna be great—ow, OK, point made. I did not know that they could do that. Can they do that, or is it an outlier thing?"

Pharma stares at how Getaway is now dangling Catalyzer between thumb and forefinger after a...slight bit of static shock? "Give him here," he demands, reaching out. And then when Getaway has passed his sparkling to him, he says, "It's not an outlier thing." At least he's fairly confident it isn't. "This developmental stage he doesn't have current regulators yet, that might be why."

"If he is an outlier, though." Getaway asks, "How soon would you be able to tell?"

"I don't know."

"What are the odds of—"

"I don't know." Pharma grits his teeth.

"So does this happen often," asks the rude-aft gossip, finally giving up on the previous line of query (which was to what end, unclear, if not an attempt at getting him to admit that he had not, in fact, gotten sparked up by the infamous outlier, Tarn) probably knowing how apparent it was, with the clumsy tangent off of that exaggerated outcry. "Has he been zapping everybody, or am I just lucky?"

Busily soothing his sparkling, Pharma declines to comment.

"OK, yeah, I hear you." Getaway turns from his reproachful gaze to raise the divider, closing off the habitat without shutting off the airflow. Though the lights are off, the tank is still illuminated by the contents of its basin.

Shouldn't the energon pool be drained when not in use? Pharma doesn't bother to ask. He goes on stroking Catalyzer, who is actively burrowing into his elbow even now. Just startled, he tells himself. Catalyzer is fine. A rude awakening won't hurt in the long run.

After closing up the habitarium, Getaway steers the cart into the hall and wordlessly waits for him to follow.

Pharma takes one last look around the room. This has been the hab he shared with Dent after Delphi and upon his return from the moon. This has been his home, or the closest thing he has had to a home, floating around in space. It was only ever temporary, but it was his, until it isn't.

He cannot help but to feel highly conspicuous, toting along a fully alert sparkling as they exit the ship. Pharma keeps his optics focused straight ahead, while Catalyzer chirps continuously at every wave hello. Stop that, he wants to say, you sound like a malfunctioning drone.

They head directly for the gangplank to the surface. They do not stop en route to the medbay. Pharma is relieved, in a sense. He wouldn't know what to say, anyway, to Ratchet or Ambulon. Or to First Aid.

Ultra Magnus greets them at the exit. Pharma's spark skips a pulse. Did Prowl tell him? Does he know? Doubtful, with how congenially he lets them pass, but Pharma hardly knows what to assume anymore. Magnus's well wishes are a poor balm for those doubts. Yes, it will be good to assist Quickmix and Fixit. Yes, Iacon needs all the help it can get.

Pharma follows Getaway off the Lost Light and onto firm ground, beset by loitering NAILs roaming outside the ship. What these people see in them, he does not know, only that, on Cybertron, he is even more conspicuous with a sparkling in his arms. If he had stopped to put his sparkling down, perhaps he would blend in better with the crowd. If Catalyzer could ride inside the playtank, and perhaps the tank could be covered with a drape...but the fact is he is now walking among strangers with his creature in tow.

Getaway stops navigating to exchange words with a NAIL grumbling about Autobots blocking the path. Getaway replies with a rude hand gesture, before pushing the cart to a checkpoint on the city outskirts. It is a checkpoint run by Cons. No insignia, but everything about them would seem to suggest if they are neutrals, they have not been neutrals for very long.

"Name and state your business," says the lead Decepticon.

"Slaggit, you know me, I passed through half a cycle ago," Getaway replies, more conversationally than not, but then gives the requested information.

The Decepticon looks Pharma over, at his medical crosses, and then lingers on Catalyzer.

Pharma waits, anticipating a remark, or perhaps interrogation, and resists the urge to duck his helm or turn from sight. There is none forthcoming, however, at least not for him.

The Decepticon addresses Getaway, who has a ready retort. It's all easy banter on the surface, with an edge beneath it all. A Con is still a Con, this soon after the war, and they are Autobots.

Catalyzer chooses this moment to burble some more, finishing on an upward lilt as if to ask a question.

The Decepticon smiles, waving them off.

After they pass through the checkpoint, Getaway aims a glance at Catalyzer. "Right little negotiator, aren't you," he says, "Could have a future in the Diplomatic Corps."

What? Pharma looks over sharply. "He won't be in any such thing."

"Ah, but what if his alt mode—"

"That doesn't matter," Pharma replies, more heatedly than he meant to.

Getaway asks, "Doesn't it?"

A rhetorical question, perhaps, one which Pharma chooses not to answer. He is acutely aware of the reality of shapism. But that was then, this is now, and the future? He hopes the future will be different.

Getaway begins to point out landmarks while escorting them through the city, although what these landmarks originally looked like, Pharma can only imagine. A few more demolitions, and this new Iacon could be mistaken for the old. The layout is distinct enough and the devastation not yet so great as to obscure the many differences, but still, there is something uncanny about walking these streets, among civilians who see their badges and stare. Even so, Cybertron is where he belongs. It may not be what he remembers—he may not be how he remembers—but it is home, and he will acclimate.

They reach their destination with no further fanfare. The transit mixer who runs the ward is currently issuing instructions to a pair of minis trying to keep up, with not a single diagnostic drone on the floor to assist.

He hazards a guess. "You must be Quickmix."

The neutral overseeing the ward turns to him. "Pharma, I presume? Finally, the Autobots have another doctor to spare. No, Ricochet, not that one." The miniature being redirected huffs and tries again.

Getaway pushes the cart to an unused corner, saying, "I'll just leave this here then." To Pharma, "You know how to find me if you need help."

"Thank you."

Just as Getaway is backing up to leave, headed in the opposite direction is Ambulon, who dashes off an abrupt apology crossing the threshold, while Getaway is left squinting at the near collision.

Ambulon is here, is here for Pharma and, dammit, this is not a good moment.

"Excuse us," says Pharma. And he grabs ahold of Ambulon, going back the way they came. He doesn't get very far, though, before Catalyzer squirms, threatening to slip out from the crook of his elbow, and he has to pause to adjust.

Ambulon steps around, facing him, and reaches out to help reposition Catalyzer with the hand that isn't still holding on. They're still holding hands, he and Ambulon, as if they...

They're not lovers, are they? Pharma had meant to have a conversation with Ambulon about it, before and after his stint on Luna One. He had meant to, hadn't gotten around to it yet, and now...

Now Ambulon is here, still standing in his personal space after Catalyzer is settled.

"Why?" Pharma begins to ask. Why are you here? What don't you understand; why do you have to make me tell you we can't...? If there is a way to rephrase to soften the harshness of that sentiment, he has yet to discover it, but it is moot, since Ambulon is already answering.

"First Aid said you were reassigned," Ambulon murmurs, optics low at where their hands are joined. "I waited to hear from you, but then you left without saying goodbye."

Which isn't what he had originally planned, before Prowl, but that is exactly what he ended up doing. And isn't that just something? Ratchet at least had the grace to drop a quick message in person.

"Aid didn't say how long you'd be gone for, but, just in case, I wanted to—"

"I'll be back," he claims. True or not, he is unsure, so it's not as if it's a complete lie, now is it.

The grip on his hand tightens. "Will you? Will you really?"

"Don't ask me that."

Ambulon lets go to brace both hands upon his shoulders and looks up into his optics. "Pharma. I love you. I've loved you since before we lost you, and I know you're not mine to keep, but I have to ask. Did you ever...when we were interfacing, was it ever more than just protocols? Did you feel anything, anything at all, for me, or..."

Yes, Pharma could say. I did. I do. But that would be cruel, wouldn't it, to prolong this parting?

Ambulon withdraws his touch, and Pharma has to resist chasing it. "If you didn't, I," Ambulon starts again, despondent, "I understand. But if ever there is a chance for us to reconnect, if that possibility exists..." He drops off, staring past, and Pharma whirls around to see. Standing there is Getaway.

"I don't mean to interrupt," says Getaway, "I'm just trying to pass through. But hey, listen. Ambulon—you're Ambulon, right?—a word of advice from one made-to-order to another. Don't. Just don't. Have fun while it lasts, but don't get attached."

"Yeah?" Ambulon replies, "You can take your advice and shove it."

"Just trying to spare you the embarrassment of—"

"Who's embarrassed? I'm not embarrassed." Although his EM field says otherwise.

Getaway makes a noise akin to a blown tire. "You're giving me secondhand embarrassment, is what you're doing."

"Then that's your own slagging problem, not mine." Ambulon turns to Pharma. "I meant what I said, every word of it."

He should respond. He should say something, but it's not their audience that has him distracted. The sky above is rapidly darkening unnaturally fast...

"Aw, Pit," says Getaway, peering up at the shadows overhead. "I thought we were done with those Ammonites." What, the encroaching darkness is made up of Ammonites?

As the darkness descends, he begins to see clearly the individual shapes, the eyes. "You have to get back to the ship," he says.

"No time," replies Getaway, pulling out a sidearm. "We defend this choke point and engage them here. You can run back to Quickmix if you think you can make it over there."

Pharma has half a mind to do just that, when the first of the Ammonites begin to land.

Everything happens so fast. As the enemy slams into Ambulon, the impact clips him on the shoulder, and he is sent spinning. Catalyzer slips from his arms; Pharma has to dart forward to catch his sparkling from falling. In his haste, he trips, but he manages to roll from the impact, with Catalyzer tucked to his chest and shots ringing out around them.

"Shh," he says to his sparkling, to no avail. It's not as if his sparkling will stop crying, or the enemy will ignore them even if they do manage to keep silent.

Getaway steps into his field of vision as he slowly gets to his knees. "Change of plans. We fall back, bar the exit, and—"

"If it's already barred?" he asks.

"Well, only one way to find out. Now move!" And Getaway yanks him up by the elbow.

Pharma surveys the area as he stumbles to keep up. Whatever firepower Getaway is packing has been sufficient to deactivate the Ammonites on the scene. There are more incoming, however, and Ambulon is still on the ground. "Wait," he says.

Getaway curses him out but stops to provide cover long enough for Ambulon to catch up. They hobble a retreat, shooting at the Ammonites behind them. Ambulon has a handgun, and Pharma has his missiles, which he cannot access without first spreading his wings.

Joining the fight would be a lot easier if he'd had the foresight to bring his rifle along, instead of leaving it packed up in the ward. But who knew the Ammonites would attack again, or why?

Pharma hugs his sparkling tight and makes a dash for safety. In the distance, he can make out Quickmix and the minis in the process of barricading the entrance.

"Wait, wait!" he calls out, "Wait, please!"

One of the minis standing atop the barricade—Ricochet?—points and shoots down the Ammonite that was apparently close on his heel. Pharma glances behind him in time to see it drop.

Further back, Ambulon and Getaway are still a hundred paces away, inching forward while keeping most of the Ammonites at bay. A valiant effort, although, without additional assistance, ultimately doomed.

Quickmix peers through the barrier from the other side. "The frag is going on out there?" he asks.

Pharma doesn't answer the question. "Take him," he says, squeezing his sparkling through the gap. Catalyzer protests but wiggles through.

A hundred paces away, Ambulon and Getaway are still struggling against the enemy. Any dint made against the swarm is soon filled by more Ammonites. Picking off a few here and there is an exercise in futility, but they do what they must.

Pharma selects a target off to the side, locking on from his HUD while his in-built weapons system whirs into motion. Though he could probably shoot blindly into the crowd and still hit an Ammonite, he chooses anyway. The one he's chosen gets sniped by the mini standing above, perched on the barricade behind him. The one he chooses next also goes down before he can act, but he can hardly complain. Such is the speed at which his system operates.

He switches targets to a target with a trickier trajectory. There! One of the Ammonites looks to be angling for an opening to separate Ambulon from Getaway. He shoots, praying his missiles are agile enough to stay on target. The missiles launch, and he watches as they strike. Pharma watches as his target explodes into a shatter of light...along with every other Ammonite in sight.

"Holy capsule of Adaptus!" exclaims the mini, Ricochet, "Did you do that?"

Doubtful, but he doesn't deny it just yet, though there has to be some other outrageously enigmatic explanation. Pharma simply smiles at the mini, before sprinting off to check on his mecha.

Chapter Text

After the eradication of the Ammonite army is confirmed, more news trickles in. Optimus has returned victorious. Shockwave is dead. Megatron has surrendered. Megatron has pledged allegiance. Megatron has their Prime under his sway. Which is it? Pharma does not know and does not care.

They have their hands full, in the makeshift emergency ward. It's no worst case scenario, but things are busy enough, Pharma doesn't have to worry about picking up on that conversation with Ambulon where they left off. It sticks, however, in his mind, a thread of thought that will not be de-prioritized, no matter how he tries to put it to sleep.

He processes that tender moment before their interruption, over and over, and over again...and fails to notice when exactly First Aid has arrived, bringing along one of their diagnostic drones.

"...all fixed now, so I figured I'd bring it here," First Aid is saying.

Pharma glances down. First Aid is holding onto the little drone, which flaps its appendages periodically, stuck within his grip. It's the nanny drone, the one they had set up in the habs.

Getaway has long disappeared, probably to report to Prowl or whomever, or else Pharma would ask him to escort First Aid back to the ship.

Pharma asks, instead, "Don't you have work to do?" On the Lost Light.

"Yeah. Yeah, but it's pretty much handled. I thought I'd drop by and see if I could help here." First Aid looks around, still holding onto the drone.

Pharma waits, for what First Aid might say next. He waits, and he follows that visored gaze, to where Ambulon is busy repairing what looks to be one of the Cons from the checkpoint, with Ricochet's help. The mini Ricochet is chattering away at high speed, seemingly indifferent to a lack of response.

The little drone in Aid's hands is flapping testily until First Aid finally lets go. Pharma allows himself to trail after it with his optics for a change, not that there is much to see. The drone hovers at a short remove away, staying in place to reorient itself, before zeroing in on the playtank on the far side of the ward. Pharma watches, as the drone runs a preliminary report to its satisfaction, which it signals in faint beeps and trills...and Catalyzer responds likewise, clearly alert despite the opaque cover currently in use.

He glances at First Aid, who is looking back at him. He should say something, he should, but what could he say here and now?

Quickmix joins them with Boomer in tow. "Hello...First Aid, is it? We're short on materials, so we're going to go fetch another pallet from the trailers. If you're staying, the guy on slab six could have his buffer plates replaced. There's still a few under the counter, might be enough for a full set." Quickmix turns to Pharma. "If Flatline happens to come back before I do, tell him to stay out of the bins in the back; I'll know if they've been tampered. We'll be back soon." Quickmix walks off, and Boomer follows. A few steps later, "Ricochet, we're going."

Ricochet hops over, nearly rattling the instrument tray off the ledge where he was sitting. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming. Oh hey, is the medibot only for the bitlet, or do we get to—"

"Hurry up then," says Quickmix, who then abruptly halts on the way out (forcing the other mini behind him to stop short) to acknowledge, "Prowl."

"Quickmix," Prowl replies lightly, stepping past.

"You here for something?"

"I'm here to speak with Pharma."

"All right." Quickmix leaves with his entourage, just as Ricochet catches up to Boomer right on their heels.

Pharma stays right where he is, as First Aid shambles off in search of the buffer plates, leaving him alone with Prowl. Ambulon, he notices, is watching them across the room.

He opts to break the silence before it can grow unbearable. "You could've sent a comm."

"I could've," Prowl agrees. "How are things?"

"As well as could be expected."

"Good."

Pharma relaxes somewhat, as Prowl takes a moment to survey the ward with its many patients in various states of consciousness. Here, what Prowl has to say next can't possibly pertain to Delphi.

"I want you to testify at the upcoming trial."

Pharma stares at him. "You want me to testify what?"

"At Megatron's trial."

The trial of the century, which just about everyone will attend. "I don't understand," he says. Or he does, but he really wishes he didn't, where this is headed, what he will be asked to do.

Prowl vents in exasperation. And then explains, "Among his many crimes, Megatron also bears responsibility for the Decepticon Justice Division he created."

Pharma continues to stare, willing reality to bend time and space. If he could disappear, if he could cease to be this instant...

Prowl begins to pace beside the gurney where Pharma has long since stopped working. "Though we have plenty of evidence to make the case, I would like a live witness to take a stand." A pause, while he glances at Pharma appraisingly. "You could do it. Not many have personally borne witness to Tarn and his ilk and survived. It will be useful," he goes on to say, "to tell the public what happened on Messatine, the sort of pestilence Megatron unleashed on the very planet where he himself once worked the mines."

Pharma can feel his tanks churning with the realization that he is being asked to reveal everything. Prowl would have him explain his failures in exacting detail, on the record. "You want me to tell..."

"I do understand your concern. Of course you'll be able to bargain for minimal repercussions, when you agree to testify." Prowl produces a datapad for him to see. Pharma doesn't take it. Trust Prowl to corner him with this offer with no means to escape.

"And if I don't?"

"Ah, that would be unfortunate. With all that we've already assembled, I calculate the probability that the outcome will be affected by your non-participation is close to nil. Whereas for you..." Prowl extends the datapad toward him once more. "Really, it's for your own benefit."

Pharma reconsiders. He could take a stand and share his story before the entire world. Lay bare his tribulations and admit the truth in front of everyone. But no. He couldn't. How can he?

Prowl waits a beat before tucking the datapad away. "You still have time to decide, but not for long. I trust you'll think it over." Left unspoken are the consequences, which need no elaboration. If he does not cooperate, if he refuses...

Pharma glances across the room. Ambulon is openly watching the scene unfold. So is the patient. His own patient is in stasis, but the others...he would have had every single one of them in stasis, if this were his ward, which it isn't.

He is powerless, here. Prowl will not force him—he still has a choice—but ultimately he is powerless against the inevitable. His reputation is at stake, and he is being asked to ruin it himself, preemptively, in the hopes of saving what's left of it, or else. This is the extent of what Prowl can do for him. In terms of shelter, this is all that he'll get. Unless Pharma wishes to strike out on his own, he will have to comply. He will have to go on the record and confess, or hope to Primus his secrets can stay buried, as if they have not been thoroughly excavated and picked at, already. He will have to dredge up his secrets for an audience of just about every Autobot alive and many more mecha besides, or take his chances. Can he afford the risk? How can he, and yet he cannot bring himself to agree.

"If I speak," he ends up saying, "If I go on the record about everything at Delphi, what about my sparkling then?" Prowl may scoff at this feeble excuse, but he can think up little else to try.

"How do you mean?"

"It...the records will be public knowledge, and I..." He stumbles over the triteness of what he is about to say. "I had hoped to never have to burden him with that."

"Burden him with what, the fact that he is a product of rape?"

Pharma looks in the direction where his sparkling lies soundly, cordoned from view. "I was planning on having him mentored," he replies, "among neutrals for whom the details would be a mere footnote in his history." Is he trying to convince Prowl, or is he convincing himself? Hard to say. Whether he does intend to conceal the circumstances of Catalyzer's creation can't amount to much, but a sliver of truth resonates the moment he makes this claim, a claim which is taken into account at face value, surprisingly enough.

"We can leave that part out." Prowl pulls out the datapad again and begins to scroll. "Omitting it won't help with the rumors in circulation, but the lowest common denominator needs no encouragement anyway."

"Which rumors are these—"

"They are salacious and beneath notice," Prowl replies with unexpected fervor, then, with the usual measure of reserve, goes on to add, "Which there'll be no need to address during the trial. The emphasis is on Megatron, on how his instrument of terror—his 'Justice' Division—was granted free reign to not only terrorize his own faction but abuse non-combatants for spare parts."

The transformation cogs. Of course. Of course they've circled back to the very crux of Pharma's weakness. He feels oh so brittle, as if his struts might crumble and give way; he cannot speak.

Prowl is still talking, however, and requires no input from him as of yet. "Whether or not he knowingly sanctioned such behavior," Prowl is saying, "Megatron encouraged it. He encouraged the worst excesses to keep his own faction in line, and he did nothing to stop the Division from exceeding those bounds. A short statement from you, on the pressures you faced, and the fate of those miners—which, I might add, serves to underscore the irony of his old claims to champion the plight of the common mech."

There are hardly as many miners nowadays, Pharma finds himself thinking; ratioism would look a lot different thanks to the war.

Prowl's next words draw him back to reality. "The trial will take some time to prepare. We can still slot you in up until a week from now, so think about it."

What other recourse does he have? And yet..."I can't." He bites his lip. Prowl can lambast him for his stubbornness or disrespect or whichever else. He just can't. Prowl is eyeing him with something faintly approaching that same unmitigated disdain as when he had needed Ratchet to save him, and he can't...he can't pull himself together enough to explain...

"What is the root of your objection?" asks Prowl. "As I said, this is primarily for your benefit—"

First Aid materializes like a phantom behind them, silent at first but then as brash as ever. "Oh, come off it," Aid says as he steps up to Prowl, "you can't honestly mean that there'll be trouble on the horizon if he doesn't go along with your plan."

Prowl stares down reprovingly as if First Aid has just dripped spent oil all over the floor. And knowing First Aid, who is probably gearing up to be just like Ratchet but without the benefit of being CMO...

Pharma opens his mouth to speak. It's Ambulon, however, who replies to Prowl, who has crept over to join their party, and is now standing beside him, warm and steady.

"You're collecting testimonies?" Ambulon asks, quiet and clear, and Pharma basks in the comfort of his field.

Prowl's, meanwhile, emits far more caustically. "I am," says Prowl. "Who are you?"

"Ambulon, sir," spoken with just the barest hint of insubordination.

Prowl either does not notice or lets it go. "Right," says Prowl, "Are you here to volunteer? To testify?"

Ambulon nods. Then glances toward Pharma. "I am," he replies, "although, I don't know how much I can say about the Division," and he looks Prowl in the optics. "I do want to take a stand against forced reformats," he states, with building confidence, "for myself—and for everyone else who was reshaped against their will."

"Right. You were incorporated into a combiner before you left the Cons. I remember now." And the frequency of Prowl's field shifts into something more receptive. "Let's talk. Do you have my hailing code?"

Pharma can feel Ambulon's attention return to him, and he turns away. On the other side, however, is First Aid. He looks instead at the covered tank containing his sparkling, where the drone is contently facing on standby. Try as he might, however, he cannot fully ignore feeling the focus on him, boring into his helm on either side.

Something must've transpired, for Prowl to respond to Ambulon's whisper-quiet reply with a scoff. "Fine," says Prowl, "Let's talk now. Briefly then, and I'll let you get back to your patients." There must be some sign of hesitation, for Prowl to add, "Don't dawdle if you're going to walk with me." Nearly half a klik later, as the two of them are leaving, "We'll fit you in between Starscream and Gripper," says Prowl, "If you could also speak to your experience of what it was like being on that wanted List..."

Whatever Ambulon mumbles back, Pharma does not hear. Once they have left the ward, it's just Pharma and First Aid again, and their patients who appear to be pretending not to have overheard. Pharma wants to deal with none of this, but he can hardly show how just how badly he wants to go hide.

"I, uh," First Aid starts to say, "I'll go back and finish up on those buffers..."

"Wait." He cannot allow himself to continue on as if he is less than, as if he has been diminished ever since his escape from Tarn. He has to say his piece, if not to Ambulon, than with Aid at least. "Thank you," Pharma manages to say. There is so much more to address, but it's a start.

First Aid beams at him. Or at least that's how he's learned to interpret the expression, with the mask and visor in place. First Aid is smiling at him, and Pharma...

Before anything more is said, the nanny drone chimes, and Pharma is relieved to go pay attention to what it is his sparkling may need.

Chapter Text

The long-awaited trial will take place on Luna-Two. The Lost Light is shuttling spectators, many of whom will have to find shelter elsewhere once they land. Pharma is among the last to board...and finds a slight adjustment to his own accommodations.

The room he shared with Dent is now temporary housing for some of Dent's new friends. Dent looks at him apologetically, when he sets foot inside to find them engaged in a game of dice.

"Oh, uh, I invited Swoop and Sludge." One of them, a flightframe, gives a casual little wave. Dent offers an effacing smile. "Sorry for the inconvenience. I, um. They can—"

"It's fine." It is. "I'll just go next door..." Where else, but bunk with Ambulon and First Aid? It's not ideal, but it's not as if he hasn't in the past. He turns to leave, and the door closes behind him, but not before one of the interlopers has blurted out surprise at his sparkling.

"Yeah," replies Dent, "It's your turn. Roll." And the door slides into place, muffling the rest of their conversation.

Pharma goes over to the next hab and knocks. He waits a beat and then knocks again. Is no one home?

Catalyzer reaches out in vain—with actual digits, small and stubby though fully articulate—until Pharma lifts his sparkling forward so that it too may rap upon the door. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap. Catalyzer shrieks in sheer joy at the simple act of making contact and smacks the door again, open-palmed.

That's enough of that. Pharma brings his sparkling back in, only to get swat across the chin.

Catalyzer giggles.

Pharma is tempted to set his sparkling on the floor and walk away. He is tempted, also, to give it a good shake, but that would be less than optimal for protoform development, no matter how resilient his sparkling has proven thus far. Pharma settles instead for threatening it with containment, by popping open his canopy and holding it at chest level to demonstrate how short a drop inside his cockpit would be.

"Behave," he tells his creature.

Catalyzer curls a tiny fist and bops him directly on the latch.

OK, that's it. He plonks his creature down onto the floor. If anyone asks, he's prepared to go free-range.

"Pharma?" Ambulon is here.

Pharma closes up and turns around. Ambulon is coming down this way, darting glances between him and the bitlet now ineffectively gnawing at his ankles.

"What are you—" Ambulon begins to say, just as he has also begun to speak.

"Can I stay over? Dent has company, and—"

"Of course."

The thought occurs to him to ask, "Won't First Aid mind?"

Ambulon doesn't reply, just goes to open the door. Pharma scoops his bitlet out of the way.

Once inside, he waits for Ambulon to lower the glass divide, behind which he places his bitlet, whom he half-expects to throw a tantrum at being thus confined. But Catalyzer is subdued, too preoccupied with exploring the new haphazard state of its habitat. There is something funny about how derelict the scenery that was so carefully arranged has become in their absence. Watching Catalyzer scoot around the bottom of the dry basin in confusion, Pharma has to wonder whether returning to it feels as odd as returning to their home planet after the war.

Ambulon raises the divider halfway, apparently confident that Catalyzer will not be able or interested in making an escape. "We'll replenish the pool," he tells Pharma, "Let me text Aid about filling it up." He gets out his comm and then pauses. "Where's the nanny bot?"

"I left it on Cybertron."

"Hm. Are you planning on bringing Catalyzer to the arena?"

"I...don't know." Pharma hadn't thought that far ahead yet. "Should I take him along?"

Ambulon puts his comm away and shrugs. "They're going to play video evidence during Gripper's segment. It's pretty gruesome stuff. But it's not like sparklings can see that far, right? And even if he could, it's not like he'll understand what he's seeing."

"I suppose."

"You are going, aren't you?"

"Of course." Where else would he be, while everyone else is attending the trial? "First Aid and Ratchet are going, aren't they?" He glances toward his sparkling, who has given up an attempt to scale the steeper end of the basin in favor of curling among the pebbles gathered at the bottom.

When he is met with silence, he looks over to find Ambulon staring at him with desire; he stays unmoving as Ambulon closes the gap between them...and is soon enmeshed within a field rife with passion.

He lets himself be swept along, swapping paint, necking against the adjacent wall. He tenses at the hands that go from gripping his waist to pawing at his girdle belt. It's been a while since they've done this. He hadn't planned to ever again. Why not, though? Why not. He had his reasons, and yet...

Pharma lets himself retract his belt, his panel, and reveal his array. Ambulon reaches for his barely pressurized spike, giving it a few good pumps, then drops to the floor, coaxing him to hardness with mouth and tongue.

"Slow, slow down," he tries to say. Barely a klik has passed, and he is struggling to hold back from coming into that hot wet mouth—which has not let up, no matter how indicatively he scrabbles, scratching his finish against the supporting wall in a bid to stay upright.

It's intense, too intense. Pharma spurts forth despite his wishes. Pharma spurts (at normal capacity) and Ambulon swallows (while holding eye contact) then pulls off with a smile...and flicks that tongue across the slit of his spike head—during which Pharma twitches, dribbling some more—and licks up every last bead of fluid, before steering Pharma to berth.

Pharma goes along, weak-kneed and soft-strutted, letting himself be laid out for Ambulon to taste some more. He spreads his legs for Ambulon to bury that tongue inside his valve, for Ambulon to switch to drilling him with spike, and then he wraps his legs tight as he squeezes out his second climax, and he is venting, he is ventilating hard...

At the end of their lovemaking, Ambulon collapses with a sigh, still sheathed, and whispers into his neck, "You're so beautiful."

Pharma ignores how his spark sinks as he lies there, waiting to be let up.

Interfacing is as frequent as when his newspark was still being built inside his body, if not more. Pharma isn't often in the mood, but Ambulon wants it all the time. He could refuse if he cared to; he could. It's not as if he fears retaliation if he refuses. And yet he says nothing to indicate that he really would rather not frag like a couple of turbofoxes all the time, and so afterwards he winds up cleaning paint transfers just about every single day.

First Aid knows what they're up to, of course. They're not exactly subtle, though they try. Although First Aid has yet to stumble on them mid-act, it's obvious they've resumed sexual interface, and he's not too keen to stick around to watch. Pharma half-expects one of his acidic quips, but no; First Aid holds back on whatever commentary he has for their frequent fragging. Whether that means they have his approval now, Pharma has no idea.

Pharma permits First Aid to take Catalyzer out for frequent excursions around the ship, and to be the one in charge of feeding. Catalyzer fights them, sometimes, refusing fuel while they're attending the trial. As predicted, Catalyzer has no interest in the ongoing proceedings but is, if anything, overstimulated by the crowd. The crowd is immense, at Raskol Arena. Pharma is glad for the relative privacy of sharing Ratchet's balcony. He is under no illusions, however, that he is here to be seen with his sparkling, and he tunes out the hushed murmuring he hears en route to and fro their seats. This too will pass.

The morning before Ambulon is scheduled to speak, First Aid is as chipper as ever, practically running circles around everyone else. Pharma considers, for a moment, that maybe that's where Catalyzer gets its indomitable spirit. Which is an easy comparison to make, when Catalyzer is doing its best to slip free so that it too may move under its own power. Pharma tightens his grip, and Catalyzer caws in protest, as if Pharma is purposefully acting a tyrant and not merely well aware the risk, for a sparkling to be trampled underfoot at this hour.

Catalyzer caws again with shrill repetition, and Pharma curses the beastformers—privately, internally, of course. For the actual bots in question, Pharma is all smiles when their little group joins the line. His smile falters as Catalyzer screeches insistently until one of Dent's new friends (Swoop?) comes over to say hello.

It was amusing, when Catalyzer would softly imitate Dent's purring. Less amusing now, copying the calls of a raptor. But what did he expect would happen? Pharma pointedly looks away from the temporary neighbor who's here to greet his bitlet.

Ambulon, meanwhile, is trudging along reading off some notes, and First Aid has had to slow down substantially to keep pace.

"Nervous?"

A pause, then Ambulon replies, "A little."

"You're gonna do fine," says Aid, cheerfully. "You're gonna say your part, and we'll be watching. You know where to look for us, yeah?"

"Yeah."

While Swoop is making faces at Catalyzer, Dent isn't far behind. "You're going on the stand today?" Dent asks Ambulon.

"Uh. Yes."

After they've filed out and passed through the gates, they will part ways. Ambulon will go join the other witnesses, and the rest of them will camp out the usual spot. Ratchet is, at present, still unaccounted, but it's not unusual not to see him until shortly before court is in session.

When Pharma listens in again, First Aid is inviting Dent and the others to make a ruckus in Ratchet's box to show their support. What is this? A sporting event? Before Pharma can cut in to tell First Aid what he thinks of that idea, Dent quietly shoots it down.

"Thanks, but I think we're gonna go meet up with Snarl and the rest like we've been doing."

"Gotcha."

Swoop speaks up to suggest, "Come join us in the cheap seats? Plenty of room for everyone, if you don't mind inhaling exhaust now and then."

"Nah," Aid replies, "Too much excitement for the bitlet."

"Is that so?" Swoop leans in to pull another ridiculous expression at Catalyzer—and pulls back just out of range for getting grabbed. "Gotta wait until the kid's all grown up, huh."

First Aid tips a puzzled glance over at Pharma. Then asks, "Exactly how quickly do you expect he's gonna grow that we'll still be here, you think?"

Swoop shrugs. "I don't know. Just feels like this trial is dragging on forever."

Dent's other guest chimes in loudly to declare, "Trial won't drag forever. Very silly thought."

"You're right, Sludge. You're so right," says Swoop with a wry smile.

They're only a couple cycles into the day's proceedings, and Pharma has to agree with Swoop's exaggerated assessment: the trial does feel rather unending, dragging on and on. If they had only verbal testimonies, Pharma could sit through them unaffected, but the fact of the matter is, all that video evidence...is difficult to watch. Not because he is unfamiliar with the physical limits of the Cybertronian body, nor because any great sorrow for the victims, but because clip after clip has blurred together into a depiction reminding him all too well of how intimately he has known the violence Tarn has wrought. Which he has seen inflicted, before his very eyes, with the same creative bent by the same wretched squad. Tarn had bid those wretches to tear apart the mecha he had first been made to cripple, back on Messatine, those who had sought shelter from the storm. And Pharma had done it, at Tarn's behest, had extracted the cogs and stood by, as the Decepticon Justice Division shredded, pulverized, and smelted the wounded, right there in the snow.

The DJD. Tarn and his four underlings. The one with the hooks had been Vos. Pharma hadn't remembered wrongly. The other mech called Vos must've been newly inducted. As a replacement? Which should come as no surprise. Logically, any of them can be replaced if they die, if they are killed. Including Tarn. Pharma had meant to kill him, had planned to kill him, and could've done so, if there had been more time. Which would've meant making Messatine a mass grave, but Pharma had been pushed to the brink—and then the DJD had struck first. Tarn had led his people to Delphi apropos of nothing, just to prove how easily he could bring Pharma low.

An indignant squeal startles Pharma into realizing how tightly he has hugged his sparkling close to his chest, and he's not the only one to notice. First Aid and Ratchet are both glancing his way while he ruefully soothes his disgruntled creature.

The video clips continue to play throughout the segment. If he lingers, if he stays and watches, all that mounting evidence will be overwhelming. Luckily, the exit is near, easily accessible from the balcony. Pharma turns to go.

Naturally First Aid wants answers. "Where are you headed? Ambulon is up next."

First Aid might've been ready to follow him out, might've meant to stop him. Pharma doesn't look back, doesn't know. He only hears a low murmur from Ratchet and the echo of an abortive step.

Out in the corridor, Pharma passes Atomizer going the other way.

Atomizer brightens to see him, or perhaps his creature. Pharma offers a nod of acknowledgment, hoping to pass quickly.

No such luck. "Cat giving you trouble?"

"Catalyzer," Pharma corrects. "Perhaps he was starting to get fussy..." Which isn't entirely untrue. "What of it?"

"Nothing, nothing. No place for a sparkling out there, huh? Well, I'll...I don't suppose I'll see you back on the ship? Been a while since we've seen you around."

"Mm." Pharma shifts Catalyzer a little more securely in his arms. "I have to go. See you later."

"Yeah. Later, then."

Pharma walks the rest of the way back to the ship undisturbed, not counting the briefest of encounters with security at each exit and entrance along the way.

Back at the habs, Pharma wrangles his sparkling, who has chosen to fidget at the very moment he needs one hand free to input the guest code.

"Should've named you Oil Slick," he mutters. Juggling an entire tray's worth of implements would be easier than holding onto one slippery sparkling single-mindedly determined to explore the floor.

He does manage to get inside, though, without a hitch. He manages to make it across the threshold without dropping Catalyzer until he can safely do so on a recharge slab, letting his sparkling experience what it's like to land face first in a somewhat controlled manner. A moment of doubt—has he miscalculated the drop?—but then his sparkling rears up, looks around, and begins to crawl. Toward the very edge of the slab.

"No." Pharma picks up his sparkling and plops it back at the center of Ambulon's berth.

Catalyzer blinks at him, more visibly annoyed at losing progress than at having been dumped here in the first place.

"You're going to wait here like a good bit," says Pharma, "or you go inside the tank." He sits beside his sparkling, wondering how much it understands.

Slowly, resolutely, his creature inches its way onto his lap. Does it want petting? Or no, rather, it's peering past his kneecaps, perhaps looking for a way out.

Pharma pulls his legs up onto the berth. Why not have a lie down, why not. He coaxes his sparkling to turn around and lay beside him as he rests, facing inward, on his side to block it from falling off. Catalyzer won't be so easily confined, however, and spends the next klik splayed across his chest, looking for a way up. Catalyzer stretches higher, propped on his plating, and Pharma lets it.

Little by little, Catalyzer climbs onto the canopy of his cockpit. And then sits there, assessing its next move.

"Fine. But don't cry if you fall off."

Which is exactly what happens. A bit of an overreach, a little tumble off his gears, and his sparkling is bawling on the floor.

Pharma sighs. He rolls over, reaches down, and waits until his sparkling has made its presence known against his hand to grab it and bring it back to berth, where he checks it over for signs of damage.

Hardly a scratch, that's all. Satisfied, he strokes his creature, who thunks his hand aside as it scurries closer, trying to squeeze between Pharma and the slab like so much caulking.

"You're all right," Pharma tells it, "You're going to be all right." Catalyzer just snuffles and burrows more insistently into his plating.

How much of this—how much of him—will Catalyzer remember? How rudimentary are its thoughts, for how much longer? Pharma is uncertain. Catalyzer is maturing day by day, slowly but surely, and soon will comprehend more than he would like. He will have to act soon, if he means to find a mentor before it is halfway grown. He will, won't he? That was the plan. Give his sparkling to someone else, before it becomes a mechling, before he is more than a vague hint of memory within its databanks.

While Pharma ponders his dilemma, Catalyzer self-soothes with a quiet rumble and relaxes...but not to go to sleep, no. It perks up and begins to try out various noises, vocalizing with increasing volume.

And then, that abominable bawking again.

"Shush," Pharma tells his sparkling. "Or I'll put you in the tank."

Catalyzer honks at him then. Not a real honk, but as good of an approximation as can be made without a horn. He should be glad, at least, that Catalyzer doesn't yet have sirens. Which won't come in until—if they come in at all—long after Pharma has given up his sparkling.

His communicator goes off, and Pharma chooses not to pick up. The call is from First Aid, probably to inform him that he's about to miss Ambulon's testimony. Well. Too late now. May as well stay here, no need to get up. Pharma nudges his sparkling away with the tip of a finger, before adjusting his position a little more comfortably to rest his head and drift off.

He's not in recharge, just conserving his energy. Pharma is well aware of his bitlet's movements clambering all over his body. Catalyzer is restless, climbing on his shoulders, sliding across his wings, and stepping on his throat on the way to sitting on his helm. Pharma is well aware. He could rise and put his sparkling in the habitat where it belongs. He could, but he chooses not to.

And so he whiles away the kliks, the cycle, with his sparkling, just the two of them, until First Aid returns to the hab suite yelling about a stampede at Raskol Arena, in which Ambulon was among the trampled.

Chapter Text

En route to the medbay, First Aid fills him in on the news. There was a security breach, an attempted rescue, and the crowd had lost control during the ensuing panic; First Aid tells it all at high-speed—like a wired connection, just with none of the data compression, talking like that. Pharma gets the gist anyway.

He does have one question, though. "How stable is—"

"Pretty darn stabilized, obviously, or else I wouldn't be here talking to you right now," replies Aid. "You ignored my calls earlier, so I wasn't about to come find you until...." Whatever. But First Aid isn't finished. "I'm not saying you should've stayed. It's probably better that you hadn't. I just...why didn't you pick up?"

He could lie and claim he'd been recharging at the time, if he could be bothered. They are nearly there, however, and would anyone really be so persistent as to press for an answer—

"For the love of, would you just tell me what you're thinking?" First Aid grabs onto him at the same time that the medbay doors slide open. Out walks Hoist, who pauses to give them a once over. First Aid lets go of his arm.

Pharma crosses into the medbay then. Inside, Ratchet and Flatline are having a spirited debate.

"...you Autobots could allocate more resources—"

"I hear you, I do. I pinged to get the bigger picture on how much we've got left in reserve and I'm still waiting on that—"

"What's the actual hold-up here, give me an actual reason—"

"— we're trying to distribute accordingly while your people aren't making it any easier to coordinate, so why don't you take it up with them?"

Pharma has no desire to interrupt the discussion underway. He would steer around, he would, if he weren't already spotted.

First Aid promptly arrives on his heels and into the dispute. "Is this about the fuel supply? Or parts, or—"

"It's everything and then some," Flatline answers, before turning back to Ratchet to add, "And the problem starts from up top."

Ratchet brushes off the remark. "Can we continue this later?" he asks, while patting Flatline on the headlights. Just like that, on the headlights!

"Yeah," says Flatline, "Yeah, OK." And off he goes, sauntering toward the back of the room.

Pharma is still stuck on how casual physical contact had been between Flatline and Ratchet, when Ratchet addresses the next question to him. He hasn't yet fully processed what's being said before Ratchet takes his lack of response to mean he has taken offense.

"Sorry," says Ratchet, "Cat—I meant Catalyzer. Is he...?"

Oh. "I left him in the hab, he'll be fine." For a few cycles, at least.

Ratchet nods at that. "OK, well, if you need to check on him...no one's coding right now, and we've got an unresolved shortage, so. Feel free to dip out whenever—"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Pharma bristles. "Where's Ambulon?"

"Over here," First Aid calls out, a few paces up ahead. "He's asleep, so no rush or anything, but you can check his levels to—hey, where are you going?"

One of the patients who, for whatever reason, isn't in stasis has slid off a slab and started limping toward the doors. Pharma steps into his lane.

First Aid hurries over, even as Ratchet is already speaking. "Can't release you yet, without examining your optics."

"No?" asks the patient, hotly. "I heard you talking. If you've got no parts, what am I waiting around for? I still got one eye, and I can still walk. I'm not waiting here when I could be—"

"Hold on," says First Aid, "Just 'cause we're low on supplies doesn't mean we won't have a match for you somewhere. And you shouldn't be applying pressure on your joints, if you're not graded for twice the load."

This is why Pharma likes to have all his patients put under, just in case. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't have to; Ratchet is studiously avoiding his gaze, helping First Aid steer the patient to the nearest available slab.

"Wait here," says Aid, "Let me see if we've got a lens your size. We don't usually go through them too often so there might be some in stock."

While First Aid skips off to check inventory, Ratchet beckons Pharma over to have him clean out the broken optic and make sure there's no migration risk. It's a single-handed task, delving through the socket. Surely Ratchet hasn't wrecked his hand this quickly to be unable to do it himself? Ratchet is probably just assigning him something to do, to keep him occupied while..."I'm going to check on the overflow with Hoist," claims Ratchet, "I'll be back in a jiffy." Right. All right. Whether that's going to be a klik or a couple cycles, Pharma doesn't care. Ratchet can leave the medbay to him for the rest of the day, that's fine. It's not like he doesn't have help.

Or maybe he is the help? Flatline is still here, after all. Flatline, Ratchet's old classmate, with whom Ratchet is apparently still so chummy after several millennia divided along faction lines. The war's over, but still, to have that sort of camaraderie in no time at all...

Pharma chances one peek at the bulky ex-Con (who appears quite focused on tinkering with ball joints fashioned out of scrap) before tending to the patient. He begins by examining both optics with his tertiary light from every angle. One optic has a faint crack in it. Not ideal, but still serviceable. Whereas the other optic...

"We'll get you sorted out, don't worry," Pharma tells his patient. "Replacement or no, it's better not to wander around with a shattered lens."

"What's the worst that could happen?" grouses the mech.

"Hypothetically, damage to your brain cog." After he disables the pain receptors and removes what is left of the lens, Pharma carefully extracts a sizable fragment from the roof of the socket interior. He pulls it out micron by micron and then, once the deed is done, shows it off: a long, thin, sliver of a shard, which had probably been buried deep not by the initial impact but subsequent trauma. "Look," he says, before disposing of it. "You don't want that sticking inside your head." And then he sweeps through in search of more of that tell-tale glint until, having poked around to his satisfaction, he can find no other particles embedded inside the socket, and then he switches to a different shape to clean the remaining residue. Thanks to Tyrest, the replacement equipped to him on Luna-One can shift to fulfill his every need. Even though the transformation does require some finagling, his left hand is as malleable as newborn protoform, capable of taking on the function of any tool he could want at a moment's notice.

"Woah," says First Aid, appearing at his elbow, "I didn't know you could do that."

"You find the lenses?" asks Pharma, while swabbing the sprinkle of microscopic debris left in the area.

"No, unfort—wait, lenses plural?"

"You see that crack?"

"I see it now."

"It can stay, but eventually the lens will need to be replaced. I'm going to tape up the socket. You want to check on his legs?"

"Yeah, I can do that."

"Great." Pharma resets his hand back to normal, while First Aid gets started down below. He patches up the open wound with a temporary seal which will suffice for now. After his work is done, he exacts a promise not to discharge the patient without a follow-up appointment, and then he goes. He makes the rounds, while Flatline is still busy putting together flimsy parts from sub-par materials, and his tour of the medbay ends at Ambulon's side.

Pharma reads the spark flow output and checks it against previous recordings. Still not back at baseline, but better than before. Perhaps tomorrow will see improvement, perhaps not. There are several patients in a similar state, whose bodies sustain no visible damage yet require monitoring for spark failure. Blunt trauma can do that, even at low impact. The kinetic absorption of being trapped between an immovable surface and repetitive force can do real damage to a person. A victim who doesn't resist, who doesn't try to get up, is, ironically, less likely to get fried. But to lie there and take it is counterintuitive, even for someone with training. The instinct to fight, to struggle, to strain...to get to safety immediately, to not want to wait for the crowd to clear and the panic to pass. That much is understandable. But where was Ambulon, to be placed in such danger? Where were the witnesses? Should they not have been safely escorted off the stage? Or perhaps they were, and Ambulon had gone off and deviated down a different path instead.

It doesn't bear to think about, guessing at what had happened. Pharma is about to leave when he hears voices at the door.

Flatline, who has either completed or abandoned his project, is now blocking the exit with his bulk. "No visitation," he says gruffly, to a group waiting outside.

"We want to see him," insists the chorus of...neutrals? Certainly not recognizable as any of the ship's crew.

"Well, even if he were awake—which he isn't—he won't want to see you," replies Flatline, "And I don't have the time to spare to make sure none of you are doing what you aren't supposed to around here, so don't try to tell me you want to stay and wait to hear him tell you himself."

"Why you gotta be like this? You used to be cool." A former Decepticon, then.

"What if I actually need medical attention?" asks another, "What then? You still gonna kick us out?"

"If you actually needed anything, then I expect you would've said so. You can request a non-emergency appointment and state whatever ails you, and then someone will get back to you when we have the availability, otherwise I'm not listening to your complaints. Now scram."

When the doors shut, Pharma turns back to the circuit slab with Ambulon on it. He keeps his audials alert, even as he sits with his back facing the entrance. Heavy footsteps approach—and stop before he can get a true sense of the mood.

Flatline asks, "How is he?"

"As well as can be expected," says Pharma, "considering what the numbers were before. I don't quite understand. If his spark could withstand combining, then why this egregious outcome?"

Without answering, Flatline takes a seat and joins him at Ambulon's slab-side. Still irritated, he thinks, whether at the would-be visitors or the state of the medbay, but that electromagnetic field is slowly simmering down.

"The other victims in a similar condition," Pharma goes on to say, "were, by and large, non-combatants, and yet some of them still fared better."

"What is there to explain? Stubborn thing tried to walk against the crowd, got knocked down twice, from what I hear. Would've frizzled then and there, or maybe gotten crushed, if he weren't a combiner leg. Ah, I shouldn't have said that."

A sensitive topic, perhaps, but it's not as if Pharma were unaware of Ambulon's alt-mode. "Do you think he'll make a full recovery?"

"Hope so. And maybe he will; he's stubborn like that. But it's not going to be fast and it's not gonna be fun, and I probably don't have to tell you that interface is off the table." Flatline knows that they've been fragging. Of course he does.

Pharma glances away, avoiding Flatline's stare, and resists the urge to fold his wings in tight. "That's probably for the best," he says. They shouldn't have been fragging anyway.

Whatever Flatline has gleaned from him has that EM field churning away like an overworked heat sink. "Poor kid's besotted with you," Flatline mutters, "but you don't really care, do you."

What is this accusation? He sits with it for a klik until he can't hold it any longer. Gazing directly into the eyes of this stranger who has judged him, he is the first to rise from his seat. "You were his commanding officer," Pharma declares. When Flatline doesn't deny it, he asks, "Where were you when he was taken for reformatting, if he matters so much to you?" And he flares out his wings in opposition, when Flatline also lurches to a stand.

He should regret this, but he is eager for the violence such abrupt momentum has promised. Pharma is eager to get started.

"Hey, hey. HEY." Ratchet stumbles around the foot of the slab to get between them, with both hands raised in the air.

Rather than look Ratchet directly in the face, Pharma glances over at the hand that was his originally. And barks out, "What?"

Meanwhile, Flatline is insisting, "Calm your engine. I wasn't gonna—"

"I don't know!" Ratchet grumbles, "How was I supposed to know that? How am I supposed to know what you would or wouldn't do?" Ratchet lowers his hands and huffs. "Like we don't have enough problems around here without, uh..."

Pharma could let Ratchet stammer some more, just to see what he says, but goes ahead and interrupts anyway. "You two can have your talk if you want. I'm going to go check on my sparkling." Not much point in sticking around to see how Ratchet handles his old friend from school. No need to see whether they'll get handsy with Pharma's fingers in the mix.

On the way out, Pharma walks past First Aid, who is hunkered over a datapad, ostensibly reading an upside-down chart. He can hardly blame the nurse for eavesdropping, so he leaves without comment.

The hab suite is empty, including Catalyzer's habitat. Pharma stares at it, his panic rising, until he remembers that there is access from the other side and lets himself into the room that was his. Sure enough, there he finds Dent on the floor in beastmode, being crawled all over by his bitlet.

"Um," says Dent, rising on all fours to turn around, showing how Catalyzer is presently gripping his mane. "Could you...?"

Prying Catalyzer off of him is a task that requires two hands at minimum. Pharma begins the arduous process, asking, "Where are your friends?"

"Snarl had some scores to settle, and the others went along to, uh, keep him company. I wasn't feeling it."

"Brawling outside with randos not your thing?" Pharma frees the last piece of Dent from Catalyzer's little fist. "There," he says, as he tucks his sparkling toward himself then steps away before it can get any more ideas.

"Thanks." Dent stretches, arching low, before hopping onto a slab to get comfortable—on Pharma's old berth. Not that it matters, but still.

Pharma stands around awkwardly, holding his bitlet. "Were any of you injured in the attack?" he asks, for lack of anything else to say.

Dent pauses grooming himself to answer. "I don't think so? Maybe there were some scuffs, but the Dinobots are pretty good at taking care of themselves." And then goes right back to putting his wrist at his mouth.

Dinobots. Right. "You're not worried about them, hm."

"Well." Dent lowers his paw and rests his chin. "Maybe if they get in trouble with the authorities."

As if right on cue, Pharma receives a message from Prowl. "I've got to go," he says. "If I put Catalyzer in his tank—" At the mention of that word, his sparkling begins to wriggle more strenuously in his grasp. Pharma presses it more firmly against his plating and asks, "Will you still be here to watch him?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Thanks, I'll be back soon." Hopefully. "I'll let you know if that changes." If there is reason for his return to delay. If whatever Prowl has for him is more than a mere word. Which may well be the case, although for what, Pharma can't imagine.

He arrives, answering Prowl's call, to a scene in disarray. Pharma looks at the scatter on the floor and says nothing while he waits for acknowledgment as the nanokliks go by. Until Prowl turns to him and—

"Tell me about the virus you were developing," says Prowl, "You had a vaccine planned for it, you said."

"I...yes." Of all the possibilities, Pharma had not imagined he would be summoned here to discuss his strain of Red Rust.

"Its efficacy. How confident are you?"

"The vaccine? Not very." An untested vaccine, in the earliest stages? The answer should be nil.

"And the virus?"

Why is Prowl asking this now? Pharma glances down at the overturned table between them. "An uncontained outbreak would spread very quickly," he answers.

"Could you change that?"

"Could I what?"

"Reduce the rate of transmission," says Prowl matter-of-factly, while Pharma stares, dumbfounded. "Could you do it? Develop a different variant..." Before Pharma can answer, Prowl walks away, shaking his head. "What am I asking," Prowl mutters, "I could just have him shot and be done with it, if I wanted him dead without a proper execution. There's no point in..." Prowl turns, facing the far wall with his doors irritably askew.

"Sir?"

"You're dismissed. Or no." Prowl circles halfway around the table until they are standing face to face, at a distance too far to read his field. "Since you're already here," he says, "We might as well talk mentorship for your sparkling."

If that's the distraction Prowl needs to get his mind off the odd assassination plot. Why not. Pharma tries to look attentive.

"I would've liked to keep him with us a while longer, but celebrity is a burden, isn't it? In this day and age, he is an anomaly. Better to separate the two of you, I suppose, and to hide him. A split spark such as yours could be quite the high-profile target."

How thoughtful of him to say so. Pharma holds silent.

Prowl goes on, "You are right to give him up. He is still new, although not so new. In another era he would've been taken from you sooner. It was for the best the recursion program was abolished. However, the dissolution of the program has left us with few contacts who could—"

"A mentor," Pharma interrupts, "for Catalyzer."

"Right," says Prowl, with a flick of his doors. "I was getting there. What are your expectations? It may be possible to find someone with prior experience, but I would not bet on it."

Pharma pictures handing over his sparkling to a mech with credentials from the days of Nominus and Nova...and no, how could he? But it is not a rational objection to refuse, and so he says, instead, "If you think that best. If it matters. I'm sure you can vet the right person without it." Let Prowl determine the right person to take his sparkling. It doesn't make a difference. Or it shouldn't.

When the conversation is ended, when Pharma has left the room, calmly refusing to contemplate what sort of stranger would be charged with Catalyzer's care, it is then that he reflects on how freely Prowl had called upon him to conspire for murder unsanctioned. It was barely an attempt, yet Prowl had reached out to him for help, in the aftermath of their most recent predicament.

Chapter Text

After that non-event of a meeting, Pharma gathers his bitlet from his old roommate and returns to their shared quarters, the quarters he shares with First Aid and—no, just First Aid for now, which he'd rather not...but there isn't exactly the luxury of choice, is there? He'd rather stay in his old hab if he could, but he won't, not with the Dinobots squeezed in with Dent and a vacancy on the other side. There's no logical reason why he wouldn't stay here with First Aid, who is, after all, one of Catalyzer's donors. There's no logical reason why he should prefer otherwise, so he strives to appear unbothered.

He keeps his distance, when First Aid enters the room. He keeps his gaze low, like there's nothing more important in the world right now than watching his sparkling somersault on the floor, which may well be true. Checking for developmental milestones is important, after all. Due diligence, he'll do his part, before he passes his creature to another's care. A mentor, from Prowl's list of contacts, someone who'll fulfill the rest with all the zest and zeal which Catalyzer deserves...

First Aid's field brushes against his, and he has to remind himself to swallow the flare of irritation that inevitably arises. First Aid might not be his first choice for a roommate, his first choice for a donor, or even his choice for direct report, but there's nothing truly objectionable about the mech. The old complaints he used to have about First Aid—the lack of focus, the improper conduct—don't apply anymore. These days, First Aid is an excellent physician even if technically still untitled. These days, Pharma has nothing to complain about, except for everything else.

Oh, to be back at Delphi, even if he did have his work cut out for him then. With that slacker First Aid and the newly retrained Ambulon answering to nobody but him, without the complication of having some ranking ex-Con like Flatline mucking around the same medbay...or even Ratchet, overseeing the mess. What Pharma wouldn't give, for simpler times.

It's an absurd thought, he knows, even before he's fully processed it. The farther they stay from Messatine, the better, and he's not afraid of competition, he isn't. What does it matter to him if they've got company in the medbay? And yet, rubbing elbows with Fixit or Quickmix is one thing. To be in proximity with Ratchet's old classmate who hates him...the feeling is mutual, not that anyone else commiserates.

Does First Aid prefer working with Flatline? He wonders, would First Aid prefer answering to Flatline? Who may not be an Autobot, but they're supposed to reintegrate, aren't they. This postwar truce still has him feeling ill at ease. Not everyone feels the same, however, and if First Aid would rather follow a senior ex-Con, a big rig like that with a smart mouth and friends in high places...

No sooner has Pharma started catastrophizing where that would leave him, if First Aid and Ratchet should both happen to favor Flatline, one word from First Aid perforates his thoughts.

"Cat!" says First Aid. "Come here." And just like that, Pharma's irritation bubbles over once more.

Biting his lip, he glares at the nurse and turns to leave. He won't, he won't make things worse, not here, not now.

Before he can go, however, First Aid remarks, "Getting pretty solid, isn't he."

Pharma glances down at his bitlet, who hasn't yet picked a consistent shape but surely will—and soon. The opacity of protomatter, the articulation of those little hands (six fingers each, twelve in total, today) there is every indication of a healthy trajectory. Pharma ought to be pleased to see this development, and yet...

Vaguely, Pharma recalls he had offered to let First Aid be mentor. He'd said so while in desperate straits, but it's not as if it's a bad idea. Although he'd still prefer to send Catalyzer elsewhere, he could bear the thought of his sparkling learning the truth of their circumstances from First Aid, if there is no better choice to be had. Secrets are so very difficult to keep. Surely there has to be some way to spin a likely story, something close enough to what happened with none of the more worrisome specifics...

Unlikely, however, that whatever carefully constructed cover story they could craft First Aid would abide without faltering, or that a curious young mechling could be satisfied with not poking holes in their story. An outright lie should be easier. A know-nothing stranger should be easiest. Prowl did promise to find a decent neutral for a mentor. Prowl may have implied eligible candidiates were in short supply yet did seem keen on assembling a dossier. But then again, that was Prowl, deriving satisfaction from sorting intel. How the notes inside his own file look, Pharma doesn't dare imagine.

First Aid has picked up Catalyzer, who is now being bounced at chest level where the vents are. One would think, with all the research Aid's done, all the precautions he talks about taking...

Before Pharma has said anything, their bitlet burps, and the bouncing stops.

"There you go," says First Aid, as if that were the intention all along, setting Catalyzer back down to exercise some more.

Their bit proceeds to run with vim and vigor, spinning round and round across the floor. Pharma watches as First Aid claps enthusiastically at the show. Aid would make a decent mentor, he thinks, if Prowl should want additional input for the list of candidates...

All of a sudden, the spinning has stopped. "Ma! Ma, ma, ma," his sparkling is saying.

Pharma exchanges a glance with First Aid.

"Big 'ma," Catalyzer emphasizes, looking up at them expectantly.

First Aid gets down low to ask, "What you trying to tell us, lil buddy?"

"Big spark, big 'ma."

"Oh," Aid deduces, "you mean Pharma?"

"'ma!"

Even with all the computational power at his disposal, Pharma's processor stutters, stuck. Amid this new understanding, a million thoughts burst forth. Among them is the fact that he's never been so pleased to hear anyone butcher his name. It seems unfathomable, until this very moment, that he could be so pleased. Throughout his life, Pharma has accepted various abbreviations with good grace, has tolerated hearing his name cut short. To hear it from his own sparkling is different. If he had spared a thought to realize this, to imagine how he'd feel, beforehand? He might have put in more effort to prevent things from progressing this far. Now that they've reached this stage, he worries; is it too late, he wonders, to segregate his sparkling, to separate him from his, to forget and be forgotten...

He is wrestling with conflicting desires, stuck between wanting to teach Catalyzer his name in full and planning to accelerate his exit. He is debating the contradiction which prevents him from doing both, when his sparkling, confident in possessing their full attention, hurtles forward and careens into the wall.

"Wow," says Aid, already reaching for the fallen bitlet, "That was really super fast. Very impressive. Why don't we go and, uh, get examined—"

"No!" insists Catalyzer, as it uprights itself and swats away the touch, seemingly no longer dazed. "Big 'ma!"

Pharma sighs as he scoops up his sparkling. "Shh," he shushes. And then, to First Aid, "He usually isn't this particular." It's not like Catalyzer to be this opinionated, he wants to say, except it is, just usually not like this.

"He's growing," says First Aid, "He's interacting and he's using his words!" So excited is Aid at this latest milestone, he squeaks into the upper register like a racer tearing across the starting line.

Pharma dampens audio sensitivity, just in case there's more high-pitched squealing to follow. When the coast is clear, "He's being ridiculous," he says, "It's not as if you're a stranger. He spends just as much time with me as with you." Pharma doesn't want to contemplate why a creature split from his own spark might prefer his company, how deep the attachment goes.

When Aid replies, "Yeah OK, Big-ma," the little nurse is already walking ahead. If he weren't, and Pharma didn't have both hands full, he'd be asking for it now.

A cursory scan in the medbay reveals nothing, nor does a more in-depth scan pick up any sign of damage. Time after time, Pharma's sparkling has proven to be a lucky little creature, from one mishap to the next.

"Don't think this means you're invincible," he tells his sparkling when the scans come back negative. "I'll put you back inside, don't think I won't."

Catalyzer chirps at that.

First Aid encourages, "Use your words, come on now," to no avail, and takes Ratchet's silence for skepticism. "He was talking, I swear. I'm not making this up; Pharma was there too."

"I believe you," says Ratchet, "He's the right age for it."

"Oh?" asks Aid, intrigued. "When do they start doing full sentences?"

Just as Ratchet is about to answer, Pharma passes their sparkling to him. Even though the question is benign, Pharma doesn't want to be around to hear what Ratchet has to say about the topic, doesn't want to consider what Ratchet might reveal. Pharma still wants to think the best of him. One careless word could change that, if it turns out Ratchet served plenty of experience overseeing the old recursion program when Nominus was Prime. Though Pharma doesn't think he did, the very idea is anathema.

A change of hands takes half a klik. Passing Catalyzer over is, as always, an effort. The defiant little thing fights and fusses loudly at being moved...yet soon quiets once Ratchet has it completely in his arms. Pharma's mood dips further at how expertly he handles this. He makes it look so easy, balancing the weight of a moving target. But at least the discussion is tabled for now.

Glancing over Ratchet's shoulder, Pharma happens to see Flatline sitting by Ambulon's slab-side. Flatline turns, and Pharma looks away.

First Aid isn't done cajoling Catalyzer to talk. "You've got more words for us, right? I know you've got more words."

"Get him to say Autobot," suggests a patient waiting around for limb reattachment.

"Mmm, too many syllables." Rather than focus on the reinstallation that's in progress, First Aid continues to hang around, pressing his face into Ratchet's personal space just to pay attention to Catalyzer. "How about 'bot?" He wags a finger at the protoform. "Can you say bot? Let's hear it." As Ratchet walks off to fetch some cables, he trots to keep up, still entreating, "Come on, bot's not so different from 'big'—that's like your first word!"

Catalyzer honks at him.

First Aid is undeterred. "I know you know the word 'no'; can you say 'no' for me?"

Refusing to stick around for the inanity of it all, Pharma goes to check on Ambulon instead.

Flatline is still there, which is fine. Sooner or later this impasse must end. Who knows if/when they'll be working together in Iacon. As a professional, Pharma knows it behooves him to be cordial. He refuses to be the first to apologize, however. He simply won't.

Flatline doesn't seem to be expecting him to, is in fact cultivating an air of total disinterest or, perhaps, isn't cultivating anything but simply is, ignoring Pharma as if nothing he might say or do is worth the stress. As if he's just another one of Ratchet's subordinates, not worth the bother. Which smarts, thinking about it like that, but it won't do to get all worked up. Pharma pretends to take a keen interest in the readouts. He should find something to say, figure out a safe topic they can agree on, and call it good.

Flatline deigns to address him first. "I'm thinking to wake him soon."

"You are?" The words drop right out, unbidden. Hadn't they just established that recovery isn't exactly around the corner?

"His spark rate's acceptable, he can rest up in his own hab," explains Flatline. "Don't need us watching him here where there's lots of traffic. Thing is, I do have to point out, since coming back online he's going to be disoriented, may even be emotionally compromised, I need to know that you're not going to do anything to jeopardize his well-being."

Oh! Of all the possible accusations. Who is Flatline to speak to him thus? Pharma's wings fan out automatically before he folds them back in, noting, yep, Ratchet is watching. So is First Aid.

Flatline bulldozes onward with the laidback presumption only someone in such a weight class could have. "Once he wakes, better that you stay away until he's restabilized," Flatline concludes.

Pharma smiles tightly. "Understood."

They don't move to resuscitate Ambulon immediately. Pharma clears out nonetheless. He takes his sparkling from Ratchet to go for a walk elsewhere. Normally he'd hate to be seen in public like this—as a carrier foremost—but, right now, any irritation he has at the public? Pales in comparison to his frustrations in the medbay. He is restless, so very restless...not unlike his sparkling who, at this moment, begs and whines to be let down.

Pharma acquiesces. "Don't get trampled," he says, not that there is anyone around to do the trampling. There is no one in their vicinity, in this spot he's chosen, except for a single mid-sized bot coming down the corridor, from the sound of it. Pharma stays close to his sparkling, just in case.

There is plenty of space to roam straight ahead; they could easily keep to themselves. Catalyzer has other ideas, however, choosing instead to maneuver back and forth across the entire width of the hall. As Pharma watches, he wonders what all this excess energy might mean. Add on top of that a propensity for acrobatics...does it reflect a desire for flight? A personal bias, perhaps, yet Pharma does think it quite likely, even if he is acutely aware how nimble some grounders can be.

In a gleeful rush, like gravitating toward the nearest obstacle, Catalyzer crashes into an oncoming pede—which just happens to belong to the bot whose reframe Pharma had helped to build.

Pharma puts on a smile as he hastens over to collect his creature. "I do beg your pardon," he gushes, "I didn't anticipate he'd get so far." Such a simple matter, and yet his spark hammers inside his chest, at the sight of her stooping to grab Catalyzer. It's not as if she's holding it incorrectly or anything. And yet, something about her holding his bitlet has him inexplicably anxious.

When he reaches out, Catalyzer is passed back to him readily, and still Pharma remains unsettled. So he excuses himself, citing feeding time. That's nearly half a cycle away, but what of it? Walking back takes time.

No more roaming; playtime is over. Catalyzer doesn't get the message (or ignores it) and keeps trying to peek around him as he walks away.

"Don't run into people," he tells his errant sparkling, "or into walls—you're not invincible; stop running into things."

Catalyzer bites him toothlessly.

Pharma keeps on walking. No reaction is better than giving the satisfaction of showing his sparkling what he thinks of that.

The route he takes isn't devoid of other bots but does, thankfully, steer clear of crowds. Every now and then, Pharma stops to let the occasional random coo over his creature. He keeps the greetings brief, of course, and doesn't once let anyone else hold Catalyzer, and still the frequent stops delay his return until he can feel little nibbles trying to chew through his arm.

"You wouldn't be so hungry," he tells his sparkling while there's no one watching, "if you hadn't overexerted yourself." No reply except for more gnawing at his joints, and it isn't clear whether Catalyzer is merely peckish or making an opinion known.

On the way back to the hab, Pharma ruminates whether he ought to get another check-up—for himself, if there's something off with his brain. He didn't even carry to term, yet he's been behaving like he's got protocols acting up, making him overprotective, seeing threats to his creature where there aren't. He may not have much knowledge in this area, but surely there's something to be done. Even if he cannot revert to a prior state, surely he can at least do something to halt the progression of whatever's wrong with him.

Or maybe he's overthinking things. Pharma's only this concerned right now because they lack a dedicated caretaker. Once Catalyzer is placed with someone trustworthy, he won't have to worry so much about his sparkling.

Although they actually return ahead of schedule, Catalyzer is most agreeable to being put inside its tank. It detaches without a fuss and heads straight for the wading pool, lighting up as it feeds. Someday, when the protoform is fully opaque, there won't be even so much of a hint of a glow. For now, though, gorging on fuel still illuminates that gullet.

Pharma watches, as his sparkling feeds with surprising efficiency. "Maybe you should go hungry more often," he observes.

Catalyzer submerges below the surface, releasing pockets of air in a steady stream and noisily.

Pharma is knocked off-guard by the sudden urge to squeeze his bubble-blowing bitlet into fistfuls of paste. He raises the glass divider between them, continuing to monitor his creature from a safe remove. He watches his sparkling drowsily clamber out then drape itself upon the rocks, each movement more sluggish than the last. He watches Catalyzer doze off then dims the lights, until the brightest thing in the habitarium is the pool of energon in which it naps.

Pharma goes on watching over his creature. With nowhere better to be, he stays planted by the wall, counting down the nanokliks until that afthole Flatline will tolerate him showing his face. Whose medbay is it anyway, Pharma grumbles to himself...then drops the count to focus on his sparkling in the here and now. When Prowl finds them a mentor, when Catalyzer moves on to the next stage of life, they won't have any more moments like this, peacefully disengaged from the world at large.

Pharma keeps watch, until the door opens...and in staggers First Aid leading Ambulon, with Flatline right behind them.

Chapter Text

Ambulon stumbles forward, eyes locked with Pharma's. First Aid has to pull him back from tripping straight into the floor.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Aid says, as they lead Ambulon to his berth.

Reluctantly, Ambulon allows himself to be steered into taking a seat. When they try to get him to lie down, he staunchly refuses. Flatline glares as if this lack of cooperation is Pharma's fault.

Ambulon waves them away, or tries to. "You can leave now," he says weakly.

Flatline stands in place, while First Aid hesitantly lingers at the door.

"Please go," says Ambulon, "We're not, we're not gonna—"

"You better not, or I'll drag you back to the arena," Flatline threatens, "and pummel you into the pavement myself." Two steps later, he adds, "And you," pointing at Pharma, "get over here." And he indicates the other slab (First Aid's berth) for Pharma to sit. When compliance is not immediately forthcoming, he barks, "Hurry up and get. Don't give the kid a reason to strain himself."

Pharma seethes, but this isn't the time. Flatline isn't wrong; if Ambulon wants to talk to him, better to make things easier. So he strides over and drops himself onto the spot which Flatline indicated, with his legs crossed and his fingers digging into the berth, then stares up at the outsized afthole. Any other requests, he doesn't ask.

"Join us at the start of cycle. There's still work to be done." And with that, Flatline shoulders past First Aid, who slowly trails into the hall with one last parting glance.

Join them next cycle? Pharma could roll his eyes. But he isn't here to make drama, he's here for Ambulon, who seems content to drink in his appearance, to simply gaze upon him without speaking...

Pharma doesn't know what else to say to break the silence. "You should lie down." The slab isn't on a perfect incline, but. "You're still on berthrest."

Ambulon shrugs. It's an insouciant gesture, which he manages with difficulty. "I've lied down long enough," he says, "I just want to look at—"

Pharma stands up. Pharma stands and goes over to his side, offering support to help lie down gradually, and he takes it, leaning into Pharma like he's clutching a lifeline.

Still holding on tight as Pharma helps him down, barely above a whisper, he says, "I looked for you, to see if you were safe. I thought...I thought maybe..."

Oh. Pharma can hardly respond, knowing now that Ambulon had struggled to reach them during the insurrection. They'd gone back to the habs, he and Catalyzer, and Ambulon had been stuck facing an avoidable onslaught, going the wrong way. Pharma had already left the arena, blissfully unaware, as Ambulon fought to get to his vacated spot. If not for him...

"Stay with me," says Ambulon, coughing, interpreting his shift in balance as an attempt to extricate himself.

"I'm here," he replies, still recoiling from his guilt. "I'm here," he repeats. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Ambulon relaxes, truly relaxes, once Pharma has settled in beside him. "I love you," he murmurs.

I love you too, Pharma could almost say.

They lie together in close proximity, not quite entangled nor exactly apparent in their innocence. Rather than wait around to be found, for Flatline to make good on his threat, Pharma gets up at the appointed hour and leaves Ambulon to rest. Pharma gets up and goes, and Ambulon stirs fitfully.

"I'll be back," he promises.

And he keeps his word. Pharma returns to berth, at the end of the day, to hold and be held. Each day, he returns to Ambulon, for the remainder of their time on Luna Two. Sometimes he lets Catalyzer join them, a feisty little ball of energy between the barrier of their bodies. Sometimes their sparkling makes such a ruckus, he has to sequester it back inside its habitat. Ambulon doesn't seem to mind. Whether or not they have their sparkling with them, they huddle close on that narrow slab, fields overlapping, while they do no more than holding hands.

Ambulon wants to do more, though, wants to kiss him and pet him, and Pharma allows it, even while he protests. He refuses more firmly, when Ambulon tries to get under his panels.

"It's OK," Ambulon insists, "if I don't use my array."

They're skating by on a technicality, but all right. It's not like Ambulon is in danger of overload like this, with his fingers and his tongue working to bring Pharma to a climax. So Pharma lies back and tries to enjoy it, this lopsided lovemaking, like a pillow Primus being faithfully worshipped.

First Aid catches them, of course. If he's appalled, he doesn't show it. Rather, he ribs Ambulon for being so industrious so soon.

And also. "They're still waiting for you, you know. Um, your old combining team. They want to talk. If you're feeling better—"

"Tell them to get lost." And Ambulon goes back to burying his face between Pharma's thighs.

It's hard to look anywhere else, with First Aid in the room, but at least the fact that First Aid has a visor makes eye contact marginally less awkward. Pharma can pretend he isn't corporeal, that First Aid is staring at the wall while addressing Ambulon. "I'll do that," says Aid, "but you really ought to tell them yourself, don't you think?"

Too busy tonguing Pharma's node, Ambulon doesn't answer.

Eventually Flatline shows up to bully them for breaking regulations. Ambulon gets around his bluster by citing a few documented (if contentious) studies...and also by submitting to a round of tests. After admitting, yes, the results do indeed indicate recovery is going just fine, Flatline begrudgingly eases up on the restrictions.

A list of specific acts is greenlit. Ambulon takes that as a challenge to tick off every item to completion in every possible configuration, manipulating Pharma's body this way and that.

"Don't outdo yourself," Pharma tells him—while stretched around his fist—and lets out a reflexive moan before trying to complete that thought in vain. "Don't..."

"I'm fine," Ambulon mutters into kissing a pede.

They cuddle afterward, after Pharma's had his third overload that day. A slow day in the medbay, so naturally interface is on the menu. Otherwise, Ambulon just stays holed up with nothing to do but read, while Pharma gets to go play politics, which makes lying in berth an easy choice. Doing nothing but receiving, letting his lover do all the work, Pharma ought to be ashamed. Moreover, he ought to be ashamed for leading on Ambulon when he has every intention of parting ways. But it's not like Ambulon doesn't know that their end date is when the trial has concluded and people have begun departing from the moon.

Or maybe Ambulon doesn't, is expecting for him to rejoin the Lost Light. They haven't talked about it much, or at all. They talk, instead, about what they're missing out on, what First Aid has filled in from the arena, as they scroll through Aid's messages, a play-by-play detailing how people are responding to Megatron's speech in real time. Pharma reads it all while lying down, with his chin tucked over Ambulon's shoulder and an arm hooked around Ambulon's waist.

So engrossed is Pharma in reading First Aid's updates, he neglects to pick up his communicator until the fifteenth vibration.

When he finally picks up, Ratchet's sardonic voice comes through, archly asking, "Too preoccupied to answer comms, huh?" as if they're shooting the breeze, like this matter isn't urgent at all.

Matching tone for tone, the reply Pharma gives is better-suited to a first year student than a mech his age. He isn't idle, though, waiting for an explanation. With some assistance from Ambulon, he cleans up his paint transfers in a hurry, tossing the rag aside before Ratchet has even finished describing the situation. After one more parting kiss, Pharma rushes out to go join the rest of the staff.

It's no huge emergency, but today has turned out to be a big day for rioting. The influx of minor injuries seems neverending, as if Cybertronians don't know how to express themselves emotionally without physically acting out. Pharma finds himself working side by side with Flatline to make the best of the limited supplies they have.

"If we were on Cybertron," Flatline grouses, then stops himself with a chuckle. "'course, if we were on Cybertron, who knows what would've happened instead."

The dark cloud that is Ratchet at the moment bustles over without a word, slips between them to grab a few choice pieces, and departs, gruffly shouting instructions at First Aid as he goes.

Flatline calls out after him, "The war's over, buddy. What are you mad about now?"

Pharma keeps his optics to himself.

With a conversational air, Flatline remarks upon the foresight of Autobot leadership and then pauses. "You missed a spot, by the way. Over there."

Pharma strains to look. "You couldn't have mentioned this earlier?" he asks in dismay.

Flatline shrugs. "Didn't notice until now."

Fuming, Pharma tries to clean as discreetly as he can manage. He's got just about all of it, he thinks, when his communicator rings. Maybe he should've kept it on silent, but this call could be important...

The caller turns out to be Prowl, asking him to pay a visit. At a moment like this? Well, there might be plenty of work to do, but it's not like anybody's dying.

"I have to go," Pharma tells Flatline. "Not sure when I'll be back. You've got everything under control?"

"Just keeping busy like we been doing. All's well, no fuses blown yet."

Pharma doesn't bother to muster a reply.

He arrives at the rendezvous with Prowl to find two extra pairs of optics waiting for him. Suddenly self-conscious, Pharma can sense them lingering—if only for a nanoklik, but lingering nonetheless—across certain areas he must not have cleaned as thoroughly as he should've, as they look him over. Flatline was apparently too much of an aft to tell him more when he had a chance to touch up in the medbay. Oh well.

Prowl introduces their names like rattling off a checklist. It's evident that his attention lays elsewhere, that he's got a million other calculations running in the background, and here he is, taking the time out of his day, on today of all days, to play matchmaker. For Prowl to take the time to do this for him, Pharma feels a strange flutter. But it's not for his sake, really, it's for his sparkling, for Catalyzer's future, that they're meeting with these newcomers.

Pharma isn't too sure how he's supposed to ascertain a good fit for his sparkling's upbringing, but what a likely pair they are, these neutrals. They look like well-to-do civilians who've never fought a moment in their genteel lives.

The primary candidate steps forward to speak, once Prowl has finished dictating the schedule. If Pharma is amenable to having them, then next meeting they'll be introduced to Catalyzer, here on Luna Two, and the hand-off will take place after the return to Cybertron. Then Pharma will stay in Iacon, it's implied, whereas Catalyzer, his Catalyzer, will go with them to whichever corner of their choosing.

The candidate smiles and begins telling Pharma about himself, his interests, his line of work. More importantly, he describes the eligibility of his connections, explaining, "Although I myself have never had the pleasure of mentoring a forge recursion, my mentor has many a time, and some of them I knew. The one who came after me, for instance. He was one such mech, and so was my predecessor. Though they've since passed—bless them both—we were friends for many years, and I like to think I know a thing or two." A pause, and then, "That isn't to say I expect smooth sailing. Every person is different, and Catalyzer is still young. I regret to say I am not the most familiar with recursions at this age, but I'm sure any hurdles can be solved and overcome. It's with my amica's support that I put in my application. My plan—our plan, if you choose us—is to follow a modified version of the old guidelines for recursive care until adulthood. We've put together a syllabus, which will be forwarded...?" He glances over at Prowl, who nods. "If you have any objections, do let us know what could be revised. Or if you have any questions about us, we'd love to answer."

A longer pause draws out. There are so many things Pharma could ask, if he weren't stumped right now.

"My amica is an excellent confectioner." The candidate goes on to gesture at the mech beside him, who comes over, proffering a box.

"Sparklings can't have sweets," Pharma says automatically.

"Oh, these aren't for the sparklet. They're for you!"

Pharma accepts with murmured thanks.

The neutrals cheerfully hint at their next meeting before they go.

Pharma stands there, with box in hand. When Prowl seems disinclined to move to show him out, he waits a moment before he clears his vocalizer. He has an apology to make, for his failure to participate, to aid the prosecution. A matter which has been weighing on him, ever since that unfulfilling verdict.

He has scarcely stuttered out his apology, when Prowl cuts him off with a wave of one hand, grumbling, "We had everything lined up. Megatron himself pled guilty. And then..."

Pharma stands there, waiting, while Prowl mutters a few choice words about Optimus and Ultra Magnus, sounding distantly aggrieved.

"...whether you took the stand wouldn't have mattered," Prowl ends up telling him, "Mark my words, this isn't over yet. Sooner or later, Megatron will get what he deserves. But there's nothing for you to do about that now."

Pharma isn't sure whether he's more relieved or disappointed.

Afterward, Pharma looks around to find himself alone outside the office then opens the box. A dozen freshly made energon goodies, drizzled in chrome. He shuts the lid again and sets off at a brisk trot. He'd bring these to the medbay to share, but with only a dozen...

He heads back to the habitation suite first, to set them down and to get cleaned up, thoroughly this time, before he shows himself in the medbay again.

Ambulon doesn't try to persuade him to stay but does, throughout cleanup, administer infuriating little touches that get his body running hot, as if three overloads a day isn't more than enough.

"You're insatiable," he mutters, not that he does anything to stop Ambulon from teasing at his plating.

"Mm." Ambulon kisses his turbine. "I want you ready for me, when you return."

The walk to the medbay is longer than usual. The walk back, after discovering there's no other staff except for one very territorial Ratchet in the area, is just as long.

Pharma returns to the hab suite to find First Aid hovering over Ambulon, who is holding the open box of goodies out of reach.

"I only want a closer look," First Aid is saying, "Let me see!"

"They're not mine, they're Pharma's!"

He goes over to them and yanks First Aid aside, before accepting the box from Ambulon. "What's all this?" he asks.

"Where'd you get these?" First Aid wants to know. "They don't look stale. They don't look stale at all."

"What's wrong with stale?" he asks, just to be contrary. "Stale is still edible." Some people even prefer stale. Or aged, as aficionados say. Though he might not count among them, the preference sure exists. "Stale is better than having no dessert," he points out, just because he can.

"Yeah," Aid replies, "But there's nothing like fresh-made goodies, so where'd you find 'em? I know you didn't make them yourself."

"You don't know that."

First Aid just gives him a look.

"All right, fine. I met with a potential mentor today. And he and his, his amica, they—"

"You sold Catalyzer for candy?!"

"It was a gift!" Although it did feel like a bribe. "You don't have to have any."

Aid stares up plaintively, at a loss for words.

"I'm kidding." Pharma grabs the piece with the most bedazzle and mashes it into his face, leaving First Aid scrambling to scrape off all the mush. "How's it taste?"

"Pretty good," First Aid mumbles through licking off his fingers, once he's gotten most of it off his mask. "Can I..."

"Yes, you may." Pharma can be generous when he wants. "These stay here, though. Don't eat them outside the hab." They don't need everyone else asking questions or clamoring for a taste.

"Hmm, OK," says Aid, already moving on to a second piece, "This wannabe mentor and his amica made them, you said?"

Not really in the mood for a whole piece, Pharma is in the process of splitting one with Ambulon. Glancing over, wryly he asks, "Why, are you thinking of bargaining for more?"

"Well..."

"Maybe they'll give you some, if you ask nicely." Pharma takes that moment to grab a rag (the same rag, but they aren't strangers, so whatever) to help wipe his face. And suggests, "In the meantime, why don't we go back to the medbay, where we're supposed to be—"

"But Ratchet—"

"—is upset, yes. Doesn't mean we leave him be, to sulk around by himself." Two on one is better odds, at least.

"But Flatline said—"

Pharma bristles at that. "Oh, Flatline said? Then we'll just listen to Flatline for everything, shall we?"

First Aid flinches at the speed with which Pharma whips the rag away. "I didn't mean—"

"No? Well then let's go." And he begins pushing First Aid toward the door. "If Flatline asks, it wasn't your idea. But oh wait, he won't ask because he won't be there, isn't that so?"

They're in and out of the medbay in about two kliks, from the time the doors slide open to the next time the doors have shut.

"OK, we tried." Pharma can admit defeat.

"See? See?" First Aid stomps ahead. "He's a tetchier gearstick than—oh hi, Getaway."

"What's up?" Getaway is alone, with not a friend in sight. Pharma would assume that means the operative has a task to do, except he seems happy to shadow them wherever they might go.

"Oh not much," says First Aid, slowing down by way of invitation, "just having a pity party for common sense."

"The verdict, you mean?"

"Well, that too."

Pharma rolls his eyes. "You guys catch up. I'm going to go have a drink."

"Nah, let's come with," says Getaway, keeping pace, "I want to know how you've been."

"Me?"

"Yeah, haven't seen you in a while."

"That's because," First Aid starts to say, then shuts up once a kick in the ankle keeps him in check.

"We're in talks to get Catalyzer mentored," Pharma explains, "I don't suppose you heard?"

"No, the boss doesn't tell me everything. What's this about mentorship?"

On the way to the bar, Pharma tells Getaway all about the posh pair of neutrals Prowl has found willing to take on his sparkling. It's First Aid, though, who keeps interrupting to ask all the questions, from the contents of the proposed syllabus to every fluctuation in each electromagnetic field present over the course of the meeting, like some amateur detective trying to run character analysis, sight unseen.

He leaves them there at Swerve's and pivots back without ordering anything to drink, not trusting himself to act right in front of a crowd. Being a recluse is so much easier these days. And now that they have a date, a next appointment with a prospective mentor, he is loathe not to spend what time he has left with his sparkling. If all goes well, Catalyzer will leave his side to go live with those neutrals, never for them to meet again.

When Pharma returns to their hab, Ambulon is sitting with the box on his lap. Atop the box is Catalyzer, doing its darndest to ooze through the lid to no avail.

Pharma takes note of how well the container has held thus far. "Rather cruel of you, to taunt him like that."

"I was going to let him have a sliver," Ambulon replies, "but I thought I'd wait for you, to ask," and passes the box—bitlet and all—over to Pharma.

So unprepared is Pharma to take it that the whole thing nearly tips when Catalyzer makes a sudden move. The little creature cries out in frustration, when it is plucked from its attempt (stymied by its own weight) at getting under the flap of the lid. Pharma sets the box aside to cradle it in both hands, before sitting facing Ambulon.

"We have an appointment," Pharma informs him, "for Catalyzer to meet the candidate." Or candidates, plural, one might suppose, if that amica is going to be deeply involved. "The day after tomorrow." A day which is so very soon.

Ambulon simply stares, as if this information doesn't have anything to do with him; and it doesn't, really. Pharma stares back until hesitantly he speaks. "Are you worried that the meeting will potentially fall through? Or that it won't?" he asks.

Pharma doesn't answer. He sets down Catalyzer. He goes to give it a pinch of energon goodie, and the greedy bitlet gobbles right off his fingertip, hardly waiting for him to dispense the treat.

"You'll still get to see him, won't you?"

"No. No, I won't. That's the point." I won't see you either, Pharma doesn't say, after all is said and done. It isn't farfetched to think that he could, if he wanted. But he doesn't; he doesn't want to see either of them ever again, if he hopes to put all this behind him, if he is to move on with his life.

In the course of silence, Ambulon only looks at him while he rearranges Catalyzer and then himself to nestle close, tucking his legs and the span of his wings to one side, while he leans into the center of that field, that familiar field which hums to him so softly like nowhere else.

"I will miss this," he says—he can admit that much. I will miss you.

Chapter Text

Preparing for their protoform's upcoming appointment includes a full assessment the day before. With every metric there is to measure (weight, density, porosity, so forth) the whole ordeal could be done in a quarter cycle, if not for how First Aid does it: gauging everything at least twice, pausing not only to consult the data thoroughly every time but read off the numbers with the flair of a drumroll. It's enough to drive anybody nuts and bolts crazy, waiting for the final results. Pharma is just about ready to handle the rest himself, when their squirming bitlet is finally declared to be perfectly, utterly normal.

He is glad, to have that confirmed. Pharma is glad. Although a part of him did wonder what might happen, if a developmental delay were to be discovered. Not that he's looking for reasons not to give up his creature according to schedule—he isn't. And it's not like Catalyzer's placement can't proceed without this confirmation; it's not like there's some stipulation of perfect health to prevent them from moving forward; a lack thereof would be embarrassing, is all. So of course Pharma is relieved to have the proceedings unhampered by any such trifling matter. He is. And yet, having gotten this far, one step further into the process...he isn't ready, even though this is simply the culmination of a decision that was made at the very start.

He's made his choice. Surreal as it is, this is what he wanted. This, he has already determined, is the best way forward. So what else is there to do? When he is given all the documentation to give to the relevant parties, Pharma dumbly accepts, continuing to stare long after the files are transferred. He looks on, as his creature babbles happily with minimal goading from First Aid. Catalyzer is happy to engage in front of a limited audience—just the four of them, with Ambulon and Ratchet—spewing string after string of approximate words.

When his prompting is finally repeated syllable for syllable, or close enough, First Aid hoists their bit into the air.

"Who's a smart bot?" Aid praises, "You're a smart bot. You're going to be so smart!" He spins around in circles, holding up their bitlet. "Our Cat is going to be so smart," he says, to murmurs of agreement.

How trite. But it's not as if anyone would beg to differ. Their Catalyzer can be both adequately average and indubitably intelligent, no contradiction there.

As for that silly pet name, Pharma has stopped trying to make corrections. What would be the point, this close to giving up their sparkling? One more day, to confirm the placement. Then barely a week, and it'll be off to a new home. And this unexpected episode of his life will finally be over.

While the others are still talking, while their sparkling is still echoing bits and pieces of the conversation, Pharma is the first to leave the room.

And then, the morning Catalyzer is scheduled for their introduction, Pharma is awoken to the sound of First Aid screeching. He turns to look at the source of Aid's distress—and sees Catalyzer in the shape of a perfect sphere.

First Aid is frantically pacing around the hab. "Why is he all balled up like that? He was fine yesterday. Everything was fine! Should we call a blacksmith? I still have that contact, that one blacksmith we used, but I don't think he's around. Maybe a few of the Circle folk came for the trial but most of them didn't. I'm guessing the fastest he could get here is..."

"Um," says Ambulon, who has also just woken up. "What happened?"

First Aid gestures wildly at the tank in which the now spherical Catalyzer is sitting unmoving atop a pile of rocks. How do you not see this nonsense, seems to be the implication.

Pharma gets up for a closer look. The partition has already been lowered, so he reaches in to pick up his unreactive creature. Like an inert object, it lets him. Turning it around in his hands, casual inspection indicates nothing amiss, and yet something is unmistakably different about their sparkling today. The lack of detail, the lack of response...still a far cry from the featureless new protoform it used to be, which was never this motionless back then. Almost as if this simple shape, this inactive state that it's in now, is unnatural. Or was perhaps chosen on purpose.

Pharma says nothing, while First Aid gears up to get Ratchet for advice.

Behind him, Ambulon asks, "How long has he been stuck like that?"

"He isn't stuck." Pharma doesn't know for certain, but he's pretty sure it isn't. "He's just trying something different. Something silly." And he pauses, daring his creature to make a peep.

Nothing. Which does worry him slightly, but he's not going to admit that until there's proof that something's wrong.

First Aid marches Ratchet into the hab in the manner of an impatient tugboat struggling at cruising speed. "Just look at him!" First Aid flails in their direction.

Pharma holds out their sparkling for Ratchet to scan. "I'm not seeing anything in the readings."

First Aid nudges around for a look. "Are these portable scanners even configured for sparklings? Maybe they can't pick up on the details. Maybe we gotta call that blacksmith. I do have his hailing frequency. If we call right now, maybe he can—"

Ratchet waves him off. "Some regression is normal. If it persists—"

"OK yeah, but what if we wait too long and that guy's like on the far end of the galaxy..."

Pharma sighs. He gives Catalyzer to Ambulon to hold then goes to grab the box of sweets. He could be wrong, but if he isn't...

Inside the box is one last piece. Pharma takes it and offers it to Ratchet, who only stares back nonplussed until First Aid steals the scanner out of his hands.

As First Aid begins to fiddle with the device, willing the output to reveal something different, Ratchet turns to squint at the audacity. While he's looking the other way...rather than wait for him to accept the offered goodie, Pharma tries to pop it into his open maw, not that all of it will fit.

"Say 'ah'!"

"Fmrrf!" Ratchet grumpily slaps aside the hand in his face—glaring back as he rips off the excess that protrudes past his lips—though his expression soon changes as he starts to chew. "This is quite good," he says through a mouthful, "Did you make this?"

First Aid snorts. Pharma ignores the little nurse and answers, "It was a gift from the prospectives the other day. A dozen goodies in all, but that's all that's left."

"Huh. Did Cat get into the box or something?"

Pharma puts on a placid smile at that. "No, he's not the only one who's developed a taste for these." And then lightly adds, "Which I was actually going to bring in the medbay to share, except somebody already polished off the rest, practically singlehandedly—"

"You said I could." First Aid whips around loud as a stage whisper, nearly hitting Ambulon in the optic with a swing of his kibble in the process.

Pharma pats First Aid on the shoulder. "So anyway, that's the last of it. There's the box if you want to save some leftovers, or just go ahead and eat it all," he says airily then reaches for his sparkling. As he turns to look at Ratchet, who seems to be considering the idea, his reanimate creature launches itself with surprising strength—not that Pharma lets it.

Catalyzer lunges again, flailing a row of crudely formed fingers, thrumming hotly. "Gimme!" it commands, as a startled Ratchet holds off on finishing that last bite.

"Oh," says First Aid, dropping the scanner.

Chipper once more now that the scare has passed, First Aid preoccupies himself swinging Catalyzer around the room and gushing, "Who's a clever bit? You are, you are! You tricked us good, you did."

Pharma glances over just as his moody creature chomps down on an exposed cable, and First Aid still has nothing for it but upbeat praise while wincing. Perhaps that's for the best that Aid isn't in the running for mentor. A soft pair of neutrals could hardly be softer yet.

Meanwhile, Ratchet is checking on Ambulon's vitals as a matter of routine and inquires, afterwards, as to whether the rehabilitated mech will be joining them soon.

Ambulon, who has since seldom ventured beyond these walls despite being well enough to move more than a few paces unassisted, only shrugs.

"Flatline says it's up to you."

Pharma doesn't care to hear how much everyone defers to Flatline. So he gets up and goes to take Catalyzer (who is promptly released to him, albeit reluctantly) from First Aid, whom he admonishes in passing, for being too much of a pushover for their creature.

To which Aid replies, "I'm just trying to end on a good note! When he thinks back on these days, I want him remembering—"

Pharma can't help himself. "What should he remember? All the inane phrases you've been repeating over and over again?" Though he isn't trying to fight, his systems are gearing like he is, cycling faster and faster like he needs to cool down...

"I want him to know that he was loved!" First Aid isn't shouting at him, exactly, but the sharp increase in volume is more than enough to get everybody's attention. And oh, Pharma does not need to meet any of their stares.

He refuses to see what will happen in the silence which follows. And so, lacking a retort of his own, Pharma exits the room with his sparkling in his arms, with his audials still ringing with First Aid's words...and their underlying, unspoken accusation.

Pharma finds himself walking aimlessly around the ship with his bitlet, who is as meek as if it were the one thus scolded. Catalyzer has probably never heard anyone raise their voice like that, has probably never heard First Aid of all people talk in any tone sharper than ultra-fine grit before. For all the general hubbub of living aboard the Lost Light with a couple hundred other lifeforms and the occasional panic notwithstanding, this creature of his is accustomed to gentle coddling. And so, he coddles his creature as they wander the halls.

Catalyzer is content to be held. Like the newest of sparks, Pharma observes with a pang of regret; back then he had been intent on ignoring his sparkling, when it was still fresh off the forge, and there is no revisiting those days he has missed...nor making up for the days he will miss.

Wandering all the familiar sights between the hab and his usual haunts, Pharma detours past the more congested corridors and ends up at the site of their appointment, where they're not due for another two cycles, and slips in anyway. He can wait here with Catalyzer until it's time.

The room isn't empty, he should've realized. Prowl shuffles aside a stack of datapads with a customary scowl.

"Why are you here now?" he asks. When Pharma fails to compile an answer, he prompts, "Shouldn't you be in the medbay?" As if that is where Pharma belongs, and it is.

"I'm not needed there," Pharma answers, "and I..." Quietly he admits, "I wanted to spend more time with Catalyzer, while I still can."

This was your idea, he could imagine Prowl saying. Instead, there is silence, as Prowl turns away to resume whatever needs doing, as if Pharma can be safely forgotten like a task set aside until the appointed hour.

That leaves him standing there with his creature held tight, until it fusses and he has to soothe it not to annoy Prowl while they wait, while they wait to finalize the decision that will take his Catalyzer away. Pharma stands there in the corner with his Catalyzer, anticipating the judgment that will end their time together, while his Catalyzer clings to him like frost. "You're going to meet some nice people," Pharma tells his creature, "You'll like them, you'll see. Everything is going to be all right."

The meeting with the candidate opens with little fanfare. The two neutrals sit across from him, smiling. Catalyzer squirms away shyly and has to be prodded not to curl up in his lap. Pharma has to encourage his sparkling to face these strangers, has to coax it to express itself, much like in the manner of First Aid's ridiculous prattle.

He has had the thought, before, of letting First Aid sit in for him here. It was only ever a fleeting thought, for how would that look, to delegate his attendance? This meeting is for him to present Catalyzer, for him to judge the interaction between potential mentor and mentee. It's not for him to give up his right, his responsibility. It's for him to soothe and coax his bitlet into interacting, and though the meeting drags on like that for the better part of a cycle, during which his patience is worn thin, he would regret missing this, he knows, had he permitted First Aid to substitute for him, and be left wondering what transpired. Not much, actually, there's not much to glean at all, but at least this way he knows. Pharma may not have any better semblance of a notion what to look for than the last time they met, but this way he knows and can feel reassured he has left his creature in good hands. For he will be leaving Catalyzer with them, of that he is certain.

By the end of the meeting, Catalyzer is at least willing to demonstrate some acrobatics, plopping itself back and forth between the three of them. There's none of its recent verbosity, but that's all right. Its mentors will have plenty of time, in the future, to help it grow. Pharma is confident in the match, as confident as can be. Though nothing is finalized, he is done searching; in his spark he knows to whom he will entrust this piece of himself when the time has come.

And so, when Catalyzer's future caretakers have taken their leave, he turns to thank Prowl for arranging everything; he performs a bow and holds it as he offers his gratitude, with his helm low, his wings tight, and Catalyzer tucked close to his chest; he gives thanks with brief, understated sincerity and then exits without waiting on a response.

Pharma takes his creature and goes, bypassing whichever supplicant or lackey comes next, and goes not back to the habs but directly to the medbay, where he finds (to his dismay) nearly the entire medical team already present and chatting away.

Why Ambulon decided to return now, Pharma doesn't ask but chooses to ignore him and First Aid both in favor of Flatline. If sooner or later they'll be working together on Cybertron, may as well get a head start.

Ratchet is there too, muttering back and forth over the same patient, so Pharma sidles up behind them—and forgets, for a moment, why it is he came, staring at the surgical realignment of the neural cluster underway. On a whim, he brings Catalyzer closer, telling his creature to get an eyeful of this case.

"Bit early to put him on the job," says Flatline, "but here, he can have a taste if he's hungry," and holds out a fuel line of medical grade.

Before Catalyzer can think about making a grab for it, Pharma snatches it first. "How about you hold out your palm," he instructs, and squirts a dash of fuel and then passes the line to Ratchet to hook safely out of reach. Catalyzer may or may not have the inclination or the power to rupture tubing filled with this sort of fuel, but better not to risk contamination gunking up the line.

At any rate, medical grade proves a lot less attractive than the hard-won goodie from earlier that day. Their bitlet sniffs at Flatline's outstretched palm only to turn away.

Flatline chuckles at the rejection. With mock sorrow, he declares, "Not good enough for ya, huh? You wound me," and dumps the excess into a spare jar before wiping his hand.

"Eh," says Ratchet, "he had a snack this morning. I didn't think it'd be that filling but—"

"It's not," says Pharma, "he's just being a little snob." And he raises his sparkling to eye level. "Look, you made Flatline sad."

Catalyzer chitters softly...and then yowls affronted, when Flatline takes advantage to audaciously pat it on the head.

Pharma puts his obstinate creature back into his arms. "So dramatic," he remarks with a smile. "You should've seen him this morning."

"Yeah? What'd he do?"

Doubtlessly the entire medbay has already heard from First Aid what their little thespian did that morning. Flatline is courteous enough, however, to listen to Pharma's telling of the tale, of that bout of playacting during which his bitlet had exhibited exceptional discipline, only to be thwarted by an easily exploited weakness for sweets.

When the job is done, when the patient is up and gone with a wave reciprocated by one lil four-fingered hand, the conversation turns to the future. Catalyzer's future, to be specific. It starts with Ratchet musing about what lies ahead for a bit this rambunctious, whether Catalyzer will stay unaffiliated as a citizen of the new Republic rather than join their ranks—then devolves into speculating on the merits thereof, while they fence in their bitlet to let it get some exercise in a low-traffic area while they work. What benefit is there for a mechling raised among neutrals to join the Autobots? Pharma posits there is none. This section of the floor hasn't been completely cordoned off yet, so when Ratchet stops a moment too long, pausing to formulate a reply, of course their creature escapes underfoot. Ratchet grabs and reorients it toward the center with an affectionate grumble, and Catalyzer trundles off beeping indecipherably in search of another opening.

That's when Flatline asks, "Won't his caretakers send updates? How he's doing, what he's up to when he's grown."

"Oh I don't know," Pharma replies more breezily than he feels, "I'll have their hailing frequencies, but I don't know about staying in touch."

"You should," Ratchet says in earnest, and Pharma has to try not to bristle until he backtracks, "I don't mean actively maintaining a relationship, but uh..."

"Monitoring the kid wouldn't be a bad idea," Flatline finishes for him.

"Why, to tell you if he does become a doctor?" asks Pharma, latching onto the first tangential out to come to mind: "So you can place your bets?"

"Sure," says Flatline. "What are the odds?"

"Not too great," Ratchet mutters, just loud enough to be overheard, "If his specs lean more warbuild than medic, he could be better off elsewhere," and doesn't seem to notice the uneasy glances from across the room.

"Pft," comes the reply, "You worried about what he got from his original donor? Like you think his donor was forged that way?" Which isn't a topic Pharma wishes to entertain, but Ratchet seems intrigued.

"Fair point. So what was—"

"Kid could always get reformatted," says Flatline, "Things are different now, not like the old days. Question is, would he want to?"

"Want to, what," asks Pharma, "change his shape?"

Flatline shrugs. "Sure. You'd know all about mode fidelity, wouldn't you? But I was thinking maybe he might not choose to join the profession."

Around the same time Ratchet is stumbling over the thought of Catalyzer choosing any differently, he seizes on that first part. "I don't have a problem with mode fidelity," says Pharma.

Levelly, Flatline replies, "If it's not a problem for you, then it's not a problem."

"I mean I don't have an issue with..."

"Yeah? Have you gotten reframed even once in your life?"

Pharma glares, even as he tries to settle his field for his sparkling, steering it away from the flimsy boundary they laid. "Just because I haven't, doesn't mean I won't. I just haven't felt the need to, or seen anything I'd like. I could though, if something caught my fancy." And then he goes to untangle his sparkling from another unforeseen trap.

"So what you're saying is you're mode flexible. And I suppose the only reason you haven't changed is because nothing new could top the perfection that is your Primus-given shape?"

Ratchet lets out a laugh, which cuts off abruptly when Pharma shoots him a look.

"Don't get me wrong," Flatline continues, "that's a nice shape you've got there, anyone would be proud. Doesn't mean you're not textbook fidelous."

Pharma stands up straight with a huff. "When exactly should I have looked into getting some personal work done, you think? During the war, or for an exorbitant sum before it?" As if anybody should want a full reframe for frivolous not practical ends. His own forged frame has been, with few exceptions, more than adequate to suit his needs.

"War's over, so why not now?" Flatline suggests.

"You know perfectly well we don't have the means for extraneous—"

"When you get back to Cybertron. Think about it."

"Maybe." Never before has he aspired to more than the very basic mods of arming himself, but why not? Why not indeed. "If there's funds for it, maybe I will."

"Sure, if our illustrious chancellor can change out his chassis more often than most people slap on new paintjobs, there's got to be funding for a once-in-a-lifetime expenditure. So what'll it be, for your hypothetical new body?"

"No idea," Pharma admits, "I'll know it when I see it." And before Flatline can follow up with another joke at his expense, he adds, "Maybe I'll switch to rotors."

"Not interested in ground vehicles?"

He's plenty interested in ground vehicles, just not like that. "Maybe I'll go aquatic. Or no vehicular alt at all."

"Well, color me surprised. Oh, hello there." Just as the mech slowly lowers to a squat and reaches down, Catalyzer honks and turns around, zooming off to Ratchet. With a sigh, Flatline lumbers back up, musing, "Think he'd like me more if I were a mini?"

"Think he'd bully you if you were any shorter."

Flatline laughs out loud at that. Then turns and asks, "He been bullying you, Ratchet?"

"No," Ratchet is quick to reply, even as he darts out of the way from getting rammed, "but you should see the seams on First Aid's knuckle cables."

"He's got teeth already?" Which is what Pharma was about to ask.

"He might've sprung a few just for that purpose, yeah."

What a precociously vindictive little creature. Pharma has to smile at the news of this development. Although, "I'm not sure what has him so upset. Got what he wanted, didn't he? You gave up the treat, and he had First Aid well and truly fooled."

Ratchet turns thoughtful then.

Done for the moment, First Aid comes over to their cluster. "Cat still being a proto-grump?" he asks their CMO upon arrival, while waiting his chance to draw the bitlet near—waiting for it to change its mind (however long that'll take) after it immediately turned tail.

Pharma is watching his creature hide itself out of reach, when Ambulon walks up to ask, "How'd the meeting go?"

"Fine," he replies, "It was fine. Catalyzer took a while to get situated, but I do think they'll get along well. We'll see. Your old comrade here convinced me to stay in touch for updates. He's very persuasive." A flippant thought has him adding, with a playful smile and a flit of his wings, "He also advised me to get reframed—"

"What?" Ambulon is so alarmed, Pharma has to do a double take.

"Don't look so serious. We were just spouting banter. I'm not planning on anything anytime soon."

"You could though," Flatline interjects to tell Ambulon, "You could get your old body back, or something like it, if you want."

An absentminded nod. "Yeah..." And then, a hand on Pharma's wrist. "You're not going to upgrade?"

"I'm not," he reassures. Although the contrarian in him would like to have a word.

It shouldn't surprise him, to see his reformat-scarred lover so stricken at the notion of altering one's self, and yet he can feel his mood souring. What business is it of Ambulon's, if he chooses to change his shape? And why does the thought bother him, if Ambulon should care? Why does his spark curdle with disappointment to know that the mech whose berth he shares might like for him to stay as he is?

Such questions return unbidden when he is curled around his lover that night. Does Ambulon love him for his frame? Doesn't matter, he decides. None of this will matter in the long run, none of this will make a difference in the end. No matter whether there is still some aspect of himself which harbors the age-old yearning for more...none of this can matter to Pharma, if he is to move on, unencumbered, with his life.

Chapter Text

The day arrives for them to say their goodbyes. The Lost Light is taking off to resume its mission in pursuit of the Knights of Cybertron, with more than a few minor changes to the crew—plenty of new additions and a couple of departures. Pharma is the only member of the ship's medical team who won't be signing on for this leg of the journey. He goes to see them off, all of them, even the metallurgist who plays barkeep and the therapist he's been avoiding. Exchanging a few empty phrases is simple enough. And then it's time to bid farewell to Ratchet and his former staff.

Still so uncertain as to where they stand, or what he means to say, Pharma draws out the moment, letting them divert their attentions to Catalyzer. First Aid has the most to express, yammering advice and instruction to the bitlet, and then tops that off with a hug—wedged right up close, Pharma would withdraw, if not for how caught he is, how tightly clung.

"I won't tell, don't you worry," Aid promises fiercely before stepping back. And oh, Pharma can only smile.

"Take care of the medbay for me," he says, loud enough for everyone in their vicinity. "Make sure Ratchet doesn't overwork himself. Make sure he steps down to promote—"

"Hey," Ratchet chides lightly, "we're getting there," and embraces him—not as tightly, but firmly all the same. "Must you undermine my authority?"

"That's for ghosting me the last time you left. And this, this is for answering my plea." Pharma kisses him on the rim of his helm where it shields his optics. "I'll see you again someday?"

"Yes," Ratchet vents back with such ruefulness, a mech could dream...only to be brought back to reality, when he continues onward. "I'll miss having you around," he says slowly...and then hastens to add, "Always good to have someone here I can trust."

Ha, if that isn't so very Ratchet. Pharma smiles thinly and asks him to message when the Lost Light catches up to the Vis Vitalis.

"I will. Call me when Cat's mentor picks him up?"

"Maybe," says Pharma.

"Maybe?"

"Maybe," he says, "it's my turn to keep you guessing."

"Fair enough." Ratchet squeezes his hand. Then pets Catalyzer one last time. "Take care."

As his old friend turns to go, Pharma has to temper his expression. Next up is Ambulon, whom he owes at least this much. His former charge, his erstwhile lover, whose affections he has learned to see as more than a means to an end—yet could never comfortably accept, even as he has grown accustomed to the point he might not know how to do without. He could ask Ambulon to stay. He could, and Ambulon would do it, but better for them both to go their separate ways; better for Ambulon to stay aboard a ship of Autobots, and for Pharma to return to Cybertron.

Ambulon doesn't speak yet, just looks at him and stands there, while Pharma adjusts his hold on Catalyzer, distracted as he is with rooting out his restless creature from digging into his elbow seams, until Ambulon takes his hand to kiss it.

Ambulon takes Pharma's hand and kisses it and then clasps it in both of his. The moment draws out, neither one talking, until...

"If you change your mind," Ambulon begins vaguely, "You'll let me know?"

There are so many ways to answer, the words slip out all too easily. "I'll let you know when I'm ready." An unlikely scenario, perhaps, but an open possibility.

"When you're ready?" Ambulon echoes in hopeful disbelief.

"Yes," Pharma replies, "When I am, you'll know." If, if, like he isn't used to mincing words.

"You mean it?"

"Yes," he affirms, and then compounds that with a peck on the lips. Contrary to the doubt he feels, unkind as it is to dangle that false certainty, Pharma can think of no better way to say goodbye. "Go," he says. "Be well." And he slips his hand free to retreat, not daring a second glance.

Departure commences shortly thereafter. Lingering at a distance, Pharma sees off the Lost Light with relief and resignation. His sparkling burbles a barely intelligible question, pointing as the ship blinks out of view. Yes, he answers, filling in the blanks. There's Ratchet, and First Aid too. There's Ambulon, along with the rest of the crew to support the search for Cyberutopia, out there among the stars. How long until the ship returns? Oh, hmm. He has no idea.

He has no idea when or if their lofty goal can be achieved. Unlikely they'll soon meet again, whatever may have said. Whether or not a reunion is meant to be, back to Cybertron he'll go, and see what awaits him there. Pharma will settle into whatever role Prowl will have him take, be that within their own faction or without.

He is left to his own devices until then, yet what else is there to do but to queue up for the next shuttle? So Pharma goes, rather than dawdle for the crowds to disperse hoping for a cab of his own, and prepares to make the trip back to Cybertron with Catalyzer stuffed inside his cockpit, since he'll not carry it out in public view the entire time. He is not looking forward to dealing with its antics...and is relieved to be proven wrong. Catalyzer is so perfectly behaved, he can strap in one-handed at his leisure, while administering a sip of fuel, and then wait for it to fully settle before shutting his canopy. If only his creature could be this docile every day, but then again, that wouldn't be the Catalyzer they've come to adore.

Off he goes, carrying his creature inside him, to join the line of bots who are waiting to embark. His old roommate Dent is also there—and beckons to Pharma, making room for him to cut the line.

As he tucks his wings more compactly, he asks Dent, "You didn't leave with Rodimus's ship?"

A shrug. "I thought about going, but when the Dinobots invited me to tag along..."

"Are the Dinobots here too?" Scanning the crowd, he doesn't see any sign of their distinctive kibble.

"Well no, they went on ahead. I didn't say yes immediately. But then I thought about it some more, and it's not like I really care to go searching for the Knights or anything. I did ask a few of the guys who signed on with the Lost Light to let me know what happens if—they've got a betting pool about, um, the leadership. Anyway. I'm much more interested in rebuilding what we've got at home."

Hm. What's this about a wager? Pharma is almost curious enough to ask. Almost. He isn't that nosy, though, and so goes with a different question instead. "You'd rather rub elbows with the Cons and the NAILs?"

Dent shrugs again. "Yeah. It is what it is."

The line is moving along slowly, so Pharma decides to release his bitlet now for a short break before it starts playing with his innards, rather than wait for Catalyzer to reassert itself while they're cooped up inside a shuttle.

He is surprised, when he lifts it facing outward, how his ordinarily inquisitive creature squeaks in fright and turns away.

"This is Dent," he tells his sparkling, "You remember Dent?"

Dent transforms into beastmode, as if that might make a difference—and it might—but Catalyzer only clings harder, refusing another glance. Whatever happened to the little attention seeker? They're not asking for it to perform on the spot, other than a wave hello.

"He gets anxiety in front of crowds," Pharma settles on saying by way of explanation.

"Understandable," Dent replies. And then sits on his haunches until the line gets moving again.

Reluctant to reconfigure, Dent stays on all fours, weaving listless circles around Pharma's legs as the line shuffles forward, seemingly unafraid of getting kicked. Catalyzer, meanwhile, is safely ensconced up high in Pharma's arms, peering down at their companion yet hiding its face whenever the Predabot raises his snout, on the off chance that it might get caught looking.

What is with this sparkling, Pharma wonders again, and chalks it up to boredom, playing games.

Once the line in front is halved, Pharma begins to pack up his bitlet, who allows itself to be put away without complaint. Despite how cramped it must be at its current size, compared to all those times before when it fought to maintain its freedom one klik more, Catalyzer accepts its place inside his cockpit like unopinionated cargo. Carrying his little one is as easy as transporting cargo, uneventful, with the minor exception of an uncomfortable jolt when it strains to plaster itself against the window of his canopy, the moment Dent happens to revert to biped right beside them before they board.

The thought occurs to him, he could have had his canopy tinted darker. His original amber tint may be sufficient for obscuring the instruments within but not so much for concealing a creature pressed up against the glass. A moot concern, of course; it's not as if his fellow passengers are unaware he has a sparkling. If anyone happens to glance over at his midsection, well, discomfiting as it is, he can't really hide, except by turning himself as to face the fewest number of people possible, by using the bipedal Dent as a sort of shield, so he positions himself like that for the entire duration of their journey, with his bitlet chortling happily now from the safety of his cockpit.

He could part ways as soon as they land. He could but, on a whim, invites Dent over for a cube, since they aren't immediately reporting for duty. His place in Iacon isn't too far from the port. It isn't stocked, though—he made sure of that when he left it vacant—so they do have to stop to pick up fuel.

Perhaps he should've invited the bot to a pub instead, but that would mean being in public with his bitlet. They're conspicuous enough as is, a couple of Autobots on a planet full of neutrals. Only one of them has the brand visible, however, on his chest. Though it's not that he feels like a walking target, exactly, there's a definite sense of unease, pervasive around these parts. So he directs them like he's on an errand, to project an air of surety, and has them do some shopping since they're already on this jaunt. He has Dent help him peruse all the options, and not just of the nutritional variety. A bit of indulgence, why not? Dessert toppings. Pharma's come to realize he's also acquired a taste.

He keeps his sparkling contained until they get back to his room, and then he lets it out onto the floor before he goes to mix up their cubes. Normally he'd put Catalyzer in its playtank, but he has no compunction letting it roam under his old roommate's watch. Soon as he leaves the area, however, there is shrieking. His bit begins terrorizing their guest by shrieking the instant he is out of sight, even though Pharma is only headed for the other end of the studio.

"Sorry," he says through gritted teeth, "I don't know what's gotten into him." Although a picture is slowly starting to form, he'd rather not try to explain. "Hopefully he'll grow out of it."

Dent grimaces a smile.

"Here," Pharma tells his creature, who is quiet again the moment he has it back within his arms, "Sit on the counter and watch, if you want." And then he sprinkles a bit of sweetener on a spot set apart from the rest of the groceries; Pharma sets Catalyzer on the counter with a sprinkle of sweet to help preoccupy it while he pours the drinks, even though this could be construed as rewarding bad behavior, just so he can focus on being a halfway decent host. If this sets a pattern, so be. That's someone else's problem down the line.

By the time Pharma is finished stirring, Catalyzer is parked on the counter's edge and looking around, having long since suctioned clean every last particle of its snack.

"You know what happens when you fall," he warns...but then thinks better of leaving it there with his back turned.

He juggles both the cubes and his sparkling, and he returns to find their guest waiting antsily. He'd be antsy too, if he'd stumbled into a sudden spate of screaming unprovoked. What inopportune timing that was, and he's starting to suspect he knows the cause. This instance of acting out? Not by happenstance nor an isolated case, but the logical result from growing awareness of its surroundings. Catalyzer is aware of what's been said, to some extent, the plans to which Pharma's agreed, the present situation in which they are now. Catalyzer is expecting abandonment at any moment, now that it knows it will be given up soon. He has waited too long for it to remain ignorant; he has underestimated his creature. Realizing how he has erred, ultimately however, this changes nothing.

Pharma walks into the sitting area with both cubes and his sparkling, trying to smile as if there isn't anything amiss.

Within the cycle, Catalyzer is back to its usual self, treating everyone and everything as part of the terrain. Dent lounges also on the floor, while Pharma sits cross-legged across from him, cradling the dregs of an emptied cube as they attempt to have a discussion, but only an attempt. Catalyzer is free to wander and eager to play (now that its carrier is readily accessible at a range it deems acceptable) and it freely natters at them, to the detriment of holding a conversation.

Dent is in the middle of attempting to answer Pharma's inquiry on where he intends to go, if following the Dinobots should fall through, when Catalyzer progressively crawls ever higher up his neck.

"Den-den," it calls from the summit of his mane.

"...some folks were talking about joining up while there's still a bunch of openings to get fast-tracked..."

"Den dino?"

"Yeah, that's me, an honorary Dino," 'Den' replies. "So I was thinking, I might, depending on whether things pan out..."

"Dino dino?"

"Uh, sure. Maybe? I don't, um."

Catalyzer continues to crawl...and slides forward, slipping down his face until it's hanging off his snout. Pharma tenses, ready to interfere. Not so far a drop, and yet the risk is there. Dent sits immobile, while Catalyzer crawls back up, inch by inch, to look him in the eye. "Tiny dino," it proclaims. Is it referring to itself?

And then it continues scaling upward, all the way to the top, surveying the room from its perch atop the Predabot. Pharma cringes when it jumps up and down, effectively thumping Dent's alt mode on the head. Dent may not mind such ill-mannered behavior, but surely this reflects poorly on its upbringing?

"Tiny," it declares again, and then, before Pharma can react, it flings itself into rolling off the Predabot's back down to the floor. And rights itself, rounding on its target to say, "Den bring bigger dino?"

"Bring...the Dinobots here? Uh." Dent glances toward Pharma, who shakes his head no. As if that would even be feasible, to squeeze them all here. If they'd even want to, that is.

His sparkling perseveres in the hopes of having additional playmates. "More dino!" it demands. Eventually it settles for tussling at the Predabot's paws.

Dent rises, and a slow chase ensues. They go in circles, repetitively circling this part of the room, with nary an obstacle, except for Pharma. Dent plods along keeping pace as it follows him around, until a sudden burst of acceleration has the bitlet pounce high enough to grab the Predabot's tail. When it yanks with its full bodily weight, Dent halts, turning sharply to reciprocate a light swat at its tush. Catalyzer squeals, and the Predabot looks up guiltily.

Pharma sets his cube aside. "Let go of his tail," he says.

"L'go tail?" his sparkling regurgitates, nearly word for word, as if it doesn't understand that from anybody else this would be asking for a trouncing.

"Let go," he repeats.

"Go," his sparkling mutters, unclenching its little fists, and then petulantly flops over onto the floor.

Pharma sighs. "Come here."

His sparklet inches forward and then stops. "Up," it says. Garnering no reaction, it begrudgingly covers another incremental span on its own, before it insists again, "Up!"

Even though it is perfectly capable of closing the distance between them, Pharma humors it anyway and lifts it into his lap, where it fidgets until he lifts it higher, cradled against his chest.

It latches onto his finger with its own little hand. "B'ma," it murmurs, fighting not to fall asleep...and succumbs when Dent has joined his side and begun to purr.

After their guest departs, Pharma stays in the rest of the day with his bitlet, doing nothing but passing the time. Their apartment block doesn't offer much of a view, but for a temporary setup there's not much to complain. They sit around, at the counter, drawing when Catalyzer should be fueling—wasteful, perhaps, if it doesn't eat all that energon, but eventually it will.

Pharma draws from the shallow pool of fuel to write out the glyph of his sparkling's name, not that it'll understand. He is thinking to himself what will become of his Catalyzer, out in the open world. When it is grown into its shape, fully functional and sapient...

Catalyzer bumps against his hand in its path, smearing its name. Pausing here and there as it scoots through the puddle of energon, it looks ahead to decide the path it'll take...and connects a trail, from one end to another, circumventing a dry swath of untouched space. The loop now complete, it splashes with satisfaction. And then rolls around some more, overwriting its art.

He smiles at it. "Enough playing with your fuel," he says, "Eat so you can grow up big and strong."

Catalyzer doesn't listen. Instead, it relaxes in the puddle, blowing bubbles, and squirts a few droplets in his direction.

"Oh? What's that? You'd rather stay small," he asks, "smaller than the smallest minibot known to all of Cybertron? Maybe you'll get to share the same docking station as the medi-drones." And wouldn't that be funny? His creature forever in miniature. Although, "I fully expect you to at least take a more distinguished shape. It would be terrible if you were mistaken for one. Can you imagine, people thinking you're not even a nurse but one of them?" And he summons their repurposed diagnostic drone over for good measure.

The nanny drone cheerily emerges from its dock, unaware and uncaring of the comparison, and beeps to announce its ready state.

When his sparkling chitters back questioningly, Pharma isn't too sure what to make of that. Just in case, he tells it, "It's all right if you don't decide to become a doctor or an engineer. You can do what you want. But it really would be best for you to grow as much as you can. You can reframe later, if you like, but if your spark isn't strong enough..." He doesn't much care to entertain the possibility, that his creature is not just slow but stunted, when it is already so disadvantaged, being a recursion born of his paltry body, which could never provide the abundance of material that a hotspot would. He puts on an encouraging smile. "You need to eat, so you won't be pint-sized forever. You understand?"

Catalyzer plants itself facedown into the energon puddle and slurps a miniscule amount.

"Good bit," he says. And he waits, as the light dims outside their window, for it to consume the rest of its fuel, every last drop.

His sparkling has its own enclosure and a drone to keep watch. Still, Pharma lets it recharge with him, as if they are aboard the Lost Light, on Luna-Two, after he left behind the unwieldy playtank with the rickety wheels and had to carry it with him everywhere he went. Pharma lies in bed with his creature, just the two of them, and keenly feels the absence of the other body he has come to expect. But this is not Ambulon's berth in the room they shared with First Aid; these are his accommodations in Iacon. Never again will the three of them lie together, he and Ambulon and their creature. Ambulon is gone among the stars in the sky, and Catalyzer, their Catalyzer, will go to live with someone else. Then there'll just be him here, by himself, to recharge alone and reminisce. Pharma will be left to reminisce of not happier times, per se, but something sweeter, all the same. He may not have wanted a sparkling, may not have cared for Ambulon's affections, at first, but now he is loathe to lack that which he has grown accustomed to having. Pharma will just have to manage, but, for now, he still has his sparkling.

And then, all too soon, it is time.

It is early evening, when the exchange is to take place. Pharma rouses from their nap, carefully, so as to not disturb his creature while it rests.

It wakes anyway, despite his effort, which means a struggle to confine it inside the playtank. Pharma has to wedge it under a pile of puzzles, stacked with a rock on top, to loosen its grip from his arm. Catalyzer shakes off the tiles, sending the rock tumbling, and screams as he pulls free to shut the lid on the tank. Their useless drone hovers by his shoulder as he drags the wheeled tank outside his apartment and pushes it along to the meeting point, all the while his creature bangs non-stop on the glass.

What a sight they must be, Pharma a porter to his raging sparklet. If people are gawking, well, what can he do but ignore the stares? Thankfully he doesn't have far to go. Pharma isn't sure what he'd do if he had to pass a checkpoint like this.

He arrives at the designated site to find no Prowl today, no amica, either; only the one mentor is there. Pharma trudges along, pushing the tank within easy shouting distance and then some. He leaves it, guarded by their specially reprogrammed drone, to go greet the mentor without Catalyzer's constant pounding to distract them. They'll say what they have to say, and then Pharma will hand over the thing with bitlet in tow. But first...

As if having read the question in his eyes, the one mech who's here walks over to inform him that said amica was still setting up the nursery, last they spoke, and will be joining in a klik. (Although Pharma has to wonder, exactly how much preparation does welcoming a sparkling entail, he supposes having plenty of environmental stimuli can't hurt.) So for now there's just the mentor, whose attention naturally draws toward the playtank and its fussy occupant...and strays to the nametag prominently featured on one side.

For want of anything else to say, Pharma is about to tell him of Catalyzer's escapade with Tailgate, when the mentor speaks first. "All's well, I hope?"

Pharma would shrug, but that seems a little too indifferent for the occasion. "I tried not to wake him," he admits, "But I guess it's good that he knows what's happening." It's good, he supposes, that his creature gets to vent its rage now while events unfold, rather than wake, betrayed, in a strange new place.

"Yes," the mech agrees, "He'll need time to adjust." And then, hesitating, "Do you have any questions for us?"

He should. He should have questions. He has to stop and think if he has any, but at this point what else is there to even ask?

He is treated to a carefully prepared spiel when he next fails to speak. "We've gone through the documents you sent," says the mentor, "and we'll do our best to honor the agreement, of course. Although, I do wish to clarify, since you did specify that all future updates should be one-way transmissions." A pause and the twitch of a smile, before Catalyzer's mentor continues. "Is there anything else we should know, anything we should tell him later, when he has matured?" When Pharma doesn't answer, he painstakingly broaches the question again, "Is there anything he should learn from us about his background..."

Yes and no. There is no avoiding the issue; Pharma will have to answer. "Probably," he hedges. But where to start?

It's clear where the mentor's concern lies. The story of Catalyzer's origin. But what is there to say? What more is there for Pharma to explain?

He lowers his voice, lest they be overheard, although there is a part of him that hopes his creature hears...and remembers every word of this in his exact pitch and intonation. "There are rumors," he says slowly, "I'm sure you're aware. I would ask that you not give credence to them. But do not deny them, either. Only let him know that I." Pharma resets his optics and ventilates audibly in the chill. He can say it. He has to say it. "Yes, I was forced. The merge, that was Tarn's doing. But he did not, himself—he gave the command, because he could, and we obeyed, because we had to. My spark never touched his. Don't ask who else was there. If Catalyzer asks." Pharma ventilates hard and pushes onward. "If he asks, tell him to..."

Tell him to come find me, he should say. But he will not, cannot reckon with a future in which the past is here to haunt him.

"Tell him to go to Prowl," he settles for saying. Whether/what Catalyzer will be told, that will be for Prowl to decide.

The tank in which Catalyzer is presently held seems to have quieted. By the time they go over, they find the little one eyeing them blearily. Exhausted as it is, it isn't too exhausted to make its opinion known, and so the mentor has to patiently negotiate to pick it up without getting struck. Watching the negotiation, Pharma concludes this neutral was wasted on the sidelines of war. Surely, if he had not fled the planet, someone like this could've been useful. Even if victory cannot be attributed entirely to skill (given that Catalyzer is far too tired for peak obstinance) surely he would've done well, in diplomacy or bomb disposal, for example.

Not long after the grumpy sparkling is successfully lifted out of its confines without the slightest injury to itself or anyone else, the mentor's amica finally shows up, running over, with an unbridled enthusiasm which could bowl over small craft with the force of that field. The drone, Pharma notes, has anticipatorily danced out of the path of danger.

"Thanks for waiting!" And Pharma is enveloped in a hug from this stranger, whose disposition is just a little too much like First Aid. "I thought I'd be done by now, but you know how projects go. When bestie told me we could dedicate a whole room for the sparklet, I couldn't resist making a project of modeling Tetrahex to scale."

"Tetrahex. To scale."

"Yes! Not all of it, of course, just a subsection with my favorite memories." And the amica rambles on, about some neighborhood filled with beautiful boulevards, now replicated with benches and crystal shrubs at sparkling size.

How...impractical. Pharma has visions of his creature rampaging through a picturesque little town, ruining all that hard work. He struggles to try to say something nice and encouraging, but the amica, the auxiliary mentor, has already moved on.

"Oh yes, don't worry, we'll send pictures." And then, to the sparkling, "You're going to love your new room!" And steps back just as it swipes moodily, out of reach.

"Ah," gently says the mentor holding Catalyzer, "we don't hit." He then looks up at Pharma. "We'll take it from here, then?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." Better now than to drag things out.

"A pleasure meeting you again," the amica chimes in, "Call us anytime!"

Pharma smiles, though his spark isn't in it. "I will." He won't, but it's a nice thought, that.

And so, they wave goodbye. The amica stops to grab the cart with the playtank, while the mentor trots ahead.

Pharma stands there while they walk away with his sparkling. He stands there and watches, as the customized drone trails after them and then darts off, receding from view. Just as he is about to go, his creature peeks around its mentor and spots him. It calls out for him insistently by repeating his truncated name—"Ma 'ma 'ma!" it cries incessantly—and Pharma has to tear his gaze away and walk; he has to turn away ignoring his Catalyzer, who is still calling to him with tireless urgency, even as he quickens his pace.

Lingering was a mistake; revitalizing his little one to shout anew with such distress was a terrible mistake. Pharma walks away, steady despite his urge to break into a run. He walks away steadily without once looking back; he walks away from his offspring, all the while hearing it repeat the one syllable of his name until, at last, the distance has stretched too far to pick up on the sound.

Walking alone as nightfall hovers around the horizon, Pharma tells himself he ought to be relieved he is done with the role he has played. Now that it is over, now that he is no longer harassed by a bottomless little pit of need, day and night, he should be looking forward to the next step, not dwelling on his loss. And it is a loss, for him, even if it was always a means to an end, his best chance to secure his own safety, the closest thing he could have to a guarantee. Pharma has lost the one splinter from his own spark he had the choice of keeping, and for what? For protecting his ego? No. Even if he had changed his mind, he knows, without a doubt, that he is not well-suited to the task of nurturing new life, least of all to a mechling who will grow up to ask difficult questions. He has a fair idea what sort of future awaits, had he not relinquished his creature. And yet, if he had tried, if he had well and truly tried...

No point in dwelling on that now. All that's left for him to do is to send a message to Ratchet like they'd agreed. Just one simple message, he may as well get it over with, put all this behind him, except maybe he'll get a drink first, to help settle his nerves.

Pharma stops in at the nearest establishment. Though he isn't the only patron to be served, it's sparsely populated, just how he likes it.

The beverages here aren't much better than Swerve's. He orders a refill anyway, and then he orders another. He's working up the gumption to make that call, yet he's no closer now than when he started. Maybe the next drink will finally do the trick.

No. That's not enough either. There might not even be enough on tap, and Pharma aims to find out. He has the shanix to spare. His fuel tank capacity is a different story, however, as is the dexterity to...

Why is he drinking again? Something about summoning the courage to call Ratchet and oh, right, letting everyone know that he's done it, he's managed to send their Catalyzer to a new home.

Keeping the newspark and then giving it away was the plan. That was the plan, which was supposed to grant him a new lease on life, was supposed to free him from the misery of being trapped. He was to surmount his past to reclaim his future, so where did he go so wrong?

Problem was when he began to think of the sparklet as his own. But how could he not?

By the time Pharma is slumped over, weeping into the table, the bartender has disappeared.

"When I heard you were inebriated, I assumed that was an exaggeration. Apparently I was wrong."

It's Prowl, impatiently waiting by his booth. Pharma lifts his head and musters a smile through his tears. "Sit," he says, "Sit anywhere! Plenty of seating, plenty of space." Certainly emptier than when he arrived, that's for sure.

"Get up." Prowl scoffs. "You can still stand, can't you?"

"I..."

Prowl grabs him by the arm and forces him to rise. He stumbles, leaning into Prowl, who is so very warm and sturdy while the rest of the room spins. "You're lucky," Prowl is saying, "no one else got to you first. I'd tell you to flip on your chip this instant, except why do I get the feeling that'd make things worse?"

Pharma would agree, except Prowl is looking past him, talking to some staffer he's never met before who moves as if to take him. He turns his head and tightens his grip to show what he thinks of that.

Prowl sighs, accepting his unwillingness to cooperate. "I've got him. Let's go." And leads them off the premises.

His wing is uncomfortably pinned, though. Pharma wriggles to adjust. Not much better, but close enough. Where are we going, he'd ask, except it doesn't matter. Wherever Prowl chooses, he'll follow. Not like there's anywhere else for him to be.

And so they exit, with Prowl half-dragging half-carrying him through the streets in silence. Pharma is left with the sluggish trickle of his thoughts, like his processor is juggling too many threads and all of them are frozen, while they traverse the slow return to what he recognizes as his apartment. Does Prowl have access to the building? Apparently so. In his daze, Pharma counts the shadows with confusion. Are they shadowed by one or two, three or four, or more? It doesn't matter. When they enter, just himself and Prowl take the elevator to his floor.

Once there, Pharma clumsily fumbles to gain entry inside his quarters...and then fumbles to keep Prowl here; holds him by the shoulders and stoops to eye level, imploring him to stay, but is shoved off with ease. Collapsed at his feet, Pharma sits there dejected, verging on another breakdown as the one person who is here is about to leave, and soon there'll be no one left.

It takes everything Pharma has not to sob aloud. He still has some dignity, although not much. Conceding to the fact he is falling to pieces is still difficult even now.

"Don't go. Stay here with me," he pleads.

"What for?"

"Stay with me," he repeats, rising to meet Prowl who hesitates, still standing at the door.

Sensing an opening, Pharma presses close, almost close enough to touch, but not quite, until he has one hand cupping Prowl's audial with less than his usual grace.

"I'll make it worth your while," he says, "I'll do anything you want."

Prowl grabs his wrist and holds it, just holds it in the air, standing there stiffly while subjecting him to that piercing stare.

"Please," he tries again, beseeching, "I can—"

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Prowl tells him, and then firmly drops his hand.

Pharma rubs his wrist, just to feel something, not because it hurts. "You don't want me," he realizes, which does make total sense. "You don't want me," he states flatly, like that helps to hear the truth. Of course Prowl doesn't want him, he understands. "I've been had by so many, and taken by a Con." And not just any Decepticon but the leader of the DJD. He's tainted; anyone with their pick of partners would want someone with less baggage, less trauma, and not just a pretty frame. No bot is without scars, perhaps, but he, he's more ruined than most. And if he isn't, if he's just that unpalatable to anyone with taste; if he, Pharma, is so undesirable without his accomplishments and accoutrements to compensate...

"People don't like me, do they?" He has to laugh at himself for ever believing otherwise. "Maybe they like how I look or admire my talents, but that's not enough is it," he whispers, eyes unmet. "It's never enough, for love."

Chapter Text

He comes to his senses alerted to a bevy of messages: status reports and missed calls and nothing so urgent he can't put off, yet his head swims like a cesspool. He feels like slag after...oh, what did he do while he was sloshed last night?

"You're awake." Somewhere behind him, Prowl is here, terse as ever.

Awareness sinks in like ice in his lines. The one person he can't disregard—who so happens to have suffered his abundant show of vulnerability last night—remains here now, waiting for him to account for it all. Pharma digs his fingers into the crevice between his palm plates as if to ward off what is to come next, as if that pinch of discomfort might alleviate his shame. But nothing can overwrite his regret which burns with the ferocity of a thousand suns as he recounts how he made a fool of himself making a pass at Prowl.

Though he can hardly expect to have the respect of High Command after the fiasco of his post at Delphi, he had hoped, he had hoped to redeem himself, and now...

There isn't even the luxury of berating himself in private. How shortsighted. He may not have planned on running into anyone noteworthy during his moment of weakness last night, but he should've guessed how things would end after the arrangement having Catalyzer under his care has concluded and anticipated needing some time off; he should've known there could be no smooth-sailing, for him, and hid himself in isolation after alloting more room for a breakdown in his schedule...

Enough of that. Pharma turns to face what's coming, and finds Prowl watching him intently from the windowsill. He pictures tackling Prowl through the window, consequences be damned, but then the moment passes, and what else is he to do, other than rise of his own accord, rather than be dragged from his bed—like he was from the table, drinking last night. And so, as if he is not lessened from the experience, he sits up with as much dignity as he can muster. All the while, he is keenly aware of Prowl's unceasing gaze. A kernel of hope blooms, and he lets it slide into the slurry of what-ifs; he isn't trying to embarrass himself further here. But such a thought bobs to the surface again, at this junction whispering he may as well try. He does his best to ignore it, even as he notes the open curiosity in those eyes upon him now.

Primly he sets both feet upon the floor and grips the edge of the bed, facing Prowl. And then says, in earnest, "Thank you, for walking me home last night."

Thank you for staying, he doesn't say. The memory of how he begged is still too fresh. Pharma tries not to wince as he offers an effacing smile. If he is startled to hear Prowl dismiss his gratitude politely, well. Just a matter of nerves.

They're headed in the same general direction, so Pharma allows himself to be walked to the entrance of the building where he is to report to Flatline. If anyone notices anything amiss, they at least have the grace not to comment, so Pharma counts that a successful start—until appears a mech who was almost assuredly there last night to witness his undoing, shadowing Prowl. Pharma is prepared to pretend otherwise, except that fellow then has the audacity to wink a streak of helm lights at him!

Flustered, he turns aside, only to deal with Flatline's inquisitve glance. He'd walk off in a huff, only that would then leave the two of them to talk and...how did he not realize earlier? Both of them are former Cons. They'll probably talk anyway. Sooner or later, there's no preventing them from gossiping together. Pharma smiles, ill at ease, and excuses himself with a call to Ratchet.

Luckily, no answer. Or so goes a moment of respite. Just as Pharma is ready to make the rounds, Ratchet calls back, and he has to steel his nerves for a conversation he very much does not want to have. There is at least the small satisfaction of hearing Ratchet address him by name. Unfortunately what follows is a direct line of questioning, like he is being interrogated for failing curfew under martial law.

"Could you repeat that?" he asks. "The signal isn't, isn't very good."

"I said. What happened yesterday?"

"Oh. Well, you know. Gave Catalyzer over to his mentor, along with all his things." Not that their bit will want for belongings, with those two to indulge its whims.

A pause. "And then?"

"And then?" he echoes.

"What else?"

"What do you mean, what else?"

Another beat goes by. "You didn't call yesterday."

"I didn't," Pharma agrees. "But I only said I might. And I called today, didn't I?"

A sigh of static transpires. "I'm glad you did," says Ratchet, "Now if you could tell me—"

With practiced calm, he replies, "What else is there to tell?"

"Pharma," Ratchet says sternly. And if that isn't both vexing and endearing at once.

"Hm?" He's about to make up an emergency to end the call, if this keeps up.

More gently, Ratchet asks, "How are you?" And oh, the way Ratchet says it, if they had spoken last night, Pharma would surely have been tempted to answer in depth. But there's a time and place, and now the moment has passed.

"I'm fine," he says, "I'm really fine." Prowl made sure of that. "Really. You don't have to worry about me."

Pharma returns to a ward that is noticeably less occupied than before he took the call. Quickmix is the one full-sized staff member remaining in the room. He doesn't ask, and nor does Quickmix give any indication where the other two went, so he settles into the task of helping with the walk-in whose injuries, though light, earn a cluck of disapproval from the neutral who used to run this place.

Though he hasn't kept up with politics, he wonders. Does Quickmix care that they're working under Flatline now? For all the chancellor's claims of a factionless future, it's only natural that old connections would matter how leadership is installed. History has a way of enduring, and who knows, perhaps the two of them were even friends.

Pharma should be making friends, is what he should be doing. Rebuilding Cybertron means rebuilding society, including his own place in the greater scheme of things, but his spark isn't in it. Sure, Quickmix and Ricochet are friendly enough, and Flatline is easy to approach with a certain rugged sort of charm, but he still finds himself in a holding pattern, waiting for the next move. Nothing about this feels permanent, even as he develops a routine. One can only adjust as life goes on, and for Pharma that seems to mean perpetual limbo, like he's forgotten how to get comfortable, he's forgotten how to live.

Still, he does get to know the rest of their colleagues. Even that Con whom he has only seen working a handful of times, who goes everywhere Prowl goes, along with the rest of the combining team. He sees them whenever he meets with Prowl in public. He sees them clearly now.

Though he's tried to move past that drunken episode of his, dredging up the memory of that night still fills him with shame, and yet he can't stay away. There's a part of him still hoping to redeem himself. And perhaps be considered for a role on the mission to Earth.

Earth. It's not full public knowledge what they intend to do there, but Prowl has let a few hints slip, and they could use a medic, couldn't they? The last mission, they had Ratchet. It's not like he's competing with Ratchet's past working directly under Optimus Prime, but part of him does wish to have that in common, to venture where Ratchet has traversed before, to have stories to share and compare notes. A strange planet of organics populated to the brim is surely a worthwhile topic (and far less excruciating) for his next conversation with Ratchet. Anything to reset the norm.

But if there is a vacancy for a doctor in their midst, it is yet unfilled. Prowl hasn't asked, and Pharma isn't so bold to request the placement himself. He is only bold enough to extend an invitation to his apartment one evening. Nothing will come of it, he knows.

To his surprise, Prowl accepts.

Chapter Text

It's just a chance to talk, is what it is. To talk and listen and disparage the chancellor, and plot out scenarios that will never come to pass. Prowl has stratagems aplenty, and Pharma is sufficiently adept at prodding hypotheticals into the open. They're nowhere near the topic he has in mind, but all in good time. He doesn't dare push, and nor does he have to; casual steering is all it takes to keep his guest talking, and there is a part of him that delights in how swiftly the conversation moves along. It's hardly any effort: simply a choice phrase here, a question there, and Prowl is happy to expound at length, all the while sipping on a steady flow of fuel—just the regular stuff from the tap at first, then, during a particularly evocative stab at their young republic, he finally brings out a bottle and presents its label with a flourish before reaching for the glass.

The hesitance that meets him is to be expected. Pharma begins pouring anyway. He watches his guest for a stronger reaction, just in case, while he fills them each a couple fingers' worth.

"I promise I usually know when to stop," he says, with a lightness only partially feigned.

"I believe you." If Prowl is being snide, he doesn't sound it, and at any rate he turns the topic to where in this day and age Pharma had sourced a bottle that had been produced to celebrate the launch of the original Ark.

I have my connections, he could say with a bit of embellishment. "I happened to buy it from a NAIL," he admits instead, "who was trying to bargain for priority access."

"In other words, what we call taking bribes," Prowl concludes, albeit not without humor.

"It was a purchase, not a gift. And I didn't let anyone cut in line."

"A discount, then, transacted under false pretense."

"Mm, I suppose you have me there." Pharma swirls his drink nonchalantly and peers into its shallow depths.

After a moment's consideration, Prowl inquires, "How much did you pay for this?"

Pharma smiles into his glass.

They're no closer to discussing the mission to Earth, but Pharma finds he has something more pressing on his mind anyway. He smiles limply at Prowl as he pours himself another finger or three.

"I've been wanting to ask. Why did you pick me for Delphi?"

He does not shy from the stare which pins him in reply. Better, perhaps, for all that to stay in the past, but he cannot help it; he cannot help but to pull at the question like a wad of lint inside a duct when he has the opportunity to clear the air.

"Please. I have to know. Was it all by happenstance? Just pure luck, that my name was next up on the roster and—"

Prowl cuts him off. "I chose you for the job, because you were uniquely suited to the task. We needed to keep that base running despite its conditions, and you..." Prowl breaks off to look anywhere else. "I thought you'd be up for it. I thought, with your knack for prevailing against the odds, I thought you could, you would last."

Pharma has no response other than to stare dumbly as he processes a description of him he hadn't expected he'd hear.

Prowl isn't finished yet. "Any of equal rank may seem at first glance interchangeable," he goes on to say, resuming eye contact, "your credentials no more outstanding than those of your peers. But the history, the infamy. You are extraordinary. You were the first flightframe to join the medical class and succeed. I thought that might indicate...I thought, that might translate into a knack for survival. And I wasn't wrong, was I? Who else should I have selected for the post, if not you?"

The moment is so surreal, Pharma has to ask, "Is that all?"

Prowl scoffs. "What more do you want? Shall I elaborate on your many qualifications? Or dig into our lack of options?" Grimly he adds, "Should I have sent Ratchet, how might he have fared?" Not well, Pharma knows by now; not well at all, the stubborn rust bucket. He wouldn't have lasted long at all. If being sent to that icy hellhole saved Ratchet, so be. But acceptance is a journey that circles however infinitely to leave a mark. Some thoughts must be repeatedly retread until the grooves will hold.

"So it was one or the other of us," Pharma vents out, "and as the Prime's physician-friend he couldn't possibly be spared for some backwater station—"

"Messatine was and still is important," Prowl reminds him with a decisive clink of the glass.

He glances down at how tightly Prowl grips it—barely lax enough to stay in control—and sets aside his own. "I am sorry," he begins to say.

"Don't be. You're not and I'm not. I'd send you there all over again, if I had to."

Pharma bites his lip lest he say something he'll regret. Prowl is appraising him hard. If optics were lasers...he looks away. "I understand," he says, and he does. Tough decisions must always be made.

"I sent you to buy time. I did what was necessary for Serp, and you survived. I'd send you as many times as needed, if I thought that might benefit."

Pharma grits his teeth. Some truths are best left unspoken. Now that they're here, however. He may as well ask. "And if I were to refuse?" He raises his head to search that piercing gaze.

"I would work to persuade you," says Prowl.

"Persuade me," he echoes, as he moves to take the glass from Prowl's hand to set next to his—just as Prowl also leans in—then pauses, face to face. They are as close now as that night he begged for company. They are too uncomfortably close not to retreat.

Ventilating in the quiet, Pharma stares as Prowl starts to speak, as what follows is not a scathing reminder of duty but a summary of his attributes in the most succinct yet flattering manner he has ever heard.

"What?" he asks blankly.

Prowl ex-vents, "You are exemplary. Weren't you aware?" That's when he catches on. The hypothetical means by which to persuade him, that's right, that's all this is. And yet, to talk like this now, the fact they have commingled the air between them, neither backing away...

If he reaches out again, if they touch...

When Pharma traces his fingertips over the hand holding the glass, Prowl gently takes his wrist. Eyes locked together, he hears the glass drop and roll away.

"Tell me to stop," he says, "Tell me I misunderstood." His own field is so keyed up, he can hardly read what else is there. Tell me you want this, he means. Tell me you want me. With his free hand, he steadies himself onto the seat they now share. He waits, reaching for the back of Prowl's collar, and ventilates brimming with hope, with fear. At the cusp of this moment...

His apprehension dissipates when Prowl grabs onto his hips and pulls him forward. He sighs, shutting off his optics, then meets his new fling in an awkward clash. Tentatively he tries again, drawing out a kiss that will last. They may regret this in the morning, but for now...

"Frag me," he vents. "Frag me like nothing matters, like you're sending me away for good." And he holds on tight as he bares his array, as he offers himself to the one who signed off on his downfall. If nothing else, he has the satisfaction that Prowl recognizes his worth. Whether or not he is less than he used to be, there is someone who sees his value, even if only to spend and expend him until there is hardly anything, until there is no more of him left to be of use.

Chapter Text

The rest of the evening blends a passionate blur of friction eased by oil and spit. Though there is only so much excess charge to burn in one session, Pharma gives to the extent of his ability, like auditioning for a role. In a sense, he is, interfacing with something to prove. He wants it, he does, this act of deriving pleasure alongside another, but more than that, he needs to anchor himself by whatever means, and the way forward is by clinging to Prowl.

When they are both thoroughly exhausted, he invites Prowl to stay the night. Casually of course, now that the buzz has faded, he plays it cool. Under the surface, he is still needy, needier than he wants to be, yet it does not matter if Prowl sees right through him, acquiesing to keep him company. Pharma is patient enough to understand he has a long journey ahead if he wishes to shore up his reputation. He can accept being humored if that means a chance at overwriting the recent history of his mistakes.

It's not just a one-off, his affair with Prowl. They meet at his place to clang whenever both their respective schedules will allow, to clang and to talk slag about everyone else. Did he hear about that Con officer cozying up with the Camiens, and would he care to go another round? Do tell, and oh, certainly; Pharma spreads himself invitingly in response, putting his well-lubricated array on display.

Night after night, day after day, he dedicates his efforts to showing just how eagerly entertaining he can be. As for whether or not Prowl will have him join the next mission with the Prime...he still hasn't asked. Pharma puts off the question, not wanting the answer to affect the relationship they have now. When his position is more secure, perhaps then, perhaps. But, then again, there are only so many days until the mission will launch.

In the meantime, he guesses at how Prowl likes it. He extrapolates through trial and error and falls back on working with what he knows—which is how he ends up emulating Ambulon, doing for Prowl the things he himself enjoyed in bed. Funny, that, and pausing to reflect on that fact may dampen his spirits, but he'll reach for anything in his reportoire no matter the source. Pharma endeavors mostly with his mouth and his hands, the better to demonstrate his skill, though he does still offer his valve and, less frequently, his spike—and covers his lack of confidence with enthusiasm when he does. Although he is no stranger to spiking, in coitus he prefers the advantage of letting his partner set the pace, and not just because his ulterior motives require that he present himself tailored to impress.

Pharma bends into whichever way Prowl wants him, just to keep a good thing going, yet discovers he actually quite enjoys this habit they've come to share. There are days when he is the first to wake, and in that moment before his processor is fully online, he half-expects it was all an illusive dream...and marvels anew to find the figure lying beside him still at rest.

This is his life now, imagine that. Temporarily, of course, just a short stint that is shrinking shorter yet, but still, there is something reassuring about exiting recharge each morning with a warm body beside his. And not just anybody, but someone Pharma had never expected to be here within reach.

One such morning, he spends a leading minute lying in bed, studying his companion for a flicker of consciousness, and leans in close. Prowl really is lovely, at rest like this. On a whim he reaches out—and smiles when he is caught.

"You have something there," he lies. And takes the opportunity to lay a kiss on some non-existent speck.

Prowl lets him and holds him closer, running a hand along the underside of his turbine. Pharma hums at the touch.

He should ask, if he still cares to. He should ask to join the mission. If Prowl can bring along anyone, even those green and purples, why not Pharma? He is an Autobot, after all, and what better place for him to serve?

He doesn't. Not yet, he tells himself, tomorrow; tomorrow he will ask.

He doesn't, tomorrow. Nor the day after that. Pharma resigns himself to cherishing their temporary arrangement, and perhaps at the end Prowl will decide to bring him along with a pronouncement to that effect. He pictures Prowl sweeping into the hospital to claim him...and allows himself a flutter at the thought. He won't get his hopes up for that to happen, but wouldn't it be nice? For his lover to keep him near without him having to ask.

"You're in a good mood," observes the Constructicon Hook.

Pharma holds back on a reactionary scowl. "I was," he replies, and leaves it at that.

He doesn't dislike the Constructicons, not really. He doesn't know them well enough to have an opinion either way. They're just so frequently with Prowl in public that he almost feels like a side piece, only to be fully acknowledged behind closed doors.

Not that he wants the whole world to know. Of course not. Better to be discreet, lest people talk as if he is an opportunist angling for some undeserving boon. Better to keep hidden from notice. Better for Prowl and better for him, if he is to rebuild his career. Better for the both of them.

Pharma counts down the days the Prime's crew will leave for Earth and tries to enjoy what little time they've left, clanging, cuddling, and clanging some more. This interval of waiting is not unlike his last moments on Luna-Two with Ambulon, is not unlike those days of waiting for an inescapable goodbye with not much else to do. Which might be why he murmurs the wrong name, snuggled half-awake one morn.

Quiet yet clear, he calls without thinking, not realizing his error until he feels the person beside him already stiffen.

"I didn't mean...he doesn't matter to me," he tries to claim, though even to his own audials the words ring false. And yet, he tries again, "he and I, we...it was convenient, at the time, that's all." Nothing more, nothing less, if he can will himself to believe so, the better to convince...

"True," Prowl coolly agrees, "Ambulon's not the one you'd rather have."

And doesn't that just put a spanner in what he has to say?

Nonetheless...

"There isn't anyone else." Pharma insists at the look of skepticism he receives, "I mean there was, but there won't be." He shouldn't have to explain, considering they haven't discussed becoming exclusive, yet nonetheless he is desperate not to end on a sour note like this, right before the launch. "What I had with Ratchet, all that's in the past. We were only ever frag buddies at school, and after." Which isn't a far sight from the truth. He may have minimized what Ratchet meant to him, but they were never going to get together, were they? Pharma chokes down his resurgent despair, pleading, "I can prove it. Let me show you."

Prowl looks at him as if to say, you can't be serious.

The process of opening himself is as smooth and slow as he can manage to make it as he stalls to persuade. An inch wider, a sliver brighter—his interior is gradually revealed to an unmoving audience while he admits, "Maybe I had wanted something more, before. But that was then! I wouldn't trade what we have now for any what-ifs. I can show you. Please." Please believe me. "You can always pull out. When, if it gets to be too much. Please." He won't go prying, is what he means to say. He'll be good and passive, for Prowl to scry his spark.

When he is neither granted nor refused, Pharma leans back and angles himself just so, shuttering his plates ever so slightly, to narrow down the view of his chest cavity to the focal point of his spark, and resists the urge to press in as close as he can, lest his proposition have no chance to breathe. At this point there's not much to gain from playing coy, but he can't let his desperation get the best of him, and so he trains his gaze low, as if he isn't throwing himself at Prowl, flashing his spark unasked as he begs for, what, forgiveness, for a second chance?

Before the silence can grow unbearable, he shifts again, posing his weight on one hip in the suggestion of sidling closer without actually bridging the gap. "Please." That's all he can say. The choice is Prowl's, and he may have to accept that because of a minor slip-up this is where their dalliance cuts short.

So resigned is he to that possibility, Pharma is surprised when Prowl joins his own light to his. Sight bursting to brightness until the added light source draws near, Pharma is dazed and surprised, and responds belatedly to match. When he has opened up completely, when the necessary pieces are recessed or unfurled from his chest and there is a direct line unshielded between their innermost selves...when they merge, casting the room in shadow, and the sensation overwhelms him from first contact...

Lost in the stream, he tries to let their unfiltered thoughts pass unremarked, lest they pile up refractions echoing back and forth. Observations, both his and not, linger nonetheless, and there are sentiments that emerge standing stronger, louder, more fervent than the rest.

I'd give anything—
I've given everything—
...for love and safety...
...for the common welfare...

Pharma forgets why he asked for this and simply basks in the utter warmth.

If Prowl puts any effort into vivisecting his mind, it is too fine a knife for him to notice. He floats through their connection like foam down the drain...and has to be held upright when at last they have finished.

After the merge, Pharma blurts out, "Take me with you," before he can discard that thought. "To Earth," he clarifies. And he reaches for a hand to hold for the extra support.

Prowl clasps him firmly—lovingly—before answering like a sudden stop beneath the thickest fog. "Your place is here," Prowl tells him.

Of course. He should've known. He turns his face aside, offlining his optics.

Better Cybertron than Messatine, yet there is still a part of Pharma that wants to argue. He stamps down on that inclination. He will stay quiet. He will listen. He will go wherever he is called—or nowhere, if that's what Prowl requires of him. He will abide. He will obey. He will have to, in the hopes that someday, someday he will get the recognition that he deserves.

Chapter Text

Pharma continues on with his day and the rest of the week. He clocks in, he clocks out, and life indeed goes on. Though he still wants more, he no longer hopes...even as they continue to carry on, bittersweet.

On their final day together, Prowl leaves his side without a word, placing a kiss on his helm, even though they both know he's awake. Pharma lies there, listening to the departure of a mech whom he could've loved, and makes no motion to get up to say goodbye.

He could've asked to attend the launch. He could've mustered an attempt. To show up at the site with gentleness and wistful smiles, to accompany Prowl without souring their last moments together; he would've had to compose himself to play the part. Far safer is his failure to even try. That is what he tells himself, lying alone in the dim.

Life is easier when expectations are lowered. So much easier for him, and for those around him. It really does make things easier on everyone.

Pharma does his job the way he is supposed to, like nothing is amiss. He is helping Flatline piece together a racer's spine when an internal timer he had enabled earlier sets off, which takes only a moment's notice to reset. After the countdown, he carries on with his work, knowing that the Ark-Seven is on its way to Earth. If all goes well...they've made no promises, but he can expect for Prowl to return, when the mission is over, to Cybertron and to him.

In the meantime, he has his allotted check-ins to look forward to: a call roughly every decacycle, if he is lucky. Prowl had granted him that much.

Day by day, the wait is not unreasonable, yet adding up to the appointed cycle goes on long enough. Pharma relapses too easily into wanting more. For all his tempered expectations, by the time he finally gets Prowl on the line...

Awkwardly he does his best not to rush in asking every question which comes to mind. He waits and he listens, and he responds dutifully when it is his turn to talk, filling in trite updates as if he has fresh intel to report. But he can feel Prowl's attention slipping, and any moment there might be some emergency to cut short their connection before he has said what he's been wanting to say.

During their next call, Pharma goes ahead and asks.

He isn't privy to operations on Earth. Nor should he be, yet he itches to know. "How much longer will you be there?"

When Prowl doesn't have an answer, he suggests, "I could join you—"

"No."

He sighs—it had been worth a try—and changes the topic.

He knows not to push the matter if he wants to keep Prowl sweet. He knows also, ideally, he should be doing something to keep things fresh. But there is only so much he can do over this distance that he resorts to sending personal pictures. Just a few tasteful frames, at first, nothing he'd mind falling into the wrong hands. Selective yet safe.

After a lukewarm reception, however, he reconsiders. If he is honest with himself, he craves a show of passion, some form of proof that Prowl still wants him, will still want him when the mission is over, when they...might be together, once more. Nevermind that intellectually he knows that Prowl may not be at liberty to shower him with praise, or that good practice is not to send anything sensitive he might regret. Pharma understands, yet he must have something to quell the emptiness in lieu of any real certainty what the future may hold. Toward that end, a quick thrill will have to suffice.

So he sets about filming short clips of himself, which upon review he promptly deletes. The results aren't quite as he envisioned, even after changing the angles, the lighting, the setting. It's all rather disappointing. And perhaps need not be so difficult, except nothing less than perfect will do.

Whatever he sends will have to be worth watching, worth revisiting, on repeat in private or sneaked here and there in a moment of downtime, to capture Prowl's interest. A tall order, to be sure, but not insurmountable. With more practice, he's bound to eventually get it right.

Pharma is in the washracks with spike in hand when he resolves to try again one last time before calling it a day. Perhaps the problem he's been having was that he'd stop recording too soon. He could shift his approach—forget the constant pausing between takes and adjustments from pose to pose—and aim for one actual authentic overload. Doubtful that'll look any better, but still worth a try.

He does feel more than a little silly masturbating on camera. A pity to do this pre-recorded, but they don't exactly have the luxury of scheduling a live show.

Now where to begin...

One hand on his shaft, a firm grip at the base. Slide it up higher, make room for the second to come in and palm his array, put a finger on the anterior node. Tease the view a little but don't think too hard about the lens. Yes, don't think. Just do it the usual way.

He takes longer than normal building up to a climax but it's fine, it's fine, any moment he'll finish and get cleaned up. He's close, so close, a bit more pressure and—

Pharma comes, feeling oddly empty, and glances down just to be sure. Lubricant has smeared across the surface of his array, a sign of self-service. The area is otherwise dry.

He contemplates his spotless canopy, the clean surrounding walls...and even examines the floor, despite knowing there's nothing there. Later, he'll look inside to confirm his aching suspicion. Later, after he retrieves the camera and deletes the footage. Later, he will. For now, he simply sits on the tiles, thinking.

It's unorthodox, to keep a newspark so soon after his last, but he wants it, he realizes, he wants it very much. If he can keep it and carry to completion. If. And he might not, though his spark is strong; it might fade on its own. Won't do to become attached to the idea of it too early, not that he can help himself from planning a future around it, the moment he has confirmed the split.

Just a speck of light, yet already he has plans to see it grow. Pharma checks its progress daily for no other reason than to reassure himself of its continued existence. If all goes well, this newspark of his will have everything he couldn't give to Catalyzer, everything and more. With Prowl at his side...

That is, if Prowl returns. The possibility that Prowl doesn't...

Despite having put considerable thought into when to announce, Pharma cannot stand to wait. And so, the moment he has Prowl on the line again, he drops the news as serenely as he can.

The response could be worse. Is to be expected, really.

"You are certain?" Which is all but asking how confident he is the little spark will live.

He isn't. He can't be, this soon after Catalyzer, yet to admit that now would be counterproductive. "I am not some exhausted carrier struggling through endless cycles to pump out another protoform. We'll be fine. I know what I'm doing, I just...won't have more, after this." Yes. He is healthy enough to see it through.

"I meant...nevermind. What do you need? I can find a—"

"No." He doesn't want to hear how Prowl intends to finish that sentence. "Let me join you," he pleads again. You can give me what I need when you give me yourself.

Faced with hesitation, he begins to despair.

"If you can't, I'll go to Starscream for help," Pharma decides. "Flatline said I should." Flatline has suggested no such thing, but surely would if asked. The fact that he hasn't yet will be immaterial in the long run.

Prowl flinches and says nothing. Pharma fidgets, feeling something akin to regret.

In the silence that stretches between them, he begins to doubt.

What is he even doing, trying to convince Prowl he should be on Earth to solicit materials for a protoform that may not even flourish long enough to need the extra contribution he himself cannot provide. Just a ploy, to be near to Prowl, a transparent plot he may not have planned but if not for that then...does he want a sparkling, truly? A sparkling to call his own, one given to him by Prowl. And if indeed it is lesser for the suboptimal timing of its appearance, he will nurture away the disadvantages, he will take care of it by the book exactly as he should, and not neglect as he had, before. A do-over, for his creature. It isn't Catalyzer—it won't be, would never—but he can do better this time if he gets the chance. If.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I know how much you hate the chancellor—"

"I'll think about it," Prowl replies and ends the call.

Prowl's just putting him off, he knows, is probably waiting for him to go to Starscream then end things for good. It'd be more pragmatic anyway, than to send along Pharma to tag along this late. A waste of time, a waste of fuel. A waste of resources, just to humor him and give in to his frivolous wants. He doesn't expect to hear back on the topic, now or anytime soon. He doesn't expect...

He doesn't expect to see Dent drop in at the hospital while he's on a fuel break and inquire after his plans to go to Earth.

Pharma sets down his cube then looks down at the Predabot. "Who told you," he asks.

The look he gets back is pure sass.

All right, no need to state the obvious. It isn't as if anyone else would know about that, or about his newspark.

Dent knows, though. Dent knows and is eyeing him reproachfully, like that cube he's been nursing isn't going to finish itself. Did Prowl send Dent here to judge and keep watch? Just because he acted so poorly the last time he was responsible for new life. Which is fair, but he's on track doing like he's supposed to, now, has even started his supplements early to ward off fuel rejection. Pharma's got everything handled that a successful carriage could require, has even checked to ensure he could have transfluid synthesized discreetly at his disposal, if he has to, a sensible choice. Though it is early yet, he will have to choose soon. A part of him still wishes...

Dent is talking, he realizes, is discussing plans like they've got permission to go. Pharma feels so lightheaded realizing Prowl has said yes, not even a gulp of safe unappetizing fuel can anchor him now. He is euphoric, yet strangely reticent. He is at a loss how to proceed.

Bit by bit, Dent plods forward describing more concrete steps to take, all the while swishing about his legs. Didn't this bot have other ideas and obligations? Something about the Dinobots, he seems to recall. If Dent is who Prowl picked to pilot, to accompany him aboard a starship equipped for two and, in case of delays, provide materials as needed...

Pharma would have liked to have been consulted for his opinion. This arrangement will do, however. It will do just fine.

"...so let me know when you're ready," Dent finishes, perhaps indifferent to the fact that Pharma has been barely listening.

"I could be ready right now," is his automatic reply.

"Oh, uh. Don't you have to say goodbye? I've also got some people I gotta go tell..."

Of course. That would be prudent. If nothing else, he ought to give notice for the vacancy he'll leave behind.

The very next day, he walks out from the hospital with a bounce in every step. Not nice of him to leave so abruptly, yet not like the place is actually understaffed. Nor does he owe a full explanation, though he did nearly confide in Ricochet, who at least seemed sad to see him go.

He can hardly bide any longer. His shuttle awaits.

It's a modest craft but he has no complaints, so long as it'll travel along a decent clip.

Dent joins him and nudges his side, while he's studying its design. "Best I could get on short notice. Ought to still hold up for the ride."

"Mm." His thoughts are so occupied by how this is really happening, he hasn't the bandwidth to fret about specs. Point Alpha to Beta, and shielded from cosmic radiation? Check, check; let's go.

"Ready for Earth?"

Pharma doesn't give two drips about Earth. It's what Earth signifies, a promise to fulfil. "I was ready yesterday," he answers with a smile. He was. He is. Waiting, still waiting to be reunited, yet that much closer, now. This shuttle will take him to Prowl, and then...

Just exactly what he will do once he gets there is a little murkier, but he has time to think it through. He has plenty of time to plan and decide before they reach their destination. There are so many variables to consider, any of which could change en route. All that matters is that he get there, that he gets to be with the one he wants. Whatever else happens, he is confident he will rise to the occasion. He has to be. Any duties he may be assigned, any challenges he will face...Pharma has much to prove, and a chance to demonstrate, in a foreign environment, on top of nourishing his newspark...

There is plenty to worry about, if he lets his concerns weigh on him. Pharma chooses not to, if he can. After all, he isn't alone. With him he has Dent, who likes to lounge around in alt mode when not engaged in navigation. Cuddling comes easily, sharing space, lying beside the Predabot's comforting presence on the long journey to Earth. Pharma has missed this, has missed unwinding the spool of tension throughout his body until he is completely at ease. Like fine-tuning his instruments after a long excursion in the field, their familiarity is the calibration he hadn't known he needed.

Cycles pass on board the shuttle through endless napping; all his anxieties melt away.

The blaring alarm which wakes him soon cuts off just as quickly. So abrupt is the sound, he almost wonders if he dreamt it, but no, with the way the craft shakes, the loss in pressure—

The source is coming from outside.

Dent has already sprung up and headed in that direction before Pharma can even think to call out.

The next blast knocks them over. Pharma has scarcely a moment to question whether Dent took the brunt of its force before their ship is being boarded.

Before the dust has settled—

A new-old fear sets in, when he recognizes that shape, that mask. No. Not now.

That voice! That dreaded voice which calls for him by name.

No! Pharma rages—helpless—through tears, railing against that immobilizing curse now suffocating his spark...

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