Author's notes: I started this story back in 2009, I think. It's premised on a notion I picked up early in my TF 2K7 life, namely that Ratchet originally is a pacifist (I think I read it on Wikipedia while trying to get specs on his model – please don't kill me! I try to put that to some decent story-telling use, canon or not). I've gotten through a couple of iterations, right up until a common sticking point, which I'm trying to decide if I can actually get around or not.

So why post it? Well, mostly for fun. Despite the being-stuckness, I'm fairly happy with what I've written so far. A lot of this story is tied up around different conceptual points having to do with design versus chosen purpose, plus a lot of exercising of my visual imagination – I will give the Bay!formers team credit where credit is due: their transformation sequences were awesome, and I wanted more of that awesome robot physiology and aesthetic built into a story. I'm hopeful this has enough of that, and is decent enough in the character interaction to be entertaining for those who like this type of story, which is built around trying to expand on a concept.

P.S. - When I began writing this, the third installment hadn't come out yet, so none of this is compatible with Sentinel's arc in the movies. I elected not to try to change things to fit DoTM.

Conversion Experiences

The city was rusting. Bombed out and broken walls, stained with acid and carbon scoring, formed canyons of dead steel and stone. Glass and wires rose jaggedly against a grey sky, and plunged down into the depths of the earth where the drones flew their sweeps 'til their lights flickered and were lost. Through the ruins, forms moved stealthily amid the remains of civilization. They crept towards each other on different levels, skirting gaps and hugging walls, damping down on signals each time a drone passed, and the grey dust that coated them muted their colors, seeming intent upon reducing them to the same desperate estate.

At a certain point, there was a pause in that movement. Signals flowed back and forth among them – some electronic, some simply hand signals; everything seemed to stand still for a long, anxious moment.

Then the air erupted in a chaos of noise and light and gunfire. Ceilings fell, and floors collapsed; walls shuddered and cabling sparked. The dust rose swiftly to cloud the killing field, and shifting silhouettes, illuminated at times by the explosive flash of weaponry, darted through the haze as engines droned and metal squealed. Laser targeting scattered, the drones began to add their fire, and the air began to heat up: static crackled, but bodies were falling, especially as distances closed and opponents got within arm's reach of each other.

In the swirl and chaos, one of the figures, who had held back for the most part, flattened against a wall, suddenly darted in. Dodging fire, he skidded the last little distance on his knees, and then crouched to make as small a target as he could as he hastily bent over a downed comrade. Said comrade groaned, waving feeble protest, but the other simply pressed his hand down and opened a panel, fussing over a red-lit casualty simulator tag that had been wired into the 'bot.

"You're not supposed to – " the prone form hissed, but was cut off:

"Let somebody else take the fall today for being first down. Besides," the other announced, as he quickly sealed an armor panel once more, "it's done. You want to waste it?"

The other growled, but was quick to scramble up and disappear back into the melee. His savior, mean time, scanned the area, found his next target and, half-crouching, sprinted, throwing himself down at the last moment to duck under a brief spray of bullets, as someone crashed through the ceiling to try to flank the squad.

"Primus!" the object of his mercy cursed and quailed as a simulated plasma arc made the air ripple. "You're not – "

Everyone keeps saying this. You think I don't know? the other snapped over the com-line, locating the tag's interface. A quick bit of reprogramming and – "You're good to go – so get!"

Muttering, the recently downed soldier rolled away, transformed into vehicular mode, and shot forward into the fray, leaving his savior cycling dust behind the barriers. He scanned the firefight quickly, located the next 'bot by the 'disabled' signal, and with a rev of his engine, plunged once more into the chaos after his brothers.

It was a relatively swift battle, and lopsided, and when at the end of it, the opponents faced each other in two lines, the heavy-treaded sergeant stalked between them, noting which of his squad bore safety tags illumined with the dull, angry red light that said 'fatal damage' or the amber glow of injury. There were rather a lot more red lights on one side, and while there were probably no more 'blue' lights on one side as on the other, one team had markedly more amber ones.

"Would anyone care to speculate as to what happened today?" the sergeant growled. There was a long silence, save for the agitated, uncomfortable click and whir of shifting internal parts. Then:

"Medical interference," someone from the end of the line volunteered, sounding resentful. The soldier in question bore a red-lit tag, and he glared at the medic, whose tag was still a bright blue. The sergeant didn't dignify that with a reprimand; instead, he lunged, grabbed the speaker, and rammed a hand between armor plating. The soldier squawked, undertones flaring in pain, and his eyes flickered.

"Don't let me hear you blame somebody for your own failure," the sergeant said mildly. "You got your converter shot to scrap, according to the med-link. Now that you have a notion of what that might feel like – " his captive emitted a pained little trill of assent " – I trust you won't walk right into somebody's sights again."

"No, sergeant!"

Satisfied, the sergeant released him to stand unsteadily in his line. Turning, he glared at the rest, then said: "I don't want to see this happen again – formation, Jerries, and communication. I didn't see much of either worth speaking of. Dismissed!"

There was a mass groaning of hydraulics and engines as weary 'bots broke formation and began the trek back to the main ground vehicle tubes, heading for the washracks and the commons back on the base, which lay outside the central and still functional city node of Iacon. But: "Doctor."

One of the figures, a vibrant chartreuse dulled to an unattractive dusty yellow-green pallor, stopped, and just stood there, waiting until the sergeant caught up with him. Engine growling, the sergeant circled round, scanned the medic, then reached and tapped the tag.

"Not a mark on you that can't be worked out with some polish," he observed. "Guess you've learned to dodge."

"Preventable injuries are professional anathema, sergeant," was the quiet response.

"Mm." Quick as lightning, the sergeant had a hand through a breach in the medic's armor, and the medic went rigid, then arched in agony as sharp-clawed fingers scraped along something that hadn't been designed to bear that kind of attention quietly. Barrage, for that was his name, tightened his lock on the 'bot, holding him upright now. "You know all of you have to turn in your safety cartridges after every exercise. If I look at your equipment, am I going to find a full cartridge?"

There was a hesitation, and Barrage frowned, then scraped a little harder. "I don't like to repeat myself," he warned.

"Yes, sergeant," came the thin-toned reply.

"'Yes, sergeant,' what?" he prompted.

"Yes, sergeant... I understand that you don't care to repeat yourself!" the other managed, ending in a new pentave as Barrage worked his claws in just a little more. Barrage gave a disapproving rumble, but released the medic, save to brace him when he sagged rather alarmingly. But the medic did not collapse, and so after a moment or two, Barrage stepped back, engine rumbling softly.

"Form up," he ordered, and when the other just stared dumbly at him, he vented audibly, reached, grabbed the appropriate arm by wrist and elbow and positioned the other himself. "Form up!" he snapped again.

The medic did not quite vent – he had learned his lesson the first time – but it was with manifest reluctance that he bowed his head, gathered himself, and then shifted to form his gun.

Barrage watched parts slide and rearrange. It took several seconds, but eventually he completed the transformation and stood there, aiming at nothing. The sergeant would've bet that the 'bot hadn't even bothered to bring up targeting. He scanned the weapon, noting the close integration of non-standard equipment with his model – top line work, minimal alteration of form and mass, which was hardly unusual. Medics knew their own models and needs best after all. Barrage growled, revving his engine as he stalked down the length of the other's arm, then stopped and turned to face the medic, standing directly in front of the barrel of the gun. For a moment, the other held steady. But then, the muzzle dipped just a bit, and with a disgusted noise, Barrage swatted it aside, unsurprised that by the time the arm hung loosely at the 'bot's side, he'd reformed already.

"You didn't fire a single round today," he stated.

The other lifted his head slightly. "No, sergeant."

"You didn't even fake it and form a meter, either – go through the medical motions. You just neutralized the tag's connection to your comrades' neural lines and reprogrammed it." The medic said nothing this time, just stared straight back. Barrage considered him a moment longer, reached then once more and caught the other's wrist, scanning the armature there, and he pressed down against a tensor line. His victim twitched noticeably, air hissing through his vents. The sergeant immediately released him.

For a long while, the two of them stood staring at each other. But then, rather to the surprise of them both, Barrage folded his arms just under his chassis, lowering his gaze to the earth. And: "You're dismissed," he said shortly, after a moment. "Turn in your safety cartridge and refuel."

Sensing his mood, the medic wisely made no reply, just flashed the required salute, turned, and began walking.

Barrage stood and did not quite stare after the retreating 'bot, waiting until the other's form had dwindled in the distance before he vented softly. Blasted idiot's not gonna last a single slagging day out there! It was a waste, was what it was, and he hated it, and resented the idea that it was going to be on his head when the 'bot came up against Decepticons who wouldn't see him as anything but a fragging neon target. Engine revving in frustration, Barrage shook his head, and then he, too, quit the practice grounds.

"Hey – it's the Sarge's favorite Jerry!"

The chorus of clicks and ambivalent whirs sang familiar counterpart to the greeting, and Ratchet, preoccupied as he was, nevertheless suppressed an auditory grimace of his own as he headed straight for the high pressure wash rack to get rid of the dust.

There was a line – he wasn't that late coming in – and so he composed himself to wait, ignoring as best he could the looks from his squad mates. "So," asked one, irritated undertones clashing with the mildness of his primaries, "how'd it go? You limpin' or anything?"

"Leave off, Torqueline," someone else groaned.

"I'm just showin' concern, here," Torqueline protested. "Third time this week the Sarge has had our squad medic under the gun, as it were. He's our slagging squadron brother. Think maybe you'd want to make sure he's got all his parts, Amtek."

"I'm sure he would've said something if he didn't." Amtek gave Torqueline a placid look that nevertheless managed to convey his disapproval.

"There's more than one way to say something," the other 'bot replied, turning suddenly on Ratchet. "Arm bothering you again?"

Ratchet, who had been only half-consciously running microscanners over his forearm, deliberately finished the scan, then folded his arms under his chassis. "I'm fine, thank you," he replied mildly.

"He's fine," Amtek repeated, and gave Torqueline a pointed stare. Torqueline cycled his vents, blowing dust.

"Sure he is. That's why the Sarge wants a word with him – he's fine. We're all fine here, eh?" This last was addressed to the squad at large, and got a number of laughs, some forced, some free, all rife with irony. War instilled in its warriors its own peculiar sense of humor, even among the trainee Jerries.

At least it seemed to dispel tension somewhat, and as Torqueline fell in with a friend, attention drifted elsewhere since the possibility of a real confrontation had dissipated. Amtek, after a moment, hummed softly.

"Thanks," he said, just a touch awkwardly, "for the 'medical interference' back there. I hate being first down."

Ratchet just grunted. Ordinarily, he might have said "You're welcome" or "It's my job," but the words felt like acid today. Rather like that tensor, as he clenched his fist and stepped forward to take his turn under the hose.

"Are you all right?" Amtek asked, when the two of them had emerged from beneath the hard spray of water and air. "Barrage did hold you back for awhile."

"He always does," Ratchet replied, seemingly unconcerned as he shook some of the wet out.

"Torque's right though, isn't he?" Amtek pressed. "Your arm still hurts."

"Only when I work it."

"You never do."

"Well then."

"Primus," Amtek muttered. "Look, Ratchet, I know you're a medic, but shouldn't you see someone about that?"

Ratchet vented gently. "You should outgrade – join the corps," he said, managing to keep an even tone, despite the sharp twinge of pain as he shifted to check the integrity of the practice cartridge. Amtek gave a low whine of his engine, to which Ratchet said, with deliberate briskness: "Appointment's already made – I've got to turn in my gear before then, so if you'll excuse me...?"

So saying, he quit the wash racks at a swift pace before Amtek could muster a farewell.