Title: The box

Series: G1
Characters: First Aid, Ratchet
Warning: post-TFTM (mention of character death)

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, they belong to Hasbro, Takara, Marvel, IDW and any other registered copyright holders I haven't mentioned.

A/N: reposted to correct spelling error. I hope this doesn't bring it up as a new post. Fingers crossed.

The box sat on the bench, completely unremarkable in many ways, utterly insignificant to all but a few. The mech who had just set it there was one of those few, and he remained staring at it for a long time without moving. It was nothing special, simply a box to carry tools, one of hundreds or even thousands he had seen in his comparatively short lifespan. This one had been through a lot, the plating clearly having been patched many times, scrapes and dents and burns marring its surface. A trace of white paint could be seen on a corner. A streak of dried energon across the latch that held it closed was beginning to flake off, long since having dessicated.

The latch was not a lock, this box was never designed to be locked, it was just intended to stop the contents from spilling out. It, too, had suffered over the vorns. Had been replaced at least twice, judging by the weld-scars. A shallow groove had been fashioned from the frequent passage of a thumb over the metal to release it - a thumb from a hand a little bigger than his own.

Reaching out slowly, he slid his hand against that groove and felt the clasp come free. Long ago it would likely have made a loud click and snapped open on its own, but in it's current condition it needed a little more coaxing and the lid had to be opened manually. The hinges bore silent testament to the damage they had suffered when too much force had been used in the heat of the moment.

Leaving it closed, he held it briefly to his chest. Once, not so long ago, he had had nothing but scorn for this kit: not understanding and not caring to ask the history of it while the owner was still able to explain. Now he would have to discover the reasons for its unorthodox contents for himself. It was a study he would dedicate himself to, as a tribute to the last of the Golden Age medics without whose support and skill the war would have been long since lost. Support, and skill, and use of this ordinary looking box - Ratchet's personal field kit.

Ark mythology had it that he never went anywhere without it, that he had never let it out of his sight his entire life. He did not always use it - they had plenty of better tools on hand in the repair bay, and more in storage - but it was never left behind, never lay forgotten on a shelf while the mech himself left the room. Which was why First Aid had never touched it, in spite of seeing it scores of times. Until now.

In theory Ratchet's closest friend should have had first pick of his possessions, yet Wheeljack was lying next to the medic in the cool storage area, waiting for construction to be completed on the mausoleum that Hot R... Rodimus Prime had ordered be built. Just as well, really, he mused sadly. It would have hurt Wheeljack so much to see this scene, to lose so many friends in a single orn. No, with Wheeljack gone, he was next in line and he was sure no-one would begrudge him this. No-one else could use it, in any case. Even so, he subspaced the box before he could be interrupted. There was still work to be done, and no-one but him to do it. His last duty to his mentor was to remain calm and professional in the face of the grief-stricken mechs who needed his help, his own emotions set aside for now. There would be time later to grieve for himself, with his brothers to support him. And later still, when grief had lost its hardest edge, to ponder the contents of the box that this time the grizzled old medic had not even had time to use.