Beneath That Metal Exterior - Chapter 3

Not tonight, however.

Cumulus clouds still trekked across the nocturnal sky, the only indicator that Mother Nature had attempted to recreate the Great Flood and convert the small town into an outdoor aquarium. By the pale light of a crescent moon Ratchet travelled, headlights flared on as he roared down the asphalt road.

Intrusive pinging wailed in his audios, an incoming transmission that Ratchet had been attempting to ignore for the last five minutes. Venting a loud sigh, Ratchet skidded to a stop at an intersection. Due to the lack of human presence in the outlying desert, he safely assessed that no unwelcome fleshlings would eavesdrop. Turning on his long-range communicator sent a burst of static and cursing through his frame like a sensation of its own, temporarily deafening the white and orange ambulance. Correcting his earlier assessment, Ratchet transferred the screeching feed to a private line.

When the initial shock died down, Ratchet wasn't overly surprised to hear a familiar—and unwelcome—female voice still berating him. Where the slag are you?

Out for a drive, answered the medic, keeping his tone deceptively even. I told you, I—

Cut the crap, Ratchet. It was an apt, if somewhat vulgar human expression Arcee had "overheard" one day while on a routine scouting mission with Jack. You'd sooner have your wrench sold for spare parts before you willingly left the base. So I'll ask again, where the slag are you? And what are you doing?

Astonished silence filtered through Arcee's end of the communication when Ratchet expelled a punctuated and wry laugh.

Does something strike you as amusing, Ratchet? Her cross tone ceased Ratchet's spurt of rare humor. Engine still vibrating, the emergency vehicle sped off down the gravelly surface along a major highway that would no doubt carry him into town.

I expected to hear this speech from Optimus, not you, Arcee, he explained matter-of-factly.

Your lucky day, then. Scathingly the motorcycle snapped over the line, Optimus said that he trusted you enough to not make any "rash decisions," but I disagree.

Really? You never would have struck me as the type to question our Prime's judgment—

And I never would have believed you to be the type of mech to pursue a petty rivalry! snapped Arcee, her patience waning. As Ratchet inconspicuously patrolled past the suburban district of Jasper (meanwhile scoffing at the identical rows of housing), his comrade groused across their connection, Look, I just don't want to see you get hurt. Or any civilians, for that matter.

Pausing at a stop sign, the medic dimmed his headlights. Had he not been confined to his alt mode, he would have made a sour face at the graffiti etched along the brick walls of a nearby restaurant. Honestly, there was a reason why Cybertronian culture was infinitely superior to that of humans'. They called that art? It was vandalism at its finest, a tribute to the decline of the fleshlings' civilization and everything about it Ratchet loathed. I'm not a sparkling, Arcee, chastised the medic in a disgruntled huff. I can take care of myself.

Oh, you certainly can. Exasperation was beginning to give way to puzzlement as the steel blue Autobot sighed, I don't get it. Since when do you care about what a few juvenile delinquents do?

That's one too many times that little punk has left Rafael discarded like a ragdoll, Ratchet snarled, a sudden explosion of anger sending Energon pumping wildly through his circuits. Trying desperately to still the chemical reaction to his temper, the ambulance focused on wheeling down a street flanked by stores and pedestrians alike. More evenly: You weren't there! Bruised from being kicked and jabbed at; slashed by some sort of utensil, maybe a pocket knife; blood staining his clothes until I could barely see the color that they originally were…

While he meant for his assessment to be more professional than personally concerned, something must have slipped through his vocalizer because after a few kliks Arcee chimed in, I wish that you were as concerned about our battle scars. Whenever we limp into sickbay, you just criticize us for being careless.

Hardy fraggin' har. Your sympathy just caused my spark to go atwitter.

He could practically see the cheeky curve forming along Arcee's lips as she observed, I wonder how the kids would react to hear that you actually care about them…

Unless you would prefer to wake up welded to Bulkhead's aft, then I suggest you mute your audials. That threat immediately caused Arcee's chuckles to cease. I know how much you enjoyed that little "situation." Trust me; it wouldn't take much effort to recreate it.

Primus, some 'Bot needs to do you a favor and program a sense of humor into your processor. Going off of common sense rather than an actual knowledge of the area, Ratchet rotated his wheels and plowed between the dank stone walls of an alley. Beyond the cylindrical confines of several trashcans came a feline's screech. Of its own accord the brake pedal slammed forward, jerking the automobile's form to sudden halt as a feral tabby darted across his path. Revving his inner components to convey his exasperation, Ratchet plowed onward, emerging onto a shadier side street that was dimly lit. Again came Arcee's voice, an apprehensive sound that clicked with worry: Whatever it is you're doing, I don't like it.

There's something new, snarked the medic. Already the ambulance had dimmed his headlights to the lowest setting, attempting to melt into the shadows along the dirty sidewalk he had parked alongside. What had garnered his attention were several rowdy, raucous voices, slurred and trumpeting their intoxication with whoops that made his internals throb. Flocking outside of what evidently was a bar was a gang of teenage youths, clad with leather jackets and reeking of human alcohol. They burst into ostentatious laughter that tore from their gaping jowls, leaning on each other for support as they perched on the hood of a black sports car decked with flames.

One individual in particular, an adolescent male with unruly locks of auburn hair and a permanent sneer carved into his face.

Perfect.

Hey, are you listening to me? Impatient static cut through the whirlwind of schemes already unfolding in Ratchet's processor. If you do something reckless and kill our cover, Fowler is going to chew us out—

Arcee, he interjected, venting a sigh, do me a favor.

What?

Blow it out your exhaust pipe.

Ratchet terminated their connection before she could protest.

Left to his own devices, the medic shuffled aside the nagging voice in his processor that repeatedly berated him with a chant of, Bad idea! Bad idea! Instead, the ambulance focused on inching down the almost-barren road toward the hooting gang now sprawled inside and on top of the sports car. He was a predator stalking his prey. Repercussions didn't matter at this point; he wanted to hear that juvenile delinquent scream.

"Vince," drawled a black-haired boy, twice his target's height and weight. "Did'ja see the ass on that chica? Man," he moaned, "what I'd give to get in her pants."

"Shove it," another boy chipped in, hanging partially out of the backseat with his legs propped against the leather. To Ratchet's amazement, the blonde scoundrel was still able to make coherent noises with the cigarette clamped between his incisors. "You got a girlfriend, don't'cha?"

"Naw," the first speaker groaned, pausing to indulge in another swig of some foul-smelling liquid. Had Ratchet been in his bipedal form, he would have curled his faceplates at the vile odor wafting his way. "That bitch ain't worth nothin'. Always gripin' 'bout something or other. Who asked ya, huh?"

Vince gave a raspy laugh with a voice scratched by smoke and intoxicants. "If you don't keep it to yourself, then it's fair game for anyone." With droopy, bloodshot eyes Vince glared at his "friend." Or lackey. The Pit, anyone could have called them minions and would have been technically correct. The fleshling could Megatron a run for his Energon, the medic noted with overwhelming disgust. Closer still he drove, prudent to offline his headlights and dull the thrum of his revving engine.

"Besides," his target went on, "she had only eyes for me." In a self-assured gesture the foul boy puffed out his chest.

"But," another companion objected, his voice all but subdued to the point of inaudible, "don't you like that girl from school? See…Sarah…Sari…Sauna…"

Apparently the sandy-haired teenager was too tipsy to do more than incorrectly guess at Vince's love interest. Mumbling, he trailed off into a yawn and vanished behind the backseat of the vehicle, a distorted snore echoing from where he had passed out.

"Sierra? Pfft. Please," snorted Vince, dismissively waving a hand. "Hold me to higher standards. Even that Darby punk can woo that bitch." At the mention of Jack, Ratchet had to overwrite a code in his neural net to suppress a verbal growl.

"Ha!" crowed the black-haired youth. Leaning in on the hood of the onyx vehicle, he temptingly flaunted the beer in front of his leader's flushed face. "You're jus' sayin' that 'cause you can't get laid. She sees you comin' and runs the other way with her friend in tow."

Rage contorted the muscles in Vince's face, and with the same strength he had used to strike Rafael, the redhead shoved his friend. Hard. For a wild moment the black-haired boy flailed, precariously caught on the rim of the hood, and Vince snatched the bottle from him with a smirk. "Thanks, amigo," he sneered, the aggressive action causing the other boy to lose his balance and hit the road. Head thrown back, Vince guzzled loudly, followed by a belch that caused Ratchet to mentally cringe.

Repulsive.

The stealthy medic was gradually nearing them, only ten feet away…five feet…

"That means bull, Vince," the blonde teenager snickered, puffing out a heavy cloud of ash and smoke. For several moments the skinny kid hacked, a noise that Ratchet diagnosed out of habit. Charred lungs from smoking. Cancer, maybe? Not exactly practiced in human diseases, the white-orange mech couldn't be specific—or overly concerned. Finally done hacking up his lungs—Or whatever is left of them, Ratchet dually noted—the other boy continued: "You're just bluffing. You just not man enough to admit she's way outta yo' league."

"Fine!" Vince snapped, vaulting himself off of the car's hood. Upon making impact with the ground, he staggered, the alcohol distorting his sense of equilibrium. Swearing loudly, the auburn-haired vandal began to lurch unsteadily toward the driver's seat door of an ambulance, already thrown wide open in an inviting gesture. "I'll go pick up that little slut and her sorry friend and get them both to sleep with me. C'mon," he barked, climbing into the seat, "I'm drivin', 'cause none of your sorry asses are sober enough to do it."

"V-Vince," the black-haired boy stammered, eyes widening from more than just the alcohol level in his body. Still sprawled on the ground mere inches from the ambulance's gyrating wheels, he spluttered, "That's not my car, man."

"What?" Vince's reaction turned from befuddlement to terror as Ratchet slammed the door shut with enough force to leave dents. Before his prisoner could do more than squeal a disjointed protest, the seatbelt coiled around him of its own accord. Squeezing him against the seat like an angry python, it clicked into place, sealing Vince's fate.

Immediately the engine roared to life, expelling exhaust on Vince's friends and leaving them behind in a cloud of dust and other debris particles. As the boy, unable to move, trembled against the driver's seat, a deadly calm voice spoke.

"Buckle up, kiddo. We're going for a little ride."