#Dropmix is having flashbacks

[quibble-auk]

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

Dropmix Trials stuff again. Part three of whatever is going on (I have no idea. Once again I thought I knew what I was doing again and I lied to myself.)

I feel like I’m just making things so much worse. There has to be an easier way to solve things. I’m struggling.

Previous

Next

Cue Jeopardy entering like

—

Disclaimer: I actually only know the basics of first aid and have no idea how medical stuff works….

—

Jeopardy hadn’t thought much about it when he had turned the music back on. The systems weren’t new or anything, there were bound to be a few errors every once and awhile. He could probably get Nova to look at the systems later. The music had cut out for a few seconds. Jeopardy calmly placed down his tools and walked to the terminal on the wall, fiddling with one of the settings to turn the music back on.

Just as quickly as it had shut off it was back on. The pleasant lulling sounds he had grown so familiar with resumed. It filled the otherwise sterile medical space and made it feel more welcoming than it looked. It has always been a welcome addition to the mundane life of a medical mech.

What was weird was that it was paused. It wasn’t buffering. It wasn’t having technical difficulties. Someone had paused it. Intentionally.

Dropmox had never paused the music. He would offer to turn it down, change the genre, or move it to his internal systems.

He never paused it.

::Dropmix? Did you pause the music?::

Jeopardy had sent out the message before he could think twice, returning to the patient's side. They were trying to replace some of the internals that had been damaged in the fight, it was nothing too bad. They probably would have only felt a bit of discomfort from them at this point with how they were healing, but it was always better to be safe with these kinds of things. He and Dropmix were pretty close to being finished as well. Had to reattach a few more lines and cables then close them back up.

The medical mech shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he resumed his work, a bit more aware of Dropmix’s absence. He had stepped out a bit ago to go grab another dose of sedatives for the patient. There had been a small complication and they didn’t want them to wake up. Nothing too bad, the small surgery was just going to be a little longer than they originally planned. Usually they kept extra sedatives nearby, however since they only got restocked they hadn’t had the time to refill the extras.

He hummed lightly to the music as he worked, doing his best to ignore the lack of the large presence that usually accompanied him. When Jeopardy had first arrived here he had found it almost unsettling how much Dropmix loomed, though he had grown accustomed to it. No one else ever seemed to notice how he stalked and watched; but no one else ever hung out with the dark medic anyway. It took time but Jeopardy has realized that there was something a bit protective in the way Dropmix watched over him.

It almost reminded Jeopardy of the guardians he had grown familiar with in his short time working in the Iacon medical facility before the uprising had occurred. After the arenas fell more and more guardians and other work based mechs similar to then started defecting to the Decepticons. Jeopardy had never been mad at them for it. All their life they had been treated like scrap and Megatron was a leader like them, someone who had gone through the same kind of mistreatment as them and sworn to make it better.

Dropmix should have been back by now, the storage closet wasn’t too far and the sedatives were always easy to find.

He also should have responded.

Unease clung to the white medic, he looked up at the door. The walls were soundproofed in here to let medics remain focused. If there had been a struggle he wouldn’t have heard it. Would he be any help in that situation? Probably not. But he could feel paranoia starting to sink its icy claws into him as he stared at the door. The music felt more ominous than it did comforting at the moment.

Had Dropmix shut off the music to try and signal him about something? Was his communicator not working? Was the closest thing to a meteor he had in danger?

::Dropmix?::

Jeopardy watched the door, expecting for it to open and for the large medic to lumber in muttering about how he had tripped or something. That was another thing, Jeopardy was by no means a large medical frame, but Dropmix was the biggest he had ever seen. How he was able to operate on the smaller patients like Nova or Saberfire had always blown him away.

The silence continued and Jeopardy’s grip on the medical tools tightened. His brow furrowed as he stared at the door. He swallowed awkwardly, his sparkrate picking up slightly. He shouldn’t panic, this was a ridiculous thing to panic about anyway. Dropmix could take care of himself. Jeopardy was overreacting and overthinking things just like how Dropmix always claimed he was.

::Dropmix is everything alright?::

He was just letting his anxiety get the better of him. That was all. Just like it always did. It would Drive Dropmix up a wall, he would sigh, exasperated, trying to explain that Jeopardy was getting caught up in the little things. He was young and mistakes were bound to happen, not everyone would want to be helped, patients still had their own agency when it came to accepting treatment. Jeopardy couldn’t have known any better, he couldn’t blame himself for someone refusing to take care of themself.

That had been after the incident with Nova. It felt like ages ago when it had happened but it still haunted him. It had been after Jeopardy was on the outlook for a few months, he was still trying to get close to the rest of the bots on base at the time and… it had scared him to almost lose one of them like that. It was also the first time that he was able to see some of Dropmix’s softer side—his genuine one, not the mask he put on for patients. Jeopardy forced himself to let out the breath he was holding.

::Dropmix?!::

Jeopardy couldn’t hear the music over the sound of rushing energon and his spark beating rapidly. He was overthinking this again. He knew better. He knew better than to snoop and push boundaries. That only got him in more trouble. It got him demoted and rejected. Why no medical officer wanted him as an assistant, no one wanted him around. Jeopardy poked at things that weren’t meant to be poked at, he shared his opinions when no one wanted to hear them or agreed. He hadn’t messed up yet, he had been so careful to not push.

Would Dropmix turn him away too if he pressed? Or would his refusal to respond and act only cause more harm for the large medic that he had become attached to. His patient needed tending to, he could still help them. He should help them. It's not like he was incapable of doing so. He didn’t need Dropmix’s supervision, he wasn’t some nurse or lowly assistant. Dropmix had made that clear before, time and time again.

::DROPMIX?::

Jeopardy placed his tools down. Even if he was concerned for his mentor, his patient would be needing those sedatives soon. They only had about 30 minutes left of promised unconsciousness, from there it would be a gamble. They could wake at any time to find Jeopardy still messing around with their insides… that was the kind of medical trauma that would mess up a bot. It would ruin their trust in all medics.

He couldn’t afford to be the reason that happened to someone.

So, Jeopardy wasn’t going to poke at things that should be left alone—he rationalized—no, he was going to get supplies for his patient. That was all. If he happened to stumble across something he shouldn’t he could ignore it. Turn a blind eye or just say that he was getting supplies and had no idea what they were talking about.

::I’m going to get the sedatives::

He had sent the comm out before he had a chance to think about it too much, before he would work himself up to the point where nothing sounded right. Was it a warning? Another attempt to reach out? A reminder to Dropmix about why he had left in the first place? He didn’t know. It honestly felt like more of a confirmation for himself. He was going to do that. Anything else he stumbled into was just coincidence.

The medic set his tools down on the sterile tray carefully. His hands hurt from how tightly he had been gripping them. Jeopardy forced a few more even breaths from his mouth. He walked towards the door, praying that suddenly Dropmix’s silence would be broken and jeopardy would laugh off all of the suffocating concern that had settled on him.

To his despair, the communicator remained unbothered by the time he had reached the door. He paused, staring at the blank metal surface like it had all the answers to the universe. Jeopardy was just getting sedatives. He didn’t doubt Dropmix's ability to do so. This wasn’t an attempt to push. He was just doing what he needed to ensure his patients' wellbeing.

That was his entire purpose.

The reason Jeopardy existed.

He was just trying to help.

With another deep, grounding breath he pressed against the door, unlocking it with medical codes. It took a brief moment for him to type in the final digit. Some part of him hoped that Dropmix would finally respond or open the door himself. He didn’t. Jeopardy finished the code and the door slid open.

He could smell energon and hot metal.

Jeopardy sucked in a breath, eyes widening at what he could see of the main medical bay. The operation room was tucked around the hallway so he didn’t have the entire view of the other room. But Dropmix’s desk had been placed so he would be able to watch over all of the medical bay at once, or at least get as close as he could.

Dropmix was pressed against the wall, breathing deeply but frantically. He had curled up and was cradling his head in his hands. There was energon on them, the bright liquid radiant on his dark armor. His face was out of sight, his posture pained.

The green mech that Jeopardy had grown fond of was hunched over a still form. Liquid falling down his cheeks. He was crying… like an organic might have—he was an organic. Cometeater was breathing raggedly, panicked and he crouched over the limp form of his brother on the ground.

The energon must have belonged to Sunstreaker, the motionless form on the ground. A halo of it gathering around his head on the ground in some grotesque display. Jeopardy’s scanners informed him that the gladiator was still alive—which was a relief. But his condition was less than promising.

The white medic stood in the doorway dumbly for a moment longer.

Then he began moving. Jeopardy rushed into the room, sedatives forgotten as his processor scanned for damage. No one else was hurt. The other patients were alright. Sunstreaker needed to be aided first. Comet looked unharmed. Dropmix hadn’t reacted when he had approached. The black medic would be able to handle his own injuries. Jeopardy fell to his knees beside Sunstreaker.

Cometeater hissed, posture growing volatile as he reared on Jeopardy. The medic hadn’t had time to react before fangs had sunk into his arm, tearing through the thick armor—like it was nothing. He yelped, pulling back sharply, pain spiking through him. Cometeater growled, plating flaring up in an angry display. He loosened his grip on his arm for just long enough to allow him to readjust and bite back down even harder.

Jeopardy let out a pained cry, falling backwards and trying to pull away desperately. He had done it again. He had messed up. Pushed too far. This was the consequences for it. But Sunstreaker needed him. The gladiator had already lost enough energon when they had found him. Comet wasn’t stopping the bleeding. Head wounds bleed a lot. He needed to stop it.

He needed to help.

But Cometeater didn’t seem to want his help.

The white medic looked over at Dropmix. He hadn’t started moving but he had looked up. He stared numbly at Jeopardy, his eyes distant. His visor wasn’t there either, it had been shattered, a long claw mark etched into his face. There was nothing but an empty socket under where the small screen had once been. Dropmix wasn’t helping, he wasn’t responding, he wasn’t there.

Claws raked at the smaller medic’s armor, peeling paint and leaving gashes in the once pristine surfaces. Jeopardy winced his mind screaming at him to get away and help at the same time. He wouldn’t win in a fight, but Sunstreaker needed him. He needed to keep himself together. Be professional. Don't get attached. Don't take it personally. Just act.

“Com–Cometeater, I need to help Sunstreaker,” He began, struggling to get his words out between shaky gasps of air and his frantic spiraling mind, “I’m not going to hurt him! I just need to stop the bleeding.”

The green figure growled even deeper, eyes narrowed into slits as he dug his fangs even deeper into Jeopardy’s arm. He started to twist his head, starting to pry off the plating with an effortless amount of practice. Cometeater’s claws moved from his shoulders to his chest, pressing against the transformation seams, trying to pry more plates off.

Jeopardy’s hand pressed against the other’s chest desperately. He didn’t know when he had ended up with his back on the floor with the other above him. Everything was still happening too fast, his mind was still focused on the steadily bleeding wound on Sunstreakers head. His plating on his arm finally gave way, snapping off and Jeopardy cried out in pain.

“Stop! Please I–” Jeopardy tried to reason again, cutting off in another cry—it might have been closer to a scream—as Comet’s fangs redirected themself at his chest. His green head cocked at an angle to allow his jaw to grip at one of the panels that his claws had uprooted slightly. He ripped off the plating swiftly, jaw going for another one.

Primus, Comet was trying to kill him!

He almost laughed bitterly at himself as he desperately tried to push the other’s face away only to have a clawed hand pin the arm to the floor.

No, Cometeater was going to kill him.

Jeopardy had failed again. He had made a critical error and now it would not only cost him his own life, but the life of Sunstreakers—probably the patient that still lay waiting on the operating table. He let out a choked cry, trying to press the other off of him desperately as his own energon spilled onto the ground.

“Please! Please–” Jeopardy’s voice cracked painfully. It had become so hard to breathe. He wasn’t built for this. He wasn’t trained to fight back. He didn’t know what he was doing. Comet didn’t care. He wasn’t stopping, tearing into Jeopardy’s chest one plate at a time. His eyes shut as more pain rippled through him.

Jeopardy screamed.

Cometeater wasn’t on him anymore.

He gasped for air, shaking, plating pressed against himself tightly as he trembled. He tried to ground himself, the feeling of energon pooling on his chest felt heavier and heavier. Cometeater wasn’t on top of him anymore, he wasn’t going to die. Jeopardy was still alive, still breathing. The feeling of being moved is what brought him back into the present, to the stinging pain in his arm, his burning chest.

Dropmix was hovering over him, teeth bared in a snarl and an animalistic growl rumbling from deep beneath his plating. He had pulled Jeopardy close to him protectively, possessively. His large arms wrapped around him, tucking him safely away from harm. Dropmix smelled like fresh welds, energon and hot metal scent almost suffocating. He was tense, pain rippling through him in tremors. His expression was focused but it wasn’t angry or animalistic like Comet’s, it was fearful.

The realization hit Jeopardy like a tidal wave.

Dropmix was scared.

Jeopardy didn’t move for a second, staring up at the other medic. He had never seen him scared before. It felt wrong. That was something that Dropmix wasn’t allowed to feel because he was bigger, stronger, more experienced than jeopardy would ever be. If he was afraid, what hope was there for Jeopardy?

The white medic looked over at where the other’s attention was, his breath stilling as he looked at the scene before him. Sunstreaker was still on the ground—Jeopardy needed to help him but Dropmix’s hold refused to budge at his attempts to pull away—Comet was being held by the golden gladiator's twin.

Sideswipe was holding Cometeater.

He must have crawled his way over and was now desperately pressing himself against Cometeater in a crushing hug. Jeopardy could see his mouth moving, though he couldn’t make out any of the words. The red twin guided Comet into his lap. The green mech seemed shaken and fragile, energon coating his hands and dripping down his face. He pressed against the larger bot shakily. Sideswipe looked over at them, expression lost and confused.

It reminded Jeopardy of when he first met the two. Comet clinging desperately to the red mech’s side like a lifeline.

The music hummed above just like it always had.

[quibble-auk]

Dropmix trials.

Previous

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

I know I promised fluff…. I still am working on the fluff. I just had to get this out there so I could think properly.

Sorry this is so short.

I was going to try and make it longer but it felt like I was kinda forcing it? Like man is low key dissociating right now and I feel like if I linger in his perspective too much it’ll be weird.

Dropmix’s thoughts on it all haha…

—

Smoke and dust stung his eyes. The world around him was chaos, screams and blaster fire echoing around the colosseum. The ground trembled and shook as structures fell. The sky was hidden under a thick layer of smog.

The pits had fallen.

Dropmix was pressed into the ground, a large boot on his back. The guardian had pinned him quickly, the world numbing pain of BCP in full effect and a blistering burning in his chest from where he had been shot. Energon was slick on his back, seeping into the ground beneath him. He still struggled against their hold. His claws restrained in cuffs and his head forced into the grime covered ground by a large hand. He bore his teeth at the guardian.

This is what he got for trying to attack their charge. Dropmix hadn’t meant to, not really. When he had fallen from the blaster fire erupting through his chest and Theremin had knelt above him his mind already descended into a panic. His Conjunx had collapsed next to him, hands pressing into the wound to stop the bleeding. When two large hands had pulled the medic away the gladiator wasn’t thinking clearly enough before he had reacted.

The guardian above him mercilessly drove their weight into him, it was getting harder to breathe.

Dropmix watched his Conjunx. A large mech spoke to him—his processor absently informed him of the name, Noxious. He could see the second guardian mech standing next to him, alertly looking for any other threats. Theremin looked horrified, but not afraid. The medic shook their head, backing up slightly. There was something nervous in his gaze as it flicked to Dropmix, pleading for help.

The gladiator groaned, shifting under the weight of the boot and straining against the programs that left his mind in a haze. He couldn’t understand what they were saying. He just needed to get Theremin away, he needed to be safe. He tried to pull away, to get closer. Dropmix had been so focused on getting away that he hadn’t even noticed that the blaster had been pulled out.

When he did, rage surged through him, surpassing the programs that tried to reel it in. He managed to get the boot off of him. Energon rushed through him and his spark beat drummed thunderously in his ears.

Theremin screamed.

No. It wasn’t Theremin. Theremin had been dead for a long time now. The scream wasn’t his. Just like how there was no crushing weight on his back or restraints digging into him.

Jeopardy screamed.

Dropmix moved.

Despite the programs that coursed through his body, numbing his mind and sending pulses of pain through his nerves, he lunged forward. Breathing was hard, his frame felt too hot, but he shoved Cometeater away regardless. The white medic cried out again as claws were uprooted and fangs harshly pried away. Dropmix snatched his broken frame and clung to it.

His arms moved before he could think about it, pulling the younger mech even closer to his chest. Every movement sent painful electrical waves through his heavy limbs. His vision swam as another onslaught of mind numbing codes washed over him, forcing him to comply. His armor suffocated him, heat trapped under the thick plating and making it even harder to cool himself off. None of it mattered.

Jeopardy was breathing in frantic gasps. Energon pooled from his chest, soft whines and pained whimpers escaped him. The medic looked up at Dropmix, wide eyes full of terror and pain. For a brief moment he flinched, eyes darting to the still form of Sunstreaker before returning to the large gladiator that held him.

Dropmix had almost lost him.

If it wasn’t for the programs that fought his anger and squandered his rage painfully he probably would have lost it by now. Instead all he could feel was blistering pain and an overwhelming amount of fear.

Dropmix had almost lost Jeopardy.

He held Jeopardy even tighter, refusing to let go. He could hear armor groaning under pressure. Slick energon spilling onto him. The smaller mech weakly pulled away as he winced. Dropmix held him closer, ignoring the way he squirmed.

Just like he had lost Theremin.

He couldn’t breathe.

Dropmix lunged forward, claws restrained but mouth opened and ready to sink his fangs into the opponent's neck. Into the fragger that dared to hurt what was his. Theremin was on the ground, gasping feebly for air as energon welled from his chest. Dropmix could see his spark, weakly pulsing, flickering. He shouldn’t have been able to see it. Maybe that was why he had faltered.

The second guardian intercepted his attack before he had the chance to kill the bastard that had done this. Their heavy hand crushed his face. A large palm shoved his helm away, fingers digging into his skull. Blinding pain erupted in his eye as the guardian carelessly thrust him into the ground with a sickening Crack!

He gasped for air as his remaining eye struggled to focus, looking blankly around for Theremin. The gladiator’s hand moved to his neck as Dropmix finally caught a glimpse of his Conjunx. He had stopped moving. His body slumped against the ground, discarded like some kind of broken toy. His eyes were empty and hollow, his chest no longer convulsed in desperate attempts to breathe.

Dropmix knew he should have felt something. Rage, pain, maybe even guilt. He didn’t. For the first time in his life, there was nothing, like he had been carved out. He felt just as empty as Theremin’s eyes were.

That was the last time he ever saw his Conjunx, broken and disgraced on the floor, drowning in a pool of his own energon.

The suffocating heat of his armor, the phantom sting of shattered optics—Dropmix blinked, and Theremin’s lifeless face was gone. In its place, Jeopardy was squirming in his arms, still alive, but struggling.

“Dropmix!” Sideswipe was holding a sobbing Cometeater in his lap, he was staring at Dropmix with confusion and panic. His shaky hands weekly rubbing circles into the smaller forms back. Cometeater tensed in his lap, still sobbing into his chest, and Sideswipe’s grip tightened protectively around him. His voice was commanding despite his confused expression, “Let him go.”

Dropmix looked down in his arms and almost choked. Jeopardy was feebly clawing to get away, his armor denting under the force of the gladiator’s hold. He was hurting him. His hands twitched. His grip slackened, but for a fraction of a second, he hesitated, fingers still curled against Jeopardy’s plating. Dropmix’s breath hitched as he flinched away, releasing his grip on the smaller medic.

Jeopardy scrambled away, moving to Sunstreaker’s side. He didn’t look back at Dropmix, his gaze fixated on the wounded mech beneath him. His hands flew into action, moving himself to avoid getting his own energon on the golden gladiator but still managing to press against the injury. Jeopardy’s plates shook violently, terror and pain still lingering but overridden by the need to help.

The large gladiator struggled to suck in a breath. His mind still reeling, struggling to grasp onto a coherent thought, programs and codes surging through his processor and dismantling anything before it could take hold. His body ached under the suffocation pressure of armor, too much armor, his plating rattled beneath it, trying desperately to flare out in an attempt to release the heat building in him.

Distantly, Dropmix was able to read the notification message—he was overheating, the armor was trapping the hot air his fans were struggling to circulate out of him. Dropmix still couldn’t move, pain rippling through him as the BCP forced his body to submit, brutally attacking the systems that struggled to activate.

He knew the music was still there. It had to be. Otherwise the BCP wouldn’t be active. Dropmix couldn’t hear it though. Not over the hissing of hot metal and his thundering sparkbeats.

Dropmix had hurt Jeopardy.

[quibble-auk]

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

Idk if this is any good considering I never took a nap today and so I’ve been awake for just short of 48 hours now. Why? I have no clue. Sleep is for the weak?

So I think I can blame this not going anywhere and kinda sucking on that. I don’t go as in detail as I wanted but maybe I’ll do a flashback or smth later. Who knows.

I do know that in about to have the best sleep of my life right here.

This entire this is ehhhhhhhhhg. But I’ll look at it tomorrow and maybe it’ll be better.

Dropmix is actually not a doctor. I know. Shocker.

—

Dropmix genuinely didn’t know how Jeopardy had managed to talk him into this. He’d always been self-sufficient—kept up with his own medical screenings, ran his diagnostics, fixed what needed fixing. It had been ages since anyone else had given him a routine checkup. Honestly, he would argue that the last mech to give him a proper examination was Theremin.

That very fact was the sole reason why he had been able to get away with not ever going in for an official medical examination all this time.

Not that he was complaining. It was easier this way. Most medics handled their own upkeep. That’s how it went.

And that very assumption—that silent, unspoken truth—was exactly how Dropmix had managed to dodge official screenings for this long.

But Jeopardy had become increasingly insistent. Dropmix should get professionally examined, he’d said. A real, external, professional perspective. Which was only mildly offensive, considering Dropmix was a professional. He knew his own body better than anyone. He’d survived worse, carried himself through more than anyone had a right to. What more proof did they need?

Still, Earth had other plans. The planet, for whatever reason, seemed dead set on ruining his life one miserable element at a time.

The grass had been the first offense—an abomination that he still refused to touch whenever possible. Then came the heat and humidity. Earth’s atmosphere was a damp, suffocating thing, clutching onto heat long after sunset, like it had something to prove.

The thick air made his vents sluggish, muddied his intakes, weighed down his limbs with an exhausting kind of pressure. Jeopardy had suggested—more than once—that he should just take off his armor to cool down. Which was laughable. Like hell he would, not in a place like this. He could tolerate the heat cycles, the clogging vents, the tightness in his joints. He’d survived worse.

But Earth wasn’t done.

Overheating to the point of blacking out hadn’t exactly been on Dropmix’s to-do list, and by the time he realized that retreating indoors wasn’t helping, it had already been too late. He didn’t remember much of the fall, but Jeopardy had eagerly described the image later. A battle-hardened medic collapsing face-first into the ground—which just so happened to be grass—sputtering and wheezing like a broken air pump.

And of course, after that mortifying incident, Jeopardy had gone straight to Ratchet. Reported his refusal to get checked, his questionable modifications, the fact that his medical records were practically nonexistent.

Ratchet, unsurprisingly, had been furious.

The CMO had lectured him relentlessly, rattling off possible causes, potential malfunctions, irreversible overheating damage. Dropmix had tried to tune it out—he already knew all of this, he wasn’t some headstrong soldier who was convinced they were invincible—but the worry behind the words clung to him.

Ratchet insisted on doing the screenings himself. No assistants. No Jeopardy. No argument.

Fine by Dropmix. Jeopardy didn’t need to see this anyway.

He sat on the medical berth in silence, armor carefully removed and stacked beside him in a precise, methodical pile. It left him feeling exposed—vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. And yet, he couldn’t help but relish in the moment, free from the oppressive weight, the suffocating confinement. He had missed this.

Dropmix was early, by just a few minutes, but each one dragged on endlessly.

He wasn’t nervous. That’s what he told himself. He’d done this before. In the Pits, med checks were a regular thing—before and after every match. But that was before he’d torn himself apart to build a frame that could mimic someone else's. Before the permanent changes. The things you couldn’t undo.

Ratchet walked into the private room, datapad in hand. The orange and white mech grumbled under his breath as he looked through the contents of the screen. When he finally did glance over, he stopped short. Eyebrows lifted. Then his gaze narrowed. He didn’t even need a scanner. Dropmix could tell the old mech was already running diagnostics just from the way his eyes flicked over his frame.

The medic huffed, already irritated. “I thought I told you to take all of your armor off.”

Dropmix barely reacted. His voice was calm, detached, “These parts don’t come off,” He looked down at his wrist where dense red and black armor gleamed back at him.

“You're a gladiator for Primus sake!” Ratchet scoffed, glaring at his patient as he stalked closer, “Armor above the waist always comes off—and you're an old enough model that your leg plating probably does too.”

The dark mech didn’t react to Ratchet’s outburst. Looking back at the scraps of armor that remained attached, unmoving. They would not be coming off that easy, he had made sure of that. Dropmix looked down at his elbow where the joint guard remained tightly fastened. He formed and let his gaze wander upwards again.

“The wrist guards are integrated,” he explained, watching Ratchet carefully. “I wired them into my internal systems. I can remove them, but it’d take more time than it’s worth.”

The CMO exhaled sharply, clearly unconvinced. He dropped the datapad onto the desk with a loud clack and stepped in closer. Dropmix extended his arm passively, knowing resistance was pointless. He knew that he had to cooperate, he needed to listen.

Ratchet snatched his arm into his hands—his grasp surprisingly gentle for such a hostile approach—to examine it further. He looked at the wrist guards briefly before he tapped the elbow guard impatiently. “And these? What’s your excuse here?”

“They came loose when I moved. Popped off mid-action. So I locked them in place.” Dropmix explained neutrally, unbothered.

The medic snorted unhappily, “That’s really helpful. Thanks.”

The gladiator knew that now was not the time nor place, but he couldn’t help himself. Dropmix snickered, “Yeah, figured you might have trouble seeing that—you know, with your age and everything.”

The comment earned him a firm whack in the head. Dropmix’s smug expression remained though, even as Ratchet huffed angrily under his breath, “You’re older than me.”

Ratchet’s eyes narrowed as he leaned closer to the gladiator’s elbow, examining the joint. After a moment he moved his hand over the armor, gently tugging on it, testing to see how well it was attached—Dropmix ignored the dull ache. A second passed and the medic recoiled, “Fragging—I thought you welded this!”

The gladiator shook his head, watching the other closely, “It kept falling off. It rubbed against the other pieces of armor and it would get knocked loose, even when I welded it into place.”

Ratchet leaned back, glaring at the dark mech, eyes alight with barely contained rage. He took a deep breath before speaking, words coming out in an intense hiss, “And your solution to that was to stab metal rods through your joints?”

“I needed sturdier anchor points.” Dropmix nodded again, looking down at the armor for a brief moment, “But gladiator frames don’t come equipped with adequate structures to support this kind of armor, not long term at least. I improvised.”

The medic stared at him for a moment, clearly struggling to find the right words, his lips pressed in a firm line. Dropmix could hear the other’s fans running on high as they processed the information. Ratchet shook his head, “What was so important that you had to flawlessly imitate a medical frame?”

Killing Noxious.

No, that wasn’t right. Dropmix hadn’t killed him, not at first. He had dragged him away and then went off the grid for a year or two until the fragger’s spark finally gave out. It turned out there was a limit to how many times you could rebuild a mech, Dropmix had found it. But he needed to appear docile so he could get close enough to make the sorry excuse of a mech pay.

It was never about killing Noxious though.

It was about Theremin.

He knew better than to admit any of that though. Instead he finally allowed himself enough emotion to snarl, “That’s personal.”

Ratchet exhaled slowly, dropping his arm and stepping back. He swept his gaze over the remaining armor, defeated.

“Of course it is,” he muttered. He pinched the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a migraine. “And why didn’t you do it properly? I’ve seen Coo attach supports better than this.”

Dropmix paused. Then, with a slow blink, he admitted, “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

The medic groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Primus, what kind of mentor lets you get away with that—” He stopped. Blinked. Looked up at him.

“You didn’t have one. You’re a gladiator.” Ratchet’s expression fell, voice softening, “Who taught you medicine?”

“I’m self taught.” Dropmix admitted plainly, “I knew the basics from The Pits. I taught myself the more advanced stuff through my own studies. When I was finally given access I started reading official manuals and actual medical records.”

The CMO didn’t need to know that his “own studies” meant using himself as a cadaver. Or when he knew that he would be unable to perform the procedure on himself it meant he would abduct random civilians to serve as his patient. He used the outdated datapads he could get his hands on to teach himself terms. From there it had just been a matter of getting into Noxious’ team.

Ratchet frowned, “You don’t have a license?”

“That is correct.” Dropmix nodded once.

The chief medical officer stared blankly at him, he remained quiet for several minutes this time. He sighed, gaze firmly set on the ground, “And you've never tried to fix the parts you stabbed, why?”

That was a trick question, there were too many answers. His own punishment, a reminder that he was lying, because he had never doubted the time, he had just gotten used to it, there was never the rougher supplies. The list went on and on, long enough that Dropmix had never bothered to consider ever trying to fix it himself. None of those answers would be enough for Ratchet, Dropmix knew that. The medic would see this as self mutilation, malpractice, and self harm. Nothing more.

“Never got around to it, I’ve got a high enough pain tolerance it doesn’t bother me that much.”

Ratchet made a sharp, incredulous sound, more of a bark than a laugh. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a high enough pain tolerance to deal with half-wit patients, but that doesn’t mean I want to.”

Dropmix didn’t respond. He let the words pass over him, unbothered on the surface, even as something deep in his core twisted.

The medic didn’t push right away. He stared at Dropmix like he was a machine puzzle half-taken apart—something old and half-rusted, held together by the wrong bolts and stubborn spite. Something that had worked, somehow, against every sensible expectation.

Eventually, Ratchet moved again, crossing the room to retrieve a scanning device. He huffed as he slowly sauntered back over, pressing a couple of buttons on the handheld device. “I’ll be honest with you, I’m not sure if I’m more mad, concerned, or impressed right now.”

“Preferably, not concerned,” Dropmix said, quieter this time. His gaze dropped to his own arm, scarred seams, exposed hydraulics, systems too old for modern schematics, “I’m not in critical condition. Technically, I'm not even injured.”

Ratchet didn’t argue right away. He simply nodded once, like he’d expected that answer. He stepped closer and began the scan, running the tool slowly along Dropmix’s forearm. The soft hum filled the silence, broken only by the occasional beep as Ratchet marked internal anomalies—of which there were many.

“You know,” Ratchet said, still scanning, “When Jeopardy first came to me about this, I figured he was being dramatic. Young medics like him tend to get worked up quickly, as I’m sure you’ve discovered. I told him you were probably just running too hot and needed a coolant flush.”

“Which I do,” Dropmix muttered.

Ratchet ignored him. “Guess he was right to be worried, you’re an absolute mess. I’m starting to think Optimus isn’t that bad.”

The scanner let out a long, irritated buzz as it detected another abnormality. Ratchet tapped at the screen and frowned deeper, muttering something under his breath that Dropmix didn’t catch—though from the tone, it wasn’t flattering.

There was another buzz when Ratchet moved to the other arm.

Ratchet huffed again, stepping back and crossing his arms. He glanced down at the datapad, scowling. “You’ve got joint strain, overheating damage, feedback lag in your nerve lines, and you’ve re-routed your coolant system so many times I’m amazed you haven’t melted.”

The medic huffed in defeat, “Somehow, not as bad as I thought you’d be.”

“Thanks for the confidence,” Dropmix deadpanned, shifting from his relaxed posture on the berth.

The CMO ignored him, shaking his head as he set the datapad down, “I doubt you’ll go to anyone on Cybertron about this.”

The gladiator nodded, “I don’t plan on it.”

“And I don’t even know what to do about you not having a license,” Ratchet admitted, sounding far more tired than before.

Ratchet ran a hand over his face, dragging his fingers down his jaw like he was trying to physically pull the exhaustion out. “You’ve been flying under the radar for years. You’re good—hell, even I can admit that. Your fieldwork is sharp. Your patients walk away, which is more than I can say for some licensed medics.” He paused, narrowed his eyes. “But that doesn’t make this right.”

Dropmix tilted his head slightly, not defensive, just… thoughtful. “Never claimed that it was right.”

Ratchet grunted at that, walking away to pace once, twice, before circling back. “Does Jeopardy know? He could have his license revoked if they find out he was trained under you.”

The gladiator frowned, he hadn’t thought about that. He stared down at his exposed arm again, fingers flexing once before stilling. “He doesn’t need to know.”

The medic gave him a sharp look. “That’s not how this works, Dropmix.”

Dropmix glared at the medic, eyes cold and calculating. He would not let Jeopardy get punished for what he had done, for his own inadequacies. The gladiator bared his filed teeth, a growl working its way up from deep within his engine, “Then make it work.”