Chapter Text
Thirty minutes. Pharma had rented the Visu-Deck for an hour and Ratchet was thirty minutes late.
"No, it's okay, I'll wait," he assured the well-polished wait-mech who slid by, inquiring if sir wished to start his session? She could show sir how to make a selection if sir was unfamiliar? "It's fine. I'm just waiting for a friend."
She topped off his drink and retreated. Pharma checked his chrono. Thirty-one minutes. Once again he commed Ratchet and once again there was no reply.
His chrono had just hit thirty-six minutes when Ratchet stumped up to the booth, his paint showing its usual scuffs and rubs, but smelling aggressively sanitized.
"I know, I know, I'm late," Ratchet raised his hands in forestallment. "There was a cave-in on Sub-Level 23. Two deaths and eleven injuries."
"That's–"
"Three of them had simple scrapes and contusions," Ratchet continued without missing a beat, "but four of 'em had lost structural integrity to their chests and you know what that means, installing emergency substructures. As for the other eight– "
"I understand," Pharma interrupted, painting on a smile and praying that he wouldn't be hearing about these anonymous miners' mishap the entire evening.
His trepidation must have shown in his eyes, because Ratchet cleared his throat and said, "I don't suppose you invited me here to talk shop. Anyway . . . sorry."
"It's fine." Pharma unfolded from his seat and tugged the older medic down the aisle of booths, past the ostentatious bar, with "Club Tetrex" scrolled across the back wall in a fancy font, and the plush lounge chairs where bots lay pulling in vents full of hazy smoke which, Pharma knew with medical certainty, they would regret down the line. "You're always so busy, Ratchet, but that's exactly why you need this. A change of scenery, a chance to unwind."
"A chance to waste money," Ratchet huffed, back to his cynical self.
"I told you, this is my treat."
They reached a row of metallic black doorways, each with a tasteful bronze door and an attendant bot. The staff were easily identified by their mesh-cloth sashes in the club's signature colors of black and gold, which looped around their chests in careful pleats.
"So how do we do this?" Ratchet asked as Pharma handed a gold card to a sleek aqua attendant-bot who no doubt had been chosen in part because his plating harmonized well with the cool blue lighting. "Do we have to put on virtual helmets or what?"
"Nothing so primitive, sir. Merely being in the data-pod will produce the desired experience. Enter the Visu-Deck and live the wonder!" the attendant chirped. "Please proceed to Pod A-2 and enjoy your remaining nineteen minutes."
"Now hang on." Ratchet said. "Couldn't you let Pharma, at least, have the full hour? It's my fault we're late."
"Rules are rules, sir." The attendant was polite but firm. He pressed a button on his kiosk and one of the doors spiraled open. "Please proceed."
"But he's entitled to get what he paid for–" Ratchet set his feet in that stubborn way of his, preparing to argue until he got his way or (more likely) was kicked out; Pharma sidestepped the ordeal by slapping a generous tip onto the kiosk and hauling Ratchet bodily through the open door.
"Do you always have to make a scene?" It was hard to see Ratchet in the darkened room, which was lit only by a grid of dim white lights that covered the walls, floor, and ceiling, but a familiar bot-shaped silhouette gave him enough of an idea that he could scold in the appropriate direction.
"Listen, when someone is trying to cheat you–"
"They aren't, they schedule these out by the hour, in nineteen minutes someone else will be in here! Besides, Sentinel Prime gave me an annual pass, I can come whenever I want." He had only come once before, though; Club Tetrex was on the opposite side of Iacon from the Primal Palace and, well . . . the experience had been lonely. He pushed the thought away and added acidly, "You could have been punctual, if you care so much."
"I told you, there was a cave-in! There were injured bots!"
"And no one else at your little clinic could take care of them? Of course not, CMO Ratchet had to play savior to the grateful little miners. How's it feel to have them kissing your feet?"
"Kissing my–" Ratchet bristled. "That's big talk from someone who spends all day sucking up to the Prime, drowning in luxury while the miners who keep your aft online get worn down to scrap-"
"Last time I checked I wasn't the only one in the city drinking energon! And it's a character flaw now, keeping the protector of our city safe? You served the Primes too."
"Yeah, when there were thirteen of 'em who were constantly going into battle and getting banged up. The war is over now, the Quints are gone, so . . ." Ratchet shrugged.
That wasn't strictly true, there were still Quintesson scouts out there, prowling Cybertron. Occasionally Sentinel Prime returned with laser burns or acidic scarring after destroying a nest of the bugs. But that was a state secret, something to worry about at night while staring at the ceiling.
So Pharma only said, "The surface is still dangerous. I wish you'd come back to the Primal Palace, Ratchet. I'm sure Sentinel could be convinced to add you on. You're . . . you're missed."
Before Ratchet could reply the lights cut out, startling the two medics into silence. In slow shimmers, starting at the back of the room and rolling forward, a landscape materialized around them: a soft violet sky, stars twinkling through wisps of clouds, and a distant mountain range. Each gleaming peak curved like a pitcher, endlessly pouring streams of pale blue sand into a rippling sea. Purple lavendiode flowers rustled around them, scenting the air with their fragrance as they spread into the distance like a sea in their own right.
After a moment both bots sat down on the reflective ground that had appeared beneath them (which, alas, still felt like the club's flooring to the touch).
"This is nice," Ratchet said, his tone gruff. His optics wandered from the flowers to the mountains. "The Vosian Sandspires, huh? You ever see 'em in person?"
"No. You?"
"Once. It's a good likeness."
The sunlight felt real on Pharma's plating. His gaze was split between the majestic mountains and the sky. How long had it been since he raced through the clouds? Or had seen clouds, even?
He glanced at Ratchet; despite the old mech's grousing, he was drinking in the scene. Were those tears gathering in the corners of Ratchet's optics? Pharma tactfully looked away.
If he kept patching up Sentinel Prime, he would keep searching for the Matrix of Leadership. And once the Prime found that, once every last Quintesson was destroyed and the mutants they left roaming the surface neutralized, then everyone would be able to stand under the open sky again.
Pharma just needed to remember that.
He just needed to keep doing what had to be done.