tfmegaratch | [FIC] Reconstruction (Reply)

A birthday gift for tarklesbehindthescenes on Tumblr. Incidentally fits the theme of "Unexpected"

Continuity: G1

Rating: Teen (for referenced violence)

Relationships: Megatron/Ratchet

Characters: Ratchet & Megatron

Tags: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Serious Injuries Treated Casually, Medical Procedures, Not Beta Read

Summary: In which Ratchet is tasked with rebuilding Megatron from scratch.

Crossposting: AO3 | Tumblr | Dreamwidth

Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

Despite, perhaps, the “best” efforts of the Quintessons, there was functionally very little difference in the physiologies of the Autobot and Decepticon “races” that they had allegedly created, as Ratchet was finding out.

Practically nothing, save for the brand with which each was stamped and the probability of having a combat-oriented alt-mode. They were otherwise functionally identical. Why have two completely different blueprints when you could merely use one and make a few changes?

Though perhaps that was no surprise as both types of Cybertronian had taken on the responsibility of constructing more of themselves since their “creators” had been banished, even if the Quintessons hadn’t skimped on the engineering.

Ratchet had always suspected that to be the case, but now that he was manually sifting through a pile of various debris in search of Decepticon pieces, he knew for certain.

He also knew that he was getting to be quite good at determining the specific shades of gray and black that meant a piece of exterior plating almost certainly belonged to Megatron, rather than the crates and equipment that had been collateral damage in the blast.

Though it helped that Ratchet had his currently offline head on hand nearby for quick reference, at least of the gray parts. The black required a little more guesswork, especially given determining if the color was paint or soot.

Given the marks on his fingertips, plenty had been merely soot.

Prime had given the order to reassemble Megatron and take him prisoner, rather than simply keeping his components in a pile somewhere or smelting them down after a lucky strike after a Decepticon raid on the Autobot base had blown the fool to smithereens. Prime had too much of a soft spot for someone who had tricked him repeatedly one way or another since the day they had met, but Ratchet wouldn’t tell Prime “no.” Not unless it was a medical emergency; a shredded pile of scrap didn’t qualify as one.

He grumbled, tossing aside another sooty piece for recycling as the mess smeared across his palm.

The pile on the workbench was slowly shrinking as it was sorted, a small mercy.

It had seemed almost too easy to take Megatron down and turn back the tide of the assault, but Ratchet’s objections hadn’t mattered. Only Red Alert had agreed with him, undercutting Ratchet’s resolve on the matter.

Instead, he had been saddled with this. It would take weeks of work for Ratchet to find, let alone reassemble, the components themselves from scattered shards and shredded wires, let alone arrange them into a functional being. He had already been at it for a few days, stopping only for fuel, recharge, and the occasional oil change.

Ratchet reached back into the pile, plucking another piece of probable scrap off the heap.

Though he wasn’t quite sure he would or even could find every single piece in this pile, not that he would look terribly hard. A magnet on a stick and a shovel had been his primary tools of collection in the first place. Not that every single piece would have been necessary.

Whatever wasn’t in the pile he had gathered could be readily replaced. Jigsaw puzzles weren’t so terrible when one could make the missing pieces.

One wire was much like another after all.

As long as enough was original, chiefly the primary processor, Megatron would, regrettably, be the same. His head had managed to sustain minimal damage, mostly having been severed by the explosion before careening face-first into a dusty corner. That had saved his primary processor from significant damage. Luckily for Megatron and unluckily for everyone else. The rest of his shattered body would require more significant replacement and repair.

Ratchet held up another promising shard to Megatron’s helmet to compare the color.

No. That was a bit of downed bulkhead.

Ratchet tossed it over his shoulder into the recycle bin. Someone would come by the repair bay later and take it away for processing. Inconsequential bits of Megatron had doubtlessly ended up there by mistake or if the “distinctive” paint had been lost, but Ratchet wasn’t going to stress himself over it.

“You’re a moron,” he said to the head. “But at least this way you’re much more amiable.”

“Capturing me won’t end it. Starscream may be a fool, but he is skilled and with Soundwave to temper his impulses….”

Megatron’s freshly activated head left the obvious conclusion of continued violence between their factions unsaid.

Maybe Ratchet had made a mistake by reattaching his head to his reconstructed torso first rather than last. Under normal circumstances, he would consider the patient talking a good sign. By definition, Megatron in his repair bay did not qualify, for better or worse, as “normal circumstances.”

If only Megatron didn’t feel the need to talk while being reassembled, but he had never been known to shut up either so it was hardly surprising. While that meant that Megatron had likely not sustained too much processor damage, it also meant he could inflict his aggressively aggravating personality on anyone around. Specifically Ratchet.

Ratchet would miss the comfortable silence that he’d had for those long weeks of putting this idiot’s bits and bobs back together like an overly complicated model kit.

Regardless, no matter what Megatron told him, it wasn’t Ratchet’s call how to proceed from here, not as far as the long-standing war was concerned. He could determine the order of operations for Megatron’s repairs, but nothing more.

“I’m not the one you should be telling,” he said, carefully soldering some of the smaller replacement wires to reconnect Megatron’s bare metal right arm to his shoulder. The arm was strapped down to the table at the elbow and the wrist to minimize safety risks once the connections were in place.

For now, Megatron was a head and torso on a slab while Ratchet worked on putting the rest back together.

Prime hadn’t even come down here once to check on the progress since Ratchet had set to work at the beginning of this entire mess, so it wasn’t like Megatron could exactly tell Prime himself.

Content with his refusal, Ratchet went back to his task.

Ratchet would need to paint this limb. He should have painted it before starting reassembly, but he could just anesthetize Megatron later.

The entire original right arm had been lost, he had realized while sifting through the junk. The fusion cannon mounted on it had exploded, rendering the entire arm into atoms. Rather than bothering to chase down stray atoms in the atmosphere, he had simply decided to construct a new one using the left arm, still propped up on a table nearby, as a guide.

At least he could readily mix up a matching paint from memory by now. He was almost sick of this shade of gray, just a touch warmer in hue and darker in value than the unsealed metal of a corpse.

“There is no one else I would need to tell.”

“Excuse me?” Ratchet looked up, setting aside his soldering gun.

Megatron stared back at him, his optical ridges furrowed. An awfully serious expression for being only a quarter of a body at the moment.

“Besides, I’m not telling you, Autobot,” he said, continuing on without actually addressing Ratchet’s objection, “I’m warning you.”

Seemingly warning Ratchet specifically.

Maybe he should have welded Megatron’s mouth shut, leaving only a hole with an optional funnel to pour fuel into. That would have saved some headache though he had a feeling Prime would have objected.

“Why bother warning me?”

Megatron smirked, but for once didn’t answer. Ratchet should have removed the actuators necessary for that expression.

This wasn’t the silence he wanted to work in.

Megatron’s harsh voice had become familiar background noise, due to his incessant complaining while Ratchet had repaired him. It was simultaneously annoying and comforting. This morning, however, he had been uncharacteristically quiet.

Ratchet had said nothing, trying to enjoy the silence he had wished for despite the anxiety that had built up in his circuits from the ominous change.

The Ark shuddered underfoot as Ratchet fell forward over the slab—over Megatron’s restrained legs. The soldering gun flew out of his hand and across the room; raw, exposed wires in Megatron’s ankle arced with loud snaps.

“I had hoped you would have finished my repairs sooner, but it seems we’ve run out of time.”

It was the first thing Megatron had said all morning. His voice was oddly calm, like he had expected the disruption.

“What?” Ratchet asked, barely having the time to process the question before a purple light flashed off to the side, filling his peripheral vision.

“It appears that now…” There was a quiet chuckle. “… you and I will both be leaving.”