Chapter Text
"Staying late, Ratch?" Ratchet glanced up from the spreadsheet he had been engrossed in for the better half of the last six hours. Safety, Iacon Aquatics' newest bioscience intern, was standing expectantly before his desk. "Pharma's taking us all out for a few drinks, if you're interested."
"Don't bother," said Pharma, kicking the door to his private office closed, "The mech is married to his work." The jet stalked past them, optics trailing over the organised chaos of Ratchet's desk.
"Well, if you change your mind, we're going to be at The Semantic Error," said Safety.
Slowly, Ratchet's co-workers began to trickle out. Finally, the office was blessedly silent. Ratchet delved back into his data, organising and teasing out the patterns. He gave little thought to Safety's offer. His party ambulance days were long gone, and he had no interest in making friends of co-workers — Especially coworkers as young as Safety, who had likely been sparked around the time Ratchet had been finishing up his doctorate.
The hours slipped away as Ratchet worked. There was an endless amount of satellite tracker data to sort through. It was pressing work, given the recent outbreak of a mysterious skin condition among Mer-mecha populations on the Crystal Coast. Lines of movement had to be measured, instances of contact noted, and abnormalities investigated. Ratchet frowned at his screen and took a sip of his energon, which had long since gone cold. This decacycle's tracker data was unusual. Mer who typically stuck to familiar home ranges were moving erratically, often crossing paths — strange behaviour, for a species that was largely solitary outside of the mating season.
Ratchet saved his file and sent it over to Pharma, noting the abnormalities. Finally, he shut his laptop and sat back. His back-struts groaned, and his chronometer told him that it was late enough in the night-cycle that the complex would be entirely empty, save for the janitorial drones. The time was of little consequence to Ratchet, who had gotten used to operating without regular recharge during his days working at Iacon General. He didn't rush on his way out of the office; it wasn't as though there was anyone waiting for him at home.
As Ratchet made his way through the dark halls of Iacon Aquatics' bioscience wing, his HUD pinged him an insistent [unopened message] notification. His mood instantly soured at the reminder of the staff-wide internal notice sitting in his inbox, titled Iacon Aquarium welcomes a new Mer-mech!
It was the same notice that went out every few Kilocycles, when the aquarium's deeply incompetent Director decided that it was time to take another shot at being the first to sucessfully house a mer in captivity. The aquarium's last aquisition had been a hefty yellow-black Mermech with formidable spikes. A few short weeks after the mer's arrival, Ratchet had spent six hours in surgery attempting unsucessfully to repair its shattered helm — a self-inflicted wound, the product of repeated impacts against reinforced tank walls.
Despite his distaste for the Director's dubious ethics, curiosity pulled at Ratchet's processor. After cycles in transit, what condition was the mer in? What phenotypic variation did it exhibit? Well. It wouldn't be any trouble to cut through the aquarium on his way out, Ratchet decided.
He crossed the connecting bridge that joined Iacon Aquatics’ bioscience wing with the Iacon Aquarium's staff-only facilities, walking the familiar path to the Quarantine tanks. While Ratchet was formally employed by Iacon Aquatics, the company’s close partnership with the aquarium meant that he was often called in to provide veterinary services to the Aquarium’s denizens.
The double doors to the quarantine room slid open for him, recognizing his EM signature. It was dark inside, save for the lighting strips along the floor and walls, which gave off a gentle blue glow. Ratchet stopped to examine each tank as he passed, checking on the condition of the creatures within. The jellybots he had treated for white rust the week prior were holding up well, and the aquarium's newly arrived shipment of Hydroweasels seemed to be adjusting just fine. The ghost of a smile crossed Ratchet's face as he examined the Hydroweasels, who were clinging to one another, forming a fuzzy little raft atop the water. They had been in rough shape upon their arrival at the Aquarium, but after a few rounds of antivirals they seemed to be on the mend. Most of the creatures housed in the aquarium were drone-like in their intelligence, but Ratchet made a point of caring for them just as he had cared for his full-sparked Cybertronian patients.
Steps echoed through the empty room as Ratchet came up on the largest of the quarantine tanks, which was constructed out of one-way glass strong enough to hold back a rampaging combiner. Specially designed for mer-mecha.
Ratchet hesitated to call Mer-mecha drones. One of Cybertron's last extant techno-organic species, the matter of mer intelligence was hotly debated; fringe academics claimed that they were just as intelligent as any true Cybertronian, while the majority of scientific literature suggested that they were only slightly brighter than the average drone. Both claims were little more than conjecture, in Ratchet's opinion. Mer-mecha were notoriously difficult to study, given their inherent aggression and tendency to fade quickly in captivity. Having worked with the creatures for a few dozen kilocycle, Ratchet was of the opinion that they were intelligent. Just how intelligent, he couldn't say. Though Ratchet had never succeeded in his attempts to communicate with the Mer, he had caught glimpses of their emotional intelligence — had seen it in their optics, had felt it in their strange, alien EM fields.
That was a thought he didn't dare voice. He had enough on his plate without landing himself on a government watchlist for being a techno-organic equalist. No, he'd leave that messy business to Orion.
Ratchet stared off into the dark water of the mer-tank. His reflection looked back at him, tired and old. Primus, maybe it really was time for a paint-and-buff. He was turning to examine his waistline when movement rocked the water of the tank. A pale shadow shot through the darkness, moving too quickly for Ratchet to get a good look. Back and forth, the mer circled. Agitated, Ratchet thought, spark sinking. Typically, it took their new captures a few weeks in captivity before they began to exhibit such anxious behaviour. The new acquisition had only arrived yesterday. It wasn't a good sign.
Ratchet let out a deep exvent and turned from the tank.
"I just," Riptide winced, eyes downcast, "can't you just come have a look at him?"
Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose. "Riptide. You know there's nothing I can do. I'm a doctor. If you've got an actual medical issue on your hands, I can help you. I'm not a," he paused, searching, "a fish psychologist."
Riptide looked up at him with overbright optics. Oh, no, Ratchet thought, please don't cry. "I just don't know what to do," said the hydrobot. Poor Riptide had been shaken up by what had happened to the last mer to pass through the aquarium.
Ratchet broke. "Okay. I'll come down and take a look."
Riptide's pitious expression brightened, "Really? Thank you, Ratch!"
"It's Ratchet."
"Right. Thank you Doctor Ratchet, sir."
Reluctantly, Ratchet left his desk to follow Riptide down to the Aquarium. After two weeks of quarantine, the new mer had been moved into his display tank with the help of some heavy sedatives. According to Riptide, he was beginning to decline, exhibiting depressive symptoms. This, of course, was inevitable. But Ratchet would, as promised, take a look, just to ease Riptide's soft spark.
It was late in the day-cycle, and the crowds had thinned, allowing them to pass easily through the usually busy halls of the aquarium. The Mer tank was hard to miss, being the second-largest exhibit in the building. The tank had undergone some serious renovations since its last occupant moved out. The once barren tank was now lush with mesh-kelp, and corals of copper and brass had been woven into the old rock formations. None of this seemed to matter to the tank's new resident, who was floating at the centre of his enclosure, completely still. "He hasn't moved in days," Riptide despaired, "he won't even eat. Axe never got this bad! He always ate."
Huh, Ratchet thought, taking a good look at the mer for the first time. He was of average size, though his imposing, ornate finials and broad shoulders made him seem larger than he really was. Still, he was almost double the size of the average land-dweller. His tail was sleek, studded with a number of very sharp looking fins. The features of his dark faceplate were equally sharp, run through by two bold streaks of crimson. At a glance, the mer was imposing. But to Ratchet's sharp, well-trained optics, he was clearly unwell. His yellow optics were glossy and unfocused, his plating and claws were dull, and his caudal fin was limp and torn. What a shame.
Ratchet's optics tracked back up to the mer's chestplate. He studied the white metal for a moment. Then, it came to him. He knew this mer. It had been kilocycles, but Ratchet remembered the moment clearly — the sight of brilliant white plating, spotted from the deck of the research vessel he'd been volunteering on. They'd found the mer floating in a cloud of his own energon, nearly offline thanks to the harpoon that had pierced his chassis, just barely missing his spark chamber. Ratchet had replaced the mer's destroyed chestplate right there on the deck, a quick and dirty field operation that could have gone wrong in so many ways. But the mer had clearly understood that he was being helped. Ratchet had seen it in his optics, felt it in his EM field.
Ratchet knew this mer, and he knew that standard-issue chestplate; it seemed that the mer had gotten creative with it, adding some red accents and a strange carving at the center. The replacement plate had held up well, Ratchet thought. It was difficult for him to take pride in a job well done, considering the state of the rest of the mer's body.
"Are you okay?" Riptide's servo landed on Ratchet's shoulder.
"Fine," Ratchet said automatically, pulling his field tight. The kid was already down. He didn't need to feel Ratchet's guilt on top of his own. He shook off Riptide's hand and took a step towards the tank.
Sluggishly, the mer turned his helm and looked right at Ratchet. His hooded optics shot wide open, and his whole body tensed. The look on his face was one of — disbelief? The mer hit the wall of the tank, palms pressed up against the glass. Riptide yelped and stumbled back, while Ratchet took a step forward. This was no display of aggression. The mer recognized him.
Ratchet raised a servo and touched it to his chestplate. Do you remember?
The mer smiled, exposing his very, very sharp denta. His tail lashed back and forth, and he knocked his oversized finials against the glass.
Ratchet turned to Riptide, who was watching the display with an open intake. "Can I get inside this tank?"
Ratchet's conviction that the mer wouldn't shred him into scrap the second he set pede in the tank did little to assuage the worries of the aquarium Director, who had presented him with a very long form that waived his right to compensation should he end up in ribbons. After, as he climbed the stairs to the concrete walkway that ran along the back of the mer tank, Ratchet wondered if he was making a very big mistake. Was the mer's seeming recognition just a projection of his own thoughts? His grip tightened around his shock prod, a device that was mandatory for staff to carry when entering the tank of any creature more aggressive than a jellybot. If worst came to worst, he had a means of defending himself.
He took the final step onto the platform. It was quiet, aside from the hum of the water filters. The surface of the water was equally serene; there was no sign of the Mer. As Ratchet walked the length of the platform, he noted the score marks that had been gouged into the edges of the concrete. The source of the Mer's dull claws, Ratchet assumed.
Ratchet came to a stop at the centre of the platform, exvented, and took a step towards the water. He was hyper-aware of the crowd standing watch outside the tank: coworkers and superiors, all watching with bated vents. Riptide had his hands over his eyes, too afraid to watch. Spark pulsing in his chassis, Ratchet kneeled and tapped the surface of the water, sending out a little ripple. The large finials of an adult Mer-mech were sensitive enough that even the smallest ripple would alarm the Mer that someone was in his tank.
And, sure enough, a pale shadow appeared beneath the water. A set of white finials broke the surface, and suspicious yellow optics peered out at Ratchet. Then, again, he watched recognition bloom in the mech’s optics. He remembers! Ratchet was sure of it. Slowly, the rest of the mer’s face appeared above the water. His optics darted down to the shock prod in Ratchet's hand, and then back up to his face. He stared, unmoving.
Ratchet stayed down on one knee. He didn't dare move. "Hey," He said, keeping his tone soft, "You remember me, huh? You do, don't you."
The mer made a quiet click. It wasn't a vocalisation that Ratchet had observed before — not from any captive mer. He had only ever heard the sound on the recordings picked up by the deep-sea hydrophones that the institute set up along the coast. Ratchet did his best to approximate the sound, clicking back at the waiting mer. Given the differences in their construction, his rendition was warped. It seemed to please the mer all the same; the creature let another click, more guttural than the last. Excitement coursed through Ratchet's lines, and a little, surprised laugh escaped his vocalizer. They were communicating.
They went back and forth for a few kliks; the mer made a noise, and Ratchet repeated it. With each volley, the mer drew a little closer. But after the sixth or seventh repetition, the mer was silent, and none of Ratchet's urgings could draw another sound from him. He's waiting for something, Ratchet guessed.
They were only an arm's length apart. Hesitantly, Ratchet lifted a servo. He moved slowly, telegraphing his movements as he reached out towards the mer. On the other side of the glass, the crowd of onlookers began to panic. Ratchet ignored them. The mer's intelligent eyes were tracking the movement of his hand, and there was no fear there. Ratchet brought his hand up to the space between the Mer's big finials and let it hover there, not-quite touching the pale yellow gem inlaid between the protrusions. Ratchet's spark leapt into his throat as the Mer moved, pressing his helm into Ratchet's hand and letting out a deep exhale — one that Ratchet mirrored. "Yeah. You remember me, Drift."
"I hear you named it," Said Pharma.
They were making the weekly rounds, walking the aquarium floor and noting the conditions of the displayed creatures. Ratchet's old vents were puffing with the exertion of keeping up with Pharma's longer strides. The head of bioscience could have taken any underling along on these walks. It would be far more appropriate to involve an intern like Safety, rather than distracting a senior researcher from his very important work.
"They were going to let us vote on a name, you know," Pharma continued, ignoring Ratchet's lack of a response, "I liked Blackfin."
"Well, I'm sorry," Ratchet grumbled, "he was my patient for a few cycles, and I prefer to call my patients by a name."
"your patient," Pharma scoffed. "You aren't missing Iacon General already, are you?"
"I'm fine where I am, thank you," said Ratchet, ignoring Pharma's snide tone and jotting down 'suspected rust infection - stage one' on electro-eel 244's chart. Pharma, ruffled by his failure to provoke Ratchet, stomped off down the hall. Ratchet followed at his own pace.
A few exhibits later, they arrived at the Mer tank. Admittedly, Ratchet was excited to see Drift again. It had been a few day-cycles since their reunion, and Ratchet had been too busy finalising his latest article to get down to the aquarium. "Hm. It seems to be in better shape," Pharma said, tapping away at his datapad.
Drift was floating on his back, flicking his tail fins lazily and rubbing something between his palms — a stone? Whatever it was, the mer studied it with intent. His plating seemed a little brighter. Ratchet checked the tank's recent reports and found a cheerful entry from Riptide, who noted that the mer had eaten and was beginning to explore his enclosure. Perfect! It seemed too good an outcome to be true, but Ratchet let himself hope. Maybe there was a first time for everything.
"Let's move on," Said Pharma.
"Give me a minute." Ratchet stepped up to the glass. It didn't feel right to stop by without saying hello. He tapped a digit against the glass, and Drift's helm snapped up. He tucked the rock into a gap in his armour and swam up to the glass, smiling.
"He really does like you," Pharma marvelled, slapping a hand down on Ratchet's back and leaning in for a closer look. Immediately, the mer's body language shifted; his plating flared, his tail lashed, and his lips pulled back to reveal sharp teeth. Pharma wheeled back in surprise, "Primus!"
"Hm. Guess he's picky," Ratchet grinned back at the jet. When he returned his attention to Drift, he found the mer relaxed, looking almost smug.
"Pit-damned fish," Pharma muttered, "Ratchet, let's go."
"Coming," Said Ratchet. He gave Drift a little wave goodbye — not that it would mean anything to a mer — and turned to follow his boss to the next exhibit.
Ratchet was not having a good day.
On the way to work, a mech with an obvious case of Cascade flu had crammed in right next to him on the metro. He had sent the mech to Iacon General with a few well-aimed threats. Then, when he arrived at his desk, he found his files completely out of order. No one had owned up to it, but he suspected Pharma, who was known to steal data from his subordinate’s files. The day had spiralled out of control from there. Safety had tripped over her own pedes and spilled hot energon all over Ratchet, who had no time to clean himself off before an emergency call came in. He had been forced to perform surgery to clear a hydroweasel's tank obstruction while covered in the stuff, which was less than sanitary. He hit the staff washracks immediately after, where he was treated to the delightful sounds of two of his coworkers interfacing in the next stall. Briefly, he had entertained the notion of going back to Iacon General, which was, at least, a professional workplace. The idea was quickly dismissed. He did love his job, most days. Ratchet gathered his patience, dried off, and made the uncharacteristic decision to clock out early. He had had about enough of other mechs, and his quiet apartment was calling to him.
He cut through the aquarium on his way out. He had seen enough of other mechs today, but a quick visit with his friendly mer-mech might not be so bad. Fifteen minutes to closing, there weren't many guests around. Still, there were a few mechs hanging around the mer tank, which was among the aquarium's most popular exhibits. Ratchet shouldered his way past them.
This time, Drift noticed him immediately. He met Ratchet at the glass, knocking his finials against the barrier. "Hello, Drift," Ratchet smiled.
A delighted gasp drew Ratchet's attention; a large green-yellow mech — some kind of rotorcraft? — was staring up at Drift with wide blue optics. His armour was unblemished, and he seemed a little shaky on his pedes, like his gyroscope wasn't fully set. A newbuild, Ratchet guessed. His mentor was standing a ways back, arms crossed. There was something familiar about the white-black mech that Ratchet couldn't place. He turned his attention back to the newbuild, who had pressed himself against the glass, causing Drift to shrink back. "If you want him to get close, you need to give him some space," Ratchet advised the newbuild.
"Oh," The rotorcraft stepped back, and Drift swam a little closer, "wow!"
"Is it your first time at the aquarium?" Ratchet asked. He had always had a bit of a soft spot for newbuilds, though he had never volunteered to mentor himself. It had never been the right time, and now he was too old to keep up.
"yeah!" the newbuild nodded, "do you work here?"
"I do."
"Awesome," sighed the newbuild, fixing his attention back on Drift. The mer seemed somewhat irritated, glancing between Ratchet and the big green mech, who cocked his helm curiously. "He doesn't look so different from me. Can he talk like we can?"
"I'm afraid not," Said Ratchet, "Mer-mecha might look a bit like us, but they're very different. They can't download language packs like we can. They communicate in their own way — in their own language. We don't understand them yet, but we might one day."
The newbuild stared up at Drift, fascinated.
"Springer!" The newbuild's mentor called out, "We need to go. They're closing."
"Aw," Springer whined, reluctantly pulling away from the glass to rejoin his mentor. The black-white mech shot Ratchet an unreadable look before pulling his mentee off towards the main doors. Ratchet frowned after them, wondering. A muffled bang drew his attention back to Drift, who had gone back to knocking his finials against the glass, insistent.
"Alright! I'm coming." Ratchet unlocked the hidden door that led to the backstage area and started up into Drift's tank. The mer was waiting for him, arms folded over the edge of the concrete platform. At the sight of Ratchet, he chirped happily. It was strange, feeling welcome in a Mer's tank. Ratchet sat across from Drift on the hard concrete, keeping some distance between them. "Hey, Drift."
Drift chirped again.
"Nice to see a friendly face after the day-cycle I've had," Ratchet said. Before he could think the better of it, he was recounting the day's misadventures to Drift, who listened intently. By the end of his tale, Ratchet felt a little foolish. Here he was, venting to a mer. But his chassis did feel lighter, and Drift hadn't seemed to mind listening. He glanced up at the mer, who suddenly seemed... Nervous? Drift's optics were downcast, and his tail was lashing back and forth. Ratchet was fairly sure the mer was fiddling with something in his hands, which were hidden below the surface. "Drift?" Drift looked up. He seemed to respond to the sound, but Ratchet couldn't be sure that he understood the concept of a designation.
Using the platform's edge, Drift drew himself up a little further. He stuck his hands out, unfolding his claws to reveal a vivid blue stone. It was small, round, and smooth around the edges. When Ratchet made no move to take it, Drift stretched his arms out further, wearing a plaintive expression. It was clear that the stone was meant for Ratchet. He reached out and accepted the offering; when his fingertips brushed Drift's hands, their EM fields met. Ratchet was left with the impression of alien emotion — of something bright, painfully so.
The feeling faded as Ratchet sat back. He considered the stone, rolling it in his palm and then holding it up, admiring the way that the harsh overhead lights shone through the translucent stone. There weren't any stones like this in Drift's tank, and Ratchet realised that it must have been polished down to such a fine finish — work usually done by industrial tumblers. Looking back down, he found that Drift's palms were eroded, the finish stripped away to reveal grey proto-metal. It must have stung. "Oh, frag," Ratchet, unthinking, grasped one of Drift's hands, examining it like he would any emergency room walk-in. Belatedly, it occurred to him that such a touch might not be welcomed by a Mer. But when he met Drift's optics, he found the mer smiling. Huh.
"Thank you for the gift, if that's what this is. But I'm going to have to repair your hands, now," Ratchet chided, gesturing pointedly at Drift's damaged palms. Drift clicked happily. Well, it would be a chance for him to get at that damaged caudal fin, too. And those dull claws.
Ratchet cleared his schedule for the next day.
Ratchet's successes with Drift emboldened the rest of the aquarium's staff. Countless aquarists and caretakers had climbed into his enclosure for a shot at earning the mer's trust; each and every one had been chased right back out. He was willing to accept food from his caretakers, and even made vocalisations at them from time to time, but refused to allow anyone but Ratchet to touch him. Privately, Ratchet enjoyed it — feeling special, like he had some ability to understand the mer that the others lacked.
Unfortunately, Drift's affinity for Ratchet had come to the attention of the aquarium's director, who had decided that Ratchet was the key to keeping their most popular exhibit running. Which was how Ratchet found himself climbing the steps to Drift's tank, an empty sample tube clenched in one hand. He was kitted out like a caretaker, with rebreathers fitted over his vents and a shock prod fixed to his side. They needed a sample of Drift's oral lubricant for his second-cycle work-up, and short of sedating him, this was the only way. Ratchet wanted to avoid sedating the mer twice within one week, which just wasn't healthy. And he was mostly sure that his connection with Drift would dissuade the mer from snapping his fingers off.
Drift must have seen him coming. He broke the surface and shook off his broad finials, sending droplets flying. He welcomed Ratchet with a series of very loud clicks.
Ratchet stood on the lip on the walkway, hands on his hip-plates. "Things are going to be a little different today, okay? I need you to work with me."
Drift tilted his helm curiously.
Ratchet lowered himself into the pool. In the shallows that bordered the walkway the water only went up to his shoulders, and he was able to stand. Drift was headed his way — a fact that might have been frightening, had the mer not been chirping happily, pleased to see Ratchet in the water. Ratchet had entered the pool only once before, to check Drift over after his repairs. The mer had been coming out of sedation then, floating on his back in the shallows. Thanks to the drugs, he had been just aware enough to track Ratchet with sleepy optics as he changed his wounds. It had gone well. Hopefully this would, too. If not, he had the prod.
Beneath the water, Drift circled. It was too shallow for a mech of his size, and Ratchet imagined that his tail was scraping against the bottom of the pool. Drift showed no sign of surfacing; with a frustrated grumble Ratchet ducked beneath the water and reached out for the mer. Drift moved to meet him, pressing his finials into Ratchet's hand like he had the first day the doctor had come into his tank. Light from above scattered over the mer's plating. Ratchet had never been so close to the mer — at least, outside of surgery. He found himself taking in the angular planes of Drift's face; the severe red markings that descended from his bright optics, the smooth, dark tone of his young faceplate. Like any new inhabitant of the aquarium, a sample of Drift's plating had been carbon dated. The mer was only a couple thousand years younger than Ratchet. Old, by typical Cybertronian standards. But the mer, who were born rather than forged, were slower to mature. Drift was an adult, but not a seasoned one, and it showed on his face.
Ratchet tried to guide Drift up to the surface, but the mer suddenly withdrew. His newly-repaired tail fanned out behind him, and he wiggled playfully before darting off to a far corner of the shallows. Ratchet resurfaced and waded over to the mer, only to watch him dart away again, this time to the opposite corner. Oh, great. We're playing tag. There was nothing for Ratchet to do but oblige his new friend.
He chased Drift back and forth through the shallows, drawing peals of amused chirping from the mer. He was no match for Drift in the water. The mer was designed for speed, and he moved with a fluidity that no mer Ratchet had encountered before could match. Finally, he managed to catch up with Drift — though he strongly suspected that Drift was letting himself be caught. The mer hovered at the rim of the shallows, tail flowing out into deep water. Ratchet stumbled into him, latching onto his chassis, "Ha! Got you." Drift went limp in Ratchet's hands with a smile. I surrender, Ratchet imagined him saying.
The excitement of the chase (which had, admittedly, been fun) had erased Ratchet's worries of being bitten. He retrieved the tube from his subspace and reached up to hold Drift by the jaw."Right. I'm going to touch your intake now. It won't hurt, I promise, so keep those teeth away from my fingers."
Drift looked at him, optics wide. A heavy exhale from his tail-vents sent bubbles floating to the surface. Carefully, Ratchet eased a digit over the mer's lips. Like a land-dweller, his faceplate had some give, composed of a far softer compound than his armour. It was hot to the touch. Ratchet made a note to take Drift's temperature, after. He prodded at Drift's closed mouth, and the mer opened obligingly. Careful to avoid sharp teeth, Ratchet pressed his finger inside the wet heat of his intake. He rubbed along the Mer's glossa, stimulating his lubricant production vessels. Under his hands, Drift was pliant. His strange field burned and swirled, unreadable.
"That's it. Always such a good patient," Ratchet muttered, bringing the tube up to Drift's mouth. It filled quickly, and he retracted his hands. He capped the tube and looked up at Drift. His mouth was still open, and he was watching Ratchet with an intensity that the doctor had never seen in him before. "There we go. All done."
Drift closed his mouth. His expression grew determined. Before Ratchet could think anything of it, he was being spun around by a pair of strong, clawed hands. Drift pressed up against his back, face tucked into the crook of his neck. "What-" Ratchet gasped; something hot was rubbing up against his lower back struts, up and down. Drift panted into his audials. Oh, primus. It was his spike, Ratchet realized. He tried to wiggle away, but the grip on his hips was iron. Unbothered, the mer continued to rut. Absolutely not. Ratchet went for the shock prod. Lost in pleasure, Drift didn't see the prod coming until the sharp little prongs were embedded in his side. He yelped, releasing Ratchet, who swam forward and pulled himself up onto the ledge. Ratchet looked back, ready to run for it, but found Drift floating right where he had been left. His expression was sullen — betrayed?
Ratchet pointed a finger at the mer, "No. None of that."
Drift keened in response.
"None," Said Ratchet. He turned and left the tank. A very worried Riptide was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.
"Oh, Primus, Ratch. Are you okay? I can't believe he attacked you."
Ratchet let out a deep exvent. "He didn't, uh, attack me. Not quite."
Regrettably, they had a meeting about it.
Ratchet had been forced to stand up and explain the whole situation to a collection of executives and managers, trying his best to keep a straight face as he recounted the unfortunate events of the past day. Pharma thought the whole thing was just hilarious, and had made no attempt to hide the wheezing of his vents as Ratchet spoke. "You're telling us," he said, grinning, "that the thing is in love with you?"
"No. I'm telling you that he's confused. And probably lonely," Said Ratchet, gritting his denta and restraining his urge to deck the jet.
"Well," The head aquarist spoke up, "you say he wasn't trying to hurt you.."
"I truly don't think he will," Ratchet assured him. He didn’t want any harm coming to Drift because of the incident. The young mer was just mixed up.
"Well then. Isn't this a good thing?" the head aquarist continued, "he's thriving. He's behaving. Aside from the," he paused, scratching his helm, "you know."
The mechs around the table went silent, contemplating the statement. The head of engineering spoke first, "Honestly, I think Bailer's right. This could be productive."
Ratchet glared at him.
"Look," Said the director, "you don't have to go in there, Ratchet. Not unless it's medically necessary. We'll just have you go by the glass now and then, keep him happy."
Pharma clapped his hands together, grinning, "conjugal visits!"
Ratchet groaned. He would never hear the end of this.