"Tapper~"
The mech jumped with a short shriek, knocking over his empty energon cannister. He smiled nervously, opening the door to his current medical room for the grown femme. She wasn't smiling like she was before he had been startled, noticing the shattered glass from the energon container. There was so much regret in her optics, as if she were the soul cause of this entire misadventure.
"I-uh." He stammered, "You heard that, didn't you."
"I did," she nodded, having to duck in order to enter his room (as she did with most rooms). "Tapper you're hiding in here. It's been two weeks."
The orange mech only nodded, knowing he couldn't hide much from this adorable femme. He still saw her as the youngling from... only two weeks ago?
'I was missing for only a few hours, but it feels like days-' the tortured mech held his poor aching helm that was still prone to throb. He jumped again when (Y/D) sat down on the berth. Smiling nervously again, Tapper tried to let the matter slide. It wasn't her fault. Bad things happen, especially to people who drink.
At least, that's what he was telling himself.
The poor mech realized how far behind on his work he was by now. Most likely the bars have closed down temporarily until he was back on duty. He hadn't had glass of Visco in two weeks. The mech smirked inwardly at himself. That was a new record he doubted he could top. He'd have drunk himself into a constant discombobulated state if Knockout wasn't so strict about beverages. Not an ounce of Visco was allowed. For good reason, of course.
"Tappy," his nickname brought him out of his stupor, looking up from the floor to the femme beside him, "I'm sorry I couldn't heal the whole of your processor, but it's meant to shape you and your growing personality. You are still very young in the optics of Primus, and have much to learn from."
"I don't want to talk about it," he shook his helm, the femme frowning. Tapper changed his tone and displayed a small smile as an apology, "I mean, I'd think anyone would look young in our creator's optics. The incident wasn't your fault and in the end, I learned something new about myself, right? Who else can say they have firewalls that can defeat a Cortical Psychic Patch, huh?"
"Tapper."
"Hm?"
"You don't."
The mech frowned, quite confused. The deranged Predacon admitted that they couldn't get into his processor, and he caught glimpses of the other's lives even. Volunteer after volunteer. A doctor, a Constructicon, a professor. And the nurse, she was still being tutored under Ratchet, from what Tapper saw. Something about a book. He saw their lives, and the Predacon was frustrated enough to risk himself with his own, modified version of the dangerous device. Tapper had nearly offlined, but as far as he knew, they still found nothing from his pained processor.
What did (Y/D) mean?
Sighing, said femme hugged her little friend, engulfing the mech. He was surprised of how gentle she could manage to be, still stiff but beginning to relax as he heard her strong spark beat, like a lullaby. He wasn't tired, so simply listened, waiting for an explanation.
"You fought that. You thought of your friends and you fought it. Divebomb made a miscalculation in assuming it was programmed strength. We found where they were keeping you and Smokescreen, we saw what he tried. Tapper, you're much stronger than you think, and thank Primus that traitor was socially inept enough to not take love for family and friends into consideration."
"(Y/D)." Tapper interrupted. "The Cortical Psychic Patch can't be bypassed by sheer will alone."
Everyone knew that.
She only smiled, kissed his helm in a motherly fashion, and stood only to place him on the berth of the medical room she had been seated upon. Tapper did his best to keep his optics open, suddenly rather exhausted, watching the femme duck out of the door. She stopped a moment in order to look back toward him with a soft smile, unblinking optics, though a menacing red in color, comforting to stare at.
"I never said you did it on your own."
Now thoroughly confused, the mech fell into a deep recharge, the first comfortable and complete rest he had in weeks. As if the very hand of Primus had rested itself to caress his spark.
/~\
Ratchet waited impatiently for the grown youngling to appear. He heard the news of what happened, the loss of several lives and nearly losing Predaking and Tapper. At this rate it will feel like the war had never been won. And here he was, tapping his pede on the dirt of Earth without a single clue how (Y/D) was fairing. The last he heard was from Bumblebee and that was a quick explanation at first. Ratchet had pressed for more information, like how many were estimated to be offline and where on Cybertron (Y/D) was in all this apparent chaos. Bumblebee was still reluctant to explain too much and merely made short answers, like;
'It was a large group'
and;
'(Y/D) was safe- sort of.'
or simply stated;
'It's hard to explain.'
That one seemed to be his personal favorite.
"Hard to explain my aft," Ratchet grumbled as he heard the space bridge, turning off the large monitor and hurrying to greet them. He was going to be far from polite, but the appearance of the foreign Predacon stopped him.
The orange and white medic stared for a time, recognizing the (F/C) and (S/C) paint job, the unblinking optics and the freakishly wide smile. His processor failed to function as he simply stared without a word. Ratchet tore his optics from the femme and looked to Bumblebee, intake flapping in an attempt to find words.
"It's hard to explain," Bumblebee repeated his messages out loud.
"Well I want it explained, or Primus help me!" He let the potential threat remain open ended.