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Pharma’s frame was practically buzzing. He felt electrified even. How could he not, when Luna-1 had once more provided a gift for him.
The gifts continued to be so generous.
(They’d been life, they’d been actual rewards after suffering, it’d been the non-stop freedom of being alone without being bothered for days— finally, finally!)
And now, the gift was Ratchet (his Ratchet).
(He could see it now, the future. Ratchet would stay with them, he’d be designated as Pharma’s second, and they’d work together under Tyrest until Luna-1 faded from history again.)
He practically raced to the inside of his medbay, and he threw Ratchet onto the examination slab (it was fine, just fine! He’d only gone into recharge, he’d have him in perfect shape soon!)
The medijet was trembling, he was too excited (not happy, not happy at all), because here was Ratchet, and he would get to do anything he wanted to him. He was now under his jurisdiction, with no one to bother them for hours (and if they were lucky, it’d be days).
He would hurt him, and then he’d fix him, and then he’d hurt him to fix him all over again, and again, and again!
Revenge served on a silver platter— And then he’d be finally satisfied, and life in Luna-1 would be a dream after that.
(He kept shaking. The medijet willed himself to stop it, stop it!)
Pharma took his time now arranging all of Ratchet into the slab properly. He didn’t need to rush things, they would be here a while. He ran his fingers all over the ambulance bot’s body, examining every crack, every dent, every scratch.
(He’d never been able to touch him so freely, despite how much he’d wanted to. He’d never dared… And now Ratchet was his to caress, before it was his to slice open).
The medijet’s smile grew until it hurt, and he only stopped when he reached his arms, his servos.
The servos…
“These are not…” Pharma’s smile faded into a thin line as he took Ratchet’s right servo into his, his optics zooming into his phalanges.
Pharma had known Ratchet for at least five billion years. Had yearned for him for two billion. Obsessed over him for the last few millions years, and he’d mourned him for two minuscule years. He’d only loathed him for the last few eternal months, but despite it all, Pharma still considered himself as someone that knew deeply (and intimately) everything about Ratchet.
So there was a small flicker of horror which ran down his spine as he realized that those weren’t Ratchet’s servos. (The servos he’d dreamed of holding onto again— Gone.)
And then another immediate realization hit him.
He’d taken them.
Ratchet had taken his servos.
He’d stolen them! He’d left him to die over these!
Pharma let go of him as if he’d been burned and gurgled a frustrated growl, ugly and animalistic.
“YOU SICK HYPOCRITE! YOU SAID YOU…!” Pharma resisted the urge to punch the immobile frame on his examination table. He did the next best thing, which was to throw the nearest sample jar to the wall and scream as he watched perfectly good energon get splattered all over his cabinets.
(He was shaking again. Stop it, he ordered his frame, stop it!)
Once upon a time, he thought Ratchet was the only mech in the universe who truly cared for him beyond what his frame defined him as. Once upon a time, he thought Ratchet had seen him as a friend.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could he have been so stupid!? Of course he’d been just like anyone else! The idiots that saw him as an error in nature, that cared only about what his frame could do for them, that used and used and used him until he couldn’t give anything more.
Pharma stopped trembling as a grin spread on his faceplates.
“Well that’s just fine by me.” He said to Ratchet, still passed out on his slab. “Let’s see how much you like it when I'm the one to mess with your own body.” And then he got to work.