“Here and there,” the medic replies.
He falls into step with Megatron, off to the side and just behind, and follows obediently. Something about the name Pharma tugs faintly, but noticeably, on his memory core, and he spends a moment or two struggling to place it. Finally, he chalks it up as nothing of overt importance. One of many unfamiliar names he’s encountered during his time in the multiverse.
At any rate, he’ll find out soon enough.
“Is there anything in particular I should be aware of before going in? Allergies, underlying conditions, words to avoid saying?”
Barely turning his helm, the warlord growls. “If anything, Ratchet is a name best avoided, considering that mad alternate of his is to blame. It seems that the multiverse has been the cause of more injury as of late than even our enemies.”
Overlord’s vessel is small, meant for transporting one, perhaps two large mechs comfortably for any extended duration. The prone medic lays on the only available berth, a veritable patchwork of hasty repairs and temporary welds. The bomb had damaged most of his left side and while his leg had been saved, the arm is almost entirely missing.
“I shall send for whatever supplies you may require, although, understandably, this facility is not as well-stocked as our ship was.”
Megatron's back up 