The next time my eyes flutter open, birds are chirping and there's faint sunlight streaming through the window. I'm oddly warm as I snuggle deeper into my bed, sighing contently as I come to. My face rubs deeper into my pillow, the soothing leather soft on my skin.

I pause. Leather?

My eyes snap open in an instant, and there's a panic eating away at me when I comprehend that I am not, in fact, laying in bed. Instead, I'm curled up in the cabin of a truck--the truck, Ironhide. The backseat is huge and dark with black leather coating the seats but I feel like there's not enough room in here. I swallow, try to get my hands to stop shaking and throw myself out of it hurriedly.

I hit the pavement with an angry thud. I ignore the burning on my knees and thumping of my head and crawl as far away from it as I can. The sun is brighter outside and I realized that the tint of the windows were blocking the light from entering. It's early morning as far as I can tell, a mist layering the atmosphere.

But that's not the priority on my mind. I can't breathe, my lungs feel too small and there's no oxygen entering them as I crouch in the dew, heaving greatly. My mind reels in confusion, and I wonder how I got in there, what I did to be put in the backseat of a death machine. A pang of hurt shoots through my head, and I close my eyes. There's a wall blocking the images, blocking the memories, and I cry out, hands shaking and heart hammering.

Who? Who put me in the truck? Who forced me into a machine so cold and horrible and allowed me to sleep in there knowing that I wished never to step foot in a vehicle again?

Footsteps rush towards me and there are arms encasing me, strong get gentle as they pick me up from the damp ground. Tears run down my face as I struggle because I know what they're going to do. They're going to take me back to the two-ton death trap. I don't want to go back.

"Eleanor, stop struggling," the assailant grumbles in annoyance, voice gruff.

I stop. It was Ron.

Suddenly everything that happened last night surfaces, my foggy mind awake and alert as I remember the events of the early morning. Ron had found me outside, we had talked in the rain, and then I had fallen asleep, content to slumber on the wooden swing. Which meant the only way I could have moved was if someone moved me--if he moved me.

"Let me go!" I exclaim, struggling even more, kicking my legs and flailing about. "Put me down! Now!"

He heeds. My feet touch the ground, and I whirl on him and punch him in the stomach since it was the closest thing and my aim honestly sucks. Ron grunts, and I hate him so much in that moment. Hate that I ever met him. Hate that Dad and Will brought him home like some stray dog. I hate him.

"Slag," he heaves out, but I know he's not in pain. If anything, my hand is suffering more than his stomach probably is. "What is the matter with you, kid?"

"The matter with me?!" I ask with a humorless laugh, wiping vehemently at my eyes. "You dragged me off to sleep in the truck! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Ron's eyebrows pinch down. "You needed shelter. I provided you with it."

"Yes, a two-ton death machine seems like the perfect place to shelter someone." I scoff, rubbing at my throbbing head.

"Excuse me?" Ron looks offended. "You were--and are--safer in the truck than your own house, kid. Be grateful I did not allow you to freeze in the rain."

"I would have rather froze than step foot in that piece of junk," I snap angrily.

His sapphire eyes look almost aquamarine as he glares at me. I can tell I have irritated him greatly, but I don't care anymore. He can hate me all he wants.

"You dwell too much on the past, Eleanor," he growls, mouth turned down. "The accident happened. It has been over with for some time now. You must remember that refusing to get into a vehicle is not going to bring your brother back."

I stare at him for a moment, mouth parted in a muted shock-both at the fact that he's more spot on than he thinks and the fact that he had the audacity to say something like that to me. Then, I punch him.

In the jaw.

A stinging sensation runs through my right arm and I wince at the fact my hit seems to have barely done anything except aid in making him angrier. My eyes well up again and I turn away before he can say anything else, slamming into the house and up the stairs.

Alfonzo perks up from his position on my bed as I walk in. I ignore him and slam my way into the bathroom. Outside, I can hear the Topkick kicking up gravel as it flies out of the drive. Good riddance. Part of me hopes he never comes back.

I harshly brush my teeth, ignoring the pain that I know will follow after the adrenaline wears off, and then stomp back out into my room, throwing on random clothes and taking a quick glance at the clock beside my bed. It reads, 6:45 AM. School starts in an hour. I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder, myself and Alfonzo exiting the room moments later.

When I get downstairs, Dad is standing in the kitchen, eating orange slices and reading the paper. I obtain my usual banana while Alfonzo rushes through the open door and roughly peel it open, taking a big munch out of it.

"Whoa, kiddo," Dad says, "take it easy. The banana's not going anywhere."

I don't respond, too irate to form a complete sentence. My ears are ringing and my jaw is clenched. This amount of anger has never consumed me before and I don't know what to do with it.

Staying silent, I finish the banana and throw the peel in the trash can just as Dad eats his last slice. Mom comes out moments later, looking disheveled as she kisses us both on the cheek and hurries out the door, claiming that she's running late. I send her a wave goodbye and Dad smiles fondly at her. Disgusting.

Will pops in the door no two seconds later.

"Anyone wanna tell me why Ron's gone?" he asks with a raised brow.

I clench my teeth when they turn to stare at me.

"Ellie?" Dad questions hesitantly. "What happened?"

The fact that he automatically assumes that I had something to do with his comrade's bitch fit is insulting. I glare resolutely and roll my eyes when they just continue to stare, unwavering.

"You know him better than I do," I grumble angrily when they don't let up. "After all, you brought the psychotic man home."

Will sighs. "He's not psychotic, El."

"We like to use the term trigger-happy," Dad supplies.

"Somehow, that does nothing to ease my terror," I say sarcastically.

"Ellie," Dad warns. "What did you do to him?"

I grit my teeth. "I punched him, alright?! Threw my fist right in his ugly face!" And now that I think about it, my hand is absolutely stinging. Like majorly. As in the kind of pain that makes you cry until you're sick. I look down at it and almost all the fingers are swollen. How hard did I punch him?

My eyes water unwillingly, and I hate myself for looking at it because now it hurts even more, and I'm almost positive it's fractured. I try to move it and--nope, definitely fractured.

Dad and Will automatically flank over me in concern but I'm too busy focusing on the blazing pain to really worry about them. I gasp and cry and hold my hand away from them when they try to take a peek at it.

"Ellie, show us the hand," Dad demands. "We need to see if anything is broken." He reaches for me again but I dodge him.

Will asks, "What on earth made you decide to take a swing at Ron, Eleanor?" He only uses my first name when he's really mad, great.

"I didn't want to--" I cut off as a wave of pain shoots through me. I sniffle and try to regain some composure. "He put me in the truck. I didn't want to go in the truck. I can't--don't wanna step f-foot in a vehicle. N-Not after--what happened." And I sob out and it's loud and angry and my body wracks from the force of it.

Arms are around me and for once, I let my dad embrace me. He's warm and soothing and has that parental aura around him that helps calm my never-ending tears. He shushes me, running a hand over my head as we stand in the kitchen.

Will finally manages to grab my hand. He whistles low when he sees it. "Definitely fractured, at least. Might even be broken. We need to get her to the hospital."

My eyes widen in panic. Going to the hospital means getting in a car and getting in a car is not at the top of my bucket list. My breathing hollows out, and I gasp when I can't take a breath, more tears falling down my face.

"No," Dad declines, shushing me again. "It's alright, Ellie, we're not going to force to do something you don't want to," he tells me quietly. To Will, he says, "Perhaps Ratchet will come."

I don't know who Ratchet is, but if it means I don't have to go anywhere then I'm all for meeting him. Will sighs, though, like he expected Dad to suggest this, but doesn't fully agree.

"Are you sure?" he asks my dad, sparing me a concerned look.

Dad nods, the movement jerking his whole body. "Yes. She won't get in a car, and we need a ride to base anyway. Call him."

Will pulls out his phone and calls Ratchet.

✦

Ratchet is a swell-looking guy. He's got tan skin and sandy brown hair that somehow looks neat even though it's shaggy on his head. He'a wearing a lab coat and there's an air surrounding him--one that makes me think I'll get along better with him than Ron.

Then he opens his mouth and suddenly everything I thought was a lie.

"Why the frag would you do something as foolish as punch Ron?" Ratchets hounds on me like a flock of birds, sharp, blue eyes--the same, illuminating color as Ron's, startling enough, and they send a wave of hurt through my head just looking at them--attentive as he caresses my swollen hand with his own.

I flinch when he hits a particularly sensitive spot, say, "Dunno. He just has this 'punch me' face, I guess." It's a lie, but I'm past the point where I want to share anything with anyone new.

That elicits a laugh from the medic. "I cannot disagree there, young one." He furrows his eyebrows, going oddly serious. "But it was dangerous, indeed."

I don't respond because I get that what I did was foolish but that doesn't explain the fact that my hand is basically shattered. Just 'cause I punched some soldier in the face. (And stomach.) But the way Ratchet told me it was dangerous has my stomach rolling. I try not to dwell on it too much.

Dad and Will are off to the side, murmuring in low voices and sparing me concerned looks every now and then. Weird, considering they were oddly persistent about staying away from Ratchet while he worked his magic. The third time they do it, I roll my eyes and they send me a warning look. Ratchet continues fiddling with my hand.

I ask, "So, what's with the name Ratchet?" Seems like pain cuts off my brain-to-mouth filter.

Ratchet stiffens for a moment before he answers. "Just a nickname they gave me around base." He wraps my hand in some kind of cast and pats it twice before moving away. "There, all done."

My hand is almost fully wrapped in some kind of cast thing. It's olive green--the color Ratchet asked me about earlier--and covers my middle, ring, and pinkie finger before going down and stopping at the beginning of my wrist. My thumb and index finger are still swollen but I'm assuming there was no permanent damage to them and therefore no cast was needed on them.

"So," Dad asks, "what's the verdict?"

"She has minor fractures in her middle, ring, and pinkie fingers which is curious considering all the strength was put in her thumb and knuckles. However, her knuckles are bruised very badly, which we can assume to believe that means they seeped up some of the damage along with the rest of her fingers." Ratchet gives my dad a look. "The cast must remain on for four weeks, at the most, and she cannot get it wet under any circumstances. Should that happen, inform me and I shall hurry over." He glances at me. "Understood?"

I nod. "Sure, doc."

It still throbs, my hand, but the pain is more bearable than before. The tears from before have dried up on my cheek and suddenly I'm hit with a wave of exhaustion. I yawn.

"Tired?" Will questions.

"Yeah," I answer through another yawn. My eyes feel heavy.

Ratchet throws me something. Pills. "Here. In case the pain in your hand flares up. Only take one," he instructs sternly, pointing a tanned finger at me.

I nod obediently. "Sure." I glance at Dad. "Do I have to go to school today?"

"No." He shakes his head. "Go get in bed, alright? You look like you could use a couple more hours."

Dad helps me off the couch, and I stumble before regaining my balance and heading towards the stairs. I can hear them grumbling behind me, something about slagging rust caps and idiot men. I don't know what that's about and am honestly not sure if I want to find out. My foot hits the first step.

Before I leave, I turn to Ratchet.

"Thanks," I tell him earnestly, smiling. He turns back to me, blue eyes startling and unwavering. "Sorry to pull you from base. But thank you, for helping me with my hand." I hold it up as proof.

For a moment, Ratchet just stands there and stares, eyebrows furrowed and face thoughtful. He snaps out of his little trance when Dad elbows him.

"It was no obstacle, young one," he tells me softly but sternly. "Do get some rest and try to heal appropriately."

"Will do. See you guys." I wave at them and make my way up the stairs.

When I reach my room, Alfonzo is already sprawled out on the bed. I smile softly and change into something a little more cozy--dark blue lounge shorts and a black long sleeved shirt that was three sizes too big. It is difficult with the cast but only a little. I pull the covers up on my bed after I shut all my curtains to make sure there's no light streaming in and curl up beside Alfonzo, trying to push away the emotions and thoughts from my body. My hand pulses quietly and I ignore it, closing my eyes and sighing out in hopes it'll release all the problems with it. (It doesn't work, but I feel a little better afterwards and unconsciousness comes easier.)

Startling blue eyes and an angry face haunt my dreams when I manage to fall asleep.