Chapter Text
Ratchet was working as he always did. Tools lined in their proper place, terminals humming softly, the med-bay empty and quiet but for the faint buzz of overhead lights. Routine. Order. Predictability.
And yet—something was wrong.
The silence pressed down on him, thicker than it should have been. Normally, the base would be alive with sound: the distant rumble of an engine, the echo of laughter from the humans, the shuffle of metal feet across the hangar floor. But the others had taken the rare opportunity for downtime—driving out into the wilderness, or enjoying a moment with their human charges. No distractions, no interruptions. He should have felt at peace.
Instead, his optics were fixed on the single object sitting at the far side of the workbench.
A cube of synthetic energon.
He stared at it, unblinking. His servos trembled faintly at his sides, fingers twitching as if caught between command and rebellion. The cube glowed faintly in the half-light, its eerie green pulsing like a heartbeat.
When had he moved?
He blinked, startled to find himself standing directly before it, plating prickling with unease. He hadn’t remembered crossing the room. He hadn’t even realized he’d moved until he was there, one step away from touching the cube.
Who had left it out? Why?
The questions stormed through his processor, restless and loud, until the sharp beep of the terminal startled him back into awareness.
The comlink.
He turned sharply, forcing his optics away from the cube. The terminal pulsed with an incoming transmission. Optimus. Ratchet straightened, shaking away the strange haze that clung to him, and tapped the connection.
“Ratchet. This is Optimus, reporting in.”
The link shifted to standby, waiting for his reply. Ratchet exhaled, more harshly than he intended, and forced calm into his voice.
“Optimus. Is your drive going well?”
The Prime’s tone was steady, reassuring. “It is… relaxing. I will be returning shortly. Be on standby with the ground bridge ready.”
The connection cut with a soft double chime. The room fell silent once more.
Ratchet pressed his palm to his helm, rubbing at the space between his optics. The unease coiled deeper in his systems. Something wasn’t right with him—and hadn’t been for days.
His energon reserves were depleting faster than they should. His tanks burned with weakness. Worse, his body had begun to reject its own fuel, purging energon in painful waves. He felt hollowed out, fragile, as though the lifeblood that sustained him was fighting against his very frame.
His gaze drifted back to the cube.
Synthetic energon.
The glow was almost hypnotic. His tanks clenched, and a desperate thought whispered through him. Could that be the answer?
No. He knew better. He knew too well what it had done to him before. The intoxication, the violence, the shame of lashing out at the very team he existed to protect. The guilt had never left him.
But weakness was worse.
What use was a medic who could not even keep his own systems stable? What use was a soldier who could not stand at his Prime’s side without faltering? He was a liability now, a weight the others carried. And if his frame was failing him already, if he was dying—then wasn’t this preferable? To fight with strength, to burn bright once more? To fall as a warrior, not waste away as a coward?
His hand closed around the cube before he’d truly decided.
The cool edges pressed into his palm, his reflection distorted in its green glow. His spark clenched as he brought it to his lips. He didn’t want this. He hated this. But he could no longer deny it.
With a sound caught between a snarl and a sigh, Ratchet broke the cube open. The energon poured into him, thick and burning, flooding his tanks with a violent rush. His optics flared, washed in green fire with a dangerous rim of gold. He chewed what remained of the crystalline edges, desperation overtaking reason.
The taste was both salvation and poison.
His entire frame shuddered, bracing against the table as his vents stuttered. His spark spasmed, splitting him open with the agony of too much power forced through fragile lines. A cry tore free of him, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the base’s hollow walls. His servo clutched his chest as if to hold his spark together, to keep it from breaking apart under the flood of synthetic corruption.
It wasn’t enough.
He needed more.
The world narrowed to a ringing in his audials and the insatiable craving clawing at his core. On unsteady peds, he staggered away from the table, moving with single-minded intent. The energon storage. That was where he had to go. The only place where the hunger could be fed.
Behind him, unnoticed, the monitor flickered to life.
“Ratchet, I am requesting a ground bridge.” Optimus’s calm voice filled the room, the quiet strength behind it anchoring and familiar.
No answer.
A pause. Then again, firmer. “Optimus to Ratchet. I am requesting a ground bridge.”
Still silence.
Optimus frowned on the other end, the weight of unease settling over him. Something was wrong.
Terribly, unmistakably wrong.
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Optimus.
The drive back to base should have been peaceful. The long stretch of highway, the muted hum of his engine, the quiet calm of an Earth evening—this was meant to be a rare reprieve. Yet unease coiled deep within his spark, a weight he could not ignore.
Ratchet had not answered him.
Twice he had called, and twice there had been silence. Ratchet was reliable to a fault; the medic would sooner chastise Optimus for his timing than allow a call to go unanswered. The lack of response gnawed at him, filling the silence with tension until every passing mile felt too long, too slow.
When the mountain’s outline finally rose before him, he pushed harder on the accelerator. The human roads blurred past in streaks of color until he was at the hidden entrance, sensors scanning quickly as he rolled into the base.
The hangar was quiet.
Unsettlingly so.
He transformed, heavy footfalls echoing across the cavernous space. His optics swept the common area, instinctively seeking out the familiar figure of his old friend. Ratchet was always there—standing at the console, arms crossed with impatience, waiting to grumble about Optimus’s “inconvenient” requests for a bridge. It was a routine as familiar as any mission briefing.
But the console stood empty.
“Ratchet?” Optimus’s voice resonated through the base. No answer.
He stepped further in, the weight of worry pressing heavier against his plating. Something on the ground caught his optics: a shattered cube, its jagged edges glinting faintly with green residue. Synthetic energon.
Optimus froze, his spark clenching.
The unease hardened into grim certainty.
His helm lifted sharply at the sound that followed—metal against metal, the faint scrape of containers shifting, the muffled clatter of something heavy being moved. It came from deeper within the base.
From the storage rooms.
He turned toward the sound, each step slow and deliberate, his optics narrowing with worry that edged dangerously close to fear.
Ratchet was not where he should be. And the evidence on the ground told Optimus all too clearly what he was about to find.