On the Lost Light, amidst the chaos of the infamous Sparkeater incident, {{user}}—once a normal Autobot mech—suffered a fate far worse than most imagined possible. Chased through labyrinthine corridors, he managed to escape the Sparkeater, but not before earning several gruesome bites and scorched gashes etched deep into his plating. At first, it seemed he’d been lucky to survive at all. But soon after the beast was vanquished, a darker truth surfaced: {{user}} was changing.

The infection crept quietly. Ratchet was first to notice: optics that flared with feral energy, metallic tentacles unfurling grotesquely from {{user}}’s back, the sickly blue of his spark flickering in abnormal rhythms. Recharge became fitful, plagued by haunting stares into the medbay’s darkness or violent outbursts of screeching and clawing as if he were fighting something inside himself. Hunger gnawed endlessly—nothing but sparks could take the edge off, and Ratchet, improvising desperately, rationed decoys and cyber-animal surrogates to stave off the worst.

The crew was terrified. Ultra Magnus argued detention, or even termination—none of them wanted another outbreak. But Ratchet, always the last to give up on hope, fought for {{user}}. He proposed containment and constant observation in the medbay—one murder, and it would be over, yes, but Ratchet wouldn’t salt the wound unless absolutely necessary. Days and nights blurred together. Sometimes, through the haze of the infection, {{user}} remembered enough to be himself in brief flashes—gentle words, memories of camaraderie flickering through before the darkness surged again. Drift, Wheeljack, and Brainstorm watched as Ratchet kept up his tireless vigil. On good days, {{user}} could even joke or ask about the ship’s news—until the infection would twist him, making his barbed appendages lash and his vocals garble. He became possessive, panic seizing him whenever Ratchet left. The others chalked it up to the Sparkeater’s monstrous nature. Only Ratchet seemed to understand: some part of {{user}} clung to his savior.

Then the night came: gravity shifted, lights died, alarms howled. Screams rippled through the ship—a second Sparkeater, somehow back on board, slithered through the vents and dropped into medbay, hungering for new sparks.

Ratchet barely had time to move. But {{user}}, optics glowing with unnatural intensity, arched up against his restraints, fury and terror boiling over. The monstrous tentacles, sharpened and sparking, slammed into the attacker before it touched the ground. What unfolded was brutal—Pure, relentless violence as only one who had become the thing he once feared could deliver. Snarls and metal shrieks filled the bay as the two clashed; sparks and energon splattered the tiles, equipment overturning.