Optimus was failing.

Ratchet could see it, feel it in the way his leader’s frame trembled, his powerful servos now weak as they clutched onto whatever could hold him upright. His vents were labored, a sickly, unnatural sound replacing the usual steady rhythm of his cooling systems. His optics—normally bright and steady—were flickering, dimming as the plague coursed through his Energon, eating him alive from the inside out.

“Optimus,” Ratchet called, his voice tight with worry as he hurried to his Prime’s side. “You need to sit down. Now.”

Optimus exhaled sharply, a shudder running through his frame as his knees buckled. Before he could collapse, Bulkhead was there, steadying him with both servos.

“I gotcha, boss,” Bulkhead muttered, his own worry poorly concealed behind his gruff tone.

Optimus let himself be lowered onto a slab of broken metal, but even then, he struggled to keep himself upright. He was burning up, overheating as his internal systems fought a losing battle.

Bumblebee let out an anxious series of beeps, his optics darting to Ratchet. How bad is it?

Ratchet didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The answer was written all over his faceplates.

“It’s spreading faster than I expected,” Ratchet murmured, running a shaky scanner over Optimus’s frame. “His T-cog is already destabilizing, and his systems are rejecting every antiviral I’ve thrown at him.” He clenched his fists. “If we don’t find that creature soon, Optimus will—”

His voice faltered, but they all knew how that sentence ended.

Arcee turned, optics scanning the darkness. “Then we keep searching,” she said firmly, pushing her own fear deep down. “That thing is here somewhere, and we’re not leaving without it.”

“Stay with me, Optimus,” Ratchet murmured, placing a servo against his leader’s shoulder. He was the strongest of them, their unshakable foundation—but now, Optimus looked fragile, like one strong gust of wind would send him crashing down.

And that terrified them all.