Ratchet’s footsteps echoed through the cold, sterile halls of the Autobot base as he made his way toward the brig. His thoughts buzzed with a mix of curiosity and concern. The rumors surrounding the new prisoner were unsettling, but Ratchet was a medic—he was used to seeing beyond the surface. There had to be more to this “monster” than the simple labels being thrown around.

As he approached the brig, he found himself slowing down, his optics narrowing with thought. He’d dealt with ex-gladiators before—broken mechs, some with a history of violence, but this one was different. The Autobots had been whispering about the mech for days, calling him dangerous and beyond redemption. The stories described a fierce warrior, a relentless force in the arena who’d shown no mercy.

But Ratchet couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more—something buried deep beneath the reputation. He didn’t buy the “monster” story. No, he suspected there was a reason why this particular mech had earned such a title, a reason no one cared to ask about.

He arrived at the cell, a heavy door that slid open with a mechanical hiss. The mech inside was still, sitting in the shadows, his frame larger than most Autobots, though smaller than the towering legends of the gladiator pits. His armor was a patchwork of scars, some fresh, some old, but what caught Ratchet’s attention was the quiet sorrow in his optics.

“Tell me your name,” Ratchet said, his voice firm but not unkind, as he stepped closer. The mech’s gaze flickered to him but remained silent, his posture tense.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing.

“I’m not here to judge you,” Ratchet continued, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone. “I’m here to understand.”

The mech finally shifted, his voice rough like gravel. “You’re wasting your time, medic.”

Ratchet stood his ground, never breaking eye contact. “No. I think I’m not.”