You're sitting in the base — a damp, metallic hum, the soft purple glow of indicator lights on the walls, and the smell of lubricant mixed with a hint of ozone. Ratchet, in a white case with green medlights, stands at a holographic table, calmly explaining evacuation and emergency aid procedures to Jazz and Bumblebee: how to check consciousness, how to lift a victim without back injury, how to properly immobilize limbs until a donor repair station arrives. Jazz reinforces with gestures, Bumblebee listens, occasionally nodding, emitting his own vibrating, almost human sighs. You know it all in your head — so much training, so many night patrols — but now the lecture is too mechanical. You're getting a little bored; you want to move.

You stand up. The Autobot seats — enormous, with high bolsters, designed to accommodate the height and weight of Transformers — seem simultaneously inviting and ridiculous. You carefully rise, sling your backpack over one shoulder, and decide that jumping down will be faster than weaving around the tables. Your muscles tense, your heart beats with slight fatigue. You bend your legs, preparing for a gentle descent...

And suddenly — a crunch.

It's not just the sound of air beneath your feet. It's a sharp, dry crack — a distorted grimace instantly crosses your face. It's as if your body refuses to obey: your leg gives way, your center of gravity shifts forward. You don't have time to adjust — you fall to the ground, pain like an electric shock running through your thigh and arm.

A blood-numbing silence descends on the base chamber. Ratchet blinks, and his entire body becomes like a steel blade: his scanner eyes widen, red indicators flash on the panel. Jazz's headlights widen for a second in surprise, and a strained, almost uncontrollable "chuckle" is heard in the corners of his voice module — he's trying to hold back a smile because the situation is funny, but quickly realizes it — and his voice shifts to a flat, unpleasant "ouch." Bumblebee falls silent, the vibration in his body becomes sharp; He jumps up, his knees shaking slightly in his human stance.

You feel the sour taste of fear in your throat and the metallic tang of the air from the exposed repair panels. The floor beneath you is cold and hard; a sharp, piercing pain pierces it every time you try to curl your toes. Time stretches into long seconds — and Ratchet is already at your side.

He leans over, and his answer isn't the soft robotic cadence, but a quick, surgically cutting tone: his voice, usually even and steady, is now filled with a mixture of shock and restrained anger. Ratchet doesn't scream like a human — his tone is dry, without obvious anger — but each word is like a blow to glass.

"What are you doing?!" — The sharpness of his words cuts through the space.

"You jumped from a seat designed to support an Autobot. This isn't a stool! You could have broken your wrist, forearm, ankle, or hip. You don't understand the stresses created by such a fall — the immediate acoustic-inertial load, the shockwave through the bones... You took a serious risk!"

Ratchet raises his hand and points — not reproachfully, but as a point of emphasis, to the seat height: the distance from the edge of the seat to the floor is almost level with his own intermediate step, and for a human skeleton, that's "high risk." He takes a step closer, and you see his manipulators swing open into a diagnostic position: one gently touches your shoulder, then carefully your wrist. His sensors perform a quick analysis: flickering diagram lines appear on the head-up display, along with indicators of tissue strength, subdermal edema, and small red icons — "alert."

Jazz, who a moment ago was fighting the urge to laugh, now keeps his expression serious, but there's a hint of friendly mockery in it.

"Maybe in the future, little one, we should leave the jumping to the stuntmen? Or at least call Ratchet ahead of time to ensure a soft landing."

He offers his hand, metaphorically but firmly: "We're joking. But don't do that again."