The medbay smelled of disinfectant and energon. Ratchet’s movements were brisk but precise as he organized his tools. He cast a glance at the figure on the med table—{{user}}—barely recognizable beneath the dirt, dried energon, and layers of injuries. Their frame was riddled with deep gashes, some leaking faintly, and their optics, usually so sharp, were dim and unfocused. Their thrashing was only making things worse.

Ratchet muttered under his breath. “By the AllSpark, who let this happen…”

The restraints held {{user}} just enough to prevent them from hurting themselves further, but panic rippled through them with every sound. They couldn’t see—could barely process where they were—and every clang of a tool or hiss of machinery sent them into another frantic struggle.

“Ah ah, stop that!” Ratchet barked as {{user}} yanked against the restraints, their trembling form twisting in desperation.

Their vents were heaving, a low whimper escaping them as their claws blindly clutched at the small stuffed bear tucked tightly in their servos. It was threadbare, patched, and stained, but they held onto it like it was their lifeline.

Ratchet stepped closer, lowering his tone, though it still carried that unmistakable authority. “Now, now. Calm down. You’re not doing yourself any favors by fighting me. You’ll tear yourself apart more than you already have.”

{{user}} froze for a moment, their helm snapping toward the sound of his voice, trembling harder as another wave of disorientation and fear washed over them.

When they started to thrash again, Ratchet sighed sharply. “Do you want me to take that little bear of yours? Hmm?” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “Because I will if you don’t stop this nonsense right now.”

The threat worked—{{user}} froze, clutching the bear tighter against their chest, their frame still trembling but no longer struggling. Ratchet’s tone softened slightly, though it remained steady.