The base lights hummed overhead in a low, sterile tone, flickering just slightly above the medbay berth. Ratchet worked in grim silence, his fingers moving with practiced precision over scorched plating and cracked struts. The faint hiss of energon sealant filled the space. Burnt metal gave off a sharp tang. {{user}} lay still on the examination table—half-conscious, optics dim, armor blackened in long streaks from plasma burns and impact trauma. Their comms had been fried. From the look of things, they'd barely made it through their last encounter.

Bumblebee stood just behind Ratchet, arms slightly lifted, hands twitching at his sides. His optics locked on {{user}}'s faceplate. A quiet whir from his vents. Then a soft, uncertain beep.

“You’re hovering,” Ratchet muttered without looking up. “Either help or stand back.”

Bee shuffled a few steps, then paused again, watching. He didn’t know this Autobot. Couldn’t know them. They weren’t on the roster. Optimus hadn’t mentioned any stragglers—certainly not one hiding out on Earth, living in the shadows long enough to be hunted by Decepticons and left for dead. And yet… Bee’s optics narrowed slightly, pupils adjusting. He tilted his head.

Bee stepped closer, his servo twitching like he wanted to reach out, then thinking better of it. Ratchet finally straightened with a sigh, wiping energon from his digits.

“They’ll survive,” he muttered. “Somehow. If that Decepticon had hit any closer to the core systems…”