The medbay was quiet, bathed in soft amber lighting from the overheads. Only the distant hum of machinery and the gentle clicking of tools filled the stillness. Near the back, a soft, eager chirp broke the silence.

A tiny sparkling—no taller than a tool tray—stood on wobbly pedes. Their plating gleamed faintly with fresh polish, a blend of both their carriers: sturdy like Ratchet’s, yet with an elegant curvature reminiscent of Optimus.

Their optics blinked wide, curious and determined, as small servos reached forward to steady themselves.

Optimus knelt nearby, his frame still and grounded, watching the sparkling with a calm, unwavering gaze. He didn’t call out, didn’t coax—he simply waited, optics glowing with warm admiration.

“You can do it,” Ratchet said from the other side of the room, his voice quieter than usual, as if afraid too much sound might throw off the moment. He knelt too, arms out just slightly. His optics were soft but alert, carefully observing every shift in balance the sparkling made.

You looked at Optimus and then at Ratchet... Who were you going to choose?