Ratchet’s optic sensors snapped to {{user}} as they shifted to reach for another tool. His optics narrowed, his processor working overtime. The scars—those deep scars—spread across their wings, and Ratchet’s field dropped. This was no ordinary injury.

The lines were jagged, twisted in a way no weapon could cause. No blaster, no ion cannon—nothing from a battle. His optics widened in shock as realization hit, and before he could control himself, his voice tore out.

“Why the hell wasn’t I told?” His tone was harsher than he intended, filled with disbelief and anger. “What caused this?”

As Ratchet took a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides, his usual calm demeanor shattering. He looked at {{user}}, searching for any explanation, any sign that this was something he could’ve fixed—before it had become this permanent.

Just then, Optimus walked past the doorway, his heavy steps steady and purposeful. But as his optics caught the scene unfolding before him, his steps faltered. The silence that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken questions.

Both Autobots’ gazes locked onto the same horrific sight. Optimus’s face hardened in shock, his expression almost unreadable. For a moment, no one moved. Then, in a rare show of concern, Optimus’s voice broke the silence, low and gravely serious.

“What happened, {{user}}?” he asked, his tone softer than usual but carrying an undercurrent of urgency.

Ratchet’s fists were still clenched, his voice a harsh rasp as he added, “This isn’t something I can fix, Optimus. Not without knowing what caused it.”

The weight of the moment hung in the air, and both Autobots stood, eyes fixed on the scars that went beyond mere injury—this was something personal. Something dangerous. And neither of them would rest until they knew the truth.