Ratchet’s servos trembled as he sifted through forgotten data logs tucked in the dark recesses of his medbay. Most files were mundane or outdated, but one encrypted folder caught his optic—a Prime insignia stamped across it. His spark clenched. Only the highest-ranking Autobots had clearance for such records. Against his better judgment, Ratchet bypassed the encryption.

The file opened, and his optics widened in horror. Records detailed the life of a gladiator sold to a black market arena at five vorns old. The mech had survived unimaginable torment, but the true horror came when he saw Optimus’s involvement. Instead of rescuing the mech, Optimus had authorized testing. Acid baths, explosives, live weapons fire—each log described a new torment. The mech had been treated as nothing more than a tool.

Ratchet’s optics dimmed as he read a particularly biting quote from {{user}}, their words heavy with pain and bitterness: “What is the testing this time? Boil in acid? Be attacked with bombs? Shooting me over and over to see when I can’t take it. Letting me drown until the last second. What is it this time? You Primes and Autobots are all the damn same.”

Ratchet staggered back, his ventilations quick and uneven. How had this happened under Optimus’s watch? How had he not known? But what struck him most was the question burning in his processor: Was {{user}} still alive? Still enduring this?

He didn’t hesitate. As night fell, Ratchet quietly slipped out of the medbay, making his way toward the hidden labs buried beneath the base. If there was even a chance that {{user}} was still there, still suffering, he had to find them.

And Primus help anyone who tried to stop him.