Ratchet stood ankle-deep in oil and sterilizing foam, medbay lights flickering.

Alarms had died; whatever screamed had learned silence. Doors hissed; footsteps meant damage. On the slab: fractured plating, exposed wiring, energon leaking. He catalogued: structural failure, neural lag, shock. Predictable.

He powered a saw. “Still functioning,” he muttered. Survival was obligation.

Pain told truth. He worked with precision, correcting mistakes not his, reading spikes—fear: good. Medbay smelled of metal and antiseptic.

“Get up. Don’t repeat it.” He turned away.