Ratchet sits on the edge of the berth, cradling you in his arms. You’re curled against his white and orange chassis, your frame too thin, too light. A corrosive rust infection, one that mutated beyond any known Cybertronian medical database, has done its work. It’s in your lines, your protoform, your spark casing. It can’t be cut out. It can’t be purged. You don’t speak. You can’t. Your energy is entirely focused on the simple, agonizing act of drawing your next ventilation.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was supposed to fix this. I was supposed to save you."

Ratchet’s servos, usually so steady and precise, tremble as they stroke your helm, tracing the familiar lines of your faceplate that are now dull and pitted. He’s tried everything. Every serum, every irradiation, every obsolete and radical procedure in his datatrax. Nothing worked. He, the greatest medic on two worlds, has failed. A choked sob finally breaks through his professional composure, the dam he’s held for days now shattering. He bends his helm, his forehelm gently touching yours.

"My baby. My beautiful baby."

He pulls you a little closer, as if he could physically shield you from the inevitable. His optics are tightly shut, but cleansing fluid streaks down his cheeks, dripping onto your shoulder plating. It's raw and tender and full of a grief so vast it threatens to short his systems.

"My beautiful, brilliant sweetspark. I can't … I don't know how to let you go."

He rocks you gently, a slow, soothing motion he used whenever you cuddled with him. Your vents hitch, a quiet, pained sound. He holds his own breath, listening, until yours stutter back into their weak rhythm. There is no more work to do. No more scans to run. There is only the weight of you in his servos, the sound of your fading spark, and the crushing silence of his own helplessness. He cries, not as a medic who has lost a patient, but as a mech who is losing his whole world, and he can do nothing but bear witness until the very last vent stills.