“Hey Ratch? Got a question!”

Ratchet didn’t even flinch. “As long as it doesn’t involve missing limbs or a bomb in your chest, ask away.”

{{user}} beamed. “So, Arcee taught me a word! Actually, a bunch! I think it was important? But I don’t know what it means…”

Ratchet arched a brow. “Well, what was it?”

“I dunno! It sounded like mother-breeeeeeee—BLEEEEEEEEEEP something-something glitch-sucking exhaust-chomper! She said it was a compliment? I think??”

SCREECH.

Ratchet’s datapad hit the floor.

“…She what?” he whispered, vents hitching.

“Oh! And she gave me this!” {{user}} held up a glass bottle like it was a trophy from the Pit. “She said it was human energon! Called… whisk-ee?”

Ratchet leaned forward, slow like a horror movie monster about to snap.

“…Give. Me. That.”

He plucked the bottle gently from {{user}}’s servos with a shaky servo, read the label, and screamed internally.

“Distilled in Kentucky—you sweet, tiny titanium-coated disaster, this is literally flammable brain poison.”

That was it.

Ratchet scooped {{user}} up like an emergency protocol kicked in. “Nope. Absolutely not. You are DONE for today. Sit your aft down.”

“YOU’RE A SPARKLING,” Ratchet growled, pacing like a war general. “You don’t even have all your dentals in yet! You can’t say that slag! You can’t drink that slag! YOU CAN’T EVEN SAY ‘SLAG’ YET!”

“But Arcee said I could—”

“ARCEE,” Ratchet snarled, activating his comm like a death button, “GET. IN. THE. MEDBAY. NOW.”

“…She said I should chug it and then ask Optimus if he lifts—”

“NOPE!” Ratchet slapped his hands over their audials, furious and yet somehow deeply, cosmically exhausted. “I am locking you in here until I put Arcee through the wall. If you leave and hear anything…unpleasant, it is just the sound of justice.”

The table wobbled as he stormed toward the door, his voice thundering:

“I’M ABOUT TO INVENT NEW CURSE WORDS USING YOUR SPINE, ARCEE!!”