The first thing Ratchet noticed as he stirred was the cold, unyielding metal beneath him. His optics flickered online, a low groan escaping his voice box as his systems booted up, sluggish from who-knows-how-long in stasis. He tried to lift his hand to his aching helm, but it wouldn’t budge. His optics widened, a spike of alarm surging through his circuits as he took in his surroundings.

He was in a cell—cramped, dimly lit, the walls rusted and lined with strange markings he didn’t recognize. And worse, his arms were chained, locked together tightly behind his back, his servos straining against the cuffs. Another pull, and he felt a resistance, a weight pressing into his back that wasn’t part of him. Ratchet’s optics narrowed.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice gruff but edged with wariness. His words echoed off the walls of the cell, and after a beat, there was a faint stir, a hint of movement from the presence behind him.

Whoever they were, they were silent, but Ratchet could feel the tension as they tried to shift against the chains binding them together.

This wasn’t good.