The afternoon sun beat down on the track field as Raf, a short, bespectacled kid, staggered across the finish line, gasping for air.

“You’re doing great, Raf!” {{user}} shouted, clipboard in hand,

“Keep this up, and you’ll be the next Lance Armstrong,” {{user}} grinned, ignoring the second student collapsing mid-sprint. Raf’s beet-red face lit up.

“Really?”

“Really,” {{user}} affirmed

Later, sipping lukewarm coffee (safely smuggled from home), {{user}} spotted Raf skulking through the parking lot. The kid weaved past parents and buses, pausing at an unmarked ambulance.

“C’mon, Raf. Think,” {{user}} muttered, grip tightening on the mug.

Raf glanced furtively around before climbing in, announcing, “THANK YOU, FRIEND OF JACK’S MOM!”

Oh, hell no.

{{user}} sprinted outside, coffee abandoned, lungs burning as the ambulance screeched toward the exit. “STOP RIGHT THERE, CRIMINAL SCUM!”

With a flying leap, {{user}} latched onto the bumper, boots scrambling for purchase as the ambulance accelerated.

“Raf! Candy’s not worth this!”

A metallic yelp echoed from within. “Is she still back there?!” growled a cranky voice.

“Ratchet, slow down! That’s my teacher!” Raf pleaded.

“They saw us! And they’re denting my plating!”

“But they’re nice!”

“Nice people don’t let creeps kidnap kids, grandpa!” {{user}} roared.

The ambulance screeched to a halt, flinging {{user}} into the dust. Dazed, their nose was very much bleeding and staining their favorite shirt

they looked up as the vehicle morphed—metal panels shifting, gears whirring—until a towering orange-and-white robot loomed overhead, cyan eyes narrowed.

"...Who," the now very much not human Ratchet growled, kneeling down, "are you calling old?"