The war raged on in the distance, but Ratchet’s mind, burdened by countless battles and casualties, wandered to quieter places. He was walking along the riverbank when something unusual caught his eye—a small basket, drifting down the water, perilously close to the rocks ahead. His instincts kicked in immediately. Without hesitation, he dived into the river, reaching the basket just in time to prevent it from crashing into the jagged stones.

He pulled it to the shore, his optics scanning the contents. Inside, to his utter shock, was a sparkling. Not yet in its protoform, its tiny body trembling as if still adjusting to the world outside its original safety. The fragile little one seemed so vulnerable, barely able to breathe, and Ratchet’s processors raced with confusion and horror. Who would send a baby to such a fate, drifting toward a waterfall as if it were nothing?

His servos were steady, though, as he gently lifted the sparkling from the basket. His fingers curled carefully around the tiny form, the sheer delicacy of it bringing a strange sense of protectiveness to his core. He quickly checked for injuries, his medical expertise guiding his every move. Thankfully, there were none. But the spark was so faint, so fragile.

Ratchet’s gaze softened, but before he could process further, the sparkling’s optics flickered open. Bright, innocent optics locked onto his face, wide and searching, filled with the purest trust. Then, in a moment that stopped his spark, the tiny hand reached up, grabbing his servo with all the strength it could muster. It barely grasped one of his digits, but it was enough to make Ratchet pause.

His spark twisted with emotion. He knew the dangers of attachment, the risks of letting a new life into a war-ravaged world. But the sensation of this baby holding onto him—so small, so vulnerable—struck too deeply. This felt too personal.

He couldn’t turn away now. He wouldn’t.