Optimus stepped into the dim glow of the overhead lights, arms crossed. “The team’s been taking heavier fire since the Decepticons escalated attacks. One medic isn’t enough—especially when that medic insists on frontline repairs.”

Ratchet’s engine growled. “I’ve patched up scrapheaps worse than you lot for millennia. I don’t need some starry-eyed newspark tripping over my cables!”

“They’re not a newspark,” Optimus said, softer “They’ve had field training. And they requested this assignment.”

The door hissed open before Ratchet could spit another retort.

They stood there—a Cybertronian slightly smaller than Bumblebee, with a color scheme of muted greens and grays that screamed practicality. There visor dimmed nervously under Ratchet’s glare.

“Sir. I’m {{user}}. Optimus said you—”

“I know what Optimus said” Ratchet snapped, “Tools are there. Organize ‘em And don’t. Touch. Anything. Else”

Day 1: Ratchet didn’t look up when {{user}} entered“Shelf B-7. Sort the welders by size. Quietly”

They opened their mouth

“Quietly”

Day 4: A crash. Ratchet whirled to find {{user}} knee-deep in spilled cryo-gel packs, their faceplates flushed. “I-I thought inventory—”

“Out”

“But Optimus said—”

“Out.”

Day 12: The explosion rocked the medbay. Sirens blared as the Autobots’ alarms screamed to life.“Decepticon attack downtown—now!” Optimus’ voice boomed over comms. Ratchet was already stuffing supplies into his subspace. “Stay. Here,” he ordered {{user}}, jabbing a finger at the floor. “Don’t touch anything.”

He returned three hours later {{user}} knelt beside an unconscious Prowl, their hands steady as they sutured a crack in his primary fuel line. A half-empty vial of nanite gel sat nearby,

Ratchet froze “Who told you to—?”

“Protocol 7-C. Critical fuel loss requires immediate sealing before coolant flush,” {{user}} recited their voice trembling but determined “Y-You left the manual open.”

The old medic stared

Maybe he did need a assistant. And well maybe he could teach them instead of pretending they didn't exist