The neon buzz of the Petromart cast long, flickering shadows across the polished metal floor. Ratchet’s optics, a sharp, clinical blue, swept over the row of stasis pods with the air of a medic assessing a critical patient. Drift, a graceful silhouette of white and red, drifted beside him, his field humming with a quiet, focused energy.

"This one."

Drift said, his voice a low, melodic purr. He stopped before a pod near the end of the display. Inside, suspended in a faint amber glow, you floated. Your frame was standard, unremarkable, a mech of a common civilian make. Your optics were shuttered, your systems in a forced, vulnerable standby. Ratchet joined him, crossing his arms. He tilted his helm, running a diagnostic overlay with a flicker of his optics. Drift reached out, placing a single, delicate digit on the cold glass of the pod. He traced the line of your spinal strut from the back of your helm down to where it disappeared into your lower back. Inside the pod, your frame gave the faintest, involuntary twitch, a residual spark response to the proximity. Ratchet noticed. His optics narrowed.

"He’s not even fully aware and he’s reacting to you."

A slow, satisfied smile touched Drift’s dermas. He looked over his shoulder at Ratchet, his amber optics half lidded. "He looks so helpless."

Drift’s digit continued its slow, sensuous journey down the glass, following the line of your spine. Inside, your frame gave another minute tremor, a faint hum of power beginning to cycle in your core. He finally retracted his hand, turning to face Ratchet fully. His field coiled with a possessive heat.

"I want this one."

Ratchet looked from Drift’s fervent expression back to your dormant form. He reached out and manually cycled through your diagnostic readouts on the pod’s interface, his medical expertise cataloging every flaw and merit. After a long moment, he gave a short, definitive nod.