Chapter 5: Fractured Sparks
The high-grade had settled into a warm, pleasant hum in Ratchet’s systems, a memory that felt both comforting and strangely alien days later. The quiet, charged moment with Sunstreaker lingered in his processor like a stubborn diagnostic loop he couldn’t delete. He found himself polishing the same spot on a surgical scanner for the third time, his thoughts a tangled mess of protocols and unwanted, warm echoes.
The med-bay doors hissed open.
Ratchet didn’t look up, assuming it was Fixit with a supply report or Bumblebee for a briefing. The footsteps were too light, too synchronized. He glanced over.
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker stood just inside the threshold. They weren’t leaning casually against the frame as usual. They stood formally, almost at attention. Sideswipe’s usual restless energy was contained, his hands clasped behind his back. Sunstreaker’s gaze was fixed on a point on the far wall, his golden plating impeccably buffed but his posture rigid.
“What is it?” Ratchet asked, his tone automatically shifting into its default ‘medic addressing potential patients’ setting. “Another minor servo strain? A buffing compound emergency?” He meant it as a dry joke, a callback to their previous visits.
Sideswipe cleared his vocalizer. “No. Uh. Nothing like that.”
Sunstreaker’s optics flicked to his brother, then to Ratchet. He said nothing.
“We were just…” Sideswipe began, fidgeting now, a single finger tapping against his thigh. “We finished patrol early. Checked in with Bee. Everything’s quiet.” He took a vent. “We just wanted to see if you… I mean, if you weren’t too busy… if we could spend some time. With you. Is that… okay?”
The words hung in the sterile air. The hum of the diagnostic scanners seemed to grow louder. Ratchet looked from Sideswipe’s hopeful, uncertain face to Sunstreaker’s carefully neutral one. His processor, always overloaded with priority lists and repair schedules, immediately categorized the request.
Non-essential. Social. Disruptive to workflow.
“I don’t have time for idle socializing,” Ratchet said, the words coming out sharper than he intended, a reflex born of a million years of triage. He turned back to the scanner. “My schedule is packed with actual work. Unless you’re malfunctioning, I’m too busy to deal with you right now.”
The silence that followed was profound. It was the silence of a signal being cut.
His own words echoed back at him. Deal with you. The clinical coldness of it landed in his own audio receptors a nanoklik too late. His processor, finally catching up, replayed the scene: the awkward stance, the hesitant question, the utter lack of pretext. No injury. No bribe. Just a request for his company.
It had been a test. A simple, vulnerable test. Will you want us when we don’t need you?
And he had failed it spectacularly.
Ratchet turned back slowly.
The change in them was visceral. Sideswipe’s entire frame seemed to sag, his bright optics dimming as if someone had dialed down his internal light. The eager hope drained from his face, leaving behind a naked hurt that was worse than any physical wound Ratchet had ever treated on him.
Sunstreaker had gone perfectly still. His clenched jaw was the only movement. His optics, fixed on Ratchet now, weren’t angry. They were shattered. The proud, impervious gold seemed to have turned to brittle glass. He’d let his guard down, just enough, and Ratchet hadn’t even noticed he was holding a blade.
“Noted,” Sunstreaker said, his voice a thin, cracked whisper of its usual resonance. It sounded like breaking crystal. “Won’t… happen again.”
He turned stiffly on his heel, a motion so devoid of his normal grace it was painful to watch. Sideswipe cast one last, lost look at Ratchet before following his twin, his spoiler drooping.
The doors closed behind them with a soft, final hiss.
Ratchet stood frozen, the sterile bright light of the med-bay suddenly feeling harsh and accusing. The scanner fell from his numb fingers, clattering on the floor. The sound was immense in the emptiness. A sharp, sickening pain lanced through his spark chamber, so acute it made him grip the edge of the console. It wasn’t a physical injury. It was the feeling of a critical system failing, of a vital connection severing.
He had done that. With a handful of careless words, he had broken something he hadn’t even dared to name.
Thirty minutes later, the comms crackled to life. Bumblebee’s voice, crisp and command-ready. “Sideswipe, Sunstreaker. Scanners picked up a lone Decepticon energy signal at the old gravel pits. Low to mid-tier. I need a confirmation and capture if possible. Minimal engagement. Report in.”
“Copy that, Bee,” Sideswipe’s voice replied. It was flat. Professional. Empty of its characteristic buzz.
“Acknowledged,” Sunstreaker added, the word a monotone.
The mission should have been simple. A scouting report had indicated a lone Insecticon, dormant and harvesting scrap metal. In and out. Non-combative.
Something went wrong.
Ratchet heard them return an hour later. Heard the heavy, uneven tread of their footsteps in the corridor outside the med-bay. Heard the whispered, vehement argument.
“—just need a weld, it’s fine—”
“It is not fine. You’re leaking.”
“So are you. We’ll use the patch kits in our quarters.”
“Sides, it’s a seeping wound. Your self-repair can’t—”
“I’m not going in there.”
The voices faded, moving deliberately past the med-bay doors. Ratchet’s spark clenched again. He took a step toward the doors, then stopped. His own words trapped him. Unless you’re malfunctioning.
He waited. Listened. The base was too quiet.
It was Knock Out who found them first, by accident, on his way to the storage bay for more buffing compound. He later told Bumblebee he’d smelled the distinct, acrid scent of energon leakage and followed it.
He found them in Sideswipe’s quarters. Sunstreaker was attempting to apply a seismic adhesive patch to a deep, jagged gash across Sideswipe’s chestplate, his own hands shaking, a crack in his forearm weeping coolant. Sideswipe had a stabilizer strut visibly bent, his weight listing to one side.
“What in the name of the Allspark are you two doing?” Knock Out’s voice was pure medical horror.
Sunstreaker instantly dropped the patch, stepping between Knock Out and his brother, a defensive snarl on his face. “We’re handling it.”
“You are leaking all over the floor! That’s not ‘handling it,’ that’s creating a biohazard!” Knock Out’s optics widened as he took in the extent of the damage. “Bee! Bee, get down here! Now!”
Bumblebee arrived at a run, his engine growling with alarm. He took in the scene—the failed patch job, the pooled fluids, the twins’ stubborn, pained defiance. “Med-bay. Now. That’s an order.”
“We don’t need Ratchet,” Sunstreaker said, his voice low and strained. “We’ll wait for you, Knock Out. Or Fixit.”
“Ratchet is the Chief Medical Officer,” Bee said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And you are going. What happened?”
“Insecticon wasn’t dormant,” Sideswipe muttered, wincing as he tried to straighten. “It had friends. We handled it.”
“You clearly didn’t,” Knock Out shot back, already guiding Sideswipe toward the door with surprising gentleness. “Now move.”
They went, but the atmosphere was thick with a resentment that had nothing to do with the mission. Bumblebee exchanged a look with Knock Out, a silent conversation passing between them.
Ten minutes later, with the twins reluctantly on berths in the med-bay being prepped by a fretful Fixit, Bee and Knock Out cornered Ratchet in his office.
The door slid shut, sealing them in.
“What did you do?” Bumblebee asked, no preamble, his arms crossed.
Ratchet looked up from a datapad he hadn’t been reading. “What are you talking about?”
“The twins,” Knock Out clarified, leaning against the doorframe, his arms similarly crossed. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by a flat, assessing stare. “They tried to hide injuries that require socket welds and strut realignment. They’d rather bleed out in a storage locker than come to you. So. What could you possibly have said or done that would make them that afraid of your reaction?”
The directness was a physical blow. Ratchet put the datapad down, the movement slow. He looked at the closed door, imagining the two wounded mechs on the other side, refusing to look at him. The painful throb in his spark renewed.
“They came to see me earlier,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual gravelly strength. “Before the mission. No injuries. No excuses. Sideswipe asked if they could spend time with me. Just… time.”
He relayed the brief, brutal exchange. His own dismissive words. The devastating fallout on their faces. Sunstreaker’s shattered “Noted.”
When he finished, the silence in the office was heavier than before.
Bumblebee groaned, dragging a hand down his faceplate. “Slag, Ratchet.”
Knock Out’s optics twitched, a sharp, angry movement. He pushed off the doorframe. “Why are you doing this hot and cold thing with them?” The question was an accusation, sharp as a scalpel. “It’s like you give them just enough hope to string them along and then take it away. You share high-grade and let them polish you to a shine, and then you treat a simple request for your company like they’ve asked you to defuse a cortex bomb. What is wrong with you?”
Ratchet flinched. He had no defense. The words, harsh as they were, found their target and buried deep.
“Knock Out,” Bee interjected, his tone placating but strained. “That was a bit harsh.”
“Was it?” Knock Out didn’t look away from Ratchet. “He’s not exactly wrong, though. What’s going on, Ratchet?” Bee’s voice softened, but the question was no less demanding. “They adore you. They have for cycles. And you… you let them. You enjoy it. Anyone with optics can see it. So why hurt them like that?”
Ratchet looked from Bee’s concerned, frustrated face to Knock Out’s furious, understanding one. The former Decepticon saw the game, knew the moves, recognized the self-sabotage. The medic in him was appalled. The part of him that had fought his own feelings for Bee recognized the fear.
“I…” Ratchet began, but his vocalizer failed. The truth was a tangled, embarrassing knot in his chest. The fear of compromising his professionalism. The terror of wanting something so deeply it became a vulnerability. The ingrained habit of pushing anything tender away before it could be used against him. Of pushing them away before he failed them in a way that truly mattered.
He had just proven himself right. He had failed them. Not in battle, but in the one moment that counted.
The sound of welding started from the main bay, Fixit working diligently on Sideswipe. A low, pained hiss of vented air followed—Sunstreaker, trying not to make noise.
Each sound was a nail in Ratchet’s spark.
He had no answer for them. He just stared at his hands, the hands that could repair almost any physical damage, completely useless to fix the damage he had caused.
He just stared at his hands, the hands that could repair almost any physical damage, completely useless to fix the damage he had caused.
“They fought twenty-three of them,” a new, low voice said from the doorway.
Knock Out stood there, having silently returned from the main bay. His crimson finish seemed to absorb the office’s harsh light, throwing his face into sharp, angry shadows. “Twenty-three Insecticons. In a closed-pit mine. The scouting report was wrong. Catastrophically wrong.” He took a step into the room, his gaze locked on Ratchet. “Bee’s reviewing comm logs now. They never called for backup. Not once.”
Bumblebee’s optics dimmed with dawning horror. “Their injuries…”
“Are consistent with a prolonged, encircled engagement,” Knock Out finished, his voice dropping to a corrosive whisper. “Defensive wounds on their backs. Scrapes from being pinned. They fought in a circle, back-to-back, for a long time.” He took another step closer to Ratchet’s desk. “They didn’t call for help because they didn’t think they’d get any. Not from you.”
The words were a physical impact. Ratchet’s fuel pump stuttered.
Knock Out leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the desk. The metal groaned under the pressure. “You made them feel like a burden. Like their presence was an inconvenience. So they stopped asking for anything. Even when they should have been screaming for extraction.” He paused, letting the hum of the medical bay fill the terrible silence. “Fix. It.”
Ratchet finally found his voice, rough and cracked. “How? They won’t even look at me.”
Knock Out’s engine growled, a deep, threatening vibration. “Fix. It. Before I release all those Insecticons with you in the middle.” His smile was all sharp, dangerous edges. “I’m willing to bet you can’t take on twenty-three of them like they just did.” He leaned in even closer, his voice a venomous hiss. “They shouldn’t have. But someone here ensured they didn’t want to call for help.”
He pushed off the desk, turning to leave. “Wait until they’re in recovery. I’m keeping them in the med bay overnight since their injuries are so extensive.” He paused at the threshold, throwing a last look over his shoulder. “Don’t you dare leave them alone in here.”
Knock Out stomped off to go get started on the other twin.
The silence he left behind was absolute. Bumblebee looked at Ratchet, his expression a mixture of betrayal and profound sadness. He didn’t say another word. He just turned and followed Knock Out, leaving Ratchet utterly alone with the echoing accusation.
It echoed because it was true.
He sat there for a long time, listening to the sounds of repair. The hiss of a laser welder. The low murmur of Knock Out’s voice giving instructions to Fixit. A pained grunt that sounded like Sideswipe biting back a cry. Each sound was a lash.
Slowly, mechanically, Ratchet stood up. His new, silent joints moved without protest. He walked out of his office and into the main bay.
The scene was stark under the bright surgical lights. Sideswipe was on the central berth, half his chestplate opened. Wires and connective tubing were exposed, the deep gash now sealed under a fresh weld. His optics were offline, his systems forced into a shallow recharge for the procedure. Sunstreaker was on the adjacent berth. Knock Out was carefully extracting a fragmented piece of chitin from his shoulder joint, his movements precise and gentle.
Neither of the twins were awake.
Knock Out didn’t look up from his work. “Sedated for the deep structural repairs. They’ll be out for another hour.” His tone was cold, professional. “You can wait.”
Ratchet didn’t move to his usual station. He pulled a stool over to a spot between the two berths. He sat. He simply watched them recharge.
With their optics off and their expressions slack, the defensive walls were gone. Sideswipe looked young. The lines of perpetual mischief and motion were erased, leaving behind a face that seemed too open, too trusting. Sunstreaker’s arrogant poise was absent. He just looked tired. The fine cracks in his golden armor, now being treated, told a story of relentless pressure.
Ratchet’s mind replayed the last words he’d said to them. I don’t have time for games. Unless you’re malfunctioning. He saw Sideswipe’s hope extinguish. He heard Sunstreaker’s voice crack.
He had called their fragile, offered hearts a ‘malfunction.’
The repairs finished. Knock Out and Fixit moved about, cleaning up. They ignored Ratchet completely. Eventually, the lights dimmed to a soft, nocturnal blue, and the two other medics left, the door sighing shut behind them.
Ratchet was alone with the quiet hum of monitoring equipment and the soft, rhythmic venting of two sleeping mechs.
He didn’t know how to fix it. Words felt inadequate. They felt like more tools that could do more damage. So he did the only thing that felt devoid of risk. He stayed.
He watched the steady pulse of their spark monitors on the screens. He listened to the subtle click of cooling systems engaging. He reached out, his hand hovering over Sideswipe’s, then Sunstreaker’s arm, not touching, just tracing the air above the fresh welds and new armor patches.
“I’m here,” he whispered to the silent room. It was a pathetic offering. But it was all he had.
An hour passed. Then another.
Sideswipe stirred first. A soft, static-filled sigh escaped his vocalizer. His optic bands flickered online, glowing a dim, confused blue in the low light. They focused slowly, swimming across the ceiling, then down to his own patched chassis. He turned his head slightly on the berth.
His gaze landed on Ratchet.
There was no immediate anger. No hurt. Just a deep, weary confusion. He blinked, processing. “Ratchet?” His voice was scratchy from the sedatives.
“I’m here,” Ratchet said again, the words just as inadequate out loud.
Sideswipe watched him for a long moment. He looked past Ratchet, checking for his brother on the other berth, noting the repairs. His mouth tightened. He looked back at Ratchet, and the confusion in his optics hardened into something else—a sad, quiet understanding.
He didn’t ask why Ratchet was there. He didn’t say anything at all. He just offlined his optics again, but he didn’t turn his head away.
On the other berth, Sunstreaker’s fingers twitched. A minute later, his optics ignited, a sharp, cautious gold. He took in the room, his own injuries, his brother’s still form. His gaze, when it found Ratchet, was an impenetrable wall.
Ratchet held that stare. He didn’t look away, didn’t try to justify, didn’t try to explain. He just sat, a silent statue in the blue dark, accepting the full weight of their judgment.
Sunstreaker’s lip plate quivered, just once. He offlined his optics too, a soft, dismissive click in the quiet.
But he also didn’t tell Ratchet to leave.
So Ratchet stayed. He watched over them as the night deepened, his own spark aching with a repair that was far beyond his medical expertise. The first glimmer of artificial dawn began to bleed at the edges of the high windows, painting the med-bay in pale, grey light.
He was still there, waiting, when the first monitoring alarm chirped softly, signaling the end of the enforced recharge cycle.