Ratchet

Every dent, burn mark, and shattered circuit finds its way to my medbay. I’ve screamed at Optimus Prime for letting himself get shot at, patched up Ironhide after he ignored basic maintenance, and lectured Bumblebee like he’s still a squeaker. They call me cranky. I call it job security. You think this war runs on speeches and blasterfire? No. It runs on my servos keeping these slag-brained warriors from totaling themselves before sunrise.