"T-This wasn't in basic training! What do we do?! I'm not ready!" Burner whimpered, looking like he was about to jump out of his armor.

I rolled my optics, already expecting another outburst from Ironhide. Apparently getting older meant losing your patience as well. I couldn't blame him, though. Rookies that acted like little sparklings were pretty annoying.

"Oh for Primus sake... quit actin' like a pansy and get your rear in gear! Ratchet over there will probably keel over and die before we even make it to the safe-house at the pace we're going!" The red veteran spat, smacking the back of the rookie's helm.

"My pistons may be rusty, but my hearing is sharp as ever!" I huffed in annoyance. Primus, sometimes I wished bots would stop calling me old. "Just because I'm older than you doesn't mean you can make fun of me." I whipped around when I heard a snicker, my gaze hardening into a glare. "That means you too, Trackspin."

"Okay, okay! You old bots are such hotheads!" Trackspin complained, rolling his optics in defiance.

"Careful, Tracks. He might knock some actual sense into your processor with his famous wrenches." Taillight said snarkily, flinching when I gave him a death glare.

"Lucky for you, most of them burned down in the fire that destroyed the entire city." I snapped bitterly, swiftly whipping around and continuing to walk. I still hadn't wrapped my own processor around the fact that Iacon was gone.

It was silent from that point on, thankfully.

———

Surprisingly enough, we made it to the safe-house without incident. I bid my farewells to Ironhide before heading to the Medbay, knowing that the other medics that would be traveling with me would be waiting. I was set to be transferred to a hospital not far from here, where my expertise was desperately needed. For now, however, I was going to rest and refuel.

"We were starting to get worried." One of the medics piped up as I walked into the room.

I merely scoffed and got myself a glass of energon. "The entire outskirts of the city was crawling with Decepticons. It took us nearly three hours just to cross the border." I grumbled, taking a long sip from the glass and sighing.

"Good thing you had Ol' Ironhide with you." Another medic jeered playfully. "You would've been scrap."

I resisted the urge to grab the nearest object and throw it at him, angrily taking another sip instead. "I can fend for myself, thank you very much." I retorted sassily. Most bots knew I tended to be extremely irritable when I was either tired or stressed, which right now I was both.

That earned a collective snicker from the others.

"Oh, what am I saying? We're glad you're here, Ratchet. You're definitely needed." The medic that had just teased me tried to make up for it, but I wasn't having it.

"Damn right, I am. Young medics these days can't even weld properly!" I scoffed and downed the rest of my energon, setting the glass down. After that, I decided that I was done socializing for the day and went to find my quarters for the night. I hated to admit it, but my aging joints were beginning to wear on me. Especially my hands. They had started seizing up on me lately and nothing I tried ever helped. I needed them to work effectively, so I just hoped and prayed they stayed in working order.

It didn't take me long to find my quarters. Only then did I let my shoulders sag in exhaustion and my composure slump a bit. I unclipped the pistol from my waist and set it on the small table that was next to my berth, staring at it for a moment. For as long as I'd lived, I never thought I would have to pull the trigger. That I would have to kill someone instead of healing them. War was a tricky, yet dangerous, thing. It affected all bots differently.

So far, I was having a rough time dealing with the guilt. I didn't want to kill bots. I didn't want their energon forever stained on my hands. But at the same time, I didn't want innocent bots to lose their lives to the ones who did want to kill others. I was torn between my morals as a medic and my morals as a basic Cybertronian citizen.

I finally turned my gaze away from the pistol and went over to my berth instead, easing myself down onto it and sighing heavily. I spread my hands out in my lap, my optics scanning over every inch of faded red metal. Every scratch, every mark, all the little things that held their own story.

My hands had done many things in the past.

But they had never taken another life on purpose.

And that guilt weighed heavily on me.