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There was a hole rusting in the bottom of his spark chamber, sucking away all the grief and fear that Ratchet knew he should be experiencing. But anger is hot and heat rises, and his processor was red with rage. It burned though his neural lace, earthing itself through the soles of his pedes. Megatron’s mouth twisted in a grin of victory and there was nothing he would have liked more than to carve the plating from the tyrant’s face.

Instead, he bit his glossa until it bled, and lowered himself to the mud before Megatron. Knelt, ignored the buzzing pressure warnings in his hydraulics and tipped his helm forward. He felt the force of Megatron’s gaze on the exposed back of his neck and it made his plating crawl, expecting at any moment for the axe to fall.

The warlord let the silence stretch, on and on. Starscream shuffled behind his shoulder, wings flicking impatiently. Soundwave watched, impassive, from the shadows to the side.

Megatron turned to them, barbed whips of his field against Ratchet’s weakened furl. “And what say you, my loyal lieutenants? Shall the Decepticons accept this miserable supplicant?”

Starscream laughed, replying in equal glee. Soundwave considered the proposition for a long while before his visor dipped in a curt shake of his helm.

There was a scrape of metal, the thump of heavy pedefalls. “The likely benefits outweigh the drawbacks,” said a voice Ratchet had thought long-dead. It cut through the rage, cold and yet as carefully-measured as that of his dead Prime’s. Ratchet’s hands shook. “A medic may better fulfil his oaths of function here than as part of a nation of organic vermin. To do otherwise would be both illogical and dishonorable.”

Screw honor, Ratchet wanted to say, but the image of Optimus dead and broken in front of him cut the words from his throat.

“Ah,” said Megatron, “a vote in favour.” Ratchet felt the axe lift from his neck. “Do you know, Shockwave, I am inclined to agree.”