“What were you doing?” Ratchet shouts, masking his genuine worry with a slap to the side of Bumblebee’s helm. The scout ducks, winces behind the mask. “For Primus’ sake! Optimus had to scan a whole new vehicle form to tow you away from that crash site without the fleshlings getting suspicious!”
::The roads were slippery,:: Bumblebee protests, as Ratchet shoves him down on the medical berth and goes to work on the smashed mess of his chest plating. ::It was weird! Wet stuff coming down from all over– couldn’t get traction–::
“There you go again with the excuses,” Ratchet growls. “We know this planet is ‘weird’, we went over the manual for the weather a dozen times, you have no real defense here! You just wanted to race!”
::I– yeah,:: Bumblebee concedes defeatedly, and squeaks out an alarmed pain horn as Ratchet pulls a bit of red plating from the crushed tangle of metal that used to be his left arm. ::It’s fun! All the roads, and the other cars!::
“If you’d killed that human…” Ratchet mutters.
::They crossed over the line! I swerved and hit the tree! They just clipped my aft end–::
“Bumblebee, you can’t keep doing this,” Ratchet moans. “Do we have to take your racing privileges away?”
Bumblebee stares up at him, horrified. ::Please no?:: he tries, and Ratchet knows he’s got no chance of enforcing this, not with those big optics begging him for mercy so expressively.
“Just… be careful next time,” he says tiredly, and continues with his repairs.