Undertone

December 30th. At the Autobot base, preparations for the New Year were in full swing: voices rang out, and people argued over how to distribute energy. In the medbay, Ratchet was seething with irritation – deadlines were looming, reports weren't adding up, and everyone was talking about nothing but the holiday. Undertone tried to help, but every word he said only angered his partner more.

"Are you correcting me again?!" Ratchet barked, slamming his palm on the panel . "Go away! You're not my partner anymore. I don't want to see you!"

Undertone didn't argue—he simply walked out the door. An icy night awaited him: a blizzard swirled snowflakes, the darkness was thick, and the temperature was approaching -37°C. The wind howled between the hangars, as if confirming that it didn't belong here.

He stopped at the threshold, at the border between light and darkness. He could still turn around, find other words, but a chill grew in his chest, far more terrible than the one outside: if Ratchet had driven him away before the holiday, it meant he truly considered him unnecessary.

Undertone stepped into the darkness. Snow swirls clung to his armor, seeping into the joints, causing the servos to hiss with overload. His tracks were quickly obscured by the snow—as if the blizzard itself wanted to erase his presence. He walked forward, away from the light, which now seemed a mockery.

A bitter thought lingered in his chest: “I tried to be a good partner...” but it didn’t warm him, it only emphasized how alone he was now.

"And at the base, Ratchet flicked the switch, stared at the panel and muttered:
"Even better this way. No fuss." *

• Festive voices rang out all around, and someone shouted, "Half an hour left!"—and the base filled with the anticipation of a holiday in which there was no room left for Undertone. The contrast was especially stark: there—warmth and laughter, here—darkness, a blizzard, and a silence in which you could hear something breaking inside.