A/N: The Shattered Glass Universe has always fascinated me, SG Ratchet especially. Evil throwing wrenches, yay? (And I just love his color scheme in SG... it's weird-ish, but cool) I thought I'd write something in honor of him and the fandom. I haven't explored much into TF regarding SG (or the normal G1 'verse, really), but I tried my best here. I know it won't be accurate, since I made it all up, and I haven't read the SG comics to validate if they talk about Ratchet's past. But hopefully, it'll still be enjoyable, and since these are drabbles and I've got three chapters done and exhausted most of my ideas, I probably won't be updating this much (if at all).
P.S. The title of this comes from the song 'Welcome Home' by Coheed and Cambria.
He came online one cold evening in a shattered universe.
The very first words he ever heard was, "Welcome."
Then, in one quick movement, something searingly hot was poured onto his helm. Two metallic hands instantly circled his face, holding him down as the liquid pooled over his forehead. The touch was fierce, a firm gesture that was both clinical and professional. But it was painful too.
The liquid's icy heat seared through his processor, forcing his body to jerk upright while his head remained pressed down by those hands. It slowly condensed, filling up a traced V pattern that was etched upon the top of his helm. He could feel his neural circuits firing up from the intense heat, just as his dull optics lit up in a burst of brilliant red.
He opened his lips to scream and found it tightly clapped together. The metallic hand roughly shoved his body back down in a laying position, and when he struggled, attempting to swing an arm at his attacker, he realized there was nothing there to swing with.
The voice murmured again, "Welcome ... home."
A sharp slab of metal was carelessly thrown upon his forehead, over the condensed liquid and the V pattern. The act was crude, and he knew that it wasn't by mistake. There was real anger there – anger for his struggling, and hatred.
The metallic hand gripped his face again as he spasmed from the cruel treatment, the touch raw and cold against his heated cheeks. He could feel the liquid molding with the metal over his forehead, forming sensitive connections and receptors on the lengths of the twin tips, down to the joined end. Static ran from those tips and into his central processor, heightening the senses already filling up his mind from the outside world.
Slowly, his vision became less of a blur and he could tell distinct objects from one another – putting names to his recent observations of unknown parts.
Tears, he noted, as droplets of foreign liquid slipped from his optics and collected underneath him. Berth, his mind supplied the word as he was once more pressed down upon the cold, metal bed.
Then he switched his sight on the person above, whose optics were now distinguishable and red, peering down upon him coldly. The person was still holding his face, but the pressure on the slab of metal was removed; instead, it was now placed on his side where he had no arms. The burning liquid was suddenly poured all over the gaping extension hole that was his shoulder-plate, scrambling his thoughts with a colorful wave of pain.
C-creator, he realized as he released a silent scream of agony. More of those 'tears' dripped down from his faceplate, and a sob welled up in his throat.