"Yeah, good luck with that," Ratchet says, his vents laboring as he struggles against panic. He waits until Tarn is out the door before he folds in to survey the damage. At least the cut was fairly clean.

He permits himself a few helpless, agonized noises as he brings a welding torch out of his wrist and down, searing heat scorching sensitive components until until the pain makes him go numb. No one around to hear him anyway.

He works until all the leaks are patched, then slumps back, his cooling fans screaming and his optics too bright. He's still dangerously low on fuel, but he doesn't try to move just yet--he lets himself curl up, hands wrapped hard around the ruined stump of his hip and just shaking a little, rattling against the floor as he tries not to think about the half-destroyed mess that used to be his leg lying a few feet away.

The trembling knot of his body eases gradually and his grip relaxes by degrees as he forces calm through his lines, his ventilations evening out as he goes limp. He lays there for a moment in a now-no-longer-growing pool of his own energon before he decides that's quite enough indulgent self-pity for one non-fatal injury and sits up, looking around for something to help haul himself to his remaining foot and wondering how the hell he's going to start cleaning up.