A/N: :(
Drip...drip....drip
It was the constant dripping of oil, the endless hum of the furnace, and the rackety shaking of conveyor belts that were still operating through the absent mind of the tin-crested offender who was entangled by chains, hanging over what once was his. The Underground was now a scrubble of it's remains, destroyed by the rust-coated robots that defied against his and his mother's plan. All that was left of him now was a shell of who he used to be, the powerful and controlling man he was. Now, he just looked pathetic and pitiful. Perhaps that's what his mother would've said if she was there at that moment. Only all that was left of her was a melted mess somewhere in that furnace that used to glow ever so brightly, brighter than the brightest embers.
In the past, Ratchet would typically spend his day in Bigweld Industries, concocting new ideas and planning to make forward a change that he believed was right on his end. Perhaps he was drinking his daily court of oil in his office, or talking business with his colleagues. Or maybe he was scheming something toward Cappy, the supposed woman of his life. Of course, after she defied him for that Copperbottom freak, those feelings were gone in an instant. Though he would be lying if he admitted that he didn't feel any sort of heartbreak from it. And because of Copperbottom, he was stuck here in this damning place with his father, who was anything but quiet.
"You know son," he went on again, "Sometimes you just need a shoulder to cry on. That's what I learned."
Normally, he would shout at him to shut his trap, but after a while, Ratchet shut his own, not exactly seeing the point anymore. So days went on, with his father rambling on and with him swinging in the wind in chains.
One day, however, something new and interesting happened. Through the sound of his father's distant murmuring was the sound of clanky footsteps. It started from far away and the echo was faint, making the corrupt business man believe that it was just a piece of metal falling or something like that. But as it got louder and louder, it only turned into suspicion.
Someone else was there. But who?
Then he saw it: a rusty bot with a dull shine to his metal form, caked with blue and white, with a sort of fin going down his head. He was holding a toolbox that looked light in his grip, and yet he walked casually in the abandoned, formerly treacherous Underground. Ratchet curled his bolted fists, growling at the sight of him.
It was Rodney Copperbottom.