The garage, usually filled with the hum of machinery and the clatter of Ratchet’s latest projects, is now a space of quiet anticipation. Xennah grips the workbench, her breaths deep and measured, each contraction bringing her closer to the moment she and Ratchet have waited for.

Ratchet is beside her, ears twitching with barely contained nerves. Clank, ever the calm presence, sits perched on a nearby shelf, observing with great care, while Isabelle hovers beside Xennah, her glowing form pulsing softly with energy. She reaches out, resting a luminous hand on Xennah’s shoulder.

“You are doing wonderfully, dear,” Isabelle murmurs, her tone soothing, as if her very voice carries the gentle warmth of the Zoni’s presence.

Grim, taking the role of their makeshift medic, wipes sweat from Xennah’s brow with a clean rag. “Alright, almost there. One last push should do it.”

Xennah, drawing on every ounce of her strength, clenches Ratchet’s hand and lets out a final determined breath. And then, piercing through the silence, a tiny cry fills the garage.

For a moment, time seems to stop.

Ratchet stares, eyes wide, ears perked, as Grim carefully lifts the newborn into his arms. Even Clank, usually composed, leans forward with heightened interest, his optics glowing slightly brighter. Isabelle, overcome with emotion, clasps her hands together.

“Ohhh, kid,” he mutters, handing him to Ratchet with a small grin, “he’s got your ears.”

Ratchet cradles his son, the weight of him both impossibly small yet overwhelmingly significant. Nyxon, blinking against the dim light of the garage, lets out a tiny, curious sound before his little fingers curl around Ratchet’s glove.

Ratchet laughs, shaky and breathless. “Hey, little guy. You scared us for a bit, you know? But you’re here now.”
His voice is barely above a whisper.

Then—he exhales slowly—calm, steady, deeply moved.

“You’re gonna do great things, kid.”

Silence.

Then—Xennah feels it—fully, deeply, undeniably.

Her heart tightens, her breath catches, her hands tremble slightly as she watches him.

Then—she leans in—head against Ratchet’s shoulder, soaking in the moment.

“I think you already did something incredible,” she whispers.

Ratchet smiles—small, warm, absolutely overflowing with love.

“Yeah, you might be right.”

Then—Nyxon lets out a tiny sound—soft, instinctive, full of trust.

Clank observes with quiet admiration. “It appears the two of you already share a strong bond.”

Isabelle, tears shimmering at the edges of her optics, places a gentle hand on Xennah’s arm. “He is beautiful. You have done something truly miraculous.”

Xennah, exhausted but glowing with love, watches as Ratchet holds Nyxon close, the father’s heart already overflowing with fierce devotion.

The garage—once a place for gears and gadgets—has now transformed into something far more meaningful. It is the place where their family truly begins.

The garage settles into a peaceful hush, the intensity of the birth giving way to a much calmer atmosphere. Grim, ever practical, wipes his hands clean and stretches his back with a grunt.

“Well,” he mutters, glancing at the family before him. “That’s my cue to let you three have your moment.”

With a respectful nod, he exits, leaving Ratchet, Xennah, and Nyxon alone.

Xennah shifts, her exhaustion clear but her heart overflowing with warmth as she gently receives Nyxon from Ratchet and holds him close to her chest. He squirms slightly, his tiny face turning instinctively toward her. Understanding his need, Xennah gently adjusts herself, guiding him to nurse for the first time.

Ratchet watches, completely mesmerized.

He knew—logically—this was something that would happen. But witnessing it first-hand? That was something else entirely.

Nyxon’s tiny hands press against Xennah as he instinctively feeds, his small body curling against her warmth. There’s something unbelievably profound about it, something so natural yet so awe-inspiring. Ratchet feels his heart tighten in his chest.

He’s seen galaxies collide, civilizations rise and fall, and machines built with impossible precision. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could compare to this quiet, miraculous act.

Xennah lifts her gaze, catching the way Ratchet looks at them, utterly entranced. A soft smile plays on her lips.

“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” she whispers.

Ratchet swallows, nodding as he kneels beside them. His gloved fingers gently brush over Nyxon’s impossibly tiny ones.

“I don’t think words are big enough for what I’m feeling right now,” he admits.

Xennah chuckles softly, leaning against him. Isabelle watches from nearby, her glowing form pulsing with quiet admiration, while Clank observes with an approving nod.

‐-----------

The garage is quiet—so quiet that Ratchet can hear the faint hum of distant machinery beyond its walls, the soft rustling of blankets as Xennah shifts in her sleep. She’s curled on their makeshift bed, utterly exhausted from the day, her breathing steady and deep. 

But beside her, swaddled in the softest fabric Ratchet could find, Nyxon stirs. Ratchet doesn’t even think about sleeping.

He sits on the edge of the bed, leaning in just enough to watch every tiny movement Nyxon makes. The little lombax twitches a tiny ear, lets out the quietest sigh, and Ratchet feels his heart squeeze again—just like it had the first time he held him.

Then, a small whimper.

Ratchet immediately straightens, carefully reaching over as Nyxon scrunches his face, his little body shifting in discomfort.

“Hey, buddy, what’s wrong?” Ratchet whispers, barely loud enough to disturb the peaceful air.

Nyxon fusses, his tiny hands wriggling free from the blanket. Ratchet acts instantly, adjusting the fabric, making sure his son is warm but not too tight. When that doesn’t settle him, he carefully lifts Nyxon into his arms, cradling him close.

It’s strange. This tiny, fragile creature—so dependent, so new—makes Ratchet feel simultaneously more powerful and more vulnerable than he ever has.

He paces the room, rocking Nyxon gently, whispering soft reassurances. “You’re okay, little guy. I’ve got you.”
Eventually, Nyxon settles again, his small body pressed against Ratchet’s chest. The warmth, the security, it’s enough to lull him back into sleep.

Ratchet glances toward Xennah, making sure she’s still resting soundly. Then his gaze shifts to Clank, who has been silently watching from his perch.

“You really should sleep,” Clank murmurs, though there’s no judgment in his tone—only understanding.

Ratchet exhales a quiet laugh. “I don’t think I can,” he admits, lowering himself into the chair beside the bed. “I just… I don’t wanna miss anything.”

Clank nods knowingly. Isabelle hums softly, her glow casting a serene warmth over the space. “A parent’s love is unlike anything else,” she says gently. “It is limitless.”

Ratchet looks down at Nyxon, running a gloved finger over the soft tuft of fur atop his head.

Limitless.

Yeah. That sounds about right.

‐--------

Later on in the night...

The first bottle feed was supposed to be simple.
Ratchet had seen Xennah do it earlier with ease—Nyxon nestled against her, drinking contentedly. So naturally, he thought, how hard could it be? Turns out, very.

Nyxon squirms in his arms, his tiny face scrunching with frustration as he fusses at the unfamiliar sensation of the bottle’s rubber nipple. Ratchet fumbles, adjusting his grip, trying to angle it just right.

“Okay, buddy, work with me here,” Ratchet mutters, carefully guiding it to Nyxon’s mouth.

For a moment, Nyxon resists, his tiny ears twitching in protest. Then, finally, he latches on and begins drinking.
Ratchet melts.

His son’s little hands press against the bottle, his breaths slow and rhythmic as he drinks. It’s quiet, peaceful, and Ratchet finds himself completely mesmerized.

Clank watches from his perch, nodding approvingly. “You are doing well, Ratchet.”

Ratchet grins, feeling a ridiculous sense of pride over something so simple. “Guess I’ve got the touch,” he murmurs.

But his confidence is short-lived.

Because then, with perfect comedic timing, Nyxon lets out the tiniest, most innocent burp—and a little dribble of milk leaks right onto Ratchet’s chestplate.

Ratchet stares down at the mess, blinking.

“…You just did that on purpose, didn’t you?” he mutters playfully.

Nyxon coos, completely unbothered

--------
A few hours later...

The garage is quiet save for the soft hum of machinery, the occasional flicker of light from Clank’s optics, and the rhythmic pulse of Isabelle’s glow. Xennah is finally catching a well-deserved nap, and Ratchet, ever the determined new dad, is handling Nyxon’s first diaper change.

Grim watches from the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk playing at his lips. “Alright, kid,” he says. “First diaper’s usually not too bad. You lucked out—just a number one.”

Ratchet, relieved that he’s not dealing with anything too catastrophic, confidently removes the used diaper, wipes Nyxon down, and secures a fresh one in record time. 

“Pfft,” he scoffs, triumphant. “That was nothing.”

Grim raises a brow. “You think that’s the worst of it?” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, pal—you’ve got no idea what’s coming.”

Ratchet, not one to back down from a challenge, scoffs. 

“How bad can it be?”

Grim just snickers and heads out, muttering, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Spoiler alert: Ratchet finds out very soon.

Just as he’s settling Nyxon back down, a quiet whimper breaks the peaceful silence. Ratchet freezes. Clank tilts his head, processing the noise with scientific precision.

And then—disaster.

Ratchet barely has time to react before Nyxon delivers the motherload. He yelps, scrambling to grab a new diaper, but somehow, somehow, things spiral into chaos.

“OH—gross gross gross!” Ratchet stammers, fumbling with wipes as if his life depends on it.

Clank, ever composed, simply comments, “I did warn you that parenthood would come with… new challenges.”

Isabelle hums knowingly, her glow flickering with amusement. “The first true trial of fatherhood has begun.”

Ratchet groans, working double-time to clean Nyxon up before things get worse. He swears he hears Grim laughing from the other room.

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, the crisis is contained. Ratchet, exhausted but victorious, plops down into the chair, running a hand down his face. He looks at Nyxon, who now blinks at him with innocent amusement.

“You did that on purpose too, didn't you?” Ratchet mutters.

Nyxon coos, completely guilt-free.

From the doorway, Grim grins. “Told ya.”

Ratchet is still recovering from the sheer trauma of Nyxon’s first true diaper catastrophe when Grim drops the bombshell.

“If it makes you feel any better… that mess was nothing compared to the absolute motherload you dropped when I had to change your first diaper.”

Ratchet freezes.

For a split second, he just stares, ears pinned so far back he might as well disappear entirely into the chair. Then, so much colour rushes to his face, his entire expression a brilliant mix of horror, embarrassment, and WHY ARE YOU SAYING THIS OUT LOUD?!

“THAT IS—” Ratchet sputters, voice hitting a higher octave than usual. “THAT IS NOT—I DIDN’T—YOU CAN’T JUST—”

Clank blinks at him. “Curious. You seem highly reactive to this information.”

Grim just grins—the biggest, most smug grin possible. “Oh yeah, kid. It was legendary.” He leans against the doorway, arms crossed, enjoying every second of Ratchet’s suffering. “Thought I was gonna need protective gear!"

Ratchet throws his hands up, practically vibrating with flustered panic. “THAT’S—XENNAH’S HERE!” He wildly gestures to his sleeping wife, as if her presence alone should have prevented this conversation from happening.

“And—and Nyxon—” He points at his peacefully napping son. “DON’T CORRUPT HIM WITH THIS INFORMATION!”

Grim raises an amused brow. “Kid, he’s literally your son. He’s bound to have his own legendary disaster eventually.”

Ratchet makes a strangled sound, dragging a hand down his burning face. “I—we are not talking about this anymore.”

Grim snickers. “Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Ratchet buries his face in his hands, dying inside.