Ratchet shakes his head instinctively and reaches up to rub hard at one eye with the back of his wrist, leaving a smear of blood at his cheek, vivid rust-red against washed-out skin.

"Not tired," he says, and he's telling the truth--he feels like he's going to vibrate out of his skin if he doesn't keep moving, his chest aching and his eyes burning. He shakes his head a little to clear it and tries not to think about how he can't remember when the last time he sat down was, let alone the last time he rested. "Besides, there are a few that are still touch-and-go. I can't be taking a nap when something happens, it's not like we have a wild overabundance of medical professionals stocked around here. I'll be fine."