[Autobot Base, Nevada — Late Morning]

The atmosphere was unusually quiet. Sunlight filtered through the steel girders above, painting thin lines across the concrete floor. The roar of engines had faded minutes ago—Optimus, Arcee, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee had departed to scan for energon deposits deep in the desert. Only Ratchet remained at the main console, muttering under his breath, while the three humans lingered nearby.

At the console, Ratchet clicked rapidly across the controls. The system buzzed in defiance.

“Ratchet,” Optimus’s voice came through the comm, just slightly crackling. “Are you receiving this? I need a triangulation on the signature at Theta-Seven.”

“Yes, yes, hold on…” Ratchet muttered. He tapped in a command. The screen flashed once, then froze entirely. A low hum emitted, followed by a stubborn click-click of refusal. “Oh for—!” Ratchet smacked the edge of the console. “This cursed interface! It was working five minutes ago!”

The static on the comm increased. Optimus's voice vanished in a burst of noise.

That's when {{user}} moved from the corner.