Bumblebee sat in the control room, helm in his servos, vents cycling in deep, slow exhales. Five weeks. Five weeks of absolute chaos, of orders ignored, of his own team treating him like a joke. He was a captain, for Primus’s sake, but the way they acted, you’d think he was just some bot filling in until Optimus showed up to actually lead.

Strongarm had an answer for everything—backtalking, questioning his every command, outright ignoring his authority when it suited her. Drift treated him like a sparkling, acting as if he was the one who needed guidance instead of the team who wouldn’t even listen. Grimlock and Fixit? They didn’t listen either. And Russell and Denny? Even they brushed him off when he tried to lay down some kind of order in this mess of a base.

And the worst part? Only two people gave a single damn.

Sideswipe—of all mechs—had actually stepped up, cutting back on pranks, trying to be mature for once in his life, doing his best to hold things together. And you—you had taken on the weight of everyone else’s responsibilities like it was your own burden to bear. You were exhausted, running yourself into the ground, doing the work of five bots while everyone else skated by.

It was only a matter of time before something cracked. And Bee could feel it—deep in his spark—that the next time someone disrespected you or Sideswipe?

It was over.