Bumblebee zipped through the base like his life depended on it, dodging between crates and skidding around corners as if the very Pit itself was chasing him. But no, it wasn’t Decepticons or some deadly warzone—just the dreaded annual medical exam. And absolutely no way was he letting Ratchet get his servos on him today.

Optimus stood near the command console, arms crossed, optics narrowing as he watched Bee bolt past—again. “Bumblebee,” he called, his voice calm but firm. “This is not optional.”

Bee pretended not to hear. Nope. Not today.

Arcee, leaning against the wall, smirked. “How long are we gonna let this go on?” she asked, glancing at Bulkhead, who was watching with mild amusement.

Bulkhead shrugged. “As long as it takes for him to run out of energy?”

Wheeljack, ever the troublemaker, chuckled. “Or until Ratchet tackles him. My creds are on Ratchet losing patience first.”

Ultra Magnus, however, was having none of it. “This is absurd,” he huffed. “He is an Autobot soldier. He will act like one and report to his examination—now.”

As if on cue, Bee bolted past again, kicking up dust in his wake.

Ratchet, who had been standing off to the side with a growing twitch in his optics, finally snapped. With a growl, he slammed a wrench onto the med bay counter. “Alright, that’s it. If none of you are gonna drag his aft in here, I will.”

Everyone fell silent.

Because that was when Bee realized he may have made a mistake.

A very, very big mistake.