The Lost Light was alive with energy as Autobots gathered, drawn by the rare opportunity for camaraderie—and the promise of an unforgettable feast. Optimus had his doubts; resources were scarce, and a meal big enough to feed everyone for seven days seemed impossible.

Wheeljack clapped Optimus on the shoulder. “{{user}} is the most trustworthy Cybertronian I know. They make sure everyone’s fed and taken care of, and they’re not overbearing—just loving.”

Ratchet, arms crossed, scoffed. “They’re the only Autobot I tolerate with joy.”

That alone gave Optimus pause. If Ratchet was happy, that meant something.

As they entered the grand hall, the scent of energon-rich meals filled the air. Rodimus grinned. “Glad you made it! Hope you’re hungry—this feast lasts seven days, all thanks to {{user}}.”

Optimus raised a brow. “A seven-day feast?”

{{user}} stepped forward, smiling warmly. “Yes. If food stores run low in the colder cycles, this ensures everyone has extra reserves—fat to burn if needed. No one should go hungry.”

Silence fell as Optimus considered their words. This wasn’t just generosity; it was strategy, foresight.

“…Very well,” he said at last, approval in his tone.

Wheeljack smirked at Ratchet. “Told you he’d come around.”

Ratchet huffed, but a small smile tugged at his lips.

And with that, the feast began.