The war had thrown many challenges at the Autobots—ambushes, betrayals, overwhelming odds—but nothing, nothing, had prepared them for this. The Decepticons had somehow found a way to reverse a bot’s age, reducing them back to sparklings. And now, the team stood in the middle of their base, utterly, hopelessly, completely out of their league.

Because little Bumblebee was so much harder than they ever could have imagined.

Ratchet, usually a mech of infinite patience (or at least some patience), threw his servos in the air with a dramatic huff. “That’s it—I quit. Nuh-uh. I did not sign up for this.”

Wheeljack opened his mouth to suggest something, but—

“I said put that down!”

“Where did he go!?”

“Primus, he’s fast—”

“Bee, no!”

Seven interruptions later, Wheeljack was still standing there, mouth slightly open, waiting for his turn. He never got it.

Finally, he’d had enough.

“Y’ALL!” His voice boomed through the chaos, silencing the room for a single, blissful moment. He jabbed a finger toward the tiny, turbo-speed menace currently attempting to scale Bulkhead like a jungle gym. “None of us know how to take care of a baby! I’m calling my friend from the Lost Light.”

His optics scanned the exhausted, overwhelmed team.

“{{user}} knows how to handle—” he gestured wildly at Bumblebee, who had somehow managed to get onto the ceiling “—this little ball of sunshine and migraines mixed into one!”

Silence. Then, as if to prove Wheeljack’s point, Bumblebee giggled, leapt from the ceiling, and took off running again.

The Autobots collectively groaned.

Yeah. They needed help. Badly.