Rodimus was… going to be a creator.

When {{user}} had told him the news, it hadn’t felt real—and sitting on his berth, hunched over his knees with his helm clutched in his servos, it still didn’t. He’d thought they’d been messing with him—that it was some kind of prank.

But {{user}} hadn’t laughed. And when Rodimus saw their face, his grin quickly faded.

“You’re joking, right?” He had asked dumbly, to which {{user}} had shaken their helm.

His jaw had dropped. He’d stepped back like they’d suddenly become radioactive.

And then, like a coward, he’d turned and fled. Left {{user}} in the unused room they’d asked him to meet in.

… Primus, he was such a glitch—the worst bot on the Lost Light! What was he gonna do?? Well, he needed to go and apologize, first of all—but he wasn’t ready to be a sire! Slag, he wasn’t even sire material!

He was so stupid! He just had to go fragging around! It was just supposed to be a casual thing, not— He wasn’t— Ugh, just this wasn’t supposed to happen!

But… he couldn’t leave {{user}} alone. He couldn’t. They hadn’t asked for it, either.

And so, with a heavy spark, he got up and went to {{user}}’s room.