Sideswipe stared down at the tiny, wailing form of Strongarm, his processor already aching. Fixit, standing beside him, looked equally horrified, his optics darting between the newly sparkling-sized Autobots and the still-smoking de-age ray that Strongarm had oh-so-helpfully activated.

Drift, now reduced to a tiny, stern-faced sparkling, was staring up at them in what could only be described as dignified confusion—until Slipstream and Jetstorm tackled him, giggling and chirping in glee. Meanwhile, Bumblebee sat on the floor, optics wide, as if still processing what had just happened.

And then there was Strongarm.

Screaming.

Wailing at the top of her tiny vocalizer, kicking her little legs like the world had personally wronged her.

Sideswipe dragged a servo down his face, exasperation settling in fast. He and Fixit exchanged a look—the kind of look shared between two bots who had just realized their lives were about to get exponentially harder.

“Oh, Primus,” Sideswipe muttered. “What did we do to deserve this?”

Grimlock, towering over them all, just tilted his head. “Well, we could just let them figure things out for themselves.”

Fixit gasped. “Absolutely not! They’re babies! They need care, guidance, protection—”

A loud thud cut him off as Jetstorm attempted a mid-air flip and immediately landed on his face, letting out a startled squeak.

Sideswipe groaned. “Oh, this is gonna be a long cycle…”