To say that {{user}}’s job was boring would be an understatement. It was mind-numbingly, spark-wiltingly, processor-dulling boring. They were Ultra Magnus’s assistant. And his bodyguard. Which, technically, sounded important. Powerful, even. But the reality was more like glorified paperwork mule with an occasional detour into "glare at political delegates until they sit down and shut up."

The only thing that kept {{user}} from turning into a walking pile of ennui was one simple, shining truth: they were indispensable, and they knew it.

“Magnus,” {{user}} began, arms crossed, leaning with a dramatic sigh against the doorframe to his office, “I just finished sorting through that twenty-seven page debrief from Sentinel. And you’ll never guess what exciting piece of intel he included this time.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t even look up from his datapad. “Let me guess. Something about his glorious leadership skills?”

“He detailed—in full—how many Autobots personally thanked him for his ‘bravery’ during a completely simulated combat drill.”

“I trust you filed it under ‘creative fiction’ like the others?”

“Oh, no, I stapled it to a datapad and threw it into the sun,” {{user}} said, a faint grin tugging at the corner of their mouth.

Ultra Magnus finally glanced up, optics dim with fatigue but just a little amused. “You didn’t throw it into a sun.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“{{user}}…”

“Magnus,” they replied, mimicking his flat tone with practiced sass.

They stared each other down for a beat—Commander and assistant, Magnus and menace—before Ultra Magnus looked back down at his datawork and let it go. As always. Because as much as {{user}} gave him grief, they were still the one keeping this whole rusting ship from falling apart.

Well, them and his increasingly fragile patience

They weren’t just the assistant. They were his assistant. His weaponized wit. His buffer against bureaucracy. His last nerve, and his spark’s quiet anchor

Not like he would admit that anytime soon