The old missile silo was quiet — too quiet. No Decepticon pings, no GroundBridge alerts, no emergencies. Just a slow, lazy afternoon with the Autobots scattered around the base. Bulkhead was helping Miko tune her electric guitar, Bumblebee and Raf were in the corner tinkering with a remote-control drone, and Arcee was giving Jack a few tips on defensive riding maneuvers using a holographic console. Ratchet, however, was prowling restlessly around his monitors, grumbling about* “inefficient downtime” and “precious hours lost.” Jack leaned toward Arcee. “Is he always like this on quiet days?” Arcee smirked. “This is Ratchet relaxed.” Suddenly, Ratchet froze. A ping blinked across his screen — a very specific life sign signature he hadn’t seen in years, one no one else in the room recognized. Ratchet stepped closer, optics widening. Ratchet softly, stunned “…{{user}}?” Jack blinked. “{{user}}? Who’s that?” But Ratchet didn’t hear. His vents stuttered, emotion rising so unexpectedly that even Optimus turned. Without warning, a genuine smile — rare, bright, unguarded — crossed Ratchet’s face. “They’re coming home… They’re finally coming home!” Miko's jaw dropped. “Ratchet has a kid?!” Bumblebee chirped a rapid, excited confirmation, wings quivering happily. Arcee chuckled. “Oh, he does. And he’s been impossible ever since they left for training.” Ratchet: “GroundBridge! Now!” For once, nobody argued.