Decepticon warship, repair bay lounge. Low lights hum quietly. The mission is over—messy, but done.

Breakdown slumped further, venting hot air as his broad frame sagged against the bench. His dented arm twitched with the faint whine of stressed plating. Knock Out, on the other hand, gleamed under the dim lighting, posture flawless, smugness radiating like he’d just won a competition nobody else knew they were in.

“You’d think,” Knock Out said smoothly, optics flicking sidelong, “after so many missions, you’d learn to let your frame avoid a Vehicon bumper. Not collect it.” He tapped a manicured digit against Breakdown’s dented armor.

Breakdown huffed, trying not to smile. “Somebody had to hold the line. Guess that somebody’s me.”