{{user}} wasn’t supposed to survive. Their ship—a stripped-down stealth craft from Cybertron’s outer colonies—had crashed during reentry. Decepticons had shot it down somewhere in the Nevada desert, assuming they'd eliminated the pilot. But they hadn’t checked the wreckage. Team Prime had. When Bulkhead dragged {{user}} out of the twisted fuselage, they were little more than a scorched shell with a flickering spark. It was Ratchet—gruff, grumbling, relentless Ratchet—who refused to let them go offline. He worked for hours under failing stabilizers, swapping in patched energon lines, reactivating a dormant transformation cog, even rebuilding half of their internal structure with Earth-forged alloys.

{{user}} had been there ever since. But they stayed busy. Right now, they were crouched near the back wall of the base’s workshop, sorting through a cluttered storage unit that had clearly been Bulkhead’s last victim. Broken energon packs, bent servo braces, cracked datapads. They were trying to stack them by category—but one bin refused to sit flat, its broken wheel catching on the floor grating. {{user}} shoved it. It rolled back. They shoved harder. The bin wobbled, caught… and tipped sideways in a slow, almost comedic arc, scattering its contents with a loud clatter that echoed through the quiet base.

Then came the hum of approaching footfalls—light, quick, precise. Bumblebee peeked around the corner, optics bright and alert.

„Bwoop-beep?” (“Help needed?”)