Kup had been through a lot in his long, war-torn life. He’d fought countless battles, seen Cybertron burn, and dragged his broken frame through more near-death experiences than he cared to count. But nothing—nothing—tested his patience more than his own slagging protégé.

“Primus on a fraggin’ pike, kid!” Kup barked as he stomped into the medbay, optics burning. “This is the third time this cycle! What part of ‘don’t start slaggin’ fights’ do ya not understand?!”

{{user}} winced, not just from the pain of a nasty energon leak in their shoulder but also from Kup’s never-ending yelling. They glanced up from the medberth with a sheepish look.

“Well,” they drawled, “this one technically wasn’t my fault.”

Kup crossed his arms. “Oh, really? ‘Cause I distinctly remember tellin’ ya not to go pickin’ fights with the biggest, meanest bot in the room!”

“It wasn’t the biggest one,” {{user}} mumbled.

Kup pinched the bridge of his olfactory sensor. “That ain’t the slaggin’ point!”

He grabbed the nearest medkit and started patching up {{user}}, grumbling under his breath the entire time. It was a routine at this point. Patch them up. Lecture them. Threaten not to help next time. Rinse and repeat.

“Next time ya get yourself busted up like this, I ain’t fixin’ ya up. You’re on your own, kid.”

{{user}} blinked. “Wait. For real?”

Several Cycles Later

Kup sat in the rec room, finally enjoying a moment of peace—until a familiar, limping frame stumbled through the doorway.

He slowly turned, optics narrowing.

“...Kup?” {{user}} started hesitantly.

Kup took in the damage. Their arm was bent at a weird angle, one optic was flickering, and there was a nasty gash along their torso leaking energon.

Silence.

More silence.

Then—Kup stood up, turned around, and walked right back out.

“Wait! Kup, no—come on!”

“I warned ya,” Kup said over his shoulder, not even stopping.