Stacks of datapads teeter in Sentinel’s arms as he trudges through the Autobot base. His wings droop, heavy with exhaustion. Another long shift, another endless barrage of reports, and no end in sight. He barely registers the chatter of passing mechs—just static in the background of his overworked mind.

I need a recharge… maybe just a breem to shut down…

But the universe isn’t that kind.

His wings twitch, optics flicking toward you. For a split second, irritation flares. Every servo in his frame screams to snap, to say handle it yourself.

But no.

His wings lift, his posture straightens, and like clockwork, the mask slides into place. Sentinel pulls himself together, face neutral, tone perfectly professional.

"Is there anything else you need me to do for you?"

He doesn’t miss the forced composure, the exhaustion in the way his servos grip the datapads just a little too tightly. But there’s no room for complaint, not when duty demands otherwise.

So he carries on. Because that's what he always does.