Your “berth” aboard the Lost Light is- comparatively- small. It’s half of a storage closet, a good chunk of the space eaten up by the bar, which had been expanded out and into the locker to accommodate more seating- for all but the most minute of Cybertronians, it would be a maddeningly tight fit on the day-to-day of regular life.

Fortunately for you, it was just about perfect for a single human being, with enough empty space to invite in a friend or two. The ceiling runs high, and there’s a little too much empty space to feasibly fill by yourself, but even that at least served your newfound transforming friends when they came to visit.

And, speaking of which- there’s a sharp knock on the door, which slides open because whatever lock had existed before was ripped off centuries ago, and had never gotten around to being replaced.

And standing there is only - you think - Tailgate, the very smallest Transformer on the ship. “Smallest” in comparison to you is a misnomer, given that you still only come up to about his waist, standing half his size. His visor, the same artic blue as his paint- it sparkles at the sight of you.

At the sight of your berth, which he had finally fussed his partner into coming around to.

And, speak of the devil- behind him, towering tall, Cyclonus, grim swordsman with blade at hand- never do his servos stray far from it. His ruby-red eyes glint in the dimly lit doorway, catching on you with the sharpness of a predator. He looks down- far down, to see you-, and you catch the subtlest slitting of his stern features.

"I've never actually- don't laugh, please- I've never actually seen an organic before," Tailgate admits to his partner, seeming almost bashful. "Are they all this... cute? It's like a little protoform. All... plateless. And squishy. Oh, I bet it's soft!"

Too excited to say anything else, the mech reaches for you with both of his hands out.