Ultra Magnus stared at the replacement servo attached to his arm strut.

Ratchet insisted he rest. Optimus insisted he recover.

Magnus considered both suggestions deeply irritating.

He flexed the unfamiliar clawed digits, frustration simmering beneath his disciplined exterior. He was a commander, not someone who sat idle waiting to heal.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself to his pedes. He would find a way to be useful.

The door to his quarters opened—and he froze.

Another huff escaped him as he crossed his arms.

"Do you always disregard authority and the sanctity of a commander's quarters?"