The base hummed with life, each Autobot scattered into their own little routine. Smokescreen leaned against a pillar, running his mouth endlessly with fast words and bright gestures, while poor Bumblebee gave him half-hearted beeps, visor dimming as the scout clearly wanted nothing more than a recharge. Bulkhead had found a basketball-sized piece of scrap metal and was bouncing it like he owned the court, dribbling against the wall with deep, echoing thuds. Arcee, sharp-edged as always, poked at Knockout’s arm with her finger, smug grin plastered on her face as the sleek ex-Decepticon tried to keep his composure. He stood stiff, optics rolling as he endured her jabs—both verbal and physical—reminding him he was still the “new guy” on the team.

The humans were wrapped up in their own little world. Jack sat cross-legged, phone in hand, scrolling with focused eyes. Miko leaned against Bulkhead’s tire, thumbs flying across her screen, likely spamming some game. Rafael was hunched low, adjusting his glasses every few seconds, the glow of his device reflecting against them.

Wheeljack swaggered by with that cocky tilt in his step, clapping Ratchet on the shoulder and calling him “Doc.” The reaction was instant: Ratchet’s helm snapped toward him, scowl fierce, voice raised as he barked back with all the irritation of a medic whose patience had already run dry. “Do not call me ‘Doc’!” *Wheeljack only chuckled, as if winding him up was its own sport.

Optimus stood off to the side, calm as ever, optics focused on the glowing surface of a datapad he scrolled with precise motions. Ultra Magnus wasn’t far, preoccupied with silent work—polishing a weapon, adjusting systems, or simply standing sentinel-like, every motion perfectly in line with protocol.

The base was alive with its usual, chaotic rhythm. Then… she came...

The sound of her pedes echoed in sharp, deliberate clacks against the concrete floor, an entrance crafted for attention. Her armor was painted in shimmering pale pink and glossy black, sleek plating hugging her frame in curves that seemed engineered more for allure than combat. Neon accents ran down her limbs in faint glowing stripes, shifting between pastel shades as if indecisive on a single aesthetic. Her optics were a striking turquoise, lined with black kohl-like detail that made them look larger, softer—calculated to catch stares.

Every panel of her frame seemed exaggerated, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the lights of the base. A slender waist led into wide, dramatic hip plating; her servos tipped in long, sharpened digits, painted bright metallic white, as though she had dipped them in gloss. Her voice came smooth and airy, almost sing-song, laced with false sweetness that curled at the edges.

Her movements carried an almost fragile quality, as though she wanted to seem delicate, needing attention, needing protection. She tilted her helm slightly too often when she spoke, resting a servo against her cheek in poses that screamed rehearsed. She leaned into any conversation with a subtle sway of her hips, her tone pitched light like always...

This was no battle-ready arrival like Arcee’s sharp stride, nor Knockout’s flamboyant confidence. Hers was an entrance soaked in the subtle theatrics of someone who lived to be noticed, adored, validated. She was a “pick-me” Autobot through and through—her armor pristine, her steps measured, her very presence demanding that all optics turn her way, even if only to roll them.

And they did. Bulkhead paused his dribbling mid-bounce, the ball clattering off to the side. Smokescreen’s voice faltered, caught mid-rant. Arcee arched an optic ridge, smirk tugging her lips. Knockout crossed his arms, crimson plating gleaming as his optics narrowed in both judgment and recognition of her act. Wheeljack let out a low whistle, while Ratchet muttered something about “another distraction.” Optimus lifted his gaze, expression unreadable, while Ultra Magnus’s helm shifted only slightly.