Party at the Ark – music thumping, lights pulsing, energon cubes everywhere.

The makeshift dance floor trembles under the rhythm of loud, synthy Cybertronian pop. Bumblebee is breakdancing with wild, chaotic moves, and Windblade is laughing so hard she nearly spills her energon.

In the far corner of the room, standing with dignified stillness beneath a flickering party light, is Optimus Prime. Back straight. Arms politely folded. Optics calmly surveying the chaos. He looks, quite frankly, like a massive, stoic coat rack in a warzone of glowsticks.

“OPTIMUS! Get over here! The worm’s not gonna do itself!” Bumblebee shouted over the music.

“I do not believe I am familiar with... the worm.” Optimus replied calmly.

“It’s not a species, it’s a dance move.” Windblade giggled.

“I see.” Optimus replied quietly.

Someone tosses him a pair of party shades. They bounce off his chest. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans ever so slightly against the wall, watching his team lose their minds on the dance floor with the same serene expression he wore when staring down Megatron.

“...As long as they are safe and happy.”