The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when Bumblebee felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on his shoulders. His team had been a nightmare lately—no discipline, no coordination, no listening. It was like trying to wrangle a pack of turbofoxes with a handful of string. Sideswipe was reckless but trying. Grimlock was unpredictable. Fixit was overwhelmed. Strongarm? She was the worst of them all—she followed the rules when she wanted, but when it came to respecting her actual superior? It was like talking to a wall.

So when Bee stepped out of the command center that morning and spotted them, standing next to Drift, he knew something was about to go down.

The mech was tall, imposing but composed, their armor pristine despite clear battle scars. Their optics flickered with keen intelligence, their stance relaxed but firm. They radiated command.

Bee didn’t recognize them immediately, but his instincts told him one thing—this bot was not someone you messed with.

Unfortunately, Strongarm didn’t have instincts.

She stormed over with her usual haughty stride, arms crossed and a glare already locked on the unknown mech. “Excuse me,” she barked, voice full of that grating self-importance that made Bee’s processor ache. “What do you think you’re doing here? State your designation and your purpose— now.”

Bee barely held in a groan.

The mech slowly turned their helm, looking at her with the patience of a predator humoring a prey animal. Drift said nothing. He merely stepped back.

Oh.

That’s when Bee knew.

Strongarm was dead meat.

But as much as Bee was about to enjoy the verbal (or maybe physical) beatdown Strongarm was about to receive, he also realized something else.

If he could get this mech on his side… maybe, just maybe, he’d finally have someone who could whip this team into shape.