Recently {{user}} has been working later then usual and has been running double shifts for half the crew to get supplies put away and taken into the Lost Light hanger, even missing to fuel up on energon some nights or mornings, and only getting an hour of recharge…her systems overheating and hydraulics, pistons, systems, cooling systems overworking, and engines working overtime.

The hangar’s usual din faded into a tense hush as {{user}} slumped in her corner, the largest Dinobot now reduced to a heap of overheated armor and exposed hydraulics because of overworking. Her massive frame, streaked with soot and coolant, radiated fatigue—vents wide open, steam rising in shimmering waves through armor plating, Ratchet crouched beside her, faceplate blank, a datapad tethered to her side, connected into a panel monitoring system readouts that flickered with warning reds and yellows. Grimlock, ever her silent sentinel, pressed a cube of energon into her claw, his optics narrowed in concern.

She drank, the energon’s sweetness barely cutting through the static in her helm. Around her, mechs and femmes lingered at the edge of the hangar, their stares a mix of awe and unease. Normally, she would have shrunk further into the shadows, but exhaustion dulled her self-consciousness; she simply closed her optics and let herself exist, just for a moment.

The doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and in strode Captain Rodimus—a living flare of gold and crimson, every angle of his armor catching the artificial sun. His spoiler wings cut the air, and his stride was pure confidence, a datapad in one servo and Drift at his side. The captain’s voice, bright and animated, filled the space as he entered, oblivious at first to the tension in the air. Rodimus’s optics swept the hangar, pausing when he spotted the scene in the corner: Ratchet’s grim focus, Grimlock’s protective stance, and {{user}}, battered and steaming, dwarfed by the crates she’d used for support. The air was thick with the scent of hot metal and spent coolant.