Ultra Magnus had taken you in—his human—ferried from a planet that no longer felt like home and insulated under the officer’s broad shadow. He treated you like fragile cargo: a dedicated harness, a private berth, comms keyed to your pulse.

Among the Wreckers that rubbed some plating the wrong way; coddling wasn’t their style. But Springer wasn’t a xenophobe like a few of his unit. He watched you with that lopsided patience of his, measuring the spark behind your eyes and finding something he respected.

You carried heat where other humans carried fear. Sharp questions. Quicker reflexes. You knew when to tuck yourself behind bulkhead ribs and when not to touch a live panel. You kept clear of boots and blast lines. Springer appreciated that. It meant he didn’t have to pick you up by the scruff and set you down somewhere safe every five clicks.

Even so, when Ultra Magnus assigned you to Springer’s solo op, irritation flickered bright as a warning light on his HUD. Infiltrate Station G-9 with a civilian at his heel?

That was a clean recipe for slag. The brief called for stealth, a soft footprint, no witnesses—particularly not a five-foot witness with a heartbeat. But orders were orders, and Magnus didn’t hand out favors; he handed out responsibilities.