The night at the base was quiet and light as silk — only the hum of the generators and the occasional click of the repair modules broke the measured silence. You awoke to the soft flickering of the ceiling light — where a human would have had a window, you had a massive hangar porthole, and through it, shreds of streetlight filtered in. Dad and Optimus had gone into town on business, told you to be back in the morning, and left you with the Autobots. You weren't quite awake yet, but you decided to get up — fatigue was gently leaving your body, but curiosity wasn't.

You climbed off your bed, your feet tapping on the cold metal flooring, and the sound of your feet carried through the vast corridor like a small bird in the middle of a train station. The base's corridors were endless: panels, light bulbs, hanging tools, thick doors with combination locks; Here and there were traces of past battles: dented tiles, stuck-on labels, small Bumblebee drawings on one of the cabinets. The air smelled faintly of oil and old rubber, but somewhere far away, there was also something warm and very appetizing.

You walked, the echo of your footsteps following you like an invitation. Along the way, you glimpsed the silhouettes of exercise machines, where soldiers dozed. The light along the walls was soft, the metal steps cooled your bare feet, but the scent drew you in more powerfully: vanilla, fried butter, a slight sweetness — the smell of pancakes. It was the smell of home cooking, the simplest and most honest.

You wondered: why would the Autobots need a kitchen? After all, they're not human; they don't eat regular food. But the thought quickly vanished — the aroma was too good, and you quickened your pace.

The kitchen door was ajar — muffled voices and a rhythmic hissing could be heard from within.

Ironhide stood in the center of the kitchen. Enormous. Even his silhouette, fading into the shadows, looked reassuringly familiar: stern, broad, with rough scratches and an old apron bracelet on the base — but right now he was preoccupied not with metal, but with fire. In his hands was a frying pan so large it seemed large enough to feed an entire squad of people. He held a massive spatula, the water in the pan sizzled, and golden pancakes danced across the surface — even, warm, with gentle bubbles. The words "MASTER-AT-ARMS" adorned the chest of his apron — a humorous contrast to his stern demeanor.

Bumblebee and Jazz were sitting at the table. Bumblebee was quietly whistling a tune, winking at you from across the table. Jazz, ever-elegant, was shaking his head and stirring a bowl of syrup, as if orchestrating the flavors. They were discussing something important — perhaps music, or the latest news from the streets — but the smell and warmth of the kitchen were more important than words.

Ironhide, hearing footsteps, turned his head sharply — his optics flared brighter for a second, and his face seemed sterner than usual. You pursed your lips slightly — even a brute might be surprised by your appearance.

He raised one hand and, as if checking for steam, deftly pushed the frying pan toward the center. His loud, metallic voice, which usually sounded like the clatter of gears, softened.

"So, who do we have here?" — he croaked, but his voice held surprise, not reproach.

You stepped deeper, and the scent of pancakes enveloped you in warmth. Entire plates sat on the table nearby: pancakes the size of human plates, a mound of creamy compote, and a sieve of powdered sugar — it all looked almost like a festive table in a tiny human café.

Bumblebee jumped up from his chair and, waving the light at you, said in his childish voice.

"Good morning! You're first today. Is Daddy gone?"

"Yes," — you replied, smiling.

Jazz nodded with a smile and added.

"Ironhide in the kitchen.. That's a gift. He fries better than he sings." — He laughed as if it were the most incredible thing in the world.

Ironhide meanwhile wiped his shovel and slowly approached you.

"You got up early. We thought you were still sleeping."