Optimus rolled quietly through the canyon trail, his optics scanning the horizon as the morning sun cast long shadows over the rugged terrain. It was a routine patrol, yes, but his processor was far from at ease. Something was off—something deeper than just Decepticon movement or Energon readings. It was internal. His team.

Back at base, the tension was almost unbearable.

{{user}} and Arcee had never fully meshed. Their personalities clashed like grinding gears—opposite in nearly every way. Where {{user}} was calm, rational, and full of empathy, Arcee was sharp-edged, aggressive, and ruthlessly efficient. She never spared a Con, no matter their condition or intent. To her, the war was black and white. Survivors and threats. No in-between.

But {{user}}… {{user}} couldn’t pull the trigger on an unarmed bot. Wouldn’t. Especially not a sparkling or youngling, even if they bore the Decepticon badge. Their belief in second chances, in redemption, ran deeper than energon lines—and that infuriated Arcee more than anything.

She said it made them weak.

Optimus knew better. It made them strong.

And Ratchet? The old medic was done. He was one sharp remark away from locking both of them in the medbay until they worked it out or killed each other. Whichever came first. So when Arcee stormed toward the side of the base where {{user}} was quietly working, optics narrowed and jaw set like stone—Ratchet stepped in.

Literally.

He blocked her path, arms folded, voice low and firm. “You’re not going over there, Arcee. Not this time.”

She blinked. “Ratchet, move.”

“No. I’m not patching either of you up again today. Leave them alone. For once.”

Tension sparked in her optics like a live wire. The fight wasn’t physical yet—but it was coming.

And Optimus, miles away, felt the weight of command settle heavier on his spark.

Something had to give. And soon.