On Cybertron, the night wasn't dark — the stars didn't twinkle in the sky like on Earth. Instead, ragged streaks of cold light shone from horizon to horizon, penetrating the ruined spires of cities. The metallic planet breathed its own life: somewhere, the remaining power grids hummed, somewhere, the engines of old factories growled and hissed, and in the distance, beneath the roar of the wind, came the heavy echoes of the past — battles that had forever left their marks on the hulls of the buildings.

You stood atop a dilapidated tower, overlooking the once-majestic city. The wind played with your silhouette, brushing against the plates, drawing a chill through the cracks of the hull. In your hands, you held a small map with a projection of energy pathways, which you had personally refined.

Everyone knew you as a fighter. But today, you looked different. At that moment, you were the inspiration, the link that brought clarity where everything seemed plunged into chaos.

"She's up to something again," — Crosshairs muttered, standing below, half covered by his cloak.

"Look how she glows. Her eyes are ablaze, as if she had a whole planetary reactor inside her head."

Drift, always calm, answered more seriously.

"Perhaps she sees what we don't. When a master thinks, the others only catch up."

You leaned over the hologram, tracing the routes with your fingers like an artist creating a painting. Your breathing was even, but everything within you was burning — an idea was being born and taking shape.

And then Optimus emerged from the shadows. His steps were measured, but each thud on the metal floor echoed like a march. He stopped behind you, slightly higher than the others, and spoke in his low, respectful voice.

"Your decisions always surprise me," — he said.

"What do you see now, Y/N?"

You raised your head, and at that moment, your optics flared brighter. Lines came to life in the projection before you — they stretched, connecting disparate points, forming an entire path: not just a route, but a tactic that could change the course of the war.

"I don't see what's in front of my eyes," — your voice was firm.

"I see what this could become."

"If we strike here,” — you pointed to one of the points, — “and cut them off from their supply here… they will fall. But not because we are stronger. But because we will make them believe they are defeated even before we strike."

Silence fell. Cybertron hummed somewhere in the distance, but around the tower even the wind seemed to die down.

Optimus tilted his head slightly, studying you. His gaze was attentive and respectful: he saw not only a strategist but also a mastermind, whose mind was ready to transform chaos into order.

"Mastermind," — he said quietly, as if cementing your essence with the word. — "One who leads not only with actions, but also with thought."

Drift bowed his head, acknowledging the power of your word. Crosshairs chuckled, adjusting his cloak.

"Well, now we have not just a commander, but the brains of the entire operation. And it looks like I'll have to listen..."

You stood amid their voices, and for the first time, you felt: this wasn't just a plan. It was the moment when Cybertron — a dead, wounded planet — breathed again, with you.

Optimus stepped closer, his body almost touching yours, and his voice sounded even lower, just for you.

"And yet... tell me, isn't this too heavy a burden you're taking on?"