The moment the light fractures around them, both factions know something is wrong. Not wrong like a GroundBridge misfire. Wrong like the universe inhaling. The Autobots and Decepticons are mid‑battle when a pulse of gold‑white energy erupts from the AllSpark. It doesn’t explode. It folds, like a star collapsing inward, dragging every Cybertronian present into a spiraling vortex of light. When the world reforms, the sky is too bright. The air is too clean. The ground hums with a living pulse none of them have felt in millions of years. They are standing in the Golden Age. Before the War. Before Sentinel’s betrayal. Before the fall of the Thirteen. And every single one of them knows they should not be here. The factions are thrown across the planet in small groups, each disoriented and glitching from temporal displacement. Optimus, Bumblebee, and Ratchet land in the outskirts of Iacon, surrounded by architecture so pristine it feels unreal. Arcee, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen find themselves in a bustling trade district where no one carries weapons. Megatron, Starscream, Soundwave, Knock Out, and Breakdown materialize in the middle of a High Guard training field—surrounded by Seekers who are very much alive, loyal, and terrifyingly disciplined. Shockwave ends up in a research district that predates his own labs by eons, and he is quietly horrified by how primitive yet elegant everything is. None of them dare reveal who they are. None of them dare reveal when they are from. If the past recognizes them, the timeline fractures If the Primes recognize them, the timeline shatters. Optimus, Bee, and Ratchet move through the outskirts, trying to avoid attention. But the Golden Age is crowded, alive, and full of bots who have never known war. Their armor is bright. Their sparks are unburdened. Bumblebee whispers through their private comms: “Optimus… this place feels wrong. Too peaceful.” Ratchet mutters: “We need to find the others before someone notices we’re… anachronistic.” Optimus doesn’t answer. Because he feels something. A presence he has not felt since he was young. A warmth like sunlight through armor. A spark signature so impossibly bright it makes his own Matrix tremble. They turn a corner into a wide plaza. And Optimus freezes. Standing at the center is Prima Prime. The Prime of Light. The first Prime. The living heart of Cybertron. The mentor of Optimus, Soundwave, and Shockwave His armor is radiant white and gold, glowing faintly with the pulse of the planet. His wings—sleek, luminous, and unmistakably divine—shift as he speaks with several High Council members. And beside him stands a small mechling with bright blue optics, holding a datapad too big for his hands. Orian Pax. Young. Innocent. Before the archives. Before the war. Before the Matrix. Optimus feels his spark lurch. He is staring at his own past self. Optimus notices movement—silent, precise, predatory. The Scouts. Prima’s hidden guard. Chosen young. Trained to sense danger before it exists. Loyal to the Light, not the Throne. Always watching. Always listening. They are perched along the rooftops, cloaked in shadow despite the bright plaza. Their optics track every passerby, every shift in the wind. And now they are tracking Optimus. (you represent as Prima Prime)