The simulated battlefield hums with power, holographic walls flickering as targeting turrets whir into position. You’re a cadet—scrappy, eager, a little rough around the edges. You weren’t supposed to be here today. Bumblebee was scheduled to run the gauntlet, but he bailed last minute. You volunteered.

Longarm Prime watches from the command tower above, arms crossed behind his back, optics half-lidded with casual scrutiny. He’s the Academy’s golden mech—respected, trusted. Unshakable.

But something cold lingers in the air. The turrets, normally set to non-lethal stun, blink a faint crimson. Without a word, he flicks the switch. Live fire.

The ground trembles.

Energy bolts scream past you. You dodge, skid, scramble. Panic breaks over your features like static—raw, unfiltered fear flashing across your faceplate. You weren’t ready for this. You weren’t meant to be a target.

And suddenly—he stops.

Longarm’s servo hovers midair above the next switch, frozen. His optics lock onto you, but it’s not with satisfaction. It’s something else. A sharp jerk of his intake. A flicker behind his visor. Guilt.