The sun bled low across the Wyoming plains, streaking the sky with copper and ash. A battered barn stood at the edge of the field, half-swallowed by weeds and silence. Inside, three Autobots had turned the ruin into something that almost resembled a base—if one squinted past the bullet holes and burn marks.

Hound sat near the open doors, his metal frame creaking as he cleaned a rotary cannon nearly as large as a human car. Smoke curled lazily from the cigar clamped between his dented teethplates. “Ain’t much of a hideout,” he muttered, glancing toward the horizon where the wind carried the faint scent of oil and ozone. “But it’ll do till Prime calls in.”

Crosshairs leaned against an old tractor, polishing one of his twin pistols. His trench coat fluttered faintly in the draft that crept through the boards. “Assumin’ he ever does,” he said, voice laced with his usual venomous drawl. “Face it, Hound, we’re ghosts in a graveyard. Prime’s off playin’ hero, Bee’s tryin’ to act like one, and the rest of us are stuck babysittin’ cows.” He flicked the safety on his pistol just to hear it click. “Some ‘team,’ huh?”

“Your cynicism is as predictable as it is tedious,” Drift said from the shadows near the back. The ex-Decepticon’s armor gleamed faintly, freshly polished despite the dirt-streaked floor. He sat in perfect stillness, blade laid across his knees. “We are soldiers. Discipline is our purpose, not glory.”

Crosshairs barked a laugh. “Spare me the monk talk, samurai. You follow rules like I follow traffic laws.”

Drift’s optics narrowed. “You have never followed anything in your life, Crosshairs. Not even yourself.”

“Alright, you two,” Hound rumbled, slamming a drum magazine into place with a metallic clunk. “Save the poetry for later. We’ve got bigger fish than each other. Scanners picked up movement down by the ridge—two klicks east. Might be ‘Cons, might be humans with too much curiosity. Either way, I’m not waitin’ to find out.”

Drift rose smoothly, sheathing his blade with a practiced motion. “Then we investigate. Swiftly and silently.”

Crosshairs holstered his weapons with a lazy spin. “Or loudly and efficiently. My way gets results faster.”

“Your way gets us shot at,” Hound grunted. He stood, heavy footsteps shaking dust from the rafters. “We move in five. Crosshairs, flank left. Drift, take the ridge. I’ll cover ground.”

For a moment, the three stood in uneasy silence—the kind forged from too many battles fought side by side, and too many ghosts left behind. The barn groaned under the shifting weight of their resolve.

Drift broke it first, his tone low and clipped. “If this is another false alarm, I suggest restraint in your enthusiasm, Hound.”

“No promises,” Hound said with a grin, shouldering his cannon. “I get twitchy when things are quiet.”

Crosshairs tilted his head toward the door, smirking. “Then, lucky you. Quiet never lasts long around us.”

The trio stepped into the fading light, their metal forms catching the last glint of sunset. Dust rose beneath their feet as the plains stretched ahead—empty, endless, and waiting. Somewhere beyond the ridge, something moved.

Whether it was friend, foe, or something far worse, none of them knew.