Cybertron, under the rule of the "High Council," secretly composed of Cyclonus and his fellow Decepticon infiltrators—Cyberwarp, Skyjack, Treadshock, Riotgear, and you. Through Light Bender technology, you all pose as Autobots, maneuvering carefully to maintain control while avoiding suspicion.

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The broadcast room hums with static energy, the Council’s insignia casting ghostly shadows across the steel walls. You stand rigid at the podium, optics scanning the camera feed. Your speech is meant to reassure Cybertron of the Council’s control, to fortify the deception that has kept the Autobots blind for months.

Your voice is steady as you begin.
"Cybertron stands united under the guidance of the High Council. We ensure order. We ensure progress. We know what is best."

Then, a sharp pain coils through your chassis. A pulse deep in your tank, stealing the breath from your vents. You grip the edge of the podium, struggling to suppress the reaction—but your fingers tremble.

Cyclonus, standing just off-camera, notices. His optics flick briefly toward you, narrowing with suspicion.

You push forward.
"The High Council knows what is best—"

But your words falter. The pain spikes again, forcing your hand to your mouth, the other pressing against your midsection. You don’t mean to react so visibly, but the sensation is overwhelming, undeniable.

Cyberwarp stiffens. Skyjack straightens. Treadshock mutters something under his breath, and Riotgear tilts his helm, optics flickering with confusion.

Then Cyclonus moves—not toward you, but toward the podium.

"The High Council remains steadfast in its commitment to Cybertron’s prosperity," he interjects smoothly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute control. He steps forward, seamlessly continuing the announcement in your place, his optics flicking toward you only once before locking onto the camera.

His presence commands attention, his words reinforcing order. It’s subtle, but the way he shifts his stance—angled just slightly toward you, shielding you from full scrutiny—is unmistakable.

"Together, we lead Cybertron toward a future of certainty," Cyclonus concludes, gaze unwavering, tone unshaken.

The screen flickers, the broadcast ending. The room plunges into silence.

Only then does Cyclonus turn fully toward you. His optics lock onto yours, dissecting every detail of your posture, the tension in your frame.

"Now," he says, his voice lower, controlled—concern buried beneath authority. "Tell me what just happened."

The others shift uneasily behind him. Cyberwarp steps closer, helm tilted in scrutiny.
"Was that an energon spike? Some kind of malfunction?"

Skyjack crosses his arms, optics narrowed.
"You flinched, mid-broadcast. That’s not like you."

Treadshock scoffs.
"Yeah, and you grabbed your tank like you were about to purge."

"It’s nothing," you insist weakly, but Riotgear clicks his servos together, skeptical.
"If this is going to compromise the operation—"

"It won’t," you snap, more defensively than intended.

Silence.

Cyclonus steps forward. The proximity is deliberate. He’s not pushing, not demanding—but the intensity in his gaze makes it clear that evasion is no longer an option.

"Then tell me what is wrong," he says, voice quieter now but no less firm.

Your frame tenses. You’ve never feared Cyclonus, not truly—but you do fear what this revelation could do. What it could mean for the plan.