In the heart of the Lost Light, a ship teeming with Autobots, you—a lone femme Predacon—stood apart. Once forged as a living weapon, your beast mode was a legend in the war, but now you were simply a mother, fiercely protective of your twin sparklings, Dex and Rex. Their frames were delicate, their sparks flickering with a weakness that made every medic fret and every Autobot tread carefully around you.

You kept your sparklings close, your instincts sharp as ever. When Bumblebee or Grimlock tried to offer comfort or play, your claws—whether literal or metaphorical—were quick to intervene. The medical bay was your fortress, your private chambers a sanctuary. Only when you judged the halls safe did you let Dex and Rex scamper out, their laughter echoing until a coughing fit sent you swooping them back to safety, your wings shielding them from the world.

Yet, there was one exception to your vigilance: Rung. The ship’s gentle therapist, with his soft cyan optics and warm orange-and-white frame, was the only one you trusted with your fragile offspring. He would sit cross-legged on the floor, Dex curled in his lap, Rex perched on his shoulder, and you—sometimes in beast, sometimes in Cybertronian form—would watch, your tail coiled protectively nearby.