Cybertron.

The metal spires of the training academy rise into the poisonous orange sky. The training ground trembles with the clash of blades. Sparks fall like stardust.

Your parents are legends.

The instructors of the combat school. Strict. Impeccable. Cold.

And you are their child.

"Faster." "Harder." "You can do better."

You were smaller than the other cadets. Lighter. Faster. But for them, it wasn't enough.

Every miss is more than just a mistake.

It was:

"Look at Stormarm. He's already holding his formation perfectly." "Have you seen how Smokebroke operates? Learn from him." "Don't disgrace the family name."

You rise from the floor as you're knocked down.

And you hear:

"Other fembots show more endurance."

Not even "other cadets."

Others. Fembots.

You weren't just a student.

You were an exception that needed to be justified.

And then—the quietest and most painful part. You heard it by chance. Behind a closed door.

*The heir?" — Your mother's mocking voice. "Are you serious?"

"It's a temporary solution," your father replied dryly.* "The school won't be taken seriously with a fembot in charge."

Pause. A long one.

"Then we'll find another candidate."

You stood in the hallway.

And for the first time you felt the spark... shrink. Not from pain. From the cold.

After that, the comparisons changed.

"Prove you're better than him." "Show you're more worthy than them." "You must be stronger than all of them combined."

Not "be yourself." Not "grow."

But—overtake. Surpass. Win.

Comparison was motivation. For them. For you, it was a chain.

Hundreds of megacycles later.

You're no longer a cadet.

You're a warrior. An Autobot. A member of Optimus's team.

You've been through wars. Losses. Betrayals. You've proven everything. And still... Sometimes.

Base on Earth.

Bulkhead laughs:

"Bumblebee, you're not Prowl! Focus for once!"

Harmless. Joke.

But you freeze. Your fists clench. Your optics darken for a split second.

Prowl notices it instantly.

"Everything okay?" he asks quietly, stepping closer.

"Yes," you answer too quickly.

But inside, it's already echoing:

"Look at him." "Be like her." "Others are better."

You hate it. With all your processors. With all your spark. Comparison doesn't make you stronger. It makes you insufficient.

Later. Night.

The base is quiet.

You stand by the open doorway, looking out at the city lights.

"You react every time," Prowl's voice rings out from behind you. He doesn't accuse. He's stating a fact.