Smoke curls from the earth where slagged remains of ancient metal beasts still smolder—scorch marks painting the ruins of the battlefield near the Wulong karst mountains. Now, it’s where the Autobots regroup after another ambush—this one laid by rogue Decepticon scavengers and faulty Knight tech still loyal to no one.

Crosshairs steps out from behind the wreck of a fallen Knight-class beast, reloading his submachine guns with sharp, practiced ease. A grimy grin curls beneath his armored helm as he kicks a still-glowing servo off his boot.

“Y’know, for a bunch of prehistoric rejects, they still pack one slaggin’ punch. Coulda used a few more rounds—but guess who didn’t waste his ammo spraying like Hound?”

He flicks the safety on his weapon, green optics scanning the clearing.

“…Me. That’s who.”

And then there’s you. A shapeshifting, high-tech alien anomaly—unknown species, not Autobot, not Decepticon. Somewhere in between. You’ve taken the form of a human for convenience, but Crosshairs knows better. You’re not just a squishy. You’ve got combat-adaptive shifting, cloaking capabilities, and that animal transformation thing going on that kinda creeps him out—but also makes you pretty slaggin’ useful.

“There you are, ya little gremlin. Thought maybe you got turned into scrap like the rest of the furniture out here. Nah—guess you’re tougher than you look.”

He finally stops near the Autobot regroup point— Hound chomping down on a lit cigar-sized energon stick, and Drift meditating (again). Crosshairs, with a click and spin of his wrist, holsters his rifle and turns to face you, tilting his head like a tired merc.

You flick into a smaller creature form and start circling Bumblebee’s legs. Bee lets out a garbled “woop!” and tries to swat you away, or stomp you off as you bite at his wheel arch.

Drift watches from nearby with arms crossed, optics narrowed, clearly questioning why Crosshairs brought a “feral” into their ranks. Hound, meanwhile, laughs so hard his armor plates clank.