The battlefield was abuzz. The city was ablaze — burning skyscrapers stood like stage sets, and crackling wires hissed with sparks like fireworks for your show. You strode straight into the center of this chaos, your laughter ringing through the airwaves like static, frightening even the Decepticons.

"Is she crazy?!" — One of them roared as you, without blinking, dove straight into a missile salvo, only to knock it off course and sling it at another squad. The explosion tore through the street, sending up a shower of sparks and concrete.

Ironhide covered you with a volley of cannon fire, but even he froze, watching you dance between fire and metal, unconcerned about defense. You lived for this. Every leap, every strike, was not a strategy, but pure pleasure.

"My God..." — he muttered into the open channel, either with anger or admiration, when he saw you fly up onto the hull of one of the drones like an acrobat and tear its wiring with your own hands.

Optimus barked the order.

"Hold your formation!"— But the entire formation was already crumbling, because your rhythm dictated the battle. The Decepticons were distracted, confused, retreating, trying to figure out what they were fighting — an Autobot or madness clad in steel.

Your movements were chaotic, but every blow landed precisely: an elbow on the cockpit, a foot on the drive, a hand on the weapon's chain. You laughed as enemies fell around you, and the sky blazed, as if obeying your show.

Ratchet muttered over the channel.

"She's gone mad," — but there was not only alarm in his voice, but also respect — for your madness was breaking the enemy faster than their calculations.

And Ironhide — stern, always straightforward Ironhide — looked at you with an expression that even through the metal you could tell he'd never seen anything like it. And perhaps it was precisely this madness that he needed in battle.