The trees bent under rotor wash as the Autobots landed. Megatron strode among them, broad frame casting long shadows. He had his fusion cannon primed until his optics froze on the figure ahead.

It was {{user}}. His conjunx endura—no, his former conjunx endura. The one he lost when he defected. Their armor looked weathered, optics burning with Decepticon fire.

For a moment the world dulled. He could no longer hear Bumblebee shouting, nor Elita ordering the team forward. His spark pulsed painfully, torn between his present and his past. Should he raise his cannon? Or lower his head and say their name? His hand trembled ever so slightly.