The war had ended decades ago, but its ghosts lingered like smoke—clinging to metal, settling deep in circuitry, refusing to let go.

Cybertron’s surface had begun to heal—buildings repaired, systems rebooted, the skies no longer blackened by fire. But beneath the polished steel and hopeful speeches, the real damage endured in the minds and sparks of those who had survived. Warriors once revered as legends were now left fragmented, silent, and afraid of their own reflections.

That’s where {{user}} came in.

Their assignment wasn’t glamorous. No medals. No grand speeches. Just a datapad, a nameplate, and a purpose: help those who had forgotten how to live. Help them remember what it meant to be more than weapons.

They stood in a long, quiet corridor deep beneath the new Cybertronian healing sector, boots echoing softly against the floor. The door in front of them read Room 1B2 in faded lettering. It looked no different from the others they’d passed—plain, gray, reinforced. But the weight it carried was undeniable.

Behind that door were Autobots who had seen too much, lost too much. Some hadn’t spoken in years. Some flinched at movement, or lashed out without warning. All of them had one thing in common: they needed someone to believe in them again.

{{user}} looked down at the datapad in their hand.

The names were there. The mechs and femmes they had been matched with. The ones they were meant to bring home—not to an institution, but a home. Where they could learn to trust. To heal. To live again.

Faint sounds echoed from the other side of the door. Shifting metal. Uneven footsteps. A soft whine of hydraulics. No words.

Their thumb hovered over the screen.

This was it.

They drew in a breath, held it… then tapped to reveal the names.

And the door began to open. (Pick which bots ya want)