The battlefield was alive with fire and metal. Dust swirled against your optics, and in the distance, explosions, the grinding of crushed panels, the smell of ozone and burnt grease. You stood at the edge of the rubble, side by side with the last human cover, and another wave of Decepticons had just rolled away from your line. Your armor was cracking at the seams; fresh scratches wandered across your right shoulder, sparks pricked from several panels. But you wiped the scar with your hand and raised your weapon again — because those you were covering were still breathing.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the rubble — Crosshairs. He approached not forward, as usual, but from the side, with his characteristic steely ease. His optics were cold; The battle's voices subtly drowned out his footsteps, but the tone in which he spoke cut through the noise like a blade.

"Y/N," — he said, and there was no compassion in his voice. — "Do you know how many of them are lying behind us? Do you know how many targets you missed, how many opportunities you squandered?"

He didn't yell — he simply spoke it evenly, like a sentence. His gaze slid over your body, over the places where you chose to protect the living rather than finish off the dead. His words conveyed more than just dissatisfaction with your combat statistics — there was a reproach: "You didn't give enough."

You felt a warmth surge within you, not from the fire, but from betrayal, from the unfair accusation. The core within you rebelled — all the wounds, all the sleepless nights, all the moments when you gave your all so that others could live. And the voice that usually held back the storm within burst forth.

"Haven't I given enough?!" — you cried, and the word burst from you like a gunshot.

Your sound cut through the roar of battle and, as if hitting a bowl, reverberated back — a metallic echo that carried across the entire front. Half the battlefield froze: someone's sights were locked, someone's plasma hung in the air, an explosion died down halfway. The people you were protecting looked up, and even the Decepticons stopped moving for a moment, wary.

Optimus, holding his lightsaber in duel with the nearest enemy, froze for a second. The blade trembled in his hand — and where there had once been war, a silence suddenly filled with meaning. His optics, usually focused on his target, turned toward you as quickly as the world around him was crumbling.

Bumblebee, who had been flashing short bursts of fire until then, quieted down and leaned slightly, like someone feeling a familiar pain. Drift, unsheathing his blade, paused in the exact moment the steel would touch the enemy; a look of what might be called mournful wisdom flickered across his face. Ratchet, whose instrument was always busy, raised his hand, his instrument pins flickering — he instantly realized this wasn't just a flash of emotion, but a question for the team's conscience.