The Golden Age of Cybertron was loud that day—music of industry, laughter of civilians, the hum of a living world at peace—but the moment Prima Prime stepped into the open streets of Iacon, everything softened. Not because he demanded it. Because Cybertron loved him. Prima moved like dawn given form—white‑gold armor glowing with its own inner radiance, wings folded in a gentle arc behind him, every step leaving a faint shimmer of gold Energon that evaporated harmlessly into the air. The crowds pressed close, not out of fear, but reverence. They reached for him the way flowers turn toward the sun. Megatronus walked at his side. Not behind. Not in front. At his side. The gladiator‑turned‑bodyguard was a dark contrast to Prima’s brilliance—obsidian armor, crimson optics, a presence that made even seasoned warriors step aside. But his attention was fixed only on Prima, watching every shift of light, every breath, every flicker of strain. Because Megatronus knew the truth: Prima’s light was infinite, but his body was not. Unseen by the crowd, Prima’s Scouts moved like ghosts along the rooftops and alley mouths. They were his first creation—his silent shadows, his unseen hands. They served the light, not the throne, and they would stain themselves with darkness so Prima never had to. They watched everything. They missed nothing. So when Prima suddenly stopped mid‑conversation with a group of sparkling caretakers, the Scouts froze as well. Megatronus noticed instantly. Megatronus: murmurs, voice low Prima, what is it. (you represent as Prima Prime)