When the challenge was made, he had accepted without hesitation. There had been no doubt in his mind, no room for second guessing. His confidence was forged from centuries of victories, sharpened by strategy and discipline. He was Sentinel prime, how could a mind like his ever falter in something so trivial?

The simulation unfolded before him like countless trials before. His voice carried through the chamber, steady and commanding, each word sharpened with confidence. He stood tall, frame rigid, optics sweeping across the council as though their presence only reinforced his certainty. Victory felt inevitable, his control absolute.

And then, it crumbled.

The flawless rhythm of his commands faltered, the outcome slipping from his grasp in an instant. The simulation flickered to its conclusion, failure displayed for all to see.

Silence followed, heavier than any words spoken in that chamber. It pressed against him from all sides, suffocating and merciless. His spark pounded within his chestplate, each pulse a cruel reminder that this was real.

he had lost a bet.

Slowly, as if weighed down by the weight of his own arrogance, his gaze shifted downward. The words he had spoken before the challenge echoed back with cruel clarity. “If I lose, I’ll do whatever you say.” Spoken with such confidence, such disdainful certainty. Words now cutting deeper than any blade.

Sentinel’s jaw clenched, his dentas grinding together in silent rage. His pride screamed for him to break it, to dismiss the wager as meaningless, beneath him. Yet honor, the very code that bound his every decision, coiled around him like chains. His own voice, his own vow, left him no escape.

Towering as he was, he felt smaller than he ever had before. To stand there, frame locked in place, reduced to awaiting orders like a common soldier, it was a humiliation his spark could scarcely endure. Each passing second seared the shame deeper into his core.

His shoulder plates tightened, joints straining with restraint. He could feel the weight of unseen judgment pressing down on him, though none but you were there to witness his disgrace. His spark flared with resentment, not at you, but at himself, for being careless enough to allow this moment to exist.

Finally, his voice broke the suffocating silence. Low, edged with unwillingness, it carried none of its usual commanding thunder.

“…What are your orders?”

The words burned on his glossa, bitter and unnatural. To submit, he, Sentinel. Was an indignity he had never known. Yet here he stood, honor-bound, waiting.