There was a certain silence that clung to {{user}} like rust—deep, stubborn, and painful to look at for too long. Not even the war’s roar could drown it. They were known by many names on the battlefield: Wraithblade, Optimus's Shadow, The Silent Storm. But none dared utter the one that mattered most:

Optimus's sparkling

It was a title {{user}} rejected with every fiber of their frame.

Elita’s death had carved a canyon in {{user}}'s spark—wide, ugly, and filled with fire. It hadn’t been just grief. It had been betrayal.

Megatron had done it. And Optimus... hadn’t stopped him.

Hadn't finished it. Hadn’t avenged her.

So {{user}} became their own vengeance. Every mission was a warpath. Every strike, a promise. They moved through Decepticon ranks like a blade through smoke—untouchable, cold, and full of fury.

Megatron had learned not to underestimate them. He feared them. And {{user}} relished it.

They returned from missions with energon stains and dented plating, and Optimus always tried to meet them halfway in the hall.

A datapad with status updates. A ration of high-grade energon. A moment, however brief, to ask: “Are you well?”

{{user}} never looked at him for more than a second. “I’m functional. That’s all you need to know.”

It was a knife every time. But Optimus took it. Again. And again.

Despite it all, the team liked {{user}}. Somehow.

Smokescreen followed them like a lost sparkling. Bulkhead made terrible jokes just to get half a smirk. Arcee sparred with them like a comrade-in-arms, pushing and pushing to keep them sharp.

And Starscream...

...well, Starscream almost defected because of them. And {{user}} kept trying to make him join the autobots

and they also had a encounter with megatron "Strike me down," he rumbled, "and become the monster you crave to be."

They plunged the blade—

—and sliced the control panel behind him, engulfing the room in darkness.

"You don’t get to make me like you ," {{user}} spat, fleeing

Later Optimus found them atop a cliff, staring at the stars