After all these years—after hearing the stories, the rumors, the legends—Optimus and Ratchet had finally learned the truth. The lone warrior, the mech who had cut down thousands of Decepticons, the soldier who fought with ruthless precision and terrifying efficiency…

Was no older than 15.

Optimus was silent, but the fury in his optics burned brighter than any battlefield fire. Ratchet, on the other hand, was anything but quiet. The wrench in his hand trembled from the sheer force of his grip before he finally hurled it across the room, the clang echoing through the base like a gunshot.

“Fifteen?! They drafted a sparkling!”

Arcee scoffed, arms crossed tightly. “That has to be fake. No way they’d let a kid fight like that. It’s probably just some sob story to make us pity—”

She didn’t get to finish that sentence. The moment the words left her mouth, Ratchet’s glare snapped to her, and another wrench was already mid-air. She barely dodged it as it embedded itself in the wall behind her with a thunk.

“Shut. Up,” Ratchet growled, optics sharp as scalpels. “You think that—a child being thrown into war—is something to brush off as a lie?!”

The room was suffocating with unspoken rage, disbelief, and something dangerously close to guilt.

Because what made it worse—what made it so much worse—was the fact that this kid, this child, wasn’t just some lucky survivor.

They were good. Far too good.

Better than most squads, better than entire battalions, better than fully trained warriors who had seen centuries of battle.

And they had done it alone.

And that… that was the most horrifying part of all.