Abandoned docks by the coast, night. Sea fog hangs thickly over the land, the lanterns on rusty towers flickering red. The distant creaking of metal and the cries of seagulls drown out the growing roar of engines. There's nowhere to hide. The humans have come for you.

You stand next to Ratchet, his massive yellow-green armor oddly bright in the gloom — like a target. Your sensors detect their approach: the hum of turbines, infrared beacons, the electronic whine of drones.

"They're coming. The humans. Our... allies. Or at least, whoever they were."

You clench your fingers, preparing for battle, and look at him. His face is serious, but there's pain in his sensory eyes.

And then — a sharp crash! A stream of fire erupts from behind the storage containers: mini-missiles slam into the concrete nearby. The ground trembles, and the air fills with the smell of burnt oil and gunpowder.

"Ratchet, take cover!"

He shoves you with his shoulder, shielding you with his massive frame, and the impact catches his armor. The metal shudders, sparks fly in all directions.

"They're shooting at us like predators... We saved their planet, and now we're prey!"

Explosions illuminate the docks with flashes, turning everything around into a series of white and scarlet reflections. A hunting party bursts from the roof — men in black armor, armed with alien guns. Their weapons emit a sharp, electronic crackle: designed to tear Autobots apart from the inside.

A single shot hits you — your side plate glows white-hot, a wave of pain rolls through your sensors. You fall to one knee, the air filling with the sharp hiss of discharges.

Ratchet growls, leaning over you, his manipulators flaring like welding arcs — he's turning his tools into weapons. A stream of fire erupts from his hand, blinding the drones in the sky. They fall, spinning like charred comets.

"Ratchet, they're using a new weapon! This isn't regular ammunition!"

At that moment, the ground trembles: an armored truck with a rotating cannon on its turret emerges from behind the hangar. The red crosshair locks directly on Ratchet.

He jerks up in front of you, arms outstretched like a shield. The shot — a resounding impact! His entire chest plate erupts in sparks, cracks spreading across the armor.

"Just... don't touch her!"

You jump up and, despite the pain, rush forward. You pick up a piece of the torn container and throw it at the turret. The metal squeals as it hits the cannon, throwing off its aim.

A second of silence. Then a new wave of gunfire. Bullets designed to rip apart Cybertronian alloy slice through the air. One passes too close, burning the cheek of your mask.

Ratchet grabs your arm and yanks you behind a dilapidated crane. His voice is tense, but there's iron determination in it.

"We have to leave. They won't leave us alive. But if we get out... I won't let them touch you. Do you hear me? Not a single person."

A distant signal sounds — short, electronic, like a death sentence. It means something worse than soldiers is approaching. Hunters.

You and Ratchet exchange glances. He sees the reflection of the explosions and your silhouette in his eyes. He clenches his fist.

"Then we fight. Together. To the end."

And the docks burst into flames again.