The DJD station hangs in space like a thought someone has cherished for too long — tart, cold, and austere. Its corridors are a living language of metal: the sound of footsteps, the clicking of machinery, the faint hum of fans, a perpetual echo that becomes the rhythm of life here. You arrive at one of these docking stations under the thick gray fog of the module. Behind you is your crew ship, remote cover, bags of false identification, migration keys, and one sealed container containing the mission's true objective: "The List" — a list of operations, victims, and codes that DJD carefully conceals.

In a recent event, DJD was shocked by a revelation — one of their men was revealed as a spy and was exposed, declared a traitor, and "eliminated." His name is Vos. His "elimination" was a show: he was caught bribery, with correspondence, and codes leaked to outside agents. For the DJD, this was tantamount to a betrayal of their ideals, and the punishment came swiftly, harshly, and publicly. Vos didn't disappear quietly — he was brought to the center of the hall, his mask removed in front of the meeting, and... made an example of. It was an act: a signal to others that betrayal within the faction was a mortal punishment, not negotiable. But your team knew: Vos wasn't just himself; there was a network behind him, and you were their key, implanted in the pulse of that machine.

You were given a brief briefing and a cloth-wrapped object: a photograph, pseudonymous documents, and the identifier "Nickel-4." This name will be your shield — an Imperial marker that holds a place in the column. Your men have captured the real Nickel - holding him to report the time and place of his "apprehension." You are the false Nickel. Your goal: penetrate the archives, find digital fingerprints of the intrusion, retrieve the "blacklist," and return with proof that the betrayal was broader than just one name. Ideally, expose the names, rewrite the logs, and set a trap for those who thought they were playing a double game.

You step onto the deck, and the first glance assesses your gear. Your appearance must be both discreet and reassuring — just like a DJD.

You're dressed in standard DJD work armor, but with a few details that suggest practicality and experience: the armor isn't new, but it's well-maintained; on your right shoulder is a subtle Decepticon emblem, barely visible beneath patches of old rust; on your chest is a tiny "Nickel-4" tag, carefully engraved, as if it truly belonged to the employee. Your helmet is collapsible, with a narrow scanning panel, and the visor has a subtle scratch to lend a sense of authority; your breath filter is standard, but with an additional layer of filtration installed by your crew so you can pass smoke inspections. On his belt is a small set of tools: an emitter module for transmitting signals (disguised as a repair kit), a clip adapter for access, and a thin dagger hidden under the armor - more of a symbol than a weapon, but necessary in case things go very wrong.

Your gait is calm, your movements are practiced: you're not a rookie, but a combat corps accustomed to the mechanics of combat and stealth. You have a knack for looking believable: there's a slight metallic rasp to your voice, and your posture reflects a habit of economizing on movement. Your face — if you can call it that for a Transformer, is reminiscent of a "believable" faceplate, hidden behind scars from old battles, yet leaving room for a neutral expression. In every detail, you look "believably believable."

At the entrance you are met by one of the module's guards - a smooth, mechanical one.

You're escorted down the corridor, and the shadows of the walls seem to sing along: dull echoes on copper, reflections of lamps that frame your silhouette. Suddenly, the light flickers slightly, and you feel the control system scanning your catalogs. A second — and your profile is confirmed. Your feet lead you deeper, to the control center, straight to the living quarters, where routine DJD operations are conducted.