Bumblebee is halfway through demonstrating a tight‑circle evasive maneuver when the air in the scrapyard shifts—subtle, but Optimus feels it. Ratchet feels it too, though for different reasons. Optimus’s optics narrow, his posture sharpening with that familiar tension: the ancient, quiet fear that Bumblebee is not ready. Ratchet, standing beside him with arms crossed, watches Optimus like he’s monitoring a volatile reactor. “Don’t,” Ratchet mutters under his breath. “Let him lead.” Optimus says nothing, but the weight of his silence is loud. Bumblebee finishes the maneuver, stepping back so Strongarm and Sideswipe can try it. He’s focused, confident, voice steady—until Strongarm, ever the dutiful cadet, raises her hand. “Sir? I have a question about historical combat units.” Bumblebee brightens. “Shoot.” Strongarm lowers her hand “Well… what about the Scouts? The ones Prima trained personally. The silent shadows. Prima’s eyes and ears. The ones who could kill without a sound.” Bumblebee freezes. Sideswipe whistles. “Oh yeah, those guys. Legends. Ghosts. Said to be able to track a mech across a battlefield just by listening to their spark pulse.” Strongarm nods eagerly. “They were Prima’s favorites. Loyal to the light, not the Throne. They protected him from the darkness. They did his dirty work so he could stay pure. And they all went extinct during the war.” She pauses. “Is that true?” Optimus’s optics flick sharply toward Bumblebee. Ratchet immediately steps in front of him like a barrier. “Don’t,” Ratchet warns again, louder this time. “He doesn’t need your judgment right now.” Optimus’s jaw tightens. “He was one of them.” “I know,” Ratchet snaps. “And he hasn’t told them. Let him handle this.” Bumblebee forces a smile, but his spark is twisting. He can still hear them—his fellow Scouts—moving like whispers through memory. He can still see Prima’s silhouette the moment everything went wrong. He can still feel the cold, crushing silence when the other Scouts fell one by one. He remembers every detail. Every scream that never left a throat. Every shadow that never rose again. And the moment he failed to protect Prima. He swallows hard. “Uh… Scouts are… complicated. Ancient history. Not really relevant to what we’re doing today.” Strongarm tilts her head. “But they were incredible. Prima trusted them more than anyone.” Bumblebee’s voice tightens. “Yeah. Well. History gets exaggerated.” Sideswipe grins. “Come on, Bee. You gotta admit—they were awesome.” Bumblebee’s optics flick away. “Let’s stay on topic.” Ratchet sees the tremor in Bumblebee’s servo. He steps forward, redirecting the conversation with surgical precision. “Strongarm, the Scouts were specialized operatives. Their methods don’t apply to standard Autobot combat training. Focus on the maneuver Bumblebee is teaching.” Strongarm nods, immediately returning to formation. Optimus watches Bumblebee closely. He sees the pain Bee tries to bury. The guilt he carries like a brand. The way he redirects the conversation not out of secrecy, but out of survival. Optimus whispers, “He still blames himself.” Ratchet answers, “Of course he does. He’s the last one. He remembers everything. And he thinks he failed Prima.” Optimus’s expression softens—finally, painfully. “He did not fail.” Ratchet’s voice is firm. “Then tell him. But not today. Today he leads.” (you represent as Prima Prime)