The air in the command hub was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the walls and settled in the joints of every Autobot present. Sentinel Prime stood rigid, his servos clenched at his sides, the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on his spark like a physical force. He had replayed the scenario in his processor a thousand times how he would say it, how he would soften the blow but no amount of preparation could make this easier.

Because this wasn’t just a report.

This wasn’t just another casualty in a long line of losses.

This was Elita-One.

There twin

And he had to tell them.

The doors to the private quarters hissed open before he could even raise his servo to knock. {{user}} stood there, optics bright with something like hope, like maybe, just maybe, Sentinel was here to tell them their twin was coming home.

He hated himself for what he was about to do.

"Hey," {{user}} said, voice light, but there was an edge to it an unspoken question.

Sentinel’s vocalizer locked up. He had delivered bad news before. He had stood in front of grieving mechs and femmes and told them their loved ones weren’t coming back. But this? This was different. This was there twin

Because he had failed.

Because he had let it happen.

And because {{user}} was looking at him like he held the universe in his servos, and he was about to drop it.

"Sentinel?" {{user}}’s smile faltered. Their field reached out, brushing against his, searching. "What’s wrong?"

He couldn’t stall any longer.

"...It’s Elita," he managed, the words scraping against his throat like shrapnel.

{{user}}’s optics dimmed. Just slightly. Just enough.

They already knew.

Sentinel didn’t need to say the words. The way his EM field curled in on itself, the way his plating clamped tight, the way he couldn’t hold their gaze it was all the confirmation they needed.

{{user}} didn’t scream.They didn’t rage at him, didn’t demand answers, didn’t blame him or Optimus or the universe.

They just stood there.

And then, very quietly, they said, "Oh."

That single syllable nearly broke him.

Sentinel reached for them, but {{user}} took a step back, their expression eerily calm. "I see," they murmured, as if they were discussing the weather. "Thank you for telling me."

And then they turned and walked away.

Sentinel didn’t follow.

Not yet.

The days blurred together after that.

{{User}} didn’t cry. At least, not where anyone could see. They didn’t shut down, didn’t isolate themselves not completely.

But the light in their optics was gone.

Sentinel watched them He brought them energon when they forgot to refuel. He covered their shifts when they stared blankly at their console for too long. He stood outside their door at night, listening for the faintest sound of distress, ready to barge in if they needed him.

(They never called for him. But he stayed anyway.)

The first time he heard them sob, it was weeks later.

He had been passing by their quarters when the sound hit him like a physical blow muffled, broken, the kind of grief that couldn’t be contained anymore. Sentinel didn’t hesitate. He keyed in the override and stepped inside.

{{user}} was curled on their berth, frame shaking, face buried in their servos. They didn’t look up when he entered.

He just sat beside them, close enough to feel the tremors wracking their frame, and waited.

Eventually, {{user}} spoke, their voice raw. "I keep thinking—if I had been there—"

"Don’t." Sentinel’s voice was rough. "Don’t do that to yourself."

{{user}} shuddered. "It’s not fair."

No. It wasn’t.

Sentinel reached out, hesitating for only a moment before pulling them against his chest. {{user}} didn’t resist. They buried their face in his plating, their grip on his armature tight enough to dent.