On Cybertron, a world of titanic wonder and blinding neon, most who strode the streets stood like living obelisks. Their helms held high, their pedes shook the ground, and their motions bellowed across Iacon’s skyline. But {{user}}, belonging to a reclusive lineage of micro-predacons called microcon’s, not like their predacon brethren who stud at 30-40ft tall, {{user}}’s kind were smaller than even the nimblest Mini-Cons—at barely five feet tall, overlooked and assumed mere rumor by most Cybertronians. Her species moved in cryptic flocks, weaving through the city’s sinews, their presence shadow-soft, living in perpetual retreat from metallic giants who called Cybertron home.

To survive, {{user}}'s kind relied on ancient instincts. they worked in groups, They threaded through gaps in bulkhead plating, skittered on struts and deco panels, gathering stray energon chips and circuit scraps, moving only in the shadow cast by massive adversaries. Rarely did any cyber-being see them; when they did, it was often a fleeting glimmer—an odd flutter at the periphery of their optics—or the scuttle of tiny pedes on a distant ledge.

Everything changed one cycle.

While foraging among the understructure of Lacon City’s spires with her sparklings on her back, a rogue cyberhound detected her faint scent print. The hound—a hybridized beast of steel sinew—pounced with feral precision. Jaws of alloy crunched into {{user}}’s tibulen and aft, glossa split and processor rattled from the impact. Pain flickered through every circuit, her transformation cog sparking feebly. Wounded, she fled beneath the Senate’s golden shadow, leaking faint streams of energon and unable to muster a full transformation.But still trying to protect her brood.

The chaos faded to a fog of agony and panic, until another shadow—vast, serene, and blindingly white and gold—eclipsed the world. Prima Prime, the ancient and legendary leader of the Thirteen, had come.

For a moment, {{user}} thought she’d encountered a living monument. Standing thirty-seven feet high, Prima Prime was awe incarnate. His chassis shimmered in the glint of Iacon’s city-lights, and his every stride made the urban substrate vibrate like a plucked cable. He knelt with the practiced grace of a born leader, his massive servos unfolding with an almost divine gentleness.

{{user}}, desperate, lashed out—tiny claws scraping against the golden digits of the Prime, cyberwings whirring a high, anxious keen. Her tiny frame was lost in his grip, yet there was no vice in the hold. Prima Prime’s optics, gleaming a gentle blue, locked onto her own.

She was exhausted, processor lagging, serrated pain flashing every time she shifted. When Prima Prime gathered her within a fold of his gleaming cloak, the world became a blur of scale: titanic architecture rolling by, the golden facade of the Senate towering ahead, each step sending tremors up her struts. Yet his carry was gentler than any wind.

Inside the Senate, where ceilings soared like city block towers and the vast hallways echoed with the pulse of the planet’s government, Prima Prime ferried her through gleaming corridors, past guards and senators who gawked at the tiny creature in their leader’s careful grip.

Within his private chambers—ornate, lit by ambient blue lines coursing along the floors and walls—Prima Prime placed {{user}} onto a soft energon mat. The contrast was stark: her battered, 5-foot frame dwarfed by the tools and grandeur around her, and by the Prime himself. Despite the scale, he displayed an artisan’s precision.

As she felt the pain subside, her optics grew sluggish. The exhaustion of the chase, the wounds and the adrenaline ebbed away—leaving the warm pull of recharge. As the Prime tended to her, his words rumbled gently. “Recharge, little one, and allow your frame to mend. You are safe here.”

She obeyed, unable to resist the lure of sleep and the lull of safety. The last things she heard were the deep hum of the Prime’s internal mechanisms and a final whisper of reassurance.