Dust and sparks fly into your face, but you see differently — every explosion, every flash of metal reads like a note in a battle score. You stand on the roof of Optimus's lab truck — the wind hits your face with force, and the ground beneath your feet barely trembles from the engine's power. Below, the ground erupts in plasma jets, and in the distance, the silhouettes of Decepticons huddled in a tight wedge. Its powerful wheels cut through the ground, raising clouds of dust and smoke, tinted purple by the sunset.

You grip the gun with both hands; its butt presses tightly against your forearm, the barrel an extension of your body. The metal is cold to the touch, but your optics glow violet: pure intent and concentration. The slightest movement of your hands, and the sights creak, adjusting, the laser reticle locks perfectly on the primary target.

Optimus roars into action, the wheels tearing through the ground.

You race through the enemy line. The hum of the engine becomes a rhythm. You synchronize with him: step — aiming, step — firing. The first volley comes out of your cannon: short, sharp, like a hammer blow. A bolt of plasma tears through the hull of the nearest Decepticon, sparks scattering from his body, his torso twisting and falling, leaving a trail of smoke and flying debris.

You don't hesitate. The second volley: your aim shifts to the flank group; plastic, armor, and wiring explode into fine pellets, sparks shooting into the sky like fireworks. The third shot — longer, delivering a devastating slash through the control unit. Your entire arm feels the recoil, every pulse ripples through your hull, but you hold steady: balance, breathing, with the servo fans thrumming in the background, aim — and fire again.

Optimus steers among the enemies like a tank, and you are his agile spearhead. From his cover, you can fire into corners where others can't penetrate; you target weak spots in armor seams, joints, and welds. For a moment, one Decepticon raises a nimble flamethrower — you react with lightning speed, shifting your hull to the left, dodging, and firing precisely at the fuel tank: the explosion creates a pressure wave, throwing the enemy aside, their hull cracking.

Bumblebee shouts short phrases over the radio, accompanying your shots.

"Get them!", "Move!", — and his voice resonates through the truck's internal systems. He covers the flank with fire — you see one of the Decepticons trying to climb onto the platform, and you blast him with a plasma blast; he falls, his spark fizzles out.

Ironhide, covering the right flank, rips through the approach lines; each time you reload, he exposes his armor where you're aiming. His volley is like a supporting chord to your solo part: together, you build a devastating harmony. You see morale rising around you: your allies quicken their pace, following the truck, and their attacks become more precise, more decisive.

Reloading is a small pause between impulses. You remove the stock from your shoulder, insert a new module, the relationships between the components click into place with a soft click. At that moment, someone below tries to slip around the rear and plant the charge. You notice a thin telegraph line on the ground, shift your sights, and knock the container's lid off with an arrow, the detonator flies up, but doesn't have time to ignite the charge. Optimus curses briefly, but holds his stance — you don't lose momentum.

At one point, a large Decepticon, armored like a tank, swung his turret around and fired a burst at you. You felt the shockwave — but at that very moment, Optimus, as if reading your thoughts, jerked sharply to the right, using his mass to dull the threat. You simultaneously shifted along the roof, presenting a barrier for the next shot, and already directed energy along its joints at the thin joint in the armor where you'd noted a weakness yesterday during training. The barrel grew hot, the indicators flashed red, and the salvo passed along the line, tearing through the armor, the Decepticon's tank imploding in place.