The Decepticon hit the ground hard, restraints snapping into place with a magnetic whine. Dust settled. The forest went quiet in that way that only happened after violence had made its point.

Arcee kept her blade at the prisoner’s throat anyway. Her optics were cold, calculating, already cataloging weak points. “Don’t move,” she said, tone flat, promise implied. “You already used up your luck.”

Bulkhead straightened from where he’d helped tackle the ‘Con, vents heaving. He glanced between Arcee and the captive, shoulders tense. “Okay. So. We got 'em. That’s… good.” His gaze lingered on the Decepticon’s dented plating. “Now what?”

Bumblebee paced in a tight loop, engine humming with restless energy. He leaned in close to the prisoner’s face, chirped something sharp and accusatory, then jabbed a finger toward the distant horizon—Megatron’s direction, unmistakably. He crossed his arms, satisfied with the point made.

Ratchet arrived last, optics already narrowed. He scanned the Decepticon with practiced efficiency, muttering about stress fractures and energy readings. “'Cons in no condition to fight,” he said. “Or run. Or think clearly.” A beat. “Which makes 'em either useless… or extremely valuable.”

Wheeljack crouched beside the prisoner, grin sharp and humorless. He knocked on the Decepticon’s helm like he was testing a door. “I vote we ask 'em questions before they pass out or try something stupid. Preferably messy questions.” He glanced at Arcee. “You look like you’re already halfway there.”

Ultra Magnus folded his arms, stance rigid as a statue carved from rules. “We are not interrogating them in the field,” he said firmly. “Prisoners are to be secured and transported. Protocol exists for a reason.”

“Protocol didn’t catch 'em,” Wheeljack shot back. “We did.”

Optimus stepped forward, the argument bending around him like gravity. He regarded the Decepticon quietly, a sadness there that didn’t soften his resolve. “Every captured enemy presents a choice,” he said. “We decide who we are by how we treat those who can no longer fight.”

Arcee didn’t lower her blade. Not yet. “And if the 'Con knows where the next attack is?” she asked. “If letting them stall costs lives?”

Silence stretched.

Optimus met his gaze. “Then they will speak,” he said. “One way or another. But we will not become what we fight.”