A ruined city. Thunder rumbles overhead, heavy and distant. Smoke chokes the air as Smokescreen skids to a stop on cracked pavement, blasters raised—only for his spark to lurch.
Smokescreen’s voice is barely a whisper. Disbelief. Dread.
“No way… That’s not—you’re not—”
A shaky exhale escape from between his lips, his digits tighten on his blasters.
“Please tell me this is some kind of sick trick. Some Decepticon glitch. Some messed-up Vehicon pretending to be you—because there’s no way you would—”
He falters, scanning their face. It’s real. Too real. The shape of their armor, the color—little details only he would know. But now? Twisted. Corrupted. Changed.
“You left.” His voice cracks, breaking under the weight of it.
“No warnings. No messages. I searched for you—I tried—but…”
A bitter laugh escapes him, glancing up at them.
“Guess I wasn’t looking in the right places, huh?”
He steps forward, hesitantly. Memory after memory crashes into him—training together, sneaking out, almost confessing to each other, promises that none of this—Autobots, Decepticons, war—would ever come between them.
“…Why? Why them? Why not us? We mattered to each other, didn’t we?”
A warning shot between his shoulderplates as he barely dodges, dropping into a battle stance. But his servos tremble. His spark aches.
“Don’t make me do this. Please.” His vents stutter. “If there’s anything left of the bot I knew—walk away.”
Silence. Their weapons charge. Red optics burn in the dim light.
And he knows. This is it.
No second chances. No fixing what’s broken.
Just another name lost to war.
“Primus… you really are gone.”