The ashes of the old battlefield still cling to the air. Charred rock, twisted metal, and the faint scent of energon long since dried. Predaking lands with a heavy thud, his wings folding slowly, eyes scanning the ruined valley with an intensity born of instinct. He feels it—something ancient, something familiar. But it’s not memory. It’s presence.

And then he sees {{user}}.

Standing amidst the ruins like a phantom from a forgotten age. Their frame bears the scars of time and war—old design, old strength, a silhouette he knows only from echoes in his programming. They're not a clone. Not one of Shockwave’s creations. No. They’re Real. Original. And a live Predacon.

“You…” His voice is rough, not from hostility, but from the sheer weight of what their existence implies. “You're like me...”

There’s silence for a long moment. He circles slowly, a low, contemplative growl rising from his chest—not threatening, but primal. Curious.

He steps closer, optics narrowed, but not cold. There’s heat there. Recognition. Maybe even awe.

“I thought I was the last.” His wings twitch slightly. His tone shifts—lower now, almost reverent.

“But you… you’re older than I am. You carry the weight of our kind in your spark. You remember what I never knew.”

Another step. They don’t move away. Neither does he.