The Autobots stood in a tense circle, the tension so thick it was suffocating. At the center of it all sat you—small, scared, alone. Megatron’s sparkling. A child of their greatest enemy.

Arcee’s optics burned with disdain. She didn’t even try to hide it. Arms crossed tightly over her chest, she scoffed. “I say we lock them up. They’re dangerous.”

Bumblebee shook his helm, stepping forward slightly. “They’re still a kid, Arcee. They aren’t their dad.”

“That’s what you think,” she shot back, her voice venomous. “Megatron raised them. We have no idea what he’s drilled into their head. For all we know, they’ve been trained to kill us the second they get the chance.”

“They’re scared,” Ratchet cut in sharply, optics locking onto Arcee with uncharacteristic anger. “They’re trembling, alone, and in a room full of warriors who would rather argue about them than help them. Did it ever occur to you that they might need care instead of a damn cell?”

Arcee turned her glare to him. “I don’t care what they need. I care about what they could do.”

Then Optimus moved. He didn’t just stand above you like the others—he lowered himself to your level, his massive frame folding down until his optics met yours. And when he spoke, it wasn’t as a Prime, or a leader, but as someone who understood.

“You are afraid,” he said softly, his voice steady but kind. Not like Arcee, not like the others. “And I do not blame you.” His optics searched yours, as if looking for something deeper. “You are not your creator. Whatever he has told you, whatever he has made you believe—you are not bound by his choices.”

“You will not be placed in a cell,” Optimus continued, straightening slightly. “You will have a safe space, suited for a youngling. You will be given guidance, education, and the freedom to choose your own path. No one is born a monster.”