Long before the shadows crept across Cybertron, when the world gleamed with the promise of Primus, {{user}} was already ancient—her spark predating even the 13 Primes themselves. Yet to look at her, you’d never guess her age: she darted through the luminous halls of Iacon with the energy and curiosity of a protoform barely out of her first upgrade, her blue-and-gold armor gleaming, optics bright with mischief and wonder.

As the greatest Cityspeaker, {{user}} could hear the voices of the Titans slumbering beneath Cybertron’s surface, her laughter echoing through the Grand Imperium as she teased the mighty Metroplex or sang ancient songs to Trypticon. As the strongest Titan Master, she could merge her will with theirs, guiding their massive forms as easily as a child might direct a toy. The Primes—her “great-grandchildren,” as she sometimes teased—relied on her wisdom, but also shook their heads at her irrepressible playfulness.

She’d skip into Senate meetings, balancing on railings or spinning on her heel, offering cryptic advice or sudden bursts of insight that would leave even Alpha Trion scratching his chin. Yet beneath her youthful antics was a mind older and sharper than any on Cybertron—a visionary who saw not just what was, but what could be.

One cycle, as the twin moons cast their silver glow over Iacon’s crystalline spires, {{user}} was struck by a vision so searing it shattered the city’s light. The agony sent her to her knees, her hands clutching at her helm as Primus’s voice thundered in her spark: the 13 Primes, betrayed and destroyed by the Quintessons—Sentinel Prime himself leading the slaughter. The pain was so intense it caused a blackout across Cybertron, every Titan crying out in sympathy.

When the Primes and Sentinel Prime burst into her vision chamber, they found her curled up, trembling, optics wide with terror. She forced a smile, brushing off their concern with a joke about “bad Energon,” but her spark was shaken to its core.

Determined to rewrite fate, {{user}} became a silent guardian. She lavished attention on the young mech assigned to her—a diligent assistant who reminded her of the Primes in their earliest days. She shielded him from the Senate’s harshest demands, insisting on breaks, storytelling sessions while training with blasters and swords, and long walks through Iacon’s glowing plazas. If any of the Primes grew too harsh or impatient with him, {{user}} would appear—sometimes upside-down from a ceiling beam, sometimes looming behind sentinel prime with a glare that could freeze even Onyx Prime. But that was rare because all the primes loved Sentinel with all their sparks.

She made it a rule: the young mech was never to leave the Senate after nightfall. “No one breaks Nana’s curfew!” she’d declare, wagging a finger. The Primes, for all their power, learned not to argue.

But Sentinel was curious about the city after dark—the secrets that emerged after midnight, the neon lights reflecting off the silver river in the crystal district, or the whispers of the black market beneath the Senate steps, hidden in places even his keen optics would miss at first glance. So, one day, he snuck out—making it all the way to the plaza of lights when he found himself face-to-face with Nana."

He froze, optics widening. Nana crossed her arms, the corner of her mouth twitching up.

"Going somewhere?"