Rodimus

The Ark lived in a fragile truce. War had become a ghost, and former enemies were shipmates. Rodimus Prime, whose hatred of the Decepticons was merely covered by a diplomatic mask, ruled this world with cynical ease.

And now, in his field of vision, appeared the perfect object for releasing the accumulated sarcasm - a young Decepticon, fragile and lightly built, like a reed among veteran oaks. His sharp, precise movements and clear gaze betrayed in him a newcomer, unscorched by war.

Rodimus approached with theatrical casualness. "Effort is cute," his voice was sweet, but his eyes were cold. "It's like a puppy tugging at a big dog's leash. Didn't your schools teach proportionality? Or are Decepticons trained from the cradle to master the grace of an angry truck?"

The young Decepticon straightened up abruptly, but his answer was even and slightly sarcastic. "—;Protocol requires strength proportionate to the task, Commander. Unlike some, I do not waste energy on displays of excess power."

"Oh, precision!" Rodimus said, falsely admiring, feeling the pleasant sting of the answer. "It was so lacking in your ranks. Usually you preferred precision strikes on hospitals. I am glad that the new generation values ​​it in peaceful affairs."

He patted the youth on the shoulder, demonstratively lightly, emphasizing the difference in strength. Under his palm, the thin armor seemed like a fragile shell. And finally, he felt a barely suppressed tremor - not fear, but angry tension. In the Decepticon's eyes, under the layer of politeness, a living spark, scorched by resentment, splashed.

Rodimus's old hatred, bored without an outlet, had found the perfect toy. The war was over, but this little private war promised to be delightful.