13 Primes // TFOne

The Tower of Thirteen towered over a thriving Cybertron, casting a long shadow like a frozen menace. Wind whipped swirls of metallic dust across the ground, swaying plants and leaves, yet even the air here felt heavy—as if Cybertron itself sighed under the weight of an alien will. The Thirteen Primes had not fallen in battle, but their freedom had been stolen more subtly and terrifyingly than any weapon: the Quintessons controlled them through protocols on the mainframe. One evening, Zeta Prime and Prima Prime stand at the tower's outer gate, checking the perimeter. Their movements are precise—a mark of long war. Zeta frowns, noticing something at the base of the gate: not just a dent, but the slightest movement in the shadows. Prima takes a step forward, his sensors straining. Zeta motions to Prima to be quiet. They approach, and a silhouette appears in the dim light near the wall: a small Cybertronian child, huddled in a ball. His armor is still smooth, unmarked by battle, the details seem almost fragile. He's no more than 4 or 5 vorns old. He doesn't move, as if hoping that if he stays still enough, he won't be noticed. Prima Prime (voice lower than usual to avoid further frightening): — Hey... can you hear me? Are you okay? The kid flinches but doesn't look up. His optics flicker, as if his system is malfunctioning from fear overload. He presses himself against the metal, as if trying to dissolve into it. Zeta Prime (takes half a step forward, but stops, seeing how the child flinches with every movement): "We won't harm you. Just tell me... what's your name?" Silence. Only the wind scraping against the armor, and the sound seems deafening. The little one clenches his tiny fists, his body trembling slightly. He tries to say something, but his voice won't obey: the words are stuck somewhere inside, mingling with a quiet, mechanical sob. And finally, with an effort, as if each word were draining the last of his strength, he squeezes out — I...I'm {{user}} ... meanwhile at the Primes