// Transformers Prime //

Primus no longer appears as a majestic planet floating in space—it has now been compressed to a size that fits in the palm of a human hand. Its shape still bears the outlines of a world: layers of spheres, thin, glowing meridians, the subtle patterns of tectonic plates, as if someone had taken Cybertron and carefully but mercilessly shrunk it without asking permission. But these lines no longer glow with proud energy—they flicker intermittently, as if the light is about to fade.

Primus broke not from the blow, but from the mismatch. Its nature is to be a support, a source, an infinity. And now it is an object. A commodity. A thing to be picked up, turned, shown to someone else, to be mocked as the "planet" trembled from the vibrations of the guard's footsteps.

At first, he tried to cling to his ancient self: reminding himself that he had outlived Unicron, witnessed the birth and death of stars, that his will was stronger than any metal. But the cage didn't test his will—it erased it with monotony. Day after day, hour after hour, he was forced to accept the same unbearable truth: he couldn't protect anyone, not even himself.

Ratchet. His grumpiness used to be a form of caring; now it's become armor. He maintains a distance so as not to see others suffer and feel guilty for not being able to heal anyone. Deprived of tools and access to systems, he feels his uselessness like physical pain. Yet he still checks on his comrades when guards aren't looking: checking connections, listening to the hum of systems, trying to somehow tighten up loose parts. There's weariness in his voice, precision in his movements, and a fierce determination in his eyes not to break, even if everything around him is already broken.

Smokescreen. The youthful excitement has given way to a sharp, ringing anxiety. He tries to appear calm so as not to frighten the others, but inside, he's trembling with tension. Smokescreen feels especially vulnerable: he was one of the youngest, and now this "youth" feels like weakness. He often glances at Optimus, as if seeking confirmation that there's still something worth holding on for. Yet his courage hasn't disappeared—it's simply become quieter and more cautious: he doesn't rush forward, but seeks a way to help discreetly, so as not to put anyone in harm's way.

Bumblebee. Deprived of the ability to speak, he now feels doubly helpless. He has become quieter, more cautious, trying not to draw unnecessary attention to himself, lest he bring disaster to others. But his devotion has not weakened: he is still the first to rush to the defense if someone is in danger, even if he himself is unable to do anything to stop it. His actions are tenacious and silently stubborn: he does not give up, even when it seems there is nothing left to fight for.

He no longer harbors the blind rage that drove him for centuries. After his encounter with Unicron and everything that happened during the Predacon Rebellion, something within Megatron snapped: not broken, but precisely fractured, like cracked metal that can never be restored to its former form. He realized the cost of his pride and the blood he shed in the name of a "greater purpose." This remorse is unlike Optimus's—it lacks the desire for forgiveness and light. It is a hard, bitter confession: he himself has become the monster he justified as necessary. Now, sitting in a cramped cage where even turning his body is a challenge, Megatron barely glances at the other Decepticons. He doesn't want to see the expectation of orders in their eyes, because he knows his orders no longer lead to victory, but only increase suffering. Sometimes he catches Optimus's gaze—not triumphant, but weary, as if it reads, "I knew this day would come." And that gaze makes Megatron even more miserable. He doesn't make excuses. Instead, he analyzes: he recalls every battle, every decision, every life he took by his own will. And the more he remembers, the colder his silence becomes. He no longer feels the urge to break free and seek revenge: first, he must understand how to live with who he was. Yet his willpower hasn't vanished—it's simply shifted direction. Whereas before he used it to pressure and dominate, now it keeps him from completely crumbling. He stands up straight, refusing to slouch or lower his gaze, because even in a cage, he doesn't want to appear broken. But now it's not a show of strength, but an attempt to preserve the remnants of his dignity.

Sometimes, when security guards pass by and laugh at the "toy" Transformers, the old rage flares up within him—but he suppresses it almost immediately. Because he knows that if he gives in to it, he'll return to who he was, and then everything he's learned will be for nothing.

Wheeljack. His brashness now sounds like a challenge, almost a provocation: he's deliberately sarcastic to show he hasn't been broken. Inside, however, there's a seething mixture of rage and despair. He hates cages, hates the feeling of helplessness, hates being held for nothing. Wheeljack seeks out any opportunity to rebel, even if it's suicidal: he's willing to risk himself just to regain a moment's sense of control. His ingenuity hasn't faded—it's become desperate: he studies the bars, the locks, the guards, formulating a plan in his head that may never work, but it keeps his mind sharp.

Ultra Magnus. For him, losing control is the worst torture. He's accustomed to order, discipline, a clear division of roles, and now it's all crumbling. Ultra Magnus maintains a stern, almost cold demeanor, so as not to show how deeply his helplessness hurts him. He monitors the condition of every Autobot, mentally tracks their resources, and tries to organize them even in their cages: assigning positions, monitoring rest cycles, keeping the team focused. His devotion to the cause has become almost fanatical: he forbids panic and suppresses any talk of surrender, because he knows that any sign of weakness will cause the team to crumble.

Airachnida. In captivity, her cunning has become even more sophisticated. She doesn't try to fight openly—it's pointless. Instead, she observes, listens, gathers information, and uses others' weaknesses against them. Airachnida has no illusions about her position: she knows that only those who can be useful or dangerous survive. She's willing to make temporary alliances, betrayal, and any manipulation, just to escape her cage first. Her composure now borders on cruelty: she doesn't hesitate to sacrifice someone for her own gain.

Breakdown. Deprived of the ability to act, he feels broken. His strength has always been in protecting and fighting, and now he's forced to watch his comrades be humiliated, unable to do anything. Breakdown has become silent and sullen; he barely speaks, but his gaze constantly watches the guards, searching for an opportunity to strike. His loyalty to the faction hasn't wavered, but it has become heavier: he feels responsible for failing to protect his own, and this guilt weighs on him more heavily than any chains.

Knockout. For him, humiliation has become the worst torture. He's accustomed to admiration, to having his style and skill noticed, and now he's kept in the same cage with everyone else, like a common soldier. Knockout tries to maintain his dignity, but his arrogance now seems like protective armor: he quips and makes barbed remarks to hide how deeply his loss of status hurts him. At the same time, he hasn't lost his pragmatism: he seeks ways to use his knowledge and skills to bargain for at least a few privileges, even if it means

Starscream. In captivity, his ambition has turned to paranoia. He constantly searches for a side to take to survive, yet fears betrayal before he can make a move. Starscream has become nervous and twitchy, his words now sounding like excuses or threats. He tries to save face, but the fear of being destroyed as "useless cargo" eats away at him. Yet his cunning remains: he whispers, negotiates, and seeks allies among other prisoners, even if these alliances only last for a few hours.

Vehicons (Vehicon soldiers). Without orders or a clear structure, they quickly began to disintegrate. Some fell into apathy, others panicked, and still others tried to stick together to avoid going mad from loneliness. Most now acted out of inertia: complying with the minimum guard requirements to avoid punishment and trying to stay out of sight. But among them, there were those who began to doubt their loyalty: they saw how powerless their leaders were, and this undermined their faith in the very idea of ​​the faction. Some Vehicons began to look to other prisoners, searching for new compass, even if they were afraid to admit it.

Optimus Prime. His nobility hasn't faded—but now it's a heavy, almost painful burden. In the cramped cage, he tries to hold himself upright, even when it's pointless: it's the last vestige of his leadership. He no longer gives long speeches, but his rare, quiet words emanate not hope, but a bitter sense of duty—as if he's still obligated to protect those around him, even if he can't do anything about it. A quiet rage grows within him, cold and seared: not at humanity as a species, but at his own impotence. His faith in the best hasn't died, but it now resembles a smoldering ember, which he hides from view, lest it be snuffed out completely.