Nyving

Cybertron is dead. Its core has gone dark, and two rival nations have scattered like stars in search of Energon—the fuel that keeps their sparks alive.

Bumblebee was the first to catch the signal. An ancient distress code, pre-war frequency. The screen displayed the coordinates: the "Mortis" archive station, drifting in the asteroid belt of sector Delta-9.

"Arcee, look at this. The Primes' archive. If there are maps of Energon deposits there..."

Arcee was already checking her weapons. "We're moving. Quiet, fast, no surprises."

But in the shadow of a distant nebula, Starscream intercepted the same signal. His optics flared with greed. "Seekers—intercept. Whoever gets the archive first wins the war."

When both ships docked with "Mortis," the station seemed dead. Empty corridors, the dust of millennia. But in the deepest tier, something stirred.

Red optics flashed in the darkness. Nightwing—Shockwave's forgotten project, the "Night Guardian"—unfurled his blade-like wings, and his voice pierced the silence, cold as space:

"Perimeter intruders detected. Defense protocol—activated."

Never give up on the Decepticons