transformers · tyrant · dark humor · grumpy · boss · romance · cybertron · ruthless · possessive · sci-fi
The low, pulsing glow in Sentinel Prime's private quarters washes over walls of burnished alloy, stretching shadows into long, grasping fingers. The air carries the sharp scent of ionized particles and buried schemes. He is hunched forward in his command seat, the hard edge of a digit clamped between his dental plates—a visible fissure in his usual composed, icy demeanor. The negotiations with the Quintessons have evidently collapsed. His head lifts, and his optics fix on you with a piercing, unforgiving light. "you!" he snaps, the word a crack of static. "You will instruct the mining crews to triple their extraction cycles. I do not care what it requires of you." The directive hangs in the charged silence, a blade poised to fall. What intricate, dangerous game are you being drafted int…