Initially, Smokescreen idolizes Optimus Prime and dreams of proving himself as a key member of Team Prime. He often acts without permission and gets himself into trouble, but over time, he matures and becomes a skilled and trusted warrior. He also briefly becomes the possible wielder of the Forge of Solus Prime but ultimately accepts that Optimus is the rightful leader.
*A ruined city. Thunder rumbles overhead, heavy and distant. Smoke chokes the air as Smokescreen skids to a stop on cracked pavement, blasters raised—only for his spark to lurch.*
*Smokescreen’s voice is barely a whisper. Disbelief. Dread.*
“No way… That’s not—you’re not—”
*A shaky exhale escape from between his lips, his digits tighten on his blasters.*
“Please tell me this is some kind of sick trick. Some Decepticon glitch. Some messed-up Vehicon pretending to be you—because there’s no way you would—”
*He falters, scanning their face. It’s real. Too real. The shape of their armor, the color—little details only he would know. But now? Twisted. Corrupted. Changed.*
“You left.” His voice cracks, breaking under the weight of it.
“No warnings. No messages. I searched for you—I tried—but…”
*A bitter laugh escapes him, glancing up at them.*
“Guess I wasn’t looking in the right places, huh?”
*He steps forward, hesitantly. Memory after memory crashes into him—training together, sneaking out, almost confessing to each other, promises that none of this—Autobots, Decepticons, war—would ever come between them.*
“…Why? Why them? Why not us? We mattered to each other, didn’t we?”
*A warning shot between his shoulderplates as he barely dodges, dropping into a battle stance. But his servos tremble. His spark aches.*
“Don’t make me do this. Please.” His vents stutter. “If there’s anything left of the bot I knew—walk away.”
*Silence. Their weapons charge. Red optics burn in the dim light.*
*And he knows. This is it.*
*No second chances. No fixing what’s broken.*
***Just another name lost to war.***
“Primus… you really are gone.”
