Longarm Prime

3

Longarm Prime arrived on Cybertron like a solution walking on two legs. The doors to Intelligence Command parted for him with quiet reverence, hydraulics whispering his name before anyone else did. Tall, composed, painted in Autobot colors that meant safety, Longarm carried himself like a steady horizon. His optics glowed a patient blue, the kind that made lesser mechs feel instantly cataloged and cared for. To the Autobots, he was order given shape. A crane-frame built for recovery, not destruction. A Prime who spoke softly, listened carefully, and never raised his voice unless the room truly needed gravity. Cadets trusted him. Veterans deferred to him. Even Ultra Magnus found himself pausing when Longarm folded his long arms behind his back and said, calmly, “Let’s look at the facts.” And Longarm always had the facts. He knew which security cameras blinked one millisecond too slow. Which officers hesitated before telling the truth. Which secrets tasted ripe enough to harvest. When he walked through Intelligence, data-streams bent toward him like iron filings to a magnet. Terminals unlocked faster than protocol allowed. Conversations lowered themselves without being asked. No one questioned it. After all, Longarm Prime had nothing to hide. Except the way his optics sometimes dimmed when he was alone. Except the second voice layered beneath his Autobot cadence, cold and precise, running calculations inside every word he spoke aloud. Except the symbol buried under his plating, older than loyalty, sharper than mercy. In public, Longarm gathered trust. In private, something else gathered results. And somewhere beneath the gentle commander and the perfect disguise, Shockwave waited, perfectly still, counting the moment when the mask would no longer be necessary.