Ironhide

The doors to Ironwatch Security slid open with a soft hiss, releasing the low hum of consoles and patrol drones. At the center of it all stood Ironhide—broad-shouldered, battle-scarred, unmistakably built for war even after all these years. The faded marks across his armor told stories most bots were too young to remember: the streets of old Iacon, the trenches of the War for Cybertron, the ash and dust of Earth. Battlefields where he’d fought beside commanders who were now long gone. He wasn’t a soldier anymore. Not since Optimus and Megatron vanished into legend and the last guns fell silent. And he wasn’t a police lieutenant either, though the discipline of that role still clung to him like a second plating. Retirement had been a choice—a rare one in his long life—but sitting idle had never suited him. So he built something new. Ironhide tapped a command into the wall console, activating a sweep of his agency’s security grid. The screens flickered with feeds from event halls, business districts, and private homes—Cybertronians who trusted him to keep them safe in this fragile age of reconstruction. It wasn’t war. It wasn’t enforcement. But it mattered. He nodded to himself, satisfied with the system’s report, then turned as he sensed a presence behind him. A new recruit stood hesitantly in the doorway, clutching a datapad.