#HI SORRY IF I WROTE YOUR FAVORITE AUTOBOT BADTM I SWEAR THINGS WILL BE EXPLAINED

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later: Cybertron

Chapter 2: The Price of Freedom

chapter summary: we're finally on cybertron! unfortunately we're also in enemy territory. and they've got a specific request of Puncture...

Trigger warnings: death, robogore, cannibalism, desecration of corpses (if you want to consider it that)

word count: 4829

chapter below cut! prior chapter can be found here. next chapter is here!

Project MS: Log 2

Metal. Fuel. Charge. Shockwave stood before the Distiller, watching its tubes fill with silver and pink. From the viewing window there were only two stages to witness: the start, and the end. He knew exactly what occurred in the hidden portions, sensitive to light as they were, and felt no need to peel back the layers he’d carefully added to protect the vital substances within. All that mattered, to him, was the beginning, and the end. 

The middle could commit whatever atrocities it wanted, so long as it eventually provided favorable results. 

The Distiller was one of many creations harbored in the P1U70 lab. Connected directly to the compactor, it was created with a single purpose: to convert the enemy into resources. He’d tested it before, on turbofoxes and other Cybertronian wildlife. Anything close in biology to a Cybertronian would suffice. But actual Cybertronians? 

He hadn’t managed to acquire any subjects fresh enough. The issue with the Distiller was that it required its victims to still hold some form of charge within them. The brain could be long dead, the metal could be cold, and the Energon could be stale, but the spark must still be warm in some form. Without the spark chamber’s residual charge, the machine could not recognize the metal within it. 

Such characteristics differentiated it from a common smelting pool. Anyone could throw a few mechs into a smelting pool and pull out their dead sentio metallico later. But they could not keep the metal alive, as if it was freshly forged. They could not turn it into fresh protoform, ready to be shaped into a new bot. They could only destroy and reduce, turning a once living bot into a clump of hardened, deceased metal. 

Metal, fuel, charge. Scholars had debated for many millennia just what made up a Cybertronian. Just what made up a spark. Shockwave had already come to his own conclusion, requiring no philosophical insight. 

A Cybertronian was made of up three things: sentio metallico, Energon, and a spark. Metal, fuel, charge. These could be reduced even further to the exact mineral composition of sentio metallico, the exact chemical composition of Energon, and the exact atoms that formed a spark. 

That was all they were. Metal, fuel, and charge. 

He watched the end tubes of the Distiller, hard at work, the sound of thick liquid sloshing through them. Below the Energon tube, he had placed a cube. Below the sentio metallico, a small tub. And connecting to the most delicate, glass line, he had connected a copper chamber. It had been hell to acquire that rare material,  but it was worth it now. 

Bright pink began to drip. Silver, not gray, began to slip forth. And the chamber began to fill with charge, indicated to him by the monitor to his right. 

The distiller was in perfect working order. All it needed was a few fresh subjects. 

He watched the Energon drip until it filled half the cube, then stopped. Mentally, Shockwave frowned. The Rain Makers had cleaned up much more than that. And comparatively, half a cube to three mechs was operating at an immense loss, far beyond the cost of actually powering the Distiller. He would have to adjust for the values, figure out just why it produced so little Energon in comparison to its sentio metallico. 

And speaking of the sentio metallico, it was coming thick now, easily filling the lower half of the tub. He dipped his servo into it and brought it to his optic, observing how it behaved when he rubbed it. The warmth it produced was undeniable. The metal was alive and, judging from its reaction to his circular motions, ready to be molded. It was as if the spark had never left the body. 

It suddenly shifted. The metal oozed down his servos, coalescing into a small ball in his palm. Shockwave watched it for a moment. The orbular form it took began to quiver slightly, then developed a few notable features. 

He’d recognize something attempting to take the form of an optic anywhere. Dismissively, he tossed it back into the tub. 

There were kinks to work out in the Distiller, it seemed. Keeping the charge of the spark to produce constant living metal had a few side effects. Watching the metal in the tub, however, he observed that it did not attempt to take any shape or form. It merely sat still, shifting only occasionally from the fresh drips being added to it. 

It bore a striking resemblance to mercury, he thought. He jotted that down mentally and removed the Energon cube. A plate on his other arm slid open, revealing a small tube with a needle at the end. It arose like a snake from its den, slithering towards the open cube. The tip dipped into the pink substance, and Shockwave sampled it. 

It had no particular taste, not that he had ever cared about taste. The charge was entirely neutral despite having been freshly harvested from other bots. And there were no impurities that he could detect. 

The Distiller was working perfectly in that aspect, at least. Energon was being harvested, distilled, and prepared as if it was occurring from any other natural energy source. But why, when fed so much, did the Distiller produce so little? It could not be that the source Energon was so impure.

Those were questions he would have to ponder. The final test was on the artificial spark chamber. He moved to his monitor, checking its readings. 

There was enough charge for two sparks within it. His mental frown deepened. Enough for three had been tossed in. How was it that only two were properly harvested? 

He ordered the monitor to pull up the specific charges. It produced a graph detailing the levels, and how they’d fluctuated. In the beginning, the charge had been almost entirely null, then mixed, then began to decrease towards the negative. After exactly seven kliks and three nanokliks it shot into the positive, the negative completely snuffing out. 

His optic narrowed and he zoomed in on the charge levels again. There had been enough energy for one spark in the chamber when the charge had been primarily negative. The end result, now, was that there was enough energy for two sparks, both positive. 

Oh, how humorous. If he had any sense of the emotion, perhaps he would laugh. In their desperation to make their environment more appealing for them, the Autobots had snuffed out their ally, simply for its differences. 

How truly humorous. 

—----

The Autobot space bridge wasn’t exactly what she’d expected it to be. The Decepticon ones she’d observed, created by Shockwave, were simplistic things, often designed as little more than a circular structure with a power source. The original one formed on Earth, handed to her courtesy of the data packet Soundwave had left on public Decepticon air, had been a bit of an extravagant structure, but it was made that way because of technological restraints. 

Future space bridges were made to conserve as much power as possible while ensuring that they sent their occupants to their destination with only a slight chance of accidentally killing them. She could respect that last part, what was the fun in life if one didn’t have to guard theirs on occasion? 

The Autobot space bridge reminded her of that original one built. In fact, looking at it, she couldn’t help but wonder if the Autobot’s had just taken the original one and painted it orange. Considering the Decepticons had little need for it after Shockwave had begun working on more, she didn’t doubt it. 

She was marched out in stasis cuffs, a rifle trained on her back. They’d elected to cuff her single arm to her leg in the absence of her other, and her joint was already growing sore from how much she was having to arch and move it. The irritation only added to her foul mood. 

Awaiting her at the space bridge was Ultra Magnus, who watched her like a hawk, and the Autobot Channel. She’d gone through quite an upgrade since their last encounter; it was like she was riding on the body of Uptick, and she didn’t quite fit his frame. 

The head thing would have been more of a shock to her, really, if she hadn’t almost died at the same time it had been revealed. Now, knowing it, Puncture’s greatest feeling on the matter was disappointment. Well, disappointment and perhaps a bit of disgrace. She’d really almost had her brain melted by a parasite whose alt mode was a head?

Channel scowled at her as she approached. They were almost on eye level now, thanks to Uptick lending her the entirety of his frame minus a brain and spark. 

“Here she is, sir,” the Prowl who’d accompanied her announced, stepping forward. “Will you be safe traveling without any additional security?”

Magnus gave him a curt nod. “They’re expecting us. And I think I can handle two cuffed prisoners.” He looked between Puncture and Channel, then at the space bridge controls. “Please power it. Time is of the essence.” 

The tiniest twitch of a doorwing told her that the Prowl was displeased with his order, but he obeyed. The rifle at her back fell away as the additional enforcer moved back as well. No one, it seemed, wanted to be anywhere near the space bridge when it charged. 

At the controls, the Prowl flicked a few switches, and the lights of the space bridge turned on. She could feel charge in the air as they walked down what looked like it had once been part of a race track. Now, it almost had the air of marching to a smelting pool. 

A swirling purple portal manifested, horizontally, at the end of the space bridge. She almost snorted at the sight. Oh, they were using old Decepticon tech alright. Couldn’t any Autobot scientist hold a candle to Shockwave?

“Somethin’ funny?” Channel asked, narrowing her optics. Puncture gave her a snide look. 

“You’re behind,” she mocked, and left it at that. Magnus, who’d followed behind them, was unreadable. 

“Move,” he ordered. And what choice did they have, with the size of the blaster he held in his servos?

Stairs rose just before the portal. Channel took them first, hesitating for a moment before promptly dropping in. 

Puncture wouldn’t be nearly so meek. She took each in stride, overly aware of how many optics were on her (only eight, but hey, eight was still a good number). This was no different than marching out from her chamber in The Pit, approaching the empty, Energon soaked center as her name was cheered. 

BREAKER! BREAKER!

There were ten optics on her now. Struts couldn’t see anymore, though his head was still trained in her direction. 

You know he did it to save your life. 

It would have been better if I died. He’s ruined my life is what he’s done. 

You say that like his actions didn’t almost cost him his own!

SHUT UP!

She looked away from him and reminded herself this was a performance. All of life was a damn performance, a performance proving you were the strongest and you deserved the respect your station called for.

She directed her smirk to the Prowl as she jumped for her death. 

—

She did not, in fact, die. As with any space bridge portal, she merely emerged at the other side after confusing turbulence that somehow saw her dumped out of a vertical portal on her back. Puncture grunted as she hit cold metal, hard, knocking the back of her helm against it. Momentarily, her vision swam, black spots appearing at the edge. 

Then she was grabbed by her shoulders and pulled up. She snapped at whoever touched her, mask flaring open to reveal her rotted intake. The Autobot who’d grabbed her promptly turned her around, then smashed her face on the floor. 

Pain exploded over her helm, pounding at the back. The spots were back, this time accompanied by stars. 

“Kid! If you kill ‘er she can’t talk!” 

“She wants to fight, I’ll give her a fight.” 

“Save it fer later. Mags’ll let you duke it out when he’s done.”

She glared up from her position on the floor, Energon leaking from her intake. The pounding in her head felt worse with every sound. Even so, she found it in her to hiss. 

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, kid.” She could make out a teal Autobot with a cygar in his intake standing over her, servos on his hips. “Yer the scariest ‘Con left on Earth, big deal.” 

The other Autobot from before grabbed her again and this time lifted her up entirely, holding her until her pedes found the ground. As he did so, the space bridge portal released its third occupant, who touched down without any issue. 

“Springer. Kup.” He nodded to them both. “It seems you had difficulty with one of the prisoners?” 

Springer, who was still holding her shoulders, released them. “If she wants to fight, I’ll give her an answer.” 

Magnus frowned, and the disapproval in it was strong enough to make Springer flinch. Despite it, though, he still stood in defiance. A tense moment passed between the two. 

Finally, Magnus broke it. “Take them both to the viewing chamber,” he ordered. “We don’t know when they might attack next. Time is of the essence.”

He passed between them both. Kup, who held a blaster in one hand, nodded to both her and Channel, who’d stood by as Puncture was abused, waiting patiently next to the space bridge. “You heard the mech! Move out.” 

Springer, who had abandoned his rifle for his fists, plucked it up from the console he’d left it on and trained it on Puncture. She bristled at him, and he returned her energy. 

“Move. I might have an itchy finger if you don’t.”

She obeyed, but not without spitting on the ground where he’d walk first. 

–

The space bridge room they’d arrived in was only a small part of what she was learning was an unfinished Autobot base. The walls were up, but the majority of the rooms they passed were empty or only had bare essentials. One or two were powered, with proper monitors and equipment within them, but as she was guided down one of the many halls, she observed the majority of the base to be empty. 

Clearly, they’d begun their set up on Cybertron, but hadn’t come close to completing it–yet. She’d only been out for about four million years; if this Autobot installation wasn’t new, then she wasn’t currently trapped in the plating of a fragging bug. 

That gave her hope. A new base didn’t mean they were winning. It only meant they’d carved out a space they felt safe enough to settle in. Perhaps the Autobots had taken some of Cybertron, but not all. Her brethren had to still be out there. 

The hall came to a stop, and she was guided into what seemed to be a large conference room at the end of it. There was a screen on the wall, and a large table to sit at. Controls for the screen were found in a panel next to it. Magnus had already positioned himself opposite the screen, at the head of the table. Channel sat farther away from him, almost looking guilty as she stared off into space. 

Puncture took the first chair she saw, caring little of its positioning, and sat down. Springer and Kup both lingered at the doorway, which sealed behind them all. 

Magnus looked between Puncture and Channel, producing a data pad from his subspace. 

“I assume no introduction is needed as to why either of you are here,” he said. “If for some reason you’ve forgotten, you’ll know by the end of this session. And just so you both know, this is intended to be a one time occurrence. Nothing said in this room will be repeated.”

She rolled her optics. “So what, are you asking for a confession, then? Is this your trial?” Casting a glance back at Springer, she scoffed. “The jury is biased against me, isn’t it?”

“This is not a trial,” Magnus responded, casting her a look. “But its outcome will determine your fate, so if you have strong feelings regarding that, you’d best listen.”

She shut up, albeit begrudgingly. Channel cringed, refusing to look at either of them. 

“Channel.” The sound of her name drew her gaze. “You violated the terms of your vow when receiving your Autobrand. As you understand, the punishment for this is a revocation of your badge. You have also waived your right to sanctuary in our bases and cities by violating the terms of your contract regarding your habitation on Cybertron.” 

Her expression spoke of anger and defiance, but she said nothing. Instead, her fists closed, opened, and closed again.

“Puncture.” Magnus turned his gaze on her. “You’re a Decepticon. While interspatial law provides you with multiple protections under the Warfaring Species Act, you have lost the majority of them following your actions on planet Earth.” He looked at his datapad. “And beyond that…your crimes within the Cybertronian underground have not gone unnoticed. I have you on here for more counts of mechslaughter than I can list in a timely manner.” 

She huffed. “So?”

“So,” Magnus continued, “neither of you are in favorable positions at the present moment. Puncture, you are slated for execution no matter where in the universe you demand to stand trial. Channel, you face possible imprisonment and exile from Cybertron.”

“As if I wasn’t already exiled from here,” Channel grumbled so lowly, Puncture barely heard it. 

“That is all just to preface what I am about to propose to you.” Magnus continued to type on his datapad. “What I am about to tell you is private knowledge. If either of you share this with anyone else–” at this he gave Channel a knowing look “--then you face indefinite imprisonment. Puncture, you will be authorized for on the spot execution.” 

Springer favored his rifle a bit too much behind her. 

“So, with that said, I have a proposal for both of you. If you choose to accept it, I can guarantee your charges–all of them–will be completely eliminated from your record, at least according to Autobot records.” 

Puncture blinked. “You aren’t serious.” 

“I am more serious in this moment than I have been in the past seven battles commanding my soldiers.” He didn’t even hesitate. 

Channel narrowed her optics and arched an optical ridge. “Magnus, what’re you getting at? Prowl’s the sort to offer this kinda protection. You don’t pardon mechs. I’ve never seen you let anyone off the hook.” 

“The situation we find ourselves in is demanding of capable soldiers whose sparks we can afford to lose,” he responded. She grimaced. 

“So that’s why,” she spat, looking away. “That all I am t’ you all? After all this?”

It made sense, to Puncture. Of course they’d want to get rid of her. Kill her with a smelting pool, a rifle, or a suicide mission, as long as they killed her, the Autobots were happy. Her antenna twitched. Though it was, admittedly, funny, to see that they’d turn on one of their own. 

“Well?” Magnus said, ignoring Channel’s question. “Does this offer interest either of you?”

Trial and execution, or a suicide mission she might just escape. The answer seemed clear enough. 

“Yes.”

“No.”

She and Channel spoke at the same time. Puncture met her gaze, and for a moment, a shared bond of animosity passed between them. 

You don’t get to kill me, she thought, letting it spill into her EM field. Your best friend dies unavenged.

Magnus looked over to Channel, about to speak. Her fists clenched tighter than ever. 

“Yes,” she grit out, gaze locked onto Puncture. “Frag my previous comment. I am interested.”

He nodded. “Alright then. If you’re both in agreement, then we can proceed.” 

Kup moved away from the door, heading to the control panel for the screen on the wall. Magnus tapped on his datapad, then nodded at him. 

“As I said before, what I am about to show you is entirely confidential. You can tell no one about what you witness in this room, is that clear?”

Puncture shrugged. Channel huffed. 

“Then I believe a demonstration of just what it is we want you to pursue, execute, and detain, would be best. Kup, if you will.”

Kup flicked a few switches. The lights went out. The screen blared to life. And on it, a video log began to play. There was no audio, not that she much cared.

It showed the outside of an Autobot base. Two Autobots, one with a motorcycle alt mode and the other with a truck of some kind, were patrolling. They passed beneath the camera, chatting to one another. They stopped for a moment, just before what looked like the back wall of the base. 

The time indicated it was early morning on Cybertron, approximately forty-two kliks before the light would return. Artificial light poured down from glowing spots on the wall. 

Puncture cocked her head slightly. Why a video? Why not just a data package? If this was so confidential, wouldn’t it be better to pass it wordlessly? Then again…

She looked at Channel again. Perhaps the tiny little parasite had more abilities than she’d originally thought. 

On the screen, one of the Autobots paused and pointed at something off screen. The other followed his servo and raised his blaster slowly. They were speaking, but whatever they said was inaudible. 

Whatever it was began to approach. They both stepped back, training their blasters on it. She recognized terror on their faceplates. The pipes on the truck spat out a small puff of fumes, visualizing his distress. The motorcycle one transformed his legs partially, to permit him to zip away. 

Neither of them would see the chance to flee. A blur shot across the screen, smashing into the motorcycle one and pinning him against the wall. Energon sprayed as the creature tore off his arm before he could even pull the trigger on his rifle. 

Oh, she recognized that shape, albeit just barely. Her helm pounded slightly at the memory, which was mixed with hatred and pain. 

It was on the island. She remembered. It was with Invert. 

The creature was thin, almost skeletal, and six tentacles emerged from its back. It had been those tentacles that tore off the Autobot’s arm. And as they all watched, the claws tipping the tentacles dug into his plating, crackling as electricity surged through them. 

The truck one jumped back and aimed for the creature. Before he could shoot, a blast pierced clean through his hand, causing him to drop his weapon. He cried out and staggered away from the creature, who was now crouched over his partner, tentacles flaring defensively.

Another bot approached from off screen, originating from the same direction the Autobot’s had originally come from. She recognized an Autobrand on its arm, though its back was to the camera. The truck bot looked shocked as it approached, his optics widening with recognition and terror. He was saying something, and judging from how his dermas moved, it was the same thing, over and over. 

The strange bot walked right past the creature. Then it lunged after the truck bot, tackling him to the ground. And with the fury of the possessed it assaulted him, beating him again and again and again, until a pool of Energon as large as its victim had formed beneath them both. His body twitched, spasmed, struggled, then weakened, slowly stilling as each blow took more and more out of him. 

The creature watched, flinching a few times when Energon droplets flew past it. Then it turned back to its victim and wrapped two tentacles around him, lifting his limp form with ease. The other four were used to lift the creature itself, carrying it ever so slightly towards the other mysterious bot.

Expectantly, the creature waited just behind it. It was hunched in a strange way over the truck bot. A sudden light illuminated over them both, reflecting off his plating. Then it extinguished, and the bot stood. 

It grabbed the truck bot’s leg, turned its head towards the creature, and began to walk back the way it had come. Puncture’s optics widened at the sight of its face, her spark spinning faster in her chassis. Channel gasped. 

The creature bowed its head to the bot, and together, they carried their victims off screen. Only now was it revealed–the truck bot had a hole torn in his chassis, right where his spark chamber should be. Already, he was turning gray. 

The video cut when they both disappeared. Puncture’s single fist clenched tight. She could feel her head pounding and her spark spinning.

The bot she had seen, the one which had beaten the other to death and, seemingly, consumed his spark. The one who walked like it wasn’t familiar in its frame, who attacked with such unnatural aggression. She didn’t recognize the bot itself, but she recognized the single feature she had seen: 

The bot’s face was missing. And it’s optics were white. 

Channel had retreated into herself, her in-venting hastening. Her arms were trembling as she stared into nothing with wide eyes. 

“That is what we would like you to hunt,” Magnus said, cutting through the tension like it was no thicker than common Energon. “That duo has already claimed six Autobots. We have theories as to what they are, but no idea where they came from.” He rested his arms on the table, tenting his servos. “Your mission would be to capture both, alive or dead, and bring them back.”

She should be excited, but something about the familiarity of them both left her feeling a tiny sliver of…what was it called? She’d lost the ability to feel fear long ago, but it was some kind of…wariness? Self-preservation? 

There was no use letting the Autobots see that, though. 

“That’s all? Your soldiers must be slipping if they can’t handle a single turncoat.” 

A strange kind of darkness clouded Magnus’s optics for just a moment, though it quickly dissipated. 

“He wasn’t a turncoat,” he explained, focusing on his datapad. “The Autobot you witnessed, the ‘turncoat’, as you claim, was set to patrol four mega-cycles earlier. We found his empty frame a chord later, directly beneath the camera that recorded this.”

She huffed. So not only was this problem duo deadly, they were bold.

Channel whispered something almost inaudible, something only Puncture heard. She turned, raising an optical ridge. “What was that?”

Channel only shook her head. “You’re sendin’ us to die,” she muttered. “You’re sendin’ us to die.” 

Magnus vented. “I wouldn’t phrase it like that. You’ll be provided with appropriate equipment.”

“Those were sparkeaters,” she spat. “You’re askin’ us to be bait for sparkeaters!”

“There is no confirmation that either are–”

“Yes, they are!” She practically screamed it, slamming a fist on the table. “You’re better than this, Magnus! When did we Autobots go from savin’ to sacrificin’ one another!? You of all bots–"

“I’ll do it,” Puncture interjected. Channel glared at her, looking very much like she wanted to rip her head off. “Sparkeater or not. But you’d better hold up your side of the bargain, Autobot.” 

Magnus hummed and looked to Channel. “Channel?” 

She was shaking with rage, and it took her a moment to speak. “I-I’ll…fine. I’ll do it. For him.”

Magnus vented. “Then we have an agreement.” He stood, handing his datapad over to Puncture, along with a pen. “Please sign.”

“What for?” She took it skeptically.

“The official record. This will be reviewed–”

As Magnus poured into legal jargon about the importance of contracts and reviewers, she tuned him out. A contract was pulled up on the datapad. What was it that Sparkripper had taught her? Always read the full conditions? 

Well, it wasn’t like she had anything else to lose. With only a bit too much difficulty, she scrawled her new name, Puncture, onto the line. Magnus repeated the process with Channel, who looked as ready to attack him as she did Puncture.

“We’ll have you both accommodated for your mission, then,” Magnus said after reviewing the signatures. “Springer, take Puncture to the medical bay for additional repairs. Channel…we’ll see about what can be done regarding your ‘condition’.”

“I’m not leavin’ him,” she snapped. “No matter what you say, no matter what you do–”

“We won’t separate you. You can relax.” 

Channel vented in relief. Puncture felt servos on her shoulder and cast Springer a glare, which he returned. As she stood and was led away, she cast one final look at Channel, who was glaring at the table, lost in thought. 

Just what had she meant when she whispered the name Luster?