Pushing the thought of The Fallen aside for the moment, Nathan took stock of his surroundings.
The room was vast—at least a thousand square meters of cold, polished steel. It wasn't just a hangar; it was a laboratory.
Nearby stood Starscream and a row of Decepticons similar in build to Nathan. Further away, the unfortunate drone that had failed to activate properly lay prone on the floor, with Scalpel crawling over its chassis like a parasite, tapping and probing.
Scalpel...
Nathan recognized the archetype. In the movies, he was a minor character, but here, he was clearly the brains behind this operation.
Scattered around the room were consoles, displays, and glass containment units. Inside some of the tanks, mechanical arms suspended biological specimens—parts of Earth animals, and perhaps even humans. It was a grotesque fusion of biology and mechanics.
Definitely Scalpel's lab. Cybertronians live for millions of years; of course the medics double as mad scientists.
As he scanned the room, Nathan's gaze inevitably fell upon his own reflection in the mirror-polished walls.
It was terrifying.
A towering humanoid machine, forged from dark, jagged metal. His face was a mask of malice, dominated by glowing red optics that burned with demonic intensity. His silhouette was sharp, aggressive, and devoid of any vehicle-mode softness.
No wonder Decepticons are the villains.
Nathan felt a dry amusement. I don't judge a book by its cover, but if I walked down the street like this, the police wouldn't ask for ID. They'd call the National Guard.
He looked nothing like the heroic, brightly colored Autobots. He looked like a nightmare made of steel.
Nine meters tall, at least. Just a head shorter than Starscream.
He towered over humans, but he knew better than to equate size with power.
Cogman was human-sized but could break fingers like twigs. Micronus Prime was a Mini-Con but held the power of a god.
Size is just intimidation. Power is in the Spark—or in my case, the Core.
Still, being nine meters tall had advantages. It was easier to crush tanks.
But looking at his reflection, a darker thought intruded. This planet... Earth... it has a debuff aura.
In the movies, Cybertronians who survived eons of civil war would land on Earth and die within days. Megatron, Optimus—they all died and resurrected like it was a hobby. Earth was a graveyard for his kind.
...
"T-22! Why are you just standing there?!"
The barked command snapped Nathan back to reality.
Starscream was glaring at him, gesturing impatiently.
T-22?
Nathan processed the designation. Right. The boot sequence called me that. I don't even get a name. Just a serial number.
Classic cannon fodder treatment.
Suppressing a sigh, Nathan walked over to the line.
He took his place. To his left were units T-19 through T-21. To his right, T-23 through T-25.
Six other Decepticons. They looked similar—rugged, ugly, mass-produced.
As for T-18?
He glanced at the unmoving hulk on the floor being dissected by Scalpel.
Rest in peace, brother.
The six standing beside him were silent. Perfectly still.
They didn't fidget. They didn't look around. They stared straight ahead, awaiting orders.
They're lobotomized.
Nathan realized the truth instantly. The Information Chips worked perfectly on them. They are exactly what Scalpel promised: loyal, mindless soldiers.
That explains why the drones in the movies always charge into Autobot fire. They aren't brave. They're programmed.
High-ranking Decepticons don't see us as people. We're ammo.
It was a grim epiphany. The Cybertronian Civil War had raged for seven thousand years. Both sides had run out of soldiers long ago. The solution? Mass production.
Build them cheap. Build them fast. Throw them at the enemy until the enemy runs out of bullets.
I'm at the bottom of the food chain, Nathan thought. A 'Constructed Cold' Decepticon. No Spark, no soul, just code and metal.
In the Golden Age of Cybertron, I'd be working a conveyor belt next to Orion Pax.
But here? In the middle of a war?
I'm just a number waiting to be subtracted.
Starscream paced before the line of seven functioning drones (T-22 included), his red eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"Seven warriors. Acceptable."
He didn't know that one of them was faking it.
Nathan stiffened his posture, mimicking the mindless obedience of T-21 beside him. If he finds out I have free will, he'll have Scalpel open my braincase to 'fix' the bug.
For now, I am T-22. The loyal soldier.