Warning: Butchering of our beloved Scavengers in the SG 'verse. (1 of 6)

(Krok - The Mighty Green Beast of the Decepticons.)

Life sucked. No, scrap that, it blew exhaust back up the tailpipe.

When Defrag had joined with the Decepticon resistance movement, he'd expected his data filing skills and the wealth of information in his databanks to be more than enough to secure a position in the intelligence department.

They had, just not in the way he wanted.

Soundwave had been apologetic, but a review of Outpost 19-90 had been needed. 19-90 was considered a target of high value thanks to the fuel depot situated on-site. Multiple Autobot assaults had been repelled, but the Communications and Intelligence director was anxious to find any 'surprises' left behind by the marauders.

Hence Defrag being sent to what was considered an active theatre of war. Just grand.

The base was nothing to com home about. Standard all around, with the exception of the impressive ordinance aimed at the sky. The really odd thing was the mechs populating it.

Uniforms were unnecessary within the ranks with the exception of the badge. That didn't stop unitmates from marking themselves with a unit-wide marking when bonds were forged. Often those little add-ons helped a new transfer find the right detachment or, more gruesomely, to help identify the poor sod on the mortuary table.

These mechs though all seemed to have the same paint scheme. Black helms, optic-shorting neon green bodies, and orange leg armour. Defrag felt a little…conspicuous…in his bronze and yellow.

The base commandant was to be giving a speech shortly, and afterwards Defrag could sign in, talk to him about Director Soundwave's concerns, and if his luck held he'd be flying back to Cybertron by the end of the week.

No more immediate danger, his cosy quarters, and most importantly no more neon. He'd been here less than five solar hours and he already was sick of the green.

The commandant still hadn't shown up, and Defrag felt irritation at his tardiness. How this mech had been given command of this unit was-

"GOOD MORNING MY PASSIONATE SUBBORDINATES!"

The frag?

An explosion hit the podium and Defrag threw himself to the ground and clutched his unused service pistol. Oh frag, oh frag, the Autobots were here, he was going to die-

Wait. The unit wasn't doing anything. No cries to take up arms, no gunfire, no anything…

Picking himself off the ground, the datastick focused on the haze of smoke covering the podium. As it faded away, the all too familiar neon green it his optics and then the noise! Everyone else started cheering!

The smoke finally cleared and the commandant was in full view. Short, but with the air of authority. Defrag subconsciously straightened his back. This was a superior officer alright despite the eccentric entrance.

And then the illusion shattered.

"Ah, you are all here on time!" Despite the faceplate, one could feel the grin behind it. "I must commend you all on your punctuality. Truly, justice flows through your fuel lines!"

More cheers.

"Now, to business." The officer gripped the podium tightly. "In light of the seventh assault we repelled, I have decided that we will be implementing a new training regime. We will all run five laps of the base's perimeter, followed by hand-to-hand sparring!"

If anything, the unit cheered more.

"Ah, it warms my spark to have such PASSIONATE subordinates!" He flashed a thumbs-up to the whole unit, a gleam in his orange optic. "Now, let us go and prove the powers of PASSION and JUSTICE!" He leaped off the podium and raced towards the main gate, followed by the entire parade ground.

"KROK-SENSEI! KROK-SENSEI!" They chanted in union as they followed their commander.

When the dust cleared, Datafrag was left alone, his left optic twitching.

He needed to spend a week here.

A week surrounded by this…insanity

If there was any way he was going to keep his sanity, it would involve high-grade. Lots of it.

A week later, Datafrag submitted his report to Director Soundwave. No, there had been no traps or sabotage. Yes, the base was well defended. No Director, I think sending a Y7U Slagmaker would be an excellent idea.

Afterwards, Datafrag returned to work. His colleagues noted nothing was really amiss about him, other than the spark-wrenching screams he let out at the sight of neon green and the twitchy optics whenever the words 'passion', 'justice', or especially 'cool and hip' were uttered in his hearing.