A/N: This is an idea I've been playing around with since before the first Bay-verse movie came out. No warnings yet, please read and review.

Mostly G1, may develop movie-verse elements. Transformers belong to Hasbro Takara and all other creators.


It had started one vorn ago, the deafening pounding of bombs with the outside echoing of gunfire. At first there were rumors of invasion from a distant planet slighted long ago during the last Great War. No one realized the true depth of the budding atrocities until nearly a generation's worth of violence had past. That was when the Decepticons, the long time protectors of Cybertron were discovered as the vicious enemy they now faced.

Neutrals were being slaughtered right and left. The Autobots, the policing force of their world, sought to find a means of once again attaining peace. They stood before, protected the non-biased civilian component of Cybertron. Yet it only seemed to anger the Decepticons further and increased their cruelty.

As time wore on the authorities sought to pinpoint the origin of the conflict. At first they believed street gangs had initiated this violence sometime during the long distant reign of Guardian Prime. Then, they claimed that disgruntled employees of the asteroid energon mines were causing the ruckus, taking out their anger of smaller rations and harder work on those who could protect themselves the least. Regardless of its origin, the violence was coming to a head, the energon trade was failing and countless mechanoids were facing starvation. The Elites, Neutrals who dwelt within the highest reaches of the Crystal Towers, still demanded ridiculously high rations without putting forth the work to obtain their fuel, many receiving huge quantities based on where they lived alone.

The energon trade was a biased system. The beautiful and least productive of the elite classes were granted stipends of energon for merely possessing aesthetically pleasing forms or transformation sequences they used to entertain others with. Those who worked the mines however were neither pleasing to the optics nor capable of performing feats of amazement. They worked the mines, former Decepticon soldiers who had outlived their usefulness to the ranks or heavy bots built specifically for the mines, never knowing another life outside their confining tunnels. Those Decepticons who could no longer fight or stand guard to protect Cybertron were sent to the mines, living out their final vorns in servitude to the Neutral elite who controlled the Council.

Finally it was believed that these crushed mechs with nothing to lose were the ones who took out their anger and pure meanness on the peaceful Neutrals who dwelt within the lower cities. Unfortunately, the early reports were wrong. It was not angry employees or thugs fighting over turf – it was war. The Decepticons, seeking to ensure the continuation of the Cybertronian race declared war on the Neutrals who were the guiding force in their world's escalating demise.

The only ones who were willing to do anything were the Volunteer troops of the Autobots. Their commander, Alpha Prime formerly of the Council had placed his troops squarely between the attacking Decepticons and the peaceful Neutrals who worked primarily as the many medics and protoform builders for all factions.

It was merely the beginning of the end, the first of many death throes of the last Golden Age.


The reverberating assault from outside vibrated the overcrowded halls. Within the dark, claustrophobic spaces its occupants crouched huddled together seeking the small comfort of familiarity in these strange and disturbing times of war. Groups who were once friends had now been forced to become units, their alliances strained as they learned of the underhanded dealings of their once beloved council.

The ruling council many had once thought to be filled with noble mechs had now shown its true face, all within had defied their oaths of office allowing greed to steal from them the loyalty of their people. Failing to lead their fellow Cybertronians as friends they had instead all sought to add to their illicitly gained hordes of energon stashed away in private vaults far from the starving masses that needed it greatly.

There had once been peace on all of Cybertron. The Deceptions were the standing Military guarding their planet and the many explorers and traders, while the Autobots were the policing and exploratory force. For ages the peace of the third Golden age allowed a new race to be born stemming from the need for idle mechs to have entertainment. This new race's numbers began to fill the roles of leaders, artisans and general populace. They made new alt forms, created art out of transformation sequences and demanded the creation of younglings that more resembled organic offspring seen on alien worlds.

Now, those same Neutrals were faced with fleeing, hiding or throwing off their mantels of pacifism for either the label of Decepticon or Autobot. Circles of friends were torn apart, shearing loyalties as feelings became hard. Many, however, found that they could not choose a side. Too afraid to fight they hid, secured themselves deep into forgotten pockets beneath the planet's surface. Here, many hid, some praying to live, others waiting to die.

The continuous pounding from the artillery fire left them little to do, except huddle and fear. The prolonged fear made most look back upon their lives, seeing their beliefs and actions in new light. One amongst their huddled number looked back upon his few vorns of life and found himself wanting to change what he had been. The easy life of being a standing guard for Neutral bound energon supply warehouses had given him a simple, lazy life filled with chasing femmes and mocking his elders. He knew how to fight, it was his passion next to his many weapons.

Only, now he found himself undecided. Should he fight with the Decepticons who had been slighted first? Or side with the Autobots who fought to protect the very mechs that had caused this catastrophe? Spark aching with the indecision, the young mech finally decided to let Primus, their God and Creator guide him. With a short prayer to protect him from his own stupidity he stood, a lone figure in the crowded hall, and saw around him the terrified optics of his friends, neighbors and once lovers, all confused and frightened.

They were Neutrals, yes and so was he, but to the last mech they were hard workers. None of them were the elite that kept private hordes. When times got hard they shared what they had, going on half rations so the entire block could stay on-line. The young mech tightened his fists, finally knowing where his spark would lead him. Overhead the pounding stopped, the will of Primus giving him this moment to take his new found fervor and escape.

"I ain't dyin' here fer another mech's war. Ah'm joinin' the Autobots an makin' a run fer it now. Any who want to fight the Decepticon creeps who waged war on us cause o' them slaggers in the council can come with, but I ain't forcin' ya. Primus protect ya'll cause I can't do it alone." The young mech spun on his heel and raced to the back exit, hoping to find a side byway that would allow him access to the surface without leading the Decepticons straight to the others.

"Ironhide, wait!" A mini-bot stood, his grey and purple coloring allowing him to blend into the darkness, "I'm coming with. I know, I'm a medic and I'm supposed to remain neutral to all quarrels, but if you're going out there to get yourself slagged then I'm coming with. You've always been there to watch my back when I've had an unruly patient, I guess now I'll return the favor."

Several of the many crowded forms stood from their crouches close to the floor, following Maincharger to Ironhide. The rest remained huddled close to each other and the ground all seeking to keep from being pulled with the suicidal mob. "Then let's get goin', time's a-wastin' an them 'Con's won't wait fer long ta start up again." The group strode to the back of the long chamber; slipping through a hidden access tunnel and faded, blending into the darkness of the underground until they found a disused freeway leading to the surface.

They folded into their alt modes, each riding low above the ground on pockets of air as they sped along the byway seeking the long unseen surface and the true face of the war. Whispered words were shared between their internal comm-links as they remembered better times and old familiar faces long lost. The journey was long, none recharging much through the resumed assault that seemed to now come from all directions.

According to their chronometers they had already been on the road for four orns when the bombardment finally ceased. It should have allowed them to cycle their vents easier, yet it only made them tense. Unable to hear where the fighting was centered, they now crept in their root forms clinging to the shadowed edges of the byway seeking out the many sheltered places as they moved along continually hoping to not accidentally run into a hiding Decepticon.


"More of the former neutrals are joinin' the Decepticons than not. Superior communications and control of the media are biasing their view on all news feeds. They're makin' the Neutrals out to be at the root of the conflict. The constant demands of the high Elites' for greater quantities of energon are being pinned on the working class Neutrals. Those who only work in fine art and entertainment, or who exist purely by their creator's will alone are becoming the scapegoats for the Council's hoardin'.

"No one's been listenin' to Prime's pleas that all council members should undergo a mandatory inventory check to confirm declared energon stores. The Decepticon commanders want to make others suffer for all that their retired comrades have been put through and the Neutrals were their easiest targets!" The Autobot on comm detail was ranting despite the many alerts and commands being broadcast through his consul.

His duty was to monitor all inbound and outgoing communication s for any hacks by the Decepticons or antagonizing Neutral factions. Although there were several comm workers that rotated shifts, he was one of the most skilled, being able to directly plug into the networks due to his unusual alt-mode.

"Blaster, I know you don't agree with this war, but when you've been around as long as I have you'll see that there is no easy way to end a conflict. What the Decepticons is doin' is wrong, but we can't change that with words alone." The aged Autobot sat heavily next to the younger bot his aged face creased with a kind smile.

"There are battles easily fought, and then there are battles easily won. Most times, you can't have both. You watch those messages, update me and Prime, and keep looking for ways to turn their tactics back on them. Even the slightest advantage could save lives even if it doesn't win the war."

"Okay, Kup." Blaster replied, the self-doubt plaguing him for not being able to do more for his unit. The pair fell silent, each waiting for Prime to arrive on scene to finally lead the military now that the final attempts at negotiation had failed. The Council still hoarded their energon, the Decepticons still targeted the Neutrals. High Consulate Max Mixer had refused to heed the demands of the mine workers who claimed that there was enough for all and then some. He along with the majority of the council members had allegedly hoarded a store of energon equaling half of Cyberton's core capacity. Their perceived greed had forced the Decepticon's hand in this battle, and now with lines drawn there was no turning back.

"Ooh we got an update and it ain't good, the entire council is evacuatin'. We got sixteen ships launching simultaneously in different directions." Blaster reported as he delved deeper into the ongoing feeds Kup stood from his perch, standing to guard the young communications specialist. They needed this youngling to stay on-line. His talents were second to none, and not easily replaceable.

"He's correct the council members are fleeing. Max Mixer was destroyed earlier by something I've never seen before. A grey mech capable of flight without an aerial alt mode ripped the Consulate in half, right through the spark chamber. We're on our own now with the Neutrals as our burden to bear. Most of the higher Elites have fled as well. Cybertron has lost nearly one-third its population today." The speaker stepped fully into the room as she spoke, her massive frame filling the room, forcing Kup to look up at her.

"Solus Prime" Kup saluted, his back to Blaster who remained submerged in his data streams.

"Kup, how is the lad holding up?" Solus asked kindly, her light gold face creased with concern.

"He's holding up well, Prime. The youngling is smart and he's a crack reader. I haven't seen a mech with his skills since I landed on Planet Xeleon in the –"

"Old friend, this is not the time for your war stories. Get Blaster out of that data stream and move out. We've got incoming." Prime interrupted curtly forcing Kup into action.

"Here, Prime. I figured you might want this. Here are the destination coordinates of all the Consul members. In case we actually see the end of this warfare." Blaster spoke up handing a data chit to their commander. Prime looked at the tiny data chit, knowing that the only hope for restoring balance to their world lay in ensuring those who had instigated this atrocity came to justice. With a heavy spark she merged the data chit into the Autobot Matrix of Leadership, in the hopes that some future Prime would be able to correct the misdeeds of this era.

"Move out, we'll regroup outside of Kaon." Solus ordered as she fell into her alt form, the massive form of an energon transport vehicle filling the room until she moved forward enough to allow Kup to fall to his smaller alt form with Blaster's alt form resting comfortably upon the dash. The three traveled swiftly, the two commanders rolling quietly through the late orns finally reaching the rendezvous point just before shift change for the new cycle.

The troops cheered as their commanders approached finally allowing those left in charge to defer to them for guidance after far too long a time of being in control of an army none knew how to run. The cheering drowned out all other noises, including Blaster's final warning before a massive explosion rocked the land. Plumes of flame and shrapnel tore into Solus Prime and Kup sending Blaster flying from his perch to skid painfully across the battlefield shrapnel tearing into him leaving only a small tattered communicator lying forgotten upon the ground.


Maincharger sighed as he walked through the Academy med bay. Everywhere he looked he saw scared recruits and hopeless wrecks of once proud mechs and femmes. The mechs being cared for here were the roughest, meanest mechs on the Autobot force. Some had been nearly dismantled by the constant warfare while others had developed fatal glitches in their processors and had been rendered nearly comatose, only their sparks still functioning along with their frames that constantly twitched in a sick parody of functionality. It was his hope that they could be defragmented, debugged and returned to active duty, but their chances were grim. He had the skills and the best equipment to repair them with. Yet few received the care they actually needed, he just lacked the time and enough skilled assistants to do the smaller tasks that took up all of his time. There were too many patients and students, but not enough full medics to take care of and train them all. He needed more skilled hands in the bay.

"Maincharger! There is an emergency at the entrance!" Delta cried as she ran into the med bay in terror. "We've got energon septicemia, full mech unresponsive with green, bleeding optics." the terror in her voice was great and for good reason. Mechs with such symptoms occurred only when they had become addicted to their fuel source. The fuel lines flooded with the excess fuel and the taint of unprocessed energon turned the optic lenses green while micro vessles in the lens burst with the pressure of too much energon in the lines. If left alone for too long they eventually cut their own lines just to stave off the pain of the tainted energon eating at their lines.

"Then we'd better hurry, grab my kit. The poor spark probably lost his unit in an attack." The aged grey and purple mech raced along behind his younger apprentice. The pair folding mid stride down into their alt modes seeking greater speed to ensure the survival of one more mech.

Maincharger had seen many things in his long existence and little surprised him these days, but the sight of a blackened and tarnished mech that shimmered an iridescent white beneath the soot that covered him from helm to treads with the stripped down build of a slave-bot could not have surprised him more.

"Primus, it's a creator bot" Maincharger swore, ignoring the confused glance from Delta as he knelt down by their newest patient. "These bots were outlawed before the end of the last golden age."

The shimmering bot lay sprawled upon the steps of the Academy its jaw a raw silver of fresh metal. The lower mandible was the wrong make and size for its face making the poor creature look malformed, disturbing the very spark of Maincharger as he knelt over the larger mech. In its left hand it clutched a stack of slim plates bundled together in a miniature magnetic field generator. Each miniature rectangle was slim and delicate, the topmost one bearing a creator's glyph. Main charger looked over the bot in stunned shock. The poor wreck had no alt mode, no armor and no subspace storage. The creature was a glorified protoform and he instantly felt sorry for the thing.

"Delta, hand me the energon drainage pump. We need to get this started before it goes caustic. It is a creator. Designed to build and spark bots custom ordered by those with the credits to afford its maintenance, or the fees of its keeper." Maincharger explained as he set up the drain. "It needs to be watched, and if it becomes functional again, kept from all spare parts and free sparks. The last creator bot was decommissioned well before my creator's creator's time. That one had begun building terminally glitched protoforms. They would crawl off the manufacturing table, find the nearest populated square and begin dismantling themselves before exploding when any approached to stop them. It was so traumatizing there was a rash of mass suicides." Maincharger fell silent, suddenly noticing a strange vibration within the frame beneath his hands. "By Primus! It's talking. No creator bot has ever been given vocal processors. Who would do this?"

The pair leant closer to the frame, each activating vocal scanners within their audio processors straining to detect patterns in the creator bot's vocalizations. As they enhanced and re-enhanced the static filled and garbled words they recognized a litany they knew by rote and stared in awe at the tattered frame beneath their hands.

"A medic is neutral to order or faction, he shall not take sides in conflict or anger. He will aid all and protect those under his care from harm and injury wherever he may hold his practice. He will do no harm. All are his patients, none shall come to harm under his care and never shall a medic take that which Primus has given. –"

"It's repeating the Oath." Delta whispered with trembling hands. "How does a slave know the Oath? Only medics with proper training are taught the full oath." Her sad yellow optics looked over the shimmering white form before them and sighed. "What kind of chance does this thing have?"

"Slim to none. It's got more energon in its lines than any six mechs ought to have."

"Extra capacity – fill six protos without losing functionality." The bot murmured clutching the magnetic field in its hand tighter as it slowly fell off-line, blue optics of such a rare brilliant shade of cobalt shimmering through the green haze just before they were claimed by the darkness of being in recharge.

"We, my friend, have a very lucky mech on our hands." Maincharger sighed as he stood. "We'll need a transport to carry this guy to med bay. I'm not trusting two mini-bots to carry this large a mech." The pair stood guard until one of the larger medics in training came to carry the creator bot to med bay. The pair never speaking of their suspicion of what their newest patient really was, or that they had come to think of it as a he.


"So, what is a creator bot with vocal processors doing this far into the slums? The Academy has not been in a good part of Cybertron since Megatron came on-line." Reccus looked the still recharging mech over in the silence of the med bay. The CMO of the Prime detail was on loan temporarily while the Ancients identified their next Prime as their previous one, Terminus lay in the Memorial awaiting deconstruction.

"I haven't the slightest notion as to what he's doing here, but I do know that if I can get him functional again I just might have the help I've been looking for, I'm getting too old to run this place solo. Besides, he looks strong enough to face down half of the front liners that make my job so difficult. If he can't handle them, then we'll look into more drastic measures!" Maincharger replied firmly as he worked on yet another replacement arm assembly for old Ironhide. The medics looked to where the old guard lay in recharge, fresh repair welds crisscrossing his frame once more.

"You'd think he'd learn by now that he can't keep throwing himself before every Prime he serves and expect to keep them on-line. He's been the personal guard for six now, and all of them have nearly brought him down with them. I'm constantly afraid that the next Prime will take him to Primus along with half our numbers." Reccus sighed and rubbed the back of his helm in resignation.

"I sometimes wonder what the Ancients are thinking when they assign us our Primes. Terminus Prime never fought a day in his life before he was chosen, neither had Contact. If we had just listened to Blaster we might not have lost Solus. I miss that youngling."

The pair fell silent, Maincharger bending once more to work on the assembly. Neither spoke of the dilapidated wreck that remained of Blaster. Both medics had worked over the poor youngling's frame over the many passing vorns, neither had accomplished anything. There was little they had been able to do for him aside from stabilizing the mech in stasis. Neither held any hope for reviving the red mech as it had been so long since he had been damaged and the complex transformation sequence along with his extensive use of subspace condensation to utilize his alt form was beyond even their level of training.

Reccus stood, sliding the assembly away from Maincharger's steady hand. "If you keep tooling with this you'll reconfigure his transformation sequence. Come on, I'll reattach it for you." The elder medic led the way to Ironhide's table. In silence the assembly was reattached leaving the medics with little do aside from walk the rounds of the med ward. Too many lay in deeply fragmented stasis, and there was little they could do for them.

Even as they just paced through the ward the many wounded forced both medics to constantly take care of one patient or another. Energon drips had to be replaced, manic fighters restrained as old bonds were worn through with their constant struggles. It was exhausting knowing they only had a few astroseconds for each patient, and even that was too long a time to devote to any one spark when so many had to be cared for .


It came on-line slowly, diagnostics racing through its system ensuring that all protocols were still in place. Optics scanned the curtained off repair table it rested on noting the many tools placed nearby just in reach for the local medic.

No restraints bound it to the table allowing it to sit up. It noted in passing that its surface plating gleamed once more, allowing a tiny pulse satisfaction to pass through its lines. Its masters had never allowed it to be filthy and though they were now no longer a threat it still was more content with a clean frame. Standing silently it paced the small space its table took up. Beyond the curtain the soft conversation of mechs could be heard.

Such was of no concern to it, however. It bent over the many racks of tools identifying each one, inspecting and noticing how most were worn. A twitch of annoyance moved its shoulder, an unconscious glitch it had developed over its existence. The tray was pulled towards the repair berth, each tool sharpened and repaired. White hands handled each tool with experienced care. Within the joor each tool was brought as close to its original state as possible, some beyond repair were scanned, copied within the massive chest, manufactured within a miniature factory fueled by energon and trace elements alone.

It looked the tools over with a critical optics, cycling vents as it suddenly realized it was tired and lay back down for recharge. Processors stilling it slipped into the depths of recharge, its processors replaying memories best left forgotten, pressing misdeeds to trouble the quiet spark that shuddered with unrecognized grief deep within its chest. Beneath all recent distresses that plagued his resting mind a disturbing voice lost to conscious memory repeated a mantra from long ago.


"Ah'm sure glad you two finally came back, whatever you've got back there was makin' a racket like you've never heard before. Sounded like the Unmaker was crawlin' from the depths o' the pit." Ironhide shuddered and looked back to the curtained off repair berth with a trail of fear glowing behind his optics.

"Ironhide, we found a slave bot, we don't know what it's capable of, but my experience has taught me to never let slaves get a hold of only partially functioning mechs." Reccus looked down at Ironhide calmly, "It's time to get you out of here, we'll deal with the slave."

Ironhide glanced from the unusually quiet medics to the now silent curtain and nodded, standing and limping for the door, his wounds were patched, he would heal back on base, then stand at yet another Prime's side willing to die for yet another who would undoubtedly find himself in over his processing capacity.

The pair watched the guard limp away and sighed. They had hoped this slave would be able to be salvaged, but if he was already attempting something when they were not around then they would be forced to put him in permanent stasis lock. The thought was disheartening, but they both knew their duties went to their patients first, slaves would always have to come second, if at all.

"Let's get this over with." Maincharger shook his head sadly, wishing there was another option open for the slave. Reaching up he pulled back the curtain and stilled, watching the slave recharge, the stack of tiny plates once more held tightly to his chest.

"I don't want to off-line him." Reccus sighed taking in the image of the distraught creator clinging desperately to what was left of its toils.

"Maybe we won't have to." Maincharger replied with a hopeful smile, "He's been keeping himself occupied." They looked over the tools, now the best in their med ward, each shone brightly the old tarnish and dulled blades renewed.

"Let's switch the trays, maybe we can keep him here a little longer." They took the repaired tools with them, swapping out another tray and gathering all of the older tools that had been cast aside as being beyond repair. The little curtained off area the creator rested in was too small for all the tools, sighing in resignation Maincharger took down the screen, filling the room with old tools and left.


It on-lined, knowing immediately that things had changed since it last had on-lined its optics. Sitting up it took in the tools placed around the room on every available surface, and the lone ration of energon sitting in the middle of the room. Unknowingly a small smile twitched the corners of its misshapen face, it would be kept, its new masters allowing it to serve as a maintenance slave. Such a fate was acceptable.

Immediately it began to work, repairing and cleaning tools as it worked, sometimes remanufacturing them entirely. All were replaced with the greatest care and forgotten. It worked thorough every tool in the room, never responding to its occasional visitors though he monitored them closely, silently tensing every time they approached the berth he had rested on and the tiny bundle of plates that rested there, still contained within their magnetic shield.

During its keepers third visit the short one came too close to the little plates reaching to touch the only things the slave creator knew to be precious. It responded without processing its actions, grabbing the nearest repaired scalpel it lunged at the small mech, slamming the scalpel into his hand, pinning the offending appendage to the table as it grabbed the plates and retreated, huddled trembling and nervous against the back wall. Cornered, knowing it would be off-lined for attacking a keeper, the creator knelt, lowering its head for the terminating strike that was sure to come. The termination strike was always through the spark, instant and clean. The slave pressed the small bundle against its chest plate, the strike would pierce all that remained of what had once been, allowing it to finally reunite with those it had failed to protect.

"Well, I guess that's all the proof we need. He can't be a drone if he's willing to die protecting something." Recus stated calmly as he removed the scalpel from the thin plating, noting the precision with which the blade had been placed as not a single line or cable had even been scratched. Only the plating had been damaged and even that was minor.

"So, what are we going to do with you?" Maincharger approached the slave cautiously still trying to get his spark out of his intakes and back in its chamber where it belonged. The slave had borne an expression worthy of the fiercest Decepticon. Faceplates twisted into a mask of fury there had been an actual spark gleaming in his amazingly blue optics.

"I don't think he realizes were talking to him." Reccus blew out a gust of exhaust, "I really hate doing this." He knelt before the slave, scanning the creature and the plates it held so dearly before finally acquiring its designation.

"What are you doing?" Maincharger asked as he welded the torn dermal plating back together with a microwelder.

"Every slave is embedded with an identifying tag, this one's creators were sick though. They gave him the designation 3-1-0." Reccus looked Maincharger over and smirked at the younger mech's blank expression. "I keep forgetting you're too young to remember the old days. Back then the signs for medics all bore the numbers 3-1-0, it referred to the points of a triangle, its center and the termination point of any line."

"I still don't understand." Maincharger replied bewilderedly.

"During the last part of the Golden Age it was thought that the three factions formed a triangle, and that as long as each existed there would be strength for our species. The medics stood at the center of everything the single point between existence and deactivation. They were thought of as the ratchet that kept our species from destroying itself they brought together the three sides of the triangle to the single point they protected as they guarded against the zero of nothingness."

"Oh." Maincharger looked over the slave that still knelt before them unmoving and unflinching as it awaited deactivation.

"Three-one-zero, return to work" Reccus commanded, sounding harsh and uncaring, and hating himself for doing so. The creator stood, face pointed towards the floor as it kept the little plates with it and returned to where it had last been working, claiming and replacing the scalpel as it passed.

"Well, he knows his designation. Now what?" The medics stood side by side and stared at their guest watching with critical intensity as the silent bot moved about its self assigned duties.

"Three-One-Zero, finish your work, then take your energon. I want a full diagnostic run on you next duty cycle." Maincharger finally spoke up.

"Diagnostics functional – minor repairs required for acquired vocal and mandible assemblies. Three-one-zero can perform repairs. Repairs require new plating for neck dermal replacement. Mandible assembly requires recalibration and plating to incorporate into facial structure." The static filled voice that issued from the repair bot was dual toned, higher of a femme and lower of a mech. The two voices were out of synch with each other creating an echo as he spoke.

"Okay, if you want to do the repairs on yourself there will be some consequences." Maincharger rumbled, "First, you will learn to speak like a normal mech. Second, I refuse to call you a number. Find yourself a designation. Third, you will let me look at those plates you're so possessive of. And fourth, I need to know how you came across your vocal and jaw assemblies."

"Slave protocols prevent compliance. Unable to fulfill requests, data classified – cannot be revealed." The bot continued to work, unfazed by the questioning. Maincharger and Reccus looked at one another in stunned surprise.

No one had ever mentioned enforced protocols being placed upon a slave bot before. They were just created and the parameters allowing free will were left out, or at least that was what the rumors all spoke of. "Slave protocols, deactivate them." Reccus requested hoping this would be an easy fix, knowing that he would have to return to his detail soon and that too many patients beyond those double doors required their attention.

"Master command code invalid." The slave replied and stilled in his work, face twisting into a dark scowl. He turned his head looking directly at the medics for the first time. "Three-one-zero requesting medical assistance – actions require extensive repairs." With a swift motion the bot grabbed the nearest lazer scalpel activating it as he thrust it deep within his neck barely grazing his main energon lines and frying circuitry as it passed through the thick cables supporting his neck and into the lower portion of his cranial periphrial processor banks.

"Damnit! He's totaled his protocol drives!" The medics immediately bent to work rushing through emergency repairs striving to keep ahead of a cascade failure. The protocol drives were directly linked to the main processors through micro energon tubules and wiring. If one became too badly damaged the tubules would rupture and drown the other resulting in complete processor failure and force the spark to be harvested for resparking. Neither wanted to lose the knowledge this mech held. The bot had already repaired items beyond their technical grasp and if he was this good with just tools, what could he accomplish with Cybertronians?


Slight pain brought him from recharge, pulling the sluggish processors into functionality. Emotions long cut off filled his lines, excitement, resignation, grief, hope – rage. It felt amazing to feel again, and he was grateful despite the deep seated anger and fury that he could not completely grasp. He on-lined his optics staring at the now familiar ceiling of the med ward, "Heh, guess it worked after all."

"You! How dare you do something so irresponsible?" Maincharger raged at the larger bot still resting on the repair berth with trembling fury. "If we had been even one microsecond slower you would have been in reclamation instead of the med ward!"

"No offense, but you two weren't doing anything and I was fraggin' sick of playing lackey." The mech replied evenly, the curse flowing from his vocal processor smoothly with the tone of one experienced in such language.

"Wh-what?" Maincharger looked the white mech over, ignoring the still disturbing voice. The blank stare from the brilliant optics was gone replaced with a darkly brilliant angry light from his perfectly round optics filled with anguish and anger that caused Maincharger to tremble at its intensity. This had not been a pro-programmed slave bot, this was an enslaved mech. The realization was sickening, and terrifying.

The white mech glared down at the mini-bot, looking the smaller mech over with piercing optics. "You and the other keeper had requests my protocols kept me from answering. I believe that issue has been rectified, I can now process your requests."

"W-we want-ted an alternate designation for you, full repairs and for you to speak like a normal mech." Maincharger stammered nervously, suddenly feeling like a youngling before the strange mech.

"Designation Three-one-zero, previously requested self-repairs. I believe my speech patterns now match requested parameters. Do I get my repairs or do I have to listen to myself echo til the next Golden Age?" The creator scowled evenly at the mini-bot, challenging the other to contradict him.

"Your vocal assembly?" Reccus asked pointedly, staring evenly at the white mech despite the tremor that shuddered through his frame at the other's intense gaze.

"Circle Dancer." The mech scowled, "She killed younglings, I killed her. She didn't need this anymore." He looked to the magnetic shielded stack of plating. "I may have been slaved, but I could still feel. I created each youngling from the primordial code up. These are all that remain of them."

"Fine, Three-one-zero, you can get your repairs." Maincharger replied looking away from the white bot and the still gaping wound in his neck.

"Don't call me that! Fragged megavorns of that designation, slaved to sadistic fraggers. I'm no protector against the Unmaker."

"Then what should we call you?"

The bot looked to the side repair table where the small stack of miniature plates rested. A sad smile pulled at his pirated lip components, twisting his visage into a sick parody of a creator. He reached his arm up, grasping the small bundle, reclaiming that which he held so dear. "Ratchet – that which tightens."