Author's Notes: What's this? A timely update? Yeah, I'm surprised too. This story has recaptured my imagination, so hopefully I can update more soon. This chapter is entirely a flashback chapter, but it's probably the most important one to the story thus far. This chapter explains, indirectly, what this story is going to be about. Thank you to everyone who has read this story so far, and also thank you to those who read the first story "On The Warpath" :)

Chapter 4

War-Makes

Helex, Cybertron

Many vorns ago…

Warpath returned home from primary training, looking dejected and downtrodden. His treads were dirty and marked up the floor with grease, but the youngling didn't even notice. He was too lost in his own miserable thoughts.

His sire came from the refueling room, low-grade cube in hand, and noticed that his son was in a melancholy mood. Warpath worried that his sire might be angry about the mess on the floor, since he had been warned about this sort of behavior before.

The older mech sat down on the couch, and then patted the seat next to him to invite Warpath to sit down. Warpath blew out hot air, steam wafting from the holes in his mask. He didn't really feel like talking, but he also knew he'd hear about it later if he didn't comply now.

"Something on your processor, boy?" His sire asked, trying to sound casual.

"No," Warpath lied, "Everything is BANG fine."

"Sure, and I just got promoted by Sentinel Prime," His sire said sarcastically, "Come on, boy. You can talk to me. What is it?"

"I…I don't know!" Warpath whined, "I just…primary training is just so ZOOM POWEE! The other younglings are so…CRACK!"

"Calm down, son," His sire spoke softly and rubbed his back, "You know them noises don't tell me much. Just take a breem, gather your thoughts, and then tell me."

"But you wanted to talk now!" Warpath argued, "Say what you BAM mean!"

"I know you're upset boy, but don't you take that tone with me," His sire warned, "I've had a hard orn too, you know. Drill sergeant acts like a fraggin' war is gonna start any joor now. Fragger don't know his aft from a hidey hole."

Warpath laughed, and his sire smiled down at him.

"A hiney hole from a hidey hole!" Warpath joked.

"Heh heh, yeah. You want some of my energon?" His sire offered.

Warpath nodded and took the cube eagerly. Much to his sire's surprise, Warpath gulped the whole thing down in just a few seconds. Warpath even took off his mask so he could lick the energon drops from the outside. Ah, to be young again and have a removable mask. The older mech couldn't help but be a little jealous. Warpath's hunger seemed unusual given the fuel he should have been receiving from the training center. However…

"Hm…I think I know your problem," His sire theorized, "They ain't feedin' you enough, are they?"

Warpath just looked up at him for a moment, trying to process whether or not it was true.

"Well…I get some," Warpath said uncertainly, "Other tanks get more. They said I'm too WHAM loud and short to need more. So, I guess I get enough."

The older mech sighed and put his helm in his hands. He was afraid something like this would happen in primary training, but it wasn't like he could just pull Warpath out of that horrible place. The law required all younglings to receive job training and/or education depending on their future function. Once primary training was complete Warpath would also go to an advanced military academy based on his performance. If he was to have a chance to make it into Polyhex, he couldn't afford to frag off his instructors.

"Yeah, that probably ain't it," His sire assuaged him, "It was probably just one of those rough orns. Everybody has them, and they make us appreciate the good orns we get. Why don't you go outside and find some friends to play with? I'll call you when the broadcast starts playing Master Blasters."

"But I don't have any friends," Warpath pointed out.

"And you ain't gonna make any standin' around here," His sire countered, "Go on, git!"

Warpath didn't feel like playing and trying to make friends, but he also knew his sire needed him out of the house so he could clean. Looking down at the dirt on the floor, Warpath was surprised his sire didn't yell at him about it. He decided that it wasn't worth arguing and went outside, grateful that his sire was at least willing to listen to him.

When Warpath left, his sire went to the window and watched him go. The older mech sighed, feeling useless as he watched his son saunter away.

He pulled an old rag out of his subspace, and got down on his knees to scrub the grease off the floor. To him Warpath was the future of Cybertron. That youngling would grow up to protect his community and keep everyone safe. At least, that was what he often told himself.

The older mech knew better though. Warpath was brought forth from Vector Sigma merely to suffer. When Warpath's sire was younger, he too had been sparked with Turrets Syndrome. His foremech, for sires were not called such back then, paid for him to have speech upgrades so he could be more effective in battle. Now though, how could he ever afford upgrades for Warpath when he barely made enough credits to fuel them both and keep the bills at bay?

He needed to buy more low-grade energon. That had been his last cube, and Warpath drank most of it. He would have to check his accounts, but he thought he could afford a couple more cubes for the deca-orn. He counted on that training center to feed his son, but now he realized even they weren't giving Warpath what he needed to function properly.

In only four more vorns Warpath was due for his final upgrade. At this rate he would only be able to afford a minibot build for the boy. Would he even last long enough for that? Would his pitiful paycheck be enough to keep them both alive for four more vorns?

As the last of the grease was wiped away, the old mech blew out hot air and stood up. He needed to go to the wash racks and clean out his cannon. Even if his job was just marching uselessly for the rest of his life, he still had to have functioning weapons just in case. If nothing else his drill sergeant would inspect him and dock his pay if he wasn't sufficiently prepared.

He hated himself for telling Warpath nothing was wrong at primary training. He knew that was a load of slag. They were depriving him because of his disability and his height. His instructors were failing him, and setting him up to be trapped in poverty for the rest of his life. He couldn't say anything though. Warpath's only chance of getting out of this place was to suck it up and keep his instructors happy.

Polyhex Military Academy. That was Warpath's ticket out of Helex and toward a better life. and his sire had to do whatever it took to get him there…even if it meant hurting Warpath in the process.

Four vorns later

The mask was welded onto Warpath's face; the final touch to make his upgrade complete.

Warpath's sire was so proud of this moment. His son was becoming a fully formed mech, and soon would graduate from his primary training and head to a military academy. It would only be a short while before they found out if he was accepted to Polyhex or not.

Warpath stood up, ready to face his reflection in the mirror. Much to his disappointment however, he still only came up to his sire's hip.

"I'm still SMASH short," Warpath lamented.

"So? You're a stealth model, boy," His sire said encouragingly.

"Stealth? With this voice?" Warpath asked with a cheeky grin.

"Okay…you can fit into low tunnels," His sire said haplessly.

"Fair enough," Warpath said in amusement.

The upgrade center in Helex was a small but accommodating place, and the staff seemed to enjoy their jobs. After Warpath's upgrade was complete he was given a complimentary sticker that advertised the establishment. Since their logo was a pretty holographic star with a tank in the middle Warpath decided to slap it on his chassis. It wouldn't last there, but it made him feel cool in the moment.

"This is a special orn, Warpath," His sire said joyfully, "We should celebrate. I've been saving back a few credits here and there, and well…I wanna buy you your first high grade."

"We can't afford that," Warpath reminded him, "Those credits should go to BAM better things."

"You think there's somethin' better than this?" His sire asked cheerfully, "Warpath, you're an adult now, and that only happens once in a mech's life. I ain't gonna let this occasion go by without celebrating."

Warpath still thought it was wasteful, but he didn't argue further. After all, part of him really did want to try high grade. Besides, they never got to do anything fun for themselves. His sire was always working, and when he wasn't working they had to repair broken appliances around the house, study, and schedule more work. Life was too short, as many mechs said, but it felt long enough for the tank-formers.

Warpath and his sire drove to the civilian sector of Helex to go to a high grade bar called Life Cycle's Blood. It seemed like an intense name for a bar, but Warpath's sire assured him this was the right place. Apparently Life Cycle was the designation of the owner.

When they went inside most of the patrons were either car-formers or convoy models. Everybody looked so clean and shiny compared to the tanks, and the air actually felt more energized just by having so much high grade in proximity to the front room.

Warpath's sire sat down at the bar, and Warpath sheepishly joined him. He felt so intimidated by these fancier mechs and femmes. This wasn't the type of place a war-make could typically afford.

"What can I do for you, sir?" The bartender asked Warpath's sire.

"We'd like a booth for two," His sire requested, "It's a special orn. My boy just got upgraded."

"Congratulations," The bartender smiled warmly, "I remember my first upgrade. It malfunctioned. That was before the modern era when new bodies are fail-safe tested. I envy you younger models."

Warpath wanted to reply, but for reasons he didn't understand he just couldn't find his words. The bartender was being nice, yet for some reason Warpath still felt like he shouldn't talk to this guy. No matter who they were, if the mech wasn't a war-make Warpath always got the feeling they were better than him.

Despite not replying, the bartender didn't seem to take offense. He just calmly directed them to the back of the room so they could sit down. Warpath tried to stay close to his sire so they could be seated quickly, but before they could cross the room Warpath felt something hit his pede.

"AHHH!" A femme screamed as she hit the floor.

Warpath cringed. He had accidentally tripped a purple car-former femme. He held out his servo to help her up, but when she looked up at him she screamed again.

"AH! Get away from me!" The femme shouted frantically, "Don't shoot!"

"I wasn't gonna," Warpath replied defensively.

The femme scurried away, and the other patrons looked at Warpath with suspicion. He wanted to just sink into the floor and go home, but his sire quickly led him by the arm to their table. They would just have to ignore the scrutiny until the other mechs got bored.

"I'm sorry, Sire," Warpath muttered quietly, "I didn't see her."

"I don't know how you missed her," His sire said gruffly, but then cheekily said, "After all, she's as big as a city-former."

Warpath laughed louder than he probably should have in a public place, but his sire had that effect on him. He always knew how to make Warpath not care about what was going on around them.

"Our high grade will probably take a few breems to get here," His sire told him, "In the meantime, I've been savin' this for when we had a moment…"

His sire then pulled a data pad out of his subspace. The screen had a hand scanner in place, meaning only the recipient could read the contents.

"It's from Polyhex Military Academy," His sire said conspiratorially, "Now we can find out together if you made it in. Go on son, open it."

"Uh…can't this wait?" Warpath asked nervously, "I probably CRASH didn't make it in anyway. No sense ruining the orn."

"That won't ruin it, but if you get accepted that'll make things better," His sire replied undeterred.

Warpath took the parcel from the older mech, but he really didn't want to open it. No matter what was in this data pad it would spell bad news for Warpath. The worst thing would be if he wasn't accepted, and the other worst thing would be if he was. Then his career path would be permanent.

Reluctantly, Warpath placed his servo on the screen and watched as the encrypted file was opened. His sire waited with anticipation, and Warpath felt a knot in his spark beginning to form.

"Uh, why don't you read it, Sire?" Warpath requested as he handed him the data pad, "I'm, uh, too excited."

The older mech held the data pad close to his face, and then backed it away so the text would align with his visual receptors.

"It says…we…are…guh-lad to in…infro…infront- no, inform you…"

Warpath waited patiently while his sire struggled to read the letter. His sire had been taking night classes to learn how to read, but after vorns of study his skill was still rudimentary. Warpath knew his sire would be a great reader if he could devote more time to practice, but work made that nearly impossible.

"That…you will be…at…atten…ding…classes…next vorn. con…grate…u…layteeons."

"Congratulations," Warpath interpreted.

"Don't get smart with me, boy! I'm trying!" His sire yelled.

"No, that's the FRAG word!" Warpath explained, "It says congratulations. I'm in."

"You're in?" His sire asked hopefully, "You're goin' to Polyhex?"

"Well, it said I was accepted-" Warpath began.

"FRAG YEAH!" His sire hollered for the whole restaurant to hear, "My boy's goin' places!"

"Yeah, well…"

"You might even be a general someday," His sire fantasized, "Or at least a drill sergeant. They always get dibs on the good rations. Just think, Warpath. You could be a military strategist, or a front-liner, or even a military adviser to the senate. The sky's the fraggin' limit!"

Warpath just sat there, staring down at his lap, not joining in the celebration. His sire soon noticed this and realized something wasn't right.

"Well ain't you excited, boy?" His sire asked, "You made it in! Don't act like your cyberhound just died."

"No, no, it's good news," Warpath said unconvincingly, "It's just…well…I just ZAP thought…"

"Thought what?" His sire asked.

"I just thought…I don't wanna go to military school," Warpath confided, "I've spent most of my SLAM life training for war, but I don't want that life. What if there's an actual ZORG conflict? I don't wanna hurt anyone. People are already afraid of me, and I don't want them to be right. Can't I just get another job? Maybe repair stuff for a living like you sometimes do?"

"That's a side job," His sire grumbled, "Most of my pay comes from runnin' drills and you know it."

"But why does it have to be that way?" Warpath asked desperately, "Why do I have to go to a military academy? Why can't I do something else?"

"Because you're a tank, boy," His sire replied point blank, "What kinda stupid fraggin' question is that? I'm a tank, so my offspring had to be a tank. You're a tank, so you're a war-make. War-makes are for war. Hence the fraggin' name."

"But how is that fair?" Warpath pressed, "Car-formers get a choice. They can be all kinds of things. Why do I have to be a POW soldier just because of a decision I didn't make and I can't control?"

"We don't get control, boy. We are controlled," His sire replied harshly, "Polyhex Academy is the very best you can get out of life, and I ain't gonna let you throw it away just because your spark wants to go soft."

"What about my name?" Warpath suddenly asked.

"Huh?" His sire grunted uncomprehendingly.

"You were forced to make me a WHOOSH tank, but Warpath is a designation you picked out for me!" Warpath shouted, "Why? This ain't just a BAM law thing anymore. You wanted this life for me. Why else would you make it so impossible for me to POP escape my reputation?"

"There is nothing wrong with your name," His sire harrumphed, "You said yourself that there are four other tanks in your class with the same designation as you."

"Exactly!" Warpath exclaimed, "We're all just uniform little cogs in the BLAMMO industrial machine. I'm tired of this caste system ruining my life! I want friends, I want choices, and I just wanna be ZAM normal!"

"You are normal," His sire replied.

"Not to them," Warpath said bitterly, gesturing to the other patrons, "I'm not willing to kill for them, and I shouldn't have to die for them."

"If you don't die for them, then you'll starve to death," His sire pointed out, "Either way it's death. You're young, Warpath. You don't understand how the world works, but I do. I know this school is your ticket outta poverty and toward a better life. I don't care what your little sissy spark is tellin' you right now. I'm your sire, and I say you're going."

Warpath was surprised and hurt that his sire was speaking to him that way. His sire was his best friend, the closest thing in the world he had to a confidant. If his sire was against him in pursuing a new dream, then no one was on his side. Warpath realized then that there was no point. He was going to Polyhex Military Academy, and there wasn't a blasted thing he could do about it.

Two deca-orns later…

Warpath didn't pack anything from his old berth room. He didn't really have that many things to begin with. He was due at the academy in 2 orns, and he was a slow driver, so he didn't have time to waste. Polyhex was so far from Helex that Warpath actually considered taking a shuttle, but he couldn't afford it.

His sire was quiet as he watched Warpath walk toward the door. They had worked past the initial argument in the bar, but there were still tense feelings between them. Warpath felt like he was being forced to live a life he didn't want, and his sire felt that his son hated him now.

"I got you a cube of energon for the road," His sire said quietly, "It's low grade. That's the best I could do."

"Don't give me that," Warpath protested, "I know for a fact that this cube is CLANG your last one until you get paid again. I ain't taking your last cube."

"Polyhex is on the other side of the fraggin' continent, boy," His sire countered, "You'll take this energon and you'll choke it down even if it tastes like rusted swill."

"Thanks, Sire," Warpath smiled, understanding the concern behind his sire's gruff words, "I wish you could SLAG come with me."

"You won't want me there," His sire shook his helm, "You'll make new friends, and you know I'm too old to be cool."

"I hope you're right," Warpath said, "About the friend part, I mean."

His sire chuckled in a low tone, and Warpath managed a smile before he left. As Warpath left for his new life, his sire watched from the window as he went. He didn't know when or even if he would see Warpath again. He just hoped that everything he did over the vorns was worth it. He just hoped Warpath would really get the better life they both worked so hard for.

As the older mech sat down on his couch he turned on the broadcast. On the news they announced budget cuts from military spending in Technaar since it was a low-risk city-state. The old mech sighed. Budget cuts, reduced hours, fewer patrols…it all meant one thing to mechs like him. Less money, and therefore less energon to feed themselves.

Was Warpath right? Was the problem a lack of choice for lower-caste mechs? Was everything they were doing a waste? The Prime and his senate had so much power. Pit, they could declare any caste useless and have them executed and smelted down on a whim. Everybody knew this, and that was what kept everyone in line. Warpath could be outmoded just like everyone else, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

He also thought about energon. The old mech wasn't that smart, but he knew the value of a cube of energon. He always had barely enough. He didn't starve, but he never had a surplus either. They gave him just enough to have something to take away if he got out of line. Would Warpath spend his entire life trying to get more energon the way he did? After everything they went through it just didn't feel fair.

As he sat there, for once completely alone with his thoughts, he heard a thump on his door. It kind of sounded like knocking. Probably those pesky neighborhood sparklings playing a prank. Nonetheless, the older mech didn't want to be alone with his thoughts, so he shambled his way to the door just for a moment's distraction.

He opened the door, and sure enough, there was no one there. Just the typical uniform bunker-style houses that lined the street.

He was about to go back inside when he looked down and saw a data pad. It had no encryption, meaning anyone could read it. For some reason the purple insignia caught the old tank's attention, so he decided to try to read it.

"You…are…being…dee…cyv…civ…seeved. You are being deceived…"