"[Angel!]" Private Negatron's voice rang through the console's speakers—it was laced with panic as he rushed toward the cockpit area. "[No—]" The voice of the short drone, the one that looked like Nori, followed as she cried out in desperation right before she was cut off by the unmistakable sound of an explosion. Then—there was silence. A harsh, unfiltered void where voices had once been. Shockwave remained motionless as he took it all in. His single, unblinking optic was trained on the communication console as the transmission feed began to flicker erratically and the words 'Connection Terminated' flash across the screen. The dropship's vitals, their coordinates—everything—had gone dark.

"...no."

He methodically tapped into the relay, attempting to re-establish the connection, but the system returned nothing but dead air. A calculated probability analysis began running through his processors. The sudden signal loss. The auditory evidence that they were shot down. The possible trajectory of the vessel prior to its abrupt disappearance from his tracking systems. The identification of the attacker—going strictly by the single word screamed by Private Negatron. The conclusion was simple. An Autobot disassembly drone had gotten to them. Their vessel's guidance system had reached catastrophic failure, due to a well placed singular attack. There would be few survivors. The children that hadn't been secured and thus unable to brace for sudden impact would be the first to perish—

"No."

Statistical likelihoods were insufficient, there are still variables in this equation. Too many unknowns. Too many potential anomalies unaccounted for. He would not operate on assumptions. Not with these children. Not with what they could mean. He initiated a secondary scan, rerouting power through auxiliary channels to amplify signal retrieval. The results were inconclusive. Residual energy readings and scattered debris signatures were given but still there was nothing definitive.

A moment passed as Shockwave tilted his head downward ever so slightly, a near-imperceptible shift in his otherwise rigid posture. His single yellow optic dimmed for a fraction of a second, as if processing an unseen equation beyond raw data.

"...Nori and Yeva."

He had spoken those names moments ago. They were names that had provoked a reaction from two of the new recruits. That was worth further investigation. After all, they said they hailed from Kalis. That underground colony was meant to remain dormant for two more millennia. Its citizens—its assets—were to be secured in stasis until the predetermined cycle of reanimation commenced. Every calculation had been accounted for: a controlled awakening, systemic order, the resumption of his Great Work. In such time, Cybertron's ascension would be assured—the Great War would be concluded, and Lord Megatron would usher in the Golden Age.

Yet an anomaly has occurred. A disruption. A variable unaccounted for. There were many potential catalysts that could cause such a result, but if probability favored past experience…

Nori had something to do with it. Possibly just to spite him, somehow.

Yeva had been the ideal test subject and assistant. Her sister, however, was an irritant—she was improvisational, reckless, needlessly defiant. Downright bizarre. Shockwave can recall, with precise clarity, the innumerable instances of her tantrums. The countless times she had snarled at him in that insufferably insubordinate tone, always punctuated by that absurd, juvenile phrase: "Bite me!"

Such ridiculousness.

"Papa, Nori had written over my notes again."

"Look at this cool 'S' I can draw."

"Yes, it is so cool. That's why it took you three tries to get it right."

"Bite me!"

It has been a long, long time since he had seen them. Since he had even thought of them. The… recollection was not unwelcomed and the chance to meet them again sooner than expected could prove to be possibly beneficial. Though now, an anomaly presented itself. Two young drones had entered his ranks—drones bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Nori and Yeva. Not merely in appearance, but in speech and in mannerisms. They had originated from the Colony of Kalis, and at the mention of those names, their optics had brightened—not with mere recognition, but with something deeper. As if tethered to a memory. A familiarity beyond coincidence.

The most probable explanation—the most logical—was the simplest. Daughters. Yeva and Nori had daughters. And now, those daughters were at the mercy of a Disassembly Drone. They were in danger.

Shockwave's fingers hovered over the console, calculations were already unfolding within his systems at the speed of thought. Probability matrices, tactical scenarios, possible trajectories—each assessment led to the same conclusion. That the situation demanded his immediate intervention.

With precise efficiency, he rerouted power to the long-range scanners, locking onto the faintest remnants of the possible wreckage. The damage from the most recent autobot assassination attempt on his life had compromised multiple key systems required for the space bridge to become active. This would delay progress by at least three hours. Time was a resource he usually had in abundance. Not at this moment.

Logic dictated patience as the machinery needed to be repaired and the data required refinement. Leaving Kaon was also a risk. Enemies lurked beyond the city's defenses, waiting for such a moment—Elita-One, Ultra Magnus, Grimlock.

…The Abomination.

Random fragments of memory seared across his mechanical mind forced him to relive what had long since been categorized, stored, and buried beneath layers of logic. When he had fought that unbridled horror. When he had held the drones that called him 'father' for the first and last time.

"Nori. Yeva. Live."

"Get snuck upon!"

By all accounts of logic, he should be dead. But he wasn't. Through circumstances beyond his control, at the time, he had survived at a grim cost. The core of Cybertron was compromise. It became unstable and all organic life was gone in an instant—because of him. This was not hyperbole, nor was it a dramatization of self-pity. It was simple logical assessments of his failings. Failings that had haunted his every waking cycle. Failings that he had spent countless years attempting to rectify. That he promised himself that he will rectify.

For Lord Megatron's Golden Age. For Nori and Yeva. For Cybertron, their home.

Many still believe that Primus, their creator, will one day come to bring their salvation. That he will light their darkest hour and end the Great War. Shockwave found the very notion ridiculous. If such a being had ever existed, he had either long since abandoned them or gone quiet. There was no God coming to save their race. That was why he stepped forward to shoulder the responsibility.

As he turned away from the console, Shockwave's optic became bright with quiet contemplation, as a single undeniable observation lingered at the edge of his thoughts: The probability of the children's survival was low—extremely low. And yet he deemed it nonzero. For he had failed to secure Nori and Yeva with his protection. He had failed to keep them safe. He will not fail their children—

The thought was held in place as a drop of inner-energon landed upon his shoulder with a wet splat. Shockwave did not flinch from it. Instead, his head turned upward, his optic adjusting to the dim lighting of the chamber. Above him, silhouetted against the cold glow of his lab's lighting infrastructure, hung what was left of the Autobot assassination team that had attempted to take his life. He had known they were coming before they had even turned an optic toward Kaon. He had calculated their every move before they had even drawn their weapons. And now, they were decorations.

The chains that held the drones were not crude bindings but a deliberate display of purpose. They were all impaled by them—not just through limbs, but through transformation cogs, spinal struts, and inner-energon connection tubes. The chains were piercing into the very systems that dictated function causing the bodies to twitch involuntarily as sparks of failing neural processors firing off in agony. Some simply hanged, their optics inoperable, as their minds were trapped within the horror of a slow, excruciating shutdown. Others—the unfortunate ones—were still very aware of what was happening.

One Autobot, barely recognizable beneath the mess of torn plating and exposed circuitry, tried to speak. Her voice came out as static-ridden garble, broken by glitching vocal processors. "P—Please…" Shockwave analyzed her attempt at communication with clinical detachment. She was begging, of course, but not for freedom. She knew such a thing would never come. No, she wished for him to extinguish her spark. To end what little remained of her life. To grant her mercy. He considered it. A simple recalibration of his blaster and a single shot through the head would do it. An effortless task. Then he remembered the Space Bridge controls, how her foolish attack on him will now lead to him being delayed in securing Nori and Yeva's children from a threat. The probability of their survival was significantly lowered, just because of these female Autobots.

…No. He will not grant any of them mercy.

Another drop of inner energon fell upon him, this time on his very optic. He made no move to wipe it away, allowing the black substance to trail down his faceplate. It gave the illusion of a tear. A meaningless aesthetic. "Congratulations. Despite failing in your attempt upon my life, you have succeeded in inconveniencing me." His tone remained the same as always—devoid of malice, devoid of satisfaction. Devoid of anything but the quiet melancholy of duty. "You have done more for the Autobot cause in this single, merciless act of destruction than your leader has in the last forty millennia."

The assassin spasmed against her restraints. Her neural core struggled to reboot, she was attempting to process pain that was well beyond her tolerance thresholds. It caused her optics to flicker erratically as her very spark was nearly exposed through punctured, broken armor. "P—Please—pleas—" A strangled whimper escaped her, but it was cut short as the chain embedded in her torso shifted, grinding against the shattered remains of her spark chamber.

She screamed. It was a raw, broken sound—a corrupted, glitched sob of pain. There were more words, more pleas. She was joined by what few could still speak as the dying began to form a chorus—a discordant symphony of suffering that filled the laboratory, their voices began to scrap against cold steel walls and Shockwave found it all so… tiring. "Your pleas for mercy are but static noise." His voice was barely above a whisper as he left the spectacle behind. Each step was measured, methodical, as he approached the doorway—where his Insecticons awaited. Their bright red optics gleamed with anticipation, as hunger thrummed beneath their patience.

Bombshell, ever the first to speak, removed his helmet. Silver-colored fluffy hair fell free and his fwce was revealed to be gentle and eerily soft for the kind of creature he was meant to be. "Hey, Dad. I see you, uh… got back into your old hobby of hanging bots?" His voice was casual, lighthearted even, but there was a slight stiffness to it—like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to joke about this or not.

Behind him were two other drones, their names were Kickback and Shrapnel. Their own helmets came off in synchronized motion, revealing the same silver strands as their 'brother'. Kickback's sleek bob swayed slightly as she tilted her head, peering up at the bodies while narrowing her eyes—at least, until she placed on her glasses and was then able to actually see them. "Vector Sigma…" She whispered with a bit of shock in her voice.

Shrapnel, however, took to allowing a thoughtful hum as she inspected the gruesome display. Her twin high pigtails, tied with black ribbons, bounced as she tipped her head back to take in the full extent of the scene. "Sir," she spoke, her tone slipping into the smooth, artificial pleasantry of corporate professionalism. "While I can certainly appreciate the… bold steps you've taken to reinforce a message of deterrence within your own laboratory, I must raise a minor operational concern. The, ah—" She gestured vaguely toward the twitching, half-dead Autobots, their leaking energon pooling in grotesque patterns along the floor. "Ambience you've curated may present a workplace efficiency issue. The distressing visuals could definitely impact morale, or worse—productivity, productivity. Not to mention, the lingering scent of burnt circuitry and spilled inner energon could attract mini-con vermin, which, as you know, presents a sanitation hazard, hazard." The benign vocal tic of her repeating the final wording of her speech, was something Shockwave had been meaning to fix for centuries. Though again, it would seem he would have to put it off for a little longer.

Kickback sighed while adjusting her glasses. "Shrapnel, I don't think the boss gives a damn about the smell."

"Well, I wasn't talking to you was I,I? I was referring to—"

"Enough." At Shockwave's command, all three Insecticons snapped to formation—Legs pressed together, arms clasped behind their backs. Their discipline was instant, as he had trained them to be. After all, they were his answer to the Autobot's Disassembly Squad—they were the Demons that he forged to fight Angels, with each of them imbued with a copy of a core personality that he had liberated and repurposed long ago. They were his Guardians of Kaon. The first true step in his pursuit of his Great Work, since the loss of Nori and Yeva…

However with their apparent return at the awakening of Kalis, and their children possibly having the same code embedded within themselves, perhaps 'Project Predacon' could be salvaged after all.

"Um, Dad...Can we eat them?" Bombshell's voice was casual, almost polite, as if he were requesting extra rations instead of the consumption of the half-dead. "We are in a real mood for warm, sweet energon."

Shockwave did not even pause his stride as he stepped around the younger drones. "No. Let them be." Bombshell gave a whine, Kickback sighed, and Shrapnel made an exaggerated huff of disappointment, but none of them argued. They had been raised to know better. "You three will accompany me to the Space Bridge control room. Repairs take priority over all else. We are needed in Kalis." The Insecticons' disappointment lasted only for a moment before they fell into a perfect step behind Shockwave, following him while the assassins were left to scream—to plead—for a mercy that would never come.

As horrid as such a thing was, Shockwave did not see this as an act of cruelty—it was simply the most efficient use of his time. The Autobot informate will sneak his way into the lab soon. He will take in the scene exactly as Shockwave left it and twist its meaning into something it was not. He would assume it to be a message—some crud warning directed toward the rest of the Autobots. A challenge or some kind of declaration.

There was the possibility that Elita-1, the so-called Pink Tyrant of Iacon, wasn't even aware of this attack. Nevertheless, she will still believe a response was necessary. That he will make some kind of counter for this insult.

What she never seemed to realize—what none of them ever grasped—was that, to be frank, Shockwave could not care less about her or any of the Autobot's fruitless endeavors to continue this meaningless fight. The Great War had long since become tedious for him.

It was a distraction, one he allowed his followers to waste their time with as much as they deem fit. He had much more important matters to attend to. For he was the Guardian of Cybertron.

He will ensure its future, no matter the cost.