The transition from the absolute vacuum of deep space to the humming, pressurized atmosphere of a galactic cruiser was a sensation Sky Lynx could only perceive as a ghost might feel the wind. He was not truly "online." His primary processors were dark, his motor functions were non-existent, and his higher cognitive functions were trapped in the final, agonizing loop of his shutdown sequence.
Yet, deep within the pulverized remains of his chassis, something flickered. It was not the spark of a king, nor the arrogance of a Predacon. It was the stubborn, impossible resilience of Cybertronian engineering—the persistent "ping" of a spark that had been touched by the Matrix of Leadership.
He was no longer drifting. The eternal cold had been replaced by the artificial thrum of a deck plate. He was being watched.
The Bridge of the Resolute:
On the bridge of the Venator-class Star Destroyer, the air was thick with the sterile scent of ozone and the rhythmic clicking of control panels. Jedi Master Kaelen Voss stood at the panoramic viewing port, his brow furrowed as he stared into the swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace. Behind him, his clone officers moved with the practiced efficiency of a well-oiled machine.
"Captain," Kaelen called out, his voice echoing slightly in the vast command center. "Status on the recovery."
"Captain Rex is overseeing the containment in the primary hold, sir," the first clone trooper replied, his hands dancing across the holoprojection table. "But we're picking up a signal, sir. It's... strange. It's very faint, coming from the center of the debris we brought aboard."
Kaelen turned, his hand resting on the hilt of his lightsaber. "Is the signal the same distress beacon we received from the outer rim of the Expansion Region?"
"Yes, sir," the second clone trooper confirmed, checking the frequency modulations. "We can confirm. It's the same frequency as the distress beacon that pulled us out of the sector. But the wave patterns are unrecognizable. It doesn't match any Separatist or Republic encryption. It's almost... melodic."
Kaelen walked toward the sensor station. In the Force, he felt a strange, metallic coldness—a hollow ringing that reminded him of a bell struck in a vacuum. It wasn't life as he knew it, but it wasn't a mere machine either.
"Sir," the first trooper stated, squinting at the scrolling data. "Scans are picking up unknown traces of elements—heavy metals that aren't on the periodic charts of any charted system. And there are two energy signatures. One in each major fragment of the wreckage. They appear to be at the core of both halves."
The trooper paused, his voice dipping into confusion. "There also seems to be a faint connection between the two for some reason. Like a quantum tether. Even though the object is physically split, the energy cores are still trying to 'talk' to each other."
Kaelen looked at the holographic readout. The "object" was a twisted mass of gold and blue alloys, scorched by a heat that far exceeded the temperature of a turbolaser blast. It looked like a titan that had been put through a trash compactor and then set on fire.
"The war doesn't wait for mysteries, Sergeant," Kaelen said, his voice hardening with the pragmatism of a commander who had seen too many worlds burn. "Our orders from the Council and the Chancellor are as follows: We are to collect the artifact and bring it to the Kuat starship factory. We will strip it, analyze the alloy, and see if it can be integrated into our hull plating. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," the bridge crew responded in a singular, disciplined chorus.
The Cargo Hold - Five Minutes Later:
In the cavernous depths of the cargo bay, the air was filled with the hiss of coolant and the heavy clank of magnetic grapples. A platoon of clones, led by a specialist in engineering armor, walked around the massive debris.
"Commander, the artifact has been successfully loaded into the cargo hold," reported a clone sergeant, snapping a salute as Kaelen entered the bay. "There were no issues getting the object in. Though it appears to be heavily damaged. Sir... I've never seen metal like this. It's 'bleeding' a clear, blue fluid that smells like ozone and ancient oil."
Kaelen reached out a hand, hovering it inches above a jagged piece of blue plating. He felt a sudden, sharp jolt in the Force—a vision of a red-eyed giant and a blast of violet light. He pulled his hand back, his heart racing.
"Alright, great work soldier," Kaelen managed, masking his unease. "Hopefully, this will help our efforts to win this war. If we can replicate this metal, the Separatist cruisers won't stand a chance."
He turned to the navigator standing by the bay's internal comms. "Soldier, plot a course for Coruscant. We're heading home. The Chancellor will want to see this personally."
"Course plotted, sir," the comms echoed.
"Then punch it," Kaelen retorted.
The ship groaned as the hyperdrive engaged, hurtling the Resolute and its mysterious cargo toward the heart of the Republic.
Inside the Dark:
Sky Lynx did not hear the Jedi's command. He did not feel the ship jump. But he felt the intent.
Deep within his primary spark-chamber, the "Human" side of his consciousness—the part that had helped Optimus, the part that had sacrificed everything—began to stir. It was triggered by a word: Strip.
They were going to dismantle him. They saw him as "scrap." They saw the "Magnificent Sky Lynx" as nothing more than raw materials for their petty, organic war.
The indignation was the first thing to wake up. It was a familiar, warm feeling. It was the spark of the Predacon.
I am... not... a tool, he thought. The thought was slow, dragging through layers of corrupted data like a man walking through chest-deep mud.
I am... Sky... Lynx.
He began to reach out. He found the "quantum tether" the clones had mentioned. It was his split-personality processor—the dual nature of his beast and bird forms, trying to re-knit themselves. The energy signatures were his Spark and his Cog, trying to restart the internal reactor.
He felt the ship's computer system. It was primitive. It was a clattering, screeching mess of binary and simple logic gates. To a Cybertronian, especially one with a mind expanded by the Matrix's influence, it was like looking at a child's drawing.
He didn't have the power to move. He didn't have the power to speak. But he had the power to leech.
Quietly, invisibly, the gold-and-blue wreckage began to draw from the Resolute's primary power grid. A fraction of a percent at first. Just enough to warm his circuits. Just enough to begin the self-repair protocols.
He felt the presence of the "Commander"—the one with the glowing stick and the strange, shimmering aura. The man was a "Prime" in his own way, but he lacked the nobility Sky Lynx had seen in Optimus. This man looked at a living being and saw "materials."
You wish to strip me? Sky Lynx's mind growled in the darkness of the hold.
The blue fluid—the Energon—began to circulate again, pumped by a heart that refused to stop. The scorched gold plating began to shimmer with a faint, microscopic vibration as the nanites in his blood began to knit the metal back together.
He was in a new universe. He was surrounded by strangers who wanted to tear him apart. He was a prisoner in a ship of clones.
Sky Lynx had spent eons being arrogant. He had spent his final moments being a hero. Now, as he felt the Republic's power flowing into his broken limbs, he realized he would have to be something else entirely.
He would have to be a survivor.
Let them take me to their "Coruscant," he thought, his internal HUD flickering to life in a dim, ghostly blue. Let them think I am a trophy. I have survived the Dead Universe. I have survived the fury of Megatron. I will survive this "Republic."
In the corner of the cargo hold, a single golden talon twitched.
The "Magnificent Sky Lynx" was coming back. And he was very, very hungry for power.