Nathan had barely spent a few cycles evaluating the two high-tier weapon modules before he returned them to Scalpel. At the surgeon's insistence, he had transitioned from a soldier to a laboratory laborer, assisting in the delicate assembly of his own tactical asset. Since the result would be a loyal "pet" tailored to his unique frequency, Nathan felt no resentment—only a cold, driving focus.
During the forge-process, Nathan laid out his requirements: high-frequency stealth, independent data-siphon capabilities, and a singular, lethal melee focus. Scalpel grunted, his many limbs blurred as he integrated some requests and discarded others as "structurally impossible" for a mini-con frame.
Washington D.C. The Pentagon.
The massive five-sided bastion of American military power was a hive of frantic activity. Within its reinforced walls, a space designed for thirty thousand personnel was reaching its cognitive limit.
Inside a secured briefing hall, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and nervous sweat. The front rows were occupied by high-ranking brass, their murmurs a low-frequency hum of shared intelligence. Behind them sat the "think tank"—dozens of young, pale-faced experts plucked from the country's top universities and intelligence agencies.
The side door hissed open, and John Keller, the Secretary of Defense, stepped into the room.
"Good evening, Mr. Secretary."
"At ease, Sergeant," Keller replied, his eyes sweeping the assembly. He paused, his brow furrowing. "They're children. Most of them look like they haven't graduated yet."
"Sir," an aide whispered, "these are the finest SIGINT experts in the NSA. The agency has been recruiting directly from high-level hacking forums and competitive programming circles for years. They may be young, but they are the only ones capable of mapping a signal this dense."
Keller nodded, though his skepticism remained visible. As he moved toward the podium, several of the young hackers nudged each other.
"Guys! Look! That's Keller. The actual SecDef," a slightly overweight man with thick glasses whispered, his eyes locked on the silver-haired official.
"I can't believe we're actually here," his companion murmured, adjusting his ill-fitting suit. "I should have worn the tie my mother bought me. This flannel is definitely not Pentagon-spec."
Minutes later, Keller signaled for silence.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the moderator announced. "Secretary of Defense, John Keller."
The room rose in a synchronized display of institutional respect. Keller stepped to the lectern, his expression grim.
"Sit. I am John Keller. You have been summoned here because our national security has suffered a catastrophic breach. Yesterday, at 19:00 hours local time, SOCCENT Forward Operations Base in Qatar was attacked."
The room erupted into a cacophony of hushed gasps and frantic whispers. The total destruction of a major overseas base was an unthinkable variable in the post-Cold War era.
"Silence!" Keller commanded. The room went cold. "Current intelligence suggests zero survivors. The objective of the attack was a brute-force intrusion into our classified military network. We don't know what they were searching for, but we know the siphon was interrupted. Logic suggests they will strike again."
Keller turned toward a massive screen, which flickered to life, showing a jagged frequency wave. "No state or terrorist organization has claimed responsibility. Our only lead is this acoustic signature."
A sound filled the room—a series of grinding, metallic screeches and high-pitched digital chirps. It was a sound that made the hair on the analysts' necks stand up. It was the "demonic whisper" of a Decepticon data-burst.
"This is the signal that bypassed our firewalls," Keller announced. "The NSA is working around the clock, but I need your specialized cognitive patterns to identify the source. The clock is ticking. You've been assigned your sub-groups. Get to work. And may God help us all."
Nevada. Scalpel's Lab.
In the sterile dark of the Decepticon lab, a different kind of birth was taking place.
Because Scalpel's facility was littered with the salvageable remains of Starscream's failed clones, the materials were plentiful. With Nathan's increased High-Tier strength assisting in the heavy lifting, the frame of the new unit was finalized in under two hours.
It was a sleek, four-legged predator—a Steel Ravage modeled after the primal mechanical panthers of Cybertron's wilderness. Nathan had rejected a vehicle alt-mode for the pet; a mini-con wasn't designed for transport. He wanted a biological-analogue that could scale walls, navigate ventilation shafts, and tear out a human's throat before a sensor could trip.
The panther was forged from a base of Cybertronian Steel, its back-mounted harness housing a localized pulse-emitter. While it wasn't as powerful as Blackout's Scorponok, it was a high-speed infiltrator capable of operating in a "Low-Tier" combat bracket.
"Success," Scalpel hissed, his welding torch retracting. "The chassis is structurally sound. Now, only the logic remains."
Nathan looked down at the silent, metallic beast. "Finally."
The panther was ready for its Spark-surrogate. Scalpel moved to his desk, his forelimbs moving with such speed they became a blur as he coded the information chip. He was applying the same restrictive logic to the pet that had once been used on Nathan.
Loyalty is not a choice; it is a hardwired directive, Nathan thought, watching the process. He had become the very thing he once feared, ensuring his "pet" was bound to his unique frequency.
"Done," Scalpel rasped, holding up a small, glowing chip. "Nathan, bring me the frame."
"Lord Skygnaw," Nathan corrected with a subtle rumble, testing the weight of his new title as he lifted the heavy panther chassis onto the table. "You finished the logic-path surprisingly fast, Doctor."
"I have refined a new recursive-coding method," Scalpel boasted. "My efficiency is beginning to approach the levels of the high-tier scientists back in Kaon."
"You'll be rivaling Shockwave soon," Nathan noted, a hint of genuine respect in his voice.
Scalpel let out a dry, metallic rasp of a laugh. "Shockwave... a cold-hearted calculator. He lacks the 'surgical touch.' Now, be silent. I am initializing the matrix."
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