"We've arrived, T-22."
T-19 came to a halt at the end of the extraction sector, standing before a reinforced heavy-blast door. He entered a complex alphanumeric sequence into the terminal with mechanical precision.
HISSS.
The doors parted, and Nathan stepped inside. He was immediately met by a jarring sight. The room was filled with hundreds of translucent, pulsating sacs—protoform hatcheries—suspended from tiered industrial racks.
Through the thin, oily membranes, Nathan could see dark, jagged shapes shifting within. They were tiny, underdeveloped Decepticons, barely larger than a standard seeker's head, their limbs twitching in a soup of nutrient-dense Energon.
The other five units from the T-series batch—T-20 through T-25—were already there. They moved between the racks with clinical detachment, injecting fluids into the membranes. They spared Nathan only a brief, flickering glance. To them, T-22 was simply the "lucky" unit who had been detained for technical calibration in the lab.
"This is the Incubation Vault," T-19 explained, gesturing to the rows of swaying sacs. "The most critical sector in the fortress. Lord Starscream has designated us as the primary handlers. These units require consistent feeding cycles before they can undergo full structural hardening."
Protoforms. Hatcheries. Nathan stared at the developing monsters. He recognized this process. It was exactly how The Fallen had mass-produced his army on the derelict starship in the movies. The sight of these viscous, twitching sacs was a grim reminder that the Decepticons didn't just build machines; they grew them.
"These units were created by injecting our genetic templates into salvaged protoforms," T-19 added, his vocalizer buzzing with a trace of pride.
Nathan noticed T-19 used the word "our." Since Nathan had been stuck in the lab, he had effectively dodged the "donation" process. He felt a wave of relief. The thought of dozens of miniature "Nathans" crawling out of those sacs was a psychological horror he wasn't ready to face. He preferred the idea that every leaf on a tree was unique; he didn't need a forest of clones.
"Use this for the feeding cycle. If the intake drops below threshold, the protoforms suffer catastrophic structural decay," T-19 said, handing Nathan a blue-tinted energy injector.
Great, Nathan thought, taking the tool. I went from being a lab rat to a glorified nursery attendant.
He knew the cinematic reality was a lie; war wasn't all explosions and heroic duels. For a Mid-tier grunt, the daily routine was a grind of logistics, maintenance, and running errands for the high-ranking officers. If you were called to the front lines, it usually meant you were being used as a distraction.
Beyond the metal walls of the bunker, deep within the jagged ravines of the Great Basin Desert, a section of the canyon floor trembled. A disguised rock face slid back, revealing the glowing mouth of the fortress.
Starscream stepped out into the scorching Nevada sun, his optics narrowing against the glare.
"The T-series units will handle the hatchery," he rumbled to himself, his thrusters pre-heating with a high-pitched whine. "Once the clones have hardened, I will have the numbers to secure the dam. Until then... I have a Matrix to find."
With a thunderous boom that echoed off the canyon walls, the Air Commander transformed and streaked toward the horizon, leaving a trail of ionized air behind.
Two days later, inside the vault.
SPLAT.
Nathan watched as one of the sacs on his assigned rack ruptured. The oily membrane tore open, and an underdeveloped, twitching mess of alloy and wires spilled onto the floor. It struggled for a moment, its optics flickering a dim, dying pink, before going silent.
Another failure, Nathan noted, his sensors recording the expiration.
He had spent forty-eight hours observing the structural failures of the batch. He wondered why their own designations started at T-18. It was becoming clear: T-1 through T-17 had likely ended up as puddles on this very floor. Their successful activation was a matter of statistical anomaly, not a guarantee.
He stole a glance at the other six drones. He was still looking for the "sabotaged" unit Scalpel had mentioned—the one with the independent will. But they were all perfect statues of obedience, feeding the sacs with rhythmic, mindless efficiency.
If there's another 'awake' unit in here, they're better at hiding it than I am, Nathan mused.
He turned his attention back to a failing protoform. The sac was leaking, the internal pressure dropping. The creature inside was thrashing, but its movements were erratic, causing further damage to its own developing struts.
According to T-19, Starscream had explained that the failures were due to "Genetic Conflict." The protoforms were second-hand—salvaged from an Autobot transport eons ago. Forcing Decepticon templates into Autobot-coded hardware created a systematic rejection.
Nathan picked up the dead protoform, his movements practiced and cold. He was starting to learn the "Decepticon way." Life was cheap, resources were everything, and the only thing that mattered was reaching the point where he no longer had to take orders from a Seeker or a Doctor.
Keep growing, Nathan thought, looking at the surviving hatcheries. Grow fast. I need the chaos of a full army if I'm going to make my move on Hoover Dam.