"Scalpel. Are you absolutely certain there are no errors in the Information Chips?"
The sudden question made Nathan's processor stutter.
Again? Seriously?
The previous backhand from Starscream had already rattled his gyroscope. His new frame wasn't even fully calibrated yet; another hit might permanently scramble his cerebral module.
Fortunately, Nathan's paranoia was unfounded. Starscream wasn't looking at him.
From the shadows near the floor, a voice answered.
"Ze-ze~ Relax, Starscream. There won't be any problems."
The speaker scuttled into the light. It was Scalpel, the Chief Medical Officer—a spider-like Mini-Con barely the size of a basketball. He was currently crawling over the inert chassis of another drone, his multiple optical lenses zooming in and out with clinical indifference.
"I designed and coded these chips myself. Do you doubt my technique?"
"Hmph. Valid point," Starscream conceded, his wings twitching.
"Units T-18 through T-25 were constructed using local materials from this planet. The T-Cogs are from old inventory, but they should function within acceptable parameters."
Starscream's suspicion evaporated, replaced by his usual theatrical self-pity.
"Damned wretched planet!" He kicked at a loose piece of scrap.
"Ever since I followed Lord Megatron's signal to this dirtball, I have been alone! Doing everything myself! Like a common laborer!"
He paced, venting his frustration to the empty air.
"But those days are over. With T-18 and the others online, I won't have to sully my hands with..."
In his corner, Nathan let his internal cooling systems cycle down. The rock in his chest—metaphorically speaking—finally settled.
He's exactly like the movies.
Starscream was a volatile cocktail of treachery, arrogance, and insecurity. Paranoid one second, gloating the next.
I survived the mood swing. That's step one.
With the Sword of Damocles no longer hanging over his head, Nathan ran a diagnostic.
The damage from the wall impact was negligible. The nanites in his armor had already buffed out the dent. It was impressive; the ability to self-repair using internal energy was a biological marvel he was still getting used to.
Energy Core...
He placed a metallic hand over his chest plating.
He didn't have a Spark. He had a battery.
He checked his HUD. If his energy was at 100% upon activation, it now read 98%. One percent lost to repair, one percent to basic motor functions.
It makes sense, he mused. The movies only showed the explosions. But behind the scenes, Starscream had to be building an army. You don't conquer a planet without grunts.
...
Starscream was still ranting. Nathan rotated his neck, verifying the servos were fully operational, and cast a covert glance at the Air Commander.
'A gentleman waits ten years for revenge.'
Well, I'm a Decepticon now, so I'd prefer to take revenge immediately. But the math doesn't work.
He was a Middle-Tier Warrior. A Trooper.
Starscream was a Commander-Tier Warrior.
The gap wasn't just skill; it was raw stats.
Thanks to the data chip, Nathan finally understood the precise hierarchy of Cybertronian power. It answered questions he'd debated on forums in his past life.
Why could Optimus Prime and Megatron dominate the battlefield? It wasn't just "leadership." It was horsepower.
The hierarchy was divided into seven distinct tiers:
Junior Warrior (Scout/Drone)Middle Warrior (Trooper)Senior Warrior (Elite)Elite Warrior (Lieutenant)Commander ClassLeader Class (Warlord/Prime)Supreme Class (The Ancients/Primes)
The bottom two tiers—Junior and Middle—were the fodder. Cannon fodder.
To be considered a "real" Cybertronian threat, one had to reach Senior Warrior status.
This ranking applied to combat frames. Industrial drones or mining units didn't even make the list; a Junior Warrior could scrap them by the dozen.
But rank was nuanced.
Take Soundwave's cassette minions—Rumble, Frenzy, Laserbeak. They might physically rank low in raw power, but their utility and status within the Decepticon high command placed them far above a standard Trooper like Nathan.
And then there were the outliers: Combiners.
The Constructicons forming Devastator. Individually, they might be Senior or Elite, but combined? Their power surged to Leader Class, sometimes even rivaling a Prime in raw destructive output.
Starscream was one of the three great Decepticon Commanders.
The other two were Soundwave (Intelligence) and Shockwave (Military Operations/Science).
Above them sat only one mechanism: Megatron (Leader Class).
Opposing them: Optimus Prime (Leader Class).
It was a pyramid scheme of violence.
A Commander fighting an Elite wasn't a duel; it was a beatdown.
A Commander fighting a Middle Warrior like Nathan?
I'd get three moves in. Maximum.
And that's assuming I attack first. If Starscream shoots first, I'm scrap before I can load my weapon.
Three tiers of difference. It's not a fight, it's an execution.
That was why Nathan was standing here quietly, listening to Starscream whine, instead of putting a hole in his back.
As for the Supreme Class...
The data chip was vague, but Nathan knew the lore. This tier belonged to the Thirteen Primes.
Specifically, The Fallen. Megatronus Prime.
In the movies, it took six Primes to imprison him. He was the only Decepticon who outranked Megatron. Even in his weakened state, he was a monster.
Is The Fallen hiding in the Nemesis somewhere in the solar system right now?
A thought crossed Nathan's mind. Should I try to bypass Starscream and pledge loyalty to the big boss?
No. Too risky.
The Fallen is an ancient, hate-filled demigod. I'm a mass-produced knockoff holding a blaster. I walk into his throne room, he probably crushes me just to test his gravity powers.
Starscream is dangerous, but he's predictable. I can manipulate ego. I can't manipulate a god.
Better to stay small for now.