Even after attaining the rank of a Prime-level warrior on equal footing with Megatron, Skygnaw had not changed how he addressed him.
He was different from those high-ranking Decepticons Megatron had personally recruited into the fold.
When he first stood before Megatron, he had been nothing more than an advanced soldier. His current Prime status had been earned by climbing up step by step from the lower ranks.
Changing his tone over minor details now would only invite needless friction.
Of course, had that been the only consideration, Skygnaw would not have bothered playing the dutiful subordinate.
He wasn't about to bow and scrape without a calculated reason.
Everything stemmed from the natural course of events—Megatron did not have long to live.
A persona often seemed like an empty formality, but at crucial junctures, it yielded remarkable results.
Consider Starscream.
During the Great War on Cybertron, even Decepticons who had never laid eyes on him had heard of his glorious record.
As a result, whenever anyone met him, they kept their guard up, terrified of becoming an outlet for his spite.
Skygnaw intended to cultivate a reputation as one fiercely loyal to Megatron and the Decepticon cause. That way, once Megatron fell for good, he could step in and claim undisputed command over the entire faction.
Trading a single deferential title for the whole Decepticon army was well worth the investment.
"Contact has been established," Shockwave reported. "Megatron instructs us not to proceed directly to the planet. We cannot arrive with such open fanfare. We must secure a staging ground for the armada first."
The Decepticons on Cybertron were well aware of Skygnaw's fleet, and with Soundwave by his side, Megatron knew just as well.
Skygnaw nodded in understanding.
A battle fleet was too large a target. Dropping straight onto Earth would disrupt whatever Sentinel Prime and Megatron were orchestrating.
Though the exact specifics of the closed-door pact made on the Moon remained between the two leaders, the overarching scheme was easy enough to deduce.
Judging by how events typically played out, Sentinel Prime was likely already lying dormant aboard his personal flagship, waiting for the right moment.
"Understood. Inform Lord Megatron that I will handle our deployment accordingly."
Skygnaw paused, turning over potential staging grounds in his mind.
Before long, he settled on a familiar location—the fourth world, Mars.
It was familiar territory, and the wreckage of the Fallen's flagship was still out there. A salvage sweep might turn up valuable tech or forgotten resources.
Never leave empty-handed. Skygnaw mused that he was practically turning into a professional scavenger.
Following his orders, the lead cruiser adjusted its vector, steering the fleet toward the red planet.
Before long, a rust-colored world filled the viewport.
"Shockwave, does Lord Megatron require only the two of us on the surface?" Skygnaw asked casually, glancing over the endless dunes of iron oxide.
Shockwave had just mentioned that Megatron wanted only the two of them to head down to Earth.
As a Prime-level combatant, Skygnaw feared no hidden trap, but he still wanted to hear Shockwave's perspective.
"Megatron did not elaborate," Shockwave answered, shaking his head. "He simply ordered that we conceal our approach and avoid alerting the Autobots to our arrival."
"I see..." Skygnaw nodded, letting the matter rest.
A covert insertion was standard procedure.
He would inevitably take part in Sentinel Prime's endgame, even if his exact role was yet to be assigned.
The fleet descended into the familiar caldera of Olympus Mons, and thousands of Decepticons began filing down the ramps.
Mars had no shortage of mineral reserves, far surpassing the hollowed shell of Cybertron. It was more than enough to sustain ten thousand Decepticons along with the native Mindborn auxiliary forces.
Still, Skygnaw felt the pinch of being short on trusted commanders.
Blackarachnia was holding the line in the rear on Planet Kugrage, with Dirge and his squad left behind to assist her.
For a moment, he found himself lacking high-tier officers at his side.
Lower-tier troops were plentiful, but they were of little use for high-level operations.
"Razorclaw."
Skygnaw turned his gaze toward the steady frame following close behind.
Making do with the best on hand, Razorclaw was at least a veteran officer from the aerial corps and capable of handling complex orders.
"Awaiting your command, my Lord," Razorclaw said, reading the room and stepping forward without hesitation.
"You will hold the line here and oversee the fleet until my return."
With the warships nestled inside the crater, the Fallen's wrecked flagship lay nearby amidst ochre gravel fields and solidified lava flows.
"Understood, Lord Skygnaw," Razorclaw replied crisply, having anticipated the assignment.
With both Skygnaw and Shockwave departing for Earth, someone had to maintain order over the staging base.
Razorclaw had proven reliable when Skygnaw went to Planet Chiren, making him the obvious choice.
Skygnaw also assigned the salvage sweep of the Fallen's wreckage to him.
As one of the original Thirteen Primes, the Fallen had undoubtedly kept advanced hardware aboard his vessel, though Skygnaw kept his expectations measured.
Before departing Cybertron, he had searched every accessible sector, nearly turning the ancient ruins inside out, yet had found nothing left behind by the founders.
Earth was vastly different in that regard; at the very least, several Primes had left their physical remains there.
Chicago, Illinois.
Sam parked his faded yellow Camaro, straightened his tie in the rearview mirror, and looked up at the towering glass facade before him.
"You've got this, Sam."
Accuretta Systems. One of the top corporate names in Chicago and among the nation's premier aerospace giants.
Naturally, as an industrial titan, the firm did far more than manufacture, fly, and sell aircraft.
Once any corporation reaches that scale, it inevitably branches out into everything from advanced logistics to global operations.
At three in the afternoon, Sam sat in the waiting room for his interview.
"Mr. Samuel Witwicky? Is Mr. Witwicky here?"
Drifting off into thought, Sam jumped at the call. Muscle memory from three years of college attendance kicked in, and his hand shot up automatically:
"Here!"
"Good afternoon," the assistant in a sharp business suit said, giving him an odd look. "Follow me, please."
"Right... of course." Sam lowered his arm with an awkward grin, grabbed his briefcase, and hurried after her.
"Mr. Whitley," the assistant said, knocking on an executive office door. "He has arrived."
Seated inside was a young executive who looked only a few years older than Sam, though his polished professional demeanor made Sam take a nervous breath.
"Please, have a seat. I'm Bruce Whitley."
Whitley gestured to the chair across from him, picking up a folder with an easy, welcoming smile. "Welcome to Accuretta."
"According to your resume, Samuel Witwicky, South California University. May I call you Sam?"
"Sure, absolutely," Sam said, perching somewhat stiffly on the edge of the seat.
"Excellent, Sam." Whitley picked up an hourglass, flipped it over, and set it on the polished desk. "Ready? You have five minutes."
"Right... I think I'm ready."
The assistant stepped back quietly, pulling the door shut behind her.
Moments later, Sam launched into his pitch:
"...My focus was geopolitics. While I haven't held a formal corporate position, I have a deep interest in how government oversight intersects with emerging technology. In my view..."
"Mr. Whitley, if I may call you that."
"There are really two kinds of people in this world: thinkers and doers. But I consider myself a third type."
"Oh?" Whitley raised an eyebrow, looking intrigued. "And what third type is that?"
"A winner!" Sam declared with absolute conviction. "I'm the guy who finds the right partners, pulls everyone together, and turns the impossible into reality!"
"Hold on," Whitley spread his hands slightly. "Where do the bystanders fit into that equation?"
"Bystanders?"
Sam tugged at his collar, forcing a polite, strained smile. "I'll admit... that's a fair question."
"Well then," Whitley shrugged casually. "Let's pause there, Sam. I have a few specific questions for you."
"Sure, go right ahead."
"Your background check mentions an encounter with federal intelligence. What was that regarding?"
"Aliens," Sam blurted out, worried they thought he had a criminal record. "It was aliens!"
"Who hasn't thought about aliens growing up, right?"
"They were actually very cooperative with me. They needed my help for a classified matter, and together, we ended up saving the world..."
"The President even gave me a medal for it. It's hanging right in our house... well, my girlfriend's place..."
"Honestly, bringing on a decorated employee is always good for morale..."
Whitley jotted notes on his pad in complete silence, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly as he fought back a grin.
"I have to say, Sam, that was quite an unusual pitch."
Sam's voice trailed off, his expression sinking.
Then Whitley delivered the punchline:
"However, we've decided to approve your application and bring you on board. You strike me as remarkably trustworthy."
"Really?"
The news hit so suddenly that Sam nearly jumped out of his chair.
From today on, he wasn't just coasting on his girlfriend's paycheck anymore!
Carly was going to hear all about this!
"Yes, really," Whitley replied, holding back a smirk. He had stretched logic to its absolute limit to make the hire look routine, hoping nobody higher up would question the paperwork later.
He had tried to see what special qualities this personal reference possessed, only to come up entirely empty. It seemed the kid hadn't realized why the door had been opened for him in the first place.
Scritch, scratch.
Whitley signed the bottom of the intake form, clicked his pen, and glanced at the hourglass, where the sand had stopped running long ago.
In the corporate world, rules always depended on who was walking through the door.
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