Chapter Text
To the horror of several Autobots, Ratchet eventually authorized Starscream to consume live prey.
There were restrictions.
There were always restrictions.
Starscream could not chase anything over long distances. He could not leap from a dangerous height, twist violently in flight, or fight an opponent capable of striking his abdomen. He could perform the final kill only if the prey had already been restrained, examined, and weakened enough that finishing it required almost no physical exertion.
Ratchet repeated that last part until even Grimlock understood.
The authorization came only after nearly two hours of medical examination.
Starscream spent those two hours in Microraptor form upon the largest berth in the medbay, lying on his back with his four wings spread across padded supports. He hated every moment of it.
Ratchet passed scanners over his abdomen from several angles. Perceptor calibrated the imaging equipment three times. Wheeljack was expelled from the room after asking whether the eggs would appear as “little glowing dots” and attempting to adjust the magnification himself.
Grimlock remained beside the berth.
He did not move.
His red optics followed every instrument that approached Starscream’s body.
When Ratchet applied conductive gel to the softer feathering beneath Starscream’s abdomen, Grimlock growled so deeply that the scanner display rippled.
“Stop that,” Ratchet said.
“Cold.”
“The gel is supposed to be cold.”
“Starscream dislikes.”
Starscream’s claws tightened around the edge of the berth.
“I dislike all of this.”
Ratchet pressed the scanner gently against the forming pouch.
The imaging screen brightened.
At first, the display showed only shifting internal plates, dense energy channels, and the mineral-rich tissue accumulating beneath the lower abdominal armor.
Then the image sharpened.
Several oval shadows appeared.
Small.
Pale.
Not yet fully shelled.
They rested close together inside the warm developing chamber, their outlines partially obscured by overlapping tissue and Starscream’s unusual transformation structures.
Ratchet stopped breathing.
Perceptor leaned toward the monitor.
Grimlock lowered his head.
Starscream twisted, attempting to see.
“What is it?”
“Do not move,” Ratchet whispered.
“That is not an answer.”
The physician adjusted the imaging field.
One oval shape became clear.
Then part of another.
A third shadow might have been present behind them, but Ratchet could not distinguish whether it was a separate structure or an overlap caused by Starscream’s compact frame.
His hands began to shake.
“They’re there,” he said.
Starscream froze.
The words seemed to pass through him without finding a place to settle.
Grimlock’s red optics widened.
The Tyrannosaurus released a tiny sound.
It was absurdly soft for a creature his size.
A wondering, breathless rumble.
Starscream looked at him.
His red optics shone.
“Eggs?”
Ratchet swallowed.
“Developing structures consistent with eggs.”
“How many?”
“I cannot confirm the exact number yet.”
Grimlock’s tail struck the floor.
Boom.
Every medical tray jumped.
Ratchet spun.
“Do not do that in my medbay!”
Grimlock’s mouth opened in the broadest smile Ratchet had ever seen.
“Eggs.”
“Possible eggs,” Ratchet corrected automatically.
“Eggs.”
Starscream chirped.
Grimlock chirped back.
Then all restraint ended.
The Tyrannosaurus lowered his enormous snout over the berth and began rubbing it carefully against Starscream’s face, throat, and wings. Starscream answered with excited trills, pressing both foreclaws against Grimlock’s nose.
The imaging probe was nearly knocked from Ratchet’s hand.
“Stop celebrating on top of the equipment!”
Neither listened.
Perceptor quietly saved the scan.
Ratchet spent the next hour completing the examination while Grimlock hovered close enough to fog the medical monitor with every breath.
The final findings remained cautious.
Starscream’s pouch was developing normally as far as Ratchet could determine. The white energon had given him excellent energy reserves. His internal temperature remained elevated because the forming chamber required constant warmth.
The oval structures were stable.
Fragile, but stable.
Ratchet could not establish the clutch size.
Not yet.
There might be two.
Possibly three.
Perhaps more concealed behind the denser plates.
He refused to guess.
Starscream, despite complaining throughout the entire examination, left the medbay walking with his head high and his tail lifted proudly behind him.
Grimlock walked so close around him that Starscream was almost hidden beneath his chest.
---
The rest of the Dinobots learned before Ratchet could decide how to tell them.
Grimlock told them.
He entered the second Dinobot hangar, threw his head back, and released a roar powerful enough to activate three structural alarms.
Sludge stood so quickly that his nest collapsed.
Swoop dropped from his overhead platform.
Snarl’s tail struck a storage rack.
Slug and Slag charged toward Grimlock from opposite directions and collided with each other halfway across the floor.
“Eggs!” Grimlock announced.
The pack erupted.
Swoop circled the hangar ceiling, shrieking with delight.
Sludge gathered Starscream into both hands and lifted him until the Microraptor threatened to bite his fingers.
Snarl immediately began rearranging the heating lamps.
Slug and Slag argued over which of them would guard the clutch first.
Starscream stood in the center of the chaos, feathers raised, red optics bright, pretending to be offended while answering every joyful pack call with one of his own.
The Ark heard them celebrating for most of the cycle.
That night, Grimlock did not sleep.
He remained curled around Starscream in the rebuilt nest, red optics open, listening to every sound in the hangar.
His hunting instincts sharpened.
By morning, he was waiting outside Ratchet’s medbay.
---
Bulkhead and Wheeljack began construction before the medical scan was finished.
Ratchet’s temporary hunting rules became an official command document after Prowl added thirty-two security clauses, Ultra Magnus inserted fourteen operational restrictions, and Optimus added one entire section concerning surrendered enemies and unnecessary suffering.
The final feeding area occupied the farthest corner of Grimlock and Starscream’s hangar.
It took almost a week to complete.
The first structure was the tunnel.
It began outside the Ark, beyond the ordinary entrances, behind a section of reinforced stone that appeared to be part of the natural terrain. Only a command code and a manual locking mechanism could open it.
The passage was narrow.
Not narrow enough to restrict a Cybertronian-sized captive, but sufficiently tight that the prey could not turn around easily or gather speed.
There was only one path.
No side doors.
No maintenance openings large enough to enter.
No branching corridors.
No concealed route into the Ark.
Once prey crossed the outer threshold, a reinforced gate closed behind it.
The floor angled gradually downward, guiding the captive toward the feeding chamber. Smooth walls prevented climbing. Heavy plates covered every cable and seam.
Wheeljack installed directional lights along the floor.
The first activated behind the prey.
Then the next.
Then the next.
The design used movement, light, and closing partitions to force the captive forward without requiring Autobots to enter the tunnel.
Prowl inspected it personally.
“What prevents the prey from refusing to move?”
Wheeljack pressed a control.
A heavy partition slid forward through the section behind them.
Slowly.
Relentlessly.
Prowl watched it approach.
“It cannot crush?”
“It stops if it detects resistance.”
“And if the captive attempts to damage it?”
“The outer layer is the same alloy Grimlock failed to chew last month.”
From behind them came Grimlock’s offended growl.
Wheeljack glanced back.
“Failed to chew quickly.”
The growl continued.
Prowl approved the design.
At the tunnel’s end stood the feeding chamber.
Bulkhead called it an enclosure.
Wheeljack called it an automated nutritional containment system.
The recruits called it the killing dome.
Ratchet forbade that name in official reports.
The chamber rested inside the hangar’s far corner, separated from the nest by several layers of soundproofed wall and more than enough distance to prevent blood or debris from reaching the blankets.
The floor consisted of dark mineral stone.
Not fabric.
Not painted metal.
Stone could be scrubbed, sterilized, and replaced if necessary. Deep channels ran beneath narrow grates around the edges, leading to sealed waste tanks and energon filters.
The transparent dome rose from a circular track in the floor.
Its panels were thick enough to withstand a Cyberwolf striking at full speed. Clear alloy curved over the chamber, leaving no corners in which frightened prey could hide.
When active, the dome sealed completely.
The captive could see the hangar beyond it.
The nest.
The heat lamps.
The enormous shadow of Grimlock.
But it could not escape.
One entrance connected to the tunnel.
The other was scarcely larger than Starscream.
A small oval opening rested close to the floor on the opposite side of the dome. It was shaped precisely for a Microraptor body, with enough space for all four wings to fold through but too little for an ordinary Cybertronian to follow.
The hatch opened only after Ratchet confirmed medical approval.
The feeding chamber’s sensors monitored movement, spark output, energon pressure, and structural activity.
Once the prey’s spark stopped and every movement reading ceased, a green signal appeared.
Only then did the transparent walls descend into the floor.
That allowed Grimlock to enter and consume whatever Starscream left.
After both Dinobots exited, the walls rose again.
Heavy oval cleaning drones emerged from sealed compartments beneath the floor.
Wheeljack had designed them specifically for the task.
They were low, armored machines with rounded bodies, magnetic brushes, scraping limbs, disinfectant sprayers, and hoses capable of draining spilled energon from every channel.
Unlike the previous sanitation drones, these possessed no reverse function while inside the chamber.
Prowl had insisted.
Ratchet had added medical sterilizers.
Bulkhead had added impact protection.
Wheeljack had added small warning horns because he claimed they looked “too serious.”
Ratchet removed the horns.
When the feeding area was complete, the hangar walls had become almost entirely soundproof.
The final test involved Grimlock roaring inside.
Outside the hangar, the Autobots heard only a faint vibration.
Bulkhead looked proud.
The recruits looked relieved.
Grimlock looked impatient.
He was officially released to hunt the following morning.
Everyone expected him to return with a Cyberwolf.
Perhaps a Shockmonkey.
Something large enough to satisfy his instincts, but common enough that Ratchet could examine it without beginning a diplomatic crisis.
Grimlock brought back a Vehicon.
Alive.
---
The outer warning light activated near the end of the cycle.
Prowl reached the feeding-tunnel control station first.
A camera showed Grimlock standing outside the concealed entrance in Tyrannosaurus form.
His jaws were closed around the torso of a struggling Vehicon.
She was alive.
One leg dragged uselessly against the ground. Her rifle was gone. Both arms remained functional, though one had been bent behind her back and locked beneath Grimlock’s tongue whenever she attempted to strike him.
Her purple optics were wide with terror.
Grimlock looked directly into the camera.
“Food.”
Prowl stared at the screen.
Ratchet arrived behind him.
Then Optimus.
Then Ultra Magnus, Arcee, Bumblebee, and Wheeljack.
No recruits were permitted near the control station, though several had already gathered at the far end of the corridor.
Ratchet looked at Grimlock.
Then at the Vehicon.
Then at the hunting rules displayed beside the screen.
“One captive,” he said.
Prowl nodded.
“Standard Vehicon frame.”
“No visible officer markings.”
“Correct.”
“Did she surrender?”
Prowl activated the exterior microphone.
“Grimlock. Did the Vehicon surrender?”
The Tyrannosaurus’s red optics narrowed.
“Shot Grimlock.”
The Vehicon struck the side of his jaw with one fist.
“Put me down, you oversized scrap-eater!”
Grimlock tightened his grip slightly.
The Vehicon stopped struggling long enough to groan.
Prowl studied her behavior.
“Still actively resisting.”
Optimus’s expression remained troubled.
“This is an enemy soldier, not an animal.”
Ratchet looked toward him.
“I know.”
The Vehicon shouted at the camera.
“Prime! Order this beast to release me!”
Optimus’s hands tightened behind his back.
For one moment, no one spoke.
The moral weight of the situation settled over the control room.
They had written rules.
Built walls.
Created drains.
But none of those things made the captive less aware of what waited at the end of the tunnel.
Prowl’s voice became quiet.
“She did not surrender before capture. She continues to identify as an active combatant.”
“That does not answer whether this is right,” Optimus said.
“No,” Prowl agreed. “It answers whether it violates the terms we established.”
Ratchet closed his optics.
He had imagined applying the protocol to mechanimals.
Not to a speaking Cybertronian.
Yet Grimlock’s instincts had selected a Decepticon exactly as Perceptor predicted.
The physician looked toward the camera.
The Vehicon continued fighting.
Grimlock continued holding her with maddening patience.
Starscream waited inside the hangar.
Possibly carrying eggs.
Hungry.
His body demanding fresh minerals and energon.
Ratchet’s hand moved toward the controls.
“We inspect her first.”
Optimus looked at him.
Ratchet did not meet his gaze.
“If we reject the first hunt without a medical reason, Grimlock will hunt beyond our supervision next time.”
Silence.
Then Optimus nodded once.
“Proceed under the established rules.”
Ratchet activated the outer gate.
Grimlock lowered the Vehicon onto the tunnel floor.
The instant his jaws opened, she ran toward the exterior.
The gate slammed shut behind her.
She struck it with both hands.
“No!”
The forward lights activated.
One by one.
A line of pale illumination led deeper into the tunnel.
The Vehicon turned.
She saw the narrow passage.
The smooth walls.
The second partition closing slowly behind her.
Her vents began cycling rapidly.
“No. No, no—”
She raised both fists and fired concealed wrist blasters into the nearest wall.
The shots left shallow black marks.
Nothing more.
The partition continued advancing.
She moved forward.
Not willingly.
Step by step.
The cameras followed.
At the first checkpoint, scanning arms extended from the walls.
The Vehicon struck at them.
One arm caught her wrist.
Another passed a beam across her chest and abdomen.
Ratchet studied the results.
“No internal explosives.”
Prowl scanned the data.
“No long-range tracking module.”
“Standard short-range battlefield identification only.”
“Already disabled.”
Ratchet checked the energon composition.
“Ordinary processed fuel. No toxins. No chemical contamination.”
Perceptor, watching from a secured terminal, added, “Her frame contains suitable light-alloy cable structures and iron-rich internal plating.”
Bumblebee looked away.
Arcee remained focused on the screen, her expression hard but not pleased.
The partition continued pushing.
The Vehicon moved farther down the passage.
By the time she reached the feeding chamber, she understood.
The transparent dome waited ahead.
Beyond it lay the Dinobot hangar.
Grimlock had entered through a separate exterior route and now stood outside the dome, enormous even in the open space. His red optics followed her.
Farther away, near the small oval hatch, waited Starscream.
The Microraptor stood low against the floor.
His four wings were folded.
His red optics were fixed upon the Vehicon.
The captive stopped.
Her face changed.
Everyone knew Starscream had attacked Predaking.
Everyone knew he was fast.
But battlefield reports did not prepare the Vehicon for how small he appeared.
Or how completely still.
She looked back at the closing tunnel gate.
Then at the dome.
Then at Starscream.
“You’re going to feed me to that?”
Grimlock growled.
Starscream’s pupils narrowed.
Ratchet activated the hangar speaker.
“Starscream.”
The Microraptor did not look away from the prey.
“Final instructions. No prolonged pursuit. No abdominal impact. No climbing the dome. End the fight quickly.”
Starscream’s tail twitched.
“I know how to hunt.”
“This is your first medically supervised hunt.”
His feathers lifted in offense.
Grimlock’s red optics moved toward the speaker.
Ratchet continued before either could argue.
“If you experience pain, dizziness, heat fluctuation, or pressure in the pouch, you stop.”
Starscream lowered his body.
“You are ruining the moment.”
“I am preventing complications.”
Ratchet looked at the monitors.
The Vehicon’s energon pressure was high.
Her spark rate had accelerated.
She was terrified.
The final tunnel gate opened.
The partition forced her forward.
She stumbled into the dome.
The gate sealed behind her.
Red lights flashed.
The chamber locked.
The Vehicon ran to the transparent wall and struck it.
“Optimus!”
The Prime watched from the control room.
His optics closed briefly.
Ratchet’s hand hovered over the final authorization.
Grimlock lowered his head beside Starscream.
The Microraptor chirped.
Grimlock answered with a deep rumble.
The little hatch opened.
Starscream stepped inside.
It sealed behind him.
The Vehicon turned.
For several seconds, predator and prey faced one another across the circular stone floor.
Starscream was scarcely taller than her knee in Microraptor form.
The Vehicon saw that.
Some of the terror left her face.
She raised both fists.
“You?”
Starscream’s feathers flattened.
The Vehicon lunged.
Starscream disappeared.
The movement was too fast for the unassisted optic to follow.
One moment he stood before her.
The next, four wings flashed beneath the dome’s lights.
The Vehicon spun.
Starscream struck the back of her knee.
Not hard enough to damage the egg pouch.
Precisely enough to cut a stabilizing cable.
Her leg collapsed.
She caught herself on one hand and swung with the other.
Starscream ducked beneath the blow.
His claws clicked against the stone.
He passed between her legs.
Turned.
Leapt.
His primary wings opened while the smaller pair corrected his angle in midair.
He landed upon her back.
The Vehicon screamed and reached behind herself.
Starscream’s claws found the seams around her shoulder.
He did not tear wildly.
He opened one narrow section.
Found the lighter cable bundle beneath.
Bit down.
The Vehicon’s right arm stopped moving.
She threw herself backward, trying to crush him against the floor.
Starscream released her and glided away.
Her back struck stone.
The chamber shook.
Starscream landed without jarring his abdomen.
Ratchet watched every movement through the medical monitors.
Heart rate elevated but stable.
Pouch temperature unchanged.
No internal pressure warning.
“Good,” he whispered.
Prowl glanced at him.
“You sound proud.”
“I am monitoring my patient.”
“You sound proud while monitoring him.”
Ratchet did not answer.
Inside the dome, the Vehicon attempted to stand.
One leg failed.
One arm hung uselessly.
She dragged herself toward the tunnel gate.
Starscream stalked behind her.
The Microraptor’s head remained low.
His tail stretched straight behind him.
A clicking call emerged from his throat.
The sound was quiet.
Predatory.
Grimlock answered from outside the dome.
The Vehicon looked over her shoulder.
Starscream sprang.
He landed between her shoulder blades, ran two steps along her back, and reached the neck plating.
His claws slipped beneath the seam.
The Vehicon froze.
Starscream tilted his head.
Ratchet saw the exact instant the Microraptor identified the primary energon channel.
One bite.
A sharp pull.
The conduit opened.
Blue energon sprayed across the transparent dome.
The Vehicon’s body convulsed.
Starscream held his position only long enough to sever the spark-support line.
Then he leapt away.
The captive collapsed.
Her fingers scraped once across the stone.
Twice.
Then stopped.
The dome’s sensors began counting.
Movement: declining.
Spark activity: unstable.
Pressure: falling.
Ratchet watched the screen.
The medical signal flattened.
A green light appeared.
**PREY TERMINATED.**
No one in the control room spoke.
Inside the dome, Starscream approached the body.
His feathers were speckled with blue energon.
He inhaled.
Then began feeding.
He chose the softest sections first.
Thin cables beneath the throat.
Flexible metal around the shoulder joints.
Light conductive strands from the damaged arm.
His claws opened the plating with surgical accuracy, exposing warm internal components without forcing him to pull against heavy armor.
Starscream ate in small bites at first.
Ratchet watched carefully.
The Microraptor swallowed each piece without difficulty.
Then he lowered his snout to the opened energon channel.
Blue liquid coated his face.
He drank.
The white-energon reserves inside his body had already brightened his colors. Fresh fuel intensified them further. His red optics half closed as warmth spread through his systems.
Grimlock watched from beyond the transparent wall.
His expression was almost unbearably proud.
His mate was eating.
His developing clutch was being fed.
The hunt had succeeded.
Starscream moved to the softer metal beneath the Vehicon’s chest plating.
He selected only what he wanted.
A bundle of fine cables.
A section of pliable insulation.
Small fragments of mineral-dense alloy.
He ignored the thicker armor.
Ignored the heavy structural braces.
Those belonged to Grimlock.
By the time Starscream slowed, his narrow body looked slightly rounded beneath the feathering.
Blue energon covered his snout, throat, foreclaws, and part of his chest.
He sat back.
Licked one claw.
Then released a satisfied trill.
Ratchet checked the readings.
“No distress.”
Perceptor studied the nutritional monitor.
“Significant intake of iron, copper, energon, and light conductive material.”
Bumblebee looked horrified.
“You measured that?”
Ratchet glared.
“I am responsible for his health.”
Inside the dome, Starscream stepped away from the remains.
The transparent panels descended.
They sank soundlessly into the circular track until the chamber stood open.
Grimlock entered.
His size transformed the scene.
Where Starscream had moved with speed and precision, Grimlock fed with immense finality.
He placed one claw against the Vehicon’s torso.
His jaws closed around the remaining chest armor.
Metal folded.
The sound echoed through the soundproof hangar but reached the control room only through the monitoring microphones.
Grimlock crushed the heavy plates and swallowed them.
Then the shoulders.
The damaged arms.
The dense structural metal Starscream had left behind.
He consumed everything methodically.
Nothing was wasted.
Armor disappeared between his teeth.
Internal supports cracked.
Loose cables vanished.
Even the remaining energon was licked from the stone.
Ratchet watched the corpse become smaller until there was no recognizable Cybertronian shape left.
Optimus turned away before the end.
Arcee’s jaw remained tight.
Prowl watched every moment.
Not from fascination.
From responsibility.
He had approved the protocol.
He would understand its consequences.
Grimlock swallowed the final piece of armor.
Then he searched the floor.
One short cable remained near the drain.
He picked it up with the tip of a claw and ate it.
Nothing else remained.
The hunting rule had been obeyed completely.
No leftovers.
No discarded parts.
No evidence beyond blue energon coating the floor and Starscream’s feathers.
Grimlock turned toward his mate.
Starscream stood near the small hatch, grooming one wing.
The Tyrannosaurus lowered his snout.
Starscream looked up.
Grimlock began cleaning him.
His tongue passed carefully over Starscream’s face, removing energon from the feathers beneath his optics. Another slow stroke cleaned the throat.
Starscream made an indignant sound.
“I am capable of cleaning myself.”
Grimlock licked the top of his helm.
Starscream’s crest feathers flattened.
“Brute.”
Another lick passed over his chest.
Starscream chirped despite himself.
Grimlock continued until almost no blue remained.
Only then did Starscream rub his face against the Tyrannosaurus’s snout.
A soft rumble filled the feeding area.
Ratchet looked at the medical display.
Starscream’s temperature was stable.
The pouch showed no stress.
The oval structures remained unchanged.
The physician released a ventilation he had been holding since the hatch opened.
“Medically successful,” he said.
No one celebrated.
But no one argued.
Starscream exited through his small hatch.
Grimlock followed through the open chamber.
Once both Dinobots crossed the marked boundary, the transparent dome rose again.
It sealed with a deep mechanical lock.
The cleaning drones awakened.
Six oval machines emerged from the floor compartments.
They rolled into the chamber in formation.
One extended a scraping arm across the stone.
Another sprayed sterilizing foam over the walls.
Two lowered suction hoses into the drainage channels.
Blue energon flowed beneath the grates and disappeared into sealed waste tanks.
Rotating brushes scrubbed the transparent panels from bottom to top. Every smear vanished beneath layers of cleaning solution.
One drone detected residue near the tunnel gate.
It stopped.
Its warning light flashed.
Prowl leaned toward the microphone.
“Continue.”
The drone resumed immediately.
Wheeljack smiled.
“They remember the flamethrower.”
Within minutes, the stone floor changed from blue-stained to dark gray.
The drains cleared.
The walls shone.
The air filters drew the remaining scent from the dome and passed it through neutralizing compounds.
The feeding area became sterile again.
No cable.
No armor fragment.
No energon stain.
No evidence that a living Vehicon had entered.
Only the records inside Prowl’s protected datapad remained.
Grimlock carried Starscream toward the nest.
The Microraptor rested upon his snout, stomach full and wings hanging loosely with contentment.
The other Dinobots waited near the heat lamps.
Swoop chirped excitedly.
Slug and Slag demanded to know whether the prey had fought well.
Snarl inspected Starscream’s feathers for injuries.
Sludge brought another blanket.
Grimlock lowered Starscream into the center of the nest.
The Microraptor turned three times, curled beside the tricolored stone, and rested one foreclaw protectively over the warmth beneath his abdomen.
Grimlock lay around him.
His tail covered the smaller body.
The pack gathered nearby.
Outside the hangar, the Autobots remained silent.
Bumblebee was the first to speak.
“He followed every rule.”
Ratchet looked at the clean chamber monitor.
“Yes.”
Arcee folded her arms.
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Prowl’s doorwings shifted.
“It makes it controllable.”
Optimus faced the sealed hangar doors.
The Prime’s expression carried no satisfaction.
Only the weary acceptance that Grimlock and Starscream were not ordinary Autobots.
They were ancient predators living inside a modern military base.
Trying to force them into Cybertronian biology had failed.
Trying to deny their instincts would only push those instincts beyond supervision.
So the Ark had adapted.
It had built a tunnel.
A dome.
A feeding chamber.
A set of rules no Autobot commander had ever imagined writing.
Ratchet closed the medical file.
“Starscream tolerated the meal without stress. The eggs—or possible eggs—remain stable.”
Wheeljack leaned against the console.
“So Grimlock gets to hunt again?”
Ratchet looked toward him.
“Not immediately.”
From inside the hangar came a contented Tyrannosaurus rumble.
Then Starscream’s sleepy chirp.
Ratchet’s expression softened despite everything.
“One hunt at a time.”
Beyond the Ark, night settled over the ridges.
The remaining Vehicon patrols continued their routes, unaware that one of their own had vanished.
And deep inside the Autobot base, beneath artificial stars and warm lights, an ancient hunter slept around his mate with the calm satisfaction of a sire who had successfully fed the future of his pack.
Grimlock hunted every three or four days.
At first, the pattern disturbed the entire Ark.
The first time the outer feeding tunnel opened after the Vehicon hunt, Autobots had gathered in distant corridors and listened despite themselves. Even through Bulkhead’s soundproofing, they imagined they could hear metal breaking behind the sealed walls.
By the third hunt, fewer mechs waited.
By the sixth, the event had become another item on the Ark’s schedule.
**Dinobot feeding enclosure occupied.**
**Exterior tunnel sealed.**
**Ratchet conducting prey inspection.**
**Nonessential personnel prohibited from entering the southern hangar corridor.**
The language made it sound clinical.
Orderly.
Almost harmless.
It was none of those things.
Sometimes Grimlock returned with a Cyberwolf held carefully between his jaws. Sometimes it was a Shockmonkey, a metallic plains grazer, or one of the heavy digging mechanimals that lived beneath mineral fields and surfaced only when the ground became warm.
Occasionally he brought a Vehicon or Eradicon captured during an enemy patrol.
He never returned empty-mouthed.
Ratchet examined every offering.
Prowl checked it for tracking devices and intelligence value.
Starscream entered the dome only after medical clearance.
Then the doors closed.
The sensors confirmed the kill.
Grimlock consumed whatever his mate left behind.
The cleaning drones emerged.
By the next cycle, the chamber was spotless again.
The Autobots adapted because soldiers always adapted.
War forced them to normalize artillery fire, emergency surgery, missing comrades, and cities burning beyond the horizon. A Tyrannosaurus returning every few days with prey for his gestating mate simply became another strange reality aboard a vessel already filled with them.
Bulkhead stopped looking uncomfortable when he reinforced the tunnel doors.
Wheeljack began evaluating the feeding drones’ efficiency as though they were ordinary maintenance equipment.
Bumblebee still avoided the dome during feeding cycles, but he no longer fled when Grimlock returned carrying something alive.
Cliffjumper started taking bets on whether the next hunt would be mechanimal or Decepticon.
Ratchet confiscated the betting pool when he discovered it.
Prowl returned the credits to their owners only after adding a regulation specifically prohibiting gambling on medical nutrition.
Optimus never approved of the hunts.
But Grimlock obeyed the restrictions.
No prey entered civilian corridors.
No remains were left behind.
No surrendered prisoners were taken.
Starscream’s scans remained stable.
The oval shapes inside his abdominal pouch continued to mineralize gradually, fed by white energon, carefully prepared metals, and the fresh nutrients Grimlock’s instincts demanded.
So the Ark allowed the pattern to continue.
The wilderness did not.
---
Mechanimals understood predators long before Cybertronians invented tactical surveillance.
They did not require reports.
They read broken branches, scents in the wind, and the silence left behind when smaller creatures stopped calling.
Grimlock hunted across a wide section of Autobot territory.
At first, prey remained abundant.
Cyberwolves moved through the northern valleys.
Shockmonkeys nested inside the old towers.
Armored grazers fed upon mineral growth along the eastern ridges.
Then Grimlock began passing through those regions.
Not every day.
Not often enough for Autobots to notice a dramatic change.
But often enough for the fauna to learn.
Cyberwolves abandoned their dens.
They carried their young beyond the outer patrol markers and disappeared into distant canyons.
Shockmonkeys climbed higher into the ruins, then migrated entirely when Grimlock continued finding them.
The heavy grazers changed their seasonal route, moving south weeks earlier than normal.
Small mechanimals froze whenever the ground trembled.
Larger ones lifted their heads, scented the approaching Tyrannosaurus, and fled.
The effect moved outward like ripples from a stone dropped into water.
Apex predators did not need to kill every creature in a territory.
They needed only to prove that remaining there was dangerous.
After two months, Autobot scouts began reporting fewer tracks.
After three, Swoop had to fly farther to find herds.
After four, Grimlock occasionally spent an entire cycle hunting before returning.
By the fifth month, the wilderness immediately surrounding the Ark had become strangely quiet.
The mechanimals had not disappeared.
They had relocated.
The predators had changed the map simply by existing.
Decepticons were less predictable.
They did not migrate according to scent.
Their patrols shifted based on Megatron’s campaigns, Soundwave’s intelligence, and the location of working mines. Some weeks, several Vehicon squads crossed the outer edges of Autobot territory.
Other weeks, none appeared.
Grimlock’s hunting instincts did not understand military logistics.
He understood that Starscream required fresh food.
He understood that the developing clutch grew warmer and heavier beneath his mate’s feathers.
He understood that his last successful hunt had been four days earlier.
On the fifth morning, Grimlock left the Ark before Ratchet completed the daily medical check.
He crossed the empty eastern hunting grounds.
No Cyberwolves.
No grazers.
No fresh mechanimal scent.
He moved north.
Then farther north.
The landscape became harsher.
Dark cliffs replaced the smoother Autobot valleys. Mining scars cut across the ground. Old Decepticon markers appeared on ruined pillars, their purple insignias half hidden beneath dust.
Grimlock noticed them.
He knew what they meant.
The territory belonged to another pack.
He also smelled prey.
Fresh energon.
Hot machinery.
Vehicons.
The sensible choice would have been to turn back.
Grimlock was a sire preparing a clutch.
Sensible choices had become less important than feeding his mate.
He crossed the boundary.
---
The mine occupied a deep fracture in the landscape.
Tall black structures surrounded the excavation pit. Conveyor systems carried energon ore from tunnels beneath the ridge to sorting platforms above. Vehicons moved between the machines in organized lines, loading crystals, inspecting supports, and operating heavy extraction tools.
Security was minimal.
The mine lay well inside Decepticon territory.
Autobot attacks this deep were considered unlikely.
The workers were miners, not combat patrols.
Most carried only compact blasters and emergency cutting equipment.
Grimlock remained hidden among the rocks.
His Tyrannosaurus body should have made concealment impossible.
Instead, he used the terrain.
He lowered himself behind a line of ore containers and moved only when machinery produced enough vibration to hide his footsteps. Steam vents released clouds of mineral vapor across the mine. Grimlock passed through them, allowing the heavy scent to cover his own.
He watched.
Not the entire workforce.
One individual.
A lone Vehicon had separated from the others to inspect a damaged support relay near the outermost edge of the mine. He carried a toolbox rather than a rifle. Dust covered his legs and forearms. His attention remained fixed on the conduit panel before him.
Too far from the group.
Too close to the rocks.
Grimlock’s red optics narrowed.
Prey.
The Vehicon removed the panel and leaned forward.
He heard something behind him.
A soft scrape.
He turned.
Grimlock emerged from the mineral fog.
The Vehicon’s optics widened.
He opened his mouth.
Grimlock’s jaws closed around his helm and upper torso before the scream escaped.
Not hard enough to kill.
Hard enough to silence.
The Vehicon’s hands struck Grimlock’s snout. His toolbox fell, scattering wrenches and diagnostic rods across the ground.
Grimlock lifted him.
The miner kicked wildly.
His muffled cries vibrated between enormous teeth.
Grimlock adjusted his grip, pinning the Vehicon’s arms against his chest without puncturing the main energon lines. He had learned how to carry prey alive.
He turned toward the rocks.
The entire attack had lasted less than two seconds.
A mining drill struck stone nearby.
Conveyors groaned.
Ore crashed into a collection bin.
No worker looked toward the fog.
Grimlock disappeared.
The Vehicon remained alive inside his mouth, trapped between tongue and teeth, unable to call for help as the Tyrannosaurus carried him away from the mine.
Grimlock believed the hunt had succeeded cleanly.
He was wrong.
---
Soundwave had cameras everywhere.
Not obvious cameras.
Not devices mounted where enemies expected to find them.
His surveillance systems occupied the smallest spaces within Decepticon territory.
A sensor hidden inside a mine marker.
A lens disguised as part of a conduit bracket.
A passive recorder embedded within a piece of ordinary rock.
Tiny flying spies that resembled native mechan insects and remained dormant until movement disturbed them.
The miners rarely noticed.
That was the point.
Soundwave did not watch every feed continuously.
He did not need to.
The network watched for him.
The first alert came from the missing Vehicon’s identification signal.
The miner’s transponder had been stable.
Then it rose abruptly by several meters.
Its orientation changed.
The signal began moving away from the mine at impossible speed.
Soundwave was at his console in the Nemesis war room when the anomaly appeared.
His visor pulsed.
He opened the tracker.
The Vehicon remained alive.
Spark active.
Communications blocked.
Position changing rapidly toward Autobot territory.
Soundwave accessed the nearest surveillance node.
The first camera showed only mineral fog.
He shifted to the second.
Ore conveyors.
The third.
An abandoned toolbox on the ground.
Soundwave paused the image.
Several tools were still rolling.
He moved backward through the recording.
The Vehicon appeared beside the relay.
Then Grimlock emerged.
Soundwave’s posture changed.
His fingers stopped above the console.
He replayed the sequence at reduced speed.
The Tyrannosaurus approached from concealment.
Selected one isolated worker.
Seized the Vehicon without killing him.
Withdrew immediately.
No attack upon the mine.
No attempt to steal energon crystals.
No military objective.
Soundwave tracked the escape.
Hidden cameras activated one after another as Grimlock passed through the terrain.
A large dark shape moved between the ridges.
The miner’s feet protruded from one side of his jaws.
Still kicking.
Still alive.
Grimlock crossed the Decepticon boundary and continued toward Autobot territory.
Soundwave sent an emergency command alert.
Megatron answered from the throne room.
“Report.”
“Vehicon signal compromised.”
Megatron’s crimson optics narrowed.
“Autobots?”
Soundwave opened the war-room channel.
“Evidence obtained.”
Within minutes, the Decepticon high command assembled.
Megatron sat upon his throne.
Dreadwing stood beside the tactical table.
Knockout and Breakdown arrived from the repair bay. Shockwave joined by secured transmission from his laboratory.
Predaking entered last.
He had been preparing for another flight beyond Decepticon territory when Soundwave summoned him. Dust still clung to the lower edges of his wings.
Soundwave brought the main screen to life.
The mine appeared.
A Vehicon worked alone beside the outer relay.
Grimlock emerged from the fog.
Predaking became still.
The image slowed.
The Tyrannosaurus’s red optics fixed upon the isolated miner. His body remained low. His approach was quiet, deliberate, and completely different from the furious battlefield charges the Decepticons had witnessed before.
The jaws opened.
Closed.
The Vehicon vanished into them.
Knockout stared.
“He took him alive.”
Soundwave advanced the footage.
Another camera showed Grimlock carrying the struggling miner between his teeth.
Dreadwing’s wings shifted.
“He did not bite through the frame.”
“Correct,” Soundwave said.
Megatron leaned forward.
“Where is he taking my soldier?”
Soundwave displayed the transponder route.
A line crossed the northern ridge.
Passed beyond Decepticon territory.
Continued toward the Ark.
“Autobot-controlled region.”
Megatron’s claws tightened around the throne.
“Rescue him.”
Soundwave’s visor pulsed.
“Signal lost after entry into mineral interference zone. Current position unknown.”
“Then dispatch a search party.”
Predaking spoke before Soundwave could respond.
“No.”
Every Decepticon looked toward him.
Predaking had moved closer to the screen.
His golden optics remained fixed upon Grimlock’s retreating form.
“That Vehicon is already dead.”
Knockout glanced at the tracker.
“His spark is still active.”
“For now.”
Predaking inhaled slowly, though only recorded images filled the room.
He did not need the scent.
He recognized the behavior.
The low approach.
The careful bite.
The refusal to damage the richest internal components.
The living prey carried back toward a protected territory.
It was not ordinary combat.
It was provisioning.
Predaking’s wings lifted slightly.
“Grimlock hunted him.”
Megatron’s expression darkened.
“That is obvious.”
“No,” Predaking said. “You do not understand.”
Soundwave replayed the capture.
Predaking watched the Tyrannosaurus adjust the Vehicon inside his mouth so the miner remained alive and intact.
A hunting sire did not always kill prey at the capture site.
Sometimes he brought it home.
Warm.
Fresh.
Still moving.
The carrier received the best portions.
The sire consumed what remained.
Predaking’s claws opened slowly.
“This was not an Autobot attack.”
Dreadwing studied him.
“What distinction are you making?”
“The Tyrannosaurus did not target the mine. He ignored the crystals. Ignored the other workers. Selected one isolated body and carried it away alive.”
Shockwave’s optic brightened on the transmission screen.
“Behavior consistent with prey acquisition rather than military action.”
Megatron looked between them.
“You believe Grimlock intends to eat the Vehicon.”
Predaking’s jaw tightened.
“Not first.”
Silence entered the war room.
Knockout’s expression changed.
He remembered Shockwave’s earlier analysis.
Nest expansion.
Rare fuel.
Courtship defense.
The possibility of eggs.
“Starscream,” he said.
Predaking turned his head by a fraction.
The name sounded like a growl inside the room.
Dreadwing looked toward the frozen image.
“Grimlock is feeding him.”
“Yes.”
Breakdown shifted uneasily.
“Feeding him a Vehicon?”
“Fresh prey,” Shockwave said. “Containing processed energon, light internal metals, conductive cabling, and mineral structures. Nutritionally valuable to a gestating mechanimal.”
Megatron’s optics sharpened.
“Gestating.”
Predaking’s wings rose farther.
All the gifts he had left returned to him.
The enormous crystal destroyed before Starscream could touch it.
The wounded mechanimal removed from the boundary.
The Autobots erasing every offering and neutralizing the scents.
Grimlock disappearing from battlefields.
The Tyrannosaurus no longer challenging Predaking openly, instead remaining near the Ark and leaving only to hunt.
Predaking had believed Grimlock was avoiding him.
Now he understood.
The rival was nesting.
Provisioning.
Guarding a carrier.
Perhaps guarding eggs.
Predaking stepped so close to the main screen that Grimlock’s image reflected across his armor.
“Starscream carries a clutch.”
Megatron rose slowly.
“Can you confirm that?”
“Grimlock can.”
“That is not confirmation.”
“It is enough.”
Predaking’s claws scratched the floor.
A sire preparing for eggs changed.
He became more territorial.
More selective.
More dangerous.
He hunted regularly even when food stores were full. He removed threats before they approached the nest. He returned with living prey so the carrier could feed upon fresh energon and prove his own hunting capacity without risking long pursuit.
Grimlock displayed every sign.
Predaking’s first gifts had not merely competed with an established mate.
They had threatened a forming clutch.
The realization struck him with conflicting force.
Jealousy.
Anger.
Fascination.
Starscream—rare, brilliant, vicious Starscream—might already be creating new life.
Grimlock’s life.
The Tyrannosaurus’s offspring developing inside the mate Predaking wanted.
Predaking’s growl filled the war room.
The tactical screens vibrated.
Knockout stepped behind Breakdown.
Megatron remained standing.
“If Starscream is carrying eggs, those offspring may possess considerable strategic value.”
Predaking turned.
The look in his golden optics silenced even Megatron for one moment.
“They are not weapons.”
Shockwave’s optic narrowed.
“Biologically, they may combine Grimlock’s size and resilience with Starscream’s mutation, intelligence, and aerial capabilities.”
Predaking’s claws curled.
“They belong to the carrier and sire.”
Megatron descended from the throne platform.
“Starscream is inside an enemy base, carrying potentially unique offspring. I will not ignore the opportunity.”
Predaking’s wings flared fully.
“You will not touch them.”
The temperature of the room seemed to rise.
Dreadwing shifted between them—not enough to challenge either, but enough to intervene if the argument became physical.
Soundwave interrupted.
“Historical loss pattern identified.”
Several files appeared on the side screens.
Missing Vehicons.
Eradicons who failed to return from patrol.
Unexplained transponder disappearances near Autobot territory.
Some had been attributed to Bumblebee.
Others to Cliffjumper, Arcee, or ordinary battlefield casualties.
Soundwave reorganized the data chronologically.
The disappearances occurred every three to four days.
The same interval as a repeated feeding cycle.
Knockout stared at the pattern.
“How long has this been happening?”
“Approximately five months,” Soundwave answered.
Megatron looked toward him sharply.
“Five months?”
“Previous interpretation: Autobot patrol attrition.”
“And now?”
Soundwave displayed Grimlock’s hunting route.
“Revised interpretation: repeated prey capture.”
Breakdown’s face twisted.
“You’re telling us Grimlock has been eating Vehicons for five months?”
“Not Grimlock alone,” Shockwave said.
The room became quiet.
Knockout looked again at the missing-person list.
“Oh.”
Predaking’s growl deepened.
Every lost Vehicon near Autobot territory might have been taken to Starscream.
Fresh energon delivered into the nest.
Soft cables selected by the small hunter.
The remains consumed by Grimlock.
No bodies left for Decepticon recovery teams to find.
No evidence beyond signals that simply ceased.
The pattern explained everything.
Megatron’s face became cold.
“My soldiers have been used as provisions.”
Dreadwing studied the footage.
“The Vehicons are not disappearing during combat. Grimlock is selecting them.”
“Efficiently,” Soundwave added.
Another recording played.
The Tyrannosaurus moved through the mine’s blind zones.
Used machinery to conceal sound.
Approached from downwind.
Chose the worker farthest from support.
Predaking watched with unwilling respect.
Grimlock was not a mindless beast.
He was an experienced pack hunter.
The Autobots may have built rules around his instincts, but the hunt itself belonged to him.
“He crossed the boundary because prey near the Ark is gone,” Predaking said.
Soundwave displayed declining mechanimal sightings within Autobot territory.
The inference aligned.
Grimlock had hunted the same region for months.
Animals migrated away.
Decepticon patrols became infrequent.
So the sire expanded his hunting range.
Eventually, all predators crossed into another’s territory when hunger outweighed caution.
Megatron looked toward Soundwave.
“Trace every route he used.”
“Analysis underway.”
“Reinforce the mines.”
Predaking turned toward the doors.
Megatron’s gaze followed him.
“Where are you going?”
“To the capture site.”
“The Vehicon is beyond recovery.”
“I am not searching for the Vehicon.”
Predaking’s voice carried something harder than fury.
He wanted Grimlock’s trail.
The scent of the hunt.
Proof of whether Starscream’s condition had altered the Tyrannosaurus’s glands.
Perhaps a trace of Starscream himself carried upon Grimlock’s armor from their shared nest.
Dreadwing understood.
“You intend to confirm the clutch.”
Predaking looked back over one shoulder.
“Yes.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed.
“And then?”
Predaking’s wings unfolded.
The answer came without hesitation.
“I decide how to respond.”
He left the war room.
The doors closed behind him.
Knockout exhaled.
“That sounded ominous.”
“Predaking has interpreted Grimlock’s provisioning as confirmation of reproductive activity,” Shockwave said.
Breakdown frowned.
“In normal words?”
Knockout looked at the dark doors.
“He thinks Starscream is carrying Grimlock’s eggs, he is furious about it, and he has not decided whether to challenge Grimlock, steal the next hunt, or do something even worse.”
Megatron returned his attention to the frozen screen.
Grimlock’s red optics shone through the mineral fog.
A Vehicon struggled helplessly between his teeth.
For five months, the Decepticons had assumed their missing soldiers were casualties of ordinary war.
Now they knew better.
The Autobots had an ancient predator living within their territory.
The predator was hunting for a mate.
And the mate might be carrying a clutch valuable enough to turn courtship rivalry into open war.
---
Grimlock crossed back into Autobot territory before nightfall.
The captured miner had stopped struggling.
Not because he had escaped.
Because exhaustion had overcome panic.
He remained conscious inside the Tyrannosaurus’s mouth, pressed between enormous teeth, every jarring step carrying him closer to a fate he did not yet understand.
Grimlock smelled the Ark ahead.
Home.
Pack.
Nest.
Starscream.
The warmth developing beneath his mate’s abdominal feathers.
His pace quickened.
He did not know that the hunt had been recorded.
He did not know Soundwave had reconstructed five months of disappearances.
He did not know Predaking was already descending toward the mine to study his tracks.
Grimlock knew only that he had found food.
He had followed the oldest law his body remembered.
The sire hunted.
The carrier ate first.
The clutch survived.
Behind him, hidden cameras continued recording until the last curve of his tail disappeared beyond the Decepticon boundary.