"Master, the supply has arrived."
The Tentacle-Bot scuttled back into the laboratory, dragging a reinforced transport sled behind it. Resting on the sled were two glowing, translucent cubes—perfectly symmetrical and humming with a low-frequency vibration.
The assistant was barely the size of a desert scorpion, unable to lift objects dozens of times its own mass. But as an intelligent lifeform, its mastery of tools made the physical disparity irrelevant.
Is that... Energon?
As the sled drew closer, Nathan felt a violent, primal surge of hunger ignite within his chassis. It was the biological equivalent of a starving man being presented with a feast. The glowing blue cubes, barely larger than his palm, smelled—or rather, radiated—a scent that his sensors translated as "exquisite."
His machine instincts screamed at him to seize the cubes and drain them instantly.
Unable to resist the pull, Nathan sat up on the diagnostic slab and reached down, plucking one of the cubes from the sled. He held it before his optics, his scanners automatically analyzing the contents.
Just as a human required organic matter for sustenance, a Cybertronian required Energon. But "eating" was a poor descriptor. The process was closer to a high-pressure transfusion. While the cubes appeared solid, the crystalline exterior was merely a high-tensile container designed to hold the volatile, high-density fluid within.
Cybertronian technology allowed them to extract energy from almost any high-energy terrestrial matter—coal, oil, geothermal heat, or raw minerals. The extracted essence was compressed into a liquid slurry or plasma and sealed in these cubes.
Nathan shook the cube slightly, watching the thick, glowing indigo plasma swirl behind the translucent walls.
He finally understood a detail from the films: the fluids that sprayed from a Cybertronian when a limb was severed. That wasn't just hydraulic fluid. It was Energon-plasma—the lifeblood of their race. It provided both the pressure for their movements and the fuel for their sparks. When a Cybertronian's internal fluid turned clear and colorless, it meant their reserves were empty.
The cube in his hand, however, glowed with a vibrant, healthy azure.
"I synthesized those using geothermal taps I managed to hide from the local power grid," Scalpel rasped, a note of systemic anxiety in his voice. "I only have those two. Be frugal. Bring your Synthetic Core up to fifty percent and stop."
It was clear that the loss of the AllSpark had turned the Decepticon Chief Medic into a scavenger. Fuel was no longer a right; it was a luxury.
"I... appreciate the resource, Doctor Scalpel."
Nathan didn't wait for a second invitation. Following a reflex he didn't know he possessed, he snapped the seal on the cube's corner. He tilted his head back and brought the container to his intake manifold.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.
He ignored the "fifty percent" restriction entirely. Starscream might be a "High-Tier" earner, but Nathan was a grunt in a war zone. If he didn't fill his tank now, there was no guarantee he'd see another cube for a month.
If the core is empty, the test stops for you, Doctor. But I'm the one who goes offline permanently.
Even a natural-born Cybertronian required regular refueling. For an artificial unit like Nathan, powered by a prototype core, the drain was even more aggressive. A low-power state wouldn't just make him sluggish; it would lock his joints and leave him a hollow statue.
He drained the cube with a predatory intensity. Only when Scalpel's screeching reached a certain decibel did Nathan finally lower the empty container.
"Stop! CEASE VESTIGIAL INTAKE IMMEDIATELY!"
"PUT MY ENERGON DOWN!"
Scalpel was practically vibrating with rage. "By the Pit! Look at what you've done! A full-standard cube, drained in a single cycle! You gluttonous heap of scrap!"
Nathan looked down. The once-vibrant indigo cube was now a hollow, transparent shell, with only a thin, iridescent film of plasma clinging to the bottom. It was bone-dry.
"You idiot! I told you to stop at fifty percent! Do you have any idea how long it took to refine that?!"
Scalpel looked as if he wanted to dismantle Nathan on the spot. He wasn't a "Big Spender" like Starscream; these cubes were a private reserve he'd been brewing in secret since the Commander left the base.
Nathan offered a smooth, apologetic tilt of his head. "My apologies, Doctor. It was my first intake. The system... overcompensated for the deficit. I couldn't override the suction reflex."
The apology was easy. Admitting fault was another matter. You can't exactly make me vomit it back up, Nathan thought, feeling a wave of cooling comfort wash through his struts.
His internal HUD now displayed a vibrant 100% on his power reserves. He didn't feel guilty. In this world, the only thing you truly owned was what you had already consumed.
The Energon tasted better than any beverage he remembered from his human life. It was a sensation of pure, chilled clarity—like drinking liquid electricity on a scorching day. Every servo felt lubricated; every sensor sharpened.
He looked down at the second cube remaining on the sled. Scalpel's optics flared a dangerous yellow.
"Don't even think about it! You think you're getting the second one?"
"Not at all, Doctor," Nathan lied. "As I said, I am at full capacity."
"Hmph! Tentacle-Bot! Take that cube and hide it! Secure locker 4-B! Tell no one!"
The assistant hissed at Nathan—a clear signal of shared annoyance—and dragged the remaining sled into the shadows of the lab.
Nathan watched them go. It's just a bit of fuel, he thought. Why the theatrics? He didn't realize that on a resource-starved Earth, that single cube represented weeks of Scalpel's labor.
Once the fuel was gone, Scalpel seemed to force his agitation into a sub-routine. He hopped onto a piece of equipment that sat level with Nathan's shoulder, his eyes flickering with a calculating yellow light. He scrutinized Nathan, his gaze lingering on the red optics of the drone.
"You're a clever one, little one. And quite the actor."
Actor? Nathan's processors stalled. Did Scalpel realize he'd faked the "suction reflex"? He lowered his head, maintaining his persona. "I don't follow, Doctor. I was merely—"
"No, no, no..." Scalpel waved a metallic limb, then leaped from the equipment to land directly on Nathan's shoulder. He leaned in, his voice dropping to an intimate, static-laced whisper.
"You can fool Starscream with that blank-eyed stare, but you can't fool me. I've lived too long, seen too many batches come off the line."
"I know the difference, T-22. You aren't like T-19 or the others. Not at all."
Nathan's optics flared, a sharp spike of adrenaline—or its Cybertronian equivalent—surging through his neural net.
Does he know? Did he scan my human memories on the slab? Or was it the way I drank the Energon?
He forced himself to stay still, even as the "spider" perched on his shoulder made his metal skin crawl. "Doctor Scalpel, I'm afraid I don't understand. I am a loyal soldier of the Air Commander. How could I be different?"
"Ha!" Scalpel's laugh was a jagged burst of audio feedback. He stayed perched on Nathan's shoulder, his many legs clicking against the armor. "T-19 wouldn't have dared to stare at the Air Commander the way you did when you first opened your optics. A newborn drone doesn't look at its Master like he's a specimen in a jar."
Nathan's cooling fans whined. He'd forgotten. In his fascination with seeing a "movie star" in the flesh, he'd forgotten that Scalpel had been watching the watcher.