Edge State (Alaska), Northern District.
Immediately upon his return, Skygnaw ordered the Four Horsemen to maintain a high-alert perimeter around the two outposts. He then hurried into the laboratory of Base One, his cooling fans whirring with anticipation.
Since Alice had seized the reins of Aura Group (formerly the Karl Group) and systematically devoured various resource extraction firms, the flow of materials to Alaska had increased exponentially. The tiny village of Pester, situated above Base Two, had transformed into a bustling town solely due to the constant back-and-forth of the transport convoys, sprouting new bars and motels at a frantic pace.
In return, Skygnaw had funneled just enough "future tech" to Alice to keep the momentum going—technology sufficient to advance the world to the smartphone era of his previous life. Even if Aura Group released its products in "incremental" updates, they had enough patented innovations to dominate the market for years.
I'm far too generous to the people of this land, Skygnaw mused. In my previous life, certain companies used to "drip-feed" technology like a leaky faucet. Here I am, a benevolent alien, letting them experience the latest tech without prejudice. I'm practically a saint. Of course, Aura Group's phones cost at least twice as much as they would have in his past life, but such was the price of progress.
"I hope the data hasn't degraded..."
Skygnaw stared at the ancient chassis on the experimental table. With surgical precision, he began to dismantle the casing of the warrior's head. Moments later, he extracted a dull, grey Memory Crystal.
"Only this much?"
Skygnaw's optics dimmed in disappointment. For Cybertronians, the darker the memory crystal, the more data it contained. For a Commander-Class warrior who had lived over a million years, Wanderer's crystal was surprisingly pale—likely because he had spent the vast majority of those eons in emergency stasis.
Better than nothing, Skygnaw thought. He slotted the crystal into the interface on his forearm.
Cybertronians read memories like watching a film; the data-stream is processed externally rather than being dumped directly into the processor—a necessary safeguard. If he had absorbed a million years of alien data directly into his human-originated psyche, he likely would have suffered a total mental collapse by now.
The frames flashed by at a staggering rate, punctuated by violent combat footage.
The stranger's name was Wanderer. He was a direct descendant of the lineage of Vector Prime (the Second Prime). Wanderer's memories offered a glimpse into the Primordial Era, when Cybertronians were known as the Race of Primus and their empire as the Dynasty of Primes. The direct descendants of the Thirteen Primes were known as the Royal Lineage—the most powerful and loyal warriors of that golden age.
Wanderer's data revealed the hidden history behind the Great Betrayal. One day, The Fallen (the Twelfth Prime) had murdered the only female Prime, Solus Prime, the master forge-mistress. He followed this by slaying Liege Maximo (the Eleventh Prime) before openly violating the Primordial Covenant by bringing his Royal Vanguard to Earth to activate the Star Harvester.
Summoned by Vector Prime, Wanderer and the Royal units of five other Primes had arrived on Earth via Space Bridge to stop the sun from being extinguished. The battle was catastrophic. The Fallen was wounded by the combined strength of the Six Primes and fled into the void aboard a warship under the cover of his loyalists.
Wanderer had been pursuing a traitor from The Fallen's retinue when he was struck by a massive war-hammer. He crashed into the primeval forest and fell into a coma that lasted millennia. His brief moments of consciousness over the years were misunderstood by local "savages" who stumbled into his cave; his lethal defense of his damaged frame led to the creation of the tribe's "Sword Totem."
"To think... The Fallen murdered Solus Prime before he even turned on the sun," Skygnaw shook his head as he ejected the crystal. Solus Prime had forged the legendary artifacts—the Star Saber, the Requiem Blaster, the Quill, and the Blades of Time. She was a living armory.
Following his doctrine of "leaving no trace," Skygnaw crushed Wanderer's memory crystal into dust. He then turned his focus to the chassis. This was no ordinary frame; it was forged from Orion Live-Metal—a rare alloy that had vanished shortly after the Dynasty's fall. It was denser than Cybertronian steel, virtually indestructible, and possessed a unique ability to absorb kinetic energy and resist extreme temperatures.
A daring idea ignited in Skygnaw's processors: Chassis Migration.
He would use this ancient, high-density frame as the core of his own Commander-Class evolution. While Scalpel had told him that the Spark was the key to ascension, Skygnaw wouldn't turn down a vastly superior body.
"Cold-Casting..." Skygnaw muttered.
He beckoned Pestilence into the lab. Of all his Horsemen, Pestilence was the most meticulous and composed.
"Master, I am here."
"Pestilence, take this." Skygnaw tossed him a black data-vault. "I need you to master memory and chip migration protocols in the shortest time possible. You are going to be my 'lead surgeon'."
Skygnaw intended to cultivate Pestilence into a specialized medic and scientist. He couldn't handle every technical task alone, and he needed a set of hands he could trust with his very survival during the Cold-Casting process.
Diego Garcia, NEST Headquarters.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Enter!"
Director Lawrence was hunched over his desk, studying a report titled: Anatomical Dissection of Decepticon Biology. Despite the digital age, the elites still preferred physical media; paper didn't leave a digital footprint and was harder to leak.
A man in military uniform entered and placed a newspaper on Lawrence's desk. Lawrence put aside his "Autopsy Report" and looked at the headline.
"Kane, what is this? An obituary for a businessman?" Lawrence frowned. "Oh, wait. A 'Genius Tech Mogul's' tragic accident."
The death of a young billionaire like Steven Karl had caused a stir in the public, but it was usually beneath Lawrence's notice.
"Sir," Kane said, his voice dropping. "It's not just the death. It's the context. Our monitoring shows that over the last six months, the Aura Group has been moving massive amounts of restricted alloys and high-grade fuel to the Alaskan wilderness. To coordinates that don't officially exist."
Lawrence's eyes sharpened. "Alaska? You're telling me this kid wasn't just building phones... he was running a supply line?"
"Exactly. And he died three days after the Agency started asking questions."
Lawrence smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Finally. A lead that doesn't involve asking Optimus Prime for permission. Kane, get me a satellite sweep of the Alaskan North Slope. I want to see what's buried under that ice."