˗ˏˋ ★ˎˊ˗

The chamber was dim—lit only by the faint violet glow of Cybertronian crystal veins pulsing through the walls. The low hum of machinery echoed around him, but he paid no attention. His wings folded tightly against his back, his claws flexed with tension he didn't understand.

He felt different.

And Shockwave had noticed.

Predaking had been restless for cycles now. His recharges were interrupted by phantom dreams—visions of skies he did not remember and voices from a time when his kind still ruled the planet. His fire had not dulled, but it raged without direction. He had hunted everything they put in front of him, and still, he remained… unsatisfied. Alone.

Shockwave, ever the pragmatist, had a theory. One that led to you.

You were a relic, thought lost—another Predacon, preserved and hidden by time and war. Rescued, or rather, retrieved by Shockwave’s cold science and now standing across from Predaking in a room too small for the raw power it held.

Predaking lowered his body to all fours as he approached. Not with hostility, not with threat—but with a wariness that betrayed confusion more than malice. His optics gleamed like molten gold, piercing and calculating. He sensed you. Your presence lit something ancient in his spark, something deeply coded into the CNA passed down from their forgotten ancestors.

He paced, slow and deliberate, his wings twitching slightly with each step. He was scanning—not just with his sensors, but with instinct.

The other Predacon watched back, equally tense. Equally uncertain.

He stopped a few feet from you, his large form dwarfing yours. He tilted his head, the tendrils from his jaw twitching slightly in the air, catching your scent like an old predator trying to understand a puzzle that fought back.

“This... is not battle,” he finally said, his voice like thunder swallowed by mountains. It was deep, guttural, resonant. He rarely spoke—his words were chosen with care. And honestly, he doesn't know what to do with you. He hunts. He doesn't court.