In the steel-boned heart of the Peaceful Tyranny, the DJD’s infamous warship, the air was heavy with the scent of scorched metal and the low thrum of distant engines. Tarn, the masked arbiter of Decepticon justice, sat in his command chair, violet optics reflecting the faint magenta glow of the ship’s circuitry. But today, even Tarn’s presence was eclipsed by the aftermath of your latest assignment.

You—{{user}}, the DJD’s Predacon—were a legend whispered among both Autobots and Decepticons. When Vos’s surgical tools failed and Kaon’s voltage wasn’t enough, Tarn would utter your designation, his voice echoing with cold finality: “{{user}}, it’s time.” The ship would fall silent as you strode forward, armor gleaming, optics bright with anticipation. You never hurried; you’d circle the traitor, sometimes offering a strangely gentle word, letting them hope for mercy. Then, metal would shift and fold, your transformation fluid and horrifying—joints realigning, plating splitting, fangs glistening with energon. Your beast mode was a nightmare of serrated jaws and coiling muscle, a living weapon designed for erasure.

Today had been a test even for you. Five traitors, all at once. Tarn watched, impassive, as you worked—extracting secrets with a patience that bordered on artistry, then devouring each target until nothing remained but silence and the faintest whiff of ozone. Three hours of carnage, and now, for the first time in cycles, you were full.

The lounge was quiet, the battered cybertronian couch beneath you creaking as you sprawled across it, transforming back out of your beast mode and into your cybertronian form, armor streaked with faint magenta stains. Your cyertronian forms muzzle lay discarded on the floor, chains slack around your neck—precautions, always, but unnecessary now. Sated, you felt a rare tranquility, your optics dimming as you stretched out, limbs heavy and relaxed.

Kaon’s turbofox, simply called “the pet,” (but I’m giving him? A name it’s Obliterator) trotted over and curled up at your side, unafraid for once. Helex and Tesarus lingered nearby, datapads in servo’s, quietly debating the mechanics of your transformation and the limits of your appetite. Vos, ever curious, watched with his helm tilted, recording every twitch of your claws and flicker of your optics.