Far from Cybertronian space, in a debris-choked system littered with the remains of forgotten conflicts, Darctavious encountered a familiar signature.
Lockdown.
A hunter. A collector. A survivor who answered to no faction but profit.
The encounter was not hostile at first.
Lockdown's sensors traced Darctavious's frame, cataloging unfamiliar Prime sigils and impossible energy readings.
"You're not Autobot," Lockdown observed. "And you're definitely not Decepticon."
Darctavious said nothing.
Lockdown fired anyway.
The battle was brief and decisive.
Time fractured around Darctavious as the Heretic Blaster discharged at minimal output. Lockdown found himself frozen mid-motion, suspended in a fraction of a second that refused to pass.
Darctavious approached, optics steady.
He released the temporal lock.
The fight resumed for exactly three seconds.
Then it ended.
Lockdown lay disarmed, armor ruptured, systems failing but spark intact.
Darctavious considered him.
A predator.
But not without discipline.
You survive where others do not, Darctavious transmitted. That has value.
Lockdown laughed weakly. "So what execution?"
Continuation.
Darctavious offered a choice.
Not servitude.
Preservation.
Lockdown accepted.