Enjoy. The desert was empty. The sun, full. Debris smoked in the heat, wreckage of a fight hours past by now. Mighty Decepticon protoforms lay wrecked, like common automobiles, wrecked beyond repair. Sparks extinguished. Wires pulled out. Electricity jumped at the ends of some, but it was simply directionless energy, an echo of the powerful and organized flow their mighty bodies once employed. Shells smoked around them, not yet done coughing out there victory. How crude, that a human weapon, a simple metal sphere, packed with volatile materials, could bring down the pinnacle of mechanical genius in the galaxy, the ultimate expression of life, pure perfection. Brought to disorganized shards and dying electricity by a crude weapon of force.* Across the pitted plain, one great metallic corpse basked in the light. This one had not been destroyed by an explosion. No, it had been rendered inoperative by a greater evil, one of his own mechanical brothers. His arms lay asunder, torn off by his enemy.* How sad, being killed in melee combat. It was simply ignorance when one fired a projectile at something. Only the act of contempt went into firing it; once it had found its target, all malicious intent had left, the hard metal only concerned with chaotically scattering parts everywhere. There was no form or fuction, no acknowledgement past the noting of death on the agressor's side. It was impersonal, ignorant, unintelligent. But to tear a brother limb from limb—that required full acknowledgent, full intent, full intelligence. The yellow robot, after utilizing another brother's spine to club him, had torn his arms from his frame. The cracked chassis, more intact than the ones that came by explosions, signalled a deliberate evil, a calculating realization that one was bringing end to form and substance, to the ultimate mechanical lifeform. It was a sin against order, a sin against evolution, a sin against the spark itself.* Rampage's corpse lie, drained of fluid, every watt of electricity void of his body. The great leg lie dormant, a metal snake with its neck snapped. The metal treads, its children, sprawled similarly dead across the sand. The eyes, which once glowed with fury, sat in their sockets, nondescript spheres. Their perfect optical acuity, stolen by the yellow robot. Without life, the tiny gears in them were just metal, the glass lenses, just sand, the same which eddied through his hollow body now. He hated sand. And with an unnoticed, postmortem gesture, he spit some out of his itching mandibles. A solitary tendril, that was all it was. From deep inside him, a defiant vestige of life reached out and dared to move his mouth, defying death, defying order which conspired to keep him a lifeless husk. Order which gave license to chaos, the yellow robot, to enact such gruesome sins on Rampage. Order which stated that without fluids, without energy, he would not function. Order that said his body was not fit to live. Rampage hated order. So he defied it, too. The great pistons in his shoulders creaked. They were not able to, but they did. The normal hiss that accompanied his hydraulics was absent, with all the other wretched fluid in his body. Sand and wind occupied his tubes and vessels, as likely to move his body as a heart without blood. Hydraulics, coolant, Rampage hated them anyway, although they gave him the logical order to live, to pulse movements throughout his frame. Finally, he lived without them, the scraping pistons screaming triumph in the face of logic, order. They flexed his great body, shaking sand loose from its crevices. A few grains remained, clinging to the sticky residue of the coolant in Rampage's veins, but they were not of consequence, as unimportant as the vessels themselves. His leg flexed, the first true power the vestige of life within him grasped. It lifted up, a great tail, and slammed itself down upon the sand. An enormous cloud was kicked up, and a new wave of grains found themselves in his mouth. His mandibles scurried to rid themselves of the visitors before Rampage's hate fully descended on them. He coughed. The grains flew out in a small cloud.* Another defiance, the cough. No lungs behind it expanded or contracted. No metal diaphragm propelled the air out, nor did a fan. All the cooling fans on Rampage lay offline, unneeded. The air simply left him, at his will, his command, his law. He, the being that defied order, commanded respect from all that was ordered, even the smallest air molecule, the smallest sand grain. He coughed again, to demonstrate his command to the world. But his command was not absolute. Like an undignified snake, Rampage writhed and tossed in his place. It was frightening, a great metal larva struggling to right itself, pounding against the ground in rage. Slowly, he worked his way to one of his arms, and upon contacting it, the miracle that resided in Rampage extended to it, reattaching it to his shattered frame. The juncture was impossible. The veins were broken, the pistons misaligned, the wires failed to carry a spark across the gap. But the life, grown recklessly confident, had occupied the arm, given Rampage reign over it once again. The metal tread contracted without gears, without hydraulics, and extended again. The huge claw spread and hit the ground. It strained as Rampage rose to a standing position. No longer required for balance, the hand swung high, the tread tearing after it, searing a path in the atmosphere, before swinging it down, the path repeated even more viciously, air parting to avoid it, before the metal snake finally struck the ground, sending up a huge column of sand. Rampage relished the force, the vibrations pounding throughout his frame. The intoxication let him forget all that he hated, and let him focus on his love to hate, his love of hate, the feeling of seething rage permeating his body giving license to the life inside of him to swell and roil. * The eyes lit. Malignant, the tiny gears within them oscillated once again. The first sight they held was the sand. And the sky. They contracted in rage. His death had dulled his memory, however, so he glanced around the hated lands to refresh his cognizance. Weaker souls, his former comrades, lay dead, lacking the will to disobey nature as he did. In his mind, these were all causalties of the yellow one. He would pay, piece by piece. His other arm lay sanguine in the sun. Rampage was disgusted his form could be rent so easily. It belied his incredible power. Nature hated him, the reason he was protoformed into this weak body, the reason he was sent to this planet to die by a yellow monster's hand. But hate stems from fear. Rampage knew that. And existence feared him, feared giving his unconquerable spark the endless reign it deserved. He reattached his arm, flexed it. Another tread soared in the air, and came down upon a protoform corpse, shattering it, straying its pieces. Rampage picked his whip from the rubble, the familiar feel of metal shards packing its every section giving him a deep pleasure.* He reached down and grabbed a handful of parts. Some fell through his claws, no more than the sand they fell into. Rampage stuck them onto his shoulder, the spark of life coursing through them, welcoming them to new life. He continued, picking broken limbs, eviscerated organs, dormant skulls, from the wreckage, and attaching them to his increasingly twisted frame. As he grew larger, his spark grew angrier, and demanded more, more body, and it received, heaps upon heaps of decapitated soldiers and indignified husks, growing him to almost twice his size and his anger much more. His shadow cast miles across the desert. No longer was his former, weak, red plating showing, but the slate grey of a superior organism, one that did not shine in the light, but was not lost in the dark. He raised a hulking arm, and drove it into the ground, and another. In an animal stance, he screamed. Metal grating metal, no voicebox powering it, a primal scream from his angry spark, one that announced he could no longer be silenced.* Immortal, he was no longer Rampage. That was the name of his masters, the ones that cursed him to a weak frame, a lowly post, an undignified death. He was what *he was as a protoform, the strongest there was, a form before his anger was quelled by an inferior body.* With the bodies of the conquered paving his way, armoring his frame, he was once again primal, once again a protoform.* "Protoform....X!" he screamed.