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Prowl wasn't happy.
He never was.
With Pharma's work.
Pharma tried to not take it personally.
But his patience was growing thin and frayed like an abused rope, his claws sinking to the bone as he slashed – yet again – another throat to smithereens.
Ribbons of spewing purple-blue processed energon splashed Pharma's white and grimy face. The once untouched snow beneath his flight-frame silhouette, soon sagged with the weight of murder.
The colors were bountiful.
The rocks splattered with a wealth of prey.
Glorious.
Delicious.
Against Pharma's mauling jowls, stuffed flush with flesh – as he bit – and bit again.
The sparkeater screamed in delight. All pretenses of Pharma's civility collapsed away, as rock and snow smashed against his charging, careening person.
He jumped down a cliffside, his talons glinting like a raptor's, both bird and reptilian.
His entirety was a weapon.
As he pounced.
It wasn't a Decepticon screaming beneath him, but such a fact didn't matter to Pharma.
He chewed and swallowed.
He laughed and giggled.
The wax of his plating peeled away into fine slivers of flaking paint as he engaged, yet again – the enemy.
His single golden turbine-engine roared, from the strain of his latest cargo haul.
He wouldn't be flying out yet.
He needed to lose weight.
And fast.
Another body perhaps…
Dropping from the sky.
Would do the trick…
As the only medical officer at Delphi with the ability of flight, Pharma had been called into an emergency surgery and potential evacuation-site, to address the crushed, bleeding remains of several Autobot miners.
There had been no saving them, of course.
Pharma had made sure of that.
The unfortunate who had called in the disaster, was dead. Supposedly, an avalanche had wiped out the entire crew.
Torque, a simple miner-bot, who'd sent in the distress signal – was a dried-withered, blue and green husk, laid prone at Pharma's feet.
Pharma unceremoniously kicked the corpse -- the metal since licked clean of meat.
Torque’s head detached like a macabre soccer ball, only to spin unceremoniously down a cliffside.
Pharma's leg-talons dug into the frame-carcass mindlessly, rubbing the serrated-cleats at the bottom of his feet, against the rapidly destabilizing body – sharpening his toes to a deadly point, until he was dancing atop a pile of powdered metal shavings.
It was an instinct of every sparkeater.
It was a primitive method of hygiene.
But so was considered eating, a primitive method of refueling…
Pharma refused to give up his nature.
To drink liquefied energon juice, like a child.
Even beneath the facade of a doctor's charisma.
He was there.
Always.
The sparkeater.
Tarn wasn't doing anything of importance.
He was just investigating – why so many miners had gone missing recently.
His shipment of Nucleon from the Serp Mines had become suspiciously low. He only had a single cube’s worth of the precious green liquid, before he began to crave a dangerous amount more…his withdrawals from the drug would soon become severe…
And, Yet.
The itch in his T-cog was the least..of Tarn's problems…
Pharma had delayed his scheduled T-cog surgery, without much explanation…
Tarn was going to kill him, for such a slight – of course.
But.
Suddenly –
Torque's head – flew off an adjacent cliffside, almost torpedoing into Tarn, like a particularly ambitious snowball.
To Tarn, it was just some random guy's head. He almost chuckled as he picked it up, baffled as to how it got there.
But.
Then –
BANG!
There was a crash overhead. Tarn looked up, dropping the mystery mech's head.
“I’VE BEEN LOOKING EVERYWHERE FOR YOU.” Pharma said, calmly – or tried to.
He was vibrating with murderous energy.
Like a wasp that had managed to get drunk.
‘But that was impossible.’ Thought Tarn.
But he also had no time to think.
And Pharma laughed and laughed, as he clamped down hard – onto Tarn's soft, tender, unassuming head.
Prowl wasn't happy.
Of course.
Pharma sighed as Prowl again neglected to pick up his long-distance commline. The communication room at Delphi Medical Facility was getting a lot of use, since occupied by Pharma's growing figure and bosom.
Unfortunately, Pharma could do little about his growing size. He'd been refueling too often.
The wealth of corpses he'd consumed lately had grown burdensome and suspicious.
To his comrades.
But he had to hide the evidence somehow.
Pharma had to eat.
Had to.
Had to.
“Uh, Pharma, the scrap are you doing up there?” First Aid asked, his tone unkind and fixed with a glare as he took in Pharma's gluttonous person.
Pharma had affixed himself to the inner communication tower, the antenna shaped like an upright rocket-launcher, threatening to break and to bend beneath Pharma's monstrous mass.
He'd assigned himself the job of lookout.
On call for any disaster in the area.
The number of Autobot miners had grown disastrously low, and every life was precious.
Precarious, even.
By Pharma.
By First Aid.
By Ambulon.
All three were in agreement that Pharma should be on watch from then on.
Their benevolent guard dog.
The typical Autobot-guards were no longer stationed at Delphi, their number scattered and irreparable.
They'd long since fled Delphi and the planet Messatine, mercifully assigned elsewhere by Prowl.
Stepping past First Aid with a scarily serendipitous smile, Pharma ignored the pointed question.
He was simply stressed, and refueling already more than normal. He'd told First Aid several times already, that he'd simply been stress-eating.
At least Ambulon had been happy to blindly accept Pharma's explanation.
He always brought Pharma an extra cube of energon or two, pilfered from the already scarce energon-stores – since the day of Pharma's first excuse…
But it was – not to last.
Pharma's size had since been normalized, as he clambered down the med-bay halls, pelting forwards with unnatural speed onto all-fours. He was much too tall to stand upright anymore…
So he crawled.
Reduced to an animal…
The drastic transformation had been gradual, and morbidly discreet as more and more patients perished in the med-bay.
Or so Pharma thought.
But Ambulon and First Aid weren't stupid.
Just terrified.
Of the monster rising in their midst.
It was a shame – that was all – soon to change.
After all, Pharma no longer had need for a medical-team – if no new patients took up residency at Delphi Medical Facility.
Just a shame.
Hapless prey, both were…
Chewy.
Moist.
Bland.
But tasteless.
Like trash.
But still.
Yum.
Pharma picked his teeth, beyond pleased.
Right outside of Delphi.
Pharma's hideout.
A ship touched down, shaped like a winged
Dorito-chip.
It was orange.
An infuriating color which matched Pharma's hungry, beastial optics.
“Who's ship is that?” He asked aloud, to himself.
“Kup's.” A voice responded behind him.
“Or, it was…”
Pharma spun around, much too slowly for a beast his size. His muscles had been overtaken by fat and blubber. His days of endless slumber atop the empty, icey fringes of Delphi's rooftop hadn't served Pharma's body well.
“Prowl.” Pharma growled. There was a gun pointed towards his head. The barrel was generously long and thick, almost a cannon as it matched the bulk of Pharma's forehead.
“I thought you were dead.” Pharma said plainly, as he looked past and over Prowl. His authority had since evaporated in Pharma's eyes. Prowl, his former commanding officer, was utterly dwarfed as he looked up into Pharma's smiling, crazed expression.
Prowl shook his head, and surprisingly, he bothered to give Pharma an explanation – despite the gun pressed against his forehead.
“Optimus Prime didn't see reason.” Prowl's voice growled, holding a rare twinge of anger – of exhaustion – of resignation…
Pharma's eyes widened, as Prowl bothered to frown.
“I'm no longer an Autobot. I've been demoted.” Prowl said simply, his voice dry, but Pharma knew better – he could smell the mech's distress – the naked devastation – of Prowl's person…
“Am I still an Autobot?” asked Pharma, but it was a rhetorical question, but Prowl took him seriously.
The gun lowered a smidge.
“Do you want to be?” asked Prowl.
Pharma snorted, as he thought over his answer for a few more seconds…
“Not really.” He said simply, honestly.
It wasn't a lie.
Prowl liked that.
Honesty was rare, in his world.
“Do you have it? Did you finish it?” Prowl's tone was strained, his gun twisted sideways in his increasingly tense grip.
Pharma rolled his eyes, as if offended by Prowl's flat, but panicked questions.
“Of course, I do.” Pharma laughed. He wanted to say more, but Prowl looked seconds from blowing his head apart…
‘Okay.’ Pharma thought. ‘No need for a delay, I suppose.’
“I'm going to shift my chest plates apart, so don't freak out, please.” And at Pharma's words, Prowl finally lowered his gun – completely.
Pharma sighed. His relief was apparent – overly dramatic – for a beast his size.
‘Finally. A return to civility.’ He thought.
Pharma's chest plates split apart. A bright light spilled through his white metal, and reflected like a miniature sun, onto the surrounding snow.
Which fizzled, and bled – like hot white smoke.
His spark chamber was bright – an unusual feat for a sparkeater.
Prowl was impressed.
He had to squint his optics, to not be blinded – by the sight…
Pharma's claws pulled wantonly against the object, almost crawling out of his chest by its own volition– as it vibrated with light – shaped like an egg.
It was.
“A new Allspark, as you’ve successfully requested.” Pharma preened, flapping his wings a smidge.
His pride became evident.
Well-earned.
He held out the crystalline egg – the new Allspark – the size of his head.
It was a pearl – a pulsating and faceted gem – of fossilized screaming.
Countless confiscated sparks.
Stolen from his meals.
As was the purpose of a sparkeater.
Prowl picked up the Allspark, as Pharma basically dropped it atop his startled, outstretched hands.
The Allspark was larger than Prowl's entire person, but he was stronger than he looked.
Prowl was stronger than most.
There was a twitch in the corners of Prowl's pressed, flattened expression.
Pharma smiled.
The Allspark egg throbbed – a living, vortex of souls.
His creation.
Ready for ignition – transplantation into eventual new -- perfectly devised bodies.
“Good work.” Prowl said, as his eyes fixated onto the hypnotic creation.
The Allspark was devouring.
Aware.
And burdensome.
To all wandering optics.
Prowl's reflection was faceted like a fly’s eyes, his expression beaming.
Prowl was happy.