So...it's been a while.

I can't even begin to express my sincerest, deepest, most heartfelt apologies. If you follow me, you'd have seen that I began Fairy Tail, which is extremely long and intensive and amazing and heartbreaking all at the same time. Then there's all the others—Haven, Transformers, Durarara!, Darker than BLACK. And I even rewrote one of my old Danny Phantom and Avengers stories, Arbitrary, into another deeper and darker version.

To be honest, my Transformers stories have been on the down low since my anime and manga binge started again, so I just...I apologize profoundly for that.

Also, I just realized an error with my story. Well, it's kind of an error. To be a serial killer, you have had to have killed three or more separate people at different places and times. So far, Prowl has only killed two at separate places and times. So, technically, this would make him a spree killer. But, as you will see in the last section (no skipping ahead, just read the story) he is now officially a serial killer!

Please accept my apologies and review! It really helps with my writing to know what you guys think!

Smokescreen growled as he paced the length of the room, servos crossed over his broad chest and his wings tucked in low against his back. Prowl had left some joors ago, and his absence left something to the imagination.

He knew that the little golden Seeker was not to be touched, but there was something that attracted the Praxian to him. He had some dim, barely there feeling that if he came to know the mech better, he would be struck in awe at what he was truly capable of.

Shaking his helm roughly, the large black mech strode out of the room, heading towards the private library. He had to clear his processor before he began to think even more irrationally than he already was.

He grunted as he collided with a cool, solid body, rearing back with a deep growl rumbling in his throat. Glaring down at the offender, he bared his dentia in a scowl.

To his surprise, none other than Thunderstrike stared back at him. In the dim lighting of the hallway, his multicolored optics seemed as dark and endless as the deepest recesses of the Pit. The young mech's helm was tilted to the side at an odd angle, and his wings were held in a neutral position as he stared in some strange, morbid curiosity at the larger mech.

"You are not to be outside of the conference hall," Smokescreen growled, wings rising to a dangerous height.

The small mech continued to stare at him, a frown pulling down the corner of his mouthplates. "Master never said that I had to stay in that room. I left because I was lonely." His voice was soft and monotonous, a cold drone that echoed eerily in the nearly vacant hallway.

"Lonely? You have the resources of one of the most powerful mechs on the planet at your disposal," the Praxian hissed, feeling an unwanted sense of dread and unease making its way down his spinal components.

Thunderstrike shook his helm, his optics hooded and almost completely hidden from the light as he frowned deeply. "No, I do not. You have made it perfectly clear that I do not."

"What are you blathering on about? My brother has taken a liking to you." Smokescreen scowled and flicked his wings, the faintest hint of curiosity appearing in his field.

"I am nothing more than a servant. My lord wants nothing more of me," the golden mech muttered, glancing up at the larger mech. "You do, however."

Armor flaring from his frame, the looming mech snarled and bared his dentia, a sign of the temper he was rather well-known for. "What did you say?"

Thunderstrike giggled, bouncing on the balls of his pedes. Wings twitching behind him, he grinned and outstretched a servo, all the while keeping his darkened gaze on the Praxian.

Smokescreen tensed as the young mech's talons came close to scratching his armor, a deep rumble coming from the back of his throat.

"You're strong, aren't you?" Thunderstrike purred, tilting his helm to the side and staring at the larger mech through hooded optics. "You have to be in order to match up to our lord."

"My brother," Smokescreen rumbled and narrowed his optics as the mech began to search for sensitive points on his chassis. "He is my brother."

Thunderstrike growled and leaned against the obsidian mech's chassis, clicking his glossa in mock disappointment. "You and I both know that what you speak is different from what you believe. My lord may be related to you by blood, but he is not what you would call family, is he?" He giggled again, and this time the noise was becoming stained with the insanity the little mech often showed in other places. "Big mech doesn't even know what family is, does he?"

Smokescreen lurched forward, using his momentum to pin the smaller mech against the wall. "You idiotic little weakling. You should know your place. Don't you realize that I could have you demoted?"

"Demoted?" The golden mech threw his helm back to laugh, his chassis trembling and his vents flared to let out heated air. "I am nothing in this army but a mere pet!" His laughter was wild and shaky as his electromagnetic field pulsed erratically. "Nothing but a pet, nothing but a pet, nothing but a pet!"

"You are even crazier than I first imagined." The obsidian mech pressed his weight into the other, surprised at the moan the yellow mech gave.

Thunderstrike stared at him through blazing crimson-black optics, his grin sending a not entirely unwanted chill down the Praxian's backstrut.

"Well? Don't you want to play?"

Stormlancer sat quietly in the shadows of his office, helm resting on his servo and optics dimmed. He had been charged, along with Silverhearth, to decode the riddles that the Incarcerator had left them.

There had been nothing at the first crime scene. The body had been strapped to a chair, and there had been meticulous, almost obsessive neatness with the placement of the cuts, the carvings into the protoform, the way he had carved out just one of the mech's optics.

I am here. Let the game begin, Iacon.

He glared at the digital photo spread out before him, searching for any clue that could give him some sort of answer to the one burning question at the back of his mind.

Why?

Why would someone do something like this? What had that mech deserved, other than a normal, peaceful life, a sparkmate, a home, possibly a child? He could have lived on in old age, died peacefully.

But no. That was not the path fate had given him.

The mech was practically nameless in their records. Aside from his given designation, Quartz, and his last place of employment, there was nothing on him. He had been jobless for vorns, and then he appeared briefly at a lodging building that housed mechs and femmes in need. And then, he vanished. Nothing was left. All trails tied to him had been eradicated, and he just...disappeared.

Centuries later, he shows up tied to a chair, almost minus his optics and presented like some twisted present topped off with a bow. Only, in this case, the bow was the blade sticking out of his chassis.

And then there was the message on the datapad. Bloodstorm had recorded it and sent an audio file to him via comm link.

The message had been given by a mech named Thunderstrike, who claimed to be a servant of the Incarcerator. His words, "I'm new to the fold," offered some sort of insight into the way the killer ran his following—apparently, there were opportunities to rise within the ranks and hold some sort of power that could be comparable to that of their ruler.

Master has big plans for the future. Master has things planned that will make you giddy...he cannot play the game with you fully. He wants to play, but you cannot follow the clues and find him.

Stormlancer growled, baring his dentia in momentary frustration. There were no clues to follow; that was the problem. He tampered with their minds by sending riddles, by showing he believed in some otherworldly game. He left little to nothing at the crime scenes, despite the glorified way he presented his victims.

The first mech—chassis half propped against a metal chair, covered in shredded armor peppered with deep, ghastly lacerations, nanites struggling to perform their task. But the only thing that stood out to any of them was the optic hanging from the socket, the gashes on his faceplates and the metal hanging from the wounds, and the frozen expression of horror that would contort his expression forever.

Heath's body had been even more horrific, but there was a certain cleanliness in the way the body was displayed. The first victim had been strapped to a dirty old metal chair; Heath was hung from the ceiling, his wounds on display for any and all to see, and his faceplates showing that same chilling mask of pure fear that would make any mech or femme's spark run cold.

Stormlancer had tried to make sense of the dismembered body parts as well. There seemed to be no point in the arrangement—it was almost as if a child had put the tank-wrenching images together, merely creating drawings from what they were given. The knives and the gun, however—it just made no sense.

The mech vented heavily and shook his helm, trying to organize his thoughts. He pulled up another datapad, the one containing each riddle found at the crime scene and the one that had been in the video the Incarcerator had sent them.

I am here, and you are there. Where I will strike next, where, oh, where? Madness will plague, games will be vague. Time will run out, and the fuse will run short. Disarming is not an option; fear will be a given notion. The hand will constantly be in motion. Time is running out. Will you win or lose? The death will be personified by a fuse.

Master has big plans for the future. Master has things planned that would make you giddy. But Master is sad, too. Master is sad because he cannot play the game with you fully. He wants to play, but you cannot follow the clues and find him. He's hiding, and you are too weak and conceited to look. You think he will come and expose himself, but he will not. Master is too smart...my Master's plans have already started—what you think you know is merely a fable. There is a moral hidden somewhere, but you will not find it. Not until it is too late.

Time has run short, my pawns. The game will begin soon. Horror is formed in the pit of black despair and doom. Fools believed that the power of deceit grew deep within, but have yet to experience the full potential that flows through the poisoned veins of this world. Fester and rot, it will. Boil and overflow in a cup of molten gold, and infection will spread across the land. Promises run dry and truth is lifeless, for it will be the fate of all animate creatures.

By Primus, he really needed a fresh set of optics on this.

Venting heavily, the black mech rose to his feet and ran his servos over his faceplate. What he needed was a nice, long drink at the nearest Energon bar, but his code of work ethics didn't allow him to do such a thing. Besides, an accident on the job now prevented him from consuming high-grade Energon in overly abundant amounts.

"Jus' how long have ya been 'ere, mech?"

Stormlancer turned to see the Polyhexian bounty hunter leaning against the doorframe. A dangerous smirk curled back his mouthplates and exposed the points of his razor-like dentia.

"Jazz." The black mech turned away, gathering the datapads that were spread out on his desk. "Why are you here? Bloodstorm put you specifically on morning shifts."

The silver-white mech's smirk widened into a grin, and he moved to hover over the larger mech. "Ah'm jus' bein' curious, is all. There ain't no harm in tha', is there?"

Stormlancer continued to clear off his desk, placing the datapads in his subspace and organizing excess materials. "Get out of my office, Jazz."

The Polyhexian frowned, his visor catching the light as he tilted his helm to the side. "Mech, Ah ain't tryna start nothin'. Ya know meh, just a little curious—"

"Out." Optics dark with exhaustion and irritation, the large mech turned to glare at his offender. "I won't ask again."

"Fine, fine. Ah'm out." Jazz turned and waltzed out of the room, waving his servo in the air. "Ah just thought that ya would like ta know—"

Stormlancer cursed, and the cleared datapad in his servos was crushed with barely a second thought. "Get. Out."

Jazz glared at the mech before turning and vanishing.

The black mech vented heavily, casting the broken datapad aside. He could have sworn that he had programmed his emotions to as low as he could handle rationally. Hmm. His factory settings must have made errors in recalibrations.

With one last glance towards the office, Stormlancer shut off the lights and left the building.

He wavered in the velvety darkness, the chill of the room he was in a welcome bliss against his armor. He did not—could not—move. His pedes seemed bolted into the damp metallic earth beneath him, and the feeling of optics on him had returned.

His encounter with the large black Praxian had left much to the imagination. He could remember it all—the talons, the dentia, the pain, the ecstatic agony as his Energon bubbled up to the surface. He wanted more—he needed more. It was a burning desire festering in the bottom of his spark, and he just couldn't get enough of it.

It hadn't really been a surprise when the big black mech had pushed him aside and left the room after their little session. He had more pressing matters; Thunderstrike was not a simple-minded fool. He knew that being the second eldest brother to his lord was no easy task.

He shuddered and leaned heavily against the nearest wall, his talons gouging out shreds of metal.

I want you to show me every twisted, disgusting thought you've ever had. I want your gaze to crush my bones, and I want your words to tear my flesh apart.

Golden armor rippling over a lean, powerful frame, the mech groaned and sunk to a sprawled sitting position with his back against the wall. His wings hissed out their agitation, but his body had been trained to take a sheer pleasure in the infliction of pain. He was used to it, and it was something he could understand. But what was confusing him was the fact that Smokescreen, second to only the horrific power of his eldest brother, had taken an interest in him.

Graceful and beautiful. That's what you are. His mind hissed tempting words at him; it was his only way of attempting to make sense of this mess. But he was confused. He was neither of those things. Graceful was reserved for the femmes who watched where they stepped or moved without a sound. Beautiful was a word used to describe an aesthetically pleasing mech or femme, and he was simply a lap dog for a glorified crime lord.

What? No. No. Don't think bad of your lord. He is your savior.

Savior? Don't confuse yourself. You don't even know the meaning of the word.

Don't listen to them. He saved you from being without a spark on the side of the street.

A low whine escaped the back of his throat, and he began to rock back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Without a spark? Less of a spark? Is that—do you speak of a whole spark or a part of a spark?

Does it matter? You need your emotions. You need your control—for something to hold your leash and tell you sit and think.

But if I was sparkless, would that mean I would have to apologize? For having no feeling or remorse?

Ha! Why would you apologize for being sparkless? No one would have apologized for making you that way.

He was acting like a fool, having his mind all over the place. There was nothing wrong with being sparkless, with having your emotions tuned down to just about nothing, with disregarding idiotic comments.

Thunderstrike froze, a grin appearing on his faceplates.

He finally understood.

Smokescreen had chosen him because he saw the darkness. The endless abyss filled with pain, regret, hatred, insanity. He saw it, and he had been given a taste of it for nothing but a brief moment. And he knew that he would come back for more and more and more. Every time.

The darkness concealed the truth for both of them, and he supposed it would have to take more than just one mech to see what stood before them, lurking in the shadows, and struggled to reveal itself as a threat.

Once upon a time, there was a young mech.

And he grew up and turned into a monster.

The demon loomed over him, endless optics burning a hole into what little that remained of his soul. Thunder rumbled in the back of its throat and hellfire burned in its servos as it tilted its horned helm in some strange confusion.

And the little mech laughed and waved at the beast as the blood and screams of his tormentors bathed the land.

Follow me, the beast roared, leathery wings flared and razor teeth bared. Follow me and you will know the purpose of the true darkness within you?

The mech was confused. He had no purpose. He had been abandoned. No one had ever cared for him. He already knew about the darkness inside of him.

The monster told him stories about how he could never truly hide, about how he could never truly be safe. Because even though he knew how to control the endless abyss growing inside of his spark, he would never amount to his true potential.

There is no such thing as true potential, hissed the monster as it laid waste to yet another imaginary town. There is only lies and regret. That is what makes you stronger.

And the little mech knew then that the darkness was the only thing comforting him in this strange, twisted world.

Bloodstorm groaned as an incessant ringing sounded in his audio, running his servos over his faceplate.

"What?"

/Bloodstorm, I thought I told you to keep the Polyhexian on a very tight leash./

"Stormlancer." The triple-changer vented heavily and stood, stretching his wings out with a grimace. "What did Jazz do?"

/Interrupted my studies, for one. And we have advanced nowhere with the riddles. There just isn't anything that's connecting them. I don't know./ The mech let out a deep, long vent and was silent for a moment. /We need another set of optics on this./

"You were at the Enforcer Headquarters?" Bloodstorm demanded, heading over to stare out of the large, wall-length window on the opposite side of the room. "I thought I specifically told you to go home and take a break."

/Clearly, I did not do that./ There was a moment of silence before the mech spoke again. /I won't remind you about the Polyhexian again./

"He has a name," the triple-changer found himself saying, not entirely against his will. "Perhaps you wouldn't feel the way you do if you took the opportunity to get to know him."

/Why would I ever do that? Unless he shows some way of actually being useful, I won't count on him for anything./

"You haven't changed a bit, have you? Still the same ancient mech with a spitfire temper."

/Hmm. Are you sure you aren't describing yourself?/

A gravelly laugh left the crimson mech as he stared out of the window towards the traffic on the ground. "I am far from old, Stormlancer. You have been around much longer than I have."

/Sure, I have. But that makes me automatically older and wiser than you./

"Watch your tone," the winged mech growled, tilting his helm to the side. "You always said our relationship was strained."

/And you are the one who listened to me./ Stormlancer vented heavily, and there was a brief moment of silence. /Are you at home?/

Bloodstorm rolled his optics, his engines rumbling faintly. "Where else would I be?"

/Ah...forget what I said. I will speak to Silverhearth and see if she is busy./

Letting out a puff of air in irritation, the triple-changer frowned and clenched his servos into fists. His talons dug into the tender, still-healing scars that were left behind by past endeavors. "Speak plainly, mech."

/I just said I would talk to Silverhearth about it. Go bother Darkblade if you want to talk some more./ Before Bloodstorm could react, the other mech had ended the communications link and left him sitting in silence.

"The truth is, every monster you have met or will ever meet, was once a human being with a soul that was as soft and light as silk. Someone stole that silk from their soul and turned them into this. So when you see a monster next, always remember this. Do not fear the thing before you. Fear the thing that created it." ~Nikita Gill

He was created to strip every last one of them of their breath, and to destroy those things that could be considered beautiful. His purpose was to burn them all down. Burn them all down to the ground until nothing remained but their smoldering ashes.

His mission was to bring the world to its knees and to hear his designation spoken only in trembling and fearful murmurs.

He was created to be a monster.

To be a monster, he had to research, to delve deep into the farthest recesses of his mind and of those cheerful minds around him. He had had to break them down into their simplest components to understand how they worked and what made them tick—which could mean literally or metaphorically, depending on his mood.

The taste of the grime on the harsh metallic earth beneath him was ever-present in the back of his mouth, a bitter and wretched, acidic remnant of what the world used to be like before the otherworldly being—Primus—had decided to set foot on their home planet.

Your creativeness knows no bounds, monster, he thought quietly to himself as he paced the length of the alleyway. You created this world if only for one single purpose—to fuel your excessive ego.

He licks the Energon from his sharpened talons, a deep rumble of content thundering within his chassis. He looked on in satisfaction, moving carefully as to not draw further attention to himself. The Praxian's wings were held high, displaying his dominance and the need for absolute and divine control.

Do not think for one moment that you are safe. Do not think that your praise will protect you from me.

Do not think that I will hesitate to stain my mouth with your blood.

Crimson optics burning dangerously bright, the mech growled and clenched his servos into fists. He did not like this feeling. He did not like losing control over his emotions.

"You make me feel," he hissed, softly and fiercely, digging his claws deep into the metallic flesh of his bound and gagged prey. "You make me feel, and I do not like it. Not one bit."

Take it away. Take it all away.

The creator of their world was nothing but a mere lie. A pure fallacy that fueled the wants and needs of the fanatical many.

I have seen the fall of our world. I have heard the screams of the dying and have devoured the souls of their livestock.

I have feasted on their internals and drunk the blood of kings.

"But, my dear mech," he murmured as he circled the lifeless corpse. "There is order in the belly of chaos."

Primus was a myth. There was no divine force or presence that created something out of nothing. The divine mechs and femmes, the ones with the apparent mental ability to see into the future, were nothing more than thieves and liars that feasted on the brainchild of the needy.

You think you are as strong as me because the ground trembles beneath your feet and the slightest murmur from your throat cause the wind to scream? You think simply because you are larger than me that you hold power? Do not forget that inside this body, there lies an ancient and almighty soul as powerful as the ancient days that is ready to suck the life out of you.

He paused in his musings, draping his wings over the remnants of the terminated mech. Perhaps he was losing his hold on reality again. It wouldn't be the first time.

His wings twitched as a ringing sounded in his audial fin. Rumbling softly, he tilted his helm to the side and activated the hidden button.

/Brother, blue mech seems to go after the object of your desires./ The soft, broken voice of his youngest echoed through his processor. /Young One cannot find them on the cameras or the fields./

"Young One, who showed you how to use the communication links?" the eldest Praxian demanded quietly, straightening to his full height and frowning slightly.

The little mech only giggled, high and lilting laughter that would have any normal mech shuddering in their armor. /Little One knows the basics. No fancy calculations, just little things, like me. Brother, I want you back. You left without telling me./

"I will return in due time, Young One," the Incarcerator murmured, his claws sinking into rotted metallic flesh with little resistance. "You must learn to be patient. I told you to work on that."

/I don't wanna work on it. I want you here with me./

Venting sharply, the Praxian flicked his wings and growled deeply. "Young One. Brother is busy with his work. He cannot come home right now."

/The yellow mech and Big Brother fornicate in the halls, brother. Young One thought you ought to know./

Prowl bared his dentia, optics narrowing to slits. "I specifically ordered Thunderstrike to be left alone and unbothered. Has he defied my orders?"

/Mmm-hmm. Fornication comes into play very much, Big Brother. He likes the taste of insubordination./

Letting out a heavy vent, the eldest Praxian fanned out his wings and headed for the back exit of the warehouse he was in. "Tell the pawns to await further orders. I will deal with Smokescreen when I return. And Young One—"

/Hmm?/

"—keep your servos off of Thunderstrike. He. Is. Mine."

/Mmm-hmm. Okay, Big Brother! Young One hopes to see you soon!/

Shutting off the link, Prowl turned one last time to gaze at his masterpiece.

At last, the final piece falls into play.

I realized just a few hours ago (from the time I posted this chapter) that the preceding chapter was 7,802 words. Yes, I know this chapter is nowhere near as long, but I got what I wanted to out of the way.

There's a little insight to Stormlancer and his relationship with Bloodstorm and Jazz in this chapter. Let me know what you think about that.

The next chapter will have a bit of Silverhearth in it, but I'm going to start putting together the clues (can anyone guess how they line up?) and the ideology that Prowl has on the creation of the world. It's more important than you probably think right now. Leave your ideas in a review!

Note to Jazzilyn Hall: I know it seems that I've abandoned Sepulchral. And I want to express my humblest and deepest apologies for that. The last chapter is something I'm still working on because I'm trying to organize what I want to do exactly in order to wrap the entire story up. Basically, it covers part of Jazz's recovery and how Bloodstorm is dealing with it. So please, please, please don't hate me for that.

To the rest of you: review, review, review! :D