He woke up on a battlefield.

This wasn't unusual or worrisome; he liked fighting. It was in his core programing to fight. There were echos to that thought, to maim, to conquer, to lie, to endure. He paid the echos no mind. They weren't unusual, either. They were as much a part of him as his hands, his fuel pumps.

He wasn't sure where he was, or what had happened before he awoke and found himself here. Or rather, he knew too much of how he'd come to be here, and he was equally certain of all five contradictory memories. It didn't matter, really. Everything that came before meant very little, like individual parts meant very little before they were fitted together to become a weapon. All that mattered was the solid oneness of the weapon, each part working together until they were indistinguishable from the others in the function of the device. None more important than the others, and without any one of them, the weapon would be rendered useless.

The comparison was pointless to him. He was whole. He was one. He was indestructible in his power. There were enemies around him. He would destroy the Autobots - the echos came again, only one this time but somehow more determined, as if all the echos were united in this once - destroy everyone in our way. Much of him wanted to turn and find Megatron, to challenge the commander on the spot, but he could not.

The chip, he thought, and cursed it.

He wished he could simply rip it out and be done with it. But he could not. All he could do was take out his anger and frustration on the enemies before him.

That one, echoed in his head, excited. His optics focused on that one, an Autobot that meant nothing to him, that he wanted so much. Glee mixed with bloodthirsty rage and annoyed disgust, tempered by a calculating approval and finally a sense of resignation. He was decided.

Bruticus struck.