Predaking flew fast and hard under the cover of night, both because the Prime had mandated secrecy and because he still disliked the sunlight, the rush of wind and ache in his wing-joints not enough to distract him from the purpose behind his flight.
How dare the organics! While Predaking would never thank Shockwave for returning him to life, the return of his kin was something he could not deny he owed a debt for. It had been difficult - well, even more so than it was now - to deal with this new time, place, and situation without Packmates close to claw.
Predacons were a forgotten terror, predatory machines from a time long gone by. They did not really fit in these late vorns of mechs and their cities and their wars, but he had had no say in the matter. This was the time his people had been returned to; if he had anything to to say on the matter they would be great once again and return Cybertron to its former glory under their rule.
But now that vision of the future was at risk, stolen by the organics that infested this miserable mudball of a planet. He roared his fury at the night, a short plume of fire escaping with the noise. He was a hunter; this hunt should have been simple.
Shockwave’s research had been stolen from one of the secret labs maintained by the monocular logician, and his brethren both ancient and newly made had been taken as well. His Spark ached at the thought - Packmates who would never taste the free air, sparks snuffed before even coming fully alive.
Equally enraging was the thought of the fossils the organics had taken - he had visited the lab before beginning his search, and had recognized the faintest scent left in one of the violated containers. Twinstrike, one of his original Pack, one who had emerged from the Well with him and to whom he had been closer than almost any other.
That what remained of his sibling after all these eons had been desecrated, first by the mechs who would use it to clone an imperfect copy, and then by organics who would do the same, was more than he could allow - hence his (currently) fruitless search.
The scents he had gotten from the lab were tangled and confused skeins, long chains of protein markers and chemical additives so common his processors throbbed from the millions of false positives returned every time he passed over one of the hives the organics seemed to enjoy infesting.
As a pale light began to shine over the far-off horizon, he contemplated landing sites. While the primary star would not be in range for another several hours of local time - he had flown near the upper edge of the atmosphere to give his abused sensors a break - he did not wish to be caught out in it.
Matching action to plan, Predaking stooped towards a likely looking wooded area. It was far enough from most organic habitation to be safe to recharge in while at the same time being close enough to allow the prevailing winds to blow more data for his processing threads to pick apart more carefully.
As he landed somewhat carelessly, he exvented a large chuff of air to clear his vents - this organic world had an inordinate number of things in the atmosphere that got caught in his baffles and the creases of his armor. As his vents cycled the first draft of air afterwards, he froze. An unfamiliar scent hung in the air, one that did not match any signature he’d found before but which had the unmistakable tang of predator to it.
Whipping around to face the source of the scent, he snarled and flared his armor plating in a threat display. No organic would take him by surprise!