Ratchet Transformers Prime Novels & Stories

"He's changed hasn't he. I hadn't noticed it until the other night when you left. He lost control but not in the way that you think. You did something unexpected beyond his gaze and it infuriated him." "What are you talking about? Just tell me already," I raised my voice slightly, feeling frustrated and agitated. I just wanted somebody to say the words that I had been in denial about since the moment his knee connected with my father's skull. "Prime has awakened," he said the three dreaded words. "How do you know that," I asked slowly, watching the swirls of the mark on my arm. It vaguely resembled the at symbol but had more swirls that formed more letters. There was an 'a' and what looked l

They lead certain lookouts for any spotted offender in line with the job they are called for; fishing out the weres, vamps and zombs. Normally, Tartal was the creator of the zombies, a grave sin totally considering the fact that they are originations from dead humans and this reason, the rogues were even careful not to mingle with him. That should also explain how easy it was for them to have had an alliance with Rex. What a betrayer! After they've digested the whole game thing, a fight erupted quickly. Mia on her part was trying to disguise her moves in case they were going to find her out like that.

His hole clenched rhythmically, slick and aching, the child’s kicks sending ripples of alien pleasure through his core with every movement. Damian was strapped to a chair directly opposite, wrists and ankles secured with reinforced cuffs, the matching collar locked around his throat. Fresh marks from Prime’s earlier “session” still bloomed across his chest and back—red welts from the crop, bruises from fists. The real Damian was still in there, fighting, waiting. But the clone’s control was tightening with every passing hour. Prime leaned forward, fingers steepled, a perfect replica of Damian’s calculating expression. “You sabotaged the reactors,” Prime said, voice identical to Damian’s but

The transition of power within a criminal empire is never recorded in ink; it is christened in the silent, violent cessation of breathing. By 04:52 AM, the platinum Level Prime Sovereign Token resting in Dante Rossi’s tactical pouch had successfully re-keyed every biometric lock in Villa Valeriano, but the weight of that crown was already crushing the remaining fragments of his federal conscience. The title of Primary Security Chief was not a shield—it was a blood-soaked engine that demanded constant, brutal synchronization.