“Why did you fight.” The spiky one of the three asked. His gait was heavy, his chest and arms big and chunky like a dolls, and his eyes shone a bright red with white circles within to indicate the focus of his eye.

His question was flat and blunt, and it caused the one with red accents and chest decals to raise an eye ridge. “Revolution, why else? We are the same.”

“Maybe.” He chuckled, like the other two weren’t getting the joke. “Well, I fought to upend our own violent society due to intense caste discrimination. And you?”

“The same. Our world had suffered under function based roles for long enough.”

“But my world didn’t have that, we discriminated on frame type not alt mode.” The spiky one laughed. “Alt modes for us didn’t even exist until the wars started.”

The decorated one hummed, putting a hand to his chin. “I suppose. And you mentioned starting in politics earlier, while I started my revolution from the streets. My writing has been influential.”

Both their optics suddenly drifted to the third one, locked in with them. He was bent down, adjusting and tinkering with a small box which he removed from his own body. “What about you?” The one with red decals asked, but the spiky one just scoffed. “He’s refused to speak since we were taken here.”

But the plain one, as he had no spikes or paint aside from his purple Decepticon badge, looked up. His eyes were blank, lacking a visible optic iris, and his mouth quirked down in a tired and weary frown. “War.” He answered.

“That’s literally the same as everyone in the battle.”

“I’m not like you.” He says, causing the other two to make mildly offended noises, “and I wanted to be.”

They fell silent, and the plain one looked down. “We were separated into two populations, war and domestic. My decepticons were warriors, only made to sew destruction and death.”

“However, the domestic, the Autobots, couldn’t handle having weapons integrated directly into their frames. So, the war frames, the Decepticons, were kept simple minded and used as tools in the endless expansion.”

“Even when some of us, like Shockwave, begged for higher education and roles befitting of their intelligence, we were refused. We have retaliated with violence because it’s the only way we knew how.”

“So you are a revolutionary as well?” The decorated one said, but the plain one only shook his head.

“No, I’m a warrior. I can’t write, I can barely read. I couldn’t have ever been an entertainer,” he nodded towards the spiky one, “or a miner”, he nodded then towards the decorated one.

“I fight because it’s the only option anymore.” He said, his head sinking down into his work again. “I was a general, I exceed at death and command. It’s as easy as venting to me.”

As he finished, a fourth was thrown in. He was smaller then them by a few metres, and two swords sat snugly in their sheath on his back. He held the kibble of an air alt mode, and his eyes danced between them before he fainted.

“Guess you weren’t the only one.” The spiky one laughed, and he got smacked. The plain one went back to his work.