Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Outpost QC-1-Alpha was an insignificant Decepticon command garrison overlooking Quasar Canyon, a craggy 4,000 foot deep land corridor that funneled into the plains  of Polyhex. 

The enormous gorge was the only safe route from the Polyhex bloc- comprising Polyhex, Tarn, and the area that used to be Vos- to the rest of the continent. It sliced clear through the myriad dangers present in the Sea of Rust, and rumbled with the ever-present march of supply caravans and military convoys moving from the Decepticon capital to its other strongholds. 

Officially, QC-1-Alpha and the other outposts- from QC-1 to -15, stations built zigzagging across the canyon rim- were to ensure that no Autobot ambushes attempted to sever or sabotage the arterial supply lines. Guarding the canyon was not particularly very important or interesting work, as it was nearly at the heart of Decepticon territory and was thusly far from battle (unless an Autobot was insane enough to cross the Sea of Rust coming from Iacon or Crystal City, which lay to the northwest and southeast of Polyhex, respectively, but that had never happened). 

Overseeing Quasar Canyon was a comfortable and monotonous posting for a soldier. It was where mechs were stuck when they were too eager, incompetent, old, or influential to see fighting.

For Megatron- a liberated miner relatively fresh from the quarries of Kaon, and even fresher from the front line- it was an assignment worse than the Pits. 

Oh, he was the commanding officer overseeing all of the Quasar Canyon Outposts- sporting a force of a hundred and fifty or so miserable, out-of-shape mechs scattered across a four hundred miles of canyon- which was a position higher than ninety-five percent of the Decepticon army. But waiting out the war in a metal box overlooking a gorge wouldn’t win him any medals. No supporters. No accolades. No victory. 

Megatron was too ambitious. That was why he had been stuck back here with the cowards and invalids. If he were returned to fight on the front lines, he was certain he would’ve shot up so quickly through the ranks that he would’ve been leading the Decepticons within a vorn— especially since he had very few qualms about severing High Lord Commander Straxus’s head from his neck in order to secure himself the position of sovereign. 

As it was, Megatron was in his cramped office surrounded by the daily field reports dutifully filed by the sub-commanders of each QC garrison, and he badly wanted to excuse himself from reading Clobber’s indecipherable handwriting or Dead End’s gloomy prose. Target practice and combat drills, which his pathetic unit despised, were his only relief from the tedium. While flicking through data-pads and verifying scrawled signatures and transmission codes, Megatron idly imagined springing a surprise combat exercise on his habitually unready troops. The younger ‘bots stationed with him, at least, could be fun to smack around. 

The floor minutely shook, distracting Megatron from his daydream. It indicated another heavy convoy rolling through. He pinged his chronometer, recalling from a previous transmission that they were due to have a well-stocked supply caravan bringing energon through to Polyhex at around now.

Megatron noted the exact time in his daily log and figured this was enough desk-jockeying for now. He rose from his chair to allow his spinal struts a chance to decompress. He swiveled and stretched, actuators and pistons popping as they slotted back into place after what felt like an eternity hunched over his desk. Megatron flexed his servos, the rightmost one having cramped from writing; though Megatron could work tirelessly in the tunnels for entire cycles without so much as a pause, writing tired him out far quicker than pickaxe-slinging. 

In-between shuffling around useless reports, Megatron had been working on his own compositions of political philosophy and strategy, informed by his reading of innumerable dense texts by Cybertronian thinkers and warriors and aided stylistically by guides on prose. The former miner knew full damned well that he wasn’t going to get anywhere in the Decepticon hierarchy with a reputation as a slavering brute; he would need oratory skills, persuasive rhetoric, and a good guiding ideology to supplant the current dogma and leadership, in addition to his innate ferocity, strength, and cunning. 

Perhaps the only good thing about this post was that it let Megatron cultivate his mind, even at the cost of his reputation and physical peak. 

A narrow head poked its way into his office. It was his new communications officer- a transplant after the last had deserted a dozen solar cycles ago- though Megatron did not recall her name at the moment.

“Sir,” she said, nodding respectfully. She was a dainty red-and-black mech, and Megatron’s office- scaled around his size- made her seem childishly small. “I’m here to give you your updated transmission codes.”

They refreshed every week, in case Autobot spies had gotten ahold of them. Megatron nodded, gesturing for her to go on. Verbally was the safest form to convey the codes— dataslates could be stolen and secure radio frequencies could be unscrambled, after all. 

She delivered them promptly and Megatron jettisoned the last set from his memory at the same time he seared in the new string of unnecessary long and complicated glyphs. 

“Unless there was anything else, you’re dismissed, …” Megatron hesitated, forgetting her name. 

She gave him a piteous smile, obliging him: “It’s—”

Megatron abruptly held up a hand for silence, cutting her off. He heard a distant roar, loud and mechanical, which became louder and higher as it drew closer. The trembling underfoot had ceased, though Megatron had not realized when that was. 

“Rust storm?” His CO asked, wide-opticed. “A magnetic tornado?” 

“The weather reports were clear,” Megatron murmured. His fuel pump’s tempo rose, beating energon quickly through his lines to match the speed of Megatron’s racing processors. His spark surged, though he tried to temper his expectations. Don’t get your hopes up, it’s probably nothing. It’s more likely than not nothing. 

There was a distant explosion, then the clear and sharp sound of energy rays going off. A moment later, there was the clear tattering reply of gunfire. 

That was not nothing. Megatron wanted to howl in delight. Action! Action! 

The violence continued for a moment; the earth shook beneath their pedes to the brassy sound of further explosions and the clattering echo of resulting rockslides. This could not have been an accident— the only explanation was Autobot incursion.

Immediately after the initial din, the data pad in front of Megatron lit up with a squalling distress call, point of origin naught but half a mile away. There was little point in restraint now. 

“Radio the other outposts,” Megatron barked at his CO, who jerked in surprise. She had glazed over with vacuous terror from the sound of war thundering on their doorstep. As Megatron relayed instructions to her, he began bolting on the enormous weight of his fusion cannon; it was sleek, black, heavy, and the length of his arm. He’d yet to see something a charged shot couldn’t punch straight through. “Get QC-2 through 5 to send half their troops our way, then 10 through 7 to reinforce 6, in case we cannot hold here. 11 through 14 will group on 15 for a last stand; if it comes to it, Polyhex’s garrisons will send reinforcements. I’ll give more instructions as the situation develops.” 

“S-sir,” she stammered, snapping into an instinctive salute. She must have been higher-caste before the war; perhaps she even had some actual military training, in the theoretical sense. 

“Go!” Megatron snarled, and she fled the room. He was right on her heels. 

He sent a broadband frequency to the eight other miserable soldiers on the base: “All units, prepare for battle! You will meet me on the canyon rim in half a breem. Quartermaster, retrieve pitons and carbon fiber cables. Everyone else, ready your weapons and sparks for war! Standby for more orders.” 

They would have to rappel down the gorge; if nothing, to aid the convoy that had been ambushed. 

Megatron finally burst from within the outpost and into open air; his optics automatically switched from the normal light spectra to infrared while he adjusted from the warm glow of the base to the smeary navy-blue darkness of night. The pressing choke of the Sea of Rust’s ever-present dust storms loomed in every direction but over the pit of Quasar Canyon, the dense particulates making it even more impossible to see his surroundings by refracting moonlight. 

Silver-stained earth groaned beneath his pedes as Megatron pounded towards the canyon rim; Outpost QC-1-Alpha was positioned around three hundred feet away from the edge, maximizing strategic positioning while attempting to avoid the whole base breaking away and plunging into the canyon due to the infrequent earthquakes the region was plagued by. 

Megatron commed his watchmech, who was supposed to be overlooking the canyon rim and reporting any trouble: as a matter of fact, he should’ve been messaged the announced time of arrival as soon as the supply convoy was spotted. It was not unusual for his soldiers to have failed in their duties, but at this particular junction it was extremely frustrating. “Situation report!” 

Silence met him; he made three more furious inquiries, none of which was answered.

He sent the next ping to the whole base: “Dead End is supposed to be on watch! Has anyone seen him?”

He received a hail of meek or terrified “no”s. 

Dead End was not the kind of moron who would leap into battle and get himself killed. It was far more likely he had found somewhere safe to hide and hoped not alerting his comrades to the threat would increase his chances of survival. Megatron ground his denta in frustration. 

As he drew closer to the edge, the cacophony of weapons grew louder. Down in the canyon he could see streaks of exchanged laser fire lighting up the darkness; one of the convoy trucks had overturned and was leaking dark oil into the ground. A fire had started, furious orange flames making stark shadows of all of the warriors down below.

Megatron couldn’t tell whose side was whose. 

“Captain,” the quavering voice of his CO spoke, “Reinforcements are on their way. Four breems.” 

“It’s not soon enough,” Megatron murmured. The clear gulf between the two sides had split as one group flanked and outmaneuvered; the movement was erratic, difficult to see in the dark and from the extreme distance— only through the slices of color from infrared could he make sense of them. They must’ve been the enemies, the Autobots, though from Megatron’s time on the front lines of the war, he couldn’t remember them ever moving quite like that. 

Predacons? He wondered, a pang of doubt running through him. Some new horror crawling out of the Sea of Rust? 

He could not wait for his quartermaster to arrive. Tingling with nervous anticipation, the desire to aid his comrades and- more importantly- kill his enemies, Megatron set foot to the canyon lip and loomed over. 

It was not a survivable fall if he charged off the edge like a moron. But perhaps if he slowed his descent…

He hooked his fingers into the rock experimentally. It took some doing, but it buckled under his grip. 

It would be enough. 

“I am going ahead,” Megatron declared. He knew that, as the outpost’s commander, his place was at the top of the canyon coordinating, but the wounded Decepticons below did not have the luxury of waiting for seven useless ‘bots to get off their lazy afts and strap their weapons on. 

“Sir!” His CO objected. 

“Keep me abreast of any developments,” Megatron bade. He pushed himself off the edge. “Let me know when the reinforcements are here.” 

His plating flashed up sparks at the grating slide, but the pain was minimal; he controlled his descent by digging in his pedes and servos, managing a quick heading due to the generous slope. 

Megatron switched to a broader frequency, radioing the mechs below; fresh transmission codes were exchanged and accepted. 

“This is Outpost QC-1-Alpha’s commanding officer, Captain Megatron, reporting to your distress signal. I need a situation report.”

“Thank Primus!” A voice squealed. The communication was crackly, eaten with static begotten by power fluctuations. “This is Long Haul, one of the ‘bots in charge of EC-67. We’re under attack!”

“I can see that,” Megatron replied, tartly. Some dark shape scythed through the air behind the overturned tanker, and a ringing cry of pain- however distant- pierced Megatron’s audials. There had been a ceaseless pounding of explosions and laser fire, movement and countermovement as positions were assumed and lost. Any vocalizations were quickly swallowed in the chaos. “Have you identified your attackers?”

“Whoever they are, they can fragging fly, and they’re using it to their advantage!” 

Megatron blanched for a moment. Autobots didn’t fly. They must’ve been scavenging Predacons, as he’d thought earlier. 

“How many?”

“Ten, maybe?” Long Haul was frantic. “We shot one down, but there’s only three of us left!” 

Megatron took careful aim. The barrel of his fusion cannon warmed; the heat tingled across his entire arm, contrasting against the cold air. The squealing grind of his leg and chassis against the cliff was whited out; he concentrated, targeting parameters set and battle protocols anticipating the swooping turns of his prey.

The recoil from his weapon was devastating, and only through countless cycles of practicing could Megatron automatically accommodate for the heavy kick. His elbow slammed against the rock face in a spray of sparks regardless. 

A streak of white-hot energy- edges crisped with purple- briefly soared through the air, then gratifyingly hit. An animalistic shriek of pain wafted up from below, and the wounded ‘bot went into a suicidal plunge. Plumes of black smoke billowed, flames leaping from the melting hole Megatron had just punched through their plating. 

“Now we’ve shot down two,” Megatron said, steadily. Long Haul laughed, hysterical and relieved. A small shape moved from the shelter of the energon tanker, blasting a volley at one of the hovering vultures; it wheeled away, engines roaring. 

“Take that, you scum!” 

Unfortunately, Megatron had put attention on himself with his little stunt. Two of the winged predators peeled off from the assault of the energon caravan to go straight for him. They soared close enough that he could make out angular wings and thrusters on his infrared. No limbs- they were aircraft. 

They weren’t Predacons.

They weren’t Autobots.

They were…

Fliers?

Megatron’s confusion slowed his reaction time. The fliers’ laser fire stippled the cliff beside him, melting rock into hot, putty-soft slag. He managed to dodge by rolling across the cliff- or their aim had been poor from the outset- and sluggishly returned fire of his own with a few weaker blasts. None of his shots hit— it was going to be much harder to hit nimble airborne enemies now that he’d lost the element of surprise. 

Fliers.

Megatron had thought fliers were extinct, or at the very least so far up in their lofty towers that they’d never set plating nor pede on the ground again. What on Cybertron were nearly a dozen fliers doing here? 

Had Autobot diplomats managed to succeed where leagues of Decepticons had failed? The fliers were supposed to be shunning the war. They’d unmoored their entire cities from the dirt in favor of sulking up in the clouds, waiting for the ground pounders to kill one another. Vos had ascended into the sky on the first official day of the war to avoid getting shelled with Polyhex and Tarn; Megatron had seen old photos of it when it had been anchored in the ground, and in person he’d seen the jagged crater where the entire damned city had snapped itself loose from the planet to enjoy the peace of the the lower atmosphere. 

“Get me Lord Tarn,” Megatron ordered his CO. “We have Vosians!” 

“What?!” She exclaimed. “Nobody’s seen a flier in a hundred—”

“I’m looking right at them!” Megatron snarled, forcing one to peel away when he pumped weak shots in its direction. He dug in his heels- the struts squealing in protest- to slow his descent and make the other one miss its next pass of laser fire. “At least nine fliers! Contact that bloviated idiot Tarn or get me someone who will!” 

The silence was obeisance, Megatron hoped. He took a shot at a flier attempting to flank the sheltering shape he thought was Long Haul, managing to shear through their wing. The scream was gratifying, and Long Haul’s whoop of joy almost as much so. 

Megatron was running out of ground to slide against. He was two-thirds of the way to the bottom, and once he had reached the ground, he would be at a decisively disadvantageous position against fliers. He would have to hope that they’d—

“Megatron!” It was his CO crying out. Before he could tell her to shut up and keep the comms clear, her chatter made his spark freeze. “They’re in the base!” 

Not good. None of his soldiers, as far as Megatron was aware, had ever seen combat outside of a drill. If the cantankerous old quartermaster- the only one likely to have fought anywhere- had, he was too old and stiff to fight properly now. 

“How many?”

“T-there’s only two, but I saw Sparkheap and Jumble get…” her exhalation was tremorous, “They got cornered, and…” 

They’d never stand a chance. 

“Hide,” Megatron ordered, a command he hated to give. He switched to a broader frequency, reserved for his Outpost’s intercommunication; he hadn’t been monitoring it in the wake of the more immediate trouble in the canyon, and he vaguely realized he might have been ignoring potential screams for help. “Sound off!” 

He heard a glitched bleep of static that sounded an awful lot like a death rattle; after a pause, he heard his CO’s soft whimper of confirmation. 

No one else?

The fliers must’ve invaded the outpost just as Megatron had taken his plunge over the edge. He briefly wondered if he could have saved his squadron if he had waited, but the speculation was quickly shelved as the two attacking him wheeled around once again.

“Bridgebuilder and Roughneck are down,” Long Haul moaned in his audial. “It’s just me left. Oh, Primus…” 

“I’m almost there,” Megatron barked. “Hold tight.” 

Megatron managed to hit one of his attackers, but they returned the favor— he snarled as his right shoulder flared white-hot with pain. Though the laser did not quite manage to pierce through the bulky armor plating, it still hurt like a punch from Unicron himself. The one he’d wounded managed to not drop out of the air, but with its injury it was unable to control its steering and careened into the canyon wall with a horrific rattling explosion. The second attacker immediately peeled away, soaring over the canyon rim and out of sight. 

Megatron finally came to a halt with a nasty crunch of his joints when his pedes hit the canyon’s bottom; his entire left side, which he had been taking the grinding punishment of the cliff face, was scratched to the Pits so badly no amount of buffing could’ve possibly made it right again. The scrapes throbbed, but not so painfully that they impeded him. He straightened, scanning the sky for enemies.

The fliers weren’t circling anymore. Megatron’s optics darted, looking for them, but even his infrared could not make them out. Scattered to the sky? Hiding behind the enormous, bright-red wall of the energon tanker? There were plenty of cooling bodies scattered around it, but one well-positioned flier might be hard to spot amidst the Decepticon wreckage. 

Megatron advanced towards the convoy, cannon barrel hot in anticipation of trouble. The fliers’ disappearance was more disconcerting than being shot at; all that remained was the smoldering wreckage of the three he’d shot down, and a fourth that must’ve been done in by Long Haul and his team. The silence, after the raging cacophony of the firefight, rang in Megatron’s audials. 

“Long Haul? Are you still online?” 

“Yeah, I’m here, uh… Megatron, you said?”

“Did you see them retreat? I’ve lost my visual.” 

“About that…” Long Haul said, hesitantly. 

Slowly he emerged from where he was sheltered behind the overturned tanker, servos carefully held at head-height; Megatron’s actuators clenched and his pistons slid, dropping him into a crouch, when the sleek shape of a flier emerged from behind Long Haul. The narrow barrels of Vosian null-rays were aimed at the Decepticon’s back. 

“Don’t shoot,” the flier called.  

“Please,” Long Haul added, helpfully. 

“You lost the privilege to not be fired upon when you attacked first,” Megatron snapped, cannon glowing hot and leveled at the flier’s faceplate. The former miner was not dropping his guard; he kept his audials pricked for the telltale whine of engines or the heavy movement of pedes on stone behind him. His sensory array was cranked to its fullest, anticipating the ambush he knew was coming. 

“I’ve regained it by taking a hostage, haven’t I?” The flier pressed. She tapped the nozzle of her null-ray against Long Haul’s back. “We’ve also got a hostage in the facility above. Let us leave with the energon tanker and you can have both of them, alive.”

“Even if I was going to negotiate with you, which I am not,” Megatron scoffed, “That much energon is worth more than this fool, my communications officer, and myself. It’s worth more than how many people you’ve already terminated to get it.”

Megatron was aware of the shapes that crept up from the jagged terrain of the canyon bottom; flier bodies might’ve been angular and sleek, but their wings were like glowing neon signs signaling their positions. Optics of a myriad of different colors stared out at him, as well as the bright glow of their biolights; they wanted him to know they were there, or they would’ve switched them off. It was an intimidation tactic. It wouldn’t work. 

“There’s still seven of us and one of you,” the flier pressed. “Let’s parley.”

If Megatron stalled them long enough, the reinforcements from Outpost QC-2 would eventually arrive… but they would be just as useless as the ‘bots that had already been terminated. He would have to chase these fliers off himself or not at all.

Megatron’s shoulder ached. His battered side was sending up resentful flares of muted pain. If he lived through this, he was going to have to write all kinds of incident reports and transfer paperwork and other logistical nightmares. He might even get demoted, since his higher-ups were desperately looking to impede his progress to leadership.

Megatron switched his aim to the energon tanker’s main fuel line. It was heavily armored, but his cannon had been humming with built charge for nearly an entire klik, and it would easily punch through.

Punch through, then explode with enough force to make a completely new canyon, not to mention wipe out everything in a thousand foot radius. Megatron was gratified to see some of the fliers’ wings nervously flick in the dark, their forms edging backwards. 

The flier next to Long Haul followed the trail of his aim.

“You wouldn’t,” she said, but her note of disbelief was thin and fearful. “You’d kill yourself.”

“And you,” Megatron replied, happily. “Perhaps I would even make the rank of Major, postmortem, for my valor in defeating the enemies of High Lord Commander Straxus. Perhaps not. Either way, I will be resting cozily in the Well of Allsparks and you will be strewn into little bits across this canyon.” 

“We cannot leave empty-handed,” the flier hissed, indignantly. 

“Then—”

Whining engines pricked against Megatron’s processors. He spun on heel, firing a shot at the flier who had just lunged for him— they burst into a smoldering fireball, raining molten metal and steaming energon. The scream was swallowed in the shower of debris. 

The flier’s sacrificial distraction gave all the others the opportunity to fire on him. Long Haul yelled an impotent warning. 

Laser fire sheared through Megatron, even though he immediately began to seek cover after his cannon blast. His entire sensor net lit up with stabs of agony, his HUD pinging him with damage reports— Megatron was painfully aware of each lance of energy as they ricocheted against his armor, and finally howled in desperate trebles of pain as some of them went through and pierced vital equipment. 

Megatron scrambled to take cover behind a rocky outcropping- he had managed to hit at least four of them before he took a shot to the knee joint so bad he could no longer run- and cycled his fans, vents blowing hot steam. He tried to think, to plan. 

Even if all of his shots had been killing, there were three more fliers to account for, and he couldn’t move. Energon was weeping out of the dappled holes in his armor, steaming painfully as it came in contact with the malleable, heat-doughy puncture wounds. His knee was holding on only by a thready attachment joint. 

“Surrender!” The flier demanded. Megatron curved his arm around the rock and blind-fired, though the lack of pained squealing told him he missed. 

He was met with a warning pinging against his HUD— energon at 64%. Hull integrity at 56%. His optics were beginning to dull, and functions rerouted as they attempted to focus on the critical sustainment of life: keeping his processor functional and his fuel lines pumping. Power drained from his cannon, and he groaned in irritation and pain, attempting a manual override. He jammed his way through repeated system efforts at warning him against it. 

He swung the barrel up as a flier popped in front of his field of view, but she kicked it aside and her fist made a resounding crunch from the collision with his face.

That sound caught and stuttered in his audials, optics cracking. A delicate portion of his brain module or vital processor circuit might’ve broken from the force; whatever the case, Megatron had just a nanoklik to furiously think don’t go into stasis lock before the rushing black void of stasis lock consumed him.

Chapter Text

Megatron woke up. 

He was lying down, someplace flat and modestly comfortable. He attempted to take in his surroundings- the broken aperture blades of his optics unable to bring things into focus- and was able to gather almost no information from sight and sound. To make matters worse, there was a sensation of heavy fatigue pressing down on his processor, making it nigh-impossible for him to think; he felt a strange, unnerving floatiness at the same time.

The sudden announcement of multiple throbbing points of pain all across Megatron’s frame made him clench his denta and mute his vocalizer to hold back a groan. He felt as though he could instantly slip back into the obliviate purgatory of stasis- an extremely alluring prospect given all of his problems- but he forced his exhausted systems and wounded body to stagger along for just a little longer. 

Despite his damaged optics, Megatron could tell someone was standing next to him. As swiftly and silently as possible, he sat up- spinal struts and wounded protoform-mesh protesting with fresh waves of pain- and lunged out for the ‘bot. He wrapped his thick forearms around what he thought was a neck, attempting to snap vertebrae and rip open vital fluid lines, but he had just enough time to register a catastrophic error message before he went limp and offlined once again.

When he next woke up, he was restrained. 

Megatron did a quick system sweep on startup— his energon reserves were up to low but acceptable levels, and there was a fractional amount greater hull integrity than he recalled before. His body was naturally on the mend, and though he could scarcely move, it seemed he was in no imminent danger of death. Someone had even been giving him energon to replace what he’d lost.

Megatron glanced left and right, met with a hazy blur of sterile white walls and bright lights. He attempted to winch his optics, but he could not make them focus; even more unhelpfully, a crack jackknifed through one of his lenses, breaking the world into multiple pieces. 

With no choice, Megatron fell back on his other senses. His olfactory system was completely nonfunctional due to facial damage he’d sustained, but his audials still worked. He listened intently; closeby, someone was moving. He could hear the life-hum of a substantial engine, the gentle tinkle of glass, the soft clank of metal meeting metal… After a moment of listening, Megatron was fairly sure there was only one other mech in the room. He could feasibly take them if he caught them unawares. 

Megatron attempted to jiggle his servos loose from his restraints, and his body shrilled in protest as he exacerbated barely-healing wounds. His struggles reopened clotted energon lines— he couldn’t help but groan through his pursed lip-plates when a hot lance of pain knifed up his side and the plating grew suspiciously wet. 

Megatron’s movement had not gone unnoticed. He drew the attention of a blurry white shape in the distance- unreasonably large, seemingly bigger than Megatron himself, and he was already a sizable mech- which shuffled weightily over to his side. 

“Let me out of these,” Megatron rasped, pulling against his restraints, “And I promise I’ll show you Decepticon mercy.” 

“You need rest,” it was a male voice that drifted from above, gentle and chiding. Servos- large servos- gently touched his wounded side, stemming the flow of energon. Megatron managed to hold in a wince. “Your wounds are still healing.” 

“Yours won’t,” Megatron threatened. It was automatic. 

“Are all grounders as uncooperative as you?” The unknown mech clucked. Blurry pinpoints of blue light- the mech’s optics- shook slowly back and forth, ostensibly an admonishing shake of the head. “I’m Jetfire, your current physician. I’m a little too big for fine detail work, as you can see- or can you, with those damaged optics?- but you almost killed your last two medics and I’m the only one left who was willing to work with you.”

Two? Megatron swept through his memory data, but didn’t remember the second one. He may not have even had the energy to have encoded the second attempt in his mnemonic files.

“You’re in the medical ward at the Vosian palace,” Jetfire continued. “You are safe, and you can stop attacking the staff.” 

Megatron tried to sort through the myriad of questions all battling for superiority in his neural net. How long has it been? What happened to Long Haul and any of the other survivors? Why was I brought here? Why is Vos getting involved with the war? 

“I demand to be released,” Megatron said, at last.

“I don’t have the authority to release you,” Jetfire told him, gently. It was the inevitable reply.

Megatron sneered. “If you think I will allow soft-plated Autobots to hold me prisoner—”

“We aren’t Autobots,” Jetfire reassured, helpfully. His enormous body swam in closer; Megatron again attempted to force his vision to focus, but it would not. “Here. I am going to repair your wounds. If you would accept my medical codes for an induced shutdown, we could make this go much more smoothly.” 

Megatron scoffed. “If you think I’m going to—” 

Megatron couldn’t see the needle injecting into his protoform, but he jerked at the sudden sting in his exposed hip joint. A data packet raced straight to his processor, a nasty little virus that attempted to grip hold of his functions and shut him down. It had the unpleasantly clinical signature of a proper doctor; they were more professional than any mining medic’s credentials. 

“No,” Megatron ground out, inbuilt firewalls flaring up to defend his system integrity and getting knocked down just as quickly. Large parts of his brain modules had already been blacked out— just his luck that his stubbornness was kept somewhere else. “I will not be put to sleep like some cranky sparkling! You won’t touch me or my soldiers!” 

“No need to rev up your engines— it’s alright,” Jetfire soothed, with a faint note of bemusement. He backed up a short distance, but it wasn’t far enough for Megatron’s liking. “Relax, please. I’m just going to close up your wounds, and it’ll be quicker and easier for both of us if you’re put under. This won’t hurt, I promise.” 

His patient was unconvinced. Megatron threw himself against the restraints, cursing and snarling. His struggles hurt- his wounds sent up warning stabs of pain as he jostled his injured frame around- but he ignored it. Fluid lines sprang open. 

“Calm down!” Jetfire warned. There was a hasty rustling of metal tools in the distance, raising Megatron’s urgency to get loose at this very moment. He managed to wrench one servo free, tearing through his restraints with a show of force that nearly sheared off his wrist. “I’ll get a low-level EMP burst to knock you out if I have to—!” 

Megatron flung the heavy metal cuff at Jetfire, grinning triumphantly to himself at the resultant clang and yelp, and began to work on the other wrist. His success was short-lived, as the sudden flare of a directional EMP burst scrambled his circuits and forced him to reboot. It took him only a nanoklik or three to start up again, but by then it was too late to bring up any of his system defenses against the medical shutdown codes. 

He slumped lifelessly back to the medical slab. 

=

Once more- a much greater time later- Megatron awoke.

He felt sharper, keener, than he had when he last onlined. His sensor net no longer registered an intolerable amount of pain; a quick affirming glance down his body told him that someone had tended to his wounds (the fact that he could now see said his optics had been repaired just as thoroughly). The nasty scrapes down his side had even been carefully buffed, leaving a patch that gleamed with scratchy, nickel-like brightness. 

Megatron was also no longer in the sterile white of a medical facility. He was laying on a plain, flat berth, in a small unadorned room of dull grey that would’ve been somewhat claustrophobic were he not used to the cramped confines of the mining tunnels. 

This space was built to house a flier, Megatron thought, which tended to be smaller and thinner than mining-bots like him. At least the berth was broad enough for his width (though his pedes dangled off the edge)— it must’ve been to accommodate those ridiculous wings. 

The drafty darkness around him suggested a dungeon, though it could hardly be subterranean. Jetfire had made the claim Megatron was being held in Vos, which…

Well, frankly, it did not bode well for his chances of escape. The only way to get back to Cybertron would be on the back of a flier. Megatron was reasonably sure he could “coerce” one into giving him a ride if he could corner it alone, but he did not like the slim chance of that happening naturally. 

Trying to gather whatever information he could, Megatron pinged his chronometer. It informed him that it had been nearly five solar cycles since the battle in the canyon; he would have been reported MIA or dead by now, with none of his heroism recognized. That was a shame. 

Megatron rose into a sitting position, spinal struts creaking. Though his wounds had been repaired, the protoform below his armor was still tender and achy; he felt unreasonably fatigued for a mech that had just spent at least a solar cycle in recharge. It seemed he would not be committing any daring feats of heroism until he’d gotten more rest and topped up on energon.

Faintly, Megatron wondered if Long Haul or his communications officer were still online. It was an intrusive, unhelpful thought; he couldn’t afford the luxury of weakness.

“I’m awake,” Megatron said, to no-one. He very strongly suspected the room was bugged or otherwise surveilled— it was what he would do for his prisoners. If someone coincidentally showed up right after he started making noise, it’d prove his theory correct. “My wounds have been dressed. If you want to throw me in the interrogation chair, I’m ready. I’m looking forward to it, even. Let’s see if you wing-slingers can crack open a Decepticon officer.” 

Though he waited, no answer came. Megatron eventually rose to his pedes with a put-upon groan. His struts creaked, aching actuators complaining with the motion. 

He prowled around the room, making closer note of his surroundings. There was a window barred with a cage of hard light, too tall (even for Megatron) to see out of. It allowed afternoon sunshine to spill in, and in concert with the hallway lights, made his cramped grey cell a brightly lit cramped grey cell. 

There was a cell door, at least, which permitted an unobstructed view out into the hallway. It had the same bars of energy as the window; Megatron was not quite up to testing them to see if they would cause him physical harm on contact, so he kept a little distance. 

After he’d begun to give up hope of anyone coming any time soon, he heard the sound of footsteps moving down the hall. After a moment of listening, he estimated two sets. 

Megatron craned his neck to see when the sounds got closer, expecting a duo of lean, noble fliers like the ones he’d seen from old photographs and data-pads. He’d never seen a flier up close before- he hadn’t been able to get a good look at Jetfire or the ones he’d scrapped in Quasar Canyon- and he wouldn’t deny that he was curious to see one in person. 

As he’d surmised, there turned out to be a pair. Their body-frames were identical, which was not altogether unusual even among grounders. They were two heads shorter than Megatron, and far leaner, with sharp-edged wings that looked like they’d cut as neatly as any sword. Each major joint tapered to a point— elbow blades, knee spikes, sharpened shoulders. They had swept-back helms with protrusions that moderately resembled horns. Their digits ended in sharp talons; their denta had been filed to fangs. They had sharply pointed chins and cheeks, vee-shaped torsos with some flare at the waist— they had evidently done their best to look ferociously triangular, in contrast to the typical blocky rectangular builds of grounders.  

One had primarily black plating, edged in strips of purple; maroon optics, sharp and intelligent, gleamed beneath the jagged edges of his helm. The other was mostly blue, with accents of grey and red. His gaze was a few shades too crimson to be orange, and burned with a wary distrust. 

Though their angular bodies were certainly nonstandard, the most shocking thing was what they wore. Their plating was painted with dried energon, daubed into symbols and swirls that doubtlessly had some special significance to Vosians. The blue one wore tufts of silver feathers- they must’ve been plucked from predacons in the Sea of Rust- and his waist was strung with small, broken-off ornaments. There were fangs that must’ve been from predacons, but also head-spikes and digits that were doubtlessly from regular Cybertronians. Trophies. The dark one’s wings were strung with little tumbled pieces of glass that- taken with the rest of the gruesome scene- must have been ground up from cockpits or, more distressingly, optical lenses. He wore plucked-out denta over his right pauldron, strung like beads on a string. 

For a moment, Megatron stared at these two… apparitions, which were unlike any flier he’d ever seen. Not that he’d witnessed one up close and personal before, but they seemed entirely at odds with the old photos he’d seen of sleek, aerodynamic things with minimal kibble and streamlined frames. These bladed, over-accessorized wing-slingers were barely a step away from a predacon— from a wild animal. 

Had the other fliers looked like this when he’d fought them in the canyon? Megatron couldn’t recall. It had been dark, they’d been far away, and he’d been focusing on the fight. He hadn’t noticed anything strange then, but it was undeniable now. 

Was this what they’d all become since the war? If so, what on Cybertron had happened to Vos? These fliers had only been up here a few hundred stellar cycles and they’d already gone mad. 

“Who’re you supposed to be?” Megatron asked, unimpressed.

“He’s a big one, Thundercracker,” the dark one said, as though he hadn’t spoken. His wings hitched higher in intrigue, making the strings of glass strung across them tremble. “What the Pit do you think a mech like this was doing stuck way in the middle of nowhere?”

“Slipstream said he fought like Megatronus Prime himself,” the blue one, evidently Thundercracker, stared at him with wide, reddish-orange optics. 

“He terminated Zephyrchaser and his ‘bots,” the dark one agreed. “And, hey, before you think it’s hard feelings, ground-pounder— that’s six less tanks for us to fill, and I didn’t like most of ‘em, anyway.”

Brutal, but practical. 

“I thought I got seven.” Megatron droned.

“You got fragging close to scrapping Nova Storm, but she pulled through.” The dark one shook his head. “O-kay. That’s enough niceness, I think. Better get to knocking you around and making you talk, or whatever.”

Megatron snorted. He had to mount a good defense against his captors: look unafraid (which wasn’t hard, because he wasn’t intimidated by these two, despite their adornments) and radiate a warranted sense of self-importance and malice. He puffed out his chassis, shoulders back, and gazed down at the two with an arched optical ridge. 

“Before we do that, I demand an audience with the Winglord. She ought to see a prisoner of my rank personally, and I fully intend to have it out with her over attacking near-defenseless Decepticon energon convoys.” 

He did not expect to be granted such a thing. In truth, Megatron wanted to flaunt the tiny pearl of knowledge he had regarding Vos’s government. He knew of their sovereign, a dainty white and gold plane called Brightnimbus, and was aware that she purportedly had supreme authority over the city’s military and parliament. She was known for being reasonable, but cowardly- she was the whole reason Vos had abdicated from the war and the planet's surface- and Megatron was sure he could successfully negotiate his release with a weak-sparked leader like that. 

The duo stared at him for a moment, then began to laugh, the dark one much more raucously. 

“The Winglord you’re thinking of is dead,” Thundercracker told him, with a dismayed shake of his helm. “Nearly a hundred stellar cycles ago. We can take you to the new Winglord, but you’re not gonna like him nearly as much.”

Megatron was a stranger to the word apprehension. He denied its existence within him. “I’ll like him a lot more than he’ll like me. That I can guarantee.” 

“Alright,” the dark one shrugged. His burgundy-purple optics lit up with a self-indulgent smugness. “It’s your trip to the Well of Allsparks, not ours’. Thundercracker, get the door.”

Thundercracker jerked a little, as if he hadn’t been expecting to be spoken to. Steel feathers fluttered when he rocked back on his heels. “Me?” 

“Do you see anyone else around here who could do it?” 

“Why don’t you do it, Skywarp? It’s safer that way.” Thundercracker’s optics briefly met Megatron’s, quickly darting away. The flier’s costuming seemed much more ferocious than the mech it actually adorned; Thundercracker was soft-sparked, but his black-and-purple twin evidently was not. 

“Safer,” Skywarp snorted in disdain. “Fine, fine, get outta the way.” He pushed Thundercracker aside, jabbing buttons on the input panel. The necklace of plucked teeth strung from his shoulder shivered and clacked with the motion. “Hey, grounder, don’t get any ideas. If you try busting out—”

“— there’s nowhere for me to go,” Megatron interjected. “I figured that out already. I’m not leaving without an escort with wings.”

“He’s sharp,” Thundercracker muttered.

“And mean,” Skywarp added. “Starscream will love him.” The dark flier frowned, claws caressing the keys. “Uh. Hmm. Do you remember the door code?” 

“Oh, sure, it’s one-three—” Thundercracker’s vocalizer abruptly fizzed when Skywarp frantically waved his servos for him to stop. 

“Are you stupid!? The prisoner’s right there! You can’t say it out loud. Put it into the console!” 

“I’m not getting close to him!” Thundercracker shrilled, wings pinning tightly back with fear. “Slipstream said she could barely put him down, and he took down six fliers by himself!” 

“He had his cannon then,” Skywarp reassured, but his colleague was unconvinced. 

“Jetfire did too good a job fixing him up. Shouldn’t we have left him without his leg? Or something?” 

“Do you wanna carry that?” Skywarp jabbed a claw in Megatron’s direction. “He looks like he’s in two-digit tons.” 

Thundercracker winced. “S’pose you’re right…” 

The blue coward hesitated, then tentatively drew close to the door. When he got close enough, Megatron lunged, slamming his servos against the doorframe with enough force to rattle the wall, his denta bared in a vicious snarl.

Thundercracker took to the air with a squall of fright, wings spread wide and alert— his plating fluffed out like he was about to transform, but Skywarp grabbed him and hauled him down to the floor. 

“Get it together, TC,” Skywarp hissed. The blue flier flushed, mortified by his reaction and hot with fear. Megatron’s delighted peals of laughter made both fliers glare.

“Not cool,” Skywarp told him, patting Thundercracker’s shoulder pauldron reassuringly. “Do you want to see the Winglord or not, dirtkisser?” 

Megatron took several obliging steps back, broadly gesturing to the door controls again. Thundercracker, even more wary on his second approach, keyed in the correct codes. 

The barrier dispersed. 

Megatron briefly thought about trying to eviscerate the two in front of him, but they were armed and he would have a difficult time escaping this place without familiarizing himself with the terrain, security measures, and guard patrols. These two would not be too much of a challenge, but facing down a dozen pairs of armed fliers might be a little too much for him. He doubted that the mysterious Winglord would be generous enough to keep him online if he butchered many more of his subjects. 

No, now was the time to play polite. He’d written his own treatise on parlaying and waiting for the right opportunity— he knew that sometimes inaction was the best form of action. 

“Shouldn’t you radio ahead?” Megatron asked. They gave him curious looks— though neither of them seemed especially bright, they also didn’t seem especially dim, and their cluelessness struck Megatron as odd. Springing an audience on someone as important as the Winglord would have earned at least a public upbraiding in the Decepticon ranks; Megatron doubted that Vos would be any less ruthlessly corrective.

Unless… 

“You two were already supposed to be taking me to your leader,” Megatron realized. 

“Well, yeah,” Skywarp admitted, with a little half-shrug. “Why did you think that we were the ones getting you? We’re his trine, you know.” He gestured to one of his wings, where there was a golden emblem that meant nothing to Megatron but evidently spoke of their great significance. 

“Trine?” He asked. 

Thundercracker’s nasal ridge wrinkled. He had been keeping his distance ever since the door had opened, but was evidently incapable of keeping his mouth shut. “You grounders really don’t know anything, do you?” 

Megatron let his irritation show through a sharp venting of his fans. “Evidently we don’t.”

“Walk and talk,” Skywarp cawed, gesturing Megatron forward. “Come on.” 

Megatron obligingly shifted over the threshold; he fell in behind Skywarp, and Thundercracker took up the rear, trailing decently far behind. The dungeons’ hallway was spacious and wide, a strip of light on the ceiling illuminating the way. The floors were marred with pede scuffs and small splotches of discoloration: energon, oil, and Primus only knew what else. There was evidently not much maintenance going on down here. 

They passed by a few cells on their way, the interiors blacked out. Megatron could hear nothing within them, so the occupants were either idle or the cells were empty. The captain felt a sudden pang of concern grip his fuel tank as he once again recalled the soldiers in his charge. He hadn’t yet discovered their fate. 

“Where are Long Haul and…” Slag, he had still never actually gotten her name. “… my communications officer?”

“Don’t know about that. We nabbed you, a big ugly green one, a little black-and-red, and a red one.” Skywarp offered.

A red one?

Dead End.

Oh, that treacherous piece of slag had better hope the Vosians killed him quickly, because as soon as Megatron saw him again, he was going to beat him to death bare-servo’d. That insubordinate punk had fragged them all with his bolt-headed attempt to save his own aft. Megatron was sure that he could have saved his soldiers at QC-1-Alpha with an early warning, if not completely repelled the attack altogether. 

“Where are they?” Megatron reiterated, forcefully.

“Getting dangled off the edge of Vos, or something.” Skywarp’s wings twitched irreverently; a roll of his optics was implied in the pitch of his vocalizer. “They’re still alive. Cool your radiator.” 

Megatron wanted to press the dark flier for more, but if he betrayed any excessive concern for his troopers it was likely that they would be used against him in the future. He was sure he could stoically weather their deaths- like a true Decepticon commander- but he didn’t want them used like pawns on a board in an attempt to get to him. Not unless there was an alternative.

The two fliers took his silence as compliance. After a few kliks of silently trotting through the cell-filled halls, they came to an enormous blast door— it had interlocking gears in a complex design, and emblems that were passably similar to the ones adorning Thundercracker and Skywarp’s wings. Skywarp drew close to the access panel, allowing it to scan his optics and codeprint. It accepted his energon signature and slotted out a keyboard. 

“Do you remember the password to this one?” Thundercracker asked, innocently. Skywarp hissed at him.

“I’m not dumb, you know!”

There was a pause. Skywarp began hesitantly typing. 

“I’ve hailed Astrotrain,” Thundercracker said, met with only a vague nod by Skywarp. “It’s the only way we’re going to be able to haul around a grounder this size.”

“I can walk,” Megatron growled.

Skywarp laughed. 

“That’s not going to help you in Vos.” 

Before Megatron could ask him what that meant, the enormous blast doors began to grind open. Ferocious wind howled as the air surged to right the sudden pressure gradient. The two fliers weathered the gusts without issue; Megatron had to plant his pedes more firmly and grip the doorframe until it reached an equilibrium. 

The door ceased its awful scraping rattles. Megatron took a step forth, shielding his eyes from the harsh rays of the Cybertronian sun, and found himself balking at what lay outside.

There was a small landing dock projecting out from the prison— about twice the length and width of Megatron’s arm-span- which dropped off without warning. There were no guard rails, no banisters. He couldn’t tell from where he was standing, but he had a good guess that if you stepped over the edge it would drop you into a miles-high freefall that would end up with your carcass splattering against the ground in the Sea of Rust. Forget escaping Vos— it would’ve been impossible for him to even get out of his detention bloc under his own power. 

Floating serenely in the distance were several enormous, spear-like skyscrapers, each building studded with dozens of landing platforms that projected out from the building’s facade. Some of them were in large tenement clusters- eerily reminiscent of insecticon hives- with short catwalks that linked them. Some of the narrow walkways were great circular loops of circuit-diagram complexity, but the large majority of the structures were completely separate floating chunks, suspended by some kind of flier techno-sorcery. 

Many buildings had fliers coming and going, the sun glinting off their armor. Megatron couldn’t admire much of the specific architecture from this distance, but they did appear to have a functional system. Fragile, but functional. 

“I see what you mean,” Megatron said, pleasantly. 

“Uh-huh. Thought so.” Skywarp drawled. 

One thing was certain: Megatron would not let them see him intimidated. The idea of falling from this impossible height- merely standing near the edge- turned his fuel tank and made his digits tremble, but he held a mask of stoicism. He had to. 

It was a moment before a dark shape emerged from one of the buildings floating in the distance. It proved to be a flier more than three times Megatron’s already tremendous size, dark purple, with a shuttle alt-mode— a spacer, as they were sometimes called. The ship’s engines and thrusters shrieked so loudly on approach that Megatron had to switch off his audials to be able to think above the din.

Air hissed noisily as the ship dropped to the landing platform; metal creaked as it settled on its landing gears. Astrotrain’s chassis was painted with dried energon, swirling tattoos of Vosian dialect and hieroglyphs depicting snarling teeth and razor-sharp wings. The spacer was positively festooned with dismembered Cybertronian parts: dangling arms, legs, and entire heads, slack-jawed and unseeing, optics plucked from their empty skulls. The nose of the shuttle tapered to a wicked horn, and the snubbed wings were bristling with razor-sharp edges. The entire back of the ship bristled with predacon-esque dorsal spines, some of them thrust through dismembered bodies. It had a rather… unpleasant, charnel look to it. Megatron couldn’t imagine Astrotrain would be any prettier in robot-mode. 

“You want me to get in that?” Megatron asked. He was given affirming nods by Skywarp and Thundercracker. The Decepticon officer suppressed his grimace. 

Megatron swiveled his helm to address the ship, calling out: “If you decide you want to defect to the Decepticons, Astrotrain, now would be a very convenient time for me.” 

The spacer’s laughter rumbled like thunder. It was low and cruel, but had a light sprightliness to it that suggested a good sense of humor. Astrotrain's enormous shuttle door sprang open, revealing a hollow inner compartment that would have accommodated two or so Megatrons. The interior seemed free of gore, in contrast to its fearsome facade.

“Get in,” the spacer invited. Megatron, seeing very little choice, swiftly strode forth across the dock. He was very careful not to glance at the edge, trying to ensure he did not psyche himself out by catching a glimpse of the spark-flipping fall that awaited a misstep. 

It was hardly the height of luxury inside the spacer, but Megatron had been in worse squeezes. Astrotrain came with padded seats, at least. 

“You’re trusting me an awful lot not to kill you while you’re vulnerable,” Megatron informed him. He settled heavily on one of the benches, which creaked under his weight— probably only used to the light bodies of fliers. Besides the seats, there wasn’t much else within Astrotrain’s rectangular holding compartment. There wasn’t even a connection from here to the cockpit. “Your spark can’t be too well-fortified in an alt mode this big.” 

From inside him, Astrotrain’s voice seemed to come from every direction. “If you tried anything, you would kill yourself, too.” 

“Maybe I can live with that,” Megatron said, humorlessly. Astrotrain’s gentle laughter made the entire inner compartment vibrate. 

“Could you two cut it out?” Thundercracker complained, his head popping up in the doorway. The curling of his claws against the doorjam betrayed his anxiety, though his flicking wings were doing most of the work showing it off. “He’s a prisoner of war, you’re not supposed to be friendly with him. He offlined Zephyrchaser and the Bolt-Breaker trine, remember? Enemy.” 

“I didn’t like Zephyrchaser,” Astrotrain retorted. “But if it makes you happy, one quick trip to the palace, silently , coming up.” 

The door slid shut with a hydraulic hiss. The floor beneath Megatron’s feet rumbled; the entire vessel seemed to tense itself for takeoff, like a predator preparing to pounce. 

“You’re certain I couldn’t convince you to bring me back to Cybertron?” Megatron asked, lightly. He was partly joking. Partly. “A shuttle your size would be an incalculable boon for the Decepticons. You would be treated well.” 

“Sorry, ground-pounder, but even with all our troubles it’s still nicer up here than it is down there.” Astrotrain gave an introspective hum. “Buckle up.” 

There weren’t any restraints. Before Megatron could inform him of this, Astrotrain gunned his engines. 

Megatron gave a muffled curse when he went flying off his seat, slamming to the floor with an ugly clang. Astrotrain’s snickering rang in his audials, and the ex-miner decided that if the shuttle didn’t convert to the side of the Decepticons, he’d kill the bastard himself. 

… If the meeting with the Winglord didn’t terminate Megatron first.

Chapter Text

“So this is the grounder that killed Zephyrchaser?”

Starscream swept his optics over him. He was unpleasant to look at in his current form: shot full of holes, face beaten in by a desperate Slipstream, one half of his plating scarred like it’d been blasted by grit for a few hours, and one leg barely holding on by a couple of connective wires. The grounder was big and had a well-shaped frame— he bore a large chassis, thick forearms and forelegs, a handsome faceplate (even with a broken nasal ridge) safeguarded by a bucket-shaped helm. Enormous shoulders complemented wide thighs. There were a few accents of muted red in his sea of dull grey and black plating, just to keep things interesting. 

“That’s right, your majesty,” Jetfire said, with a nod. He was working on the damaged knee, welding together a connecting rod that had been blasted to slag. “Swiftbolt, Heavybolt, and Starbolt, as well, plus Cloudskipper and Aileron, all pronounced terminated on the scene. One of the other medics is tending to Nova Storm, but it seems like she’ll pull through.”

Starscream gave the grounder’s pathetic, wounded countenance another look-over. His face had small creases in the corners of his lip-plates and optics; vorns of squinting and scowling, no doubt. 

Softened by shutdown, he didn’t look capable of killing so many. 

Starscream let frustration well up in his spark. The raid was supposed to have been easy. A surprise rush for an energon tanker, which was sorely needed to refresh Vos’s critically low supply. Attack, kill, retrieve. They hadn’t expected to take casualties, much less six of them. This bloodthirsty grounder idiot had ruined everything.

Well, he might’ve been an idiot, but he was one of notably high rank (indicated by the twin stripes beneath his Decepticon insignia) and battle prowess (self-evident). They could possibly ransom him, either to the Autobots or the Decepticons. That would help soothe the sting of losing two trines’ worth of mechs.

Starscream continued: “Do we have an identification on him yet?”

“No,” Jetfire said, with a slight shake of his head. “But I heard Slipstream was interrogating the other captives. They’ll probably oblige a name and rank.” His voice tinged with unease at the implication of her forceful methods of information-gathering. As a mild-mannered scientific mind, Jetfire did not like the harder aspects of living in Vos in these desperate times; he had not taken on the claws and fangs and adornments favored by Starscream’s soldiers. They were completely voluntary modifications, of course, but he was one of very few to have refused them. 

“Good.” Starscream set his servo on the medical berth, a few inches from touching the grounder’s enormous, energon- and dust-stained leg. “I have the impression that he’s going to be difficult when he wakes up. We’ll need any bit of information we can squeeze out before we begin interrogation.” 

Jetfire winced, pausing his work to rub his jaw. There was still a sizable dent there from when the grounder had managed to land an indignant blow, though Jetfire had overpowered him and forced him offline. “He is not a pleasant mech, in my experience.” 

Starscream made a noncommittal sound, servo drifting higher. His claws skated over the curve of the grounder’s enormous pedes, idly rubbing a dusty spot on his ankle. 

“Neither am I.” 

=

There was no viewport from within Astrotrain, and Megatron could only take an educated guess at how fast they were going and how far, but it was nearly twenty kliks before he felt the wobbliness of descent. He had to grip the seat to not get thrown around the cabin during the juddering; his fuel tank tied itself in knots from the turbulence. 

“We’re here,” Astrotrain announced. “Try not to get chewed up and spat out by the Winglord.”

“Any advice?” Megatron asked him, wryly. He swayed with the motion of yet another unsteady updraft; he struggled through a stint of nausea, trying to flush the altitude warnings from his code. Grounders weren’t meant to fly. 

“Tell him he looks pretty.” Astrotrain sniggered.

Megatron gripped the seat tighter. He was sure Astrotrain was jostling him around on purpose; the spacer was clearly a bully, if a somewhat good-tempered one. “Does he?”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” 

Astrotrain landed, and Megatron was relieved to at last feel some stability beneath him. The fact that they had doubtlessly landed on another floating building was irrelevant— even if he wasn’t on solid ground, touching down meant he could flee the bowels of Astrotrain’s alt-mode and stand securely on his own two legs.

“Enjoy the palace,” Astrotrain rumbled, his door sliding open. Bright sunshine spilled into the cabin. “It’s not often the Winglord sees guests. Never, actually.” 

“I’m honored to be the first, then,” Megatron replied, in petulant tones that implied he really wasn’t. He got up from his seat- halfway expecting Astrotrain to twitch just to knock him over, though the spacer didn’t move- and stepped outside on legs that were still wobbly from the flight. The constantly blowing wind that buffeted him as soon as he left the shelter of Astrotrain’s internals did not help his surety of footing. 

Thundercracker and Skywarp were awaiting him on the dock, the pair bracketing Astrotrain’s landing ramp. They must have flown alongside the spacer as an escort. 

Megatron spared a moment to wonder what their alt-modes looked like; something just as pointy and hostile as Astrotrain, no doubt. The strings of glass, predacon parts, and gory trophies decorating their hides swayed in the heavy wind, evidently unmoved despite the flight here or the switching modes. 

“Thank-you, Astrotrain,” Thundercracker called, cupping his servos around his mouth. “We’ll be needing you soon, probably, so stick around, okay?”

“Whatever,” Astrotrain’s door snapped shut. “I’m going to get a recharge in while I’m waiting for you. Sun’s nice and warm and I—” his vocalizer quavered with a yawn, “— Could use a nap.” 

Skywarp’s wings slouched, making the strings of glass beads shiver. He looked enviously over Astrotrain’s gruesome, blood-painted chassis. “Kinda tempted to join him, honest. Getting filled up on energon always makes me sleepy.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Thundercracker complained. “You should be bursting with energy when you’ve got a full tank.” 

“I know. Weird, isn’t it?” 

“You’re just lazy, Skywarp,” Thundercracker muttered. 

The blue flier visibly straightened, wings flaring high, wide, and aggressive. He lifted his chin, sneering down at the Megatron despite the great height disparity between the two of them. He bared his row of fangs. “You! Grounder! Come forward. You’re about to see the Winglord- the sovereign of Vos, the supreme commander of fliers, his might and majesty, um, his great, uh, guiding benevolence- which is an honor that no grounder has had in more than three hundred stellar cycles. Any misstep when you are in the Royal Palace of Vos will mean your messy and violent termination! So be on your best behavior and come with us!” 

Megatron glanced at the slender null rays mounted on the fliers’ arms; the barrels were small and thin, but he knew from experience that their fire was very painful and could be more than deadly if they hit the right spot. He was also aware Vos had once been the height of military power and progress on Cybertron; the fliers had access to advanced (if now somewhat antiquated) weaponry that the warring grounders down below could only dream of. Best not test just how advanced, if he was to be the test subject. 

“Understood,” Megatron said, inclining his head diplomatically. For now, he would employ some level of politeness, if for no other reason than to not be shot.

“Let’s move out, then,” Skywarp interjected, lazily waving his claws to indicate the palace before them. 

As before, Skywarp took the lead while Thundercracker drew up the rear. The blue mech seemed determined to recapture his authority after being spooked in the cell block (and making a fool of himself in front of their prisoner). Megatron figured he ought to humor him, and remained silent and unthreatening, as if he’d been cowed into silence by the flier’s threat-display. 

The quiet afforded Megatron the chance to carefully look around. Information-gathering- assessing the enemy- was the cornerstone of any tactical planning, and a good policy besides. He couldn’t take any of his prior knowledge of Vos or its people for granted; the fliers were now ferocious and barbaric, their old sovereign had been mysteriously deposed by some new despot, and they had clearly undergone severe cultural shifts in the wake of their isolation in the lofty city of Vos. 

They had come in at an enormous dock, which must’ve- during the height of Vos’s influence and power- serviced dozens of shuttles and spacers like Astrotrain, and more likely than not the non-Transformer vehicle crafts of grounders. A point in the latter’s favor was the presence of irregularly placed palisades at the edges of the docks, which appeared poorly maintained and awkwardly constructed, as if they’d been added at the last moment and then forgotten about. Many of the railings were crumbling and appeared to have fallen off the edge, yet some rubble remained, suggesting no-one had the time or care to fix or even sweep away the damage. The surface of the dock beneath them was made from a vast plane of shimmering silver-steel- an expensive, durable alloy by Megatron’s knowledge of mining- but it had begun to tarnish with age, mar from general tread and lack of maintenance, and was scorched black in some spots by thruster-burns. 

Megatron turned his attention to the palace itself. It was enormous, for a start, and he had vague notions that it had once been the headquarters of the Cybertronian military command (pre-war, of course) as well as the Vosian royal residence. It was made to house more than a thousand mechs, including servants, staff, and soldiers. 

The main palace was a massive spear-like pillar, etched out of an impossibly large chunk of opaque white crystal. Various silver-steel docks protruded regularly along its surface to facilitate the movement of fliers. The palace had a strangely atomic structure, with clustered outbuildings (servant’s quarters? Storage?) sitting on enormous floating rings around the main body of the palace— like electrons orbiting a nucleus, or the intricate loops on a coilgun. There were a few smaller auxiliary pillars, carved of different metal and stone, anchored in the air perhaps half a mile away from the main building. Different wings, Megatron supposed. 

Bas reliefs of doubtlessly famous fliers, ferocious-looking winged predacons, and the Thirteen Primes had been carved into the facade of the main palace, alongside sharp-edged architectural columns, ledges, and slopes to give a general sense of structure to the crystalline chunk. Megatron noted that there seemed to be some wear— pieces of carved crystal had been broken off or worn away (to deleterious effect for the impressive artwork) and the building was smudged with cast-off soot from all of the fliers coming and going. No one was maintaining this place, keeping it clean— it was grand, yes, but it seemed to Megatron a borrowed grandness from a time long past, which was beginning to wear away. 

The three of them climbed up an enormous set of crystalline steps; at the top was a large receiving room, completely barren of any and all decor besides faded red banners on the walls. They had the same emblems, etched in gold thread, as the one on Skywarp and Thundercracker’s wings— the royal symbol of Vos’s Winglord, Megatron surmised. There were golden light fixtures mounted upon the walls, but they were dark and the preference seemed to be the diffusal of light from windows or other natural sources. (Or, perhaps, they could not spare the energy to light this place.)

“This way,” Skywarp said, gesturing towards an open hallway. “We’ve got a long way to go, and most of it is up. You’re just lucky that this place is one of the only ones in Vos built with grounders in mind. We’ve actually got stairs, so we don’t have to carry your huge aft all the way to the Winglord.” 

The state of the dock and the external face of the palace heralded worse within; it was soon evident to Megatron something was very wrong in Vos.

They were mostly confined to spiraling staircases that seemed to go up for an eternity, but occasionally they had to switch from one stairwell to the next and cross a few corridors. The palace halls were grand- enormous, lofty, the ceilings painted by fine artists and the architectural trim inlaid with gold and precious gems- but there was a sense of wearisome age to the place. The murals’ paint was cracking and beginning to flake. Exotic plants sitting on their urns were wilting or already dead, starved of attention and energon. Dust had settled into the crevasses and in fine, silty layers on shelves and display-cases. Glass was left streaked and half-opaque, and the plentiful splashes of precious metals looked tarnished; little arachna-techna, tiny spiders, had been spinning webs on the walls. Banners were faded by the sun and age and their edges were made ragged by enterprising mites that had been chewing on them for nourishment. 

Megatron would’ve been shocked if any of this display of ostentatious wealth had been touched in the three hundred stellar cycles since Vos uprooted from Cybertron. It seemed the historically stuffy culture of Vos had bigger things to contend with than dust, and had consequently left routine maintenance behind. 

Even more troubling than the state of the palace, though, was the people inside it.

They passed by a handful of fliers on their trek to the Winglord’s chambers. Many were upright and noble, bearing a military air as they marched purposefully forth in trios (trines?) going about their official duties; a small number were skulking and surly, walking alone and surreptitious, as if they didn’t want to be spotted. The former groups gave Megatron a cool once-over, then a respectful incline of their heads to Skywarp and Thundercracker. The latter fled from their sight, plunging into side-corridors or hurrying past them with their heads down. 

Regardless of bearing, they all had slouched shoulders, bladed helms, and razor-sharp talons. Their frames were strung with predacon and mech parts alike, painted with dark smears of oil. Most of them had dimmed optics and biolights, signaling a dearth of fuel, and were noticeably stiff and jerky. A handful of the less ferociously-adorned ones- administrative staff, civilians?- were noticeably weak, tired, or sick, even to Megatron’s untrained optics. Moreso than anything, though, the palace’s fliers seemed to be hungry. Some of the bigger, meaner ones eyed Megatron like they were tempted to take him as their next meal. 

It was becoming rapidly evident why the fliers had desperately attacked an energon convoy right in the middle of Decepticon territory— it was clear as daylight that this society was verging towards collapse. It couldn’t sustain its infrastructure. Its people were- in Megatron’s estimation- starving to death. 

The scarcity made a begrudging sense. Autobots and Decepticons could not spare any energon (or building material, for that matter) for trade, and Vos could hardly mine their own supply from the lower atmosphere. The only way they could sustain themselves after running out of their reserve was by raiding the supply of grounders. 

They should’ve aligned with one side or the other, Megatron thought, frowning. Is it the new Winglord’s stubborn pride- or just plain stupidity- that’s starving his people, or are there other factors I’m not seeing?  

With what he’d pieced together, he felt reasonably confident in suggesting a Decepticon-Vos alliance to the Winglord, even though he had nowhere near the authority to negotiate such a thing and was technically the fliers’ captive. The important part was that Vos clearly needed food, and the Decepticons needed fliers. It seemed a fair trade to Megatron. 

Even better, some devious part of Megatron whispered, if you could convince them to help depose High Lord-Commander Straxus and take over leadership of the Decepticons yourself. 

There was a warm, pleasant thought. But he oughtn’t get ahead of himself. 

“Almost there, grounder,” Skywarp reassured, plodding up yet another flight of stairs. “Try to be on your best behavior. Nobody’s given you much grief for the ‘bots you killed so far, but the Winglord’s bound to be ticked.” 

“Speak wrong and he’ll execute you,” Thundercracker added, with a churlish note of menace in his tone. 

Megatron inclined his head to acknowledge he’d heard, but did not speak, lest they deem his wry commentary inappropriate. “I’d like to see him try” would more than likely have gotten him in trouble. 

The doors to the throne room were gilt, the gold adornments marked with embossed feathers and flourishing fleur-de-lis and grooved curls representing gusts of wind. A large, surly-looking guard barred access; she wore a necklace of predacon teeth and strings of multicolored digits severed at the knuckle, both of them garish against her drab green plating. She bristled with enough blades and high-powered armaments to make a Combaticon quartermaster jealous. 

“The Winglord’s expecting us, Skyquake,” Thundercracker told her. 

“So he is,” she murmured, taking a step back. Skyquake pushed the doors open and inclined her bladed helm to indicate they should enter; her pure-red gaze lingered on Megatron for a moment, daring him to try anything. He gave her his most charismatic look of reassurance, which earned him a glare filled with contempt.

The throne room was large. Impressive. There were architectural pillars smelted with stripes of gold and silver; plentiful, slightly ragged banners of red silk with Vos’s crest; large windows at the back of the room projected outward slightly to overlook the sky. There was an impressive statue of Onyx Prime to the left of the throne, rearing on his hind legs with his wings outstretched, claws thrust skyward. Portraits- of the previous Winglords, perhaps?- lined some of the walls, though their canvases were often tattered. He noticed that Brightnimbus’s- if they were, indeed, previous Winglords- was missing. 

The entrance of the room was sunken; there were a few steps, a dais, that led up to the throne and a small space behind it, where the windows were. The throne itself was large enough for Megatron to sit comfortably, with enormous feathered wings spreading out from the crest rail to invoke the kind of wild, regal authority of Onyx Prime or the more general ferocity of a flying predacon. It took Megatron a moment to discern that some of them were old and molded from silver, while the largest, most ferocious-looking set appeared to have been recently carved off of an enormous predacon and tightly lashed to the throne.

The most curious thing, upon his entry, was that the throne was empty. The only occupant in the room, as a matter of fact, was standing at the enormous window behind it. 

The Winglord- or who Megatron assumed was the Winglord, anyway- stood with his back facing to them. He was tapping away at a swarm of holo-screens projected in front of him; an enormous cloak obscured his form, the collar trimmed with a plush ruff of silver-white Predacon fur and feathers. He was bigger, broader, than the other fliers Megatron had seen (besides Astrotrain and Jetfire), though Megatron told himself that the imposing size could merely be the work of bad lighting and a good tailor. 

The Winglord’s shoulders, projecting in upward points beneath the cloak, were enormous; he seemed to be permanently hunched. 

“Announcing the Decepticon prisoner, Captain Megatron!” After barking the words out, Thundercracker snapped to a stiff salute, which Skywarp lazily copied. Megatron spared a moment of unease to wonder how they had discovered his designation. 

The Winglord turned to them. The velveteen cloak he wore shivered with the motion, fabric catching the light; it proved to be a plush purple, where the shadows did not render it black.

Vos’s sovereign had enormous claws, to the point where they must’ve been unwieldy in the day-to-day; the data-pad he was clutching looked awkward in his long digits, quickly tucked into the darkness of the cloak. Megatron caught the briefest glimpse of an oblong cockpit gleaming in his belly and carmine-red chassis paint before the fabric settled, concealing the Winglord’s frame. 

The Winglord’s faceplate was clearly visible, however. He bore a clear resemblance to Skywarp and Thundercracker, with a dark grey countenance and calculating, pure-red optics. His helm was black, swept back with a few intimidating spikes that passably resembled horns. His nasal ridge was thin, cheeks high and prominent— aristocratic. He was more handsome, and definitely better fed, than the other fliers Megatron had seen thus far. 

(He was certainly not pretty, as Astrotrain had suggested, and didn’t look like he would take kindly to being called as much.) 

His expression was difficult to read. There was a cold, flat unfriendliness- a radiating of sheer authoritative contempt and royal malice- but something else was softening the Winglord’s face. Intrigue, perhaps.

“He looks better when he’s not half dead,” the Winglord’s voice was grating, for want of a better word, higher and shriekier than his broad shoulders and regal presence would suggest. His denta, like those of the other fliers Megatron had seen, had been filed into fangs. “Present yourself to me, Decepticon. You stand on royal ground in front of royal blood.” 

“You’ve no authority I recognize,” Megatron scoffed, daring to hope his indignation wouldn’t get him immediately terminated. The Winglord’s gaze flicked expectantly to Thundercracker and Skywarp, who promptly levied their null rays at Megatron’s face. 

“Is that enough authority for you, grounder?” The Winglord droned. Megatron pursed his lip-plates, genuinely giving it some thought. He did not want to give the Winglord a show of simpering respect- he had his dignity, after all- but he did not want to be shot, either. 

“I suppose so.”

The elusive sight of the Winglord’s talons briefly peeked from the ripples of his cloak; the sovereign made a flippant gesture, a small and impatient wave, before the long blades were hidden away again. “Kneel before me, then.” 

“I don’t see much to kneel for. It’s clear to me that your kingdom is in shambles, and I’ve only seen the surface during my stay. I’m sure the rust has spread far deeper.” He glanced at Thundercracker and Skywarp. Once again, they did not seem especially inept or dim-witted, but remained mindlessly allegiant to their leader. “Why don’t you two overthrow him? Why doesn’t anyone?” Astrotrain came to mind. The only Decepticons they had bigger than him were conjoined combiners; the spacer could have crushed Starscream with both servos tied behind his back. 

Before the two fliers could defend their sovereign, the cloaked horror scoffed, silencing them with only a warning glance. 

“Because, believe it or not, things were worse before I came along. The situation may not be good at the moment, but it is an incalculable improvement upon the previous Winglord. I am trying- and succeeding- to make things better for all the people of Vos.” 

“Starscream saved us,” Thundercracker said, soft and reverent. Skywarp shuddered, his armor plates creaking; he shook his head, as if trying to manually flush out persistent and unpleasant memory files. 

Megatron could not possibly envision how things could have been worse. Vos was plainly rotting from the inside out, not to mention its people were degenerating into starving animals and being forced to scrap and scavenge just to survive. What could have possibly been worse?

“That may be true, but your city as it is now is clearly unsustainable. You need to—” Megatron began.

“I’ve had enough of your backtalk, ground-pounder,” the Winglord snarled, shoulders drawing tight. “You’ve only been here for a klik and I’ve already heard more than enough out of you. I am the king of Vos, and I hold your fate and spark in my servos. When I tell you to be silent, you will be silent.” 

Megatron stuffed down the witty repartee he had prepared, giving a stiff nod of acknowledgment. He could not push the Winglord- designated Starscream, if Thundercracker was any indication- too far; the warning tone he’d taken had suggested that Megatron had been dancing on the edge of his patience. 

“Good.” The Winglord’s threatening posture settled. He began to leisurely pace— each step was deliberate and heavy, punctuating his statements. He had the presence of a leader, at least. “I’ve decided to interrogate you myself, owing to your illustrious standing in your military. You will note I have healed you and fed you, despite health and energon being scarce resources in rather high demand here.” 

“How generous of you,” Megatron droned. 

“In exchange for allowing you to remain operable, I want the schedules of energon transit through your command post. Everything you know.” 

“They would have changed them after this raid,” Megatron informed him. “Lord Tarn is stupid, but not inept. Guards will be doubled and the shipment schedules will be altered. If you want to find out when a supply of energon is coming, you’ll have to set a permanent watchmech to oversee the mouth of Quasar Canyon. It’s more than a solar cycle’s journey from the mouth to the plains of Polyhex for a slow-moving convoy, which grants you some time to prepare. If you have a scramble team always on standby—”

Starscream hissed, interrupting his musing. “Giving up a capable warrior permanently is too big an ask. There is a better way to do it. There must be.” 

“You can’t spare even one warrior?” Megatron arched an optical ridge. “How many strong is Vos? The city had a million people before the war. If even a tenth remains, you have plenty of bodies to spare.”

“There were two million,” the Winglord groused. His shoulders drew back; his optics burned, twin flames of resentment and sorrow. “And I am interrogating here, not you. Your suggestion is noted and ignored.” 

“A drone, then,” Megatron said, impatiently. He could not help but correct Starscream, despite being his prisoner and enemy— wherever he saw incompetence, he craved to correct it. That infuriating tendency had gotten him thrown into his dead-end post at Quasar Canyon, and if he didn’t tamp it down, it would get him thrown off the edge of Vos, too. 

“Not a terrible idea,” the sovereign muttered, after a moment of thought. “But also not ideal. Ideal is knowing well in advance— like if we had the schedules for the energon caravans.”  

“You could always send me back to my post,” Megatron said, struggling not to shade his tone with sarcasm. “I could funnel that information to Vos. Wouldn’t a high-ranking spy be ever-so-convenient for you?”

Starscream laughed. 

“If you’re intending to be funny, well done. If not, I’d have no assurance of your compliance if I released you. If you think you’re setting part or pede back on the ground again, you’re even more of a fool than you look.”

“You’d have my compliance because I’ll get something out of it,” Megatron declared. He sensed his opportunity- sharply, keenly- and with his finely-honed repertoire of millions of years of military and political strategy, he assessed that now was the time to make his move. Though it was generally bad form to play your hand early- especially considering this was his first time meeting the Winglord- his brutal honesty would hopefully ease Starscream’s suspicions and engender a little trust. “In return, I would want you to help me take over leadership of the Decepticons.”

Starscream’s optics widened; the brilliant red paled as his processor grappled with the meaning of Megatron’s candor. Skywarp and Thundercracker balked, as if unable to believe their audials. 

“You’re mad,” the Winglord said, shoulders twitching. The violet velour rippled, catching the light. “I am your enemy.”

“For now,” Megatron conceded. “But I am always looking for an opportunity to take the reins of authority from the corrupt and inept; if I must barter with my enemies and spill the energon of my, ha, superiors to get my way, so be it.” He gave a lackadaisical shrug. “I was planning on a takeover as soon as it became tactically sound. With your help, my timeline gets accelerated. Besides— for my purposes, I’ll need your soldiers well-fueled. My incentive to aid you is triple: to get out of here, to take the reins of leadership for myself, and to ensure my allies are nourished for war.”  

“We have his troops,” Thundercracker pointed out, somewhat reluctantly. Megatron’s mouth twitched, jaw tensing. “They’ll be hostages, Starscream, ones we can hold or ransom as we see fit. We could always point him out as a traitor to his superiors if he decides not to hold up his end of the bargain, too.” The blue mech touched the tip of one of his claws to his helm, gently tapping his temple. “All three of us now have a record of this conversation, which makes for very good blackmail.” 

“Not to mention he’s sucking down all our resources up here,” Skywarp complained, in something approximating agreement. “He takes as much energon as a mech expecting sparklings. If we send him back down as a spy, we won’t have to feed him anymore.”

Damn the Winglord; he noticed Megatron’s twitch when his soldiers were brought up. Starscream’s optics cinched like a predacon spotting fresh-kill and he finally descended from the raised platform to stalk over to the three of them. On even footing, he didn’t seem so large, even though his cloaked body was only just shy of Megatron’s own broadness. 

“Nervous about your soldiers?” It was spoken as a question, though not articulated as such. 

Megatron kept his tone even. “Forgive me for my curiosity. I haven’t heard anything substantial about them.”

“It’ll stay that way,” Starscream decided. He paused, studying Megatron; his gaze swept the Decepticon up and down, assessing him. Though his optics were flensing in their sharpness, the former miner had borne similar scrutiny from government foremen and Decepticon leadership. “Hmm. I will deliberate on the matter further, but for now… I will contact Sentinel Prime and see how much energon he would be willing to trade for you. If it’s not a number I like, we’ll discuss plans for what to do with you. If we do decide to release you back to the Decepticons, we’ll open up a private communications relay.” He smirked, self-indulgently. It was not a pleasant smile. “We’ll see if a big, ugly thing like you has the wits to play spy.” 

Megatron let his engines rumble louder. “Consider helping me accomplish my ultimate goal sooner rather than later. If we overthrow Straxus and you unite with the Decepticon military, you can have all the energon you want without needing to scavenge and kill for it. Provided, of course, your fliers lend their strength to the war effort instead of carrion-feeding.” 

Starscream shot him a withering stare. Without a word, the Winglord turned his back- signaling his disinterest in the continuation of the conversation- and trudged up the short stairs to the upraised platform he’d been standing on when Megatron had arrived. His steps were light for such a heavy-looking creature. 

“You’re a treacherous thing,” Starscream said, without turning around to address his audience. His clawed servos waved flippantly in the air, barely visible around his back. “Ambitious.” He scoffed. “Supposing I actually entertain abandoning Vos’s long history of sovereignty and join up with a group of grounders… If you’re willing to kill your own leadership, what does that guarantee for the safety of my soldiers and citizenry?”

“Unlike the current Decepticon lordship, you’re actually useful,” replied Megatron, tone wry. “Air support is invaluable in wartime, and desertion for your kind would be a lot easier than it would for a grounder, so cultivating an amicable- though, perhaps, not equitable- relationship makes sense.” 

There was a short pause. Megatron was pleased to see that all three fliers appeared to be carefully tabulating what he’d said. It was good to know he could be so succinctly persuasive to a group that were more than ready to kill him or turn him over to the Autobots when he’d first walked in; it ought to mean commanding the respect and attention of legions of Decepticons would be a cinch. 

“You’re less stupid than you look,” the Winglord said, finally.

“Thank you,” Megatron drawled. “I try.”

Chapter Text

After Megatron was left to rot in his cell for four days- the numbing boredom occasionally broken by a surly-looking, sharp-pronged flier bringing him watered-down energon rations- the Winglord and his two associates returned for him. 

Megatron was in the middle of scripting- though perhaps some of the more spiritual persuasion would be tempted to call it meditating- mentally authoring his treatise on the conduct of warfare. He hadn’t opened his optics or moved in fifteen joors, when he had last been fed. Since then, he’d been engrossed in trying to recall wisdom from strategic greats: Liege Maximo’s scriptures, the mighty warrior Nova Prime’s commentaries on war, and knowledge from gladiators so ancient their names had been lost to time. The teachings of Megatronus, the mech he’d taken his name from, weighed heavily on his processor. Megatron coupled these with his own experiences, laboriously stacking together his opus sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph. 

“Up and at ‘em, grounder!” Skywarp’s obnoxious voice was preluded by the sound of three pairs of footsteps. “Wakey wakey.” 

Megatron slid open an optic, taking in the sight of the three looming fliers in front of his cell. 

He rose to greet them. As he did so, he briefly wished he had augmented his brain modules with additional storage space. Datapads were stupid, but they were more reliable at holding precise words than a neural net— a ‘bot could forget specifics of their scripts when they defragmented their hard drives or automatic routines flushed away what was perceived as superfluous data. Megatron had already lost about twenty percent of what he’d been laboriously drafting, and it would only get worse if he couldn’t jot it down.

The Winglord, broad and imposing in his cloak, glanced down his nasal ridge at Megatron. Now that he stood between Skywarp and Thundercracker, it was easy to compare them. He was only a head taller than they, but he was still bigger, looming. 

Imperiously, Starscream spoke: “Sentinel Prime would not agree to a high enough ransom.”

Megatron gave a nod. He expected as much. “And have you asked High Lord-Commander Straxus?” 

“No.” Starscream tilted his head slightly. He seemed to be thinking, weighing his words or else trying to articulate himself in a firm, unambiguous way befitting a king. “I think you meant what you said when you offered to become a turncloak. I thought it best not to tip our hand to the Decepticons.” 

“Did I mean it?” Megatron asked, somewhat playfully. He drew up to his full height; he towered over the lot of them, including the Winglord, who looked unimpressed at his refusal to take things seriously. 

Rather than continuing to rattle sabers with his captive, Starscream switched tactics. “I was able to get some interesting information about you from our red hostage— Dead End, I believe, is his designation. He said that you were famous among the Decepticons.”

Megatron did not offer a reply, but some of his internal feelings must’ve reflected on his face. Starscream took a step closer, heavy cloak swaying, his optics glowing bright and his tone goading. 

“Dead End claimed to me that you were well-known for your many military victories in the face of seeming hopelessness. He said it took you less than a stellar cycle to be promoted from foot soldier to lieutenant. He said you were single-handedly responsible for taking Tyger Pax from the Autobots. He told quite a heroic tale, actually, of you bloodied and wounded and severely outnumbered and outgunned…” 

Megatron’s servos had balled into fists. He realized the tightly-wound tension that was stiffening his joints, and loosened himself with a soft creak of flexing metal and a gentle cycling of his vents. 

He remembered Tyger Pax like it was the day he’d been there. It was his greatest triumph. He had split dozens of Autobot helms with his own hands, shot down even more, and ordered a hundred desperate, terrified Decepticon troopers to take on a force of ten times their strength, and they had won. 

He could still smell the energon in the air— the acrid smoke and raging fire and burning metal. He could feel the sharp rubble beneath his heels and hear the chassis-rattling explosions that caught in his denta and made his processors ache. He could see the dying red rays of the sun on the horizon, the rent corpses of Autobot and Decepticon alike strewn across the site of slaughter, his flag ripped to tatters as he waved it over his head with a maddened sob of triumph. He could feel the revenant of pain and fear and desperation, the phantom ache of his near-mortal woundings.

His greatest victory. 

“… and after all of that hard work, you were promoted to Captain and put to work guarding Quasar Canyon.” 

“Yes,” Megatron growled. He pulled closer to the bars; his engines were humming in anticipation. He had been roused by the memory of Tyger Pax, and was ready for another fight— he halfway hoped Starscream would try something foolish and give him an excuse. Megatron hadn’t seen proper war- soldiers working in harmony as they were carefully directed under his command, the hot flush of victory flooding through his circuits as his enemy was crushed beneath his heel - in far more than a vorn. He wanted to feel it again. Needed it. 

Starscream’s head cocked at his tone, red optics dark with intrigue as well as something lower, more animalistic. For a second, Megatron thought he was intimidated or afraid. 

“You resent the Decepticon leadership for your current post,” Starscream posited. 

Megatron snorted. “Of course I do. I proved myself in the killing fields at Tyger Pax and before, and they dumped me in a nowhere post to get me out of their way. The gladiators- Tarn, Straxus, Overlord- want the glory, leadership, for their own. They forget that they, too, were once miners desperately trying to make a name for themselves in the gladiator pits.” 

There was a pause. Thundercracker’s wings hadn’t stopped twitching since Megatron had come into view; his nervousness contrasted with Skywarp’s curiosity and Starscream’s half-amused, half-haughty expression. 

“You’ve convinced me,” Starscream said, with a small incline of his head. “I will release you, and possibly aid you in your efforts to overthrow the Decepticon leadership, once you’ve proved your trustworthiness. We can discuss Vos allying with your Decepticons at another time.” 

He tapped in a code at the panel adjacent to the cell; the bars of energy vanished. Megatron did not move, as despite their friendliness he thought the fliers were still likely to shoot him for any perceived mischief. The Winglord obliged him, closing the distance. 

“Take this,” Starscream said. He reached out to Megatron, the tips of his digits closed around a data-chip. “It has communication codes set up just for our use. Once you’re positioned favorably in the Decepticons again, contact us with information for energon raids.” 

Megatron found his optics drawn to the slender gap in Starscream’s cloak, begotten by his reaching arm— it was an instinct from the persistent denial of sight, perhaps, an urge to try to map out the unknown. Starscream’s cockpit was smooth and oblong, amber-gold, nigh-identical to Skywarp and Thundercracker’s. Megatron could just barely see the faint curve of his hip, which looked like it tapered into a bladed edge. He had black-grey vents flanking the nose of his cockpit. 

Their digits met. Starscream’s were even longer than Megatron’s, despite their size disparity, thin and bladed compared to Megatron’s blocky rectangles. The Winglord’s talons moved with arachnid grace, delicately placing the data-chip in Megatron’s awaiting palm. 

The tips of his claws tickled against Megatron’s plating. 

They were warm. 

Megatron jettisoned a sudden intrusion of strange thoughts that had forced their way into his processors. His sudden fascination with what the Winglord was hiding under layers of plush fabric could wait.

“It’s on our frequency already,” The Winglord informed him. He lingered longer than was strictly necessary, but his servo eventually drew away, tucking into the folds of the cloak. “You should just need to plug it into a private radio-array and it will work. If you suspect at any point we might be compromised, we can arrange a dead drop for another data-chip.” 

Megatron nodded, closing his fist around the tiny metal square. 

“Now what?” He asked. “You can’t just drop me back in Quasar Canyon. There will be all sorts of awkward questions, inquiries— perhaps even a military tribunal. We need a good cover story— one which won’t implicate Vos.” 

Starscream grinned. It was not a nice grin. 

“How do you feel about picnicking in the Sea of Rust, captain?” 

=

Astrotrain brought him down to the surface. He did not stay long; just enough to ensure Megatron didn’t immediately get eaten or fall into a hole the moment he placed a pede to the dirt. 

The ploy was simple: on his own, Megatron would have to find his way out of the Sea of Rust and make it back to the Decepticons. The cover story for his absence stated he had been wandering around here for the nine solar cycles he’d been missing (easily believable; the Sea of Rust was known for chewing up intruders and only reluctantly letting them go) and the best way to make it believable was to make it half-true.

The Sea was an unpleasant proving ground for him, post-wounding. For four solar cycles Megatron had to deal with mercury sinkholes, irradiated sand blowing into his seams, lead hail, electromagnetic storms, and all sorts of unfathomable weather phenomena— not to mention contending with the creatures that lurked in the dunes of rust, ready to pounce on the unwary. 

In a way, though, the periodic attempts of predacons to terminate him were a small mercy. Drinking their energon kept Megatron fueled, outwitting their pursuit kept his mind sharp, and fighting them allowed him a chance to work off some steam and practice combat. It would have been an almost enjoyable excursion- a pleasant challenge- if it weren’t for the fact he was not here of his own volition. (At least Starscream had given him his fusion cannon back.)

GPS positioning was worthless. Radar mapping pings were constantly interfered with due to the fluctuating magnetosphere in the Sea of Rust. Visibility was minimal due to the constant flakes of metal and sand sleeting through the air, or the myriad of other hazardous weather conditions that were commonplace. Megatron had gone through a cave and belatedly realized there was some sort of gravity inversion present inside, then nearly plummeted to his death. (He thought about noting its position, in case a Decepticon scientist might want to investigate the phenomenon, but the chances of finding it again were almost nil and he decided against wasting the storage space.) 

Megatron honestly could have been wandering in circles for all he knew. Slaughtering predacons for food and meandering around aimlessly was sustainable- for the moment- but not pleasant. He needed to get back to the Decepticons. To the leadership position he was owed. The determination to one day head the Decepticons was the flame that kept his spark warm, that made him keep going— dodging acid rains, rust showers, and nova spots all the while. 

Eventually- as the warmth of day began to slip into the chilly dark of night- Megatron settled down for his second recharge since he’d been in the Sea of Rust. He clambered on top of a mesa where the gallium snow was falling much more lightly than below, scraping himself a dubiously comfortable scoop from the fallen flakes. The stuff liquidized from just the touch of his warm chassis, and Megatron fell into the bed of half-melted fluff, exhausted and prickling with minor wounds from an earlier predacon ambush. Definitely in need of a power-down…

Megatron allowed himself to offline, but he kept some auxiliary sensors running in case something hungry decided it didn’t mind a climb if it meant snagging a comatose meal.  

When he woke, his chronometers told him that it had been six joors, and the darkness around him corroborated as much. The clouds were too thick for the light of Cybertron’s moons to shine through, and it was pitch-black except for the distant flickers of static electricity in what looked like a pressure dome nearby. It was still snowing; Megatron was lying in a pile of soupy-wet gallium slush, which was soaking into his armor and sticky to boot. 

He sat up, working his shoulders to smoothen out his locomotion, and shook himself to try to disperse some of the liquid. It did not help much. 

He switched his optics to infrared, the only way he could see in the hazy darkness of the Sea’s eternal storming. He still had to be wary; it was easy to fool heat sensors, especially in this hellish place, where you could go from liquid aluminum heat to frozen argon cold in an arm’s span. There was a technicolor rainbow of temperature spots just within Megatron’s field of vision; the grains of rust in the air further confused things.

But Megatron- after a quick double-checking- realized had seen people.

Not predacons. People. Two-legged, walking upright. There were three of them, moving slowly. Megatron rushed to the edge of the mesa and quickly settled on his front, slopping armfuls of snow-slush onto his frame in case they also had infrared capabilities. Melted gallium wouldn’t disguise him completely, but it would help confuse their temperature estimations. 

He assessed their bulk; they didn’t have wings. Not a Vosian rescue party, then. 

Were they Autobots?

Dare he hope they were Decepticons?

He could overpower them, friendly or otherwise; that he was sure of, especially with the element of surprise. He moved towards the edge, slowly beginning to slink his way down the escarpment. The prospect of rejoining civilization had bitten into his processor, looping desperately like a bad bit of code. 

Megatron touched pede to the ground, crouching silently behind an outcropping of rock. It took nearly a breem for the three Cybertronians to finally get close enough for him to hear them. They were talking, quietly, but aloud as opposed to with radio pings. Perhaps they were in a dead zone. 

“— thought you said that you didn’t like Motormaster,” one was saying. 

“I don’t not like him,” another replied, uncomfortably.

“Not my unit, not my mess,” the third declared. “How much longer until we can go back to Polyhex, again?”

That’s all Megatron needed to hear. He stepped from the rocks, holding his servos up in a gesture of peace. 

“Are you Decepticons?” He called.

The three almost turned as one, leveling their weaponry at Megatron; the muzzles of their blasters glowed with gathering energy. Megatron squinted in their direction, but he could scarcely make out their silhouettes from this far away. They were all smaller and leaner than him; that he was sure of.

“Put those down,” Megatron barked. “I’m one of you.” Somewhat ineffectively, he wiped a smear of gallium off his insignia so it could be easier for them to recognize in this darkness. 

Guns remained pointed at him, but the barrels wavered when they identified the Decepticon logo stamped on his chest. 

“What in the Pits happened to you?” One of the mechs called. 

“I’ve been stuck in the Sea of Rust— what does it look like? I’ve been trying to call a rescue for nearly two weeks.” Megatron said, approximating a weak rasp (it was not difficult). He indicated himself, then drew closer to the trio so he could make out their forms more clearly. “Captain Megatron, commander of Outpost QC-1-Alpha. Who are you three? Rank and designation.”

They snapped to attention at his authoritative tone, slinging their weapons to their sides so they could salute. 

“I’m Sergeant Breakdown, sir!” One of them, a blue-and-orange mech, volunteered. “Commanding officer of this team! We’re scouts on a mission under Colonel Soundwave’s authority.”

Soundwave was a name Megatron dimly recognized. A former gladiator, perhaps? The high rank was curious, and concerning— someone of that standing was doubtlessly headquartered in Polyhex to provide military strategy, or else was on the front lines and leading. What would someone like that be doing sending troops to the middle of the Sea of Rust? 

“What’re you scouting for?” Megatron asked. 

“Survivors of the incident at Outpost QC-1-Alpha,” Breakdown provided cheerfully. 

“You were looking for me?” Megatron was somewhat flattered. He had assumed that his higher-ups would gratefully leave him for dead; he would never have expected anyone to organize an expedition into the Sea of Rust just to retrieve him or his remains. 

Breakdown’s sunny expression flickered. “Uh, well, nosir. Not as such.” 

Megatron inclined his head, seeking an explanation. 

“Frenzy, sir. We’re seeking Frenzy.” When Megatron’s blank stare indicated he did not recognize the name, Breakdown continued: “She was your communications officer.” 

Recognition came to Megatron; guilt clamped down just as quickly. She was in the hands of the Vosians, though it wasn’t as though he could tell them that. He could only hope the Winglord would treat his hostages well.

“Her? Why her in particular?” Megatron had to dam the egotistical sting of his pride- was a captain not the more significant person to look for?- which had come immediately after his guilt at leaving her behind. He corrected his verbal slip: “A moment, Breakdown. You said she’s missing? I had assumed it was just myself lost in the fight. Did anyone else make it out alive?”

“Nosir, we didn’t find any survivors. Actually, we were desperate for any clue as to what had happened, because it seemed like—”

“Don’t press me about it now,” Megatron shook his head, putting on a tone of strut-deep weariness. “I’ve been subsisting on predacon blood and dodging magnetic tornadoes for thirteen solar cycles. I’ll answer questions in the comfort of the wash racks or in front of a military inquiry. You will provide answers for me first. Is it just Frenzy and I who are missing in action?” 

“Long Haul- a caravaner- and a mech named Dead End from your outpost were also lost. Fourteen confirmed casualties, including seven of your base’s unit and the caravaners aboard EC-67.” Breakdown hesitated. “Sir, the entire energon tanker was missing when reinforcements arrived— there were all sorts of confusing irregularities on the scene. Colonel Soundwave went there personally to investigate and he was beside himself. He went all the way to Lord Tarn and practically chewed his audials off.” 

Things were rapidly getting more complicated with the introduction of new players in this game; the intervention of Soundwave would make things much more difficult than it otherwise would’ve been. What on Cybertron was his stake in this?

Megatron evaded the questions inherent in Breakdown’s explanation, pursuing his own line of inquiry: “Why the interest in Frenzy specifically?” 

Breakdown hesitated. “I don’t think I’m allowed to answer that.” 

Megatron looked to the other two in the scouting party; a dark-armored, thinner bot with a golden faceplate, and a moderately thicker, vibrantly yellow one that he thought ought to have a different paint job given her profession. 

“I’m still a higher-ranking officer,” Megatron growled. He jerked his chin at the yellow ‘bot. “You— answer me.” 

“Detour,” she touched her chest, gently. “And I don’t know; I don’t think we have to tell you. This is a covert operation. Even if you’re a captain. After all, Soundwave does outrank you, and we’re out here on his orders. Sir.” 

Megatron’s gaze flicked to the black one.

“Blackjack,” he obliged. “Frenzy is… a protégé of Colonel Soundwave’s. That’s all you need to know, and probably more than I’m authorized to tell.” 

“We should radio the colonel for orders,” Detour said, abruptly. She gave a self-affirming nod. “Soundwave will likely want to know about your reappearance and interrogate you, sir. Quite frankly, finding you here is amazing. The last contact we had with QC-1-Alpha was a transmission from Frenzy, stating that you had jumped into the canyon and reported seeing fliers from Vos.” 

Megatron cursed Frenzy’s diligence in reporting what he had said in the chaos, just as much as he respected her for following his orders. 

He gave none of his true feelings away to the scouting party; he shook his broad head in something made to resemble forlorn embarrassment. 

“I was wrong,” Megatron said, heavily. “It was dark when I last spoke with her, and I was mistaken on the nature of the enemy due to the confusion of combat. I can say with authority now that they were predacons. Large, unpleasant, murderous predacons. Lured in by the energon convoy, no doubt.”

They did not quite seem to believe him, but he could not continue without making himself seem less believable. Sometimes less is more, and more is excess. 

Megatron continued, in spite of the triplicate of doubting expressions: “I can give my account for what I saw, but I wasn’t there for the gory aftermath. Very shortly into the conflict a winged predacon attempted to carry me off to its nest. I slew it once we landed, and I’ve been trying to get back to Quasar Canyon ever since.” 

“Soundwave will want to hear this,” Blackjack said, mildly. “Save your testimony for him.” 

“Right,” Breakdown chimed, attempting to take the reins of command once again. “We’re still obligated to continue our search for Frenzy, Captain Megatron— perhaps you’d like to help us? You must have experience with the terrain and wildlife by now.” 

Megatron briefly contemplated telling them she was dead. That would certainly be the least complicated lie in the immediate, but when she returned from Vos- and Megatron did intend to take her, Long Haul, and even the treacherous Dead End back from the fliers- it would create a very awkward incongruency. 

He would have to navigate this with more charm than brute force; pulling rank hadn’t worked, so it was time to get clever. 

“As Detour suggested, we should contact Colonel Soundwave about this,” Megatron offered. “He may not want me on this scouting party. I am not adequately trained for reconnaissance, or search and rescue. I may end up slowing you down or attracting undue attention.” 

They agreed with him. Detour, who had been his greatest critic, seemed to appreciate his support of her idea; she had noticeably softened as she nodded vigorously in agreement. The other two appeared flattered by Megatron’s implication that their skills could exceed his own. 

“The Sea of Rust is one great dead zone as far as comms go, but about five kloms back we found a pocket that let some transmissions through,” Blackjack added, helpfully. “We should make our way back there.” 

They turned and made a formation. Megatron fell into the rear, flicking his infrared back on to keep an eye out for any hungry predacons that were stupid enough to ambush four heavily-armed Decepticons. 

As they walked through the heavy drifts of freezing gallium, Megatron’s mind turned to the new complication: Soundwave. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with already, between plotting Straxus’s downfall and the feeding of an entire colony of hungry, half-feral wing-slingers. 

Well, it was simple enough. In order to smoothly secure his path to leadership of the Decepticons, Megatron was going to have to deal with the colonel in one way or another. He had an instinctual feeling that deflecting Frenzy’s disappearance wouldn’t be enough— not if this Soundwave was willing to go in person to scour the wreckage for her. 

Megatron was either going to have to make an ally or terminate an enemy. 

Neither would be easy. 

Chapter Text

Colonel Soundwave- much to Megatron’s surprise- not only gave them permission to immediately return from the hunt for Frenzy, but authorized Megatron to return to his post at Outpost QC-1-Alpha as acting commander. Whether he would stay in charge and keep his rank appeared to hinge on future events— Soundwave, as Detour had guessed, wanted to interrogate him personally. The colonel was fuzzy on the details of when, exactly, he would be able to make a visit— Megatron spitefully guessed the vagueness was so Soundwave could catch him off guard and find his defenses lacking. Megatron resolved to sorely disappoint him. 

After two days of tromping back through the Sea of Rust with Breakdown, Detour, and Blackjack (its own perilous journey, involving a lot of shooting at predacons, tediously walking around hazards, and wry batinage with the three scouts) Megatron was relieved to see the enormous, yawning shape of Quasar Canyon in the distance. Further, when they managed to find their way back to Outpost QC-1-Alpha, Megatron had never been so happy to see his dull little office.

He chased off the shiny-plated newspark moron they had temporarily filling his spot, offering a series of personable snarls as the lieutenant stammered through simpering “welcome backs”. As soon as his aft graced his old chair Megatron was fed a glut of data-slates by his new CO, therefore forced to contend with two weeks of illegible field reports by the likes of Clobber and Rattletrap that had been generated in his absence.

No rest. No relaxation. No consideration given to the ordeal he’d just been through. Megatron briefly thought he might’ve preferred to stay in the Sea of Rust- at least there was no paperwork there- but at least he didn’t appear to be facing an imminent court martial. 

There was admittedly some difficulty in readjusting to control of the Outpost. It had been naught but two weeks since he’d left- both no time at all and an eternity- but things had decisively changed in Megatron’s absence. He had an entirely new staff, owing to the fact that his last group had either been terminated or was presently being held prisoner in Vos. That meant learning new designations and building new rapports, having to get acclimated to their individual strengths and weaknesses (mostly weaknesses) as well as deciding if any of them would be trouble for his lofty ambitions and furtive alliance with Vos. Getting acquainted with his new team was an additional unpleasant responsibility on top of his myriad of other responsibilities: filling out endless reams of paperwork (mostly incident reports relating to the energon tanker) , the impending inspection by Soundwave, and, of course, coordinating with Vos’s Winglord to conspire against his own faction and plot the downfall of High Lord-Commander Straxus. 

(That latter one hadn’t happened quite just yet, since Megatron felt his position in the Decepticons too tenuous to contact them. Starscream’s data-chip seemed to burn accusingly against his protoform where he’d wedged it underneath his armor plating for safekeeping.)

Not to mention that— well…

Megatron kept expecting to see the crotchety former quartermaster in the hallways. Or his diligent communications officer lingering in the doorway of his office. Or Dead End lumpishly sulking in his hammock-berth. Or Jumble and Sparkheap trying their hardest to keep their heads down in the energon dispensary, though they were never actually doing anything wrong. He had been working with his old staff for more than a vorn— it was a long time to have known them, and a short time to have had them departed.

What hurt surprisingly deeply was the fact that he hadn’t even gotten a chance to see their bodies. The fallen Decepticons under Megatron’s command had long-since been picked up and shipped off to Polyhex for last rites. Their frames had been melted down while Megatron was still in the lofty palisades of Vos; he hadn’t been given a chance to speak at their dispersion ceremonies, like their commander ought to have. The denial at his right to honor them stung his spark, though not as badly as when his brain modules idly expected to see them and then were forced to contend with the fact that they were not there, and never would be again. 

Megatron was no stranger to loss. He had many soldiers die under his command before he was put at Outpost QC-1-Alpha- unavoidable- and before that, the other miners who toiled alongside him were slain by the hazards of their job constantly. Megatron and the rest of the world pushed on despite the void where a mech once was. It was all you could do. 

Some commanders might’ve lashed out at the completely new crew of Outpost QC-1-Alpha, wounded by the loss of the previous staff. Megatron was conscious of this temptation. He had been reading a dataslate on Rungian analysis, and it had a brief and illuminating segment touching on death and grieving in wartime. Many primes had personal anecdotes in their memoirs and theoretical doctrines on how to deal with loss, as well. As such, Megatron discarded his personal feelings of mourning to try to make his new crew feel accepted and important, hopefully engendering them with a work ethic and readiness that his last team had, unfortunately, not developed under his care.

“ Trying to” was the operative part of that sentence. 

“Rumble!” Megatron barked into his comm-bead, at the very end of his tether of patience: “My office. Now!” 

“Don’t blow your radiator,” answered Rumble a moment later, unrepentantly petulant. “I’m coming. I’m coming.” 

“Speak in those disrespectful tones to me again and I’ll have you soldered into your communications array,” Megatron threatened. “I’ve had enough of your insubordination and your pranks . Come to my office, now, or I’ll haul your aft in here myself, and I will not be gentle.” 

Rumble’s stroppy silence over the line was something like acquiescence. It would have to do. 

Rumble was Megatron’s new communications officer. While he bore a rather striking resemblance to his last CO, Frenzy, unlike her he was an impertinent heel with a severe attitude problem. He enjoyed playing pranks, though his idea of pranks tended towards the dangerous and destructive, like pulling the pin off of an energon-grenade and throwing it into the barracks. 

The little mech was good at performing his official duties, prompt and obedient and even eager when he had challenging work to do, but there wasn’t much message decryption or external communication going on in a dusty pit like Quasar Canyon. Quite frankly, Megatron thought his sporadically juvenile behavior was because he was bored.

Rumble was far more competent than this posting deserved, just like Megatron; not being on the edge of danger or intrigue- not having anything to do- frustrated him, made him act out.

It was an explanation , but it wasn’t an excuse. 

Megatron stalked back and forth in his too-small office, processor storming with fitful strings of irritation. He did not enjoy having to castigate those under his command, mainly because he perceived it as a flaw of his leadership. If he’d wanted to give a severe lashing to a disobedient sparkling he’d have become a sire; it was abhorrent that he should even have to repeatedly discipline his troops. 

Troops. Mostly just Rumble. 

“Y’wanted to see me?” Rumble poked his head in. For a moment, Megatron thought he was his old CO; they did exactly the same half-nervous lean, servos against the doorjam and head tilted in while their body was shielded in the hallway. 

Megatron wordlessly beckoned him in. Rumble slowly padded across the threshold, his turned-in shoulders making him look pathetically small. The oversized room didn’t help. 

“Battletrap had to be flown to the nearest medical station,” Megatron began, and Rumble’s face immediately cracked with guilt. 

“I apologized!”

“And despite the fact that you apologized,” Megatron began to tick off on his digits, “Battletrap is still wounded, we’re still down a mech, the quartermaster’s office is in shreds, and the rest of our squadron would just as likely shoot at you as they would an Autobot.”

Rumble’s lip-plates pushed tightly together. He shifted, antsily, from pede to pede, but did not speak.

“If you’re hoping to cause enough trouble to get out of here, you can forget it,” Megatron continued. “It’s sticking out your service in Quasar Canyon or a court-martial. Those are your options.”

Megatron had been tempted to choose the latter himself, though thankfully never fell to it. Rumble remained uncharacteristically quiet. 

“Now, as far as punishments go, you’re to be the quartermaster’s drone for the foreseeable future. Until the damage is repaired and every last item is inventoried or replaced, you’re to perform whatever duties she asks of you. Without complaining. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Rumble said, addressing the floor. Megatron could feel the currents of his anger growing sluggish, his rage softening at the remorseful compliance. 

“Good. You’ll be continuing your own duties in addition to what she requests. And, Rumble? For the foreseeable future, you’ll have a watchmech on you at all times to ensure you aren’t up to any trouble. While you’re with the quartermaster, she will do as an overseer, but I’ve already drawn up a duty roster for the other mechs on-base to keep an optic on you when you aren’t working with her.” 

Rumble’s servos dropped to his sides in shock. For a moment, his vocalizer seemed to be struggling to get anything out. His cry of indignation was thin and shrill, hitting a note of distress that told Megatron his punishment was far more effective than intended: “You can’t do that!”

“I have two bars that says I can,” Megatron replied, loftily, tapping his insignia. 

“Negative,” a new voice said, pleasant and harmonious, “you can’t.” 

The door to Megatron’s office was still open— an enormous shape, one that Megatron surely would’ve recognized if it were one of his soldiers, entered unannounced.

The new-coming mech was tall- only marginally shorter than Megatron- with relatively unique proportions. He had enormous shoulders indented with speaker cones, a massive rectangular chest with a clear glass pane offering a view into his internals, and a thin waist and thighs that tapered to enormous lower legs. He was predominantly royal blue, glass and vents trimmed with gold, and his visor was a brilliant, luminous red. The Decepticon decal stamped on the glass had a stylized Air Hammer beneath it— the indication of a colonel. 

Two guesses who this could be, and the first two didn’t count. Megatron’s dental plates ground together in frustration, once he’d gotten past cold, tank-turning surprise.

What in the pits is he doing here now? 

Betraying no sign of his vexation, Megatron smoothly went into a salute. “You must be Colonel Soundwave. I was not expecting you.”

The faceless mech seemed to derive some satisfaction from that; it was evident in the satisfied tilt of his head. His voice hummed musically as he spoke. “Yes. That was my intention. However, Captain Megatron’s worries about entertaining a superior: cease. I will not be staying long— my presence is needed at Crystal City. I could only take a very brief detour.” 

He’s headed to the front, Megatron thought. Meaning he won’t be back here for a while. If I’m lucky, he’ll get captured or slagged out there. Probably not, though. Officers always had a way of staying alive, especially if they’d spent any amount of time in the gladiator pits. 

“Does your presence here mean you’ll be wanting to question me, colonel?” Megatron asked, primly. He folded his servos behind his back, puffing out his chassis and standing at attention. “I’m fully prepared to give my testimony, and the incident reports have been finished and filed.” 

“Contents: known. I read them on my way here,” Soundwave intoned. “Soundwave: does not intend to question you here and now. Time is insufficient at present. When the war permits, I will return for a thorough inquiry.” 

Megatron blinked, mentally re-balancing. “If you haven’t stopped here for my personal report, then why are you here?”

Faceless disapproval made itself evident. “Rumble: reportedly caused damage to a friendly unit. Soundwave: dispensing reprimand.”

“I’ve already—” Megatron began, then hesitated. That was twice in as many kliks that he had been caught by surprise; not only was Soundwave not here for Megatron, he was here for Rumble? Perhaps Megatron really was far more self-absorbed than he thought. “You came here for—?” 

Rumble cut him off. The little mech turned to Soundwave, wheedling. “It was just a prank, Soundwave! It just went wrong. I didn’t know that titanium shavings mixed with beryllium and energon could cause a mech’s fuel tank to explode, I just thought—”

Soundwave held up a hand for silence. “Intentions: irrelevant. The damage was caused.”

“I have already punished him,” Megatron said sharply, but Soundwave and Rumble ignored him.

“If I’m remembering right, you were the one who put me up to this scrap assignment, Soundwave,” Rumble barked in reply, fists balling at his sides. “It’s kinda your fault, you know! If you could just move me back to the front— Pits, if you’d let me go to Crystal City with you—” 

Soundwave’s visor flashed brighter. “Rumble: is needed here.” 

Rumble sneered. “What, so I can do nothing all day while you have all the fun? So I get yelled at by this washout?” 

Washout? 

“Soundwave,” Megatron snarled, and his tone must’ve been sufficiently peeved, because both of them quickly looked over. “Rumble is under my jurisdiction. I’ve already meted what I consider a fair punishment, and he’s in my charge, not yours. Upbraid him for insubordination if you like, but I have already reprimanded him to my satisfaction. As a matter of fact, he’s dismissed.” 

Rumble gave him a halfway horrified look. Perhaps he’d thought Megatron didn’t have the stomach to talk to a superior like that. Well, Megatron took to infringement on his leadership about as well as he did insubordination. 

“You are dismissed, Rumble!” Megatron barked, increasing his volume. 

Rumble hesitated, glancing at Soundwave, who remained rigidly impassive. 

Megatron’s temper flared brighter. If he had to repeat himself one more time, he was going to use Rumble for target practice. “Report to the quartermaster’s office, Rumble. Now!” 

Rumble fled the room. 

The ensuing silence was suffocating and long. Soundwave was measuring him up. Megatron let him. 

“Megatron: was a gladiator before the war?” Soundwave queried. 

“No,” Megatron answered, tersely. Soundwave didn’t seem much for emotion, but Megatron could almost feel his surprise. 

“But you—” 

“I wasn’t,” Megatron reiterated, making it clear he would not permit this conversation to continue, colonel or otherwise. Sensing- and not wanting to further provoke- Megatron’s hostility, Soundwave changed tactics. He folded his servos behind his back, chest lifting as his chin jutted; his chassis was nearly hollow behind the glass, which made his great size much less intimidating. 

“Query: does Captain Megatron know anything additional about Frenzy’s disappearance? Something that he may have forgotten or otherwise hesitated to include in his report?” 

This was what Megatron had been expecting. He did not hesitate. “Unfortunately, I do not. My guess is that the predacons made sport of her, just as they intended to do to me. I hope her spark rests easy in the Well— she was a good CO.”  

“She has not been terminated,” Soundwave flatly intoned. 

Megatron arched an optical ridge; part playacting for the colonel, part genuine (how could Soundwave possibly know that with such certainty?). He let a note of hope enter his voice: “How do you know that? Have you detected her life signature somewhere in the Sea?”

“No.”

“But how could you know she’s still online?” Megatron persisted. 

“I know,” Soundwave said, a bassy, synthesized rumble underscoring his tone. He was perfectly matter-of-fact in his delivery. Megatron, unfortunately, believed him completely. 

“… I suppose it’s some instinct the good commanders have for their missing soldiers— I must not be high up enough to understand.” Megatron took a weak stab at a joke, but humor was one of his weakest rhetorical devices. It wasn’t funny at all.

The colonel vacantly nodded. “Something like that…”

Soundwave’s visor minutely dimmed. 

Megatron felt a strange shiver run through him, an urge for his plating to flex and vent off excess heat— it was wholly instinctual, an intrusive, naturally-occurring subroutine that popped up and departed from his neural net within a second. 

After it, Megatron thought he felt…

Something. Something where it shouldn’t be. It was impossible to articulate, but for a second- only a second- he felt as though he were being spied upon. Not just him— his soul, his spark, his mind. There was a presence…

And then it was gone.

(For some reason, the data-chip wedged beneath his plating seemed warmer, like a wounded turbofox pressing into his side for comfort— or, Megatron thought aceticly, a little scraplet trying to accusatorily chew him up from the inside out.) 

Soundwave’s visor brightened. 

“Soundwave: must depart,” the mech intoned. “Rumble has been disciplined to Megatron’s satisfaction. That will satisfy Soundwave as well. I will return for a full debriefing. Soon. Hail the Decepticons.”

“Hail the Decepticons,” Megatron replied, automatically. 

Soundwave saluted. Megatron mirrored it.

The blue ‘bot strolled out of the room, and Megatron felt himself strangely unsettled. Something had just happened between the two of them— something unpleasant and completely unvoiced. 

Megatron briefly contemplated the feasibility of a sudden impulse to kill Soundwave now . If he rigged the colonel’s transportation to explode on the way to Crystal City, it could’ve been blamed on anyone between Polyhex and there. No more inquiry by a nosy higher-up, and Megatron would be in the clear. 

Except for one complication.

Rumble . 

Rumble and Soundwave seemed to be, at the very least, acquainted, and if Megatron terminated Soundwave, he was decently sure Rumble- industrious, frustrating, stupid-smart Rumble- would figure it out. Somehow. No matter how well Megatron covered his tracks. 

Megatron briefly entertained the prospect of terminating Rumble, too- he would surely get a better-behaved CO out of it- but discarded that notion. 

For a start, the suspicion on Megatron would be immense with all of the conspicuous deaths around him. If he killed the pair it would be stellar cycles before he could hope to safely contact Vos, and by then the fliers might’ve either moved on to court the Autobots for help or otherwise have starved. 

For another, while Megatron may not have balked at killing in order to claw his way to the top, making a ladder out of bodies to get there would make it much more difficult to comfortably reign. Anointing yourself in spilled energon was the quickest way to the throne, but not the safest— fear was good, but it was better to be admired and adored first and feared second, lest rebellion and sedition start to brew. 

Reckless termination would be employed only if other methods of diplomacy and subterfuge failed. Megatron was cleverer than mindless, indiscriminate destruction. Better than that. He was a wily tactician as well as a mighty warrior, and that was why leadership of the Decepticons belonged firmly in his grasp.

Yes. It was time to give the Winglord a call.

Chapter Text

A Decepticon communicator was small. 

It was silver, about the size of Megatron’s thumb; a tiny strip of rectangular metal with regularly-spaced ports, slots ready to process an external data-chip. Though the Decepticon communicators were minuscule, they enabled wireless and instantaneous transmission across the surface of the entire planet (barring the Sea of Rust’s electromagnetic irregularities) and all the way to the moons— with an ideal signal, perhaps even to the depths of Cybertron’s core. It was extremely difficult to intercept by happenstance or be detected by conventional means— you needed an appropriate receiving code, provided by a data-chip, or the exchange might as well be nonexistent. 

The device was a marvel of re-engineering that harkened back to the technological advancement of the Golden Age; the technology was only some five hundred years old, the laborious work of pre-eminent scholars Wheeljack and Shockwave, whose promising scientific collaboration had been terminated by the deep divisions of the war. 

The fifteen outposts at Quasar Canyon were issued only two of them total. The communicators were, as their impressive capacity suggested, rare, and the ones that did exist tended to be crowded around generals and those on the front lines. The ordinary Decepticon transmissions usually came in the form of fallible radio pings and stuttery broadcasts, or else Intranet communications easily severed by shelling and sabotage and natural disaster. 

Megatron could not securely, safely, or confidently communicate with Vos in any way outside of the communicators. Ergo, he needed one. And therein lay the issue.

Despite the fact that Outpost QC-1-Alpha held ownership of both of the communicators in the canyon, they were not in Megatron’s personal possession. Naturally, both of the communicators were in Rumble’s office. (He was the communications officer, after all.) Rumble was a disobedient little scraphead, but he was attentive. It would be known nigh-immediately if one were stolen.

But there was no other choice but to swipe one. Starscream had handed off a data-chip with private offering/receiving codes, true, but there’d been no communicator to go along with it, and given Megatron’s unimportant position and relatively low rank, he did not have one for his own personal use. The only option was to steal from his CO, and when the theft was inevitably discovered, pretend to roar and rage and demand the kleptomaniac turn the missing communicator over or be severely reprimanded and possibly brought in front of a military tribunal. Of course, no thief would ever be found, but it was the performance that would matter. 

At any rate, dealing with the fallout of the theft was something he would concern himself with later. For now, it was imperative that Megatron contact Starscream and reaffirm their alliance. An orbital cycle of silence had been more than long enough— he didn’t want his new fliers getting restless and fluttering away. 

Two days after Soundwave’s surprise visit was when Rumble’s assignment with the quartermaster began— it meant that his office would be empty and unmonitored, the perfect opportunity for covert communicator-pinching. Megatron waited until most of the base’s mechs would be at the energon dispensary for their afternoon refuel, then made a quick jaunt to his CO’s empty office. He pressed his palm to the door access panel, resisting the instinctual urge to guiltily glance around and ensure he was alone. He had every right to be here if anyone was watching, and no reason to be skulking like a spy. Acting like one would only make him seem more suspicious.

Rumble’s office was criminally small to Megatron, who was nearly three times the little ‘bot’s size, and was crammed absolutely to the gills with equipment that seemed equal amounts complicated and abstruse. Screens of all sizes were mounted on the walls; thick bands of differently-colored cables snaked in every-which-direction, rows upon rows of wires plugged or waiting to be plugged into an enormous switchboard. There was a scribbled-upon data-screen, freshly scribed with glyphs that Megatron haphazardly guessed were for code-breaking. Radio arrays and data-players of every type and frequency dotted the room, stippled with tiny lights winking green and red in a pattern as incomprehensible as the twinkling of the stars. 

Most pertinently, there was a small charging station where the two communicators were docked. Megatron, ducking to avoid a bundle of cables sagging from the ceiling, snagged one, slipping it into his palm. 

(Thievery was surprisingly easy. He’d never stolen anything before, but he was almost disappointed at how simple it had been.)

Megatron turned to retreat with his prize, but something caught his attention first. There was a data-pad open on Rumble’s main desk, a dim screen displaying a rough transcription of some transmission Rumble had received. A few empty cubes of energon sat beside the data-pad, tipped over, sitting alongside the crinkled wrappers of gelled energon treats (a curiosity, since Megatron was certain that was a privilege of higher rank) and the other signs of general disarray that were characteristic of Rumble’s destructive presence.

Megatron glanced over the data-pad and was surprised to see transcriptions of transit cards unrelated to the maneuvers in Quasar Canyon. Troop movements to Polyhex, armament shipments to Kaon— most tantalizingly of all, acknowledgement of a movement of energon to Stanix. They were gathering a large stockpile there, and if he was reading these numbers correctly, troops were flowing out instead of in. It would be poorly guarded. 

Megatron was careful to jot down the details in his memory banks, filing away location tags as necessary. Now he had something to offer Starscream and his starving people— something other than “I’ll look away the next time you loot an energon caravan right in front of me”, at any rate. This should help shift the blame, obfuscate the ambitious saboteur in the Decepticons’ midst… 

Feeling renewed from this little informational tidbit, Megatron fit the communicator in the seam of his hip joint, where it snugly pressed against armor and protoform. It was cold, but he uttered no complaint. At least there it couldn’t be seen. 

He left the room as he found it (mess and all) and went straight to his office, settling down at his creaky old chair for a few more joors of mind-numbing desk work. There was no chance he would be able to contact Vos in the confines of the Outpost, surrounded by untrustworthy mechs- especially Rumble- and Megatron figured he ought to wait until most of them would be in recharge or otherwise preoccupied by the sedate influence of night. He would have to take a midnight walk and make the call on the outskirts of the Sea of Rust, where it was unlikely he would be disturbed by any nosy communications officers or hapless soldiers. 

Night eventually broke. Megatron switched off the data-pad he had been pecking at, rising with a crackle of decompressing joints, and officially clocked himself out. He paced down the hallways, catching a distant conversation- he sussed out Rumble and Battletrap, the latter of the pair having just  returned to the base with a shiny new fuel tank to replace the one that the former had unwittingly detonated- and quickened his stride to avoid any encounters. He made sure that no-one was around to witness it when he left, and plunged into the open darkness of the Quasar Canyon’s surrounding mesa. 

The moons were dim, crescent-thin and fogged by a thin cloud vapor. The ever-present storms of the Sea of Rust were raging; the distant howling of the wind was particularly irritating, screaming like artillery fire and wounded troopers, and yet a persistent mist hung around the ground. The moisture made some of the captain’s more delicate sensors glitch, unhelped by the fact the air was noticeably chilly; Megatron had to manually stimulate his engines to keep his energon lines from getting sluggish in the cold. 

The night was so dark and soupy that Megatron could barely see one pede in front of the other— the weather was surly and unpleasant. In a word, it was perfect. No one but a moron would follow him in conditions like these. 

Megatron had gone about eight hundred feet from the Outpost proper before he heard a hesitant, crackling, “Who goes there?” 

Megatron bit back a curse and turned on his heelstrut, scanning through the dark to try to find the source of the exclamation. The communicator nestled against his thigh seemed suddenly heavy and accusing. 

“It’s Captain Megatron, of the Decepticons. Declare yourself,” Megatron barked. 

“It’s Lieutenant Crankcase,” came the quick reply. A blocky rectangular shape jogged its way out of the gloom, orange-red biolights diffusing through the fog. Megatron relaxed, marginally, as he recognized the shape and shade of the visor bobbing in the dark. “… Uh… of the Decepticons.” 

“Crankcase? What are you doing out here?” 

“I could ask you the same thing, sir, except I do have a reason to be out here, actually— it’s my turn on night watch,” The lieutenant explained, somewhat apologetically, like he was sorry that he was inconveniencing Megatron by doing the job that he, himself, had ordered him to do. 

Lieutenant Crankcase had been the one who had taken up Megatron’s post in his absence; the lieutenant was neurotic, eager to please, carried himself with a general bearing of low self-esteem, and more likely than not was smarter than he let on. He was vital to the operation of Outpost QC-1-Alpha in the sense that the captain could foist paperwork he did not want to do on him; Crankcase had gotten a decent appreciation for the work whilst Megatron had been in Vos and wandered around the Sea of Rust. He did not do particularly well in Megatron’s periodic combat drills, but neither did he do badly. Megatron had not inquired about his past- about the pasts of any of his new soldiers, really- but he was beginning to think of that as a mistake. 

One thing was certain: Crankcase would certainly tattle to Tarn if he suspected any foul play. Megatron hadn’t earned anything resembling his personal loyalty yet. 

“Of course,” Megatron said. “I should have remembered— I have been so mired in my work it must have slipped my mind. Why, I put you on the duty roster myself.” He gave a short, self-deprecating chuckle, hoping it would ward off any suspicion about his unexplained presence here. 

“Yes, sir.” Crankcase hesitated. “Where are you going?”

Megatron had a lie prepared; he was thankful he had remembered to bolt on his fusion cannon before departure from the base. Its presence would lend him some sorely-needed credence. “I’m patrolling the edge of the Sea of Rust for predacon incursion. They get ornery at night. Especially in weather like this.” 

“By yourself?” The lieutenant squalled, suddenly distressed. “You can’t! What if you get ripped to little pieces out there? Then I’ll be in command!” 

Megatron patted the black jut of his cannon. “I survived the Sea of Rust for two weeks on my lonesome, and returned none the worse for wear. I can handle myself.” 

Crankcase shuffled his pedes, tilting his helm towards the ground. He clearly wanted to say something, but was reluctant to actually muster it up. “Sir— Well— I don’t think you need to prove anything. It could’ve happened to anyone—”

“Prove anything?” Megatron repeated, dumbly. He added, “It’s a routine patrol, Crankcase. I’ve done them for stellar cycles. I’ll be fine.” 

“Oh, so this isn’t about…?” Crankcase trailed off. Megatron, at last, clued in: the Lieutenant thought this was some sort of silly machismo revenge fantasy against the ‘predacons’ who had wiped out Megatron’s last crop of soldiers. “Um, forget I said anything. I’ll come with you.”

“You have a job to do, lieutenant. As I recall, we just finished agreeing that I gave it to you.” Megatron replied, wryly.

“Okay, well, not me, then, but take someone,” Crankcase haggled. “Even just somebody to run off and get help if you need it.”

Megatron flashed him a smile.

“Trust me. I don’t need help,” he told him, matter-of-factly. He turned away from Crankcase and began walking deeper into the fog. 

Having that as his closing line was a calculated risk. The lieutenant could pursue him despite being tonight’s watchmech, or decide to call someone to aid his ‘despairing’ captain, but Megatron was wagering that his combat history, confidence, and little one-liner would inspire such awe that Crankcase would swallow his concern and leave him to it.

Megatron heard the sound of retreating pedes a moment later, muffled by the mist. He couldn’t help a self-indulgent smirk. 

People were so predictable. 

Megatron went just far enough into the Sea of Rust that the electromagnetic instabilities began to manifest; he very carefully retreated backwards as soon as he encountered any fuzz, reassuring himself of his position (and making sure his GPS was still fully functional). That would be enough distance between himself and the Outpost— any further and he wouldn’t be able to communicate. 

Megatron set up by an outcropping of rock and made the call. 

The line was silent for some time; long enough that he had almost conceded to giving up and trying again the next night. But at last, it came to life. 

“I was wondering when you’d get around to contacting us, ground-pounder.” 

Megatron jolted slightly at the sound of Starscream’s oily voice, optics darting left and right even though he knew damned well no one was around besides him. 

He had not been expecting the Winglord himself to answer his hailing; one of Starscream’s lower-down officers, perhaps, or even one of the sovereign’s “trine” (whatever that meant, he still hadn’t been given a clear definition) Skywarp and Thundercracker, but not the leader of Vos. 

Perhaps Starscream did not trust anyone else to handle correspondence with his new Decepticon spy. Insecure leaders were often paranoid, and their delegation skills were consequently poor. 

“I’ve been busy re-situating myself,” Megatron replied, amiably. “It’s taken a while to assure everyone that everything is well. Despite my best efforts, I have a colonel, Soundwave, venting down my neck because of your hostages. He doesn’t suspect your intrusion for the moment, but he wants their bodies found and he’s been annoyingly persistent about it.”

There was a pause. Starscream’s reply was nothing short of indolent. 

“Maybe I should send one of them back down, then? Or perhaps just a piece… a severed servo should be proof enough of termination to convince a problem officer. Don’t you think?” 

“Don’t,” Megatron’s voice was low, authoritative; there was a rough edge that was just slightly more of a growl than the usual reprimands he gave Rumble. 

“Of course not,” Starscream purred- the bastard purred!- in reply. “Unless you have a better suggestion, we shall let that lie. Onto matters I find far more pressing— I don’t suppose you’re willing to betray your own kind and offer us the location of our next meal?” 

“That was what I intended to contact you about, actually.” Megatron let a heavy blast of air sigh out of his vents. “I can’t risk you filching from Quasar Canyon caravans again without drawing too much unnecessary attention to myself, but I can give you the location of an energon stockpile in Stanix.”

There was a beat of silence. “That’s a long way,” Starscream observed. 

“You would also have to get in and out unseen,” Megatron acknowledged. “Unless you wanted to reveal that Vos and its fliers are alive, well, and an active threat to the Decepticons.”

Starscream’s voice threaded with frustration. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Take it or leave it,” Megatron replied, bluntly. “I’m not the director of Decepticon energon acquisition, and I can only glance over some of Rumble’s transit cards for so long before I look like I’m up to something. You’re lucky I even know where this storage depo is— I only know the site that was being referenced because I was there when we took it from the Autobots two vorns ago.” 

“Such a target is hardly suitable for our attention, but it will do in these lean times— for now,” Starscream conceded, reluctantly. “I expect more substantial rewards from you in the future if you intend for me to take this, a-ha, partnership, seriously.” 

“In the fullness of time, you’ll get what you want. As I said, in helping me you help yourself.” 

“That remains to be seen.” 

Megatron snorted. Talk was cheap— he’d have to convince the Winglord of the purity of his motives with something more substantial. 

 “I’ve sent you a location tag and a physical description of the environment where the energon is housed. If you manage to successfully infiltrate it, let me know if their vintage is to your tastes, Winglord.” 

He heard a faint sound of static over the line— or was that Starscream making a sound? A trill? Or, perhaps, a thin, tittering peal of laughter? 

“Hmm. My title sounds good coming out of your vocal components, Megatron. A pity you want us to be equals.” 

They would be more than equals, once Vos and its people were subsumed under Decepticon leadership. They’d be just as equal as Lord Tarn was to High Lord-Commander Straxus. Though, wisely, Megatron did not voice this. 

“Let me know how it goes,” Megatron drawled. He couldn’t help but further needle; something about the Winglord brought a playful, vindictive side out of him. “Try not to lose six of your fliers to one impertinent grounder this time.” 

Starscream gave a low, bestial hiss. There was an edge of amusement in his annoyance, as well as the dark, purring tones of an implied threat. 

“If we do, I’ll be sure to hunt him down and use his carcass as a conversation piece for my throne room.”

Chapter Text

Megatron was rudely awoken from recharge by the sound of frantic whisper-yelling.

“— gone and I don’t know where, but I’m sure it wasn’t even my fault this time—”

“What?” Megatron mumbled unintelligently, shuttering his optics open. It took a moment for his brain module and auditory processors to kick back to life, especially since he’d been deep in a pleasant dream. 

He sat up, rubbing his nasal ridge, winching his optics open and closed in the vague hope that would help himself wake up faster. After the confused bleariness came annoyance at having been woken; Megatron had been comfortable on his berth, cozy in the arrangement of his limbs and at a pleasantly warm operating temperature ideal for recharge. It was not easy for Megatron to sleep, some nights, as his mind tended to replay old scenes from the heat of battle and distur— distract him from his rest. 

Megatron vaguely recognized the silhouette in his doorway, tiny and rapidly approaching his berth. His groggy agitation spiked into dejected loathing when he recognized the blue and purple paint: his obnoxiously loud nighttime caller was Rumble. 

The little ‘bot had not stopped his rapid-fire talking, evidently unwilling to acknowledge Megatron had just been in the middle of recharge and that it was the middle of the Unicron-damned night. 

“— don’tknowwhocould’vedoneitbutitdefinitelywasn’t—”

“Invent, exvent,” Megatron rumbled, pawing his optics in irritation. He thought about lying back down, rolling over, and ignoring Rumble until the little ‘bot jabbered himself dry of power, but managed to hold back the temptation. “Rumble, someone had better be dead or actively getting killed. That’s the only reason I can think of that you’d wake me at this hour, because otherwise, I’m going to have to pitch you over the edge of Quasar Canyon.” 

Rumble drew in a sharp gulp of air, his vents heaving. 

“One of the communicators is missing,” he reported, in enunciating tones far less like a Velocitronian on stimulants.

It took a moment for Megatron to remember that he shouldn’t know that, and he shot out of bed accordingly in a parody of surprise. 

“What? Since when?” 

“Now!” Rumble said, bouncing slightly on his heel-struts, seeming relieved to finally have Megatron mirroring his urgency. “I was keeping Battletrap company tonight for a little while, since he says his fuel tank still hurts and he needed a distraction, but before I turned in for the night I was going to send a message to Soundwave about— well, that doesn't really matter, but—” 

Megatron held up a servo to silence Rumble’s motormouth. “When was the last time you noticed it there?” 

Rumble’s face colored, flushed with excess energon. 

“This morning?” He offered, weakly. “Or, uh, yesterday morning, now.” 

Megatron sharply vented, shaking his head. “Alright. Get command to send us new transmission codes, on the off-chance this week’s were stolen with the communicator. And send Crankcase in here.” 

Five kliks later, Megatron was in the mess hall, surrounded by the sleepy faces of his new soldiers. They’d crawled out of berth, tired and weary, Battletrap looking queasy and holding his hand to the underside of his chassis. Megatron briefly wrote himself a mental note to draft up papers for a decacycle or so’s leave; the mech was going to need some time to get used to his new fuel tank before he would be in any kind of fighting form. The fact that they had sent him back here in less than three solar cycles after such severe trauma was a private point of frustration. 

That frustration was useful, though. After he earnestly entreated his soldiers into giving over the stolen communicator- of course, no one produced it- he channeled that wrath into a legendary performance of authoritative command, a cold upbraiding and castigation for failing to meet his expectations and potentially betraying Decepticon command. He concluded that he would post an anonymous deposit box for the communicator to be returned, and expected to have it back within the next few solar cycles— in exchange for the quick return, he would reflect no punishment to the thief. If it were not returned promptly, he would be forced to consider more inventive forms of punishment. 

Threats delivered, he sent everyone back to bed with a harsh dismissal. 

It took Megatron a long while to fall back into recharge. 

=

Acquired. 

The message blinked on Megatron’s stolen communicator. Two words, plain white text on a bluish-black background. They came five solar cycles after Megatron’s conversation with Starscream, the first communication the captain had received since the night he stole the thing. 

(The investigation, naturally, had made no progress. An increasingly anxious and agitated Rumble had been harassing him about finding the thief- or, more importantly, the stolen property- though Megatron had so far managed to elegantly sidestep the issue entirely by pretending to be busy or scheduling himself and Rumble to conveniently be apart. Rumble having to slave under the quartermaster's sharp optic helped.) 

To your taste, then? Megatron bandied back. He was not expecting a reply, but he received one a short while later.

Not enough for everyone. More? 

Megatron obliged a message. You’re going to grow dependent.

The reply came even faster this time. Ah, but you want that, don’t you? 

Megatron frowned, his chair squeaking softly as he leaned back. The answer, he supposed, was yes. Nursing a dependence in the fliers would give him very good bargaining power when the time came due to convince them to help deal with Straxus. Better to be remembered as a savior rather than a tyrant. 

Perhaps. Need another supply?

Ideally transit. 

I’ll see what I can do. Verbal communication, just as last time, when I have more details. 

Too much of a risk of a text conversation like that getting intercepted, especially with the looming threat of Soundwave still on the horizon and Rumble tearing apart the base in his off-hours looking for the communicator. All of their text conversations were permanently logged, damning pieces of evidence that could never be truly erased- hence the coy dodging of specifics- but a verbal conversation didn’t go into storage. It would be far safer to sneak out again on another “predacon patrol” than exchange details nonverbally.  

Megatron made sure to visit Rumble’s office again when his CO was busy with his quartermaster duties. It took five nonchalant visits over the course of four solar cycles before he finally caught the little mech’s security decorum lacking, and was able to have a glance over Rumble’s decoded transit cards. There was an energon caravan from Slaughter City to Tyger Pax coming in soon— the shipment was small, but it would be easy to hit and it could be feasibly justified as being an Autobot incursion, if the fliers were careful to not be seen or exterminated all of the witnesses. 

Megatron sent Starscream a message, affirming simply tonight, and received no acknowledgment. It wasn’t needed. 

=

“Captain!” The diminutive Bombshock, that night’s watchmech, threw Megatron a snappy salute despite the great distance between them. Though he was not much larger than Rumble, he shared the CO’s propensity for loudness, and his voice rang clear across the flat mesa. 

Bombshock- as his name suggested- was a Decepticon explosives expert, whose skills ordinarily would have afforded him a spot in an artillery garrison or even close to the front line, but extenuating factors had warranted his placement here. His audial receptors were damaged from his time in demolitions to the point of him being nearly deaf, a neurological fault in neural net connections rather than an easily fixable hardware issue; a skilled neurosurgeon and quite a bit of time and effort would be needed to repair the damage, and the Decepticon army could not spare the expense. As a result, Bombshock- a liability on the front line despite his skill- had been stuffed into Quasar Canyon instead of the scrap heap. 

Megatron nodded- politely but deeply- in Bombshock’s direction, acknowledging his trooper. 

“Bombshock,” he hailed, raising his voice to be heard. He pulsed his biolights, flashing the equivalent lettering in Cybertronian binary to aid his demolitions expert’s comprehension. “All is well?”

“It’s quiet!” Bombshock declared. “No one since the scheduled energon caravan rolled through two joors ago.” 

“Keep me apprised. I’m going on patrol tonight; the predacons on the border of the Sea have been more ornery than usual.” Not altogether a lie; Battletrap had reported seeing them lurking in the distance yesterday, on his last official assignment before he had been shipped out on medical leave this morning. 

“Let me come with you, sir,” Bombshock volunteered, seeming to relish the chance. In the monotonous pit that was Quasar Canyon, it was no wonder he was constantly itching for an opportunity for his skills to be used. His destructive talents were squandered on useless combat drills and dry-fire exercises, which was becoming something of a running theme for the Outpost’s inhabitants. 

“You have your orders to guard this base.” Megatron said, not unkindly. “But if I do encounter any trouble, you’ll be the first one I call.” 

Bombshock threw up another salute and pivoted smartly on his heelstrut. He went back to monitoring the bottom of the canyon, locking his legs and sweeping his head back and forth like a sentry drone. 

The weather was unusually mild that night, given their proximity to the ever-storming Sea. It was crisp and clear, cold and dry; Megatron could see for miles, where the air was not warped by the usual weirdness of the Sea of Rust or obstructed by its occasional buttes and projecting cliffsides. The stars glittered overhead, cold pinpricks of light puncturing the black void of space, and the two moons had half-risen to their zenith. It was easily enough light to see by, and cast the gravel underfoot a glowing silver. 

Megatron made his way, semi-automatically, towards the rocky outcropping of boulders where he had first contacted Starscream. He knew he ought to randomize his locations, on the off-chance someone had discovered his clandestine meeting-spot- it wasn’t as though it mattered that he go to the same place at the same time- but either confident or foolish, he found himself there again. 

He was just reaching for the communicator concealed in his seams when he felt something strange; a metaphorical change in the feeling of the air around him. Perhaps it was a stray sound of the wind blowing past or a trick of the optic in the darkness- or even encroachment from the Sea’s odd magnetosphere and bizarre weather patterns- but something seemed… off. 

Someone else was here. 

Megatron felt like he was being watched— it prickled unpleasantly across his plating like static-charged air, made his chassis feel tight and his digits twitchy. He had learned not to ignore these instincts, and nonchalantly let his optics roam to survey the landscape for any voyeurs. He wondered if it was Bombshock following him in the vain hope of seeing action, or even Rumble trying to spy on him. He settled on the conclusion that it was most likely a hungry predacon lurking about and trying to ambush him for a meal. 

Megatron kept alert, shifting slightly into a more readied stance; he let his fusion cannon build charge, determined to not be feed for an overgrown techno-beast. Despite his wariness he stood mostly still, trying to feel the vibrations in the ground that might herald a predacon tunneling from below; at the same time, he kept his optics skyward, anticipating a powerful leap or winged swoop from above. 

There— he caught sight of an irregularity, a glimpse of glowing red among the rocks. Megatron’s optics darted, and he found himself face to face with an unexpected sight. 

Silver predacon fur and feathers- forming a thick collar that was almost a mane- framed a dark face; horns protruded from an onyx-black helm, small and swept-back, and twin points of carmine light formed malicious-looking optics. It was only the realization of further Cybertronian features that stayed Megatron’s initial instinct of violence— on a closer look he found a gentle smirk, sharp optical ridges, a narrow nasal protrusion, and twin facial vents. 

Not only was this stalker in the rocks not a predacon, he found that he recognized the bestial figure skulking behind the boulders. 

The Winglord?  

Here? 

Megatron’s processor momentarily stopped scrolling code, baffled, then roared back to life at double output. 

How did he find me? 

The communicator? 

Baffled, he grasped desperately for explanations— Megatron wondered, with a cold chill, if the data-chip was also a functioning tracking device. That hadn’t even occurred to him. 

Stupid! 

He should have been better than having been tricked by a pompous royal wingslinger. At the very least he was sure that Starscream was here alone— he would have seen, felt, or heard other fliers. He wasn’t so inept that more of them would’ve escaped his notice. 

“What are you doing here?” Megatron hissed, the sound harsh and scandalized from his vocalizer. His humming cannon dispersed its energy, the purple glow guttering out. “You can’t be here.”

Starscream’s red optics glowed in vulpine merriment, half-shuttered in delinquent glee. He opened his intake to speak, but someone got there first. 

“Of course I can,” a small voice snapped. Megatron stiffened, realizing that there was another party present, and spun about ninety degrees to lay eyes on the tiny frame standing some thirty feet away. Megatron had been so preoccupied with the incursion of the Winglord that he hadn’t even noticed someone approaching— that was twice he’d been blindsided now, and frantic despair and frustration for his failure to account for these variables briefly clouded his neural net. He was supposed to be clever, wily, a step ahead of everyone else. He was supposed to be an inspirational leader whose sterling example inspired others — he was supposed to be better than this.

It only grew worse when the identity of the newcomer registered on his mnemonic circuits.

“Rumble?” Megatron asked, dumbly.

“Yeah, Rumble,” the little ‘bot chirped, sounding characteristically surly. Megatron struggled through a wave of surprise, desperately trawling through his processors for something halfway intelligent to say. 

“Why on Cybertron are you out here alone?” Megatron demanded. “You aren’t supposed to go anywhere without an escort— or did you forget that?”

Rumble scoffed, not backing down in the least. He stalked closer. “You won’t give me the time of day since you’re busy , so I thought maybe if I snuck off to see you at night you couldn’t blow me off. Besides, you can be my watchmech, and who’m I safer with than you?” 

“I didn’t sanction that, Rumble! And I have not been ‘blowing you off’, as you say so colorfully to your superior officer, ” Megatron said desperately, trying not to fix his attention on the Winglord. It was a small miracle of  fate- provenance of Primus- that Starscream was positioned behind a cluster of boulders that shielded him from Rumble’s sight, meaning the little mech would have to take several paces forward in order to be able to see him. That twist of luck was the only thing that had kept their secret from prematurely getting out. “Is this about not getting enough of my attention, Rumble? I understand you have certain requirements and entitlement to my time as this Outpost’s CO, but stalking a superior officer off-duty is a line too far, even considering your… eccentricities.” 

“Stalking? Give me a break.” 

Starscream started to move. Megatron desperately wanted to call out to him, to yell stay where you are, I have control of the situation, if nothing else to reassure himself that he could handle it. The ex-miner made a choppy little gesture with his servo, digits flicking at his side, indicating that Starscream needed to cut it out, now.

He had no idea if Starscream took his meaning, but Rumble noticed it. 

“What’re you doing with your hand?” Rumble asked, bemused. 

“War tic,” Megatron said, automatically. He had started off sounding a little too friendly, a little too forthcoming, and approximated the grizzled tone of a war-wounded veteran when he continued: “The battle of Tyger Pax left me with protoform scarring beneath my plating. Warm weather and stress makes my servo a little twitchy.” 

Megatron risked a glance at Starscream while Rumble was fixated on his hand. The Winglord was still staring from where he was hunched behind the rocks, red optics moon-round and curious. Megatron wished the idiot would at least switch his bio-lights off. What if Rumble turned around and saw two points of light gleaming in the dark? What if the glow of ruby-red refracted off of Megatron’s plating? It would be hard, to say the least, to claim Starscream was a predacon. 

“You should’ve gotten better medical treatment than that,” Rumble said, snottily. “You were a war hero.”

“I am a war hero,” Megatron corrected, fighting down a little throb of irritation. 

“Well— whatever.” Rumble shook his helm in frustration. He shifted from pede to pede, folding his arms so tightly that they creaked from metal grinding on metal. “I want you to do something about the missing communicator, Megatron. I’m going to be on the hook for that, you know, and Soundwave won’t let me get away with losing one of those more than once.”

Starscream’s optics apertured wider; he recognized the name of their common annoyance. Megatron’s digits briefly twitched into a flat palm held out in a gesture to stop , and he mentally pleaded with Primus to compel the idiot not to move any more than he already had.

“Soundwave?” Megatron asked, hoping to distract Rumble. “What does he have to do with anything?”

Rumble suddenly looked shifty. He glanced at the ground, finding a small collection of rocks to be far more interesting than Megatron’s face. “N- nothin’. I served with him for a while, is all. I lost a communicator under him, too.”

So we have someone who’s a serial loser of communicators, Megatron thought, with stirring hope. We can pin this on Rumble, and maybe even get rid of him and get a dumber communications officer in his place. 

“Well, I—” Megatron began, but Rumble cut him off. 

“Once the news gets to Soundwave, he’s gonna want to come straight here,” Rumble moaned, self-pitying. “He’ll do a whole investigation. He gets ideas screwed into his processor and then he just won’t let them go— I’m surprised he hasn’t knocked down our door already. It’s going to be my fault. Again.” 

“Ah. Well, don’t concern yourself with that; news of the theft hasn’t left the confines of this Outpost.” Megatron said, primly, hoping that would keep Rumble from any more victimized blathering. He shifted his heels closer together. “No one knows. Least of all Colonel Soundwave.” 

“What?” Rumble asked, dumbfounded. Some unreadable expression crossed his face; despair? Hope? “Y-you haven’t… But… Why?”

“It’s an internal matter, and I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t want to embarrass anyone, or distract higher-ups with insignificant minutia like common theft.”

“It’s been ten solar cycles already, and you haven’t told anybody?!” Rumble blurted out, dismayed. His optics were moon-round with horror. “Once this leaks, I’m- I’m gonna get blamed! Soundwave’s gonna deactivate me!” 

“He won’t find out,” Megatron soothed, and Rumble made the worst decision he possibly could’ve: 

“But I have to tell him!” 

Starscream finally moved. He was partially obscured by his cloak, by the darkness, by the jut of the stone he was hiding behind, but Megatron’s fuel lines ran cold when he recognized the slender shape protruding out from the dark, mounted on Starscream’s sharp, overlong forearm. 

Null rays. Vosian null rays. The barrels were warming, a faint red heat rapidly gathering strength and color. 

“Don’t!” Megatron bayed, which made both Rumble and Starscream twitch in surprise. Megatron grabbed hold of himself, offering a reproachful shake of his head and trying desperately to calm the jolt of panic. “I— I mean, Rumble, do you want this to become an external investigation? Do you think we’re to a point where we would require outside intervention? I prefer to think that this is a misunderstanding, and I believe it’s only fear of punishment keeping the communicator from being returned, not disloyalty. Someone wanted to call home, or hear their conjunx’s voice, or…” He petered out, too distracted by Starscream to keep constructing a coherent lie. 

Rumble gave him a worried look. “This is in violation of protocol. Serious violation.”

There was no way Megatron could walk it back now. Starscream’s heating weaponry glared accusingly at him, forcing him to think fast. “I’m surprised to hear that from you. Since when have you cared for protocol, Rumble?” 

The Winglord considerately steadied his aim. His bright red optics narrowed in focus, and he adjusted the tilt of his claws. A pang of terror roared up Megatron’s backstrut, chilling him from the inside out.

Rumble was talking, but it was barely getting through the haze of horror and the attention firmly supplanted by Starscream’s threat. The mech whined: “I know you don’t think too high of me, Megatron, but I care a lot about—”

Starscream is going to kill Rumble. And Megatron couldn’t stop him— not without ruining his hard-fought alliance or being revealed as a traitor, both of which he found himself unwilling to cop to. With a numbing shock of cold, Megatron came to a horrifying realization: if he had to choose between Starscream and Rumble- if Rumble suddenly turned and saw the Winglord positioned there- not only would he have to defend Starscream from Rumble, Megatron would have to kill his own trooper. 

The CO continued, oblivious to Megatron’s thoughts. “— sometimes it feels like the other ‘bots don’t respect me, and you don’t either—”

Megatron’s composure was cracking. Panic began to override his good sense, spreading through his codelines like a virus. Hysteria clawed into his spark chamber and refused to let go, scrabbling like a desperate animal trying to escape. 

He managed to hold his facial expression in, to keep himself from giving away anything physical. He remained calm and composed. 

Despite the necessity of his alliance with the Winglord, he couldn’t let Rumble die here. There was a yawning black void of unease that threatened to devour him at the very notion— he would not lose another one of the soldiers in his charge to a flier. He still remembered the whimpering death gurgle from the first Quasar Canyon assault; it played through his head, an unbidden phantom, strengthening his resolve to never let it happen again.

(That was to say nothing of the hellfire and suspicion that Soundwave would rain down on him when his second CO turned up dead.)

“Rumble, you know I value you,” Megatron said, just a titch louder than was strictly necessary. He walked towards Rumble, spreading his arms entreatingly. Starscream’s helm tilted; the curve of his horns gleamed in the moonlight. “I know not reporting the theft is in violation of official Decepticon protocol, but I’ve done it this way because I care about you and the other troops. And while it may not seem like it, I’m taking your complaints very seriously.” 

He knelt, placing one hand on the little mech’s shoulder now that they were optic-to-optic. His CO looked surprised, and more than a little disturbed. 

“You’re a good soldier who does good work, and no matter what you say, there are mechs who appreciate you around base and would be devastated if you weren’t there.” Megatron was desperately attempting to grasp for praise, reassurance for Rumble, and double-speak to communicate for the love of Primus, do not do this, to Starscream. “I promise— we will find that communicator.” 

Rumble stared at him, visor brightened in shock.

“What the slag is wrong with you?” Rumble asked, wholly disgusted. He pulled a face, retreating from Megatron’s touch like he had some sort of horrific contagion. “You’re never nice to me.”

For good reason, Megatron wanted to say, but he managed to hold it in. He risked another sidelong glance at Starscream. The Winglord had- thank Primus and the Thirteen- lowered his weapon, and now looked on in impatient amusement. Starscream twitched his cumbersome claws, gesturing in the direction of the canyon. 

Get rid of him, Megatron interpreted the gesture.  He hoped the glare he threw back at Starscream contained the message of hold your Primus-damned zap-horses, I’ve been trying to get rid of him this whole time and you threatening to kill him is not helping, though he doubted it got through in as many words. 

“What are you—?” Rumble turned his helm slightly, but Starscream had pulled back and there was nothing for the little ‘bot to see but a jutting rock. 

“I was out here hunting predacons before you interrupted me,” Megatron said, hurriedly. He rose to his full height, letting the barrel of his fusion cannon warm in anticipation of a threat. “I think there could be one skulking around. It isn’t safe for you here, especially with how small you are.”

Rumble scoffed. “Frenzy was fine for the decacycles she spent out here.”

The sound of her name burst a little bubble of guilt. Megatron hoped the displeasure didn’t show on his face. 

“Frenzy is MIA, presumed KIA,” Megatron reminded him, tartly. “She was your size and she was defenseless against the predacons that attacked us, just like you, unless your marksmanship scores have taken a sudden upward turn since our last field test.” 

Rumble bristled, resentment dark on his face. “You can’t—”

“I am your superior officer, and need I remind you you’re still under punishment for your last indiscretion, which should have gotten you court-martialed instead of drone duty. I know what I’ve just said, but my lenience- and my patience- is not infinite. My tolerance for being disrespected isn’t, either.” Megatron straightened, folding his arms behind his back and lifting his chassis. “Why don’t I escort you back to base, and we can talk about advancing our efforts to find the communicator in the morning?” 

It was a stark contrast from his earlier, failed attempt to be soft, but at least he had gotten Rumble to be angry instead of suspicious. Better yet, Megatron had given himself an opening to reasonably chase Rumble off. 

Rumble threw him a look of barely-disguised loathing. “I can handle myself. Thanks.” 

He stomped off in the direction of the base in a churlish huff. Megatron wanted to collapse upon seeing him go; his knee joints and thigh-struts felt weak from all the tension. 

When Rumble had well and truly gone, Starscream’s oily, purring voice emerged from the rocks, followed by the gentle scrape of the Winglord’s cloak dragging through the dirt. “You let your mechs get away with a lot of disrespect. I wouldn’t.”

Starscream’s approaching steps were slow, languid. His optics were squinty with amusement. 

“Don’t start with me,” Megatron snapped, flaring back to life after a brief stint of relief-induced weakness. “You were going to kill him.”

“He was in our way,” Starscream said, offhandedly. “He could have alerted Soundwave. He could have discovered us. I was preparing for the worst.” 

An admonitory growl rumbled from Megatron’s vocalizer. “If you even think about murdering any more of my soldiers, I’ll make the deepest depths of the Pits of Kaon look like an afternoon energon picnic. You’re lucky I don’t wring your neck for pulling a stunt like that. What in the fragging name of Primus Himself are you doing here, in person?” 

Now that some of the displaced fear-aggression was starting to cool, Megatron’s capacity for critical thought and intellectual inquiry was returning. The answer to that question suddenly became much more pertinent, when it had originally started as an excuse to yell some more. 

Starscream gave him a flat, mildly annoyed look, as though Megatron were a particularly uninteresting bit of dirt that was glomming onto his heel-strut. “A ‘bot can’t say hello? It has been a while since I saw your ugly mug.” 

“A ‘bot can’t just casually drop by when he’s the king of fliers and a potential co-conspirator to high treason,” Megatron said, denta grit. “Why are you here?”

“The additional complication you mentioned— Soundwave, you said.” 

“The colonel, yes. He’s temporarily out of our way since he’s helping the campaign in Crystal City, but he’ll be back.” 

“That little thing mentioned him,” Starscream’s cloak rippled as his shoulders pitched down, the velour inky-black where it wasn’t struck pure white by moonlight. They hiked back up quickly after. “We have to take care of this Soundwave before he becomes a problem.”

“Getting used to being well-fed on Decepticon energon I give you?” Megatron asked, wryly. Starscream hissed at him. 

“Our deal is working nicely, ground-pounder, but don’t get a swollen processor over it.” 

“I notice I haven’t even gotten anything out of it yet,” Megatron told him, loftily, “besides your dubiously cordial company.”

Starscream growled, engines thrumming to accentuate the sound, but it quickly smoothed into a low hum. He approached Megatron with deliberate, heavy steps; the gravel crunched beneath his pedes. 

The Winglord reached out from the black recesses of his cloak, placing his servo on Megatron’s broad chest; his thin digits splayed, enormous talons spreading across the surface in a gesture that was almost possessive. The captain bore it without flinching, meeting Starscream’s optics.

“I let you live, didn’t I?” Starscream hummed. “I would be grateful for that mercy, if I were you.”

Megatron grabbed him by the wrist— the flier may have been quick and dangerous, but he was built slender and it was easy to entrap him if he wasn’t expecting it. Surprise flared in Starscream’s optics, then panic, and he jerked back in an effort to get away. Megatron held him fast. 

“Swear to me you’ll help me kill Straxus,” Megatron said, low and sweet, “And I’ll give you the location of the next energon shipment your people need.” 

Starscream’s shoulders lifted sharply in a gesture of defense, and his face contorted into a savage snarl. His fangs gleamed. 

“Let go of me, dirtkisser!” Starscream barked. “Now!” 

He curled in his talons; they squealed against Megatron’s chest, carving shallow grooves from the awkward angle. The captain held in his wince, but couldn’t keep back a grimace. 

“You’re the only one getting anything out of our deal so far, Starscream. I have no promise that you’ll help me ascend to leadership and no guarantee that I’m doing anything but becoming a scapegoat to take the fall when our collaboration is discovered.” His grip tightened. “I want some reassurance.” 

“Let go,” Starscream demanded, again, tone increasingly petulant. Megatron held on for a moment longer- letting his glare do the talking for him- then released the Winglord. Starscream snatched his arm back, caressing his abused wrist with the thin edge of his awkwardly long claws. “I know you want something, but Vos doesn’t have anything left to give you, even as a performative token of loyalty. Is that what you wanted to hear? Admittance of our weakness?”

“I want to hear you say ‘I’ll help you kill Straxus and take over leadership of the Decepticons, then help you fight the Autobots for control of Cybertron’.” Megatron retorted.

“Oaths can easily be broken.” Starscream pulled his limbs back into his cloak, shifting a little to get comfortable. “You don’t want that. That means nothing.” 

“If it means nothing, then why are you so reluctant to offer it to me?” Megatron took a step forward; Starscream held his ground. 

“I am sovereign. It was an earned title that I won’t give up to you, even if it means the entirety of Vos starves. I shed more oil and energon than you could possibly imagine to claw my way to my position— I won’t be usurped by a grounder.” 

“It won’t be like that,” Megatron promised. “It’s a mutual partnership.” 

“Co-kings?” Starscream scoffed, disbelieving. 

“High Lord-Commander of Cybertron,” Megatron indicated himself, then Starscream, “Winglord of Vos. You can keep your city-state above the clouds once the war is over— it isn’t as though I could rule it from below, anyway.” 

Starscream seemed to be calculating. He was looking slightly off to the side; his shoulders were twitching beneath the cloak, which Megatron had begun to realize was a tic indicating careful thought. Some of this, Megatron thought, was performative reluctance— resistance just to say he had resisted, to sate his own ego, even when he knew that this was the inevitable outcome. 

“I suppose… there are worse fates than allying myself to you. My people must eat.” Starscream shook his helm, angry at himself or the position he was in rather than Megatron himself. “So be it.” 

“You agree, then? To help me terminate Straxus? To officially ally with the Decepticons when I am leading them?”

Starscream gave a low, gusty exvent and took a few steps towards the rocky outcropping; he leaned heavily against it, optics shuttering closed. He slumped against the closest boulder as though he no longer had the strength to hold himself up, though it was with a sprawling, seemingly innate elegance.

At last, he stated, “Yes.”

Megatron should have been thrilled. He should have been thanking the Winglord, shaking his servo, beginning to draw up battle stratagems and giving more details about his eventual plot to assassinate Straxus. 

Instead, Megatron’s attention- and optics- were drawn to the unintentional exposure of one of Starscream’s lower legs as he lounged daintily against the rock. 

He had claws- talons- on his pedes, which were decidedly not standard for an average Cybertronian, but would’ve allowed him to grab and tear steel in aerial duels. He had a long, sharpened heelstrut. An ankle that seemed much too thin for his frame, colored a bright scarlet, giving way to blue—

Starscream noticed Megatron looking. Megatron’s optics flicked up, guiltily, to meet the Winglord’s. 

A knife-sharpness crossed Starscream’s face; something wicked and unpleasant that made Megatron’s tank turn. He felt compelled to apologize for his wandering gaze, and lifted his servos slightly, an excuse already rising to his lip-plates.

Starscream shifted his leg forward slightly. The smooth, shiny plating caught the gleam of the moonlight. 

“Curious?” He crooned, soft and low. 

“I…” Megatron felt damnably slow-witted and stupid, and he hated it. He attempted valiantly to pull himself together. “You hide under your cloak. Naturally, the mystery… is… mysterious.” 

“The royal body is not fit for consumption by grounders,” Starscream said, loftily. He lifted his leg, somewhat coquettishly, and the exposed arch of his bladed knee was… unexpectedly… alluring. “The sovereign’s frame is only to be seen by his trine, the royal line, or palace staff. Not hideous ground-bound things like you.” 

He kicked the earth lightly, and a spray of dirt showered over Megatron’s pedes. The ex-miner was barely cogent of the playful show of disrespect; he was looking at the shapely, seamless armor of Starscream’s bandy grey thigh. 

The Winglord was… well-molded. 

“Well?” Starscream said. He kicked a pebble a little harder than the rest, which pinged gently against Megatron’s bulky shin. “Cybercat got your tongue?”

“You…” Megatron shook his head. Focus. Focus. Focus. He managed to tear his optics away and blurt out something semi-coherent: “You never actually told me why you came here yourself . It would’ve been safer just to radio.” 

The Winglord made an amused little sound. To Megatron’s immense disappointment, he pulled his leg back into the confines of his cloak, the velvet settling into place as though it had never been disturbed. 

“You amuse me,” Starscream admitted, with a haughty purr. “Your grand ambitions, your conspiratorial machinations, your wheels-within-wheels— you remind me of… well… me.” 

“What do you mean?” Megatron’s optical ridge furrowed.

“You know full well I wasn’t always the Winglord. The previous one- Brightnimbus- had to be overthrown. Hopefully your transition has a little less shed energon.” 

“Hopefully,” Megatron echoed. Without a smooth leg to gawk at, his processor then started working again, flagging up coherent thoughts and intelligible questions. “… What do you mean, she had to be?” 

Starscream, who seemed to enjoy hearing himself talk, became uncharacteristically evasive. He shifted his shoulders, rocking his helm slightly side to side. “This isn’t a useful line of discussion, ground-pounder; that’s all in the past, now. We’re far better off discussing your troublesome colonel.” 

The change in subject was too abrupt for Megatron to let it lie forever, but for now- for the sake of the fragile alliance- he resolved to let it go.

“We have a little more time to think, to plan. Like I told you, he’s one of the officers heading the offensive in Crystal City, so I don’t expect to see him again anytime soon. More pertinent to you, I should think, is the information I have about your next energon shipment…” 

Megatron should have been angry about the near-assassination of his communications officer, but by the time they parted ways, that anger and fear had bled away. 

He couldn’t get Starscream’s frame out of his mind. 

The whole return trip was like a hazy dream, his memories barely encoded— when he fell into his berth, ready for slumber, he felt as though the Winglord’s brilliantly red optics were still squinting at him in barely-disguised amusement.

Megatron felt compulsions utterly foreign to him, and was aware that he had patchy spots of old code attempting to run for the first time. His lower abdomen was unsettlingly warm to the touch; his thighs felt curiously sensitive and restless, though the feeling of contact when he rubbed them together was unusually pleasing. 

It took a very long time for him to fall into recharge that night; he dreamed foggy dreams of Starscream, hazy half-realized visions of what he would look like bereft of his cloak.

Chapter Text

“Sir?” 

Megatron’s unfocused optics stared dimly into the middle-distance. The cube of energon sitting in front of him was scarcely touched. 

“Sir?” 

The repetitive voice did not even manage to pierce his audials. His brain modules were completely preoccupied, and though the spoken words reached his auditory processing unit, they were filed away for storage without so much as a stray thread of processing power diverged to consider their meaning.

“Captain,” a more obnoxious, nasally voice said, finally snapping Megatron from his reverie. 

“What?” He asked, jerking back into reality. He belatedly realized he was being harassed— first by his gormless lieutenant, Crankcase, and then by his CO, Rumble, who had noticed Megatron’s lapse in attention and decided to help out. 

“Were you powered down with your optics on or something?” Rumble complained. “Crankcase was trying to talk to you.” 

“I have a lot on my mind,” Megatron fired back. He fixed Crankcase with a glare hot enough to make the blue ‘bot visibly wilt and rapidly rethink all of his life choices. “What is it?” 

Admittedly, the intrusion was not distracting him from anything important. Megatron had found himself ruminating on Vos’s Winglord, Starscream— mainly about the scandalous silvery gleam of his leg in the moonlight. The recollection of that night was an unfortunate distraction that came to trouble him at inopportune times (like this one, for instance). Megatron was supposed to be architecting his rise to power, not daydreaming over some barbarian prince. 

“I understand your preoccupation, sir,” Crankcase simpered, ducking his head under the intensity of Megatron’s stare. “Completely. I do. You’re very busy, commanding the entire Quasar Canyon corridor, and I should not have disturbed you during your refuel—”

“Get on with it,” Megatron made an impatient, sweeping gesture. He picked up his glass of energon, which had gotten cold while he’d been lost in his thoughts. 

“I- that is, we- have just received a message from Kaon,” Crankcase said, Rumble nodding in affirmation. “A direct bulletin from High Lord-Commander Straxus himself. The Crystal City campaign is considered to be critical at the moment.” 

Hope stirred in Megatron’s spark chamber, and he abruptly straightened. Crankcase certainly had his full attention now. He had to struggle not to sound too eager. “Will they be requiring reinforcements?” 

This was it: a chance to spill some energon, to lead ‘bots into battle once again and claim victory over the Autobots, to prove to any hesitant Decepticons that he was leadership material. It captured Megatron’s imagination even more intently than voyeuristic glimpses of Starscream’s cloaked frame. His fuel pump thudded a thrilled staccato, energon lines racing in intrigue. 

“Ah, no, sir,” Crankcase shook his helm. He seemed mortified at having to deliver the bad news. “They are going to withdraw.”

The entire mess hall, which had been comfortably chatty with all the mechs refueling with their afternoon energon ration, abruptly took to a low hush. The quiet was all the more oppressive since it held the weight of several eavesdropping audials. 

“Withdraw?” Megatron echoed, dumbly. It would be the first major Decepticon retreat in the entirety of the war, more or less. “What? Why?” 

“High Lord-Commander Straxus’s order,” Crankcase reported, dutifully. “There wasn’t any rationale given for the retreat. Or else I didn’t have the clearance to hear it. Sorry, sir.” 

“Straxus is mad,” Megatron stated, before his common sense could pinch his vocalizer. “What kind of fool game is he—?”

Megatron managed to rein himself in, sharply venting his fans to disguise his irritation. He couldn’t depend on any of the mechs on-base not to snitch on him if he complained too openly- except, perhaps, the habitually authority-deriding Rumble- so he kept the worst of his thoughts to himself. What he’d let loose from his vocalizer was damning enough already. 

Fervently, Megatron thought, the Decepticons need a new leader. A better leader. Sooner rather than later. 

“Thank you, Crankcase,” Megatron had a deep pull of his energon. Even lukewarm, it tingled with a pleasant heat down his intake and pooled in his fuel chamber. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” Crankcase said earnestly, “Um, I’m also to tell you that Colonel Soundwave will be here to see you any klik now.” 

=

Megatron sat behind his desk, servos folded. Soundwave sat across from him, perched on some chair that Rumble had dug out of storage. The little mech was well-acquainted with the quartermaster’s supplies by now, having spent nearly an entire orbital cycle being her gofer. 

(Megatron had not missed the look Rumble and Soundwave had exchanged when the little ‘bot had entered, though they did not speak to one another. They definitely had a history, one Megatron ought to get to the bottom of sooner rather than later.) 

After Rumble departed, Megatron and Soundwave were alone in the office. It was a heavy kind of alone, where the silence vastly outweighed the mass of chattering company. The room was plenty warm, especially at the cusp of Cybertronian summer, but Soundwave’s demeanor had stricken the atmosphere downright glacial. 

“I hear that the Crystal City campaign has not gone well,” Megatron took on a slight, sympathetic edge, breaking the frigid silence. “But I’m not privy to the gory details.”

Soundwave beeped at him, contemplative sounds that conveyed a tantalizing edge of frustration. “High Lord-Commander Straxus: making strategic errors in this matter.”

“You think so?” 

Soundwave’s melodious voice edged with annoyance. “Megatron: will not receive the ‘gory details.’ No matter how you ask.” 

“You don’t trust me,” Megatron interpreted.

Soundwave’s impassive face seemed to tighten, though of course it did not. “Megatron: is concealing something.”

“About Frenzy?” Megatron asked, innocently. 

“Something,” Soundwave reiterated. 

Megatron shook his head, giving an insouciant shrug and a half-depreciating laugh intended to disarm the colonel. “I’m as open as shareware. Please, go on with your questions. I am ready for them.”

Megatron was prepared for this inquiry. He was more than ready, as a matter of fact; he had an impenetrable wall of lies carefully architected, and had anticipated every prying question the colonel might ask. He had practiced for this moment for the past two orbital cycles— ever since he knew Soundwave would be a threat. 

“Is your account of the events, as per the filed incident report, truthful?” Soundwave asked. 

Megatron nodded. “It is as I recollect it.”

Megatron’s armor plating shifted, edges rattling as they trembled against one another; he was wracked by a small, tremorous shudder, an instinctual response to… something. He briefly wondered if there was a fault in his office’s cooling system.

Then he felt… 

It was like his data-lines were sluggish. Not very appreciably or bothersomely so, but his thoughts were not as quick as they normally were. 

“You are lying,” Soundwave intoned, jarring him from the incongruency in his head. 

“I’m lying?” Megatron echoed. “Excuse me?” 

Soundwave repeated himself: “Is your account of the events truthful?”

“Yes,” Megatron insisted. 

Soundwave’s growl oscillated with his musical speech. There was some angry surety to his voice now: “You are lying to me, Captain.” 

“And what makes you say so, colonel?” Megatron fired back. Soundwave did not answer him.

“Do you know where Frenzy is?” Soundwave barked. He had partially risen out of his chair as he spoke, agitated by excitement. He seemed uncharacteristically keen, with an eagerness mimicking a predacon on a fresh scent trail. Was there some concern in his words? 

Megatron held up a servo to calm him. “Just a moment— I won’t stand for any baseless accusations in regards to my honesty. I would not lie to you, Soundwave.” 

“Megatron: will answer my query!” 

That slowness in Megatron’s head had grown all the more thick; it was a definite presence. It was like his thoughts were being routed somewhere first, the electrical impulses coursing through his circuits briefly possessed and then returned.  

No. Not returned, not routed…

Read.

“You’re intercepting my thoughts!” Megatron accused, sharply. He shot to his pedes, bracing his servos against the surface of his desk with a noisy bang . Outrage seized his spark. “You’re reading my mind!” 

Megatron knew of outliers— Transformers with half-mystic, half-technological abilities inexplicable to all science and present from one’s sparking. He had met one in the Decepticon army— at Tyger Pax there had been a soldier under his command named Mindwipe who had telepathic powers. Megatron also knew of two miners who had been taken from the mines owing to their abilities- one was a master of magnetism, the other could ignite oxygen in the air with just her thoughts- and there were countless other outliers he had heard of through old miners’ tales, battlefield reports (like the Autobot Trailbreaker’s force fields or Mirage’s invisibility) and miscellaneous legends (the Thirteen Primes were said to be outliers, in a sense). 

Colonel Soundwave must’ve been an outlier as well. Another telepath— right under his nasal ridge! What did the colonel already know? What had he already pulled loose from Megatron’s processors?

Would Megatron need to silence him? 

Megatron furtively eyed the heavy, bulky shape of his fusion cannon where it rested on its wall mount. It would take fifteen seconds to bolt on his arm and bring to a charge powerful enough to terminate Soundwave. It didn’t seem possible in that time frame, but perhaps he could offline the mech bare-handed—

“Megatron: would not last one solar cycle after terminating me,” Soundwave intoned. It seemed he’d picked up on that briefly impulsive homicidal thought, or else Megatron’s face was more easily readable than he’d reckoned. “If you could terminate me.” 

“Get out of my head,” Megatron growled.

They remained in a stalemate for the moment; Megatron funneled as much scorn and hatred as he could into his neural net, cycling intense feelings of negativity through his processors and clamping down on all other minor thought-subroutines. Soundwave would get nothing out of him— nothing more than he’d already gotten, at any rate. 

Megatron’s optics bored into Soundwave’s visor and vice versa. They glared. 

Shortly, Megatron felt the presence in his mind retreat. 

“Is Frenzy safe?” Soundwave asked. It was spoken with surprising softness. Longing. 

“What is she to you?” The colonel’s scouts had professed something like protege, if memory served. “A friend? A conjunx? Or just one of your soldiers?”

Soundwave was silent for a moment. 

“Soundwave: has sufficient evidence for a court martial. More evidence will be uncovered in subsequent interrogations. Violent interrogations. Megatron: will be terminated for treason.” 

Kill him now. Megatron’s digits twitched in a show of aborted homicidal impulse. He’s going to give you away if you don’t do something. 

“You won’t know where she is until I tell you,” Megatron hazarded, slowly. Things had begun to make sense as he worked his way through their conversations, past and present. “You wouldn’t ask me where she was unless you couldn’t pluck that information from my mind. You can only sense the lie, not tease out the actual truth.” 

Soundwave’s expressionless faceplate gave nothing away. It didn’t need to— Megatron was already sure he was correct.

“So we’re at an impasse.” Megatron slowly settled back into his chair, docilely pulling in his servos. “You can give my alleged treachery away to the Decepticon leadership, and I can withhold Frenzy’s whereabouts from you.”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” conceded Soundwave. 

Megatron took a moment. He wanted this colonel as an ally more than an enemy, and open candor would hopefully win him a little more of Soundwave’s favor. It was risky, perhaps, but so had been his attempt to ally with Starscream, and that had worked well for him so far. 

“She’s in Vos.”

Soundwave showed very little external sign of hearing. His helm turned incrementally left, then incrementally right. He was thinking. Considering. 

But he must’ve known it was the truth.

“How?” Soundwave asked, finally. 

“It was Vosians who attacked the missing energon convoy,” Megatron begrudged. 

“Soundwave: suspected as much. Megatron: does not seem like the type to get hysterical or overly confused in battle.” Soundwave cocked his head. “How did you get away?”

“I was held hostage- just as Frenzy is now- but I made a very convincing argument to their Winglord for my release.” Megatron reclined. He was beginning to feel more confident, more in control. “In exchange for the location of Decepticon energon shipments, I have secured a favorable alliance with Vos and its sovereign.” 

“With Vos?” Soundwave’s voice pitched up sharply, almost sounding excited. He must have seen the same possibility Megatron had: an armada of fliers would be an invaluable addition to any Cybertronian army’s toolkit. As a matter of fact, it would more than likely be the turning point upon which the whole war hinged. In comparison to that, losing shipments of energon and enacting high treason barely mattered. 

“Yes. The Winglord has taken a shine to me, I should think.” The purring rumble of Starscream’s voice- the gleam of his armor plating by moonlight- was summoned to mind, unbidden. Megatron forced it aside. “We have spoken many times.”

Megatron paused. He considered.

Soundwave was not stupid. He had likely guessed Megatron’s ambitions already, and with the promise of Vos’s support looming, he could expect that Megatron’s designs for conquest extended beyond idle daydreams. The colonel would’ve seen the report from Tyger Pax. He would know Megatron’s history. Rumble had probably been feeding the colonel information on Megatron’s behavior ever since the little mech was stationed here. 

He would know Megatron’s might, his intellect, his charisma, and his determination. There was only one place an ambitious mech like Megatron could go. 

“The fliers of Vos have promised to help me terminate High Lord-Commander Straxus,” Megatron stated, confirming Soundwave’s suspicions aloud. He spared a moment to wonder if the room had been bugged, but if it had, it would’ve been by Soundwave himself; it mattered little. “Afterwards, I will lead the Decepticons to victory and unite Cybertron under my rule.”

For a moment, he thought he had overplayed his hand. Soundwave was dead silent. 

“Straxus is not a good ruler,” Megatron urged, softer. “He has squandered Decepticon resources and fought pointless battles for pyrrhic victories. He has ignored crucial infrastructure in favor of blind conquest. He uses our bodies as grist for his mill while he idly reclines with his generals in Kaon. He has ruled tyrannically; he has puppet-lords and generals that were picked for gladiatorial nepotism and blind loyalty more than their ability or purpose.” 

Soundwave’s head tilted. His resolve was wavering. Megatron continued, reverently hushed but urgent. 

“I will prove to you that I am more than a worthy successor to the High Lord-Commander. Leader, warrior, philosopher— In all respects, I am more than Straxus’s equal.” He held out a servo, soft and supplicating. “You do not need to aid me in my mission, colonel. Just say nothing to anyone. With your inaction, I will have the opportunity to prove I am right. And if I am not, so be it. Straxus continues to rule as he has and my sparkless body will be smelted for scrap.” 

“Straxus: is an inefficient ruler.” Soundwave conceded, finally. He spoke in low, conspiratorial tones, but sounded more than sure of what he was saying. “Straxus: ordered the retreat from Crystal City to attempt a suicidal campaign to take Iacon. Straxus: will get hundreds of thousands of soldiers killed for nothing. Straxus: impatient with the slow progression of the war.” 

It was even worse than Megatron had thought. What was the fool doing in his penthouse in Kaon? Trying to deplete their forces in a desperate attempt to win the war quickly? If he didn’t have the patience to sit through vorns of combat, he should leave the leading to the ‘bots who had the stomach to stick out the centuries of battle. 

“You think he needs replacing, too, don’t you?” Megatron murmured. 

Soundwave did not hesitate. “Yes.” 

“On that we agree. I understand you may not be convinced that the right choice for his replacement is me,” Megatron inclined his head, “but I will prove it to you- to everyone- in the fullness of time. All I need you to do, colonel, is stay out of my way. Say nothing, do nothing. Let my actions speak for me. Let my mettle and determination be put to the test.” 

“No. I will help you,” Soundwave shook his head. He met Megatron’s optics, and he seemed stiff with determination. “Colonel Soundwave: privy to the High Lord-Commander’s itinerary and communications. You will need this for a quick and decisive takeover.”  

Megatron scoffed, but it was not a cruel sound, merely disbelieving. “And what would you want in return for your treachery?” 

Soundwave had been ready to turn him into the Decepticon leadership a moment ago; Megatron wouldn’t trust him not to, unless he was getting something substantial out of it in return.

“If you can guarantee Frenzy’s safety,” Soundwave said, with a shuddering invent, “Soundwave: will do anything to help you.”

Chapter Text

His gloomy proclamation made, Soundwave departed from the base shortly thereafter. 

It was offhandedly implied that Rumble would be the colonel’s clandestine liaison at Outpost QC-1-Alpha, and that everything that had been discussed in Megatron’s office would stay between the two of them. Soundwave murmured something dark and low about keeping in touch on his way out. 

As soon as the colonel had gone, Megatron made to contact Starscream. His situation, as it was, was extremely precarious and the captain needed any and all reassurance he could get that Frenzy was safe and being well-taken care of. 

He transmitted a simple message to the Winglord: Need to see you again. 

Megatron was not expecting an immediate answer, and he did not receive one. He minded his dull paperwork, diligently reading over Clobber’s clunky penmanship as she reported another radiation storm tampering with their sensory equipment. He signed forms for supply acquisition. He affirmed paystubs. He wrote out official notes of reprimand and demerits, most of which were for Rumble, but they had gotten his pranks into slightly less homicidal territory these days and Megatron was in a forgiving mood. He had foisted his weekly command report to Lord Tarn off on Crankcase, at least, offering himself some respite from that particular tedium.

Megatron pushed aside some rather uninteresting military briefings that he told himself- lying, of course- that he would get around to reading at some other time. 

With no more patience to continue his tedious mounds of paperwork, he began work on his military opus once again. He was nowhere as close to completion of the work as he would like, as he found himself laboriously editing his old drafts to amend them with his newly-won knowledge and not actually writing any new sections. 

He was part-way into editing a chapter on leadership charisma when his communicator hummed, signaling a reply. Megatron would deny that his spark twinged in its chamber at the sound.

Already? Starscream understood the necessity of brevity in their furtive communiques; that didn’t stop Megatron’s optics from rereading the word over and over, as if trying to divine a secret meaning.

Interrogated by the colonel.

There was a brief pause before Starscream’s reply blinked onto the screen. 

Compromised?

Details when I see you. They couldn’t risk any more concrete information, on the off-chance their communications were somehow intercepted. This exchange was certainly suspicious, but it was ostensibly innocuous enough that Megatron could spin a feasible lie that wouldn’t result in him getting executed for high treason if he was caught. 

=

That night Megatron tromped out of the base, yet again on one of his purported “predacon patrols”, and waited by a particularly large outcropping of rock. Starscream would find him even without a location tag; the Winglord had the clear advantage of being able to scan for heat signatures from the air, and Megatron ought to be the only one fool enough to be out on the edge of the Sea of Rust in the middle of the night. 

As he waited, his mind wandered. The captain’s memory files played without his say-so: the way the moonlight struck Starscream’s cloak a shimmering black, sparkling like a sea; the smoothly architected curves of his thigh-plating versus Megatron’s own blocky build; the terrible feline glow of his optics, his razor-wire smile… 

He heard the whine of engines, and looked up; Starscream’s alt-mode screamed overhead, sharp and triangular, with sweeping wings that were almost crescent with the khopesh curve of his winglets. The hues of grey, blue, and red on his fuselage were faint in the dark; Megatron tried to map the colors onto the tiny hints of the bipedal body he’d seen, with little success. He didn’t have very long to gawk anyhow. 

Starscream began the transition to robot-mode midair; his ever-present cloak was wrenched free of his cockpit by a grasping claw, and before he’d even mostly begun transforming, he swept it around his form and veiled himself from sight. Megatron denied a greasy feeling of disappointment that pulsed through his spark. 

Starscream landed, elegantly light, and smoothed down the ruffled mane of predacon fur at his neck. When it was to his aesthetic satisfaction, he paced over to Megatron, the train of his cloak dragging through the sand. 

“What was so urgent that you had to call me here?” Starscream asked, playful with mock-annoyance. “You’ve started missing me already, grounder?”

Megatron thought about mouthing off to him, but he found himself unusually mellow and agreeable. 

“I brought high-grade,” Megatron muttered, in lieu of a pithy quip. He lifted the small coolant trunk he was carrying slightly, indicating it for the Winglord’s notice. 

“Ooh,” Starscream’s optics flared brighter. “Where did you—? Bah, nevermind; give it here. I’ve been surviving on the same thin, earth-percolated swill as everyone else— Vos’s wine cellars ran dry ages ago.”

“I thought as much,” Megatron intoned. He tried not to think about the strings he’d pulled to get even this small amount (the quartermaster waggling her optical ridges, ripe with insinuation, had been torture), or how often he’d thought about sharing it with the Winglord since he’d acquired it. It’d been sitting in a drawer in his desk, refrigeration unit and all, for ten solar cycles; that was a long time to have imagined things. “You’re welcome to it.” 

Starscream did not waste any time pouring himself a glass; it glowed a cheery pink in contrast to the cool blue of normal energon rations. He took a dainty sip and let out a loud, hedonistic groan.

“Two and a half vorns,” Starscream shook his head, mournfully. “Two and a half vorns since I had high grade. It’s the longest I’ve been without it since I was a sparkling.” He took a far less restrained gulp on his next pass, turbines spinning beneath his cloak in noisy appreciation.

“You were a lush before you were the Winglord?” Megatron asked, amused, filling up his own cube. 

Starscream threw him a glare, but there was no heat behind it. He savored his mouthful, then said,  “Boozing when you’re an aristocrat doesn’t count.” 

That was confirmation of something personal, at least, though Megatron had already suspected his higher status. Starscream was vain and arrogant and assertive, traits you most often found in government officials and royalty. It took a while for a ‘bot to warm up to the demands of leadership, in his experience. In that regard, Megatron himself was an outlier, of course. 

“Aristocrat? Then Brightnimbus was your… sire? Carrier?” Megatron hazarded. He felt comfortable enough with Starscream to pry. 

“I am not of the royal line,” Starscream huffed, licking away a trace of energon beading at the corner of his lip-plates. “Or, not Brightnimbus’s. I am now, of course, under the doctrine of replacement royalty.” 

Megatron made a little grunt, curiosity not solely satisfied by that answer. “You know, I’m still a little unclear on how, exactly, that happened.” 

“Are my audial receptors picking up some nervousness in your tone?” Starscream asked, manifesting a little dint of sunny-sarcastic humor. His grin made Megatron’s tanks turn in a very… curious way. “Whatever would a big, tough grounder like you have to worry about around me?” 

Megatron thought of his massive damned talons, but decided not to voice that. 

“To my understanding, you have a history of murdering leadership.” 

“That makes me perfect for your purposes, doesn’t it? Your grounder lord, Straxus, is a step down from the Winglord, if anything.” Starscream’s optics flashed. He thrust out his empty glass of energon towards Megatron’s chest. “As of now, I’m king. Fill me another cube.”

Megatron huffed, though he found himself less irritated than he should’ve been. “You can’t talk to me like—”

“I can, and I will.” Starscream jiggled the cube. “Pour.” 

“I am a Decepticon captain, and your—” For whatever reason, partner- the first word to come to mind- made him hesitate. “— ally. I have my dignity.” 

“Bah.” Starscream frowned. “Why don’t you take a seat? We’ll trade sordid tales, if that’s what you really want— my conquest of Vos, and yours at Tyger Pax. Is that acceptable?”

“There is no story,” Megatron stated, an automatic reflex. 

Starscream gave him a withering look, like the captain had just inadvertently proved he was an idiot. 

Somewhat defensive, Megatron added, “Dead End gave you his testimony when you interrogated him, didn’t he? He was there at Tyger Pax. His account should have been accurate.” 

Megatron remembered him, even as he was back then. Dead End had been slightly less surly in those days, though not a shade less of a pessimistic coward. He had attempted to take his own life during the darkest hour of the Autobot siege; Megatron had been there, witnessed it, stopped him. He still wondered, occasionally, if that had been the right thing to do. Perhaps if he had let him go through with it, the late soldiers of Outpost QC-1-A might’ve survived. Might’ve. So many might’ves in war… 

Starscream made a little click of static, a disapproving sound. It shook Megatron from his reverie. 

“Sit,” Starscream instructed, gesturing with the hand clutching his glass. “You first. Royalty remains standing until all others have been seated, by Vosian tradition.” 

Megatron arched an optical ridge at the dubious comfort of the stony ground, but obligingly settled on his haunches. Starscream followed, delicately folding his legs to lounge on one side. His calves protruded from the creases of his cloak, the streamlined design framed nicely by plush fabric, the wicked-looking toe-talons immediately drawing an eager optic. Megatron had to force himself to look away. 

“Hold out your cube,” Megatron grumbled. Starscream, satisfied, extended his arm once again; the smallest claw pointed directly out while the others curled around the glass, an exaggeration of refinement. The pink high grade made a pleasing sound as it filled the Winglord’s glass, though not as pleasing as the drink itself if Starscream’s satisfied rumble was anything to go by. 

“You serve me quite well, you know. Perhaps I’ll take leadership of the Decepticons, just to keep you beneath me.” He must’ve noticed Megatron stiffen slightly, because he laughed. “I’m not serious, ground-pounder, please. I’ve no interest in leading your war or consorting with you dirtkissers more than I have to.” 

Megatron growled reproachfully in reply, which Starscream seemed to find amusing. The flier raised his glass at a jaunty angle and downed a sizeable amount. 

“Well?” The Winglord prodded. “Your story?”

“You first,” Megatron beckoned. He hid his expression in his own cube, the contents of which had suddenly become more appealing. 

“Most of it you’ve probably pieced together already,” Starscream obliged. “Four vorns ago, I was Vos’s young, strapping Air Commander; leader of the Vosian military, and by proxy Cybertron’s Air Force—” (he paused to preen, tilting up his head and screwing up his optics) “— and I didn’t like the idea of civil war as much as any flier. When Brightnimbus said she wanted to take Vos into near-orbit to become a fully autonomous state, I marshaled support. An independent military under me seemed quite appealing at the time.”

He paused for a drink.

“There were protests after we were no longer groundbound— riots, really. We anticipated them, we quelled them. As you might expect, there was a general sense of fear and uncertainty among the public. Temporarily, I was allowed to take control, institute martial law. Heady days, sort of, where we still had all of our resources and prestige and power…” He swirled his cube, looking wistfully nostalgic. “We loosened the restrictions a few stellar cycles later, when everyone had cooled off and gotten adjusted to the change. I didn’t mind loosening the reins by then— I’d had my fill of violence against my own people.

“Fifty stellar cycles in, Vos had exhausted its primary energon supply. A hundred stellar cycles in, and we exhausted everything, even after instituting rationing. Of course, we attempted to return to our mines long before then, but—”

“Decepticons had taken them,” Megatron leapt in. He seemed to dimly recall some early skirmishes with Vos at the start of the war, though news like that was harshly repressed as to keep up morale. “The old energon mines of Vos were right next to Tarn, which is a veritable fortress now . It’s one of our most strategically significant garrisons— it housed a quarter million troops, in the early days of the war.” 

“I know,” Starscream said, unenthused. “I was responsible for trying to crack it open. We lost more than fifty thousand mechs trying to break the spine of Tarn, and never managed to even see the energon we so desperately needed.” 

The number was a shallow reflection of the depths of their desperation; they had evidently been willing to fling an endless rain of Vosian bodies for even the slim chance at food. Megatron didn’t doubt the Decepticon side had lost just as many soldiers, doubtlessly more, but they had new mechs to replace the old and more fuel to keep them in fighting shape. 

“You gave up,” Megatron theorized. 

“What choice did we have? Keep dying for nothing? I refused to keep sending mechs to get ground into iron filings in that charnel pit, and Brightnimbus demoted me for cowardice.” There was a sharp chord of bitterness in his voice; the energon cube creaked in his grip. Starscream slugged the last of his high grade and set it aside, perhaps worried about shattering the glass. “She didn’t think I had the spark for leadership anymore. Promoted a ‘bot named Dreadwing in my place.” 

“And you terminated her for that?” Megatron queried. He poured himself more— he gestured to do the same for the Winglord, who nodded gratefully. 

“No. That was later. I spent the next vorn in a depressive, energon-deficient haze, goofing around the planet with my trine. Clearly we weren’t wanted up above, so we went on excursions to the Sea of Rust and hunted predacons for their energon.”

“Trine,” Megatron held up a hand. “Yours comprises yourself, Skywarp, and Thundercracker, I know that, but what is—?”

“It’s a special sort of bond. A spark-link.” Starscream set aside his drink, servo withdrawing beneath the cloak’s heavy lining, but the gentle tap tap indicated he was patting his spark chamber. “Three is a sacred number in Vosian culture. We undertake the trine as a gesture of dedication, of loyalty to one another.” 

Megatron swallowed what felt like a poisonous, queasy disappointment. It felt like a struggle to speak. “It’s a kind of… triplicate conjunx?”

The Winglord shook his head, but he seemed more amused than anything. “It is not a romantic dedication like you’re thinking. It’s a warrior-bond, in most cases. It helps us fight better as a team— to sense emotional states, to know another’s thoughts through the pulsing of their spark. It makes coordinating instinctual.” 

Megatron’s relief was palpable, though he did not particularly want to examine why he felt that way. “I understand.”

“You don’t,” Starscream told him, sounding somewhat pitying, “But just trying to understand is enough.” 

The Winglord was beginning to relax beyond the snooty, imperialistic king Megatron knew. He was loose-limbed, softened by an excess of high grade. The brilliant red of his eyes had gotten less harsh, tinging a rosy pink. Megatron could feel his own mouthfuls beginning to do something similar. 

“Where was I?” Starscream asked, ponderously. 

“Killing predacons in the Sea of Rust.” 

“Right, right.” He picked up his cube again. “We got quite good at it, over time; I suppose because it was do or die. They were hard hunts.” 

Megatron jerked up his chin, nodding in agreement. “I’m aware. It was how I survived in the Sea when you dumped me there— killing predacons and drinking their blood.” 

Starscream gave him a look of— of— well, the only word for it could be fondness, genuine and not his usual horrid sarcastic mockery of sympathy. Megatron gulped down the last of his energon cube to hide from the terrible weight of the affection in that glance. 

“Then you understand that part, at least. We spent a lot of time down here to avoid the scathing optic of the Winglord and the worst of the hunger-plague in Vos.” Starscream made a broad gesture to the area around them. “Thundercracker mapped out many of the canyons and other natural features; we had an estimated sixty percent covered. One day, I’d like to make it a hundred.” 

“Mmm… I saw a cavern complex with a gravity inversion once,” Megatron offered, not a particularly pertinent addendum, but he felt he ought to give some kind of contribution. He poured himself more high-grade; they were almost out. His tanks had already started to feel warm and tingly with the extra kick of energy. 

“Skywarp liked playing in a cave like that,” Starscream acknowledged. “Perhaps the same one. Perhaps not. Either way, we spent the majority of our time down here hunting—”

“For just yourselves?”

“You might think it selfish, but yes. Drinking predacon blood for refueling was an immense taboo in Vos; we only broke it out of sheer hungry desperation. We couldn’t admit to anyone we were doing it, but we thought even just three fewer mouths would lessen the strain.”

Megatron couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You were all starving— how could anyone have denied food, even if it did come from inside predacon veins?” 

“Brightnimbus was a very stubborn old mech,” Starscream’s voice was nothing short of caustic, his lip-plates curling in distaste. “She caught on to what we were doing after an inquisition, since it was eventually noticed my trine was better-fed than we should’ve been. She banned us from taking normal rations and ordered us to wear predacon pieces, to signify to others our degeneration into savagery.” 

“All of your people wear that now,” Megatron observed. Starscream understood the implicit question. 

“What she saw as barbarism I see as ferocity. If she thought we were no better than predacons for eating them, so be it— I’ll embrace that. I’ll wear proudly what was supposed to be a public humiliation.” He snorted. “They’re fragging tough to take down. It’s an honor.” 

“And was this when…?” Megatron prodded again. 

“Patience ,” Starscream scolded, good-naturedly. “I’m still getting to that. Around then was when Jetfire approached me and asked if we would start hunting surplus for the medical wing’s energon stores. I agreed. More mechs started to catch on after that, join me in hunting raids— they were all starving, desperate for any relief. They fell under my wings very easily.” 

Megatron held up a servo to halt him. An incongruency had made itself apparent to him, after a significant delay due to the high grade soaking into his processors. “Hold on a moment. What were the other citizens of Vos eating, if not predacon blood? You said you ran out of your energon supply a third of the way through the war, two hundred stellar cycles ago, and these hunting parties were more than a vorn later, if I have my timeline right. Your people must’ve eaten something in the interim, or you’d have starved ages ago.” 

Starscream gave him a mournful look. Megatron’s warm buzz dissipated a little; his energon felt cold in his lines. 

“Starscream?” He asked, with a little more urgency. 

“What do you think?” The Winglord replied, sounding weary.

“Don’t tell me—”

Starscream cut him off, optics squeezing almost completely closed. “Vos was two million strong at the start of the war. Involvement in the war took a fifth. Starvation took at least a fourth. I don’t know how many fled— I hope quite a few.” He invented, exvented harshly. “When I took command, the census only found about twenty thousand people.” 

That was one percent. 

One percent of the fliers remained after only two hundred years. 

Megatron couldn’t even think of something to say. The loss was immense. More than he ever could have imagined. 

Beyond the sheer impracticality, unsustainability, and the mass loss of life, there was a reason you didn’t cannibalize other sentient Cybertronians. A little bit of a mech’s spark energy circulated in their energon lines— in old folk tales passed around the mines, Megatron had heard drinking it could imprint on you. You took your victim’s thoughts, their feelings, their personality, even their soul with you. It changed you, fundamentally, especially with multiple different sources and over an extended period. 

Megatron didn’t even want to consider what the average citizen had to do to survive those hundred stellar cycles— the misery they had been forced to bear. They either fled into war-torn Cybertron, starved to death, or went insane by eating one another. 

Starscream continued: “I saw where things were going, on our current path. I rallied the support I had and slew Brightnimbus and her trine. I hardly consider it regicide; there wasn’t much sentience left in her to snuff out. The old Winglord was a mad beast whose veins were circuiting with the blood of thousands of her deceased subjects; a thing full of endless consumptive hunger and bickering, contradictory spark-murmurs. It was a kindness, even.” 

Megatron shook his head, trying to clear it of vivid images of dead mechs and hungry bodies thirsting for Cybertronian blood. “You took over after that?” 

“Yes. I had my coronation while her body was still warm. No one objected.” He drank, allowing himself a contemplative pause. “I did what I could for damage control and sent out organized hunting parties. First just for predacons, but then Autobot and Decepticon energon convoys when we grew stronger. I sent scouts to dig for crystalline energon in the Sea of Rust or no-mech-land, though they did not return with much. I tried anything other than eating one another.” 

There was a long pause, then, heavy with tension. It was broken by the gentle sound of them both drinking, delicate sips and heavy pulls. They poured the last of the high grade.

Starscream leaned back, propping up one elbow to lie partially on his side. His enormous shoulders swiveled, trying to settle into a comfortable position given his awkward proportions. 

“Your turn,” the Winglord drawled, flicking his digits playfully at Megatron. “Tyger Pax.” 

“I’d rather not,” Megatron rebuffed, bringing the rim of his cube to his mouth. He savored the electric heat of it going down his intake, well aware that this precious morsel was all that was left. “I did bring you out here for a more pressing concern than swapping war stories.”

Starscream pulled a face. 

“You’re going to renege already? That doesn’t bode well for me in our glorious new future under your leadership.” 

“I don’t like talking about it.”

“And you think I do like talking about Vos’s famine?” 

Megatron’s scowl was weaker than he would’ve liked. “I’d prefer discussing the here and now. Soundwave knows about our collaboration. About me, about Vos, about Frenzy— all of it.” 

Starscream stiffened, almost comically slow with his slight overcharge. “You should have led with that!” 

“I thought if I got you drunk first you’d take it better,” was Megatron’s wry reply. It neatly deflected his true motivations, and as a bonus, Starscream shot him a look of loathing exasperation. 

“Shut up.” There was a pause, and Starscream, voice sharpened, said, “Well?” 

“Well what?” Megatron asked, allowing a little humor into his voice. “You just told me to shut up, your highness.”

“Your jokes need work,” Starscream seethed, though he wasn’t as venomous as he could’ve been. “Soundwave. If you’re here and not in a prison cell somewhere— he’s on our side?” 

Megatron shifted his jaw. This was going to be difficult, even if his head weren’t spinning with the buzz of high grade. 

“Yes. But he wants Frenzy,” the captain stated. Starscream’s optical ridges lifted in surprise, then lowered, optics narrowing. He let a vulpine grin stretch across his intake, baring his fangs. 

“Well, well, well. She just became an even more invaluable bargaining chip, it seems.” 

“Knock it off, Starscream,” Megatron grumbled. “We both know how this is going to go. You won’t give her up, and I won’t ask for anything less. We’re going to be at an impasse.”

Starscream huffed. “You enjoy sucking the fun out of everything, don’t you? You’re cutting the line on our arguments before they even happen.” 

“It’s productive.”

“But not any fun,” Starscream reiterated. “Do you ever have fun, grounder?”

Megatron waved a hand dismissively, as though the words were bothersome scraplets that needed shooing away. “There’s no time for fun in war, Starscream.” 

Starscream’s optics sparkled. They opened wide, the pink flush of high grade bright and cheery. There was a note of something lurid and dangerous caught in his voice. “Oh? You think so?”

Megatron’s tanks tightened. The warmth of the high grade had spread from his belly up to his spark chamber; his thighs felt unpleasantly oversensitive again, and he itched to soothe them. 

“I…” Megatron haltered. Starscream moved, cloak rippling in the dark— he maneuvered in front of the captain, and placed his thin servo on Megatron’s chassis, gently pushing him down. It must’ve been latent effects from the high grade— something— because Megatron felt himself obeying the touch, lying back on the sand. 

“Wait,” Megatron mumbled, but it was a weak protest, even to his own audials. “What are you—”

“Shut up,” Starscream was fidgeting, the little points of his claws tapping lightly along Megatron’s sensitive flanks, movement obscured beneath his cloak. Megatron wanted to curl in, to defend himself— he couldn’t help his slight squirming, twitching when soft spots were brushed against. “I want to…”

Megatron couldn’t help his anxious query, though he felt like he was choking on his own throat: “This— you’re certain this isn’t the high grade making bad decisions for you, Starscream?” 

The Winglord threw him an irritated glare. “Do you think you’re so undesirable that I have to be completely soused to want this?”

“I believe you’ve called me ugly about fifteen times, so—” he broke off into an undignified squeak as Starscream’s head dipped between his bow-legged thighs, his horns caressing against the sensitive plating as he nuzzled Megatron’s panel. The captain’s engines sputtered, humming at a pitch just slightly higher and louder than usual. 

“Open up for me,” Starscream’s optics flicked to Megatron’s face. He wore a soft, knowing smile, and Megatron’s abdomen bloomed with heat, burgeoning into a soft, molten feeling that felt like magma bubbling in his belly. “Grounder.” 

Something dark and tight coalesced in Megatron’s spark chamber; he was barely cognizant of his own words. He heard them secondhand, as if they were spoken by someone else. He growled, soft and sweet, “You’ll call me Megatron, Starscream. Megatron.” 

Code Megatron didn’t even know he had was trying to run— interfacing scripts so ancient he had never unsealed them from his protoform memory files. He knew of them- of interfacing- in the theoretical, but… you’d be hard-pressed to find a miner who was free enough to have the time, energy, and desire to frag, much less two who liked one another enough to actually do it. Being a soldier on the front was much the same. Megatron had never wanted anything more than to lead— this was completely beyond his experience, beyond his depth. This wasn’t exactly an area thoroughly covered in his typical military readings, either. 

Megatron briefly thought he would rather be back at Tyger Pax. The deafening roar of battle and stink of death weren’t nearly as terrifying as Starscream, half-drunk on high-grade, sweetly nuzzling between his legs and tracing gentle circles into Megatron’s thighs with his spindly claws. The captain felt like he was drowning. He had no idea what to do or say, and his processor was sluggish with the overcharge of high-grade. He couldn’t tell the Winglord he had never done this before. Surely. Equally so, he couldn’t articulate- even to himself- how badly he wanted it. 

Starscream tapped Megatron’s panel with increasing impatience. The contact made the captain whine, humiliatingly, and he stifled the urge to grind into the Winglord’s claws like an organic in estrus. Starscream’s expectant glare would’ve made him shrivel if he weren’t preoccupied with more pressing matters. 

“Well?” The Winglord cajoled. 

Megatron had to search his programs until he found the correct script; his modesty panel retracted- perhaps for the first time- and he gave a punched-out gasp as he felt the cool night air blow gently over silicone-soft mesh. The captain looked down at himself, half-apprehensive, only belatedly realizing he had no idea what he even looked like beneath the panel; they didn’t have mirrors in the mines. 

His spike had unfurled almost comically fast with the baring of his array, jutting upward like an eager turbofox seeking a treat. It almost throbbed with the beating of his spark. Some instinct urged him to touch it, but Starscream got there first, lubricious voice halting Megatron before he’d even began. 

“Very nice. Nonstandard make and model for Vos, but I don’t mind…” Starscream purred. He extended a digit and Megatron couldn’t help but flinch, cognizant enough to recognize that those claws would rip him open from the inside out. Starscream, to his credit, noticed his trepidation and halted. He wiggled his claws in front of his nasal ridge playfully. “Scared of these? I can be quite gentle with them, you know.” 

He leaned forward, closing the distance; Megatron exvented, sharply, but did not move. The bubbling churn of heat in his abdomen, the unbearably tender swollen feeling of his interfacing array, this uncomfortably aroused pounding in his spark— they were all making Megatron decidedly stupid, making him take risks and make choices that he shouldn’t— 

Starscream did something. Touched the tip of Megatron’s spike, the very tip of his claw teasing at the opening of his transfluid delivery channel. The contact was like a lightning bolt jumping up Megatron’s spinal struts, and he yelped in a wholly undignified sound of surprise. Starscream gave a plummy little chuckle, his finger sliding gently down Megatron’s length, soft clicks as his claw caught on then dipped over each ridge. 

His digits ended up at Megatron’s untouched valve; with the flat of his finger he caressed a little swollen lump crowning the slit, a fat sensory node at the apex of the iris. Megatron couldn’t help but shudder, gasping sharply and balling his fists impotently in the sand. Waves of heat and pleasure- both foreign- washed up his abdomen, and his calipers clenched around nothing. The captain was feeling uncomfortably slick and wet and hot, just as his pressured spike was feeling hard and sensitive— new instincts were cropping up by the second, thoughts and ideas that Megatron had never entertained. Feverishly, he imagined the way this night would end- mounting Starscream, pressing the Winglord’s faceplate into the sand as he was rutted into, licking along the wings that Megatron knew were hidden beneath the cloak- deviance which had become incomprehensibly desirable to his scrambled processors. These lewd visions only made the heat in his stomach more ferocious, the trembling more pronounced. His fans roared. 

Starscream’s claws began pressing at the thin slit of his valve, trying to find their way inside despite Megatron’s virginal tightness. Megatron jolted, a little lance of panic shooting up his spinal struts, warring against the consuming heat. He had never had anything try to prise him open, and was fervently sure, despite the fuzzy pleasures of arousal and the imbecilic warmth of tipsiness, that he didn’t want to start now. Especially not with Starscream, his military liaison, co-conspirator in regicidal treason, and the Winglord of Vos . 

“Hands off,” Megatron growled, channeling what little menace he could muster. It was not very much. 

Starscream kept a running narration, seeming to find the captain’s warning amusing. “You’re so tight for such a big mech— do you usually spike? I wonder if anyone’s—” He attempted to push a little deeper, and Megatron aimed a kick at his shoulder. Though Starscream dodged the clumsily-aimed pede, he still withdrew his digits. “Alright! Understood. I won’t touch you there. What about your spike? Is your spike okay?” 

Megatron thought about it for a moment. The heat in his abdomen was growing quite unbearable, and the tiny exposed gaps of protoform across his body were so sensitive that just the current of air sliding past was making him shudder. He was itching for some kind of release, something to undam the pressure building in his internals. His spike seemed like the safer choice in his array— at least, it was less intimidating to have touched and teased than bearing the vulnerability of having something wriggling around inside him. And Starscream’s fluttering caresses felt… good. 

Thoughts kept coming to him unbidden, lurid imaginings that made his tanks tighten and pistons pull taught with stupid want. This intrusive imagery was something he would’ve never entertained ordinarily, but he was suddenly anxious to have Starscream underneath him, squirming on his spike— how much of this was simple repression versus biological imperative versus the influence of Starscream himself? It was terrifying that Megatron couldn’t tell, just as terrifying as the fact that he wanted to go through with this regardless of the consequences. 

“Yes,” he rasped, sounding more pathetic than he would’ve liked. He realized his digits were balled into tight fists, and he relaxed them, exventing sharply. He tried to settle into a pose both nonchalant and comfortable. He was not used to being on his back with someone over him. Not used to this at all. 

“Alright. I’ll be gentle,” Starscream cooed. “Don’t worry about paying me back right now, either— don’t let it be said I was the ungenerous one in our arrangement. I don’t expect you get many opportunities to interface at your posting.” 

His digits lightly found Megatron’s length again, caressing sweetly with the flat side of his claw; Megatron bit down on nothing, pistons in his jaw straining. Starscream stroked languidly up and down, loosely wrapping his fist around Megatron’s spike; the captain’s vents widened to full capacity, fans fighting the heat that threatened to melt him from the inside out. It was hard to overstate how good just gentle touches felt— each stroke of Starscream’s hand, the languid motion of his wrist, was an unknown ecstasy made manifest. 

Megatron’s helm tipped back when Starscream’s digits began teasing the clusters of sensory nodes around his biolights; he moaned, long and low, forcing himself to keep his optics open despite the overwhelming urge to close them. The canopy of stars overhead glittered far above him, their impish twinkling seeming almost like mockery.

Undone so easily, mighty Megatron? They seemed to ask. Megatron shut his optics. 

The captain rode out the pleasurable assault with as much dignity as he could muster, panting through his intake when his vents and fans could not sufficiently cool him. Little whimpers dragged on his exvents, hopefully so quiet that they were caught in the squall of his cooling systems. His mind had fogged over with stupid sentimentalities, uncharacteristic affection and heady pleasure, and nothing seemed to matter to him anymore besides Starscream’s continued ministrations. 

Megatron’s vocalizer squealed static when he felt warm air bloom against the painfully sensitive crown of his spike. His head snapped back into place and his optics flashed open; the sight that awaited him was like a punch straight to the spark ( and his array). The Winglord had lowered his helm, his lip-plates nearly kissing the tip of Megatron’s spike; Starscream flashed him a coquettish smile. 

“I’ll be careful,” he reassured. Somewhere in the dumb haze of interfacing Megatron acknowledged he should be wary of the Winglord’s jagged fangs, but he was swept up in the warmth and pleasure of it all and was not thinking sensibly. 

“Please,” Megatron rasped, more pathetic than he would've liked. Starscream’s grin widened, and he lowered his mouth on Megatron’s spike. 

It became instantly evident to Megatron that the Winglord’s throat was modded- or perhaps Vosians merely had a different build than Kaon miners?- because he was soft inside, instead of the bare metal internals that Megatron was expecting. Not only soft— warm and slick, ostensibly for better absorption of energon through mesh capture. The velvety softness felt incredible against his wanting spike, and he could bear restraint no longer. Megatron bucked his hips into Starscream’s mouth, giving a jagged little gasp that metamorphosed into a wanting groan, almost a keen; a bolt of pleasure raced up his struts, urging him to repeat, to dominate. Starscream, sputtering slightly from the unexpected motion, apertured his optics open wider and pulled off. 

Megatron- his bolts audibly rattling- was about to apologize for his lack of decorum, but he was interrupted first. 

“You’re so noisy!” Starscream exclaimed, as though this were some unexpected delight. Mortified, Megatron sent shutdown codes to his vocalizer, trying desperately to mitigate the worst of the damage that his weak, sybaritic body was trying to do to his reputation. His thighs were twitching, and he could not order them to stop; his engines rumbled as loud as his fans, which were doing their best to disperse the massive heat demands. His spark was burning— Megatron felt a touch of hysteria at the idea that the chamber might very well open for the Winglord, trusting vulnerability that Starscream had definitely not earned. “I thought you were going to be the quiet type.” 

Megatron, not trusting his own voice any longer, offered a shrug as nonchalant as he could conjure. He must’ve looked like a cyberdeer caught in the glow of headlights. 

“That’s not a bad thing, grounder, you just seem so stoic…” Starscream was playing with him, affectionately nudging at Megatron’s spike with little, repetitive whorls of his claw. “I like it, even. Are you having fun yet?” 

The words were so simple and straightforward, and yet it took Megatron’s straining processors a second to stop concentrating on the frantic beating of his spark and the melting heat of his array in order to comprehend it. He made a stupid inquisitive sound, about the best he could muster with most of his brain modules concentrating on how soft and good his touch felt, how gorgeous Starscream’s handsome faceplate looked in the moonlight, if his mouth was going to return to Megatron’s spike— 

“You are,” Starscream decided. He seemed to have mistaken Megatron’s sluggishness for overindulgence of high grade instead of impending overload (and it very well might have been), which the captain would’ve been thankful for if he had a functioning brain to recognize as much. The cold flat of Starscream’s digit, which had been tracing pleasing lines up and down Megatron’s spike, suddenly turned, so a sharp edge almost nicked the softer proto-metal. Megatron winced, jostling backward. Starscream went with him. “Come on. Admit it.”

“Yes, fine, I’m having fun,” Megatron rasped, unsealing his vocalizer fully. “Don’t toy with me, Starscream. You’ve played around long enough.” 

“Have I?” The Winglord asked, innocuously, though released Megatron’s length. “It hasn’t been that long.” He seemed momentarily captivated by a thin bolt of electricity, which zigzagged across his talon after leaping off of Megatron’s thigh, weakly dissipating a short time later. “You’re just pent up. Very pent up.” 

Starscream moved; he laid the side of his head against Megatron’s thigh, cheek nuzzling against hot armor plating, and his helm felt so cool compared to Megatron’s overheating frame. Looking up at Megatron- almost adoringly, his eyes pink-red with high grade- made Megatron’s spark leap with something dark and wanting. Seized by a sudden bolt of worry, he clamped a servo over his chassis, trying to make sure his spark chamber wouldn’t spring open. 

Starscream made a little nasty-sounding laugh. “Or are you big ugly grounders just built with bad heat sinks?” 

“Starscream…” Megatron growled, beginning to partway sit up. The Winglord could have his fun, certainly, but not at Megatron’s expense. The captain absolutely would not tolerate being made fun of, especially when he had bared himself to Starscream, placing himself in an unbearably vulnerable position; the notion of preserving his dignity sliced clear through the warmth of want (no matter how his array throbbed).  

“Okay, okay,” Starscream murmured, a knowing smile flitting across his lip-plates. “I just noticed that your fans are running at full tilt and you’re having trouble concentrating, is all. Overload is nice, but I don’t want you to melt your little grounder brain.” 

“I’m just overcharged,” Megatron growled in reply, lifting himself up higher; he had gathered his elbows beneath him, flexing slightly at the waist to properly leer down at the Winglord. “So are you.” 

“So I am,” Starscream acknowledged, tone lightly jingling with mockery. He wasn’t as drunk as Megatron hoped, or he instinctively played coy even when his brain modules were melted on high grade. “Let’s finish up before the buzz wears off.” 

Before Megatron could come up with his own scathing riposte, Starscream’s tongue laved up Megatron’s spike. The captain’s choked sputter was lost as Starscream promptly sank down on his length, smoothly bobbing up and down. The sound was slick and lurid, but Starscream was skilled.

It was mechanical.

It was merciless. 

Starscream kept glancing up, catching Megatron’s gaze, and narrowing his optics smugly— some reflection of the intensity must’ve shown on Megatron’s face, and seeing the captain out of his depth seemed to bring the Winglord some wretched satisfaction. 

Determined not to disappoint (and to avoid making a fool out of himself), Megatron held out as long as he could bear; the softness, the heat, the warmth, the repetitive slide, the gentle squeeze of Starscream’s throat— 

His groans, his low moans, his whines, overlapped, fuzzing his vocalizer. Starscream didn’t even seem to mind when Megatron canted up his hips, clumsily trying to match the Winglord’s silken, merciless rhythm. Pleasure washed through him, from the simple contact on his spike, pooling in his abdomen, flooding upward— it began to concentrate in the pit of his stomach, perhaps over his forge, building a molten pressure that gradually got unbearable. 

Static arced through the air, leaping along Megatron’s plating. His spark was so hot that it felt like it was dripping into his lower body, connecting and building with the heat in his forge… 

And, when he could bear it no more, the pressure finally broke. His spike twitched; Megatron growled, loud and whining, a pitch of warning to Starscream. His optics shuttered shut of their own accord. Amidst the fog of interface and the single-minded race towards his end, he was barely aware of the sudden horrible pressure of his spike, then the apex of relief from ejection of base genetic material— 

Consequential ecstasy roared up his spinal struts, bursting and refrenating through his entire body as it went. The captain stiffened, vocalizer stuttering on what was, possibly, intended to be a word. His back arched, hips bucking into Starscream’s throat. 

His processors were overwhelmed by the onrushing sensation prickling through his sensor net, systems naturally trying to mitigate the tide of information by shutting down non-critical functions. It was for naught, though; the surge swept through him, blacking out brain modules, and the pleasure flipped from a crowning ecstasy into an insensate darkness. 

There was a sense of satisfied bliss, insomuch as there were senses to be had in shutdown. A lingering satisfaction, unlike anything else, making him briefly feel weightless and beloved… 

Megatron’s brain modules booted back up. His processors restored themselves into functionality, already processing code; visuals came back, then auditory, then his entire sensor net returned to full force (if anything, now oversensitive) . His fans were still on, but they were quiet, dispersing the last bit of heat. His spark had cooled, fuel lines beating a slow, steady tempo. He felt exhausted— not only was his mind still sluggish, a heavy blanket of fatigue made his actuators weighty and slow, sullenly resistant to physical movement.  

Megatron’s body felt clay-soft and malleable; his internals were warm and slick but the worst of it was drying in response to the cold night air. His spike had folded in, retracting into its mesh sheath. His entire array felt tender and pliant and overstimulated; he slid his modesty panel closed, locking the mess inside to deal with another time. The captain’s common sense chimed in that he was going to need some time to rest and, perhaps, a longer-than-regulation solvent shower. 

“That good, huh?” Starscream was resting beside him, turned on his side- almost cuddling- one thin arm thrown around Megatron’s chassis. Spidery claws were sprawled wide, palm set over Megatron’s spark chamber— as a subtle threat, or to feel its pulse? 

Megatron’s gaze swept over Starscream’s mostly-bared arm, trying to get a good look at what he’d hereto been denied: a thin blue forearm, a curved blade at the elbow, and a dull grey upper arm that did not seem to join properly with Starscream’s massive, still-cloaked shoulder. Some incongruence prickled at Megatron, but he was too overtaxed to put the pieces together. “You were out for a while.” 

He was snuggled against Megatron’s upper arm, using the captain’s shoulder almost like a pillow. It was- strangely- a small pleasure to have him there; the proximity, the closeness, the trust— it seemed to content some unpleasantness in the captain’s spark, or imbue his processors with a dampening sense of serenity. Perhaps it was merely the lingering kiss of overload making him pliant, more able to tolerate what he would normally consider intolerable. 

“How long?” Megatron asked, knowing he had to rise and return to his duties as a Decepticon captain, but not feeling particularly impelled to do so. The captain’s voice was slightly hoarse; he winced. 

“A klik, maybe. Not the worst recovery I’ve seen.” 

Megatron grunted, but did not say anything in reply. He didn’t trust himself to speak intelligently and covertly in the wake of his overload; he was fatigued and fuzzy, not in full control of himself or in possession of proper military decorum. It was safer- desirable- to be silent. 

Since Starscream did not seem in a particular hurry to move, the captain allowed himself to lay there for a while and permit his systems some time to recover. The sand was gritty against the broad plane of his back and the hard ground did nothing good for his desk-weary spinal struts, but it was… nice. His plating gradually cooled to air temperature, the last bastion of warmth remaining where Starscream was curled in against his flank. The soft mane of predacon feathers around Starscream’s neck tickled whenever the flier moved, minutely adjusting himself to fit better against the join of Megatron’s shoulder to his chassis. Every so often, Starscream’s digits would rise slightly, tapping Megatron’s chassis in a lazy, thoughtful drum. 

In the ensuing quiet, Megatron regarded the thick speckling of stars overhead— the vast milky ribbon of the galaxy’s arm was broadly visible due to their distance from the major, light-polluting cities. Many ‘bots had fled from Cybertron after the war began; non-combattants, cowards, the inept. They were hiding up there, somewhere, but Megatron’s resentment for weak-willed asylum-seekers seemed curiously dim compared to his usual animosity. 

Megatron acknowledged- though he had always known it, subconsciously- he wanted to make a Cybertron worthy of their return. Somewhere they would feel safe, somewhere that the oppression of the old elites would not touch them, somewhere they did not have to fight battles that would haunt their waking and dreaming lives. 

With something approaching affection, he recognized that Starscream would be instrumental in his vision for the new world. He glanced over at the Winglord; Starscream’s optics had dimmed, signaling the first stage of power-down, and he seemed strangely sweet in slumber compared to his typical wry, acetic personality. With the hand currently resting at Starscream’s side, Megatron tentatively stroked the curve of the flier’s spine, though the softness of the cloak muffled the feel of the body beneath.

Something felt— 

Starscream’s optics brightened in response to the touch, shuttering open. They were his usual vibrant red; the last traces of pink had faded.

— off?

“Cop a feel later, grounder,” Starscream began to rise, shaking himself like a furry predacon to dislodge sand and pebbles that’d snuck into his crevasses while he was in recharge. Megatron pulled his arm back like he’d been burned, recalling in vivid detail how the Winglord had declared his body to be off limits to non-royals. The last thing he needed was the flier king snapping at him, or worse, dissolving their alliance due to a cultural misunderstanding. “That was just a little thank-you for the high grade. Don’t go getting any ideas.” 

His voice was light and sweet, bearing his typical slant of mockery. Megatron had no idea if he was being genuine or not; they had just interfaced- sort of- an undeniable expression of attraction across all Cybertronian cultures. Was Starscream teasing, like he so very often enjoyed doing, or was he serious that it meant nothing?

Did he think Megatron shouldn’t— couldn’t— didn’t want to reciprocate?

No— did Megatron reciprocate? 

… Did Starscream not reciprocate? 

Megatron’s spark twisted unpleasantly in response to the artillery of unknowns battering at him. All of his warm sleepiness dissipated, and he, too, began fumbling to get up and broaden his brain modules to their usual, maximized mode of operation. He shook pebbles from his seams, fruitlessly wiping dust off of his back. 

“… I should go back before I’m missed,” Megatron said, unenthusiastically.  

Was it his optics playing tricks on him, or was there a flash of resentment- hurt- in Starscream’s expression? It was gone so quickly it was difficult to be sure, and it may have just been the lingering disgust from Megatron’s apparent forwardness in touching him. 

“As should I. I have energon acquisition to oversee, tomorrow- a caravan from Slaughter City- and I suppose I had better be well-rested. It’s rare I go in-person for these sorts of things now.” 

There was an awkward silence, where neither of them departed despite their proclamations to the contrary. Megatron stooped and collected the empty coolant trunk, their scattered cubes. Starscream evidently did not find him interesting to look at anymore, and was stubbornly looking off to the side, head hunched and cloak drawn tightly. 

“I will keep you informed on Soundwave,” Megatron said, at last. “And, of course, give you your next energon target when I come by that information.” He paused. “... Don’t get blown to pieces. You’d be difficult to replace.” 

“Huh! I was performing complex military maneuvers while you were still banging rocks together in the mines.” Starscream snorted. “Don’t trip on any rocks on your way back, dirtkisser.” 

He was a stunningly quick change— without any of the pomp and ceremony Megatron might’ve expected, he shifted into his alt mode- leaving an arm unmorphed to quickly stuff his cockpit with his cloak- and was gone before Megatron could get a good look at the sharp-nosed aircraft. 

The Winglord’s thrusters faded to a dull roar, then silence, and Megatron adjusted his grip on the cooler, hiking it up to his chest. He turned away, lingering at their picnic site for only a moment, and then tromped his way back to Outpost QC-1-Alpha. He had to walk a little gingerly owing to the new, uniquely sensitive feel of his interfacing array, and his pace was lagging due to a struts-deep exhaustion that’d washed over him. 

That long trek back to base- alone, sore, and in the dark- gave him time to think. Circular, stirring thoughts about Starscream that bubbled up and were swept along in the general current before resurfacing, repeating themselves before Megatron could reach an internally satisfying conclusion. He couldn’t tell if it was the sentimentality of coitus softening him, or if Starscream genuinely— 

Megatron cut that thought off, as he had attempted to do the last ten times he found it creeping into his thought subroutines. Efforts at banishing Starscream from his head didn’t work, but neither did attempting to think deeply about the conundrums. Neither was able to satisfy his unsettled spark. 

He hadn’t anticipated it, but Starscream might be more of a potential threat than Soundwave— for the influence he currently held on Megatron’s mind, if nothing else.

Chapter Text

Megatron onlined from recharge feeling like death. 

He had been so exhausted by the time he had returned to the Outpost that he had simply dropped himself halfway onto his berth and immediately cycled into a power-down. His recharges were ordinarily quite restless affairs, but in this case, he reckoned he somehow felt even more exhausted than he had when he had thrown himself over the dubious comfort of his berth. 

And, by Primus, he was sticky. 

Megatron lay there for a moment, trying to will himself back into recharge by force alone, but the gluey wetness present beneath his modesty panel was too great an imposition to ignore. With a sharp invent of accepting rage, he swung himself up into a sitting position and thrust himself onto his pedes.

Slight movement caught on his motion trackers; something small was kicked up from his berth as he rose, landing on the floor and bouncing off to some obscure corner of the room. Megatron cursed, invoking the thirteen primes in a drowsy, irritated snarl, and got down on all fours in an effort to jam his servo underneath the drawer it had slipped beneath. 

He fished out a small, thin sheet of silicon; he eyed it, unsure of its origin. It was a data chip, that much he knew, but there was far more concerning about it than what it was. He was certain that he hadn’t gotten into berth with it— or had he? He wouldn’t have put it past Starscream to have planted it on him in the middle of coitus the previous night. That kind of sly, conniving behavior seemed to be his modus operandi, but there was also a rather pleasant simplicity to their recent dealings that made Megatron unable to be certain.

He held it in his fist for a moment, gave a little annoyed snort and a shake of his helm, and tucked it away for later inspection. He had more urgent things to attend to (at least, until the chip proved itself less innocuous, he did). Megatron slogged out of his quarters and down the hall, rapidly blinking his optics to try to detract from some of the irascible drowsiness circuiting his systems. 

As he stomped down the corridor, he found himself blackly covetous of the attached shower that he vaguely recalled his commanders’ quarters had in the early days of the war, a luxury apparently possible at the shifting front lines of Tyger Pax, Stanix, and Protihex, but not so for a continuous, prosaic hundred-stellar-cycle-long Quasar Canyon posting. 

He punched the door control to their solvent showers as softly as his foul temper would let him, and stepped inside. There was a permanent moisture that hung in the air in this room, making his circuits feel unpleasantly fritzy. Mining bots generally did not run across much liquid, as a rule, and his joint-seals were substandard compared to those of other makes and models.

At the very least there was no one there, either because his subordinates had scattered in the wake of his lumbering pedesteps coming down the hall or because it was too ungodly early for anyone else to be awake and shuffling about with a concern as low-level as mere hygiene. Megatron lumbered to the stall furthest from the entryway, wrenched on the shower controls with a little more force than he really ought’ve, and lowered his helm as he sulked under the warm, relieving spray of solvent. It pounded pleasantly against his armor, slid through his seams, and puddled onto the floor, where the swirling drain took it for in-house decontamination and recycling. 

Relaxing under the stream gave Megatron time to think, which was unpleasant. He attempted to turn his mind to his duties for the day, putting together a list of the patrols he needed to architect and the reports he needed to write and read. When his neural net listlessly meandered from considering his official responsibilities, he attempted to plot out sentences for his opus, using it as a last resort to keep his attention staved off of a particular subject… 

… but the image of Starscream was stuck in his mind like a looping feed of bad code. The vivid memory of almost-pink optics, glowing with a cruel, teasing ardor- all the while the Winglord’s horrible claws caressed over his panels- made Megatron’s abdomen feel tight and compressed, overly warm, like a ball of superheated shale getting crushed into gneiss. 

This affliction of romance was a weakness he couldn’t afford, but also one he couldn’t easily get rid of. Megatron had never before needed to purge any sentiment of this nature from his processors, and was woefully under-equipped in handling the feeling now that it had found him, coiled around him tight, and buried in its fangs. 

He had begrudgingly conceded that will alone could not surmount the stirring of romantic feelings, and they could not simply be suppressed and squashed under his heel as easily as an enemy combatant. Love, terribly insidiously in the captain’s opinion, came from within. Megatron would have to read about it, seeking the wisdom of others who came before, and decide- with information from the old warriors, leaders, and poets of Cybertron informing him- how to proceed from here.

He knew there were poetic leavings from Solus Prime and Megatronus on romance, half-narrative and half-myth legends of their time together on battlefields and their love for one another in the war against Unicron, but the captain had thus far skipped over the significance of how to deal with sharing a battleground with someone you have non-platonic sentiments for. 

Megatron gave a little annoyed growl, opening his optics and glaring at the wet tile as if it had personally offended him. This imposition of feelings was a terrible inconvenience. Worst of all, he couldn’t shake the notion that it was both Starscream’s intention and his fault. 

The captain adjusted his stance, making a passing glance around to ensure no one had entered while he was ensconced in his own thoughts. He had been standing here- aggressively thinking and not actually cleaning himself, for several kliks- which was vastly beyond the regulation time limit for a mech his size. He spurred into motion to avoid potentially having to write a demerit for himself. 

Megatron pawed around his thighs, scraping away the little tacky bits of dried lubricant, and washed off any dust or gravel that’d remained from his brief laydown in the dirt. When his chassis was gleaming, he turned from his externals to his internals, grinding his denta slightly as he tried to psyche himself up for it. It was embarrassing to have to retract his panel for any reason, especially in a quasi-public space like this, but it was far worse to keep the cold, oozing lubricants locked beneath.

Megatron allowed his panel to retract, grimacing in disgust at how a sticky dollop dripped loose and was quickly ushered down the drain. Interface was far more alluring when your systems were scrambled with affection and lust; it was much less so when you had to deal with the gory aftermath. At least spilled energon he was used to cleaning off, and had never had to tenderly rub out of the virginal folds of his valve. 

The captain, for lack of a better description, inelegantly scraped his array of spent slick, shuddering in sensitive unpleasantness as his digits skirted areas that he had scarcely- if ever- touched before. His spike was a little easier to wash off once he coaxed it from its sheath, solvent rolling along the edge of his ridges, taking what was left of Starscream’s oral lubricant with it. 

Megatron had few doubts about it now; interfacing was completely repulsive. 

And yet, in the moment… 

“So, captain, who’s the lucky bot?” 

Megatron jerked, startled, automatically triggering a flow of power to race into the fusion cannon that was not presently mounted on his arm (creating a brief, numb tingle from fingertips to shoulder as his energy surged with nowhere to go). He turned, belatedly registering the voice as his quartermaster, and shook his servo slightly to try to get some feeling back into his prickling sensor net. 

The quartermaster stood most of the way across the shower hall, arms loosely crossed over her broad chest. The prominent sides of her alt mode’s shell, almost mistakable for a flier’s wings, were fanned broad in a display Megatron read as amusement. She was notable for her large size (though not quite rivaling Megatron, as he was the largest on-base, possibly the largest in the Quasar Canyon corridor, barring Clobber) and her ability to scrape and scavenge energon rations was well beyond the limits of probability. She had been caught skimming off the top in a Stanix energon refinery she was the foreman of, and was summarily banished to Quasar Canyon where the amount of war profiteering she could get into was limited. She cared extremely little for fighting, but had an impish demeanor and a sharp intellect that suited her post. 

“Octane,” Megatron hailed, allowing his tense shoulders to loosen. He hadn’t been doing anything wrong- though certainly it was not dignified to be caught with his panel down- and he resolved not to look guilty or mortified in front of his rank and file. He was in charge, and he was going to act like it. “Good morning.” 

“For one of us, maybe,” she acknowledged. “You finally did something with that high grade I got for you, huh?” 

Megatron threw her a warning look, optics narrowed. “I don’t appreciate any pithy little insinuations from the lower rank.” 

She carried on, amusement proving a greater lure than her own well-being: “I just can’t think of any other reason why you’d be washing beneath your panel, captain, when it’s completely hermetically sealed… unless it’s been opened recently for whatever reason.” She paused, optical ridges lifting in amusement, and she uncrossed her arms to offer out an indifferent shrug. “It’s not a crime to speculate. I hope you had fun with him, or her.” 

“Enough playing coy, Octane. What are you hoping to get from this conversation?” Megatron asked, annoyed (and, cursedly, uncomfortable). 

“Nothing at all, if you’re thinking it’s going to be blackmail or anything. I don’t care what you do, to be honest, it’s in my interest to keep you both as a happy customer and a lenient superior officer. I just need to know if I should start stocking more high-grade. Or other things.” She tried, and failed, to look innocuous. Her pseudo-wings wafted, stirring the wet air. “Forge caps, baffles, scented oils, in-the-mood program patches, toys, restraints…” 

Her arch tone was mortifying, but her mention of gestational control was a glaring oversight Megatron had not considered himself until this moment. He was suddenly, viscerally grateful that, despite the monstrous desire that had clawed up through him the previous night, he had not violently ravished the Winglord and pounded him into the dirt. 

“If such a thing were to be to my interest, quartermaster, I would discuss it with you at a more suitable place and time, in more private surroundings,” Megatron said, tone pointed. He had to meet a delicate balance here; he could not bluster through a denial, threaten her to keep quiet, or openly admit to any wrongdoing. As the captain of Quasar Canyon’s entire garrison, everyone within his proximity would have been a subordinate, and the Decepticon military charter had strict prohibitions on abuse of authority in such a manner. That prohibition on an unequal relationship dynamic didn’t actually matter for his case, but to be found interfacing with the enemy would warrant an execution instead of a mere court martial, so he vastly preferred Octane think it had been a night of passion with one of his soldiers. “I did enjoy the high grade, however, and would approve of you requisitioning more.” 

“Of course, sir.” Her amethyst optics glowed bright, merry. Megatron, perhaps somewhat naively, genuinely believed that she bore him no ill will and would not hang this over him. Octane may have been a scrounging opportunist, a tease, and a cheat, but rather unlike the stereotypical image of a Decepticon soldier found in Autobot propaganda rags, she wasn’t cruel for its sake. “And, if I may say, congratulations on the frag, captain. Relief whenever and wherever you can get it, these days, is never a bad thing.” 

=

Megatron was feeling far better by his morning refuel; some of the vividness of the previous night had faded, and the exhaustive throb that pulsed through him was abated by getting clean and the settling of his morning allotment of energon to his tanks. 

He had an extensive meeting with Lieutenant Crankcase, discussing the pull-out from the Crystal City offensive and the new transit schedules and duty rosters that would need to be drawn up. Crankcase was happy to scurry off and get to work on it, with Megatron’s promise to review; the lieutenant had proven himself unneeding of intense scrutiny so far. The competence was refreshing. 

Once the meeting was over with, Megatron closed his office door and slotted the morning’s mysterious data-chip into one of the disposable, closed-circuit datapads used for disposable messages. He was curious, but he wasn’t stupid; on the chance it was an enemy trying to break into their systems, he would hardly want to be the one to invite a virus or other worming bit of code inside. 

That wasn’t what it was, though.

Megatron stared at the visual projections offered on the datapad. Flickering red light bathed the room. When it finished playing, he folded his hands in front of him, resting his chin on the steepled arch. He switched the screen off. 

He drummed his digits against the surface of his desk, contemplative. This certainly added a new wrench into things— certainly not bad, but not necessarily good, either, and the how of these things- the means by which this message had arrived- perturbed him. He removed the data-chip, setting it aside, and hunted for the internal forms authorizing a soldier’s leave of absence, and vaguely wondered who might make a good interim CO. Before he could get far with authorizing that, Rumble interrupted him. 

“Captain, I have a delivery for you,” He strode into Megatron’s office without knocking, comically small as he had to lean on his toe-pedes to place his offering upon Megatron’s desk. The captain’s helm throbbed, reproachfully, at the sound of the communications officer’s obnoxious voice and the sight of the little impetuous imp. He was unenthused to learn that said delivery was another data-chip. As if this latest one wasn’t enough of a processor-ache.

“From the Colonel?” Megatron asked, lifting it between thumb and forefinger. The tiny, slim shape looked so unthreatening; he could pinch it just slightly and break the delicate sliver of silicon with ease. “His private sending / receiving codes?

“‘Course,” Rumble said, as Megatron worked at prising the communicator from his hip-seam. “Who else likes you enough to want to talk to you?” 

Megatron was briefly thankful that Rumble was too preoccupied to look at his face. The little mech was frowning, intensely, at the device in Megatron’s hands.

“You should’ve told me, you know,” Rumble said, resentfully. 

“What are you talking about now ?” The captain replied, baffled. 

Rumble continued: “That you were the one who took it.” 

It took Megatron a moment to recognize what he was being accused of, as he was preoccupied with so many more relevant problems and it had come out of nowhere; the communicator is what he was referring to. So much had happened since stealing it that he had almost forgotten that it was technically purloined.

Megatron gave a derisive snort. “That would’ve gone well, I’m sure.” 

Rumble’s faceplates colored slightly.

“I wouldn’t have asked why . I mean, you are our captain, I wouldn’t’ve pushed you on why you needed it—”

“—but you would have told Soundwave.” Megatron interrupted, in a drawl. Rumble’s shoulders drew in defensively. 

“Y-yeah, but in my defense, you totally freaked me out by taking it,” Rumble riposted, in an accusatory mumble, glancing away. “I thought I was in real trouble. I thought I fragged up bad this time. That wasn’t the first time I’ve lost equipment like that, and Soundwave can only fudge so much paperwork to keep me looking good!”

Upon further reflection, Megatron supposed he had inflicted nearly half an orbital cycle’s worth of crippling anxiety on Rumble. Empathy was a new skill he was working at developing, as per the recommendation of a few of Cybertronian history’s best leaders— he supposed he ought to put it into practice. He attempted to adopt a sympathetic smile that he suspected likely looked more like an uncomfortable grimace, if Rumble’s incredulous expression in return was anything to go by.

“It was a deception I thought necessary to keep my cover, but for what it’s worth…” Megatron invented, taking a moment to gather up the correct words, since they were so foreign: “I am sorry I put you through that.” 

Rumble hesitated. The apology was terrible, and yet he seemed to have gleaned some of its wretched sincerity. Or perhaps he merely appreciated the effort. He nodded, and turned to leave, taking a few steps towards the door. He paused; after a beat, he turned around, looking strangely reticent. Megatron, who had been preparing to return to his paperwork, was mildly surprised when he heard Rumble’s nasally voice. 

 “How’s… you-know-who?” The little blue bot asked, evidently abandoning his plan to leave and, instead, taking a few steps deeper into the room. He gestured to himself, indicating the nigh-identical body plan he shared with a certain black-and-red someone. “I mean, you know how she is, right? Soundwave told me about it. Most of it. The rest I can guess.” 

“About that,” Megatron drummed his digits on the scuffed surface of his desk. “I don’t know how it got here. I really don’t even want to know how it got here. But I found this in my berth when I onlined this morning.” 

He removed a tiny data-chip from where he’d hid it in his hip-seam, lacking a better place to keep it, and handed it over to Rumble, who turned it over in his hands with some suspicion.

“What… is it?” Rumble asked, staring at it suspiciously, like it might explode at any moment. 

“I spent a few kliks this morning trying to figure that out. It’s a message.” Megatron paused, eyeing Rumble, and spoke with deliberate weightiness: “From her.” 

Rumble’s engines roared. His visor flashed, bright and hopeful, and he clutched the data-chip like it was a lifeline. “Really!?” 

“Yes. I’ve begun drafting authorization for a few solar cycles’ leave for you to deliver it to Soundwave personally, to avoid any sensitive content getting into the wrong hands—” Megatron glanced over his data-pad, prodding at the text, and turned it over for Rumble to inspect and review, “— but I expect you’ll be back sooner than I’d like, anyway.” 

“Can I see it?” Rumble asked. There was a note of longing in his voice that Megatron couldn’t quite parse; yet again, he was teased with the mystery of the way Frenzy, Rumble, and Soundwave interconnected. “See her?” 

“Come here,” Megatron obliged. He slotted this morning’s data-chip into one of the many ports of the communicator, and it flashed responsively, pulling up a video file. 

It was Frenzy, standing in a chamber that vaguely resembled the architecture Megatron had seen of the Vosian palace. She gave a nervous wave to the viewer, then briefly spoke to someone off-screen, inaudible since there was no sound. She flashed a weary thumbs up and tucked her hands to her shoulders, the point of her elbows miming wings. Her expression was one of gentle mockery, in line with the affable CO Megatron remembered. 

Megatron glanced at Rumble, whose expression was unreadable; his lip-plates were pressed into a thin, hard line and his visor was rapidly dimming and brightening. With a thin slice of pity, Megatron realized he was very close to crying. 

“Rumble,” he asked, keeping his voice low and trying his Pits-hardest to be respectful, “Your relationship with Soundwave and Frenzy— what, exactly—?”

Rumble’s nasal ridge made an awful snorting sound, gummed with excess lubricant, and he had to clear his vocalizer with a blast of static in order to speak clearly. “She’s—”

He stopped, as an incoming message briefly ballooned over the image of Frenzy, the communicator buzzing softly to alert them. It was a text communique— Megatron’s spark briefly leapt in delight, but the rapid pulse of his fuel slowed when he realized it wasn’t Starscream’s encryption code. It must’ve been a transmission from Soundwave.

“You should answer that,” Rumble sniffled, wiping the underside of his leaking nasal ridge. “He doesn’t talk to someone unless it’s important. Trust me.”

Unpleasantly teased with the mystery yet again, but still with a working notion of good sense, Megatron flicked open the message. 

High Lord-Commander Straxus: will be in Tarn in one decacycle. 

That was the totality. It contained all the information Megatron needed, and yet was infuriatingly vague. Rumble momentarily looked over the message, lip-plates crumpling in thought. 

“He wants you to tell your flying buddies about it, and get ready for a big bang,” the little ‘bot stated. “This is your shot, is what he’s saying, and probably your only one. Tarn is gonna be when and where Straxus officially announces the change in war strategy, and after that he’s gonna hole up in a bunker ‘til the war’s over. You’re not gonna get another easy shot after this.” 

Megatron paused, allowing himself to digest this information. He reread Soundwave’s message a few times, weighing it against what Rumble had translated it into. 

“How could you possibly know all that from this message?” Megatron asked at last, bewildered. 

“I know what Soundwave’s thinkin’,” Rumble said, just as nonchalantly allergic to explanations as the colonel. “Plus a little extra. Communications officers get told a lot, even without being told, if you get what I’m saying. It’s easy to read between the lines when you realize that the lines aren’t where you should be lookin’ for what you should be readin’.” 

Megatron made a mental note to get to the bottom of these three someday. Perhaps Rumble was also an outlier, Frenzy, too, and they shared some kind of telepathic link. Split sparks? He had heard of that happening before, in the mines. 

For now, though- if Rumble was to be believed- he was due another visit with Starscream, another one in person, so they could plot and plan in private. 

(His spark fluttered at the very thought, instantly transported to the events of the previous night, and he suddenly wanted Rumble to be somewhere else.) 

=

Starscream came silently, like a sonicondor, only visible on Megatron’s infrared in a smear of hot colors against the cool background of the night sky. He had agreed to meet the very same day, not even a full solar cycle after their last rendezvous. Megatron didn’t even hear his engines whine until he was dropping into robot-mode, swathed in his cloak before he’d even fully hit the ground. Megatron was almost sure that something was off about the broad frame he’d gotten a split second’s look at, but he couldn’t say for certain. Starscream had only ever come to see him at night and always landed a good distance away; it was hard to get a look at his shell and be certain if there was some irregularity. 

As ever Starscream was elegant and poised, swanning in his ridiculous cloak even though he looked like an untamed beast dragged from the Sea of Rust and given a bath and a polish. When he got close enough, Megatron thought he smelled something sweet and floral amidst the dust and diesel; however, he could not discount that his addled processor was playing tricks on him. Not where the Winglord was concerned. 

Megatron was very aware of the fact that he was now compromised. Disgustingly so. He would have to play any further engagements with the Winglord very neutrally, to ensure Starscream did not catch on to his romantic vulnerability. 

Megatron, with his ambitions, could not afford to be vulnerable, but he could afford even less for Starscream to know about it. He dreaded what kind of deals the Winglord thought he might’ve had leverage for if he’d realized the depths of sentiment. 

“Back for more of me already, dirtkisser?” The Winglord’s expression was nothing if not sunny; he was smiling, just enough that the tips of his fangs were visible where they dimpled his lips . If there was one thing Megatron couldn’t fault him for, it was his confidence; he strutted through the sands- sashayed- like he owned not only the sky, but all of the ground below it. His cloak left a train of disturbed rust-sand in his wake, further emphasizing his presence. “I told you not to get any high-flying ideas. Didn’t I?” 

“That’s not what I’m here for,” Megatron shot back, deeply repressing any unseemly sentiment. He had to be professional. Businesslike. The importance of this meeting was too great to be distracted by personal wants. “I have vital information, political and military in nature. And utterly essential for our plans for the future of Cybertron.” 

Starscream’s optics swept over his frame; they lingered at his servos, noting the lack of high grade in them. The flier king gave a little exasperated huff. “I suppose it is serious; you didn’t bring any liqueur. If you wanted a repeat performance of yesterday you’d probably try what worked the first time.” Was Megatron imagining a glimpse of disappointment? Surely. He couldn’t trust any of his interpretations of the Winglord’s behavior.

“You have agreed to help me overthrow Straxus,” Megatron stated, firmly.

“Yes, I am fully aware of that,” Starscream’s head bowed slightly, annoyed at the reminder. “So?” 

“In ten solar cycles, he will be in the city of Tarn. He’ll host a political rally to make a speech about how he’s going to try to take Iacon to end the war swiftly.” If his intel from Soundwave was accurate, anyway. “I don’t know how long he intends to stay there, but after he makes this announcement and moves to a fortified bunker in Kaon, he’ll be untouchable. This is our last chance.”

Starscream’s expression twisted to a faint ghost of surprise— there was a brief flicker of panic that was replaced a moment later with something far more shrewd and insouciant, exactly as Megatron would expect from the Winglord.

“And you have a plan?” Starscream prompted. His claws flicked out of his cloak, and he was pretending- Megatron thought he was pretending- to nonchalantly study them.

“We make a statement,” Megatron said, with plummy relish. “Something like dropping in on his rally by way of the air, challenging him to an honorable duel that his foolish pride won’t let him refuse, cutting his head off at the neck, and taking his place.” 

“I will admit it’s not altogether that different from how I slew Brightnimbus,” Starscream acknowledged, glancing up at him. “But it isn’t exactly the best military maneuver I’ve ever heard of, groundpounder. There’s an entire host of issues, steps that could go wrong at any stage. I’ll start with this one first: will the soldiery want to follow you after you’ve publically murdered their current leadership?” 

“We might have to kill Tarn and Overlord and some of Straxus’s other generals if they don’t fall in line, to make the chain of succession and command smoother,” Megatron nodded, readying himself to lock horns with Starscream and discuss the intricacies of a relatively simple assassination plot. He felt prepared for this; he was well-educated on the history of Cybertron’s successful and unsuccessful coups. “But I don’t think any soldiers owe them individual loyalty, not enough to not accept a new leader. The Decepticon cause isn’t about a cult following of a single charismatic individual, it’s a desire for freedom from Autobot repression and tyranny. Who is in charge doesn’t matter so much as the decisions they make. Not to mention Straxus’s higher command tends to operate on gladiator rules— the reason Straxus is in charge right now is because he was the top pit fighter in Kaon, which is the same reason he doesn’t deserve to be in his position of leadership. He’s not a general or a tactician, he’s a fighter who appointed other fighters- his cronies- to positions of war they don’t understand how to wield most effectively, which is why- even though we have more resources, ferocity, technology, and numbers- the Autobots continue to not fall. ” 

Starscream scoffed softly. “And you have the experience and knowhow to end this war, do you?” 

“There is no singularly qualified individual to take leadership of the Decepticons,” Megatron said, firmly. “Someone will always be lacking something. But I’ve done my reading and research as well as my physical training to hone my skills in battle, and I’ve overseen battles that were astronomically unlikely for victory— I have the presence of mind to pick my cabinet for their skills and competency, not pit-fighting nepotism. When your generals are your friends, they won’t contradict you. That’s disastrous for good decision making. I can do better than what we have right now, at least.”

Starscream shook his head. He paced back and forth, the velvety form of his cloak shimmering beautifully with each step. He came to a stop next to a boulder, leaning against it— Megatron got the distinct impression he was folding his arms in disapproval, though couldn’t tell with the way the cloak had been more tightly clasped than usual. 

 “When you say engaging in an honorable duel and cutting off his head— he is the best gladiator of Kaon, isn’t he?” 

“That’s right,” Megatron replied.

Starscream gave a weak laugh. “And I suppose you’re going to be the one to fight him, yourself? And you think you can win?” 

“You sound almost like you’re worried about me,” Megatron said, allowing a small smile to cross his features. Starscream instantly bristled, drawing his chin back in offense, chest and shoulders swelling to his full height. 

“I have an investment in making sure this coup doesn’t fail! If you die, where does that leave me? An enemy of High Lord-Commander Straxus and Sentinel Prime, with twenty thousand starving mechs thousands of leagues above the Cybertronian surface. You have an ego that does not match your tiny rank, captain.” Megatron’s capacity for social comprehension insisted that Starscream was concerned for his well being. He wasn’t sure if it was true, or wishful thinking on his behalf. 

Megatron grunted in acknowledgment. “I am sure I can beat him.” 

Starscream threw him an exasperated look. “You aren’t a gladiator, are you?”

“No,” Megatron conceded.

“He’s much older than you. Much more experienced. And I am almost certain that a paranoid maniac that’s managed to keep his position as the head of the Decepticon revolution keeps weapons on him at all times, so don’t think you can jump him and take him by surprise. And even if you do manage to get him in a noble one-on-one with no intervention, the most likely outcome in melee fight is that he’ll kill you.” 

“Maybe,” Megatron said.

“Are you good at close quarter fighting?” Starscream’s voice had lifted a few notes beyond its typical range.

“What do you think?” Megatron asked, giving him a baleful look that suggested this discussion is over.

Starscream shook his head in utter disbelief , absolutely incensed by the stubbornness. “I can’t believe this— you’re a miner with rocks in his head and under his feet, and you’re too obstinate or self-absorbed to realize it! Just let Thundercracker, Skywarp, and I shell him from orbit! It will be a clear display of the aerial prowess of the Seekers and the newfound military might that you possess. That should be a sufficient statement, don’t you think?” 

“A one-on-one duel will be the only thing that Straxus’s subordinates understand. Your suggestion is cowardly.” 

Starscream makes an affronted noise. “I thought you fancied yourself a master strategist and tactician— you’ve built so many alliances and managed impossible feats, only for you to throw it away with this processor-devoid plan of single combat! This is the most idiotic idea I’ve ever heard in my life, and I had Skywarp serve as an interim general once!” Starscream threw his head back against the rock, briefly exposing the cables of his throat. Megatron felt a strange interest in the brief flash of them, in potentially putting his mouth on them, in nipping at— 

He cut those thoughts off, once again. He was certain that once he had seen the Winglord’s body in its entirety his interest in the flier’s frame would abate, maybe even fully go away. For now he had to focus.

“Consider this to be a grounder rite of passage when it comes to changing leaders,” Megatron reasoned. “You didn’t kill Brightnimbus in a bombing run, did you? I’m more than willing to bet it was with one of those null rays you have mounted on your arms— maybe even your claws. Am I wrong?” Starscream did not answer him, but there was a brief flash of deep irritation on his face. Megatron continued: “It’s about sending a message of physical prowess, of tangible transition. A bombing run is safer, but it isn’t the same. It won’t convey the same ideas.”

“You want to hog the spotlight because you’re an idiot groundpounder, more like,” Starscream’s voice was nothing short of caustic. 

“If you won’t take that for an answer, how about the notion that shelling the speech can get innocent mechanisms killed? There will be lots of soldiers in attendance, and more than likely a lot of civilians.” Megatron tried, exasperated. “Even if you are dead accurate, debris will still cause injury, and panic will get people trampled. Not to mention anyone caught in a crossfire. This strategy only begets physical risk to me, if it’s done correctly.”  

Starscream gave a begrudging sound in the back of his intake. His toe-pede flashed, kicking aside a rock that skipped and tumbled across the silver-dark stretch of gravel. “It’s risky and moronic, but I see you won’t be dissuaded from this strut-helmed idea. Fine. But I have one more condition that I need to share with you, if we’re going to be fighting Straxus and taking leadership of one of the two major political factions of this planet. It’s non-negotiable.” 

Megatron felt a simultaneous bolt of wariness and weariness, a combination of exhaustion and adrenaline. His tone carried a note of danger, warning Starscream to not push his luck: “And that is?” 

Starscream’s lips pulled together tightly. His red glare did not waver so much as a fraction under the captain’s scrutiny. His head came to a slight tilt, looking up at Megatron with an equally intense glare of challenge.

 “I want a wedding.”

Chapter Text

Starscream flew as a swift shadow across the heavens, briefly blotting out the silvery spray of stars— he slowed as he drew nearer to Vos, cutting his engines and coasting on dwindling thermals to avoid a too-loud entry to the palace at this time of night. He switched from jet mode to his bipedal frame- perfectly timed, as ever- and dropped onto the jutting palace balcony with a light pede and a few extra steps to balance himself. He threw his cloak around his shoulders, mind percolating furiously from the events of just a few short breems ago, and marched towards the palace doors. 

That grounder’s reply to his request for marriage weighed heavily on his mind, and had on the whole flight over. Admittedly, it had been worth it, just to see his defiant, sullen, absolutely aft-headed insistence on getting himself killed in a one-on-one with Straxus momentarily pause as he grappled with Starscream’s request. Seeing his slab of a face  contort into a look of rare astonishment and vacuous confusion was undeniably appealing. 

Starscream liked him when he looked stupid. He enjoyed it when all of the wrinkled scars of hardship and battle suddenly flattened out into a blank brick of a face, revealing that in spite of how he carried himself, Megatron was young and inexperienced, skilled but also not quite as hard and cold as he thought he was. 

Starscream was so preoccupied with his internal monologue he did not really notice when Skywarp melted out of the shadows in the castle hallways and moved to stand in front of him. 

“Hey there, Screamer, funny seeing you still up so late when there’s a cabinet meeting tomorrow morning at the aft crack of dawn,” Skywarp’s tones were rich and plummy, rife with insinuation. “You must’ve been doing something important if it’s kept you away from your beauty sleep. Patrol or something? Feeling nervous?” 

Starscream gave a vague dismissive gesture with his claw, beckoning Skywarp away. His mind was elsewhere at the moment and he intended on keeping it there. He did not heed the clear playful note of teasing in Skywarp’s voice, a bright pink drop amidst a sea of blue in the litmus test of danger, though he managed a response on autopilot. “You also have to go to that meeting, Skywarp, lest you forget. You shouldn’t be up this late yourself, either— that or you should keep your hypocritical comments to yourself.” 

Skywarp scoffed, shaking his head. “Don’t make me look like the unreasonable mother hen! I don’t wanna harp on you about staying up late, Star, you know I don’t care if you go out, we were breaking curfew for vorns, I love sneaking out! It’s more about who your little nighttime joyride involves… you went to see that big-fisted grounder, I assume. Am I right?” He must’ve seen something in Starscream’s expression; his mouth turned up into a sharp grin. “Heh. I knew it. How did it goooo?” 

Starscream stiffened harshly underneath his cloak, whipping his head around to glare with an expression of utter and abject loathing. Skywarp was an undeniably valuable soldier within Starscream’s Vosian regime- his swift flight, stringent loyalty, and unique abilities making him second to none- and he would be so much better if he could just mute his vocalizer or stuff his intake with handfuls of ballast and tape. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Starscream said, hoping his irritability would ward Skywarp off. No such luck; when had that sort of thing ever worked?

Skywarp gave him a look of nonchalant innocence. 

“It’s just the fact that I noticed you were out and about tonight,” his trinemate continued, innocently, “again. You were gone last night, too.” 

“You’ve been keeping track of my whereabouts?” Starscream snapped at him, annoyed. He fought the urge to bristle his wings, but it would be aggression wasted. The only thing Skywarp understood was a cuff around the helm, but he always saw it coming and could be well out of reach before the blow arrived. It was unfortunate that Skywarp, in spite of all appearances, was not an idiot. “Where is the Winglord’s privacy? I’m certain that I’m entitled to privacy, as the Winglord.” 

“Don’t give me that, we’re your trine,” Skywarp shot back, with an insubordinate optic roll. “If you’re sneaking off at night, we deserve to know about it. I mean, what if you don’t come back? Where are we then? Thundercracker or I would have to take over, and I don’t want to and he couldn’t handle the pressure. We don’t have your… well, I don’t want to say charisma, but it’s something like that, except without the fun—?” 

“Ethos,” Starscream waved a claw at him, feeling a processorache coming on. “Walk and talk, Skywarp, I’m heading to bed.” 

“You were so much more fun when you were younger,” Skywarp fell in line with him, walking along after the Winglord’s world-weary stride with an unfair spring in his step. “Remember when we’d stay out all night hunting predacons, when at any moment Brightnimbus could catch us and sentence us to death, when it was just the three amigos against the world? Don’t get me wrong, it sucked… but sometimes I miss it, the freedom, the lack of responsibility…” 

Starscream’s processors were reproachfully needling at him now. He would rather not be sucked into those old memories of Brightnimbus’s madness, though his current situation- the careful politicking and negotiational maneuvering with that brute grounder- was not much better. His thoughts turned from the wedding proposal to older engrams, ones that were still fresh and clear in his mind. 

His mouth still remembered the velvety feel of the tip of the captain’s spike from the prior night, hypnotically soft for a purported mining ‘bot. His mnemonic systems flagged up stored data: the flustered little noises Megatron had produced, the whuffing puff of his fans. As Starscream strode through the corridors, the sight of Megatron’s shifting thighs and restrained squirming overlayed itself on moth-eaten carpet and ancient, cracking stone. 

“Starscream?” Skywarp said, sharply. “Hullo? Cybertron to Winglord?” 

“Shut up,” Starscream recommended. His recovery was swift. “I’m thinking about battle strategies, Skywarp, and I’m in no mood for your jocular little insinuations about how old and boring I’ve gotten now that I’m in charge of an entire city-state. That lunatic grounder captain has decided to ruin everything by killing himself trying to fight High Lord Commander Straxus on his own, and I have no idea how to get him to remove that fool notion from his pinheaded little gravel-fueled brain module.” 

“Suck his spike until he agrees,” nonchalant as anything, Skywarp gave a small shrug. “Grounders love that sort of thing.” 

Starscream hated himself for the way his fans ticked on, just a beat faster than he could squeeze a defense out of his mouth. Skywarp’s optics shot open, mouth following suit.

“No way, I was joking! You actually sucked his spike!?” 

“I didn’t—” Starscream began desperately, trying to keep hold on the very thin thread of control he had over the conversation. It was too little, too late; Skywarp was already squeaking louder than him, hopping from pede to pede in unrepressed and rather sparkling-esque glee. His wings lifted to their highest, little strings of plucked optic glass knocking together like tiny wind chimes. 

“So you like him, do you, enough to take grounder cable down your intake, I never thought!” Skywarp was crowing. “Just wait until everyone hears about—”

Starscream grabbed him by a horn, twisting down sharply with a ferocious snarl, popping out a cable in Skywarp’s neck and forcing him to either hunch or fall over. His trinemate whined in pain, scrabbling at Starscream’s claws to get him to let go. 

“You won’t be telling anyone, Skywarp, I mean it! No Ramjet, no Thrust, no Dirge, no Dreadwing, no Acid Storm, no Brainstorm, no Pharma, definitely no Astrotrain or Blitzwing or Tyrest, no one hears about this!” 

“What about Thundercracker?” Skywarp shivered, wings drooping low as he was manhandled. Their nubbly horns- new features, welded on in their embrace of predacon-esque ferocity, rising just beneath their facial vents- were connected to sensory apparatus, and hurt when grabbed. Starscream felt a little dark swirl of satisfaction in his spark that pain would finally make his irritating trinemate listen for once. 

“Not Thundercracker, either!” Starscream held a moment, and released his fist. Skywarp immediately straightened up, his fingers feeling along his helm for any lumps or distortions. Starscream did not wait for him to recover— he continued striding along to his chamber, feeling as though his outrage had been vented and a punishment had been adequately meted.

Skywarp was not finished, however. He didn’t chase, but he called out, echoing slightly in the drafty hall: “So— so you love him, then?” 

Starscream stopped in spite of himself and shot him a glare indicating he was in no mood. Skywarp puffed air through his vents. 

“Screamer, I mean it, no goofing and no jokes this time, I’m just concerned for your—”

“I asked him to conjunx me,” Starscream said. Skywarp’s mouth opened, but he had the sense to not immediately say something. Instead, he slowly shut his intake, licking his lips as if to taste whether his response was a bad idea. 

“And?” Skywarp prompted, shifting on the edge of his toe-pedes. His servos meandered, wiping themselves nervously along his thighs, then ended up clasped over his front. Skywarp had no idea how to be anxious- it was a sensation foreign to him- and it was obvious. 

Starscream’s tone was short and petulant. “‘And’ what? It’s a tactical decision. Vos is not allowed to aid any other city-states who are not married into the royal family. I’m not permitted to assist the grounder in taking over Tarn until we’re wed. Surely even you can see that this wedding gives me all the legitimacy I need- legally speaking- to aid Megatron in his coup against the Decepticon hierarchy and help him in his quest to take over the planet. Religious nuts like Tyrest would read me the riot act if I decided to abandon that tradition at my whim; the only reason he didn’t take over from Brightnimbus is because I got the popular vote.” 

“You’re making that thing about marrying up,” Skywarp’s optical ridges wrinkled. His claws clacked together, toying with one another in front of his midsection. “Er, aren’t you? That sounds like it was totally made up just to give you an excuse to marry this guy.” 

“You think so? I’m not the only one who’s had to deal with the ramifications. Once I learned about this law, I always thought the reason Brightnimbus took Vos out of the war wasn’t because she thought it was best not to get involved— it was because she wasn’t keen on allying by marrying Straxus or Sentinel,” Starscream said, wryly. A slight shake of his head followed, an irritated sigh. “Her unwillingness to take spike from either of two ugly grounders killed millions of Vosian citizens, and I’m not keen on having the same said for me.” 

“You’re serious,” Skywarp’s voice had taken on a sharp edge of disbelief. “You’re really serious, aren’t you? Oh, scrap. Starscream, are you sure—”

“Oh, now you care,” Starscream shook his helm in irritation. “Yes, Skywarp, I know what I’m doing. He isn’t so bad, really… for a grounder. I think I can mold him into something fine, given enough time, something good for Vos and maybe all of Cybertron, if he doesn’t get his dumb aft killed trying to fight to the death outside of his weight class.” 

“You should talk to Thundercracker about this,” Skywarp blurted, optics flickering earnestly. “I’ll admit my shortcomings when I have them, which of course is very rarely, but I know I’m not qualified for giving advice on this sort of thing and I know that you should talk to somebody about it before you do anything crazy, Thundercracker seems like the right choice—”

“I am going to bed, Skywarp,” Starscream told him, primly. He turned again, and made it only a few more strides before Skywarp interjected once more.

“Oh, but— what did he say? Megatron? About the conjunxing?” 

“None of your business,” was the Winglord’s tart reply. That finally seemed to crush Skywarp into subservience; he slunk off with his wings held low. If Starscream was right- and he usually was- by morning Thundercracker would be knocking on his door and telling him what a terrible decision he was making.

But for now, Starscream was alone. 

He swept off to his berthroom. It had been Brightnimbus’s, once upon a time- the chambers of every single Winglord for the past several million years- but he had obviously not had the ability to get it re-fitted to match his tastes instead of hers. There was a dearth of upholsterers in the New Vos, fabrics and precious metals and painters also being in short supply. 

He’d had to make do with what was already there— an enormous hanging berth heaped with soft bedding (Starscream felt a momentary twinge of annoyance, because if he wanted to bed a grounder in here, he was going to need to get a ladder for them to be able to get into bed) and walls resplendent with hanging silks and heraldry. The opulent dressers and chairs he had tolerated for their storied history, as well as some of the old plants which were slowly withering from lack of energon, but any of Brightnimbus’s hobbies- her collection of delicate porcelain, her imported organic trophies, her eclectic zap-pony saddles- he had disposed of. He may not have had an interior decorator to bring in new things, but he could always throw out the old.

Alas, the attempt to scrub out Brightnimbus’s influence had unintentionally left the room with a look of cold emptiness. Starscream had filled the vacant space with weapons and trophies: wings, claws, teeth, even taxidermied bodies, bones, struts, guns, and sabers. There were more precious things: gems stolen from the Sea of Rust, Decepticon and Autobot badges ripped off of defeated soldiers.

Sometimes he moved this spread of items from the closets for display because he was proud of them. Other times he felt them heinously garish and shoved them back into the dark, sick of seeing physical manifestations of his own ego. 

This was one of the minimalist periods. The Winglord’s official chambers were open and empty, devoid of personal touches beyond the rumpled sheets that hung from the berth. Starscream wanted nothing more than to fly up to the heavy mattress pad and curl up to sleep, then come morning yell at whomever was summoned to wake him for tomorrow’s meeting, but he had an unexpected visitor.

“Jetfire,” Starscream said, his tone tingling pleasantly. He fought the urge to give his berth a longing look, and instead inclined his head and smiled at the jet. “It’s a surprise to see you, but certainly not an unwelcome one.” 

The enormous medic was a strange sight here, though not altogether unprecedented. Jetfire and Starscream had been friends, good ones, long ago— Starscream was a scientist before he was a member of the Winglord’s military, and he’d worked with Jetfire on a few projects during their education at the Vosian Academy of Arts and Sciences (every available pair of non-essential wings were conscripted when war began looking like more and more of an inevitability, and with Starscream’s focus being more social sciences than vital war-related hard science, like propulsion physics or preventing famine, he’d been drafted). Jetfire had gradually moved from ‘friend’ to ‘acquaintance’ over time, though his refusal to take on the predacon adornments and his pacifistic nervousness made their relationship at the moment somewhat strained. 

Jetfire, who had been standing politely by the balcony doors and examining the map of stars, turned around. He gave a slightly shy smile, apologetic for his intrusion. He was a mite smaller than Astrotrain, both of them spacers, but he was always trying to be even tinier— Starscream got the impression that he’d spent his entire life apologizing just for his existence, and was remorseful for the fact that merely being alive had him occupying so much space. 

“I’m glad my presence here is not unwelcome, my lord,” Jetfire dipped his head, respectfully acknowledging the Winglord’s higher status. “I wanted to make a request— something of an unpleasant one, I imagine, given how thin our resources are…” 

Starscream was only halfway paying attention to the words. He found his gaze settling on Jetfire’s servos. His thighs. He was a shade of sterile white, unlike the rough silvery-greys of Megatron, but the size disparity was kindling something in Starscream’s spark that was slippery, weird, and not altogether unpleasant. Jetfire was nearly twice his height, and had to kneel for their faces to approach being level; Megatron was considerably smaller, though still loomed a good head taller than Starscream. 

Starscream had thought he’d loved Jetfire, once upon a time. He recalled being a student in the academy, vorns ago- millenia, even- watching those huge white fingers fidget with a stylus as the professor spoke monotone recitations about their introductory literature assignment. There had been a few incidents in which Starscream had teased him, maybe pretended to be more intoxicated than he was at a friendly bar-crawl or party in the lofty Academy dorms, and slobbered on Jetfire when he had a ‘reasonable’ out of ‘oops, I must have been so drunk last night!’

But it had never gone further than that flimsy pretext. He hadn’t been able to create anything earnest, beyond a veiled illusion of drunken affection, easy to duck away from and laugh off. He felt that insincerity had irreversibly turned Jetfire from him. 

That was Starscream’s problem— he could never confess when he had feelings for someone or something. Feelings were a disadvantage in war, and Starscream’s life had been irreversibly touched by conflict even before the Decepticon and Autobot divide and the uprooting of Vos. He couldn’t show his spark even when it was the right thing to do, on the off chance it’d have a dagger plunged into it while he was caught with his chamber open. 

Expressing personal vulnerability was beyond the pale. 

He couldn’t even do it with his trine. 

Jetfire was still talking, even as Starscream’s gaze meandered along the enormous white hills and valleys of his thighs, and his thoughts whirled about what-ifs. “… I think it would be possible to start trying to wake Silverbolt and some of the other Aerialbots from their stasis, and an increase of ten per cent in energon allotment might…” 

“If your patients need it, then they need it,” Starscream said with a small shrug. His wings pitched upward, his cloak rustling. “We have a lead on a good energon shipment, anyway. Soon we won’t need to ration, to scrap and salvage every little bit. If Megatron wins against Straxus, we’ll have all the energon we’ll ever need.” 

Jetfire’s face grew slightly pain-stricken. Starscream felt both empathy for his discomfort and irritation at the fact that it existed at all. Jetfire had many good qualities for a physician and scientist, but morally he was weak; he was not prepared for the fact that they were probably going to have to keep fighting until Hadean blew up into a spectacular and cataclysmic supernova. Jetfire, and those like him, desperately wanted peace but weren’t prepared to kill everyone else for it. He was too naive- or idealistic- to understand that the true price of peace was blood. 

Now Megatron… 

Megatron understood that. He had that drive, that ambition, that need to keep on top of everything else lest the world be pulled out from underneath you. He knew that you had to rule the living on a dais of bodies or some lunatic a million times more dangerous would be in charge instead. He and Starscream were simpatico, at least in that regard. 

“I think that’s not the best idea, my lord,” Jetfire said, timidly. He shook his head, slow and remorseful. “I don’t know if you should ally yourself with more battle-thirsty grounders. That one in particular. Truthfully… I think the Decepticons aren’t our best choice, moving forward.” 

“And you think we should starve all alone up here instead?” Starscream challenged, not expecting this sudden speculative insubordination. “You were a palace physician. You saw what Brightnimbus became. You starved, too, until I fed you predacon blood at great cost to myself.” 

Jetfire’s face grew even more agonized. “And I’m not ungrateful for—”

“You are! You are an ingrate, Jetfire. Leave me. I don’t want to hear any more of this. I’ll get you your energon, but you won’t argue with me about what’s best for Vos. I am the Winglord. Not you.”

There was a pause, pregnant with tension. Jetfire looked down at him in mild disbelief and dismay; he looked sparkbroken. He had the same dumb, open expressions that Megatron did. 

“Maybe— maybe you’re misunderstanding me, lord. I meant joining the Autobots instead,” Jetfire shifted closer. “They’ve contacted me, and I find them significantly more reasonable and peace-oriented than the Decepticons. I honestly think they’re the better side to ally with.” 

Fury exploded through Starscream like the eruption of a Hydrax Plateau volcano; he grabbed Jetfire, claws sinking into the vents in his chest, and hooked him down until they were almost nasal ridge to nasal ridge. Jetfire cried out in pain, jerking backwards and swaying dangerously, but ultimately falling onto his hands and knees.

“Starsc—”

Starscream hissed. “Winglord!”

“They have made a very good case to me! They knew you wouldn’t be receptive, so they asked the medical staff first! They’ve been secretly providing us aid for almost a stellar cycle now! Predacon blood was not enough to keep patients alive, we needed other supplies, medical supplies, painpatches and antiviruses and spare parts! I only kept it from you because I didn’t want you to think your authority was being usurped—”

“Didn’t want me to think it was being usurped!?” Starscream shouted. Jetfire’s shoulders split under stress and sharpness, energon weeping from the wounds; his faceplate contorted in pain, though to the enormous jet’s credit he did not make a sound of discomfort. “What you’ve just described is my authority being usurped! I am the Winglord of Vos— I deserve to know what is going on and you cannot act in such important matters without my consent! Especially not in diplomatic ones!” 

“I wanted to do what was right for our patients,” Jetfire blurted. “I’m sorry!” 

Starscream let go of him, feeling rage, grief, betrayal, discomfort. He ran a claw over his face, trying to calm himself and remain steady. 

“Get out!” 

Jetfire rose, slinking towards the doorway. His wings were canted low, his expression even lower. He paused.

“Other ‘bots think that getting into a perpetual war- the ideology of the Decepticons- is dangerous,” his tone was cold and tight, a far contrast from the gentle giant Starscream had known at their university or even in the medical wing of the Vosian palace. He hesitated, perhaps expecting to be cut off. “There are a lot of us who think the Autobots are the better choice; they’re a path to peace, or, at the very least, the better of two terrible choices.” 

“Every last one of you traitors can go seek shelter in the bosom of the Autobot elite, then,” Starscream spat. “If you aren’t with me, you are against me. I am making the best choice considering our circumstances, and it’s your fault if you can’t see that.” 

Jetfire’s expression contained nothing but pure and unmitigated sadness; pity, even. Starscream hated it. Hated the way it made him feel, mostly. 

“Out!” 

Jetfire left.

Starscream flew up to his berth, sitting on the edge and letting his pedes dangle. He was ventilating hard, hot air steaming through his vents. Frustration, paranoia, and anger surged through him, stewing together in a fetid mixture that made it hard to want to sleep in spite of how strut-tired he was. A ‘bot as important and otherwise loyal as Jetfire getting cold pedes was the last thing Starscream wanted now— and what was all that he’d said about other bots? A bluff? How many of his loyal subjects- the tiny fraction that remained of Vos- felt the same way as Jetfire?

Did Skywarp? One of Starscream’s own trine? He hadn’t exactly been supportive of Starscream’s determination to marry— Starscream couldn’t remember a time when he’d looked so worried. Skywarp typically didn’t care about anything or take anything seriously.

Starscream slowly laid back on his berth. Not even the soft feel of the silken sheets, lightly perfumed with the aroma of old armor polish, could assuage the unpleasant mood he was in. 

He tried to think of something else unrelated to Jetfire, Skywarp, potential treachery- this would be a problem for the morning- but the obvious and only slightly less pressing thing came to mind. 

“ A wedding?” The grounder had asked, once the gears and pulleys in his brain modules had finished and he’d processed Starscream’s demand. His angry, challenging expression had softened to something neutral and confused. “I don’t exactly see the relevance. Whatever for?” 

“Political alliance,” Starscream had told him, tilting his chin up as far as the actuators in his neck would allow. Megatron certainly wouldn’t be seeing any weakness from him— and he meant what he said, there would be no compromising on this. 

“Ah. I don’t really see how I can help. The resources for a marriage are a little beyond the scope of my Captainship…” There had been a long pause. “Unless it’s done differently in Vos, conjunxing requires a partner. Who will you be wed to?” 

Starscream could feel his cranial synapses twang, his occipital storage connection cables trying to short-circuit from sheer disbelief. Megatron must’ve seen his expression, the visual thunder heralding the auditory lightning to follow. The grounder had opened his intake to correct himself, but Starscream got there first.

“Are you actually that clueless and stupid, or are you putting on an act in case there are spies in audial range?” 

Admittedly, it hadn’t been the best reply in an already fraught and tense situation. Probably a mech like Thundercracker would have laughed awkwardly and explained that Megatron was the intended spouse, all the while his face flushed an embarrassed blue. Skywarp would’ve nuzzled up against the grounder’s chest and said something shamelessly flirtatious, goading him for not realizing it. 

Starscream had not done either of those things. 

He shifted uncomfortably even though his berth was heavenly soft, spreading his legs. He hiked a knee, glancing down at the gleam of silver thighs. 

It had been a long time since he’d had anyone between them. He was hoping- had been hoping- Megatron would break his vorns-long dry spell. In truth, up until the part where a pleasant visit from Jetfire had become a potential conspiracy to depose him, he had thought about asking Jetfire if he would stay, soliciting him , because Megatron had left him high and dry that night.

Not that Starscream had gone down there with the intention of interfacing, though admittedly the thought had occurred. When Megatron stood there confidently in the moonlight- his tarnished silver scarcely even gleaming due to the damage wrought by the mines and the canyon and the clear lack of knowledge about exfoliating scrubs and brushes softer than steel wool- Starscream had sort of hoped that there would be some invitation.

Really, it would have been simple. All the grounder would need to do was lay back obediently and permit Starscream to ride him. He had seemed amiable enough to amorous intentions; his naïveté, his uncertainty, was even cute. Starscream suspected he’d never been the submissive party before, or at least never had his spike sucked, and possibly never even interfaced at all before. Starscream could only imagine the noises, the expressions, he would make when he was squeezed by a warm valve for the first time. 

Not to mention how spectacular it would be to spike him— if Starscream could spike him. Megatron had made it very clear that he didn’t want his valve touched; Starscream hoped it was a mere unfamiliarity and discomfort with a new situation rather than a response begotten by trauma, but who knew what those grounders did to one another in the mines, and when Megatron was younger he was probably attractive enough to be passed around like shareware by huge, sweaty, hulking—

There was thought that oscillated between chilling and arousing. Starscream’s mind turned from the unpleasant possibility of grounder brutality, moving to the more pleasant parts of the evening two nights ago, ones he was absolutely certain of consent from all involved. 

Megatron’s cute little noises. His twitching. His witty batinage as he was very obviously trying to keep from erupting prematurely… 

Oh, yes, that would do nicely.

Starscream’s claws trailed down his chest, along his cockpit and teasing the sensitive edges of his fans, and ended up resting on his hip struts. He hadn’t let Megatron touch him properly yet- beyond their little moment of cuddling- and that absence of touch was for good reason. Starscream wasn’t yet ready to break a particular illusion, to sacrifice the mystery of the Winglord’s royal body…

Starscream slid open his panel, giving a soft sigh, and gently traced his fingers around the petals of his valve. In private self-service he preferred valve play, but a Winglord was expected to be a dominating force in the berth, and there was no better-understood symbol of power in Transformer culture than the literal plunging into another ‘bot’s body, using them to chase one’s own pleasure, and then leaving them swollen with sticky genetic code and potentially carrying your spawn. 

Even if getting spiked felt better than spiking, if you did it right.

Starscream pinched his anterior node, hips jerking of their own accord at the sudden shock of stimulus. He gave a small, guttural grunt, pressing deeper, stroking his inner lining. He had to be careful with these damned claws…

He could only imagine how much better Megatron’s thick, blunt fingers would feel instead. He closed his optics, allowing memory playback of the little squeaks and grunts the captain had tried to bite back during their time two nights ago. Pumping his fingers in and out- sliding his hips back and forth as if he were being rocked into by a huge ‘bot- made Starscream groan and purr, arching his neck. 

The thunk-a-thunk of his wings against the berth annoyed him, in spite of the cresting pleasure filling up his lower belly and making it difficult to concentrate on anything else, and Starscream turned from his back to belly. He threw his cloak off and screwed his fingers into his valve as deep as he could in this position, hiking up a knee in hopes it would help the penetration. He was panting now, his fans muffled as they hummed against the bedding, and he was forced to vent excess heat and moisture from his intake.

He could practically feel Megatron’s nasal ridge brushing against his wings. There would be nips, nibbles, the low vibrating timbre of his groans as his spike slid home again and again… it had been thick and girthy, even for a ‘bot of Megatron’s size and construction class, and even shoving every one of his claws in his valve didn’t quite produce the same thickness that Starscream felt it would have. 

Starscream had half a mind to go find a false spike- he had a few, though they were embarrassingly rare in this day and age of Vos- but with a few desperate flicks against his anterior node and an increasingly aggressive pace, Starscream stiffened and whimpered softly through an overload. Heat bloomed through his stomach, bleeding into his spark chamber, and his cheek fell against the berth. He panted, optics screwing up, and he felt the sedate numbness as his processors winked out and his circuits sizzled with charge. 

When he awoke, it was quiet, cold, and still. He shifted, the sheets rustling just a little too loud in the silent room.

Starscream turned on his stomach, lifting his fingers to catch the starlight shining through the balcony windows. The shine glittered where it found his own viscid lubricants, and he gave a soft and irritated sigh at his own idiotic wantonness, slumping back against his pillows. The physical release of tension had felt good in the short-term, but…

Now that the immediate thrill was gone, he felt alone. Very, very alone. 

It was this room— so huge, so empty, so quiet. In the old barracks you could hear the wind howl, or the rustle of the other nearby berths, or the soft creak of unoiled joints as other soldiers shifted around in recharge. In the Sea of Rust, where he’d spent stellar cycles when he was trying not to starve to death, he would hear Skywarp’s sleep-mutters or Thundercracker’s midnight pacing— sometimes his sobbing, too, which was a whole other can of mechaniworms. But at least it was noise.

He turned over, rubbing his hand off on the sheets. Sometimes he thought he could smell the former Winglord’s perfume, a little phantom scent that lingered in spite of the many, many times he had washed this bedding. 

He wondered if Brightnimbus had ever felt this way. Lonely. She’d been Winglord for centuries, hundreds of vorns, even; she was unwed, and slept alone— except for guards, of course, but those had been the days when they could afford to keep the Winglord guarded at all hours, because they didn’t only have about two dozen trustworthy and battle-ready soldiers at any given moment. 

Well, she’d probably not felt particularly lonely after she’d started drinking the Vosian citizens’ energon. He was sure that when she’d lost her marbles and had ten thousand voices cajoling her from inside her own brain being alone was probably the furthest thing from her mind. 

Starscream turned over again, curling his claws over his faceplate. He lifted the covers over his helm, blocking the persistent shine of the stars. He was cold and ill at ease, but told himself that things would be different soon enough. After the wedding, after Megatron, everyone would see that he had made the correct choice.

He dreamed of silver. 

=

It so happened that Demolisher was that night’s watchmech. 

He was big, clumsy, stupid, and had natural on-board ordinance with his alt mode. Megatron had already banned him from any live fire exercises after he’d accidentally blown up Tiptop, one of the garrison’s other members. Tiptop had come out of the resultant crater blackened, and was currently nursing an exploded stabilizing servo; she insisted she was well enough to perform her regular duties, though, and Octane had found a new pede to weld onto her blackened stump. Megatron had been almost apoplectic about the whole ordeal, wanting to hand out a court martial in lieu of what he actually desired to do- pitching Demolisher into the canyon without anything to slow his descent- though Crankcase had desperately tried to compromise with the ‘no longer allowing him to use artillery’. 

“Captain!” Demolisher shouted, at maximum volume. He threw himself into an enthusiastic salute. “Welcome back! Did you have any difficulties dealing with the predacon incursion, sir?”

Megatron gave a quiet grunt. He eyed Demolisher’s weaponry warily. They allowed him to walk around armed when he was on watch, though he thought that the best place for Demolisher was probably in Straxus’s honor guard. “A predacon would’ve been easy, compared to what I just dealt with tonight.” 

“Whatever you say, sir,” Demolisher babbled happily, not minding the fact he had zero context and didn’t understand what Megatron was talking about at all. He seemed relieved just to not be yelled at. “You’ve got kind of a healthy glow about you, sir, your nighttime walks are always very refreshing for you.” Quickly, he added, “Octane said as much, too, sir.” 

“Did she, now?” Megatron replied, moodily. He mentally wrote a demerit, though had to seal it back up in case she went squealing about his own rule-breaking. “Where is she, Demolisher? Eh, and Rumble, and Crankcase? I need to speak with all of them. Something important has come up, and they’ll all need debriefing.” 

“Um, last I heard Octane was back at base, still playing cards with Rumble and Bombshock and Tiptop,” Demolisher saluted again. “I lost to her again, she’s good, you know, I wouldn’t try to play cards with her, sir. Especially not for scrip.” He cleared his intake, lightly stroking his throat to manually pull debris from his vocalizer. “Uh, Crankcase came out here and was staring down at the canyon for a while, but I made him leave because he was muttering to himself about Crystal City survival rates. It was kind of creepy.”  

Megatron gave a small nod. Crankcase was a true-blooded Decepticon loyalist- he was too mild-mannered to be anything else- but earlier that day during strategic meetings, even he had felt comfortable enough making passive remarks that could’ve been perceived as criticism of Straxus’s decision. The wind was turning; hopefully in his favor. “Where did he go after that? I’m going to have to temporarily authorize him to be in charge for a while.” 

Demolisher looked panicked. “What? Why? Are you leaving?”

Megatron exhaled noisily through his vents.

“Yes,” he said, with great care. “I have a strategic meeting in Kaon with a few other Decepticon officers, then I’ll be back here for a little while, and then I’m off to Tarn to see High Lord Commander-Straxus before the Crystal City offensive. It won’t be any more than a deacycle. Don’t worry.” 

Not his actual itinerary, but close enough. He needed to return to the mines of his birth, come back here to the canyon to retrieve Rumble, and then it was off to Vos for strategic planning. After that, Tarn and High-Lord Straxus, whereupon where he was would be far less important than if he was alive. 

“High Lord-Commander Straxus wanted to see you?” Demolisher asked, his optics saucer-round. “I knew you were amazing, sir, but that’s incredible!”

“I think I may come as something of a surprise to him,” Megatron responded, trying to keep any wryness out of his tone. “The next few solar cycles are going to be full of surprises. Tonight most certainly was.”

Megatron forged forward into the gloom, his distracted mind turning to the upcoming return to Kaon and the myriad of different materials there were to be prised up in his old haunts. 

He knew the tunnels of his birthplace better than anywhere else. He could vividly imagine the heat, the darkness, the slight dampness and the stagnant air only turned by the fans of the other ‘bots working in the same mineshaft. He could navigate hundreds of kilometers of tunnel simply by feel. Just by walking along and mapping the texture of the stone underneath his pedes, the smell in the air, the temperature against his plating, and the humidity leaching into his circuits, he could instantly distinguish with absurd precision the thousands of different mineshafts that looked otherwise identical to the untrained optic.

More importantly, he knew the locations of ore pockets that he had conspired to keep out of the hands of his overseers.

There was a vein of pure silver he knew was still down in Tunnel D-001, in spite of his hasty exit from the mines due to the war. He could see a grid plan in his mind of various ruby deposits, too, and knew a spot that had ones the same color as Starscream’s perpetually narrowed optics.

After all, a return to his birthplace would be expected, as per mining tradition: they were obliged to give a precious gem from their home tunnels as a wedding present to their new conjunx endura. 

Chapter Text

The mine was stiflingly silent as Megatron delved ever-deeper into the tunnels. 

That silence was a profoundly eerie experience for him. The status quo of the mines was a constant cacophony of noise: chattering speech, joyous singing, humming fans, heavy ventilations, clinking pickaxes, rumbling explosives, breaking stone. All of those myriad sounds would blend and echo together into an incoherent jumble of noise too dense to tease any one thread loose. The roaring ambiance of the tunnels was obnoxious at times, yes, but comforting in its own way. 

The clear and unambiguous sound of Megatron’s pedefalls echoing on brittle stone fragments- the crunch of overburden, that, in the haste of the war’s arrival, hadn’t been carted out to make more room- was unsettling. The fact that he could hear anything at all in particular unnerved him. The mines were unnaturally temperate, too- even cool- when his usual experience of them was one of radiating heat from the bodies, the friction, and the occasional detonations deep in the more stubborn mineshafts. 

The persistent darkness was anathema to Megatron; you would expect a mine to be predominantly dark and gloomy if you had not been in one long, but the bodies of the miners glowed even kilometers deep from the surface, and each shaft tended to be so packed with ‘bots that the darkness was less frequent than light. As Megatron moved through the passageways alone, there was no reprieve from the gloom other than the hand-torch he carried with him. His frame no longer produced the light that miners worked and navigated by. It hadn’t since his alt mode had functionally transitioned from a tool of industry to a tool of war. 

(What use did a tank have for a headlamp and biolights?) 

Megatron could not shake the feeling that, in coming back here after so long, he was now an intruder. An interloper. This had been his home, brutal and vicious and terrible as it was when he and his fellows toiled under the heel of the overseers, but this mine was stagnant and dead and he was not. His body was no longer shaped for this place, just as this place was no longer shaped for him. Neither of them belonged to one another anymore, and there was both a freedom in that revelation as well as a distinct feeling of discomfort. The corpse of the tunnels would continue in perpetuity- preserving the conditions moments before the miners were liberated, a snapshot frozen in time and space- even when the captain had long-since moved past it. He felt a vague pang of unease in the fact that these mines would be here long after the name Megatron was forgotten to time. 

(Though, with any luck, his completed opus would earn him ten million years or so of name recognition.) 

Megatron persisted into the tunnels, exhaling heavily into the stale air. He moved ever deeper, ever darker, into the confining corridors. It became more and more irritating that his helm scraped the ceiling when he walked normally; adopting a tank as an alt mode had granted him a few extra inches of height, making him just slightly taller than the boilerplate drill he had once been (that everyone in the mine had used to be). It was just enough that he no longer made the tight clearance without ever-so-slightly bending his knee flexors.

Megatron tried to focus on that instead— the small annoyances, the tiny aches. His knee joints not being as supple as they once were. His helm aching when a burgeoning speleothem clipped his face. The darkness that made his optics hurt when he squinted too long.

It was easier to think about those small points of ire than the superstitious emotional weight of coming back to this veritable mausoleum. In truth, he felt the heavy and frightening weight of history hanging on his shoulder. There was a specter of death that peered from behind and breathed down the back of his neck, trying to toy with his mind and make him feel things that a good military commander oughtn’t feel. 

Fear. Loneliness. Nostalgia?

He had known, the moment he set foot outside of the tunnels and saw the breaking dawn light of Hadeen for the first time, that he never wanted to come back to this place. He had promised himself he would never come back. The fact that he was breaking that solemn vow for stupid mining superstition- a marriage without a gem from your home tunnels was doomed to fail- and for Starscream, of all the creatures on Cybertron’s surface, frustrated him.

Frustration was an easier emotion to coast than any of the other ones batting around in his neural net, so he focused on that instead. Anger simmered and stewed in the back of his mind, percolating intensely while not yet boiling over. He knew anger was only a step removed from fear, but he wasn’t ready to face that fear in any meaningful way. 

He searched his memory for the written works of Zeta Prime, closing his optics to concentrate and navigating the darkness by memory alone. 

The enemy is a wily and oppressive force. They operate on the mind and in so doing, work through the body… 

Zeta was referring to battling Quintessons in this manuscript, and he meant literal enemies rather than figurative, but it was soothing. 

Their words sink through the processor to the spark. They will tell you lies about what you are and your destiny.

Megatron was moving through a connecting shaft; there was a wider, open tunnel here, leading to little branches and loops, the option to go up or down. The air smelled of rock and liquid. Their solvent barriers had failed without maintenance, and a trickle of oil slushed by his pedes. 

They will tell you that you are a machine that they made…

Megatron remembered the overseers’ lash. They were very heavy and very quick with the whip whenever there was disobedience, whether it be real or perceived. They were few and the miners were many, so they ruled by tyrannical fear. By their logic, the more cruel they were, the more control they had.

… That a tool cannot be enslaved.

Megatron had read philosophy by one of Rung or Froid’s like. Written by some skinny pre-war thinker, now-Autobot, Foolcoal. It was a dataslate discussed the spectacle of torture, how it could be used to keep those who weren’t being tortured in line.

The enemy wants to distract you psychologically and make you weaker physically. They will tell you that you belong to them, that you were engineered for your purpose by them… 

Wasn’t it ironic that all of these things had also occurred under Zeta’s own administration? He had written the most incredible critique of Functionism, his reigning government, inside his vicious attack of his hated alien nemeses. 

The Quintessons may have given us our transformation cogs a billion years ago, but we are more than what we can transform into.

This treatise from Zeta had been burned en masse shortly thereafter. It was embarrassing, to the Functionalist government, the way he had so succinctly made arguments against his own philosophy. It had been pointed out by even the least erudite scholars of the age. 

Freedom for me but not for thee, Megatron supposed. 

He’d only had Zeta’s text- any of his copies of the wisdom of the ancients- because once upon a time he and the other miners had accidentally penetrated into some old archivist’s storage vault during a routine drilling operation. This heretical kook, Trion or something of that nature, had had thousands of volumes stashed underground, maybe even millions, in pristine physical condition (until they’d brought pickaxes and dust into the hermetically sealed chamber). In their anonymity, buried deep in the dark, the texts had all escaped the zealous censorship of the government for millenia. 

The miners had gotten an audial-ful from the overseers for the time they’d wasted, been whipped and beaten until they were raw even though they had just thought it was another cave formation on their imaging equipment, and been told to forget what they had found and dig around.

Megatron hadn’t forgotten it, though. Before the Functionalist government’s secret police had been contacted to wipe away the precious font of forbidden knowledge, he’d snuck into the cordoned off shaft alone during the rest cycle and downloaded the archivist’s entire database onto his own hard drives. 

(It hadn’t been hard— despite the fact that the overseers deemed it indecent material, everyone assumed the miners were too stupid and lazy to want to learn, to want to read. The tunnels weren’t even guarded. Given the fact that no investigation or reprimand had been forthcoming, it appeared no one even checked to see if the miners had accessed the systems before they were deleted.) 

Megatron hadn’t exactly been an enlightened scholar before that moment. He scarcely had a notion of how significant that vault had been when he’d snuck down into the dark and stolen the database. In truth, he had barely been aware of the Thirteen Primes’ existence- much less read their work- but even the tiny tungsten-dense brain module he’d been granted when he emerged knew that he couldn’t allow this scale of literary contraband to just be wiped over. 

And when he’d started reading, that very night, his spark had immutably changed. 

He knew he was different. He knew he was special. He knew he was Megatron. Named for Megatronus, his favorite of the thirteen, though it had been decacycles of careful deliberation over which one he ought to title himself after. Megatronus: the deceiver, the betrayer… but then again, if you looked at what the rest of the Thirteen had become, Megatronus looked for all the world like a hero of liberation.

Ah. He had reached the deposit. 

Megatron knelt in the slushy-cold cave water. His fingers gingerly fumbled through the stone, finding a good-sized chunk and breaking it from where it had been carefully wedged. A font of gems spilled forth, red by torchlight. Megatron scooped the most promising of the deposit up, keeping the stones tightly in his grip. There were more jewels- enough that he probably could’ve funded himself off of Cybertron and to one of the outlying colonies, away from war- but he left them buried in the brackish waters.

Megatron wouldn’t deny that he felt a little relief upon leaving the mine. Each step felt lighter and softer; the captain craved the touch of Hadeen’s light on his plating, the open air rushing around him. His home felt corrupted.

Or, perhaps, it was him who’d been corrupted. There was a simple complacency to the mine that it was easy to romanticize, even if it had been the Pits. He was not the same mech he once was. That was undeniable. 

Megatron stepped out of the mineshaft and into the open air with a quiet sigh. He paused a moment to unbend his knee flexors, stretch his toe-pedes, and shift his joints. He looked to the sky and the rolling landscape and relaxed without the specter of the dark hanging over him. When he’d first left the tunnels three hundred years ago, he had been terribly myopic and prone to distorted vision at long distances; he had been one of the lucky ones, a miner who had made it high up enough in the Decepticon ranks that he’d since had his wonky vision surgically corrected. He could appreciate the distant skyline, the sun hanging low on the horizon.

When he had gone in, it had been a little past morning; it was almost sunset now. 

The mine stole time from you; manipulated your mind, distorted it, made you think the joors passed both too quickly and didn’t last long enough. 

“Starscream?” Megatron lifted the communicator from his hip. “If you would, summon Astrotrain to my present coordinates. I am ready to return to Vos.” 

To you, he thought, with uncharacteristic sentimentality. This unpleasant little jaunt down memory lane had been for him, for the Winglord. It probably said something enormous about their impending relationship that he had been willing to do it.

“Good,” the Winglord replied, tartly, a few moments later. “But you’ll have to wait a little while longer, Megatron, Astrotrain is busy on an errand— you’ll have to share a transit.” 

“You’re bringing someone else?” The rubies in his fist felt hot and accusatory, a sudden alarm burning along his plating. Megatron had hardly been committed about Starscream’s request to marry— he had been downright aloof, and barely confirmed his interest at all. The idea that he might’ve plucked up another grounder to be his new fiancé in the face of Megatron’s insouciance set his gyroscopes in a lurch. “Who?” 

“That colonel of yours, Soundwave, reached us a short while ago via carrier pigeon— he seems rather resourceful, and I suspect he will be integral to the war planning, so I’ve permitted him to come to Vos so long as he brings his own energon supply.”

Megatron relaxed slightly. He’d heard rumors about Soundwave, ones that weren’t conducive to a frenzied romance with a flyer. Octane, at a poker night some solar cycles back, had insinuated the colonel was so repulsed by romance and interface he’d even had himself castrated. Megatron clung to the idea it might be true, even as Rumble and Frenzy introduced a hazy doubt. 

“That means I won’t have to detour to get Rumble, I assume,” he remarked. 

“Rumble?” Starscream asked. 

“The…” he still had not gotten a straight answer on that subject, how he related to the more pertinent Soundwave and Frenzy. He defaulted to the safer choice: “You must remember him— you tried to kill him only a short while ago.” 

Silence followed. 

“He’s one of my soldiers. A minibot. The annoying blue and purple one,” Megatron ventured.

“Oh! Him, yes, the one who interrupted us. I remember. Why is he coming along?” 

“I have no idea,” grumbled Megatron, mostly to himself. He shook his helm slightly, actually answering the posited query: “He and Frenzy and Soundwave have some history together, I gather, and they’re all anxious to meet up again. Besides, it’s safer for us to have him up in Vos than down here. Certainly it’s less annoying for me.”

“I suppose I have to tolerate some obnoxious things in order to secure Vos’s energon,” Starscream sighed. “I’ve sent Astrotrain, he’s confirmed that he’s picked up Soundwave and is on his way to Quasar Canyon for Rumble, then you… though I can’t help but notice you’re about three hundred miles southeast of your regular posting. Anything you’d like to tell me about that?” 

“I’m preparing for war,” Megatron’s tone was steely. 

“By doing…?” 

“Idiotic dirtkisser behavior.” That should flummox him; Starscream was a flyer supremacist, and to continue his interest in Megatron’s whereabouts would be to admit that he didn’t think that grounders were inherently stupid. He wasn’t sure his ego could take it. “An old ritual of ours. None of your concern.” 

There was a quiet, haughty huff over the line, and then silence. Megatron leaned against a rock and waited. 

Astrotrain became evident on the horizon, a blackened shape as vulgar and predatory as any sonicondor. He had, at least, removed some of the bodies skewered on his chassis, but he was still dazzle-camouflaged in blood, painted with fearsome geometric designs that hurt the optic and distorted his physical appearance. Megatron gave him a halfhearted wave with his unoccupied hand.

Astrotrain landed with a heavy rattle of his struts; displaced dust clouds swirled around him, and Megatron’s waving hand did very little to cut through the haze. 

“Little Megs!” Astrotrain boomed joyously, rocking slightly as if in delight. “Great to see you again. Can you believe this is the first time we’ve seen one another since I dropped you off in the Sea of Rust? What’s it been, two, three orbital cycles?” 

“Call me ‘Little Megs’ again and I’ll strip your mesh from your struts and let Starscream use them as a decoration for his throne room,” Megatron said, levelly. Astrotrain guffawed, the snubbed shape of his wings bobbing up and down with the motion. 

“You’re fun! No one else plays along.” 

“Let me inside, Astrotrain. We’ve got a schedule to keep— there’s only eight solar cycles until Straxus is untouchable, any second we stand idle is a second wasted.” 

“Whatever you say,” Astrotrain sing-songed.

Megatron stepped forward and a set of stairs folded out from the shuttle’s front. Astrotrain’s internal compartment slid open with a quiet hiss, and Megatron was unsurprised by the sight of Soundwave and Rumble already seated on an internal bench. He gave the former a polite nod, a small “good evening, Colonel”, and fixed Rumble with a little visual reprimand just by narrowing his optics. 

“I’ve been good!” Rumble objected, offended by the Look the captain had shot him. “You were gone for like a solar cycle, and Crankcase really stepped up on correcting any mischief in your absence!”

“No he didn’t,” Megatron grunted, taking his seat opposite from the pair. 

Rumble’s expression fell slightly. 

“No he didn’t,” he agreed, in a petulant mumble. 

“I assume everyone will have whatever you did cleaned up by the time I get back,” Megatron said. “That’s all I ask.” 

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Astrotrain’s voice bellowed in his interior chamber, even when his speech had the inflection of a normally spoken sentence. “Fasten your seatbelts!” 

There were no seatbelts. 

One-handed, Megatron gripped his seat. He pressed his back against the wall as Astrotrain rumbled across the ground and shot into the air for takeoff. His internals roiled in protest; Rumble looked slightly green until the initial turbulence was over, and momentarily all that was left for Megatron was a light nauseated squeeze in the fuel tank. If Soundwave was bothered at all, his expressionless face and guarded posture didn’t show it. He swayed with the motion of Astrotrain’s takeoff like he was keeping time to music. 

Once his body stopped trying to purge and there was no need to clamp himself to his seat, Megatron subtly shifted the set of rubies from one hand to the other, gingerly flexing his digits to try to bring some life back into them. He had been gripping them too tightly, and he hardly needed the strain on his hydraulic lines. The fluids in his servos had stopped circulating from the tension. 

“Query,” Soundwave rumbled, in that trilling way of his, “purpose?” He gave an insouciant gesture to Megatron’s closed fist. Of course it hadn’t escaped his notice, no matter how furtively Megatron attempted it.

“A goodwill gesture for Starscream, Colonel,” Megatron answered, evasively. He had to be on his guard; it did not escape his recollection that Soundwave was a point-accurate lie detector, meaning that everything he said was going to have to be a technical truth. 

“Soundwave: well-acquainted with the rituals of the miners of Kaon. Soundwave: was a mining mech from Kaon before his time in the gladiatorial arena. Presentation of jewels from home mining tunnel: integral component of a proposal of marriage,” Soundwave pressed, voice implying a frown. 

Astrotrain suddenly keeled, giving a choked sound of surprise that rumbled through his internals. Everyone was thrown around in their seats; even the unflappable Soundwave made a disconcerted noise as he was pitched forward and almost faceplanted, if not for the tight grip he made on the seat. Rumble went cartwheeling across the room, only stopping because he slammed into a wall. Astrotrain’s voice bellowed incredulously from all around them. “You’re proposing to Screamer?” 

Megatron felt a sudden hot flusteredness; embarrassment was not part of his day-to-day regimen of emotions, and probably something he’d felt only once or twice in his entire existence. He barked, without thought to the social repercussions, “the Winglord proposed to me first!” 

There was a sudden sucking void of silence. Even Rumble (now rising woozily from his collision with Astrotrain’s cockpit) was quiet, lips mashed together in a befuddled purse.

“Well, he did,” Megatron muttered, folding his arms defensively. 

“That’s amazing,” Astrotrain said, clearly wanting to say more, but too dumbfounded to do so. Rumble was next to regather himself.

“Primus below and Unicron above— this whole alliance thing the two of you have isn’t predicated on some weird sexual fascination he has with you, is it?” Rumble gasped, abruptly horrified. Soundwave attempted to temper his squeaking, shooting him a meaningful look that was ignored. “Slumming it up with the dirty dirtkisser captain like in a porno vid? Oh, Vector Sigma, all those times when you go out predacon hunting you’re having quickies with him, aren’t you! Two nightcycles ago when we were playing cards Octane was making some veiled references to you getting your spike wet, and there was also that time when I went out to see you when you were hunting! I thought you were acting weird, now I know why, it was because you were clanging him and I fragging interrupted you! I knew that war wound scrap was a slagging lie—”

Soundwave decided, mercifully, to wrap a hand around Rumble’s intake. 

“It’s not like that,” Megatron warned. He really did not care for the hot flush that was creeping up from his neck and pooling in his facial derma. It made him, a war veteran and hero and poet, feel… silly. “We haven’t consummated.” He remembered Starscream’s beautiful, luminous optics, the way his grey cheeks had puffed ever-so-slightly as his mouth closed around his spike. That didn’t count, did it? “He’s very… old fashioned.” 

Astrotrain chortled. “I knew him when he was at the academy, ‘fore the war. He really isn’t.” 

Rumble managed to break loose of Soundwave’s firm grasp. The innate impulse to gossip had just proved too tempting. “The flyer king is a piece of slagging shareware?” 

“You should try saying that to him,” Astrotrain advised. “Loudly, and within audial-shot of as many ‘bots as possible.”

“Historical context acquisition can be done at another time,” Soundwave stated, letting Rumble go since he would not be repressed. “Status of his interfacing history: irrelevant. Marriage: sufficient incentive for him to ally with the Decepticon coup and co-operate with removal of Straxus from his position. That is all that matters.”

“And then, when Straxus gets his fragging head blown off, you’re in charge, right?” Rumble prompted, pivoting to look at the colonel. “You’ll lead the Decepticons? If we’re eighty-sixing Straxus, might as well topple down all the Lords, gladiators, and advisors who are next in line; Tarn, Overlord, Six-Shot, Clench, Barricade—”

“Best successor for Straxus: inconclusive,” Soundwave droned. He had no pupils with the visor structure of his helm, but Megatron got the feeling his gaze was boring right into him. Megatron stared right back; he knew he was the correct choice, and he had a feeling Soundwave knew it, too, but needed more proof to be sure. “Determination will be made after Straxus’s termination.” 

Rumble wrinkled his nasal ridge. “Who did I miss in that list? Jhiaxus? No, wait— you’re not thinking of letting Shockwave lead?”

Soundwave made a noncommittal noise. 

“All he does is stay up in the stupid tower Straxus made for him and tinker with his Autobots prisoners!” Rumble began to wheedle. “You don’t even like him! He doesn’t even like you! I don’t even know why I bothered to specify the ‘you’ part, he doesn’t like anyone, except his pets and science experiments!” 

“Shockwave: is no friend of mine,” Soundwave concluded. “Shockwave: is not suited to a leadership position with his scientific preoccupations.” 

“That’s what I’m saying! Then who’s left but you?” Rumble pressed.

“Soundwave is thinking about me,” Megatron interjected. He gave the mech a meaningful leer. “Isn’t that right?”

There was a begrudging pause. Soundwave lowered his chin slightly. “Correct.”

“You!?” Rumble practically choked on his own oral solvent. “What do you mean, you? You’re some no-name captain! You haven’t done anything but sit on your aft in an office in the middle of nowhere for an entire vorn—”

“You’re forgetting I led at Tyger Pax,” Megatron snarled, halfway rising from his seat. Soundwave laid a protective hand on Rumble’s shoulder, pushing him away slightly to shield him. “I won at Tyger Pax.” 

Soundwave whispered something to Rumble, in hushed tones beyond Megatron’s range of hearing. Rumble’s expression shifted, and he turned his helm away, giving a little sniff of disapproval but voicing no further objection. After a brief period of tension, Megatron eased back into his seat. 

The flight was long, more so because the silence made it awkward. Megatron was not one for small talk, and neither was Soundwave, meaning that Rumble and Astrotrain were carrying on some annoying dialogue about pranks they’d pulled. Once or twice Megatron came close to objecting- his former private turned flyer captive, Dead End, was apparently the source of great mirth for Astrotrain- but he knew a rise was what the shuttle wanted and he wasn’t inclined to give it to him. 

It was properly night by the time they arrived in Vos. Astrotrain’s cabin was windowless, so Rumble’s first view was when they were stepping off onto the balcony of the Winglord’s Palace. The CO gave a punched-out gasp, his optics aperturing to their widest, staring down at the beautiful vista of their planet below. Megatron hadn’t appreciated it the first time, and was still not keen on looking this time, either. He was quite happy to gaze at the solid marble floor beneath his pedes after the tank-churning trip in Astrotrain instead of ogling the suicidal drop to the solid ground five miles below them. 

“It’s incredible,” Rumble stepped closer to one of the broken palisades, trying to get a good look. “The Sea of Rust looks so tiny from up here! Look, there’s Crystal City, there’s Tarn, there’s Kaon—”

“Be careful,” Soundwave murmured, uneasily, and placed a hand on Rumble’s shoulder. He gently pulled him back from the edge of the dock, peering over it with the most emotion that Megatron had seen him display. He was worried, hovering, and keeping a very tight grip on Rumble’s shoulder as if he were worried a strong breeze would blow the minibot right over the edge. 

Conjunx amica? Megatron had seen them in the mines. It was weird for a standard-class ‘bot and a minibot to be amica, especially in threes, but he supposed it was technically possible. It would explain why Soundwave had nepotismed the completely combat-unfit Rumble into a communications officer position in Quasar Canyon; had he been trying to protect Frenzy and Rumble by getting them posted there?

After a moment, shapes began to move from within the palace. Starscream was first, slow and plodding, his heavy cloak swaying behind him. It had been festooned with even more strings of gold and jewels than Megatron remembered, ornamental cords of braided precious metal to signify his office. His molded horns were longer, and the ruff of fur and feather around his neck bristled with upturned fangs, like that of a herding cyberdog defending against wild turbofoxes. The train of his cloak gave an audible scrape as it walked, trailing with razor-sharp teeth. Skywarp and Thundercracker were right behind him, bedecked in gleaming cloaks of their own. 

Other warriors spilled out around them in formation. Their multicolored optics gleamed wickedly in the dark. Megatron recognized, from the pack, the flier who had taken Long Haul captive; her hot red gaze was cautious and reproachful. Wounds he hadn’t thought about in decacycles suddenly seemed to sting; his knee had been fully repaired, and yet just remembering that night in Quasar Canyon made it throb. 

She had murdered Long Haul’s mechs, innocent ‘bots just doing their job. She and her soldiers had murdered Sparkheap and Jumble, mechs so harmless they’d been put in Quasar Canyon just because their incompetence or good nature would get killed anywhere else. Megatron hadn’t even been able to attend their funerals. 

“Soundwave?” Rumble’s voice shook slightly. It broke Megatron from his thoughts, and he glanced back at his fellow Decepticons. Rumble had shifted back, quailing behind Soundwave’s leg like a frightened mechanimal. Soundwave had one hand set on his helm, body defensively turned to shield him. His unoccupied fist was clenched. His frame stood taut and ready.

“It’s alright,” Soundwave soothed, softly. Megatron didn’t need to be an outlier to tell he wasn’t certain that was the truth. “This meeting: is merely diplomacy.” 

There were about two or three dozen flyers when the procession was all finished; their wings and claws and teeth were all sharpened, their bodies clinking and clacking with gruesome trophies. This, Megatron assumed, was his honor guard, the highest ranking mechs and the most ferocious warriors. He recognized Starscream’s bulky green doorguard; lurking somewhere in the back so they could loom ominously was a handful of shuttles, including the pristine-white doctor Jetfire. 

A little show of power, but Megatron was certain they intended nothing more to stand around and look mean. Starscream did have a flair for ostentatious ferocity. 

“Welcome to Vos, Colonel Soundwave,” Starscream’s tone was light and airy. “I believe we have something for you.” 

He stood aside; Skywarp and Thundercracker shifted back, and all of the flyers settled into attention. From the depths of the Vosian Palace, tentative and uncertain, emerged a little red-and-black minibot. 

“Soundwave!” She exclaimed. Her cautious steps became a full-on, out and out sprint. Soundwave’s entire body immediately slackened of tension; he dropped to a knee, throwing open his arms in anticipation of her embrace. She ran at him, colliding with an intense hug. 

“No love for Rumble?” Rumble asked, face screwing up in a grin, and she gave a wordless exclamation of surprise to see him. Soundwave looped an arm around him, cradling them both to his chest without so much as a sound. His visor dimmed; Megatron wasn’t sure if he was trembling, or his chassis was shaking from how hard the two minibots were squeezing him. 

“Touching, isn’t it?”

It was remarkable how Starscream could be so quiet when he wanted to; Megatron was so transfixed by the spectacle he hadn’t heard him approach. 

“Indeed,” Megatron said, side-eyeing him, not wanting to completely remove his vision from Soundwave and his minibot duo. “You didn’t torture her, did you?” 

“We have higher standards than that.” Starscream gave a haughty sniff. “So, no.” 

Megatron gave a little antagonized grunt. “Astrotrain gave me some colorful anecdotes about him and Dead End.” 

Starscream waved a servo, visible only as a slight ripple in his cloak. “They were playing.” 

“The way a cybercat plays with a glitch-mouse,” Megatron riposted. “Don’t let Astrotrain near Dead End anymore.” He turned fully towards Starscream, pumping air through his heat exchangers, feeling a sudden tension in his chassis. He held out his servo. “These are for you.”

Starscream, bemused, held out his spidery claws. He tilted his head when a couple of fat, uncut rubies spilled into his grip. 

“And what are these?” He inquired. 

“Rubies,” Megatron grunted. “I need to cut them for you before they’ll look like what you’re used to; they don’t look like much now, but they will when they’re finished.” 

“Thank you?” Starscream hedged, evidently unsure of the gift’s form and function. He pocketed most, but held one up for inspection. “They are enormous; what were you intending I do with them?” 

“They’re a… proposal gift.” Megatron finally supplied, resisting any impulse to fidget. Squirming around would compromise his position, his appearance of authority. “An official declaration of ‘I do’, if you go in for that sort of sentiment. Which I usually do not. But I thought an exception was in order.” 

Starscream gave him an odd look, one Megatron couldn’t quite place. Before either of them could go on, Megatron’s attention was grabbed by the trio of ‘Cons. 

For a moment, Megatron couldn’t figure out what was happening— it looked like Frenzy was crawling into Soundwave’s chest, until he realized that Soundwave’s chest was some sort of storage compartment, and Frenzy’s alt mode was some sort of lumpy rectangle designed to fit in there. She curled up, content; Rumble hesitated a beat or two, but he folded and clambered in, shortly sealed in behind Soundwave’s chest-glass.

“Primus below, he’s a tunnel queen,” Megatron realized, not meaning to speak aloud but doing so anyway. In retrospect, it seemed obvious; the hollow space in his chest cavity should’ve immediately given it away. “They’re his children.” 

“As in, physical reproduction, code recombination, that sort of thing?” Starscream made a face. “You’re allowed to do that? I suppose ‘Colonel’ is a high enough rank to be allowed to breed, but still… the only ones allowed to reproduce on Vos were the Winglord’s family and their chosen mates. Especially after the war…” 

“It has nothing to do with his rank— it was before he was a colonel, before he had any rank.” Megatron murmured, lips pursed into a thin line. Primus made the bulk of the Transformers, new ones bubbling from hotspots on the surface of Cybertron, but accidents and death happened frequently in the mines under the Functionist government and the planet only produced a new miner once every few vorns. With increasing demand and quotas to reach, it was easier, faster, more efficient to also have a queen who bred and nursed a new generation down in the tunnels— a breeding mech could have six new fully-trained mechs from gestation to adulthood in the time it took Vector Sigma to squeeze out one. 

It also meant the queen in question was often- and repeatedly- impregnated against their will. Most frequently by the overseers, who were considered to have better-quality genetic material than the average miner. It was a thankless, hellish existence— as a result, regular miners like Megatron had come to develop something of a reverence for the queens, making them work shorter shifts (because of course they still had to work) and topping up their energon allotments through donation. 

No wonder Soundwave fled the mines to become a gladiator. It was counter-intuitive, but that life was probably safer for his progeny than sending them to work themselves to death in the tunnels, and a good bit less strenuous on his frame. Rumble and Frenzy were probably around four or five hundred years old, on the cusp of biological adulthood for Transformers— it seemed likely they were his last litter from his time in the mines. 

Guilt pricked Megatron, and a little bit of empathetic sorrow, but he smoothed it over. When he controlled the Decepticons, there would be no more of that. No more overseers. No more long shifts. No more forced breeders. No more Functionism, no more corruption…

Soundwave began to approach them. His hollow chest cavity was now fit to the bursting; Megatron could faintly see Rumble’s flank pressed up against the frosted glass. He dedicated the tiniest thread of processing power to wonder if it was comfortable or claustrophobic, being squished inside another ‘bot in concert with four or five other siblings. He had been planet-born, and had never had that experience for himself. 

Skyquake shifted to stand in front of Starscream before Soundwave could get too close, to head off any attack, but the Winglord waved her down. 

“Frenzy: is in a state of adequate physical repair,” Soundwave trilled, laying a servo over his chest. “Soundwave: will consider her safe return acceptable and unworthy of retribution, provided the Winglord’s assistance in the removal of High Lord-Commander Straxus.”

“My plans have not changed in that regard,” Starscream replied, smoothly. It must’ve been the truth, because Soundwave gave a small nod. “I will assist you, as I promised. And, without further adieu, I bid you official welcome to Vos, or, rather, Vos under Winglord Starscream’s leadership. You are allowed to wander wherever you wish, given that all four of you are rather confined to the palace grounds on pain of a deadly plunge from the lower atmosphere, but while you are within our walls I will heavily frown upon stealing any of our things, roughhousing with my soldiers, or otherwise doing damage to the estate.” 

“Compliance,” Soundwave intoned. 

“Of course,” Megatron nodded slowly.

“We weren’t expecting you so late, so I’m afraid the festivities will wait until tomorrow.” Starscream gestured to his troops, which straightened up, snapped their wings in some sort of flyer salute, and tromped back inside without further complaint. Skyquake and another ‘bot- one whom Megatron did not recognize but shared her construction down to the last detail, besides a difference in paint- did not move. Neither did Thundercracker or Skywarp. The four were his highest honor guards; that made sense.

What didn’t was how Jetfire lingered in the palace doorway, giving Starscream a hesitant, mournful look. It struck Megatron, a superior officer always looking for subordination, as odd; he filed that away for later. 

 “Why don’t I show you to your chambers for the night?” Starscream interrupted. He gave Megatron a playful look, a fang dimpling his lip. “You will find it more comfortable, more hospitable, than a cell.” 

“Or the berths they gave us at Quasar Canyon,” Megatron agreed, with a grunt. His mind turned to Crankcase; he couldn’t lead his way out of a straight tunnel, much less the entire Quasar Canyon garrison. 

“The companionship may be better,” Starscream hinted again, with a little more impatience. 

This time Megatron did not miss the insinuation, as thick as his helm and shallow his knowledge of flirting was. He tried to ignore the sudden incremental increase in his core systems temperature, and most certainly did not allow it to get to the point where his cooling fans switched on. His gaze slid somewhere safer, away from Starscream’s evocative grin, landing at a neutral point at his hunched shoulders. 

“Is that so,” Megatron mumbled, while Skywarp tried to keep a straight face and Rumble let out a muffled guffaw from inside Soundwave’s chest. “Take me to my quarters, then.” 

Chapter Text

“Get up,” Megatron demanded.

Dead End looked up at him listlessly. The blaster was trembling in his servos. The jangle of metal-on-metal rattled.

“Listen to me, Dead End, you had better point that thing at the enemy or so help me—”

There was a rattling boom, a cacophony of the latest shelling. The entirety of Tyger Pax seemed to tremble; somewhere deep inside the old opera house- the tenuous Decepticon toehold- metal warped and groaned, settling into a new angle of repose. Blood dripped down Megatron’s fingers. It coated his hands. He’d just had to tell a mech bleeding out that there was no help for her, no resources to knit and bind her wounds— the best he could do was set her up on the front line and tell her to shoot as many Autobots as she could before she died. 

Dead End was sitting down in a fetal position, rocking back and forth and mumbling soothingly to himself. He shook his head in denial at Megatron, keeping the muzzle of the blaster loosely pointed at his cheek. Tear-tracks stained his facial derma. 

Megatron roared: “You are not wasting a single scrap of our very precious energon reserves to kill anyone but our opposition! Get up!” 

“What’s the point?” Dead End howled back, in a furious sneer. “They’re going to kill us. One way or the other. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. We’re all going to die here, ‘captain’, and if you haven’t figured that out, you’re just as big an idiot as you look!”

“Watch your tongue!” Megatron lunged forward, striking the pistol out of his hands. Dead End shot backwards with an eerie wail of fright, banging his back against the closest wall. Terror welled in his optics, and he lifted his hands defensively to parry any incoming blows. His hands shook.

“Don’t hurt me, Megatron—!” 

“You will stay right where you are,” Megatron spat. “You are not to discharge that blaster at anyone but an Autobot, Dead End, do you hear me—” 

“They sent the Wreckers, Megatron! There’s no reasoning, no hope, just death!” 

“I am not going to let you die,” Megatron told him, levelly. “By your servo or anyone else’s.” 

“You’re going to walk out there and get killed, that’s what you’re going to do!” Dead End blustered. “We’ve lost our garrison, most of our soldiers have run away and gotten mowed down, and that’s even if they’re surrendered! Impactor’s the one in charge of this squadron! Impactor! We’re encircled, there’s no way out, we wait and starve or we surrender and get shot or we fight and we die, what’s the point!? At least this way is quick!” 

Megatron fixed him with a cold look. Dead End shrank in on himself. There was a quiet sniffle. 

“You don’t want to know what I’ll do if I come back here and find a corpse,” Megatron uttered. The threat was nonsensical and he knew it; if Dead End shot himself there was no tangible punishment Megatron could level at him. Still, though, it made the little red mech shake harder and swallow deeply.

“If you go out there, you’re not coming back,” Dead End shrilled.

“We’ll just see about that, won’t we?” Megatron said. 

The Autobots- previously content to wait for them to starve- were pushing the line, trying to move on the Decepticon toehold in the Tyger Pax city center. Every so often shells or potshots were flung, hoping to kill an errant enemy, but there had been little luck on either side. The Autobots probably felt safe with their numbers advantage: one hundred troops versus one thousand, and at least a dozen of those thousand were special-ops Wreckers who were now leading the party. 

The process of events- stretching over four or five days- was muddied in Megatron’s mind. Impactor’s corpse seemed to manifest at his feet like a mirage. By the end of it all Megatron was wounded almost to the point of death, bleeding energon from multiple points of impact, body broken by explosives and riddled by bullets and lamed in an arm and a leg. His neural net burned with the terrifying images of all he had done and seen in the last half-decacycle. He had not slept in nearly eight days, killing mechanically, like a machine, whether defensively or offensively. He had lost count of how many he’d split open or blasted apart, but he had to keep going, because the alternative was his soldiers dead, him dead, the Decepticons routed. 

He waved his torn flag over the bloodsoaked ground and screamed in triumph when the remaining Autobot troopers fled. Megatron’s rallied soldiers- the fifty or so that remained of the original force of three times as many- stood behind him in silence— perhaps they were afraid that if they interrupted they would be next. 

Dead End lived. 

New Decepticon troops came to bolster their numbers. 

They won at Tyger Pax. 

=

Something trailed over his shoulder.  

Megatron was awake in an instant. With every single ounce of strength in his body, he thrust his pede outward and kicked blindly against the interloper. His speed and force ended up muffled by the thermal blankets that swaddled him, but he felt something solid under his foot and felt it go flying back. A second later there was a calamitous clattering crash. 

“Fragging Pits!” The oath was sharp. Megatron sat bolt upright, powering on his fusion cannon; purple spots of light danced, photons irreversibly drawn together to make one titanic blast. 

The captain’s entire body was drenched with a warm and nauseating sweat, a patina of coolant sticking in his joints. His servos shook. His mind was still torn, raggedy with the clearing shreds of his nocturnal imaginings.

His assailant complained, “watch where you shove your slagging pedes, you jackaft!” 

It took him a moment to recognize the absence of a threat. Megatron blinked. He recognized the room— white marble, spaced apart, wide open. There were ethereally-sculptured figures with protruding wings. Sunlight faintly poured in from a protruding balcony. The berth was uncomfortably soft compared to the hard recharging slabs Megatron was used to. 

That was right… he was in a guest room in the Winglord’s palace. 

Skywarp peered peevishly at him from where he had been kicked to the floor. 

“You cracked my cockpit!” The flier gestured violently to the broken amber glass on his chest. His helm swiveled, reaching up to gently caress any posterior wounds. In a shrill note of protest, he added, “and you dented my wings, you psycho!” 

Megatron recognized the fact that he was a guest, and beating up the king’s honor guard demanded remediation. He allowed the deadly swell of energy building in his fusion cannon to dissipate, feeling his servo- really, his entire arm- briefly tingle with the excess of charge before it faded. 

“I apologize, Skywarp,” the captain hazarded. He thought that might be the right thing to say in this scenario. He hunched forward, gently clasping his hands together in his lap. “I was… somewhere else.”

“Somewhere not so friendly, I imagine. You were twitching around and mumbling to yourself. It’s whatever, I guess, just a trip to Jetfire to get this patched up,” Skywarp rose onto his pedes, frowning dismally at the state of his regalia post-hit. Glass and teeth had snapped from their threads, scattered across the regal floors like a minefield or the pocked craters of a moon. “I can’t believe you wear that slagging cannon to bed…” 

The flier fingered the jagged cracks in his cockpit. He suddenly did not seem keen to look at Megatron.

“But, uh, I did wake you up for a reason. Screamer wanted to see you before the morning meal. Alone.” He licked his denta, running his tongue across the sharp edges of his fangs. “And he was all ‘Skywarp I mean it no interruptions or I’ll take your horns and stuff ‘em up your aft’ kind of ‘alone’. If you catch my meaning. So I would probably wash that dust and coolant off before you go. Or maybe Screamer’s into that kinda thing. Not sure. He did go for a grounder, you, in the first place. Maybe he likes it a little dirty, for spice—” 

“Shut up,” Megatron barked at him, almost reflexively. He then almost immediately regretted the hostility. So much for engendering a sense of reverent civility while he was among the fliers... “Where are your washracks?” 

“We have public bathhouses in Vos, actually,” Skywarp told him. “No washracks here. It’s much more civilized than those little cubical death traps I’ve seen you grounded mechs use. You can’t even fit your wings in those little stalls. It’s like you’re a bunch of zap-ponies.” 

Megatron grunted, taking offense. “Only you lofty fliers could afford to do that sort of thing. A bath is enormously less efficient, and any particulates you wash off contaminate the entire solvent supply for everyone else. There’s a reason miners, soldiers, and construction-bots shower instead of bathe, and that’s because you’ll take thrice as long and be covered with nearly as much grime as you started with.” Megatron scoffed. “Mix that in with the debris of others, and you have a recipe for filth.”

“Even before it was up here, Vos didn’t get much dirt,” Skywarp replied, with a little twitch of one of his dented wings. He winced, rubbing the furrowed metal. “It’s mostly for the social experience of the thing, anyway— chilling with your trine in the tub when the solvent’s all nice and warm for a post-mission relaxation sesh, I mean. If you’re going to be a tightaft about it I’ll get you a basin.” 

Megatron nodded vacantly at him. He glanced away for a moment, self-consciously wondering how much grounder residue he had accidentally trailed into this fancy guest bedroom. He threw off the blanket and swung himself to the side, hunching over to peer at his pedes. He trailed a blunt finger down his calf, seeing the reddish soil that had impacted and collected itself in his tank treads. He hadn’t even thought about it. 

As his attention was briefly preoccupied, he felt something strange. It was like a displacement, a feeling of disorientation. A change in the air? Movement? 

He looked over to Skywarp, about to ask him if he’d felt it, too, but his hopes for corroboration were dashed.

Skywarp had completely vanished. Without a word. Without a trace. Megatron hadn’t even heard him move, and he certainly wouldn’t’ve had time to get from here to the doorway in about two seconds. Not silently, at any rate. None of the little gory trophies strewn around had moved from where they rested— they were scattered such that they would’ve been displaced when Skywarp opened the door. 

Megatron glanced uneasily out the balcony. Maybe he had flown out that way. Fliers did ever-so enjoy flexing their flair for the dramatic.

He rose from his berth, taking a moment to stretch and decompress his joints and struts. While waiting, he held a variety of stress poses to get the coolant pumping and his actuators properly oiled. During this light exercise Megatron allowed himself a moment to add a few commas and missing semicolons to the mental draft of his opus. Editing was almost meditative, in a way. It gave him something to think about other than Tyger Pax or Starscream. 

“Here you go.”

Megatron hadn’t heard Skywarp come in, but he felt his presence abruptly just before he spoke. It was the sudden intrusion— there was now something where nothing had been. 

Megatron looked up, eyeing the washbasin and rag Skywarp had brought. It was a surprisingly generous gesture for someone Megatron would have normally characterized as a perpetual troublemaker— Starscream’s version of Rumble, if you would. Perhaps it was just that he didn’t want to disappoint the Winglord. 

“You’re an outlier, aren’t you?” Megatron asked bluntly, feeling surer of himself with every word. Skywarp’s face went pink. “Invisibility? No, you would have moved the bits on the floor. Intangibility? Something like a permanent, self-generated phase shifter?”

Skywarp’s expression was almost stony, if not for the glassy panic behind his violet optics. He shook his head wordlessly in denial. Cybercat got his tongue?

“I would have seen you leave,” Megatron deduced. “You can teleport. And you can go through walls, too.”

Skywarp shifted back, popping out a hip slightly. He sucked his upper lip into his mouth in thought, hesitated a beat, then nodded. 

“Yeah, yeah, I bet you’re feeling really smart about figuring it out, but I was making it easy for you, wasn’t I?” Skywarp waved a clawed servo in disdain. “Starscream didn’t want to tip his servo too early when you were here before, but many of the remaining Seekers are outliers. They were considered more valuable by Brightnimbus— you know about that, you know about her, right? Feels like Starscream should have mentioned her by now.”

“I know about it,” Megatron confirmed. He dipped his cloth in the basin of solvent, beginning to methodically wipe away the grime he’d brought with him. “He gave me a rather detailed history of his ascension to power, as a matter of fact.”

“Was this before or after he sucked your spike?” Skywarp asked, innocently. 

Megatron stuttered in his methodical motions for just a moment; his servos clamped down, accidentally wringing liquid onto the floor, but he quickly wiped it up. 

Uneasily, he ventured, “he told you about that?” 

“I sort of guessed. If it makes you feel any better he flipped out and swore me to secrecy, but since you already know…” Skywarp shrugged. “Was he any good? Because I knew him during university so I know he’s had a lot of practice and I’m really wondering about quantity versus quality and, of course, he is an untrustworthy and biased source.”

Megatron tried to remain cool and unattached from any emotional responses. He was thwarted when his automatic heating regulation decided at that moment- against his will- to produce a hot, loud gust of air from his cooling ducts. 

“I suppose you know about the fact he asked me to conjunx him, too,” Megatron said, levelly. 

“Yeah.” Skywarp sobered slightly, rocking back on his heel-struts. “Says he has to, for alliances, or something, legal stuff that had to do with Vos’s constitution or something, he has to marry you or he’s not allowed to help you depose the Decepticons and Tyrest would blast his ass. I don’t know, he explained it but I didn’t really get it and I’m not sure.” His sober attitude veered to downright uncomfortable. “I’m gonna go now, Starscream’s just one bedroom down the hall, the adjacent one, I think you can find your way. Right?” 

Megatron was still digesting the ‘says he has to’ nugget. The captain’s pride was extensive, his self-confidence unshakable. He was sure of his intellect, ferocity, cunning, agility, adroitness, talent, and physical strength. What he wasn’t sure of was his looks or his capacity to be a good romantic partner. 

Was this not based on a sense of attraction? Was this merely a union of a duty? Done out of a sense of obligation?

Megatron would sort this out. Even if he did feel burgeoning stirrings of desire for Starscream, this was unconscionable. If Starscream felt that it was required to wed just for some archaic flier law- that he was not doing this out of love or lust or mutually reciprocated interest- he would not allow it to come to pass. Megatron intended to be a liberator. He believed in the freedom of any creature to choose its own destiny. His own spouse certainly had to be at his side by choice. 

“Who is Tyre—,” he began, but Skywarp popped out of reality when Megatron was looking right at him. There was no visual distortion, no rush of air, not even a sound. He was there one moment and simply absent the next.

Plating on the back of Megatron’s neck prickled uncomfortably. He knew Skywarp intended nothing untoward or violent towards him, but an inner combatant in Megatron demanded everything be analyzed for a way to defeat it. The lack of visual or audial cues in Skywarp’s ability deeply disturbed him— enough that he wasn’t comforted by the fact he was ostensibly ‘on his side’. 

Megatron took his time and slowly finished washing himself. By the time he was done the basin of solvent was stained an orangey-brown, and the cloth wasn’t much better. At the very least he appeared more presentable. 

He rose to his pedes.

It was time to see Starscream.

He knocked on the adjacent doorway. There was no reply. He tried the door handle, and it came open with a soft squeak. 

The Winglord’s room was relatively plain— it had a balcony, like Megatron’s- though the curtains were drawn- and an enormous sunroof. At the moment, Megatron consciously acknowledged it was storming outside; thick grey clouds smothered any light, and all of the internal light sources had been dimmed or were off. It was dark and sober, in spite of the general white brightness of the room. Rain pattered against the rooftop, almost purring.

The Winglord’s berth was suspended a good two arm’s lengths over Megatron’s head, making it impossible for a normal non-flier to reach unaided. It was huge, easily big enough for two or three Starscreams to sleep comfortably. Thermal blankets draped over the sides like protruding stalactites. 

“Starscream?” Megatron prompted. 

“Detach your cannon,” his voice was imperious and high. “I can’t believe you wore that ridiculous thing to sleep with you. You’re among friends.”

Megatron glanced down at it. With a thought and a small flick of his digits it unlatched from his forearm, and he leaned it reverently against the wall. He had to roll his shoulder a few times to get adjusted to the new lack of weight, but he had taken it off many times before and it was quick enough to acclimatize. 

“I wear it so routinely I had forgotten about it completely,” he replied. He searched for Starscream in the lump of bedding, but couldn’t be sure what was what. “If I offended you by it, that was not what I intended. Come down and we can speak faceplate to faceplate. I have a few things I want to say.” 

“Good things, I hope.” Starscream’s narrow face came over the side of the berth; dark derma and cresting horns protruded from under the covers. Bright red optics pierced some of the cloudy gloom. “You look quite serious.”

“If you are marrying me out of obligation, or because you feel you must for political necessitation or royal edict, I demand you release yourself from this agreement,” Megatron barked, indignantly.

There was a pause. Starscream’s handsome, narrow features wrinkled with the strain of comprehension. “What on Cybertron are you talking about?” 

“Don’t play the fool with me, Starscream. Skywarp told me a marriage was a required part of flyer tradition for Vos allying with another entity!” Not in as many words, and he’d hedged on that point, but Megatron had gotten the gist from his wishy-washying earlier.

“Oh, and you took Skywarp at his word, did you? You believed everything he said, did you?” Starscream snorted. “I told him that as a cover! It is true, yes, historically, that Vos couldn’t ally without a wedding to another entity, but that isn’t the real reason I am doing this . I make my own traditions and I feel no adherence to the old ways! The old ways made Brightnimbus and brought us to this catastrophe in the first place.” He shook his head. “As I’m sure I’ve asked you before, is it really so unbelievable to you that someone might find you to be romantically and sexually appealing?!”

Megatron was off-foot. Unsure what to say, he mustered, “it’s never happened before.”

Starscream’s scoff transcended derision and ventured into hereto undiscovered depths of pure scorn. “I doubt that. I’m just the only one so far who’s had the transfluid tanks to try to grab onto you instead of staring dreamily after your back was turned. You’re just too dense to notice the effect you have on people. The way people look at you. What you do to them, body and mind.” 

Megatron took a moment to regather his thoughts, rallying them like scattered troops. He chose not to pull the pin on that particular grenade, ‘you are attractive’, instead looping back to an earlier part of the conversation. 

“So— just so I have this correct… You do want to conjunx? Of your own free will and without other pressures forcing you to do so? You aren’t doing this because you’re economically, militarily, politically, or socially coerced into it in any way?”

“Yes,” Starscream hissed, annoyed. “What do I have to do, laser-inscribe that into your processing discs? For one, I called you in here this morning to frag me, you dirt-footed ignoramus! Why would I do that, to invite a grounder into the royal bedchamber, if I didn’t want to make you mine permanently? Why would I suck your spike, why would I ask you to conjunx me, why would I bring you into the sacred marital bed of the Winglord and tolerate your absolutely bolt-headed naïveté unless I found you almost irresistible?” 

Megatron had no good reply to that. He felt a slight, self-conscious heat work its way through his systems. He had been summoned here for interface. And he… he did not want to turn around and go back to his room.

Quietly, the captain said, “I believe in throwing off the shackles of the old system. I believe in free choice. I just wanted to be certain this was yours.” 

Starscream sighed.

“It is,” said the Winglord.

“Alright, then.” There was a tender silence. Megatron ventured forth with a more immediately pertinent inquiry: “How do I get up there?” 

“Ah,” Starscream’s head pulled back; there was rustling under the covers. “I gave that some thought two nights ago, anticipating just this occasion. I had a ladder brought in for you, it’s outside in the hall.” 

Megatron nodded. He stepped out, gazing around the corridors until he discovered a little clumsily-wired metal bit of scrap iron that he’d assumed was one of the weird sculptures that seemed to dominate flier decor. It looked as though it might collapse at any second— being gentle, he grabbed it by the bars and hauled it inside.

His skepticism on the craftsmanship of the fliers made him give the berth another look, too. It didn’t look sturdy enough to hold the both of them, in his opinion, and the chains that hung it off of the floor unnerved him too. Any… rigorous motions would have the whole thing swaying. It was going to be difficult enough as it was to perform adequately. 

Megatron’s tanks squirmed with a sudden nervous flutter. He was remembering the last time they had engaged in… things. But this time it wouldn’t just be Starscream’s teasing optics and clever mouth. This time there was going to be valves, and physical motions, and… 

He could feel a pit trying to grow in his stomach, gathering up heat like a geothermal reservoir. His thighs were getting sensitive again. He imagined things— Starscream twitching and moving in response to Megatron’s actions, him moaning, the smells, the heat, sensations that would happen, touching him, feeling his plating under his hands, physical motion— 

The captain’s throat cabling felt too tight, almost choking. His perpetually steady servos wanted to shake. It was ridiculous. He hadn’t felt this frightened or uncertain of himself in…

—don’t think about Tyger Pax not right now—

“Come on,” Starscream beckoned, impatiently. He peered over the side once again. “Don’t tell me that you, the mech that slid down a four thousand foot deep canyon without wings, think that the extra dozen feet to climb up here is too much?” 

“No,” Megatron muttered, trying to not think about any of what was bubbling through his processors and more kinesthetic systems. “Isn’t it a little dark in here for this?” His optics had adjusted to the gloom of the Winglord’s room, somewhat, but it was still deeply shadowed; every light that had been dimly on was now completely out, leaving only what light from Hadeen pierced the stormy skyroof to illuminate the room.

“I want it to be dark.” 

“But I want to see you,” said Megatron. 

Starscream huffed. His patience was clearly thinning. “We aren’t yet wed. My physical body is still not permissible for grounder sight, I’ve told you that. Besides, this is more of a tactile art than a visual one, at least, how I enjoy it.”

“You want me to frag you but I’m not allowed to look at you?” Megatron protested. 

“It’s your choice between that and limping out of here with your spike between your legs,” Starscream threatened. 

Megatron considered it- he did not want to build their burgeoning romantic relationship and perpetual partnership on a foundation of mistrust, threats, and bargains- but he seemed to imply that things would change once they were married. 

“Will I be allowed to see you in the future?” Megatron pressed. There was a little hesitation.

“Yes,” Starscream answered. “After the wedding, when we consummate.” 

“Aren’t we consummating now?”  

“Think of this as… well, a practice run.” Starscream tried. 

Megatron was suddenly reminded of Astrotrain’s little pithy comment: I knew him when he was at the academy, he really isn’t ‘old-fashioned’... 

Was he trying Megatron out? Trying to see if he would be a compatible sexual partner? Would he call off the wedding when Megatron failed?

Surely not. This was equally a political alliance as it was a request for romantic entanglement. Wasn’t it? He wouldn’t go back on killing Straxus if he thought Megatron was sub-par, would he?

You brought him the rubies, the marriage can’t fail, warred internally against his own sense of reason and logic. But there was no sense in spiralling out of control. Now was exactly the time to divest himself of anything other than being in the moment. 

He hauled himself onto the berth.

“I can do a practice run…”