Chapter Text
The wind howled through the canyons as the night deepened over Nevada’s rocky wilderness. Optimus Prime’s chassis gleamed beneath the moonlight, silent as he scanned for Energon signatures on a routine patrol. The desert was quiet—too quiet.
Until the sky ripped open with thunder.
A screech of jet engines screamed overhead as a silver blur sliced through the clouds. Prime’s optics narrowed.
Starscream.
The Decepticon hadn’t expected to run into Optimus, but he didn’t hesitate to attack. Missiles launched from his wings with practiced precision, forcing Optimus to roll aside, plasma rounds impacting the rocky ground behind him.
“I see you're still patrolling like a glorified watchdog,” Starscream sneered, transforming mid-flight and landing atop a boulder. “I suppose your Autobot code demands you intervene, even if I’m just passing through?”
“I intervene,” Prime said, stepping forward, “because I know you are never just passing through.”
With no more words, they clashed. Prime charged with a ground-shaking impact, while Starscream’s lithe form flipped and danced above his head, blades flashing in the moonlight. Blasts and grunts echoed through the canyon as the two titans collided—steel on steel, strategy against speed.
High above, something whirred.
A tiny, near-invisible human-made drone hovered, watching. Zoom lenses adjusted, silently locking onto Starscream’s lithe form as he delivered a sweeping kick to Optimus’s midsection and took to the sky again, wings unfolding in full glory.
Far away, in MECH’s command base, a feed streamed onto a monitor.
Silas leaned in.
The sight of the massive alien machine, agile, airborne, and undeniably beautiful in its aerial maneuvers, made something spark in the back of his mind.
“Pause,” he ordered.
The feed froze on a close-up of Starscream mid-flight, blades extended, armor sleek, wings slicing the air.
Silas smiled.
“Well, what do we have here?”
The camera panned back. Optimus was on the ground, adjusting his cannon. Starscream was in the air—faster, freer.
“A flying one,” Silas said softly. “An aerial bot. Not just a brute like Breakdown or that walking tank. This one’s… elegant. Precise.”
He turned to the technician. “Trace this location. I want every piece of data. Recordings, flight paths, radiation trails, anything left behind.”
“Sir?” the technician asked. “You want us to go after him?”
Silas turned, eyes hard. “No. I want him captured. Study his propulsion. His systems. That agility. If we can replicate it… we won’t just have a ground force. We’ll own the skies.”
Back in the desert, the fight was reaching its climax. Starscream, growing weary of the prolonged duel, disengaged with a blast of missiles and transformed, roaring into the sky.
Optimus didn’t pursue. He simply watched the seeker disappear into the clouds, brows knit in thought.
He hadn’t noticed the tiny glint of metal high above them.
But someone else had.
Back at MECH headquarters, Silas’s team had already begun a new file.
SUBJECT: STARSCREAM
Flight capabilities: confirmed
Weapons: plasma, serrated energon blades, aerial missiles
Personality: volatile, intelligent, proud
Status: Top Priority Acquisition
Silas stared at the footage one last time before shutting it off.
“We’ll have our own seeker soon enough.”
He turned to his men, eyes gleaming.
“Gentlemen… hunt him.”
It began subtly—small teams, camouflaged in desert gear, nestled in rocks or nestled in deep forests, sent to observe, not engage. Silas knew better than to provoke a force they didn’t yet understand. Starscream’s power was undeniable, but what intrigued him now was pattern.
“Subject is not meeting with other Decepticons,” one MECH field agent reported in hushed tones over comms. “No signs of communication. Repeats same flight route biweekly. Slows in regions with dense plant growth.”
Silas leaned back in his command chair. “Show me.”
The screen displayed a grainy feed from a long-range drone. Starscream, alone, wings tucked, walked through a forest clearing. Not stalking, not on alert.
Kneeling.
His claws brushed the petals of a vibrant purple flower, gentle and curious. He lifted it close to his face, optics narrowing—not in threat, but analysis.
The seeker muttered to himself.
“Bioluminescent pigmentation… nocturnal blooming cycle. Unusual for Earth flora.” He leaned in, sniffed, and recoiled. “Pungent. Possibly defensive secretion.”
Silas was still. The tech team exchanged confused looks.
Another day, another team.
Starscream perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. He extended a single talon into the breeze, testing wind resistance. His wings adjusted slightly. “Humidity high… stronger turbulence at low altitude. Adaptation of airfoils needed.”
Then, just as smoothly, he sat. Cross-legged. Silent.
Watching the horizon.
They compiled hours of footage. Observations. Silas reviewed them all.
“He’s not just a weapon,” he finally muttered. “He’s a scientist.”
A long-forgotten report floated to mind—Cybertronian caste structures, knowledge of Seekers being once-intellectuals and explorers. It clicked.
“He’s studying Earth,” Silas said, nearly in awe. “Not as a conqueror. As a… biologist.”
One agent, positioned deep in a tropical region, sent a near-frantic whisper through the comm:
“He just caught a snake with his claws. Gently. He’s… petting it.”
A pause. “Sir, I think he’s naming it.”
Silas was no fool. Knowledge was power. A weapon was predictable—but this?
This was new.
“Update Project Seeker,” Silas ordered coldly. “Behavioral profile: curious. Scientific orientation. Vulnerability: distraction via rare flora, fauna. Use this.”
He stepped closer to the projected image of Starscream kneeling before a field of bioluminescent mushrooms.
“We won’t just capture him,” he whispered. “We’ll bait him.”
Meanwhile, Starscream flew high above the jungle canopy, wings stretched wide in the fading light.
Freedom.
In these moments, away from Megatron’s barking orders and Decepticon politics, he could be himself. Not a warrior. Not a traitor.
A Seeker. An explorer. A scientist.
He found a secluded glade and landed with care, scanning the soil.
"Unusual energy readings. Could be geothermal… or something else,” he mused aloud, talons digging delicately. “Possibly… worth coming back to.”
From the shadows, unseen by him, a MECH camera whirred.
The trap was already being built.
-=-=-=-
Location: Pacific Northwest Forest – Unmapped Sector
Time: 0400 Hours
The forest was still, dewy with early morning mist. Moonlight filtered through dense trees and kissed the surface of a quiet stream. Hidden within the foliage, camouflaged to near invisibility, lay MECH’s newest trap: an artificial glade engineered to attract Subject: Starscream.
“Operation Nightshade is in position,” came the soft voice of a MECH technician. “Bioluminescent lures active. Plant samples coated with synthesized pheromones based on last week’s readings.”
“Deploy the drone decoy,” Silas ordered.
A small, floating machine released from its container, buzzing faintly. It mimicked the appearance and energy signature of a rare Cybertronian-compatible spore plant—one Starscream had previously investigated near volcanic vents. A perfect bait.
“He’ll come,” Silas said coldly, arms crossed. “He always returns to what he’s curious about. And when he does… he’ll walk into a field of sedatives, binding charges, and plasma nets calibrated to his exact armor resistance.”
His gaze narrowed. “Prepare containment.”
Hours later
Wings sliced silently through the cool air as Starscream descended from the clouds. His scanners picked up the strange anomaly again—just like before.
"You're a new one…" he muttered to himself, optics scanning. “You weren’t here last cycle.”
He landed lightly in the clearing, claws clicking on moss.
The glade glowed subtly with colors not native to Earth. The plants were unusual. Too unusual.
Starscream crouched, examining a cluster of fungal growths glowing faintly purple. “No root system… and yet producing myco-reactive spores? Hm…”
Then his optics sharpened. He inhaled slightly.
“…no natural scent.” He stood slowly. “And your leaves… are plastic.”
He looked up sharply—wings flaring.
Silence.
Then a sudden whine. A net launched from the tree line with near-silent propulsion.
Starscream didn’t even flinch.
With inhuman speed, he leapt, twisting in mid-air and throwing a blade. The net caught nothing but leaves. His blade embedded in the tree canopy—and exploded, revealing three MECH soldiers.
“Amateurs,” Starscream spat.
From every angle, drones and tranquilizer darts came flying. Starscream launched into the air, spinning mid-lift, claws slashing three nets apart as they shot toward him. Two plasma bolts grazed his wings—but only barely. A missile hit the ground near his foot, throwing up dirt and smoke.
He soared up above the canopy, turbines screaming, and vanished into the cloud cover.
Back at MECH HQ
The feed cut to static.
Silas’s jaw tightened. A long pause.
“Status report.”
“Eight operatives down. No casualties, but Subject escaped clean. We… we underestimated his reaction time, sir.”
Silas stared at the still image of the empty clearing.
“No,” he said softly. “We underestimated his intellect.”
He turned away, bitter, but with a glint of something else in his eyes.
Admiration? Or obsession?
Elsewhere, high above the Earth
Starscream banked hard in the sky, streaking through the stars as dawn began to rise below him. He wasn’t panting, but his optics were sharp with fury.
“Humans. MECH,” he hissed. “They think I’m a fool to chase flowers blindly?”
His anger softened slightly as he thought of the fabricated glade, of the way they had tried to mimic alien flora. As if they knew what they were doing.
“…But it was clever,” he murmured, grudgingly. “Almost convincing.”
He twirled through a pocket of warm air, then leveled out over the sea.
“Let’s see how long you last before I start hunting you.”
-=-=-=-
Location: The Nemesis — Decepticon Warship
Time: 0700 Hours, Earth Standard
The Nemesis hovered in geostationary orbit, its massive frame shrouded by cloud cover and stealth fields. Inside, the corridors were quiet—until the echo of rapid, uneven footsteps disturbed the silence.
Starscream strode through the entrance hatch of the warship, wings twitching, energon-stained talons scraping the metal floor. Bits of dirt clung to his armor. A long gash scored down his left thigh, still sizzling faintly from plasma residue.
He wasn’t limping.
He was seething.
“Starscream,” came the gravel-thick voice behind him.
The Seeker froze for the briefest moment, before turning with theatrical indifference. “Yes, Lord Megatron?”
Megatron stood at the end of the corridor, arms folded, red optics narrowed. His gaze slowly swept down Starscream’s dirt-smeared frame.
“You’re… filthy.”
Starscream blinked. “Yes. Thank you for stating the obvious.”
Megatron took a step forward, talons curling slightly. “I asked for a patrol, not a skirmish. What happened?”
Starscream casually swiped at a smear of mud on his wing. “Nothing of consequence,” he said. “Just an… overzealous little ambush by our human friends.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed further. “The Autobots?”
“No.” Starscream grinned, sharp and amused. “MECH.”
That gave the warlord pause.
“They attempted to capture me,” Starscream added with a purr of disdain. “Netting, tranquilizers, explosives… quite the production. Sloppy, of course. I escaped with barely a scratch.”
Megatron stared at him, unreadable.
Starscream began plucking moss out of his wing joint with one claw. “I think I’ll… play with them a little,” he said lightly. “They’re curious. I’m curious. It could be fun.”
“That is not your decision to make.”
Starscream’s optics flicked toward him, brow raised. “No? I handled myself just fine, did I not?”
“You should be withdrawing,” Megatron growled. “Laying low. Not parading through forests and letting yourself become a target.”
Starscream bared his denta in something not quite a smile. “So now you’re concerned?”
There was a flash of something in Megatron’s optics—frustration, maybe, or something darker.
“You are mine,” he said finally. “My second-in-command. If a human faction wants you badly enough to orchestrate multiple failed captures, I want to know why.”
He turned sharply to the shadows.
“Soundwave,” he said.
From the wall panel, the silent spymaster emerged like a ghost, visor already alight with files, signal intercepts, and energy readings.
Megatron didn’t even look at him.
“Find out what MECH wants with my Seeker. Now.”
Soundwave nodded and vanished again into the Nemesis systems.
Starscream huffed but didn’t protest. He turned to go, mud still dripping from his leg.
“You know…” he added over his shoulder, “If I’d known getting a little dirty would get me this much attention, I might’ve done it sooner.”
Megatron didn’t answer—but his gaze lingered on Starscream far longer than necessary.
-=-=-=-
Location: MECH Headquarters – Operations Core
Time: 0930 Hours
The dim glow of monitors painted Silas’ expressionless face in shades of blue and static green. Around him, technicians moved in silence, watching him from the corners of their eyes. The atmosphere was tense—MECH had just failed again to capture the Seeker designated Starscream, and Silas’s mood was not known for its mercy.
“Replay the Breakdown containment footage,” he ordered, voice cold.
One of the techs hesitated. “Sir… we’ve already—”
“I said replay it. High resolution. Full audio.”
The footage blinked to life: a static-laced replay of the Breakdown extraction incident. The camera captured the moment Soundwave infiltrated MECH’s bunker. A silent wraith—quick, surgical, unstoppable.
Silas leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
“Pause,” he said, pointing at the moment Soundwave paused beside a terminal, one hand raised, fingers brushing the side of his helm.
“Zoom and enhance.”
The technician did so.
A faint flicker—Soundwave’s visor blinked in a pulse pattern. A signal relay.
“There,” Silas muttered. “Audio channel.”
Another tech leaned over. “It’s encrypted—shortwave burst. We couldn’t decrypt it before.”
“Try again. Boost the gain. Filter by low-frequency distortion.”
The silence in the room deepened. After a few seconds, faint audio filtered in.
A voice—calm, clipped, dry.
“…Are you certain he is there?”
Another voice—emotionless, modulated.
[Affirmative.]
“Then I’ll distract the skywatch team. You get in, grab him, and get out.”
There was a pause. The next line came quietly, but unmistakably:
“You were right. He’s in that facility.”
The first voice—recognizable now. Silas clenched his jaw.
Starscream.
“…Starscream helped Soundwave recover Breakdown?” one of the operatives whispered, stunned.
Silas remained silent, watching the grainy footage where Soundwave sliced through guards without uttering a sound.
“He knew,” Silas said, almost to himself. “He knew where Breakdown was being held. He planned it. They both did.”
He turned to face the room.
“You’ve all been operating under the assumption that Starscream is a wild, unpredictable rogue. A weapon with wings.”
Silas’s mouth curled into a cold smirk.
“But no. He’s a tactician. A manipulator. And he’s working with Soundwave. That means every sighting, every near-capture, every failed drone tailing—we weren’t dealing with random chaos. We were being observed.”
He stepped toward the screen, watching Starscream’s shadowed face in the captured waveform.
“He is the complete opposite of Breakdown. Breakdown was a brawler. Predictable. Primitive. But Starscream…”
He turned away, voice lowering.
“Starscream hunts.”
A moment of silence followed.
“Sir,” one technician said nervously, “should we suspend pursuit?”
Silas didn’t answer immediately. Then:
“No. We refine pursuit. Send only our most skilled operatives. Small teams. Passive observation only. I want to know where he lands. What he watches. What he studies.”
His voice dropped further.
“And above all… I want to know what he’s planning.”
Location: MECH Headquarters – Sublevel Command Center
Time: 0137 Hours
The lab was dark, bathed only in the artificial glow of dozens of monitors and the hum of an experimental interface array. Silas stood alone in the heart of the command room, arms crossed behind his back, watching the final simulation run complete.
It worked.
The neural-splice interface, patched together from decades-old Cybertronian signal architecture and MECH’s own hybrid stealth tech, was finally ready. A convergence of brutal necessity and genius theft.
“All systems green, Director,” the lead engineer said quietly. “The infiltration gear is synced. Camouflage index is holding against residual energon scans.”
Silas turned his head slightly. “The team?”
“Already prepped. Operation Shadowfeather launches in T-minus ten minutes.”
Silas gave a slow nod. He knew it was mad—foolish, even—to risk human lives aboard a Decepticon warship. But the longer Starscream remained free, the clearer it became:
He wasn’t just a target.
He was a revelation.
And Silas wanted everything.
A mile-wide crater shimmered with residual energy from the Decepticon mining operation two days prior. Jagged energy stones still crackled at the rim, half-harvested. The Vehicons had long since vanished, their ground bridge closing behind them after loading the final transport crates.
Or so they thought.
A soft hum split the silence—and a pulse of light formed in the air. The grid signature flickered, then stabilized.
MECH's modified ground-bridge anchor—built from Prime’s stolen molecular key specs—latched onto the frequency like a parasite.
Four black-clad MECH operatives stepped forward, helmets sleek and insectoid, carrying sensor-disruptor packs and energon-tuned stealth gear.
Without a word, they stepped through the shimmering portal.
The team emerged in the dark. Dim, violet-lit corridors stretched out before them—silent and pulsing with low-frequency energon hums. A wall marked with Cybertronian glyphs confirmed it.
They were inside the Nemesis.
“…Readings confirm,” whispered operative Hawke. “Lower decks—armory vault, unused sector.”
“Perfect,” came the reply from Commander Juno. “They didn’t even notice. This ship’s too large. We’re ghosts.”
They moved quickly—hugging walls, avoiding drone patrols. Their suits hummed with adaptive camouflage, blurring into the metal around them.
“We stay close to primary target,” Juno said through the silent line. “No engagement. No noise. We observe. We learn.”
“And if we’re spotted?” another whispered.
“We don't get spotted.”
Hours passed. MECH’s squad followed the signal trail quietly. And finally—he appeared.
Starscream.
Tall, lithe, gleaming silver under Nemesis lighting, his back turned as he stood before a table littered with datapads, energon quills, and holographic projection files. He tapped thoughtfully through rotating scans of Earth’s biosphere—fauna analysis, botanic structure studies, evolutionary diagrams.
“He’s… studying them,” Hawke whispered, almost incredulous. “Like… like a scientist.”
“Keep recording,” Juno ordered quietly. “Everything.”
They watched silently as Starscream tilted his helm, then murmured something to himself, a strange, pensive look crossing his features. He crouched beside a terrarium cube—where a small Earth snake coiled sleepily under synthetic heat. Starscream tapped the glass with the gentlest touch, optics oddly soft.
Then, his posture shifted. Wings twitched.
“…Hnn. Someone tampered with my Earth-side surveillance relays,” Starscream muttered, voice sharp now. “Soundwave?”
A pause. The team froze in absolute silence as the Seeker turned toward the comm.
No answer came.
Starscream narrowed his optics, muttering something about inconsistencies. His claws danced over the controls, eyes scanning comm logs.
“…Time to recalibrate,” he said finally, tone cool again.
The team held their breath.
And then he turned his back once more, continuing to review his Earth field reports, none the wiser that humans—less than ants to him—were watching from the shadows.
Juno breathed out.
“Now we wait.”
-=-=-=-
Location: Decepticon Warship – Starscream’s Quarters (Cycle 0189 – Unoccupied Window)
The moment the Seeker left, the team struck.
Juno gave a silent hand signal. MECH’s infiltration squad slid into Starscream’s quarters like phantoms—suits still cloaked, footsteps noiseless on the gleaming alloy floor.
“Scanners up. Time is short,” Juno ordered, already sweeping a multispectrum detector across the surfaces.
Despite the militaristic sleekness of the room, the squad was stunned by what they found.
A dozen datapads were scattered across the room—not with weaponry data, as they expected, but scientific logs, hand-drawn maps, and custom-built simulations.
“Cloning now,” Hawke whispered, plugging a micro-siphon into one of the smaller pads. “It’s like… he’s building a database on Earth. Species... plants... planetary layers... even tectonics.”
Juno flipped through another. “…This one's written in two languages. Cybertronian and—English. The spelling’s formal. Latin names and everything.”
But it wasn’t until they found the black-trimmed datapad near a terrarium control console that they realized how deep the rabbit hole went.
The label on the top:
“Hobby.”
And inside—
Blueprints of hybrid tech: energy rifle designs, medical scanner improvements, low-energy reactors that could revolutionize human sustainability.
A folder marked “Human Pathogen Countermeasures”—filled with chemical sequences and notes describing synthesized treatments.
Not just treatments—cures.
Cures for ALS.
Experimental reversal for Huntington’s.
Retroviral inhibitors for aggressive cancer strains.
And notes on a mutagenic reversal therapy… for congenital blindness.
All described as mere “mental exercises.”
“Silas needs to see this now,” Juno muttered.
Hawke had already cloned the data pad. The upload pinged—encrypted and sent back to base.
Then came the more... personal revelations.
Another tab marked simply:
“Tastes.”
The team exchanged uneasy glances but opened it anyway.
Logs.
“Red energon: chemically unstable but metabolically rewarding. Taste profile notably sweeter than synthetic grade B. Sharp aftertaste. Intoxicating if consumed warm.”
“Preferred for long stargazing flights.”
They moved on.
A section labeled:
“Encyclopedia Terrae (V.7).”
Pages upon pages of handwritten entries, drafted in flawless Cybertronian with English subnotations.
Meticulously categorized flora. New insect species with detailed anatomical sketches. Predictions on climate change impact trajectories.
A hand-drawn map of an island, somewhere in the mid-Atlantic—undiscovered by humans.
“High probability of pre-extinction species surviving due to geothermal anomaly. Live dodo specimens confirmed. Will return to observe mating rituals. Curious if they prefer sunlit or shadowed clearings.”
Another page—bathymetric scans of the ocean trenches.
“Specimens: Gigantothermic squid subtypes. Pressure-adapted vertebrates. Life thrives in shadows.”
“…He’s… better at this than we are,” Hawke whispered, shaken.
Juno didn’t reply.
None of them did.
They had entered thinking Starscream a target, a weapon. But what they found instead was a scientist. An explorer. An intellectual titan… who dabbled in curing humanity’s greatest plagues between battles.
All as a way to pass the time.
And MECH wasn’t even sure if he thought humans worth noticing.
Location: MECH Headquarters – Private Server Room
Silas stared at the uploaded contents in total silence.
His reflection in the screen seemed small. Irrelevant.
The scroll of data, the cures, the maps, the journal entries—unfolded like scripture from a far more evolved world.
He leaned closer.
“…All of this… was done in his spare time,” Silas whispered.
Starscream’s name—once a tactical label, a nuisance—now took on a terrifying new meaning.
He wasn’t just a Seeker.
He was a god playing scientist.
-=-=-=-=-
Location: MECH Medical Development Lab – 3 Weeks Later
The atmosphere in the lab was one of desperation wrapped in sterile white.
Silas stood behind the reinforced glass, observing the team of biochemists, nanotech engineers, and pharmacologists MECH had scoured from across the black market and corrupted corners of academia. The air was tense. Not from pressure—but frustration.
He clenched his hands behind his back. “Report.”
Dr. Faulkner, his lead virologist, turned from her screen with a mix of exhaustion and resentment.
“We’ve managed to identify less than ten percent of the compounds Starscream described. The rest... they don’t exist in the periodic table as we know it.”
Silas’s eyes narrowed. “You mean they’re Cybertronian?”
“No. Worse. They’re hybrids. Combinations of molecular structures we thought were unstable. Some shouldn't even function at room temperature. And yet his notes indicate full stability in Earth gravity.”
Another scientist, Dr. Raymond, chimed in bitterly. “It’s not just the materials. The math—he’s not using any human equations. He’s working off a logic system that looks like theoretical quantum branching, but...”
“But what?”
Raymond sighed. “We think it’s a language of calculation. His own. Not Cybertronian. Not human. Custom.”
Faulkner tapped the screen and pulled up a sequence: a tangle of shifting geometric shapes overlaid with color-coded protein chains.
“We tried to create the enzyme for the ALS therapy. The sequence folds backward, violates known biochemical rules, and somehow still works in his simulations. We tried to replicate it.”
Silas raised an eyebrow. “Results?”
“We killed the test cells.”
Location: MECH Command Room – Two Hours Later
Silas stared down at the failed samples. Dozens of petri dishes. Some had melted. Others had crystallized mid-reaction. One had even become... gelatinous and twitched.
A complete, humiliating failure.
And yet... Starscream had created the cures casually.
No labs. No machines. Just his mind. And a datapad.
No wonder Soundwave trusted him enough to guide him to Breakdown’s location.
Silas looked up at the holographic projection of the Seeker’s profile.
Cold optics. That infuriating smirk. A mind that saw humans the way humans saw ants—fascinating only when doing something unexpected.
And still, he had written cures for them.
Silas whispered to himself:
“If we had him—just for a week… we could rewrite history.”
He stared long and hard at the screen, voice low with something between admiration and obsession.
“Starscream… you’re not just a weapon. You’re the future.”
He turned toward the planning board.
“Begin phase two. I want him alive. No damage to neural components. No frontal cortex interference. He needs to think. Talk.”
Faulkner hesitated. “Sir… that means he’ll also manipulate us.”
Silas smiled darkly.
“Of course. That’s why we’ll manipulate him first.”
Chapter Text
Location: Nemesis – Starscream’s Quarters – Night Cycle
The low hum of the Nemesis’s engine was the only sound echoing through the shadowed halls. The vessel was vast, nearly alive, but without central heating it was a cold, merciless behemoth—especially at this altitude. Starscream’s boots clicked faintly as he entered his quarters, the door hissing shut behind him.
He trembled slightly, vents releasing a puff of steam as condensation gathered along his wings. His chassis was slick with mist, his digits curled close to his sides. The atmospheric cold of Earth’s upper stratosphere had settled into his joints and didn’t want to leave.
He muttered to himself, wings giving a weak twitch.
“Of course the mighty Decepticon flagship doesn’t need something as pedestrian as environmental regulation… Megatron probably thinks shivering builds character…”
He grumbled and stripped off the shoulder plating, his frame a little hunched. Still dignified. Still poised. But tired. Vulnerable, in that private way only solitude allowed.
And he didn’t know he wasn’t alone.
Location: Nemesis Armage – Hidden Compartment
MECH’s spy team watched from the sliver of visual access they’d carved between the maintenance crawlspace and Starscream’s room—through tiny camo-drones latched to the far wall, feeding directly to Silas. The feed was grainy in the low light, but it captured everything.
He looked… drained.
Shaking. Chilled.
And yet still, with a strange grace. He walked toward a side console, opened a panel with practiced fingers, and pulled out a red vial of energon. He stared at it for a second—considering—and downed it with a tired sigh.
His voice, softer than usual, filled the air.
“Sweet. Good. Just like I prefer. Not that anyone bothers to ask.”
Then he sat—gracefully folding one knee up, datapad in hand. He opened a document: a sketched outline of the Pacific Ocean.
From MECH’s feed, the silhouette of a dodo could be seen next to coral reef analysis. The pad glowed faintly as he worked.
And then… a faint shiver again.
He paused, clutched his arms briefly, and cursed.
“Should have stolen that Autobot heat regulator when I had the chance…”
Location: MECH Outpost – Silas’s Command Center
“Sir.” The spy team’s lead crackled in on comms. “We’re out of rations. Two cycles now. If we don’t return, risk of exposure rises.”
Silas didn’t answer immediately. He was staring at the screen.
The Seeker had drawn something new—an extinct lizard-like species from the Mariana Trench. He labeled the muscular structure in Cybertronian script with cross-linguistic Earth notes. It was elegant.
Finally, Silas spoke.
“Withdraw. Quietly. Take the crawlspace route and trigger no alerts. I want the cloned data backed up and encrypted. You’ve done well.”
“But, sir—what about—”
“He’s cold. He’s alone. And he’s building a world no human even imagines exists. Let him think he’s alone a little longer.”
Silas leaned back in his chair, eyes shining with something rare in him.
Wonder then The door hissed open with its familiar, hydraulically-muted sigh. Starscream didn’t turn.
“I didn’t request company.”
Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, echoed behind him. Familiar. Calculated. Megatron.
“You didn’t have to,” the Warlord’s voice rumbled low.
Starscream finally looked over his shoulder—and paused. Megatron was holding something—an odd, unfamiliar shape draped over his arm. Fabric. Thick and dark. It was…
A blanket.
Before Starscream could speak, Megatron stepped close—too close—and placed the heavy cover over his shoulders. The Seeker stiffened. His wings twitched.
“What is this supposed to be?” Starscream asked, tone half suspicious, half defensive.
Megatron’s optics softened, only slightly. “A precaution. I’m aware Seekers are unable to produce internal heat when grounded for long periods. Extended exposure could send you into stasis.”
Starscream blinked. “I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I am not.” But he was. Even now, he instinctively clutched the blanket tighter.
Location: MECH Command Feed – Silas’s Monitor
The spy feed was still live.
Silas leaned closer to the screen, noticing the subtle tension—the blanket, the physical proximity. He expected Megatron to give a command, berate him for appearing weak, maybe even lash out. But none of that happened.
Instead… they talked. Low, intimately. Flirtatiously.
“I suppose this means I owe you thanks,” Starscream said with a light tilt of his helm, mouth curled in a knowing smirk.
Megatron’s optics gleamed. “You could repay me with silence. Or perhaps—” his voice dropped an octave, suggestive “—something more… kinetic.”
Starscream rolled his optics. “Oh, please. Spare me your dramatics. I'm still busy—”
Then, without warning, he pulled Megatron down by the collar cables and kissed him.
It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t even soft. It was confident. Slow. Intimate in a way Silas hadn’t believed possible between machines.
The Decepticon leader responded with a low growl of satisfaction, venting heat gently against Starscream’s cheek.
“I know a far better way to keep you warm,” Megatron murmured.
Starscream smirked against his mouth. “Tempting. But I have work to finish. Maybe later, if you ask nicely.”
Back at MECH Command
Silas froze.
His technicians exchanged stunned glances. The air in the room seemed to thicken.
“…They… can do that?” one whispered.
Silas didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were glued to the footage.
Cybertronians could… bond? Intimately? Could they even… reproduce? The implications were staggering. Evolutionary divergence, or biological engineering? Were they entirely synthetic—or something more?
Silas leaned back slowly, mind racing.
“Change priority,” he ordered.
“Sir?”
“I want everything on Cybertronian interrelations. Physiology. Reproduction, if applicable. Emotional synching. There’s more to this than war tech. Starscream… might be the single most valuable subject on Earth.”
And for the first time, Silas didn’t sound just like a strategist.
He sounded obsessed.
The room was dim, the air heavy with heat from the servers running nearly non-stop. A wall of screens reflected on Silas's glasses, each one flashing images of Starscream—reading, sketching, working on datapads, occasionally talking to himself in Cybertronian. Some frames showed fragments of the intimate moment with Megatron that had left Silas stunned two days earlier.
Now, the agents had returned safely, bruised, hungry, but otherwise unharmed. The spy cam they'd hidden, disguised within the frame of Starscream's own ventilation panel, remained active. And most importantly—it remained undetected.
"He's leaving his quarters," came a voice from a nearby station. "Moving west, deeper into the Nemesis. Data says he's headed toward Soundwave’s command deck."
Silas leaned in, hands folded beneath his chin. “Excellent. Keep recording. I want every word exchanged between them.”
“Spy cam audio’s holding at 78% clarity,” another tech reported. “We’ve lost nothing so far.”
“Good,” Silas replied. “Now… prepare the project file: Siren Protocol.”
Location: The Nemesis – Starscream’s Quarters
Empty.
Silent.
The camera's lens adjusted, watching as the sliding door shut with a smooth hiss, leaving the quarters still and dim once more.
The room held signs of activity—datapads scattered across the desk, energon cubes in various flavors, strange colorful sketches of birds, flora, mammals. The most recent project was a topographical mapping of a submerged island Silas’s team confirmed didn’t exist on any Earth registry. And in the corner, the thick black-and-red blanket Megatron had brought him was folded with surprising care atop the recharge slab.
The recording continued as footsteps echoed into the distance, Starscream’s voice fading down the corridor:
“I’ll see Megatron. He’ll want to know I’ve recalibrated the energon relay systems myself. Again.”
The corridor swallowed his words. He was gone.
Location: MECH Base – Command Room
“We’ve seen enough,” Silas finally said, after long minutes passed.
He turned from the screens, addressing the returning team and the lead tech crew. “We’ve gathered proof of three major points: One, Starscream is fiercely intelligent. Two, he’s emotionally driven—he craves recognition, validation, even affection. That moment with Megatron wasn’t just a fluke. It was confirmation of emotional dependence.”
He clicked a remote. A still frame appeared on the screen: Starscream, wrapped in the blanket, mid-conversation with Megatron.
“Three,” Silas continued, “he is driven by curiosity, not just survival. His scientific mind seeks understanding, even beauty.”
The room was silent.
Then, Silas smiled.
“We can use that.”
He gestured to his technicians. “Project Siren Protocol begins now. We’re going to fabricate a distress beacon—encrypted in a Cybertronian dialect similar to Starscream’s own scientific subroutines. The kind of signal he might mistake for a long-lost Seeker code. The message will be laced with false telemetry, suggesting another Seeker was captured by a primitive species and needs immediate aid.”
A pause. “When Starscream investigates, we’ll have him.”
One agent frowned. “Sir, with all due respect… wouldn’t the Decepticons detect that too?”
Silas turned, cold smile in place. “Not if we hide the signal as a faint echo, barely distinguishable from natural planetary noise. Only someone actively scanning for Seeker tech frequencies would notice it. And Starscream does that regularly—his logs show he has a subroutine scanning for such anomalies every few cycles.”
They were stunned.
“And what happens when he gets there?”
Silas’s expression darkened.
“Then we play our last card. A synthetic construct—based on the patterns of his interactions with Megatron. Body structure shaped from their data, voice modulated from our audio samples, behavior routines mapped from observation. It doesn’t need to convince him long-term. Just long enough for the sedative gases to activate.”
“You want to build a… Cybertronian siren?”
“Yes. Not a perfect duplicate. Just enough to mimic warmth. Intelligence. Even a little flirtation. We'll make him curious. Make him drop his guard. Emotional bait.”
“And if he doesn’t fall for it?”
“He will,” Silas said simply, with terrifying certainty. “He’s brilliant. But brilliance doesn’t cancel out loneliness. And someone like Starscream? He’s been undervalued, dismissed, hated, and manipulated. The one person who gives him attention also commands him. What we offer… is admiration. Empathy. A peer.”
Location: The Nemesis – Command Deck
Starscream arrived to find Soundwave and Megatron already mid-conversation, holographic projections of energon storage data floating between them.
“Finally,” Megatron said without looking up. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”
“I was recalibrating your precious systems,” Starscream replied dryly. “You’re welcome.”
Megatron’s optics flicked toward him—and lingered. “And you look warmer now.”
Starscream tilted his helm. “Hmph. I’m not a protoform, Megatron. I won’t freeze that easily.”
“But you’re still staying on base for the next few cycles,” Megatron said bluntly.
Starscream blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Until we know what MECH wants from you, you’re grounded,” Soundwave translated in silence.
Starscream narrowed his optics. “You suspect something?”
Megatron glanced at Soundwave, who nodded slightly.
“We know something. They're watching. Possibly even from within. And until Soundwave and I are certain you're not walking into a trap... you stay here.”
The Seeker’s wings twitched—but something in Megatron’s tone wasn’t just concern. It was protectiveness.
Starscream scoffed—but didn’t argue.
“Fine. But I demand to be updated. I won’t be kept like a fragile crystal in a vault. If they want me—then they’re playing a very dangerous game.”
-=-=-=-
Location: MECH Facility – Sublevel Epsilon
A mechanized door slid open with a pressurized hiss, revealing a chamber drenched in an eerie, pale blue glow. Frost curled along the steel floor, and the air shimmered faintly from the sheer frigidity within. Inside, every surface was polished, sterile, and dangerous. It was a room designed not for storage, nor experimentation—but for containment.
Silas stepped inside, donned in a heavy thermal suit lined with synthetic insulation. Even through the reinforced layers, he felt the bite of the chill clawing at his skin.
Behind him followed Dr. Wendell Kross, head of cryo-engineering, flanked by two MECH operatives clad in similar survival suits. They entered slowly, boots crunching on a thin rime of ice forming on the floor.
"Report," Silas commanded, his breath fogging visibly inside the face shield.
Dr. Kross gestured toward the center of the chamber—a tall, reinforced cradle unit, built from Cybertronian-grade alloys scavenged from downed Vehicons, connected to a complex array of umbilical cables that slithered across the floor like frozen serpents.
“This, sir, is the culmination of our CryoNet Initiative,” Kross said proudly. “The Cold Chamber has been calibrated specifically for Seeker physiology. Based on our intercepted data, Starscream lacks the ability to thermoregulate—a consequence of Seeker frame types being designed for high-altitude and spaceflight performance, not internal heat generation.”
He stepped forward, tapping the transparent canopy of the central restraint cradle. "Once locked in, the temperature will drop to near-cryogenic levels: negative 140 degrees Celsius. Cold enough to destabilize motor function, eventually forcing a Seeker into stasis lock without causing irreparable damage."
Silas folded his arms. "And if he resists?"
Kross smiled faintly. “He won’t for long. The atmosphere in here is composed of nitrogen-rich, zero-oxygen microbursts, released in controlled pulses through these nozzles.” He pointed to several small ports built into the walls and ceiling. “The exposure will make respiration difficult for him. Combined with his low cold resistance, we calculate a 92% success rate of incapacitation in under eight minutes.”
"And the control infrastructure?"
The scientist led Silas to a bank of machines lined against the wall, bristling with diagnostic monitors, injection ports, and high-speed data lines.
“All these cables are routed directly into the cradle interface,” Kross explained. “Each is connected to the MECH mainframe. Once restrained, Starscream’s neural frequency will be monitored in real time. His speech patterns, memory sequencing, spark rate fluctuations—everything will be logged.”
He paused, then gestured toward one specific black cable, thicker than the rest, with a pressurized injector cartridge attached near the end.
“This one is special,” Kross said. “A timed neurotoxin feed, designed to inject a powerful tranquilizer cocktail directly into the spinal gap near his neck—Cybertronians are more vulnerable there, as you know. We’ve calibrated the dose to suppress cognition and maintain passive compliance. The dose can be remotely activated at intervals.”
“Perfect,” Silas murmured, his voice almost reverent.
They walked further along the edge of the room, past glowing coils that radiated cold mist from their bases. Monitors flickered with diagnostics from the last test run—dummy targets placed inside had frozen solid within moments. A screen looped through an animation of Starscream’s schematics, highlighting biological weak points in bright red.
Kross tapped one screen with gloved fingers. “We also set up biometric relay points—should his spark rate spike above danger levels, the system will stabilize temperature gradually. He’ll survive, but only just.”
Silas stared at the chamber for a long moment, silent.
Then he spoke slowly, as if savoring the words.
“Everything he is—his brilliance, his knowledge, his unpredictable behavior—reduced to a frozen, compliant data source.”
Kross nodded. “He’ll never know what hit him.”
Outside the sealed door, a red light blinked as automated systems cooled the chamber even further. Frost crept visibly down the sealed glass viewport like fingers grasping for the warmth that wasn’t there.
“Begin countdown for final calibration,” Silas said. “Prepare the transport platform. The bait operation begins in forty-eight hours.”
“And the chamber will be ready?”
Kross smiled.
“She already is.”
-=-=-=-
Location: Hidden MECH Operation Zone – Cliffside Deployment Base
Silas stood at the central command module of a disguised transport truck, eyes locked on the screen. The Cold Chamber was prepped off-site—but the capture phase? That began here.
The helicopters were already in position, camouflaged under an artificial fog cloud generated by one of MECH’s new emission masks. Each black craft was outfitted with shockproof steel nets, tranquilizer launchers, and cable winches connected to stabilizer claws designed specifically to latch onto a Seeker’s limb structure.
Their secret weapon, however, were the zero nitrogen cannons mounted below. The instant Starscream fell into the artificial valley, the nozzles would fire a cloud of freezing gas to paralyze his thrusters midair and knock him to the ground. Silas smiled. The moment the Seeker was grounded and subdued, the cables would latch on, drag him to the extraction zone, and inject the sedative cocktail into the back of his neck.
“Initiate final positions,” Silas ordered coldly. “We only get one shot.”
Across the valley, MECH soldiers adjusted dials, tightened winch lines, and prepared high-density tranquilizer cartridges.
Above them, far beyond MECH’s surveillance radar, a completely different observer was watching.
Location: Mountain Cliff Overlook – Nearby
William Fowler stood near the edge of a steep bluff, wind tugging at his jacket. Behind him, his personal military chopper waited, blades slowly rotating. The federal agent raised his high-powered binoculars again, focusing on the strange convoy that had moved into the area under the cover of night.
“What in Uncle Sam’s bald eagle breath are you up to, Silas…” he murmured.
Fowler had been trailing MECH activity ever since Starscream’s name began appearing in encrypted communications. The fact they’d deployed three helicopters, one mobile base, and countless personnel toward a region with no Energon deposits was more than suspicious—it reeked of a trap.
He lowered his binoculars and flipped on his communicator, tuning to Autobot frequency.
“Prime, come in. This is Agent Fowler.”
::[Optimus Prime here. Go ahead.]::
“I’ve got a bad feeling. MECH’s gathering in sector 7-Delta. Something big. They've got air units and enough cryo gear to freeze a damn glacier. I think they’re after Starscream.”
::[Understood. We will mobilize immediately.]::
Fowler's gaze narrowed. “Whatever they’re planning... it’s going down in the next hour.”
-=-=-=-
Location: Nemesis – Seeker’s Quarters
The room was dim and sterile, lit only by the dull blue glow of Starscream’s console. The air inside the Nemesis was frigid again—naturally—but the Seeker sat still, talons hovering over a rotating energy scan. His wings fluttered with subtle tension.
A strange energy signature had pinged his instruments just moments ago. It was faint, distant, barely noticeable—something easily dismissed.
But Starscream didn’t dismiss things easily.
The signature wasn't exactly Energon, but it was close… dangerously close. Faint tremors, a pull on the frequencies he used to scan long-distance materials. Starscream’s optics narrowed, fangs showing in a thin line.
"A pocket of unstable Energon?" he murmured. "Or a new variety? Hmph. If it is new, Megatron would undoubtedly try to keep it for himself and ruin it with his lack of finesse."
He stared a second longer… and made a decision.
He slipped away from his workbench, cloak draped over one arm, and stepped into the corridor. He didn't bother informing anyone. Not even Soundwave. What was the point? It was likely nothing, and if it was something, he wanted first claim.
Location: Outside Nemesis – Launch Hangar
The sky above the ocean was bleak, cloud-thick and pale with the hue of early dawn. Starscream emerged onto the launch pad quietly, glancing around. No one was near. The Vehicons were busy organizing storage in the lower levels.
The moment was perfect.
Transforming in a sleek motion into his jet form, he boosted from the deck in a roar of engines and disappeared into the horizon, his signal masked. Starscream flew fast and low, wings slicing through the cold morning air, his sensors locked on the source of the strange frequency.
He didn’t know that behind him, a small drone camera hidden within his quarters—one of MECH’s—continued to stream footage back to Silas in real time.
Location: MECH Mobile Command – Hidden Mountain Valley
Silas stood tall before the operations table as the latest feed streamed in. His soldiers were already deployed around the edges of a frozen canyon, gear at the ready.
“He’s taken the bait,” a tech confirmed. “Signal’s been traced. He’s heading directly to the trap zone.”
Silas smiled. “Excellent. Prepare the nitrogen pumps. Set all tranquilizer dispensers to standby. He’s coming blind.”
He turned to a tall window where, behind reinforced glass, the Cold Chamber glimmered with ice-rimed walls. Liquid nitrogen pulsed through long, high-pressure coils, and computer cables ran like veins along the floor, ready to drain every piece of data from the Seeker’s systems.
Inside the chamber was a central docking rig shaped to restrain Starscream’s frame. Injectors waited near the backplate for his neck. The chill inside was already so severe that every technician wore full thermal suits.
“Once we have him sedated,” Silas said coldly, “the data extraction begins. We'll learn every secret in his processor—and build our future on it.”
Location: Skies Above the Trap Zone – Canyon Edge
Starscream slowed his approach, transforming into robot mode midair. Below him, the canyon stretched wide and desolate—barren rock, carved deep by some ancient cataclysm.
The signal pulsed again. Close now. Directly below.
Starscream’s optics flickered uncertainly.
“…Strange… no wildlife signatures. No seismic instability. Why would Energon be—”
A sudden, howling wind rose from the canyon. A shimmer of vapor exploded upward—and instantly, Starscream’s wings stiffened.
The temperature dropped by tens of degrees in seconds.
“W-what?!” he gasped, thrusters faltering. “What is this—!?”
Cannons hidden along the canyon wall fired, clouds of super-cooled nitrogen flooding the air around him. His metal plating steamed with frost, limbs jerking as systems tried to compensate. His wings, so sensitive to temperature, froze solid.
He spiraled downward.
CRASH!
Starscream hit the canyon floor, hard, and rolled across jagged stone. He struggled to rise, hissing and trembling as white mist poured across his frame. Every joint began to seize, his internal heater struggling but failing to push back the cold.
From above, MECH helicopters dropped low, black silhouettes against the pale sky. Their winches released heavy cables tipped with electromagnetic clasps. Tranquilizer injectors armed on their undersides.
Starscream’s optics widened.
He fired a desperate volley of null rays, striking one of the choppers and sending it spinning out of control. But the others circled tighter.
Cables launched. One caught his left ankle, the other his arm. His wing, too frozen to flap, cracked under its own rigidity. Starscream cried out, struggling—but another blast of freezing gas hit him full in the face.
A click behind his neck.
Then—
Hiss.
The tranquilizer stabbed in.
Starscream’s optics flickered. He snarled—but his limbs began to slacken.
His processor clouded with artificial calm, laced with painkillers and coolant inhibitors. He dropped to one knee, vision flickering as MECH soldiers approached in suits, prepping the transport rig.
He tried to move.
He couldn’t.
Everything went cold.
Location: Cliffside – High Above
William Fowler ducked low behind a rock formation, watching the scene through binoculars.
“Damn it…”
He turned, flipping open his communicator.
“Fowler to base. MECH just caught themselves a damn Decepticon.”
::[This is Prime. What do you see?]::
“They’ve got Starscream in some kind of freezing trap—specialized. They were ready for him, Prime. They knew exactly how to take him down.”
::[Coordinates received. We’re en route.]::
Fowler stood up, voice grim.
“You better hurry.”
-=-=-=-
Location: Airspace above the canyon – moments later
The roar of rotor blades thundered across the sky as MECH’s helicopters rose sharply, black machines clawing at the clouds, long thick cables tethered tightly to their precious cargo.
Starscream’s frame hung limp beneath them, suspended like a broken marionette.
His limbs dangled, bound by specialized electromagnet clamps. Thin frost etched across his armor, most noticeably along his wings and shoulders. His sharp claws were curled tightly against the cold, and patches of ice clung to his side vents, a few long cracks spidering out where the frigid air had stressed his outer frame.
The once-proud Seeker—so full of fire, secrets, and arrogance—now swung silently in the air, his helm tilted downward in stasis.
::“We have visual on the Decepticon—repeat, Starscream is being extracted!”:: Bumblebee’s comm crackled with urgency as the Autobots skidded to a halt on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the valley.
Optimus Prime stood at the front, optics narrowed.
“Too late,” he said quietly. “They have him.”
The team watched helplessly as the lead chopper tilted and accelerated toward the distant mountains, dragging Starscream like a trophy beneath it. The secondary helicopter followed, covering the rear.
But then—
Boom! Boom!
A wall of explosions erupted at the base of the cliff. MECH ground forces emerged from a hidden ravine—tanks and trucks with mounted turrets, drone walkers firing suppressive rounds. A thin mist of cold nitrogen spread along the ground like a curtain.
“Ambush!” shouted Arcee. “They were expecting us!”
Bulkhead took a shot to the side, growling as he charged forward to block the line of fire, buying time. Ratchet ducked back to cover Bumblebee, who fired rapid blasts toward the enemy positions—but none of them could risk flying after the helicopters while under attack.
Optimus raised his ion blaster and returned fire, his voice low and hard. “We cannot let them distract us. They are stalling.”
And they were. The ground troops weren’t trying to kill—just delay. Delay for a few more precious minutes.
Location: MECH Mobile Facility – Cold Chamber
“Get him inside!” Silas barked, already at the control station as the helicopters landed outside the hangar.
Soldiers scrambled, hauling Starscream’s heavy, inert body down the loading ramp. The tranquilizer was already wearing off—exactly as predicted.
“Vitals rising,” said the lead tech. “Reflex motor sensors beginning to reengage. Processor warming.”
“Then move faster,” Silas snapped. “We have less than two minutes before he’s capable of resisting.”
The moment Starscream was wheeled into the Cold Chamber, the temperature dropped further. Frost spread along the metal tiles as he was raised onto the restraint cradle, a curved rig designed specifically for his Seeker frame.
Mechanical arms locked his wrists and ankles into place. Another arm moved behind his helm—click—inserting a second tranquilizer, this time with a longer half-life. Gas hissed into the chamber.
His wings shivered—twitching involuntarily.
“He’s reacting. Beginning to stir,” warned the tech. “Start extraction feeds now!”
Thick cables snaked from the ceiling, one plugging into the data port behind Starscream’s shoulder, another attaching to his spinal interface. Several smaller cords slid into chest and hip plates, siphoning every trickle of power and signal.
A final wire, filled with faintly glowing fluid, was inserted into a slot beneath his neck plating—the real failsafe. Laced with sedative, coolant, and a micro-tracker, it would keep him docile… barely.
The Seeker trembled once.
A flicker passed behind his visor—but he didn’t wake.
“Containment stable,” announced the scientist. “He’s under.”
Silas crossed his arms, watching from the outside as the Seeker who humiliated them, the Seeker who outsmarted even their best minds, was now hanging helpless inside a frozen coffin of steel and ice.
“Begin full data extraction,” Silas said coldly. “Let’s see what secrets this one has buried.”
The hum of cables began, slow at first, then louder—like a machine awakening.
Location: Cliffside – Autobot Position
The last of the MECH ground team retreated into the mountain forests, several of their vehicles burning behind them. Bulkhead stood with a smoking arm cannon. Arcee wiped blood from her lip.
But the helicopters were already gone.
“I saw the direction they went,” said Fowler, stepping out from the brush with a scowl. “They’re headed for the northern range. That’s tundra country. We’ll lose them in that weather.”
“Starscream was still alive,” said Bumblebee. “I saw him twitch.”
“Barely,” Ratchet muttered. “But if MECH is doing what I think they’re doing… he’s not going to stay ‘barely alive’ for long.”
Optimus looked to the sky, voice grave.
“We need to find MECH’s facility—and we need to do it before they strip Starscream of everything he knows.”
And more quietly, without the others hearing:
“Before they destroy what little of him remains.”
-=-=-=-
Location: Autobot Base – Communications Room
The silence after the battle still weighed heavily in the command center. The Autobots stood around the console, battered, frustrated—and defeated.
Optimus Prime loomed over the controls, his optics dimmed with internal conflict. Ratchet stood to his side, arms crossed.
“You’re really going to contact him?” Ratchet asked.
“I must,” Optimus said, his voice resolute. “MECH has done what even the Decepticons would never dare—kidnap a Cybertronian for experimentation. Starscream may be many things, but what they’re doing to him is… wrong.”
Bumblebee nodded, quietly. Arcee scowled but said nothing.
Ratchet finally sighed and stepped back. “Fine. But be ready for Megatron to laugh in your face.”
Optimus didn’t answer. He opened the secure frequency.
::“Megatron. This is Optimus Prime. We must speak.”::
Location: The Nemesis – Megatron’s War Room
The Decepticon warlord stood in front of the central console, one servo resting heavily on the hilt of his fusion cannon.
When Optimus’s voice echoed through the bridge, every Vehicon present stiffened. Even Soundwave turned his helm slightly toward the comm feed.
Megatron’s optics narrowed.
::“You dare to contact me, Prime? What pathetic truce are you begging for today?”::
::“None. I contact you because Starscream has been taken by MECH.”::
A pause.
Megatron chuckled—a low, dry rasp.
::“You expect me to believe that your humans have captured my Air Commander? He slithers out of anything like an oil-slicked eel. Surely, this is a ploy.”::
::“I saw it myself,” Optimus said. “They used freezing weapons—traps made specifically for his physiology. They planned this.”::
Megatron’s expression hardened.
Still, he looked toward Soundwave with doubt.
“Soundwave,” he growled, “prove him wrong.”
The silent mech raised his arm. A flicker of light, data streaming. Then—
Footage played of the hangar, grainy but clear: Starscream leaving his quarters in a hurry, drawn by some unknown signal. Then the moment the external gates opened.
The timestamp matched.
Megatron’s fists clenched.
“Starscream left the base… without informing anyone?”
Another flick of Soundwave’s fingers.
A short, glitched feed: the edge of a forest, Starscream hovering in the air—and then falling, struck midflight. Cables wrapping around him. Frost spreading over his wings.
The feed ended.
Megatron stared at the screen. Then he turned, swiftly, and slammed his fist into the steel console, denting the thick Decepticon alloy.
“Fools.” His voice was low and dangerous. “They took him. They took him.”
The bridge went quiet.
Not even the Vehicons dared breathe.
For a moment, the fearsome warlord looked not just enraged—but haunted. He turned back toward the comm channel, optics blazing.
::“Where.”::
::“They escaped to the northern range,” Optimus said. “We are tracking them, but the terrain is difficult. Your help could ensure we get there in time.”::
Megatron growled.
::“You want a truce?”::
::“A temporary alliance. We share a goal: rescuing a Cybertronian from human violation.”::
Megatron didn’t reply right away.
Behind the fury, something else burned in his core.
He had watched Starscream over the years shift from coward to commander to something far more… complex. In recent cycles, their tensions had turned into proximity. Even affection, cloaked behind snapping arguments and veiled threats. Megatron never admitted it. Not even to himself.
But the idea of someone else having Starscream—stripping him of his spark, his secrets, and that infernal, brilliant mind?
It made his Energon boil.
::“Fine, Prime. We find him together. But if you betray me—”::
::“You won’t have the chance to kill me. Because MECH will have already done it.”::
For the first time, Megatron smirked—but there was no joy in it.
“Soundwave,” he commanded. “Track their signal. Prepare for deployment.”
As the bridge buzzed with tension, Megatron allowed himself a brief second of silence.
Starscream…
He did not speak the name aloud.
But every step he took toward the armory was a silent vow.
They would not keep what was his.
Location: MECH Arctic Research Facility – Sublevel 3: Cryogenic Containment Chamber
A shrill, rapid alarm began to echo through the corridors—high-pitched, urgent, and not part of any scheduled system check. A red light pulsed above the security bulkheads. On the main cryochamber monitor, Starscream’s vitals had spiked.
“Sir!” one of the technicians shouted from behind the glass. “He’s waking up!”
Silas turned, flanked by two armed guards and a researcher carrying a datapad. “Impossible,” Silas muttered. “He was dosed. The tranquilizer feed is still active.”
“It is being delivered,” another scientist confirmed, adjusting the needle-like catheter that snaked from the wall into the base of Starscream’s neck. “But… he’s resisting it. His neural responses are outpacing the sedative.”
Silas’s eyes narrowed, stepping closer to the glass.
Beyond the heavy triple-layered barrier, the chamber was filled with fog. The bitter cold condensed even in the air, frosting over the inside surfaces. Starscream sat upright against the far wall, wrists and ankles clamped in high-grade steel shackles connected by data and restraint cables to the floor grid. Frost coated his joints and plating. His wings were slightly folded but twitched—one of them cracked from ice and visibly moved despite it.
His optics were dim, flickering with signs of pain—but they were open.
A snarl twisted his faceplate as he glared at the observation window.
“You’re awake,” Silas said through the speaker system, voice calm, curious.
Starscream spat a weak stream of frozen Energon to the side.
“Brilliant deduction,” the Seeker hissed, his voice ragged. “You kidnapped me. Shackled me. Drugged me. And stuck me in a walking glacier.”
Silas tilted his head. “We expected the tranquilizers to last much longer. Fascinating. Is this a side effect of your Seeker physiology?”
A woman in a frost-suit stepped forward to the interior side of the glass, scribbling notes. “More than that. His vitals show active resistance. Not just physical but cognitive. His systems are producing counters to our drugs—on the cellular level.”
“Adaptive neurofiltering?” Silas mused. “Or pre-installed countermeasures?”
“Unknown,” the scientist replied. “Possibly both. But look here—his spark field is stabilizing. That shouldn't be possible in this temperature.”
Inside the chamber, Starscream shifted weakly. The cables around his limbs rattled with the motion. The freezing metal tore at his joints, but his jaw clenched through it. He didn’t want them to see the pain.
Then—a hiss of pneumatics. The door to the inner chamber creaked open slightly to allow a fully suited scientist in. They carried a toolcase, clearly preparing for invasive scanning.
Starscream’s optics locked onto the figure approaching his side. His frame tensed instinctively.
“What… do you think you’re doing?” he rasped.
No answer. The scientist knelt beside one of his wings. It had partially fractured under the cold. They placed a probe near the main edge and tapped a note into their wristpad.
“Don’t touch me,” Starscream warned, struggling despite the restraints. The motion made his joints scream—but he leaned forward just enough to snap his teeth near the researcher’s helmet.
“I said—DON’T TOUCH ME!”
The probe touched the wing.
Starscream screamed—a mixture of pain and outrage. His wings were sacred, sensitive, deeply linked to Seeker balance and emotion. The chill amplified everything, and the invasive scan sparked something primal in him.
The energy burst that flared from his frame wasn’t much—barely more than a pulse—but it was enough to set off every alarm again.
The scientist stumbled back. “He’s pushing his internal energon reserves against the dampeners—he could burn through them!”
“Back away from him,” Silas ordered sharply. “We’ve learned enough for now. Don’t provoke him until we’ve reinforced the chamber.”
Inside, Starscream was panting, optics burning even through the exhaustion and cold.
“You think… you can study me like a lab rat?” he growled. “You have no idea… who you’re dealing with.”
Silas leaned toward the glass, his voice lowering in fascination. “Oh, but I do, Starscream. You’re more than a soldier. You’re a genius. Your datapad alone contains enough knowledge to reshape human medicine. And I suspect we’ve only scratched the surface.”
The seeker bared his denta.
“You’ll never understand it. You lack the imagination.”
Silas smiled coldly. “We’ll see.”
The alarms quieted slowly, as automated systems recalibrated the restraints. The cryo-pumps hissed again, lowering the temperature another three degrees.
Starscream shuddered.
But he did not look away.
Elsewhere, above the mountain range…
Two ships moved through the clouds—one Cybertronian, one Earth-made.
The war was paused.
Because for the first time in a long, long time, Megatron and Optimus were fighting for the same thing.
And Starscream’s time was running out.
-=-=-=-
Location: MECH Arctic Facility – Cryogenic Containment Chamber, 19 Hours Post-Capture
It was no longer pain. It was erosion.
The cold wasn’t just external—it had worked its way into every joint, crevice, and seam of Starscream’s frame. His armor no longer protected; it pressed against his energon lines like ice on exposed wire. His wings were heavy, their once-graceful length pinned with frost, tips trembling as they tried to twitch. The cuffs around his limbs had frozen solid to the ground bolts, rendering movement nearly impossible without tearing into his own plating.
He was still awake.
That, in itself, should not have been possible. The tranquilizer doses delivered through the cable at his neck had long since been increased, adjusted, and even mixed with new compounds. But none of it held.
Starscream’s spark had learned to burn hot.
He endured—barely.
In the thick silence of the frost-fogged chamber, all he could hear was the pumping of the zero-nitrogen engines… and the whisper of his own processor trying not to sleep.
::Just a few more cycles. Megatron will come. He has to.::
But there was another voice, quieter, slithering beneath his thoughts:
::Unless he doesn’t. Unless this time, he lets them keep you. Let them cut. Let them freeze. Let them silence you.::
Starscream bared his teeth at the thought and clenched his fists, the sound of ice cracking over his knuckles a grim response. The cuffs didn’t give. Nothing gave. His body trembled.
The door opened again.
Another scientist entered the room, this one clad in a full suit with thermal regulation and a breathing mask. He carried a small scanning kit—more invasive, more delicate. He moved carefully, hesitant, his boots crunching over frost toward the lowered platform Starscream lay on.
Starscream’s optics rolled toward him, sluggish but aware. “Back… away…”
The scientist ignored the warning. He knelt beside Starscream’s midsection, hands steady but nervous.
Silas’s voice echoed over the intercom. “Continue. This test is crucial. We need to understand how deep his reproductive systems run. If he’s what we think… we’re not just dealing with a soldier, but a species.”
“Disgusting…” Starscream whispered, voice like cracked glass.
The scientist’s hand hovered over a sealed abdominal port, previously scanned but never opened. Carefully, using a heat-scalpel and micro-extender, the man triggered the chamber’s natural release mechanism.
And what emerged made the man recoil in shock—nearly dropping the scanner.
He stumbled back, eyes wide behind his visor. “I—I—I need a defibrillator. Now! He's… he's—he has both—!”
He nearly collapsed, knees shaking.
Silas’s voice rang again, sharp. “Explain.”
The scientist was gasping. “Valve and spike… both! Integrated! He has a retracted chamber, like some terrestrial fauna—carnivorous reptiles, some amphibians—but fully developed for either function. And… it’s stable. Fertile.”
The control room erupted in frenzied data collection. Silas leaned in close to the feed, breath shallow, eyes alight.
“They can reproduce…” he said slowly. “This changes everything. We could create more… perfect ones. Starscream may be the key.”
Inside the chamber, Starscream’s optics burned—not with fire, but with humiliation. His vents trembled with something more than cold. More than exhaustion.
Violation.
“You… filthy vermin…” he snarled through frozen lips.
But the scientist was already retreating, data in hand.
The door sealed again. The frost pumped harder. Starscream shuddered, wings twitching, the cuff chains groaning.
::I am not… a thing…::
The thoughts were harder to hold onto now. Even hatred was freezing over. His body threatened stasis with each passing minute, yet he refused to let it happen. He couldn't—not while Silas knew what he now knew. Not while his body was theirs to dissect.
Somewhere, above the frost and steel, he still clung to the memory of warm fingers sliding a thick red blanket around his shoulders. Of being told, gently, “You’ll go into stasis if this keeps up.”
Of lips pressing to his.
He wasn’t done fighting.
If this was the edge of the abyss, Starscream would freeze standing, not kneeling.
Meanwhile – Approaching Airspace
“Signal's faint,” said Arcee, optics narrowed. “But it’s still there. Barely.”
“Starscream,” Megatron murmured beside her, for once not arguing.
Optimus nodded. “We’ll have one chance.”
Back at base, Soundwave said nothing, but his visor dimmed—his silent processing racing.
Because Starscream was still alive.
But not for long.
-=-=-=-
Location: MECH Arctic Facility – Cryogenic Containment Chamber, 27 Hours Post-Capture
Cold didn’t just burn—it whispered. It crawled under plating, into seams, into the hollows between the conscious and the unconscious. It asked questions, again and again, until one stopped answering.
But Starscream was still answering. Even if it was only with the grit of his sharpened denta clenching under the breathy exhale of vents that stuttered in the freezing air.
He wouldn’t scream.
He wouldn’t break.
And, most of all, he would not be reduced to data.
His body trembled, not from fear—at least, that’s what he told himself—but from the final cellular-level protests of metal trying to withstand unnatural cryogenic exposure. The cuffs bolted his limbs to the freezing floor, and while the rest of him had stopped resisting outright hours ago, his spark pulsed harder now.
It had begun to ache, actually. Deep in his chest, beneath armor and energon lines, like it too was clenching from the temperature, rebelling against its slow suffocation.
The tranquilizers had long stopped working. MECH hadn’t known that seekers, like Starscream, had learned how to reroute chemical invasion during cold stress periods—an evolutionary trait rooted in ancient war breeding, meant to help a flier stay conscious even with injuries in the sky.
But it came at a price.
He was awake. He was aware. But his body was locked in a war between hypothermic collapse and instinctual override.
Some part of him wanted to shut down. But another? It refused.
In the observation bay, Silas leaned over the console like a man entranced.
He watched the figure on the floor—taller than any of their drones, wings curled around him like frost-bitten leaves. The Seeker had stopped making noise, but the vitals told a different story. There was a furious, internal struggle happening beneath the silence. One MECH hadn’t accounted for.
That intrigued him.
“He's lasted well past the tranquilizer window,” said one of the lead scientists, barely able to hide his awe. “Neurological resistance appears to be active. His systems are… alive. Still defending. Still learning.”
“Fascinating,” Silas murmured. “No ordinary Cybertronian. He’s adapting even to this.”
Starscream twitched slightly as the scientist approached again, this one with a new scanner, this one bolder. It was a mistake.
“I recommend caution,” said another man in a heavy, frost-lined exosuit. “The moment his temperature rises above critical shutdown threshold, he could lash out. If that happens inside this chamber—”
“Then we lose everything,” Silas finished flatly. “Which is why we continue before that happens.”
Another hour passed. Maybe two.
Time didn’t exist in the chamber. Only the cold. Only the feeling of his own optics dimming and reigniting as his body fought for seconds. Minutes.
Then—
Hands. Near his heel this time. Not for pain, not for data collection.
Curiosity.
The scientist leaned closer to one of Starscream’s legs, studying something with sharp attention.
“Sir. There’s something here. Heel units. The construction is—remarkably sophisticated. Like… boosters. Jet propulsion units—in his heels.”
Silas stepped closer to the live feed. “What?”
“Yes. Look.”
The technician triggered a 3D overlay, and the schematic of Starscream’s leg lit up. It revealed twin thrusters tucked within reinforced heels—smaller than typical main engine nozzles, but curved in such a way that suggested they could act as secondary stabilizers. More than that, they had an adjustable compression ratio, meaning they could be used independently.
“He could fly upright. On foot.”
“Why hasn’t he done it before?”
“Possibly power constraints—or secrecy. Or maybe he only activates them at certain altitudes. Regardless, it means he’s designed for midair battle even without launch. He could fly in bipedal form if he wanted to. Efficient. Lethal.”
Silas smiled. “He’s a living weapon.”
He turned to the technician, voice darker now. “Extract a full readout. We may be able to replicate the system in a drone prototype.”
Starscream lay still, but his optics tracked the scientist who had gone to his back.
Hands brushed along the upper spinal ridges, then down—near a compartment that had previously gone unnoticed.
“It’s not decorative,” the scientist muttered, adjusting his scope. “Sir, we found what appears to be…a storage cavity.”
Silas’s interest reignited. “Storage for what?”
“We don’t know yet. There’s a sliding panel with thermal shielding. Could be a cryo-core. Could be weapon storage. Or—”
“Open it.”
“Sir, that could destabilize internal systems—”
“I said open it.”
The chamber hissed as a cold-etched tool pried at the seam. Starscream groaned, low and tight, like a creature suppressing a roar. His entire back tensed.
The scientist's breath quickened. “There's…a small container. It’s…biological. Organic. No—it’s metallic but…coded to his systems. Something… he’s hidden. It's…maybe personal.”
Silas leaned forward. “Remove it.”
Starscream’s vision blurred.
His body felt distant.
But his spark surged.
“No…don’t…you dare…”
The words were frostbitten, but they cut through the chamber like a blade. The scientist froze.
“Sir,” he whispered into his mic. “He’s…awake.”
“Then sedate him again.”
“We can’t. The injectors are clogged. He rerouted his systems, like a dam under pressure—he’s resisting everything.”
Starscream turned his face toward the observation glass. Somewhere beyond it, he could feel Silas watching him.
“You think you…own me?”
Silas finally responded, stepping into the intercom booth and pressing the broadcast button.
“I don’t own you, Starscream. Not yet. But I will. Everything you are—every secret you hide—will be dissected, replicated, and reborn through our hands. You are evolution. You are the blueprint. You are no longer a warrior. You are ours.”
Starscream’s optics dimmed to slits.
“You’ll never understand…what I am.”
And he smiled—just a little.
Because even now, even shattered, frozen, violated…he still had something they didn’t.
Pride.
And pride didn’t freeze.
Starscream’s mind swam in a thick fog of pain and numbing cold. His joints ached, wings trembling with involuntary twitches from the restraints bolted through their base. Ice clung to his seams like parasites, crawling into his joints, thickening his circuits, making every breath cycle shallow and ragged. Though he couldn’t move, his processor burned—flashes of betrayal, fear, humiliation. He was a proud Seeker reduced to a lab specimen, stripped of everything but pain and the echoes of his own thoughts.
The chamber around him hissed with recycled nitrogen. Pressure gauges clicked quietly. Silas stood at the edge, arms behind his back, drinking in the sight like a man admiring a masterpiece in progress. His obsession with Starscream had taken a darker turn—he wasn’t just curious now; he was enthralled. The being before him was more than a war machine. He was a technological miracle. A key to something ancient and powerful.
Scientists moved around the lab in heavy, cold-proof gear. Their breath fogged their visors as they muttered observations, scanned data, and poked instruments toward Starscream’s bound frame. One of them reached carefully toward the Seeker’s wing, brushing the sensory node etched beneath its armor. Starscream snarled weakly, optics glowing with restrained fury.
“He’s more awake now,” the scientist announced. “Despite the sedatives.”
“Remarkable…” Silas murmured. “He’s adapting. His body must be developing resistance to the compound.”
Another scientist with a telemetry scanner frowned. “Sir… the neurotracers show he's fighting through stasis-level cold. A mech should have shut down long ago.”
Silas’s lips curled. “But he hasn’t. Extraordinary.”
Suddenly, a smaller alarm chirped from one of the side consoles.
"Open it already! My pacience has limits!!"
The assistants approached with magnetic tools, unclipping the plating on Starscream’s back. With a hiss and a shimmer of protective nanoseals, the panel opened—revealing what looked like two tightly coiled energy cables nested like serpents, their ends capped with molecular locks.
“What are these?”
“They look like weapon anchors. But… they're dormant,” said one of the researchers, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“I want one activated,” Silas said.
The scientist pressed a gloved finger to the nearest trigger node, and in an instant—before warnings could be shouted—the cable unfolded, straightened, and transformed into a bladed weapon of pure glowing blue energy.
The room filled with the shrill hum of unbridled plasma.
“Power surge—!”
Too late. The energy sword lashed out, faster than a blink, guided by an automatic defense algorithm. It carved through the protective glass, through equipment, and across three scientists who had been standing too close.
They didn’t even scream.
The sword hit them midsection, and in an instant, their bodies turned a chalk-white hue, petrified in an impossible moment of death before their mass broke apart—first to stone, then to ash.
Gasps erupted across the chamber. Emergency klaxons began to howl.
“SHUT IT DOWN!” someone screamed.
The bladed cable recoiled, folding back into its chamber as Starscream’s optics dimmed momentarily—possibly from the backlash.
Silas stared, horrified and fascinated.
“...The swords are made of solidified, directed energy,” one surviving scientist whispered. “Like hard-light constructs… with fatal atomic destabilization fields. There’s no metal in them.”
Silas’s pulse thundered. “And that… was just one blade.”
He leaned closer to the glass, smiling darkly.
“What are you, Starscream?”
The cold chamber buzzed quietly, machinery humming, snow-like frost clinging to every surface as if the room itself were trying to suffocate its captive. Starscream hung limply, his slender frame shackled by thick, reinforced cuffs bolted to the steel floor. His wings, once proud and sleek, were now encased in a growing shell of ice. Their delicate sensor layers were covered in frost crystals that crackled with each faint movement he made. It was this moment — the collapse of his wings under the biting cold — that signaled the end of his resistance.
His optics dimmed. His vents slowed. Starscream's systems, despite every desperate attempt to override the invasive tranquilizers, began shutting down.
Stasis.
The alarm in the facility turned green. A low chime echoed across the operating floor.
“He’s stable,” one of the scientists said, adjusting their thermal suit as breath misted in the frigid air. “Full stasis achieved. We can begin extraction.”
Silas stood behind a thick pane of reinforced glass, hands clasped behind his back. His lips curled into a slow, greedy smile. The infamous seeker, the elusive aerial predator — cold, still, helpless.
“Begin the core phase,” he ordered, voice thick with anticipation. “Get everything. I want his memory cache copied, his frame scanned molecule by molecule. And above all, I want his energon. Analyze every drop.”
The scientists began swarming the chamber like wasps around a paralyzed prey. More cables snaked out from the mainframe, connecting to Starscream's shoulders, hips, and chest plates. Magnetic locks hissed as they embedded themselves into the seams of his armor. Precision tools emerged — circular saws, scalpels, fiber threaders. All automated, all precise.
A thin panel on Starscream’s upper thigh hissed open with a servo-pulse. A small section of his outer alloy was carefully peeled back and slid into a specimen tray.
“His material density is unlike any other Decepticon we've captured,” muttered one scientist, eyes wide behind his frost-streaked goggles. “This isn't simple steel or carbon composite. It's... flexible and reactive to ambient energy. This alloy might be self-healing.”
Another scientist approached, gingerly carrying a flexible feeding cable. He connected it to one of Starscream’s deactivated arm conduits. Slowly, drop by drop, the energon began to flow.
But it wasn’t blue.
The liquid that flowed down the tube was a vibrant lilac, glowing softly in the dim lighting.
Everyone paused.
“Get a scan of that. Now.”
Within seconds, a high-resolution image appeared on the central screen. Inside the lilac energon, writhing and shifting, were thousands of microscopic entities.
“Nanites,” whispered a woman, trembling with awe. “He’s full of them. They’re moving on their own.”
“Adapting,” said another. “One of them just shifted its shape into a blade. Another just replicated a chemical emitter. They're... defensive units. Starscream’s energon is intelligent.”
Silas leaned closer to the screen, eyes glowing with unholy glee.
“Defensive energon, reactive nanites, adaptive internal technology... He’s more than just a flier. He’s a living miracle. A miracle made of war.”
One of the scientists nodded slowly. “This... this is beyond anything the Autobots or Decepticons have ever shown. This is a breakthrough in bio-tech evolution. His body is its own laboratory.”
“Extract everything,” Silas ordered. “No delays. I want replication models by the end of the week. And prepare an artificial simulation of that energon blend. We’re going to mimic his blood.”
In the chamber, the ice crackled. One of Starscream’s fingers twitched.
The lead scientist took note but waved the concern away. “Residual neural activity. Standard with advanced models. He’s locked. He can’t move.”
Meanwhile, another tech approached the back plating, where two sharp metallic cords had previously been removed — remnants of the dual energy blades that had incinerated their colleagues. The scientist looked over the still-active sheath compartment where the blades had retracted from, uncertain.
“Do not tamper with that compartment without isolation,” barked Silas. “I don’t want to lose another team.”
A new team of researchers arrived in insulated suits, this time bringing a new set of probes meant to analyze Starscream's neural responses.
“Prepare to stimulate his cortex,” one said.
As the probes connected to the crown of Starscream’s helm, even in stasis, his frame began to respond. Sparks flickered in his fingers. His vents made a low, guttural exhale, like a sleeping beast disturbed.
Then came the moment of curiosity: one technician approached the mysterious compartment in Starscream’s upper back. He unlocked a new port, gently opened it—
Inside, a perfectly preserved chamber.
“Looks like a secondary processor,” murmured the scientist. “Or maybe a storage device. Wait... it’s... organic?”
He reached in to pull the small, rounded component out.
Suddenly, the overhead lights flickered. The oxygen levels dipped. Somewhere deep in the chamber, a low, resonant hum began to build.
“Everyone back,” cried the overseer.
The chamber began to glow with a faint lilac light. Though Starscream was still immobile, something inside him — something dormant — had been triggered by the exposure.
Silas didn’t step away.
He watched, enthralled, as the scientists frantically tried to contain the energy spike.
And he whispered to himself:
“We’re not studying a Decepticon anymore. We’re studying the future.”
The frozen chamber pulsed with a low hum, a faint mist coiling through the chilled air. Within the reinforced glass, Starscream’s frame was barely visible beneath layers of frost. The once-sharp colors of his plating were dulled, muted beneath the accumulating ice. His wings—those proud, sensitive appendages—hung limp and frozen, glittering with delicate frost crystals that had begun to eat into the delicate seams of his frame. The Seeker had endured too much. Even his superior resilience had limits.
Silas stood on the elevated platform overlooking the chamber. His hands were clasped behind his back, a gleam of victorious obsession in his eyes. Around him, scientists moved like clockwork—each more eager than the last. But Silas? He was calm, methodical, possessed.
“Begin internal freezing,” he ordered coldly.
One of the lead technicians hesitated. “Sir, if we introduce the cold directly into his systems, the—”
“He’s already in stasis. We need full compliance. No more risks. I want to look into his very core.”
The command echoed through the chamber like a sentence.
Technicians approached the Seeker’s restrained form. Special nozzles were extended—silver and sharp, lined with frozen nitrogen pipes. They attached them directly to cooling ports forcibly drilled into the armor at Starscream’s abdomen and back. Liquid nitrogen hissed and roared as it poured into his systems, sending a visible shudder through his frame despite stasis.
His optics didn’t flicker. But the soft pulse in his throat cabling—the last visible motion of his spark’s stubborn beat—began to slow.
The scientists watched, breath held. Frost spread rapidly across his torso, blooming like silver vines. His limbs stiffened. His mouth had been slightly parted before. Now even that relaxed tension faded. Starscream was unmoving, locked in ice.
“Now,” Silas said, eyes narrowing. “Open his chest.”
The order set off a storm of activity. Massive hydraulic arms descended from the ceiling—modified earth-moving tools, repurposed for Cybertronian dissection. The chest plates, slick with frost, groaned under the strain of the machinery. They did not open willingly.
“Too much resistance,” one of the engineers grunted.
“Use the diamond plasma saw.”
Sparks flew. Metal screamed. Bits of Starscream’s shimmering chassis broke away, revealing curved inner armor forged from alloys not found on Earth. It took ten agonizing minutes. And when the last latch was forced—when the deepest plate cracked with a keening metallic shriek—they all saw it.
Starscream’s spark chamber. A faintly glowing orb of energy suspended in an elegant cradle of twisted struts and bio-circuitry. The casing opened like petals of some strange, alien flower, revealing the core within.
His spark was alive.
Pale lilac. Not blue, like the others. It pulsed slowly, like the breath of something ancient and wounded.
Silas stepped closer. The glass visor of his thermal suit was fogging from his own breath. He pressed his hand against the reinforced viewing panel.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. “It’s… beautiful.”
“Sir,” said one of the scientists, “that color… we’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It’s not just aesthetic,” another muttered, rapidly typing. “Energy signatures are unique. The waveform of the spark—it’s shifting in response to the environment. As if… as if it’s trying to adapt.”
Silas’s lips curled into a reverent smile. “He’s fighting. Even now.”
The scientist beside him looked up. “Should we proceed with the spark data capture?”
“Yes. But I want non-destructive scans for now.”
They lowered small, spider-like drones armed with delicate probes. The machines swarmed over the spark chamber, mapping energy patterns and feeding data to the mainframe.
The room was silent except for the hum of equipment and the slow, defiant beat of Starscream’s lilac spark.
Even in forced slumber. Even with his frame mutilated and his wings frozen solid.
He still refused to die.
Silas turned, watching the live readings flow into the system. He felt intoxicated. Ecstatic. This was no longer about military advantage. No longer about power or strategy.
This was Starscream.
The most perfect specimen he had ever laid eyes on.
“Soon,” he murmured, “we will understand every inch of you.”
Behind him, Starscream’s spark continued to pulse.
Slow.
Alive.
And waiting.
Inside the icy chamber, a silence heavier than any before settled after the mechanical arms forced open Starscream’s battered chassis, revealing the brilliant lilac spark pulsing weakly in his chest. It flickered like an ancient star refusing to die—irregular in beat, but undeniable in power.
Silas stood in awed silence, hands behind his back, watching the glowing core as chilled vapor swirled around it. The spark cast dancing hues against the frost-covered walls of the chamber. It wasn't just energy. It was something more. Too vivid. Too vibrant.
A low whistle came from one of the lab techs nearby.
“…This isn’t natural,” whispered Doctor Raymore, one of the newer but more brilliant minds MECH had under contract. He stepped forward slowly, datapad in hand, eyes locked on the trembling, glowing core. “It’s not just color variance. The radiation frequency… is fluctuating.”
Silas turned slightly, interest piqued. “What are you suggesting, Doctor?”
Raymore hesitated, clearly weighing the risk of sounding like a lunatic.
“I’m suggesting, sir… that this spark—Starscream's spark—isn’t like the others we’ve examined, not even Breakdown’s. Its signature… it’s evolving.”
Silas narrowed his eyes. “Evolving?”
The other scientists now paused, many looking up from their readings and scribbled diagrams.
“Yes, sir.” Raymore stepped closer, holding up his scanner. “Look here. Normally a Cybertronian spark emits within a very narrow energy signature range. Consistent. Mechanical. Even the outliers don’t fluctuate like this.” He tapped the screen. “Starscream’s spark isn’t just active—it’s shifting. Every time we run a scan, it adapts. As if it’s learning what we’re doing. Almost like it’s resisting on a molecular, or rather, quantum level.”
Another scientist frowned. “Isn’t that… impossible? A spark is a power core, not a sentient organ.”
Raymore shook his head. “That’s just it. What if we’re wrong about that? What if his isn’t just a core? What if Starscream is the first recorded Cybertronian with a mutated spark? Something beyond their normal evolution. Maybe something born during the war—or long before it.”
Silas stepped closer to the spark, his breath fogging the edge of his visor.
“And what would that mean, Doctor?”
Raymore swallowed. “It would mean… this Seeker is the most valuable Cybertronian lifeform ever encountered. If his spark can adapt to survive… it could heal faster, change function, or even evolve defense mechanisms. It may be the reason he resisted the tranquilizers. It may be why his energon has those defense nanites. And it might explain…” He gestured at the now-shattered sword rack that had once hidden in Starscream’s back, “...his body producing energy weapons of unknown origin. Pure energetic constructs like that… they require a living battery that learns what’s needed.”
Another scientist chimed in, almost breathless: “He might not just be a Decepticon. He might be… the next stage.”
Silas’s lips slowly curved into a smile.
A dangerous one.
“A mutation,” he whispered, turning back toward the spark that shimmered even now, despite the cold pumping into Starscream’s limbs. “An evolution.”
Raymore nodded. “We need to continue the study. If the spark adapts again… we might be able to trigger it. Force a mutation. That knowledge alone could give MECH the power to create machines capable of adapting mid-combat. Bio-mechanical evolution, weaponized.”
Silas exhaled, giddy with wonder. “Then do it. Document everything. If Starscream is the next step in Cybertronian evolution… we will dissect the future.”
He turned to one of the guards. “Increase the cold flow to maximum but keep the spark exposed. I want it monitored every second. If it changes form, flickers, pulses, I want to know.”
A low hum came from the cryo-pipes as they hissed and locked deeper into Starscream’s spinal ports. The seeker’s face twitched, mouth parting slightly even in stasis. Was he dreaming? Fighting? Reacting?
None of them knew.
But Silas couldn’t look away from that spark. That impossible, living thing that defied everything they thought they knew.
“Whatever you are,” he murmured, “you’re ours now.”
-=-=-=-
The chamber had fallen into a strange silence. Scientists milled around the half-opened frame of Starscream’s chest with the obsessive precision of surgeons dissecting a divine relic. Cables like frozen vines ran from the cryogenic pumps into the Seeker’s wrists, neck, ankles—cold, frigid death trickling in constant pulses, threatening to shut his core down entirely.
But something was wrong.
It started with a single flicker—barely perceptible. Starscream’s spark, exposed in its lilac vulnerability, emitted a weak surge. The cold had dulled its brilliance. It should have been flickering out, fading into permanent stasis.
Instead… it pulsed.
A second beat, slightly brighter. Slower.
Then another. Stronger.
Doctor Raymore nearly dropped his scanner. “Did you see that?”
One of the others squinted. “That’s impossible—his vitals should be degrading. We’ve been freezing the neural links since sunrise!”
“No,” Raymore whispered, his eyes wide with revelation. “It’s adapting again.”
And then—it moved.
The spark pulsed violently, sending a short-range EMP through the internal wiring in a flash. Several screens flickered. The overhead monitors went static. One of the scientists screamed as a metal arm sparked and caught fire.
The spark—Starscream’s heart—was… reshaping.
Shifting rhythmically, like something alive and aware. It beat not just to keep its host alive, but to protect. React. Communicate.
A pulse of light shot from the spark up the spinal column—a narrow line of glowing lilac energy that danced like lightning across his protoform’s inner network.
Elsewhere,Optimus Prime staggered.
He had been kneeling before the Matrix in private meditation, trying to feel any remnant of Starscream’s spark, any echo of his location, any sign that he still lived.
At first, all he heard was silence.
Then—a sting, like electricity across his core.
The Matrix glowed suddenly in his chest with a deep, resonant pulse. Not blue. Not gold.
But lilac.
A trembling whisper passed through him. A whisper that wasn’t made of words, but feelings:
Pain. Isolation. Fear. Anger. Cold. But most of all—will. The will to live.
Optimus opened his optics wide. The light of the Matrix flared as a location surged through it, burning into his internal map. Coordinates. Remote. Far north. Arctic mountain zone. Coordinates that no living being should have known. And yet, through the link between spark and Prime—for the first time in history—a Decepticon’s essence had called out to the Autobot Matrix.
Starscream’s spark had reached him.
"By Primus..." Optimus whispered. He looked down at his chestplate as the Matrix shimmered with soft lilac energy, still pulsating in time with the one spark that refused to die.
Back in the MECH base...
Silas watched, a strange tension curling in his chest. “What’s happening?” he asked sharply, as several systems rebooted themselves and began flooding with energy data readings.
“The spark is—interfacing with unknown frequencies!” one scientist yelled. “It’s broadcasting! How? It’s not even linked to our satellite net!”
Another gasped. “Sir, I think it’s linked to something beyond that. This isn’t just power… this is ancient. It may have contacted Cybertronian artifacts.”
The room was awash with the hum of frequencies—soft, almost like voices—but mechanical. A tone the human ear couldn’t translate, but one that instinctively stirred awe.
And within the tank, Starscream’s battered frame trembled.
Though his eyes didn’t open, the spark blazed. Like a violet flame in the darkness, dancing defiantly against death.
It pulsed once again—and something changed in the room. The chill seemed to recede slightly. The cables twitching in his limbs sparked faintly. The machinery began to recalibrate itself, forced by unknown interference.
“Sir!” a technician called out, panicking. “He’s overriding minor systems from inside! We have to shut the spark down!”
“No!” Silas barked, stepping forward. His breath fogged as he reached the control panel, not out of fear—but fascination. “No… this is it. This is what I’ve waited for. Let it show us everything.”
He looked down at the spark with an almost worshipful expression.
"You’re beautiful," he whispered. "A key to evolution. And you’re showing us you’re more than machine. You're... something beyond even your creators."
The spark pulsed again. Lilac turned briefly white-hot, the glow lighting the entire cryochamber like a sunrise through mist.
Somewhere, deep inside that tortured protoform, Starscream’s mind stirred. Flickers of memory. Falling. Screaming. Helplessness. But now—burning. Resistance.
He felt Optimus.
The Matrix. The bond. Ancient as Cybertron. Unknown to science. He sent the last of his strength, one more signal:
“Help me.”
Then the spark dimmed, collapsing momentarily, flickering in exhaustion.
Silas grinned.
“Did you feel that?” he said to Raymore. “He’s talking to someone. Reaching out.”
Raymore swallowed hard, eyes wide with the kind of reverence men once held for gods.
“This spark… it’s alive. And we just pushed it into waking.”
Snow lashed against the windshield of the Nemesis’s stealth transport as it cut through the Arctic skies at top speed. The wind howled like a screaming warning, but neither Megatron nor Optimus Prime paid it any mind. They stood side by side in the command bay—silent, heavy with dread, old enemies united by a single name burning through the frost:
Starscream.
The Matrix still pulsed faintly in Optimus’s chassis, glowing a soft lilac that had no origin in Autobot history. A light that had come not from the Well, but from a Seeker’s suffering.
Optimus clenched his servo, optics narrowed. “He called to me, Megatron. Directly to the Matrix. That is no ordinary act.”
Megatron grunted. “He shouldn’t be able to. Starscream is arrogant, yes. Cunning, yes. But connected to the Matrix? That is beyond even my suspicion.”
“He didn’t link to it—he cried through it,” Optimus replied, his voice low, like thunder restrained. “No one can fake what I felt. Not through that relic.”
Megatron’s optics flared. “If the Matrix responded to him… then what is he?”
A beat of silence passed before Optimus finally asked the question gnawing at his spark.
“…Is there any chance Starscream is tied to the Matrix itself? Some… bearer fragment? A descendant of the Primes?”
Megatron stared at him, expression unreadable. And then he scoffed.
“Don’t be ridiculous. He is a Seeker—chaotic, treacherous, self-serving. You know that as well as I.”
“But he’s alive,” Optimus said firmly. “Still alive, after all that’s been done to him. I’ve seen Primes fall to less.”
They turned as Soundwave, quiet until then, stepped out from the shadows of the chamber.
He did not speak aloud—he never did—but his visor flared, and a quiet, calculated voice echoed through the room via his interface system:
“Possibility: Starscream has rare trait—'Purity-class Spark.'”
Both leaders turned sharply.
Megatron narrowed his optics. “Explain.”
Soundwave, still as a statue, continued.
“Observed recovery speed: unmatched. Rebuilt limbs, wings, systems—without CR chamber. Energon burns hot. Emits interference. Likely pure or near-pure energon flow. Symptoms consistent with ancient Spark mutation—adaptive survival spark. Last recorded… over 100,000 vorns ago.”
Optimus looked shaken.
“That would make him one of the rarest Cybertronians alive.”
“Or the most dangerous,” Megatron added grimly.
“Dangerous—if provoked. Starscream never fought at full capacity. Pattern indicates deliberate restraint.”
Optimus stepped closer. “You mean he’s holding back?”
Soundwave nodded once.
“Yes. Always. Always.”
The implications hit them like an avalanche.
A spark so pure, so strong, it had to shield itself. A bot who had been abused, underestimated, tormented—and yet, restrained his power even in betrayal and war.
Optimus’s hand clenched.
“We have to get to him before they realize what he is.”
Megatron’s voice came out in a growl. “If they’ve touched his spark… if they’ve opened it…”
A sudden alert blared through the console—coordinates ahead. The Arctic base was now less than 80 kilometers out.
Windshield visuals zoomed in. Silhouettes of camouflaged towers and faint heat signatures appeared. Cold steel beneath snow.
Soundwave turned toward them again.
“Warning: Signs of stasis collapse. Spark interference peaked. Activity spiking—then vanishing.”
Optimus’s spark clenched. “They’ve found it.”
Megatron stepped forward. “Then we strike. Now.”
“No.” Optimus raised a hand. “We infiltrate. If they damage his spark during the assault, we lose him. We need to get in, extract, and then destroy that base.”
Megatron’s expression twisted. He hated stealth. Hated restraint. But even he knew—this was Starscream.
“Very well, Prime. But if they’ve laid a hand on him that cannot be undone…”
“…Then they won’t live to see the next hour,” Optimus finished.
Their eyes met.
No truce was spoken.
But vengeance burned in both their chests. Not even Optimus Prime, the one chosen by the Matrix, could accept that someone should touch what was most sacred to the Cybertronians: the spark. Even the fairest and quieter leader had his limits and Optimus' team knew what the autobot leader could do when he got really angry.
And far beneath them, under mountains of ice and steel, a spark pulsed feebly, still reaching, still hoping—still fighting to be found.
Chapter Text
The wind howled mercilessly through the mountain pass, slicing across the jagged ridges like invisible blades. Snow clung to the rocks in thick, suffocating drifts. But none of it slowed the three towering Cybertronians who now stood in the shadow of a craggy cliff face—Optimus Prime, Megatron, and Soundwave.
From above, the scene looked barren. Deceptively peaceful.
But Soundwave’s scanner visor flickered rapidly as he zeroed in on the hidden pulse, invisible to humans. Beneath thirty meters of reinforced alloy, thermal deflection panels, and camouflage tech, the system whispered one truth:
MECH was inside. And so was Starscream.
"There," Soundwave intoned, raising a silent servo to a boulder-strewn slope that didn’t look like anything but a dead end. But his sensor overlay showed the truth—an artificial entryway buried into the mountain’s wall, sealed behind mech-camouflaged armor and protected by at least four layers of encrypted digital security.
Megatron’s optics narrowed. “So this is where the vermin nest.” His fusion cannon powered up with a metallic whine, glowing with savage anticipation. “Stand back. I will reduce it to gravel.”
Before the blast could ignite, Soundwave stepped swiftly into his path, palm raised in a firm, silent command.
Megatron growled. “Move, Soundwave.”
But the quiet enforcer didn’t budge.
Optimus watched the tension warily. “He’s trying to avoid triggering alarms, Megatron. If we alert them now—”
“They could terminate Starscream,” Soundwave finished, voice as flat and calm as ice.
Megatron’s cannon hissed down. Barely. “Then make it quick.”
With no further words, Soundwave crouched low and extended a jack cable from his forearm, plugging it into a disguised access port hidden behind a thin plate of rock. His visor flooded with streaming lines of alien code, firewalls layered like razorwire. MECH had learned from their last incursions—they weren’t expecting Cybertronian hackers, but they’d prepared for sabotage.
It didn’t matter.
Soundwave had never been beaten.
Lines of script fell away, barriers collapsed, and one by one the subroutines folded under his mind. Systems cracked open like dry bones. He disabled the thermal sensors, bypassed the seismic trip lines, neutralized the auto-defense drones that circled in the vents. But as he reached the final security firewall, something changed.
A file lit up red—pulsating, locked, flagged as Level Omega Clearance.
It had only one word in its tag:
"STARS."
Soundwave’s visor dimmed slightly. He dove deeper, bypassing the burn protocols. A flood of data surged up.
—Chamber Temp: -115°C
—Subject Stasis: Failing
—Neurological Override: Bypassed
—Spark Exposure Level: 89%
—Energon Composition: Anomaly Confirmed
—DNA Sequence: Mutative Spark Pattern Detected
—RESEARCH DIRECTIVE: OBSERVE EVOLUTION IN REAL TIME
Optimus leaned closer as Soundwave relayed the files through his comm. The Autobot’s optics darkened.
“They’re… watching him change.”
“They’re dissecting him,” Megatron snarled. “They have no idea what they’re playing with.”
Soundwave didn’t respond, but the smallest twitch of his fingers betrayed his tension. One more click, one more surge of code—and then a green light blinked across his visor.
“Alarms disabled. Doors opening.”
A soft grinding echoed through the rocks.
The concealed door hissed upward with reluctant resistance, revealing a blackened tunnel into MECH’s underworld.
Megatron stepped forward, cannon humming with menace.
Optimus turned his head toward Soundwave. “How much time do we have?”
Soundwave’s voice crackled through their comms.
“They’ve begun the spark experiments. If they succeed in breaching its core...”
He didn’t finish.
He didn’t have to.
Optimus’s optics narrowed.
“Then let’s not give them the chance.”
And with that, the three titans descended into the dark.
The reinforced door groaned open under the weight of Megatron’s strike. Its metal hinges screeched as the war room was exposed—dimly lit, cold, walls lined with humming monitors and control panels flickering with a sickening light.
The rescue team stepped inside in grim silence.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of screens lit the room like an eerie constellation. Each one showed something different. Footage. Audio. Live biometrics. The unmistakable image of Starscream, over and over.
Starscream standing in his laboratory, typing commands into a panel.
Starscream battling Autobots mid-air, dodging laser fire. Starscream bleeding lilac energon, restrained in the cold tank, optics dim with pain.
But what made all three of them stop was one particular feed, grainy but active, with the timestamp pulsing just an hour old. It wasn’t a battlefield. It wasn’t the chamber.
It was his room.
A camera view, stationed high in the corner, looking down at Starscream’s private quarters back at the Decepticon base. The berth. The walls covered in diagrams and old Cybertronian scrolls. A cloak tossed carelessly over the back of a recharging chair. And near the center, a desk with personal logs—logs that now scrolled across the side monitor, decoded.
Megatron’s entire frame stiffened, shoulders raised like a lion poised to maul.
“What is this.”
Soundwave didn’t answer.
His visor pulsed brightly. He moved forward silently, cable jack sliding once again from his wrist, and he plugged into the nearest terminal. The internal code resistance was gone now—MECH had abandoned control of this level when the alarms were silenced. Files spilled out like rot from a cracked tank.
In the bottom corner of the screen: MECH OPS TAG – ‘OPERATION MOONGLASS: STARSCR’
Surveillance period: 6.4 Earth months
Penetration point: Ventilation shaft, Nemesis Deck 3
Base infiltration success rate: 87.2%
Notes: "Subject unaware. Base compromised. Internal movements and personal quarters fully mapped."
Megatron stepped forward and smashed one of the screens with his bare hand, the glass exploding like snow.
Soundwave stared at the data in silence. A rare stillness overtook him—not calm, but the stillness of failure, the kind that radiated inward. His grip tightened on the console, blue fingertips twitching.
He hadn’t seen it.
All this time, all his surveillance, his encrypted layers, his loyalty to the Nemesis’ structural defenses—MECH had slipped past him. Had violated Starscream’s privacy. Had taken everything from beneath his optic line.
Optimus turned to look at him, his voice solemn.
“You didn’t know.”
Soundwave said nothing.
He simply turned his head away, visor dim.
Megatron’s fist pounded the metal console beside him, denting it with a deep crater. “They dared to watch him sleep.” His voice wasn’t loud—but it was deadly. “They’ve stripped every piece of him down. His mind. His memories. His quarters.”
He bared his denta in a snarl.
“They’ve stolen his dignity.”
Soundwave’s visor flared back to life, sharp lines racing across it. The guilt boiled away—transformed into precise focus. One after another, the feeds were overridden. Each one blinked out, the data erased with rapid commands as he scoured the internal logs.
Audio logs
Medical files
Behavioral analyses
Spark function recordings
Emotional fluctuation graphs
He destroyed it all.
But one terminal refused to purge.
A live feed. Sublevel Omega. Temperature: -118°C. Displaying: S.T.A.R.S. FINAL CHAMBER.
The screen showed Starscream suspended in the final chamber now—limbs splayed in magnetized cuffs, wings coated in crystallized ice. His mouth was slightly open, optics dull, his spark pulsing faintly in his open chassis. Thin trails of lilac energon continued to bleed from dozens of small ports, draining into MECH’s cursed machinery.
Soundwave stepped toward the screen.
And for the first time in many cycles, he whispered something beneath his breath—too low for even Optimus to catch.
Megatron turned. “Where is he?”
Soundwave’s voice was steady now, emotion tucked behind code again.
“Sublevel Omega. Four floors below. Last lock sequence: seventy seconds.”
Optimus’s optics flicked to Megatron. “We don’t have long. That spark cannot be kept exposed like this. They could destabilize it permanently.”
Megatron already had his cannon charged again. “Then we descend. And anything that gets in our way—dies.”
Optimus nodded once, firm. “Agreed.”
Soundwave disengaged from the console.
Behind them, the monitors fell dark—MECH’s stolen eyes finally blinded.
But the fury they’d ignited burned brighter than ever.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the steel hallway, deeper into the bowels of MECH's mountain base. Dim red emergency lights lined the corridor, casting shadows that flickered like dying fire.
Optimus Prime walked at the front of the formation, shoulders squared, optics set with grim purpose. His field radiated controlled tension—but just beneath it, a storm raged.
Behind him, Megatron’s pace was steady, silent, and confident. Each footfall like a drumbeat of war. Soundwave moved in perfect sync, his movements silent and deadly, visor pulsing faintly with fresh code as he continued scanning the internal defenses. Arcee and Ultra Magnus flanked the rear, both focused, quiet, and alert.
It wasn’t until they reached the last corridor before Sublevel Omega’s lift shaft that Optimus finally came to a halt.
His helm lowered slightly. His expression unreadable.
The others stopped with him, watching, waiting.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, Optimus turned to face his Autobots—his soldiers, his friends—and finally, with a voice that trembled with the weight of what he was about to say, he broke the silence.
“If any MECH soldiers remain between us and Starscream,” he said slowly, clearly, “you are to take them offline.”
The weight of those words hit like a thunderclap.
Arcee’s optics widened, her mouth opening slightly in shock. Bulkhead stiffened visibly. Even Soundwave paused—just for a fraction of a second—his visor dimming momentarily in recognition of what had just occurred. Only Megatron responded without hesitation—he gave a soft snort and turned his head forward again.
“Well. I was going to do that with or without your permission.”
But Optimus didn’t respond to Megatron’s sarcasm. He hadn’t said those words for Megatron.
He had said them for himself.
This was a line he had never crossed—not with humans. Not with MECH. Not with anyone.
To order offline status—death, for all intents and purposes—against humans was a command he had vowed never to give. For all of MECH’s monstrosities, all their experiments and violations, Optimus had always clung to the core belief that they were the younger race. They were to be guided. Protected. Taught, not annihilated.
But that ideal was dying.
He had seen it in Starscream’s mangled body on the monitor. The spark exposed, flickering in a cage of ice and wires. The energon drained into glass tubes. The screams silenced with chemicals. The pain cataloged like equations.
Starscream—a Seeker of the ancient line. Brilliant. Infuriating. Defiant. Suffering.
And somewhere in all that pain… trusting Optimus. In ways no one else had understood. In ways Optimus had never deserved.
He couldn't look away from that anymore.
“I will not allow them to continue breathing if they stand in our way,” he said again. “They knew what they were doing. They knew it when they pierced his wings. When they drained his energon. When they recorded his spark like a trophy. This is no longer preservation.”
He looked down at his hands.
“For once… this is justice.”
The corridor remained silent. Not even Megatron had a comment for that.
Arcee took a step forward, her voice quieter than usual. “Optimus… are you sure?”
He nodded, eyes never leaving the hallway ahead.
“I am.”
And she understood. She felt the breaking point in his voice. This wasn’t a casual command. This wasn’t war protocol.
This was personal.
Optimus turned again, his blue optics glowing brighter than any light in the hallway, and for the first time in a long time, they weren’t filled with doubt. They were filled with righteous fury.
“Move.”
They advanced.
Megatron fell into step beside him.
For once, they didn’t argue.
No petty remarks. No derision. No suspicion.
Just the silence of shared hatred—for MECH, for Silas, for what had been done to the Seeker.
After all this time, they agreed.
Not because they suddenly saw the world the same way.
But because both of them, for different reasons—intimate, buried, never to be said aloud—wanted Starscream alive. And safe. And whole.
Soundwave broke their silence only once, his voice mechanical but low:
“Temperature in Sublevel Omega has dropped again. Spark stasis near critical.”
Optimus's steps quickened.
Megatron cracked his knuckles.
Even Arcee, who had never liked Starscream, who had called him a coward and a traitor more times than she could count—her grip on her blasters tightened. Because this wasn't war anymore. This was cruelty. And no one—no one—deserved what had been done to him.
As they neared the final lift, the emergency lights blinked once more. A human figure stumbled out from a side door—weapon in hand, screaming orders, unaware that the rest of his unit had already been silenced.
He raised his gun.
Before he could fire, a single shot rang out from Arcee.
The human dropped.
No hesitation.
No remorse.
Just cold clarity.
They were out of time.
The lift doors opened with a hiss.
Soundwave scanned downward. “Stasis lock at 76%. Spark output—weakening. Unknown anomalies in spark shell—energy discharge building.”
“Go,” Optimus said.
The elevator descended.
And for the first time in the history of the war—Autobot and Decepticon stood not just together, but united by a singular goal.
Not victory. Not conquest. Not survival.
But rescue.
For Starscream.
And for the parts of themselves they couldn’t admit had loved him all along.
-=-=-=-
SUBLEVEL OMEGA
MECH Experimental Vault – Spark Containment Chamber
It was cold.
But not just physically.
Starscream’s wings were frozen solid—numb, heavy, no longer responsive even in thought. Ice crystals clung to the metal joints, crawling up like invasive vines, embedding into seams meant to move with grace and speed. Now… dead weight.
His optics flickered.
Online. Offline. Online.
Vision blurred. Static everywhere.
His processor surged and stalled, like an old data disk caught in corrupted loop. Memories bled into hallucinations. Were they watching him? Were the screens still rolling?
"—no more... no more—" his voice was nothing but a strangled whisper. He didn't know if he said it aloud.
The weight of the cables pressed deeper. More had been added since he last came fully online. Some wrapped around his throat. Others pierced the soft plating under his arm, all of them attached to tubes siphoning the lilac-tinged energon from his circulatory core. Slowly. Systematically.
They were draining him.
The nanites in his energon no longer defended—they had become sluggish, failing, reduced to the occasional twitch or glimmer beneath his dermal plating.
The scientists buzzed around like parasites, speaking in sharp clinical voices. Like none of this was alive.
He was alive.
But even that was fading.
Then—
A new machine.
He could hear it being wheeled in. The screech of metal on metal. The hum of heavy-duty energy cores powering up.
He tried to move. His limbs didn’t respond.
He screamed internally—but externally, there was only a trembling rasp.
“Spark field is exposed,” came the cold voice of the lead scientist.
Silas stood above, calm as a priest at an altar.
“Proceed,” Silas said. “Begin extraction procedure.”
"No... NO!" Starscream’s voice cracked, this time audible.
A needle-like device, long and thin, extended from the machine.
It glowed a sterile white.
The scientist at the helm was trembling—not from fear, but from excitement.
"This is history," he breathed. "A live spark, evolutionary, adaptive nanite code… if we can extract even a sliver of its plasma containment..."
“Do it.”
The machine whined and extended.
Starscream’s optics flared.
"STOP—"
The needle pierced the containment shell surrounding his spark.
Agony exploded.
His scream tore through the sublevel, shaking the foundations of the walls.
All the screens in the command room above glitched simultaneously. Red warning texts began flashing across every monitor.
SPARK INTERFERENCE DETECTED
UNSTABLE ENERGY READING – BIOLOGICAL REACTION IMMINENT
ABOVE, IN THE AUTOBOT-DECEPTICON MEDIC STATION
Ratchet’s head snapped up. His hands froze over the console displaying Starscream’s vitals from Soundwave’s feed tap.
“His pain threshold just spiked past critical! His spark—Primus—his spark is being breached!”
Knockout, who had been prepping emergency stabilizer kits, cursed and dropped his tool.
“They’re trying to extract it,” Knockout said, voice shaking with disgust. “They’re trying to rip a piece of his spark out.”
Ratchet’s optics narrowed in horror.
“Prepare the defibrillators. Surge compressors. Everything.”
Knockout looked at him. “You think he’ll make it?”
“I don’t know,” Ratchet whispered.
Then the scream came.
Raw. Animalistic. Metal and spark and mind unraveling all at once. Not just pain—it was violation. Stripping not just his energy, but his being.
Ratchet stumbled back.
Even Knockout flinched, optics wide.
The silence that followed was even worse.
BACK IN THE SPARK CHAMBER
Silas stepped forward, watching in awe as the spark core—faintly lilac, erratic in its pulse—fought to defend itself. The moment the extraction probe made contact, the spark shifted—ribbons of energy fracturing and reforming, the shell cracking in luminous patterns, like a kaleidoscope of living plasma.
“What’s it doing?!” the lead scientist cried.
“It’s fighting,” another whispered. “It’s evolving—changing itself again—“
A burst of light erupted from the spark.
The probe melted.
The scientist manning it was thrown back, slamming into the far wall with a sickening crunch. His heart had stopped before he even hit the ground.
Silas did not flinch.
Instead, he stepped closer.
"Fascinating..."
The spark seemed to pulse brighter in response to his voice.
Then—without warning—the spark field flared outward, a directional wave that surged through the nearby data panels, sending a ripple of code through MECH’s internal systems.
The nearest screen cracked—and flickered to life, revealing…
A map.
A ping.
Coordinates. Transmission.
TO: OPTIMUS PRIME
VIA: AUTOBOT FREQUENCY 001-BETA
SOURCE: UNKNOWN/NON-MECHANICAL
“He’s calling for help,” Soundwave said, stunned, watching the signal ping in real time across their shared feed.
Optimus’s fists clenched.
“Hold on, Starscream,” he said softly. “We’re coming.”
The door exploded inward.
Not from hacking or stealth.
From rage.
A seismic boom rocked the lower chambers of MECH’s secret mountain facility as Megatron’s fusion cannon unleashed a full-powered blast into the reinforced alloy entrance of the spark chamber. The steel groaned under the strain, bent inward like paper—and then snapped open with a mechanical shriek.
Smoke and sparks exploded outward.
The Autobots and Decepticons flooded in as one, a coalition forged from fury, horror, and something deeper—something ancient.
The sight that greeted them froze everyone in place.
It was not a battlefield. It was a crucifixion.
At the center of the room, bathed in the cold glare of surgical lamps, was Starscream.
No longer the arrogant, sharp-tongued Seeker that had once ruled the skies with pride and venom. No longer the deadly rogue who had danced between loyalty and betrayal.
This was a hollowed-out husk of what he had been.
His body was shackled to a massive operating slab, more cage than table. Dozens of cables, some pulsing with active data, others coated in drying, metallic lilac blood, connected him to various machines.
Parts of his armor were missing—ripped away. Torn apart by brute force. His wings were shattered, frozen solid, fragments of ice clinging to the joints like cobwebs. Deep cracks ran across the metal. His right arm had been drained completely; the plating was warped, discolored, lifeless.
His chest—
Oh, Primus.
His chassis had been forcibly opened.
The armor had not been surgically parted. It had been torn apart by heavy tools and battering machinery. The plates surrounding his spark had been split with violent disregard. The spark cavity was exposed, trembling with every failing pulse, glowing faintly in a wan, lilac light.
That spark. The sacred, singular core of all Cybertronian life. Laid bare like an artifact. Surrounded by humming scanners and glowing vials filled with siphoned energon. Instruments still hovered nearby, dripping with the same fluid—his fluid—drained drop by drop.
And the ice. Starscream’s entire frame was entombed in creeping frost, his systems frozen in stasis. He wasn’t unconscious. He wasn’t even asleep.
He was shut down.
His optics flickered feebly. He didn’t see them.
“Primus... no.”
The word came from Bumblebee.
Small, strangled. His young voice filled with disbelief. Horror.
He took one step forward, and then stumbled. Arcee caught him before he could collapse, her own field trembling against his. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t look away from the sight of Starscream’s spark.
Even as an enemy, she had never imagined this.
The silence was shattered by Dreadwing.
The Warlord Seeker gave a roar of pure, violent fury. His massive frame charged forward before anyone could stop him, crushing one of the energon-filled capsules underfoot with a sickening squelch of cracking glass and lilac fluid.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?!” he bellowed, grabbing one of the stunned MECH scientists and slamming them into the nearest wall with enough force to dent steel.
“Dreadwing—stand down!” Optimus barked—but his voice cracked.
Because he too was trembling.
His fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. He had seen many horrors. But never… never this. Never a spark cavity exposed like a lab specimen. Never energon drained and cataloged like oil. Never the torment of a living, conscious being, violated in the most sacred way.
Even war had rules.
This broke them all.
Shockwave stepped forward, scanning the machinery.
And for the first time in millennia, his single optic dimmed. No words came from him. None were sufficient. Even logic faltered before this.
Megatron did not speak.
He walked.
Past the frozen Autobots. Past Soundwave, who stood motionless and silent, static lacing his shoulders like an unstable storm. Past Ratchet and Knockout, who were already sprinting toward the medical consoles.
He stopped before Starscream.
And then he knelt.
“...You fool,” Megatron whispered. His voice broke. “You fragging fool. You should’ve fought. Why didn’t you fight back?”
Starscream didn’t answer.
His spark pulsed weakly.
Barely.
“Optimus,” Ratchet said suddenly, “his vitals are dropping fast. The spark’s output is reaching terminal instability—”
“We have to re-seal the spark chamber!” Knockout shouted. “If we don’t close it, the exposure will—”
“—kill him,” Ratchet finished grimly.
Megatron rose.
He turned to Optimus, optics glowing with raw, controlled fury.
“We move now.”
Optimus nodded once.
And for the first time in their lives, they were no longer enemies.
They were Cybertronians, standing against desecration.
The air inside the deepest level of the MECH facility felt like frostbitten metal—choking, sharp, heavy with the stench of energon and industrial coolant. The walls trembled as another explosion echoed in the background, a chorus of fury from Cybertronian wrath. But even that was nothing compared to the silence in the chamber housing Starscream.
His body lay limp, cuffed and chained to the cold steel floor, fractured open at the chest by crude heavy machinery. His spark—a glowing lilac core of pulsing energy—was exposed, trembling weakly, flickering between life and shutdown. Parts of his wings had been removed for study, edges frozen and blackened. His normally sleek frame was now torn, parts missing or butchered, replaced by heavy cables and tubes that drained what little energon he had left into labeled capsules.
Pools of energon—lilac, not blue—spread like spilled ink beneath him. Ice layered across his form in cruel mockery of his aerial majesty, weighing down his wings, coating his optics. Even in unconsciousness, pain etched itself into every servo.
Ratchet and Knockout were the first to reach him. They skidded into the spark chamber just as Starscream let out a low, gurgled cry of pain, his spark reacting to the intrusion of a probe MECH had inserted into its core.
“By Primus…” Ratchet breathed, horror making his digits tremble. “Knockout, now! We need to stabilize him—his spark is beginning to collapse!”
Knockout was already sprinting forward, optic wide in disbelief. “They opened his chassis—no precision, no surgical entry—how is he still alive?!”
“We need to reduce the damage. Feed heat into his core unit, reverse the coolant systems—fast!” Ratchet barked, plugging into the nearest terminal and rerouting any emergency power left in the lab to radiate warmth.
Meanwhile, the room behind them exploded in chaos.
Megatron and the Decepticons stormed in, their optics glowing in unrestrained rage. What they saw shattered even their darkest expectations. Dreadwing froze in the entryway before releasing a guttural roar, hurling a grenade toward a cluster of MECH scientists attempting to flee.
Shockwave, silent, simply walked forward and vaporized the nearest technician with his cannon. And yet even he—devoid of most emotions—paused as he stared at the spark hanging open, vulnerable.
“He’s worse than we thought…” Shockwave murmured. The unspoken phrase lingered in the room: We were too late.
Megatron stood still, his red optics fixated on Starscream. His wings trembled.
“Who did this…” he growled low.
Across the chamber, several scientists scrambled to escape. They never made it. Breakdown crushed one against the wall with his bare servos. Soundwave extended his tentacles and sliced through two more.
Then Megatron moved.
With no words, he surged forward. The first scientist to fall to him screamed before he was torn in half by his fusion cannon. The next barely got a chance to turn before Megatron’s servo crushed his skull into the wall. Brutal. Unrelenting. One by one, he and his warriors slaughtered every human that had dared to touch the Seeker. HIS Seeker.
“NO MERCY!” Megatron roared, his voice echoing in the cold facility. “NO FORGIVENESS!”
Above them, protected behind layers of thick security glass, Silas stood in the control room, watching the chaos.
Optimus Prime burst into the chamber just in time to witness Megatron decimating a group of fleeing scientists. His optics fell to the scene before him—Starscream, split open and leaking energon, his spark barely pulsing, missing limbs, surrounded by machines that had harvested pieces of him like scrap.
Even Bumblebee stepped back, disturbed. Arcee’s optics shimmered with unshed tears of fury. Bulkhead stood like a statue, fists clenched.
Optimus turned slowly toward the ceiling, optics locking on Silas who stood behind the glass. “How…” he whispered. Then louder, fury shaking his voice, “HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?! WHERE WERE THE ALARMS?!”
Soundwave bowed his head, shame flooding him. “...I failed,” his modulated voice admitted.
Ratchet looked up from Starscream’s side. “Forget that. We need HEAT, now! His systems are collapsing, and his wings—his wings are dying from frostbite. If we don’t warm him up, we lose him!”
Knockout had already removed the cable draining Starscream’s energon and connected a portable energon recycler to begin replenishing his reserves. “He’s fighting… somehow. Primus, the nanites inside his energon are trying to shield his spark from further damage.”
“They’re adapting,” Ratchet said. “Evolving. Like a mutated defense system…”
Optimus glared toward the upper level. “Silas…”
Megatron joined his side, optics locked on the coward behind the glass. “I want his head.”
“No,” Optimus answered coldly. “We’re bringing the mountain down on him.”
Silas backed away from the glass as multiple optic sensors turned on him.
Meanwhile, Starscream’s optics flickered. Just for a moment.
He felt heat. Warmth.
Softly.
And then pain again.
Pain that rooted into his spark, digging deep, touching something primal inside him. He gasped faintly as Knockout adjusted the heat distribution.
“Stay with us, Screamer,” Knockout muttered. “Don’t go offline now.”
Ratchet placed a stabilizer against the spark, realigning it. “Optimus, Megatron, I need five minutes. Keep the rest of this cursed facility off us.”
Dreadwing stood like a sentinel at the door.
Arcee pointed to the upper chamber. “Permission to breach and retrieve Silas?”
“Granted,” Optimus growled. “And if he resists—”
“He won’t resist for long,” Megatron interrupted. “We make sure of it.”
With renewed unity, the team divided: Autobots and Decepticons alike spreading through the facility to finish what MECH began… and end it with fire.
Silas’s empire was crumbling. But what mattered now was the seeker, who lay shattered but breathing.
And the war for his spark had just begun.
The moment Ratchet's voice broke through the haze of chaos, Knockout snapped into focus. They had seconds—maybe less.
“Stabilize his core temperature! We’re going to lose him!” Ratchet barked, diving toward the mangled medtech kits with trembling urgency.
Knockout didn’t argue. He never had. Not when it came to medicine. Not when it came to Starscream.
With his tools shaking in his hands, Knockout pulled a thermal regulator from the portable energon pack and jammed it into Starscream’s thigh. “Heat surge initiating. If his core’s not too far gone, this might hold the spark matrix together until we can seal the cavity.”
Starscream’s spark pulsed weakly in the open cavity of his chest—lilac, flickering, fragile. The ethereal glow dimmed and flared with every strained heartbeat. They hadn’t just stripped him. They had desecrated him.
Above Them—Silas
From the observation deck cloaked behind armored glass, Silas stood in eerie stillness. Behind him, the final recording played on a silent screen: Starscream’s cries, fragmented optics twitching, voice begging for release. He didn’t even look at it anymore. His eyes were glued to the chaos below.
When Optimus finally raised his head and saw the man—saw him safe, untouched, breathing calmly—his fury erupted like a nova.
“You watched,” Optimus growled, taking a step forward as if the meters of air and glass between them were nothing. “You let this happen.”
Silas’ eyes flicked toward the Prime. Amused. Challenging. “Correction,” he said, pressing a button on the wall behind him, “I made it happen.”
The alarm returned in a new form: a deafening pulse, a signal to the upper floors. Backup. Traps.
Below—Retaliation
“Enough,” Megatron snarled. With a low hum, the fusion cannon on his arm powered to full, crackling with heat.
“No survivors,” Dreadwing snarled beside him, his voice raw. “No mercy.”
The Decepticons tore through the remaining scientists. Each one that had touched Starscream’s frame paid in energon and broken limbs. Some begged. Some cried. None were spared.
Soundwave snapped one’s spine with his cables and left him folded in a corner like discarded trash. Even Shockwave—cold, logical, emotionless—slammed his fist through one of the medical panels and crushed the head of the scientist hunched over it.
“This is not science,” he murmured, tone flat but hands shaking.
Bumblebee, frozen in the threshold, stared at Starscream’s spark. His voice stuttered in low, static whimpers.
“He was… he was alive,” he transmitted.
Arcee placed a hand on his shoulder. Her optics brimmed with something between nausea and outrage. “He still is.”
Optimus’ hands were trembling.
“By the Allspark,” he whispered. “How could this be done to anyone?”
He turned toward Silas, now disappearing into a steel chamber behind a thick barrier.
“No one leaves this base alive,” Prime said, and his tone left no room for mercy.
“Knockout, I need a bypass line! We need to reintroduce internal heat and stabilize the energon nanites.”
“They’re crystallizing,” Knockout muttered. “They’re losing shape!”
Ratchet turned to the Autobots. “Knockout, bring that generator online. Now! We need heat—external and internal. Everything you've got.”
Knockout ran. Bulkhead ripped apart the metal walls to salvage circuitry. Bumblebee helped Ratchet splice together field tubing for warm energon recirculation. It was frantic. Messy. Desperate.
But Starscream’s spark… was still glowing.
For the first time in years, Megatron knelt.
He took Starscream’s frozen, ravaged hand and held it, fingers gently wrapping around what little warmth remained.
“You survived worse,” he muttered. “You will survive this.”
Knockout didn’t look up. “He needs you to keep speaking. He’s responding to vocal patterns. His spark pulses rise every time you speak.”
Megatron leaned closer. “Then I will speak until he answers.”
Upstairs, Silas was retreating—but not fast enough.
Soundwave had already infiltrated the system.
Doors slammed shut.
Corridors locked.
“Prime,” Soundwave finally said. “He’s trapped.”
“Then let us end this,” Optimus said.
Starscream’s optics flickered again.
This time, they didn’t dim. They glowed.
But not red.
Not the crimson glare they all knew—fiery and sharp, the color of defiance and fury.
Instead, his optics now shimmered with an ethereal hue—a soft, haunting lilac. Pale and glimmering like twin nebulae, not static lights. There was movement within them, fractal pulses like starlight behind glass, far too deep to belong to any ordinary Cybertronian.
The room fell into a stunned silence.
Ratchet was the first to speak.
“…What in the name of Primus…”
Knockout stepped closer, drawn involuntarily by the glow. “His optics… they changed.”
Optimus stiffened. “That isn’t a Decepticon hue.”
“It’s not even modern,” Ratchet muttered, stepping back and pulling up the diagnostic pad still linked to Starscream’s vitals and reboot systems. His optics narrowed, fingers trembling slightly as he re-scanned the ancient coding now beginning to wake up within the Seeker’s neural net. “This shouldn’t be possible. He was never… this shouldn’t exist.”
Megatron looked up sharply. “Speak plainly, medic.”
Ratchet's voice was distant, in awe and horror both. “He’s older. Much older than he told anyone. The reboot sequence accessed legacy programming… I thought it was just corrupted junk data—but no. This—this is pre-war code. No, pre-Golden Age. Older than Cybertronian colony records. Some of these strings… they match what's cataloged in the Hall of Records as belonging to the Firstfire soldiers—Primus’s personal guard. His chosen.”
Optimus turned sharply. “The Firstfire was a legend. A myth.”
“No,” Ratchet said, shaking his head slowly. “It was buried, like everything else we forgot after the Age of Rust. But I’m looking at the data now. There are traces of encryption keys older than the Matrix itself. And—look.” He angled the pad to show the team.
A slow pulse traced the spark signal from Starscream’s core—a spiral pattern, unique, ancient, marked by a secondary ring that hummed faintly like a tuning frequency to something… beyond. It didn’t match any Decepticon, Autobot, or even Neutral signature. It was singular.
“This isn’t just energon. This is corefield radiation—raw, unfiltered energy straight from the Well of All Sparks. His system has always filtered it into combat performance, into regeneration. That’s why he heals faster. That’s why he survived the king’s programming, Silas’ extraction attempts, all of it. Starscream is not just durable. He is… constructed cold from an earlier blueprint. One we forgot.”
Even Shockwave, silent at the edge of the room, narrowed his optic slightly. “…A mutation… or a relic.”
Soundwave stepped forward too, quiet but present, a rare echo of actual voice emerging through his vocoder. “Echo: Primus-code optics. Rare. Thought extinct.”
“Lilac optics,” Ratchet said. “Only found in the old legends. Mechs who burned with the flame of creation. Sparks gifted with something we never understood. Not command—not strength. But evolution.”
Megatron turned to the Seeker, stunned into true, breathless stillness. “He was with me this entire war. And none of us knew.”
Starscream stirred slightly, his optics flickering—not blinking, just flaring. That same ancient light washed over Megatron’s face, and something deep in his spark trembled—not with fear, but reverence.
“Megatron,” Ratchet said, suddenly quiet. “This isn’t just about saving him anymore. Starscream is a link to our origin. Maybe even our future. That spark—if it had been extracted, it could’ve altered Cybertronian evolution permanently.”
Optimus stared down at the seeker with something he never imagined he'd feel.
Not pity. Not regret.
But wonder.
“If he remembers…” he murmured. “We must protect him. No matter what.”
Even Megatron didn’t argue.
Starscream was no longer just a Decepticon. Not just a former Seeker or a war-weary second-in-command.
He was something far older. And possibly far more powerful.
And at that moment, as his lilac optics blinked slowly again, everyone present understood:
They were no longer fighting to save just a friend, or a comrade.
They were guarding a relic of Primus—and perhaps the key to Cybertron’s rebirth.
-=-=-=-=-
Silas was trapped.
The reinforced glass of the upper observatory had been fused shut by Optimus’s precision shot moments after the chamber breach. The fire of battle still echoed in the chamber below, but now his surroundings were filled with smoke, sparks, and silence. His fingers trembled against the shattered control panel. His lips were stretched in a twisted grin.
He had heard everything.
He leaned in toward the sound system, listening as the Cybertronians shouted and scrambled around the collapsed figure of Starscream.
Lilac optics.
Primus code.
Legacy command strings.
"Yes… yes… YES!" he hissed, grinning like a madman. "You were more than a subject… You’re a mutation. A next step. An evolutionary rift in real time! You weren’t a mistake—you were a secret." He slammed his hand on the shattered control panel, panting. "They don’t understand it. They can’t. But I saw it from the beginning… I always knew you were special."
Below, none of them heard him. None but the ghosts of Silas’ own madness.
In the spark chamber, the air was thick with tension and barely-restrained fury. The Autobots and Decepticons—still smeared with soot and energon—stood around the fragile, wounded figure of Starscream. The glow from his lilac spark reflected on their metal faces like the flicker of a dying flame—until it pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
And then—
“…Too soon,” Starscream rasped, optics still half-glazed. “The mission isn’t complete…”
Everyone froze.
Megatron took a half-step forward. “Starscream…?”
The seeker blinked slowly. There was no recognition in his optics. Only… memory.
“I… I was training them,” he mumbled, his voice dragging, struggling past pain and static. “The Choosens…They must hide in the shadows. Must grow in secret. One must become the mask… a good leader. Hidden. Safe.”
Ratchet whispered, “Who is he talking about?”
Soundwave’s visor narrowed. “No record of known ‘Chosens’… context unknown.”
Optimus stared, stunned. "He's not with us. He's… remembering."
“I told them… I would protect them until it was time,” Starscream continued, voice cracking. “But I wasn’t supposed to stay awake this long. It was too dangerous. Too exposed. I was only… the spark-chamber keeper. Not the beacon. Not the fire.”
He coughed—painful, a broken rattle from deep in his frame. Energons sensors spiked; his spark pulsed erratically. Knockout hurried forward with a stasis patch, but Ratchet held up a hand.
“Wait,” the old medic whispered. “Let him speak.”
Starscream’s optics fluttered open, wide and distant. The lilac shimmer swirled—haunted.
“I envy you…” he whispered.
The room held its breath.
“I envy bots who could choose,” Starscream rasped, voice cracking like glass under pressure. “To stay or flee. To fight or not. I… was made with a purpose, and never permitted to want.”
Optimus knelt, gently. “Starscream…”
The Seeker’s face twisted—not in defiance, but sorrow.
“You never asked to be what you are,” Optimus said quietly.
Starscream’s voice wavered, as if not truly speaking to them but to someone long gone. “They all had something I didn’t. Primes. Scientists. Seekers. Even miners… They could decide. But me…?”
Silence.
Then—
“It mustn’t be revealed.”
The whole room stiffened.
Starscream’s optics flared—too bright, too unnatural. Ratchet’s instruments went wild.
“MASS can’t fail. The container must hold. They can’t know what I am… what I’m keeping,” Starscream choked, shaking. “Contain the code. Suppress the pulse. Continue Primus’s orders… hide the Firstfire.”
Optimus whispered, “What is ‘Mass’?”
No answer.
Megatron’s voice was low. “…Primus gave him orders? Himself?”
Shockwave, for once, had no words. His lone optic stared at the broken Seeker like a riddle he could never solve.
Ratchet finally shook his head slowly. “We thought he was just… an ambitious, loudmouthed commander. A traitor. A coward. Even a joke, sometimes. But this… this isn’t just a Seeker anymore.”
Bumblebee, trembling, looked at the spark—still faintly flickering in its damaged cradle, wrapped in ice, a shard of eternity in a chamber of violence. Even the young scout, who had clashed with Starscream too many times to count, felt it now:
This was not a rescue mission.
It was a revelation.
And something darker lurked behind those words—Chosens. Containers. Orders from a god now silent.
Starscream was not a soldier of war.
He was a vessel. A secret. A prison.
And now the question hovered heavy in the air, heavier than all else:
What happens if he breaks?
The silence after Starscream’s final words was absolute.
His chest, torn open and flooded with residual energon, still faintly pulsed with the glow of his spark—barely visible through the frost forming on his internal components. Ratchet and Knockout were still hard at work, sealing coolant lines and stabilizing what they could. The Autobots and Decepticons, for the first time united not by politics but by shock, stood in stunned formation.
Even Megatron looked unsure of what to say, his field unusually still.
It was Shockwave who broke the silence.
He had not moved throughout Starscream's monologue—watching, analyzing, his single optic glowing faintly as data poured through internal systems. But now, he stepped forward, arms behind his back, voice calm—but more subdued than usual.
“…There is… a possibility,” he began, optic narrowing. “It is, by definition, not logical, but it cannot be entirely ignored. A theory.”
Everyone turned toward him. He was the last mech any expected to entertain myth.
Ratchet glanced up, optics narrowing. “Speak plainly, Shockwave.”
The Decepticon scientist gave the faintest nod, and for a moment, something flickered across his features—buried deep. Not hesitation. Not fear.
Something that might have once been reverence.
“There was a log,” he said slowly. “Buried within the ruins of Kolkular. Data shards dating back to before the first recorded Primes. So corrupted that I initially deemed them unworthy of further pursuit. I was… mistaken.”
He turned, not to Megatron or Optimus, but to Starscream—still unconscious, his body cradled in heated panels Ratchet had activated. The Seeker's expression was tense even in sleep. His optics flickered faintly beneath the lids.
“The log spoke of a being not known by name,” Shockwave continued, “only as ‘the Hidden Flame.’ A soldier not forged, but kindled, from the living code of Primus himself. His purpose was never to lead openly, never to wear a crown, but rather to train and protect those who would. He walked behind the Matrix, not in front of it. He was meant to be a shadow to the light, guiding the bearers of Primus’s will without ever revealing his own.”
Optimus’s brow furrowed. “A guardian of leaders.”
Shockwave nodded once.
“The log indicated he was immortal by code, not spark—his systems could adapt, modify, evolve to survive centuries of war and isolation. But he would never claim his own destiny. Only… shape the destinies of others.”
“Why hide him?” Bumblebee asked, voice small.
“Because the Chosen must grow through trial,” Shockwave replied, almost gently. “If they knew of the guiding hand, they would lean on it. Depend on it. The Hidden Flame was a necessary lie. A tool of divine misdirection.”
Dreadwing, still standing near Starscream, growled, “Then why would Primus give such a fate to him? Starscream?”
Shockwave finally turned toward him.
“The name was corrupted,” he admitted. “But fragments of it survived. Designation: S-S—R-K*M. The rest is lost. My early calculations dismissed the relevance. Now… I am less certain.”
Ratchet exhaled sharply, his processor racing. He looked back at Starscream, remembering the scans, the strange clusters of foreign code wrapped around redundant systems no modern Cybertronian ever needed.
“…That would explain the mods,” he said suddenly. “Starscream’s frame isn’t just altered—heavily altered. Stealth subroutines, auto-adaptive transformation protocols, stasis-hibernation pockets. Even backup spark regulation functions. At first, I assumed it was old Seeker tech or Knockout’s overcompensating aesthetic programming…”
“Excuse me,” Knockout said indignantly.
“…But now I see the truth. He was built to disappear. Built to survive everything. Even the war.”
Knockout crossed his arms, optics dimming. “All that explains a lot. His resilience. His… secrets. But we don’t have time for fairy tales right now. He’s stabilizing, but only barely. We need to get him back to the Nemesis.”
“He’s right,” Ratchet agreed. “We’ll never keep him warm enough in this ruin. If we lose the spark temperature, we’ll lose him.”
Optimus turned his gaze back to Starscream, his field trembling with tension. “How much has he already lost?”
“…More than anyone should,” Ratchet murmured.
He reached into his subspace and pulled a drive—sleek, old, engraved with a strange Seeker rune.
“This was installed near Starscream’s spark chamber, protected by five layers of encryption. I copied it before extraction. It… feels more like a journal than a tactical program. Maybe… maybe it holds answers.”
Optimus accepted it, slowly.
Knockout was already preparing the transfer pod, calibrating stasis protocols.
Below them, Starscream stirred, optics dim behind their soft lavender glow.
He whispered again.
“No one must know…”
And then fell still.
They worked quickly, transferring Starscream into the emergency medpod. Megatron never left his side. Soundwave moved in complete silence, his field strangely gentle, hovering. Bumblebee refused to look away. Even Dreadwing’s hand hovered once—uncertain—over Starscream’s shoulder before he stepped away.
Shockwave stood still as ever, his optic watching as the stasis field sealed around the Seeker.
“A tale,” he said quietly. “Perhaps. But the legends are clear.”
He turned, slow and grave.
“If the Hidden Flame fails—if he burns too bright or fades too soon—the Chosen will fall.”
The implication hung in the air like a tombstone.
No one had noticed before. No one had wanted to.
But now… they couldn’t unsee it.
Starscream was more than a soldier.
More than a Seeker.
More than a traitor.
And perhaps… more than any of them could understand.
The chamber where Silas had once stood imprisoned, watching the chaos unfold beneath layers of reinforced glass, now lay scorched and buckled by the aftershocks of the battle. The floor bore deep cracks where debris had exploded from below. A thick haze still hung in the air, reeking of scorched metal and broken systems.
The Autobots had sealed the observation level, assuming no one could make it in—or out.
But they hadn’t accounted for the shadows.
From beneath a twisted section of wall—damaged during the brutal Decepticon assault—a panel groaned outward, and figures slipped through the smoke. Sleek, armored in matte black, they moved with precision and purpose.
Three bots, unfamiliar. Each bore the insignia of a dead unit long erased from Autobot or Decepticon command. Ex-Cylinder Syndicate. Ex-human sympathizers. Mercenaries who had once worked under Silas’s command during the dark experiments in Project Chimera. Presumed dead after MECH's collapse.
They had been watching. Waiting. Hiding in the fractured underground, nursing hatred and ambition.
And now, they had come for their commander.
“Sir,” one said, voice filtered through distortion. “We’ve breached the wall. Emergency evac protocols engaged.”
Silas lay half-collapsed near the ruined glass, one arm twisted unnaturally, cybernetic enhancements flickering. He was soaked in coolant, energon, blood—both Cybertronian and human.
Yet his optics were burning with life.
“I told you… I told you I wouldn’t be left here.”
Two of them moved to lift him.
“Status?” he hissed.
“Hostiles occupied below. Starscream extracted. Decepticons and Autobots pulled out. They missed the breach—we had less than three minutes after the blast.”
Silas laughed. Low. Acidic. Unhinged.
“They think they’ve won. Think they’ve saved him.”
He let his gaze drift to the data core clutched against his side—shielded in emergency plating, downloaded seconds before the room collapsed. All of the scans. The spark readings. The failed spark-duplication logs. The internal journals he’d hacked mid-battle. The backup drive left in haste by MECH’s internal AI.
Starscream’s secrets.
His structure. His age. His code.
His connection to Primus.
It was all here.
“I’ll rise again,” Silas whispered, bloodied lips curled in a grin. “And when I do… he will be mine.”
They vanished through the breach, leaving only smoke and ruin in their wake.
Meanwhile—
Bulkhead’s voice echoed through the chamber, deep and grim. “Something’s wrong.”
He turned sharply, scanning the top level. The observation deck was collapsed—but… not sealed. His optics narrowed.
“There was no structural breach here five minutes ago.”
He moved toward the debris, scanning. A faint energy signature—buried.
“Ratchet!” he bellowed. “Up here!”
The medic, half-drenched in coolant and scorch marks, climbed through the broken scaffolding. His face immediately paled.
“…The wall’s blown out.”
Bulkhead snarled. “You think Silas got out?”
Ratchet opened a scan, fingers moving fast over his datapad. “There’s a trail. Fresh. He’s been extracted.”
Shockwave’s optic lit behind them. “Then we pursue.”
His tone was calm. Too calm.
But Ratchet blocked him with a hand. “Starscream is still critical. We don’t have the resources to divide—not yet. His spark field is fluctuating, and if we don’t regulate temperature and resume full system reintegration within the hour…”
He let the silence speak for itself.
Shockwave’s optic dimmed slightly—but he gave a slow nod. “Acknowledged.”
Bulkhead slammed a fist into the railing. “This is a slagged disaster.”
Ratchet didn’t disagree.
Down below, the stasis pod was already sealed, the last of their team preparing for the return trip. Optimus and Megatron stood on either side of the pod, glaring down at the still form within.
Megatron’s optics glowed like the core of a neutron star.
He escaped.
The words burned into his processor like molten lead. Silas—alive. Silas—free.
And Starscream—violated, scarred, and too fragile to even speak.
He clenched his claws so hard the armor cracked.
“I will not forget,” Megatron growled, low enough that only Optimus heard him.
“You won’t be alone,” the Prime replied quietly.
The Decepticon lord stared at the pod.
“If I see him again… I won’t leave a single piece behind.”
Later, aboard the Nemesis
The corridors were silent.
Starscream was placed in the central medbay, encased in thermal containment, monitored by both Knockout and Ratchet. His spark field was faint but steady. The bruises, dents, missing plates, the cruel hollowness where systems had been carved away—all were now stark beneath the medical lights.
Optics shut. Hands motionless.
But inside that fragile shell was something older than they ever imagined.
Shockwave stood at the far end of the bay, silent, optic fixed on the pod. Behind him, Soundwave monitored external channels—scanning for Silas, searching for fragments of his movement.
Every so often, Megatron walked past Starscream’s pod. Just to see. Just to feel the warmth.
Every time he did, something deep in him twisted—a fury that had no words.
He wanted to be there when Silas fell.
Not for vengeance.
Not for war.
But because of what had been taken—and what almost was lost.
He stood over Starscream once again, looking down at the Seeker, remembering every snarl, every betrayal, every petty insult that masked something deeper.
Megatron exhaled. “No more shadows,” he whispered.
Starscream didn’t respond.
But his spark pulsed softly in the dark.
Chapter Text
The low hum of the Nemesis’ medical bay was broken only by the rhythmic pulse of the monitoring systems surrounding the stasis pod.
Ratchet had barely moved in hours, optics fixed on the screen before him. Knockout, for once, was silent—his gloved hands moving with precise care over the interface. Neither of them had the energy for their usual banter. Not after everything they’d seen. Not after watching Starscream hover on the edge of a full spark collapse.
But finally…
The readings changed.
A steady pulse.
Clear, constant.
The spark, once faltering like a candle in stormwind, now held its rhythm.
Ratchet slumped back slightly, exhaling what felt like an entire lifetime of tension. “We’ve got him.”
Knockout let out a weak chuckle, eyes wide. “We actually got him back.”
Starscream’s body lay motionless still, but the tension in his limbs was gone, the strange heat siphon mechanism finally working again with the adjustments Ratchet had made. The warmth from Megatron's own chassis, transferred hours earlier, had stabilized his core temperature enough to buy time for full spark-field regeneration.
His colors were still pale, like starlight washed in frost, but they were his.
Ratchet tapped his commlink.
“All teams. He’s stabilized. We’re bringing up the log copy.”
The command deck was quiet.
Megatron stood near the main projector, arms crossed but rigid. Optimus was beside him, his expression unreadable—but his gaze never left the display Ratchet was preparing.
Ultra Magnus who did not want to get involved before, was now full of curiosity,present, standing stiff as a pillar behind the group. Bulkhead leaned forward slightly, his arms crossed but brows drawn. Arcee kept her distance near the shadows of the walls, her gaze darting between Starscream's stasis cam and the approaching humans.
Soundwave, as always, stood silent in the back, a towering specter of stillness.
Bumblebee was seated with Raf close to the edge of the room, the young human clasping a datapad of his own. Beside him, Miko and Jack sat a little too quietly for their usual selves. William Fowler stood just behind them, hand on his belt, his jaw tight.
They were out of place here—in a room filled with history, battle, and secrets.
But Optimus had insisted.
“If Silas is still free,” he had said, “he may target them. And if this log reveals what we fear it will… they deserve to know. And perhaps,” he had added, his voice softening, “he would want them to hear it too.”
Ratchet’s voice brought the room to silence.
“Beginning playback. This is a transcription recovered directly from Starscream’s core drive, one which I believe was embedded from the moment of his creation. I suspected its presence for cycles—but only now, after the reboot, was it fully decrypted.”
The display flared to life.
A hologram appeared—distorted at first. Static flared, and then stabilized.
The image of Starscream—young, unscarred, voice calm. Nothing like the bitter shrieking Seeker most had known.
And he was smiling.
“Entry One. By order of Primus—command encrypted.”
“If you’re reading this, I’ve either failed, or the time has come.”
“My name is Starscream, though it was not always so. Before the war, before the factions, before the betrayal and the lines drawn in steel—I was simply one of many created to walk the shadows, to train those destined to lead.”
The room fell deathly still.
“We were the hands of the forges. The ones who worked in silence, who observed the sparks of future Primes from afar. We were forbidden from revealing ourselves—our mission was to prepare, never to interfere directly.”
“Primus forged us with codes unlike any other—hidden systems, embedded memory files, spark-linked resonance to the Matrix. Only a few of us were made. One of us… only one was tasked with the final generations. The last cycle before the Collapse.”
“That was me.”
The hologram flickered as the young Starscream looked aside, pain etching his features.
“When the war broke out… I didn’t know what to do. I had to stay close. Guide them—both of them—without ever revealing my purpose. Megatronus. Orion Pax. Both had the potential. One would rise.”
“I was supposed to watch. Train. Correct. And never, never be known.”
Optimus clenched his fists.
Megatron’s optics narrowed, unreadable.
“But something changed. I cared. For both of them. I admired them. Hated them. Wanted them to be better. I broke the code. I interfered. I chose sides… and then I changed them.”
“I watched the corruption grow. I tried to stop it. I failed.”
“I am tired. And if this file activates, it means I either died before my task was done… or the shadows no longer matter. If Primus speaks again… he’ll judge me.”
“I only ask… protect the next ones. The new leaders. They will need guidance. Even in the darkness.”
The hologram ended.
Silence.
No one spoke.
Ratchet was the first to move. His fingers trembled on the edge of the console. “The mods we found inside him… the hidden thermal regulators, the deep memory banks, the forged cloaking tools—this explains all of it. He wasn’t a simple Seeker. He was built for covert observation and leadership development.”
Knockout, for once, didn’t look smug. “He had a journal running under our noses the whole time. A core-level one. It was syncing to a program older than the war itself.”
Megatron's voice cut through the tension.
“…He trained me.”
His tone was flat, but his optics glowed.
“He corrected my battle forms. He tested my logic processors with scenarios. He—” his mouth twisted. “He led me to the war. Was that training? Was that failure?”
Optimus stepped forward. “He never meant for the war. But when it began… he couldn’t stand aside.”
Fowler looked at the bots, then at the children.
Jack’s voice was low. “He was like a… shadow Prime.”
Raf nodded slowly. “And he never told anyone.”
Miko's hands tightened into fists. “And he still fought in it. Still bled for both sides.”
Ratchet closed the datapad.
“This log changes everything. But right now, Starscream is still recovering. He has a right to wake in peace.”
Optimus looked at the children.
“You’ve heard more than most mechs will ever know. This knowledge is dangerous.”
Raf spoke softly. “We know. And we won’t say anything.”
Jack nodded. “He deserves to have his choice. Finally.”
Miko’s voice was steady. “He kept all our secrets. We’ll keep his.”
Megatron stared at the stasis cam.
His expression unreadable.
The Deep Archives – Nemesis Medical Bay
Ratchet sat alone.
The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the monitors humming softly. Starscream remained in stasis behind him, breathing steadily now. A miracle in itself. But Ratchet was drawn to something else—a flicker of code deep in the log he had decrypted earlier. A branching thread.
It hadn’t activated during the playback. Hidden. Fragmented. And encrypted under something so old it used root keys that hadn’t been seen since before the war.
But he knew the signature.
Matrix-Linked Protocol. Prime Access.
And yet... the encryption allowed passive viewing if done carefully. Ratchet, with trembling fingers, bypassed the active triggers and ran it in a sandboxed sim.
The screen flickered to life again.
LOG ENTRY — CYCLE 8,194,000 [corrupted]
Unit Designation: Shadowguard 01.
Visual: Chassis - Variant Design 7-Prime Era. Optic color: Red.
The hologram was aged, flickering heavily. Starscream appeared—but not as the mech anyone knew.
This version had thick, angular armor with archaic etchings. His optics were burning red, and his frame crackled with ancient power signatures. His wings were shaped like high ceremonial blades.
And beside him—stood The Fallen.
The Fallen, tall and terrible in black and molten orange, spoke in low, resonant tones. It was not a conversation—it was instruction.
Starscream was kneeling.
“The Prime is not ready,” the Fallen said.
“Then I will make him ready,” Starscream answered.
“He must learn to survive betrayal. Begin with mercy. End with fire.”
The log cut violently. Static. Code corrupted.
Ratchet froze.
“…he served under the Fallen?”
He ran the next available branch. It activated—this one clearer.
LOG ENTRY — CYCLE 7,213,000
Unit Designation: Shadowguard 01. Chassis Variant: Delta-Aegis Form. Optics: Blue.
The visual showed Starscream again, younger—but different still. His plating was sleek, bearing the marks of a high Praxian design. His optics were a piercing blue, and the way he stood beside the Prime—a cloaked mech Ratchet identified as Nova Prime—was like a sentinel.
The log’s audio was calm.
“Nova believes me merely an advisor,” Starscream’s voice said.
“But I am to ensure he resists his growing thirst for power. He must choose balance or fall.”
He looked directly into the log recorder.
“This is the burden I carry. A new Prime, a new form. A new face for the shadow. If I fail... I am rebuilt. If I succeed… I vanish. Until the next.”
LOG ENTRY — CYCLE 5,000,000
Unit Designation: Shadowguard 01. Chassis Variant: Valken Form. Optics: Amber.
This Starscream was smaller, faster. Golden optics glimmered like stars. He was recorded fighting against a Prime—an early version of Sentinel Prime—on a battlefield simulation.
At the end of the duel, Sentinel knelt before him in exhaustion.
Starscream offered his hand, his voice gentle.
“Strength isn’t enough. Leadership is pain. Pain you must carry, not inflict.”
The log glitched again.
Ratchet leaned back, stunned.
Every Prime. Every era. A different version of Starscream. A different name, different optics, different design. But always him. Sometimes friend. Sometimes enemy. Always shadow.
A note in the corrupted header blinked into view.
Core Lock Enforced — Active Stasis Command
Condition: If discovered by a Prime — full chassis restoration authorized.
Purpose: To return unit to original form and grant command autonomy.
Freedom Protocol: TRUE.
Ratchet stared.
“Freedom... only if a Prime finds him. Only then could he stop changing. Only then could he be… himself.”
He turned toward the stasis pod.
Starscream’s current body was a hybrid—scarred and rebuilt a dozen times. But if Optimus released the core lock...
He would return.
To his true form.
Ratchet tapped his comm.
“Optimus. I’ve found something you need to see. Bring the others.”
The medbay aboard the Nemesis was heavy with anticipation. Starscream remained in stasis, his form gently illuminated by the quiet glow of monitoring systems. The Autobots and Decepticons gathered, tension humming like an exposed energon line. Optimus stood near Ratchet, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
Megatron loomed behind him, optics narrowed, jaw clenched. Knockout leaned over a console, drumming his fingers on the glass screen. Soundwave stood silent but alert beside him. The human children, including Jack, Miko, and Raf, were gathered behind Fowler in a corner. They remained quiet, sensing the immense weight in the air.
Ratchet finished his final keystrokes and turned. “I’ve isolated the core lock system,” he began. “This... this isn't just a lock. It's a prison. One meant to keep Starscream changing forms, identities, roles—across time.”
The monitor flashed to life. Files spilled across the screen like water breaking a dam. Shockwave leaned in.
“Primus’s soldier,” he murmured. “Shadowguard One.”
“I believe,” Ratchet said, “it’s time we released him.”
Optimus stepped forward. He removed the Matrix of Leadership from his chest, and its radiant hum filled the room. He touched it gently to the console.
The code surged. The room darkened. Then the stasis pod hissed—gas venting. Light coalesced around Starscream’s frame.
His old armor shifted, panels glowing, morphing. His wings extended, sleek and sharper. Ancient engravings appeared along his limbs. And when his optics opened—
They were more lilac. Not red. Not blue. Lilac, like a jwerl,no,like an entire universe. His eyes sparkle like stars.
Gasps rippled through the group.
“I’ve only seen that color in the ancient texts,” Ratchet whispered. “The Eyes of Primus.”
Knockout yelped from the console. “Oh, oh, there’s more! A whole new archive just unlocked—entries tagged under ‘Truth Logs.’”
The screen exploded with new files—every file marked by faction sigils and mech designations.
“Wait... those are files on us,” Arcee said, stepping forward.
Knockout tapped the first file labeled: Optimus Prime.
Unit Evaluation — Optimus Prime
"Strength: Endurance of the cosmos. Compassion weaponized. Failure: Believes too much in the potential of peace. That belief costs lives. Still... he inspires. He always has."
Next: Megatron.
"Strength: Ruthless genius. Strategist of unfathomable instinct. Failure: Pain drives him. He never escaped the mines, not really. He needs power to believe he matters. But he already did."
Knockout opened his own.
"Strength: Precision. Self-worth not dependent on others. Remarkable under pressure. Failure: Hides fear of insignificance behind beauty. But beautiful things can heal. He will, if allowed."
“Wait—wait!” Knockout cried. “Soundwave’s is encrypted. Why is Soundwave’s different?!”
Soundwave stepped forward and placed a single hand on the console. It unlocked.
"Soundwave: Strength—Loyalty. Intelligence. Sees all, judges none. Failure: Loves silently. That silence is his greatest strength... and his deepest prison."
Soundwave froze.
Arcee opened hers:
"Strength: Unbreakable will. Compassion disguised as sarcasm. Failure: Cannot forgive herself for failure she could not control. Deserves peace. Refuses it."
Then...
Cliffjumper.
A corrupted warning symbol flashed.
"Cliffjumper: Spark contaminated—early signs of Dark Energon exposure. Strength: Fierce protector. Loyal. But... he was changing. Corrupted. The loss was necessary."
Ratchet paled. “No... we assumed the Cons killed him.”
The file continued.
"He turned. I ended it. I had to. He begged me. Before the corruption consumed what was left. He was still Cliff... in that final second."
Arcee staggered back. Her optics brimmed.
“You... you saved him from becoming a monster?”
Knockout scrolled faster now. Files flew past:
Bulkhead:
"Strength: Heart of iron. Fights with loyalty. Failure: Thinks he must always be the muscle, never the mind. He’s more. Much more."
Bumblebee:
"Strength: Empathy incarnate. Learns faster than anyone. Failure: Needs to stop comparing his voice to his worth. He’s already the voice of many."
Shockwave:
"Strength: Cold logic applied with surgical precision. Failure: Refuses to feel. But he does. Deeply. Beneath all he’s buried."
Starscream’s Own Entry:
Ratchet paused.
"Strength: I carry them. The weight of eons. I raise them. I bury them. I become what they need. Not once was I thanked. But I do it again. Every time. Failure: I envy them. They have choice. I was made to be duty. But I envy their freedom."
Silence.
Even Megatron was still.
“I thought he was power-hungry,” Arcee said.
“He is,” Megatron muttered. “But he’s more than that. He was watching us. Protecting us? Teaching?”
“Testing,” Ratchet corrected. “He gave us our worst days... so we could become who we are.”
Starscream stirred.
His optics glowed softly.
“I failed,” he whispered. “Mass must remain... hidden. Strength must not be seen. Not now. Not yet. The Chosens must learn. In shadow. Or this ends in fire.”
He struggled to rise. Megatron was at his side instantly, catching him.
“You will rest, now,” Megatron growled. But his voice was... gentle.
Starscream’s head tilted. “Even you... had to be broken to learn to lead.”
“I will shatter Silas for what he did to you.”
Starscream’s gaze drifted. “Then I did well... even if you never knew.”
Knockout’s sudden laughter rang through the command center of the Nemesis, startling everyone in the room.
“Ha! Oh, this is rich,” he said, spinning around in his chair and tapping frenetically on the console where Starscream’s ancient log files were still being decrypted and categorized. “He didn’t just keep tabs on us, oh no — our dear little secret soldier of Primus had files on the humans too!”
Everyone turned sharply at that, and Ratchet narrowed his optics. “What are you talking about?”
Knockout dramatically pointed to the screen. “Here. Look! Starscream was apparently watching the humans for cycles before any of us even knew about them. These logs are detailed—psych profiles, physical assessments, potential for influence, and… oh, this is just fabulous—their spark resonance compatibility with Cybertronian technology!”
Miko, Jack, and Raf exchanged confused glances while William Fowler took a stiff step forward, folding his arms.
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
Knockout chuckled again. “Relax, Agent Fowler. It seems you scored exceptionally high on the compatibility index. I believe Starscream tagged you as—let’s see—‘Reliable moral vector, highly resistant to corruption, suitable intermediary for Earth-Cybertron relations. Possesses a dangerously overdeveloped sense of duty. Would make a terrible Decepticon.’”
Fowler blinked. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
But Knockout wasn’t done.
“Oh, Miko!” he sang. “Yours is priceless. ‘Subject is reckless, volatile, loud. High probability of combat readiness with minimal training. Strong loyalty to teammates. Dangerous potential if turned rogue. A Decepticon recruiter’s dream… if you can survive the chaos.’”
Miko grinned. “Nice! I mean, it’s kinda freaky, but also kinda awesome?”
Jack’s profile made him pale.
“‘Subject possesses deep reserves of strategic thinking and internal moral conflict. Potential for leadership under duress. Strong Prime-like characteristics. Extremely dangerous if betrayed.’” Knockout read aloud. “Starscream liked you, kid.”
Raf’s was the most cryptic. Knockout’s smirk dropped slightly as he leaned in.
“‘Subject displays latent compatibility with data transfer matrices. Unusually high intelligence. Neural patterns suggest rapid adaptability. High probability of synchronization with Cybertronian systems. Unknown origin variable present. Monitor closely.’”
“Wait, what?” Raf asked, startled. “Unknown origin?”
Optimus stepped forward, voice steady but wary. “Starscream… was studying you all. Not for harm, but… it seems he was evaluating how you might affect the future of Cybertronian-human relations.”
“But why hide it?” Ratchet murmured, staring at the screen. “Why keep this to himself?”
Shockwave’s voice rumbled in the background. “Because it was not time. He judged their impact and awaited an event of sufficient magnitude to trigger disclosure. The reveal was never meant for now.”
Knockout turned again, more serious now, flicking his servo to open a final set of logs. “There’s more. Deeper files. Personal observations. He wrote about all of us. Autobots and Decepticons. Honest. Brutal. Starscream had opinions, and he logged every oneand those ones are the new files,more accurate, with his personal opinion Ithink. See for yourselfs”
The room fell into a strange silence. Even Megatron looked tense.
“Shall I read them?” Knockout asked with wicked glee.
Optimus gave a solemn nod. “We deserve to know.”
Knockout cleared his throat.
“Megatron”
‘Brilliant. Tragic. A warlord forged in injustice. His power is immense, but his pain greater. He sees the galaxy not as it is, but as what it could have been. I loved him once—not in romance, but in fire. I followed him because he made me believe the stars would answer to us. I fear what he’s become.’
Megatron said nothing, but his fists clenched.
“Optimus Prime”
‘The contradiction. Strength and gentleness bound in the body of a warrior-king. I hated him at first. Envy is an ugly thing. But he made choices I could never bear. When he saved me, I realized… he carries burdens none of us would survive. He is not just the Prime. He is the price.’
Optimus stared at the floor.
“Soundwave”
‘The silence is not emptiness. It is protection. There is more spark in him than most dare to see. If he ever weeps, it is without sound. If he ever chooses sides, that side will win. I think he knew my truth before I did.’
Soundwave’s visor flickered.
“Ratchet”
‘The conscience of the Autobots. He has more steel in his hands than the front lines. If he ever gave in to rage, there would be no survivors. He loves them all, even when they’re fools. Even me, I think, a little.’
Ratchet looked down, his expression unreadable.
“Knockout”
‘Beautiful. Vain. Frighteningly competent. He hides his fear behind his shine. But when war comes, his hands don’t tremble. He has a healer’s soul hidden beneath his vanity. I envy that.’
Knockout blinked, genuinely taken aback.
“Starscream wrote this?” he said softly.
“Cliffjumper”
‘The first corrupted one I had to kill. His spark was poisoned, mutating. He screamed for help with optics begging for death. I obeyed. No one knows. Not even Arcee. I carry that sin, and always will.’
A hush fell over the room.
“Arcee”
‘Rage is her shield. Grief her blade. I understand her. We are not so different. But where I scatter, she sharpens. She will survive because her wounds fuel her, not drown her.’
Even Arcee, hardened as she was, couldn’t speak.
“Dreadwing”
‘A code. A blade. A brother. We disagreed, but I trusted him. He never lied. He will not break, not until vengeance is complete. And even then, he may choose not to stop.’
Dreadwing gave no sign, but his wings twitched.
“Shockwave”
‘Logic, yes. But there is sorrow there. Buried in calculations. I think he remembers more than he admits. And I think he dreams—of what might have been, in another life.’
Shockwave did not object.
One by one, Knockout went through every name—Autobot and Decepticon. Starscream’s words weren’t always kind, but they were sincere. Deep. Personal. It was as though he had known them all better than they knew themselves.
When the last log ended, no one spoke for a long time.
It was Raf, small and thoughtful, who whispered, “He’s not just some soldier. He’s been watching us… guiding us.”
“He’s always been in the shadows,” Ratchet said quietly. “And somehow, he’s always cared. Even when we didn’t.”
From his berth, unaware that the logs had been shared, Starscream still rested. But his spark pulsed steady now—lilac and bright. No longer hidden. No longer alone.
The medbay aboard the Nemesis was quiet now. Starscream lay still on the berth now, his spark pulsing in a steady rhythm that spoke of survival—but something still held him back. His frame, though stabilized, twitched faintly in stasis, as if something deep inside him refused to settle.
Ratchet frowned over the console. Something was wrong. The data streams from Starscream’s system didn’t make sense. There was an inconsistency, an ancient lock buried beneath the newer layers of coding. It didn’t behave like Decepticon encryption, or even like Autobot design. It was older. More sacred. Something… Prime-bound.
He dug deeper, brushing past corrupted files and old echoes of battle scars until he found it—a line of code repeating in a silent loop:
“Fragmented: Identity Incomplete. Access Denied. Prime Authorization Required.”
His optics widened.
“…He’s not completely free.”
Everyone in the medbay turned at that. Optimus, Megatron, Shockwave, Knockout, and the young humans all stood by, each bearing the weight of Starscream’s past and the revelations of his private logs. But this… this was something else.
Ratchet turned slowly to Optimus.
“There’s something embedded deep in his systems. It’s old. Very old. It’s keyed to a Prime. Not even I can override it. Not with science. Not with tech. Only the Matrix.”
Optimus stepped closer, his face solemn. “The Matrix of Leadership?”
Ratchet nodded. “I believe it recognized him—long ago. As… something different. Something chosen. This code, this lock—it’s like a chrysalis. He cannot complete his recovery until it’s released.”
Optimus looked down at Starscream. The Seeker’s face was calm now, not tormented, but quiet. Still somehow… waiting.
Optimus closed his optics.
“Then I must speak to the Matrix.”
A hush fell. Even Megatron did not interrupt.
Optimus stepped forward and knelt beside Starscream’s berth. Slowly, reverently, he removed the chest guard of his armor, exposing the pulsing blue-white glow beneath. The chamber of the Matrix.
He placed both hands over it and bowed his head.
Then, he spoke—not aloud, not with words of command, but with the sincerity of his spark. A communication beyond voice.
"Matrix… hear me. The one before us is no longer merely a Seeker, a Decepticon, or even a soldier. He is one of yours. He has been trained, forgotten, repurposed, and broken… yet he endured. He held this war together from the shadows. He bore knowledge he never used for harm. He has suffered. And he has waited. I ask—not as a Prime, but as a brother—set him free."
The Matrix pulsed.
A sudden wind stirred the air inside the medbay, though no doors were open. The lights dimmed. From Optimus's chest, light poured forth—gold and silver, spiraling with blue flame—and the Matrix of Leadership emerged.
It hovered before him, spinning slowly in the air, like a living heart of wisdom and time.
Then… it turned toward Starscream.
And moved.
The Matrix floated above the Seeker's chassis, its light intensifying with every second. It began to scan him—beams of illumination passing over his scarred frame, reading every fracture, every hidden layer, every ghost of the past.
The Matrix sang—a deep, harmonic resonance, ancient and terrible and beautiful.
Starscream arched on the berth, gasping in stasis. His optics flickered. His wings twitched. The old armor on his body began to shimmer and crack, like a shell breaking under pressure.
The Matrix released a final, thunderous pulse.
And then—it ignited the transformation.
His frame lifted from the berth, suspended in the golden light. Plates of Decepticon armor fell away like dead leaves. New plating—sleek, smooth, and dark with silver and indigo accents—emerged from within, reshaping him.
His wings became broader, more elegant—lined with luminous glyphs. His body elongated with balance and grace, a harmony of strength and speed. Red optics blazed, but they were not the optics of the past. They were sharper, focused, filled with ancient knowing.
His helm changed last: a high crown-like crest forming over his head, with long, pointed side-guards—evoking nobility, mystery, and power.
The room watched in awe.
This was not the Starscream they knew.
This was the one hidden in the deepest history of Cybertron. The one from the age of Primes. The one who had trained beside the Fallen, beside Solus, beside legends long gone. This was his true chassis, awakened by the Matrix itself.
The light slowly dimmed.
Starscream descended back to the berth—no longer broken, no longer trapped.
He opened his optics.
And for the first time, they were clear.
The Matrix of Leadership, now quiet and still, drifted gently in the air for one final breath of silence—its task complete.
Then, as if answering an unspoken call, it shimmered once more and turned slowly, returning to its place within Optimus Prime’s chest with a soft chime of ancient light. The casing closed over it with a final clink, and the golden glow faded behind armor and alloy.
Optimus stepped back, breathing as if he had touched eternity itself.
Starscream still lay upon the berth, bathed in the faint echo of celestial energy. His armor was no longer shattered or burned. The new plates gleamed faintly, humming with power and time—impossibly smooth, etched with ancient circuitry that pulsed beneath the surface.
Then—
A sharp intake of air.
Starscream’s frame trembled. His fingers twitched, slow at first, and then gripping the edge of the berth as though clinging to reality itself.
His optics flickered open.
But they were not the usual burning red.
No.
They were lilac—deep, haunting, ethereal—like light refracted through a crystal sky. Galaxies swam in those twin orbs, as if his very spark had become a window into the stars.
Everyone leaned in, holding their breath.
He blinked once, disoriented, then a second time—his gaze slowly taking in the crowd around him.
“…Optimus…?” His voice was raw, still shaky. Deeper than before. Reverberating with echoes.
“You’re safe,” Optimus said gently, stepping forward. “You’re whole.”
Starscream slowly pushed himself upright with a low groan, hands trembling slightly under the weight of his new frame. The berth creaked as his wings shifted—larger now, more elegant, with faint glowing lines running down their length like constellations carved into metal.
“…What… happened to me?” His voice cracked, pained, but curious.
Ratchet came close, scanner in hand, keeping his movements gentle. “You were locked inside a stasis-chrysalis—some kind of transformation code linked to the Matrix. It needed a Prime’s will to release you.”
Starscream’s optics darted to his own hands, his claws—sleek and strange—and then to his reflection in the polished panel beside the berth. His expression twisted in disbelief. “This… this isn’t my frame.”
“It is,” Optimus corrected softly. “It was always meant to be. The Matrix merely gave it back.”
Starscream stared in silence.
Then the pain caught up.
A ripple ran through his chassis, and he winced hard, clutching his midsection.
“Don’t move too fast,” Ratchet ordered sharply. “Your systems are still syncing. You’re running on energy channels not used in millennia. I don’t even have data for half the readings I’m getting.”
Starscream looked up slowly. “It hurts…”
“I know.” Ratchet placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “But you're alive. You're yourself now. Just breathe.”
Knockout’s voice broke the tense silence. “Well, I’ll say it: you're stunning, darling. Like a deity dipped in starlight. You could command galaxies or walk the fashion runway of Iacon, honestly.”
Starscream turned, brow twitching with something between embarrassment and fragile pride.
Arcee stepped forward, her expression unreadable. “How much of the old you do you remember?”
Starscream lowered his head. His lilac optics shimmered under his helm.
“…Not all of it. Flashes. Training. Names. The Fallen. Solus. And… the primes. Different bodies, different causes. Always hidden. Always used. Sometimes… enemy. Sometimes tool.” He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “Never free.”
No one moved.
Miko, who had been watching wide-eyed beside Jack and Raf, whispered, “His eyes… they’re so beautiful.”
Megatron stepped forward now, his presence heavy.
Starscream instinctively tensed.
“You truly remember?” Megatron asked, low and grave.
Starscream met his gaze. “Enough. Enough to know I wasn’t supposed to be a pawn in your war… or his.” He didn’t say Silas’ name—but it hung in the air like a wound.
Megatron stared, then gave a subtle nod—half approval, half warning.
But something behind his optics… softened.
Starscream’s wings shifted again, as if tuning to his breath. His body still ached. He felt hollow and full at once—like a void flooded with starlight.
And yet, somehow, this pain… felt right.
It was him now.
Optimus approached once more and extended a hand.
Starscream hesitated.
Then placed his hand in Optimus Prime’s.
And the room, once split by war, stood in stillness around them—as something older than war, older than factions, made itself known once more.
A legend returned.
Not a Prime. Not a tyrant. Not a traitor.
A seeker who remembered the stars.
The room had barely recovered from the emotional weight of Starscream's awakening. The pain lingered in the air like ozone after a storm, but for a moment, it was calm. Peaceful.
Starscream’s frame adjusted slowly. Every new servo, every armor shift was still alien to him. And yet—his lilac optics gleamed, intelligent and wary. He glanced toward Optimus again, fingers curling around the edge of the berth.
“…How did you know how to release me?” he asked at last, voice hushed but demanding. “Who figured it out? And what else do you know?”
The silence that followed was heavier than expected.
Then Ratchet cleared his throat. “We found… logs. Deep within your secondary systems. Hidden in subfolders that were coded to only reveal themselves under very specific conditions.”
Starscream narrowed his optics. “What kind of logs?”
Before Ratchet could answer, a sudden loud snort echoed from across the room.
All heads turned.
It was Knockout.
The red and silver Decepticon medic sat comfortably in the corner, absolutely engrossed in the datapad in his hands—shoulders quivering with restrained laughter, optics glowing with devilish mischief.
“Oh—Primus, Screamer,” Knockout drawled, grinning from audio receptor to audio receptor. “These logs are gold. I haven’t had this much fun since I stole Megatron’s fusion cannon and blamed Breakdown!”
Starscream’s wings jolted with a sharp clank as he stiffened.
“…What are you reading?” he asked, horrified.
Knockout looked up from the pad with the smug glee of someone who had just uncovered years of blackmail material. “Let’s just say, your writing style is surprisingly poetic. Very dramatic. Flowery. Lots of metaphor. And there’s one entry—oh! Let me quote it—”
He cleared his throat and adopted a theatrical voice.
“His presence commands even the darkest of corridors, the weight of his gaze like gravity itself—impossible to escape. I loathe his control, and yet, if he were to say my name with reverence just once, I would let the war burn around us.”
Knockout looked up, optics glowing.
“Starscream… you sap!”
Starscream let out a strangled cry of mortification, wings flaring so hard he nearly toppled the medical berth. “Give me that!” he snarled, lunging with alarming speed despite still recovering.
Knockout yelped and dodged behind Breakdown, who immediately put his hands up in surrender. “Don’t bring me into this!” he barked.
Ratchet groaned, rubbing his optics. “I told you not to go through his personal memory logs—”
“You handed me the copy for backup!” Knockout protested, dancing out of Starscream’s reach again. “I’m just doing a thorough diagnostic. The fact that I stumbled across his unfiltered poetic yearnings for our dear leader is simply a side benefit.”
Starscream’s vents flared, faceplates flushed with embarrassment, optics flaring brighter. “That log was encrypted! That was—private!”
Soundwave, ever silent, tilted his helm but did not intervene. However, his visor flashed briefly—he was definitely recording this moment.
Megatron, standing near the wall, had thus far remained unmoved. But now his optics narrowed slightly.
“…You wrote about me?”
The room froze.
All attention turned.
Starscream stood in the center, trembling with fury and shame, optics glowing like distant galaxies—but now, dimmed slightly.
He didn’t answer at first.
Then, quietly, he said, “That entry was from a long time ago. Before I understood what you truly were.”
Megatron tilted his head, his expression unreadable.
Knockout, still holding the pad like it was treasure, gave a wistful sigh. “Well, now I’m curious about the other entries. There’s one about Shockwave’s ‘chilling elegance’ and ‘logic cold enough to still a sun’—ooh, a Sparkling-level burn right after that—”
Shockwave simply blinked. “Noted.”
“And this one about Soundwave—‘a shadow who sees all and yet speaks none of what he knows…'” Knockout glanced up, giving Soundwave a mock salute. “He likes you. In a terrified sort of way.”
Soundwave inclined his helm slightly. If he had emotions, he gave no sign.
Starscream finally collapsed back on the berth with a groan, covering his faceplates with his hands. “I hate you all. I hope Silas finds you and dumps you in a scrap pit.”
“Aw, don’t be dramatic,” Knockout said cheerfully, flicking to another log. “You’re practically a living myth now. A secret warrior chosen by Primus himself. You have to expect some historical digging.”
“Stay out of my poetry,” Starscream hissed.
“It’s art, darling,” Knockout teased. “And now it’s public record.”
“You’re the worst.”
Knockout smirked. “And yet… accurate.”
Jack, watching from the sidelines with Miko and Raf, whispered to them, “Did… Starscream really write love poetry about Megatron?”
Miko whispered back, “I knew it. I called it. That tension? All this time? Ugh, this is better than a K-drama.”
Raf just blushed and looked away. “Maybe we shouldn’t be listening to this…”
Ratchet finally stepped in, pulling the pad from Knockout’s hands. “Enough. Starscream needs rest, and some dignity.”
Starscream muttered from under his hands, “I’d rather you delete me…”
“No one’s deleting anyone,” Optimus said firmly, stepping forward. His tone softened. “We need you, Starscream. All of you. Even the parts you’ve kept hidden.”
Starscream slowly uncovered his face, optics tired but resigned. “Fine. But if Knockout quotes me again, I swear I will reformat his paint job with a rock.”
Knockout just grinned.
“Oh Screamer… you wouldn’t dare ruin something this fabulous.”
The room still echoed faintly with Knockout’s laughter, the datapad finally taken from his servos and stashed by Ratchet with a hissed, “You’ve had enough fun.”
Starscream sat hunched forward on the edge of the berth, vents cycling erratically, one servo pressed to his pulsing core. The light from his lilac optics shimmered brighter than before—each blink giving off small glimmers, like starlight refracted through a shattered prism.
The silence that followed the commotion was thick—until Knockout, unable to resist, let out a smug little snicker under his breath and added one final jab:
“Really, Starscream… ‘a gaze like gravity’? I’m going to be quoting that to Megatron for weeks.”
Starscream's wings twitched.
He rose.
The pain in his joints was real—buzzing beneath his plating like static caught under the dermal layers—but he moved anyway. He stood tall, though his legs shook faintly. The lights caught on the silver streaks now woven into his newly restored chassis, trailing like circuitry etched by celestial fire. His lilac optics locked onto Knockout, something flickering behind them.
“…You are an infuriating pest,” Starscream said evenly.
Knockout, arms crossed and still lounging smugly beside Breakdown, raised a brow. “Guilty. You’ve known that for years.”
Starscream didn’t say anything else. He simply stepped forward. And with the barest touch—just a light flick of two fingers to Knockout’s chestplate—he pushed.
And Knockout flew.
Not tripped. Not stumbled. Flew.
The medic went sailing backward with a surprised shout, his limbs flailing as he crashed into a nearby crate of energon equipment with a metallic crash, scattering tools and datapads in all directions. The entire Nemesis medbay vibrated with the shock.
“WHOA!” Miko shouted, ducking behind Arcee.
Ratchet took a step forward, optics wide. “By the Allspark—!”
Starscream staggered, catching himself on the berth, optics wide with surprise and growing horror.
“I—I didn’t mean to—!” he gasped, staring at his hand. His claws trembled faintly, still faintly lit with residual kinetic charge. “That wasn’t even a full push. That was barely… a gesture.”
Breakdown, after recovering from his own shock, quickly moved toward the pile of scattered equipment. “Knockout! You alright?”
From within the heap came Knockout’s groan.
“Do I look alright?! He wrinkled my finish—again!”
Breakdown carefully pulled him out, setting him on his feet. Knockout was scuffed, dented in one shoulder, but otherwise intact. His optics blazed with indignation.
Starscream raised both servos slowly in a peaceful gesture, face twisted with genuine guilt. “I forgot. The mods—they're gone. The limiters, the internal regulators. The chains…”
He looked at his claws again.
“…I don’t know how strong I really am anymore.”
Knockout dusted himself off, muttering, “Apparently strong enough to send me into orbit.”
“I’m sorry,” Starscream said sincerely. “Truly. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Knockout paused, glancing over at him with narrowed optics.
“Was that… an actual apology?”
Starscream didn’t smile. His expression was grim. “If I’d used more force, you might not have gotten back up. You’re lucky I’m still disoriented.”
Knockout blinked… then straightened. “Huh.”
“Well. That’s mildly terrifying.”
Breakdown gave Starscream a wary once-over. “That new chassis comes with more than a new paint job, huh?”
Optimus, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, his expression unreadable. “The Matrix removed the bindings placed on him long ago. He was forced into a shell—a body designed to weaken him. His true frame is one forged for war… but also for guidance.”
Megatron’s optics gleamed with sudden interest. “So this is the Starscream that existed before the war. Before your… training.”
Starscream didn’t look at him. “No,” he said softly. “This is who I was supposed to be after.”
A beat of silence followed.
Ratchet stepped closer, checking the readings on Starscream’s vitals as they pulsed across a nearby monitor. “His energy output has tripled. No sign of instability. All systems are responding as if this body has always belonged to him.”
Arcee crossed her arms. “Guess that explains how he survived everything Silas did.”
Bulkhead muttered, “He took a lot more than any ‘con should’ve been able to take…”
Raf, quiet in the back, whispered to Jack, “He’s like a… transformer inside a transformer. Two versions.”
Jack nodded. “Yeah. Like he’s finally… synced with himself.”
As Knockout finally returned to his feet fully, still scowling but rubbing his dented shoulder, he mumbled, “Well… next time you decide to go all supernova, give a little warning first, will you?”
Starscream nodded once, seriously. “Next time, I’ll aim upward.”
Knockout snorted. “Still dramatic.”
Breakdown smirked. “Still Starscream.”
The tension had just begun to settle when Starscream’s chassis jerked, and his knees buckled beneath him. He staggered.
“Starscream?” Optimus moved quickly, but he wasn’t the fastest.
Megatron was already there.
In a fluid motion, Megatron caught Starscream before he hit the floor. The Seeker’s new form trembled—sleek armor flaring with residual energy, circuits flickering like starlight dimming with each passing second. His wings drooped, and his vents rasped shallowly, overworked by pain.
“Careful,” Megatron said, voice unusually soft. “You’ve pushed your limits.”
“I…” Starscream’s voice was faint. “I didn’t think I had any limits left.”
Megatron eased him down onto the medical berth again, settling him carefully as though Starscream were the most fragile artifact in the universe. The Seeker didn’t resist. His claws gripped Megatron’s forearm, more to anchor himself than to fight.
“You have to rest,” Megatron said. “Do you understand me?”
Starscream blinked slowly, lilac optics still gleaming like twin galaxies in dying starlight. Then he nodded once, weakly.
But as the others watched, expecting him to shut down or lapse into silence, Starscream looked at them all—Autobot, Decepticon, and human—and spoke with quiet finality.
“…I think it’s time I told you the truth.”
Every optic and eye in the room focused on him instantly.
“My origin,” Starscream began. “My true one.”
He lifted his head slowly, pain still flickering across his face, but determination sharper than any wound.
“I was never forged in a cold foundry. I was not built from parts nor raised from recycled alloy. I was not… made by Primus. I was Primus.”
The silence was instant. Deafening.
“I am the fragment of him… the part that he tore from himself, before the last sealing. A spark created within Primus’s own core to act when he no longer could. The others—the Primes—knew. Some feared it. Others tried to control me. Train me. Use me. That’s why I changed forms over the eons. That’s why my optics changed colors. Every era, a new body, to protect my identity, and test the galaxy’s balance.”
Starscream’s gaze swept the room.
“And Unicron?”
“He and Primus were not two beings at war. They were two halves of one whole. Unicron is memory. Primus is innocence. Unicron remembers everything—every pain, every betrayal, every injustice. Primus tries to forget, to dream of peace. And I…” He lowered his gaze. “I was born when Primus could no longer dream without remembering.”
Ratchet’s jaw clenched. Arcee took an unconscious step back. Even Shockwave’s one optic pulsed faintly, uncertain for the first time in years.
“These stories,” Starscream continued, “the legends we tell sparklings—of slenders in the mines, of giant eyes watching from the stars, of forgotten names that turn to dust when spoken—they were real. They just became… simplified. Myths, to keep the young in line. But every myth was born from truth.”
No one spoke.
Even Megatron looked shaken—his grip on Starscream tightening slightly, as if to assure himself this was real.
William Fowler looked like he wanted to sit down.
Then, quietly, Miko asked the one question that turned everything on its head:
“…Wait. If this is all that deep-level secret, should you be talking about it here? What if—what if Silas left spy cameras or bugs on the Nemesis?!”
The entire room went dead silent again.
Then all hell broke loose.
“Scrap!” Ratchet shouted, rushing toward the nearest control panel.
“Confirmed possibility,” Soundwave said, already summoning a hardlight keyboard and typing at blazing speed.
Shockwave surged forward with uncharacteristic urgency, his claws flying across the scanning grid.
“How did we forget?!” Ratchet barked. “We were so focused on his vitals, we never checked the internal surveillance logs!”
“Several micro-devices detected!” Soundwave declared, data flooding in. “Hidden in junction relays, central medbay, near the berth—”
“In this room?!” Arcee snapped. “NOW?!”
“Erasing all captured feeds,” Shockwave said grimly, rerouting firewall subroutines. “Silas may have seen everything.”
Optimus stepped forward, looking to Starscream. “Is there anything he can do with that knowledge?”
Starscream’s voice was faint, but steady. “He doesn’t understand what I am… but if he realizes who I am, and what the Matrix did—he may try to mimic it. Or destroy what’s left of Primus’s essence still seeded in the stars.”
Bulkhead growled. “We really should’ve flattened him when we had the chance.”
Knockout, now recovered, narrowed his optics. “We still can.”
“Focus!” Ratchet yelled. “Soundwave, reroute the main surveillance log into an isolated loop. Delete every backup. No traces left.”
“Confirmed.”
“I’m purging energy signature echoes,” Shockwave added. “Residual aura scans—gone.”
They moved like a swarm of wasps now—furious, exact, methodical.
And in the middle of it all, still reclined in Megatron’s arms, Starscream exhaled slowly. The swirling pain in his limbs eased. His lilac optics shimmered as if whole galaxies swam behind them.
“Tell me,” he asked quietly. “Did I… do the right thing?”
Optimus turned toward him.
“You told the truth,” he said. “In the face of fear. That is the right thing.”
Starscream closed his eyes.
“Then whatever happens next… let it come.”
-=-=-=-=-
Remote Surveillance Hub, MECH Underground Facility
The screens flickered.
Then stabilized.
Silas leaned in closer to the monitors, his fingers steepled, the glow of the Nemesis medical bay bathing his gaunt face in sterile blue light. His expression—normally cool, unreadable—was warped with something between awe and calculation.
“...So, you’re not just some ambitious air commander, Starscream,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the image of the Seeker pulsing with galactic light. “You’re it. The final protocol. The core.”
His technicians behind him said nothing. They were frozen, watching too.
Silas zoomed in, jaw tightening as the transformation finished—Starscream’s new form crowned in subtle glowing seams, wings humming like ancient monoliths rising from the ocean. Those optics—those impossible lilac optics, shimmering like galaxies—that wasn’t just advanced bioengineering.
That was something older. Other.
“I knew the Decepticons were hiding secrets, but I never imagined—this.” Silas’s voice grew fevered. “Primus’s child. His fragment. The half-god spark carried unknowingly through the ages, buried under mod suppressants... All that time… wasted… and he was right there.”
He clenched a fist.
“And Megatron didn’t even realize it.”
Then came the voice—Starscream’s voice—playing through the audio channel:
“I was not created by Primus… I was Primus. The part that he tore from himself…”
Silas stared. Not blinking. Not breathing. And for the first time, even he seemed afraid.
“So you’re not just Cybertronian royalty… You’re something else entirely. You're a weapon… No—a message.”
He turned sharply. “Get me every byte of footage. Audio. Energy resonance readings. Pulse shadows. Scan the ambient charge around that Matrix surge—NOW!”
But something flickered on the screen.
One of the monitors stuttered. The audio turned to static. A red error code blinked on screen.
:: SIGNAL INTERFERENCE DETECTED ::
“Don’t you dare,” Silas growled, stepping forward. “Don’t you cut me out—”
Another screen went black. Then another. Then three more.
“RE-ROUTE THE FEED!” he shouted at the techs.
“They’re locking us out! They’re scrambling the loop!”
“Find a gap! Go around the encryption!”
“They’re faster than we can—wait—video feed just ceased entirely! They’re deleting the logs in real-time!”
Silas turned, slamming his fist down on the console.
The main screen now glitched violently, flickering only a distorted image of Starscream and Megatron—just a heartbeat—before it, too, vanished.
:: CONNECTION LOST. ACCESS TERMINATED. ::
Silas stood in stunned silence.
Then, slowly, a smile crept across his lips.
“...So you do have something to hide. Good.”
He turned his back on the dead screens, shadows crawling across his face.
“Then it’s true. The final experiment... isn’t one I can create.”
He tapped his temple.
“It’s the one I steal.”
-=-=-=-=-
The medical bay was uncharacteristically quiet. The hum of cooling fans, the faint flicker of panels, and the low rhythm of Starscream’s spark readings filled the silence. He was lying on the berth, unconscious—not from damage, but from the sheer drain of awakening his true self.
His chassis, newly transformed, was still adapting. His protocols, rewritten down to the base code, pulsed like a new song in his circuits. Power flowed differently now—richer, purer. But it left him vulnerable. Open. As if the galaxy itself breathed through him.
Without realizing it, during Ratchet’s latest scans, Starscream had shifted in recharge—and curled slightly to the side, unconscious… until he leaned into the nearest source of warmth.
Megatron.
Sitting beside the berth, unmoving and alert, the warlord’s expression softened when Starscream fell against him, unbidden. That quiet, natural gesture, vulnerable as a youngling, sent a flicker of pain and pride through his spark.
Megatron gently adjusted Starscream's posture, helping him rest his helm against his massive shoulder. One arm came up slowly—uncertain, as if touching something fragile—and rested along Starscream’s back.
Optimus, standing across the berth, took in the sight with tired optics. His hand hovered near the Matrix compartment of his chest, still resonating from the earlier activation.
“He is still stabilizing,” Ratchet whispered. “He needs time… and protection.”
Optimus glanced toward Megatron, and for once, there was no challenge between them. Only a silent agreement.
Enough.
“This war ends here,” Optimus said finally. “No more divisions. No more factions. From this moment, he is under the protection of all of us.”
Megatron didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at the Seeker leaning against him—newly reborn, and yet deeply familiar. His own claws flexed faintly, as if restraining some wordless urge. When he looked back up, his optics were molten red—determined, but not burning with hate.
“Anyone who tries to take him… will be obliterated.”
And from Megatron, that was not a threat. That was a vow.
Nearby – A Corner of the Medbay
The datapad, dropped during the earlier chaos, had finally caught Miko’s attention.
“Whoa,” she murmured, sitting on the floor cross-legged as the others talked. “Wait, wait, wait—is this Starscream’s?”
Jack and Raf leaned over her shoulder as she scrolled. Her finger paused on a sketch—and her jaw dropped.
“...He draws better than me,” she whispered. “No fair.”
The first image was so detailed, it looked like it could walk off the screen. Megatron, before the war, his features still broad and noble, armor heavy with raw miner’s strength, **but his optics—**soft, amber, brimming with a hope long forgotten.
He was laughing. Genuinely laughing.
Next to him: a young, thoughtful bot with kind eyes—Orion Pax. No insignias. Just two friends, side by side, before fate claimed them.
“Is this…?” Jack murmured.
“Megatron and Prime,” Raf whispered, eyes wide.
There were other sketches too—so many Autobots and Decepticons drawn in moments of peace. Soundwave quietly listening to music. Ratchet asleep in a chair with datapads on his lap. Arcee watching a sunrise. Breakdown holding Knockout’s tools. All in pencil, lovingly rendered. Observed. Remembered.
One page held Cliffjumper—but his frame was corrupted, twisted. Next to it, a short note in Starscream’s neat, slanted Cybertronian:
"I ended it before it took him. Before it wasn’t him anymore."
Raf swallowed hard, recognizing the pain in those lines.
But then the final sketch stole their breath.
A great, monstrous silhouette—Unicron—towered on one side of the page, his form crowned in cosmic malice.
Beside him, smaller but no less radiant, was another shape—Starscream, before they knew him, before his time, drawn in another form. A celestial warrior with eyes like galaxies, filled with endless stars. Beneath him, written in faint ink:
"Primus, torn from his own being… and left to be the bridge."
And the faintest line beneath:
"I never wanted to be a god. I only wanted to help."
“Holy frag,” Miko whispered. “He was always watching. From the beginning.”
Ratchet's expression tightened. “Starscream’s spark is stabilizing… but the deeper protocols—his true format—they're still aligning with this plane of reality. His memories, his instincts, his power—all still syncing.”
“He is unshielded,” Shockwave said flatly. “Vulnerable.”
“And exposed,” Soundwave added, silent screen flashing red.
At that exact moment, the cameras crackled—one after another—then blinked dead. Silas’s lingering presence was cut cleanly, aggressively. Data trails were scrubbed, paths encrypted beyond recovery.
“Too close,” Ratchet growled. “Too fragging close.”
As Knockout dusted himself off and Breakdown grumbled about medical hazard pay, the mood slowly settled. Starscream in recharge again on the berth, quieter now. Fragile. His claws trembled faintly at the edge of his interface ports—still trying to regulate his output. Megatron stayed near, standing like a silent fortress. Optimus, Soundwave, and Ratchet spoke in hushed tones at the console, wiping out any remaining trace of Silas’s intrusion.
But on the floor, unnoticed for a moment, Miko had returned to the datapad.
And her voice broke the quiet once more.
“Uh… guys? There’s one more drawing.”
Raf and Jack leaned in again, but this time, their faces slowly lost color.
Displayed on the screen was something unlike any previous sketch.
Not just a portrait. Not just a memory.
It felt… divine.
The figure was enormous, and yet still somehow slim and ethereal. Its frame was curved and elegant, but the details seemed to pulse with power even through the digital screen.
Its wings were wide and delicate, spun from galaxies themselves, thin as light and yet taking up half the page. Nebulae bloomed in their folds. Constellations dripped from their tips. They weren’t metal or synthetic.
They were creation itself.
The being's face was graceful and ancient—hauntingly similar to the Autobot insignia, but gentler. Softer. There was no mouth, no aggression. Just presence.
Its eyes…
“Oh my god,” Miko whispered. “Are those diamonds?”
“No,” Raf said, wide-eyed. “Stars. Supernovae. I think—those are literal stars…”
Jack’s voice cracked. “What is that?”
A line in Cybertronian script scrawled across the top corner of the page.
Raf translated quietly:
“He Who Sang the First Light Into the Void.”
Underneath, another name—written smaller.
“Primus.”
There was a second line beneath the image, almost lost in the shimmer of layered strokes.
“Before division. Before form. Before war.”
The silence in the medbay turned reverent.
Even Megatron, who had seen the rise and fall of worlds, shifted.
Optimus stepped forward slowly, gazing down at the datapad, optics unreadable. “So this is how he remembers Him.”
Starscream stirred weakly, optics fluttering open. “...I didn’t draw it. Not in the way you think.”
Optimus turned to him. “What do you mean?”
Starscream’s voice was distant, soft,still half in recharge. “That image… was never a memory. Not one from this life. It came to me in flashes. In dreams. When I was little. Before my frame even stabilized. I… used to try to copy it again and again. Like my hands remembered what my mind had forgotten.”
He looked down, expression troubled. “No one ever believed me. They said I was imagining things. That Primus was an idea. A fable. But I remembered his voice. Not words. A voice like gravity. Like starlight.”
Ratchet looked shaken. “That kind of memory… it’s ancestral. Buried in the spark-code of the first Cybertronians.”
“Exactly,” Starscream murmured. “But no one wanted to hear it.”
Optimus slowly sat down beside the berth, his gaze distant now. “We’ve forgotten so much.”
Starscream turned to him, eyes dull with pain. “Maybe it was easier to forget. Because remembering would mean facing what we’ve become.”
Megatron looked between them and said nothing.
But slowly, he lowered himself to sit at Starscream’s other side, claws folding over his lap. Silent. Protective.
Miko looked down again at the screen, then back at Starscream.
“You weren’t just made, were you?” she whispered. “You were born... from him. From that. That means…”
Starscream closed his optics again, exhausted. “I wasn’t supposed to be a soldier. Or a gladiator. Or a traitor. I was meant to be a bridge. But all I did was shatter everything.”
“No,” Megatron said suddenly.
Starscream opened one eye.
“You’re still the bridge,” Megatron said, voice low but certain. “But this time… we’ll build around you.”
Optimus nodded once. “And protect you. Not for what you were. But for who you are.”
The room had grown heavy with awe and old truths. Miko still held the datapad reverently, the others speaking in low murmurs or saying nothing at all, lost in thought. Starscream’s form, still glowing faintly from the matrix-triggered transformation, shifted slightly on the berth. The lines of his new frame—sleek and strange and regal—reflected the low lights of the medbay like starlight through crystal.
His lilac optics flickered… then dimmed.
“…Not so easy…” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Silas is… the least of our problems…”
Those haunting eyes—so much older than any of them wanted to admit—began to close.
Starscream's frame slackened.
A soft whine from his internal systems buzzed weakly—a glitch from too much energy spent in too short a time.
He began to tilt off the edge of the berth, too exhausted to correct his balance.
Optimus Prime stepped forward without thinking, arms strong and sure as he gently caught the Seeker mid-fall, holding him like something fragile and precious. Starscream murmured incoherently in recharge, his head lightly against Prime’s shoulder.
Ratchet barely dared to breathe.
Even Soundwave tilted his helm slightly.
But from the other side of the berth, Megatron stood like a statue.
His crimson optics narrowed.
His fists flexed.
And when Optimus turned with Starscream still in his arms, intending to move him to a more stable rest position, Megatron’s gaze locked with his.
No words.
No weapons.
Just that look.
A storm of jealousy. Quiet. Deep. Absolute.
Optimus flinched—not visibly, but internally. There was power in that glare, and it struck something old in him.
Guilt. Memory. Rivalry.
And something more confusing: the pressure of possessiveness, not over a territory, or a weapon…
But over a being.
Starscream.
Optimus felt his arms slacken ever so slightly.
It was enough.
Starscream slipped—just a bit—but enough for Megatron to step in and catch him now, with almost calculated smoothness, as if claiming what was his.
He cradled the Seeker close—not with the cold hands of a warlord, but with the quiet rage of someone who had almost lost something irreplaceable.
He didn’t look at Optimus again.
Didn’t need to.
Optimus said nothing—but his optics dimmed. He stepped back, silent.
Ratchet stared at the floor.
Soundwave tilted his helm again.
Breakdown cleared his throat loudly just to break the tension. “So… uh. Anyone want to turn the heating panel on for the patient?”
Knockout, ever the one to poke an open wound, chuckled as he walked over. “You know… I was starting to wonder which one of you really wanted to be Starscream’s Prime.”
Megatron’s optics flared briefly. Optimus gave him a side glance. Knockout only grinned wider.
Starscream, still deep in recharge, murmured something incoherent and curled slightly into Megatron’s chest, wings trembling once.
The medbay remained very, very quiet.
-=-=-=-=-
The room was dimly lit, walls cold and silent, lined with monitors that had long lost signal. The screen that once showed Starscream’s berth was now black static. Silas stood alone in the center of the underground base, his lips curled into a snarl, eyes bloodshot with fury.
Starscream.
They had him.
The Autobots had him. Megatron was there too, and now Silas—Silas, leader of MECH, the mind behind every strategic breakthrough—was left with nothing but scraps of a dying signal and a burning thirst for retribution.
He slammed his fist on the console. Sparks flared. The lights overhead flickered.
“You’re all blind…” he spat into the void. “You don’t see what he really is… That Seeker isn’t just a weapon—he’s a key! He’s more than any of you imagine… and I will take back what’s mine…”
Static hissed in the dark.
And then, suddenly—
Silence.
The kind that pressed in against the skin like invisible hands.
The air shifted.
The temperature dropped.
And from behind him… something moved.
On the far wall, a shadow stretched unnaturally long, tall, wide, inhuman in every proportion. It rippled like oil across the cement and twisted with each flicker of the flickering lights.
Then—
Golden eyes opened.
Not glowing. Burning.
Silas spun around.
A voice came next, so deep it didn’t echo so much as resonate inside his bones.
“You seek power…”
Silas’s eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat.
“…What…?” he rasped.
“You hunger for what is not yours… A spark born of stars, wrapped in flesh not meant for you… but still you reach for it. Like a child clawing at the flame…”
The shadow unfurled, curling higher onto the wall, wings of impossible size stretching like tendrils through the dark.
Silas stepped back—just one step.
Then he found himself rooted.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice cracking.
The golden eyes narrowed.
“Names are for the young and the weak. I am hunger, I am memory, I am the echo of what even Primus feared. I was before you. I will remain after you.”
It leaned forward slightly.
“But you… you could be more, Silas. Flesh is limitation. Flesh is weakness. I can give you something greater.”
Silas felt his pulse quicken, his mouth dry. The logical part of his mind screamed to run. But MECH had long since trained him to overcome instinct.
“…And what do you get in return?” he asked.
The eyes gleamed.
“A doorway… a vessel. That is what I need. You will walk my path, and in return, I will reshape you. I will give you form fitting your hunger.”
“You will be Cybertronian—but not of Primus.”
“You will no longer be Silas.”
Silas stared.
He thought of Starscream—reborn, changed, transcendent.
He clenched his fists.
“…Do it.”
“Then say farewell, Silas.”
“Say goodbye to your flesh.”
The shadow lunged.
It swallowed the light.
The screams that followed were inhuman.
Silas’s body contorted, torn between organic fragility and alien rebirth. Tendons snapped. Bones broke and regrew with a sickening crackle. Metal pierced through skin—from within. Flesh fell in strips, steaming, burning away in coils of smoke.
He screamed until his throat shredded.
Then he screamed more.
The shadow loomed closer, flooding his core with codes not meant for human comprehension, uploading something ancient—hateful—into the circuits forming inside him.
And when it was done…
When the pain had finally stopped…
Silas stood in the middle of the room, breathing in the dark like a new god.
He was tall now—taller than Megatron, lean but brutal in design. His plating was matte black with blood-red circuitry glowing from the cracks. His eyes were no longer human.
They were redder than any sunset—seething, endless, furious.
Yet beneath that monstrous armor… something still clung to human structure. His face, though plated, was almost his. Lips. Cheekbones. Even remnants of a jawline. But it was cold. Alien. Wrong.
He was an android, a nightmare welded between Earth and Cybertron, and in his spark pulsed something not born of either.
He took one step.
It echoed like a hammer strike.
The shadow, pleased, retracted into the darkness, the golden eyes the last to vanish.
“Go now… my dark Prime.”
“Bring the Seeker to me.”
Silas’s new voice was deep, metallic, and buzzing with layered tones as if several creatures spoke at once.
He looked down at his new hand, flexing his fingers of obsidian steel.
“…Starscream,” he growled.
“You’ll belong to me… or no one.”
Chapter Text
The transformation chamber was silent now. All cooling systems had shut down. The walls were slick with condensation, and a thin mist coiled across the floor, lit faintly by the pulse of red warning lights.
Silas stood in the center, towering and still.
His breathing was quiet. Measured.
His new body—dark, angular, forged in agony—reflected none of the soft light. His optics, red and unblinking, seemed to glow from within, deeper than any light could reach.
From behind the thick glass of the observation deck, the remaining scientists watched in stunned silence.
Dr. Benson—a woman who had once studied Cybertronian biology with clinical enthusiasm—could no longer speak. Her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the console, her knuckles white. Next to her, Dr. Franklin slowly stepped back, eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief.
“…What… what did you do to yourself…?” he whispered.
Silas tilted his head, as if hearing a gnat buzzing behind the glass. He flexed his fingers—metal claws clicking faintly with the sound of razors brushing against one another.
“I became,” he answered simply.
Then he stepped forward. One booted foot after the other. The ground beneath him creaked.
The doors hissed open.
MECH soldiers stood beyond—rank and file, all tensed. They’d heard the screams. The power surge. The loss of half their surveillance array. Now they faced their leader reborn—if one could even call this thing “Silas” anymore.
“Sir?” one of them asked, uncertain. His voice trembled despite military discipline.
Silas raised his head.
His silver-plated jaw clicked slightly as he smiled.
“You may leave… if you wish.”
The soldiers exchanged glances. Several looked relieved. A few already began to take a step back.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” one muttered. “This isn’t—this isn’t human. He’s lost it.”
“He’s gone mad…”
They started backing toward the exit.
And that was when Silas moved.
It was almost beautiful, in a way only terror can be.
A streak of living black metal—Silas crossed the room like a hurricane, his claws glowing red as they tore through the first soldier. The body dropped, cleanly bisected, before the others even registered the movement.
The screaming began instantly.
Guns raised. Shots fired.
Bullets sparked against Silas’s chassis—ineffective, pointless.
He grinned, a savage sneer.
He lashed out again, his body twisting mid-air with a blur of unnatural grace. He spun and swept his leg—a metal whip formed from his thigh armor unraveled mid-kick and sliced three soldiers across the torsos. They fell gurgling.
Dr. Franklin tried to run.
A spear of cybernetic code burst from Silas’s palm and struck him in the back. The doctor collapsed in a choking sob, his body twitching as energy devoured him from the inside.
Dr. Benson screamed—and was silenced just as fast, her neck crushed with a single flick of Silas’s hand.
Blood pooled across the metal floor.
The rest tried to escape. They didn’t make it.
The new Silas danced among them, laughing as his claws sliced, hands twisted, limbs broke with sickening crunches.
There was no hesitation, no mercy.
Only red eyes and a vision soaked in obsession and bloodlust.
When the room fell silent again, steam rose off the corpses.
The lights flickered once more.
And in the shadows stood a second group—silent, expressionless. The Chimera Squad.
Tall, armored, augmented long before today. Black suits with red visors. Their limbs were not fully human. Not anymore.
They didn’t flinch at the carnage.
They stepped forward, synchronized, kneeling before Silas.
“Sir,” one of them said flatly. “We await command.”
Silas’s clawed hand flexed. His body still buzzed with energy, smoke curling off his vents.
His optics narrowed as he surveyed the bloodbath.
“Only the weak fall to fear,” he murmured.
“But you—you are my wolves. My blades. My army.”
He stepped between them, voice rising.
“Starscream will kneel before me. He will see what perfection truly looks like.”
“The war they think is ending… is only changing.”
He paused.
A low laugh escaped his throat—dry, cracked, amused.
“Let them protect him. Let the Autobots and Decepticons cower together like wounded animals.”
He raised one arm toward the ceiling, red light coiling down his arm like blood down a blade.
“Because I will carve a new order into this world.”
“And this time, no one will stop me.”
The Chimera mercs answered in perfect unison:
“Yes, Commander Silas.”
And deep within his spark chamber… something ancient stirred. Something not his. The golden eyes from the void flickered—once.
Then silence for a few minutes.
The ruins of the cold chamber loomed ahead.
The structure was no longer recognizable—what had once been a precision-forged containment prison now lay in broken shards and scorched walls, torn apart by war, ancient power, and desperation. Cold vapor still hissed from shattered conduits. A thin layer of frost clung to the ground, giving the entire place a surreal, funeral glow.
Silas walked forward with heavy, resonant footsteps, his new form unbothered by the cold. His Chimera soldiers followed in silent formation—six of them, moving like wraiths in his shadow.
He stopped at the very center of the destruction.
There, resting atop a broken slab of alloy and cracked sigils, lay two long swords.
They were elegant. Cruel. Their curved edges hummed faintly with residual energy, blue and pale like deep ocean light—not blades of steel, but forged from crystallized energon strands, razor-thin and almost weightless.
Starscream’s personal weapons.
Silas crouched and reached out.
As his black fingers wrapped around the hilts, the blue light of the swords flickered violently—and then bled red. Deep red. Not heat. Not corruption. It was as though the swords themselves responded to the hatred pulsing in Silas’s veins.
He rose slowly, one sword in each hand.
He spun them experimentally once, and they moved with frightening ease—alive in his grip. But as he held them… he felt it.
Emptiness.
These are not it.
Then came the voice again—smooth, terrible, vast. Its sound echoed not from around him, but within him, coiling into the deepest part of his mind.
“They are minnows, Silas.”
“Beautiful little fish darting in the shallows.”
A vast shadow rippled across the far wall, stretching impossibly long. Two golden eyes opened in the dark—massive, ancient, patient.
“But you hunger for oceans. For leviathans.”
Silas didn’t speak. He only gripped the blades tighter, jaw clenched.
“Starscream still holds the true blade.” The shadow’s tone curved into something like hunger. “A weapon not made… but born. Forged in a dream of time before time.”
“The Star Saber.”
The name thundered like a drumbeat in the dark.
Silas narrowed his crimson optics. "A myth."
The golden eyes narrowed. A grin split the void.
“So was your transformation… once.”
A flicker of burning constellations passed through the shadow, like stars bleeding across a corpse of space.
“The Star Saber is no mere blade. It is the echo of the Allspark's scream, the shard of a god's spine, reforged to cut the barriers between realities.”
“It chooses its bearer.”
“And it chose him.”
Silas’s optics glowed brighter. Fury burned at the base of his processor.
“Then I will take it from him.”
The shadow whispered, almost lovingly:
“Yes. Crush his soul. Tear open his mind. When the seeker’s heart breaks…”
“…the Star Saber will fall from his hands.”
“And you will become more than a soldier. More than a machine.”
“You will be—” the shadow bent closer, its voice a whisper across time, “—a godkiller.”
The swords in Silas’s hands pulsed—hard—red tendrils of energy cracking the floor beneath him.
Behind him, the Chimera soldiers took a knee, as if something in the air had pressed down on their bodies.
Silas raised the twin blades high and pointed them toward the distant horizon.
Wherever Starscream was hiding.
“I will carve the gods out of him,” he said, softly. “And burn the stars that birthed him.”
The golden eyes vanished.
And in the silence that followed, only the hum of two corrupted swords remained.
-=-=-=-
The halls of the base echoed quietly now.
Not long ago, they had been filled with alarm klaxons, shouted orders, sparks flying from overloaded circuits, and the pain of ancient energies breaking free. Now, silence wrapped the Autobot base in a tense, waiting hush—as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Ratchet stepped out of the medbay, arms folded, exhaustion heavy in his frame. Knockout followed right behind him, bouncing slightly on his heels, data pad tucked under one arm.
They walked side by side down the corridor.
“He’ll live,” Ratchet said finally, tone gruff but lighter than it had been in a long time. “But full recovery…” He sighed. “That will take months. In Earth time, at least. His entire frame was restructured. His protocols are being rewritten as we speak. We’ll need to monitor his spark, core memory pathways, and stabilizer nodes daily.”
Knockout gave a long, low whistle. “Months, huh? Well, that’s gonna be a real mood-killer for the Seeker’s ego.” He smirked, then shrugged. “Though I suppose we’re lucky. I thought he was going to melt through the berth the way that Matrix lit him up.”
Ratchet gave him a side glance. “It was the Matrix. Be glad it didn’t take you too.”
“I’m always glad not to be burned alive by primal divine energies,” Knockout said with a grin.
They walked in silence for a moment longer, the weight of everything that had happened sitting between them like a ghost.
Then Knockout added, more thoughtfully, “Still. Despite everything—power level off the charts, spark made of starlight, divine birthright or not—he’s still a Seeker.”
Ratchet raised a brow ridge. “Meaning?”
“Meaning cold is still going to be a problem.” Knockout tapped the side of his helm. “He was bred for high altitudes, hot currents, and hypersensitive aerodynamics. You drop the temperature too fast or too low, and he’ll seize up. Maybe not die anymore, sure, but it’d be like taking a Ferrari and leaving it in the Arctic. Bad idea.”
Ratchet frowned. “You’re right.”
Knockout brightened. “So I’m thinking…” He tapped his datapad. “Private quarters for the Seeker. Internal heating system. Temperature regulation. Humidifier, maybe. Something luxurious. He is royalty, now.”
Ratchet actually chuckled—just once. “As much as it pains me to say this, I agree. Starscream needs a recovery environment tailored to his systems. His spark core alone is more volatile now. If we don’t regulate his surroundings properly, it could destabilize during a recharge cycle.”
They stopped as they reached the central command hub, where Optimus, Arcee, and Bumblebee were gathered around a holographic table.
Ratchet turned to them, now all business.
“Starscream will make a full recovery,” he announced. “But it won’t be quick. He’ll need constant monitoring, a controlled space, and full-body stabilization for several weeks at least.”
“And his abilities?” Optimus asked.
Ratchet’s face was grim. “Unstable. Unpredictable. His neural net isn’t completely bonded to the new energy patterns. Until they sync… he’s vulnerable.”
Knockout leaned in, voice more serious now. “He’s going to need protection, Prime. From enemies—and from himself. He doesn’t even know what he’s capable of yet. A power spike could burn out a circuit grid or—” he waved his hand vaguely “—fry anyone near him.”
Arcee folded her arms. “And Silas?”
Everyone tensed.
Ratchet scowled. “We don’t know where he went.”
Optimus’s optics narrowed, the faintest gleam of tension flickering across his frame.
Ratchet continued, “Which means he’s likely not dead, and likely watching. Or worse—waiting.”
Knockout leaned one elbow on the table. “So we’ve got a half-awake demigod in a fragile new frame, a megalomaniac with unknown powers on the loose, and a base full of nervous mechs.”
Then, with a little grin, “You guys really know how to throw a party.”
Optimus didn’t smile. His gaze shifted toward the corridor behind them—the one that led back to the medical bay, to where Starscream lay, breathing slow, optics dim but alive.
“He has changed,” the Prime said softly. “And now so must we.”
The room was silent for a moment.
Then Bumblebee beeped in agreement. Arcee nodded, quiet but resolute. Ratchet muttered something about no rest for the old.
Knockout, ever Knockout, added, “At least make sure his new room has a mirror. Can’t be a reborn celestial without seeing how good you look.”
The tension in the command center hadn’t faded. Even after Ratchet’s update and Knockout’s quips, the heaviness remained—like static before a storm.
Megatron stood a pace apart from the others, arms crossed, gaze distant. His optics weren’t focused on the room—they were back in the medbay, where Starscream had mumbled those haunting words before slipping into recharge: “It won’t be that easy… Silas is the least of our problems.”
The warlord’s fists clenched slightly at the memory.
He turned to Shockwave, who had just arrived from the labs, his single optic glowing steadily. “Shockwave,” Megatron said, his voice like steel, “I want a secure room constructed—now. Starscream will require a chamber that can maintain regulated heat and energy, complete with spark dampeners, shielded circuitry, and atmospheric controls. I want it designed for maximum recovery and protection.”
Shockwave blinked slowly. “Acknowledged. I will begin construction immediately. Materials will be rerouted from the armory sector. Estimated completion: four hours, thirty-two minutes.”
“Make it three,” Megatron growled.
Shockwave tilted his head, then nodded. “I will optimize labor allocation.”
As he left, Soundwave’s screens flashed with a pulse of data. The silent mech had been in a corner, already tracking electromagnetic signatures and scattered remnants of MECH’s encrypted transmissions. His tendrils moved like whispers across his interface, delicate and efficient.
“Soundwave is tracking Silas?” Arcee asked, folding her arms.
“Affirmative,” Optimus said, his voice calm but edged with concern. “If he has gone dark, it is only because he has found something—or someone—to help him stay hidden.”
Miko, sitting cross-legged on a crate nearby, tilted her head. “Okay, but… am I the only one who heard what Starscream said before he zonked out?”
They all turned.
Miko raised a brow. “He said Silas was the least of our problems.”
A moment passed. Even Ratchet, who was fiddling with his datapad, looked up at that.
“He did,” Bumblebee chirped through his vocalizer, translating rapidly for Arcee, who frowned.
“What did he mean by that?” Arcee asked. “Silas has access to advanced tech, a private army, and he’s obsessed with Starscream. If that’s the least of our worries… what the frag could be worse?”
Knockout’s grin slipped. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”
Optimus folded his hands behind his back, contemplative. “Starscream was speaking from knowledge none of us possess. He claimed he is not merely a construct of Primus, but a sparkling born from Primus himself.”
“And that,” Ratchet muttered, “changes everything.”
Bumblebee gave a questioning beep.
“I mean,” the medic elaborated, “Cybertronian history speaks of Primus as the origin, yes, but never as a living parent. If Starscream is telling the truth—and I’m inclined to believe he is now—then we’ve misunderstood the scope of Primus’s legacy for millennia. And if Starscream exists… who else—or what else—might?”
Knockout leaned forward. “You’re suggesting Starscream isn’t the only one.”
“I’m saying,” Ratchet corrected, “that Starscream was awakened by something ancient. Something deeper than science. He remembers things we thought were mythology. And if he remembers them… they could be real.”
“Like the Unicron drawing,” Miko blurted. “And the bot standing next to him with the galaxy eyes! The one that looked like the Autobot symbol!”
Megatron’s optics flashed.
Optimus inhaled slowly. “Primus.”
“And if those two were real,” Ratchet said darkly, “then so are the others.”
A chill fell over the room, despite the warmth of the base’s systems.
“We are not just talking about relics,” Ratchet continued. “We are talking about ancient, cosmic forces. Things that predate Cybertron. Predate the war. Maybe even reality as we understand it.”
Arcee shook her head. “You’re saying this could be bigger than the war itself.”
“Far bigger,” Optimus said. “If Starscream’s memories are accurate, then what’s coming may not be about Autobot or Decepticon. It may be about existence itself.”
Knockout crossed his arms, the previous mirth gone. “Well that’s just great. We’re all going to die and now we’re on babysitting duty for a half-comatose demigod who draws better than any of us.”
“That demigod,” Megatron said coldly, “is the reason any of us are still functioning. Show some fragging respect.”
Knockout backed up a step but gave a slight bow. “Of course, Lord Megatron.”
Soundwave’s visor suddenly blinked, drawing attention to the central holo-table. A map of the planet Earth shimmered into view, with red dots sparking to life across the northern hemisphere.
“Scattered power surges,” Ratchet muttered. “Old MECH bases?”
“Or new ones,” Arcee said.
The map zoomed in, and Soundwave focused the feed on what remained of the cold chamber—the place where Starscream had been held.
Megatron stepped closer. “Scan the wreckage.”
Several more pulses appeared—life signatures.
“Too late,” Knockout murmured. “Someone’s already been there.”
A new, ominous thought gripped the room.
Optimus was the first to voice it. “Silas may not have returned for Starscream. He may have returned… for the weapons.”
Miko stood up, eyes wide. “Wait… you mean the swords he had?”
“Why?” Arcee asked. “He got what he wanted—Starscream’s biology, his weapons. Why come back?”
Soundwave brought up a holographic projection on the central table. It showed the destroyed remains of the cold chamber—where Starscream had once been imprisoned.
The place was obliterated, walls frozen and fractured, as if something had caved in from within. And in the center: missing equipment, melted machinery, and two noticeable indentations in the metal floor.
“Those are where Starscream’s weapons used to be,” Ratchet said grimly. “The twin swords. He left them behind when we evacuated.”
“Then Silas came for them,” Arcee said, arms crossed.
Optimus nodded. “We have to assume he intends to reverse-engineer them. Or worse—replicate them.”
Megatron’s fists clenched. “Those blades were crafted to channel his energy, not brute strength. Silas may try to wield them, but they will reject him.”
“Or corrupt him,” Ratchet muttered. “Cybertronian tech does not take kindly to being warped.”
“But if Silas is trying to recreate Starscream’s abilities,” Knockout said slowly, “he’s not just collecting parts. He’s building a weapon. One that looks like us. Fights like us. And maybe… thinks like us.”
Optimus’s tone dropped. “Then our greatest danger is not just that Silas is still alive… but that he may be trying to become one of us.”
Arcee’s optics widened. “You don’t mean—”
“A transformation,” Ratchet finished. “He may be attempting to transform himself into a cybernetic being.”
A chill passed over the room, despite the heated systems humming underfoot.
“That’s insane,” Knockout whispered. “That’s completely—”
“MECH,” Bumblebee translated from Soundwave’s screen. “They’ve tried worse.”
Miko swallowed. “Okay, so what do we do?”
“We prepare,” Optimus said. “Starscream must remain protected. Until we know what Silas has done or what he’s truly after, we cannot afford another capture. Not for him. Not for any of us.”
Megatron stepped forward, optics burning with fury.
“He will not be taken again.”
And in the silence that followed, only the low hum of Soundwave’s scanners continued—searching, ever-searching—for the shadow they could not yet name.
The hideout was nothing more than a skeleton of steel and shattered ambition.
It had once been a half-constructed blacksite—abandoned by its creators, forgotten by satellites, scrubbed from every database. Tucked beneath a jagged mountain ridge and veiled by thick cloud cover and interference fields, it was now the only place on Earth that could house monsters without being noticed.
Silas stood in its central chamber, the soft hum of alien machinery and fractured server cores filling the stale air. Power flickered in unstable veins across the walls—barely functioning conduits scavenged from MECH's remaining reserves. But it was enough.
He looked at his reflection in a broken sheet of metal.
No longer flesh. No longer man.
The face staring back at him was no longer human—yet it retained the memory of humanity, the ghost of it, in the harsh, sharp angles of his cheekbones, the crimson glow of his optics burning like infernos in a dying world. His body was cybertronian now, plated and reinforced, long-limbed and agile, blackened silver with veins of dark red energy coursing through the joints. The fusion of Earth’s ambition and Cybertron’s horror.
His voice was deeper now—no longer filtered through a throat, but forged in circuits. It rumbled, raw and victorious.
"Perfection," Silas said to no one, flexing his fingers—clawed, sharp, and humming with latent power. "I have become what they feared... and what I was always meant to be."
The mercenaries of Project Chimera stood in silent formation behind him, hulking cybernetic soldiers who had long abandoned their former names. They had no fear left. No humanity. Only loyalty to Silas, their creator and commander.
The air darkened suddenly, as if the light itself recoiled.
Then the shadow returned.
It bled across the wall like smoke given form, golden eyes gleaming from its depths like twin dying stars. It moved like liquid nightmare—familiar, vast, wrong.
And it spoke.
“Still fragile. Still growing. But in time… in time, you will command this world and those beyond. You will shake the ground with a whisper. But first, patience.”
Silas turned, arms crossed, eyes defiant but burning with awe. “I’ve waited long enough. The Autobots are exposed. Starscream is weak. His strength is not yet his own.”
“Precisely,” the shadow crooned, its voice slithering through the metallic walls. “He is reborn, yes… but vulnerable. The spark within him still adjusts. His weapons have been returned, but his power remains caged by confusion and fear.”
Silas’s optics gleamed. “Then now is the time to strike.”
“No,” the shadow murmured. “Not yet. You must master your rebirth. Your new form… is only the beginning. You must learn to bend it to your will. Feel every current. Every wire. When you do, not even the Prime will stop you.”
Silas clenched his new hand into a fist. The air around it cracked and distorted from the force.
“I will crush them,” he growled. “Optimus, Megatron… and that arrogant little creature they all protect. Starscream thought he was above me. He thought he could escape. But I’ll find him. I’ll carve his spark out and study it while he begs for death.”
The shadow laughed, low and cruel.
“Good. Very good. The swords you took were only bait. Small fish, as I said. Mere tools. His true weapon… they do not yet know it exists. And neither does he.”
Silas turned, optics narrowing. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing… for now,” the shadow purred, eyes glowing brighter. “When the time comes, you will see. But know this—every step you take brings us closer. Every breath you take now is with my will inside you.”
Silas didn’t flinch. “I don’t care what you are. You gave me what I needed. You want power unleashed? Fine. Just make sure you don’t get in my way.”
The shadow leaned in, curling its massive presence around the chamber like a serpent coiling around prey.
“Oh, Silas… you are my way.”
Silas grinned with a spark of madness in his teeth, the crimson of his optics flaring like a beacon of war. He turned back to the wall, pressing his new hand against the cold metal—and the power from within surged into the circuits, awakening old tech and half-dead weapons. A pulse ran through the hideout, like a heartbeat.
His voice was quiet, but it echoed like thunder.
“Starscream… you should’ve stayed dead.”
And behind him, the Chimera soldiers knelt without a word—while the shadow watched, smiling.
Because everything was going exactly according to plan.
-=-=-=-
The medbay was quiet… until it wasn’t.
A sharp gasp broke the stillness, followed by the scraping hiss of plating shifting against itself.
Starscream’s optics flared open—first one, then the other. Blinding white light seared into his processors, and immediately, a splitting headache pulsed from the base of his helm to the tips of his wings. He groaned, gripping the edge of the berth.
“W-what… what in the AllSpark hit me…” he rasped, voice scratchy, laced with static.
His vents wheezed, frame sluggish and cold, and his joints still hadn’t fully synced with the new protocols. But the room felt like a cage. Too quiet. Too sterile. Too suffocating. Instinct drove him to his peds, and though he staggered, he forced himself out of the berth and into the corridor—barely upright, wings twitching as they adjusted to gravity.
In the common area, the tension was already thick.
Optimus stood at the center with his arms crossed, Megatron looming nearby, pacing like a caged war-beast. Ratchet and Knockout argued over datapads while Arcee watched the door, Soundwave unmoving in a corner, his visor flickering with quiet pulses as he tracked satellite scans.
Then the door slid open.
Starscream stepped out—unsteady, but unmistakably himself.
“S-Starscream?!” Bulkhead blinked.
“Oh hey, you’re awake!” Miko shouted before anyone else could stop her. “Perfect, I’ve been dying to ask—what did you mean by Silas being the least of our problems?!”
The room fell utterly silent.
Every optic turned on Miko in disbelief—mouths ajar, plates frozen in motion, processor cycles clearly failing to catch up with her timing.
“Miko!” Ratchet snapped, “He just woke up from nearly dying! Let him at least—”
“No,” Starscream interrupted, holding up a talon with surprising steadiness, even as he grimaced and clutched his helm. “She asked. And it’s a fair question.”
Everyone blinked. Starscream had never taken Miko seriously. Not like this.
Megatron took a step forward, his expression unreadable. “Starscream…”
The Seeker’s optics dimmed slightly, expression darkening. The faint tremble in his wings belied the seriousness of his tone.
“Silas… is a symptom,” Starscream said slowly, each word precise. “Not the disease.”
Optimus’s optics narrowed. “Explain.”
Starscream took a deep vent, eyes haunted. “When I was restored… when I returned to my original body, something ancient stirred. I felt it. In the back of my mind, in the core of my spark. As if the universe itself blinked.”
Soundwave’s visor shimmered.
“You’re saying your restoration sent a signal?” Arcee asked.
“Not a signal,” Starscream murmured. “A pulse. One that he could feel. Even in the Deep Core.”
A silence followed. Then Optimus said the name no one wanted to hear.
“…Unicron.”
Starscream slowly nodded.
“I don’t know how, or in what form… but he must have sensed it. My spark, my energy—it was once linked to the Well. My kind—Seekers of the royal bloodlines—we were created by the ancient primes for war and preservation. If I’m truly whole again… he knows.”
The room turned colder, like a phantom wind passed through it.
Miko blinked. “…Wait. Are you saying that Unicron might be sending someone? For you?”
Starscream’s gaze dropped to her, unnervingly steady. “Yes.”
Ratchet muttered, “That would explain the distortion readings we dismissed earlier… We thought they were just feedback from his recovery…”
Knockout paled. “Oh, fabulous. So we’re not just protecting a half-dead Seeker from a lunatic military cyborg—now we might have a herald of Unicron knocking on our door next.”
Bulkhead clenched his servos. “And we’re still out here trying to find Silas.”
Optimus glanced toward Soundwave. “Status?”
Soundwave’s visor flared: [NO TRACE. SATELLITES JAMMED. SILENCE ACROSS MECH FREQUENCIES.]
“He’s hiding,” Megatron growled. “And if Starscream’s instincts are correct, it won’t be for long.”
Starscream swayed slightly, his vents shallow. Optimus stepped forward, hands half-raised to catch him—but Megatron moved quicker, gently placing a servo on the Seeker’s shoulder. For once, Starscream didn’t flinch away.
“I will not allow anything to touch him,” Megatron said lowly. “Silas. Unicron. Anything.”
Optimus nodded grimly. “Then we prepare for war.”
The light from the hallway flickered again… and far, far away in the shadows beyond Earth’s atmosphere, something watched.
And it was hungry.
The silence in the room thickened, the hum of machines and faint clicks of distant systems the only sounds.
Starscream steadied himself, one servo pressed lightly to his helm, as if holding back a wave of memories or visions too vast to bear. He leaned into Megatron’s support without realizing it, optics dimmed but sharp—focused.
He spoke, quieter now, but each word carried weight.
“Primus and Unicron… they are not like us. Not in body. Not in will. They are forces, cosmic presences—real, yes—but incapable of directly acting in our universe without consequences. Their influence is... diluted through the fabric of time and creation. They cannot simply intervene at will.”
Optimus frowned. “Then how do they act?”
Starscream’s optics darkened further. “Through soldiers. Avatars. Those chosen by them to serve as conduits for their power.”
Miko’s brow furrowed. “Like… knights or champions?”
Starscream nodded slowly. “Exactly. Chosen sparks. When the balance of creation begins to tip too far—when the Well quakes and the Void stirs—Primus and Unicron select vessels… and gift them with fragments of their essence. Enough to shape the fate of entire worlds.”
He swallowed thickly. The next words were harder.
“Long ago, Primus had many such soldiers. They were warriors, scholars, seekers of truth and light. Most… fell. Some in war. Some to madness. Some... to corruption.”
Optimus looked grim. “And you?”
“I am the last.” Starscream’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “The last spark still connected to Primus. The only one left with any trace of his light.”
The room was stunned.
Knockout’s expression shifted from surprise to awe. “That explains why you’ve always been such a pain—divine programming.”
Ratchet elbowed him sharply.
“But if you’re the last Primus-chosen,” Bulkhead said slowly, “that means…”
Starscream nodded before he could finish.
“It means that it’s entirely possible… one of Unicron’s soldiers has survived as well.”
Arcee folded her arms. “Do you know who?”
Starscream shook his helm. “No. It could be anyone—or something long buried, just now awakening. There were rumors, ancient tales in the High Archives of Vos. One of his champions was said to be a bot who could burn out entire constellations with a single command. Another was a deceiver, a shapeshifter that turned armies against themselves.”
Optimus turned to Soundwave, who was already scanning through ancient records. His visor shimmered, uncertain.
Starscream’s optics drifted toward the window, toward the distant stars.
“They’re always hidden. Always waiting. Watching. Just like the one who watches now.”
That made the others tense.
Megatron grunted. “Then we must find this herald before they find you.”
Starscream didn’t respond immediately. For a moment, he looked… distant. Tired. The knowledge weighed heavily on him.
“Maybe it’s too late for that,” he said at last.
And far above Earth’s surface, in the vacuum of space where no signal dared echo too long, something ancient shifted—a faint ripple in a place where nothing should have moved.
The room was still charged with tension from Starscream’s earlier revelation about Unicron and his soldiers. He stood near the hallway now, optics dim, half-turned as if preparing to retreat into solitude.
Then—
“Um… Starscream?” Raf’s small voice cut through the silence like a beam of light.
Starscream turned slowly, head tilting just slightly in curiosity, optics softening at the sight of the smallest human. “Yes?”
Raf adjusted his glasses. “Can I… ask a question?”
Starscream paused a moment, then stepped away from the door and folded his arms delicately. “I suppose I owe you that much, considering the chaos I’ve dragged you all into.”
Raf took a breath. “You said… worlds. Plural. That what’s happening here affects other worlds. Did you mean, like, planets? Or…”
Starscream’s wings twitched—he glanced at the others, then returned his gaze to Raf.
“I meant dimensions,” he said simply.
Raf’s brows shot up. “Wait… parallel dimensions? Like alternate universes? That’s never been scientifically proven—it’s just theoretical!”
The room shifted, attention falling completely on the Seeker.
Jack blinked, arms crossed. “Hold up. Are you saying you know parallel universes are real?”
Starscream’s optics flashed faintly. “I don’t just know, Jack. I exist within them.”
Silence.
Utter, stunned silence.
“What… does that mean?” Arcee asked, slowly, carefully.
Starscream drew in a breath, then exhaled it through his vents, expression strangely calm.
“It means that I am not… alone in my existence. Across the tapestry of the multiverse, there are other versions of myself. Other Starscreams. And we are not separated by barriers of understanding—we can communicate with each other.”
Raf’s jaw dropped.
“What,” Bulkhead muttered, completely frozen. “Like… Seeker texting? Across dimensions?!”
“It’s not so crude,” Starscream said dryly. “It’s more of a resonance. A spiritual thread. Every Starscream born under Primus carries a fragment of his original code—his sparklight. That makes us siblings, in a way. All of us… are his ‘sparklings.’”
Miko gave an audible gasp.
“And… you talk to each other?” Optimus asked, slowly approaching. “All of you?”
Starscream nodded. “Most of us, yes. Many remain hidden. Most live in shadows by design. Our purpose was never meant to be understood by the common Cybertronian. We exist to observe. To protect. And in some rare cases… to train hidden Primes.”
Optimus’s optics narrowed, ancient gears turning. “I have heard whispers of Shadow Primes… I thought they were legend.”
Starscream offered a tired smirk. “A convenient lie is often easier to swallow than a terrible truth.”
“Wait.” Jack held up his hand, brow furrowed. “You said… you got your freedom. Does that mean the others are still bound?”
Starscream’s voice lowered, almost mournful.
“I am the second of my kind to be set free. The first came from a brutal dimension—one the locals call the Bayverse.”
Even Megatron looked startled.
“That Starscream… chose to remain. He serves in the shadows still, training and watching over those who are destined to become Prime. He wears a different face, a different voice… but he and I speak still. He congratulated me on gaining my freedom.”
“He what?” Knockout whispered, stunned.
Ratchet stared at Starscream as though he’d never seen him before.
“You can’t be serious…” he muttered.
“I am.” Starscream’s tone left no room for doubt.
Raf stepped closer, voice hushed in wonder. “But how? How is that possible?”
Starscream knelt gently, optics level with the human child. “Because Primus did not build us as machines. He birthed us, in his own way. And when you’re born of a god, you are never truly alone.”
And all around them, Autobots and humans alike stood frozen in that moment. For the first time, the war-torn wreckage of their past seemed… small. And something older, greater, and far more mysterious began to settle over them like the chill of deep space.
There were other worlds.
Other selves.
Other wars… and darker enemies still waiting in the shadows.
Starscream, after his confession about the multiverse, let his optics linger on the group, then turned his gaze toward Miko—who stood frozen, mind whirring with excitement.
“If you're that curious,” he said, with the ghost of a smirk, “I have visual records of some of my alternate selves. I keep them for reference… and remembrance. They’re stored in my datapad, under the folder labeled Dimensional Stars.”
Soundwave, standing silently at the rear, tilted his helm. A subtle flick of his claw connected his interface with the medical ward's terminal, pulling the folder from Starscream’s encrypted data cache. With a soft hum, the main screen came to life.
One by one, files opened—each bearing an image, a name, and a presence so distinct it nearly filled the room.
📁 FILE 001: Starscream — Bayverse (Universe: Bay)
The screen flickered to reveal a towering, jagged, almost alien figure. His entire form was a shifting mess of sharp angles and overlapping armor plates. Wings formed a crude “X” across his back, jutting outward like blades, his hands clawed and his legs digitigrade.
His face was beast-like: needle teeth, small eyes buried deep beneath layers of metal, and a voice that once hissed more than spoke.
“This is the one I mentioned,” Starscream said. “From the Bay universe. Brutal. Calculating. He adapted to a universe steeped in chaos… and became a master of ambushes and assassination.”
“He looks like a monster,” Miko whispered.
Starscream nodded. “That’s what war made him.”
📁 FILE 002: Starscream — Earthspark (Universe: Earthspark)
Next appeared a sleeker figure, with smoother panels, larger expressive optics, and an air of redemption around him. His face was elegant, with a smooth crest and sharp cheek ridges. His wings were broad, clean-lined, and extended like banners behind him.
He looked noble… and tired.
“This one… began as a traitor,” Starscream explained softly. “But in his world, things changed. He learned peace. Even gained the Autobots’ trust… to a degree.”
“That’s you?” Jack asked.
“In another life,” Starscream said. “He still walks the edge—but he tries. And that gives me hope.”
📁 FILE 003: Starscream — Armada (Universe: Armada)
A dramatic shift. Onscreen now was a broad-shouldered mech with powerful legs and red armor laced with white and gray. His face was angular but noble, eyes bright red and determined.
Arm blades protruded from his forearms, and his jet mode was massive, his wings slightly curved with thick plating.
“This one was a soldier in every sense,” Starscream murmured. “He fought for Megatron, rebelled, allied with Autobots… and died with honor.”
Arcee blinked. “You mean he… died?”
“Yes,” Starscream said, voice quiet. “And in doing so, earned his redemption.”
📁 FILE 004: Starscream — Cyberverse (Universe: Cyberverse)
This Starscream had a more exaggerated, angular appearance. Blue optics glowed beneath a spiked crown-like helm. He wore a long crimson cape, almost theatrical, and his wings were wide and high, flaring like blades poised for flight.
He carried a manic energy—equal parts cunning and chaos.
“He nearly conquered his world,” Starscream said with a tinge of irritation. “Manipulated Quintessons, betrayed Megatron, then became one. A Seeker of war and obsession.”
“Yikes,” Bulkhead muttered.
“And yet… he had vision.”
📁 FILE 005: Starscream — Generation One (Universe: G1)
The next image struck like a memory from another age.
A tall, slim mech in smooth red, gray, and blue plating. His wings sat neatly on his back. A proud, cocky expression adorned his face, with glowing red optics and a faceplate etched in perfect symmetry. Clean. Classic. Iconic.
“This,” Starscream said, “is the origin. The first voice. G1. He’s where we all come from.”
“He looks so…” Raf paused. “Balanced.”
“Until he opens his mouth,” Starscream quipped.
The others laughed, the tension easing slightly.
📁 FILE 006: Starscream — Unicron Trilogy (Universe: Energon/Cybertron)
A new version now filled the screen, heavier and darker. This Starscream had a strong black and silver color scheme with glowing red optics. His design was intimidating, sleek like a knife, and his wings swept backward like talons.
“This one was remade by Unicron,” Starscream said solemnly. “He fought alongside and against Optimus Prime, losing parts of himself in the process. He was loyal… until he wasn’t.”
“He looks... cursed,” Bumblebee murmured.
“He was,” Starscream replied. “And he wore that curse like armor.”
📁 FILE 007: Starscream — Shattered Glass (Universe: SG)
Gasps filled the room at the sight of the last Starscream.
This version was regal. White and gold armor shimmered under digital light, his wings like blades of light itself. A noble face bore a blue crest and soft, kind optics.
“He’s… beautiful,” Miko whispered.
“He’s a hero,” Starscream said. “A scientist turned warrior. In his world, the Decepticons fight for freedom. He serves Optimus Prime… but that Optimus is a tyrant.”
“What?” Jack asked.
“Everything’s inverted in Shattered Glass,” Starscream explained. “Autobots are the conquerors. Decepticons… the resistance.”
“Primus,” Ratchet whispered. “All these… are really you?”
Starscream looked at them, a strange weight in his optics. “They’re not me. They’re what I could have been. What I may become again. In the end… we are all reflections. Of fate. Of choice.”
Soundwave, silent through it all, zoomed out the view—revealing countless other folders.
Unopened.
Waiting.
As the images of alternate Starscreams faded one by one into the background, the room remained heavy with silence and awe. Miko still had her mouth open. Raf’s hands twitched at his sides, clearly itching to ask something else. Jack kept blinking, trying to comprehend that this was real.
But amidst the stunned stillness, one figure moved.
Soundwave.
Usually unreadable, usually still—Soundwave now leaned forward over the main console, optics flickering faster than usual. His claws danced across the keys. Lines of code spilled down the screen as he bypassed folder protections with effortless speed.
He wasn’t satisfied.
He wanted more.
More data.
More knowledge.
His movements became almost erratic, like a mind pushing to piece together something far larger than he could process—until a folder caught his eye.
A small one.
Unassuming.
No lock. No encryption. No warning.
📁 Sword_of_the_Universe.dat
Soundwave froze. The room held its breath.
“What is that?” Bumblebee asked, tone uneasy.
The screen pulsed with a faint golden glow from the folder icon, as if something behind it was alive.
Starscream, who had been quietly watching, tilted his head.
“Oh. That?”
Everyone turned to him in shock as he stepped forward, tone casual and unbothered, almost bored.
Starscream lifted a single claw, rotated his wrist lazily—and reality around him shimmered. Like water disturbed by a stone, the space before him rippled outward in concentric rings.
Then, with a whispering pulse, a dimensional rift opened.
Out from it, he pulled a sword.
But no ordinary sword.
It was massive—almost his full height. Forged in obsidian-black metal veined with molten gold, its surface shifted like a starfield, the edges glowing with the subtle gravity of a black hole. The blade hummed with the weight of countless universes. Ancient symbols—Primus-script—flowed like fluid across it.
And yet Starscream held it in one hand like it was made of air.
Everyone stared.
Ratchet’s optics nearly blew a circuit.
Knockout stepped back instinctively, whispering, “Is that... what I think it is?”
“Oh, no no,” Starscream said brightly, completely innocent, as if someone had asked about a spare coat in a closet. “It’s not for fighting. I’ve never used it in combat. It’s more like a… communication artifact.”
He gestured with it lightly, as if he were talking about a cellphone.
“With this,” he continued, “I can create bridges between realities and talk face-to-face with any version of myself. It’s how I trained before waking up here again. The other Starscreams helped me regain pieces of myself after the king tried to break me.”
The bots were absolutely stunned.
Bulkhead blinked. “You have… a universe-bending sword... for therapy?!”
“It was effective,” Starscream said proudly, holding the sword upright like a staff. “The ‘Sword of the Universe’ is one of Primus’s oldest tools. Not a weapon, but a beacon. It chooses its bearer. I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was given to me.”
“And you just—keep it—in a pocket dimension?” Arcee asked, dumbfounded.
“Where else would I put it?” Starscream asked, as if that were the most absurd question anyone had asked him all week.
Soundwave, still transfixed, slowly looked up from the screen to the real sword in Starscream’s claws. He tilted his helm with almost reverent awe, for the first time ever letting emotion subtly color his frame.
It wasn’t just knowledge anymore.
It was something divine.
And Soundwave had only just realized: this Starscream, their Starscream… might be more than a soldier. More than a Seeker. More than even Primus’s last spark.
He was a gatekeeper to worlds and destinies even Unicron couldn’t fully reach.
Starscream tilted the blade, creating a ripple of stardust along the floor, then flicked his wrist, and with a sigh of folding space, the Sword vanished once again.
“Anyway,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his chest. “I’m hungry. Do we still have that awful Earth cereal with the marshmallow shapes?”
As the Sword of the Universe faded back into the rift, a new look of curiosity sparkled in Miko’s eyes.
“Miko,” Starscream said, slightly taken aback by the sudden excitement in her expression, “what is it now?”
Miko was already bouncing on her heels, a mischievous grin stretching across her face. "Starscream," she said, practically beaming. "Can you, like, call another you from another dimension? I mean, can you bring in someone else? Like, now? Please?"
Starscream blinked at her. “Oh, well... If you really want me to,” he said with a slight roll of his optics, but there was an undeniable sparkle of amusement in his voice. “I suppose I could. It's not like I have better things to do.”
With a dramatic flourish, he raised the sword again, holding it carefully in both hands. “I’m calling him now. But just so you know—this is a Bayverse Starscream. He’s... less than thrilled, but he’s family. In a way.”
Starscream’s claws traced an arc through the air, causing the air around them to shimmer with radiant energy. As he spoke in a low, almost meditative tone, the blade of the sword began to glow once more.
The rift ripped open once again, and in an instant, another Starscream appeared. But this one was different—a twisted reflection from another universe.
Bayverse Starscream stood before them, his optics glowing an angry yellow as he stepped out from the rift. He was massive, much bulkier than the sleek seeker they were used to, with a battle-worn face and an air of annoyance that seemed to saturate the entire room. His wings were sharp and jagged, more akin to daggers than sleek fins, and his frame was almost entirely covered in battered armor. He looked less like a bot on the run and more like a living weapon of war.
He stared down at the group of Autobots and humans, his expression unreadable for a split second, before he opened his mouth to speak.
“What the slag?” Bayverse Starscream growled, his voice like gravel scraping against metal. “You called me in the middle of my sunbathing—again?! I swear, I was just enjoying a nice quiet moment in the canyon, far away from all this... garbage.”
Starscream, still holding the sword, didn’t seem the least bit fazed by his counterpart’s frustrated tone. He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Well, when you’re the only one who can open these gates between worlds, sometimes you don’t get to choose your timing. Besides, I thought you’d appreciate the... company.”
Bayverse Starscream’s optics narrowed, and he glanced around at the gathered Autobots and humans, a brief, contemptuous sneer crossing his face as he observed them all.
The group of Autobots, humans, and Starscream himself were all quite a sight to behold in the other Starscream's optics. He didn’t hide his disbelief.
“Really?” Bayverse Starscream scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “This is what you’ve been wasting your time on, ‘Prime’s most innocent’?” He gave a sharp gesture toward Starscream, who remained remarkably unperturbed by the slight. “All of you look like you’ve just crawled out of some child’s dream. Autobots, Decepticons, and humans all sharing the same space. What’s next, are you going to hold hands and sing Kumbaya together?”
He threw his hands up in mock frustration. “And this guy,” he nodded at Starscream, “this one is the dumbest of them all, calling the sword for this... feel-good reunion. What a waste of power. You’re supposed to be out there fighting, you know? Making a name for yourself, not sitting around blabbing.”
The Autobots and Miko were stunned into silence. The harshness and cynicism of Bayverse Starscream was palpable, as if his entire existence had been defined by constant battle and survival.
Starscream’s optics flickered as he processed his counterpart’s words. His voice was a little quieter this time, as though trying to understand the different perspective. “Not everyone’s reality is the same, you know. We all have our own ways of handling things. Some of us... choose to fight in the shadows.”
Bayverse Starscream snorted. “That’s your problem,” he shot back. “You’ve always been weak—too innocent.” He glared at the Autobots again. “This is why I never signed up for any of your nonsense. I got my hands dirty, and I got power. You want to change the universe? You have to make the tough decisions.”
He shook his head, not even bothering to look back at them anymore. “Enjoy your little playtime, Starscream. But you better believe I’m gonna enjoy my vacation while you try to fix this mess. Call me when you actually decide to do something.”
And with a flick of his wings, Bayverse Starscream turned away, preparing to step back into the rift.
Starscream, to his credit, didn’t even flinch.
“I’ll let you go,” he said calmly, though his tone had a hint of something akin to regret. “Just remember, sometimes being out of the battle is the hardest fight of all.”
Bayverse Starscream didn’t answer, disappearing back into the rift. The portal snapped shut behind him, leaving the room quiet.
Miko was the first to speak.
“Wow...” she whispered, her voice filled with awe. “That guy was a jerk.”
Starscream’s optics softened. “Yes, he can be... difficult.” He paused, as if remembering something. “But I... understand where he’s coming from.”
Ratchet let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t understand how you two are even from the same universe. He’s just—”
“Don’t get me started,” Starscream interrupted with a knowing smirk, looking at Miko. “Every dimension has its charm. Some more than others.”
Miko grinned back at him. “That was awesome, Starscream! You just—pulled him in like that? Can you call more of them?”
Starscream chuckled lightly. “Maybe... but some Starscreams aren’t exactly... friendly.”
Ratchet and the others shared a glance, now more than a little curious about what Starscream had yet to reveal.
“Starscream,” Jack said, voice more serious now, “what exactly are you telling us? What’s going on with all these other versions of you?”
Starscream’s optics softened with a strange, bittersweet expression. “Maybe one day, I’ll tell you more. But for now... let’s just say the universe has a way of connecting us all. Some of us embrace it. Some of us fight it.”
Miko, always the one to ask the hard questions, leaned forward, her voice more serious. “So... are you one of the good ones? Or...”
Starscream looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment, then he gave a slight, enigmatic smile. “I try to be.”
The atmosphere in the room had shifted into something more contemplative. The Autobots, humans, and Starscream were all deeply immersed in the possibilities swirling around the Sword of the Universe, as it had now become known. Raf’s mind was racing with possibilities, his curiosity bubbling to the surface.
“Starscream,” Raf said, after a long silence, “you said earlier that there are other versions of you—other Starscreams in different dimensions. Is there any way we could... open a portal, you know, to other universes? Like, could we send someone through? Or even... bring someone from another universe here?”
Starscream tilted his head slightly, as though considering the question. His expression was serene, but there was an underlying curiosity in his optics as he replied.
“Well, yes. It is possible,” he said slowly, tapping the hilt of the sword gently. “But it comes at a great cost. To open a portal to another dimension, it takes an immense amount of energy. It’s not something that can be done casually. The Sword of the Universe... well, this sword is a tool designed to communicate across dimensions, and it is capable of opening portals. But the energy expenditure is vast.”
He paused, a faint smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. “Imagine opening a portal to all dimensions at once. It would drain everything. That’s why the sword’s communication abilities are limited by how much power I can control at any given time.”
Raf’s eyes widened as he processed this. “So... you’re saying the sword can open portals to other dimensions? All at once?” He was already doing mental calculations, his scientific mind working quickly. “Wouldn’t that be... incredible? To travel between universes... See all those versions of you...”
Starscream’s expression grew slightly more solemn. “It’s not all about seeing those versions of me, Raf. It’s about the consequences. If a portal is opened improperly, or if you try to open too many at once, the damage it could cause to the fabric of the universe... the risk could be catastrophic. I can’t say for certain what would happen, but I wouldn’t recommend pushing that limit.”
Dreadwing, who had been silently observing the conversation until now, scoffed in disbelief. “Unbelievable, Starscream. You still haven’t realized what that sword truly is, have you? It’s not just any weapon—it’s THE weapon. That sword... it’s far more than you’re letting on, and everyone already has an idea of what it could be.”
The room grew quiet at Dreadwing’s words. The Autobots exchanged uncertain glances, while Miko raised an eyebrow in confusion. Ultra Magnus, whose usually stoic expression had softened, was now staring intently at the sword, eyes narrowing as though something was beginning to click into place.
“I don’t believe it,” Ultra Magnus said, his voice almost a whisper, still unable to fully accept what Dreadwing had implied. “This sword... that sword? Impossible. I thought it was just some artifact from a different universe.”
Ratchet, never one to pass up an opportunity to study something so... strange, let out a soft chuckle. “Well, at least we know someone is going to be busy doing neural scans for a while. I’ll need to examine this... weapon of yours, Starscream. It may be more than just a relic.”
Starscream blinked at Ratchet, confused. “What’s the big deal? I told you, it’s just a communication tool—”
Before Starscream could continue, a deeper voice broke in, cutting through his confusion.
“Starscream,” Megatron said, his voice heavy with realization, “you may want to pay closer attention. That sword... It’s not just any weapon. If I’m not mistaken, that is the Star Saber—the legendary sword of the Primes.”
The words hit the room like a thunderclap.
The Star Saber. The very sword spoken of in Cybertron’s ancient legends—said to have the power to control the very fabric of space, time, and energy. Its wielder was said to be chosen by the Primes themselves, bestowed with the authority to command not only the cosmos but the very destiny of Cybertron and its inhabitants. It was believed to have been lost centuries ago.
Starscream stood motionless, his optics wide. The sword, held in his hands, suddenly felt heavier. The implications of Megatron’s words slowly settled into his mind, making the world around him feel more... fragile.
The room fell into a stunned silence, as every bot and human present tried to process what they had just heard. The Star Saber—the same sword they had assumed was simply a means of crossing universes, was, in fact, a legendary weapon with unimaginable power.
Starscream broke the silence, his voice soft and almost reflective. “So... you think this is the Star Saber?” He looked down at the sword in his hands, the weight of it now sinking in. “It never occurred to me. I’ve never used it in combat. I’ve only ever used it to communicate with my... other selves. I never thought it could be anything more.”
Megatron’s optics flickered, a mixture of curiosity and something darker crossing his face. “Starscream, you may have just uncovered something far more important than we ever imagined. If this truly is the Star Saber, it could change everything. Your connection to Primus—everything you’ve been through—has led you to this moment.”
Ultra Magnus, still processing, slowly nodded. “The legends... They said the Star Saber could change the course of entire realities. Now it makes sense why the communication through the sword would be so powerful.”
Ratchet, ever the pragmatist, crossed his arms. “Hmm. Looks like we’ll need more than just scans to figure out the true nature of this weapon. We’re dealing with something far more dangerous than we thought.”
Dreadwing stepped forward, his voice dark. “And if that sword truly is the Star Saber... then perhaps Starscream was always meant for something much bigger than any of us imagined.”
Starscream, still processing the enormity of it all, lowered the sword slightly, his optics flickering with something approaching hesitation. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I just wanted to exist in this universe. To be free. But now... I suppose we’ll see what this means.”
The weight of his words hung in the air as everyone considered what the future might hold now that the Star Saber was in Starscream’s hands. The balance of power, the fate of universes, and the destinies of both Autobots and Decepticons suddenly felt like it could tip at any moment.
And in the midst of it all, Starscream—no longer the mere seeker—stood holding the legendary sword, unaware of how much his world was about to change.
As the awe and silence around the sword began to fade into murmurs of disbelief and theory-spinning, Knockout stepped forward, one servo on his hip, the other dramatically gesturing toward Starscream and his gleaming, potentially universe-breaking sword.
“Well, as thrilling as all this dimensional destiny talk is,” Knockout said with his usual theatrical flair, “maybe now would be a perfect time to let the professionals have a look at your legendary mystery blade before you poke a hole in the fabric of reality.”
Starscream blinked, tilting his helm slightly. “You want to analyze the Sword of the Universe?”
Ratchet, standing behind Knockout and already prepping his scanners, grunted. “We need to verify if it’s really the Star Saber. If it is, there’s no telling what dormant functions it may have... or what damage it could cause if mishandled.”
Knockout gave an overly charming smile. “So, be a dear and hand it over, won’t you?”
Starscream, with a very innocent nod, turned the hilt of the sword toward Knockout. “Of course. Here.”
Without hesitation—because Knockout always had to look confident in front of an audience—the red mech reached out with both hands and took the massive blade—
—and instantly collapsed to the floor with a loud, metallic clang.
“AH—!” Knockout yelped as his knees buckled, his arms trembling like overcooked wiring. “Primus—What—What is this thing made of?! A neutron star?!”
The sword hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud, the point burying itself a few inches into the metal floor. Knockout was flat on his back, his fingers still locked around the hilt as though the sword had fused to him, optics wide in disbelief.
Starscream stared down, unfazed. “Oh, I probably should have mentioned that. It carries the weight of an entire universe.”
“You think?!” Knockout wheezed from the floor, trying to peel his hands off the hilt. “My fingers are going numb! My soul is going numb!”
The rest of the group burst into varying levels of shocked amusement.
Even Ultra Magnus made a sound suspiciously like a stifled laugh, while Bulkhead couldn’t help but let out a loud snort. “Guess you’re not worthy, Knockout.”
Miko doubled over with laughter. “He looks like a squashed pancake!”
Ratchet, meanwhile, sighed, rubbing his temples. “I told you to be careful.”
Starscream crossed his arms, mildly entertained. “I thought it would be obvious that not just anyone can wield it.”
“Next time,” Knockout groaned, still stuck on the floor, “please say that before you hand me a galactic anchor disguised as a weapon!”
Soundwave, quietly recording everything from the corner, zoomed in dramatically on Knockout’s flattened form, the data pad on his shoulder logging the footage for future entertainment—or blackmail.
“Don’t worry,” Starscream added lightly, plucking the sword from Knockout’s hands as effortlessly as if it weighed nothing. “It only crushes those not attuned to it.”
Knockout glared up at him. “Says the guy who can hold it like a feather. Great. Now I’m humiliated and bruised.”
“You’ll live,” Ratchet muttered, poking Knockout with a scanner as if inspecting roadkill. “Assuming your ego survives.”
As Starscream gently sheathed the sword back into a small dimensional rift, his wings flicked smugly behind him. “Maybe next time, Knockout... ask someone your own weight class to lift ancient dimensional artifacts.”
Knockout groaned again, still splayed on the floor. “I’m never living this down, am I?”
The room answered with a chorus of laughter, even from Megatron—who hid a small, amused smile behind his hand.
With Knockout sulking in the corner and Ratchet busy running scans, Starscream fluttered his wings with theatrical flair and stepped once more toward the open space where the sword had previously floated.
“Since you’re so interested in my possessions,” he said, loud enough for the entire base to hear, “perhaps you’d like to see more of my collection?”
Before anyone could stop him, he raised a servo and with a small, deliberate twist of his digits, another interdimensional rift began to spiral open—this one much smaller, but glowing with strange shifting colors that tickled the edges of reality.
Raf, eyes wide, adjusted his glasses. “You… you have a collection of dimensional artifacts?”
Starscream nodded proudly. “Of course! I’ve had thousands of years to travel, recover, borrow, and occasionally ‘liberate’ unique items from various realities.”
Miko was bouncing on her heels now. “Okay okay—show us something crazy! Like… an axe made of lightning or something!”
Starscream smirked. “Ah, from the Storm-Forger Dimension, I see you’ve heard tales.”
He reached into the portal—wings twitching as if bracing himself—and pulled out an enormous double-bladed axe crackling with violet electricity. The room hummed the second it passed through the threshold.
The Autobots backed up instantly.
Bulkhead raised both arms. “Okay! Okay! Let’s not swing that thing indoors!”
Starscream, turning the weapon like a curator in a museum, sniffed. “It only strikes if you say the phrase ‘Shock my spark.’”
Miko IMMEDIATELY opened her mouth. “Sh—”
Arcee slapped a hand over her face. “NO.”
Jack, staring, blinked. “Okay. What else do you have in there? Please tell me there’s not something worse.”
“Oh, there’s so much worse,” Starscream purred, pleased as a cat knocking relics off a shelf. He shoved the axe back into the rift and reached again.
Out came—
A completely ordinary-looking teacup.
Everyone stared.
Starscream held it reverently. “This… is the Endcup of Paradox. If you drink from it during a solar eclipse while reciting ‘The Ballad of Vector Sigma’ backwards, you erase a single hour from the timeline.”
Ultra Magnus blinked. “You’re… joking.”
Starscream sipped air from the empty cup. “Am I?”
Raf whispered, “Is that how the Leap Day disappeared in 2097?”
Starscream winked.
Knockout, once again upright, finally snapped. “IS THERE ANYTHING YOU DON’T HAVE IN THAT MULTIVERSAL PURSE?!”
Starscream tilted his helm thoughtfully. “Hmm… Well, I lost the Singing Bolts of the Cyber Monks in a bet with the Armada version of myself—”
Arcee interrupted. “There are Cyber Monks?!”
Starscream shrugged. “Oddly flexible, very judgmental.”
Soundwave, curious and perfectly silent until now, tapped a command into the base’s display system and flicked open a visual file marked “STARCHIVES.” Instantly, dozens of tiny previews filled the screen: glowing helms, cloaks of void-light, keys with fractal patterns, a hammer made of compressed black holes, and—
“Wait,” Ratchet squinted, “Is that… a spoon?”
“Oh yes,” Starscream chirped. “The Spoon of the Infinite Stirring. It never stops. Makes perfect energon soup. Also collapses neutron stars if misused.”
Dreadwing, eyes narrowed, leaned toward Megatron. “Are we absolutely sure he’s not already high on something?”
Megatron, arms crossed, watched the chaos unfold with increasing disbelief. “Starscream… where were you keeping all of these things?”
Starscream blinked innocently. “Would you believe me if I said dimensional subspace pocket stitched into my wing plating?”
Everyone stared.
He smiled wider. “I thought not.”
Miko finally raised her hand. “Okay okay—one more! Just one more before Ratchet and Knockout explode from the aneurysm.”
Starscream considered. “Hmm. Very well. Just one.”
He reached into the rift, and with graceful flair, pulled out—
A small, glittering snow globe.
The entire base stared.
Inside the globe, a tiny version of Cybertron spun slowly… and then screamed. A teeny tiny voice echoed from within:
"RELEASE MEEEEE—"
Starscream chuckled. “Oh. Forgot that was cursed. Back you go.”
He shoved it back into the portal and clapped his servos together.
“There! That was fun, wasn’t it?”
Ratchet had a datapad over his face.
Knockout was muttering to himself about neural chaos and narcissistic hoarding.
Ultra Magnus looked five minutes from reformatting himself.
And Megatron… just stared at Starscream for a long, long moment.
“…I leave you alone for five thousand years,” he muttered. “And you become this.”
Starscream beamed. “You’re welcome.”
The room was silent.
Not the kind of silence that invites peace—but the stunned, overclocked, processor-burning silence of mechs and humans collectively trying to make sense of what just happened.
Ratchet slowly lowered the datapad from his face.
“…I’m going to say this calmly,” he began, twitching slightly. “You have, in your possession, cursed artifacts, reality weapons, and a teacup that deletes time.”
Starscream was still smiling proudly. “Yes! And that was only a fraction of my cache.”
Knockout, voice dry and twitching. “Do you have any self-preservation instinct, or do you just like poking multiversal bear traps for fun?”
Starscream tilted his helm. “What’s the point of having divine trinkets if you don’t show them off? I am a Seeker—we collect.”
Raf, ever the scientist at heart, was wide-eyed and scribbling on his datapad. “This means… if these items exist and function, then that proves dimensional reality isn’t just theoretical—it’s a network. A physical, navigable web.”
“Indeed,” Starscream said, tapping the side of his helm. “And I’ve navigated it more times than I can count. Why do you think I’m so well-dressed across the dimensions? We compare notes.”
Just then, the Sword of the Universe—which was still hovering quietly behind Starscream, its surface like liquid crystal—began to vibrate.
Starscream perked up. “Oh! Someone’s calling!”
Miko practically squealed. “Another Starscream?!”
The sword’s flat face shimmered and twisted until an image appeared—a different Starscream, this one with a sleeker, angular design and an elegant black-and-gold color palette. His optics were glowing deep crimson, and he wore a royal cape clasped over one shoulder, trimmed with solar flare patterns. Behind him floated massive crystal spires and glowing asteroids—a backdrop clearly not their dimension.
“About time,” the alternate Starscream huffed. “Do you have the Spark Prism of Jekathex Prime or not?”
Starscream blinked. “Ah! Yes, yes, one moment.”
He reached into his dimensional rift, rummaged around as if digging through a sock drawer, and pulled out a glowing prism with unstable, flickering energy swirling inside.
The other Starscream narrowed his optics. “Still intact?”
“Oh please,” Prime Starscream scoffed. “Unlike you, I don’t use mine to power space-music concerts.”
“I told you—those concerts prevent civil war.”
“You started the war with a dance-off!”
“A stylized political duel, thank you!”
Ignoring the cross-dimensional squabble, Starscream held up the prism—and suddenly, a tiny portal opened beside him, humming with calibrated energy.
Through it, a servo emerged. The other Starscream’s servo—graceful, clawed, and adorned with golden rings.
It reached through the rift as casually as one might pass a snack, and Starscream placed the Spark Prism in his palm.
In return, the alternate Starscream handed over a smaller object: a sleek cube, humming with strange rhythmic pulses.
“Here. As promised. The Chrono-Loop Harmonizer.” the other Starscream said. “Don’t activate it near a mirror.”
Starscream cradled the cube like a precious relic. “Ooooh. Shiny.”
And just like that, the portal snapped shut with a polite fwoop.
The base was quiet again.
Bulkhead, baffled: “Did… did you just trade ancient relics like trading cards?”
Starscream nodded brightly. “Yes! It’s how we maintain balance and mutual understanding. Also, we’ve all agreed to keep score on who has the best trinkets. Right now, Cyberverse Me is winning, but only because he swiped the Helmet of Sound Logic from Unicron’s vault while juggling his political duties.”
Ultra Magnus, ever the no-nonsense soldier, looked utterly frozen. “…The multiverse is in the hands of cosmic toddlers.”
“Excuse you,” Starscream sniffed. “We are Primus-born heirs of sacred knowledge. Not toddlers.”
Dreadwing, muttering to Megatron: “Toddlers with thermonuclear pacifiers.”
Ratchet dragged a servo down his face. “At this rate, I’ll need more than tests—I’ll need an entire council of physicists to untangle this mess.”
Miko, however, was thrilled. “So, wait—how many other Starscreams have you talked to?!”
Starscream tapped his chin, datapad flicking through folders. “About… forty-seven. There’s one from a dimension where we’re all feline, but that’s not important right now.”
Jack, already regretting his next question, asked: “And what do you do with these artifacts?”
Starscream blinked. “…I keep them. Why?”
A beat.
Megatron finally stepped forward, optic twitching.
“You are never allowed to die,” he growled, “because apparently if you do, half the multiverse explodes from poorly stored relics falling into the wrong hands.”
Starscream gave an innocent, fluttery shrug.
“Then I guess… it’s a good thing I’m immortal, isn’t it?”
The silence returned—but this time it was the stunned, slack-jawed kind.
“…Did you just say you’re immortal?” Jack finally managed.
Starscream blinked. “Oh. Yes. I thought you knew.”
Miko stared. “You just dropped that like it was nothing!”
“Well,” Starscream said with a graceful shrug, “most versions of me are immortal. Apart from a few… unfortunate outliers. Poor Animated me… rest in fragments.”
Raf, voice small: “H-how is that even possible?”
“I was forged with a spark fragment from Primus himself,” Starscream said matter-of-factly. “That, and several thousand cycles of training in the Subrealms of Shadow. Plus a little reality reinforcement from the Sword of the Universe. It adds up.”
Ultra Magnus actually short-circuited for a moment.
Ratchet dropped a wrench.
Then, right on cue, the surface of the Sword of the Universe shimmered again—Bayverse Starscream’s scowling face reappearing in full high-definition snark.
“Hey. Do you have any red energon on hand?” Bayverse Starscream asked, clearly frazzled. “I’m one glitch away from strangling the Fallen with his own ceremonial staff.”
Everyone froze.
“...Come again?” said Bulkhead.
Bayverse Starscream groaned and leaned one claw against his helm. Behind him, the echo of explosions and faint yelling could be heard through the portal.
“My Soundwave just called me back to base. Apparently, the Fallen is trying to take over the Decepticons again and Megatron’s thrown a fusion cannon through the throne room wall. The only one that fossil listens to is me, because he thinks I still follow his ancient scrap cult.”
Starscream Prime looked sympathetic. “At least that’s not as bad as when the Quintessons invaded Earth in my timeline.”
Everyone turned again.
“The what?” Arcee said sharply.
“Oh yes,” Starscream said, waving a servo. “Five-headed, judgment-obsessed, logic-defying mechanical tyrants. They tried to reclassify Earth as a trade farm. I had to single-handedly rewrite galactic legislature to stop them. And broker a deal with the Space Pirate Council to redirect them.”
Bayverse Starscream pinched the bridge of his nose. “You talked to the Space Pirate Council?! They hate everyone!”
“I bribed them with Autobot diplomatic wine and a holographic concert of Soundwave dancing in pink armor.”
A beat.
“...You win this round,” Bayverse Starscream muttered.
Dreadwing, slowly: “So let me understand this clearly… You’re immortal, you’ve faced Quintessons, hold a Sword of the Universe, and treat transdimensional artifact trading like a card game.”
Starscream smiled innocently. “That about sums it up.”
Knockout, muttering: “I need a spa, a stiff energon cocktail, and six hours of lying down with a scented coolant wrap.”
Bayverse Starscream exhaled sharply. “Anyway. If you’ve got that red energon, Prime-me, toss it through. If I’m going to play galactic babysitter again, I need something stronger than sarcasm.”
Prime Starscream, already opening a tiny rift, pulled out a sleek red energon flask and tossed it to the other side. Bayverse Starscream caught it, muttered a “thanks,” and the portal fizzled out once again.
As silence settled, Miko leaned close to Jack and whispered:
“…Are we sure this is our Starscream?”
Jack stared, expression blank. “I don’t think he’s even sure anymore.”
The Sword of the Universe pulsed again—once, twice—before glowing brilliantly and emitting a cascading hum that filled the command center with static energy.
Starscream Prime, blinking innocently, looked at the group. “Oh. They must’ve noticed I have free time.”
Before anyone could ask who, a rapid-fire series of dimensional rifts burst open in the air like fireworks popping mid-air, one by one.
✦ First through was Cyberverse Starscream:
Dressed in sleek crimson and silver armor, he tumbled in dramatically, wings flaring, optics sharp.
“Am I late?” he asked, already posing. “I brought my own lighting!” He struck a dramatic stance as tiny floating drones activated around him, enhancing his appearance with a glittering aura.
Starscream Prime sighed. “He joined a theater group two universes ago. It never wore off.”
“Art is war, darling,” Cyberverse Starscream said, smoothing his wings.
✦ Next came Armada Starscream:
Tall, broody, carrying a giant energon blade over his shoulder. He looked around the room like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Why did I agree to this again?” he muttered.
“Because I promised you could punch Bayverse Megatron next time,” Prime Starscream reminded him sweetly.
“…Fair.”
Arcee took a step back. “Why does he look like he’s one heartbreak away from becoming a metal poem?”
✦ Following him was Shattered Glass Starscream:
Pure white, clad in gold accents and absolutely radiating righteousness, this Starscream stepped through with an angelic glow and a beaming smile.
“Hello, friends!” he said, voice sweet and terrifyingly pure. “Who here needs a motivational speech or a hug?”
Bulkhead choked on his energon.
Starscream Prime covered his face. “He’s the reason I have an emergency mute protocol coded into the sword…”
✦ And then came Generation One Starscream:
Floating in via jet mode and transforming midair, laughing maniacally. His paint was chipped, his movements overly exaggerated, and his ego was clearly bigger than the room.
“MEGATRON!! I mean—hello, fellow Starscream!” he cackled. “What’s the meeting about? Are we finally declaring me Supreme Emperor of the Starscreams?!”
“Not again,” muttered Armada Starscream.
Cyberverse Starscream threw glitter at him. “Down, nostalgia.”
✦ Suddenly, a distorted rift opened slowly… and Earthspark Starscream stepped out, looking… completely normal.
Sleek design. Measured steps. Calm energy.
“I heard there were dimensional anomalies,” he said coolly, folding his arms.
“…You’re the calm one?” Jack asked suspiciously.
Earthspark Starscream nodded once. “I read poetry. I mentor. And I haven't screamed in three weeks.”
All the other Starscreams went silent. Even G1 looked vaguely concerned.
“…That’s unnatural,” muttered Bayverse Starscream’s voice from the sword.
Miko, eyes shining: “This is AMAZING!! It's like a multiversal Starscream club!”
“I should get snacks,” Raf whispered, half-panicked and fully in awe.
Dreadwing, deadpan: “This is either a gift from Primus or a cosmic prank.”
Ultra Magnus, to Ratchet: “Do… do we report this to someone?”
Ratchet, rubbing his temples: “I don’t think there’s anyone in the multiverse equipped to handle this.”
Starscream Prime, meanwhile, seemed completely calm amidst the chaos, politely handing out relics and energon shots like it was a tea party.
“Now,” he chirped, “who wants to trade ancient war relics like childhood stickers?”
Armada raised a brow. “I brought the staff of Vector Sigma.”
Cyberverse gasped. “Gimme.”
And just like that, chaos resumed—with portals opening and hands appearing from different realities, exchanging glowing items like toy figurines, Starscream Prime giggling like a child on his birthday.
As laughter and artifact trading echoed in the base, the Sword of the Universe suddenly let out a sharp, distorted wail—like metal being torn through dimensions.
All the other Starscreams went still.
Even G1, who had been halfway into stuffing a relic into his cockpit, froze mid-motion. Armada lowered his blade. Cyberverse shut off his light drones. Shattered Glass Starscream actually took a step behind the Prime version.
Starscream Prime narrowed his optics. “...No. Not him.”
The rift opened.
Unlike the others—who had stepped through clean breaches of energy and light—this portal oozed darkness, pulsing with corrupted data and static. From it, a grotesque figure emerged: jagged, lopsided wings that sparked where plating should’ve been; one optic dim and the other glowing red; half his face covered in black corrosion, the other looking like it had been stitched back on. His body was malformed, pieces of other bots welded into his armor.
A low, distorted growl escaped his broken voice modulator.
“You summoned too many times, Starscream Prime,” he rasped. “The veil between dimensions bent just enough... for me to feel it.”
Dark Starscream stepped into their world like a walking apocalypse, and a sudden chill swept the room. The lights flickered. A few sparks blew out from the base ceiling.
Miko whimpered. “What is that?”
Ratchet blinked rapidly. “Is that… still a Starscream?”
Earthspark Starscream, quietly: “Unfortunately, yes.”
Dark Starscream looked around, one ruined optic twitching.
“This world. I felt a tremor through the currents. Something old. Something familiar. I believe... Morbius is here.”
That name hit the room like a thunderclap.
Ultra Magnus stepped forward. “Morbius? That’s impossible. He was one of the First Five—one of the original bots created by Primus himself!”
Knockout, nervously running a scanner: “You mean the psycho that tried to break the spark-code barrier and got banished from the Well?!”
Cyberverse Starscream, voice low: “We all hate Morbius.”
G1 Starscream nodded. “He's a glitching cultist! One minute you're talking, next minute he's talking about how ‘your spark must be purified in the datafire.’” He shuddered. “Creep.”
Starscream Prime, optics narrowing: “What are the odds that Morbius is the Unicron soldier?”
Dark Starscream, a crooked grin tearing across his half-wrecked face:
“High. Very high. He disappeared from my universe after the last cataclysm. Only a few of us were left after that... And Morbius? He liked to survive.”
Then, leaning forward, hunched and serpentine, his voice like gears grinding glass:
“Of course... I could give you more. I know his scent across timelines. I know how he hides.”
He licked the inside of a cracked fang. “But... information comes at a price.”
Starscream Prime, already walking away from the Sword: “You can forget the relic that brings back the dead.”
Dark Starscream made a tsk-tsk sound.
“Always so protective of that one... You think you can hide it forever?”
Starscream Prime, arms crossed, voice cold: “Yes. From you? Absolutely.”
Dark Starscream snarled but said nothing more. His optics flicked toward Soundwave, who was already loading defenses into the base's firewall and dimensional barriers, then to Megatron, who stood deathly still, unreadable.
The air was heavy. Uncertainty rippled through everyone.
Raf, voice barely a whisper: “So… if this Morbius really is here…”
Starscream Prime answered quietly: “Then we need to find him before he finds me.”
“Because,” he added, finally looking up at everyone, “if he’s a soldier of Unicron… he’s not here to take prisoners.”
The eerie tension remained thick—until Cyberverse Starscream broke it with an exaggerated sigh, placing both servos on his hips.
“Welp, I’ve had enough existential dread for one day. Dark, you’re creeping me out. Prime Screamer, ping me if you don’t die.”
His projection winked out.
G1 Starscream followed with a huff.
“I’m not getting dragged into another Morbius chase. Last time he melted my vocalizer mid-monologue. You know how expensive that was?”
Gone.
Bayverse Starscream grumbled, already walking off-screen into a hot canyon breeze.
“You owe me a crate of red energon, Prime. And if I have to break up another Fallen vs Megatron argument, I’m gonna send that relic-sword into the Pit myself.”
He vanished.
Shattered Glass Starscream simply gave a mock-salute, murmuring:
“Tell Morbius I’m not home if he calls. Also, Dark, you still owe me my skull back.”
Then static.
One by one, each Starscream flickered out—Earthspark, Armada, even the chaotic Unicron Trilogy Starscream with an eye roll and the phrase, “I’m too tired to deal with a timeline where I'm not in charge.”
Until…
Only Dark Starscream remained, standing in grim silence at the center of the base’s main monitor. His single functioning optic flared slightly.
“Where is my reward, Prime?” he growled. “I gave you information. I answered your question.”
Starscream Prime pinched the bridge of his nose, wings fluttering in visible irritation.
“You’re not getting the bring-the-dead-back relic. Stop asking. Honestly, it’s weird.”
Dark Starscream leaned in ominously.
“Then something else. Anything.”
Starscream Prime groaned and turned, pulling open another small dimensional rift behind him like someone tired of a sibling’s whining. He reached inside, rummaging with a casual hum, before pulling out a dull, ancient-looking cube with faded glyphs on each side.
“Here. A relic. Low-tier. Glows in the dark. Maybe screams occasionally. You want it or not?”
Dark Starscream snatched it immediately as a black tendril burst from the portal and coiled around it.
He gave a crooked smile.
“...Acceptable.”
And with that, his connection flickered and went dark.
The base was left in silence.
Knockout cleared his throat. “So. That happened.”
Bulkhead, quietly: “I’m gonna need therapy.”
Miko whispered, wide-eyed: “...He screamed? The cube screams?”
Starscream Prime, deadpan: “Only sometimes.”
The command center remained heavy with stunned silence after Dark Starscream vanished.
Ultra Magnus broke it with a gravelled, firm tone.
"Did he say... Morbius?"
Ratchet paled visibly.
"Primus preserve us. That name hasn’t been spoken in... eons."
Arcee’s optics narrowed, voice hushed with tension.
"Who is he?"
Starscream stepped forward slowly, wings slightly slumped in unease.
"Morbius... was one of the original Five. The first five sparks Primus created to walk Cybertron before time was even measured. But unlike the others who embraced order and balance, Morbius sought chaos—and dominion. Even Unicron gave him a wide berth."
Bulkhead exhaled hard.
"And now he might be here? In our dimension?"
Raf, small and wide-eyed, whispered:
"But... if he’s from the beginning, how did he survive? What does he want now?"
Starscream stared at the blank screen where Dark Starscream once was.
"Power. Always power. And the Star Saber might have called to him. Or worse—it may have woken him."
A pause. Then Jack asked the question none of them wanted to say aloud.
"Is he... stronger than Megatron? Stronger than Optimus?"
Starscream didn’t answer at first. When he did, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"He is the reason the Primes needed weapons like the Star Saber in the first place."
Elsewhere…
Deep within a forgotten system, hidden beneath layers of twisted space and dead stars, a colossal dark chamber pulsed faintly with a sickly red glow.
Chains hung from the walls like veined roots, and unnatural energy drifted in curling trails across the air. At its center stood a towering figure of nightmare—Morbius.
His form was ancient and unnatural, like it had been carved from entropy itself. Dozens of optics blinked and retracted at random across his frame, some glowing dull orange, others flickering violet. His claws clacked lightly against a stone relic-table as he watched something shimmer in front of him.
A faint vibration—a pulse through the cosmos.
His cracked mouth curled into a slow, grotesque grin.
"So..."
His voice echoed like distant thunder through rotting cathedrals.
"...the Star Saber awakens once more. And in the servos of him, of all bots."
He turned to a group behind him: Silas, now clad in jagged black armor laced with biomechanical upgrades, and a few MECH survivors, quiet as statues.
Morbius chuckled, a gravelly sound like tectonic plates grinding together.
"Starscream has it. But he does not understand it. He holds a universe in his hand... and plays with it like a child's toy."
His gaze drifted to Silas, eyes flashing.
"Shall we educate him, Silas?"
Silas smiled darkly, nodding once.
Morbius leaned forward, grinning now with true malevolence.
"Oh, this will be fun."
Chapter Text
Some weeks had passed.
he stars above a barren canyon shifted silently as if watching from afar. Wind carved narrow paths between the jagged cliffs, dry air whispering through the silence of the night. But beneath the surface, deep inside a buried MECH facility half-swallowed by the sands of time, things stirred with methodical intent.
Morbius stood before a towering crystalline map of the Prime dimension, jagged lines of dark energy etched through the space like spider cracks. Silas stood nearby, arms crossed, no longer fully human—metalwork etched with pulsating purple veins now framed much of his body, courtesy of Morbius’s reconstitution technology. He was not a bot. Not a man. Something between.
"He will need the sun soon," Morbius said, tapping the map with one long, clawed digit. "He’s healed enough to walk, speak, command... but his spark’s rhythm tells me he has yet to recharge fully in the sky."
Silas raised a brow. "You’re suggesting we bait him with his own nature."
"Not suggest. Confirm." Morbius turned to face him, optics blazing with unnatural intelligence. "Aerialbots are solar-tied. The starlight doesn’t just feed their energon circuits. It grounds them to the living frequency of the cosmos. Without it, they fade."
He stepped forward, tendrils trailing behind him like a moving shroud.
"Starscream is many things—arrogant, theatrical, brittle—but he is still a creature of the skies. The longer he is kept in shadow, the more his frame begs for the sun. And soon... he will seek it."
Morbius had been preparing. Drones of ancient design—floating metallic spheres embedded with multiverse lenses—had been silently deployed across the desert ridges, waiting for Starscream’s eventual retreat into the open.
The last few weeks had brought reports from hidden observers, cloaked among human cities and Decepticon ruins: Starscream’s recovery was progressing. His movements were deliberate but strained. His wings hadn’t extended in full flight yet.
Morbius pointed at a mesa on the map.
"Here. This plateau sees the most stable solar intensity at dawn. If I were him... I would climb it the moment my frame could manage it."
Silas stepped forward. "Then we plant surveillance, traps, or...?"
"Observation," Morbius said calmly. "Capture, only if the moment proves perfect. But above all, we must learn him. Not just his strength—but what he fears, who he trusts, and what makes him hesitate. There is something in that Starscream that the others do not possess. That is why the Star Saber chose him."
He raised his arm, and a projection activated—a slow replay of Starscream Prime creating the dimensional portal with the sword, trading relics with another version of himself.
"He hasn’t even touched its true potential. It’s like watching a hatchling wield a neutron cannon for decoration."
Morbius moved to the side of the chamber, where several slabs were arrayed with relics of unholy age. One of them pulsed faintly—The Shackles of Nullspace, capable of binding not just limbs but willpower. Another hummed like a heartbeat—The Lens of Magnus, designed to reveal inner desires and fears.
He selected three: the Shackles, the Lens, and a containment seal forged from pre-Prime Cybertronian ore.
"We prepare these for deployment. If he flies—fine. If he lands—we strike. But only if his support is far from him. Starscream alone is no match for us. Starscream backed by Megatron or the Autobots... is another matter entirely."
Silas turned to the display, thoughtful. "What about the others? Megatron, Optimus... even Soundwave. He’s unnervingly protective of Starscream lately."
"Let them suspect. Let them fear shadows. When the moment comes, they won’t know what we’re taking until he’s already gone."
To hasten the opportunity, Morbius issued subtle psychic pulses—distant touches to Starscream’s subconscious through the thin emotional veil between dimensions. Gentle nudges that whispered:
Come into the light. Stretch your wings. Heal.
He knew the Seeker would not resist for long. Once he reached that plateau, once his wings touched the solar wind again...
Then the watchers would close in.
Silas gave one last look toward the map.
"And when we have him? What then?"
Morbius’s optics flared as he whispered:
"Then... the sword is mine."
Back in the real world, far above the desert, a falcon flew overhead.
But its eyes glowed red.
And it was watching.
The wind howled gently over the cliffs where the sunlight broke through the thick clouds, creating golden bands that washed across the Earth below. It was morning—peaceful, deceptively so.
Hidden deep within the fractured ruins of a once-abandoned military outpost, Silas stood behind a one-way screen. His optics—no longer mere human eyes—glowed faintly with a sickly green light. His body, reinforced with a combination of MECH's surviving technology and cybertronian architecture, gave off the quiet hum of controlled energy.
He had been watching the cliffs for hours.
And then... he appeared.
The Seeker.
Starscream.
Silas’s attention sharpened, his entire frame leaning closer to the screen as Starscream stepped slowly into the open sunlight, his form sleek, regal, and radiant. That new body—rebuilt, reborn, and even more beautiful than Silas remembered from when he had captured and experimented on him before—was everything he had ever imagined.
But this wasn’t just desire for power anymore. No… this was obsession.
He wanted him.
Not as a weapon.
Not as a project.
Silas whispered, “Perfect... you are perfect now.”
Beside him, Morbius chuckled darkly in the shadows, arms folded. “You see? Even your cold machine heart can’t ignore the spark when it calls.”
Silas didn’t answer immediately. He was too focused, following every movement—every breath—Starscream took.
The Seeker moved with caution, still weak, that much was clear. His steps were not as sharp as they had once been. His wings, though upright and proud, occasionally twitched from strain. But when the sunlight hit his plating, the pale silver shimmered to a soft platinum, with deep streaks of purple across his wings—the same purple that used to stain the skies of Cybertron.
A former weapon... now a divine creature.
Silas clenched his fists. “He belongs with me.”
Morbius raised an eyebrow, amused. “Forget the sword, then?”
Silas smirked without humor. “I don’t care about the sword. I want him.”
At the Autobot base, alarms flared—though not for an attack. Soundwave’s screen lit up and displayed Laserbeak’s video feed.
It showed Starscream standing atop a sunlit cliff, seemingly alone. But the feed zoomed out. In the distance, nearly invisible unless you had eyes as precise as Soundwave’s... a flicker. A lens. A gleam of metal.
Soundwave turned without speaking, bringing up the visuals in the control room.
Ratchet, working on internal diagnostics, stiffened. Optimus, reading a datapad, looked up at once. “Report.”
Soundwave’s monotone distorted for the briefest second.
“MECH... is near. Silas is observing.”
The feed sharpened again, pausing on a still frame—Silas’s new form, half-hidden, but unmistakable.
Megatron had been standing to the side, silently watching since Starscream had left for his sunbath.
He moved now, stepping forward with a quiet weight. “So, he dares to come close again.”
Optimus turned to Soundwave. “Has Starscream noticed?”
Soundwave shook his head. “Negative.”
Megatron narrowed his optics, his tone dropping. “Then we must ensure he does not fall prey again.”
He tapped his comm. “Dreadwing. Report.”
After a moment, Dreadwing’s voice responded through the channel. “Watching him from the canyon ridge. He is safe. For now.”
Megatron’s tone was sharp. “He is to be protected. You know what’s at stake.”
“I do. I owe him that much,” Dreadwing replied solemnly. “I will not let anyone touch him.”
Optimus crossed his arms. “We’ll need tighter rotations. Silas may wait for an opening. Or worse... he may not act alone.”
Back at the cliff, Starscream exhaled slowly and lifted his wings, stretching them under the warm sunlight. He didn’t know he was being watched. Didn’t know the eyes upon him were not just from the skies above... but from someone who once claimed his body, and now longed to claim his very spark.
And down below, in the ruins—
Silas smiled as he watched him bathe in the light.
“Soon,” he whispered. “Soon you’ll see we belong together. And when that happens… you’ll never leave me again.”
From the shadows, Morbius only chuckled. “Obsessive. Dangerous. I like it.”
He tilted his head toward the screen again. “Shall we begin Phase Two?”
Silas didn’t blink. “Yes.”
“Then,” Morbius said, turning and walking deeper into the dark facility, “let’s prepare the trap.”
The sunlight fell gently across the rocky plateau. The wind tugged at loose pebbles, carried dust over the cliffs, and gently lifted the ends of Starscream’s cloak as he stood near the edge, face upturned to the warmth. His optics were closed, wings tilted just right to drink in the sunlight like a plant to water.
“Finally…” he murmured, his voice soft, content. “Some peace.”
A few meters behind him stood Dreadwing, arms crossed, optics sharp and constantly scanning the perimeter.
He was the image of stoicism, a silent warden against the creeping shadows that now stalked Starscream. Ever since Soundwave’s footage confirmed Silas’s presence, Dreadwing had not let the Seeker out of his sight. And he was not subtle about it.
Starscream cracked open an optic and sighed, catching Dreadwing glancing his way for the fifth time.
“Oh, do relax, Dreadwing. I am simply standing in the sun, not summoning Unicron.” He gave a tired laugh and tilted his helm. “Unless that’s next on my weekly agenda?”
“You’re exposed,” Dreadwing replied, voice low and firm. “Too exposed. You’re still recovering. Your mobility is not at full strength.”
Starscream frowned, not out of offense, but confusion. “I came to recharge. To restore myself in the sun, not spark a war.”
“You don't know who’s watching,” Dreadwing countered.
Starscream waved a hand lazily. “And you think standing around me like a painted statue will stop that?”
Dreadwing didn’t answer.
Starscream squinted, then gave a small, smug smirk. “Wait. Are you trying to sunbathe too? Admit it—you’ve grown fond of the rays.”
“…I’m here to protect you,” Dreadwing said stiffly, though his wings gave the smallest twitch, betraying a hint of embarrassment.
Starscream chuckled, quietly, eyes slipping shut again. “Mm. Well, try not to get in the way of my recharge then, dear warden.”
Somewhere below, hidden in the blackened remains of ancient architecture, Silas watched the interaction with clenched fists.
His fingers bit into the edge of the steel observation panel. Sparks flew from the pressure of his grip.
Dreadwing.
He dared to be so close.
To stand at Starscream’s back. To speak to him casually. To protect him.
“He thinks that loyalty makes him worthy,” Silas hissed. His voice trembled with restrained fury.
Laserbeak’s hidden feed continued recording from the far ridge—silent, undetected—zooming in on Silas’s growing agitation. The bot's metal frame twitched and flexed unnaturally, the green lights along his limbs beginning to pulse faster.
Then a voice—smooth, ancient—slid into the silence.
“He has what you want. That infuriates you, doesn’t it?”
Silas froze.
A shadow that had loomed behind him for weeks, always lingering just outside reach, finally stepped into the light.
Morbius.
The ancient Cybertronian’s form was tall, elegant in a way that felt wrong. Like something from a world that had forgotten warmth. His frame was lean, curved, plated like old scripture, with thin wires snaking over ancient armor like veins. His optics glowed with a faint violet hue—alien, regal, predatory.
He stepped beside Silas and smirked—not at him—but directly at Laserbeak, now revealed, still recording.
The ancient mech tilted his helm, raised a clawed hand... and waved.
Laserbeak flinched, wings rising.
“Enough hiding,” Morbius whispered. “Let them all see.”
He reached out—fingers black as scorched steel—and crushed the stone beside Silas with casual strength.
At the Autobot base, alarms shrieked to life.
Laserbeak’s feed transmitted directly to Soundwave, who immediately mirrored it to the main screen. The image cleared.
First, it showed Silas, now in full: armor modified with dark energon lacing his chest cavity, his optics flickering between green and red.
Then Morbius stepped into frame.
The silence in the room hit like a shockwave.
Ratchet’s tool fell from his servo. Bumblebee made a strangled static burst. Arcee leaned forward, lips parted slightly.
Optimus’s optics narrowed, voice barely above a whisper. “That… is not possible.”
Even Megatron looked unnerved.
Ultra Magnus stepped forward. “Morbius… he was one of the Five. The Forgers.”
“He vanished after the civil war began,” Ratchet murmured. “There were theories. That he had tried to create his own army. That he rejected both sides.”
“He didn’t vanish,” Soundwave said flatly. “He evolved.”
Megatron's fist clenched. “I fought Morbius once… in the final days of the Core Expansion. He was ancient even then. He should have rusted to dust.”
“And now he’s aligned with Silas,” Optimus said grimly. “This is not coincidence.”
The emotional weight fell heavy. Each bot, friend and foe alike, processed the footage differently:
Ratchet, unsettled by the implications—technology and minds that predated even his knowledge.
Ultra Magnus, calculating the threat level, fists tight with cold fury.
Arcee, visibly disturbed, remembering the stories of the old ones, the tales used to terrify younglings.
Bumblebee, afraid—but ready.
Soundwave, silent but still as death, optics locked on Morbius.
Megatron turned to Soundwave. “Send Dreadwing the feed. Now.”
Back at the cliffs, Dreadwing received the data packet. He watched as the image of Morbius appeared—and his reaction was instant.
“Starscream!” he barked.
The Seeker stirred from his nap, stretching like a sun-lazy feline. “Mmh?”
“Silas and Morbius are confirmed. Watching. Right now.”
Starscream’s entire posture shifted. Wings snapped up, optics sharp. “What?! Morbius?!”
Dreadwing nodded. “He’s shown himself. The time for subtlety is over.”
Starscream's spark fluttered. For the first time in solar cycles, the warmth of the sun didn’t comfort—it burned.
“Call in backup,” Starscream said softly, his voice taut. “If they’re watching… then they’re planning.”
“And we will be ready,” Dreadwing said, raising his weapon.
Above them, clouds gathered—not from weather.
From destiny.
The war room aboard the Nemesis was submerged in crimson lighting, data streams rippling across every wall. Laserbeak’s recordings projected flickering holograms of Silas—his body now grotesquely augmented—and the dark, grinning specter of Morbius standing behind him at last.
A heavy silence gripped the room.
Megatron stood at the center, jaw clenched tight, optics focused sharply. The footage of Morbius appearing from the shadows sent a visible chill through even the most battle-hardened among them.
“He no longer hides,” Megatron muttered, voice cold and heavy. “Then his plan is entering its next phase.”
Soundwave nodded silently beside him. On the far side, Optimus Prime stared at the twisted visage of Morbius in disbelief. “We had no evidence he was still functional…”
Arcee’s expression twisted. “No bot looks like that and walks away sane.”
Ratchet zoomed into the footage, pointing at Silas. “His cybernetic frame is stabilizing. I don’t know how they fused that much dark energon without killing him—he’s becoming something else.”
“Then we’re running out of time,” Megatron snapped.
“Soundwave,” he barked, turning sharply. “Hail Dreadwing and Starscream. Order them to return to the Nemesis. Immediately.”
A low pulse from Soundwave confirmed the command had been sent.
“Why now?” Bumblebee asked, nervous tones rising in his modulation. “Why show themselves now?”
Optimus folded his arms. “They want something—and this is pressure. They’re circling.”
Megatron narrowed his optics. “More than that. They want Starscream. I can feel it.”
“But Starscream hasn’t done anything new lately,” Ultra Magnus said, confused.
No one answered. Because none of them knew.
Elsewhere – Dreadwing’s Location
Above a jagged canyon drenched in late afternoon sun, Dreadwing stood sentinel as Starscream lounged near a high cliff, half-sitting, half-sprawled, letting his new metallic wings absorb the solar radiation. His optics were half-lidded with exhaustion.
“You pace too much, Dreadwing,” Starscream murmured. “I’ve told you—I need this. I am an aerialbot. Solar recharging is essential.”
Dreadwing didn’t stop pacing. His hand hovered near his blaster.
“Too exposed,” he muttered.
Just then, a signal buzzed through. Dreadwing lifted his comm.
“Dreadwing, this is Soundwave. Megatron orders your immediate return to Nemesis.”
Starscream sat up straighter, squinting.
“What? I’ve barely begun my session.”
Dreadwing’s voice was clipped. “Megatron says it's not a request.”
Starscream’s wings stiffened. “So. He felt it too…”
Dreadwing looked back. “Felt what?”
Starscream waved it off, rising. “Nothing. Just old instincts.” He glanced at the horizon, then took to the air beside Dreadwing.
“Let’s not keep him waiting.”
Beneath the Earth – Silas and Morbius
The secret lair pulsed with unnatural energy. Silas stood at the center of it, his newly constructed cybernetic body twitching with residual currents. He stared at a monitor showing Starscream basking in the sun.
Silas’s optics glowed with something darker than lust—obsession.
“He’s perfect now. Polished. Reforged. He doesn’t even realize what he is.”
Morbius moved like a shadow behind him, curling his claws around the edge of a hollow pillar, smiling with jagged, expressionless teeth.
“He’s still weak,” Morbius murmured. “He thinks the light will save him. But he’s preparing to burn it all—for others.”
Silas turned sharply. “What are you talking about?”
Morbius’s eyes gleamed. “He’s hiding a relic. One he won’t trade. One that restores what is lost. And he’s searching for others to empower his side.”
“He’s planning to boost his allies,” Morbius whispered, voice a serpent’s hiss. “To build a shield around himself. But he’ll drain himself to do it.”
Silas’s metal hand slammed into the console. “That fool.”
Morbius grinned. “Exactly. That’s why Phase Two begins now. We wait. Let him glow. Let him gift his strength.”
“Then, when he is at his weakest—when he has nothing left—we take him.”
Silas snarled. “You want the relic. I want him.”
Morbius tilted his head. “Then we’re aligned.”
He stepped forward, letting the light catch his ragged form—his broken jaw, misshapen helm, and slashes of ancient runes scorched into his metal.
“He is the key. Not because he is strong. But because he gives away his strength. And that will destroy him.”
They both looked at the screen.
Starscream, flying tiredly toward the Nemesis.
Back on the Nemesis – Moments Later
Starscream staggered slightly as he stepped off the landing platform. Dreadwing followed silently, eyes sweeping every angle.
Megatron was already waiting, with Optimus and Soundwave at his side.
“Care to explain this abrupt recall?” Starscream asked, folding his arms. “I was recharging.”
“You were exposed,” Megatron growled. “And danger is close.”
“From what?”
“We’re not sure,” Optimus said, narrowing his optics. “But we saw Morbius.”
Starscream’s wings froze mid-twitch.
“…He’s returned, then,” Starscream said quietly, hiding the tension in his jaw. “I see.”
The others exchanged glances. He hadn’t asked how, or when, or even why. He had just… accepted it.
Megatron’s optics bored into his former second. “You knew.”
“I felt it,” Starscream said softly, stepping past them. “His presence is like rust in the atmosphere. Familiar. Corrosive.”
“But you should not concern yourselves with what I feel,” he added, cold and calm. “You should concern yourselves with what he’s planning.”
The others watched him disappear into the corridor, unaware of the deeper truth:
Starscream had already set something in motion.
And Morbius was counting on it.
-=-=-=-
The door hissed shut behind him.
Starscream stood still for a moment in the silent chamber, his optics flickering with a mix of rage and resignation. The hum of pressurized vents filled the background, blending with the soft mechanical drone of circulating solar energy.
"Grounded," he spat the word like a curse.
Megatron’s voice echoed cruelly in his memory:
“You are to remain within the Nemesis until further notice. If Morbius wants you, then he shall not find you so easily.”
And Optimus—Optimus, his supposed anchor in sanity—had looked at him with that maddening calm and said:
“I agree with Megatron. This is not a time to expose yourself, Starscream.”
Starscream had stood there, his wings twitching violently, feeling like the floor had dropped out beneath him. No one understood. No one trusted him. Not even now.
He stalked into the room, allowing the details of his confinement to come into focus.
Shockwave had engineered this space down to the molecule. The chamber was designed to mimic the perfect environment for a Seeker of rare lineage: subtle heat coils under the floor, a dome-shaped ceiling that projected dynamic simulations of a sky that adjusted with the solar cycle, and a central panel of focused UV emitters that mimicked raw sunlight for energy absorption.
The walls were laced with energon vapor and thin, pulsing veins of radiant metal. It was a haven. A dream. A paradise.
But Starscream hated it.
Because he hadn't chosen it.
He walked across the floor, allowing his claws to trail along the edge of the light pedestal where he was expected to “recharge.” There were even touch-sensitive controls for wing stretch routines, solar syncing timers, and even aromatherapy infused from extinct Cybertronian flora.
It was so precise. So calculated.
So much like Shockwave.
“I’m not some perfect aerial specimen to be displayed in a containment chamber,” Starscream muttered bitterly. “I am the air. I am the sky. And you have locked me in a cage built out of my own nature.”
He kicked the edge of the pedestal with a clang, his sharp talons sparking against the metal. His wings arched tightly against his back in agitation.
He thought of Silas, of Morbius, out there, moving in shadows, preparing their trap.
He thought of Laserbeak’s footage. Of Megatron’s distrust.
And worst of all, he thought of Optimus Prime’s betrayal.
“You knew I was doing something,” he whispered aloud. “You saw it in my optics. And you agreed to lock me down anyway.”
He snarled, pacing like a caged predator.
He collapsed onto the recharge couch—graceful and curved for his unique frame—and stared up at the simulated clouds drifting across a false sky.
His hands clenched and unclenched slowly, tension rippling in his fingers.
“They don’t understand what’s coming,” he murmured to the ceiling. “They think grounding me protects me.”
He sat up slowly, then reached into a compartment beneath his chest armor. From it, he withdrew a compact, ancient shard wrapped in reinforced silksteel—a sliver of the Star Saber, or perhaps something more.
The relic pulsed in his hand, not with raw power—but potential. Possibility. Sacrifice.
He gazed into it with something closer to reverence than fear.
“They think I’m selfish,” he said quietly. “That I act only for myself.”
The shard pulsed again.
“But I know what’s coming. Morbius wants my strength, because he knows I would give it to others. He understands me... because he knows what I would sacrifice.”
His optics narrowed.
“But he won’t win.”
The chamber was silent.
Starscream stood beneath the simulated sky, watching the light shift as if it were dusk. His optics had not moved in hours. He had stared into the relic for so long that the pulse of its power echoed behind his optics like a heartbeat. Like thunder before a storm.
He had made his decision.
“I’ve waited long enough.”
He opened the silksteel wrap slowly, reverently, revealing the Relic of Resurrection in full.
It looked unimpressive—no jagged runes, no radiant blaze—just a dull metal fragment etched with grooves that moved subtly, like veins beneath skin. But it sang to him, in a way that no other relic had. Not even the Star Saber. This one didn't hunger for war or glory.
This relic wanted sacrifice.
Starscream could feel its price even before he touched it directly.
Memories flickered: of comrades who had fallen, of seekers burned in orbital drops, of the scavengers of Vos, of his own desperate grasping at power that had always—always—slipped through his claws.
But now, he could give it back. Give life to those who still had something worth living for.
Megatron.
Dreadwing.
Soundwave.
Even the Autobots.
Even... Optimus Prime.
He closed his optics and whispered:
“You think I am selfish. That I act only for my own preservation.”
The relic pulsed.
“But this... this is for you all.”
He pressed the relic to his spark chamber.
It seared.
A jolt of raw energy surged through him like molten wire. His frame trembled, his wings splayed wide, and a pained cry escaped his throat before he collapsed to his knees.
Light exploded from his chest—white, bright, and laced with violet threads that shimmered in pulses—reaching across the simulated sky like cracks in reality.
The Resurrection Relic had been activated.
Morning came to the Nemesis like a breath of stillness.
There had been no alarms. No warnings. No seismic pulses of energon. Just a strange calm after the storm that had been the activation of the Resurrection Relic. Starscream remained in medical stasis, his vitals hovering in delicate balance. Megatron and Ratchet stayed with him. Soundwave did not move from the corner of the medbay.
All was quiet—until Knockout screamed.
A sound so shrill, so strangled and loud, it tore through the steel corridors like a siren. A cry of terror—or was it—
“No… fragging… way—”
Doors hissed open. Heavy footsteps pounded toward the War Room. Arcee and Bumblebee arrived first, weapons drawn, followed closely by Bulkhead, Wheeljack, Ultra Magnus, and Breakdown.
The War Room’s lights were already on.
But something else glowed at the center.
And standing around the main war table… were the dead.
Skyquake stood tall, his posture proud, optics alert. His armor was darker than before, polished with gleaming gold trim.
Cliffjumper was leaning casually against the wall, his horns freshly polished, that familiar cocksure grin twitching as he watched the approaching group.
Ravage sat beside Soundwave’s personal console, silent but very, very real. His crimson optics shimmered with life.
Elita One and Chromia stood side by side, hands clasped, optics wide as they scanned their surroundings with military precision.
Ironhide, ever the immovable wall, crossed his arms, face stoic—but the corners of his lips trembled with barely restrained emotion.
Thundercracker and Skywarp, wings twitching nervously, stood behind Dreadwing with alert optics. Skywarp kept blinking like the lights were too bright, while Thundercracker looked as though he’d seen a ghost—or perhaps been one.
Airline-Arachnid spun idly by the ceiling with a smirk. “Well, this is awkward,” she said, grinning.
Jazz, Prowl, Freezy, and even Rumble lingered near the far wall, watching warily. And then, at the center—
Tarn.
Towering. Quiet. His Decepticon mask gleaming.
He wasn’t speaking. Not yet. Just… watching.
There was silence. Stunned silence.
No one moved.
Knockout dropped to his knees.
“They were dead!” he shouted, eyes wild. “I scanned them! We buried some of them! You can’t just—just—come back!”
Skyquake moved to his side, kneeling slowly, his optics locked on Dreadwing.
“Brother?” he whispered.
Dreadwing turned, eyes softening as he took a step forward.
“Skyquake,” he said with quiet strength. “You’ve done well.”
Skyquake choked on something, too proud to cry, too shaken not to. He threw his arms around his commander with a low, broken grunt—and Dreadwing returned the embrace, one gauntlet-clad hand settling heavily against his brother’s back.
Arcee’s legs buckled.
She staggered back, unable to look away from Cliffjumper.
“No. No, you—this isn’t fair—don’t do this—”
Cliffjumper took one careful step forward. “Hey, hey… it’s me, Arcee.”
“You died. You blew up. I held your body—!”
“Yeah.” Cliff looked at his palms, then back at her. “Guess I got better?”
Arcee collapsed forward into his arms. She wasn’t graceful. She wasn’t collected. She screamed into his chest as she clung to him, fists pounding against his chassis.
“You left me!”
“I’m back.”
Across the room, Soundwave moved without sound. He dropped to one knee before Ravage, who let out a low, delighted rumble and rubbed against his chest. Tentacles wrapped around the feline mech as Soundwave pulled him close, helm bowed in silence.
And still, no one asked how.
No one understood.
They were too busy reuniting with the ghosts they had lost.
Ratchet arrived next, trailing behind Ultra Magnus. The medic’s jaw dropped at the sight of Ironhide.
“No...”
Ironhide smiled slightly. “Miss me, old friend?”
Ratchet let out a strangled gasp and covered his mouth. “You were... you were lost on Cybertron…”
Ironhide reached out and gripped his shoulder. “Not anymore.”
Behind them, Elita One had crossed the room to Optimus Prime, who had only just arrived. He stopped mid-step, seeing her—his spark practically freezing.
She looked real.
“Elita...?” he breathed, voice faltering.
Her face wavered. She took a shaking breath. “You look older.”
Optimus approached slowly, like a believer in a dream he dared not wake from.
“I feared I’d never see you again.”
She stepped into his arms.
The whole room blurred.
Thundercracker slapped Skywarp across the helm. “Stop touching your wings. They're real, you moron.”
Skywarp whined, “But they itch, bro!”
Freezy blinked at Prowl, still dazed. “What is this place?”
Prowl said flatly, “I calculate a zero percent chance we should be standing here. But… we are.”
Jazz elbowed him. “Guess the afterlife was just a pit stop, huh?”
And Tarn…
Tarn moved to the corner, separating himself. His optics locked on Megatron, who entered in silence.
Their stares clashed like blades.
“Megatronus,” Tarn said, voice still rich and deep.
Megatron didn’t answer.
Tarn tilted his head. “You didn’t bring me back.”
It was not an accusation.
It was curiosity.
“I didn’t bring any of you back,” Megatron said, stepping forward. “None of us did.”
At that, the War Room finally quieted.
Dozens of optics turned.
Knockout, still pale, finally said it:
“Then… who did?”
The silence tightened. Everyone seemed to look at each other.
The War Room was still heavy with stunned silence when the doors hissed open again.
“—Okay, what the frag is all this yelling about?” Miko’s voice rang out, casual and grumbling as ever.
She stepped in, holding her phone, followed by Raf and Jack, both blinking in confusion—until they froze mid-step.
Dozens of mechs turned toward them. The War Room was full.
Full of mechs who had died.
Miko’s mouth dropped open.
Jack took a step back.
Raf blinked, then clutched his tablet to his chest like a shield.
“…Cliffjumper?” Miko finally squeaked.
Cliff waved at her. “Yo.”
“Wait—weren’t you, like, exploded?” she gasped.
“Apparently, I got better,” he said, arms wide, and then winced as Arcee jabbed him in the side.
“We’re not done discussing that,” she growled.
Raf’s eyes darted across the room. He recognized all of them from files from the Autobot data: Prowl. Jazz. Ironhide. Elita One. Even that creepy Tarn guy from the Decepticon files. His voice faltered as he whispered:
“Th-this shouldn’t be possible.”
Jack turned sharply toward Miko. “Didn’t… didn’t Starscream have a relic that the Dark version Starscream—uh,—really wanted? ”
Miko snapped her fingers. “Yeah! The one with the creepy spark energy! He was super into it—like, willing to kill his alt-self for it!”
Raf’s eyes widened.
He paled.
So did Jack.
In perfect, horrified unison, they said:
“The relic that brings bots back to life.”
Everything stopped.
The tension in the room snapped like an electrified wire.
Megatron’s optics flared. His servo clenched into a trembling fist as he stepped forward, storming past Elita and Tarn.
“No.”
Optimus Prime’s expression shifted. Not confusion anymore.
But dread.
Real, ice-cold dread.
“He didn’t… he wouldn’t—”
The moment the words left Raf and Jack’s mouths—
“The relic that brings bots back to life.”
—Megatron and Optimus Prime moved as one.
No words. No hesitation.
They bolted.
Past Knockout. Past the stunned humans. Past the returned bots, who called out in confusion—
“Wait—what’s going on?”
“Megatron—?”
“Optimus?!”
“Why do you look afraid?!”
But neither of them stopped.
Bootfalls thundered through the halls of the Nemesis, metal ringing against metal.
Because both knew.
Starscream had used it.
And neither had stopped him in time.
They reached the heavy doors of Starscream’s quarters—Shockwave’s old converted lab—and forced them open.
The doors hissed wide.
They froze.
Starscream was on the floor.
Curled in on himself, still, too still. His wings half-folded like broken limbs. His optics were dimmed to nothing, chest lights flickering faintly. His plating was glistening with condensation, like it had burned energy too fast and cooled too hard.
Next to him—lying quietly on the metal floor—was the relic.
The Aphelion Core.
Dormant now.
And glowing.
Old Cybertronian script pulsed along its frame like heartbeat veins of pale gold. The lines curled into glyphs that shimmered in the air, spinning slowly in a halo above the artifact.
“The Sacrifice Was Accepted.”
Megatron knelt so fast the floor cracked.
“No, no—NO—!”
He scooped Starscream into his arms without ceremony, pressing an audiosensor to his helm, trying to find something—anything—to signal he still lived.
He barely noticed Optimus moving to touch Starscream’s servo, his field radiating disbelief and rising dread.
“He gave his spark energy to the relic,” Prime said softly, voice heavy.
“He poured it in,” Megatron growled, cradling Starscream tighter. “Like a fool.”
“He resurrected over a dozen dead Cybertronians, Megatron. That isn’t a charge-level transaction. That’s… life-for-life.”
Megatron surged upright, clutching the Seeker to his chest.
“RATCHET!” he roared down the comms. “KNOCKOUT! PREP FOR FULL CODE EMERGENCY—NOW!”
He didn’t wait for the reply.
He ran.
His engines screamed to life, his field wild and frantic, his pace manic.
Optimus followed close behind, glancing once—just once—back at the relic still humming faintly on the floor.
Behind them, the War Room remained filled with resurrected warriors.
All staring at each other.
All confused.
All alive.
And not a single one knew why.
But Miko, Jack, and Raf stood at the edge of it all, watching the leaders vanish down the hall—and they understood.
And none of them said a word.
Because somewhere behind those closing doors…
Starscream had fallen.
And no one knew if he’d ever rise again.
The cold, sterile air of the medical ward hit Megatron like a sharp slap as he stormed in, carrying Starscream’s limp form in his arms. His energon pulse was erratic, barely detectable, and the quiet hum of the room’s automated systems did nothing to ease the weight in his chest.
Knockout and Ratchet were already there, standing in front of a medical bay, their expressions a mix of surprise and concern.
Ratchet’s optic band flickered, confusion clouding his face when he saw Megatron’s frantic rush.
“What in the Pit happened to him?” Ratchet demanded, his voice sharp as he quickly moved toward them.
Knockout stood off to the side, his optics narrowing at the sight of Starscream’s form, though his expression was tinged with a slight… fascination.
“What did you do, Starscream?” Knockout murmured, under his breath.
Megatron didn’t even spare him a glance. He placed Starscream gently on the table, his hands shaking as he adjusted the Seeker’s prone form. His optics remained narrowed, only a barely controlled fury in his posture.
“Get out of here, both of you.” Ratchet’s voice was low, a threatening growl that rattled the walls. “I need the space to treat him. Now.”
Ratchet hesitated for a moment, looking from Megatron to Starscream. His frustration was evident in the furrow of his brow, but the sight of Megatron’s cold, demanding stance made him pause.
Knockout, however, clicked his jaw in irritation, but he knew better than to push Megatron when he was like this. With a huff, he made his way toward the exit.
“Fine. If you want to handle this disaster alone, go ahead.” Knockout’s words were sharp as he turned to leave. “But don’t expect miracles.”
Ratchet only nodded and followed, but before he left, he cast a long, lingering look at the unconscious form of Starscream, concern etched in his features.
As soon as they were gone, Megatron activated the medical bay’s internal systems, and the room grew cold with the hum of machines. He ran a scan over Starscream’s body, a quick flick of his optics revealing the unsettling truth—Starscream’s spark had been stretched beyond its limits, and the core had been used to fuel the life-force of the dead.
Starscream had sacrificed a part of himself to bring back those who were lost in the war.
Meanwhile, the revived bots were left standing in the War Room, their confusion growing as they exchanged glances. Skyquake was the first to break the silence.
Cliffjumper stepped forward, crossing his arms over his chest, shaking his head slowly as he tried to process the impossible.
“This… doesn’t make sense.” His voice wavered, as though he were trying to grasp at something tangible in the void. “The war… it’s over. It’s been over.”
Elita One, her hands trembling slightly, looked around the room at the familiar faces—some scarred by the war, others perfectly preserved.
“But… why? Why did Starscream bring us back? What did he do to bring us back?” Her voice cracked slightly.
Prime stepped forward, his expression somber. The Autobots and Decepticons stood in a circle, all awaiting an answer, but Prime knew there was no easy way to explain what had happened.
He took a deep breath, his servos clenched at his sides as he prepared to reveal the truth.
“It is time that you all know what has been happening. You were all part of the final act of a long, bloody war that, in many ways, has never truly ended for some of us.”
The room grew silent.
“Starscream… he was the one who turned the tide of the war. But it wasn’t just his allegiance to the Decepticons or his rivalry with Megatron. Starscream was more than that. He—” Optimus hesitated, the weight of what he was about to say bearing down on him.
Megatron’s voice interrupted, sharp and commanding, even from the other room.
“I see you’ve decided to speak.” Megatron’s voice carried the unmistakable tone of a leader who had just crossed a line, one he could never uncross. “Fine. Let them know the truth.”
Optimus gave a subtle nod, understanding Megatron’s unspoken request.
“Starscream has always been a force, but what you don’t understand, is that he was not just one of us. He was an anomaly, a broken piece of Cybertron’s history. He wasn’t merely the Decepticon second-in-command. He was the key to understanding how this war could ever end.
There was something else. Something far more… important.”
The group exchanged looks, unsure of where this conversation was heading.
“Starscream had been chosen by something far older. A relic, a long-forgotten weapon, capable of reviving what had been lost.” Optimus’ tone softened, and he shifted his weight, feeling the gravity of the moment.
Megatron's cold voice echoed again.
“You all were brought back by the very hand that led to your deaths. Starscream chose to use that power to undo what was done.”
Prowl’s optics widened, and his voice shook slightly as he spoke.
“Wait. You’re saying that Starscream... brought us back?” His voice was a mix of disbelief and awe. “But… why? Why would he do something like that?”
“Because,” Optimus said, his voice heavy, “Starscream is far more than the Decepticon you knew. He is… something else entirely.”
Ratchet’s voice suddenly echoed over the comms.
“Optimus! Megatron! You need to come to the medical bay, now! It’s Starscream—he’s in critical condition! You need to see this for yourselves!”
Optimus and Megatron exchanged a brief, knowing glance. They didn’t need to be told twice.
They both turned sharply, heading for the exit, their movements urgent.
When they arrived, they found Megatron hunched over Starscream’s prone form, his optics filled with quiet desperation as he monitored the Seeker’s faint pulse.
Ratchet was there, tapping data pads furiously, but he couldn’t hide his concern.
“He’s in stasis, and his spark is barely holding on,” Ratchet said urgently, pointing to the data readouts. “The strain of the relic’s power—it’s too much for him. If we don’t act soon—”
“What exactly happened, Megatron?” Optimus asked quietly, standing beside the Decepticon leader, his optics fixed on Starscream. “Why did this happen?”
Megatron’s voice was clipped, his words barely containing the fury beneath.
“He used the relic to bring them back. All of them.” He motioned to the hallway, where the revived Decepticons and Autobots were still in disarray. “In doing so, he’s drained every ounce of energy from himself.”
Optimus’ optics softened as he stepped closer to Starscream, his gaze lingering on the Seeker's frail form. His memories of the war, of the long history between them, washed over him. For a brief moment, he could almost forget the animosity between them—remembering the warrior, the individual who had suffered so much, and yet…
Optimus reached a hand forward, resting gently on Starscream’s cooling frame.
“We must save him,” Optimus said quietly, voice filled with quiet resolution. “We owe him that.”
The Decepticon leader nodded, silently acknowledging the unspoken bond that existed between them.
The atmosphere in the medical ward was thick with confusion and tension as the revived Autobots and Decepticons stood around, still unsure of their place in this new world. Their minds were racing to understand the impossible—how were they alive, and what had happened to bring them back?
Optimus, Megatron, Ratchet, and Shockwave entered, their presence drawing immediate attention. Shockwave, the ever-logical and calm scientist, stepped forward without hesitation. His monotone voice cut through the air with the precision of a laser.
“I will now explain everything. You may find this difficult to comprehend, but I will offer clarity, as I always do.”
The room fell into a stunned silence, all optics focused on Shockwave. Even Megatron, who usually exuded dominance, was unusually quiet, his attention fully on the Cybertronian scientist.
Shockwave's single optic flared brightly, as he continued.
“Starscream, as you know him, is not merely a bot. He is a unique entity, one whose existence transcends time and reality itself. He has always been—in a sense—part of Primus.” Shockwave’s words carried an undeniable weight. “Starscream was chosen, long ago, to play a role in shaping the destinies of countless Primes throughout history.”
A murmur of confusion ran through the room, but Shockwave did not pause.
“Starscream’s true form, his ultimate form, is not what you see now. His physical appearance is merely a facade—an extension of the consciousness he projects across realities. The seeker form you knew—his Decepticon guise—is not his true chassis. It is one of many avatars he has inhabited, manipulated by the fabric of time and the war.”
A deep silence followed. The revived Autobots and Decepticons exchanged confused glances, struggling to understand.
“Starscream has always been connected to the Great Cycle of the Primes, training them in the shadows of Cybertron's history, manipulating events and influencing the course of the war from behind the scenes. He was never truly loyal to Megatron or Optimus Prime.” Shockwave's voice remained unwavering, as he revealed more of the ancient truth. “Starscream is immortal—not in the traditional sense, but through his connection to Primus. He is timeless, existing across many realities and dimensions. You have all seen this as a fraction of your own existence, as he is capable of reaching into alternate dimensions where his various versions reside.”
Tarn, whose optics had been locked on Shockwave the entire time, spoke up, his voice quiet yet heavy with intrigue.
“Are you saying… Starscream is a part of Primus? A creation, or…?”
“Not a mere creation,” Shockwave answered swiftly, his logic clear as day. “Starscream is a fragment of Primus’ will. A piece of the god that shaped all of Cybertron. His immortality and role in history have long been hidden from those around him, even Megatron and Optimus. They are unaware of the full scope of Starscream's purpose.” Shockwave paused, recalibrating his thoughts before continuing. “And it is this knowledge that makes him invaluable—not only to us, but to forces beyond our understanding.”
“Forces beyond our understanding?” Elita One echoed, her voice tinged with disbelief. “You mean… other factions?”
“Indeed,” Shockwave confirmed. “Starscream has made enemies of those who would seek to control him, those who would use his power for darker purposes.”
There was a growing tension in the room as Shockwave’s revelation continued to unfold. Cliffjumper crossed his arms, clearly unsettled.
“Who could want him that badly?”
Shockwave’s optic flared again as he steeled himself for the next part of the tale.
“There is a much darker force at play. One that has already begun to corrupt Cybertron’s destiny. A force that has made itself known to Starscream and to the likes of Megatron and Optimus. It is led by an entity known as Morbius—a soldier of Unicron.”
The name hit the room like a shockwave. The revived bots froze in place, trying to process what they were hearing.
“Unicron?” Ironhide muttered. “The destroyer of worlds? What does he have to do with Starscream?”
“Morbius, as I said, is a servant of Unicron. His mission is clear: capture Starscream and use him to bring Unicron’s will into this reality.” Shockwave’s voice remained as composed as ever. “Starscream’s power, his connection to Primus and the Primes themselves, is of immense value. It could either fuel Unicron’s resurrection or serve as a weapon to defeat him. It is unclear which path Starscream himself will choose, but he will be caught in the middle of this war for dominance.”
Megatron clenched his fists, his optics flashing with a sudden fury.
“You mean to tell me… that Starscream has been playing both sides this entire time, not only against me, but also against Optimus, against everyone?” Megatron’s voice was low, almost growling with anger. “And now Morbius—Unicron—wants him? To what end?”
“Yes,” Shockwave confirmed, his calm demeanor unshaken. “Starscream is a piece in a much larger game. But there is more. The true chassis of Starscream is one that transcends Cybertronian form. His ability to communicate with versions of himself across dimensions is an inherent trait, granted to him by his connection to Primus. He can hear, speak to, and even influence other versions of himself from parallel worlds—other Starscreams.”
A ripple of disbelief ran through the room. The revived Autobots and Decepticons struggled to grasp the enormity of Shockwave’s explanation. The idea that Starscream—that one singular, constantly shifting entity—was linked to an infinite number of realities was both bewildering and terrifying.
“So, you’re saying there are more Starscreams?” Cliffjumper’s voice was tinged with disbelief. “That… that they all come together?”
“Exactly,” Shockwave answered. “In these other realities, Starscream’s consciousness is not bound by the constraints of this one. He is able to communicate with them, manipulate their actions, and even cross into these other versions of himself. This is why he is so dangerous to those who wish to control him.”
The revived group exchanged uneasy glances. The magnitude of Starscream’s existence, his role in the grand scheme of things, was slowly dawning on them.
Optimus and Megatron were visibly affected by the revelations, but they remained silent for the moment. They had their own questions, their own concerns to address.
“So, now what?” Jazz asked, his tone laden with concern. “What’s our next move? Do we let him continue this insanity?”
“We must stop them,” Megatron declared, his voice firm, authoritative. “Morbius and Unicron cannot have Starscream. He is not theirs to use, and certainly not for their twisted purposes.”
“But we cannot simply force him to make a choice,” Optimus said softly, his voice full of the burden of leadership. “We must understand what he wants. What Starscream truly desires—before it’s too late.”
A deep silence settled over the room as everyone took in the magnitude of what had been revealed.
Starscream’s return—his immortality, his connection to Primus, the conflict with Unicron’s soldiers—was a puzzle that had only just begun to take shape. The pieces were scattered across time, dimensions, and motives.
But the most pressing question remained:
What did Starscream want? And how could they stop the forces trying to capture him?
Hours passed in tense deliberation. The revived Autobots and Decepticons sat in uneasy silence, scattered throughout the medical ward, processing the shocking revelations Shockwave had delivered. The weight of Starscream’s secret nature, his connection to Primus, and the forces hunting him for their own purposes was enough to leave even the most battle-hardened warriors speechless.
Ravage was perched on a ledge, her optics dark, reflecting on what had just been revealed. Cliffjumper paced back and forth, his hands clenched in tight fists, trying to process everything with the fierce determination only he possessed. Jazz, ever the optimist, looked around at the others, trying to find a way to make sense of the chaos.
“So, let me get this straight,” Cliffjumper muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “Starscream… he’s been playing us all, using us as pawns while secretly tied to Primus himself? And now there’s this whole other level with Unicron wanting to capture him?”
“Not just capture him, Cliff,” Optimus’ voice cut through the conversation with his usual calm. “Unicron needs him for something far worse. The war we’ve fought, the conflict with the Decepticons, it all has deeper, older roots than we could have imagined. And Starscream—he’s been a central part of it all.”
A sudden, sharp voice broke the growing tension.
“Optimus is right,” Megatron said, his optics locked onto the leader of the Autobots. His tone was stern but not without an underlying sadness. “Starscream has always been more than just a warrior. He was never our enemy in the way we thought.”
The group fell silent once again. There was no denying the truth now. Starscream was a force in his own right, and no matter what they had thought of him as a Decepticon, there was far more to the seeker than any of them had realized.
Knockout, looking more harried than usual, suddenly burst into the room. His face was drawn with concern, but his usual flair for drama had dimmed somewhat.
“I’ve been monitoring Starscream’s condition,” Knockout said, his voice quieter than usual. “I’m here to assure you all that he will be fine, but the power he used—through the relic—is not without its consequences.” He gave a small, irritated glance at the relic still lying on the table, its dark glow flickering faintly. “He’s in stasis right now. His spark is recovering slowly, but it will take some time.”
“So, he’s not dead?” Elita One asked, her voice laced with tension.
“No, not dead,” Knockout confirmed, crossing his arms. “Just… in a deep stasis. That relic isn’t something to be trifled with. The kind of power it channels requires a heavy toll, especially when you’re using it to reach across time and dimensions like Starscream tried to. His spark isn’t used to such extremes.”
Optimus exchanged a concerned glance with Megatron, and the two of them nodded. Megatron was first to speak, his voice holding a deep undercurrent of unresolved worry.
“What does that mean for us? Will he wake up?”
“Eventually,” Knockout responded, his voice softer now. “It’ll take time. But I’m confident that once his spark stabilizes, he’ll be fine. Just… give him time.”
There was a pause, and the group absorbed Knockout’s words in silence, the air heavy with concern and uncertainty. But before anyone could speak further, a sudden shift in the room’s energy caught everyone’s attention.
Soundwave, the silent, calculating communications officer, had entered the room without a sound. In his hands was the very same relic that had once been left on the floor of Starscream’s quarters. He carried it carefully, reverently, almost as if it were a precious artifact of immense power.
“Soundwave…” Ratchet began, his voice filled with suspicion and curiosity. “What are you doing with that?”
Without responding, Soundwave placed the relic on the table with deliberate precision. The eerie symbols that had been faintly glowing across its surface now became more pronounced, the light shifting as if alive.
Soundwave turned to the group, his voice as cold and logical as ever.
“Starscream did not intend to bring back only those present here. The power of this relic, which we now understand, could have revived many more.” He carefully opened a compartment within the relic and pulled out a small data chip, sliding it into a nearby console. The screen flickered to life, revealing a list—a list of names that sent a ripple of shock through the room.
“These,” Soundwave said, his voice devoid of emotion, “are the other Autobots and Decepticons Starscream planned to revive. He was prepared to bring back more than just the select few of us here. The names on this list include bots who died in the war—on both sides of the conflict.”
The screen displayed an overwhelming list, scrolling for what seemed like an eternity, showing names of lost comrades from both factions. —the list went on. A disturbing realization began to spread through the group as they saw names they never expected to see again.
“Why?” Cliffjumper muttered, his voice cracking with confusion. “Why bring back these bots? What was he really planning?”
Soundwave remained impassive as he explained, stepping forward to the group.
“Starscream’s goal was not to fight on one side or the other. He sought to use this power to bring back those he deemed important—those who could help him in his ultimate plan. Not to revive them out of pity, but out of necessity. He could not accomplish this alone.”
“But why not tell us?” Ravage snapped. “Why keep this a secret?”
“Because of the risk involved,” Soundwave replied, his monotone voice betraying no hint of emotion. “Starscream knew that the risk of resurrecting these warriors—given the potential consequences—was too great to share. If the Autobots or Decepticons learned of his true intentions, it could have destroyed any chance of victory. He sought to use the power of the relic as his own, to tip the scales in the war.”
A cold silence fell over the group as they processed this new information. The implications were massive—Starscream had resurrected them to fight a battle on a larger scale than any of them could have anticipated. The question now was: What would happen next?
As Soundwave concluded his explanation, his hands hovered over the relic again, the symbols glowing faintly. He was studying the artifact, his mind working in overdrive.
“The question remains,” Soundwave said, “whether we should allow this relic to remain in our hands or destroy it to prevent further misuse. But first, we must allow Starscream the time to recover and regain control.”
“You’re saying we should trust him?” Ironhide growled. “After everything he’s done?”
“Starscream was never meant to be a simple enemy,” Soundwave replied calmly. “He is the linchpin of this war, and the true power of this relic—his plan—is only just beginning to reveal itself.”
Optimus stepped forward, his gaze firm.
“We will not rush to conclusions. We must see this through. Starscream’s sacrifice and his power… they are tied to a larger destiny. And we will face it together.”
The room fell into another heavy silence as the revived bots absorbed Soundwave’s words, uncertainty hanging thick in the air. They had all been brought back, but the real battle was only just beginning. The path ahead was unclear, but one thing was certain: Starscream's plan was far more intricate than anyone could have ever imagined.
The air in the medical ward buzzed with uncertainty as the revived Autobots and Decepticons attempted to make sense of the truth they'd just learned. The room, once a place of healing, was now a battlefield of its own—a battlefield of words, glances, and silences. Old enemies, once locked in bitter conflict, now found themselves in the uncomfortable position of trying to coexist under the same roof. The presence of both Autobots and Decepticons, once a source of fierce combat, now made the room feel more like a volatile powder keg.
Ravage was the first to break the silence, her optics narrowed in thought as she stepped forward, looking over the group of Autobots. Her sleek form moved with predatory grace, but there was an unmistakable weariness in the way she carried herself. She had been resurrected, brought back to life only to face a new war—one she had no clear allegiance to.
“So, we’re back,” she said, her voice cutting through the air with a sharpness that made several Autobots tense. “But what now? Are we supposed to fight for one side again, just like before? Autobots? Decepticons?”
Her gaze lingered on Optimus Prime and Megatron, who were both standing at the center of the room, as if ready to lead their factions again. Elita One stood nearby, visibly trying to hold herself together, while Ironhide’s fists were clenched in silent anger. The tension between them was palpable, and the air was thick with unspoken hostility.
Megatron, his optics flickering with cold calculation, stepped forward to address her. His voice was calm, but the authority in it was unmistakable.
“We were brought back for a reason, Ravage. Not by chance, not by whim. Starscream…” He hesitated, a flicker of something deeper in his tone, something personal. “Starscream’s actions are part of a greater plan. We do not choose sides in the same way anymore.”
Cliffjumper scoffed, his arms crossed over his chest. He stood beside Jazz, who was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze flicking between the Autobots and the Decepticons.
“A greater plan?” Cliffjumper muttered. “I’m not sure I buy into any of this ‘we’re all in this together’ nonsense. We’ve fought side by side before, but you know as well as I do that there’s no such thing as ‘neutral’ when it comes to war. The stakes are too high for that.”
Chromia, standing beside Elita One, nodded, her voice soft but firm.
“Cliffjumper’s right. There’s a war happening, and we have to choose where we stand. This truce—this uneasy peace—is temporary at best.”
But it was Dreadwing, ever the philosopher, who took the situation more seriously, stepping forward with a slow, measured pace. He had always been a contemplative figure in the war, and now, his eyes were searching, as if trying to understand the deeper threads connecting all of them.
“Perhaps we do not need to choose between Autobots and Decepticons any longer,” Dreadwing said, his deep voice carrying weight. “Starscream’s resurrection changes things. His plan, his power—it is not something that can be neatly divided into factions. The relic itself… it transcends our old allegiances.”
Thundercracker, who had been standing off to the side, listening with an air of reluctant skepticism, now looked over at Dreadwing.
“You’re saying we just… work together?” He raised an eyebrow, his voice thick with doubt. “Just like that? After everything?”
“The relic is more powerful than we can fathom,” Dreadwing said with quiet certainty. “If we are to survive, if we are to prevent what’s coming next, we must adapt. We must see the bigger picture.”
The Autobots exchanged uneasy glances. Prowl was the first to speak up, his voice sharp and analytical.
“The bigger picture, sure,” Prowl muttered, eyes narrowing. “But what happens when we don’t survive? When one side or the other is wiped out? Are we supposed to just pretend there’s no longer a war, that everything’s fine? What about everything we’ve fought for?”
Jazz finally spoke, his voice calm and steady. Despite the tension, he carried the weight of his experience with him—his presence was a quiet anchor in the storm.
“I get it, Prowl,” Jazz said, his gaze scanning the room. “We’ve all got our wounds from the past, and none of us know what’s coming next. But we’ve got a choice. We can either fight each other like we always have, or we can take a step back and try to figure out how to end this once and for all. The way we’ve been doing things hasn’t been working.”
The Decepticons, who had been listening in silence, seemed to grow uneasy under the scrutiny of the Autobots’ words. Tarn, who had been unusually quiet, spoke for the first time, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.
“There’s something deeper at play here,” he said, his voice echoing with authority. “Starscream didn’t just revive us for a purpose of war. He wanted something more. He was preparing for something that neither the Autobots nor the Decepticons can truly understand.”
Soundwave entered the conversation, his silent form now drawing the attention of the room. He had been standing near the relic earlier, still scanning its energy, but now he stepped forward, his eyes glinting with the kind of information only he could discern.
“Starscream’s intentions were clear,” Soundwave said, his monotone voice like an unyielding truth. “The relic was not only a tool for resurrection. It was a means of communication—a way for Starscream to connect with other versions of himself across multiple dimensions. He planned to bring together all of them—his other selves, from other realities. What we’ve seen so far is just the beginning.”
The room fell silent once more, the implications of Soundwave’s words settling on everyone like a weight. Elita One, her face pale with concern, looked toward Optimus Prime.
“Optimus… what does this mean for us? For our future?”
Optimus, though resolute, looked weary as he stepped forward, addressing the room. His voice carried the gravitas of a leader who had seen countless battles and knew the cost of war.
“What Soundwave says is true. Starscream’s actions—his resurrection of the dead, his connection to the relic—are part of something much larger than any of us. We’ve all been brought back for a reason, whether we agree with it or not. And now, it is up to us to decide what role we will play in what’s to come. But make no mistake—we must work together if we are to stand a chance.”
As the silence deepened, it was clear that the Autobots and Decepticons were at a crossroads. Old wounds, old hatreds, and old alliances still lingered, but now, they faced a common enemy far greater than any faction. And as the weight of the moment settled in, the revived bots realized that the only way forward was through unity—even if it meant putting aside everything they had once believed in.
The room was filled with a tense silence, broken only by the low hum of machinery and the distant clicking of a few Autobot consoles. After Soundwave’s chilling revelation, the revived Autobots and Decepticons had been left to process the gravity of the situation. Optimus Prime’s words had brought them to the cusp of a decision—work together or risk everything. But for Raf, the wheels in his mind were spinning faster than ever, each piece of the puzzle snapping into place with an uncomfortable clarity.
Raf couldn’t help but stare at Starscream’s form, lying in stasis on the medical table. His spark was recovering, yes, but something about the whole situation nagged at him. The sudden revival of all those warriors, the sudden alliance between Autobots and Decepticons—it was almost too convenient. It was too neat. Too perfect.
Raf stood up suddenly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, causing the group’s attention to shift to him.
“Wait a second,” Raf’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, his mind racing with possibilities. “What if... what if this is all part of Morbius’ plan?”
His words landed heavily in the room. Optimus and Megatron both turned sharply toward the young human, surprised by the depth of his analysis.
“What do you mean, Raf?” asked Optimus, his brow furrowed in concern.
Raf ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the unease that had crept into his voice. He wasn’t sure if his theory made sense, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about this whole situation didn’t add up.
“Think about it,” Raf continued, his eyes darting between the Autobots and Decepticons. “Starscream goes into stasis—his spark barely functional after everything he’s been through. But Morbius… he’s been watching, hasn’t he? He would know that Starscream wouldn’t just hide away from a fight. This could be the perfect chance for him and Silas to make their move. If Starscream is out of the picture, if he’s incapacitated for just a little while…” Raf trailed off, his voice dropping as the implications hit him all at once. “It’s the perfect opening.”
The room fell silent once more, the Autobots and Decepticons alike exchanging wary glances. Knockout, who had been hovering nearby, made an audible sound of disbelief.
“You think Morbius would take advantage of Starscream being in stasis?” Knockout asked incredulously. “That’s… a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”
But Miko, standing a little ways off, crossed her arms and gave a sharp nod, her voice biting as she joined in.
“No, Raf’s right,” Miko said, her usual brashness now tempered with a tone of seriousness. “Starscream doesn’t sit around when there’s a fight to be had. He brought back the dead, didn’t he? To increase the chances of victory… It’s too perfect. It could have been a way to draw us all into a trap, to weaken us just enough for them to strike.”
Raf looked over at Miko, his mind still processing the significance of her words. He could see it now—the pieces fitting together. Morbius would know that Starscream would never just sit back, would never stay quiet if there was an opportunity to shift the balance of power. The resurrected Autobots and Decepticons were too valuable, too powerful. If Starscream had truly been the one to revive them, it would be an incredible advantage, but it could also have been part of the trap.
As the room absorbed the weight of this possibility, William stepped into the conversation, his calm and methodical voice cutting through the rising tension. He had been listening quietly, but his military instincts kicked in the moment Raf started speaking.
“Raf’s not wrong,” William said, his eyes narrowing in thought. “From a tactical standpoint, this is exactly the kind of thing Morbius would plan. But there’s more to it. I’ve heard things about Starscream—things I didn’t want to believe. In some of the alternate realities, the other versions of Starscream are... different. I’ve heard they call him dreamy, innocent even. He’s far too idealistic, almost like a perfect, naive version of himself. And that’s dangerous. Morbius would know this. He’d understand that Starscream is vulnerable in ways others aren’t, especially when it comes to trusting others. He’d know how to manipulate that.”
Megatron turned sharply to William, a flicker of something unreadable in his optics.
“You’re saying Morbius knew this about Starscream? That he was too idealistic, too naive to foresee what might happen?” Megatron’s voice was tinged with disbelief, but his mind began to race, considering all the possibilities. "He would exploit that, wouldn't he?"
William nodded gravely, stepping closer to where the group was gathered.
“Exactly. And that means Morbius would have known that reviving all these warriors, getting them back in the fight—it’s part of something bigger. Not just about the war... it’s about control. Morbius wants Starscream, in whatever form he’s in, to be vulnerable. He wants Starscream to believe that he can change everything—that he can resurrect the lost, that he can save them. And when Starscream is at his most hopeful, that’s when Morbius will strike. And he’ll do it with Silas at his side.”
The tension in the room was palpable, as Optimus Prime’s hands clenched into fists, the weight of his responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders.
“If Morbius is behind this…” Optimus said slowly, his voice quiet but resolute. “Then Starscream may not have seen the full picture. Perhaps he did this thinking he was helping us… But he may have just walked right into a trap. And we all might be in more danger than we realized.”
Megatron, his optics glowing dimly with a mix of concern and determination, nodded.
“I’ll deal with Morbius,” he growled. “Starscream’s mistake will not be his undoing. I won’t allow it.”
But before anyone could speak further, Starscream, in deep stasis, remained the silent center of their attention. The group, once divided, now faced the prospect of an even greater danger. Morbius’s plan—if it was indeed part of his design—was far from over. And with Starscream in a fragile state, they would need to act quickly to prevent the worst from coming to pass.
The tension in the room had reached a boiling point. Optimus, Megatron, Raf, Miko, and the others stood in stunned silence as the implications of the situation began to sink in. But then, from the far side of the room, Shockwave stepped forward, his cold, calculating voice cutting through the rising unease.
"There is one more factor that we must consider," Shockwave said, his usual unemotional tone carrying the weight of grim knowledge. "And that factor is... Unicron."
The room went quiet. Every bot, Autobot and Decepticon alike, turned toward Shockwave. They had heard the name before, whispered in old legends, recounted in the time-lost histories that had been passed down through eons of Cybertronian lore. But now, in this moment, it became clear that Unicron was no mere myth.
"Unicron..." Megatron muttered, his voice thick with both awe and fear. "The chaos-bringer. The destroyer of worlds."
Shockwave gave a slow, deliberate nod, his singular optic flickering briefly. He had all of their attention now.
"Yes. Unicron," Shockwave said, his voice deep and firm. "He is not merely a god of destruction. He is a force of unimaginable power—a being who feeds on chaos, on despair, on destruction itself. And his power has always been tied to those who have lost hope, those who have succumbed to guilt, to pain. It is in those moments of weakness that Unicron reaches out, and he binds those individuals to his will."
The group exchanged uneasy looks. Optimus took a step forward, his hand resting on his weapon, clearly troubled by what Shockwave was implying.
"But what does this have to do with Starscream?" Optimus asked, his voice tight with concern. "How does Unicron fit into this?"
Shockwave's cold expression remained unchanged, but his words held a chilling weight.
"Unicron has the ability to control those who are most vulnerable—those whose hearts and sparks are filled with guilt, fear, or despair. He manipulates them, twists them to his will, and bends their resolve. I believe that Morbius... knows this. He knows that Starscream, having been through so much—having lost everything, betrayed, and torn apart by his own past—is the perfect vessel for Unicron's influence. Morbius may very well be using Silas as a pawn in his plan."
A wave of realization swept through the room. Raf's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Silas? But... he’s just a human," Raf said, though his voice trembled slightly. "He can’t be involved with Unicron. Can he?"
Shockwave’s optic narrowed as he replied, his voice filled with cold certainty.
"Unicron’s power knows no boundaries, Raf. It is not limited to Cybertronians alone. He has been known to manipulate lesser creatures, humans included. Silas was a mere instrument to Morbius. Morbius, knowing full well that Starscream's heart is fractured, his hope dwindling, could have been manipulating Silas to act as a bridge—to deliver Starscream to Unicron himself."
Megatron’s optics flared as he stepped closer to Shockwave, anger building in his frame.
"You’re suggesting that Silas was never more than a tool to Unicron? That Morbius has been using him to weaken Starscream, to hand him over to that god of destruction?"
Shockwave turned his head slowly, his voice taking on an even more serious tone.
"Precisely. It’s possible that Morbius knows about Starscream’s deep-rooted guilt—his belief that he has betrayed those he’s cared for, his insecurities about his past, and his struggles to reconcile with who he is and who he was. These are precisely the emotions Unicron thrives upon, and Morbius, having studied Starscream, could have seen this as the ideal moment to deliver him to the chaos god."
The realization hit the group like a freight train. Optimus Prime, usually a bastion of hope, clenched his fists as he took in the grim news.
"If Unicron gets his claws into Starscream… he could destroy him completely," Optimus murmured. "But if he’s working through Morbius... it means we’re running out of time."
Raf’s mind raced, the connections clicking into place. Starscream, in his state of confusion and guilt, had unknowingly fallen into Morbius’ trap. But could the same be true for the resurrected bots as well?
"So... if Morbius delivers Starscream to Unicron, and Unicron gets control of him..." Raf whispered, his voice filled with a creeping dread. "What happens next?"
Shockwave’s voice cut through the room, cold as ice.
"If Unicron claims control of Starscream, his power will increase exponentially. Not just as a warrior, but as something far greater. Starscream has always been more than just a Seeker—he is a being of great potential, and if Unicron harnesses that potential, the chaos he could unleash would be beyond comprehension. Unicron would have an army at his disposal... and with Starscream’s innate abilities, that army could tear apart not just this dimension, but others. The multiverse itself could be at risk."
The horror of it all settled in, the weight of their responsibility pressing down on their shoulders.
"So, what now?" Miko asked, her voice small but urgent. "How do we stop this? How do we get through to Starscream before it’s too late?"
Shockwave finally stepped back, his singular optic glinting with a cold, calculating determination.
"We cannot wait. The longer Starscream remains in stasis, the more dangerous this becomes. Morbius is no fool—he will know that Starscream’s condition is fragile, and that this is the perfect opportunity to strike. We must act quickly and decisively. We will need to find a way to sever Unicron’s influence before it’s too late, and that means we must keep Starscream close. We must stop Morbius from using Silas or anyone else as a conduit to deliver Starscream to Unicron."
Megatron, his voice low and dangerous, glanced at Optimus Prime.
"Then we have no time to waste. We must prepare for a confrontation. No matter the cost."
The group nodded in agreement, a sense of urgency now taking over. As the revived Autobots and Decepticons stood side by side, the gravity of their task became clearer. The fate of Starscream—and the universe—was in their hands.
But with Morbius and Silas lurking in the shadows, they all knew that victory would not come easily. The war for Starscream’s soul had only just begun.
Chapter Text
The chamber was dim, lit only by the pulsating glow of corrupted energon that seeped from the very walls like veins of poison. The shadows danced across the jagged surfaces, twisting into alien shapes as Morbius stood still at the center of it all, eyes half-lidded, hands trembling with anticipation.
He had been waiting.
Suddenly, a heavy silence fell, as if even the corrupted air had stilled in reverence. And then—it came.
A voice, ancient and deep, unfathomably vast.
"He weakens..."
The words thundered not through the ears, but directly into the mind. Morbius gasped sharply, the pressure of it nearly buckling his knees. Behind him, Silas, ever silent, stood at attention, his expression unreadable through the dark visor of his upgraded combat helm.
"The Seeker... frays at the edges. His soul... soft... delicate... broken. You will take him. Now. While the light is blind and the strong lie idle."
Morbius let the ecstasy of the voice soak through his circuits and flesh alike. His fingers clenched, and a crooked smile cracked across his face.
"Yes... Yes, now. Phase two begins. The chaos they brought upon themselves with his revival—it will serve us well."
Silas took a step forward, speaking with mechanical precision.
"I’ve already uploaded the new protocols. The Nemesis is under temporary structural adjustments post-battle, with unguarded maintenance vents between the old medbay and cargo bay seven. That’s our opening."
Morbius turned toward the console in front of him, the screen flickering as a transmission opened to their mercenary infiltration unit—an elite cyber-assassin known only as Vex, cloaked in adaptive camouflage and equipped with an experimental phase shifter. Vex’s form shimmered, barely visible even through the transmission.
“Your target is in deep stasis. Recover the Seeker. Avoid unnecessary casualties unless resistance is too strong. Leave behind evidence of internal sabotage. Make them doubt one another.”
“Understood,” Vex replied, his voice filtered and raspy.
Silas keyed in the final upload. The ship's old floorplans blinked to life, highlighting the infiltration path. The timing would be razor-thin. The revived Autobots and Decepticons were still preoccupied with debriefings, emotionally fragile, and their command was fragmented. It was perfect.
Morbius's expression grew cold and reverent.
"The god of entropy demands his prize. And Starscream… oh, Starscream… is so tragically perfect for him. All that power, that sorrow… that confusion."
Then, Unicron spoke again—one word, this time with a rumble like a collapsing star:
"Take him."
The shadows behind Morbius swirled unnaturally, and his eyes gleamed with the hue of amethyst flame.
“Soon, he will no longer dream in freedom. He will dream only in my master’s image,” Morbius murmured. “And once the Seeker falls… the others will follow. All of them.”
Silas remained quiet, then stated flatly:
"Starscream's multiversal resonance makes him the ultimate key. The dimensional walls will weaken. This is bigger than Cybertron. It's bigger than us."
Morbius chuckled darkly. “And they think they’re building a family. That they’ve bought themselves time. But all they’ve done is tie themselves to him... and to his doom.”
Then the order was given.
"Phase two: Begin."
From a cloaked vessel orbiting just outside the Nemesis' sensor net, Vex leapt silently into the void—his form cloaked, his presence undetectable.
The hunt for Starscream had begun.
-=-=-=-
It started with silence.
Then came the alarms.
A tremor passed through the hull of the Nemesis, followed by a harsh, computerized voice crackling over the intercom:
“Breach detected in Cargo Bay Seven. Intruders onboard. Battle stations. Repeat: battle stations.”
By the time Optimus and Megatron burst out of the medical wing—Ratchet shouting for caution, Knockout frantically checking Starscream’s vital monitors—the corridors of the Nemesis were bathed in red light.
Already, chaos had begun.
First Wave: Drones of the Void
The first drones came crawling in like insects, pouring through the cargo bay’s blown-out bulkhead—dozens of them, tall, skeletal, and unnervingly clean. Modeled after basic Cybertronian frames, but stripped of personality, these constructs bore the hollow gleam of machines without souls. Their optics glowed sickly green. Their faces were blank. They didn’t speak.
They just obeyed.
Ironhide was the first to act.
“Scrap! These aren’t ‘Cons! They’re husks!”
He launched forward, shoulder-charging the nearest drone with a snarl, smashing it against the wall. It didn’t scream. It didn’t react. It simply tried to stand again.
Cliffjumper was at his side, smashing two more with his wrecking fists, panting.
“They’re like ghosts—no sparks, no pain. Just metal!”
Megatron, descending from an upper deck, snarled.
“These are not soldiers. They are mockeries.”
And yet, they were lethal. Fast. Coordinated. Unrelenting.
For every one they shattered, two more surged forward, limbs converting into crude energon blades, firing compressed plasma from wrist-mounted cannons. Drones overwhelmed in numbers, coordinated through shared neural commands.
But then the second wave arrived.
Enter: The Chimera Five
They came cloaked.
Five mercenaries of the Chimera Project—Silas’s elite. Each one modified beyond recognition, part-organic, part-mech, with armor made of reverse-engineered Transformer alloys and combat protocols stolen from both Autobot and Decepticon archives.
Each had a codename. Each was designed to kill Cybertronians.
CHIMERA-01: “Borealis” — A hulking brute with cannon-sized arms that could crush plating like tinfoil.
CHIMERA-02: “Suture” — A medic assassin, equipped with blades that injected corrosive viral code directly into circuits.
CHIMERA-03: “Echo” — A silent sniper who mimicked Soundwave’s form and weaponry, cloaked and deadly accurate.
CHIMERA-04: “Talon” — Agile and feral, inspired by Airachnid’s movement, attacking with hooked talons and aerial spins.
CHIMERA-05: “Shade” — Their leader. Clad in pitch-black armor, with optics that burned violet, and a sword forged from Starscream’s discarded null-ray tech.
When Shade spoke, his voice was cold and metallic:
“Secure the Seeker. Kill all resistance.”
Unity Forged in Fire
“Decepticons! Autobots!” Optimus roared as he drew his ion blaster. “Protect Starscream!”
“Fight with everything you have,” Megatron bellowed. “No retreat!”
Sides were forgotten.
Jazz and Breakdown fought back to back, improvising combo strikes that took down drones in clusters. Elita One dodged a strike from Suture and impaled him through the back with her wrist-blade, sparks flying.
Chromia tackled Talon midair, the two tumbling in a brutal aerial dance. “You’re no Seeker,” she spat, slamming the chimera against the ceiling.
Ironhide met Borealis head-on, their punches sending tremors through the hull. “Come on, you oversized scrap heap!”
Soundwave emerged from the shadows to battle Echo, their mirrored forms flickering in and out of visibility, a silent war of subterfuge and counter-strikes.
Even Thundercracker and Skywarp joined in unison to airlift injured bots to safety while fending off drones with sonic booms.
For once—just once—there were no factions.
There were only warriors. United. Fighting to protect one of their own.
The Battle Turns Bloody
Despite the unity, the Chimera mercenaries were brutal.
Suture stabbed Freezy in the side, injecting his viral code. The minibot shrieked and collapsed, convulsing. Ratchet screamed and sprinted to drag him back.
Talon slashed through Ravage, cutting his tail clean off. The cyber-cat yowled but kept fighting, biting through Talon’s shoulder cabling.
Echo shot Prowl through the shoulder—silent, cold, perfect.
But the bots fought harder. Rumble slammed his piledrivers into the floor, collapsing a segment of drone reinforcements. Jazz flipped over Suture, kicked him into a wall, and shouted to Cliffjumper, “Now!”
Cliffjumper tackled the mercenary, ramming his energon horn through Suture’s chest. One mercenary down.
The Turning Point
Then, a shriek.
Tarn emerged like a storm, energized by fury. He tore Borealis in half with his bare hands, his mask burning with hate. “You DARE come for Starscream?!”
The mercenaries hesitated. For just a moment.
It was enough.
Optimus fired three shots into Echo’s chest. Soundwave finished him with a sonic burst. Two more down.
Megatron himself clashed with Shade. Sword met sword in a blur of fury and blinding sparks.
“He is not yours,” Megatron growled, pressing down. “He chose us.”
“He is not yours either,” Shade snarled. “He is the KEY to the void.”
With a furious roar, Megatron overpowered him—plunging his blade through Shade’s core, even as the mercenary’s sword slashed his shoulder.
As Shade staggered and fell, the remaining drones flickered, their neural connection broken.
Silence fell.
Only the sound of sparks and broken plating remained.
Bodies lay scattered across the halls.
Wounded were dragged to the medical ward. Drones lay in piles. The floor was slick with spilled energon and coolant.
Optimus, panting, looked around at the exhausted group—Autobots and Decepticons standing as one.
Even after all these eons… this was what it meant to fight for survival. For a cause greater than yourself.
Knockout stumbled forward, covered in energon, looking to Megatron and Optimus.
The silence after the battle was suffocating. The corridors of the Nemesis were littered with broken drones, flickering lights, and the sharp scent of scorched metal.
Bumblebee stood amid the wreckage, still catching his breath, visor dimmed, chest rising and falling. His servos twitched slightly, a whisper of unease creeping into his frame. Something was wrong. Something didn’t add up.
He stared at the blackened remains of the Chimera units—one by one, identifying each. Borealis, torn in half. Suture, impaled. Echo, destroyed. Talon, decapitated. Shade, executed by Megatron’s blade.
Five.
But his memory—it shouted six.
His optics widened. A distorted buzz came from his vocalizer as he tried to shout a warning, static cracking his voice into fragments.
“—wait—six—Silas had six—there were—six—!”
Everyone froze.
Optimus’s optics narrowed. “Six? Are you certain, Bumblebee?”
Bumblebee nodded urgently, stepping forward. “The Chimera files—we saw them in Fowler’s base. Six prototypes. Six names. One was blacklisted. Unstable. But active.”
And then it hit them all like a cold wave.
The sixth mercenary had never shown.
Ratchet’s head snapped toward the medical chamber.
Soundwave’s field flickered violently.
Megatron’s face darkened in sudden dread.
They ran.
Metal pounded beneath their feet as they sprinted through the corridors—Ratchet pushing past rubble, Soundwave vanishing into a portal, Optimus bursting through bulkheads—
But it was already too late.
The heavy door was sliced open. The security locks had been shorted out, melted.
Starscream’s berth was empty.
The medical stabilizers were still humming softly, the stasis field severed. Straps had been torn—not with brute force, but with precision, careful enough not to trigger alarms.
The heart monitor displayed a single, unchanging word.
DISCONNECTED.
Knockout’s mouth fell open.
“No… no no—he was right here—I was just here—”
Soundwave scanned the room, frantically replaying fragmented security footage—only to find nothing. The recordings were wiped clean, the timestamp corrupted, replaced with a static symbol:
░░░░░░UNSEEN░░░░░░
Optimus clenched his fists.
“He was right here! And we let him be taken.”
Ratchet stared at the empty berth, his optics dull. “They waited for the distraction. For our unity. They used it against us.”
Bumblebee lowered his head, his frame shaking with guilt. “I should’ve remembered sooner.”
Megatron was completely still. Then, softly, his voice cut the silence like a dagger.
“They took my Starscream.”
His optics blazed red.
“I will bring the heavens down to find him.”
-=-=-=-
The room was dim—lit only by the humming red pulse of Unicronian technology embedded into the walls like veins. The air was heavy with a kind of silence that pressed down on the mind, as though something ancient and wrong had taken root in the shadows.
Starscream lay motionless on a narrow iron table in the center of the chamber, his frame pale and too still. His optics were dim, his systems humming faintly in deep stasis, fighting to recover after pouring his very spark into the relic.
Silas stood beside him, gloved fingers brushing almost reverently against the Seeker’s cheek plating. There was a grotesque tenderness in his expression—something twisted that thought itself love, but reeked of obsession.
“You’re finally here,” he murmured, voice coated with sick adoration. “All that power… wasted on fools. But I’ll make you better, Starscream. Perfect. Reborn.”
He leaned closer, pressing his palm to Starscream’s chest, feeling the slow rhythm of his spark echo beneath. “Once you open your eyes again… you’ll see. You’ll be mine.”
Behind him, the silence moved.
Morbius stepped forward.
Slowly. Deliberately. His footsteps echoed like thunder in a tomb.
He said nothing at first, his tall silhouette casting an inhuman shadow across the floor. His optics glowed faintly—two points of void watching Silas with something that might have once been patience. But now…
Only contempt.
“You’ve done well, Silas,” Morbius finally said, his voice low and unnatural. “You brought me the vessel. The dreamer. The last key.”
Silas turned toward him, smug. “Of course I did. We had a deal—Starscream is ours now. And with him, we can finish the Chimera Project. We can—"
“No,” Morbius interrupted.
His voice was cold. So cold it scalded.
Silas blinked. “What—?”
Morbius took another step. “Your usefulness is over. The bargain has expired. You are no longer needed.”
The words didn’t register at first.
Then Silas felt it.
Heat.
A terrible, searing heat that began deep inside his chest. It spread outward in pulses—like fire erupting from within, like his very core was being boiled alive.
He staggered back, hands clawing at his own armor. “W-What—what are you doing to me?!”
His skin cracked. Glowing lines spread through his arms and face like burning veins. The circuitry embedded in his flesh screamed as it failed. Smoke hissed from his joints.
“No—NO—YOU NEED ME!”
Morbius remained still. Watching.
“I needed a pawn. You, Silas, were never more than that. And pawns—” he stepped closer, now looming over the convulsing man, “are meant to be sacrificed.”
Silas screamed.
His armor peeled away in ribbons of slag. His fingers melted, welding together. His face contorted in agony as his flesh began to bubble, collapse, until all that remained was a molten silhouette writhing on the floor.
And he remained conscious. That was the horror of it.
“Don’t look away,” Morbius whispered to the unconscious Starscream. “This was always the fate of the weak.”
When the heat faded, all that remained was a twisted smear of metal and melted organics—a pile that still steamed faintly. A reminder of ambition without worth.
Morbius turned to Starscream once more, his hand reaching out—not in caress, but in claim.
“Sleep, Seeker. For when you wake… you will belong to the void.”
The air in the chamber still stank of molten flesh and scorched metal. Silas was no more—just a blistered stain on the floor—and Starscream lay motionless, helpless, and silent. Morbius remained near the Seeker, shadows curling off of him like smoke rising from the edge of a nightmare. The glow in his optics had grown brighter, burning with unholy knowledge and something far older than hate.
But behind him, one of the Chimera mercenaries—a hulking cybernetic brute grafted with stolen Cybertronian tech—had stayed behind. He had seen Silas die, seen the monstrous arrogance in Morbius’s smirk, and he had not bowed.
This mercenary had been loyal to Silas, in his own twisted way. A brother forged in experimentation and pain. Silas had given him a name, even if the world had taken everything else. And now, Morbius had taken Silas.
“You monster…” the mercenary growled, optic flaring red with fury. “He gave you everything. You were nothing without him!”
With a scream of rage, he lunged—heavy footfalls thundering on the floor as he raised a jagged weapon, sparks crackling across its tip. “FOR SILAS!”
He didn’t make it past two steps.
CRACK.
There was no sound like a gun, no visible weapon.
Just the snap of reality bending.
The mercenary’s head exploded—not as a burst, but as if it had imploded in on itself, twisted and shattered from within. Gray fluid splattered across the dark walls. The body dropped without drama, limbs spasming for half a second before going limp.
A sickening silence fell.
And then Morbius laughed.
It was a low, joyless sound. Not manic—worse. It was amusement born from supreme confidence. From certainty. From knowing that there was no equal left in the room.
“They forget so easily,” he said aloud, speaking not to the corpse, but to the air. “I was not called Reaper, Deathborn, and Voidwalker in the forgotten wars for nothing…”
He looked down at the smoldering corpse.
“I am Morbius. The tongue of the old code. The weapon of what sleeps in the abyss. The reincarnated death—to the toe.”
He lifted his hand, still glowing with the faint afterburn of his wrath. “Let this be a lesson: defiance is not bravery. It is suicide when aimed at a god.”
Behind him, Starscream’s systems flickered faintly. Perhaps some part of him—buried deep in stasis—felt the danger. Perhaps it was fear. Or perhaps something else stirred.
Unicron hungered.
And now… he had his vessel.
-=-=-=-
The Nemesis was in complete chaos.
Sirens pulsed. Warning lights flickered like panicked heartbeats. Soldiers barked conflicting orders across the decks. Autobots and Decepticons who had only just begun to tolerate standing side-by-side were now snapping at each other, fingers pointed, voices raised.
“How did we not see the sixth mercenary?!”
“Where was he hiding?!”
“WHO was watching the medbay door!?”
Raf, Jack, and Miko tried to keep out of the way, the horror written clearly across their faces. The war had already broken them once. Now it felt like they were on the edge of something worse—a repeat collapse with Starscream at the center.
In the med-lab hub, Soundwave, Shockwave, and Ratchet worked feverishly at every console available. Their optics flicked between internal scans, dimensional readings, and atmospheric shifts. Soundwave’s tendrils jabbed into ports with surgical precision, trying to pull any signal, even a sliver of a trace, from the relic’s residual energy.
Ratchet slammed a servo on the console. “Nothing. Nothing! He’s completely vanished from the grid. This shouldn’t be possible!”
Shockwave’s voice, even amid the rising panic, remained cold, flat, and brutally rational. “Correction: It is possible, because it has happened. The Chimera units had technology we have never fully reverse-engineered. Combined with Unicron’s shadow influence… he may have vanished into another fold of space entirely.”
Across the command deck, Megatron stood still, his arms locked tightly at his sides, shoulders drawn so rigid he looked like he might explode. His optics were lit with fury, disbelief, and something more dangerous:
fear.
He watched as bots scrambled, uselessly running simulations, while Starscream’s spark—his Seeker—was lost in a haze of smoke and failure. He clenched a fist so hard the armor on his knuckles creaked. “Fools... You are all stumbling in the dark!”
Then he turned.
Across the war room, sitting quietly against the far wall, away from the chaos, were Skywarp and Thundercracker. Their posture was relaxed. Calm. Neither had moved since the alarms started.
It was unnatural.
Megatron stalked across the deck, his heavy steps like thunder crashing.
“You—both of you—sit in silence while your trine-leader is STOLEN?”
No answer.
“He trusted you. He trusted YOU! Where were you when he was taken!?”
Thundercracker lifted his head slowly. His expression wasn’t defiant. It wasn’t mocking. It was… resigned.
“We knew,” he said simply. “We knew he would be taken.”
Skywarp added in a dull murmur, “We felt it the moment he used the relic. He glowed too brightly. He always does. We’ve seen it before… in other echoes of us.”
Their voices were eerily still—not emotionless, but heavy with knowledge they hadn’t shared. Like watching a star go supernova and knowing you can’t stop the light from burning everything it touches.
Megatron’s fists clenched. “You knew—and said nothing?”
Thundercracker’s optics narrowed. “We were told not to interfere. Not until the path opened.”
Skywarp, quieter still: “And it just did.”
For a long beat, Megatron didn’t speak. The fury inside him clawed to escape—but it was meeting something it could not punch, or threaten, or command. It was fate. Or something more cursed.
“Then talk,” Megatron growled. “TALK, before I tear the knowledge from your processors.”
Skywarp stood slowly. “Starscream… isn't just ours. He belongs to something older than this war. Than this universe. Morbius is trying to break that. And if he succeeds…”
Thundercracker finished grimly, “…we lose everything.”
The war room fell silent.
Even the computers seemed to stop humming for a breath.
The silence following Skywarp and Thundercracker's ominous words stretched like a blade across the room. All optics turned toward the two Seekers—no longer merely quiet, but now standing as if they had emerged from behind a veil of secrecy worn for eons.
Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Speak. Now.”
Thundercracker nodded once. “We’ve always known the truth. About Starscream.”
Skywarp added, softer: “He told us... a long time ago. Eons past. When he chose us—when he became Trine Leader.”
“It was Starscream who gave us our abilities.”
The room rippled with disbelief. Even Ratchet, now turned from the console, stared in stunned silence.
Thundercracker continued, his voice more confident, steadier now that the weight of secrecy had lifted. “He said our powers were linked to who we are. Our designations. Our essence.”
“I was ‘Thunder’—he gave me the ability to channel sonic force, control vibrations, send quakes through the air and earth.”
Skywarp stepped forward. “And I was ‘Sky’—he opened the space between spaces for me. I teleport because he taught me to bend the threads between dimensions. He did it... quietly. No relic. No ceremony. Just... a spark, pressing into ours.”
“He said, ‘One day you’ll understand. One day it’ll matter.’”
Megatron was still. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
Thundercracker met his gaze evenly. “Because he asked us not to. He said the truth would be too heavy before its time.”
Skywarp gave a faint, pained laugh. “Starscream always plays the fool so no one sees the storm coming.”
Shockwave’s single optic glowed sharply. “Deception through perceived inferiority. A strategy used by ancient tacticians… yet few execute it so completely.”
Thundercracker nodded. “Exactly. And there’s more.”
“Ratchet and Knockout said it would take weeks for Starscream’s spark to stabilize. It’s only been hours, and it’s already almost fully normalized.”
A hush fell again.
“He’s not in true stasis,” Thundercracker said. “He’s pretending.”
“Why?” Optimus asked, voice low and grim. “To what end?”
Skywarp looked at him, and—for the first time—his tone held both admiration and sorrow.
“Because he needed you all to act without him.”
Thundercracker added, “Because if Morbius or Unicron thought he had a plan, they’d rip it from him, or burn the universe trying. But if they think he’s weak… helpless… then they’ll get close. And that’s when he strikes.”
Soundwave’s screen flashed as data lines scrolled—his silence said volumes.
Megatron stared at the wall, hands curling into trembling fists. “He planned for this?”
Thundercracker’s voice dropped to a murmur. “He always plans. Starscream is never just in the now. He walks seven steps ahead.”
Skywarp added, with quiet reverence: “We’re just now catching up.”
-=-=-=-
The dim laboratory flickered with crimson light. Ancient runes hummed low along the walls, and monitors whispered lifeless codes. Morbius stood near the table, a satisfied monster, staring down at Starscream's still form, admiring it as if he had conquered a god.
Silas was gone—his melted remains still faintly steaming in a corner.
Morbius raised his hand to stroke Starscream’s cheek again, but—
Shhkt.
A sound—a resonance, soft but unmistakable.
His hand froze.
Behind him, faint metal scraped against metal. A faint hum—like the ignition of fate itself.
Then—
SHNK.
The sword pierced through Morbius’s chest from behind. Clean. Precise. A luminous blade of raw, focused energy emerged from his front, glowing with symbols older than Cybertronian memory.
He gasped, staggered forward—and turned his head, slowly.
Starscream stood behind him. Eyes blazing.
No longer limp, no longer weak, no longer a captive of any scheme. He held the sheath, not the blade—because the blade was already home, in its mark.
His armor shimmered faintly, a fusion of his seeker form and something older, regal—his true chassis flickering just beneath the surface, something made for war, for balance, for judgment.
Starscream's voice was low. Steady. Cold.
“You talk too much, Morbius.”
“You mistake delay for defeat. Chains for surrender. Sleep for death.”
Morbius coughed, trying to speak, black fluid spilling from his lips. “You... were—”
“Playing dead?” Starscream smiled, a shadow of irony curling on his lip. “Oh no, darling. I was waiting.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“Do you really think I’d fall into a trap without planting one of my own?”
The sword pulsed.
Morbius fell to his knees, choking, sparks flying from the wound that hissed against his corrupted internals. The relics he'd stolen began to shudder and crack, reacting violently to Starscream’s presence now that he was fully awake—no longer masking the power embedded in his spark.
“You thought I was seven steps ahead?” Starscream whispered. “I’m twelve.”
With a flick of his wrist, the blade vanished into dust, dissolving through Morbius's core. He collapsed, motionless, systems sparking with a final, glitching screech.
Starscream exhaled slowly.
He looked around.
“Now... where am I?”
The walls seemed to pulse, almost in fear. The shadows in the lab shrank.
Then his optics narrowed. He touched the side of his helm, sparks flickering at his fingertips.
“Skywarp. Thundercracker. Do you read?”
In the middle of the Nemesis’s chaos—screens flashing, alarms screaming, and sparks flying—two bots stood unnervingly calm.
Skywarp and Thundercracker, still and composed, silently scanned frequencies only they could reach.
Then—a ping. Sharp. Familiar.
Their optics flickered.
“Skywarp. Thundercracker. Do you read?”
The voice hit them like a jolt.
Skywarp exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “You glitchy ghost...” he muttered, optics softening.
Thundercracker answered first, quietly, but his voice carried through the encrypted frequency like a seismic pulse:
“We’re here. Took you long enough.”
“You had Megatron about to tear the walls off the Nemesis,” Skywarp added, “and Soundwave short-circuiting every terminal to find you.”
“Your ‘stasis’ act fooled everyone,” Thundercracker said. “Even us.”
There was a pause. Then:
“It had to.”
Starscream’s voice was calm, resonant with a power even they had rarely heard from him before. A power woven through eons and universes.
“Silas was a puppet. Morbius, a deceiver. But they were never the final threat.”
“I’ve seen the patterns. Heard the whispers. This all leads to him—to what lies beyond even our reality.”
Skywarp frowned, optics darkening. “Unicron.”
“Yes.”
“The storm behind all others. The shadow that walks when hope breaks.”
“And he wants me.”
Thundercracker clenched a fist. “Then we’ll come to you. We can end this together, like always.”
Silence.
Then, Starscream’s voice—gentler this time, almost warm.
“No. Not this time.”
“You know what I am. What I’ve always been, hidden behind cowardice, ego, doubt.”
“But I remember now. All my lifetimes. All my trials. All the sparks I helped rise... and the ones I had to watch fall.”
“This war, this galaxy, our Cybertron—they don’t need another fight. They need an end.”
“I have to go alone. This isn’t a battle of blades. It’s a reckoning of purpose.”
Thundercracker stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “We’re not just your wingmates. We’re your brothers.”
Skywarp’s voice cracked slightly. “You don’t get to vanish again without saying goodbye.”
Starscream’s voice dropped to a whisper:
“I’m not vanishing.”
“I’m lighting the last beacon.”
“And if I fail...”
The channel trembled with energy.
“Then you’ll know where to aim your rage.”
The connection cut.
Silence fell.
Thundercracker turned slowly, his optics burning. “We track his last location. If he doesn’t return—”
“We bring him home,” Skywarp finished, his usual grin replaced by something older. “Or we burn everything trying.”
Behind them, Megatron and Optimus arrived—just in time to see the last echo of the frequency fade.
They exchanged a glance—and knew.
Starscream was going after Unicron.
Alone.
Chapter Text
The space beyond space.
Starscream stood on a field that wasn’t a place, but an idea—floating between folds of dimension and time, where the void bent around him like a cathedral of silence.
His comms were off.
No pings from Skywarp.
No scans from Soundwave.
No orders from Megatron.
No worried whispers from Optimus.
Just him.
Alone.
As he had always been in the truth of his existence.
The air was dense with ancient power, too old to be called energy. It was like a thought unspoken for so long, it took shape just by lingering.
Then—it came.
Not with thunder.
Not with fire.
But with words.
“You finally come.”
Unicron’s voice was not heard—it was known, like a memory that had never belonged to Starscream, yet he remembered it all the same. It echoed from the bones of the universe, not from a mouth.
Starscream did not flinch. His optics burned dim red against the gray swirl of meaning that formed around him.
“I didn’t come to fight,” he said.
“You never needed fighting.”
A sound, like a smile.
“You understand.”
“You see now why I let Silas play, why I let Morbius pretend to be a puppeteer.”
“I’ve never lifted a finger. I never needed to. I only needed you to see me.”
Starscream took a step forward, his wings motionless, his armor stripped of all emblems. The air shimmered around him, but he was calm—solid, more than he had ever been.
“You exist in the broken spaces between guilt and despair,” he said coldly. “You are the god of surrender. Of those who forgot how to believe.”
“You don’t infect with touch. You infect with meaning.”
Unicron’s form trembled, not from rage—but from amusement.
“Yes, little Seeker. Speak truth, and it becomes your chain.”
“Speak fear, and it becomes your end.”
“Why did you come here then? Why not stay with your ‘family’? Why abandon your Trine, your Prime, your war?”
Starscream exhaled slowly.
“Because if I didn’t come, you’d reach through someone else again. Another Silas. Another Morbius. Another lost spark who thinks pain gives them control.”
“And I’m done watching people fall for you.”
Unicron’s voice dipped, deeper than death.
“You think you can will me away?”
“You were always the weak one, Starscream. The coward. The traitor. The fool.”
“You’ve died more times than your memory allows. You’ve screamed in failure across countless universes. What can you possibly say now that hasn’t already been used to break you?”
Starscream raised his helm.
His optics blazed—not with rage, but clarity.
“I accept what I am. All of it. The fool. The coward. The traitor. But I am also the one who survived every single time.”
“Because I refused to stop trying.”
Unicron faltered.
A fracture of silence pierced the nothingness.
“You... accept your weakness?”
“No,” Starscream said softly. “I transcend it.”
“Because I understand you now. You’ve never had a form. You’re not a monster. You’re an idea.”
“And ideas die when people stop believing in them.”
The space shuddered.
The fabric of the void rippled as if struck by lightning—but there was no storm. Just silence folding in on itself.
“You dare—”
“I do.”
Starscream lifted his hand.
And in his palm: a single spark of light.
It wasn’t energy.
It was hope.
It shined from his spark. From Skywarp’s loyalty. From Thundercracker’s faith. From Bumblebee’s courage. From Arcee’s grit. From Optimus’s compassion. From even Megatron’s fury.
It was everything Unicron could not understand—because it had no logic. No structure. Only purpose.
The void screamed.
The entire realm shook—because in that moment, Starscream was not fighting Unicron.
He was unmaking him.
One word at a time.
The storm of silence passed.
Unicron no longer boomed with infinite power. His presence—once overwhelming—began to waver, not with defeat, but with something older… heavier.
Starscream didn’t move.
He simply watched.
And as he looked past the shadows, the chaos, the threatening presence that had once towered like a void over all creation—he saw something else.
A shape.
A soul.
A figure curled deep in the folds of reality, ancient beyond reason.
Alone.
Starscream’s voice came, not with cruelty or mockery, but quiet recognition.
“You’ve always been alone, haven’t you?”
The presence hesitated.
There was no grand retort. No thunderous dismissal. Only a low echo, as if the universe itself paused to listen.
“...You see too much.”
“You wanted me broken,” Starscream said. “Not because you feared me. But because I almost understood you. That’s what terrifies you.”
“That someone might look at you and not run.”
Unicron stirred, his shape losing sharpness. His voice now sounded distant, almost… tired.
“Primus was always the beloved one. The shaper. The light.”
“I was the aftermath. The undoing. He created. I erased. He gave. I consumed.”
“We were brothers, once. But not equals.”
Starscream stood firm.
“No one is equal when they’re only measured by what they give or destroy. Maybe that’s why you did all of this. All the chaos, the whispers, the corruption.”
“Just to feel seen again.”
A beat passed.
Then—
“You speak with pity.”
“No,” Starscream replied. “I speak with understanding. Because I’ve been screaming for attention my whole life too.”
His optics dimmed for a moment—not in weakness, but in sincerity.
“I spent eons trying to prove myself. Shouting at Megatron to see me. At Optimus to trust me. At the universe to acknowledge me.”
“I know what it’s like… to feel like the villain in your own story. Just for existing.”
A long silence.
Then Unicron asked, softly:
“What do you want from me, then?”
Starscream stepped closer—not in defiance, but in acceptance.
“Nothing. You’ve already given me what I needed.”
“You showed me what I could become if I let bitterness define me. If I chose isolation over connection. If I kept running from pain instead of confronting it.”
He tilted his helm slightly.
“You’re not a god of destruction. You’re a monument to loneliness.”
Unicron shuddered.
The ancient darkness curled inward, no longer stretching out to corrupt—but trembling under the weight of being seen.
Starscream exhaled slowly.
“I don’t forgive what you’ve done. But I see you.”
“And maybe that’s the one thing you’ve wanted all along.”
A hum moved through the plane.
It was neither joy nor fury. But something else entirely.
Peace?
Regret?
Acceptance?
“You’re braver than I believed, Seeker,” Unicron finally said. “Go. Leave this place. Before I forget the feeling of being understood.”
“You’ll be alone again,” Starscream whispered.
“I always was.”
The world around him began to fold. Reality returned in ribbons of color and static.
Starscream looked back one last time at the fading presence.
And for the first time in all of history—Unicron did not chase him.
Time passed.
And for once, it healed.
The war was over.
No more Autobot. No more Decepticon. No more battle cries across the skies, no more sparks extinguished beneath the clash of titans.
What remained was something rarer than victory—peace.
Earth was no longer just a battlefield. It was home.
With the unity of the former warring factions came change. Massive change. A sprawling Cybertronian-human base was erected in the Nevada desert—a seamless fusion of technology and will. Towering spires of energon crystal pulsed beside human control towers. Mecha-bays stood adjacent to hangars, where human-piloted jets and Cybertronian flyers could take off side by side.
The new era even had a name.
Project Unity.
They trained together, lived together, rebuilt cities together. Humans wore modified exo-armor developed by Wheeljack and Fowler’s tech division. Cybertronians worked in tandem with human squads in recon, disaster relief, and research.
But even in this new age—something was missing.
No one had heard from Starscream since that day. The day Soundwave detected a spark signature vanishing into another dimension. The day the chaos finally ended.
And Starscream was gone.
No body. No transmission. Not even a trace.
For a long while, Megatron said nothing about it. He rebuilt the Nemesis—now rechristened The Unity Ark—with Skywarp and Thundercracker’s help. Optimus, no longer a Prime but simply a leader among equals, offered Megatron his quiet support. There were no words between them. Only a silent understanding that whatever Starscream had done—he had done it alone.
Ratchet refused to believe the Seeker had perished.
He had seen that spark. Too volatile. Too proud. Too furious with fate to ever let it fade quietly.
Still, the months became years.
Skywarp and Thundercracker rarely spoke about him, but on certain days, they would look toward the stars for too long. They trained cadets, protected Earth, helped rebuild shattered colonies—but neither removed the small red insignia they kept etched into their armor.
The same sigil they once mocked.
Starscream's.
Even Bumblebee, now a seasoned leader to a new squad of humans and bots, would sometimes sit atop a launch tower in the early morning hours and watch the sunrise without speaking.
He never told anyone what he was waiting for.
But everyone knew.
Children now played in safety. Humans no longer feared metal giants. Raf, Miko, and Jack had grown. Jack was in command of the Earth Defense Armada. Raf was the chief engineer behind the interstellar beacon program. Miko ran the cultural program that helped bots understand Earth, and humans understand Cybertron.
They lived in the future that had once been impossible.
But not a single one of them ever forgot the seeker who vanished to buy it.
Starscream’s name was not spoken in ceremonies.
It was not carved into walls or etched onto statues.
It was remembered in silence.
In gaps.
In the way Thundercracker would pause when asked about aerial tactics. In the moments when Soundwave would linger on a monitor’s edge, hoping for a frequency that never came. In the way Optimus would always leave one chair empty during council meetings.
He had gone where no one else could go.
And though they had made peace with one another, they had never made peace with his absence.
Some believed he had died.
Others believed he had become something else.
Megatron? He never said a word on the matter.
But every stardate, on the same day each year, he would vanish from the base. No one followed him. Not even Soundwave.
When he returned, he would say only one thing:
“He still watches.”
And somehow, everyone believed him.
It was late into the Earth night cycle. Most of the base’s inhabitants—human and Cybertronian—were in rest mode or taking downtime. But in the command center, the air thrummed with a constant, low pulse of power and data.
Soundwave sat silently before the central terminal, his frame casting long shadows across the floor. He hadn’t powered down in over seventy-two hours. He didn’t need to.
There had been a glitch.
A subtle spike in satellite telemetry. A whisper in a sea of data—so small it would have gone unnoticed by even the most advanced systems.
But Soundwave noticed.
He always noticed.
His fingers moved over the console with mechanical precision, isolating the anomaly. It originated near the upper atmosphere, beyond the exo-grid, where Earth’s protective sensors rarely focused.
He rerouted multiple satellites to converge on the coordinates.
Static.
Then flickers of light.
Then—video feed.
The screen resolved into a stuttering image. Clouds churned violently above the Pacific. At first it looked like a natural disturbance—maybe a pressure front or strange aurora borealis.
But then it opened.
Like a tear in the very air.
A rupture, expanding slowly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
It was jagged, black and violet, like shattered glass with fire at the edges. Something inside moved.
Soundwave narrowed the feed, enhanced the visuals. A spherical distortion hung in space—energy folding into itself and collapsing outward in impossible ways.
Within the tear, something shifted.
He paused the feed, enhanced the contrast, and froze.
A shape.
It was trying to get out.
Something large. Clawed. Winged?
Not clearly visible—yet—but its form pressed against the inside of the rupture as if it strained against its own birth.
Suddenly, the screen flashed white.
The signal broke.
A system-wide scramble hit the satellites. Five of them went offline. Communications shorted for a second. The base lights flickered.
Only Soundwave saw it all.
He rewound the video—frame by frame.
And on the final recorded still, before the signal died completely, one image remained:
A single red optic, glowing through the void.
Staring directly into the satellite camera.
It was watching them back.
Soundwave slowly straightened, his chest panels humming. Without turning, he began transmitting emergency priority codes to Ratchet, Shockwave, and the command team.
Something was coming.
And the rupture—was growing.
Earth, several years after the Great Reconciliation.
Peace had a sound. It wasn’t silence, not really—it was the hum of an engine tuned for utility, the rhythmic clang of tools in a hangar, the quiet murmur of voices discussing plans for tomorrow. It was laughter. It was music. It was the wind brushing across a high metal wing.
The war was over.
There were no more Decepticons. No more Autobots. Just Cybertronians. United not by ideology, but by survival, memory, and choice.
The shared military base on Earth—once a mere outpost—had become a city. Towering spires of Cybertronian alloy interlaced with human scaffolding. Fields of steel and forest coexisted. Humans lived among their once-feared visitors. Children played beside titanic guardians. The scars of war had become the roots of a new age.
And Starscream... had never felt more alive.
It had taken time.
At first, there had been whispers. Suspicion. He had disappeared into the void and returned, unaged, unchanged on the surface—but deeper, something was different. He no longer barked or postured. He no longer needed to. Starscream Prime had left him with wisdom, but it wasn’t the power that defined him anymore. It was understanding.
Still, not everyone understood him.
But they did.
Skywarp had punched him the moment they were alone again. Thundercracker had hugged him tight, nearly crushing his wings. They had shouted, cried, cursed him for disappearing—but when it was done, they had laughed, collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs and snide insults and awkward affection. Just like old times.
The Trine had returned. Together again. Together, always.
They had a shared hangar now, high in the spires. Wind ran freely through the open balconies, and at night, when Earth’s moons rose, the stars shimmered like a thousand open gates.
Starscream would sit there in silence sometimes, Thundercracker meditating nearby, Skywarp vanishing and reappearing with snacks or shiny trinkets from who-knew-where.
They didn’t have to talk. They just existed. And that was enough.
Megatron.
That name still held weight.
The old warlord had changed. Not softened—no, Megatron would never be soft—but evolved. His fire no longer burned to conquer, but to build, to protect, to lead. And for the first time in countless vorns, he did so without the burden of his past.
He had asked for forgiveness not with words, but with action.
And Starscream had watched him.
For cycles, he had kept his distance, uncertain if this new Megatron was real—or simply the quiet before another storm.
But slowly, carefully, he approached. They spoke. Then fought. Then laughed. Then walked together beneath Earth’s stars.
One night, on a cliff overlooking the old battlefield where Autobot and Decepticon banners once flew, Starscream said:
“You know, I never stopped wanting to kill you.”
Megatron smiled.
“Good. Keeps me sharp.”
Starscream leaned against him, wings brushing his shoulder.
“But I’d rather live with you.”
The warlord’s optics dimmed softly.
“Then stay.”
He did.
Optimus Prime remained. Of course he did.
He was still the leader, but now not of soldiers. Of people. Of builders. Of dreamers. His wisdom and strength were the pillar on which the new Cybertronian-Human Alliance stood.
But even Optimus smiled more these days.
He and Megatron often stood together—two titans, once brothers-in-arms and then mortal enemies—now united in purpose. They argued often, but it was the kind that ended with thoughtful nods, not fire.
He respected Starscream, in his own quiet way.
And Starscream had come to respect him too.
Sometimes, Starscream caught Optimus watching the sky, as if waiting for something. When asked, the Prime always said:
“Peace is a moment. You protect it by living it.”
Starscream had remembered those words.
The base—now called Haven—had become a sanctuary for many. Old enemies worked side by side. Ratchet and Knockout ran a medical and scientific division together. Arcee trained young human-Cybertronian defense units. Ultra Magnus led engineering. Soundwave remained silent, but always watching, always listening. He had even taken on a human apprentice.
It wasn’t perfect.
There were still skirmishes in distant systems. Still scars that couldn’t be erased. But they tried. They worked. They lived.
And Starscream?
He flew.
Sometimes, simply for the joy of it.
Wings slicing through the sky, he would laugh again—truly laugh, with the wind in his sensors and the clouds dancing around him. Skywarp often raced him. Thundercracker pretended not to care but always joined in. The humans below would look up and smile as the Trine painted streaks of color across the sky.
They had become symbols—not of war, but of what came after.
One evening, as the horizon turned gold and the shadows grew long, Starscream stood on the edge of Haven’s tallest tower.
Megatron joined him quietly.
They stood in silence.
Below them, humans and Cybertronians walked together. Children played with sparkling ball drones. Skywarp was showing off again. Thundercracker was teaching wind resistance to new fliers.
It was... good.
“I still don’t believe this is real,” Starscream murmured.
“Then believe it now,” Megatron said. “This is what we fought for. Even if we didn’t know it then.”
“Funny. It was never about winning, was it?”
“No. It was about understanding. Something you taught me.”
Starscream chuckled softly.
“Primus and Unicron are quiet now. For the first time, they’re not screaming through us. Just... watching.”
Megatron turned to him.
“And you? What do you want now?”
Starscream didn’t answer at first. He looked to the sky—his sky—and watched as the first stars twinkled to life.
Then, slowly, he said:
“To fly. To live. To laugh with my Trine. To kiss you. To talk with Prime. To yell at Knockout. To tease Arcee. To hear Thundercracker complain. To see Skywarp do something stupid. To drink energon under Earth’s moons.”
“To wake up every day... and not be afraid of tomorrow.”
Megatron placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Then let’s do that. Together.”
Starscream nodded.
And then, with one final glance at the world he once tried to conquer, he whispered to the wind:
“Enjoy the moment you have... because it can all end in the blink of an optic.”
The wind carried his voice through Haven, through the stars, through memory.
And for once, for real...
Starscream was free.
Lillayflower on Chapter 1 Fri 02 May 2025 10:53PM UTC
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