Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The heavy metallic door to Wheeljack's lab hissed open with a sharp rush of air, followed by a triumphant clang of metal heels against the base floor. The inventor emerged wearing his usual smug grin, optics practically glowing with excitement. In his hands, held with the kind of delicate reverence normally reserved for precious artifacts, was a small transparent case no bigger than a datapad.

Inside it, nestled atop a cushioned pad, was a curious object—sleek, insectoid in shape, no longer than a servo finger, with translucent wings that shimmered like oil in sunlight. Delicate micro-limbs folded neatly against its titanium-alloy frame, and faint green lights pulsed from its central processor like a quiet heartbeat.

"Alright, bots! Gather 'round," Wheeljack called with a confident clap, striding into the main assembly chamber of the Autobot base. "You’re lookin’ at the future of intel ops right here."

Jazz looked up from his datapad, one optic ridge raised. Prowl, standing a few steps behind, folded his arms with that signature suspicious frown of his. Bumblebee bounced over curiously, while Arcee and Bulkhead exchanged glances and trailed behind. Even Ultra Magnus and Ratchet stepped in from the adjacent hallway, drawn by Wheeljack’s uncharacteristically enthusiastic tone.

"What is it this time, Wheeljack?" Ratchet asked, voice low and skeptical. "Please tell me it's not another grenade disguised as a datapad."

Wheeljack smirked. "Nope. This time it’s subtle, clean, elegant. Me and Jetfire whipped this little beauty up together. Say hello to the ‘Firefly.’"

He carefully opened the case and activated the device. With a soft hum, the small robotic insect unfolded and lifted itself into the air on vibrating wings. It hovered effortlessly, its movements fluid and eerily lifelike, before zipping around the room in a smooth arc. It circled Prowl once—eliciting an annoyed twitch—then glided back and perched neatly on Wheeljack’s shoulder.

"It’s a micro-sized reconnaissance drone," he explained, obviously enjoying himself. "Not only can it fly undetected, but it uses refractive plating that mimics ambient light patterns—makes it practically invisible to all known Decepticon scanning tech."

"Even Soundwave’s?" Ultra Magnus asked.

"Especially Soundwave’s," Jetfire chimed in from the corridor, pushing up his visor as he entered with a datapad in hand. "We built its signal signature to mimic naturally occurring background radiation. Not only that—it’s got audio and video recording so sensitive it can pick up whispers through walls. And get this—it sends the feed in real-time, encrypted with a fractal code that shifts every millisecond. There’s no way Soundwave could intercept it."

"Or even see it," Wheeljack added proudly. "This thing’s light as a wisp and tougher than it looks. We made it out of reconfigured proto-alloys scavenged from old stealth plating. You bump into it and wouldn’t even notice."

Arcee looked doubtful. "So it flies into Decepticon territory, and then what? Records troop movement? Weapon caches?"

"Better than that," Jetfire said, stepping closer to the group. "We're going to drop it into the Decepticon base itself."

The room fell silent for a beat.

"You're kidding," said Jazz.

Wheeljack shook his head, optics glittering. "Nope. This thing will tell us where the base is, what’s inside it, how it’s structured, who’s doing what—all without raising a single alarm."

"And you’re sure they won’t detect it?" Prowl pressed, ever the pragmatist.

"Sure as I am that this is the best invention I’ve ever made. Jetfire and I tested it against every detection system we've got, even simulated Soundwave’s sonic sweep algorithms. It passed all tests."

Bumblebee beeped a series of rapid clicks. Arcee translated, "He wants to know if it can survive a direct hit."

"Not really the point, kid," Wheeljack said. "It's not meant to be seen. If it’s attacked, yeah, it’d probably fry—but if we deploy it right, it’ll sneak in, do its job, and sneak out or self-destruct if compromised."

Ratchet still looked unconvinced. "And what if it ends up in enemy hands? If they reverse-engineer it—"

"We added an auto-shock protocol," Jetfire interjected. "Any attempt to open it without the master key code will trigger a meltdown of its core chip. Gone in a puff of smoke."

"Or one of Wheeljack’s trademark explosions," Jazz muttered under his breath.

The inventor ignored him, gesturing toward the drone, now doing lazy spirals above their heads. "I call this our silent stinger. Once it's in... we'll see everything."

Prowl’s optics narrowed. "And you’re planning to drop it into Decepticon airspace how?"

Wheeljack grinned. "That's the best part. We're going to fake a skirmish. Just a tiny scuffle near their usual patrol zones. While they're distracted, we deploy the Firefly. It'll fly in during the chaos—Soundwave’s sensors won’t even pick it up."

Jetfire tapped a few commands into his datapad, and a 3D schematic of the drone appeared on the wall. The Autobots leaned in as he highlighted various components—noise dampeners, the flexible neural recording core, even the camera lens hidden in its “eyes.”

"We’re talking about a breakthrough in espionage tech," Jetfire concluded. "No more blind guesses about their plans. We’ll have hard proof, schematics, troop logs... maybe even finally catch Megatron in the act of something he can't explain away."

Prowl was silent. So was Magnus. Even Ratchet, who still looked wary, didn’t raise another objection.

Then Jazz gave a slow, impressed nod. "Well, slag. You might actually be onto something."

Wheeljack beamed. "Told you."

"So when do we launch the test run?" Arcee asked.

"Tonight," Wheeljack said with a smirk. "And if it works... we're about to get a real look into the Decepticon hive."

Hours after dusk, under a simulated meteorological disturbance orchestrated by Wheeljack and Jetfire, the Firefly took flight. It zipped through wind-whipped skies and into the fold of Decepticon airspace, its iridescent wings vanishing into the gloom. Below, the perimeter sensors hummed and glowed—but detected nothing.

Back inside Autobot HQ, the central command screen sprang to life.

Jetfire tapped several controls.
“We’re in,” he announced crisply.

Optimus Prime, Jazz, Prowl, Arcee, Bulkhead, Ratchet, Bumblebee, and Ultra Magnus formed a tense semicircle before the screen. The feed was exquisitely clear—long-range corridors lined with Decepticon glyphs, patrol squads moving methodically, and consoles lit with crimson readouts. Even low-frequency hums and indistinct conversations echoed through the strategically placed speakers.

Jazz murmured in awe, “Primus, it’s like we’re standing inside.”

Prime’s optics gleamed as he scrutinized the image.
“Good. Jetfire, start mapping structural layouts and locating every operational node,” he directed.

The Firefly spy hovered silently, its sleek form gliding with insect-like precision through the warm exhaust gusts of the Decepticon base’s interior. It had already captured striking footage: the high-ceilinged halls of the Decepticon stronghold, maze-like corridors lined with glowing glyphs, rotating defense turrets scanning but never detecting its presence.

Suddenly, a blur of movement streaked across its sensor field.

“Contact—two hostiles moving fast, heading northbound through Corridor Sigma-4!” Jetfire called out, leaning closer to the console as he magnified the feed.

The monitor’s image zoomed and stabilized, revealing the small but familiar forms of Frenzy and Rumble, bolting at full speed down the metal corridors.

“Scrap, they’re fast,” Bumblebee muttered, watching as the two casseticons weaved around startled vehicons and nearly collided with a hover crate.

The spy bot adjusted its flight path, ascending slightly to avoid being crushed by a passing energon hauler. Its wings buzzed with silent energy as it pursued the pair, keeping a consistent but subtle distance.

From the control room back at Autobot HQ, Jetfire manipulated the console with focused intensity.
“Adjusting tracking vector… We’ve got them on full audio and visual. Routing now.”

The central screen shifted, now centered on Frenzy and Rumble. Their rapid footsteps echoed through the corridor, interspersed with fragments of frantic conversation:

“—late, late, late! Soundwave’s gonna wipe our data cores if we’re not there in two kliks!”
“He said be back after training, not whenever we feel like it!”

Optimus Prime, arms crossed, narrowed his optics.
“They’re in a hurry. Jetfire—keep the Firefly on them. If we’re lucky, they’re headed to Soundwave.”

“Already done,” Jetfire confirmed, fingers tapping on the screen to lock tracking parameters. “Estimated destination: either comms core… or one of Soundwave’s internal archives.”

Prowl tilted his helm. “If that’s true, we’ll have the chance to observe Soundwave’s behavior directly—and maybe confirm Starscream’s role.”

The screen now displayed smooth, uninterrupted footage of the Firefly tailing the casseticons. The lighting within the corridors shifted from industrial yellow to a colder, deeper blue as they entered the lower sanctum of the base—an area lightly documented by any prior intel.

“New zone detected,” Jetfire said, pinging the updated coordinates into the tactical map. “Looks like they’re nearing the encrypted wing. Definitely not a maintenance area.”

Wheeljack grinned, arms folded. “Told ya this baby could do it.”

Optimus didn’t answer immediately. He was watching—listening—as Frenzy and Rumble neared a closed set of doors, chattering non-stop.

“Hope Starscream doesn’t make us do homework again.”
“Ugh, last time he made us rewrite all thirty stars of the Spiral Drift… by hand! Who even uses stylus input anymore?”

Several Autobots exchanged stunned glances. Arcee’s optics widened.

“Wait—homework? Did he say Starscream?”

“Rewinding two kliks,” Jetfire muttered, pulling the audio log back and replaying the clip. The phrase was unmistakable.

“...Starscream doesn’t make us do homework again…”

Optimus Prime’s voice was low but firm.
“He’s teaching them.”

Jazz, who had been unusually quiet, broke the silence. “I always thought Starscream was just a backstabbin’ glitch with a talent for screechin’. But this? This ain’t a war room—it’s a school.”

The Firefly moved again, entering behind the casseticons through a security door just before it slid shut. Its visual feed shimmered momentarily as it passed through a high-grade static field—meant to block unauthorized transmissions—but Jetfire’s engineering held strong.

Inside was a wide-open room dimly lit by starmaps and holoscreens. Rumble and Frenzy rushed toward a side alcove, where a tall, imposing silhouette was finishing a data transmission.

The moment the figure turned, Optimus recognized him.

Soundwave.

The Firefly drifted silently above the threshold as the heavy blast doors sealed shut behind it. Within, the chamber shifted in both tone and architecture—cooler, quieter, charged with the low hum of power and encrypted signals that pulsed through data conduits embedded in the walls. The room was Soundwave’s command nest, a space both observatory and processing center, saturated with incoming signals and high-level surveillance streams.

Standing at the central terminal, Soundwave—tall, dark, inscrutable—typed silently with fluid precision, his long fingers a blur across the interface. His visor pulsed a low, thoughtful blue as he completed the encryption sequence of his current task, a low chime confirming transmission.

The deep mechanical clack of smaller feet scrambling into the room snapped him out of his focus. He didn’t turn immediately—he didn’t need to. His audio sensors had already picked up the unique frequency signatures of the two casseticons well before they even reached the door.

“Frenzy. Rumble.” His modulated voice sliced through the air with eerie calm. “Late.”

The two casseticons skidded to a halt just meters away from him, panting dramatically more out of habit than necessity.

Frenzy was the first to speak, jittery hands gesturing wildly. “We tried! I swear, we were gonna be early, but—!”

Rumble cut in, throwing both hands up in exasperation. “Tarn was in the hallway! His broad rust-plated chassis took up the whole corridor! We couldn’t pass! He was meditating or something!”

Frenzy nodded furiously. “We beeped at him! He just growled and vibrated! It was weird!”

Soundwave finally turned, tilting his helm downward ever so slightly as he regarded them. Behind his visor, the blue pulse narrowed as if blinking with muted disapproval.

“Tardiness: disruptive. Excuses: irrelevant.”

He turned back to his terminal and input a swift command. From a side compartment, two datapads slid free with a mechanical hiss and hovered toward the casseticons, carried by tiny magnetic levitators.

Soundwave extended one long arm, catching each pad before they dropped.

“Instructional materials: Week Five. Units: Stellar Drift Mapping and Early Interplanetary Trade Routes.”

He handed Frenzy his pad, then Rumble’s.

“Starscream: begins in six point three minutes. Go.”

The twins blinked.

“Wait—he’s doing trade routes today? I thought we were still on star clusters!” Rumble grumbled, clutching the datapad like it was radioactive.

Frenzy was already flipping through his. “Aw, man, he gave us homework on Cybertronian economic migration! Again!”

Soundwave’s voice didn’t shift in tone. “Starscream: emphasizes historical context. Compliance: expected.”

The casseticons groaned in stereo.

“We’re going, we’re going!” Frenzy said, sprinting off toward the west corridor.

“Don’t tell him we were late!” Rumble added over his shoulder. “Or that we said anything about the migration notes!”

The Firefly, unnoticed and undetectable, buzzed silently after them, its lens adjusting focus as it kept the perfect distance, capturing every word, every flicker of blue light from Soundwave’s screen, every irritated mutter of Rumble as he stumbled over a floating holo-text display still open in the hallway.

Back at Autobot HQ, the silence in the command center was near complete.

On the main screen, Jetfire froze the feed at the moment Soundwave handed over the datapads.

Prowl exhaled softly. “So… it’s real. Starscream is teaching them. Real subjects. Structured curriculum.”

Ratchet stared at the datapad display. “Week Five? He’s been doing this for over a month?”

Wheeljack, despite the gravity of the revelation, leaned back in his chair with a triumphant grin. “Told ya it was worth it.”

Optimus slowly approached the screen, optics narrowing on the frozen image. His voice, when he finally spoke, was thoughtful—low and reflective.

“Starscream… was once a scientist on Cybertron, before the war.”

Arcee nodded, still watching the screen. “Yeah, but I thought he buried that part of himself after joining the Decepticons.”

“Apparently not,” Jetfire murmured. “Not only is he still practicing, he’s mentoring. Teaching Soundwave’s casseticons no less.”

“Which makes Soundwave an accomplice,” Jazz added. “And willing, by the looks of it.”

Optimus’s expression hardened slightly. “If Starscream is leading these lessons inside the base, there may be more than education going on. This… could be political.”

Prowl tapped his finger thoughtfully. “We need more footage. Let the Firefly follow them to Starscream’s lab. If it’s half as large as Soundwave’s, we’ll know for sure where his real influence lies.”

“Agreed,” said Optimus. “Jetfire—don’t lose them.”

Jetfire gave a firm nod and resumed tracking. “Firefly is locked on target. Following Frenzy and Rumble now. If Starscream really is what the Decepticons have been hiding, we’re about to find out.”

The spy drone known as Firefly hovered silently in the metallic corridor, its sleek design reflecting the dim lights of the Decepticon base. Every whirr of its tiny turbines was soundless, concealed by the advanced dampening systems designed by Wheeljack and Jetfire—systems even Soundwave hadn’t cracked.

Ahead, Frenzy and Rumble darted down the hall, their footfalls echoing faintly. They skidded to a stop in front of a towering metal door embedded with a sophisticated multi-lock mechanism and a biometric password reader positioned higher than either cassette’s reach.

“Ugh, every time,” Rumble groaned, already squatting with practiced reluctance. “Just get up there and don’t kick my optics.”

Frenzy scrambled up his brother’s back, standing unsteadily on his shoulders. “Hold still, will ya?” He grunted, stretching as far as his small frame would allow. “Almost… there…”

With a faint click, the reader accepted the passcode—an ancient Decepticon encryption followed by a voiceprint authorization: “Access Code: Starlance Seven.”

The door hissed and groaned before retracting upward in slow, deliberate segments, revealing the interior beyond.

Rumble didn’t wait.

He dropped down and charged ahead. “Race ya to the pillows!”

“Hey!” Frenzy yelped, the door closing behind him mid-descent. He slipped and fell flat on his rear, grumbling into the floor. “You glitchhead!”

But there was no time for pouting. With a bounce, Frenzy pushed himself up and ran after his twin.

Firefly zipped after them, its lens auto-adjusting as it entered the next chamber—and immediately, its processors flared with data.

The laboratory was enormous.

Far larger than Shockwave’s austere chamber of logic and circuitry, this space was alive. Clean. Purposeful. Loved.

The polished floors shimmered with recent cleaning, faintly reflecting the soft environmental lights strung along the ceiling in calm, ambient pulses. Everything had a place. Everything functioned. Sectors of the lab were marked off with gleaming signage in ancient Cybertronian glyphs—one for Biology, another for Energy Physics, one labeled Archives, and a massive space toward the rear marked Environmental Stabilization.

In the heart of the room, a small lounge-like nook was cordoned off—clearly meant for younger visitors. Blankets, soft-stuffed energon pillows, and an old computer terminal were arranged against the far wall. Small learning pads blinked with paused lesson summaries, waiting to resume.

Frenzy and Rumble threw themselves onto the cushions with the practiced ease of regular visitors. Frenzy flipped onto his back, datapad on his chest. “Ugh. I hope we’re not starting with trade law again…”

“Just act like you’re paying attention. He gives us energon cubes if we answer questions right,” Rumble grinned.

But Firefly did not focus on them. The drone veered upward, its lens locking onto the figure at the center of the lab.

Starscream.

And he was… smiling.

Kneeling gracefully on one knee, the Decepticon second-in-command was placing a feeding dish along the interior wall of a vast enclosure. Inside the enclosure, a pair of young turbolions—sleek mechanical felines with turbine engines integrated into their shoulders—chirped and padded eagerly toward the offering. One cub leapt, stumbled over its oversized paws, and was nudged gently back by what must’ve been its mother.

Starscream chuckled under his breath, his crimson optics glowing warmly. “Easy now, little whirlwind. It’s just energon jelly, not prey.”

He reached into a nearby containment tray and scattered a handful of mineral-rich dust over the bowl. The older turbolion sniffed, approved, and let her cubs feed first.

The enclosure shimmered subtly—a controlled climate field, Firefly registered. Internal temperature: warm. Moisture level: regulated. Wind simulation: gentle draft, one-directional. Biome classified: artificial savannah, complete with soft mineral sand, petrified wood, and reconstructed flora from Cybertron’s forgotten Equinox Plateau.

Starscream stood, moving with uncharacteristic calm. His wings twitched softly as he walked the boundary between enclosures, tapping controls along the outer shell to inspect environmental metrics.

Firefly’s lens widened.

There were dozens of enclosures.

Rows of sanctuaries, each one a preserved or reconstructed biome—artificial ecosystems rebuilt with incredible care and detail. And inside them?

Living relics.

Small packs of skyfoxes curled up beneath artificial crystal-leafed trees, their lithe metal bodies glowing faintly in stasis-friendly sleep.

Two turbinewolves chased each other through a fog-shrouded biome simulating the icy steppes of the northern Rust Wastes.

Elsewhere, a nest of cybershrikes chirped with high-pitched songlines, mimicking planetary harmonics no one had heard since the War of Nine Gates.

They were all alive. Alive.

Creatures the Autobots believed to be long extinct… preserved. Protected.

Nurtured.

By Starscream.

Back in Autobot HQ, the command center had gone dead silent. The room, full of bots once skeptical of Firefly’s purpose, now stood still—transfixed.

The video stream played in full definition, the lab displayed in perfect clarity. Even the audio was flawless; Starscream’s murmured notes and soft encouragements to the cubs carried cleanly across the bridge.

Optimus Prime, jaw tense and optics unreadable, stepped forward.

“…He rebuilt lost ecosystems,” he whispered.

Ratchet leaned forward, optics wide. “Those turbolions… those were believed gone since the fall of the Six Colonies. I treated one once—centuries ago.”

Prowl’s fingers hovered over his datapad. “This explains his massive energy requests. This is where it all went. He wasn’t building weapons…”

“He was building sanctuaries,” Jetfire said, awe in his voice.

Wheeljack, voice almost quiet now, spoke up. “He’s not just maintaining the species… he’s studying them. Cataloging. There are scientific notations on the far wall—motion patterns, reproductive cycles, environmental thresholds…”

Jazz folded his arms. “And he’s teaching the casseticons here, in this place.”

Firefly zoomed in again just as Starscream turned from the enclosure. He approached a console that unfolded from the floor, already pre-loaded with a schematic of the turbinewolf den. He made notes as he observed.

“Stabilized climate matrix holding,” Starscream muttered, almost to himself. “Turbinewolves adapting to higher oxygen saturation… cub activity increased by 14% from last week. Remarkable resilience…”

And he smiled again.

A genuine one.

No smirk. No sneer. Just quiet, vulnerable satisfaction.

And in that moment, even Optimus Prime faltered.

“Starscream…” he murmured, half in disbelief. “You never stopped being a scientist.”

Starscream barely had time to return his datapad to the console before a small, hurried pounding echoed through the lab’s wide corridor.

“Ah, you’re late again,” Starscream said, turning toward the source of the noise with a mixture of mild exasperation and quiet fondness.

Frenzy and Rumble came barreling around the corner, their footsteps echoing heavily against the polished floors.

“Not our fault!” Frenzy protested breathlessly, brushing metallic dust off his forearms. “Tarn was blocking the way with his massive war chassis! It was like trying to squeeze past a walking fortress!”

Rumble nodded vigorously, adjusting his visor. “Yeah! No way we could’ve gotten here faster!”

Starscream’s optics narrowed slightly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Very well. But punctuality is a discipline, as important as any lesson.”

The two casseticons exchanged sheepish glances before sliding to a stop in front of their mentor.

“Here,” Starscream said, picking up two sleek datapads resting on a nearby table and handing them over to the twins. “Today’s material awaits your attention.”

Rumble caught his tablet with a clatter, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and trepidation.

Frenzy, ever the smaller but no less eager of the two, flicked on his screen. The title page glowed softly: “Cybertronian Stellar Cartography and Historical Analysis – Module 7”.

Starscream gestured for them to sit on the plush blankets scattered near the lounge area, then took a small step back, arms folded neatly behind his back.

“Now,” he began, voice smooth but commanding, “mapping the stars is not merely an exercise in navigation, but an exploration of our history written across the cosmos. Each constellation is a beacon of our ancestors’ stories, battles, alliances, and… betrayals.”

Frenzy blinked. “It sounds complicated.”

“It is,” Starscream acknowledged, “but a skilled teacher breaks complexity into manageable fragments.” His crimson optics glimmered with pride. “That is what I intend to do.”

Opening his datapad, Starscream summoned a shimmering holographic starfield between them. Tiny points of light coalesced into intricate patterns, some shining brighter with annotations and ancient runes.

He pointed to a glowing constellation shaped like a great bird—the Seekers’ Sigil. “This cluster represents the Seekers’ home system, Kaon IX, once thought lost. Its patterns tell of early exploration efforts and serve as a guide for stellar navigation even today.”

Rumble’s optic flickered in awe. “It’s like a map and a history book all in one.”

Starscream nodded. “Precisely. The stars remember what we sometimes choose to forget.”

The lesson progressed smoothly, with Starscream explaining the origins of various stellar formations, their historical significance, and their practical applications. He paused frequently, checking to see the twins’ understanding, adjusting his pace with the patience of a master scholar.

Every time Frenzy or Rumble stumbled over a particularly tricky concept or mispronounced an archaic term, Starscream would smile softly and provide a clarifying example or analogy—sometimes humorous, sometimes poetic.

Watching quietly from the doorway was Bulkhead, one of the Autobots assigned to base security. Usually more comfortable with heavy lifting and combat tactics than academic lessons, Bulkhead found himself surprisingly drawn in.

“Didn't think star charts could be this interesting,” Bulkhead muttered under his breath, scratching the back of his neck. “Starscream’s breaking it down so even I get it.”

Starscream’s voice carried over, clear and confident. “Knowledge is a weapon, Frenzy,Rumble, often sharper than any blade.”

Frenzy and Rumble were visibly buoyed by the praise, their optics brightening.

When the casseticons’ seeker emblems glowed—a subtle sign of their progress—Starscream reached to a nearby compartment and retrieved two glowing energon cubes. “A reward for your focus and effort,” he said, handing them the delicacies infused with a delicate sweetness.

Frenzy bit into his with a delighted grin. “This is better than anything in the mess hall!”

Starscream allowed himself a rare smile. “Learning should nourish both mind and body.”

Bulkhead gave a short nod, as if conceding an unspoken truth.

“Don’t let Tarn block you next time,” Starscream warned lightly as the lesson concluded, “or your next reward may be a detention of your own.”

Frenzy and Rumble laughed, ready and eager for whatever Starscream had in store next.

The class did not last long—barely half a standard cycle's half-hour. Starscream had no more to spare.

Between coordinating Decepticon patrols, calibrating new weapons for field use, overseeing his lab's delicate sanctuary systems, managing combat simulations, and personally training his entire squadron of high-strung, high-explosive aerial bots, the tricolor Seeker’s day was always a whirlwind. And even that felt like an understatement.

It was only thanks to the quiet support of his trine—Thundercracker’s calm, methodical presence and Skywarp’s spontaneous but loyal assistance—that Starscream even had this narrow slice of time to share knowledge. His optics were dimmer than usual, weariness heavy beneath them, his posture kept straight through sheer pride and force of will. But when he taught, a different light animated him. For a moment, he wasn’t second-in-command, war strategist, or elite flier—he was a scientist again.

Frenzy and Rumble, still buzzing from their energon treats and eager to impress, gathered up their datapads when Starscream’s chronometer chimed softly.

“Class dismissed,” he said, a flicker of softness in his otherwise commanding tone. “But before you go—your assignment.”

He turned toward a sealed containment shelf and pressed a palm against the identification panel. With a gentle hiss, a compartment slid open, revealing two pristine, crystal-clear terrariums. Inside each, nestled in the soft glimmer of nutrient-rich moss and softly humming mineral stones, was a single, small Cybertronian larva. Pale metal segments curled delicately beneath protective fins, their sensors fluttering like miniature radar dishes, soft and slow. Despite their faint movements, each larva thrummed with life.

Frenzy and Rumble stepped forward, eyes wide.

“This,” Starscream said, carefully lifting each terrarium and handing one to each twin, “is Cypapilla electra, a rare species thought extinct after the bombing of the Kaon biolabs. I saved what I could during the fall of the research districts.”

Rumble cradled his terrarium with reverence. “Whoa. They’re… they’re kind of cute.”

Starscream smirked. “If you say so. Your assignment is to keep them alive.”

Frenzy’s optics snapped toward him in alarm. “Wait, what?!”

“You heard me,” Starscream replied coolly, arms folded now. “You will be responsible for managing the ecosystem within your terrarium—maintaining proper temperature, light cycles, humidity, and ensuring correct nutrient feeding. I’ve included a microfile database in your datapads.”

Rumble turned his terrarium slowly. “Are… are we gonna turn them into something?”

Starscream’s expression grew more distant, almost wistful. “In the right conditions, and with enough care… they will develop into Cybertronian butterflies. Each one unique. And the form they take—wing shape, luminescence, coding patterns—will depend entirely on how well you raise them.”

Frenzy looked at his brother. “Bro. This is way cooler than weapons class.”

Rumble nodded slowly, watching the larva wiggle gently in its cocoon of moss. “We get to make something. Like… really make it.”

Starscream nodded, quietly satisfied. “And perhaps in doing so, you will better understand the fragility of life. And why some of us choose to preserve it, even in the middle of war.”

For a second, Frenzy looked up at Starscream as if seeing him completely differently. “You really like doing this, huh?”

Starscream’s smile was subtle, but real. “More than I let on.”

As the two cassette twins carefully secured their new terrariums in their subspace compartments, the trine reentered the lab. Thundercracker approached quietly, handing Starscream a datapad with the day’s flight rosters. Skywarp blinked toward the twins, then muttered, “Yo, you two didn’t crash the lab this time. Progress.”

“Hey!” Frenzy barked, mock offended. “We’re scientists now!”

Skywarp just smirked.

Thundercracker gave a low hum of approval as he glanced at Starscream. “Got through the whole lesson again?”

“Just barely,” Starscream muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I have to reschedule the tactical debriefing with Dreadwing if I want to recalibrate the targeting software before the next sortie.”

Skywarp threw an arm around Starscream’s shoulders. “Or you could delegate like a sane mech and nap for once.”

Starscream snorted. “Not when no one else around here knows the difference between a molecular dispersal coil and a cryo-core.”

As the trine continued their exchange, Firefly—the spy insect camera—hovered above, still unnoticed in the upper corners of the lab, its lenses capturing every glimmer of data, every word, every gesture.

Back at the Autobot base, Jetfire and Wheeljack stared at the playback in stunned silence. Optimus stood just behind them, arms folded, optics focused, yet visibly confused.

“Are… are those terrariums?” asked Jazz, stepping closer to the main screen. “Like, actual lifeforms?”

Jetfire nodded, his voice low with disbelief. “Rare species from pre-war Cybertron. I’d seen fragments of them in the archives, but… they were thought extinct. That one larva alone is priceless.”

Prowl murmured, “And Starscream… is teaching casseticons how to raise them?”

Wheeljack’s brow plates furrowed. “This ain’t posturing or propaganda. This was a private class. He didn’t know we were watching.”

Bulkhead muttered from the back, “I mean, I never thought I’d say it, but… Starscream actually seems kinda… responsible.”

Windblade’s voice was quiet, and her expression unreadable. “That’s not a war lab. That’s a sanctuary.”

Optimus Prime remained silent for a long moment. Then he leaned closer to the screen, watching the way Starscream’s wings dipped as he turned to inspect his sanctuaries—checking atmospheric levels, ensuring feeding stations were balanced.

This wasn’t for show. This wasn’t for Megatron.

This was Starscream, unfiltered.

Optimus spoke at last, his voice low and thoughtful.

“Keep following the camera. Let’s see what else the Seeker is hiding.”

Starscream stood with his arms crossed, wings angled slightly back in fatigue, but his tone remained sharp and authoritative as he addressed his trine. Thundercracker leaned casually against a support beam nearby while Skywarp lounged atop a storage crate, lazily tossing a servo-sized nut into the air and catching it.

“I want the aerials’ defense drills pushed to the third shift,” Starscream said crisply. “Too many are crashing circuits over that last live-fire exercise. I’ll rework the combat patterns tonight.”

Skywarp groaned. “Again? Screamer, when do you even recharge?”

“I’ll do it when the squad stops nearly killing each other for fun,” Starscream shot back, then pointed a finger in Skywarp’s direction. “And I swear, if anyone touches the rack of seeker weapons I pulled for recalibration—especially Dirge—I’ll personally weld your wings together mid-warp.”

Skywarp raised both servos defensively. “Alright, alright! No one touches the fancy guns, got it.”

Starscream turned to Thundercracker, his expression hardening further. “T.C., keep optics on Ramjet. He’s been poking around again with that ridiculous sled of his. Last I saw him, he was ranting at Blitzwing in the hangar about ‘triplechangers stealing aerial territory.’”

Thundercracker gave a low sigh and a nod. “He never shuts up, that one. You think he’ll actually try to incite something?”

“He won’t need to try,” Starscream said bitterly. “Blitzwing’s got a shorter fuse than a frag grenade, and Ramjet knows exactly how to light it. Keep them separated. If they’re both in the hangar again, move one out.”

Skywarp chuckled under his breath. “You sure you don’t wanna lob ‘em both into the far orbit for a bit? Call it a training exercise.”

Starscream didn’t even dignify that with a response. He merely massaged his temple with two fingers, optics dimming briefly. “No fights. No property damage. No more energon leaks in Sector Three. I am this close to declaring that hallway off-limits.”

Thundercracker gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “We’ve got your back, Screamer. Go calibrate your toys.”

Starscream exhaled slowly and nodded, before turning toward the weapon bench, muttering, “They’re not toys, they're precision instruments of warfare.”

Behind them, Firefly continued to record from the shadows above.

Thundercracker gave a lazy two-finger salute as he turned down the corridor. “We’ll handle it, boss. Try not to explode before shift rotation.”

“Or during,” Skywarp chimed in with a grin, winking as he vanished in a purple flash of teleportation.

Starscream exhaled heavily once the echoes of their steps and Warp's warp were gone, wings sagging. He dragged himself toward the chair by the main console—an old but polished thing reinforced to support the weight of heavier Decepticons—and collapsed into it with an audible clunk. His servos dropped onto the armrests like dead weight.

He allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, rubbing a stiff joint on his shoulder as his wings twitched in discomfort.

“I need a hot bath,” he muttered bitterly, “with pressure jets and high-grade wing solvent. Preferably in silence. Maybe a massage with cooling gel. A recharge cycle longer than four megacycles. Maybe an orbital vacation. But no—no, no, of course not. Too many fragging aerials, not enough time.”

He leaned back in the chair, optics dimming slightly, and let his helm fall back with a faint clank. “If Primus has even a shred of pity for me, he won’t throw anything else at my—”

HISSSSSHHHHH—

The lab door slid open with a sharp pneumatic release. Starscream’s optics snapped open, his entire frame tensing as the tall, cold figure of Shockwave stepped inside, cradling something massive in his arms. Three massive ovoid shapes, dull and bone-colored with age, were nestled securely in reinforced braces—eggs.

Starscream bolted upright in his chair, already shaking his helm.

“No. No. No no no, Shockwave, do not even think about it. Don’t you dare bring those prehistoric paperweights in here.”

Shockwave approached undeterred, eye glowing faintly. “Your response is illogical,” he stated flatly. “You have successfully reinstated multiple extinct flora and fauna, established controlled sanctuaries, and demonstrated care methodologies for high-risk biological development cycles. By extrapolation, you are the most suitable subject for their incubation.”

Starscream scrambled out of his chair and backed away, wings flaring instinctively. “They’re Predacon eggs, Shockwave! That’s not a turbofox or a turbinewolf—that’s a biological war machine! Do you even remember what happened the last time someone hatched one?”

Shockwave tilted his helm, as if vaguely curious. “Affirmative. It escaped containment and incinerated three hangar wings. My calculations have since improved. Furthermore, these eggs are nearly fossilized. You are the only one with the expertise to potentially reverse the embryonic stasis without compromising structural integrity.”

He stepped forward once more and—unceremoniously—dropped the three massive eggs directly into Starscream’s flailing arms. The seeker stumbled, nearly falling backward under the sheer weight, wings flapping to steady himself as he glared up at Shockwave with disbelief and outrage.

“Shockwave—!”

The mono-optic scientist was already turning. “Failure to attempt incubation would be a statistically significant loss to Cybertronian bio-archives. You are the logical choice. Good evening.”

The door hissed shut behind him.

Starscream stood frozen for a full two seconds, arms full of ancient weaponized embryos, looking like he wanted to scream.

“… I hate this base,” he muttered venomously, dragging the eggs toward the back of the lab while mumbling every curse in the Vosianlanguage.

The command room of the Autobot base was unusually silent—save for the steady hum of the main screen and the low, metallic clicking of Jetfire's fingers flying across the console. On the monitor, the live feed from Firefly, the robo-spy insect, streamed in crisp, high-definition clarity. Every audio byte, every shift in tone and posture from the Decepticons was captured in perfect detail. And right now, that camera was showing Starscream—buried up to his neck in responsibility.

Bulkhead leaned in, optics wide. “Scrap… I knew Starscream did stuff, but this? He’s runnin’ half that base like it’s a science museum and a military boot camp in one.”

“Those cyber-animal sanctuaries weren’t for show,” Arcee murmured, arms crossed. “He’s been keeping endangered species alive. That’s not something I ever expected from a Decepticon.”

“Look,” Bumblebee said, pointing at the screen. “He’s got datapads stacked across the lab now—and check the overlay. Jetfire, zoom in!”

Jetfire nodded and enhanced the image. “There. Recording multiple entries in rapid sequence—dates, supply requests, energy flow estimates… and now he’s pulling ancient Decepticon biological warfare logs.”

“He’s gathering data,” Ratchet confirmed, squinting. “Scanning for any record they ever had on Predacons. And he’s—Primus, he’s organizing a new sanctuary protocol already. Temperature gradients, magnetic field shielding, reinforced containment frames. He’s doing all this while shouting at everyone in Vosian.”

Optimus Prime stood silent behind them, arms folded tightly across his chest, his optics hard. Onscreen, Starscream was in full multitask mode—snapping in Vosian at unseen assistants, juggling datapads and commands, while simultaneously hauling old, half-disintegrated schematics onto the console. One hand worked while the other scrawled frantically on a separate pad, tail fins twitching as he paced.

“Shockwave dumped Predacon eggs in his lab,” Jazz said, his voice unusually grim. “That’s like handing someone a spark-bomb and saying, ‘Hold this for a few weeks, would ya?’”

“Correction,” Jetfire added. “Three eggs. Ancient. Likely dormant for thousands of stellar cycles.”

“No wonder he’s losing his processor,” Wheeljack muttered. “He’s already training a bunch of aerials, handling casseticons, balancing sanctuaries, and now they want him to raise bioengineered monsters like they’re a science fair project?!”

Arcee frowned. “And he’s still doing it. Not questioning, not stalling. Just… handling it.”

Onscreen, Starscream shouted something in rapid Vosian, slammed a datapad onto the table, and began scanning one of the eggs with a multi-spectrum lens. The vocal translator flickered briefly:

“I SWEAR TO THE CODE OF PRAXUS IF THESE THINGS EXPLODE I WILL HAUNT YOU ALL—Skywarp, I swear if you touch that temperature regulator I’ll FEED YOU TO THEM—Thundercracker, make sure that brute Blitzwing doesn’t get within a mile of this room—AND SOMEBODY BRING ME FOUR MORE STASIS PODS!”

The Autobots were frozen for a moment.

Then Jazz chuckled dryly. “Well… he’s not wrong. Blitzwing would try to crack one open just to see what’s inside.”

Ratchet exhaled through his vents. “That Seeker may be arrogant, loud, dramatic—”

“—and infuriating,” Arcee added helpfully.

“—but he’s holding a collapsing Decepticon infrastructure together with nothing but instinct and sarcasm. That’s no soldier.” He looked at Optimus. “That’s a leader. One who wasn’t meant to be, maybe, but one who became it anyway.”

Optimus Prime’s expression didn’t change, but his optics remained fixed on Starscream's image. The Seeker was now adjusting chamber pressure values, modifying ultraviolet exposure parameters for incubation, while simultaneously pulling visual logs of past Predacon development—anything from neural imprinting patterns to feeding cycles.

“He’s preparing a sanctuary before they hatch,” Optimus said softly. “He’s ensuring the environment is safe, stable—controlled. That’s not just containment. That’s… compassion.”

“No Decepticon would do that unless he cared,” Bumblebee said quietly.

“And the others listen to him,” Bulkhead added. “Thundercracker, Skywarp, even those minibots. They trust him.”

Wheeljack let out a low whistle. “Guess that little Firefly turned out a lot more useful than I expected.”

Jetfire leaned back from the console. “We now have access to the most detailed view of the Decepticon base we’ve ever had—and an understanding that their second-in-command might be the only one keeping it from tearing itself apart.”

Optimus finally turned away from the screen. “Keep Firefly on Starscream for now. I want to see how far he’ll go… and whether he’ll succeed.”

He paused.

“And if the time comes when he reaches a limit—when the burden is too great—I want us to be ready. Not to attack.”

His voice deepened, full of gravity.

“But to help.”

The Autobots' quiet awe evaporated the instant Megatron entered the lab.

The image on the main screen shifted. Firefly’s angle adjusted automatically, tracking the warlord’s imposing form as he stepped through the heavy Decepticon doors. Bulkhead tensed. Arcee’s optics narrowed. Even Ratchet clenched his servos.

“Scrap,” Bumblebee muttered. “He’s in there.”

Starscream hadn’t noticed him yet. The seeker, still elbow-deep in field notes and energy regulators, snapped in Vosian toward the entryway—clearly assuming it was Shockwave returning to dump more responsibilities on him.

“I swear if you brought another endangered acidspitter into—”

Then he looked up.

Starscream froze.

His wings stiffened and his tailfins twitched involuntarily. The datapad slipped from his claw and clattered to the floor. The tricolor Seeker’s posture changed instantly—from exasperated defiance to brittle tension. His entire frame locked up.

Onscreen, Megatron said nothing.

He simply stepped forward, his crimson optics scanning the sanctuary Starscream had built into the far half of the lab. The lights were dimmer there, basked in soft heat and mist from climate-regulation vents. Low, ambient hums filled the space, and around them, in neatly structured enclosures, lived a living testament to Starscream’s hidden compassion: phosphorescent birds nesting above chromatic plants, bio-luminescent fish flickering in micro-gravity aquariums, rare Cybertronian insects fluttering in suspended stasis-globes. In the center of it all, encased in a tri-layered crystal vitrine, rested the three ancient Predacon eggs.

“Primus…” Arcee whispered.

Starscream tried to speak—an excuse, a protest, a plea—but the moment shattered when Megatron moved.

Without warning, the warlord reached out and grabbed Starscream’s face in one powerful servo. It wasn’t a slap. It wasn’t even a blow. It was worse—deliberate, forceful contact that yanked the Seeker’s face upward, making him look directly into Megatron’s burning optics.

Starscream flinched, wings trembling. Onscreen, his digits rose slowly in a defensive posture, but he didn’t fight. He couldn’t.

“You forget,” Megatron said lowly, his voice laced with acid. “This sanctuary—this little corner you call your own—you only have it because I allowed you to keep it.”

The Autobots watched in silence, furious and helpless.

“I gave you this space,” Megatron went on, “on the condition that you’d develop new weapons. Tools for war. Not shelters for wriggling things with wings.”

Starscream’s vocalizer fluttered before he found his words. “You said I could—”

“I said you could work.” Megatron squeezed just enough to make Starscream wince. “Shockwave says you’re the best chance those Predacons have to hatch. So fine. They’re yours—for now. But make no mistake, Starscream.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping into a deadly whisper.

“If those eggs die... so does everything in this sanctuary. I will crush your birds, your fish, your precious little experiments with my own hands. Because unlike you, I do not waste energy on sentiment.”

Starscream remained still, his optics wide, jaw trembling in the tight grip. He didn't beg. He didn’t plead. But the fear was there—naked, real.

Then Megatron released him.

The Seeker stumbled back, one hand on his face, wings arching with nervous tremors. Megatron turned without another word and walked away, the echo of his heavy steps growing fainter until the doors sealed shut behind him.

Back at the Autobot base, silence reigned.

Optimus Prime broke it with a quiet, steady breath.

“We keep the feed running,” he said. “Starscream just became something far more important than we thought.”

“Yeah,” Arcee said softly. “He just became trapped.”

Starscream stood still for a long moment after the lab doors slammed shut behind Megatron. His claws were still trembling slightly. His wings sagged, twitching under the weight of held-in panic. Only once he was certain he was alone did he reach over to his console and activate a secured frequency.

::Soundwave.::

The connection was instant, silent, as always. Starscream didn't look at the screen—he didn't have to.

::The casseticons’ classes are suspended,:: Starscream said tightly, without his usual theatrical flair. ::Indefinitely.::

There was no response at first. But Starscream knew Soundwave was listening, watching. The silence was heavy, not empty.

::Tell Frenzy and Rumble that their duty now is their terrariums and their larva,:: the Seeker continued. ::That's their only assignment. They are not to come here again. Not until I say otherwise.::

He finally leaned back in his chair, optics closing briefly as if that could stop the ache crawling up through his wings and the knot in his spark. He took a deep breath before continuing.

::Megatron... almost saw. Not the lessons, not the datapads—thank Primus—but he came too close. If he discovers that I’ve been teaching them... That you asked me to educate them...::

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Soundwave still said nothing, but something changed in the air. A silent pulse of understanding. Guilt. Regret. Something softer.

Starscream's voice dropped to a rasp. ::I won’t let him touch them. Or you. So for now... we stop.::

There was the faintest sound from the other end—a data blip like an acknowledgment, not through voice but code. The message was simple: understood.

Starscream looked over to the tray of untouched energon cubes that Soundwave had left him the cycle before—purer than anything in the Decepticon rations. A rare, silent thank-you. He hadn’t used a single one for himself. All had gone to Skywarp and Thundercracker, to keep them flying and help them sleep.

He reached for one now, hesitated... then set it aside again.

Because the truth was: Starscream didn’t have the appetite anymore.

Starscream rubbed at his optics with the back of his hand, exhaustion radiating from every joint as he opened a private comm-line.

::Skywarp.::

A whoop of displaced air and a flicker of violet light later, and Skywarp blinked into existence mid-air, landing with a light clank beside him, all wide optics and barely contained glee.

“Yooo, Screamer! You called?”

Starscream gestured wordlessly to the small tray of energon cubes he’d placed neatly on the reinforced table. They glowed with a clarity few energon cubes ever held in this base. Purified, stable, clean—Soundwave’s special supply. It shimmered faintly, almost humming.

“I already took mine,” Starscream muttered, voice scratchy and low. “These are for you and Thundercracker.”

Skywarp’s optics widened, the bright violet glow reflecting in the facets of the cubes. “Wait, seriously? You got these for us?”

Starscream only nodded, too drained to fake his usual pride. “I figured it would help you both recharge properly. You’ve both been picking up my slack lately...”

Before he could finish, Skywarp had already whooped again—teleporting the tray and himself in a loud pop to wherever Thundercracker was brooding at the moment. The echo of his giddy laugh lingered behind him, even as he vanished.

Starscream exhaled, long and slow, and sagged back into the old metal chair near the main console. The edges of his wings trembled slightly from the overload of stress. His optics half-dimmed, but he didn’t shut them completely. There was no such thing as true rest in a Decepticon base—not when Megatron could storm in at any moment, not when Shockwave could drop another “logical” monstrosity at his feet.

He sat there in silence, letting himself feel—just for a klik—how deeply, profoundly tired he was.

No patrols. No labs. No weapons. No lessons. Just him, the low hum of machinery, and a moment of fragile peace he knew wouldn’t last.

The Autobots stared at the screen in silence—shaken.

There, under dim Decepticon lab lights, stood Starscream. Clearly worn down, his shoulders drooped, his wings sagging. His energon levels were likely running low, his movements slower than usual—but still, he moved. Not to rest. Not to recharge. But to work.

They had seen him hand Skywarp and Thundercracker the purified cubes Soundwave had secured. But now, it was clear: Starscream had taken none for himself. He had lied, smiling faintly, so that his trine would recharge better. And then, with no rest, he began constructing from scratch what would become the new Predacon sanctuary.

Delicate lengths of curved and twisted metal were bent into shape with his bare servos, forming the start of a nest—huge, precise, and carefully constructed for temperature retention. He moved with instinctual grace, scientific knowledge in every action, and not once did he pause to think of his own well-being.

Optimus Prime’s hands clenched into fists.

“This is... unacceptable,” he said coldly, his tone like thunder held back by sheer discipline. “Megatron has turned Starscream into a machine of war, labor, and obedience. But that Seeker—he’s preserving what’s left of Cybertron.”

“Prime…” Arcee said softly, optics still locked on the screen.

“No more watching,” Optimus said, gaze like steel. “From this moment forward, we protect Starscream and the lives connected to him—every creature, every egg, every habitat he’s preserving. This isn't just about war anymore. It's about the future of Cybertron.”

He turned sharply. “Wheeljack. Jetfire.”

Both snapped to attention.

“Keep Firefly on Starscream. His location. His health. His stress levels. I want everything monitored. If Megatron tightens his grip even one servo too far, we intervene—directly.”

Jetfire nodded, grim. “Understood, Prime.”

“And the base?” Bumblebee asked. “We can’t breach it without tipping our hand.”

“No,” Optimus said. “The sanctuaries are too delicate. We can’t risk open conflict inside Decepticon lines... not yet. But we will make sure Starscream never stands alone again.”

Around him, the Autobots nodded. Every single one. For the first time, they weren’t just fighting against Megatron.

They were fighting for something—for someone.

Chapter Text

Starscream’s hands moved with slow precision, the dim lab lighting casting pale glows against his silver armor. His claws were scratched, his wings trembling ever so slightly with exhaustion—but his optics were sharp, locked on the delicate work in front of him.

The Predacon eggs rested behind him, nestled temporarily in insulated crates filled with cushioning thermowebs. Their energy signatures pulsed faintly, ancient and wild. But Starscream knew they would not survive long like that. They needed a nest. A stable one. With controlled heat and shielding from vibration.

He began by selecting strands of flexible, high-tensile Cybertronian alloy—scavenged from scrap piles and storage units. Each strand had to be heated and twisted into curved supports, shaped in wide arcs to mimic the natural hollows where winged beasts once laid their eggs in the mountains of Kaon. He heated the metal not with torches, but by directing his own internal systems—heating his claws until they glowed, then shaping the metal with care.

A hiss of steam escaped as he quenched one finished support in a cooling gel bath, then laid it next to the others forming a circular skeleton. Bit by bit, he wove the structure like a tapestry, interlocking pieces to create layers of gentle curves—soft enough to cradle, strong enough to absorb impact.

Tiny micro-wires came next—sensitive to temperature and coded to react to any imbalance. He embedded these into the nest’s base, syncing them to a power regulator he repurposed from a downed drone. That would keep the internal warmth consistent, mimicking the volcanic vents where ancient Predacons once nested.

Starscream worked silently, breathing heavier as the hours passed. Occasionally he’d glance at the eggs to check for movement. His optics dimmed slightly—fatigue.

But he didn’t stop.

He padded the inner lining of the nest with a material scavenged from old environmental suits—porous, breathable, and gentle. Embedded among the fibers were minerals and pheromone traces recovered from Shockwave’s samples of predacon scent markers—ancient things, coded into their biology, meant to comfort young still inside the shell.

When he finally paused, arms drooping at his sides, the nest stood completed—a wide, circular cradle surrounded by soft perimeter lighting, humming gently with heat.

It wasn’t beautiful by traditional Decepticon standards. But it was alive with purpose.

Starscream exhaled, unsteady.

Starscream’s body ached, but his mind stayed razor-focused. Once the nest was complete, he moved to the broader work—the full sanctuary. It had to be more than functional. It had to simulate home, the ancient kind, the kind lost to extinction and war. His talons dragged crates of mineral samples and structural alloys toward the construction site, repurposing sections of the Decepticon base’s sublevel into a cavernous chamber.

He began by carefully arranging Cybertronian rocks of varied mass and density across the floor, then meticulously soldering them together with plasma welds to mimic the uneven, organic curves of a natural underground terrain. The rocks were dark, matte, and embedded with copper glints—some chipped and shaped by hand, others left jagged to simulate erosion.

The walls came next—he built them layer by layer, sculpting false ridges into the surface, incorporating hollow recesses that echoed with the softest sounds. The ambient resonance would help keep the future Predacons from developing spatial disorientation, a trait he’d read about in old field manuals salvaged from Shockwave’s forgotten data cores.

For the ceiling, he created arching supports reinforced with dampening alloys to muffle exterior vibrations. Slits along the dome's interior glowed with filtered light, mimicking low sunbeams pushing through mist. It was quiet in the lab—just the soft hiss of welds, the gentle clink of stones settling.

Then came the heart of the habitat: a forged volcanic vein. Starscream constructed it from a mixture of silicate layers and thermogenic filaments, calibrating the flow with utmost care. A slow stream of glowing orange liquid metal trickled down into a shallow pool, radiating consistent warmth. It was utterly false—but visually and thermally perfect. From a distance, it looked alive.

To complete the illusion, he constructed a "lavafall"—a looped cascade that shimmered, cracked, and steamed, maintained by a heat core wired into the floor. It cast flickering light across the rocky surfaces, dancing like old sunlight.

Finally, Starscream returned to the metal nest. He carried it carefully into the deepest pocket of the new cave, placing it in a hollow carved specifically to shield it from wind and temperature fluctuations. One by one, he set the three ancient Predacon eggs within it, adjusting their position with the precision of a medic.

He checked every sensor: thermal, humidity, pressure. Then double-checked them.

Everything was… correct.

He stood back, wings twitching once, expression unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he turned away. He paused at the cave’s threshold, looked over his shoulder just once at the dim, warm glow of the eggs.

He sealed the sanctuary door behind him—locking it with his personal access code.

And then he left the lab in silence.

The Autobots remained silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the screen where the hidden Firefly drone transmitted live footage of Starscream’s completed sanctuary. The ambient lighting of the artificial cave flickered softly, reflecting off the simulated lava pool like ancient firelight. Even through the static of the feed, the craftsmanship was undeniable.

Jetfire adjusted the visual filters on the feed. "Look at that,” he murmured. “Thermal gradients across the cave walls... he’s mimicked volcanic airflow with a single intake vent. That’s not just engineering—it’s instinct.”

Wheeljack leaned in. “And with so little equipment. No external scanners, no auto-levelers, just manual calibration and a datapad. He even regulated the humidity with redirected coolant vents. Who does that under Decepticon resource strain?”

“Starscream,” Jetfire answered simply. “He always had that in him. When we were scientists together, he noticed every variable others missed. Every atmospheric pulse, every elemental trace. He once stabilized a decaying crystal core by watching the shadow angle.”

Ratchet crossed his arms, his optics narrowing—not in disdain, but in thought. “It’s not just technical,” he muttered. “It’s surgical. Every line of metal he soldered into that habitat is like a neural weave. He layered it like tissue—temperature zones, sound insulation, vibration control. That’s not a military nest. That’s a neonatal unit.”

Arcee looked at him, surprised. “Are you saying Starscream’s acting like a doctor?”

Ratchet’s mouth twitched. “No. I’m saying he is one. Just not in the ways we’re used to.”

Bumblebee, who had watched quietly, finally added, “He built all of that… for eggs that might never hatch. For a species he’s never met. And he hasn’t even slept.”

Even Optimus Prime—silent, brooding at the back of the room—felt something stir. Compassion? Admiration? Or fury at the burden Megatron had placed on the Seeker? He gave no sign. But when he spoke, it was final.

“Starscream is no longer a threat,” he said. “He is a protector.And apparently it's always been onne"

Starscream’s steps echoed hollowly through the dimly lit corridors of the Decepticon base, his plating dull under the flickering overhead lights. The Firefly drone followed silently, nestled in the shadows along the ceiling piping—its lens locked on the Seeker’s weary frame.

His wings twitched with stiffness at each step. A slight limp marred his usual confident gait. Every joint, every servo in his frame screamed of overuse. Without pause, he reached up with one trembling hand, pressing firmly into the neck cables just beneath his helm—his thumb and forefingers working in small, practiced circles. It was a brief, instinctive attempt to push back the ache—a pain that never fully left.

The corridors ahead were mostly deserted, a rarity in the usually active Decepticon stronghold. A distorted ventilation hum underscored the sound of his metallic footfalls. The Firefly’s camera caught the slump in his shoulders now—how he hunched ever so slightly to shield his chest. Tired. Drained. Alone.

Starscream halted in front of a tall metal door etched with scientific runes and hazard symbols—Shockwave’s lab. For a moment, he stared at it in silence, his optics dimmed. Then he slowly lifted his servo and entered a code into the recessed panel.

A hiss of released pressure accompanied the door unlocking.

He stepped inside.

The Firefly drone waited just long enough for the doors to close behind him before repositioning above the frame, still recording.

The door sealed behind Starscream with a hiss of hydraulics, and for a brief moment, he hesitated at the threshold of Shockwave's laboratory. The transition from the hallway's stale air into the lab’s chilling atmosphere was immediate and jarring, as if he had stepped into another world—a world without warmth or light or life. The lab was stark in contrast to his own: a den of function devoid of soul.

Where Starscream’s lab was a testament to precision and order—well-lit, clearly labeled sections for research, energy containment, biomechanical growth, and even space for sanctuary habitats—Shockwave’s space was chaos carved into metallic logic. Dim crimson lights pulsed from the corners of the ceiling like mechanical veins, casting long shadows that moved with an eerie life of their own. The walls were scuffed, the metal beneath showing the wear of decades of experiments—some of them likely never documented.

The floor was a grim tapestry. Patches of dried energon crusted around deep grooves in the plating, as if some hapless subject had clawed or been dragged across it. Small pits in the ground, scorched black at the edges, told silent stories of failed experiments or discarded prototypes—each one likely a tragedy never spoken aloud. One wide smear led from the base of a berth to the furnace at the far wall, the stain darkened and brittle, with signs of something being forcibly hauled, twitching or struggling, toward incineration.

It smelled of sterile chemicals mixed with the metallic tang of old energon—sweet and acrid. The air was damp. Not from humidity of comfort, like Starscream's atmospheric-controlled aviary, but from coolant leaks and misting sterilization units that hissed quietly as they recycled corrosive vapor meant to keep biological contaminants from surviving too long.

To Starscream’s right were several metal berths—cold, rectangular slabs embedded into the floor. Each one bore thick, darkly stained chains bolted into the sides, some still with claw marks etched into the steel where subjects had resisted containment. Most of the chains hung slack, swinging faintly as though recently disturbed. One had a manacle snapped clean through, the edge jagged with the force of something not willing to be studied.

A surgical table dominated the center of the room, its slab sloped slightly toward a drain below. Nearby, a wheeled tray stood like a grim trophy case, lined with precise rows of instruments—if one could call them that. Energon-stained saws, sharpened blades, laser scalpels, joint-locking vises, bone strippers, and pulsing neural lances. Each one had a designated place, every tool marked with etched Decepticon numerals. It was not messily arranged. It was meticulous. Purposeful. Cold.

Some of the tools still bore the sticky residue of dried energon. One scalpel, half-cleaned, had started to rust at the edge where Shockwave had paused mid-cleaning—likely interrupted, uninterested in aesthetics.

Monitors blinked to life as Starscream entered, adjusting to his energy signature. Strange shapes floated on the displays—unfamiliar biological scans, Predacon silhouettes dissected down to frame and spark, theoretical schematics involving fusion reactors fused into living matter. Notes were written in Cybertronian shorthand only Shockwave could decipher at a glance.

The lab seemed to breathe around him, quietly alive with pulsing machinery and the cold hum of processors that never rested.

Starscream stood still in the dim light, optics adjusting, wings slightly raised in instinctive tension. The environment scraped against every instinct he had—his own laboratory was sterile, orderly, secure. This… this place was a cage, a battlefield, a dissected corpse of science left rotting under the surgical lights.

And somewhere in here, Shockwave would be waiting...

Starscream moved past the surgical slab without glancing back, his pace brisk and purposeful despite the evident heaviness in his limbs. He approached Shockwave, who—as ever—was consumed by his work. The scientist stood at his central workstation, partially hunched over a flayed arm severed from what must have once been a Vehicon. The limb twitched with residual energy, the fingers curling spasmodically as Shockwave methodically inserted probes into the exposed wires and muscle fibers, documenting each response with cold precision.

The sound of the metal door sealing behind Starscream echoed hollowly through the lab, but Shockwave didn’t pause. His attention remained entirely focused on the twitching limb.

“I’ve completed the construction of the Predacon habitat,” Starscream announced, voice smooth but low, his intonation betraying fatigue. “A thermal-reactive cave system. Simulated humidity, temperature, and geologic pressure based on what little data we’ve gathered from the fossil remains.”

Shockwave didn’t turn. “Acceptable.”

Starscream stepped a little closer, crossing his arms with a tired sigh. “But let’s not delude ourselves. The odds of those eggs hatching are close to nonexistent. The genetic degradation in the samples—let alone the artificial incubation process—it’s—”

“There are still,” Shockwave interrupted, voice even, flat, “statistically calculable chances of successful hatching. Estimated probability: 3.12 percent. Non-zero.”

Starscream tilted his head slightly, a mixture of irritation and resignation settling over his features. “You always did have a talent for finding optimism in mathematical detachment,” he muttered, though there was no real venom in the words.

Shockwave still didn’t look at him. He pressed a button on a console, and the Vehicon arm’s fingers snapped rigidly outward. The limb jerked, sparking where exposed wiring met raw metal, then fell limp.

Starscream shook his helm and didn’t pursue the conversation. He pivoted and strode toward one of the more isolated corners of the lab, where the lighting was marginally better. Here was the weapons cache: racks upon racks of experimental and traditional arms. Cannons, rifles, vibroblades, energy lances, pulse rifles, grenade cores, electro-whips—each perfectly catalogued, though no less grim for their order.

He picked up a long-range pulse rifle first, its casing half scorched from a recent field test. Balancing the weapon against his hip, he began the meticulous process of recalibration. No bench. No stool. He remained standing, shoulders tight, wings occasionally twitching from silent aches. He moved like someone who refused to let himself stop. Like if he paused for even a moment, exhaustion might swallow him whole.

The Firefly that had been tailing him earlier now rested high in the corner of the room, its lens quietly recording the scene as Starscream wordlessly adjusted the scope of another rifle, eyes narrowing as he fine-tuned the focus with a delicate twist of his talons.

Shockwave, never one for small talk, finally broke the silence.

“Megatron,” he said plainly, without glancing up, “has requested your presence in the throne room. Immediately.”

Starscream didn’t stop working. “Of course, he has.”

The pulse rifle clicked back into place as he sealed its power core. He gathered a second, lighter sidearm, calibrated it swiftly, then placed it back onto the rack with surgical efficiency. Not a single wasted motion.

When the last weapon was placed aside, Starscream turned and, without a word of farewell or acknowledgment, exited Shockwave’s grims domain.

The walk to the throne room was quiet, the corridors of the Decepticon base lit in cold hues of violet and steel-blue. The sound of his pedsteps echoed rhythmically—measured, despite his weariness. The seeker’s frame was beginning to protest, cables pulling tight at his neck, servos in his back aching from long hours hunched over tools, metal, and fragile life.

He approached the massive throne room doors and they slid open with a deep groan of pressurized hydraulics.

The throne room was vast, angular, and dark, illuminated mostly by the pale light spilling in from the floor-to-ceiling window that dominated the far end. Outside, Cybertron’s ruined skyline stretched endlessly, jagged and industrial, clouds of ash drifting in the cold upper atmosphere. The war had stripped the planet of its light long ago.

Standing before the window was Megatron.

Tall. Immovable. Regal in his own savage way. He gazed silently out across the desolate world, arms clasped behind his back. He didn’t speak. Didn’t turn. But when Starscream entered, the seeker’s silhouette reflected faintly in the glass—wings tall, stride proud even when burdened.

Megatron smirked, barely visible in the reflection, and turned with a slow, deliberate motion.

He walked with the confidence of someone who had never needed to question his authority. As he approached his massive, throne-like command chair, he gestured silently and seated himself with the imposing weight of a conqueror returning to a war table.

“Starscream,” he said at last, voice like tectonic metal grinding beneath pressure. “While you’re here... calibrate my fusion cannon.”

Starscream blinked. “You could have summoned a technician.”

Megatron looked at him, voice low and calm. “I trust your hands.”

That statement sent a strange, uncomfortable tension through the air.

Starscream said nothing. He moved forward, optics lowering as he approached the throne. He knelt, not out of loyalty but out of obligation—knees touching the cold metal floor with quiet dignity. His fingers hesitated for only a moment before reaching toward the thick cable ports of Megatron’s massive arm cannon, resting against the throne's right arm like an extension of his rule.

The cannon was a complicated weapon: ancient, personally customized, demanding of constant recalibration for power balance, stability, and recoil flow. Starscream’s fingers moved expertly, working open the casing, realigning the inner coils, cleaning out micro-dust buildup from the power channels.

What Starscream didn’t notice—what he couldn’t notice—was the way Megatron watched him.

The warlord’s optics didn’t stray from the seeker for even a moment. He observed the fine, surgical elegance of Starscream’s movements. The way the seeker’s long, narrow hands worked with quiet mastery. The rise and fall of his plating with each breath. The faint, strained weariness in his frame. The curve of his wings as they drooped slightly with the fatigue he tried to hide.

There was something almost indulgent in Megatron’s stare—something possessive.

Starscream, oblivious to it, kept working. “There. The power flow’s clean. Try not to overheat it next time.”

He didn’t move to rise.

Megatron’s optics narrowed slightly, and though he made no motion to stop him, he didn’t dismiss Starscream either. The silence stretched just a second too long, filled with unspoken things that neither mech dared voice.

Finally, Megatron leaned forward, voice rich and low. “You’ve been very… diligent.”

Starscream tensed at that, wings twitching. “I do what is required,” he answered evenly.

Megatron’s cannon hummed to life, power surging smoothly through the newly calibrated coils.

“And yet,” Megatron said softly, “you do it better than anyone else.”

Starscream’s optics flicked up, briefly meeting Megatron’s gaze.

And in that moment, kneeling by the throne, the lines between obligation, loyalty, and something deeper—something more dangerous—blurred like heat distortion on polished steel.

Starscream said nothing.

He simply rose to his full height with that usual grace, though it was dulled now by the fatigue weighing down his limbs. His wings drooped ever so slightly, betraying just how drained he truly was beneath the rigid facade. He didn’t look back at Megatron. He didn’t offer any further pleasantries beyond a curt, dry, “I still have tasks to complete before the cycle ends. If you'll excuse me.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the throne room—fast, precise, silent.

His pedsteps echoed faintly in the vast chamber, but they quickened as soon as he was past the threshold. He didn’t want to give Megatron the opportunity to stop him again. He didn’t want to be near that throne. Near those eyes.

Starscream’s field was quiet—muted. Like a storm smothered under ice. He didn’t let it bleed out, didn’t allow it to betray what simmered beneath. But the tension in his lines, the flicker of his optics, the rigid posture—it all told the same story. He was frayed. Spent. And desperately unwilling to endure one more command, one more demand from Megatron.

He disappeared into the corridors without another word, his shadow swallowed by the darkness of the base.

Far away, across the battlefield-scarred lands and camouflaged cliffs, in a small monitoring chamber beneath Autobot command, the air was far from silent.

Several Autobots sat or stood around a dimly lit console, eyes fixed on the grainy yet functional surveillance footage streaming in through Firefly’s hidden lens. The image was slightly warped, the angle awkward—but it was enough.

They’d seen everything.

Starscream kneeling by Megatron’s throne. The way he worked in silence. The fatigue etched into his frame. The way Megatron watched him. And not just as a leader sizing up a subordinate. No—this was different.

There was hunger in that look.

An obsession.

Arcee stood with her arms crossed tightly, optics narrowed. “He didn’t even flinch,” she said. “Megatron was staring at him like he was a possession. And Starscream—he didn’t even notice. He’s too tired to notice.”

Ratchet didn’t speak immediately. He was leaning forward slightly, jaw tight, optics fixed on the paused footage showing Starscream just moments before leaving the room. His wings were drooped. His posture was off. That wasn’t just exhaustion from work. That was something deeper.

“He’s burning out,” the medic said eventually. “Pushing himself too hard. And Megatron knows it.”

“Is that why he’s being so… hands-on?” Bumblebee asked, hesitant. “I mean, that wasn’t a command to recalibrate a weapon. That was—creepy.”

“No,” Ratchet muttered, “that was calculated.”

Bulkhead exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I don’t like this. Something’s off.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment, the tension in the room thick. Then Ultra Magnus, who had been silent until now, stepped closer to the screen. His voice was low, clipped.

“Starscream may be a Decepticon, but this—this isn’t strategy. This is obsession. And obsessed leaders are dangerous.”

“What do we do?” Arcee asked, turning toward him.

Ultra Magnus didn’t answer at first.

Then, very quietly, he said: “We keep watching. We keep recording. And if something changes—if Megatron pushes too far—we act.”

“And Starscream?” Bumblebee added.

Ultra Magnus looked back at the screen, where the seeker’s retreating form was caught in the last frame of footage before the lens dimmed.

“We may need him more than he realizes.”

Optimus said nothing.

He simply raised a hand and gave Wheeljack a silent nod. The kind of nod that carried weight, direction, authority.

“Jetfire. Prowl,” Wheeljack said, understanding the command instantly. “Create a rotation to maintain full control of the Firefly feed. Keep the signal tight and silent. We follow every move he makes.”

Jetfire was already tapping into the console, fingers dancing across the interface with calculated precision, rerouting processing power for continuous stealth streaming. Prowl stood behind him, arms crossed, tracking telemetry and signal ranges. Together, the two formed the perfect monitoring unit—one for the science, the other for the pattern.

Then Wheeljack’s voice dropped lower, more focused. “We’ve got movement.”

The screen flickered for a moment, recalibrated—and then returned, showing Starscream again. The tricolor seeker, still moving, still pressing forward, dragging his frame through the labyrinthine underbelly of the Decepticon Base.

The lighting was dim and flickering overhead, giving the impression that the base itself was alive—breathing, twitching.

“There,” Wheeljack pointed, enlarging the feed. “New corridor. Bots passing through those doors—watch how they open with retinal and code access. That’s the rank wing. That’s where high-command keeps their quarters.”

The camera zoomed in slightly, panning across three distinct doors.

The central door was the most striking: massive, double-hinged, dark metal polished with trim from Megatron’s personal alloy reserves. Etched faintly into the face of the doors was the Decepticon sigil—not standard, but embossed. It radiated authority and domination. That was his lair. His command throne beyond the command throne.

Starscream didn’t even glance at it.

He approached the left-side door. Smaller, sleeker, but still bearing the rank-specific security systems. The seeker stood silently for a moment, then lifted one servo and pressed it to the scanner pad. A soft flash of purple light passed over his frame, followed by a faint mechanical chime. His wings twitched slightly.

He entered a long, narrow passcode—subtly glancing over his shoulder out of ingrained paranoia—and then stepped through as the door parted with a pressurized hiss.

He was in.

“He has quarters there,” Jetfire murmured. “I didn’t think Megatron gave him private space. Let alone access in that wing.”

“He didn’t,” Wheeljack muttered. “Not officially. This means Starscream earned—or was forced into—that corridor.”

Optimus still hadn’t spoken. He stood like a silent monolith at the back of the room, watching the screen. The faint glow of the Firefly feed lit across his chestplates and his optics. He was still. But inside, a storm was brewing.

The silence was broken when Prowl observed quietly, “Megatron’s room next to Starscream’s. That’s intentional.”

Wheeljack didn’t argue. “And Starscream didn’t even look at it. Like he didn’t dare.”

Arcee exhaled slowly from the corner. “Because if he did, it might open.”

A heavy stillness filled the room as they watched Starscream disappear inside.

Wheeljack glanced to Optimus again. “Do we follow him inside?”

Optimus’s optics flared faintly.

“No,” he said at last. “We respect that room. He finally reached one place where no command is chasing him. Let him have it—for now.”

Jetfire nodded and began rerouting the Firefly to maintain hallway surveillance only. They would wait.

They would give Starscream space.

But they would not stop watching.

The Autobots had begun quietly organizing themselves in the main chamber—just finishing up for the cycle, with Wheeljack saving data from the Firefly’s feed, Jetfire shutting down extraneous surveillance streams, and the others preparing to retreat to the temporary quarters they’d converted into makeshift purple-glow rest bays aboard their stolen vessel.

Prowl was in the middle of outlining next watch shifts. Arcee was double-checking the calibration of her twin blades. Smokescreen cracked a rare joke, trying to lighten the heavy mood, and Bumblebee responded with a half-hearted chirp. For a moment—just a moment—it felt like the war wasn't crushing their spark.

Then Ratchet, who had been eerily silent, leaned forward from the screen and said in a low, brittle tone:

“That can’t be good.”

His voice carried like a shot through the room. Everything froze.

Every pair of optics locked on Ratchet, and then on the screen he was now hunched toward. The feed, still live from the Firefly unit hidden in the corridor outside the officers' quarters, showed a new figure in the frame. Massive, dark, slow-moving—predatory in that familiar, menacing way.

Megatron.

He loomed like a specter of dominance as he walked silently down the hallway. Not stomping like during battle. This was worse. He was deliberate. Intentional. Calculated. He approached the door on the left—the one Starscream had entered, the one they all knew now was his.

And then he stopped.

He didn’t knock.

He didn’t speak.

He just stood there.

Time passed.

One klick.

Then another.

Then ten.

Then twenty.

Each second stretched out unbearably. The longer Megatron stood there, the thicker the tension in the Autobots’ control room became. No one spoke. No one moved.

He could’ve turned away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, with slow, casual authority, Megatron raised his hand and accessed the central override system—his master code. The one that could override every lock in any Decepticon-controlled sector.

He entered it.

The door to Starscream’s quarters slid open.

The image of Megatron disappearing into Starscream’s private space, uninvited, unannounced, was like a slap to every Autobot in the room.

A sharp crack sounded—Optimus’s fist clenched with such force the armor plates groaned. His optics narrowed, his shoulders rising slightly with fury rarely seen. The calm commander was gone, and in his place was a protector simmering with restrained rage.

“Jetfire,” he said, voice like ice breaking under pressure, “keep the Firefly on him. I want every movement Megatron makes in that room. I want audio if possible. Now.”

Jetfire immediately obeyed, fingers flying across the control board to redirect the bot. “Understood, Prime. I’m boosting sound filters.”

The Autobots didn’t return to their quarters.

No one had the strength to walk away now.

Wheeljack's jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like he’d grind his own denta down. “He didn’t even give a warning. Not a knock, not a call on comms. He just—walked in.”

“He knew what he was doing,” Prowl said coldly, arms locked behind his back, optics dark. “He wanted to remind Starscream who has control. Even in sleep. Especially in sleep.”

Bumblebee chirped something angry and urgent—Arcee, eyes never leaving the screen, translated softly: “He’s saying that’s not leadership. That’s cruelty.”

“No,” Ratchet said quietly. “That’s possession.”

That word hung in the air like a toxin.

Smokescreen leaned forward, fists trembling. “Do you think Starscream’s okay in there? I mean, do you think Megatron’s—?”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Arcee snapped, voice strained and trembling.

Optimus still hadn’t moved, his body taut as a drawn blade. But his next words were slow, careful, and filled with unspoken fire.

“We watch,” he said. “If Megatron crosses a line… we intervene. Autobots do not stand idle while someone is broken under another’s rule. Not ever. And certainly not him.”

Silence followed—but it was thick with unspoken emotion: rage, fear, protectiveness, and something else—guilt. Because they'd waited too long already.

For now, all they could do was watch, helpless, as the seeker they were sworn to protect was once again subjected to the shadow of a warlord who did not understand boundaries or mercy.

But that time was coming to an end.

The moment the heavy iron door clicked shut behind Megatron, Jetfire acted fast—faster than anyone expected. With a precise set of commands, he guided the Firefly unit through a ventilation slit in the upper left corner of the hallway wall. The tiny drone zipped forward on silent rotors, slipping just inside the frame before the security systems could reset.

The Firefly’s visual feed flickered slightly, adjusting to the dimmer lighting of the room, and then stabilized—projecting the inside of Starscream’s quarters onto the main Autobot screen.

The room was... unexpected.

First, it was clear this had never been intended to be a proper living space. The walls were thick with plating inconsistent with crew quarters; the ceiling lower than standard. A narrow ventilation pipe ran through the side wall, and there was a fixed console that looked repurposed from a navigation station. Likely, it had been some kind of data archive or observation room before being hastily reassigned as a private chamber. Now it bore Starscream's touch, restrained yet distinct.

A single metal berth was mounted into the wall—sharp-edged and narrow, with clean, flat surfaces. No cushions. No comfort. A hard place to rest a tired frame, but neat and disciplined. Beside it sat a simple, stark metal chair—function over luxury.

On the long table beneath the dim overhead lights lay a cluster of hand-drawn maps—hand-drawn. That detail stunned even Optimus. No datapads. No holograms. Just thin, etched sheets of data-metal and faint stylus impressions. Geological charts, topographical overlays, even fragile-looking stellar maps in deep indigo ink. They weren’t just functional—they were artistic. Every line traced with practiced precision. One large map seemed to depict a proposed energon mine—heavily marked with calculations and coordinates. Another was of star charts, routes from deep-space sectors labeled with cautionary symbols and small notes: “Avoid solar surge”; “Dark patch, ion storms,” and even “safe berth if needed.”

Prowl squinted. “He’s been planning escape routes.”

“Or gathering potential resource locations,” Jetfire murmured. “This is more than one life being lived in here. This is... a contingency plan.”

But that wasn’t what caught everyone's full attention.

Just to the right of the maps was an open locker—a utilitarian design, dull and grey. Inside were stacked datapads labeled by hand in tight, efficient glyphs, and next to them… small holographic frames, warm and glowing, tucked neatly in a side-shelf like precious relics.

The first was of Starscream and his brothers—his trine. Skywarp and Thundercracker were flanking him, arms slung around each other's shoulders. They were young. Radiating arrogance. Bright-eyed. Alive. Starscream stood at the center with a rare, genuine smile.

A pang of silence rippled through the Autobots. None of them had ever seen that expression on him.

Next came an image of Vos—a skyline bathed in violet twilight, its needle-like towers catching fading light. The shot was beautiful, taken at just the right angle to see the curvature of the spire-cities. It was a moment frozen in time, a world lost to war.

Another frame revealed Starscream playing chess with Windblade. The two of them sat in a shaded corner of a Vosian square. She leaned forward, one servo near her chin, thoughtful and serene. He leaned back, smirking playfully, clearly winning. There were no other bots around them. Just peace, the glow of culture, of community.

Then, there were two more, smaller in size—one an old, glitchy holovid of Jetfire in his youth. The white and blue mech was hunched over a wiring board, muttering to himself, until something popped with a burst of sparks. The image sputtered and showed Jetfire’s face covered in soot, optics wide and stunned. A second later, he laughed. So did whoever was recording.

Jetfire swallowed audibly. “He… kept that?” His voice cracked, quietly. “I forgot that even happened.”

Another image followed—Wheeljack, mid-explosion. A comical scene, his limbs flailing back from a test bench as a bright burst of energy erupted behind him. The audio had been muted, but it was obvious from the video alone that Starscream was laughing, holding the recorder. Wheeljack had scowled and shouted something—then broken into helpless chuckles.

“That little glitch,” Wheeljack whispered. “He kept this?”

There was more—small energon recipes, written in Starscream’s distinct angular script, decorating the interior of a thin datapad tacked to the inside wall. Sweet variants, molded energon candies, detailed shaping instructions, temperature control notes. A few scraps listed experimental flavor combinations, including one that mentioned “refined cherry extract—courier route from Hydrax Plateau.”

In the margin, someone—perhaps him—had scribbled:

“Frenzy and Rumble like this one. Keep hidden next time.”

A collective silence fell over the Autobots.

This was not the space of a war strategist.

This was not the lair of a cold, calculating survivor.

This was a room of memories.

Of hope.

Of loss.

And of someone desperately clinging to pieces of a life that had slipped through his claws long ago.

Jetfire’s voice broke the stillness: “Prime... Megatron’s in there. But I don’t think Starscream has the strength to fight tonight.”

Optimus’s optics dimmed slightly. “Then we make sure he doesn’t have to.”

Optimus stood motionless, his back stiff, optics locked on the screen where the Firefly’s steady feed flickered. Beside him, Prowl leaned slightly forward, analyzing every frame, every pixel of movement with growing unease. The silent footage showed Megatron—unmoving, monolithic—standing at the edge of Starscream’s berth. The seeker was recharging, wings curled subtly, a rare moment of vulnerability visible in the gentle rise and fall of his chassis.

And Megatron… just stared.

He hadn’t touched him.

He didn’t speak.

But the way he looked down at Starscream—slow, assessing, cold—made the metal under their feet feel ten degrees colder.

Ultra Magnus was the first to speak.

“Stand down,” he said, firm and deliberate.

Optimus’s optics flared. “He is in Starscream’s quarters, Magnus. That is a private berth. A personal space.”

“I know what it is,” Magnus replied, stepping forward until his shadow joined theirs on the floor. “And I also know what that look means.”

The other Autobots turned toward him as he fixed his optics on the screen. His voice lowered with an edge that hadn’t been heard in years.

“I’ve seen it before. In another war. Another time.”

Prowl's brow quirked. “When?”

Magnus didn’t take his optics off the image of Megatron. “Before there Optimus was given his name… I mentored tacticians. Warlords. I trained them in leadership and restraint.” His voice went colder. “And I failed one.”

The room grew still.

“His name was Ferros. A brilliant soldier. He became obsessed with control—of people, of outcomes, of perception. And there was a young officer… someone close to him. Too close. He watched him, studied him. Waited.”

Magnus’s optics narrowed. “Ferros never touched him. Not until the day that officer had lost everything—his post, his city, even his reputation. Only then did Ferros offer him shelter. Praise. Protection.”

He looked to Optimus now, voice grim. “Not love. Not comfort. Possession. And the officer was too broken by then to know the difference.”

The screen flickered again.

Megatron hadn’t moved.

But the weight of his stare filled the room like smoke.

Magnus’s voice dropped further. “That is the exact same look Megatron is giving Starscream right now. He’s not going to act yet. Not until Starscream is exhausted. Alone. Out of options. Only then will he reach for him—so Starscream won’t run.”

Optimus’s hand clenched behind his back. His entire frame vibrated with tightly reined fury.

Then Jetfire’s voice came through on the comm, steady but urgent.

“If we strike now, he’ll destroy the lab.”

Optimus blinked. “What?”

“The lab Starscream built for the Predacon habitats. Not just them but the others too,” Jetfire clarified. “It’s fully integrated into a sublevel of the Nemesis now. Dozens of modules, some with functional energon samples and cloning archives. Cybertronian biology, chemistry, even extinct species—he’s preserving it all. It’s one of the last places still functioning with pre-war science. If Megatron suspects we’re about to make a move and believes Starscream is slipping from his control, he’ll ruin it.”

That landed like a punch.

“Then we wait?” Prowl asked sharply, the word almost bitter.

“Not wait,” said Jazz, stepping forward with his arms folded, tone uncharacteristically serious. “We plan. We think like Starscream would—clever, quiet, with a way out before anyone notices he was ever there.”

He looked at Optimus, then back to the feed of Megatron looming over the recharging seeker.

“We need to understand Starscream better. What he values. What he hides. Why he’s still there. We can’t drag him to our side—he’s too proud for that. We have to make him want to choose us.”

Prowl blinked once, slowly.

And then, to everyone’s surprise—even his own—he nodded.

“I agree,” he said quietly. “We misjudged him before. I won’t do it again.”

Optimus said nothing for a moment. Then his voice came, low and resolute.

“Then we observe. We gather everything. And we give him something Megatron never will.”

Jazz tilted his head. “What’s that, boss?”

Optimus turned from the screen.

“Freedom.”

Chapter Text

The silence still clung to the war room like static, the last words spoken by Ultra Magnus hanging thick in the air. The screen dimmed slightly, the Firefly’s feed now idling in a low loop of hallway surveillance. The image of Megatron had vanished—he had finally left the quarters—but the damage lingered in the mood of the room.

Optimus straightened, optics narrowing with new resolve.

“Jazz,” he said, tone firm and quiet, the command in his voice unmistakable.

Jazz stepped forward without hesitation, his visor flickering slightly in focus. “I’m here.”

“I want you to contact Windblade,” Optimus continued. “She’s still on deep patrol in Sector Delta-9, correct?”

“Yeah,” Jazz nodded slowly, brow furrowing. “She’s got her own unit up there, chasing down rogue energon raiders.”

“Pull her back,” Optimus said. “Immediately. Let her know what we’ve found out about Starscream—about the lab, about his status, about Megatron. We’ll need her perspective. Her history with Vos... and with him.”

Jazz tilted his helm slightly, then gave a low hum of understanding. “She’s gonna want to punch something when she hears all this.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Optimus replied grimly.

“I’ll take care of it,” Prowl said, stepping forward. “But just know—she’s far. It’ll take at least two cycles to reach her squad, and longer still to bring her back. Weeks, possibly. Someone will have to take her place during that time. Her unit's large. And restless.”

Optimus gave a small nod. “Chromia is already stationed nearby. She can maintain order in Windblade’s absence. Ironhide will join her if force becomes necessary. He’s already been briefed on command rotation.”

Prowl blinked once. That was efficient—even for Optimus.

He gave a brisk nod. “Understood. I’ll relay the orders now.”

Without further word, Prowl turned and exited the room, his mind already processing secure communication routes and signal encryption layers.

The tension in the room didn’t fully fade, but it softened—just slightly.

Optimus took a step closer to the central table, resting both hands on its edge as he looked to the others.

“The cycle is nearly over,” he said, voice even but heavy. “You’re all exhausted. Go rest. There’s nothing more to do tonight.”

Some of the Autobots shifted uncertainly, glancing back at the screen.

Optimus caught it.

“But listen to me,” he said, steel slipping into his words. “If we cross paths with Starscream in combat again… do not engage him unless you have no other choice.”

No one interrupted. Even the more hot-headed among them—Cliffjumper, Sideswipe—felt the weight in his tone.

“He is no longer just a Decepticon. He is a survivor holding together something fragile… something Megatron wants to own.” His optics darkened. “Starscream does not need to be subdued. He needs to be protected. And what he built—his lab, his sanctuary—must be protected as well.”

He looked at each of them in turn.

“We will not rush in blindly. No full-scale raid. Not until we have a plan.”

He let the silence settle, final and unshakable.

“Go. Recharge. We move forward with clarity. Not fire.”

As the Autobots slowly began to file out of the war room, the sound of footsteps echoing softly against steel, a quiet understanding formed between them.

They weren’t just saving a soldier.

They were preparing to save someone—someone who had been left behind, again and again, by both sides of this war.

Windblade stood at the edge of a rocky cliff on the rust-moon of Gliese Minor, the dull red haze of a dying sun casting jagged shadows across the scorched terrain. Her squad was behind her, refueling and recharging, exhausted after a skirmish with rogue scavenger drones. She was silent, optics narrowed as she monitored the winds cutting through the canyon below.

The comm crackled at her hip.

It wasn’t the usual report from her officers or a mission update. This was a high-priority encrypted Autobot relay—direct from Prowl, flagged by Optimus himself.

Windblade immediately connected.

“Prowl.”

“Windblade,” his voice came through, low but precise. “Authorization Alpha-One-Clearance. Stand by for direct relay from Jazz.”

She didn’t even question it. Her wings shifted as she stepped away from the edge and tapped into the signal.

Jazz’s voice followed immediately. “Hey, Windblade. This ain’t a social call.”

“I figured,” she muttered. “You’ve got my attention.”

“You’re gonna want to sit for this,” Jazz said, the seriousness in his tone chilling. “It’s about Starscream.”

Her spark skipped a beat.

“Talk,” she snapped.

Jazz gave her the full rundown, voice tight and steady. He explained the surveillance footage, the secret laboratory Starscream had constructed in a remote section of the Nemesis, the maps—ancient Vosian routes and energon veins—and most of all, the moment Megatron entered Starscream’s private quarters without permission.

“He watched him recharge, Windblade,” Jazz finished. “Didn’t touch him. Didn’t say a word. But stood over him like…”

“…like he was waiting for something to break,” Windblade finished quietly, her voice suddenly strained.

Jazz was silent on the other end for a moment. “Yeah.”

She turned her back on the cliffside and closed her optics for a second, breathing slow and deep. Old memories flickered—Starscream, half-sarcastic and half-sincere, offering her energon candy during training flights over Vos; his laughter sharp but bright, untainted by war; his brilliance, his pride, his loneliness.

And then the war shattered all of that.

“I told them he wasn’t just a coward,” she said bitterly, more to herself than to Jazz. “I told them.”

“I know,” Jazz replied. “And now we need you back. Optimus is pulling you from the Gliese unit. Chromia and Ironhide will hold the line here.”

There was no hesitation in her answer.

“I’m on my way.”

“Transmission relayed,” Prowl’s voice returned briefly on the line. “Chart the fastest route back. We expect solar storm interference, so plot high-altitude drifts until you’re beyond Sector Thirteen. Good luck, Windblade.”

“Luck’s for when you don’t know what you’re flying into,” she replied coldly. “I do.”

She cut the line and turned sharply. Her team looked up from their posts, sensing the sudden tension.

“I’m leaving,” she announced, grabbing her weapons and energon packs. “Command falls to Subcommander Flaresight. Chromia and Ironhide will rendezvous in twenty hours. Until then, hold the perimeter.”

“Ma’am,” one of them started, “Is it true? That Starscream—”

“Is still worth saving?” Windblade interrupted, helm high. “Yes.”

And with that, she launched into the dusty sky, leaving behind the rust-moon and the firelight for the stars that awaited above.

The whir of engines echoed through the mountainous terrain surrounding the hidden Autobot base. At the hangar’s edge, stationed guards turned their optics upward as the sleek red-and-black form of Windblade descended, her wings glinting in the sun, dust swirling in her wake. She didn’t even wait for refueling or greetings. Her landing was hard and purposeful, her expression unreadable.

She strode down the metallic corridors with practiced familiarity, her heels clicking sharply, optics locked ahead. No smiles, no words to the crew she passed. Her field pulsed with focus, tension woven into every step. Windblade had been summoned not as a friend, but as a blade—sharp, decisive, and unwavering.

She entered the command chamber without announcement.

Optimus turned immediately, as if expecting her the second she crossed the threshold. Prowl and Ratchet were beside him, standing in front of the wide screen monitor that dominated the far wall.

Windblade didn’t slow.

“What’s the situation?”

Prowl stepped back a fraction, always aware of her presence and her intensity. Ratchet sighed but gestured toward the screen.

“There,” he said. “Watch.”

The feed showed a grainy surveillance recording from one of the outer patrol corridors of the Nemesis. Starscream, unmistakable even in full armor, stood before two other Decepticons—Ramjet and Sledgehammer. His field crackled subtly, tension rising with every word. The two younger cons were sheepish, their posture defensive.

Windblade narrowed her optics, arms folding.

“What did they do?”

“They disobeyed direct orders,” Ratchet said, “and worse—they endangered themselves. Ran headfirst into a trap during a patrol.”

The feed zoomed in. Starscream’s voice, though slightly static-distorted, was clear:

“You thought it was clever to ambush Cliffjumper without assessing the terrain. You didn’t stop to think why he was alone. You believed the Autobots act alone?”

His tone was razor-sharp, but tired. As if the weight on his shoulders was slowly crushing him, one mistake at a time.

“You were caught by surprise by Arcee, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, and Smokescreen. Because you didn’t look.”

Windblade could see it clearly: his wings trembled at the edges. Not from rage, but exhaustion. The kind of exhaustion no stasis cycle could fix.

Starscream stepped forward and, without any dramatic violence, handed each of them a weapon—one a training ramjet, the other a weighted sledgehammer.

“If you want to act without thought,” Starscream said coldly, “then learn what it means to protect your unit first. And learn what it means to be seen.”

The feed ended there, fading to black.

For a long moment, no one said anything.

Windblade’s face was hard as iron.

“He’s giving them responsibility,” she said slowly. “That’s not Megatron’s style.”

“No,” Optimus replied, deep and quiet. “It’s not.”

Ratchet nodded. “He’s been doing this more and more. Subtle corrections. Disguised discipline. Training disguised as punishment.”

“And no one’s stopped him?” Windblade asked, tone dangerously close to accusing.

“We’re watching him constantly,” Prowl said. “But if we move too soon, Megatron will retaliate—and likely destroy everything Starscream’s built. The lab, the datapaths, the maps. Everything.”

Windblade’s wings twitched. “So we wait?”

Optimus turned toward her, calm but grim. “We prepare. And when the moment comes, we act not to fight him—but to bring him home.”

Windblade’s jaw clenched. She was clearly brimming with questions, strategies, anger—but she said nothing more. She simply stepped beside Optimus and looked back up at the screen.

“Then show me everything.”

Prowl didn’t speak much as he led Windblade through the dim hallway toward the war room. His field was calm, analytical, but his pace betrayed a certain urgency. Once inside, he gestured toward the display—already cued to play the compiled footage they’d been gathering through Firefly’s optic recordings.

“This is everything we have on Starscream’s recent behavior,” Prowl said, stepping aside so Windblade had full view. “It spans the last three weeks.”

The video began, time-stamped and silent at first, until the quiet audio filtered in. The first sequence was during early morning hours on the Nemesis—before most Decepticons even stirred.

Starscream, alone, was seen entering one of the large environmental sanctuaries tucked beneath the hull of the ship. The lighting inside was faint gold, a fabricated sunrise blooming gently across artificial skies. He moved slowly but deliberately, carrying a tray containing energon concentrates, supplements, and nutrient mixes.

He crouched in front of the first enclosure—an artificial nesting structure. He gently checked on it, brushing one clawed digit against a translucent casing.

“Still no movement,” his voice murmured. “Twenty-three cycles without growth.”

He logged the note into a datapad and moved on. One sanctuary after another. Quiet care. Unseen work.

“He feeds them himself,” Prowl explained. “Doesn’t delegate it. Predacon eggs, wildlife preserves—he handles them all directly.”

Windblade said nothing, arms crossed. Her optics were sharp, but there was a tightness at the corners—like she was struggling to reconcile what she saw with what she had once believed.

The video cut to the seeker in one of the inner training decks. Ramjet and another younger ‘con sparred under his strict command. He moved between them, adjusting their stance, correcting overconfidence. There was no praise, but no cruelty either—just a worn, precise voice demanding discipline and clarity.

“Again,” Starscream snapped. “Focus. You’re not beasts—you’re Decepticons.”

The scene changed again—Starscream now at a table with Hook and Knockout, datapads strewn across the surface.

“He spends hours with them reviewing energon compatibilities,” Prowl said. “Trying to optimize the distribution according to individual physiology.”

Windblade turned sharply. “You mean... medical compatibility?”

“Yes. Personalized energon. Efficiency. Safety. Even taste.” Prowl sounded reluctant to admit his own respect. “He’s been doing it quietly. No fanfare.”

Another feed played: Starscream sitting cross-legged near a terrarium in the corner of a lab. Inside, Rumble and Frenzy kneeled over several thick, glowing pods—larvae squirming, now beginning to cocoon.

“Any rupture signs?” Starscream asked them calmly.

“Nope,” Rumble said with pride. “They started weaving during recharge. That one’s gonna burst out in a day or two.”

“Good. Mark the changes on the console. This project has potential—if they survive, we may need to consider protective instancing for stage two.”

Windblade’s optics dimmed slightly as the feed ended.

Prowl exhaled quietly. “He’s not what we expected.”

Windblade stood in silence for a long moment, her gaze lingering on the frozen image of Starscream bent over the terrarium, wings relaxed, field unreadable.

Then she spoke, her voice low but firm.
“He’s not what we expected,” she’d said.
The war room fell into an expectant hush the moment Windblade spoke. Her voice wasn’t loud, but the weight in her tone froze the processors of every Autobot present.

Even for someone like Optimus Prime, so practiced in restraint, the line hit deep.

Prowl blinked, gears whirring softly as he turned toward her. Jazz, who had been watching the screen, slowly swiveled his gaze to Windblade. Even Ratchet—normally buried in data or diagnostics—paused mid-scroll, optics narrowing as the silence hung longer than usual.

Optimus took a careful step forward. His voice, as always, was calm, respectful—yet firm, leading. “Windblade… what do you mean by that?”

Windblade stood tall, shoulders squared, yet there was a flicker of conflict behind her optics—memories trying to push forward against years of silence. She looked away for a moment, as though grounding herself. Then, she turned back to Optimus, her gaze meeting his.

“I didn’t come back just because you called, Optimus.” Her tone was steady, but her field flared briefly, filled with tension that had clearly built over countless cycles. “I came back because I knew you’d need someone who truly understood Starscream.”

Prowl’s brow furrowed. “Understood?” His tone edged toward incredulous. “He’s a Decepticon. There’s little more to understand than—”

“Enough,” Optimus said gently but with finality, raising a hand to calm Prowl before a retort could take root.

Prowl bristled but fell silent, though his stance screamed protest.

Optimus regarded Windblade again, his voice low and thoughtful. “You do not have to tell us anything you are not ready to share.”

Windblade inhaled, vents expanding. Her field shimmered briefly—like a shiver of static—then steadied again.

“No,” she said. “It’s time. You need to know. You all need to know.”

She looked at the others in the room—at Ratchet, Prowl, Jazz, and even the transmission relay bot in the corner. All of them carried that same look: cautious disbelief, uncertainty, and hope they barely dared to feel.

“I’ve held this in for far too long. And he—Starscream—he’s lived in this nightmare long enough while everyone else painted him as the villain. You want to understand why he’s still with the Decepticons? Why he does what he does and never fully surrenders even when he clearly has the chance?”

She looked to Optimus again. “Then gather them. All of them. Every Autobot here. I’ll tell you everything. The truth about Starscream. The truth no one ever wanted to hear.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then Optimus gave a single solemn nod.

“So be it.”

He turned to Prowl, voice level but urgent. “Call them all. Every squad in this sector—bring them here.”

Prowl hesitated—but only for a second. Something in Windblade’s voice had gotten to him, too. Maybe it was the raw conviction. Maybe it was the ache underneath. Whatever it was, he turned and moved swiftly to relay the order.

Windblade stood still for a moment longer, alone in the silence that followed. And yet—for the first time in years—she looked ready to speak.

The war room had never been this full.

Bots stood shoulder to shoulder in every corner. Some sat on crates, leaning forward with tense frames, while others crowded around the central monitor walls that now projected the live images of distant Autobot squads. Screens flickered with the faces of comrades from as far as the Perceptor-led science outposts and even from the distant arcships where Elita’s teams worked. Their signals were slightly delayed, but their attention was sharp.

The air was thick. No one spoke. Not even the fidgety ones like Blurr or the young ones like Smokescreen dared break the tension.

Optimus stood at the center beside Windblade. His posture was calm—immovably steady as always—but his optics had a flicker of anticipation rarely seen. He folded his hands behind his back and looked across the crowd with a gentle authority.

“We are gathered here today not for a mission briefing,” he began, voice deep and even, “but to hear truths long buried. Truths that affect not only the war we wage—but the very foundation of what we believe we know.”

He turned slightly, gesturing to the warrior beside him.

“I give the floor to Windblade.”

The room remained dead silent. All optics turned to her.

Windblade stepped forward, her usual poise sharpened now with visible restraint. You could see it in the way her hands flexed slightly by her sides, in the flickering brightness of her optics. Her fans flared once, catching the light, and then slowly folded again as she exhaled.

“I come from nobility. As most of you know,” she said, voice low but clear. “One of the last recognized noble lines of Cybertron. I do not say this to elevate myself—but so you understand why I was privy to things most never were.”

A few bots murmured. Ultra Magnus furrowed his brow, not in judgment, but in cautious understanding. Moonracer looked on from the crowd, her jaw tight.

“But I was not the only one left from that class,” Windblade continued, tone stiffening. “There is another. One who has hidden in plain sight for millennia—Starscream.”

The name was enough to create a shudder across the room. Bumblebee’s optics widened. Rodimus actually leaned forward a step. Ratchet’s hands, folded against his chest, tightened.

Windblade didn’t flinch.

“Starscream is—was—the illegitimate son of the Winglord of Vos, the supreme commander of the Aerialbot elite and ruler of one of the highest castes in all of pre-war Cybertron.”

A collective gasp surged through the aerialbots present. Air Raid let out a sharp, “No way,” while Silverbolt's expression turned ghostly pale. Even Powerglide—who never stopped talking—was utterly silent.

Optimus stiffened, his optics visibly narrowing—not with doubt, but with calculation. He was processing, shifting decades of strategic understanding into a new shape.

Windblade raised a hand. “Silence,” she said, voice steel.

It worked. The room snapped still again.

“For being born out of wedlock, Starscream was denied any future claim to the title. He did not care. All he wanted was to study. To build. He sought no throne, no legacy—only his science and the chance to better our kind.”

Windblade’s voice dipped. “But his brilliance could not be hidden. His combat prowess. His intelligence. His ability to outmaneuver those born to rule.” She glanced toward the aerialbots. “And for that, the noble houses feared him.”

Some bots’ gazes dropped in shame. Others hardened with disbelief.

“There were assassination attempts. Sabotages. Many committed by those of his own blood. Legitimate sons of the Winglord saw him as a threat to the power they were born to inherit. He survived… but not without scars. And not without learning the hardest lesson of the high court: trust no one.”

She paused, optics dimming slightly. Then, with a flick of her hand, a holo-image shimmered to life behind her—three figures: Skywarp, Thundercracker, and Starscream, standing together in old Decepticon files as the infamous “Trine.”

“This is the image we were meant to see. The 'Trine'—a bond of equals. Friends. Brothers, perhaps. It’s a lie.”

Optics blinked, rippled with shock. Jazz swore under his breath. Prowl looked stunned for the first time in years.

Windblade stepped toward the projection.

“Skywarp and Thundercracker are not his brothers. They were not even Seekers when he met them. They were lower-ranked guards. Forgettable. But he saw them. Starscream elevated them. Trained them. Shaped them. Made them his shield when no one else would. They were not chosen because of heritage. They were chosen because he believed in them. Because he had no one else.”

Another wave of disbelief swept the room.

“Skywarp’s silliness? Thundercracker’s calm stoicism?” Her optics sharpened. “Masks. Perfectly crafted roles to deceive all of us. The chaos-fool. The wise neutral. All played so we wouldn’t question the dynamic. So no one would ever suspect what Starscream truly came from—and why he hides.”

“I don’t believe it,” Blades muttered.

Windblade turned to the crowd, her field swelling. “You don’t have to. But I do. Because I was there.”

She looked straight at Optimus.

“I saw Starscream stand on the senate floor as a student. I saw him bow when the nobles passed, even when they spat in his direction. I saw him in the libraries and the labs, trying to build things that could change our world. And I saw how that world tore him apart for it.”

Windblade’s voice dropped low, laden with pain. “You all see a traitor. A snake. I saw a child who learned to sharpen his fangs because everyone around him had claws.”

The silence was crushing now.

Even Optimus Prime didn’t speak. His optics glowed faintly, unreadable—but moved ever so slightly in thought.

Windblade’s frame trembled slightly, not from fear—but from holding back the surge of memories, of injustices unspoken for too long.

“He joined the Decepticons not for power,” she said at last. “But because no one else ever protected him.”

She looked out over the sea of Autobots—soldiers, scouts, medics, and commanders alike.

“And if we’re going to bring him back… if we’re going to reach him now—after everything—you better understand who you’re dealing with. Not a monster. Not just a ‘Decepticon.’ But a survivor. Of us. Of our world.”

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Windblade had only just stepped back from revealing the carefully constructed lie behind the famed “Trine” when her voice rang out once again—soft, but sharp as a blade drawn in moonlight.

“If we are serious about bringing Starscream into the Autobots’ fold,” she said, eyes scanning the room, “we must not begin by trying to convince him.”

A ripple of confusion passed among the gathered Autobots. A few exchanged glances, some with skepticism, others with dawning comprehension.

“Then who?” asked Cliffjumper, leaning forward, expression tense.

Windblade's optics narrowed slightly. The hologram of the three Seekers still hovered behind her, flickering faintly—Starscream in the center, Thundercracker and Skywarp flanking him like loyal shadows.

“We must convince them first. Skywarp and Thundercracker. Those two are the only mechs Starscream has ever trusted. Not Megatron. Not Shockwave. Not any commander, ally, or rival. Just them.”

She let that settle before adding, with quiet but pointed emphasis:

“But if you think it will be easy, you’re already underestimating what they are.”

A faint nervous chuckle came from one of the back rows—likely Blurr. “They’re goofballs, right? I mean, Skywarp’s a glitchhead with teleportation and Thundercracker’s… well, he writes poetry.”

Windblade didn’t laugh. Her wings flared slightly, her optics sharp as they swept across the room.

“No,” she said. “That’s what they want you to believe.”

She pointed to the image of Skywarp, frozen mid-laugh in the holo. “This isn’t who he is. The silliness, the erratic behavior, the harmless persona? A deliberate illusion. Skywarp is cruel when he needs to be. He is fiercely intelligent. He has a short temper—and he has been pretending for longer than most of you have been alive.”

Then to Thundercracker’s image. “And him? The pacifist poet? He’s the eye of the storm. The stillness before execution. Calm—because he already knows how the fight will end. That one is dangerous in a way most of you cannot imagine.”

She let the silence breathe before delivering the final warning.

“The moment they realize we know who Starscream truly is—what he’s survived, what he’s built beneath our notice—their masks will fall. And if they feel threatened, or worse, betrayed, then you will be facing two Seekers who were handpicked, trained, and molded by the most brilliant tactician of the noble courts. If they turn hostile... you won’t survive the encounter.”

Arcee folded her arms tightly. “So what do you suggest? We walk up and say ‘hey, your friend’s royalty, come join our side’?”

Windblade gave a dry, bitter smile. “If only it were that simple.”

Then a voice rang out—gentler, hesitant. Moonracer, raising her hand like a student unsure of her question. “Windblade… if all of this is true… how do you know so much?”

All optics turned back to Windblade.

The fan-winged femme paused. For a moment, her field wavered. Softer. Less composed. A hint of memory danced in her optics.

“Because,” she began, “I’ve known Starscream since before either of us knew what the word ‘war’ meant.”

She stepped forward, her voice quieter but more intimate now—like she was telling a story only she remembered, one from a world long dead.

“We met as sparklings. My first royal gathering. A masquerade ball, glittering halls, rust-gold fountains, music so loud you could feel it through the floorplates. I was overwhelmed. Surrounded by snobbish nobles and politics I didn’t understand.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s when I saw him. A tiny tricolor Seeker sitting alone in the corner, wings folded tight, watching everything but speaking to no one.”

Some bots frowned in confusion. That didn’t sound like the Starscream they knew.

“I went to him. I asked him why he wasn’t dancing, and he just looked at me with those big optics and said, ‘I’m not supposed to.’ I didn’t understand, so I said, ‘Well, you are now,’ and I pulled him to the floor. He was stiff, nervous, awkward—but he laughed. Really laughed. And from that night on, every time my family visited Vos, I’d sneak away to find him.”

Her smile dimmed, but her optics glowed brighter with memory. “His room was tucked away in one of the coldest towers of the palace—barely heated, barely lit. No decorations, just datapads and logic puzzles. The servants avoided him. The nobles ignored him. But I went. We’d play. We’d talk. We’d plan little adventures. To me, he wasn’t Starscream the noble bastard. He was just… my friend.”

The room was silent now, caught in the spell of her story.

“My sire,” she continued, “once considered adopting him. Bringing him into our house, formally. Said he reminded him of my older brother—clever, proud, and kind when he thought no one was watching.”

“But the Windlord found out.”

Her tone turned cold.

“He threatened my family. Boycotted our lands. We lost access to half our airfields. He warned that Starscream belonged to Vos—and that any attempt to remove him would be seen as theft of ‘state property.’”

Gasps and shocked muttering surged again.

“He used Starscream,” Windblade whispered, shaking her head. “Used him as a child war planner. The ‘games’ he played in his datapads—those were simulations of real battles. When he won, the generals reaped the rewards. When he lost, he was punished. And he never knew—never really understood—until much later.”

There was a long silence.

Wheeljack muttered, “Scrap…”

Even Rodimus looked shaken. “That’s… child abuse. That ain’t just war. That’s—”

Windblade looked up, face hard again. “That’s Vos. That’s the nobility. And that’s what he escaped when he joined Megatron.”

She turned her gaze to the gathered Autobots.

“So don’t you dare treat him like a joke. Or a snake. Or a lost cause. If you do, you’ll lose him forever. And I won’t help you get him back.”

No one argued.

No one could.

Because for the first time, Starscream wasn’t just a Decepticon. He wasn’t the traitor, the fool, the arrogant glitch.

He was a child who’d survived hell with only two shadows for protection—and the hope that one day, maybe, someone would see him for what he truly was.

The quiet hum of the room deepened as Windblade reached into her subspace storage. The gesture was slow, reverent—as if she were handling something sacred, or perhaps something shameful.

When her hand emerged, resting in her palm was a small, irregular piece of metal. Rust edged its corners, its surface rough and timeworn. Crude etchings covered it—hastily carved with what must have been an old energon stylus. A chaotic crest—a flag, maybe—half Seeker wing, half tower, scribbled flames at its base and a star over it all, like the kind sparklings draw without any idea what stars actually look like.

It was a child’s fantasy of conquest.

A joke of war.

A dream scribbled in metal.

She walked over to Optimus and extended it toward him.

“This,” she said, voice unsteady, “is your first step.”

Optimus looked down at the jagged object in his large, weathered hands. His optics scanned it slowly, carefully. “What is it?”

Windblade’s wings lowered, her field drawing inward with pain and memory.

“It’s a flag. The first one. A joke between sparklings. Starscream made it after he and I ‘conquered’ a garden during one of the palace visits. He said if we were going to win imaginary wars, we needed a symbol. We called it ‘Skyfire Dominion.’” Her voice cracked slightly. “He made me swear loyalty over this stupid thing.”

She tried to laugh, but it faltered halfway.

“I kept it. I don’t know why. Maybe because it was the only thing he ever gave me that wasn’t soaked in pain or suspicion.”

She took a step back, crossing her arms. Her gaze turned to Optimus with caution.

“If you show this to Thundercracker and Skywarp,” she continued, “they’ll recognize it. They were there when we made it. He showed it to them like it was the greatest treasure in all of Vos. And they—”

She hesitated.

“They remember. Seekers don’t forget things like that.”

Prowl frowned. “Wait, you want us to walk up to two unpredictable trine warlords and show them a rusty doodle like it’s a peace treaty?”

Windblade didn’t flinch. “Yes. Because they won’t see it as that. They’ll see it as proof that someone actually remembers who he was before the war. That someone saw him as more than a Decepticon, more than a tactician, more than a weapon.”

She clenched her fists.

“And if you don’t show it to them, they’ll tear you to shreds the moment they think you’re using Starscream again.”

Moonracer leaned forward, whispering. “Why can’t you talk to them? They knew you as kids, too, right?”

Windblade looked away.

“…Because they hate me.”

That took the room by surprise.

Windblade’s wings drooped, her voice nearly a whisper now. “They hate me because I left. Because I saw what Vos did to him. Because I knew and still—I turned Autobot. I followed a Prime.”

Her optics lifted to meet Optimus’s, raw with emotion. “Not you, Optimus. But the last one. Sentinel.”

A hush fell. Even the youngest among them flinched at the name.

Windblade continued, tone laced with regret so deep it sounded like rust in her voice. “Sentinel Prime took Starscream’s designs—his weapons, his tools, his energy route equations—and paraded them as his own. Half the artillery in the early war? Starscream invented that when he was barely past protoform. He thought he was solving puzzles. They told him it was for ‘academy tests.’”

Her fists trembled.

“Sentinel gave none of the credit. Just rewrote Starscream out of his own work and let Vos keep using him. And I… I didn’t stop it. I was too scared. Too young. Too desperate to be ‘noble.’ I let the Autobots become my shield while Starscream bled in the dark.”

She drew a long, slow breath.

“That’s why they’ll never trust me again. But you—they don’t know you, Optimus. You’re a clean slate. Maybe even a chance.”

Optimus held the flag gently between his digits, his optics distant now—not unreadable, but full of gravity. There was no pride in him as he looked down at the crude emblem. Only the weight of a truth that had been buried too long.

“We will try,” he said at last, softly. “Not with weapons. Not with orders. With this.”

Windblade nodded slowly, but there was no hope in her expression. Only a quiet, long-earned caution.

“You’ll only get one chance.”

And in the silence that followed, the little metal flag—etched by tiny hands with impossible dreams—lay between the future of war and the memory of what was almost peace.

Optimus closed his fingers gently around the jagged piece of metal in his palm. It felt cold, far colder than its size or weight should have allowed—heavy not in mass, but in memory. A child’s mark of allegiance, a crest of innocent conquest, now a key that might unlock a future they could barely hope for.

He looked up at Windblade, his expression calm but carrying the depth of a storm stilled by will alone. His voice was low, resolute.

“Thank you, Windblade. This will not be in vain. I promise you—he will not be left alone again.”

Windblade held his gaze, the quiet spark of belief flickering in her optics for the first time in a long while.

Slowly, the Autobots began to break from their huddle. They didn’t leave abruptly—no one truly wanted to. But the weight of what had been shared needed space. Space to breathe, to process, to grieve. Conversations bloomed quietly between them, low murmurs laced with awe, anger, and disbelief.

“Illegitimate heir… I never would’ve guessed…”

“You’re tellin’ me Skywarp was faking that stupid personality this whole time?”

“But then—Thundercracker too? Calm, quiet Thundercracker? That was all an act?”

“…No wonder they’re loyal. They were assigned to protect him? Spark first?”

The truth reshaped everything they thought they knew.

Jazz was leaning against the console, his visor flickering with scrolling data as he monitored Autobot scouts spread throughout the sector. Firefly’s signature glowed faint on the upper right corner of the screen, still tracking the sky perimeter.

He glanced back at Optimus, his voice smooth but grave. “Just got a ping from Firefly. He’s tailin’ Thundercracker and Skywarp—they just left Megatron’s flagship for a long-range perimeter sweep. Looks like they’re followin’ orders to clear potential infiltration paths.”

“Which means…” Optimus’s tone invited the rest.

Jazz nodded. “Starscream’s grounded. Left under the Decepticon mainframe. Soundwave’s got him deep in the central system, throne room itself. Firefly caught a visual—he’s sittin’ with Soundwave, doing codework. Looks like they’re patching security protocols, reconfiguring firewall locks. Pretty serious stuff.”

Optimus absorbed that with a stillness that made even the ambient sounds of the command room feel loud.

Jazz crossed his arms. “If we’re makin’ a move… now’s probably the window.”

Optimus held out his hand. “Transmit the coordinates of Thundercracker and Skywarp’s patrol route directly to my HUD.”

Jazz’s visor dimmed for a second as the data was sent. “Optimus… you sure you wanna go alone?”

From the opposite console, Ratchet stood up sharply. His optics glinted with a mix of logic and concern. “Absolutely not. It’s reckless. If those two are as dangerous as Windblade says—and everything she said rings true, for the record—you shouldn’t be anywhere near them without backup. Not even with your diplomatic weight.”

Optimus turned to Ratchet, placing a hand over his chest where the small metal flag now rested, carefully stored behind his plating.

“I understand your concern, old friend. But if I bring a team, they’ll see it as a show of force. A threat.”

He looked to each bot around him, then back to Ratchet with unshakable calm.

“They need to see someone who believes in peace enough to come alone. No weapons. No soldiers. Just truth.”

Ratchet’s expression darkened. “You think truth will stop Skywarp from teleporting behind your back and driving a blade through your spark?”

Optimus smiled faintly. “If he wanted to, he would have done so a dozen battles ago. And if Windblade is right, then behind that illusion and anger is a spark still loyal to someone. And that someone… carries this.”

He tapped his chest softly.

“I will not fail this.”

Jazz sighed and rubbed the back of his helm. “At least let me keep a satellite feed on your trail. If things go south—”

“You’ll know,” Optimus finished gently.

Ratchet muttered something unpleasant under his breath and turned away, arms crossed tightly over his chest. But he didn’t object again.

Windblade, who had been silently watching, lowered her gaze and whispered, “If he says it’ll be fine… maybe this time, it will be.”

And so, the last of the Autobots cleared from the command room. The air still vibrated with the weight of ancient truths, but in the center of it stood one Prime—ready to face the storm with only hope, memory, and the heart of a child’s flag in his hands.

Chapter Text

The wind was still.

Cybertron’s sky, perpetually cast in hues of storm gray and cobalt blue, stretched endless above the cragged mountain ridge where Optimus Prime now stood. The ground below him sloped into a long dry valley—former battlefield, long forgotten, now used for Decepticon patrol shifts. Jagged stone, metallic sand, and twisted wreckage formed the spine of the terrain. Thunderclouds loomed above with low rumbles, but no rain. Not yet.

He heard them before he saw them.

Two Seekers descending from above, their thruster trails splitting the clouds like twin bolts of fate. One streaked in midnight blue and silver, wings wide with effortless grace—Thundercracker. The other fell like a burst of violet fire, spiraling once mid-air before slowing and backflipping into a cocky stance—Skywarp.

They landed without urgency, soft thuds echoing off the stone walls.

Thundercracker’s optics glowed dim and indifferent, his wings settling behind him with perfect symmetry. He walked a few paces forward, his face unreadable but his posture unthreatening.

Skywarp, by contrast, was all motion. Arms folded loosely, wings tilted at an expressive angle, helm tilted with exaggerated curiosity. His lips twisted into a sharp smirk as he gave Optimus a once-over.

“Well well well,” Skywarp said in that unmistakably teasing drawl. “Now there’s a sight I never thought I’d see. Optimus Prime, marching all by himself into Decepticon skies. What’s the matter, run outta backup? Or just forgot your map?”

He grinned, hands behind his back, rocking on his heels like a sparkling at play.

Thundercracker said nothing. Just stood there, expression smooth, as if observing a mild anomaly.

Optimus stopped walking and raised both hands slowly, palms open to show he carried no weapon. His optics met theirs with calm.

“I came alone,” he said. “I don’t seek conflict. I came… to speak of Starscream.”

Skywarp blinked, the smile not fading but flickering for a fraction of a second.

Thundercracker’s brow twitched.

Optimus slowly reached behind a plating slot and retrieved it—the piece of metal. Old, scratched, and pathetically small. A sloppily drawn emblem barely visible on its surface. Not a war crest, not a banner of any recognized legion. Just a child’s symbol, etched with the innocent arrogance of a game of kingdoms.

He held it out to them, careful, as if it were a weapon far more dangerous than any rifle. His voice dropped into near whisper.

“This belonged to Starscream… when he was just a sparkling. When he still believed Cybertron could be his. This is not bait. This is not a trap. This is—”

The world changed.

In the very instant Optimus showed the object, the air around him froze. The very light felt sucked from the atmosphere.

His instincts screamed—but too late.

Without sound. Without light. Without the trademark whoop or the flare of violet energy.

Skywarp was behind him.

The blade touched the fragile cables at the base of his neck—cold, firm, not piercing, but pressing. The kind of pressure that told him if he twitched too fast, it would be over. Just like that.

There had been no warning. One second, Skywarp had been smiling in front of him. The next—there was no time between. No teleport sound. No shimmer. Not even a flicker of energy on his internal sensors.

It was as though reality had allowed Skywarp to rewrite himself from one point to another.

And gone was the smiling fool, the teasing Seeker with too many jokes and not enough sense.

Behind him stood something else entirely.

Skywarp’s voice, when it came, was glacial. No inflection. No sarcasm. Just flat, final silence shaped into words.

“…Where did you get that.”

Not what is that, not why do you have it—but where. A demand, low and cutting, the kind of voice that had no space for disobedience.

Optimus could feel the static crackling just above his plating. The blade’s edge hummed faintly. His venting was steady, though his spark chamber knew better.

“Windblade gave it to me,” he said softly. “She said it would help. That it was once his. That if you saw it… you’d understand.”

The blade pressed tighter.

In front of him, Thundercracker was no longer still.

He moved—slowly, purposefully—and his calm mask fell away like cracking glass. His optics flickered once, then dimmed to a pale, dangerous red—clouded, stormlike. The slight curve of his lips became a thin, slicing grin.

Not the grin of amusement.

The grin of a predator.

Lightning began to dance around his plating, soft at first. Harmless tendrils snaking up his arms. Then brighter. Sharper. The static sizzled in the air, and Optimus could feel the shift in pressure. Thundercracker's very spark signature felt sharper, more volatile—no longer the silent shadow of Starscream’s wing, but something other. Something he had hidden for far too long.

“You want to talk about that?” Thundercracker asked, his voice low and disturbingly amused, like a warlord asking if his prisoner would prefer a slow or fast death. “You think holding that little thing up makes you our friend?”

He stepped closer, just one pace. His energy field was thick with static, suffocating.

“You know what that piece of scrap is? You know what it means?”

“Do you know,” Skywarp added softly, still behind him, “what he dreamed about when he made it?”

“Do you know,” Thundercracker continued, smile wide and terrible, “how many times we watched him bleed to keep that dream alive?”

The air was electric now—truly, unnaturally. Micro-flashes sparked in Thundercracker’s vents, his hands subtly twitching with power not often seen in public. The casual Seeker who once leaned against walls and spoke only when necessary had vanished, and in his place stood something elemental. A soldier forged in stormlight and war-honed rage.

The real Thundercracker.

And the real Skywarp… wasn’t laughing.

For the first time, Optimus realized: all the joking, all the teleport pranks, all the dramatics… had been a performance.

A front. A mask. Just like Windblade told them.

Because the creature now behind him was silent. Cold. Swift as death and just as quiet.

Both of them were staring at him now—not with hate. Not even suspicion.

With the gaze of two living weapons who had trained their whole lives for the sole purpose of protecting one very broken, very brilliant young tactician.

And they were trying to decide if Prime had just crossed a line no one came back from.

“…Don’t say his name again,” Thundercracker whispered.

“Unless you’re ready to bleed for it,” Skywarp added, his blade pressing just slightly more.

Optimus didn’t move.

But he didn’t back down either.

He just held the flag out—still, steady, fragile.

And whispered, “I’m already bleeding for him.”

The blade pressed harder.

Optimus felt the thin, stinging slice across the outer cable sheath at the base of his neck. A pulse of warm energon trickled down across his collar and into the grooves of his chest plating—slow, bright, unmistakable.

But he didn’t flinch.

He stood still, calm, unwavering even as the blade trembled slightly from the minute tension in Skywarp’s arm. The Seeker behind him wasn’t breathing hard, wasn’t trembling, wasn’t unstable—he was just tight. Tight like a spring ready to uncoil in a split astrosecond. Cold rage compacted into flesh and chrome.

For one long second, the three of them remained frozen in that jagged triangle of loyalty and potential violence.

Then Skywarp exhaled a single breath.

He pulled the blade back—not sheathing it, not relaxing—but giving Optimus an inch of space to speak.

“You’ve got two clicks,” he said in a voice devoid of any of his usual sing-song sarcasm. “Say what you came to say before Thundercracker cracks your spark core into energon mist.”

Thundercracker, still standing directly ahead, gave the faintest incline of his head. His arms were now loose at his sides, but the lightning—oh, it danced brighter now. Each movement sent sharp veins of white-blue current across his limbs. His wings flicked once as though shedding tension, but his optics never blinked. That cold, psychotic smile lingered.

He was ready. He had been ready.

Optimus didn’t waste even a nanosecond.

“I came to talk,” he began, his voice steady despite the energon drip at his collar. “Not about war. Not about Autobot strategy or about surrendering Decepticons. I came about Starscream.”

Skywarp twitched behind him, but didn’t interrupt.

“I found out,” Optimus continued, “about the sanctuaries. The ones he built.”

Thundercracker’s optics narrowed a fraction. Still no words.

“I didn’t understand it at first.""

The rain finally started—a soft hiss over metal and stone, misting the dry battlefield.

“He built them,” Optimus went on, slower now. “Build sanctuaries for Cybertron’s surviving animals to live in the hopes for set them free one day where they trully belong''

Skywarp stepped around him now, blade still loose in hand, but his optics locked to Optimus with no trace of playfulness.

Thundercracker’s hands clenched.

“He just… did it. On his own. Not for glory. Not for politics. Because Starscream…” Optimus looked straight at Thundercracker now, right into the storm in his optics, “was never truly meant to be a warlord.”

He let the words hang there, like a confession—raw and stripped of all posturing.

“He was a scientist,” Prime said, voice quieter now. “He was always a scientist. He only ever wanted peace. A peace he could control, maybe. A world that wouldn’t devour the weak. And somewhere along the line… we all mistook that fire for ambition instead of compassion.”

The rain fell harder now, collecting in rivulets on their armor.

“I don’t want to use him. I don’t want to exploit him. I came to offer you two a deal.”

He turned slightly, carefully, facing both Seekers now, no longer under the edge of Skywarp’s blade.

“I will protect him. And everything he’s built. Not because he’s a pawn or a symbol—but because I finally understand who he is. And what he’s been trying to build all along.”

Optimus stepped forward once—not a threatening move, just a deliberate one—and extended the small drawn scrap of metal again toward Thundercracker.

“A world where nobody gets scrapped for the class of their chassis. A world where Seeker, tank, scout, medic, or drone have equal weight.”

Thundercracker’s lightning didn’t vanish—but it did still. Just for a moment.

And for that moment, the only sound was the rain… and the slow, deliberate breathing of two Seekers, hearing—truly hearing—the truth laid bare in front of them at last.

Optimus lowered himself slowly—like gravity itself held reverence for what he was about to do. With one hand still raised in clear peace, the other moved to the center of the wet, dirt-flecked road. He placed the small, battered piece of metal on the ground.

It gleamed faintly in the rain—a childish flag, edges rusted, corners worn. The little symbol that meant everything and nothing. A relic of two sparklings in a forgotten corner of a royal palace, when power meant make-believe and war was a distant rumor in their games of conquest and pretend.

“I’ll leave this here,” Optimus said, his voice calm as deep wind. “And I’ll leave you to decide what comes next.”

He straightened again, keeping his optics low—not challenging, not submitting either, but simply open.

“When you’re ready,” he said, “you can open a safe channel to the Autobots. You’ll find a frequency encoded in the bottom corner of that drawing.” A subtle nod toward the flag. “A private link. No traps. No pursuit.”

Thundercracker said nothing. But his lightning had fully stilled now. Not vanished—just… coiled.

Skywarp, still tense, had lowered his blade fully now. His gaze lingered on the scrap of metal as though it were something sharp enough to cut through him.

“I promise this,” Optimus added, taking a slow step backward, “if you—the two bots Starscream trusts most—give me that chance… I will protect him. Not because he’s a Decepticon. Not because he’s powerful. But because he matters. Because he’s been protecting Cybertron in ways none of us ever saw.”

The rain grew stronger now, trailing across armor and cooling steaming vents. Prime’s figure was shrouded in the downpour as he stepped back fully.

Then, without another word, he turned.

And walked away.

Behind him, the little flag stayed where he had left it—half in mud, half in memory.

Skywarp remained still, optics flickering faintly as a quiet battle waged behind his expression. Thundercracker’s gaze stayed fixed on the metal scrap. The cruel smile was gone, replaced with something unreadable. Something fragile. Something old.

Neither Seeker moved for a long time.

And then—almost too quietly to hear—Thundercracker muttered, “…he remembered.”

Skywarp didn’t speak. He stood there, the rain ticking gently off his armor, optics dimmed as if caught in a memory far removed from the present—far from the mud-caked scrap of metal at his feet or the Autobot that had dared approach them with empty hands and an open spark.

He remembered.

The first time he saw him.

A skinny, quiet youngling, barely able to keep his wings lifted, standing stiffly in the far end of a cold hall of polished steel and biting silence. He wasn’t even supposed to be there—not truly. He was the “illegitimate one,” the bad blood, a rumor in noble wings and a walking reminder of an ancient scandal. Most of the palace pretended he didn’t exist. The ones who didn’t, despised him.

And yet, when Starscream was told he could select guards for the first time, it wasn’t the elite graduates from Iacon’s high towers he chose. It wasn’t even the lowest of noble-born initiates.

It was them.

Skywarp and Thundercracker—orphans, street scrap, the kind of mechs who'd been discarded before they even got a designation. They had no house names. No crests. No records. They were shadows with wings and barely-functioning control over unstable powers. Good enough to die on the frontlines, but not good enough to be seen.

They were assigned to wall duty and repair escort in backline cities.

And Starscream walked right past a line of spotless cadets and pointed a thin finger at them.

“I want those two.”

The court laughed. Laughed for weeks.

“Two classless gutterjets guarding the bastard Seeker,” they said.

But Starscream never laughed with them.

At first, Skywarp hated him for it.

He hated the humiliation, hated the side glances, hated how the elite officers snickered behind their wings.

But then… Starscream talked to them. Like they mattered. Like they weren’t walking embarrassments but… people. Like he understood what it felt like to be looked at with disgust for something you never chose.

He joked with them too—stupid games that, at the time, Skywarp thought were meant to pass the boredom. Hiding under tables, chasing illusions, throwing junk at moving targets across impossible distances.

Until one day, during a real fight, Skywarp teleported three times in a row through a firewall and didn’t even feel the burn.

It dawned on him—like it did for Thundercracker too—Starscream had been training them. Quietly. Kindly. With nonsense and laughter, but always with purpose.

The day Starscream reached maturity and stood tall in a court that still wished he would disappear… was also the day he looked his two misfit guards in the optics and said:

“If you leave now, no one will blame you. But if you stay, I promise—I will never let them treat you like nothing again.”

They stayed.

And became monsters for him.

Skywarp blinked back to the present, rain mixing with the faint glow of energon on his plating. His mouth was thin, optics hard again—but something in them had changed.

“He remembered,” Thundercracker said behind him, still watching the flag scrap.

Skywarp didn’t reply right away. Then:

“…We swore we’d never follow a Prime.”

“We won’t,” Thundercracker answered. “But he isn’t a Prime to him.”

Skywarp looked down once more at the rusted childish symbol, smeared in mud.

“…We talk. Once.”

Thundercracker’s optics dimmed as he stared at the tiny piece of metal resting between the two of them. His own reflection wavered faintly in its rain-slick surface—distorted, blurred, just like the memory now surging through his processor.

A long time ago—so long it felt like another lifetime—he and Skywarp had been little more than recruits. Still barely out of their protoform shells, still rough around the seams, clumsy with their gifts. The Royal Army of Vos had only taken them in because of those unpredictable powers: Skywarp’s raw ability to displace matter through space, Thundercracker’s volatile control of sonic booms and electromagnetic fields. Dangerous. Useful. Disposable.

They were soldiers. Tools. Not people.

And yet… he saw them.

Starscream.

Younger than they were. Smaller. Frailer. Born with a name that made every high-caste wing twitch in disdain, and yet he walked the palace halls with defiant posture and a grin that barely hid the bruises.

Thundercracker remembered the day he found him—not in a training field or briefing hall, but in an abandoned courtyard, chalking messy lines on a scorched scrap of metal, giggling as he explained to a confused Windblade what he was making.

“A flag,” Starscream chirped, smeared in engine grease and dirt, the fire in his optics too bright for a sparkling. “For the new Vos.”

Windblade, only slightly older, tilted her helm. “There is no new Vos.”

“Not yet.” Starscream grinned. “But there will be. And it won’t care what kind of frame you have. Or what you transform into. Or if your wings are pure or if your spark is forged. It’ll be for everyone. A real kingdom.”

He pressed the point of a tool into the center of the flag. “Swear loyalty.”

Windblade hesitated, then looked around at the silent courtyard and the royal spires watching from above like cold judges. Finally, with a roll of her optics, she raised one servo, and solemnly declared, “I swear.”

Thundercracker had watched from the shadows, arms crossed, unsure if he was witnessing madness or something else.

Years later, he understood it had been hope.

When Starscream grew older, when the jokes from the military about the “illegitimate prince and his street dog guards” started turning from whispers to threats, the secrecy began. Training became formalized. Every joke became a drill. Every game, a test.

They stopped laughing—but they didn’t stop learning.

Then came the day when the winds over Vos changed, when war loomed like storm clouds over every tower. Starscream had gathered them—just them—inside a dimmed archive chamber, just days before Megatron’s message reached the core cities.

His voice had no laughter that day.

“If war comes,” he said quietly, “I can’t afford to be who I really am.”

Thundercracker and Skywarp had exchanged a glance.

“You’re not making sense,” Skywarp had grumbled.

Starscream had looked at them then, optics sharp, tired, afraid.

“we’re going to pretend to be brothers. A sled team. Thundercracker: you’re quiet, rational, no strong views. Skywarp: you’re the jester, no one takes you seriously. And me? I’ll be the snake. The liar. The coward. The traitor. It’ll be my mask. But I need you to wear yours too.”

“Why?” Thundercracker had asked, feeling the unease stirring deep.

“Because if they think we’re harmless, they won’t target us. And I’m not losing anyone important to me. Not again.”

The chamber had gone silent. Only the faint hum of the archive crystals remained.

Thundercracker hadn’t answered. Neither had Skywarp.

They just nodded.

And so they became what the world expected.

Skywarp the fool.

Thundercracker the dull one.

Starscream, the traitor.

But beneath the surface, they had never forgotten who they really were—and why they wore those masks.

Now, standing in the present rain, staring at the crooked symbol of a child’s dream, Thundercracker clenched his jaw. Sparks flickered across his wings like tiny storms, the energy barely restrained. He felt his spark twist.

He had tried so hard to believe Starscream was gone, that the dream had died, crushed under the boots of every betrayal and battlefield.

But it hadn’t.

He looked to Skywarp.

Skywarp met his optics and gave a single nod.

The flag still stood.

The rain had not stopped.

Thunder cracked overhead—fitting, as it marked the return of two Seekers who were more storm than bot.

Thundercracker and Skywarp soared through the darkened skies of the valley, their wings streaming water as they cut through the dense curtain of rain. Their sleek forms glinted faintly under the scattered flashes of lightning, no words exchanged between them as the silence of memory weighed heavier than the wind resistance.

Their wing thrusters hissed faintly as they descended toward the Decepticon base—a looming fortress of sharp lines and pulse-lit steel embedded in the mountainside. The landing platform lit up under their presence, sensors registering their IFF signatures, gates groaning open as they passed without ceremony.

They didn’t stop.

Transforming mid-step, their chassis shifted with fluid mechanical ease, but neither paused to shake off the rain. Armor panels were soaked, droplets seeping between plating and exposed joints. Energon lines flickered faintly under the strain of moisture. The dim lighting of the corridors reflected off their drenched frames, puddles forming in their wake with each heavy footfall.

They reached the throne room like shadows emerging from a storm.

And there—on the raised dais in the center of the vast chamber—was Starscream.

The once-royal Seeker had his back turned, currently crouched near Soundwave who had one panel open, the two apparently working together over some critical data stream. Starscream’s optics were intent, digits flicking across the projected schematics.

Until he sensed it.

The moment they crossed the threshold, Starscream’s optics snapped up. His wings twitched. His entire frame straightened with sharp, instinctual alertness—then softened a fraction the moment he recognized them.

He didn’t say a word.

Soundwave tilted his helm in silent acknowledgement, but before the communications officer could speak, Starscream was already moving.

The work could wait.

He stepped down from the dais, crossing the room with quick, purposeful strides, his optics scanning them both like a battlefield medic. Every drop of water that ran down their frames made him wince subtly. Starscream’s servo shot out and grabbed Skywarp’s elbow, pulling him forward with surprising strength, then gestured sharply for Thundercracker to follow.

“You two are soaked!” he snapped, the edge in his voice not anger but urgent concern. “Do you want your cables rusted through? Do you want your wing hydraulics to seize up mid-flight?!”

He tugged Skywarp again, ushering both of them out of the throne room like an angry nursemaid.

“Dry off. Now. Go to your quarters—go!”

Thundercracker opened his mouth as if to say something, but Starscream was already pressing at his back with one hand, the other still gripping Skywarp’s soaked forearm. His claws were cold from the rainwater on their plating, but the touch was undeniably real—Starscream hadn’t held them like this in a long time.

“Don’t stand around like malfunctioning statues,” Starscream muttered, though his voice was lower now. “Stormwater in the actuators causes micro-corrosion and you know that.”

Skywarp blinked, surprised more by the familiarity than the words. “You still remember that?”

Starscream glanced over his shoulder, frowning. “I remember everything, you fool.”

They reached the private quarters shared between the two Seekers—a spacious, reinforced chamber with drying vents built into the floor, clean lines, and wing supports installed along the walls. Starscream all but shoved them inside.

“Both of you—strip your outer armor panels if necessary. I’ll send someone with clean cloth and repair solvent. And energon. Hot. You both look like you’ve been flying through a war zone.”

Thundercracker, still silent, looked at him. There was something in his optics that flickered.

Starscream met his gaze, and for the briefest second, it felt like time had cracked.

“Why?” Thundercracker finally asked. His voice was low, almost unreadable. “Why do you still care?”

Starscream paused in the doorway, wing tips twitching just once.

His voice was barely audible, and for once, completely without irony.

“Because I never stopped.”

Then, without another word, they left.
The medbay was quiet except for the low hum of diagnostic equipment and the occasional hiss of sterilizing fluid.

Optimus Prime sat upright on the edge of the repair berth, a towel draped across his shoulders. The deep red of his armor was still faintly darkened from the rain, but Ratchet had already wiped away most of the grime and moisture. His neck cables were partially exposed, a thin trail of leaked energon still visible where the precision-cut wound rested. Ratchet hovered close, careful fingers moving with a mix of irritation and concern as he patched the damage.

“You’re lucky, as usual,” the medic grumbled, applying a sealant patch. “Another millimeter and Skywarp would’ve decabled you like a field-stripped servo drone.”

Optimus didn’t flinch. “He knew exactly how deep to go.”

Windblade stood to the side, arms folded, optics sharp with tension. Prowl stood just behind her, dataspike in hand, already logging every detail.

Optimus’s tone was calm, but deliberate. “I didn’t return because I was threatened. I returned because Ratchet opened a portal—and I didn’t want any misunderstandings escalating. If they had followed me… if their trust faltered…”

“You should’ve taken backup,” Windblade muttered, her wings twitching with unease. “That was reckless.”

“No.” Optimus shook his head. “It was personal.”

Prowl’s voice was clipped. “You engaged two Decepticon-class Seekers—alone. Do you realize what they could’ve done?”

“I do,” Prime said, meeting his gaze steadily. “But I also saw what they didn’t do.”

Ratchet straightened up, wiping his hands. “Meaning?”

Optimus’s optics darkened with thought. “Skywarp could’ve killed me instantly. No warning. No sound. But he didn’t. Thundercracker didn’t launch a single bolt. They both listened. Suspiciously, violently—but they listened. And when I told them what Starscream built… when I told them I wanted to protect it… they didn’t laugh.”

Windblade stepped forward, voice quieter. “They remember the symbol, don’t they?”

Optimus nodded once. “They never forgot it. And neither did Starscream.”

He slowly reached for the small piece of metal he had taken with him—now safely wrapped in a static-sleeve. He held it out, showing the engraved mark. Windblade’s expression softened in recognition.

“I placed it at their feet,” Optimus said. “And told them… if they ever want to talk, to open a secure channel. Autobots will protect what Starscream dreams of. If—” he exhaled, “—if they give us the chance.”

There was silence in the medbay, save for the rhythmic whir of Ratchet’s scanner confirming the healing process had begun.

Prowl looked unconvinced. “Do you trust them?”

Optimus was quiet for a long time before answering.

“I trust Starscream.”

The medbay fell into silence once more, but this time for a different reason.

Wheeljack strode in without warning, wiping his hands on a rag and nodding at the group. “You might wanna see this.”

He tapped a few commands into the medward terminal, and the screen lit up with a live feed—an angle from one of the hidden micro-cams the Autobots had planted weeks ago during a recon op, still functioning within the Decepticon stronghold.

The image came into focus, revealing a surprisingly homey room—large and lived-in. A berth against each wall, three in total. The middle one was the largest, with a thick wine-colored blanket and a well-fluffed pillow; the two on either side had thinner padding and smaller cushions. Along one wall stood a tall wardrobe, its doors open just enough to reveal a collection of cleanly folded cloth and armor parts. A worktable with two chairs stood beneath a light fixture that gave the room a soft, warm glow. The floor, now damp with rainwater, reflected the light in glimmers.

Starscream stood in the center of the frame, fussing over Thundercracker, pressing a wine-colored towel against the taller Seeker’s helm. His wings flicked with agitation.

“You’re both leaking on the floor!” Starscream snapped. “When the storm started, you should’ve come straight back!”

Thundercracker, for once, said nothing. He merely leaned into the towel’s touch with half-lidded optics, too tired to argue. His usually sharp frame trembled slightly from the temperature shift, condensation still clinging to his joints. His expression betrayed no irritation—just calm acceptance.

Off to the side, the storage room door clicked shut, and Skywarp emerged, toweling his plating down with a dark blue cloth. His normally mischievous grin was absent; he looked quieter, shoulders lower, optics dimmer from the exhaustion. He tossed another towel onto the floor to soak up the puddle he'd left behind and walked over to lean against one of the chairs, watching the other two without a word.

Ratchet murmured, “This… was their room.”

Optimus narrowed his optics as he studied the screen. “Before Megatron moved Starscream to the servant’s quarters.”

“No,” Ratchet muttered. “To a cell disguised as a room.”

Wheeljack nodded. “Everything’s still there. No one touched a thing. Closets full, berth perfectly made. It's like they were just waitin’ for him to come back.”

On the feed, Starscream threw the towel over his shoulder after drying Thundercracker's helm to his satisfaction, and turned to Skywarp with a sharp scolding glare.

“You too,” he hissed, grabbing a dry cloth. “How do you both manage to be airborne terrors but can’t escape a little storm without catching rust?!”

Skywarp just gave a weak snort and let Starscream dab at his face and shoulders. Neither he nor Thundercracker resisted, and in fact, neither looked anything less than… safe.

At home.

“I think,” Windblade said softly, “they never stopped being his guards.”

“More than guards,” Prowl murmured. “They’re his family.”

Optimus lowered his gaze. The words echoed deep in his spark.

The room was quiet now—just the soft dripping of water onto the floor and the faint buzz of cooling systems trying to dispel the humidity the Seekers had dragged in. Thundercracker and Skywarp, still drying off, exchanged a brief glance—silent, full of meaning. Skywarp nodded first and walked slowly to the table where a single, small object lay. With careful fingers, he placed it down: the thin piece of metal with the familiar, hand-drawn symbol.

Starscream froze mid-motion, one arm still holding a towel to Thundercracker’s shoulder. His optics widened, flickering slightly—like static interfering with focus. He turned his gaze to the table, slowly, as if fearing what he might see.

There it was.

The old symbol.

The one Windblade had helped him create.

The flag of a dream.

Starscream’s hand dropped from Thundercracker’s shoulder. He took a step forward, optics narrowing as if to disbelieve what his own optics were telling him. He reached for the metal, then paused. “Where—” His voice cracked. “Where did this come from?”

Skywarp rubbed the back of his neck, his wings twitching uneasily. “We had… an encounter,” he said carefully. “With Optimus Prime. He gave it to us.”

Thundercracker remained near Starscream, watching his reaction closely. Neither of them mentioned the safe communication line. They had memorized the frequency, then erased it from the back of the metal piece. Starscream didn’t need more reasons to worry. Not now.

Starscream slowly took the metal into his hands, tracing the edges of the mark with a trembling digit. “How did he get this?” His voice was almost a whisper. Raw.

Thundercracker answered gently, “Windblade gave it to him.”

That hit harder than anything else. Starscream's knees gave, and he collapsed—not to the floor, but into the nearest metal chair, his entire frame slumped, defeated. He pressed the metal piece to his chest, servos clenched around it.

“She told him,” he murmured, more to himself than to them. “She told him who we really are…”

His optics dimmed. The fire that usually blazed behind them seemed dulled, uncertain. For the first time in megacycles, Starscream looked like someone without a plan. No manipulation. No schemes. Just confusion. Fear. Betrayal.

Skywarp looked away for a moment, unable to bear the sight.

They knew then, without speaking, that they wouldn’t say a word about what Optimus had offered. Not yet. Not unless they had no other choice. Starscream needed their protection—just like he had always protected them.

“We’ve got you,” Skywarp said firmly. “Doesn’t matter who comes. Doesn’t matter what happens. We protect you.”

Starscream scoffed weakly. “Don’t say such stupid—”

“Shut it,” Thundercracker said gently but with finality.

He walked to Starscream and, without asking permission, picked the smaller Seeker up as if he weighed nothing. Starscream made a sound of surprise, one wing twitching, but didn’t resist. Thundercracker crossed the room and placed him on the middle berth—the one with the thick blanket, the proper pillow. The berth that had always been meant for him.

He tucked the blanket over Starscream with surprising tenderness. “Recharge,” he said softly. “You’re here. Safe. At least for now. Just rest.”

Starscream opened his mouth to argue—but Skywarp knelt beside the berth, elbows on the mattress, chin resting in his hands with a smirk.

“If you shut up and recharge for a few hours, when you wake up you’ll have a nice warm energon cube. Exactly 33 degrees. Two spoons of copper, one of zinc. Crunchy iron chips.”

Starscream froze, mouth slightly ajar. His optics twitched.

Then he shut it without a word.

From the medbay screen, the Autobots watched the scene in silence—until Windblade broke into a laugh. It was soft, amused, deeply nostalgic.

“He always had a sweet tooth,” she said, almost fondly. “Used to sneak energon truffles during political meetings. And he absolutely adores energon cotton candy.”

Ratchet snorted. “Huh. Starscream. Sweet tooth. I’ll be rusted.”

But Optimus said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, heart aching at the quiet vulnerability he saw in the Seeker who had always been more than a liar, more than a soldier. Someone worth protecting.

The room was quiet, dimly lit by the warm golden glow of the wall panels. The gentle hum of the base’s systems thrummed like a lullaby beneath it all. Starscream had drifted into recharge fast—faster than either Skywarp or Thundercracker had seen in a long time. He hadn’t even twitched in the berth, wrapped snug in the thick blanket that cradled his frame and wings perfectly. The way he curled inward, hands clutching slightly at the fabric, was almost childlike.

He didn’t even stir when Skywarp and Thundercracker moved across the room and sat near the large wardrobe, voices low.

“He’s out cold,” Skywarp murmured, glancing toward the berth with a small sigh. “Finally.”

Thundercracker nodded, arms crossed tightly over his chassis. “He’s burning out.”

Skywarp looked at him.

Thundercracker’s voice lowered further. “He can’t keep doing everything on his own. Planning, negotiating, watching his back, fighting, pretending to be weaker than he is just to survive in this nest of fragging jackals.”

“I know,” Skywarp admitted, rubbing the back of his helm. “But we can’t trust anyone else to help him. We know what they’d do.”

Thundercracker’s brow furrowed, his optics flashing. “You’re thinking of Megatron.”

Skywarp gave a bitter laugh. “Of course I’m thinking of him. One thing is Megatron knowing we have powers—he already suspects that. He lets us be, as long as we obey. But if he finds out about Starscream…”

He trailed off, his wings twitching tensely.

Thundercracker said it for him. “If he finds out Starscream has three powers…”

Skywarp nodded slowly. “One he inherited from his sire. One he was born with. And one he created himself. No Cybertronian in living memory has ever done that. You think Megatron would let him walk free?”

Thundercracker didn’t answer right away.

Skywarp’s voice darkened. “He’d put a collar on him. Like a pet. Like a weapon. If he doesn’t already want to.”

The silence between them thickened. They looked again to Starscream, sound asleep, brow relaxed for once, the fine tremors of exhaustion finally calmed by warmth and safety.

“…it could be worse,” Thundercracker said at last. His voice was gruff, laced with protective anger.

Skywarp raised a brow. “Worse than being enslaved?”

Thundercracker met his gaze. “Worse would be if Megatron found out we’re not actually a trine. That our sparks aren’t bound.”

Skywarp’s expression froze.

“Because if he knew that,” Thundercracker continued grimly, “he’d force a sparkbond. With Starscream. No choice. No escape.”

The horror of that hung heavy between them.

Skywarp swallowed, optics flicking toward Starscream again. “We have to protect him,” he whispered. “From all of them. Even Megatron. Especially Megatron.”

Thundercracker nodded silently. “He saved us. Raised us, trained us, gave us a purpose. And he never asked to be obeyed. He asked to be understood.”

Skywarp’s voice was trembling now, quietly furious. “He asked us to pretend—quiet bot, playful bot, liar bot—just so he could be the one who took the fall. So no one would look deeper.”

Thundercracker placed a servo on Skywarp’s shoulder, grounding him. “We’ll do what we’ve always done. Keep pretending. Keep guarding him.”

“And if Megatron tries to force a sparkbond?”

Thundercracker didn’t hesitate.

“Then we end Megatron.”

The medical ward was still, but the silence was dense—not peaceful. Wheeljack hadn’t turned off the recording feed. The audio from the spy camera in the Decepticon base continued playing faintly from the corner of the screen, and every voice that came through—Thundercracker’s low, protective tone, Skywarp’s trembling anger—struck deep into every Autobot present.

Optimus, seated on a repair berth with a towel still draped over his shoulders and energon trailing faintly from a bandaged cable, had not moved since the moment he heard the words.

“Three powers. One he inherited from his sire. One he was born with. And one he created himself.”

Wheeljack leaned forward, stunned silent for once, his optics wide. “What the frag…?”

Prowl’s processor raced. “That’s not possible. Creating a power? That’s—”

“Unheard of,” Ratchet finished for him. The medic’s optics hadn’t left the screen. He looked troubled, deeply so. “I knew he was brilliant, I suspected certain upgrades—but this…”

Windblade had turned entirely pale, her optics dimmed with the weight of revelation. Her fingers clutched the back of a chair as she stared at the projection of the room—at Starscream sleeping peacefully for once, his wings wrapped tight, face slack with rare vulnerability.

“He… he never told me,” she whispered. “Not even when we were young. Not even when he made me swear to that flag…”

Optimus remained silent for a long time. It was difficult to read his expression—his optics dimmed, his mouth pressed into a thin line—but his hand gripped the side of the berth with so much force the metal groaned faintly beneath it.

“If Megatron finds out we’re not a real trine… he’ll force a sparkbound.”

Those words echoed in his processor louder than the rest. Louder than the revelation of power, louder than Thundercracker’s warnings. The possibility of that—that Starscream might be forced into such a sacred, irreversible bond—

No. It chilled him to the core.

“Optimus,” Windblade spoke gently, as if sensing the storm behind his silence. “You’re worried about that more than his powers?”

He nodded once. Slowly.

“Starscream is dangerous,” he said finally, quietly. “But danger is not evil. And power does not make a monster.”

His optics flared faintly. “But what Megatron could do with that knowledge… what he could do to Starscream—” He stopped himself, lips trembling with suppressed fury. “It would be a violation of the worst kind. Worse than death.”

Wheeljack spoke next, quieter now. “That’s why Starscream’s hiding all this, right? Even from his own side.”

Prowl narrowed his optics. “And now Skywarp and Thundercracker are protecting him. Playing dumb. Pretending. They’d go against Megatron to keep him safe.”

Windblade's voice cracked. “They aren’t just pretending anymore. They love him. As family. And they’re scared.”

Optimus leaned back slowly, optics still locked on the screen.

“He was always alone,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Even when surrounded. Carrying all that, all this time…”

Ratchet crossed his arms. “So what now? We know. He doesn’t know we know. Do we tell him?”

Optimus shook his head. “Not yet. We let him keep the mask… until he’s ready to take it off.”

Windblade’s gaze softened. “And if Megatron gets too close?”

Optimus’s optics darkened, glowing fiercely now. “Then we’ll be closer.”

In the softly lit room, only the faint hum of the air filtration and the quiet clink of metal could be heard. Skywarp stood by the compact heating unit in the corner, adjusting the temperature of the energon cube with practiced ease. His expression, for once, was serious, the edges of his brow furrowed as he added two spoonfuls of copper, one of zinc, and carefully sprinkled in the crunchy pieces of iron Starscream liked—just enough to give texture but not so much it disrupted the smoothness of the drink.

Thundercracker was sitting nearby, back slightly hunched, gently tilting the cube in his hands to distribute the heat evenly. He said nothing at first, simply focused, until he felt the subtle tension in the air shift. Starscream stirred.

Right on cue.

Like a finely-tuned internal chronometer reacting to proximity, Starscream’s optics flickered on, wings twitching faintly. He sat up slowly, the thick blanket falling from his chest and revealing the slight glow beneath his armor where exhaustion still pulsed. But his expression was already shifting—not the soft, honest one they saw in rare privacy, but the mask. Cold. Controlled. Calculated. Second in command.

Skywarp didn’t even turn around. “You're awake,” he said simply, placing the cube on the small table beside the berth.

Starscream grabbed it without hesitation, taking a long sip. The moment the energon touched his systems, his optics brightened marginally. It was perfect. Of course it was. He didn’t thank them with much warmth—he couldn’t, not when wearing the mask—but his voice was steady.

“Thanks,” he muttered, finishing half the cube. “I need to get back to Soundwave. There’s a comms backlog and the surveillance recalibration hasn’t finished. If Megatron notices a delay, he’ll have another fragging tantrum.”

He moved to get up, but Thundercracker held out a hand to steady him for a second.

“Stars, next time… maybe we put a sedative in your cube. Force your wings to rest longer. Recharge properly.”

Starscream narrowed his optics at him but didn’t immediately snap.

Skywarp, half-amused, added, “Not the worst idea, actually. You recharge like you expect the base to explode any second.”

Starscream exhaled slowly through his vents. His lips twitched into a brief, almost-smile—but it didn’t reach his optics.

“If you two ever drug me, I’ll swap your wings in your sleep,” he said, voice dry but not unkind. “Besides, I can’t rest when he’s here.”

He downed the rest of the cube in one go, then straightened his plating, adjusting his pauldrons and smoothing his wings as if nothing had happened. A new moment. A new act. The mask was fully on again.

“But keep your mouths shut,” he warned quietly. “No slips. No sentiment. No cracks. We’re still what they think we are.”

Thundercracker nodded. “We know.”

Skywarp offered a tired salute. “Don’t worry. We’re the perfect sled.”

Starscream paused for the barest second, flicked his gaze toward them—almost like a silent thank you—and then walked out, sharp, sure steps echoing through the hall.

When the door closed, Thundercracker leaned back with a sigh. “We really should consider the sedative.”

Skywarp shrugged. “Yeah, but it’d have to be cherry-flavored or he’d spit it out.”

The moment Starscream stepped back into the control room, his posture shifted—no more warm blankets or quiet moments. He was sharp-edged again, optics narrowed in precision as he finished calibrating the surveillance logs Soundwave had been working on. The silent mech gave a subtle nod when Starscream seamlessly picked up where he'd left off, not needing words to acknowledge his efficiency.

Once the task was done and data stabilized, Starscream wasted no time. He slipped away without fanfare, cutting through the labyrinthine corridors of the Nemesis until he reached the reinforced doors of his private laboratory.

Inside, the lighting softened to a soothing violet-blue glow. Tanks and glass-domed biomes lined the walls, each containing flora and fauna he’d either preserved or carefully cultivated. The marine wing glimmered under luminous panels; delicate bioluminescent organisms floated in translucent, gel-like water, casting eerie, beautiful shadows. Starscream exhaled slowly—here, no Megatron. No command. Just silence and science.

He moved with fluid familiarity, slipping on a protective wrap over his armor before opening the marine enclosure's filtration panel. The scent of mineral-sterile fluids filled the room as he began exchanging the translucent liquid with practiced ease, replacing the filters and logging the chemical balances. He hummed lowly, almost without thinking—a quiet, ancient Vosian melody meant to soothe hatchlings.

It was here, in this sanctuary of glass and steel, that he remembered why he fought. Not for conquest. For preservation. For rebirth. For a future where Cybertron was more than war.

He was so immersed in stabilizing the aquatic microfauna that he didn’t notice the flicker of movement from the stasis cradle in the far enclosure.

A shadow shifted. A faint rustle.

One of the Predacon eggs, nestled carefully under temperature-stable shielding, suddenly jerked. Not the slow pulse of growth it usually showed—no, this was sharp, almost panicked.

But Starscream, gently adjusting the nutrient flow tubes, didn’t see it. Not yet.

Starscream’s soft humming filled the air like a lullaby echoing through steel and crystal. The tranquil space of his lab—so unlike the harshness of the Decepticon warship—remained untouched by the chaos of war. He finished tending the marine side, resetting the temperature regulators and running a quick diagnostic scan before stepping lightly toward the reptilian habitats.

Within each carefully built enclosure, mechanical lizards with chrome-scaled hides and fractal-patterned armor shifted lazily, blinking with slit-pupil optics. He cleaned their basking stones, replaced older food cubes with nutrient-rich gel, and ensured the humidity regulators worked properly. Still humming, he moved on to the insect sanctum.

Here, the air was filled with shimmering color and soft chittering. Cybertronian butterflies with holo-wings flickered between bioluminescent crystal flowers. Soft-bodied larvae nestled in nutrient moss, and elegant micro-drones pollinated silicon-petal flora. With practiced gentleness, Starscream added drops of sweet energon into several flower cups, smiling softly as one butterfly—wings like stained glass—settled briefly on his wrist. He raised it gently and let it fly.

Behind him, the Predacon egg leapt again, this time more forcefully—out of its padded stasis nest.

Starscream didn’t notice.

Only when he turned to leave the insect habitat and reset the enclosure’s atmospheric parameters did his optics catch the anomaly: one of the eggs… had moved. No, not just moved—fallen.

His entire frame locked as alarm surged through his systems.

“What in the Pits...?” he muttered, rushing forward and skidding to a halt before the heavy, semi-fossilized shell.

These eggs were remnants of a genetic nightmare: rare, ancient, dangerous. Not to be touched. Definitely not to be dropped. He stared in disbelief at the displaced egg lying on the floor, out of its stable cradle.

“Impossible…” he breathed, kneeling beside it. “The containment field—how—?”

He reached out, brushing trembling fingers over the egg’s warm surface. A soft sound—creck—reached his audials.

His optics widened.

Another crack, followed by a sudden snap as a chunk of shell broke off. Panic consumed him instantly.

“No, no, nononono—Primus no, please no—”

His vents stuttered as worst-case scenarios flooded his processor. What if the egg was damaged? What if it was deformed?

Shockwave would dissect him slowly. Megatron would skip that step and simply rip his wings off.

He leaned closer, helpless.

And then—everything stopped.

A tiny shape, still half-submerged in the broken shell, twitched.

From within the darkness of the egg, a single pair of bright, golden optics opened—brilliant and burning, with slitted, draconic pupils that locked directly onto him.

They blinked.

Starscream didn’t breathe.

His wings stiffened. A shiver passed through him from helm to heel. All the words he could say vanished into static.

Only one word fell, whispered like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea.

“… Oh.My.Primus.”

Chapter Text

Starscream sat motionless, completely paralyzed. The egg lay in his servo, light and warm, but his optics were fixed—unmoving, unblinking—on the small jagged hole cracked in its surface. Through that tiny breach, two golden eyes had opened. Not bright like energon fire, nor dull like dying embers, but alive, intelligent, curious.

They had blinked.

It had happened. He had seen it.

Or… had he?

“I’m seeing things,” he whispered to himself, almost desperately, voice hoarse with disbelief. “I must be. I’m hallucinating, it’s a glitch—overworked processor, yes…”

The egg shifted again.

Starscream’s wings jerked slightly, involuntarily twitching.

“No. This—this isn’t possible.”

He held the egg more carefully, tighter but not forceful, as though it were suddenly too fragile to exist. The small thing vibrated slightly in his servos, another piece of shell slipping off with a soft plink. Then another. And another.

His spark stuttered.

“There’s no way this worked,” he muttered, eyes wide, vents running uneven. “The odds—no, the math—this habitat wasn’t even perfected. Simulated geothermal warmth, adjusted humidity… it was a hypothesis, not an incubator!” He chuckled dryly, almost madly. “It was just for stabilization. Preservation. Not… reanimation. Not—Primus help me—not resurrection.”

And still, the egg moved.

Starscream’s field fluctuated uncontrollably around him, caught between rising terror and unspeakable awe.

With a wet crack, the top portion of the egg cracked further and then split. The fracture widened like a blooming flower, until a small, soaked head pushed through.

It was alive.

The creature’s head was wedge-shaped and slicked with a viscous green fluid. His scale-armor was barely formed, glistening and dark orange with deep black stripes along his jaw and helm, and faint swirls of tarnished silver already forming down his snout and neck. His breathing was fast, shallow—newborn.

Then… he looked at Starscream.

He tilted his tiny head sideways, chirping faintly.

Golden eyes. Pupil slitted and gleaming. Bright with instinct and curiosity, with a recognition Starscream didn’t understand.

Starscream just stared.

He couldn’t process it. Couldn’t understand the miracle in his hands. The old texts, the warnings, the legends said Predacons were extinct. Fossils, twisted genetics—dead history. He hadn’t expected life. Not really. He’d been preserving a legacy. Not reviving it.

But here it was.

He only snapped out of his trance when the infant chirped again—louder this time, with a higher trill.

Starscream gasped softly and immediately sprang to action. Carefully, reverently, he reached inside the shell with both hands and lifted the small body out. He moved quickly across the lab, servos trembling slightly as he pulled open one of the sanitation drawers. From inside, he retrieved a clean lab towel and began delicately wiping the sticky green birthing fluid from the Predacon's body.

The infant hissed once—startled—but then settled, clearly content to be dried. He gave a pleased little warble and leaned against Starscream’s arm with a strange familiarity.

“There,” Starscream murmured, his voice softer now. His hands, usually so precise and clinical, were gentle, cradling the tiny being like glass. “Easy… easy now, you're alright.”

The Predacon let out a chitter, then tried clumsily to shake off some fluid with his wings—underdeveloped and still half-stuck to his backplates. His scales shifted color subtly under the lab’s soft lighting—like burning coals under oil.

Starscream looked at him for a long moment. His processor struggled to wrap around what he had done. Accident or not, he had brought back a creature from the age of legend.

A beast of power. A symbol of strength. A species extinct for millennia, reborn in his hands.

A tremor passed through him—not fear now, but something like wonder. And then… pride.

He chuckled lowly.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Little king of monsters…”

And then the word bloomed fully in his mind, as grand and unyielding as the creature’s destiny.

“…Predaking.”

The name tasted ancient and powerful on his glossa. It felt right. He repeated it, holding the still-damp hatchling up to optic level, meeting the bright gaze with one of quiet awe.

“Predaking. That will be your name.”

The tiny Predacon chirped at the sound, then gave a tiny growl—not threatening, but playful, as if agreeing.

Starscream’s spark ached as he realized what had happened. He hadn't just hatched a creature. He had possibly reawakened a species. And this one… this little survivor…

He wouldn’t be a specimen.

He wouldn’t be a weapon for Shockwave, or a trophy for Megatron.

He would be his.

Starscream was spiraling.

He paced the lab in sharp, precise circles, wings twitching with each frantic turn as he muttered numbers, theories, equations—anything that might explain how a creature that hadn't breathed in eons was now chirping behind him like a baby turbofox.

"I don't have any data! None! What am I supposed to do, feed him guesses? I don't even know if he processes energon normally! What if he needs a stabilizer? What if his metabolism rejects synthetic compounds? What if I kill him with a miscalculation?!"

He turned suddenly, optics wide, and darted to the supply wall.

The small Predacon watched, tilting his head like a curious hatchling as Starscream yanked open cooling drawers and storage hatches. The seeker set out everything he had: a variety of energon types used across his sanctuaries—liquid energon in nutrient vials, semi-solid gels, hardened cubes, and even fragile lace-like energon webs designed for lightweight aerial feeders.

Starscream rushed back to the little nest he’d hastily arranged—clean, soft towels folded into a makeshift den. He gently scooped the infant Predacon into the center of it and gestured wildly at the array of energon before him.

“Come on! Pick something! Anything! Don’t let your entire species die out because of a picky processor!”

Predaking sniffed.

Then sniffed again.

Then sneezed.

He curled his tail and backed away from the glowing assortment of energon like it was boring.

Starscream nearly crumpled on the spot.

"That's it," he moaned dramatically, dropping to a crouch. "You’re going to starve to death and Megatron will kill me. Or worse—Shockwave will want to dissect both of us for variables. I’ve just committed regicide by incompetence.”

Meanwhile, the pup toddled clumsily toward the far corner of the lab. He waddled past a supply crate, past the nutrient cart, and stopped in front of a small refuse alcove—where discarded mineralized energon shards and broken trace metal pieces were waiting for recycling.

Starscream kept mumbling to himself, halfway constructing a method to simulate ancient energon using volcanic compression chambers, until—

Crunch.

He froze.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

“...What was that?”

He turned—and stared, slack-jawed, as the tiny Predacon pup cheerfully bit into a jagged shard of raw energon crystal. The sound was something between glass and stone being ground by sharp metal fangs.

And it wasn’t just a nibble. The little beast was devouring it like a treat. His tail flicked with contentment as he munched, then nosed around and grabbed a bent strip of copper-like alloy, chewing it with equal enthusiasm.

“You’re—you’re eating the trash?!” Starscream shrieked, bolting across the lab. “Stop that! That’s unprocessed! That’s unsanitary! That’s not food!”

Predaking blinked up at him mid-crunch, chewing happily.

Starscream lunged forward and gently but urgently scooped him up. Bits of shattered crystal and metal dust fell from the pup's fangs.

“You’re going to give yourself indigestion,” Starscream scolded, holding him at arm’s length. “Or—spark failure. Or metallic buildup in the neural links. Or Primus knows what else! You can’t just eat rocks! That’s not—hygienic!”

Predaking let out a soft, pleased chirp.

Then promptly leaned forward and licked Starscream's face.

The seeker froze.

A long smear of mineral dust and sticky energon was now spread across his cheek.

Starscream stared at the pup.

The pup stared back, tail wagging, pupils dilated with affection.

“Oh no,” Starscream muttered, shoulders sagging. “You’re cute. Don’t do that. Don’t be adorable. I can’t get attached—this is a science project.”

Predaking chirped again, unbothered by his flustered tone, and nestled against Starscream’s arm, little claws gripping the fabric of his plating like a hatchling clinging to its dam.

Starscream sighed in defeat, reaching to gently support his weight with one servo.

“Alright, fine. I’ll set up a bin for you. But no more eating garbage. I’ll find better crystal samples. And clean metal. And—oh Primus—I’m going to be a parent, aren’t I?”

Predaking chirped once more and curled into his arm, a soft rumble vibrating from his tiny frame.

Starscream sighed again.

“…Of course the first living Predacon in millennia would bond with me.”

Starscream hadn’t even had time to fully clean up the green, viscous egg fluid smeared across the floor before disaster struck.

He had just placed Predaking down in a large container padded with layered towels and polished mineral samples—safe enough, for now—when the heavy door of his laboratory slid open with that dreadful hiss that made his fuel lines seize.

Two sets of footsteps echoed into the lab. One slow and precise, like a surgeon's scalpel striking metal—Shockwave. The other, heavier, firm, commanding, as if Cybertron itself moved with purpose—Megatron.

Starscream froze mid-step. He didn’t even turn around. His wings locked. His spark plummeted.

Megatron’s voice was already rising, the clipped fury vibrating through the room before words were even formed.

"Starscream."

The seeker winced.

"Explain this mess."

The warlord's crimson optics were fixed on the puddle of green embryonic fluid that had not yet been scrubbed away. Beside it, shards of shell—brittle, jagged, unmistakably from a Predacon egg—were scattered across the floor like the aftermath of a battlefield. From behind, Shockwave’s single optic narrowed slightly, studying everything with eerie calm.

For a terrible moment, Starscream couldn’t breathe.

Megatron took a slow step forward, his armor creaking like a storm about to break.

"You incompetent fool—do you have any idea what you've done? Do you know how rare these specimens are?!"

Starscream turned at last, but his voice wasn’t snide or defensive for once. It was oddly quiet. Uncertain.

"I... I didn’t break it."

He motioned slightly with one servo—behind him, in the bin, tiny chirping sounds could now be heard. Curious, high-pitched clicks and trills, almost bird-like. Megatron’s gaze flicked past him, frown deepening.

Shockwave followed the sound with a tilt of his helm, approaching the containment bin without waiting for permission.

Starscream stepped back.

There, nestled among minerals and curled in a cocoon of warmth, was Predaking.

The hatchling was now more active than before. His tiny wings fluttered damply at his sides. Horns like blackened silver curved slightly from his small head. His orange-and-onyx plating gleamed with embryonic sheen. When he noticed the new towering figures looming above the container, he let out a squeaky chirp and tried to hop—wobbling on underdeveloped legs, tail flicking in excitement.

Shockwave froze.

Megatron... stared.

Starscream, now gathering every shred of nerve he possessed, spoke softly:

“He... hatched. On his own.”

He stepped protectively between the bin and his commanders.

“I didn’t damage the egg. The temperature, the environmental pressure—I created the habitat, I monitored the pulses. I thought it was a false positive, but the vitals had stabilized. And then... he came out. Just like that. I swear it wasn’t forced.”

Predaking, completely unconcerned with the tension in the room, gave another cheerful trill and tried to climb the side of the container, slipping slightly and tumbling back onto the towels.

A moment passed. Two.

Megatron didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His optics had locked onto the tiny lifeform, his mouth slightly open—not in rage, but something else. Something ancient, buried beneath his fury and conquest.

Wonder.

Shockwave broke the silence first.

“Impossible... and yet confirmed.” He stepped closer, optic flaring as he scanned the hatchling’s body. “Life signs stable. Processor development: active. Skeletal plating: still forming. This... is no failed clone.”

Megatron finally moved closer, armor casting a heavy shadow over the container. Starscream instinctively tensed, unsure if Megatron was going to crush it or snatch it up.

Instead, the Decepticon Lord simply crouched—only slightly—and leaned in.

Predaking chirped once more.

Then blinked up at Megatron.

And let out a tiny, amused growl. It wasn’t threatening—it was inquisitive, like a cub recognizing something powerful and familiar.

Starscream expected shouting.

Instead, Megatron exhaled.

"A real one," he murmured, barely loud enough for Starscream to hear. “The first... of a new age.”

Starscream’s optics widened slightly at the tone.

It wasn’t angry.

It was reverent.

Shockwave, of course, immediately began cataloging the implications aloud.

“This could signal the successful revival of the Predacon species. With full development and behavioral monitoring, we can determine if replication of the original bio-signature is sustainable. Should this subject mature without deformity, we may be able to clone others using adjusted parameters.”

Megatron stood again, finally turning to Starscream, his optics intense.

“You did this?”

Starscream stiffened. “I—I supervised the incubation environment. I adjusted the stasis energy cycles in the containment shell. I—”

But Megatron raised one hand.

“Do not downplay this. For all your... tendencies, Starscream... this is your doing.”

The words hit like a seismic blast. Not an insult. Not a threat.

Recognition.

Predaking chirped again and tried to climb Starscream’s leg.

Megatron watched, silent.

Starscream, still wary, knelt and picked the pup up gently, the hatchling nestling into the crook of his arm again, tiny claws clinking against the armor.

“I thought,” Starscream whispered, “that maybe he’d be the first. A king, maybe. For a people who haven’t walked this planet since the stars were young.”

He hesitated—then, more firmly, declared:

“I named him Predaking.”

Megatron was silent for another long moment.

Then, to Starscream’s shock—

He nodded.

"Then see to it, Starscream... that he lives."

The silence that fell after Starscream's bold declaration of the name “Predaking” was short-lived.

Megatron’s optics narrowed, calculating, already shifting into strategy. He turned toward Shockwave, his voice low but laced with the unmistakable tone of command.

“You will begin monitoring the subject immediately. I want hourly updates on his growth, health, and behavioral development. If he is to be a weapon, I must know when he is ready to be trained... and used.”

Starscream’s wings flinched sharply at the word used.

Shockwave inclined his head. “Acknowledged. However, due to the lack of historical data on juvenile Predacon development, estimations will be... fluid. The growth rate will have to be observed directly.”

Starscream’s entire frame had begun to tense as the words passed between them. They spoke of Predaking like he was an experiment. A tool. A living blade they would forge into a new terror of war. But to Starscream, even now, only hours hatched, the hatchling was... something else. Something pure. Ancient. Rare. Precious.

Instinctively, almost without thinking, Starscream’s arms curled tighter around the small, damp Predacon, shielding his soft developing wings and nuzzling horns. His claws gripped the hatchling close, and Predaking responded immediately with a soft, vibrating trill from his throat and a flick of his spiny tail—his golden optics sleepy, content, trusting.

Starscream bared his dentals slightly in warning. “He’s not a lab rat, nor a disposable soldier for your armies.”

Megatron turned his gaze on Starscream again, this time not with rage, but slow suspicion. “And yet... you would protect him. Like a creation of your own.”

Starscream straightened. “He is my responsibility. He hatched under my care. If you want to keep him alive, then he stays with me.”

A long pause. One breath longer, and Starscream knew Megatron would snap back, punish him for the defiance—but then, without turning, Shockwave stepped forward, single optic fixated on the creature clinging to Starscream’s chest.

“I will proceed with extraction,” he announced clinically, reaching out his long, clawed hand toward Predaking.

Starscream backed a step, voice rising. “Don’t you touch him.”

But the seeker was too slow.

Shockwave’s clawed digits had just brushed Predaking’s side when a sudden shriek tore through the air.

It was feral.

Primordial.

The little Predacon, previously passive and gentle, exploded with terrifying speed. He opened his mouth and lunged, sinking his tiny but razor-edged teeth into Shockwave’s arm with force that should not have been possible for his size. The sound of metal being torn, violently shredded, rang through the lab as sparks sprayed from the site of impact.

Shockwave didn’t move.

Didn’t shout.

But half his arm—nearly from the elbow down—was now missing, jagged and twisted at the edges, torn off and still clamped between the hatchling’s needlelike jaws.

Predaking dropped to the ground, dragging the sparking chunk with him. With an excited, reptilian snarl, he began devouring the metal right there on the floor, claws holding the hunk in place as he chewed. The blue luminesce fluid still wet on his back glistened beneath the lab lights, but the viscous birthslime did little to dull the menacing glint of his new, gleaming teeth—black-edged, dagger-like, serrated for ripping through armor and circuitry alike.

Even in his infancy, he was built to consume.

Shockwave, without a word, calmly retracted his damaged limb and activated a sealing protocol. A hiss of gas and nanofoam sprayed over the torn edge, self-cauterizing the wound.

“I see,” he said simply, tone flat. “Subject has established defensive bonding behavior toward Starscream. Fascinating. Primitive imprinting response.”

Starscream blinked in shock. “He... he’s protecting me.”

“More than that,” Shockwave continued, completely unbothered. “He is claiming you. Pack bonding, perhaps. Or the beginnings of a rider-beast hierarchy. He does not yet recognize me as an authority. He sees only one.”

Predaking let out a small, satisfied growl and sauntered back to Starscream, blue-red energon from Shockwave’s servo staining the side of his tiny mouth. He sat down next to the seeker’s foot and began gnawing contentedly on a shard of circuitry, purring low in his throat like a predator after a satisfying kill.

Megatron, who had remained motionless this entire time, suddenly laughed.

It wasn’t cruel—not yet—but there was a deep satisfaction in the sound. An echo of victory.

“A hatchling with the instincts of a warlord,” he muttered. “Born to bite, born to dominate. Oh, yes... there is power in him.”

His optics gleamed. “An army of these, and I will need no cannons.”

But Starscream wasn’t smiling.

He crouched down again, gently picking up the pup, cradling him even as he dripped Shockwave’s energon onto the floor.

“He is not your weapon. Not yet.”

Megatron raised a brow. “And who decides when, Starscream? You?”

The two locked gazes.

Predaking snuggled into the crook of Starscream’s neck cables again, eyes drooping into slits as he continued to lick metallic bits off his muzzle.

Shockwave, adjusting his limb, finally said:

“The subject should be studied further. The bonding must be documented. But... I suggest caution if you plan to separate them.”

Starscream didn’t respond. He only looked down at the small, dangerous creature now asleep in his arms—his hatchling, his mistake, his miracle—and for the first time in stellar cycles, something new sparked inside the seeker's tired spark.

Fear, yes.

But also—pride.

Megatron did not speak immediately after the attack.

The crimson fluid dripping from Shockwave’s arm hissed as it landed on the lab floor, the silence stretching like a wire between them. The warlord’s crimson optics flicked once more to the hatchling curled in Starscream’s arms—already settled again, already at peace, content to gnaw softly on one of Shockwave’s severed cable ends like a child with a teething ring.

Then Megatron’s lips curled—not in rage, but in something far more deliberate.

A smile.

Not the kind that brought comfort.

“Very well,” he said finally, each word coated in control, in strategy. “You will be responsible for the hatchling’s care, Starscream.”

Starscream blinked. “W-What?”

Megatron’s gaze lingered, cutting. “He answers to you. He protects you. That bond is our advantage. Nurture it. Feed it. Make yourself indispensable to him. For now.”

The Seeker’s frame tightened, arms curling tighter around Predaking on instinct. “And what exactly do you expect from me?”

“You are to teach him. Raise him. Let him grow strong. Let him trust you.” Megatron turned, heavy footfalls echoing across the lab as he strode toward the exit. “Because when the time comes—when he is no longer a hatchling, but a beast of war—I will use that bond to turn him into my weapon.”

He motioned with one clawed hand. “Come, Shockwave.”

The one-eyed scientist followed without question, fluid still trailing from his torn limb.

Once the lab door sealed behind them, the heavy metal echoing shut, Megatron’s face immediately hardened into its calculating state. His hands clasped behind his back, voice dropping to a private tone as he addressed Shockwave.

“Get your arm seen to. See Hook and Knockout. I want it fully functional by the next cycle.”

Shockwave nodded. “Acknowledged.”

But before he could turn away, Megatron’s arm shot out, stopping him.

“Wait,” the warlord said, voice lower still.

Shockwave looked at him with his usual, unreadable stare.

Megatron leaned in slightly, optics glowing.

“You saw the reaction. The imprint. That kind of bond cannot be forced. And yet, if nurtured…”

Shockwave's voice hummed with clinical intrigue. “Yes. Initial interaction suggests deep imprinting and possibly instinctual pack selection. Separation would lead to resistance or violent rejection. Attempting to command the Predacon without Starscream present would yield unstable results.”

“And if I gave it time?”

Shockwave didn’t hesitate. “Then the bond would mature. Deepen. Starscream would become the center of the creature’s emotional framework. Once the Predacon achieves higher reasoning and self-awareness, he will still seek validation from his bonded caretaker.”

Megatron’s grin returned—slow, serpentine.

“Then we let it grow. We let them grow.”

Shockwave tilted his head. “Risky. The carrier could form independent loyalties.”

Megatron waved the concern off. “Starscream is a coward. An opportunist. One who bends when broken just the right way.”

His voice turned colder, darker.

“When the Predacon is of age—when he is mighty, decisive, and deadly—I will use Starscream to leash him. The Seeker’s life will be the leash. His safety, the collar. Loyalty… in exchange for mercy.”

Shockwave’s optic pulsed faintly. “You intend to use emotional dependence as control.”

Megatron’s smirk twisted.

“What better tool is there? The beast will love its carrier, and that love will be a blade in my hand. I will not need chains. I will have a living weapon, guided not by programming—but by fear of loss.”

He began to walk again, toward the main corridor of the Nemesis, his cape flaring behind him.

“Let them nest. Let them bond. Let Starscream feel safe.”

He stopped just once more, looking back over his shoulder, voice like black velvet:

“And when the day comes... when the Predacon is strong enough to level cities…”

He bared his fangs in a whisper of war-born cruelty.

“...Starscream will beg me not to command him to destroy.”

Shockwave watched him go, silent. Perhaps calculating. Perhaps intrigued.

And far behind them, in the quiet of the lab, a young Seeker held a beast that trusted only him—blissfully unaware that love, to Megatron, was merely another leash to be pulled.

At the Autobot base, alarms were still flickering weakly in the background as soldiers moved with purpose, their voices echoing down the steel halls in a mix of disbelief, fear, and frantic recalculations of battle strategies. On the central monitor, a paused frame showed Starscream in the Decepticon lab—clutching the small, drenched creature in his arms. The glint of newly-hatched fangs. The shredded stump of Shockwave’s arm. A smear of green viscous fluid like warpaint.

Silence held the command deck like a noose.

“Rewind the footage,” Ultra Magnus said, his voice sharp.

The camera bot obeyed, playing back the exact moment the tiny Predacon lunged and ripped a chunk of Shockwave’s forearm clean off—no hesitation, no warning. The crunch of metal, the slurp of energon, the flicker of a pleased expression on the predator’s snout.

The moment froze again.

Even without audio, the image said everything.

Prowl narrowed his optics. “That thing was minutes old—hours, maybe.

And it bit through Shockwave’s reinforced bracing like it was tinfoil.”

“I saw that armor before,” Ratchet muttered. “Shockwave built it with tungsten layering, coated with obsidian composite and reinforced against corrosion. The jaws of something that young shouldn’t have the strength—unless the Predacon’s biology defies every known evolutionary metric.”

“It does,” Prowl answered, coldly. “They were apex. Even in extinction, the mythos feared them.”

“Starscream hatched a myth,” Ultra Magnus growled. “A living war beast.”

A long, quiet breath came from the center of the group.

Optimus Prime stood like a monolith, unreadable but deeply burdened. His optics had not moved from the frozen image of the Predacon’s golden eyes—eyes sharp with primal awareness, not blind instinct. Eyes that chose.

And chose Starscream.

“I am less concerned that it lives,” Optimus finally said, voice deep, slow. “And more concerned that it loves.”

The others turned to him.

“Love?” Ratchet asked, confused.

But Prowl understood immediately. “The imprint. The bond. It didn’t attack Starscream—even when Shockwave approached. That wasn’t instinct. That was defense. Protective loyalty.”

Optimus nodded. “Which means, in time, it will fight for him. Die for him. Kill for him.”

“And Megatron knows it,” Ultra Magnus added grimly. “He’ll let that connection fester. Let the Predacon see Starscream as his entire world, until Megatron can weaponize that bond.”

Ratchet shook his head. “A Predacon weaponized by love, not force. That… that’s not war. That’s tragedy.”

“Worse,” Prowl said, hands behind his back. “It’s a weapon that cannot be hacked, disabled, or reprogrammed. Only persuaded. Manipulated through its carrier.”

“And Starscream is weak now,” Ultra Magnus added.

But Optimus narrowed his gaze at the monitor, as if he could see something beneath the surface.

“Starscream is cowardly. He protects other while hesuffers,” Prime corrected. “Not weak. And this… this creature may give him something he’s never had before.”

Ratchet frowned. “You mean power?”

“No,” Optimus answered. “Purpose.”

The room fell into silence again, each Autobot digesting what that meant.

Predaking, barely hatched, had already tilted the board.

And Megatron had just been handed his most unpredictable advantage yet.

Two days had passed since Predaking’s birth, and Starscream was barely holding himself together. Between sleepless nights, trying to document every detail, and finding a feeding rhythm that wouldn’t drive him to madness, he had no time to process what had actually happened.

Then the second egg cracked.

It was subtle at first. Starscream had just finished sterilizing the lab bench, carefully wiping the shell of the second egg with a soft cloth to remove layers of dust when he felt it—a tremble. He froze.

The egg shifted again. A fracture split across the top.

Starscream backed up, eyes wide. “No… no, that’s not possible,” he whispered, clutching the cloth in shaking fingers. “This was never part of the equation. Statistically—!”

The shell burst in a splatter of viscous green liquid, splashing across the table and Starscream’s plating. The hatchling emerged more sluggishly than Predaking had, but with an even fiercer presence. Smaller, more compact, the new Predacon was built like an armored tank—dense black plating with deep blue accents along the limbs, and golden eyes that gleamed beneath a heavy brow ridge. His wings were underdeveloped but thick, designed more for slamming than gliding.

Starscream stared. “Another…? Another!” he choked, near hysterical.

The hatchling snarled softly, nose twitching. Then, with sudden aggression, it snapped its jaws—already lined with sharp, forming teeth—at a nearby data pad, crushing it with a delighted chirp.

Starscream slapped his forehead and groaned. “You are going to be more trouble than your brother, I can feel it.”

Still, he cleaned the hatchling gently, wiping away the green fluid. “Darksteel,” he muttered. “Yes. You’ll be Darksteel.”

He hadn’t even adjusted to having two when, the next morning, fate struck again.

It happened while Starscream was feeding the two pups with precise chunks of energy crystals and raw mineral blends. Darksteel preferred dense metals like zinc and iron. Predaking had started hoarding energon shards. Starscream was trying to document all of it when he heard a familiar, dreadful crack.

His spark dropped.

The third egg.

He spun around in horror. It had splintered near the middle, and green light leaked through the cracks as the shell shattered like glass under pressure. Viscous fluid spilled everywhere, and from within emerged something completely unlike the others.

No dragon.

This one was leaner, smaller, and almost avian—sleek white with faint gold trim and hints of blue across its wings and joints. A short snout, sharp talons, and thin black horns made the resemblance unmistakable.

A griffin.

Starscream gasped, kneeling down as the creature blinked its large golden eyes up at him and let out a curious, melodic trill.

“…Skylynx,” Starscream whispered. “You’ll be Skylynx.”

Three. Three of them.

All alive.

All bonded to him.

And elsewhere, in Autobot HQ, Wheeljack was about to be eaten alive.

“Three?!” Prowl’s voice echoed like thunder.

The war room was in uproar. Screens showed recent footage leaked by the tiny observation drone still clinging to the edge of the Decepticon lab. And there they were—Predaking, Darksteel, and Skylynx—crawling over Starscream like oversized, chirping hatchlings.

Optimus looked grave. “Predaking alone damaged Shockwave. These others—if they grow as fast—”

“They’ll be worse,” Ratchet snapped. “They’re different strains. Different instincts. One’s bulked, the other flies. Each might have evolved unique adaptations.”

“Starscream isn’t just a glorified babysitter now,” Ultra Magnus muttered. “He’s their parental imprint.”

At the edge of the room, everyone turned slowly toward Wheeljack.

“I said only one would hatch!” he barked, throwing up his servos.

“You said one might hatch!” snapped Ratchet.

“You said two wouldn’t!” added Prowl.

Optimus’s voice was calm, but cold. “Now there are three. And all of them belong to Megatron.”

Wheeljack grimaced. “Look, I didn’t give Starscream superpowers, okay?! This shouldn’t even be possible. Something he did—something he is—interacted with those eggs in a way we don’t understand. He’s… it’s like he rewrote biology.”

“Great,” Prowl said bitterly. “So he’s a science god now.”

“He brought an entire species back from extinction,” Ratchet added, rubbing his temples. “With no guidance. No proper data. Just instinct and desperation.”

“And now Megatron has three living, evolving war machines,” Ultra Magnus said grimly. “Each one stronger than a squadron.”

Wheeljack tried a nervous laugh. “So... we still not cool?”

The other Autobots stared at him with a unified glare that could've melted titanium.

The Decepticon base had never known fear—true fear—until now.

Not from the Autobots. Not from Ultra Magnus. Not even from Megatron’s most apocalyptic threats.

No.

Now, the most fearsome sight in the base was… Starscream.

Not because of Starscream himself, though some might argue he’d grown increasingly unhinged from sleep deprivation and being chewed on at 3AM.

No, the terror came from what followed behind him.

Like a deranged parade from the Pit.

Three hatchlings stomped, hopped, and flapped behind the Seeker in a perfectly synchronized line, their heads bobbing with adorable menace. Predaking in front, regal and proud. Darksteel stomping behind like an angry boulder with wings. And Skylynx—prancing like she thought she was royalty, her golden eyes gleaming with pure, uncut smugness.

They were like—

“—ducks,” muttered Breakdown, watching in horror as Starscream strode past the rec room, the three little monsters waddling in formation behind him.

“Ducks that can eat you whole,” added Knock Out from behind a console, his optics darting nervously toward the hallway.

“It’s unnatural,” Dreadwing muttered. “No one should have that much power. Especially not Starscream.”

Starscream didn’t even notice the effect he was having. He was too busy trying to control his brood. His energon-stained cape had a claw mark in it, his wings had dried drool streaks, and his voice had developed a constant exhausted edge.

“No! Darksteel, I told you: no biting walls! Skylynx—stop showing your teeth to Reflector! That’s not polite! Predaking, you are not allowed to tail-whip Thundercracker again!”

Predaking did it anyway.

Thundercracker yelped as he was thrown into a pile of storage crates with a crash.

The base’s alarms didn’t even go off anymore—they’d been reprogrammed to ignore “Starscream-initiated Predacon chaos” after the fifth false lockdown.

But the tipping point came when Laserbeak flew overhead, screeching indignantly at the cluster of hatchlings. The sound was piercing, a sharp cry that irritated Skylynx’s sensitive ears.

The tiny griffin turned, her beak opening just slightly as she snapped at the casseticon mid-air.

Only Starscream’s shriek interrupted what might have been the galaxy’s fastest air-to-lunch conversion.

“SKYLYNX! NO! Laserbeak is NOT food!”

The hallway went dead silent.

Skylynx landed neatly, fluffing her wings like a satisfied cat, a glint of metal lodged between her beak plates—clearly a little piece of Laserbeak’s tail.

The casseticon fled behind Soundwave, who had been watching the scene unfold with his typical stoic silence. His visor flared slightly.

Laserbeak tweeted something that translated loosely to: You told me they were just oversized pigeons!

Skylynx chirped smugly at her, as if to say, Try me again, snack.

Starscream sighed so hard he nearly passed out. “By Primus. I am the second in command of the Decepticons, not a walking nest box!”

From a safe corner of the control room, Hook whispered to Knock Out, “Is it just me, or is he becoming… maternal?”

Knock Out leaned closer. “Worse. I think they imprinted on him.”

“Like ducks?!” Dead End gasped, clutching his chassis.

“Like ducks with razor fangs and no moral compass,” Knock Out replied, grimacing as Skylynx scratched her claws into the floor, spelling out the word "FOOD" in crooked scratches.

A few Decepticons screamed and ran for the medbay.

Even Astrotrain, upon walking into the command center and seeing the hallway full of trembling soldiers and the "Starscream Parade of Death" approaching, paused, blinked twice, and turned back around. “I’ll return later,” he said simply.

Starscream walked past, unaware of the terror in his wake.

Skylynx paused, turned to face the room, and licked the last sliver of metal from her beak.

No one moved for fifteen minutes.

Oddly enough, while most of the Decepticon base was one snapped wire away from a panic-induced meltdown thanks to Starscream’s ferocious trio of flying death-lizards, there were two bots who remained completely unfazed.

Frenzy and Rumble.

The twin casseticons didn’t flinch, didn’t scream, didn’t even edge away nervously when Predaking slinked past with molten drool dripping from his fangs or when Skylynx stared at them with the unblinking curiosity of a predator analyzing a puzzle box labeled "Edible?"

Instead, they marched straight up to Starscream, datapads in hand and antennae perking in delight. “We came to show you our terrarium results!” Frenzy chirped.

Starscream—who was balancing a squirming Darksteel in one arm and trying to stop Skylynx from eating the dataport in the wall—blinked at them. “You’re not afraid of them?”

Rumble gave a snort and waved dismissively. “Please. They’re just big bitey babies. You should’ve seen Frenzy when he got static shocks every time his larva sneezed.”

“That was a chemical reaction!” Frenzy huffed, holding out his datapad. “But look! She finally hatched!”

Starscream leaned closer and his optics lit up in visible admiration. The butterfly was light lilac with short, triangular wings that shimmered faintly with iridescence. It flitted around inside a transparent case affixed to Frenzy’s shoulder.

“You gave it high-calcium crystals in combination with soft photonic sap?” Starscream asked, impressed.

“Yup!” Frenzy beamed proudly. “Turns out calcium affects color and shell strength.”

Rumble, not to be outdone, displayed his own butterfly, fluttering lazily around his helm. Its translucent green wings were longer and feather-thin, almost ethereal, like glistening leaves in a storm.

“I fed mine with silicate composites and energon dust,” he said smugly. “Turns out the lightness in the wings is due to the silicon balance.”

Starscream nodded, thoroughly pleased. “You’ve both done excellent work. You understand the difference in growth is rooted in nutrient encoding during metamorphosis. You've successfully demonstrated responsive mutation.”

Frenzy and Rumble looked like Starscream had crowned them kings of science.

Darksteel made a low, curious sound and leaned forward, sniffing at the butterfly on Rumble’s helm with his nose. When the wings fluttered too fast, Darksteel gave a small sneeze.

Rumble didn’t even flinch. “Dude, I’ve been sneezed on by Megatron. This is nothing.”

Starscream arched a brow. “You might want to reevaluate your sense of danger.”

Rumble shrugged. “Meh.”

Skylynx, meanwhile, stared at the twins with predatory interest—until Frenzy gently opened a container of sugar-flecked mineral dust and offered her a pinch.

She licked it from his hand, blinked slowly, and gave a soft chirp before turning away with the air of someone saying, Alright, you pass.

Predaking observed silently but didn’t growl. That alone earned the twins legendary status among the Decepticons.

Starscream couldn't help but smirk. “It seems they recognize you as juveniles. Perhaps they don’t see you as threats.”

Frenzy grinned. “Or maybe they know we bite back.”

“I will remind you that your ‘bite’ once broke only the corner of a datapad,” Starscream said dryly. “Still, I'm impressed.”

Rumble tilted his head. “So can we study them? You know—chart their behavior, track growth patterns, maybe try training simulations?”

Starscream gave a tired chuckle. “I’m afraid my schedule is currently overrun with in-person studies involving claws, fangs, and unfiltered chaos. However…” he turned toward Soundwave, who had been observing silently from the shadows. “I’ll upload my notes to your datapads through Soundwave’s channel. You can assist remotely.”

Frenzy and Rumble fist-bumped with identical cheers of “Yesss!”

As they walked off animatedly arguing over whether Darksteel had better wing-to-mass ratio than Predaking, the Predacons watched them go in silence. Even Skylynx, who’d never passed up a chance to tease or test someone’s nerves, simply blinked once and sat down beside Starscream like a loyal guardian.

In a base paralyzed by fear and silence, the twins were the only ones Starscream could count on to match his chaos with curiosity.

And for that, the seeker was quietly grateful.

At the Autobot base, decorum had all but collapsed in the face of rising stress and morbid curiosity. Somewhere between the third Predacon hatching and the reports of Predaking biting off Shockwave’s arm like a crunchy energon stick, a whiteboard had mysteriously appeared in the common room.

At the top, in bold marker, it read:

"PREDACON PANIC POOL"

Columns were neatly labeled:

First Bot Attacked

Which Predacon Does It

Severity of Injury (Mild, Mauled, Memory Wiped)

Time of Incident

Will Starscream Apologize? (Options: Yes, No, Blame Megatron)

Wheeljack started the whole thing as a “stress-relief exercise.” He claimed it was "scientific morale tracking," but no one believed that for a second.

Bumblebee, surprisingly methodical, had an entire argument for why Skylynx was the likeliest to bite first: “Smaller mouth, faster reaction time, less likely to choke. Pure predatory efficiency.”

Arcee went all-in on Darksteel. “He’s quiet. It’s always the quiet ones. That bot is going to sneak up on someone and chomp.”

Bulkhead refused to bet, until Ratchet pointed out that technically, by not placing a bet, he was increasing everyone else’s odds. That somehow offended his competitive spirit, so he put down twenty credits on Predaking biting Blitzwing before sundown.

But the real scandal came when even Ultra Magnus—the embodiment of regulation, order, and “we do not gamble with the chain of command”—calmly walked into the room, read the board, nodded once, and placed 50 credits under the “Skylynx -> Blitzwing -> Mauled -> Morning Shift” column.

You could hear a datapad drop.

Optimus had tried—he really did. He stood before the whiteboard, arms folded, optics narrowed, every inch the weary leader on the brink of a headache.

"This is inappropriate," he declared.

Dead silence.

Then, from the back, Smokescreen piped up, “You gonna stop Magnus too?”

Optimus turned to see Ultra Magnus, arms behind his back, completely stoic, standing directly beneath the board. "Sir. This is simply tactical psychological projection."

Optimus stared.

"...Fine," he muttered and walked off muttering something about “losing command to chaos incarnate.”

Ratchet, watching from the medbay entrance with a smug little grin, walked up and clapped Optimus on the shoulder. “It’s good for morale. Better they laugh about getting eaten than freeze up when it happens for real.”

Optimus sighed deeply.

“I never thought I’d live to see this day.”

“Please. You survived three hundred years of Megatron. You’ll live through bingo-night Predacons.”

“And if one of them does maul Blitzwing?”

Ratchet smirked, already scribbling on a second board titled: "Reconstruction Waiting List."

But in a stunning twist of fate—and much to the dismay of every overconfident Autobot statistician—it was Elita One who won the Predacon Panic Pool.

She had placed a quiet, confident bet on a very specific chain of events:
Predaking would be the first to attack.
Ramjet would be the victim.
And—most precisely—“Loss of ornamental head structure (cone)” would be the injury.

When questioned by Arcee on why she was so specific, Elita simply replied:
“Ramjet walks like he’s begging for karma. And karma bites.”

And karma did bite.

It happened in the Decepticon base corridor during one of Starscream’s morning strolls with his three terrifying ducklings in tow. The Predacons were trailing behind him obediently, flapping and clicking, their golden eyes gleaming with curiosity and menace. Predaking was larger now, his tail swaying side to side like a blade looking for purpose.

Ramjet, who never truly acknowledged Starscream’s authority—even less now that Starscream was inexplicably acting like a high priest of ancient dragonkind—marched down the hallway in his usual stiff-jointed strut. When he saw Starscream in front of him, he scoffed, muttered something about "glorified babysitters," and shoved past the seeker.

Big mistake.

Predaking, seeing the push as an attack against his bonded, went from trotting hatchling to apex predator in 0.3 seconds.

There was no warning screech, no roaring. Just a blur of wings, a thunderous clang, and then—like a soda can being torn open—CHOMP.

The hallway echoed with the horrifying metallic crunch as Predaking latched onto Ramjet’s cone… and ripped a clean chunk off.

Ramjet’s scream could be heard across the entire ship.

Starscream yelled, “NO, BAD—HE’S NOT FOOD!”
But Predaking was already chewing triumphantly. Darksteel and Skylynx chirped approvingly, like siblings at a family dinner.

To add insult to injury, Skylynx picked up the chewed piece of cone, pranced in front of a wide-eyed Laserbeak, and dropped it dramatically at her feet like a trophy.

Back at the Autobot base, when word came through the surveillance feed and the footage made the rounds (courtesy of Smokescreen, who added dramatic music), everyone turned to stare at Elita One in stunned silence.

Elita, sipping calmly on her energon mug, didn’t even blink.

“I’ll take my winnings in energon and ammo,” she said.

Optimus muttered something about his processor aching again.

Ultra Magnus added Ramjet’s name to the “Confirmed Victims” column and updated the Severity field to "Cosmetic Disgrace + Emotional Damage."

In the quieter, more serious corner of the Autobot base, the usual chatter and laughter over Predacon bets faded away as Prowl discreetly summoned Optimus Prime to the war hall. Jazz was already there, leaning casually against a console, his ever-present cool demeanor masking the gravity of the situation.

Prowl’s voice was low but firm as he relayed the latest intelligence. “We’ve received another message from Thundercracker and Skywarp. They advise against acting too soon to bring Starscream over. According to them, it’s not the best time—Starscream is deeply entrenched with the Decepticons right now.”

Jazz frowned, crossing his arms. “They haven’t had a proper conversation with him yet? About what we’re offering?”

“Exactly,” Prowl nodded. “Megatron is doing everything in his power to keep Starscream and them separated. He understands that Starscream’s bond with those Predacons—and maybe something more—is the key to his loyalty. Any premature move risks jeopardizing the fragile thread that could bring him back to us.”

Optimus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then we must not rush. The strength of our cause lies not in haste, but in precision. We must give Thundercracker and Skywarp the time they need to approach Starscream carefully, to build trust in us.”

He looked to Jazz and Prowl with calm resolve. “We cannot allow Starscream—or his... sanctuarys—to be caught in the crossfire. When the time comes to act, it must be with a plan so measured and clean that no harm comes to what he holds dear.”

Jazz nodded, a rare seriousness shining in his eyes. “Agreed. No reckless moves. Patience, strategy, and support.”

Prowl added, “We’ll continue monitoring, but the message is clear: urgency is not our friend here.”

Optimus gave a slight, approving nod, the weight of leadership settling back onto his shoulders. “Then we wait, and prepare. When the moment is right, we will reach out—not as enemies, but as the allies Starscream might still need.”

Outside the war hall, the hum of the base resumed, but inside, the seeds of a delicate, careful plan were being sown—one built on patience, respect, and hope.

n the war room of the Autobot base, the atmosphere was thick with disbelief and the unmistakable sound of Bumblebee trying not to laugh. Standing front and center with the widest grin any Autobot had ever seen, he held up his datapad for everyone to see.

“One credit,” Bumblebee said, smugly. “Just one. On a Vehicon getting eaten for accidentally falling on Starscream.”

The silence was palpable.

Ultra Magnus was the first to speak, stiff and horrified. “This has to be a mistake.”

“It’s not,” Wheeljackmuttered, re-checking the betting board with narrowed optics. “Cross-referenced. Confirmed. Logged. Bumblebee wins.”

“No!” Ultra Magnus snapped, spinning on his heel. “This was a joke bet! Bumblebee was supposed to lose that credit with dignity! I bet fifty on Skylynx biting Blitzwing’s wing off mid-meeting! I had data, logic, behavior reports—!”

“Yeah,” Jazz chimed in from the side, “but you didn’t account for a Vehicon doing the ol’ swan dive right on top of the seeker.”

“It was an accident!” Bumblebee said between snickers. “The poor drone was doing maintenance on a busted camera, lost his balance, and bam!—straight on top of Starscream like he was trying to hug him with his whole body.”

“And the Predacons lost it,” Jazz added, amused. “Predaking bit his shoulder clean off, Darksteel smacked him against a wall like a chew toy, and Skylynx… oh man. Skylynx just walked up, plucked a leg, and strutted away like she owned the place.”

Optimus sighed with a hand to his helm. “This is… absurd.”

“But it happened,” Bumblebee grinned. “And that one credit? Turned into seven hundred.”

“That’s theft by cosmic unfairness,” Ultra Magnus growled. “No logic, no pattern, no discipline—just dumb luck!”

“Magnus,” Ratchet called from down the hall, “are you yelling about the Predacons again?”

“I’m yelling because I was robbed by fate!”

As the door slid shut behind the medic, Jazz leaned toward Bumblebee and whispered, “Hey, next week, we bet on Skylynx chasing a drone into the energon pantry.”

“You think it’ll happen?” Bumblebee whispered back.

“At this point, I’m afraid anything might.”

The war room fell into a stunned silence—again—as Optimus Prime, the bastion of discipline and moral high ground, calmly walked over to the Autobots’ betting board, picked up a marker… and placed his name under a fresh new category:

“Darksteel will ruin Knockout’s paint job.”

“Optimus,” Ultra Magnus said, horrified. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m extremely serious,” Optimus replied without even looking back. “Knockout passed by him this morning. He snorted in his direction and hissed like a turbo-cat. It’s only a matter of time.”

Jazz looked like he was about to collapse with laughter. “Big boss has joined the chaos. This is the beginning of the end.”

“But, sir,” Bumblebee said, optics wide with awe, “you’re betting against Knockout’s paint job. That’s like… sacred Decepticon ground.”

“I’ve seen how Darksteel looks at red,” Optimus said grimly. “There was a cherry-red crate in the corridor yesterday. It didn’t survive.”

Ultra Magnus, still reeling from his earlier loss, looked positively betrayed. “This entire base has lost its fragging mind.”

“Oh come on, Magnus,” Ratchet said dryly from the side, sipping energon. “At least this chaos is predictable.”

“And funny!” Bumblebee added, beaming. “I mean, can you imagine Knockout's face when he gets a dark-blue paw-print right across his hood?”

“Smeared across that polished cherry red,” Jazz wheezed. “He’ll short a servo on the spot.”

As the Autobots broke into laughter, Optimus simply stepped back, arms crossed, looking at the board like a general reviewing a war plan.

“Twenty credits,” he said calmly. “I have faith in Darksteel.”

Chapter Text

While the Autobots amused themselves with their increasingly absurd Predacon betting pool, back at the Decepticon base, the atmosphere was anything but lighthearted.

Megatron stood before a tactical projection screen, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in thought. The gleam of reflected data cast sharp lines across his face as Shockwave—his one arm freshly reinforced and still sparking in places—calmly scrolled through reports. Despite his recent mauling, the scientist’s attention never wavered.

“The Predacons are growing rapidly,” Shockwave intoned. “Their cognitive development is progressing in parallel. Faster than previously theorized. Their capacity to learn through observation is… unsettling.”

“They are not beasts,” Megatron growled, not surprised but clearly calculating. “They are weapons. And like all weapons, they must be aimed properly.”

He turned his gaze to the outline of a new containment area—something Shockwave had labeled "Behavioral Conditioning Zone 01." It was a cold, open arena ringed with reinforced walls and observation platforms, but what caught attention most was its centerpiece: a raised, transparent chamber meant to house only one being—Starscream.

“A prison,” Megatron said, voice low and lethal, “that allows them to see him. To feel close, to believe him safe. But also to know that any wrong move... and I can make him suffer.”

Shockwave looked up from the data stream, his red optic glowing steadily. “Efficient. Brutal. Effective,” he said simply. Then, pausing, he added, “What of Thundercracker and Skywarp?”

“Keep them apart from him. For as long as necessary,” Megatron ordered. “Control Starscream, and you control them. The Trine is like a circuit—cut off the center, and the rest will spark out or obey.”

Shockwave gave a slow, mechanical nod but hesitated a moment longer.

“You suspect something?” Megatron asked, noting the pause.

Shockwave’s optic flickered with processing light. “I have compiled inconsistencies in behavior. Starscream’s increased emotional volatility… his subtle avoidance of isolated tracking paths. And the Predacons' obedience—abnormally tight to his presence. There is… data missing. Something unaccounted for.”

Megatron’s lips curled. “You mean to say Starscream is hiding something.”

“I do not make conclusions without complete analysis,” Shockwave replied coolly. “But I suspect Starscream is no longer just the Trine’s center. He is something more to the Predacons—perhaps their imprint. Their template.”

“Then we allow the bond to grow,” Megatron murmured. “Let the leash tighten until he no longer knows he wears one. And when the time comes…”

He smiled, wicked and slow.

“…we yank it.”

Shockwave said nothing more to Megatron—he simply turned, silent as ever, and returned to the cold hum of his lab.

Once inside, with the door sealed and soundproofed, he activated the central data core. The lights dimmed slightly, letting the flicker of holographic displays dance across his singular optic. He called up files—first Ramjet and his Trine, then Dirge’s, then Thrust’s. With precise gestures, he overlaid spark data, spark-pulse patterns, and shared code analysis. Everything was exactly as expected. Each seeker Trine—programmed from similar protoform batches, forged in shared forges, even built with compatible subroutines—showed spark rhythms that synced in minor harmonic patterns when separated. Like tuning forks ever calling home.

Then he brought up the Trine that defied all logic: Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp.

The projected data glitched for a moment—as if resisting being understood.

Shockwave recalibrated.

He narrowed focus to spark-pulse timing. According to known trine behavior, prolonged separation should have induced a mild destabilization in Thundercracker and Skywarp. Like all bonded Trines, even distance had an echo in the spark. The record should show increased stress metrics—especially given Megatron had separated Starscream into isolated quarters for two full cycles.

But the data was wrong.

Their sparks pulsed normally. No harmonics. No residual pull. No destabilization.

Completely independent rhythms.

Shockwave’s optic flickered. He ran the scan again. Then again. Then ran a sub-molecular comparison. Gene code. Software signatures. Compression cores. Spark cores. No match.

Nothing. No trace of shared origin.

And yet… Starscream called them brothers. Called them a Trine.

Had sworn their loyalty as one, claimed their bond was old, sacred, as natural as flight.

Shockwave sat back slightly, letting the eerie, silent truth hang in the air like radiation.

Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp… they were not a real Trine.

Not in the scientific sense.

Not in any quantifiable way.

Yet somehow, against all known logic, they functioned as one. Obeyed as one. Fought as one. Protected each other with more fire than any other unit.

It was almost… emotional.

And that, to Shockwave, was deeply illogical.

He stared at the data, then opened a blank entry in his research logs. He typed in a new subject title:

“The Starscream Anomaly: Simulated Trine Behavior Without Foundational Code.”

Then paused.

He added:

Hypothesis: Starscream is the binding factor, not by code, but through emotional imprint. Further observation required.

Still staring at the screen, Shockwave finally muttered to no one:

“Emotions… are inefficient.”

But even he wasn’t sure he believed that anymore.

Shockwave continued his silent surveillance over the next few weeks, compiling more data, studying patterns, watching the strange phenomenon that was the “Starscream anomaly.” But even with all his focus and processing power, it was impossible not to notice the growing chaos—or rather, the orderly chaos—occurring just outside his lab.

The Predacons were growing at a rate that, quite frankly, defied most of Shockwave’s biological growth models. What started as adorable, if slightly bitey, hatchlings had now transformed into sleek, intimidating creatures roughly the size of cyber-ponies. Which meant they were now bigger than Frenzy and Rumble… and far more aerodynamic.

And the most alarming development?

They could fly.

Starscream did not teach them that. The Seeker had been very clear, even borderline panicked, when he stormed into Soundwave’s workspace shouting, “They just took off!! I blinked, Soundwave! I turned around and they were in the rafters chewing on the ventilation system!!”

From that day on, no one used the ceiling corridor near Starscream’s lab. Not even the Insecticons.

To adapt to the trio’s alarming size, Starscream had reorganized a corner of his laboratory into what could only be described as a nursery dungeon. There were chewed-up metal pillows, shredded blankets, and an ever-growing pile of “durasteel enrichment toys”—essentially anything too damaged to repair but not valuable enough for Megatron to notice missing. It was loud, it was chaotic, and it smelled vaguely of ozone and fried energon.

The Predacons, now airborne and mildly terrifying, were… strangely well-behaved.

They no longer snarled or lunged at casseticons (at least not often), and they had taken to following Starscream in a neatly ordered line—still reminiscent of a mother duck with her cybernetically enhanced, murder-capable ducklings. Though larger, smarter, and definitely hungrier, they remained oddly fixated on the Seeker. If Starscream moved, they followed. If he yelled, they perked up. If he cursed? They mimicked the tone, once causing Skylynx to squawk out a perfect replica of Starscream’s insult to Knockout’s faceplate, which earned him a stern talking-to and a very loud screech from Knockout.

Even Megatron seemed to be developing a permanent tic over his left optic ridge.

Still, as bizarre and exhausting as the situation was, one thing was very clear: the Predacons trusted only Starscream. He was their anchor, their protector… their slightly screechy parental figure.

Shockwave recorded it all.

Silently.

Logically.

And wondered, not for the first time, if science alone could ever fully explain what Starscream had become to these creatures.

Starscream was in full command mode—smug, graceful, and inappropriately dramatic—as he gestured at a holo-map alongside Dreadwing and Skyquake. The plan was elegant, surgical, and (according to Starscream) “positively poetic” in its execution. Skyquake looked like he was trying to pretend he cared. Dreadwing was actually interested… mostly in how many explosions he could sneak in.

Meanwhile, off to the side, the Predacons were absolutely not focused. They were loafing in a predatory pile of wings and tails, gnawing on a dented energon crate and making little annoyed huffs because nobody was paying attention to them. Tragic.

Then—like fate had rolled a particularly cruel dice—Ravage strutted into view.

Tail swaying like he owned the place. Head held high. Pure sass. And completely unaware of the three hungry eyes now locked on him like a freshly unwrapped energon treat.

Ravage paused.

The Predacons stared.

Ravage slowly turned his head.

They grinned.

"Oh no," Ravage thought—then bolted like his tail was on fire.

Three Predacons shot up like missiles.

“NOT AGAIN!” Starscream screeched, launching himself after them, scattering Dreadwing’s datapads and Skyquake’s drink in a blur of wings and shrieking fury.

Ravage, in full escape mode, leapt off a crate, sprang across a railing, skidded down a corridor—and in a final panic move—transformed into cassette mode mid-leap and dove into Soundwave’s chest.

There was a silent beat.

Then Soundwave collapsed to the ground like a felled tower, a muffled "OOMPH" from his vocoder as the full mass of three Predacons pounced atop him with the grace of caffeinated wrecking balls.

Starscream flew in right after, landing with all the grace of a winded hawk.

“OFF! OFF!! BAD! BAD PREHISTORIC MONSTERS!!” he shrieked, flailing wildly as he yanked one Predacon off by the tail, another by the scruff, and literally bit the wing of the third to get them moving.

Soundwave lay there. Smushed. Blank faceplate to the ceiling. Likely regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

Starscream—wings bent, arms full of oversized dragon-chickens—huffed furiously. “RAVAGE IS NOT A CHASE TOY!” he snapped, giving each Predacon a little, angry kick for emphasis.

And then it happened.

The three Predacons sat down in perfect synchronization and, ears back, heads low, they chorused in unison:

“Sorry, Alpha.”

The entire room froze.

Starscream blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

Soundwave’s optic visor flickered. Shockwave’s stylus dropped somewhere in the lab.

Dreadwing dropped his energon cube.

Skyquake whispered, “They talked.”

Vehicons behind them turned slowly, a few pressing recording buttons. Frenzy fainted (probably for drama). Knockout choked on his energon tea in the medbay without knowing why.

Starscream stood there, staring down at the three Predacons who were now smiling sweetly, tongues lolling slightly like overgrown pets who just learned how to say “walk.”

Starscream whispered, “No. No. Absolutely not. I did not sign up for talking murder children.”

One of the Predacons licked his leg.

He shrieked again.

Somewhere offscreen, Megatron pinched the bridge of his nose.

Soundwave was still flat on his back like a very dignified pancake, cassette Ravage rattling inside his chest. Starscream was glaring at his trio of overgrown scaly disasters—now seated obediently like guilty puppies—while trying to process the fact that they had just talked.

He pointed a shaky digit at them. “You—! You don’t talk! You roar! You screech! You set things on fire when you’re bored!”

The Predacons blinked at him, eerily in sync.

“Sorry, Alpha,” they repeated sweetly, tails wagging and mouths full of way too many teeth.

Starscream clutched his own helm. “This is not happening. I didn’t hatch you. I don’t even like children! I have talons, not patience!”

One of the Predacons nuzzled his leg. Another tried to sit in his lap despite being the size of a sofa.

“NO—!”

And then, as if summoned by the power of cosmic timing, the doors whooshed open.

In stepped Megatron.

The great warlord. Slayer of cities. Conqueror of systems.

And now, the lone witness to this absolutely humiliating domestic chaos.

He stopped mid-step.

Starscream was sprawled on the floor under a chubby winged Predacon trying to “nest.” Another Predacon was gnawing the edge of his helm like a chew toy. The third was curled protectively around Starscream’s back, growling at anyone who came too close.

Soundwave still hadn’t gotten up.

A Vehicon—somewhere—took a picture.

There was silence. The kind of silence that kills careers.

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “...What in Primus’ name am I looking at?”

Starscream attempted to rise with what little dignity he had left. “Lord Megatron! I… can explain—!”

“Don’t,” Megatron said flatly, stepping around a tail and glancing down at the curled-up Predacons.

The one on Starscream’s back blinked up at him. “Hi.”

Megatron blinked.

“...Did it just talk?” he asked, voice dangerously calm.

“They all talk now,” Starscream muttered like he’d aged 600 years in the last five minutes. “Apparently they imprinted on me. They follow me. They bite anyone who touches me. And now they’re—talking.”

The third Predacon popped up, looking delighted. “We love Alpha!”

The other two chimed in: “Alpha good!”

Starscream covered his face with both hands.

And then, the final blow.

The biggest one—probably Darksteel—turned toward Megatron, cocked his head, and asked, curious and a little too loud:

“Are you our Dad too?”

Dead silence.

Starscream froze in place.

Dreadwing, Skyquake, and Soundwave stared in horror.

A Vehicon somewhere in the corner dropped a wrench with a loud clang.

Megatron’s optics flared.

“No,” he said coldly. “I am not your—"

“Papa Megatron?” one chirped hopefully.

Megatron’s vocal processor glitched.

Starscream was wheezing with suppressed laughter and/or despair. “You should’ve never walked in, mighty Megatron,” he managed between panicked gasps.

All three Predacons turned, tails wagging madly. “Papa Megatron!”

Megatron turned slowly on his heel. “Shockwave is going to pay for this.”

Shockwave entered the room with his usual robotic calm, optics glowing faintly, datapad in hand, utterly unbothered by the chaos swirling around him.

Megatron, on the other hand, looked like he had personally walked through a lava pit, stepped on a Lego, and found out the lava pit was full of family obligations.

“They talk, Shockwave!” Megatron growled, motioning wildly toward the Predacons, who were now politely sitting in a row with expectant little grins like kids at storytime.

“Indeed,” Shockwave said with absolute delight. “I had theorized this might happen. Their neural evolution rate has been… exceptional.”

“They called me 'Papa Megatron.’”

“That is biologically accurate,” Shockwave said, entirely too casually. “They perceive Starscream as the Alpha—primary carrier. You, being the dominant force of this environment, fit the criteria for sparkbound mate.”

Starscream froze mid-scream as his processor tried to reboot. “I—I—WHAT?!”

Shockwave tapped a few keys on his pad. “A hierarchical-based imprint system. They recognize Starscream as the caregiver, nurturer, protector. You, Megatron, display supreme strength. Therefore, in their instincts: a perfect mate. Thus, ‘Papa Megatron.’ Fascinating.”

Megatron looked like he was about to implode.

Dreadwing blinked. “Wait—Starscream has a trine, doesn’t he? Thundercracker and Skywarp?”

Skyquake tilted his helm. “Isn’t a seeker trine a sacred bond? One cannot have a sparkmate and a trine. That’s…”

“Unprecedented,” Shockwave agreed. “Which makes it all the more fascinating. You see, Starscream’s bond with Thundercracker and Skywarp is emotional, not biological. I recently ran comparative data. They share no code, no spark rhythm patterns. No genetic alignment.”

Starscream blinked at him. “You’ve been scanning me?!”

“Yes. Repeatedly. You do not notice it because I conduct them discreetly during recharge cycles.”

Starscream looked personally violated. Dreadwing looked personally confused.

“So they’re not… actually brothers?”

“Correct,” Shockwave confirmed. “They believe they are because of social closeness and mutual experience. But genetically, they are as related as a toaster and a space bridge.”

Starscream raised a trembling claw. “That is not good...”

Megatron paced in the background, muttering Primus-only-knows what about “parenthood,” “useless scientists,” and “I did not conquer half the galaxy to be called ‘Papa.’”

Shockwave stepped closer to the Predacons, who wagged their tails at him. “In summary, the Predacons have chosen a family unit. Starscream as Alpha. Megatron as co-dominant mate. And they now respond to social cues. Observe.”

He turned to the three creatures. “Who is your Alpha?”

“Starscream!” they barked.

“And who is Alpha’s mate?”

“Papa Megatron!” they howled in chorus.

Starscream facepalmed. Soundwave, ever silent, recorded everything for reasons surely unrelated to future blackmail.

Megatron’s vents hissed. “I swear on the Allspark, Shockwave… fix this.”

“There is no ‘fix.’ There is only adaptation. Congratulations. You have offspring.”

Megatron’s scream echoed through half of Kaon.

Megatron’s processor finally kicked out of the stunned static loop it had been trapped in and rebooted into a slow-burning, dangerous calm—the kind of calm that usually preceded planetary decimation.

He turned sharply toward Shockwave, voice clipped and cold:
“Explain to me again how Starscream, of all Cybertronians, does not have a sparkbound.”

Shockwave didn’t even blink, as if he had been waiting for this question all along.

“As I’ve stated: Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp are not genetically or cognitively synchronized. Their trine is constructed, not innate. No common code. No spark resonance. No bonding signature. In essence—”

He clicked a few keys on his datapad, projecting diagnostic scans into the air. Lines of Energon signatures, waveform comparisons, and bonding profiles scrolled beside a glowing image of Starscream’s spark.

“—they are a fake sled, as the organics would say. A social unit of convenience or sentiment. But biologically? Nothing.”

The room went quiet, except for the faint hum of power flowing through the walls.

Across the room, Skyquake, ever the efficient comms operator, tapped into the internal Decepticon aerial frequency.
His voice cut across the private channel like a seismic tremor:
::“All aerial units, be advised. Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp are not a true trine. Repeat: the trine is fake. Cross-check your own trine pulses for irregularities. Stand by for further intel.”::

A ripple of confused and alarmed responses came through the line—cut off quickly as protocols kicked in. The air suddenly felt heavier.

Starscream stood frozen in place. He hadn’t twitched since Shockwave’s first sentence. But now, with Skyquake’s words ringing in his audials, he visibly trembled. His wings twitched downward. His optics darted toward the exit, and his claws fidgeted as if trying to calculate the fastest escape path. Panic was beginning to override bravado.

“You ran data on me without my consent,” Starscream hissed, voice wobbling between outrage and desperation.

“I did,” Shockwave replied coolly. “It was logical. The Predacons accelerated the timeline.”

Megatron’s optics burned into Starscream. “So your entire trine act—brotherhood, loyalty, all of it—was a lie?”

“No!” Starscream snapped too quickly. “I mean—it’s not like that! I—Thundercracker and Skywarp—They—!”

But he didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he couldn’t. Because somewhere deep in his core, he knew Shockwave was right.

Shockwave, entirely unbothered by Starscream’s spiraling emotional state, continued tapping his datapad. “Further investigation revealed additional inconsistencies. Thundercracker and Skywarp were both part of Vos’s youth army. Typical soldier program. Filed and archived. Starscream, however…”

He paused.

“…is a mystery.”

Megatron narrowed his optics. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Shockwave said, looking up, “there is no verifiable origin for Starscream. No academy records. No combat service files. No family node data. I have found nothing. It is as if he emerged fully functional one day—like a myth, or a glitch in the system.”

The room fell into a cold, suffocating silence.

Starscream took one step back. His voice cracked as he whispered, “That’s not possible. You’re wrong. I—there are records. They just… Vos purged them, I was a scientist, I—”

“No purge logs exist for your spark code,” Shockwave stated without emotion. “And science academies of Vos kept backup files in decentralized caches. None include your designation.”

“Then find them!” Starscream shouted, panic now fully cracking his voice into shrillness. “Search deeper! I existed! I was a citizen of Vos, I—!”

Megatron stepped forward once. Just one step. But it was enough to make Starscream halt his outburst and flinch.

And for the first time in vorns, Megatron’s voice was not angry—it was unreadable.

“…Then who are you, Starscream?”

Starscream stood in the epicenter of his unraveling.

Around him, the control room pulsed like a heart ready to burst—quiet in the way storms were quiet right before they shattered everything in their path. Megatron was motionless, a black monolith of tension and suspicion. Shockwave’s observations hung in the air like blades suspended by thread. Skyquake’s broadcast had done more damage than any Energon bomb could have.

And Starscream… was trapped.

One part of him, deep in the shadows of his spark, felt the smallest hint of relief.
The royal family of Vos had done their job well. They had erased every trace of him—his lineage, his training, his bloodline. As far as the system was concerned, he was a ghost with a pretty name. And ghosts didn’t bleed.

But ghosts could still be seen. And now, the ghosts of his past were crawling out of hiding.

He couldn’t lie his way through this. There were no clever smirks, no snide retorts that could put the masks back on his face. They were shattering. Fast.

Then came the stomps. The rushed steps. The incoming tide.

Skyquake's message had reached every frequency, and now, drawn like sparks to flame, the aerialbots and seekers began pouring into the hallway—some out of curiosity, some out of concern, others with gleaming optics full of dread and revelation.

It was a gathering of winged judgment.

Thundercracker was the first to break ranks, dashing through the corridor with a face that had aged fifty vorns in five seconds. His hands trembled as he texted on a secure frequency.

::To Prime. They know. Decepticons know part of the truth. Megatron is going to find out who he really is. We may be too late.::

His thumb hovered over “send” for a heartbeat longer than he should have.
But he tapped it.

Then—a flash. No sound. No shimmer of light. Just presence.

Skywarp.

He didn’t teleport in with his usual dramatic flicker, no arrogant grin, no sing-song tease like “Guess whooo~”
He simply appeared, like a silent judgment cast from space itself.

Everyone turned. Some flinched. Soundwave himself tilted his helm.

Skywarp stood between Starscream and Megatron, tall and motionless.

His wings were up—defensive. His field was cloaked, not flaring.
And his face…

Gone was the careless, mischievous glint. No trace of the prankster, no twitch of a smile.

Skywarp’s face was cold.
Emotionless.
Calculating.

“Enough,” Skywarp said, voice flat, controlled.

Even his voice was different.
No lazy inflections. No dragging syllables.
Just silence sliced by words.

Starscream stepped back instinctively—he had never seen Skywarp like this.
Not even during the war. Not even during Vos's collapse.
This was a Skywarp no one knew.

Megatron studied him carefully. “You teleport without noise. Without light. That’s new.”

Skywarp didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned his head slightly toward Starscream, speaking without looking at him.

“You need to decide, now. Either we leave—now—or everything falls apart.”

Starscream stared, optics wide. “They’re all here. Skyquake brought them all. They’ll know.”

“They already do,” Skywarp replied. “And Thundercracker just told Optimus. It’s over.”

Shockwave was watching this closely, optics whirring. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “Skywarp’s upgrades are manifesting under emotional duress. Classic of suppressed royal programming.”

Megatron’s expression didn’t change, but his silence screamed volumes. “Royal.”

Starscream’s spark surged wildly. He clenched his fists.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said bitterly. “They erased me. I’m not a prince. I’m not even a record. I’m just…”

He faltered.

“I’m just Starscream.”

Skywarp finally looked at him. Fully.
Not as a subordinate. Not as a comrade.

As someone who knew him.

“You were never just anything.”

The silence was pierced by incoming wingbeats—hundreds of them. Aerial units landing across the perimeter. A ring was forming. Every pair of optics trained on the seeker who was, perhaps, never truly a seeker at all.

And then, Megatron took one step forward.

“Then tell me, Skywarp,” he said slowly. “Tell me what he is.”

Skywarp turned toward Megatron, his body shield-like before Starscream.

And for the first time, his voice carried weight, truth, authority.

“He is the last descendant of Vos’s royal line. The Seeker of the Black Throne. He was hidden. Rewritten. Raised among soldiers and scavengers so he wouldn’t be killed before his time.”

And then—he looked back.

“He was meant to rule.”

Shockwave’s servos clicked ominously as he brought his hands together in a slow, deliberate clap—CLACK—CLACK—CLACK. The sound echoed through the already-tense command hall like thunder rolling in a dead sky.

“Of course.” His single optic gleamed with a sudden flare, irises focusing in and out as if reviewing data at lightning speed. “Now everything aligns. All anomalies accounted for. All gaps filled.”

Starscream was still trembling, lips parted but silent, as if even his vocalizer feared betrayal. Skywarp stood unyielding at his side, and Thundercracker—face still marked by concern—finally arrived, stepping in on Starscream’s other flank. A silent wall of winged loyalty.

The trio had rarely looked like a trine before. But now? Now they looked like something ancient. Something sacred.

Shockwave stepped forward, speaking aloud, though his tone had slipped into the cadence of a man reasoning to himself—but everyone heard.

“I accessed classified remnants from pre-war Vos, buried beneath corrupted layers. Fragments. Glitches. But within the anomalies, a pattern. A secret.”

He turned slowly, speaking as though he were revealing a theorem, not someone’s life.

“There was a Winglord,” he said. “A powerful one. Revered for aerial tactics and ruthless governance. History claims he died without heir because their sons died before him.”

Shockwave’s optic brightened.

“But logs—classified logs—speak otherwise. They mention an illegitimate son. A prodigy. A master of unconventional strategy, aerial dominance, sabotage. A prince raised like a soldier. Trained in secret. Burned when Vos began to burn.”

Starscream’s knees nearly buckled.

“But every name,” Shockwave continued, voice rising, “every record of him was scrubbed. Not deleted. Burned. So deeply burned that not even shadow programs remained. Only one reference survived.”

Shockwave turned fully to face Starscream, hand lifted, pointing directly at him.

“He had two guards.”“He had two wardrobes.”

The word hung there.

Confusion passed over a few Decepticon faces. But the aerialbots gasped. The term was ancient.

Wardrobes—from an old Vosian tradition—were not just guards. They were bodykeepers, soulguards. Appointed for life, sometimes from birth. Chosen not for strength, but for devotion. They lived to protect.

Shockwave’s finger moved.

“One: Thundercracker. Loyal to the core. Stoic, moral. A shield.”

The blue seeker didn’t flinch, but his lips tightened.

“Two: Skywarp. Cunning. Subtle. Gifted with a teleportation system tied to his spark and not his frame—an ancient Vosian design.”

The room had gone still as death. Only the flickering hum of consoles remained.

“And he—” Shockwave’s optic narrowed to a searing point as it fell on Starscream, “—is the lost scion. The erased bloodline. The Winglord’s son. Vos’s final heir.”

Starscream’s legs gave way at last—but he didn’t fall. Thundercracker stepped in, caught him from the left. Skywarp braced him from the right. They didn’t say a word.

Their actions were answer enough.

Gasps spread among the Seekers. Murmurs turned into stunned silence. Jetstorm, Bitstream, and the other Vosian-descended fliers bowed their heads—not in mockery, but in recognition.

And then, without warning—Skyquake dropped to one knee.

Others followed. Slowly, one by one. Not all. But enough.

Shockwave, still standing like a prophet who’d just proven the stars were math, concluded with eerie calm:

“You three were never a trine. You were something older. Something sacred. You were a prince with his two eternal blades.”

Megatron stepped forward now, optics dark and unreadable. His voice, when it came, was slow and careful.

“Then the question is no longer who Starscream is.”

A pause. His crimson optics met Starscream’s wide ones.

“It is… what will he become?”

The moment burned into Starscream's mind like the heat still radiating from Megatron’s cannon.

Skywarp, silent and cold a moment ago, suddenly jolted into motion—one hand grabbing Starscream, the other Thundercracker, preparing for an emergency jump out of there. His frame pulsed faintly with the thrum of teleportation coils igniting—until a deafening blast cracked the air.

Megatron’s fusion cannon fired first.

The bolt struck Skywarp’s wing mid-pre-jump, and the teleport short-circuited with a sickening snap. A violent explosion of purple sparks burst from the wing as part of the structure ripped clean off, spinning to the floor in a trail of smoke and energon.

Skywarp screamed.

A raw, agonized cry ripped from his throat and echoed across the base, stunning even the Predacons, who froze like statues. Starscream caught him before he fell completely, dragging the lilac-colored Seeker to the floor, ignoring the heat, the blood, the chaos. His hands pressed hard against the mangled remains of Skywarp’s wing base, desperately trying to stem the bleeding. His fingers were drenched in violet energon, trembling.

“Don’t talk,” Starscream whispered. “Just stay with me. Stay with me.”

Thundercracker’s optics went bright with fury. He surged forward, arm lifted to strike—but Starscream snapped one hand up from Skywarp’s wound and grabbed him by the wrist.

“Don’t,” Starscream hissed. “Not now. Not here.”

Megatron’s fusion cannon remained hot, its glow casting deep shadows on his face. His voice was low, threatening—controlled.

“Try that again,” Megatron said coldly to Skywarp, “and the next shot will take your spark with it.”

The room held its breath.

Shockwave, seemingly untouched by the tension, resumed speaking as if narrating a documentary—his tone cheerful, which somehow made it even more horrifying.

“Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating,” Shockwave murmured, hands folded behind his back. “Brilliant, truly. You three constructed false personas so perfectly—Starscream the ambitious coward, Thundercracker the noble fool, Skywarp the idiotic prankster—all to hide in plain sight. Remarkable subterfuge. I am impressed.”

Starscream gritted his denta as Skywarp groaned beneath him, slipping in and out of consciousness. Thundercracker, jaw clenched, looked down at his communicator. A message blinked across it in red:

[PRIME]: Two hours out. Do not let them move Starscream. Portal to Nemesis base is too unstable. Hold on. We are coming.

Thundercracker’s face paled.

They didn’t have two hours. Not with Megatron looking like this. Not with the cannon still hot.

Shockwave’s voice rose again, addressing Megatron now. “The base is compromised. If Thundercracker and Skywarp are in contact with Prime, then the Autobots are likely inbound. You should gather what is salvageable and transfer it to our auxiliary base. Now.”

Megatron turned his head slightly, processing, but kept his optics fixed on the Seekers. “So,” he rumbled, “they’ve been working with the Autobots. A plot behind my back. How quaint.”

Thundercracker opened his mouth to speak—but Starscream already knew. He looked into Thundercracker’s eyes, then Skywarp’s, and saw the truth laid bare: they had been planning his escape. Silently. Carefully. They’d done it to protect him. To protect the heir of Vos.

They never told him—because if he knew, he wouldn’t have played the part right.

His voice was hoarse when he finally said, “You two… you idiots.”

Megatron took a step closer, cannon still raised, his massive form looming over the trio. The air grew hotter.

He looked down at Thundercracker, who instinctively placed himself between Megatron and Skywarp again, wings flared protectively. Megatron didn’t lift the cannon this time. He spoke instead.

“If you care for him, you’ll step aside. Let him receive proper care—on my terms. Your friend needs medical help. And if you truly want to see him survive…” He leaned in, optics burning like the core of a dying star. “…then move.”

The cannon pulsed with residual energy. The decision hung in the air like a blade suspended above them.

Thundercracker’s fists clenched. He didn’t move.

Starscream finally rose—hands coated in energon, frame trembling, gaze locked with Megatron’s.

And said nothing.

Megatron’s grip on Starscream’s arm was ironclad, unrelenting, his stride heavy and commanding as he bellowed across the crumbling base.

“Soundwave! Prep the Nemesis for a temporal jump—coordinates to the secondary base. Vehicons, load all the energon reserves—now. Take only what is vital! Move!”

The base erupted into motion like a kicked anthill. Decepticons surged forward in every direction, snapping into action without hesitation. They had heard the tone in Megatron’s voice—war was coming, and Starscream’s life was the price of disobedience.

Starscream stumbled slightly as he was dragged, but Megatron didn’t let up. Not for an astrosecond. His optics remained forward, not looking at the seeker he held, not acknowledging the energon on Starscream’s hands, or the way the tricolor mech trembled under his grasp.

Behind them, the young Predacons followed like ducklings behind a flame-breathing lion. They didn’t see the chaos. To them, this was spectacle—their Sire displaying dominance, defending their Carrier. A primal scene they could instinctively grasp, even if the politics around it were a cyclone of lies and revelations.

Skywarp’s screams echoed from behind as Knockout and Hook carried him with practiced speed toward the Nemesis’s medical wing. Hook barked vitals, Knockout cursed under his breath at the damage, and Breakdown thundered behind them, arms overloaded with medical equipment salvaged from the base’s infirmary.

Time was against them.

In the Ark, Optimus Prime stood before the main screen, hands clenched tight behind his back, optics locked on the chaotic feed coming from the aerial drone.

He watched Megatron dragging Starscream through smoke and shadow. Watched the Decepticons mobilizing like a war machine. Watched Skywarp’s energon-stained frame vanish into the dark interior of the Nemesis. He heard Ratchet swearing softly at his console.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said quietly, too calmly.

“I already rerouted every last drop of reserve power to propulsion,” Ratchet replied grimly, not even turning from his station. “We’re at maximum speed. I can’t make her go faster.”

Optimus’s jaw tightened. “Then all we can do is hope.”

He stared at Starscream’s image—at the pain in his optics, the way he didn’t even fight Megatron’s hold anymore—and whispered under his breath, not to Ratchet, not to the crew, but to the only force he could call on now:

“Primus… let us reach him in time.”

The Ark hurtled through the void, silent and furious. The race had begun.

Chapter Text

Megatron’s massive quarters echoed with the slam of the doors behind him, the force rattling the metal walls as he marched in, dragging Starscream like a sack of unresolved fury. With a final shove, the warlord threw the seeker onto the berth like unwanted cargo.

The impact wasn’t physical enough to damage, but it struck harder in meaning. Starscream didn’t bounce, didn’t react. He simply stayed there—crumpled in posture, shoulders curled in, optics low, jaw locked in shame.

“Eons!” Megatron roared, storming across the chamber as his heavy steps punctuated each word like cannon blasts. “Eons, Starscream. I kept you at my side. Defended you when others mocked you. Trusted you—gods help me—and you were never who you said you were?!”

He spun, pointing a clawed finger at the silent seeker, optics flaring crimson. “We will have a very long conversation about this—after I salvage this entire operation because of you and your goddamn fake trine!”

With a guttural snarl, Megatron turned and began snatching objects from shelves and drawers—ancient relics from the pits of Kaon, a polished claw of crystallized energon from a gladiator lord long dead, and a rare set of datapads containing Decepticon battle poetry (written in his own hand, though he’d never admit it). Everything valuable was swept into a case or storage crate with violent efficiency.

As he worked, he jabbed his intercom. “Vehicons. Empty Skywarp and Thundercracker’s quarters. Everything. Don’t leave a single circuit behind. Get it to the Nemesis now.”

“Understood, Lord Megatron.”

Across the berth, Starscream hadn’t moved an inch. The tremor in his hands betrayed his internal collapse.

His plan—his delicate, carefully curated life of playing the fool, of presenting himself as a volatile but harmless scientist, as just another cog in the Decepticon machine—was in ruins. Every secret, every calculated performance to distance himself from the truth of his bloodline had been shattered in one cascading sequence of disaster. There was no going back. The seekers knew. The aerialbots would spread it. Vos had no secrets now. He would never be seen as “just Starscream” again.

His optics stung.

And to make matters worse—Skywarp.

He clutched his hands into the berth, gripping it as if that could steady the turmoil within him. Skywarp had tried to escape, to save them. Now he was wounded, bleeding, and being rushed into surgery. He didn’t even know if Skywarp was stable. What if… what if that last reckless act cost him everything?

Suddenly—thump.

Three figures landed beside him with weightless innocence.

The young Predacons had jumped up onto the berth, curling up like oversized turbo-hounds, surrounding him without a care. One curled at his side, another draped over his legs, the third tried to nuzzle into his shoulder.

They purred.

They purred and snored and tried to play with his hands like he was nothing more than their favored resting place. Their instincts saw no royal scandal, no lies, no cosmic betrayal—just their Carrier, still and silent, and in need of comfort.

Starscream didn’t even have the energy to push them off. His optics dimmed, and his hand came to rest—gently—on the back of one of them.

Megatron glanced at the scene in the corner of his eye, optics narrowing. He didn’t speak. Not yet. There was too much to do. Too many things to pack, too many commands to issue, too many thoughts spiraling.

But the storm between them—between who Starscream was and what that meant for everything—was far from over.

Predaking, curled lazily at Starscream’s side, suddenly tilted his head as if sensing something curious. His optics brightened with innocent interest.

“Will we be taking the little insect that always follows Carrier too?” he asked, voice as casual as if inquiring about a toy.

The entire room froze. Starscream blinked, Megatron stilled mid-motion, and even the other Predacons momentarily paused their purring. Slowly, Megatron turned his head toward the young drake.

“What insect,” he said, voice low with danger, “are you referring to?”

Predaking sat up, lifting his head proudly as if ready to share a prized discovery. “The tiny one that always follows Carrier. It hides a lot. But I see it. All the time.” He pointed his snout subtly toward the back corner of the massive chamber. “It’s right there.”

Megatron’s optics flared. He straightened fully, his expression darkening by the klik. “Bring it to me. Now.”

Predaking obeyed without hesitation. In one graceful leap, he pounced across the chamber like a silent missile, his claws fast and precise. There was a snap of metal and a muffled electronic shriek—and then he returned, jaws gently clenched around a small, struggling form.

With no ceremony, he dropped it at Megatron’s feet.

A small, battered insectile mech—a micro-drone—twitched on the floor. Camouflaged plating, half-holographic. A finely built piece of Autobot spycraft. Red optics blinked frantically. It was alive… barely.

Starscream inhaled sharply, stunned. He hadn’t known. It had been watching him? Following him? How long?

Megatron, silent, bent down.

He inspected it. Silent rage curling in his core. Then, with one single, deliberate motion, his clawed servo closed around the drone—and crunched.

The sickening crack-pop of metal and circuitboard echoed through the room. Starscream winced. The Predacons didn’t even blink.

Across the sea in the Ark, the transmission went dead. The Autobots stared in stunned silence at the blank screen. The last image Firefly had sent was the massive shadow of Megatron’s servo—and then, nothing.

“Slag,” Bumblebee whispered.

“Scrap it,” Arcee muttered.

“I told Wheeljack it was too risky,” Ultra Magnus growled.

“Primus help them…” Optimus said quietly.

Back aboard the Nemesis, Megatron flicked the crushed remains into the container with the rest of his belongings. “Soundwave will see this,” he growled. “And he will learn from it. I expect better counter-surveillance. Or he will suffer for his oversight.”

Starscream was still processing the implications, optics darting. How long had he been watched? How much had they seen? What did they know?

“Finally,” he muttered bitterly under his breath, “Wheeljack made something that didn’t explode. He must have had Jetfire help him.”

Megatron glared at him. “You think this is a time for jokes?”

Starscream met his gaze—tired, exposed, shaken—but couldn’t stop the edge in his voice. “When isn’t it?”

The tension crackled in the room like unspent cannonfire.

The tension inside Megatron’s quarters cracked like charged glass, but the entrance of the Vehicons shifted the atmosphere with military efficiency. They marched in without hesitation, taking crates, datapads, weapons, energon containers—anything Megatron had preselected for evacuation. Some even began dismantling the wallscreens and fixtures. The warlord didn’t slow his orders for a klik.

He seized Starscream by the arm and yanked him upright. “You're coming with me,” he growled, optics searing. “You don’t get the luxury of hiding anymore.”

Starscream said nothing, his wings sagging behind him, optics downcast. All his protests had burned out. In this moment, he was nothing more than a piece being dragged across a warboard. He followed.

The halls of the Decepticon base echoed with the final frenzy of retreat. Crates were shoved onto carriers, cables were torn out of walls, and command consoles sparked where they’d been gutted for data cores. Knock Out was already aboard the Nemesis, monitoring Skywarp’s vitals. Hook was beside him, setting up emergency stasis locks to prevent catastrophic bleeding. Breakdown arrived shortly after, dragging armfuls of medbay supplies up the ramp.

Outside, the towering bulk of the Nemesis dominated the landscape. Even damaged, even rushed, it was a vessel of war unmatched—colossal in scale, dread-dark in color, its armor jagged and commanding. Unlike the smaller, more agile Ark, the Nemesis could carry the entire Decepticon army, Predacons included, and still have room to breathe.

Astrotrain groaned, stumbling as he reached the ramp, overloaded with hastily packed gear, weapon crates, and sensor equipment. Three Vehicons pushed behind him, grunting with effort to keep him upright. The triple-changer hissed steam from every vent, but he made it aboard—barely.

Megatron stood at the base of the ramp, Starscream beside him, still silent. The warlord gave a final sweeping look across his forces. “All aboard.” His voice was steel.

And they obeyed.

Inside the Nemesis, Soundwave’s helm gleamed in the flickering light of the control room. His silence was unreadable, but his servos moved swiftly over the controls. The engines thrummed, and the dark vessel began to rise.

Just as it cleared the ground, the Ark crested the horizon, roaring in with full thrusters. Optimus stood at the helm, jaw tight, optics locked on the Nemesis climbing into the sky.

But it was too late.

Soundwave executed the temporal coordinates, and the Nemesis vanished in a violent burst of distortion—folding into a gleaming tear in space, then disappearing with a flash and a rumble that shook the air.

Gone.

Optimus slammed his fist into the console, and the metal gave way, denting in with a loud crunch. No one dared speak. The bridge was dead quiet.

Prowl exchanged a glance with Ratchet and stepped forward. “Begin search and recovery. Sweep the entire Decepticon base. Anything of value—data, energon, materials—we take it.”

The Autobots dispersed with grim focus. The enemy had escaped. But the field was not empty.

Off to the side, near a silent corridor, Wheeljack approached Jetfire, who stood still, gaze locked on the empty space where the Nemesis had vanished.

“You okay?” Wheeljack asked gently, though he already knew the answer.

Jetfire didn’t reply. His wings were heavy. His hands clenched and unclenched slowly, as if they didn’t know what else to do.

Wheeljack sighed, voice low. “He knew. Starscream. He knew we’d take care of what he left. His sanctuaries. The creatures. His science. You and I—we’ll handle it. For him. ‘Til the day he comes back.”

Jetfire finally looked at him, and the quiet ache in his optics said everything.

The silence in the abandoned Decepticon base was not peaceful—it was eerie. The hum of war had vanished, leaving only echoes in metal halls where strategies were once whispered, orders barked, lives lost. The Autobots fanned out with systematic discipline, collecting whatever the enemy had left behind. Anything that could be repurposed, studied, or preserved was tagged and taken.

Windblade moved with more purpose than most. Her first destination was a narrow corridor, half-forgotten in the understructure, where Starscream had kept his private quarters. When she stepped inside, she was surprised by the simplicity. No lavishness. No banners. Just clean, quiet order.

And memories.

The first thing she saw was the hologram frame on the desk—flickering softly, paused on a snapshot of another life. She and Starscream, seated on the grass of a public park, playing chess under twin suns. She didn’t even remember someone taking the picture. But the faint trace of a smile on Starscream’s face in that image made something in her chest tighten.

Windblade reached out slowly and took it.

She walked carefully around the room, fingers brushing datapads, rare minerals, flight schematics, a half-finished model of a sanctuary’s layout made from wire and scrap. She took only what felt essential—what was his. What mattered. She would return these things to him. Personally. That was her vow. No matter how long it took.

Outside the base, Wheeljack and Jetfire approached the sanctuaries, deep in the canyon beyond the launch deck. Even though they’d seen them through Firefly’s footage, nothing compared to standing in them. The air was warmer here. Softer. Trees Starscream had grown from engineered energon seedlings rustled gently, shading alien wildlife that moved freely among them. Domes glowed with filtered light. Stabilizing emitters clicked gently as they adjusted microclimates. Each enclosure was a masterpiece of natural design and scientific care.

“Primus...” Jetfire murmured.

“It’s beautiful,” Wheeljack added. “I knew he was smart, but this... this is something else.”

Other Autobots arrived, equally awestruck. Some were medics, some engineers, some simple scouts—and yet, in the presence of what Starscream had made, they all grew quiet. Reverent.

Thanks to the recovered data from Firefly, they knew what to do. Jetfire and Wheeljack began replicating Starscream’s custom energon mixtures, recalibrating the temperature regulators, adjusting environmental parameters to each habitat’s needs. They knew how to feed the animals. How to clean the filters. How to speak the few vocal commands Starscream had recorded into the systems.

Optimus arrived not long after. He stood on a ridge above the sanctuaries, gazing down at the life preserved in a world still ravaged by war. His optics dimmed. Then he descended.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t give a rousing speech. He only stepped beside Jetfire and Wheeljack and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

“You’re done with the war,” he said. “Both of you.”

They looked at him in shock.

“I want you to expand this. Build something larger. Secure. Hidden. At the edge of our quadrant. Use everything we salvaged and everything we know. Starscream didn’t build this just to hide. He built it to protect something precious.” Optimus’s voice cracked ever so slightly. “Make sure he comes back to find it better than he left it.”

No one argued. They only nodded. It was the kind of order no one had the heart to refuse.

And still—Optimus remained. As the others dispersed to begin work, he lingered on the ridge, watching a group of Starscream’s avian rescues flutter through a blue-lighted dome. The ache inside him pulsed with every wingbeat.

He hadn’t stopped Starscream from being taken. He hadn’t saved the one who had tried to build something good in the middle of a war. And though logic told him it wasn’t his fault, his spark bore the weight as if it were.

No one said anything to him. They didn’t have to. They all felt it.

The loss.

And the quiet hope that, maybe one day, Starscream would walk here again.

It was late.

The Autobot base had quieted for the night cycle, though no one truly slept. The weight of what had transpired lingered in every corridor—haunting the silence like a ghost that would not pass on. Somewhere, gears still turned, and lights flickered. But in the medical bay, there was only the soft beeping of monitors and the faint whir of energon processors.

Ratchet was seated at a console, adjusting the distribution calibrators for the medical energon used to treat stress trauma. He didn’t look up when the heavy footsteps came, but he didn’t need to.

“Optimus,” he said quietly.

Optimus stood in the doorway. He looked like a figure carved from guilt and shadow. He didn’t move for a long moment. Then, with deliberate slowness, he stepped inside.

“I’m sorry,” Optimus murmured. “I know it’s late.”

“You look like you haven’t rested in four cycles,” Ratchet said, glancing at him now. “And judging by that dent on your arm, I’m guessing you took out your frustration on a console again.”

Optimus gave a humorless breath that might’ve been a chuckle. Or just a sigh. “I… failed him.”

Ratchet turned fully toward him, expression guarded.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” Optimus walked forward, one step at a time, until he leaned against the diagnostic table, staring blankly ahead. “I knew they would try something desperate. I knew Starscream was being watched. And I thought—somehow—I could protect him by standing back. Giving him the space to choose.”

“He did choose,” Ratchet said. “And they took that choice away.”

Optimus shook his head. “I let it happen. He trusted me. He believed in something here, with us. And I let him walk into the pit thinking he had time, that he had control. And now…”

Now he’s gone.

Optimus didn’t need to say it.

Ratchet stood slowly and walked to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t cage him, Prime. That’s not who you are. And that’s not who he needed you to be.”

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore, old friend,” Optimus confessed. “The line between protector and failure is thinner than I imagined.”

Ratchet’s hand tightened briefly.

“You’re the only one he ever truly trusted, Optimus,” he said. “He saw something in you—something we all do. You think you lost him. But I don’t believe that. Starscream is still out there. And if I know that seeker as well as I think I do, he’s already making a plan.”

Optimus looked up then, just barely. “He may not forgive me.”

“Then earn it,” Ratchet said. “We’ll all help you. But this—this isn’t the end.”

The two stood there in silence. Just for a moment. Warriors, commanders, healers—just two weary mechs bearing the weight of one they’d lost. But not forever.

Not if they could help it.

The new Decepticon base loomed like a shadow across a forgotten world—ancient, cold, fortified deep beneath the planet’s crust where no Autobot eyes could reach. It had been dormant for eons, carved by machines now long lost to time. But it came alive again under Decepticon command—engines roaring, corridors echoing with movement, and voices raised in harsh Cybertronian as the army resettled. They were survivors, yes—but now, they were fugitives across time.

Skywarp groaned in pain, still weak from surgery. His wings were patched with sealing welds, his frame pale from energon loss, but he lived. He blinked slowly in the dim orange light of the dungeon, chains fastened to his arms and the thick stasis collar around his neck humming with containment protocols. The collar stripped him of his power—no teleportation, no phasing, not even short-distance blinks. Thundercracker lay in the adjacent cell, silent, more wounded emotionally than physically.

They knew what had happened. The moment the Nemesis jumped, they had felt it—felt the shame, the betrayal of failure. They had promised to protect Starscream. Instead, they had been captured like fools, their systems wiped clean by Shockwave’s efficient hands. No internal comms. No way to call for help. Not even a ping to the Autobots.

Thundercracker cursed under his breath. “We failed him.”

Skywarp tilted his head back, optics dim. “He probably hates us now.”

But what they didn’t know—what they couldn’t know—was that they were still functioning because of the very mech they thought they’d failed.

When Megatron returned to the base’s inner sanctum, the warlord was nearly gleaming with silent satisfaction. The mission was a success. His enemies left behind. The sanctuaries gone. And Starscream—his Starscream—finally under his control again. The tricolor seeker had been escorted to the warlord’s new private quarters—twice as large as before, with obsidian walls and violet lighting that gave it the gleam of a throne room and a prison at once.

Megatron followed soon after.

The door sealed with a hiss behind him as he approached Starscream, whose back was to the wall, wings pulled tight to his sides, optics dimmed but wide. He hadn’t spoken much since the temporal jump. He hadn’t resisted either. But he watched. Every movement. Every command.

Megatron moved toward him, gesturing to a lock panel on the wall. “You will stay here until I return. There is much to do. A kingdom to rebuild. Mistakes to correct.”

He turned to leave—but suddenly, for the first time in all their shared lifetimes, Starscream reached out.

His fingers clutched Megatron’s arm—not forcefully, not with the sharpness of his usual pride—but in something softer. Desperate.

“Wait,” Starscream murmured. His voice was raw, low. “Please.”

Megatron froze.

“Don’t… do anything to them.” Starscream’s optics shimmered. “Thundercracker. Skywarp. Please.”

Silence.

For a moment, Megatron didn’t move. Then—slowly—he turned to face the seeker, gaze unreadable. His optics traced the line of Starscream’s face, his trembling hands, the subtle but unmistakable crack in the armor of pride that had defined him for eons. This wasn’t a warrior or a spy in that moment. This was a mech begging.

The moment Megatron had waited for.

Starscream—undone.

Begging him.

For the first time, him.

Megatron’s lips curved, just slightly. The faintest smile touched his expression—predatory and triumphant. “You plead for the lives of traitors?”

Starscream said nothing—only looked at him, as if to say you know what they are to me.

Megatron leaned down, the smile widening. “Very well,” he murmured. “I won’t harm them.”

Starscream blinked in visible relief, though he did not let go of his grip. Not yet.

“But,” Megatron added, his voice silken, cold steel behind every word, “you will obey me. You will not defy me. You are mine now, Starscream. Say it.”

Starscream hesitated. A long pause.

“…I obey,” he whispered.

And only then did Megatron turn and leave—locking the door behind him.

And Starscream finally sank to the berth, his wings drooping low, his frame curled forward.

Skywarp and Thundercracker lived.

But the cost of that mercy was him.

The quiet of Soundwave’s laboratory was absolute—sterile, humming, lit by long, pale-blue energy strips along the ceiling. He worked alone, as always. No one dared to intrude without permission, and even then, only Megatron had the authority to summon him directly.

The doors opened with a hiss.

A pair of Vehicons entered, one holding a sealed stasis box. They said nothing—no greeting, no explanation. They simply placed it on the center table and left. The door slid shut behind them.

Soundwave stood still.

He already knew what it was.

The moment Megatron had spoken of a “gift” for him, he knew it wouldn’t be anything pleasant. And when the command came with such sharp disappointment laced in Megatron’s voice—“You’ll want to see the failure yourself”—Soundwave had understood.

Still, he took a moment before approaching. His visor flickered as data flowed through him—no signals from the Firefly unit, no recent pings, no residual energon trails.

The stasis box clicked open.

Inside, crushed beyond repair, lay the mangled body of the Firefly—his autonomous micro-spy, modeled with unmatched subtlety and silence. Once an art piece in its own way: small, winged, perfectly disguised, with micro-harmonics for cloaking, capable of months-long surveillance without detection.

Now, it was a warped lump of twisted plating and shattered lenses. Flattened.

Soundwave reached for it carefully, with a level of gentleness no one would expect from the coldest mech on the Nemesis.

He scanned it—what was left of its core showed that it had remained close to Starscream for weeks. It had recorded everything: sanctuaries, dialogues, battles, the truce in the wreckage, and Starscream’s quiet words to himself. It had fulfilled its function flawlessly.

Its death had been the result not of failure, but discovery.

His fault.

He should have known the risk of keeping it deployed for so long. He had underestimated the Predacon. Underestimated Megatron’s paranoia.

Soundwave’s fingers paused on the cracked sensory array.

He never spoke, but his visor dimmed for a long, long moment.

Then, slowly, he reached into a hidden drawer below the table and removed a small, clean container—one he rarely used. Reverently, he placed the Firefly’s remains inside, sealing it as if performing a burial ritual. A single thin strip of Decepticon violet lit along the casing. He set it high on the back shelf of his private chamber, beside a few other fragments—silent reminders of what had been lost.

He did not play back its final moments. Not yet. He would. But not now.

Not when rage sat so close beneath the surface.

Soundwave turned, silent as a shadow, and walked to his console.

New protocols were already forming.

Firefly had succeeded—and now he knew everything. Every reaction. Every secret.

Including what Starscream had said when he thought he was alone.

And Soundwave would never forget.

The silence in the dungeon was thick, broken only by the hum of the forcefields that separated the cells. The air was damp and cold, the flickering lights casting stretched shadows across the rust-stained floor. When Megatron entered, every Decepticon stationed in the hall either stiffened or moved aside instinctively. His presence was a wave of force—undeniable and suffocating.

He didn’t need to announce himself.

Skywarp and Thundercracker, seated on opposite ends of their respective cells, lifted their heads at once. Thundercracker's optics narrowed, cold with contempt. Skywarp’s were slower, dulled by pain and medication, but the hatred that burned behind them was unmistakable.

Megatron stepped forward, his heavy steps echoing ominously, until he stood directly in front of them. His red optics locked onto theirs, dispassionate and sharp.

“You are alive,” Megatron began, voice like gravel laced with iron, “because Starscream begged for it.”

The word begged hung in the air, heavy, humiliating.

Skywarp bared his denta in a silent snarl. Thundercracker’s fists clenched at his sides.

Megatron continued, “He pleaded, on his knees, in front of me. For you.”

There was no joy in his voice—only a cruel, quiet satisfaction. He wasn’t here to gloat. He was here to make a point.

“And now…” Megatron stepped closer, the forcefield flickering against the proximity of his massive frame, “I have him. Entirely. Mind, spark, and loyalty. Mine.”

He tilted his helm slightly, optics glowing brighter. “You’re not fools. You understand what that means.”

Silence.

He let it drag for a moment before continuing, slower now, more deliberate.

“As long as you remain loyal to me... nothing will happen to him. But you will remain here for a time. Consider it a lesson. Skywarp, your injury still festers. Hook and Knockout will tend to it. Be grateful for that.”

Skywarp tried to lunge, but the collar around his neck activated, freezing his frame mid-motion, locking every servo with a pulse of stasis. He collapsed back against the wall, panting from the jolt, pain flickering across his expression.

Thundercracker moved instinctively toward the edge of his cell but stopped himself. He knew better.

Megatron’s optics remained cold. “Defiance will earn you only pain. And Starscream will suffer it first.”

He turned, already done with them, already walking away before either of them could speak.

Behind him, Thundercracker slammed a fist against the cell wall and shouted, voice cracking, “He’s not yours, you slagging tyrant! You’ll never break him!”

Megatron paused only for a heartbeat at the end of the corridor, then continued his path, leaving the echo of Thundercracker’s voice to bounce off the empty stone.

In his mind, however, he recalled the look Starscream gave him when he begged.

And Megatron smiled.

The Constructicons barely looked at each other when Megatron delivered the new orders. No explanation. No context. Just precise commands—rebuild his quarters, expand them, double the berth size, fit it with plush pillows and heavy blankets, polish everything until it gleamed like a high officer’s blade. Include a table and two chairs of refined Cybertronian alloy. Add washracks—hot water, high-pressure flowpoints. No compromises. To start in 20klicks.

And the deadline: complete it before recharge cycle.

They obeyed without hesitation.

When Megatron returned to his current quarters, the three young Predacons—Predaking, Darksteel, and Skylynx—had made themselves quite at home, sprawled across the floor, examining shelves, roaring at their reflections in the dark-polished panels. They froze when Megatron entered, optics snapping toward him.

“You’re free to explore the base,” he said flatly, “but do not eat anyone.”

Predaking gave a sharp-toothed grin. Darksteel rumbled something smug. Skylynx laughed as they bolted out the door, already scheming how best to terrify a few unsuspecting Vehicons.

Now alone with Starscream, Megatron turned.

Starscream had been seated on the floor near the berth, folded into himself, frame visibly tensed. When Megatron approached, the seeker did not protest—he simply followed when the warlord took him by the arm, guiding him out of the room and down the quieter halls of the newly claimed base. They passed no one. These corridors had yet to be assigned or filled—silent, cold, a clean slate. There was something oppressive about the emptiness, the echo of their steps bouncing off the walls like a threat.

Eventually, Megatron stopped.

He released Starscream’s arm and turned to face him. “Now,” he said, his tone deceptively even, “it is time.”

Starscream raised his optics slowly, not with defiance—but wariness. He knew the tone. Knew that Megatron was giving him a rare opening: not a reprieve, but a chance. One that wouldn’t come twice.

“You will prove your loyalty,” Megatron continued, “not through kneeling, or submission, or flattery. I want the truth.”

His optics burned, not with rage, but focused calculation.

“Tell me what you’ve been hiding. Tell me everything. This is your only chance to speak while I am calm—while I am willing to listen.”

Starscream hesitated.

His chestplates moved with the slow cycle of his vents, and his wings twitched slightly—tension building in his frame like an internal alarm.

He knew this wasn’t a trap, not exactly.

But the wrong answer, or a lie?

It would be a sentence.

And Megatron was waiting.

Starscream stood in front of Megatron like a glass tower under pressure—cracked, barely upright, seconds from collapsing. The warlord’s expression was unreadable, arms folded across his massive frame, optics narrowed but unmoving. He had not interrupted once, not even when the tale had gone from mildly improbable to traitorous to astonishing.

Starscream's voice was quiet but firm, the kind of steady tone one cultivated when there was nothing left to lose.

“I was born in Vos,” he began, “but not in the lower sectors, not as a commoner. I was… the illegitimate son of Winglord Phalanx.”

He said it without flourish, almost bitterly.

“My Sire never acknowledged me publicly, but he made sure I had access to the best education, the best mentors. I wasn’t raised with luxury, but I was raised with expectations. He wanted me useful—hidden, but powerful. I suppose I was both.”

Megatron’s optics glowed faintly in the dim light, still silent. No reaction. Just that slow, ominous processing.

Starscream continued.

“When I became old enough to choose my squadron, I didn’t let the academies assign me anyone. I handpicked Thundercracker and Skywarp. Not because they were convenient, but because I saw something in them—potential, loyalty, strength that had yet to be polished. I trained with them myself. We grew together.”

His wings sagged slightly, as if remembering weighed them down.

“And Windblade… she was my friend. One of the few. A noble like me, but recognized, celebrated. Our families knew each other. She never judged me for being a hidden heir. She understood the pressure of being watched, evaluated, held to an impossible standard.”

He paused.

“I betrayed all of that when I joined the Decepticons.”

Megatron shifted at last, a single slow tilt of the head—judgment or interest, Starscream couldn’t say.

“But I needed to escape Vos,” Starscream went on, “before they tried to turn me into another dead puppet in the aristocracy. I thought the Decepticons were the future. That I could shape that future.”

“And all this time,” Megatron said, voice finally breaking through, low and thick with restrained rage, “you played the fool. You wore the mask of a coward, a traitor, a jester—while hiding bloodline power. While your wingmates lied about who they were. You think I would never notice?”

Starscream flinched, but stood his ground.

“I did what I had to do to survive,” he said, quieter now. “But I’m not finished.”

Megatron took a step forward, towering above him. “Then finish, Seeker.”

Starscream’s wings tucked back tightly. He looked away. Then—Megatron’s hand snapped forward, grabbing his face—firm, unrelenting. He forced Starscream to look directly into his crimson optics.

“Right at the core of your spark,” he growled. “What are you still hiding?”

There was no way out now.

Starscream's voice trembled at first, but grew steady. His life—and Thundercracker’s, and Skywarp’s—depended on it.

“I have powers. Three powers,” he admitted. “One inherited. One I was born with. One I created.”

Megatron’s hand loosened slightly, in surprise.

“Explain.”

Starscream inhaled.

“The inherited power came from my Sire—the Winglord line. I can scream at supersonic frequencies, above normal sensory range. Depending on the modulation, I can rupture audio sensors, or cause paralysis in certain bots. It’s not always lethal, but it can drop a Triplechanger.'

Megatron’s optics gleamed.

“Go on.”

“The second power… I was born with. It’s speed. Not just fast—I can travel from quadrant C-218 to quadrant F-148 in seconds. It’s not a spacebridge or a temporal shift. It’s pure, hyper-mega sonic movement. I can bend the air around me, cause frictionless propulsion. It's hard to track. Hard to counter.”

Starscream waited, expecting mockery.

Megatron did not laugh.

Instead, he muttered: “No wonder Soundwave could never fully lock on your escape signatures…”

Starscream exhaled shakily.

“The third power is one I developed myself. It took centuries of theory, formulas, and experimenting with geological maps. I can find energon deposits by interpreting atmospheric, geological, and magnetic signatures. A kind of seeking...I can locate energon”

Silence.

And then—laughter.

Not manic or cruel, but dark and amused. Megatron took a step back, releasing Starscream’s face, studying him like one would an ancient, unexploded war relic.

“All this time,” he said. “All these cycles. You held back this.”

Starscream didn’t answer. His wings were trembling slightly, though he fought to keep his chin high.

“You—Starscream—are possibly the most dangerous being I’ve let live at my side.”

Then he leaned close again, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“But if you ever lie to me again, if you ever keep something from me again, your spark will be mine. And I will take my time.”

Starscream barely nodded. “Understood.”

Megatron smiled, slowly.

“Good. Then let us begin a new phase of our reign.”

Megatron stood with his arms loosely behind his back, gazing at Starscream as if inspecting a treasured artifact finally within his grasp. The quiet hum of the base barely pierced the charged silence between them. He watched Starscream with a carefully calculated softness in his optics, the predator's stillness before the final, inevitable claim.

He inhaled deeply, letting the moment settle around them. Then, in a voice low and smooth like coiled metal, Megatron spoke:

"You will remain at my side."

Starscream blinked, startled slightly by the finality in those words, but said nothing. He had long since learned that silence was often safer.

Megatron took a slow step closer, lowering his voice to a gentle near-whisper. "No more battles for you. No more frontline assignments. I will not risk it. I will not see you destroyed by stray fire or coward's blade."

The seeker frowned, unsure whether to feel flattered or unnerved.

"You made your stance clear," Megatron continued, his tone calm, disarmingly so. "You despise this war—what it turned us into. I heard you. And I… will respect that."

It sounded like kindness. Like mercy.

But it wasn’t.

It was ownership.

"You are free," Megatron added, with the faintest curve of a smile. "Free to remain with the Predacons. They are loyal to you. Fierce, powerful, and unpredictable—like you once were."

He stepped behind Starscream, close enough that the heat of his frame brushed against the Seeker’s back. "They will obey you, as will I. If you wish, you may even begin your own research again. Private projects. Experiments. Data collection. Energon studies."

Starscream turned his head slightly, hesitating. "You’re… releasing me from command?"

"From the war," Megatron clarified. “But not from me.”

The warlord circled back into Starscream’s view, his presence looming large and immovable. "I trust no one else with what we’ve built—not Soundwave, not Shockwave, not even myself. You, Starscream, are the future’s caretaker. The Predacons answer to you. The halls of this base echo your footsteps. My quarters now suit you. Everything here is becoming… yours."

Starscream looked away, wings twitching subtly.

What Megatron offered wasn’t freedom. It was gilded captivity.

The illusion of autonomy, wrapped in soft words and indulgent permission.

Megatron could see it in his optics—that moment of slow realization, where Starscream finally understood he’d stepped into a different kind of cell. One without bars. One with pillows and warmth and silence and smiles… but no exits.

“Should you wish for more resources,” Megatron said, brushing invisible dust from Starscream’s shoulder, “you need only ask. Everything here is yours to use. To build. To nurture.”

Then his voice dipped to a velvet threat.

“But you will not leave.”

The words hovered like a brand in the air.

Starscream did not respond. He stood perfectly still. His wings were lowered—not in defeat, but in acknowledgment.

This was what survival looked like now.

Megatron moved with a slow, deliberate grace, the kind that made even the bravest warriors uneasy. The air between them grew heavier, more intimate, more dangerous. Starscream stood stiffly, his frame tense, optics flickering as if searching for an escape route that didn’t exist. He flinched slightly when Megatron’s hand rose—only to watch that same hand drift with a calculated softness over his chest.

A single clawed digit traced the faint edge of his cockpit.

"You've given so much already," Megatron murmured, voice like molten steel, patient and consuming. "Your loyalty, your intellect, your silence…"

His fingertip paused. Pressed.

"Now I ask for only one more thing in return." He leaned closer, until his voice became a breath against the Seeker's helm. “Your spark.”

Starscream froze. For a moment, no breath, no sound. The pressure against his cockpit wasn’t forceful—it didn’t need to be. It was symbolic, predatory. A touch that said you’re already mine—this was simply the last thread being drawn in.

“You’ll keep Skywarp and Thundercracker safe,” Megatron went on smoothly, as if he were offering a fair trade. “The Aerial Decepticons remain under your guidance. You will rebuild your sacred programs, your academies, your dreams. A new Vos, under new wings.”

Starscream’s lips parted slightly. “And… I will remain… here.”

Megatron’s smile was a low, chilling thing. “You will remain where you are meant to be.”

Starscream turned his face away, shame biting at his pride. He had wanted to protect his trine. He had wanted to ensure the legacy of the Seekers. And Megatron knew—he knew—Starscream would not resist if it meant keeping them safe. That fractured will would bend for others, even when it would never bend for itself.

Because broken souls made the most obedient servants.

Megatron stepped back just enough to look Starscream fully in the optics. “You see, I learned well from my mentor. Megatronus had many faults, but he understood the importance of dependency. If you control the spark… you control the rest.”

Starscream didn't respond. His wings trembled, ever so slightly. Not in fear, but in grief—grief for the parts of himself he could no longer protect.

Megatron exhaled once, deeply pleased. He saw it. That look. The surrender masked as composure. He had Starscream now—body, brilliance, spark—and he would never let go.

"Good," Megatron said, and turned, already issuing quiet orders to Shockwave through internal comms. “The throne will be rebuilt in the southern chamber. He will need a place to rule from, even if only in name.”

Behind him, Starscream said nothing.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Megatron stood tall before Starscream, optics narrowed, the cold satisfaction of a long-laid plan reaching its final movement. He turned his helm slightly, listening to a comm update from Hook. When the confirmation came, his lips curled faintly in approval.

“The new quarter must be finished by now,” he said, voice low and commanding. He turned his optics to the Seeker again—gleaming, intense. “Come. It’s time we finalize the contract between us.”

Starscream didn’t move at first. His field trembled slightly, not with fear but with a heavy, reluctant anticipation. He knew what Megatron meant—there would be no data pad to sign, no agreement through words. This was symbolic. Irrevocable. A personal binding of their roles, their loyalties, their fates.

A spark-bond in all but name.

He nodded silently.

Megatron stepped closer, his hand encircling Starscream’s upper arm in an almost possessive hold. “Good.” His tone softened into something mockingly gentle. “You’ve made the right choice, my tricolor gem.”

The walk through the base was quiet. Every Decepticon that spotted them stepped aside quickly, lowering their gaze. No one questioned. No one dared. The rumors were already growing, and Megatron had no interest in dispelling them. Let them whisper that the Seeker was now untouchable, that Starscream was his. It would only reinforce the new power structure.

When the doors of the new quarter hissed open, Starscream hesitated.

It was beautiful.

Spacious and gleaming, with a berth far larger than any single frame needed, layered with luxurious metallic blankets and fine-stitched pillows. The room had been polished to a shine, the walls curved and smooth, with a soft glow emanating from above. Washracks with heated water, a desk and table, and in the corner—private terminal access under his own clearance code.

Everything designed for comfort… and control.

Megatron stepped in and gestured inside. “Welcome home.”

Starscream followed, quiet, calculating. His spark throbbed painfully inside its chamber. This wasn’t his home, and yet… it was all he had left.

Megatron turned once the door sealed behind them. “You will have everything you need here. The Predacons will still be under your care. The aerialbots will answer to you. And your personal research… will resume.”

Starscream slowly turned to face him, wings twitching. “And in return?”

Megatron’s expression darkened into something deeper—something ancient and hungry. He stepped forward again, and this time, he placed his hand not on Starscream’s arm, but directly over his spark casing.

“In return,” he said, voice velvet-wrapped steel, “I ask for your spark. Not in pieces. Not guarded. I want it all, Starscream.”

There was no room for refusal. Not when Thundercracker and Skywarp’s safety hung in the balance. Not when Megatron had already bound him in every other way.

Starscream didn’t answer with words.

He simply lowered his gaze… and didn’t resist.

Megatron smiled, and that was all the consent he needed.

The chamber was still, bathed in a soft glow that seemed to pulse gently with the energy of two very different lives on the edge of becoming one.

Starscream sat where Megatron had placed him—on the center of the large berth, polished metal and soft padding beneath him. It wasn’t just a berth, it was a throne in disguise, carved for comfort but meant for dominance. And Starscream, sitting so small on it despite his height, looked almost fragile in the quiet space.

Megatron settled beside him, surprisingly gentle in his movements, a contrast to the violence that usually lived in his frame. His weight barely disturbed the berth, and when his arm moved to rest behind Starscream, he didn’t grab—he waited.

"Show me," he said softly, but with a gravity that left no room for misinterpretation.

Starscream trembled slightly. He wasn’t afraid of Megatron hurting him—not in the physical sense. But this... this was something else. This was vulnerability, the complete unraveling of his secrets, his core. Still, he nodded, lips parted slightly, optics flickering.

He slowly opened his cockpit first, a symbolic act of surrender. The delicate panels folded back, revealing the layers of mechanisms beneath—delicate avionics, gleaming and symmetrical, even after everything he had endured. It was his past, his flight, his pride.

Then came his chassis.

With trembling fingers, Starscream parted the plates of his chest. A soft whir, a hiss of decompressing seals, and the chamber slid open. And there it was—his spark.

Bright. Wild. Beautiful.

It pulsed with light that shifted from cyan to violet and back again, unstable but alive, raw emotion bleeding into the atmosphere. The spark danced with intensity, surrounded by tendrils of light that flickered like wings.

Megatron stared.

For the first time in a long time, he was quiet—not out of calculation, but awe. This was the spark that had defied him again and again, the spark that outlived betrayal, exile, torture. The spark that still burned so bright, even when shattered.

"You’re magnificent," he said.

He reached out—not rough, not brutal—just firm. His hand rested on Starscream’s waist, fingers spanning the Seeker’s slender frame. He pulled him forward, slowly, until they were chest to chest. The warmth between them built like pressure in the room.

Then Megatron opened his own chassis.

His spark was deeper in color—blue bleeding into stormy purple, a steady throb like a battle drum. His spark didn’t flicker like Starscream’s. It commanded. It burned slowly but forever.

And then... they aligned.

The bond began with a flicker—like lightning licking the air between them. Sparks leapt from one core to the other, weaving tendrils of plasma light, searching, calling.

Starscream gasped softly, his frame jerking.

The connection formed like a lock clicking into place. Their energies surged and met in the middle, and in that moment—that singular breath of unity—Starscream felt everything Megatron was. The rage. The fire. The hunger. The ache of centuries of war. But also the protectiveness, the obsession, the twisted devotion that had always been just under the surface.

It hurt at first. Starscream arched unconsciously, talons flexing and dragging along Megatron’s back as though to anchor himself. Pain danced along his nerves, but it was quickly swallowed by heat, by light.

Megatron growled low—pleasure, power, possession.

He held Starscream tighter, arms closing around him like a fortress. One hand cradled the back of the Seeker’s helm, the other pressing against the Seeker’s spark casing, deepening the bond with force and precision.

“There,” Megatron murmured, voice layered with static and need. “Now you are mine. No one will touch you again. Not without my will.”

Starscream, gasping softly, leaned into him—exhausted, surrendered, burning from within.

Their sparks pulsed as one now, a shared rhythm echoing in the chamber. A bond was born—unbreakable, electric, carved by war and sealed in vulnerability.

In the end, Megatron held him close, stroking the back of Starscream’s helm with surprising gentleness. No words were needed.

The contract had been fulfilled.

Chapter Text

He hated that Megatron could read him so easily—every subtle tremor of his servos, every flicker of resistance that was more invitation than refusal.

"You're trembling again," Megatron said, voice low and layered with something far darker than amusement.

Starscream tilted his head upward, optics glowing faintly. "I’m not afraid." - but cleary he was

“No,” Megatron agreed, stepping closer, "but you should be."

The warlord’s presence was oppressive, magnetic. Starscream’s back struck the wall as Megatron approached, not out of fear, but because his legs had lost the strength to hold the tension. Clawed fingers cupped his jaw, tilting his face up.

"I warned you before," Megatron murmured, optics boring into his. “Play with fire, and I’ll burn you."

Something primal shifted in Megatron’s expression. In a blur, he pressed Starscream back into the berth, his larger frame enclosing the seeker. Metal scraped as plating met plating, and Megatron’s mouth met his with force—rough, possessive, claiming.

Starscream gasped into it, lips parted, claws scrabbling for purchase at Megatron’s sides. The kiss was a war, every movement demanding surrender and offering none. When they broke, both vented heavily, optics blazing.

"Say it," Megatron growled, servo now gripping Starscream’s hip. "Say what I want to ear."

Starscream arched into him. “To kneel to you. To belong to you.”

A growl rumbled from Megatron’s chest, and with no more delay he had begun.

The interface was raw. It was teeth and claws, scraped metal, the heat of friction and desperation. Megatron held nothing back, and Starscream took everything. His cries were real the ache of being broken open by force, to get his seal reaped and destroyed. He was stripped to nothing and rebuilt under Megatron’s hands. Their sparks never touched. This was not about gentle intimacy. This was worship by ruin.

At the height of it, Starscream screamed his name, and Megatron answered with a guttural roar, burying himself deep, both of them shuddering violently. Not for the first time, not for the last. The air hung thick with heat and static discharge.

Afterward, Starscream lay half-sprawled across the berth, his frame twitching with aftershocks. Megatron's arm coiled possessively around him, anchoring him to the bed, to him.

“You’re mine,” Megatron whispered.

Starscream didn’t answer with words. His hand slipped around Megatron’s, locking their fingers together.

The berth chamber was cloaked in shadows, lit only by the dull amber glow of cooling vents and optic flicker. Starscream’s body trembled, limbs limp, his wings slack against the alloy beneath him. Yet his spark buzzed—alive, coiled, waiting.

Megatron lay beside him like a predator that had not yet finished feeding.

The silence pulsed.

Starscream shifted slightly, earning a low rumble from Megatron’s chest. Clawed fingers dragged slowly down his chassis, trailing over scraped paint and fresh marks—possessions carved in heat and motion.

“You’re quiet,” Megatron said. Not a question. A challenge.

Starscream turned his head to the side, optics half-lidded but gleaming. “Is that disappointment I hear, mighty Megatron? I thought you preferred obedience.”

Megatron’s optics flared crimson.

Without a word, he rose over Starscream, massive form casting shadow once more. His hand gripped the Seeker’s shoulder and pushed him down, firm but not brutal—ritual, not punishment. Starscream obeyed, he need to, wings lifting just enough to show his readiness. His vents hissed softly.

“I’m not finished with you,” Megatron growled. “And you're not finished proving who you belong to.”

The second round was slower—crueler in its deliberateness. Megatron didn’t rush; he studied Starscream, reading every twitch, every sharp intake, every broken fragment of pride that burned away with each claiming thrust.

Starscream writhed under him, mouth open but voiceless at first, hands fisting into the berth. His frame responded helplessly, tuned to every frequency of Megatron’s presence.

He hated being seen like this.

He loved being seen like this afther some pushes.

"You asked for the fire," Megatron said lowly, one servo gripping the Seeker’s hip tight enough to leave bruising indentations. "So burn for me."

Starscream arched up violently with a strangled cry, and Megatron caught him, held him, used him, until their bodies were slick with energon-sweat and their systems hummed with sensory overload.

And when Starscream came undone this time, there was no scream—only a shuddering, static-filled whisper of Megatron’s name, as if it were both curse and prayer.

Megatron collapsed over him, chest pressed to wing, sparkline thrumming in dominance. But still, his hand gentled at Starscream’s side, keeping him grounded.

"Mine," he whispered again.

Starscream lay on his side, frame twitching, optics dim. The silence in Megatron’s quarters was thick—almost sacred. The air was heavy with the scent of charged metal, scorched ozone, and something else—him.

Heat curled low in Starscream’s chassis. He could still feel it: the echo of Megatron inside him, a possessive claim that hadn’t faded with release. There was no escape from the slick warmth that pulsed with each small shift of his hips. The fluids were foreign, intimate, searing—proof of submission, proof of survival.

He flushed in silence, trembling wings curling forward as if to shield himself.

Megatron sat behind him, leaned back on one arm, silently watching the aftermath play out across his Seeker’s body. No words passed between them—not yet.

“You’re overheating,” Megatron finally said, voice unreadable.

Starscream didn’t look at him.

He didn’t say help me, and Megatron didn’t need the invitation. One broad servo slid along Starscream’s back, trailing down the curve of his spine to rest just above the trembling joint of his lower frame. The Seeker hissed softly.

"Do you want me to stop?" Megatron asked, tone quiet but edged with threat.

Starscream closed his optics, vented hard, then exhaled, "No."

There was no shame in the way Megatron touched him now—only ownership, and an unsettling gentleness. His fingers smoothed the heat away, cooling systems humming faintly as he worked the lingering friction from Starscream’s sensitive seams.

"You carry me well," he said, more softly than Starscream had expected.

The Seeker opened his optics halfway. “I carry your war. I carry your wrath. What’s one more piece of you inside me?”

Megatron’s optics narrowed—not in anger, but something colder. “You say it like you’re broken.”

“I am broken,” Starscream whispered. “But not shattered.”

That earned him silence—followed by a hand tightening at his side, firm and grounding.

“Then I’ll keep breaking you until you know what it means to be rebuilt.”

Starscream’s heat didn’t fade. Not yet. But in the dark, as Megatron drew him close again, wrapping an arm around his middle and pulling him into the armor-rough comfort of his chest, he let his wings rest.

Starscream was drifting—half-conscious, heat-slicked, overstimulated. He had surrendered everything but still burned from within, as though his core were an ember refusing to go out. The remnants of the last two rounds still clung to his body, inside and out, the unmistakable evidence of Megatron’s claim.

He had thought it was over.

But behind him, Megatron stirred. The air changed—thickened—as his massive form moved again, heat radiating off him like a storm front. There was no warning before Megatron’s hand closed around his throat—not tight, not choking, just there.

Commanding.

Starscream’s optics flashed open, a tremor surging through his frame. He didn’t struggle. Not this time.

"You’re still mine," Megatron murmured at his audial. “And I’m not done marking what I own.”

The words were volcanic. Starscream arched into them, frame too weak to resist and too willing to want.

Megatron didn’t wait for an answer—he took it from the way Starscream’s thighs parted reflexively, from the desperate venting that returned even as his systems screamed for rest.

This was no longer conquest.

This was confirmation.

Brutal. Slow at first, then devastating. Every movement was designed not for pleasure but for imprinting. Megatron claimed him with the force of a collapsing star, hands pinning shoulders, hips slamming hard enough to shake the berth. The bruises would last. So would the tremble in Starscream’s voice when he moaned, clawed, begged.

Each thrust was a vow Megatron spoke with his body: You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

Starscream didn’t cry out this time. He screamed, raw and bright, the sound echoing like a siren. And when his overload finally hit—violent, tearing, unstoppable—he felt something inside him snap.

Not pain. Not surrender.

Certainty.

Megatron collapsed against his back, breath hissing through vents, body still twitching with residual energy. One arm wrapped around Starscream’s waist again, and this time, it did feel like chains. Gentle ones. Permanent ones.

“You’re not going anywhere now,” Megatron said. There was no question in his tone.

Starscream’s voice was a ragged whisper, but it held no defiance. “I know.”

The berth was a battlefield—scraped alloy, smeared lubricant, the scent of heat and static hanging like smoke. Starscream lay face-down, vents wheezing in slow, shallow pulls. His wings twitched with the aftershocks of what had just passed, their edges dented and trembling. His frame pulsed faintly with internal alarms, not for damage—but for depletion.

He was at his limit.

Megatron loomed over him, still and silent. For a moment, he did nothing—only watched. As if committing the image to memory: Starscream, bare and branded by heat, soaked with proof of surrender, of belonging. A Seeker who had flown with rebellion now lay grounded by his own will.

And then, Megatron moved.

He reached down—not roughly, not in hunger, but in claim. His hand slid under Starscream’s chest, lifting him enough to turn him over. The Seeker didn’t resist. His optics were half-lidded, dim, dazed.

Megatron leaned in.

And he kissed him.

Slow. Possessive. Not soft, but final.

Starscream whimpered faintly into it, lips barely moving, body too exhausted to respond in full. But it didn’t matter. Megatron wasn't seeking participation—he was sealing something. Like stamping a crest into cooling wax.

When the kiss broke, Megatron stayed close, resting his forehead against Starscream’s.

“You’ve given everything,” he murmured, voice thick with heat and something close to reverence. “Now rest.”

Starscream blinked once.

And then his optics shuttered.

With a final trembling exhale, his body relaxed, systems slowing into the quiet hum of recharge. The tension drained from his frame, and in its place was a heavy stillness.

Megatron lay beside him again, pulling him in, letting his larger frame curve around Starscream like a shield.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Starscream had finally turned himself to him.Forever.

Chapter Text

Starscream stirred slowly, the world a blur of muted light and metallic shadows as consciousness returned. Every joint in his frame ached—subtly, deeply—as though his entire system had been overclocked and stretched thin. His wings tingled, sensors still recalibrating, and his limbs felt heavy. It wasn’t damage exactly—it was aftermath. The aftershock of what had passed between him and Megatron.

His optics adjusted gradually, and that’s when he saw him.

Megatron sat at the metal table a few feet away, comfortably reclined in one of the reinforced iron chairs. He was relaxed in a way that felt unnatural for the warlord—one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other holding an energon cube that caught the morning light filtering through the reinforced glass slats. His armor gleamed, polished from a recent cleaning, and his expression was unreadable.

When their optics met, Megatron tilted his head slightly, his voice low and steady. “You may rest longer, if you wish. It is still early.”

Starscream didn’t speak. He pushed himself upright with a small grunt, wincing as soreness flared across his torso and through the joints of his wings. His spark pulsed faintly, the bond still fresh—its presence like a tether humming just beneath his plating. He could feel Megatron even now, a warm current pressing gently against his core.

He sat on the edge of the berth in silence, wings drooping, frame hunched slightly forward. He looked... small, somehow, despite the regal air that never left him completely.

Megatron took another slow sip from his cube, then gestured subtly to the table. “I left one for you. You’ll need the fuel, after last night.”

There was no cruelty in his tone, no mocking. But there was something underneath—ownership, perhaps, or satisfaction. The unshakable confidence of a mech who had taken exactly what he wanted and sealed it with a spark.

Starscream’s optics flicked toward the waiting energon cube. It sat perfectly placed, condensation dripping slowly down its surface. A peace offering. Or perhaps just part of the cage, gilded with comfort.

Still he said nothing, but he stood, slowly, and walked toward the table with the stiffness of a soldier returning from battle. When he picked up the cube, his hand trembled ever so slightly. Not from fear. From exhaustion.

Megatron watched him the whole time—silent, calculating, calm.

And in that quiet room, thick with the remnants of what had been forged the night before, neither of them said what truly lingered in the air:

That Starscream now belonged to Megatron.

And Megatron would never let him go.

Starscream sat in silence, optics still a little dimmed from fatigue, but sharp enough to catch the subtle shift in Megatron’s frame when the warlord stood. The deep resonance of Megatron’s steps was steady—purposeful but not aggressive. Starscream tensed slightly, not in fear, but in caution. He wanted to ask, he needed to ask… but the words wouldn’t come. He didn’t know how to approach Megatron anymore—not since the sparkbound had changed everything.

But Megatron, perceptive as ever, seemed to know. He stopped just a few feet away and spoke first, his voice calm but decisive. “You may go wherever you wish, Starscream. Anywhere on this base—including the dungeons.”

Starscream’s optics widened faintly, and his wings flicked with unspoken emotion. He lifted his gaze to meet Megatron’s, searching for sarcasm, for a hidden trap—but none came. Instead, Megatron’s tone shifted, almost conversational, even indulgent.

“Your lab have been prepared,” he continued, folding his arms behind his back. “Private. Quiet. Equipped with star maps, geological plates, archived datapads, and blueprints. A small tech lab has been installed within. You may resume your research—or begin new projects if you prefer. Shockwave has already been instructed to provide any materials you require.”

The words settled over Starscream like a strange warmth, not comforting—never that—but... reassuring. He was being allowed something. Control. Tools. A mind allowed to work again.

Megatron continued, his gaze turning momentarily toward the far wall as if seeing beyond it. “The Predacons have also been relocated. Their new territory is adjacent to the base’s main exit. Spacious. Elevated terrain. Flight space. Plenty of room to grow, to run, to hunt. They’re content.”

Then he turned back, stepping closer—his presence immediate, commanding.

Megatron picked up the untouched energon cube from the table and placed it firmly in Starscream’s hand, fingers brushing briefly against the Seeker’s. His voice softened just slightly, though the steel never left it. “You will eat. If not for yourself, then for Thundercracker. Skywarp. The others.”

Starscream looked down at the cube in his hand, optics flickering with something unreadable—hesitation, perhaps, or the fragile processing of a mech who wasn’t used to kindness, especially not from him. But this wasn’t kindness, not really.

This was possession. Maintenance of something Megatron had claimed.

Megatron leaned down, just enough so that their optics were level. “You can lie to me, seeker. But you’ve never lied to yourself. You care for them. Deeply. Don’t let your weakness starve them of their strength.”

Starscream’s spark pulsed once—sharp, pained, but steady.

Because Megatron was right. Despite everything… Starscream had always protected them. Always would.

Starscream remained alone in the new quarters long after Megatron had left. The room was quiet—too quiet, and not the kind of silence that soothed. It pressed against him from all sides, reminding him that things had changed. That he had changed.

Sitting on the edge of the berth, he stared blankly at the energon cube in his hand until his grip unconsciously tightened. Then, with a frustrated growl, he brought his hands up and struck his face—palms sharp against cheekplates, once, twice—just enough to make the sting match the turbulence inside his spark.

“Pull yourself together,” he hissed at himself, optics narrowing. “You don’t have time to fall apart.”

He downed the energon in one sharp gulp. No savoring. No delay. The warmth of it flooded his system, easing the edge of the pain from the sparkbound and the prior night, but doing nothing for the ache in his core.

With rigid resolve, he stood, wings flicking out to full height, and stepped out of the berthroom.

The halls were colder now—colder in a different way. Not in temperature, but in atmosphere.

Everywhere he walked, Decepticons stepped aside. Aerialbots moved from his path without needing orders. Some lowered their optics. Others bowed their heads in brief nods of deference. A few even murmured titles:

“Lord Seeker…”

“Winglord Starscream…”

Each word sliced into him.

He’d never asked for this. He had fought—fought—against this kind of recognition for cycles. Royal blood meant expectations. Royal blood meant scrutiny, meant politics, meant chains in the shape of crowns.

Starscream’s mouth set into a thin, bitter line. He hated it. Hated the way bots avoided his gaze, as if looking at him was taboo. Hated the way some trembled in his presence as if he might smite them like the myths of old. Hated the reverence, the whispered fear, the pedestal that was beginning to rise under his feet against his will.

He had bled, clawed, and survived to be known for his mind, his battle skill, his cunning—not some ancient bloodline.

But no matter how much he rejected it, the past had returned. The past wore his face now. And no matter how fast he flew, it would always catch him.

By the time he reached the lower levels of the base, the hallways narrowed. Torches of dim energon flame lit the old catacomb-like architecture of the dungeons. The air grew heavier. It was quieter here—but not silent. There were sounds of restrained motion, metal on metal, faint beeping from stabilizing locks. Still, as Starscream passed, every guard stood straighter. Not one dared meet his optics.

He hated it.

And yet, he needed to keep moving.

He needed to see them.

Thundercracker. Skywarp.

His brothers.

The moment Starscream stepped into the dungeon chamber, a tight pain twisted through his core—deeper than the bruises from last night, sharper than any blade Megatron could’ve used. The lights in the cells flickered dimly above, humming low. The air was thick with the metallic scent of energon and sterile salve.

Then he saw them.

Thundercracker and Skywarp—his wingmates, his chosen family—both restrained in stasis-forged chains, heavy clasps locking their wrists and ankles, dampening their energon flow just enough to keep them compliant. They were seated on the cold floor behind the bars of adjacent cells, but pressed close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

Skywarp’s wing was still splinted in two places, wrapped in energon-dyed fabric and held together with crude support rods—clearly patched up, but not professionally. His colors were duller than usual, and one optic flickered faintly from stress or damage.

Starscream staggered forward as if struck, wings trembling.

“Starscream!” Skywarp called out, his voice hoarse but urgent as he surged to the bars. “You’re okay—are you okay? Did Megatron do something to you?!”

Thundercracker joined him in an instant, gripping the bars hard enough for his servos to creak. “Where have you been?! We thought—Primus, we thought he killed you!”

They were both frantic, panicked—but not for themselves. For him.

Starscream opened his mouth but nothing came out. He tried to steady his voice, to present something calm and unbothered. It had always been his job to lead, to command, to protect them even if it meant being the arrogant frontliner everyone hated.

But his armor was thin now—too thin—and their voices cracked right through it.

“I…” He swallowed. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie.

And they knew.

Thundercracker's optics narrowed. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to us.”

Skywarp's voice lowered, concerned. “You look like scrap, 'Screamer. You’re hurting.”

Starscream stepped forward, shakily, until he was nearly pressed against the bars between them. He wanted to hold them. He wanted to get them out.

But all he could do was look.

“You’re both… you’re both alive…” he whispered, as if seeing them wasn’t real until now.

Tears welled at the corners of his optics and began to trail silently down his cheekplates. He tried to lift his servo to wipe them away but halfway through the motion, it fell limp to his side.

Skywarp’s optics widened in alarm. “Starscream?! What happened? What did he do to you?”

Thundercracker reached through the bars, trying to touch him. “Talk to us. You’re scaring me.”

And finally, the last dam within him cracked.

Starscream collapsed to his knees before their cells, servos curled into fists against the ground as sobs tore free from him. He shook violently—shoulders quaking, wings trembling as the full weight of guilt and grief burst out in a storm of despair.

“I—I'm sorry… I’m so sorry…”

Skywarp and Thundercracker froze, stunned into silence by the rawness of it.

Starscream’s voice cracked between hiccuped gasps. “There was no way out. No path. No option. He… he had me—he has me.”

He pressed his forehead against the bars.

“I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t even save myself.”

Thundercracker crouched down, his face pressed close to the bars now. “What are you saying? What did you do?”

“I had to make a deal,” Starscream confessed, optics clenched shut. “A contract. My spark… in exchange for your lives. You’re here because I gave him everything. Everything.”

Skywarp’s voice was thin, stunned. “You… sparkbound… with him?”

Starscream didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

His silence was confirmation enough.

The two seekers inside the cells stood there, overwhelmed with quiet horror—not at him, never at him, but at what he must’ve gone through alone.

“You did that for us?” Thundercracker said, his voice breaking.

Starscream nodded helplessly. “You’re my brothers. I’d do it again. Even if it destroyed me.”

Skywarp pressed his forehead to the bars now, voice choked. “Starscream… you fool…”

And Starscream laughed—sharp, bitter, cracked down the middle.

“I know.”

They sat in silence after that. No orders, no escape plans, no politics—just three seekers bound by loyalty, pain, and love that still lived even under the crushing weight of sacrifice.

Thundercracker was the first to move—reaching through the cold metal bars as far as he could, trying to touch Starscream's shoulder. His servo barely brushed the edge of the seeker's pauldrons, but the gesture alone was enough to ground Starscream in the moment.

“You're not alone, Seeker,” Thundercracker said, voice low but firm, his hand trembling. “You never have been. Not with us.”

Starscream flinched at the word—Seeker—not as a title, not as a royal burden, but as a reminder of who he was to them: their Starscream. Not the Winglord, not the weapon, not Megatron’s trophy. Their friend. Their brother.

“I—” Starscream rasped, his vocalizer choked. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I let him touch my spark, TC… I let him mark it.”

Skywarp crouched next to Thundercracker now, reaching too. “Don’t say that like it was a choice,” he said. “You’ve always protected us. Even before we knew what protection looked like.”

“You remember Vos?” Thundercracker added, lips curling into a grim line. “You stood between the enforcers and me. You covered for Skywarp when he couldn’t fly straight from overclocking. You’ve been saving us from the beginning, Starscream. We’re not gonna hate you for doing it again.”

Starscream's optics closed tightly, jaw trembling as he finally let himself lean into Thundercracker’s outstretched servo through the bars. The touch was rough, limited—but it was real. It was theirs.

“I thought I was strong enough to outplay him,” Starscream whispered. “To keep myself intact while making him believe I was his. But… I lost more of myself than I ever expected. And now—now I don't even know who I am.”

“You’re our brother,” Skywarp said immediately. “That hasn’t changed. You can be cracked, hurting, confused—but you're still you.”

Thundercracker nodded, his voice dropping to a hush. “We’ll help you remember who that is. Piece by piece. No matter how long it takes.”

Starscream finally looked up at them, the red glow in his optics flickering—softer, no longer guarded.

“You’re not disgusted with me?” he asked, voice raw.

“We’re furious,” Thundercracker said. “But not with you.”

“We’re furious at him,” Skywarp added, his wings twitching in suppressed rage. “And at the whole damn system that keeps making you bleed just to keep us breathing.”

Starscream looked between them, lips parted in disbelief.

“I don’t… I don’t know how to get out.”

“You don’t have to figure it out alone,” Thundercracker said. “That’s the point. You never did.”

And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Starscream felt warmth that wasn’t forced from Megatron’s side or stolen in the dark. It was genuine. Pure. Unconditional.

He let out a shaky breath and leaned his helm against the bars again, whispering, “I missed you both.”

Skywarp gently rested his own helm against Starscream’s from the other side. “We never stopped waiting for you.”

Knock Out stood still for a moment longer at the corner of the hallway, half-shielded by shadows, the dim lighting of the Decepticon base casting deep red lines along the polished curve of his frame. In his hands were sealed containers of specialized salve and energon-packed additives—formulated specifically to help mend Skywarp’s still-damaged wing. But the moment he laid optics on the scene before him, his pace slowed... and then stopped altogether.

Starscream, kneeling before the cell bars, face buried into Thundercracker’s reaching servo.

Skywarp’s helm pressed softly against Starscream’s, like a brother anchoring another from falling apart.

And the sound—barely audible sobs laced with words so raw and vulnerable they felt too sacred to witness—made Knock Out retreat silently. It was the kind of grief that had no room for onlookers. So he turned, without a word, and walked away, letting the moment remain whole.

When he returned to the medical ward, Hook glanced up from a suspended drone display, one optic arching beneath his surgical helm. “Back already? That was fast even for you.”

Knock Out, for once, didn’t have a quip on the ready. He placed the medical containers gently on the nearest surface and leaned into his chair. A long silence followed before he finally muttered, “I didn’t do the repairs.”

Hook narrowed his optics. “Excuse me?”

“I saw them. The seekers,” Knock Out clarified. His crimson optics unfocused, voice strangely heavy. “Starscream… was crying. Openly. In front of them.”

Hook stiffened.

Knock Out chuckled softly, but it held no mirth. “You know, I’ve seen Starscream sneer through battle damage, mock while leaking energon, spit in Megatron’s face when half his wing was offline—but I’ve never seen him like that. Not that naked. Not that... broken.”

Hook was silent for a long beat. “You’re certain it wasn’t an act?”

Knock Out slowly turned his gaze to his colleague. “There are many things Starscream is good at faking. But this?” He shook his head. “This was real. It was as if everything inside him finally cracked—no, shattered—and he only let those two see the pieces.”

“Skywarp and Thundercracker,” Hook said, voice low.

“He gave himself to Megatron. Fully. Sparkbound.” Knock Out’s tone darkened. “And not because he wanted to. He did it to protect them.”

Even Hook—dispassionate, clinical Hook—looked quietly stunned. He stepped away from the console and sat down. “Starscream traded his autonomy. His spark. To keep them safe.”

Knock Out exhaled, optics dim. “He didn’t cry for himself, Hook. Not once. He wept because he still doesn’t think he deserves to be forgiven.”

They both sat in silence, the weight of what they'd just realized hanging in the air like dense fog.

Knock Out finally muttered, “We call him dramatic. A manipulator. But he gave away his soul for those two seekers... and no one noticed until it was already too late.”

Hook stared down at his datapad, his tone devoid of sarcasm for once. “Maybe it’s not too late.”

Knock Out turned his helm slightly, casting a puzzled glance toward Hook. The quiet depth in Hook’s voice wasn’t something he heard often. It made him pause, optics narrowing as he tried to parse the meaning behind those measured words.

Hook, calm and composed as always, met Knock Out’s gaze. “Starscream doesn’t need pity. He needs something to anchor him. Something real. Now that all the masks have fallen—every lie torn away—what’s left is a mech who has nothing to stand on unless we help him build something new.”

Knock Out leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, arms folding across his chest. “So you think shoving him into a lab filled with maps and datapads will solve that?”

Hook gave a faint shake of his head. “No. Of course not. But it’s a start. A frame like his doesn’t idle well. Give his mind something to chew on and it might keep the ache of... everything else, at bay.”

Knock Out looked to the side, jaw tightening. “It won’t be enough.”

“I know,” Hook said, without argument. “But it doesn’t have to be enough. Just something. And the rest of it—the most important part—we give that by treating him the way we always have. Not as a Winglord. Not as Megatron’s bonded.” He handed Knock Out a fresh medkit, carefully sealed and labeled. “But as Starscream. The infuriating, dramatic, obnoxiously brilliant seeker who never shuts up about engine upgrades and thinks he knows more about nanite grafting than I do.”

Knock Out huffed a laugh despite himself. “Because he read one study from Vos.”

“Because he wrote that study from Vos,” Hook corrected, one optic twitching slightly. “The point is, we see him—not his crown or collar or spark mark. Just him. That’s how we help.”

Knock Out stared at the box, running a finger along the cool edge of the container.

Hook’s voice dropped a little. “And Skywarp.”

Knock Out glanced up.

“We give him the sky back.”

The silence between them settled with a different tone now—heavier, but steadier.

“His wings are healing,” Hook said. “But he’ll never fully recover if he believes he’s grounded forever. You know what flight means to seekers. Especially ones like him.”

Knock Out was quiet for a moment, then stood slowly, tucking the box under his arm. “So we keep Starscream’s mind working, and we give Skywarp the sky. And maybe—just maybe—they’ll both have something to live for that isn’t just surviving Megatron.”

He met Hook’s gaze. “You’re not just a cold bolt of logic, are you?”

Hook raised an optic ridge. “Don’t ruin my reputation.”

Knock Out smiled faintly and turned toward the medbay exit. “I’ll patch up Warp. And I’ll tell Starscream I need his help decoding some flight algorithms we ‘lost.’ That should keep him busy for half a solar cycle.”

As Knock Out left, Hook murmured to himself, almost too quietly to hear, “And maybe it’ll remind him that being Starscream is still enough.”

It took longer than it should have.

Starscream had stayed in the dungeons long after the moment had passed—long after the desperate embrace between him and his trine had softened into quiet, heavy silence. He had sat beside Skywarp’s cell, fingers curled around the energon bars, optics dimmed with exhaustion. Skywarp had drifted into recharge, his damaged wing propped up and gently secured by Knockout’s earlier treatments. Thundercracker sat nearby, leaning against the wall, watching over them both with the quiet loyalty that had always made him feel like the strongest of them, even when he said the least.

Starscream hadn’t wanted to leave.

A selfish part of him wanted to stay right there in that dark, cold place. In the comfort of their presence. In the one space left in the entire universe where he wasn’t a commander, a traitor, a sparkbound, or a symbol of a bloodline he never asked for. In that cell, behind those bars, he was just Screamer. Their brother. Their idiot. Their family.

But that couldn’t last.

He had duties now. Chains of a different kind.

Before leaving, Starscream paused at the door, his hand resting against the frame. He looked back—at Skywarp’s fragile form and Thundercracker’s solemn gaze—and his spark ached in a way no fusion could numb. He pressed his palm flat against the cool metal, whispering a silent apology. Forgive me... but I’ll fix this. I swear I’ll fix this.

His wings trembled faintly behind him as he turned, walking away from the cells, away from the guilt that clung to his heel-struts like shadow. He didn’t stop walking until he was far enough down the hall to gather himself again. There, alone in the corridor, Starscream leaned against the wall, tipped his helm back, and exhaled hard through his vents.

“Get it together,” he murmured to himself. “You don’t get to fall apart. Not now.”

He hit his face lightly with both palms—once, twice—then squared his shoulders.

By the time he returned to his personal lab, the soft light of the star-maps glowing faintly against the walls, he was focused again. Purpose had filled the void left behind. He sat at the workbench, pulled up Skywarp’s latest scans, and began the labor he could control.

If I can’t free them with my words, he thought bitterly, then I will heal them with my hands.

He would create something new. Something precise. Nanites built to read the fragile, sacred architecture of Seeker wings. A technology not just for Skywarp—but for anyone who had ever been broken and left behind.

It was penance. It was hope. It was, maybe, a small piece of redemption.

Starscream stood in the threshold of his new lab for a long moment, his wings tucked tightly against his back, expression unreadable. The room was not large—certainly nothing compared to Shockwave’s towering complexes or the sprawling chambers of Megatron’s command center—but its scale did not diminish its purpose. In a way, the controlled size felt intentional, as if carved to be his alone. Efficient. Contained. Private, even when it wasn’t.

The ceiling was lower, lined with reinforced plating embedded with soft, white lighting that pulsed faintly with the hum of the base’s main power supply. Every light flicker was precise. No harsh fluorescents. Just a calm glow, the kind that let a mind focus without strain. The walls were steel-gray with elegant insets: small embedded compartments, polished surfaces, and concealed mechanisms ready to open at a simple code or gesture.

To the left, against the main wall, sat a wide, angled workbench. It was immaculate save for a spread of datapads and scattered blueprints, some recently printed, others clearly aged but carefully preserved. A second-level platform jutted from the side with a dedicated microforge, its tools aligned in a neat grid: scalpels, nanite injectors, diagnostic scanners, calibration needles, and microscopic welding gear—all perfectly positioned.

At the heart of the lab stood the central computer—a matte-black terminal unit with a curved interface screen and hard-link jacks for both manual and neural connection. It was hardwired to the Decepticon main network, though on an isolated loop: monitored, of course, but functional. Starscream didn’t need to look up to know that the hidden surveillance systems were already trained on him. Small, recessed cameras lay behind what might’ve once passed for vent grilles or minor weld marks in the ceiling corners.

He didn’t bother looking for the blind spots. He didn’t need to. If they wanted to watch, let them.

And yet... there were signs here that the space was his.

He turned his gaze toward the shelves beside the console and found himself stilling.

Two clear terrariums sat neatly beside his datapads and blueprints. Inside each one, a small, self-contained biome: living moss, enriched soil, delicately structured leaves… and within them, the butterflies. Winged creatures, no bigger than a joint cover, beat their delicate circuits in slow rhythm. Their iridescent wings caught the light and shimmered softly.

Starscream stepped closer, fingers grazing the smooth glass.

These weren’t random decorations. He knew them. These terrariums were one of the assignments he had given Frenzy and Rumble cycles ago, part of their bio-systems study under his guidance. He’d assigned them a challenge: raise and evolve a pair of flying larvae into stable, environment-adaptive insects using limited tech and no programming interference. It was a lesson in patience, observation, and care—something the twins struggled with, but which Starscream believed they could master.

And they had.

A small datapad sat nestled between the terrariums. Scrawled on its corner in untidy glyphs read: ''We thought you might want to keep them. —F&R”

Starscream straightened. His optics lingered on the butterflies for a moment longer. Something in his chest twisted—not pain, not sadness… something older. Something like warmth.

If I can’t change the minds of the old guard, he thought, then I will forge the next generation myself.

He activated the console with a flick of his fingers. The screen lit up, casting blue glow against his pale plating. Energy readings, repair schematics, formulas in progress—he tuned out most of them, filtering until only the nanite program remained.

Then he opened a comm link to Soundwave.

“Soundwave,” Starscream said, voice low but steady, “inform Frenzy and Rumble that their educational cycles resume starting tomorrow. They’ll begin direct nanite fieldwork under my supervision.”

A pause. Then: “Understood. They will be… honored.”

Starscream said nothing more. He cut the link.

He turned back to his lab, the place he would now inhabit not as Megatron’s sparkbound or the Winglord, not as a ghost of a prince or a pawn of the Decepticon cause—but as what he had always been: a seeker of knowledge, a perfectionist, a survivor. A mentor.

He approached the blueprint again, pulled up the healing nanite matrix, and began to work.

The butterflies fluttered in the background, silent wings beating against glass. Small, fragile things.

But alive.

Just like him.

Starscream sat before the glowing interface of his new lab console, wings twitching lightly as he synced his systems to the Decepticon network. The schematics of his healing nanite prototype floated midair in a web of intricate code, calculations, and anatomical diagrams. He could almost feel the rhythm of science again—the familiar hum of theory turned into purpose.

For the first time in what felt like cycles, Starscream allowed himself to focus completely. No spark politics. No sideways glances. No burdens of titles or past regrets. Only the work.

He began by transmitting a requisition list through the encrypted internal channel—directly to Shockwave’s domain. If anyone had access to high-precision alloys, base nanite cores, and rare biometallic catalysts, it was Shockwave. Starscream’s request was, of course, layered in exact specifications and diagrams. No room for misunderstanding. It was Starscream, after all.

Minutes later, the reply came.

“Request acknowledged. Efficiency metrics optimal. Shipment en route. Logistical priority flagged: medical. —Shockwave.”

Starscream snorted softly at the clinical response but took no offense. Shockwave’s logic might be cold, but it was dependable.

As soon as the materials began to arrive—delivered via quiet drones and secured chutes—Starscream was in motion.

He worked without pause.

For an entire cycle, Starscream’s thoughts revolved solely around the nanites. He stripped their default protocols, overhauled the containment vectors, and rewrote the behavioral algorithms. The nanites would not just patch wounds—they would scan, calibrate, regenerate, and refine, ensuring no deformity or scarring, particularly in the fragile wing joints of Seekers.

His fingers moved like a concertmaster over the control panel, gliding through data screens, injecting code, and activating calibration chambers. A small vial pulsed under the scanner, swirling with silver-blue nanites ready for the first simulation.

By mid-cycle, sweat beaded under his helm. His optics were dry. But his mind was sharper than it had been in solar cycles. Every successful data run, every corrected error, felt like a step toward redemption.

This will be for Skywarp. For Thundercracker. For anyone else left broken.

He paused once, just once, looking again toward the terrariums across the lab. The butterflies danced gently, oblivious to the weight of the world beyond their glass.

Starscream allowed himself the smallest smile… then turned back to the console.

Megatron sat back in his high-backed throne, the dim glow of the Decepticon insignia pulsing above his helm like a silent warning. The throne room, ever cold and vast, felt even more oppressive with the warlord in his seat—silent, still, and smiling.

A smile.

The moment his lips curved into that rare expression, the ambient murmurs from the guards and tacticians in the room ceased. Servos froze mid-motion. Even the low hum of consoles seemed to falter as though the Nemesis itself held its breath. Megatron’s smiles were not gifts. They were omens. The last time he had smiled in such a way, an entire Autobot outpost had turned to slag.

But this time, there was no blood. No fire. Only a datapad in his clawed hand, its screen faintly reflecting in his crimson optics.

On it, Starscream moved across the lab like lightning—wings twitching, fingers flying across consoles, expression taut with concentration. Megatron watched the seeker’s expression shift with every success, every line of code, every chemical reaction in progress. He could see the intelligence blazing in Starscream’s optics. The deep need to create, to fix. The unwavering determination so unique to the tricolor seeker when his purpose was rooted in something beyond politics or personal ambition.

And Megatron smiled not from amusement—but from something far deeper.

Devotion.
Starscream didn’t even realize it. The seeker was so consumed in his mission to help Skywarp, Thundercracker, and others… so lost in the vortex of science, that he didn’t feel the chains woven around him, soft and unspoken.

Not physical ones. Not even those of power or authority. No, these were subtler. Quietly placed by hands that once only knew how to conquer.

They were threads of permission. Of sanctuary. Of resources, granted freely. Of constant, hidden observation through the security system Megatron personally controlled. Of a bond deepening not through domination—but through attention, patience… fascination.

Megatron never looked away from the screen.

“Cute,” he murmured aloud, nearly to himself.

A single whisper.

Every Decepticon in the room stiffened. No one dared question the word. No one dared respond. But a silent tension now wrapped itself around the throne room like smoke.

Megatron’s smile widened just a fraction more as he watched Starscream blow a strand of energon from his cheek, visibly cursing a miscalculation, only to return with renewed vigor.

You have no idea, Megatron thought, gaze lingering, how close you are… how tightly you already belong to me.

And he would never let him go.

Chapter Text

Everyone already knew Starscream was a genius—brilliant beyond measure—but to create fully functional healing nanites in precisely 18 hours, 33 minutes, and 47 seconds? That was unprecedented. A record.

Hook stood beside the medical bench, eyes fixed on the small container holding a strange, clay-like white paste. He furrowed his brows and turned to Starscream, his voice edged with disbelief. “Explain again… what exactly have you created?”

Starscream answered calmly, with that quiet certainty he always carried: “Healing nanites.”

Hook blinked, incredulous. A dull ache began to pulse behind his optic sensors, the skepticism turning into a headache. “I know you’re a genius,” he said slowly, “but even you must have limits. There’s no way this—this stuff—can work just like that. No sane medic would ever let this anywhere near a patient without rigorous testing.”

Starscream met Hook’s gaze, unwavering. “I am certain. The formula works.”

Hook let out a slow breath, rubbing his temple. “Not in a million cycles would I open this folder in a patient’s profile without trials and double-checks first.”

At that moment, Knockout stepped forward, a sly grin spreading across his face. He reached out and took the container gently from Hook’s hands. “The answer,” he said, voice light yet confident, “is simple: testing.”

He glanced sideways at Airachnid, who reclined in a bed nearby, one of her spider-like limbs wrapped in bandages after a recent, unfortunate encounter with Ironhide. Despite her injury, she watched the exchange with a flicker of curiosity.
Knockout’s smile widened. “We start small. We test carefully. Then we see if Starscream’s miracle holds.”

The room was thick with tension—hope, doubt, and something quietly electric that stirred the air between them all.

Airachnid fixed Knockout with a fierce glare as he casually pretended to slip, a small portion of the white clay-like paste accidentally landing on her wounded spider limb.

“Don’t even think about using me as a guinea pig,” she warned, voice low and threatening.

Knockout’s eyes flickered with mock innocence. “Oops, my bad,” he said lightly, brushing it off like an fall accident and putting the medicine in her.

Airachnid’s gaze hardened, the kind that could make any bot think twice before treating her as a mere test subject. She was already opening her mouth to reprimand him when a sudden cold sensation spread through the wound where the paste had settled.

Seconds later, the white paste began to expand, shifting and shimmering. A faint, almost imperceptible buzz filled the air—then a chorus of tiny clicks and whirrs, as if countless microscopic machines were springing to life, replicating themselves at an impossible speed.

The paste seemed alive. Gray patches in the clay fell away onto the floor, replaced instantly by fresh, pristine white material. The buzzing grew louder—hundreds, no, thousands of nanites working in perfect harmony, repairing, rebuilding, healing.

All eyes in the room locked on Airachnid’s injured spider paw, watching in stunned silence as the damaged and missing parts were gradually restored, joint by joint, segment by segment, until it was completely whole again. Like new. Perfect.

Shock rippled through the room; every bot present was frozen by disbelief and amazement—except Starscream.

With a faint, knowing smile, Starscream simply said, “I knew it would work.”

Hook stared at the white briefcase in his hands, utterly frozen, his eyes flicking back and forth between it and Airachnid’s fully healed spider paw. “How… how is this even possible?” he finally breathed, disbelief heavy in his voice.

Knockout, still holding his breath, looked to Starscream for an explanation.

Starscream nodded calmly and began to speak in a measured, straightforward tone—enough to make sure even the less technical bots could follow.

“I modified standard nanites to replicate at an exponential rate—cloning themselves every nanosecond within the medical paste I developed. Because the nanites work so hard repairing damaged tissue, they quickly become ineffective and are discarded. But the formula compensates for this by producing hundreds of replacements instantly, maintaining a constant, vigorous healing process.”

He paused briefly, eyes scanning their faces, ensuring they understood the significance.

“When a nanite becomes exhausted or redundant, it simply detaches and falls away from the wound automatically, preventing any risk of infection or blockage.”

Starscream’s voice took on a faint pride as he concluded, “The repair time depends on the wound’s severity, but with a sufficient application of this curative paste, even an entire limb could be restored to full function in a matter of hours.”

Hook stared at the freshly healed limb, then back down at the white paste in the container like it was some divine artifact. Slowly, like in a trance, he turned to Starscream—then, without warning, grabbed the seeker by the shoulders.

“You—” Hook’s voice cracked with raw disbelief, “You’re not just a genius. You're a medical genius.”

Starscream blinked, slightly stunned, wings twitching with unease at the sudden physical contact. “I… I only applied logical upgrades to existing technology,” he tried to deflect, tone sharp but low, almost embarrassed.

Hook didn’t let go. His optics were wide, intensity pouring out of him like radiation. “No, no. Do you know what you’ve done? Do you truly understand the weight of this? Not even Ratchet dared to go this far—he stuck with what was reliable. You, you created something new. Something that rewrites what we know about recovery.”

Knockout leaned back in his chair, arms folded and optics sparkling with excitement. “He’s right, you know. You didn’t just build a faster nanite. You built a system. Self-regulating, self-renewing, intelligent enough to know when to remove itself from the body? That’s not just genius, Starscream. That’s revolutionary.”

Starscream’s wings folded closer to his frame, not in shame—but to contain himself. He had always known he was brilliant. But this… praise? This wasn’t condescending or politically motivated. This was awe. Real awe. And it left a strange, heavy warmth in his chest he didn’t know what to do with.

Hook finally released him, but not before giving him a firm shake. “This—this is the kind of thing that turns war machines into healers. You’ve just rewritten what it means to recover from battle, do you understand that? The casualties we could prevent... the lives we could salvage…”

Airachnid was still staring at her fully restored limb in complete silence, flexing the fingers one by one. For once, even she had nothing sharp to say.

Starscream stepped back slightly, voice steadier now, but laced with quiet conviction. “Then let it begin here. With this. With Skywarp and Thundercracker. And after them… every wounded bot who thought they’d never be whole again.”

Hook looked at him with something close to reverence.

Knockout smiled, then muttered under his breath with a smirk, “Winglord my servo…”

Starscream heard it—and for once, didn’t flinch. He simply looked down at the container in Hook’s hands, and said, “Prepare the first proper treatment. My brothers are waiting.”

Knockout wasted no time.

The moment Starscream gave the word, the red-armored medic seized the container of white nanite paste like it was a sacred relic. “Move, move!” he shouted at no one in particular, heels screeching as he turned on his pedes and ran out of the medbay. The corridor lights flickered above him as he bolted down the halls, making sharp turns with such reckless speed that he drifted through the curves like a turbofox on polished steel.

“He’s a medical genius!” Knockout howled at the top of his vents, echoing through the Nemesis halls. “STAAAAAARSCREAM IS A MEDICAL GENIUS!!”

A few passing Vehicons froze mid-step, watching with slack-jawed confusion as their normally stylish, aloof doctor charged by like he’d just discovered Primus himself. One turned to another and whispered, “...Did he say Starscream?”

“Starscream the Seeker?” another asked, optics blinking fast.

“Medical genius?” a third added, horrified and impressed in equal measure.

Meanwhile, back in the medbay, Hook slowly turned toward Starscream, his earlier admiration still burning in his optics.

“I want to see the formula,” he said. “I need to understand what you did.”

Starscream, who had already turned back to the central terminal, tapped a few commands on the interface. The large screen flickered to life, filling with lines upon lines of code, molecular diagrams, structural breakdowns, and real-time simulations. The formulas stretched in multiple dimensions, with animated nanite clusters reacting to various compound stimuli, all bound by equations so dense they looked like nonsense to most optics.

Hook leaned in.

Airachnid stood from her berth, stepping closer out of a mix of curiosity and doubt.

Seconds passed.

Their processors churned.

Then—

“Primus—” Hook muttered, a servo twitching. “Wait—this variable loops into itself? No, it splits—then reconnects through—what in the Pit is this symbol?!”

“I thought that was a glyph,” Airachnid said, tilting her head. “But it’s… no, it’s a compound logic gate tied to quantum regeneration?”

Starscream, arms crossed, smirked in quiet satisfaction. “It’s a recursive self-healing loop. Nanites need to be fast, disposable, and capable of exponential scaling without exhausting the host frame. That requires multi-phase computation and chemical adaptability. I had to invent three new constants.”

Hook turned to him, horrified. “Three?!”

“Two and a half,” Starscream corrected smugly. “The last one is technically an adapted variant.”

Both bots stared at the screen like it might explode.

Finally, Hook straightened, optics wide with a strange mix of exhaustion and reverence. “You’re never allowed to die,” he said, almost deadpan. “I mean that. If anyone even scratches you, I’ll rebuild your entire body from your wings down.”

Starscream rolled his optics, but not without the flicker of amusement in them.

Hook rubbed his helm as though trying to hold his own processor together. “Forget it. Don’t even try to teach this. Just…” He sighed deeply, rubbing the stress from his neck. “Handle the production of the paste yourself. Make small containers—enough for individual bots to carry them in their subspace. Easy to store. Quick to apply. Understand?”

“Perfectly,” Starscream said, already bringing up new blueprints for portable canisters on the screen. “Standard chassis, liquid-absorbent seals, minimal cooling required. I’ll have prototypes by tomorrow.”

Hook muttered something in Cybertronian that sounded like an oath to science itself, while Airachnid silently sat back down and stared at her fully healed leg with renewed wariness.

And as Starscream resumed typing, his wings lifted high, confidence radiating from his entire frame—not as a soldier, or a Second-in-Command, or even as Megatron’s sparkbound…

But as a Seeker. A scientist. And now, a healer.

The echo of footfalls thundered down the corridor—rapid, heavy, unrelenting.

Airachnid, Hook, and Starscream all turned their heads toward the entrance of the medical ward just as the doors slid open with a whoosh.

Knockout came flying in, practically skidding to a stop, holding the now half-empty container of curative nanite paste like it was a precious artifact. His armor was scuffed, his optics glowing with manic triumph, and there was a bright, almost wild smile on his face.

He held up the container proudly and flashed a smug “OK” sign with his fingers.

“Skywarp,” Knockout said breathlessly, “will fly again.”

Hook exhaled loudly in disbelief.

Airachnid folded her arms but gave a short, impressed nod.

Starscream, standing just slightly off balance near the terminal, muttered, “Thank Primus…” The words barely passed his lips before his posture wavered—shoulders drooping, wings dipping.

Then his knees gave.

Starscream’s frame listed sharply, but before he could collapse, Hook lunged forward and caught him with both arms, steadying the Seeker against his chest.

“He’s out,” Hook muttered, lowering Starscream slowly and carefully into a sitting position beside the medical berth. “In full recharge. He must’ve burned through every cycle working nonstop…”

Airachnid crouched nearby, watching silently. Even she couldn’t hide the trace of respect in her narrowed optics.

Starscream’s wings twitched once in Hook’s grip, but his face had relaxed, optics dimmed, ventilations finally evening out after what had clearly been a non-stop storm of effort.

Hook shook his head with a low chuckle. “Medical genius, yes,” he murmured. “But someone really needs to teach him how to pace himself…”

Knockout grinned and looked at the canister again. “After this?” he whispered, his voice half pride, half awe. “We’ll all be taking notes from him.”

Airachnid turned on her heel with a victorious swing of her hips, the smooth hiss of hydraulics echoing with every confident step. She snatched the rest of the white container from Knockout’s hands with a predator’s grace, her servo curling possessively around it.

“My Insecticons need this more than you need to hoard it,” she said, glancing at Knockout with a smirk that promised chaos.

Knockout lifted a hand in protest, mouth opening to object—only to freeze when Airachnid blew him a playful kiss in the air, her optics flashing with amusement.

The red medic visibly jolted, plating twitching from helm to frame.

“I hate her,” he muttered, optics narrowed, trying to ignore the faint tremble in his own systems.

Hook, crossing his arms as he leaned against a nearby counter, scoffed with a dry shake of his head. “You’re not the only one.”

With the canister tucked under her arm, Airachnid strode down the corridors like she owned them, her gait lively, almost theatrical. Everyone she passed stopped what they were doing. Bots gawked, whispered, and turned to stare—not at her usual commanding presence, but at the flawless regeneration of her once-mangled limb. The spider-leg segment gleamed as if it had never been damaged, the white sheen of fresh reconstruction still gleaming like new.

Airachnid’s smug grin widened with each startled face.

The story traveled faster than she did.

It wasn’t long before murmurs filled the halls, spreading from one comm channel to the next.

“She was fully rebuilt in minutes—no weld marks.”

“They said it was Starscream.”

“He made healing nanites?!”

“Insecticons, too. All patched up. Unbelievable…”

Within a single cycle, the entire Decepticon base was buzzing with the news. Not about Airachnid’s limb—but about the tricolored Seeker who had created the miracle cure. The genius who had once been dismissed as erratic, dramatic, and fragile was now the name on every tongue.

Starscream had forged salvation in a jar—and whether they liked him or not, none of them would forget it.

Hook was rapidly reaching the end of his tolerance.

Bots had been trickling into the medical ward one by one since the news spread, asking—no, demanding—access to Starscream’s miracle nanites. Old battle wounds, chronic damage, lingering scorch marks from wars long past… everyone suddenly remembered every ache and fracture they had ignored for decades. Some limped in with theatrically exaggerated groans, clutching old dents like they were on the verge of going offline.

Hook, who had endured this behavior for nearly a full cycle without pause, pressed a servo against his helm.

“I don’t care if your vents whistle when you’re in stasis,” he snapped at a particularly dramatic mech. “The answer is no—unless you’re actively bleeding out, take your ancient scrap metal and—”

He cut off mid-snarl.

Standing in the doorway, casting a long shadow into the medibay, was Megatron.

Every mech in the room froze. Even Hook straightened instinctively, the earlier annoyance draining from his frame like coolant under pressure. He’d been prepared to bark at yet another freeloader, not face the warlord himself.

Megatron’s optics narrowed with calm intent. “Where is Starscream?”

Hook hesitated, then gestured over his shoulder with a thumb. “Knockout has him in the probative wing. He—uh—fell into recharge after working nonstop.”

Megatron said nothing more.

Without another glance at the other mechs or so much as an acknowledgment of Hook’s answer, Megatron turned on his heel and walked directly toward the restricted wing. The doors hissed open at his approach. The warlord disappeared inside.

A few awkwardly tense seconds passed.

Then the doors reopened—and Megatron stepped out again, cradling Starscream effortlessly in his arms.

The tricolor Seeker was completely limp, tucked against Megatron’s chest like a fragile prototype, wings slack and head resting against his shoulder. His expression was peaceful—completely unaware that the warlord of the Decepticons was carrying him through the medibay like he was made of glass.

Knockout’s optic ridge twitched visibly, frozen behind Megatron with a datapad still clutched in one hand. Hook blinked, not sure whether to protest or bow.

Megatron didn’t spare a word for either of them.

He simply walked out, silent and unstoppable, with Starscream in his arms.

Every Decepticon in the medibay turned to watch him go.

Nobody dared say a thing.

Megatron stepped into their quarters, the heavy doors hissing shut behind him with a quiet finality. The lighting dimmed to a soft glow as he moved forward, still carrying Starscream carefully in his arms. Despite the intensity with which the warlord ruled the Decepticons, his grip on the Seeker was almost gentle—possessive, but not unkind.

He laid Starscream down on the central berth, slowly, as if placing a delicate weapon too valuable to risk scuffing. The Seeker murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, wings twitching faintly, but he didn’t wake. His expression, usually drawn tight with stress or arrogance, was relaxed… serene, even.

Megatron’s crimson optics narrowed as he watched.

He dreams of Skywarp, Megatron thought bitterly, noting the faint smile curling Starscream’s lips. The Seeker’s processor was still clinging to the moment he’d learned Skywarp would recover fully. There had been such fierce devotion in Starscream’s optics back in the medical ward—an obsession, really.

And not with him.

Megatron’s servo clenched at his side. His own spark, tangled irrevocably with Starscream’s through the ancient bond they’d never spoken of openly, pulsed with heat.

Starscream had created a medical breakthrough—an empire-altering advancement—in just under a single cycle. Not for glory. Not for Megatron.

But for Skywarp.

That was dangerous. Too dangerous.

Starscream had always cared deeply for his trine. That wasn’t news. But this… this willingness to burn himself out, to give everything, for them?

Megatron sat on the edge of the berth beside him. For a long moment, he simply looked at him—at the way his sharp features softened in recharge, how his servo had curled into the berth's fabric unconsciously. It was a vulnerable sight. It stirred a hunger in Megatron's core—a need for control, for certainty.

He had been too lenient.

He had allowed Starscream too much freedom. Too many chances to put others above him.

That would have to change.

Not violently—not yet. But with subtlety. Firm restriction. A recalibration of Starscream’s world.

Until the day came when Starscream no longer ran to his trine for comfort or meaning.

Until Starscream saw Megatron as the only one who truly mattered.

Megatron leaned in, brushing a clawed digit along the edge of Starscream’s helm in a rare gesture of twisted affection.

“You’ll see, my spark,” he murmured. “You don’t need them. You only need me.”

Starscream shifted slightly in his recharge but didn’t stir.

Megatron leaned back, expression darkening with resolve.

Soon, he promised silently. Very soon.

Starscream stirred slowly, his systems rebooting one by one until the familiar glow of their shared quarters filtered into his optics. The berth was cool beneath him, the absence of warmth beside him unmistakable.

Megatron was gone.

He sat up with a soft whirr of his joints, wings flexing behind his back as he noticed a neatly placed cube of high-grade energon on the nearby table. Beside it lay a datapad with a short message written in Megatron’s sharp, methodical glyphs:

“Thundercracker and Skywarp have returned to their duties. If you behave, you may see them when they return from their mission.”

Starscream blinked.

He read it again.

A smile spread over his face, small but genuine. He reached for the cube and held it quietly, not yet drinking it. The knowledge that his trine was back on their wings, out in the field and safe, brought a peace he hadn’t felt in megacycles. If he behaved, he mused… that was typical Megatron phrasing. Annoying, patronizing—but he knew how to play along. For now.

He didn’t know that what awaited his trinemates wasn’t a routine mission.

Not even close.

Megatron, ever the tactician, had sent Thundercracker and Skywarp to a forgotten outpost on the far reaches of the war-torn equatorial desert—where energon storms ravaged the skies and rust parasites fed on any metal that remained too long. A graveyard of titans and fools.

A place with no chance of backup.

Shockwave had reviewed the coordinates without comment. His logic dictated that it was inefficient and unnecessary, but Megatron had dismissed his concern with a simple grunt. Shockwave returned to his work. He had no interest in politics—only results.

Soundwave, however, had lingered.

He had tilted his helm when he saw the mission parameters. He had hesitated—just long enough for Megatron’s crimson optics to meet his visor. No words passed between them, but the message was clear.

Do not interfere.

And Soundwave did not. For the sake of his casseticons—especially the twins, who still couldn’t recharge properly without curling beside each other—he swallowed the unease and obeyed.

Thundercracker and Skywarp had left with determination in their sparks, eager to prove their worth and return swiftly. They thought they were flying into a difficult mission—not a death sentence.

Back in the Decepticon base, Starscream sipped the energon Megatron had left for him, unaware of the invisible leash tightening around his freedom.

Unaware that his “good behavior” was now his only key to seeing the ones he loved.

And even that key had already been quietly discarded.

Starscream stepped into his lab with light in his optics and a bounce in his stride, unaware of the cruel orchestration surrounding him. For the moment, this space—his lab—was a sanctuary, a place untouched by manipulation or possessive hands.

Frenzy and Rumble nearly tackled him with excitement the moment he arrived.

“STARSCREAM!” they chorused, their voices overlapping in an eager shriek.

“Class is back, finally!”

Starscream chuckled and opened his arms, allowing the twin casseticons to cling to him briefly before gently nudging them toward their worktable. He pulled out a stack of vivid energon-colored pens and thick paper from a drawer.

“Today,” he began with a grand gesture, “your first mission is to design a bigger, better terrarium for our butterfly colony. It must be elegant, functional, and, of course, safe for their little wings.”

Frenzy gasped. “You mean… we get to design it ourselves?”

“With these?!” Rumble added, lifting the glittery purple pen like it was sacred.

Starscream nodded with theatrical pride. “You are my apprentices, are you not? I expect brilliance.”

The room burst into gleeful motion as the casseticons rushed to the table, already sketching wild shapes and towers and wings made of thin mesh. They argued passionately about light filters and flower placement, scribbling until their digits were stained in metallic ink.

Above them, in the throne room, Megatron reclined like a shadow forged from steel and dominance, datapad in hand, face emotionless. But his optics flicked to the corner of the screen showing a live feed from Starscream’s lab.

The warm moment. The joy. The laughter.

He watched it with quiet intensity while Dreadwing spoke from below, voice steady and clipped as he reported on the Autobot presence in the equatorial inertial quadrant.

Megatron only half-listened.

Dreadwing mentioned something about increased movement, Energon readings that fluctuated oddly, and whispers of a relic hunt—but Megatron’s response was curt and deliberate.

“Do not concern yourself. Return to your duties. Increase aerial drills with the Seekers.”

“Yes, Lord Megatron,” Dreadwing responded, bowing slightly before turning to leave.

Megatron’s optics returned to the feed. Starscream was laughing now, ruffling Rumble’s helm while Frenzy waved a half-drawn schematic. Butterflies danced in the glass enclosure behind them, oblivious to anything beyond their warm, contained world.

Megatron narrowed his optics. He loved Starscream’s joy—but only when he was the cause of it.

This display of affection for others… for Soundwave’s casseticons… it burned.

The next part of the plan would have to begin soon. And Soundwave didnt like the look on Megatron's face...

Chapter Text

Starscream hadn’t recharged in a full cycle. His servos ached from pacing. His optics were strained and dimmed, constantly flicking to the comm station in his quarters like they might light up at any moment with Thundercracker’s voice, or that joyful burst of static Skywarp always make when they were together.

But it stayed dead. Two days now.

Soundwave hadn’t said anything outright, but Starscream had seen his still posture. The lack of direct glances. Even Frenzy and Rumble were quieter than usual in the lab.

And now Megatron had arrived.

The doors to the quarters hissed open and the towering Decepticon stepped in, regal and cold. Starscream barely looked up—his pacing never stopped—but his field rippled with anxiety. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to know what Megatron had come to say. Because if it was what he feared…

“Starscream,” Megatron said softly. It wasn’t the bark of a warlord. It was lower. Measured. Almost kind.

“Sit.”

“I don’t want to sit,” Starscream snapped, but the words lacked venom. He was cracking. “Just tell me what you came here for.”

Megatron walked further in, his heavy steps echoing ominously on the floor. He tilted his helm just slightly, studied Starscream like a precious artifact ready to shatter.

“Soundwave,” he said, voice gentle—too gentle, “missed the last signal from Thundercracker and Skywarp. They… they have gone silent.”

Starscream froze.

There was a moment of silence. Pure, perfect silence.

Then—

“No,” Starscream whispered.

His knees buckled under him, and he crashed to the floor, clawed servos trembling as they braced against the cold ground. His optics widened as if he could force them to unsee the reality Megatron had just delivered.

“No no no no no—no!”

He slammed a fist into the floor. The alloy dented.

“They promised—Skywarp promised to call back—Thundercracker would never go this long—they were just going to scout a ridge, nothing—nothing—!”

His wings flickered and twisted erratically, his frame curling as he began to scream. Real, shrill, heart-wrenching screams—not of anger, but grief. Raw, keening sobs tore from his vocalizer as his shoulders shook, whole body trembling like the shattering shell of a collapsing world.

Megatron, silent still, lowered himself slowly. He knelt beside Starscream and extended his arms.

Starscream didn’t resist.

He lunged into Megatron’s hold like a broken thing looking for warmth. He clung desperately to the Decepticon leader’s frame, claws gripping tightly at the plating across Megatron’s back as his cries broke into harsh, shuddering sobs. He howled—for Skywarp’s laughter, for Thundercracker’s steady voice, for the comfort of two mechs who had always been his wings in a world that tried to rip him apart.

“I lost them—I lost them—they’re gone, gone—Megatron, please—I can’t—”

And Megatron… Megatron held him.

Not with softness, not quite. But firmly. Securely. He curled one arm around Starscream’s narrow waist and cradled the back of his helm with the other servo.

“There is no weakness in sorrow,” he whispered. “Let it out, my spark.”

Starscream didn’t even realize he was shaking until he collapsed entirely into Megatron’s chest, letting himself be rocked slowly. His vents choked on every sob, vocalizer breaking with each wordless wail of grief.

Megatron said nothing more—but his optics, glowing crimson, glinted with a strange light.

It wasn’t sorrow. It wasn’t regret.

It was triumph.

Behind the serene mask, inside the careful, soothing tone, was a storm of satisfaction. Megatron held his sparkbound, his precious, powerful Seeker, and listened to him grieve—not for Megatron, but for two mechs who would never again steal his attention.

Let him break.

Let him need.

Let him learn to replace his trine with one. Megatron.

And only Megatron and only him.

Megatron stayed with Starscream for hours—never moving far, never pushing, just there. Strong. Present. His grip never wavered as Starscream clung to him like a lifeline, the seeker’s frame occasionally shaking with sobs even in silence. The cries had grown quieter now, hollowed out by exhaustion, the way only a mech who had screamed his spark raw could be. His optics were half-shuttered, unfocused, dim. His vents were sluggish, trembling from time to time.

Megatron shifted only when he felt Starscream’s full weight lean into him without resistance. That was the moment he’d waited for.

The moment of collapse.

Softly, deliberately, he brushed the back of Starscream’s helm, claws tracing the curve behind his finials. “You’re not alone, Starscream,” he murmured into the quiet. “You still have me.”

Starscream didn’t answer. He wasn’t strong enough to argue. The grief had cracked him open too deep.

And Megatron began to pour himself into that opening.

“You gave so much to them,” he continued slowly, tone lined with feigned sympathy. “And look where it brought you. Pain. Loss. Emptiness.”

Starscream flinched faintly but said nothing. His optics remained dim, distant.

“You bled yourself dry for your trine,” Megatron said, voice dropping to a whisper now, against his audial, “but you forgot who has always been here. Who held you in his arms when you fell. Who stood by you. Who kept you.”

Starscream turned his face into Megatron’s chest, as if trying to shut the world out entirely.

“You don’t need to fracture your spark between others,” Megatron said, pressing his servo now gently to the center of Starscream’s chest, just over his sparkchamber. “I’m here. And I won’t leave.”

That same servo slowly slid upward, curling around Starscream’s throat—not tight, not controlling, but possessive. His thumb brushed under Starscream’s chin, tilting his face just enough to see the flicker of uncertainty in the seeker’s dim optics.

“They chose a mission over you. I chose you over everything.”

He leaned in, his voice velvet now, poisoned silk, wrapping tight.

“You’re mine, Starscream. As it was always meant to be.”

The words sank in, and Starscream didn’t pull away. Didn’t deny it.

That was enough.

The next day, changes began quietly.

Megatron locked the communications array connected to off-world channels “for safety protocols.” Starscream’s personal access codes were revoked, reprogrammed under Megatron’s oversight.

He also “temporarily reassigned” Starscream’s laboratory away from the wings of the Decepticon base, placing it instead next to Megatron’s private quarters.

Hook and Knockout were still permitted visits—but only if they requested in advance. Soundwave watched silently, and did nothing.

When Starscream asked why the restrictions, Megatron only placed a servo gently to his cheek and said, “Because I don’t want to lose you too.”

It was a guilt-edged collar. Starscream nodded.

The Seeker was still grieving. Still fragile. And Megatron was nothing if not patient. Every ounce of control was slowly wrapped tighter around him—masked as protection, concern, love. And Starscream, hollowed by loss, exhausted by sorrow, found it harder and harder to resist.

He wanted safety. He wanted someone who stayed.

And Megatron was there.

He always would be.

Frenzy and Rumble were the first to notice the silence.

Their terrarium—the one they had built with Starscream, filled with fluttering, bioluminescent butterflies born from a project meant to teach structure and compassion—sat still now. Untouched. The little habitat of color and warmth stood cold in Soundwave’s quarters, where he’d placed it in silence. He never told them why.

No datapads came anymore.

No assignments.

No Starscream.

The Seeker who once greeted them with dramatic flair and exaggerated instructions, who ruffled their helms and smirked when their little “wars” turned into ink explosions—he was gone.

At first, the twins thought he was just busy. Then maybe sad. But time passed, and the hallways remained empty of his graceful steps. The doors of the personal quarters he now stayed in—Megatron’s quarters—remained sealed. The few times they passed by, they saw nothing, heard nothing.

Frenzy was the first to ask Soundwave why.

He never got an answer.

The older Decepticons—those with sharper optics and more bitter experience—understood it immediately. Megatron wasn’t grieving. He was eliminating competition for Starscream’s heart.

Skywarp and Thundercracker’s mysterious disappearance was already a grim enough shadow hanging over the base. The explanation Soundwave was forced to give—"signal lost mid-transmission"—only inflamed suspicions. And Megatron’s deliberate silence on the matter made it worse. Some bots murmured of sabotage. Of entrapment. But no one had proof. And none had the courage to accuse a Warlord.

The Aerialbots gritted their denta behind sealed visors. They saw the signs: the change in Starscream’s spark frequency, his absence from all official duties except when called directly by Megatron. They saw how even patrol assignments were shuffled to ensure no interactions with the seeker. But they were Wingbound to Starscream. Their code forbade them from challenging Megatron’s authority directly, and Starscream had given them no command to act.

That didn’t stop the guilt from eating at them.

Knockout, however, had no such restriction—and no patience for cowardice.

He slammed a data-slate onto a control table in front of the Aerialbots one afternoon, his optics blazing. “You’re spineless. All of you. He protected you. Gave you orders and rank. And now look at you. Silent. Hiding like—like organics under an acid storm!”

Slingshot shifted uncomfortably. Silverbolt lowered his gaze. Fireflight opened his mouth to speak but found no words.

“You think this is what he wanted?” Knockout snapped. “You think he wanted to be tucked away like some pretty thing for Megatron to own?”

Hook stepped in, quietly but firmly, a servo to Knockout’s shoulder. “Enough.”

“I’m not finished.”

“You are,” Breakdown said, stepping behind Hook, his voice unusually steady. “We can’t help him if we’re dead.”

Knockout’s optics flickered, his expression souring. “Fine.” But his tone still held venom. “Keep being useful. See where it gets you.”

Despite his anger, Knockout knew better than to push too far. So he turned his frustration into strategy.

He became Starscream’s only visitor.

His only lifeline.

He disguised his visits under layers of medical necessity—regular checkups, psych stability assessments, wing rebalancing. He logged every visit, filed fake reports with Hook’s help, and carried a small pack of actual supplies in case Megatron grew suspicious. But the truth was simpler:

He just talked to Starscream.

Talked like before.

Like it mattered that he was still Starscream, not just Megatron’s sparkbound. He teased, joked, scolded, and never once treated the Seeker like porcelain.

Starscream never admitted it, but the change was noticeable. Just a flicker—his wings twitching a little more naturally, his voice returning, if only for a moment, to the snarky edge of old. A faint glow behind optics dulled by grief.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And that something made Megatron watch Knockout closer every time he left the quarters.

Knockout was worried—no, he was terrified.

He tried not to show it. Not in front of Breakdown. Not in front of Hook. Certainly not in front of Megatron, who always watched just a moment too long when Knockout left Starscream’s side, optics cold and calculating. But inside, Knockout was unraveling with dread.

Because Starscream was fading.

The sharp-tongued, dramatic, ruthless Seeker who once filled the Nemesis with arguments, theories, inventions, and piercing laughter... was slowly becoming quiet. Empty. Knockout had seen trauma before—he was a medic, after all—but this was different. This wasn’t just grief. It was erasure.

Starscream had lost his Trine. His brothers. The bond forged in life, in battle, in sky. Torn away. Gone without closure. No remains. No ceremonies. No justice.

And as if that hadn’t been cruel enough, Megatron had forced a sparkbinding—one Starscream never truly chose. Everyone knew it. The entire warship, from bridge to berthbay, knew Starscream hadn’t offered his spark freely. But no one said a word. No one challenged it.

Because it was Megatron.

And now the once-feared Winglord of Vos was locked behind those private quarters—his only company the Warlord who had twisted affection into ownership.

The Aerialbots said nothing. Wing-codex or not, Knockout was disgusted by their silence.

“Cowards,” he hissed one evening as he reviewed a falsified report for his next visit. “He gave you rank. He made you part of something. And now you all sit there, hoping he’ll just vanish quietly so you don’t have to dirty your hands.”

Even Breakdown, loyal and strong and steady, didn’t try to stop the rant this time. He only gave Knockout a look of quiet worry and left to make sure no one overheard.

But Knockout couldn’t stop.

He was watching a spark die in real time.

He saw it in the way Starscream’s wings no longer flared in reaction, how his optics barely lit up when he spoke, how he asked fewer questions, gave fewer sarcastic retorts, and rarely mentioned the labs or the twin terrors that used to follow him around with datapads and butterfly doodles.

Megatron was rewriting him—whisper by whisper, day by day.

And Knockout was running out of ways to pull him back.

He leaned over the medibay terminal late one night, staring at Starscream’s last full diagnostic, trying to find some excuse to see him again, to remind him that someone still saw him for who he truly was.

His hands were trembling.

“This isn’t medicine anymore,” he muttered. “This is… war.”

And then he said it—soft, almost broken:

“Only a miracle from Primus could save him now.”

His voice echoed in the stillness of the medical lab.

And perhaps, just this once, Primus listened.

It started as a flicker—an anomaly buried in a sub-frequency barely strong enough to register. The Autobots’ long-range scanners would have dismissed it, were it not for Ratchet’s obsession with cataloging every blip and flicker on their encrypted systems. He had developed the habit during the early years of the war, when a single unlogged glitch had nearly cost them an entire outpost.

He paused, staring at the static-rich signal embedded within a cluster of storm interference from a place no one had dared explore in years: the Howling Expanse, a region of the planet so ravaged by ionic storms and magnetic fallout that even the sturdiest armor eroded under its touch. There was no reason anyone would be out there.

Which is exactly why he knew something was wrong.

He called Prime immediately.

“I’m sending a signal trace and environmental scan,” Ratchet said through comms. “It’s weak, but that’s Cybertronian code. Faint... but it’s there.”

Optimus reviewed the data with narrowed optics, his silence heavy.

“Prep a recovery team,” he finally ordered. “Minimal, specialized. Hazmat-resistant. Ratchet, I want you in command.”

Ratchet nodded, already moving to gather First Aid, Windblade, and two field mechs trained for dangerous extractions. Their armor was upgraded with pulse barriers and atmospheric filters. Still, none of them were prepared for what they would find.

The journey to the Expanse took time—cautious time. The land was toxic, the wind sharp with lightning-charged dust, and visibility often fell to mere meters. They navigated by scanner, faith, and the thrum of the signal that kept pulsing like a heartbeat in the storm.

Then, they saw them.

Two figures. Half-buried under debris and corrosion, metal peeled and blackened by exposure, wings twisted out of shape like broken flags. But they were still alive.

Thundercracker was curled over something in his arms—a dull but intact artifact glowing faintly with protective energy. A relic. One of the ancient ones the Autobots had long believed lost, a defensive generator said to repel the worst weather and enemies alike. Likely, it was the only reason the two Seekers were still online.

Skywarp’s wings had holes in them, his vents barely cycled. Thundercracker’s optics were dim, his fingers locked in a death grip around the relic.

First Aid ran to them first. “We need to move now!” he shouted, voice tight with urgency.

The team worked fast, securing both Seekers in reinforced evac capsules, stabilizing energon loss and applying armor-sealants just enough to get them back to base. Ratchet personally monitored the life signals the entire way.

And then they waited.

Weeks passed.

Skywarp was touch and go, but Thundercracker’s spark signature remained steady, stubbornly so—until, one morning, his optics flickered open. Faint, slow... but aware.

Ratchet was there.

“Easy,” the medic said, kneeling by his berth. “You’re safe. We found you. You and Skywarp. You were both dying when we got there, but we managed to stabilize you.”

Thundercracker coughed. It sounded more like a low static hum than a true vocalization. “Stars… Starscream…”

Ratchet placed a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not here. He doesn’t know yet. We couldn’t send anything through Decepticon lines—Megatron would intercept it.”

Thundercracker tried to sit up. Ratchet stopped him, but the Seeker gritted his denta and forced himself to speak.

“Megatron… sent us there to die.”

The room went silent.

Optimus Prime himself entered moments later. Skywarp had stirred from his recharge not long after Thundercracker woke, and lay weakly listening on the next berth. His frame shivered from effort, but his optics flared with fury when he heard his wingmate speak.

“He planned it,” Thundercracker continued. “Said it was… a scouting mission. Told us to recover something we weren’t briefed on. He knew the place would eat us alive.”

Ratchet stared, the implication settling like lead.

Thundercracker’s voice cracked. “He never intended to let us return. We didn’t even have full sealant coverage. No transport. Just… left to rot.”

Skywarp croaked, “And he forced Starscream. Sparkbond. He didn’t want it. He was trying to protect us…”

And that was the moment something inside Optimus shattered.

His hands clenched at his sides. His optics burned not with sorrow—but with righteous fury. Windblade had entered behind him, and her hand flew to her mouth. Even First Aid, who tried to remain gentle and neutral in everything, looked away in horror.

Optimus Prime stepped forward, placed his hand on Thundercracker’s shoulder and leaned down to meet his optics.

“I failed him once. I won’t again.”

He turned, his voice iron-clad with resolution.

“This ends now. We will rescue Starscream. Whatever it takes.”

Optimus stood quietly by Thundercracker’s side, his large frame unmoving, optics dimmed in heavy thought. Skywarp had already fallen back into stasis, his exhausted systems working overtime to stabilize after the trauma. Thundercracker looked no better—his plating still discolored and pitted, energon lines slow—but there was something sharp in his gaze, something that had not been dulled by agony or betrayal.

“I will inform the others,” Optimus said quietly. “We’ll keep both of you under maximum protection and—”

“Wait.”

The Seeker’s voice was low, hoarse, but determined.

Thundercracker reached toward his side and, with a flicker of his trembling fingers, opened a scorched subspace compartment. From within, he drew out a small, cylindrical container. It was battered but intact, sealed in multiple reinforced layers, glowing faintly with soft bioluminescent lines of shifting blue and violet.

“Starscream… made this,” Thundercracker murmured. “Before Megatron caged him.”

Optimus leaned in, taking the container gently.

“What is it?”

Thundercracker’s optics dimmed further. “Healing nanites. Adaptive. Intelligent. He said they mimic damaged cells and learn. Self-replicate once they find compatible host code. He gave them to me in case… in case we didn’t come back.”

Then, his strength gave out. Thundercracker slumped back into recharge, his spark stabilizing as the monitors let out a long, slow confirmation tone.

Ratchet stepped in immediately. The medic scanned the container with a quick swipe of his tool, then froze.

“…No way,” he breathed.

He took the container and brought it to his lab’s core scanning module. Moments passed. Data spiked. Readouts flowed in dizzying complexity. Then Ratchet stood ramrod straight, optics wide.

“This is—this is genius,” he muttered, before blinking hard and correcting himself. “I mean—functional. Exceptional data integrity, unique sub-particle behavior… Cyberforming nanites, self-replicating with selective adaptation thresholds?”

He turned on his comm immediately. “Optimus, we need Wheeljack, Perceptor, and Jetfire back now. I don’t care what they’re doing. Drop it. This changes everything.”

Optimus arched a brow. “What exactly are we dealing with, Ratchet?”

Ratchet held the nanite container up like it was sacred. “Starscream may have just invented the most advanced autonomous healing system Cybertron has ever seen. And he did it while under Decepticon rule. With no lab. No team. No recognition.”

He looked over at the Prime, voice quieter now.

“If we refine this? It could save Skywarp. It could help Thundercracker recover faster. It could change field medicine for us. But more than that…” Ratchet’s voice dropped again, tone sharp. “This? This proves Starscream is not just a victim. He’s a mind. A spark worth protecting.”

He looked down at the exhausted Seekers in the medberths. Then, unexpectedly, he added:

“…He’s a damn genius.”

Everyone in the lab turned at that.

Ratchet was not known for flattery. He criticized more than he praised. But here he stood, awed and unfiltered, cradling the result of Starscream’s brilliance like it was the hope of a future yet unwritten.

Optimus nodded slowly, processing the gravity of what they had.

“I’ll give the order. The Autobots will guard the habitats Starscream created. And as for this…”

He looked toward the horizon of what this nanite tech could bring.

“…Starscream’s not going to be alone for much longer.”

In the Autobot base, Ratchet stood staring at the simulation results with arms crossed, servos tense, his optical sensors narrowing at every line of Starscream's complex molecular code unraveling before them. The medbay, once a zone of quiet, methodical procedure, had become a hub of intense study. The soft hum of analyzers blended with the hurried footsteps of Wheeljack, Jetfire’s precise murmuring of formulaic recalculations, and Perceptor’s academic commentary as they all worked around the clock.

Nearly a month passed before the four minds—each brilliant in their own right—managed to synthesize a working version of Starscream’s healing nanites. It wasn’t perfect. It lacked the elegance, the seamless reaction chaining, the near-sentient adaptability of the original prototype. But it worked.

The very first trials were on Skywarp and Thundercracker. Both Seekers had been on the brink of critical degradation—corrosion eating away at their internal architecture, joints misaligned, nerve systems fried. But as soon as the artificial nanites were deployed, their bodies responded with remarkable efficiency. Plating smoothed. Circuits realigned. Systems rebooted one by one. Within a week, both were not just stabilized, but fully restored—clean, gleaming, as if they’d never suffered.

No cyber-rust. No scarring. Not even a trace of tissue memory indicating prior trauma.

Ratchet didn’t say anything at first. He watched Skywarp take flight again for the first time, looping lazily above the base hangar. He watched Thundercracker lift heavy equipment unaided. And only then did the reality settle in.

They hadn’t just survived. They’d been reborn.

Skywarp, cheeky grin and all, landed beside Ratchet with a signature blink.

“You know…” he said, tone casual, “the one we had? That was just the prototype. Screamer always said he'd refine it better. By now, he’s probably got one that can put you back together from a single bolt.”

Ratchet’s processor nearly skipped a beat.

“A prototype?”

“Yeah,” Thundercracker chimed in from behind. “He was never satisfied. Said healing was just ‘patchwork’ unless it restored the spark and the shell.” The blue Seeker tilted his head. “Starscream always wanted to leave things better than he found them.”

Ratchet stood in stunned silence.

Meanwhile, in Decepticon territory, that statement had long since become a grim and beautiful truth.

Starscream, buried in solitude, had turned entirely to his work. His lab was dim but alive, filled with the rhythmic pulses of containment vats and molecular printers. His optics were dimmed from lack of rest, his wings limp with fatigue, but his mind was sharper than ever—refining, adjusting, pushing the formulas to their theoretical limits.

Every droplet of the new nanite solution he created was potent enough to regenerate an entire organ from even molecular dust. He’d designed safety fail-safes, adaptive personalities within the nanite clusters, and automatic shutdowns if overgrowth occurred.

They were intelligent.

Fast.

Merciful.

And they were his.

Megatron saw the potential in them immediately. Not in the healing—no, that was secondary—but in the control. Now every Decepticon carried Starscream’s perfected miracle in their subspace. One emergency jab, and they could regenerate from near-fatal wounds within minutes. No more downtime. No more critical repairs. No more battlefield losses.

Starscream had made them unstoppable.

But even as his reputation grew in whispers and awed glances from the Decepticon ranks, he remained locked in a silence that none dared break. He didn’t smile. He didn’t ask questions. He simply handed Megatron the next batch of miracles and went back into his lab, shivering and tired.

Only Knockout still spoke to him as though nothing had changed.

Only Soundwave—when Megatron wasn’t watching—left energon cubes with extra mid-grade vitamins just outside Starscream’s door.

And no one could deny that this lonely, grieving Seeker had done something extraordinary.

He had rewritten the way they survived.

And still, he had no one to say “Well done.”

Thundercracker’s frustration was a storm ready to break loose.

“I have to go back. I owe him—we owe him. Primus knows how long he’s been alone in that pit,” he snarled, pacing the Autobot command center like a caged beast. His wings twitched with every step, his still-fresh chassis gleaming with the sheen of newly-activated nanites. “Every breem we wait, he falls deeper into whatever Megatron’s feeding him. We need to get Starscream out—now.”

But Ultra Magnus stood firm, as immovable as a fortress wall. His tone was as calm and uncompromising as ever.

“We act prematurely, and we lose everything. You saw what they did to you. They left you both to rot because you were in Megatron’s way.” He folded his arms. “Starscream is a high-value asset. Megatron knows it. Any wrong move, and the Decepticons will tighten their grip.”

Thundercracker nearly barked in frustration, but Skywarp, still seated and nursing his recharging limb actuators, raised a servo gently.

“There’s… another way,” he said, quietly, his voice still hoarse. “Someone who might talk. Someone who’s still sane in there.”

Optimus turned to him, expression unreadable but deeply attentive. “Who?”

Skywarp looked up, optics meeting the Prime’s with weary clarity. He didn’t hesitate.

“Knockout.”

That name silenced the room.

Skywarp continued, “He’s the only one who still talks to Screamer like he’s just… Starscream. Not a Winglord. Not a tool. Just a bot. He checks in on him, pretends it’s for ‘medical reasons’ before,maybe he is still doing it, but we all know he just wants to make sure Screamer’s still functioning.”

Ratchet frowned thoughtfully. “He was one of the only Cons I ever respected in the field. Arrogant as hell, but never cruel. And smart enough to play the game without losing himself.”

Optimus nodded, decision already forming.

“Prowl,” he said, voice low but determined, “I need a secure channel—ghosted, encrypted, clean. No trace left behind.”

Prowl was already moving to the terminal. “Coordinates?”

Optimus looked to Skywarp. “Where would Knockout pick up a signal? One he wouldn’t dismiss as a trap?”

Skywarp hesitated, then offered: “South ridge comm channel, the one he uses to message Breakdown when he’s feeling paranoid. It’s unmonitored. Megatron never checks it.”

“Perfect,” said Prowl, fingers flying across the interface.

Within moments, the signal was live—masked under an old medbay frequency once used in Cybertron’s triage centers, a forgotten relic. And then, Optimus stepped forward to the transmitter, lowering his voice to its most neutral cadence.

“Dr. Knockout,” he began. “This is Optimus Prime. No aggression. No weapons. No orders. Just a plea. Starscream needs help—and we know you're the only one who hasn’t given up on him.”

Static.

Then a crackle.

Then—Knockout’s voice, annoyed but not shocked. “Took you long enough, Prime.”

Optimus blinked.

Knockout continued dryly. “He’s still there, you know. Still functioning. But for how long? I’m only one mech with a medscanner and sarcasm as my only tools.”

“Then help us,” Optimus said simply. “Tell us what’s going on inside. What Megatron’s doing. How deep it goes.”

A pause.

Then Knockout sighed. “I’ll talk. But you’re not going to like what you hear.”

Chapter Text

The moment Optimus signaled to Prowl, the room adjusted with a solemn hush. The commander gave a curt nod, and with a few strokes, the communication link transitioned from private to living voice—broadcast throughout the command center for all Autobots present to hear.

Optimus stood tall before the console, voice heavy with restrained emotion. “Knockout,” he began, “we’ve recovered Skywarp and Thundercracker. They’re safe. Alive. Stabilized thanks to Starscream’s prototype nanites.”

There was a brief, charged silence on the other end before Knockout’s voice came through, not as sharp or sarcastic as usual—but lighter. Relieved.

“Well, it’s about time someone got good news. Tell those two I said—”

But Knockout didn’t finish.

Thundercracker shoved past Optimus, ignoring everyone else. He slammed his servos onto the terminal, leaning in so close his wings practically trembled.

“Tell me how he is.”

There was no pause.

Knockout’s tone sobered immediately. “Not good.”

The tension in the command center solidified like a wall.

“He doesn't talk much. He listens. Obeys. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t look anyone in the optics. He works in silence now—always in the lab. The Healing Nanites have been perfected, yes, but that’s not all he does.” Knockout exhaled, static clinging to his words. “He’s building weapons. For every Decepticon. Custom-tailored. Personalized. Efficient and lethal.”

Skywarp, still weak, gave a low, pained sound. Thundercracker’s fists clenched.

“I tried asking him about his work,” Knockout continued. “I tried… reminding him of things. Old memories. Shared laughs. He doesn’t react. Sometimes he pauses, like he almost remembers, but then Megatron appears or a new order comes, and he snaps back into that… cold mode.”

“And no one gets near him now,” Knockout added after a beat. “Megatron made sure of that. He brought Tarn back.”

Gasps erupted around the room.

Knockout’s voice turned bitter. “Tarn isn’t here to fight Autobots. Megatron has stationed him inside, permanently. Tarn doesn’t leave Starscream’s side. Guards his lab. Patrols the corridors. Threatens anyone who lingers too long. It’s not even subtle. He’s not just keeping intruders out. He’s keeping Starscream in.”

“Primus,” whispered Ratchet. “That… monster…”

Optimus’ optics dimmed slightly as his fists closed at his sides.

Knockout continued, quieter now. “Starscream is functioning. He’s not harmed—physically. But mentally? He’s fraying. Cracking in ways you don’t see unless you know him. I keep pretending it’s checkups just so I can talk to him, but he barely registers my presence anymore. It’s like he’s… gone. The only thing left is obedience. And his work.”

Thundercracker spoke again, voice trembling with fury. “He was never built to follow orders. He was never meant to kneel. We need to—”

“Thundercracker,” Ultra Magnus warned, but the Seeker just turned his glare on him.

“He’s my brother. I will not sit here and do nothing while he’s torn apart.”

“There’s more,” Knockout added grimly. “Megatron’s planning something. The new weapons? He’s pushing for mass production. Deployment across fronts. Something big is coming—and Starscream’s at the core of it. Whether he wants it or not.”

Silence again.

And then Optimus Prime’s voice cut through the tension, heavy with intent:

“Then we must act. We will not lose him. Not to Megatron. Not to the lies. Not again.”

The silence following Knockout’s grim report lingered heavily in the Autobot base. Optimus’ optics narrowed slightly with thought before he spoke again, his voice steady but filled with quiet urgency.

“Knockout… I want you to tell Starscream that Skywarp and Thundercracker are alive.”

There was a pause on the comm, then Knockout’s voice came through, quieter now, almost reluctant. “Prime, I’ll try. But I’m telling you—he won’t believe me. Not in the state he’s in. He doesn’t believe anything unless it comes from them.”

Skywarp, still leaning against a support column, raised his head. “Then give him our code.”

Thundercracker’s optics flared, stepping forward before anyone else could respond. “Yes. That will get through to him. He’ll know it’s us.”

The Autobots in the room exchanged puzzled glances. Even Prowl looked momentarily curious. Wheeljack tilted his helm and muttered, “Code? Like a cipher?”

Knockout’s tone was flat but intrigued. “I assume this is more than a password?”

Thundercracker gave a tired but determined grin. “It’s our Trine’s code. Our life code. You can’t fake it. You wouldn’t understand unless you were one of us.”

Optimus nodded. “Say it. We’ll transmit it directly.”

Thundercracker squared his stance, as if invoking something sacred, and slowly began:

“First came… the matter!”

Skywarp, still weak but smiling faintly, added with theatrical flair: “And Unicron said… Damn it!”

Thundercracker pressed on, voice low and fierce with memory: “Then came… the thunder!”

Skywarp’s grin widened. “And Primus said… Yeah!”

Both seekers looked toward the comm where Knockout waited. Together, in a whisper like a battle hymn, they finished:

“And then came… the star!”

“And we said…” Thundercracker and Skywarp in perfect, solemn unison:

“That’s three.”

The room was utterly silent.

Even Ratchet blinked in stunned silence, optics flicking between the two Seekers. Wheeljack mouthed a confused, “What the frag?” and Perceptor looked as if he were about to ask for the symbolic quantum breakdown of the phrases.

Knockout, on the other end of the comm, made a small, breathy sound that could have been a laugh or a sob.

“…That,” he murmured, “was the most ridiculous, awful, childish thing I’ve ever heard. And you’re right. He’ll believe that.”

“Send it to him, Knockout,” Optimus said gently. “Even if he doubts his own memories—he won’t doubt that code.”

“I’ll try,” Knockout said, voice already fading as he prepared to disconnect. “Primus help us if this doesn’t reach him.”

The moment the transmission cut off, silence reigned for precisely three seconds.

Then Wheeljack gave an unceremonious snort, Ratchet rolled his optics with an exasperated groan, and Bulkhead full-on choked trying to hold in a laugh. Bumblebee let out a small series of chirps that unmistakably translated to amused disbelief, and even Arcee had to turn her face away, smirking.

Windblade, arms crossed, mouth twitching at the corners, tried to look composed—but her wings trembled, betraying the effort it took not to burst out laughing. “Well,” she finally said, voice carefully modulated, “clearly I’m not the only one who made an embarrassingly dramatic codex with him.”

Skywarp tilted his helm toward her, his grin widening. “You made a codex with Starscream back in Vos?” he taunted. “Oh, do tell. Come on—was it dramatic? Did it rhyme? Involve ancient Vosian poetry?”

Windblade shot him a venomous glare. “I’m not saying a word. Unlike you two, I have dignity.”

“Oh, so it does exist,” Thundercracker teased, crossing his arms smugly. “You had a dramatic little oath with Screamer too. That explains a lot, actually.”

“I will kill you both,” Windblade muttered, cheeks heating, her tone venomous but her expression betraying fond exasperation. Her wings puffed slightly in irritation, making her look more flustered than dangerous.

That broke the Autobots.

Wheeljack started laughing loudly, nearly doubling over, and even Prowl—stoic, stone-faced Prowl—cracked the barest smirk. Smokescreen let out a wheezing cackle. “Oh my Primus, Windblade had a secret bestie vow with Starscream?!”

“I did not!” Windblade barked.

“She totally did,” Skywarp said, grinning.

“She probably called him something like ‘Little Sparkling Comet’ or ‘Shiny Wings.’” Thundercracker added with mock sweetness.

Windblade groaned, dragging a servo down her face. “You are all impossible.”

Optimus Prime, though not laughing, allowed himself a small smile of relief. For the first time in cycles, the tension in the base had cracked—if only slightly. There was something healing in this ridiculousness. A shared bond, absurd and ancient, still strong enough to cut through despair.

But the levity faded slightly as Optimus’s gaze turned toward the communication console.

“Let us hope Starscream remembers what you all once were,” he said quietly. “Before Megatron destroyed everything.”

Tarn stood like a monolith before the lab doors—imposing, merciless, and utterly unreadable. His armor bore the scars of countless battles, his helm ever downturned like a predator contemplating the moment to strike. The soft glow of the red optics behind his Decepticon mask watched Knockout approach with predatory patience, silent, unmoving.

Knockout forced his steps to remain fluid and casual, even as his spark ticked up in tension. He balanced the tray of faintly glowing energon cubes with practiced elegance, the soft violet light of the energon casting eerie shadows on the corridor’s walls.

As he neared, he caught sight of Shockwave moving away in the opposite direction—lugging a sealed weapons crate nearly the size of a stasis pod. No doubt the first batch of Starscream's personalized weapons for the front line. Knockout swallowed. Everything was moving faster than expected.

Stopping before Tarn, Knockout tilted his helm just so, adopting the casual arrogance he’d long mastered.

“I brought energon for Starscream,” he said smoothly. “He’s been working non-stop—he needs fuel before he collapses on top of his own blueprints.”

For a moment, Tarn didn’t respond.

The silence dragged like a blade.

Then Tarn took a single step forward, and Knockout felt the weight of it in his struts. The enforcer’s voice, when it came, was a low static hum that somehow resonated deep within the walls.

“No one enters.”

Knockout didn’t flinch. “No offense, big guy, but if Starscream codes out in there, Megatron’s going to be far less forgiving to you than to me.”

Another beat of silence.

Tarn tilted his helm.

“You care whether he lives.”

It wasn’t a question.

Knockout shifted his grip on the tray, optics narrowing slightly. “Of course I care. He’s our Second-in-Command—Megatron’s bound. And he’s the only reason any of us aren’t leaking energon out of our exhaust ports. Maybe you enjoy dragging mangled comrades off the battlefield, but I’m a medic. I like seeing them walk.”

Tarn took another step, this time looming close. The tray between them barely separated Knockout from the towering wall of violence the DJD enforcer represented.

“You are not a soldier,” Tarn murmured, optics gleaming behind his mask. “You have never spilled blood in Megatron’s name. You fix. You polish. You look in mirrors more than you do at the war.”

Knockout held his ground. “And you slaughter more than you think. Maybe Starscream’s a traitor. Maybe he’s a coward. But he’s also a genius. And even you can’t deny the Decepticons need his creations.”

Tarn said nothing for a long time, processing—calculating.

Then: “One step inside the door. You do not speak to him.”

Knockout gave a small nod. “Fine by me.”

Tarn stepped aside just barely, his massive form turning with ominous weight as he unlocked the lab door. It hissed open.

Inside was a cold, sterile quiet.

Knockout stepped in. Tarn loomed behind him like a shadow, not entering—just watching.

Starscream was there, hunched over one of his many terminals, face gaunt, optics dimmed with overexertion. Fragile, brilliant, and so far gone. There were half-filled tubes of nanite-infused gel, fractured schematics, and coded prototypes displayed all around him.

Knockout knelt silently, placing the tray of energon near Starscream’s desk.

He didn’t speak.

But before leaving, he slipped a folded data card beneath one of the energon cubes. Etched into its encryption was an old code—scrambled, buried, but there. Just in case Starscream looked hard enough.

Just in case hope wasn’t entirely dead.

As he stood and turned, Tarn’s gaze met his again.

“You are being watched,” the enforcer said calmly.

Knockout’s smile never faltered. “Aren’t we all.”

Starscream’s claws hovered above a datapad, frozen mid-input as Knockout’s voice slid through the lab like a scalpel:

“I recommend feeding.”

The way Knockout emphasized the word—feeding—was deliberate, thick with subtext. Too deliberate. Starscream blinked, slowly, the dim redof his optics barely flickering to life. His helm turned, not towards Knockout but toward the tray.

Something in his gaze shifted.

Very slightly.

He hadn’t truly looked at anything in days. He hadn’t reacted, hadn’t questioned orders, hadn’t spoken unless spoken to. A machine following preprogrammed protocols. That was what Megatron and Tarn had made him into.

But that word…

That tone…

Knockout’s voice used to irritate him. Too smooth, too smug, too vibrant. But now it cut through the haze—like a shard of memory forcing its way through the fog.

Starscream’s optics dropped to the tray.

Feeding.

Fuel. Not just to survive. To live.

Knockout took a small step back, lifting his hands in mock surrender as he caught Tarn’s silent warning glare from the corner of his vision. Still, he leaned slightly toward the Seeker.

“I suggest you take it while it’s still warm,” Knockout said, then tilted his helm subtly toward the second cube. “There’s… extra flavor.”

Starscream stared at the tray.

Knockout straightened.

And, with a final look that betrayed nothing to Tarn, he pivoted with the tray now empty and exited the lab without resistance—though he could feel Tarn’s optics burning into his back the entire way.

Once the door slid shut behind him, the lab fell into oppressive silence.

Starscream stared at the energon.

He didn’t reach for it at first. His claws twitched, then stilled. His optics dimmed.

And then—just barely—he moved. Slowly, hesitantly, one trembling digit brushing against the energon cube… and pausing near the folded note beneath it.

Something in his processor tingled. A signal. A buried echo of a voice.

“First came... the matter…”

The code whispered through his mind like a forgotten melody.

Starscream blinked, slowly.

He pulled the note free, unfolding it with quiet, mechanical grace.

There, encrypted with one of the old Vosian firewalls only Seekers could interpret, was a string of code—and beneath it, a message in Knockout’s sharp cursive:

“They’re alive. They remember. And they’re coming for you.”

Starscream didn’t react outwardly. Not yet.

But for the first time in weeks, his claws clenched into a fist.

And his spark pulsed—not just with pain.

But with purpose.

The lab returned to its usual silence, filled only with the low hum of machinery and the gentle clink of nanite containers as Starscream mechanically resumed his work—or appeared to. His claws moved with precision, handling the delicate vials of nanites, adjusting settings, recalibrating micro-infusers. But behind the cold, empty expression… something had awakened.

The note was gone.

Not destroyed.

Not discarded.

Gone—absorbed into his subspace with a deft flick of his servo when Tarn turned his back for just a moment. The kind of motion a Seeker only makes when operating on instinct, honed reflexes trained for hiding data under extreme duress. A spy’s trick. A survivor’s habit.

A flicker of the old Starscream.

The message burned in his processor. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, replaying the words like a sacred mantra, a fracture in his internal stasis.

“They’re alive. They remember. And they’re coming for you.”

They were alive.

Skywarp. Thundercracker.

They remembered.

The code—the code. That stupid, childish, utterly unmistakable codex they’d created eons ago. No one could fake that. No one else would know it. It wasn’t just a memory—it was a bond. A promise.

And they were coming.

Starscream’s servos trembled just slightly over the next container. His movements faltered for only a split second. Tarn, standing sentry near the door, shifted—but said nothing. Starscream corrected the motion instantly. Smooth, precise. No mistakes.

He’d learned to hide himself well under Megatron’s shadow. But now, he didn’t just hide pain. He concealed hope.

He blinked slowly, letting his optics dim in a pattern that his processor could simulate as natural fatigue—but behind them, the fire burned brighter now.

He’d perfect the nanites. He’d continue the work.

He’d play along a little longer.

Because now he knew the truth: Megatron hadn’t broken him.

He’d only made Starscream wait.

And waiting… was something Starscream had mastered.

The connection stabilized with a soft pulse. The encrypted frequency, routed through multiple dampeners and scrambled nodes, linked Knockout directly to the Autobots’ temporary base. The screen flickered—and Optimus Prime’s stoic face appeared, framed by the soft blue glow of the command room. Behind him, Ratchet stood with crossed arms, and Skywarp and Thundercracker hovered close, optics burning with anxious hope.

Knockout didn't waste time.

“Starscream got the note,” he said quietly, leaning forward. His usual dramatic flair was gone—no smirk, no sarcasm. Just a tired, urgent undertone. “He didn’t react at first. His expression didn’t even flicker. But… I saw it. The way his servo moved. The way he slipped the note into subspace with surgical precision.” He looked down for a moment, then back up. “He remembered. And he believed it. You got through to him.”

Skywarp made a noise—half-sob, half-laugh—and turned away, dragging a servo over his face. Thundercracker visibly relaxed, some of the fury that had kept his frame rigid bleeding out of his posture.

Optimus inclined his head. “That is good news. But it also means Megatron will notice any change in his behavior. We must act carefully.”

Knockout hesitated, then added grimly, “Tarn is always nearby. Watching. Starscream’s under heavy surveillance. He’s allowed to work—nanites, weapons, all of it—but he’s not allowed to leave the lab alone. And Megatron... he visits often. Too often.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics. “So the situation is worse than we thought.”

“It’s deteriorating,” Knockout confirmed. “He’s quieter than I’ve ever seen him. He speaks only when spoken to, and only to acknowledge commands. There’s no spark in his voice. But after the note… I swear, Prime, it’s like a flicker of the old him came back. I know that Seeker. I saw the shift. You have time—but not much. If we wait too long, whatever part of him is still fighting could go silent forever.”

Optimus nodded slowly. “You’ve done well, Knockout. Remain in contact. Keep close to him. If you notice anything else—any signal, any sign he might be ready to move—we will be ready.”

Knockout exhaled. “I’ll do my best. But promise me something.”

“What is it?” Prime asked.

The doctor leaned in, his voice low, no longer for the others—just for the Autobot leader.

“Don’t let Megatron win. Don’t let Starscream fall for real. Not after everything he’s been through. If you’re coming for him… don’t hesitate.”

The line went silent for a beat before Optimus responded, his tone steel.

“We won’t.”

Tarn had always been a silent sentinel—calculated, patient, and impossible to read. But after days of monitoring Starscream's behavior, something began gnawing at him. The Seeker’s movements were still mechanical, his voice was hollow, and he followed orders without hesitation—but something was… different.

He lingered just outside Starscream’s lab one cycle, optics dimmed, pretending to be disinterested. But he was watching. Measuring.

And what he saw unsettled him.

Starscream, who once moved with the erratic energy of an overclocked processor, now moved too smoothly. Too quietly. And worst of all—he was thinking. Tarn noticed the tiniest twitch in his wings when Knockout visited. He saw how Starscream’s talons hovered over a console for a millisecond longer than needed, as if choosing between multiple subroutines before settling on the “correct” one. There was no error in his work—but too much control. No wasted movement. No emotion. Too clean.

Too deliberate.

Tarn stepped into the lab without a word.

Starscream didn’t react—just kept working, like a drone. His servos didn’t even flinch at Tarn’s heavy footfalls.

“You are progressing well,” Tarn said flatly, stepping closer to the weapons rack. “Megatron will be pleased.”

“Yes,” came the lifeless response.

Tarn’s optics narrowed behind his mask. “You’ve exceeded your production quota this cycle. Efficient.”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Tarn walked around the table, slow, deliberate, watching Starscream’s wings. No twitch. No flare. No reaction.

Then his tone shifted—just enough to test. “Knockout seems concerned for your health. He said you were skipping energon cycles.”

“I am efficient. Fuel is not a concern,” Starscream replied robotically.

Tarn said nothing, but he looked at the tray Knockout had left earlier—completely untouched. Still sealed. Still full.

Something was wrong.

Tarn took a step closer. “You are not required to starve yourself, Starscream. Megatron desires you alive. Useful.”

The Seeker finally looked up. Cold. Empty. “I serve.”

Tarn didn’t move for a long moment. But inwardly, something twisted.

Starscream wasn’t broken. He was hiding.

And Tarn would find out why.

Tarn stood now before Megatron in the war room, his shadow long in the low light. His massive form was motionless, but there was tension in the air, thick and coiled like a wire pulled too tight. Megatron looked up from a set of battle reports with narrowed optics.

"Report," he ordered simply.

Tarn inclined his helm. “Starscream is… compliant. Efficient. Almost too efficient. He responds without hesitation. He follows orders to the letter.”

Megatron leaned back in his command seat. “And this troubles you?”

“Yes,” Tarn replied bluntly. “He’s precise—calculated. But I see no true submission. No faith. I do not believe he is truly broken. I believe he is waiting.”

Megatron’s expression darkened, helm tilting with dangerous interest. “Waiting for what?”

Tarn stepped forward slightly, tone colder. “For them. For Thundercracker. Skywarp. For an opening.”

There was a heavy silence.

Then—Megatron chuckled. Low. Cold.

“Tarn…” he said smoothly, “You misinterpret what you see. I have remade Starscream. His loyalty is forged through pain and purpose. Through clarity. What you see is not defiance—it is evolution.”

“But he has not consumed fuel in two cycles,” Tarn added. “He is running on reserves and will crash within days. That is not evolution. That is stalling.”

Megatron’s optics dimmed, flickering. That was news he hadn’t heard. He drummed his claws on the armrest in thought.

"And Knockout?"

Tarn’s visor glowed slightly brighter. “Persistent. Still brings him energon. I will monitor him more closely.”

“Do more than monitor,” Megatron hissed. “If Knockout is contaminating my work, remove him.”

Tarn gave a sharp nod. “Understood.”

But Megatron wasn’t finished. He stood, his towering frame commanding the room. “I will speak with Starscream myself. Let’s see if the Seeker remembers what true obedience costs.”

Tarn bowed once and turned to leave. As the heavy doors shut behind him, Megatron stood in silence, staring at the screen showing the lab’s security feed—Starscream, sitting at his console, motionless, hollow-eyed.

And still... alive.

Too alive.

Megatron entered Starscream’s lab with slow, deliberate steps, each echoing ominously off the cold metal walls. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken tension. Starscream sat hunched over his workbench, the pale light casting long shadows across his gaunt features and hollow optics.

“Starscream,” Megatron’s voice cut through the silence like a sharpened blade. The seeker stiffened but said nothing, eyes fixed on the array of schematics and nanite designs spread before him.

Megatron paced slowly, circling like a predator assessing its prey. “You’ve been a model of obedience lately. Efficient, dutiful, compliant. A perfect servant.”

Starscream’s optics flickered slightly, a faint trace of pain or defiance buried deep within.

“But I wonder…” Megatron stopped just behind him, voice low and venomous. “How much of that is true loyalty? And how much is just survival?”

Starscream finally dared to look up, meeting Megatron’s gaze with a flash of something unreadable.

Megatron leaned down, voice dropping to a near whisper. “You’re fragile, Seeker. You run on borrowed time, hollowed out by grief and neglect. The little energy you consume is stolen from fools like Knockout—do you think I don’t know?”

Starscream’s fists clenched, the faintest tremor betraying his effort to stay calm.

“But I am generous,” Megatron continued, voice smooth and sinister. “I give you purpose—your weapons, your Healing Nanites. Without me, you are nothing. A shadow, lost and forgotten.”

He straightened and regarded Starscream coldly. “Yet you still cling to that fragile hope. That Thundercracker and Skywarp are alive.'

Starscream said nothing, but his optics dimmed, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through.

Megatron’s smile was cruel and victorious. “Hold onto that hope, Seeker. It is your leash. Your chain. And I am its master.”

A long silence filled the room before Megatron turned sharply on his heel, the sound of his footsteps fading like a death knell.

Starscream remained seated, breathing shallowly, caught between the agony of hope and the crushing weight of control. But somewhere deep inside, a spark—small, fragile—still smoldered..
Megatron’s optics glowed a deep crimson as he sealed the comm with Tarn. His voice was cold, sharp as a vibroblade. “Tarn, it seems Knockout’s meddling has sparked something dangerous in Starscream—a flicker of hope I cannot allow to grow.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like a shroud over the darkened chamber.

“I want you to handle Knockout. Teach him exactly what happens to those who disobey. Be merciless, but leave him alive. He’s too useful to waste.”

A brief silence followed, then Tarn’s gravelly reply, terse and unquestioning. “Understood, Warlord. I will carry out your orders with precision.”

Megatron’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Good. And record everything. This will serve as a lesson not just for Knockout, but for Starscream as well. Disobedience is a disease—one that I will excise before it spreads.”

He ended the communication, his mind already envisioning the scene of ruthless correction. Megatron was a master of control, and he would not lose his prize over a foolish doctor’s whisper or a fleeting spark of rebellion.

Meanwhile, Tarn prepared, his cold, merciless nature awakening at the command—ready to enforce Megatron’s will without hesitation.

The cold metallic corridor echoed with heavy footsteps as Tarn approached Knockout’s usual haunt — the medical wing. Knockout had barely noticed the imposing form entering, his head buried in diagnostic data, when the huge Decepticon stood over him like a shadow of doom.

Without a word, Tarn’s massive hand grabbed Knockout by the shoulder, yanking him to his feet. The red medic’s optics flickered with shock and fear, but Tarn’s grip was unyielding.

“Warlord’s orders,” Tarn growled, his voice low and mechanical, “Disobedience will be punished. You have meddled where you should not.”

Before Knockout could protest, Tarn’s fist slammed into his chassis with brutal force. The doctor staggered, crashing into the cold wall, his metal frame denting beneath the impact.

Tarn didn’t relent.

Punch after punch rained down — precise, merciless strikes aimed not just to injure but to break. Knockout’s servos whined in protest, joints straining under the assault. His faceplate cracked, sparking internals visible beneath.

Through it all, Tarn’s secondary arm extended from his back, a sleek holo-recorder clicking on silently. The entire brutal lesson was documented — a testament to what happened to those who defied Megatron.

“You will learn your place,” Tarn growled, stepping close enough that Knockout could smell the metallic tang of his own blood on Tarn’s breath. “And you will convey that lesson to your seeker.”

Knockout’s body slumped, barely conscious, but the pain was sharp and clear — a vivid warning that disobedience meant suffering, yet survival, for now.

Tarn released him with a cold shove. “Get back to your infirmary. Heal yourself quickly. You are too valuable to waste, but next time... there will be no mercy.”

Knockout collapsed onto the floor, trembling but alive, the holo-recorder’s light blinking faintly as it captured the grim lesson for Megatron’s eyes alone.

The cold walls of the quarters seemed to close in around Starscream as Megatron’s heavy footsteps echoed ominously behind him. The seeker’s optics flickered nervously, sensing something was terribly wrong even before the Warlord spoke.

Megatron’s voice was low, cold, and sharp as a blade. “You will watch.”

Before Starscream could protest, a holo-screen flickered to life. The recorded footage began, grainy but unmistakable — Tarn’s hulking frame looming over Knockout, the harsh strikes raining down, the sounds of metal crunching and servos breaking filling the silent room.

Starscream’s optics widened, fear instantly blooming in his chest. His servos trembled, his processors struggling to keep up with the onslaught unfolding before him. He knew. Deep down, he knew this punishment was because of him — because of his weakness, his quiet defiance, his moments of hope and rebellion against Megatron’s will.

As the frames dragged on, showing the merciless blows that nearly shattered Knockout, Starscream felt a cold wave of guilt crash over him. The doctor, who had risked everything to reach out to him, to keep him tethered to some shred of hope — now broken and bleeding, because of what Starscream had done… or failed to do.

His spark hammered painfully in his chest as Megatron’s voice cut through the images, brutal and accusing. “This happened because of you. Your disobedience. Your weakness.”

Starscream’s shoulders slumped, his wings folding inward like a defeated animal’s. He lowered his gaze, unable to meet Megatron’s burning optics.

“I... I never wanted this,” he whispered, voice cracking like static. “I only wanted... to help them. To help Skywarp and Thundercracker.”

Megatron stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “You wanted to defy me. You wanted to hold onto hope. But look where that hope has brought us — your friend beaten nearly to death, your loyalty shattered.”

A shudder ran through Starscream’s frame as guilt and fear collided. His processors spiraled with regret, and for the first time in a long while, he truly felt broken — not just physically, but deep in his spark.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I will obey.”

Megatron’s lips twisted into a cold smile, savoring the sight. “Good. Because from now on, you belong to me. No more secrets, no more hope. Only loyalty. And obedience.”

Starscream’s optics dimmed, the weight of his guilt heavy as chains. He had lost more than friends; he was losing himself.

The medical wing was unusually quiet when Hook entered, the sterile hum of the environment oddly unsettling. His footsteps echoed down the corridor until they stopped abruptly before a familiar figure slumped on a medibay berth—Knockout.

Beside Knockout stood Ramjet, who was quickly withdrawing a small vial filled with shimmering curative nanites—the miraculous healing substance Starscream had engineered. Without hesitation, Ramjet injected the nanites into Knockout’s arm, hoping to stabilize the battered doctor.

Hook’s optics narrowed as he carefully placed Knockout onto the berth, his grip firm but gentle. “What happened to you?” Hook demanded, his voice low but edged with urgency.

Knockout’s frame trembled slightly, but his voice was steady as he answered, “Tarn... it was Tarn. He—he found out what I was doing... trying to reach Starscream... I paid the price.”

Hook’s gaze sharpened, quickly analyzing the faint scars and bruises along Knockout’s chassis—signs of a brutal beating far beyond a routine rough-up. Something deeper troubled him.

He turned to Ramjet, his tone clipped. “You’re dismissed. I’ll check on you later.”

Ramjet hesitated, his usual cocky smirk replaced by a grim seriousness. The doctor’s condition had shaken him more than he cared to admit. Without another word, Ramjet turned and strode away, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Alone with Knockout now, Hook’s mind raced. The doctor had clearly been helping Starscream in some way. “You’re an idiot,” Hook muttered under his breath, the words harsh but tinged with reluctant respect. “Whatever game you’re playing, it’s better you stop it. You think you’re the only one at risk? No. Breakdown’s the one who’ll pay the price if you keep pushing.”

Knockout blinked slowly, his usual arrogant smirk absent. Hook continued, voice low but resolute, “You’re valuable because you’re a doctor. Breakdown? Everyone knows how much you care for him. Don’t let your stubbornness get him killed.”

A heavy silence settled between them as the weight of Hook’s words lingered. Knockout’s mind wrestled with the truth in them—how far was he willing to go? And how much more pain was he willing to let others suffer for his cause?

Hook placed a steady hand on Knockout’s shoulder. “Rest for now. We’ll talk more once you’re stronger.”

Knockout lay in the dim light of the medbay, Hook’s harsh words echoing relentlessly inside his processors. An idiot, the word burned like acid. The doctor’s mind, usually razor-sharp and proud, twisted with doubt. Was he foolish to keep fighting for Starscream? Was his stubborn loyalty only bringing suffering to those he cared about?

The relentless weight of injuries, betrayal, and Megatron’s iron grip compounded with Hook’s blunt assessment carved deep fissures in Knockout’s resolve. He felt exposed, vulnerable—and worse, powerless to protect the one he admired most.

That night, while the others rested, Knockout sat alone before a locked console. His spark flickered, dimmed by exhaustion and despair. Then, with a calculated coldness, he initiated a message—encrypted, irreversible:

To the Autobots: This is Knockout. Effective immediately, I am no longer your informant. Whatever happens within the Decepticons, you will no longer receive word from me. You will be blind. Forgive me, but it’s the only way to protect those I care for.

His fingers hesitated a moment, then confirmed the transmission. The connection severed, his comms went silent. The Autobots were cut off once more, left in the dark about Starscream’s fate—and the growing storm within the Decepticon ranks.

Meanwhile, in the deeper recesses of the Autobot base, Thundercracker’s restraint snapped.

The strain of lost brothers, betrayal, and the desperate hope that flickered and died had driven the seeker to the edge. With a guttural roar, Thundercracker unleashed a violent surge of electrical energy. The room’s lights flickered and died, control panels sparked and shut down, and under the sudden release of power, a small crater cracked open in the reinforced floor.

The hum of machinery was replaced by silence, broken only by Thundercracker’s heavy breaths and the metallic echo of the crater’s edges.

Skywarp rushed forward, his voice calm but firm, placing a hand on Thundercracker’s arm. “Easy, brother. Calm yourself.”

Thundercracker’s stormy optics met Skywarp’s steady gaze, and slowly, his surge faded, leaving only a trembling frame struggling to contain the tempest inside.

Skywarp’s presence was the only thing grounding him now—reminding him that despite the darkness, he was not alone.

Optimus Prime stood calmly in the briefing room, “Thundercracker,” Optimus began, meeting the seeker’s wary gaze, “Ratchet and Wheeljack understand the strain you’re under. No complaints will be made about the equipment you overloaded. Your frustration is justified.”

Thundercracker’s optics flickered, still raw from his earlier outburst, but he gave a slight nod.

Optimus turned to Ratchet and Wheeljack. “We must focus.'' Optimus placed a reassuring hand on Thundercracker’s shoulder. “Rest now, brother. When the time comes, we will move as one. We will bring Starscream home.”

Thundercracker’s optics brightened with a spark of hope.

Chapter Text

The chamber where the Predacons trained had once echoed with roars, metal clashing, and battle routines. Now, it echoed with a tense kind of silence—the stillness of young minds turning over forbidden questions.

Skylynx paced near the edge of the training platform, her tail flicking in annoyance. “Why can’t we see Starscream? We used to.”

“Megatron said he’s too busy,” Darksteel muttered, idly sharpening his claws against the metal wall. “Too busy even for us.”

“Too busy for us?” Skylynx turned, eyes narrowing. “He made us! He gave us names!”

“Doesn’t matter,” snapped Rumble, perched atop a crate, arms crossed and mouth pulled into a deep scowl. “We don’t get to see him anymore. No classes, no lessons, no terrarium checkups. Tarn’s always there now. He’s guarding Starscream like he’s made of gold.”

“He’s scary,” Frenzy admitted from where he sat tinkering with a small sonic blaster. “Not in the ‘cool scary’ way, either. In the ‘I’ll-smash-you-into-the-wall-for-blinking’ way.”

Skylynx growled under his breath. “But Tarn’s just one bot.”

“He’s big,” Rumble added.

“But he’s not three,” Skylynx said with a smirk.

That paused the room.

Three sets of optics flicked to her—Frenzy’s, Rumble’s, and Darksteel’s—and then turned to glare at the silent Predacon twins: Skystalker and Ripclaw, who had been quietly listening this whole time with twitching wings and shifting claws. Then the casseticons turned to look at each other.

The air shifted.

The corners of Frenzy and Rumble’s mouths curved up, slowly. Not a happy smile. Not a playful smile.

No.

That smile.

The smile they gave each other before causing complete chaos.

Skylynx, catching the look, grinned like a drake about to torch a city. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, go?” asked Darksteel, wings fluttering nervously. “You mean go where?”

“To see Starscream,” Rumble said with a manic glint in his optics.

“But Tarn—” Darksteelr started.

“—is just one guy,” Frenzy interrupted, already activating his sonic emitters. “And we are five.”

“No, we’re six.” Predaking flared his wings. - "I'm strong like two.''

Frenzy and Rumble gave a synchronized clap, then jumped down from their perch. “It’s chaos time.”

What followed was not so much a plan as it was an orchestrated riot.

Skylynx led the charge, barreling through the corridors with Rumble clinging to his back, yelling like a war-drunk minibot. Behind him, Darksteel and the Predaking took to the walls and ceiling, slashing cables and yanking wires, plunging the halls into strobing darkness and smoke. The entire sub-wing of the base descended into shrieking alarms and glitching lights.

Frenzy and Rumble raced ahead of them, disabling locks, rerouting systems, and using their small frames to slip under bulkheads that should have barred access to most mechs. Cackling the whole way.

When Tarn finally received the alert, he stormed down the hall like a reaper... only to find walls dented with claw marks, vents torn apart, and the base’s sensor grid short-circuited.

But by the time he reached Starscream’s lab door, it was too late.

The door had been overridden.

And standing inside, with Frenzy on his shoulders and Skylynx shielding the others, was Starscream—wide-eyed, trembling, stunned.

Frenzy leapt off Skylynx’s back and sprinted up to the stunned Seeker. “We missed you!”

Starscream said nothing, his optics darting to the hallway behind them, already bracing for consequences.

But Rumble stepped forward, planted his fists on his hips, and declared loud enough for every audio receptor to catch: “You’re not a prisoner, you’re our teacher!”

And Skylynx added, spreading his wings in challenge, “And we’re taking you back.”

The look Starscream gave them was so fragile it nearly shattered. Somewhere beneath the exhaustion and programming, the ghost of who he had been flickered through.

Hope.

And outside the lab, Tarn’s shadow loomed, rage rising like a storm about to burst.

Predaking had always been a warrior, a beast forged in the fiercest pits of Cybertron’s primal code—but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t just hunt prey. He observed it. He understood it.

And Starscream wasn’t prey.

He was wounded.

He had watched quietly while Frenzy and Rumble climbed up to Starscream’s worktable, asking excitedly when their combat drills would resume. Skylynx had chattered about a “new aerial technique” he wanted Starscream to approve, and Darksteel had even brought his old tedbear,now intact and not destroyed, hoping for praise.

But Starscream barely moved.

He had flinched the moment they entered. His fingers trembled over datapads, optics dimmed and empty, wings hunched low in a posture no Seeker should have. His once-pristine laboratory was an insult to the mech it belonged to—papers stained with energon smudges, blueprints half-torn, and broken equipment left abandoned like corpses in a battlefield.

Even more telling… Starscream had not told them to leave.

He hadn’t told them anything at all.

And then came Tarn.

Predaking saw him before the others did—felt the sharp-edged pulse of his fury before the others registered the thud of footsteps behind the door.

Weapons drawn. Systems hot. Vents flaring like a beast denied blood.

Tarn wasn’t walking to speak.

He was walking to maim.

Predaking’s optics narrowed. His sensors flared, claws flexing. “Darksteel,” he growled low, enough that only the closest would hear, “brace yourself.”

Darksteel blinked, confused. “What—?”

“Now.”

Skylynx turned, confused, then followed Predaking’s gaze to the entrance of the lab. And then he saw it too—the slight illumination of red optics from beyond the cracked door, the unmistakable silhouette of violence approaching like a thunderhead.

Tarn was not coming to warn them. He was coming to enforce something.

“Why’s he… armed?” Darksteel asked, stepping protectively in front of Starscream, who didn’t even register the threat anymore. That was the worst part. He hadn’t even reacted.

Starscream should have reacted.

Skylynx moved instinctively beside his fellow Predacon, wings flaring in defense. “He got orders,” he muttered darkly. “From Megatron.”

Predaking snarled, his mouth curling with sharp, ancient anger. “Then Megatron forgot who we are.”

The door burst inward with a bang as Tarn stepped in, frame tense, voice like a blade: “You were told not to approach him.”

His optics scanned each of them with seething rage—but he didn’t strike. Not yet.

Because they were all watching him back. And Predaking stepped forward.

“No,” Predaking said, deep voice rumbling like distant tectonic fury. “We were told nothing. We followed Starscream once, and we will not let you cage him like a failed pet project.”

Tarn raised a weapon.

Predaking bared his fangs.

Frenzy and Rumble jumped off the worktable with synchronized grace, standing at Starscream’s side now—not protectively, but solidly. Loyal.

Skylynx lowered her head, already calculating a pounce.

Tarn looked ready to test them all.

But Starscream finally moved. A twitch. A sound. A crack in his vocalizer. Not a command—but a plea. Barely a whisper.

“Stop…”

It was that sound—so fragile, so desperate, so tired—that froze the room.

Predaking didn’t lower his stance, but he shifted ever so slightly toward Starscream. “We are not your enemies, Starscream.”

And the Seeker… for just a second… blinked. A flicker of awareness behind his haze.

Tarn’s optics flared brighter, fury boiling to the edge.

Predaking turned his head, spoke over his shoulder to Frenzy, who was shaking slightly now. “Get him away from here.”

“I’m not leaving!” Frenzy shouted.

“Do it!” Rumble yelled instead, grabbing his brother and bolting toward Starscream, dragging him to the side just as Darksteel and Skylynx lunged toward Tarn.

Because the moment of peace had shattered.

And war, within the Decepticons, had begun.

The air cracked with the sound of a discharge.

Tarn’s cannon was raised—steady, primed, unflinching. Its target: Rumble.

The little casseticon hadn’t even realized it, not fast enough to register the kill shot aimed at his helm. But Starscream had.

Something in him snapped.

For one spark-stopping nano-klik, the lab seemed to still, the only movement the flickering of broken monitors and the low static hum of damaged lights. But in that moment, Starscream’s optics widened, not with fear—but recognition. His limbs moved on their own, acting on raw instinct and memory, faster than logic could interfere.

He threw himself forward.

"FRENZY—RUMBLE—DOWN!"

The twins barely had time to yelp as Starscream’s frame collided with theirs, dragging them to the floor with protective force. His wings flared over them like a shield, his armplates curling inward to protect their helms.

A deafening crack split the air—then the shatter of metal and circuitry exploding.

But the noise wasn’t Rumble’s skull. It was the laboratory’s mainframe—its core processor erupting into sparks and flame as the redirected shot blew it apart behind them.

Smoke choked the air. The lights flickered.

Starscream’s vents were ragged. His plating trembled.

But his processor was clear.

No fog.

No empty servos moving under someone else’s will.

Only clarity.

Only rage.

Only... awakening.

He rose slowly, not from exhaustion, but from the heavy weight of realization. His optics burned—red and alive, glowing like twin stars ignited for the first time in an age. Gone was the blank, obedient puppet Megatron had molded through pain and control.

Now, standing tall amidst the smoke and flickering light, was Starscream.

Not Megatron’s servant.

Not the scientist locked in a lab.

Not the Seeker who forgot who he was.

But the Seeker who remembered.

He turned, slowly, to face Tarn. The war machine stood still, momentarily stunned that his shot had missed, optics narrowing now on Starscream—not the machine—but the threat.

Starscream’s wings lifted with purpose—sharp, proud, as they once had been. His voice cracked, rasped from disuse, but it rang louder than any shout Tarn could have made:

"Touch them again… and you’ll never function again."

Rumble gasped. Frenzy’s optics were wide.

Predaking, who had seen the shift, snarled approvingly.

Skylynx’s mouth dropped open.

Darksteel smiled.

Because they all knew.

The spark of Starscream was back.

And Megatron’s leash had just snapped.

Tarn charged like a tank, fury rolling off him in waves, cannon igniting with a hum that promised death. He had broken countless warriors with that brutality—turned unyielding soldiers into twitching wrecks with mere presence. Starscream would be no different.

Or so he thought.

But something had changed.

Starscream didn’t retreat.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead, the seeker stood his ground, wings slicing the air like blades, feet anchored wide in a combat stance carved deep into his frame since the War of Vos. His optics glowed with defiant fire—no longer dulled by programming, no longer shackled by Megatron’s grip.

“Frenzy! Rumble!” Starscream barked, voice sharp as steel. “Cover your audials—now!”

The twins obeyed without question, scrambling behind the Predacons, who instinctively hunkered down. A shiver passed through their ranks—not of fear, but of knowing. Something primal stirred.

Starscream inhaled, his vents whirring violently.

Then he screamed.

A weaponized screech—piercing, seismic, unnatural in intensity—ripped from his throat like a sonic blade forged in agony and vengeance. It slammed into Tarn with invisible force, lifting the massive mech clean off the ground and throwing him backward like a ragdoll.

The base shook. Vents cracked in the ceiling. Panels buckled and popped.

Tarn, as dense and armored as he was, landed with a ground-splitting crash, dragged across the metal floor by the momentum of the blast. But he stood again—wobbling, optics dimming and flickering, systems struggling to stabilize.

Starscream’s optics narrowed. Not enough.

He screamed again—this time changing the frequency, tuning the pitch with surgical precision. This was no wild screech. This was science turned into a weapon, a frequency engineered in seconds by a genius rediscovering his fury.

The effect was devastating.

Support beams rattled. Console lights sputtered and died. Glass, crystal, even the reinforced transparent energon casing of nearby storage units shattered violently into clouds of slivers.

Tarn was launched once more—this time slammed into the wall, deep enough to crater metal. Sparks burst from his joints. Hairline fractures crawled across his armor. His cannon sagged, misfiring before shutting down entirely.

His limbs trembled, tremors racking his frame.

He had never been hit like that.

Never by a scientist.

Never by Starscream.

Starscream lowered his helm, panting softly, wings still flared, smoke rising from his vents. His voice came out low—dangerous.

“That… was for Knockout.”

Behind him, the room was dead silent save for the hum of sparking wires and the distant groans of the metal infrastructure struggling to hold.

Predaking stared in awe.

Rumble whispered, “Whoa…”

Frenzy grinned. “He’s back.”

And for the first time in too long… Starscream felt it too.

Darksteel didn’t wait. As soon as Starscream stopped screaming, the tall Predacon moved, scooping up Frenzy and placing the casseticon firmly on his back.

“Hold on.”

Skylynx followed suit, crouching for Rumble to leap onto her shoulders. “Time to move.”

Behind them, the lab groaned and hissed from structural stress. Starscream stood in silence, his vents loud in the stillness, while Tarn remained slumped in the wall, sparks dancing from his damaged frame.

Predaking took point, massive frame gliding with eerie grace. “Out. Now.”

They ran, claws clanging on the metal floors, past halls that still echoed with distant alarms and broken systems. Only when they reached a safer corridor, the lights flickering instead of fully blacked out, did Predaking finally slow his pace.

“Megatron lied,” he said, his voice deep and cold. “Starscream wasn’t working for him. He wasn’t protected. He was a prisoner.”

Skylynx’s wings stiffened, steps faltering slightly. “What…?”

Darksteel growled, “But he said Starscream was—”

“He lied to all of us,” Predaking cut in. “You saw it with your own optics. Tarn guarding him like a pet? That wasn’t safety. That was control.”

There was silence, but not stillness—Frenzy squirmed atop Darksteel’s back, fists clenched tight, his visor sparking slightly from overloaded circuits.

“But…” Frenzy’s voice cracked. “Soundwave… he told us everything was fine. He said Screamer was just... tired.”

Rumble gritted his denta. “We asked. We asked him, and he didn’t say anything.”

Skylynx looked between them. “He’s your creator. Maybe he thought—”

“Thought what?!” Rumble snapped. “That we were too young? Too fragile to know? We grew up in war! We’ve killed! We’ve seen bots explode in front of us—!”

Frenzy was trembling now, anger boiling just below his plating. “We deserved the truth.”

Darksteel said nothing, but his claws twitched.

Predaking looked down at them all, voice steady. “You were old enough to see the worst of war. That makes you old enough to understand betrayal.”

Rumble's optics glowed brightly. “Then it’s our turn to choose sides.”

Skylynx slowly nodded. “And I know exactly who I’m siding with.”

Darksteel grinned, fierce and wild. “Let’s go back and finish the job.”

And somewhere, far behind them, Starscream stood in the ruins of a shattered lab—unbroken.

Starscream’s steps echoed through the quiet corridors, his wings pulled high and rigid behind him—no longer a symbol of pride, but defiance. The lab doors slid shut behind him for the last time, and with it, he left behind everything Megatron had twisted him into.

He didn’t run. He didn’t sneak. He walked—like a prince in exile reclaiming his name.

Every step felt heavier, the weight of the sparkbound clawing at his core like shackles of energy. Megatron’s mark still pulsed faintly in his spark, but Starscream knew the way out. There were only two paths: death, or a new bond that could override the one forced upon him.

And Starscream had chosen life. Chosen truth.

He would find Skywarp and Thundercracker. He would form the Trine again—not as soldiers, not as property—but as equals, as family. They would rewrite the ancient rites of the Seekers, and this time it would be real. Not command. Not submission. Choice.

The hangar loomed ahead. The Predacons had gathered there, murmuring among themselves. Darksteel was pacing, Skylynx sat beside Frenzy and Rumble who were still tense with confusion and betrayal. Predaking stood tall, watching the door as if he’d known Starscream would come.

And when the Seeker appeared, every optic turned to him.

Starscream didn’t falter.

“I’m leaving,” he said, voice cool and level. “I am no longer a Decepticon. And I will not remain shackled to a sparkbound that was never mine to begin with.”

Frenzy’s visor flickered. “You can break it?”

Starscream nodded once. “By replacing it with another. A true one. One built on loyalty, not control.”

Darksteel stepped forward. “You know what Megatron will do if he finds out.”

Starscream gave a dry, humorless smile. “Then he’d better pray he doesn’t.”

Predaking approached slowly, massive frame lowering just enough so his optics met Starscream’s.

“Where will you go?”

Starscream’s wings twitched, his voice quieter now. “To them. To my Trine. Wherever they are.”

Skylynx stood too, nodding fiercely. “We’ll help you.”

“No.” Starscream’s voice was steel. “Not yet. If any of you are seen helping me now, it will be you Tarn beats next. And this time… he’ll aim to kill.”

He looked between them all—these bots who had come to care for him even when he’d been too broken to care for himself. The ones Megatron thought could be kept apart.

Starscream would prove him wrong.

He stepped back toward the blast doors and turned his helm just slightly. “When I return… it will be on my terms.”

Then, with one silent breath, Starscream took off down the corridor—toward freedom.

Megatron discovered Starscream’s absence with the silence of a storm seconds before the first lightning strike.

He had returned from a war council, expecting a new batch of nanite vials and weapons schematics waiting on his desk. Instead, he found the lab empty—cold, dead screens flickering static, no lingering trace of Starscream’s signature in the room’s sensors. Even the ever-watchful Tarn hadn’t returned to position.

For a moment, Megatron stood still. Not out of confusion—he knew what had happened. He felt it in his spark: a thread once taut with command now loose, resisting.

The forced sparkbound was breaking.

His optics narrowed, lips curling back into a soundless snarl. He activated the base-wide communication line.

“Tarn. Report.”

No answer.

“Tarn.”

Static.

He turned on his heel and stormed down the corridor, passing startled Vehicons who immediately scattered like shadows under a searchlight. His heavy steps echoed through the Decepticon fortress, louder than the alarms that should have gone off.

A flicker of motion—Hook, waiting with datapads near the medbay—dared to speak. “My Lord, I believe Starscream—”

“Is gone,” Megatron growled, voice a thunderclap. “And you all LET HIM.”

He moved with the precision of a killer, heading not to the lab, but the surveillance room. Slamming his fist into the console, he began rewinding feed after feed, ignoring anything that wasn’t timestamped within the last hour.

And then he found it.

The camera near the lower hangar: static for several minutes—then a glimmer of movement. Starscream. Alone. Wings erect, stride determined. No sneaking, no disguise.

He hadn’t escaped.

He had left.

The door hissed open, and Starscream was gone.

Megatron’s optics burned crimson. His ventilation cycled heavily, armor panels shifting like tectonic plates as he clenched his claws against the edge of the console. A low growl resonated in his chest, becoming words ground out like blades scraping metal.

“He thinks he can defy me. After everything. After I gave him purpose. Power. Place.”

He slammed a fist through the control panel, glass shattering, wires sparking. The screen died in a final flicker of Starscream’s trailing silhouette.

Behind him, Soundwave entered silently.

Megatron did not look at him. “Trace his signature. Use anything you have—subspace fragments, Energon trails, resonance decay. I want every Seeker within a hundred light-years watched.”

Soundwave gave the faintest nod.

“And when you find him… bring him back alive.”

Megatron’s voice lowered to a hiss:

“Alive enough to remember… what happens to traitors.”

Megatron stood in the center of the Decepticon war room, his massive frame radiating silent fury. The room was dim, screens flickering with data streams, tactical maps, and Starscream’s last known trajectory. Every major Decepticon was present—those who mattered, at least. The ones still loyal.

Or so he hoped.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His voice was calm, cold, and sharpened like a blade pressed against a throat.

“Starscream has abandoned his duty. He has betrayed the cause… and me.”

There was a flicker of unease among them—no one dared move, but they all felt it: the shift in tone, the dangerous control laced through Megatron’s every word.

“He carries with him secrets of our defenses. Of our advancements. Of our power. That alone makes him an unacceptable threat.”

His optics scanned the room, lingering a second too long on Hook, then Knockout’s empty chair.

“From this moment, Starscream is a fugitive of the Empire. He is to be hunted, and when found, subdued and returned. I want him alive, intact… and reminded that freedom is not his to take.”

He stepped forward, claws folded behind his back, each click of his pedes a metronome of menace.

“Soundwave will lead the operation to track him.”

Soundwave nodded silently.

“Predaking, Skylynx, Darksteel—you will sweep the air sectors and border ranges. He will flee to high altitudes. Cut off his escape.”

“Vehicons will double patrol rotations. Every gate, every hangar, every energon depot—he will not resupply.”

Megatron turned to Blitzwing.

“If any Autobot is found harboring him, I want the location leveled and the survivors questioned—violently.”

His voice dropped, venom soft.

“Tarn is recovering. When he is ready, he will join the hunt. And he will carry my final message, should Starscream continue to run.”

Then he paused.

His gaze swept the room once more, daring any objection. There was none.

“Dismissed. Find him.”

As they moved to obey, Megatron stayed behind in the quiet hum of command.

He didn’t want Starscream dead.

He wanted him broken. Kneeling again. Eyes dull with obedience.

Because nothing burned more than losing the one who once shone brighter than the rest… only to have him choose someone else.

Megatron watched from the upper command balcony as the Predacons didn’t move.

Not a single wingbeat. Not a growl. They stood clustered near the entrance, massive and menacing, but rooted in place like stone guardians. Skylynx’s optics burned with silent defiance. Darksteel crossed his arms. And Predaking… Predaking didn’t even acknowledge the command.

Megatron narrowed his optics.

“Predaking.”

No answer.

“You have your orders.”

Predaking finally turned his head. “No. Not this time.”

The silence that followed wasn’t still. It pulsed with tension.

Megatron’s fist twitched. “Are you disobeying me?”

Predaking bared his teeth. “We followed you because we believed in Starscream,our carrier. Not to watch you strip Starscream of everything he is. We saw him. What you did. That was no command. That was a prison.You are dead to us, you are not a good match to be carrier mate.”

Skylynx stepped forward beside him. “You said he was too busy. That he had no time for us. You lied. He wasn’t busy. He was broken.”

Darksteel’s wings flared. “If Starscream’s a traitor, then so are we.”

They turned and walked out, not with haste but with purpose, not fearing any reprisal. None of the Decepticons dared follow.

Megatron’s glare turned to Soundwave.

But Soundwave remained still, unreadable behind his visor, hands calmly behind his back.

Then, to Megatron’s mounting fury, Frenzy and Rumble—his casseticons—also remained. Not near Soundwave. Not near anyone. Just watching. And the look they gave their creator…

Cold.

Betrayed.

It was Rumble who finally spoke, voice trembling but clear: “He was our teacher.”

Frenzy added, sharper, “He was your victim.”

They said no more. They didn’t need to. They turned and left, walking in the direction the Predacons had gone. They didn’t look back.

Soundwave did not follow. He made no move to stop them.

Megatron’s rage was a furnace, but Soundwave’s stillness burned colder.

Megatron hissed. “They are your responsibility.”

Soundwave, for the first time in cycles, responded aloud. His voice was faint, calm, but resolute:

“Not anymore.”

Soundwave stood in the upper levels of the Decepticon base, far above the chaos, in the cold shadows where no light reached and no one looked.

Below, the ranks moved with forced purpose—some out of fear, others out of habit. But no one moved with belief anymore. And that silence, more than anything, confirmed what Soundwave had already known.

Megatron had lost them.

He had turned from the Warlord who inspired unity to a tyrant obsessed with ownership. Starscream, broken. Knockout, beaten. Frenzy and Rumble—his own creations—gone, their silence toward him louder than any scream. The pain carved into Soundwave’s spark, but he would not show it. Could not.

He would protect them, as he always had. From the shadows, from the consequences of rebellion.

He had noticed the Aerialbots’ “search” for Starscream. Wide sweeps, missed readings, fuel trails left unquestioned. Soundwave processed it in seconds—it wasn’t incompetence. It was loyalty, but not to Megatron. No, it was to him. The Winglord. Their real leader.

He wouldn’t report it.

He wouldn’t warn them.

He wouldn’t stop them.

And in that same silence, he watched Megatron bark orders, issue threats, lash out with suspicion. It was not power—it was the desperation of a ruler who knew his empire was crumbling.

Soundwave did not move.

He would not stop the fall.

Not this time.

Chapter Text

Frenzy and Rumble now lived among the Predacons—not out of camaraderie or shared philosophy, but for protection. Darksteel, Skylynx, and especially Predaking had made it unmistakably clear that no one would touch the twin casseticons while they remained under their watch. It wasn’t that the Predacons were affectionate; they were warriors, predators. But they respected strength and loyalty, and both Frenzy and Rumble had shown that in their own ways—especially in standing up for Starscream.

And it wasn’t lost on the Predacons, either, how Soundwave—silent, ever-watching Soundwave—never approached the twins, never tried to force contact. But he came when no one was looking.

At night, when the base was still and the corridors empty, Frenzy and Rumble would awaken to find fresh energon cubes left carefully beside them, just warm enough to feel like they had just been placed there. Blankets—not cheap rags, but actual insulating coverings—would be tucked in at the edges of their shared berth space. Sometimes, datapads loaded with games they used to play or with news from neutral zones would be left behind. Small comforts, tokens of protection that said what Soundwave never would aloud:

“I’m still here. I still care.”

Frenzy noticed first. “He still thinks of us,” he murmured one night, eyes dim but unreadable.

Rumble said nothing, curling tighter under his blanket. They both felt it: the sharp sting of betrayal, of truths withheld. Soundwave had raised them. Created them. Protected them from the day they were sparked. And yet, when the time came to trust them with what mattered most—Starscream—he had chosen silence.

The wound was still fresh. It would take time. But Soundwave understood that. He always had. He never expected forgiveness overnight. He would wait, as long as it took.

Knockout, too, had not abandoned them. The doctor had taken a brutal beating for trying to help Starscream, and though he limped sometimes now—internal systems still mending—he still showed up, datapad in one hand, medical scanner in the other. He checked their vitals, their energon levels, the processing speed of their minds. And always, always, he ended with:

“If anything feels off, or if you just want someone to rant to—I’m here.”

The twins never said much back. But they didn’t push him away either.

It was a strange sense of safety in a world that no longer made sense.

Then, the message came.

Short. Devoid of emotion. Just a string of characters that, to most, might seem almost insignificant.

Starscream has escaped the Decepticon base.

Sent from Soundwave’s private channel. No encryption layers, no demands. Just the raw truth, delivered like a quiet whisper in a warzone.

At Autobot HQ, the silence following the message was deafening.

Optimus rose from his station slowly, optics widening in something dangerously close to hope. Ratchet blinked, rereading the message five times as if a glitch in his HUD was deceiving him. Bumblebee looked between the others in disbelief.

“Are we sure this isn’t a trap?” Prowl asked, already pulling up data logs and trace routes. But even he didn’t believe it fully.

“Soundwave wouldn’t have sent it unless it was true,” Ratchet muttered, voice low with years of knowing. “He still has a conscience buried in that processor.”

Before anyone could plan a reaction, a thunderous boom echoed from the east hangar.

Skywarp.

Then another.

Thundercracker.

They didn’t even stop to say anything. Just left. The base’s launch doors barely had time to open before the two Seekers shot into the skies like twin bolts of vengeance and purpose.

“Wait!” Optimus called instinctively, moving to intercept.

But Windblade stepped forward, wings high, her expression unreadable but resolute. “No,” she said quietly, cutting across his path. “Let them go.”

Optimus paused, frowning. “They could get hurt. If Starscream is alone, wounded—”

“They’ll find him,” Windblade interrupted gently. “He’s not just a fellow Seeker. He’s their trine. Their family. They grew up together, trained together. The bond they share…” She shook her head. “You and I will never understand it. But I know this: if anyone can find Starscream now, it’s them.”

Thundercracker and Skywarp flew like bolts torn from a stormcloud, wind howling around them as they climbed higher and higher. Their engines burned with a desperation that no Decepticon ever taught them and no Autobot could hope to match. This wasn’t about war.

This was about Starscream.

Their wingmate.

Their brother.

Their future.

There was a planet—icy and barren eons ago—that Starscream had spoken of countless times when the war was still young. A world forgotten by the galactic charts, dismissed by the science council, and ignored even by explorers. Yet Starscream had been certain. He believed it teemed with dormant potential, that life would grow from frost and stone if given time.

He had spoken of it not just as a scientific curiosity, but as a dream—a place untouched by the ravages of war, politics, and control. A world where he could build, study, breathe… and simply exist.

Skywarp remembered the name Starscream whispered like a sacred code. Thundercracker remembered the coordinates etched with desperate hope into an old, half-burned datapad. So, when the signal pinged—a faint, unmistakable Cybertronian frequency coming from that very planet—they didn’t even need to speak.

They went.

What they found upon arrival stole the breath from their vents.

The planet had bloomed into something breathtaking. Its surface, once sheathed in glacial silence, now pulsed with life—lush jungles, sweeping oceans, jagged mountain peaks brimming with snow and creatures both strange and mesmerizing. Animals, plants, and humans all coexisted here, each biome a testament to survival and adaptation. Culture flourished. Language danced in the air. Tribes thrived. Civilizations bloomed like flowers through cracks in stone.

It was perfect.

It was Starscream’s paradise.

The signal was strongest in the densest jungle region, deep within the Amazon rainforest. Local interference made the exact point fuzzy, but it was unmistakable—Cybertronian technology hidden beneath centuries of soil and myth. Thundercracker and Skywarp descended without caution, making no attempt to mask their arrival. The moment they landed in a clearing, they were surrounded—but not by weapons or fear.

By reverence.

Small humans, their skin painted in natural pigments and their eyes wide with awe, dropped to their knees. Children pointed. Elders murmured and bowed. Some wore necklaces fashioned from fragments of Cybertronian alloy—gifts, relics from the one they worshipped.

"The Sun-God," a young human whispered.

The one who gave them light, warmth, tools. The one who brought knowledge from the stars. The one they built the sanctuary for.

The village elder, a man with weathered features and a robe woven with golden threads, gestured solemnly. He pointed toward a towering monolithic structure overgrown with vines, yet clearly infused with Cybertronian architecture. At its center stood a massive stone door, ringed with alien symbols carved by hands both metal and flesh.

The humans moved as one, pulling ancient levers, pressing plates and hidden mechanisms. The door rumbled, groaned… and then began to open, stone sliding over stone in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Faint blue light poured out from within.

Thundercracker’s vents hitched.

Skywarp’s optics dimmed with emotion.

They stepped inside.

And then—

“Took you long enough,” said a voice from the shadows, sarcastic, amused, and unmistakably alive.

Starscream.

He stood at the far end of the chamber, framed by light and shadow. He was different. Less tired. Not healed, not completely—but recovering. There were still faint scars, lines of stress beneath his optics, but his wings were lifted with pride, his frame strong, and for the first time in what felt like centuries…

He was free.

Thundercracker moved first. Skywarp followed.

And the moment their arms wrapped around each other, it all broke loose.

The sobs that came weren’t from pain—but from relief. The hug was clumsy, tight, desperate. Wings twined. Sparkbeats synced for the first time in stellar cycles. No words were needed. Not yet.

For now, this was enough.

Their trine was whole again.

When the laughter faded and the silence that followed was warm, not tense, Starscream finally spoke. He gestured to the soft blue glow of the crystals embedded in the stonework, the data-screens flickering with elegant lines of Cybertronian code, and the map-like carvings on the walls—stars, constellations, planetary rotations.

“This planet…” he began, optics glimmering, voice calm, “does not follow the same rhythm as Cybertron. Time passes differently here. What was only a few solar cycles for us…” he looked out toward the jungle canopy, “was nearly a hundred years for them.”

Skywarp blinked. “You’ve been their god for a century?”

Starscream shrugged lightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “To them, I arrived with fire from the sky and spoke in colors of light. I brought energy, medicine, tools… and I shielded them from the outside world.”

Thundercracker tilted his helm. “You built a forcefield?”

“A localized energy dome, undetectable by satellite scans. It keeps them safe—hidden from the rest of this world. I didn’t want what happened to Cybertron to happen here.” His voice lowered a bit. “Not again.”

Skywarp nudged him playfully. “So Starscream of the stars became a sun-god, huh?”

Thundercracker smirked. “What’s next? ‘All-Knowing Seeker of Enlightenment?’”

Starscream rolled his optics, but the mirth in his spark was unmistakable. “Here, I’m not a god. I’m not a war criminal or a traitor. I’m not Megatron’s pawn or the Decepticons’ punchline. I’m simply… me. And I protect them because it’s right. Because I can.”

He turned, and for the first time in vorns, his expression was fully open—free of pride, fear, or performance. Just Starscream.

He extended his hands.

“I don’t want to do it alone anymore,” he said softly. “This planet… these people… they matter. And you—you matter. I want us to be part of something real. Something pure. A trine of truth, bound not by war, or orders, or fear—but by choice. I want to break the sparkbound Megatron forced onto me… and rewrite it. With you.”

Skywarp didn’t hesitate. His servo closed around Starscream’s instantly. “Always.”

Thundercracker stepped forward, firm and steady. “Let’s do it right, this time.”

And just like that, nothing more needed to be said.

Three sparks pulsed as one—resonant, bright, whole.

The bond that formed was deeper than circuitry, deeper than code. It was truth, freely chosen and eternal. The false tether Megatron had burned into Starscream’s spark faded into nothing.

Here, on this living planet wrapped in jungle and sun, the true trine was reborn.

Megatron felt it before any monitor reported it.
A jolt—violent and sudden—ripped through the very core of his spark, not painful but hollowing. He staggered for a fraction of a second, claws curling over his chestplate. The falsified sparkbound, the forged connection he had chained to Starscream’s soul like a leash, had snapped.

It wasn’t severed by death. No, this was something else.
It had been overwritten.

The command center's red lights blinked in soft rhythm, oblivious. Consoles hummed. No alarms. No alerts. But Megatron knew.

He turned, optics glowing a burning crimson, and tore across the room, slamming a fist into the nearest console. The impact cracked the alloy. Screams and yelps echoed from lower-ranked Decepticons who had never seen him lose control so utterly.

“Tarn!” he barked, voice thunderous across the comms. “Why wasn’t I informed of any spark fluctuation from Starscream?!”

The answer that came—static, hesitant—only stoked the fire in Megatron’s chest.

“Lord Megatron… there was a pulse detected. Unusual energy surge. But it vanished almost immediately. I thought it was a cloaking error…”

Megatron slammed his palm flat into another console, the metal buckling beneath the strike. The falsified bond he crafted had been the culmination of vorns of conditioning, drugging, emotional dismantling—an artificial intimacy meant to tie Starscream to him not through love, but through necessity.

Now?

Gone.
Replaced.

And Megatron knew exactly what that meant.

“Skywarp and Thundercracker,” he snarled. “They found him.”

He turned to Soundwave—silent, still, watching as always. The communications officer didn’t react. He didn’t need to. Megatron already knew.

“You knew they were alive,” Megatron growled. “You let them go and find him and didn’t say a word!!”

Soundwave said nothing.

His visor flickered, faintly. The truth didn’t need words anymore.

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “I gave everything to make him mine. I made him. Remade him. Broke him. And now—” he turned to face the blackness of the main viewing screen—“he dares to choose them over me?”

He spat, turned, and stormed from the command center. “Get me a lock on his signal. I want orbital sweeps—scour every known habitable system. I will find him.”

Behind him, the silence stretched.
No one obeyed. Not immediately. The tremor in the air wasn’t just fear—it was doubt.

And in that doubt, Megatron realized something far worse than betrayal:

He had lost control.

But he was Megatron,a Warlord, surviver of the Arena Pit, he will grab the controls again.

It didn’t take long.

Without Starscream—without the spark and spine of the aerial caste—Megatron reasserted dominance through sheer force. His rage had always been legendary, but now it had direction again: brutal, methodical, controlled. Fear became law, and silence, loyalty.

The Seekers, leaderless and fractured, offered little resistance. Megatron appointed Dreadwing as the new Air Commander, a bot cold and rigid enough to impose order without protest. Dreadwing followed orders, not ambition—a perfect replacement in Megatron’s optics.

Soundwave, though silent and unreadable, was named second-in-command. No one questioned it. He had always been the shadow of Megatron’s will, and even if his optics dimmed more often now, he obeyed. Whether his loyalty was to Megatron or just the routine, no one knew—and no one dared ask.

Shockwave resumed control of the Predacon research and handling, moved to the fringes of the command structure, his logic once again useful and undisturbed. The Predacons didn’t resist him—not openly. They stayed quiet, distant, their true feelings unreadable. But they didn’t rise.

Within a few cycles, the Decepticons fell back into rhythm. Efficient. Brutal. Familiar. The systems that once strained under Starscream’s dissent returned to uniformity. No rumors, no rebellion, no questions.

Starscream’s name vanished from reports. From conversations. From memory.

No one spoke of the Winglord. No one mentioned the trine.

The truth—the sparkbound, the escape, the broken chain—was buried, sealed under duty and survival. Starscream was a ghost, a myth, a glitch in the system that had long since been patched over.

The war continued, and Megatron stood at the helm once more.

But somewhere in the silent spaces between command updates and battle orders… Soundwave still kept a private, encrypted file.

One file. Three names.
Still open. Still waiting.

Centuries passed—though for Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp, it felt like days in Cybertronian time.

eneath a vast, invisible dome cloaked by the dense canopy of the Amazon, a utopia flourished—born of Cybertronian brilliance and human resilience.

The city was a marvel.

Skyscrapers of metal, crystal, and organic fiber reached toward the heavens, harmonizing the elegance of Cybertronian design with the natural curvature of the Earth. Blue veins of energon-powered light ran beneath the transparent streets, drawing patterns like stars across the ground. In this haven, humanity had discovered balance—not just with the planet, but with the impossible: living alongside gods who taught rather than ruled.

And Starscream, once the mocked second-in-command, the schemer, the traitor—was now their Winglord in the truest sense of the word.

His image adorned murals from the first carvings etched into stone to the modern floating holo-glyphs that danced in the sky at night. They showed him, Thundercracker, and Skywarp not as overlords, but as companions—protectors, teachers, and builders. Their ancient armor had become symbols of wisdom. Their presence, eternal.

The city had its own name now, though whispered by outsiders only in legend: Caelestis.

The lost city. The mythic sanctuary. A place where disease was cured, no child starved, and the economy ran not on greed, but on contribution. A beacon.

Within Caelestis, education was sacred. Students learned everything—from the old tongues of Earth to Vosian and Cybertronian runes. Mathematics born of Cybertronian computation stood beside poetic traditions passed down by village elders. No one was forced into a path; all were encouraged to discover their own.

Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp rarely appeared in their full forms anymore. Instead, they moved among their people in avatars—sleek, tall figures with glowing optics, soft features, and simple robes, each one reflecting their own personality. Starscream, always graceful, wore tones of silver and deep crimson. Thundercracker chose cool grays and navy blue, quiet but watchful. Skywarp favored violet and black, playful, ever ready with a sharp smirk or a prank on the local children.

When the sky called to them, they would shed their disguises, shift into their true forms, and fly—brilliant streaks of light across the heavens, their trails painting ribbons of blue, indigo, and violet across the clouds. To those below, it was a reminder: their protectors still watched.

Still listened.

But not all stayed.

Some humans, trained in Caelestis, left the dome and walked the Earth once more, disguised and quiet. They were the spies and seekers of knowledge—ensuring that the myths spread as whispers, not threats. They mapped shifts in language, culture, technology. They returned with stories and dangers. But none betrayed the secret of the city.

For the world above knew only the story.

A city that cured disease.
A city that never starved.
A city led by the Sun God with wings of fire and a voice that shook mountains.
A city ruled not by conquest… but by a Seeker who had once only longed to be seen.

In the heart of New York City, three figures strode down a bustling avenue like a perfectly choreographed trio out of a dream—or perhaps a legend.

Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp, in their avatar forms, moved with an ease and elegance that made the world around them blur. They were human in appearance, but not quite—too flawless, too poised, too deliberate. Each wore impeccably tailored suits in the colors of their true Cybertronian forms.

Starscream’s suit was a regal combination of pearl-gray and deep crimson, with subtle accents of gold on the cuffs and collar, his long dark hair pulled back neatly, eyes sharp and assessing beneath thin, aristocratic brows. His bearing was unmistakably that of a ruler—proud, graceful, and distant—but his smile was warm when he allowed it. He carried himself with an air of timeless confidence, like a being who had both seen and shaped history.

Thundercracker’s suit was stormy slate and dark blue, his broader frame wrapped in a slightly more military cut. He was clean-shaven, square-jawed, and had a quiet intensity that contrasted his love of simpler things. His blue eyes softened only when he saw dogs—every time they passed a park, a dog walker, or even a stray mutt, his gaze would follow them with a rare childlike joy. He often knelt down without hesitation, talking gently to them, slipping synthetic energon snacks disguised as biscuits from his coat pocket.

Skywarp was the most flamboyant—his suit shimmered with threads of black and purple, the lapels intricately embroidered with starburst patterns. His hair was glossy and artfully styled, his violet eyes always scanning the world for colors, textures, fabrics, and chaos. He took selfies in front of store windows, complimented strangers on their coats, and sometimes walked right into a boutique just to offer his opinion on a mannequin’s outfit. He was fascinated by human fashion, admiring it not only for its creativity but also for its emotional expression. Where Starscream had poise and Thundercracker had calm, Skywarp had charm—and mischief.

On the lapels of all three glinted their most sacred symbol: the brooch of Caelestis.

Crafted from rare Earth metals and minerals gifted by the humans of their city, the brooch depicted one sleek, metallic wing interlocked with a feathered one—unity of machine and life—wrapped in a shield adorned with fractal engravings and language from both Cybertronian and ancient human glyphs. It was a masterpiece, uniquely fashioned for them by the artisans of Caelestis.

Unlike the others worn by the city’s hidden citizens—often of copper, pewter, or bronze—the brooches of the Trine were made of interwoven gold and silver, their brilliance unmistakable. These colors were sacred. No other citizen, not even a noble or scholar, could wear that pairing. It was the mark of leadership, of the founders, of the protectors who had given this world hope in secrecy.

They didn’t need security. No one touched them. The combination of beauty, mystery, and the unshakable confidence of those who walked with centuries behind them turned people aside like wind through reeds.

Some humans believed they were fashion moguls. Others whispered that they were some kind of reclusive royalty, or perhaps involved in something far darker—mobsters with impossible charm. Rumors followed them like perfume.

The three laughed privately at the speculation. They found joy in being myths again—only now, they were the authors of their own story.

Starscream adored Earth’s complexity—its languages, cultures, music, even its weather. But war… war always soured his mood. He would stiffen when sirens passed too close, or a protest shouted too loud. He remembered Cybertron’s fall, and knew too well how chaos crept in when no one was looking.

That was why he had built Caelestis.

That was why they walked among the world now—never interfering, always observing. Sometimes sharing knowledge in the quietest ways. Sometimes offering sanctuary when the world turned cruel.

But always watching.

Always together.

Their bond, forged anew in truth, sealed in sparkbound connection, had made them whole. The old pain of war, betrayal, and false power had faded like ancient rust. What remained was unbreakable: loyalty, love, and vision.

What the three did not know—what even Starscream, so meticulous in perception, had missed—was that they were being watched.

Followed.

Photographed.

Not by humans looking to gossip or marvel at handsome foreign dignitaries, though those existed in abundance. Not by curious paparazzi or security cameras in passing buildings. No—this was something deeper. Targeted. Calculated.

It was the brooches.

Those brilliant, otherworldly brooches of gold and silver—the mark of Caelestis leadership—were the key. They gleamed too uniquely, refracting light in ways that no Earth-made alloy could. Their craftsmanship, subtle energy signature, and distinct iconography had begun to draw the attention of global pattern-recognition systems. What started as an anomaly in a fashion magazine’s AI cataloguing software was soon flagged by private defense networks and intelligence satellites.

Photos of the three avatars had begun circulating in underground circles. Governments, corporations, and certain factions not of Earth were asking questions.

The photos were often grainy, shot from rooftops or vehicles parked just out of reach. Some were sharper—taken by those who knew how to hunt.

Their movements had been logged in Berlin, Tokyo, Buenos Aires, and now—New York City.

The brooches, unknowingly to the Trine, had become symbols not only to their own hidden citizens but to those watching from the shadows—symbols of power, immortality, and mystery.

And power always attracts the wrong eyes.

In the dim light of the war room, silence reigned—oppressive, heavy. Every breath was drawn carefully as if the air itself carried the weight of revelation. Rows of analysts, generals, intelligence officers, and historians stood frozen before the massive screen stretched across the wall. The screen glowed with shifting data—infrared overlays, timestamped photos, satellite coordinates—but the images that brought everyone to stillness were the old ones.

Grainy black-and-white photographs. Faded Renaissance sketches. War-era propaganda posters. Oil paintings dating back centuries.

And always—always—those same three faces.

Three figures, sometimes alone, sometimes together. In 1860, a daguerreotype of a nobleman visiting a Prussian court. In 1917, a soldier with the exact same features walking through the aftermath of a bombed trench. In 1963, during a televised UN conference, blurred in the crowd—still unmistakable.

Different names. Different suits. But the same height. Same bone structure. Same eyes.

And always adorned with that symbol.

The wing of metal and feather intertwined within a shield—Caelistis.

Now, in the present day, these same three were walking through Manhattan, confident, smiling, unaware—or perhaps uncaring—that their every step was now a matter of international scrutiny.

A deep voice broke the silence.

“This isn’t a cult,” one general muttered. “It’s something older. A network. An empire.”

A young linguist from the UN department of cryptohistory leaned in, her voice shaking. “Sir… we’ve matched over seventy-five iterations of that symbol in global history. From Babylon to the Vatican. We thought it was coincidence. A myth mutating across cultures.”

“And now?” snapped an older intelligence officer.

The linguist hesitated. “Now I think it’s real. Not myth. Living history.”

One of the security ministers, white-haired and grim-faced, stepped closer to the panel, pointing to the clearest photo of Starscream’s avatar walking beside Skywarp and Thundercracker. His brooch glittered under the sunlight like a flare.

“I want surveillance on every person wearing this symbol. I want a dossier on those three by tonight. DNA scans, gait analysis, facial recognition, voiceprints. If they are who I think they are—if they’re not from this planet or… not from this time—then we have a diplomatic nightmare on our hands. Or a war.”

Someone in the back whispered, “They might not even be human…”

The room stilled again. The truth hovered over them like a blade: the myth of Caelistis was no longer myth.

It walked the Earth.

Chapter Text

The meeting was over, the heavy metal door closing behind the last of the officials, their polished shoes echoing on the concrete floor as they returned to their sectors. But the general remained seated, his stern eyes fixed on one individual still at the table — the young historian. She was sharp, quiet, and carried an intelligence that made many in her department uncomfortable, especially the older men who brushed off her theories as fantasy.

He stood, motioning for her to follow.

She blinked in surprise, clutching her notes as she fell into step beside him. The general didn’t say much at first, walking through the sterile corridors of the underground facility — the kind of place where the fluorescent lights hummed softly and cameras followed every move.

"You weren’t selected for this project by chance," he said at last, hands clasped behind his back as he walked. “I pushed for your placement. You're the best historian we’ve got on pre-modern mythological continuity and ancient culture migration. The others—especially those who scoff at your theories—don’t know what they’re dealing with.”

The historian's heart beat faster. “You believe Caelistis was real?”

He didn’t look at her. “I believe your mind is the only one that’s asked the right questions.”

They stopped in front of a reinforced door flanked by armed guards. The general passed a scan and multiple codes. The thick door opened with a hydraulic hiss, revealing a dim room bathed in blue security light. Inside were temperature-controlled shelves lined with ancient books, clay tablets, scrolls sealed in glass, and even relics embedded in protective foam. She stared — it was a treasure trove of lost knowledge.

“This isn’t open to the rest of your department,” he said. “What you’re about to see is military secrecy classified above all other archeological operations. What we recovered… came from Alexandria.”

She turned to him, stunned. “The Library of Alexandria?”

He nodded. “The very one. Before the fire, someone sealed a vault beneath the library’s foundations. It took us decades to reach it. We thought it might hold copies of classical texts, perhaps forgotten mathematical treatises. Instead, we found… this.”

He walked over to a glass case and keyed in another code. A mechanical arm extracted a small, dark-brown leather-bound book and placed it gently into his hands. He held it like something sacred before handing it to her.

The cover was scarred with age but intact, and right in the center was the winged sigil she had studied obsessively for years — one metallic wing, one feathered, both bound in a shield adorned with swirling, non-human patterns.

Her voice trembled. “This is the symbol of Caelistis.”

“Yes,” he said. “Not just carved in stone, not sketched in the margins of ancient maps… but on a ledger. A financial logbook.”

She opened the book carefully, its ancient pages stiff but unbroken. The ink was faded but legible. It was a list of transactions — purchases of exotic metals, energy conductors, minerals not naturally found on Earth. References to “technological shield design,” “energy towers,” and even interstellar trading hubs.

And on one of the last pages, drawn with confident strokes in ancient Greek, were three names:

Astraeskra,
Kerauntisker,
Skyarphios.

She whispered, “Starscream… Thundercracker… Skywarp…”

The general nodded. “Cross-referenced through hundreds of cultural texts. Those same root names appear over and over again in different regions of Earth, under different disguises — gods of sky, of thunder, of light, of knowledge. They appear in Sumerian tablets, Mayan codices, Chinese imperial scrolls. But here… here, they aren’t myth. They’re listed as patrons. Founders.”

She turned to the general, voice low but urgent. “Why are you showing me this now?”

He looked grim. “Because they’re back. Or maybe… they never left.”

He tapped a keypad on the wall, and the massive digital screen across the far wall lit up — a collage of surveillance photos and high-definition zooms. Three figures. Tall. Impossibly elegant. Wearing suits with striking color schemes — one in red and silver, one in blue, one in purple and black. Walking the streets of New York, their presence impossible to miss. Their faces were identical to those recorded in photos taken decades ago… and in paintings from centuries past.

Each wore a brooch — the symbol of Caelistis, unmistakable and beautifully made.

“They’ve been appearing around the globe for centuries. Different names. Different clothing. Same faces. Never aging. And always wearing that emblem. Most of the world chalked it up to conspiracy theories. Doppelgängers. Genetic flukes.” The general paused. “But this—” he gestured at the book, “—confirms what the world never wanted to believe.”

The historian closed the book slowly, her fingers trembling.

“They’re here,” she whispered. “And they’ve been guiding us… or watching us… all this time.”

The general said nothing.

Because there was nothing more to say.

The General hadn't yet finished his reveal. With a glance and a nod, he guided the historian down another secure hallway, this one more dimly lit, quieter, as though the very air knew it held something sacred. A biometric scan and old-fashioned keylock opened a final set of steel doors, revealing something unexpected: a room built like a private museum — intimate, reverent, filled with displays and softly glowing cases.

"This," the General said, voice low, "is everything we’ve managed to recover or verify about the lost city of Caelistis. Most of it predates written language. But all of it survived because someone—maybe even them—made sure it would."

The historian stepped forward slowly, her breath catching in her throat.

At the heart of the room stood a massive stone tablet, so old the edges were worn like driftwood. Its carvings, however, remained remarkably intact — humans with hands raised, almost in worship, encircling a colossal figure with twin wings spread behind its back. Its eyes glowed like twin suns carved in relief, and its body—though stylized—was unmistakably mechanical, almost divine in design. It was the kind of form ancient dreamers would describe when they imagined the gods of the skies descending in thunder.

"That," the General said, stepping beside her, "is the earliest known depiction of what we believe to be their true forms. Titans. Not born of Earth, but venerated by it."

The historian stared at the winged being — her thoughts raced. The scale, the reverence, the uncanny parallels to descriptions scattered across mythologies worldwide. But this was no coincidence. This was too detailed. Too consistent.

The rest of the museum held more than artifacts — there were old scrolls, fragments of books, lost sketches on parchment and animal hide. But it was what came next that stopped her heart.

Photos.

Dozens of them.

Mounted with quiet precision on a central display — photographs taken over the past few years. The three men she had seen earlier in the briefing, only now not walking with careful anonymity, but lounging comfortably in public.

In one, the red-and-silver one — Starscream, she guessed — sat in a plaza fountain, head tilted back laughing while holding what appeared to be a bullet-shaped object, blue and glowing faintly. In the photo, his teeth were mid-bite. The historian squinted closer — not metal. Not candy. The bullet was crystalline, glowing faintly with mythical energy.

Other images showed the trio outside a café, sipping from what looked like coffee bottles — but the liquid inside shimmered with a light-blue clarity, completely unnatural. In a few others, the liquid was pale pink, or light lilac, varying like different flavors of something engineered. Each bottle was carefully sealed, discreet. But the way they held them, casually, without concern, made it clear this was part of their routine.

“Are those...?” she began.

“Synthetic food.Not human,” the General answered.

“Or some evolved variant of it. The blue matches the known spectrum. The pink and lilac are likely additives or regional variations. What matters is that they consume it publicly — without fear. Either they don’t believe we can recognize them, or they no longer care.”

The historian leaned in, tracing the pattern of images, the repeating signs: the brooch in every picture, always worn, always gleaming in gold and silver — the winged sigil of Caelistis. Their faces, though in different angles, lighting, and cities, were unchanged. Ageless.

"They're not hiding," she said softly. "They’ve been walking among us for centuries, and we’ve only now started to put the pieces together."

The General placed a hand behind his back. “And the question we must now answer is: why are they here?”

And then, more quietly:
"And what happens if they stop pretending to be human?"

The historian wasted no time. As soon as the general left her alone with the materials, she dove in like someone who had waited her whole life for this moment. The door locked behind him with a hiss, but she barely noticed. The room became her entire world—scrolls, ancient maps, encrypted glyphs, and the leather-bound journal marked with the Caelistis symbol spread before her in a chaotic constellation only she could navigate.

Her fingers trembled as she turned each page, cross-referencing locations mentioned in trade records, trying to align them with modern coordinates. The ledger was maddeningly indirect—only referring to locations as “the northern stone,” or “the river with the crimson bark.” But she had been studying these riddles for years. She recognized the metaphors. What others dismissed as poetic mysticism, she knew to be code—old survival code used when the world was still lit by flame and paranoia.

She covered the walls with layers of transparent maps, pinning parchment over satellite imagery. Red thread stretched between locations, connecting a Roman grain record to a Mayan calendar to trade patterns during the Song Dynasty. Her mind worked in spirals—never linear—until, slowly, a new shape began to emerge.

A triangle.

A region within the Amazon basin that had just enough emptiness in its recorded data to be suspicious.

She tapped her pencil against her lips, then muttered to herself:
“A city that adapts... a camouflage network... maybe not just invisible, but fluid. Like a chameleon changing with the environment, adjusting wavelengths to match.”

She made another note.

Hypothesis: Caelistis uses advanced cloaking—visual + radar suppression? Must test satellite heat signatures. Maybe even biological tech? Is it self-sustaining camouflage?

She paused and frowned, then jotted another idea:

Check for locations where no birds fly overhead. Biological silence. Could be artificial disruption.

Outside that room, the general smiled faintly as he looked at the feed from a surveillance drone hidden in the library’s corner. She was doing exactly as predicted—driven by curiosity, tunnel-focused, unaware of how closely she was playing into a far older game.

But the general was underestimating her.

She was young, yes—but she wasn’t naïve. As she worked, another part of her mind, honed by long nights of academic infighting, kept asking a quiet question:

Why now?

Why was the military suddenly offering her everything she'd ever dreamed of?

And who really owned the knowledge locked in this book?

She wasn’t just searching for the city anymore. She was watching for the trap around it.

While the historian worked tirelessly, surviving on coffee, military rations, and the occasional fruit someone had the decency to bring her, she was also fed a steady stream of videos—unmarked, uncaptioned, just clips of them. The trio.

Berlin. Tokyo. São Paulo. Vancouver.

It made no sense.

She zoomed in on timestamps. The differences between each location were sometimes just hours apart. The world’s fastest aircraft couldn’t achieve this. Commercial flights were out of the question. There were no teleportation devices—or at least, none that humanity had publicly mastered. And yet, here they were: laughing outside a high-end café in Shibuya, walking beneath ancient stone towers in Berlin, then sipping something suspiciously not coffee from paper cups in São Paulo, all within what looked like the same twenty-four hours.

It was impossible.

Unless it wasn’t.

She scribbled another note:

Hypothesis: Caelistis tech → instant transport? Time-space manipulation? Need more footage. Trace patterns.

She leaned back, rubbing her temples, the dim light of the archives casting shadows across her cluttered workspace.

Then, something in the Berlin footage caught her eye.

She slowed the playback, eyes narrowing. A man was walking from the opposite direction—civilian, possibly local. As he approached the trio, he lowered his head and, in a single fluid motion, brought his right arm across his chest, placing his hand on his left shoulder. It was subtle. Respectful. Almost ritualistic.

She watched carefully as the trio noticed him. They didn’t stop walking. Didn’t speak. But Starscream—or at least, the avatar that matched every known image of him—tilted his head and answered with a brief hand gesture. A flick of two fingers—graceful, practiced, deliberate.

She rewound and paused.

The man’s coat lapel had a pin. A tiny emblem.

She zoomed in.

There it was.

The Caelistis symbol—shield, feathered wing, metal wing—but not in gold or silver like the trio wore. This one was simple. Made of brass, maybe iron. Ordinary materials. A citizen's insignia, not a leader’s.

Confirmed: global network of agents? Recognition symbols? Structured hierarchy?

She noted it all down furiously.

They were everywhere. Hiding in plain sight.

The story of Caelistis wasn’t myth or metaphor. It was a society—living, functioning, and perfectly embedded across the globe. Quiet. Unseen. With their own signals, their own transportation, their own protocols.

And somehow, these three were the pillars. The constant.

How long had they been guiding the world? Protecting it? Watching?

She looked back at the man in the footage and realized with a chill: he’d vanished from frame immediately after the interaction.

No trace. No records. Just gone.

And yet she knew—they weren’t just being watched anymore.

They knew she was watching.

Quickly, the historian dismissed her own thoughts as absurd. They—the trio—watching her and the military? Impossible. Too far-fetched. It was a fantasy born from exhaustion and too many sleepless nights.

Still, the clues nagged at her.

She gathered her courage and walked briskly to the general’s office, clutching her notes and video stills tightly. With a steady voice, she outlined her discoveries: the widespread appearance of the Caelistis symbol, the subtle gestures, the global network of possible agents or spies embedded in governments and military.

Most of the assembled officers sneered or shook their heads in disbelief. Whispers of “conspiracy theory” and “delusions” rippled through the room.

But the general—calm, calculating—ordered a discreet investigation anyway. “If there’s even a grain of truth,” he said, “we need to know.”

Days later, the first confirmation came. A Pentagon operative, on a routine mission, spotted something unusual. A White House guard wore a plain ring on his finger. Upon closer inspection, the ring bore the Caelistis symbol—small, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable to those who knew what to look for.

Then, another tip arrived from China. A trusted contact reported seeing a government minister with a handkerchief tucked carefully into his suit pocket. The embroidered design? The same ancient symbol of the lost city.

The historian’s “crazy” theory was no longer theory.

It was reality. And it was bigger than anyone had imagined.

Soon, their investigation uncovered a vast network of individuals connected to Caelistis scattered across the globe. These people occupied a startling range of positions—from high-ranking government officials and diplomats to humble roles like teachers, transit guards, and maintenance workers. No continent, no country, no city seemed untouched by this invisible web.

The historian presented a new theory to the team, one that shed light on the secret hierarchy within this clandestine society. She pointed out that the trio—the legendary leaders of Caelistis—wore brooches crafted from rare and precious metals studded with valuable gemstones, their colors radiant and unmistakable. These weren’t just accessories but symbols of supreme authority and leadership.

In contrast, the rest of the network wore simpler versions of the brooch, made from common metals and less ornate designs. The material quality and intricacy of the symbol correlated directly to an individual’s rank and influence within the organization.

Those with the most precious brooches held significant government roles—ministers, advisors, or elite guardians entrusted with the city’s secrets—while those with modest insignias worked in more ordinary capacities, such as janitors or clerical staff. Yet, despite the difference in status, they all shared the same emblematic link to Caelistis.

This unspoken hierarchy wove a complex web of power, loyalty, and secrecy that extended far beyond what the world knew, quietly shaping events from the shadows.

The general, flanked by several stern-faced military officers, turned to the historian with a measured but pressing tone. “Do you have any theory on where exactly this city of Caelistis might be located?” he asked, his gaze sharp and expectant.

The historian, steady despite the weight of the question, replied carefully, “Based on my research and the clues we’ve pieced together—ancient maps, local legends, environmental data—I believe the city is hidden deep within the Amazon rainforest. Specifically, in the region that belongs to Brazil. That part of the forest is the densest and least explored section in Latin America, making it a plausible location for a city to remain concealed, especially one equipped with advanced technology that could cloak it from satellites and traditional reconnaissance.”

The general nodded decisively, showing no hesitation. “Then we move quickly. I’m ordering an expedition to that area immediately. You and I will lead it. Your expertise will be crucial to guide the team through the jungle’s labyrinthine paths.”

The historian felt the weight of responsibility settle heavier on her shoulders, but she nodded, determined. “I must stress, this is still a theory. We have no definitive proof that Caelistis lies there. It’s a risk, but given the intelligence and the potential technological and historical gain, it’s a risk worth taking.”

Without delay, the military swung into action. Within days, the historian and a specially chosen, highly trained unit were aboard helicopters, cutting through thick clouds and descending over the sprawling sea of green below. The machines hummed as they hovered, then dropped them off in a small clearing deep in the Amazon, surrounded by towering trees and thick underbrush.

The team disembarked swiftly, unloading advanced gear, weapons, and survival supplies. The historian looked around, her heart pounding—not just from the humid heat or the unknown dangers lurking in the jungle, but from the monumental task ahead: finding a legendary city that might rewrite history.

With a nod from the general, the helicopters lifted off, leaving the expedition team alone amid the endless canopy, swallowed by the vast wilderness. The jungle closed around them like a living maze, challenging their every step as they began their search for Caelistis.

Chapter Text

Several days had passed since the expedition had ventured into the depths of the Amazon. The thick canopy above filtered scarce sunlight, turning the forest into a dim labyrinth of green and shadows. Tension had been mounting among the military personnel. Their frustration was palpable — the young historian seemed more lost than ever, pouring over ancient, yellowed maps that depicted a geography long altered by centuries of natural change. Rivers had shifted course, mountain ridges eroded or grown, and vast stretches of jungle had expanded where once there might have been open land.

Many of the soldiers openly questioned her expertise; some whispered that she was little more than an academic with fanciful theories, ill-prepared for the brutal reality of jungle exploration. Only the general’s steady presence and authority kept the group from fracturing altogether, though even he was growing impatient with the lack of progress. Had the historian faltered now, she knew survival would depend on his restraint as much as their own.

One humid afternoon, as low-hanging clouds thickened and the scent of impending rain drifted through the air, the historian found herself on the edge of despair. She clutched her worn notebook tightly, its pages filled with sketches and notes—so many fragments that refused to fit neatly into a coherent whole. The military encampment buzzed with restless murmurs and the metallic clink of weapons, but she remained silent, retreating into herself to think.

Then her eyes lifted — an unconscious habit from years of studying cryptic symbols and ancient scripts. She looked skyward, beyond the twisting branches and broad leaves, toward the canopy’s upper reaches. There, just barely visible, she noticed something peculiar: a symbol painted in a vivid, striking red ink, almost imperceptible amid the dense foliage. It was distinctly non-human — sharp angular lines and curves unlike any tribal mark she had ever seen.

Her breath caught. Without hesitation, she pushed past the grumbling soldiers, weaving through the undergrowth with a sudden surge of energy. Some of the men tried to hold her back, but her urgency was unmistakable. She retrieved her notebook and pencil, flipping hastily to a page where she had previously sketched the same strange emblem — a detail she had found earlier but dismissed as insignificant.

Her fingers traced the red lines again, the symbol’s meaning crystallizing in her mind: it was a marker, a signal — the word “matter” encoded in the ancient language of Caelistis. This was no random graffiti or natural blemish; it was a deliberate sign left by those who knew the way, a clue meant for those who could read it.

The forest seemed to grow quieter around her, as if acknowledging her discovery. The rain clouds thickened overhead, but she hardly noticed. This was the breakthrough she had been waiting for. Her hope reignited, the historian called out to the group, ready to lead them forward into the unknown depths — toward Caelistis itself.

She didn’t wait. The excitement and certainty in her steps now overrode the fear and fatigue that had slowed her before. She walked ahead, eyes turned upward and scanning side to side, the thick canopy no longer just vegetation but a coded language waiting to be unraveled. Her fingers brushed leaves and branches, her boots splashed through wet soil, completely indifferent to the irritated shouts behind her.

“Professor! Wait—dammit, someone follow her!”

The soldiers scrambled after her, grabbing what equipment they could in their rush to keep up. The general, cursing under his breath but still composed, barked out quick commands to tighten their formation.

Not far ahead, the historian suddenly stopped, eyes locked on a large, jagged rock partially covered in moss. It was blackened, split down the center—clearly struck by lightning long ago. But what truly mattered was what had survived the centuries of weather and growth: a second red symbol, vivid even under layers of grime and time. The ink hadn’t faded, as though it defied nature itself.

She whispered to herself, reverent. “Thunder…”

Matter. Thunder.

Two signs. Two pieces of a code.

The soldiers gathered around, rifles scanning the treeline, sweat and tension dripping from their skin.

“Two of three,” the general muttered beside her. “The last one?”

“The Star,” she replied, turning to him. “We find that… we find the entrance.”

“Then all eyes up,” he ordered to the rest. “I want every inch of this forest combed. We find that last symbol.”

They fanned out slowly. Tension pulsed through the air. The soldiers searched trees, stones, broken bark, ancient roots—anything that might hide a symbol. The historian, now half-crawling through a cluster of oversized ferns, suddenly stopped again. Not from discovery, but from something else.

She stood up, slowly. Her brow furrowed, her mouth set in a tight line. She turned to the group and asked quietly—but with such unsettling seriousness it made the closest soldier freeze mid-step:

“When was the last time you heard the forest?”

The jungle, once a symphony of insects, birds, rustling branches, was utterly silent.

No buzzing.

No fluttering wings.

No wind in the leaves.

Dead silence.

The kind of silence that doesn’t happen in nature… unless something unnatural is watching.

The military exchanged tense glances, the realization dawning collectively like a fog lifting off a battlefield. They all became acutely aware of the thick, unnatural quiet. Insects were gone. Birds gone. Even the distant rustle of monkeys or predators, absent.

It was wrong.

So wrong it made even the seasoned soldiers instinctively tighten grips on their rifles. One muttered under his breath, “This place is cursed…”

But the historian didn’t hear them anymore. Her eyes were wide, fixed on a point just ahead—through the low mist winding between the trees, near a massive tangle of roots and foliage. Her breath hitched, and her blood ran cold.

For just a second, she saw him.

A figure.

A human, she thought—no, perhaps not entirely human.

He stood impossibly still, framed by thick vines and fog. His face was painted in red ink—geometric patterns that evoked both war and ritual. His eyes were calm but glowed faintly, unnaturally, as if lit from within. His clothing was made of woven fabric, simple but pristine. No boots, no tactical gear. He wore a necklace made of metal with the unmistakable symbol of Caelistis, though his was forged in a strange black and crimson alloy.

But it was the weapon he held that made her go pale. She dropped her notebook as her knees weakened—not from fear, but awe.

The spear in the stranger’s hand wasn’t made from any Earthly material. The shaft was a deep, shimmering silver with streaks of red that pulsed faintly, alive, like flowing energy. It wasn’t wood or stone—it looked forged, machined. The tip, angular and glowing slightly, seemed to hum against the silence of the jungle.

It was technology disguised as myth.

The soldier closest to her stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “Professor—what did you—?”

She lifted a trembling finger and pointed into the forest. “There was someone,” she whispered. “Just now. Watching us.”

“Where?” the general demanded, already lifting his arm to give the order.

But the figure was gone.

Only a few parted leaves remained in his place.

The jungle behind him looked untouched, undisturbed—yet the silence remained.

The general’s expression darkened. “Weapons up. No one moves alone.”

Another soldier knelt and carefully picked up the fallen notebook, handing it to the historian. Her hands shook as she took it, but her mind was already racing. That man… wasn’t just someone passing by. His clothing resembled tribal garb, yes, but the precision of his movements, the material of the spear, the aura around him—it all pointed to one thing:

He was a guardian. A sentinel of Caelistis.

The city was near.

The historian was not made for battles—she was a scholar, a woman of ink and parchment, not blood and blades. If something happened, she knew she would not survive. She stayed close to the general, glued to his side as the rest of the heavily armed group moved with tense precision through the dense Amazon rainforest.

Clutching her worn notebook like a lifeline, she began flipping through the pages nervously. Her hands trembled, but her mind worked furiously. Among the ancient symbols and fragments of a forgotten language, there were parts she had deciphered—though never spoken aloud, never dared to share.

To steady herself, she whispered under her breath the ancient war tactics she had studied over years of researching lost tribes and civilizations:

“Dense forest... difficult to navigate... sounds echo and betray location... branches snap under foot... observation doesn’t come from the ground—but from above... always from above.”

And that’s when she looked up.

High in the trees, woven into the thick canopy, she saw them.

She turned as white as death.

They weren’t alone. They never had been.

Perhaps from the moment they descended from the helicopters, they’d been watched—stalked, studied, measured.

Atop the branches stood the guardians.

Their bodies were lithe and strong, balanced silently among the trees like part of the forest itself. They wore simple garments made from natural, flexible fibers—but their bodies were painted in war colors: blood red, midnight blue, lilac.

Their weapons, however, were far from primitive. Spears of an elegant, dark silver shimmered in the dim forest light, glowing faintly with veins of red. The bows they held curved with strange metal alloys; arrows gleamed as if dipped in energy. Their shields bore symbols that pulsed softly, as though alive.

They were an army of ghosts—hidden until they chose to be seen.

The young historian stared in stunned silence, gripping her notebook so tightly her knuckles turned pale. She realized that these guardians weren’t just any soldiers—they were trained, coordinated, watching silently from above with frightening patience.

And then her eyes fell on one of them—the one she’d seen earlier, the youngest, his face painted in deep red, still holding that spear with the glimmering red veins. Now she understood: the reason she saw him before was because he was inexperienced. He had made a mistake. The others had not.

The realization sank deep in her chest.

They had been observed for days—maybe longer. Every step. Every conversation. Every search.

She turned back to the general with slow, deliberate movements.

“I think…” she whispered, “...they’ve been with us since we arrived.”

He followed her gaze upward, and his blood ran cold.

They were surrounded.

But not attacked. Not yet.

She added, voice hushed with dread:
“They're not just soldiers. They're guardians. And we're standing on sacred ground.”

One of the soldiers, pulse quickened by the suffocating silence, raised his rifle instinctively—but the general barked a sharp command.

“Stand down!” he ordered.

The soldier froze, lowering the weapon reluctantly. But the tension in the air only thickened. The others shifted uneasily, scanning the treetops where the silent guardians stood unmoving—watching. Every breath felt like an intrusion. The forest was too still, too aware.

The general turned to the historian, his jaw clenched. “Why haven’t they attacked us?”

She was pale, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Fear hung on her like a second skin. Her fingers clutched the edges of her notebook until the pages bent. She swallowed hard and answered with a trembling voice, “Hypothetically… they’re just observing us.”

The general narrowed his eyes. “Observing?”

She nodded, her eyes flicking up toward the guardians. “My… studies from the scrolls recovered from Alexandria suggested something like this might happen. It’s possible this—everything we’re doing—it’s a test. A trial. The city doesn’t make itself known to just anyone. You have to find it… or be found by it. And then—then—they decide if you’re worth speaking to.”

The general stared at her, skeptical but listening.

She took a shaky breath, summoning what little composure she could. “The ancient records I studied… the city only made negotiations with those who uncovered its existence, or people they deemed tied to its destiny. I believe Cleopatra may have been one of them. There are fragments in her personal codex that reference winged beings of metal and stars. The Caelistis symbol appears faintly on a carved amulet found in one of her sons tomb—just once, but unmistakably.”

Her voice grew steadier with every word, her historian’s instincts overriding her fear. “There’s speculation that Julius Caesar saw the symbol as well—on a banner in Alexandria. Some believe he took it back to Rome. Even Genghis Khan… certain Mongolian texts speak of ‘metal spirits of the sky’ that guided warriors across the plains. They were all leaders who, in some form or another, passed the knowledge forward… or kept it hidden.”

The general processed her words, slowly turning his gaze back to the guardians above them.

They hadn’t moved.

Not a single weapon raised. Not a single signal to attack.

“They’re waiting,” the historian whispered. “Watching who we are. What we do next.”

The general stood in tense silence for a moment, eyes locked on the figures above, before muttering under his breath, “It would be wonderful if we could communicate.”

The historian flinched, hands still shaking around her worn notebook. Her voice came out in a tight, uncertain whisper, “I—I’ve studied the symbols. Some of the language. I know bits and pieces… but I’ve never spoken it out loud.”

The general’s head turned slowly toward her, his expression unreadable. “Then this,” he said flatly, “is a perfect time to start.”

Before she could protest, he placed a firm hand on her shoulder and shoved her forward.

She stumbled slightly, heart pounding in her chest like a drum. The space between her and the silent watchers above stretched into a chasm of dread. She looked back, pleading silently, but the general had already stepped aside, arms crossed. The message was clear: you go first.

The forest was still watching.

She swallowed hard, drew a shaky breath, and looked down at her notes—then up again. Her voice, soft but clear, formed the first word:

“Nexari…”

A name. A greeting. A word that meant “those who seek light” or “those who remember.” She had no idea how they would interpret it—but it was the only word she could offer that meant: we’re not enemies.

High above, one of the guardians tilted his head. A shimmer of recognition glinted in his sharp, silver eyes.

The historian, trembling and pale, slowly kneels to the damp forest floor. Her fingers, slick with sweat and dirt, grip a piece of bark-smooth wood handed to her by one of the soldiers. She doesn’t speak—her breath caught in fear—but instead presses the edge of the wood into the mud and leaf-littered earth.

Delicately, she begins to carve. The strokes are slow at first, then faster, more confident, the result of years poring over ancient scrolls and half-burned papyrus fragments in dimly lit archives.

Three symbols emerge in the soil:
A jagged spiral intersected by vertical lines — the ancient glyph for “peace” or “no blood.”

A diamond-like eye with rays radiating outward — symbolizing “wisdom-seeking” or “knowledge desire.”

Three rising wings enclosed in a half-circle — representing respect to the “trine” or guardians of Caelistis.

The warriors above don’t move.

One of them—painted in deep violet, long dreadlocks swaying as he turns his head—shifts slightly, watching.

The historian lowers her head in a respectful bow beside her message, heart hammering, hoping that centuries of study hadn’t led her to misread everything.

The air had grown unbearably tense, the heavy humidity of the jungle pressing down on everyone like a suffocating blanket. The general stared hard at the historian as she knelt by the glyphs she’d etched shakily into the damp earth.

"Do you actually know what the hell you’re writing?" he barked, frustration mounting. "Or what the hell you were talking about before?"

The young historian flinched as if struck. Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper, “I told you… I said I’d never spoken it out loud. I’ve studied the symbols, the structure, the roots of the language… but I’ve never translated aloud. I don’t know the inflections, the context—it’s a reconstructed dialect—”

Her breath hitched. Her lips quivered. She was seconds away from a full panic attack. Her eyes darted helplessly from the glyphs in the dirt to the jungle canopy above, as if hoping someone—or something—would intervene. Her hands shook violently, dirt smudging her pale fingers as tears welled in her eyes.

Then—without a sound—the boy she had seen earlier materialized beside her, silent as mist, like he’d emerged from the very shadow of the trees. He didn’t startle her. Somehow, she had sensed him before she saw him.

He crouched next to her, hand warm and steady, and gently took her trembling fingers in his. Not a word was spoken. Carefully, he guided her hand, his presence calm and unthreatening. With quiet precision, he adjusted one of the symbols she had drawn—scraping away a crooked line, correcting the angle of a curve, redrawing the tip of a star-shaped rune. The correction was small, almost imperceptible… but to him, it clearly mattered.

The general, normally a mountain of iron resolve, went still. No one dared move. The forest watched. The wind paused.

The boy let go of her hand gently, nodding once. His war paint glistened with the humid mist, red streaks vivid against his youthful face, eyes ancient in their stillness. He didn't speak—not yet—but that gesture spoke volumes.

The young historian could only stare at her hand. It still tingled where he had touched it. And her symbol… now shone with quiet authority.

Before anyone could react—before the historian could even breathe—one of the older warriors descended from the canopy with a speed and silence that chilled the soldiers to the bone. He landed behind the young man who had guided the historian’s hand and, without hesitation, delivered a sharp slap to the back of the boy’s head.

The thwap echoed through the forest like a reprimanding thunderclap. The young man flinched, his face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and submission. The older warrior barked something in a language none of the outsiders understood—a tongue older than any spoken on Earth now, sharp and fluid like running water over stone. His tone was unmistakably scolding.

The young man gave a sheepish nod, and without a word, leapt back up into the trees, disappearing in a blur of movement—quick and graceful as a feline being chastised by its mother. His departure left only leaves trembling in his wake.

The elder warrior remained. Tall, powerful, and clearly in command. His war paint was layered and more elaborate than the others—dark blue and obsidian hues swirled together with symbols etched into his armor. His spear, forged from the same dark silver with glowing streaks of violet-red, rested lightly in his hand like an extension of his body.

He turned to the group, meeting the general’s hard stare and the historian’s terrified eyes.

“We are only here to observe,” he said—perfectly, clearly—in their own language. His voice was deep, gravelly, and calm. “The test has already begun.”

A long pause followed, heavy with implication.

“If you wish to find the city…” he continued, narrowing his eyes slightly, “…you must deserve to.”

Then, as if his message had been carved into the air itself, he vanished—no rustle, no sound. Just gone.

But not before dragging the young warrior back into the canopy by the ear, muttering what sounded like a long string of stern words in his native tongue—ancient, melodic, and rhythmic. Somewhere in the scolding was a strange affection, the kind passed between mentor and youth, or parent and child. A final gesture sealed it: he leaned in and kissed the boy’s temple before they vanished completely, swallowed by the treetops.

The jungle fell silent again, but now it was a different kind of quiet. Not threat, but trial. The test had truly begun.

The historian stood frozen, mouth slightly open, heart still pounding from the surreal encounter. Like the rest of the group, she was stunned—not just by the fact that the guardians could speak their language, but by the clear realization that they had chosen not to. The test wasn’t just physical; it was psychological, intellectual, and deeply symbolic. If the language barrier were removed, it would’ve been far too easy.

They weren’t dealing with savages or isolated tribes—these were ancient minds, disciplined, strategic, deliberate. And now, night was falling.

A soldier’s voice cut through the heavy quiet. “Sir… there. On the tree.”

All eyes turned. Not far ahead, on the trunk of a massive ceiba tree, something shimmered faintly in the dusk. It wasn’t glowing like technology might—it was more subtle, like starlight caught in bark. The historian pushed past the others to get a closer look.

There it was. The third and final symbol.

The Star.

Painted in a kind of ink that only revealed itself as light faded, the glyph now pulsed softly like a heartbeat. The earlier two symbols—Matter and Thunder—had appeared in red pigments that defied time. But this one… this had waited for the dark.

The historian connected them quickly in her mind. The ancients had always associated stars with knowledge, higher guidance, and fate. The path could only be revealed once all elements aligned: matter, storm, and light.

Just as she was about to speak, the general stepped forward with hardened resolve. “You can process it later, professor,” he said gruffly. “We follow it now.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

Using the arrangement of the three symbols and the historian’s notes, the general led the team forward, cutting through thick vines and overgrown terrain. The path wasn’t straight—it curved like a spiral, weaving through terrain in a specific, deliberate pattern. It was meant to confuse those who didn’t understand the code, but now that they did, it pulled them forward like gravity.

Behind them, the jungle remained silent… but never empty.

After several grueling hours cutting through undergrowth and navigating the winding, glyph-marked path, the team arrived at a part of the forest where the trees seemed older, thicker—primeval. The air grew heavier, charged, as if saturated with static. Something was off.

Then it happened.

The lead soldier, machete in hand, walked forward—and stopped abruptly as if hitting a wall. He stumbled back, confused, running his hand through the empty air in front of him. “There’s something here,” he muttered.

The general stepped forward, scowling. He was done waiting, done guessing. He turned and shoved the historian lightly but firmly forward. “Do something,” he barked. “They’re watching. Always have been. So impress them.”

Before the historian could speak or even think clearly, the world shimmered.

A pulse, like the air itself exhaled, rippled outward in a ring—and revealed it.

The invisible wall of air suddenly gave way to visibility: an enormous dome camouflaged with a breathtakingly advanced cloaking technology. Its surface looked like melted glass and fluid metal, constantly adjusting to its surroundings, warping the vision behind it like heat waves on pavement. It hadn’t just been hidden from sight—it had blended perfectly with the surrounding jungle, reflecting its color, movement, and even scent.

The general took a step back, awestruck. His thoughts immediately turned militaristic: stealth bombers, global surveillance, warfare. This level of tech could shift the world’s balance of power.

Before he could say a word, it opened.

A seam appeared in the dome and split slowly, like a wound parting. The gateway to the lost city Caelistis revealed itself—not with grand fanfare, but with silent precision, the kind only true masters of technology could afford.

The team entered in stunned silence.

As the last soldier crossed the threshold, the entrance sealed itself behind them. The shimmering barrier flowed like mercury and vanished. Once again, the dome became invisible—the city, cloaked to the world.

They were inside.

The city of Caelistis unfolded before them like something out of myth, yet fully alive and real—breathtaking in its balance of nature and technology. Where the jungle had been dense and unforgiving, here it had been tamed and harmonized. Giant trees with luminous leaves arched into canopies above sleek, silver walkways. Roots coiled delicately around buildings that shimmered with bioluminescent light and humming energy. The structures—crafted from smooth, glowing alloys and living stone—pulsed softly, as if the city itself breathed.

The fusion of nature and innovation was seamless. Ivy threaded itself along aerial bridges, birds and light-winged creatures flew freely through courtyards, and freshwater streams ran alongside circuits etched into the ground like glowing veins. Caelistis wasn’t just built on technology—it was grown with it.

The people—villagers, warriors, scientists, and children alike—moved about with calm purpose. Men and women bore war paint across their faces, each in vibrant hues: crimson, indigo, lilac, forest green. Their clothing, though practical, was beautifully designed—robes and garments layered in geometric patterns, some adorned with subtle metallic thread. But the children were notably different: their clothing was plain—white, gray, beige—and they bore no paint on their faces. Innocence was sacred here.

They passed what appeared to be an open learning square, where children sat in half-moon circles around glowing orbs that projected lessons into the air. The voices that came from the spheres spoke in dozens of tongues—Arabic, Portuguese, Swahili, Mandarin—alongside others that were entirely foreign. One of the elders referred to it as Cybertronian, another as Vosian—languages the historian had seen referenced but never fully deciphered. Still, they weren’t just complex—they were designed to be learned, and the children grasped them with ease.

Subjects were advanced—geography, history, mathematics, chemistry, linguistics—but distilled with such clarity that even abstract quantum principles or ancient cosmic charts seemed digestible. A boy barely ten years old was explaining to a girl how time dilation worked using a leaf and a stone as metaphors.

Around another corner, a child had apparently fallen from a tall structure, and within seconds, a group of villagers wearing light-green necklaces had rushed to help. From within their bags, they pulled devices that hummed and glowed, scanning the child’s body, repairing injuries in moments. The green necklaces, the historian realized, were a mark of the healers, those who followed the path of recovery and preservation.

In contrast, the warriors were marked by their simplicity—few ornaments, their war paint more significant than any necklace or badge. The elder warriors, however, bore armguards etched with the same three symbols: Matter, Thunder, and Star, their meanings now deeply etched into the historian’s mind. The colors of their paints seemed to denote allegiance not to factions, but to philosophies or perhaps types of leadership. In Caelistis, it appeared that governance was not dictated by a single ruler, but by the will of the people—each person choosing their own guidance through color and creed.

They passed varied classrooms—one teaching technology crafting, where a girl with violet face paint molded circuitry directly into a growing vine. Another space, entirely open, was dedicated to military strategy, where holographic battlefields floated above a glass floor, and students moved figurines to simulate movement in real-time. A dome housed animal studies, where both wild and engineered creatures were observed and cataloged—not in cages, but in simulated ecosystems.

It was a living utopia, an autonomous world of evolution, intellect, and harmony. The young historian, still absorbing the enormity of it all, turned slowly in place. Every building, every path, every teaching space reflected one truth: This city was not hiding because it was afraid—it was hiding because the world was not ready.

Chapter Text

The awe that had enveloped the military group moments earlier quickly dissolved into tension as the observers—now clearly guardians of the city—moved into action. Without speaking a word, they approached the group and began collecting the weapons, devices, and other equipment the outsiders had brought. The historian watched in stunned silence as small, palm-sized devices were pulled from the belts of the guardians. When activated, each emitted a focused beam of energy that reduced guns, radios, and even metal knives into charred remnants—not disintegrated, but transformed, blackened, carbonized into something as harmless as coal.

The soldiers instinctively reached for what remained—but froze. The guardians had not yet attacked, but now the spears they held crackled with arcs of electricity, dancing along the shafts like lightning imprisoned in metal. They weren’t primitive weapons—they were advanced conduits, humming with stored energy, ready to pierce and paralyze in a single throw. The message was clear: you are allowed here, but you are not trusted.

The group, rattled but now subdued, was silently ushered along a massive stone and alloy path. They passed beneath a towering archway carved with the three symbols—Matter, Thunder, Star—now glowing faintly. The path led them to a main structure unlike any they’d seen in the city so far. While the rest of Caelistis pulsed with the harmony of nature and synthetic life, this place was different: colder, older, purely metal. A stark contrast.

The massive doors that loomed before them were etched with swirling patterns, now inert, but clearly once part of some larger mechanism. With a deep mechanical hum, they parted to either side, revealing the interior of the sanctum.

It was enormous, cavernous—like a cathedral of steel and circuitry. The floor beneath their boots echoed with every step, metallic and smooth. The walls were lined with panels, some flickering with ancient data, others marked with unreadable glyphs in geometric patterns. Artificial lights suspended from unseen sources bathed the chamber in a soft but sterile white glow. It felt timeless, not just ancient—but like something from a civilization that had once looked down on Earth from the stars.

At the heart of the room were three massive thrones—made entirely of metal alloys darker than iron, matte and cold, with veins of glowing blue circuitry running through them. They stood like monuments to forgotten kings—or gods. Each throne was too large for any human, clearly meant for giants or titanic beings whose scale dwarfed any life known on Earth. And though empty, the thrones seemed to hum faintly, as though remembering those who once sat upon them.

As the final member of the group entered, the massive doors closed behind them with a hiss of air and a reverberating clang. No guardians remained inside. The group was alone in this echoing hall of metal and power, the only sounds their own breath and the faint buzz of alien technology still alive in the walls.

The historian stepped forward, gaze drifting upward toward the thrones. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was little more than a whisper:

“This isn’t just a city. This was a seat of judgment.”

As the historian took cautious steps closer to the monumental thrones, her eyes were drawn to something even more imposing—a second, even larger door carved into the wall behind them. It was half-concealed in the shadows, its surface composed of concentric plates of smooth alloy, segmented like armor. Etchings surrounded it, deeper and older than any they’d seen—not decorative, but mechanical, like puzzle pieces waiting to be activated. It became immediately clear: the room they were in was only the threshold to something far more immense.

Before she could speak, a low murmur echoed from one corner of the metallic chamber.

The military snapped to attention, weapons instinctively half-lifted—though they had none left—and the general tensed, shielding the historian with an arm as two figures stepped out of a softly lit alcove.

One wore a sleek suit trimmed in lilac, its fabric rippling slightly like it breathed with him. His face was familiar—one of the mysterious trio they had seen in photos, always calm, always distant. His expression now was one of mild amusement.

Beside him stood the other—in the deep navy-blue suit, the markings on his clothing slightly more ornate, darker shades folding into one another like layered ink. He remained silent, his gaze intense, scanning the group without expression. A quiet, assessing presence. Like a weapon sheathed in conversation.

The one in lilac was the first to speak, his voice calm, flowing like silk across the metallic air:

“The last time a human found this place,” he said, walking slowly toward the thrones, “they were not as… careful as your historian.”

He glanced briefly at her. She froze, heart pounding.

“That was centuries ago. And their discovery nearly led to the extinction of two cities. Not one.”
“We learned then. The trials became stricter. The eyes, sharper. The observers, less forgiving.”

The blue-suited one finally spoke, his voice deeper, measured:

“But you made it. You found the gate, solved the signs. Even the incorrect glyph was corrected, without bloodshed. That hasn’t happened in hundreds of years.”

He turned his gaze toward the colossal door behind the thrones.

“That door hasn’t opened since the fall of the Solar Houses.”

The general shifted, visibly unsettled. “And what’s behind it?” he asked, trying to keep his tone steady.

Neither man answered immediately.

Then the one in lilac smiled slightly, almost regretfully.

“That depends. On you. On her.” He looked at the historian again.
“And on whether you came seeking knowledge… or power.”

The chamber fell into silence again, as the thrumming sound behind the colossal door deepened—soft, ancient, awakening.

The historian’s hands trembled slightly, but her voice, though tight, rang with clarity. She gripped her notebook as if it were armor, a lifeline against the titanic uncertainty pressing in from every metallic wall.

She took a determined step forward.

Then, locking eyes with the man in lilac, she pointed toward him and said with steady breath, “Matter.”
Her gaze shifted to the one in blue, whose arms were crossed in silent curiosity. “Thunder,” she named.

The two men exchanged a brief, knowing glance—neither confirmed nor denied—but their silence was telling. A soft energy rippled through the room, like the hum of something long dormant responding to recognition.

Before she could ask “Where is the Star?”, a sudden presence shifted the air beside her.

She hadn’t even heard footsteps.

The third figure—the last of the trio—emerged beside her, as if simply materializing from the ambient shadows. They wore tricolor tresses: a cascade of hair braided into precise lines of light gold, dusky violet, and deep silver, shimmering under the artificial lights. Their clothing was elegant, seamless, blending hues of the other two—lilac, blue, and a faint celestial white. The aura they carried was different: less stern, less amused—measured, commanding, and utterly unreadable.

Without saying a word, this third figure reached out with long, graceful fingers and gently took the notebook from the historian’s clutched hands.

The historian flinched—afraid, not of violence, but of judgment.

The figure didn’t tear or damage the notebook. Instead, with careful reverence, they unfolded and turned its pages. Their eyes scanned her notes—her frantic sketches, incomplete translations, and the raw, chaotic passion of a mind that had been chasing something most called a myth.

They stopped at a page where she had drawn the three symbols: Matter, Thunder, and a half-formed Star.

For the first time, the figure spoke. Their voice was androgynous, melodic, with layers of resonance—like multiple harmonics speaking at once in harmony:

“You’re close. Closer than any in generations.”

They looked up at her, eyes luminous and impossible to name in color.

“But the Star is not a place, is a person.''

The general’s voice cut through the air like a command missile:

“I want answers. Now. Who are you?”

His voice echoed off the high metal walls, stern and rigid, as if trying to reassert control over a situation that was slipping through his fingers like sand. But there was no reply. The trio remained silent, their attention firmly not on him.

Not a single glance. Not a word. It was as if he wasn’t even in the room.

The man in lilac was slowly pacing, observing the colossal chamber with interest—his hands tucked behind his back as if inspecting an ancient home.

The one in dark blue stood in thoughtful stillness, gazing toward the giant thrones with a look more reminiscent of memory than curiosity.

The third, with tricolor braids, was focused only on the young historian, their eyes following her subtle expressions, her breathing, her trembling hands around the notebook once more returned to her.

The general clenched his jaw. His expression now turned to her—intense, commanding. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

His gaze said it all: Ask them. Now.

Swallowing hard, the historian took a breath that barely reached her lungs.

She stepped forward timidly, clutching the notebook to her chest as if that would protect her from the gravity of the moment.

Her voice came out in a whisper, unsure, awkward:

“…Are you… Skywarp… Thundercracker… and Starscream?”

The names were ancient. Alien. Non-human. Words she had never dared say aloud—until now.

The sound of them lingered in the air. Hanging.

Something shifted.

The lilac-dressed one—who she had called Skywarp—smiled faintly. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cruel either. Just amused, like a magician whose trick had finally been spotted.

The one in blue—Thundercracker—turned to face her, arms unfolding, giving her a slow nod that confirmed nothing, yet denied even less.

And the one with tricolor tresses—who could only be Starscream—tilted their head with a sly, measured grin. Their voice came soft but deliberate:

“You’ve read well, little star. But names… names are echoes. You’ll have to decide what they still mean.”

Behind them, the colossal door beyond the thrones began to glow faintly—awaiting the next step.

The historian begins, in her mind, to put everything she knew in order. The symbols, the maps, the ancient texts — all of it. None of the oldest records ever depicted humans as the rulers or the founders of the city. The main images in the ancient taboos, the ones hidden in the deepest parts of Alexandria and forgotten scrolls, were not of people. No… they were of colossal machines, titanic beings too massive and precise to be born of man’s hands.

But it didn’t make sense.

How could something that big—so impossibly large—disguise itself as a human? How could something so vast hide in plain sight, wear flesh like clothing, wear expressions and smiles? That would require more than just camouflage. It would require energy on a scale no human technology could touch, no formula could even begin to describe. It would require a civilization so far ahead that even millennia wouldn’t be enough for humanity to catch up. And yet...

It was the only theory that made sense.

The historian slowly turned to the three thrones behind her. Giant. Imposing. Their sheer size meant only one thing: whoever sat there was not human. But of the three thrones, one stood out. They were identical in structure, yes, but the middle throne… the middle one was cleaner. Maintained. Treated with subtle reverence.

A throne for a leader who sat equal in shape—but not in power.

Matter. Thunder. And Star.

Of the three, the star was the brightest. The core. The one who burned above the rest.

Without thinking, the historian turned back to the trio standing before them. She clenched her notebook so tightly her knuckles turned pale, her voice a whisper carried by truth rather than courage.

“You’re not human.”

Silence.

A deep silence filled the metallic hall as her voice faded. Even the air itself seemed to freeze in place.

The general turned his head sharply toward her, his jaw tightening. His glare screamed what did you just say?

And then—

The three smiled.

Not quickly. Not reactively. But slowly, all at once. Like a secret finally given permission to show its face.

It was a perfectly mirrored smile, eerie in its symmetry. A smile not of comfort, but of knowledge long buried. It was like watching masks peel away—gently, gleefully.

And then their eyes—once brown,blue and lilac, once human—glowed.

A deep, impossible red, burning from behind skin that was no longer just skin. The red light illuminated their faces like embers, reflections dancing on the metal walls and even on the floor beneath them.

The military men stepped back, startled, hands twitching out of instinct toward belts that now carried nothing.

They had no weapons.

They had no escape.

The historian stood still. Frozen.

The one with tricolor tresses — the one who had taken her notebook — held it now with unusual gentleness in his hand. He flipped its pages with fingers too calm, too still, eyes glowing brighter with every turn. Then he looked at her.

And spoke.

His voice had changed. It was no longer the smooth human tone from before. It was a voice laced with resonance, mechanical undertones buried beneath its elegance.

“You were not supposed to say it out loud.”

The other two took a step forward, their smiles unchanged.

“But then again… your kind has always been like this,” the one in blue said. “Asking too many questions.”

The lilac one tilted his head, amused.

“And answering them too soon.”

Behind the three thrones, something shifted. A sound like massive gears turning echoed through the chamber. The colossal door that had gone unnoticed began to open, its internal locks unlatching one by one with thunderous force.

“Now that you’ve seen…” the tricolor one said, voice quieter, almost like a dare. “Step forward.”

“The test continues. Let’s see if your species survives the answer.”

The three walked slowly, calmly, placing themselves behind the massive metallic thrones. For a moment, silence reigned… until the sound erupted.

That sound.

An impossible sound — a blend of ancient mechanics and futuristic precision — metal folding into metal, rotating, reshaping, locking. It echoed through the chamber, loud and unnatural, a roar of shifting alloy and internal servos that had no place in human biology. A sound of transformation.

And then—quiet.

A stillness.

Until—

Two enormous red lights flickered in the shadows behind the thrones.

Not lights. Eyes.

The group stood frozen, barely able to process what they were seeing, the scale, the shape, the presence. The glowing eyes moved forward, and from the darkness stepped Skywarp.

No longer hiding.

No longer human.

Now in his true form — vast, mechanical, majestic and terrifying — a towering figure of sharp edges, sleek armor, and impossible articulation. His armor was black laced with purple streaks of raw energy, pulsing at the edges of his chassis. He stepped forward, each movement a seismic shift of the metal floor beneath.

Without a word, he approached the throne to the left and sat, the structure adjusting around him with smooth, obedient grace.

Then another sound.

Behind the group this time.

A shudder passed through the metal beneath their boots, and the group turned in unison.

Thundercracker stood there now, having emerged silently. He too had revealed his true form — blue and silver gleaming, his stance dignified, almost regal. He passed by them without acknowledging the humans, his massive shadow draping over them like a wave of pressure. He sat on the throne to the right.

The historian’s mouth was dry, her breath caught in her chest.

And then...

From directly in front of the group — he appeared.

Starscream.

His transformation had not been loud, it had been deliberate — controlled, elegant. One moment, he was gone. The next, there he was: standing tall in his real form.

Colossal.

Imposing.

His armor shimmered like brushed silver and crimson, the complex layers of alien metal folding with silent precision. His optics glowed a sharp, intelligent red — deeper than the others, as though they saw more than just the physical.

He didn’t sit. Not yet.

He stood, proud, wings slightly arched behind him, gaze locked on the historian. He looked down at her, and even though his expression was mechanical, the smirk in his voice was unmistakable.

“Now…”
“Do you have your answer?”

His voice reverberated through the chamber, powerful and exact. It carried not only the weight of truth—but a challenge. A statement that their entire journey, the myths, the symbols, the language, the city… had been leading to this.

The historian trembled, not out of fear this time, but out of clarity.

This wasn’t just a city.

It was a test of perception. Of legacy.

And Starscream — he — was the star at the center of it all.

The chamber seemed to tremble under the collective weight of disbelief.

The military, hardened men trained for war and the worst of human crises, could barely stand. A few stumbled backward, their weapons clattering to the metallic floor. One dropped to his knees, mouth wide open, muttering a prayer in disbelief. Their minds, built on the logic of the known world, struggled to accept the impossible giants now sitting—alive—before them.

The air was thick with tension, awe, and the hum of power emanating from the thrones.

But the general?

The general wasn’t like them.

No—he didn’t retreat.

His eyes glowed with something entirely different: obsession.

Pure, electrified, dangerous exultation.

He took a step forward, slow, deliberate, as if approaching a holy relic, his lips curling into a twisted grin. This wasn’t fear. It was ecstasy.

Before him were not just beings—no, not just intelligent machines—but the pinnacle of what human science could only fantasize about. Technology that could level cities, cross galaxies, reshape empires.

His voice trembled—not with fear, but with hunger.

“Three sentient machines… you’re real. You’re not simulations, not projections… You exist.”

Starscream tilted his head slightly, red optics scanning him with a look that could only be described as amused detachment.

“Very much so,” he replied, voice deep and sonorous, laced with something sharp beneath the surface—humor, maybe, or warning.

But the general wasn’t listening to tone—only to possibility.

He stepped forward again.

“I want answers. Your origins, your power source, your command structure, your purpose. This city, this technology—everything.”

He turned briefly to the historian, voice raised now, almost shouting, “You brought us here, you opened this door. Translate if you have to—get them to speak.”

The historian, still gripping her notebook like a lifeline, said nothing. She couldn’t—not yet. She was watching Starscream.

Because he wasn’t looking at the general.

He hadn’t moved at all.

Only watched.

Watched the hunger in the general’s eyes—the same hunger that had led emperors, kings, and tyrants throughout history to ruin.

Starscream’s optics glowed brighter for a moment, and then:

“You want answers?”
“Be careful what you wish for.”

Thundercracker and Skywarp said nothing. Their optics also watched, calculating, patient. Silent titans witnessing another human fall into the same trap that had snared so many before.

This was not a conversation.

It was a test. And the general, blinded by awe, was walking right into it.

The chamber seemed to hold its breath as the young historian took one careful step forward.

The military behind her said nothing, too stunned, too wary of the colossal titans before them. The general’s demand still hung in the air, unanswered. But now all eyes—military and mechanical—were fixed on her.

The three beings watched, unmoving. Their crimson optics pierced the air like twin suns of judgment, unreadable and immense. Lying to them would be worse than useless. They would know. She knew they would know.

So, voice trembling but steady in truth, she chose to speak plainly:

“My name is Dr. Aline Nereida dos Santos,” she began, the sound of her voice soft, almost humanizing the space again, “I’m a historian. My life’s work... it was always this. You. This place.”

She clutched her worn notebook like a sacred text.

“Since I was a child, I read every myth, every lost document, every unverified story. I was always drawn to tales of ancient cities—ones filled with light, knowledge, and beings of impossible power. Places that appeared in fragments through time and geography but were never taken seriously. Atlantis. Shambhala. The City of Caelistis.”

Her eyes shifted, studying each of the three in turn. Skywarp, unmoving but tilted ever so slightly, almost curious. Thundercracker, arms crossed but watchful. And Starscream, standing with the imperious calm of someone who had heard this a thousand times—and was still listening.

“I began to see patterns. Civilizations with no contact shared stories of titanic gods of knowledge and war, giants who could bend the world and disappear into the stars. The Maya spoke of sky people with silver blood. The Inca worshipped star-bringers who taught them numbers and metals. In Mali, the Dogon tribe spoke of visitors who came from Sirius with great machines. And in Australia… the Yarrans painted beings of light, who vanished into the sky with thunder.”

Her voice grew firmer, steadier. This was her element now—truth, memory, and the conviction of study.

“The world dismissed it all as legend. But history isn’t made of certainty—it’s made of echoes. And every echo pointed here.”

She paused, breathing deep. Then added, more quietly:

“I never expected to stand in it. But I always believed it was real.”

A long silence fell.

The three titans did not speak. Not at first. But their optics dimmed slightly, just a flicker—less like judgment, more like consideration.

Starscream finally moved.

He stepped toward her, slow, deliberate—massive and fluid, the weight of stars in his gait. He leaned in, optics gleaming like red moons.

“You sought the truth,” he said, his voice almost… impressed.
“And unlike your general, you did not demand it. You earned it.”

Behind him, the colossal door at the back of the chamber gave a faint rumble.

Another test had been passed.

The colossal doors parted with a low, resonating hum, and the three titans—Skywarp, Thundercracker, and Starscream—stepped forward into the vast chamber beyond. Their immense frames moved with grace and weight, each metallic step echoing with authority. The young historian, Aline, followed cautiously, awe still etched in every line of her face. Behind her came the military, subdued and silent, their earlier bravado evaporated in the face of something far beyond their understanding.

The chamber they entered was cathedral-like in scale, dimly lit by shafts of artificial light cascading from above. But it wasn’t empty. It was a triad of wonder.

To the left, a massive vault of shimmering gold in its purest form rose like a mountain. Its surface glimmered with embedded jewels and rare minerals—amethysts, emeralds, blue diamonds, and stones no human eye had cataloged. Even the most hardened soldiers were visibly shaken. Some looked ready to step toward it, greed gleaming behind wide eyes.

To the right was the second wonder: rows of datapads, technological schematics, and devices pulsing with faint energy—their interface unreadable, some symbols glowing in the ancient language Aline had only begun to understand. Holograms flickered silently, showing galactic star charts, planetary rotations, and designs of machinery and weaponry unknown to Earth. It was an archive of unimaginable scientific wealth.

In the center, tucked behind a low light, was what looked like a heap of scrap—twisted, broken fragments of cybernetic pieces, limbs and gears, shattered faces of once-living machines. Most overlooked it, dismissing it as wreckage. But among the bent metal crawled white larvae, each nearly half the size of a human, moving slowly but deliberately.

Unlike anything Aline had ever seen.

The historian’s breath caught in her throat.

She crouched low, notebook still clutched in one hand, watching them closely. They shimmered with a strange metallic sheen, their exoskeletons refracting the artificial light. She didn’t dare touch them but spoke aloud with a kind of hushed reverence.

“They’re not from Earth… they can’t be. They’re… they're alive. But… they're metal.”

One larva crawled over a rusted piece of broken armor, its tiny mandibles chewing through metal like it was soft clay. It left behind a polished surface, perfectly smooth—cleansed, even. Aline noticed one of the titans, Thundercracker, watching her closely, as if silently measuring how much she understood.

Behind her, the general didn’t spare the larvae a glance.

His focus was consumed by the technology. He approached the glowing datapads with the careful reverence of a man who’d just found the gates to godhood. His eyes were feverish—already envisioning what Earth could become if they possessed even a fraction of this knowledge.

But Aline’s gaze remained fixed on the living metal.

“This… it’s an entire ecosystem,” she whispered. “An alien one. A system that recycles its own dead. They’re not just machines… they evolve.”

The three great machines remained silent—but each now stood near one of the wonders, like guardians. Skywarp by the gold. Thundercracker beside the datapads. And Starscream, behind Aline, watching not just the metal larvae—but her.

The silence was thick with unspoken tests. This was not a city of conquest.

It was a crucible.

The chamber had fallen into a strange, heavy silence. The military who had been drawn to the pile of riches — gold in its purest form, glowing stones more vivid than anything found on Earth — one by one began to disappear.

They hadn’t screamed.

They hadn’t even had time to react.

From the shadows, the Guardians came. Silently. Soberly. One by one, they took each soldier. A hand to the mouth. A shadow cast over their form. They were dragged backward, into dark corners, or vanished behind moving walls that closed seamlessly as if they'd never opened. The others didn’t even notice at first, until their own comrades were simply gone.

The pile of treasure remained untouched. But it was now surrounded by absence.

When Aline turned, startled, she saw the last soldier’s eyes wide in confusion as he was swallowed into the metal floor by the silent watchers. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Now, only she and the general remained.

She had passed the tests. That much was clear. She had chosen knowledge, not power. Curiosity, not greed.

The general had nearly failed — his eyes had lingered too long on the datapads, the technology logs, the power he imagined harnessing. But he had not touched. Maybe that hesitation was the only reason he still stood.

Aline was shaken from her thoughts when Starscream’s voice echoed through the metal chamber, cold and resounding.

“You may walk the city.”

He didn’t say more. But at his words, the doors opened again, this time guided by the same Guardians — taller, silent figures whose gestures were soft but final. They approached, guiding Aline and the general out of the chamber.

The air outside was calmer. Warmer. And quieter. As they walked down a metallic ramp leading back into the city’s central district, the general finally noticed what Aline already had.

His soldiers were gone.

Completely.

He stopped in his tracks, turning sharply.

“Where’s my team?”

Aline didn’t answer immediately. She watched the glowing city that extended before them, the mixture of life and technology breathing like a living organism. Then she looked at him, her voice low, calm despite her thundering heart.

“Maybe they didn’t pass the test,” she said. “Or maybe… they’re still being observed.”

The general's face turned to steel.

From the rooftops above them, two Guardians watched, unmoving.

Aline and the general walked in silence through the living heart of the city — a place unlike any they had ever imagined. The air was strangely light, the light itself soft and golden, coming from crystalline structures embedded in walls and trees alike. The roads were not paved but instead formed naturally from interwoven roots and glowing metals, a harmony between nature and technology.

Everywhere they looked, people moved with purpose. Children laughed as they left their lessons, guardians stood watch from rooftops and towers, and birds with metallic feathers flitted overhead, chirping in impossible notes. Despite the city’s alien perfection, there was warmth in the way it lived and breathed.

But neither Aline nor the general was here to sightsee.

If they wanted to know more — if they wanted the truth behind the three who called themselves Skywarp, Thundercracker, and Starscream — then they had to chase it.

Determined, Aline stopped near a wide communal circle where people were gathered, sharing food and knowledge under the shade of a tree with silver leaves. An old man sat on a bench, eyes closed but clearly aware. His face was marked with age and ink, his long robe dyed in lilac and star patterns. She walked closer, gathering courage, and asked him, gently:

“Where could I learn more about them? About the three. Their story. Where they came from.”

She had hoped he would say “library” or point to a temple. Instead, the man slowly opened one eye, blinked, and pointed to another old man sitting a little farther away, this one with deep blue markings across his skin and braided white hair.

The general raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Aline turned as the other man approached them, this one younger — perhaps in his fifties — but with the same look of quiet knowledge. He bowed slightly and said with a warm smile:

“He doesn’t speak your language. Only Vosian. Cybertronian, we call it. Never wanted to learn ours.”

Aline nodded. She understood. That elder belonged to something much older, maybe sacred.

The translator looked toward the blue-marked elder, then gestured for them to follow.

“Come. You’re in luck. He’s leading a class today. A lesson. In your language, just for now — about the gods. About them.”

Aline exchanged a quick glance with the general, who shrugged. The two followed the translator through the city. They passed children painting glyphs into the ground, teachers teaching star charts, and others manipulating thin metallic strands that floated midair like living circuits.

Eventually, they arrived at a great stone ring — an amphitheater carved out of living rock and glowing wire, open to the sky, where already a small group of children and a few adults were sitting.

At the center stood the blue-marked elder, waiting for them, his eyes shining not with age, but with memory.

He would tell their story.

The lesson was held beneath the vast, open sky, surrounded by the towering silverwood trees that shimmered softly in the sunlight. The amphitheater was natural, carved into the slope of a hill where vines glowed faintly underfoot, and petals floated lazily on the breeze. Sitting in its heart was a man easily in his eighties — perhaps older. His hair was a crown of white braids, his body slender but not fragile, and his presence commanded respect.

Around him sat young people, wide-eyed children, and attentive adults, all gathered on the smooth stone ground, waiting. Aline hesitated for a moment, then lowered herself among them, setting her notebook gently on her lap.

The old man spoke in the historian’s language — clear, deliberate, but warm. His voice was like wind through ancient leaves. As he began, several shimmering glyphs appeared in the air above him, and then, slowly, detailed holographic projections took form. Videos, memories, recordings perhaps a million years old began to unfold.

Aline could hardly breathe.

The first image showed a massive metallic world suspended in a distant star system — Cybertron. The teacher explained how this was a planet of sentient machines, where everything lived, breathed, and moved with energy called Energon. There, the official spoken language was Cybertronian — jagged, multilayered, sonic. But in the city called Aerials, the capital of sky-bound thinkers and seekers, the primary dialect was Vosian, lyrical and high-pitched like wind chimes mixed with code.

The images shifted: forms of machines, varied and complex — some heavy and grounded, others sleek and made for flight. He taught of the chassis — their body-types — how each carried purpose: warriors, thinkers, healers, and seekers of knowledge. Some with wings, others with wheels or treads, a few who could shift form entirely. It was not magic. It was engineering at a level beyond even imagination.

Then, the tone darkened.

He spoke of the War. A civil war that tore Cybertron in half — factions led by philosophies, by power, by fear. Cities burned, oceans drained, stars used as weapons. It was during this chaos that Starscream—once a Seeker of Vos—fled. The hologram showed him mid-flight, breaking through enemy lines with defiance and brilliance.

Soon after, Thundercracker and Skywarp, both of the warrior ranks, appeared alongside him. They fled not out of cowardice but a desire for peace — for something beyond destruction.

Then the scene changed again — now, they were on Earth.

The elder’s voice softened with reverence.

Starscream arrived not as a conqueror, but as a bringer of wisdom. It was he who taught the ancestors of the city, who showed how to shape a utopia with balance. It was he who created the city’s symbol — a star inside an eye — representing vigilance and hope. It was he who tamed the conflict between machine and earth. The trees here, the bio-metal vines, even the glowing butterflies and the spoucas birds with jeweled wings — all came from eggs and larvae rescued from a dying Cybertron.

Starscream had saved them.

The other animals in the city were not taken — they were created and nurtured here, born to live and, when their time came, be sacrificed as sustenance. And even that, the old man said, was done with ceremony and gratitude.

Aline sat, utterly absorbed, her heart thundering with both awe and sorrow. To think — three beings of war had come so far just to build a sanctuary of peace. Her eyes stung.

The general beside her, however, was in a different trance. He stared not at the birds or the ancient sky, but at the glimpses of alien technology — the power, the knowledge. His mind raced with visions of military might, of what could be done with such machines at command. Alliances. Empires.

Two people. Two visions.

Aline, for all her awe, had one quiet thought: Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp were brave. Brave not because they fought, but because they fled — and built something better.

The general knew far too well: where there was war, there were enemies — shadows left behind, old ghosts, grudges that never died. And in his eyes, the three titanic beings—Skywarp, Thundercracker, and especially Starscream—were too calm, too carefully placed in this strange utopia. No one leaves a war unmarked. No one builds a paradise without blood on their hands. He was no fool. They weren’t just survivors. They were deserters. Fugitives. Dangerous.

That night, beneath the cover of thick vines and the whispering trees, as the bioluminescent flowers dimmed in rest and even the guardians quieted their steps, the general remained awake. His mind spun with opportunity, calculation. He knew that this city, hidden and self-contained, was not just ancient—it was vulnerable. If he could bring back the right minds, the right weapons, this power would be his to wield.

He moved silently, like a seasoned predator. He packed what he could—samples of bark that shimmered with code, tiny fragments of broken tech from refuse piles, even the artificial feathers of a spoucas bird that shimmered in faint silver hues. But most important of all, he stole what mattered most:

Aline’s notebook. Her life’s work. Her translations, drawings, theories—pages filled with centuries of forgotten connections, a map of the city’s soul. He tucked it under his coat and headed toward the city’s edge.

In the trees above, glowing red optics watched.

The Guardians saw every movement. They whispered through unseen signals.

But in the silent control chamber beneath the city’s metallic heart, Starscream stood motionless, arms folded behind his back. His wings twitched only slightly as he watched the general on a screen.

“Let him go,” Starscream said at last, voice cold but distant.

Thundercracker raised an optic ridge. Skywarp scoffed.

“He has no power here,” Starscream continued. “He holds no trust. And when he returns to his world, claiming to have seen titans and a hidden city? They’ll call him delusional. Mad.”

“And if he’s not?” Thundercracker asked, a deep rumble in his voice.

Starscream’s optics flared brighter. “Then he will come back alone. And he’ll die alone.”

And Starscream was right. Days later, when the general finally emerged back into the known world, ragged and desperate, no one believed him. Not his own men. Not his superiors. Not the media. He was laughed at. Demoted. Discredited. A soldier cracked by the jungle.

But the general had planned for that too.

Before he was abandoned, stripped of rank and buried under bureaucracy, he activated one final piece of equipment: the black-etched medal hidden in his uniform. A transmission burst outward—a deep-space signal, encoded and pulsed across the stars.

The message was simple. A warning. A call.

“Seekers alive. Earth. Names: Starscream, Thundercracker, Skywarp.”

That signal reached more than just empty space.

Somewhere far beyond, in the cold vastness of the galaxy, it lit up consoles long silent. Decepticons turned their optics toward Earth. Autobots intercepted the pulse and activated threat protocols. A single message echoed across factions:

The war isn’t over.

And Earth — once only a place of legends and forgotten myths — would now become the next battlefield.

Chapter Text

The general, once a proud and towering figure, now wore the years like armor rusted through — skin like leather, eyes hollow but burning with hatred. His beard was unkempt, and rags were all he had left to protect him from the cold. Forgotten by the world he once served. Cast aside. But his mind remained sharp, his memory poisoned by betrayal and obsession.

That night, the sound of engines didn’t alert him. It wasn’t until the headlights beamed directly into his face that he turned, ready to curse whoever thought of driving through alleyways. But before he could speak, the vehicle changed.

It split apart in a ballet of engineering the world had never seen. Panels shifted. A hum filled the air. The transformation was swift, violent, elegant. The Decepticon known as Knockout stood before him, smiling with a razor-thin grin.

“Come along, General,” he said with a silk-slick voice. “You’ve been expected.”

Before the general could object, strong metal hands hoisted him from the gutter like nothing more than a rag doll. In less than fifteen minutes, they broke Earth's atmosphere.

Then, in the command chamber of a massive Decepticon warship orbiting above, the general stood again—filthy, weathered, and trembling—but this time, not from cold. No. This time, it was exhilaration. They’re real, he thought. All of them.

Megatron loomed like a god cast in steel. His optics glowed like dying stars. The tension in the room was palpable, with nearby Decepticons standing still in anticipation.

“How…” Megatron's voice cut through the air like thunder, “...does a human know the names of traitors?”

The general smiled wide—teeth crooked, joy unhinged.

“I saw them,” he said. “They live in a city hidden from the world. They build utopia while you rot in war. And now, I want revenge.”

Megatron's silence was approval.

Meanwhile, far from stars and vengeance, on the ground within a high-security U.S. military base, the Autobots had taken a different path.

They had come forward. No cloaking, no hiding.

“We come in peace,” Optimus Prime had said. “But peace must be protected.”

Government officials held urgent meetings. Panic quietly threaded through the halls. But it was the older brass—the ones who had seen things—who did not flinch. They had heard whispers. They remembered lost expeditions. And among them, quietly mopping a corridor just outside the hangar where Bumblebee and Ratchet ran diagnostics on their comrades, was a small woman.

Her back was hunched slightly with age. Her gray hair was tied into a low bun, and she moved with the aid of a polished cane carved with a swirling feather pattern. Her eyes, though dimmed with time, missed nothing.

Her name was Anne now. Simple. Quiet. Easily forgotten.

No one knew she had once been Dr. Aline Rios, the only human to pass the Trials of the Seekers. The only one allowed to know their truth. Her death had been staged, her name erased. She had watched the world turn without her from the shadows.

The earring she wore—unassuming to the untrained eye—held the ancient design of two wings: one of nature, one of metal, bound by a silver shield. A symbol of the city that should never have been found.

She swept. She polished. She listened.

Because when war knocks again, those who listen… survive.

Anne moved slowly, deliberately, pushing the mop across the gleaming metal floor of the hangar. The scent of scorched oil mixed with coolant lingered thick in the air, thanks to Ironhide, who had just finished calibrating his cannons and had somehow managed to spray a thick trail of dark fluid across the floor in the process.

“Primus, can’t even transform without leaking something these days,” Ironhide muttered, shaking one leg as if trying to shake out the last of it.

Chromia, ever elegant despite her warrior’s posture, walked over and gently smacked her conjunx in the back of the helm with a clang that echoed through the space.

“Don’t embarrass us,” she scolded in perfectly measured tones. Then, turning to Anne, her posture softened. “I’m sorry. He never pays attention to where he’s spilling his tanks.”

Anne looked up from her mop, offering Chromia a kind, reassuring smile.

“It’s nothing too much,” she said warmly, her voice soft and patient. “It’s just my job.”

But in truth, Anne had understood every single word Ironhide had said in Cybertronian — including the crude comment about the mop being more useful than some Earth officers. She had heard far worse in cybertronian. Her ears, after all, had once been trained to decipher the ancient songs of war and peace sung by titans.

She turned back to her task as Chromia shook her head and whispered something sharp to Ironhide. His optics flickered in discomfort, and he kept his mouth shut after that.

Not far away, Windblade, Ratchet, and Optimus Prime stood in a half-circle around a large holodisplay. Anne kept cleaning, making slow circles with her mop near their feet — close enough to hear, far enough to be ignored.

Windblade’s wings shimmered as she leaned forward.

“They came here for a reason,” she said. “It wasn’t just accident or retreat. Cybertron is stable now. Why would they abandon their posts?”

Ratchet gave a gruff snort. “They never cared for posts. Not those three. Skywarp, Thundercracker, and Starscream — seekers with too much power and too little discipline.But they had fleed,maybe Megatron had come for them”

Optimus was silent for a moment, his optics distant. Then he spoke, his voice low and resonant.

“Starscream has always been unpredictable. But he’s not a fool. If he’s chosen Earth as a place to hide… or build… it means there is something here. Something he wants to protect. Or something he fears others will find.”

Windblade’s eyes narrowed. “And now Megatron knows. He wouldn’t let a world like this go untouched.”

Anne paused her cleaning, her hand tightening ever so slightly on the handle of the mop. Her expression didn’t change — not visibly — but deep within her, the unease began to stir.

The city. The symbol. The larvae. The throne that was cleaner than the others.

Something was coming. Again.

And this time, she was ready.

Anne approached slowly, pushing her cleaning cart with the same quiet grace she used to walk among titans long ago. She paused a little closer than before to Windblade and tilted her head with well-practiced curiosity. Her tone was light, laced with an innocent curiosity that betrayed nothing.

“Excuse me,” she said, brushing a strand of graying hair from her face, “but… I keep hearing that name. Megatron. And another one… Starscream. Who… who are they, exactly?”

Windblade turned her gaze toward Anne, her sharp optics flickering slightly. There was a moment — brief but perceptible — where suspicion threatened to surface. But Anne’s posture remained relaxed, her smile modest and unthreatening. Just a cleaning woman asking about the powerful names she overheard. Nothing more.

Windblade relaxed and spoke.

“Megatron… is the leader of the Decepticons,” she began, voice measured and cold. “A tyrant forged in war, obsessed with domination and power. He wanted Cybertron — and everything beyond it — under his control.”

She paused, optics narrowing.

“Starscream was his second-in-command. Megatron’s ‘right hand’… though calling it that doesn’t reflect the truth. Megatron didn’t value him — not as a warrior, not as a mind. He tried to own him. Broke him down, rebuilt him, twisted him to obey. Punished him for any spark of independence. And yet…”

Windblade’s voice softened, not with sympathy — but with a strange respect.

“…Starscream escaped. Against all odds, he broke free. Vanished. No one knew where to. Then, not long after, Thundercracker and Skywarp — his closest allies, his brothers in more ways than one — disappeared too.”

Anne gave a small nod, letting the silence stretch, as if still processing the gravity of it.

“And now,” Windblade added, lowering her voice slightly as she looked at Optimus and Ratchet beside her, “we think they’ve built something here. Something worth hiding. Or maybe worth protecting.”

Anne only hummed thoughtfully, returning to her work. Inside, her heart beat like a war drum.

Starscream hadn’t just run.

He had survived.

Anne stood still for a moment, fingers loosely wrapped around the handle of her mop, her head tilted toward Optimus Prime as he finished speaking. There was no hesitation in his voice, no performance — only resolve. And pain. The kind of pain that comes from centuries of failure and hope battling within a single spark. His vow to protect Starscream and his family wasn’t just diplomatic. It was redemption.

She nodded solemnly, turning her gaze to Ratchet, who was seated near one of the massive consoles embedded with ancient and modern Cybertronian tech, glowing lines of code flowing like rivers beneath his digits.

“I… I want to help,” she said softly, approaching him. “But I’ll need you to trust me. If I give you some codes — some words — can you input them into that system of yours? Just… just type them. Exactly as I say.”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed slightly, skepticism clear in his expression. “That depends. What do they do?”

Anne met his gaze. It wasn’t the tired, defeated stare of someone carrying secrets. It was fierce. Quiet. Absolute.

“Nothing dangerous,” she said, her voice even. “But they’ll open something. Something important. Something that might show you how much Starscream has already done for us. Even now.”

Optimus inclined his head. “Ratchet,” he said calmly, “she’s earned that trust.”

With a sigh, Ratchet nodded and gestured to the input pad. “Fine. But if the console so much as flickers—”

“It won’t,” Anne interrupted, and then stepped forward.

Her voice changed slightly. More confident. More practiced. Like someone speaking words that had been rehearsed a thousand times.

“Vosian Codex entry... Delta-Seven-Tau. Override encryption alpha. Entry line one: ‘Kaon mechna rek vos tranith ek serah-kai.’”

The console lit up, a quiet ping echoing through the chamber.

Ratchet blinked, surprised, and stared at the console as symbols began to rearrange and reveal new lines of data. “That’s… that’s not in our modern systems.”

Anne allowed herself a small, secret smile.

“No,” she said, still watching the screen. “It’s older than that.”

The lab was silent when the symbols on the screen began to move, opening what now looked like a cyberelectric chat room. The Autobots and the military didn’t understand what they were seeing, surprised by how someone who was supposed to be just a cleaning woman could possibly activate something like that. But before they could speak, Anne calmly looked at Ratchet.

“Write that I want to talk to Thunder,” she said.

Ratchet hesitated for a moment, still trying to understand what was happening, but obeyed and typed the message. The answer came quickly: “He is busy, but Matter is available for a video call if the subject is important.”

Anne, without taking her eyes off the screen, nodded. “Write that it’s important. Put the video call.”

Ratchet looked at Optimus and Windblade, uncertain, but they all nodded. The call began to connect. The screen glitched briefly before stabilizing, and then the image appeared clearly:

It was Paris. The Eiffel Tower was there in the background, shining in the daylight. And in front of the camera was a man, dressed extremely well, sipping what appeared to be a cup of coffee, looking relaxed and unaware.

Anne leaned slightly and said only, “Yo.”

The man looked up. And in the exact moment he saw Ratchet, Windblade, Optimus Prime, and the others around the console, his eyes widened. He froze with the cup halfway to his lips. And then—

A brilliant blue liquid shot from his mouth in a choke, spraying the air in front of him. He coughed, eyes tearing, while trying to keep his human form composed, the glitch of faint static flickering across one eye.

He placed the cup on the table quickly, trying to recover. But it was too late. Everyone had seen it.

Anne just smiled, arms crossed.

The human on the screen, still coughing lightly and dabbing his mouth with a perfectly folded napkin, glanced between Optimus and Anne. His expression was one of stunned disbelief, confusion tightening his brow. The light in his eye glitched again, red for a fraction of a second. The café around him seemed to blur, as if the illusion of normalcy could no longer hold completely.

He finally managed to steady his voice, “What is this? How—” his eyes stopped on Anne, sharp now, no longer pretending to be human. He was scanning her.

Anne, calm and completely unshaken, leaned slightly toward the monitor, her expression neutral, almost clinical.

“It gets worse,” she said, quiet and sharp. “Megatron is also on the planet.”

A silence fell like iron.

The human didn’t speak. His jaw clenched ever so slightly, but his fingers twitched, something unmistakable passing behind his eyes—a mixture of fury and fear. The Eiffel Tower in the background flickered once more, and for a brief second, the city scene behind him revealed something else. Something darker. But it was gone in a blink.

Anne stepped forward slightly, voice low, “Starscream has to be informed.”

The human on the screen—perfectly composed moments ago—froze when Anne spoke his name.

"Skywarp."

The word landed with surgical precision. His fingers, resting on the edge of the porcelain coffee cup, tightened with a faint crack. His eyes—previously deep brown and calm—flickered. Once. Twice. Then gleamed in a burst of sharp, unmistakable red.

The café noise in the background went silent, the illusion flickering faintly for a breath, as though the very projection strained to hold itself together. Behind the mask, something ancient stirred—something that did not like being named.

Anne tilted her head slightly, her voice calm, even kind. “Wouldn’t it be better,” she continued, “for you to have help from the Autobots, if there’s truly a Decepticon threat coming?”

The red glow in his eyes intensified for a moment before he blinked and masked it again. But it was too late.

Windblade stepped forward, stunned. “Wait—Skywarp? That’s Skywarp?”

Ironhide’s optics widened. “No way... He’s using a human projection?”

Ratchet, though usually composed, was visibly thrown. “That’s tech we’ve only theorized, and it’s functioning in real-time... across continents.”

Optimus didn’t say anything at first. He simply looked at the man on the screen—through the man—and gave a slight nod, as if confirming something he had long suspected.

Skywarp looked at Anne again, the tension thick in his fake smile. “You always did know how to find cracks in the glass, Dr. Aline.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Very well. I’ll alert Thundercracker... and inform Starscream. But this changes things.”

“Good,” Anne said. “Because everything is about to change.”

The room was silent, the air thick with disbelief as the screen went dark. The name "Aline" still echoed in everyone's ears—uttered not by a human, but by Skywarp himself.

Anne—no longer just the quiet cleaning woman—slowly placed the mop aside. She stood straight, the calm grace in her posture now sharpened with authority long buried.

“It wasn’t my first time seeing giant robots,” she said evenly, her eyes calmly scanning each confused face before her. “Years ago, I was known as Dr. Aline. Historian. Specialist in mythologies surrounding ancient cities.”

Ratchet’s optics flickered as he tapped rapidly on his console, pulling up file after file. Within seconds, the truth became undeniable: Dr. Aline had been declared dead in a failed military expedition in the Amazon basin over a decade ago. The rest of the team had vanished without a trace—presumed dead. Silas, the general on that expedition, had been quietly dishonorably discharged for unstable behavior and had disappeared soon after.

“But you’re listed as deceased,” Windblade said, bewildered. “There was a military record. A ceremony.”

Anne’s—Aline’s—expression didn’t change. “It’s easy to fake someone’s death when no one survives to dispute it.”

She turned to Optimus, her voice now steady with memory and weight. “Silas and I were obsessed with finding a lost city spoken of in whispers—across civilizations, across time. We believed there were gods or titans behind the myths. What we found… was a city. A city hidden in a cloaked dome in the Amazon, surrounded by untouched jungle, guarded by shadows. That city was built by Seekers. Skywarp, Thundercracker, and above all, Starscream.”

Aline’s voice softened slightly as she recalled it. “Starscream created that place. He wanted peace. He brought Cybertronian animals, grew gardens of steel and green, taught its people balance. It was a utopia built by a fugitive who just wanted to be free.”

The Autobots looked stunned—Optimus most of all.

Ratchet, still running scans, finally murmured, “That kind of dome cloaking… we’ve never seen anything on Earth that advanced. If it’s true…”

“It’s true,” Anne said. “And now that Megatron knows their names and location, he’ll try to take it. That city is the only truly neutral haven left between Cybertronian hands. If it falls…”

The silence returned, but now it was charged—with urgency.

Anne’s voice cut through the murmurs and questions that followed her revelation.

“Don’t waste time,” she said sharply, her tone that of a commander more than a servant now. “We have to get to the city before Starscream hears the news. If we delay, he may shut the gates—or worse, disappear with the entire city. He built it to be hidden, and he knows how to make it vanish.”

The Autobots exchanged glances. Optimus gave a single, solemn nod.

Anne stepped forward, eyes on Ratchet. “Prepare a ground bridge. I have the coordinates—it’ll open directly outside the perimeter of the dome. But once we’re inside, no weapons raised, no threats, no assumptions. That goes for the humans and the Autobots.”

She turned to the military present. “You can come. But if anyone so much as reaches for their firearm, the city will swallow them and no one will ever find the body. That city is alive. It watches. And it protects its own.”

Even Ironhide—usually gruff and grumbling—remained silent. Chromia gave a slow nod of respect.

Windblade leaned closer to Optimus and whispered, “If she’s telling the truth, that city might be the last place on Earth untouched by war.”

Ratchet activated the console, the hum of the bridge charging echoing through the base.

Anne’s voice was calm, final. “Let’s go. Before the sky turns red.”

Everything had been prepared with precision. The ground bridge opened with its familiar swirl of green and silver light, casting flickering shadows across the hangar walls. One by one, the Autobots stepped through—Optimus leading, Windblade close behind, followed by Ratchet, Chromia, Bumblebee, Ironhide, and the military personnel chosen for the mission. Anne, or rather Aline, adjusted her shawl and held tightly to her cane, stepping into the bridge with the same steadiness she had once used to walk through ruins and lost temples.

The bridge opened into an atmosphere thick with moisture and the scent of untouched vegetation. The Amazon was alive and ancient, the canopy overhead dimming the sunlight until everything was cast in green shadows. The group stood among trees thicker than steel columns, surrounded by silence—not a bird, not a rustle, not a whisper of wind. The forest watched them.

Then, without sound, Skywarp appeared—still in his false human form. No flash of light, no tremor in the ground. One blink, and he was simply walking beside Aline, hands behind his back, dressed like a gentleman taking a stroll, his expression unreadable.

Bumblebee’s optics flared. He stepped back instinctively, servo on his blaster, but stopped short when he realized… there was no energy signature. Nothing. Skywarp was cloaked so well that not even Ratchet’s sensors were registering a Cybertronian presence.

Ironhide muttered something sharp in Cybertronian. Windblade stiffened, her wings twitching in distrust. Ratchet adjusted his scanner twice, confused, then frustrated.

“He’s… masking not just his form,” Ratchet said in disbelief. “His mass. His entire field. That’s not a disguise, it’s full-phase projection—down to the displacement footprint. He shouldn’t be able to do that.”

But he was. The man walking beside Aline looked perfectly human. No sound, no shadow gave him away. Even the forest, which had watched everything with suspicion, did not react to him. It was as if he was part of it—woven into the very ecosystem.

Aline didn't even look at him. She simply said, “Skywarp arrived the moment we did. He always does.”

Skywarp’s smile was small, but his red eyes gleamed just beneath the surface of the false irises.

“Let’s walk,” he said, voice still smooth and human-like, though those paying attention could hear the reverb—the echo of something not of Earth.

The forest path ahead of them began to change.

The moment Skywarp stepped forward, the air seemed to hum. His body shimmered—first his feet, then his hands and chest, the illusion peeling away in neat cybernetic lines like pixels disengaging from an old screen. The false flesh folded in on itself, shifting and retreating with a sleek hiss of energy until it was gone. What remained was the true form of Skywarp: towering, proud, and impossibly sharp. Black armor with deep purple highlights gleamed under the filtered canopy light. His wings stretched slightly as if testing the air, and his optics burned red with a subtle, ever-watchful glow.

He stepped forward without ceremony and stood beside Aline, his height casting her in shadow. She didn’t even flinch. Didn’t blink. The cane tapped once on the forest floor.

“I warned Thunder,” Skywarp said with effortless nonchalance, voice now layered with static undertones, fully mechanical. “He’ll reach Starscream before we do. The city’s already preparing.”

Before anyone could respond—before the military could even gather their words, and the Autobots could analyze what they had just witnessed—the air shimmered in front of them. A vertical tear formed in space like glass cracking without sound. Golden light spilled from the fracture, and a tall, slender portal bloomed open with grace, not violence. Its edges were etched in pulsating glyphs, ancient Cybertronian code flowing like a ceremonial invitation. It opened just wide enough for them to enter, one by one, and closed silently behind the last person as if it had never been.

Then they were there.

The city unfolded before them not as ruins or echoes of something forgotten—but as a thriving utopia that had grown while the rest of the world turned its back on magic and myth.

Caelistis. It was even more magnificent than any of the Autobots had expected—and far more evolved than when Aline had first seen it.

The buildings stretched upward like trees made of alloy, their lines graceful, fluid, and full of life. Towers twisted in spirals, constructed of seamless Cybertronian steel blended with vines, mosses, and glowing flowers that pulsed in sync with the city’s core. Bridges formed of luminous hexagonal panels connected towers high above, and beneath them, streets were paved not with asphalt but with a metallic mesh that shifted to accommodate different footfalls—human, Cybertronian, or otherwise.

Cybertronian wildlife moved freely, coexisting with organic life in serene balance. Great metal-winged birds soared overhead, trailing feathers made of shimmering light. Small mechanical squirrels darted between branches of hybrid bio-metal trees. Cyberbeetles, polished like obsidian gems, crawled along walls in vibrant patterns.

In the center of a lush park, two local children—barefoot, laughing—rode the back of a fully grown Cyberlion, a majestic, leonine being with a golden mane made of plasma filaments. It purred low as they guided it through the trees, entirely at peace.

The Autobots froze. Even Windblade, who had seen many advanced Cybertronian cities, stared in silence. Ratchet's sensors were overloaded, trying to understand how so much Cybertronian technology had been repurposed, hybridized, and allowed to evolve symbiotically with Earth's biology. He couldn’t comprehend how Starscream—once a Decepticon, once a warmonger—could have done this.

And yet it was unmistakably him.

Symbols of his design philosophy were everywhere—fluid geometry, flight motifs, and harmonic energy regulators visible at every turn. His influence pulsed through the city like a circulatory system of living innovation.

Aline turned calmly to them all, her cane clicking softly against the metal-organic floor as she walked ahead.

“Welcome to Caelistis,” she said, her voice reverent but firm. “Starscream’s city. The city that survived.”

Skywarp walked beside her in silence, towering over the group like a silent, protective shadow.

As they approached the city’s core, the design grew more refined. The materials were no longer just steel and hybridized flora but something greater—living alloys that responded to presence and emotion. Lights glowed softly in reaction to footsteps. Giant butterflies with glistening wings fluttered by, some organic, others clearly of Cybertronian origin—flashes of Starscream’s experiments in coexistence.

At last, the grand hall emerged—tall and vast with three rising towers shaped like wings folding inward. At their base, three thrones stood as they once had. Still equal in height, still equal in symbolism, but the center throne—Starscream’s—gleamed with new care and intricacy. It was adorned now with a symbol combining the old Decepticon crest and something altogether new: a rising star pierced by a quill and framed by wings.

Skywarp stopped walking. Aline took another step forward before pausing and turning to the group.

“From here on,” she said quietly, “we are guests. Chosen guests.”

The massive doors to the throne hall began to open, elegant and soundless, and the song of Caelistis hummed through the air like a cathedral tuned to the soul of two worlds.

The doors to the great hall had barely begun to open when the sounds within spilled out like thunder: voices raised, metallic, harsh, undeniably Cybertronian. The one leading them—Starscream’s—was unmistakable, his words cracked by fury and panic. Thundercracker's voice tried to rise beneath his, steady and low, attempting to calm the whirlwind his brother had become. The others froze, and even the Autobots hesitated on the threshold. The air inside shimmered with tension.

Skywarp rolled his optics, stepped forward with practiced indifference, and pushed the doors open wider. The hall revealed itself in full splendor.

The Throne Room was towering—vaulted ceilings high enough to house a starship, lined with mosaics forged from glassy alloys and vibrant minerals. The walls bore the story of Caelistis, not in Cybertronian glyphs, but in carefully etched human hands—murals, holographic sculptures, and light-coded reliefs showing the history of the city from its founding. Scenes depicted Starscream guiding early settlers, Thundercracker teaching harmony, and Skywarp patrolling the skies. It was a sanctuary built not just to remember—but to honor the impossible: peace.

But peace, now, was unraveling before their eyes.

Starscream stood before his throne—shoulders hunched, wings flared in agitation, optics glowing violently bright. His armor was glistening with fresh resonance lines, revealing that his internal energy was spiking, uncontrolled. His hands clenched and unclenched with every frustrated breath from his vents.

Thundercracker, ever the anchor, stood in front of him, one servo outstretched, trying to reason with him.

“They’re not attacking us, Screamer,” Thundercracker said quietly. “Skywarp called them, not Megatron. They're here because she brought them.”

Starscream’s optics narrowed, his sharp helm turning toward the entrance just as Skywarp sauntered in and casually asked:

“Are we interrupting a bad time?”

The Seeker leader turned—and then froze.

Optimus Prime entered first, regal as ever, calm but unmistakably alert. Behind him came Windblade, Ratchet, Bumblebee, and the rest of the small Autobot unit. The moment Starscream laid optics on them, his wings rose to full height, his vents surged, and his claws flexed in a posture that screamed imminent violence. His voice, when it returned, was frayed with venom:

“You brought them here?!” he seethed, his words aimed at no one and everyone. “You led them to Caelistis?!”

He took one step forward, optics blazing. “You led Optimus Prime into my city, when Megatron—Megatron!—is already on my planet?! Have you lost your mind?!”

The Autobots stood in silence, reading every move. A battle could ignite in seconds. Ratchet’s hand hovered near a scanner. Bumblebee’s optics flicked between Starscream and Skywarp. Windblade did not move—only observed.

And then Aline stepped forward.

Unshaken by the storm that stood before her, she placed her cane firmly on the floor and said, calm but firm:

“They’re here because I asked them. They want your help.”

The words landed like a blade in the quiet.

Starscream turned his gaze slowly toward her. It wasn’t rage that flickered in his optics now—but disbelief. Pain. The kind of wound that only came from trust violated.

“You...” he murmured, voice rough. “You brought them? You?”

Aline did not flinch.

“You remember what I said to you, years ago,” she said. “That knowledge is only useful when it’s shared. We can’t protect Caelistis alone. You know that.”

Starscream took a step back, his wings trembling. His optics searched her face as if trying to see whether the Aline he knew was still there—or if she’d become something else in her silence.

“You disappeared,” he whispered. “You let us think you were dead. And then you show up with them—and say we need help?”

Her voice dropped softer.

“I’m sorry for how it happened. But I never stopped believing in what you built. I came back for the same reason I stayed in the first place: to protect what matters.”

Starscream's optics dimmed slightly. Not soothed, not trusting—but thinking.

Thundercracker stepped up beside his brother, placing a firm servo on his shoulder.

“She didn’t betray you, Screamer,” he said gently. “She gave you a choice.”

Silence stretched.

Finally, Starscream looked toward Optimus again, and this time his rage simmered—tempered by restraint.

“I will listen,” he said coldly, “but only because she asked.”

The Autobots nodded. Windblade looked toward Aline with the first flicker of respect.

Starscream turned and walked toward his throne—not to sit, but to stand in judgment. Caelistis would listen. But its ruler, forged from war and rebuilt by trust, would not grant it lightly.

Optimus Prime stepped forward, solemn and tall beneath the light filtering from the crystalline ceiling. His optics were dim with regret, his voice lower than usual—less the booming cadence of a war general, and more the weight of a man bearing centuries of remorse.

“Starscream,” he began, gently, “I owe you an apology long overdue.”

The seeker didn't move. His optics locked on Optimus, sharp as blades, unreadable.

Optimus pressed on.

“In the past, when you needed help most, I failed you. I arrived too late. I turned my optics toward larger battles, while Megatron—” he paused, the name thick in his vocalizer, “—while he broke you. Twisted your mind. Tried to hollow you out.”

A flicker—barely perceptible—passed through Starscream’s wings. Not a twitch of violence, but something heavier: memory. His expression stayed stoic, but his vents pulled a slow breath, as if to keep some unbearable thought from rising.

Optimus took another step, voice cracking just slightly.

“I let him almost destroy you. And for that, no title I hold can excuse it.”

Silence bloomed heavy in the chamber. All optics were on Starscream. His talons tapped slowly against his arm plates—once, twice—then fell still. He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink. He simply... watched.

Windblade stepped forward then, her tone a contrast: where Prime brought sorrow, she brought truth.

“You’re not just the leader of Caelistis,” she said clearly, her optics sharp and earnest. “You are Winglord. The last appointed. The highest command of the Aerial caste. Supreme commander of the skyborn legions.”

Starscream flinched slightly, barely—a subtle crack in his posture. His optics narrowed. He hated that title. Hated what it meant. But he didn’t interrupt.

Windblade continued, stepping closer, voice unwavering.

“Megatron tried to erase you from Cybertron’s memory. He turned your name into a mockery. But even buried beneath the lies, the aerialbots know the truth.”

Her gaze softened, almost mournful.

“They remember the one who designed the nanites that saved generations. Who mended wings in hidden labs while cities burned above him. They remember the ghost in the ruins who left them caches of energon and flight modules during the worst of the famine.”

She paused, then added, almost gently:

“They remember the seeker who gave them hope.”

Starscream’s jaw clenched.

“They’re afraid of Megatron,” Windblade said, her voice lowering, “but they will not follow him. Not if you call to them. Not if you lead.”

A long, ragged sigh escaped Starscream’s vents. He turned slightly, his wings dipping—not in submission, but in weight. He shook his helm slowly.

“You know me too well,” he said, almost bitterly. “You know I would never invoke that caste-code—not to enslave the will of others.”

Windblade nodded. “I do. And I also know you don’t need the code. You never did. They would follow you by choice, Starscream.”

Now, the tricolor Seeker looked away. For the first time since the Autobots arrived, his gaze broke—toward the wall where humans had painted his likeness, wings wide over fields of steel and soil, cradling an infant avian hybrid in his clawed servos.

He looked smaller then. Not in stature—but in burden. The leader who had built a city from ashes, now being asked to step into a war he had once fled to spare everything he loved.

And yet—he was listening.

His vents drew another breath, longer this time. Then, quietly, almost to himself:

“I only wanted to keep them safe…”

Aline’s voice broke through the silence like a precise scalpel—sharp, clean, and entirely unromantic.

“That was beautiful. Touching. Really.” Her tone held no sarcasm, just urgency. “But we don’t have time for poetry. We need to prepare the city. Now.”

Starscream's optics shifted to her, steady and focused. Whatever emotion he had been feeling, it folded itself up neatly behind a mask of command. His wings lifted in a precise motion—regal, sharp, prepared. He gave a small nod.

“Thundercracker,” he said, his voice instantly more authoritative, clipped and cold, “initiate full defense protocols. Bring the skygrid online and activate the mid-altitude turrets. Begin perimeter sweeps.”

Thundercracker didn’t argue. He saluted briefly with two fingers over his crest and left with swift, calculated steps, wings taut with tension.

“Skywarp,” Starscream continued, already turning his helm toward the darker Seeker, “initiate civil mobilization. All non-enlisted civilians to shelters. Children, elderly, medical support staff—take them underground with the fauna. Both Cybertronian and organic species are to be moved to vault sanctuaries.”

Skywarp raised an amused optic ridge. “Even the spoucas birds? You know they hate tight spaces.”

Starscream’s optics flashed. “Especially the birds. They were born under fire. They know how to hide.”

With a slight theatrical bow and a smirk, Skywarp vanished into a teleport shimmer, already executing the order.

As the two Seekers departed with military precision, Ironhide—who until now had remained dutifully silent—finally broke.

“Wait a fraggin’ minute—did he just give evacuation orders to humans like they were soldiers?”

Aline turned slightly, her cane tapping once against the polished floor as she walked past him. Her voice was soft, like someone explaining something to a child.

“They are soldiers, Ironhide. Artists, teachers, engineers, but all trained. Trained by Seekers who remember what war looks like. And if Starscream gives the order...”

She smiled sweetly, almost mischievously.

“They can take a bot down and offline before you finish saying ‘frag’.”

The Autobots stared in stunned silence.

Aline stopped and looked back at them, eyes glittering beneath her bangs. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

She gestured to the painted murals on the throne room walls—their colors glowing faintly in the ambient energy that hummed through Caelistis.

“This city isn’t just beautiful because of technology or its utopia. It’s beautiful because every single being here is alive because of Starscream. And if he says the war has come to their door…”

Her gaze hardened, and her voice dropped.

“They’ll fight. For him. With him. As one.”

The air around them buzzed—not with tension, but with movement. Outside the great halls, footsteps—quick and synchronized—moved through the street. The cries of children were not panicked but organized. Civil defense bots rotated smoothly from storage bays beneath buildings. The forests around the city shimmered faintly, flickers of hardlight projections blooming from nowhere—defense nets being armed.

And somewhere above, the clouds grew darker, gathering around the tip of Caelistis’s tallest spire—like the sky itself was holding its breath.

Chapter Text

Within mere hours, Caelistis had transformed from a utopia into a stronghold.

The streets were emptied, the homes sealed behind reactive alloy shutters lined with glowing sigils of Cybertronian origin. The gentle songs of the cyber-fauna were replaced by the electric hum of aerial sentry drones circling high above the clouds. Civilians, both human and Cybertronian, were now hidden deep beneath the earth in fortified shelters protected by cloaked forcefields and guarded by semi-autonomous defense frames keyed to the Seekers’ biosignatures.

Only a select few remained on the surface: Starscream, Skywarp, and Thundercracker—the Trine now clad in full war-armor that shimmered with subtle oscillating pulses of energy—and the Autobots, who stood close behind them, watchful and uneasy.

Ironhide wandered slightly away from the group, attention fixed on the group of remaining humans.

He scoffed audibly, gaze trailing over the lean figures garbed in combat suits that looked like a fusion of light leather and tech-integrated plating. He noted how the materials were flexible, hugging the form like cloth yet clearly reinforced. Thin wires pulsed with nanite flows along their arms, disappearing beneath the segmented fabric. Their weapons were compact but crackled with faint plasma signatures.

“What's the point of dressing 'em up like they matter in this?” Ironhide muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “It’s suicide. A human ain’t takin’ down a Decepticon.”

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The moment came like a shattering pane of glass.

Without warning, the skies turned crimson. A thunderous boom split the silence—the high-altitude dome above Caelistis imploding in a cascade of spiraling hardlight as a focused orbital strike tore through it. The protective veil that had hidden the city for so long flickered violently and died.

A rift opened in the sky, and Megatron descended in a blaze of fury, his massive form outlined by scorched air. Behind him, Decepticons spilled in like shadows cast by a dying sun. At his side stood Silas—older, meaner, maddened by years of obsession. His once-sharp military uniform now modified with Decepticon-styled armor and support systems embedded in his flesh.

Silas smiled as though the gods themselves had bent to his revenge.

“I told you,” he rasped to Megatron, “this city belongs to us now.”

But fate had other plans.

The first clash was silent.

Blitzwing—always among the first to engage—charged ahead with his usual reckless aggression, only to stagger mid-step. His pedes jerked to a sudden halt, ensnared in impossibly thin metallic wire that shimmered with polarized energy. He let out a mechanical roar, preparing to lift off—

But it was too late.

Three humans, darting like ghosts, had wrapped his legs in calibrated motion-lock tethers. A moment later, two others descended from the side of a building with fluid precision, rappelling down walls like spiders. Their harnesses were crafted of silken steel, gliding down soundlessly. The moment they reached the ground, the two placed a pair of luminous bands over Blitzwing’s neck and shoulder cables.

He convulsed once.

Then his optics went dark.

Blitzwing fell forward, shaking the very road as he crashed.

A Decepticon nearby—a heavy-model Enforcer—rushed to check on him, optics wide with disbelief.

“Blitzwing?!”

He reached out—

And in the soft silence that followed, Blitzwing’s head dropped from his frame and rolled across the stone tiles like a child’s forgotten toy.

The Enforcer froze, optics narrowing with rage and disbelief.

The humans around him stood still, their faces hidden behind semi-reflective visors. One of them, a tall woman with braided gray hair, turned her head just slightly and activated a beacon on her wrist. Immediately, the stonework beneath them shifted, revealing a launcher that began rotating upward, deploying a shield wall and kinetic blaster powered by repurposed Seeker tech.

Ironhide, watching this, could only mutter, “What in the Pit…”

Starscream didn’t even blink. He gave no orders. These were his people.

Skywarp returned with a burst of violet static beside him. “Thundercracker’s in position. Air units are in stealth mode, ready to strike at your call.”

“Good,” Starscream said, optics locked on Megatron, who had halted mid-step after witnessing Blitzwing’s brutal end. “Let’s show the Warlord he should have stayed in orbit.”

Around the Autobots, more human strike units emerged from the shadowed alleys and rooftops—silent, prepared, disciplined. Their weapons were not crude firearms but weapons of energy pulse and density manipulation, designed by the one bot Megatron had always failed to control: Starscream.

The sky above Caelistis, once blue and wide like a cradle of peace, now pulsed red with fire trails and sonic rumbles. The moment Starscream gave the coded command—uttered in an ancient Vosian dialect so sharp and clipped it could cut glass—Thundercracker was already airborne.

He didn't need time to think.

He was the storm.

The sky split open with a deafening CRACK as he broke the sound barrier, leaving behind a ghost-image of his afterburners slicing through the clouds. His wings glinted silver and deep navy, catching the sun just right to throw dancing reflections over the shattered dome below. High above, half-invisible shapes detached from the clouds—aerial units, cloaked and drifting like predatory birds. They shimmered briefly in a ripple of stealth fields failing as Thundercracker passed them, his energon signature activating their formation.

Dozens of them.

Each of them modified Seekers and advanced drone-fighter hybrids—a secret army Thundercracker had trained in the high altitudes over the years, waiting for a day just like this. Their shapes were sleek, their optics narrow and pulsing with that cold electric hue of battle-lock. Not mindless weapons. Trained warriors.

“Formation Echo,” Thundercracker said into the comms, voice a low command tinged with the ancient authority of a Vosian sky general. “Target Decepticon armor class—break their shield formations, leave no air corridor unshattered.”

His voice thundered across the comms, then he dove.

Below, the Decepticons advancing into Caelistis were caught in an upward rain of hellfire.

Missiles didn’t just fall—they pierced. They sliced through the air like divine blades, each of them intelligent, maneuverable, and designed not to kill immediately but to cripple, disorient, expose.

Booms echoed as blast nets exploded midair, releasing EMP filaments that wrapped around aerial Decepticons trying to break formation. Seekers who’d once fought beside Thundercracker in the war now found themselves flailing, dragged to the ground by precision strikes that tore their wings without rupturing their spark cores.

A Decepticon Lieutenant launched from a rooftop, aiming directly at Thundercracker’s six.

He didn’t even look.

One tight spiral, a twist of his thrusters, and his wing clipped the bot’s face with enough force to knock out every targeting system in his head. The enemy spiraled out, slammed through a metal sculpture, and collapsed in a shower of broken wings and glass.

Then came the real terror.

Thundercracker’s wingmates deployed.

The sky turned alive with Seeker shadows and drone shrieks. They moved in perfect unison, cutting between cloud banks and enemy fire with deadly efficiency. Energy blasts lit up the air like neon lightning bolts. One Decepticon tried to reach altitude—only to be sliced through by two crossing drones, leaving only smoldering metal drifting down like black snow.

On the ground, Ironhide looked up, mouth slightly open.

“Primus…” he muttered. “He trained all that... in secret?”

Starscream, standing beside him, crossed his arms, voice calm.

“This is Caelistis, Autobot. We do not forget the skies.”

From above, Thundercracker opened the comms once again, wind roaring around his voice like thunder.

“Phase two initiated. My skies belong to me again.”

It began with silence.

A heartbeat of stillness as Thundercracker's aerial squadron lit up the sky. And then—blink. Space tore open with a flash of violet and Skywarp materialized behind enemy lines, midair, upside down, already twisting his body like a serpent in zero gravity. He loved this part.

Three Decepticons below barely had time to register the flicker before a glowing vortex opened beside them—and Skywarp appeared, spinning twin energized blades.

SHRAAKK!

Two went down instantly—neck cables sliced with surgical precision. The third turned to flee but another teleport crack opened in front of him. Too late.

Skywarp grinned, eyes burning red.

“Peekaboo.”

He drove a dagger-like blade through the Decepticon’s spark chamber and teleported again—leaving only a collapsed husk and purple haze behind.

To the Decepticons, it was chaos. Every second a new portal opened somewhere: inside buildings, on rooftops, even beneath Decepticon troop transports trying to stabilize. He would drop a grenade, teleport out, and watch the eruption tear through reinforced plating. He wasn’t just fighting—he was playing.

Above the city, a Decepticon flier pulled a vertical climb to avoid a missile—only for Skywarp to appear clinging to the nose of the ship like a phantom. He stabbed into the cockpit, disappeared again, and left the ship drifting and headless, spiraling out of control.

“Someone tell Megatron,” Skywarp said on a wideband channel as he appeared atop a collapsing building, his voice both singsong and venomous, “that the sky is mine. And so is time.”

Below him, Blitzwing’s severed head was still being dragged across the ground.

Skywarp spotted a comms dish activating at the edge of the city—likely Silas’s attempt to call for backup.

He didn’t teleport.

He simply raised his arm and charged a condensed ball of phase-shift energy—then teleported the bomb directly inside the transmitter’s internal structure.

The explosion came from the core, vaporizing the equipment from the inside out.

At the same time, far on the battlefield, Skywarp reappeared beside Ratchet and Chromia.

His tone changed. Calm, serious.

“They’re triangulating another drop. I felt the distortion—he’s bringing in the warship. You need to move your medics now.”

Chromia blinked at him. “And what about you?”

He smiled again, vanishing in purple mist.

“Still have a few more hellos to deliver.”

Skywarp reappeared above a Decepticon war captain standing atop a collapsed structure—driving down like a meteor. The last thing the enemy saw was twin red optics and a laughing blur of chaos.

Starscream stood at the highest ledge of Caelistis’ central tower, his wings flared in full spread—his optics glowing with intensity, his expression unreadable. Wind howled around him, but his mind was colder than the sky.

Below, the city burned in streaks of violet and orange. The enemy had broken through the dome with brute force, but he had planned for this. He had always planned.

Thundercracker’s squadron controlled the upper atmosphere.

Skywarp was chaos incarnate—tearing through Decepticon ranks like a specter.

But Starscream… Starscream was the architect of what was about to happen.

He opened his comm.

“Aerial units: Second phase. Herd formation. Corridors 3A through 9G, close the perimeter. Send the decoys through corridors 6 and 7. Let them follow.”

Across the city, a thousand aerial drones—small, nimble machines shaped like hummingbirds and sting-wasps—activated. Each carried a bright beacon mimicking Autobot signals. They darted through the skies and alleys, drawing Decepticon fire like bait.

Starscream had built Caelistis to be a home, yes—but also a weapon.

He turned to the Autobots behind him in the command room.

“They’re inside the Maze Sector,” he said coldly. “Let’s bury them.”

Ratchet blinked. “Maze?”

Aline—Dr. Aline—smiled faintly. “You really thought all those corridors were for foot traffic?”

The screens lit up with the interior maps of Caelistis. Thousands of modular buildings and alleyways—quiet and clean from above—reconfigured silently as locks disengaged.

Walls moved.

Ceilings collapsed.

Whole segments of buildings rotated, creating funnel-shaped corridors leading into what looked like solid buildings—except they weren’t. They were traps.

Decepticons chased the decoy drones—only to find themselves funneled into kill zones, into choke points, into corridors with no exits, surrounded by walls of reinforced energon glass.

“Magnetize floors,” Starscream commanded.

And those corridors pulsed with energy. Decepticons were yanked down, held flat, unable to transform or fire.

Then came the humans. The trained Caelistis defenders, wearing full-impact suits, rappelled down into those traps—silent, focused, moving in unison. Blades gleamed.

They didn’t aim to kill. They aimed to disable.

Optimus turned slowly to look at Starscream. “You built… a city that could defend itself.”

Starscream’s optics narrowed. “Of course I did.”

He leaned forward over the edge, scanning the chaos. His voice now carried across every local comm, loud and sharp.

“Megatron.”

“I gave you chances. I gave Cybertron chances. But you refused to evolve. You sought dominance, not progress.”

He activated the seismic pulses in the east sector. Explosive shocks rippled outward, toppling Decepticon war machines that had just crossed the border.

“Now you will see what happens when science becomes survival. When the mind you tried to break decides to fight back.”

The sky roared.

The ground thundered.

And Caelistis began to shift.

Megatron stood at the shattered edge of what had once been the city dome, his red optics burning like dying stars. The ground beneath his feet trembled from the shockwaves of the traps still resetting in the distance. His Decepticons—what was left of them—stood behind him in scattered, broken lines. Smoke rose from shattered limbs, dented chassis, leaking energon. Some still twitched. Others… did not move at all.

At his side, Silas, older, ragged, and shaking with rage, stared at the silent battlefield that had once promised victory and retribution. The smugness he had worn when they first pierced Caelistis was gone, replaced by disbelief. His face flushed with fury.

“Why aren’t they fighting?” Silas spat. “They’re bots! Monsters! They should be tearing each other apart!”

Megatron said nothing.

Because he was watching Starscream.

The tricolor seeker stood tall on a rising spire of the central tower, backlit by the fire and light of his city. Not hiding. Not fleeing. Watching them. Studying. Calculating. Commanding.

He hadn’t even drawn his weapons.

Around him, Caelistis was alive. The battlefield wasn’t chaos—it was precision. Drones moved in synchronized paths through the air, shepherding wounded out of range. Autonomous defense platforms folded back into walls after neutralizing targets. Humans operated towering exo-mechs with skill that rivaled Decepticon flyers, the bots shaped like metallic animals—cyberpanthers, hawk-like flyers, even a quadruped reminiscent of Ravage. Each fought in harmony with the city’s rhythm, as if plugged into its pulse.

Every part of this place answered to Starscream.

He was not simply defending a city.

He was wielding it.

And the Autobots… they stood behind him, not as reluctant allies, but as quiet, immovable witnesses. Ratchet remained with a portable medical bay, barely needed. Ironhide had a hand on his cannon but hadn’t fired once. Windblade stood near the throne entrance, unreadable. Optimus, silent, simply watched—knowing that this war, at least here, no longer required his leadership.

Megatron snarled. “Cowards. Traitors. You hide behind machines, behind humans.”

Starscream stepped to the edge of the spire. The wind curled around his wings like a cloak of power. He tilted his head slightly, voice amplified across the battlefield:

“You came to destroy me, Megatron. To crush what I’ve built. But you did not come prepared for this.”

He extended a hand—and behind him, doors opened with a hiss, revealing more of his elite forces: human-Cybertronian strike teams, fully armored in adaptive gear powered by nanites, with weapons tuned to Cybertronian frequencies. Their faces bore no fear. Only purpose.

“You created a weapon in me, Megatron. Then tried to erase it.” His voice darkened. “Now I am the weapon. And I protect my own.”

The remaining Decepticons hesitated.

Some looked at Megatron.

Some looked up at Starscream.

Some began to step backward.

Silas bared his teeth. “You can’t win this!”

Starscream’s optics narrowed on the human, recognizing him at last.

“You’re right,” he said, calmly. “You’ve already lost.”

In one motion, he raised his arm—then closed his fist.

The defense towers at the edge of the city surged to life with an ear-splitting crescendo, weapons locking on. Drones pivoted midair. The humans in exo-mechs aimed as one.

The message was crystal clear.

Leave now… or be dismantled.

And for the first time in cycles, Megatron hesitated.

The battlefield had grown still again—not from lack of tension, but from the shattering sound of loyalties collapsing all around Megatron.

The Decepticon aerialbots, once feared scourges of the skies, were the first to bow. Their descent from the clouds was silent, not from stealth, but submission. They hovered for a breathless moment—then slowly transformed and dropped to one knee, their heads bowed, their weapons placed carefully on the ground. The cause they once fought for was now standing firm and proud before them—not Megatron, but Starscream, Winglord of Cybertron's skies.

The aerialbots had once feared Megatron. But what they saw in Starscream now—this silent storm of discipline, vengeance, and control—terrified them more.

This was not the petty second-in-command who begged for power in the old Decepticon halls.

This was the Seeker who had risen from the ashes Megatron left him in. The bot who built a city out of exile. Who tamed the wild sky. Who spoke and entire armies moved.

This was Winglord Starscream.

And they would not stand against him.

But the shock was only beginning.

A deafening roar cracked the air. The trees at the edge of Caelistis shuddered as a wave of power rushed through the forest—then burst forth the massive, thundering forms of the Predacons.

Taloned feet tore into the soil as Predaking led the charge, his wings slicing the sky like blades. The others followed: steel-scaled beasts of war whose optics blazed like forge fires. They were born of Starscream’s genius—his genetic design and experimentation. They had called him creator once… and they had not forgotten.

They landed between the city and the remaining Decepticons—not with hostility, but protection. Between Megatron’s dying ambition and the humans Starscream swore to protect.

Starscream’s optics widened with surprise. He had not summoned them.

And yet… here they were.

He took a step forward. “You came…”

Predaking bowed his massive head. “You are ours. You gave us purpose. We will not allow the weak to end you.”

Starscream said nothing, but the tremble in his wings betrayed his emotion. Not weakness—recognition.

And the final blow came from the quietest corner of the battlefield.

A pulse of deep, resonant static.

Soundwave stepped forward. His mono-optic blinked slowly. Behind him stood Rumble and Frenzy, no longer silent—no longer uncertain. They had returned to their carrier's side. Restored. Trust renewed.

Soundwave looked at Megatron, the one who had once commanded every thought, every transmission.

Then turned his back to him.

A ripple went through the remaining Decepticons. The signal was clear: Soundwave has left the cause.

He transmitted just one line, a mechanical whisper now echoing through the minds of those connected:

"Loyalty ends where cruelty begins."

Starscream’s wings shifted slightly as he turned to meet Soundwave’s gaze. The nod he gave was slight, but it carried the weight of history.

Megatron stood amid the ruin of his own army—his enforcers now kneeling, his aerials surrendered, his Predacons turned, and even his most faithful shadow… gone.

His hands clenched into trembling fists. Rage turned into desperation. And desperation, into something dangerously close to fear.

Starscream watched him.

And for the first time in his existence…

Megatron was alone.

The battlefield—once roaring with metal and fury—now stood silent as the weight of betrayal settled over Megatron like ash from a fire long burned out.

He stood alone. No army at his back. No seekers overhead. No Soundwave, no Predacons, no casseticons. The silence mocked him more deeply than any blade ever could. The only footfalls that still echoed beside him were human—Silas, still alive, still defiant, his uniform stained with dirt and sweat, the gleam of madness in his eyes.

Silas snarled, weapon drawn and voice raw. “This isn’t over. You think you’ve won, Seeker? You haven’t seen the last of us.”

Megatron said nothing for a moment. He looked up—at the imposing form of Starscream, wings poised like a royal mantle behind him, optics burning like twin suns. And around him, a wall of Autobots, trained human defenders, Predacons, and surrendered Decepticons who now stood behind the Winglord.

Megatron’s fists tightened. “You may have built yourself a city, Starscream. A sanctuary of weaklings and idealists. But war does not end because you say so.”

Starscream, from his elevated platform near the throne steps, tilted his head—his expression unreadable. But the slow, bitter smirk that touched the corner of his mouth said more than any insult.

“You still don’t get it,” Starscream said coldly, wings tightening with authority. “You lost this war before you stepped onto this soil. Your voice holds no command. Your shadow no longer frightens. You’re not a warlord anymore, Megatron.”

His voice lowered into a rasp of iron.

“You’re just... a lone bot. And a lone bot,” he said, stepping down, one calculated stride at a time, “is a dead bot.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed, and for the first time, even he didn’t deny it.

“Come, Silas,” he muttered, turning from the battlefield. His fusion cannon hung low, its glow flickering—the light of a former god now fading. “This isn't the end.”

“We will rebuild,” Silas growled, stepping after him. “And next time, you won’t see us coming.”

Starscream gave a low, mirthless chuckle.

“You’ll try. And you’ll fail again. Because what you fight for is only yourselves. That’s why you’ll always be alone.”

Megatron paused at the edge of the ruined dome, its jagged remnants now a monument to his defeat. He glanced back once—his optics locking with Starscream’s.

No words.

No promises.

Only silence.

Then, he and Silas disappeared into the treeline, swallowed by the very shadows they once ruled.

And the sky over Caelistis, for the first time in decades… was at peace.

The battlefield was no longer a place of war but a scene of rebirth. Fires had been extinguished, rubble cleared by massive servos and human hands alike. Among the wreckage of battle, something new stirred—hope.

Near the center of the city, Ratchet, Knockout, and Hook worked side by side in perfect medical synergy, their rivalry forgotten, focused only on stabilizing the wounded. Each mech had his tools, each his style, but now their hands worked as one—a gesture that symbolized more than peace; it symbolized trust rebuilt.

Nearby, a high-pitched squeal broke through the stillness. “Starscream!!”

Frenzy and Rumble dashed past Autobots and humans alike, leaping onto the tricolor Seeker with an enthusiasm that jarred even Skywarp. Starscream staggered slightly under their impact, his wings twitching, but his expression softened—not irritation, but genuine warmth in his gaze.

“I missed you, glitch gremlins,” Starscream muttered, voice low, ruffling the top of Frenzy’s head.

Behind them, Ironhide stood slack-jawed, optics wide as he took in the sight of Decepticons letting children play on their legs and shoulders, of Autobots and ‘Cons working side by side, of former enemies smiling.

Optimus Prime gently reached over and pushed Ironhide’s mouth closed with two fingers. “It’s alright, old friend,” Prime said, his voice full of dry humor. “You’ll get used to it.”

Among the crowds, Aline appeared with the returning civilians—leading a wave of people and animals, both organic and cybernetic, out from the safety bunkers. Her cane tapped steadily across the ground, but she walked tall. Around her, children ran, laughing and shouting in delight.

Some tried climbing Breakdown’s leg, others circled around Ravage, tossing a ball which the feline bot shockingly fetched. A few dared to approach Soundwave, crawling into his now-open enclosure in fascination, asking endless questions. Soundwave, silent as always, simply stood there, watching them—until a small girl offered him a flower. He blinked. And took it.

Older teens surrounded Skyquake and Dreadwing, asking about aerial combat, armor plating, and "how do I fly one of you?"

Aline stopped at the central plaza, smiling at the heart of this bizarre, beautiful scene. Then she turned to Starscream, whose wings flicked as he noticed her watching.

She stepped forward.

“It’s time for the next step.”

The words fell like a ripple through the assembled bots. All optics turned to her.

Starscream’s expression shifted—questioning, uncertain. “Next step?” he echoed.

Aline nodded slowly, folding her hands over her cane.

“When I disappeared—when I died—I didn’t just vanish. I used that death to build something.” Her eyes gleamed. “I formed my own group. I used my knowledge and connections. And I introduced Caelistis to the world.”

Starscream blinked, startled.

“Governments only,” she added. “Quiet meetings. Eyes wide open. You weren’t ready yet. But they are. Eighty-seven percent of the world’s countries have agreed to support Caelistis and you.”

She let the weight of that land before continuing.

“The United States. Brazil. Japan. China. Kenya. Germany. A dozen more. They signed on to help you build a future. One not governed by war, but by what you always wanted—a world where Cybertronians and humans live together.”

Starscream took a step forward, his wings slowly rising in disbelief. “You did this...?”

Aline smiled, raising her chin.

“I just gave them a glimpse of the world you built with your own spark.”

There was silence. A heavy, awe-filled silence.

Starscream looked around at his city—Caelistis, a haven of gleaming spires, wild flora, and dancing children beneath twin moons and steel wings. A world reborn from exile, pain, and betrayal.

His voice was low when he spoke: “Then I suppose... it’s time we stop hiding.”

Chapter Text

Aline’s vision had become reality.

She had not only guided Caelistis from the shadows—she had turned the city into a beacon. Together, she and Starscream stood before the governments of the world, presenting something never seen before: a harmonious civilization where humanity and Cybertronians not only coexisted, but thrived.

Starscream's speech to the global council—broadcast live to millions—was unlike any politician's. No pomp. No filters. His tone was sharp, proud, unapologetic:

“For centuries, your species dreamed of reaching the stars. And when the stars came to you, you feared us. But now you see: your greatness is not in your fear, but in your willingness to evolve.

We were forged for war. But Caelistis is proof we are more than weapons. And so are you.”

He revealed his five-year integration plan—one that was already in motion, built from results rather than promises. Starscream showed how the humans in Caelistis had grown beyond imagination. Ordinary citizens now operated quantum engines, terraforming labs, and gravity wells that Earth’s most brilliant scientists had never conceived.

His people weren’t chosen for intellect or power, but for curiosity and trust.

At first, the world responded with awe—and doubt. Protests arose. Parliaments argued. Many could not imagine living beside towering metallic beings who once turned cities to ash.

But change began subtly.

In the first year, countries that allied with Caelistis saw technological leaps in agriculture and infrastructure. Food production tripled. Clean energy wiped out the need for oil and coal. Hunger and disease vanished from entire regions in South America and Africa.

By year two, once-hostile nations formed new trade routes with Caelistis. Cybertronian medical pods eliminated rare diseases. Poverty dropped to historic lows. Cities like Cairo, São Paulo, and Jakarta adopted hybrid-tech housing projects, blending Cybertronian alloys with Earth’s organic architecture.

And schools—across the globe—began teaching Cybertronian language and Vosian dialects. Children learned from both Autobot instructors and human professors. Debates about stars, mathematics, and peace were now held in two tongues, often led by the youngest of minds.

Caelistis was no longer a secret. It became a global symbol.

Yet peace never comes without shadow.

By the third year, a splinter movement emerged. Quiet at first. Then louder. Then armed.

MECH.

Where others saw progress, MECH saw submission. They saw Cybertronians not as saviors, but invaders—alien conquerors wrapped in promises of unity.

No one knew who MECH's leader was. No face. No voice. Only sabotage, threats, and devastation.

Their technology was advanced—too advanced for Earth. Some speculated offworld alliances. Others whispered it had once belonged to an old, dead general. But what truly unnerved the world was that MECH, unlike other terrorist cells, did not fade.

The rest of the world’s criminal groups collapsed—choked out by lack of funds, relevance, or support. But MECH only grew. Their attacks were surgical. Precise. And fueled by a hatred that no prosperity could silence.

Still, the world had changed. And the people—most of them—had changed with it.

Cybertronians now served as doctors, teachers, engineers, co-pilots, and even artists. Cities floated on Cybertronian power cores. Waste was recycled through energon-fusion systems. And no child went hungry.

But beneath this near-utopia, a storm brewed. And Starscream knew it.

Because peace, no matter how golden, would always be a target.

In less than a decade, Earth had undergone a metamorphosis so profound that it no longer resembled the fractured, divided world it once was. Now called CyberEarth, the planet stood as a radiant jewel in the galaxy—a symbol of what could be achieved when species, once at war, built together instead of destroyed.

Towering spires of Cybertronian design gleamed alongside organic structures made of renewable earth-grown materials. Whole cities hovered above oceans, powered by energon fusion cores. Massive bridges of light connected continents, allowing citizens—human and Cybertronian alike—to move freely across the globe in seconds.

At the heart of this global renaissance stood Starscream.

No longer the bitter shadow of Megatron’s cruelty, he now reigned not as a king, but as a visionary. His title as Winglord meant he was the voice of the sky—the leader of all aerial Cybertronians. But beyond that, he was now regarded as one of the primary architects of this new world.

Optimus Prime, having stepped down from the battlefield, accepted the mantle of Tirelord—the voice of the grounders, the bots who once bore the brunt of war’s weight. He spoke with wisdom and restraint, often acting as the planet’s moral compass when the decisions grew difficult.

Shockwave, ever logical, and Windblade, ever passionate, now served as the first two CyberEarth Senators—one representing reason and analytics, the other ideals and emotion. Together, they drafted and refined the laws that governed this united world.

Soundwave, always silent but never inactive, built and oversaw an interspecies network of orphanages. It became the norm to see children—human or sparkling—raised in houses where love mattered more than species. He matched them with families that would nurture them, not for political optics, but because he understood loneliness better than anyone.

Ratchet and Knockout, once rivals in philosophy and allegiance, now led the Medical Reformation Academy. Together they trained an entirely new generation of medics—cybernetic and organic—who could perform surgeries with nanites, re-grow organs, and cure what was once thought incurable.

It was Starscream’s greatest contribution, however, that truly shifted the fate of Earth: his medical nanotechnology.

Cancer, diabetes, neurodegenerative diseases, and even aging-related conditions were eradicated. His discoveries—developed from abandoned Cybertronian biotech and reverse-engineered from his own seeker programming—rendered most traditional medicine obsolete. As a result, many pharmaceutical giants collapsed. Their stockpiles of wealth became worthless. And many of the elite, unable to control the flow of progress, vanished from public view.

But not into silence.

Many of these displaced elites turned to MECH—the last remnants of the old power structure. Now twisted into a global terrorist cabal, MECH was funded by the shadows of capitalism, the fear of alien integration, and the rage of those who once profited from war, illness, and inequality.

Still, CyberEarth blossomed.

Education was now a right, not a privilege. Whether you were a human child from rural Asia or a sparkling freshly forged in the asteroid belts, you had access to the same level of education. Languages, sciences, history, space-time engineering, Vosian literature, or Terran philosophy—all were taught freely.

The cities were alive with cross-species harmony: bot cafés next to street musicians with mech audiences, drone-operated libraries where knowledge passed through thought-links, and shared festivals where both species celebrated their histories and futures together.

Cybertronians from across the galaxy began immigrating to CyberEarth. War refugees. Retired warriors. Curious scientists. Exiles in search of new beginnings.

The population swelled, but the infrastructure grew with it. Starscream’s urban planning anticipated it—every civilian had a place, a purpose, and dignity.

And still, he watched the skies.

He never let his guard down—not out of fear, but wisdom. He remembered what he had survived. What Megatron had done. What Silas tried to take. What it cost to build peace.

He knew MECH would not rest.

But this time, neither would he.

Both Human Senators and Cybertronians had long declared MECH an enemy. Their attacks showed no allegiance to species—humans and Cybertronians alike had fallen victim. And though MECH operated from the shadows, both sides fought tirelessly to uncover their leadership.

But something shifted after the passing of Dr. Aline.

She had refused to take the nanite-based medication that could extend her life indefinitely, even as it became a normalized practice across Earth. She believed in the old way—believed life was meant to end naturally. “I was born human,” she said once, “and I’ll die human.” When her time came, she passed peacefully in her home in Caelistis, surrounded by both Cybertronians and humans who had once been her students, her patients, her children.

Her death sent a wave of mourning through the world. Vigils were held in every major city. The three thrones in Caelistis were draped in black. Even Starscream, ever composed, stood in silence in the city square for an entire day, unmoving, as a sign of grief and respect.

But not everyone mourned.

With Aline gone, MECH became more active—more confident. Their strikes grew in number and precision. Their propaganda more aggressive. And with that, their patterns became more obvious. Sloppier.

It was through one of these patterns—a leak in a supposedly encrypted MECH comm—that the Cybertronian spy network, working in tandem with elite human operatives from Brazil, Nigeria, and Japan, finally traced the origin of several major attacks. What they uncovered shook the world.

The leaders of MECH were Silas… and Megatron.

Silas, the old general long presumed dead, had survived with the help of old black-ops cloning programs and Cybertronian implants, fused over time to a near-immortal core. He was no longer fully human—twisted, augmented, barely recognizable beneath the mech-hybrid armor he wore.

Megatron… had returned. No longer with legions. No longer a commander. A warlord in exile. Broken in pride, but still pulsing with rage.

He and Silas had worked in silence for years. Recruiting the discarded, the fearful, the rich who had lost their hold on Earth’s new peace. While the world praised Starscream and Optimus Prime for ushering in a utopia, MECH fueled itself with envy and vengeance. They blamed Starscream for their loss of power. They blamed Aline for uniting two species. And they wanted it all undone.

But Starscream wasn’t caught off-guard. He had known.

He stood before the council of CyberEarth, composed of bots and humans alike, and spoke plainly.

“Peace invites envy. Harmony summons chaos. But we are not what we were. We are more. And I will not let two ghosts of a dying war take the future from our hands.”

Beside him, Optimus Prime, the Tirelord, placed a hand on Starscream’s shoulder.

“Let them come. They’ve already lost.”

They would figth as one, just like Primus wanted all along.

Chapter Text

Starscream’s plan was direct, calculated, and undeniably risky—just like him.

He had laid the bait perfectly. Despite Optimus Prime’s deep disapproval of using himself as a decoy, Starscream knew there was no better way to draw out Megatron and Silas than by becoming the glinting lure in the open desert sun.

“You’ll be alone,” Prime had said gravely, optics narrowed.
“I’ve always been alone,” Starscream had answered, voice like steel.

The trap began with a communication—carefully coded to look casual, not encrypted, as if Starscream hadn’t bothered with firewalls. It was a message sent to Skywarp and Thundercracker only:

“Going off-grid for recharge and solar diagnostics. Dakota desert. Don’t follow, I need silence. Do not disturb.”

Every bit of it was intentional. He knew MECH had hacked at least one of the outer relay satellites, and he knew how desperate Megatron had become. A lonely Starscream out in the open? The perfect target.

So he went. The Dakota desert stretched for miles around him—nothing but sand, broken rock, wind, and heat. He made a show of resting against a stone outcrop in his full tricolor frame, wings glinting in the sun, vents open, core humming slow and steady like he was in stasis.

He wasn’t.

He was awake. Listening. Watching.

It didn’t take long.

The quiet hum of ground-level engines broke the silence, the scent of scorched metal and synthetic adrenaline thickened in the dry air. From the east, a convoy of sleek, matte-black vehicles approached, flanked by walkers—humanoid mechs piloted by humans in MECH exo-suits. They moved with disturbing unity, like puppets attached to a shared mind.

And then came Megatron.

He stepped forward first, alone, flanked by nothing. Towering, still majestic, though the years had etched him with damage and corrosion, a king clinging to ashes. His optics locked on the figure before him—Starscream, perfectly still.

Beside him walked Silas, no longer hunched or aging. Thanks to illegal nanite treatments and stolen Cybertronian tech, Silas looked twenty-five. Youthful, armored, and brimming with fury.

“Finally,” Silas spat, voice crackling over speakers embedded in his reinforced throat. “How long I’ve waited for this.”

Megatron raised his fusion cannon slowly.

“Starscream. You’ve built your throne. Time to fall from it.”

But Starscream’s optics flickered—no longer playing possum. He stood, slow and deliberate, expression unreadable.

“Took you long enough,” he said coldly. “I was starting to worry you’d gotten lost.”

That was the signal.

High above, hidden in the distortion fields created by Vosian satellites, a dozen cloaked Cybertronian units—autobots, aerial drones, and elite Caelistis soldiers—locked into position.

From the rock formations behind them, humans in advanced armor—Caelistis-trained, veterans from the Utopia War—activated their cloaking fields and prepared to strike.

Thundercracker soared overhead, silent as a falling star. Skywarp shimmered into view next to him with a grin.

Optimus was not far behind with others bots.

The moment Starscream gave the signal—just a brief flick of his wing flaps—the battlefield exploded into calculated chaos.

Thundercracker was the first to strike.

From high above, nearly invisible in the glare of the Dakota sun, he plummeted downward like a war-forged meteor. The sonic boom from his dive shattered the audio sensors of the MECH mechs. Ground vehicles flipped, glass cracked from shockwaves, and even some humans collapsed, bleeding from their ears. Thundercracker swept low across the sand, unleashing cryo-shells from his arm-mounted cannons that froze the exo-suits of several MECH soldiers in place, locking their joints and cutting them off from neural uplink systems.

Before the sound even faded, Skywarp appeared—literally.

He teleported from nowhere, reappearing directly behind two walkers mid-stride. With a brutal crack of his energon blades, he sliced through their joint supports and teleported again, dodging a hail of bullets. He reappeared again above a tank, dropped a charged EMP mine on its control core, and was gone before it exploded, the fireball licking the empty space he left behind.

The MECH troops faltered.

They hadn’t expected resistance—not like this.

From the flanks, human warriors from Caelistis emerged like ghosts. Wearing armor made of nanite-infused cloth that looked like silk but repelled bullets, they wielded wire-thin energized whips that sang through the air. One leapt from a rock and wrapped her weapon around a bot’s optic cluster. The bot screamed, overloaded with feedback, and collapsed.

Others dropped small spider-like drones that crawled over MECH tanks and latched onto fuel lines, detonating in chain reactions.

Starscream still hadn't moved.

He stood atop a stone mesa, arms crossed, observing everything with surgical precision.

“Isolate their commander,” he said coolly through a comm-line. “Megatron dies alone.”

In response, the Caelistis ground units activated magnetic pulse fields. These rippled across the battlefield in precise arcs, forming temporary barriers that herded the remaining Decepticons and MECH agents into predictable paths—funneling them away from Megatron.

Optimus Prime, from his command perch further behind, coordinated defensive maneuvers. But truly—there wasn’t much for him to do. The battlefield belonged to Starscream now.

He had turned an open desert into a living trap.

Even the sand itself was weaponized. Mines disguised as stones exploded into netting made of energized filament that latched onto Cybertronian joints and immobilized them without killing. Giant half-organic Cybertronian cats, raised in Caelistis and armored for war, leapt out of underground bunkers and took down human exo-suits like prey.

The sky thundered with the arrival of Cyber-Eagles, creatures of Caelistis' skies, divebombing MECH’s drones and tearing them apart in metallic screeches.

And Silas—cocky, confident—now looked panicked.

His soldiers were falling. The exo-suits were short-circuiting. And Megatron?

He turned his head slowly toward Silas.

“You led us into a trap,” he growled. “You overestimated your reach.”

Silas barely had time to respond before a massive EMP pulse from the high dunes slammed the battlefield—and the lights in Silas’s suit flickered.

Starscream finally stepped down from the mesa.

“I warned you,” he said as he approached, eyes glowing bright red. “You should have stayed dead.”

The winds of the Dakota desert howled through the scorched battlefield. Smoke curled from craters, broken drones sparked across the sand, and Megatron stood alone.

The Warlord of the Decepticons, once a towering symbol of fear and domination, now had no soldiers beside him. Silas, broken and unconscious, was being carried away by Caelistian operatives. Around them, the aerial sky patrols of Caelistis circled low, Thundercracker's lead flyers keeping watch like falcons. Autobots and humans remained at a cautious distance—they knew this final moment belonged to Starscream.

From the shimmer of heat and sand, Starscream approached.

He no longer cowered. There was no tremor in his steps, no flicker of uncertainty in his optics. The tricolor Seeker—glowing faintly with the soft blue pulse of his internal core—looked taller than ever. The winds tugged at the torn banners behind him, the insignia of Caelistis embroidered with the new crest: wings split by a star.

Megatron growled, energon leaking from a rent in his side where Thundercracker’s cryo-shell had pierced armor.

“So this is what you’ve become… hiding behind organics, playing king over a garden of weaklings.”

Starscream said nothing at first. His steps were calm, steady. His optics never left Megatron’s.

“No, Megatron,” Starscream finally replied, voice cold. “This is what I became after you failed to break me.”

Megatron’s cannon rose—crackling, spitting static. But it shook. His aim was no longer sure.

Starscream stopped a few paces away.

“You built an empire of fear,” he said. “I built a city of knowledge.”

“You conquered planets,” he continued. “I saved one.”

Megatron snarled and fired.

The blast screamed toward Starscream—but a thin, shimmering field of energy curved from a hidden module in his wrist and caught the charge mid-air. It bent it, curved it, and sent it into the earth with a thundering crack that shook the mesa behind them.

Megatron staggered.

“Your technology,” Starscream said, holding the device up, “evolved. Unlike you.”

Now he stepped forward again, right into Megatron’s space. The Warlord reached for him, a brute lunge of fury—but Starscream caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted. The sickening crack of internal servos grinding echoed through the canyon.

Starscream leaned closer.

“You can’t hurt me anymore.”

Megatron’s optics flared in rage. “I made you!”

“No,” Starscream whispered. “You tried to unmake me.”

With a sharp pivot, Starscream shoved Megatron down to one knee. The warlord crashed into the sand, face contorted in agony, fury, disbelief.

Above them, the watchers—Cybertronians, humans, animals—were utterly silent.

Starscream looked to the horizon. The sun was setting. The last of the golden light caught the twin spires of Caelistis in the far distance.

“This planet is not yours. It was never yours. You brought war to my sky, and I brought peace to its soil.”

Starscream turned his back.

“Take your life and leave. Next time, Megatron… there will not be a choice.”

Megatron, still kneeling, glared upward—but said nothing. The Decepticon warship, previously cloaked, decloaked above the desert and lowered a lift platform. Megatron dragged himself onto it.

As he rose into the belly of the ship, the last thing he saw was Starscream, back turned, walking toward a crowd of humans who reached for him—not in fear, but in admiration.

The war had ended, but not quietly.

After Megatron’s failed retreat, his command ship was disabled mid-cloak by the precision fire of Caelistis’ orbital satellites—designed by Starscream himself years before as part of the city’s final defense network. The blast tore through the engines, grounding the ship in the desert once more.

Megatron had no choice but to fight.

He surged toward the city’s perimeter, blazing with fury and wounded pride. His massive fusion cannon roared to life one last time as he bellowed Starscream’s name, desperate to take revenge, to win, even in death.

But it wasn’t Starscream who answered.

Optimus Prime stepped from the smoke and ruin, battered from the last skirmishes but resolute. His optics were steady. He did not speak. There was no longer a need for words.

Megatron lunged.

Prime moved in a single, fluid motion. His plasma axe ignited with a low, humming growl—the ancient weapon gleaming in the light of the twin suns setting over CyberEarth.

Their last clash lasted mere seconds.

Megatron’s charge was wild, desperate. Prime sidestepped and swung. The blade met its mark—not with anger, not with hatred—but with the sorrowful weight of necessity. The edge cut through the warlord’s chassis cleanly, splitting his spark chamber.

Megatron collapsed, sparks crackling in the air like fireflies around his fallen frame. His optics flickered for the final time, confusion and rage giving way to cold stillness.

“Your war is over,” Prime whispered.

Nearby, Silas—stripped of armor, pride, and hope—was cornered by both human and Cybertronian forces. He snarled, still defiant, but no one feared him anymore. His nanites began to fail, rejecting his unnatural longevity. He was caged, silenced, and placed in high-security cryo-stasis. He would live, but forgotten—an artifact of a darker age.

Within hours, MECH's infrastructure was seized. Their hidden outposts, banks, servers, and global allies were exposed, thanks to Aline’s data logs and Cybertronian surveillance tech. Their soldiers were rounded up, judged by the New Unified Court, composed of both human and Cybertronian representatives.

The trials were transparent. Some were pardoned. Most were imprisoned. A few fled and became ghosts.

MECH ended as it began—with a bang—and then silence.

CyberEarth flourished.

With no war, no fear, no global enemies, the planet turned inward, toward growth and unity. Former Decepticons were reintegrated. Autobots laid down arms. Human education systems, now teaching Vosian and Cybertronian in all schools, graduated their first trilingual generation. Poverty was a memory. Health was a right.

And Starscream—no longer the traitor, no longer the coward—was Winglord and Chancellor of Education. The gleaming towers of Caelistis reflected the morning sun like crystals. On their walls, murals showed a tricolor Seeker standing shoulder to shoulder with Optimus Prime, Windblade, and Soundwave.

There was peace.

And yet—there was work to be done.

In one quiet courtyard, two tiny casseticons, Frenzy and Rumble, now wearing polished student armbands, ran through the gardens carrying datapads and arguing loudly over which of them would pass the class faster.

Starscream watched them from the high balcony of his lecture amphitheater, arms crossed, wings back in full elegant display.

“Little gremlins,” he muttered affectionately.

He turned to the rest of the classroom—young bots, a few humans, a mechanoid pet who mewed softly, and even a baby protoform held in its parent’s arms.

Starscream clapped once. “Today,” he said grandly, “you will not just study Cybertronian life—you will nurture it.”

He held up a large, round, slightly glowing Cybertronian egg, blue veins of energy pulsing under the metallic shell.

“You will incubate this,” he said, pacing the rows, “you will protect it, feed it, warm it, and care for it.”

Gasps echoed. Frenzy groaned. Rumble dropped his stylus.

“This is a sparkwing kestrel, one of the rarest aerial birds ever bred on Cybertron. If you fail, it will scream nonstop for three solar cycles and imprint on your face.”

Somewhere in the back, Bumblebee stifled a laugh. Ironhide groaned.

Starscream smirked. His optics glinted with mischief and pride.

“This,” he said, holding the egg toward the light, “is how we honor peace. We raise it. We protect it. We teach the next generation that life is not made to be weaponized.”

He looked up to the sky—the same sky where he once fled, wounded and alone, all those years ago. Now, above him, bright colors danced as Caelistian birds flew freely alongside Cybertronians in training flight.

Starscream smiled. It was time.

“Now,” he said, turning to his class, “let’s see which of you panics first when it hatches.”

END