Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sky above Cybertron was split in two—smoke and fire consuming one half, cold metal stars flickering in the other. What was once a proud city was now a charred battlefield, crawling with clashing titans of metal and rage.

Explosions rocked the earth, throwing chunks of steel and ash into the air. Screams echoed from both Autobot and Decepticon alike, some rage-filled, others cut short by sudden death. The war had reached another crescendo, and amidst it all stood Megatron, the Warlord of the Decepticons, commanding his troops with his fusion cannon already overheating from overuse.

“Hold the line! Regroup by the southern ridge and press forward! They will not take this sector!” Megatron’s voice thundered across the wreckage, sharp and commanding.

But there was something wrong.

His instincts—honed over millennia of combat—twitched a fraction too late. The hairs on his neck cables prickled. Then, above the battlefield hum, the unmistakable high-pitched whine of a charged sniper shot screamed across the air.

The fusion blast never hit its mark.

Instead, a white-and-red blur leapt into Megatron’s field of vision, wings flaring in reflexive defense, plating twisting to shield. The blast slammed into the center of that blur's chest with a sickening crack-ssszzzt, throwing the Seeker backward.

“Starscream!” Megatron roared, turning just as his second-in-command crumpled to the ground, smoke hissing from his chassis.

“Soundwave—Shockwave—get him out of here!” Starscream coughed, one servo clamped over the sparking wound in his midsection, energon slipping through his claws. His optics were bright, wild, burning. “Take him and leave—I'll hold them!”

Soundwave hesitated a nanosecond, static flaring across his visor. Shockwave was already moving, grabbing Megatron’s arm while Soundwave reinforced the grip. The Warlord struggled.

“No. No! I will not leave him!” Megatron snarled, fighting their hold, but Starscream was already moving—limping into position, shouldering one of the heavy pulse rifles abandoned by a fallen soldier.

“I said GO!” Starscream screamed over the comm-link, optics flashing as he opened fire in wild arcs at the Autobot front. The sniper was already repositioning, others emerging in flanking maneuvers. His shots were desperate but effective, laying enough cover fire that the Decepticon leader was hauled bodily out of the kill zone.

Starscream stood alone.

He turned to face the oncoming wave of Autobots, energon dripping from his wounds, mouth twisted in a snarl of defiance. Fire cast flickering shadows against his scorched frame as he raised his rifle again.

He didn’t see the Autobot behind him.

The ambush was swift. The Seeker’s body convulsed under the new strike, already too weakened to fight back. One of the Wreckers—no name, just vengeance—dragged him toward the edge of the wreckage.

“Scrap you, Seeker,” the Autobot spat, voice cold. “You don’t get to be a martyr today.”

The last thing Starscream saw was the void opening up as he was thrown from a cliffside—a drop that opened into exposed atmosphere, where Cybertron’s broken orbit met space. His boosters flickered uselessly. His wings failed. His body spiraled into the abyss, unconscious and bleeding, until gravity took him beyond reach.

He was gone.

Nemesis – Present Day

Megatron’s optics flared on.

He jolted upright from his recharge berth, vents overworking, internal fans screaming to purge the heat surge. The room was still—silent save for the low hum of the warship's core.

He dragged in a breath. Another. Stabilizing.

A dream.

A nightmare.

His fists trembled. His spark pulsed erratically beneath his thick armor.

“Starscream…” he whispered. Not a sneer. Not a curse. Just the name. Like something half-remembered. Half-lost.

The berth chamber was bathed in darkness, but across the room, a screen flickered on. Soundwave, as always, had noticed the disturbance. The silent spy was there without speaking, simply present.

Megatron looked away.

He hadn't dreamed of that day in a long time. Not since declaring Starscream dead, not since sealing away the empty berth and refusing to speak his name.

Yet the Seeker's voice still echoed.

Take him and leave—I’ll hold them.

And Megatron had.

He had left.

While Megatron wrestled with the specter of his past, the stars above Earth dimmed in quiet retreat, surrendering to the pale hints of dawn. The warship Nemesis drifted silently through low orbit, casting no shadows, whispering no secrets of what stirred within.

Far below, on Earth’s surface, where the horizon blushed faint gold, three young humans made their way across the dry, cragged desert floor.

“Okay, okay, okay—I know I said this before,” Miko declared for the fifth time that morning, brushing her long dark hair back from her face and hopping over a jagged rock, “but seriously, thank you guys again for coming with me. You are actual lifesavers.”

“We noticed,” Jack said, amused, shifting the strap of his backpack more securely over one shoulder. “Was it the part where you said we’re your ‘only hope of not getting kicked out of science class forever,’ or the part where you promised to treat us to burgers and shakes if we survived the heat stroke?”

“It’s both, obviously,” Miko grinned, trying to sound lighthearted, though her eyes scanned the dusty ground carefully. Her notebook was clutched in one hand, a small toolkit rattling inside her sling bag.

Behind her, Raf stumbled over a loose patch of gravel but caught himself, his glasses slipping down his nose. “I think I found some sedimentary layering near that ridge!” he called, gesturing excitedly to a low, cracked outcrop a few meters ahead.

Miko dashed over, already tugging out her phone to take a few photos. “Yes! That might work! We can talk about erosion and compression and—uh, whatever else Ms. Kline wanted us to cover.”

“It’s metamorphic rock that’s hard to describe in elementary terms,” Raf added under his breath, adjusting his pack and kneeling to inspect the mineral formations. “But if we photograph the right angles and mention the tectonic activity in this region, we might actually hit the B range.”

Miko turned to him, dramatically clutching her chest. “Rafael Esquivel, genius of my life. I owe you a soda and my academic survival.”

He blushed and pushed his glasses higher. “It’s not that hard. You just have to—”

“—Not skip the entire week of lab when we learned this,” Jack finished, eyebrows raised as he plucked a few stones from the ground. “How did you manage to flunk rock science? Literally rock science.”

Miko winced. “Okay, I might have been focused on the Battle for Kaon arc in Metalshredder Rebellion that week.”

Jack rolled his eyes but smiled. “Of course.”

The three friends knelt in the loose dust, spreading out to collect a few more samples. The desert air, cool in the early morning, was beginning to warm, and a distant hawk screeched overhead.

Despite the seemingly peaceful morning, there was something odd about the stillness around them.

Jack noticed it first.

He straightened, gaze drifting toward the west, toward a long, low cliffside that cut across the horizon like the serrated edge of a knife. “You guys feel that?”

“Feel what?” Miko said, crouched low, stuffing a rock into her pack.

“There’s no wind. No birds, either,” Jack murmured.

Raf’s head lifted sharply. “No signal, either. My GPS just cut out.”

Miko checked her phone. “Weird. Mine’s dead, too. Did we hit a blackout zone?”

Jack scanned the landscape, his instincts flaring. Being around Autobots had changed all of them. They knew what quiet meant. Quiet like this was rarely natural anymore.

“Miko,” Jack said slowly, “how far are we from the last Autobot checkpoint?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes back that way?” she said, pointing with her elbow while still writing something in her notebook.

Jack took a slow step forward.

Then stopped.

A low hum pulsed beneath his feet—almost imperceptible. Like the purr of a generator buried deep under the surface. It lasted only a second.

“Get down,” he said sharply.

Miko blinked. “What—?”

Jack lunged, dragging her behind a boulder just as the ridge ahead exploded.

A white-hot blast burst from the cliffside, sending a plume of debris into the sky. A mechanical whirring followed—metal on metal, hydraulic pistons groaning into movement.

“Move!” Jack shouted, grabbing Raf and pulling him behind another slab of cover.

And then they saw it.

From beyond a low ridge to the south, a massive shape emerged—rolling slowly across the desert floor, kicking up a rising cloud of dust in its wake.

It was a train, but not like any train they’d ever seen.

Not built for passengers or cargo. No paint, no markings. Matte grey plating, boxy armored shapes, sharp angles—military in design, far too long for any civilian purpose. At least seven linked sections, each one crawling with industrial tech. There were mounted antennae, internal generators humming, and two sleek black trucks flanking its sides, armed and armored.

MECH.

The convoy slithered across the desert like a landbound war machine—utterly silent but for the thrum of its engines and the hiss of gravel beneath its treads.

Raf’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “That’s not a normal military convoy. Not even close.”

Jack ducked low behind a ridge. “MECH,” he said in a low voice. “It has to be.”

Miko followed them down, suddenly quiet. “What would they be doing all the way out here?”

The convoy didn’t slow. Its front segment bore a massive reinforced canopy—sealed, no windows—almost like it was hiding something inside. Each segment that followed was built more like a prison car than a transport.

“We need to go,” Jack said, already motioning for them to move back. “Now. Before they see us.”

“They didn’t even slow down,” Raf murmured, still peeking. “It’s like they’re heading for something. Or someone.”

“Either way, we do not want them to find us,” Jack said. “We get out, we tell Agent Fowler, we warn the bots.”

Miko nodded, voice hushed. “I’ve got photos. We can prove it.”

The kids turned and began to backtrack quietly, their footprints barely visible on the cracked earth.

But behind them, the dust trail of the armored convoy rolled deeper into the wasteland—toward a location no Autobot or Decepticon had touched in months. Toward something no one knew was buried.

Not yet.

Miko shoved her phone into the front of her shirt, tucking it beneath her bra strap with a breathless mutter. “No way I’m letting them find this. It’s all I’ve got—my bag’s full of rocks, not memory cards.”

Jack nodded silently, eyes still scanning the horizon behind them. Raf clutched his small laptop case tighter to his chest, his mouth dry with nerves. They were about to make a quiet escape, slipping behind a long line of brush-strewn stone, when a sudden whirring noise split the silence.

Then—clang.

A shadow fell across them.

From above and slightly ahead, a MECH drone dropped down—sleek, spider-like, its limbs clicking as they deployed. Its single red optic flared to life.

Before any of the teens could run, the drone launched a compact metal device with a sharp hiss. It burst midair—and in an instant, a weighted electrified net snapped outward, slamming over them with brutal precision.

“AHH!” Miko cried as the force knocked her flat. Jack fell hard beside her, his elbow cracking against stone. Raf yelped as the net tightened, tiny shocks crackling through its filaments to paralyze, not kill.

“What the—?!” Jack tried to struggle, but his limbs locked under the weight of the trap.

From the swirling cloud of dust behind them, the sound of boots followed.

Dozens of them.

Out of the settling haze emerged armed silhouettes in matte black armor—MECH soldiers. Helmets glinting in the dawn light, rifles at the ready, forming a ring around the fallen children like a well-rehearsed drill.

Then came the voice.

Calm. Cold. Contained.

“Well, well. What do we have here?”

From behind the wall of soldiers stepped a tall, imposing figure. Human, but barely—his presence felt mechanical in precision, calculated and sharp. His pale face was lit only by his harsh gaze and the cruel arch of a smile that held no humor.

Silas.

Miko felt the breath catch in her throat. She had only seen him once before, in footage Agent Fowler refused to release to the public. To see him in person was like staring into the eyes of a coiled serpent.

He circled them, hands behind his back.

“Curious little rats,” he murmured, more to himself than to them. “Sniffing where they shouldn’t be. And gathering data, no less.”

He turned and motioned silently. A soldier stepped forward, yanked Jack’s backpack open, and dumped its contents on the ground—rocks, sample bags, a few notebooks, a pocket camera.

Another took Raf’s laptop case and handed it to Silas.

“No!” Raf protested weakly, still trapped beneath the net. “That’s mine—”

“Correction: was yours,” Silas said coolly, already handing the case off to one of his tech operatives. “Scan every device. Strip for telemetry data, location logs, signal traces. If they saw the convoy, they saw more than they should have.”

Two more soldiers stepped in, patting down Miko and Jack. Her phone was quickly found, yanked from her shirt. She snarled, kicking out in vain.

“Don’t touch me, freaks!”

Silas raised an eyebrow. “Feisty. I like that.”

A third soldier approached and whispered something in his ear. Silas gave a slow nod, his face hardening.

“Very well. We’ll bring them aboard,” he said, voice flat. “We’ll secure their devices for deep analysis. And in the meantime…”

He looked down at them, no longer amused—only calculating.

“…let’s put them to better use.”

Miko blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”

Silas tilted his head slightly, as if considering how much to say. “You’ll be helping us, children—whether you want to or not. We’ve been… lacking real-time feedback during our engagements with Cybertronians.”

He crouched beside them now, voice low.

“But with you three? Human companions of the Autobots? Their presence on the battlefield will become predictable.”

Jack’s blood ran cold.

“You’re going to use us,” he whispered.

“Bait. Observers. Leverage,” Silas replied, standing straight. “Call it what you will.”

He turned and walked away as the net began to lift, mechanical arms pulling the children—still dazed and struggling—toward the dark segment of the MECH train. Doors hissed open with sterile precision. The convoy wasn’t just a transport.

It was a mobile prison.

The children were dragged inside.

Outside, the desert wind returned, whispering across their tracks as the dust erased their trail.

Raf clutched the edge of the bench bolted to the interior wall of the train car, counting quietly under his breath. He had always been good with time, good with numbers. By his estimate, they had been in motion for just under an hour—fifty-two minutes and seventeen seconds to be exact—since being loaded like cargo into the MECH convoy.

He would have kept counting, but the rhythmic hum of the engine abruptly wound down.

The convoy came to a halt.

Then came the noise.

Dull thunks and hisses echoed around them as mechanisms disengaged, doors hissed open, and the unmistakable sound of heavy machinery—cranes, hydraulics, vehicle lifts—filled the air outside. Metal clanged against metal in an industrial symphony.

Footsteps. Voices. Command barks.

“Up. Move,” barked a soldier through the steel mesh between them.

A second later, the train car door slammed open and daylight—cold and gray—flooded in. Before any of them could orient themselves, soldiers reached in, unlatched the back restraints of the electric net still looped around their ankles, and yanked them out one by one.

Jack stumbled as his boots hit the concrete, the stark industrial air slicing against his skin like a blade. Raf stumbled beside him, wincing. Miko squinted against the harsh light.

They were inside the MECH base now.

And it was huge.

Rows of towering concrete walls stretched as far as the eye could see, studded with floodlights, auto-turrets, and surveillance towers. Enormous hangars with reinforced doors lined the walkways. Military vehicles rolled past on automated tracks—each of them bulkier than anything in standard armies, some with mounted energon weapons, others with adaptive armor plating mimicking Cybertronian alloys. The place was a fortress built for one purpose: war.

“Look at this place,” Jack muttered under his breath.

Miko frowned. “It’s like some evil Bond villain's garage from hell.”

Raf didn’t respond. His attention had drifted toward a distant, sealed section of the compound. Something about it... it was colder, quieter. Like sound avoided it.

The three were herded forward down a long metallic corridor, boots echoing against the polished floor. A soldier jogged up alongside their handler and saluted sharply.

“Sir. We don’t have a cell prepared for, uh… civilians,” the soldier reported. “We weren’t expecting prisoners.”

Silas, who had been trailing behind with cold detachment, clicked his tongue once and didn’t even slow his stride.

“Chain them in the west wing,” he said simply. “Ankle restraints. Give them coats, feed them later. I have more important matters than babysitting.”

The soldier hesitated. “Sir… The west wing is where the object of study is being held. Should we really—”

Silas stopped. Turned.

He looked at the man with a dead-eyed glare that made the soldier straighten like a snapped cable.

“They are harmless,” Silas said quietly. “And if they aren't… he isn’t active anyway.”

He motioned for them to proceed.

“Put them there. I want full observation.”

Without another word, Silas turned on his heel and disappeared into the network of corridors, his shadow swallowed by the base’s artificial lighting.

Another soldier approached with three bulky bundles in hand—oversized coats, thick and insulated, made of heavy orange material that hung off the ends of his arms like hazmat gear designed for a nuclear freeze.

“These are for containment zones. Standard arctic-grade insulation. Put them on.”

Miko groaned. “This is a joke, right? It’s, like, twice my size!”

The coat she was handed nearly dragged across the floor. Raf’s swallowed him whole, the sleeves so long he could barely see his fingers.

“You’ll need them,” one soldier said flatly.

Jack slipped his on with effort and immediately understood why.

As they were marched down the final stretch of corridor toward the west wing, the temperature dropped fast. The air grew dense, heavy with frost, their breath turning visible in the filtered lighting.

By the time they reached the sealed archway to the west wing, it was freezing.

Steel walls glittered faintly with ice around the seams. The sound changed too—softer, muffled. It felt like the entire wing had been sunken into a glacier. The floor beneath them vibrated faintly, as though it held something massive… and possibly restrained.

“Get inside,” the soldier ordered, unlocking a thick magnetic gate with a palm scan.

The door groaned open, and the three were ushered into a steel chamber with an arched ceiling and a few bolted-down chairs along the far wall. There were no beds. No blankets. Just a thick anchoring ring embedded in the floor with metal chains attached.

Each of them was clipped in by the ankle—just long enough to walk a few paces, but not run.

“Stay quiet,” the soldier grunted. “No one cares if you freeze.”

The door slammed shut.

A soft mechanical hiss followed—coolant or recycled air. The room was eerily quiet now, insulated from the chaos of the rest of the base.

Jack rubbed his arms through the coat. “Why is it so cold in here? What are they keeping in this wing?”

Miko tugged her hood up and sank down into one of the chairs, teeth chattering. “I don’t know, but it has to be big. And dangerous.”

Raf, too small in his coat, sat on the floor and looked toward the far end of the hallway through a grated ventilation window. Something out there hummed. Low. Deep.

Something... alive.

The freezing stillness of the west wing gnawed at their limbs. The metallic hum beyond the walls hadn't stopped—low, continuous, like the soft growl of something enormous, dormant… but not dead.

Miko, always the bold one, wasn’t content to sit idle. Shivering under her oversized orange coat, she stood and wandered toward the far edge of the room, where a ventilation grate—high on the wall—offered a view into the next chamber. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted something just beneath it: a dented, discarded metal box, about waist-height and heavy with tools.

With effort, she dragged it beneath the grate and climbed on top, wincing as the cold bit through her boots. She had to steady herself against the wall, but once balanced, her gaze locked onto the room beyond.

She froze.

Dead silent.

“...Oh my fragging—”

“Miko?” Jack called, still seated and rubbing warmth into his arms. “What? What do you see?”

Raf stood quickly, alarm flashing in his wide eyes. “Is someone coming?”

“No…” Her voice was low, stunned. “You guys… just come look. Now.”

Jack and Raf hurried over. Jack gave Miko a hand down, then climbed up himself. Raf followed clumsily, nearly swallowed by his puffy coat, and the two boys positioned themselves beside the grate.

Then they saw it.

It was a chamber, vast and reinforced, separated from them by thick glass and energy grids that buzzed faintly with static. The lighting inside was minimal—sterile white panels along the upper edge, cold and clinical. The far wall was dominated by an enormous containment cell, a cage of energized pylons that ran from floor to ceiling.

And inside…

A Cybertronian.

Collapsed on the ground, sprawled and unmoving.

Even in his current state, there was no mistaking the alien majesty of him: the long, aerodynamic limbs, the sharp angles of his frame, the towering wings folded awkwardly behind him—or what was left of them. His entire body was crisscrossed in massive, industrial chains, bolted directly to the floor and looped multiple times around his arms, torso, and especially his wings. Huge shackles, engraved with MECH’s seal, bit deep into the armor.

Parts of him were missing.

Large sections of paint had flaked or been torn away, revealing exposed alloy beneath—dull and scorched. Scars. Long, brutal gouges carved into his frame like a record of every torment he’d endured. His abdomen was open, pried apart as if dissected by force. Wires spilled out in torn clusters, and fluid pooled beneath him—a lilac substance that shimmered faintly in the cold light.

His face was turned away, and his optics were closed. Motionless.

Wings—those long, elegant wings that had once ruled the skies—were now tattered, with entire sections torn out. Jagged edges exposed internal supports, some of them bent or even snapped.

“Is he… dead?” Raf asked in a whisper, voice trembling.

“I don’t know,” Jack replied. “He’s not moving, but…”

Miko was staring, eyes wide, fists clenched tight against the cold.

Just then, motion inside the chamber.

A door opened, and a man in a MECH lab coat stepped through, followed by another with a sealed case. The first scientist crouched beside the Seeker’s broken form, reaching into the exposed cavity in his abdomen—like it was routine. Like it wasn’t even alive.

They didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

And a moment later, the scientist emerged with a sealed cylinder, filled with the same glowing lilac fluid. He handed it off to his colleague, who stored it among several others in a metal container.

“Are they… taking his energon?” Raf whispered.

“They’re draining him,” Jack muttered, eyes narrowing. “Whatever they’re studying, they’re doing it while he’s alive.”

Another scientist approached, holding a scanner that flickered with faint readings—pulse, processor activity, internal core functions.

“He’s alive,” Miko said hollowly. “He’s alive and they’re cutting him apart.”

They stood there, silently watching the horror of it.

They stood in silence, the freezing air tightening around their lungs, the hum of the energon grids beyond the grate like the breath of some sleeping monster.

Miko’s heart pounded against her ribs.

The chains. The opened abdomen. The lilac energon being drained like oil from a machine. Her stomach turned—but her mind locked in. They had to get this on record.

She glanced down at her coat, then reached beneath the thick orange bulk—feeling with frozen fingers until she found the hidden shape tucked beneath her shirt.

Her phone.

She had hidden it in her bra, just before the net fell. It had been an impulsive decision, half survival, half instinct—but now it was everything.

Without a word, Miko slid down from the metal box and crouched low against the wall. Her cold fingers trembled slightly as she activated the device. The screen flickered on, bright against the sterile dark of the chamber.

“No signal,” she murmured. “Figures.”

But the camera still worked.

Photo. Record.

Miko tapped Record.

She climbed silently back onto the box, holding the phone steady with both hands, and aimed it through the grated viewing window. The image on screen was blurry with frost at first—but as she adjusted, it came into focus.

The bot lay still, chained, massive and unmoving in the glow of the containment cell.

She began recording slow pans: first across the massive chains, then along the long stretch of cracked armor, over exposed lines and scorched plating, up to the cruel gouge where his abdomen had been opened. Then, carefully, she zoomed in on the bot’s claws—blackened, sharp, twitching faintly. Still alive.

Jack noticed the quiet red glow of her screen and blinked in surprise. “Wait—Miko? Is that your phone?!”

Raf looked over with wide eyes. “You—how do you still have it?”

Miko didn’t lower the phone. “Pfft. When you’ve got a backpack full of rock samples and science-grade dirt, your phone doesn’t go in there.”

She zoomed further, focusing on the bot’s helm—scorched but unmistakably aerodynamic, designed for speed and precision. A gash marred the side of the faceplate, and a cracked dent ran near where his optics should have been.

Jack’s voice lowered. “But where were you hiding it?”

Miko finally glanced at them, smirking grimly. “Female pants never have real pockets, and coats don’t have secret compartments. So, y’know—we adapt.”

Raf flushed faintly, clearly too young to understand all the layers to that, but Jack just gave a slow nod of respect.

“Remind me to never doubt you again,” he muttered.

Miko turned back to the screen.

As she slowly tilted the angle, something caught her attention—a dull shine beneath a layer of grime and scorched plating. Right in the center of the mech’s chest.

She squinted, then adjusted the focus, zooming all the way in.

There it was.

A half-faded Decepticon emblem. Cracked through the center, dulled by time and damage, but still recognizable: the sharp angles, the cruel symmetry, the alien crest of a war machine.

Miko’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Guys… I think he’s a Decepticon.”

Jack leaned closer to the grate, following her line of sight.

The emblem was unmistakable now.

Raf swallowed hard. “Then… that bot is the enemy?”

“I don’t know what he is now,” Miko said, pulling back slightly, “but whatever MECH’s doing to him—it’s not war. It’s not justice. It’s just torture.”

Jack didn’t respond.

He watched through the grate as another scientist approached the unconscious bot with a scanner. The monitor on the wall flickered as internal vitals came online—barely readable, faint activity across the neural net, spark core flickering like a candle about to die.

Jack met Miko’s eyes. “We have to get this footage to Optimus.”

Miko nodded.

“If we get out of here,” she whispered, “I’m making sure the whole world sees this.”

The mechanical hum that had filled the frozen air suddenly changed tone—sharp, pulsing.

Then—

BWOOP—BWOOP—BWOOP!

A harsh, pulsing alarm echoed through the corridor, turning the chilling quiet into chaos. Red lights began flashing across the chamber’s wall panels. The children jolted in place, startled as a deep, synthetic voice cut through the sirens:

“Movement detected. Unauthorized neural activity registered. Temperature increase present in Containment Unit Zero-One.”

Miko didn’t stop recording.

She braced her elbows against the grate, zooming in tighter as the scientists below snapped to attention. Soldiers burst into the room from two flanking doors, some sliding into pre-assigned positions. Others rushed to control panels positioned around the containment cell. One of them began typing frantically, fingers dancing over a projected console. The humming of generators surged to a near roar.

“All units, prepare suppression protocol!” someone barked.

Jack’s breath caught as he saw more soldiers—at least a dozen—take aim with high-caliber weapons, most of them directed squarely at the unmoving bot’s helm and chest. MECH didn’t just fear what lay in that cell. They expected him to awaken.

The alarm continued, the voice deeper now, louder:

“Initiating Antarctic Wind Protocol. Extreme temperature correction engaged.”

Raf paled.

“No—no no no—” he muttered, eyes locked on the scene, his voice almost inaudible.

Jack looked down at him. “Raf, what is that? What’s ‘Antarctic Wind’?”

Raf’s voice shook. “Liquid nitrogen. Pure. It’s one of the most efficient rapid cryogenic suppressants ever created. It can shatter steel in seconds. And if it’s pressurized like this…”

He didn’t need to finish.

Hiss—THWUMMMM!

From both the ceiling and floor, dozens of small, armored ports popped open. In unison, they released powerful blue jets, focused in tight, scorching lines that blasted the bot’s restrained form with raw, icy force.

The temperature in the entire wing plummeted.

Even from behind the viewing grate, the children could feel the cold bite harder through their coats.

The Seeker’s body tensed.

It wasn’t full movement—just the smallest twitch of a hand, a slow flinch in his peds. But the MECH systems had caught it instantly.

The hiss of nitrogen striking metal filled the room like a thousand snakes hissing through broken glass. Frost crystallized over the energon-stained floor, crawling up the chains. The exposed cables in the bot’s abdomen began to freeze solid. Hairline fractures appeared along damaged plating. His wings—already frayed and broken—curled in involuntary response before seizing up in the cold.

“Ten minutes,” Raf whispered in disbelief. “They’re going to keep it up for ten minutes.”

Jack watched, stunned. “They’re freezing him alive.”

The bot’s body was already dulled, but now the sound of it—the silence of his resistance—was worse. No screams. No thrashing. Just a frozen, helpless giant under the full force of a weaponized cryo-system.

Miko had to lower the phone for a second. Her hands were shaking too much to keep the lens steady.

The countdown voice returned:

“Containment readings stabilizing. Movement null. Neural activity below threshold. Temperature at target minimum. Status: Green Level.”

The jets cut off, hissing into silence.

A final puff of icy mist drifted into the air and vanished.

The room slowly returned to its sterile stillness. The only signs of what had just happened were the long icicles clinging to the Seeker’s fingers, the frost-lined scars down his chassis, and the thin sheen of nitrogen vapor drifting along the floor.

The soldiers lowered their weapons, each retreating to their respective posts with unnerving precision. No words were spoken. No remorse shown.

The scientists stepped forward once more.

One of them, now wearing thick cryo-resistant gloves, carefully approached Starscream’s helm. A short scalpel-like tool—far too sharp—was drawn from a nearby tray. Without hesitation, the man leaned in over the massive neck cables, exposed where plating had been torn aside, and began to cut into the frozen cybernetic tissues.

“Are they harvesting his systems?” Jack asked, horrified.

Raf nodded slowly, as if in a trance. “They’re mapping his neural links. That’s why they freeze him. So he can’t spike a reaction… and fry their equipment.”

Miko looked down at her phone, still recording.

And for the first time, her fingers curled tightly around the device—not just to save the footage… but to protect it.

“They don’t care what he is,” she whispered. “Decepticon, Autobot… doesn’t matter to them. He’s just a specimen.”

Miko’s phone vibrated weakly in her hands—then flickered once before going black.

“Scrap,” she whispered, pressing the power button. Nothing. The cold, the constant recording, the battery—it was done.

She slid it back beneath her coat, tucking it once again under her bra. Hidden. Protected.

“I’m out of battery,” she said. “But I got everything. The chains. The nitrogen. The emblem. They’re experimenting on him—while he’s still alive.”

“We need to show this to the Autobots,” she added, urgency sharpening her voice. “Like now.”

Jack nodded, his expression grim. “Yeah. First we have to get out of here.”

Raf opened his mouth to respond—but he never got the chance.

The heavy door behind them hissed open, and a squad of MECH soldiers marched in, rifles held ready.

None of them spoke a word as they advanced. One gestured with a subtle nod. Another brought out ankle-release tools and undid the chains.

The kids didn’t resist—they knew better than to provoke a scene. But Miko clutched the inside of her coat like armor, silently daring anyone to try and take her phone.

They were escorted through a network of dim corridors, this part of the facility warmer and clearly more operational than the icy containment wing. They passed laboratories with strange silhouettes behind frosted glass, power cells humming with unknown energy, and mech frames in partial assembly. The walls trembled faintly with power and motion.

Finally, they entered a huge chamber—a command room of sorts. Its centerpiece was a massive curved screen, easily twenty feet wide, glowing with a high-definition display of battlefield simulations. The interface was crisp, precise, and cruelly efficient: drones marked with blue, Autobot silhouettes in red, MECH hardware surrounding them in tight formation.

Jack’s breath caught in his throat.

On the screen, Optimus Prime and Arcee were engaged in active combat with MECH units. The footage wasn’t pre-recorded.

It was live.

Soldiers stood at terminals along the edge of the room, entering tactical data, updating simulations, tagging enemy maneuvers. Real-time telemetry scrolled down the sides of the screen—positions, commands, latency responses.

One soldier turned to the elevated dais where Silas now stood, arms clasped behind his back, eyes locked on the main screen like a hawk watching prey.

“Sir,” the soldier said crisply, “we’ve brought the subjects.”

Silas looked away from the screen just long enough to nod.

“Good,” he said. “Separate them. Take them to opposite sectors of the outer desert ring. Remote drop.”

Miko’s eyes widened. “Wait, what?!”

Silas ignored her.

“I want to test Prime’s response time—not to the threat, but to loss. Our forces are already deployed. They’ve been instructed to signal his team: we have the children.”

Another soldier spoke from a side panel, typing rapidly. “Prime’s team received the message one minute, fifty-three seconds ago.”

Silas’ lips curled faintly—not a smile. Something colder.

“Perfect,” he said. “Let’s test their recovery under strain. Three threats. Three locations. Three human liabilities.”

Jack clenched his fists. “You’re using us to test Optimus’s strategies?!”

Silas didn’t even look at him.

“I’m using you to uncover patterns. Command style. Prioritization matrix. Autobot behavior, especially under separation and threat pressure, has been remarkably consistent… but I want to see what happens when they can’t act as one.”

He stepped forward, gesturing toward the screen, where the battle had intensified—Autobots flanking, MECH units tightening in.

“I want to know,” he said smoothly, “what Prime is willing to sacrifice… and who he’ll go for first.”

Another wave of soldiers moved in.

The kids were each pulled toward different corridors, each one leading to smaller outbound transports—compact, high-speed trains designed for fast deployment.

Miko shouted, struggling. “Don’t you dare separate us—!”

Jack tried to twist free but was shoved forward. “Miko!”

“Raf—!”

But the sound of slamming doors cut them off.

Each child was sealed into a separate car as Silas returned to his central chair, now seated high above the floor, staring into the screen like a general observing war games.

He pressed a button on the armrest. More windows opened: live drone footage, audio feeds, pulse scans.

“Let’s begin,” he said, calm and clinical. “What will Prime do… when he has to choose?”

From deep within MECH’s fortified command center, Silas sat motionless in his towering black chair, lit only by the glow of the massive wall of screens before him. The pulse of dozens of cameras, drones, satellite feeds, and vehicle trackers formed a tactical web around him—each thread tied to one thing:

The Autobots.

A soldier beside him gave a nod. “Sir, transmission is ready.”

Silas’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Send it.”

The soldier pressed the command.

A single encrypted message streaked through Earth’s comm networks, piggybacking on MECH’s stolen defense protocols. Its target: one very specific human contact embedded within the Autobot alliance.

—
[TRANSMISSION - HIGH PRIORITY - ENCRYPTED]

TO: Agent William Fowler
FROM: Unknown Origin
SUBJECT: Human Assets Secured

We have the children. Three. Separated. Tracked. Watched.

Let’s see how your machines dance when their little pets are in peril.

– M
—

At Autobot base, the warning came in the form of a harsh beep on Ratchet’s console. He was already hunched over diagnostics when the alert flashed across his screen.

He recognized the encryption instantly. MECH.

His optics widened. “Primus help us—”

“Optimus!” Ratchet shouted, slamming his servo against the comms. “We’ve got a priority signal from Fowler—MECH has the children!”

The ground quaked slightly as Optimus Prime entered the control room, flanked by Ultra Magnus.

“What?” the Prime’s voice thundered, both fury and command in one breath.

Ratchet turned the monitor toward him. “It’s them. They’ve split them up. I can’t get a precise fix yet, but Fowler just confirmed it’s not a bluff. They’ve taken all three.”

Optimus's optics narrowed into an edge of steel. “Then we move. Now.”

He turned to the rest of the team, already gathering in the war room.

“Bumblebee, Cliffjumper—you’ll locate and extract Rafael. Prioritize speed and stealth.”

Bumblebee chirped sharply in affirmation, his engine already revving. Cliffjumper cracked his knuckles and nodded.

“Arcee, Smokescreen—retrieve Jack. You’re our precision team. Do not engage unless forced.”

“Got it,” Arcee replied, already halfway to her vehicle form.

Smokescreen added, “We’ll bring him home. Count on it.”

“Bulkhead, Wheeljack—find Miko. You’re the heavy team. Expect resistance. Clear a path.”

Bulkhead’s optics flared. “On it! No one touches her.”

Wheeljack sheathed both of his energon blades with a grin. “Time to break some toys.”

Optimus turned to Ultra Magnus, his tone grave. “You and I will intercept and neutralize the MECH train in the southern pass. Too much artillery has been concentrated there—we can’t allow them to reinforce the drop zones.”

“Agreed,” Ultra Magnus said, voice steady. “They won’t pass.”

Ratchet was already opening the ground bridge controls. “Locations are locked. You're all green. Go!”

One by one, the Autobots launched into motion—transforming, roaring into vehicle form, and disappearing into the swirling lights of the ground bridges, each bridge targeting a different direction across the desert.

Meanwhile, deep inside MECH’s base, Silas sat with a measured grin, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“So,” he murmured to no one in particular, watching the satellite pings light up.

“Let’s see how the noble Prime divides his hand. No hesitation. No panic. Just cold strategy.”

He tapped a command key.

On the massive screen, six new feeds opened—one for each Autobot team and one centered on Optimus and Ultra Magnus closing in on the MECH transport route.

Silas smiled wider.

“And now… what will you sacrifice first, Optimus Prime?”

The desert trembled.

A distant explosion lit the sky orange as Optimus Prime brought his energon blade down through the core of another MECH tank unit, the shrapnel scattering across the sand in a blazing trail of twisted steel and synthetic plating.

He didn’t stop.

Beside him, Ultra Magnus charged into a cluster of remote artillery drones, smashing down with cold, brutal precision. The desert pass that had once been considered a hidden route was now an open battlefield littered with wreckage.

Optimus’s optics scanned the horizon. Every second spent here was a second the children could be in greater danger. But if even one of these MECH war machines broke away and pursued his team…

He couldn't take that risk.

“I will hold this line myself if I must,” he said to Magnus over comms.

But Magnus answered sharply, “We hold it together, Prime.”

Twenty minutes passed.

In the silence between missile barrages and scorched dust clouds, a voice crackled through the comm.

“Wheeljack’s got Miko. She’s safe.”
Arcee’s voice—steady, confident.

Two minutes later—

“We’ve got Raf. He’s okay. Shaken, but no injuries.”
Cliffjumper’s low tone carried relief. Bumblebee beeped in agreement.

Seconds after—

“Bulkhead reporting in—Miko’s riding shotgun. She’s mad, but in one piece.”

A pause. Then Bulkhead added, more quietly:
“She kept something hidden. Says we have to show you.”

Optimus’s spark tightened with relief.

“Excellent work,” he said. “All teams, withdraw immediately. Do not engage further. Get the children out of danger. Magnus and I will finish here.”

He cut another war vehicle in half as he spoke, ensuring nothing followed. The MECH line had broken, their coordination slipping, their assault formations shredded.

But something was different this time.

Each wave of MECH drones had improved. Their weapons were adapting, their response times tightening. Their armor—coated with material laced with reflective energy dampeners—had clearly been designed after dozens of test skirmishes.

Optimus knew what that meant.

They were learning.

Back at MECH’s underground base, the battle footage streamed in real-time across Silas’s wall of screens.

Silas stood once more, clasping his hands behind his back as each feed terminated—one by one—showing Autobots disappearing into their respective ground bridges with human allies secured.

Mission: Complete.

He turned to the data stream beside him.

Reaction times. Maneuver logs. Firepower response rates. Adaptation windows. All charted, all sorted. The experiment had given him far more than he’d hoped.

Not just raw performance metrics.

Patterns.

Silas smiled to himself. A thin, knowing expression.

“They’re loyal,” he murmured. “Predictably loyal. Strategically sound. Emotionally reactive.”

He turned his gaze toward the west wing monitor—still showing the silhouette of the battered Decepticon chained within his frozen cell.

“They’ll protect their own,” he said softly. “But what happens when one of his kind… becomes one of theirs?”

He stepped into shadow.

The screens dimmed. But the experiment had only just begun.

The roar of the final ground bridge faded into silence.

Inside the Autobot base, the tension that had gripped every system, every servo, every spark—eased. The children had returned safely. Jack was getting checked by Ratchet, Raf had already gone through two cups of warm tea, and Miko…

Well, Miko hadn’t sat down once.

William Fowler paced nearby, coordinating with defense intel, while throwing worried glances at the kids. He was still mid-call when the low rumble of heavy pedsteps echoed through the base’s landing deck.

Optimus Prime and Ultra Magnus had arrived.

The second the three children saw the tall silhouette of their leader, they ran—together, a tangle of coats and limbs and unfinished sentences.

“Optimus!”
“We saw something!”
“MECH has a—”
“It was chained up—”
“The bot was alive—”
“They used nitrogen and—”
“THEY DRAINED HIS SPARK—!”

It was chaos.

Voices overlapped like a panicked chorus, echoing through the command center. Optimus took a step back instinctively, optics blinking behind his faceplate. Ultra Magnus gave a side glance that could only be described as tactical confusion.

Ratchet grumbled under his breath. “By the Allspark, one at a time!”

But Miko wasn’t stopping.

She suddenly threw her arms up, took a huge inhale like she was about to dive into the ocean, and spoke in a single, long, unbroken sentence:

“WEWEREINTHEDESERTANDTHENTHISTRAINCAMEANDITWASMECHANDTHEYTOOKUSANDLOCKEDUSUPINAFREEZINGROOMANDTHEREWASABOTANDHISWINGWASSHATTEREDANDHISGUTSWEREOPENANDTHEYHADHIMCHAINEDTOTHEFLOORANDUSEDNITROGENTOFREEZEHIMWHENTHEMACHINEDETECTEDMOVEMENTANDTHEYKEPTHARVESTINGHIMANDIDIDN’TSTOPRECORDINGUNTILMYCELLRANOUTANDBYTHEWAYIHIDEMYFREAKINGPHONEINMYBRA!”

She practically launched the tiny phone in the air like it was holy evidence, waving it above her head. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide, and her words hit like a fast-forwarded broadcast from a collapsing space station.

Jack blinked. “Whoa.”

Raf, bundled up in his oversized orange coat, stared at her with awe. “…That was one breath.”

He looked at Fowler, dead serious.

“She didn’t breathe. I counted. That’s... that’s lung capacity I didn’t know humans had.”

Fowler pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. Okay. Let's—all of us—slow down and rewind.”

But Optimus raised a hand.

“No,” he said, his deep voice quiet but commanding. “Let her speak.”

Miko exhaled again, this time slower. She handed the phone to Ratchet, who immediately plugged it into a terminal and began extracting the contents. A flicker of footage filled the nearest screen.

The lights of the command center dimmed slightly as the video began to play.

Chains. Wings. Frozen vapor. The buzz of containment fields.

And on the screen—a broken, scarred Seeker lying still beneath the glow of MECH’s cruelty.

Ratchet's optics narrowed. "That's no drone."

Optimus muttered under his breath. “No... that’s Starscream.”

Ultra Magnus stepped closer to the screen. “Impossible. He was lost to the void during the early cycles of the war.”

Optimus stared silently.

Then spoke.

“Not lost,” he said, his voice heavy. “Taken.”

The room was silent now, save for the hum of the terminal and the audio feed of Miko’s footage playing from her phone.

On-screen, the image of the battered Seeker lingered.

Chains around wings. A massive gash across the abdomen. Chassis warped and failing. One optic lens—shattered. The feed stuttered just before the nitrogen jets erupted again, and Ratchet muted it before the children had to hear the high-pressure hiss all over again.

No one spoke at first.

The Autobots stood grim, arms folded, optics narrowed, all of them shaken in different ways.

Wheeljack finally broke the silence.

“That’s not science,” he muttered, his voice low and furious. “That’s torture. That’s a slow, deliberate vivisection. They’re cutting him up piece by piece.”

Arcee’s optics flashed. “Even for Starscream… that’s brutal.”

Bulkhead folded his arms, his voice hesitant. “The last time we saw Starscream, it was at the bottom of the drop cliffs during the battle of Jargax Pass, back on Cybertron. He vanished after that. Everyone said he didn’t survive.”

Cliffjumper nodded. “There was a drift recording—caught his body floating somewhere in deep space. Looked... lifeless. We all assumed he was gone.”

Ratchet turned to the display and tapped at the data feeds they were recovering from Miko’s phone.

“If he was gravely wounded in that battle, it’s possible he entered emergency stasis,” the medic said thoughtfully. “With enough internal system failure, his spark would have gone into low-power mode—a self-preservation fallback. It’s rare, but not impossible. And if he did end up adrift...”

“…then gravity could’ve pulled him down here,” Jack murmured. “He crash-landed on Earth.”

“Exactly,” Ratchet said. “Stasis locked, vulnerable. MECH must’ve discovered the crash site… perhaps years ago.”

But then William Fowler, who’d been quiet until now, finally stepped forward, his brow furrowed in dark thought.

“Maybe it wasn’t Silas,” he said slowly. “Maybe… MECH found him before Silas ever entered the picture.”

The Autobots turned to face him.

Fowler crossed his arms and glanced toward the screen. “We’ve always wondered how MECH got so far ahead so fast. Their access to off-the-books funding, their tech levels—particle weapons, remote-control exos, energon converters. The kind of gear no black market could pull together on its own.”

He pointed to the footage still paused behind them.

“That Seeker? He’s how. Whether Silas found him in a canyon, a crater, or bought the wreckage off someone else—we may never know. But he’s the source of everything they’ve built. His systems are decades ahead of anything on Earth. Silas didn’t build MECH’s power... he inherited it.”

Optimus remained silent for a long moment, towering, unmoving—his optics fixed on the frozen image of Starscream.

Then finally:

“No matter the past he bears… no Cybertronian—Autobot or Decepticon—deserves to be butchered for their code.”

There was no debate. No challenge. The room, even with its differences, fell into resolute agreement.

The screen dimmed. Ratchet unplugged Miko’s phone.

“We’ll need to analyze this more,” he said. “But the situation is clear.”

Fowler looked to Optimus. “What’s the move, Prime?”

The Prime’s voice was cold. Clear.

“We find that facility,” he said, “and we bring Starscream back.”

The air in the base remained tense even after the children were escorted to rest. The Autobots stood quiet, processing everything they had just witnessed. Even Ultra Magnus—rigid and disciplined—looked unusually pensive.

Optimus stood with his back to them, optics locked on the now-dark screen where Starscream’s broken body had been.

“Enemy or not,” he said finally, voice low and firm, “no Cybertronian deserves this.”

Ratchet tilted his helm. “You mean…?”

Optimus turned, his face resolute. “We call the Decepticons. Megatron deserves to know.”

Wheeljack scoffed. “We’re just gonna hand him that intel? Prime, this is Starscream we’re talking about. The treacherous little glitch tried to kill us all more times than I can count.”

Optimus nodded. “And yet we are not MECH, Wheeljack. We do not leave our own to be dissected.”

Ultra Magnus stepped forward slowly. “It’s a risk. But… a necessary one.”

Ratchet hesitated—then, with a short nod, moved to his console and began to configure the frequencies.

“I’ll open a secure line,” he muttered. “Their communications bounce through half-scrapped satellites, but I should be able to reach their command vessel... the Nemesis.”

“Make it clear we seek no conflict,” Optimus added. “Only to deliver information. What they choose to do with it is theirs alone.”

The base dimmed slightly as Ratchet worked, the glow of holo-screens reflecting across his plating.

Static burst briefly from the center console before resolving into a pulsing Decepticon insignia.

Then, a sharp, cold voice echoed from the comm array.

“This is Soundwave. State your intent.”

Ratchet looked to Optimus.

The Prime stepped forward, calm and steady, and spoke clearly.

“Optimus Prime. I request an audience with Megatron. I bear news regarding his former second-in-command.”

A long pause.

Then—silence broken by a voice colder than steel, deeper than thunder.

“Optimus.”

“You’ve never contacted us without a demand or a threat. This had better be worth my attention.”

It was Megatron.

Live.

His hollow red optics glared through the projected transmission window.

Optimus nodded once. “This is not a call of war, Megatron. It is a matter of… dignity. Of survival.”

He stepped aside and gestured to Ratchet, who loaded the decrypted footage onto the transmission feed.

The screen split—Megatron’s image on one side, and the frozen moment captured by Miko’s phone on the other.

Starscream.

Shackled, broken. Wings bound. Chestplate flayed open.

The second the image loaded, Megatron froze.

The tension was immediate. Palpable. The Decepticon Warlord’s optics narrowed with such intensity that even Ultra Magnus unconsciously took a step back.

No words came at first.

Then:

“…What is this?” Megatron’s voice was low. Not enraged—yet. Not disbelieving—yet.

Optimus answered evenly. “A MECH facility on Earth. This is what remains of Starscream. Captured. Experimented upon. Alive.”

There was a long, deadly silence.

Then, quietly—far too quietly—

“Where?”

Chapter Text

Silence.

But not the empty kind.

The kind of silence that hummed. That vibrated. That boiled just beneath the surface of a warlord’s optics.

When Megatron spoke, it was not in a roar or thunder.

It was one single word.
Cold. Precise.
An edge honed not for intimidation… but for execution.

“Where.”

The comm room of the Autobot base grew still. Even the ambient hum of the systems felt like it faltered under the weight of that single syllable.

For the first time in a long time—even Optimus Prime felt a flicker of something he rarely allowed himself:
Fear.

Not for himself.

But for what might come next.

Because something inside Megatron had changed in that instant.

It wasn’t rage. Not the open, thunderous fury they knew so well. No, what moved behind his crimson optics was deeper. Older. Hungrier.

It was the kind of wrath that was ancient. Quiet. Personal.

Megatron’s eyes were glowing now—glowing not with light, but with intensity. Their inner light had turned into something almost alive. No longer cold fury. But something else.

A spark reigniting.
A storm gathering power.

Even Ultra Magnus, ever stoic, stood more rigid than before, optics narrowing.

But Optimus, ever composed, did not waver. He stood tall, voice even.

He swallowed the weight in his intake and answered with unwavering clarity.

“We don’t know yet.”

That truth hit the silence like a cracked gear.

Megatron’s optics narrowed.

Optimus continued, slowly, respectfully—but firmly.

“Our intel is limited. The footage came from a human partner’s personal device—recorded during their capture. The children described a facility deep in a signal-dead region of the desert. No wireless signals. No satellite feedback. We believe it may be subterranean.”

Megatron’s voice was low. Too low.

“You mean to tell me… you contacted me—to show me this—and yet you cannot tell me where he is?”

“No,” Optimus replied carefully. “We contacted you because you deserve to know. Starscream is—was—your second. Whatever may have passed between you, no Cybertronian deserves such desecration. Not even he.”

There was a long silence.

Then:

“Desecration?”

Megatron leaned forward in the transmission, his massive form casting half of his own screen into shadow.

“What you see is desecration. What I see—”

He stopped.

And something shifted in his optics again. Something unspeakable.

“What I see is mine. What I see is unfinished.”

Those last words were nearly a whisper—but they carried enough gravity to shake the entire war room.

Fowler’s hand hovered near a panic button on the console. Not to activate weapons—just in case the signal itself broke reality.

But Optimus held steady.

Ratchet, still at the console, spoke softly. “We’re working on tracing the background data in the recording. Light refraction, echoes, thermal shifts. It’ll take time, but we may narrow it down.”

Optimus added, “Once we locate the facility, we will act. The children’s safety came first. But now—”

Megatron raised a hand.

“You will act? Or we will?”

For a moment, the implication hovered. Tension rippled across the feed like a taut wire.

Optimus took a step forward.

“We can coordinate efforts. But if we want to get Starscream out alive, we must not alert MECH prematurely. The moment they suspect an attack, they may destroy the subject or relocate their operation entirely.”

Megatron tilted his helm.

“Alive.”

The word hung between them like a verdict.

“And what, Prime… what do you plan to do with Starscream, should he survive?”

Optimus did not flinch. “That would be for him to decide.”

Another pause.

The Decepticon warlord stared long at the paused image of Starscream—chained, ravaged, wings in tatters, energon leaking from open systems.

Then he slowly, carefully, leaned back in his throne.

“Send us the full footage. Every frame. Every voice. Every breath those human whelps recorded. Soundwave will begin analysis. I will not wait for you to play detective.”

Optimus gave a short nod. “We will transmit it immediately.”

“And if I find him first…” Megatron’s voice was dark again, glacial, “...do not get in my way.”

The feed cut. No goodbye. No signal trace. Just silence.

But this time—emptier.
Darker.

Optimus turned away from the blank screen.

“Ratchet,” he said quietly, “send the footage. All of it. Immediately.”

“Yes, Optimus,” Ratchet muttered, already working.

Ultra Magnus stepped up beside his leader. “Do you believe he will act rashly?”

Optimus’s optics narrowed, his expression unreadable.

“No,” he said. “He will act with purpose.”

Meanwhile, in the depths of the Nemesis, far away over the ocean’s edge, Megatron stood alone now in his command chamber.

The room was silent, save for the buzz of the relayed footage flickering on a dozen screens around him.

Chains. Blue light. Burned metal. Gutted systems.

Starscream.

Not groveling. Not screaming.
Still.

Megatron stared.

And a slow, jagged sound rumbled from his chest.

It was not laughter.
It was not rage.

It was the sound of something waking.

Within the heart of the Nemesis, the air was colder than the engine halls, the light dimmer than starlight filtered through smog.

The warship thrummed with quiet power, engines on standby, systems on minimal activity—save for one core: the silent, ever-observant presence of Soundwave.

He stood alone in the dimmed command center, his visor aglow with layered data streams—raw video, audio enhancements, thermal mapping, and environmental trace signatures all dissected and reformatted through his processors with silent precision.

But he wasn’t just analyzing footage.

He was watching Megatron.

He had been for vorns.

And Soundwave knew.

Knew that when Megatron had spoken the word “where,” when his optics had flared and his voice had dipped low with that monstrous, old thunder—he had not meant it for the Autobots.

He had meant it for Starscream.

Because that fury wasn’t just wrath.
It was fear.
Fear that he was too late.

Soundwave stood unmoving, a shadow among shadows, the soft whirr of his sensors the only sound in the bridge.

He remembered.

He remembered everything.

Long before the war, when Megatronus had still walked the edges of Kaon with fuel-splattered fists and speeches like fire.

Long before he became “Megatron”—the Warlord.

Back when Starscream had been a voice in a lecture hall, a seeker full of bite and arrogant defiance, bright and too clever, too mouthy—and far too curious for his own safety.

Soundwave had seen it.

The way Megatron would linger longer than necessary during the meetings.

The way he always found a reason to call Starscream closer, even if only to berate him.

The way his voice would always shift—not soft, never that, but less cruel—when addressing the Seeker.

But above all, Soundwave remembered the way Megatron would tense every time Starscream walked away.

As if something had been left behind.

Megatron had never known how to speak what he felt.

He had grown up in streets of rust and survival, in the mining pits of Cnidaria, where affections got you killed and emotions were weights around your neck. He was shaped in fire and sharpened in violence, where each day meant proving you deserved to live through the next.

Words like affection, care, softness—those things were alien to him. Useless. Dangerous.

He had survived without them.

So when he felt them?

He didn’t know what to do with them.

Soundwave remembered the early solar cycles of the Decepticon uprising.

Starscream, sharp as a razor, constantly testing Megatron’s patience, mocking, provoking—half of it defiance, half of it desperate for recognition.

And Megatron, every time he tried to say something that mattered, would revert—brutally—into command:

“Get out of my sight, Starscream.”
“See it done.”
“You’re wasting my time.”
“Report to the front lines.”

Soundwave had watched it repeat. Again and again.

The moments when Megatron would pause, shoulders tight, jaw locked—on the verge of saying something that was not a command.

And then—

“Dismissed.”

He had let every opportunity collapse beneath the weight of his own armor. His own pride.

Now, standing before the data stream of Starscream’s captured form—broken and bound in MECH’s prison—Soundwave saw what Megatron had not voiced in the transmission.

Not to the Autobots. Not to anyone.

But Soundwave didn’t need words.
He never had.

He saw it in the tremor behind Megatron’s stillness.
In the cold fury, too controlled to be only vengeance.

Megatron did not merely want retribution.

He wanted Starscream back.

Not the subordinate.
Not the air commander.
Not the traitor.

But the Seeker.
The one he never knew how to keep.

Soundwave flicked his servo across the console, enhancing another frame—zooming in on the faceplate of the unconscious bot, still etched with old scars and newer, jagged lines of experimentation.

There was something agonizing about seeing Starscream this way.

Silent. Still.

He was never still.

He had always been voice and motion, always spinning between scheming and snarling, screaming and smirking. Even Soundwave, patient as time itself, had often wanted to throttle him.

And yet… his absence had left a strange hollowness in the Decepticon ranks.

No one challenged Megatron anymore—not really. No one bickered, or plotted with predictable transparency. No one defied orders with that suicidal mix of arrogance and buried desperation.

Starscream had made noise. He had filled the air with contradiction, chaos, and—somehow—life.

And now?

Now there was silence.
And chains.
And MECH’s knives.

Soundwave set the last packet of footage aside for encryption.

He did not need Megatron’s orders.

He had already begun triangulating based on seismic disturbances in desert regions that matched nitrogen gas dispersion and energy grid surges. He had traced the faintest EM echoes embedded in the phone’s passive audio.

The location would be found.

Because for all his silence, Soundwave had always listened.

And he knew:

This mission would not just be a rescue.
Not just a strike.

It was penance.

And whether Megatron ever admitted it out loud or not—

He had something to say to Starscream.

At long last.

If he lived long enough to hear it.

The command chamber of the Nemesis was shrouded in low light—intentionally so.

Only the flicker of holo-screens illuminated the massive form seated upon the throne of black steel at the head of the room. A throne not built for comfort, but control. Command. Power.

And yet, even the dark steel beneath Megatron’s claws groaned beneath the force with which he gripped it.

Crack.

It was not the sound of an explosion.
Not the sound of a blade.
But the sound of restraint buckling.

It began as Soundwave silently parsed through the rest of the decrypted footage Ratchet had transmitted—screen by screen, frame by frame, analyzing every flicker of light, every whisper of machinery caught by Miko’s brave, trembling hands.

Megatron sat unmoving, optics fixed on the largest central screen—his body statuesque in silhouette.

Too still.

So still, Soundwave knew: that fury was building behind his silence like pressure behind a dam.

A flicker of static revealed the next recording segment.

The image was slightly angled—Miko must have been hiding behind some railing. The picture shook slightly from her breath as the camera zoomed through a frost-lined energy barrier and into a cell.

And there he was.

Starscream.

Motionless. Shackled. Wings bent beneath the weight of thick chains and bolts driven into the floor.

He was laid out like machinery in a junkyard—scraps exposed, limbs half-buried beneath restraints that rattled faintly with each vibration of the room. Entire sections of his plating were torn away, revealing pulsing energon lines, flickering circuitry, trembling servos still trying—faintly—to repair themselves.

His abdomen was the worst.

The wound was massive—an intentional breach, not from battle, but from deliberate cutting. A field surgery performed again and again, until there was no smooth armor left, only a cavity.

The camera zoomed further.

Soundwave’s visor dimmed for a brief moment. He did not speak.

Because now—a new figure entered the frame.

A human—dressed in MECH’s pristine black uniform and sterile gloves, his head covered in a hood and mask, his gloved hands glistening with oil and residue.

He was inside the wound.

The camera shook—Miko likely suppressing a gag or a cry.

The scientist emerged from the cavity holding two clear cylinders, sealed tightly.

Within each—glowing, swirling lilac energon.

Starscream’s blood.

Not energon drained by tubes.

Not fuel from a wound.

But harvested from within.

The cylinders gleamed faintly against the cold lab light, the color unmistakable—faint violet with a flickering shimmer, rarer and more potent than standard blue.

Starscream’s spark type was rare. His energon flowed with a unique signature. MECH wasn’t just extracting energy. They were studying, harvesting, weaponizing him.

And that was when it happened.

Crack.

The sound echoed through the chamber like the shattering of a mountain's edge.

Soundwave’s visor flicked to the side without turning his helm.

There—on the armrest of the throne—

Megatron’s claws had sunk through the alloy.

His hand twitched. Then tightened.

Steel groaned and snapped. The arm of the throne gave way beneath him, crushed to fragmented metal with a screeching crunch as his fingers curled through it like war claws piercing a starship’s hull.

Fragments hit the floor, still sparking from the force of impact.

But Megatron said nothing.

Not a sound.

His optics flared brighter, burning like twin furnaces—unblinking.

He didn’t snarl. He didn’t scream.

But his silence was not stillness.

It was containment.

The only movement was the tremor of his shoulders—subtle, slow—barely perceptible to anyone except Soundwave.

But Soundwave saw everything.

He knew this fury.

He had feared it before.

But not like this.

Because this was not the fury of insult or betrayal.

This was not warlust.

This was the rage of violation.

The rage of witnessing something precious desecrated. Something once his, once trusted, once under his command—torn apart by beings who did not understand the worth of what they held.

Megatron sat in the wreckage of the armrest, claws still clenched, as the video looped again.

Starscream’s wound.
The lilac energon.
The hands that took what wasn’t theirs.

Soundwave turned his helm slightly, visor gleaming.

“Analysis: three potential desert regions match seismic and nitrogen trace signatures. Two within North America, one further south. Search narrowed to ninety kilometers in radius.”

Megatron didn’t respond.

But the tremor of his other hand, still gripping the remaining side of the throne, grew stronger.

Soundwave continued.

“Satellite blackout zones cross-referenced with energon signal interference. Probability of MECH base location—seventy-two percent confirmed.”

Megatron rose.

It wasn’t fast.

But it was final.

The way a blade is drawn.
The way a sentence ends.

He took two steps forward toward the holo-map now opening in mid-air.

He stared.

Then finally spoke.

“…I gave him everything,” Megatron growled, voice low—barely audible, barely a whisper—like the beginning of an earthquake.

“…and I destroyed everything he gave back.”

Another long silence.

Then:

“Ready the warship.”

Soundwave simply nodded.

“Affirmative.”

But Megatron added one last thing—spoken to no one, or perhaps to the memory of a voice that always came with a sneer, or a broken laugh, or an indignant cry of “I should be leader!”

He whispered—

“Not this time, Starscream.”

In the lower deck chambers of the Nemesis, silence and soft thrumming systems filled the atmosphere. But deep within Soundwave’s private processing console—buried between encrypted frequencies and hardwired tactical overlays—a storm of data moved like a swarm of gnats.

Soundwave stood motionless before the largest tactical interface, visor dimming and brightening as line after line of simulation spun across it. Projected three-dimensional maps showed topographic layouts of three possible desert regions; below them, heat signatures, nitrogen saturation curves, magnetic distortion ranges, and probability rings rippled outward like battlefield echoes.

Statistical overlays hovered midair, rearranging and recalculating in real time as Soundwave ran rescue simulations based on available personnel, equipment, and enemy fortification assumptions.

Seventeen simulations failed outright.

In twelve, MECH evacuated or terminated the subject before extraction could be completed.

In four, their side sustained unacceptable casualties.

In two, Starscream’s systems destabilized before medical recovery was viable.

Only three simulations showed a reasonable chance of success—and none of them succeeded without a specific additional variable.

Soundwave tilted his helm and transmitted a low-pitched sound—an encrypted data ping—straight into the private command feed routed into the upper bridge.

Moments later, Megatron’s heavy footsteps echoed down the ramp as he entered.

His red optics were still burning with tightly reined fury, but his voice was steady, if sharp.

“Report.”

Soundwave turned toward the projection and expanded the maps into a large tri-sector grid.

“Three likely locations. Tactical viability: forty percent or lower in current configuration.”

Megatron scowled. “Then we alter the configuration. We bring down the full might of the Nemesis.”

Soundwave remained still, but the data on the screen shifted.

“Enemy fortified. Stealth compromised. Response rate: thirty-five seconds to kill the subject if MECH detects infiltration.”

Megatron’s voice dropped. “They kill him, and I burn the continent.”

Soundwave, as ever, was unshaken. His voice—soft, modulated, but direct—cut through the room like a surgical tool.

“Solution: Autobot temporary fire treaty.”

There was a full two seconds of stillness.

Then—

“Absolutely not.”

Megatron’s voice cracked like a thunderbolt.

“I don’t need Optimus Prime, and I certainly don’t need the Prime’s ‘special help’.”

He said it like the words themselves made his tanks churn.

“I’ve led wars longer than any of them have functioned. I do not need his permission to rescue one of mine.”

He stalked forward, the glow of the screen casting harsh light across his features. Fury and pride flickered across his face in equal measure.

But Soundwave, unflinching, did what few bots could.

He interrupted Megatron.

“Ratchet required.”

Megatron stopped in place.

A single pause.

A muscle along his jaw ticked.

“…What?” he growled low.

Soundwave clarified.

“Starscream’s condition: unstable. Severe tissue loss. Deep energon depletion. Risk of secondary system collapse. Stasis lock no longer viable.”

“Knock Out: insufficient skill. Prior failures on damaged Seeker physiology logged. Ratchet: superior experience. Historical expertise with fragile spark recovery and multiple reconstructive procedures.”

Megatron was silent for three full seconds.

Then—

“Tch.”

He turned his back, muttering in low Cybertronian.

“Of course it’s him. Of all the wretched medics across both hemispheres, it has to be that one.”

Megatron’s clawed fingers flexed as he grumbled louder, his voice a mix of bitter amusement and reluctant agreement.

“…I hate when you’re right.”

His optics narrowed at the screen, voice edged with a dry, venomous twist.

“And I hate it more when you stand up for Starscream.”

He turned and jabbed a claw toward Soundwave, optics sharp. “You always did. Every time he screwed up. Every time he glitched a mission. You’d stand behind him like some silent specter.”

Soundwave tilted his helm slightly.

There was no emotion on the visor, no change in tone.

But the reply came with deliberate weight:

“Correction: I stand for truth.”

A moment passed.

Then, after a small pause, Soundwave added:

“And I miss him. Especially when we were fighting.”

Megatron’s mouth twitched.

Not in a smile.

More like an involuntary spasm of annoyance—and something deeper.

Regret.

The old ache in his spark, buried beneath centuries of command, survival, and fury.

“…I hate you,” Megatron muttered, optics glowing as he stared at the map.

Soundwave, deadpan, replied:

“Take a number.”

Megatron’s snort of breath was low. Unamused. Almost amused.

Soundwave looked away and began transmitting the necessary data protocols to his secondary console—outreach frequencies, treaty outlines, encrypted tactical shared maps with non-lethal coordination zones.

Megatron stood with his arms folded, voice gravel-thick and tight in his chest.

“…This is going to be a slagging disaster.”

Soundwave answered with precision.

“It will work.”

Another silence.

Then, in a voice that was no longer hard, no longer proud—just tired:

“…We’re not a real army, Soundwave.”

He looked up at the flickering image of Starscream’s wounded form, still displayed in faint outline in the corner.

“…We’re a mess of orphans, criminals, and broken things. That’s what he was. That’s what we all are.”

Soundwave didn’t look back.

But his voice, for once, was soft. Less filtered.

“Family.”

Megatron said nothing.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t agree.

But he didn’t walk away either.

And he didn’t deny it.

The air aboard the Nemesis grew heavier with every second that passed as Megatron stood before the comm screen, arms folded, optics burning with purpose.

He didn’t want to do this.

Everything in his core—every rusted edge, every piece of pride sharpened on the battlefield—rejected the very concept. But the image of Starscream’s chained, hollowed body lingered in the back of his mind like a smoldering wound.

And Soundwave, ever silent beside him, had already calibrated the comm frequency.

“Open the channel.”

Megatron’s voice was low. Controlled.

The Autobots’ command frequency pulsed to life. Static flickered. And then—

The image of Optimus Prime came into view.

Straight-backed, impassive, optics cool as the open sky.

But there was a pause before either leader spoke.

They had stared each other down across battlefields for centuries. But this was different.

This time… the war was not between them.

“Optimus Prime,” Megatron said at last, his voice taut. “We request a ceasefire.”

Even Soundwave’s internal processors registered the anomaly of the phrase. Request. Ceasefire. Spoken not as a trick or mockery… but with a weighted seriousness rarely heard between them.

Optimus tilted his helm slightly, scanning Megatron’s expression. Then—without so much as a blink—he answered:

“Granted.”

Soundwave, processing in the background, paused in surprise. Even he hadn’t expected it to be that fast.

Megatron, for his part, barely concealed the scowl twitching at the corner of his mouthplates.

“You are accepting a truce,” Megatron said, narrowing his optics, “before even hearing the terms?”

“I’ve seen the footage, Megatron,” Optimus replied calmly. “That was enough.”

A beat of silence. Something shifted behind Megatron’s optics. Not softness. But something with more weight than aggression.

“I see,” he said slowly, voice lower. “Then you understand the stakes.”

Optimus’s optics dimmed slightly. “I understand that what MECH is doing to Starscream is not war. It is cruelty. And I will not permit it. Not to a Decepticon. Not to any Cybertronian.”

Behind him, Ratchet stepped into frame, datapad in hand, expression lined with grim concern.

“I’ve already begun preparations,” Ratchet said quickly. “Knock Out’s presence may be useful, but we’ll need redundant systems and integrated spark support, depending on how degraded Starscream’s neural core is. I’m adjusting our med bay protocols now.”

Megatron's optics narrowed again.

“You’re already planning to treat him,” he growled, “before even knowing if I’d ask for your help?”

Ratchet huffed. “I don’t need your permission to keep a spark from going out.”

Megatron’s mouth opened to retort—before a low grumble broke out from his chest instead. Not quite a growl. Not quite a sigh.

Soundwave observed closely as something flickered over Megatron’s face.

Discomfort. Frustration. Grudging respect.

And then—

In full voice, in perfectly annunciated Old Cybertronian, Megatron muttered something sharp and very unflattering:

“Mihktarr’iis vel traitrik galat akh mechari eir’par.”

Soundwave’s visor brightened—recording the translation.

Optimus blinked. “You hate it… when I’m right.”

Megatron snarled. “I said nothing of the sort.”

Ratchet muttered, “You kind of did.”

Megatron turned his optics toward Soundwave with exaggerated slowness. “You didn’t have to transmit that.”

Soundwave’s reply was dry, crisp:

“Wasn’t encrypted.”

That earned an audible click of Megatron’s jaw.

“Fine,” Megatron bit out. “Then let’s make this temporary cooperation count. I’ll forward Soundwave’s coordinates when we confirm the precise location. If your medic wants to assist, tell him to be ready.”

“We’ll stand by,” Optimus said with a firm nod. “Starscream’s survival depends on swift and unified action. He has a right to live. And a right to recover.”

Megatron muttered again, this time in standard.

“…He has a right to scream at me about this for the next thousand years, too.”

Soundwave, still silent, allowed his visor to dim slightly.

He hoped Starscream would.

The feed cut off. The channel closed.

The bridge was quiet again.

Megatron stood with his fists clenched at his sides.

Then, with a growl that was equal parts frustration and something else, he turned and stalked toward the exit ramp of the command deck.

“I still hate him,” Megatron muttered under his breath.

Soundwave, without moving, replied as he turned back to the console:

“So do I. That’s why we trust him.”

The moment Megatron’s comm signal had gone out across the ship—broadcast through encrypted channels meant only for Decepticon command ranks—his message had been short and cold:

“Effective immediately: a ceasefire is in place with the Autobots.
It will be honored until further notice.
Starscream is alive.
He is a prisoner of MECH.
Prepare for mobilization.”

Then he cut the channel.

He didn’t want to answer questions.

But questions were already coming. Fast.

He hadn’t even returned to the throne at the center of the bridge when—

CLANG. CLANG. THUD—SKKKRRT.

A cacophony echoed down the corridor—a thunder of fast-approaching peds slamming on metal grates, followed by the unmistakable sound of a bot slipping at full speed and crashing against a corner.

“Ow—BREAKDOWN! I told you to slow down, you lunatic!” came a voice with all the flair of drama and the snap of annoyance.

The door slammed open with the full force of urgency—and Knock Out burst through like a red missile, followed immediately by Breakdown, panting and slightly scuffed where he’d collided with the bend in the hall.

Knock Out’s optics were wide, his plating visibly shaking. “Is it true?! Megatron! Tell me this isn’t some cruel field test broadcast!”

Megatron turned slowly, gaze leveling on them. “It’s true.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Knock Out exhaled, mouth agape in pure disbelief.

Breakdown froze behind him, optics flicking up.

“Starscream is alive?” he asked, quieter. Almost in awe.

Megatron gave a single, grave nod.

That was when more footsteps thundered behind them.

Dreadwing entered next—face as stern as ever, though a rare flicker of emotion twitched beneath his usual soldier’s restraint.

“Where is he?” he demanded, voice firm. “How long has he been in MECH’s hands?”

“We do not yet have the precise coordinates,” Soundwave answered coolly, turning from the central screen. “Estimates place him in one of three desert blackout zones. Extraction planning is in progress.”

Moments later, Airachnid stalked in, graceful but tense, her optics narrowed with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

She leaned her claws on a console. “So, the ghost returns.” Her tone was flippant, but even she didn’t mock. Not this time. “And here I thought I’d never hear that screech again.”

“He’s being dissected by MECH, not reborn in a stasis pod,” Knock Out snapped back, voice tight.

Airachnid's optics flicked to him, then away. Her silence was answer enough.

Then, finally—Shockwave.

He entered without sound. Without speed. His movements deliberate, his gaze unreadable.

No comment. No greeting.

He approached, examined the data hovering in the center of the room, and simply said:

“Statistical probability of extended survival in MECH captivity beyond two Earth cycles: 3.6%.”

Megatron didn’t flinch.

Knock Out bristled. “Yeah, and that’s assuming they didn’t keep him alive for the express purpose of harvesting and studying him. You think they wouldn’t want to cut up a flier, a Seeker, a second-in-command Decepticon, and squeeze every last drop of data out of him?!”

Airachnid muttered under her breath, “They probably enjoyed every minute of it.”

Dreadwing’s servos clenched. “Then what are we waiting for? We should strike now.”

Megatron raised a clawed hand. The room went quiet instantly.

“I will not send you into battle blind,” he growled. “Soundwave is isolating the base’s exact location. When we move, we move as one. And we do not fight the Autobots.”

A pause.

Knock Out blinked. “Excuse me?”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “There is a ceasefire. Temporary. They will assist in Starscream’s recovery.”

Breakdown coughed awkwardly. “…The Autobots? Helping Starscream?”

Airachnid raised an optic ridge, deadpan. “Well, that’s ironic.”

Dreadwing said nothing.

Shockwave, ever logical, simply added, “The inclusion of Ratchet increases the success probability by 17%. Autobot participation is strategically sound.”

Knock Out rubbed his faceplates with an exaggerated groan. “Fine, fine. I just—Primus. I can’t believe he’s alive. I saw that old war footage of him drifting through space—I thought he was dead! And now… MECH has him?! We have to prep medkits, surgical tools, everything we have—he’s going to be a mess.”

“No,” Megatron said, voice low. “He already is.”

The room quieted again.

They all looked at Megatron now.

Even Airachnid, for once, did not mock.

Even Dreadwing—who had been sent to hunt Starscream once, after the Seeker’s supposed betrayal—was now quietly watching, expression unreadable.

Because no matter how much Starscream had infuriated them…
No matter how much he lied, screamed, postured, and plotted…

He was theirs.

He was Decepticon.

And he was still alive.

Knock Out stepped forward. “What do you need me to do, Lord Megatron?”

Megatron looked at him—and saw something unspoken in the medic’s optics.

Loyalty. Fear. Hope.

“Prepare for triage,” Megatron ordered. “Coordinate with Ratchet. I want every known stabilizer for Seeker spark destabilization. We move the moment we have the coordinates.”

Knock Out nodded, already opening his internal comm.

Breakdown placed a hand on his shoulder.

Airachnid turned and walked off without a word—but didn’t leave the ship.

Dreadwing stood in silence, optics flicking to the screen, as if memorizing the image of Starscream’s battered body.

Shockwave moved to Soundwave’s terminal and began running his own calculations without being asked.

Soundwave watched it all, silently recording.

The Decepticons were not harmonious.

They were fractured, bitter, bruised and ruthless.

But right now, they moved with one spark.

A strange, grim, and battered family—pulling together for one of their own.

Even if that one never knew how much he mattered.

The green shimmer of the ground bridge flared to life on the port-side hangar of the Nemesis, casting long glowing patterns over the dark metallic walls. The hum of the portal echoed through the corridors, accompanied by cautious footsteps and the distant creak of heavy armor.

Two hours had passed since the ceasefire had been declared.

And now—for the first time since the war began—Autobots walked openly onto Decepticon territory.

Tension hung in the air like an exposed wire.

The Autobots were cautious, their optics scanning every corner. The Decepticons were still and silent, watching the new arrivals with unreadable expressions. No weapons were raised—but no one was smiling, either.

Optimus Prime emerged first, helm held high and expression composed. Behind him came Ratchet, already in a hurry, datapad in hand and optics scanning for anything that might delay his task.

The children—Jack, Miko, and Raf—followed, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and awe. Jack’s face was tense and serious. Raf was focused, quietly absorbing everything. And Miko—

“Wicked…” she whispered, spinning in a slow circle as she took in the towering black corridors, glowing crimson lights, and jagged Decepticon aesthetic. “This place is like a giant shark made of metal.”

“Please don’t touch anything,” Jack muttered.

A quiet scoff came from Bulkhead’s side. “She’s gonna touch everything.”

As predicted, Miko was already craning her neck and wandering away.

Ratchet, meanwhile, barely acknowledged the tension. He waved an arm toward the pile of crates being carried by Autobots behind him.

“Bulkhead, Wheeljack, Ultra Magnus—over there! No, not there—there! I need the surgical sterilizers and spark support systems set up in a sterile zone. Knock Out—!”

Before he even finished the sentence, the red Decepticon medic arrived, stepping from a side corridor with an elegant roll of his shoulders and the air of someone who hated being rushed but couldn’t resist a good medical drama.

“Well, if it isn’t the grumpy miracle worker himself,” Knock Out said with a smirk. “You’re late.”

“I’m two hours early,” Ratchet snapped. “You’re just slow.”

Knock Out looked scandalized. “I’ll have you know I started sanitizing my entire medbay the moment Soundwave showed me those vids. I even cleared off my personal polishing rack. This is an emergency, after all.”

They didn’t shake hands. But they didn’t scowl, either. Which, in their case, was practically a warm hug.

Ratchet strode into the Decepticon medbay with authority, scanning the layout.

“This room is big enough. We'll need to reinforce the medframe and isolate the field generators. Do you have full spark-readout monitors?”

Knock Out nodded. “Three. And if you touch my chrome tools, I will know.”

“Good,” Ratchet said, already opening one of the boxes and pulling out sterilizer beams. “Because I’ll be using all of them.”

Meanwhile, farther down the hangar, William Fowler was pacing back and forth with his phone pressed so tightly to his ear, it might as well have been welded there.

“No, I said desert base, not research lab, damn it! I need remote access, multiple hangars, at least three underground levels, full isolation. Yes, both factions. Yes, together.”

He shot a look at Optimus, who stood silently nearby, arms folded.

“…No, I’m not joking. Yes, Decepticons. Yes, with kids on-site. Look, I don’t care what your analysts say—get it done. I’ll call you back in ten.”

He hung up with a sigh, muttering under his breath. “This is going to cost me every favor I’ve got…”

But despite his groaning, he’d already made moves behind the scenes.

A small, classified military base in Nevada—decommissioned but structurally sound—was being readied under the radar. A place with high clearance, isolated surveillance, and wide enough to house Autobots, Decepticons, and enough equipment to make a floating hospital jealous.

Not that he was telling the kids that.

He already had other things in the works for them, anyway.

—Miko, who kept pestering him about piloting jets, was getting closer to an informal spot in a military-sponsored aviation program the moment she hit 18. He’d already slipped her name to a contact who owed him a favor.

—Jack had a quiet invite on hold for a technical mechanics course that focused on hybrid propulsion and Cybertronian-adapted machinery. High security. High prestige.

—And Raf? NASA had a watchlist for young tech minds. And Fowler had made damn sure Raf’s name was on it.

But none of them knew that.

He wasn’t about to let his gruff, rule-obsessed image collapse.

“Let them think I’m just a hardass,” he muttered. “Works better that way.”

Across the hangar, however, Miko had wandered—again.

And this time, she stopped short when a massive black and gold frame passed in front of her, quiet and slow like a walking war monument.

Her eyes widened in awe.

Dreadwing.

He hadn’t even looked at her yet, but Miko’s gaze locked on his wings first—broad, angular, intimidating and beautiful. Like twin swords permanently strapped to his back.

She approached without hesitation.

“You’re HUGE,” she said, grinning. “And those wings—do they move when you’re in alt mode? Like flex? How many stabilizers do you use? Are those mods or standard Seeker—?”

Dreadwing finally turned his head to look down at her.

His face was stone.

Silent.

But she didn’t flinch.

“I wanna be a pilot,” Miko said proudly, puffing her chest. “Well, if the world survives, that is. Mr. Fowler says no, but I will fly something with wings one day. Big wings. Like yours.”

Dreadwing didn’t answer.

But there was a faint narrowing of his optics, and then… a small, solemn nod.

Not approval.

Not encouragement.

But respect.

Miko’s grin widened.

William, watching from across the room, sighed deeply and rubbed his temples. “Great. She’s befriending the Decepticon artillery now…”

Optimus, standing beside him, only said quietly: “She chooses well.”

In the background, Soundwave silently walked past them, holding two datapads, one on the location triangulations and another for system network synchronization between Autobot and Decepticon feeds.

The preparations had begun.

And for the first time in a long, long while—Autobots and Decepticons stood under the same roof.

Not as enemies.

But as reluctant allies bound by a single purpose:

Rescue Starscream.

The tense hum of the Nemesis’s command deck was underscored by the steady rhythm of shifting gears and clanking servos. Across the ship, warriors on both sides of the war moved with grim purpose, their disparate factions now aligned by a singular mission: Rescue Starscream.

The operation had been meticulously planned in the hours since the MECH convoy’s location was pinpointed. The combined forces of Autobots and Decepticons would strike fast, precise, and decisive—extract the captive Seeker and vanish before MECH could muster an effective counterattack.

Shockwave was to remain behind, overseeing the ground bridge’s stability and maintaining the secure communication link between the front-line teams and the Nemesis. His cold, analytical mind found comfort in the orderly sequences of data and the pulsating blue energy of the bridge portal.

The human companions—Miko, Jack, and Raf—would remain safely behind with Shockwave, away from the chaos and carnage.

Ratchet and Knock Out, the medics of opposing factions, had chosen pragmatism over combat. Together, they gathered a small cache of essential medical equipment—portable spark diagnostic units, stabilizers, energon injectors, and makeshift med-frame supports—enough to begin emergency care as soon as Starscream was extracted.

They understood the fragile state their patient would be in. Fighting wasn’t their domain, but healing was paramount.

At the spearhead of the strike team, the titans of Cybertronian warfare stood ready:

Megatron, towering and relentless, his red optics gleaming with cold resolve.

Optimus Prime, a shining symbol of nobility and strength, tempered by compassion but ironclad in duty.

Ultra Magnus, the seasoned commander whose discipline and unshakable focus would keep the assault razor-sharp.

Flanking the main assault force, Bulkhead and Wheeljack moved swiftly and silently, prepared to flank and disrupt MECH reinforcements or sabotage key infrastructure.

Behind the front lines, the stealth and speed specialists—Airachnid, Arcee, and Cliffjumper—readied themselves for rapid response, infiltration, and extraction.

Covering the rear was Smokescreen and Bumblebee, theis optics flashing with calculated alertness, tasked with reconnaissance and preventing the team from falling into ambushes or traps.

The plan was simple but perilous:

Strike hard and fast.

Reach Starscream before MECH could relocate or retaliate.

Stabilize and evacuate immediately.

Return to the Nemesis without leaving anyone behind.

The tense hum of the Nemesis’s command deck was underscored by the steady rhythm of shifting gears and clanking servos. Across the ship, warriors on both sides of the war moved with grim purpose, their disparate factions now aligned by a singular mission: Rescue Starscream.

The operation had been meticulously planned in the hours since the MECH convoy’s location was pinpointed. The combined forces of Autobots and Decepticons would strike fast, precise, and decisive—extract the captive Seeker and vanish before MECH could muster an effective counterattack.

Shockwave was to remain behind, overseeing the ground bridge’s stability and maintaining the secure communication link between the front-line teams and the Nemesis. His cold, analytical mind found comfort in the orderly sequences of data and the pulsating blue energy of the bridge portal.

The human companions—Miko, Jack, and Raf—would remain safely behind with Shockwave, away from the chaos and carnage.

Ratchet and Knock Out, the medics of opposing factions, had chosen pragmatism over combat. Together, they gathered a small cache of essential medical equipment—portable spark diagnostic units, stabilizers, energon injectors, and makeshift med-frame supports—enough to begin emergency care as soon as Starscream was extracted.

They understood the fragile state their patient would be in. Fighting wasn’t their domain, but healing was paramount.

At the spearhead of the strike team, the titans of Cybertronian warfare stood ready:

Megatron, towering and relentless, his red optics gleaming with cold resolve.

Optimus Prime, a shining symbol of nobility and strength, tempered by compassion but ironclad in duty.

Ultra Magnus, the seasoned commander whose discipline and unshakable focus would keep the assault razor-sharp.

Flanking the main assault force, Bulkhead and Wheeljack moved swiftly and silently, prepared to flank and disrupt MECH reinforcements or sabotage key infrastructure.

Behind the front lines, the stealth and speed specialists—Airachnid, Arcee, and Cliffjumper—readied themselves for rapid response, infiltration, and extraction.

Covering the rear was Smokescreen, his optics flashing with calculated alertness, tasked with reconnaissance and preventing the team from falling into ambushes or traps.

The plan was simple but perilous:

Strike hard and fast.

Reach Starscream before MECH could relocate or retaliate.

Stabilize and evacuate immediately.

Return to the Nemesis without leaving anyone behind.

As the combined force prepared to depart, the air around the Nemesis thrummed with anticipation.

The ground bridge shimmered, and one by one, the strike team stepped into its glowing embrace.

The Nemesis fell away beneath their feet.

Seconds later, the cold, dry air of the desert surrounded them. The terrain was harsh—jagged rocks, red dust swirling in the wind, and distant mountain silhouettes guarding the hidden MECH facility.

The team moved with synchronized precision.

The heavy metal doors of the MECH base ground open with an ominous hiss as the combined forces of Autobots and Decepticons advanced cautiously into the heart of the cavernous facility. The air was stale, tainted with the faint metallic scent of long-abandoned machinery and the sharp, acrid sting of burnt energon.

As they swept through the labyrinthine corridors and into the vast containment chamber where Starscream had been held, the silence was deafening.

The massive chains that once shackled the Seeker were shattered, twisted fragments of thick, reinforced metal scattered across the floor like the remnants of a failed trap. It was as if whatever had been held here had broken free with ferocious strength, leaving only devastation in its wake.

The chamber itself was eerily vacant.

No signs of Starscream.

No flicker of spark energy.

Only the remains of equipment, discarded weaponry, and half-finished war machines littered the floor—testaments to MECH’s brutal experiments and their obsession with Cybertronian technology.

Optimus Prime’s optics scanned the empty space, a cold knot tightening in his spark.

“This is not the final destination,” Ultra Magnus said gravely, stepping forward as the realization hit him.

“The train we saw earlier—the convoy—it wasn’t carrying parts removed from Starscream,” Ultra Magnus continued, voice low and steady. “They were transporting Starscream himself to another facility. Another base.”

Megatron’s jaw clenched, red optics blazing with fury. His voice trembled with barely restrained rage.

“No! They cannot have taken him again!” he growled, muscles tensing like steel cables ready to snap.

But before Megatron could unleash his wrath, the largest holo-screen flickered to life with a sharp crackle.

Silas’s smug face filled the entire display—his expression dripping with cruel satisfaction.

“Did you really think I’d be so foolish as to keep my prize so close?” Silas sneered, voice dripping with scorn. “After releasing your little human pets, you expected to find him waiting here?”

He paused, eyes gleaming with malice.

“But no. You’ve proven far more entertaining than I imagined.”

Silas’s gaze flicked to the side as if observing something behind the camera.

“Look at you all—Decepticons and Autobots working together. A fascinating experiment. A rare thing in this war.”

He smirked, clasping his hands together.

“How wonderful for me. Because now, I get to test my newest toys against both of you.”

With a casual wave of his hand, Silas turned off the transmission.

The room’s dim lighting abruptly shifted as massive panels slid back along the walls with grinding hydraulics.

From the hidden recesses emerged towering robotic forms, silhouettes massive enough to block out the sparse overhead illumination.

They bore the unmistakable form of Transformers—some with angular, aerodynamic wings like those of Optimus Prime, others with broad, hulking frames like ground assault vehicles. Yet their shapes were twisted, unnatural—a grotesque mimicry of Cybertronian anatomy fused with alien machinery.

The robots were silent at first, but as the panels fully retracted, their internal systems hummed to life.

Eyes glowing with cold red and blue light, they stepped forward, weapons deploying from hidden compartments: arm-mounted plasma cannons, spinning blade arms, shoulder launchers.

The newly created MECH Titans—warriors forged not from allegiance but from unrelenting science and cruelty—advanced with ruthless precision.

Silas’s voice echoed once more over the base’s PA system, calm and triumphant.

“You thought you could save your Seeker so easily. I was a fool to underestimate you all, but not again. I’ve prepared for this day.”

The monstrous robots surged forward, the base trembling under their weight.

The strike team snapped into battle formation.

Megatron’s roar tore through the cavern as he charged, fists igniting with raw energon power.

Optimus Prime raised his Ion Blaster, shouting orders:

“Hold the line! Protect the medics! We fight as one!”

Ultra Magnus flanked Megatron, his mighty warhammer smashing into the closest giant with bone-crushing force.

Bulkhead and Wheeljack roared from the sides, blasting at the Titans’ joints and servos, aiming to cripple their mobility.

Airachnid, Arcee, and Cliffjumper darted through shadows, picking off vulnerable points with precision strikes.

Smokescreen danced behind enemy lines, avoiding detection and intercepting reinforcements.

The cavern exploded into chaos.

The clash of titanic metal limbs shook the walls. Sparks flew as plasma rounds collided with dense armor plating. The sharp clang of blades met the thud of heavy punches echoed through the complex.

But the MECH Titans were relentless. Each strike was met with brutal counterattacks.

Despite the strike team’s skill and teamwork, the new robotic monsters fought with unnatural coordination, as if guided by a single cold mind—the mind of MECH’s twisted creators.

The cavern trembled under the thunderous footsteps of the battle-hardened giants. Amid the chaos, Megatron and Optimus Prime stood as twin pillars of unyielding strength and fury, their every move a symphony of destruction and precision.

They were the most capable warriors present—borne from centuries of war and hardened by countless battles, they danced a deadly duet amid the sea of soulless MECH Titans.

Each giant machine they faced was formidable, but hollow. A mere imitation of life—soulless shells designed to mimic, but never truly rival the might of the original Cybertronians.

Megatron’s voice cut through the din, low and bitter, directed more at the notion than at Optimus.

“These are but pale shadows of true power,” he growled, striking down a towering automaton with a blast of raw energon. “They do not come close to the real Prime... or the real Decepticon warriors.”

Optimus’s optics briefly flickered, unsure if the remark was meant as a compliment or a deeper insult.

Before he could question Megatron’s intention, the room’s largest holo-screen flared back to life with a harsh static crackle.

There, bathed in cold light, was Silas’s smug face once again.

He clapped slowly, mockingly.

“Well done,” Silas said with theatrical sarcasm. “Clearly, your first door was riddled with defects. Easily destroyed.”

His lips twisted in a cruel smile, but his speech was cut short by the sudden whoosh of two MECH soldiers darting past him, flying swiftly through the chamber.

Silas exhaled a long, frustrated sigh.

“Ah, our little friend is awake,” he muttered, voice tinged with annoyance and grudging respect. “And he’s already causing headaches.”

The camera swivelled sharply, focusing on a grim, dimly lit chamber deep within the base.

There, Starscream leaned against a wall, eyes glowing faintly, but burning with fierce, unyielding defiance.

Around him, MECH soldiers stood guard—armed with heavy weaponry and preparing large, cumbersome chains and restraints.

Despite his obvious wounds and exhaustion, Starscream’s optics blazed with fury as he fired at the encroaching soldiers, his shots precise and unrelenting.

Silas’s tone grew sneaky, almost fond.

“The Seeker has always been... difficult when awake,” Silas murmured. “Wakes up in a terrible mood. But that’s actually good for us—every time he stirs, his wounds begin to heal faster.”

He lifted a clear vial filled with a shimmering lilac liquid—the very same energon serum they’d extracted from Starscream’s own spark signature.

“I have to say,” Silas smiled darkly, tapping the glass with a finger, “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The power to heal from wounds that should be fatal. What do you know about that?”

On the other end of the call, Megatron’s optics narrowed sharply, a flicker of something almost like pain—or fury—passing across his face.

Beside him, Knockout’s gaze tightened, betraying a rare moment of concern.

Soundwave, true to form, gave no sign—his face unreadable, expressionless as ever.

Silas’s smile deepened.

“Ah, so you do know something,” he said quietly. “Well, in time, I’ll learn why. And when I do, the real fun begins.”

Before anyone could respond, a shrill, mechanical alarm screamed throughout the base.

At the Autobot and Decepticon command center, the air was instantly thick with tension.

The comm systems blared a chilling voice repeating over and over:

“Warning. Self-destruct protocol activated. Estimated time to detonation: 15 seconds.”

Silas’s voice came one last time, cold and mocking through the speakers.

“Goodbye,” he said with cruel finality, then severed the transmission.

The strike team froze for barely a heartbeat before chaos erupted anew.

Optimus barked orders:

“Fall back! Evacuate—now!”

Megatron snarled, fists clenched, but followed without hesitation.

The cavern’s corridors roared with explosions as the self-destruct sequence ramped up—sparks flew, metal groaned, and walls began to collapse.

Ratchet and Knockout scrambled to pack up their medical gear, every second a race against annihilation.

Miko, Raf, and Jack rushed toward the ground bridge alongside Shockwave, whose cold calculations orchestrated their escape route.

Seconds stretched into eternity as the entire team—wounded, weary, but alive—was swallowed by the shimmering portal just as the MECH base detonated behind them in a blinding fireball.

The explosion rocked the desert air miles away.

All that remained was dust, silence—and the searing question hanging over them:

Where was Starscream?

The Nemesis was cloaked in a tense, suffocating silence. The smell of burnt energon and the lingering vibrations from the MECH base’s explosion still echoed faintly through the corridors, but nothing could soothe the storm raging within the ship’s command deck.

At the center of it all stood Megatron—his massive frame rigid with barely contained fury.

With a sudden, explosive burst of rage, Megatron’s fist slammed into the cold, steel wall of the Nemesis’s inner sanctum.

A deep, reverberating crack echoed through the chamber, and a visible dent, scorched and scorched, marked the spot where his gauntlet had struck.

His hand throbbed from the impact, the sharp imprint of the metal wall branded across his knuckles.

Yet, the physical pain was nothing compared to the fury burning in his optics.

Beside him, Soundwave remained eerily calm, a dark sentinel watching the storm without flinching.

His smooth, modulated voice finally broke the heavy silence.

“The probability of the train containing Starscream is slim… but not zero,” Soundwave stated matter-of-factly, his voice cold and precise.

Despite the clinical nature of the statement, it did little to calm Megatron’s seething anger.

He growled low, voice gravelly with frustration.

“Slim is not enough. Not for Starscream.”

Meanwhile, Ratchet, pacing nearby, was trying to piece together the fragments of information they had gathered.

His optics narrowed in concern as he turned toward Megatron and Soundwave.

“How… how was it possible?” Ratchet asked, his tone laced with disbelief.

“Starscream’s condition… the wounds he carried, the injuries visible on the recordings… How could he have possibly stood and fought the MECH soldiers?”

Ratchet shook his head, incredulous.

“His condition should have incapacitated him completely—he should have been immobile, barely able to keep his systems running.”

Soundwave’s optics briefly flicked toward Megatron, and then to Ratchet, acknowledging the futility of hiding the truth any longer.

“There is no use concealing it,” Soundwave said, his voice quieter now, almost confidential.

“Starscream’s spark… is mutant.”

The word hung heavy in the air like a thunderclap.

Mutant. Unprecedented. Something never before recorded in Cybertronian history.

The room fell utterly silent.

Autobots and Decepticons alike exchanged shocked glances.

Knockout, standing at the edge of the group, whispered under his breath, “Only Megatron, Soundwave, Knockout, and I know the full extent of this.”

His words carried the weight of forbidden knowledge.

Soundwave continued, voice steady and clinical.

“Starscream’s spark is unlike any other—unstable, yet immensely powerful. It carries a unique energy signature that allows rapid regeneration and accelerated recovery from otherwise fatal injuries.”

He glanced at Megatron, whose glare burned like molten metal.

“This is why, despite the severity of his wounds, he was able to awaken and fight.”

Megatron’s face twisted with a complex mixture of emotions—pride, disbelief, and something deeper, almost protectiveness.

“No wonder he never truly died,” Megatron muttered. “No wonder he survived… against all odds.”

Optimus Prime, usually composed and measured, looked equally troubled.

“This… changes everything.”

Ratchet finally found his voice.

“If this is true, Starscream’s recovery will be unpredictable at best. It will require extraordinary care—much more than we initially anticipated.”

The revelation sent ripples through the gathered warriors.

A spark mutant—something beyond the understanding of even their most advanced science.

It explained the seemingly miraculous survival of the once-fallen Seeker, and it illuminated the urgency behind MECH’s relentless experimentation.

Soundwave’s gaze grew darker still.

“If MECH has discovered this, it means they understand the potential—and they will stop at nothing to harness it.”

Megatron’s fists clenched again, the memories of his missing second-in-command fueling his wrath.

“We must find him—before MECH uses him as a weapon, or worse… destroys him.”

The room was filled with a newfound determination.

Both Autobots and Decepticons understood that the mission was no longer simply a rescue.

It was a race against time, science, and ambition.

Starscream was unlike any other—a wild card that could turn the tide of war.

And all of Cybertron’s fate might depend on whether they could bring him home.

Soundwave was about to speak again—his optics shifting ever so slightly, preparing to disclose more of the hidden truths he alone possessed about Starscream’s unique spark.

But then he caught the unforgiving, icy glare of Megatron.

The message was clear and unambiguous: No more.

Soundwave’s voice caught in his vocalizers. He fell silent, the weight of Megatron’s gaze quelling any further revelations.

The chamber fell into an uneasy stillness, broken only by the faint hum of the Nemesis’s core systems.

Megatron’s cold eyes bore into both Soundwave and Knockout, silently warning that too much had already been exposed—and it was his prerogative, and his alone, to decide what more, if anything, should be shared.

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the Nemesis, the Autobots retreated to quarters generously offered to them by Megatron himself—a pragmatic gesture from a leader who valued results above old rivalries.

The quarters were Spartan but comfortable, designed for rest and recovery.

There, Optimus Prime and his team began to recharge their sparks, though the gravity of the situation pressed heavily on them.

Back in the command deck, only three figures remained: Megatron, Soundwave, and Knockout.

The uneasy silence between them was thick with unspoken thoughts.

Knockout broke it first, his tone cautious, almost hesitant.

“Do you think it was wise to reveal that much?” he asked softly.

“About the spark? About Starscream’s abilities?” His optics flicked between the other two.

“Would it not have been safer to keep such knowledge under wraps?”

Megatron, towering and inscrutable, was still staring at the dent in the wall where his rage had been spent.

He finally spoke, voice low and measured.

“We have already revealed too much—simply by admitting Starscream’s spark is mutant.”

He turned sharply to Soundwave and Knockout.

“No further words. Not to anyone.”

Megatron’s gaze hardened as he emphasized his point.

“Especially not to Ultra Magnus.”

Soundwave’s optical sensors registered the significance of that name.

Megatron elaborated, voice laced with grim certainty.

“If Ultra Magnus learns the truth about Starscream’s spark, he will surely persuade Optimus to take the Seeker with them.”

A brief pause, heavy with meaning.

“And then, Starscream disappears with his Autobots, leaving the Decepticons with nothing but empty promises.”

Knockout nodded, understanding the precarious balance of power at stake.

He added thoughtfully, “And Airachnid… she’s always had an eye for rare trophies.”

Megatron’s red optics gleamed dangerously.

“If she discovers the full extent of what Starscream can do… he won’t remain free for long. She’ll want to claim him for her own collection.”

As the three processed the precariousness of their secret, a voice interrupted the tension—soft, clear, and innocent.

“What could Starscream do?”

The three turned sharply, their sensors focusing on a small figure standing hesitantly at the threshold.

There, framed by the dim light, was Miko—her young face alight with curiosity and wonder, eyes shining bright with the unquenchable thirst of youth.

The stark contrast between her innocence and the grave conversation moments before struck them all.

Knockout’s usually composed facade cracked, and he muttered under his breath, a rare and uncharacteristic exclamation escaping his vocalizer:

“Oh, frag.”

Megatron’s deep voice softened almost imperceptibly as he regarded the young human.

“Some powers,” he began carefully, “are both a gift—and a burden.”

Soundwave’s optics flicked briefly toward Miko, silently weighing how much to reveal.

Knockout cleared his throat, glancing nervously at Megatron.

“We should be cautious. She is young, and this knowledge… it is dangerous.”

Miko took a tentative step forward, undeterred.

“I want to know. I want to help him. Starscream deserves that much.”

Her gaze held a spark of unwavering determination, shining brighter than any energon could.

The three warriors exchanged a glance.

In that moment, a fragile bridge was built—between generations, between factions, between hope and fear.

What Starscream’s mutant spark truly meant, and the role Miko and the humans would play in the unfolding war, was only beginning to surface.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of humming consoles and the soft throb of the Nemesis’s engines. Miko stood with her arms folded behind her back, gazing up expectantly at the three towering Decepticons as if they weren’t titans of war but simply teachers holding back an answer to a very good question.

Megatron narrowed his optics at the small human but, unexpectedly, found no threat in her. No manipulation, no calculation. Just genuine curiosity.

He let out a low grumble—more of a thoughtful growl than irritation—and gave a slow nod.

“There is no harm,” he finally muttered. “Let her know.”

Miko grinned wide, but then grew solemn, placing one hand over her chest and lifting the other.

“I swear I won’t tell a soul,” she said with sincere determination. “Cross my heart.”

Megatron blinked once, slowly, unsure of the gesture. In a rare moment of attempted mimicry, he mirrored her motion—awkwardly dragging one finger across the heavy Decepticon emblem on his chest.

Knockout choked back a laugh and looked away, pretending to examine a console. Soundwave tilted his helm, silently recording every nuance of the moment.

Then, Megatron’s tone deepened, his voice carrying the weight of millennia.

“There is a space between life and death,” he said, “a dimension of pure energy and memory. We call it the Allspark.”

He paced slowly, talons dragging gently along a reinforced wall as if visualizing the place.

“All sparks, when extinguished, travel there to rest… to dream… until they are summoned again by the Matrix or reborn in new metal.”

Miko’s eyes widened as she listened, lips parted in awe.

Megatron continued. “The spark of a Cybertronian is sacred. But some… very few… are born different. Some are born with a connection to the Allspark that does not end with death.”

He paused then, gazing off into nothing, his voice growing lower.

“Starscream is one of them.”

Miko gasped. “Wait… wait, so you’re saying… like—he can talk to the dead?”

Knockout raised a servo to his face and chuckled dryly. “More like… borrow from the dead.”

Megatron turned back toward her, massive frame casting a long shadow. “When Starscream fights—when he is in danger—he can reach out to the Allspark and draw on fragments of other sparks. Fallen warriors. Old enemies. Friends long gone.”

“Temporarily,” Soundwave added, breaking his silence.

“Borrowed strength,” Megatron confirmed. “Not possessed. Not replaced. Just... added to.”

Miko was wide-eyed and glowing with interest.

“WOW,” she breathed. “That’s crazy cool. Ratchet told us about the Allspark a bunch of times, but it always sounded more like a place in stories… legends. And he told us about Unicron and Primus too.”

Her voice dropped to a hush. “He even told us the stories about the Guardian of the Allspark. Is that… is Starscream the Guardian?”

Knockout burst into laughter. “Oh, come on! That’s a bedtime story for sparklings. Next you’ll say Starscream was trained by Primus himself.”

Miko’s eyebrows raised. “But what does a Guardian do?”

For once, even Knockout paused.

It was Soundwave who answered, voice soft, thoughtful.

“In ancient stories… the Guardian brings balance between light and darkness. He carries the burden of choice. He trains those chosen by Primus and Unicron to become their champions.”

“Primus and Unicron… had champions?” Miko asked, captivated.

“Yes,” Soundwave replied. “When the war between good and evil tips too far in one direction, the Guardian finds the chosen sparks and trains them. One for Primus. One for Unicron.”

Miko tapped her chin, then gasped, grinning mischievously.

“Well, if that’s the case—Megatron, you are totally the Unicron guy. You’re all—” She straightened her back and growled in a deep, gravelly voice: “RAWR. Conquer. Obliterate.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed.

“...And Optimus?” he asked, eyebrow rising.

“Oh, please,” Miko waved a hand. “He’s the Primus guy for sure. All noble and sparkly and ‘we must protect all life, even our enemies.’”

Knockout and Soundwave exchanged glances.

And for one flickering moment—a single glitch in their programming—what she said made a strange kind of sense.

Megatron grunted.

“Childish nonsense.”

Soundwave tilted his head slightly, clearly computing the analogy in silence.

Knockout raised a clawed digit. “Still… if she is right… we might be standing next to the mythical balance keeper.”

Miko yawned then, stretched her arms, and gave them all a cheery wave.

“Welp. I’m gonna go to sleep. Big day tomorrow. Rescue mission, ancient myths, probably more explosions.”

She looked back one last time as she walked away, giving a thumbs up.

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Then she vanished around the corner, leaving only silence behind her.

The silence stretched.

Knockout finally muttered, “So… uh… any chance those stories are actually right?”

Soundwave didn’t answer for several seconds. Then: “Probability… unknown.”

Megatron snarled softly. “Stories meant for hatchlings. Nothing more.”

Still, none of them moved.

And none of them—not even Megatron—could shake the strange thought that perhaps the human’s wild story carried more weight than they were ready to admit.

Chapter Text

That night, Miko Nakadai drifted into sleep far later than she should have, her mind still buzzing with everything she’d heard—about Starscream’s spark, the Allspark, Primus and Unicron, and the mysterious power hidden beneath the Seeker’s tattered armor.

It was a whirlwind of information, heavier than anything a teenager should carry, but in truth, it thrilled her.

And so, when she finally fell asleep, the dream came—and it was not a normal dream.

It was vivid. Hyperreal.

She was floating.

At first, Miko thought she’d woken up in a galaxy itself. Stars pulsed and shimmered in all directions like fireflies caught in a slow-motion dance. Swirls of brilliant color—nebula blues, fire-reds, purples so deep they looked infinite—twisted through the skies. Moons and planets hovered, some near, some impossibly distant.

She looked down—if “down” could even exist in this place—and saw her own body clothed in starlight, her hair drifting behind her like a solar flare.

And she could breathe. Perfectly.

She lifted her arms and twirled, laughing aloud, the sound echoing and not echoing, as if the very space around her drank it in.

“This is so rad…”

Her joy sparked imagination, and imagination sparked creation.

With a thought, a guitar formed in her hands—crafted of constellations, its strings made of stretched starlight, its frets orbiting like moons. When she strummed it, the sound did not echo, it resonated. Waves of music rippled through the stars like a cosmic tide. Entire galaxies pulsed in time with her rhythm. The suns hummed. The space around her seemed to lean closer.

Miko laughed again, the vibration of sound folding around her like a warm blanket.

But then, something changed.

From the edge of that swirling celestial dreamscape came a light unlike the others—a white-gold-blue radiance, so pure and still that everything else dimmed before it.

It wasn’t a portal. Not quite.

More like… a tear in the fabric of the universe, a slit where existence itself unraveled and mended at the same time. Through it passed not ships or objects, but stars—and the moment they touched that threshold, they shifted.

Each glowing sphere of light became a Cybertronian form, shifting fluidly from spark to bot as they passed into the luminous breach.

Miko floated closer, her eyes wide, wonder blooming in her chest like starlight in a prism.

She reached out and touched one of the stars.

It shimmered… and transformed before her.

The spectral image of Laserbeak sprinted through the air, her body ethereal, elegant, fierce.

Another star—Ratchet, hands raised as if working on an invisible patient, optics calm and infinitely wise.

Miko gasped. These weren’t just stars.

They were souls.

Sparks.

This place—this luminous, impossible dimension—was the Allspark.

She drifted through the current of souls, touching them, watching the forms play briefly before dissolving back into light. Some danced joyfully. Others glided in silence. Some moved fast, others hovered still.

And then she saw one star that didn’t move.

It hovered right beside the breach, enormous and brilliant—but frozen in place.

Drawn to it, Miko touched its surface.

Immediately, her vision flared.

She saw him.

Starscream.

He was just as she remembered—slender frame, vast wings crumpled behind him, expression solemn. But here, he wasn’t chained or damaged. He stood still, tall, regal, calm.

He wasn’t watching the breach. He was guarding it.

Miko noticed something else—other stars tried to approach the breach, only to be gently turned away by Starscream himself.

He didn’t speak, didn’t force, didn’t fight.

He simply lifted a hand, or slightly tilted his helm—and they stopped.

One star, though, was relentless.

It flared, flickered, buzzed with weary, cracked energy. It pushed forward, again and again, refusing to obey.

When Miko reached out and touched that one—

—Megatron.

But not the Megatron she knew.

This one was tired. His plating was cracked, rusted at the edges. His optics flickered like dying embers. He looked like a warrior at the very end of a too-long battle, still pushing toward something he could never truly reach.

Starscream blocked him too—but softer this time.

Almost… gently.

Megatron snarled and pounded on the invisible wall, but even in this dreamscape, his strength failed him.

Miko floated back, dazed.

She turned her head and finally saw herself.

Far away, impossibly distant but undeniably her, a version of herself sat calmly on a throne of swirling galaxies, surrounded by floating fragments of stars.

And from the space in front of her—a pair of enormous, pale lilac optics watched her. Unblinking. Serene. Timeless.

Miko felt a voice inside her head that did not speak but instead existed as a thought:

“Witness.”

She jolted awake with a gasp.

Her body shot upright in the small room aboard the Nemesis, drenched in sweat, heart pounding against her ribs.

The darkness of the room felt oppressive now—far too real after what she’d just seen.

Her breath came fast. She rubbed her eyes, but the light was burned into her vision: the breach, the stars, Starscream… and those ancient, lilac eyes that watched her.

She clutched her chest, feeling her heartbeat slow.

Then, one word slipped from her lips, soft, confused, awed:

“…Witness?”

The Nemesis was in motion.

Autobots and Decepticons, once enemies across a battlefield soaked in centuries of war, now stood elbow to elbow—working, planning, calculating every step of the operation that would bring back Starscream.

The medical wing hummed with activity as Knock Out, Ratchet, and even Wheeljack modified equipment for emergency spark stabilization. Screens glowed with surveillance feeds from hacked satellites. Shockwave’s stern voice relayed mineral data and atmospheric traces while Soundwave compiled probabilities of transport routes based on military terrain usage patterns across the desert region.

In the center of it all stood Megatron, shoulders squared, battle-scarred frame immobile, speaking in calm but resolute tones with Optimus Prime and Ratchet. A silent volcano of fury and impatience waited beneath every carefully chosen word.

Across the command deck, Ultra Magnus, Arcee, and Cliffjumper reviewed formations and strike groups. Even Smokescreen was quiet for once.

But then—

THUD.

A sharp, small foot collided with Megatron’s left peds with all the ferocity of a tiny storm.

Megatron looked down slowly, one optic ridge twitching.

Standing below him was Miko, sweat still clinging to her brow, pajamas slightly rumpled beneath the jacket she’d thrown on in her rush. Her expression was not one of rebellion or sarcasm—but one of searching. Her lips were slightly parted. Her brows drawn.

And her eyes were intense.

“Have you ever thought about dying?” she asked, boldly, loudly.

The room went silent.

Not just quiet—paralyzed. The kind of silence where even machines paused, as though logic itself were baffled.

Soundwave’s fingers hovered midair, suspended above his console.

Knock Out looked up so fast he nearly dropped the scanner he was holding.

Bulkhead and Jack, behind her, froze like statues.

Even Shockwave’s single optic paused its oscillation.

Optimus blinked once, slowly. His helm turned slightly toward Miko, and though his face remained unreadable, something behind his optics sharpened.

Megatron stared at her as though she were a glitch in reality.

“…What?” His voice rumbled like tectonic plates shifting.

Miko stood her ground. Her legs trembled slightly, not from fear, but from adrenaline.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Have you ever thought about it? About what happens after? When you die?”

Megatron’s optics narrowed.

“You presume much, fleshling.”

“Because I saw it,” Miko interrupted. Her voice cracked, but she kept going. “I—last night—I think I saw the Allspark. I—I was in it, or… above it. And I saw Starscream. He’s there. He's not dead, but he's there. Guarding it. Stopping others from going in too early. Like a gatekeeper.”

Optimus’s optics widened. Just slightly.

Megatron’s glint shifted. Not anger. Not mockery.

But… recognition?

“I saw Megatron too,” Miko whispered, more quietly now. “He was trying to get through. Tired. But Starscream stopped him.”

Megatron’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. A tightening of his mouth. A flicker in his optics. But it was Soundwave who now turned fully toward her.

“You dreamed of the Allspark,” Optimus said quietly. “A human.”

Miko nodded, eyes shining. “It was real. It didn’t feel like a dream.”

There was a pause. A weighty, ancient pause.

Megatron’s voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse.

“…I have thought of dying.”

The entire room shifted.

“I’ve danced at the edge of it more times than any bot you see here. I’ve thrown myself at the gates of death. Not because I wanted to go, but because war leaves nothing untouched. And sometimes... I’ve wondered if the after was better than the now.”

Miko’s breath caught in her throat.

He lowered himself slightly, so he was more level with her. “But I have never dreamed of the Allspark,” he said. “Not once. It has never called to me.”

“That’s because it doesn’t call the ones who chase death,” Ratchet said, softly, arms crossed. “It calls the ones who are supposed to guard it.”

Megatron straightened again, the comment hanging in the air.

Soundwave stepped forward. “…Details. Describe location. Visual markers. Time distortions.”

Miko took a deep breath and began to recount everything in vivid detail—the floating stars, the shining breach, the lilac optics, the strange presence behind the scenes, the stars transforming into Cybertronians, Starscream’s motionless post, and the moment she touched the star that became Megatron.

Knock Out, already tapping on a datapad, murmured, “There are no existing records of a human ever dreaming of the Allspark… let alone navigating it.”

Ratchet nodded. “It’s unprecedented.”

“It’s impossible,” Shockwave said, his voice devoid of doubt.

“But it happened,” Optimus said, and his tone silenced even Shockwave.

Megatron remained quiet. His servo had tightened again, but his optics did not look away from Miko. In his own mind, he saw flashes—moments in battle, seconds when death seemed certain, but the spark never extinguished. And in those moments, he never saw anything.

But Starscream…

Starscream had always walked a different path.

“Your dream may be more than mere vision,” Optimus finally said. “It may be a key.”

“To what?” Miko asked.

Optimus turned, and even Megatron leaned slightly closer to hear the answer.

“To understanding why MECH wants Starscream so badly. Why he survives what others cannot. And… why the Allspark seems to wait for him.”

Later that day, Miko sat alone on a ledge just outside the command deck. Jack joined her. She explained the dream again—slower this time. Jack listened, quiet, respectful.

Behind them, inside the Nemesis, two titans of war stood together, no longer enemies—Optimus and Megatron—now united by something greater than faction loyalty.

Starscream was no longer just a prisoner.

He was a mystery.

A key.

A Guardian.

And, for both sides, that made him worth everything.

The Nemesis drifted quietly in low-altitude hover, cloaked from human radar and satellite vision by Decepticon stealth tech and a few borrowed Autobot dampening algorithms. Inside, however, things were anything but quiet.

The alliance between Autobots and Decepticons held—but only by necessity, by threads woven through a shared objective: bring Starscream home.

That night, the corridors dimmed into evening-mode, allowing for some much-needed recharge across both factions.

But not for everyone.

In the realm beyond logic and science, where the subconscious met something ancient and real, Miko once again found herself floating within the vast, surreal expanse of galaxies. A luminous dreamscape. Not random. Not fantasy.

Purposeful.

This time, she wasn’t alone.

Jack and Raf floated nearby, their expressions painted in awe, confusion, and disbelief. The air felt tangible with energy, the void between stars dense like the hum of an engine before ignition.

“What… what is this place?” Jack whispered.

“It’s not a dream,” Raf muttered, already calculating, eyes flicking around. “The space curvature is wrong. We shouldn’t be able to see light behave this way. It’s… it’s dimensional layering, not just sleep.”

Miko ignored the science—she had been here before.

And now, she knew where to look.

She flew ahead, guiding them toward the star that remained fixed at the gate of the blinding, soft blue portal.

Starscream’s star.

Still unmoving. Still watching. Still guarding.

But not idle.

This time, the seeker was interacting. A nearby star, darker in hue—shimmering with sleek shadowy streaks—was trying to push past him, to exit the portal.

But Starscream refused. He reached out and gently—but firmly—pushed the star back toward the gate. The struggling star shifted, reshaped, and took on a clear form as Raf floated closer and hesitantly reached out to touch it.

Suddenly—

A massive black Cybertronian feline snarled into being before Raf’s mind’s eye. It was a panther, unmistakably so—elegant and sleek, but primal and dangerous. It growled at Starscream as though frustrated, wanting out. But the seeker—quiet, resolute—merely stared with glowing crimson optics, unreadable as ever, before turning and fading slightly.

“He… stopped it,” Raf whispered. “Starscream stopped it from getting out.”

“Why a panther?” Jack asked.

They all fell quiet.

And then the stars dimmed—like a sudden breath inhaled across the universe. The color, the flow, the harmony of the galaxy… shifted.

A presence arrived.

Floating several meters ahead, surrounded by a quiet hush in the cosmic dreamscape, stood a massive bot unlike any they had seen before.

He towered, not with brute bulk like Megatron or Ultra Magnus, but with a terrifying grace.

He was all strange geometry and raw, bone-like form. His chassis shimmered golden, but it wasn’t metal—more like hollow metallic bone, elegant and ancient. His eyes were pure gold, glowing with an emotionless gleam. Wings extended from his back—not armor, not energon, but strange extensions that resembled frameworks of reality itself.

The bot didn’t speak.

But he stared directly—only—at Starscream.

Unblinking. Unmoving. Waiting.

Beside him, slouched like a rotting puppet, stood Silas.

Or what used to be Silas.

The human body was aged far beyond anything natural—skin paper-thin, liver-spotted, face sagging, hair nearly gone. His eyes were bloodshot but filled with fevered joy. Too old. Centuries old. And he grinned.

He turned, jaw clicking grotesquely as he tilted his head. “Fascinating little ghosts. You dream too deeply, children.”

His voice was wrong—echoed with something else, something laced in code and decay.

Jack’s breath caught.

“That’s… impossible.”

“He’s… human, right?” Raf asked, voice trembling.

“Not anymore,” Miko whispered.

Behind them, the galaxy pulsed, the eye of the dream—the colossal lilac-light entity they’d glimpsed before—flickered in warning.

The golden bot blinked once.

And the entire plane folded.

The children were yanked backward as a ripple of energy tore through the stars. They didn’t fall. They were expelled. Forced out like sparks doused in a cold void.

Three separate screams echoed through the Nemesis—from three different quarters.

Miko, Jack, and Raf bolted upright from recharge cots, soaked in sweat, gasping for air. The three looked at one another from across the dim-lit medbay hallways—and in perfect synchronization:

“OPTIMUS!”

They burst into a run.

Optimus was already present, conferring with Megatron, Soundwave, and Ratchet. The moment the doors slammed open and the trio of children entered, their expressions wiped clean of sleep and fear, the entire command deck went on alert.

Jack spoke first, wild-eyed. “We saw Silas. Again. But he’s… not human. He’s not just modified anymore. He looked ancient. Like a corpse kept alive.”

Miko nodded frantically. “And a golden bot. Huge. Bone wings. He was just watching Starscream. Like… like waiting for him to do something.”

“Waiting for what?” Ultra Magnus asked, stern.

Raf answered quietly. “To fail. Or maybe… to leave the gate open.”

That got Ratchet’s attention. “Gate?”

“Portal,” Jack clarified. “A huge one. The one Starscream’s spark-star guards. None of the others could get through. But this bot—this one—he wasn’t a spark. He wasn’t dead. He was… something else.”

Optimus was quiet.

But Megatron…

Megatron’s optics narrowed. A rumble low in his throat.

“That description…” he muttered. “The Archivum once recorded tales of an entity known as Mournsteel. A formless bot forged outside the Well of All Sparks. A creature without Spark… but capable of absorbing residual energy. A devourer. A hunter of spark anomalies.”

“A myth,” Ratchet said, not fully convinced even as he said it.

“Starscream,” Soundwave added, “= target identified. Spark anomaly. Mutant class.”

Raf looked to Optimus. “Then maybe… that bot, Mournsteel, was never a myth. Maybe he’s real. And Silas made a deal with him.”

Megatron growled. “To get what? Immortality? Power?”

“No,” Miko said softly. “To trap Starscream. To harness his spark. And feed it to that thing.”

The room went still again.

“Then we’re no longer just racing against Silas,” Optimus concluded. “We’re racing against time itself. And the threat of something worse than we ever imagined.”

Megatron stepped forward.

“We will find Starscream,” he declared, voice steel. “And we will end whatever twisted pact Silas has forged—before that golden abomination can breach the gate our seeker is foolishly trying to protect alone.”

Optimus met his gaze.

And nodded.

“Then we prepare for war.”

The next night came quickly. Tension still hung heavy in the air aboard the Nemesis as Autobots and Decepticons worked side by side to uncover Starscream’s location, but for Miko, the moment her optics closed, the dream returned.

Just like the night before, she was floating in what looked like an endless galaxy—a swirl of brilliant stars, glowing planets, drifting nebulas, and colors too bright and vivid for any real sky. She recognized it instantly.

It was the same lucid dream.

She glanced down and, smirking to herself, summoned her star-guitar once again. The shimmering instrument formed from constellations and pulsed with cosmic light. She strummed once, and somehow, sound echoed across the stars. Even in the vacuum of space, music existed here. She laughed, spinning slowly, letting the sound carry.

But she wasn’t alone this time.

Floating nearby were Jack and Raf, looking stunned.

“Okay, this is…” Jack rubbed his eyes. “Way above my usual dream level.”

“I’m trying to find patterns,” Raf muttered, already analyzing the layout of stars. “There has to be some logic behind this.”

Miko just grinned and floated toward the stars she remembered. She reached out, touching one glowing point—and again, like before, it rippled and revealed the shape of Laserbeak, sprinting through starlit winds. Another star—Ratchet, standing tall with his tools and his frown.

Jack and Raf followed, watching as the stars unveiled the true forms of Cybertronians past and present.

Then Miko pointed.

“There!” she said.

The boys turned to see it: the star that hadn’t moved—the one next to the strange portal. Just like before, it remained close to the glowing gateway of blue and white light. Miko drifted toward it and placed a hand on it again.

Starscream.

The seeker’s form appeared, unmoving in the void, wings partially lifted, as if shielding the gate itself. But this time, he wasn’t alone.

Another star was beside him, flickering erratically, struggling to escape the pull of the portal. Starscream reached forward, calm and composed, and gently pushed it back inside.

Jack reached out to touch the resisting star—and it flickered again, revealing the unmistakable form of a sleek, agile black panther.

“Wait,” Jack breathed, “that’s—”

The panther snapped at Starscream, restless, angry—but still obeyed.

Miko floated up to perch on the top of Starscream’s glowing helm. She stared at him, curious. “What are you doing, Screamer?”

And then—they saw him.

Not Starscream. But a bot they had never seen before.

Several meters away stood a towering figure, unlike any they had witnessed. Golden eyes. A skeletal, yet elegant chassis of shining metal bone. No armor. No plating. And wings—massive and translucent, like raw structure without skin.

The figure stared directly at Starscream.

Beside him was a man—Silas. But this Silas was different. He looked ancient—his skin cracked like glass, hair white as bone, his flesh drawn tight and paper-thin. A ghost in a body that should have long since crumbled.

“What the frag…” Miko muttered, suddenly nervous.

Jack and Raf floated up beside her, equally disturbed by what they saw.

And then the galaxy changed.

The glowing center, a vast eye of lilac light, shimmered, and in an instant, the three children were forcefully expelled.

Their bodies jolted awake, drenched in sweat, breath heavy, and without even exchanging a word, they shouted as one:

“Optimus!”

They sprinted through the Nemesis corridors.

Shockwave was already in the command chamber when they arrived. The Decepticon scientist, upon hearing what Miko blurted out, visibly glitched.

“That is not possible,” he stated firmly, almost offended. “Organic neural systems cannot perceive the Allspark. Nor should they be aware of the Astral Gate. These are Cybertronian concepts. Myth.”

“Yeah?” Miko shot back, her hands on her hips. “You’re more hard-headed than that weird black cat!”

The room went silent.

Optimus turned to her, optics narrowing. “Black cat?”

Jack stepped forward. “We all saw it. Slender, fast, black metal panther with glowing red optics. Tried to get out. Starscream stopped it.”

Soundwave—who had been typing silently into one of the consoles—suddenly leaned forward and had to place a hand on the wall for balance. The usually expressionless mech gave a strange, broken whisper:

“…Ravage.”

The word dropped like a shard of glass.

Everyone turned.

“Who?” Jack asked.

Raf looked to the bots.

Even Optimus was still.

Ratchet finally spoke, voice low. “Ravage was Soundwave’s… companion. A stealth unit. Agile and loyal. One of the last of the old infiltration class. He was presumed dead when Starscream disappeared.”

Jack blinked. “Then what we saw—?”

“You saw him,” Soundwave murmured. “Within the Allspark. Rejected the gate. Submissive to Starscream.”

Megatron’s optics flared faintly. “That’s not possible…”

“It is now,” said Soundwave. “Because Starscream isn’t just mutant.”

Optimus turned. “What do you mean?”

Soundwave hesitated, looked toward Megatron—but then answered, even knowing the risk.

“His spark is more than adaptive. It touches the Allspark while still tethered to his frame. He guides the gate.”

Shockwave recoiled slightly, but didn’t argue this time.

“He guards it?” Raf asked. “Like… a Keeper?”

“No,” Knockout scoffed. “That’s an old story. Something for sparklings and wide-eyed newbies. If there was a Keeper, he’d be immortal, and able to talk to Primus and Unicron both.”

“What does a Keeper do?” Miko asked, eyes wide.

Soundwave, for once, answered smoothly. “They keep balance. They choose Champions. They prevent Mournsteel’s ascension.”

The silence was sharp.

Miko suddenly grinned. “So wait! That means Megatron would be like… Unicron’s awkward Champion! Big bad attitude, violent, rough. And Optimus would be Primus’s, all gentle and polite and with those speeches!”

The entire room went still.

And the three bots—Megatron, Knockout, and Soundwave—glanced at each other.

For a bizarre moment… something about that made a terrifying amount of sense.

“…I hate how that lines up,” Knockout muttered.

“It is illogical,” Shockwave insisted, but didn’t sound so certain anymore.

“Utter nonsense,” Megatron rumbled—but didn’t elaborate.

Miko smiled and waved as she walked off toward her quarters, “Night! I’m waking up early to help find Starscream tomorrow!”

The three mechs watched her leave.

Knockout frowned. “...What if the stories are right?”

Soundwave simply stared at the closing door.

Megatron sighed and muttered, “Primus help us all if that’s the truth.”

And with that, they each turned away—sleepless, uneasy, and now carrying a new, deeply troubling understanding of the seeker they had once dismissed… and what he might truly be.

Megatron had barely taken two steps toward the corridor when something pulled at his processor—an itch, a crackle of awareness. He stopped moving, optics narrowing. Slowly, he turned his helm to look at the two mechs behind him.

Knockout was fiddling with a datapad, nervously glancing over a chart of Spark resonance readings. Soundwave stood still as a statue, visor flickering softly with lines of scrolling data as if processing more than what was on the screen.

“…You two,” Megatron rumbled, his voice low and cutting. “Have you had this kind of conversation with the human before?”

Both medics froze.

Knockout blinked and lowered his datapad. “Which part of the conversation are we referring to here, mighty Megatron?” he asked cautiously, though the twitch in his shoulder joint betrayed his nervousness.

“About the Allspark,” Megatron said with a slow growl. “About the spark guardianship. About… that ridiculous theory the child presented—Primus and Unicron choosing mortal avatars.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then Soundwave gave a small nod. “Affirmative.”

Knockout scratched the back of his helm. “Actually… yeah. Yeah, I think that exact theory came up with her last night, too. Something about me being too fabulous to be a Unicronian, and Soundwave apparently being a reformed ghost or something—she’s got a very vivid imagination, boss.”

Megatron narrowed his optics into slits. “So… you are telling me… that this exact discussion, verbatim, occurred yesterday?”

Knockout shrugged. “More or less? I mean, the roles were the same. Optimus the golden boy of Primus. You as the scary, misunderstood spawn of Unicron. Honestly, it’s starting to feel like a character drama she’s drafting in her sleep.”

“…Déjà vu,” Knockout added after a beat, more to himself, optics wide. “Or—wait. What if it’s not just déjà vu?”

Soundwave’s visor flickered again. “Temporal convergence.”

Knockout turned sharply to him. “You think it’s not just repetition, but echoing moments through… Spark-resonant timeline bleeding?”

“I’m sorry,” Megatron raised a hand, utterly done with the both of them. “In plain Cybertronian, if you would.”

Soundwave straightened slightly, his voice smooth but heavy. “If Starscream's spark is in partial alignment with the Allspark—and if the children’s minds have become attuned to it through dream-exposure—then they may be experiencing fragmented loops of a Spark-space memory. Not simply dreams. Echoes.”

Megatron’s mouth twisted. “Of events not yet occurred?”

“Or occurred… in other possible paths,” Soundwave clarified. “Memory stored within the Allspark is not linear. Starscream may be anchoring more than his own consciousness.”

Knockout lowered his datapad completely now. “Which means… she’s not just dreaming wild stories. She might be catching bleed-over from other versions of us. Other timelines. Ones where Starscream might have actually been the Keeper.”

“And if he is,” Soundwave added slowly, “his presence would attract the attention of those bound to the Allspark or its opposing force.”

Megatron exhaled through gritted denta. “Unicron.”

“Possibly. Or… something worse. A fragment. Something forgotten.” Soundwave paused, then added, “Silas may already be aware.”

That struck a nerve. The room dimmed slightly, as though Megatron’s rage had become gravitational.

“He knew,” the Warlord murmured. “That bastard knew more than he should have. He’s been feeding off Starscream’s spark.”

Knockout frowned. “And if Starscream’s connection is what we think it is, then… Silas is more than just a scientist with a lab. He might be… tethering himself.”

“Stealing immortality,” Soundwave confirmed.

A moment passed.

Then, a low, ragged laugh rolled from Megatron’s chest. Not mirthful. Not pleased.

“Primus above…” he rasped. “We’ve not just lost a soldier. We’ve lost the gatekeeper between order and chaos. And we handed him to Silas.”

He slammed a fist on the console, hard enough to send sparks flying.

Knockout stepped back, half-hiding behind Soundwave. “So… what do we do? Because I don’t think going back to bed and hoping this is a weird dream is an option anymore.”

“We prepare,” Megatron snarled. “We hunt. And when we find them, we end Silas. Whatever it takes.”

Soundwave nodded once.

But behind the anger, behind the surging desperation of both Decepticon and Autobot forces alike… the truth had become terrifyingly clear:

Starscream was no longer just a soldier.

He was the hinge of balance.
A sentinel between realms.
And the enemy had him.

The soft clicking of Soundwave’s digits against his console filled the command center like a metronome—rhythmic, sharp, deliberate.

Data scrolled at dizzying speeds across his visor and internal interface. The recent revelation about Starscream’s spark—a possible link to the Allspark itself, combined with the children’s dreams—had opened a previously inconceivable pathway. If the Allspark’s realm was bleeding through, there had to be a trace, even on this primitive organic planet. And Soundwave, diligent as ever, found it.

A location. Remote. Undocumented. A place not even MECH’s known supply lines traced to. A dead zone in the digital map… but alive in energy signatures.

Every sixty seconds, on the dot, there was a pulse—so faint it almost went undetected. But Soundwave noticed. The signature didn’t match any known Earth-based phenomena. It matched a quantum flicker… the kind only associated with cyber-organic life in close proximity to the Allspark.

It matched Starscream.

Without looking up, Soundwave activated the Nemesis’s internal comm system and summoned everyone to the throne room. His tone was calm as always, but something in the frequency he chose carried urgency. One didn’t ignore Soundwave when he used that pitch.

Within minutes, the throne room was filled.

Autobots and Decepticons alike stood beneath the high ceilings, the tension palpable. Even the atmosphere inside the Nemesis seemed to hum with restrained intensity. Megatron sat upon his throne, clawed fingers clenched around the armrests. Optimus stood beside him—an image that would have sent shockwaves across the warfront mere weeks ago.

The children, too, were present. Jack and Raf stood by Ultra Magnus’s towering form. Miko leaned against Bulkhead’s ped, her arms crossed, eyes narrowed in focus. William Fowler stood off to the side, expression grim, a secure comm line open in case the situation went south.

Soundwave stepped forward. The lights dimmed, and a large holographic projection rose from the center of the room—Earth’s map, zooming in toward the western hemisphere.

A soft hum of energy followed as Soundwave’s synthesized voice echoed at last:

“Quantum flicker detected.”

A red circle appeared on the projection—an isolated region, deep in a desert canyon range. No roads. No cities. No satellite coverage. It was a technological void.

“Consistent pulses every sixty seconds. Energy waveform matches Cybertronian spark resonance—altered, but traceable. Source: Starscream.”

Gasps and murmurs broke out.

Ratchet stepped forward, optics narrowing. “You’re sure it’s him?”

Soundwave merely shifted the projection. Data overlays swarmed the image, showing pulse strength, spark frequency patterns, and what appeared to be memory fragments… fleeting shapes forming in the dark.

And there, caught in the energy echo, was a ghostly shimmer of Starscream’s form—flickering in and out of coherence like an echo lost between dimensions.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Knockout muttered, voice tight.

“This location,” Soundwave continued, “is inaccessible by traditional satellite. Digital blackout perimeter. Stealth architecture.”

Optimus tilted his helm. “A hidden fortress.”

Soundwave nodded once. “Constructed underground. Reinforced. Power grid self-contained. Likely the core MECH facility. This… is where they took him.”

Megatron’s optics were fire. “Finally.”

A loud thump echoed as he stood, the throne groaning beneath his shift.

“I want the entire strike team mobilized in ten minutes,” Megatron growled. “Decepticons—you know your roles. Autobots… this is no longer a truce. This is a war to take back one of our own.”

Optimus Prime stepped forward. “Then let us end it together.”

Another murmur. Not just of agreement—but solidarity. The battle lines had blurred. The past did not matter anymore. Only the rescue.

Ratchet turned to the medics.

“Knockout—prepare all mobile stabilization equipment. We’ll need spark support, nerve dampeners, and structural field braces. Starscream will not be moved unless I say he is stable.”

Knockout saluted with mock elegance but his expression was serious. “Already loading it. I’m not about to let a patient like that slip through my claws.”

Dreadwing and Airachnid exchanged silent nods. Airachnid clicked her claws, speaking only once. “This time, Silas won’t walk away. He’s gone too far.”

Even Shockwave stepped forward. “Silas’s actions present an aberrant variable. Must be corrected.”

Bulkhead looked to Miko. “You’re not going.”

She glared at him. “I wasn’t asking.”

But Fowler stepped in. “You’re staying here, all of you,” he said firmly to the trio of humans. “You’ve done more than anyone asked. This next step… it’s for them.”

Miko opened her mouth to argue—then caught Megatron’s gaze.

The Warlord gave her the smallest nod. Not one of dismissal. One of respect.

“I’ll bring him back,” he said simply.

Miko looked at the floor, jaw clenched. “You better.”

The group dispersed, preparing for the mission with relentless focus. Inside the warship, for once, Autobots and Decepticons moved like a single organism—loading, equipping, checking each other’s gear.

Above them, the projection of Earth’s desert swirled in ghostly red. In the shadows of rock and silence, a spark pulsed with defiance.

Starscream was waiting.

And they were coming for him.

Chapter Text

Silas sat quietly in his dimly lit control chamber, the steaming black coffee in his hand providing a momentary comfort. He brought the cup to his lips, savoring the bitter warmth for just a heartbeat—when the entire base was suddenly flooded with red warning lights and a deafening alarm. The console in front of him flashed rapidly, screaming alerts in crimson: “PERIMETER BREACH — SECTOR 4”

The glass cup shattered on the floor as Silas rose to his feet. His narrowed eyes immediately darted to the surveillance feeds popping up around him. What he saw drained the blood from his face.

Autobots.

Decepticons.

Fighting together.

The battlefield outside the base was chaos incarnate. Shockwaves rippled across the desert as Autobots and Decepticons moved in perfect formation, executing flanking strategies and cover fire tactics with seamless precision. Optimus Prime and Megatron were at the center of the assault, leading their forces side by side like twin titans.

Cliffjumper and Airachnid struck from above with flawless coordination, forcing Silas’s drones into vulnerable positions. Wheeljack and Bulkhead barreled through reinforced walls, demolishing the perimeter bunkers. Behind them, Dreadwing unleashed fire from the skies while Smokescreen handled counteroffensives at their rear, protecting Knockout and Ratchet who moved methodically with mobile medical units.

Silas slammed his fist into the console.

“HOW did they find us?! This base is buried under ten signal layers! Encoded! Blacklisted! Shielded!”

A nearby soldier stammered, face pale, fingers dancing over the control screen.

“We—we don’t know, sir! No external comms breached the firewall, and—”

He didn’t finish. A violent tremor rocked the room as an external missile made impact, sending concrete fragments crashing from the ceiling. The soldier was thrown back violently and hit the floor with a sickening thud.

Silas didn’t flinch. He stepped over the downed body, his eyes narrowing as he opened a direct line to the central lab. On the screen, he saw Starscream—still chained, but eyes burning with fury. Even sedated, the Seeker’s spark signature was spiking. The stasis cuffs hummed louder and louder, trying to suppress the volatile readings.

Another screen flickered on, showing the approaching rescue team. Optimus Prime was blasting through the final barricade with Megatron beside him, the two leaders fighting like possessed warlords.

Silas activated the emergency override.

“Prepare secondary transport. Lock down Lab Zero. If they want Starscream, they’ll have to tear this mountain down first.”

He turned and marched through the base as sirens wailed behind him, soldiers scrambling, drones shrieking, and the ground itself shaking beneath his boots.

Silas didn’t care.

He had one final move to play.

And he wasn’t about to lose his greatest asset without a fight.

Silas ran.

The corridors of the base thundered with distant combat, the walls vibrating with the tremors of heavy weapons fire. Dust and sparks cascaded from the ceiling panels as he shoved past panicked soldiers and empty control stations, sprinting toward the reinforced core of the laboratory wing.

He had to get to Starscream.

If he could reach the Seeker in time, he could use the prototype—his quantum reversal array. It had never been tested, but if he could stabilize the Seekers' spark, suppress the volatile energy, and initiate a loop, he could reset the sequence. Change everything. Rewrite the outcome of this war.

He was nearly at the door when a high-pitched sound made him falter.

The whine of energon discharge.

The explosion of steel.

Silas skidded to a halt just outside the containment room, only to see the blast door hanging off its hinges. Smoke and energy sparks poured from the interior. Through the haze, he saw the impossible:

Knockout and Ratchet already inside the chamber, working shoulder to shoulder over the battered form of Starscream. Optimus Prime stood like a sentinel in the corner, his optics fixed on Silas, while Bulkhead herded the human children toward safety, shielding them with his massive frame.

And there, looming over the restrained Seeker, was Megatron.

Silas's voice cracked with rage and desperation. "No! Do not remove the chains! Do not disable the cryogenic conduits! You don't understand what you're dealing with!"

But Ratchet and Knockout clearly did not hear—or didn’t care.

Knockout smashed the nitrogen valve with his elbow-mounted scalpel saw, severing the coolant flow and sending shards of ice-rimed metal across the floor. Ratchet followed suit, crushing the backup release module with the weight of his fist.

The chilled mist that had encased Starscream's damaged frame dissipated almost instantly, rising into the air like a ghost.

Then Megatron stepped forward.

No words. No hesitation.

With a roar of fury and purpose, he seized the base of the chains that wrapped around Starscream's wings and abdomen. His fingers curled into the reinforced alloy, claws digging in. And then, with a guttural growl that echoed off every corner of the room, Megatron ripped.

The chains shattered.

One by one, links flew in all directions, embedding into walls and tables like shrapnel. A final wrench tore the last length away from Starscream's pedes, sending sparks cascading across the floor. The Seeker dropped forward slightly, caught only by Ratchet and Knockout, who rushed in to stabilize him.

Starscream's optics fluttered, faint light glowing behind the glass.

Silas stood frozen, unable to move.

He had lost.

All of it—the experiments, the control, the breakthroughs, the power. Torn away in an instant by the alliance of his enemies.

And Starscream was awake.

The moment Starscream's optics fully ignited, a surge of raw energy rippled from his spark and radiated outward in a silent wave. Every mechanical system in the room paused. The lights dimmed, consoles flickered, and even the air felt electrified with tension.

Then, impossibly—time itself seemed to stop.

The swirling smoke froze midair.
The falling sparks halted their descent.
Every Autobot and Decepticon in the chamber remained frozen in their stance: Ratchet, crouched to monitor vitals; Knockout, halfway through scanning a repair line; Megatron, leaning forward with tense vigilance; even Optimus, his servo raised slightly toward Silas—all locked in perfect stillness.

Only two beings still moved.

Starscream—and Silas.

The human stumbled backward, breath catching in his throat as he watched the impossible unfold. Starscream’s battered frame straightened with eerie grace, a soft glow rising from beneath his plating. Cables slithered like living things back into ports along his abdomen and sides. Plates realigned. Circuits reconnected. Armor grew anew where there had been fractures. The open cavity in his chest sealed as if untouched, the jagged wound becoming smooth, pristine metal in mere seconds.

The Seeker rolled his shoulders slowly, claws flexing with fluid grace, wings twitching once, testing the air.

And then he turned.

Starscream began to walk, soundlessly, through the still room. He stepped over debris and around the frozen forms of his rescuers without pausing. His optics, now glowing a brilliant, almost celestial lilac, were locked on a singular target.

Silas.

The human stumbled backward, feet slipping beneath him as panic took over. He hit the floor hard, his back against the cold tiles, scrambling to push away from the approaching giant.

Starscream said nothing. There was no need.

With each step, a subtle hum pulsed through the air—deep, ancient, and not entirely mechanical. Silas, in the presence of something far older and more powerful than his science could comprehend, felt the overwhelming crush of realization: this was not just a Cybertronian. This was something far beyond.

And he had enraged it.

Everything in the frozen battlefield remained eerily silent—still caught in that ethereal moment suspended by Starscream’s influence over the flow of time. The Seeker stood calmly, his tall frame backlit by the quiet glow of energon and shattered lights, his wings casting jagged shadows across the cracked floor. His claws flexed with precision as he massaged his neck, realigning a few inner servos that had seized up during his long, tortured slumber.

Only Silas could move—or rather, shake uncontrollably.

Starscream tilted his helm and looked at him, his optics glowing not just with awareness, but with ancient fury. His voice when it came was soft, low, resonating with something that didn’t belong in this world alone.

“Did you enjoy your time?” he asked. “That little covenant you made... with Mournsteel. That rotted husk of Unicron’s will.”

Silas’s lips moved, but no sound escaped. His mind screamed, but his body—ravaged by fear—wouldn’t obey.

“Did you really think,” Starscream continued, pacing toward him, “that immortality was something you could purchase? That by handing over a piece of your soul to a forgotten death-worshiper you would escape the one thing all organics fear?”

Starscream knelt suddenly, claws clicking against the concrete as he came face to face with the fallen commander. Silas trembled, every cell in his body aware that something beyond logic had taken root in the frame before him.

“Unicron never honored his champions. They were tools. And you…” Starscream’s optics narrowed, “you were just the latest distraction.”

Starscream leaned closer, whispering:

“He used you to keep me in stasis. To keep my spark from reaching the Allspark. Two hundred years… two hundred years my spark slept while war swallowed Cybertron and Earth alike. You think Unicron cared what you became?”

He stood in one smooth motion and raised his claw. Time still held around them like a dome of cracked glass. No one else moved. Not even Megatron.

Then the Seeker slowly, carefully, placed one razor-sharp digit on the center of Silas’s chest. Not a strike. Just a touch.

“You made a bargain with time itself. And I am its Guardian.”

Silas, in that moment, remembered everything. Every meeting with Mournsteel. Every vial of that glowing lilac energon. Every procedure, every horror he committed to others—especially Starscream—to maintain his own frail mortality.

And Starscream’s words echoed as he withdrew his claw:

“You’ll remember it all. In every cycle, every time you’re born again. But you’ll never be able to stop it. No one will believe you. And you’ll live your life as a laughingstock—a madman chasing shadows.”

Silas screamed. Not from pain—but from recognition. From clarity. From the collapse of delusion.

His skin began to crack, like sun-baked earth. His body, no longer preserved by Starscream’s stolen nanite-enhanced energon, began to crumble.

He aged in seconds.

His hair turned white, then to dust.

His bones shriveled, caved inward.

His uniform disintegrated around him as his screams were cut short and his throat collapsed in on itself.

And then... there was silence. A dry wind scattered the powder that had once been Silas across the steel floor like ash in the starlight.

Starscream stood there a moment, watching. Only then did time start again.

The rumble of mech feet.

Gasps of shock.

Weapons recharging.

Megatron’s voice bellowed in disbelief.

But none of them would forget what they had just seen.

Starscream turned to face the others. His optics calm. His body whole. His voice... steady.

“We have work to do.”

None of the Autobots or Decepticons could believe what they were seeing.

Just seconds ago, Starscream was barely functional, collapsed and nearly dead on the floor, his body torn, chained, drained of energon and sparklight. But now... he was standing.

Perfectly steady. Silent. Completely healed.

His plating was smooth again, his limbs straightened and functioning, the open wound in his abdomen completely gone as if it had never been there. The only thing left was the faint trace of ancient glow in his optics—an unnatural energy that pulsed deeper than any energon. Something timeless.

Everyone around him—Megatron, Optimus, Ratchet, Knockout, the other bots—stood frozen. Not in awe or confusion.

Literally frozen.

Time had stopped again.

No one was breathing. No movement, no sound. Only one was active: Starscream.

He turned slowly, his clawed hands brushing off the last trace of cold nitrogen from his shoulder. His wings flexed slightly behind his back as if testing their full range for the first time in cycles. Then he looked around at the scene—the frozen forms of Autobots and Decepticons mid-motion, mid-shock, mid-battle, all frozen in perfect stillness like statues.

Starscream blinked once, his optics dimming briefly.

And then, with eerie calm, he began to walk toward one figure. Toward the very bot who had once left him behind.

Megatron.

Frozen like the others, Megatron was still mid-motion, face unreadable—perhaps shocked, perhaps in awe. His arm was extended slightly as if he had been moving toward Starscream right before the moment time halted.

Starscream approached him slowly, his steps silent and precise. There was no hatred on his face. No mockery. Not even smugness. Just... quiet, like something long suppressed had simply settled.

He stopped right in front of Megatron.

There was a faint tremble in the way Starscream lifted his claws—not from fear, but emotion. Quiet emotion, old and tired.

He reached out and gently let his claws brush across the polished edge of Megatron’s helmet, tracing it softly. Just once.

Then, leaning in close—dangerously close—he whispered in a low tone, voice smooth and tired, but warm in a way that surprised even himself:

“This time, Megatron… say it. Just say it.”

He leaned even closer, his mouth now against Megatron’s audio receptor:

“You always wanted to. You just didn’t know how.”

A small breath escaped his vents, like a tired sigh.

“You always choked at the last minute. You’d bark orders, make excuses, push me away… but you always wanted to say it. I know. I always knew.”

There was a long pause as Starscream’s claws ghosted down Megatron’s faceplate. Then, without hesitation, he leaned forward and pressed a soft, brief kiss to Megatron’s lipplates.

Not a kiss of passion or seduction.

But a kiss of understanding.

Of patience.

Of long-awaited truth.

Pulling back, Starscream glanced up into Megatron’s optics, still glowing but unseeing in the frozen moment.

“Next time, don’t wait until I’m half dead to say it,” Starscream whispered. “Just tell me.”

He took one step back.

His wings curled slightly at the tips, his hands at his sides. He turned his back, casting one last look over his shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere this time, Warlord.”

With a snap of his claws—

Time resumed.

Chapter Text

It felt like being shaken awake from a centuries-long slumber.

Megatron's optics blinked hard, his vents drawing in a long breath as if he hadn’t exhaled in lifetimes. Dust swirled around him—Cybertronian ash, embers of war, the stale scent of scorched metal and energon. The sky was red with smoke again, and the endless screech of blasters and cannon fire filled the air.

It took him a few seconds to realize he wasn’t alone in this strange sense of déjà vu. Just behind him, Soundwave lowered his head slowly, visibly disoriented. His processors hummed as if trying to resync with reality. And just a few steps to the right, Shockwave paused mid-fire, his logic circuits calculating a conflict: the past and the present were blurring together.

Megatron turned in a slow, heavy movement.

And that’s when he saw it.

They were in that battlefield again—the skirmish near the collapsed Iacon corridor where they had once fought a brutal engagement. The memory came like a pulse through his spark: this was the place where he had lost Starscream. Ambushed. Sniped. Vanished.

No trace.

But this time, something burned differently inside him. Something ancient and furious and alive.

His crimson optics flared bright as he spun, optics darting across the terrain. There—on a ridge. A glint of light on armor. A silhouette in the distance.

Megatron didn’t hesitate.

He raised his fusion cannon with more precision than he'd ever summoned and fired.

The blast tore through the smog-choked air like a comet, cracking the sky with its rage. And in the next instant, the sniper—an Autobot in heavy camouflage—crumpled backward in an arc of sparks and smoke, optics extinguished.

Everything paused.

Everything changed.

There was a ripple across the battlefield. Like the timelines were settling—merging. Like something had just corrected itself.

Megatron narrowed his optics. He didn't fully understand what had just occurred. But one thing was clear:

He wasn't going to lose Starscream again.

The very thought tightened something in his chest he’d buried for too long. His vocalizer buzzed alive.

“Decepticons—fall back! Now!”

It wasn’t a retreat of fear. It was a withdrawal to preserve something—someone. Something more important than territory or trophies.

Every Decepticon heard it and obeyed. The air hummed as they disengaged, quickly and efficiently. Shockwave, though confused, followed. Even Soundwave didn’t question it. They knew that tone in Megatron’s voice. That wasn’t a command from a Warlord—it was a cry from something deeper, something that pulsed within his very frame.

Starscream had heard it too.

The Seeker, his slender frame darting through the sky, twisted in a graceful midair spin and unleashed a barrage of precise blasts toward the confused Autobot units. He wasn’t trying to kill. Not this time. He was covering the retreat—his optics aglow, wings sweeping wide like a banner in the wind.

And as he ascended, he looked down.

He saw Optimus Prime, also standing still, expression uncertain—like a mech whose code had just stuttered.

Starscream smirked.

Just enough.

Just a little smirk, sly and sharp and knowing.

Then he vanished into the smoke trails of the Decepticons, leaving the Autobots staring into the haze.

The Nemesis hummed with returning engines and the low metallic clamor of Decepticons filing back into the corridors. The ship’s interior lighting buzzed faintly, flickering in the aftermath of a mission no one truly understood. The very structure of the warship seemed unsettled, like it too was recovering from something that defied logic.

Knockout was the first to break the silence.

The crimson medical officer rubbed his servos down his faceplates with a groan, optics dim from overworked circuits and disoriented programming. “Ugh, what in the Pit was that? I swear, I had the weirdest dream in the middle of that battlefield. Like I was somewhere else, and then—bam!—I’m back holding my scanner.”

He looked around as if expecting laughter, but the others were too shaken for that.

Shockwave, ever the voice of brutal reason, tapped the side of his helm as he walked slowly toward the console. “Highly improbable... and yet, multiple systems show synchronization glitches. Logic dictates that... residual chemical agents or battlefield gases may have caused temporary neurological interference. Hallucinations. Fragmented perception.”

Knockout snorted. “That wasn’t gas, Shocky. That was some spark-deep weirdness.”

A few feet away, Soundwave stood still. Too still.

In his arms, the feline form of Ravage squirmed in awkward protest, his tail flailing and claws lightly tapping against his creator’s plating.

But Soundwave wouldn’t let go.

He held Ravage as if he needed grounding—an anchor in a swirling storm of paradox and memory. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Only his visor flickered faintly, registering internal calculations at a staggering rate, as though he were trying to process a data stream that didn’t exist in any reality he could confirm.

Megatron loomed behind them all.

The Warlord stood tall and silent, scanning the deck from the upper level of the bridge, optics half-lidded but blazing within. His frame was rigid, not from pain or tension—but from restraint. Something heavy curled within his spark, pressing against the wall of denial he’d built for millennia. The battlefield should have been another skirmish in the endless cycle. But it hadn’t been.

Something had changed.

Something had corrected itself.

“Everyone… rest,” Megatron ordered at last, his voice low but heavy with finality. “We are still at war.”

No one questioned him.

One by one, the Decepticons peeled away to their quarters. Knockout muttered about needing a full diagnostic. Shockwave wandered, already drafting a hundred theories. Ravage finally slipped free of Soundwave’s grasp, shaking himself with a low growl before trotting down a hallway.

But Starscream—oh, Starscream—he didn’t leave.

He sauntered.

He didn’t walk past Megatron. He glided. The sleek motion of his chassis made the corridor feel ten degrees hotter. His wings were high and proud, sharp with grace, shimmering in the dull violet lights of the ship’s ceiling. His clawed fingers grazed the wall casually as if he owned the ship—perhaps he always had.

And as he passed Megatron, he didn’t even look at him.

But Megatron felt him.

Felt the familiar energy signature brushing against his own, as intimate as a whispered confession. For the briefest moment, Megatron swore he felt a soft voice inside his audial sensor.

“Be direct, Warlord.”

His vents stalled. His spark skipped a beat.

He turned his head, half-expecting the Seeker to look back, to smirk knowingly. But Starscream didn’t even pause. He kept walking, hips swaying ever so slightly with every step, knowing full well the show he was putting on.

Megatron’s optics narrowed.

The engines in his chest rumbled involuntarily—quietly, but not quietly enough.

Starscream heard.

And he smiled.

Not to Megatron, not to anyone. Just to himself. It was a quiet little smirk, the kind that bloomed when the game was already won, when the board was reset and only one player remembered how the last match ended.

He had all the time in the world now.

And he would wait.

Let Megatron stew. Let him figure it out. Let him pretend he was still in control.

Because Starscream had become the one thing no warlord could ever predict.

Time itself. He was time, he was the keeper and Starscream could wait for all eternity if he want so.

Ans Starscream would wait because he was time itself.