Chapter Text
The base was quieter than usual when they returned. The heavy echo of pedes against the deck plating filled the room as the Autobots split to their tasks under Ultra Magnus’s clipped instructions. The datapad had been placed carefully on the main console, its screen still glowing faintly with the Decepticon sigil that marked its origin.
“Wheeljack,” Magnus’s tone cut through the silence, precise as always, “I want you to uncover everything this datapad contains. Every file. Every subroutine. Any scrap of intelligence could shift this war in our favor.”
Wheeljack saluted loosely with a smirk under his mask. “On it, boss-bot. If there’s anything buried in there, you know I’ll dig it out.” His servo already hovered over the datapad as though itching to tear it apart.
Across the room, Ratchet was hunched over the medical station, the cluster of Pupila flowers spread delicately across sterilized trays. His servos moved with the grace of an old artisan, petals and stems harvested carefully, their soft glow fading as he converted the raw matter into liquid energon. The process was painstaking, but the result—bright, crystalline cubes filling steadily one after another—brought a small exhale of relief to his frame.
“This will keep us supplied for weeks,” Ratchet murmured, almost reverently, optics catching the blue gleam in the cubes. “Primus knows, we need the stability.”
Smokescreen leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed but helm tilted proudly. “See? Told you those flowers were worth something. War or not, we can’t just let a miracle like that rot in a cave.” His words carried more confidence now, a soft grin tugging his mouthplates. He hadn’t forgotten that Ultra Magnus, of all mechs, had shielded him from Optimus’s temper earlier. The validation warmed his field.
On the far side of the room, Bumblebee still buzzed quietly, flicking nervous glances toward Arcee and Elita-One. The two femmes were working together at a console, their frames tense, fields tightly shielded. Bee leaned closer, his chirps high and questioning.
“C’mon, what did you two see back there? You didn’t let me look. It wasn’t just flowers and sparklings, was it?”
Elita’s optics snapped up, wide and sharp. “No, Bumblebee.” Her voice cracked with more force than she intended, and Arcee flinched beside her.
Bee reeled back, plating twitching in hurt surprise. His field pulsed confusion, worry. “But… why? What’s so bad you can’t even tell me?”
Neither femme answered. Arcee’s vents cycled harder, shame burning in her spark. She remembered too vividly the intimate image, Starscream collapsed in that metal chair, chassis open, three hungry protoforms latched to his spark. His exhaustion. His fragility. His life in its rawest form. Something so private it had felt like a violation just to witness it.
Before Bee could press again, Wheeljack’s voice cut through the tension. He leaned back from the datapad, servos spread wide as if to declare his findings.
“Uh… Magnus? You’re not gonna like this.”
Magnus stiffened. “Report.”
Wheeljack tapped the datapad’s screen. “I’ve combed through every single directory, every locked subfolder. There’s nothing military here. No tactical data. No Decepticon command logs. No battle maps.”
Optimus turned sharply, his looming frame moving closer. “Impossible. The pad was active, connected to their network. Surely it must contain—”
“—Nothing,” Wheeljack interrupted, a shrug rolling through his armor. “No classified files, no encrypted lines. Just… Starscream’s personal storage.”
A stunned silence fell.
“Personal,” Magnus repeated, voice heavy.
“Yeah.” Wheeljack’s field flickered with discomfort, optics narrowing as he scrolled through what was available. “Scientific notes, private research logs, med-scans of his frame, charts for the growth of three protoforms… and, uh… a ridiculous amount of photos and vids. Domestic stuff. Sparkling feedings, playtime, naps.” He hesitated, glancing toward Arcee and Elita, who both stiffened visibly. “Even medical data on himself and his sparklings. It’s basically… his private archive. A family datapad.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of realization pressed down on the room like a smothering hand.
Ultra Magnus’s field darkened. His lips curled in a grim line as he drew himself taller, armor flaring with restrained frustration. “So we risked exposure, diverted resources, for a device that contains no actionable intelligence?”
“Not unless you want to launch a war effort with baby pictures,” Wheeljack muttered under his breath, though the humor didn’t reach his optics.
Smokescreen straightened at that, helm tilting. “But… wait. Doesn’t that say more than actual intel would? Megatron’s second-in-command—or his conjunx, I guess—was documenting sparkling growth, not battle strategies. That datapad is proof of something they’re trying to hide. A life they’re trying to protect.”
Ratchet finally turned from his energon station, cube still glowing in his servo. His face was hard, tired, but his optics softened with thought. “Smokescreen isn’t wrong. In fact, that datapad may be more valuable than military codes. It is evidence that Megatron and Starscream have forged bonds deeper than war—sparkbonded, conjunx, with young. That datapad isn’t just private; it’s intimate. And if it remains linked to their network, it will keep showing us glimpses of their truth.”
Elita exchanged a glance with Arcee, both femmes caught between unease and reluctant agreement.
Ultra Magnus’s vents flared sharply. “Regardless, it is not the weapon I expected. It has no direct strategic worth. Wheeljack, continue to monitor it for connection activity. Ratchet, catalogue those energon cubes. The rest of you—stand down.” His voice was clipped, but underneath, his field rippled with something dangerously close to disappointment.
Optimus lingered in silence, helm bowed. His optics stayed fixed on the datapad, its faint hum filling the room, a fragile lifeline from enemy hands. His spark felt heavy with conflict. No intelligence. No victory. Only the revelation that the warlord he had fought for vorns was not only bonded but a sire.
And worse—Starscream, once written off as a manipulator, a traitor, a coward—appeared in those files as something entirely different. A scientist. A creator. A parent.
At the Autobot base, Optimus Prime stood apart from the others, optics dimmed, his field shuttered tightly around his spark. Wheeljack’s words still echoed: no military data, no tactical advantage… just Starscream’s private datapad.
He warred with himself. The commander in him whispered that any weakness of the enemy was a weapon. A sire, a bondmate, sparklings—those were vulnerabilities he could exploit. But the mech beneath the armor, the one who still remembered Cybertron before war, recoiled violently at the thought. To use the innocence of younglings, to turn the intimate data of a family into battlefield leverage… it went against every principle he had sworn to uphold. His hands curled into fists, his plating pressing painfully against his spark chamber as the battle raged within him.
And while Optimus fought with his conscience, far away in the Decepticon stronghold, another battle was taking place.
Megatron slumped into the vast chair of his and Starscream’s private quarters, the weight of the war pressing on him as surely as his own massive frame pressed against the metal seat. The battlefield had offered no satisfaction today, only retreat, and the endless gnaw of frustration lingered in his vents. But it was not Autobots that tested him most tonight—it was his sparklings.
Three small protoforms,optics bright with energy, refused to recharge no matter how sternly he commanded or how patiently he guided. They clambered, chirped, argued among themselves, their high-pitched voices bouncing off the high walls of the chamber. Each of them carried a fraction of his strength and more than a fraction of Starscream’s fire. To keep them still long enough to initiate recharge was harder than facing a squadron of Autobots.
Their own quarter was built directly beside the conjunxes’, a smaller chamber softened with blankets, low lights, toys made of hammered alloys shaped like beasts and warriors. Yet tonight, none of those comforts worked. They returned, again and again, to their sire’s and carrier’s chamber, their fields buzzing with refusal.
Megatron sat there, helm tipped back against the chair, optics shuttered as his vents drew in deep, ragged pulls. His broad servos hung loosely at his sides, massive shoulders sagging under invisible weight. His armor—battle-scarred, smeared with faint traces of dust from earlier skirmishes—rattled with each exhale.
It was then that Starscream, slender and graceful even after the long day, crossed the chamber. He studied Megatron for a moment, keen optics catching the tension in his mate’s frame, the heaviness in his vents. He said nothing at first, simply approached with the fluidity of a Seeker accustomed to silence.
Then, carefully, Starscream lowered himself into Megatron’s lap. The contrast was stark—his lighter, streamlined frame folding into the massive bulk of the warlord. He curled there, taloned fingers resting lightly on Megatron’s chest plating, helm tilting to study his mate’s wearied face.
“Are you well?” Starscream’s voice was soft, a coaxing murmur rather than his usual sharpness. There was concern in it, threaded with affection, the kind of tone he reserved for no one else but the mech beneath him.
Megatron opened his optics slowly, the crimson glow dimmed with exhaustion. He looked down at Starscream, at the seeker who had chosen him despite everything, who carried their sparklings into existence, who now sat with effortless intimacy on his lap. For a moment, some of the sharpness in his field eased.
“I have fought Autobots all day,” Megatron rumbled, voice low and rasping, “yet I find myself defeated here—in my own quarters, by three who share my spark.”
Starscream’s lips curled into the faintest smile, his optics glimmering with amusement. His clawed fingertips traced idle lines along Megatron’s chestplate. “Of course you are defeated. You try to order them to recharge as though they were soldiers. They are sparklings, Megatron, not warriors on the field.”
“They should be still.” His voice was gruff, but the edge was dulled. “Their refusal tests my patience.”
Starscream leaned in, pressing his helm lightly against the side of Megatron’s, wings arching high and trembling faintly with exhaustion of his own. “And yet, they test it because they are yours. Strong. Stubborn. Relentless.” His tone softened further, almost teasing. “Much like their sire.”
Megatron’s mouthplates twitched, something caught between a scowl and reluctant humor. His servos finally lifted, wrapping around Starscream’s waist, pulling the Seeker closer until their sparks aligned, pulsing faintly through their armor.
“They will not sleep,” he muttered, almost sulking.
“Then,” Starscream whispered, optics lidding as he leaned closer, “perhaps they need more than orders. Perhaps they need their sire… and their carrier. Together.”
From the adjoining chamber came another peal of childish laughter, the thump of small pedes against the floor, and the soft metallic clatter of a toy being dropped. The sparklings were not going to tire on their own.
Starscream sighed against Megatron’s frame but smiled faintly. “Come. Let us both try.”
For a long moment, Megatron simply held him there, drawing strength from the presence pressed so close against him, the slender form that somehow grounded his fury. Then, slowly, he nodded, rising from the chair with Starscream still in his arms.
The great warlord carried his mate toward the sparkling chamber, not as a commander marching to battle, but as a sire stepping into the quiet war of parenthood.
The younglings’ chamber—built directly against the quarters Megatron and Starscream shared—was supposed to be a place of rest. But at this hour, it was anything but. Four stellar cycles old, the triplets had endless fuel in their tanks and absolutely no interest in recharge.
Nitrostorm darted across the floor like a bolt, legs pumping as if the room itself were an arena. “Race! I win!” he shouted, slamming into the berth frame with a clang loud enough to make Starscream wince from the doorway.
Blightstorm, heavier and slower but stubborn to his spark, yelled back, “You cheated! I wasn’t ready!” He barreled after his brother, tripped on a toy cube, and went down with a thud—but popped up laughing, optics bright with determination.
On the berth, Breakstorm knelt with her little arms stretched wide, wings flapping furiously. She squealed, “I’m flying! Look! Look!” and launched herself off the edge. For a terrifying instant her wings flared—beautiful, metallic, helpless—and then she crashed into her brothers with a shriek of laughter. The three went down in a tangled heap of limbs and vents.
Megatron pinched his nose ridge, leaning back into the massive chair in the adjoining room. “I have subdued entire legions,” he muttered darkly, “and yet three sparklings reduce me to defeat.”
Starscream, ever graceful even in exhaustion, padded into the chaos and folded his arms. His wings flicked once, betraying both his fondness and his frustration. “I warned you, didn’t I? Conquering an empire is nothing compared to coaxing recharge out of them.”
Nitrostorm scrambled up first, tugging insistently at Megatron’s pede. “Sire! Story! You promised! The gladiator one!” His voice carried all the authority of a sparkling certain he deserved the world.
“Not tonight,” Megatron growled—but still bent down, scooping the boy effortlessly into the crook of his arm. Nitrostorm beamed in triumph, tucking his head beneath his sire’s massive chinplate as if he had already won the evening.
Blightstorm stomped forward next, arms full of his favorite toy—a battered old plush with one optic missing. “You can’t keep him all to yourself!” he protested, lip plates scrunched in indignation. “It’s my turn!”
Breakstorm followed quickly, tugging on her sire’s massive finger joints. “Me too! Me too!” she chirped, wings flapping uselessly as she tried to climb up. Her frame was smaller than her brothers’, voice high and insistent. “Sire, I wanna sit too!”
Starscream intervened before Megatron could growl again. He swept Breakstorm up in his own arms, pressing her close against his cockpit. “There now, my little star,” he soothed, brushing a talon gently over her helm. “Your wings are still new. They need rest if you ever wish to fly for real.”
Breakstorm pouted, wings fluttering against his chassis. “But I can fly,” she argued stubbornly, optics wide and hopeful.
Starscream’s spark ached at the earnestness in her tone. He nuzzled the top of her helm with infinite care. “Not yet. But soon. And until then…” he shifted her against his shoulder, “…you will soar here, with me.”
Megatron sank to the reinforced floor at last, his enormous frame a wall of presence that the younglings instinctively clustered against. Nitrostorm curled into the crook of his arm, finally content. Blightstorm slumped heavily against his sire’s leg, clutching his plush until his optics blinked slowly.
Starscream lowered himself opposite, Breakstorm tucked safe in his embrace, little wings twitching with every drowsy vent. She fussed once, murmured something about wanting to fly tomorrow, and then stilled when Starscream hummed low, a soft Cybertronian lull that vibrated through her frame.
Silence crept in at last. Only the steady thrum of sparks—two deep, resonant, and three small, unsteady but strong—filled the chamber.
Starscream glanced across the sleepy tangle, his voice pitched just for Megatron. “See? No commands. No bribes. They only need us near.”
Megatron met his gaze, optics dimmed with exhaustion, and reached across the space to brush his mate’s waist with a heavy servo. “You make it sound simple.”
Starscream’s lips curved with weary smugness. “It is simple. You just refuse to listen.”
And for once, Megatron did not argue. He leaned back, allowing himself the rarest luxury: peace. Starscream close by, and their three children finally, blissfully at rest.
The long night finally gave way to the first dim light of a new cycle. In the Decepticon stronghold, silence was rare, but within the private wing reserved for the warlord and his conjunx, it had been peaceful—at least until the sparklings awoke.
As always, the triplets rose first. They stirred from their own berth chamber with energy reserves fully charged, small voices filling the hallway before any adult frame had so much as shifted. Nitrostorm darted out the door first, followed by Blightstorm with his steady thudding peds, and Breakstorm fluttered after them, her little wings twitching uselessly as she half-stumbled, half-ran to keep up.
The first thing they always wanted was their creators.
Nitrostorm pushed on the massive doors to Megatron and Starscream’s quarters until they groaned open, the sound enough to make Starscream stir faintly where he lay pressed against Megatron’s chassis. The warlord didn’t move—his recharge was ironclad—but Starscream twitched, wings fluttering in irritation even in sleep.
Blightstorm grinned wide. “Wake them up!” he whispered, far too loud to be a whisper at all.
Breakstorm, determined to do better than yesterday, scrambled toward the huge command chair at the far side of the chamber. It dwarfed her frame, metal so massive she had to enlist Nitrostorm’s help to climb it. He braced his little servos beneath her pede joints and shoved her upward, grunting with effort until she managed to haul herself onto the seat. From there, she was queen of the room.
And right there on the armrest, glittering faintly in the low light, sat Starscream’s personal datapad.
Breakstorm gasped as though she had uncovered a treasure hoard. “It’s here!” she squealed, snatching it up with both hands. The device was far too big for her, so she clutched it awkwardly to her chest and then fumbled to activate it. The screen flickered alive with a glow that illuminated her wide, eager optics.
“Call him, call him!” Nitrostorm demanded, bouncing up and down at the base of the chair. “So he sees! So he sees us wake him up!”
Breakstorm’s tiny talons danced across the interface, utterly heedless of the encryption protocols her sire thought impenetrable. To the child, it was a toy—she pressed icons at random until the familiar channel opened, the one Starscream always used to record their antics. She chirped happily, “It’s on!” and aimed the datapad toward her brothers.
Nitrostorm launched himself at the berth, clambering up the covers until he was practically standing on Starscream’s cockpit glass. “Wake up, creator! The sun is UP!”
Blightstorm, slower but no less determined, took a running start and slammed into Megatron’s side with all the force his little frame could muster. The warlord groaned low, a sound like tectonic plates grinding, but still refused to rise.
Breakstorm giggled, wings fluttering wildly. “Smile for the camera!” she squealed, catching the entire scene.
What none of them realized was that the datapad had done more than just record. By the accident of sparkling hands, Breakstorm had triggered a secondary sync command—one that reached outward through Starscream’s private codes, threading through subspace channels until it linked with a very different datapad.
Miles away, in the Autobot base, Wheeljack’s console blared to life. He nearly fell backward in his chair, tools clattering off the workbench. “What in the pit—?” His optics widened as data streamed across his screen, matching perfectly with the encryption on the recovered pad they’d found in the energon cave.
Ironhide, pacing nearby, jerked around at the sound. “What is it now, ‘Jack?”
Wheeljack jabbed at the console, jaw hanging open. “The datapad—it’s on. It just lit up and linked itself. It’s active right now.”
Ironhide swore under his vents, already slamming his fist against the comms panel. “High Command needs to hear this. Now.”
Within breems, the urgent call pinged across frequencies, dragging Ultra Magnus, Ratchet, and Optimus Prime out of their cycle of recharge.
Back in the Decepticon quarters, completely unaware of the storm brewing on the other side of the war, Starscream stirred finally under the weight of Nitrostorm’s insistent bouncing. His optics flickered online, field hazy with the pull of deep rest. He groaned, wings twitching violently. “Primus, not so loud—”
Nitrostorm shoved the datapad in his face triumphantly. “We recorded it! We did it! Breakstorm called you!”
Starscream’s optics focused—and widened. His datapad was on. Recording. Live.
And elsewhere, deep in Autobot hands, every scrap of domestic life—his children, his mate, his vulnerabilities—was beginning to pour into their systems without they even knowing about it.
The feed came alive with a clarity that was almost cruel.
On the main tactical screen of the Autobot base, Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, Prowl, and Jazz sat rigid, optics locked on the unfolding images. None of them had expected the datapad’s encryption to open into this. They had braced for coordinates of weapons caches, or intelligence reports, or evidence of Decepticon cruelty.
Instead, what they saw was a private world never meant for enemy optics.
The camera feed wobbled as the little femme’s hands clutched Starscream’s datapad too tightly, but it steadied enough to show the inside of the most forbidden place on Cybertron: Megatron’s private quarters.
It was not what any of them expected.
The chamber was vast, almost cathedral-like in its proportions, but not gaudy. One corner was arranged with a heavy metal table and chair, datapads stacked in perfect order, maps pinned down with weights, and ink-markings scrawled where battle lines had been shifted and altered. On the wall above hung a single flag: the Decepticon symbol, etched in proud lilac. It was both a war-room and a home.
And in the center of the room—the berth.
A colossal structure of dark alloy, swathed in thick coverings, where the warlord and his conjunx lay entangled. Megatron’s massive frame sprawled against the cushions, half-buried in the blanket, while Starscream lay pressed alongside him, wings slack with sleep.
The sparklings, however, had no mercy.
The feed shook as the little femme climbed higher, datapad clutched like a trophy. Her chirping voice rang through the base’s speakers.
“Wake up! Wake up!”
“Primus above,” Jazz muttered under his vents, optics wide.
Magnus’s mouth worked silently, unable to reconcile the image of his sworn enemies with the domestic, almost tender reality before him.
On the screen, Starscream stirred first. His wings twitched violently, his optics only half online. His voice, soft with drowsiness, slipped out without thought: “The triplets are awake…”
Optimus felt his vents catch. He had never once heard that tone from Starscream—not sharp, not biting, not ambitious, but simply… tired. Almost fond.
Megatron answered with a guttural grunt, dragging the blanket over his head like a fortress. The little ones were unimpressed.
Blightstorm, sturdy and relentless, launched himself bodily onto Megatron’s chassis. The impact made the entire berth shudder. “Sire! Sire, I’m hungry! I want my cube with copper! Extra copper this time!” His voice was high, insistent, and utterly fearless in a way no soldier ever dared to be with the Decepticon leader.
The warlord’s low growl vibrated through the speakers. “Back to recharge…” he rumbled, muffled by the covers.
But the reprieve lasted only a klik. Nitrostorm scrambled up next, nearly tripping over his own plating in his haste to climb. “Me too! I want iron! Big pieces! Not the little ones!” He clambered on top of his sire, adding his weight to his brother’s in a heap of sparkling limbs and unrelenting demands.
Starscream groaned, rubbing at his optics, wings flickering with irritation. “Primus, they’ll smother you before they starve you.” His tone was dry, but there was no malice—only the weary humor of a creator long accustomed to chaos.
From behind the datapad, Breakstorm’s voice rang out with indignation. “Crude!” she snapped at her brothers. “You don’t know anything about taste! My cube should be pure! Pure energon, no scraps. That’s how you keep the flavor perfect.”
Her wings buzzed with righteous determination, and the datapad wobbled wildly in her grip as she tried to steady the recording.
The Autobots watching were utterly silent.
Jazz was the first to break it, though his voice was hushed, almost reverent. “They’re just… kids.”
Prowl’s optics narrowed, calculations running wild behind his visor. His voice came out strained. “Children… in Megatron’s private care. This changes… everything.”
Magnus, however, was still staring, incredulous. “Megatron. With sparklings. With Starscream.” He shook his helm as if to clear it. “This cannot be real. This must be staged.”
But Optimus didn’t speak. His optics lingered on Starscream’s frame, on the way his wings trembled when he tried to sit up, on the way his hand automatically reached for the nearest child to steady him. There was no guile there, no performance. This was private, raw, and uncalculated.
It was not the face of war. It was the face of family.
And the Autobots were watching it live, trespassing into a sanctuary they had never been meant to see.
The Autobots remained frozen in place as the feed continued, showing the kind of morning chaos no soldier on the battlefield would ever associate with their greatest enemies.
Megatron finally gave in with a guttural rumble, dragging himself upright on the massive berth. His sheer weight shifted the mattress, and the twins who had clambered onto him—Nitrostorm and Blightstorm—tumbled sideways with little yelps, rolling down to the berth’s edge in a sprawl of tangled limbs.
“Serves you both right,” Starscream muttered, voice still thick with sleep, though his tone was more wry than scolding. His wings twitched and folded closer to his frame as he stretched, vents opening wide for a yawn he couldn’t suppress. The sound came out almost delicate compared to his sire’s thunderous presence.
Breakstorm burst into peals of laughter from where she perched, datapad clutched victoriously. “Creator, you sound like you’re going to fall back asleep mid-yawn!” she teased, her voice piping with unrestrained mirth.
Starscream flicked a sharp glance at her, but it was softened by the faint, reluctant quirk of his mouthplates. He reached for the blanket draped across the berth, folded it with obsessive precision—crisp edges, no creases—before rising to place it neatly into a closet carved into the wall. Even in the chaos of sparklings at dawn, his habits of meticulous order showed through.
The datapad wobbled in Breakstorm’s grip as she turned it toward Megatron. “Show Sire! Show him now, look!” she squealed into the feed, her voice shrill with excitement as she framed her sire on the recording.
Megatron was already at the tall cabinet on the opposite side of the quarters. With a grunt, he swung open the heavy doors, revealing shelves lined with energon cubes and smaller containers of refined metals and additives. The warlord, who had once leveled cities with his bare hands, now selected ingredients with a patience that looked almost surreal on him. He set down three cubes on the counter, poured from the main energon supply with careful precision, and began adding the extras.
“Copper for Blightstorm,” he muttered, taloned fingers dropping shavings into one cube. He reached for a second container. “Iron for Nitrostorm.” The chunks clinked against the inside as he stirred. Then finally, for the third, he lifted nothing but the raw cube itself, unadulterated and glowing with soft blue light. His crimson optics softened minutely as he set it aside. “And pure for Breakstorm. As always.”
The Autobots watched the domestic ritual in silence. Prowl’s processors spun furiously, cataloguing details, while Jazz leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. Ultra Magnus’s jaw was tight with disbelief.
Onscreen, Breakstorm giggled, clearly delighted. She carefully wedged the datapad against a pillow at the berth’s edge, propping it up so the image now captured her and her brothers. The younglings sat in a neat row upon the vast berth, little pedes swinging, optics wide with anticipation as they waited.
Starscream returned to sit beside them, smoothing back Breakstorm’s helm-fins with an absent touch of one claw. His wings settled in a loose curve behind him, no longer tense. The triplets crowded close, chirping with impatience, glancing between the datapad and their sire across the chamber.
Finally, Megatron turned, carrying the three cubes in both hands. His presence filled the room, towering over them, but in that moment he was not the conqueror of Cybertron—just a sire delivering breakfast.
He handed the copper-laced cube to Blightstorm first, who accepted it with both little hands and immediately began sipping noisily. Then the iron-heavy one to Nitrostorm, who grinned up at him before burying his mouth in the glow. Lastly, he knelt slightly to place the pure cube in Breakstorm’s waiting hands. She beamed, optics bright, and lifted it like a treasure before taking her first careful sip.
The chamber was filled with soft slurps and little hums of contentment, three sparklings happily fueling up under the watchful optics of their creators.
In the Autobot base, the silence was deafening.
Jazz broke it first, his tone hushed, as if afraid speaking too loud would shatter the fragile image. “Well slag me sideways… that’s family. That’s what we’re looking at.”
Magnus’s mouth opened and closed before words finally emerged, stiff with disbelief. “Megatron. Preparing energon for… younglings. With Starscream beside him.” He shook his helm. “This is not… this is not a weapon cache. This is not intelligence.”
“It is more dangerous,” Prowl said quietly, visor glinting. “It is proof. Proof of what they protect. What they will fight to protect.” His tone was heavy, each word weighed. “This… changes the calculus of everything.”
But Optimus said nothing. His optics stayed fixed on the screen, on the image of Starscream’s claws adjusting Breakstorm’s grip on the cube so she didn’t spill, on the way Megatron’s massive hand lingered on Nitrostorm’s helm as the youngling drank greedily. His spark ached with the sight.
This was not war. This was not cruelty.
This was life.
And the Autobots were intruders here, watching something fragile and private that should never have been theirs to see.
Optimus had leaned forward in his chair, one heavy servo raised as he prepared to order Wheeljack to cut the feed. This was too much—too personal, too invasive. It felt like spying into a sanctum that no soldier, not even a Prime, had the right to intrude upon.
But he never got the words out.
Onscreen, Starscream had shifted, wings fluttering softly behind him as he leaned closer to Megatron, voice carrying with a clarity that immediately sharpened every processor in the Autobot command center. The younglings, still clutching their energon cubes and sipping with noisy delight, were perched in a half-circle around their creators, optics wide as though the discussion of daily plans was the most fascinating story in existence.
Starscream’s tone was brisk now, efficient. “We need to reinforce security in the western mine, Sector D-12. Scouts confirmed the presence of raw crimson crystal energon in the lower veins. If the Autobots discover it before we’ve extracted, we risk losing the entire claim. I won’t have it falling into their hands—not even a fragment.”
Megatron’s head tilted slightly as he listened, massive hands folded across his knees. His field, once languid with the weight of early recharge, now tightened with command. He nodded once, decisive. “Agreed. The mine is too valuable to risk. I will have Soundwave coordinate a rotation for guard shifts. No interruption. No distraction. The crystals will be moved off-site before the week is out.”
Blightstorm, cube halfway drained, chirped up around a mouthful, “D-12? Is that near the lake?”
Starscream gave him a sharp look, but softened when he realized the datapad was still angled toward the sparklings. “Not near enough for you to concern yourself,” he replied, wings flicking in faint exasperation. “Finish your cube before it destabilizes.”
Nitrostorm giggled, elbowing his brother, “Told you it wasn’t near the lake! You always think everything is near the lake.”
Breakstorm rolled her optics dramatically, sipping her pure cube with exaggerated grace. “Both of you are ridiculous. If you listened, you’d know the mine was in the western cliffs, not anywhere near the water.” She lifted her chin proudly, pleased with her superior grasp of their carrier’s words.
Megatron’s lips curved almost imperceptibly at her precision. “She listens, at least,” he said, amusement in the low timbre of his voice, before turning his gaze back to Starscream. “Draw up a rotation plan with Soundwave’s assistance. I want heavy arms stationed at every access tunnel. If the Autobots press, we will collapse the entrances and preserve the core veins.”
Starscream inclined his helm, already mentally composing the logistics. “I’ll mark it on the tactical chart. By the time they realize the deposit exists, it will already belong to us.”
Inside the Autobot command hub, the reaction was electric.
Ultra Magnus had gone rigid, every line of his armor locked as he leaned forward, optics blazing. “Did you hear that? A crimson energon vein in Sector D-12.” His voice was taut with urgency, already moving toward tactical recalculation. “This is actionable intelligence. We cannot allow the Decepticons to extract it unchecked. Crimson energon in their possession would—”
“—tip the balance,” Prowl finished, visor flashing as his processor raced. His tone was clipped, analytical. “They’ll likely reinforce the site within the cycle. If Soundwave is implementing the rotation, we’ll need precise counter-schedules to slip an infiltration unit past.”
Jazz whistled low, optics still glued to the screen. “Primus. They’re just—talkin’ tactics—like the sparklings ain’t right there drinkin’ their morning energon. Y’see this? Like it’s just another day.”
“It is another day, for them,” Ratchet said roughly, his voice more gravel than usual. “That’s what you’re lookin’ at. War as routine. Strategy spoken around the table like—like breakfast.” He exvented sharply, guilt pressing heavy across his field.
Optimus said nothing yet. His gaze was still fixed on the datapad feed, where Starscream had risen again, moving with graceful efficiency toward the table where the maps and datapads were arrayed. He lifted one, marked with bold lines across Sector D-12, and spread it flat so Megatron could see. The sparklings craned their little necks to watch, optics darting between glowing red marks they didn’t fully understand.
“Here,” Starscream tapped the chart, his claws leaving faint scratches on the holo-map. “If we fortify the southern ridge, it will cover the weakest access point. Collapse charges should be set in both the secondary shafts—here and here.”
Megatron leaned forward, optics narrowing in concentration. “Sound. With proper timing, even if the Autobots discover the mine, they’ll only find rubble.”
The sparklings whispered among themselves, their small voices carrying in counterpoint to the gravity of war.
“Think they’ll let us go to the mine someday?” Nitrostorm asked, dreamy with imagination.
“No,” Breakstorm answered instantly, her tone imperious. “It’s dangerous. But maybe when we’re older.”
Blightstorm’s mouth was smeared faintly with energon, cube clutched like a prize. “I’ll guard it! I’ll guard it when I’m big, you’ll see.”
Starscream turned sharply, wings twitching. “You will do no such thing,” he said, his voice edged but not cruel. His optics softened almost at once, as though aware of the little feed still recording. He sighed, folding the datapad closed with finality. “Now finish your cubes and rinse, before your Sire and I discuss anything else. This is not your concern.”
The feed cut to static.
The silence that followed in the Autobot hub was suffocating.
Optimus finally exvented, voice grave and low. “We have confirmation of the mine. And confirmation of what is at stake.” He turned, gaze sweeping over his officers, finally resting on Magnus. “The information is invaluable. But so is what we just saw. We are not only fighting soldiers, Magnus. We are fighting… parents.”
Magnus’s jaw tightened, hands curling into fists. “That does not change the necessity of striking the mine.”
Optimus’s gaze darkened. “No. But it changes everything else.”
The silence that had settled over the berth was broken only by the soft clinks of energon cubes being placed into a small dumpster at the edge of the room. Starscream’s datapad, still balanced precariously on the corner of the berth, had resumed its recording without warning, capturing every little movement of the sparklings as they moved across the floor.
Ratchet’s voice rang out, sharp and precise: “Enough chatter. You two—quiet. That datapad is still recording.”
The younglings paused mid-step, tiny optics darting toward the source of the command. Blightstorm nudged Nitrostorm with a mischievous elbow, while Breakstorm crouched, watching the cleaning drone emerge from its panel in the wall. Its mechanical arms swept through the dumpster, collecting the empty energon cubes with efficient precision.
The sparklings crowded near the small opening, craning their heads to peek through the hole left by the departing drone, but the panel clicked shut almost immediately, leaving only the faint hum of recycling mechanisms behind. Nitrostorm whined softly, trying to prod the closed slot with a tiny claw. “I want to see! Why’d it go?”
Breakstorm shook her head, amused despite herself. “It’s cleaning. Nothing to see. Let’s move before it zaps us by accident.”
Starscream, watching from the berth, leaned back slightly, a soft sigh escaping his helm. “I still need to find a safe place for you three,” he murmured to Megatron, optics briefly flicking toward his conjunx. “Breakstorm is almost ready to start learning to fly, and the area must be large, secure, and—most importantly—safe. Nitrostorm and Blightstorm need to train with her as well; they are grounders, and they must learn the terrain if they’re not to hurt themselves while turning.”
Megatron’s massive frame shifted slightly, the servo of his shoulders flexing as he considered the words. “And the Alt-mods?” he asked, voice low but carrying authority.
Starscream’s helm tilted in acknowledgment. “Not chosen yet. But I am gathering vehicle materials now. By the end of this week, we will have the components for every type of Alt-mod. They will be able to choose one, scan it, and begin familiarizing themselves. Precision is important, especially for Breakstorm—her flight controls must be flawless, and the grounders must master all terrain types.”
The sparklings, oblivious to the full weight of the conversation, chattered quietly among themselves as they examined the floor and the room, their small claws tapping lightly against the smooth metal. Breakstorm occasionally glanced at her sire, sensing the gravity of his words, but still curious, eager to explore.
Starscream straightened slightly, voice soft but firm. “By the time the week is over, they will each have their chosen forms. And once they do, training begins in earnest.”
Megatron’s optics softened, just a fraction, as he glanced down at the trio. “Then we prepare. Whatever is required, they will be ready.”
The sparklings, now clustered around the emptied dumpster, squeaked in unison, their small voices echoing lightly across the quiet room. Breakstorm tilted her head to one side, whispering, “I think I want to try flying first…”
Starscream’s wings flexed lightly behind him, a proud but protective sweep. “And you will. When the time is right, we will begin, carefully. But until then, patience is your ally.”
Megatron, settling deeper into the berth, crossed his massive arms. “Patience, yes. And guidance. We will see them grow strong—and safe. No mistakes.”
The room fell silent again, except for the soft whir of the recycling drone and the faint tap-tap-tap of small claws on the floor, the sparklings already imagining the skies and terrains they would someday master.
The morning light filtered through the high windows of Megatron and Starscream’s private quarter, glinting across polished metal floors and the carefully arranged furnishings that had become both home and sanctuary for the younglings. Breakstorm, Nitrostorm, and Blightstorm were gathered in the center of the room, small optics sparkling with determination and excitement.
Breakstorm, her voice bright and full of energy, bounced on her toes—or rather, the small thrusters in her legs, still learning to stabilize her weight. “I want to be a jet!” she declared, fists clenched and eyes shining. “Just like my Carrier!”
Nitrostorm puffed out his chest, trying to look imposing despite his small stature. “I want to be a tank,” he said firmly, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and ambition. “Big. Strong. Like Tarn. One day, I’ll be bigger than Sire and stronger than him!”
Megatron, reclining slightly on the edge of the huge berth, let out a low hum of approval, optics gleaming with pride. He shifted his bulk, leaning forward so his massive hands could rest lightly on the floor near the sparklings.
Blightstorm, however, seemed quieter, his gaze flicking down for a moment as if weighing his words. Finally, in a voice that was almost hushed, like he were speaking in a dungeon, he said, “I… I want to be a rescue vehicle. My sister will dominate the skies, Nitrostorm will dominate the earth, and I… I want to be a doctor. Someone has to take care of us if we get hurt.”
The confession hung in the air, heavy and reverent. Starscream, kneeling to bring his optics to their level, looked at the small grounder with warmth and unshakable pride. “You can be whoever you want to be,” he said softly, voice a comforting rumble. “Your spark belongs to you—and only you. No one else decides who you will become.”
Blightstorm’s optics widened, glowing a brighter amber as a radiant smile broke across his face. He pressed himself a little closer to Starscream’s knees, feeling both accepted and celebrated for his choice.
Megatron, still seated but leaning forward, whispered under his breath, a touch of humor and disbelief in his tone, “Knock Out… not the best choice for a teacher. Or Hook. Or any other medical Decepticon we’ve got…” His massive shoulders shook slightly as a rumbling chuckle escaped him.
Starscream glanced at him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his visor. “Let them dream,” he said quietly. “And guide them. But never force their spark. That is the sacred part of who they are.”
The younglings beamed at their parents, their small forms brimming with excitement and the innocent confidence of being believed in, their futures wide open. Breakstorm twitched her wings experimentally, Nitrostorm flexed tiny fists that seemed too small for his aspirations, and Blightstorm leaned into the warmth of Starscream’s presence, heartened that his desire to heal was valid and worthy.
Megatron shook his head slightly, a soft rumble of pride escaping him. “Well,” he said, voice low but full of awe, “if they grow like this… they may very well surpass both of us, in their own ways.”
Starscream chuckled, the sound gentle and full of love, “Then we will be ready to support them, every step of the way. The skies, the earth, and the care of others—our children will claim them all.”
The sparklings, sensing the quiet reverence of the moment, huddled together briefly, then scattered back across the floor, eyes bright, dreams forming, and sparks alive with purpose. The quarter was filled with warmth, laughter, and the sense that the small trio already carried the weight of greatness within them.
Back at the Autobot base, the room was silent for several heartbeats after Wheeljack had finished replaying the latest live feed from the datapad. Optimus, Ultra Magnus, Prowl, and Jazz were frozen, optics wide as they took in the scene: Starscream kneeling, patiently encouraging the sparklings, Megatron carefully preparing energy cubes, and the three younglings animatedly declaring their futures.
But it wasn’t the sight of Starscream alive or the carefree domesticity that struck Ratchet hardest. It was the words of the small amber-eyed grounder:
“I… I want to be a doctor. Someone has to take care of us if we get hurt.”
Ratchet’s optics nearly short-circuited on the spot. He staggered backward a step, claw hovering over a console for support, utterly unprepared for the weight of what he had just heard.
“By Primus…” he breathed, voice trembling with a mix of awe and disbelief. “He… one of Megatron’s sparklings… wants to be a medic?”
Optimus Prime’s optics flicked to Ratchet, calm but curious. “Yes, Ratchet. It appears Blightstorm has already chosen his path.”
Elita-One tilted her head, soft voice carrying a mixture of wonder and caution. “It’s… incredible. He doesn’t even hesitate. The ambition, the responsibility… it’s unlike anything we’ve seen in a youngling.”
Bumblebee, hovering nearby, beeped in excitement. “You mean… he wants to take care of bots? Even… you know… like Autobot medics?”
Ratchet’s hands flexed nervously. “Yes, precisely that,” he said, voice rising slightly. “A Megatron offspring—raised by the Decepticons—expressing a desire to heal, to protect, to preserve life… Not to dominate, not to destroy…” His words faltered as he processed the implications.
Ultra Magnus, arms crossed, let out a low rumble of disbelief, optic lenses narrowing. “It seems… impossible. And yet, there it is, plain as day on the feed.”
Prowl adjusted his stance, cautious but analytical. “If this spark remains true, it indicates a level of self-determination entirely untainted by parental programming… or factional influence. Blightstorm has made a choice, independent and deliberate.”
Ratchet pinched the bridge of his optics, struggling to reconcile everything he had learned over the years. “I’ve treated Decepticons before… some have shown remarkable potential for change. But this… this is different. A spark already aligned with compassion and skill, and from a lineage I… I never thought would produce one.”
Elita-One whispered, almost to herself, “It makes you wonder what other surprises they’re capable of…”
Bumblebee’s tone was lighter, tinged with playful awe. “Do you think… do you think he’d accept an Autobot mentor? Ratchet, maybe you could train him?”
Ratchet froze mid-motion, eyes darting between the feed and his fellow Autobots. His voice was almost a growl, part disbelief, part reluctant fascination. “Me? Train him? The child of Megatron… to heal?” He shook his head, optics narrowing, as a rare flush of both fear and pride crept into his circuits. “If he survives this war long enough… if his spark stays strong… I would never refuse to guide him. Not if it means creating a medtech capable of saving lives—even if… especially if he’s a Decepticon’s child.”
Optimus placed a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder, calm and steady. “Ratchet, this is why we must observe and learn, not assume. Blightstorm may surprise all of us. The spark chooses its path, and if this is his… we must respect it.”
Ratchet exhaled slowly, trying to regain composure. The room seemed to hum with tension, awe, and disbelief, a mix of emotions so potent it felt almost tangible. Even Ultra Magnus leaned forward slightly, watching the video again, incredulous, and muttered, “I never thought I’d see the day… a Decepticon child who wants to heal.”
Elita-One let out a soft laugh, the sound light and incredulous. “Primus help us, this changes everything.”
Bumblebee’s tone was more cheerful, nervously bouncing on his heels. “So… when can we meet him? Can we… talk to him? Ratchet could teach him a few things, right?”
Ratchet didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at the datapad, optic lenses narrowing with a mixture of calculation and awe. Deep down, he already knew: Blightstorm was not just any Decepticon offspring. This spark could very well change the perception of what a Decepticon—or any spark—could become.
And, for the first time, Ratchet felt a flicker of hope… tempered with the knowledge that the war was far from over, and that this little grounder’s spark would have to survive it to matter.
The morning sunlight crept into the quarters, spilling over the polished metal floors and the edges of the huge berth where Starscream and Megatron had spent the night. The triplets, full of energy as always, bounced out of their quarters, their small frames practically vibrating with excitement. Today was no ordinary day; it was the day of extra advanced quantum physics, a class on materials and atoms at the sub-atomic level, a lesson only Starscream’s genius could inspire.
Breakstorm, still wobbling slightly on her small legs as she tried to balance her excitement and her still-untrained attempts at flying, ran ahead, her amber optics shining. Nitrostorm and Blightstorm, both sturdy grounders, followed closely behind, bickering playfully over who would sit closer to the front of the class.
Starscream, kneeling before them, kissed each of their helmets with an intimacy that spoke of pride and pure love. “Have an excellent class, my sparklings,” he murmured, voice low and warm, resonating with a soft metallic hum. “Learn, grow, and show the brilliance that is in your sparks.”
As the door slid closed behind them, the echoes of small mechanical footsteps fading into the hall, Megatron turned his optics toward Starscream, a playful glint mixed with seriousness flickering across his lenses. “Should I… capture the Autobot doctor? Ratchet. He could be Blightstorm’s teacher… or slave,” he said casually, as if suggesting something entirely normal in their world.
Starscream’s optics snapped sharply, a shiver of warning vibrating through his frame. “Over my dead chassis!” His tone was steel and fire combined, unyielding. “Never. And I mean never. No Autobots will know, Megatron. Not that we are conjunx, not that we have sparklings. Not a single one.”
Megatron tilted his head, a small smirk ghosting over his features. “Surely you trust Optimus to keep such information secure?”
Starscream’s wings flexed subtly, body tense. “Optimus? Perhaps. He is… honorable, cautious, as he always has been. But the others? Ultra Magnus. Ironhide. Arcee. Bots who despise us. They wouldn’t hesitate. They wouldn’t think twice before using our sparklings as bargaining chips… as leverage… or worse.”
Megatron’s optics darkened slightly, the thought momentarily chilling him. Starscream continued, voice dropping to a deadly quiet hum. “They could harm them just to hurt us, and no shield, no defense would stop it. Our sparklings are innocent, Megatron, and I will not—I will never—allow a single spark of theirs to be endangered because of the arrogance or hatred of Autobots who think the war gives them the right.”
Megatron’s massive frame shifted, silent for a heartbeat, before a low growl of agreement rumbled through him. “Then it is decided,” he said, his tone firm but careful, a rare gentleness threading through the rough edges. “No Autobots touch them. No one will ever know the truth.”
Starscream exhaled, relief and tension mingling in a low whine of his optics. He stepped closer, brushing a hand against Megatron’s arm, a rare, intimate gesture only for the two of them. “We will guard them, Megatron. Always. They are ours, and their sparks will remain unbroken.”
Megatron nodded, eyes softening as he glanced toward the closed door behind which their sparklings were off to learn, off to grow. “Our sparklings… and their genius… will remain safe. And they will surpass us all one day,” he said, pride vibrating in the depths of his tone.
Starscream’s optics glinted, a small, genuine smile spreading across his face. “Yes… one day, they will. And nothing—no one—will ever take that away from them.”
The two stood together in the quiet of their private quarters, the weight of both the war and their shared secret pressing around them, yet their hearts lightened by the knowledge that their sparks, their children, were safe, learning, and thriving under their watchful gaze.
At the Autobot base, the room was tense, a charged hum filling the air. Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, Prowl, Jazz, and Ratchet were all gathered around the feed, having already accepted the impossible: Starscream and Megatron had sparklings. Yet seeing them—thriving, lively, and clearly loved—was another level of disbelief.
Ratchet’s optics widened, his usually controlled demeanor cracking. He slammed a datapad against the table, the clang reverberating through the room. “Blightstorm… the grounder… wants to heal others? This isn’t just genetics or training. That child… that spark… it’s already responsible, already compassionate. And they’ve done this without anyone interfering.”
Wheeljack swallowed hard. “He… you mean… Blightstorm? The little one who always sticks close to his Sire? He wants to heal?!”
Ratchet spun, circuits buzzing in frustration and disbelief. “Yes! And it’s not just Blightstorm! Look at Breakstorm, growing into her spark… intelligent, careful, commanding. Nitrostorm… grounded, precise… they’ve inherited everything from their creators, yet… they are better than we ever expected. And we can’t touch that. We can’t influence it. We can’t—”
Ultra Magnus’ optics narrowed, jaw tight. “It is… disturbing. Starscream, of all bots, capable of nurturing. Megatron… Megatron prioritizing their well-being over battle strategy. And yet…” He gestured toward the feed, images of the sparklings learning, laughing, exploring. “…what Starscream said is true. They are being raised with care, love, and safety. Beyond our reach, and beyond reproach.”
Prowl’s voice was quiet, analytical but tinged with frustration. “And that is the danger. These sparklings are not merely younglings—they are growing under the guidance of two of the most dangerous bots in Cybertron. Their intellect, their skills… they are already formidable, and we cannot underestimate them. Even now, their potential outpaces anything we can safely plan for.”
Jazz shook his head, fists clenching. “I don’t like it. Seeing Starscream and Megatron… doing anything right, let alone raising children… it’s wrong. And yet, there’s no denying it. They’ve done exactly what they said. They’ve kept them safe, nurtured, educated. They’re… perfect, in their own twisted way.”
Bumblebee’s hum was low, reflective. “They’re happy. The sparklings are happy. Starscream and Megatron are keeping them safe. We can’t argue with that. And even if we wanted to… what could we do? They’ve created a world these kids thrive in, and no Autobot interference would help them. Not a chance.”
Ratchet, pacing furiously, ran a hand over his faceplate. “So we just… sit here? Watch them grow under the care of two of the deadliest Decepticons on Cybertron, smarter and safer than any Autobot we could raise?!”
Optimus Prime’s voice cut through the tension, calm but heavy with authority. “Ratchet… all of you. We have known the truth for some time. We know Megatron and Starscream have sparklings. What we are seeing now only confirms it. These sparklings are safe, nurtured, and cared for. That is the reality we face, and we cannot interfere. We can only observe, learn, and respect that truth.”
Ratchet’s optic flickered, a mix of anger and awe. “Respect the truth… even when it burns.”
Ultra Magnus added quietly, almost to himself, “It does not make them any less dangerous. It does not make me trust them. But the truth… it is undeniable. They are raising those children with care, with attention, and with protection. We cannot dispute it.”
The Autobots sat in stunned silence, each processing their conflicting emotions: shock, disbelief, anger, and an unavoidable grudging respect. They knew the sparklings were alive, growing, and thriving—and nothing they could do would change that.
The video abruptly ended as Megatron’s optic caught the small blinking light on the datapad. With a heavy sigh and a low grunt of irritation, he reached over, plucked the device from its resting place, and canceled the recording. The small screen went dark, leaving the datapad inert among the cluster of others scattered across the metal table in the private quarter. The hum of machinery and the faint whir of the medbay systems were now the only sounds in the room.
Across the distance, at the Autobot base, silence fell. The feed had gone dead. Optimus, Ultra Magnus, Ratchet, Prowl, and Jazz stared at the blank screen, the sudden void of information heavier than any explosion they had witnessed on the battlefield. For a heartbeat, none of them spoke, each processing the sheer normalcy with which two of Cybertron’s deadliest Decepticons had raised their sparklings.
Then, almost instantly, a new signal pinged. Ratchet’s optics narrowed, a twitch of disbelief running through his servos. “Another… feed?” he muttered, half to himself. Ultra Magnus scowled, tapping his comm to check the source.
Optimus leaned forward, his optic scanning the incoming data. “No,” he murmured, tone low, reverent even. “It’s a folder. Starscream has organized a new one.”
The screen flickered, and a new folder appeared, labeled simply: Plans. Optimus opened it carefully, aware that every file here was likely meticulously categorized. Inside were three subfolders, each named after one of the sparklings.
Ratchet’s jaw slackened as he scrolled through Nitrostorm’s folder first. Blueprints of tanks, from the simplest scout vehicles to heavily armored behemoths, filled the screen. Each design detailed weapons integration, defensive matrices, and compactible systems—clearly intended for the grounder type. Ratchet’s servos twitched as he absorbed the meticulousness of the schematics. “He… Starscream is… he’s preparing them for everything. Nitrostorm is being set to dominate the terrain, to handle every kind of machinery a battlefield could offer…”
Ultra Magnus leaned closer, his optics sweeping across the next folder, Breakstorm’s. Jets, aircraft, swoop designs, aerial combat simulations, and compactible weapons spread before them. Breakstorm’s folder was breathtaking in precision, elegant yet deadly, a perfect reflection of her heritage and of Starscream’s genius. “He intends her to command the skies,” Magnus murmured. “Every maneuver, every possible variation of flight… already accounted for.”
Finally, Bligthstorm’s folder appeared. Rescue vehicles, medical transports, multipurpose emergency systems, and first-aid deployment equipment filled the display. Ratchet’s spark hummed nervously. “And… and Bligthstorm… the child wants to be a medic. Starscream is giving him everything he could ever need—vehicles, systems, knowledge. He’s literally preparing his child to save lives.” The doctor’s optics shimmered with an equal mix of awe and apprehension.
Jazz let out a low whistle. “This isn’t just training,” he said, voice tight. “This is… Starscream is shaping their futures from the ground up. Every possibility accounted for. Every hazard anticipated. And he’s doing it all in secret, under the noses of every Autobot on Cybertron.”
Bumblebee’s circuitry buzzed softly, almost reverently. “He’s… giving them freedom. And control. And knowledge… everything to survive and excel in a world that’s… hostile.”
Optimus Prime leaned back slightly, the weight of responsibility heavy in his optics. “It is clear,” he said slowly, “Starscream is already beginning the preparations for the next training phase for his sparklings. And they will be ready, not as mere heirs to a legacy of war, but as individuals fully capable, fully prepared. We have to accept this… even if every instinct screams otherwise.”
Ratchet, pacing, muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with both awe and irritation: “Prepared… yes. But by them? By Starscream? By Megatron? I… I can hardly reconcile the two halves of this reality…”
The Autobots remained silent, eyes glued to the screen, absorbing the meticulous foresight of two Decepticons who, against all odds, were raising their younglings with precision, care, and a terrifying clarity of purpose.