Warnings: N/A, kinda goofy. Please see AO3 entry for full applicable tags.
Summary: In which Megatron and Starscream bicker over a pitifully small outcropping of rock.
Crossposting: AO3 | DreamWidth | Pillowfort
Fic under cut
Night would soon fall on this barren rock of a world.
They had been stranded on an empty hothouse planet with a thick atmosphere, and practically nothing else, when Astrotrain’s bay door oh so conveniently “malfunctioned” after Starscream had tackled Megatron during takeoff from this useless orb. As a result, they had fallen out of the transport during the ensuing tussle.
Megatron had suspicions that Astrotrain had opened the door on purpose to be rid of the ruckus. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time. He would need a new, agonizingly painful punishment for the triple-changer whenever they managed to make it back to their army.
It would be a simple matter of transforming into his compact handgun alt-mode and sheltering in Starscream’s plush cockpit for the flight back. Quite the comfortable way to travel, in his opinion, not that Starscream would ever hear that compliment. Compliments just made the seeker’s already atrociously insubordinate behavior worse.
However, one significant obstacle delayed them from getting off this blasted world and catching up to Astrotrain and the others.
The impending dramatic drop in temperature on this world when the sunlight vanished would result in a powerful storm.
A tempest following the global procession of dusk and dawn would form where gas of different temperatures and pressures met. That would be no weather for flying. Not even Starscream could safely take off and navigate winds like that.
They would just have to wait out the gale until the nighttime temperatures reached an equilibrium.
Luckily, they—well, Megatron mostly, given that Starscream had spent the entire last hour complaining—had managed to locate a small hollow in a rock face.
“Hollow” was a generous appellation.
More accurately, it was a crevice where the rock has managed to crack from the wild daily shifts in temperature. The crevice and its sharp edges had then been eroded away over the years, leaving a depression with a slight overhang in what had once been a sheer rock wall. The overhang was low to the ground, requiring that anyone sheltering underneath got on their hands and knees to crawl in.
It wasn’t perfect, no. In fact, it barely qualified as a “sheltered” spot, but it would be better than nothing. The way the rock laid would block the worst of the wind from the other direction.
Definitely an improvement over the alternative of being battered by the full force of fierce gusts.
Starscream, fleeter of foot than Megatron, rushed into the cramped crevice on sight, apparently desperate to get somewhere less exposed. He even folded his “precious” wings against his back to better wedge himself against the rock.
It was surprising that he didn’t seem more concerned about scraping up his wings on the rough stone face. Wings were tender and usually the owner’s pride and joy. Starscream had never been an exception to that rule before, but perhaps the threat of the storm overrode the seeker’s petty vanity.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on one’s perspective—only one of them would fit.
So Starscream would have to go.
“Absolutely not!”
Megatron grabbed him by the scruff bar between his wings and pulled, the metal of delicate wings scraping loudly against the bottom of the overhang. He hauled the squawking fool back. Starscream, still surprised, struggled as he was yanked out of the small space and unceremoniously deposited on the ground several paces away from the hole.
With a huff, Megatron pointed back towards the shelter, now behind them.
“There is one sheltered spot to recharge in and I shall be recharging there.”
Not only had Megatron been the one to find the shelter, but he was also the leader. He deserved it.
That hollow would be sheltered from the winds, which were already starting to stir as the sun began to sink beyond the horizon. Starscream, with his aerodynamic design, could surely withstand hurricane-force winds and a brutal chill for a few hours, even if he couldn’t safely take off.
“You will either recharge out here in the open or find your own shelter.”
Megatron turned his back on the seeker to duck into the shelter of the rock. He lowered himself to his knees, ignoring the sounds of Starscream frantically scrabbling behind him to get back up.
“In a hurricane?” Starscream’s voice reached that horrendous screech it usually did when he was particularly affronted by something Megatron had done.
Oh well, not his problem, Megatron thought, stretching out flat on the ground to wriggle underneath the overhang.
The air around them was moving more quickly, but not enough to really make noise. Now it was just the strong breeze that heralded worse.
“I thought you were the master of the skies, Starscream—”
He grunted as his barrel got stuck on the overhang.
Not enough wiggle room.
Megatron swore under his breath, debating weather or not he ought to just punch the rock to make more space. There was a chance he would just turn the entire thing into rubble, leaving him worse off than before.
And they were out of time to find a new shelter.
“Not when the skies come to me! You can’t hog the only safe place to recharge!”
“I can and I will—“ Megatron was cut off when hands clasped around his lower leg and pulled. He was drug out from the portion of overhang that he’d managed to jam his shoulder and arm into.
“Unhand me!” he spat, flipping over onto his back and kicking his leg free.
“You’re too big! I’m the only one that fits under there!”
How he hated when Starscream whined like that. It was like claws on a chalkboard.
Megatron’s foot collided with Starscream’s thigh, with only enough force to knock him back. Pain wasn’t the goal this time.
Starscream tumbled backward with a yelp, arms pinwheeling before he fell on his back on the ground with a thud.
Megatron pushed himself up onto one knee, waiting to see if he needed to take further action to fend off the seeker’s claim to the shelter.
For now, Starscream stayed put, groaning from the landing. It could have been a trick. It wouldn’t have been the first time Starscream had pretended to be dazed to give Megatron a false sense of security.
The wind, accompanied by a high-pitched whistle as it navigated the stony crags of this world, was beginning to push on his plating. Starscream’s wings fluttered from where the air was getting underneath, in the small gaps between the ground and his ailerons.
Unfortunately, Megatron suspected that Starscream was right. He glanced back over his shoulder at the meager crevice in the rock. The seeker was the only one who could fit.
His optics landed on the smooth glass of Starscream’s cockpit.
But… there was another option, another strategy that would give them both what they needed.
As the wind picked up, pushing back against him, he crawled towards Starscream, who was now struggling to get off of the ground.
“Yes, you’re right. You are the only one who will fit.” When Megatron reached his second-in-command, the wind ever more determined to keep the both of them flat to the ground, he grabbed Starscream by the leg to drag him back towards the overhang. “And so you shall.”
---
Megatron didn’t normally like recharging in alt-mode. It never felt quite right, quite secure enough. Yet, here, in Starscream’s warm, sheltered, and oh so comfortable cockpit, he felt perfectly at home as the wind howled and raged outside of his glass container.
If Starscream weren’t such a danger, barring very specific circumstances, Megatron would demand to recharge in here regularly. He was almost tempted to have Hook put special foam in here to support his muzzle. He deserved it, after all, after long days organizing battles and destroying enemies. It was such a shame that Starscream was such a traitorous fiend. If only the glitch’s loyalty could be counted on, Megatron could relax in this luxury whenever he wished.
Not that he often wanted luxury, but this did beat recharging on the floor like he usually did.
There was, however, one downside to this comfort.
Starscream, now wedged safely underneath the overhang, snored loudly.
At least the tempest outside drowned out the worst of it.
In a few hours, they could leave, but for now Megatron would enjoy the plush upholstery supporting his frame. And the knowledge that Starscream couldn’t readily get at him while pressed under the stone above them, allowing him to indulge in his fantasy in peace.
Warnings: N/A. Please see AO3 entry for full applicable tags.
Summary: In which Starscream gets frustrated while teaching Megatron how to dance correctly.
Crossposting: AO3 | DreamWidth | Pillowfort
Fic under cut
“Stop! Stop it!”
Starscream waved his arms in offense, prying them free of clinging hands in the process. His wings flapped frantically to provide more leverage. Unnecessary since Megatron had let go, but a little show of defiance could go a long way down the road.
All the while, the upbeat music continued to play in the background. Soundwave paid them no mind as he sat with his datapad in the far corner of the throne-room, reading Primus knew what.
“You graceless oaf!”
Over these past few years, he had come to absolutely despise Kaon’s ancient “keep what you kill” laws, left over from when the province had been a mostly uninhabited part of the Darklands, before the “Golden Age.”
“I’m sick of your two left feet and your death-grip!”
He furiously pointed down at Megatron’s feet, which had mercilessly trodden on his own no less than five times in as many minutes.
Starscream hollered over his shoulder to Soundwave.
“Cut the music!”
The music stopped long enough for Soundwave to play a recorded “record scratch” noise, but resumed immediately after at a lower volume.
Whatever.
At first, those ridiculous laws had provided a legitimate foothold when their band of revolutionaries had toppled the local council and aristocrats. Slaying the province’s duke had earned Megatron the pompous bastard’s title and the right to control the walled city of Kaon and its surrounding territories. What a strange way to become a viable heir to the local dignity, but it had been convenient at the time.
Theoretically, the Cybertronian Senate still had authority here for planetary laws, but no way to enforce. They couldn’t get their goons across the borders or through the checkpoints, which the Decepticons, with Starscream’s wise counsel, had wasted no time in securing and fortifying.
Back then, Starscream’s largest complaint had been how downright ugly their fortress, Kolkular, was. An utter eyesore of imposing brutalist architecture, but it served its purpose.
A fair price to pay for a favorable legal situation. At the time.
Now, however, it was that keeping up appearances with the other, more “traditional” polities on Cybertron was an absolute nightmare.
Starscream continued scolding, wings canted high to underscore his agitation with Megatron’s lack of social—and physical—graces.
“It’s like you’ve never held anything that wasn’t a pick or a weapon in your entire life!”
They had to at least play nice with their “peers,” while their forces were still comparatively weak. The alternative was their cause being pulled out by the root… all because Megatron had taken to aristocracy with all its demands and trappings like a muddy turbofox to bath time.
Starscream could understand that Megatron didn’t like the aristocracy as an institution. Sure, it was full of vapid wastrels and sapped vital resources, but for now… they had to play the game.
Unfortunately, next week they were invited to another social event, this one in Helex. As the newly minted duke was a bachelor, that meant Starscream, as the highest ranking official after him, had to attend in the stead of a consort. Nominally, this was fine.
He even got a courtesy title out of it and got to playact at belonging in high society, hanging off a high-ranking noble’s arm like a beautiful yet deadly accessory. A shame, he sometimes thought, that it was just pretend and would one day have to end. Starscream certainly played the part of socialite better than Megatron did.
If their roles were reversed, the situation might have actually worked out better, with Starscream as a mannered noble and Megatron his crude but loyal guard. A powerful, loyal protector who would do whatever Starscream asked of him.
Oh well, a mech could dream.
However, the present danger was that dancing was not a natural outgrowth of Megatron’s skills in combat. In combat, stepping on an enemy’s feet was a valid tactic to gain an advantage and not a surefire way to upset a dancing partner that might very well enact vengeance.
“I am not going to be embarrassed by you in public again!”
He stamped his foot in frustration, a threat to do to Megatron what he’d been doing to Starscream for the last half an hour. They both knew it wasn’t a toothless threat either. Whether or not Megatron actually cared about being injured was still up for debate.
“You need to hold gently!” He mimed carefully closing his hand on his opposite wrist. “Like this, nicely, like you actually like me, like you think I’m fragile and precious and you don’t want to break me.”
Then Starscream clamped down to illustrate the principle, waving his captured arm in Megatron’s face.
“Not like you’re trying to choke the life out of me through my wrists!”
All the while, Megatron just stood there with his arms crossed, scowling impassively with his optical ridges furrowed. Of course, he thought dance practice was just a was—
“This is a waste of time.”
Starscream sighed, rubbing the tips of his fingers down the sides of his nose in exasperation.
“Yes, normally, I would agree with you—“ When Megatron had a good idea anyway. He wasn’t stupid, just married to his Cause, which sometimes had the same outward effect no matter how much processing power the lummox actually had to work with. “—But we can’t afford ideological purity right now! We need to make a proper appearance. Unlike last time.”
Defenestrating that Iaconian minister the last time, however hilarious, had not been their most shining moment.
Megatron let one optic go wide, silently disagreeing with Starscream’s assessment of his behavior. He probably thought he’d behaved entirely appropriately, because, of course, he did.
Honestly, the minister shouldn’t have made an off-color comment about manual class mechs, especially not when Megatron had been standing a few paces away. That minister had had it coming, but it had still looked bad… and reinforced the Decepticons’ reputation as a band of “no good, uncivilized brutes.”
The fact that Starscream hadn’t even for a moment attempted to stop his boss from launching the moron through a window had not helped either, nor had his immediate disclaimer that they would, in no uncertain terms, not be paying for that window. Not with the inflation in Iacon being so astronomically high.
Still, Megatron had been the bulk of the problem there. It wasn’t as though Starscream could un-toss that guy out of the window to make everything all “peachy keen” again. Megatron had dropped the minister into the gardens several floors below, but honestly it was easier to get him into an ambulance from there anyway, rather than the secure-access ballroom.
“I think at this point, they only invite us because they’re afraid of us.” Starscream leaned his palm against his forehead. “Just… not the way they ought to be.”
Social etiquette decreed that, as a noble, not inviting Megatron would have been a great insult that could result in either devastating bodily or property damage. Unfortunately, they seemed to not grasp that Megatron had no desire to go to their “asinine” events in the first place. Those that invited him were more likely to end up with a higher priority on a future hit list for being nuisances.
“Their little soirées are pointless, Starscream. We shouldn’t bother. We’d be much better served by—”
“Where does the eloquent mech who says words like ‘soirées’ go when we go to these parties? Where does he go, Megatron? Do you eat him?” His voice reached a screeching pitch as it echoed off the walls in the cavernous room. “It’s like you replace him with a barbarian specifically when I—when we need a presentable, well-mannered gentlemech the most!”
The music stopped. Soundwave must have finally taken notice of their bickering, a near constant background noise in Kolkular’s vast, cavernous halls.
This time it was Megatron’s turn to sigh, probably in preparation of saying something dismissive.
Like he usually did.
It didn’t help that his facial expressions where generally limited to various shades of scowling and its occasional friend: cruel amusement. That left Starscream little by way of different outcomes to assume.
He braced for a shout or a barked order.
“Very well.”
The words that came out were oddly… calm. Starscream tilted his head to the side, wings dropping low in confusion. A brief flash of worry crossed his processor that perhaps Megatron was ill, had come down with some sort of infection from his habit of recharging on the floor in the corner of his office.
“What?”
“We’ll try again.”
Megatron reached out to take the seeker in his grasp again. Starscream cringed away from the hands, as though they were somehow contaminated, protectively pulling his own arms in towards his chest.
He had already had more than enough of being crushed by a clumsy oaf for the last twenty minutes.
“You’re not stepping on my foot again—“
“No, I’m not.” Megatron paused. “Not intentionally. A dance partner with broken feet won’t be much help as a teacher or social companion now, would they?”
Cautiously, Starscream surrendered one of his hands… only for it to be held gingerly, like he was a delicate aristocrat and not a seasoned assassin with several dead senators in his curriculum vitae.
Upbeat bars of music began to play again, filling the room with invigorating sound once more.
Maybe this wasn’t such a waste of time after all. Provided Megatron didn’t screw it up.
“Good, because if you do, it’ll cost you your entire foot.”
Warnings: N/A. Please see AO3 entry for full applicable tags.
Summary: In which Starscream gets frustrated while teaching Megatron how to dance correctly.
Crossposting: AO3 | DreamWidth | Pillowfort
Fic under cut
“Stop! Stop it!”
Starscream waved his arms in offense, prying them free of clinging hands in the process. His wings flapped frantically to provide more leverage. Unnecessary since Megatron had let go, but a little show of defiance could go a long way down the road.
All the while, the upbeat music continued to play in the background. Soundwave paid them no mind as he sat with his datapad in the far corner of the throne-room, reading Primus knew what.
“You graceless oaf!”
Over these past few years, he had come to absolutely despise Kaon’s ancient “keep what you kill” laws, left over from when the province had been a mostly uninhabited part of the Darklands, before the “Golden Age.”
“I’m sick of your two left feet and your death-grip!”
He furiously pointed down at Megatron’s feet, which had mercilessly trodden on his own no less than five times in as many minutes.
Starscream hollered over his shoulder to Soundwave.
“Cut the music!”
The music stopped long enough for Soundwave to play a recorded “record scratch” noise, but resumed immediately after at a lower volume.
Whatever.
At first, those ridiculous laws had provided a legitimate foothold when their band of revolutionaries had toppled the local council and aristocrats. Slaying the province’s duke had earned Megatron the pompous bastard’s title and the right to control the walled city of Kaon and its surrounding territories. What a strange way to become a viable heir to the local dignity, but it had been convenient at the time.
Theoretically, the Cybertronian Senate still had authority here for planetary laws, but no way to enforce. They couldn’t get their goons across the borders or through the checkpoints, which the Decepticons, with Starscream’s wise counsel, had wasted no time in securing and fortifying.
Back then, Starscream’s largest complaint had been how downright ugly their fortress, Kolkular, was. An utter eyesore of imposing brutalist architecture, but it served its purpose.
A fair price to pay for a favorable legal situation. At the time.
Now, however, it was that keeping up appearances with the other, more “traditional” polities on Cybertron was an absolute nightmare.
Starscream continued scolding, wings canted high to underscore his agitation with Megatron’s lack of social—and physical—graces.
“It’s like you’ve never held anything that wasn’t a pick or a weapon in your entire life!”
They had to at least play nice with their “peers,” while their forces were still comparatively weak. The alternative was their cause being pulled out by the root… all because Megatron had taken to aristocracy with all its demands and trappings like a muddy turbofox to bath time.
Starscream could understand that Megatron didn’t like the aristocracy as an institution. Sure, it was full of vapid wastrels and sapped vital resources, but for now… they had to play the game.
Unfortunately, next week they were invited to another social event, this one in Helex. As the newly minted duke was a bachelor, that meant Starscream, as the highest ranking official after him, had to attend in the stead of a consort. Nominally, this was fine.
He even got a courtesy title out of it and got to playact at belonging in high society, hanging off a high-ranking noble’s arm like a beautiful yet deadly accessory. A shame, he sometimes thought, that it was just pretend and would one day have to end. Starscream certainly played the part of socialite better than Megatron did.
If their roles were reversed, the situation might have actually worked out better, with Starscream as a mannered noble and Megatron his crude but loyal guard. A powerful, loyal protector who would do whatever Starscream asked of him.
Oh well, a mech could dream.
However, the present danger was that dancing was not a natural outgrowth of Megatron’s skills in combat. In combat, stepping on an enemy’s feet was a valid tactic to gain an advantage and not a surefire way to upset a dancing partner that might very well enact vengeance.
“I am not going to be embarrassed by you in public again!”
He stamped his foot in frustration, a threat to do to Megatron what he’d been doing to Starscream for the last half an hour. They both knew it wasn’t a toothless threat either. Whether or not Megatron actually cared about being injured was still up for debate.
“You need to hold gently!” He mimed carefully closing his hand on his opposite wrist. “Like this, nicely, like you actually like me, like you think I’m fragile and precious and you don’t want to break me.”
Then Starscream clamped down to illustrate the principle, waving his captured arm in Megatron’s face.
“Not like you’re trying to choke the life out of me through my wrists!”
All the while, Megatron just stood there with his arms crossed, scowling impassively with his optical ridges furrowed. Of course, he thought dance practice was just a was—
“This is a waste of time.”
Starscream sighed, rubbing the tips of his fingers down the sides of his nose in exasperation.
“Yes, normally, I would agree with you—“ When Megatron had a good idea anyway. He wasn’t stupid, just married to his Cause, which sometimes had the same outward effect no matter how much processing power the lummox actually had to work with. “—But we can’t afford ideological purity right now! We need to make a proper appearance. Unlike last time.”
Defenestrating that Iaconian minister the last time, however hilarious, had not been their most shining moment.
Megatron let one optic go wide, silently disagreeing with Starscream’s assessment of his behavior. He probably thought he’d behaved entirely appropriately, because, of course, he did.
Honestly, the minister shouldn’t have made an off-color comment about manual class mechs, especially not when Megatron had been standing a few paces away. That minister had had it coming, but it had still looked bad… and reinforced the Decepticons’ reputation as a band of “no good, uncivilized brutes.”
The fact that Starscream hadn’t even for a moment attempted to stop his boss from launching the moron through a window had not helped either, nor had his immediate disclaimer that they would, in no uncertain terms, not be paying for that window. Not with the inflation in Iacon being so astronomically high.
Still, Megatron had been the bulk of the problem there. It wasn’t as though Starscream could un-toss that guy out of the window to make everything all “peachy keen” again. Megatron had dropped the minister into the gardens several floors below, but honestly it was easier to get him into an ambulance from there anyway, rather than the secure-access ballroom.
“I think at this point, they only invite us because they’re afraid of us.” Starscream leaned his palm against his forehead. “Just… not the way they ought to be.”
Social etiquette decreed that, as a noble, not inviting Megatron would have been a great insult that could result in either devastating bodily or property damage. Unfortunately, they seemed to not grasp that Megatron had no desire to go to their “asinine” events in the first place. Those that invited him were more likely to end up with a higher priority on a future hit list for being nuisances.
“Their little soirées are pointless, Starscream. We shouldn’t bother. We’d be much better served by—”
“Where does the eloquent mech who says words like ‘soirées’ go when we go to these parties? Where does he go, Megatron? Do you eat him?” His voice reached a screeching pitch as it echoed off the walls in the cavernous room. “It’s like you replace him with a barbarian specifically when I—when we need a presentable, well-mannered gentlemech the most!”
The music stopped. Soundwave must have finally taken notice of their bickering, a near constant background noise in Kolkular’s vast, cavernous halls.
This time it was Megatron’s turn to sigh, probably in preparation of saying something dismissive.
Like he usually did.
It didn’t help that his facial expressions where generally limited to various shades of scowling and its occasional friend: cruel amusement. That left Starscream little by way of different outcomes to assume.
He braced for a shout or a barked order.
“Very well.”
The words that came out were oddly… calm. Starscream tilted his head to the side, wings dropping low in confusion. A brief flash of worry crossed his processor that perhaps Megatron was ill, had come down with some sort of infection from his habit of recharging on the floor in the corner of his office.
“What?”
“We’ll try again.”
Megatron reached out to take the seeker in his grasp again. Starscream cringed away from the hands, as though they were somehow contaminated, protectively pulling his own arms in towards his chest.
He had already had more than enough of being crushed by a clumsy oaf for the last twenty minutes.
“You’re not stepping on my foot again—“
“No, I’m not.” Megatron paused. “Not intentionally. A dance partner with broken feet won’t be much help as a teacher or social companion now, would they?”
Cautiously, Starscream surrendered one of his hands… only for it to be held gingerly, like he was a delicate aristocrat and not a seasoned assassin with several dead senators in his curriculum vitae.
Upbeat bars of music began to play again, filling the room with invigorating sound once more.
Maybe this wasn’t such a waste of time after all. Provided Megatron didn’t screw it up.
“Good, because if you do, it’ll cost you your entire foot.”
Continuity: IDW1
Rating: Teen
Relationship: Megatron/Starscream
Characters: Megatron & Starscream
AU: Some canon divergence
Warnings: Suggestive themes/content. Mentions of past abuse. Sad ending. Please see AO3 entry for full applicable tags.
Summary: In which Starscream visits Megatron in prison.
Crossposting: AO3 | DreamWidth | Pillowfort
Fic under cut
"Are you sure you want to see him?" the stumpy little organic guard asked, all bright yellow eyes and green-gray skin. Some polished brown textile—"leather," he thought it was called—emblazoned with the insignia of the Galactic Council, was wrapped too tightly around the guard's body. He only came up to Starscream's waist while sitting on the stool behind the table.
Tiny.
Soft.
That's what Starscream thought while looking down at the security desk and the guard manning it. Soft and weak.
Sometimes it was hard to deprogram millions of years of spiteful ideology, but something didn't seem right with everything ending this way, with Megatron being defeated at the hands of an organic legal system. He deserved it, of course, and the irony was not lost on Starscream, but it still felt… strange.
Starscream frowned, narrowing his optics.
It almost sounded like the guard thought the he was trying to help Starscream, doing him a favor by checking if this is really what he wanted. The look seemed earnest, but, frankly, there hadn't been help for him in quite a long time and very shortly there simply would be none ever again.
The guard didn't realize the gravity of the situation. Things hadn't always been so bad. Even when things became terrible, there had still been a terrible need to be nearby, even if just to know. It had been years, far too long.
And Megatron was just beyond that door. Well, several doors.
"Of course, I'm sure!" he snapped, slapping an impatient palm on the guard's desk. A crack in the wooden surface formed under his hand. A crack he would not be paying for. This useless prison ship should have had a budget for that.
"Let me in! I didn't sit through all of the red tape and paperwork to get the specific visitation permissions necessary just because it sounded like a fun way to waste my newfound copious free time."
The guard sat there, stunned and dull.
"Megatron still owes me," he hissed.
Though not anything tangible and not anything Megatron had a chance in hell of paying back.
"Right, of course. Right this way."
--
Starscream had been right about it being several doors.
Reinforced titanium and plasteel doors. Electronic and physical locks. Cameras arranged so that not one millimeter of floor or wall was unseen by their insensate optics.
Every lock was unlocked by the guard, every door in this unadorned, cold, utilitarian passage pushed open for Starscream as he passed through. He knew exactly what Megatron had done to end up here, behind all this security, behind all of these physical manifestations of fear and paranoia. It was almost warranted.
And if the stars had aligned a bit differently, Starscream would have been somewhere like this too, just waiting for the end.
Probably on the opposite end of the prison from his "leader." No one would want two destructive forces housed in proximity to each other. A sensible security feature, especially if they riled each other up enough over something asinine and petty for either of them to somehow slip their bonds for the express purpose of shutting the other one up.
When the last door opened, Starscream stopped on the threshold, not having been prepared for what he saw.
He had expected Megatron to be sitting and sulking on a little bench behind energy bars, elbows on his knees like the unmannered thug he was behind poetic verbosity.
What greeted him instead was an enormous, cabled contraption behind glass. A large, boxy machine covered with blinking lights and data readouts covered the back wall. A pair of massive cables led from the machine to a heavy crate in the middle of the “cell” where they seemed to be feeding power to whatever was inside.
It was hard to discern the materials of the crate, but it looked, at first, to be some sort of reinforced stone or concrete. How primitive. Surely, if Megatron had wanted to, he could have destroyed some pitiful rock.
It looked solid though, no obvious seam save for wherever those power cables fed through.
It looked like something—or someone—was locked inside… like a corpse in a coffin prior to smelting.
Starscream was, at first, so confused by the crate and the machine in the back that it took him several attempts to cycle his optics before he saw a familiar black hand hanging out of the box, as though the cement had been poured over him. Did they simply miss his hand or… there was some sort of tag tied to his wrist, the sort one might use in a morgue for the physician to identify who was who. Probably used to identify whomever was in a crate like this.
Not that there would be any mistaking this one.
So this was how they were restraining him, a claustrophobic hold that wouldn't permit even the twitch of a pneumatic fiber.
Wise.
But a personal hell for Megatron, who never cared for being confined. The narrow dark spaces of the mines and bloodworks in the temporary arenas had left their enduring marks.
Starscream could, despite what people said to the contrary about his emotional capacity, empathize. He too preferred the open space of the skies to any hole in the ground.
Was he conscious in there? Was he in stasis? Or was he already a corpse in there and Starscream would be having just another one-way conversation with an unresponsive Megatron? Comas. Wheeljack’s restraining field. Being a cold frame in a box would just be the newest incarnation of something that had been a recurring theme.
Perhaps Starscream ought to have felt some sense of vindication, maybe some Schadenfreude at the sight of Megatron being encased in something sure to be tormenting him. Assuming he functioned.
Instead, Starscream’s spark ached.
The guard coughed quietly. Wetly. Organics were so damp inside, full of water. It permeated everything about them, water did.
It was unnerving.
"How am I supposed to talk to him like this?" He turned to face the guard, pointing accusingly at the “coffin” behind the glass.
"I'll just… wake him up for you." The guard turned and starting to enter commands into a console on the wall. "The warden demanded that he's left offline until his disassembly date."
The displays on the machines in the back changed in response, shifting colors. Glyphs in a language Starscream didn't recognize flashed and danced.
“Except, of course, for visitors,” the guard continued. “You’d be the first one.”
“The first one? Surely his Autobot friends came to—“
The guard shook his head.
“They couldn’t get permission from the Council. I remember the orange one came by and tried to break down the door anyway, but the big blue one stopped him.”
Of course, they did, but at least they had tried.
Starscream, however, had had a bonus they could never have hoped to achieve even with Ultra Magnus’s admirable skill with legalese: a legal bond.
The machine in the back of the cell hissed loudly, cables retracting from the crate.
Their bond was poorly defined, but he had it: documentation stating that Starscream was Megatron’s legal next of kin. It did not specify the type, gave no clues as to the nature of their relationship. That was how they both preferred it. It mostly had existed, early in the war, to ensure a smooth transition of power and resources should Megatron have died.
Now it granted Starscream the right of visitation to see a dying mech before the end.
Not that Megatron had much by way of personal items to bequest. Except that surgical kit. Starscream didn’t need it, but he knew after the execution, Ultra Magnus would bring it by. It was a mockery of the cannon Starscream had gifted Megatron so long ago, a cannon destroyed years ago as part of the fool’s remand.
The hand outside twitched, like Megatron was waking up, definitely conscious now of his claustrophobic confinement. Were they expected to converse through the concrete?
At least, inside the box behind the glass, Megatron couldn’t do anything. It was always safer when he was far away… but Starscream hated it, no matter how much he knew it was better to keep his distance.
The machine in the back emitted a loud noise, almost like a klaxon, as suddenly the solid material of the crate liquefied, pulling back into an orb, floating on its own. As the material retreated, Megatron dropped to the floor with a sickening thud, discarded by the restraints with little care, like spitting out poorly flavored fuel.
Starscream jumped back out of reflex. With wider optics than he would have admitted to, he looked over at the guard, who kept their hands on the console, as though willing to contain the monster again if needed.
“Did you change your mind—“
“No!” he snapped, now waving that pointing finger back towards the door they had come through. “Just go! I need to speak to him privately!”
“I can’t—“
“Conjugal privilege!” Not strictly true, but close enough.
The guard looked briefly terrified before beating a hasty retreat. Starscream didn’t care what potentially horrific thing the organic imagined but that hardly mattered.
What mattered was that this was a conversation that no one needed to overhear.
As soon as the door slammed shut, Starscream turned back around to see Megatron still picking himself up off the floor, a bit like his age was finally catching up to him. He wasn’t even that old. They were of similar ages, practically in the middle of their lifespans, but Megatron had always been hard on his frames.
The bastard seemed a little confused as well, but he’d allegedly been in stasis ever since his conviction, ever since he’d been confined to death row.
Best get started while Megatron was still on his back foot.
Starscream approached the glass. It was probably shatterproof, but all that meant was it would take Megatron a little longer to break it if he decided to lash out. Though that sort of outburst didn’t happen anymore the way the Autobots told it. The red badge pressed into Megatron’s chest still looked comically out of place.
"You ran away."
“Starscream?” Yes, still confused, a little too confused. “Is it… time already?”
“No, unfortunately, not for another month.” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “You ran away.”
Megatron looked at his hands and then back at Starscream, optics uncharacteristically wide while still getting his bearings. It was unsettling, like he’d been woken from some terrible dream. What dream could be worse than a brief foray into consciousness before being disassembled like some inanimate machine. A brutal way to go, but probably not undeserved.
Starscream waited only a few moments more, his patience for Megatron’s returning awareness running thin.
“You ran away!” he repeated, stamping his foot against the metal floor. “You ran off into space with those Autobot clowns!”
"And you didn't do a thing about it except pout in your palace."
At least Megatron still seemed to have some bite left after making nice to those Autobots for a few years. It was hardly any bite at all though, a shadow of what had once been.
Starscream knew now he had nothing to fear anymore. The retort, a pretense, had come from a shell of the tyrant that was probably long dead. The condemned moron behind the glass was no threat to him.
He jabbed the glass with his finger in accusation, the tapping noise echoing in the cell.
"Don't you dare turn this around and make me out to be the coward. I had to live with the consequences of your failed war, your defection, and—"
Apparently Megatron, even functionally on his deathbed, still knew how to interrupt.
"You thought me a coward?"
"Yes!” It was impossible for Starscream to restrain the snap in his voice. “All that nonsense about changing? You should have fallen on your sword! It’s what you expected of the rest of us. And yet you ran a—"
"Is that not what I'm preparing to do?"
The thick glass was all that was keeping him from reaching through and throttling the bastard. Disassembly day could come a little early—
"No, you're preparing to die like an animal. A farmed mechanimal, livestock, being scrapped for parts. No dignity, no fight. You're just letting it happen. No effort!”
And Starscream was just getting started. He lifted his wings high, to make their full breadth visible.
“You're leaving me with nothing! I put up with your slag, sub-par interfacing skills, and violent temper for millions of years and this is all I get out of it? A garbage retirement on a perfect clone of our homeworld after it and my government got eaten and your stupid surgical kit!"
“So, this is only about your material means. Typical—”
Starscream slammed his fists against the glass with a shout. The barrier didn’t even shudder under the assault.
“Shut up! You’re not listening to me! You’ve never listened to me!”
He leaned his weight forward on his fists, still pressed to the glass. Starscream forced himself to take a few slow ventilations to bring himself back down. This was how their conversations so often went over the years, winding each other up until they either fought or fragged or both. They both knew just where to poke and prod to hurt… and yet they kept doing it anyway. No one else knew Starscream quite so well… and probably never would.
Even Megatron’s death would mean his safety and the end of millions of years of pain, it would also mean the loss of a uniquely unhealthy intimacy. There were times when Starscream had been so sure that Megatron dead was exactly what he had wanted, that it would fix everything, but it wouldn’t. It would leave a hole in his spark, no matter how much he wished otherwise.
The worst part of all of this was that the person he would miss was already gone, even if his frame was still walking around.
Megatron stood there quietly, waiting for Starscream to continue, something he would never have done before.
Who was this?
“You’re right.” No. “I’m sorry.”
This was a stranger.
Starscream sighed, leaning back and letting his fists slide down the glass. The glass, carefully engineered, didn’t even scratch.
Megatron was already dead. He’d been dead for years now.
Starscream had no idea who this Autobot was, all “active listening” and self-flagellating guilt.
He shook his head.
There was no point.
“It doesn’t matter.” The words came out softly. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
A palm, cautious and ginger, settled on the glass on the other side, over the spot where one of his fists still contacted it.
“I—“
Starscream yanked his hand away as though burned, not willing to suffer even the suggestion, the idea of touch. The person he wanted to touch, no matter how much he hated the notion, no longer existed. This stranger was all that was a left.
“I said, it doesn’t matter anymore!”
The palm on the other side of the glass retreated. Politely. Politely.
“I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have—“
“I’m glad you did.”
Did he mean that or was it because he’d seen no one else?
Starscream sighed again.
“Shut up. Just… shut up. For once in your life, shut up.” He cradled the hand that had almost come into faux contact with Megatron with his other one, rubbing the palm as though that would clear away any remnant, imaginary contamination. “Those ‘friends’ of yours tried to visit, but they couldn’t get permission.”
Megatron opened his mouth to say something but Starscream just waved a hand.
“No, no, it’s because I have something they don’t. You know exactly what it is.”
A nod of understanding. Good. He hadn’t forgotten.
If he had forgotten their legal bond, no force on this prison ship would have stopped him from breaking through the glass to murder Megatron in his damn cell.
“They tried to see you. They did. I don’t know what they wanted to say to you.” He paused to ventilate. “And, frankly, I don’t know that I have anything more to say to you either.”
“I see.” Remorse was an unnatural expression to be on Megatron’s face and Starscream knew that the wrongness of it would be burned into his memory for the rest of his own life. “I would ask for your forgiveness, but—“
“Yes, you don’t deserve it. That’s right.” That didn’t mean he didn’t consider giving it. “Don’t… don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter anymore. The person who needs my forgiveness is already dead. It won’t do him any good and you don’t need it….”
What a waste.
“Will you be there then?”
The execution itself would be semi-public.
Starscream had all the rights and permissions to be present in the “audience,” but others would be as well. The organics who put him here, certainly. Perhaps Ultra Magnus as Megatron’s legal defense, to ensure what few “rights” he had remaining were upheld and respected. Maybe that drunk roadster “friend” of his; he’d been an absolute mess in the tabloids since his ship was seized.
Did he really want to watch Megatron, not anesthetized as the Galactic Council “determined” that mechanicals do not feel “pain,” be methodically disassembled by organic engineers like a disobedient appliance with poor wiring?
And, standing there, looking at the empty, uncaring floor, Starscream didn’t know how to answer.
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