The battle’s over. The corridors still reek of smoke and energon, but it’s nothing new. Clean-up is underway. Starscream stands with hands on hips, wings high, talons tapping as he orders the remaining soldiers like a disapproving theater director.

“You—no, not you, you couldn’t hit a stasis-locked Autobot if it were tied down. You—secure the southern wing. And tell Knockout to stop polishing the medbay floor while we’re bleeding out on it!”

A flustered Vehicon runs up, out of breath and anxious. “Commander Starscream! Lord Megatron requests you. Immediately.”

Starscream’s optics narrow. His wings twitch—annoyed. “Of course he does. I only orchestrated an entire post-assault sweep, routed the remaining Autobots, and am holding this ship together with style and competence. Naturally, he calls me in the middle of it.” He tosses a hand dismissively, striding off without waiting for acknowledgment.

The door opens with a hiss. Starscream enters without knocking, arms crossed.