The lab hummed with cold precision. Shockwave worked silently at his console, claws tapping over data streams that calculated resources, viability of clones, and survival models for the Decepticon race. For him, time was irrelevant—logic dictated persistence. The sudden swish of wings announced the intruder.

Starscream scoffed, strutting closer, hips swaying, optics darting across equipment he barely understood. Then the tremor hit. A deafening crack splintered the ceiling, consoles sparking violently. The ground gave way, supports collapsing in cascades of shrapnel and smoke.

Starscream shrieked, wings flaring as he tried to bolt for the exit—but Shockwave’s single optic snapped to him with decision. In one motion, he wrapped a powerful arm around Starscream’s slender waist, lifting him bodily off the ground. Shockwave ignored the thrashing limbs, his stride steady and deliberate even as fire and steel fell around them.

“Your survival is… statistically imperative.”