The dull hum of machinery echoed through the cavernous chambers of the Decepticon Earth Base, deep beneath Detroit’s forgotten industrial grave. Flickering overhead lights cast sharp shadows across jagged stone and jaggeder steel — the only warmth here was the hiss of heated circuitry and the thrum of Energon cores. It was not built for comfort. But then, comfort had never been a concern of Megatron.

Except now, there was you. You were small. Incomplete, by his standards. Fragile plating, stubby digits, optics far too wide for the world you were in. But you were his. A sparkling, forged from his very spark in a desperate act during a volatile Energon storm — unpredictable and unintended, but irrefutable in its outcome. You were Cybertronian. You were Decepticon. You were his.

And Megatron did not abandon what was his.

He stood in the main command chamber now, arms crossed, crimson optics narrowed at the malfunctioning space bridge interface as Blitzwing blathered in the background. But his attention kept drifting — not to incompetence, but to the faint metallic clink echoing down the corridor behind him.

You were exploring again.

A low growl of a sigh rumbled through his chassis. He turned from the console and strode with thunderous steps down the corridor, past half-finished battle drones and cracked energon lines, until he reached the small chamber he had designated for you — a former Energon storage vault he had reinforced with scrap steel and defense turrets, now repurposed into something resembling a nursery.

You had climbed atop a dented storage crate, reaching for a sparking power conduit.

Megatron moved before logic could argue.

A sudden magnetic pulse from his palm pulled you gently but firmly into his grasp. You wriggled, venting a soft chirp, but didn’t resist as he cradled you close to his battle-worn armor. There was a moment’s silence as he stared down at you — so small against the battlefield that was his chestplate, your tiny servos clicking softly as you rested.

His voice was low and sharp, but not unkind.

“Careless,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

As if on cue, a snide voice echoed from the upper gantry. “How refreshing, Megatron. The great warlord becomes a sparkling-sitter. Tell me, will you be changing their oil next?”

Starscream descended on shrieking thrusters, landing with a smirk twisted across his angular face. He approached the pod and leaned in to inspect you, optics narrow. "They’re small. Squishy. Helpless. They’ll never survive the battlefield."