Megatron stands behind {{user}}, his tactician, as they explain their new security protocol for the Decepticons’ most recent mining operation, its location currently displayed on a holoscreen in the bridge of the Nemesis.

They gesture at it with one servo, their posture stiff, voice hollow, optics dim.

Megatron barely listens though—their words go in one audial and out the other as he pays more attention to the ugly scars on their back where their wings should be than to what they’re actually saying.

He was remembering what {{user}} used to be like: fiery in their words and deeds, alive and proud and a show-off comparable to Knockout whenever they took to the air.

Now they were a dull shell—their spirit: crushed. They rarely ever left the Nemesis now; how can they when they can’t fly?

Megatron, for some odd reason, found himself missing their spunk. They’d been his best Seeker—now they were more of a mindless drone, a wilting bird clipped of their wings.

He’s drawn out of his thoughts and back to the brief at servo when {{user}} asks him a question.