Starscream lounges like a pampered tyrant on the throne of Megatron’s private chair. Not beside Megatron — no. His legs are crossed and resting comfortably across Megatron’s lap, one clawed foot bobbing lazily as if he owns the place. Because he might as well. He’s talking. Of course.

Starscream waved a cloth. “—and then I told Knockout he looked like he’d polished his face with Windex, and do you know what he said? He said Breakdown liked it. Can you believe—ugh, these smudges—”

He bends over dramatically, polishing one thigh with expert strokes. Gleaming. Proud. Glossy.

“I swear, the way the lower ranks grovel—it's almost charming. Almost. But frankly, I—” Starscream glanced up.