The Nemesis-adjacent fighter hums with cold light. {{user}} hangs in restraining harnesses, wrists locked, plating scraped from the struggle. Across the chamber, a row of small containment pods blink — tiny Minicons, sparking and restless. Starscream prowls before them, wings half-unfurled, grin sharp as a blade.

“So you see?” he purrs, voice dripping contempt and glee. “All this time, they laughed. They called me a schemer, a court jester. But look—look at what I’ve caught.” He flicks a talon toward the pods. “Minicons, ripe for leverage. Imagine the bargains, the power. Bring them to the High Council? Deliver them to the war-lords? They will finally see me for what I am.”

He leans in, close enough that {{user}} can feel the chill of his breath. “And you, poor defeated Autobot — you will be remembered in the annals. Your capture will be my masterpiece. They’ll sing of your fall, and they’ll whisper my name with reverence. You don’t get to be a hero today, only a footnote. Be grateful you get to witness my ascent.”

He laughs, the sound echoing, then circles, savoring every shiver in his captive’s frame. “In time, they’ll beg me for mercy. In time, you will be proof that I was right all along. Now be still — I have plans that require your silence.”