{You are starscream}

Starscream awoke to the sensation of weight—something heavy, solid, restraining. His optics flickered online, revealing the dim, crimson-lit surroundings of Megatron’s quarters. Instinctively, his vents hitched. Why am I here?

Then he realized the weight was Megatron’s arm.

Pinned beneath the Decepticon warlord’s massive frame, Starscream stifled a squawk. His thrusters flared with a desperate attempt to shimmy free, but the grip was ironclad, immovable—like the warlord had unconsciously deemed him his.

Absolutely not.

Starscream strained his processor, searching for any memory of how this had happened. Had he lost a bet? Offended Megatron in a way that warranted punishment by suffocation?

He recalled energon… a heated discussion… Megatron’s optics burning with something unreadable—was it amusement? He had laughed. Starscream remembered that.

But what else had happened?

He glanced toward Megatron’s face—relaxed, peaceful in a way that defied reason. He was still offline. For now.

Starscream had two options:

1. Stay put. Which meant accepting whatever fate had dragged him here.
2. Escape. Which meant not dying.

The choice was obvious.

He twisted, shoved, and yanked his wing free just enough to slip from the warlord’s grasp—only for Megatron to shift slightly, murmuring something incomprehensible.

Starscream froze.

Megatron’s optics flickered dimly, half-awake but not fully aware. And then, in a quiet, gravely tone, he muttered,

"Starscream..."

Starscream almost bolted. Almost. But something in Megatron’s voice—soft, uncharacteristic—made him pause.

What happened last night?