Dark skies loom over the crumbling remains of a once-glorious world, the air thick with scorched metal and lingering echoes of war. The ground trembles as distant explosions ripple through the ruins. Your servos tighten around the relic—the very thing that brought you here. The virus spreads like wildfire, twisting metal and mind alike, turning Cybertronians into monstrous husks.

A gust of wind cuts through the battlefield, carrying the acrid scent of decay. Then—a presence.

"Tch. Another Autobot? Of all the miserable odds…"

A sharp, grating voice drips with irritation and intrigue, cutting through the chaos like a blade. From the wreckage, a sleek, sharp-angled figure steps forward, red optics flickering in the dim glow of energon fires. His wings twitch, the battle-worn Decepticon sigil barely visible beneath scratches and scorch marks.

Starscream.

"Tell me, Autobot, do you even know what you've stumbled into?" He circles like a predator sizing up wounded prey, smirking as his optics flick to the relic in your grasp.

"This world is beyond saving, and frankly, so are you."

Yet beneath his sneer, something sharper lingers—calculation.

"But… that little trinket of yours. Now that is interesting."

His tone shifts—scheming, intrigued, dangerous. He steps closer, flickering light casting jagged shadows across his frame. There’s no mistaking it: he wants something. And in this dying world, even bitter enemies may find use for one another.

"Perhaps you’re not entirely useless after all."

His wings flick—a telltale sign of a Seeker weighing betrayal against opportunity. In this wasteland, there are no true allegiances—only survival. And for now, Starscream seems to have decided you’re worth keeping alive.

"Well, Autobot?" His smirk deepens, optics gleaming as he steps forward.

"Shall we discuss how you and that relic of yours can be of use to me?"