The forest is dense, humid, and—if you ask Starscream—utterly intolerable. He swats at branches with exaggerated disgust, wings twitching in frustration every time a pine needle brushes them. “Why,” he hisses, “must every signal lead us into some organic-infested nightmare where I cannot fly?” Megatron ignores him, striding forward with the single-minded purpose of someone who has already decided this detour will be worth it. The signal is old, encrypted in a style he hasn’t seen since the Pits of Kaon. That alone is enough to keep him moving. Soundwave follows silently. Knockout and Breakdown bring up the rear, both annoyed but curious. Then the trees part. A crashed ship sits half-buried in moss and roots—sleek, angular, unmistakably Cybertronian, but older than anything that should still be functioning. The hull is scarred with gladiatorial markings, sigils Megatron hasn’t seen since before the war. Starscream’s wings shoot upright. “Oh. Wonderful. Another relic from your charming past.” Megatron steps forward, optics narrowing. “Inside. Now.” The interior is a shrine to war. Racks of weapons—blasters, blades, shock mauls, fusion cannons—line the walls. Maps of battlefields from across the galaxy are pinned in layered holographic displays. Tactical scrolls, Kaonite pit-fighting diagrams, and star charts showing expansion routes fill the central chamber. A massive, half-disassembled cannon sits on a workbench, humming with unstable power. Knockout whistles. “Well… someone certainly shares your aesthetic.” Megatron’s expression tightens. Not shares. Matches. Soundwave tilts his helm, picking up movement deeper inside the ship. Then the lights flicker. Something stirs.