Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“How would I describe C4M1NUX?”

The teen shifted in place, a fiery blue light stick in her hand flickering as she paused to think. Her friend jumped in, leaning towards the offered microphone with a wide grin.

“Uh, you mean other than the best girl group of all time?”

The first girl swatted her playfully, seeming to loosen up as she glanced at the camera. “C’mon, that’s obvious! But yeah, they’re the coolest.”

The scene shifted, now showing a twenty-something with brightly colored hair, her back to a waterfront. “The coolest member of C4M1NUX is Chromia, of course.”

She pointed to the woman emblazoned on her shirt, who stood near a motorcycle and crossed her arms. Her icy stare was only complemented by short, blue hair worked into waterfall braids and lipstick in a shade to match.

“She’s the main rapper, and I heard she handles most of the group’s choreo too. Have you seen how buff she is? I bet she could beat up anyone else in the industry! Ugh, she makes me want to learn how to drive a motorcycle…”

“Nautica’s my bias,” said a young man as the scene cut to a park at midday. He stood with three others, all grinning broadly. “They don’t have official roles, but she’s the stylist and the best dancer by far. A mechanical genius–”

“Not to mention a marine conservation advocate!” one of the others cut in. He held up a photocard to the camera, showing off his picture of the woman with light brown skin and purple curls pulled into puffs around her head. Her smile shone brighter than the reflected flash.

“Intelligent, kind, and beautiful!” said another. “What more could you want?”

The scene dissolved again, now showing a group of girls in matching C4M1NUX hats on the sidewalk of a busy street. A few gathered in front while the rest chatted amongst themselves in the background.

“If I had to pick a favorite?” one on the right said. “Probably Windblade. Vocals like that don’t grow on trees.”

“What do you mean ‘probably’?” said the girl in the middle. “Windblade’s the best! She writes most of the group’s music, too.”

“Well, yeah,” said a third girl, adjusting the brim of her cap, “but she’s so… weird. She’s always got her head in the clouds, it feels like she’s not even from this planet sometimes.”

The middle girl huffed. “Isn’t that part of her charm?”

She held out her phone to the camera. The lock screen showed a blurry photo of a pale woman standing onstage, dark hair pulled into an updo reminiscent of storm clouds. The woman had looked into the camera at that moment, and despite the grainy quality, her piercing cyan eyes, surrounded by ornamental red makeup, shone in perfect clarity.

“When she sings, it makes me feel—I don’t know how to describe it. Like everything’s at peace. Like she sees me. And everything."

“You’re so corny,” giggled the girl on the right, though she nodded in agreement.

The shot abruptly cut back to the girl with the lightstick and her friend, who now frowned in curiosity.

“It doesn’t take away from their awesomeness, obviously, but we don’t know anything about where they’re from or what their lives were like before debuting,” she said as her friend shook her head for emphasis. “Not for lack of trying, either. You should have seen Twitter when one of the Forge, er—one of their fans, tried to dox them and couldn’t. The C4M1NUX tag was trending for, like, two weeks.”

“Technically, we don’t even know if they’re Korean,” said one of the guys as the scene switched back to the park. One of his friends rolled his eyes.

“Most of the Forge tries to respect their privacy,” said the boy with the Nautica photocard. “They clearly want it with stage names like those. But there are bad actors in any fandom.”

“But even if we don’t know that much,” said a girl from the street scene, “we do know one thing!”

“We love you, C4M1NUX!” shouted the girls with matching hats in unison.

“We love you, C4M1NUX!” said the boys in the park.

“Love you, C4M1NUX!” said the woman with the Chromia T-shirt.

“We love you!” said the girl with the light stick and her friend. The screen faded to black as they struck a clearly practiced pose.

Windblade looked up from the recording as it shut off, her smile affectionate if a little puzzled. Leaning back on the stiff couch where she sat with Chromia and Nautica, she took a second to reacquaint herself with the distinctly beige office space. Her eyes eventually landed on the man across the desk, who straightened up and looked at the trio expectantly.

“So? What do you think?” he asked eagerly.

“It’s lovely,” Windblade said, “but it’s for… what, exactly?”

“It’s the intro for your new docu-series,” said the man, seizing upon her curiosity like a hyena spotting a bone. “Your fans are clearly starving for a behind-the-scenes look at C4M1NUX’s success, and what better way to give it to them than professionally produced interviews, each ranging from thirty to forty minutes in length?”

Nautica cut in, pushing up her blue-tinted glasses as she looked at the other two. “Wait, wait, hold on a second, sorry. I thought we were meeting to discuss a brand partnership?”

“We were,” responded Chromia through gritted teeth.

“It will be!” the man said brightly. “A collaboration with the production company, that is. Of course, you’d be assisting with the advertising, so that portion would be similar–”

“My apologies,” Windblade said gently, not feeling very gentle or very apologetic, “but C4M1NUX has always been very open about our desire for privacy. We want to keep our personal lives and our professional lives separate, as the Forge members mentioned in your video.”

“Yes, but–”

“We’re not interested,” Chromia cut in, very clearly resisting the urge to roll her eyes. In a quieter voice, she muttered, “I can’t believe we cut practice short for this…”

“That video you filmed is very sweet. Maybe you could release it on YouTube?” Nautica said with a calming smile.

“That’s not–” the man said, clearly caught off guard, “There’s an obvious market–”

“A market we don’t intend on tapping into,” Windblade said firmly. “Though even if we did, we wouldn’t work with a company that operates under false pretenses. I think we’re done here.”

She stood, readjusting her cap to cover her hair and brushing herself off. The other two followed shortly after, and they left the office before the startled businessman could even get a word out.

“It’s a shame about the Forge members… putting all that work into the interviews with nothing to show for it,” Nautica sighed as they crowded into the strangely small elevator.

“We saw it at least,” Chromia pointed out. A small smile warmed her face. “I’ll admit it was pretty nice. Never thought I’d inspire a human to get into motorcycles.”

“And did you see that picture of Windblade?” Nautica gushed. “She had it as her wallpaper! Absolutely adorable.”

“She took that during our last performance in Busan,” Windblade said. “I remember it well. She’s let her hair grow out, though. It was much shorter when I saw her.”

“Can always count on you to remember every fan encounter we’ve ever had,” Chromia said playfully.

“Don’t you?” asked Windblade.

“I try, but c’mon, that’s a lot of fans,” she snorted. “Our memory banks only have so much storage space.”

The elevator dinged, and within seconds, they exited into the streets of Seoul, the rapidly approaching sunset bathing buildings with a gold sheen. Nautica yawned and stretched.

“There’s no way we’ll be able to get in any more practice after the time we spent getting over here,” she said. “Wanna just grab some dinner and take a cab home?”

“Might as well,” Chromia shrugged as she pulled out her phone. “I think Bobby mentioned a good burger place around here…”

“I could always fly us back if you’re too tired to drive,” Windblade said as they headed in the direction their human manager texted.

“Wouldn’t want to put that pressure on you,” Nautica said cheerfully. “If two of us get to relax, then all of us should.”

They had nearly made it to the restaurant when Chromia slowed her pace, talking out of the corner of her mouth.

“Two unmarked motorcycles at our seven. Their drivers haven’t twitched.”

“Always on our breaks,” Nautica complained.

Windblade put a hand on her shoulder, taking a deep breath as she led them to the nearest alley. “At least it’s not during a show.”

“Small victories,” growled Chromia.

They stopped midway into the dead-end space, trying to ignore the smell of garbage. No windows on either building. Perfect.

The motorcycles pulled in behind them to block the entrance. Their headlights cast the trio in a harsh spotlight, and though none of them were unfamiliar, Windblade felt that she preferred the sensation while on a stage.

“Alright,” she said, turning into the blinding beams and crossing her arms. “You can come out now.”

They remained still.

“We don’t have all night!” Chromia called as she cracked her knuckles. “If you make us miss dinner, I’m forwarding our Uber bill to Megatron.”

Still, they didn’t so much as twitch. Nautica pulled a wrench from her subspace. “I’m sure you’ll hear us if I fiddle with your audial receptors a little–“

The mechanical whirr of identical transformations interrupted her, and in the wake, two Vehicons stood blocking their path. Not the largest Windblade had ever seen, but even short bots by Cybertronian standards still towered over the ladies.

“There we go,” she said.

“You’re not getting away this time, Autobots!” one of them said, his voice heavy with threat.

“That’s what the last three said,” Chromia responded. “Can we hurry up and get this over with?”

The pair charged. In an instant, Windblade leaned back and grabbed for Stormfall from her subspace, the sword mass shifting to fit her human-like hand. It activated with a crackle, and she ran to meet them.

The trio’s size gave them an advantage, the Vehicons overshooting and allowing Windblade to slide under one of their legs. She leapt up, dragging Stormfall's serrated edges along an important-looking piece of kibble as she landed on his shoulders. He yelled in surprise. Though he raised a blaster towards her, she sliced the tip off before he could aim.

After a few minutes of scrapping, she looked over to see Chromia and Nautica attacking the other in a similar fashion. She signaled, and they hopped back onto the ground to admire their handiwork.

The frame of Windblade’s opponent sparked with a generous multitude of slashes that almost resembled a beast’s claw marks. The other clutched a particularly nasty axe wound dripping with energon; he was missing an optic, too, no doubt Nautica’s handiwork.

“Look,” she started, “we’d rather not kill anyone if we don’t have to. So why don’t you run back to Megatron and tell him to leave us alone?”

“Bet you won’t be so confident if we bring some humans into the mix,” one sneered.

The other took a step backward, clearly gearing up to turn and head back onto the street. “Yeah, your puny little fans–“

Chromia’s axe pierced through his spark casing, thrown so hard that the head tore out the other side. He looked dumbly down at it, swayed, then collapsed as his frame began to go grey.

“No one messes with our fans,” she said coldly.

“Yeah!” Nautica chimed in, her usual sweetness tempered by biting disdain. “You mess with our fans, you mess with us!”

“Y-you won’t get away with this!” the remaining Vehicon shouted, though his voice suddenly sounded much shakier. Practically tripping over his pedes in a haste to back up, he transformed and zoomed out of the alley.

“Odds on him causing civilian casualties?” Chromia asked dryly.

“High,” Windblade sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him. You guys go get dinner.”

“I think I’ve lost my appetite,” Nautica said gloomily. “We’ll handle the clean-up and catch you once we're done, okay?”

Windblade nodded in acknowledgement, then, with a brief flicker of her holoform avatar, she transformed and flew after him. Her rudimentary cloaking device buzzed alight a second later. Seoul’s cool night air slid over her wings in a bracing caress, filling her with a giddy energy that almost distracted her from the target. The Vehicon hadn’t gotten far despite well exceeding the speed limit, and she swooped down to ram him as he passed a closed park.

He let out a squeal as they crashed through the foliage and came to a halt beneath a copse of trees. Windblade reactivated her holoform and held Stormfall against his neck cabling before he could so much as vent.

“Like I said,” she said calmly as he thrashed below her. “We don’t want to kill you. But I’ve gotten quite a good look at your serial number, and if we hear about even a single human casualty on your way back to the Decepticons, I’ll forward it to the rest of the Autobots. Soldiers aren’t nearly as forgiving as pop stars, you know.”

“Fine, fine, just let me go!” he hissed, red eyes flaring with panic beneath his mask.

Satisfied, Windblade deactivated Stormfall and stepped back to watch him dart back out onto the street. Listening to a startled honk as he pulled out into traffic at full speed, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. An odd, pointless gesture that came automatically after spending so much time around a species that needed things like that. She glanced towards the street, and after confirming a lack of passersby, she dropped to a knee and spread her palm out in the disturbed dirt.

It took barely a moment before she felt herself connect to the Earth’s current. Sounds, smells, tastes, threads of light connecting every life on the planet into a collective force solidified into being around her. Vague, difficult to read, yet enough to move her to awe each time she glimpsed it.

She felt the familiar warm light spiral around her arms and face as she created a shallow connection. Fleeting glimpses met her senses—the rosy scent of a couple reuniting, a sour taste from a tired commuter—but none carried the discordant tones of panic. She hadn’t been seen.

She allowed herself to sink into the sensations. Despite speaking so much, it had been so long since she last listened…

“Windblade!”

The woman shot back to her feet like a kid with a hand in the candy jar, brushing the dirt off her skirt. Her jacket slipped during the movement, sliding off her shoulders.

“Windblade, are you there?”

She froze as beams of light from Chromia’s alt-mode filtered through the branches. Nautica sat atop her, calling out in confusion.

“I– don’t worry, I’m here, just give me a second!” Windblade called back.

With trembling hands, she pulled her jacket back into its proper place. Fingers brushed over whorls of red inked permanently into artificial skin.

She grabbed her hat from where it had fallen and emerged from the trees onto the stark sidewalk. Nautica visibly brightened.

“Oh, good, we were starting to get worried.”

“Ready to go?” Chromia asked, keeping her voice down to avoid notice.

Windblade moved forward to get on (and presumably find another alley for Chromia to transform in so she wouldn’t have to carry them home), but a shy voice stopped her.

“Excuse– um, excuse me?”

A teenage girl with a backpack hovered at the corner of her vision, twisting a lock of hair nervously. “Are you… Sorry, are you Windblade?”

Windblade smiled. “Yes, I am. You’re Ji-an, aren’t you? From the fansign six months ago?”

“You remember me?!” the girl squeaked with a visible jolt.

“Of course I do,” she said. “You drew that lovely picture of us as the Powerpuff Girls. I still have it hanging on my wall.”

She left out the fact that she had never heard of the show before the picture and ended up binge-watching the original cartoon during her downtime. Not that it probably would have mattered to Ji-an, who looked at Windblade like she had just hung the moon.

“Wow…” she breathed. Fumbling with the zippers on her backpack, she stumbled over her next words. “I’m sorry, but if it’s not too much of a bother—I mean, you don’t have to–”

“I’d be happy to give you an autograph,” Windblade said warmly. “Hey, Nautica?”

“Oh, I’d love to!” she said, hopping off Chromia and hurrying over to them. The girl looked as though she might collapse.

After signing some notebook paper and taking a few selfies, they sent the barely coherent fangirl on her way. Chromia was still grumbling about it in the cab home.

“Of all the times to be stuck in alt-mode… You told her I would have given her an autograph if I could, right?”

Their apartment held a welcome respite from the evening’s chaos, the trio sinking into the living room’s large, fluffy couch and groaning. Windblade gazed out over the city skyline, wondering dimly if it would be inappropriate to have some potato chips with her energon ration.

“Honestly, as sore as I am,” Chromia mumbled, settling in, “I’ll take a couple ‘Cons over that ‘brand partnership’ any day.”

“Girls! Thought I’d heard you come in!”

Windblade hauled herself up to greet the smiling face of Bobby, who had clearly been relaxing in their apartment before their arrival (a fairly typical occurrence, since they never minded having him over). Clad in a fluffy bathrobe over casual clothes, he’d been using the apartment’s obscenely large bathtub, if she had to guess. More power to him, frankly. It’s not like they used it; their holoforms couldn’t be submerged like that, and their bot-modes were too large to fit.

“Hi, Bobby,” they said in unison, his presence causing them to brighten up a bit.

“How’d the meeting go?” he chirped.

“Terribly,” Chromia said bluntly. “They stretched the truth big time. Can you believe they wanted to make a documentary on us?”

If possible, he looked more outraged than Chromia had sitting in that office. “Are you kidding me?! I’ve always been very upfront about prioritizing your guys’ privacy, I can’t believe the audacity! No one messes with my girls, or I’ll–”

“We turned them down as best we could,” Windblade said.

“Good,” Bobby responded, “good, you’ve gotta be very firm about your boundaries. Give those sharks an inch, and they’ll take a mile.”

“Sharks are nicer than executives,” Nautica protested mildly.

He took a deep breath, smiling again as he did so. “Did you like the burgers?”

“Uh–” Windblade glanced away. “Yes, they tasted great. In fact, we want to go back soon, just to um– get a better opinion of them.”

“Great!” he said. “Maybe I’ll come with you next time. Well, I’m off for the night! Don’t forget you three are starting rehearsal for the Hawksbill Conservation Institute performance tomorrow.”

“You’ll be promoting the charity on our socials, right?” Nautica asked.

“Already on it. See you then!”

Though they slumped back down as soon as he left, Nautica soon straightened back up.

“Just got a comm from Ultra Magnus.”

“Something wrong?” Windblade asked.

Nautica squinted at the message on her HUD, the expression looking much stranger on a human face than on a Transformer’s. “The opposite, actually. He said they finally managed to get livestreaming set up on Teletraan I. They watched our last performance!”

“What’d he have to say about it?” Chromia asked as she curled up with her head on an armrest. “I swore I messed up some of the footwork in the opening, I doubt he liked that very much.”

“Seems like they all enjoyed it,” said Nautica as her eyes scanned the most recent message, "especially Ironhide. Huh, never struck him as a pop kind of guy.”

“Ironhide watched?!”

Chromia scrambled up. An embarrassed red bloomed on her cheeks, and Windblade took the opportunity to raise an interested eyebrow. She looked away, scowling with no real malice.

“Sounds like everyone on the Ark did. Optimus wants to know how our next song is coming, by the way.”

“Tell him we’re working on it,” Windblade said. “Oh, and make sure to mention that the Decepticon skirmishes have started getting more frequent.”

“Will do.”

If the other two exchanged any further words, Windblade didn’t hear. The couch’s softness, combined with her fatigue from the day's events, had her slipping into recharge before she even realized.

But if she knew about the events happening among the Decepticons that night, she wouldn’t have slept as soundly.

Chapter Text

The Decepticons’ ship, the Nemesis, was, more than anything, large. Winding corridors, generous arms stores, room for legions of foot soldiers, all scattered across the warship hovering just outside of Earth’s orbit. And one of the biggest advantages of its size, besides the obvious, was simple: privacy.

So even though the mess halls and bunks and wash racks rang with the laughter of off-duty soldiers, the swears of overeager card players, and the whispers of ambitious future officers, the Nemesis’s throne room contained only thick, tense silence.

Megatron sat with his cannon extended on his lap, peering at the trembling Vehicon by his pedes. Dark chassis sparking with multitudes of deep gashes, the thin cut on his neck cables screamed of failure louder than any voice could. When enough kliks had passed to determine that the faceless soldier had no intention of breaking the silence, Megatron spoke.

“They got away?”

The Vehicon jerked in surprise, his trembling growing more intense. “Y-yes, my lord.”

“Your ally went offline?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“The two of you couldn’t handle three human femmes?”

“They… they are crafty, my lord. Quick. Strong.”

Megatron shook his helm disdainfully. “Tell me, soldier, what is your designation?”

“Razortrack, sir.”

The end of Megatron’s cannon blossomed with fire. Falling to the ground, the soldier's frame made a loud clang, helm echoing the sound as it hit a far wall.

“Soundwave,” said the warlord, “tell Razortrack’s commanding officer that he will no longer be reporting for duty.”

The communications specialist stirred from his silent spot at Megatron’s right servo, twitching slightly as though to refamiliarize his joints with movement. His visor flashed.

“The message: has been sent, Lord Megatron.”

Slumping on his throne, Megatron let out a deep groan and pinched the bridge of his olfactory sensor.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he said. “How hard can it be to capture three Autobots in human disguises?!”

“Femmes: could be utilizing support from the Ark.”

“No, no, the reports have consistently emphasized they’re on their own.”

Megatron sighed. “Entertainers. Human entertainers. What use could Prime possibly have for such an inane waste of resources?”

“Possibility: gathering human allies.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But if we can’t capture the femmes for interrogation–”

The doors cut him off with a whirr, figure leaning in the frame making Megatron groan.

“Starscream,” he ground out.

“Good to see you too,” the Seeker said. Moving into the room, afterburners softly clicking against the metal floor, he glanced at the still steaming helm of Razortrack. “Bad news?”

“None that concerns you.”

“On the contrary,” Starscream responded in a voice as greasy as the fresh polish adorning his frame, “I was informed that you failed at another attempt to capture—what do they call themselves? C4M1NUX?”

Megatron’s cannon rose swiftly, his faceplate twisted in a scowl. “Of all the insolent—“

“I’m here to propose an alternate strategy,” Starscream said, holding his servos up as the end of the cannon bumped a dark vent adorning his faceplate. They’d done this song and dance before, long enough for him to know exactly when he overstepped.

“Talk quickly,” said Megatron.

“We may not know what the Autobots are after, but we do know what they’re gaining: fans. Fame. Lucrative brand partnerships, if the pictures they’ve posted are any indication.”

“Decepticons: have no need for human currency,” Soundwave said in a colder monotone than usual.

Starscream waved a servo. “Not important. I’m trying to say that the Autobots are getting visible benefits from all this. Benefits that have—so far—been unchallenged.”

“Do you have a point, or are you talking to hear your own voice again?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Starscream said with a grin.

With a snap of his digits, four more Seekers shuffled into the room, lining up behind Starscream in a multicolored array. Yellow, blue, purple, and green, some faces smiling, others scowling.

Starscream struck a pose. The others followed suit.

Megatron squinted. “What am I looking at?”

“Korea’s newest hit boyband,” Starscream said confidently.

The warlord paused to process. Then he burst out laughing.

“You? By the Pits, Starscream, most of your ideas are terrible, but this beats them all!”

“Soundwave didn’t seem to agree,” Starscream said smugly.

Megatron twisted his helm around. “What?!”

Soundwave didn’t flinch, but something in his bearing seemed to sag. “Starscream: approached the cassettes first. Rumble and Frenzy: fans of Korean popular music. Soundwave: was forced to assist.”

“Ravage and Laserbeak liked it too,” Starscream added. “And with all their help, we were able to rig up what we think they’re using to disguise themselves.”

He snapped his digits again. This time, each of the five frames buzzed with electricity. Within kliks, the Seekers shrank, light fizzing about their frames until five young human men stood where the Cybertronians had been, each wearing immaculately beautiful streetwear that matched their hair colors and paint jobs. The one in the center, dark-haired with an unmistakable smirk, chuckled.

“The wonders of modern technology. Using devices affixed to our person, we’re able to mass-displace with very little effort—add on the holoforms projected on top, and we’re indistinguishable from humans. A debut song has already been produced, and the revenue from that should keep us from having to borrow Decepticon shanix,” Starscream said. His hands ran subtly over the new expanse of crimson shirt and sturdy pants, as though even the most experienced member hadn’t gotten used to the feel of fabric.

“If you’d asked for money, I would have ripped out your voice box,” Megatron growled. “I still might. What do the rest of your Seekers have to say about this?”

“Anything to help the Elite Trine!” Nova Storm chirped with a smile that didn’t reach his wide eyes.

“Most of the Trine, anyway,” Thundercracker said under his breath. “Some of us aren’t so enthusiastic.”

Skywarp threw an arm around his shoulders and laughed hard enough to show off glittering white canines. “C’mon, TC, don’t be such a spoilsport! It’ll be fun!”

Megatron looked to the last Seeker, whose frown hadn’t moved even through the transformation.

“Acid Storm?”

“Starscream is very… persuasive,” the green-haired man said curtly.

Megatron nodded. “And Ion Storm is…?”

“Not interested,” Nova answered. “Besides, he’s never been able to keep his trap shut, he would have been a PR nightmare.”

“That’s disrespectful,” Acid chided, “but not wrong. He’s content with his position in the ranks and threatened to reveal us if he had been forced.”

Starscream rolled his eyes. “Ion Storm doesn’t matter. Another blue one would have messed up the color coordination, anyway.”

“Five-person groups aren’t uncommon,” Thundercracker added. “And we’ve all done enough research on human culture to blend, so that won’t be an issue.”

“Won’t be an issue,” Megatron scoffed. “You’re proposing to compete with the Autobot femmes without knowing what the true prize is.”

“Not much of an ask, it’s not like we’ll be putting our lives in danger,” Starscream snorted.

“And you—“ Megatron turned his helm to the man, patience visibly draining by the klik. “Let me see if I have this straight. You want to take four of my best Seekers, three of whom have valuable Outlier abilities, and start a human band with them, which has no guarantee of success, no visible benefits for the war effort, and a very good chance of revealing our existence to humanity!”

“Not to mention we’ll get ripped apart on Twitter if Sky can’t get our choreo down,” Thundercracker interjected. Skywarp reached over to swat him lightly.

As he leaned forward, Megatron’s cannon warmed with warning. “Give me one good reason why I should refrain from sending you to the medibay for your audacity.”

“Well…” Starscream murmured, smirk freezing on his face. Almost human muscles tensed imperceptibly beneath his clothes. “It’ll keep me out of HQ for at least a few astrocycles. I’ll be radio silent. And with all of my energy focused on being a popstar, I probably won’t have much time to advance my newest fifteen usurpation plots…”

Megatron paused. Thought it out. Sighed.

“Fine.”

Silently, Acid Storm handed Nova Storm five shanix. The Seeker commander clasped his hands together and took a step backward. “You’re wise to see the advantages of my proposition. Now–”

“I’m not finished.”

“What?”

“What do you get out of this?” he asked, derma curling. “Your positions on humanity aren’t exactly a secret.”

“Yes, um—” Starscream said, “I’ve turned over a new sheet, as it were, about the flesh– about the humans. What’s more appealing than the worship of thousands of lesser– thousands of itty-bitty organic lifeforms?”

“Very well,” said Megatron, who didn’t sound like he believed him. “But know that I have the authority to end this little gallivant at any time, and the cassettes will report on your behavior when necessary. You still answer to me, Starscream. Do not forget your place.”

Dropping into a deep bow, Starscream looked up at the now-gigantic warlord with a small grin. For the briefest of moments, his dark eyes flashed Decepticon red.

“As you wish, Lord Megatron.”