LOADING DATA BLOCK...
LOG_004 // The Best...
LOADING DATA BLOCK...
The sound of thrusters hammered against the landing platform outside the CFO’s wing of DeceptiCorp.
Red and black armor gleamed in the neon haze of Neo Detroit—morning or not, the city’s lights never slept.
The air shimmered as Starscream touched down, heels clicking softly against steel. Even before the doors slid open, her Seeker armor began to fold away—sleek plates retracting in smooth, precise movements, revealing a black blouse and blood-red skirt that tapered off above the knee as she strode into her office.
She stretched lightly as she moved.
STARSCREAM: “Hail to the queen.”
The phrase triggered the office systems. Lights pulsed to life.
A year ago, this office had been shattered—glass and steel torn apart like a broken mirror.
Now, the space gleamed. Flawless. Polished. On the surface.
But Starscream could still see the wreckage. Felt it beneath the shine. Some scars restorations could never erase.
Doors unlocked with a soft chime—allowing her assistant, Steve, to enter.
STARSCREAM: “Good morning, Steve.”
She settled behind her glass desk with practiced grace. She crossed her long legs as her fingers flicked across the holo-keypad, logging into her workstation.
STEVE: “Good morning, Madam.”
The young bot’s blue optics gleamed—handsome, in the way many found disarming.
Starscream, of course, was entirely unmoved.
STEVE: “I have your energon shake from Hook. And your first meeting is ready.”
STARSCREAM: “Meeting? I didn’t—”
She typed rapidly with long red claws, the ruby ring glittering in the light.
A groan.
She lowered her helm into her hands.
STARSCREAM: “Optimus Prime. And his idiot.”
Catching herself, Starscream straightened—lifting her hands away from her face.
She wasn’t about to ruin her makeup.
At that moment, Otis leapt lightly into her lap—his movements near-liquid now, all smooth precision.
Starscream ruffled his head.
OTIS: “Good morning, Starscream.”
STARSCREAM: “Morning, Otis. Wish me luck—looks like I’ll have my work cut out for me.”
She booped his nose gently, admiring the new black-and-gold collar Megatron had chosen for him.
STARSCREAM: “I do like this one. Black and gold suit you.”
She opened her platinum compact—embossed with the Decepticon logo—and retrieved a tube of candy-apple red lipstick, reapplying with precise, practiced strokes.
STARSCREAM: “Steve, has my husband arrived?”
STEVE: “Lord Megatron is already in conference with Accounting.”
Starscream giggled.
STARSCREAM: “Ohhh, he’s going to be in a lovely mood. I do love it when he’s a bit ticked off…”
She flicked her eyes at Steve.
STARSCREAM: “Okay, Steve. Tell me. What did Prime’s pink genius do?”
STEVE: “Can I be frank?”
STARSCREAM: “I’d rather you be Steve, but go ahead.”
Steve hung his head.
STEVE: “It’s a dumpster fire…”
Starscream paused in her primping.
STARSCREAM: “…what… did she… say…?”
She gave Steve her full attention. Each word was deliberate. A knife being sharpened.
Steve tapped at the datapad. A holo-screen bloomed in the air—
And there she was.
A too-pink Elita-One, optics bright, framed in low-res footage on some abysmal human morning show.
The set was a garish crime against lighting—washed-out faces, cheap faux-wood table cluttered with empty coffee mugs.
Starscream’s lip curled.
STARSCREAM: “Of course it’s that show… Good Morning Neo Detroit, or something?”
Steve gave a nod.
The segment started to play.
The human host—a fragile-looking female with enormous helmet-hair—leaned forward over the table.
HOST: “Now, Elita-One, in your opinion, dearie—Cybertronian-human relations. You think things have changed?”
Starscream’s optics widened in disbelief. She began shaking her head slowly, one hand rising to press a few buttons to bring up the stock market underneath the video.
STARSCREAM: “She can’t be… that foolish… can she?”
Steve nodded again.
As soon as Elita-One opened her mouth, the stocks dropped with every word.
The clip played.
ELITA-ONE: “Well, I believe we’ve moved past the need for militarized corporate forces patrolling our streets. If we want lasting peace, we have to stop behaving like we’re still at war.”
HOST: “Oh, how wonderful to hear.”
The clip ended. The holo froze on Elita’s composed smile.
SNAP.
Starscream’s platinum compact shut with the sharp crack of a gunshot.
She leaned back slowly.
One long leg crossed the other.
A single claw began to tap the glass desk—click. click. click.
STARSCREAM: “She’s truly that foolish.”
A beat.
STARSCREAM: “It would probably be merciful to Optimus if I dropped her out my window.”
Another flick of her claws—market data scrolling fast beneath her optics.
STARSCREAM: “No wonder Megatron is with Finance.”
More taps—click. click. click.
STARSCREAM: “Fantastic. Anti-bot sentiment is trending. On all seven networks. Stock is down. And let’s not forget—”
Steve raised his servo, cutting in.
Starscream rolled her optics—sharp, but permitting. She nodded.
STARSCREAM: “Yes, Steve? Something to share?”
Steve straightened.
STEVE: “Mr. Prime and Ms. Elita-One have arrived. They’re waiting.”
Starscream rose smoothly to her feet.
Otis hopped onto the desk as she adjusted her skirt and blouse—one last check of her appearance in the compact, a cool, sharp smirk fixed on her lips.
Wings high. Poise perfect.
STARSCREAM: “Let’s get this over with, boys.”
A flick of her helm.
The things Starscream did to keep the peace—for herself. For her husband. For her empire.
STARSCREAM: “Steve, send them in.”
It was hard to believe sometimes that Orin Prix was now Optimus Prime.
Starscream still remembered him—leaning over the battered table in that collapsing house she’d once shared with her brothers, and, even then, with Megatron.
All of them—furiously sketching the first business plans that would one day birth DeceptiCorp.
The prototype datapad scattered in parts between them.
A different time.
A skinny librarian mech.
That’s what Orin had been then. A scholar, not a leader.
And now? Their biggest competitor. Government contracts. White-washed PR. Flame-painted armor and polished sound bites.
And today, he walked into her office.
The doors slid open.
Red and blue. Polished plating. A faint glow from the Matrix housed deep within him.
Starscream’s optics narrowed slightly.
Was it the Matrix that had changed him? Or upgrades? Mods?
The same kind of unnatural enhancement he’d once so sanctimoniously lectured Starscream about.
And at his side—moving with deliberate poise—Elita-One.
Optics bright. Shoulders high.
Starscream didn’t rise.
She simply folded her hands atop her glass desk. Ruby ring flashing. Smile sharp as a blade.
STARSCREAM: “Optimus. Elita-One. My my—you’ve certainly made a mess.”
The two bots sat across from her.
Prime had the decency to look ashamed, even if he hid behind his mask.
OPTIMUS PRIME: “Thank you for meeting with us.”
His deep voice filled the room.
Elita’s optics flicked to Otis.
ELITA-ONE: “You have an AI companion?”
Starscream didn’t bother responding.
// ———
Otis leapt gracefully from the desk to a series of sculpted cat-shelves lining the wall behind her.
Without a word, Starscream flicked her claws—ruby-tipped talons flashing—triggering the glass desk to project a sharp, scrolling datasheet.
STARSCREAM: “Anti-bot groups have been emboldened. Stock across Cybertronian-led industries is dropping. Your public approval ratings—both of you—are in freefall.”
Another flick of her hand. The graph surged and dipped with brutal clarity.
STARSCREAM: “You’ve tanked your own standing, Orin.”
The use of his old name was deliberate. Cutting.
Elita, composed, glanced around the office.
ELITA-ONE: “Did you redecorate, Star? It looks different. I remember when you weren’t flying… we didn’t know what to think about that.”
Starscream’s wings flicked. Fangs pressed together.
A beat.
STARSCREAM: “My office was raided. This time last year. By humans.”
Every word landed like a blade.
A tense beat of silence.
OPTIMUS PRIME: “Starscream… I want to personally apologize. This was not Elita’s intent—”
ELITA-ONE: “But it’s true. Surely we don’t need to maintain so many guards anymore. We should be building trust—not fear.”
She smiled slightly.
Starscream’s optics narrowed.
Click. Click. Click.
// ———
Her claws resumed their slow, deliberate tap against the glass desk.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
STARSCREAM: “Tell me, Elita. How many bullets did you dodge the last time you left your office?”
Elita blinked.
ELITA-ONE: “I rarely go out without Optimus… but I believe we can create a safer city.”
Starscream’s wings flared slightly. Controlled. Deadly.
STARSCREAM: “I see.”
Her optics flicked back to Prime.
STARSCREAM: “And this is who you allowed to speak for you. For us. For all Cybertronians.”
A sharp flick of her claw toward the frozen image of Elita on the screen.
STARSCREAM: “I suggest, Orin, that next time you wish to play diplomat, you first muzzle your consort.”
Elita’s optics flashed—not ignorant, but frustrated.
What had happened to Elita-One? She wasn’t always this naive. Too much time around human influencers, perhaps. Too many photoshoots. Too many soft interviews.
ELITA-ONE: “Oh… right. Back when you were wingless. Some of us thought you were sick… or sparked.”
Starscream’s intake system hitched.
Red optics locked on blue.
STARSCREAM: “Orin. Shut her up or I won’t help you at all.”
Orin’s optics shuttered behind his mask. The tension in his frame was instant.
OPTIMUS PRIME: “Elita. That’s enough.”
Finally, she blinked—confusion flickering across her faceplates.
ELITA-ONE: “But Orin, I was just—”
OPTIMUS PRIME: “Elita. Enough.”
The room hummed with charged silence.
Starscream exhaled softly through her vents, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her crimson lips.
She’d won this round without even rising from her chair.
With perfect grace, Starscream flicked another command across the holo-desk.
STARSCREAM: “Steve. Close the feed.”
The image of Elita’s ill-timed interview vanished.
Another flick. New data cascaded across the glass—markets, headlines, trending sentiments.
Starscream’s optics gleamed as she surveyed the damage.
STARSCREAM: “Here is the situation. DeceptiCorp can salvage this. I can salvage this.”
Her voice tapered off when she noticed—
The door to Starscream’s office slid open—Steve holding it for Megatron, fresh from his meeting with Finance.
STARSCREAM: “Hello, Starlight.”
Megatron crossed the room and sank onto the couch—his optics never leaving Elita-One.
MEGATRON: “Hello.”
Otis jumped down from the cat shelf onto his shoulders. A large hand reached up to stroke the AI cat.
MEGATRON: “I’ve come to see why my stock prices are down. Why I was trapped in Finance for three hours.”
He growled, optics locked with Elita-One’s, as he sat down on the couch near Starscream’s desk.
Elita-One tried her best to keep her helm held high.
Starscream gave a synthetic smile at the warlord seated on her couch.
STARSCREAM: “Poor thing. Locked in a room with Astrotrain—a mech who has no volume control and speaks in the third person.”
She tossed him a bottle of headache medication.
MEGATRON: “Tell me about it, but he is the best at what he does. I only keep the best.”
He caught the bottle easily. Megatron gratefully swallowed a few pills. Dry.
That seemed to unnerve Elita-One the most.
A beat.
One manicured claw tapped the screen—click. click. click.
STARSCREAM: “But not for free.”
Prime inclined his helm slightly.
OPTIMUS PRIME: “Name it.”
His voice sounded almost resigned now—truly desperate, it seemed.
Starscream leaned in, ruby ring flashing like blood in the light.
STARSCREAM: “You will issue a joint statement.”
STARSCREAM: “Crafted by my team. Vetted by my lawyers.”
STARSCREAM: “You will publicly acknowledge DeceptiCorp’s role in promoting Cybertronian stability in Neo Detroit.”
STARSCREAM: “And you will ensure she will not be the one giving future interviews.”
STARSCREAM: “Congratulations, Elita-One. Your new job is to smile and wave.”
A soft, deliberate clap of her claws. Click. Click. Click.
Diamond wedding ring sparkling on the left. Ruby on the right.
The effect? Like two guns pointed across the table.
STARSCREAM: “Do we have an understanding?”
// ———
Before Optimus could respond—
MEGATRON: “Stop.”
The single word cut through the tension like a blade. Calm. Absolute.
Starscream’s claw stilled.
MEGATRON: “Stop being prideful. And accept the deal.”
A glance toward Starscream—fond.
MEGATRON: “‘Tarscream is being wonderfully kind.”
Starscream felt her wings twitch at the way he said her name—low, intimate, edged with amusement. Only Megatron could get away with saying her name like that.
Megatron leaned back, voice turning colder.
MEGATRON: “I wouldn’t have seen you both at all.”
ELITA-ONE: “Kind? Starscream hasn’t been kind—she won’t even tell me her cat’s name, and you’re petting it!”
OPTIMUS PRIME: “Elita-One!”
Starscream’s optics flashed.
STARSCREAM: “Agree. Now. Or I will unleash Soundwave and let him clean this mess however he sees fit.”
She smiled—sharp. Dangerous.
STARSCREAM: “If you think I’m cruel…”
A soft laugh. Claws tapping the desk.
STARSCREAM: “You should see Soundwave’s handiwork.”
Prime exhaled, optics dimming—and signed the agreement.
Elita-One, at last, fell silent.
The moment the datapad flashed confirmed—
Steve approached like clockwork, passing them each a polished PR packet and a broadcast schedule.
Starscream’s smile bloomed—sharp. Sweet. Weaponized.
STARSCREAM: “Wonderful. That should do it, dear. Have fun.”
She waved as the doors whispered shut behind them.
Optimus rose with weary precision, taking the datapad without another word.
Elita followed—head high, but her field tight with suppressed frustration.
Neither looked back.
The doors whispered shut.
Silence.
Then Starscream slumped back into her chair—grace abandoned for a moment—as the mask slipped away.
STARSCREAM: “Do you have a processor-ache? I sure as Primus have one.”
And for a long moment, they sat in silence—the empire, for now, secured.
Finally, Starscream pushed to her feet. No glide. No theatrics. Just tired grace.
She crossed the space, heels clicking softly.
Then—without ceremony—she dropped down beside him on the couch.
Ungraceful this time.
Leaning heavily against his side.
Head pressed to his chestplate. Voice muffled:
STARSCREAM: “Shouldn’t’ve helped them. Really shouldn’t’ve.”
Megatron didn’t answer right away—just shifted, one arm moving around her shoulders.
Steady. Grounded.
// ———
He rubbed her shoulder lightly, voice low.
MEGATRON: “Because you can. And because you’re better than them.”
A beat. Then the smirk:
MEGATRON: “And we don’t look good in orange jumpsuits.”
Starscream huffed, voice dry.
STARSCREAM: “You would.”
Megatron’s optics glinted.
MEGATRON: “You wouldn’t come visit me.”
STARSCREAM: “Fair point.”
They were quiet for a while—his arm a steady presence around her, her breathing slowly evening out.
Then Megatron spoke again, voice low. Knowing.
MEGATRON: “She really drains you. Let me guess—she said something about the raid?”
Quiet for a moment.
Starscream huffed softly.
STARSCREAM: “I hate how well you can read me.”
A beat.
STARSCREAM: “Yes. She asked when I redecorated my office. And… she brought up when I was sick… and wingless.”
Starscream looked away. The words heavier than she intended.
STARSCREAM: “She almost guessed it.”
Megatron’s arm stayed firm around her waist.
Optics dark.
MEGATRON: “She’s not for you to be concerned with.”
Starscream exhaled slowly.
The weight in her spark eased—but didn’t vanish.
She pushed off his chest with a graceful flick of her claws.
Straightened her skirt. Smoothed her hair. Wings arching high once more.
STARSCREAM: “You’re right. We’ve got bigger prey.”
Before Megatron could respond—
A chime. The door hissed open.
Steve poked his head in, datapad in hand.
STEVE: “Apologies—press requests are coming in. They want a statement… and there’s a council invite from Senator Strika.”
Starscream sighed.
Leaning back just slightly into Megatron’s hold.
STARSCREAM: “Of course there is.”
She reached for her platinum compact, flicking it open with a practiced claw.
A swipe of candy-apple red lipstick—sharp. Perfect.
The ruby ring glittered as she snapped the case shut with a crisp click.
STARSCREAM: “Send them my regards.”
STARSCREAM: “And tell them: DeceptiCorp is open for business.”
She rose from the couch in one fluid movement.
Smoothing her skirt. Wings high.
Megatron stood with her—adjusting his cuffs with casual precision.
Together, they moved toward the door.
Calm. In control. Lethal beneath the polish.
And then—without warning—Megatron’s optics gleamed.
A low rumble of amusement in his chest.
His large palm landed a sharp, deliberate smack across Starscream’s aft.
CRACK—just loud enough to echo faintly in the polished room.
Starscream chirped in shock—jolted, barely. Her wings flicked.
She cast a sharp, sideways glance over her shoulder.
STARSCREAM: “Brute.”
Though her mouth curled into a smirk.
MEGATRON: “My brat.”
The office doors hissed open.
Together, they strode out—into the heart of their empire.
The office lights gleamed across flawless glass and steel.
Impeccable. Controlled. Unbroken.
Exactly the illusion Starscream intended to project.
And beneath it all—the scars still whispered.