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LOG_005 //8000FF PURPLE
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“ASTROTRAIN DID NOT AUTHORIZE THIS EXPENSE! FORTY DOLLARS AND SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS ON DUCT TAPE IN—#8000FF PURPLE!”
The bellow echoed down the hallway as Megatron and Starscream walked toward the PR room.
SHOCKWAVE: “It is illogical to only stock gray duct tape.”
Starscream didn’t even blink as they passed the sound of the argument.
STARSCREAM: “Business as usual.”
MEGATRON: “Sounds like my credits are being made.”
Walking past another office, the roaring voice of Destroyer rang out from a closed, soundproof door.
DESTROYER: “MATERNITY LEAVE SHALL BE PAID!”
Destroyer was the chief compliance and employee rights officer. Most of the time, Astrotrain and Destroyer were locked in a battle of wills.
Shockingly, they were best friends—if Starscream could call it anything.
CRASH.
DESTROYER: “FULL SIX MONTHS! OR I’LL HAVE SOUNDWAVE AUDIT EVERY SLAGGING LINE ITEM!”
Without missing a step, Starscream glanced toward Megatron.
STARSCREAM: “Oh, is it that time of year again? Labor Policy Week.”
MEGATRON: “Good. The staff will be well cared for. And we will remain… unbothered.”
She couldn’t help but smile.
STARSCREAM: “Assuming the building survives them.”
A small shrug of her wings.
STARSCREAM: “But they are the best at what they do… even if both Astrotrain and Destroyer have no volume control.”
The couple shared a small laugh as they passed a breezeway.
Starscream shivered slightly. Seekers were sensitive to the cold.
STARSCREAM: “How I hate winter. Having to do interviews inside our building… Gonna smell like humans for weeks.”
She added it with a melodramatic sigh.
Megatron chuckled as he adjusted his sleeves and cuffs.
Holding the door open to the green room, Megatron allowed Starscream in first.
MEGATRON: “Will you be wearing that huge coat of yours?”
Starscream huffed, crossing her arms with a slight pout.
STARSCREAM: “As much as I love my coat, humans tend to make fun of its shape. It covers my wings—so its triangle silhouette is unavoidable.”
MEGATRON: “It’s adorable.”
She flicked her optics, watching Megatron for a moment—taking in his arms. Large, strong, scarred. Tasteful white sleeves, brass cuffs. It was rare to see Megatron actually primping.
He was handsome—and didn’t even acknowledge it.
PRIVATE INTERFERENCE
STARSCREAM: “Come here.”
Her voice was low and dangerous.
He was about to ask why, but the answer came fast—her mouth on his, lipstick smearing across both their faces in bold, furious red.
Not one kiss—many. Quick, claiming, possessive.
The kind of kisses that rumple lapels, fog glass, ruin reputations, and demand reapplication of makeup.
By the time she pulled back—breathless and grinning—Megatron’s tie was crooked, and his mouth was stained like a crime scene.
Starscream gave a pleased hum, then turned on her heel, already reaching for her compact and a clean cloth.
STARSCREAM: “You’ll need to fix that.”
She gestured to his collar as she dabbed at her lips.
Megatron stared at her, dazed.
MEGATRON: “What the hell was that?”
STARSCREAM: “Insurance. In case anyone at this event forgets whose empire you belong to.”
Megatron caught his reflection in the mirror, thumb grazing the corner of his mouth.
MEGATRON: “I look like I drank blood.”
Starscream didn’t even try to hide her grin.
STARSCREAM: “That’s hot.”
He shot her a look.
STARSCREAM: “What? Isn’t that from one of those awful teenage romance books?”
MEGATRON: “‘Tarscream.”
She sauntered over, all silk and satisfaction, pulling a delicate handkerchief from her clutch like a weapon.
Embroidered initials. Fine linen. Of course.
STARSCREAM: “Oh, don’t pout. Let me clean you up before you scare the poor, helpless humans here to interview us.”
He allowed it. The cloth smelled faintly of Starscream’s perfume.
He didn’t even flinch as she pressed the cloth to his lip, then tilted his chin—inspecting the damage as though she were examining priceless artwork.
That was one of the things Megatron loved about the Seeker before him.
She didn’t change him—she challenged him.
And still kissed him like he was a mech worthy of such treatment.
STARSCREAM: “You’ll live.”
She folded the cloth back neatly.
STARSCREAM: “But don’t get used to the look. Only I get to paint you in red.”
MEGATRON: “’Tarscream.”
He rolled his optics while rubbing her side, enjoying the way her wings trembled in joy at hearing her name from his lips.
Megatron never understood the Seeker—why she loved him so.
STARSCREAM: “I’m serious!”
She gave a small pout.
STARSCREAM: “You’re mine.”
// ———
PRIVATE GREEN ROOM SUITE — ABOVE THE PRESS FLOOR
One heel balanced on a velvet stool, crimson silk drawn just enough to show the Decepticon insignia gold buckle at her garter belt.
She held her platinum compact steady—the Decepticon sigil etched into the back like a royal seal.
Inside, her reflection watched with cool precision as she reapplied her candy-apple red lipstick.
Smooth. Controlled. Slow enough to be seen.
Across the room, peeking through a slightly cracked door, a low-ranking camera tech forgot he was holding his lens.
The human couldn’t look away.
He forgot to breathe.
This was a bot… wasn’t it?
Sure, there were wings. And faint seams in her skin.
But—clad in a black blouse and a red skirt that hugged her hips, tapering just above the knees—
…Did bots even have knees?
His brain short-circuited on the thought.
Like a peasant stumbling upon a god at her vanity.
Hell—he didn’t even notice Megatron standing in the corner.
The red optics, which had been gazing into the compact, shifted—locking onto the camera.
And the human behind it.
A pause.
A smirk.
A wink.
Click.
The compact snapped shut like a guillotine.
Starscream turned her head slightly, optics sharp.
STARSCREAM: “Enjoy the show, little human?”
Her voice was syrup-sweet—barbed with amusement.
The man felt like he was being hunted.
Suddenly aware an apex predator had noticed him.
He stammered something incoherent and practically fled.
Run, his mind screamed.
But before he could make it more than three steps—
CONTACT.
INTERCEPTION.
A cold, heavy servo landed lightly on his shoulder.
Soundwave. Silent. Imposing.
No words—just the faint hum of his visor.
Optics narrowing as he regarded the human’s trembling camera.
SOUNDWAVE: “Footage: will be reviewed. You will comply.”
A beat.
SOUNDWAVE: “Deletion… is not guaranteed.”
The man nearly dropped his equipment in his rush to escape.
From across the room, Starscream laughed softly under her breath.
Megatron, watching from the corner, didn’t even look up from adjusting his cufflinks.
MEGATRON: “She’ll eat you alive.”
He muttered it to no one in particular—then snapped his fingers once, sharp and commanding.
At the snap, the staff outside moved like clockwork.
The door opened smoothly; a junior producer appeared, headset in place.
JUNIOR PRODUCER: “We’re ready for you, Lord Megatron, Madam Starscream. The floor is prepped. Live at five.”
Starscream slid her compact back into her clutch, crimson lips curved in a blade-sharp smile.
STARSCREAM: “Showtime.”
She purred it, rising in one fluid motion.
MEGATRON: “Make them believe every word.”
Megatron tapped Starscream’s chin with a single finger.
STARSCREAM: “Naturally.”
She answered with a giggle.
// PUBLIC CHANNEL ENGAGED
The press were gathered in the lobby of DeceptiCorp.
A simple white backdrop was set up with a sleek podium.
Barricade stood before the press, at the far left—out of the camera’s shot.
The room always went quiet when Megatron and Starscream entered together.
Not just because of the towering, matte-black warlord at her side—though that would have been enough.
But because of how they entered:
Starscream took a precise step behind her husband—not in deference, but in deliberate, visible alignment.
The hierarchy of DeceptiCorp on full display for anyone intelligent enough to read it.
Megatron: command.
Starscream: control.
A living chain of power, polished to perfection.
The press pool tensed instinctively as they crossed the threshold.
Voices dropped.
Camera lenses stilled.
Some of the newer reporters even held their breath.
Cybernetic eyes, neural links, upgrades—humans tended to be more cybernetic these days.
The irony of that was not lost on the ex-warlord.
Megatron’s crimson optics swept the room once—cold, assessing—then he moved to stand, imposing, just off-center of the main platform.
He gave a simple nod in acknowledgment.
Starscream stepped forward—one deliberate pace—claiming the focal point.
Her wings arched high. Her crimson lips curved faintly.
STARSCREAM: “Good morning.”
Starscream greeted, voice cutting through the silence like silk-draped steel.
Like an angel.
The room seemed to exhale—then erupted with her name.
She always enjoyed this part of the press.
STARSCREAM: “Yes, you.”
She held out a claw with graceful precision, singling out a human reporter with bright glowing orange hair and a too-eager expression.
REPORTER: “Madam Starscream, can you comment on the recent anti-bot sentiment sweeping Neo Detroit?”
The woman asked quickly, holding up a recording device.
Looking for AI assistance, Starscream noted with faint amusement—considering she was, by technical definition, an AI herself.
Starscream smiled—cool, poised, the perfect face of diplomacy.
STARSCREAM: “It saddens me greatly, that such movements persist. We have come so far—as a society, as a city.”
A pause—just long enough to let the weight of her words settle.
STARSCREAM: “But understanding takes time. Fear takes longer to unlearn. And while I may be many things—”
A faint, knowing tilt of her wings.
STARSCREAM: “I am also… patient.”
Another pause—crimson lips curving faintly.
STARSCREAM: “And make no mistake: DeceptiCorp will continue to lead by example. Fear will not define our future. Rise up and overcome is our motto for a reason.”
Another hand rose—a human with oversized glasses that Starscream suspected were datascreens, and a name tag reading simply: “Sam.”
SAM: “Was Elita-One’s broadcast sanctioned or rogue? Many are wondering where the leadership message truly lies.”
He asked quickly, voice pushing through the polite tension.
Starscream laughed softly—a sound like fine glass chiming.
STARSCREAM: “Elita-One is truly herself. An idealist through and through.”
A faint sparkle of amusement touched her optics.
STARSCREAM: “I sometimes envy such optimism.”
Another measured pause.
STARSCREAM: “I wish my optics still sparkled with the hope of a peaceful world.”
Another faint tilt of her head—wings shifting ever so slightly—calculated grace.
STARSCREAM: “But leadership… requires more than hope.”
A final pause, just sharp enough to let the room feel the distinction.
STARSCREAM: “It requires responsibility.”
Another voice broke in—young, overeager, trying to make a name.
One of the newer freelance streamers.
Shockingly pure human.
Very rare now.
STREAMER: “Madam Starscream—can you comment on the leaked footage from last year’s raid—your escape in the Maserati? The video circulating this morning shows heavy weapons fire—some are questioning whether DeceptiCorp concealed the true scale of the attack.”
For the first time that morning—Starscream stilled.
One perfect pause.
Too perfect.
At her side, Megatron’s optics narrowed—just faintly.
His frame tensed—a subtle shift, invisible to untrained eyes, but to those who knew him…
A storm contained.
They hadn’t authorized any release.
They hadn’t known.
Starscream’s optics flicked once—to Megatron.
A breath.
The smallest nod passed between them.
Then—her smile returned.
Slow.
Razor-edged.
STARSCREAM: “Leaked… footage.”
She repeated, voice velvet-wrapped steel.
STARSCREAM: “How quaint.”
A pause. The room held its breath.
STARSCREAM: “Yes—what you have seen is real. Heavily edited, of course.”
Wings flexing—sharp, deliberate.
STARSCREAM: “There was an attack. There was an attempt on my life.”
Another pause.
Her gaze swept the press pool—cold flame in her optics now.
STARSCREAM: “And here I stand.”
A soft breath through her vents. Crimson lips curved faintly.
STARSCREAM: “As for those who believe they can profit from stolen images of my pain—”
A beat. Her voice dipped, deadly sweet.
STARSCREAM: “They would do well to remember: DeceptiCorp protects what is ours.”
Another pause—one flick of her talons on the desk.
STARSCREAM: “Relentlessly.”
Across the room, the newer reporter shrank slightly in his seat—face pale.
Megatron said nothing—but the cold glow of his optics left no doubt:
He had heard.
And he would not forget.
A female human stood next, tablet clutched nervously in her hands.
REPORTER: “While we are all sensitive to your feelings and pain, many are also wondering—how do you feel about the fact that the footage has gone viral for… um… how romantic it was?”
Starscream blinked—her polished mask slipping, just for a breath.
STARSCREAM: “Romantic?”
She repeated—tone edged with disbelief.
The human nodded eagerly, gaining confidence.
REPORTER: “Yes! I’m one of those viewers myself. The clip shows Lord Megatron reaching out for you as you leapt into the Maserati. It’s been viewed over twelve million times already—hashtags like #PowerCouple, #RideOrDie, and #DeceptiGoals are trending.”
The pause that followed was absolute.
Even the camera drones stilled.
At Starscream’s side, Megatron’s optics flickered faintly—just one narrow pulse of crimson.
#DeceptiGoals.
Starscream exhaled—a soft sound through her vents.
Her optics shuttered once, then reopened—mask sliding back into place, polished and sharp.
She leaned forward slightly—voice low, smooth, crystalline.
STARSCREAM: “It was… not a performance.”
STARSCREAM: “It was survival.”
She gave a flick of her wings.
STARSCREAM: “We are not… performative.”
A beat—her gaze swept the room, unwavering.
STARSCREAM: “But if some choose to see loyalty, strength, and unity in those moments—who am I to correct them?”
Her lips curved, blade-sharp.
At her side, Megatron’s optics gleamed—amusement, but something warmer beneath.
A brief glance passed between them—wordless, knowing.
Then his voice—deep, rumbling, resonant:
MEGATRON: “We do not stage our wars.”
A pause. Weighted.
MEGATRON: “Or our affections.”
Starscream’s smile deepened—no longer just calculated.
A softer breath slipped past her vents—unmasked for a moment.
STARSCREAM: “And I must agree.”
She said quietly, voice turning almost gentle.
STARSCREAM: “In that moment…”
A pause—no longer for the press, but for herself.
STARSCREAM: “…there was nothing more romantic.”
The press pool practically vibrated—half in tension, half in unspoken glee.
The soundbites were writing themselves.
Before another overeager voice could cut in, a junior producer—face flushed, headset askew—hurried to the edge of the platform.
JUNIOR PRODUCER: “Madam Starscream—Lord Megatron—final question. We’re at time.”
Starscream’s optics gleamed faintly.
She straightened—wings high, every line of her frame precise.
STARSCREAM: “No.”
A single word.
Calm. Controlled. Final.
She let it hang—long enough for the cameras to catch the command behind the poise.
Then—voice smooth as silk:
STARSCREAM: “We will end on this.”
A faint smile.
STARSCREAM: “Let the message stand.”
Across the room, no one dared argue.
The producer swallowed audibly—then gave a quick nod.
JUNIOR PRODUCER: “Yes—understood. Cutting to end credits in three… two…”
The lights shifted—feeds cycling to outro.
Starscream stepped back—graceful as ever.
Megatron offered his arm again; she took it with practiced ease.
Together, they exited the platform—no words wasted.
The moment the cameras were behind them, Starscream let out a soft vented breath.
Not exhaustion—focus, sharpened now that the performance was over.
Megatron’s optics flicked toward her, curious.
MEGATRON: “You meant it.”
Not a question.
A faint smile curved Starscream’s crimson lips.
STARSCREAM: “Of course.”
Her wings flexed, unfolding just slightly.
STARSCREAM: “How could I not? You could’ve sent anyone—anything—to retrieve me. But you came for me. Came for our—”
Crackle.
The comm interrupted—Soundwave’s voice cutting in, sharp and unmistakable over their private channel.
SOUNDWAVE: “Report: Priority One.”
A beat.
SOUNDWAVE: “Footage breach confirmed. Source traced.”
Another beat.
SOUNDWAVE: “Additional intel… you will want to see.”
Starscream’s optics sharpened—mask sliding fully back into place.
STARSCREAM: “Send it. We’re en route.”
Megatron’s optics burned low.
MEGATRON: “Conference room. Now.”
They moved in unison—wings high, shoulders squared.
The public game was finished; the false smiles and careful words were gone.
Now came the real work.
// ———
PRIVATE CONFERENCE ROOM — DECEPTICORP
The heavy door hissed shut behind them—sound-sealed, no press, no pretense.
Inside, the sleek conference room hummed low with focus.
Dark glass walls faintly etched with the Decepticon sigil surrounded them; the lighting was dim, tactical.
At the head of the table stood Soundwave—silent, visor glowing steady cobalt, one servo resting on the control panel.
Without greeting, without ceremony, he began.
SOUNDWAVE: “Report: Priority One.”
The central holotable flickered to life, casting red light across the room as a sharp-edged data thread spun upward.
SOUNDWAVE: “Source: Confirmed leak. External feed intercept.”
The thread expanded—still frames of the footage:
Starscream’s escape.
The Nemiss.
The blaze of weapons fire.
Though Soundwave’s tone did not shift, the room seemed colder.
SOUNDWAVE: “Origin: Traceable to human sector—local. Not foreign.”
He pointed to the screen before them.
SOUNDWAVE: “Intent: Viral spread. Public sentiment manipulation. Amplification via human platforms.”
Starscream’s optics narrowed—sharp as cut glass.
STARSCREAM: “Someone inside Neo Detroit.”
She said softly, biting her thumb.
STARSCREAM: “The code is too good to be human.”
A statement, not a question.
Megatron’s optics burned crimson.
MEGATRON: “Names.”
Another pulse of data flickered across the display.
Soundwave tapped once—precise, blade-sharp.
The thread expanded again, forming a web of nodes.
Names.
Handles.
Shell corporations.
Lines of connection drawn in crimson.
SOUNDWAVE: “Primary node: ‘SilverwingMedia.’”
SOUNDWAVE: “Corporate shell. Funding traced—partial DeceptiCorp stockholder.”
Starscream’s wings flared—slow, deliberate.
STARSCREAM: “One of ours.”
Megatron’s frame tensed—each movement calculated.
MEGATRON: “Internal betrayal.”
Soundwave continued without pause.
SOUNDWAVE: “Intent: Viral narrative manipulation.”
SOUNDWAVE: “Public sentiment monitoring: Active.”
The holo shifted—now showing a real-time social sentiment map: heatmaps of comments, trend spikes, keywords flashing across the platforms.
SOUNDWAVE: “Public response to footage: 87% positive sentiment.”
A flick of the projection highlighted the top tags:
#PowerCouple
#RideOrDie
#DeceptiGoals
#StarscreamSurvived
#MegatronCameForHer
Still, Soundwave’s tone remained level.
SOUNDWAVE: “DeceptiCorp PR: containment successful. Public framing: loyalty, strength, resilience.”
SOUNDWAVE: “No significant anti-bot backlash detected.”
Starscream leaned forward slightly, claws resting against the table’s edge. Her lips curved in a faint smile.
STARSCREAM: “In other words… our enemies gave us a gift.”
Megatron’s optics gleamed darkly, voice low as steel dragged across stone.
MEGATRON: “And we will repay them… accordingly.”
Soundwave inclined his helm.
SOUNDWAVE: “Next steps: Target triangulation in progress. List of compromised actors: compiling. Recommend immediate silent action to neutralize source.”
Starscream’s optics burned—sharp, cold fire.
STARSCREAM: “See to it. No mistakes.”
She let the moment hang, then flexed her wings slightly.
STARSCREAM: “And monitor the trend curve. If it rises—feed it.”
A razor-thin smile.
STARSCREAM: “Let the humans adore their fantasy a little longer.”
Megatron glanced toward her, something dark and knowing in his optics.
MEGATRON: “And we will hunt the truth beneath it.”
Chime.
Starscream’s datapad blinked with a new message.
Her optics flicked to it, one brow arching faintly.
STARSCREAM: “Ah.”
A quiet hum.
She glanced across the table.
STARSCREAM: “Soundwave… I see you’ve been busy.”
Soundwave inclined his helm.
SOUNDWAVE: “Viral trajectory: optimized.”
SOUNDWAVE: “Clip: processed and seeded—controlled release.”
SOUNDWAVE: “Sentiment: positive amplification.”
Without missing a beat, Starscream swiped the datapad—playing the file.
The clip ran just six seconds.
No sound.
A close-up: Starscream leaning toward her platinum compact, Decepticon logo gleaming on the back.
She applied her candy-apple red lipstick with slow, clinical grace, then paused—smirked—winked.
Click.
The compact snapped shut.
It looped perfectly—hypnotic. Terrifying. Gorgeous.
Her ClickClock bio now read:
@StarscreamedOfficial
CEO. CFO. Cautionary Tale.
💄 Q&A on Friday.
A low, amused hum escaped her vents.
STARSCREAM: “Mmm. Well done.”
Her gaze flicked sharply to Soundwave, approval in her optics.
STARSCREAM: “Sometimes, the best knife is… subtle.”
Megatron’s optics gleamed—dark, knowing.
MEGATRON: “Let them admire their fiction.”
A beat; his voice dropped colder.
MEGATRON: “We will deal with reality beneath it.”
Starscream’s smile curved—razor-sharp.
STARSCREAM: “Exactly.”
Leaning back slightly, she let her claws dance lightly across her screen.
STARSCREAM: “And while the humans are entertained…”
A pause, a glint in her optics.
STARSCREAM: “…we’ll prepare the real hunt.”
Before another word could pass, Soundwave’s voice cut clean through the channel once more.
SOUNDWAVE: “Airachnid: en route. ETA—three minutes.”
Starscream’s wings flexed—slow, deliberate.
STARSCREAM: “Perfect.”
She glanced toward Megatron, voice crystalline.
STARSCREAM: “Let’s catch a traitor.”
Starscream’s optics flicked back to her screen, catching the latest trend spike.
The humans were still watching—what a perfect time to set the tone.
Then, without ceremony, she tapped Post on her screen.
// PUBLIC POST ENGAGED
DECEPTICORP OFFICIAL CHANNEL
@StarscreamedOfficial — Verified
📸 [Attached: Viral clip — lipstick, smirk, wink.]
Caption:
Survival is not a performance.
Loyalty is not staged.
Strength is built, tested, proven.
We rise. We overcome. And we do not forget.
#Starscreamed #RideOrDie #DeceptiCorpUnbroken #RiseAndOvercome
The datapad chimed—Posted.
Starscream exhaled softly, optics gleaming with satisfaction.
STARSCREAM: “There.”
She murmured—voice like silk drawn across steel.
STARSCREAM: “Now we set the tone.”
Soundwave’s voice followed, calm as ever.
SOUNDWAVE: “Engagement: rising. Viral trajectory: optimal.”
Megatron’s optics burned low.
MEGATRON: “Let them celebrate.”
A cold smile touched his lips.
MEGATRON: “And we will deal with the traitor beneath the noise.”
As the holo-feed dimmed, cycling to standby, Soundwave inclined his helm once and exited in silence.
The door hissed shut behind him, leaving the conference room in stillness.
Silence settled over the room, the taut tension beginning to slowly uncoil.
Megatron remained at the head of the table, optics low and thoughtful.
At the far end, Starscream still perched elegantly, talons idly drumming a slow rhythm against the glass.
Click. Click. Click.
At last, with a soft huff, she rose—her wings folding loosely, her polished mask slipping away with the motion.
The sharp CFO was gone; only Starscream remained.
Without ceremony, she crossed the room in a few smooth steps—heels clicking softly against the dark floor.
Megatron barely moved as she approached, watching with quiet amusement.
And then—with the effortless arrogance of a queen in her own domain—Starscream simply plopped herself onto the couch, draping lazily across Megatron’s chest, wings half-sprawled, legs tucked beside him.
Tipping her chin upward, half-lidded optics met his.
STARSCREAM: “Let the humans believe what they want.”
She purred, voice velvet-smooth.
A pause—then a faint, wicked smile.
STARSCREAM: “They just happen to be right… in this instance.”
A low rumble vibrated through Megatron’s chest—warm amusement.
He rested one broad servo across her back—lazy, possessive.
The warlord at rest.
MEGATRON: “Of course they are.”
A slow smirk touched his mouth.
MEGATRON: “We do nothing by halves.”
Starscream’s wings twitched softly, content.
STARSCREAM: “No.”
She exhaled.
Back to narration.