Scheming against a warlord was a bad idea. Scheming against a warlord who was standing in front of you, somehow miraculously back from the dead, was worse. Scheming against your vengeful sometime lover was probably the worst decision imaginable.
Of course, he didn't know at the time the mech was still online. He'd done his best to eliminate him once and for all with the detonator pack and flaming spacecraft...you'd think Primus would take the hint. But still, it had been his choice to move against Megatron in the first place, and his price to pay now.
The fusion cannon sat lightly on his shoulder, mouth directly towards his helm. He swallowed, shuttering his optics. If these were to be his last moments, he preferred not to regard the look of betrayal on his lord's face. As much as he claimed to hate his leader, there was something about him, a cult of personality, perhaps, that kept all mechs in awe of him. Even Autobots would turn tail if encountering him in battle; the height was probably part of it, he supposed.
Gray armor, the color of offlining. Was that intentional? Perhaps it was a reference to what the Decepticon cause stood for, the removal of all the deadwood from the Cybertronian system. Perhaps it was aesthetic. Maroon trim, the color of dried energon, and the large purple brand proudly emblazoned across his chest completed the image of a deathbringer. There was no dainty plating on this mech, either. He was built for battle, helm solid, servos strong, fusion cannon long enough to use as a bludgeon in closer quarters. Starscream's very personal experience with the fusion cannon left no doubts to functionality either.
And then, surprise of all surprises, the fusion cannon lowered. "Starscream."
The Seeker looked up, a mixture of hope and mortal terror warring in his optics. He stayed kneeling, hoping to placate the leader further. "Y-yes milord?"
A servo extended down to him; not sure if this was a trick, the flyer took it slowly, optics still wary. A lifetime serving with the warlord had left him instinctively defensive. Gentleness was a completely foreign sensation, and this was no different.
"Come," the warlord said simply. "We have much to discuss." And the mech turned his back, leaving the room.
Starscream, for once in his life, didn't know what to do. What was Megatron thinking? As if he'd just slip back into his place as Decepticon second in command after the assassination attempt...and yet, he'd refused to fire.
It was possible, he supposed, that there was a coding error in Megatron's processor, or a chance the fusion cannon would not totally separate his helm from his shoulders, and thus his leader wished to find a more private place for an execution. But if so, why not physically take him?
And why turn his back?
There was only one answer that Starscream could come to, in possession of all the facts.
Somewhere, in that cold shell of a mech, there was a spark still flickering. And it flickered for him.