Author's Note: I would like to once again thank everyone for the support and advice! :)
Also: I've tried my best to derive the Cybertronian medical technology, anatomy, etc. from canon sources, as well as a certain degree of fanon. However, much like the variances between continuities in what Cybertronian time measurements mean... there's a lot of grey area. XD So again, I've done my best to piece it together and 'fill in the blanks'. :)
Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy this chapter! R&R is loved, I truly appreciate it! :)
Pain... I cannot... move... My systems must be near failing... My wings... Frag, what's happened to my wings...? What is... happening now?
A sharp pain pierced the blackness. Starscream's optics snapped online and darted frantically, all of his senses struggling to take in as much information as possible.
Darkness... Illuminated screens. Cold, so cold... Can't vent. Megatron...
Megatron.
The helpless seeker's optics widened at the sight of his master hovering closely over him. Starscream's meta was hazy-a consequence of energon deficiency-and in his shaken state he could not piece together the events leading up to now. However, he supposed that it was easy enough to deduce logically: Megatron had beaten him into stasis lock, or somewhere close to it, and was now onlining him again to continue the torture. This room, glowing and still, must be the Nemesis' med bay...
What did I...?
Scrambled memories sped through his mind as he grasped for answers: all of his myriad betrayals, acts of treason, schemes... Which ones had brought him to this moment? Which words must he twist to make the situation reflect favorably (or at least harmlessly) upon him?
"Please... master! I did not intend to defy... your authority... Have... mercy...!" he choked at last, troubled by the difficulty he found in getting the words out. His vocalizer must have been damaged-or else he was so low on fuel that it could barely function.
Megatron offered him a cold glare. The warlord's lips were moving, but Starscream's audios must have still been in reboot; the words were distorted, buried in crackling noise...
The seeker panicked. He reflexively threw his arms up in defense, shielding his faceplates. The strain of the movement was tremendous, and his frame ached more with every slight motion. He whimpered pitifully, in equal parts pain and fear. The buzzing in his audios was fading now; he could hear the steady thrum of the nearby consoles, his own gasping ventilation... and his master's voice.
"Stay still, idiot," the Decepticon leader's tone was low, growling... a threat, obviously.
The flyer let out a soft gasp of fright as Megatron shoved him down jarringly. In his condition, he had no means of resisting the hulking mech, nor did he have the strength to flee. His best chance at this point would be to accept the punishment dutifully, and hope that his master's rage would soon be spent...
A burning sensation, lingering and raw, suddenly coursed through his upper body. It resonated within his frame, as if it were... inside of him. Allowing his optics to flit downward, he saw why: a craterous hole had been opened in his chest.
Wait... What is...?
A shudder overcame him as he noticed something else... He could see the glow of his own spark... It was just short of being exposed, shielded by only a thin, internal plating. Layers upon layers of his chassis had been clawed aside, reduced to twisted pieces of scrap that jutted up unevenly around the wound. Megatron was doing something inside the gaping injury-that was what he had felt. Starscream squirmed futilely, but the larger mech was too strong-there would be no escape.
Another burning sting followed, so close to his spark that he could feel it flicker. The raw pain reminded him of...
The Predacon...
Yes, that beast had played some role in reducing him to this state. With a jolt, he remembered the hideous ripping sensation, the sheer agony as his wing was pulled away from his body... This memory ignited a storm of others, and the events of the day began to assemble themselves in his meta.
Unicron. The battle... The end of the Decepticons. The throne room. Predaking; that stupid beast turning on him, it's claws sinking into his frame... Energon spilling around him... The roar of jets-a sound too much to be hoped for. Megatron. A conflict. Debris falling... The Predacons howling in anger. Flight. Pain, unceasing... Awareness fading...
As it all fell into place, Starscream was left with a sickening sense of suspicion and fear. What would have motivated Megatron to salvage him? Because he wanted the pleasure of offlining the seeker for himself? So that he could continue to humiliate and torment his former second-in-command?
There was no telling, really. After all, Megatron had recently declared his armies disbanded and given up on his quest for domination-it was clear that his mind had become dangerously unhinged.
More pain disrupted the jet's thoughts. It shot through his leg, then his shoulders, his wings... His wings... The seeker shrieked in misery, nearly losing his thin grip on consciousness as the burning agony delved into the tender, open wounds... Then, abruptly, Megatron's shadow slipped away, and the barrage of fresh pain ended.
Starscream craned his neck, struggling to see what was happening. Megatron had left the berth-side... He was bent over a nearby table, reaching for one of the many objects scattered across its surface... The seeker was still trying to decide what the item was as the ex-warlord returned to his side.
Some sort of gruesome torture device, no doubt, the helpless mech thought despairingly.
A sudden pain in the flyer's knee seemed to confirm this theory. He screamed, desperately willing his leg to move, to draw away from the source of his suffering... But the limb wouldn't obey. The joint had gone dead, too mangled to function.
He began to sob madly, confused and afraid. Shuttering his optics hopelessly, he surrendered himself to the anguish that was surely to come.
"Starscream!" the incensed shout echoed in the tight space.
"M-m-master-r...?" The seeker quavered weakly in answer, his voice breaking.
There was the sound of a slow intake of air over vents, as if Megatron were attempting to steady himself.
"Calm down, you fool. I'm only injecting you with energon," he said with strained evenness, halting his work to turn and face the smaller mech.
Starscream gave no immediate response. He stared into his leader's optics, searching for the cruel amusement and contempt that would surely be reflected in them. He saw anger, yes, as well as intense frustration, but also... pity?
The larger mech turned away, shaking his helm slowly in exasperation. He returned to the task of refueling the seeker, seemingly placated by the fact that his 'patient' was no longer in a fit of hysteria.
Starscream merely watched his master in silence, trying to understand.
...
Megatron finished emptying the contents of the syringe into Starscream's leg. The seeker had stopped bleeding, his broken fuel lines having all been sealed-but he was still dangerously low on energon. With so many lines now unable to effectively circulate through the slender mech's body, the best means of refueling him would be to inject the energon into multiple areas of his frame.
That is, if the imbecile will allow me to do so, the former warlord thought in irritation as he reached for another syringe.
Starscream now looked as though he were in some kind of catatonic shock. The jet's optics followed his leader's every move, containing an expression somewhere between terror and disbelief.
Megatron narrowed his own optics at the seeker, causing the smaller mech to look away fearfully.
As he watched his former SiC's gaze dart apprehensively to the opposite side of the room, Megatron sighed tiredly to himself.
It was ironic, really. In forming the Decepticons, he had assembled vast armies of loyal drones and won over innumerable followers who would have laid their lives down for him in a sparkbeat. And yet now, the only one by his side was Starscream. Conniving, self-serving, back-stabbing Starscream, whom he had threatened to offline for countless ages. Megatron had never followed through on those threats, though he liked to think that he had come very close at times. Still, the cunning flyer had always managed to wheedle his way back into the rank of second-in-command, no matter his treason.
Because I am a fool, the ex-warlord thought, curling his lips slightly at the dark humor of it.
It was true that Starscream had been of great service to him in the past. For all his whining and cowardice, he was a highly competent air commander, and his maneuvering had turned the tides of many a battle. There had even been times when he had fought at his leader's side, acting with apparent loyalty. Megatron recalled the first confrontation with Predaking, when the beast had rampaged through The Nemesis, howling for vengeance. If Starscream had not fired on the Predacon, throwing him off-balance and causing him to slip from the airlock, the creature may well have overpowered the Decepticon leader.
In any other soldier, Megatron would have considered this a show of unconditional allegiance. However, he had learned from hard experience to dissect Starscream's actions carefully. After all, if Predaking had defeated him, a former gladiator of Kaon, what chance of survival would the scrawny seeker have stood alone against the dragon?
There was the root of it all: Starscream's every action was steeped in duality. There was no way to ever be sure of his true intentions... except, of course, for when the boastful mech foolishly announced them.
Even when Megatron had entered his mind with a psychic patch, the seeker's thoughts had been chaotic and difficult to read. Treachery and loyalty had danced hand-in-hand in his meta, and the warlord found himself unable to see through it all, to tell which thoughts were lies and schemes, and which were truth. No, the mind-link was not a perfect science. It worked magnificently for extracting battle strategies, secret intel, and other mundane fare, but it could not truly discern one's nature... despite what he had hoped.
So, he had spared Starscream once more.
His feelings towards the jet were conflicted, at best. Starscream's ceaseless efforts to overthrow his leader spoke of an almost admirable dauntlessness. It was hard for Megatron-who had once had to rise from the lower castes and overthrow his own oppressors-to truly hate the schemer. In truth, he found that he even bore a grudging attachment for his traitorous second-in-command. And now, alone as he was, he was almost grateful for the familiar presence.
Almost.
...
Starscream watched as Megatron filled another syringe from a nearby energon cube, then strode over to his berth-side. He moved the needle towards the prone mech's left wing-the one that had been marred by Predaking's talons. The flyer could tell from the weakness he felt in the appendage that it had nearly bled dry... but he still didn't relish the thought of that needle digging into it.
"I... Ah... Master?" he interjected timidly, his optics narrowing squeamishly as the syringe drew nearer.
With a seething hiss, the ex-warlord turned his helm to face the smaller mech.
"Yes, Starscream?" he replied in a slow, deliberate manner, as if resisting a strong urge to strike his former subordinate.
"I... Well... I was merely wondering...," the seeker stuttered, his optics darting uncomfortably beneath the larger mech's stare. He began to twitch his wings nervously, but stopped, grimacing at the pain produced by the movement.
Megatron rolled his own optics vexedly, gritting his denta.
"That is... Ah... Why are you... helping... me?" he finally asked in a lowered voice, wincing in preparation for a violent reaction.
The ex-gladiator gave a growl of frustration.
"Believe me, I have not the slightest fathoming of it either," he answered sneeringly, returning his attentions to the syringe.
"...Oh... well...," the seeker began, but interrupted himself to let out a sharp cry as the needle pierced a fuel line amidst his exposed mechanics. He quivered as the energon was pushed into his systems, the powerful sensors of his wing acutely feeling the harsh pressure in his 'veins'.
He did not finish his thought, instead allowing the moment to drift into an awkward, discomforting silence.
