Chapter Text
It had been a few weeks since Starscream, second-in-command of the Decepticons and one of the most feared warriors in the war, began feeling… off. The signs were small at first—subtle fatigue, a strange heaviness in his frame, an odd rhythm in his sparkpulse—but enough for him to notice. He resolved, almost instinctively, to hide it from everyone.
Especially Megatron.
Megatron was not just the leader of the Decepticons to him; he was his Conjunx. That bond had been hard-won and fiercely guarded. Starscream still carried the weight of the past—of losing Skyfire, of being branded his murderer, of his public expulsion, humiliation, and the sneering judgment of a society that had never forgiven him. He had been drifting then, scrap clinging to a current, until he crossed paths with a miner-turned-activist who burned brighter than any torch. They had clashed at first—words like weapons, glances like blades—but somewhere in the unending grind of battle and survival, Megatron became the only mech who could see past the sharpness in him.
Their Conjunx Endura ceremony had been simple. No grand halls, no golden spires of Iacon, no polished speeches. It happened in the heart of the Nemesis, the Decepticons’ mobile fortress, early in the war when resources were scarce and the air stank of energon, machine oil, and ozone from the last skirmish. Every Decepticon present had witnessed it—Soundwave standing silent like a shadow, Shockwave watching with unreadable optics, the Seekers gathered in tight formation along the walls, and even the newer recruits who had not yet learned to stand still in the warlord’s presence. There were no flowery vows, just the exchange of words sharp as truth and the quiet press of helm to helm, the moment sealed by the hum of their sparks in sync.
Outside their steel walls, the galaxy saw the Decepticons as monsters. To the Autobots and the neutral colonies, they were ruin made manifest: no spark, no honor, only hunger for power. Deceivers. Liars. Criminals.
But inside the Nemesis, it was different.
Here, they were more than an army—they were a family, messy and tangled as any, welded together by necessity and choice. They protected their own with a ferocity that could not be legislated away. They were survivors of a system that had failed them: miners crushed under quotas, flyers chained by caste law, thinkers silenced for questioning the High Council. The Decepticons were a patchwork of the broken, the angry, and the determined, and in the dim-lit corridors of the Nemesis, that truth was worn openly.
Starscream understood this better than anyone. He had been raised to think himself above such rabble, a Seeker of Vos with a future carved out in politics and sky. Now, walking the narrow, humming halls of the warship, the deckplates vibrating beneath his peds, he felt the glances of his comrades—sometimes wary, sometimes respectful, sometimes warm in ways they’d never admit aloud.
In the weeks since the symptoms began, he kept up appearances, working at the tactical table, standing beside Megatron during briefings, his wings held in proud lines. He still barked orders at the troops, still rolled his optics at the Warlord’s more grandiose declarations, still stalked the flight deck with that calculated predatory sway.
But when his energon rations started tasting faintly metallic, when his plating felt more sensitive under the light touch of a maintenance drone, when the unusual warmth in his chest grew into a steady, pulsing presence… he began to suspect that,maybe,something was wrong with him.
The war room was alive with the steady thrum of engines beneath the deck and the faint, constant vibration of the Nemesis cutting through the cold void. The air smelled faintly of ozone from the last jump and of the tang of refined energon from the dispenser in the corner. Holo-projections of Cybertron’s surface shimmered above the central table, faint blue outlines tracing troop positions and supply lines.
Starscream stood among his wingmates, helm tilted toward the tactical display. Dreadwing, broad and imposing as always, occupied the opposite side, his wings angled in their habitual, disciplined lines. A few other aerials crowded closer—Thundercracker, Skywarp, Bitstream—murmuring amongst themselves about formation speeds and strike patterns.
“Autobot patrols have been pressing further into our airspace,” Dreadwing was saying, his tone precise. “They are testing our response time. If we adjust the secondary flight path here—” his clawed finger tapped a pulsing marker on the hologram “—we can intercept before they reach our borders.”
Starscream nodded absently, optics flicking between the projection and the others’ faces. His tricolor plating gleamed under the low lights, every movement as sharp and deliberate as ever, but inside… things were off.
The energon he’d had that morning still sat strangely in his tanks, tasting faintly metallic, almost bitter, as though it had been processed through rusted lines. He’d been heavier these past few cycles, wings dragging at his back, joints aching more than usual after even short flights. The low, constant hum in his spark had grown steadily stronger, distracting in ways he refused to acknowledge aloud.
Not here. Not now.
“And what about the possibility of an aerial feint?” Starscream cut in, voice carrying its usual sharpness. “We draw them toward the refinery, then pull back, forcing them into the range of ground artillery. They would never—”
The words snagged in his vocalizer.
For a fraction of a second, the room swayed—not in the gentle, familiar way of the ship’s movement, but with a sudden, disorienting lurch. The holographic display flickered in his vision. Starscream’s talons curled against the edge of the table, but the surface seemed to tilt away from him.
He felt his gyros slip. A wave of static rushed through his processor, drowning out the drone of conversation.
“—Starscream?” Thundercracker’s voice sounded distant, muffled.
His vents stuttered, trying to pull in more air. Systems flickered in warning: Power redistribution failure. Secondary functions shutting down. His wings sagged against his backstrut, heavy and unresponsive.
The deck rushed up toward him.
But he didn’t hit it.
A massive hand caught him around the torso, pulling him back into solid plating. Dreadwing’s scent—sharp metal and faint gunpowder—filled his vents. The commander’s arms were unyielding, braced to absorb the full weight of the collapse.
“I have him!” Dreadwing’s deep voice cut across the sudden chaos.
Skywarp darted forward, optics wide. “Frag— is he offline? What happened?”
Starscream’s helm lolled slightly against Dreadwing’s chest, optics dimming. The strong thud of another spark—steady, grounded—was the last sensation he could latch onto before darkness swept in.
“Get Knock Out,” Dreadwing ordered, his tone a low growl edged with urgency. His wings flared in a silent challenge to anyone who hesitated. “Now.”
Thundercracker was already sprinting toward the comm panel. Bitstream stepped back to clear the path, optics darting nervously between the prone Seeker and the door.
Dreadwing adjusted his hold, cradling Starscream in a way that was almost too careful for a warrior of his reputation. His gaze dropped briefly to the tricolor Seeker’s faceplates, noting the slackness there, the faint tremor in his vents.
“You will not fall,” he murmured under his breath—too quiet for anyone else to hear—as he turned toward the medbay, striding with the heavy purpose of someone who knew there was no time to waste.
The Nemesis’ comm-lines lit up like a strike across a dark sky.
Thundercracker didn’t bother with formality; his voice hit Soundwave’s private frequency in a sharp, clipped tone.
“Soundwave—Starscream collapsed. Dreadwing caught him. He’s already in medbay.”
Soundwave didn’t waste processor cycles on acknowledgement—he was already patching through to the one bot who needed to know most.
Megatron.
The warlord’s response came in a rumble low enough to shake the comm’s audio.
“Where.”
No question of what. No request for clarification. Just one word—dangerously calm.
“Medical wing.”
The connection snapped closed, and Soundwave knew the leader would not walk—he would run.
The medbay doors hissed open with their usual hydraulic sigh, but the sound was drowned beneath the low thrum of energon pumps, the click of diagnostic equipment, and the murmured voices of aerials clustered along the walls. Dreadwing stood at the side of the main berth, wings half-fanned, frame still radiating the tension of the rescue. Bitstream and Skywarp lingered nearby, shifting their weight from pede to pede like they couldn’t quite settle.
Knock Out was in his element, tools flicking in precise arcs over the tricolor Seeker’s still frame. The medbay’s pale overhead light washed across Starscream’s plating, casting sharp highlights over the curvature of his wings and the slope of his cockpit. His optics were shuttered, vents low and shallow.
The heavy tread of footfalls broke the murmuring.
Megatron entered at a speed that was just short of a charge, his shadow spilling across the berth before he reached it. His gaze went first to Starscream—never leaving for a full klik—then to Knock Out.
“Report,” Megatron said, the single word weighed with command.
Knock Out didn’t flinch, but his optics flicked briefly toward the data pad in his servo. “At first glance, nothing catastrophic—”
“That is insufficient,” Megatron growled.
The medic lifted one hand in a calming gesture. “Which is why I said: at first glance. I still need to run a more thorough series of scans. But as of now, I can tell you his energy levels are low. Critically low, in fact. His tanks are only at thirty-three percent capacity.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Explain.”
Knock Out’s finials twitched. “Possibly… malnutrition. It looks like he hasn’t been taking in enough energon to keep up with his output.”
“That’s impossible.”
The voice came from the far side of the room—Soundwave, silent until now, his visor catching the light like a frozen wave of data.
“All Decepticons,” Soundwave said, tone level but absolute, “fed equally. Morning energon cube: one per mech. Standard dosage. Starscream included.”
Dreadwing inclined his helm in agreement. “I was there at every morning distribution this week. He accepted his ration same as the rest.”
The statement was truth—Decepticon protocol was strict in this regard. Rations were not a privilege; they were survival. One cube per day, same measure for soldier and commander alike. No one’s energon was sweeter, richer, or more plentiful than another’s.
Megatron’s gaze swept the room, landing again on Knock Out. “You are telling me that despite this… his tanks are near empty?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” the medic replied, fingers still working over the diagnostic panel. “Unless someone’s siphoning his intake after the fact—”
A low, warning sound vibrated from Megatron’s vocalizer at the very thought.
“—or,” Knock Out continued quickly, “there’s something interfering with his ability to retain and process energon efficiently. I won’t know without the deeper scans.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to feel, broken only by the soft pulse of the monitors at Starscream’s side.
Megatron leaned over the berth, his massive frame casting Starscream’s still form in shadow. One clawed servo rested lightly against the Seeker’s cockpit, just above the slow thrum of his spark. His voice was low, meant only for the mech before him.
“You will tell me what is wrong with you, Starscream… when you wake.”
The steady hum of medbay machinery was broken only by the faint whir of Knock Out’s tools and the quiet, mechanical rhythm of Starscream’s spark monitor.
Knock Out’s optics narrowed at the readouts scrolling across his datapad. The figures didn’t add up. He tapped a control, called up another diagnostic, and frowned deeper.
“Mm. That’s… not right,” he muttered under his breath.
He moved around to the far side of the berth, snatching up another set of monitors from the equipment shelf. The sleek white-and-chrome devices clicked into place with practiced ease, sensor lines snaking from their ports to attach along Starscream’s plating and wing struts.
Megatron’s optics tracked every motion with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. The leader’s frame was still, but there was a dangerous precision to the way his talons flexed at his sides.
“What,” Megatron said, voice low and even, “is going on.”
Knock Out didn’t look up immediately—he was too busy watching the new readouts flicker into life. “I still need to run more tests before I can give you the full picture,” he said at last, his tone tight. “But… I can already tell you one thing.”
Every optic in the room shifted toward him.
“The energon he’s taking in—it’s not staying where it should. It’s being redirected. Consistently. To… another part of his systems. A part that apparently needs it more than the rest of him right now.”
Dreadwing’s brow ridges furrowed. “Redirected to where?”
Knock Out didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for two slender, translucent bags from the energon shelf—both filled with pale, liquid energy—and moved to Starscream’s side. With smooth precision, he found the Seeker’s neck cabling, exposed the feed line, and inserted the ports. The faint hiss of pressure equalizing followed, and the rich glow of the liquid energon began sliding into Starscream’s systems.
“This will stabilize him… temporarily,” Knock Out said, almost to himself.
Megatron stepped closer, his shadow pooling over the berth. “Temporarily?”
Knock Out didn’t answer. His optics were locked on the first bag, the level dropping faster than it should.
In less than two minutes, the bag was completely drained.
The medic’s faceplates tightened. He reached for the second, already watching the monitor data shift and spike in strange patterns. The numbers told a story he didn’t want to believe.
“Oh… boy…” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Megatron’s optics narrowed. “Explain.”
Knock Out didn’t. Not yet. Instead, he snapped his head toward Soundwave, his voice abruptly sharp—almost a shout, the controlled veneer of his usual medic’s calm cracking under urgency.
“Soundwave—get me red energon cubes. And pink. Lilac if we have it. I don’t care—anything high in iron and raw mineral content. And I want them here yesterday.”
Soundwave was already moving before the last word hit the air, his silent form disappearing through the medbay doors like a shadow with a mission.
Knock Out turned back to his patient, his fingers never leaving the monitoring controls. “Come on, Starscream… whatever you’re doing to yourself, you’d better be worth it,” he muttered, but the undercurrent of worry in his voice betrayed him.
Megatron’s gaze swept from the medic’s tense expression to the Seeker’s still frame, and a low, dangerous growl vibrated in his chest.
Megatron’s patience was fraying like an overcharged wire.
His talons flexed against the medbay railing, the low, constant rumble in his vocalizer more felt than heard. He’d been watching Knock Out circle the berth, adjust readings, swap cables, for what felt like breems, and still there were no answers.
“I want to know exactly what is happening to my Conjunx,” Megatron said, each word carrying the weight of command.
Knock Out’s hands stilled for a fraction of a klik before resuming their precise work. His usual polished composure was slipping, glossed red armor shifting with quick, impatient movements. “And I’ll tell you the moment I can—which will be when I have him stable. For that—” his voice rose an octave, edges sharp with strain, “—I need the damn energon that Soundwave hasn’t brought yet.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed, but before he could reply, the medbay doors hissed open.
Soundwave stepped through, silent as always, but his arms were stacked high with energon cubes—deep crimson, translucent pink, and the faint, shimmering lilac of rare mineral-rich blends.
Knock Out didn’t wait for ceremony. He strode forward, snatching the first cube from the pile before Soundwave had even set them down.
“Prop him up,” Knock Out ordered.
Dreadwing moved instantly, sliding a steadying arm behind Starscream’s backstrut, lifting the Seeker into a supported sitting position. His wings hung limp, cockpit plating dull, vents still struggling to cycle.
Knock Out cracked the first cube’s seal with a sharp twist, the scent of rich energon flooding the air—metallic, almost sweet, with an undertone of raw ore. “Come on, flyboy,” the medic muttered, and without hesitation, tipped the cube to Starscream’s lips.
At first, nothing. Then a faint reflex—throat cables tightening, pulling the liquid down.
“Good. Again.”
Another cube. Then another. Knock Out worked with quick, efficient movements, the energon sliding in bright, viscous streams past the Seeker’s lips and down his throat cables. The sound of swallowing was faint but steady now, punctuated by the occasional, automatic vent of air.
Megatron stood close, his massive frame a looming shield over the entire process, optics tracking every movement, every faint change in his mate’s posture.
By the time the last cube was drained, the change was visible.
On the monitors, indicators that had been hovering in the yellow and red began sliding toward blue. The frantic peaks in the spark-rate leveled into a steady rhythm. Starscream’s vents eased, no longer dragging for each cycle.
His frame, which had been tense and rigid even in unconsciousness, began to loosen, wing struts settling into a natural curve. One by one, dormant subroutines in his systems pinged active again—motor controls, balance processors, auxiliary flight programs—quietly rebooting in the background.
Knock Out checked the monitors again, and for the first time since the collapse, his expression eased slightly. “That’s it. Let it work through your systems,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Starscream didn’t wake—not yet—but his optics shutters no longer twitched in processor strain. He looked less like a mech who had been struck down in the middle of a briefing, and more like one simply deep in recharge.
Megatron’s talons eased against the berth railing. He lowered his helm slightly, his voice pitched low, just for Starscream.
“Rest, my Seeker. I am here.”
The medbay was quieter now. The steady beeps of the monitors and the low hum of the energon pumps had become the dominant sounds, but the tension in the room was still wound tight.
Knock Out stepped back from the berth, folding his arms, his crimson armor catching the sterile light. He glanced at Megatron, then at the silent, expectant faces of Soundwave, Dreadwing, and the others.
“Well,” he began, tone deceptively casual, “do you want the bad news first or the good news?”
Megatron’s optics narrowed into slits. “Stop playing, Knock Out. Tell me what is happening.”
Knock Out’s smirk didn’t last. He exhaled through his vents, tilting his helm. “Bad news it is, then.”
He stepped toward the leader, his voice taking on the crisp professionalism that meant he’d measured his words carefully. “From now on—and for quite some time—your Conjunx is going to need more energon than the average mech. Special cubes. I’m talking high-mineral content—reds, pinks, lilacs—and, if Primus favors us, whites. White crystals are the purest form you’ll find, but also the rarest. Ideally, he’ll need to feed on one cube every two hours while he’s awake and not in recharge.”
Megatron’s optics burned into the medic’s face. “You’re telling me we’ll need to increase energon mining?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Knock Out’s gaze swept the room. “Preferably more expeditions to crystal-rich sites. And you’d better hope we hit on the high-grade veins, because this isn’t something we can stretch on standard rations.”
The confusion was visible. Megatron’s mouth was a thin line of steel. Soundwave tilted his helm slightly, visor flickering faintly as if calculating. Dreadwing’s wings twitched in restless uncertainty.
“No one,” Megatron said slowly, “is understanding why.”
Knock Out’s optics flicked to the monitors, then back to them. His tone softened a fraction. “That’s where the good news comes in. Starscream isn’t in danger. Not if we keep him fed properly.”
He drew in a deep vent of air, then turned one of the medbay’s main screens toward the group. With a flick of his claw, he brought up a detailed scan of Starscream’s chassis—his internal structure displayed in precise lines, the pulsing brightness of his spark chamber at the center.
But it wasn’t the spark that held the eye.
There, nestled close—almost cradled against the spark’s glow—were three distinct, smaller lights. Each one steady. Each one alive.
Knock Out’s voice carried through the medbay with an almost theatrical gravity. “Congratulations, Lord Megatron.” His optics gleamed faintly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouthplates. “You’re going to be the sire of three sparklings within a few months.”
For a moment, the room was utterly still.
Megatron’s optics stayed fixed on the screen, the three tiny lights reflecting back in their crimson depths. His expression did not change—but the way his talons curled against the edge of the berth, the way his gaze softened by a fraction as it slid to Starscream’s still frame, betrayed something far deeper than command presence.
Soundwave’s visor flickered again, recording, storing, perhaps even… approving. Dreadwing’s optics widened just slightly before he straightened again, as if processing what this meant for the entire Decepticon cause.
And Starscream, oblivious in recharge, remained the quiet center of it all—three tiny sparks pulsing inside him, drawing their life from his own.