Chapter Text
Tarn—the Hound of Megatron, leader of the Decepticons—was a name spoken in lowered voices, if it was spoken at all. In a war that had stretched so long it had forgotten what peace ever felt like, he was not just feared… he was inevitable. To the Decepticons, he was loyalty incarnate, the perfect enforcer. To the Autobots, he was something worse—a shadow that followed betrayal, a certainty that once you were marked, you would not be found again.
He did not waste himself on the chaos of every battle. Tarn was not a common soldier thrown into the grind of war. He was a hunter. A patient, methodical predator who specialized in making those who abandoned the Decepticon cause vanish so completely that even memory seemed to fail them. No wreckage. No signal. No trace. Only silence where a bot once existed. But when Tarn did step onto the battlefield, it was never by accident—and never without consequence. Death did not follow him; it walked beside him, hand in hand, as if it belonged to him.
He was large, imposing in a way that crushed hope before a weapon was ever drawn. His frame was built for brutality, his strength overwhelming, his mastery over weapons vast and intimate, as though each one was simply another extension of his will. And worst of all—he did not simply kill. Tarn enjoyed it. There was a cruel precision in the way he fought, a deliberate slowness when he wanted suffering to linger, to stretch, to be felt. Lately, his presence on the battlefield had become more frequent, not because he desired it more—but because there were no longer Decepticons foolish enough to run. There were no traitors left to hunt. Only enemies to break.
And Tarn was never alone.
Where he went, his team followed—an extension of his will, just as feared as the mech who led them. Helix, whose understanding of pain bordered on artistry, turning torture into something almost reverent in its cruelty. Vos, silent and distant, a sniper who could end a life before his target even knew they had been seen. Tesarus, a living forge of destruction, reshaping metal and bodies alike with unstoppable force. Kaon, attuned to the faintest disturbances in the electric fields, able to track any spark no matter how well it tried to hide. And Nickel… small, quiet, deceptively gentle in voice and touch, yet capable of taking a broken, unrecognizable frame and forcing it to function again—no matter how much that bot might wish for oblivion instead.
Together, they were the Decepticon Justice Division—the DJD—a name that inspired dread in both factions alike. There were whispers, too, of something more. A seventh presence. A strategist who never appeared, never spoke, never revealed themselves. A ghost behind ghosts. But such rumors were dangerous things. Intelligent bots did not question them, did not repeat them, did not linger on them. Because drawing attention, even by curiosity, was enough to become prey.
And Tarn’s fury was not something anyone survived twice.
Now he stood aboard the Nemesis, the Decepticon warship that carved its way across the stars, waiting to receive his reward for yet another flawless execution of Megatron’s will. Outwardly, everything was as it should be. The loyal Hound returning to his master. The perfect soldier awaiting acknowledgment.
But loyalty, like everything else in Tarn’s world, had a price.
Because the truth—the one buried beneath layers of fear, myth, and carefully constructed illusion—was far simpler than anyone would ever dare to believe. Tarn was not loyal. Not truly. Not in the way the war demanded. His devotion was not born of ideology, nor faith, nor belief in Megatron’s cause. It was bought. Measured in shannix, paid in full, and renewed with every contract fulfilled.
As long as Megatron paid, Tarn obeyed. He hunted. He killed. He upheld the image of unwavering devotion so perfectly that no one questioned it. Not the Decepticons who followed him. Not the Autobots who feared him. Not the war itself, which had come to accept him as one of its unchanging truths.
But the moment the payments stopped…
So would Tarn.
Soundwave said nothing as he approached—he never needed to—but the quiet weight of his presence was enough to draw attention. In his hand, a datapad. In that datapad, numbers that meant far more than they ever should. He extended it toward Tarn without ceremony, without commentary, as if he were handing over something ordinary. Something insignificant.
It wasn’t.
Tarn accepted it, claws closing around the device with a calm that hid far too much. Beneath the mask, unseen by all, a small, private smile curved along his lips—soft, almost relieved, something no one in that room would ever imagine him capable of. His helm inclined slightly toward Megatron, who sat upon his throne like a war-forged god carved from steel and fury.
“I have received the payment.”
Megatron’s optics narrowed, studying him—not suspicious, not yet, but curious in the way a predator observes something it cannot quite define. “And when,” he asked slowly, voice heavy with command, “will you be available again?”
Tarn did not hesitate. He never did. “My team and I remain available,” he answered evenly, tone smooth, controlled. “However, Peaceful Tyranny will not be operational for several weeks. We encountered… complications.”
There was a faint shift in the room. Not tension—no one would dare tense around Tarn—but awareness.
“A meteor shower,” Tarn continued, almost idly, as if discussing something trivial. “Unexpected. Caused by a sudden atmospheric shift in a sector with unstable magnetic fields. The hull sustained multiple impacts. One engine is compromised beyond repair.”
Megatron leaned back slightly, fingers tightening against the arm of his throne. “Irrelevant. I require results, not excuses. You will continue operations against the Autobots.”
Tarn inclined his head again, compliant, obedient—perfect. “Of course. As long as the shannix continues… so will our services.”
There it was. Always there. That line. That quiet reminder.
Megatron’s optics flickered, something sharp passing through them—irritation, perhaps, or something more complicated. He said nothing, but the way his grip tightened against the throne spoke volumes. He did not understand. Tarn could see that clearly. Could feel it. Why would someone like Tarn need so much? What purpose could it possibly serve?
Soundwave stepped forward again, voice smooth, measured, almost thoughtful. “Alternative compensation… available. Materials. Resources. To reduce financial strain.”
For a moment, Tarn turned his helm toward him. Not sharply. Not threateningly. Just… considering.
“I will accept some alternatives,” Tarn said after a pause.
It was subtle, but it was there—the smallest shift in Megatron’s posture. Relief. Quickly buried, never shown.
“Specify.”
“Energon,” Tarn replied simply. “Red. Pink. White. Crystallized, if possible. Cubes acceptable.”
Silence fell. Heavy.
Megatron’s hand tightened so violently around the arm of his throne that metal groaned beneath the pressure, a fracture threatening to split it. “Those variants are not easily acquired,” he said, voice lower now, edged. “Why would you require them?”
Tarn did not look away. “I have my reasons.”
A pause.
“And if those resources are unavailable,” he added calmly, “the agreed shannix, with bonuses for each Autobot terminated or critically injured, will suffice.”
It was not a request. It never was.
And just like that, the conversation was over.
Tarn turned, leaving without waiting for dismissal, because he did not need one. Payment had been made. Contract fulfilled. There was nothing left to say.
Peaceful Tyranny waited in silence where it had landed, tucked within neutral territory where even war held its breath.
The damage was visible long before Tarn stepped inside. The once-pristine hull was scarred, clawed open in places where meteors had struck with merciless force. One engine hung in a state of quiet ruin, leaking oil in slow, uneven drops that stained the metal beneath it.
Vos stood there, hands already darkened with work, trying to contain the damage with careful precision. When he noticed Tarn’s approach, he wiped his hands on a torn piece of plating, movements efficient, expression unreadable.
“The engine is gone,” Vos said without preamble. “A fragment breached the hull, entered the core while it was active. Heat caused an internal detonation. The entire system is compromised.”
“How long?” Tarn asked.
“At least two months. That’s assuming we can find a compatible replacement. And a merchant willing to sell to us.” A slight pause. “Neutral Market… or Black Market.”
Tarn considered that for half a second. “You and Kaon will handle acquisition. Secure everything necessary.”
Vos nodded once. No questions. No hesitation.
Tarn moved on.
Inside, the ship felt different. Quieter. Softer, somehow.
Nickel was waiting. Of course she was.
Tarn placed the datapad into her small servos without a word. “Payment received. The contract continues.”
Nickel smiled, bright and knowing. “Of course it does.”
There was something warm in her tone. Something that had nothing to do with war.
Tarn hesitated—just slightly. “How is he?”
Nickel’s expression softened instantly. “You worry too much. He’s well cared for. Resting. And very well fed.” A small, amused hum escaped her. “He devoured an entire box of energon truffles. Tesarus bought them when he mentioned craving something sweet.”
Tarn exhaled slowly, something close to fond exasperation slipping through. “I’ve said before—everything concerning my conjunx and the sparkling comes from my personal funds.”
Nickel laughed lightly. “We’re a family, Tarn. Families help each other. You saved us. You take care of us. It’s only natural we return it.”
There was no argument to be made against that. Not one Tarn wanted to voice.
“Go,” Nickel added gently, already nudging him toward the corridor. “He’s waiting—even if he doesn’t know it.”
Tarn paused at the door to his private quarters for the briefest moment.
Then he stepped inside.
The space was nothing like the rest of the ship. Where everything else was built for war, this… this was built for living.
The temperature was perfectly regulated, warm and steady, a soft contrast to the cold steel outside. The berth was large—far larger than necessary—layered with thick, high-quality cushioning designed for comfort rather than efficiency. Shelves and compartments were neatly arranged, filled with carefully chosen items: folded silks, soft fabrics, polished containers of energon, small luxuries no soldier should have reason to own.
A small minibar rested near Tarn’s desk, stocked with neatly arranged energon cubes, their hues ranging from deep crimson to soft rose and pale white. Nearby, holo-images flickered quietly—captured moments frozen in time.
Moments of peace.
Moments of laughter.
Moments that did not belong to Tarn, the Hound of Megatron.
One image, placed more carefully than the others, showed a tricolored seeker seated comfortably, hands resting over a rounded, unmistakably sparkled abdomen. There was a softness in his expression—something tender, something bright. Something alive.
Not a soldier. Not a commander. Not a weapon shaped by war or ideology.
A civilian.
Brilliant, gentle, achingly out of place in a universe that thrived on violence—and yet somehow still here, still untouched by it in the ways that mattered most.
Alive. Safe. Here.
His frame shifted slightly as Tarn entered, senses attuned even in rest. “Tarn…?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, soft in a way that would have shattered Tarn’s carefully crafted image if anyone else had heard it.
Tarn removed his mask slowly, setting it aside without thought. He crossed the space in a few quiet steps and sat beside him, reaching out with a gentleness that did not belong to the battlefield.
“I’m here, Starscream.My love,” he whispered, voice low, warm—unrecognizable from the one that commanded fear across the war. “Go back to sleep.”
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss against Starscream’s helm.
Starscream shifted, instinctively moving closer, folding into Tarn’s much larger frame, using him as support, as warmth, as something safe. Tarn adjusted without thinking, one arm wrapping around him carefully, protectively, mindful of the life they were still waiting to meet.
And just like that, the war disappeared.
No masks. No contracts. No death.
Only this.
Only them.
This—this quiet, fragile, fiercely protected truth—was Tarn’s secret.
Starscream was his conjunx. His spark. His reason.
And the rest of the universe had no idea that the most feared mech in existence would burn everything to ash… just to keep him safe.