Archive of Our Own

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.

Chapter Text

At the Autobot mobile base, the Ark, everything moved with the quiet, disciplined rhythm of a war that had learned how to endure itself. Bots passed through corridors with purpose, some returning from patrol, others preparing to leave again, a constant cycle of motion and duty that never truly rested. Conversations were low, efficient. Repairs hummed in the background. It was as close to normal as war would ever allow.

And then that fragile normal shattered.

Jazz came tearing through the main corridor like a storm barely contained, pedes screeching against the floor as he took a turn far too fast, nearly losing balance as he corrected himself mid-motion. “Prowl!—Optimus—anyone—!” His voice cut through the base, sharp with urgency, breath uneven, words tumbling over each other in a rush that made it clear—this was not routine. This was not small.

He didn’t even have time to stop before they were already there. Optimus Prime appeared first, steady and immediate, Prowl at his side, optics already narrowing in focus. Within moments, others followed—Ratchet, wiping energon from his servos, Ultra Magnus with his rigid composure, Elita-One alert and ready, all drawn by the tension in Jazz’s voice.

“Report,” Optimus said, calm but firm, the kind of calm that only made the urgency sharper.

Jazz tried to steady himself, but the words still came too fast, spilling out between breaths. “Bee—Bumblebee—he was on patrol—took a shortcut through neutral territory—said it’d be faster—” He swallowed, forcing the next part out. “He saw it. Peaceful Tyranny. Landed. Damaged. Bad.”

A pause—just a fraction—before he added, lower now, like the name itself carried weight.

“The DJD.”

The air shifted.

Jazz lifted his helm slightly, meeting Optimus’s optics. “The ship’s grounded. Completely. Vos was outside—trying to fix what looked like the engine. It’s not operational. Not even close.” His voice tightened. “I’ve got the location.”

Optimus didn’t hesitate. “Magnus. Prowl. Elita—you’re with me.”

“I’m coming too,” Ratchet cut in immediately, already moving. “If this goes wrong—and it will if they spot you—you’ll need a medic.”

No one argued.

Jazz was already opening a ground bridge, coordinates locking in with a sharp hum as the portal flared to life. They stepped through without another word.

And in the span of a heartbeat, they were gone.

They emerged into stillness.

Bumblebee was already there, crouched low behind cover, optics fixed ahead. He glanced back only briefly as they arrived, relief flickering for just a second before focus snapped back into place.

Optimus followed his line of sight—and felt the weight of it settle immediately.

Peaceful Tyranny loomed ahead, its once formidable structure now visibly wounded. The hull was torn in places, jagged scars where something had struck with violent force. One side sagged slightly, systems dark, lifeless. And beneath it—

The DJD.

Tesarus stood at the center of the damage, massive frame braced as he carefully pulled the ruined engine free with Kaon’s assistance. Metal groaned as it came loose, the weight of it hitting the ground with a dull, final sound that spoke of total failure.

Vos remained nearby, movements precise, analyzing, already thinking steps ahead.

Ultra Magnus leaned slightly forward, optics narrowing. “Meteor impact,” he murmured under his breath. “Likely a shower. One fragment breached the hull and struck the engine directly. Internal detonation from heat.”

“A complete loss,” Prowl added quietly.

Optimus didn’t respond immediately. He was watching them. Studying. Calculating.

Then, slowly, he turned to Elita-One. “Return to base. Assemble a small team. Contact our allies—neutral markets, black market channels. Disrupt any attempt they make to acquire a replacement engine. Delay them.”

Elita nodded without hesitation. “Understood.”

She stepped back, already preparing to leave, her voice carrying quiet certainty. “We’ll make sure they don’t get what they need.”

And just like that, the plan shifted.

The following days stretched into a careful, silent watch.

The Autobots rotated shifts, never staying too long, never risking exposure, always observing from a distance. Waiting. Learning. Watching the most feared hunters in the war grounded—vulnerable, if only for a moment.

It should have felt like an advantage.

It didn’t.

Because even like this… the DJD did not feel like prey.

It was during one of those rotations that Prowl called them.

Not through standard report channels. Not with details.

Just a single message.

-You need to see this.-

Optimus and Ultra Magnus didn’t question it. They opened a bridge immediately, stepping through to join him.

“What is it?” Magnus asked quietly, already scanning the area.

Prowl didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted a servo slightly, signaling for silence, for stillness—and then gestured forward.

They followed his gaze.

Below, the DJD had gathered again. Vos. Kaon. Tesarus. Their voices were low, discussing logistics—the difficulty of obtaining a new engine, the lack of cooperation from both neutral and black markets. There was tension there, subtle but present.

“Megatron may need to be involved,” Kaon muttered. “Constructicons could rebuild it.”

“Risky,” Vos replied.

And then—

Tarn stepped forward.

Without his mask.

Even from a distance, the difference was… striking.

The face beneath was marked—scarred in ways that spoke of survival carved through suffering. Lines etched into metal that should have been pristine, telling a story of violence endured and lived through. And yet… there was no shame in them. No attempt to hide. He carried them like truth. Like something earned.

Optimus felt something shift—just slightly—watching him like that.

Tarn spoke, voice quieter than expected. “No. Too dangerous. Not now.”

Magnus glanced at Prowl, confusion beginning to form. This was… normal. Tactical. Nothing worth urgent recall.

But Prowl didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just kept watching.

Waiting.

Tarn continued, tone thoughtful, controlled—until something changed.

A name.

“…Starscream.”

It slipped into the conversation so naturally—and yet it hit like impact.

Optimus stilled.

Magnus’s optics narrowed instantly. “Starscream?” he repeated under his breath.

They exchanged a brief glance—silent, questioning. That name… meant nothing. Not in their records. Not in intelligence reports. Not anywhere.

Prowl finally spoke, voice low, precise. “That’s why I called you.”

His gaze never left the scene below.

“That name doesn’t exist in any of our systems.”

A pause settled between them, heavy with implication.

Magnus exhaled slowly. “There have been rumors…” he said carefully. “Of a strategist within the DJD. One no one has ever seen.”

Prowl gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Yes. And until now… no proof.”

Below, the conversation continued—unaware.

Above, everything had just changed.

The Autobots remained hidden, their presence reduced to stillness and held breath as they continued to watch. Time stretched, heavy with tension, every second sharpening their focus on the grounded warship and the figures moving around it. Nothing about this felt simple anymore—not after that name had been spoken. Not after the quiet realization that there were pieces of the war they had never even known existed.

Then movement broke the rhythm again.

The ramp of Peaceful Tyranny lowered with a soft mechanical sigh, and Nickel emerged, small frame descending carefully, a datapad clutched in her servos. Even from a distance, there was something in the way she moved—something tired, something weighed down by yet another failure.

“They refused,” she said as she reached the others, voice carrying just enough to reach them. “Another vendor. No engines available. And no one is willing to build one from scratch—not for us. Not for this scale of work.”

A low, frustrated sound rumbled from Tesarus, something between a growl and a groan, heavy with impatience. “Then what do we do now?” he demanded, the question sharp with the kind of pressure that came from being forced to wait when waiting was dangerous.

Kaon shifted slightly, optics dimming as he scanned the surrounding field, always searching, always listening. “We don’t stay here,” he said, quieter, but no less firm. “The longer we remain grounded, the higher the risk becomes.” A pause. Then, softer, almost… careful. “Especially for Starscream.”

The name again.

Above, hidden in shadow, the Autobots stilled even further, attention snapping tight around it. That unknown name—spoken now with something more than strategy behind it. Something that felt… personal.

Tarn stepped forward then, his presence commanding even without the mask, even without the fear he usually carried so effortlessly. “We may not have a choice,” he said, voice low, thoughtful. “We will have to request assistance from Megatron. The Constructicons.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Risk.

Every one of them understood it.

And then—Nickel moved.

She stepped between them, small but unwavering, drawing every optic toward her without effort. “Wait,” she said, voice softer—but certain. “Give it a few more days.”

Silence followed. Not dismissal. Not rejection. Just… listening.

Nickel looked at Tarn, then at the others, something gentle and knowing in her expression. “By my calculations… and by Starscream’s condition… it won’t be long now.”

Confusion rippled silently through the watching Autobots.

Condition?

Nickel continued, more carefully now, as if explaining something fragile. “Once it happens, things will be easier. Safer. Bringing the Constructicons before that would be too risky.” She clasped her servos together lightly. “Afterward, Starscream will remain in the quarters. Resting. Recovering. It will take time—cycles, maybe a year—but he’ll heal.”

There was something in the way she spoke his name. Something warm. Protective.

“During that time,” she added, “the ramp stays sealed. No one enters. No one sees. The Constructicons can work outside, fix the engine, and leave without ever knowing what’s inside.”

The plan settled slowly, piece by piece.

Tarn was quiet for a moment, considering—not as a soldier, not as an executioner, but as something else entirely. Something far more… careful.

“It’s not a bad plan,” he said at last.

There was a subtle shift in him as he turned slightly toward Kaon. “Gather the others. We will return to the Nemesis and request Megatron’s assistance.”

Kaon nodded and moved without question, disappearing back into the ship.

Tesarus lingered for a moment longer, glancing at Tarn. “Megatron doesn’t grant favors freely.”

“I am aware,” Tarn replied calmly.

There was no bitterness in his tone. No resistance. Just acceptance.

“The repair will have a cost,” he continued. “And we will pay it.” A pause. “Battles. Engagements. Without compensation. The engine will be the exchange—not shannix.”

Above, the Autobots froze.

Shannix.

Exchange.

The implications hit like a shockwave.

Megatron… was paying them?

The DJD—Tarn—were not bound by loyalty, not by belief, not by cause… but by contract?

Optimus felt something tighten in his chest, something difficult to name. Confusion. Disbelief. Something almost like unease.

Everything they thought they understood about their enemy… shifted.

Below, the conversation moved on as if nothing had changed.

Nickel turned slightly, already heading back toward the ramp. “I’ll inform Starscream,” she said gently.

But before she left, she paused beside Tarn, extending the datapad she carried. “He’s been working,” she added, a hint of quiet pride in her voice. “New defensive strategies. Based on the data you allowed him to access. There’s one in particular—targeted toward Elita-One’s team.”

Tarn accepted the datapad, gaze lingering on it for a fraction longer than necessary. “I will review it later,” he said softly. “After I speak with Megatron.”

He set it down carefully on a nearby rock, just beside the ramp—absent-minded, distracted, as if his thoughts were already elsewhere.

Inside.

With him.

As Tarn turned to follow Nickel up the ramp, her voice drifted back, light, almost innocent. “Have you chosen any names yet?”

There was a pause—small, but real.

“Not yet,” Tarn answered. “But I have a list.”

And then they disappeared inside.

Above, silence pressed in again—but it was no longer the same.

Magnus turned slightly toward Optimus, optics narrowing with confusion. Questions sat unspoken between them, heavy and urgent, waiting to be formed into something coherent.

But before either of them could speak—

Prowl was gone.

Optimus’s attention snapped back just in time to see him already moving, slipping from cover with precise, controlled speed, heading straight toward the datapad Tarn had left behind.

“No—”

The word barely left Optimus before tension spiked through him.

Too exposed. Too dangerous.

Every instinct screamed at the risk of it—the proximity, the possibility of detection, the presence of the DJD just inside the ship—

And yet Prowl didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t slow.

Because whatever was on that datapad…

Might change everything.

Chapter Text

Prowl moved like absence itself—silent, precise, every step calculated to leave nothing behind. From their position, Optimus Prime and Ultra Magnus could do nothing but watch, tension coiling tighter with each second that passed. He was too exposed. Too close. One wrong shift of light, one glance in the wrong direction from the wrong mech—and it would be over.

Still, Prowl didn’t hesitate.

He reached the base of the ramp, pausing just long enough to scan—no movement, no shadows shifting, no indication that anyone had followed. Only then did he move, quick and controlled, picking up the datapad Tarn had left behind as if it weighed nothing and everything at once. From his subspace compartment, he retrieved a small device—standard issue for him, modified countless times over—and connected it with practiced efficiency.

Two klicks.

That was all he needed.

Two klicks… and if he was caught, there would be no time for retreat. No time for defense. No time for anything at all.

From where he crouched, he could hear them. The low murmur of voices drifting from inside Peaceful Tyranny, distorted slightly by metal and distance—but clear enough.

Nickel’s voice, soft and thoughtful. “It could happen this week… even sooner. At any time.”

A pause.

Tarn’s voice followed, deeper, steady—yet carrying something beneath it that did not belong to the battlefield. “We are ready.”

Ready.

“For what?” - Prowl Magnus thought sharply, though he didn’t dare speak.

Nickel again, gentle, almost reassuring. “Good. Because once it happens… things will change.”

The words settled uneasily.

Prowl didn’t stop working. His optics flickered between the device and the ramp, mind splitting itself between two tasks—listening, processing, memorizing, while the data transferred in steady, agonizing increments. He adjusted his stance slightly, buying time, willing the process to complete faster without letting it show.

Every fraction of a second stretched.

Every sound mattered.

And then—

Done.

Prowl disconnected the device in one smooth motion, securing it instantly before slipping back the way he came, body low, movements sharp and controlled. Only when he reached cover again—only when he was beside Optimus and Magnus—did the tension release even slightly.

And then, just for a moment—

He allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction.

Two fingers lifted in a small, silent victory sign.

The response was immediate.

Ultra Magnus struck the top of his helm with a sharp, controlled tap. “That,” he said, voice low but firm, “was reckless.”

Optimus exhaled slowly, optics narrowing—not in anger, but in something dangerously close to it. “Next time,” he added, quieter but no less severe, “it will not be a tap. You will be answering to Ratchet for an entire eon.”

Prowl tilted his helm slightly, entirely unrepentant. “Then it’s fortunate I succeeded,” he replied dryly.

“It’s not amusing,” Optimus said flatly.

Magnus cut in before the tension could rise further. “Both of you—focus.”

And just in time.

Movement.

All three stilled as Tarn reappeared at the top of the ramp, descending with the same controlled presence that defined him. His gaze swept the area—not searching, not suspicious… but aware. Always aware.

He retrieved the datapad without pause.

For a fraction of a second, Optimus’s spark tightened.

Too close.

Too close to being seen.

But Tarn turned, just as calmly as he had come, and disappeared back inside. The ramp began to rise immediately after, sealing shut with a heavy finality that echoed louder than it should have.

Safe.

Contained.

Untouchable again.

Optimus didn’t waste another second. “We return to base. Now.”

No one argued.

Back aboard the Ark, the atmosphere shifted from tension to something sharper—something focused.

They gathered in a secured briefing room, doors sealed, systems locked, every measure taken to ensure privacy. Present were the core of Autobot command: Optimus Prime, Supreme Commander; Ultra Magnus, Strategic General and enforcer of order; Prowl, Chief Tactical Officer and second-in-command; Jazz, Operations Commander and specialist in infiltration; Ironhide, Head of Heavy Artillery and frontline defense; Elita-One, Commander of Special Operations; Arcee, leader of reconnaissance and search divisions; Ratchet, Chief Medical Officer; and Bumblebee, head of scouting and intelligence gathering.

This was not a routine meeting.

This was something else entirely.

Prowl stepped forward, connecting the copied data to the main display. The room dimmed slightly as projections came to life—lines, models, simulations—layer upon layer of structured, meticulous strategy.

At first glance, it seemed simple.

DJD battle tactics.

But as the data unfolded—

Silence fell.

Elita-One leaned forward first, optics narrowing as she recognized patterns. Her team formations. Their movement structures. Response times. Engagement habits. Everything—mapped, studied, understood.

Her voice came out low. “This is… us.”

Not general analysis. Not assumption.

Precision.

Every possible scenario her team could face—anticipated. Countered. Broken down step by step with cold, flawless logic.

Ironhide let out a low whistle, shaking his helm slowly. “That ain’t just planning,” he muttered. “That’s… dismantling.”

Jazz crossed his arms, expression losing its usual lightness entirely. “Whoever wrote this,” he said quietly, “knows us better than we know ourselves.”

Arcee didn’t speak at first. She simply stared, optics scanning the data again and again, as if trying to find a flaw. A gap. Something she could fight.

There wasn’t one.

Ratchet frowned, arms tightening across his chassis. “These projections account for stress responses… fatigue patterns… injury probabilities…” His voice sharpened slightly. “This isn’t just tactical. It’s intimate.”

Bumblebee shifted uneasily, optics flickering between the others. “It feels like they’re already inside our moves,” he said softly.

Magnus remained rigid, but even he couldn’t hide the tension in his stance. “This level of precision requires extensive observation,” he stated. “Long-term. Consistent.”

Prowl didn’t look away from the display.

“…Or someone exceptionally gifted.”

All optics turned to him.

Slowly, deliberately, he highlighted the section dedicated to Elita-One’s team—the most refined, the most complete.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

The word carried weight.

Coming from Prowl… it meant everything.

“And that,” he continued quietly, “is the problem.”

Optimus stood at the center of it all, silent, gaze fixed on the data—not just seeing it, but feeling the implications settling into place.

The name echoed in his mind again.

Starscream.

Unknown. Unrecorded.

And yet…

Whoever he was—

He had just rewritting the war.

For a long moment after the projections settled into silence, Prowl did not speak.

It was rare—so rare it drew attention on its own.

When he finally did, his voice had lost its usual sharp edge of detached certainty. It was quieter. Thoughtful. And beneath it, something far more difficult to name.

“In all my cycles…” he began slowly, optics still fixed on the data, “I have never seen work like this.”

The admission carried weight. Coming from Prowl, it was not praise lightly given—it was truth.

He stepped closer to the display, one servo lifting as if he could trace the logic laid out before them, as if understanding it more deeply might somehow make it less unsettling. “This is not just strategy,” he continued, more softly now. “It’s anticipation. It accounts for variables most tacticians wouldn’t even consider… and removes them before they become factors.”

A pause.

“It explains our losses.”

The room didn’t react loudly—but the silence shifted, heavier now, the realization settling into place like something inevitable.

“The DJD never outfought us,” Prowl added. “They outthought us. Every time.”

His gaze lowered slightly, distant for a moment.

“That strategist…” he murmured, almost to himself, “is a genius.”

Then, more firmly, grounding himself again, he straightened. “While I was retrieving the data, I overheard part of their conversation. They’re preparing for something. An event.” His optics flickered briefly, frustration tightening his tone. “It could happen within the week. Possibly sooner. I couldn’t stay long enough to identify what.”

The uncertainty lingered.

Something was coming.

And whatever it was… it mattered enough to change the way Tarn and his team were moving.

Far from the Ark, within the quiet, sealed interior of Peaceful Tyranny, the atmosphere was entirely different.

War felt distant here. Muted.

Softened.

At the center of the main interface sat a tricolored seeker, his frame unmistakably altered by the gentle, undeniable curve of a spark carried within. He was seated in a reinforced metal chair, one servo resting over his abdomen almost unconsciously, as if drawn there by instinct, by connection. The glow of the ship’s systems reflected across his armor as he worked, optics scanning line after line of data with careful precision.

Battles.

Past engagements.

Every move Tarn and the DJD had ever made—replayed, analyzed, understood. And beyond that, deeper layers—archives accessed through Tarn’s clearance, drawn quietly from Soundwave’s vast and meticulous records.

He studied them all.

Not out of duty.

Out of care.

Behind him, Tarn stepped into the room, presence filling the space instantly—but the reaction he received was… none at all.

A long, slow sigh left him, heavy with a kind of exasperation that only one being in the universe could ever draw from him. “You should be resting,” he said, voice low, softer than it had any right to be. “Not using my access to pull more data.”

The seeker didn’t even look away from the screen.

Instead, he calmly dipped a spoon back into a small basin resting at his side—energon jelly, carefully prepared, its soft glow reflecting faintly against the surface. Nickel’s work. Always attentive. Always precise.

“I’m not sick,” he replied lightly, as if that alone dismissed the concern. He lifted the spoon, taking another slow bite before continuing, tone thoughtful, almost gentle. “I’m sparkled.”

Another spoonful.

“And I’d prefer it if the team returned whole.”

His optics flickered briefly, scanning another set of battle outcomes. “Our current patron relies too much on force. On impulse. It increases casualty rates.” A small pause, quiet but certain. “I don’t like that.”

Another bite. Calm. Composed.

As if he were discussing something distant, theoretical—rather than the very real danger surrounding them.

Tarn crossed his arms, posture shifting instinctively, concern bleeding through in ways no one outside this room would ever recognize. “Come back to the quarters,” he said again, more firmly this time—but still gentle, still careful.

The seeker finally glanced at him, expression softening just slightly. He made a small, almost absent gesture.

“Come here first.”

Tarn stepped closer without hesitation.

And the moment he was within reach, Starscream lifted the spoon and puts inside Tarn’s mouth.

“Calm down,” he murmured, something warm threading through his voice. “Everything is under control.”

Tarn stilled for a fraction of a second—then allowed it. Allowed himself to be fed, to be grounded, to be softened in a way that would have been unthinkable anywhere else.

“…Nickel is calm,” Starscream added, as if that alone should have been reassurance enough.

Tarn’s gaze shifted.

Because she wasn’t.

Not even close.

Nickel was moving rapidly across the room, datapad in hand, voice quick, precise, running through a checklist that seemed to grow with every passing second. “Are the thermal towels stored properly? Tesarus—do you remember the correct heating threshold? Kaon, did you secure the materials for the cradle? Vos, I need the higher metal-content energon crystals separated—no contamination—Helex, is the Pet under control?”

She turned sharply, barely pausing for answers, already moving on to the next concern.

Helex blinked, momentarily caught off guard before glancing toward the massive shape resting against Starscream’s side.

The creature—once wild, dangerous—now lay curled there, utterly at ease, releasing low, soft purring sounds that vibrated gently through the room. It pressed closer instinctively, as if drawn to the life within Starscream, to the quiet, growing presence it seemed to recognize without needing to understand.

Helex hesitated.

“…He’s under control,” he said finally, uncertainty threading through his tone as he watched the scene unfold. “I think.”

There was still something surreal about it. Something he wasn’t sure he would ever fully comprehend.

Because it wasn’t Helex who had tamed the creature. Or Tarn.

It was Starscream.

Always Starscream.

Tarn stood there, watching it all—the quiet domestic chaos, the careful preparation, the life growing steadily closer to arrival—and for the first time in a long while, something unfamiliar stirred beneath his certainty.

A question.

A doubt.

Is everything really under control?

Beside him, Starscream only smiled faintly, entirely at ease, another spoonful of energon jelly lifted to his lips as if nothing in the universe could possibly go wrong.

Chapter Text

Back aboard the Ark, the meeting did not end—it unraveled.

What had begun as a focused discussion, controlled and deliberate, slowly slipped into something far more fragile. The room filled with overlapping voices, each theory building over the last, each possibility more desperate than the one before it. No one liked uncertainty—least of all the Autobots—and yet that was all they had.

“What if it’s an ambush?”

“They’re grounded—why risk it now?”

“Unless they want us to think that.”

“Or it’s a trap to draw resources away from—”

“Or that strategist—Starscream—what if he’s planning something we haven’t even considered yet?”

The voices rose, layered, clashing—logic giving way to speculation, speculation twisting into fear. Even the most disciplined among them could not fully anchor themselves against the unknown. Because this was different. This was not an enemy they understood anymore.

And then—

The room shook.

The deep, resonant sound of Optimus Prime’s voice cut through everything, not loud in volume—but powerful enough to silence the chaos instantly. It was not anger. It was not frustration. It was authority, absolute and undeniable.

“Enough.”

Silence fell like a command obeyed without thought.

Optimus stood at the center of the room, unmoving, optics steady as they moved from one mech to another. There was no judgment there—but there was clarity.

“Theories will not protect us,” he said, voice calm now, grounded, pulling them all back with it. “Speculation will not prepare us. We need proof.”

Real. Concrete. Unquestionable.

Only then would they understand what they were facing.

He turned slightly, gaze settling on Ultra Magnus. “Magnus—you will coordinate with Perceptor and the science division. I want something deployable. Mobile. Discreet.” A brief pause. “A surveillance unit capable of transmitting live visual and audio feeds.”

Magnus straightened immediately, posture locking into purpose. “Understood.”

“Peaceful Tyranny does not have the same level of counter-surveillance as the Nemesis,” Optimus continued. “And more importantly… they do not have Soundwave.”

The implication was clear.

This was their advantage.

“We use it.”

Magnus gave a single, firm nod. The order was already becoming a plan in his mind.

Optimus shifted his attention. “Prowl.”

Prowl met his gaze instantly.

“I want everything,” Optimus said, voice quieter now, but no less intense. “On Tarn. On every member of the DJD. History, patterns, inconsistencies—anything that does not align.”

A brief pause, something deeper threading into his tone.

“Because if our assumptions are correct… then everything we believed about them is flawed.”

Prowl’s optics flickered—not with doubt, but with focus sharpening further. “Understood.”

“If Tarn is not loyal to Megatron,” Optimus continued, “then he was never a Hound. He was… an illusion. A construct designed to control perception.”

A lie.

One they had all accepted without question.

“And illusions,” Optimus finished quietly, “have weaknesses.”

Prowl inclined his helm slightly. He would find them. He needed to.

Optimus turned again. “Elita-One.”

She stepped forward without hesitation.

“For the time being, you and your team will not engage in active combat operations.”

The words landed heavier than any command before it.

Elita didn’t flinch—but something tightened in her expression. Not defiance. Not disagreement. Just the weight of understanding what that meant.

“That strategist…” Optimus continued, “has already demonstrated a level of precision that cannot be ignored. Every engagement provides data. Every movement becomes something they can learn from.”

His voice softened—just slightly.

“I will not risk you or your team becoming a pattern they can break.”

A long moment passed.

Then Elita straightened, resolve settling into place. “Understood.”

She would stand down.

For now.

Optimus nodded once before shifting his focus again. “Bumblebee.”

Bee perked slightly, optics attentive.

“You will maintain surveillance on the DJD. Use only your most experienced scouts. No risks. No exposure.”

A pause.

“They cannot know they are being watched.”

Bumblebee nodded quickly, determination lighting in his posture. “Got it.”

“Discretion above all.”

Next—“Ironhide.”

Ironhide leaned forward slightly, ready before the order even came.

“Prepare for all scenarios,” Optimus said. “Defensive measures. Equipment readiness. I want contingencies for outcomes we have not even defined yet.”

Ironhide gave a low, steady grunt. “You’ll have it.”

There was something reassuring in that certainty—solid, dependable, unshaken.

“Ratchet.”

Ratchet crossed his arms, already anticipating.

“Medbay remains on full readiness,” Optimus instructed. “Staff prepared for immediate response. No delays.”

Ratchet huffed softly, but there was no resistance in it. “We’re always ready,” he muttered. “But I’ll make sure we’re more ready.”

Optimus allowed the smallest flicker of acknowledgment before moving on.

“And finally—Jazz.”

Jazz tilted his helm, expression more serious than usual, though a faint hint of his usual ease still lingered beneath it.

“I need you to inform the rest of the Autobots,” Optimus said. “Be… selective. Share what is necessary. Not everything.”

Because panic would help no one.

Jazz nodded slowly, understanding settling in. “Got it, Prime. I’ll keep it smooth.”

The room remained quiet after that.

Not tense anymore. Not chaotic.

Focused.

Each mech stood with their orders now, their roles clear, purpose restored. The uncertainty was still there—it hadn’t vanished—but it no longer controlled them.

Optimus looked at them all one last time.

Whatever was coming…

They would be ready for it.

Two days passed.

Two days of tension held carefully beneath routine, of movements measured just a fraction more than usual, of every Autobot carrying the quiet awareness that something was coming—they just didn’t know what. And yet, despite it all… things held. No attacks. No sudden shifts. Just the steady hum of preparation threading through the Ark like a second heartbeat.

In the main lab, that quiet preparation had taken form.

“What you’re looking at,” Wheeljack said, with a hint of unmistakable pride in his voice, “is not a rock.”

In the palm of his servo rested something small, unassuming—irregular in shape, dull in color, something that would disappear easily against any terrain without a second glance.

Optimus leaned slightly closer, optics narrowing as he observed it. There was nothing remarkable about it at first sight. No visible seams. No indication of advanced technology. Just… a stone.

Perceptor adjusted his stance beside Wheeljack, voice precise, measured. “It is a mobile surveillance unit, Commander. Fully autonomous locomotion via micro-wheel systems concealed beneath the outer shell. It can traverse uneven terrain with minimal sound emission.”

As if responding to the explanation, the “stone” shifted.

It rolled—slowly, almost lazily—before stopping again, as if it had never moved at all.

Optimus watched it in silence.

“A near-complete visual field,” Perceptor continued, “with approximately three hundred and sixty degrees of image capture. High-resolution optics, enhanced auditory sensors… and—”

“—a power core that’ll keep it running for years,” Wheeljack finished, a small grin slipping through. “No need to retrieve it unless you really want to.”

For a moment, Optimus said nothing.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

“It will be sufficient.”

There was something almost reassuring in that. Not certainty—but progress. A step forward in a situation that had offered them nothing but questions.

And then—

The doors slid open.

Prowl entered without hesitation, his presence cutting cleanly into the moment. There was no wasted movement, no unnecessary preamble—but there was something different in the way he held himself. Something sharper. Something… charged.

“I have found something,” he said.

Optimus turned immediately. “Report.”

Prowl stepped closer, datapad already in hand, but his optics remained steady—focused not on the data, but on what it meant.

“It concerns Tarn.”

The room shifted.

Even Wheeljack straightened slightly, interest replacing casual ease. Perceptor’s attention sharpened instantly.

“For a long time,” Prowl continued, voice calm but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent, “we have operated under the assumption that Tarn is… exactly what he presents himself to be.”

A pause.

“That assumption is incorrect.”

He activated the datapad.

A name appeared.

Not Tarn.

“Glitch.”

The word settled into the space between them, quiet—but heavy.

“His original designation,” Prowl explained. “Before the war. Before the DJD. Before everything we associate with him now.”

Optimus’s optics narrowed slightly, absorbing the shift. A name carried history. Identity. Meaning.

“And it does not end there,” Prowl added.

The data shifted—images, fragments, records pulled from places that did not give up their secrets easily.

“He was a champion of the Pit Arena!Before Megatron!!”

That drew a reaction. Subtle—but present.

The Pits were not simply places of combat. They were brutality refined into spectacle. Survival stripped down to instinct. To endure there—let alone rise within it—meant something fundamental had been forged… or broken.

“He was not freed,” Prowl continued quietly. “He escaped.”

Another pause.

“With assistance.”

The room stilled.

“An unidentified mech,” Prowl said, “sold himself into the Arena as collateral—to pay a debt owed to its owner. In doing so… he created an opening.”

Optimus felt something shift, something quiet and heavy settling deeper into the truth of it.

“Tarn—Glitch—used that opening to escape.”

Silence followed.

Not empty.

Full.

Because for the first time… Tarn was not just a name. Not just a weapon. Not just an idea shaped by fear and myth.

He had a past.

A beginning.

Something that came before the monster they knew.

Wheeljack let out a low breath, rubbing the back of his helm. “Well… that explains a few things.”

Perceptor remained still, optics flickering faintly as he processed the implications. “Such an environment would produce extreme psychological and tactical adaptations,” he murmured. “Efficiency. Endurance. Detachment.”

Prowl lowered the datapad slightly, gaze steady.

“This is only the beginning,” he said.

But even so—

For the first time since this began, something real had surfaced.

Not theory.

Not assumption.

Truth.

Chapter Text

Prowl did not waste time.

The datapad in his servo connected smoothly to the Ark’s central systems, and within seconds the room dimmed as the main display came alive. What began as a quiet briefing quickly became something else entirely—Autobots filtering in one by one, drawn by the tone of Prowl’s earlier report, by the weight of something important.

No one spoke at first.

They simply watched.

Optimus stood at the center, unmoving, while Ultra Magnus took position at his side, posture rigid with attention. Elita-One, Ironhide, Arcee, Bumblebee, Jazz, Ratchet—more followed, forming a silent half-circle around the projection as Prowl stepped forward.

“This information,” Prowl began, voice calm but edged with something deeper, “comes from a surviving witness. A former slave of the Pit Arena.”

The words alone were enough to shift the atmosphere.

“He was present during the early stages of the conflict,” Prowl continued. “Young at the time. He remembers clearly what happened when Megatron initiated the uprising that led to the Arena’s collapse.”

The projection flickered—then stabilized.

An image appeared.

Younger.

Unmasked.

Unbroken—at least compared to what he had become.

Tarn.

No.

“Glitch,” Prowl corrected quietly. “His original designation.”

There was a stillness that followed.

Without the mask, without the Decepticon insignia, he looked… different. Not softer—not innocent—but unfinished. His frame lacked the deep scars that now carved across his features, his expression less controlled, less refined into the cold certainty they had come to associate with him.

“He was already known to authorities before his capture,” Prowl continued. “Charges include vandalism, violent assault, multiple counts of murder… and solicitation of further killings.”

Ironhide let out a low breath. “So he didn’t become a monster,” he muttered. “He always was one.”

Prowl did not respond immediately.

“Yes,” he said at last.

The image shifted again—more fragments, more records, incomplete but enough to begin forming a narrative.

“According to the informant,” Prowl went on, “there was a consistent presence among the Arena’s audience. A noble. Identity unknown.”

A figure appeared in the projection—indistinct, cloaked, masked like all nobles who attended such places to indulge in brutality without consequence.

“He took an interest in Glitch,” Prowl said. “Observed him. Followed his matches. Attempted to purchase him multiple times.”

“Purchase him?” Arcee’s voice came sharp with disbelief.

“Yes,” Prowl confirmed. “For increasingly excessive sums.”

Ratchet’s expression darkened. “And the owner refused.”

“He refused,” Prowl repeated. “Glitch was his champion. His investment.”

A pause.

“And then,” Prowl said, voice lowering slightly, “something changed.”

The projection shifted again.

A new image.

Blurry. Incomplete. But enough.

“A new slave was introduced to the Arena.”

The figure that appeared was slender, aerial in frame—distinct even through the distortion.

“Tricolored,” Prowl continued. “A seeker. Pure lineage, according to the informant. Officially, he was sold to settle a debt.”

Bumblebee leaned forward slightly. “Officially?”

Prowl’s optics flickered.

“The informant believed otherwise.”

The image sharpened just enough to reveal movement. Surveillance footage—old, damaged, but still functional.

“He described the seeker as… observant. Calculated. He did not behave like the others. He did not break. He watched.”

The footage played.

A dim corridor. Flickering lights.

A figure moving—slowly, carefully.

“He avoided conflict when possible,” Prowl continued. “Minimized consumption. Preserved energy. And every day…”

The footage shifted.

“…he went to Glitch’s cell.”

A ripple moved through the Autobots.

“Even knowing what Glitch was capable of,” Prowl added quietly.

Jazz let out a low breath. “That’s either bravery…”

“Or purpose,” Prowl finished.

The next sequence played.

Faster. Chaotic.

Escape.

Alarms flashing. Shadows moving.

Glitch—running.

And beside him—

The seeker.

Barely visible through the poor lighting, his frame unsteady, movements faltering.

“Injured,” Prowl said. “Severely.”

A faint trail marked the ground behind them—energon, bright even in the dim footage.

“But Glitch did not leave him.”

On the screen, the two figures moved together—hand locked with hand, Glitch pulling, dragging if necessary, refusing to let go even as they disappeared into darkness.

Silence filled the room.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

“After this,” Prowl continued, though his voice had shifted—quieter, more deliberate, “a new warrant was issued.”

The image changed again.

A public notice.

A name.

Charges listed clearly.

“…Kidnapping,” Prowl read. “Of a noble from Vos.”

That… landed differently.

Elita-One’s expression tightened slightly. “A noble,” she repeated.

Prowl inclined his helm. “From the aerial city.”

No one needed to say it aloud.

They all felt the implication.

The projection shifted once more—this time to something far less public.

A building. Hidden. Unmarked.

“A clandestine medical facility,” Prowl explained. “Operated by Nickel.”

Ratchet stepped forward slightly, frowning. “Of course it is.”

“Specialized in treating individuals who cannot seek official medical care,” Prowl continued. “Criminals. Outcasts. Those who need to disappear.”

The pieces began to align.

“It is highly probable,” Prowl said, “that the seeker was brought here after the escape.”

“And that,” Ratchet added quietly, “is where they met her.”

Prowl nodded once.

He paused then—just briefly—before continuing, his voice shifting again, softer, more contemplative.

“This is… where theory becomes necessary,” he admitted.

All optics turned to him.

“In my assessment,” Prowl said slowly, “the seeker was never truly a slave.”

A beat.

“He was an infiltration.”

The room stilled completely.

“Someone entered the Arena deliberately,” Prowl continued, “under the guise of debt. With intent. With purpose.”

“To reach Glitch,” Jazz murmured.

“To free him,” Prowl confirmed.

“And the noble?” Magnus asked, voice low.

Prowl’s gaze remained fixed on the projection.

“The same individual,” he said. “The observer. The patron.”

The one who tried to buy him.

The one who failed.

The one who found another way.

Silence followed.

Deep.

Complicated.

Because what they were looking at was no longer just a history of violence.

It was something else.

Something… human, in a way none of them had expected.

Ironhide rubbed a hand along his jaw, unsettled. “So someone went into that place… on purpose… just to get him out?”

Arcee’s optics narrowed, but there was something thoughtful behind it now. “And stayed long enough to get hurt doing it.”

Bumblebee shifted slightly, quieter than usual. “They didn’t run alone.”

Ratchet crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “That’s not a simple rescue.”

“No,” Prowl said softly.

It wasn’t.

Elita-One exhaled slowly, gaze still fixed on the screen. “That’s loyalty,” she said. “Or something very close to it.”

Optimus had not moved.

Not once.

But something in his expression had changed—subtle, almost imperceptible, but there.

Because this—this story unfolding in fragments and shadows—did not fit the enemy they thought they knew.

It did not make Tarn less dangerous.

If anything…

It made him far more complicated.

While the Autobots tried to piece together what Tarn truly was—hunter, mercenary, myth, something far more complicated than any of them had ever imagined—far from their theories and their carefully constructed conclusions, reality existed in a place they would never think to look.

Inside Peaceful Tyranny, there was no war. Not here. Not in this room.

Tarn lay on the berth, his massive frame curved protectively around the smaller one beside him, his helm turned gently to the side, resting against the soft rise of his conjunx’s abdomen. He was still—completely, impossibly still—listening.

Feeling.

There, beneath his touch, a small, fragile movement answered him. A shift. A flutter. Life, quiet and growing, pressing back against him in a way that felt almost unreal. Tarn’s optics dimmed slightly, his focus narrowing to that single point, that single connection that silenced everything else.

No one—no one—would have believed this.

That Tarn, the terror of the battlefield, the mech who carried death as easily as breath, could exist like this. Gentle. Careful. Almost… reverent.

Slowly, Tarn lifted his helm, optics rising to meet the one beside him. And for a brief moment, something broke through the certainty he carried everywhere else.

Uncertainty.

Guilt.

“Do you… miss it?” he asked quietly. “Your old life.”

The words felt heavier than they should have.

“The comforts. The… luxuries.”

He did not say Vos. He did not say what you lost.

He didn’t need to.

Starscream stilled at the question.

The datapad in his servos dimmed as he powered it down, the soft glow of poetry fading into silence. He set it aside without hurry, without resistance, as if the answer mattered far more than anything he had been reading.

Then he turned fully toward Tarn.

Both servos lifted, gentle, deliberate, cradling Tarn’s face with a care that seemed almost instinctive—thumbs brushing lightly along the edges of metal marked by scars and time and survival.

“Never,” Starscream said softly.

There was no hesitation. No doubt.

“Not once.”

His optics softened, something warm and unshakable shining through them. “You are my world,” he continued, voice quiet but filled with something that could not be mistaken for anything else. “You always have been.”

A faint smile touched his expression, distant for just a moment, as memory pulled him back.

“Before you…” he murmured, “everything was gray. Predictable. Measured. Every step decided for me, every choice made by someone else. There was no color. No life in it.”

His gaze returned to Tarn, steady, certain.

“And then I saw you.”

Not Tarn.

Glitch.

“In that arena,” Starscream whispered, fingers tightening just slightly against Tarn’s frame, “fighting like the universe had already decided you would die… and you refused to accept it.”

A soft, almost breathless sound escaped him—something between a laugh and something more fragile.

“You were still Glitch then,” he said gently. “And somehow… even like that, you brought color into my world.”

The memory shifted again, softer now, but edged with something sharper beneath it.

“You carried me out of there,” Starscream continued, voice lowering, “when I was barely conscious. I remember your voice more than anything else—demanding, furious—calling for Nickel to save me.”

A small laugh slipped free, warmer this time, touched with fond disbelief.

“You had nothing,” he added. “Nothing but promises. And threats.”

He leaned slightly closer, optics glinting faintly with amusement. “You told her you would turn her into scrap if she didn’t save me.”

A quiet pause.

“And she believed you.”

Starscream’s smile lingered, soft and bright in a way that felt almost untouched by everything they had lived through.

“That was how it began,” he said.

Slowly, gently, his expression shifted again—less amused now, more thoughtful, something deeper settling into place.

“We built everything together after that,” he continued. “Piece by piece. From nothing.”

The words carried weight.

“We saw what the war,what bots with power and shannix did to others… in that clinic. Bots broken beyond recognition, but still holding on. Still wanting to live.”

A pause.

“And we chose to stay.”

Together.

“To build something different.”

His gaze flickered briefly toward the room around them—the warmth, the quiet, the life they had carved out in the middle of something that should have destroyed them.

“We gave ourselves new names,” he said softly. “New beginnings.” A faint smile returned. “Well… most of us did.”

Nickel had remained Nickel. Always Nickel.

“Glitch became Tarn,” Starscream continued, voice lowering slightly, something almost reverent in it now. “And I…”

He hesitated just a fraction.

“…I became something free.”

A star that finally chose its own sky.

Together, they built the DJD—not as a symbol, not as a cause—but as survival. As purpose. As something that belonged to them. They found their ship—Peaceful Tyranny—and turned it into something more than a weapon.

A home.

“Our beginning,” Starscream whispered.

His servos drifted again, one settling instinctively over his abdomen, over the life they had created together.

“Our future.”

His voice softened even more.

“If Unicron allows it… more futures.”

There was no bitterness when he spoke of Primus. No anger. Just… absence.

“We were never chosen,” he said quietly. “So we chose ourselves.”

And that had been enough.

“Megatron is only a patron,” Starscream added after a moment, tone calm again, grounded. “He pays. We serve. That is all.”

A faint tilt of his helm.

“And when he stops paying…”

The implication was simple.

“We leave.”

They would always survive. They always had.

Starscream leaned in then, closing the distance between them, his lips brushing gently against Tarn’s in a kiss that was soft, slow—something built not from urgency, but from years of quiet understanding. Of choosing each other, again and again.

When he pulled back, his optics lingered, warm and certain.

“You were never just the monster they believe you are,” he murmured.

His fingers traced lightly along Tarn’s scars.

“And I was never just what I was meant to be.”

A soft breath.

“You are my darkness,” Starscream whispered, voice tender, unafraid. “The part of the universe that burns, that destroys, that refuses to bow.”

His smile deepened—gentle, loving.

“And I…”

A pause, filled with quiet certainty.

“I am the light that chose to stay.”

He leaned forward again, resting their foreheads together, optics half-lidded, peaceful.

“Beauty and monster?” he murmured softly.

A quiet, fond exhale.

“No.”

His voice dropped, something deeper threading through it now—something that belonged only to them.

“We are both.”

In the Autobots, fa reason none of them could name—none of them could even begin to explain—a chill moved through the room.

It was subtle at first. Barely there. A quiet ripple that passed from one frame to another, slipping beneath armor, threading along circuitry, settling deep within their sparks like something ancient had just stirred.

Optimus was the first to still. Not visibly—not in a way anyone else would immediately notice—but something in him shifted, a quiet awareness tightening, as if the universe itself had just exhaled something… final.

Across the room, others felt it too.

Elita-One’s posture stiffened ever so slightly, her optics narrowing without knowing why, her instincts reaching for something unseen.

Bumblebee tilted his helm, confusion flickering across his expression, as though he had heard a sound that never quite reached his audials.

Ratchet frowned, a faint tension pulling at his frame, something unsettled and unwelcome pressing at the edges of his thoughts.

Even Ironhide—solid, grounded, unshakable Ironhide—shifted his stance, a low, instinctive unease settling into his systems like a warning without words.

No alarms had sounded.

No enemy had appeared.

And yet—

It felt like something had just… changed.

Not around them.

Not in the room.

But somewhere far beyond their reach. Somewhere they could not see, could not measure, could not understand.

Like a truth had just been spoken into existence.

Like a line had been crossed.

Like something deeply, irrevocably real had revealed itself to the universe—and the universe had answered in kind.

The feeling passed as quietly as it had come.

But it did not leave them unchanged.

Chapter Text

The first time Starscream saw Tarn, neither of them carried the names the universe would one day fear.

He was not Starscream yet. He was Ulchtar.

And Tarn—Tarn was still Glitch.

Ulchtar had not gone to the Pit Arena for blood. Not really. Nobles visited the arena all the time, draped in silks and hidden behind masks, searching for something to break the monotony of their endless, gilded lives. Violence was entertainment there, nothing more. A spectacle. A distraction.

Ulchtar had gone for something else.

To feel anything.

Because for all the privilege he had been born into, for all the perfection expected of him, his life had always been… empty. Not cold—no, he understood what cold was. This was something quieter. A constant dullness. A life dictated by rules, by tutors, by expectations carved into him before he had even learned to think for himself. Every step planned. Every word measured. Every success inevitable.

He was brilliant. Everyone knew it.

But no one saw him.

They saw his name. His house. His worth in alliances and politics and power. They smiled at him, spoke to him, tried to earn favor—but never from him. Always from what he represented. Always from what he could offer.

It was suffocating.

And so he went to the arena.

From the safety of the VIP balcony, surrounded by other nobles cloaked in anonymity, Ulchtar watched. Bots fought. Bots fell. Energon spilled across the sand in bright, violent arcs that meant nothing to him. It should have been just another empty experience—another attempt to provoke a reaction that would never come.

Until him.

Glitch.

Ulchtar did not know his name then.

He only saw him.

The way he moved—not like the others. Not desperate. Not afraid. Glitch fought like it was the only truth he believed in. Every strike precise, every motion alive with a kind of raw, unfiltered purpose that Ulchtar had never witnessed before. And when he won—when his opponent fell and the arena roared—

Glitch smiled.

Not politely. Not for show.

A real smile. Sharp, wild, unrestrained—energón still dripping from his frame, streaking across his face, and he looked… alive.

So painfully, beautifully alive.

Ulchtar felt something shift inside him then.

Something small.

Something new.

From that day forward, he returned. Again. And again. Always to watch Glitch. Only Glitch. The rest of the arena faded into irrelevance—noise, background, meaningless distraction. It was always him.

For a long time, Ulchtar tried to buy him. Quietly, at first. Then with increasing insistence. The offers grew—shannix beyond reason, resources beyond measure—but the arena master refused every time. Glitch was his champion. His prize. His investment.

Something he would never sell.

So Ulchtar stopped asking.

And started planning.

Entering the arena as a slave was easier than anyone would have expected. Shannix could open doors that should never exist, and Ulchtar had more than enough to rewrite reality itself if he needed to. False debts. Fabricated identities. Perfectly forged documentation that could survive even the most detailed inspection.

Ulchtar disappeared.

And in his place, a nameless tricolored seeker entered the Pit Arena in chains.

The first days, he did nothing.

He watched.

Every corridor. Every patrol. Every guard rotation. Every blind spot hidden in the shadows of the arena’s structure. He memorized it all with quiet precision, building an escape piece by piece inside his mind.

And then—

He went to Glitch.

There was no fear in him when he stepped into that cell. No hesitation.

“You are extraordinary,” Ulchtar said, simply.

Glitch had stared at him then, confused—not by the words themselves, but by the tone. Praise was not something given to him. Not like that. Not honestly.

Ulchtar didn’t stop. He spoke of Glitch’s movements, his instincts, the way he fought—not like an animal cornered, but like something that refused to be broken.

It was the first time anyone had ever seen him.

Really seen him.

Trust, for Glitch, was not something easily given—but Ulchtar did not ask for it. He built it. Quietly. Consistently. Day after day. Returning to that cell. Talking. Watching. Staying.

Until one day—

They ran.

The escape unfolded exactly as Ulchtar had planned—precise, calculated, flawless—

Until it wasn’t.

The blast came without warning.

A shot meant to stop them.

It hit Ulchtar directly.

The force of it nearly tore him apart, sending pain crashing through his systems as his body faltered—but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His grip tightened around Glitch’s hand, refusing to let go even as energon spilled behind him in a bright, trailing line.

Glitch didn’t understand at first. Not fully. Not until they stopped—until he saw it.

The damage.

Severe. Too severe.

For a moment, something broke through Glitch’s control—panic, sharp and immediate, cutting through everything else.

And then he moved.

Without hesitation.

Without thought.

He lifted Ulchtar into his arms and ran again—faster, harder, driven by something that felt dangerously close to fear.

He knew where to go.

A place hidden from the world.

A place where bots like them went when there was nowhere else left.

The clinic was dim, quiet, filled with the low hum of failing systems and fragile survival. And when Glitch burst through its doors, Ulchtar barely conscious in his arms, his voice cut through the room like a blade.

“Save him.”

Nickel turned, startled—then froze for just a fraction of a second at the sight before her.

“I will give you everything,” Glitch continued, stepping forward, holding Ulchtar closer as if refusing to let him slip away. “Anything you want.”

A pause.

And then, lower—more dangerous.

“And if you don’t… I will tear you apart and scatter what’s left of you for recycling.”

Nickel blinked.

Then… she moved.

Because she understood.

Because sometimes, threats like that didn’t come from cruelty—

But from desperation.

She saved him.

Barely.

Ulchtar remained in that clinic for cycles, suspended between survival and loss, while Glitch stayed at his side with a stillness that spoke louder than anything he could have said.

And while Ulchtar healed…

He saw.

Bots broken beyond repair.

Bots abandoned by everything they had once believed in. Forgotten by Primus. Forgotten by society. Left to fade quietly into nothing.

But they didn’t want to fade.

They wanted to live.

And that…

That was something Ulchtar understood.

The idea came to him slowly—but once it took root, it never left.

They would build something of their own.

Something that belonged to them.

Something that did not ask for permission to exist.

And so they did.

From that clinic—from those broken, furious survivors—they formed something new. A mercenary group, born not from ideology, but from choice. From defiance. From the simple, powerful refusal to disappear.

Ulchtar chose a new name.

Starscream.

A star reborn in its own voice.

Glitch chose his.

Tarn.

Hot oil that never cooled. A burn that would never fade.

One by one, the others followed—taking new names, new identities, leaving behind everything that had once tried to define them.

All except one.

Nickel.

Nickel remained Nickel.

Because her name had already carved itself into fear. Into respect.

And she had no intention of letting it go.

They did not rise overnight.

Nothing about them was sudden, or easy, or clean. They were built the way broken things are rebuilt—slowly, unevenly, with pieces that didn’t quite fit at first and yet somehow held together anyway. From that clinic, from those fragments of lives that should have ended, they became something the universe could no longer ignore.

A mercenary group.

Not bound by cause. Not bound by faith. Only by choice.

And together, they became feared.

Not because they sought it—but because they survived. And survival, in a universe that discarded the weak, was something that demanded recognition whether anyone wanted to give it or not.

The ship came later.

A scarred, half-forgotten aircraft they found, repaired, reshaped into something that belonged to them alone. It was Starscream who named it—softly, thoughtfully, as if the words mattered more than anything else.

Peaceful Tyranny.

Peaceful… because within its walls, there was something they had never known before. Quiet. Safety. A place where no one was hunted. A place where they could exist without needing to fight for every second of it.

Tyranny… because to the rest of the universe, that was exactly what they were.

A contradiction.

A truth only they understood.

It was their home.

Their beginning.

Their family—broken, jagged, imperfect… but whole in a way none of them had ever been before.

When Megatron found them, it was not out of mercy. It never was. He saw their efficiency, their precision, their reputation growing like something inevitable—and he did what warlords always did.

He made it his.

He hired them. Paid them. Built a story around them that served his war.

The loyal Hound.

The Decepticon Justice Division. The DJD.

A symbol. A weapon. A lie wrapped so tightly in truth that even the Autobots believed it.

Starscream never corrected it.

He never needed to.

Because to him, it didn’t matter what the universe believed—as long as the shannix kept coming, as long as his family was safe, as long as Peaceful Tyranny remained untouched… Megatron could keep his illusions.

Starscream never stepped onto the battlefield.

He never needed to.

He was not built for war. No combat protocols, no hardened systems, no instinct for violence. He had always been something else entirely—mind over force, thought over destruction.

And everyone in the DJD knew it.

Tarn was the weapon.

Starscream was the one who ensured the weapon never broke.

And because of that—because of Tarn—Starscream was, perhaps, the safest mech in the galaxy.

No one was foolish enough to test what would happen if he wasn’t.

Time passed.

They grew stronger. More feared. More certain in what they had become.

And then, one day, Tarn asked.

It was not grand. Not dramatic. Just quiet, steady, like everything that truly mattered between them.

Conjunx Endura.

A bond that could not be broken.

Starscream smiled when he accepted—soft, teasing, something warm shining through his optics.

“You took too long,” he murmured.

The ceremony was small. Intimate. Held within the walls of Peaceful Tyranny, surrounded only by those who had become their family. No grand halls. No witnesses beyond those who mattered. No need for anything more.

There was no honeymoon.

There was no time.

But none of that mattered.

Because two cycles later—

Everything changed.

Tarn had not understood at first. Not fully.

The signs had been subtle. Small shifts. Changes in routine. Nickel watching more closely than usual.

Until the moment it was no longer subtle at all.

Until the truth settled into place.

A sparkling.

His.

The realization hit him like nothing ever had before—sharp, overwhelming, impossible to contain. For a moment, he simply stood there, unmoving, as if the universe had tilted beneath him and he was trying to understand how to stand again.

“You’re…” Tarn’s voice faltered—something that never happened. “…sparkled?”

Starscream only smiled, soft and certain, one servo resting gently over his abdomen.

And something inside Tarn broke open.

Joy came first.

Raw. Immediate. Overwhelming in a way he had no language for, no experience to anchor himself to. His entire frame seemed to still around it, as if holding onto that moment too tightly might somehow make it disappear.

And then—

Fear.

Not for himself. Never for himself.

But for them.

For what the universe could take.

For what he could lose.

His servos trembled—just slightly—as they hovered near Starscream, near the life growing there, unsure, for once, of how to exist without breaking something fragile.

“…I will protect you,” he said quietly, the words not a promise—but a vow. Something deeper. Something absolute.

His optics darkened—not with anger, but with something far more dangerous.

“I will end anyone who tries to harm you.”

There was no hesitation.

No doubt.

Only certainty.

Starscream reached for him then, grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of something too sharp.

And slowly—

The fear softened.

Because the joy was still there.

And it was stronger.

When the rest of the DJD learned…

Silence came first.

Not disbelief—something closer to awe.

Because sparklings… true sparklings, naturally formed, not engineered or constructed… they were rare. Precious. Almost unheard of in a universe that had long since lost the ability to create life so simply.

Tesarus stilled.

Vos lowered his weapon.

Kaon went quiet.

Even Helex paused.

The Pet was just...the Pet.

And Nickel—

Nickel smiled.

Soft. Knowing.

Hopeful.

Because this was not just life.

This was something new.

Now, the DJD stood stronger than ever.

Not just as a force of war—but as something more.

A family.

And within that family…

A future.

Tarn carried a datapad now—filled not with strategies, not with contracts—but with names. Dozens of them. Carefully chosen. Thought through in ways that no battlefield ever required.

Nickel had already told him.

“It will be a femme.”

And Tarn—Tarn, the terror of the war, the weapon whispered about in fear—would become a sire.

To a daughter.

To something that carried both of them.

Strength.

Brilliance.

Something that could reshape everything they thought they knew.

Nickel never said it aloud.

But she knew.

From the tests. From the readings. From the quiet, undeniable truth written into that growing spark.

This sparkling would be extraordinary.

A perfect balance of everything they were.

And as she watched them—watched the way Tarn softened without realizing it, the way Starscream carried that quiet, unwavering light—

Nickel smiled to herself.

Because maybe…

Just maybe…

That small, unborn spark…

Would be the change the universe had been waiting for.

And that,that was their story that no ones know and never will...