Archive of Our Own ^omega

Megatron couldn't touch his feet. His arms hung as he frowned at the distant ground, his back bent and creaking. It shouldn't be a surprise. He hadn't been able to touch his feet yesterday, or last cyber-week. But he'd hoped that the actual morning of the tournament would find him magically rejuvenated.

Megatron stretched a micron further, his feet still an unreachable goal. He'd never considered stretching to be a privilege when he was young. A chore, perhaps, necessary maintenance for the frame. Starscream had always led the stretches at the club, after everyone had warmed up and before bouting began. Megatron had dutifully followed along, his optics drawn to the elegant lines of Starscream's back as he twisted sideways, head turned away to display the cables in his neck...

Someone was giggling.

Megatron suppressed a groan as he straightened, unwilling to give any more ammunition to his apparent witnesses. There were three small fencers in front of him, bunched together, giddily terrified of his attention.

"Can I help you?" asked Megatron.

"You're the mech!" squeaked a youth holding a sabre bigger than she was. "The one on the cutout!"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Megatron glanced over the youths' helms, looking for the inevitably frantic adult coming to their rescue. "Have you lost your guardians?"

"We saw you!" said another youngling, this one with the painted target of a foilist on her armor. "You were flat!"

"I'm obviously not flat," said Megatron.

"Who are you?" asked the third youth, his single optic blinking owlishly from beneath his oversized helm. "Are you important?"

Megatron considered the many answers he could give to that question. "No," he decided. "Not to you." He picked up his equipment bag and left before they could ask any more questions.

Megatron shouldn't have let Drift talk him into competing. Megatron was comfortable enough coaching at a planetary tournament, when he could focus on supporting the Lost Light fencers and simply avoid the mechs with whom he had bad histories. Competing was different. The history of it was unavoidable. His armor was heavy on his frame, and he could feel his strides automatically lengthening as he stalked through the coliseum. He caught a few mechs staring at him in the peripherals of his vision, and no wonder. The last time Megatron had competed, he'd still been a Decepticon.

Drift already had a full three-mech team, he didn't really need a fourth. Megatron could have said no and it wouldn't have stopped Drift from fencing anyway.

But Ratchet had complained about his unpredictable joint problems and said he didn't feel comfortable committing to the competition when he didn't know if he'd be able to fence. Drift had promised Megatron he’d only have to fence if it was absolutely necessary. And Rodimus had waxed poetic about being a team player. It was easy for Rodimus to talk. He was still too young to be a veteran's team player.

Drift had asked Megatron to be here. That, in the end, was the important thing. Megatron didn't know exactly what he owed Drift, but the least of it was this.

The Cybertronian Championships were in full swing. Veteran team sabre was only one of many events, most of them both more energetic and more important. The upper division youth event would determine who fenced on the planetary youth sabre team. The lower division foil event would end with the promotion of eight mechs to the upper division. There was some epee event happening as well, though Megatron couldn't remember what. It seemed to involve a lot of screaming, so he hoped it warranted the fuss.

Team events were for nothing but pride. Megatron wasn’t sure why anyone bothered.

Drift was over at the bout committee, filling out their team order for the first round. Megatron waited politely until Drift was done, then beckoned him away from the team table.

"You put me in as the substitute?" he asked.

Drift gave him a sheepish look. "As anchor."

"I don't know if that’s—" began Megatron, but Drift's imploring optics cut him off.

"Ratchet couldn't recharge properly last night because of gear spasms," said Drift. "He's exhausted, and he's under strict medical orders—"

"Whose orders?" Megatron couldn’t believe this hadn’t been planned. "His own? If Ratchet isn't well enough to fence, we can always drop out."

"I took him straight to First Aid this morning." Drift nodded at the nearby medical table and its curtained treatment area where Ratchet would normally be holding court. "It's just a flare-up. If Ratchet feels better he'll fence, otherwise we'll take care of it. Right?"

Megatron tried to convey his deep distaste for 'taking care of it' through his expression, not trusting himself to voice it in a reasonable tone. It didn't seem to work, because Drift just beamed at him.

"I knew you'd understand. Wing came all the way to Cybertron just to fence with us, I don't want to disappoint him. It's going to be fun."

Fun. Megatron had never had 'fun' when fencing, and he wasn’t about to start now. He opened his mouth to tell Drift just that.

The words died in his voice box. There were three sets of wings making their way through the crowds of fencers, coaches, and hangers-on. You always saw the wings first, the way their breadth forced other mechs to step aside.

Drift caught Megatron looking over his shoulder and turned. "Oh. Yeah, I was going to tell you."

It was the whole trine, Starscream flanked by Thundercracker and Skywarp, moving as smoothly as any military unit. They'd walked into Megatron's first club like that, a long time ago. They'd stood out immediately against the typical Decepticon, three bright and shiny seekers amongst dozens of construction frames with hand-me-down armor and only rudimentary ideas of what fencing could become. Megatron's optics had been foolishly drawn to the slightly taller Thundercracker and Skywarp at first.

Then Starscream had started talking.

Drift waved a hand in front of Megatron's face. "Hello? Still with me?"

Megatron resisted the urge to slap Drift's hand away. "What were you going to tell me?"

"Apparently they've got a veteran's team." Drift flinched as Megatron glared at him. "I didn't know! Their team name is 'Team Disqualified,' for some reason, not 'Starscream and Friends.'"

"If you'd looked at the full entry list—"

"You could've looked at the entry list," said Drift. "It's not my responsibility. Anyway, you would've wanted to withdraw."

"Good idea," said Megatron. "Ratchet's injured and Starscream's fencing. Let's withdraw."

"Wing came all this way," said Drift again, as if that was an argument Megatron should care about. "Anyway, I checked and we're on opposite sides of the bracket. You won't have to worry about fencing Starscream until the final. If we make it to the final at all, I don’t want to jinx it."

Thundercracker was bent over the team table, talking to the bout committee mechs while Starscream and Skywarp argued about something presumably inane. Megatron tore his gaze away with effort.

"Skywarp's knee," he said. "He shouldn't be fencing."

"He probably won't. Wheeljack's their fourth fencer. Maybe Skywarp's here just to hang out with his trinemates." Drift gave Megatron a faint smile. "Terrible, right? I can't believe that some mechs would come to a competition to support their friends."

Megatron ignored the smile and looked out over the crowd. He didn't see Wheeljack at first, but then Starscream shouted something indistinct and began waving his arms around like a maniac. Megatron followed his gestures to the shambling, unassuming coach who'd apparently decided to play fencer for a day.

"Oh, don't do that," said Drift. "You're making me feel bad."

"I'm not doing anything," said Megatron. Wheeljack didn't look like he'd polished in a quartex. It must drive Starscream to distraction, he'd always fussed and fussed when Megatron dared to appear at a competition without a shine on his armor.

"You need to let it go," said Drift. "We're having fun today, it's not going to be a whole thing."

"I let go when I moved to Lost Light." Now Megatron had to ignore Drift's look of naked disbelief. "I won't be the one who causes a scene."

---

Team Hatchet—

Megatron couldn't even think the name without scowling. The only comfort was that Ratchet hated both the team name and the implication that this fencing team was actually a front for a fun couple's activity. Ratchet had only acquiesced to Team Hatchet because Drift's opening offer had been Team Ratty.

—Team Hatchet was seeded fourth. Drift had a high planetary ranking and Wing had a respectable galactic one, but it had been so long since either Ratchet or Megatron had fenced that they didn't even appear on the various ranking lists.

Starscream's team, meanwhile, was ranked fourteenth. Dead last. Megatron suppressed a smirk. Once they would've been teams one and two, if they decided to fence on separate teams for the sport of it. At least they could still meet in the final.

Megatron shook off the thought. With any luck, Starscream would lose in the quarter-finals, throw a fit, and be escorted out of the venue so Megatron could relax and stop worrying about him. No, that was uncharitable. With any luck, Starscream would lose it the semi-finals, display uncommon graciousness, and—

Ratchet thonked Megatron in the back of the helm. "Come on, space cadet, we're in B pod."

Megatron graciously refrained from crushing Ratchet's helm in retaliation. "Space captain," he corrected.

Bout committee had split the tableau into two halves, upper half in B pod and lower in C. Megatron found Team Hatchet's strip and sat down in one of the kindly provided chairs, limbering his wrist by making small circles with his sabre.

He didn't recognize any of the mechs they were supposed to fence. All of three of them had old-fashioned frames and expensive armor, and were talking excitedly to each other at the other end of the strip. Megatron suspected they were a bunch of doddering towers mechs who'd taken up fencing as a way to remain active after retiring from their function.

Wing was stretching out his lunge on the strip, while Drift tried to persuade Ratchet to come warm up with them. Ratchet grumbled about his joints, as usual, but seemed willing enough to be drawn into the circle. As Megatron watched, Drift slid into a splits while both Wing and Ratchet ogled appreciatively.

Why was Megatron here? This was rapidly descending from couple's activity to threesome. He leaned back, averting his optics in case someone decided to start kissing, and nearly fell out of the chair when he heard the all-too-familiar cackling.

Ratchet glanced over from where he was 'helping' Drift deepen his stretch with a hand on either thigh. "You're too healthy for a spark attack," he said, with characteristic sympathy and concern. "Stop faking."

"Starscream's supposed to be in the other pod," said Megatron, not daring to look around.

Ratchet glanced over Megatron's head. "He is."

They were. In C pod, directly across the aisle from Team Hatchet's position in B pod. Starscream had his back to Megatron, his wings held high in spite of his assistant coach's arm slung around his waist.

Megatron sat up straight, fixing his gaze on his three opponents instead. One of them was struggling to touch the tips of his feet, and Megatron produced an appropriate sneer for his weakness.

"I don't care if it's a bad seed," said Starscream, with his usual blithe arrogance. "We'd have to fence Arcee to get into the final anyway, we might as well do it now."

Wheeljack murmured something, low and indistinct.

"Guard to the visor to soften her up," said Starscream. "Then point attack right into that notch, you know, the gap in the armor right above the voice box."

"I'm not listening to this," said Thundercracker.

"Good," said Starscream. "It's important to preserve plausible deniability. Where is Arcee? Do you think she fell for it?"

"Okay, we're here, listen up!" Blurr vaulted the metal barrier and landed at Team Hatchet's strip, brandishing a datapad in one hand. "Team Hatchet and Still Functioning? Come check in."

"Since when does Blurr referee?" murmured Drift.

"Since two-thirds of the senior sabre referees decided to fence vet team, I think." Ratchet heaved himself to his feet. "I mean, it's got to be under duress."

There was a pointy-headed insecticon hiding behind Blurr. Almost a sparkling, and obviously afraid to be noticed even by the has-been veterans. Bout committee must really be scraping the bottom of the tank.

"All right, kid." Blurr shoved one of the flimsy copies of the scoresheet at the insecticon. "You check those fogies, I'll check these ones."

The insecticon turned to Team Hatchet with a wavering smile. "He's not saying it in a mean way."

Ratchet was too busy making rude gestures at Blurr's back to respond, but Megatron dredged up a smile. Not a very convincing one, apparently. The insecticon quailed, hiding behind the datapad.

"Is everyone here?" he mumbled. "Ratchet?"

Megatron couldn't believe that this supposed referee actually needed to call names. The only one of them without a planetary title in their past was Wing, and that was only because he fenced on an entirely different planet.

But Ratchet raised a hand and allowed himself to be checked in. The little insecticon squinted at the inspection marks on Ratchet's armor that showed it was strong enough to fence with, and the etching on his visor that showed it was sturdy and free of illegal electronics.

"Drift?" asked the referee, and then performed the inspection again. "Wing? Meg—" The referee's voice box sputtered and he reset it. "Megatron?"

"Here," rumbled Megatron. "Can we get on with this?"

The referee flinched again and handed the flimsy to Wing, admittedly the least threatening of the four of them.

"That's the order of the bouts," the insecticon mumbled. "Make sure to be on strip when it's your turn to fence."

"We've done this before, you know," said Megatron. Drift whacked him in the arm with his sabre as he went to take his place on strip.

Megatron looked longingly at his chair but stayed on his feet, shaking out his joints to keep limber. He spent two touches evaluating his future opponent, then lost interest. Retired aristocrats with enough money to waste on the entry fees for a tournament they were in no way prepared to compete in.

"Calling Team Death and Glory," blared the loudspeaker. "Team Death and Glory to strip C-Four. Is Arcee in the coliseum?"

Starscream cackled again. "Oh, this is precious. Truly inspired, Skywarp."

"Thank you, thank you. I may not be able to fence, but I still know how to prank."

"This goes a little further than a prank," said Wheeljack. "Kind of feels like an offense against sportsmanship."

"Don't take it so seriously," crooned Starscream. "We're having fun."

"If I get black carded at Championships I'm never going to forgive you," said Thundercracker. "I have responsibilities these days, and—"

"Aww, responsibiwities." Skywarp giggled. "Aren't you respectabwl."

"Is your voice box glitching? Or is that supposed to be funny?"

"Fencing now, Megatron and Corvette," called the insecticon. Megatron looked up and found that Drift had left him up five points to zero.

"Good luck!" chirped Drift, patting Megatron's back as Megatron took his place on the strip. Megatron flipped down his visor and centered himself. He was here to fence. Not to... eavesdrop.

"On guard," called Blurr, already looking existentially distraught at the slow pace of veteran fencing. "Ready-fence."

Megatron attacked while his opponent was still processing that the referee had told them they could begin. At the last moment the dilettante looked up, realized he was being attacked, threw out a wild counterattack, and got hit in the visor.

"Touch right." Blurr leaned his head to the side, stretching his neck cables. "On guard."

On the next touch, and the three others that followed, Megatron didn't even bother moving forward. He just waited for his opponent to come to him, then took the mech's blade in a neat arc that inevitably ended with the point of Megatron's sabre at his opponent's helm. When it was done, the mech saluted with good humor and came to shake Megatron's hand.

"An honor," he said. His handshake was limp and his fingers felt fragile in Megatron's grip. "Truly, an honor."

"Likewise," lied Megatron, and surrendered his place to Wing.

Ten to zero. Megatron couldn't believe he was wasting his time with this.

"Oh, look who finally decided to show up," said Starscream, across the aisle. Megatron almost turned, before he heard the incandescent rage of the response.

"I thought you were disqualified!" yelled Arcee.

"Wishful thinking gets you nowhere," sniffed Starscream.

"I thought you were disqualified because you named your team Team Disqualified!"

Skywarp was laughing so hard it sounded as if his voice box might come out. "Presumptuous," said Starscream. "You should have confirmed with bout committee."

"I should put my hands around your throat and squeeze, you little—"

"Okay, that's enough," said the referee, who was apparently foolish enough to get between Arcee and her prey. "Everyone's here, that's good, we can start fencing. Death and Glory, you'll start with a red card for delay of bout."

"What about Starscream's black card for dishonest fencing?" demanded Arcee.

"I haven't fenced a single touch," pointed out Starscream.

"Dishonest team naming!"

"Do you see that on the penalty chart?" asked Starscream archly. "I don't. Wheeljack, can you help me find this supposed crime? Dishonest team naming..."

"You're up again," said Drift, and Megatron automatically walked up to the strip. He wasn't sure how Wing and Drift had fenced three bouts while he'd been distracted by Starscream's antics, nor how they'd managed to lose any touches to these geriatric fools. The score stood twenty-five to three, now. Megatron looked at the scorebox, then looked at Drift, optic ridges raised. Drift had the grace to look abashed.

"On guard, please," said the insecticon.

Megatron turned his gaze on the referee. "What's your designation?"

The insecticon's antennae quivered. "Bluebottle? Is there a problem?"

"Bluebottle," repeated Megatron, and flipped his visor down. "No. Not yet."

Bluebottle's voice shook as much as his antennae as he called on guard, but his calls were adequate. He was more attentive than Blurr, at least. Megatron made five simple touches, and when the bout was done his opponent once again beamed and thanked Megatron for the pleasure of being defeated.

Starscream's team was fencing now. Megatron could tell, even though he still didn't look across the aisle. Starscream's shrieking was unmistakable.

"How can that be attack in preparation?" Starscream yelled. "Where's the preparation?"

"He pulled his hand back," said the referee, already sounding exhausted.

"I did do that," said Wheeljack. "Touché."

"Stay out of this," said Starscream. "You're undermining my strip-coaching!"

"Sounds like they're having a good time, doesn't it?" Drift's hip nudged Megatron's, and Megatron looked down into Drift's smirk.

"They're certainly very loud," murmured Megatron.

"They're insufferable," complained Ratchet. "I can't concentrate on our match with all that noise."

"Good thing you aren't fencing, then," said Megatron, which unfortunately concentrated Ratchet's ire on him, even though it had been a simple statement of fact. By the time Megatron had mollified Ratchet's complaints, it was time to fence the last bout.

---

Team Hatchet defeated their so-called opponents forty-five to seven. Afterward the other team gathered around Megatron, asking to shake his hand again, so glad he was really here and really fencing. They'd seen the cutout (what cutout?), thought maybe the whole thing was only a joke, so glad it wasn't. They'd seen Megatron fence once in Vos, vorns ago, or was it Kaon, or was it—

Starscream was still yelling on the other strip, but he sounded muffled. As if someone had put a gag between his teeth or, more likely, a hand over his mouth. "Smooth attack!" he shouted, or at least attempted to. "Smooth—How is that not his attack?"

"Starscream," sighed the referee, "I'm going to card you."

"What am I doing?" Starscream sounded both muffled and wounded now. "I'm just coaching!"

"You should card him," said Thundercracker.

"Don't tell her that," said Starscream. "He's not in charge today, Nautica, don't listen to him."

"He's the one fencing," said the referee. "Not you, just in case you weren't clear on that."

"Don't take that tone with me," said Starscream. "Don't you know who I—Skywarp! What are you doing?"

"I'm going to sit on you," said Skywarp. "Until you calm down."

"This is inappropriate! Card him! Card—"

Megatron was not going to look. He had boundaries. He'd set them very carefully, for the good of everyone.

"Very distracting, aren't they?" asked Corvette, one of the prissy retired functionaries who claimed to be a fencer.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Megatron.

Corvette gave him a knowing look. "You still have your supporters, you know. I followed your career with great interest, back in the good old days. You have such a beautiful, unconventional style. Primitive but effective, I remember we used to say. Unusual to find such natural talent outside of Iacon. It's a pity that your last competitive season was ruined by sabotage and gossip. You’d be in the Hall of Fame already, if mechs weren't so worried about that seeker causing a scene."

Megatron managed to swallow down every word he wanted to say in response. Unfortunately, he couldn't think what the right response was. Vorns ago he would have picked the little busybody up and—

Drift slid in between them, blathering about the next round, so lovely to meet you, so sorry we have to go. His fingers closed around Megatron's wrist, tugging, and Megatron allowed himself to be guided away from the strip and back out into the aisle.

Starscream shrieked with victory off to his left. Megatron would not, could not turn his head to see the score.

"Thirty-five to thirty-three," said Drift. "Team Arcee's favor."

"I didn't ask," said Megatron.

"No." Drift's hand was still tight against Megatron's plating. "But do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm not playing this game with you." Megatron pulled his wrist away and took a few quick steps, putting a more reasonable distance between them. But Drift caught up with his exaggerated loping strides, a sympathetic smile plastered on his face.

"It's not a game," said Drift. "And you can't walk away from everything. Regret clogs your aura. It prevents growth and renewal. You need to—"

"I've let go," said Megatron. "This is me letting go. This is me walking away. This is me refraining from strangling you if you won't leave me alone."

Drift gave Megatron a skeptical look. "That's not what it looks like."

"I can arrange a demonstration," snapped Megatron, and then was hit with a wave of guilt. Drift hadn't flinched back, but his smile had grown a little strained. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for."

Drift shrugged, and his face relaxed into blankness. "Same order next round?"

“Isn’t Ratchet feeling better yet?”

“Not really. Good thing you’re here!” Drift didn’t look remorseful in the least.

---

They were back on the same strip for the round of eight. Starscream was still across the aisle. Megatron gathered he'd won, since his voice was gratingly triumphant rather than gratingly despondent. Megatron could hear him bragging to a veritable crowd of onlookers.

Megatron glanced back at them, just for a moment. Skywarp sitting with his legs swung up in Starscream's lap, and Wheeljack sitting on Starscream's other side with his arm still wrapped around Starscream's waist as if it was welded there. Thundercracker was talking to the onlookers too, most of whom Megatron recognized as Starscream's students. Windblade, Chromia, Waspinator. The new fencers stolen from Velocitron. Even that stocky little youth fencer, what was her name? The approximate seeker, with thick wheels set in her broad shoulders, the one who'd had all that trouble at the last galactic event. Stage-something. Stageflight.

Starscream preening, the center of attention that he’d always wanted to be.

"Referee's coming," murmured Drift.

Megatron grunted. It was amazing how Starscream—Starscream—managed to gather mechs around him while Megatron sat alone. Well, Starscream did maintain something of a captive audience. Metroplex students had to get close to 'maestro' Starscream if they wanted decent coaching. At Lost Light, Megatron was only one of many excellent coaches. Excluding Rodimus, of course.

Megatron knew he shouldn't be jealous. He'd taken his time, he'd done the work. Removed himself from the toxic atmosphere of the Decepticons and immersed himself in the sometimes irritating but always supportive culture of Lost Light. Starscream had thrown a chair at Turmoil's head, and alienated almost every referee in Cybertron. Megatron had grown away from the mech he used to be, while Starscream wallowed in the past. Megatron might be alone, but at least he hadn't thrown himself into a co-dependent relationship with his assistant coach. A mech who Starscream employed.

Wheeljack caught Megatron looking and glared. Megatron made a conciliatory gesture and turned away just as Drift reached to shake his shoulder.

"Equipment check," he said. "And the opposing team's here."

It was the same referees. Blurr endeavored to look even more bored, but Bluebottle had gained an exoskeleton and managed to look Megatron in the optics as he checked his armor and visor this time.

"I haven't unbolted anything in the last fifteen kliks," Megatron informed him.

Bluebottle shrugged. "I have to check every time."

Megatron grumbled but submitted to the dance of safety. He wasn't one to start fights over nothing.

The mechs on the other team were vaguely familiar. They'd come into the Nemesis once or twice in the early days, then disappeared when the conflict with the Autobots grew more intense. Krok, Misfire and... Spin-something. Megatron couldn't remember slag about how well they fenced.

"You do the first two, Bluebottle." Blurr threw himself into a chair.

Megatron wandered back to stretch while Drift fenced the first bout. Starscream's team was already fencing on the other strip. Megatron glanced back and realized that they were matched against Rewind's team with Dominus Ambus and Chromedome.

As Megatron watched, Wheeljack's blade whipped over Rewind's helm and Rewind smacked Wheeljack right in the chest. A beautiful touch.

"Hey." Ratchet poked Megatron in an armor seam. "You're up."

Megatron picked up his sabre. He should have been watching Wing's bout, strategizing for his next opponent. It did no good to watch Wheeljack when he wasn't planning to fence the mech today.

"Be nice to Misfire, all right?" Ratchet gave Megatron another nudge. "These mechs are buddies with Grimlock."

"I'm capable of fencing without brutality." Megatron had worked hard to make sure that was true. He flipped his visor down and came on guard.

Megatron’s every touch was the epitome of gentleness, and Misfire didn't even land a hit. No point control at all. When Megatron came back down, Team Hatchet was up ten to three, and Starscream's team was down fifteen to sixteen. Thundercracker seemed to be making a comeback. He'd always been a solid fencer. Imaginative in his actions, but more importantly calm and collected in their execution. The only thing that had held him back among the Decepticons was his lack of drive. He was less ambitious than Starscream, and less competitive than Skywarp. The kind of mech who'd be satisfied with one good touch, even if it was the only one he scored for the entire bout.

Thundercracker flunged, actually went entirely over Dominus' helm, and still hit as he went past.

Stageflight jumped into the air with a shriek that rivaled even Starscream in volume. The rest of Starscream's entourage golf-clapped. Dominus looked amused, but Rewind looked like he was going to start tearing his visor to pieces.

"You'll be up again in an astrosecond," said Wing.

Megatron snapped his attention back to his own team. He gave Wing a polite nod, but apparently that wasn't good enough.

"I know we don't know each other very well," said Wing. "But your aura—"

"I’m not interested," said Megatron, and Wing politely shut up.

Spinister was a little more difficult than Misfire. He managed to score one good counterattack when Megatron allowed his shoulders to tense and his feet to get ahead of his arm. The bout was still quick, despite Bluebottle's hesitant calls.

At least they were all correct. When Blurr stood up to do the last three bouts, he made an absolutely atrocious call against Wing, mistaking both the tempo and the blade action. Megatron wasted precious moments of his life arguing with Blurr, before realizing Blurr simply hadn't been paying attention. Megatron huffed and looked away, needing something, anything to distract him from his need to force Blurr to be better.

Starscream was already in his last bout, the score at an easily won forty-three to thirty-nine against Rewind. Megatron allowed himself to watch, just for a moment.

Starscream's on guard position was exactly the same as it had been all those vorns ago. He still had the crimson visor, and the gleaming golden sabre guard. Megatron had tried to get him to switch to a purple visor once. Red was an Autobot color. Starscream had insisted that the visor was perfectly matched to his optics, not even on the same wavelength as the red Autobot sigil. When Megatron had insisted, Starscream had pouted and asked if Megatron was trying to say something about how he looked.

"I suppose you want me to get a repaint too," he'd said. "Or haven't you noticed all the red on my frame?"

Megatron had picked Starscream up by the wings and kissed him until Starscream couldn't form words anymore, Megatron's hands clutching dents into Starscream's perfectly adequate frame. Starscream had left those dents unrepaired for a cyber-week, flaunting Megatron's attentions in front of every other unfavored Decepticon.

Now Starscream's armor was gleaming and perfect. Metroplex's sigil was stenciled on his shoulder and wing guards, and Metroplex's colors were painted down his rear leg. The colors looked like they'd been chosen just for that purpose, contrasting beautifully against the paint of Starscream's new frame.

They probably had been. Starscream was exactly that vain.

"Ready?" called the referee on Starscream’s strip. "Fence."

Rewind darted forward, but Starscream leapt into the air, swinging his blade down to parry and then whipping it back up into Rewind's shoulder. Starscream's signature shriek was actually drowned out by his smallest groupie's audial-splitting cheer.

The referee winced and Windblade gingerly patted Stageflight on the helm. Starscream must be so proud.

Forty-four, thirty-nine. Megatron could see Starscream's shoulders tensing. He could almost guarantee Starscream was going to extend his blade and try point in line. Starscream loved point in line as the last touch in a lopsided bout, the ultimate humiliation for a frustrated opponent. With Starscream holding his blade out for them, all they needed to do was knock it away and hit. Instead, Starscream's blade would circle around their attack, leaving the opponent to impale themselves.

He'd done it to Megatron at practice exactly once. Megatron had said some very regrettable things in response, though he hadn’t regretted them at the time.

"On guard," said the referee. "Ready?"

Wheeljack was glaring at Megatron again. Megatron didn't turn away, unwilling to show defeat, but he didn't look back at Starscream either. Just kept his optics on Wheeljack as Starscream crowed his victory and his entourage erupted with applause. Starscream reentered Megatron’s vision, strutting with his chin held high and arms outstretched, ready to be welcomed as the chosen one of primus.

"Are you paying attention at all?" asked Ratchet.

"Absolutely." Megatron slowly turned his head back toward his own team, to make it clear to Wheeljack that he had more important things to do than win a staring contest. "Am I up again?"

"Last bout." Ratchet glanced past Megatron, at the other strip. "Too bad for Rewind, huh? He’ll be watching that touch in his defrag tonight. Think Starscream will make the final?"

“It’s foolish to speculate,” said Megatron, and got up to fence.

Drift had left the team up forty to twenty-five, and Krok was good but not quite at Megatron's level even now. Megatron had to move to defeat him, chasing Krok down the strip and even backpedaling a few times when Krok took an unexpected parry. But there wasn't much sense of urgency when Megatron had this much room to work with. He allowed Krok a few attacks in the middle to make him comfortable, then finished out the bout with a neat parry-riposte.

Krok chuckled as he flipped up his visor and made his salutes. "Were you playing with me, sir?"

"Not at all." Megatron shook Krok's hand. "You were more challenging than any other mech I've fenced today."

Krok smiled wryly. "I'll let Spinister and Misfire know they didn't measure up. Glad to see you're doing well. The cutout doesn't do you justice."

"What?" asked Megatron, but Krok was turning away and Blurr had brought up the datapad to sign. Megatron tried to catch Krok's optics, willing him to wait, but he was already busy talking to his team. There was an orange and beige epee fencer giving Misfire a high-five, and Grimlock was leaning over the railing, apparently on break from refereeing. Had he seen the last bout? His expression, as usual, was unreadable, but his visor was trained on Megatron's face.

Starscream was chattering again, bright and happy in his victory. Megatron had forgotten just how incessant he could be.

"We made it to the semi-finals!" said Wing, cheerfully. "This is so exciting."

"I know!" Drift grinned at Wing, before turning the expression on Ratchet and Megatron. "This is the dream team right here."

Megatron considered shutting his audials off entirely. Hadn't any of these mechs learned the value of the spoken word? You couldn't just throw them out of your mouth willy-nilly or they lost all meaning.

"I'm going to bout committee." Ratchet knocked his fist against Megatron's shoulder. "Come on, I need the moral support."

Megatron looked to Drift, but Drift waved them away and continued chattering with Wing. Meanwhile Ratchet resorted to tugging on Megatron's elbow, so Megatron abandoned his fencing gear and followed Ratchet back out into the coliseum.

---

"You looked—" began Ratchet.

"I don't want to hear anything about my aura," said Megatron.

Ratchet made the most offended expression Megatron had ever seen contort a mech's faceplates. "You looked like you needed a break, I was going to say."

"Oh." Megatron considered arguing the point, but decided simple gratitude was the better option. "Thank you."

"No grease off my gears." Ratchet kicked an erstwhile fencing bag out of the aisle. "You're doing us a big favor. I don't think Drift will ever tell you how much it means to him, getting to fence with you, being on the same team."

"We fenced together for vorns," said Megatron.

"No, Drift fenced for you." Ratchet made a frustratingly vague gesture. "To impress you, to make you proud, to make you angry... He never had a chance to just have some fun."

"Fun." The word still felt odd in Megatron's mouth. "Is that why you're still on the team? Even if you can't fence?"

"I'm still on the team because Drift extracted a promise under severe duress," said Ratchet. "But sure, I'm having fun. That's the whole idea behind veteran fencing. The points don't matter, and no one's frame works quite like it should, but we're all having a good time."

Had Megatron ever had fun while fencing? There was a certain joy to pushing the limits of your processor and showing the galaxy exactly how much better you were. But that didn't sound like the kind of careless amusement Ratchet was describing.

"You know," said Ratchet, "Drift told me you were keeping out of Screamer's way to be respectful. Give him some space."

Megatron grunted, still hung up on the exact definition of 'fun.'

Bout committee was only a few meters away, but Ratchet stopped walking. "That's not really why you're avoiding him, is it?"

Megatron's full focus snapped to Ratchet, but he only grunted again. He didn't trust himself to choose his own words.

"You're not getting him back," said Ratchet.

That deserved a response. "I know," ground out Megatron.

"It'd be a terrible idea anyway," said Ratchet.

"I know," repeated Megatron. "I don't want him."

Ratchet didn't even try to look like he believed it.

"We weren't good for each other," said Megatron. "I would make demands, and he would make a point out of failing them. I would shout, and he would shriek. I'd push him, he'd push me back, and I—" Megatron let out a shuddering vent. "I'm not going back to that."

Ratchet looked at Megatron for a long time. Bout committee seemed so close, yet so far, a safe haven only reachable through Ratchet's rarely-won approval.

"Good," said Ratchet at last, and started walking again. "Just keep that thought in your processor."

They reached the team table at last. Megatron nodded to the mech who handed Ratchet the next round's datapad to fill out, then glanced up to bout committee proper. Ultra Magnus was looking particularly harried as he assigned referees to foil pools, and Sunstorm was making a valiant attempt to explain the new non-combativity rules to a group of beleaguered epee referees. Who was in charge of the sabre referees in Thundercracker's absence? Arcee would be the natural choice, but she'd been fencing veteran's team as well.

"I'm not looking forward to next round," said Ratchet. "Drift's going to panic."

---

Rodimus was there when they got back to the pod. He'd stolen Megatron's chair, and seemed impervious to Megatron's unspoken but unmistakeable desire to have it back.

"Mechs of the joor!" he said. "Semifinals. Looking good!"

"Oh, you finally decided to show up," said Ratchet. "Did all of the other teams get knocked out?"

"Nah." Rodimus looked smug. "Cyclonus, Tailgate, and Whirl are still in. They're fencing in C pod next."

"And I assume you'll be coaching them," said Megatron.

"Don't look at me like that," said Rodimus. "Not with all of that... reproachment, whatever. I'm just trying to help out the more vulnerable team. You guys are going to win. They're fencing the aerial maniac himself."

"You don't even know who we're fencing," said Ratchet.

"Some old mechs," said Rodimus. "I mean, this is veteran's. They're all old mechs."

"Rodimus!" Drift dashed over from where he'd been talking urgently with Wing. "Rodimus, this is a disaster."

"I said he was going to panic," muttered Ratchet.

"We have to fence Dai Atlas," whined Drift. "And Axe, and Outrigger."

"From the Circle of Light?" Ratchet's nose wrinkled. "I thought they only did historical fencing. The 'pure' fencing slag. Broadsword, katana, the cool trident thing—"

"Some of them keep up with sport fencing." Wing came over, looking subdued but not nearly as frantic as Drift. "I do, obviously. Sabre is growing in popularity among the younger members, which makes the old guard annoyed. Dai Atlas will be pleased if he wins this, he can go back to the Circle and tell them that classical fencing techniques can still beat useless sport nonsense."

"Idiocy." Megatron couldn’t stand Golden Age romantics. "What will he do, challenge us to a duel?"

"My spark gutters when I say it, but Megatron's right." Rodimus patted Drift's back. "You're going to destroy these lame-o historical reenactors. Don't worry about it. I'm gonna go—oh Primus, who is that?"

"Dai Atlas," said Drift, miserably.

"He's huge!" Rodimus looked at the other team with awe in his optics. "Forget fencing, what are you going to do when he crushes you beneath his mighty feet?"

"Get out of here, you're not helping." Ratchet flapped his hands at Rodimus, shooing him away. "Drift. Focus. We're going to win this."

"I'm going to be crushed," said Drift. "And then Dai Atlas will give a little speech about how valor always triumphs, and Axe will say that he never expected better from a Decepticon, and then Outrigger will—"

"Hush." Wing put an arm around Drift's shoulders, hugging him from the side. "We can beat them. And if we don't, at least we'll lose together."

Megatron looked away. He had no interest in losing to anyone. Certainly not to these arrogant nostalgists.

So what if Dai Atlas was big? It only made him a better target for Megatron's blade.

---

Megatron saw the problem as soon as Drift started fencing. "He's scared."

Ratchet sighed. "Completely petrified."

On strip, Dai Atlas feinted a counterattack and Drift tried to parry for no reason at all. Dai Atlas easily stepped in and hit him while Drift was still recovering from the overreaction.

"What did Dai Atlas do to him?" asked Megatron.

"Dai Atlas never approved of Drift." Wing watched as Drift's next attack fell short. "He thought that Drift would bring the Decepticon and Autobot rivalry to the Circle. It got even worse when Dai Atlas realized Drift didn't really care about broadsword techniques."

"What does that matter?" Megatron snorted. "Drift doesn't need another mech's approval."

Ratchet made a strangled noise. Megatron glanced at him, but he didn't seem to be choking on anything. "Are you all right?" he asked, just in case.

"You were his coach for a hundred vorn!" shouted Ratchet. "He learned to fence at your club."

"Excuse me?" called Bluebottle.

"Have you never spoken to Drift?" Ratchet reached out with both hands, and Megatron took a step back before Ratchet could do something as unwise as trying to shake him. "Have you never seen the way he looks at you? Didn’t you wonder why he wanted you to fence? You oblivious—"

"Excuse me!" yelled Bluebottle. "Megatron, you're fencing!"

Megatron picked up his sabre and walked away from Ratchet's incoherent ranting. Drift gave him a weak smile as they traded places on the strip. He'd managed a single touch against Dai Atlas, leaving Megatron down one to five.

Megatron made it up against Outrigger. He might be a good swordsmech, but he was a poor fencer. He parried in circles, trying to trap Megatron's blade, and Megatron simply pushed through. Outrigger also left his wrist almost completely unguarded. Megatron managed four touches there before Outrigger caught on. When Megatron gave up his place to Wing, Team Hatchet was up ten to six.

"Come here." Ratchet snapped his fingers at Megatron, and it was only the misery in Drift's optics that kept Megatron from walking away on principle. "Tell Drift what you said earlier."

Megatron frowned. "That he doesn't need another mech's approval? But you—"

"There, see?" Ratchet grabbed Drift's shoulders and turned him so he couldn't avoid looking at Ratchet. "Who cares if Dai Atlas doesn't like you?"

Drift shook Ratchet's hands off. "I know I shouldn't care, okay? I know it doesn't matter. I'm sorry I'm wired like this, I'm sorry I can't fix it—"

"I'm not asking you to fix it, I just—"

"Stop," said Megatron, and they both turned to look at him. Drift's optics were wide, and Ratchet's optics were narrowed. "We don't have time for this." Megatron gestured back at the strip. "Drift will be fencing again in a moment. Unless you plan to sub in, Ratchet?"

Ratchet barked a laugh. "I feel better than this morning, but not that much better."

"Fine. Do you approve of Drift?"

"What?" Ratchet frowned.

"It's a simple question." Megatron looked between his teammates. "Do you think Drift is a good mech? Do you think he would be a worse one even if we lost this match?"

"I don't care about the match," said Ratchet. "We're supposed to be having fun."

"I'm sorry," muttered Drift, but Megatron held up his hands.

"Do you approve of Drift, Ratchet?"

"Of course!" snapped Ratchet. "He's a better mech than both of us."

"That's not—" began Drift, but Ratchet had finally caught on and cut him off.

"You don't need to win this match to prove yourself to me," said Ratchet. "You've done that already, over and over, every time you come to the club and every time you talk to me. One match isn't going to change that."

Drift looked at Ratchet and only at Ratchet, like he was being handed a lifeline made out of the rarest metals. Like he was afraid to take it, lest he ruin it by clutching it too hard.

"And after we're done fencing today," growled Ratchet, "you, me, and Wing are going back to the hotel. And we're going to do everything you've been teasing me with for the last cyberweek. Even the thing with the stasis cuffs and the—"

"Drift!" called Blurr. "Drift, you're up! Don't make me card you for delay of bout!"

Drift's fans were audible even under the fencing armor, but he didn't look anywhere near as upset as before. When Blurr called fence, Drift made a smooth clean attack and hit Outrigger right on the helm.

"That isn't going to fix anything," said Ratchet. "Drift doesn't need any mech's approval. Especially not mine."

"You've been head medic at more tournaments than I've ever fenced. You should know how it works." Megatron sat down in his chair and crossed his arms, watching Drift take Outrigger to pieces. "If you can't fix something right away, you slap a bandage over it and finish the bout."

"That's not how it works at all," said Ratchet, but he smiled when Drift shook Outrigger's hand.

---

The score was thirty-seven to forty in Dai Atlas' favor when Megatron took the strip against him. They were evenly matched teams, once Drift had gotten over his crisis. Megatron had been forced to actually pay attention to the fencing, and to come up with a strategy for beating Dai Atlas.

He didn't know how Starscream's bout was going across the aisle. Well, presumably. Tailgate was really an epee fencer who played with sabre in his spare time, and Cyclonus had only organized the team to humor him. Megatron couldn't imagine that standing up against Starscream's vindictive glory-hounding.

Here, now, Megatron took a deep vent and came on guard.

"Ready?" asked Bluebottle. "Fence."

The first touch was an attack in preparation. Dai Atlas had been holding, against both Drift and Wing, but they were too nervous to take advantage of the obvious opportunity. Megatron was only ahead by a very small margin, but it should be obvious to a good referee.

"Preparation," said Bluebottle, because he was turning out to be an excellent little referee. "Attack right."

Dai Atlas frowned, but didn't argue the call. He'd try to make his attack more obvious, setting Megatron up for a parry-riposte.

On the next touch, Dai Atlas attacked, and Megatron parried, finishing with a riposte to Dai Atlas' helm.

"Fence," said Bluebottle. That touch was simultaneous attacks. Then Megatron tried another parry-riposte, but Dai Atlas was clever enough to avoid a trap he'd seen before. He feinted into Megatron's opening, then finished with a neat cut across Megatron's belly.

Thirty-nine to forty-one, now. Not much room for error. Dai Atlas smiled calmly from beneath his old-fashioned golden visor.

Megatron changed strategies.

He tried something risky for the next touch—another attack into preparation. This time Dai Atlas stepped out of distance, allowing Megatron to fall short before attacking Megatron's shoulder.

Megatron turned and roared his rage to the back of the strip, smacking his sabre against the strip. As he turned back he could see Drift looking at him with a frozen smile, while Dai Atlas and the other Circle of Light fencers seemed caught between pity and dismay.

"On guard," called Bluebottle, his voice wavering.

Megatron's engine growled, but he got on guard. On the next touch he threw himself into a wild attack, and Dai Atlas retreated, waiting for Megatron to fall short again.

Megatron lengthened the attack instead, pushing Dai Atlas until he was pinned to the end of the strip and Megatron could attack at his leisure.

After that the bout was a foregone conclusion. Megatron fenced just smart enough to win, and just dumb enough that Dai Atlas thought it was all luck. Megatron gave Dai Atlas two more touches to keep him compliant, until suddenly was forty-four to forty-three, Megatron’s favor, and Dai Atlas realized he could lose.

Too late.

"Ready?" said Bluebottle. "Fence."

They both jumped into the middle, then stopped, then started again. The difference was that Megatron immediately rolled out of the stop into an advance lunge, while Dai Atlas waited a half-klik too long before attacking into Megatron's advance.

Megatron expected it to be called simultaneous. Blurr would have called it simultaneous, because he couldn't be bothered to make tight calls for a pointless veteran's event. Megatron was already getting back on guard when he registered what Bluebottle was saying.

"Reprise attack right. Forty-five to forty-three. Salute and shake hands, please."

"What?" Dai Atlas loomed over the little referee, his visor flipped up to reveal his righteous frown. "Attack right? Attack right?"

"He's ahead on the feet," said Bluebottle. "Sir, if you could salute and shake—"

"This is absurd," said Dai Atlas. "This is how you want to end this bout? On something that should have been simultaneous?"

"It's not up to me how the bout ends." Bluebottle stood a little straighter, his antennae stilling. "I'm just calling what I saw."

Blurr clapped, the sound battering against the wall of tension surrounding Dai Atlas. "That sounded awesome." Blurr was slumped in his chair, optics offline and expression bored, but he was still clapping. "Poetic, even. Did you have that prepared? Are we done?"

"We're done," said Dai Atlas, and saluted. He even shook Megatron's hand as he should. "You're very good, aren't you? I thought the stories were exaggerated."

"They're not," said Megatron.

"Hmm." Dai Atlas considered him. "None of them? What about the time you guarded Kup in the visor and he came away with a broken jaw?"

Regret flickered in and out of Megatron's processor. "You can ask Ratchet about that. He wired Kup's jaw back together, I believe."

Dai Atlas' smile was both pitying and dismayed, more so than when Megatron had been playacting. "Then I'm glad I stayed away from this sport in the old days."

"It was a bad time," agreed Megatron, because of course he knew that it had been. "The rivalry became brutal, and I took it further than any mech should have. I'm glad that we could fence like this. For... fun."

"For fun." Dai Atlas' smile became more genuine. "I’d like to fence you with broadswords someday. Show you some real fun."

“Another time,” offered Megatron. Preferably never.

---

There was a crowd around the other semi-final strip, and as Megatron neared it the breathless hush was broken by a wave of noise. Megatron didn't stop to think about what he was doing, drawn like a static-moth to a light. He shouldered his way through the crowd until he found Rodimus, standing on a chair so he could see over the taller mechs.

"Score?" asked Megatron.

"Thirty-seven to forty-two," said Rodimus. "But we’re winning! Screamer started out ten points down, can you believe it? Tailgate trashed Thundercracker, it was wild, and Wheeljack couldn't do anything to Whirl, and now I think Cyclonus could actually—yeah! Fragging yeah! Take that you—"

Megatron slapped a hand over Rodimus' mouth before he could get black carded for whatever obscenity he was about to yell out.

"Forty-three, thirty-seven!" shouted Rodimus, just understandable despite Megatron's best efforts. Cyclonus must have gotten another point. Megatron let his co-coach go free and stood on the tips of his feet, craning to see the strip. If he strained, he could just see Starscream's wings and Cyclonus' horns.

"It's going to be an all Lost Light final," crowed Rodimus. "You won, right?"

"Yes," said Megatron. "But don't get ahead of yourself."

"Whatever. Screamer's on a rampage, but there’s no way he can score eight points before Cyclonus can get two. Come on, get over here. You need to see this."

Megatron thought about resisting. It was one thing to melt into the crowd and watch from afar, another to put himself in prominent view of the strip. But Rodimus pulled him behind a slightly shorter mech, with tall audial fins Megatron could just see between. Starscream probably wouldn't even notice him.

Rodimus leaned down, arms resting on Megatron's shoulders. "Starscream got four points in a row, bam, bam, bam, but then Cyclonus got a sweet counterattack and they've been trading points ever since."

"Ready?" called the referee. "Fence."

Starscream launched himself into an attack, taking Cyclonus' blade twice before feinting a third beat and catching Cyclonus on the arm when he tried to disengage. Starscream's entourage went wild as the referee tallied the hit.

Thirty-eight to forty-three now. There seemed to be no strategy to Starscream's fencing. It was pure perfect desperation, each touch necessary to stay alive.

On the next touch Starscream took two fast steps into the middle and attacked while Cyclonus was still preparing. After that, Starscream took a slow step into the middle and backpedaled, letting Cyclonus fall short before flunging right at his helm. Megatron winced at the ensuing shrieks. Stageflight was still watching, apparently.

Forty to forty-three.

Rodimus' fingers dug into Megatron's shoulder, pinching a fuel line.

"Fence," called the referee.

Starscream advanced, beat Cyclonus' blade, and finished with an upwards slash that would have cut open Cyclonus' spark chamber if they'd been fencing with sharp blades. Dai Atlas would be proud, if he could tolerate everything else about Starscream long enough to watch.

"One touch at a time!" yelled Rodimus. "Come on, Cyclonus! One touch!"

"Fence."

Starscream took a step forward, then dropped into a crouch, catching Cyclonus' blade just over his helm before popping back up with a riposte.

"One touch!" yelled Rodimus in despair. Cyclonus was visibly shaking now, leaning forward as the referee called ready. He stumbled just before the referee called fence, and the referee warned him for starting early before calling both fencers back on guard.

"Calm down!" wailed Rodimus. "Calm down and fence!"

Tailgate had his hands over Whirl's optic. Megatron was tempted to do the same to Rodimus, but Rodimus still had a death grip on Megatron's plating.

When the referee called fence, Starscream took two steps in the middle, hand dropping forward, then counterattacked to Cyclonus' wrist as he backpedaled. His arm arced upward and his back arched away, and Cyclonus' blade swept harmlessly through the empty air where Starscream had been.

Forty-three to forty-three.

Simultaneous attacks. Then simultaneous again. The next touch they both jumped into the middle, then out, then in again. Attacks together.

Starscream was grinning under his scarlet visor.

"Get out of the middle!" shouted Tailgate. "He wants you in the middle, go back!"

"Don't go back!" screamed Rodimus. But the referee called fence, and Cyclonus went straight back off the line. Starscream pushed, pushed, pushed Cyclonus down the strip, until Cyclonus tried a counterattack and Starscream attacked in response. Starscream missed, and Cyclonus skidded to a stop with only one foot still on the strip. Now Cyclonus shoved himself into the attack, Starscream scrambling to parry all the way up until Cyclonus smacked him across the cockpit.

"All right, ignore me!" shouted Rodimus. "That every time!"

"Fence," called the referee and Cyclonus retreated again. Starscream's engine roared as he chased after him, shoulders set forward, wings tense against his back. Cyclonus feinted the counterattack, and Starscream missed the attack. The score was already forty-four to forty-three, one touch away from the end. Cyclonus was going to charge down the strip and take the semifinal by force.

Starscream dropped his blade.

Cyclonus tried to hit him, but Starscream was running backward, hands up to demonstrate their emptiness.

"Halt!" shouted the referee.

"Whoops!" sang Starscream.

The crowd was silent. Everyone was looking at the referee, who was staring at Starscream.

"Oilfingers," said Starscream, apologetically. "Just slipped right out of my hands."

"Card him," said Cyclonus.

"It was an accident," said Starscream, looking hurt.

"Card him," growled Cyclonus.

The referee bit her lip, hesitating, and finally drew a yellow warning card out of her subspace. The crowd erupted with boos.

"It should be a point against!" shouted Rodimus.

"It should be a black card!" shouted someone else.

"Is the center here?" asked Starscream.

The referee ignored the crowd's jeers and put the fencers back on guard, right where Starscream had dropped his sabre. Cyclonus was shaking again, optics blazing behind his violet visor. When the referee called ready, Starscream shifted his shoulders forward and Cyclonus actually took a step.

"I see what you're doing, Starscream," snapped the referee. "This is your warning. If you move early again, it will be a point against."

"Sorry." Starscream settled back into a more balanced on guard. "Nerves."

Thundercracker had his head in his hands. Skywarp’s hands were covering his mouth. Wheeljack was looking right at Starscream, and his expression was startlingly easy to decipher. Megatron had worn that expression once, the amiable despair of a mech realizing that this really was who he'd fallen in love with.

Megatron missed whatever the action actually was, but Starscream was shrieking afterward, both arms in the air, so it hadn't gone well for Cyclonus. Forty-four to forty-four. Rodimus had nearly wrenched a piece of Megatron's shoulder plating from its mounting.

Cyclonus stood back from his on guard and saluted Starscream stiffly. He saluted the referee and finally saluted the crowd, his sabre taking in the dozens of mechs watching.

Starscream audibly laughed and then followed suit, tipping his sabre lightly at Cyclonus, the referee and finally—not the crowd. No. His sabre pointed directly at Megatron, and his grin lost none of its sharpness through the visor.

"Fencers on guard," called the referee.

Starscream stepped back and put his blade up in a line. Left without other options, Cyclonus advanced cautiously, knocking Starscream's blade aside, and—

Starscream parried. The riposte was as inevitable as Starscream's victorious screech.

Starscream fell to his knees as the referee made the call, still yelling loud enough to shut down half the crowd's audials. Stageflight rushed onto the strip, followed by Windblade, who seemed torn between pulling Stageflight away from hugging Starscream, and hugging Starscream herself. Waspinator was hugging Breakdown, even though his arms didn't quite reach around Breakdown's middle, and—

"Shake hands!" yelled the referee.

Starscream wrenched himself away from his fans and reached out for Cyclonus' hand. Cyclonus looked at it for too long a moment.

"He's going to throw his visor," said Rodimus. "He's going to throw his visor at Starscream's helm." But Cyclonus reached out and carefully shook Starscream's hand.

Then he turned, flipping his visor up, and dragged his claws down his face, scoring the metal as Tailgate ran to him.

"Let me through!" called Ratchet. "Whirl, grab his arms!"

First Whirl, then Ratchet, then a crowd of Lost Light mechs surrounded Cyclonus. Megatron was left almost alone, with only Rodimus still leaning over him. On the other end of the strip Skywarp threw himself onto Starscream's back, and Thundercracker neatly caught Starscream's visor when Starscream yelped and dropped it. Wheeljack caught Starscream's face in both hands and—

"I need you to beat Starscream," growled Rodimus.

"I won't be fencing him," said Megatron. No. He couldn't.

"Don't frag around with me," snapped Rodimus. "I need you to—"

Megatron walked away, not looking back as Rodimus yelped and probably fell off his chair without someone to balance on. Megatron made it past two pods before the running feet caught up with him.

"I'm not in the mood, Rodimus," he snapped, then snarled as he was grabbed by the arm.

"You're not fencing in the next round," said Wheeljack.

Megatron spun, breaking Wheeljack's grip. "Excuse me?"

"This isn't about you today. For once, this isn't about you. This is about Starscream having a good day, and I'm not going to let you ruin it."

Wheeljack looked murderous. Megatron wondered if he'd looked just the same right before he'd punched Tarn. He wondered whether Wheeljack had stopped kissing Starscream just to come and harass him.

"If Starscream didn't want to fence me," said Megatron, "he should have lost to Cyclonus."

"Do you know how long Thundercracker's been trying to get Starscream to fence again?" Wheeljack jabbed a finger into Megatron's chest plate. "Do you know how many times Starscream told me he was going to withdraw? Do you know how happy he's been today, on the other side of the bracket from you? Not wondering whether you would look at him, or what you would say, or whether you would try to put hands on him?"

Megatron walked away. It had been a winning strategy so far.

For a few steps Wheeljack followed him, but then there was a clattering sound and raised voices. It sounded as if Windblade and Chromia had caught up and were arguing Wheeljack down. Megatron didn't turn to look.

He was almost to the team table when the feet caught up again. Megatron turned this time, hands already raised, not eager to fight but unwilling to have his nose realigned.

Waspinator yelped and ducked, hands over his helm. "Wazzpinator sorry!"

Megatron sighed and lowered his fists. "What do you want?"

"To zzay hello?"

"Hello." Megatron wasn’t interested in pleasantries. "Is that all?"

"And ask," said Waspinator tentatively, "if maybe—"

"I'm going to discuss our team order with Drift," said Megatron. "I will not be discussing it with my opponents, or their students."

Waspinator bobbed his head. "Wazzpinator would like to see you fence Starscream again. But Waspinator knowzz it'zz not a good idea. That’zz all."

"What do you imagine would happen?" asked Megatron, because he'd like to know the answer himself. He'd like to know if the dread he felt was real. "We've been at the same tournaments all season. We've managed civility. What is your worst-case scenario?"

"You win the match, Starscream breakzz his blade, and stabzz you in the throat." Waspinator had clearly been considering this. "Or! Starscream winzz the match, you throw your zzabre, and it ricochets and—"

"No." Megatron wasn’t interested in hysteria either.

"Or Starscream glitchezz, and Wheeljack throws a grenade—"

"Wheeljack does not have a grenade," said Megatron. "This is a veteran team tournament, Waspinator. It’s not a real championship. It doesn't matter."

Waspinator gave him a disbelieving look. "Of course it matterzz. It's fencing."

---

Ratchet was at the team table, stylus hovering over the datapad. "Drift and Wing are still chatting with Dai Atlas, so I said I'd handle the order. Same as last time okay?"

"I'm not fencing in this round," said Megatron.

Ratchet turned to stare at him. "I'm sorry, I think my audials malfunctioned."

"I'm not fencing Starscream's team," said Megatron. "Put Drift in as anchor."

"Were you listening earlier?" Ratchet's stare was becoming more hostile. "I can't fence. My joints won't take it, no matter Drift's wishful thinking. I'm only here because Drift—"

"Then stand there and let them hit you," growled Megatron. "Or withdraw the team."

Ratchet threw the stylus at him. Megatron caught it and took the datapad, ignoring Ratchet's arguments as he filled out the order himself. The important thing was the last three bouts. Drift as anchor, Wing as second, and Ratchet first in the last round, giving Drift and Wing the maximum amount of cushion to catch up after Ratchet inevitably lost his bouts.

It would be painful. Ratchet had been a good fencer, and he was still an excellent coach. It would be humiliating for him to let himself be hit, knowing that a hard hit to his sabre would knock it from his defective hands. That a powerful lunge could push his hips out of joint.

But it would be more painful to stand on that strip and fence Starscream. To fall back into the pattern of violence that had taken over their relationship before Megatron had left to Decepticons. Waspinator's doomsday scenarios were ridiculous, but Megatron knew how this would end. Starscream would hit Megatron in the face with his sabre guard, and get black carded. Or Megatron would get caught up in the competition and lose control, do or say something unforgiveable.

It would be safer to avoid the situation altogether. It would be healthier for everyone.

"Are you going to watch?" demanded Ratchet. "Or you just going back to the hotel now?"

"I'm your substitute," said Megatron. "If you need me, I'll be there."

He presented the datapad to the waiting mech from bout committee. "Finals strip," she said. "Take all your stuff."

Megatron nodded and walked away yet again. The back of his neck prickled, presumably from the curses Ratchet was throwing at his back. Megatron skirted around the bout committee dais in order to avoid meeting any Lost Light fencers coming the other way. As he rounded the first corner, he had to stop sharply to avoid walking into Bluebottle, who was gesturing helplessly at Jazz.

Megatron hadn’t seen Jazz in at least a vorn. What shadows had he skulked out of, and who was he planning to assassinate?

"Don't do this to me," said Bluebottle. "Do not. Jazz, please."

Jazz grinned like he was presenting Bluebottle with a gift. "I've just heard such great things about you, mech! Thundercracker loves you."

"I can't referee Megatron against Starscream in the final.” Bluebottle twisted his hands together in agony. “I can't do it."

Ah.

"I think you can, and I'm the one in charge." Jazz leaned over the bout committee table, reaching down to pat Bluebottle on the arm. "Don't worry, you won't be alone. Blurr will do the first three bouts, then Grimlock, and then you do the last three."

"The last three," repeated Bluebottle. "The most important three. The ones that end with Megatron fencing Starscream."

"Right!" Jazz patted Bluebottle again. "It'll be a great experience."

"I'm gonna be murdered." Bluebottle's antennae waved anxiously. "I can't do it. I have a conflict with Megatron, we're both from Kaon."

"Isn't he from Tarn?" Jazz cocked his head. "You're just making up excuses now. You've been refereeing Megatron all day."

"But not in hard bouts," said Bluebottle. "Not in bouts where someone might die. Like me."

"No one's gonna die." Jazz vaulted over the table, landing on the ground next to Bluebottle. Getting closer in case Bluebottle decided to run for it. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime, mech. You know who the last person to referee Megatron against Starscream was?"

"You were," said Megatron. "Did they drag you out of retirement just for this, Jazz? To torment developing referees?"

Bluebottle actually jumped, but Jazz didn't even glance up. "It's more of an extended hiatus, and no one had to drag. Thundercracker called in a favor, but I love tormenting. I said I’d do it for free once I saw the team list."

Megatron ignored the babble and turned his attention to Bluebottle. "Don't work yourself up. I'm not intending to fence."

Jazz gave a theatrical gasp. "You're gonna rob this kid of his claim to fame, Megs?"

"I think we want a match," said Megatron. "Not a circus."

Bluebottle didn't look especially relieved. But Megatron just walked on, leaving another conversation behind.

---

The finals strip was on a raised platform, with colored panels that lit up when either side scored a touch. The names of the competitors were displayed on the viewscreens above the strip. Jaunty music played to encourage the spirit of competition. Megatron hated it.

The stands were steadily filling with spectators, a larger audience than Megatron had ever seen for a veteran's event. No one seemed to realize that it didn't matter who won, that they were only here for fun.

There were probably a dozen Metroplex fencers, including a handful of younglings that Megatron barely recognized. Stageflight was holding a hastily-made sign which read 'MURDER' in large block letters. As Megatron watched, Windblade said something which made Stageflight sulkily put the sign down.

There was also a respectable contingent of neutrals—Megatron scoffed at himself for using the term, as if this was truly the war begun again—and then, filling almost half the stands, the Lost Light fencers. Finally, robbed of any other team to root for, they had resigned themselves to watching Megatron fence.

Or perhaps they were here to support Ratchet. More charitable to think that, and then they wouldn't be disappointed.

Ultra Magnus was absent, presumably busy with the foil assignments. But there was Swerve, who was meant to be refereeing the youth sabre event but had clearly absconded from his duties and was now huddling behind Skids to avoid Jazz's keen visor. There were the defeated teams, Cyclonus subdued with Tailgate still hanging onto his arm, but Whirl and Rewind already enthusiastically cheering for Starscream's defeat. There was Rodimus, gesturing an eager thumbs up at Drift, and there, in front of Rodimus, was—

"What is that," said Megatron.

"Oh," said Drift, "hadn't you seen it yet?"

"What," repeated Megatron, "is that."

"It's an aluminum cutout," said Wing, helpfully. "Of you!"

It was. Lifesize and realistically painted, depicting Megatron with his arms folded and optics blazing. His face contorted by a stern frown.

"Why?" asked Megatron. He assumed it was mockery, but he was trying to reserve judgment.

"Rodimus realized he wouldn't have anyone to be the mean coach while you were fencing," said Drift. "But he said all you do is stand around and scowl, so why not make a cutout and have it do the job while you were busy?"

Megatron tried to catch Rodimus' optic and communicate his extreme disapproval of this plan. Rodimus grinned at him, oblivious.

"It's a pretty good likeness," said Ratchet. "Kids have been taking pictures with it all orn."

Megatron was too busy to respond. Half of his processor was occupied with the fantasy of storming over and crushing the cutout into a small, dense ball. The other half had caught the sound of voices from the other team.

"This is ridiculous!" screeched Starscream. "This is the final, Wheeljack, we’re trying to win!"

"I thought Megatron was fencing." Wheeljack laid a hand on Starscream's shoulder. "He said he was. He didn’t say he wasn’t."

Starscream knocked Wheeljack's hand away. "It doesn't matter if he's fencing! I'm not made of glass. You can't coddle me with, with—"

"Bubble wrap," suggested Skywarp.

"Bubble wrap!"

"Stop helping," said Thundercracker, trying to pull Skywarp away.

Wheeljack's finials flashed with exasperation. "I just want this to be a good day! I just wanted one good tournament. For you! For us!"

At least Wheeljack had some fire in him. He'd need it to keep up with Starscream.

"Hey, hey, listen." Skywarp shook Thundercracker off and physically pushed his way into the lovers' spat. "Why don't you just let me start, Screamer? If I can't do it, you can take me out again. Better for me to start than finish, right?"

Starscream's optics narrowed, and he looked between Wheeljack and Skywarp. "Fine," he hissed, finally. Either the crowd had grown quiet, or Megatron had tuned his audials to Starscream's voice, he didn't know which. "But I should have been anchor."

Grimlock had set himself behind the replay vidscreen, watching the drama behind steepled fingers. "Everybody ready?" he rumbled. "First bout, Wheeljack and Wing."

Megatron remained seated on Team Hatchet's side as Drift walked up to the strip with Wing, murmuring some advice in Wing's audial before slapping him on the back and hopping down from the platform.

"Two video reviews for each bout?" called Starscream, as Wheeljack straightened his blade.

"You know the rules," said Grimlock.

"Just want to make sure you do," snapped Starscream.

Megatron leaned back in his seat. Apparently they would get the circus regardless of who was fencing.

"On guard," said Blurr, shifting nervously from foot to foot. "Ready?"

Wheeljack had improved since the last time Megatron had seen him fence. He'd always been a strong tactical fencer, and his time with Starscream had apparently honed his reflexes and the strength of his attack. He handled Wing easily enough, though Megatron saw a few holes in his defense he thought Drift could exploit.

The bout ended five to two to raucous cheering from Metroplex and subdued clapping from Lost Light. Wheeljack got a high five from Thundercracker and Skywarp when he returned to his team, but Starscream only bestowed a thin smile, and shoved Wheeljack's chair as far to the side as possible before allowing Wheeljack to sit.

"Fencing, Skywarp and Drift," announced Grimlock.

This one was difficult to watch. At his peak, Skywarp could make a double-advance-lunge in the amount of time it would take your optics to cycle. Now he moved hesitantly, careful advances and retreats and no lunges at all. Drift made mercifully quick work of him, bringing it back to nine to five.

"Ready," said Blurr, "fence."

Drift made a quick advance-lunge, falling short by microns as Skywarp stepped out of distance. Drift backpedaled, hoping to set himself up for a new attack, and Skywarp threw himself into a long lunge, clearly without thinking about it, his blade smacking across Drift's visor.

In the ensuing cheers from Metroplex, Megatron wondered if he was the only one who heard Skywarp's cut-off whimper of pain. Then he glanced over at the other team and thought better. Starscream was clutching Thundercracker's hands in his own, squeezing tight enough to strain his joints. Wheeljack's expression was unreadable at this distance, but his shoulders were hunched forward and his finials were dull and yellow.

On the last touch Skywarp just stood there, making an attempt to parry that was made useless by his inability to advance or retreat. Thundercracker and Starscream jumped up to the strip when the bout was over and helped Skywarp down, taking his weight so he didn't have to put any more on his injured knee.

Once Skywarp was safely in a chair, Starscream marched over to Grimlock. "I want to make a substitution.”

"Are you the team captain?" drawled Grimlock. "It says here Wheeljack—"

"Wheeljack wants to make a substitution!" snapped Starscream. "It's a medical."

"Do I need to call medical to confirm?"

"No, you need to write in the substitution!"

Grimlock glanced over at Wheeljack, who nodded, clearly defeated by the circumstances.

"Put me in for the rest of Skywarp's bouts," said Starscream.

Grimlock typed in the adjustment. "You'll need to inform the other team."

"They know." Starscream glared at Team Hatchet's seating. "Megatron's been staring at me since I walked over here. Before, even."

"I just wanted," said Wheeljack, when Starscream returned, and Megatron snapped his optics away and tuned his audials towards Drift and Wing's ongoing analysis of the opposing team. Ratchet was clambering up to the strip, face grim and hand clenched around his sabre's grip.

Well. That was it, then. With Starscream in and Megatron benched, the outcome was all but inevitable. Drift was good, but even he wouldn't be able to make up the deficit after Starscream ran it up against Ratchet in the last round. Unless Ratchet managed to do something truly miraculous.

Megatron watched a touch, daring to hope.

No.

Ratchet was trying, but he simply didn't have the fine motor control needed to make a strong parry or a quick attack. Perhaps Megatron should tell Rodimus and the other Lost Light fencers would leave before the final round. It would be a disappointing end to a long and otherwise triumphant day.

Thundercracker hit Ratchet again, breaking through a parry that should have stopped Thundercracker's blade. Ratchet swore, but either Blurr didn’t hear or he decided to take pity and hold the warning card Ratchet should have received.

Drift nudged Megatron's thigh with his knee. "Come on."

"No," said Megatron.

"We're counting on you," said Drift.

"I'm not responsible for your mistakes," said Megatron. "Nor do I want to be blamed for Starscream's next breakdown."

Drift gave Megatron a long, cool look. "You always did underestimate him."

On the strip, Ratchet's engine was growling with frustration. Thundercracker had the grace to look apologetic as he pushed a long attack until Ratchet was flailing at him from the end of the strip. Thundercracker finished with a long clean cut to Ratchet's waist.

"Fifteen to ten," announced Grimlock, standing up to take Blurr's place as lead referee. "Next bout, Starscream and Wing."

"Wing's about to get on strip," said Drift. "Last chance to change your mind."

Megatron glanced at Starscream, who was murmuring into Thundercracker's audial on strip. Starscream looked up and caught Megatron's optics. Then he smiled, and drew one talon across his throat.

I'm not made of glass.

"Fine," said Megatron.

Wing was still at the side of the strip, waiting to help Ratchet down. Waiting for Megatron to change his mind before it was too late to make a substitution for the next bout.

"Is there a problem?" asked Grimlock, the scorebox remote held loosely in his massive hands.

"What does fine mean?" asked Drift, still leaning into Megatron like he expected to push him onto strip.

"I'll do it," said Megatron. "Put me in."

Drift jumped up from his seat. "We'd like to make a substitution!"

"Thank Primus!" shouted Ratchet, and the Lost Light contingent went wild.

Starscream already had his visor down, and from this angle Megatron couldn't see his expression past the glare of light shining on crimson. Wheeljack looked murderous enough for both of them. That expression was easy enough to read, especially when paired with bright red finials.

"My hip is killing me." Ratchet dropped his sabre in Megatron's lap. "And my hands—don't even ask about my hands."

"I didn't." Megatron set the sabre aside.

"My hands are going to fall off," said Ratchet. "Huh. He's something, isn't he?"

He was. Starscream didn't do anything tricky, not with Grimlock refereeing. He didn't need to. Wing was exactly the kind of fencer Starscream had always loved to beat. Wing had beautiful technique, a classical approach to strategy, and if you did something he wasn't expecting it all fell apart.

Starscream made himself impossible to expect. He counterattacked when he wasn't supposed to. He took a parry with one foot almost off the side of the strip, leaning back so Wing's blade just skimmed past his cockpit. He lunged and parried at the same time, brutally shoving his guard through Wing's blade to finish the attack. Megatron thought they were lucky to get out of it with twelve points to Starscream's twenty. Wing had made two good touches by the simple expedient of chasing Starscream down to the end of the strip and ignoring everything Starscream did to bait him until his blade was in Starscream’s face. Starscream had retaliated in the last touch by counterattacking and leaping backwards, Wing's attack too short and too off-balance to follow him.

"Wish I could have fenced Starscream when all my pieces still worked," said Ratchet. "Glad I don't have to do it now."

"That's right, it's up to you to bring it back!" Drift slapped Megatron on the back. "You've got this!"

Megatron looked down to the end of the strip, where Wheeljack was taking Starscream's place on strip. Starscream half-turned, caught Megatron's optic again, and then leaned into Wheeljack, pressing a deeply inappropriate kiss against Wheeljack's mask. It wasn't a brief peck. It went on. And on. And—

"PDA! PDA!" shouted Rodimus from the stands. "Ref, come on, black card!"

Grimlock shrugged. "No rule against young love."

Starscream winked at Megatron as he jumped off the platform.

Wheeljack still had his visor up when Megatron got on strip. His optics would have burned holes into Megatron's chassis, if only laser beams were allowed at competitions.

Megatron wondered what Wheeljack was planning to do. Guard punch to the visor? Break his blade and stab the jagged end into Megatron's joints? Simply drop the sabre and tackle Megatron outright?

"Ready?" said Grimlock. "Fence."

Wheeljack attacked. Megatron, caught off guard, stepped too far into distance and parried a moment too late.

"Touch left, twenty-one to thirteen," said Grimlock. "On guard."

All right. Wheeljack was planning to win. Megatron put his helm down and got to work.

Wheeljack wasn't normally an emotional fencer. His calm had always been the key to his success. When he got annoyed or frustrated, he had a tendency to self-destruct. Make his attacks too big, his defense a little too frantic. Megatron could bait him into an attack and force him to miss by pulling distance. He could push Wheeljack to the end of the strip, taking his time with his attack. Finally, he could make a quick attack into the middle, catching Wheeljack as he prepared a longer attack.

Megatron proceeded with the plan. The first attempt to pull Wheeljack short failed when Wheeljack continued charging at him, but Megatron kept going back before throwing out a wild counterattack that Wheeljack tried to parry for no reason at all. Megatron caught him on the arm with a remise.

Fourteen to twenty-one. Megatron continued.

After three more touches, the Lost Light side of the bleachers was celebrating. Megatron glanced over to see how Starscream was taking it. Surely he was upset with Wheeljack for letting it get to seventeen to twenty-one. Oh, he was upset. His wings were quivering with poorly-contained rage.

But it was contained, and wasn't that odd? Starscream had never bothered to contain himself before. When he was angry with Megatron the whole planet had known it. Even the colonies had probably heard the faint echoes of his shouting. But now Starscream was sitting in Skywarp's lap with his hands over his mouth like he didn't want to hear himself speak. Thundercracker was the one on his feet, calling advice to Wheeljack.

"Fence," said Grimlock and Megatron pushed Wheeljack down to the end of the strip, knocking Wheeljack's blade contemptuously away when he attempted a beat. After Megatron scored the touch he walked back to his on-guard line, wondering what Starscream would have said if he allowed himself.

Starscream had strip-coached Megatron a few times, before Megatron finally told Soundwave to keep him away from the strip when Megatron was fencing. That hadn’t stopped Starscream, of course. It just made it a little more entertaining, Starscream running up to the strip, breathless from evading Soundwave and his cassettes, ready to tell Megatron exactly what he'd done wrong.

"You idiot!" Starscream would say, if he thought Wheeljack could take it. "You call that fencing? He's walking all over you!"

Megatron smiled to himself as he pulled Wheeljack short, his hand darting out to catch Wheeljack on the visor before he could recover. Nineteen to twenty-one.

It wasn't that fencing Wheeljack was easy. Megatron had to think in order to make the touches. But Wheeljack had always been a better coach than a fencer, better able to articulate what ought to be done than execute it himself. Megatron was comfortable in his superiority.

At twenty-three to twenty-one, Starscream's reserve finally broke. "Just hit him!" he shouted at Wheeljack. "Stop thinking so much! Just chase him down and hit him!"

Megatron tipped Starscream a little salute with his sabre, and someone in the audience laughed. Starscream made a strangled noise of rage, claws reaching for the strip as he tried to get up. But Skywarp had his arms clamped around Starscream's waist, restraining him from something Starscream might possibly regret.

"Fence," said Grimlock, and Wheeljack threw himself off the line. Megatron made the parry without even thinking about it, it was so obvious, which was why Wheeljack's feint caught him completely off-guard. Wheeljack's blade whipped around and hit Megatron’s unprotected shoulder.

"Touch left, twenty-two to twenty-three," said Grimlock. "On guard."

There was no cheering. Every Metroplex fencer seemed to be holding their breath.

"Fence," said Grimlock, and Wheeljack charged again. This time Megatron backpedaled, trying to open up enough distance to where he could make an action and retake the right-of-way. But Wheeljack didn't let up, didn't pull his hand back, didn't offer Megatron his blade. He just methodically pushed, until Megatron, one foot off the end of the strip, attempted a desperate counterattack and was hit for his trouble.

"Twenty-three to twenty-three," said Grimlock. "On guard."

This time when Wheeljack threw himself off the line, Megatron met him with equal opposing force. But it had been a fake. After his first advance Wheeljack jumped back, catching Megatron's blade in a parry and following it with a neat riposte to Megatron's chest.

"Twenty-four to twenty-three," said Grimlock. "On guard."

Megatron pushed up his visor and methodically straightened his blade, processor working so hard it seemed like it was overheating. What would he do after two fast attacks and a parry-riposte? Attack into preparation, that was it. Which meant Megatron needed to make a good smooth attack, keep his hand moving forward so there was no opportunity to hit him as he pulled back for a feint.

"Ready?" said Grimlock. Megatron flipped his visor back down and came on guard. "Fence."

Megatron made the smooth, simple attack, double advance lunge. Perfect. He had already committed to the attack before Wheeljack had the chance to start his own.

"Attack right," said Grimlock. "Twenty-four all."

Now the next one would be an attack again. Megatron pushed himself into a fast attack to meet it, and Grimlock called simultaneous. Now the parry-riposte. When Grimlock called fence, Megatron started to attack, ready to make the feint and—

Wheeljack attacked into him. Megatron still hit, he didn't think he'd pulled back, he thought it was in time. He looked back at Grimlock, who had his hand raised for Megatron's side, touch right.

"Video!" screeched Starscream, almost vibrating in Skywarp's lap. "Video video vid—"

"Video," said Wheeljack, making the requisite hand-gesture.

Grimlock walked back to where Bluebottle was sitting with the video terminal. Half the mechs in the audience were leaning forward, trying to see the replay around Grimlock's bulk.

Megatron rested his sabre across his shoulders, both visor and helm tipped back and optics on the ceiling. Starscream never asked for video on touches he didn't think he'd win.

"Visors please," said Grimlock, and Megatron snapped his down. "Change. Preparation. Attack left."

Megatron flipped his visor back up and saluted. First Wheeljack, then the referee, then Starscream. He walked forward to shake Wheeljack's hand, half-expecting to be slapped away. But Wheeljack took Megatron's hand in a firm grip. He looked for a moment as if he had something he wanted to say. To celebrate his victory, perhaps? To boast that he’d beaten Megatron in fencing as well as in life?

But apparently Wheeljack thought better of it. He let go of Megatron’s hand and turned away to meet Thundercracker getting on the strip.

Restraint. Perhaps that was what Starscream found so attractive about Wheeljack. That would be a change.

"Bad luck," said Drift, cheerfully, coming up to take Megatron's place. "But I like this score better than the one before."

"Just keep it close," said Megatron. "I won't be able to make up as many points against Starscream."

When Megatron got back to his seat Rodimus was there, leaning over the bar that separated the team seating from the aisle. "Can you believe that call? If that's a preparation, I'm a sparkeater."

"Then you're a sparkeater." Megatron patted Rodimus' arm. "I pulled. I was expecting him to parry."

"Oh." Rodimus briefly deflated before puffing himself up again. "Then just take Starscream out, all right? You know what they say, the best revenge is living well and beating your ex in the final of veteran's team sabre."

"Rodimus." Megatron subtly converted his pat into a death grip. "where did you get that cutout?"

"Do you like it?" Rodimus beamed. "I thought it really captured your essence."

Megatron pulled Rodimus a little closer. "I'm going to tear its head off. And yours, if you're not careful."

Rodimus' smile froze. "Are you serious right now? Is this a haha moment, or a call the enforcers moment?"

Megatron looked up at the stands, where Whirl now had the horrible cutout and was waving it like a banner. He didn't know exactly what his face did in response, but Rodimus made the uncharacteristically wise decision to retreat. Megatron let him go, breathing hard through the vents in his back and listening to his own engine growl.

Once Megatron was alone, the anger turned to vague unease. He didn't want to fence Starscream. He certainly didn't want to fence Starscream as the last bout of the day. Losing to Starscream would allow Starscream to declare the ultimate victory over Megatron’s fallen frame. Winning against Starscream would probably result in a chair thrown at Megatron’s helm.

He glanced at Starscream, who was up on the tips of his feet, bouncing to help his fuel circulation. Starscream caught him looking and pointed two fingers first at his optics, then at Megatron himself. Megatron wasn't sure how to respond, so he raised his optic ridges. Starscream grinned, bright and fierce, and Megatron wondered if he was actually looking forward to their bout.

There had been a time, long ago, when he'd enjoyed fencing Starscream. You might even call it fun. Before everything became poisoned. When Starscream viewed Megatron as a worthy opponent, as an obstacle he would triumphantly overcome either on the strip or in the berth. When—

"Stop flirting and get ready to fence," said Ratchet. "You'll be up in a minute."

Megatron got up and started bouncing, imitating Starscream. Drift ended his bout down twenty-nine to thirty, Thundercracker having made a surprisingly strong showing and maintained his team's lead. Six touches. Megatron just needed to make six touches on Starscream and they could be done with this for good.

---

Watching Starscream come on guard in front of you was different from watching from the audience. Leaned forward, his sabre reached across the distance, feeling almost as if it was in Megatron's face. Starscream's visor glinted, and Megatron could swear Starscream was still grinning at him from underneath it.

The last time he had fenced Starscream had been his last orn at the Nemesis. Just after his return from his three-season ban and just before he'd departed for Lost Light. They'd argued over Starscream's lesson plan for the youth class, his Decepticon-bred emphasis on winning over technique. Megatron had told Starscream that he, not Starscream, still owned the club, and he, not Starscream, would decide what happened in it. Starscream had told Megatron that he'd clearly forgotten how to fence during his long absence. Megatron had offered a demonstration of his skills, right then and there.

The argument had felt familiar. Megatron had remembered all of those other times he'd made Starscream understand his point with the help of a sabre. He'd briefly hoped that Starscream would see reason on that orn as well.

The bout had ended with Starscream's back against the wall and Megatron's hand around his throat. Megatron had never trusted himself around Starscream again.

"Fencers on guard," said Bluebottle shakily. "Um. Is everything alright up there?"

Megatron reset his optics and got on guard. He could do this. The Nemesis and its miasma of brutality was behind them. He could meet Starscream on equal ground.

Below them, Bluebottle took a deep vent. "Ready? Fence."

Starscream took two quick steps forward and Megatron, already anticipating the attack, took one step in, dropping his hand to give Starscream a false opening. What he didn't anticipate was Starscream's fast advance-lunge, ending with Starscream smashing his guard into Megatron's visor. The force of the blow shook Megatron's processor, and he dropped to one knee to avoid falling as his gyros reset. Starscream leaned over him and laid a gentle hand on Megatron's back.

"Are you alright?" he cooed. "I'm so sorry, I completely misjudged the distance."

Megatron looked up into Starscream's optics, going in and out of focus as Megatron's own optics recalibrated. Then he looked over at the referees, who were apparently involved in a three-way conference, Grimlock having been drawn over from where he was operating the camera. Jazz was watching them. Just watching, not saying anything, one hand on his cocked hip.

The difference between an intentional and an unintentional blow with the guard was the difference between a one-point penalty and exclusion from the event. But how did you tell intention? Should you take into account the long history between the fencers? The fact that Starscream never did anything he didn't mean to?

"Get him fragging out of here!" squawked Rodimus.

Starscream offered Megatron a hand up. Megatron took it and stood, putting a little more weight on Starscream than was strictly necessary. "You get one," he said, holding Starscream in place. "One."

"I thought as much." Starscream's mouth flickered into a smile. "Had to make it worthwhile. Let go of me and we’ll call it even."

Megatron didn’t think he’d call that even, but he did let go. "I'm fine," he called to the referees. "That's a red card, isn't it?"

Bluebottle stared up at him, then looked back at Grimlock and Blurr. Grimlock shrugged. Blurr waved a hand. Bluebottle looked at Jazz, who just smiled enigmatically. Then Bluebottle turned back and held up the red card from his subspace.

"Please be careful," he said, and the crowd erupted with boos.

"Get me a visor!" Megatron shouted over them. His own was dented, and it snapped as he pried it off his face. It took a few moments before Drift passed one up to him. It was golden, with an old-fashioned ridge in the middle. Familiar. Big enough to fit.

Megatron turned and found Dai Atlas in the crowd. He saluted him as he got on guard.

Thirty to thirty. At least Starscream's free shot hadn't really been free.

The next touch Starscream would try to make him fall short, counting on Megatron's attack to be more timid after suffering a bell guard to the face.

"Ready?" said Bluebottle. "Fence."

Megatron barreled forward, and Starscream leapt back. Not enough. Megatron's sabre caught him on the wrist. Thirty-one to thirty.

"Ready?" said Bluebottle. "Fence."

This time the action was reversed. Megatron stepped into the distance, already planning to make Starscream fall short, and Starscream made an impossibly long lunge, the tip of his sabre just brushing Megatron's helm as Megatron retreated. Thirty-one all.

On the next touch they attacked together. Simultaneous. The touch after that was simultaneous attacks as well, which meant Starscream was going to parry.

Unless he was expecting Megatron to parry. Megatron scowled and decided to attack. He'd never won a bout by backing off when the pressure was on.

Starscream parried. Thirty-two to thirty-one.

On the next touch Megatron stepped back and parried after all, and Starscream changed his line of attack and hit him across the flank.

Thirty-three to thirty-one. Megatron took a deep breath as he walked back up to his on guard line. Drift was talking to him and Rodimus was shouting, but Megatron's processor was too busy to decode the words. He needed to take control of this bout.

"Fence," said Bluebottle.

Simultaneous.

"Fence."

Simultaneous.

"Fence."

Megatron took one step in and took Starscream's blade, pinning it as he chased Starscream down the strip and smacked him in the shoulder. Starscream scowled at him. Thirty-two to thirty-three.

"Fence."

Starscream was getting worked up, and he pulled his hand back as he charged Megatron. Megatron made an attack into the preparation, and Bluebottle called it like the wonderful little referee he was. Thirty-three.

"On guard," called Bluebottle, while Starscream was walking back and forth on the strip, hitting his dented guard into the palm of his free hand. "On guard, please. Ready? Fence."

Megatron took two quick advances and Starscream leapt into the air to attempt a parry. Megatron waited until Starscream was midair, then hit him across the torso through the gap his parry left. Starscream's 'riposte' landed uselessly against Megatron's helm.

Starscream scowled, just for a nanoklik. Then he turned and shrieked, fist pumping in victory.

"Attack right?" said Bluebottle, his tone uncertain even though the call was ridiculously clear. Megatron's attack wasn't invalidated by Starscream's play-acting.

"What?" Starscream spun around, his arms already making the video sign. "You have to be kidding me."

"You sure you want video for this?" said Blurr.

"He hit my leg," said Starscream. "Leg first, then target."

"You really want the displacement of target card?" yelled Rodimus from the stands.

"Displacement?" Bluebottle looked increasingly out of depth. "I—"

"No one's giving a displacement card," said Jazz. "That rule hasn't been enforced in vorns. Rodimus, stop confusing the kid!"

"All right," stuttered Bluebottle, "uh, we're just going to look at the video now..."

Bluebottle and Blurr hunched over the video console for a long time. Starscream stood over the edge of the strip, leaned over so he could talk to Wheeljack where he was still sitting with the rest of the team, their voices too low for Megatron to hear.

"Is this a coaching break?" he rumbled.

"No coaching," said Bluebottle, without looking up.

"I'm still on strip," said Starscream. "My visor is down. Isn't he allowed to talk to me?"

"Make the call," said Grimlock, from his position at the camera. "Don't drag it out."

Bluebottle straightened, returning to his position at the middle of the strip. "No change. Attack right. One video left, Starscream."

"Thank you," said Starscream, and got back on guard. Thirty-four to thirty-three, Megatron’s favor. He just needed one good attack.

Starscream would expect a simple attack to close it out, so Megatron took two quick advances, ready to pull Starscream short instead. But Starscream charged again, using his sabre to bat away Megatron's attempt to parry. Thirty-four to thirty-four.

"Fence."

Simultaneous.

"Fence."

Simultaneous.

"Fence."

They both stepped in, stepped out, and attacked. Simultaneous.

"Ready?" asked Bluebottle

Megatron stood with his sabre touching the strip, considering. What would Starscream do in his position?

"On guard please," said Bluebottle, and Megatron followed orders. "Ready? Fence."

Starscream started his attack, and Megatron threw his arm out, attacking into Starscream. He hit Starscream's helm first, then felt Starscream's blade hit his shoulder. He turned and roared his victory, his fist smashing into his chest. The empty space where the Decepticon brand used to be.

"Attack left," said Bluebottle, his voice barely audible underneath the noise of the crowd.

Megatron spun. "What did you say?"

"Starscream's already attacking," said Bluebottle. "You're waiting off the line and he starts his attack first."

"He's preparing," said Megatron. "I hit him while he was still waiting."

"Do you want video?" asked Bluebottle, voice box warbling with anxiety.

Megatron made the video gesture with short sharp strokes of his hands.

Bluebottle went back to the video with Blurr. Thank Primus for Blurr, master of the short fast attack in preparation. He would know what the call was.

But Blurr was grinning and nodding, patting Bluebottle on the back. Bluebottle glanced over his shoulder, and Jazz gave him a thumbs up.

They were conspiring against him. Plotting to tear him down.

Bluebottle came back to the strip. "No change. Attack on the left has already started. Right's hand is faster, but you gave up right of way when you waited until left had already established his attack. Thirty-five to thirty-four."

Starscream turned and shrieked, almost kneeling on the strip as he pushed his upper range to its limits. The Metroplex fencers were all on their feet. Stageflight was waving her MURDER sign again.

"Please salute and shake hands!" called Bluebottle.

Megatron burned. He wanted to return the favor and introduce the guard of his sabre to Starscream's face. He wanted to pick Bluebottle up by those stupid antennae and throw him across the room. He wanted to tell Wheeljack exactly what he thought of him, enumerate all of the mistakes Wheeljack was making and watch Wheeljack's finials flash with rage. The urge crept from his fuel tank into his mouth, and he almost, almost said something he wouldn't be able to take back.

But he controlled himself. He flipped up his visor and saluted Starscream, Bluebottle, and the crowd. Starscream was still yelling, having celebrated all the way through Megatron's internal crisis. Megatron stepped forward and nudged him with his foot. "Going to shake my hand?"

Starscream leapt up and took Megatron's hand in what he probably thought was a crushing grip. "Good bout," he said, and his smile held no regret at all.

---

Someone had put a video from the final on the Big Conversation. Only the bout between Megatron and Starscream. It was the only part anyone wanted to see, though several comments below the video asked for the final score.

Megatron replayed the last touch, then rewound and played it again at a slower speed.

Then he picked up his journal and stylus, and made another note.

Bluebottle made a very good call. An excellent referee under pressure.

The hotel room was quiet and dim. Sometimes Ultra Magnus would room with Megatron to save the Lost Light's funds, but this time he was in the referee block, paired with some roommate who would inevitably fail to meet his standards for cleanliness or interpersonal communication. Megatron looked forward to hearing his complaints.

Megatron enjoyed rooming with Ultra Magnus because he was an early riser. Megatron rarely had to worry about ending recharge early and finding himself with no one but his thoughts to keep him company. Ultra Magnus was always awake and ready to complain about Rodimus, or Whirl, or Swerve, or some other hapless mech.

Perhaps the next tournament.

Wing was an excellent teammate wrote Megatron. Drift was encouraging, supportive, and fenced his best when we needed him the most. Ratchet didn't hit me as hard as he might have. Megatron snorted and erased that line. There was no call for flippancy, even if Ratchet had promptly abandoned Megatron after the medal ceremony, rushing off to do unspeakable things involving stasis cuffs with Wing and Drift.

Ratchet deserves to enjoy his retirement Megatron wrote instead.

Hopefully the old mech would retire sooner rather than later and give First Aid a chance at taking over chief medic duties at planetary competitions. After all, Ratchet had been away from medical all of the previous orn, and no one had died or lost a limb.

Rodimus... Megatron tapped his stylus against his chin, before finally settling on Rodimus shows that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

"This is absurd," muttered Megatron. Rung insisted that if you kept practicing positive thoughts, they'd eventually become automatic and replace the negativity. Manually recoding the processor. Megatron had been doing this for three quartex and he hadn't noticed a difference yet.

Who else had he heaped silent indictments upon? Blurr is a good referee when he tries he wrote, then scowled and erased it. Blurr is passionate about good fencing he wrote instead, and supportive of his fellow referees.

Megatron considered his list. He'd been polite to bout committee. He'd treated his opponents with the respect they deserved. Well, most of them. Wheeljack is rightfully protective wrote Megatron, but no, he didn't really believe that. Wheeljack is an honorable fencer, he tried instead. After all, he'd passed up the opportunity to guard Megatron in the face.

Megatron considered that thought and decided it was transparent enough to merit a positive thought about Starscream tomorrow. He had to come up with one of those almost every orn, and it was becoming rote if nothing else.

Starscream deserves to be happy, he scribbled, then shut off the datapad. Done.

It was still too early to be awake, but Megatron had given up on recharge joors ago. The energon taps in the hotel dining room should be warmed and ready by now. Megatron was coach rather than competitor today, but he still needed fuel.

The dining room downstairs was very nearly empty when he reached it. Megatron looked at the one occupied table and then turned to find the one furthest away.

"Don't be ridiculous." Starscream's voice was still staticky with sleep. "Come and sit down."

He couldn’t run. No, he wouldn’t run.

Megatron retrieved a cube of energon before gingerly sitting at the far side of the table. Starscream had a datapad and stylus laid out in front of him, along with a half-drunk cube of energon and a few brightly-colored energon jellies.

"Do they serve those?" asked Megatron. He hadn't seen anything but the standard energon and coolant taps.

"No." Starscream scowled down at them. "Wheeljack bought a box. I don't like fueling in the mornings."

Megatron nodded. He remembered how difficult it had been to drag Starscream out of berth, the coaxing and the coercion it required.

"They have minerals," said Starscream with distaste, but he picked up one of the jellies and forced it into his mouth. He chewed quickly and swallowed, as if consuming the fuel faster would make it less nauseating.

"You're still wearing your medal," said Megatron.

Starscream patted the medal that hung over his cockpit, smiling with false self-deprecation. "Silver again. At least it matches the others. Where's yours?"

Megatron wouldn't be so tacky in a million vorns. "I don't think it suits me."

"No." Starscream looked Megatron up and down, his optics dimming intermittently as his processor continued warming up. "Silver would match your plating so much better than gold. Pity Drift and Wheeljack didn't get the memo."

"A pity," echoed Megatron. "Forty-four to forty-five. Did you make Wheeljack recharge on the floor last night, for want of that last touch?"

An ugly look passed over Starscream's face, but then it smoothed and he sat back in his chair, another jelly caught between his fingers. "No, we made full use of the berth. For joors and joors. He wore his medal while he fragging me, do you remember how you used to do that? I love the way it clanks against my plating when we get especially passionate."

Megatron's processor produced several images, some real and others imagined. He deleted all of them, forcing himself to maintain control. "At least my medals were gold."

"Were you fragging someone last night?" Starscream squished the jelly, feigning disinterest. "Wheeljack thinks you have a thing for that bore, what's his name. Super Magnus."

"Ultra Magnus," corrected Megatron, and Starscream's optics flashed. "It's none of your business."

"Hmm." The jelly was a sticky wad between Starscream's fingers. "I'm glad we got to fence."

"You're only happy because you beat me," said Megatron.

Starscream's other hand clenched briefly around his medal. "Five points to four."

"We each scored five." Megatron had watched every touch, both before and after recharge. The last touch had featured prominently in his defrag cycle.

Starscream waved him off. "The guard punch doesn't count, I gave you that touch."

Megatron felt his nose, still sore where his visor had dented against it. "And you're happy about that too, I suppose."

Starscream looked down at jelly on his hands. "Do you want the truth?"

Megatron wasn't sure. He nodded anyway.

"I glitched when we got back to the hotel. Off and on for most of the night. I kept thinking about how good it had felt, hitting you, and how terrible that was, and what everyone must have thought, and the example I'm setting, and the way you were looking at me the whole orn, and whether you were going to come find me and teach me my place again." Starscream laughed, though he didn't sound as if he thought it were funny. "I have a... subroutine. To stop the glitching. But I wouldn't use it, because I didn't want to forget how good it had felt to hit you. And then I'd start the cycle over again."

Starscream gnawed the jelly off his fingers, then wiped the remnants on a mesh napkin. Megatron felt as if he should avert his optics, but he couldn't tear them away.

"Wheeljack fragged you while you were glitching?" he asked, because somehow that seemed the most important thing.

"Of course not." Starscream laughed again, sounding marginally more like he meant it. "I only said that to make you jealous, try to keep up. We're talking about the guard punch now."

"No harm done." Megatron’s nose ached, but it wasn't dented. He could buy another visor.

"I'm sorry anyway." Starscream glanced away, folding his arms over his cockpit. "It was an impulse. I'm trying not to do things like that anymore."

Oh, Megatron recognized that expression. It was eerie, how the Decepticons and the Nemesis had damaged all of them in the same ways. "It takes work," he assured Starscream. "You can't give up after the first failure."

Starscream hummed. "I'd been thinking about it for so long. Envisioning it. Your visor, my guard. I didn't even hesitate."

"It can be the last blow," said Megatron. "We can let the fighting die with the Nemesis."

"Fighting." Starscream looked back at Megatron through narrowed optics. "Is that what you think this is?"

Megatron suddenly had the feeling of being adrift, of walking through a dark city with a disabled navigation system. "Isn't it? Every time we see each other we fall into the same patterns, and—"

"I knew it!" Starscream's palm slapped the table, barely missing his datapad and making his stylus bounce. "You tried to tell me that it was a courtesy, that you were respecting my space, but I knew you were afraid of me."

Shouldn't Megatron have been cautious? Starscream had taken the first opportunity to bash Megatron in the face. But Megatron knew what the right answer was. "I'm the one at fault. I accept that. It's my responsibility to avoid situations where I might lose control."

"You never lost control," snapped Starscream.

"I lost sight of what the goal was," said Megatron, as diplomatically as he could manage, "and I allowed you to goad—"

Starscream's claws dug into the table with a painful scraping sound. "I know I've been difficult," he hissed. "But I've been difficult my whole life, and everyone else told me to stop, or walked away, or called the enforcers. You're the only one who broke my arm."

The empty feeling in Megatron's tank spread to his processor, making him feel dizzy and weak. "I don't—"

"Do you remember when I lost the final at the Galactic Championships?" Starscream snapped his fingers, like he could call up a video replay. "The second time."

Megatron dredged up some memories. "You threw away three touches on counterattacks. We... argued."

"You threw me against a wall," said Starscream. "Afterward. In the washracks. I cracked a strut in my right arm and couldn't come to practice for a cyber-week. You told Soundwave that I was throwing a tantrum over losing."

Megatron winced as more memories filtered into his RAM. "I'm not that mech anymore."

"You are." Starscream's voice lowered, gentle and cold. "It wasn't just the situation, it wasn't just me. It wasn't some alter-ego you let loose. You are that mech. The mech who wanted to hurt me, and who did it."

Megatron could taste energon at the back of his throat. What did Starscream want him to say?

"Of course, I wanted to hurt you too." Starscream sighed and slumped forward onto the table, arms forming a cradle for his helm. "But you were a whole lot better at it. Control, right? I was the impulsive one. I never waited until we were alone, until we wouldn’t be interrupted. Until you could do what you liked."

Megatron pushed himself away from the table. "I should go."

"No." Starscream's optics were offline, and his venting sounded shallow.

Megatron gripped the armrests of his chair, ready to rise but uncertain what Starscream was refusing. “Wheeljack was right. I should stay away from you. I’ve been trying to—”

“Wheeljack doesn’t get it.” Starscream’s optics flickered online again. “He thinks you’ll make me relapse. You think I’ll make you relapse. You know what I think?”

Megatron waited. He knew Starscream would tell him.

“I think I want you right where I can see you.” Starscream pushed himself upright. "Thundercracker says you're better."

"I'm trying." Megatron thought of his positivity journal, and his endless sessions with Rung. "Every orn. I'm trying as best I can."

"Good." Starscream picked up his datapad. "I want you to keep trying. I want to know that you've changed. I don't trust those Lost Light mechs to judge you, they like you too much."

Megatron frowned. "What?"

"They built you a statue," said Starscream. "And they touch you all the time, it's disgusting."

For a moment, Megatron was convinced that Starscream was delusional. But then he felt the ghost of Drift's knee brushing his thigh, Ratchet tapping his shoulder. Rodimus leaning against his back. Again and again, the whole orn. Had Starscream been watching?

"I know what you're really like, underneath your scowl and your quick fixes." Starscream turned the datapad and pushed it toward Megatron. "I want to know that you're changing that."

Megatron picked up the datapad uneasily, but it didn't contain a screed or a deadly virus. It was a drawing of a mech, scratched out in red and grey. The mech's optics were narrowed, and its mouth was open wide, as if it were about to scream or devour the viewer. Megatron recognized his own helm design. If he was honest with himself, he recognized the way the expression felt on his face, and the burning urge to hit and rend that so often accompanied it. The one he felt every orn.

"I thought," began Megatron, but he had to stop. He hadn't thought. He'd assumed, and he'd inferred, and he'd expected. "The last time we spoke. You told me you missed it."

"The good parts." Starscream’s voice lowered. "There were a lot of good parts, in the beginning."

"But not at the end." The figure on the datapad was staring at Megatron, its optics both furious and panicked.

“It wasn’t worth it,” muttered Starscream. “I tried to tell myself it was, but—”

Megatron looked up. Starscream's chin was raised and his optics were hard, but his wings were held down and tight against his back, like he was trying to keep them out of harm's way. Megatron felt satisfaction settle inside of his frame, and he hated himself for it.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Starscream shuddered. "I've been drawing. Not always you, all kinds of things. Bumblebee says it will help."

"Has it?" asked Megatron.

"Not really."

"I'm sorry," repeated Megatron.

"Hmm." Starscream raised his hand to his mouth. He'd always gnawed on his talons when he was nervous. Most often when Megatron was yelling. This time he only rested the tips of his fingers against his mouth, tapping his lip. "Good," he said at last. "Stay that way."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say, but Megatron didn't think he should leave. They drank their fuel in silence, and Starscream ate the last of his jellies.

“Drift told me we were supposed to have fun, yesterday,” said Megatron.

“Fun?” Starscream sniggered, some of his tension melting away. “When has fencing ever been fun?”

Megatron pasted on a smile, willing himself to make it real. “You had fun beating Arcee, didn’t you? And Rewind, and Cyclonus…”

“You saw when I dropped my sabre?” Starscream looked exactly as pleased as Megatron had expected. “I’ll never be able to do that again.”

“You shouldn’t have been able to do it once.” Megatron felt genuine amusement finally crinkling around his optics. “You should have been black carded at least four times today.”

“Four?” Starscream counted on his fingers. “Dropping my weapon, hitting you, Team Disqualified—that was Skywarp’s idea, by the way, he thought if it didn’t work as a prank it would work as a prediction.”

“Egregious displays of affection,” said Megatron. “According to Rodimus, anyway.”

“When Rodimus referees, he can black card me.” Starscream smirked, obviously aware that Rodimus would die before officiating a single bout. "Jazz told me Bluebottle's referee rating is going up because of how well he did with our bout.”

Megatron nodded. “He deserves it.”

“I taught him how to referee.” Starscream preened. “Every mech in the coliseum watching, and every call was correct. Upheld on video both times. He needs more confidence, but the calls were flawless."

"The final call was excellent, even though I wanted review." Megatron tilted his head. "Why did you call for video? I watched the bout again, and I couldn't tell what you were looking for."

"Just playing for time." Starscream waved a hand. "I needed a break, and I knew Bluebottle and Blurr would go over the video like there were scraplets hiding in it."

Of course. Starscream didn’t miss a trick, did he? "You might have needed that video later. What if the next call was wrong?"

"I trusted Bluebottle to do a good job." Starscream smiled to himself. "I'm trying that. Trusting people."

Megatron felt disappointed, just for a moment. Then he turned on himself, forcing himself to change the emotion. Forcing himself to feel pleased, really pleased, not the sick pantomime of satisfaction he'd felt when Starscream cowered. If he kept trying, eventually he'd get it right.

“I’m happy for you,” he said. “You have a good club, and mechs who care for you. You should be proud of what you’ve achieved.”

Starscream looked a little shell-shocked for a moment, but he hid the emotion quickly enough. “They haven’t given me a statue.”

“It’s a cutout, not a statue,” corrected Megatron. “I’ll find out where it came from. You can have an army of Starscreams, if you like.”

“Tell Wheeljack,” said Starscream. “He still owes me an apology for putting Skywarp in the final.” He stood, picking up his datapad and his empty cube. “Waspinator wants a lesson before lower-division starts, for all the good it’ll do.”

Poor Waspinator. “Good luck,” said Megatron, and for once he didn’t have to think about it. He just said it, and meant it.

“Who needs luck when you’re talented and driven?” Starscream’s wings flicked with dismissal. “I’ll see you out there.”

---

Waspinator fenced Tailgate in the final of lower-division sabre. Megatron coached Tailgate through the whole bout, while Rodimus nearly combusted from anxiety. On the other end of the strip, Starscream shrieked and gestured and propelled Waspinator to a fifteen to fourteen victory.

“Congratulations,” said Megatron, once all of the yelling was over. He could see Wheeljack watching them suspiciously, ready to intervene if anyone started throwing chairs. But Starscream shook Megatron’s hand, coach to coach, and no one was hurt.

“Waspinator’s going to be eaten alive in upper division.” Starscream still sounded satisfied.

“He’ll have the best coach to guide him through it.” Megatron tried to release Starscream’s hand, but Starscream held on.

“I wish it had been better,” said Starscream, voice low and vulnerable. “That’s what I meant to say, this morning. I wish we’d really been happy. I wish we were better people.”

“We will be. You are.” Megatron nodded at Wheeljack and all the other Metroplex fencers gathering around Starscream’s back. Rodimus was calling for Megatron, still sounding aggrieved at the loss. Starscream finally released Megatron's hand and stepped away, his wing brushing Wheeljack's shoulder and his face regaining its smirk. He looked, for a moment, exactly as happy as he deserved to be.

Megatron returned to his team, and let Starscream go back to his own.