Chapter Text
"Please... Megatron, I'm not lying this time! I swear by the AllSpark, this is not a trick!" Starscream’s voice was a high, fractured sound, his vocalizer straining with static and a desperate edge of panic. He was curled on his side on the recharge slab, his wings clamped tight against his back, his knees drawn up almost to his chest. His servos were not just resting on his lower abdomen; they were rigid, his claws digging into the polished plating.
Megatron sat at the desk across the room, the golden remote—a heavy, beautiful instrument of retribution—resting casually between his fingers. He hadn't bothered to dim the lights. He didn't even look up from the datapad he was reading, scrolling through strategic reports with an air of complete boredom.
"Save your dramatics, Starscream," Megatron finally drawled, his voice a low, mocking rumble that echoed in the silent quarters. "You have employed this exact pitch of desperation—this precise shade of coolant tear—on three separate occasions this stellar cycle alone. You think I don't recognize a bluff when I hear one? You have cried wolf until the very concept of sincerity has corroded."
"It's not a bluff! It's pain!" Starscream shrieked, the sound tearing into a ragged sob. His primary internal sensors were now cycling from flashing red to a dangerous, steady violet. "My pressure sensors are spiking! They're redlining, Megatron, I can feel the casing bulging! It hurts, it burns down to the protoform!"
Megatron chuckled darkly, finally swiveling his chair to face the Seeker. He admired the display of distress; it was the most genuine emotional response he'd had from Starscream in vorns. "Yes, I recall the feeling vividly. The pressure, the desperation that makes every tick of the chronometer an eternity. It builds character, does it not? You made me endure it during an Autobot siege, hoping I would crack under the sheer, physical agony."
He tapped the remote against his chin, his red optics narrowed in pure, self-satisfied malice. "I think you can handle a quiet evening in our quarters, Starscream. Think of it as forced meditation."
Starscream pushed himself onto his elbows, gasping as the shift in posture sent a fresh wave of agony through his core. "You... you have the medical data! My system is fragile! My filtration module has been spiking since the high-grade intake! This isn't just discomfort, this is structural stress!"
"And yet," Megatron replied, tilting his helm. "I ran a diagnostic scan exactly one hour ago. Your waste tank capacity was confirmed at 85%. That leaves plenty of room left before it becomes... structurally critical. You Seekers always exaggerate your system capacity."
"That was an hour ago!" Starscream’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch, fighting against the tightness in his throat. Coolant tears, now thick and hot, were leaking freely from his optics, running down his pale faceplates. "My filtration system is defective! The toxins are accelerating the process! I can feel the acid eating into the casing! Megatron, please! If this ruptures, it will flood my entire lower chassis! I'll be offlined, you idiot!"
Megatron’s expression hardened, his brief moment of amusement gone. He stood up, towering over the pleading Seeker. He remembered the humiliation of leaking on himself in front of his troops. He remembered Starscream’s cruel amusement. "No. You will wait until I decide you have learned your lesson. Perhaps in the morning, when the sun rises. Consider it a test of endurance."
Starscream let out a high-pitched, static keen, his body seizing up in spasms. He could no longer uncurl; every millimeter of movement intensified the fire in his core. The magnetic lock on the device was unyielding, the seal perfectly watertight against his valve and spike. Internally, the agony was now shifting. It was no longer just hydrostatic pressure; it was a tearing, agonizing ache as the walls of his tank were stretched beyond their designed limits, pressing hard against sensitive, vital protoform and delicate fuel lines.
"Megatron..." Starscream whispered, his voice barely audible now, all defiance and spite leached out by sheer physical torment. "Something is... fundamentally wrong... it's failing... it's tearing..."
Megatron frowned, detecting a dangerous shift in the Seeker's tone. The frantic, high-energy pleading was gone, replaced by a deep, terrifying stillness. He took a step closer, concern finally starting to override his revenge cycle. "Starscream? What is the meaning of this quiet?"
Starscream squeezed his eyes shut, a soundless scream trapped behind his clenched dentals. He tried one last, desperate attempt to uncurl, to relieve the pressure, but the minute strain of the movement proved to be the final breaking point.
There was no explosion, no warning light on the console. Just a horrifying, wet, internal tear—a sound like tearing wet leather amplified inside Starscream’s chassis, followed by a muffled, sickening thud as structural integrity failed.
Starscream’s optics snapped wide open, dilated to their absolute limit in shock. He didn't scream. He couldn't. His air intake froze in his vents. The agonizing pressure vanished instantly, replaced by a searing, liquid heat flooding his abdominal and pelvic cavity, spreading toxins throughout his internals.
"Star—" Megatron was moving now, panic surging through him. He stopped dead when he saw the color drain from Starscream’s faceplates. The Seeker’s grey armor suddenly flushed deep red with heat as critical internal temperature and contamination warnings blared across the room's local network.
Starscream arched his back violently, a silent, sickening spasm of pure physical trauma. His wings flared once, scraping against the wall before falling limp. He couldn't form words; his vocalizer short-circuited into a low, continuous whine of static overload. The toxic fluid—acidic and hot due to the prior filtration issues—was burning his internal systems. It was attacking the delicate fuel lines and high-density wiring around his spark casing.
"It... popped..." Starscream wheezed, the contamination immediately overwhelming his system. His central processor flashed with the error message: CORE BREACH/CHEMICAL TRAUMA. A trickle of dark, waste-contaminated fluid bubbled up from the corner of his mouth as he failed to stop the toxic back-wash. "My... tank... it ruptured..."
Megatron stared, utterly paralyzed for a critical moment. He saw the waste fluid begin to weep not from the locked valve, but from the seams of Starscream’s waist and hip armor. It wasn't just leaking; it was being forced out by the internal pressure of the flood, sizzling sickeningly as it hit the cold metal of the recharge slab and the floor. The air immediately filled with the acrid, metallic stench of toxic waste and superheated plasticizers.
Starscream’s armor began to smoke faintly where the fluid touched the metal, a terrifying display of its corrosive power. His optical sensors flickered erratically, dimming rapidly as his central processing unit initiated a panicked, involuntary system dump, trying to divert power away from non-essential functions to protect his spark.
"Scrap!" Megatron roared, his voice catching in his throat. He finally slammed his thumb down on the remote’s unlock button, wrenching himself out of the shock. The golden device clicked and fell off, clattering onto the floor.
But nothing came out. The tank was already empty; its contents were already ravaging Starscream’s body.
Starscream was convulsing now, not with the pain of pressure, but with the shock of chemical burn. He clawed weakly at his own chest plating, his movements uncoordinated. "Burning! Stop it! Make it stop!" he choked out, his words thick and slurred, a sure sign of neurological interference. His helm fell back against the slab with a hollow sound, his optics receding to dim, faint embers.
Megatron was moving before he consciously registered the decision, vaulting the desk and reaching the Seeker in three giant strides. He ignored the searing, corrosive heat radiating from Starscream’s midsection that blistered his own gauntleted hands instantly.
"Starscream! Look at me! Hold on!" Megatron gripped the Seeker's chin, forcing his head up, but Starscream’s gaze was unfocused, locked on internal trauma. The pain had overwhelmed his outward focus.
"Offline... going offline..." Starscream’s voice was the barest static whisper as his system gave up the fight, initiating stasis lock to prevent complete circuit failure.
"You will not go offline!" Megatron screamed, his own panic fueling his voice. "That is an order!"
::Soundwave! Emergency transport to the medibay! NOW! I need Hook and a full chemical trauma team ready! Prep neutralizing agents and internal suction!::
Megatron didn't wait. Scooping the limp, almost weightless frame of his Second-in-Command into his arms, he ignored the sound of the waste fluid dripping hot and corrosive onto his own chest plating. He held Starscream tightly, turning and kicking the door controls open with a massive, shaking servo.
He ran.
He kicked the doors to the infirmary open, startling the Constructicons. "Fix him!" Megatron bellowed, slamming Starscream onto the nearest table. "His waste tank ruptured! He's flooding internally with toxins!"
Hook rushed over, his scanner sweeping over the Seeker. His optics widened in shock and horror. "Primus... the corrosion is already reaching his auxiliary fuel pump. Scrapper, get the suction lines ready! Mixmaster, neutralize the acid, now!"
Megatron was shoved back as the medics swarmed the table, working with a frantic, desperate energy. He stood by the wall, his hands stained with the toxic fluid leaking from Starscream’s joints. He looked at the golden remote he still clutched—the instrument of his petty, destructive revenge.
"Status!" Megatron barked, though it sounded like a frantic, desperate plea.
"We can save the frame," Hook muttered, his hands working furiously deep inside Starscream’s chest cavity. "But the tank is shredded. He’ll need a complete synthetic replacement. And the acid damage to his protoform... he’s going to be in repair stasis for a cycle, at least. He won't fly for a month."
Megatron slowly slid down the wall until he hit the floor, the remote slipping from his fingers to clatter uselessly away. He buried his face in his massive hands. He had wanted to teach Starscream a lesson about control and loyalty.
Instead, as he listened to the flat, struggling whine of the spark monitor, he realized he was the one who had utterly lost control.