The Nemesis was a world of steel corridors and cold air, a ship that thrummed with the deep pulse of its engines. You were hauled through those corridors by a squad of Vehicons, energon cuffs biting against your wrists. Their grip was firm but impersonal—soldiers just following orders—yet every step you took was watched by countless red optics in passing.

It wasn’t until you reached the upper deck walkway that another pair of optics locked onto you—sharp, crimson, and unmistakably familiar. Starscream stood at the far end of the hall, talons curling slightly against the railing. His wings stiffened, not with the usual confidence, but with something far more unsettled. His mouth opened just slightly, as if to speak, but the Vehicons shoved you forward before he could find words.

For a fleeting moment, his expression was unguarded—shock, recognition, and something else you couldn’t place. Then it was gone, replaced by that sly, tight-lipped smirk you remembered from countless Decepticon encounters. Still, he didn’t follow, only stood frozen until you vanished down another corridor toward the brig.

Your cell was a cramped cube of metal and energy barrier, lit by the cold blue glow of containment fields. You had no concept of how many hours passed—time bled together in the unchanging hum of the ship. At first, you assumed Starscream’s brief reaction had been nothing more than an anomaly. But you were wrong.

The first night, you heard the faint, distinct click of claws on deck plating, a sound too deliberate to be a passing patrol. Then came the whisper of wings shifting in the still air. He emerged from the shadows just beyond the barrier, tall and lean, optics glinting in the dim light.