Static flickered in front of Starscream's optics as his processor rebooted, the kind of slow, heavy restart that told him something was clearly wrong even before his error correction could assess the problem.

He was lying on a berth. Medical cot, if the hard, unyielding feel of the thing told him anything. The static clogging his visual feed slowly resolved into a stark ceiling, its blue-white light glaring down at him. It stung; his optics had opened too wide, stuck at the wrong aperture. He tossed his head, annoyed with his systems' too-slow recalibration.

He heard a clanking shuffle of feet and saw mechs staring down at him. They were painted a garish green and purple. A team, Starscream guessed, wondering why in the Pit he didn't recognize them. From the way their faceplates looked as they stared down at him, he guessed they must know him.

They were frowning. As well they might, if he'd become damaged in battle or by some virus and they were trying to repair him.

But those frowns didn't look like concentration. They looked like annoyance.

"So," another voice said, somewhere behind them, "our lost mech finally returns to us."

Starscream's spark crackled, hearing it. His turbines spun with an unmistakable whir and he caught the sound of fans a moment later. Which meant that either these medics had decided to increase the ambient temperature in the room for the sake of his comfort, or that his cooling fans had kicked on, too.

Must be more than my processor that's glitched, then, he decided. A raspy, ruined-sounding voice shouldn't have compelled him - not like that.

And yet he had to admit that something about it... intrigued him. He came from Vos, the jewel of Cybertron's skies, and he was its prize. Its fastest flier. Its cleverest commander. Its most beautiful mech.

And yet that voice mocked him, easily and comfortably, as though it had done so for vorns.

Which maybe it had.

I know you, he thought, hissing as he queried his internal databases and found only a twisted array of errors.

He stared up at the faces surrounding him again. They still wore their perfectly lovely set of frowns, but his frame's sudden, obvious, and noisy reaction to the other mech's voice hadn't fazed them in the slightest.

Cursing, he sat up on the berth, clapping a hand to his head and glowering at the purple and green team of what he'd deduced must be incompetent medics. They stood in an impenetrable knot around him, blocking him from moving much more.

And from seeing whoever that mech was. He caught flashes of gray behind the frames of the medics, but nothing more.

That also made him thrill with recognition, a warm heat suffusing his circuits.

I'm... attracted to him? Starscream thought. I can't even see him!

"He is awake, Lord Megatron," one of the medics said, in a rich cultured voice Starscream should have found much prettier than - Megatron's, apparently.

He felt a twist of recognition at the name. I know you, he thought again, with a deep certainty that he couldn't help but find reassuring somehow.

If nothing else, meant that his embarrassingly intense response to that ugly voice made sense, at least.

"But his processor's slagged to the Pit and back," another of the medics put in, his voice a rough, disgusted rumble.

"Indeed. Especially his memory core. Right now, I'd be surprised if he could access enough of it to recall his own name."

Starscream shrieked in protest, making the crowd of medics around him wince in unison.

My - my memory core? What did they do to me?!

And - even more disquieting - who, precisely, were "they," and how did he know they'd done something to him?

His spark quailed, and the cooling fans that had roared to life earlier sputtered to a frozen halt. What in the Pit had happened to him?

His wings beat a panicked tattoo as he struggled to collect himself. Going to pieces in front of a gaggle of irritated mechs wasn't exactly wise. Not until he knew what was really happening here.

"My name," he said, glaring at the assemblage and flicking his wings, "is Starscream. And if you're here to repair me, I'd appreciate your doing so quickly, so that when I remember you, I won't have any new negative associations to attach to your names."

Six sets of optics flared at his insolence. He cycled power to his null rays, ready to blast one of them if they decided to do anything but immediately tend to his repairs.

Instead, the circle they'd formed around him parted without a word, giving him the clear view he so badly wanted of this Megatron he couldn't quite remember.

His spark pulsed at the sight.

The mech was tall, towering over the others, his silver frame the broad and sturdy build of the ancient gladiator castes.

He looks, Starscream thought, licking his lips, like he could crush anyone here with his bare hands.

Which were black, black and big like the rest of him, pitted with tiny dents and scars. With another thrill of recognition, he realized that this Megatron had probably done exactly that.

And he, himself, had probably been there to watch it.

Those, Starscream reflected, pouting, are unfortunate memories to lose.

Then there was the big mech's frame. That was plain. Too plain, as far as Starscream was concerned. But somehow, he found himself thinking that it suited its bearer better than anything else might have.

And gray - plain, unadorned gray - was the color any mech's frame turned when his spark guttered out. The color of death. The color of destruction.

Of someone with the power to crush anything in his way.

Starscream had always loved power.

The mech's weapon was big like the rest of him. An enormous cannon, so big Starscream wondered what marvel of hydraulics enabled Megatron to lift it, stood mounted on the mech's right arm. He shivered involuntarily as he gazed at it, a thrill of fear chilling his spark.

Still shuddering, he narrowed his optics, deciding to look at anything else, and when he widened his optics again, they fell on a purple symbol in the center of the big mech's chest.

Curious, he peered at himself. That's the same mark as the one on my wings.

And on the medics' plating too, now that he took notice of it.

He didn't like that thought. They'd called Megatron "Lord." If he was their lord, then -

Bah, Starscream thought with another click of his wings. I serve no one but myself, regardless of whose mark I wear. If this mech doesn't know that - well. Let him learn it at his own peril.

He smiled, lifting his head to meet Megatron's optics.

Megatron's face was severe, a study in harsh angles, framed by a plain helmet. That shouldn't have looked impressive either, but somehow the big mech wore that simple adornment as though it were an emperor's diadem.

Starscream shivered again, this time in something very different from fear.

If Megatron noticed, he hid it carefully indeed. His mouthplates were set in a grim line, his expression the picture of unruffled neutrality.

But his optics, bright raging red under bands of angular black, glowed brightly as he stared at Starscream.

This is affecting you too, isn't it, "Lord" Megatron? Starscream thought, his optics flashing.

"Starscream," Megatron said, his voice stern, "calm yourself."

Starscream's optics widened. This Megatron, apparently, thought nothing of ordering him around. His turbines whirled in indignation.

And yet - this massive mech, saying such things to his face! Completely without fear, as if he fully expected to be obeyed.

As if Starscream had as much choice in the matter as a planet had in revolving around its sun.

"Your medics insulted me," he retorted, too quickly. "For a problem they apparently failed to fix."

"My medics?" Amusement flickered in Megatron's optics.

Starscream gnashed his dental plates and spread an arm wide, indicating the group. "Them."

"It's thanks to 'them' you function at all, Starscream. You would do well to remember that."

Starscream huffed. He couldn't exactly argue with that, as much as Megatron's condescending tone made him want to power up his null rays and shoot the mech square in the faceplates.

"Of course," he answered instead, twisting his lip plates into a winning smile. "And for that I'm thankful, -"

He paused, wondering what he should call Megatron. It galled him to think of calling the mech "Lord," especially when he couldn't for the life of him recall what bizarre turn of events would ever have required he do such a thing. But if that marking did mean Megatron commanded here, and he wore it, it would be impolitic to say nothing. At least until he knew his position here.

And that fearsome, deadly frame surely warranted something. His cooling fans kicked on again, and he said the first thing that came into his processor, trusting to his own innate charm to ensure he'd deliver it well enough.

"- mighty Megatron. But - how severely damaged was I, if memory loss like this is the best they could do?"

"The last three times we tried to reboot you, you barely even came online," one of the medics grumbled, a broad-framed mech holding a tray of supplies.

Three times? Starscream marveled.

I must be valuable to them.

To him, Starscream's mind amended, and his spark pulsed at the thought, heat pooling in his interface array.

He glared down at his pelvic armor. Fortunately, his valve didn't seem to be leaking.

Yet.

"We don't dare do any more for the moment," another of the medics was saying, his voice high and uncertain.

"Could fry the whole central processing unit if we poke around there any more," said a third, ending his sentence with a manic little giggle that made Starscream want out of his medbay immediately.

Megatron's harsh glare fixed on the one who'd just spoken. Starscream cycled a small sigh of relief. "Then no more of his memory core can be salvaged?"

Another of the medical team stepped forward hastily to stand in front of his laughing teammate. "We never said that, Lord Megatron. Only that we must wait and observe what effect the patches we've already installed might have before we try to reconstruct more of Starscream's memories."

"Understood," Megatron growled, clearly displeased.

Starscream had to admit he wasn't much happier. "So what now? You foo - er, medics leave me here until you decide to examine me again?"

He could hardly think of anything more boring.

And he hated being bored.

Someone sniffed. Starscream turned to face the medic who'd spoken as he first awoke. "We'll never learn if the patch worked if he stays here," the mech scoffed. "He must explore and investigate his surroundings. They might kickstart whatever sectors of his memory core remain uncorrupted, or initiate his own self-correction routines."

"But he won't remember slag otherwise," growled one of the rough-voiced members of the team.

Megatron chuckled, a surprisingly rich laugh from a mech with such a gravelly voice. Starscream realized he wanted to hear it again.

"You're suggesting I give Starscream the run of the base, knowing he's sustained processor damage?"

"We're - uh, no, we're not suggesting that -" the timid one put in. "We're saying that under supervision, he should be allowed to -"

"Supervision that hopefully isn't us," the medic with the tray added, wandering off to put the supplies back, probably so that Megatron wouldn't round on him.

Megatron only snickered again. "For how long?"

"We don't know. But we can certainly examine him frequently. Daily, if need be. We just need someone to look after him, someone who might be able to remind him of his life here -"

Megatron smirked. "I'll do it myself."

"My - my lord - are you sure that - ?"

"Can any of you think of anyone else who could manage to keep Starscream out of trouble?"

The medic with the manic laugh tittered. The broad-framed ones shushed him with twin rumbling roars of their engines.

What makes you think you're up to that task yourself? Starscream thought, smirking directly at Megatron, making no attempt to hide the sound of his turbines whirling.