Vos was entirely too fragile.

The high towers were beautiful, their many lights shining to rival the stars. The visitor might have admired it, back at the height of its glory. During the Age of Empires, it would have been pretty for a reason: a jewel in the crown of the great Cybertronian Empire, less sturdy than the high walls that protected its capital and less obviously dangerous than the weapons of its armies.

That was forgivable. Every great empire needed its symbols, frivolous or not.

He chuckled, in spite of himself, as he flew between the high spires. Flying here was a challenge, an exercise in acrobatics, a dance.

That amused him at first, but he quickly found his mood souring as he flipped and spun again and again to avoid colliding with the city's buildings. Although he too could fly as long as he remained transformed, his root mode didn't have wings. He flew because not flying limited where he could go, and he refused to be limited.

The Seekers of Vos, on the other hand, flew because they were creatures of the skies, whatever forms they took. They built their cities to keep out any who were not.

And the further he flew, the closer he came to the heart of the city, where no one who did not belong was ever truly welcome.

His engines roaring angrily, he swerved, considering risking the inevitable damage to his frame just to damage two particularly impertinent structures he could barely fit between. But that would be inexcusably rude, almost as rude as actually shooting at them, and his breach of decorum would surely be noticed. And judging from that near-collision, he was close now anyway.

And although he didn't doubt he'd get what he wanted in the end either way, that would set him back entirely too much, and this whole affair would take entirely too long. He was a pit fighter, the greatest in the arena's history. He was Megatron, the Slag Maker, leader of the revolution that would remake not just this irritating city, but all of Cybertron itself. He would not deign to sit at a negotiating table hissing wheedling apologies until the Seekers finally forgave his transgressions.

His frame vibrated with laughter as he beheld it, the greatest spire of Vos, a spindly claw reaching to rend the heavens. It gleamed, its metal perfectly polished, its lights winking like living gems.

For a moment, he stared. Then, he turned his mind to more practical concerns: where and how to land.

This, too, was supposed to be difficult for anyone who wasn't small and light like the natives of Vos. The landing strip was tiny, too tiny for a flier of his size. He decided his best bet was to transform as he reached the ground and hope he wouldn't crash into the doorway. Besides, he was eager to feel something solid beneath his feet. He could stand not to be graceful now - and besides, even his most elegant, well-choreographed, warrior's movements would seem uncouth next to a sleek, light Seeker anyway.

He swooped downward, shifting form at the last moment, bracing himself to minimize the skidding. Sparks flew as his feet dug into the thin metal. Starscream would not like the damage, but that was his problem. Megatron could have let himself collide with the door; breaking it with his body would, after all, make a clear point about both the gladiator's strength and about his mounting annoyance.

Scowling, he hurried to the door, impatiently glaring at the communications panel as he pressed a claw and activated it.

"Starscream. I am here," he growled. He had planned to say something more, something about the weapons he hoped to purchase, or even the alliance he hoped to propose. But that did not matter; the Seekers' leader already knew why he was here.

And he suspected that drawing things out would only play into the scientist's hands.

So he stood and waited, his lip plates curling into a slight smile as the doors finally opened.

Starscream rose, hands primly behind his back, claws fidgeting. He smiled but there was no welcome in the expression. Vosian custom required an elaborate series of greeting rituals when meeting a foreign dignitary: bowing, the offering of libations, certain turns of phrase. Starscream found the customs archaic and tedious, and ignored them on this occasion. He followed them impeccably in his dealings with others of his kind, well aware of the power hidden in a graceful, precise bow. But this crude visitor was no Seeker and certainly no dignitary either.

He was, however, here with a purpose. Starscream smirked as he glanced back at the weapon prototype on the table behind him. How telling it was that Megatron had traveled here himself, to personally broker the deal. Though Starscream considered other cities' petty politicking beneath him, it was always prudent to be aware of goings-on in the world, especially of those who sought to change it. And so Starscream knew that Megatron almost always sent one of his agents to conduct business on his behalf. Starscream's wings twitched a little; only the glory of the Seekers (of which Starscream considered himself to be the finest example) and their superior technology merited a personal visit.

"How kind of you to grace our humble city with your presence. I hope you didn't have too much difficulty navigating," Starscream said, smirking as his optics wandered lazily over the massive, scarred frame in his doorway.

Megatron allowed himself a long moment to glare at his host. Starscream was small and slight, his wings twitching as he stared at Megatron. For all that, his optics - red like Megatron's own - gleamed. And a red horn rose from the center of his forehead, marking him as Vos's leader. A prince, of sorts, built to rule the great city.

When Sentinel Prime had instituted the caste system across all of Cybertron, all such ranks had technically ceased to exist. But Vos was a law unto itself, and as long as its Seekers had the good sense not to squawk too loudly about how things really worked here, things went on as they always had.

Which meant Starscream saw himself as royalty - and might very well explain his behavior toward his guest.

From what Soundwave had told him about Vosian etiquette, Starscream should have greeted him with a ridiculous formal bow that left him entirely too physically vulnerable. Then he should have given the first of a set of ritual greetings Megatron had spent an evening committing to his memory banks.

Still, Megatron came from the front lines of a revolution. Before that, he'd been the greatest fighter in the gladiator pits, and before that, a nameless worker in an energon mine. Irksome as Starscream's insolence might be, it spared him the irritation of having to dance around for cycles before getting to the point.

His faceplates settled into a smirk. "They say that those unworthy to visit Vos lose themselves in the city, never to find their way out again. If they don't just crash and die. But I am here."

He grinned, advancing toward the table where the prototype lay. "And I am here for a purpose. We can talk about the glories of Vos, if you like. But why bandy words about glory when you and your kind could be helping to seize it?"

He stared at the weapon. It was inert now, heavy and dangerous, even without power. With power, he realized, it would probably burn the optics of whomever looked too closely into it.

Megatron was no Shockwave, and although he had worked diligently to increase his knowledge as his revolution slowly took shape, he would never be a scientist. But looking at it, even he could see it was a marvel, compact and deadly, designed to store - and, eventually, unleash - amounts of energy unheard of for a limb-mounted, personal weapon.

He could see the mounts, elegantly concealed at its base. Seeing them, he felt his own weapons systems heat up and wondered, his smile broadening, just what it would feel like if they were feeding this weapon. His own guns, though they were prized among his gladiators turned revolutionaries, were scrap compared to this.

"So the rumors are true, it would seem," he said, careful to keep too much excitement from creeping into his voice. "Intriguing. But I need weapons for my armies - not just fancy toys."

Starscream shifted to the side, obscuring the weapon from view and forcing Megatron to look at him instead. How amusingly transparent this thug from Kaon was; he feigned indifference with his words, even as his optics shone with greed. For all his gravitas, he seemed unskilled in the arts of negotiation, a fact the Seeker fully intended to capitalize on. He wanted what Megatron had: the influence, the budding power, the credits... Starscream sniffed and stared down his nose, the expression no less arrogant for his diminutive frame.

"Very well then. If our technology isn't good enough for you, feel free to be on your way," he said, lifting a long delicate hand in a dismissive wave. "It will be a simple task for me to make the necessary adjustments to this prototype so it's fully useable by Seekers. No need to waste our efforts on ground-pounders. You can amuse yourself with your little laser rifles, or whatever it is that's considered 'sophisticated' amongst your kind these days."

Megatron let his optics linger on Starscream.

Clearly, the Seeker wanted Megatron to look at him, and he had no problems obliging. Like his prototype, the Seeker was elegant, every line of his small form built for a precise function. He was small, yes, but Megatron had long ago learned that didn't make an opponent any less deadly. Especially someone like a Seeker, built light and aerodynamic and small for flight. They were fast, faster than any other Cybertronian flyers, even others who could fly in both modes.

They were also beautiful. Especially this one, whose wings twitched with obvious nervousness and anticipation. Anyone else would fear a warrior like Megatron, would fight to keep his wings from drooping. If the gladiator got both too angry and too close, he could easily rip those wings off with his bare claws, and then all the vaunted flying skills of the Seekers would mean absolutely nothing.

But Starscream showed no such fear. His wings didn't tremble, and he wasn't fighting to keep them from lowering. They only flickered rapidly with interest, even as he insulted his formidable visitor.

So Megatron stared, too long. Then he laughed. "Is that how you sell your vaunted weapons to every potential buyer, Starscream? 'Go and amuse yourself with laser rifles?' One would think you have no interest in selling this at all."

He reached out, his claw stopping just barely in front of Starscream's wing. "Or am I the problem? Would you rather sell to those who claim to keep order here, those who fight to hold back the tides of Cybertron's future? Or do you plan to stay here, hiding in your aeries, as revolution burns away the stagnation corroding our world?

"You're a scientist, Starscream. But you have to know things to build things. You have the education I have had to scrape together from scraps of legend, from pieced-together transmissions, from data stolen for me by my young friend in the Great Library. You have it, but you did not pay for it."

He drew his hand away, holding it up and curling it slowly, watching in satisfaction as Starscream's optics focused on it and stayed that way. "And if you do, you know that we are kin. I come from Kaon, and you mock me for it - me, and my followers in the Badlands and the cities that ring them. I know why. But I tell you this: if you have seen the histories that I have spent many months piecing together, you know that we were warriors once, not brutes put out to toil. Or to die in the arena ripping one another apart."

He chuckled, watching Starscream's wings twitch faster. "And if you know that, you know that Seekers too were warriors, raining death and destruction from the skies as those like me razed the ground."

He lifted his great arms, the light of the chamber shining on them as he opened his hands. "This is what I offer you, Starscream. I have credits. I have energon. I have every petty thing that you have ever wanted, and I can give all of it to you, and take the weapons that you design and build here, and go back to my little hell and bring the devils out of it, blazing with new fires."

He smirked. "That is good enough, I suppose. For you, and for me. But I also have what you have dreamed.

"Did you think I came only for this cannon, and for a few handfuls of guns to install in a few rebels? No. I came to restore you - and those who follow you - to the destiny that was torn from them. I came to bring you out of your aeries and set you loose on the rusting fools who think they own this world."

So the gladiator had studied his history. Megatron's words were eloquent, tempting even, but Starscream hadn't risen to his current position by being swayed by turns of phrase. Starscream's smirk widened and he made no move to offer Megatron the weapon. Megatron could have easily taken it by force by now. They were indoors and Starscream had little room to fly. Without it, Starscream had no illusion that he'd win in a fight.

No, Megatron clearly wanted more. He wanted soldiers, wanted Starscream himself, if his lingering optics had been any indication. Still, it was always prudent to be on guard. Even though Megatron had withdrawn his hand, Starscream watched it still. It was large enough to wrap around him, lift him like a toy, and break him just as easily. He indulged that thought and realized too late that his wings were fluttering as his plating grew warmer. To distract himself he perched on the edge of the table and crossed his legs, idly drumming his claws on the weapon's barrel.

"You can read, how charming," Starscream drawled, dragging his optics back up to meet Megatron's. "So you don't just want the technology I offer, you want me. The Seekers. You want us to serve you and fight for you and die for you and take your orders."

Of course; Starscream should have realized it earlier. With the air superiority the Seekers offered, Megatron's victory would be assured. With the Iaconian Senate out of the way, Megatron himself would be the sole ruler of Cybertron. He leaned forward and narrowed his optics.

"We are warriors, yes, all of us; great ones. Our flight capabilities make us inherently more dangerous and, I will concede, you are wise to recognize this. But Vos will not bow at your feet simply because you've rehearsed a speech. I will not bow at your feet when all you've offered me is a chance at being another gear in your war machine."

Megatron's engines rumbled as his optics flared an angry red. "Frightened, Starscream? Of fighting and dying? Hah! I came here looking for a prince of the air, worthy to stand at my side as I purge Cybertron of the corruption rusting it from within. And I find only a coward."

He laughed, hearing the Seeker sputter in indignation, and held up a hand for silence. "Come now, Starscream. Don't cringe because I see the truth. You are no pontificating fool from Iacon, pretending to be concerned for potential loss of life. You don't give a damn if Seekers die when war comes here. You know it will, even if Vos professes neutrality. What's bothering you is the thought that they might die for me instead of you."

He moved close to the table, leaning over the Seeker, watching the thin, clawed hand curl around the cannon as if his skinny little digits could protect it.

Lip plates drawn back in an exaggerated, threatening grimace, he met the Seeker's gaze. Starscream, as he had predicted, stared back, frowning in defiance, thinking only to keep Megatron from too easily grabbing at the cannon he so obviously wanted.

He grabbed a wing instead, his claw tightening around it. Starscream squealed in pained surprise and he stopped immediately, easing his grip but not relaxing his hold.

"I could kill you for refusing me. Kill you and take this thing for myself. We both know that." His grip tightened. "Just as you know you're tempting me to do it.

"But if all of Vos truly is united behind you, your Seekers would fall upon me and kill me in retaliation." He grinned. "There are some in my rebellion who believe that nothing can kill me. They are, of course, wrong. That, you also know. You are no fool, blinded by the legend that has grown up around me in the pits."

He licked his lips, his fangs gleaming. "But are these Seekers truly yours? Would they come for you, knowing that my Decepticons would fall upon this city and topple your towers one by one? Or would they decide that killing me is not worth cursing themselves?"

Starscream leaned forward and glared defiantly. The pain in his wing was bright and euphoric. It was intended as a warning no doubt, but Starscream didn't flinch. There was always a risk that Megatron would do more, but Starscream highly doubted he wanted to risk a costly diversion right now. But he might. Starscream pushed his wing against Megatron's hand and shuddered.

"Your Decepticons, hm? You really think that ragtag band of criminals would be so eager to avenge your death? Most of them would probably celebrate and fight over who'd take your place," Starscream snickered. "They'd be fools not to."

He lifted his other hand and scraped his claws over Megatron's chest, leaving long scratches in their wake. Megatron's armor was thick, heavy... but not impenetrable.

"As for my Seekers..." he continued, grinning, "They'd welcome the sport. If target practice could even be called as much."

Megatron twitched. As light and small as Starscream was, those long claws bit deep. He had to admit he was impressed. The scratches the Seeker had left burned, a heat that flared in time with the whirling of Megatron's own spark.

He'd come here knowing he needed the Seekers. He had expected both interest and resistance, and had found both. But he hadn't realized it would be nearly this interesting.

His free hand reached out to grab at Starscream's claw and twisted, bending back the fragile fingers. Starscream screeched again, the smooth, calculating voice gone in a blast of high-pitched noise that stung his audio receptors

"And yet already you do nothing that I don't permit you," he snarled as the whine reached a crescendo and then died.

The wing in his other hand trembled, pressing against his fingers. He laughed again and opened his hand, running his claws lightly along one edge. His grip had left it dented, and he rumbled with pleasure. It was only fitting. Once this Seeker understood the true nature of his destiny, he truly would become prince of the air - but the world itself would not belong to him. Best for him to learn that now, spark-deep, where his lying words could not protest it.

His hands stilled. "You forget: to that rusting fool who calls himself a Prime, we are more alike than different. All of the warrior race are dangerous to him, and he only rises from his sloth to jump in fear at our shadows."

He wrapped his other hand around Starscream's injured one. "Will you flee from that, Starscream, simply because you want to make a show of defying me?

"You say you're not impressed with my speeches. Very well, I will be plain. If you refuse me today, I will not press the point. I will give you the credits and the energon and I will take the weapons - including that thing you think you're protecting. I will leave, and I will fight my revolution, and Vos will be free to pretend the world around it isn't falling apart." He snorted. "Or, if Vos has less pride than I imagine, to cower behind Iacon in disgrace, hoping that we will be so occupied tearing the great city down that we will forget you."

He grinned, showing his fangs. "But sooner or later, the flames of my coming will spread, and they will reach your city, and your towers will topple and fall. And make no mistake, Starscream: whether you care for them or not, whether you wish to protect them or only to hide behind them, no Seeker will be left alive but you."

"And when you are the last one left, I will come for you." He gripped the wing again, tighter, his spark pulsing with heat as he thought of the Seeker's plating under his hands, denting and buckling as he tore it apart, piece by piece.

"Is that the future you want, Starscream? Disgrace and destruction? And in the end, to be forgotten? I have seen the histories. I have seen how easy they are to erase. No one will ever remember your city. No one will ever remember your name. Not even me, if I choose not to."

Starscream shrieked and squirmed as the thin metal of his wing began to rupture under Megatron's unyielding grip. He forced himself to be still, his cries fading into fast, shallow ventilation as Megatron's snarled words rang in his audios: I will come for you.

He stared at Megatron's huge hand enveloping his own. He didn't waste energy trying to pull away; if Megatron wanted to crush his fingers completely, all he had to do was tighten his fist.

Perhaps Megatron had been expecting him to roll over at the threat to his city. But Starscream already knew that war would come to Vos. His concern was not how to prevent it, but how to choose the winning side.

"I'm flattered," Starscream purred. "Do you court all your new recruits so... enthusiastically?"

He lifted his hand from the weapon, claws slowly rising one by one as if reluctant to relinquish their hold. Watching Megatron's face intently, he skimmed over the deep scratches his other hand had left in Megatron's armor, flexing and prickling, wandering and pressing deeper to create new ones. Megatron could have easily stopped him, could have easily torn his arm off, but he felt oddly secure. If this gladiator would raze a city for the privilege of making him submit, Starscream doubted he'd settle for something as banal and un-theatrical as dismantling him in a meeting room and running like a petty thief.

Megatron's optics widened in genuine surprise. He'd expected Starscream to give in, of course. And from the way he'd been dancing all over the place from the beginning of the interview, he'd clearly hoped to be made to. But to abandon his pretense of resistance so thoroughly, after keeping it up so long?

Megatron threw back his head and laughed.

Then he opened his hand, freeing Starscream's other claw. He reached down to the weapon, wrapping his sharpened fingers around it and holding it possessively.

"Court them, Starscream?" He twisted, pressing his chest against the Seeker's sharpened fingertips, his spark flaring with heat as they widened the wounds they'd left there. It was no real danger to him. Not now. Not anymore.

He lifted his hand, still laughing. "Is that what you were waiting for?"

Snarling, he reached up to grab at Starscream's other wing, his grip tight enough to dent the thin metal.

"I don't know how such things are done in Vos..."

Then, staring directly into Starscream's optics, he pulled , half-tearing them from their joints with a loud creak of metal and a sudden stream of pink, glowing energon.

"...but that really doesn't matter."