Dreadwing - TFP

The bridge of the Nemesis hummed with the low, constant thrum of its dark energon-powered systems, the vast chamber bathed in the cold blue-and-purple glow of holographic displays and status screens. Outside the panoramic viewports, the Earth’s atmosphere stretched in a murky haze far below. The air inside was thick with tension—thick enough to cut with a blade.

Starscream’s voice cut through it like a rusty saw.

“—and I am telling you, Dreadwing, that your precious ‘tactical superiority’ is nothing more than overcompensating for the fact that your brother failed to eliminate a single Autobot scout before getting himself deactivated!” The Air Commander’s wings flared high and rigid behind him, his red optics blazing with shrill indignation. One clawed hand sliced through the air for emphasis, the other clenched at his side. “If Megatron had left me in charge of the Seekers instead of elevating some brooding explosives fetishist who—”

“Enough.”

Dreadwing’s voice rolled out low and measured, a deep, resonant growl that carried the weight of absolute conviction. The massive blue-and-gold Seeker stood like a fortress of armor in the center of the bridge, arms folded across his broad chest, golden horns catching the light. His red optics narrowed, but his posture remained controlled—only the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed any rising irritation. “You will not speak of Skyquake in that manner. My brother died with honor. Something you have never understood.”

Starscream’s face twisted. “Honor? Honor doesn’t win wars, you oversized relic! Cunning does! Ambition does! And yet here I stand, continually undermined by—”

At the elevated command dais, Megatron pressed two massive fingers against his temple, optics half-lidded in pure, long-suffering exasperation. The warlord’s fusion cannon hung heavy at his side; the metal of his faceplate was tight with the effort of not intervening... yet. A low, dangerous rumble escaped his vocalizer, but he remained silent for the moment, letting the two Seekers dig their own graves.

To the left of the main console array, Soundwave worked in absolute silence. His visor flickered with cascading streams of data as his tentacles interfaced with the ship’s systems, completely unbothered—or at least appearing so. One of his minicons hovered nearby, scanning readouts with quiet efficiency.

Near the medical diagnostic station, Knockout leaned against a railing with theatrical languor, one hand inspecting the polish on his red chassis while he spoke. “I’m simply saying that if the Vehicon ranks keep reporting joint degradation at this rate, we’re going to need a more aggressive lubrication protocol. The wear patterns on the knee actuators alone are—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Breakdown rumbled beside him, massive arms crossed. “And I’m telling you the boys in the lower decks are more worried about the energon ration cuts than their joints squeaking. You start pulling ‘bots off duty for polish jobs and we’re gonna have a mutiny.”

Knockout sniffed. “Function over form is the death of style, Breakdown.”

On the far side of the bridge, Shockwave stood perfectly still, one yellow optic fixed on Starscream with an expression that, for the usually emotionless scientist, bordered on open irritation. His single arm was folded behind his back, the barrel of his integrated cannon faintly glowing. Every shrill syllable from the Air Commander seemed to register as pure inefficiency in Shockwave’s processors.

Airachnid lounged near one of the secondary consoles, six of her limbs folded in elegant disdain. Her sharp optics flicked toward the exit corridor more than once. The spider-like Decepticon looked one more raised voice away from simply walking out and finding something—or someone—more entertaining to hunt.

The argument escalated.

Starscream took a sharp step forward, wings quivering with outrage. “You think just because Megatron temporarily elevated you that you can lecture me? I am Starscream! Second only to—”

“You were second,” Dreadwing interrupted, calm and cold. “You forfeited that position through treachery and incompetence. Do not forget it.”

Starscream’s optics flared white-hot. His arm snapped outward in a furious, dismissive arc—

—and the back of his clawed hand connected solidly with your faceplate.

The impact rang out with a sharp metallic clang.

For a fraction of a second the entire bridge froze.

Starscream’s optics widened in pure, undiluted horror as he realized exactly what—and whom—he had just struck. His wings snapped tight against his back. “I—! That was—! You were not supposed to be—!”

Megatron’s head turned slowly. The temperature on the bridge seemed to drop several degrees.

Dreadwing’s optics locked onto the scene, one brow ridge lifting in quiet disapproval.

Soundwave’s visor tilted a fraction of a degree in your direction.

Knock Out’s mouth opened in a small, delighted “oh.” Breakdown winced. Shockwave’s optic narrowed. Airachnid’s lips curved into the faintest, most venomous smile.

Starscream took a tiny step backward, already scrambling for an excuse, his voice climbing several octaves into full defensive screech.

“It was an accident! A complete accident! This glitch of a corridor is far too narrow and you—you simply walked into my gesture of righteous indignation!”

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The bridge of the Nemesis thrummed with the low, constant growl of its engines and the soft pulse of holographic displays. Dim crimson lighting washed over the angular bulkheads, casting long shadows across the command deck. Outside the forward viewport, the dark curve of Earth hung silent against the stars.

Starscream was in full screech.

The smaller Seeker paced in tight, agitated circles near the central console, wings twitching with every sharp gesture. His voice, high and nasal, cut through the air like a blade. “—and I told you the timing was perfect! If you hadn’t insisted on planting those primitive proximity charges like some ground-pounding brute, the Autobots never would have detected the secondary signal! This failure is entirely on your thick, honor-obsessed helm!”

Dreadwing stood opposite him, a towering wall of deep navy armor and gold-edged plating. His red optics burned steady and cold. The heavy horns curving from his helmet caught the bridge lights as he tilted his head the slightest degree. His voice, when it came, was low and controlled—dangerously so.

“You were the one who broke formation. You abandoned the northern perimeter the moment you saw an opportunity for personal glory. My charges were precisely placed. Your impatience compromised the entire operation.”

Megatron sat in the command throne, one massive clawed hand pressed to his temple. The Decepticon warlord’s optics were half-lidded in pure, simmering irritation. Every shrill note from Starscream seemed to drive another spike into his processor.

Soundwave remained at his station, silent as always. His visor flickered with streams of data; one of his tentacles adjusted a frequency modulator with mechanical precision, completely unfazed by the argument raging behind him.

Near the medical diagnostic console, Knockout leaned against a railing with theatrical weariness, one hand on his hip. “I’m simply saying that if another Vehicon comes in with melted actuators because someone thought it was clever to overcharge their thrusters, I am not going to be the one scrubbing the residue out of the berths.”

Breakdown stood beside him, arms crossed, nodding along. “Yeah. Last cycle I had three of ‘em limping around with fused knee joints. We’re runnin’ low on replacement struts.”

Shockwave’s single optic glowed a colder yellow than usual. He stood near the tactical display, motionless except for the faint shift of his claws against the console. His gaze was fixed squarely on Starscream, the irritation in that unblinking optic almost tangible.

Airachnid lounged against a bulkhead near the exit, all long limbs and predatory stillness. Her multiple optics tracked the arguing Seekers with open disdain. She looked one wrong word away from simply turning and leaving the bridge altogether.

You had been moving quietly across the deck, carrying a data-slate of updated energy-distribution reports for Soundwave. As Dreadwing’s sparkmate, your presence on the bridge was not unusual—though the current tension made every step feel heavier. You passed just behind Dreadwing’s broad frame, close enough that the faint, familiar warmth of his spark-signature brushed against your own.

Starscream, mid-rant, flung one arm wide in a dramatic arc to emphasize his point.

The back of his clawed hand connected solidly with your faceplate.

The sharp clang of metal on metal rang across the bridge.

For a split second everything froze.

Starscream’s optics widened in pure, horrified realization. His wings snapped tight against his back. The screech died in his vocalizer, replaced by a strangled, high-pitched “—oh.”

Dreadwing’s entire frame went rigid. The low, controlled tone he had been using vanished. A deep, resonant growl rolled up from his chest as he turned, optics flaring brighter, locking onto Starscream with lethal focus. The heavy plating along his shoulders shifted; the faint click of his retractable blade beginning to cycle free was audible in the sudden silence.

Megatron’s hand dropped from his temple. His optics narrowed.

Knockout winced theatrically. Breakdown muttered, “Oh, scrap.”

Shockwave’s optic brightened a fraction.

Airachnid’s lips curved in the smallest, most vicious smile.

And Starscream, for once, seemed to understand exactly how precarious his continued existence had just become.

The shared quarters were quiet except for the soft, steady hiss of the oil cascade.

After fourteen straight human hours of patrol, your frame ached in that deep, grinding way that only came from prolonged flight and constant vigilance. Energon levels were low, plating scuffed, and every joint felt like it needed a full recalibration. The moment you had stepped into the private wash chamber, you had dialed the temperature high and let the warm, refined oil pour over you in a thick, golden stream.

It sluiced down the heavy armor of your shoulders and chest, running in rivulets across the seams of your plating, carrying away dust, carbon scoring, and the faint residue of Earth’s atmosphere. The scent was clean and metallic with a faint chemical sweetness — standard-issue lubricant oil, nothing fancy, but after a long shift it felt like pure relief. Water was out of the question; every Cybertronian knew what prolonged exposure did to internal systems. Oil was safer, more efficient, and far more pleasant.

You had just tilted your helm back, letting the cascade run over your faceplate and down the column of your neck, when the outer door to the chambers slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss.

Your optics snapped open.

Heavy, familiar footsteps crossed the main room. A moment later the wash-chamber door parted, and there he was.

Dreadwing.

Your sparkmate filled the doorway like a dark-blue wall of armor and quiet authority. The gold horns of his helm caught the soft amber lighting of the room. In one hand he carried a simple, reinforced chair — the kind usually found in the strategy rooms — and in the other a glowing data-pad.

Without a single word of explanation, he stepped inside, set the chair down a few feet from the oil cascade, and sat.

Just... sat.

He settled his massive frame onto the seat with the calm of a mech who had every right to be exactly where he was. One leg bent, the other stretched out, data-pad already raised. The soft blue light of the screen reflected in his red optics as he began to scroll, completely unbothered by the fact that you were standing under a stream of oil, half-washed, and staring at him like he had lost every last bolt in his processor.

The oil continued to pour over your shoulders.

Steam (or rather, the fine vapor given off by heated lubricant) curled in the air between you.

Dreadwing turned a page on the data-pad with a quiet tap of one claw, optics never leaving the screen.

As if this was the most normal thing in the entire galaxy.

You’re standing under the steady cascade of warm, refined lubricant in the private bathing chamber you share with Dreadwing. The thick, golden-amber oil pours from the overhead nozzles in heavy streams, sluicing over your plating in slow, glossy sheets. After fourteen continuous human hours on patrol, every joint feels heavy, every seam packed with dust and residual energon residue. The oil works its way into every panel line and articulation, washing away the grime of Earth’s atmosphere and leaving your armor gleaming under the soft amber lighting of the chamber.

The walls are dark, polished metal. Soft vapor rises from the heated oil, carrying a faint metallic-sweet scent unique to high-grade Cybertronian solvent. Your shoulders hang relaxed for the first time in cycles. You’re mid-way through running a cloth over one shoulder when the door hisses open behind you.

You turn.

Dreadwing fills the doorway like a dark-blue monolith. His massive frame is still in full armor, deep navy plating catching the chamber’s low light, gold-bronze accents along his horns and chest gleaming. Those sharp, curved horns frame a face set in the most shamelessly satisfied expression you’ve ever seen on him. His red optics glow with quiet, unmistakable pride—and something warmer.

In one large hand he carries a simple metal chair, the kind usually reserved for the officers’ ready room. Without a word he steps inside, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft thunk. He sets the chair down with deliberate care right in front of the oil cascade, turns it to face you fully, and lowers his bulk onto it like he has every right in the universe to be there.

He leans back slightly, elbows resting on the armrests, one ankle crossing over the opposite knee. His optics never leave you. The look on his face is pure, unrepentant contentment—like a warrior who has just claimed the perfect vantage point after a long campaign. The corners of his mouthplates tilt upward in the smallest, most self-satisfied smirk.

He doesn’t speak.

He simply watches.

The warm oil continues to pour over your frame. Droplets race down your plating. And Dreadwing sits there in the middle of your shared bathing chamber as if this is the most natural thing in the world—sparkmate, husband, and unrepentant voyeur all at once—looking immensely proud of himself for having engineered the entire situation.