Chapter Text
The Soldier’s Creed
I am an American Soldier.
I am a warrior and a member of a team.
I serve the people of the United States and live the Army
Values.
I will always place the mission first.
I will never accept defeat.
I will never quit.
I will never leave a fallen comrade.
I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained
and proficient in my Warrior tasks and drills.
I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself.
I am an expert and I am a professional.
I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies
of the United States of America in close combat.
I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life.
I am an American Soldier.
Starscream thought that all his years of living in a desert state would prepare him for hot climates just about anywhere.
He had been spectacularly wrong.
Oklahoma wasn’t just hot—it was wet and swampy. The humidity was unreal, thick enough he could practically chew it. Daily sunlight pressed down on the terrain like an iron held to the skin. Dew evaporated off grass every morning after a cold, damp night.
Starscream’s uniform stuck to him in places it was never meant to. Sweat crawled down the small of his spine, just out of reach from being able to wipe it away. His undershirt was plastered to him, and the ACU blouse felt like it weighed an extra ten pounds.
And the dirt—Primus Almighty, the dirt.
Fine, powdery grit constantly got kicked up in the air, coating the inside of his sinuses. When he clenched his teeth, he could feel the dust grind between them.
Disgusting. Uncivilized. Utterly barbaric.
Starscream hated all of it.
More than anything he hated the long ruck marches, the ones that supposedly built “mental resilience,” but so far had only succeeded in building layers of exhaustion and resentment.
His gear sack rhythmically thumped against his back with every step, straps digging into his shoulders. The sun was barely up, and he was already contemplating death via heatstroke as a preferable alternative.
Not to mention the abysmal IQs of the average recruit. On cue, someone in front of him slowed abruptly, nearly stumbling. Starscream almost tripped over them. “We’re almost there, idiot,” he snapped and didn’t bother checking who it was.
The formation trudged on. Off to the dirt shoulder of the road, a private was being punished by a drill sergeant by being forced to do push-ups in the muck.
Someone behind Starscream snickered, “Check out Sixshot, getting smoked again!”
A few others laughed, even though they weren’t supposed to be talking. Especially not on a long, quiet ruck to a live grenade training site.
Starscream didn’t join in their laughter. Idiots. All of them.
The sergeants ran the formation with terrifying efficiency, moving alongside the lines like wolves circling their prey. Their voices cut through the heavy morning air, commanding and impossible to ignore. One voice rose above the rest. Always.
Megatron.
Starscream refused to let his eyes wander in that direction too often, but even if he kept his head forward, it didn’t matter. Everyone stared when Drill Sergeant Megatron was ripping into some poor NCO or private.
Megatron’s presence was impossible to ignore. His broad shoulders towered over most, rigid posture carving an unmistakable silhouette. His voice was thunderous, carried on a current of raw command.
He was the kind of man who turned heads in any room. It was either out of fear, out of admiration, or out of instinct. Starscream wasn’t immune either. Despite the history they shared, he was always enamored with the man who had a 2 in front of his age now.
Subtly impressing him was a common goal among the recruits—Megatron was easily one of the toughest drill sergeants, the one everyone wanted to be seen by, praised by, acknowledged by.
But Starscream? Starscream had something the others didn’t.
Only Starscream got to exchange fleeting glances with him. Quick and secretive. Meaningful in a way that shouldn’t have been possible between a DS and a private. Glances that lingered half a second too long and made Starscream’s breath catch. On top of all the other agony that Starscream endured daily, not being able to be near Megatron was the worst of all.
The march dragged on, each step squelching unpleasantly inside Starscream’s boots. The humidity made every breath feel thick, like he was inhaling through cotton. The farther they walked, the quieter the privates became. Grenade day had that effect on people. Fear was an efficient silencer.
Even Starscream, who usually filled the silence in his own head with inner monologues and commentary, found himself focusing more on the weight of his gear and the throbbing heat than on his irritation.
They crested a small rise in the road and the grenade range came into view. It was an ugly, squat concrete bunker sunk into the ground like a scar. Black scorch marks stained the walls around the throwing bay, and the faint tang of old explosives lingered in the air even from several yards away.
Starscream’s stomach tightened despite himself.
He wasn’t afraid, exactly. But he was… alert. It felt like someone had died here.
“LISTEN UP! MOVE YOUR ASSES AND GET INTO THE STAGING AREA!”
The formation shuffled toward the bunker after the drill sergeant barked at them. Starscream wiped his palms discreetly on his trouser legs. The air inside the staging area was cooler, shadowed, thick with a mix of sweat and tension.
Drill sergeants prowled about, teeth bared in the form of perfectly enunciated commands. Dummy grenades lined a steel table. One DS after another demonstrated the safety procedures with mechanical precision.
And then Megatron stepped in front.
Megatron held a dummy grenade in one hand, the other resting behind his back. His crooked nose, stern mouth, and that deep-set glare made him look carved from stone—but the heat had drawn a thin sheen of condensation across his temple.
“Private Starscream,” Megatron said when it was his turn to demonstrate.
Starscream’s throat went dry. He presented the grenade as instructed, both hands steady.
Megatron’s gaze flicked down, then back up. “Tighter grip,” he ordered.
Starscream adjusted.
“Thumb off the pin,” Megatron added.
Starscream corrected again.
Megatron leaned in—not enough to break regulation distance, but enough for Starscream to feel the heat of his body, to catch the faint scent of the morning cologne spritz still lingering on his uniform.
He spoke quietly, voice pitched only for Starscream to hear.
“Better.”
Starscream’s sharp inhale was involuntary. A mistake.
Megatron’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of warning to remind him that they weren’t alone. Something unspoken passed between them for a beat.
Then Megatron straightened, snapping back into perfect, terrifying control.
“That’s passable, Private,” he said loudly, abruptly. Starscream remembered to look unfazed. Megatron moved on without waiting for a reply, leaving Starscream simmering in a cocktail of agitation, adrenaline, and fleeting arousal.
Smokescreen sidled up next to him, whispering out of the side of his mouth: “Bro, he hates you.”
Starscream didn’t bother responding. It wasn’t hate.
Another explosion thundered through the throwing bay—someone had just completed their live toss. The ground trembled under Starscream’s feet.
It was their turn.
The line shuffled forward, one private after another receiving a live grenade and being guided into the safety lane by a drill sergeant. Starscream’s heart hammered—not with fear, but with the acute awareness that Megatron was watching the entire line like a hawk. Not all the recruits. Not even most of them.
Him.
Every time Starscream moved, Megatron’s gaze tracked him for a fraction of a second before shifting away with feigned indifference.
Starscream felt flayed open under the attention until finally, his name was called.
“PRIVATE STARSCREAM! MOVE!”
His boots felt heavier than usual and the bunker suddenly felt smaller. His pulse roared in his ears.
The DS assigned to his lane handed him the live grenade. It felt impossibly dense in his palm, a compact sphere of life-ending potential.
“ARM ON MY COMMAND!”
Starscream swallowed. He pulled the pin, lifted his arm, muscles tight, stance perfect.
Starscream hurled the grenade with every ounce of precision he had. He watched it arch perfectly and land in the pit.
A second later it detonated with a concussive blast that shook the earth. It was exhilarating knowing the amount of power held in such a deceivingly small package.
When he glanced up—Megatron was watching him, expression hard to read unless one knew how. His eyes were too focused.
Starscream’s breath caught.Oh. Oh, he likes that.
The realization helped make the rest of the dreadful training day more bearable.
The remainder of grenade training passed in a hazy blur of noise and adrenaline. Starscream barely registered the next few explosions, each one rolling over the landscape with the same thunderous force. He stood in line, helmet slightly askew, heart still racing.
It wasn’t fear or nerves. He’d thrown a grenade exactly how he was supposed to. It was the way Megatron’s eyes had analyzed him afterward. That was something else entirely, something that he dearly missed from back home. He was proud of Starscream in a way that he couldn't express under their current circumstances.
By the time Echo Battery was marched away from the bunker and back onto the dusty road, Starscream could still feel Megatron’s gaze on him: lingering, checking, judging, wanting.
Starscream was letting the attention bother him too much. It had been a solid week since he had gotten off and it was probably starting to outwardly affect him more than he wanted to admit.
“You good?” Smokescreen asked, nudging him with his elbow.
Starscream forced a scoff. “Of course I’m good. Unlike some of you, I don’t crumble at the sight of explosive ordinance.”
“Okay, man,” Smokescreen muttered, wiping his forehead. “Just checking.” The heat felt even worse now, somehow thicker after the rush of adrenaline.
Uniforms clung to everyone in damp patches. They all smelled vaguely of sulfur, sweat, and gunpowder. Walking back to the barracks was slow, miserable, and silent except for the rhythmic crunch of gravel under boots.
Every now and then, as they marched, Starscream risked a glance over his shoulder. Megatron was at the back of the formation, speaking with the other drill sergeants. His posture was rigid and disciplined as he spoke to them about something admin-related.
And every so often—rare, but undeniable—his gaze flicked forward just enough to fall on Starscream.
Starscream swallowed hard and faced forward again.
He and Megatron had agreed upon this. It was supposed to be professional between them here. HAD to be. That wasn’t enough to keep either of them from toeing the line.
Besides, Starscream wasn’t sane where Megatron was concerned. That, he already knew.
By the time they reached the barracks, Starscream felt like his legs might detach and walk away without him. His entire body ached from tension, from exertion.
Echo Battery filed into the building, dropping gear bags at their bunks with heavy thuds. The air smelled of musty boots, dread, detergent, and ninety exhausted men trying not to die.
Stripped to his boxers, Starscream climbed to his top bunk with a fluidity he didn’t feel, muscles trembling despite his effort to hide it. He lay on his back, staring at the metal ceiling slats. The lights flicked off and the building quieted around him.
But his mind didn’t quiet. It kept replaying that moment of Megatron leaning close, correcting his grip, voice low and warm in his ear.
“Better.”
Starscream exhaled shakily.
The memory of it rolled through him pleasantly. He shifted beneath his thin blanket, one hand resting on his stomach, fingertips tracing idle patterns. He closed his eyes.
The barracks were silent, save for the constant chorus of snoring. Hesitantly, Starscream let his hand slide lower.
Megatron’s voice echoed again in his memory, commanding and rough-edged.
“That’s passable, Private.”
Starscream bit his lip. His hips twitched upward as his fingers slipped beneath his waistband. He shouldn’t be doing this here. Acutely aware of this fact, he touched himself anyway.
He stroked slowly, quietly, hiding every sound in his throat. His body shuddered with the memory of Megatron’s attention. The fleeting glances, those razor-edged instructions. They'd crafted such a perfect facade, pretending like they were nothing to each other when they were really something.
His breath went ragged. He arched, biting back a muffled gasp. The build up of pleasure broke over him quick and hot, leaving him trembling under the blanket. Starscream wiped his hand on his sheets, heart still hammering, ears ringing.
Shit, that felt good.
He was in trouble if Megatron could get him this worked up with just a correction and a glance. He became eager for their next opportunity to sneak away together, even though Megatron had insisted they keep that to a minimum. He needed more than just this.
Starscream stared at the ceiling that was mere inches from his face and tried not to overthink what he’d done. It was awhile before sleep finally took him.