A/N: Crack. The weapon model Megatron transforms into in this fic will be unusual to the series and modified as I posses little to no real knowledge concerning such things as weapons beyond: "kapow"

Yay wikipedia!

Summary: Everyone knew that Starscream was a perfectionist but no one knew just how wonderful it was... until now.

How can someone who knows what they're doing not know what they're doing in the slightest.

Perhaps the ultimate irony of the decepticons was their so called ultimate weapon because, in a sense, that was just what he became. When Megatron transformed he lost the ability to move, to speak and to have even the basest control of his functions; he became a weapon, a tool. It irked him to no end. He became nought but pieces and parts and the sum of their total. Some would say that with such a grave weakness that trusting his psychotic second with any of his said functionality or welfare was suicide. At this point in time he would agree.

It had been a routine battle, get in, set up the harvesters, blow up autobots and get out. They were just having a little trouble with the blowing up autobots part, or more specifically; he was. It wasn't the ground formations, that where for once so perfectly arranged ,that had him so vexed, or the beautiful performance of his arial troops who were raining down explosive death upon whatever unlucky idiot happened to be stupid enough to get below them. It wasn't the wonderful grace with which his second had dropped from the skies like a gyrofalcon to catch his transformed commander and blast the hell out of the prime himself. It was that in that very poetic moment of near unleashed destruction... he, for lack of better words... jammed.

The only good thing about any of this humiliation was the massive blow that had subsequently landed on his seconds faceplates.

The worst part was that he now found himself here, unable to transform and laid out ominously on a steel table in his seconds lab like the mechs next dissection project.

"Disgraceful..."

The look on Starscreams face, compounded by the puffy and stitch-welded plates and mass and the fact that his right optic was swollen shut, was positively awful. He'd locked the doors to his lab, set his transformed and wary leader on a space of his clean, neat and organized work table and was now set about placing boxes and rolls upon rolls of tools in their proper place for their upcoming work. Lacking eyes but still aware of the world through a narrow gun sight and that same feeling of trepidation any mech gets before something horrible happens, Megatron felt the thump of toolboxes and small instruments being set at his side. Some where kept in thick lockboxes, others rolled in strong fabric and still others in small delicate looking boxes and holsters. None of them looked anything less than painful. Summoning all the strength of frame he possessed in his current form he managed a small series of shakes and vibrations.

"Stop that!"

Starscreams shriek was loud and terrible, even more so than usual, as he picked up a certain transformed commander's inert form, shook it with anger and whacked it back down on the table as if to have the final word. His lordships chosen form at the moment was a SIG SG 510 battle rifle modified for better close range combat and complete with a shiny bayonet at the barrel. The base of the weapon was larger and more accommodating for the user considering the blowback and power of the gun. The barrel was thicker and a little shorter and the sights were similarly built. The bayonet was larger and serrated. It would look alien to any human but then again, it was.

Starscream wondered under his breath if it would be possible to strangle his leader to death while he was in gun form.

Starscream picked up the locked weapon and with deft hands and a familiarity that bewildered even Megatron himself he thoroughly inspected the weapon like one would a much beloved and much miss-handled piece of equipment. He picked under plates, rotated the mech enough to make him dizzy and peeked into every part he could get his hands on and his long claws under. Then came the horror as bit by bit and piece by piece Megatron was taken apart. He lost his cartridge first, a dead space that shocked him and made him shake feebly in his seconds hands, earning him a scoff. Next came the butt of the rifle and then the bayonet and then his sights. Completely blind and utterly helpless he was at the mercy of his second.

Starscream hissed and scowled as he looked at the utterly dismantled remains of his leader. He was appalled on a level that made him cringe with distaste as he wiped soot and grime from his hands. If he were leader he would never allow himself to be so unkempt... so unclean. The various pieces and parts of his gutted leader were so under-maintenanced and dirty and just plain vile that just looking at the disheveled and opened trigger housing made him feel dirty. Reaching under the table and into one of the drawers he pulled out a box of sterile gloves, donned a pair and began organizing his workspace with everything he would need. Various brushes and rags, soft and delicate to wiry and stiff, half a dozen canisters of oils and lubricants and paints picked out with just the right pigments and formulae and more picks and applicators than one would care to count decorated the table in beautiful organized rows of gleaming metal. He took up one of the many rags and set to work cleaning and repairing the complex innards of his transformed leader.

For Megatron, the next few hours became a blur of blindness and sensation like nothing he'd ever experienced before. Hour after hour his base components were meticulously picked clean, polished, oiled, lubricated, brushed and scrubbed unto sparkling perfection. The sensation was odd at the least but as more and more of him was put back together and attended to with a perfectionists care and fondled and disassembled and reassembled again and again and again... he wasn't vibrating with shame anymore. There was the strong scrubbing feeling of a deep cleaning that made his exterior burn oh so nicely, there was the tingle of oils, the touch of deft hands fiddling with the seemingly unimportant bits he'd never known he had and damn it felt good. The world blinked back into existence as his sight was once again replaced, sliding into place with a satisfying click of components that made his insides purr. He caught a glimpse of claws and optics just as a long bristly something was eased down into his barrel, his insides being scrubbed and brushed, first with a wire brush that felt absolutely marvelous, dragging along his internals and coming out with a pop and a groan he couldn't voice. The process was repeated for a while that felt like a torturous heaven of forever. Then a soft brush replaced the first and it's caress was paradise, followed up with an impossibly plush and decadently oiled set of cleaners that got into every nook and cranny of the inside of his barrel. Whole again and vibrating hot under expert hands he was inspected and meticulously cleaned. A slim talented digit manipulated his trigger mechanism back and forth as the other took notes; thank primus his safety switch was in place, he wasn't sure he could contain himself under this assault. How could that treacherous bastard not know what he was doing!? Claws deftly picked under plates with care, soft touches and the tips of applicators and brushes and rags oiled and lubricated every joint, every plate and every bolt, strap, piece and part as he was manipulated perfectly. The down side of his safety switch was that he couldn't disperse the massive charge building up in his systems, it was like being held on the edge of bliss, utter torture; thank all that there was that he could not vocalize in his current form. He all but writhed and screamed as that horrible, wonderful seeker returned to his trigger; a flick here at the base, a touch there at the barrel, oh primus don't stop, don'tstopdon'tstopdon'tstop!

The whole venture ended with a thorough polishing, scrubbing and a heavenly soft chamois cloth rub down. Starscream lifted him for another inspection and with a grunt and a disapproving tch of "It'll have to do..." he was set down on a clean blanket of softened turbofox hide and his second stood to reorganize his table.

"You can transform now you know..." He looked at the dirt and oils staining his hands with revulsion. Starscream had always been a perfectionist, from the first day he had alphabetized the contents of his first lab at the academy it was a well known fact. The very idea that a mech could let himself go like that was disturbing and the thought that he had been wielding such a mess, touching it from battle to battle made his plating crawl. The plating had been beyond dirty with organic matter infiltrates, the trigger'd had a 0.8 second lag, the catches were grinding, the sights were off by 1.8 mm; the list went on... it was unforgivable that one should let a tool fall into such disrepair.

"I need a shower."

He stated in a droll tone with a shiver as he systematically repaired, cleaned and replaced his tools one by one and, when finished, left his lab for the washracks.

Megatron, feeling the coast was clear, shook once, and began the work of transforming back to root mode. Shift by shift, plate by plate, he returned to his normal self like a youngling making his first attempt at the needed transformation sequences. As he stood he gleamed and shone like some kind of Iaconian religious artifact, his joints rolled as if on air, his tingling plates were a suit of impenetrable interlocking armor, his vision had been corrected, his processor was running more clearly than it had in ages and overall systems efficiency had risen from a dismal 75% to that of a baby fresh 98.4%.

He took one step and promptly fell to the floor, howling in overload.

He lay on the floor for some time before he was finally able to drunkenly pick himself up and walk out the door. Slowly making his way to his quarters, spike so hard it was painful, every plate of his body scorching hot, he walked into one door and three walls and blinded half the crew on his single minded quest to -privacy now- his berth chamber. Grabbing a few of the coneheads along the way had helped as well.

Days later and rumors running crazy with only Starscreams indignant shrieking explanation of "I refuse to work with inferior unkempt equipment!" there was speculation abound. It had only ended when Megatron had sent a dismayed Soundwave, his gears grinding and spare tape tied up, to Starscreams lab with a lopsided smirk and purr from his throne. Yes, a purr was the only way it could be described, a smug and very satisfied purr. He'd been in too good a mood to do anything else lately; quite frankly it was creeping mechs out. No one on a decepticon base should be that clean and that... sated.

When Soundwave left in much the same condition as his leader had; shiny, shocked and in serious need of alonetimenow walking into four doors, five walls and an entire gestalt, the mystery was solved. A quick acquisition of one of the constructicon gestalt members he'd passed and the resultant happy go fragging pounding into the berth that followed helped spread the word.

Suddenly, there was a lot of "malfunctioning equipment" on base.