"Feline Games, Canine Passions"
Based on Transformers Animated, if they were alien pets on Earth
Prologue. Morning in the Mansion of Don Corleone Jr.
The Persian cat Megatron reclined on a velvet cushion sewn into the sleeve of his owner's jacket. His fur—silver-smoky, fluffy as a cloud—was brushed to every last strand. Don Michael, a local crime boss, slowly and solemnly ran his palm down the cat's spine, as if blessing his weapon. Megatron half-closed his eyes, extending his claws just enough to remind: I'm in charge here, even if you've got a gun under the table. His purr sounded like the low-frequency hum of a generator—and no one suspected it was actually suppressed laughter at human stupidity.
Two blocks away, in the cramped apartment of Mrs. Patterson, a retired art teacher, lived the dog Starscream. Or rather, a creature she called "my sweet Scruffy," though he had not so much fur as sparse tufts of wire on a bony frame that resembled a rubber toy that had survived a fire. Every morning Mrs. Patterson grabbed him by the scruff and commenced intensive brushing:
— Come on, Scruffy, let's get you combed! Good grief, more tangles! You're so messy, and the Don has a gorgeous cat, all silk and shine!
With each swipe of the stiff brush, Starscream twitched like he'd been zapped, pressing his ears flat against his skull. In his head—in the part that remained of his processor—panic pulsed: "She's scraped off my third layer of paint! I'm not a dog, I'm a Decepticon lord, I'm supposed to rule this planet!" But instead of a roar, he let out a pitiful whimper, and Mrs. Patterson cooed:
— There, there, now you're a beauty... well, almost.
Meeting on Neutral Ground – the Dumpster Behind the Supermarket
That evening, once the Don was asleep, Megatron leaped gracefully from the windowsill, slipped through a fence gap, and arrived at the meeting. Starscream was already rummaging through the bins, trembling in every shoulder blade, breathing nervously like a whippet after a marathon.
— You look even more mangy than yesterday, — Megatron stated, settling onto a cardboard box as if it were a throne. — Has your owner been scrubbing you again?
— She tried to buff my bald spot to a shine! — Starscream hissed, twitching an ear. — Can you believe it? She said, "Scruffy, you should gleam like Megatron!" and rubbed some oil into me that smells like vanilla. Now I reek of cheap pastry! And she shakes me, shakes me, like I'm a doormat!
Megatron lazily blinked his yellow eye, in which a spark of superiority danced.
— I told you: you should have chosen a mobster. He never brushes me against the grain. He strokes—like this. — The cat made a few slow, regal passes with his paw through the air. — Sometimes I let him scratch under my chin, and he feels like the king of the world. Poor man, he doesn't even know that I'm the one granting him that illusion.
Starscream nervously scratched the ground, leaving furrows.
— You're just gloating! And I have to pretend I enjoy being brushed until I bleed, and that I'm grateful for a piece of boiled sausage! She won't even give me raw meat! Says I have allergies!
— That's because you're a real allergy to everything, including decent behaviour, — Megatron smirked. — But don't worry. Soon we'll start the invasion. I've already programmed the Don to hand me the portal keys while he pets me in his sleep.
— And what about me? — Starscream whined, crawling closer, his tail—like a dried rag—twitching nervously.
— You, — Megatron yawned, flashing his fangs, — will distract Mrs. Patterson. Throw a tantrum, eat her slippers, knock over a wardrobe. Keep her out of my way. And please, try not to look quite so pathetic, or I might reconsider taking you as a partner.
— But I can't! Every time she picks up that brush, I get a panic attack. It's worse than an Autobot assault!
Megatron rose, arched his back gracefully, and headed back toward the mansion. Over his shoulder he said:
— Endure it, Scruffy. Real Decepticons don't shed fur. They pretend to enjoy it, even when they're rubbed raw. That's an art. And you're still a stuffed toy with an inferiority complex.
Starscream was left alone among the garbage, flinching at every rustle, and somewhere in the distance a female voice rang out:
— Scruffy! Where are you? I brought you new shampoo—with glitter!
The dog cowered under a dumpster and whispered:
— I hate this world... But tomorrow I'll show them! Tomorrow I'll bite the Don's leg, and they'll all see who the real predator is!
Then he barked loudly, because Mrs. Patterson was already approaching with a wet wipe. The invasion plan was postponed for yet another day.
Megatron, back home, curled up on the Don's chest, and the Don murmured in his sleep:
— Good kitty... You're the only one I trust...
The cat smiled, baring his fangs, and thought: "Just a little longer, and I'll be not just a cat, but emperor of two worlds. And that idiot with his brush can be covered in glitter for all I care."
From the next block came Mrs. Patterson's piercing shriek, then the crash of a falling wardrobe, and Starscream, bolting out into the street, ran headfirst into a lamppost. He was covered in glitter, a comb dangling from his tail, and a manic glint in his eyes.
— I'll! Be! Back! — he wheezed, and was dragged back inside for another session of "intensive love."
And so they lived: one—a cat who holds the world in his paw; the other—a dog who holds in his paw... only a comb. But as they say, even Decepticons have a destiny—and it smells of vanilla.
Hope that captures the vibe: Megatron's grandeur and pomp versus Starscream's comedic tragedy 😸🐕
