Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Starscream heard them before he saw them.

“Back up now, give him some room,” eased an unrecognizable voice.

His optics flickered online, cycling thrice before he was able to make out anything more of his surroundings than a dull blur. Replacing the nothing were vibrant colors that caused him to wince. White, red, blue, green, they all stared down at him from where Starscream lay on what he presumed to be a berth; a hard-surfaced one not meant for a flyer, from how the metal slab pressed against his wings. His systems were slowly coming online, but strangely, his HUD did not report mechanical issues within him. That lack of warnings itself an error, noted by the overwhelming ache and protoform deep chill that consumed his frame.

Starscream shivered, his HUD finally lighting up and barraging him with a multitude of alerts. One more concerning than others; his internal temperature reaching a low he had not thought possible for their kind outside of a slow deactivation. Cold. Deactivation. There had been a storm….

“Where am I?” He rasped; vocals weak as if from disuse.

He frowned and tried to lift a servo to his throat, only for his arms to jerk in place. That was when he felt them encircling his wrists, stasis cuffs. He stiffened against the berth, immediately wary. The urge to strike out over the revelation that he had been restrained was tapered only by a singular question.

Starscream curled his talons into a fist, forcing a calm into his vocals that would mask the fury.

“Where is Skyfire?” That was the important question, more so than where he was, who surrounded him, or even the current state of his functionality. His partner’s location and status took priority above his own righteous anger over strangers daring to place him in stasis cuffs.

“Who’s Skyfire? Better yet, who are you? You a Con?” The question, by another voice Starscream didn’t recognize, was immediately met by the sound of hard metal being smacked and soft curses to follow.

“Who’s asking?” Starscream responded, taking care to curb the bite from his tone. To not know him meant they were not from any scientific institute, Iacon or otherwise. As his optics cycled away the last bit of blurriness, he could finally see who had surrounded him. Grounders. Perfect.

A white mech, the traditional red cross marking him as a medic. A black and white mech with a blue visor whose make he could not identify. Polyhexian? Didn’t matter. A green, boxy mech stood next to what he presumed to be a red minibot, though it was difficult to tell. All he could see from his position on the berth were grey servos holding a red, horned, dented helm. And finally, towering above them all was a very large, masked, red, white, and blue mech.

Blue optics met red, and Starscream lifted his chin to meet the tall mech's stare, ignoring how his neck cables strained from even that slight movement.

“I am Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots,” a deep voice spoke. “You are currently aboard the Ark, we—”

Autobots? Ark? Optimus Prime?

"—Skyfire, my partner," Starscream interrupted, his vocals growing stronger with every word. "We are expeditioners commissioned by the Iacon Scientific Research Institute. He and I were exploring an uninhabited planet in a newly discovered galaxy when a storm tore us apart…are you the rescue team? Where is he?" What was an Autobot and what happened to Zeta Prime remained unasked. It was secondary, irrelevant information in comparison to where was his partner?

Starscream hadn’t thought their distress signal had gotten through to Cybertron, but perhaps this Autobot ship had been near enough. And if Starscream had survived the planet’s frigid temperatures long enough to be rescued, he held no doubt Skyfire fared the same. Skyfire’s frame was built for interplanetary expeditions. His larger, thicker plating would have held up much longer than Starscream’s own.

"Hey! You can't talk to Prime like that! See, told you guys he was a con!" That annoying red pest shouted, and Starscream turned from the Prime so he could glare down at the itty-bitty accusing minibot.

“I am no conmech," Starscream said, inwardly seething at the implication. He was a seeker. Of course, he couldn't also be a scientist. What an absurd notion. One Starscream had been battling his entire function. "My designation is Starscream. If you were to hail the ISR Institute, they will confirm mine and my partner's identities."

The mechs surrounding him on the berth exchanged glances, and Starscream frowned, wondering what conversation they must have been having about him over comms.

The medic pinched the ridge of his olfactory sensor, then nodded once toward Starscream. "You wouldn't happen to remember what stellar-cycle this storm hit, would you?"

Starscream rattled off the exact date with a growing suspicion. One that was confirmed when five pairs of blue optics all widened, the short one even gasping and covering his mouth with an expression Starscream could only describe as horror. He must have been in stasis for quite some time to elicit such a reaction.

The blue visored mech let out a low whistle, then looked up to the Autobot leader, "You gonna to handle this boss bot, or should I?”

Optimus tilted his helm toward the other mech, then turned to face the seeker. "Starscream, you were found on an alien planet called Earth. Jazz and Hound," Optimus nodded toward the visored mech and the green grounder that stood around the berth. "Found you frozen underneath the snow on one of its Arctic continents. You have been in stasis for a long, long time."

“How long…and what of my partner?” Starscream asked, keeping his vocals level despite the growing panic swelling in his spark.

Optimus shook his helm. “You were the only one we found in the ice. There were no others.”

"How long?" Starscream reiterated. The so-called Prime had avoided his earlier question. Vorns? Centuries?

“Ten million stellar-cycles have passed since you last remember, Starscream. Much has changed from what you once knew.”

Millions of stellar-cycles? He had been in stasis for millions of stellar-cycles? Not possible. He would be dead.

“No,” Starscream whispered, then louder, “No, that’s not possible. The Institute knew the planet we were exploring. They would have sent someone to find me, us, after we failed to return. You lie,” Starscream hissed, glaring at the supposed Prime, suddenly doubtful he truly was one. He tried to sit up, but the stasis cuffs sapped him of energy to move. First, they restrain him like some common criminal, then they have the audacity to lie?

“Get these blasted things off of me!” Starscream shouted, pulling and struggling against the stasis cuffs.

"Whoa, c'mon, mech, might want to calm down," Jazz said with servos raised in a placating gesture.

“I am calm!" Starscream shouted as he doubled his escape efforts, wings scraping painfully against the berth. Every movement was agony; his frame ached, and the stasis cuffs robbed him of his ability to struggle as vigorously as was necessary. His HUD warned the seeker of his impossibly low energon level; it was pure rage that fueled the seeker's frenzied movements.

“Where is Skyfire? What have you done with him?” Starscream bared his denta, snarling as he pulled against the stasis cuffs. He kicked against the berth, attempting to dislodge himself from it, to get away from the strange mechs with their even stranger lies.

“I told you bolt-heads it wasn’t the right time online him! He’s panicking!” The medic shouted as he pulled something from his subspace.

"That's not fair, Doc," Jazz said as he stepped away from the berth. "There's no record of his guy; we needed to know what we were dealing with."

“Well, I’m dealing with a panicked patient, one you all better step away from unless you want a wrench lodged so far up your afts you’ll be digging it out for weeks!” Ratchet shouted, waving a long-needled syringe through the air.

The green mech stepped away from the berth silently, having not said a word since the seeker had onlined. Starscream paid him no mind, too busy zeroing in on the needle coming toward him.

"This here is a sedative; it's going to put you back into stasis until all of your systems come back online on their own, no more forced reboots." The medic said this with a glare toward Jazz, causing the visored mech to back away from the berth with his servos still raised in surrender.

"No! Don't you dare!" Starscream warned and, with one final twist, managed to throw himself off the berth—only to be caught by large blue servos. The false Prime.

“I am sorry, Starscream. This did not go as planned. Ratchet is right, we should have waited, but you are an—”

"—I'll show you sorry," Starscream spat at the mech holding him. "Let me go, you oversized, rust-covered waste disposal drone!"

Jazz snorted, covering his mouth with a servo.

The red minibot’s jaw dropped. “Did he just call Prime a—”

“—Ratchet!” Prime shouted. Unable to break free of his stasis cuffs, Starscream had begun to dig his talons into any piece of the Prime he could reach. The thick armor didn’t tear as Starscream had intended, but sparks flew from where he scratched.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, just hold him still,” the medic said, flicking the needle twice as he marched toward Starscream’s struggling form. Much as he tried to pull himself free of the Prime’s hold, the mech wouldn’t budge. He lifted and pressed Starscream onto the med berth, holding the seeker down as though his efforts were no greater than that of a light breeze blowing against a steel beam.

“No, no!” Starscream shouted as he felt something prick his mainline neck cable. The world around him began to fade back into the blur he had first awoken to. “No, no…,” his protests grew weaker, stasis taking him until he was only able to manage one last, “Skyfire….”

And the world went black.

Starscream onlined with a start, rising quickly from the berth he was lying on, momentarily surprised by his ability to move at all. He swung his legs over the side of the berth only to stop as he noticed the lack of Autobots surrounding him. Without an audience, Starscream took the time to observe his surroundings in a way he hadn't when he first emerged from stasis.

He was in what appeared to be a medbay, a well-equipped one at that. Large monitors, multiple berths, and a myriad of medical equipment, only some of which Starscream recognized. Even in the dimmed lights, he could see that the walls and floors had a copper tone to them. More unusual than the ship's coloring was the sound that greeted him upon waking, or lack thereof. A silence permeated the room that was unusual for a medbay, especially one so large. There were no other patients, no sounds of treatment, no other signs of life except for there, on the opposite end of the room, sitting at a wide desk and quietly observing him; the white mech with red crosses on his shoulders. Ratchet, the medic.

"Where are the others?" Starscream asked, idly rubbing his wrists as he noted the absence of cuffs.

“Sent them out, didn’t think you’d want to wake to another crowd,” Ratchet answered without rising.

The medic was correct. Starscream didn’t do well with crowds on his best orns; finding himself surrounded by one after supposedly waking up from a multi-million stellar-cycle stasis? Not one of his most dignified reactions, and Starscream inwardly recoiled as he remembered his own lapse of control. Allowing a group of strangers to witness him in a moment of panic would not go down as one of Starscream's proudest moments.

Not that it mattered; he had plenty of other proud moments to make up for it.

"How's your helm? Notice anything on your HUD?" Ratchet asked, finally rising from his seat.

Red optics flickered as he focused on his internals. “I’m low on energon,” he admitted. “My time synchronization is malfunctioning. It’s stating that I’m…,” he trailed off, refusing to say what couldn’t be true.

“That you’re ten million stellar-cycles from when you last synchronized your systems?” Ratchet finished for him.

“That’s not possible,” Starscream whispered. “Either you’re lying or you’re crazy. Even when ignoring damage from the elements or lack of maintenance decaying my internals; no Cybertronian can last that long without energon. I would have shut down after four million stellar-cycles, five maximum, and that's only if I had been preserved in perfect condition."  Which he hadn't. Being caught in a sudden ice storm hadn't exactly given him time for proper long-term stasis protocols.

The medic agreed.

“You’re right, you shouldn’t be online. Why, the whole base is already full of rumors about there being a Primus damned zombie in my medbay.” Ratchet shook his helm as he picked a scanner up off the desk. “And I don’t blame them. You were completely out of energon when they brought you in. Not a drop. Wasteland dry.”

Starscream curled his derma; these Autobots just loved telling him impossible lies, didn't they? First, that ten million stellar-cycles had passed since the storm, and now this? “Then how do I still function?”

“Good question, would love an answer. If I could learn how to keep bots from flatlining after losing that much energon, my job would get a whole lot easier,” Ratchet said, finally starting to make his way over toward the seeker. “Your spark energy was weak when they found you, almost completely snuffed out. I’d never seen a spark survive on so little charge. It shouldn’t be possible.”

“Because it’s not,” Starscream snarked, wings rising and plating going stiff the closer the medic got. He rubbed the side of his neck, glaring as the medic noticed and smirked at him.

“And yet here you are, poor bastard.”

“Where exactly is here, medic? Surely we’re not really on an uninhabited planet as your phony Prime implied,” Starscream said with no small amount of derision. 

"Uninhabited?" The Autobot snorted. "No, but are you sure you're ready to hear the rest of it? Wouldn't want you to have another…episode."

“That was a momentary lapse in rational that will not happen again," Starscream said through clenched denta. He was not one to take his flaws being pointed out gracefully on a good orn. And this was not a good orn.

“If you’re sure,” Ratchet acquiesced. “Ask your questions and I’ll give you answers, can’t promise they’ll be good answers, but they’ll be answers.”

Starscream twisted his derma as he considered what to ask. There was much he needed to know; perhaps it was best to start big and then narrow down from there. But first, "Where is my partner, Skyfire?"

"Never heard of him, and neither has anyone else on this base. They're doing some digging, but you'll have to wait on that one," Ratchet answered as he continued closer.

Right, of course an answer wouldn’t come so easily. Nothing for him could ever be so simple.

“What is the state of Cybertron?” He chose to ask instead.

“Dead,” was Ratchet’s blunt response.

Starscream’s helm snapped back. “Dead? What do you mean dead? How is that possible? Cybertron cannot die.”

“This talk will go a lot smoother if you stop interrupting everything I say to rant about how impossible it is. You’re living in the age of impossible, kid.”

Starscream bristled. “Maybe if you stopped making such absurd claims, I would stop interrupting you to point out their absurdity… and I am no kid.” He had well over two hundred thousand stellar-cycles worth of lived experience. One might consider that young for a scientist of Starscream’s caliber, but as there were no other scientists of his caliber, Starscream set the standard. He may not have been some rusted-over fossil like the medic, but he was in no way a youngling.

“Mmhm, right, course you’re not. You’re a big seeker who can handle big ideas,” Ratchet said, coming to a stop in front of said seeker. “Like how Vector Sigma hasn’t been active in over four millennium.” Ratchet slowly raised the scanner up and down over Starscream’s frame, nodding to himself as he read the results. “Dead is the best way to describe it.”

“How does Vector Sigma become inactive? It can’t become inactive, that’s imposs—”

"—Not this again. Look kid, you want the short answer? Or do you want the months-long history lesson Rewind has prepared for you?"

Who was Rewind? Starscream asked in his helm.

"Months?" Starscream questioned instead. Was that a unit of time or just another bout of nonsense the Autobot had made up?

“Right,” Ratchet nodded. “You’re going to want to download this.” The medic pulled out a thick yellow datapad from his subspace and held it out for Starscream to grab.

“What is this?” He asked, taking it.

“A language data pack,” was the answer. “The natives here have too many and we’re constantly having to update the thing, but it’s better than nothing and I’m not going to stop and explain every word you don’t understand.”

“Natives?” Starscream intoned, taking what was offered.

Ratchet only nodded toward the datapad in answer.

If the Autobots had intended to force the data packet into his systems, they would have done so while he was still in stasis or while the supposed Prime held him down. What do they stand to gain from lying to the seeker or forcing unknown data into his programming? Numerous ill implications filled his processor in the silent klicks Starscream took to study the datapad, only for each possible malicious motive to be discarded upon further reflection of implications and circumstance.

While rarely leaving the towering city of Vos, Seekers themselves were not rare. If these strangers had wanted a seeker frame, there were simpler, less duplicitous ways to acquire one. Whichever way the Autobots had come upon him, including their preposterous claim of digging him out of an alien world's ice, the process could not have been easy. And was that not opportunists’ default operational setting, easy? 

Starscream’s innate disposition was distrusting and hostile; to question everything he was told and then question the answers to those questions. And now too many questions filled his processor as scatterings of numbers and probabilities, ill-formed from a void of incongruent data, causing his logic drive to fritz. The seeker grimaced; there were too many unknowns. His initial question on the state of Cybertron had proved how vast his gap of information was—or how dedicated these Autobots were to deceiving him. Starscream decided to…while not believe such ridiculous claims…to proceed in the interim under a presumption that the Autobots did not intend him harm.

“I’ll take the short answer,” he finally said, reaching behind and underneath the base of his helm to pull out a transfer cable and connect it to the datapad. Only to stiffen, jaw clenching and neck cables straining to keep his helm from slumping forward. The sheer volume of data suddenly streaming into his processor whited out his optics; all he could see were flashes of binary coding historical events into his memory banks. 

When Ratchet took the seeker's silence as a sign to begin his own history lesson, Starscream's audials cranked to near distortion to hear him. "To make a long story short—the Decepticons and Autobots have been at war over Cybertron for millions of stellar-cycles. The planet's busted, and both factions moved the fight off-world, to space, and now Earth, where the war is still ongoing, just…de-escalated from what it used to be. Small battles, alliances with the natives, Earth shenanigans—"

Had he really just used shenanigans in a sentence?

"—And then while searching for new energon sources out in the Arctic, we discovered a weak energy signature—you, and dug you up out of the ice. And now you're here, aboard the Ark," Ratchet spread his arms out, an insincere smile stretching his grey face. "Congratulations, kid, you're in the command center of all Autobot operations."

Starscream finished downloading the data pack and pinched the bridge between his optics, the influx of data giving him a processor ache. Perhaps he should reassess his initial deduction of the duplicitous-deceptive nature of these Autobots and their intent to do him harm.

Ten million stellar-cycles worth of history had downloaded into Starscream's processor. Short strings of code that only explained an event had happened, nothing relating to why or how, only that it did. But expanding such a wide range of time, even those short strings had bundled into zettabytes worth of a data dump: civil war, Functionalist, Decepticons, Autobots, Optimus Prime, Megatron, death and destruction only stagnated by greater destruction and death. Few individual designations had been cited, and predictively, certainly, not a single byte had so much as alluded to Skyfire. Wonderful.

Pain rippled down his neck, and Starscream grit his denta against it. Even as an obviously condensed version, downloading a history that encompassed the entirety of the Autobot-Decepticon war was strenuous to sort through, in both the physical and metaphysical sense, even for an advanced processor like his own. There was also the added information about Earth and its native dominant species, humans. What had once been a void of information developed into a blackhole. A ten-million stellar-cycle-long implosion of space and time inside the seeker's processor that threatened to consume him in its data stream.

Starscream, equally as good a flyer as a scientist, navigated its gravitational pull, cycling through the data in concentrated silence.

Ratchet watched him in that silence, likely looking for any signs the seeker might crash, overwhelmed by the data, the information it held, or both. Heat was radiating off the top of his helm from how overworked his processor and logic drive were from trying to make sense of so much data all at once. But no warnings of imminent stasis flashed across the seeker's HUD. Even as condensation began to bead atop his helm, and short sporadic tremors broke the silence by rattling his frame; no smoke fumed from his fans. Starscream would not be overtaken inside his own helm.

The split sliver of processing power not directed toward cataloging historical events instead cycled irritation through him, directed at the source of his current processor pain, the medic. No warning could have prepared him for that influx of data, and he likely would not have heeded any that had been given, mistrustful as he was of the entire situation. Thus, his ire dissipated parallel to the mass of code slowly slotting into place in his memory banks, replaced with a burgeoning acceptance that felt familiarly, achingly, like despair.

Only once his helm began to cool and the pain recede, was Starscream able to form actual thoughts around and about the influx of raw data. No longer just systematically logging it, but turning it into actual, usable information.

To find his hollow, hollow voice and ask, "How could something like this happen?"

If the data pack was to be believed—Starscream did not want to believe—then there really was nothing left. Cybertron was but a husk of its former self. A dead planet belonging to a dying race.

"I ask myself the same thing every day," Ratchet said, looking at the seeker through pinched optics. "The Decepticons fight to conquer, and the Autobots fight to stop them. Maybe there used to be some grand cause that drove the cons to conquest, maybe a revolution really was the only way to end the functionalists' council, or maybe it was always just some slag the cons spewed to justify their violence. Fragged if I know and damned if I care."

Ratchet plunked down into a chair next to the berth, gazing at the seeker like he was a ghost from a past Starscream hadn’t been present for.

"Now it's just…it's just war," Ratchet sighed. "Fighting not to lose even after everything we were fighting for is already lost."

Starscream’s optic ridges rose, and he frowned, looking from the medic to his own servos, clenching them around the datapad. For once in his life, the seeker had no words of rebuttal. What clever comment or observation could he make about a war he was only just learning of? An ongoing annihilation that expanded galaxies and extended further than Starscream's full-function?

There was nothing he could say, so he focused on doing what he could in the moment. Sorting through the zettabytes worth of data that he had downloaded. It held information about the planet Earth, formally uninhabited and now full of organics. How the Autobots and Decepticons had crashed and entered stasis, similarly to how Starscream had, though for not nearly as long. A day, an Earth measurement of time. Thirteen Earth rotations equaled only one Cybertronian orn. Optimus had become Prime after the fall of both Zeta and Sentinel. The leader of the Decepticons was a warlord named Megatron. Warframes had predominantly sided with the Decepticons, and—

“You thought I was a Decepticon.” Starscream assessed. “That’s why I was restrained and pulled from stasis before my systems had fully defragged.”

Ratchet shrugged, “You’re a seeker. What seekers survived the fall of Vos joined the Decepticons.”

“Unsurprising,” Starscream admitted. When Ratchet gave him a look, he explained. “Even before I left Vos for the ISR, there were…rumblings of discontent with grounded cities. Vosian senators, seekers especially, did not believe outsiders should have any sway on how the city operated—I do…did not share their sentiments.”

Starscream held no love for the city of his creation. Vos had been no more stoop to him than Iacon. More beautiful certainly, with its spiring towers and grand glass sculptures, but of no greater comfort. Pursuing science instead of the wonders of war and flight had led to Starscream’s ostracization by his fellow seekers. It was why he felt no compulsory pull or loyalty, or regret, when he originally requested to leave. Once his application to the Iacon Scientific Research Institute had been accepted, Vosian senators had unofficially revoked his citizenship by way of banning him from entering the city without obtaining a prior clearance. A leave and never return type deal disguised as a security precaution—not that he ever had any intention of returning to begin with—that Starscream had been all too eager to accept.

When Ratchet made no indication that he would be changing topics, Starscream reluctantly continued. “Vos is…was held back by its isolationism. The city was growing stagnant. That’s why I left for Iacon and joined the Institute. I had mastered flight early in my function and wanted more, but there was nothing more for Vos to give. Flight drills, weapons training, formations—repetition. I wanted creation, discovery. Something new that could challenge me.”

Starscream smiled ruefully to himself. “And now I have it.”

“Ten million stellar-cycles worth of it,” Ratchet added with a loud huff. Was the magnitude of Starscream’s loss finally catching on for the medic? No more jokes or jabs about how difficult it was for the seeker to accept—not that he fully did—just how much everything he once knew to be was no more? Took him long enough.

Starscream sneered. “And what now, Autobot? Fear that I will join my fellow seekers now that I have awoken? We are alone. I could strike you down and leave." The question was purely hypothetical. Starscream was in an army base with an unknown number of soldiers. Some at the ISR might have described Starscream as rash, but never foolish. He would fare better searching for his partner with the aid of the Autobots, not their ire.

"You could," Ratchet said, standing. "Whether you choose to join the cons, stay here with us, or heck, take off and leave this dust ball behind—you're my patient first, everything else can come after." Ratchet pointed a finger at him, and a light shone from the tip directly into one of Starscream's optics. He flinched. "I want you to stay under observation, just for another orn. Your scans all came up in the green, but we've never had a case like yours, and there's no telling what complications might come up."

Ratchet stepped away from him, sitting back in the chair, and Starscream pursed his derma in thought. He wanted to leave and begin searching for his partner as soon as possible…but ten million stellar-cycles of stasis was bound to have left some lasting, unseen marks on his systems. He also had no idea where to even begin searching. A universe full of hidden Cybertronian-neutral pockets and Skyfire could be in any one of them. There was still too much he still didn’t know, too much risk associated with that unknown; the data packet had covered everything of relevance and nothing of importance. The seeker didn’t even have enough knowledge of his current situation and stature with the Autobots to formulate more than the most tentative of plans, let alone leave the planet.

Coming to a decision, Starscream opened his mouth to speak, “I—”

The door to the medbay slid open, and in strode a black and white Praxian, doorwings held high as he marched toward them both.

“Prowl!” Ratchet barked, “I said no visitors until I fully clear him.”

The Praxian continued forward as though he hadn't heard the medic, hands clasped behind his back as he came to a stop in front of the seeker. Then, once to Ratchet, "I have Prime's permission."

Starscream looked from the frowning medic to the Autobot standing before him. He had to look down to do so, as seated on the berth, the seeker was a fair height taller than both bots.

“My designation is Prowl. I am the Autobot’s second-in-command,” the mech said with smooth vocals devoid of emotion, stiff doorwings, a ram-rod straight posture, and not a flicker of expression on his faceplate.

“Starscream,” the seeker replied, oil-slick smile forming in time with an unsure plan. “To what do I owe the privilege of speaking with the illustrious Autobot’s second-in-command?”

Whatever path forward Starscream would take, he would require assistance from the Autobots; that meant attempting to gain their high command’s favor. Resources would not manifest from nothing, no matter how strongly Starscream desired them. He needed fuel, equipment, galaxy charts; the Autobots had them. If Skyfire was not an Autobot, then he was neutral. The shuttle would not have lasted in the Decepticon ranks, a conclusion Starscream had come to based solely on the types of campaigns the faction had waged across Cybertron’s rusted surface. Massacres, genocide, wanton destruction; the self-proclaimed pacifist could never have condoned such excessive violence. To actively participate in it? Not even a possibility worth calculating.

The Decepticons possessed the required resources, too, the seeker knew at a cerebral level, but requesting their aid would be a last, desperate resort. From what he had gleaned from short historical data bytes, the faction did not bargain with neutrals; they attacked or assimilated them.

“Prime tasked myself and the Ark's security team with ascertaining whether you pose a danger to Earth and its inhabitants or if you truly are just a mech with…unfortunate circumstances." Prowl clarified. The Autobots being accounted for with said inhabitants, and the seeker's potential danger to them went unsaid.

"As you suggested, we queried the Iacon Scientific Research Institute for any mention of your designation. You do have a record there, sealed, yes, but you were deemed truthful in that regard."

Sealed? His record had been sealed?

"The encryption had not been updated since the fall of Iacon and thus proved no issue for our code specialist to break—what do you think was discovered?"

Starscream answered the possibly rhetorical question. “Brilliance? I was the first—the only seeker to have been accepted into the ISR Institute. My inventions are…were ahead of their time, and my field research observations led to the establishment of an entirely new methodology."

Starscream thought he saw one of Prowl’s doorwings twitch, but it could have been a trick of the light.

“Dereliction of duty. The seeker Starscream abandoned both his post and his partner,” Prowl stated. “All rights and privileges afforded to you by the ISR were revoked. A warrant for your arrest was placed should you ever return to Iacon.”

Starscream’s wings stiffened defensively. “I never,” he spat, then caught himself from the building anger to soften his next words. “I worked hard to be accepted into the Institute, I would never—”

Prowl held a single servo up to silence him. Somehow, it worked.

“I’m merely stating what was in your record. There was no mention of your partner beyond the subsequent abandonment in your files.”

“That’s impossible—” Starscream started.

“Here we go again,” Ratchet quipped.

"—Half my function was with Skyfire as my partner. We created everything together, went on every expedition together. How is there no record?" Red optics narrowed, and his temper snuck past. "Autobot lies."

“Really looks just like a con,” Ratchet muttered.

Starscream and Prowl ignored him, both now abruptly engaged in an impromptu stare down. Plan still in mind, the seeker was the first one to break contact, lowering his helm demurely and acquiescing for the Autobot to continue. A small, unfelt smile lifted his derma, and he hoped the Praxian attributed darkening red optics to submission rather than resentment.

“There were other files relating to a scientist named Skyfire, though none mentioned you,” Prowl continued, completely bypassing Starscream’s accusation. “The accolades you claim are all attributed to him. There was no mention of a partner, seeker or otherwise.”

Starscream's neck cables constricted from how forcefully he had to wrangle back his temper and stuff it, along with shouts of innocence, down his throat. "I did not lie—there must be some mistake, a corruption in the file or perhaps an incorrectly labeled one," Starscream suggested through a strained smile.

"Doubtful," Prowl continued. "Excluding the warrant, your file is relatively short with very few details provided. You were created in Vos, graduated from the Vosian Flight Academy, advanced to the Iacon Scientific Research Institute, and deployed on a singular expedition with the shuttle Skyfire, whom you abandoned planet-side."

“Lies, all lies,” Starscream shook his helm. There were more eloquent, convincing words the scientist knew to protest his innocence, but for all his self-acclaimed brilliance, none came to him.

“So you have claimed.”

The seeker was in serious need of a defrag. Manually slotting and sorting such a large amount of data, there were bound to be mistakes even for someone of his scientific excellence. Adding such erroneous accusations only added to the strain on his processor.

"What do I…no, how did you…I mean, why would…," Starscream trailed off in an uncharacteristic ramble, recalibrating his next line of questioning with a long, deep ex-vent. "… Skyfire, my partner, where is he now? Do you know his functionality?”

Prowl turned toward the medic. “How stable is his condition?”

"More than most would be, from what I can tell, he—" blue optics widened in some kind of realization, and Ratchet abruptly stood, a wrench materializing in a raised red fist. "Prowl, you pit-spawn of an iced-over engine! That’s it! I don’t care what Prime said, get out of my medbay before I—”

"Tell me, just tell me," Starscream said, soft vocals cutting through the medic's rant. His frame had begun to hunch in on itself, the seeker resigned yet refusing to expect the worst. A question of stability rarely preceded good news. But everything about this situation was rare. Anything was possible.

"The Decepticons raided the ISR Institute not long before the war officially started. From the old reports I gathered, it was a recruitment attempt. There were few scientific minds numbered among the Decepticons during their early conception."

Ratchet interjected; fury gone from his vocals. “Cons were mostly functionless, laborers, or warframes back then. Took a while before whole cities began joining the faction, their scientists with them.”

Starscream curled his derma at the insinuation that a warframe could not also be a scientist, but held his glossa. The information about his partner and continued Autobot cooperation deemed more important than addressing the unintentional insult against his person.

“They attempted to recruit any scientists present during the raid,” Prowl said.

"Skyfire is a pacifist; he would not join a war willingly," Starscream asserted, talons clenching around the datapad he held. The shuttle must have declined the Decepticon's offer and left the planet with other neutrals then.

“He did not,” Prowl confirmed. “A list of the Iaconian scientists who rejected the Decepticon’s offer, and were subsequently offlined, was published by the faction shortly after the raid. Skyfire listed as one of the deceased.”

Starscream released a harsh vent of air through his vents. His talons dug into the data pack, laminose glass creaking in his hold.

"My condolences for your loss," Prowl said with a slight lilt in his vocals that made the words come out more as a question than an actual offer of condolence. Such monotone vocals projecting even a false offer of comfort sounded so ridiculous that Starscream couldn't help himself; he laughed.

Ratchet had the generosity to look as disturbed as Starscream felt. Ten million stellar-cycles? Gone. His reputation? Destroyed. Cybertron? Dead. Skyfire? Deactivated. It was all one big hilarious cosmic joke wherein Starscream was the punch, line, and sinker. And oh, how did he sink.

“The Decepticons killed Skyfire,” static-laced acid dripped off his glossa. “Are you sure of this?”

“… That is what current intelligence would suggest. Should I be made aware of any new information regarding Skyfire, I’ll be sure to promptly inform you.” Prowl spoke, for the first time during his encounter with the seeker appearing unsure of how to continue.

However the seeker sounded, however he looked, had finally given the Praxian a pause in his cut-throat relaying of facts. Because that's all they were to the Autobot. Reciting old, impersonal historical facts, laying bare and ending a life all in one slow, droll reading of a report.

What a professional, clinical little grounder. One would think Prowl made a habit of informing mecha that everything that they had ever known was no more. Millions of stellar-cycles at war? Maybe he did.

“I understand this must not be…pleasant to process. However, Optimus Prime has elected me to inform you—”

Starscream shuddered another laugh, cutting the Praxian off. “How do I know this is not some trick? If the Decepticons killed my partner, then naturally you would expect me to join your…noble Autobot cause?”

Like the experienced soldier he was, Prowl gave no quarter. “What use do the Autobots have for a disgraced scientist, ten million stellar-cycles outdated in his craft?”

Starscream's mouth snapped shut with an audible clang, and he seethed, rising to his full height on the mediberth, wings quivering with violent intent at his back. If he were to stand, the Autobot was so small, all it would take was a single swipe of his talons to—

“Haven’t you done enough?” Ratchet groused, glaring at Prowl as he gently gripped one of Starscream’s tense shoulders—when had he moved so close—and steadily rubbed the heated metal. A kind gesture, no doubt disguising its true intent; a means to stop the flyer from rising from the mediberth and damaging the Autobot's second. The medic's soft hold tightened over white plating, and Starscream was begrudgingly appreciative for the servo-shaped float keeping him from completely sinking into the acid of abhorrent loss that had risen past his spark, his throat, and finally to his optics; blazing and reflecting off a pristine black and white bumper, Autobot sigil lost in their red glow.

For a single slip of a moment, Starscream had been dangerously close to proving every brutal stereotype about warframes right. And from the way Praxian and medic had tensed during that same single moment, electric fields tangible in the air and filled with a defensive charge; both Autobots knew it.

“Leave it, Prowl. Why Optimus left it up to,” Ratchet cut himself off with a heavy vent. “Just leave it. He can hear the rest after he’s recovered. You’re not doing anything good for him laying it all out like that.”

A single, icy blue optic ridge arched. “Is that your professional, medical opinion?”

“Primus, that’s me having a spark. But yes, if that's what gets you out of here. Kid's systems are strained enough as it is; he doesn't need you adding to them," the medic lied. It was a lie. Starscream's scans had come back green. More evidence of an Autobot's capability for deceit, though, as this instance was in the seeker's favor, he did not call attention to it.

That, and the flyer did not trust himself to speak and continue the ruse of docility. Starscream allowed tension to visibly bleed from his frame, attempting to appear less the furious warframe and more the despondent patient; all while tucking information on the division within ranks into the back of his processor. Useful knowledge for later, possibly. For now, he stilled his glossa, discontent, but willing to allow the Autobots their own inter-factional discourse. 

"Very well, I expect you to inform Prime of your decision regarding the seeker's care," Prowl conceded to the medic before refocusing his attention on said seeker. "Until Ratchet has cleared you for an audience with Prime, you will be allowed to remain aboard The Ark on a probationary, monitored case. Leaving the medbay will be considered a breach of probation and prompt an immediate relocation to the brig."

Ratchet’s helm jerked in shock. “Now wait just a minute, that’s—”

“Nonnegotiable,” Prowl cut in. “Unless you would prefer to clear him now and move this conversation to the command center?”

Ratchet twisted his derma, looking sorely tempted; likely due to the disturbance a permanent, non-Autobot resident would cause in his medbay. Reaching a decision and with a shake of his helm, Ratchet responded, "No, that's fine. That's…I'll figure it out."

"See that you do." Prowl inclined his chevroned helm toward the medic once, "Ratchet." Then, with a final glance at the seeker, he strode out of the medbay as assuredly as he had entered, door sliding quietly shut behind him. Leaving both the silently shattered seeker and scowling medic alone in the medbay once again.

“And folks say I need to work on my bedside manner,” Ratchet grumped, patting Starscream’s shoulder one last time before standing back. “I understand this is a lot to take in and that stalled engine-block, Prowl, didn’t make it any easier.”

“Understatement of the century, or should I say millennia? Ten millennia?” Starscream chuckled, only to stop once he noticed the uncomfortable expression on the Autobot’s face.

"I can leave if you need time to process this alone, or I can stay if…if you need someone to talk things out with," Ratchet said even as he looked like he would rather pet a rust-plague-infected scraplet than stay in the room alone with an unstable, unaccomplished, partner abandoning seeker.

“What do you think, medic? Am I an untrustworthy deserter? Do I need supervision? Do you fear I will turn on you Autobots just as your second claimed I turned on my partner?”

“Don’t matter what you were or what you’re not; what you are now is my patient, and what you need is recharge and a proper defrag—but from the way you acted after we first woke you up…would a mech who abandoned his partner be that desperate to find him?” Ratchet shook his helm as he moved to grip the back of the chair he had previously been sitting in, blue optics insultingly sympathetic.

Starscream spared the medic and himself, the seeker’s energy for conversation having fallen as low as his energon levels, from a nauseating spark-to-spark about loss and feelings. Loosening his hold over the datapad, he waved Ratchet off with a blue servo, “Leave me. I must…ruminate on today’s revelations.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Ratchet said, looking unconvinced, but not arguing. “There’s energon in the drawers back there, coolant too, though I doubt you’ll be needing it. Drink it slow.”

Starscream nodded his acknowledgment, then straightened as an unknown frequency pinged his comm, requesting permission to communicate.

“That’s my personal communications line. You feel any residual pain, you even so much as hiccup, you call me, got it?”

The seeker nodded, accepting the frequency and logging it in his processor. All without a word; he eyed the medic expectantly, awaiting his promised solitude. Not until the prolonged optic contact and long silence began to turn awkward did the medic raise a servo up to his mouth to cough, blue optics turning away from red.

“Right, yeah, going now,” Ratchet said, letting go of the chair. He followed the same path as Prowl to make his exit, stopping just before the door to turn toward the seeker one last time, expression a strange mix of concerned and stern. "I mean it, kid. You so much as skip an ex-vent, you comm me. And if you change your mind about talking, then I'm here. And if not me, then we’ll find someone on this base you can tolerate. They're all damage-prone glitches, but they're good bots."

An unspoken you’ll see hung in the air between them.

When the medic didn't leave the medbay, the seeker frowned. Ratchet had stopped just in front of the door, waiting for a verbal response from the seeker, an optic ridge raised as he waited. To which Starscream sighed, cycling his optics and giving the medic one last, lingering look. “I understand and…thank you, Ratchet.”

It was a testament to the seeker's deteriorated mental state that he actually meant the words, feeling a small swell of gratitude toward the Autobot for his strange understanding—but mostly for his willingness to leave the seeker unattended for any length of time.  

The door slid open, softly clicked shut, and the medic was gone. Starscream waited a full nano-klick before throwing the datapad as hard as he could; he felt no satisfaction when it shattered against one of the medbay’s copper walls.

The throw had taken the last of his already dwindling energy. A lethargy had overtaken his frame during that final conversation with the medic, draining his reserves faster than any stasis-cuffs could. The chill that had encompassed his frame during his initial onlining had come back, freezing Starscream’s spark in its chamber.

Either his partner had been falsely reported as deactivated, or he had somehow survived a war that destroyed their entire world, taking half their species with it. A gentle giant if there ever was one, could his sweet, caring, kind partner have survived millions of stellar-cycles on a war-torn Cybertron? Survived without Starscream there to protect him?

Starscream had been volatile enough for the both of them while at the Institute. He'd started fights, finished them, dredged up old fights, and inserted himself into new ones. Often intentionally, just as often not. Being the only seeker in the ISR, at times feeling like the only one in all of Iacon, altercations found him one way or another, and eventually, Starscream had determined being the instigator was preferable to being the injured.

His partner had patiently disagreed with the seeker's conclusion, and whenever they were together, the shuttle would intervene in the worst, passive way.

Skyfire would stand in front of Starscream’s attackers and take blows meant for the seeker without a word of protest or a single move to defend himself. Whatever the transgression, Skyfire had always refused to strike back, always so conscious of his towering stature and strength in comparison to others.

Buffing out his partner’s dents had done more to curb Starscream’s antagonistic behavior than any lecture or punishment ever had.

Skyfire would not have fought his deactivation. If the reports read by the Autobot’s second had been accurate, if every terabyte and word spoken were to be the whole truth—then Starscream had not lost his partner. The Decepticons had taken the shuttle from him. And Starscream couldn’t help himself—he laughed, the soft sound causing his shoulders to shake and his wings to rattle. He stared down at his talons as he trembled. Everything was gone. The Institute. Cybertron. Skyfire. There was nothing for him in this new world he had awoken in. Nothing except a single burning desire—a need that chased away the cold that had threatened to seize his spark.

Revenge. 

Chapter Text

Starscream paced in front of medbay’s doors, servos clasped behind his back, his expression contorted in cogitation. His wings were rigid, the seeker's entire frame stiff from lack of activity. He had never been a mech to idle away his breems, and he found the Autobots quarantining of him to the medbay worse than if they had stasis-cuffed and imprisoned him; at least then he wouldn't have had the energy to brood. 

Once alone, Starscream had spent the remainder of the night on the mediberth, meticulously combing through data, turning it over and over in his processor for even a single hint of a possible mention of Skyfire. Nothing.

Then, once the reality of his situation had settled, tepidly, as he still had his reservations about the truthfulness of it all—Starscream's frame had seemed to remember it had not moved so much as a digit in the past ten million stellar-cycles. His every joint had ached, and even sitting had become a taxing burden on his frame. But Starscream had refused to allow his aching frame rest.

There had been no recharge that night nor the one that followed. Starscream hadn’t even attempted it. He had already wasted away too much of his time in stasis. The idea of lying down, shuttering his optics offline, only to wake up and find another ten million stellar-cycles had passed, that what little of their race remained had been reduced to none, had plagued his processor into a near crash the moment he had even attempted to cycle down.

The buzz of pain in his processor from the lack of a proper defrag was a welcome one. It was proof that he was alive, but more importantly, that he was awake.

Unwilling to recharge and unable to remain still, Starscream had begun performing a multitude of miscellaneous chores around the medbay. Cataloging, categorizing, and even polishing some of the more worn tools. Anything to keep his servos busy and prevent his processor from stalling due to overtaxation. By the third solar-cycle, Starscream had become intimately familiar with every piece of medical equipment in the room.

His acquired knowledge had endeared him to the Autobot medic who had returned to the medbay early the next solar-cycle to inform Starscream—after promptly admonishing him for his lack of recharge—that they were converting the science lab into a makeshift medbay until the seeker was cleared to leave. He would have the space to himself, excluding the occasional foray by Ratchet to acquire the necessary tools.

Tools that, after the second day, Ratchet had needed to only briefly describe before the seeker was retrieving them and holding them out for the medic to take, with only a slight smirk on his faceplate as he did so.

Three days of the repeated interaction had wiped the smirk from Starscream’s faceplate and replaced it with a placid smile. The fourth a tight thinning of his derma. The fifth had him nearly ready to peel off his own plating out of boredom.  

There was only so shiny he could make a wrench before the metal began to strip; hence the pacing.

The moment Ratchet returned, Starscream would demand the medic clear him. Whatever interrogation Prowl had planned for the seeker was a more welcome horror than the monotony of the medbay.

“Where is he?” Starscream hissed. The medic typically arrived early in the morning to check on the seeker’s condition before cantankering around the medbay in a huff; reciting all the ways Starscream was setting himself up for a crash from lack of recharge, and checking over whatever equipment the seeker had decided to clean the day before.

Starscream stopped pacing and stood in front of the door, placing a blue servo on it and lightly scratching the copper metal. He was internally debating the pros and cons of exiting without permission: the Autobot’s second in command would not be pleased with him, but the brig would offer a change of scenery….

The sound of heavy pede-steps stomping outside the door was the only warning Starscream had before it abruptly slid open, revealing a grumpier-than-usual looking medic. The seeker took a startled step back, lowering his servo as Ratchet raised an optic ridge at him.

Starscream quickly straightened and assumed a more poised stance, shoving down any awkwardness he might have felt at having been caught loitering by the door. If the medic made no mention of it, then neither would the seeker. The Autobot only gave the taller mech an unimpressed look; Starscream raised his chin at the scrutiny.

“Congratulations, you’re cleared,” Ratchet gruffed, sounding not the least bit congratulatory.

Starscream resisted the urge to shout finally, instead lightly intoning, “So soon?”

Ratchet huffed, one servo resting on a red hip, the other pointing at the seeker. “If it was up to me, you’d finish out the orn, but someone’s paid your bail and Prime wants to see you in the command center.”

He grinned down at the medic. "Paid my bail? Why, doctor, I knew your medbay was a prison, but I never expected such an admission from you." Starscream meant it as a jest, one made after days of observing the medic's temperament and forming an understanding of what would and would not genuinely annoy the Autobot.

Ratchet snorted with a shake of his helm, then turned more serious optics on the seeker. “Perceptor, the name ring any bells?”

Starscream made no visible indication that it had not, in fact, rang any bells. Perhaps he had known this Perceptor, but after processing so much new data, the lack of defrag made it difficult to recall a single faraway designation of a mech he might have met in passing.

“No,” he finally answered, “Should it?”

Ratchet straightened his posture with a shrug. “You tell me, kid. Perceptor’s one of our top scientists. He’s been…out on an away mission and we finally managed to get ahold of him this morning, said he knows you.”

Starscream frowned, the pain of his helm-ache increasing as he dived deeper into his memory banks, trying to recall every scientist of note he had ever met. The list wasn't short, but the names of those he considered colleagues wouldn't fill a single scroll on the world's smallest datapad. Starscream was reluctant to admit as much, however. The question could very well be a test, and maybe he should have known the scientist. Skyfire might have, but Starscream had only ever taken note of scientists with projects of personal interest to him or ones in positions that could have potentially benefited the seeker in some way.

“…Perhaps meeting him in person will jog my memory.” Starscream hedged, the closest he would get to admitting he didn’t know the mech.

“Uh-huh,” Ratchet twisted his derma, having also spent the last several days observing the seeker and his wary ways. “This isn't some trick question, kid—there's no wrong answer.” Ratchet stepped to the side, turning and gesturing with his helm for Starscream to step out. “But you're in luck; that's actually why I'm here. We've got him on VTC in the command center, and Optimus thought it might be better to have you there for a visual confirmation.”

Starscream stepped out into the hallway, the jitteriness in his frame finally unwinding as his visual feed was greeted with an unfamiliar view: an empty copper hallway. Wonderful.

He looked down at the medic, tilting his helm. “I thought you said Perceptor had returned from an away mission?” If so, why was he only reachable through a video teleconference was the underlying question.

A corner of Ratchet’s derma turned up in a smirk. “I did, didn’t I?”

The Autobot gave no further response and instead turned and began walking down the corridor, gesturing for Starscream to follow. “C’mon, let’s go. The sooner Prowl realizes you’re not a Decepticon spy, the sooner we can find a place to stick you other than my medbay.”

Starscream allowed his question to drop and followed the medic; he would learn soon enough and would rather spend his time more productively—memorizing the Ark’s interior.

He also said nothing of how the unintentional admission that Ratchet did not think him a Decepticon spy pleased him. For one, the medic would have denied caring what Starscream was, only that he was a patient—if only to maintain his cantankerous persona. And two, Starscream wasn’t entirely sure why it pleased him. That the medic’s trust implied Starscream’s docile ruse was working was the only rational explanation, and yet it did not explain the depth of the emotion. How curious.

The seeker remained silent as they strode through the empty hallway, instead using the opportunity to observe the ship's layout. Not that there was much to see. All the doors they passed were closed, and other than the medic, he saw no Autobots about; an intentional security measure against him, no doubt. All he was learning was that the Autobots had a fascination with the color copper. It was everywhere.

Starscream’s wings twitched, red optics narrowing. Their delicate sensor arrays had detected an infinitesimal shift in the flow of air around the hallway. Almost as if something was following behind him, disrupting it. The seeker gave no other outward sign he had noticed anything amiss before snapping his helm around, trying to catch the unknown onlooker off guard, only to be met with nothing. The hall was as empty as when they had first entered it.

Frowning, Starscream continued forward, turning his pensive gaze back to the Autobot’s white plating. Perhaps Ratchet had been right about the defrag; his wing sensors had never malfunctioned before.

Starscream didn't have long to contemplate the disturbance before Ratchet was loudly announcing, “Alright, we're here.”

They had come to a stop in front of a large copper door with a seam splitting its center. The medic then turned around, looked past the seeker, and said, "Thanks for playing escort, Mirage."

Starscream twisted his helm to look over his shoulder with a frown, only for a bolt of shock to strike him, locking him in place. Only a few short paces behind him stood a waving white and blue mech. How had he…?

“Anytime, Ratchet,” the stranger said with a smile, his vocals rich and cultured as he added. “I hope everything works out for you, Starscream.” And then he was walking off, gait nonchalant as though he hadn’t just appeared out of thin air.

Starscream watched him leave, not moving from his half-turned position as possibilities whirled in his helm—until he heard Ratchet’s muffled laughter. “Careful, kid, or you’ll get stuck that way.”

“How long was he following us?” Starscream asked, turning back around to see that the medic had covered his mouth with a red servo, not that it did anything to hold in his laughter at the seeker's expense.

"The whole time, I didn't think we needed one, but Prowl and Red Alert wouldn't agree to let you out without an escort—it was supposed to be Hound, by the way. But he was scheduled for patrol this morning, and Mirage volunteered to cover."

Ignoring the mention of another unknown Autobot, Starscream asked, “How did I not see him?” Had the Autobots done something to his optics? Made it so he couldn’t visibly register any of his would-be escorts?

Ratchet waved him off, “Later, we’re already late as is—they won’t be on the call much longer.”

Starscream was not satisfied with the non-answer, and his optics narrowed in response. If the Autobots had tampered with his internal opto-metric sensors….

As if sensing the seeker's rising apprehensive anger, Ratchet briskly explained, "Mirage is an outlier; he can turn invisible—after you." The medic tacked on as the doors slid open, holding out an arm into a darkly lit room where four Autobots had gathered around a circular table. Starscream had no time to properly process the revelation of an outlier before two sets of blue optics and one visor had locked onto the seeker; his chin lifted under the scrutiny.

He recognized most of the mecha in the room: Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Jazz. The fourth was a short mech who had a red helm with small protruding kibble at the top, similar to Jazz's, almost like horns. He had a white chassis and could potentially have been a speedster of some kind, if not for the heavy armor.

Behind them was a large video screen, its length going from the ceiling to a thin, short console covered with various keys and buttons. There was no evidence of a video call taking place—the screen was black.

"Starscream," the Prime greeted, moving around the table to stand by the seeker. "I'm glad to see you're doing better." He stood only a few paces away from the flyer, and Starscream tilted his helm upward to meet the Prime's optics, no trace of hesitancy as red met blue. Starscream was not intimidated by the Prime's size or title—he was used to bigger; Skyfire would have towered over the Prime, and neither scientist had ever been religious.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Prime. Ratchet has been most…considerate during my recovery," Starscream said with a practiced, placid smile; the same one he had used when petitioning the Institute of Scientific Research's council for more expeditionary funds.

Jazz burst out into frame shaking laughter, and one of Starscream's optics twitched; what had he said?

"Hatchet? Considerate?" Jazz said in between laughs. "You sure he's cleared, doc? Think his processor might be scrambled from all that time in stasis."

Starscream’s smile wavered, but didn’t slip as he carefully went over what he had said, trying to place where he had blundered. 

"Knock it off, and maybe I'll consider not welding your helm to your aft the next time you end up in my medbay,” Ratchet threatened with a finger pointed at the laughing bot.

Optimus Prime's deep vocals spoke over Jazz's laughter, addressing the seeker, "I'd like to formally introduce myself as leader of the Autobots—and to apologize for how you were treated after emerging from stasis. That you were an unknown is no excuse for how poorly we received you."

It was the sincerity in both the Prime’s tone and field that had red optics cycling in confusion. A Prime apologizing? Starscream had simply thought his audials had glitched when he’d heard it after the Autobots had first awoken him. Primes did not apologize.

This Prime held a blue servo out in front of the seeker; Starscream looked from it to the mech it was attached to, unsure of the Autobot’s intent.

“What is this?” Starscream puzzled. What was he supposed to do with the Prime’s servo? Kiss it? That was more like the Primes he had learned of, always expecting those they considered lesser to simper and prostrate before them–and Starscream would, if it got him the information and resources he needed.

Warm blue optics smiled at him (how do optics smile?), and the Autobot leader answered jovially, "A customary Earth greeting—it's called a handshake. I’ll give you a demonstration.”

The large bot then turned to Jazz, who held out his own black servo. They clasped them together and proceeded to slowly move them up and down, shaking them. Starscream's helm tilted; what an odd greeting.

“I see,” he said before holding out his own servo. The Prime took and held it in his own massive blue servo, its size engulfing Starscream’s own as they shook. He could feel tiny dents and nicks on the mech’s palm and digits; the Prime had a worker’s servo, which was even more unusual than the greeting itself.

“I was told there was someone here who could testify that the record you discovered is false?” Starscream inquired as the Prime released his servo. He looked over at the only unknown bot in the room, wondering if he could be Perceptor. If he was, he was certainly not someone Starscream had ever met before. As they met optics, the unknown Autobot visibly tensed.

Optimus inclined his helm, “Yes, due to security concerns, we are only able to hail them for short intervals.” Optimus tilted his helm toward his third in command, “Jazz, if you would—"

“He needs to be read in first!” The unknown bot interjected. Prowl, standing next to him, merely nodded and raised an icy optic ridge when the Prime looked to him for confirmation. Jazz moved to take a seat by the screen’s control panel, next to where Prowl stood, and spread his legs around the chair’s back as he folded his arms over it to lean forward with a shrug in the Prime’s direction.

The Autobot leader rubbed the back of his helm, deep vocals somehow sounding bashful. "Right, of course—Starscream, this is Red Alert, our security director." The Prime gestured to the red-helmed bot. "I believe you've already met Prowl, and…are you familiar with Jazz? I understand if, given the circumstances, you don't remember all who was present when you first awoke."

Starscream glided over the Prime alluding to when the seeker had first been pulled out of stasis with a simple, "I remember—and his position is?"

“Third in command, baby,” Jazz answered with smooth vocals, resulting in the praxian shooting him a glare.

“What?” The visored mech grinned up at the taller bot. “I wanted to show off the new earth-lingo I learned.” He then turned to Starscream. “You see, baby doesn’t just mean a baby, ya dig? It can also mean—ow!”

Prowl had flicked one of Jazz’s helm kibble and appeared to be admonishing him over comms, if the visored mech’s soured expression was anything to go by.

“You never let me have any fun,” Jazz complained.

“Not during an important meeting with a limited time window,” Prowl said through clenched denta, then resumed his rigid, servos clasped behind the back, stance.

“Ahem, the read in?” Red Alert interrupted while shaking a blue datapad.

The Prime made no comment, ignoring the security bot as he reached down to pat Jazz's helm in a comforting manner, who then smiled and gave the larger mech a thumbs up. Prowl scoffed, and the kibble on Red Alert's helm started sparking—Starscream turned to Ratchet, mouth agape.

The medic grunted and gestured in a what can you do, kind of way. “They’re idiots, I know.”

Prowl narrowed his optics at the medic before addressing Starscream. "Jazz's idiocy notwithstanding, you do need to complete the read in before we can allow you contact with our source."

Red Alert walked around the table, his horns sparking brighter with every step, and held the datapad out for Starscream to take. “Read this and sign it—I mean really read it, every word. I’ll know if you don’t.”

Still reeling from that shockingly malapropos display of military bearing, Starscream wordlessly accepted the datapad, looking from it to the Prime, to Prowl, and then to Jazz, who flashed the seeker a reassuring smile.

“It’s nothing personal, they’re just very serious about security around here—not that that's ever stopped a cassette," Jazz said with a flicker of his visor that resembled something akin to a wink.

Red Alert turned to glare at Jazz, then, with a heavy thump to his chassis, declared, "That was before I arrived and took over the Ark's security—there hasn't been a single breach since!"

"That you know of," Jazz taunted, and Starscream was already starting to get the impression that the visored mech liked to rile up his fellow officers.

“Why you—!”

Starscream tuned out the bickering mecha as he began scrolling through the security read in. It was long and repetitive, going into detail on who did and did not have a need to know for the information that would be discussed during the meeting. It appeared that every single Autobot name was listed, all of them. Thousands of them. Starscream tried memorizing a few before shaking his helm against it, his helm-ache already aggravated by the effort it took to read. The read-in also described the grave damage that would be done to the Autobot cause should Starscream discuss the contents of the meeting with anyone not authorized. Lastly were the repercussions, which were surprisingly mild. A harsh reprimand and time in the brig?

Starscream had faced worse punishments from the ISR council.

Klicks passed by with distant Autobot squabbling as white noise to his reading. And once the seeker reached the bottom of the seemingly endless scroll of the security protocol datapad, he reached underneath the armor of his wrist to pull out a thin link-cable. He placed it into the datapad’s bottom port and uploaded his digital signature.

“It’s done,” he said, cutting through Red Alert and Jazz’s nonsensical argument to hand the datapad back to the security bot.

Red Alert startled at the seeker's proximity, grabbed the datapad, and jumped back, helm kibble sparking. "R-right, and you r-read all of it?" Then, through narrowed optics, asked, "What did subsection six cover?"

Starscream placed a servo on his hip, and it took every iota of self-control he possessed not to sneer in the little mech's face. "The grave harm that would befall the Autobot cause were I to reveal to the Decepticons all that is discussed here."

Blue optics widened, and the security bot looked down at the datapad in his servos. "That's right…," he said, then seemingly muttering to himself, continued. "No one ever reads all of my subsections…."

Starscream’s denta clenched behind his smile as he waved a servo toward the blank vid screen. “May we proceed with the meeting now?”

Behind him, Ratchet snickered and pinged Starscream’s comm line.

::That mask is going to drop sooner or later, kid. Red Alert is good at what he does, but he’s got a paranoia glitch tangled up in his coding that not even a mnemosurgeon could unwind—sometimes you have to tell him when he’s gone too far.::

He ignored the medic and the revelation that he knew Starscream was faking his niceties. Their early interactions might have been emotionally charged due to all the information the seeker had been made to process, but he had seriously thought his reactions to said information had been better controlled than Ratchet was implying.

Starscream would have to watch himself more closely around the Autobot Chief Medical Officer.

Prowl was the one to answer in lieu of Red Alert, who was hunched over the datapad, mumbling to himself. "Before we continue, there are a few matters regarding your record to be addressed. Our coding specialist breached the metadata of your record and—"

Jazz elbowed the praxian, grinning. “He means he asked Chip to dig a little deeper and see if your record was on the level—it wasn’t.”

Chip was the designation of the Autobot coding specialist? Starscream filed away the information in the back of his processor; he might have use for the mech later.

Prowl’s posture remained rigid, completely ignoring the shorter mech. “Your record was not only the only one sealed—it was also one of the only records remaining in the database. Nearly all others had been purged not long after the initial attack on the ISR.”

"The weirdness doesn't stop there," Jazz jumped in. "Your record was created and sealed only a short time apart from each other—very suspicious."

“You also now have a reference that its contents are false,” Prowl said. “They are currently aboard the Autobot battlecruiser the Trion, en route to Earth. They are—”

"Perceptor," Starscream interrupted, still trying to place the designation. There were very few at the ISR that the seeker had considered colleagues, even fewer he had worked with directly and could claim to know personally.

White and black doorings shot up, and Prowl cast a sharp glance at Ratchet, who shrugged.

“The Trion’s position and personnel on board are highly classified information. I’ll reiterate that anything spoken in this room not be repeated in uncleared spaces.” The praxian’s helm slowly turned to look at the other Autobots present, icy optics roving over each one of them; even the Prime stood straighter under the praxian’s cool gaze.

Starscream, nonplussed, merely nodded, “Of course.”

Satisfied, Prowl continued, "The Trion has been on course for Earth for the past several months; however, they only just came into direct communications range last night. Perceptor recognized your designation and disputed the contents of your record—he claims to have directly commissioned you and your partner for an expedition."

 Jazz interjected, “Meaning you’ve been on more than one.”

“Putting the entirety of your record’s legitimacy into question,” Prowl finished.

Starscream crossed his arms over his chassis. “The only question is why would the ISR attempt to slander me in such an obvious way?”

The Autobot second opened his mouth to answer—a high-pitched, three-toned beep interrupted him.

“Incoming hail from the Trion,” Jazz announced, turning from the conversation to the communications console.

Prowl turned to face the screen and said, “Bring them up.”

The screen flickered to life, and a red mech with an elongated optical device attached to a shoulder appeared on screen. Starscream's optics flitted over every piece of his frame, searching for any familiar traits; he found none. He did not know Perceptor, and he would also not admit as much until he understood the mech's motives for claiming to know him. 

“Hello, this is Perceptor aboard the Trion, hailing the Ark. Do you receive me?” A rich Altihexian accent spoke through the screen.

"We receive you, Percy," Jazz replied, then, with a thumb over his shoulder, asked. "You know this seeker?"

Perceptor’s optics widened, and his jaw dropped. "Oh-oh my goodness, it really is Starscream. When Prowl told me of your predicament, I scarcely knew what to believe. The entire situation sounds scientifically improbable." The mech placed a servo on his chin and leaned forward. "But they really did find you in the snow...and so well preserved."

"I have some theories about that, actually, if you would care to discuss them. Though I admit my prolonged time in stasis has resulted in a few…memory bank incongruencies. Primarily, when we might have met…?" Starscream inquired with a slight tilt to his helm, the closest he would get to admitting he had no idea who Perceptor was. 

Perceptor's servos rose, waving as he stepped closer to the vid screen, the sound of his knees hitting the comm console sounding loud and clear through the speakers. "Oh, oh no, when I said I knew you, that was a bit presumptuous of me, I apologize. I meant I knew of you—most of the students enrolled in the Institute had heard of you by the time you disappeared. You had a-uh, reputation among the younger attendees.”

A reputation? Wonderful. "I'm sure it precedes me," Starscream intoned with a thin smile.

Perceptor smiled at the seeker reassuringly. “Nothing bad, I assure you—you were quite the celebrity among the younger students. I was only two hundred stellar cycles from graduating when you were first reported missing. Though the details did not come out until some several thousand stellar-cycles later. I only found out something was amiss when the requisition request I had sent to the council for you and your partner was rejected. The reason given being that you had betrayed your partner and were now a wanted criminal.”

“An obvious falsehood,” Starscream surmised.

“Yes,” Perceptor agreed. “You and your partner’s fondness for each other was well known throughout the Institute. The idea that you would betray him was implausible, to say the least.”

"Impossible, more like," Starscream countered. Even Starscream's advanced processor couldn't generate a scenario where he would ever betray Skyfire.

“Oh, I never like to conclude any probability as impossible, though I suppose I’ve long since considered meeting you impossible. I had considered the multi-verse theory as a means; however theoretical it was. But I never imagined—," Perceptor stopped himself, frame visible vibrating. "Apologies for my rambling. I just never thought I would ever have the opportunity to actually meet you, and I'm finding myself a bit star-struck, ha! Pardon my pun.” The mech tittered, raising a servo to cover his mouth.

At that, Jazz turned from the video screen to give Starscream a slow, up-and-down once over, blue visor stretched wide. Even Red Alert and Prowl were looking at him as though he had grown a second set of wings, and the Prime was regarding him with an odd, unreadable look.

Starscream’s optics widened, and he tilted his shoulders forward in a subtle, silent what?

Ratchet merely snorted and sent Starscream a short, ::He’s not usually like this.:: in way of an explanation.

The seeker turned his attention back to the screen, not understanding the Autobots’ unusual reactions to the overly excited bot’s praise. As far as he was concerned, Perceptor was the first Autobot to have an appropriate reaction to meeting a scientist of Starscream’s caliber. His accomplishments in the field of xenobiology and alternate energy applications warranted nothing but undulated praise—though Starscream would sooner be caught offline than twittering about one of his scientific peers like some sycophantic fool.

“Well, now you’ve met me,” Starscream raised his wings and gave a slight bow. “I do wonder what it was about my work that drew you to it; not many would read the writings of a seeker.”

The meeting was turning out far more favorable for him than Starscream could have anticipated. That sham of a record had been proven wrong on all counts. All that was left for him to consider the entire affair successful was to direct the conversation toward the only other information Perceptor might know that interested him.

“I’ve always had an interest in alternate forms of energy application, your thesis on the practical uses of nullification being one of them. Ah, but—!”

Perceptor gasped and slammed a fist into an open palm. "Beachcomber! He was my compatriot at the Institute, though we studied in different fields; he avidly followed yours and Skyfire's career. He might even have some of your original xenobiology publishings among his possessions—he had wanted to follow your example and explore alien worlds and document them in much the same way.”

“Is that so?” Starscream said. “I’ve never heard of Beachcomber, but he sounds like quite the passionate researcher. Is he available for the comm or…?”

Understanding what the seeker was asking, Perceptor shook his helm. “Unfortunately, due to the long interstellar travel and lack of energon, we’ve made the decision to place all non-essential—ah, anyone but me, in stasis until we’re close enough to Earth for—”

“He’s not cleared for that!” Red Alert shouted as he jumped and pointed at the screen, helm kibble sparking.

Prowl gave Red Alert a side-opticed glance before addressing Perceptor. “I believe the matter of Starscream’s record has been settled for the time being—and there is still much for us to discuss not pertaining to the details of Starscream’s scientific career.”

A more obvious get out, this conversation is over, couldn't have been stated even if Prowl had directly stated the conversation was over and that he was kicking Starscream out.

Perceptor’s vents cycled loudly, and he placed a servo on the side of his helm, the brightness in his blue optics dimming. "Yes, of course, I apologize, Prowl—my excitement got away from me. The lack of recharge and extended travel seems to have strained my impulse control overrides."

“We’ll make sure you have time for plenty of recharge once you arrive,” Optimus Prime promised.

“And a full-frame medical exam for all of you. There’s no telling what space barnacles you picked up on the way here,” Ratchet groused.

"C'mon, Ratch, we want to encourage Percy to land, not scare him back to Cybertron," Jazz joked. The medic gave the visored mech an unamused glare, servos placed firmly on his hips, looking ready to rant.

But before the Autobots could fall back into their inane chattering, he cleared his vocalizer and said, "If I could ask one more question before leaving, then?" He had turned to look at the Autobot leader as he spoke, the mech's un-Primelike behavior hinting he might be the one most likely to say yes. Though Starscream wondered if Prowl denying his request would supersede any permission the Prime gave him. The second in command seemed to be the one really running the meeting and possibly the entire army.

“Of course, Starscream,” the Prime assured. “I only regret we couldn’t afford you more time.”

If the Prime’s field wasn’t constantly dripping with sincerity, Starscream would have thought the mech was mocking him. Primes did not regret, and they did not apologize, and they certainly did not make allowances for warframes. Ignoring his suspicions over the Prime’s bizarre behavior, Starscream allowed his wings to slant downward, his optics to dim, and a practiced, softly imploring tone to fill his vocals.

“I understand if this is a…difficult topic to approach, especially given your weathered state. However, I have been trying to understand exactly what happened during the Decepitcons’ raid on the ISR—the tragic fate that befell Skyfire.” Starscream’s manner matched that of when he would make funding and equipment requests to the Institute’s council. The greedy upper caste mecha never outright approved of his status among them, but they enjoyed the way he batted his wings in their direction; to seeing a warframe willingly bend his neck before them. And while he had never sunk so low as to beg, the seeker had learned to use the superior make of his build to his advantage.

Perceptor’s entire frame sagged, and his optics dimmed to nearly dull; Starscream's smile turned predatory, hidden by his bow; the ploy had worked.

“I am sorry for the loss of your partner, Starscream, and while I was not present during the raid, I did gather all the details surrounding the attack at the time and will tell you what I can,” Perceptor promised, then in a softer tone. “I too, lost someone important to me that day.”

If the latter were true, then Perceptor would have a compelling reason to relinquish the information Starscream was after, the same as his own: revenge.

"Millions of stellar cycles too late, but my condolences for your loss," He soothed. "The raid on the ISR was an awful tragedy, yet the only designations I've been given for those present were of the scientists who lost their lives. I had hoped to gain a clearer understanding of the raid by learning who all had been present at the Institute that day; the council members, undergraduates, diplomats…the Decepticons responsible?"

In front of the comm console, Jazz sat up straighter, Perceptor's optics flicking to the mech before back to Starscream. The Autobot scientist opened his mouth, then closed it, looking to Jazz once more before locking brighter optics with the seeker’s subdued red. “I am sorry, Starscream, truly, but I have no more information on the raid than what you’ve already been given.”

A lie had never sounded so sympathetic. Whatever look the Autobot scientist and the faction’s third had shared had sealed the distant mech’s derma. Starscream’s optics narrowed, but his smile never wavered.

"No need for apologies, it was so long ago, after all. I shouldn't have expected you to remember such an inconsequential event in an eons-long war." Starscream thought about saying more, about digging his thruster in and burning into the long buffed out wound of Perceptor's loss; reminding him exactly why Starscream wanted those names. But he also didn't want to ruin any chances of persuading the mech in the future by burning a bridge that had yet to be built—and there were still other untried airways available for him to pursue; Beachcomber, for one, and the coding specialist, Chip, for another.

Feeling an inexplicable pressure against his plating, Starscream turned his helm toward the source to see the Prime's heavy optics weighing down on him, his expression for the first time solemn. Starscream bit his bottom derma, unsure what offense he had committed. But before he could begin to unravel exactly what had caused the shift in the Autobot leader, Ratchet stepped closer to the seeker, patting him once on the shoulder.   

"Think it's about time we head out. You," Ratchet made a vague gesture between Prowl and Perceptor. "Have things to discuss, and I have places to be—I promised I'd help Jack out in the lab; the kid can wait for Hound there unless you two have something to say about it?"

Prowl and Red Alert shared a look, then to Ratchet, the praxian’s tone hesitant as he spoke. “There are currently no classified projects….”

“That he’s reported,” grumbled Red Alert. 

“But it is still not advisable for—”

“That’s a great idea, Ratchet,” The Prime said, his deep vocals overpowering the praxian’s. “I think our seeker friend here could use a more familiar setting.”

Ratchet smirked at Prowl before turning to leave the room. Starscream remained, an optic ridge arched at the Autobot leader's bold choice of phrasing; not that he intended to refute it. If the new Prime thought a simple, primitive greeting signified friendship, then what benefit to Starscream was it to argue?

"That's my cue, I'm afraid." He said, red optics only for the bot on screen. Then with a purr, "Perceptor, it's been a pleasure meeting you.”

The mech gave a kind, recharge-deprived smile in response. "Likewise, Starscream, I look forward to making your acquaintance in person.".

“Only once you’ve had proper rest,” Starscream said with a final look back before following Ratchet out of the room, the door closing with a small woosh behind him.

The medic was waiting for him only a few paces away from the door, his arms crossed over his chassis, and a deep frown pulling at his aged face. The smug humor from his opinion triumphing over Prowl’s gone. Ratchet was looking at Starscream with furrowed optics, field held tightly around his white frame as he released heavy vent once the seeker was standing next to him.

Starscream’s derma twisted. “What?”

"Nothing," the medic said with a shake of his helm. "C'mon, kid, let's go."

The seeker frowned but followed the shorter mech. He turned his helm from left to right, then peered over the medic's helm, his wings lifting at his back. "Are we being followed again?"

“No,” came Ratchet’s short response.

Starscream’s frown deepened, but he said no more. The medic had mood swings faster than a particle accelerator; one Starscream was only just learning how to operate. He had no idea what had set off this particular malfunction, but like any malfunctioning piece of equipment, the scientist couldn’t resist his urge to poke and prod.

“Was it something I said, doctor? Or is it the thought of this Jack that has your transformation seams tightening?”

"It's not you, kid…well, it is, but it's more what Jazz said that—" Ratchet abruptly cut himself off. "—Nothing, it's nothing. You just remember what I said about needing to talk? That still stands, and we have someone on base, his name is Smokescreen, who can—"

Starscream waved off the medic’s words, optics bright with victory. So, the Autobot third had said something, only not just to Perceptor, but to every Autobot present. "No need, Ratchet. Tell me more about Jack and the lab. Will I have free access, or is this more of a guided tour?"

Ratchet’s field unwrapped around himself, a sense of relief breezing around the medic. Starscream’s wings tingled in self-satisfied pleasure; he was learning the right buttons to push.

“Guided tour, and his name’s Wheeljack; when his stuff works, he’s the best scientist we have. When it doesn’t…let’s just say there were more than a few rumors about him being a Decepticon saboteur for the first million years or so.”

“Wheeljack?” Starscream questioned, previous self-congratulatory thoughts gone after the utterance of that very recognizable designation. Surely the medic didn’t mean who Starscream associated that designation with.

“He’s the head of our science division, not that there’s much of one right now. Most of his team is coming in on the Trion, so I’ve been lending a servo whenever I can spare the time and…oops, wasn’t supposed to say that.” Ratchet said, sounding utterly unconcerned with his breach of security.

They stopped in front of, surprise, another unmarked copper door. “You might want to stand behind me,” Ratchet warned before keying in a code.

Black smoke met them when the door opened, billowing out of the room, causing Starscream’s fans to stutter and wheeze. He closed them, but was too slow and began to cough out what smoke had been trapped inside.

“What did you do this time?” Ratchet growled, marching into the lab, wrench held firmly in a red servo.

Starscream stayed by the door, coughing, one servo holding the doorframe and the other waving away the smoke that continued to blow around him.

“Nothing!” Shouted a faintly familiar voice. “I think? I was working on some mineral samples when right from behind me—boom!”

The smoke began to thin, giving Starscream his first view of the lab. Its design was similar to the medbay’s; copper and more copper. There were various instruments on the walls and a few large devices placed seemingly at random about the room. Multiple work desks with different sorts of scientific tools stood at the edges of the room, all except one in the middle of it all, where Ratchet was currently walking toward to meet—facemask, helm-fins, white and green paint—Starscream froze where he stood, quickly clenching his jaw; it had almost dropped. 

"You're Wheeljack?" Starscream's optics cycled rapidly as he looked from the scientist to the medic, who only nodded and continued into the lab toward the table at the center of it. A table with a smoking mechanism of some kind in the process of being built sitting atop it; built by Cybertron's most celebrated and accredited inventor.

Wheeljack laughed, his helm-fins lighting up as he did so. "Last I checked." Then, the scientist looked down at himself as though actually checking his person. "Yup, that's me. And you're…Starscream, right?" The mech held out a servo, and Starscream had to manually lock gears in place to stop himself from hastily reaching for it to shake.

“That’s right,” he said, his blue servo clasped around Wheeljack’s grey and gave it a single, professional shake. “I am…was one of the foremost experts on extraterrestrial expeditions and energy-based nullifications, though that was more a dabble than a pursued career field.”

Wheeljack’s optics lit up. “The Nullray? That was you?”

Starscream’s spark did a strange flip in its casing at hearing the name of one of his inventions come out of such an acclaimed scientist.

“Yes, I…yes?” Starscream internally cursed his floundering and continued more eloquently, “That was my invention, yes.”

Ratchet chimed in with an amused huff, "Great going, Jack, you broke him. Right after I just cleared him, too."

He shot the medic a glare before turning back toward Wheeljack, a charismatic smile firmly in place.

“I’m surprised you heard of it—it never went past the testing phase. Funding was…difficult to secure,” Starscream diplomatically admitted. What he meant was the institution held no qualms sending a seeker out into dangerous unknowns to gather resources and document worlds they were too fearful to traverse, but to actually allow a warframe’s name to be listed as one of their prominent inventors? The council had laughed him out of the exhibition hall, patronizingly praising his ambition while admonishing his conceit.

At one-point Starscream had become desperate enough to suggest Skyfire present the Nullray to the Institute’s council as his own invention, stating the truth could be revealed upon its completion, but his partner had staunchly refused; one of the many reasons he had had found the report that his partner had taken credit for all of Starscream’s accomplishments to be absurd. Skyfire never.

"It always is," Wheeljack said with a small laugh, and Starscream's smile became strained from the ridiculous notion that he and Wheeljack had any genuine shared experiences between them in dealing with the ISR council. He highly doubted Wheeljack, famed inventor and the Institute's holo-poster mech, had been denied funding due to his frame type. But then calling out the hypocrisy of the ISR had never won Starscream any favors, so he held his glossa and instead continued to heap not unearned praise upon the Autobot scientist.

"I read your hypothesis on rapid mass fraction combustion. It was…fascinating." The possibility to synchronize explosions without a common detonator, but rather their atomized elemental makeup, not in them but around, had been one Starscream personally had seen fit to test. Once. His and Skyfire's shared lab had nearly burned down in the attempt, and the shuttle had, for once, put his large pede down, forbidding his partner from replicating any of the famed inventor's experiments henceforth.

"Wow, I forgot about that one. Not a hypothesis anymore, though. I proved it right some two million stellar-cycles ago—six if you include the stasis. Used it to blast a hole…holes in the wall around Darkmount. Was a real light show.”

Yes, Starscream very much counted the time in stasis, and he quietly seethed at how easily the Autobot waved away so much lost time. His smile remained in place, however, and only his stiffened wings gave any indication as to how he had taken the casual remark.

Ratchet at least had the courtesy to wince at the unintentional insensitivity and intervened, “Don’t get him started, kid. If you let him, Wheeljack will tell you about every explosion he’s ever made.”

Starscream's wit got away from him, snarking, "I doubt he could remember so much."

He winced at his own faux pas, waiting to hear a reprimand or a returned insult, a mark on his status as a seeker or a comment on a warframe’s stereotyped lack of processing capability—only to flinch back when Wheeljack’s finials blinked in a rapid succession of white and blue as he laughed. Ratchet joined him, patting the other Autobot on the back. “You’re right—I don’t think even Teletran-One could hold that much data.”

"I could try, though, if you wanted me to," Wheeljack said, laughter dying down, then with a wink. "I know a fan when I see one."

Starscream found himself both at a loss for words and marveling at how different the inventor was from the Institute's council and even a great majority of the scientists Starscream had ever met. Perhaps he was merely yet another ignorant upper caste mech, or perhaps…he truly thought nothing at all of Starscream's seeker and scientist status. It left him feeling justified at how ardently he had followed the mech's career at the beginning of his own, that out of all the prominent scientists of the time Starscream could have chosen to admire, like in all things, he had chosen right.

And while he would never label himself anything so trite as a fan; Starscream had read Wheeljack’s ISR graduation thesis, every scientific report ever penned under his name—even ones that had only named the scientist as a consultant—and gone to at least three Iaconian Science Conventions that had listed Wheeljack as a guest speaker. He had even attended the singular, first and last, workshop Wheeljack ever had hosted. Which had ended in a spectacular ball of green fire as the stage itself exploded out from under the revered scientist’s pedes.

“You don’t have to,” he finally settled on. “And fan is a strong word. I’m more of a…respectful peer.”

Ratchet and Wheeljack shared a chuckle at that, and Starscream smiled, ready to defend his non-fan status when, out of the corner of his optics, near the edge atop the desk Wheeljack had been working on, he spotted a tiny, fleshy, wheeled organic.

“What is that?” Starscream pointed at the little creature, his optics never leaving it as he backed several steps away.

“That’s Chip, you dingus—careful, you almost stepped on me." Came a squeak from behind him, and Starscream's helm whipped around to see another organic, this one with yellow feet, standing inside the doorway.

Red optics narrowed, “You have an infestation.”

Wheeljack had the audacity to laugh, as though his lab was not contaminated. “Not an infestation—friends!” The scientist then went to where the pest was standing, reached down, and touched it. Lifting the creature and carrying him to where the wheeled one was seated on the desk. Had he not a reputation to rebuild, Starscream would have gagged.

The wheeled organic laughed, “It’s alright, Wheeljack, it’s not the worst thing we’ve been called.”                                                                                                                                                               

“Is that so?” Starscream sniffed, looking down past his olfactory sensor at the fleshling.

Starscream had never cared for the more organic aspects of his expeditions. The seeker had gone for the adventure, the discovery, and for Skyfire. His partner, however, had gone for his interest in organics and to indulge his soppy love for all things weak and small—excluding Starscream, of course.

“Are you a Decepticon?” The standing one asked through what Starscream thought were narrowed eyes, but they were so small and beady, he could scarcely tell.

The seated one elbowed the other and glared, probably, before turning a smile back toward the seeker. "I'm Chip Chase, and this is Spike Witwicky. You're Starscream, right? Prowl told me about you."

Starscream’s audials screeched, anything past the introduction going unheard.  

“Spike?” He looked to Ratchet, who only shrugged; so he had heard right then. Starscream’s derma curled in disgust. What a repulsive designation—it matched the creature it belonged to.

“One day you’re going to tell me why everyone has that reaction to my name,” the phallic one huffed, tapping a little yellow foot.  

“Not this century,” Ratchet stated as he moved to stand beside Starscream.

"So, if I make it to a hundred, you'll tell me?"

“Sure, why not?” Wheeljack chirped, earning him a glare from Ratchet.

“It’s a deal—” The standing one started. 

"—I know why," the wheeled one cut in.

The standing one huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, but I have better luck turning one hundred than I do of you telling me.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know. Not unless you want a detailed lesson on Cybertronian anatomy…or have the money for a name change.” 

"It's not that bad. Some mechs just never matured past the mental stage of a youngling," Ratchet said with a sardonic look in Starscream's direction, who barely noticed it; he had been watching the scene unfold before him in stunned silence, disgust of the organics temporarily forgotten.

Two of the most high-ranking Autobots were happily chatting with an inferior species—an inferior species that was not only allowed inside the faction’s headquarters, but their science lab—and indulging them in banter, their fields exuding a friendliness that couldn’t be faked.

"How extraordinary," Starscream vented, stepping closer to the organics. He wouldn't touch them, but he could take a closer look. They both had a tuft of brown fur atop their heads and cloth covering them, but with differing styles. For what purpose he could not discern, or why one had wheels and another bright yellow, not feet, but coverings. Shoes, he thinks they're called. 

He privately commed Ratchet as he studied their grotesque, fleshy forms.

::You really are friends with these organics? No intention to experiment or collect test samples?:: Starscream could think of no other reason they would be allowed into the lab.

The medic gave no outward sign he had received Starscream’s comm, but his voice was loud in the seeker’s helm.

::Primus, no! Can’t say I like them running around under-pede in my medbay, but they’ve been good friends to us. They’ve saved us as many times as we’ve saved them.::

Had the declaration come from any other Autobot, Starscream would not have believed it. And he still did not believe it coming from the medic. What use could organics have to a Cybertronian? They were weak-bodied and simple-minded. From the limited information he had gleaned from the data packet, they were so far behind Cybertronian technology as to barely be considered sentient.

Ratchet must have sensed Starscream’s disbelief, because he continued. ::They’re here to stay, kid, you’re gonna have to get used to them.::

Starscream made no comment on how Ratchet’s statement implied the seeker was also here to stay.

::If I must.:: Starscream conceded instead, already deciding to keep as far a distance from the humans as possible. The humans named Spike Witwicky and Chip Chase…Chip…no, impossible.

Ratchet snorted and shoved Starscream hard between his wings. The seeker’s arms pinwheeled, and he had to hastily place his servos atop the desk to steady himself, landing dangerously near squishing distance to the organics.

"Medic!" Starscream snapped, shoving himself off the desk and turning to give the audacious bot a sharp glare.

“Seeker,” was Ratchet’s cool response, smirk in place.  

::They’re not poisonous, Starscream. You know…we let them ride in us, too.::

Starscream gave a full-framed shudder at the appalling mental image. Ratchet chuckled.

“Hey! That was a close one, Ratchet,” scolded the standing one.

“Are you okay?” Asked the wheeled one, and were the eyes not so small, he might have seen concern there.

"I'm fine, human," Starscream answered, deciding not to use their given designations. From what he had learned and observed from Skyfire, naming little creatures created attachments, and Starscream intended to form no such thing.

"What exactly do you do here?" He redirected, morbidly curious what support could constitute the Autobots allowing organics inside them. It couldn't possibly be what the wheeled one's designation suggested, what Starscream had ridiculously thought after hearing it.

The standing one answered first, "I'm best friends with Bumblebee, we fight the cons together sometimes, or you know, just hang out. Hmm…." His yellow foot tapped. "Can't say I really have an official job, unlike poindexter over here."

Starscream assumed this Bee was another Autobot, and he sincerely doubted the human was an active participant in the war. Perhaps the humans were moral support—the Autobots fighting better when they had something fragile and squishy to protect, like a pet.

“Job’s going a little far,” the wheeled one objected. “I guess you could say I’m a consultant? I help in the lab and have been going through Teletran-One’s older data files and untangling some of the more jumbled code.”

Starscream ran a quick internal diagnostic on his audials because surely, he had heard wrong. "…You've been untangling Cybertronian code? You understand Cybertronian?”

“Kind of? I can get by reading it, but don’t ask me to say anything. My throat still hurts from the last time,” the human smiled at the seeker, rubbing its throat as if recalling the memory.

Starscream wouldn’t say he was impressed because he wasn’t; even younglings could read at first activation. Though for an underdeveloped organism, being able to understand any part of their language, let alone the complex code of their cybertronics, was almost a notable feat. Almost.

“Interesting—are you the coding specialist Prowl spoke of?” Starscream tried to keep the skepticism from his vocals, though he wondered if such a subtle vocal change would have been picked up by primitive organic ears.

The wheeled one’s cheeks changed color to a pinkish hue. “I don’t know about specialist, but Prowl did ask me to dig through Teletran-One for any information I could find about you.” Then the little thing frowned at him, rolling closer to one of the seeker’s blue servos. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find more.”

Starscream’s digits twitched, talons digging into the metal table; the need to swat the organic away before it could roll close enough to touch him an almost insurmountable, though necessary, urge to resist. He doubted the Autobots would be so hospitable if the seeker were to splatter one of their pets across the laboratory’s walls.  

"Oh, hush," Ratchet chided the organic. "You found plenty."

Starscream almost mistakenly asked how much the organic had found, but caught himself before his derma could part. He had learned not to ask after details on the ISR raid in front of the Autobots from the meeting with Perceptor. And as unbelievable as it was that an organic being could be a Cybertronian coding specialist, Starscream would still use the fleshling if it could gain him the information he sought.

The designations of the Decepticons who had participated in the ISR raid.

His revenge would encompass the entirety of the faction, of course, but it would begin with those directly responsible for his partner’s demise. Call them practice, call them a starting line, call them dead mecha walking—Starscream just needed someone to call them by their designations.

“I’m grateful for what you did find, even if it did not paint me in the most flattering light.” Which should have been impossible; Starscream’s frame was flattering no matter what light it stood under, natural or artificial.

Starscream pushed himself away from the table with a quick glance to Ratchet; how much could he say without alerting the medic to his intentions? He wanted to open the door to further communication with the wheeled organic without the Autobot slamming it closed.

Before Starscream could come up with his next strategy, the sitting organic spoke, “I’ll keep looking. The pre-war coding is a mess, but there’s got to be more.”

Starscream’s derma curled upward, “How generous of you.”

Ratchet and Wheeljack exchanged looks, and Starscream knew they were sharing a private comm over whatever Jazz had told the medic back in the command center. No matter; the seeker was already determined to confront the wheeled organic alone the moment an opportunity arose. The Autobot third silencing Perceptor from telling Starscream what he knew meant there was more to know.

"Yeah," the yellow-footed one came to stand by the sitting one. "Chip is a nice guy like that—are you a nice guy? You don't look like one. You look like—"

“A Decepticon?” Answered a familiar, grating voice.  

One of his wings twitched, and he turned to see the short, red-horned mech who had been present when Starscream had first onlined. Beside him stood a boxy, dark green mech who had also witnessed the seeker’s loss of control in the medbay. Wonderful.

“Cliffjumper!” Burst the standing one with a wave. “Hound! What are you doing here?”

The red one opened his mouth, but the green one stepped forward into the lab before he could speak.

"I'm here to show Starscream around the ship and introduce him to some of the bots," Hound said. Then, once he was close enough to the seeker, he held out a servo. "The name's Hound, it's nice to meet you, Starscream."

“Likewise,” Starscream said, giving the smaller servo a quick shake.

Cliffjumper scoffed, “Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be real nice when he’s stabbing us in the back.”

Red optics flashed in anger, and he marched past Hound to sneer down at the minibot. “Why trouble myself bending down so far when I can just step on you?”

He would tolerate much from these Autobots: restricting him to the medbay, hiding information, even their organic pets. But he would not stand glibly by when they flung direct insults and accusations against him…at least not from an Autobot that held no apparent rank worth noting.

Blue optics brightened, and a nasty grin spread across the Autobot's face. "Oh? You wanna go? I'd like to see you try.”

“Trying implies effort, which defeating you will not require," Starscream answered the Autobot's smile with one of his own, flashing denta.

The minibot spluttered in anger, forming no actual words as his engine revved and angry field lashed out at the seeker. What an ugly little thing, with its mouth open and olfactorate flared. Starscream could see the exact moment in those tiny blue optics that the Autobot had decided to test the seeker’s claim. And for a brief astro-second, Starscream almost regretted his taunt. Mocking the Autobot was one thing; crushing him was another entirely. Breaking their minibot would likely do little to endear the seeker to his Autobot hosts.

Were Skyfire present, the shuttle would have stood between the seeker and the minibot at the first flash of Starscream's temper. He would have raised his large servos and attempted to placate the red pest and apologize on his partner's behalf. Then he would have gently rubbed between Starscream’s wings and smiled at him, his field a wash of gentle pleading for the seeker to end the argument before it became violent.

Skyfire was not present; Starscream’s anger flourished.

"You can take him, Cliff!" Encouraged the yellow-footed organic.

It was the proverbial gong that began their fight. Starscream tensed and raised his servos, talons prepared to deflect as the minibot launched himself at the seeker—only for the red nuisance to be caught in boxy green arms.

“Cliffjumper, I’m disappointed in you. We don’t attack guests, and to threaten a civilian?” The mech made a tutting sound as he placed the minibot on the ground, wagging a digit in his face.

Starscream was once again struck mute by further evidence of a faction-wide processor glitch within the Autobots. To call a seeker of all frames a civilian when not even during times of peace had the warframe been considered one….

Outside of the warframe-dominated cities, there had been restrictions on a mech's function. The first time he had been stopped in Iacon from visiting a reputable oil bath due to not having a civilian reference approach the bathhouse first on his behalf had been an infuriating, if illuminating experience.

Even during a war, with likely millions of stellar-cycles worth of combat between them, the two grounders were more civilian than Starscream had ever been and ever would be.

"Sorry about that, Starscream. Cliff can be a bit…jumpy when he doesn't know someone." Hound looked from Starscream to the minibot, a chastising frown firmly in place. "Not that that's any excuse."

“He’s a seeker,” Cliffjumper harumphed, crossing his arms over his chassis and looking away.

"How observant," Starscream mocked. "What gave it away? Was it the wings?"

He raised his wings higher at his back, demonstrating to the red pest just how great their size difference was. If the little cretin were to attack again, Starscream would not be held responsible for any damage the minibot sustained. So long as the seeker wasn’t the one to strike first, the Autobots would have no cause to reprimand him. Surely, they could not blame him for acting in self-defense against one of their hostile, unreasonable warriors.  

Cliffjumper’s engine revved, and he pointed at the seeker. "See? There's no way he's not a con! A seeker we've never heard of shows up out of nowhere and we're supposed to believe he's some long-lost scientist? Uh-uh, not buying it." Cliffjumper stomped his foot for emphasis.

If anything, it made him appear more like a petulant youngling than he already did.

Hound looked at the seeker with a twisted frown, the kind Skyfire used to give the seeker when he was being particularly combative. Starscream’s spark stuttered in its chamber at the familiarity of it, his eagerness to antagonize the minibot dwindling at the reminder of his deceased partner, his purpose.

He turned away from the minibot, ignoring combat directives warning him not to take his optics off an engaged opponent, and faced Ratchet, looking to the medic for some kind of guidance on dealing with the minibot. The CMO had been strangely quiet during his and Cliffjumper's exchange, and when he first turned, he caught the medic and Wheeljack sharing a secretive, conspiratorial whisper. He cranked up the feed on his audials, but heard nothing. Then, the wheeled organic mouthed something to him, but the orifice was so small, he couldn't tell what it was.

Ratchet pulled away from Wheeljack with an obviously fake cough. "That's enough now, Cliff." Then, with a pointed look in the seeker's direction. "And Starscream, stop taunting the poor bot, mech's fuse is shorter than well, him."

The comment successfully redirected the angry minibot’s attention from the seeker to the medic, and with what was worryingly starting to become a habit, Starscream felt grateful toward Ratchet. It should have been—it was—disturbing how easily the white bot had begun to pick up on Starscream’s change of moods and unspoken requests for assistance after only knowing him for such a short period of time.

Hound laughed and reached down to pat Cliffjumper on his pointed helm. "He's probably just under-fueled—we were actually on our way to the mess hall and wanted to stop by and see if Starscream would like to join us."

With a sharp glare from Cliffjumper, Hound corrected, “I wanted to stop and invite you to join us. Then maybe I could show you around the ship—your choice, of course.”

The mech said it with such an inviting, open smile that Starscream might have been convinced of its sincerity had Ratchet not already informed him of Hound’s status as his escort. He still went along with the faux friendliness, answering the green bot’s smile with a practiced one of his own.

"I would be delighted…that is if Ratchet can bear to part with me."

Ratchet snorted and waved the seeker away. “Go on, get—and I better not hear about you getting into any trouble. Wouldn’t want you to wind up back in the medbay right after release. I won’t be so considerate then.”

Starscream flicked a playful wing in the medic's direction, then, with a slight nod toward the desk, said, "Wheeljack…humans, I look forward to working with you."

Hound and Cliffjumper said no more, the green bot giving a friendly wave goodbye to the other mechs as they left. Starscream lingered, his gaze sliding over the wheeled organic, noticing he had some sort of clear, framed optical cover, before he finally turned to follow after his Autobot escorts into the endlessly copper hallway. 

As he left the lab, Ratchet commed him. ::For what it’s worth, my creds were on you, kid. Cliff’s more bark than bite.::

Starscream shook his helm and smiled, falling into step behind his Autobot guides as they led him to the mess hall. That explained why neither Ratchet nor Wheeljack had intervened during the rising tension between himself and the minibot. But, more importantly—

::Does this mean Wheeljack bet on Cliffjumper?:: Starscream did nothing to hide the offense from his tone.

An unknown frequency pinged him; Starscream accepted the comm.

::Nothing against you, Starscream, I was betting on experience. Cliff’s fought bigger mecha before and come out on top, you’ll see.:: Wheeljack explained in a way of an apology.

The Autobot’s last comment had the seeker looking down at the minibot, assessing his little horned helm. There was still anger in his field, but it had simmered and was absent the previous promise of violence.

::Do you think he'll try to fight me again?:: Starscream asked, purely curious. He felt no threat from Cliffjumper and now, with Ratchet and Wheeljack's encouragement, would fight the minibot in front of the Prime himself if the little thing tried to attack him again.

Both Ratchet and Wheeljack chuckled on their side of the comm.

::Oh, he’ll definitely try again.::

On their way to the mess hall, Cliffjumper had walked in fuming silence behind the seeker while Hound had chatted amicably about the different rooms they passed, going on about the specific species of mold that had begun to grow in one of their janitorial closets. An absolutely riveting conversation that Starscream had seen no need to contribute to.

Now their not-so-merry group was stopped just outside the mess hall, in the wide opening that connected it to the outside corridor.

Despite being on a warship, the mess hall looked no different from any other Starscream had ever been to, besides its copper color. Tables and long benches lined up in neat, wide rows. A dispensary in the back with stacks of empty cubes at its side. Even the loud chatter rising from the multitude of brightly colored, civilian frames was similar. Though these Autobots looked much worse for wear compared to the personnel of the ISR, the entire room stank of dirt and damp metal, typical of grounders. No shining paint jobs or high-end perfumes. Not a single mecha worth a double glance in the whole lot.

Except for one….

Starscream's optics narrowed as a yellow, almost golden gleam caught the seeker's attention among the rabble. A paint job almost as impressive as his own belonging to what looked to be—could it be? A warframe. Curious.

Before Starscream had time to accurately assess the build of the yellow mech, Cliffjumper raised a servo to the side of his mouth and shouted, “Con on deck!”

Starscream stiffened as every set of blue optics in the room turned toward him. The buzz of activity in the mess hall hushing to wary whispers.

He did not wilt under their stares, his wings fanning out behind him and his optics glowing brighter under the scrutiny. This, too, was just like the mess hall of the ISR. Their harsh stares and misgiving fields were nothing he had not endured before. He would do nothing to diminish what he was by lowering his wings or hunching his height to try to mollify unfounded fears—not as Skyfire had.

Starscream was proud of his seeker status, and he would not have changed his frame type were even the fabled Primus himself to offer.

“Cliffjumper!” Hound scolded before turning to the rest of the room, vocals loud. “This here is Starscream. Optimus has offered him asylum on the Ark until he chooses to leave…or stay. The point is he’s a guest and I expect you all to treat him like one.”

That was the first Starscream had heard of asylum, but the more he thought of it, the more it made sense. He was a non-participant in their civil war, and the Prime had not once broached the topic of the seeker joining the Autobot faction. If he were to leave the ship and be discovered by the Decepticons, if what the Autobots had told him of their rival faction was to be believed, they would not be nearly so benevolent.

The murmurs in the mess hall became full-on loud spoken speculation; Starscream caught broken bits of conversation scattered through the air.

“Did they really find him in ice?”

“You think he’ll join?”

“He’s obviously a Decepticon seeker with a new paint job—who’s he fooling?”

Hound looked pensive, uncomfortable almost with the turn of the Autobot’s tone. Starscream could not begin to fathom why. The bots were not being openly hostile, only suspicious, which was only to be expected. Starscream did not trust a single one of them further than he could throw a shuttle—which wasn’t very far, he had come to find.

Despite how he had reacted to the other Autobots' open distrust of the seeker, the green bot addressed Starscream with a smile and a warm, welcoming tone. "Why don't I go get us a cube? You can say hello to some of the bots before we keep going. Maybe make some friends.”

The only part of that plan Starscream wanted any part in was the keep going bit. He had never been the most social mech even before losing his much more approachable partner. The seeker would do better to speak with an Autobot one-on-one, learn their personality quirks, and adapt his speech accordingly. He saw no benefit in trying to befriend the entire faction. All he required for his own plan was for the high command to willingly aid him and for the rest of the faction to tolerate his presence long enough for him to carry out his revenge. 

A thin crowd of Autobots had begun amassing around the three mecha, and Starscream's plating reflexively tightened. The last time he had been encircled in such a way, a brawl had broken out between himself and some senior students at the ISR, resulting in the seeker being covered in dents and needing a new full-frame paint job. Should the same happen aboard the Ark, Starscream would not be caught unawares as he had been then.

“I know you’re curious, but give him some room to vent,” Hound said as he pushed past the crowd, Cliffjumper following alongside him, but not before giving Starscream some vile, no doubt human gesture with his middle-digit.

The yellow and black paint job attached to what could only be a warframe, if one of the smaller models, had stepped forward from the crowd and came to stand an arm’s length away from the seeker. Beside him was a less impactful, red, white, and black paintjob attached to another warframe. The red one stepped even closer, but Starscream’s optics couldn’t help but slide over him to the yellow mech behind him, who in turn had his blue optics glowing softly in the seeker’s direction.

Beauty recognized beauty, he supposed; even on a ground frame, that paint job was immaculate.

“Name’s Sideswipe,” the red one addressed him, then with a jerk of his thumb. “And that’s my brother, Sunny.”

“Sunstreaker,” asserted the yellow one with a grunt.

“Yeah, that. Anyway, you’re pre-war, right?”

“Yes…,” Starscream hedged, unsure where the conversation was going.

“Cool, cool,” Sideswipe nodded. “And coming all the way here from Cybertron probably meant you carried around a lot of stuff in your subspace, yeah?”

“I did…,” Starscream hesitantly answered. He had indeed carried quite a bit within his subspace while on expeditions. While for most of their space travels he had ridden inside Skyfire, he had never liked using the shuttle as a packing container, preferring to carry everything he could possibly need within himself. To include the prototypes of his Nullrays.

Did the warframe suspect Starscream was concealing weapons? While it was true he always intended for his Nullrays to eventually be used as weapons capable of damaging a Cybertronian, presently they could only mildly daze a medium-sized organic. He had brought them on the expedition in hopes of testing them and collecting data on their performance should he and his partner be accosted by any hostiles.

If the Autobot demanded to see the inside of his subspace, he would need to come up with a convincing lie to deny him. He would not willingly hand over not only his life's work, but the only means of defending himself Starscream currently possessed (besides the strength of his own frame). He could claim his subspace was malfunctioning after the prolonged stasis. Or lie about the nature of the Nullrays, though they did look very blaster-like. Or he could—

“So…got any rust sticks?” Sideswipe asked, oblivious to the seeker’s inner turmoil.

Starscream’s optics cycled rapidly, caught off guard by the innocuous question.

“What?”

Sideswipe snapped his digits in Starscream's face. "Rust sticks? They had those back in your day, right, old timer? How about electro-gummies? Energon crisps? C’mon, work with me here.”

“He’s younger than us,” Sunstreaker clipped.

"…I have a pack of electro-gummies," Starscream said, ignoring the yellow one, his servos curling into a fist from the restraint it took not to hit the red one. Putting a servo in Starscream's face was a sure way to lose it. Had this mess hall actually been the ISR's, Starscream would have already swung.

As he was currently surrounded by soldiers with far more field experience than he, Starscream instead wondered why Sideswipe would ask after such common, cheap treats. The gummies had been Skyfire’s favorite and had been purchased as a gift for a well-done expedition. He had planned to surprise the shuttle with them during their journey home.

“Awesome,” Sideswipe grinned, holding out an open servo. “Hand them over.”

Starscream looked down at the open servo and back up to the black helmed mech it belonged to, deliberating his response. The answer to such a blatant request should have been easy. Giving the Autobot the candies would serve as a means to ease the tension caused by Cliffjumper’s announcement and perhaps even win him some good graces with the blue-opticed voyeurs surrounding him. He had no rational reason to refuse.

Skyfire was deactivated, the candies would be of no benefit to him, and Starscream had never enjoyed their sweet flavor. But that they had been meant for his partner, an assured gift, essentially making them already his—one of the only possessions Starscream retained of his partner—gave him the illogical urge to keep them. The desire was intense, unexpected, and Starscream lamented his own impractical sentimentality.

To publicly deny the grounder and allow every Autobot in the room to watch as an unknown warframe denied one of their own something so small as a cheap sweet would set Starscream back from a zero to a negative in the scale of their opinions; if the color of his optics and make of his frame hadn’t already put him there.

Hound, pushing his way back through the crowd, two pink energon cubes in tow, interjected, admonishing the red mech, “Sideswipe, you’re being rude. You can’t ask a mech to give you something right after meeting them just because you want it.” Then softly to Starscream. “You don’t have to give him anything.”

That Hound had even seen the need to intervene….

Starscream was being ridiculous. He un-subspaced the electro-gummies, dropping the clear bag filled with colorful square candies unceremoniously into Sideswipe's open palm before the grounder could pull away. They fell with a plop.

“I never really cared for them anyway,” Starscream said with an air of nonchalance. I hope you choke on them, remained unsaid in his helm.

“Sweet,” Sideswipe pumped his fist and sub-spaced the gummies, turning to his brother to say smugly. “Told you I’d find him a creation day gift better than yours.” 

The yellow mech ignored his brother, optics having never left the seeker during the entire exchange; neither had his frown. "Right…." He finally said, breaking his one-mech staring contest with the seeker to direct his frown at Sideswipe. "Are you comparing cheap energon treats to premium-grade Crulexian wax?”

Starscream’s wings perked up (when had they dropped?).

There was Crulexian wax? On this mudball? He would need to have a conversation with the yellow one over how he had acquired such a rare item. Crulexian wax had been expensive and hard to come by even before the war; obtaining it after must have been a feat in and of itself.

But before Starscream could ask the yellow one how he had procured such a rare item, Hound placed a hand on the seeker’s shoulder, causing him to jolt at the unexpected touch. “You know, there’s actually something I wanted to show Starscream before it gets too late,” Hound said as he handed an energon cube to the seeker and addressed the crowd. “So I hate to cut you short, but we’ll be taking our energon to go.

Then, with a pointed look at the red minibot, Hound added, "Just the two of us."

“What?” Cliffjumper complained. “I can’t leave you alone with a con; what if he—”

"—He's a guest, not a con, Cliff. I can handle myself, and you’re already late for cleaning stations." Hound's vocals hadn't quite reached an angry timbre, but Starscream could detect subsets of frustration in the lower decibels.

The other bots in the room must have also heard it, as they began to disperse from the crowd, going back to the tables to sip their energon and chat amongst themselves; their optics never leaving the seeker.

"Thanks for the electro-gummies!" Sideswipe called with a short wave as he left the mess hall, practically bouncing, his brother following stoically behind him.

Starscream frowned at the reminder, but otherwise said nothing in response. The mech was very much not welcome.

"We should get going, too," Hound said before heading toward the same opening they had first entered the mess hall through. Starscream, sub-spacing his cube of energon, and without so much as a look in the other Autobots' direction, followed closely behind, the tight press of his plating relaxing with every step away from the mess hall they took.

Unfortunately, mere klicks passed since leaving the mess hall before Hound decided to broach the topic of the seeker’s interaction with the warframe brothers. Saying as they walked, “I’m sorry about that, Starscream. They shouldn’t have ganged up on you like that. The twins can be…a lot. I should have stayed with you.”

The green bot slowed his pace to fall in step beside the seeker; without moving his helm, Starscream cast his gaze downward. “I’m an unknown seeker, a frame type they have been fighting for over a millennium. I hold no grudge over their…curiosity. And I understand that due to the war, not many Cybertronian luxuries must remain. It is understandable why anyone would be eager to claim the few left.”

That Starscream had been subjected to far worse under better circumstances was supplementary information the grounder need not be privy to.

“It’s not that few remain or that they’re hard to come by—there aren’t any. Not anymore.” Hound’s optics pinched, “And that still doesn’t give anyone the right to take yours.”

There was genuine sorrow in the grounder's field, as though he was truly apologetic and ashamed of his fellow Autobot's actions. The reaction baffled Starscream. Should Hound not be happy one of his fellows had reclaimed a small piece of their home, even if it had been obtained in a less than friendly fashion? The gummies were the first and only thing any Autobot had asked of him insofar, despite the medical attention and energon he had received. If a treat from their dead world was the only price asked of him for such care, Starscream would not be fool enough to complain.   

Following behind the green bot, Starscream shook his helm. What a strange mech. 

“I seem to recall there being no taking—I gave them to him, you were there.” Starscream couldn’t let the matter rest. He was not some waifish flyer in need of defense. He was a warframe; if there were battles to be fought, he would fight them himself. His interaction with Sideswipe had simply not constituted such a strong response from the seeker.

Hound turned to look over his shoulder at Starscream, his expression unconvinced, but finally allowed the conversation to drop, for which Starscream was thankful. The less he thought of the lost sweets, the better. They were gone and never coming back; dwelling on something so insignificant was a waste of processing power.

"It's this way," Hound abruptly said, changing the topic and veering left down a wider, higher-ceilinged corridor. "Outside."

A small quiver of trepidation in his heel-struts nearly caused the seeker to miss the sharp turn.

"Outside? As in outside the ship?" Starscream questioned, glad the Autobot hadn't seen his stumble. The last he remembered of Earth was its frigid temperatures, ice-covered land, and the raging hailstorm that had been the genesis of his misfortune. Logically, he knew the planet's climate must have changed since he was last exposed to it; that didn't mean he was eager to experience the change firsthand. Not yet.

“Yeah, it’s a nice day if you don’t mind a little rain.”

Starscream certainly did mind a little rain. Acid rain stung his wings something fierce and was a chore to rinse from his plating, the acrid liquid often slipping past seams and corroding the circuitry underneath. Never mind the absolutely horrid way it left pocketed holes in his paint job.

The seeker was disinclined to repeat such an experience, even if it meant going against his boxy-green guide. He had indulged the Autobots and their peculiarities more than enough for one day. Rather than continue to an unknown he was unprepared to deal with, Starscream would come up with an excuse to return to the labs, preferably while none but the wheeled organic was present. He suspected the fleshling was the key to unlocking the information Jazz had ordered the other bots to keep hidden from him, for some mysterious reason.

They stopped in front of the largest door yet, and Hound walked to a keypad at its side, entering in a code.

Starscream’s window of opportunity to refuse the Autobot shrank with every push of a button, and he raised his voice to protest, “Hound, actually I—”

The doors swooshed open, the temperature dropping as the Ark was suddenly exposed to the elements.

Were Hound not steadily gazing at the seeker, searching for a reaction, Starscream would have backed away, left the Autobot, and returned to the relative safety of the medbay. A counteraction not of cowardice, but self-preservation. There was still too much he didn't know about the organic world before risking a venture outside. Lack of accurate intelligence on the planet was what had led to his and Skyfire's disastrous expedition; they had been misinformed on its current climate and ill-prepared to deal with the frigid temperatures that had greeted them upon descending beneath the atmosphere.

There was no snow covering the ground outside the Ark, only dirt and rocky outcroppings, but that still did not mean other dangers did not lurk on its organic surface. The puddles of mud that had gathered at the Ark’s edges in shallow pits looked particularly perilous.

“Weather’s not too bad for this time of year; just a light drizzle,” Hound said before stepping out. The bot’s comment caused Starscream’s observations to turn upwards.

He was met with an endless stratus grey expanse. Low-hanging clouds lighter in shade, but so very similar to the dark tempest that had been his last visual feed before crashing. His spark turned faster in its chamber, his optics flicking from the sky to Hound—who had already walked far ahead of the seeker and was standing at a tall corner of a cliff.

His focus continually shifted from sky to grounder. There was no clash of thunder or roar of wind; the rain fell in steady, soft drops; a calm shower landing on damp ground—and green armor.

A patient smile and an unhurried gaze were all that met the seeker when he caught Hound’s optic. The mech made no urging motion or indication that he was being affected by the acid landing on his plating. As though he was perfectly willing to wait in the rain for however long it took the seeker to join him. A quiet kind of confidence that Starscream would join him, eventually.

Starscream tightened his plating and sealed his vents; if a grounder could endure the organic world’s acid rain, then so could Starscream. Posture stiff with dread, he walked under the alien sky.

The soft pitters of rain on metal followed his steps, but no pain accompanied the wet drops. Perplexed, he held out a servo, watching the liquid pool in his palm, studying it—oxidane, he realized. A harmless chemical compound whose only danger posed was the potential for rust.

"It's this way," Hound called as he rounded the cliff's corner; Starscream let the water spill between his digits and followed.

Mud stuck to his heel-struts, marring his blue and white plating. He looked up into the darkened, endless grey sky, marveling at the cool kiss of wind against his aching helm; it felt good. Raindrops landed on his optics, blurring his vision as they collected on the corner ridges, slowly filling the cracks before sliding down his faceplate and off his jaw.

“We’re here,” Hound announced, regaining the seeker’s attention.

They had stopped in front of what appeared to be a housing unit of some sort. It was tall and made of translucent glass; bright lighting gave purview to vibrant colors behind the walls. He could make out green and yellows and pinks, and a multitude of other colors, but couldn't tell a definite shape of their make. It was overall an impressive, if confusing, piece of architecture.

“Well, what do you think?” Hound held his arms out, expectant optics searching the seeker for a reaction.

“You’ve brought me to a clear box full of organic matter,” Starscream stated quizzically.

The Autobot approached a large, clear door and opened it, standing to the side and waiting for the seeker to enter ahead of him. And he did, wings twitching as his olfactory sensor was hit with an overwhelmingly floral scent.

The colors had belonged to various plants. They were all species he had never encountered before, but their form was similar enough for him to make an educated guess: trees, shrubs, bushes, flowers, and fruit were the ones he could discern among the variegations. 

“It’s a greenhouse,” Hound told him, sounding pleased with himself.

“It’s clear,” Starscream corrected without malice. Hound had been unusually compassionate toward him during his time as an escort. If the Autobot could not tell the difference between color and a lack of it, the seeker would not berate him for it.

Hound laughed and said, “It’s called a greenhouse; they're what humans use to keep all kinds of plants together, even when they're out of season. Pretty neat, right?"

Looking at the dirt, leaves, and gardening tools littering the ground, neat was the last thing Starscream would use to describe the not-green greenhouse.

Hound’s laugh took on an embarrassed tone as he rubbed the back of his helm, expression sheepish as he said, “You know, I was planning on just showing you around the Ark today, but knowing you’re a xenobiologist and after what happened in the mess hall, I just thought, heh, you might like this better—and it’s not every day I find another one of us who’s interested in botany.”

“If I was wrong, we can go back,” Hound faltered, clasping his servos together and rubbing them, field loaded with worry. 

“No, this is…this is fine,” Starscream absently responded, dazed red optics roving over the grounder.

The mech’s wringing servos, his demure posture, and gentle prodding after the seeker’s comfort—Starscream had a sudden, dismal realization.

Skyfire would have loved this. He would have loved the organic flora carefully planted in small brown pots. He would have loved to see so many botanicals from different climates under one roof, and he would have loved finding another organic enthusiast to gush over his favorite plantae with—and he would have loved sharing the experience with Starscream.  

As he reflected, Hound had moved deeper into the greenhouse, picking up a pot of something small, green, and needled, smiling at the pant as though it were the most precious thing in the world; he held it out to show Starscream, causing the seeker to jerk his helm back—a memory flux flashed before his optics of Skyfire doing the same with a bright red flora on some distant planet they had visited long ago.

Starscream clenched his jaw, vents stuttering out of his shoulder exhausts in a heated gasp. He held his wings stiffly, but minute shakes still caused them to softly rattle. His neck cables constricted as he swallowed the flood of grief that threatened to drown him. He would not show an Autobot his pain—Hound had already seen enough of it when Starscream had first awoken. He would be granted no more insight into the seeker’s suffering. His private anguish was something to be filtered away as fuel for his revenge, not used as an excuse to wretchedly reminisce on a past so recent and yet long over.

That was…what Skyfire would have done.

Bitterly, he tore his optics away from the grounder, forcing his attention on the nearest greenery—a cluster of blue flowers whose middle was white, with a single micro yellow dot in its center; still so small compared to a Cybertronian’s scale, but larger than all the other flowers surrounding it. Purples and pinks paled in his optical feed as he focused in on the unknown plant for reasons the scientist could not explain. The petals were not any brighter than those that surrounded it. It released no scent strong enough for his olfactory sensor to detect. It was an unremarkable piece of organic matter, all things considered: large, unassuming, and…delicate.

"And this one? What is it called?" Starscream's servo trembled as he reached out toward the minuscule flower, only to stop just before a blue digit could brush against the delicate flora, lest he crush it.

“That’s an Ipomoea Purpurea, locals call it a Morning Glory.” Hound readily answered, placing his pot down to come stand next to the seeker. “You like that one?”

“Not me—my partner, Skyfire, he would have…,” Starscream swallowed, throat dry. “…He would have liked this one.”

“Your partner sounds like a mech with great tastes in flowers,” Hound complimented.

The corner of Starscream’s derma quirked up in a thin smile.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Hound casually prompted, rocking back and forth on the heels of his pedes. “Why don’t I tell you about all the flowers we’ve got here and you point out which ones your partner would have liked best…and you could tell me some other things about him too, if you like.”

Hound brushed his field tentatively, inquisitively against Starscream’s own, whose was wrapped tightly around himself. He didn’t return the gentle prodding, trying to maintain an air of equanimity even as his expression grew pensive.

With every rational micro-mesh fiber of his being, Starscream understood why he shouldn't speak to the Autobot about his deceased partner in such a personal manner. Skyfire was a weakness to be exploited, a gap in his armor any seasoned soldier worth their carbonite would notice and take advantage of. Every word spoken of his partner could later be turned into ammunition to use against him. He should redirect Hound to a different focus of topic, and encourage the grounder to speak only of his own preferences, should Starscream ever need ammunition against him.

“He preferred the flowers that grew on trees, actually,” was what he foolishly, pathetically confessed instead.

Hound’s optic ridges rose, not a trace of parti pris reflecting back in his azure-colored interest. “You don’t say?”

“They were easier for him to reach and safer from being stepped on,” Starscream elaborated, lamenting his own weak will. A one-time occurrence, he assured himself. One last day of remembrance.

With how little Starscream had brought with him to this dystopian future, he couldn’t afford anything more.

"Well, we've got some of those I can show you—not many, I'll be honest, but that's something we can always change later. If you want to."

Starscream hummed noncommittally.

Hound continued on without mentioning the seeker's non-answer, pointing at various plants, his kind vocals explaining their unique characteristic, their utility, or why he found them particularly interesting. Starscream listened, adding commentary about how he and his partner would have studied them, the ones Skyfire would have preferred, the ones Starscream would have utilized for his research. A short tree with thick groupings of fronds and thin, yellow fruits reminded Starscream of a particularly fond memory with his partner, causing him to slip another admission, "Once, while we were courting…."

Their leisurely pattern of conversation continued throughout the morning, noon, and into the night—and unbeknownst to either mech, in the far-off distance, a camera shutter clicked.  

Chapter Text

With a grunt, Starscream rolled onto his back, the plush berth cushioning his wings. Its wide build and soft micro-mesh fibers a welcome change from the medbay's hard steel mediberths. He stared up at the copper ceiling with dimmed optics, counting the bolts and build lines in its monotone design. His mood had taken a morose shift after the pleasant, if ill-advised, night of remembrance with Hound. The heat of over-strained circuitry and the throbbing pain of his processor ache did nothing to abet the apprehensive, down-draft his temperament had taken.

The lack of a proper defrag even less so.

Even on the soft berth, recharge had eluded him. The seeker, having spent the night lost in memory fluxes, unable to properly power down as flashes of what he had lost and would never have again besieged his mind and spark. He was going to crash without proper recharge, vocals suspiciously close to Ratchet's whispered in the back of his helm. And if hearing the old medic's vocals, even when finally free of the medbay, wasn't proof of an oncoming processor crash, Starscream didn't want to know how much worse the symptoms could get.

He turned his helm, the view going from the plain ceiling to his empty quarters. It was a spacious box of a room, much larger than any military barracks Starscream had ever been assigned to, but significantly smaller than the apartment he had shared with Skyfire, with no adjoining rooms. What it had were shadowed marks on the floor, impressions of furniture that had once been present, and scrapes to indicate its removal. Their size and position had Starscream speculating that at least three berths had been removed. All that remained was the berth he occupied—large enough to accommodate a shuttle class mech—and a matte grey metal desk and chair. Their lack of color popped in the copper abyss that was the Ark’s interior.

No personal defects or designs were left behind by the mecha to whom the room originally belonged—the Aerialbots, an Autobot air squadron with the most uninspired of names.

Well into the night and long after their conversation had lulled into amicable silence, Hound had escorted Starscream back into the Ark, jovially informing him that his medbay isolation was over and that a room was prepared for him. The squadron had offered their room for the seeker’s use while they were away (something about touring and putting on airshows for organics) until a more permanent accommodation could be arranged.

And that was the word, wasn’t it? Permanent.

The Autobots had yet to say as much, but it was obvious through their actions that they expected Starscream’s stay with them to be an extended tenure. With Hound oh-so-casually mentioning that Morning Glories also grew in red and so kindly asking Starscream if he would like to plant his own beside the blue, commenting how he would appreciate an expert’s help in the greenhouse so long as the scientist was willing—a barefaced ingratiation effort.

After having the rest of the night and much of the morning to examine and pick apart their conversation in the greenhouse, Starscream had come to an inauspicious conclusion.

The Autobot Hound was part of a carefully crafted ploy to gain the seeker’s trust for an eventual recruitment offer. Starscream refused to accept any other explanation. How could he be certain of the magnanimity of a faction that actively schemed to hide the truth of Skyfire’s killers from him? He could not, was the simple answer to an easy question. The Autobots would dangle compassion, the temptation of friendship with Hound, and the designations they knew he sought over the seeker's helm to sweeten the conscription pot the faction stirred.

But Starscream had never cared for sweets, and he knew better than to trust the honeyed words of civilian frames; they always came with sticky strings attached, all meant to ground and ensnare the seeker to their service.

All save Skyfire’s.

A more complicated question was; would Starscream accept when the pitch was made? If it made the resources he required for revenge more readily available, if it got him designations, possibly. He could always agree and discard the faction once they were no longer of use to him or if they proved themselves a hindrance to his burgeoning plan to kill the Decepticons responsible for his partner's demise while eradicating any cons who got in his way, eventually destroying their leader and dismantling the faction as a whole.

Or maybe he would kill them all; Starscream hadn't quite sanded down the more finely detailed welds in his hastily constructed plan.

From outside the room came a gentle knock on the door.

Starscream turned his attention from introspection to extro, optics narrowing at the offending door that had dared to interrupt his contemplation. Hound had informed him of no scheduled meeting with Prime or Prowl, nor had he given any expectations for company. Starscream was expecting no visitors, and had it been Ratchet on the other side of the door, the medic would have commed the seeker ahead of himself or simply let himself in. Meaning whoever knocked on the door couldn’t be any of the mecha the seeker was in a mood to tolerate.

Decision to ignore the interloper until they went away made, Starscream settled himself more comfortably on the berth. Autobot nonsense could wait until after his helm had stopped radiating pain all the way down his spinal-strut.

Another series of knocks, louder and more insistent than the first, pulled a sigh from the seeker. He sat up, helm pulsing hotly, and pushed himself from the berth, crossing the room in a few short strides. Unsure of his ability to maintain a guise of civility, he nevertheless opened the door with a faux smile.

Sideswipe’s fist hung in the air mid-knock.

The grounder smiled awkwardly at the seeker, quickly lowering his servo for it to hang lamely at his side. “Oh, you’re up, cool.”

Starscream crossed his arms in response, his smile immediately dropping. The red grounder was on a short but growing list of Autobots he wanted nothing to do with and saw no benefit in associating with. The two currently on said list both had primarily red paint schemes; how coincidental.

“Ha, yeah, so uh…,” the Autobot rubbed the back of his helm and scuffed a pede along the ground. His field was of tepid reluctance, and was that…discomfort? “Turns out Blue does love electro-gummies, just not the flavor of the ones you had, so…here you go?”

Sideswipe reached into his subspace and held out the electro-gummies he had taken the day before.

Red optics cycled.

The multi-colored squares, with the lightest coating of crystalized energon, looked no different than when he had first parted with them; the container was unopened. Starscream held out his servo and wordlessly accepted them from the Autobot, sub-spacing them in quiet disbelief. 

He had wholly placed the matter of the candies behind him and had even considered deleting the incident from his short-term memory for good measure. Continuing to ruminate on such an insignificant loss would have been a waste of processing power when the seeker had none to spare. The sweets were something he was never meant to have again—yet here they were. As freely returned as they had been given.

“Thank you,” he said, vocals neutral. Then, and only because his processor was too strained to properly filter his thoughts before they left his vocalizer, he continued. "I studied alternate energon sources during my time at the ISR. Perhaps with some testing, I could recreate the gummies and find a flavor your friend prefers.”

Sideswipe’s optics widened, his smile lost its strain, and his field burst outward in excitement. “What, really? You’d do that even after—” The grounder quickly shut his mouth, no doubt not wanting to remind Starscream just how thuggishly the candies had been pilfered in the first place. "I mean, that's rad! Think you could start now? His creation day is, uh…today, actually.”

Starscream’s helm burned, but he could not process what had caused him to make such an altruistic offer. This brute was only returning an ill-gotten gift back to its rightful owner. He owed the Autobot nothing, least of all his expertise as a scientist.

“Of course, I would so hate for you to be upstaged by your brother,” Starscream said with a sly smile instead of a well-deserved insult. He would check himself back into the medbay if this uncharacteristic behavior continued; clearly, the ice had done more damage to his processor than initial scans had revealed.

“I’d never hear the end of it,” Sideswipe smiled, unaware of the seeker’s inner turmoil. “We can head to the lab now unless you’re busy?” The grounder peaked around Starscream into the room with curious optics.

It was bereft of any of the seeker's personal belongings. He had yet to, and likely would not, deposit his subspace while aboard the Ark, not wanting to give any more evidence to the permanence of his stay. Should the Autobots' kindness prove to be a lie, he could readily flee without risk of leaving anything behind.

"I suppose I can spare the time if you lead the way," he gestured for the grounder to take point for their trek to the science lab. Starscream didn’t know the way from his temporary quarters or if he would require prior permission before entering; that was something he would leave to Sideswipe.

"Awesome," was the red mech's chipper response. The bot stepped away from the door, and with one last wistful glance at the large berth, Starscream followed. Recharge was a must tonight, whether he fell to it naturally or through Ratchet’s medical intervention—because much as he hated the idea of leaving himself unawares in an unfamiliar military base with undecidedly trustworthy mecha; he loathed the idea of permanent processor damage more. 

Unwilling to allow their pede-steps to be the only accompaniment during their trek, Sideswipe began chattering, “So how have you been finding the base? I know I didn’t give the best first impression in the mess yesterday, but I—”

He tuned Sideswipe out, lowering his audial receptors so that the mech's words were muted background noise. Raising a servo, he held it in front of one of his helm vents; nothing but hot air. That couldn’t bode well.

Ailing processor aside, his actions were the most questionable.

Starscream’s plan required unfettered access to the Autobots’ lab, both to create any necessary weapons to use against the Decepticons and for an opportunity to interrogate their wheeled human pet. Volunteering to reverse-engineer long lost energon sweets as a creation day gift was as an innocent a reason the seeker could possibly come up with—which the scientist must have, only in the moment he had misunderstood his own processor’s initial reasoning due to the pain, for he would never have offered to do something so saccharine just because he could—for the Prime, or more likely Prowl, to permit his use of the facility.

To deny him would be to deny the entire faction a luxury only Starscream could provide.

A loud knock pulled Starscream from his thoughts as Sideswipe wrapped his knuckles against the laboratory door, loudly saying, “Knock, knock.”

It would seem they had arrived.

When no answer came, the grounder looked to Starscream and waggled his optic ridges before palming the door controls; it slid open with a whoosh.

Apparently, the seeker had missed the entire one-sided conversation on their way to the science lab. The grounder never once pausing for Starscream’s input had allowed the seeker to muse uninterrupted. He had no idea why the bot had raised his optic ridges at him, but he smiled anyway as they stepped through the open door.

The lab looked as copper as the last time he had visited, but with no sign of any Autobots, aside from the present company, to break up the monotony of color.

“Looks like they headed out early,” Sideswipe noted as they walked toward the long work desk at the lab's center. A strange, grey, oblong-shaped device sat on its surface, the same one Starscream had seen the day before. The machine was no bigger than Starscream’s servo and looked unfinished. His optics narrowed as he tried to discern the function of the small invention, but its outward appearance gave no indication of its purpose.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he stepped closer, optics narrowing in concentration—only to startle when the device called, “I’m over here!”

From behind the device rolled a tiny organic. Its cloth coverings were covered in oil, the brown tuft of hair upon its head was askew, and its odd clear visor—glasses his databanks provided—was smudged with grease.

So, the lab hadn’t been vacant after all. No Autobot scientists or medics, only their wheeled, human pet.

Starscream’s smile curled into a vulturous grin. How fortuitous.

"Hey, Chip," Sideswipe waved. "What are you working on? Where's Wheeljack and Ratchet?”

"Hey, Sideswipe, you're still here?" The human rolled from where it had been working on the oddly shaped device toward the edge of the desk. “I’m just trying to fix some of the smaller stripped wires Wheeljack missed when he put the pieces back together after the Immobilizer, you know, exploded.”

Coming to a stop, the little thing looked up at the seeker and waved. "Hey, Starscream, good to see you again." Then, addressing Sideswipe, it said, "Wheeljack and Ratchet headed out early to set up their equipment in case there were any complications with the…." Its eyes darted to Starscream, then back to the grounder. "The thing happening tonight."

Starscream placed blue servos on cherry hips; what a masterful evasion.

Sideswipe came to stand beside the seeker, chorusing, “Yeah, the thing, Blue’s creation day celebration. That thing.” A black thumb pointed in Starscream’s direction. “That’s why this guy’s here, actually. Mech says he can make electro-gummies and rust sticks for us.”

“That explains him, but why are you doing here?” The human needled, raising a fuzzy brow at the grounder. “You’re going to be late.”

Sideswipe chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his helm. “Because Blue said he wouldn’t talk to me for a month if I didn’t—” Sideswipe threw a quick glance at the seeker. “—Make sure this guy has someone to hang with while we’re out partying.”

Starscream snorted but otherwise drew no attention to the apparent attempt at deception.

“I never said anything about rust sticks,” Starscream pointed out instead.

Sideswipe grinned at him, “Didn’t you?”

Starscream raised an optic ridge before letting out a blasé, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Processing capabilities limited as they were, Starscream could still develop several theories about what the Autobot and organic were so terribly attempting to hide from him, with one prevailing over the others—the Trion would likely be arriving soon. Another auspicious event in the seeker’s favor.

"Yeah?" Sideswipe walked around the desk to lean closer to the organic, his faceplate nearly brushing against its fleshy form as he unsuccessfully whispered, "You going to be okay if I leave you alone with this guy? I don’t wanna be late for the you know what. Prowl would actually kill me.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” the wheeled one rebutted softly, but not soft enough. “And I don’t see why not. No one said anything to me about him not being allowed in here, and besides—” the human shot sharply to the seeker, who had risen a servo to inspect a blunted blue talon. “—What could he possibly do inside the Ark?”

Starscream's mental facilities were not so compromised that he gave way that he had heard the hushed conversation, but he was sorely tempted to snort. What could he do, indeed? Besides having one of the only creatures aboard the Ark that could provide the information he desired at his complete, unattended mercy.

“No problem, of course, I'll tell Blue you said happy creation day," Sideswipe stated loudly as he stepped away from the desk and raised to his full, almost impressive height—the warbuild was still several feet shorter than Starscream, just as all the Autobots the seeker had met other than their Prime had been.

“Leaving so soon?” Starscream lilted, derma twitching in an effort not to smirk at the thought of being left unsupervised with the organic. Had he not had the misfortune of meeting Cliffjumper and Red Alert, Starscream would have thought all Autobots suffered a faction-wide glitch that rendered them hopelessly naïve.

"Yeah, don't want to be late for the party,” was Sideswipe’s hasty response, the mech already walking away from the desk and heading toward the door. “Hate to cut it short, but I wouldn’t be much help with the sciencey stuff anyway; that’s what this Chip off the old block is for.”

Still in motion, the red bot waved behind himself in the general direction of the organic, who was shaking its tiny head. "That phrase works, technically, but your delivery was off."

Right, yes, party. Starscream definitely believed that was where Sideswipe and the rest of the Autobots were going. Just as much as he believed grounders could fly and Primus was real.

Sideswipe snapped his digits, “Next time.”

The mech reached the door and palmed it open, calling behind him, "No rush on the electro-gummies, by the way. Blue won't mind the wait, and it's the thought that counts or some slag like that."

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Starscream said, artificial smile firmly in place even as his wings twitched impatiently.

The grounder paused before fully exiting, his frame stilling as he gripped the door frame with both servos and twisted his helm around, expression rueful as he addressed the seeker. “And Starscream?”

“Yes?” He replied, annoyance threatening to creep into his tone. Leave already.

“I’m sorry about taking the gummies the way I did; it wasn’t the most Autobot-y way to welcome you onboard.”

Starscream's arms fell to his sides, and it was a disturbing number of astro-seconds before he realized his mouth was hanging open; he snapped it shut. Whatever he had expected Sideswipe to say, an apology had not even been in the stratosphere of possibility. A warrior, a warframe, apologizing for an easily won prize? Why? The mech hadn't even threatened Starscream for them, only asked in an impolite, demanding, brutish way.

A senior warrior claiming a spoil of war from a junior’s cache was not uncommon amongst warframes. However, Starscream's unique status amongst his fellow seekers had protected him from the archaic ritual.

Much as the seeker had despised the situation, he had understood it as a cultural norm between a begrudgingly more experienced warrior and one less seasoned. He had attributed Hound’s shame at the mech’s actions to a civilian frame’s ignorance—he had not thought there was anything to apologize for, and Starscream certainly wouldn't have had their positions been reversed.

When Sideswipe made no move to leave, Starscream’s wings snapped up in realization; the grounder was waiting for a response.

Clearing his vocalizer, Starscream replied with unconcealed bewilderment, “You are forgiven?”

Either ignorant of or graciously ignoring Starscream’s confused state, the mech gave no acknowledgment that he had heard the seeker's hesitancy, only giving a two-digit salute in response as he exited the lab. “Cool, later nerds.”

The door slid shut behind him.

Alone at last.

Tension seeped out of Starscream's frame with every astro-second that passed without the grounder's return, his wings losing their rigid posture. His processor throbbed painfully, distracting from the satisfaction he should have felt at gaining such an easy personal victory. Heavy vents puffed from the sides of his helm as he attempted to understand what had just happened.

Had Sideswipe been scolded by his superiors for actions that could alienate the seeker? Did he think Starscream would actually try to create rust sticks (he remembered they had been the first thing the grounder asked after during their initial introduction) if he massaged the flyer’s ego with an apology? Sincere, spark-felt remorse was the least likely scenario, which only left—

It was the human who finally broke the silence, calling the seeker’s attention back to its seated form and muttering, “I thought he’d never leave.” Then its meaty face spread in a wide smile, the organic gripping its chariot’s armrests as it leaned forward. “So, I take it you’re here to ask me to dig through Teletran-One to find information on some guy named Skyfire?”

Starscream's vents sputtered, and his wings jerked stiff at his back.

“Wha—how do you know that?”

“Because that’s exactly what Jazz asked me not to do earlier this morning.” The human leaned back in its chair, crossing its arms over its chest, and if organics had fields, Starscream knew this one’s would be smug.

Red optics narrowed and leaned down to sneer at the fleshling. "I take it this means you will not assist me in this endeavor?"

That accursed Jazz—what did the mech have against him? This was the second time the Autobot third had interfered with Starscream acquiring information that was rightfully his to know. 

"Now, I never said that." The organic shot back.

Starscream tilted his helm, unsure what Earth game the human was playing, but determined to win.  

“…So, you will help me?” Starscream questioned, leaning down even further. Not close enough to risk physical contact, but enough for him to see its eyes were dark brown.

The organic unfolded its arms with a shrug, “I don’t see why not.”

It leaned forward, cupped one side of its mouth, and whispered, "But not right now. The base is mostly empty, but Red is still watching the cameras—we’ll need to wait until later tonight when he goes out with the others.”

Starscream flicked his optics upwards and saw no cameras on the ceiling, but he chose to believe the organic was being truthful about them being watched. The Autobot's security director had undoubtedly given the impression of a paranoid busybody who snooped on undeserving mecha.

“What do you suggest?” He asked, processor ache flaring up at the thought of deferring to an organic for anything.

“I’ll meet you at your room once the coast is clear. I’ll knock three times so you’ll know it’s me,” the human responded. "They won't be back until early morning, so we should have plenty of time to find what you're looking for."

“And you know where to find me?” Starscream inquired.

He had wanted to ask why the little creature was so eager to aid him but decided against it. Either the human was operating under orders from its Autobot masters in some underhanded scheme to trick the seeker, or it had a hidden, personal agenda that would reveal itself in time. So long as Starscream acquired the information he sought, he didn’t care why it was helping him.

"The Aerialbots' room, right?" The human confirmed before rolling back to where it had been working on the grey device, calling over its shoulder, "Be careful with that. If they're letting you use their room, it's definitely because they want something."

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Starscream intoned, already having suspected as much. From Vos to Iacon, there was never such a thing as a free refueling or berth.

And with that, Starscream decided it was time to return to his own. With Red Alert watching, it would not do to draw attention to himself by satiating his curiosity about the Immobilizer or the other mechanical contraptions scattered throughout the lab. Best to make a casual retreat until wandering optics were replaced with a less vigilant pair.

Hours after his return from the science lab and well after the sun had settled—in the middle of barren quarters, Starscream paced in a circle, arms held tightly behind his back beneath his wings. All that could be heard within the room were the short clip of heeled pede-steps and the heavy hum of cooling-fans. The seeker’s fans having clicked on shortly after leaving the lab, his frame’s internal temperature no longer enough to keep his helm from overheating.

Following a failed stasis-nap and no further intrusions upon his self-assigned solitude, Starscream had been left with only his suspicions and scrutinies for company.

His too-short time on the berth had only resulted in an aborted recharge attempt, tossing and turning as he failed to initiate shut-down protocols, his heated processor unable to end the calculation sequences and danger proximity alerts. Which was entirely the fault of the Autobots and their pet meat sack’s schemes against him. While he had been suspicious of the Autobots' motives regarding his care before, he was now certain they were not on the level, as the main conspirator, Jazz, would say. Perhaps neither Hound nor Ratchet were privy to their faction’s more Machiavellian machinations, but their third was certainly plotting something. His early morning visit to the lab was proof enough.

Three little knocks on the door stalled the seeker’s pacing; he quickly opened the door and looked down, seeing the organic looking no more put together than it had in the lab.

“Were you followed?” Was all he asked.

It snorted a laugh, “No, there’s barely anyone here tonight, and they're not coming back until tomorrow morning.”

He nodded, briefly wondering if he was supposed to know about the ship’s lack of security as he stepped over its loose-lipped form. “Where to, human? And should we expect resistance?”

The human rolled away from the door, looking up at the seeker as it explained, “We’ll need to get to the elevator at the end of the hallway and go down to the fourth deck—and since Gears is on monitor duty tonight, so as long as we don’t make too much noise, no one should stop us.”

Starscream nodded, internally categorized the mech Gears as a potential security exploit before ordering, “I’ll lead, you follow.”

He then began his measured advance down the hall, edging forward on the tips of his pedes, carefully keeping his heel-struts from scraping along the floor. And while seekers had not been designed with stealth in mind, and Starscream's colors certainly did not encase him to the shadows, he still considered himself adept enough at sneaking into places he was never meant to be—the ISR had never caught him once while perusing their restricted archives, after all.

Reaching an intersection in the hallway, Starscream poked his helm around a corner, optic sensors scanning from side to side as he looked for any sign of wayward Autobots. Seeing none, he turned to signal the organic forward, only to frown when he saw how far behind it was. The little thing had yet to cross half the same distance.

“It is going to take us a deca-cycle to get there at the pace you’re going,” he whispered sharply, tipping his way back toward the human.

The human threw up its arms, lowly harshening back, “I’m pushing as fast as I can here. Usually, one of the bots picks me up whenever we have far to go—you know it took me a whole hour to get to your room from the lab?”

Starscream had not known, but what he did know was that at their current pace, they were definitely going to get caught. The human had said the Autobots would not arrive back at the base until morning—and by then, the organic might have made it to the end of the hallway. Seeing no alternative, Starscream groaned and crouched down in front of the wheeled nuisance. His tanks rolled, disgust warring with practicality as he contemplated how to lift the organic with minimal contact between them.

“Fine,” Starscream ground out. “I will pick you up by your mobility device—you will not touch me.”

Beady eyes rolled, and it said, "We’re not poisonous, Starscream.”

“That remains to be seen,” he replied tersely, even as his servo shook where it was raised over the organic, only to hastily jerk it away. It was so small—how was he supposed to grab it beneath the chair without coming into contact with its grubby body? Maybe he could use something from his subspace to sweep it into his palm, like a Nullray….

“How about this,” the human said, interrupting Starscream’s vacillation. “Hold your hand out like a ramp, and I'll roll into it. No touching required."

His derma twisted, but he did as the human suggested, lowering the tips of his talons to the copper floor and tilting his servo back enough to form a shallow ramp, all the while deliberating what was more disgusting—an organic touching him or allowing a lesser being to order him about?

Before he could reach a conclusion, the human rolled forward, rocking a few times in its wheeled chair before finally pushing itself forward onto his servo, grunting as it did so. Starscream curled his opposite servo over the organic, forming a blue protective cage, then without a word to his passenger, returned to his previous pace down the hall: to the corridor's end, through a tall elevator that did not require a passcode to operate, below to the fourth deck, and down a dimly lit, narrow passageway that led to a single reinforced door.

All without a single comm or question.

“Security here is abysmal,” Starscream commented dryly. An unlucky mech by nature—the lack of Autobot resistance was entirely due to the faction’s lackadaisical security measures.

“It’s not always like this,” the human responded as Starscream lifted his servo, holding the organic in front of the door’s control panel. “They’re all gone because of the…party.”

Red optics avidly watched as the opening sequence was typed in, memorizing.

“Must be some party,” he said as the door parted to reveal a dark room with a long row of tall, copper server racks lining its far wall, each one protected by black-mesh cages. The most security he had seen the entire night. Blue and green lights blinked from behind the physical barrier. Between the servers, Starscream spotted a tall console, almost exactly like the one used to hail the Trion.

"It's the most excited I've seen the bots since meeting them. They're, ah…expecting some old friends to show up—that's why Spike and Carly went with Bee, so he could introduce them."

Starscream entered the room, his optics casting a red glow into the darkness.

“I’m sure,” he said dismissively. Carly, Bee, fake parties. They were so close to the truth that he didn't care to further dissect the organic's thin web of lies or its casters. "Where are we?"

“Teletran-One’s main server room. You can access the AI pretty much anywhere on the ship, but almost no one comes down here, and I thought it would give us the most privacy—probably because it's freezing," the human added with a grumble, rubbing its arms, tiny form shivering.

Starscream paid its comfort no mind and tilted the servo carrying the organic down onto the console; the temperature shift had been so minor that his sensors hadn’t even alerted him to the change.  

“The Autobots allow you access to their database without supervision?” He asked as it rolled toward what appeared to be a mini-keyboard. The welds attaching it to the console looked fresh.

“Pretty much,” it answered while typing. "They had to give me sub-level three access—whatever that means—to find what I could about you, and either they didn't see the need to take it back or…."

The monitor attached to the console flashed white before dimming to dark grey, green lines of coding scrolling down its long screen.

“Or?” Starscream prompted.

“They forgot,” the human finished, its hands flying over the keyboard at an admittedly impressive speed.

Starscream rested a servo on a red hip, his wings held high as he watched the organic work. He was vigilant for any shift in the ship's still air that would alert him to an interloper—he would not be caught unawares by an invisible voyeur again. The only sounds and shifts he detected came from the heavy buzz of the servers, little beeps and blinks intercutting between the surprisingly loud clack of a keyboard.

"I think I've got something. Give me just a few seconds, and…there!” the human exclaimed, emphasizing with a hard final push of a button.

“What have you found?” Starscream inquired as he placed a servo on the console and leaned forward, red optics roving over the fragmented coding. It was a disjointed text copy rather than the article itself. His optics crossed as he tried to make sense of the jumble of Cybertronian glyphs and numbers.

The organic below him had no such trouble.

“It says…it says the leader of the Decepticon movement, Megatron, and disgraced senator Shockwave declared war on the scientific community this past orn by conducting a raid on the Iacon Scientific Research Institute." Little eyes squinted, and the organic leaned its head forward, continuing to read the corrupted code. "There's also something about an unknown seeker, all of Cybertron mourning and…and I'm sorry, the rest is too corrupted to make out."

Starscream swallowed nothing, throat cables constricting.

Megatron. The leader of the Decepticons had led the raid on the ISR along with Shockwave, who he knew from the information packet was the faction's science officer. He didn't care to know how the former senator had earned the title disgraced; it would make little difference when the mech was a grayed husk beneath Starscream’s pedes.

But an unknown seeker had also been a potential accomplice in the raid….

“Can you pull up a list of all known functioning seekers in the Decepticon army?” Starscream glanced down at the fleshy long enough to see it nod before focusing back on the screen, the green glyphs transforming from jumbled code to something more legible.

“See any names you recognize?” It asked.

Starscream frowned as he logged the shorter-than-expected list of designations; none were familiar to him. Not that he had ever been close with other seekers, but he had known many during his time at the Vosian Military Academy. His flight skills had earned him many admirers, and he had never been one to shy away from praise, even if he dodged the grasping servos of those who gave it. That not even one of his academy mates were counted among the living should have meant something to even his cynical spark; that it hadn’t was the cause for his frown. 

“None—pull up any of unknown status.”

A slightly longer list appeared on the screen, and he logged it along with those that were known; together, less than thirty seekers were accounted for. From a city of hundreds of thousands to not even half of a hundred—the corner of his derma lifted in a smirk.

Either the seeker who had been present during the raid was already counted among the deactivated or soon would be.

The smirk fell as quickly as it came as he considered the daunting task before him. Starscream had already been debating taking his revenge on the faction as a whole after he destroyed those who had taken his partner from him, and now both goals had become one and the same.

But why would the Autobots hide Megatron’s involvement from him?

Should his suspicions on their eventual recruitment offer be proven true—and they would be—then the blue optical army would expect him to take up arms against the Decepticons after swearing loyalty to their cause. Knowing it was their opposing faction's leader who killed his partner would be yet another incentive meant to encourage his willing draft into their army. What possible benefit could they gain by refusing to give him Megatron and Shockwave’s designations as the perpetrators?

His aching processor ran hot as he filtered through different theories and probabilities on what the Autobots intended to accomplish by withholding information from the seeker and how it all contributed to their ultimate goal.  

His logic-drive’s simulations fragmented before a tenable scenario could formulate; he blamed lack of recharge.

Biting his bottom derma, Starscream attempting shut the hypothesis procedures down, deeming the effort futile in his current state—and failing. There was too much to think of, too much he needed to hypothesize, none of which he wanted to do with his HUD warning of an overheated processor. Or in the presence of an Autobot pet.

An Autobot pet that had gone against its masters to aid the seeker in discovering the truth hidden behind welcoming smiles.

The why should not matter; he need not understand the motivations of a lesser species. But needing an easier question to process, if only to allay his heated helm, he enquired, “Why are you helping me?”

As their pet, the seated creature was beholden to the Autobots and had no reason to offer help to Starscream beyond the seeker being a member of its governing race. Had it merely heard the request of a better and understood its obligation to obey, or was this too a plot by deceitful bots to trick Starscream? But to what end? If they wanted him to attack their enemy faction's leader, why hide the information and not just arm him and point an angry warframe in the right direction?

Before Starscream could lose himself in a logic-drive loop, the organic swiveled from the console to face the seeker fully.

“Because I understand what it’s like to be left out.” Its voice was soft; Starscream’s optic ridges rose, waiting.

“They mean well, really I know that, but sometimes I can’t help but…,” the organic frowned and shook its head. “Sometimes they can go too far when trying to protect someone. I can’t walk—I’m not made of glass. But they always tell me it’s too dangerous to go out with them. Being left out of missions when Spike and Carly go on them all the time—are out there now—made me want to…get back at them, I guess. Helping you was just a way to do that.” The little thing rubbed the back of its thin neck, and if Starscream was one to discern the expressions of organics, he would say it looked contrite. “Not very noble, I know.”

Oh? Petty revenge against its owners? Starscream could understand wanting to get back at those who presumed to lord above him (though in the organic’s case, it was true); he had concocted his own paybacks against the ISR council in retaliation for their impertinent prodding at his qualifications as a scientist and derogatory denial of his ability. Not all successful attempts, but always a rewarding effort.

He and the fleshy had nothing in common—how could they? But he could…appreciate its desire to be contrary to those in an authoritative position above it. Finally hearing a reasonable explanation for someone’s questionably philanthropic behavior, the heat in his helm lessened, if only a little. If only the Autobots were so easy to comprehend.

Understanding aside, he was unconvinced of the wheeled thing’s analysis of the Autobots’ reason for leaving it behind and thus inquired with a tilt of his helm. “Are you certain that’s what they were doing?”

“What do you mean?” It asked, rolling closer to where Starscream’s legs had bumped the console.  

"You're as fragile as any organic; all it would take is one accidental step to squish you. I don't see why being marginally slower than the rest is such a contributing factor to why they leave you behind…" Starscream paused and tapped his chin, pondering. “Perhaps they consider you too valuable an asset to risk.”

He saw no added value in any organic creature over another. Still, as a scientist who knew how long an experiment's cultivation process could take, he understood why the Autobots might be more reluctant to inadvertently part with such a uniquely talented, well-trained pet.  

“You know, I never really thought of it that way.” The human smiled at him, showing off its white teeth. “Thanks, Starscream.”

Red optics brightened, but he showed no other outward sign of his confusion. He did not know why it would thank him for such a basic observation, not that he would point out his lack of understanding to the small-brained thing. Its gratitude for him could be a prelude to further cooperation, which Starscream had reluctantly accepted (needing help from an organic!) would be required were he to begin properly plotting his revenge.

He needed to know everything about Megatron. The data packet had given him only a basic sequence of events that had led to the war's beginnings, Megatron’s beginning. A poor, beleaguered miner turned gladiator who eventually found himself appointed to a position of authority over much of Cybertron’s army, only to pivot them against the world they were built to protect in a quest for control over the planet. There had been mentions of starting a rebellion against the functionalist council, an honorable cause—peace through tyranny; a gilded coating of nobility over an ambitious, power-hungry mech. 

Had the warlord not killed Skyfire, Starscream could have almost respected such a crafty bid for planetary domination; by the time Megatron’s rallied masses realized they were nothing but pawns for a tyrant’s play for power, it would already be too late to step off the board.  

But Megatron had made the mistake of killing Starscream's partner, so the seeker wouldn't even afford him the respect of the soon-to-be dead.

Frame schematics, weapons loadout, combat ability, temperament, every loss Megatron had ever suffered and the cause of said loss; Starscream wanted it all and more. Access to Teletran-One would be paramount as he designed blueprints for the Decepticons’ eventual demise. No good inventor built from nothing…well, save Wheeljack, perhaps. But Starscream had no intention of the instrument of Megatron’s doom blowing up in his faceplate.

“Do you think that’s why they didn’t tell you about your partner?” The human suddenly spoke up, pulling Starscream from his thoughts.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

The little thing wheeled itself closer, and Starscream took a short step backward, removing himself from the organic's touching range. Picking the human up by its primitive transportation method was one thing; allowing its fleshy hands to make physical contact with him was another revolting matter entirely.

“Just that maybe the Autobots didn’t tell you about Megatron because they want to protect you the same way they think they’re protecting me.”

Starscream scoffed, “How could hiding who killed my partner protect me?”

Tiny shoulders shrugged, and the human looked up at him with a far too perceptive gleam in its eyes. “I guess that depends on you.”

Starscream's wings flared at the implication. That the Autobots had hidden the truth behind his partner's killers out of some soft-sparked fear? Worry for the seeker’s safety? A ridiculous notion that should be immediately discarded. An army concealing information from one of their potential warriors out of concern? Absurd.

Almost as absurd as its officers getting into petty squabbles over Earth slang, as a medic who made bets on fights, as a warrior feeling guilt over stolen candy, as a soldier caring for an alien greenhouse—as a Prime with a worker’s rough servos.

Starscream shook his helm. “Whatever their justification, it has something to do with them wanting me to join their war against the Decepticons.”

“Who said they wanted you to fight in the war?” The human countered.

"They're an army; I'm a seeker. It's obvious why they would want me.”

“Maybe,” the human hummed, pushing up its glasses. “But if I’ve learned anything by working with the Autobots, it’s that—”

A familiar comm frequency pinged him, and out of habit, Starscream accepted it without thought. Glyphs flashed across his HUD: a set of parallels and meridians. A location.

He sucked in a harsh vent as he staggered away from the desk, audials ringing. All at once, the room was spinning: too bright, his helm too light, his wings too heavy; they sagged, and he struggled to remain standing, his struts threatening to give out underneath him.

“Starscream! Are you okay? Should I…should I call Ratchet?” The human shouted, its alien voice cutting sharply through the incompatible lines of code that had threatened to crash his processor.

He focused everything on the human's tiny form, using it as a center point to recalibrate his scrambled visual receptors. Everything around him faded as he zoomed in on the organic, on external stimuli, and there, he could see it—the minuscule rising and lowering of its chest.

The lab pulsed back into frame around him, going in and out in time with the human's heartbeat.

Starscream straightened himself from where he had nearly fallen, smoothing his panicked expression and raising his wings. All previous traces of distress vanished with a final, deep vent of composure—he had come far too close to a total processor crash.

“I’m fine,” he snipped through clenched denta, gritting back the pain that had almost leaked into his vocals. “There’s no need to call Ratchet—I haven’t been recharging properly and merely suffered a processor lag.” 

"Are you sure?" It worried, rolling dangerously closer to the console's edge. If it fell, it could die.

Starscream walked closer to the console from where he’d faltered, servo open and ready to catch. He stared at the screen, but his optics glazed over the information presented. He looked down at the organic with a soft, vicious smile—did it know?

"Ratchet is already aware of the problem; there is no need to interrupt him during such an important party,” he insisted. “I’m sure whatever…festivities they’ve gotten up to are plenty enough to keep him busy.”

“…If you’re sure,” it wavered, sounding unconvinced.

For the sake of his maligned processor, Starscream decided the human was incapable of complex duplicity; its attempts to misdirect the seeker away from the Trion’s obvious arrival proved as much.

With a dramatic sigh, he dimmed his optics and leaned forward, his tone purposefully apologetic. He placed a servo on the console next to where the organic was seated, close enough for it to touch if it were foolish enough to try.

“It seems the night’s revelations have strained my systems more than anticipated—I know you went out of your way to meet me tonight, but would you mind if I called an early end?"

The human shook its head, “No, I don’t mind. But, ah—the bots made us a room on the ship in case we ever got stuck or stayed too late, and I was already planning on staying the night—if you could just bring me to it?”

“Of course,” Starscream purred, impatience thrumming through every wire of his frame.

He bent over to grab the chair by the center of its wheels, lifting the seated human and placing it in a blue palm. Then he was off, careful not to speed as urgency required, but there was an unmistakable weight in his steps. Gone were the carefully tipped steps from before, replaced by a purposeful march down the copper corridors. All without a word spoken to his fleshy passenger even as it made quick directional calls for the seeker to follow; his processors were burning so hot it took all of Starscream’s concentration not to crush the flimsy creature in a clenched fist as he did as it ordered. A furor had set his already smoldering processor ablaze, cascading down to his spark, and only the cool wash of pragmatism kept him from allowing a murderous haze of red smoke to cloud his thoughts.

He didn’t know anything for certain, not yet, and the human had proven itself useful and amenable, both laudable traits in even the lowest of creatures. To kill it now would be to lose both its future cooperation and the Autobots’—if that were something he still required, depending on the night’s continued revelations.

The human directed him to the same corridor they had begun in, and it was with a dismissive note that Starscream realized he had passed his temporary quarters and was rapidly approaching the end of the hall—near where Hound had brought him in from the greenhouse the night before.

“We’re here,” the human announced, and Starscream immediately stopped. He looked down to see a tiny silver door, too small to fit a turbo fox, built into the hall’s corner. He squatted in front of the door and tilted his servo, the wheeled organic rolling off with a small shout.

The human grabbed the wheels of its chair, stopping the too-fast descent before it could crash into the wall, and glared up at Starscream. "Are you sure you’re alright?”

Starscream ignored the fleshling in favor of his own thoughts, already a million miles away—or half a thousand, if he was being literal. With a flimsy wave, he stood and offered glibly, "I best be off—needing rest and all that.” Before turning away, refusing to stay and tuck the meaty creature in as the Autobots no doubt did. Urgency zipped along his circuits, encouraging Starscream to leave as quickly as possible. He had been given no time, just a location. What if the coordinates came with an expiration date?

A quick thought, drifting from a memory of another’s similarly swift exit, wisped through the heated haze of uncertain anger—that a grounder would not defeat a seeker in terms of graciousness. Optics forward, he offered a smooth “Thank you for your help, human,” as he passed its seated form.

An amused “You’re welcome, seeker" followed his departure.

The human had given the impression that Gears was not the most vigilant of security mecha—Starscream still kept a casual pace and a relaxed posture as he strode through the copper halls. He would give neither the security mech nor any random Autobot he passed a reason to confront him; the seeker didn’t know what he would do if they did. Incompatible data was running on a loop in his processor, and his battle protocols pinged, forcing him to manually deactivate their activation sequences. Warnings flashed across his HUD: overheating, fragmented restraint safety directives, rapid coolant depletion; all ignored.

The exit came into view, and Starscream's spark pulsed faster in its casing, his wings quivering in trepidation and servos twitching at his sides. If anyone were to stop him before he could leave…Starscream feared not for their safety but for the consequences his actions would result in.

But there was no one, and Starscream stepped out of the base, shoulder exhausts hissing as though he had run for an orn straight inside a smelter instead of the slow, short trek through a climate-controlled warship. He looked up; bright stars and a brighter, round moon illuminated the rocky desert surrounding the base. There wasn't even a wisp of a cloud in the sky. The temperature was low but barely enough to register as cool against his plating. His internal temperature making the chill in the air a negligible factor.

There was no trace of a storm; the sky was clear.

His fists clenched at his sides, and a light breeze ghosted across his wings, causing sensors to alight.

The winds were favorable, and the seeker would have no difficulty reaching top speeds, even in his degraded condition. He should transform and leap into the air—there wasn't time for him to deliberate the risks involved. The wheeled human had told him most of the Autobots wouldn't be back until early morning. No matter how short, Starscream's absence from the base would not go unnoticed, but it would go unheeded. There was no one from security to stop him from taking off and flying away from the Ark, possibly to never return. No guards, no nagging Ratchet, or smiling Hound. Nothing to stop him from transforming and taking off, possibly for good.

And still, apprehension left gears stuck, and transformation seams tight. His throat cables constricted, his helm throbbed, the cool night air doing nothing for its increasingly loud, drumming pain.

His last flight had left the seeker ten million stellar-cycles adrift in time. One flight had lost him everything—the only thing—he had ever held dearer than himself.

Or had it?

He needed to fly. He needed to know. 

Starscream steeled his circuits with a deep, fortifying vent and unclenched his plating. With a running leap, he transformed, the roar of his thrusters an ancillary accompaniment to his high-altitude ascension.

Wind slid over and under his pyramidical wings in a high-speed caress; his entire frame shuddered.

Flight sickness was a myth, one of baseless grounder conjecture, meant to further mystify the flyer frame type. The seeker had dealt with more than one ignorant, undeserved comment at the ISR regarding his attitude and its correlation with a lack of flight.

He still did a lazy spin in the air, frame lighter than the oxygen particles passing through his turbines.

Starscream kept his processor clear—as clear as it could be with the threat of a crash imminent—of any unwanted, encroaching thoughts. His navigational data and environmental input were the only processor functions allowed as he flew toward his destination.

He would not dare hope.

The world passed below in a rushed blur, a brown rocky expanse that shifted to dark-colored flat blocks containing small human structures and signs of agriculture. That, too, gave way to a vast expanse of water surrounded by what he now knew to be pines. The trees thinned out to reveal black, dimply lit roads that tailed into a flat, white, rocky basin. A layered, wide cut in the stone deep into the Earth’s surface. A quarry illuminated by nothing but the full moon and the stars. There were several levels with varying lengths of ledge the deeper the quarry went, each with tall openings dug into their sides that led into pitch-black tunnels.

Starscream hovered above. He had arrived.

He transformed mid-descent, white dust blowing up and around him as he approached one of the higher levels of the quarry. The coordinates had been precise, not leading to the quarry itself but to one of its many tunnels. He landed, small rocks crunching beneath his pedes and whirring fans announcing the seeker’s presence as he trembled forward; thick rivets of steam had begun pouring off his heated frame, causing condensation to bead along his white and red armor. His wings were rigid at his back, proximity sensors primed should he be walking into an ambush.

Ahead of him was a tall, wide tunnel opening, its size surpassing any of the others carved into the quarry.

He edged forward, squinting as he tried to see inside, but the moon's light shied around the tunnel's opening, and his optical input was compromised by the red alerts scrolling across his HUD that he could no longer manually remove. His throat was too tight to speak, and his processor was too impaired to comm.

Coming to a stop where moonlight met darkness, he peered into the cave, canting his helm forward as a vague silhouette began to materialize: tall, broad, winged—large servos lunged out of the darkness, taking his helm in a vice grip, causing Starscream’s overworked fans to hitch. They were attached to a massive shuttle class mech whose cabin space sat as kibble at his back, whose tapered wings pointed upward at a half angle, and whose striking cheeks were carved into a uniquely handsome faceplate.

Starscream forced glyphs past the lump in his throat, his vocals shaking as he tried to convey everything he felt—anguish, relief, affection, confusion—in a single designation.

“Skyfire?”

His best friend, his suitor, his partner—alive.

Kliks went by with no response from the mech holding him and with no effort from Starscream to break that hold. His optic ridges furrowed in concentration as he finally began to process the cosmetic changes in his partner’s frame, having missed them in his initial excitement and disbelief: dark grey plating with purple accents on the wings, an equally purple badge centered on a broad chassis, and—Starscream winced, wings stiffening as the grip on his helm turned harsh, almost crushing. Warnings flashed through Starscream's HUD, and he released a pained whine, his spark stuttering in its casing as a field of rage lashed against him, causing his knees to weaken and his own reaching field to shrink back in the face of the onslaught. A deep, furious voice rasped, “What fresh manner of Autobot cruelty is this?” 

Starscream's optics widened, and he stared into an equally crimson glare, a startling recognition slicing sharply through the pain—Decepticon.

Chapter Text

Skyfire roughly shoved Starscream away, causing the seeker to stumble back. His audials rung, pain from the sudden shift causing his optics to white out. He grits his denta, using the brief lack of visuals to manually disable his HUD and the emergency shut-down sequences that had begun to engage. He would not crash. Not here. Not now.

When his optics cycled back online, the shuttle had left the tunnel and was pacing around the seeker in a wide circle, back hunched forward as red optics roved over every inch of Starscream’s lithe frame.

“Wheeljack has really outdone himself this time,” Skyfire said, clasping his servos behind his back. “With the inferior craftsmanship of the Aerialbots, I hadn't thought him capable."

Starscream pivoted on a pede, helm twisting as he tried to follow his partner’s movements, his turns seconds behind, just missing catching the taller mech’s assessing gaze with his own confused stare.

“But you?” Red optics slowly raked their way up Starscream’s legs, over his chassis, lingering on his wings; a lascivious grin stretched across the shuttle’s faceplate. “You’re exceptionally well made, a near identical replica.”

Starscream’s derma twisted into a frown. “What are you talking about? I'm not some...some cheap knockoff; it's really me, Starscream. The Autobots found me underneath a sheet of ice in the Arctic. They—”

Skyfire talked over the seeker, continuing as though he never heard him.

“But why now? What could have made the Autobots so desperate to draw me out?” Skyfire mused with a curled digit against his chin. “And how long have they known my past? They’ve never acted on this information before, and—” The shuttle abruptly cut himself off with an amused click of his glossa and shake of his helm, “Ah, Prowl, your callousness never fails to impress.”

Skyfire stopped pacing directly before the seeker, black servos falling to purple-accented hips as he leaned over the shorter mech. The shuttle’s field reached out to caress Starscream’s own with a heavy intent the seeker couldn’t place pressing in on him, causing his plating to tighten with the sudden, inexplicable urge to step back. A proximity alert slipped past his manual overrides—danger—a sure indication of his malfunctioning systems.

Skyfire would never pose a danger to him; thus, as with all other system warnings, he ignored it.

“Prowl told me you were dead. The Autobots said that…that Megatron killed you.” Starscream’s spark was embroiled in a tumultuous battle, elation warring against unease; confusion a conscientious objector. The broad mech before him looked like Skyfire, albeit with minor cosmetic changes. However, his expressions, the posturing, even the way the shuttle spoke at the seeker instead of to him—made his partner a near unrecognizable simulacrum of the mech Starscream held so dearly to his spark.

Skyfire’s optics widened before he scoffed, looking into the distance with a thin, enigmatic smile, “Yes, I suppose he did.”

Megatron had killed Skyfire? But the shuttle was alive before him. Discordant information was stacking together in a mess of corrupted data blocks—a glitch of incongruent data caused his logic drives to frizzle, incorrectly depositing the blocks into incompatible memory banks; a spark burst from the top of his helm.

Skyfire chuckled, “Not so well made after all.”

Helm burning, Starscream pointed at his chassis with both servos, his vocals shaking, “Skyfire, it’s me, Starscream, your partner. I know it's difficult to believe; I barely believe it myself, but I'm alive.”  

Skyfire waved him off, raising to his full height. “Impossible, you—Starscream crashed ten million years ago. He was not built to endure the harsh Cenozoic conditions of Earth, and even had he survived the crash, he would have offlined due to energon depletion after four million years.”

Starscream shook his helm, vision swaying, “The Autobots didn’t believe it possible either, but—”

Skyfire scoffed, “I care not for the explanation your Autobot masters programmed into you. All I want to know is what you are.”

“I’m your partner,” Starscream rebutted, frustration spreading his wings wide. “You commed me and I—”

Skyfire cut the seeker off, dismissively saying, “Starscream’s comm link is millions of years outdated, not so difficult a signal to replicate.”

He sucked in a harsh vent, the stale quarry air doing little to cool his burning processor. Skyfire must have been in denial, caused by grief and shock at his partner's resurgence after ten million stellar-cycles—the only information the Autobots had given him that had proven true. The reveal of his partner’s survival placed everything else the bots had told him under sharper scrutiny. If they had lied to him about his Skyfire’s demise, what else had they fabricated? And to what end?

All questions to be asked at a later time after he had convinced Skyfire of his impossible survival and recovery. His fellow scientist was understandably cynical given the previously thought unfeasibility of such a miraculous resurrection. Starscream needed the mech to stop interrupting him long enough to get out a short, concise explanation. Through the burning haze of his corrupted processor, Starscream searched his long-term memory for what previous actions had worked to render his partner speechless.

An exhausted but fond smile spread across his faceplate as he settled on a method that never failed to succeed.

Stepping forward, he pressed a blue servo against a grey chassis; Skyfire jerked against the gentle touch but made no move to pull away. “The Autobots found me in the Arctic and rebooted me. They said I was out of energon and that my spark was weak, but I was alive. Then they told me ten million stellar-cycles had passed since I last onlined, that Cybertron was all but destroyed by civil war, and that my partner was dead.”

Skyfire’s derma thinned in a grim line, his dark, heavy field pulling in on itself as red optics bore into Starscream's pleading expression. The seeker’s vocals softened as he continued, “It’s me, Skyfire—Starscream, your partner, your…,” he swallowed, lower derma quivering as he choked out the endearment, “…your guiding Star. I’m alive. I don't know how or if anything I've been told about the past is true, and I just…I don’t know what to believe.”

He took another step closer, allowing his own earnest field to wash over the larger mech, soothing a servo upward to cover the purple badge centered on his partner’s chassis. “All I know now is that you’re here. And I’m here. We can figure the rest out together—like we’ve always done.”

Decepticon, Autobot; Starscream didn’t care what his partner was so long as it was alive.  

The shuttle’s expression was as unreadable as his field had been, the mech looking to where Starscream's servo was touching him, optics traveling along the arm it was attached to before finally settling on the seeker's faceplate. When seconds stretched into klicks, Starscream tiled his helm, searching his partner's unfamiliar red gaze for an answer.

The shuttle placed a black servo on one of Starscream’s shoulders, squeezing tight enough to buckle the plating. Starscream winced, but he didn't pull away, and he wouldn't even if his armor dented. His partner's touch, usually so carefully restrained, was only unbound due to shock. Any pain caused was unintentional, and so in response, he merely prodded with a soft, “Skyfire?”

The shuttle’s optic ridges furrowed before he abruptly dropped his hold and strode past the seeker, marching farther into the quarry—further away from Starscream.

“Wait, where are you going?” Starscream called after him, twisting his waist to watch the shuttle’s retreat. He hadn’t meant for the mech to drop his hold entirely, only weaken his grip.

“I’m going to investigate these claims of yours,” Skyfire responded without a look back.

Starscream jolted, scrambling to follow his retreating partner. “I’ll go with you!”

He didn’t know where Skyfire was going or how he intended to investigate the truth of Starscream’s survival—he didn’t care. Almost a full orn agonizing over the death of his partner only to find him alive, and now the mech wanted to leave him? Absolutely not. They would never be separated again if Starscream had his way—something the seeker was all too used to getting in regards to Skyfire—and that shouldn’t have changed no matter how much time had passed.

Without a single look back, Skyfire rebuffed the seeker, vocals hard. “No—you will return to the Autobot base and await my summons.”

“And what’s to stop me from following you?” Starscream retorted, lengthening his stride as he tried to catch up to his partner. “You can't fly faster than a seeker; no amount of time will have changed that."

As abruptly as he began, Skyfire came to a halt near the cliff’s edge, causing Starscream to nearly trip over his own pedes in his haste to stop before crashing into the shuttle’s back. Skyfire glanced over his shoulder, looking down at the seeker and responding tartly, “If you really are Starscream, you will hold fidelity to me and do as I command.”

Starscream’s optics blew wide at the order, all the ventilating air leaving his overheating frame in a loud gush. Had Skyfire just….

A deep frown pulled at Starscream’s derma as he tried to call forth a similar instance or reasonable explanation for the shuttle to have taken such an imperious tone with the seeker, but either his processor was too damaged to properly sift through memory banks or such an instance didn't exist, because no one, not even Skyfire, commanded Starscream.   

Before he could facilitate an appropriately scathing response or draw more air into his vets, Skyfire leaped into the quarry’s hollow center, transforming, his unmistakably Earth alt’s nose facing the seeker even as the shuttle hovered several feet above him.

“Tell no one of our meeting,” Skyfire ordered, booming vocals echoing around the quarry.

Starscream’s optics cycled, his upper derma curling, “We are not done here, Skyfire.”

If Skyfire heard the seeker, he didn't respond. Instead, the high-pitched whine of his engines carried him higher and higher out of the quarry. Starscream rushed to the edge of the cliff, shouting, "Don’t you dare leave me here!” But his vocals were drowned out by the roar of the shuttle’s thrusters activating.

“Skyfire—!”

But it was too late. The shuttle was gone, his form shrinking in the distance, leaving Starscream to stare at the empty air where his partner had once been, spark spinning rapidly in its chamber. In disbelief, anger, or both, he couldn’t tell.

What he could do was transform and chase after the shuttle; a seeker could out-pace a shuttle class flyer anywhere but the high thermosphere. He could catch up, demand his partner believe him, and reprimand the mech for daring to abandon him on an alien planet—but there was no need. Skyfire would be back.

Starscream hadn’t held any high expectations after receiving a comm from his reportedly dead partner, and he had been careful not to let them rise as he approached the quarry: a Decepticon ambush, an Autobot practical joke, a passionate reunion where he and Skyfire flew off into the night together; all equally plausible outcomes. But he had never expected to have met his partner and the mech to…dismiss him, to reject the seeker’s very existence and leave him with only a barked order (an order from Skyfire!) and more questions than when he’d arrived.

Clearly, his partner hadn’t been operating with a fully functional processor. The sheer joy Skyfire must have felt at seeing Starscream had obviously fried his circuits and the shuttle needed time to cool his helm; a flight was the best way to accomplish this.

Soon, his partner would turn around and fly back, pull the seeker into his arms, professing apologies and wailing his relief. Skyfire would not leave Starscream to the mercies of the shuttle’s deceitful enemy faction. He need only wait.

And so, he waited. And he waited. Never moving from his place at the cliff’s edge, frame just as frozen as it had been in the ice. He waited until the distant chirping of Earth insects echoed across the empty quarry, until dew began to bead along his helm and drip down the curve of his wings—until the first pinks of the morning sky began to peak over the horizon.

Until he received an incoming comm from Ratchet asking where he was.

Starscream didn't return the comm; instead, he sent one of his own to Skyfire and asked the same question. 

When no response came, Starscream shuttered off his optics, sucked in a deep vent, and stepped off the cliff, transforming in a numb daze. He set coordinates for the Ark, allowing the cool morning air to cycle through his vents as he rose high into the sky. Thin strands of clouds had formed during the time Starscream had stood waiting; he made no effort to dodge them. Allowing their wet precipitation to slide along his transformation seams and calm his heated frame, now burning from both lack of recharge and a simmering, directionless anger.

Or rather, there were directions but too many for him to decide on a single line of bearing. Anger at the Autobots for lying to him, at Skyfire for leaving him, at himself for failing to successfully convince his partner of the seeker’s authenticity, at the planet passing by below him, at the situation itself—at the very concept of time and what it took from him.

The Earth sped by below him, and he soon arrived at the Autobot headquarters, only to find what he had been searching for the entire flight once its copper exterior came into view—a target for the fury that had been smelting Starscream's frame from the inside out; Optimus Prime standing outside the Ark’s entrance, waving at the seeker as he approached.

Starscream’s landing was hot, the seeker transforming rapidly and landing in front of the Prime with a heavy thud, dirt gusting around him.

“Good morning, Starscream,” the Autobot leader cordially welcomed. “Did you enjoy your flight?”

The mundane reception in the face of his fury caused the tightly held leash holding back Starscream’s temper to snap. He marched forward and pressed a talon against the Prime’s chassis, snarling, “Why didn’t you tell me it was Megatron who killed my partner?”

Why did you lie to be about his death?

Was what he wanted to shout, but Skyfire had left him with only two requests—not an order, Skyfire would never be so presumptions with him, Starscream had simply misunderstood in the moment—to return to the Ark and to keep their clandestine meeting from the Autobots. He would not give his partner cause to suspect him a compromised agent by informing the Autobots of his discovery; proving to the shuttle that he really was his partner revived and not some crudely constructed Autobot imitation by showing the fidelity Skyfire had spoken of.  

The edges of the Prime’s optics pinched, and Starscream prepared to rebut any denial or obfuscation the Autobot tried to deliver, only to shrink back, pulling his digit away as a torrent of remorse poured off the Prime's field and into Starscream's.

With somber vocals, the Prime answered, “Jazz feared you would take rash action against the Decepticon leader should you be made aware of his involvement in defacing your partner, endangering your life in the process. It was a sudden call in light of your…interests and compromised state, but it was the wrong one to make.”

Red optics searched the Autobot leader's half-hidden faceplate for any trace of deceit but could see nothing in the darkened blue optics staring down at him.

He should comment on just how wrong the Prime had been for his decision, implying without implicitly stating that he knew his partner wasn’t really dead. He should reveal the futility of the Autobots corrupting their ship’s information network for the sole purpose of deceiving the seeker, but he couldn’t without betraying Skyfire.

Servos clenching into fists at his side, a question he could ask pushed past his derma, “Why haven’t you tried to recruit me?”

Optimus Prime heaved a great sigh, field churning into a thick solution of grief and remorse. The thought that sharing such regretful emotions was a deliberate attempt at subterfuge to lower the seeker’s guard flittered to the forefront of Starscream's mind—and he didn't push it away, using it to harden himself against the Prime's following words, wrapping his own field tightly around himself.   

Next would come the recruitment attempt Starscream had been expecting—he needn’t let the Prime know just how antagonistic he had become in such a short amount of time toward the notion, lest the Autobot begin to question the cause.

The Prime turned his helm upward, gazing into the Earth's pink and blue gradient sky. Then, without looking down, deep vocals rumbled, “Starscream…many innocent beings have been pulled involuntarily into our war, and now an entire planet has been endangered. If possible, I had hoped to spare you of our conflict. We have lost much in this war, and I was—am, reluctant to impose such a question on someone so far removed from it."

Finally looking down at the seeker, red meeting blue, Optimus continued, “Should you remain with the Autobots, leave the planet, act alone against the Decepticons in retaliation for your partner…or should you decide to join the Decepticons—it is your freedom to choose, and freedom is the right of all sentient beings.” Somberly, the Prime added, “And I apologize for leading you to believe yours was ever in jeopardy with us.”

His upper derma curled, snarl threatening to slip past. Of all the sanctimonious, ostentatious, drivel—freedom? As if Starscream would be foolish enough to believe it was something so simple. Stomping a pede, his wings flared. "Why do you keep apologizing? You're a Prime; I'm a seeker,” he gestured between them, demanding. “What is it that you want from me?”

There had to be something that the Autobots expected from him, if not his flight capabilities or his scientific expertise, then something. Leverage against Skyfire? To what end? Starscream could feel his fans grinding painfully against internals as he forced them still, not about to allow the Prime to hear their heavy strain, to know how ragged his frame had been run after one short flight.

The taller mech shifted, his demeanor losing its worn wilt as he regarded the seeker warmly. “Nothing more substantial than your safety,” then with a wink. “Though I have been told you’re working on an electro-gummy replica. If you could keep in mind yellow-cortex is my favorite? I would appreciate it.”

Optimus Prime, Cybertron's supposed holy leader and head of one of the only two factions remaining in the entire Cybertronian race—was asking a seeker to remember his favorite flavor of candy.

Starscream’s anger flagged, his wings drooping as his widened optics cycled. Then, with a shake of his helm, remarked, “You are the strangest Prime I have ever met.”

The tall mech beamed at him, “I’ll thank you for the compliment.”

Starscream's optics cycled, and he huffed, shocking himself when a puff of black smoke popped out of his mouth. He quickly waved it away before the Prime could take note, his cheeks puffing as he held back coughs, his overheated systems retaliating for the forced fan shut-down.

The Autobot leader obliviously continued, “Now, I understand you’ve had a long night, and I would hate to keep you from recharge, but if you like, we could greet the dawn together—even in its most remote locations, this planet has beautiful sunrises.”

Starscream, as subtly as possible, beat a fist against his chassis, allowing his fans to click on at their lowest setting. An optic ridge rose dubiously in the Prime’s direction.

No one was so genuinely kind, and certainly no Prime. He wouldn’t trust the bot’s benevolence and couldn't having just returned from proof of his lies. But the seeker was in no state to confront the larger mech or the faction as a whole, so he only shook his helm, vocals rough from choking back smoke. "No, I've been out enough, and I believe Ratchet will have my helm if I go another day without recharge."

The Prime blinked at him, “You haven’t been recharging?”

Starscream waved him off, and the smoke, as he walked past the larger mech, “Nothing to concern yourself with, Prime.”

The last thing he needed was the Autobot leader’s false platitudes and contrived concern on top of the mech’s delusive apologies and declaration of personal freedom—that he would respect Starscream’s choices when no Prime before him had done so. And that was before the civilian classes had been forced into war against warbuilds.

The matter of the gummies was something he tucked away in the back of his processor, a potential bargaining chip for later.

“Starscream—” the Prime’s concerned vocals called after him, but the seeker continued forward, the Ark’s door opening to admit him without him having to enter the code to open it.

Once inside the Ark, so close to a place of rest, Starscream could think of nothing else, his processor already beginning to engage shut-down sequences, dimming his optics and pulling power from his core functions to conserve energy for the activation of self-repair nanites.

That he passed no Autobots on his trek to the Aerialbots’ room was a detail the seeker was too fatigued to notice.

Smoke was openly blowing out of his shoulder exhausts by the time he reached his destination, the plates covering his protoform rattling. Starscream’s servos shook as he fumbled with the keycode, slipping the wrong numbers before finally getting it right after several errant attempts. The door slid open, and Starscream stepped through its threshold with a smoky, open-mouthed sigh of relief as he was greeted by the welcoming sight of an empty berth—the floor rushed to meet him.

Starscream onlined with a loud groan. His wings were stiff, and a sharp pain stabbed at his spinal-strut; both aches were familiar hurts he had hoped to never feel again, caused by the hard steel of a mediberth. The pain lacing his frame was quickly overtaken by that of his processor, however, and he winced as his optics cycled online to the dim lights of the medbay.

He sat up slowly, palm pressing between his blurry optics; out of the corner of one, he saw the fuzzy form of Ratchet seated across from the berth, one leg crossed over a knee, arms folded over his chassis, red digits tapping against white plating. Vision clearing, he saw the medic had a single optic ridge raised as he observed the seeker, field buzzing with annoyance as he groused, “I would say I’m not going say I told you so—but I did. I told you so.”

Starscream frowned, “I’m in no mood for your nagging, medic.”

Ratchet leaned forward, growling, "If your processor wasn't already so slagged, you'd have a wrench upside the helm for that.”

“Oh, thank you, Dr. Ratchet; where would I be without your tender mercy?" Starscream snarked with a slanted glare in the medic's direction.

“You’d be halfway to the scrap yard is where you’d be, because what the Pit were you thinking letting it get this bad? If Hound hadn’t found you when he did, you’d have suffered a critical processor failure.”

Helm throbbing, Starscream didn’t have the capacity to censure himself, “I was thinking I’m in a base with mecha who have reason to be hostile toward my frame type and who actively hide information from me—you need to better train your pets, by the way. The wheeled one told me everything you wouldn’t.”

Starscream would have sneered at the medic were his helm not currently on fire and melting its way into his vents and down his dry throat—wasn't the Autobot supposed to be doing something about that? So much for Hippocratic oaths….

Ratchet pointed a red digit at the seeker, vocals stern, “We’ll talk about the pet thing later—but I think we both know that’s not the real reason you haven’t been recharging. If you were really that worried about us, you’d want to be in top form while dealing with us, not the overheated pile of slag they found collapsed in the hallway.”

Red optics narrowed, “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

Ratchet shrugged a shoulder in confirmation.

Wings flaring, Starscream hissed, “I was thinking if I recharge—who knows how many stellar-cycles will have passed by the next time I wake?”

There were questions within the question: would there be any Autobots or Decepticons left, or would their entire race have wiped itself out? Would Starscream wake up undamaged, or would his frame finally show the deterioration it should have undergone after so long without maintenance? Would his partner have offlined by the next time Starscream awoke?

Ratchet regarded the seeker through contemplative, cerulean blue optics and said, “I’m going to put you down through a medically induced stasis. I’ve done all I can do without you consenting to open helm surgery—”

“No.”

"—So, your self-repair nanites will have to finish the job, and they need uninterrupted defrag time to fix the damage you've done to your processor," Ratchet finished, raising an expectant optic ridge.

Starscream pursed his derma, “And how long will I be under?”

"However long it takes…," Ratchet started before stopping, then continued with a helm tilt in the seeker's direction, "but how about if it goes longer than a week, I pull you out, just to check in?”

It wasn't so much a question but a reassurance, and Starscream was annoyed at himself by how comforting he found it. He shouldn’t find any comfort from the Chief Medical Officer of liars. But he did, and Starscream would certainly blame it on his processor damage once he was in full control of his mental facilities again.

“Very well,” he relented. “Do what you must.”

Ratchet snorted, “I’d say you’re the only mech that could make proper recharge sound like torture, but Prowl exists.”

The remark earned a quirk of Starscream’s derma and an amused huff. Ratchet’s unorthodox berth-side manner made staying wary of him so very difficult, and Starscream wanted to resent him for it, and maybe he would, once all the Autobots’ lies were finally revealed. But for the moment….

Starscream laid back down on the berth, adjusting himself so the hard metal didn’t press against his wings so painfully. There was one final question he had to ask, one whose answer he couldn't trust, despising himself for wishing he could. 

He stared up at the increasingly familiar copper ceiling through dimming red optics, inquiring softly, “Would you lie to me, doctor?”

Astro-seconds ticked by with no response from the bot, and Starscream was beginning to be convinced the medic was refusing to answer when aged vocals asserted, "Lies by omission, maybe. I'm an officer, and that means being privy to information not every bot has—against my will, might I add. There’s no reason for a medic to waste time in an officers’ meeting.”

The tacked-on rant sounded like an old one, like a dwindling argument Ratchet had lost many times yet continued to kindle.

Starscream felt the medic’s servos brush against one of the medical ports on the side of his waist, tapping twice against the white circular panel concealing it. “Open up,” the medic gruffed.

The port popped open, and Starscream felt Ratchet's medical cable connect with a cold snap. He shivered as he felt remedial programs surge along singed circuits and into his fried processor. His already blurred optical feed abruptly cut off, leaving the seeker in the total darkness of his diminishing systems.

Ratchet coaxed him through it, “I won’t ask you to trust the Autobots—I’ll only ask you to trust me to do my job.”

Through a mouth that felt stuffed full of micro-mesh, Starscream asked, “And what’s that?”

“Right now? Making sure a flighty seeker gets his rest.”

Starscream huffed a tired laugh at the medic’s words because, in spite of all evidence that cautioned against trusting an Autobot, that he believed.

When he woke again, it was to rigid plates and the pinging of a missed message, another set of coordinates with an accompanying time. He noted the same location as before and, as his internal chronometer reset, only joors to prepare.

He had spent two full Earth days in stasis, not the week Ratchet had promised, but he was fortunate to have roused early—he would have missed the rendezvous with Skyfire had he remained in stasis any longer.

Twisting his neck and loosening taught cables, red optics cycled online to see a new, but not unknown, mech seated across from the mediberth.

“How are you feeling?” Came Hound’s gentle probing.

Starscream rose to sit on the berth, turning so his legs dangled off the side before answering, vocals more snappish than intended, “Like I’m recovering from a total processor crash.”

Hound chuckled, smiling right over the seeker’s sour mood, “All I heard was you’re recovering, which is a relief—you gave me quite the scare there, Starscream.” 

A biting response dangled on the tip of Starscream's glossa at the mention of the Autobot's scare, but he swallowed it back. His processor wasn’t fully recovered, but the threat of overheating had passed along with his inability to control his acerbic tone.

"I'm sorry to have frightened you; I hadn't realized my state had deteriorated to such an extent," was Starscream's grudgingly polite response.

Hound retrieved a small cube of light blue energon from his subspace, holding it out for the seeker. “Ratchet said for me to give you this if you woke up early. It’s medigrade,” he explained.  

Starscream took the cube, sipping it if only to soothe his dry throat, subspacing the rest, his tanks already filled to the brim with anticipation.

There was little time left for Starscream to prepare a compelling debate against all of Skyfire’s accusations, but he….

Red optics cycled as an odd fixture in the medbay captivated his curiosity; on top of one of the empty work tables behind the Autobot was a splash of bright blue across the medbay’s copper canvas—Morning Glory held in a clear vase.

Hound, realizing what had drawn the seeker’s focus, rubbed his servos together and said somewhat bashfully, “Apparently, it’s human tradition to bring flowers for someone in the hospital, and those seemed to be your favorite from the greenhouse. I know it’s not much, but I couldn’t bring myself to cut more than one, sorry.”

“Hound you…” Starscream paused, rethinking his words, and settled on a simple "Thank you.”

It’s perfect, he had almost said, having been momentarily, ludicrously, touched by the caring gesture, forgetting the performative nature of the Autobots' kindness toward him.

“You’re welcome,” the mech smiled, but Starscream scarcely heard him over his own thoughts.

Had Hound been silently mocking Starscream as the scientist explained the similarities between the flora and his partner, the Autobot knowing the shuttle’s change in color, or had he been sympathetically indulgent, pitying the seeker who had been beleaguered with unnecessary grief?

The thought rankled Starscream's plating, and he wrapped his own field tighter around himself, moving to stand, but before he could leave the berth, Hound reached out and placed a servo atop his knee, stopping him.

"Woah there, Starscream—where are you going?"

"Out," Starscream snapped, then quickly added, "I've been resting for too long; I need to…extend my wings if you understand my meaning."

Hound shook his helm, “No can do. Ratchet said you need at least a week in stasis and to comm him if anything should change before then.”

Starscream’s optic ridges furrowed. If Hound commed Ratchet, the medic would insist on reinducing the seeker into stasis—which would cause Starscream to miss his meeting with Skyfire. Under no circumstances could he allow that to happen.

Higher processor firing off multiple courses of action and potentialities, Starscream reached out a servo to grab onto one of Hound’s forearms.

“Don’t comm Ratchet,” he implored, allowing some of his true desperation to seep into his field and tentatively pushing it forward, a calculated vulnerability. “I actually received a…a message from someone I once knew. That’s why I was roused from stasis earlier than planned.”

Hound’s optic ridges rose, but he didn’t pull from Starscream’s hold. “A message? From who?”

The seeker leaned forward, breaking optic contact with the bot as he looked to the left of the mech's helm to the wall behind him, "…They asked me not to say. I'm not entirely sure why, but I cannot break their trust, not when they were the one to reach out to me first."

His wings dropped, red optics dimming. "There isn't much time, and this might be my only chance to meet with someone who knew me before I froze. Not my reputation, but me.”

Blue optics pinched, and an unsure frown tugged at Hound's derma, "I get it, Starscream, but this whole thing sounds…well, it sounds…,”

“Not on the level?” Starscream finished for him, offering a doleful smile, finally focusing his pleading gaze back on the bot. “I know it could be a trap or worse, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

Taking a gamble, he reached out to place his servos over Hound’s, “Please, Hound—you can tell the Autobots where I'm going; you can even tell Ratchet I forced my way out. Whatever you need to say—there’s no need for my risk to become your burden.”

“No, I think there is,” Hound rebuffed, faceplate firming, worryingly, in determination.

Starscream blinked, wings starting to raise in affront, but he quickly forced them back down, an optic twitching as he asked, “What…what do you mean?”

“I’m going with you,” the Autobot declared, standing so he and seeker were nearly optic to optic, twisting his servos so his smaller pair held Starscream's.

His wings rose before he could stop them, and he snatched his blue servos from the Autobot’s black, turning them open-palmed in the mech’s direction as he haltingly objected, “Hound, while I appreciate the…the sentiment—showing up with an Autobot in tow to our secret meeting goes against their request for me to tell no one of them.”

Hound answered the seeker with a confident smile, blue optics glinting, “That won’t be a problem.”

Starscream soared over and around the clouds that had peppered the blue sky with dots of white, the Earth phasing beneath him in an indistinguishable, multicolored blur.

Hound had left hours ahead of Starscream, the grounder needing more time to reach their destination and camouflage himself before the Skyfire arrived. The Autobot had also sensibly explained they would draw more attention if they left together and that he would take care of the cameras when it was time for the seeker to leave the medbay.

Starscream hadn't asked how he intended to deal with the cameras, deeming the information irrelevant to his current goal. Instead, using the intermission between their departures to contemplate his next course of action in the wake of Hound's successful insistence on accompanying the seeker to meet his partner (not that the bot knew that was who they were going to meet).

An unforeseen turn of events, but not one Starscream couldn’t manipulate in his favor, having already come up with several ways he could use the Autobot to his advantage. Hound was one of the few present when the faction first found the seeker buried underneath the ice and could vouch for the truthfulness behind his survival should convincing Skyfire through his personal testimony alone fail.

And if that didn’t work?

Skyfire would unlikely agree to a hardline connection with a mech he suspected to be an enemy trap, but an unwitting Autobot florist? If necessary, Starscream could turn on the bot and give him over to the Decepticon as a show of fidelity—Hound need not be willing in the exchange.

A deceiver deserved no consideration from him, for his safety or otherwise.

Besides, it wasn't as though Skyfire would do something truly heinous to the bot. Ten million stellar-cycles was a long time even for a species whose oldest members claimed billions—but a mech could only change so much. His partner had likely joined the Decepticons as a scientist, nothing more, and there was a very real possibility the shuttle's choice in faction was more a forced conscription than willing enlistment.

Nearing the quarry, Starscream’s visual sensors swept upward, catching sight of the sun hanging brightly above—the sight caused a visceral reaction in the seeker, his entire frame shuddering at the memory the star drudged up.

Guiding Star.

He dipped into an oncoming cloud, internally cringing at his own behavior two days ago. There was no mystery as to why Skyfire hadn’t believed he was the real Starscream, their reunion having been so…emotional in the most pathetic meaning of the word. He had practically begged the mech to believe him without offering a modicum of proof of his claims, attempting to convince his partner of his authenticity while acting completely opposite of his usual self—it was paradoxical. 

What good scientist trusted an experiment's results without understanding the process from which it was derived? And he’d used that name in an emotional appeal when Skyfire knew Starscream had always been reluctant to use such terms of endearment. If pitiful, tendersparked pleas were the Autobots' prevailing manipulation tactic, Starscream had unwittingly mimicked them during their one-sided exchange.

The quarry came into view, and Starscream angled his descent, seeing neither Hound nor Skyfire near the large tunnel's entrance. After a graceful landing close to its entrance, but not close enough for him to be grabbed should the shuttle attempt a repeat of their previous encounter, the seeker raised his wings, spreading them wide as he dialed up their sensitivity, feeling for any shift in the airflow that could be caused by mecha; nothing but a gentle breeze emanating from the tall opening, indicating it was a two-way tunnel.

He received no feedback to indicate the presence of anyone but himself in the quarry, causing him to frown.

::Where are you?:: He commed Hound.

If the Autobot had not yet arrived, then Starscream would tell him he need not to bother continuing his journey. Skyfire would be arriving soon, and he would rather not risk his partner concluding that Starscream had answered his summons by way of an Autobot ambush.

::I’m here, don’t you worry.:: Hound replied, tone almost teasing.

Starscream turned his helm left and right but could see no sign of the green mech. The quarry looked just as he had left it, cut into layers with small, rocky white outcroppings around the walls of its ledges.

::I’m not worried.:: He shot back, unease prickling along the back of his neck. ::Promise not to reveal yourself unless I call for you.::

::I won’t do anything to spook your friend, Star.::

::Promise!:: Starscream demanded, the word of an Autobot meaning less than the dirt beneath his pedes, yet still wanting the concession from Hound.

::Okay, okay, I promise.:: Hound laughed, decidedly not treating the situation with the seriousness it deserved. However, that could be due to Starscream not telling the bot that the old acquaintance they were meeting was a Decepticon.

The roar of a shuttle's engines caught Starscream's audial, and he turned his observations from the quarry to the sky, spotting his partner’s rapidly approaching form—noting, somewhat glumly, that the change in color scheme had not been a trick of the light or an illusion brought on by his encroaching processor malfunction.

His partner transformed, enormous frame blocking out the sun and casting a long shadow over Starscream as he flew lower into the quarry. Skyfire's dark plating and purple badge starkly contrasted against the cyan sky and even more so against the white quarry walls.

::Remember, do not reveal yourself unless called for.:: Starscream reiterated one last time.

::Starscream, I don’t think this is a good idea, that’s—::

He cut the comm, turning his full attention to his partner, who had landed further along the ledge, away from the tunnel’s entrance but close enough to the seeker that the space between them could be crossed in only a few paces.

“Have you decided to end this macabre charade and confess what you really are?” The shuttle inquired with a tilt of his helm.

“I’m your partner,” Starscream seethed, understanding the necessity doing nothing to lessen his annoyance at having to defend his existence.

“Very well,” Skyfire lifted a servo, snapping his digits. “Autobot obstinacy, not I, has decided your fate.”

A sudden change in the airflow from the top of the quarry caused Starscream to look up, helm jerking at the sight of a flyer who hadn’t been there before; a dark purple and black winged seeker.

The mech—he thought it was a mech—was too far away for him to make out much detail—their optics still met, red to red, and a jolt of recognition sent his spark into a wild spin in its casing, pulsating as if trying to escape. To join.

He placed a servo atop his cockpit, squeezing the glass.

Not here. Not now.

Not ever.

The unknown seeker sucked in a sharp vent and then shouted, "Change of plans!”

And he was gone.

Starscream’s helm shook, and he initiated a visual sweep of the area while simultaneously running a rudimentary diagnostic on his processor, determining whether it was less recovered than previously thought or if some other system glitch had caused the malfunction, but no errors appeared.

He looked to Skyfire for an explanation just as the air in front of him warmed, quickly followed by a powerful EM field burst that caused his wings to rattle.

A neon flash of fuchsia and then a dark purple servo was reaching around his waist, gripping his side, and pulling him against a grey and purple frame. “Where have you been all my life?” Sharp, awed vocals vented directly into his audials.

Starscream balked and sputtered, optics wide as he looked up into the red gaze of a Decepticon seeker he did not know—but his spark did.  

The mech shared the same width as most seekers, but he was half a helm taller than Starscream and with thicker plating—warrior’s armor, his hind-processors noted. The mech’s dark-colored limbs coordinated aesthetically with the grey of his chassis, the metal having an almost lilac sheen, and his faceplate was of a lighter than Starscream’s own.

A sharp taloned touch against the side of his neck broke Starscream from his stupor, and he began to struggle against his captor, letting out a shrill, “Release me!”

"You're Starscream, right? Can I call you Screamer?" Then, with a leering growl, "You look like a Screamer.”

His optics blew impossibly wider, terror momentarily stunning him before his efforts redoubled, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to shove the depraved mech away.  

“Skyfire!” He cried, optics begging the shuttle to intervene, only to see a look of disgust souring the mech’s handsome faceplate. When no movement was made to aid him, a bolt of panic struck Starscream as the servo gripping his waist began to wander lower, resting just above his cherry hips. Growling, he struck out with fists and talons, trying whatever he could to break the restrictive hold, but the heavier seeker didn’t budge, his armor barely denting.  

“Easy there, sweetspark; I'm not going to hurt you," the strange seeker said with a wince. “Why are you acting like this? You know me, I’m your—”

“—I don’t know you!” Starscream shot back, red optics bright with anger; denial.

A talon dipped dangerously close to the seams connecting Starscream’s waist to hips, and he screeched, digging his talons into gaps in the Decepticon’s armor, tearing. Metal shredded and sparked, but the hold on him only grew tighter.

“You know me,” the stranger insisted, red optics blazing. “We’re—"

“—Hound!” Starscream shouted, no longer caring about revealing the disguised Autobot, caution having disappeared with personal space.

A pile of rocks on the opposite side of the mine fizzled and disappeared to reveal the green Autobot, blaster drawn and pointing directly at the Decepticon holding Starscream. The seeker’s wings drooped, his furious field sagging with relief at the sight of the Autobot, earning him a confused helm snap and raised optic ridge from the mech holding him.

“That’s enough, Skywarp. Let him go,” Hound ordered, steel in his vocals. There was a harshness in those blue optics Starscream had never seen before. It reminded him, likely not for the last time, that as kind as the Autobot was (or pretended to be), he was still a soldier who had spent millions of stellar-cycles fighting an ongoing war. 

The mech holding him, designation Skywarp, sneered, “Or what, Autodork?”

Skywarp released Starscream’s neck to point one of the weapons mounted on his arms at the Autobot. Starscream’s optics flicked to them, red narrowing to slits; they looked uncannily similar to his—

“Skywarp!” Skyfire barked, his faceplate contorted in anger. “Release him, now!”

His assaulter’s grip tightened, purple talons scratching rivets along white paint, the thin plating covering Starscream’s waist beginning to dent.

“Stop,” he grunted through the pain, leaning his helm back as far away from the taller seeker as he could.

His discomfort was ignored, the two Decepticons locking optics as they engaged in a heated debate over comms, Skywarp's covetous field forcibly, urgently, pressing against his own the longer it went. Starscream kept his own field wrapped closely around himself, refusing the contact.  

Losing whatever argument they were having, Skywarp released Starscream with a furious growl, stomping his way to the larger Decepticon’s side.

Once freed, Starscream wasted no time scrambling away from the Decepticon toward Hound, servos curled in front of himself, wings trembling as he positioned himself next to the Autobot and ever so slightly behind him. Starscream wasn't hiding behind the smaller mech; he was just… strategically positioning himself to guard Hound's back should Skywarp attack. The shaking wasn’t due to fear. He wasn’t scared; he was furious at having been touched so brazenly.

::Are you okay?:: Hound commed him.

::I will be.:: He replied because, beneath the fury, his logic drives were firing rapidly, recalling what Skywarp had first announced before accosting him.

“What’s this plan he spoke of?” Starscream asked, tone bordering on accusatory.

Skyfire opened his mouth to answer, but Skywarp interjected before the shuttle could get a word out, “The plan was to knock you out and take you back to the ship to, ya know, take you apart.” He finished, wiggling his digits in Starscream’s direction, then, with brightened optics, continued. “Could still do that, if you want, but in a way more fun way than what this guy had planned.” Skywarp pointed his thumb at Skyfire’s chassis, leveling a smirk at Starscream dripping with grease.

As though he was supposed to have any idea what the vulgar con was implying.  

Ignoring Skywarp, Skyfire raised his chin, addressing Starscream. “I should be the one asking you that—did I not instruct you to tell no one of our meeting? Yet here you are with an Autobot Spec Ops agent at your side.”

Skyfire tutted, “What am I to think?”

“You’re to think that…that he…,” Starscream floundered, the danger posed by Skywarp and Hound’s subsequent rescue leaving him reluctant to reveal his old intentions to turn the Autobot over to the Decepticon. "He's one of the Autobots who discovered me in the ice; I brought him to…to vouch for my credibility."

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Skywarp declared, crossing his arms over his chassis. “I know you’re the real deal. Sparks don’t—"

“—That’s enough, Skywarp,” Skyfire interrupted. “As you stated, plans have changed—return to base and tell no one what you have seen here…barring your air commander, of course.”

The purple seeker dropped his arms, optics wide. “What? There’s no way I’m leaving here without him! He’s—”

“Skywarp,” the shuttle warned, vocals low, his tone brokering no argument.

The purple seeker turned his helm to the side, glaring off into the empty quarry, relenting through clenched denta, "Fine, I need to tell TC anyway. He's been blowing my comm up ever since I got here, and I’d rather tell him who I found in person.”

Fixing his gaze back on Starscream, the mech leered an ominous parting, “It was nice meeting you, Screamer, be seeing you again real soon.”

The Decepticon then burst into a sprint, running toward the seeker-grounder duo, causing Starscream’s spark to seize in his chassis.

“Hound?!” He squeaked, shrinking closer to the shorter mech’s back, but the Autobot didn’t answer him, stance unwavering, the end of his blaster never once pointing away from the rapidly approaching seeker—who phased out of existence, just before running them over, with a purple pop and a wink.

He spluttered a surprised vent, but the Autobot in front of him showed no outward sign of surprise, Starscream noting for the first time Hound’s field was so tightly around himself as to be undetectable.  

“You’re alright, Starscream, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Hound murmured, vocals just loud enough for the seeker to hear.

With his partner the only Decepticon left, the Autobot's assurance should have meant nothing to him; there was no danger to protect him from—not that Starscream needed protecting.

He still found the words encouraging, using them in place of Hound’s usually open field to comfort and collect himself as he stood from his near-crouched position behind the mech, redirecting his calmed focus toward Skyfire. 

"Now do you believe me?” Prompted Starscream. “He wouldn’t have reacted like that if…if I wasn’t real.”

Skyfire’s assessing gaze moved from the seeker to the Autobot in front of him. “That remains to be seen,” he clipped. “But that can wait until after I’ve discussed Skywarp’s…findings with the rest of his trine.”

Starscream fought not to flinch at the word, not wanting Hound to think it meant anything to him—it didn’t. Instead, he narrowed his optics at Skyfire, hearing the subvocal undertones in his words.

“Don’t you dare leave me again,” Starscream pointed a digit at the shuttle, stepping around the Autobot to glare at him properly. “I forgave you the first time because of the shock, but it will not happen again.”

Skyfire’s optics brightened, derma turning up in a challenging grin. “And I suppose you have a means to stop me?”

Starscream balked at the provocation; did Skyfire want the seeker to hold him down and demand the mech listen to reason? Because he would if that’s what his partner so dearly wanted.

Hound placed a servo on his shoulder, holding him back. “Let him go, Starscream; this isn't a fight we want."

“Fight?” Starscream scoffed. “Skyfire is a pacifist.”

The shuttle snorted but said nothing as he leaped into the air, hovering above them just long enough to acknowledge Hound with a tilt of his helm in the bot’s direction before transforming and blasting off, abandoning Starscream in the quarry again.

Only this time, he wasn't alone.

Resentment, dejection, dread; they all swirled together in his spark, but it was vindication racing along his circuits as he gestured in the direction Skyfire had departed, jerking his shoulder from Hound’s grasp and rounding on him with an accusatory, “You lied to me about my partner offlining—why?”

The Autobot looked from the sky to Starscream, a tight frown pulling at his derma as he lowered his blaster. “I didn’t—we didn’t. No one knew because that’s not…I mean, we didn't know…He’s known as…”

“What?” Starscream snapped if only to end the mech's verbal stumbling.  

Hound looked back up into the sky, optics an impossible distance away as he answered, “Jetfire, second-in-command of the Decepticons.”

Chapter Text

Autobots argued loudly around the circular conference table; bright colors, brighter optics, and sharp vocals shouting theories and accusations at one another. Most Autobots in the room were familiar: Red Alert's helm kibble was sparking, Prowl's posture was stern, the praxian one of the few mecha silent in the meeting, and Jazz had his servos raised as he tried to placate his fellow bots into a more orderly discussion. A wide, red, unknown warbuild with deep vocals and an old accent was the loudest of them all, the mech pointing a dark grey digit at Wheeljack as the scientist’s finials flashed a deep purple in response. Another unknown, red, yellow, and white mech with a wide, flat glass plane in the center of his chassis was whispering furtively to Red Alert, all while flashing uneasy glances in Jazz's direction.

Anger and a heightened sense of urgency were the purveying field charges filling the air. But a singular emotion undercut them all, the chaotic combination of the two above creating one electrifying buzz below.

Panic.

Starscream watched it all unfold through impassive optics, his arms crossed over his chassis as he leaned against the wall closest to the command center's door. Two Autobots flanked him: Hound to his left and Ratchet to his right. They, too, stood quietly as heavy frowns pulled at their derma, a mix of worry and anger fielding around the two. The weightier emotion shifting between them.

Normally, the seeker would have delighted in the chaos before him. Civilian frames, authority figures, and the Prime were all brought to a state of extreme duress because of Starscream. Only it wasn't him they were panicking over.

His partner, Skyfire—Jetfire, as the Autobots knew him, was the cause of such anxiety-driven disarray.

A frown tugged at his derma, optic ridges furrowing into a scowl.

The designation Jetfire didn't settle well on Starscream's glossa. Jets were fast and fierce couriers of death. From conception to construction, they were designed explicitly to be instruments of destruction. Of war. The very antithesis to his gentle giant of a partner.

Skyfire would never be a mech who could elicit such a horrified reaction, enemy faction or not.

His partner was a warm, expansive, constant presence in Starscream’s life who had brought peace to his turbulent function. A welcoming escape from the drudgery and intolerance that filled Iacon and its scientific council. The clear, unblemished sky where a star could safely rest and shine its brightest.

Starscream nearly offlined his optics at the sickeningly maudlin direction his thoughts had taken. Yet another clear sign two days in stasis had not been nearly enough to fully recover his processing capabilities. He needed to get a proper defrag in before he started writing sonnets.

The seeker nearly shuddered at the thought.

He didn't, though, nor did he offline his optics, unable to risk such a blatant display of disgust with how he had locked gazes with Prowl. Cool blue meeting tempered red. The praxian stood silently, his door-wings at a perfectly neutral angle and without a hint of expression on his faceplate or in the way he observed his fellow arguing Autobots.

Starscream leaned forward and hissed, “You knew.”

Shouts dwindled to harsh whispers as multiple pairs of wide, some suspicious, one openly hostile, blue optics settled on the seeker.

Without so much as a twitch, Prowl responded, “We suspected. And that was only after successfully intercepting the second Decepticon communications signal you received. Had you waited instead of taking an unauthorized absence from base, against medical orders and after deceiving your escort in the process, you—"

“—Now, hold on a minute, Prowl,” Hound Protested.

"—Don't you bring me into this," Ratchet loudly groused, cutting Hound and the praxian off. Then quieter, as if for only Starscream to hear, “He’s right, though. If you’d crashed again while out there, or Primus, while flying, I'd have been caught dead in the water to help, and you'd be just plain dead."

Starscream cocked an optic ridge, tilting his frame toward the medic to better deliver his mockery. “Is water a major threat to you, doctor? Brittle plates so loose that a little hydrogen oxide is all it takes to flood your engine?”

Ratchet's optics widened before he snorted. He shook his helm and returned to a more relaxed pose against the wall, arms crossed over his chassis as he softly chuckled something that sounded terribly similar to kids.

Starscream wanted to fume over the medic's clear dismissal, over his intentional insult not having its desired effect, and if not for the more deserving object of his ire currently glaring at them from across the room, he would have. Instead, he refocused his attention on the Autobot second, whose wings had risen in an obvious sign of irritation.

Starscream lifted his own much more impressive wings in return.

“I was unaware guests needed authorization to leave. Prisoners, however…” Starscream trailed off, accusation palpable in the air. Was he to be the Autobots’ prisoner? He certainly wouldn’t make it easy for them if that was the outcome of this meeting; let the Autobots learn how much harder it would be to place him in stasis cuffs when the seeker wasn’t already unconscious.

Prowl didn’t disappoint Starscream’s worst assumptions, declaring hotly, “Considering who your apparent partner is, perhaps you should be.”

Hound's optics widened, and he pushed himself off the wall, "Now, wait a minute Prowl, I was there, and it didn't seem like he had any idea who Jetfire was."

“If you’re going to lock him up, you’ll do it after I’ve seen to his injuries,” Ratchet said, pushing himself off the wall to join Hound, both Autobots now standing slightly in front of the seeker.

Their support did nothing to stop Starscream from tensing; his battle protocols pinged and ready to activate should even a single Autobot attempt to restrain him. 

"No one is getting locked up," Optimus boomed, deep vocals silencing the room. "Starscream is not a prisoner and can come and go at will." The Prime aimed a pointed, disapproving look at Prowl, then at the seeker before continuing, "Not that I wouldn't prefer at least a warning before the next time you decide to leave—you gave Ratchet quite the scare after he heard you left."

The medic, seemingly caught off guard at being exposed by his leader, tried to bluster out a denial, but no actual glyphs left his buzzing derma or could be heard over his sputtering engine.

Starscream allowed himself to spare the embarrassed bot a smug look before straightening his expression and meeting the Prime's reproachful optics.

"It was a time-sensitive matter," he unabashedly answered. "Though, had I known it would worry your dear CMO so much, I might have at least left a note."

He wouldn’t have. Nothing would have stopped him from leaving the base as he had. Flattering as it was, Ratchet's potential worry was a nonfactor in Starscream's decision-making process and would continue to be so.

“I was not worried!” Ratchet protested, sounding mortified. Abject horror coupled with utter humiliation really was a good look for the old mech, Starscream noted idly.

The medic went ignored by both mechs.

“I would appreciate that you do,” Optimus responded diplomatically, though it was clear from his bright optics that the Prime was holding back laughter.

Jazz had watched the entire exchange with an emphatic grin on his faceplate, likely glad the meeting's tension had been broken not by blows but by good-natured (though Ratchet would disagree) banter.

“Doc bot’s tender spark aside,” the Autobot third chimed in. “Going out to meet Jetfire alone was a real risk—I expect better of my agents, Hound.”

Before Starscream could argue on Hound's behalf that the bot hadn’t known who they were going to meet, the green mech spoke up, "Do you really? Last I remember, Spec Ops’ motto was no risk, no reward."

Jazz snorted, then gave a quick glance to Prowl, replying, "For the course of this meeting, I do."

The Autobot second cast a sneer down at Jazz, and Starscream made a conscious effort to stop any outward expression of realization from crossing his faceplate.

Because something about the mention of Jetfire had rankled the praxian, more so than the discovery of a supposed partner betraying seeker frozen in the Earth's Arctic or the revelation that the Iacon Scientific Research Institute had fabricated said seeker's entire file. Prowl was showing emotions, nothing so grand or obvious as his fellow Autobots, but enough that Starscream, unfamiliar with the black and white bot as he was, could pick them out.

The Autobot second was annoyed by the other Autobots engaging in such light-sparked bickering, angry the Prime had overridden his call to have Starscream imprisoned, and perhaps the grounders in the room hadn’t noticed, but Starscream could read wings, and from the slight cant and subtle plate shudder after anyone uttered Jetfire’s designation, he could see something the mech’s facial expressions never betrayed.

Fear.

The Autobots were panicked by his resurgence. Even Jazz seemingly took the return of Starscream’s partner seriously. But Prowl? Prowl was terrified of Jetfire.

Why though? What exactly could Starscream’s sweet, pacifist, organic-loving, and conflict avoidant partner have done to cause an entire army to tremble at the mere mention of his designation?

He decided not to point out the praxian's obvious fear, not wanting to draw attention to his ability to see it. Rather, he addressed the room of Autobots as a whole, "And why was it a risk, hm? Tell me, Autobots, what is Skyfire to the Decepticons?”

There was more Starscream wanted to say, to ask, to accuse. Still, he refrained, instead casting his gaze around the room, noticing the officers' hesitancy, the mecha sharing unsure looks between themselves.

It was Jazz who, with a why-not shrug, was the first to respond. “Jetfire’s their second-in-command, not much is known about him pre-war, or should I say was. Think we’re gonna be filling that little information gap real soon.”

Not with any assistance from Starscream, if that’s what the visored mech was implying. Any information the Autobots wanted to know about his partner, they could dig up themselves using their old, antiquated, faulty database.

Before Starscream could comment as much, the other officers, seemingly emboldened by their third’s engagement with the seeker’s question, began giving their own answers.

“He’s their head tactician,” Red Alert stated, helm having finally stopped sparking.

“Shockwave is head of their science division, but it’s pretty obvious Jetfire is the one really calling the shots there,” Wheeljack claimed.

“From what I can tell, he’s designed ‘least half their weapons,” the old sounding red one said.

“He’s a monster,” Prowl’s chilled vocals cut in, the mech having collected himself from his earlier show of emotionalism. Now, once again, the praxian's door-wings were at a perfect, slanted angle, servos clasped behind his back, and chin held high as he coolly stared up into red optics. "A monster serving a tyrant."

Every other Autobot evaluation of his partner’s place within the Decepticon army was put on pause (even though he very much wanted to more deeply analyze the weapons comment) as he processed the praxian’s declaration. The seeker cast an assessing gaze around the table, noting that not a single Autobot denied their second's assessment. Whether because it was true or because none save perhaps Jazz dared to correct the praxian—Starscream believed the latter. Because the former implied something so ludicrous that had the seeker even slightly less control over himself, he would have laughed in their faceplates at the sorry excuse for a comedy routine that was taking place before him.

"I don't believe you," he proclaimed through a false, denta-sharp smile, red optics bright, and dearly hoping the praxian could read wings as well as Starscream could. His were saying some very interesting things at the moment.  

Skyfire? A monster? Starscream had heard more convincing claims by priests in the Temple of Primus sermonizing the god’s direct involvement in every Cybertronian’s life.

But just like in the temple, Starscream couldn’t bring himself to laugh at the sheer absurdity being preached at him. Instead, anger bubbled up from underneath the vicious mirth, threatening to pop in a sudden release of unrestrained violence.

It was the ridiculous religion's Prime who finally spoke up, delivering a sermon of his own. "Many mecha have been known to change in the face of war, Starscream. If your confusion is any indication of Jetfire’s former temperament, then it is possible that more than your partner’s name has changed since last you knew him.”

Starscream's anger didn't deflate, but some of the precariously compressed air was released by the Autobot leader's somber tone and a gentle poke from Hound's concerned field. Ratchet was looking anywhere but at the seeker, though Starscream was certain if the medic hadn't been so thoroughly embarrassed earlier, he too would have been showing his worry for Starscream's sake.

And so, while Starscream didn’t concede to the impossibility that was Skyfire transforming into a monster while the seeker had been in stasis, he did admit, only to himself, that perhaps he no longer knew everything there was to know about his partner, for the time being. A terrible crime that would be rectified the moment Starscream found the shuttle and bolted him to the nearest horizontal or vertical surface, Starscream had never been picky, to keep him from flying off again.

It was after that thought that he noticed the Prime, and every other mech in the room, were looking at him expectantly. Starscream scarcely concealed a grimace as he continued the preposterous conversation, countering Optimus' and Prowl's statements.

“Skyfire is, maybe was, a pacifist who never so much as raised a servo to defend himself.” Or me, Starscream thought. “And I’ll accept that in ten million stellar-cycles he might have changed, but to call him a monster?”

Starscream lifted his helm, looking down his olfactorate at the praxian across the room. "He’s not the kind of mech I would ever associate with such a loaded word.”

Prowl's optics brightened in anger at the insinuation, and Starscream's derma twitched with the effort not to smirk. Even Jazz's visor had darkened in response, though the seeker couldn't fathom why. From what he had witnessed, the Autobot second and third didn't get along.

A disquieting silence had fallen over the room, and Optimus' optics had taken on a somber blue hue again, looking down at the seeker, strong field equally as disparaging as it was disappointed. Starscream stubbornly looked away from the Autobot leader, refusing to take any blame for the room's returning unease. He had done nothing wrong. It was Prowl who had first used the term monster. The seeker had only thrown it back in his condescending, judgmental faceplate.

Before Jazz, Optimus, or the glaring old red bot could say anything to further derail the meeting, Ratchet loudly cleared his intake, drawing everyone's attention to the medic's unimpressed frown.

“Not that this isn’t the most juvenile officers’ meeting I’ve ever been a part of—but unlike some of you, I have work to do that doesn’t involve arguing with a processor damaged seeker.”

Starscream shot the medic a glare at the processor damaged proclamation. The Autobot glared right back, silently daring the seeker to defy him. Again, Starscream was the first to break away from blue optics, turning instead to look at who was rapidly becoming the only tolerable Autobot on the Ark.

Understanding optics met his own, and Hound gave the seeker a small, encouraging smile. “He’s right, Starscream. We'll be here to answer any questions you have when you wake up, but you need to defrag first. You’re still at risk for another crash.”

Hound’s soft vocals earned a loud scoff of disgust from the old, unknown, red Autobot.

Ratchet turned his glare on the mech, scolding, "Knock it off, Hide; you haven't even met the kid yet.”

“He’s a seeker, don’t need to meet ‘em to know he’s gonna bring nothin’ but trouble. And knowin’ who his partner is?” The mech scoffed again and shook his helm, insinuating nothing more need be said.

Starscream bristled, but before he could launch into a defense of himself, Hound, and his partner, the Prime intervened once again.

“Ratchet is right, of course.”

The medic muttered under his vents, “Per usual.”

"There is still much to discuss, Jetfire's return and the implications thereof, but Starscream's participation in these discussions will be staid until Ratchet has cleared him for questioning."

Cleared for questioning, was it? What a benign way to say interrogation.  

“It is unfortunate that uncertainty and anger over today’s revelation have been misdirected toward our new ward. He is undeserving of such hostilities, and I expect better from my officers." Optimus' hard stare around the conference table left no room for argument, though a wing twitch from Prowl indicated he surely wanted to. "I will state that before Starscream is dismissed—Jetfire's crimes are his own, I will not have my officers or the Autobots underneath you, placing blame or anger on Starscream. Do I make myself clear?"

There were various grunts and murmurs of discontent, none sounding too enthused by the order.

As if sensing the discontent among his fellow bots, Ratchet added, “If I hear even one bot started a fight with him, I'll unscrew their servos and replace them with Grimlock's favorite chew toys. Do I make myself clear?”

Jazz let out a huff of air, “Oof, harsh doc-bot, might as well sign their deactivation date while you’re at it.” Then, with a smile to the other officers and a darkening visor, "You heard Ratch. Play nice with the bitty-seeker or else.”

Bitty comment aside, for whatever reason, it was Jazz’s subtle warning that caused all the other Autobots to cease their grumbling, close their mouths, and nod along in agreement. Gone were their reluctant fields and groaning vocalizations, replaced with a seriousness that almost made them look like a properly functioning army. It piqued Starscream’s curiosity more than even the apparent threat this Grimlock posed to the bots…or why they would have chew toys, of all things. Another pet?

Hound tapped Starscream’s elbow, pulling the seeker from his musings and tilting his helm toward the door. “Time to head out, Star.”

Starscream frowned, unsure if he was more bothered by the Autobot urging him to leave or the shortened use of his designation. Only Skyfire had the right to call him that.

It was an easy choice, in the end.

No matter what Ratchet said or the Prime believed, he needed to know everything the Autobots thought of his partner and what that made them think of Starscream in turn. But looking into those wholesomely concerned optics, the seeker couldn’t help but recall another time the shortened use of his designation had accompanied gently pleading blues, and acquiesced.

And as undesirable as any lengthy amount of time in stasis was, a single processed thought kept him from arguing against his removal from the meeting and soon-to-be unconscious state—Skyfire would not have left Starscream in the care of the Autobots if the shuttle believed they posed any risk to his safety.  

With a short nod of consent, he allowed Hound to begin leading him out, Ratchet following closely behind when cool vocals called out, “Hound, you’ve not been relieved.”

The green Autobot came to an abrupt stop, as did Starscream, and red optics flashed as he turned back around to face the praxian who was once again flouting his authority and bias against the seeker by denying him the company of one of the only tolerable mecha within this the grounder filled, organic infested base.

Jazz, seemingly quick to catch onto the seeker’s anger, intervened, “What Prowl means is we still need a full debrief instead of the cliff-notes version you gave us before the meeting. You can check back in on Screamer once we’ve got the full laydown.”

A chill swept over Starscream's frame at the shortened designation, and he sucked in a sharp vent through clenched denta, grinding out, "Don't. Call me that."

Hound's optics widened, and he looked worriedly, always so worried, between Starscream and Jazz before raising his servos, vocals somehow both urgent and apologetic. "I think it's best if I do give this briefing; it's kind of important they get the full story." He gave a rueful helm tilt in the seeker's direction. "Sorry, Starscream."

Starscream didn’t miss the pointed, returned use of his full designation or the way the Autobot third was looking questioningly between them. It reminded him of what a full debriefing of the event in the quarry would entail. What the green Autobot had witnessed. The purple seeker’s unusual reaction to Starscream’s presence. The misconceptions that could arise from such a confrontation. If the green mech had noticed any reaction from Starscream when that word had been used.

In a desperate bid, he commed Hound.

::Don’t tell them about Skywarp.::

::Aw, Star, you know I can’t do that.::

Starscream was about to rebut that he very well could not do that; it was as easy as not doing it when a gentle push at his chassis caused his wings to flick high.

"C'mon, kid, it's about time we get going. I wasn't lying about having work to do, and not all of it revolves around you.”

Starscream clenched his jaw but didn't argue, even though he very much doubted the medic's claim and still wanted to dissuade Hound from divulging too much detail about Skywarp's…handling of him.

Both arguments he knew he wouldn’t win, not when he was so grossly outnumbered and outranked.

“Fine,” Starscream ground out, turning to leave again, Ratchet quickly taking a place by the seeker’s side.

The Prime’s deep vocals followed their exit.

“Recharge well, Starscream.”

The seeker said nothing as the door slid firmly shut behind them, his wings rising in relief at the lack of suppressive fields surrounding them.

Ratchet let out a shuddering vent, then shot the seeker a wry grin, "Maybe you should crash more often; I've never gotten out of a debriefing that fast before. Didn't even have to throw a wrench."

Knowing the medic’s jibe to be a distraction from said debriefing, Starscream allowed it, no less angry over his exclusion but much more willing to keep that fact hidden.

With a smirk of his own, he crooned down at the medic, “Do you really mean that, doctor? And here I was under the impression you were beside yourself with worry over my wellbeing?”

Blue optics blazed, and Starscream chuckled, hastening his pace, easily outstripping Ratchet's shorter legs.

“You just wait until your processor is in the clear—I’ll show you just how worried I am for your cheeky aft.”

“Taking special care of my aft, are you? Ratchet," Starscream vented, sounding scandalized. "I'm beginning to worry you’re nothing but a dirty old mech.”

The medic's engine revved angrily in response, and Starscream kept his fast pace, leading the medic in a not-quite chase through the Ark's copper halls.

Harsh grumblings of just you wait, and damn kids followed closely at his heel-struts.

Coming upon Starscream’s chosen destination, he stopped directly in front of the door and was satisfied to see via the dawning realization on the medic’s faceplate that he had successfully distracted the bot from noticing the winding corridors had not led to the medbay, but back to the Aerialbots’ quarters.

The medic’s expression sobered, a frown tugging at his faceplate as he caught up to where the seeker stood, looking from the unopened door and then back to the winged mech in front of it. "You still need a full week's recharge, Starscream. Medically induced and with close supervision, you can't snark your way out of this."

“Is that what you think I’m doing, medic?” Starscream shook his helm. “I understand more than maybe you realize how badly I require recharge, but I believe my needs will be better met here than in your medbay.”

“Do you now?” Ratchet retorted with a quirk of his optic ridge.

"Tell me, doctor, do you treat many flyers in your medbay? And are they always, say, reluctant for any overnight stays?"

Ratchet fixed him with an unconvinced stare. “That’s not something unique to flyers, kid.”

“Mm, but I imagine the wing soreness they complain of afterward is."

The medic opened his mouth, then closed it, blue optics cycling as he no doubt began recalling every flyer he had ever treated in the Ark and their subsequent complaints.

“…Is it really that bad?”

“It was one of the first things I noticed after you first rebooted me.”

“Guess that explains why the Aerialbots always manage to schedule another air show whenever it’s time for a synchronization observation,” Ratchet remarked through twisted, thoughtful derma.

Starscream wisely didn’t interrupt the medic’s ponderings to ask what a synchronization observation was, even though his scientific curiosity was piqued at its mention, and instead allowed the bot to work out in his own helm why flyers might avoid his tender care and welcoming medbay. He was rewarded for his patience when the white mech placed a servo on his hip and pointed at the seeker with the other.

"Alright, I'll let you recharge in here, but I'm trusting you to comm me if you wake up early this time. No more gallivanting off without so much as a note." Ratchet said, throwing Starscream's earlier taunt back at him.

The seeker maintained his amiable expression, but his processor had begun to burn for the first time since his two-day stasis as he considered his response. Were Skyfire to comm him and wake Starscream before his processor had fully healed—he would still fly to him. When or where didn't matter; only that his partner would have finally accepted that Starscream was real. The shuttle having unintentionally brought irrefutable proof of the seeker's authenticity to their second meeting at the quarry.

Skyfire would contact him, and he would leave the Autobot base without explanation, consideration, or a note…and lose Ratchet’s trust in the process.

“Well?” The medic prompted with an impatient tap of his pede.   

An optic twitched, and his helm began feeling considerably heated as he processed several different equivocations that would just be true enough for the medic to overlook their lack of sincerity. In the end, and for the second time that day, Starscream found himself settling on the simplest and thus hardest to pick apart answer, grinding out through a forced smile, “Fine.”

Did he mean it? Of course not. He neither cared nor worried over the Autobot CMO’s opinion of him, not when its loss, which it could hardly be called, would be what gained him his partner back.

And he must have overestimated the medic's ability to catch him in a falsehood because just as he palmed open the Aerialbots’ door, the medic gave Starscream a self-satisfied smile, smugly remarking, “Good seeker.”

Starscream's spark flipped precariously in its casing, and he looked over his shoulder, an optic ridge raised incredulously. “Well, you’re not beating the dirty old mech allegations with that.”

Ratchet snorted and shoved him through the door. 

With one optic shuttered, Starscream stared down into the microscope, cursing softly at what, or rather at the nothing he saw. The basic compound light microscope, albeit unsurprisingly, had proved useless when trying to analyze the crystalline sub-structure of an electro-gummy.

With a frown, he straightened from his hunched position over the microscope and the desk he had claimed as his workstation, the seeker taking a moment to stretch his aching back-strut and stretch his stiff wings. His entire frame was somewhat sore, both from how long he had been bent over the microscope and from his recent awakening from stasis. Even on a berth meant for flyers, an entire week unmoving had the tendency to tauten even the most limber of mecha's joints. 

Stepping away from the desk where the microscope, various scalpels, beakers, burners, and the container of electro-gummies sat, Starscream began another exploration of the lab for a more powerful microscope. Preferably, it would be a florescence or polarizing one, though with how many times he had unsuccessfully searched the lab, the scientist would take even an electron scope. 

Not long after he had onlined from stasis, Starscream had left the confines of the Aerialbots' room, traversed suspiciously empty copper halls, and entered Autobots' just-as-empty laboratory.

Starscream had never been the type of mech to sit idly by, patiently awaiting summons or sending comms to an infuriatingly unresponsive frequency. And so, after onlining, forcing himself out of berth, and with one spare glance at the desk where the vased flower he had requested be delivered to the Aerialbots’ quarters sat—he had commed Ratchet.

The medic had answered his ping with a rant about how he was going to dismantle Skywarp bolt by bolt and reformat him into a waste disposal unit. Followed by angry apologies and an unprompted explanation that while Skywarp had inappropriately accosted Autobots in the past, it had only ever been verbal harassment, and nothing physically had ever come of it as far as they knew. Ratchet had then complained that Skywarp was an erratic pit-spawned glitch, and even Prowl had trouble tracking his demented motivations. The bot had even gone so far as to call the purple seeker insane and one of the worst the Decepticons had to offer.

Starscream had listened attentively, refraining from interrupting the medic’s rant for several reasons. 

The first had to do with his conversation with the Autobot CMO just before he had been put into stasis. The red-crossed mech having casually asked, as he popped them out of the seeker's waist, where the digit-shaped dents had come from. Starscream had just as casually responded that he didn't remember.

Ratchet’s ranting had also revealed the scope and depth of Hound’s debriefing with the remaining officers. That the green mech, the spy, had spared no detail when expounding upon the events that had taken place within the quarry.

And yes, now that he was of a sound processor, he had thoroughly analyzed his last encounter with Skyfire, recalled the shuttle calling Hound a Spec Ops agent, and methodically processed all the connotations such a title entailed. Starscream should have suspected as much, really, what with Hound's ability to conceal himself at the quarry and the bot's social-engineering skills being so adept that he had Starscream, a mech who prided himself on his prudence, convinced of his sincerity.

The second reason was that the medic's angry rambles had informed Starscream that unpredictable and violent behavior from Skywarp was not considered an unusual occurrence. The Autobots would likely not probe deeper into why the Decepticon had reacted to Starscream the way he had, and instead seemed content to blame the purple seeker's apparent insanity for the assault.

For the third?

It had provided him another opportunity to tease the medic about his caring nature and worry over the seeker, though his amusement was short lived when the mech didn’t respond with his expected bluster, but instead began to make some impossible, spark-felt promise to never allow Skywarp near him in such an unguarded capacity again.

Starscream had interrupted the medic’s maudling to ask for the key code to the laboratory.

And either the Autobot had allowed his emotions to corrupt his processor, or the red-badged faction had erroneously determined Starscream to be a nonthreat because the white mech had asked not a single question as to why he would require access or given any warnings for the seeker to follow once he arrived at the lab.

As he opened cabinets and meticulously cataloged the contents of copper shelves, finding many items of interest but none of use, Starscream sent Skyfire a…mildly aggressive request for comms.

He subspaced a miniature welding torch, a wing flicking in irritation when his comms were again met with no response. Starscream had been sending his partner a ping every two breems, a significant reduction and commendable exercise of restraint when compared to the every two klicks he had been previously sending upon first onlining.

Finding nothing of present use, he stepped away from the shelving and began prowling further into the lab, sizing up a promising looking chest in a far corner. It was silver with heavily locked latches and had remained untouched when Starscream initially explored the lab. Not knowing whether it was alarmed or not, he had decided to forgo attempting to pry it open. Boredom and lack of results were leading him to forgo that decision.

Just as he was leaning down to assess the strength of the locks, the door to the lab opened, causing Starscream to shoot up from his bent position, wings twitching upward as a loud, familiar, distinctly organic voice shouted, “Careful, nerd-bot, you almost dropped us!”

That would be the yellow-footed human. Wonderful.

Starscream released a short vent of annoyance before smoothing his faceplate into a socially-neutral expression. Had he thought the human to be the only interloper, he wouldn’t have bothered, but the descriptor bot indicated another Cybertronian's presence, and thus, an effort to maintain pleasant relations with the Autobots must be made. At least until Skyfire finally answered his comm and indicated otherwise.

He had no doubt that had he better concealed his hostility towards Prowl, the Prime would not have been so eager to remove the seeker from the meeting under the guise of health concerns.

He turned toward the lab’s entrance and was greeted by an Autobot he had only previously seen through a screen, Perceptor, holding a human in each servo. Their phallically named pet and their well-trained, chariot seated coder.

"Starscream!" The Autobot gasped. "I didn't know—I mean, no one informed me you would be here."

“Perceptor,” Starscream purred. “How nice it is to finally meet you in the metal. Again, I simply must thank you for clearing up the matter of my falsified record with your superiors. Your testimony saved me quite a bit of trouble.”

He walked away from the chest as though his presence near it had been incidental. He also ignored the Autobot's remark about being uninformed of Starscream's presence. Ratchet knew where he was, and the Ark was filled with cameras. Had Perceptor been in need to know about the seeker's whereabouts, he would have known. But he hadn't known.

Which was good to know.

Standing back by the desk, he held out a servo as the Autobot came closer, winning smile in place.

“Oh, yes, the Earth custom. Let me just…” Perceptor took long strides to the work desk and deposited the organics onto it, then smartly rubbed his servos against his legs before holding out one of his own for Starscream to shake.

Starscream grasped the smaller black servo in his larger blue.

"Delighted to make you acquaintance, Starscream," Perceptor said with an enthusiastic but professional shake.

"Likewise," Starscream returned, releasing the other’s servo, noticing the bot's optics had started darting from seeker to table, or more specifically, the container of electro-gummies that sat atop it.

He suppressed a smirk, instead waiting for the other scientist to ask what Starscream knew he very much wanted to ask.

“Are those…?” Perceptor trailed off, almost as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Electro-gummies? Why yes, yes they are. I happened to have some in my subspace when I…during my last expedition and offered to recreate them for the Autobots in exchange for access to the lab.”

That wasn't exactly what had happened, but Perceptor didn't need to know that. And since he was confirmed to not have a need to know about matters concerning the seeker, Starscream had leeway to stretch the truth. Nothing so egregious as an outright lie, nothing bent so far that it would snap back and strike the seeker if called out on. But just enough that should the Autobot ask any of the other members of his faction, they would be hard-pressed to say the seeker wasn’t being truthful, technically.

Besides, the gummies were no longer the most interesting thing on the work table. The honor of Starscream’s interest now belonged to the wheeled human looking up at the scientists with an inquisitive expression on its meaty face.

Starscream smiled at the visored organic, processor already whirring away the probabilities of it aiding him in accessing Teletran-One’s database again.

But before he could broach the subject, the yellow-footed one piped up, "Gummies? Like candy? You guys have those?"

Starscream gave it a side-ways glance and opened his mouth to answer, but it was Perceptor who responded first. “We used to, but the means to create them were lost sometime during the war.”

The shorter scientist then moved to stand next to the seeker by the desk, right in front of where the electro-gummies were placed. “And you’re reverse engineering them?” Wide blue optics were regarding Starscream in a way that had his wings stiffening from discomfort.

Forgotten luxury they may be, but he was still only making candy. And he hadn’t even succeeded yet. Starscream would prefer if the Autobot kept his adoration focused on the much more impressive accomplishments of the seeker’s actual scientific career. The ones the rest of the Cybertron had long forgotten.

Pushing past his unease, he said, “Yes, or at least trying to. The microscopes in this lab have proven remarkably inefficient for identifying the gummies’ molecular structure.”

“Do you mind?” Perceptor asked, motioning toward the microscope.

Starscream shook his helm, stepping aside with a sweep of his servo. “Be my guest.”

Perceptor moved to lean over the microscope, shuttering an optics as he wasted both their time looking through the useless device. “Hmm, I see what you mean. The maximum magnification is too weak to reveal the subject’s unique molecule structure.” Then leaning back up, the mech offered, “Perhaps I could be of some assistance?”

“You? How?” Starscream asked. Could there be more powerful equipment in the Trion’s lab? And could Starscream persuade Perceptor to bring the seeker to the science-ship rather than bring the equipment to the Ark? It was tempting, at least. The more he learned of the Autobots’ secrets, the more information he could gift his partner with later.

“Perceptor is a microscope,” the seated one explained, its first words since entering the lab. “It’s pretty cool, actually. I hadn’t known you guys could be anything other than vehicles, or animals, or…boomboxes, hmm.”

“Which is why he had to walk us here, by the way,” the standing one interjected. “I so prefer cars; way faster.”

Starscream was about to inform the human that any form of flier was vastly superior to any alt-mode a grounder could take when an intensely shameful field brushed against him. He turned to look at Perceptor, gaze openly curious. They locked gazes, and the other's optics widened, field quickly receding and leaving behind nothing but a faint, bashful buzz.  

Choosing to ignore whatever that was, and the humans, Starscream inquired, "How powerful is your lens? Anything short of a thousand magnifications will be useless, I'm afraid."

Seemingly over his strange mood, the bot chuckled, “Oh, that won’t be a problem. I’m capable of reaching up to fifty-thousand magnification without straining myself.”

Starscream kept his features from expressing his shock at the admission of something that should have been impossible. Everything in this new future had been once thought impossible, he was coming to find. Continuing to express surprise every time someone presented him with impossible information would only serve to make him look like an awe-struck youngling.

Downplaying his genuine interest in how the Autobot had created such a powerful device, he nonchalantly asked, "Would I be able to see through the ocular lens? How utilitarian is your alt?"

Perceptor hummed, gripping his chin between thumb and foredigit, appearing as though he had never before considered that someone else might use his alt-mode.

"…Theoretically, yes. My optical sensors are wired into the internal mechanics of my alt-mode, providing a direct neural link between my processor and my ocular lens. You should be able to see anything I do. In a combat setting, I can reverse the electron source, allowing me to scan long distances and, should the situation require, utilize the lens on my shoulder as an unorthodox targeting scope."

Starscream’s optic ridges rose as he considered the versatile applications such an alt-mode provided. A microscope was slow, if it could move at all, but then all grounders might as well have been stationary when compared to a flier—at least Perceptor had turned his inferior frame’s disposition into something with a practical and inventive use.

Genuinely impressed with the other scientist’s ingenuity, he grinned, complimenting, “How useful.”

Perceptor blinked up at him, “You really think so?”

Starscream's pleasant smile very nearly turned predatory. He meant what he said about the other scientist's alt-mode being useful; after all, he had been searching the lab for nearly a joor for a microscope with even a tenth of the power Perceptor claimed to have. The Autobot providing such an easy and convenient solution to his problem deserved praise. And while he had expected that praise to have some effect on the grounder, what with him being a fan, he hadn’t expected the mech’s field would pulsate such open, awed appreciation at said praise.

How easy.

“Why would I not?” Starscream answered, then gestured with his servo for the mech to, “Get on with it then. Show me what you can do.”

“Right, of course—one moment, please,” Perceptor responded just before transforming.

Starscream picked up the electro-gummy from under the smaller microscope and walked a tight circle around the tall, red microscope Perceptor had turned into. It didn’t look more impressive than any other of its kind.

Keeping his observations to himself, he placed the electro-gummy on the glass slide that had appeared underneath the Autobot’s objective lens. He then moved to stand behind the microscope that was nearly as tall as Perceptor had been in root-mode. Leaning down, he shuttered an optic and looked through the Autobot’s ocular lens.

The view inside left the seeker speechless—for a split astro-second.

“Fascinating,” he vented.

The glyphs were challenging to follow; they shifted rapidly and appeared sporadically, but Starscream could read and record the multitude of theories and calculations going through Perceptor's processor in real-time. Incredible work, really, and Starscream should have expected no less from a mech smart enough to be a fan of the seeker scientist.

Desire surged within Starscream’s spark the more he marveled at the microscope; he wanted to pluck Perceptor apart and discover all the ingenious little ways the scientist had invented himself, but he expected dissections of live mecha were frowned upon in Autobot society—even if the seeker promised to put the mech back together when he was finished.

“I think I’ve discovered something,” Perceptor announced, adding, “If you’ll step back, please.”

Starscream backed away to the sound of Cybertronian mechanics shifting, forgetting the electro-gummy on the microscope’s glass slide in a rare bout of absentmindedness.

Before he could warn the other scientist, in show of dexterity Perceptor caught the candy mid-transformation, holding it delicately in his palm as he rejoined Starscream on the vertical plane.

Holding the gummy up to peer at it through the lab’s light, the bot gushed, “It’s such a simple adhesive element—I can’t believe no one else was able to identify the particulars of the chemical additives before now.”

"Different priorities, perhaps," Starscream suggested. He didn't imagine learning how to make candy was very high on any scientist's to-do list in the middle of a species-eradicating war.

“Different priorities,” Perceptor repeated somewhat morosely, gazing at the candy as though it were the greatest scientific discovery of the millennia.

Amused, and maybe a little something else, Starscream politely inquired, “Would you like to try it?”

Caught off guard by the question, the bot blurted, "Could I? Oh, but I shouldn't; your sample size is small, and I don't even remember what they taste like—or if I even liked them."

Perceptor held out the gummy for Starscream to take, field unbearably gloomy, and the seeker held up a blue palm, "I've always operated under the belief that a scientist must understand every aspect of the subject they’re studying. And for consumables, that includes taste.”

Perceptor nodded, nervously, excitedly relenting, “Well, if you insist,” before placing the gummy in his mouth and holding it there without chewing.

The effect was instantaneous, and Starscream watched in silent fixation as blue optics dimmed before shuttering closed. He absently wondered what the mech must be experiencing for a mere candy to have rendered his once reverent field so mournful. What his science-driven processor must have been thinking; to have gone millennia without even the sight of a Cybertronian sweet, to have forgotten their flavor and been left with only the memory flux of the last time of having tasted one—if Perceptor even remembered such a trivial occurrence. And if that lack of memory, the hindsight that it would be his last, was something the Autobot regretted.

Cycling his optics, Starscream force-stopped that line of perceptive processing before it could loop into sympathy. Skyfire was a Decepticon; the Autobots his partner’s enemy—and so Starscream couldn’t go developing such easily exploitable feelings for a mech who would soon become his enemy.

Perceptor choked as he finally swallowed, bringing a fist to his faceplate to cover his coughs. The bot tilted his helm to the side, addressing Starscream with a small, rueful smile, “Now I remember—I never really cared for these, too sweet.”

Starscream, unable to stop himself despite his previous thoughts, genially concurred, "I'm much the same; I always preferred more bitter candies, not that I was one to snack."

That had always been Skyfire. Their ration of energon having never been enough to satisfy the shuttle, the mech had taken to sneaking whatever treats he could past Starscream, who would scold him about the risk of additives gumming up his fuel lines whenever caught. And his partner, having never been a successful sneak, had been caught red-servoed every time.

Looking back on it, he thinks Skyfire might have just liked hearing the usually affection avoidant seeker show concern for his health. 

Grabbing a yellow gummy from the container, he expounded, “The formula can always be changed to better suit our tastes later. We are, after all, the rejuvenators of this long-lost luxury.”

Starscream popped the candy into his mouth, optic ridges rising at the taste as it began melting against his glossa; it was even sweeter than he remembered. He swallowed quickly; it would seem the Prime had a preference for overly sweetened additives.

“Yes, I suppose we can,” Perceptor agreed, then with an inquisitive tilt of his helm, “Does this mean you intend to continue development of the formula…with me?”

Starscream lifted an optic ridge, “Is that a problem?”

Bright blue optics widened, the mech taking a step back before rambling, “Working together, with you? On a science project? That’s no problem, no problem at all. I’ll only be working together in a laboratory with Starscream on a science project, no that’s...quite alright, actually, ahem—I think there’s something over there, in that corner that’s not here, that Wheeljack asked me to check on—if you’ll excuse me.”

Starscream’s wings picked up a slight uptick in the air’s temperature around where Perceptor had been standing, and with no small amount of smugness, realized he had unintentionally caused the grounder’s core temperature to rise. He made no mention of the bot’s flushed state and turned away from where the mech had walked into an empty corner, giving his fan privacy to recover from the seeker unwittingly agreeing to what was likely an old science academy fantasy of his.

And if doing so also gave himself an opportunity to speak to the little wheeled human without Autobot interference? Why, what a felicitous coincidence. 

Attention back to his work desk, he began watching the humans and their differing activities: the yellow-footed one was circling the container of electro-gummies, and the wheeled one was rolling around the microscope on the table; the small device was twice the size of the organic.

Having faced zero repercussions for his last late-night escapade with the wheeled human, and with Perceptor currently distracted, he shrugged to himself and leaned down, casually asking it, “Do you have time to accompany me down to the server room again tonight, or have the Autobots forbidden you from assisting me further?”

It stopped rolling and looked up at him, smiling.

"Nope," it replied, then at Starscream's questioning optics, corrected, "I mean, no one has said anything to me about helping you out, and even if they did, without restricting my access to Teletran-One, what are they gonna do?"

The little thing held its hands up in a shrug, grinning up at the seeker, a grin which Starscream returned. Only for the conspiratory moment to be ruined by the yellow-footed human.

It whistled, clapping the back of the visored human’s chariot. “Wow, Chip, look at you turning into a little rebel. Who’d have thought the nerd had it in him?”

Scowling, the wheeled one shot back, “I’m more than just a nerd, you know—and I’m not a nerd!”

The seeker would have to ask the seated human what nerd meant and why it had caused offense once they were alone. He recalled the standing one having called Perceptor a nerd-bot upon first entering the lab, and none had called out its usage then.

Perceptor cleared his intake, drawing Starscream's attention away from the fleshy show before him and back to the only other mechanoid in the lab. The Autobot had returned from the corner he had been so adamant about examining mere klicks before, taking a place next to Starscream by the desk.

“I’d like to start by saying I am not discouraging you from conducting your own research with Teletran-One; goodness knows I would never tell another scientist not to seek their own answers-ah, pardon the pun, ahem. But there's something you need to…I would like for you to…what I mean to say is…"

Starscream, affording Perceptor the small amount of respect his alt-mode had garnered, said nothing as the mech stumbled over his words, instead allowing him time to gather his scattered thoughts.

Taking a short but deep vent, the bot collected himself and solemnly advised, "Please, keep in mind that Jetfire—Skyfire, may no longer be the mech you remember.”

Amid the beeping of caged servers and the soft clicks of tiny fingers on a keyboard, Starscream’s vocals rang out, “Have you found anything?”

The wheeled human, wearing a thick fluffy covering, continued to type away at its miniature keyboard, responding, “I think so; they have a lot more on Jetfire than they did Skyfire—here, have a look.”

Starscream leaned over the console and the human atop it, red optics scanning over the file labeled—

Jetfire: Second-in-command of the Decepticons

“And I thought the Autobots’ previous lies were farcical,” he scoffed, sneering at the screen as he read the absolute rubbish that had been written about his partner.

What they had written about Skyfire was even worse than what was on file about Skywarp. Which had almost entirely consisted of heinous acts of violence, varying gruesome methods of torture, all with appendices relating them to previous maulings or stalking incidents that the Decepticon seeker would apparently laugh off as pranks. The Autobot’s file on Skywarp had been very particular about the derives pleasure from sadistic acts aspect of his crimes.

Surprisingly, there was very little to be found on the mech Skywarp had mentioned in the quarry. TC, which Starscream had discovered was short for Thundercracker; a seeker and the Decepticon Air Commander. Other than his apparent flight supremacist attitude and participation in numerous Decepticon campaigns and raids, there hadn't been anything of note in his file for the duration of the war. Nothing nearly as damning as there had been about Skywarp.

Even searching for pre-war articles and Vosian academy records had revealed next to nothing about the Decepticon Air Commander. Thundercracker read as a remarkably average mech. The most typical type to have graduated from the academy to then immediately serve in the Vosian army. He had done well in the academy, but not exceptionally. He had risen in rank at the excepted speed of a slightly above average performing seeker. And he possessed an outlier ability—but then, Starscream had already suspected that.

And while Starscream’s research had been thorough—he didn’t particularly care about either seeker. He had only wanted to know a little more about the mech who attacked him in the quarry and learn of any weakness in preparation of Skywarp’s threatened future intercept. Instead, he had learned what the Autobots thought of, or at least what they wanted Starscream to think, about the seekers who had been labeled as The Elite Trine of the Decepticons.

Starscream had internally rolled his optics when he'd read the description; it showed how ignorant the civilian faction was of Vosian customs. There was no such thing as a two-seeker trine.

The lack of information or disparaging remarks about Thundercracker was odd when compared to his not-trine-mate, but it was also not something Starscream would waste time pondering. Neither seeker was worth any secondary consideration from him. They were nothing to him.

But Skyfire?

Was there a war crime or grievous breakage of scientific ethics his partner hadn’t been accused of committing? While Starscream was willing to accept that Skyfire might have, if only to defend himself, resorted to violence in the extreme circumstance of a millions-of-stellar-cycles war—what the Autobots were accusing the shuttle of was bordering on asinine. They couldn’t honestly expect Starscream to believe such nonsense?

An organic and appalled voice broke the seeker out of his incendiary thoughts.

“Dissection of live Cybertronians? That’s sick—are you sure Jetfire is actually your old partner and not just, I dunno, an evil clone?”

Starscream’s derma curled and he looked down at the human, his field swirling with irritation. “I’m sure the Autobots are trying to drive a wedge between Skyfire and I,” he snipped. What other explanation could there be for such ridiculous accusations?

“That doesn’t sound like something they would do,” the chariot rider countered.  

Starscream sneered, “And you would know?”

Fleshy arms crossed, “I’ve been inside Prowl’s head, so yeah, I think I would know.”

“A punishment I wouldn’t inflict on any creature,” the seeker quipped, not really believing the organic’s claim. Unless it was meant quite literally—assistance with processor surgery, perhaps?

The human huffed, "What I mean is—the Decepticons just showed up one day and started attacking; they almost killed Spike and his dad. If not for the Autobots, there wouldn't be anyone to stop them from destroying the planet. They're the bad guys; Autobots are the good guys. It's kind of just how things work here."

“The bad guys?” Starscream snorted derisively, “This isn’t bad, it’s evil—and I don’t even believe in such simplistic views on morality, but this?”

Why hadn’t the Autobots just called Skyfire the unmaker and been done with it? It might have been more believable than what they had actually written about the shuttle.

Skyfire had, according to the Autobots, employed deceptive tactics so nefarious that they made Starscream's faked pleasantries look virtuous by comparison. His partner had apparently run the gamut on most vile acts a mech could commit: unethical experimentations on their own and alien races, torture, chemical warfare, genocide, and worst of all—taking credit for creation of the Nullray.

The entry on that little tidbit had been that some two million stellar-cycles into the war, Skyfire had presented the Decepticons with a new weapon, naming himself the creator. The file had included a note that such a claim could not be true, because the Nullrays had been presented to the ISR multiple times well before the war by a, possibly seeker, scientist.

There had been no mention of that possible seeker’s designation.

"I don't know Jetfire, so I can't argue. The Autobots never mentioned him before you showed up," the human confessed. "But I do know they're not liars."

Starscream's derma twisted as he countered, "Lying is something everyone does; you'd be a fool to believe otherwise."

Small brown eyes blinked at him as the human not-so innocently intoned, "Have you lied?"

Starscream’s optics flicked from the organic to the screen. “I did many things to earn my place in Iacon.”

Not that any of it matters now, he thought.

“But I’ve never lied to you,” he assured. And he hadn’t, so far there had been no need.

The human nodded, “Had to fake it until you make it, huh? I get it. I’ve done that before—it didn’t work, but I tried,” it admitted with a shrug.

Pushing the conversation away from things an inferior species could never understand, like why the Autobots would lie to it about being the good guys and the moral complexities of war, he smiled wide enough to show off both rows of denta, demurring, “That’s why it didn’t work—for brilliant individuals such as you and I, there is no faking it. Only making it.”

Starscream had never faked his brilliance, only his smiles.

In response to his proclamation, just as Starscream had wanted, rather than bringing up the subject of Skyfire again, it asked, “And what do you do if you don’t? Make it, that is.”

“Then you make it everyone else’s problem until you do.”

The human laughed, "I like that; it reminds me of another saying we have here on Earth."

“And what’s that?”

It smiled at him, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”

Starscream tilted his helm, rolling the phrase around his processor, “Mm, I like that. It reminds me of my time back at the ISR.”

“How so?”

He chuckled, "Let's just say, back on Cybertron, my reputation was closely linked to my designation.”

The human pushed away from the keyboard and rolled to sit directly in front of Starscream, saying, “A name-based rep? I get that, too. My dad says my mom cursed me, giving me a name like Chip. Says it made me destined for a life of geekdom…and failure.”

He had no idea what a geekdom was, but the one word he was intimately familiar with was, "Failure?" Starscream pitched the word, vocals incredulous. "You'll have to inform me of its Earth meaning because I believe we are operating on very different definitions of the word.”

"To not succeed?" It hedged, then firmer, "To be a massive disappointment no matter what you do because it's not what he wants you to do.”

Starscream looked down at the organic like it had grown a second, fuzzier head. “You’re an organic entrusted with Cybertronian secrets, permitted to roam freely around the Prime’s ship, and are capable of understanding a coding language far more complex than anything your species could ever hope to create. What more could this he possibly want?”

The human rolled back and forth in quick spurts of agitation. "You’re right, I know. I know, and I tell myself that all the time—I graduated from four different colleges before sixteen and have won just so many awards. I'm not a failure; I just…failed him, I guess."

His winger lowered as he considered the human’s plight, a strange accordance panging his spark.

Starscream was the best flyer Vos had ever produced, a brilliant mind who graduated from the Vosian Military Academy centuries early, had broken flight speed records before he had even reached five thousand, and was the first and only seeker ever to be accepted into the Iacon Science Academy and later its research institution. And despite all his accomplishments, or perhaps because of them, by every metric of success measured by Cybertronian society, by his creation city and those that had forged him, Starscream had still been considered a—

Frustrated by his own comparisons, he snapped, “How could you have possibly failed? You surpass your peers in every conceivable way.”

The human gave him a shocked expression, then smiled softly, "Well, I wouldn't go that far...but, my dad, you see, he’s a real man’s man. A football guy—was on a national team and everything—but he had to retire early because of an injury, and he wanted, well, expected me to follow in his footsteps." Tiny hands rested on little knees, squeezing. "But even before the…accident, I was always more into computers; I just never got into the whole sport thing. I was never any good at it back when I could walk, and now?" It shook its head in self-depreciation. "If he won't accept something as dumb as me not being good at sports or support the things I am good at, then he'll never accept that…that I’m…”

Its jaw clenched, and it took off its glasses, whipping its closed, leaking eyes with the fist holding them, sniffing, "I'm sorry, Starscream, I don't know what came over me. I don't think I've ever told anyone this before, not even Spike—you're just so easy to talk to."

Starscream’s wings swooped upward, but otherwise all other signs of his shock were concealed. He should have been pleased, he was pleased, by the human’s admission. But he hadn’t expected it to come so early or be disclosed so easily. The length of their interactions would not even be a frame of time worth recording for a Cybertronian. That it had opened up to him so willingly, and even revealed innermost secrets it had not even told its masters? Starscream’s engine should have been purring in delight at having won over the Autobot’s coder, increasing the likelihood it would be open to an eventual change in ownership.

So, why did he want to shake the stupidly trusting little thing and berate it on being so blindingly naïve?

With a slight frown, he responded, "No need to apologize. I…appreciate your trust." Then, choosing to deflect, said, "Functionalism is much the same way."

The organic tilted its head, “Functionalism? What’s that?”

Starscream's vents came easier, optics brightening as he sensed an opportunity to change the too-personal topic at the realization of just how little about Cybertron the human had been told. Entrusting it with the faction's database encryptions but not its history?

He leaned down, talons digging into the console as he cast an excited red glow over the human. "Why, it's what the Autobots are fighting for, the good cause your heroes represent.”

Fuzzy brows furrowed. “Optimus said they’re fighting to preserve life…and because the Decepticons are evil.”

Starscream let out an indulgent hum, “Mm, perhaps that’s true…from the Autobots’ perspective.”

Skyfire? Evil? Starscream could have laughed out loud at the mere suggestion his partner might be anything more than mildly intimidating, and even that was only because of the considerable size associated with shuttle class mecha. The files on Skyfire were as fabricated as the one the Autobots had found on Starscream, and a transparent scheme to sway the seeker’s loyalty in favor of their faction.

Beady eyes hardened. “You still haven’t told me what functionalism is.”

The seeker’s smile turned sharp as he regarded his future pet. Such a simple-minded, sweet little creature. Its expertise with Cybertronian code was a fluke of its existence, akin to the outlier abilities within Starscream’s own kind. Its confiding nature and unprovoked emotional outburst about its sire exposed its youth—had it even reached a full vorn in age?

Taking pity on the tiny creature, Starscream all but cooed, "Why don't you ask Optimus Prime, hm? I'd be very interested to know what answer he gives you.”

It squinted at him and said, "Fine. But when you're wrong, I get to say I told you so."

Starscream almost said, you wouldn’t be the first, but refrained. “And when I’m proven right, I get to…” He trailed off, tapping a talon against his chin in a facsimile of deep thought.

“What?”

He smirked, "I'd say call you an easily fooled fleshling, but I believe I just did."

It buzzed its lips together, smile returning. "Jerk."

But that smile fell as quickly as it came, the human once again looking at the seeker with furrowed brows. "Do you think we could do this again tomorrow? Or if you don't need to get back into Teletran-One, that I could maybe help you out in the lab? I’m not much for chemistry, but I know where everything is and…and I could use the distraction.”

“Distraction?” Starscream intoned. “Is that all exposing ancient data about a far more advanced alien civilization amounts to for you?”

He meant the question as a tease but could quickly adopt genuine offense should the human give an affirmative answer. A useful organic was still just that, an organic. He would not allow even unintentional slights against his greater people to go unchecked by such a lesser species.

Little eyes widened, "What? No! I just meant that, well, there's somewhere I'm supposed to be tomorrow, but I can't be there—I asked everyone, and there's just no way. The Aerialbots won't be back for another week, Cosmos is already up in orbit, Tracks is patrolling with Blaster, and the new guy, Powerglide, laughed in my face when I asked. So, I was hoping for something to keep my mind off it.”

Starscream's optics narrowed, intuition telling him that the human's emotional tumble from earlier was related to that somewhere it was supposed to be. Maybe that was why it had so readily agreed to help in the first place, to create an opportunity to speak to him about why it needed a distraction. 

With a needling lilt to his vocals, he asked, “Are you saying you don’t genuinely enjoy spending time with me? That you’re just using me as a distraction?”

“No more than you’re using me,” it bit back, causing Starscream’s wings to raise in surprise.

Ah, so it knew. Starscream's derma thinned, and his optics narrowed. “What’s this about, human? What situation is so dire that you would beg me and not one of your noble Autobots to spend time with you tomorrow?”

Its frown deepened, little brown eyes looking up into Starscream’s red optics, and…then it sighed, relenting, “It’s about my dad, who the Autobots don’t know I don’t get along with, by the way, please don’t tell them—and this scientific symposium I’m supposed to attend tomorrow. They’re presenting me with a genius of the year award—the youth category was a last-minute addition and I won it—and my dad said he’d go. He never does that, ever. Do you know how hard it is for me to get him to go anywhere with me that doesn’t serve alcohol?” It shook its head. “But the one time he agrees, I can’t go.”

Not understanding the issue, Starscream said, "I'm not seeing the problem—why exactly can you not attend?"

“It’s in Rome at the Colosseum—not exactly somewhere a bot can drive to, and I already tried all the fliers,” the human explained. “I didn’t know about it until this morning and it’s too late to book a flight and even if I could, it wouldn’t get there in time for the ceremony.”

“This Rome…it’s a difficult place to reach, and yet your stubborn sire is willing to meet you there?” Starscream questioned, trying to make sense of the organic’s problem; the most obvious solution shifted at his back.

"He's already there; he's been on vacation in Europe for the last two weeks, and it's a complete coincidence he'll be in Rome on the day of the symposium—and he still wouldn't have agreed to go if it wasn't being held in the Colosseum, where," it lifted its hands, making air quotes. "Real men used to compete.”

Starscream did not ask what it meant by real men. He was just starting to grow accustomed to naturally grown humans; he had no desire to learn about artificially created ones.

More productively, he focused on the opportunity the human had just presented him with. An excuse to leave the base that did not revolve around contacting Skyfire. And to further endear himself to Autobot's trained coding specialist by providing something they could not.

Flight.  

Starscream would prove himself a much better potential owner to the human by taking it out on their very first metaphorical walk. Maybe, if he continued to ply the human with kindness—a tactic it was apparently aware of yet still so very vulnerable to—when Skyfire finally responded to Starscream’s comms and summoned the seeker to the Decepticon base, he would not need to corral the chariot rider and it would instead roll willingly into his open servos.

“I’ll take you to this meeting of organic minds tomorrow,” he abruptly declared.

“Wait, you’ll what?” It asked as though disbelieving what it heard. Then its face brightened, pink lips stretching into an impossibly wide smile. “Really? You mean it?”

Starscream chuckled, zooming in his optical sensors to better appreciate the creature's reaction to his following words. "Of course, consider it thanks for all the help you’ve given me.” Then, with a sly smile, “Ah, but there will be, of course, conditions.”

Blue skies and fair winds did nothing to lift Starscream's mood as he sat outside the Ark in alt-mode and awaited his human rider; as he sat in his Earth alt-mode. Ugh.

His beautiful, graceful, sleek Cybertronian alt had been replaced with a—still beautiful because it was him—much less aerodynamic, human-designed frame. Something the wheeled human had informed him was a requirement for Cybertronians when traversing the planet. Which Starscream had vehemently disagreed with. It was not as though the earthlings didn't know there were aliens on their planet or what they looked like. What did it matter if they saw a Vosian jet versus a human jet flying overhead?

Apparently, a great deal, or so Hound had expounded, just before Ratchet had threatened to involve the Prime when he’d refused to scan a new alt. Which should not have worked as a threat because Starscream did not take orders from the Prime or his medical officer or an Autobot spy!

An aileron flicked in annoyance, and he rolled back and forth on the dry desert ground impatiently.

He'd relented only to save himself from wasting precious processing power over a futile argument about the lack of necessity for an Earth disguise with obviously far too localized mecha. There were very few forms that wouldn't offer an improvement on boxy, uncoordinated, Cybertronian ground alts. So, of course, they hadn’t cared about changing. Their alt-modes looked homely no matter what planet they were from!

Before Starscream could work himself into another bout of righteous fury over his coerced alt-mode change, the main door into the Ark opened, revealing the wheeled human in a bright yellow, rubber hazmat suit being pushed by another human in the same suit. A suit whose bottom had been squeezed into yellow boots.

Which was not part of the deal. He had agreed to transport the wheeled human and the wheeled human only. But before he could ask after the yellow-footed one's audacity, another equally if not more unwelcome figure revealed himself.

"Prowl," Starscream half-growled, having already been in a lousy mood and struggling to conceal it. "To what do I owe the…pleasure?"

He slid open his cockpit as they neared.

Prowl picked up the humans, placed them inside and, skipping over the pleasantries, monotoned, “Against my objections, Optimus Prime has permitted you to embark on this ill-advised journey to Italy. It is an unnecessary risk and had I thought you a reasonable mech, I would ask you to abandon this venture.”

Looking down at him through tightened optics, the praxian continued, “As I do not consider you to be reasonable in the least, I will instead inform you of the responsibility you hold over Chip and Spike’s safety—should any harm befall them, I will hold you personally responsible. Do I make myself clear?”

The seeker was momentarily stunned by the praxian’s threatening and commanding tone. Who did the mech think he was? Who did he think Starscream was? Fury swelled in his spark, and he had half a processor to transform and show Prowl how personal the flyer took being ordered. But just as the vision of deserved violence flittered across his processor, the anger cooled as his higher-processing functions engaged. He was no longer recharge deprived; he could react in a way that both expressed his anger and leave him inculpable should he be accused of any intentional insult.

Remembering something he had downloaded from the information datapad Ratchet had provided, and what little he had read about Prowl’s history from Teletran-One, he crisply responded, “As Crystal City.”

The resulting door-wing twitch warmed his spark with vindictive satisfaction.

Prowl’s faceplate remained as impassive as ever, even as his wings betrayed his annoyance. Starscream would have wiggled his own mockingly in response, but he didn't want the mech aware that the seeker could read the subtle language of praxian door-wings, not yet.

Shaking his helm, the Autobot knelt next to Starscream, and an almost tender light entered his optics, almost like gentle worry, almost like Starscream was suffering from another processor malfunction because it couldn't be.

Addressing the humans, Prowl cautioned, “Be careful, Chip. Jetfire’s return has left the safety of your planet’s skies more uncertain than ever before.”

Starscream couldn’t see the humans’ expressions through the hazmat coverings, but he assumed they smiling based on the wheeled one’s tone when it responded, “You know me, Prowl, careful is my middle name.”

And then Prowl…smiled back?

“I do know you, which is why I know you don’t have a middle name…and why I’m asking you to be careful.”

The entire exchange bewildered and even slightly unsettled him, and if only to put an end to it and ease his own comfort, he interrupted with, “I’m the most skilled flyer to ever come out of Vos—you’re fretting over nothing. No harm will befall them while they’re with me.”

Starscream's plating tightened, mentally preparing to reign in his temper again as he awaited a callous retort from the Autobot second about the last long-distance flight the seeker had undertaken on the planet and how disastrously that had gone. About the last time he fell. Or maybe an insult toward his partner and how that reflected on his own lack of trustworthiness.

Which it didn’t; Starscream was untrustworthy for entirely different reasons.

But Prowl merely nodded as something unreadable flashed within those icy blue optics, “Thank you, Starscream.”

Before Starscream could make sense of the Autobot second's attitude change toward him or boast more on his own abilities to cut through the awkward atmosphere that had settled around them, the yellow-footed human chimed in, "Yeesh, are you forgetting I'm going too? Nothing will happen to poindexter with me around—to either of them. You worry too much, nanny-bot."

Prowl’s derma pressed into a thin line, but he ultimately conceded, “I suppose.”

An unknown frequency pinged his comm; Starscream accepted it.

::Keep them safe.::

Starscream, stunned for a second time, came back to himself to see Prowl leveling the jet with an expectant look. The seeker, still reeling from the bizarre turn their exchange had taken, almost offered the Autobot second a promise, a vow of protection the same as Ratchet and Hound had given him. But promises were worthless, and one's word lost value with every use, and so commed back a simple—

::I will.::

Prowl released a heavy vent from his olfactorate, then nodded and pushed himself up from where he had been kneeling on the ground. The praxian inclined his helm toward seeker and his passengers in a simple nod before turning toward the Ark. Starscream closed his cockpit and watched the bot as he left, not moving until he saw the possibly glitched mech re-enter the Ark.

Needing an escape from the strange air that had settled around him, the seeker’s engine roared to life, and Starscream rolled along the ground (this form needed to roll!), picking up speed before catching the wind beneath his wings and lifting into the sky.

They flew for several breems without comment, the only sound being that of the seeker's own thrusters and the wind as it whipped past him.

Once they had flown well beyond the Ark's listening devices and unable to contain his curiosity, Starscream broke the silence by asking, "What was that about?"

The yellow-booted one answered, "Chip saved Prowl's life back when they first met. The guy's been weirdly protective of him ever since. He did not want us going on this trip, I’ll tell you that.”

The wheeled one retorted hotly, "Which shouldn't matter—he doesn't get a say on where I go or who I go with. I'm not an Autobot; I'm a…I'm a…"

“Consultant?” Starscream supplied.

"Yeah, that. I help because we're friends, and because they're protecting Earth from the Decepticons, not to be babied by an overprotective…an overprotective…"

“Nanny-bot?” The other human offered.

“Yeah, that. If I’m old enough to help the Autobots save the world, I’m old enough to go to another country without Prowl hovering.”

"And just how old are you, human?" He asked. It couldn't be more than a vorn at most. Organics were never very long living, and he couldn't imagine that humans could survive for more than at least a thousand stellar-cycles, maybe two if they were well cared for.

"Eighteen," the yellow-footed one said.

“Seventeen,” said the wheeled one responded.

“…Centuries?” Starscream ventured.

"Years," the wheeled one responded, which very nearly caused Starscream to stall mid-air.

The yellow-footed one groaned, "You were just asking Chip, weren't you? You're going to have to quit with all this human-that and organic-this stuff. It gets confusing. What are you going to do if you ever have to talk to a room full of us?"

Mildly disgusted by the prospect, Starscream asked, “Now, why would I do that?”

"Uh, because you live on Earth, and it's full of us?"

Starscream hummed but gave no response. Absent of higher-intellect company, namely his partner, the seeker preferred to conduct his flights in silence. He turned off his internal compartment audials and redirected them externally, turning all his focus on his flight pattern and the navigational data he had downloaded from Teletran-One.

And to what he had just learned of his human passengers.

Neither was a vorn in age, not even half a vorn. Not even half of a half of a vorn. The scientist would presume that even by human standards, the two would be regarded as relatively young. Which raised the accidental conundrum the seeker found himself in—having unwittingly agreed to transport younglings halfway across the planet unsupervised by their caretakers.

But at least their age explained Prowl’s unusual behavior outside the Ark. Even the most cold-sparked of mecha would worry after an almost-stranger taking off into the air with their children.

Pet organic children, but children all the same.

He had no experience in youngling care and had never expressed an interest in such. He despised the endless chattering of new sparks and their incessant questions. What few Starscream had come across in the academy, he had made a concerted effort to avoid. They had still been drawn to him like scraplets to living metal, but Starscream had tried to dissuade their interest. After leaving Vos, the undesirable occurrence became far less frequent to the point that the seeker would have needed to make a concerted effort for it to happen. 

No proper, self-respecting Iaconian creator would dare allow their sparkling to be seen anywhere near a terrifying warframe.

With no prying audials and the humans unable to hear outside his cockpit, Starscream grumbled to himself about how the Autobots should have warned him about the distressingly young nature of his passengers. He assuaged his rising irritation by remembering the one and only time he had gone out of his way to be near a youngling with the explicit purpose of slagging off their creator.

His brief stint in an ISR holding cell as a result of his efforts had been well worth it. As had the look on that pompous council member's faceplate as his precious creation introduced Starscream by saying, "Sire, the pretty war-mech promised to take me flying!”

Starscream cackled at his own deviousness.

His self-appreciative laughter faded as the ground passing rapidly beneath him gave way to water. They were officially past the point where the Autobots could offer aid should anything during the flight go wrong. The faction’s inability to transport their wheeled pet on short notice had told Starscream all he needed to know about their non-existent ability to mobilize across long distances quickly.

As he flew, his visual sensors sent out the occasional sweep for any indications of purple, his tense plating becoming just a little bit looser every time the reading came back negative.

Vibrations from within his cockpit told Starscream the humans inside him, a reality that would cause him to purge the longer he thought of it, were chatting amongst themselves. Something he was content to let them do as their flight stretched on from breems to joors.

Starscream swooped low to admire his reflection in calm ocean water below and only rose higher when he caught sight of land. They were nearing their destination. The humans must have caught on to their proximity as well, because he could feel them wiggling against his alt’s interior and one of them pressing their covered hands against the glass roof of his canopy. The seeker tilted in the air, causing the human to fall back into its seat. A silent warning against breaking another of his conditions; no standing while in flight.

Overland once more, Starscream locked in the Colosseum’s coordinates as he swerved around feathered creatures and non-sentient planes. He felt the vibrations against his canopy increase as though the humans' voices had raised, shouting. His field buzzed with amusement at the organics' expense.

Nearing the Colosseum—which really just looked like a derelict stadium made up of stones—he noted with some relief that it was empty. He transformed before landing by a platform at one of the Colosseum's far ends. It was the only structure inside the old-by-organic-standards stadium that appeared modern. Atop the platform was a wooden podium with a microphone sticking out of it, and behind that were long rows of evenly lined chairs. Colorful flags were hung around the stadium, none of which Starscream recognized nor cared to.

He opened his canopy, reached inside to grab the organics inside, depositing them none too gently on the ground, optic ridges raising in alarm as he noticed yet another breach of their arrangement.

"Where are your head coverings?" He shrieked, vocals bouncing off the surrounding stone. But could his anger be blamed? There might be tiny little organic hairs inside him now! He was going to need a complete, detailed cleaning after this!

They ignored him, both already at work stripping out of their hazmat suits. The wheeled one checked something on its wrist and exclaimed, “Woah, we got here a whole five hours early. The symposium isn’t until noon!”

"Great, that gives us time to grab food. The inflight service on that jet was terrible, and I'm starving,” the yellow-booted one pat its stomach for emphasis, and Starscream's derma curled.

“I told you to eat before we left,” the seated one scolded.

"I did eat, but it's been hours since then. I could also really use a trip to the john…"

Starscream interrupted their idle chatter to inquire, "Is John who you're supposed to meet here? How long before he arrives?"

The yellow-footed one blinked at him before it barreled over laughing, wrapping both arms around its middle. "Woo! That was a good one; I forgot what it was like back when the bots didn't understand human slang. Ha!"

It wiped under an eye with a finger, straightening before saying, "John's not here yet, but he will be soon, and this is not where I want that meeting to go down.”

The wheeled one, free of its hazmat coverings and now revealing the mostly black with some white ensemble beneath, rolled closer and beamed up at him, clearly holding back its own laughter. “Sorry about that, Starscream. John is slang for—”

"—Uh, guys? I don't think I need to meet John anymore—look!" The yellow-footed one interrupted loudly, pointing over Starscream's shoulder, eyes wide.

Starscream cast a glare in its direction before twisting his neck to look behind himself, mouth already open to—his spark froze in its chamber.

Laying precariously across the top edge of the Colosseum, wearing a playful grin and with dimmed red optics, was Skywarp. The concrete and marble beneath the purple seeker’s frame crumbled, rubble falling into the stands below.

Their optics met; Skywarp's smile widened, and he crooked a talon in Starscream's direction.

“This isn’t good,” the wheeled human fretted. “They could cancel the symposium if they think the Decepticons are going to attack.” Then, almost as an afterthought added, “And the Colosseum could be destroyed.”

Starscream turned around to face the Decepticon, glaring with his wings raised in warning as they sized each other up. Skywarp’s gaze casually roved over Starscream’s frame, causing him to shudder in revulsion, but the other seeker gave no outward indication of leaving his perch. Instead, he began using all four digits to beckon Starscream closer in what might have been a seductive lure coming from literally any other mech. 

“This conference is important to you?” He suddenly asked without breaking optic contact. “Because of your sire?”

“Yeah, it’s…it’s really important. It means so much to me that he,” the wheeled one cut itself off, then continued voice hard. “But your safety is more important—we should call Prowl.”

 “Why? So the Autobots can take twice as long as we did to arrive?” Starscream grimaced, terrible, but not difficult decision made.

He started to walk forward—only to nearly trip over himself to avoid stepping on the yellow-booted human who had moved to stand in front of the seeker while he hadn’t been looking.

The human was glaring at Skywarp and its arms were crossed over its chest, chin lifted in challenge, fear seemingly forgotten.

Starscream’s optic ridges furrowed, “What are you doing?”

Without breaking its stance, it explained, “Bumblebee said that Huffer said that Wheeljack mentioned that Ratchet ranted that Hound warned that Sky-freak needs to be kept away from you no matter what.”

“That still does not explain what you are doing, human.”

Its thin neck twisted; the human regarding the seeker as though he was the one being ridiculous.

Cocking a brow, it announced, “I’m protecting you, duh.”

A bark of laughter escaped Starscream, a sharp, caustic sound that he quickly covered with a servo over his mouth. His plating rattled from barely restrained amusement, his optics bright with mirth.

Without question, that had been one of the best jokes the seeker had ever heard. Enough so that he momentarily forgot the fear that had rattled him upon Skywarp’s first arrival, his plating now shaking for an entirely different reason.

Sucking in a deep vent, he leaned down to more closely observe the human, cybernetic optic to organic eye. “I finally understand why your owners keep you around; entertainment value.”

The human's arms dropped, and its mouth hung open before releasing an outraged, "Owners?!”

Confidence returned, he ordered, “You stay here, I’ll deal with the Decepticon.”

“Are you sure about that, Starscream?” The wheeled one asked, rolling to the rapidly turning red one’s side. “We can still call for backup.”

Starscream stood back to his full height, optics landing on the grinning seeker before returning to the organics gathered at his pedes. Even if the Autobot database was wrong, and it most likely was, and the Decepticons’ reputation for destroying any world that did not cede power to the faction proved false—he did not want the inevitable subject the purple seeker would broach to be overheard by Autobot pets.

“And how long before they arrive? Am I not here only because they were unable to transport you?” Starscream shook his helm, stepping around the humans. “If Skywarp intended to disrupt your puny ceremony, he would have landed inside the Colosseum instead of waiting for me outside it.”

“Then why is he here? Why were we told to keep him away from you?” The wheeled demanded.

Starscream hesitated before settling on an answer. “We had an…altercation the last time we met. One that did not end as he would have liked—but he poses no danger to me.”

Or so the purple seeker’s reaction in quarry led Starscream to believe.

The wheeled one worried up at him, “I still don't think you should go. Hound is one of the most laid-back bots I know, and if he was the one to warn Ratchet about Skywarp, then everything else going on back at the base is starting to make sense.”

“And what is this everything else?”

The booted one sucked in several deep breaths, its face receding back to its original pale hue before explaining, “One, I don’t have owners. Two, let’s just say he took on a lot of extra patrols while you were in stasis. He was jittery—I’ve never seen Hound jittery; that’s Red Alert’s department.” 

The wheeled one joined in, “The whole base has been on, well, red alert ever since they learned Jetfire is back. I’m actually surprised Optimus let you bring me here. Even Prowl’s been more…Prowly than usual.”

Starscream’s expression sharpened. “I am not an Autobot, and I'm not their ward." No matter what the Prime claimed. "Optimus cannot let me do anything. I do as I please.” Then, optics flicking to the seated seeker who had lost his grin, with a wing flicking in a clear sign of impatience, he added, “Or as I don’t.”

Venting deeply, Starscream stepped far enough to safely activate his thrusters. "Wait here," he called behind himself before launching into the air. He ignored their shouts after him.

Skywarp, optics brightening, rose to meet him. More of the stadium broke beneath the Decepticon as he pushed off the stone structure and into the sky, following after the smaller seeker.

Starscream dodged a reaching servo with a glare and rejected the field trying to brush up against his own. "If you dare touch me again without my permission, I will retaliate,” he warned though bared denta. 

“I hope you do,” Skywarp smarmed back.

Starscream growled and led them away from the Colosseum, close enough to keep it in sight but far enough to be out of audial range. Bellow them, humans scurried and screamed, pointing upward in such an exaggerated show of fear, he couldn't help but think maybe there was some, only a tiny bit, of truth to the wheeled organic's claim that Decepticons had attacked humans unprovoked.

Spotting a clearing between rustic red buildings, away from the once crowded stone streets and large enough to fit both of them—a courtyard he thinks they’re called—he landed with his back to a tall brick building covered with small windows. There was little space between himself and the bricks, a precaution against Skywarp teleporting behind him and catching Starscream by surprise.  

Skywarp’s helm looked up and around, surveying their surroundings with an easy smile. “Not where I expected our second meeting, but it’s free of Autobutts, so I'll take it."

Ignoring the comment, a quiet fury had overtaken Starscream, lacing every word he spoke. “Let me begin by saying your actions at the quarry were entirely inappropriate.”

Skywarp snorted, “You think that was bad? You should see me—"

"—And let me continue by reiterating that I do not know you. I do not want to know you. I will never want to know you, understand? Good, now leave."

A flash of fuchsia was the only warning Starscream got before he was shoved into the building behind him, his wings banging roughly against the brick. He grunted in pain just as purple talons dug into the wall beside his helm, the slightly taller seeker encasing the smaller one between his arms, looming over him and pressing forward until their frames touched; Starscream’s audials rang from the screeching sound of glass scraping against glass.

However, his spark, oblivious to its owner’s physical torment, sang in reverberation, pulsing his fearful and furious field outward completely against Starscream’s will. Against his control.

"You feel that, Screamer?" Skywarp pressed his chassis impossibly closer; there was no space between them, and Starscream swore he could hear glass crack. “Your spark reaching out for mine.”

Skywarp's field pressed forcefully against his own, and Starscream grits his denta against it, trying desperately to will back the strength his traitorous spark was sapping from him.

A leg pressed in between Starscream's own, knee nudging dangerously high. "We were made for—"

Starscream snarled and shoved the mech with all of his might, red optics blazing as he watched the other seeker stumble back.

"All I felt…," Starscream paused, not realizing he had been venting so harshly until his words had come out a half-wheeze. He forced himself to vent slower but kept his palms open, talons ready to strike should Skywarp try to accost him again. “…Were the residual effects of our sparks having been matured in the same enkindler.” Of which Starscream’s had been removed early.

He was loathe to see how powerful their spark's connection would have been had he remained for the entire kindling process, and considered that perhaps there was one aspect of his forging he could thank his long-dead creators for.

Aside from his exceptionally attractive appearance and unmatched aerial speed, that is.

Straightening from where he had hunched after shoving Skywarp, he kept his gaze alert as he watched the purple mech pat over where Starscream had shoved him, noting with a malicious smirk the digit-shaped dents he had left behind. The smirk quickly fell when Skywarp's expression became openly impressed, the tips of his talons tracing around the metal imprints.

Through open disgust, Starscream expanded, "A trine is a willing spark-bond formed between three seekers. I am not willing, and there will be no bond. We are not trine." We will never be trine.

He prepared himself for retaliation, spark whirring in apprehension and anticipation, waiting for the other mech to give Starscream a reason to leave far more damage than dents.

His tense posture wavered, uncertainty entering his field when all the other seeker did in response to Starscream’s rejection was place a servo on a cocked hip and raise an optic ridge, saying, “Uh, no.”

Starscream balked, “What do you mean no? You can’t tell me no; I told you no!”

“And I’m saying no back,” Skywarp smirked, crossing his arms over his canopy. “We’re totally trine.”

“You can’t say no back,” Starscream argued, unease quickly morphing into anger. “We are not trine.”

“Yes, I can; watch—no.”

“You can’t do that! That’s not how this works,” Starscream snapped, stamping a pede.

“Is too,” Skywarp grinned back.

"Is no—" Starscream caught himself mid-word, pressed the tips of his talons together, took a deep, optic shuttering vent, released, and then readjusted. "I do not have time to go on prattling with you about idiotic nonsense."

"—Being trine isn't nonsense," Skywarp mumbled.

“But if you’re refusing to listen to reason, then you can at least make yourself useful and answer my questions before you go,” Starscream continued, ignoring the other seeker’s whining.

“Questions?” Skywarp’s wings fluttered. “Sure, I can answer anything you want, Screamer—the answer is yes, by the way. The berth is big enough for three.”

Starscream skipped a vent, olfactorate flaring. “Does your deranged processor ever leave the berthroom?”

The other’s helm tilted, “What do you mean?”

A sudden wave of horrible, incredible realization cooled Starscream’s rising anger.

Skywarp, a member of the so-called Decepticon Elite Trine, a mech even Hound was wary of, who had a medic making vows of protection, and who the Autobots claimed as one of their enemy faction’s most lethal, destructive warriors…was a complete and total moron.

Understanding that he was talking to a more mentally deficient creature than the two earthlings he had left behind, Starscream re-strategized his approach to the conversation. Easy yes or no questions, nothing that would require too much detail and ignoring anything the other seeker said outside of direct answers.

He began, “After spending time aboard the Ark, I managed to gain access to the Autobots’ main database, Teletran-One. While researching Skyfire and yourself, I came across several…disquieting accusations.”

“So that’s why you don’t want to be trine!” Skywarp exclaimed, throwing his servos up. “The Autobots have been turning you against us.” Then, letting out an angry snort, “Should have known.”

Starscream agreed, but only to the mech’s second statement. “My thoughts exactly—how accurate do you know their systems to be? Have you ever heard of them using it for deceit?”

Skywarp shrugged, “I dunno.”

He scowled, then continued slowly, "Then can you confirm if what I've read from it is true?"

"Probably? If it's about me or TC, anyway, I don't really pay attention to what the other guys do unless, you know," Skywarp gestured as though it were obvious. "Blackmail material."

He blinked at that, but with his strategy of ignoring almost everything Skywarp said that wasn't a direct answer in full effect, Starscream moved past it and began his questioning with one of the most heinous acts Skywarp had been accused of.

"Do you remember Port Haxi? Both factions agreed to a ceasefire while at the alien refueling outpost. While there, an Autobot began screaming in a busy street that she was burning, but there were no visible signs of flames. She was later found in an alley, burnt alive. The Autobots deduced it was an ethanol fire and that's why the flames had been invisible in the outpost's artificial lights. There was never any…proof it was you, but the Autobots marked you down as the most likely culprit in their system—is that true? Were you the one responsible?”

Did it even happen?

Skywarp pursed his derma, looking to be in deep thought. Then, the purple seeker’s optics brightened as he answered with a smile and an excited bounce, “Oh yeah, Haxi, I remember that one; that was definitely me. You should have seen the way that minibot rolled around trying to take the fire out, everyone thought she was crazy; it was fragging hilarious.”

Starscream’s optic ridges furrowed as he pressed, “You killed an Autobot during a ceasefire…for fun?”

"Yeah, the ceasefire part was tricky to work around, had to be really careful not to get caught; totally worth it though. One of my best pranks. Got a lot of high-fives and free engex for that one; Auto-bum never saw me coming.”

His throat constricted as he swallowed around nothing, wrapping his appalled field tighter around himself as he contemplated Skywarp’s confession.

He had honestly thought the other seeker would deny the accusation. It had just been such a senseless, unprovoked, sadistic method of murder that he had passed it off as the Autobots journaling their worst fears into Skywarp’s file and passing it off as credible intelligence.

Starscream’s wings trembled, rattling against the brick. Skywarp saw the tremors and smirked, but made no comment at what he must have read in their movement. Locking gears in place, Starscream forced his wings to still, internally furious at himself for such blatant show of fear. He was not scared of Skywarp—he was repulsed.

Their conversation flowed similarly from there. Starscream would ask Skywarp if he had committed the atrocity the Autobots had accused him of, and the Decepticon would give a jubilant and enthusiastic yes before launching into more detail with a braggadocious twang to his vocals.

After the tenth proud recount of torture Skywarp gave him, sparing no detail in its gruesomeness, Starscream held up a servo to halt the other seeker mid-sentence.

"And what of Skyfire? Surely, he didn't," Starscream shook his helm, collecting himself. "He cannot have done everything the Autobots accuse him of—you’re an exception to their deceit."

"Sky…Sky-ooooh, you mean Jetfire." Skywarp clarified. "You know, if I had known you were his old partner, I totally would have gone with TC when Megatron went on a recruitment run to that nerd school in Iacon."

Optics alight with interest, Starscream derailed his strategy by asking, "Thundercracker was the seeker present during the ISR raid? Did he tell you of it? Did Megatron force Skyfire to join?"

Skywarp’s wings shot up, then he laughed, slapping a knee. “Forced? Ha! That’s a good one—Jetfire volunteered.”

“To join the Decepticons?” Starscream pressed. Had his partner volunteered to join the Decepticons? His Skyfire? But why?

Skywarp's smile stretched to show off sharpened denta, and the taller seeker took a step closer saying, "To kill the council of nerds." Then other seeker lifted a purple servo, mimicking a gun and pulling the trigger. “Asked for a blaster from Megatron and then bang, shot them each in a row; didn’t miss a shot.”

Starscream took a step back to match Skywarp’s every step forward. His spark was a whirring mess of disbelief, denial, horror—Skyfire had killed the ISR council? Willingly? Starscream hadn’t mourned the council’s demise after learning of it. There was not a drop, not a single atom of love lost between himself and the ISR council. They had made it their mission to ridicule and discredit the seeker scientist at every given opportunity, and being upper caste mecha, they had been given more than most. If there was any group of mecha Starscream believed deserved a painful, prolonged deactivation, it was the members of the ISR council.

But not by Skyfire’s servos. Their filthy innermost energon didn’t deserve to coat his partner’s pristine, once-white plating.

Skywarp's optics roved up and down Starscream's frame as he continued to advance, and the shorter seeker found himself once again pressed up against the wall; there hadn’t been far to move. Only this time, the Decepticon made no attempt to cage him; only his field reached out, brushing teasingly against Starscream's own.

Red met red and Starscream shuddered a vent.

Skywarp chuckled, “You scared of me, sweetspark? Scared of the big bad Decepticon?” The taller seeker then broke their stare by shaking his helm, musing to himself, “I keep forgetting how new this must all be to you. You’re just so…fresh off the line.”

Starscream almost argued that he was over two hundred thousand stellar-cycles old, not even remotely fresh off the line. That they couldn’t have been that far apart in age, being from the same enkindler. But then he remembered the purple mech had not been frozen in time as Starscream had been, and had millions of years on him in age.

Expression firming, he reinforced his determination to stick to the strategy of ignoring everything Skywarp said that wasn’t a direct answer to a question; refusing to engage whenever the Decepticon made one of his unsolicited flirtations.

“Deltany-Five…” he started, vocals wavering. He clenched his fists, talons digging into his palms, disgusted by his own weak spark. He was not scared of Skywarp. He wasn’t.

Don’t worry, Starscream, I’ll protect you.

And he didn’t need protection.

Optics hardened, he continued with firm vocals, “Deltany-Five was a neutral Cybertronian colony that mined carbonite and was open to trade with both factions. The Autobots claim that over ten thousand mecha were massacred by the Decepticons using an unknown chemical agent designed by Skyfire—is that true?”

Skywarp tilted his helm to the side, optics looking up. “Deltany, Deltany…Oh, that Deltany? Pfft, yeah, I remember that colony. Was the first time I ever heard ol’ Megs say you’ve disappointed me, Jetfire.”

A tentative, hopeful smile lit up Starscream’s faceplate. “So, he didn’t mean to do it? The massacre was an accident?”

Skywarp blinked at him, “Damn, you’re so cute—but no, he meant to do it. The problem was that the plague he invented was supposed to be self-contained, but was actually suuuuper contagious. Way more than Jetfire meant for it to be. I only know about it because I was supposed to be the one to pop in and out of the colony to check how the virus was going. Turns out that even after being injected with the cure, the virus could still cling to my frame and infect anyone I came into contact with. We ended up having to slag the whole colony from orbit. Nice light show, but a huge waste of resources. Megatron was pretty torqued about it.”

Starscream’s optics cycled. “You destroyed an entire colony, invented a plague…for carbonite?”

“Not me, Jetfire, and we slagged an entire colony because we couldn’t get their carbonite," Skywarp said it slowly, with a condescending cadence to his vocals. Like he was explaining an easy concept to a dullard, or someone he considered to be very, very young.

Starscream seethed, “They were a neutral colony willing to trade with both factions—you could have purchased the carbonite or bartered for it.”

“They were trading with Autobots.” Again, that same condescending tone. “That’s no different than if they’d slapped on a tacky red badge themselves; they got what was coming to them.”

Starscream slapped a closed fist into his palm as understanding dawned on him.

“You’re insane—nothing you say can be trusted.”

Skyfire, his Skyfire, would never have engineered a plague all for resource allocation. His Skyfire mourned over crushed flowers, had never once raised a servo to defend himself against an attack, and would never have stolen credit for one of Starscream’s inventions.

Skywarp was just proving his propensity for unfunny, sadistic pranks. Nothing the Decepticon had confirmed about Skyfire was actually true. Starscream would believe nothing about his partner unless it came from the shuttle directly. If only the mech would answer his comms.

Starscream’s optics narrowed as something else dawned on him. “I’m currently living with the Autobots—what does that make me? What do I have coming to me?”

Skywarp, the audacious glitch, glanced down to Starscream’s array panels before slowly looking back up, commenting, "It's different for you, Screamer—you’re trine, and you don't know any better and…Jetfire won't let me take you back to the ship. He doesn’t want us drawing attention to you, for some stupid-fragging reason."

Perceptor’s’ warning echoed in the back of his helm; He may no longer be the mech you once knew. 

“We’re done here,” he announced. “I have no further questions for you.”

Skywarp blew out a relief heavy vent, wiping his helm in a disgustingly organic gesture. “That was all you wanted to ask? About all the times we kicked Autobot aft? And here I thought those losers were telling you way worse stuff than that.”

Starscream’s wings raised, consternation clear on his faceplate. “What could possibly be worse?”

Worse than manufactured plagues, wanton slaughter, and the destruction of alien worlds?

“Oh, you know, like that I'm ugly—or weak,” Skywarp practically spat the last word out as though it was the worst thing a mech could be.

Not knowing how to respond, not wanting to respond, Starscream looked back toward the Colosseum.

"I've wasted enough time here. You're as psychotic as the Autobots said you were."

With that as his parting statement, he stepped forward and around Skywarp, his wings high and without fear as he exited the clearing and walked onto an empty, stone-paved street.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there, Screamer—where are you going?” Skywarp exclaimed, chasing after him.

“Back to the Colosseum and away from you.”

Skywarp’s field rapped angrily against him before pulling back sharply. "What? No, you're coming back with me to the Victory. It's a little damp, sure, but the company is great, and there won't be any sniveling Auto-losers running around."

Starscream continued forward without looking back. "I thought Skyfire told you not to bring me back to your base? How would he react after learning you went against orders and our fighting brought further Autobot attention to your…misplaced interest in me?”

“Misplaced?” Skywarp shot back. “We’re trine!”

“I’m not having this conversation with you again.”

“Fine,” Skywarp whined. “TC said I couldn’t force you either, anyway. Some slag about proper courting and it being your choice. Whatever. We’re trine—what choice is there to make?”

What choice indeed.

Starscream didn’t respond as he continued walking, not yet trusting his turbulent mind in the skies—or how the erratic seeker behind him would react should he attempt to speed away.

Then, seemingly unable to go five astro-seconds without speaking, Skywarp questioned, “So, those meat munchers…they your pets?”

Ignoring the other, he paused his walk after spotting a small cart that appeared to be peddling organic fuel of some kind. Like everything else along the street they traversed, it had been abandoned by its owner. He bent over and picked it up, lifting it to optic level as he inspected it, detecting no outward sign of danger or tampering.

“What’s that?” Skywarp puzzled.

Distracted by his inspection, Starscream answered, “Fuel for the humans.”

Gripping it tightly, he continued toward the Colosseum, internally berating himself for responding to the Decepticon's question. He knew by this point it only encouraged the mech.

Skywarp followed casually behind him, his arms raised and servos cupping the back of his helm, and remarked, "Taking them out for a flight, feeding them—they are your pets!"

Giving up as the Colosseum came into view, Starscream clarified, "Only the wheeled one. And not yet; I'm still taming it."

“You care about that meat bag?” Skywarp asked, sounding bewildered.

“Of course not,” he denied. He did not care for the wheeled human, only for its potential to be useful to him.

Skywarp remained silent for once and did not press any further, only humming an unrecognizable, upbeat tune as he followed the shorter seeker.

Starscream did not share the Decepticon’s nonchalance. His wings were stiff at his back, proximity sensors at their highest setting; he would not be caught off guard should Skywarp decide to attack again. But no such attack came, and they reached the Colosseum with minimal human sightings, the little things only making themselves known when peaking over rooftops and through windows.

Clutching the cart close to his chassis, he pivoted to face the other seeker, who had maintained his casual posture throughout their short trek. "We've arrived—go," he said.

Skywarp's smile turned incredulous, and he laughed, his red optics once again roving the shorter seeker up and down. Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, his gaze took on a more serious note as he forewarned, "You know I'll be back, right? This isn't over; it can't be for us—we're trine."

Having learned his lesson, Starscream said nothing as he engaged his thrusters, rising up into the sky and over the Colosseum walls. He landed a few short paces away from the stage and waited for the sound of another landing behind him, but none came. Derma pulled into a pensive frown; he turned his helm to see Skywarp hovering in the air high above the Colosseum. The mech waved at him but otherwise made no other movement, neither to land nor to leave.

“Starscream, you’re back!” The wheeled one shouted.

"That was quick," the yellow-footed one commented.

Attention diverted, he turned to look down at the humans. Neither appeared to be any worse off than when he had left them, and Starscream crouched low to better assess their conditions, reassuring, "I told you he wouldn’t hurt me.”

The wheeled one rolled closer, fuzzy brows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

Starscream’s optics cycled. “Do I look injured?”

Then he remembered that there were likely scratches and cracks along his canopy. He placed a servo over the glass, “My self-repair systems will make short work of these. They won’t impeded by ability to fly you back.”

“Uh, not to be the bearer of bad news, but Skywarp hasn’t left yet. He’s just hovering up there. Staring. It’s creepy.”

After a moment’s deliberation, Starscream raised his wings to block the humans from view; he would not give Skywarp the attention he wanted.

“Never mind him,” Starscream said. “I’ve brought you fuel.”

He placed the cart on the ground and awaited their squishy-heart-filled adulation. 

"Shaved ice? For breakfast?" The yellow-footed one said quizzically.

His optics narrowed, “Is that a problem? Does time affect your fuel consumption?”

“Italian shaved ice,” the wheeled one corrected. Then elbowing the standing one in the stomach, assured, "It's great, Starscream, thank you. Spike's just a picky eater."

The yellow-footed one rubbed where he had been hit, "Hey, I'll eat anything that's fried, greasy, and filled with meat."

“Such as yourself?” Starscream placed the tip of a talon just underneath the organic’s fleshy chin, only a hairbreadth away from touching.

The little thing's eyes widened in alarm, and it hastily stepped back, waving its hands. "Ew! What? No! That’s cannibalism!”

Starscream raised an optic ridge and tilted his helm, “And that’s frowned upon in your culture?”

Its eyes widened further. "It's not in yours?"

Starscream released a small chuckle, "Ask the Autobots, or better yet, ask Cliffjumper. He looks like a mech who drinks unrefined energon."

A shift in the air caused his wings to lower and his easy smile to slip (when had he begun smiling?). He stood from his squatted position, tuning out whatever response the organics might have given him and stepping a pede out, half-turning towards where Skywarp had once been hovering. The blue sky was devoid of metallic obstructions, the purple seeker having finally teleported away. 

The lack of a visible threat did nothing to quell the unease settling in Starscream’s spark. Because while Skywarp had proved both a perverse idiot and an unreliable source of information, the mech had been right about one thing.

They would meet again, of that Starscream had no doubt.  

Chapter Text

The warm winds he detected from down below cooled as they rose and rushed around his swift form. Streaks of condensation clung to the seeker’s wings and canopy as he flew through a gradually darkening formation of clouds. Starscream internally frowned as he felt a tickle of charge travel along his plating—a storm was brewing.

Ignoring his misgivings, the flash of a memory flux, he warned, “The Ark will soon be within visual range—remember the deal, humans.”

The visored one spoke up, “Uh, Starscream, I don’t think this deal is—"

“Ah-ah, Chiparino,” the yellow-booted one interrupted. “It’s a good deal. We don’t tell the Autobots about Skywarp, and Starscream owes us a freebie flight, no questions asked. Everybody gets something.”

“You know that—”

"The bots are going to want to know everything that went down in Italy? Sure do, but you see these lips? Sealed tighter than a rusted dog on an oil rig."

“Spike, that’s not a…!” The wheeled human sucked in a deep breath and released a heated sigh, its furry, uncovered head bumping against the glass of Starscream’s canopy. “Whatever, doesn’t matter.”

He should have scolded the human for breaching their deal yet again by touching more than the seat it sat on, but something in its dour tone stymied his words. The same could not be said for the seeker’s unwanted passenger.

“Yeesh, what’s eating your shorts? You’ve been in a bad mood ever since we left your nerd conference. You didn’t even give us time to get pizza or spaghetti before making us leave—I’m running off fumes and shaved ice.”

Did the annoying one not know? The wheeled one had mentioned not informing the Autobots of its progenitor problems, but he had thought the other human's presence meant it had at least confided in its own kind.

Lowering his altitude, the seeker inwardly preened at being the only one aware of his human’s coverture.

A secret was a weapon, a cloak-veiled dagger Starscream was exceptionally proficient in wielding. In a city such as Iacon, where a mech who bared traditional weapons and sharpened talons was scorned, the warframe had been given no choice but to become so. Though, much to his chagrin, ever since awakening on Earth, he had been woefully unequipped against his Autobot hosts and now potential seeker-specific Decepticon enemies—or had been.

Being the only one to know why the organic’s mood had become so morose also meant being the only one it could turn to for comfort—and over such a puerile, inconsequential thing, too.

Its sire had not attended the symposium.

Miniscule as it was when backed against a Cybertronian scale, his little pet had unwittingly armed its future owner against the old, providing him with the tiniest cut to ease the removal of the red-factioned leash wound tightly around his human’s tender neck.

Starscream dipped below the clouds, preparing to taunt the yellow-booted one by implying he knew something it did not…and ask if their cloth coverings were edible, only for his spark to loop in its casing.

Beneath the clouds, his alt's short-range optical sensors had finally detected the Ark—and the large grouping of Autobots who stood outside it: Optimus Prime, Prowl, Jazz, Cliffjumper, an identical yellow variant, but no Ratchet and no Hound.

His arrival didn't slow; he wouldn't do something overtly suspicious, but his battle protocols were onlined, and his weapon detection radars pinged.

The yellow-booted one loudly pondered, "Whoa, check out the welcoming committee. Wonder why they're all—hey! I think Optimus is waving."

He could feel the human waving back and was sorely tempted to do a barrel roll with his canopy open.

The wheeled one grumbled, "You know why they're here, Spike." Then, in a more apologetic tone, continued, "I'm sorry, Starscream. I should have told you when you first asked us to keep Skywarp a secret from the bots, but I just…I mean, I wasn't feeling…" Its little head shook, and its posture straightened. "The Autobots are alerted whenever there's Decepticon activity on Earth. Either from the news or the government or Teletran-One—they were always going to hear about it.”

“What’s important is they didn’t hear it from me,” the other human asserted. “I said nothing, and I’ll say even less when we land, so no reneging on our deal.”

A hot wave of fury swept through him at the humans’ act of deceit. Had it been directed at anyone besides himself, he might have almost been impressed with the yellow-booted human’s craftiness, as it was the one who had first proffered a price for its silence. Gaining while giving nothing in return, taking advantage of the seeker’s ignorance regarding Autobot protocol, he hadn't thought the dimwitted thing capable. But it was, and it had been directed at him—his anger remained.

"And you didn't see fit to tell me why, exactly? Because you were too busy pouting like a newly sparked protoform? Because your pathetic sire—" Starscream cut himself off, growling low in his throat. "Keep to the deal, humans; speak nothing of what you saw."

Frustration grew in tandem with his descent, the ground rapidly approaching as he rushed to think of a new web of half-truths to weave around himself as a protective layer against an inevitable interrogation.

The Autobots were already wary of him due to his connection to the Deceptions’ second-in-command—how would they react if they learned of his tenuous, barely noticeable spark reverberance with their enemy’s air commander and its idiotic psychopath? Irrelevant information, as nothing would ever come of the not-there connection; he would never consent to a trine. However, he doubted the Autobots would share similar sentimentalities. In the interest of his self-preservation, the most imperative interest of all, he had decided it would be wise to keep the Autobots unaware of his…questionable, not-really-a-relation to the top Decepticon seekers for as long as possible.  

The flyer would only be with the Autobots as long as Skyfire kept him at bay. Reconnection with his partner was an absolute, and his time with the Autobots was nothing but an interim stop in between. Thus, the Autobots and their opinion of him ultimately meant nothing. That was not why he had decided to keep his conversation with Skywarp largely secret. It was only for his own safety. No other reason. He did not care what the Autobots or their human pets thought of him.

Starscream told himself as much, reprocessing the line of code over and over until it could become a perpetual subroutine, an unthought but constant process in his behavioral programs. But before the coding could permanently imbed itself in his processor (not that base coding truly worked in such a way), the ground was directly beneath him, and his landing gear deployed.

His landing was smooth as it could be on such rocky ground, and the organics inside him bounced with every rock he rolled over, and even before he had come to a complete stop, the Autobots had begun rushing to meet him. The yellow Cliffjumper even went so far as to transform so it could pull ahead of the crowd.

“Spike! Spike! Are you okay?” The speeding grounder shouted.

Starscream’s canopy opened just as the car pulled alongside him, the Autobot transforming back to root-mode and reaching inside the seeker without so much as a greeting…or requesting permission.

He kept his ire to himself as the yellow-booted human was lifted out and held in the unknown Autobot’s servo, the little thing being twisted every which way as the minibot conducted a slapdash inspection.

Nonplussed by the manhandling, the human laughed, “I’m fine, Bumblebee, starving, but fine.”

Soon the others had caught up and were crowding around him, Prowl being the first to reach inside him, again without asking, to pull the wheeled human out, inspecting it in a similar, albeit gentler manner.

“You do not appear to be injured,” Prowl announced, then continued, “What happened in Italy?”

Transforming, Starscream interrupted whatever answer the human had prepared to give by redirecting the inquiry, “I should be the one asking you that. If there was an issue, you could have commed me.”

Prowl’s derma thinned as he looked the seeker up and down, optics lingering briefly over his scratched canopy. "There was an attack on the base not long after you left. Soundwave and Thundercracker managed to gain access to Teletran-One, and we lost communication capabilities shortly after—"

“—Pretty convenient if you ask me,” Cliffjumper muttered.

“And so, I ask again, what happened in Italy?” Prowl finished.

Again, Starscream answered the praxian’s question with a question, "If you lost communications, how do you know something happened in Italy?"

Optimus Prime came to stand beside his second, raising a large blue servo and answering, “Because of this.”

Starscream squinted and leaned forward as he tried to see what the Prime was holding. Zooming his optics in until—there between two digits, Optimus was holding an incredibly small, pixelated image that depicted what could be interpreted as, under generous circumstances, a black and purple seeker pinning a much more attractive white and red one to a brick wall. However, given the quality of the image, one could just as easily say it was a scribbled drawing made by a lower life-form that depicted what its unevolved brain imagined Cybertronians to be.

He leaned back, red optics still narrowed, “Where did you get that?”

“A fax machine,” Jazz piped up as he positioned himself between the Autobot leader and second. “Something the humans use to send pictures, real old-school. It used to be in Prowler’s office, but after he slagged the last one, we moved the new one to Prime’s. Would have put it in mine, but I’m never there. Why bother when Prowl—”

“—Enough, Jazz,” Prowl commanded. Then, addressing the seeker, “Tell us what happened in Italy. We’ve recently restored base communications, but the Italian government has provided little context to the image we received.”

So, they knew nothing? Excellent. Starscream tilted his helm, vocals casual, “There isn’t much to tell—Skywarp approached me, we spoke of nothing of consequence, and he left immediately after. Frankly, it was a rather droll affair. Certainly, nothing that warrants this…enthusiastic welcome.”

He glanced at the held humans, content with their silence until he saw a strange expression on the wheeled one's face. Its brows were drawn, little eyes darting around the bots surrounding them before finally settling on the seeker. It mouthed something illegible at him before shouting, "That's not true!"

Cliffjumper snapped his digits, “I knew it.”

"Oh?" Prowl arched an optic ridge, then held the human up so the crowd could better hear it. "Please, elaborate.”

The wheeled-one cast Starscream one more inscrutable glance before committing to its betrayal, expounding, “Skywarp showed up at the Coliseum, and Starscream did go with him to keep us safe, but…but when he came back, his glass looked bad. I mean really bad. Way worse than it does now. It was cracked and scratched and looked close to breaking, and Skywarp didn’t just leave, either; he hovered over the Coliseum before finally flying off, and the way he was looking at Starscream before he left was…well, it was weird Prowl. Really weird. I was worried he was going to come back, but he never did. I even tried calling you after the symposium ended, but I couldn’t get through; guess now I know why.”

The silence that followed the wheeled human’s proclamation was so thick an energon-blade wouldn’t have been able to cut it.

An annoying, yellow-booted human, however, seemingly had no problem. Still held in Bumblebee’s servo, it raised a hand to its mouth and sneezed, “Snitch.”

Red optics cycled, the seeker so caught off guard by the wheeled one’s admission that his true thoughts slipped out in a furious hiss, “Why, you traitorous little electro-viper.”

First, he was stalked by one of his partner’s insane subordinates, and now he's betrayed by the human he had so graciously gone out of his way to help? And to think Starscream had actually considered granting it the privilege of being his pet!

The sniveling creature’s mouth warbled, “What?”

Starscream's engine rumbled, and he took a step toward it, and Prowl, only to be blocked by Optimus Prime moving to stand in front of the praxian. The large mech’s field radiated peace as he said, “Thank you for your honesty, Chip, and you, Starscream, for protecting the humans during your journey—but might I suggest a trip to the medbay before we continue? Ratchet will want to tend to your injuries, minor as they may appear.”

He frowned at the Prime and tilted his frame to look around the bot, frown deepening as he saw Prowl and the praxian’s awful pet huddled close, whispering amongst themselves. He strained his audials to hear what future treachery they were plotting, only to wince when he instead picked up the grating vocals of a minibot.

“We sure his totally unexpected rendezvous with Skywarp wasn’t planned?” Cliffjumper questioned. “Pretty convenient how this happened right after we lost comms—how do we know those little scratches aren’t just to throw us off the scent?”

Starscream sneered down at the red pest, “As if I would ever willingly meet with that insane fool. The only reason you have that archaic photo is because I agreed to speak with him in order to protect your precious pets—as Prowl commanded, might I add.” Then, to actually throw them off the scent, he added, “That I happened to confirm nearly every accusation in your database against Skywarp is merely coincidental.”

Stepping around the Prime and the seeker's misdirection, Prowl asked, "But for what purpose would Skywarp approach you?"

Starscream wanted to redirect the praxian to look at him and ask the same question again, but then he remembered that despite the wings, he was speaking to a grounder—and Prowl.

And so, he paused, containing his anger and considering his following words carefully. "…He asked me to go with him to the Decepticons' ship—I think their air commander has expressed interest in me for…obvious reasons. Or would you like me to go into further detail about that, too?" His optic ridges raised, a hint of scandal entering his vocals. “And in front of the children, really, Prowl? Well, if you insist…”

The praxian’s optics widened, a trace of emotion almost entering his vocals as he responded, “That will not be necessary. I am satisfied with Chip's recounting of events." Then, with a nod toward the Prime he said, "If you'll excuse me."

Optimus nodded his approved dismissal toward the praxian, who turned toward the Ark, again whispering to his held organic as he walked.

Cliffjumper’s jaw dropped, exclaiming, “You can’t tell me you believe this guy? He’s so suspicious! He’s a seeker! He—"

Bumblebee cut in, “He protected Spike from Skywarp, and that’s good enough for me.” Then, smiling at the seeker added, “Thanks for that, by the way. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to this little guy.”

The yellow mech rubbed the top of the human’s head, who laughed and played at shoving the offending digit away. “Little? Says the minibot.”

Starscream maintained a pleasant smile even as he fought off his now simmering anger and the desire to mock the odd display of affection between the bot and its fleshy pet.

“It was no trouble,” was his eventual, neutral response.

“This guy, no trouble?” Bumblebee laughed again, then transformed around the human, who reappeared in the Autobot's cabin. "I'll believe it when I see it."

The organic looked up at the seeker from the driver's seat, "I'd stick around, but I've got a hot date with the diner on Third Street and a hotter one with Carly after that." Then, waving its goodbye, the organic said, "See you, Starscream. Thanks for the flight; don't forget about our deal!"

And they were off, the yellow car speeding into the desert and leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

“Deal?” Jazz questioned with a popped hip and a smile, before chuckling. "Just kidding—if it’s a deal worth knowing about, I’ll know.”

Starscream laughed nervously, unsure whether he had just been told a joke or a threat. Then Optimus, perhaps sensing the seeker’s unease, intervened, “If I could again suggest visiting the medbay? Ratchet and Hound are both—”

“Hound is in the medbay?” He interrupted, resulting in an offended squawk from Cliffjumper.

Unbothered, Optimus explained, “He was damaged during—”

Starscream pushed past the group of Autobots and was halfway to the Ark before Prime finished his sentence. His long-legged strides overtook Prowl with ease, and without a sideways glance in the praxian’s direction, he entered the ship and cut a hard line through the copper halls toward the medbay.

Arriving in but a few klicks, he didn’t bother announcing his presence before palming the medbay door open and stepping inside, only to freeze where he stood, visibly stunned by what, or rather the nothing, he saw.

“What happened to your legs?” He openly gawked, optics wide and worry in his field. He hurried to the medberth where Hound lay, unable to restrain his shocked expression as he stared down at what was easily the most grievous injury he had ever seen.

From the knees down, nothing but frayed wires and bared mechanics remained; there was no actual structure that could feasibly be called legs.

“Starscream, you’re back,” Hound smiled at him and tried to sit up, only to be pushed back down by Ratchet, who the seeker had failed to notice upon first arrival.

“Ah-ah, none of that now,” Ratchet scolded from where he was seated next to the medberth, then standing to face Starscream, said, "Idiot tried to take on Thundercracker and Soundwave at the same time—he's lucky he only lost half his legs."

Hound protested the medic’s assessment, "Come on, Ratchet. You know I was the only one close enough to respond to Red Alert's alarm—what was I supposed to do? Let them hack Teletran-One?”

Ratchet tsked, “Seeing as they hacked Teletran-One anyway, maybe next time you should. All your half-cocked nonsense did was make more work. For me.”

Starscream quietly watched the two bots’ banter, the worst of his fears easing from the unconcerned way the Autobot CMO spoke of Hound’s injuries.

“You can repair him, then?” He asked, his optics unconsciously flicking back down to Hound’s green stumps every other astro-second.

The medic snorted, his derma turning up in a half-smirk. "Sure, when I think he won't run off and get his legs blown off again. I'm not convinced yet, but maybe in a few weeks…”

“Ratchet…” Hound whined, then directed his imploring blue optics at Starscream. "Don't let him leave me like this, Star. You have to convince him to let me go—I'll be good, promise."

Starscream, about to make another dirty-old-mech remark, was stopped by said dirty-old-mech quirking an optic ridge in his direction and blatantly staring at his canopy.

"And just what brings you here? Thought you couldn't wait to get out of my medbay," Ratchet reminded him, causing the seeker's wings to flick nervously.

“I…well, I came to check on Hound, of course. Why else would I be here?” He innocently intoned.

“Mmhm,” Ratched hummed skeptically before tapping the white medical port cover on the side of Starscream's waste, employing some kind of override, causing it to pop open unprompted by its owner. And before the seeker could react, a medical cable was plugged in, and a diagnosis scan started running.

All of Starscream's good humor evaporated in an instant at the intrusion. Wings raised high, he reared his helm back, fury elevating his vocals decibels higher as he screeched, “What do you think you’re doing, you pompous, old, impetuous—”

Ratchet grunted some affirmative, then promptly unplugged himself and crossed his arms over his chassis. "Yup, just like I thought; repair nanites at a heightened state of activation around the chassis—alright, what did Skywarp do this time, and where do I need to point Grimlock?”

Too enraged to process that the medic must have been informed of his encounter with Skywarp before arrival, the seeker’s denta ground together as he hissed out, “Nothing my repair nanites cannot handle, you invasive codger. How dare you—”

Ratchet held a red servo up in Starscream’s faceplate, who was so taken aback by the sheer gall of the shorter mech that it actually worked in silencing him.

Placing the servo on his hip and pointing the other at Starscream, the medic lectured, “I’ve had too many foolhardy young bots let their pride turn a nick into a nightmare on my operating table–if I think treatment is necessary; you get it, if it's not I ask and then give it to you anyway. Something you'll have to get used to while you’re here.”

Starscream sucked in air through clenched denta, optics burning as he seethed, “Then perhaps it’s a good thing I will not be here much longer.”

Had this been their first meeting, the Autobot CMO would no longer be standing so arrogantly before him; the medic’s frame would be a dented red and white scrap heap on the floor. Starscream’s field, unrestrained by anger, lashed out, betraying his desire for violence even as he kept his fist pressed tightly to his sides, ready to retaliate should the medic be foolish enough to try anything else. He would not be poked and prodded without permission like some kind of lab experiment.

Instead of being rightfully cowed by a stronger frame's threat, Ratchet raised his chin in challenge, blue optics narrowed. "You got somewhere else to be, kid?"

A third, forgotten vocalizer beseechingly intervened between the two posturing mecha, “Hey, hey, why don’t we all take a second to cool our engines.”

Hound was now sitting up fully on the medberth, arms shaking from the effort to hold himself aloft as his helm slowly swiveled from suicidal grounder to incensed flyer, green plating visibly tense even as his field pressed serenity.

“Ratchet, Starscream isn’t used to how things work around here; back before the war, we had these things called consent forms—and Starscream…" Hound fixed his gaze solely on the seeker, optics drawn, and looking of all things, hurt, and not because of his injuries. “I understand we haven’t done a great job earning your trust, I really do, but please don’t lie about injuries. It makes me-us, worry…and maybe go easy on Chip the next time you see him; the kid was only looking out for you."

“Down with you,” Ratchet chided, pushing Hound back against the berth.

Starscream’s derma curled, optics burning as he gazed down at the Autobots, unsure who he was more furious with. Ratchet for his insulting imposition, or Hound, who had, in a way, taken the medic's, and the traitorous human’s, side.

Wrapping his field around himself, he turned his back to them, outraged and embarrassed by how stupidly concerned he had been for Hound. Enough so that he had all but ran to the mech’s side after learning he was damaged. Glaring down at his pedes, he marched toward the medbay door.

“Starscream!” Hound called after him.

The seeker stopped just before exiting the medbay but still palmed its door open, refusing to look back as he waited for the bot to continue.

“Before you leave, I meant to ask—would you mind taking care of the greenhouse for me? Just until my legs are rebuilt; it shouldn't be more than a week, and I'd really appreciate the help from someone who knows what they’re doing.”

When met with no response, Hound pleaded, “Please?”

Before the seeker could answer, Ratchet made his own unnecessary addition, grousing, “Oh, and when you’re done with your little temper tantrum, stop back by medbay—it’s about time I gave you a full-frame check-up.”

Starscream looked up to the ceiling, optics shuttering closed as he released a heavy, frustrated sigh through his olfactorate. Then, dropping his helm to look through the open medbay door, and only to Hound, grudgingly replied, “I will…consider your request.”

Red optics stared down with open disdain at the preposterously small watering can—shaped like some grey, long-nosed earth mammal with disproportionately large ears—gripped between his talons, grumbling to himself about the frailty of organics as he hovered the water-falling nozzle over one group of flowers before moving the next.

He wouldn't have bothered if he knew an agreement to care for Hound’s organic, foliage-filled house would come with such a detailed, long list of specifics. Who knew flora could be such needy little non-sentient creatures? Change the fertilizer, pluck the weeds, talk to them. It was ridiculous. The scientist much preferred his lab creations over what Hound had described as the Earth’s natural wonders. His science experiments had never required nearly as much micro-management…unless he was working with reactive chemicals, of course, but that was beside the point.

The point was that Starscream would never agree to help Hound again without first being told precisely what that help would entail. That he used work in the greenhouse as an excuse to escape the Ark without being chaperoned so that he could ping Skyfire without detection and to avoid Ratchet whenever the unpleasant, bothersome old mech came searching for him were boons entirely of his own making; Hound would be given no credit for either of them.

The only greenhouse resident that wasn’t so helpless was the prickly plant Hound had touted as his favorite the first time Starscream had visited; a gymnocalycium baldianum, locally known as a dwarf chin cactus. It required little water or care, which raised its ugly, green form to near the top of Starscream’s list of favorite plantae (if they could even be called something as venerated as a favorite), just beneath morning glories and what he now knew were called bananas.

Three days had passed since the seeker’s disastrous trip to Italy and subsequent medbay visit. In that time, he had repeatedly failed to goad Hound into telling him what the Decepticons had been after while hacking Teletran-One’s systems. Were he on speaking terms with the wheeled human, he might have been able to convince it to tell him—but Starscream wasn’t and likely never would be again.

Why would he waste time speaking to a lesser being when all it would do is turn around and whisper everything he said into its owner’s audial? He may as well skip the middle monkey and speak directly to Prowl.

The only reason he was still on speaking terms with Hound was because he had acknowledged that the enlisted mech, in the presence of a superior officer, had been given no choice but to side with said officer, even when he knew, as evident by the reprimand, that the Autobot CMO was entirely in the wrong and that Starscream had not overreacted in the slightest. Or so the seeker chose to believe, lest he be left with no one but the flora to hear him complain.

An incoming comm request from Ratchet was apathetically swiped away from his HUD, ignored just as the last three from that day had been. No need to answer the medic; if the mech thought the seeker required treatment, he would simply administer it. Why should he waste his time talking to the Autobot CMO about something Starscream apparently had no say in?

Wings drooping, Starscream sat the pathetically small watering can down onto one of the greenhouse’s many worktables and picked up the just as small cactus. Even with needles protruding from its green flesh, the plant looked terribly fragile in its clay pot when held between his blue digits. An unassuming thing, Hound had assured him that it would eventually bloom pink flowers atop its bulbous head.

Flowers. Right…

He twisted his derma thoughtfully and clutched the potted plant close to his canopy. Already held within an individualized container, there would be no need to cut it, and since it was in no danger of dying after a few days without care, Hound would have no reason to feel sad about its removal from the greenhouse and potential death. Nothing like how the sensitive Autobot had seemingly mourned over the loss of a single morning glory.

And, well, it wasn’t as though Ratchet could stay in the medbay all the time—he would have to leave eventually.

In the center of his mostly barren room stood Starscream on the tips of his pedes, neck twisting to look behind himself as he inspected his wings and wax job. He pivoted in slow circles, critical optics roving up and down his reflection in the full-frame mirror he had installed the night before on the wall opposite of the berth—where and how he had procured the mirror was unimportant.

Working in the greenhouse, he had seen his blue servos turn nearly brown they had been covered in so much dirt and earthly grit. If his servos were to be dirtied, he preferred it to be with the warm oil of one of his inventions or the energon of his enemies. Not due to such menial, grunt labor that even a rudimentarily programmed drone could have competently executed the task. Had any other mech asked Starscream, he would have quit after the first trace of sediment had been found between his talons’ seams. 

Both because he despised any trace of imperfection on his frame, and because the times when there were no Autobots in the washracks were few and far between. The rare chances he did find to be alone in their shared facility provided him with only a scant few breems before chipper chattering and the awful rumbling of ground-bound engines would begin encroaching into his hard sought solitude.

Other than ever so-important hygiene concerns and a refusal to allow his paint to succumb to the same dull state of disarray as every other mecha on the Ark had (with the golden twin as the sole exception), Starscream had another, of no particular import, reason to pay slightly greater meticulous attention to his detailing than usual.

Hound had finally been released from the vile, viscous clutch of Ratchet’s medbay.

For him, this meant no more greenhouse duty and no more dirty servos. His paint would finally be free from the horrors of red clay and pesticides, leaving the seeker safe to buff and shine his plating back to its flawless luster.

Satisfied with his work, Starscream placed his buffing kit onto the room’s desk and glanced down at the flower vase. Frowning at the morning glory’s browned petals, he gripped its thin, rotting stem and lifted it to optic level, twisting it gently between his talons. Such a short-lived thing. He simply couldn’t understand why Hound had acted so distressed by his role in its accelerated repose. Whether it withered away in a hundred years or was cut down prematurely decades before–both were insignificant specs of time to a Cybertronian. What use was mourning an imminent, inescapable, inevitable?

Optics dim, he placed the dying flower back into its freshly watered vase and commed Hound to tell the bot he was on his way. Having refused to meet the mech in the medbay at the time of his release, Starscream had instead rejourned their reunion to the morning after; they were to meet in the greenhouse so the scientist could show off his expert care of the plantae within.

Opening the door to his quarters, Starscream—took an immediate, startled step back at being met with a group of Autobots crowding around the room's entrance. And not just any Autobots; jets. Five of them with varying color schemes, similar builds, and all a helm shorter than the seeker.

His helm canted to the side as disquiet settled in his spark. There was just something...off with their appearance. Something odd, wrong—though neigh unnoticeable to an untrained optic—with each and every one of their frames.

Before he could properly place what the issue was, several vocalizers chorused together—

“Whoa, a real seeker—and he’s not a con!”

“Then why are his optics red?”

“Want to race? Bet I’m faster.”

"I'm sorry about them; we're just so excited to finally—"

“Will you share memories of Vos with us?!”

The one with yellow arms and a strangely square-shaped helm slapped the one who had asked the inappropriate question, an orange-faced mech, on the back of the helm, whispering hotly through clenched denta, “Slingshot, you can’t just ask someone to hardline with you.”

Starscream was so confused by the Autobots' appearance that he completely ignored the orange-faced one's breach of basic social decorum. Instead, he focused on finding the source of that feeling. 

Ignoring the obvious battle damage that was battered into their plating—there was one whose armor was just a few decimeters too thick, one with an ever so slightly incorrectly angled aileron, and another whose helm kibble was, by the barest of millimeters, too wide for a perfect transformation. The tiniest bit of him would be folded outward, degrading his aerodynamism by the most minuscule but potentially life-threatening amount. Even if given an entire joor, Starscream doubted he could have made a complete list of every design flaw present on the Autobots' misfortunate build. It was as though someone had designed their frames off the approximate memory of what a flyer should be rather than the hyper-specific blueprints necessary to create one.

Then, there were their EM fields. Weak as they were, he could still effortlessly discern every single base emotion being projected outwards: excitement, awe, shame, and the one dousing over them all, fear. The group of Autobot fliers presented their emotions as though they had no control over them or how they were perceived, almost similar to—Starscream's wings shot upward.

Younglings. Similar to younglings. He was surrounded by a group of Autobot younglings. A group of battle-damaged, sloppily constructed younglings.

“Sorry about them. We've never met a seeker who wasn't a Decepticon before, and excitement got the better of us." The one who had slapped the other said as he moved in front of the group, holding out a servo in greeting. His field was awash with embarrassment, resentment, eagerness, and all other manner of youthful expressions. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Starscream. I’m Silverbolt, the leader of the Aerialbots.”

“You’re damaged,” Starscream pointed out as he gave the young mech’s servo a delicate shake.

It was Slingshot who responded, "Oh, this? Pfft, this is nothing."

Which apparently prompted the others to give answers of their own.

 "We got into a little Air Raid rumble with some cone-heads on our way back to the Ark.”

“Totally whooped their afts—”

“—You should see the other guys!”

Their youthful exuberance and nonchalant speak of battle caused Starscream to raise an optic ridge in their direction before refocusing on their leader, “And am I presume this is a usual occurrence for you?”

Slingshot threw his helm back and arrogantly smirked, “Kicking Decepticon aft? Uh, yeah, it’s kind of what we do here.”

“It’s kind of what we were made for—literally,” a white-helmed, bald-kibbled one proclaimed, pressing a proud servo to his chassis.

Wings stiff at his back, Starscream lifted his chin up and looked down at the group of flyers standing enthusiastically before him, taking in their poorly designed frames, the damage, and the weak, young flutter of EM fields they were too immature to control. Silverbolt's blue optics widened, reflecting the seeker's raised wings and his own lowered submissively in response.

It was the first appropriate deferral to the superior strength of a warbuild Starscream had witnessed since arriving on the Ark; the sight of it coming from a youngling significantly dampened its gratifying effect.

“I see,” Starscream clipped, “If you’ll excuse me, I suddenly have somewhere to be.”

He turned from them without waiting for an answer, pedes swiftly carrying him not in the direction of the greenhouse but the medbay—the Aerialbots’ dismayed shouts followed him down the hall.

“You scared him away!”

“Way to go, Slingshot.”

“You blew it!”

“He sure is shiny.”

Starscream’s thoughts raced as he walked, his initial disgusted anger at the Aerialbots’ existence giving way to glee. And why shouldn’t he be gleeful? That his week's worth of rage had been justified. The Autobots could not be trusted where matters of morals were concerned. What army that utilized child soldiers could be? And as their Chief Medical Officer had already proven himself once to be an unethical reprobate—why not offer the rusted-cog an opportunity to redeem himself? Starscream was generous like that, forgiving even.

And think he had almost entertained the idea of feeling guilty about ignoring the medic for so long.

A burst of laughter escaped him as he turned a corner, nearing the medbay without having passed a single Autobot. Soon, he was standing in front of the medbay's door, venting heavily. He took a moment to collect himself, whirring down his excitement before keying the door open and stepping inside.

The medbay was empty save the mech Starscream had come to see, who was casually polishing a wrench as he stood next to the same medberth that had previously held Hound. Looking over at the seeker, and with the servo not holding the wrench, Ratchet pat the medberth and drawled, “You finally done throwing a hissy-fit? Alright, hop on the berth.”

Starscream almost chuckled at the other’s assumption of his affability but otherwise made no move to step further into the medbay. Instead, he crossed his arms over his canopy and announced, “I met the Aerialbots.”

That caused the white mech’s optic ridges to raise, “Let me guess—they yapped your audials offline? It's not their fault, really; I should have warned you they'd be all over you once they got back. They’re—"

Starscream cut the medic off, vocals accusing, “They’re younglings, Ratchet. Very young, younglings—are they even a century old? A vorn?” Their EM fields had been so weak that he would be surprised to hear they were over a decade old.

“What…” Then, Ratchet glared, seeming to finally catch on to the seriousness of the situation. “Just what do you think you’re implying, kid?”

And calling him a kid? Oh, that was rich.

“Is it not obvious?” Starscream jeered, a twisted, thick sense of exoneration gumming its way into his tanks, making them churn and his spark burn, his optics bright. “I think I’m implying that the Autobots deployed freshly-sparked younglings to the frontline of a war—but what I'm curious about is whether this is a common occurrence or if Earth is just special.”

So, the Autobots weren’t so innocent after all—and after they had referred to his partner so contemptuously. What had they called Skyfire, a monster? How pleasantly hypocritical.

How perfect.

The Autobots’ judgment of character was obviously warped by millions of stellar-cycles at war. Making any disparagements toward his partner likely nothing more than a projection of the Autobots’ own moral insufficiencies. The shame of being the very thing they accused their enemy of being. Because Skyfire was not a monster, and Starscream had been right, as always, to doubt the Autobots—and their medic.

Ratchet stared at him with opened mouth shock, optics wide before he began blustering, “You don’t understand, you have no idea how—” the medic cut himself off, sucking a deep vent through his flared olfactorate. “Kid, you're treading on very thin ice, and I suggest you back up before you say something you’ll regret. I’m not going justify myself to someone who missed the whole slagging war and has no idea what he's talking about—now, how about you get on up here, and we let the matter drop?"

“Oh, so you’re aware this is something that needs to be justified?” Starscream’s derma curled into a nasty sneer. “And you Autobots were so quick to call Skyfire a monster. To think I was shocked when I first learned the ages of the humans you keep—now I see it’s merely standard Autobot procedure to use children as shields against their enemy.”

Silence followed his provocation, and Starscream's grin turned sharp, exoneration making him feel light-helmed. Because now he had proof; if Skyfire was to be considered a monster, so were the Autobots. For who else but a monster would force new-sparks into ill-fitted frames to be warriors centuries before maturation?

“Get out,” Ratchet vented.

His helm snapped back, “What?”

He looked the medic up and down, for the first time noticing the Autobot's tense posture and hearing the growling of his engine. Blue optics were the brightest he had ever seen, and the wrench Ratchet had been polishing was held up in a red, tightly fisted servo.

“I said get out.”

Red optics burned, “If you think kicking me out will—”

“Get out!”

Starscream jerked to the side, bringing up a servo to defend himself as something was flung at his helm. A wrench. Ratchet had thrown a wrench at him. It bounced off his arm and fell to the floor with a clattering clang.

“Fine,” he spat, servos clenching into fists. “But don’t think this is dropped, old mech. This isn’t over.”

He exited the medbay with a frustrated snarl, his posture half-hunched as he stomped through the Ark. Nearing the ship’s exit, he saw a grey, praxian mech whose optics brightened at his approach. The unknown mech waved at him, smiling, “Hey, Starscream, it’s nice to meet you, I’ve been meaning to—”

The seeker marched past the unknown praxian, exiting the Ark and crossing his arms over his chassis as he was hit with a sudden blast of cold. The unexpected drop in temperature and the frozen precipitation falling around him did nothing to slow his stride as he continued toward the greenhouse.

Upon entering, he was met with a chipper wave and warm greeting, “Good morning, Starscream. You’re looking extra shiny today—have a good night’s recharge? Oh, and great job in the greenhouse; it looks better than when I left it.”

Something in the seeker was soothed, if only barely, by seeing the green grounder bent low, servos already covered in dirt as he tended to a bushel of yellow flowers. Starscream uncrossed his arms, slowing his pace as he gave a greeting of his own, “Hound, you would not believe the morning I’ve had.”

Hound’s smile caused his blue optics to squint, “Tell me about it.”

Squatting down next to Hound, Starscream picked up a pair of hedge clippers that the tips of his talons only just fit through and began, “First, I met the Aerialbots—nobody told me they were younglings. And then, when I brought it up to Ratchet, he threw a wrench at me. Can you believe it? Who throws a wrench?”

“Ratchet is known to throw a wrench or two…or ten,” Hound sympathized. “What set him off?”

Waiting for that exact question, Starscream launched into a detailed, not at all exaggerated or expunged explanation about how he had so very calmly and respectfully approached the medic to inquire after the Aerialbots’ ages—and how everything had derailed immediately after.

Hound hummed in acknowledgment, chiming in with an occasional, “Uh-huh,” and an appropriate, “Really?” The mech having had a whole week over comms to grow used to the seeker's angry diatribes against the Autobot CMO.

Clippers dangling precariously off his talons, Starscream crossed his servos over his bent knees. “Even Vos knew to outlaw anyone with less than two centuries worth of flight hours under their wings from entering active combat—and Vos only considered cold constructs only slightly more sentient than Iacon.” Scoffing sarcastically, he added, “But then, what did I expect from a Functionalist army?”

That caused Hound’s optics to widen and for him drop the bag of fertilizer he had been holding. The mech’s field was full of alarmed confusion as he repeated, “Functionalist? Wait…Star, you don’t think we still—”

A knock on the greenhouse’s glass caused them both to swivel their helms just in time to see Bumblebee’s yellow horns poking through the open door. “Uh, guys, I think you might want to see this."

Hound and Starscream shared a look before standing and following Bumblebee outside, both mecha releasing a shocked, visible vent at the sight that greeted them.

The ground was covered in a thick layer of snow, and more was still falling from the dark grey sky. All the desert vegetation and even the Ark were completely encased by frosted condensation.

Jazz, Cliffjumper, and the yellow-booted human were all running about and playing in the white mess.

“Check it out, Spike, I’m a snow-bot-mobile,” Jazz grinned as he pushed an overly large ball of snow around in a circle. The human looked up from where it had been piling much smaller balls of snow atop one another and gave the mech a thumbs up. The Autobot third then picked up his snowy creation and lobbed it at Cliffjumper, who had been lying in the snow and flailing his arms about in some crude attempt to create a minibot-shaped imprint.

Cliffjumper’s entire frame disappeared beneath the lump of snow when it landed. 

A quick “Heh,” escaped Starscream, only for him to cover it with a false cough and look away when both Hound and Bumblebee leveled him with a half-smile and raised optic ridge.

But before they could say anything, Jazz called out, “All right, everyone, cool it. I’m getting a message from the mech up top—Prime wants us to meet in the comm room.”

Jazz helped Cliffjumper out of the snow pile, both mechs heading toward the Ark with Spike trailing closely behind. Hound and Bumblebee shrugged and started to follow. As did Starscream, the seeker intent on going along as far as he could until someone stopped him—which turned out to be inside the comm room right alongside everyone else.

The communication room consisted mostly of an expected copper interior, with half-jagged, brown rocks poking through its walls. The mountain that the Ark had crashed into also made up most of the ceiling, and the floor had random outcroppings of pointed rocks that had breached through the metal; adding the much needed any-other-color-but-copper to the room’s design.

Optimus was standing before the tallest vid screen Starscream had ever seen. A wide copper console was at its base where the Prime was busy typing away. Ratchet stood to the Prime’s left, next to a copper isle that cut through the center of the room; the wheeled human and an unknown, yellow-hatted organic were placed atop it.

As the Autobots, yellow-booted human, and Starscream all filed in, Jazz greeted the Prime with a half-wave and a smile. “Hey, boss-bot, what’s the skinny? It’s a pretty chill day out there—you want in?”

Helm never turning away from the vid screen, Optimus gravely responded, “The Earth is in imminent danger.”

The yellow-hatted human buzzed air through its lips, “Figures, I finally get a day off, and it’s cause the friggin’ world’s ending.”

The wheeled-one whispered at the seeker as he stepped closer, "That's Spike's dad, Sparkplug."

Having heard the human, Starscream acted as though he hadn’t.

“In less than a week, the Earth’s core temperature has dropped by twenty degrees, causing massive shifts in the weather all over the planet. If this trend continues, all life on Earth could be destroyed,” the Prime explained.

“Except maybe penguins,” the yellow-booted human said.

“Don’t forget polar bears,” its sire added.

The wheeled-one scolded, “Guys, this is serious.”

Jazz whistled, “You’re telling me. This is snow joke. We got any idea what’s causing it?”

The Prime nodded and pushed a few more buttons, pulling up a graphic display of the Earth’s weather patterns correlated with energy readings. “There’s a powerful energon signature coming from the Arctic Circle. According to Teletran-One, the drop in temperature started there."

“You think it’s the cons?” The yellow-booted youth asked.

Jazz leaned forward, visor trained on the video screen as he answered, "This kind of world-ending catastrophe? Gotta be Jetfire.”

Bumblebee huffed, “This would be something he’d pull right after showing up.”

Optimus stood back from the console, turned toward the Autobot medic, and said, "Ratchet, what's the status of the science team? I want at least one member with us in case he's built another doomsday device."

With a grunt, Ratchet responded, “Wheeljack and Perceptor are both working on the Trion, and Beachcomber is out in California doing…whatever it is he does. I can go, but—”

“I’ll go,” Starscream interrupted. Five sets of blue optics and one visor turned on him quizzically. Unphased by the scrutiny, Starscream continued, “You obviously require a scientifically inclined processor for this excursion, and I just so happen to be a scientist who specializes in alternate energon sources—or have you forgotten?”

It was Jazz who responded first. "No offense, Starscream, but this ain't no joy ride. You'll have to take orders if you come with us, and I'm not sure that's your kinda jive, ya feel me?"

Starscream argued, "I'm a seeker—I graduated early at the top of my class from the Vos Military Academy. I know how to follow orders.”

A loud scoff from Ratchet caused him to curl his derma in the medic's direction before quickly smoothing his expression to continue, "I just, admittedly, do not enjoy following them.”

The yellow-booted human unexpectedly came to his defense, proclaiming, “I think Starscream coming is a great idea!”

“You do?” All five Autobots vocalized in unison.

"Sure do," the human affirmed. "Starscream can fly me and my dad there—he's always wanted to fly in a fighter jet, and this is probably the only time he’ll have off for a while. I doubt we’ll be getting another snow day after you guys fix whatever’s going haywire with the weather.”

Bumblebee squatted down next to the human, asking, “You sure you’re up for this? It’s going to be reaaaally cold.”

The young human winked at Starscream, “Yeah, no question I’m ready for this.”

It was all the seeker could do to stop his wings from shooting up at the subtle reminder. The little thing was calling in its promised free flight.

“How about you, Chip? Are you coming along too?” Bumblebee asked, helm turning toward the seated organic.

The human shook its head, “No, I think I’ll stay back for this one—didn’t bring my snow tires.” Then with a hesitant look toward Starscream, “So, if anyone needs help with…anything, I’ll be here.”

Pointedly looking up and away from the human, Starscream awaited the Prime’s direction.

“Jazz, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Hound, you’re in the freighter with me. Starscream, you’ll fly alongside us with Spike and Sparkplug. We’re to find the source of Earth’s extreme weather change and put a stop to it before it’s too late. Any questions?”

Autobot helms shook in the negative, and Starscream placed a servo on his hip, waiting for the next set of orders.

“Very well, then—Autobots! Transform and roll out!”

The flight to the Arctic had been aching slow and staying within sight of the Autobots' transport an excruciating test of the seeker's patience. He didn't think he had ever flown so slow in his life. He'd have been ashamed to. The Vosian senate would have banned him from the city for reasons entirely unrelated to his scientific pursuits—and with this embarrassing excuse for a flight, he wouldn't have been able to blame them.

But the Autobot freighter along with Starscream had, after an uneventful journey, eventually, joors longer than it would have taken the seeker alone, arrived at Earth’s Arctic Circle. Though at the moment, most of the Earth could be considered the Arctic.

As now beneath him was a boundless, frozen ocean, unbroken by what humans called civilization.

Breaking his no-talking while flying rule, he asked, “Tell me, human, why did you choose to waste your only free flight on this barren, frozen wasteland?”

Crossing its arms, the young human snarked back, “I thought the deal was a freebie flight—no questions asked—and you’re asking an awful lot of questions for someone who doesn’t care about dumb humans.”

“I asked one question—and I don’t care that you’re apparently dumb enough to travel somewhere your weak little bodies are unequipped to deal with.”

The sire grumpily responded, "Unequipped? Buddy, I've got five layers on. If I was any more equipped, I wouldn't be able to move. I'm sweating buckets here. You'd think an advanced alien race would have invented AC by now."

Teasingly, Starscream intoned, “Do you mean internal temperature control? Because we online with those already activated.”

The yellow-booted one complained, “What the heck, Starscream; why didn’t you say something? I’m practically melting in here.”

“I had no idea you were so uncomfortable," he purred. “And since this is a no-questions-asked flight, I thought it would be rude to ask."

The sire grumbled, "Just our luck; a wise guy for a pilot."

Silence fell over the cabin because what could Starscream say to that? The seeker was wise; no need to reprimand the human for pointing out an obvious fact.

However, the quiet didn't last long as the younger human soon shouted, “There—right there! That’s where I want to land.” It pointed at where it wanted by pressing a sticky finger against the inside of the seeker’s canopy.

“Meaty hands off the glass,” he reprimanded, even as he tilted away from the Autobots’ freighter, finally picking up much-desired speed as he angled his descent to where the human had been pointing.

The older one pressed both its hands against the sides of Starscream's canopy. "Hey, uh, we're coming in kind of hot."

A ping from Ratchet was swiped away as Starscream began to spin as a punishment for their continued touching. Both humans shouted in fear, not stopping even as the seeker straightened and deployed his landing gear. He could feel they had begun hugging, still shouting even as he rolled to a stop exactly where the yellow-booted one had pointed.

Scoffing at their cowardice, he slid his canopy open and ordered them to, “Get out.”

They stood on wobbly legs, lifted their legs to begin climbing down, and promptly lost their balance and fell over the side of his alt, landing with a crunch in the snow.

Starscream laughed, openly and mockingly, at the organics as he transformed, grinning down at them, “I hope you enjoyed your free flight, humans.”

The yellow-booted one, hunched over with hands on its knees, said between heaving breaths, “You…asshole.”

"Hold on a minute, son," the older organic said as it patted the younger on the back. It then stomped the ground, nodding, "I think you called that just right; this spot’s perfect.”

Not that he really cared, but, “Perfect for what?”

Sucking in a final, heavy breath, the yellow-booted one shouted, “Ice-fishing!”

Upon his unimpressed stare, the sire elaborated, “The thing where you drill holes in the ice and drop a baited hook through. We’ve always wanted to give it a try, but the kinds of places we work don’t tend to have frozen lakes at the ready.”

They both pulled a long, plastic pole with a string attached to it out of their multi-layered coverings. Where had they even…

“Think we’ll catch a narwhal?” The young human asked.

The older one glanced at its pole, pondering with a scratch to its head, “I don’t think my line has enough tensile strength for that…”

Dumbfounded, Starscream stared down at the humans, his vocals rising an octave higher at the sheer amount of ridiculousness before him. “You asked me, the fastest seeker ever created, to fly you halfway across the planet to a climate you’re not evolved for so you could…hunt? Like savages?”

They looked at each other, then the elder answered with a shrug, "Yeah."

Starscream pinched the bridge of his olfactorate, then shook his helm, smiling despite himself, "You humans are—"

His wings flicked as he accepted a communications ping, his helm snapping in the direction of the transmitted coordinates. A tall ice shelf in the not-too-far-off distance with a tall cave carved into its side, and standing in its entrance, encased in blue shadow: long legs, broad shoulders, handsome wings—Skyfire.

“Wait here,” he commanded.

“Way ahead of you,” the sire replied, producing a bucket from underneath its multi-layered coverings and sitting atop it. The yellow-booted one did the same.

Without sparing the organics another glance, he started walking toward the cave, keeping his pace measured so as not to alert the Autobots or give them a reason to hasten their approach. He ignored Ratchet's increasing-in-frequency communication requests.

As he approached the cave, Skyfire turned his back to Starscream and delivered the ubiquitous greeting, "Starscream, I've been waiting for you. Come, follow me."

And he did just that, entering the blueish-white cave without hesitance but not without question. "How did you know I would be here? You haven't answered a single one of my comms."

Skyfire answered matter-of-factly, "I knew the Autobots would suspect my involvement, and I knew you would have found a way to hear of my suspected involvement, thus making your arrival in the Arctic a forgone conclusion—because even after all this time, I still know you.”

“Was that ever in doubt?”

Skyfire glanced down at him, red optics burning in their intensity as he replied, “No, never.”

Starscream’s cool plating flushed underneath the other’s gaze, but before he could say anything, the shuttle had looked away, facing forward as they entered into a wider, taller expanse of the cave. This noticeably unnatural configuration must have been carved out to accommodate all the refining machinery inside—and to reveal the sharp green crystals poking up from the cave’s ice-covered floor.

But it wasn't the clear signs of energon refinement that caused his throat cables to constrict. Bypassing the crystals and beeping machinery, Starscream walked to the opposite end of the cave and placed a servo over a flat-edged, deep cut in the ice. Releasing a shuddering vent, his gaze traced its square shape up to where it ended at the cave’s ceiling. It was the perfect height and width for…

“That’s where the Autobots carved you out of the ice,” Skyfire confirmed from behind him. “I had to see it for myself before I could believe what Soundwave recovered from the Ark’s database.”

Servo still flat against the ice, he turned to the shuttle, vocals bordering on accusatory. “I take it this is enough to prove my existence, then? No more of this clone nonsense?” 

“Yes, I now fully believe you to be the real Starscream. Though, I suppose your trine should have been proof enough. But I just found it so hard to believe Skywarp’s spark resonance claims—after all, you told me you have no trine.”

“Because I don’t have a trine," Starscream affirmed. "Before the quarry, I had never even met Skywarp, and I still don't know Thundercracker. Nor do I want to."

With his back to the seeker, Skyfire walked toward the silver, round contraption in the center of the cave and pulled a red-bobbed lever. "As invigorating a conversation as this is, I did not summon you here to discuss your trined status."

"Because there is nothing to discuss," Starscream said as he moved to stand next to the shuttle, his optics roving curiously over the device, following the black-tubed cable leading from it to an outcropping of green crystal.

Skyfire answered the unspoken question in his optics.

“A simple heat-based conduit that converts the supercharged bond length between atoms into a crude energon source. The energy comes from these crystals that extend down to the Earth’s core.”

Starscream tapped the device, recalling having built something similar on a volcano-covered planet during one of their expeditions. "I see you've improved the conversion rate since I've been gone, but if this continues, the entire planet will be frozen over."

At times, Skyfire would become so thoroughly engrossed in a science project that he would become oblivious to anything outside the lab and even most things within. More than once, Starscream had been forced to point out a fatal flaw in an ongoing experiment that the shuttle had missed due to his hyper fixation on a singular point. Relief soothed the seeker's spark as it looked like not as much as he'd begun to fear had changed in the time he'd been locked in stasis. As the issue of the dying planet was undoubtedly one of those—

“I’m aware,” Skyfire said. “And while draining the Earth's core of its energy would provide the Decepticons with ample energon in the short term, in the long term we would gain more by employing less destructive methods of energon production to further extend the planet’s usefulness. However, it is something to consider after we’ve taken control of the planet and depleted all other energy sources.”

Control the planet? Energy sources?

“Are the Decepticons planning to make some kind of trade deal with the humans?" He questioned, helm tilting in surprise. "From what I've observed, relations between your faction and the humans seem…tense.”

Skyfire looked the seeker up and down, his red optics softening as he gently vented, “Starscream.” The shuttle’s expression was so close to the way he used to look at Starscream; his smile was almost fond, and his vocals were so very, very…condescending. “Yes, the Decepticons are going to make a trade deal with the humans.”

Before Starscream could comment on his partner's tone, the shuttle gestured for him to come closer, saying, "You can do what you will with the machine after I've left, but before I leave, I have something for you.”

Starscream stepped close and held out a servo, while Skyfire reached into subspace and pulled out a tiny, grey, rectangular device. It was small enough to comfortably fit on top of one of the shuttle's thick digits and had room to spare.

Skyfire held it out for the seeker to take, which Starscream did. He brought the minuscule rectangle closer to an optic while shuttering the other as he inspected its design, inquiring, “What is it?”

“It’s a bomb.”

Starscream's arms and wings dropped, only for him to frantically cup his servos to catch the miniature device—the miniature bomb before it fell.

A darkly amused chuckle rumbled through the shuttle’s chassis. “There’s no cause for alarm, Starscream. It poses no danger to you outside of your plating.”

“Why have you given me this?” Starscream asked, unable to control the anxious flick of his wings. A bomb. He was holding a bomb.

Skyfire’s smile widened, “Why, to kill a Prime and end a war.”

“To…what? Wait, is that why you were waiting here? To kill Optimus Prime?”

Not to see me?

A large servo landed on one of his shoulder pauldrons, squeezing just on the other side of gentle as the shuttle reassured, “No, Starscream, you misunderstand me.”

Nervousness visibly drained from the seeker’s frame as Skyfire clarified, “I’m not going to kill Optimus Prime—you are.”

He took a startled step back or would have, if not for Skyfire's grip tightening to hold him in place; metal creaked under his hold.

Overwhelmed, Starscream protested, “What are you saying? I can’t kill a Prime. I'm unarmed, and I've—” Never killed before. “—no idea how to. I’m a scientist, not an assassin.”

He would kill for Skyfire. He would. Upon awakening he had been prepared to go through the Decepticons one by one to avenge his fallen partner, to completely decimate the faction in a justified act of revenge. Only, Skyfire was alive, causing the seeker’s murderous intent to pitter out, replaced by a new clawing, desperate want; to be with his partner as they were before the war. Optimus Prime wasn’t an obstacle to that…was he?

“With that, you can be both," Skyfire said, pointing to the device cupped in Starscream's palms. "All you have to do is discreetly place it inside a gap in the Prime’s armor. You’ll comm me once you’ve accomplished this and I’ll detonate it remotely—and send you coordinates to the Victory.”

"How is this little thing supposed to offline a Prime? Aren't they supposed to be indestructible?" Starscream knew he was repeating senate propaganda about the Primacy. Still, at this point, he would say just about anything to make Skyfire understand the magnitude of what he was asking the seeker to do.

"But that's the beauty of the bomb; underneath his armor, Optimus Prime is just like any other mech. This bomb is specially designed to let off a small, precise shrapnel explosion that tears fuel lines while simultaneously releasing a cortex-nanite compound.”

Starscream’s seams clamped shut at the very thought. “But that’s—”

"Highly combustible when exposed to the innate qualities of processed energon? Precisely, it will set the very energon within a Cybertronian aflame, burning them from the inside out—even a Prime won't be immune."

Unable to process the horror of what he'd been told, Starscream continued probing, “How can you know? What kind of test-trials did you perform to ensure its effectiveness?"

"Test-trials?" One of Skyfire's optic ridges rose but quickly dropped as the shuttle chuckled, taking another step closer to the seeker. "Trust me, Starscream, it works. And I should know—I invented it.”

The large servo holding his pauldron shifted to cup the side of his helm, and Starscream leaned into it, optics shuttering closed as a realization colder than the ice surrounding them crept into his spark.

"You want to be with me again, don't you, Starscream? Then this is what you must do. I trust you, of course, I trust you, but the other Decepticons will need proof of your commitment—as I proved mine eons ago."

Skyfire was…manipulating him. An ultimatum delivered with sweet vocals and a gentle, alluring touch, a seductive promise? Starscream had used the same method to secure funding for their expeditions more times than he cared to count—Skyfire had watched him do it.

He cast his gaze down, staring at the innocuous device cupped in his servos through dim, half-shuttered optics.

“You’ll do this for me, won’t you, Starscream?” Skyfire murmured, rubbing a thumb along the underside of Starscream’s optic. His spark fluttered; it was what his partner always did just before he—his helm was abruptly released, the shuttle stepping back to give the seeker an expectant, almost reproachful look.

Starscream closed his talons over the device, optics drawn as he weakly protested, “Skyfire, if they find me with this…”

A seeker, partner to the Decepticons' second-in-command, found inside their base possessing a bomb powerful enough to offline a Prime? They would imprison him at best and execute him at most likely—what enemy army wouldn't? Surely, Skyfire wouldn’t insist—

"If you want to be together again, this is what you must do,” Skyfire informed him sternly, the shuttle’s kindly expression falling way to one of authoritative certainty. One befitting a mech used to unquestioned obedience…and made Starscream’s now dark-armored partner look more unrecognizable than ever.

If the Prime were gone, if the Autobots were defeated…would that expression give way too? Would Skyfire drop this façade of strength and return to the way Starscream knew him to be? The kind, sweet, caring partner who would never do anything to jeopardize Starscream’s safety.

 There was only one way to know.

“Okay,” Starscream conceded softly, subspacing the bomb. “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent, I knew I could rely on you, partner.” Skyfire’s smile didn’t reach his optics. His cold, unflattering, red optics; snidely, Starscream thought the shuttle had looked better in blue.

“Now, I must depart before the Autobots’ arrival. I have no intention of being caught in a pointless skirmish over an experiment I am no longer interested in,” Skyfire stated, giving the seeker a short, departing nod before starting toward the cave’s exit. 

Skyfire’s attempt to repeat the pattern of their past meetings, a short conversation followed by a quick departure, caused the seeker’s cooled plating to ignite with anger, his optics blazing.

“You will not leave me again, Skyfire. Not until we’ve had a proper talk about this,” he hissed, moving to block the shuttle’s path and jabbing the tip of a talon at the purple symbol on Skyfire’s chassis.

Skyfire had not lured Starscream all the way to the Arctic, to the scene of the crash that stole his entire life away, just to give him a bomb and leave. Starscream refused to believe his partner could possibly have become so callous.

The Decepticon gazed down at the blue talon pressing into his chassis, took it in his grip, gave the servo a hard squeeze, released it, and then resumed exiting the cave.

Starscream's wings rose higher, incensed as he chased after the shuttle, who, thanks to his long legs, was growing distressingly close to the cave’s opening. With a burst of thrusters, he caught up to Skyfire just as he reached the exit. A blind panic sliced through him, and he shoved the shuttle into a frozen wall to stop his retreat. The ice cracked around where the large mech smashed into the side of the cave, small chunks of ice falling from the ceiling and landing on and around the fliers.

His optics roved over the crashed mech, stilling at what he saw—shallow, servo-shaped imprints on the shuttle's chassis, right over where Starscream had shoved him.

Horrified, Starscream stared down at his servos, talons spread wide. He had never, not once, struck Skyfire in anger—but then Skyfire had never tried to so cruelly manipulate him before, to abandon him to his enemies after asking the seeker to risk his spark for a war he had only just learned of.

Harshening his resolve, Starscream clenched his servos, only slightly shaking, into fists. “I said you’re not leaving until we’ve had a proper talk.”

Skyfire, optics unreadable, glanced down at the dents now covering his chassis, then to the seeker who had caused them, before finally turning to the cave’s open mouth, staring in the direction of two tiny specs in the far-off distance.

A blaster appeared in the shuttle’s servo before Starscream’s optics could cycle; his spark seized, and he flinched at the sound of blaster fire, optics offlining in anticipation of the pain. But none came. He onlined his optics, squinting at the now smoking blaster, turning his helm in the direction it was aimed.

Past the caves opening at the two tiny, distant specs; the humans. Skyfire had shot at the humans; he hadn’t directly hit the organics, but rather the space directly in front of them.

Cranking his audials as high as they would go, he could hear the sounds of cracking, separating ice sheets, distant, terrified shouts, a loud splash, and then nothing. The humans had fallen under the ice.

Optics wide with shock, Starscream shouted, “Why did you do that?!”

Vocals indifferent and making no effort to push himself from the wall, Skyfire simply responded, “To distract the Autobots. You wanted to talk; now we can.”

If the air temperature was cold enough to register on a Cybertronian's thermal sensors, to reach beneath a warbuild's thick plating—how freezing must it be to an organic’s thin, unarmored skin?

He looked from where the organics had fallen back to the shuttle, field, and vocals, full of confused disbelief at what his partner had just done. “But Skyfire…they’ll die.”

Skyfire, whose helm was still turned toward where he had fired, hummed unconcernedly, “Hm, so they will.” He then looked at the seeker, an optic ridge raised. “Is this what you wanted to talk about? The fragility of organics? Skywarp did inform me you intended to take one as a pet, but I had thought you left that one back at the Ark—was I mistaken?”

Skyfire was directly in front of him and willing to finally talk. Starscream’s entire focus should be on his partner, on convincing the mech there was no need for loyalty tests or to be separated again for any equally superfluous reason…no need for him to kill the Prime.

But all he could think of was a tiny human and its sire slowly freezing in the water, closing their little eyes for what could be the last time, their terror and pain as death slowed their beating hearts—so much like how Starscream’s own crash had been.

His systems slowly shutting down one by one, ice creeping over his plating and digging into his internals, freezing him still as he waited for a rescue that never came. Cycles passing, too many to manually count, his chronometer had been one of the first functions to go, and when stasis had finally forced itself upon him, Starscream had been grateful even as his optics shuttered for what he knew—had thought—to be the last time, thinking himself finally free of the prison his snow-covered frame had become. His last waking thought being that he hoped his partner had escaped his same tragic fate.

A fate he would never wish upon anyone—not even a crafty, annoying, yellow-booted human child.

“Wait here,” he ordered before dashing toward where the organics had fallen through the ice.

Starscream's only warning was a burst of confusion from the shuttle's field. Then, his wrist was grabbed, and a strong grip pulled him to a stop and forced him to turn back toward the mech holding him.

“What are you—” Skyfire’s optics hardened, narrowing as he glared down at Starscream, vocals as incredulous as they were accusing, “You hate organics.”

Starscream stared back at the shuttle, at the mech’s dark plating, purple badge, then down at the servo gripping him, a frown pulling at his derma. He thought of sweet blue optics as they gently chided him for nearly crushing a bed of flowers, of his partner’s open delight at finding an unevolved species of sea life on an ocean planet. How Skyfire would excitedly fawn over each new organic discovery and remark in awe about the versatility of life.

Of a foolish boy standing boldly with his arms crossed, delivering an impossible vow of protection against an insurmountable foe he could never have hoped to defeat.

I’m protecting you, duh.

Starscream's own expression hardened, and he jerked his arm out of the shuttle's grip, countering, “And you loved them.”

He twisted away from Skyfire and sprinted toward the break in the ice, then used his thrusters to fly closer when that wasn’t fast enough. Reaching where the human had fallen through, his plating clenched, and his vents locked tight as he dived helm first into the frigid waters. The shock of it momentarily stunned him, a memory flux flashing behind the glass of his optics before he shook his helm and focused on the icy blue surrounding him. His ranged sensors were not primed with the PID data to locate organic targets, so he had to rely on his optics, the seeker's wing-sensors being useless in the water.

Sinking as he searched, Starscream looked around and down, red optics bright as he searched for any sign of life. Streaks of sunlight pierced through the water, sliding through the large hole and cracks in the ice ceiling's surface. Astro-klicks counted down dangerously fast, his spark pulsing frantically in its casing as he—there!

A startled gasp left Starscream’s intake, air bubbling upward as he spotted the two humans being carried away at a listing pace by a weak current. They had pulled further along the ice, clearly unconscious, and had floated close to the icy surface. He quickly swam to them and grabbed both in the same servo. Looking up, his optics narrowed as he came to a snap decision.

He fully engaged his thrusters, burning them as hot as they would go, held an arm up, fist clenched, and breached the ice directly where he had found the humans. Bursting through, he immediately landed on the nearest thick sheet of ice and brought the humans he held closer to his chassis in an effort to shield them from the wintery chill in the air.

A comm pinged him and he instantly accepted. ::What do I do?::

Ratchet’s response was instantaneous. ::Check for a pulse; tell me if they're breathing. If you don’t have the scanners for it, tell me if their chests are rising, if you can see their breath in the air.::

Starscream brought the humans to optic level, zooming in to the point of strain to search for the signs Ratchet had mentioned. What he saw caused his spark to drop, whisps of energy thudding heavily against its casing every second that passed.

::The young one is breathing, but his sire…he’s still, Ratchet.::

::Damn it—listen and do exactly as I say. You’re going to cut their clothes off, then put Spike inside your cockpit and crank up your internal temperature as high as it’ll go. Hold Sparkplug in your palm, and then you're going to apply the precise amount of pressure I send you at the exact tempo I tell you on a very specific placement on his chest; got it, ready?::

Using the tip of a talon, he sliced through the humans’ layered, wet coverings, his cockpit sliding open as he carefully plucked the young one from his palm and placed him gently inside. Closing his cockpit, he manually overrode his internal temperature control, turning the degrees up as high as he could and stopping only short of hot enough to fry his processor.

He glanced at the remaining human, its tender, soft-soaked skin, then back to the sharp tip of his talon. Brow ridges furrowing in concentration, he pressed the talon back against his palm, digging it into the metal, sliding and scraping until its tip was blunt.

::Ready.:: He replied.

Ratchet sent him a small data transfer with a specific pressure point that went down to the tenth decimal. No matter, if he could finely tune delicate Cybertronian machinery, he could place pressure on a human’s chest without crushing him.

Without a single tremor, he placed the tip of his blunted talon on the human's chest and did exactly as instructed. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. He clenched his denta, wings flaring in distress.

::Ratchet—::

The human came to life spluttering and coughing, then twisted in Starscream’s palm and purged directly onto his plating. An optic twitched in disgust, but he made no comment and picked the shivering creature up, opening his cockpit to place him inside against the other. The glass slid closed, and Starscream held a servo over his canopy. It began to fog from the steam rising from the humans' chilled bodies. He could no longer see inside but could feel them, the minute movements to signify life.

::—It worked, he’s alive.::

They were both alive.

Starscream shuddered an ex-vent, knees spreading as he slumped backward, sitting in the snow, oblivious to the melted puddle forming beneath him and seeping into his aft.

Twisting his neck, he looked back toward the cave and was disappointed, but unsurprised to see Skyfire was no longer within its tall expanse. His partner must have left the moment Starscream dove into the water, maybe even right as the seeker had turned his back on the shuttle. The servo over his cockpit tightened its grip as though he could forcefully stop his spark's depressive downward spiral.

Skyfire had abandoned him. Again. Starscream glared at the cave entrance as the dejection that had threatened to creep into his spark was quickly overtaken by fury. His partner had dropped a literal bomb on Starscream and left.

How dare he.

Blaring sirens pulled Starscream’s attention from the cave to the loud, spinning lights, signifying the Autobot ambulance’s fast approach. Ratchet had pulled far ahead of his grounder compatriots and would reach the seeker in a matter of klicks.

Ratchet transformed to root-mode and ran, sliding down next to Starscream on his knees, a red digit already pointing at the seeker’s canopy, and the glow of a scanner roving up and down the fogged glass. Starscream’s posture was rigid as he waited for the medic’s verdict.

“They’ll live,” Ratchet announced.

Starscream vented a sigh of relief through his intake, and his helm canted forward as he became imminently aware of his low energy levels. He lifted his helm, relieved smile falling into a pensive frown at seeing the medic staring directly at him instead of his cockpit.

"Ratchet…" he hesitated, unsure what to say. If he should say anything at all. Their last interaction had ended with them not on the best of terms, and now his association with Skyfire had nearly resulted in the death of two humans. “Ratchet, I…”

The medic placed a servo on his shoulder, ending the seeker’s vacillation with a gentle squeeze, almost using the warbuild’s frame as a source of support as he leaned forward, also seemingly out of energy.

“You did good, kid. You did good,” Ratchet praised. The seeker’s shoulder was released as the grounder leaned back to transform into alt-mode. The back of the ambulance opened, and a wide, soft-looking table slid out. “Place them on the gurney and strap them in.”

“Would it not be best if I were to fly them back to a human care facility?” He hedged as he did as Ratchet told him, not about to directly point out the Autobot’s speed-times distance restrictions after presumably being back in his good graces. Probably. “I would be faster than the freighter.”

The gurney, now with the humans strapped onto it, slid back inside the ambulance, the doors swinging closed as the medic answered, “That won’t be necessary; they’re past the worst of it, but I want them under close observation until we can get them checked into a hospital.”

Starscream nodded, “Of course.”

Ratchet executed a three-point turn so that the front of his alt was facing the seeker as he said, "I'm not going to lie, kid, it was a close call. If you'd been even one klick slower, Sparkplug wouldn't have made it, and Spike, well, best case scenario is he'd be one or two limbs lighter."

“But I did get to them in time?” Starscream pointed out.

“And I’m grateful you did,” Ratchet opined, then, “Any idea why he fired on them?”

Blue servos hung limply between his spread thighs as he responded lamely, “I wanted to talk to him.”

Ratched grunted, “And their lives were the price to pay for it? Pheh, figures.”

Did it figure? Was death the standard price to pay for a conversation with Skyfire, so much so that its admission fee went unchallenged by the Autobot CMO? He glanced down at his servos, facing his palms upward, curling his blunted digit inward as he tried to think of a more forgiving explanation for the shuttle’s behavior. For any reason why what Starscream had witnessed still went against everything the Autobots had told him his partner had become.

Skyfire? A monster? Impossible—impossible.

“Getting them to a hospital won’t mean much if the whole planet freezes over—you got any idea how the cons pulled that off?” Ratchet asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Red optics cycled as he redirected all of his processing power to the current, tangible problem—the planet's rapid freezing and imminent demise—and away from the nebulous what-ifs that had begun to plague him. They weren’t even worth considering.

“There are crystals within the cave that extend down to the Earth’s core—the Decepticons created a machine that drains them of their energy, causing the planet's surface to cool. Disabling it should return the Earth to its natural state,” he informed the medic as he pushed himself to stand.

“That something you can do?”

Starscream turned toward the cave, absently answering, “Yes,” as his attention was drawn away from the medic, from the freezing planet, and to the mech who now stood tall by its entrance. Optimus Prime, facing the cave’s opening with a wide stance, servos clenched into fists at his hips, and also completely and utterly, alone.

Chapter Text

Snow had begun falling in the time between saving the humans and delivering them to Ratchet. The tiny flecks landed on the seeker, coating his armor in a thin dusting of white while he stood still as the surrounding glaciers. The space between himself and Optimus Prime had stretched to an impossible divide, one that Starscream could not recall having cleared so quickly. Had he really run at full speed, igniting his thrusters when that was not enough, all with the sole thought of saving insignificant fleshlings? Creatures whose meager lifespans had been lengthened such an infinitesimal amount as to not be worth logging in his chronometer?

Starscream had rushed to their aid, frantic and pathetic in his concern over beings he would have once trampled, with the only concern being their splatter on his paint.

And yet now, when presented with a far more important duty—when needing to step forth to remove the only remaining obstacle between himself and his most cherished—a chill slowly crept from the confines of his spark casing. Gilding his frame in ice as it had been millennia ago, rendering him motionless in the face of such a dauntless, perilous task.

To kill a Prime.

He could do it. He would do it. There was very little Starscream would not do to be joined with Skyfire again—only would it be his gentle, beautiful partner who awaited him with a purple-sigiled embrace, or would it be…

No, Skyfire’s perception of reality had merely been skewed by millions of stellar-cycles at war. He was unable to understand the momentousness, the miraculousness of Starscream’s resurrection, and what that meant for their continued partnership. When the Prime was removed, and the war ended, so too would his partner's vision clear, as would the artificial distance and aloof demeanor Starscream had been met with during every subsequent encounter. Everything would go back to the way it once was. Seeker and shuttle together as they were always meant to be.

All he had to do was kill one mech to make it happen. Technically, it wouldn't even really be Starscream killing the Prime. He would only be planting a device capable of doing so beneath boxy red and blue armor. Skyfire would be the one pulling the literal and preverbal trigger on the Autobot leader’s life.

Something decidedly unpleasant unsettled within the seeker’s tanks, the contents rolling with the acknowledgment that his gentile partner had become a killer in the face of war—and expected Starscream to become one, too.

And he would. He just needed to stop. Pontificating.

He should make his move while the Prime was alone. Isolated in the Arctic, it was unlikely Starscream would be presented with any greater chance of success. The Autobots did not have the means to keep up with him once in the air, and their need to deliver the humans to a medical facility would delay any attempted pursuit. It would be easy. One quick slip beneath the armor would allow him to be reunited with Skyfire permanently; no more sudden departures or uncharacteristic acts of manipulation.

Move. He needed to move.

Expression blank even as his plating clenched, Starscream lifted a pede and was quickly swashed by a tidal wave of snow as a black-and-white car raced past him.

Jazz slid to a stop upon reaching the Autobot leader, transforming and chatting with the Prime. The Autobot third smiled and tilted his helm toward the inside of the cave. The Prime nodded, and they both walked inside, their frames disappearing from view less than a klick later.

His plating unclenched, and vents became less strained, an invisible weight lifting and allowing the seeker's wings to rise higher from where they had, unbeknownst to him, drooped.

He turned his helm in the direction the mech had come from in time to see Bumblebee drifting in a circle to follow Ratchet, while Hound continued to speed toward Starscream. The green mech transformed as he grew closer, running through the snow, blue optics looking the seeker up and down. Heavy and unrestrained concern filled the space between them as the bot asked, "Are you okay?”

Starscream was taken aback by the question as it had been mistakenly directed toward the wrong party; it was not him who had been fired upon and nearly drowned. Frowning, he informed the grounder, “The water was not cold enough to freeze my mechanics.”

"Not that," Hound demurred, placing a servo over one of Starscream’s arms. “You fought with Jetfire—he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Starscream looked at the Autobot as though he had spoken utter nonsense because he had. Then, he pulled his arm out of the mech’s touch, scowling, "I did not fight him; we had a slight disagreement regarding his early departure. We did not…I did not mean to hit him. I would never hurt him, just as he would never hurt me.”

Or do anything that could potentially endanger him. Or thrust a bomb into Starscream’s servos with naught care for his safety. Or repeatedly abandon him to a faction of strangers who only saw his kind as either enemy or weapon or, bizarrely, as some helpless charity case.

“It was the humans who nearly offlined. Shouldn’t you be asking after them?” Starscream continued, fully aware of how unsubtle his topic change had been and not caring in the least.

His redirection was unsuccessful as Hound barreled on, “Just because he didn’t hit you doesn’t mean you’re not hurt.”

Starscream's derma thinned at the continued insinuation Skyfire could ever do something to hurt him. His partner had confused, perhaps disappointed, and even briefly infuriated him—but Skyfire hadn't hurt him. Starscream was not some weak-willed flier who could be wounded by words alone; otherwise, he would have long ago succumbed to his injuries in Iacon.

“I’m fine,” Starscream clipped. “But the planet won’t be if the energy converter is not stopped. Ratchet informed you I know how, yes? Good, let’s go.”

Starscream turned from Hound and started back toward the cave without waiting for an answer. The green mech had to take two steps to keep up with the seeker’s one, but made no complaint as he followed beside the taller mech; field continuing to radiate that constant, aggravating, unnecessary concern.

The only sounds following their entrance were the crunch of snow beneath their pedes and the soft clink of plating against plating as Starscream shivered. He had already been buried by this planet’s icy continent one time too many. To willingly walk beneath it for a third would be considered an act of insanity by even the most cursory of psychological professionals.

Something accidental must have leaked into his field because Hound once again asked, "Are you sure you're alright? If you tell me how to shut the machine off, I can do it, and you can wait outside…or leave if being here is too much. I get it."

"I told you I'm fine," he very nearly snapped, wrapping his field more tightly around himself. Then, more calmly, he added, "I want a sample of the crystal linked to the Earth's core. It appears very similar in structure to raw energon."

“If you’re sure,” Hound said as they stepped into the cave's tall clearing where the converter had been set up. Starscream’s wings flicked high at the close-call catastrophe he saw.

“Don’t touch that!” He snapped. “If you remove the connector without properly powering down the converter, the break in the energy stream could cause the crystal to explode.”

Jazz, who had been about to pull off the long cable connected to the green crystal sticking up in the center of the room, froze mid-movement. The Autobot third turned his helm in the direction of the shout.

When Jazz's only response was a blank visor, the scientist continued, “Which could trigger a chain reaction and cause the Earth’s very core to explode, defeating the entire purpose of this frigid venture.”

"…So don't remove the cable thing, got it," Jazz said, flashing a digit-gun and what Starscream thought was a wink in his direction, but it was hard to tell beneath the visor.

“You can remove it after I’ve turned off the energy converter,” the scientist clarified as he left Hound’s side and started toward where Prime was standing in front of the converter. The Autobot leader was staring quizzically at the device—grey and humming with stolen energy—with the crook between his foredigit and thumb pressed against the underside of his mask.

The protoform beneath Starscream’s servos itched the closer he came to the Prime, the seeker unable to stop himself from staring too intensely at the mech. Red optics roved over the tall frame, analyzing for any vulnerabilities along the thick, tri-colored armor: where transformation seams ran the longest and gaps were widest, the barely there trace scars that were only visible when one stood directly behind the Prime.

To make an attempt on the Autobot leader’s life now would be a dangerous folly; with Hound watching, there was little the seeker could do without implicating himself. Jazz’s presence was also a deterrent. He would have to wait until he next found the Prime alone. It wasn’t Starscream’s fault his first window of opportunity had closed so quickly. He wasn’t delaying; he was biding his time.

“If you don’t mind,” Starscream said as he held an arm out, gesturing for the mech to let him pass. 

The Prime's optic ridges rose, and he took a startled step to the side, hastily saying, "Of course, my apologies, Starscream."

The seeker’s derma thinned at the apology, but his only response was to step forward and begin the converter’s shutdown sequence. It wasn’t a complicated series of commands, and even after so long, Starscream was unsurprised to see that it hadn’t changed. His initial design had been perfect, accounting for the potential damage to the planet and adjusting the drainage and conversion based on a multitude of risk factors. Skyfire's adjustments had only changed one thing—the safety measures.

A few button presses, the pull of a red-bobbed lever, and it was done.

Starscream’s genius had just saved an entire planet—that it had also been the catalyst of its demise did slightly dampen any accomplishment he might have felt over the fact.

Jazz’s smile treaded just on the other side of accusatory as he addressed the seeker, “Didn’t even hesitate with those buttons—you seen this machine before?”

While phrased as a question, Starscream could tell by the mech's tone that he was observing a fact—casually, without direct implication, but bordering on an insinuation.

“I invented it, along with my partner. Though, there have been changes to my original design,” he shrugged the confession, finding no reason to conceal his involvement in the converter’s creation.

He stepped away from Jazz and the crystal, and moved back toward the converter, prepared to assist with its dismantling if asked. He stopped just before reaching it, attention stolen by Hound—and the deep, carved hole in the cave's wall the mech was standing next to.

A comforting field reached out to his own, a deep voice softly inquiring, “Starscream, are you alright?”

He kept his helm forward but gave the Prime a quick glance out of the corner of an optic before staring back at the carved hole that had once served as his tomb. A chill brushed down his frame, slipping beneath his armor and protoform, stoking his internals with its frozen strands. It was all the seeker could do to keep his wings from shivering.

He needed to tell the Prime he was fine, just as he had told Hound.

“I don’t like the cold,” he admitted instead, vocals barely above a murmur.

Even as he said it, Starscream found his optics widening at the truth behind the statement. It had been said without much thought, a cast-away admission that wasn't meant to land anywhere near where the seeker's mindset truly was. But it had.

Fighting a frown, Starscream redirected his gaze to the crystal in the middle of the room; he walked to it and, lacking the proper tools, broke off a piece of it with his bare servos. He quickly subspaced it, having been hit with a sudden nervousness at having that pocket of himself open anywhere near the Autobot third. The mech wouldn’t be able to see inside, Starscream knew that, but still—

“Why don’t you return to the Ark ahead of us?” The Prime suggested. “Perceptor is currently in the lab awaiting our arrival—I’m certain he would enjoy helping you with your sample.”

At that, Starscream did frown; was his unease really so obvious? Best to leave before he gave anything else away—what was it Jazz had told him? If it was a secret worth knowing, he'd know it?

“…I think I will,” Starscream responded, turning away from Hound, the Prime, and the cave’s expanded cavern. He didn't wait for anyone else's commentary before swiftly exiting, his expression impassive even as his spark thudded heavily in its casing.

The Prime’s vocals still followed him outside the cave, echoing off the walls, "Safe flight and fair winds, Starscream."

The seeker stared into the clear sky, a softer shade of blue than the water beneath it. Transforming, he rolled along the ground, picking up speed as his turbines activated. The wind caught beneath his wings, lifting him off the ice and raising him higher and higher into the air. He did not hover or look for signs of the freighter the Autobots had traveled in—he set a direct course for the Ark and kept the same pace he had used to fly alongside it, in no rush to arrive.

Safe flight and fair winds—it was a Vosian saying. Often said after a mission briefing completed or over comms, breems before a flight was scheduled. The phrase had accompanied superstition, meant to bring luck to even the simplest of training flights. It was an old expression, out of widespread use, well before Starscream had even been sparked.

And Optimus Prime remembered it.

Starscream strode through the Ark’s copper halls with his chin tilted upward, and wings raised high. The ship was almost empty; the seeker having seen a large grouping of Autobots outside it throwing balls of snow at each other in some kind of simulated battle. An unorthodox training exercise? Whatever it was that had engaged the Autobots' attentions was of no concern to the seeker, as he had paid both the faux-battle and the bots themselves no mind, landing directly in front of the Ark’s entrance and going inside before any could call attention to his arrival.

The seeker knew what he had to do, what he would do given the first opportunity, or second, he supposed, to place the device occupying an inordinate amount of space in his spatial compartment beneath the Prime’s armor. There would be no more hesitation on his part; couldn’t be if he ever wanted to be with his partner again. The longer he waited to do what must be done, the greater the risk of discovery became.

He stopped waking just before the lab’s entrance, schooled his features into a neutral expression, and palmed the door open.

Starscream took a single step inside, stopping as he saw—just as the Prime said there would be—Perceptor. The Autobot scientist was hunched over a worktable with one optic pressed against a black microscope. Next to the small microscope was a petri dish, and judging by its contents, Perceptor was working on their shared energon candy project. Various beakers and burners were lined up on the table, some empty and others filled with different colored contents.

Entering further into the lab, he took out the piece of crystal from his subspace and placed it on the table, inquiring, “Is Chi—” Starscream gritted his denta against the near slip, disgusted with himself. “The wheeled human, is it still aboard the Ark?”

Perceptor jolted, his helm jerking up and optics widening in alarm. The mech took several steps back, a servo placed over his chassis as he vented heavily. Recognition entered those wide optics, and the bot's field shifted from fearful to relieved. "Oh, Starscream, you-whoo. You startled me; I was not expecting you back so soon. I take it all went well in the Arctic?"

Starscream watched the other's theatrics with a slight frown, pushing back any amusement he might have otherwise felt at eliciting such an over-exaggerated reaction. "The planet is no longer in danger—I brought back a crystal sample to study; it is somehow linked to the Earth's core, and draining it was what nearly caused the planet's demise."

Then, again, he inquired, “The wheeled human, where is it?”

Perceptor picked up the green crystal, bringing it closer to his optic, inspecting it as he answered in thoughtful vocals, "The wheeled…oh! You mean Chip! He said he would be in his onboard room should anyone require assistance."

Placing the crystal back down on the table, Perceptor asked, “Is there something you need, Starscream?”

“There is a topic I would like to research,” was all he said, already turning away from the Autobot and walking toward the lab’s exit.

Seemingly unbothered by his abrupt departure, Perceptor called after him, “I wish you fast and accurate findings with your research—I believe I’ll be in the lab for quite some time studying this sample should you require my assistance. Ah, and the electro-gummy. I'm close to a breakthrough. I know it! When you have time, I would like to share my findings with you. We are, after all, project partners.”

Pausing in the doorway and without looking back, Starscream monotoned, "…If I have time."

And then he was stepping through, the door sliding close behind him.

Starscream had a self-assigned mission that required access to Teletran-One, and while the wheeled human had done nothing to earn a second grace from the seeker—it would be given one.

He walked through the Ark to where he remembered the human's quarters to be—far too close to the ship's entrance. Stopping in front of the tiny door, he kicked it with the tip of a pede, waited a few seconds, then kicked it again. Soft sounds of movement rustled from behind the now slightly dented door before he could deliver a third kick.

The door opened, and a tiny organic rolled out, shouting, “What—oh, Starscream, it’s you.” It then fixed the long blue cap atop its head, fiddled with its visor, and proceeded to smooth its hands down the equally blue robe-like covering that stretched along its seated body before asking, “H-how did things go in the Arctic? Did you stop the Decepticons?"

Starscream did not, at all, find its nervous twitching endearing. And it certainly wasn’t cute.

And so, he kept his vocals neutral as he responded, "Your planet is safe and should return to its normal temperate within a few days—are you available for more research, or is your recharge imperative?"

It blinked up at him, then lifted its visor, rubbing at an eye with a closed fist. “You want to go to the server room with me?” It asked, a question so obvious that Starscream didn't dignify it with a response.

Its thin throat bobbed as it put its visor back on, stammering, “I mean, y-yeah, sure, I'm available. Whatever you need, definitely awake now. Let me just go put some clothes on.”

At what could potentially be another attempt at subterfuge, Starscream stated, with narrowed, zoomed-in optics, “You’re already wearing coverings.”

"These?" It said, plucking at where the cloth covering its chest. "These are pajamas, not real clothes, and…and I guess they all look the same to you anyway, huh? Yeah, alright; I’m ready, let’s go.”

Starscream released a heavy, exasperated ventilation and pushed himself away from the server room console, red optics roving over the vid-screen covered in Cybertonian glyphs, trying to find any clue he might have missed.

"There's nothing of use; it's as though Optimus Prime spawned from the ether with no directive save defeating Megatron,” he surmised, then with a more thoughtful candor, “Or was built for that very function.” 

Optimus Prime's history was only so long as the war, a few centuries shorter, even. The Autobot leader's first mention in the records was during the battle of Sherma Bridge, where he had appeared, as though from nothing, to challenge Megatron. He had, through no might but his own, pushed the Decepticon advance out of Iacon and back to the surrounding territories. Optimus had not even been the official leader then; the Autobots were still ruled by the Senate with their chosen Prime appointed as joint military commander alongside someone called Ultra Magnus.

Until Megatron had assassinated the Senate, leaving a power vacuum that needed to quickly be filled before the Decepticons took advantage and poured their own forces into the void. From what Starscream understood of the history, there hadn’t even been a debate or election before Optimus Prime was given total control of the Autobot army and remaining loyal city-states. A Prime once again in power, centuries after the fall of Sentinel.

The human looked up at him, interrupting his thoughts by saying, “You know, I did what you said and asked Prowl about functionalism. He told me it was, and I quote—an outdated structure of government no longer in practice.”

The seeker cocked an optic ridge, half-smirking at the organic, “But he didn’t actually tell you what it is, did he? Mm, I should have expected as much.”

When the seeker didn't elaborate, the little thing huffed and crossed its arms, "Are you going to tell me? Or just stand there smirking all night?”

His smirk turned full. "Functionalism was the caste system that defined Cybertron's government, economics—even the planet's culture was bent around one’s predetermined function. It relegated a mech to exist as what they were built for and nothing else; stated they were incapable of being anything else.”

The human frowned, brows furrowing, “What happened when someone didn’t want to be what they were built for?”

Starscream chuckled, “Megatron happened.”

When the human gave no sign of understanding, Starscream's smirk dropped, and he expounded, “What few mecha were brave enough to express such wants were beaten down—or simply put down; it depended on how high their own caste was. And when neither option was available, the institution’s council did everything in their considerable power to belittle, isolate, and slander m—anyone who dared speak out against them or their preconceived notions of what a…what mecha could be.”

While speaking, the seeker’s talons had started to scrape against the console, tips puncturing the copper metal as his explanation became more heated—as Starscream recalled every humiliation he had been subjected to by order of the Iacon Scientific Research Institute.

The organic’s eyes widened, its tone both disgusted and disbelieving as it blurted, “That sounds awful—that didn’t happen to you, did it?”

Catching himself in his anger, Starscream swallowed it and turned his attention from the screen to the human seated before its tiny keyboard.

"…No, no, I excelled at what I was created for," Starscream stated, which was technically true, even if he had never returned to Vos to fulfill his intended purpose.

"Oh, that's good. I mean, it's not good. Functionalism sounds awful. I mean, it's just good you weren't treated badly because of it. What were you created for, if you don’t mind me asking? Or…is that considered offensive? I’m sorry, you can just forget it if it is and, yeah, sorry.”

The seeker’s harsh expression softened at his future pet’s floundering—and yes, he had decided to grant the wheeled one another chance at such an honorable position after it had profusely apologized for betraying his trust during their elevator ride down to the server room. The little thing had all but begged the seeker to forgive it, and after a sharply delivered warning to never betray him again, he had done just that. After all, Starscream had not yet properly trained it. Expecting the human to know its place when its ownership had yet to be officially transferred to the seeker was unrealistic and uncharitable of him.

As a future pet owner, he needed to practice patience with his soon-to-be-acquired charge—it would have the rest of its short life to learn how to best please him.

“I’m not offended by your question, human. Though, I would have thought my function was obvious—I was created to be intelligent, fast, beautiful; all areas in which I exceeded expectations.” Starscream finished his boast with an exaggerated flourish of his impressive, perfectly molded wings.

The human didn’t even have the courtesy to look impressed when it asked, “But why?”

“Why what?” Starscream repeated back.

“Why were you made to be beautiful? I get the other stuff, but why looks? Unless you were built to be a model or something, it doesn't make sense."

Caught off guard by the question, Starscream had to take a few astro-seconds to consider his response, as the reason why he had been built more beautiful than that of even other seekers was more irrelevant in this dystopian future than it had ever been in Iacon.

“Well, why wouldn’t they?” He finally answered. “Are you telling me if your species could better control their genetic code, they would not direct their creations toward beauty?"

"You got me there—and you're way worse at dodging my questions than usual," the wheeled one snarked. "I meant, if you guys can build yourselves to look good, why are you all not," it waved its hand at him. "Why just you?"

Derma twisting, he responded, "Because most Cybertronians are built for function and utility, only the upper castes were granted the privilege of an intentionally attractive forge."

“So why was being beautiful a part of your function?”

That it was a question Starscream had never been asked before explained why he was currently struggling to come up with an appropriately nondescript answer. He had not discussed the impetus behind his creation with anyone; not even Skyfire knew the totality of Starscream’s origin. Being a seeker and their presumed attractiveness among the masses had always been enough to satisfy mecha’s curiosity if there was any to be had—as it would have to be now as he truthfully answered, “All seekers are created beautiful, some more than others, but there has always been aesthetic care in our make. We are likely, even now, the frame-type mecha think of most when the topic of Vos is broached. It only made political sense to sway public opinion in the city’s favor by making them attractive thoughts.”

“So, you are a model. That makes sense," the human said as its cheeks reddened, eyes flicking to the seeker and then down to where it had started gripping its knees. “That makes way more sense.”

"I'm a scientist," Starscream corrected, making no comment on the odd behavior but also deciding to end this particular line of conversation, and instead press the human on what they had discussed in the elevator. 

He tapped his blunt talon against his chin. “And you are…hm, is there a human word for someone who makes promises and breaks them? Other than a lying, cheating, untrustworthy deceiver, of course.”

Its little head shot up, “That’s not fair, Starscream. I already apologized, and I only told them what happened because I was worried about you. The way Skywarp was looking at you with your back turned, it, well…let’s just say I recognized that look.”

“Oh, did you?” The seeker crooned.

The human's eyes narrowed before it gave the seeker a smirk of its own, quipping, “Yeah, I did. It’s the way I looked at Spike when he played football against Optimus.”

Completely derailed, Starscream choked on the nothing in his intake. “What?”

It shrugged, “He was wearing these tiny gym shorts and—what? Don’t look at me like that; I used to have a crush on him. Not anymore, of course. He has a girlfriend and is probably the straightest guy I know.”

A crush. That was one of the few slang words the language data packet had included in its download. So, the wheeled human used to hold affections for the yellow-booted one? How horrible. The seeker would again have to rethink taking the wheeled human as his pet.

Starscream placed a servo over his spark, looking aghast, “I cannot believe I had thought better of you—you had me utterly fooled of your values, human.”

Its jaw dropped, and then something akin to panic, teetering on fear, entered now misting eyes. “What? I thought you wouldn’t care. Isn’t Skyfire a guy? I thought…are you not a—oh god.”

The wheeled human's chest heaved, and it placed a hand on its forehead, begging, “Oh no, no, please don’t tell anyone, Starscream, please.”

Starscream placed the servo pressed over his canopy onto the console next to where the human was seated, then leaning over the anxious little creature, chastised, “The mud-covered army you’ve surrounded yourself with has clearly done irreparable damage to your understanding of our kind as I, however, very much have a care for standards.”

“What do the Autobots have to do with—” It gaped at him, wheezing, “Wait, what?”

His vocals turned critical, scolding, "I mean, really, think of your genetic code. That yellow-footed ape would do irreparable damage to your progeny's intelligence prospects."

If the human's brows rose any higher, they would fly off its face. "Let me get this straight—or not straight, but…" The human closed its eyes and took a deep breath, pressing its hands together before directing its visored gaze at the seeker. "You don't care that I liked Spike even though he's another guy; you care because you think…he's too dumb for me?

Starscream scoffed, “Why would I care that your species has yet to evolve past something so barbaric as genders? It’s that you’ve yet to develop the ability to fly without the aid of machines that I find most appalling.”

That, and their grotesque, fleshy forms.

“You really don’t care that I liked another guy? That I like guys?” It probed further.

Starscream, seeing no need to clarify the obvious, merely cocked an optic ridge in response.

The color that had drained from the human's face began to return, yet the mist around its eyes only grew, spilling over and down its cheeks, causing it to take off its visor and wipe the fluid away with a blue sleeve. It sniffled, “Oh, and two men can’t have a baby together anyway…well, they can, but not in the traditional—look, it's complicated, and I really didn't plan on a how babies are made discussion tonight."

“What a coincidence; neither had I.” Then, giving the topic an astro-second of thought more than it deserved, offhandedly remarked, “How wasteful.”

Speaking of wastes, he sighed, "I suppose we're done here—there's nothing more to learn. I'll be returning to the lab; will you be accompanying me?"

“Yeah, definitely…and Starscream?” It said, rolling itself back and forth in short spurts. “Thank you for getting me tonight. It’s pretty close to the day of the accident, and after everything with my dad and making you mad…it's just been nice, this. It's nice. I think I needed the distraction."

Starscream squatted down to better look the human in its face. “You’ve referenced this accident before—what was it?”

Brown eyes widened, and its chariot rolled even faster. Starscream used his blunted talon to gently stop the wheels; the human was seated far too close to the console's edge to be moving so precariously.

"The accident," it started, paused, took a deep breath, and then continued. "It happened when I was nine. Me and my mom were on our way back from a science fair—I'd skipped football practice to go. My dad was furious, but my mom had always supported me…and anyway, it was dark, and we were on our way home when a drunk driver swerved into our lane. He didn't have his lights on, and my mom didn't see—she couldn’t have seen, there weren't even streetlights."

Its eyes closed, and nostrils flared. Starscream was distinctly uncomfortable with the human's overt emotionalism. "If this is upsetting for you, there is no need to continue—we'll proceed to the lab, and you'll have another distraction with our work there."

The human opened its eyes, the strange mist having returned, and shook its head. "No, I want to talk about it. There's so much I haven't talked about with anyone—and it helps talking with you.”

Oh, Starscream very much did judge…but he supposed he could understand what the human was referring to if only a tiny, teensy bit.

With a shuddering breath, it continued, "My mom died on impact, and I was permanently paralyzed; I can't feel anything from the waist down. And the only thing that saved me was being in the back seat—not that my dad cared. He said it never would have happened if I'd just gone to football practice. The entire time I was recovering in the hospital, he complained that he'd lost my mom and gained a vegetable, or worse, a fruit.”

The mist that had gathered around its eyes built up as it spoke before finally spilling over and trailing down its puffed cheeks, leaving small damp marks on its gown as they dripped off its jaw. "But he didn’t lose me—he threw me away.”

The leakage fascinated him. Due to his own studies and explorations, the scientist knew organics had internal fluids, but he was unaware they could spill out of them unless damaged or when performing waste removal. Was his human damaged?

“He’s never forgiven me for the accident, no matter how many times I’ve tried to apologize or meet with him; it’s like I don’t exist to him anymore. Like nothing I do will ever be enough.”

And because he now knew the exact pressure to apply without causing harm, Starscream pressed the tip of a talon just underneath its leaking eye. The little creature stilled even as its eyes continued to spill. Clear drops beaded along his talon, showing the blue metal beneath.

“What is this?” Starscream inquired, bringing the talon closer to his optic for inspection. The drops were so minuscule as to be near imperceivable. And even at their highest sensitivity setting, his talon couldn’t feel the liquid gathered atop it.

“Those are tears; humans make them when they’re sad.”

His human was sad? That wouldn’t do. Pets required comfort, and if Starscream was going to take ownership of this human, he would have to grow accustomed to touching it. Determined, he placed his blunt talon atop its head and tenderly rubbed it back and forth, stroking the tuft of brown fur found there.

Its mouth dropped open, but the tears stopped. Starscream would count that as a success.

“What…are you petting me?” It practically shouted, fuzzy brows threatening to slip off its head once again. “Is this your weird way of comforting me?”

“Is it working?” Starscream asked with a raised optic ridge.

“I don’t know, maybe? I've never been pet before; we'll have to wait and see," it said, gifting him the smallest of smiles.

Starscream chuckled, "Greedy thing." Then, choosing his following words carefully, not wanting to tip his intentions too early, he avowed, “Your sire is a fool—but you more so for shedding tears over such an unworthy creature’s consideration. Once something is mine, it remains mine; I will not throw you away, dear human.”

Perhaps his words had the opposite of their intended effect, as the human's cheeks turned even redder at their finish. It forced a cough, "Oh, wow, Starscream, boy, do I feel better." It tapped the digit over its head. "I'm good now; you can stop petting me."

Starscream did no such thing, purring, "Are you sure? If you still feel like crying, I could pet the rest of you."

“Oh my god—no. Just no. No more crying, I am so good right now it's crazy." It then smacked his talon harder, or the seeker presumed it did; the touch barely registered above the first one. "We should forget all about this and go to the lab—more specifically, the forgetting part; that's what's important."

Forget? Hardly. Starscream had been given so much delicious, useful—if mildly infuriating—material that could be used to further his goal of the human joining him willingly. Their continued talks and training would go so much smoother if the seeker didn’t have to force the issue.

“Are you certain you would not like to return to recharge?” He asked rather than address the human’s forgetting nonsense.

It shook its head, “I’m pretty awake now, don’t think I could go back to sleep even if I tried.”

“If you’re certain," he said before lifting the wheeled one up and cradling it in a servo. They exited the server room and made their way to the elevator; the human not speaking up until the doors had closed.

“Just in case I wasn’t clear—please don’t tell anyone about me liking guys or the accident, but I mean, really don't say anything about the liking guys part. I could get in serious trouble if anyone else knew."

Starscream hummed in acknowledgment, "Mm, yes, I'm sure the knowledge you used to crush on the yellow-booted buffoon would do irrevocable damage to your reputation.”

It awkwardly laughed, “Yeah, I’ve-uh, always had pretty bad taste in guys.”

“Can’t say I relate,” Starscream said with a raise of his helm. His taste in mecha was currently sitting at a one hundred percent success rate. The sample size would never pass a peer review; one of one. But the scientist had never been one to argue with his successes.

The elevator doors opened; Starscream exited and began making his way back toward the lab after a fruitful, though not in the way he had expected, research session.

He glanced down at his pet and remarked, “If this…relationship is to continue, I refuse to be your permanent chauffeur. There must be another way for you to get around—what's the point of those wheels if you can't go fast?”

It twisted its lips, “I can only push so hard, Starscream. What do you want me to do, always ride around in a car?”

The seeker let out an amused huff, “As if I would waste my time building a ground-locked vehicle.”

“Build? Did you say build? Are you saying you want to build me a new, advanced wheelchair—that can fly?!" There was clear excitement in its voice, and Starscream allowed himself a moment to bask in the knowledge that its new, joyous mood was all due to him.

It would seem that before they had even reached the lab, he had effectively distracted the human from its sire problems.

In a hurry, it babbled out, "How long do you think it's going to take? I can help, right? Is it going to look like a normal wheelchair or have a futuristic, Cybertronian design? Can we link it to your comm systems? I've always wanted a directed link to communicate with you all."

Safe with the knowledge the organic couldn’t feel it, Starscream allowed fondness to seep into his field. “Construction will take less than a day if I’m focused; maybe one if I’m bored—and of course, you'll help. I'm not one for charity; you want a new chariot, you work for it.”

“Do you think we could start tomorrow?”

“You seem in an awful hurry,” the seeker observed.

“I’m going to see my dad in two days and—” At the look Starscream gave it, the human stopped and raised its hands. “I know, I know. He doesn’t deserve it, but I’m not doing it for him; I’m doing it for me. He's opening a new power plant and asked me to take a look at the grid.”

When Starscream’s expression did not change, the human dropped its hands, huffing. “You’re right that my dad’s an idiot—but he’s all the family I have left. I have to try. But this is the last time, I swear. And…I actually wasn't sure if I was going to agree, but after talking with you, I think I can do it. And if it doesn't work out, I'll call him an idiot and be okay because I'll know I did everything I could. And I won't be alone—you'll be there to back me up, right?"

He stopped in front of the lab doors, pausing before opening them. "Yes, I…yes, of course, and when your reconnection inevitably fails—would you like me to destroy the powerplant?"

It smiled at him, “I’ll let you know.”

The door opened, and Starscream stepped through it, but he didn't proceed further as he saw an unfamiliar praxian speaking with Perceptor. The mech's paint was grey and red, and Starscream vaguely remembered having seen him somewhere before, but he couldn't recall where.

The wheeled human had no such problem, calling out, “Hey, Bluestreak, what brings you here?”

Bluestreak’s door-wings rose in greeting; one the seeker returned. Then, the praxian loudly responded, "Hey Chip! You're still up? How was research with Starscream—oh, hey, Starscream! It's nice to finally meet you! You seemed really busy the last time I tried to say hello, but that's okay. Perceptor said you saved the Earth? That's so cool, thank you, I really like this place, and it would be awful if it froze over. That has got to be one of the weirdest doomsday devices Jetfire has ever made—and he's made a lot. I mean a lot, and turning the Earth into a giant popsicle is definitely top five, and did you need something?"

Starscream's optics cycled, and a wing twitched. "I…no, I don't need anything. Thank you for asking, Bluestreak. And I regret my behavior earlier today. I was in an unfortunate mood, and it seems you were subjected to the worst of it."

He walked toward where the two Autobots were standing, placing his human on the table once he finally reached them.

"Oh, it's no problem, I'm pretty used to it, but I'm glad you weren't mad at me. I was worried you would be after Sideswipe stole your gummies and gave them to me. I told him to give them back, and he did, but it was still a very rude thing to do. Sorry about that. He's getting better, but Sides can still be a bit of a bully—but he's still really nice, and I hope you two can be friends! Can we be friends? I've never had a seeker friend before."

Starscream's optics cycled again before he responded, "Yes, Bluestreak, we can be friends. Now, is there a reason you're here in the lab—is there something you need?”

The sound of snickering caused Starscream to twist his neck, delivering a sharp glare to the culprits; Perceptor and the human quickly looked away, staring up at the ceiling.

He turned back to face the praxian, placid smile only slightly strained as he waited for an answer.

"Me? No, I don't need anything; I'm just doing my rounds. After the attack on the base, Prowl reinstated a roving watch, and tonight, it's my turn. But you know, I don't think he brought the watch back because of Soundwave and Thundercracker; I think he did it because Jetfire is back. Not that I blame him; Jetfire isn't just bad news; he's the worst news. I’m talking way crazy evil, worse than—"

“—Ahem, Bluestreak, is it not time you moved on to your next round?” It was Perceptor who interrupted the praxian.

Bluestreak's optics brightened, his wide smile remaining. "Yes! I forgot, sorry about that; I can get a little lost in my thoughts sometimes. It was really nice meeting you, Starscream. And seeing you, Chip; nice pajamas, very storybook. I wish we could wear pajamas; they look super comfy. Maybe we can? I bet there are some humans who would make them for us. Or we could make them—Beachcomber would definitely join a knitting club with me, Sunstreaker, too, if I asked. He'd say no at first, but he'd give in; he always does. Maybe Jazz, too? I'd have to ask him; he's in Prowl's office, so maybe—"

"—Jazz is here, how?" Starscream interrupted this time, optic ridges furrowed. "The freighter should have taken several more joors before it arrived, and that's only if they left almost immediately after I did."

"They didn't take the freighter? They took…something else. Ratchet called in a medical emergency, so they had to get back super-fast. I think Ratchet is still at the hospital, though, and Hound is in the greenhouse—he said he'd stop by the lab later to-oh! To see you! You guys are best friends now, right? That's so cool. I'm glad you like flowers and trees; Hound didn't have anyone else who did before they found you. I guess there's Beachcomber, but he prefers to look at them instead of keeping them locked away in a glass prison? I don't know what that means, but Hound would never lock anyone up.”

“And where’s Optimus?” Starscream inquired, his intake suddenly dry.

"He's outside watching the green lights—I don't know what they are, but they're very pretty, and you should go see them too! I know Optimus would love the company. I would come too but, you know, watch. Haha, maybe next time? If there is a next time, I think they’re only here because of the weird weather going on. And can I say I don’t like snow? It melts. That’s not fun—and I didn’t even get to be in the snowball fight.”

When no further words came, Starscream spoke, his own vocals sounding distant, “You know, I think I will go see them. Green lights, how curious.”

A want for company implied the lack of it—had a second opportunity really come so soon after the first?

He didn’t wait for the human or Perceptor to express an interest in the lights before he was walking back toward the door, stating, “I’ll follow you out.”

As Starscream approached the lab’s door, his plating began to feel bolted tight against his protoform, internals squeezing together, and axels grinding with every struggled step forward. Did his wings look stiff? Could they hear his rapidly pulsing fuel pump? The discordant swirl of his spark? His throat cables constricted, and he—

“Great! Not that it’s great that the Earth was almost destroyed, and that's why the lights are here, but it's great that you get to enjoy them. And spend time with Optimus. Both of those are great. Are you enjoying your time on the Ark? I hope so. You should ignore Cliffjumper; everyone else does, and he can be pretty mean. I don't know why it's not like he doesn't have friends, and Bumblebee is really nice.

—sucked in a deep, steadying vent and continued forward. His gait was casual, as was the tilt of his wings, and as both he and Bluestreak exited the lab, beneath the praxian's continued jabbering, he heard—

“Enjoy the northern lights!”

“They’re a beautiful example of the Earth’s solar activity.”

The door closed behind them, and Bluestreak had still not stopped talking.

So, Starscream stood by, not patiently, but he stood and waited for Bluestreak to finish speaking without interruption. And if the praxian were to go on all night, hopping from irrelevant topic to inconsequential, then Starscream would have no choice but to let him. It was the polite thing to do, and the seeker was trying to maintain a façade here. Nothing to be done.

“I have to go this way,” Bluestreak said, pointing in the opposite direction of the Ark’s exit. “I already roved outside and in the rec room and the washracks, and now I have to go down to the logistics hold. Which is a weird name for a storage space, right? It doesn't hold logic. That's Prowl; it has weapons and construction materials and some bodies and everything but logic. Weird right? Guess I'll see you tomorrow, Starscream!"

The seeker's optics roved up the praxian's frenetic frame, noting the twitch of his door-wings, the subtle shakes of his red legs, and how he continued to speak with his servos even when no actual words were being spoken. The bot waved his goodbye and turned, walking away before Starscream could give his own dismissal.

“See you…tomorrow,” he returned to Bluestreak’s retreating back, causing the praxian’s door-wings to perk up.

Starscream watched until the mech rounded a corner and was no longer in view. And still, he lingered, pedes impossibly heavy. It was an effort to lift them as he finally turned away and walked toward the Ark’s exit. The doors opened upon his arrival, causing his optics to pinch; he was being watched. Whoever was on the cameras tonight was no Gears and would know Starscream was the last one to….

He stepped outside, and his optics widened. Hanging in the sky were streaks of iridescent light. Bright greens, blues, and pinks were ribboned together in a slow wave of color. They covered the stars, adding to their shine and casting the ground below in a stunning hue. Starscream, having traveled all across the galaxy, knew he must have seen more beautiful acts of nature, was sure of it. But in that first exposing moment, he couldn't recall a single one.

His every ventilation was visible; little puffs of clear white rising from the vents on the side of his helm. Slowly, he shifted his gaze from the sky to the other mech currently observing it.

Optimus Prime stood with his arms at his sides, still save for the little whisps of vapor rising from his smoke stacks. The lights above shaded the mech’s armor, cascading over his broad shoulders and onto his back. It was an eerily peaceful sight.

With a resolute air, Starscream pulled the bomb out of subspace, held it in a clenched servo, and approached the silent mech, calling, “Good evening, Prime.”

“Starscream, good evening,” the Prime beamed at him before looking back up at the neon lights. “Beautiful, aren’t they? The Aurora Borealis; what an amazing planet.”

Starscream looked from Prime to the sky, a purposefully pleasant smile spreading across his derma. “How fortunate that we were able to save this beautiful planet, then. Though, I suppose these Aurora Borealis are proof that there can be beauty in destruction, or, narrowly avoided destruction in this case.”

The Prime's optics brightened, and he looked down at the seeker. "That is true—and now, please allow me to thank you for your role in saving Earth and our human friends. We feared our arrival would be too late, and your intervention was a heavy weight lifted." Then, in a more serious tone, he said, "And now I must ask you to please allow me the opportunity to apologize.”

Starscream didn't allow his confusion to show on his faceplate. Should he know what the Prime was apologizing for? Could it be for unintentionally subjecting him to the Autobots' nonstop natterer, Bluestreak?

"Hound informed me of your misconception, and it pains me to know the Autobots have given you any reason to believe we remain a functionalist army. We are not. If there has been any discrimination toward you based on your frame type, I ask that you tell me directly. It will not be tolerated.”

Starscream’s easy smile never faltered, his wings remained at a friendly tilt, and the seeker was not at all moved by such an apology or assurance. Words did little in the way of assurances, and he would not be around long enough to see the Prime put them into action.

Rather than linger on thanks or unasked for apologies, Starscream decided to press the Autobot leader on his declaration by revealing what he had learned from Teletran-One.

“If you’re not a functionalist army, then why do you only carry out your primary function?” He refuted and was pleased to see the Prime’s helm rear back in response.

“My function?”

“Why, to fight Megatron, of course,” Starscream explained, his smile stretching into a not-quite-grin. “You’ve done little else since your creation.”

Blue optics locked with red, incredulity an unmistakable mass in the Prime’s field. The Autobot leader’s helm titled and brow ridge furrowed in thought. Starscream’s attention briefly lifted to the sky as a star shot past just before the Prime began to speak.

"Teletran-One would not contain…yes, I can see how you could come to the conclusion. However, I was given no function or primary directive upon my creation—only a choice. And I chose to protect Cybertron, the freedom of its people, and all who would threaten them. That Megatron and his Decepticons are the principal threat against both is a great tragedy."

Next, it was Prime who looked to the sky, his gaze searching; for what?

“Before Optimus Prime, there was Orion Pax. He worked at a dock that primarily dealt in energon storage. His frame was destroyed when the energon inside a warehouse was set ablaze, exploding and killing all in its vicinity. All but two, though they were forever changed by the events that day.”

Starscream considered the Autobot's words, piecing together their meaning, and could not stop an involuntary jerk of his wings. "Are you saying before becoming a Prime, you were a…dock worker? That the mech supposedly chosen to rule by Primus himself was once nothing more than a mere dockworker?”

The Prime was once of the lower castes? Impossible; the Senate would have never allowed for such a breach of tradition. Elevating one above their station could instill the false hope that all could be lifted. And where did that lead? To the Decepticons rising.

“My history is no secret. I feel no shame in who I once was or who I have become. Which is likely why he refuses to believe my origin. With the Senate gone and the leader of the opposing army being one of the lower castes he once promised to liberate, Megatron cannot hide behind his once self-proclaimed righteous purpose to perpetuate this war. Not that pointing out such hypocrisies has ever given him pause in the past."

The Prime’s chassis rose in a tired heave, and his servos lifted to grip white hips.

“Megatron now stands in aberration of what he once stood for.” Then, Optimus beamed down at him, a twinkle in his optic as he said, “And I would know—I actually used to be a fan.”

“You?” Starscream gawked, optic ridges shooting up.

The mech nodded, “When I was still a dock worker, I would read his speeches as religiously as I now convene with the Matrix. I even attended a rally—only the one—but I was captivated by him and his rhetoric. I believed, as so many others, that Megatron sought to end functionalism and bring equality to Cybertron—but I was wrong.”

Starscream almost flinched at the admission. More strangeness from the strangest mech the seeker had ever met. A Prime not only being thankful to a warbuild, apologizing, but also admitting a mistake?

But before Starscream could think on it further, the tall mech shifted so his entire frame was facing the seeker.

“Megatron did bring an end to functionalism—but he never intended for a system of equality to take its place. Megatron sees strength only in the strong, and he is wrong. There is value in all life, in every contribution to our society made by the smallest symbiote to the tallest supreme. A frame’s physical capacity is not a true measure of the strength of one’s spark. Orion Pax was not a mere dock worker. He was just a dock worker. There is no mere or lowly Cybertronian; we are all each other's strength, and this war will continue until I have convinced Megatron of this verity—til' all are one."

While speaking, the auroras dancing in the sky slowly faded, revealing a bright moon in a sky filled with stars. Their light reflected off the Prime, casting him in an incandescent glow—haloed.

If there had been a Prime like Optimus presiding over Iacon during Starscream’s time there, the seeker would have thrived. On a Cybertron where one's merit was all that mattered, he wouldn't have been forced to bend his neck, scaping and scrounging for even a scrap of recognition from the powers that be. His every accomplishment wouldn't have been followed by the disparaging diatribe of—for a seeker.

But Optimus hadn’t been there; Skyfire had.

And so, Starscream angled his wings downward and allowed his uncertainty to bleed into his field, subtly pushing it forward to tentatively press against the Prime’s. Having observed the Autobot leader and how he behaved around his subordinates, he knew of the mech’s penchant to provide physical comfort.

"Are you certain you're a Prime? You believe a mech's construction doesn't define them; that anyone could be anything? That those built without function still have a purpose—that even a seeker...could be a scientist?"

Optimus raised a servo and placed it atop a white shoulder, and even though the touch was light, neither gripping nor squeezing, just a light rest of plating against plating, Starscream's spark still sank underneath its weight.

“I believe you’ve already proven such to be true,” deep vocals reassured him, Optimus’s field pressing forward to envelop his own. It was welcoming, warm, impossibly so; EM fields held no heat.

And yet Starscream was the warmest he’d been since first awakening from the ice.

And the coldest.

Starscream lifted his clenched servo and placed it atop the Prime's, sliding two digits over the mech's wrist, where the plating gapped widest in a slow, deliberate caress. His throat cables constricted as he forced out a quiet, “Thank you.”

He then quickly pulled away, servos still clenched at his sides as he stepped back from the Prime's touch. Looking away, he said, "It's best I return to the lab. I only stepped out for a moment to…clear my thoughts."

“And are they sufficiently cleared? If you have any more questions, I’ll be happy to answer them,” Optimus offered.

Starscream looked toward the Ark’s entrance, unable to meet those earnest, blue optics. "No, I've heard enough—there's only one thing left for me to do this night, and it's in the lab."

If Optimus was bothered by the seeker’s crypticness, he made no mention of it as he said, “I’ll be here until the Sun rises if you change your mind. This planet’s sunrises are equally as beautiful as their sets.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Starscream responded as he walked back toward the ship’s entrance, stopping just before the open doors.

“Enjoy your sunrise, Prime,” he said as a farewell before stepping through the doors, adding under his vents as they closed behind him, “One never knows when it could be their last.”

He glanced up at where he assumed a security camera to be, frowning when all he saw was a blank, copper corner. Looking back down at the floor, his servos balled into fists, and his arms stayed stiff at his sides as he marched through the Ark’s halls back toward the lab—where he had left his human.

Mid-way, he almost turned around and headed back outside. The Prime was still presumable alone; he could still…before it was too late…

No, he had made his decision, and there was no going back now—but he was making a mistake! It had to be a mistake, but it couldn't be because Starscream didn't make mistakes. Not ones so egregious and potentially life-altering as this. Potentially? Who was he fooling; certainly not himself. His life's trajectory would be permanently altered in what could be the worst possible way after this night. There was still time to stop it, to stop himself. If he just turned around, he could—

The laboratory’s door loomed ominously before him. There would be no going back after this. Once he stepped through, once he did what he had determined to do…

Red optics cycled, then with one servo still closed tightly at his side, he raised the other to palm the door open—and was greeted by a smiling Perceptor, still hunched over the same table. “Starscream, you’ve returned! How were the Aurora Borealis?”

He said nothing as he looked around the room, which was empty save for Perceptor and the organic he had left in the scientist's care.

With measured steps, he strode forward, his wings tense at his back and field wrapped so tightly around himself, that it could have strangled him.

“Starscream? Did you hear me?” Perceptor intoned, vocals still as cheery as when the seeker had first entered.

No response was given as Starscream reached the table, scarlet optics boring into the Autobot standing behind it. He stopped just before his legs could knock against it and raised his clenched fist high over the table, rejecting the inquisitive field that reached out to him in response.

“Starscream?” The wheeled one asked.

“Starscream?” Perceptor repeated, vocals less sure than before, optics going from the seeker’s raised fist to his red optics.

Red met blue, and Starscream saw something he could almost equate to fear reflected back at him.

Starscream stretched his arm over the center of the table and—opened his palm, a tiny grey object falling to its surface with a clatter.

Perceptor looked from the seeker to the device he had dropped, tilting his helm quizzically. "What do you have there? Oh…oh! That's a—ahem, I'll just clear the table, and yes, hm."

The mech then started swiftly clearing the table, removing the beakers and burners, the petri dish containing the energon gummy, and even the little microscope before letting out an obvious fake cough to catch the seeker's attention. "If you could just lift Chip from the table? I know how to disarm the bomb, and it shouldn't pose any threat to an organic or outside of our armor, but it's best if we take all available precautions."

Oh, right, of course. Fragile humans and bombs were a terrible combination. “You know how to disarm it?” He inquired as he lifted the wheeled one up off the table, ignoring its shout of, “Bomb?!”

“It’s a skill I learned during my time with the Wreckers." Then, before Starscream could ask, "The Wreckers were a specialized unit meant to deal with-ah, advanced missions, nothing special—they're disbanded now."

Once the table was fully cleared, Perceptor walked to a shelf behind it to pull out what looked to be the smallest tool set Starscream had ever seen. Then, something blue with a cross-hair in the middle slid down from his helm and over his right optic.

With regretful vocals, Perceptor sighed, “I’m sorry, Starscream, I should have warned you something like this might happen. I’ll admit that at first, I did not wish to speak ill of the dead, and after it was revealed that Skyfire was actually none other than Jetfire, well…I had hoped your resurgence would change something in him. I can see now it was a miscalculated hope to think that a partnership held so long ago would cause a mech like Jetfire to change—if he has even changed at all."

His optics narrowed, and he held the human's chair just a little bit tighter, gritting out, "Explain."

The mech leaned over the table, small tools held in his digits as he began working to disarm the bomb. Nearly a full klick of uninterrupted work passed by before Perceptor finally responded, “You might not be aware of this, no, I’m certain you’re not, but—you were an inspiration to others to…to me.”

Starscream’s helm jerked back, and the human in his servo was jostled by the sudden movement. Of all the things he had anticipated the Autobot to say, that had not even taken up a single byte's worth of space in his processor. Suspicion quickly replaced the shock, and he internally debated whether Perceptor was about to attempt flattery of all things to try and sway the seeker against his partner. Nevertheless, he said nothing and allowed the Autobot to continue, idling spinning one of the human’s wheels with a thumb.

“I was actually built with a political career in Altihex intended as my primary function. I attended many etiquette and politically inclined classes to prepare for this, but I confess it was all so dreadfully dull. I know it makes me sound so, as the locals say, spoiled to admit as much—but it's true. It was only during my mandatory but basic science lessons that I felt any spark of interest. I was fascinated by the world's physical machinations and the intrinsic laws that governed them. It was the only form of government I held any interest in…and a potential passion I didn't even consider pursuing—until my creator brought me to a fundraising function at the Iacon Scientific Research Institute. The current senator of Altihex was known to make substantial donations, and it was meant as an opportunity to introduce me to the council and ingratiate myself with them."

Starscream remembered such parties; he’d hated them.

"Imagine mine and my creator's surprise when there, in the middle of a crowd, is a warbuild. And not just any warbuild, but a seeker! One who was, apparently, also a scientist. Why, it was unheard of! You were presenting your latest findings from an expedition with such a captivating flair that I was surprised it was not you who had been designed with politics in mind.”

If not for the unguarded, enthusiastic buzz of Perceptor’s field, Starscream might have interrupted the bot and said something scathing—because that was exactly why he had hated those parties. The seeker would attend, attached to some undeserving high-caste mech's arm as little more than a bobble to gawk at, and be presented for the donors’ entertainment. He was made to metaphorically sing and dance for Cybertron’s elites just for a scrap of the funding lesser mecha were all but swimming in.

It gave him no comfort to know that Perceptor had enjoyed the show. He consciously tried to keep his vocals from turning accusing, saying, "If we met at a fundraising event, I'm afraid I don't remember you."

That was a lie. Starscream knew they had never met; he remembered the faceplate of every mech who had ever wronged him. What did bring comfort was the knowledge that most, if not all, were already dead.

“Oh, I was much too nervous to actually approach you. I spent most of the night listening; I daresay my creator had to physically remove me after lamenting on the wasted evening. There was very little shmoozing to be had on my part that night. But even after we left, the thought of you—what you represented stayed with me."

His optics narrowed. “Oh, and what was it I represented?”

That anyone could be a scientist if such a slow-processing flight frame could? That it couldn’t be that hard if a seeker had done it? That Starscream ought to be done with this conversation and leave, taking his human with him?

"Change," Perceptor answered. "That there was a potential for change on Cybertron if only one was brave enough to try. And I wasn't brave enough, that is, at first. I was terribly frightened of what my creator would think of me if I told her of my desire to become a scientist. It took several more vorns before I finally gained the courage to ask my creator if I could attend the academy. But I thought of you and continued to read your published works, and I was inspired. And well, to my utter surprise, when I finally asked, she said yes! She told me she believed in me and thought it was a wonderful idea, if only I would remember to comm her in my free time."

The Autobot's smile turned somber, blue optics dimming as he confessed, "I miss her at times. Even more so now that you’ve returned…and so I must thank you for allowing me to assist you with this and the energon project. They are both appreciated, wonderful distractions.”

Starscream was stunned to silence. He had been called many things during his time in Iacon: trollop, freak, a winged-brute, a failure—but never inspiring. He had thought, in spite of all his hard-won accomplishments, he had only ever inspired one mech. Starscream also didn’t comment on how Perceptor’s creator might have seen sending him to the academy as nothing more than an opportunity to strengthen her political ties to Iacon, how Perceptor had likely been expected to return after exhausting all avenues of success with his helm hung low and will to resist broken.

As had been expected of Starscream, should he have ever returned to Vos.

Instead, with thoughtful cant of his helm, Starscream used his free servo to grip the underside of Perceptor’s chin, tilting it upward; the metal beneath his talons slowly began to warm.

Darkened, crimson optics skipped over the other’s faceplate, noting: perfect symmetry barring the optic mod, strong features that could be soft in the right light. A kind of handsomeness that one could stare at for joors without growing bored but also without distracting from aristocratic vocalizations. Perfect for a mech designed to stand in front of a crowd or a group of reporters while delivering speeches.

Black, deft servos never stopped moving, Perceptor’s attention remaining on the bomb below as he continued to disarm it without even a short skip in his work, a testament to the Autobot's mechanized skill and dexterity.

“You would have been wasted on politics,” Starscream declared, releasing his hold.

The statement brightened the other’s smile. “I like to think so too, and…there, it’s done. I have successfully disarmed the bomb.”

“Well done,” Starscream congratulated him. “But you never told me what my inspiring figure has to do with Skyfire not changing in my absence.”

It was such a simple tease that finally caused Perceptor to trip, nearly stumbling against the table as he effused, “What I meant was…you see, it was not just me…I meant it was not solely I who was inspired by your work; there were others following in your wake. The youngest of us at the academy formed a little…community where we would share and discuss your works. It was during this time, and with my privileged position, that I was able to see many of those who counseled the academy and the ISR, once you joined it, were not, hm…shall we say pleased with your success. It was after my requisition request was rejected and the reason given, along with Skyfire's unusual behavior, that we began to suspect—you must understand, Starscream. None of us had even thought of questioning your disappearance from social circles because Skyfire had filled in where your absence would have been felt most. He attended fundraising parties and was often seen cavorting with the higher castes and members of the ISR council; he even continued to go on expeditions and was rumored to have amassed a great amount of wealth in a short amount of time. I'd say he nearly replaced Wheeljack as the institute's golden-mech."

Starscream brought the human closer to his canopy, the side of his servo bumping against the glass as he bared his denta. “What are you implying.”

Perceptor rung his servos together, previous courage forgotten as he sibilated, "That, ah…well, it's only a theory, but with Jetfire's true identity being revealed, I would say it's all but—and please don't take this the wrong way—"

“Spit it out, Perceptor,” he hissed.

Taking a deep vent, the Autobot’s posture straightened as he continued more confidently, "Those of us who followed your work developed a theory that the ISR had acted against you, causing your disappearance and that Skyfire had…helped them."

Fury flashed quick and hot through him, but it almost instantly cooled as he remembered the tiny creature in his servo. He had just delivered a bomb meant to kill Optimus Prime, and Perceptor had not looked at Starscream any differently for it. And while the seeker's anger was justified, it would not serve him here. "You did not know him, or me—only the idea of me. However, he has changed now; whatever he has become, Skyfire would have never plotted against me.”

Perceptor’s optics narrowed, a seriousness entering his field that Starscream was shocked to feel as Autobot acquiesced, “You are right that I did not know you or Skyfire personally—but I know Jetfire, and I must implore you to at least consider the possibility. To not do so would be—"

The door to the medbay opened, causing both Cybertronian's helms to jerk in its direction.

“Am I interrupting something?” Ratchet asked even as he stepped inside without waiting for an answer, the yellow-booted human standing on one of his servos. The door closed behind the medic, and he began walking to where Starscream and Perceptor had both leaned over the table, the threat of hostility swirling around them. “Bluestreak said I’d find you here.”

“Nothing of importance,” Starscream sniffed, standing straight and placing a servo on the table, tapping his talons in sequence against it.

"Good, because this one here has something he wants to say to you," Ratchet said as he placed the human on the table.

The moment its yellow boots touched the table, it rushed toward his servo and wrapped its arms around his blunted talon. The muscles in its arms bulged from the strength of the squeeze; Starscream had to turn up the sensitivity in his servo to feel it.

"You saved my dad," it croaked. "Thank you, thank you so much, Starscream. When we fell in the water, I really thought—this is it. We were going to die ice fishing, and we didn't even catch anything."

Its flesh pressed against him, and Starscream could feel how it squished and contorted from the contact. Liquid fell from its eyes, tears, and it sucked in a restricted-sounding breath as something also began to leak from its nose.

“Enough of that,” Starscream chastised as he gently shook his talon, signaling for the human to release him.

The wheeled one rolled along the seeker's other servo as he called down, "You almost died?"

Starscream lowered his human down to the table so it could distract its friend from continually trying to touch him. The maneuver worked as the yellow-booted human ran to hug the wheeled one, blubbering into the blue pajamas and soaking them with its tears and…something else.

All three Cybertronians watched the display in silence.

::When you’ve got a chance, I think it’s about time we had a spark to spark.:: Ratchet commed him.

::I’m free now.:: Starscream quickly responded. The grateful-sadness the organics were expressing—and whatever Perceptor had begun to release in his field—had started to clog the flyer’s vents and make him feel light-helmed. It was a uniquely terrible experience, and the seeker would take any excuse to escape it, even an overdue, fiercely avoided talk with Ratchet.

::You sure?:: Ratchet questioned. ::Hound said he’d drop by later if you’re still up.::

Both humans were now crying, and they turned their tear-stained faces toward the seeker, looking up at him almost as though they wanted him to pick them up.

::Oh, I’m certain.::

Ratchet laughed, then pat the seeker on the back, grinning, "Enough waterworks, you two. I've got something to discuss with this one—will you be good on your own, Spike, or should I be on standby?"

Perceptor protested, “I’m more than capable of watching them both, Ratchet.”

“Yeah,” the yellow-booted one chipped in, its voice sounding stuffed. “I’m fine now. You go do whatever it is you need to do.” It then waved them both off.

The wheeled one smiled at him, eyes glistening, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Starscream wanted to ask why it was sad now. He had saved its friend and promised to build it a custom vehicle—why the tears? Instead, he only imparted, “See you tomorrow, Chi-human.”

Ratchet cocked an optic ridge at him. “Careful, almost said his name there.” Then, he used his helm to gesture over his shoulder. "Alright, kid, let's go."

Starscream sat on the edge of Ratchet's berth, optics roving around the room. It was smaller than his own; the berth beneath him not as soft. The lights were dimmed, and random medical tools were strewn about: on the floor, on the single desk, and even at the foot of the berth. Somehow, Starscream wasn't surprised to see the medic lived in a mess.

The Autobot kicked something out of his way as he walked to the room’s only desk, then began fiddling with what looked to be a modified energon dispenser. It was used to fill two cubes with something yellowish that resembled energon but not like any Starscream had ever seen.

Ratchet grabbed one and held it out for the seeker. “Take this.”

“What is it?” Starscream asked as he took it, swirling its contents skeptically.

“High-grade.”

His optic ridges rose at that, and he looked from the cube to the medic, who had grabbed a cube on his own and was dragging the desk's chair over to the berth. Ratchet placed the chair at a slight angle before sitting down with a heavy clank.

“You know how to make high-grade, but not something as simple as energon candy?” Starscream goaded with a shake of the cube.

“Priorities,” was all Ratchet answered.

The medic then tipped his cube back, throat cables bobbing as he poured a large swig down his intake. Ratchet popped the cubed with a satisfied, “Ahh, that’s the stuff.”

Starscream tilted his helm, derma twisting as he hesitantly brought the yellow cube to his mouth and took a cautionary sip. He immediately started coughing, his chassis burning as it slid down his intake and settled in his tank. He beat a fist over his canopy, snarling, “What is this swill!? It tastes like electrified battery acid.”

Ratchet snorted, vocals full of sarcasm as he replied, “Well, excuse me, your majesty. Sorry, our post-war selection is too much for your delicate Vosian palate.”

He shot the medic a glare at the moniker, then redirected to the vile cube.

The medic smiled in the face of it, then leaned forward and pointed a red digit at the seeker with the servo holding his cube. “Let me just clear this up right now. We are not functionalists. I don't know where you processed such a bad line of code, but functionalism died out before the war even reached a thousand stellar-cycles old." Appearing to have thought of something, Ratchet quickly added, “Cliffjumper is a suspicious aft, but he’s no functionalist.”

While not believing the latter, Starscream waved off the former. "So, your Prime has informed me—but what was I supposed to think? Your history says the Decepticons rose up to end functionalism, and the Autobots were formed to stop them. You can see where my confusion came from, yes?"

He took another sip of the high-grade, finding it as awful as the first. Without moving his jaw, he tried to scrape his glossa against the underside of his upper denta. It did nothing to lessen the putrid flavor permeating it.

“Hate to say it, but I see where you’re coming from. Our history isn’t a pretty one…or our present.” Ratchet took another drink before continuing, “Listen, kid, about the Aerialbots…”

Red optics flashed, and Starscream drank more from his cube to avoid saying something ill-advised.

“You need to understand—this war, what we've had to do to survive…" Ratchet paused, squeezing his cube. "We got by, justifying ourselves by saying we weren't doing anything worse than the cons. Bots like the Aerials are called MTOs, short for Made to Order. We built child soldiers, changed their name to MTOs, and thought that changed what we were doing."

Ratchet grimaced, then shook his cube. Starscream responded by taking a sip in time with the medic.

The bot gave him a half-sparked smile as thanks before confessing, "Wheeljack and I, we didn’t want to build them, but we needed the air support. After crashing on Earth, we lost our only flight-capable ship, and the Decepticons still had all their fliers. If they started something halfway across the globe, or Pit, one state away, we wouldn’t be able to respond in time before the damage was done. At the time, we had no idea the Trion was on its way, and it was before any of our fliers showed up—when we built those younglings, no one was happy about it, but no one questioned it…no one does anymore.”

Another sip from both of them, red and blue optics slowly brightening from the added charge.

“We tell ourselves we’ve never sunk as low as the Deceptions, but I guess all it takes is someone who never fell to remind us just how far we’ve fallen.”

Starscream stared down into his yellow, glowing cube. His wings drooped at his back, even his combative nature thwarted by the old mech's dower tone. It was not that the Autobots did not know they had committed a moral failing by creating the Aerialbots—they just considered losing to the Decepticons a worse one.

Rather than poke at what was clearly a sore wound for the medic, Starscream asked both to assure himself and clarify, “…You didn’t intentionally build them badly, did you?”

“Built badly?” Ratchet quizzed back.

“Their frames—there are multiple faults in their design, and the air support you built them for is surely impacted by them. I doubt such was intentional."

Ratchet blew out a disbelieving vent. “No, kid, can’t say it was. We’ve heard the cons taunting them before, but we thought that was cons being cons—is it really that bad?”

“It’s horrendous,” Starscream insisted. “I could barely bring myself to look at them.”

Ratchet grimaced into his cube. “One more screw-up to add to the list.”

Starscream almost, almost offered to assist in fixing the Aerialbots’ frames, but he still had no intention of staying with the Autobots. He would return to Skyfire’s side; maybe he could even convince the shuttle that the war was pointless now. Perhaps he, like Ratchet, had spent so much time by the fire he could no longer see past the flames.

“While we’re on topics I’d rather not revisit—I've been thinking about what you and Hound said about me popping your ports without permission,” Ratchet admitted.

“Have you now?” Starscream said after a sip.

“I’m not promising you I’ll never do it again—I can’t. If I find you offline in a field, I’m not waiting for you to wake up before I start my repairs…but that can be the line, or a deal, if you’d rather think of it that way. And I know you would.”

“A deal?” Starscream asked with a tilt of his helm, less bothered by the medic’s accurate assessment of his person than he perhaps should have been.

"I only ever act without your consent in life-or-death situations; I'm talking do or die. And you stop hiding your damage from me. Even if it’s something you don’t want fixed, I want to know it’s there. That sound like a good deal to you?”

He pursed his derma, the offer swimming around in his processor—or maybe that was the high-grade.

“Mm, deal,” he relented after another quick drink, then laughed, remembering, “You called me your majesty.”

“…I did,” Ratchet agreed. “You good, kid? Seems like you got something else locked up in that overworked processor of yours. I’m all audials if you want to share; nothing you say will leave this room.”

The seeker chuckled, “Good?” He had never been good, not even on his best behavior. He then grimaced as he took another sip from his cube.

Starscream swished its yellow contents around, pressing his derma together before finally answering, "Skyfire asked something of me, and I…I couldn't do it. I don't even know why—I hate Primes and everything they represent, and I would leave you all now if only he would comm. But…I have never been validated like that before by someone so…by a Prime. It was a dumb decision. I already regret it.”

Ratchet huffed an exasperated vent, “Sure you do—you know, you’re not the only one who’s made questionable choices when it comes to an old flame turned con.”

“Spoken like a mech with experience,” the seeker observed. A friendly field was pressing up against his own, and Starscream allowed it to wrap around him, smiling softly at the fondness he found there.

The medic snorted, then took a long swig of his cube, clearing his intake before saying, “You’re not the first to have a past with someone who turned con. Only mine, not mine, but you get it—his name was Drift. One of the kids who would stop by my clinic in Rodion. I'd patch him and any friends he brought up, and send him on his way. Never stayed gone for long, though, and there was always some kind of trouble following him when he’d pop back around.”

Ratchet's brow ridge furrowed, and he swished the contents of his half-empty cube. "Then one, day he just stopped coming by. Next time I saw him was some odd-thousand stellar-cycles later. He popped up with a hey, doc, and a purple badge. Pretty as you please, acting like he never left.”

“I take it that was the end of your liaison?”

Ratchet grinned into his cube, “I never said that.” The medic then took a long drink from it, bringing its contents down to less than a third. Starscream ignored his own, instead pursuing an opportunity to tease.

“The Autobots’ Chief Medical Officer had an affair with a lowly Decepticon? Ratchet,” he gasped, placing a servo over his spark. “The scandal.”

"Oh, shush, you," Ratchet said after sipping his near-empty cube. "It lasted for one, almost two million stellar cycles before I finally had to call it quits. I found him half-dead in the middle of a battlefield; pits I thought he was dead. Took everything I had to put him back together, and even then, I didn't think it'd be enough. Now, I'm no religious mech, but I prayed then. To Primus, to anyone who would listen. He woke up in the middle of it, giving me that slag-eating grin he was always good at. And I’ll never forget his last words to me—knew I could make you see Primus, doc. Always thought it would be in the berth, but this is nice too.”

Starscream drank from his own cube, his olfactorate scrunching at both the smell and the rotten taste.

Ratchet gave him an amused smirk before continuing, "Ended it then and there. I'd walked right past other Autobots to get to him; I was compromised, and I knew it. Never told Drift that was the end of it, but then I didn’t have to. He disappeared shortly after—never saw him again. Doubt I ever will.”

The contents of his cube swirled even as Starscream held it still in his servos. His optics, brightened from the high-grade’s charge, shuttered as he tried to collect his thoughts. It was more difficult than it should have been, but each time he followed a line of code to a complete idea, it would abruptly end before the neurons connected. He took another deep sip before finally completing a computation.

“I don’t believe in Primus either. Even without the total lack of evidence, his followers' hypocritical ramblings would be more than enough to stay any half-processing mech from the religion. The very concept of an all-powerful, all-knowing divine being is nonsensical and flies in the face of all science and reason.”

“Sounds like there’s a but in there,” Ratchet observed with an encouraging helm tilt.

Starscream sucked in a short but deep vent, staring down at the near-empty cube in his servos before finally admitting, "But Skyfire was my miracle. My lightning, as it were. He was the only mech in all of Iacon, on all of Cybertron, to…to…” He trailed off, lines of thought firing off in rapid, erratic directions and fizzling out before the process could complete. He raised an arm to cover his optics, shielding them from the yellow light that had grown increasingly, distractingly bright the longer their conversation continued.

“Take your time, kid, and here—let me just take this.”

Thus permitted, Starscream took his time collecting and deciphering his misaligned thoughts.

“Ours was a mundane introduction, accidental even, and certainly not something I ever expected to result in such an intimate partnership.”

With his servo now free, Starscream flopped down onto the berth, wincing as it was clearly not plushed with wings in mind.

"I had barged into a professor's office—a regular occurrence while I attended the academy—and held up my most recent essay. I had been given a failing grade without a single correction or mistake referenced…that was also something of a regular occurrence back then."

He frowned at the memory, then smiled at the next. “Skyfire was a designation I had heard before, but I had never met the mech; he worked as the professor’s aid. I actually hadn't noticed him when I first arrived. I was too focused on the professor and my own anger. A shuttle and I hadn't noticed him! He plucked the report right out of my servo and gave it a read. Then he asked the professor in the sweetest, most innocent vocals what the problem was. He was only an aid, so he must have missed the mistakes the professor had found.”

Starscream's smile stretched as he recounted, "The professor's optics nearly popped out of his helm. He was so mad—he said there had obviously been a system error and that, of course, I was meant to have a higher grade. He re-graded it in front of us both. It was passing, barely. Nowhere near what I truly deserved, but then nothing ever was."

He didn't allow that bleak thought to dim what was his best memory as he continued, "Skyfire then asked me if I had time to discuss the theory I had proposed in my essay. At the time, I had thought it was a veiled suggestion that I owed him for his help. He wouldn't have been the first to think they were entitled to…me after offering their assistance. I agreed anyway—a professor's aid would have made a good ally, and he did, just not in the way I had expected."

The seeker’s wings flicked, or they would have were they not flattened against the second most uncomfortable berth he had ever been subjected to.

"We met in the library for what I thought was nothing more than a precursor to an invitation I would inevitably turn down while still trying to garner Skyfire's support. It wasn't, to my surprise. We sat at one of the long tables and…talked. We were there for joors, doing nothing but discussing different scientific theories. His, mine, ones we agreed on, and ones we argued over. But they were pleasant arguments? I hadn't even thought such was possible until I met him. Until the very end, I waited for him to suggest we move our talk to the berthroom. But he didn't, and when the library finally announced it was closing, he simply bid me farewell and asked if we could meet again. Just to talk. Again.”

Afterward, Starscream had been in a daze, constantly checking himself for errors and undergoing more defragmentations than necessary, unable to believe what had just happened. No one had ever wanted to just talk with him.

“I have a perfect memory of the first true conversation we shared; I even transferred a copy onto a datapad, so I wouldn't have to sift through my own files whenever I wanted to and—oh, I don’t have it with me. I wonder if it survived.”

Ratchet rested a servo on one of Starscream's shoulders, commenting, “Sounds like you really loved him.”

Starscream’s smile turned derisive. “You would think, but…I’ve never actually said the word to him; love. It seemed such a weak word for what I feel for him. Fools love, I…I burn. The thought of him consumes me, fills my fuel lines to bursting, choking me. Thoughts of him dance along my circuity. And my processor has long since been corrupted with nothing but his visage, and even in his absence, Skyfire stays with me like the most tenacious virus. All of my best-laid plans were melted in the face of his smile.”

He shuddered, the strength of Starscream’s emotions threatening to overwhelm him as he professed, “My designation is Star, but Skyfire is my sun.”

In the glistening, golden city of Iacon, Skyfire had shown the brightest of all, a pure, soothing light that had brightened the seeker's dark, bitter life while asking for nothing in return. Until now—all that had been asked of Starscream, the prerequisite before he could be once more bathed in Skyfire's beautiful presence, was to kill a Prime.

Damn him, why hadn’t he done it?

Before the seeker could drown in his regrets, Ratchet commented, “Primus, kid, if the scientist thing hadn’t panned out, you could have always gone the poet route. That almost sounded like the kind of romantic slop Optimus likes to read.”

Starscream frowned at the baring of his spark being labeled as slop, but before he could retort, the medic continued, “I never said it either. Didn’t feel right knowing what he was; what I was. Would have made what we were doing too real. Love is a commitment and other than this—” the sound of a digit tapping against metal followed the words. “—I’ve never been the best at those.”

Ratchet quickly followed up on the admission by saying, "You should say it to him next time you meet and see if it changes anything."

“Would it have for you?” Starscream pushed back, referencing Ratchet’s own Decepticon foil. The seeker moved his arm just enough to peak at where the medic was seated, watching as the mech knocked back the rest of the cube he had taken from Starscream.

Ratchet grimaced, glancing down at the now empty cube before responding, “Maybe, but now I’ll never know.”

“Are you actually encouraging me to chase after Skyfire? Your second-in-command called him a monster—I thought you were inclined to agree?” Starscream challenged, though there was no heat behind his words. It was curiosity more than anything that drove him to debate the medic on the topic of, ugh—love.

“He is a monster, but I also know there’s nothing I can say to stop you. You'll go after Jetfire until he eventually does something to make you see sense. All I'm going to ask is that when he does, whatever evil thing he concocts that finally convinces you we're telling the truth—you let me know, and you let me help.”

“Suggesting a second deal with me so soon after the first?” Starscream went back to fully covering his optics, cycling them offline as he grinned, “Dirty, seditious, and greedy? A mech after my own spark.”

Ratchet snorted, "Alright, time to recharge, you flirt, and I think we both know who your spark belongs to."

Starscream couldn’t argue: one, because his processor was incapable of such complex processes at the moment, and two because the medic was right. His spark belonged to Skyfire and likely had ever since that first fateful conversation.

Unprompted, Starscream’s systems began to cycle down, his processing functions slowing even further as an unscheduled recharge sequence began. His fans clicked to an idle setting, and oil-colored swirls slithered behind his shuttered optic lenses. But before stasis fully took him, he heard one final, distant—

“Just hope when this is over, there’s enough of it left to put back together.”

Starscream onlined to a blurry red view and a throbbing processor; his tanks churned, the contents threatening to burn their way up his intake. White and red plating expanded, leaving seams wide open and exposing slips of protoform in an attempt to release the damp heat causing his frame to shudder. Pain wasn't the word to describe how he felt in that unknown moment. Pain he could endure, pain had an easily identifiable source, but this was something else. An illness, a virus, something that soaked into his very fuel lines and caused him to consider purging just to—poison. Starscream felt like he had been poisoned.

A recognizable ailment even if he had only ever felt its misery-inducing effects once before.

A glowing light blue cube sat next to a datapad. Hunched over the desk and sinking lower, Starscream waited for the white glyphs to stop sliding over one another to read what was likely some villainous monologue for having duped and defeated the seeker in a battle of endurance. With a hazy processor, he read—

Drink this, you lightweight.

Chip stopped by. Told him you'd come down with a bad case of not knowing your limit. Didn’t know you were building him a new wheelchair. That’s sweet. Kekeke.

He groaned and placed the datapad back, grabbing and judging what looked to be medigrade with a suspicious optic. It could be something meant to help his roiling tanks, or it could be more poison meant to finish what the high-grade hadn’t. What was it the Autobot third had called the CMO? Hatchet? How accurate. Starscream certainly felt as though he had been hacked to pieces and then thrown in a low-heat smelter, left to suffer an agonizingly slow deactivation by a merciless medic.

If he was poisoned and he was dying, he would rather get it over quickly rather than lay in suffering; he took a long gulp of the possible medigrade. It was cool and smooth as it slid down his intake.

Starscream huffed a laugh through his olfactorate as his tanks finally began to settle. He looked back down at the note; Ratchet had really typed out his own old-mech laugh to punctuate the message.

He then laid back down on the berth and shuttered his optics, drifting in and out of recharge in a series of incomplete power-downs and failed defrags. His helm felt like it had been cracked open, his processor exposed, and his tanks rolled. The pain of it all caused Starscream to force himself to sit up and reach for more coolant. He downed the rest of the cube and then stood, wobbling only a little from the effort. On unsteady pedes, he stumbled off the berth and looked around the messy room and—there. The perks of being an officer.

A private wash-rack.

After nearly tripping over…something, he entered the wash-rack (mainly a copper and off-white blur) and turned it on to its highest and hottest setting. He stood underneath the hot jets of solvent, processor a fog as he allowed the warmth to soothe his helm. Steam rose around and off him, covering his optics in a thin layer of condensation. It wasn't until the solvent began to turn cold that he finally turned it off and trudged back into the medic's room. Without drying himself off, he tossed himself onto Ratchet’s berth.

If the old bot wanted to get Starscream overcharged off cheap high-grade, he would have to deal with the consequences. And in this case, it was a damp berth.

The seeker didn’t know how long he laid there, only that at some unknown point in time (his chronometer refused to cooperate), Starscream had finally dragged himself out of Ratchet’s berth and slinked from the medic’s room to the Aerialbots. He'd kept his helm down the entire time, trying to block out the overwhelming copper that encaged him, and ignored any attempts to speak to him as he passed. Once safely inside the dark room, he'd gracelessly flopped onto the large, much softer berth and laid miserably faceplate down as he mumbled curses against the Autobot’s wicked CMO, reciting muffled vows to never imbibe again into the plush mesh.

Starscream spent joors laying there, unmoving and in a fuddled type of pain as he began the slow, tedious process of manual defragmentation, his memories from the previous night having been scrambled into a disorganized mess. Into corrupted, incorrectly filed timeslots from the night he had succumbed to Ratchet's scheme, for it must have been a scheme. To what end, the seeker could not even begin to discern, but he would…once he was capable of processing more complex thoughts than damn you old mech, and why is the darkness spinning?

Eventually, his processor began to clear, and he noticed an unread comm message sent by an unknown frequency. Starscream accepted the message and grimaced as chipper vocals bounced off the walls inside his helm, reciting—

 ::Hey, this is Bumblebee. I’ll be picking Chip up after he’s done at the energy plant and dropping him off in the lab—he said you guys are working on something together? Is it the electro-gummies? Just throwing it out there, but blue is definitely the best flavor. Comm me back to let me know you got this!::

Right, he had promised to go with his human to the power plant. The message meant that he had missed not only an entire day because of Ratchet's trickery but also the morning and much of the afternoon.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up off the berth and sent a confirmation message to Bumblebee, or tried to. His comm was met with silence. The lack of response did nothing to deter the seeker as he gave himself a quick once over in the mirror before leaving the room and starting toward the lab. He'd already blown the human off once; to do so again would give it the impression that the seeker did indeed not know his limits.

Thankfully, the halls were empty as he walked, as was the lab once he entered. Unwilling to waste more time, he immediately started rummaging through shelves and drawers, looking for all he would need to begin crafting a miniature air vehicle.

He was bent over, servos deep in a tool chest when the sound of a door sliding open caused him to look up just in time to see Bumblebee drive in. The minibot stopped just short of the door and came no further, gave no greeting. Starscream frowned but was in no mood to give one of his own. Instead, he waited, setting his tools down as he noticed two passengers inside the yellow alt.

A human clad in all blue coverings—female, he surmised—stepped out of the passenger’s seat and approached the table the seeker was working on. The organic had a long yellow mane with black smudges underneath its eyes, and if he zoomed his optical sensors in closer, he could see a wetness around the rims of its eyes and redness in its cheeks. He made no special note of its odd colorings before looking past the female and into the Autobot it had arrived in, observing the other passenger, the yellow-booted human. It was gripping the steering wheel, forehead resting against it, unmoving. Nowhere amongst them was the human Starscream had forced himself out of berth to meet.

And so, he blamed the fuzz that often followed incomplete defragmentation for the slip of glossa when he asked in tired, confused vocals, “Where’s Chip?”

Chapter Text

Oops, didn’t see you there.

Starscream glared down at the machine he had been crafting as though it had personally affronted him. The little, nearly finished chair was what the scientist would consider a simple machine: rubber wheels, rudimentary flight capabilities, and possessing neither external nor inboard weaponry. The weld lines were basic and had yet to be sanded. The controls were a series of blue and orange buttons along its left arm, clearly labeled and with symbols the seeker had painted himself so that even a less developed lifeform could not mistake their purpose. Grey cushions stuffed with shredded micro-mesh had been carefully stitched by blue talons and then adhered to the arm, back, and seat. Ugly, grey wings jutted from its sides with rivets running along their edges.

Other than the buttons and the wiring within, the vehicle had no color.

Red optics were zoomed to their highest setting, allowing him to better scrutinize what he personally considered to be his worst work. He turned the mechanized chair upside down in his servos, deepening his frown at the exposed red and blue wiring revealed underneath. All that was left of the mechanized chair's construction was to add its power source—a small battery of the scientist’s own design meant to clip onto the underside of its seat.

No additional color would be added; he would not be subjecting himself to the tedium of painting the thing by servo. What was the point?

Oops, didn’t see you there.

A knock on the lab’s door pulled Starscream from his work, his helm turning up and his glare refocusing on the mech who had stuck his helm around the doorframe. Ignoring the seeker's glare, Hound walked inside and approached the table he was working at.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" The Autobot asked with a soft, half-pleading smile. “We’re not leaving for another hour.”

“Positive,” Starscream clipped. “I’m busy, or have you not noticed?”

Hound's optics became pinched at the words, but his smile (forced Starscream was sure) didn't drop. "I can see that—still have some kinks to work out? You've been working on it all week. Perceptor said he thought you'd finished and that you were…ah, but I'm not a scientist, so it all went over my helm."

What an awful, blatant lie. It was perfect for what the Autobot really was.

“No, you’re not,” Starscream agreed, frown twisting into a sharp grin. “You’re a spy.”

The seeker practically hissed the accusation—no, not an accusation. The truth. “Are you here to gather more information for your handler, Jazz? Ah, or has Optimus Prime finally agreed with Prowl, and you're here to imprison me, found guilty by association?"

To Starscream’s immense satisfaction, it was Hound’s turn to glare. “Prowl never said that—no one suspects you. What happened…it was an accident.”

Oops, didn’t see you there.

He scoffed, "And I suppose the hostility in your fellow Autobots' oh-so wonderfully open fields whenever I enter a room is my imagination? Or the whispers that follow as I exit? The open vial of stagnant oil above my berthroom door that doused me as I opened it?”

He placed both servos on the table and leaned forward; red optics narrow even as his smile widened, showing off fanged denta. “Ah, but of course, seekers are known to be flighty, scattered-thought creatures. Pardon me for giving into my paranoid imaginings that these were all targeted, pointed accusations.”

The seeker's wings rose, and his field lashed out in anger—it had taken him an entire day to scrub himself of the oil that had completely covered his frame. It had smelled and slid beneath seams, gunking against protoform and making his every step to the base's shared washracks squelch.

Every Autobot he had passed had turned their helms down, refusing to meet his optics. And all inside the washracks had fled upon his arrival, excusing themselves with low-spoken mutters and half-sparked apologies. But none had come forth with a culprit that day or the ones that followed. Not even Hound.

Hound, whose field was wrapped tightly around the grounder's frame, refusing to meet the seeker's fury or expose his own emotions. Likely because they were the same as every other Autobots’ on the Ark.

Oops, didn’t see you there.

“Go,” Starscream ordered with a dismissive flick of his wings. “I’ll not make your pathetic parade any sadder by foisting my presence where it’s clearly not wanted.”

Hound sucked in a long, slow vent, and Starscream didn’t need access to the mech’s field to know the look shimmering in those dim blue optics was a pained one. “That’s not true, Star. Everyone who knows how close you two were wants you there. Chip would want there and…and it’s not a parade. It’s a funeral procession.”

Well, at least Hound had finally dropped his futile argument against Starscream not being blamed.

The seeker looked down his olfactorate at the grounder, vocals derisive. “One of the many ridiculous Earth customs I have been unwillingly educated on this week. Cars line up in a row and drive slowly, with a car slightly longer than the others in the front carrying the remains of the deceased.” Then, with a slight chuckle, “Or what remains of the remains of the deceased.”

The concept of a closed-casket funeral being another human custom Starscream had been unwillingly subjected to.

“All for what?” He continued. “So that those few remains can decay inside deadwood, surrounded by dead fabric stuffed with the feathers of dead animals, and lowered into a ditch in the ground? Do humans do this every time one of their species offlines? By my calculations, more than one hundred of them die every minute on this planet—is the entire human race constantly digging holes, and I was simply not aware? It's no wonder they're still so primitive if so much of their life is spent on such menial labor."

Hound stepped forward, a black servo raised. Starscream ignored it as his talons pierced the table.

“And I was not close with…with Chip," he choked angrily. Because surely it was anger at being considered close, at being affectionate with a lesser being. How insulting. “I knew him for less than a vorn. I’ve had defrag cycles that lasted longer—and I’ve never considered myself close with a failed experiment, some of which lasted centuries before I understood their futility.”

Oops, didn’t see you there.

"From what I understand, Optimus Prime will be leading the procession—does Prowl not predict this would present a perfect opportunity for the Decepticons to attack? So many Autobots, so many of your high-command all lined up like—what's that human expression? Ducks in a row, waiting to be picked off one by one. Ah, but if Prowl was any good at predicting Decepticon attacks, I don't suppose we would be burying his precious pet, now would we?"

Oops, didn’t see you—

“Starscream!” Hound shouted his designation, even as the touch that came to rest over his forearm was nothing more than a light press of plating against plating. "Prowl doesn't deserve that. Just like you don't deserve how some bots have treated you."

His derma curled, and he jerked his arm out of the other's weak grasp. "Ah-ha! So, you do know who poured oil on me. I don’t suppose you’ll provide me with a designation? Hm, I thought not.”

Hound frowned, and Starscream could tell a temperament was hiding beneath the dour expression. That the other's carefully concealed negative emotions were threatening to slip through the cracks in green armor that had formed over a week's worth of verbal battering by the seeker. Starscream wanted to feel some satisfaction at finally having caused the generally genial mech's friendly façade to slip—he should have felt as much. Tearing apart another's thin, easily identifiable mask while maintaining a perfectly crafted, unperceivable one of his own was a skill the seeker usually reveled in demonstrating.

The last niggling remains of any guilt the seeker might have felt for using such harsh, intentionally cruel vocals with Hound would finally be dealt with as well, as would the near-depleted remnants of his patience for the mech’s continued, week-long pestering. The Autobot had spent the entirety of the past week encroaching on the seeker's work, asking after his feelings, and making a general nuisance of himself. No more.

He waited for Hound to react, his spark swirling in no small amount of excitement—and trepidation—at finally being privy to what Hound had hidden so well; his true nature.

The green mech's frown thinned, and he reached out again, only this time not for the seeker but for the vehicle he had placed on the table. It passed from one black servo to the other as the Autobot fiddled with it, his field pushing outward not in anger but understanding.

Starscream’s tanks rolled, his own field wrapping tightly around himself as calm vocals attempted to soothe, "I understand you're hurting, and you want to push that pain outward. I get it; we're all hurting. Chip was the first friend you made here, and…"

Hound paused, seemingly considering his next words more carefully as he placed the mechanized chair back on the table and reached his servo back out toward the seeker. The small, black servo was facing palm upward as though waiting for another to grasp it. For Starscream to hold Hound's servo. Absurd.

“Is Chip the first person you know who’s died? The others can forget that death wasn't common for us before the war. I have some experience with grief counseling, but if you're not comfortable talking to me, and while he's not licensed, Smokescreen is—"

He jerked away from the Autobot, a caustic, high-pitched laugh escaping him, his expression and vocals turning incredulous. "Now you’re concerned with how I react to death? Where was that same concern when your second flung my partner’s deactivation in my face? When he held all that I had lost over my helm and mocked me for being a—what were his exact words, again?”

Starscream's optics were bright, a dark sort of mirth bubbling up from within as he remembered. This time, it was him who placed a servo over Hound's outstretched arm. Only his touch wasn't gentle; his talons pushed.

“Oh, right—a disgraced scientist ten million years outdated in my craft.”

Hound's optics widened, and a soft gasp escaped his gaping mouth; the satisfaction Starscream had been expecting before finally came to him. He released his hold over the other and was equally pleased to see small divots in the mech’s plating—and the lack of guilt that accompanied them.

A return to form for the seeker; the misplaced priorities that his once sought-after pet had saddled him with had finally been lifted. Or squashed if Starscream was being technical.

Oops, didn’t see you there.

Finally, finally, finally—Starscream was free of that annoying, traitorous, wheeled pest. What did he care that an organic had met its end due to a Decepticon’s misstep? Or that in Hound’s own way, he had tried to make up for what the Autobot second had said to the seeker about his partner’s falsely reported demise whilst in the greenhouse, even without having been privy to Prowl's first-night transgression. What did he care about the Autobots, their fleshling pets, or their Prime that Starscream had mistakenly spared?

Why would he care about any of it when, during the longest week of Starscream's function, Skyfire had not contacted him once?

The shuttle had to know Starscream hadn't gone through with the assassination by now. With how fearsome his partner was erroneously rumored to be, there was no chance he would not have kept a close optic on the seeker to see how his machinations unfolded.

To ensure Starscream’s safety, of course, and not as some ridiculous loyalty test that has never been and would never be necessary.

Had Skyfire actually commed the seeker—as he should have if not immediately after the bomb was discovered, then after the…incident at the power plant—Starscream would have ranted about the folly of Autobots and the wasted efforts on organics, how he had always been right, and Skyfire was wise to have adopted the seeker’s way of thinking during their long separation. In response, he would hear his partner’s familiar vocals lament the human’s wasted potential and then offer to meet where Starscream could then feel strong arms once again wrap around him, a tender embrace meant to calm the worst of Starscream’s temper.

One that had always, always worked, a kiss given in good measure when the seeker's rage threatened to overwhelm him. Once calmed, gentle servos would stroke down his back, over his wings, and—

“He shouldn’t have said that to you,” Hound said, firm vocals interrupting the seeker’s thoughts. “But I can’t change the past.” Then, with a pointed look toward the miniature vehicle. “And neither can you. All we can do is choose how we act now. So, you can choose to keep lashing out at me and to pretend that you didn’t care about Chip all you want. Just like I can choose to think you did care and that you are hurting because now you’re telling yourself you’re alone because you chose us over Jetfire when you gave Perceptor that bomb.”

Blinding, incandescent rage flashed through him, and were there not a table separating them, Starscream would have leaped for the Autobot. If only to feel his talons close around the smaller mech's throat, to squeeze until such fallacious trifle could no longer leave his vocalizer.

Maybe he would anyway, damn the table and the consequences; as the Autobot had said, Skyfire was not present to stop him because of a choice Starscream never made.

For some absurd, nonsensical reason, the Autobots had come to the delusional conclusion that not outright murdering their Prime meant the seeker had chosen them over his partner.

Which was impossible because it was a choice Skyfire would never force him to make. He hadn’t. That wasn’t why his partner had remained silent on comms and had not contacted him once since the bomb’s discovery. The ultimatum Skyfire had given him in the Arctic had been nothing more than a bluff…

Why had Starscream called him out on it? That hadn’t been his intention when sparing the Prime. Starscream didn’t know what his intention had been—he had been prepared to plant the bomb, determined even. The choice to keep it concealed in his servo hadn’t really felt like a choice at all. He hadn’t thought about sparing the Prime, but when the opportunity to do so had come…why had he done it? There was no possibility it could have been because of something so base, so repugnantly weak as sentiment.

His own wistful thinking of a world that had never existed and never would because Cybertron was dead, and all that remained of his past and now future was Skyfire.

"I made no such choice," Starscream seethed, his seams tightening and wings quivering. The desire for violence was held back only by a loosely held tether rapidly thinning the longer it was pulled taught.

It would not so much as snap, but rather the threads completely unravel, falling apart around him.

“And you can choose to believe that,” Hound demurred. “The point is it’s your choice what you do, Star. You could have left instead of giving us the bomb, before or after. You could leave now—no one is stopping you, and no one will. I wish you wouldn’t; I’m worried about what you—“

Starscream loudly scoffed.

Hound’s brow-ridge furrowed, the mech repeating with emphasis, “—I’m worried about you, about what you might do in your grief and how Jetfire could-will take advantage of it. I don't think you should be left alone right now, not because I don't trust you or blame you—but because I care about you. Now, I can stay here with you until it's time, and we leave for the funeral together, or I can just…go. Your choice, Star. Whatever you want.”

Starscream almost snapped; I’m not alone—for how could he be when Skyfire was alive?

“I want to be left to my work,” he sneered instead. “Take your blithering sentiments and use them to deliver a tearful eulogy at the corpse dumping ground—ah, excuse me, graveyard. These human terms are so hard to remember. You may choose to listen to the organics bleat and wail for hours on end, as is their choice. And I will remain here doing something actually useful with my time, as is mine.”

He felt it then. Hound's field had dipped and radiated such a clear and profound hurt; Starscream’s engine wanted to purr.

“Fine,” Hound snapped, actually snapped! The seeker almost crowed in delight at the sound. He refrained, however, and waited for that kindly persona to break apart completely.

Hound huffed and…was that a little engine growl? How delightful. However, the calming vents followed by impassive vocals that resumed their conversation were less delightful. "Fine, stay here and be stubborn all you want. You have the location for the funeral service and the burial; you’re welcome to show up at any time should you change your mind.”

The Autobot then turned to leave, Starscream’s gaze trailing after him as he went. The mech huffed, then threw his helm back and said, “With everything going on, I haven’t had a chance to check on my plants today. If you’re going to be staying here anyway…could you do that for me, please? Even if it’s just watering them?”

Starscream, disappointed the Autobot had succeeded in controlling himself, picked up the mostly completed vehicle and turned it over in his servos. No longer deigning to give the smaller mech any undeserved attention, his vocals rang clear with dismissal as he said, “If I have time.”

Which he wouldn’t, of course.

"Thank you, Star," Hound called softly as he stepped through the door. It closed behind him, and Starscream's spark twinged with…annoyance. Yes, that was it.

And for what was likely the hundredth time that week, he began taking apart the vehicle before its final piece could be attached. Every time he had near-completed the mechanized chair, the scientist had discovered critical design flaws, identified vital improvements, and thus would have no choice but to begin the construction process all over again from the beginning. His creation needed to be perfect. Never mind the first prototype had taken him mere joors to complete and had already been faster than any living organic could run.

Oops, didn’t see you there.

Red optics flashed, and Starscream lifted his arm high, his grip tight over the vehicle as he imagined throwing it across the lab. It would smash into the opposite wall and crumble apart. A week’s worth of work wasted. As had every moment spent with who it had been invented for.

He gritted his denta, frame stiff, then slowly lowered his arm and placed the vehicle on the table. His olfactorate wrinkled in distaste as he spotted more unintentional flaws in its make. The scientist had built better in less time during his few free periods at the Iacon Science Academy. The mechanized chair was shoddy, ugly work, constructed hastily, and in no way represented his ability as an inventor. That he had allowed another scientist, Perceptor, to even look upon it should have been a source of shame for Starscream.

Fortunately, the seeker was incapable of such an impractical emotion. It had done nothing for him in the Vosian lab where he was created, the city’s war academy, or at any point during his tenure in Iacon. So, as with all things that served him no purpose, Starscream had done away with it.

Oops, didn’t see you there.

The phrase had echoed down the Ark's halls ever since its first utterance. Ever since the news of a Decepticon attack on the power plant Chip had been meeting his sire at. Since that attack had resulted in three humans meeting their untimely end. Since a Decepticon triple-changer named Blitzwing had accidentally stepped on the wheeled organic while filling cubes with stolen energy, laughing out a sardonic, “Oops, didn’t see you there.”

That single sentence had followed Starscream into every room he entered and chased him from every room he left. Autobots repeated the phrase loudly as they bumped past him, though none he recognized had said it so brazenly to his faceplate, with the exception of Cliffjumper. Blue optics, wary before, had turned suspicious and blatantly hostile toward him.

Not all: Hound, Perceptor, and Ratchet had expressed their misplaced condolences and maintained their deception of civility. Bluestreak had kept his distance, and Jazz had offered him a single, sad smile before disappearing. He had not seen Prowl nor the Prime since the power plant incident. Or the revelation of Starscream’s near attempt on the Autobot leader’s life.

There had been no interrogation to follow Starscream revealing the bomb to Perceptor. However, that could have been due to the figurative bomb of Chip's death that had been delivered so shortly after. Now that the ensuing funeral arrangements were officially over and soon the ceremony itself, he could easily picture his period of grace ending and the Autobot second being given his way, permanently sealing the seeker deep inside the ship’s brig.

It stood to reason that if Starscream was going to soon spend the rest of his time in Autobot custody, grounded and locked away, he might as well allow his wings to feel fresh air at least one more time…and tend to Hound’s finical greenhouse while he was at it. A last and only parting gift for the Autobot he had despised the least (or found most tolerable) and his exaggerated, almost effectual, beneficence.

Starscream could always take his work with him, imperative yet simple as it was. A few breems outside would not completely deter his progress in the vehicle's design.

But he could not go yet. Not until he was sure the remaining Autobots had left and that Hound…would not see him doing it. There was no need to let the mech think he had in any way won their petty little debate. If it could even be called such.

A sanctimonious bot’s inane prattling was a better descriptor for the pleas of emotionality Hound had sermonized during their every recent encounter.  

He subspaced the vehicle and tapped his talons against the table’s surface, impatient for the hour to pass. Glancing down, he frowned at the scratches and deep, talon-tip-shaped holes that had been gouged into the metal surface over the week. All Hound’s fault, of course, what with the mech doing everything he could to draw the worst reactions out of the seeker.

No more. After this final night, Starscream would leave them as he should have done once his partner’s survival had been uncovered. He would gather the necessary supplies and leave in the morning. Where he would go next, the seeker did not know. All he knew was that he was done with the Autobots, their organics, and the care they endeavored to tend forth from him.

With the confusion they tried to instill in his spark.

Pushing away from the table, Starscream began to pace, his servos clasped firmly behind his back. Breems dragged by as he moved, the scientist counting down every one. His audials strained, listening for any activity outside the lab's door. There was none, and Starscream's pacing brought him closer until he stood directly opposite the door.

The final klick for the longest hour finally passed.

He exited the lab and moved swiftly through and out of the Ark, wing-sensors primed and wary for any unexpected Autobot presence. The resolve to leave the Autobots had left very little for his resolve to behave.

Outside of the Ark, he noted that the sun was beginning to lower, meaning it was well past time for the plants inside the greenhouse to have been watered. Hound must have genuinely been busy to neglect his pampered flora for so long—not that ostensible evidence of Hound's distress meant anything to the seeker.

His walk toward the greenhouse was measured, the seeker not wanting to appear eager to do as Hound asked in case the Spec Ops agent had remained behind, disguising himself with holograms as he had in the quarry. Upon entering the glass structure, obnoxiously bright colors and floral scents caused his derma to curl. The plants looked as healthy as Starscream remembered—as healthy as beings in a constant state of dying could be.

He would water them and no more. Never mind the Manuka was in a clear need of a trim. As was the Aloysia citrodora, and the Hopbush, and the…

His observations halted, and his attention was redirected to the clay-potted flowers seated on a bench directly below him. Tiny, with blue petals that blended into a white gradient, its center a yellow dot; Morning Glories. The first Earth flower that had caught his keen scientific interest.   

And where he had first slipped in Hound’s dripping with kindness, sweetly baited trap.

And somehow, between Starscream's return from the Arctic and the following week, Hound had procured a red Morning Glory. It stared at the seeker now. An entirely red flower with the only breakage in color being its yellow stem stretching out from the center. An ugly flower that Starscream could only narrow his optics at. And rant.

He tossed the watering can into a corner of the greenhouse and began to pace, arms folded behind his back and helm tilted forward as a very necessary diatribe forced its way up his tightened throat cables.

“Why would I waste my time by flying above a human’s funeral? It was not my fault it died early—and that, apparently, a century would have been considered a late, prolonged death? Twenty or one hundred; neither amount is relevant to a Cybertronian. A superior species. Even you, hideous flora, will wither and die long before I have even processed your relevance. Of which you have none, were you wondering. Oh, did you think I would treat you gently because of your owner’s words regarding how you respond to vocalizations? Please. If these Autobots cared about their pets this funeral would not be happening. What would? Retribution, of course. Accident or no, penance must be made, and I would gladly see it paid were I in a position to demand such. Skyfire should gift as much to me with how he has made me wait. A dead human, a week passed, and not a single comm? He will be lucky to be allowed to grovel at my pedes. A beautiful sight, yes, but one I am impatient to witness. What was that? Oh, I failed to assassinate the Prime? I did not fail—a refusal is not a failure. I do not fail. I do, however, have regrets. I should have planted that bomb on the Prime. Had I done so and then informed Skyfire, the Prime would be dead. This would have put the entire Autobot base on high alert. Definitely, no one would have been permitted to leave. Then Chip would never have…he wouldn't…"

Starscream caught himself from finishing the sentence, swallowing the words that felt abnormally like a lump in his throat. He glared down and was sorely tempted to crush the accusing flower beneath his heel-strut.

“What do you mean I shouldn’t have said those things to Hound? If the truth is cruel, it is only because the world is cruel—both this one and Cybertron. Were you not listening? He chose to stand there and endure the harsh whip of honesty. What, first I am blamed for Chip’s…for circumstances outside of my control, and now I am to be blamed for Hound’s masochism? What a burdened life I live.”

The blue morning glory caught his optic, and Starscream stomped a pede at it.

“No, I am not going and that’s final. If Hound could not convince me of it, you certainly stand no chance—no matter who you may resemble. Attractive for a flower, you are still just a flower. A worthless, short-lived organic that I hold no interest tending to and that I do not care about and never will. I never did. What an absurd declaration. I never—

Cool night air blew over his alt-mode, pushing beneath his wings and sending the seeker higher than was advisable from how it strained the limits of his electro-optical sensors.

Starscream flew well above and far behind the Autobot-human convoy, confident in their unawares of his voyeurism. The funeral and services provided took place much later than most others in the dominant species' culture. He surmised it had something to do with not drawing unnecessary attention to the brightly colored and red-badged troupe. Not that such was possible with two police cars and a large eighteen-wheeled Prime leading the procession.

Neither of the black and white enforcement vehicles gave off a Cybertronian signature. Neither one was Prowl, the mech Starscream had presumed to be the closest to the bots’ passed away pet. The praxian, like Starscream, must have understood how pointless such a ceremony was and had sequestered himself inside the Ark to complete far more important tasks.

That was what Starscream should have done, really, but that hideous red flower and its more attractive blue compatriot had proven to be excellent debaters who not even his silver-tipped glossa could win against.

His four-wheeled invention, while nowhere near the level of perfection the scientist held all his other creations to, was as complete as it could be without its intended recipient to measure from. Having no use for the vehicle himself, he might as well deposit it next to something equally as meaninglessly made; a headstone.

Or so the flower had told him.

Now flying above the convoy at an abysmally stagnant pace, he debated whether to wait another hour or two before leaving. Had he known the Autobots would be dragging themselves across the Earth's roads at one wheel rotation per-klick, he could have taken the time to freshen up his frame after building up a week's worth of work on his usually pristine frame. Oh, he hadn't let himself go, per se, but designing and building the mechanized wheelchair had taken up every spare klick of his time—leaving only time for a brief spritz of solvent in the washracks with little time left for a thorough scrubbing.

That the Autobots’ hostilities had left him reluctant to be anywhere but his quarters or the lab was an entirely unrelated happenstance.

The seeker’s paint still looked better than any grounders could, except perhaps the golden twin's. But that one (Sunny, was it?) was an outlier rarer than those whose sparks gave them unique abilities.  

An hour in the sky passed faster than the one spent on the ground, and Starscream transformed to root-mode as he watched the convoy near what he presumed to be a graveyard; a long swath of grass covered by stones, some neatly carved and others appearing as little more than rubble. He pulled out a cleansing cloth and idly rubbed it along his plating while the line of cars transitioned from smooth pavement to rough gravel.

A thick coniferous forest surrounded the graveyard on all sides. Only one gravel road led to it, cutting through the trees in an uneven line.

The Autobots transformed, walking with a large group of humans, all wearing black coverings and all too small for the seeker to make out individually at the height he flew above. They went towards what looked like the top of a black tent and a freshly dug hole.

Turning his attention from the mecha and their pets, his optics roved over the forest's canopy, searching for a place far away enough to land that it wouldn't disturb the morose ceremony. Because he didn't want the Autobots overtly aware of his presence. Because then they would get the inane idea that he was there because he cared. Because then Hound would approach him and say things like grief, closure, and Star.

And overcomplicate what was supposed to be nothing more than a simple dumping of useless machinery.

Spotting a clearing still too small to fit a mech of his size but the best without flying miles out, Starscream landed as quietly as a Cybertronian jet could in a densely packed forest filled with fragile plantae and fleeing birds. Branches snapped, and more than a few feathers landed on his shoulders as the feathered animals flew away in fear. The appropriate organic response to a Cybertronian's presence. He brushed away the fallen branches and feathers as he pushed through the forest, taking quick glances down to be sure he wasn’t…so that his heel-struts would not be covered in some woodland creature’s mess.

Reaching the edge, Starscream stepped out far enough that his wings no longer scraped against bark or pine needles but remained close enough that his frame was still enshrouded in the forest's shadow.

Humans and Autobots alike stood around the hole in the ground where a wooden box had been lifted over; Optimus Prime stood behind the entire group, his bright blues and reds standing out amongst the black. All the attending Autobots looked obtusely out of place compared to the more drearily clothed humans.

Dimly, he watched as the Prime began reciting some well-rehearsed speech; he didn’t bother attempting to hear what was being said. It wasn’t worth the audial strain.

The Autobot leader’s droning continued for a full breem, only ending once the truck’s smokestacks began to smoke. Starscream’s vents became short and shallow at the site, bearing witness to the Prime's mourning, bringing forth a feeling of…discomfort within him. It was embarrassing—for the Prime.

A leader of their people should not appear so weak, especially when performing ceremonial rites before an alien species.

Just as the casket was being lowered, his wings flicked high, and his helm whipped around to where they felt a sudden change from behind. His red optics narrowed, more disconcerted by his lack of awareness than the identity of the approaching black-and-white mech.

How had it taken Starscream so long to notice him?

Undergrowth cracked and snapped underpede as Prowl stepped just outside the tree line and stood with arms folded behind his back next to the seeker. The praxian said nothing in greeting, and neither did Starscream. It was enough to be equipped with the knowledge he was not the only mecha with any sense left. Prowl, too, had forgone participating in the universe's saddest parade. And that even standing mere feet apart, Prowl, too, stood just as alone as he.

They stood in silence and watched as humans threw dirt over the casket, Autobots patted and hugged each other, flowers were left in offering, and—a human collapsed onto his knees, and Bumblebee rushed forward, lifting and holding him close to his chassis.

Starscream did not need to zoom his optics in to know the human was Spike.

When the crowd of humans and Autobots finally began to disperse, Starscream snarked, “And here I thought they would never leave. Did the Prime want to watch him decompose? I’ve learned their embalming process makes it rather—”

“Starscream,” Prowl interjected cooly. “We are on what humans claim is sacred ground. It is a species-wide tradition to be respectful while on such grounds. If you are unable to follow planetary custom, I will have no choice but to ask you to leave.”

The seeker’s mouth hung open, affronted. He placed a servo over his hip, optics narrowing. “We are not even at the funeral or in the graveyard unless you're implying the trees are offended. Or were you referring to the insects crawling beneath our pedes? True, there is hardly any difference between them and the barely evolved—”

Cooly, the praxian interrupted, “The graveyard’s property line ends approximately one mile, one hundred and twenty-three feet, point zero three inches behind where we stand. That is using the country’s imperial system. If you would like, I can repeat the distance in the more commonly utilized—”

Starscream waved him off with a grunt, “I know how to do conversions. Don’t overstrain yourself.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said, to which the seeker’s only response was an irritated wing flick. He then, without giving the action much thought, took the mechanized wheelchair out from subspace and began to tinker with its exposed internals. There were still improvements to be made.

It wasn’t until the last of the Autobots had driven away that Prowl interrupted the seeker’s tinkering by asking, “Was that for him?”

He looked up from his creation and cocked an optic ridge, wondering since when Prowl needed someone to point out the obvious.

The praxian inclined his helm, “I was informed you were designing an alternate mode of transportation for Chip. Though I was given no estimation of the project's completion. It is unfortunate you were unable to…no, the fault is ours. We should have provided greater protection for our human allies, especially one as vulnerable as Chip. Perhaps then we could have prevented the need for this ceremony.”

Starscream scoffed, “Even if Chip had stood on two legs, unless they were mechanized, he could not have outrun a triple-changer's gate." He then pointed a digit at the praxian's chassis, entreating, “He hated that you treated him so differently from your other human pets; he felt neglected by comparison.”

Blue optics cycled before Prowl admitted, “I…did not know. He never expressed any dissatisfaction with us or his treatment.” 

“He didn’t want you to know; Chip told me secrets he told no other, you see.” Starscream had meant for the words to sound boastful, for him to be gloating over how much closer he had been to the human pet than Prowl, its owner. Instead, the quietly spoken boast sounded almost…bereft.

He should try again.

“Chip’s relationship with his sire was poor, and he missed his carrier. He once had a crush on the human Spike—crush is their word for unrequited affection. I find it quite apt for the feeling. And Chip wasn’t so terrible, for an organic that is. We even had a few, not very many, similarities. Chip was not as brilliant a scientist as I, but for an organic, or perhaps even for a Cybertronian, his coding skills were…impressive. It must be very regretful that he—his skills are no longer at your disposal.”

Prowl’s steady vigil over the human’s grave remained impassive, and it was a full klick before the praxian agreed, “Very regretful.”

Derma twisting into a frown, he fiddled with the wheels of his creation.

“They are a weak species,” he stated.

“Fragile,” Prowl affirmed.

“Short-lived.”

“Fleeting.”

“Primitive.”

“Precious,” Prowl husked, vocals choking with something that couldn’t be emotion.

The Autobot's posture was rigid as ever, wings at a professionally neutral angle, and his field was practically non-existent because it was held so closely to his frame. The only difference Starscream could detect were the dimming of blue optics, brimming with something the seeker would not name.

It would be disrespectful to do so and to call attention to such a serious mech's duress. And while he still considered the species lesser, he would adhere to the planetary custom Prowl had informed him of—to show respect while on what humans declared sacred ground.

So, whatever had overcome Prowl, Starscream looked away from it. He afforded the praxian the same courtesy he would have expected should such an unknowable thing ever caused his own vocalizer to glitch.

They stood in that normal, not at all uncomfortable silence for what felt like joors, but it was only a breem before a rectangular, yellow car with a white light atop its hood was driving up the cemetery’s gravel road.

The door opened, and out stumbled a portly male human holding a brown bottle of some sort. It fell to the ground, and the door slammed shut. The yellow car sped off as the man began crawling along the grass.

Prowl sighed tiredly, "I had predicted this as a possibility, but I had hoped my calculations would prove erroneous."

The mech then left their position by the treeline and began walking toward the graveyard. Curious, Starscream followed, and in only a few steps, they were drawing near the gravestone the seeker had been very intent on avoiding.

Before he could ask why this particular human’s appearance warranted their intervention, it had wiggled its way onto the freshly dug Earth. Red optics flashed, and he lifted a pede, determined to kick it for such impertinence, but he was stopped by Prowl kneeling down next to it.

The praxian hovered a servo over the wailing human, his vocals strangely gentle as he said, "Mr. Chase, it is late; please allow me to take you home."

Mr. Chase? But, according to human nomenclature, that would make this worm-like human—

“Is that Chip’s sire?” Starscream inquired, helm inclining back in revulsion. Surely not.

Prowl nodded, “Yes, he refused to attend but was given the—”

A warbled cry cut the Autobot off, the human berating with slurred words, “This is your fault! If you damn aliens had never come here—he was all I had, and you killed him! You took my boy!”

Starscream lifted a pede to kick the squiggling primate, but Prowl’s monotonous vocals reached it before the seeker could.

“Yes, Mr. Chase, the fault lies entirely with me, now please—” The praxian transformed and a white, back door swung open. "—get inside so that I may take you home. It is late, and you are in poor health."

The human rolled onto his back and kicked at the door or tried to; its legs bucked uselessly against the ground. It lifted the brown bottle to its lips, which were covered by bristles of brown fur, and the police car visibly sagged into his wheels.

“Starscream, if you would please place Mr. Chase inside my cabin, I will take him home.”

With a disgusted sneer, he picked the human up off the ground and raised it until the meaty thing was directly in front of his faceplate. His grip tightened, and he was oh-so tempted to squeeze until he felt weak bones snap, until the creature’s putrid insides popped out of its many orifices. A fate that it deserved

His olfactorate flared and engine growled; his denta clenched, vocals pushing through them in a heated whisper, “You didn’t deserve him.”

Starscream then tossed the human into Prowl’s waiting cabin, his derma quirking in a sadistic grin when he heard the repugnant creature cry out in pain as its head banged against the opposite door.

A seatbelt wrapped itself around the human’s prone form, and the open door closed. "I will bring Mr. Chase to the nearest hospital; it may be prudent to have the contents of his stomach purged. I will not remain with him for the duration of the procedure. I will return shortly to the Ark.” After a short pause, Prowl added, "If there are more matters regarding Chip that we were not previously aware of that you would like to bring to my attention...there is time in my schedule for it after I return."

“…There may be,” Starscream conceded. 

Apparently, his noncommittal answer was enough for the Autobot second as red and blue lights flashed atop the praxian, though no siren sounded. Starscream stood by the grave as he watched the mech leave. He waited until the lights were no longer visible through the trees before he looked down at Chip’s gravestone.

“I will be leaving this with you,” he informed rock. “It is useless to me and one of the worst things I have ever built. Had you survived, we might have collaborated and it might, well, not that it matters now.”

He then placed the little vehicle beside the carved stone and argued with what was written. "You will not be missed, Chip Chase, not by me. Though…I would not have minded so terribly to know you longer. If I can even consider anything less than a deca-vorn longer.”

Indifferent wings drooped, and he looked back toward the tree line, searching past them for any possible prying optics—Prowl could have doubled back—before telling the grave, “The Autobots should have never allowed you to leave their base unsupervised. Were you my pet, this never would have happened. And while I do not bear any blame or blame myself…I do wish I had claimed you sooner.”

The ceremonial stone was silent, and Starscream cleared his intake, sparing it one final glance. "Well then…goodbye, human." And then, for good measure, added, "I will not be back."

Starscream walked several paces away before transforming, careful not to burn the other graves' flower offerings as he took off into the air. He didn't look down or back as he rose high into the now early morning sky. It was still midnight blue, but the stars were fading as the sun threatened to rise.

His flight back to the Ark was slow, the seeker in no rush to return to what would be his final night of recharge within its copper hull. The previous night not having counted as Starscream had not actually been inside the Ark for it; a technicality.

But then, what did a sapient, robotic race live off of if not technicals?

The sun had only started to peak over the horizon, coloring thin clouds pink, when the half-buried ship came into view. He lowered himself and did not pause his descent even after sighting Jazz standing outside its main door. The Autobot third had his arms crossed over his chassis, visor reflecting the approaching dawn.

Transforming, he landed as lightly as a several-ton mech could on the dewy desert ground. Wet sand stuck to the bottom of his pedes as he marched forward. Deciding to ignore the bot, Starscream continued into the Ark without glancing in Jazz's direction, only to be stopped by smooth vocals just as the doors slid open.

“Prowl’s almost here if you wanna wait for him in his office, or the lab, or ya know, wherever you’re comfortable,” Jazz casually greeted.

His helm still facing the Ark’s doors, and after only a moment’s deliberation, Starscream inquired, “…Where is his office?”

Drawing out the first word, Jazz answered, “All the way down the first hallway and to the left; you can't miss it. The twins tagged his door a few days ago, and he hasn't gotten around to making them scrub it off yet.”

The seeker said no more, and he continued forward into the Ark; Jazz's quiet chuckles following him until the doors closed.

He only made it halfway down the hall before his wings began to shake, servos clenching as he was assaulted by the Autobots' unrestrained fields. Their grief pressed against him from all sides; misery itching its way across his wings. Starscream tried to continue forward, but the Autobots' sorrow was overwhelming, almost like a physical barrier preventing him from entering their mournful sanctuary.

It was as though the ship itself were alive and grieving, the pressure surrounding him was so unrelenting. Before an exploitable weakness, the Autobots' freely expressed fields had become a weapon turned against the seeker; it stabbed him directly through the spark.

He glared at the copper floor, his servos clenched into fists at his sides. Never one to stand and take a beating as it was levied at him, Starscream sharply pivoted and marched out of the Ark as quickly as his long legs could carry him.

With all the force of someone who had been physically pushed, he staggered out of the Ark; hunching over, venting rapidly, and canopy heaving. Remembering the Autobot third, he lifted his helm in the mech's direction. He froze, red optics widening.

Standing with servos on each other’s hips, pressed forehelm to chevron, were Jazz and Prowl.

A sudden dark feeling entered his spark, causing his optics to burn. The emotion was not some unknowable thing. No, it was an emotion Starscream knew quite well. It had followed him from Vos to Iacon and now into a dystopian future.

Bitterness, a black and bubbling mass, welled up inside him like hot tar. It clogged his fuel lines, stuffed itself down his intake, choking him on the impotence of want.

He needed to leave before it could flood his spark.

Throwing the Autobots a harsh glare, the seeker transformed, mechanical-sequencing sounds finally drawing the couple apart.

His turbines whined to life, pointed fire bursting out his exhaust.

Prowl started toward him, servo raised, and shouted over the roar of jet engines, “Starscream? Where are you—”

He took off, blasting as fast as he could fly into the sky. The Ark was a spec in his reverse optical-sensors in mere klicks.

A comm frequency pinged him, then another, and another, and—Starscream blocked every comm frequency that had contacted him since awakening in this horrid future. All except one.

Slowing once he was certain the Autobots would not, could not, pursue him, Starscream waited. He circled in the air, and he waited. Morning shifted to noon, and he waited.

Skyfire did not comm him once.

Giving in, he sent one of his own; no time, just a location. The coordinates had no expiration date.

And so Starscream took his time flying toward them. Not too long, only a few joors, just enough time for the sun to reach its peak in the sky. But he could wait no more, impatient as he was to be reunited, and flew toward the quarry.

As the layered, rocky hollow came into view, he sent Skyfire another comm; no answer.

Starscream flew faster in frustration, only slowing to transform before he landed, helm on a swivel as he looked around the quarry for any signs of his partner. With no comm and no visual on the shuttle, his spark began to sink—and then it stopped spinning, dead in his chassis.

A set of red optics glowed from where Skyfire had emerged during their first reunion, just past the opening, where the light could not shine. The rest of the mech's frame, Skyfire's—for it had to be Skyfire—was obscured by the black nothing that filled the rest of the tunnel.

Their optics locked, the other’s cycling before disappearing; the mech had moved deeper into the cave. Starscream pinged Skyfire, received no answer, and followed.

His plating tightened as he stepped inside. While tall and wide enough to fit a shuttle, such an enclosed space did not settle well in Starscream's spark. He could not fly once inside, and his wings would put him at a disadvantage in close-quarters combat. All irrelevant considerations, given it was Skyfire he was following beneath the Earth.

His plating loosened when he saw the familiarly shaped, though now purple, rectangular back kibble of a shuttle. Deeper and deeper, they descended into the tunnel. A soft, barely felt breeze brushed around Skyfire; the tunnel must have had a second opening someways ahead of them.

Skyfire stopped before they reached it, and Starscream nearly bumped into the mech's back because of its suddenness. He opened his mouth and closed it as his partner turned to face him, Skyfire stating, “Prime still lives, yet you have called me here. Why?”

That…was not what Starscream had commed his partner to discuss. It set him immediately on the defensive, and he quickly processed an explanation that would likely placate the shuttle—he could bring up the real reason he had commed Skyfire and the suggestion that the Decepticon second instruct his subordinates to be more careful when around humans after.

“Optimus is not like the other Primes,” he explained. “If I’m wrong, correct me, but he said the Autobots are no longer functionalist and…Skyfire, he respects me as a scientist. You know how much that means to me, how difficult it was for me in Iacon under the previous Prime and—and I have a fan there. An Autobot scientist who said I was the one to inspire him to go against functionalism.”

Starscream allowed his field to reach out, excitement tempered only by circumstance. It brushed against his partner's more restrained field, imploring them to mesh. He wanted to know what Skyfire was thinking and feeling; he had never not known, not since the first day they met.

The shuttle’s field did not reach back as he responded, “I do not care that they no longer claim to uphold the functionalist ideals that incited their resistance—I care that they are Autobots.” Then, more impassively, he added, “Anything else is subsidiary.”

Starscream’s wings, raised high in anticipation, fell.

Disappointment sharpened his vocals. "This war started to end functionalism. I am right about that, at least. Or am I? Tell me, Skyfire, why does this war over the fate of an already dead planet persist?"

“It persists because your spark, unburdened by war, was too weak to do as I commanded. I should have known. The worst of your threats were only just that, threats. Tell me, Starscream, how many times did you threaten to kill the ISR council without following through?”

Because of you! He wanted to snarl. Because of what you would think of me if I did!

Starscream had wanted to do it and had planned their deaths in a thousand different ways. Over and over, he would imagine killing every council member who had ever treated him like a common war drone. He had schemed and plotted, and every time he came close to enacting a plan—Skyfire would look at him, blue optics wide, innocent, loving, smiling as he asked if Starscream was up for another expedition.

His best-laid plans had melted in the face of that smile.

“Killing a Prime is not so easily done. If it were, I doubt a force comprised almost entirely of warbuilds would struggle so fiercely and for so long to defeat a civilian army. Your command," he scoffed. "Was a loyalty test, nothing more. And when have you ever known me to fail a test? A fairly given test and not one so blatantly designed for me to fail. Strange how you killed the ISR council and yet behave so much like them."

Red optics, not his own, burned brighter at the gibe. Starscream did not stop.

“Why is it that the Autobots you hate so much have treated me better than the mech I—” He cut himself with a sharp grinding of gears.

Starscream hadn’t commed his partner so they could fight. Their conversation was not going as he had predicted, and a gross worry that it would end as all their previous ones had, with the shuttle leaving the seeker behind if he did not take control and change its trajectory, gnawed at him. He needed to do something, say something, anything, to make Skyfire understand that he did not care about the war. He did not care about anything except them. Their partnership, their future, their—

“You should say it to him next time you meet and see if it changes anything.”

“Would it have for you?”

“Maybe, but now I’ll never know.”

Dusty air cycled through his vents as Starscream took a slow, steadying vent. Faceplate firm with determination, he implored, “Skyfire, I lo—“

“—I had thought ordering the death of your pet would teach you the folly of trusting Autobots.”

Every line of thought in Starscream's processor was simultaneously deleted. His mind was, for the first time, blank. Then Skyfire's words repeated in his hollow helm; their impossible implication soon filled the space. No, Skyfire could not possibly mean…the shuttle was only being relative and giving an example of…of…

Starscream tried to smile, disbelieving, and faltered, “Skyfire…Chip’s death was an accident.”

The look Skyfire answered him with was incredulous as he exclaimed, “You named it?”

The seeker's optics cycled, and he tilted his helm, optic-ridges drawn. The shuttle's wings were the same, and his shape and deep vocals were no different from what Starscream remembered. The color was off, wrong, but everything else was the same. Skyfire had to be the same. Yet, Starscream could do nothing to stop the faithless coalescence of their every recent interaction from combining into one horrific question.

Who was he looking at?

Starscream’s optics were correct, but his audials were unreliable. They had to be. The conclusion drawn from his logic-drive, usually peerless, was faulty. He was looking at Skyfire, but what he had heard must have been someone else, or it was an auditory feedback glitch that insinuated the inconceivable. Yes, of course. A week's worth of stress had accumulated into this one moment. It was causing the seeker to malfunction as he had during their first reunion—because his partner would never do something as unconditionally evil as order a human child killed to teach Starscream a lesson.

With a single hesitant step forward and a servo raised, he softly intoned, “…Skyfire?”

The whip of a furious field was the only warning Starscream had before a black servo lashed out and took him by a wing. The Decepticon bent forward, denta bared as he growled low, “My name. Is Jetfire.”

The servo gripping his wing clenched, the metal bending beneath. Pain sensors electrified the seeker’s circuitry with their intensity. Proximity warnings flashed across his HUD, and his fans spun loudly as panic sliced through his processor, cutting away every other thought and leaving him with only one.

Soaring above the cacophony of agony, it roared—run.

He keened, trembling as he violently jerked away from the crushing hold on his wing. Unprepared to be released so abruptly, he stumbled back, almost falling as he twisted away from the detected danger. He ran.

Sprinting toward the cave’s exit, Starscream gasped in fear as booming vocals pursued, “Starscream, wait—!”

Free of the cave's confines, fire burst from his heel-struts, and he rose into the air. His transformation cog activated, but before he could begin to shift, he froze.

Lined up on every level of the quarry, surrounding him completely, were Decepticons. He spun in a slow circle, optics wide. None he knew; all had blasters pointed in his direction. Terror tried to shackle him in place, but he shook himself free of it. Starscream pushed himself higher, calling on his speed, and—

“Fire!”

A hailstorm of blaster fire rained down on him. Scorching pain erupted everywhere he was hit: his wings, his legs, and his back. A shot landed directly over his canopy, threatening the rapidly pulsing spark shielded beneath. Another blasted cleanly through one of his pedes, and the thruster sputtered to nothing; his equilibrium in the air twisted.  

Spinning in the air, one of the quarry walls approached; his back crashed against it, his helm smashing backwards onto the rock. The impact caused one of his optics to crack and then shatter, the red glass clinking down as it landed against his damaged armor. He slid from where he had crashed, his wings scraping painfully against the rocky surface as gravity pulled him further down. He didn't register when he hit the ground.

His helm listed forward, emergency protocols already draining his energy and redirecting it all into heightened self-repair systems. Energon pooled inside the cracked open optic, building up until, with nowhere else to go, it oozed over the broken-jagged edges of glass and spilled down his faceplate in one thick, pink line.

With some awareness of the danger he was still in, Starscream tried to focus his remaining optic upward. His vision was obscured by warnings and repair initiations filling his HUD. But beneath it all, atop the quarry, he thought he saw something blue holding back something purple.

Before he could even attempt to focus his gaze, a long shadow fell over him, and soon, a darkly painted frame blocked his view.

Skyfire crouched before him, his chin raised high as he looked down at the fallen flier.

“Oh, Starscream,” Skyfire crooned as he reached forward and cupped the side of the seeker’s helm. “You’ve disappointed me.”

Too weak to flinch and unable to lift his helm, it lolled to the side, resting heavily on the servo cupping it, the touch being the gentlest Skyfire had given him since they’d been reunited. The shuttle's thumb brushed over Starscream's cheek, just underneath his broken optic, smearing the energon that had spilled.

A loud voice shouted from above, “It’s the Autobots!”

Skyfire glanced upward then back down, the shuttle's expression unreadable. The seeker could no longer see well enough to discern more than blurry shapes—red, black, purple—all blending together in an unrecognizable mass.

“But in remembrance of our former partnership, I shall grant you this one final act of mercy.”

The large mech leaned further down, hot vents ghosting across Starscream's faceplate as he whispered, "Leave this planet, leave this war. I will not chase, and you will not follow."

He then released Starscream’s helm; it fell forward. More words followed the Decepticon’s declaration of mercy, but the damaged seeker could not hear them. His audials returned nothing but static; the last of his vision started to fade.

Black dots began to spot across his vision, and the scratching hiss of static filled his processor as the ground beneath him began to rumble. Then nothing—all was dark.

Starscream stood with his arms folded in front of him, optics skeptically roving over the black horizon. Stellar clusters of purple and blue glowed faintly, their glimmers of dotted light appearing deceptively close. From the seeker's position on the asteroid—a stony thing covered in a bright, blue-green grassy substance—the stars looked close enough to touch; all he needed to do was reach out a blue servo and grasp one. But that was one of the many dangers of space exploration; gauge of accurate distance. The white glows would take millions of light-years to reach.

Or they would have if not for the space-worthy shuttle currently seated on the same asteroid as him, the mech’s beautifully long, white legs dangling off its side and excitedly swinging.

The detour from their meticulously planned return to Cybertron had been said shuttle's idea. Skyfire had picked up the building, ionized solar winds, and declared a need for shelter. Before the seeker could protest such a need, the mech had landed on the little asteroid and ushered Starscream out of him, all so they could avoid a natural phenomenon they had flown through a thousand times over.

In no hurry to deliver their less fruitful findings to the ISR council or the blustering threats to cut their funding that often followed, Starscream had decided to entertain his partner’s unexpected dalliance.

Abruptly and without turning to face the seeker, Skyfire asked, “Do you think a sky can exist without stars?”

Starscream lifted an optic ridge, tilting his helm in the shuttle's direction as he considered the question. However, he quickly shut down that line of query as several errors presented themselves along his HUD.

“That is a question that contains several illogical fallacies—would you like me to point them out in alphabetical or egregiously unscientific order?”

“Humor me instead,” Skyfire smiled, lifting an arm in that wordless come-here way of his.

Starscream sighed with exaggerated exasperation, “I do nothing but.”

And then he was moving, side-sitting as he settled in close to his partner, leaning in while the larger mech placed his raised arm around the seeker and drew him closer. Starscream rested his helm against Skyfire’s side, optics dimming from the comforting thrum of his dearest’s spark.

Hesitating for only a moment, Starscream pursed his derma before declaring, “You know, it’s more scientifically accurate to say that a star cannot exist without a sky.”

Obviously pleased by the seeker’s indulgence, Skyfire’s blue optics brightened, calling attention to the handsome cut of his cheeks. “Is that so?

Starscream nodded against white plating, vocals matter of fact. “If a star were to exist without a sky, that is to say without external pressure from the dark matter that encompasses what we call a sky, the continuous nuclear reactions that empower a star’s solar energy could very well continue to expand past its initial formation; burning everything in its path.”

Skyfire shook him gently in jest. “Ooh, how terrifying. What a destructive little Star I’ve partnered with.” The shuttle then leaned down to press a tender kiss atop the seeker’s helm.

Starscream huffed but could do nothing to stop a small smile from forming at the praise. "It's all hypothetical; to test such, we might have to destroy the universe—and since when was this about me?”

“When isn’t it about you?” Skyfire quipped, but soon, the teasing gave way to a familiar warmth as the shuttle’s affectionate field encompassed them both. Their plating creaked pleasantly together as Skyfire dolefully murmured, “I’m glad we’ll never have to test that theory.”

Starscream hummed his agreement and would have wrapped his own arm around his partner if not for the mech’s cumbersome back-kibble. He settled for lightly scraping the tip of a wing up the rectangular, red protrusion and grinned when he felt an answering shudder.

They then both turned their gaze to the endless expanse of space that had become more home to the explorers than even their shared apartment on Cybertron. In the distance, thin coppery clouds began to form, flashes of light followed by silent thunder. The meteor shower had started—falling stars, his partner had admiringly called them. Starscream had mock-laughed and warned the shuttle against trying to catch one in response.

Skyfire had promptly retorted with an amorous gaze that he already had. And Starscream, well, Starscream hadn't spoken to him for the rest of the cycle after that.

Pulled from his musings, the seeker leaned forward as his wing sensors detected a shift in the cosmic cloud’s direction. His optics narrowed, and then—he stiffened.

Distance in space was impossible to tell with sight alone, but a seeker's wings were sensitive to all aerial changes, and he knew with sudden certainty what danger the explorers were in.

A meteor had broken away from where the others were falling and was speeding toward them. It flew at their seated forms faster than any space-built flier was capable, outside of hyper-speed.

It was massive. And it was on fire. Blue and white flames engulfed the massive rock as it raced toward them. Its heated glow covered them both, and Starscream rushed into action.

“Skyfire, we need to move,” he hissed. When the shuttle didn’t respond, Starscream stood and shook him, this time shouting, “We need to move, get up!”

Skyfire sat stock-still, optics wide and the palest blue Starscream had ever seen them.

“Skyfire!” He called.

 Still no response. With a frustrated growl, Starscream grabbed the shuttle's arm and pulled, his pedes scrabbling against the grassy rock as the larger mech refused to budge.

“Skyfire! Move!”

Screeching in anger, he tried to forcefully move the bigger mech, turbines roaring with the effort. They needed to escape before the meteor reached the asteroid. There were maybe klicks left before the burning comet crashed into them. No, not klicks. Seconds, then astro-seconds. Still, the shuttle did not move, his field an impenetrable wall of terror.

“Skyfire!”

A sudden wave of flame-licked heat fell against his plating, causing Starscream’s helm to snap up—and all was white.

A single red optic slowly flickered online, its low crimson light doing little to abate the white nothing filling Starscream’s mono-sight vision. Klicks passed slowly by before the white began to haze away, revealing a blurry, too frequently visited countenance.

Ratchet was leaning over him, though Starscream’s optic was not functional enough to tell what expression he wore.

“Back in the land of the living, I see,” the medic gruffed. “You know, when I said you should crash more often, I wasn’t being literal.”

Starscream said nothing to that and made no move as the Autobot’s boxy form left his limited line of sight, an awkward cough following the medic’s departure.

The mediberth beneath him was softer than the last time Starscream had lain on it, but the lack of pain in his wings pulled no smug reaction from the seeker. Though, that was perhaps because he felt nothing. No pain, no aches where he knew there should be. No tearing heat from where a quick diagnostic scan told him his wing was still bent.

What a terrible memory flux.

He hadn't realized it at the time, but the oncoming meteor had left Skyfire immobilized by fear. The shuttle's gears had ground together in abject terror, and his flight protocols had refused to activate, a glitch that could only be generated in a mech unfamiliar with life-threatening danger. Even with his large size, Skyfire had been a civilian frame through and through.

It had torn something in Starscream’s arms to do it, but the seeker had used every modicum of strength his warbuild gave him to toss the shuttle off the asteroid just in time to avoid being hit. The damage Starscream sustained from such a maneuver had, in turn, rendered him unable to flee in time, and he had been hit by the full, speeding force of a flaming rock hurtling through space.

During their accelerated flight back to Cybertron, Starscream hadn’t known what would kill him first—the energon loss or Skyfire’s constant, blubbering, audial-cracking apologies.

“You’ve been out for a few days,” Ratchet started back up again, pulling Starscream from the past and back into his discordant present. “I’ve repaired the worst of your internal damage; all that's left are cosmetic repairs. The wings can be buffed out today, and new paint applied once the rest of the dents are out. Replacing your optical lens will take longer. We don’t carry your…shade here, but I’ve put an order in with—”

“Blue,” Starscream interrupted, vocals devoid of…everything. “Make them blue.”

The rustling, clanking sounds of moving tools filled the silence his statement had created. From somewhere to his left, he heard a heavy vent and the tap-tap-tapping of blunt digits against a metal table. Starscream attempted to run coordinated commands to his unresponsive limbs; his talons twitched.

Sounding even further away, Ratchet assented softly, “Yeah, alright, I can do that.”

With no follow-on questions or assertions from the medic, Starscream began the arduous task of raising himself from the medberth. He grits his denta, arms trembling from the strain of his own weight. But he persevered, not stopping until he was seated upright and had swung his legs over the side of the berth.

He dug his talons into its edge to stop himself from falling over.

Using what little strength remained, he lifted his helm and stared up at the copper ceiling that had been his first welcome to the future—and was struck by a startling, hysterical realization. Had he the strength, he would have laughed; as it was, his chassis could only burn, his spark twisting into comical spirals in its casing. The knowledge warmed him, easing away the numbness that had consumed his frame. His grip on the berth's edge tightened, his talons piercing the metal as his shaking finally stopped.

Orns past since the seeker had first been discovered and freed from what he had last perceived to be an icy tomb: Autobots and Decepticons met, unwanted trine discovered, a world gone, a new Prime, an ill-thought bond with an organic formed and destroyed.

And nothing, absolutely nothing, had changed since Starscream had first awoken in the Ark’s medbay and been informed of all he had lost.

The Decepticons had taken Skyfire from him—and they were going to pay.

Season One end.

Chapter Text

Songs that vibed for Season 1 or were suggested by readers:

• Something In The Orange by Zach Bryan (this one was on repeat EVERY chapter, number 1 by far)
• young forever by Nessa Barrett, Full Album (but specifically unnecessary violence and die first)
• New Soul by Nael Yaem (suggested by notthefirsttimeiveeatenglue via ask on tumblr and it really works SO well)
• Partner In Crime by Madilyn Mei (suggested by JeiRifni via comment and it's so good!)

Fanart:

• Art I commissioned for Chapter 1 vibes, by jei-rifni on tumblr
• Cute depiction of Skywarp jumping Star in chapter 4, by quill-wort on tumblr 
• Another great depiction of Skywarp jumping Star in chapter 4, by thecrocodrille on tumblr 
• Perceptor being the dorky fanboy/Skystar shipper he...was, by thecrocodrille on tumblr
• A beautiful piece of the "You hate organics" "And You loved them." in chapter 5, by beriuos on blsky