Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In Starscream’s honest (and very humble) opinion, this was one of the worst days of his life.

And that’s against some very steep competition, you know! Millennia upon millennia of having the worst luck known to Cybertron and beyond really lends itself to a never-ending stream of horrible events that all culminate into an ever-present world-weariness and severe paranoia, all channeled into one (unfortunately small) seeker.

Today in particular, though, seemed to deviate from his usual pattern of bad luck, in the form of an irate Autobot.

The universe and the forces-that-be had apparently decided to come crashing down around him to punish him for misdeeds untold, but this time, he had no idea what to expect. At least when Megatron punished him, Starscream could wager a guess as to what was going to happen. There's only so many times you can beat the pit out of someone before it starts to get predictable. Comfortable, even.

But the Autobots. . . 

“This. . . is for Cliffjumper!” a voice snarled, words laced with enough venom to kill, as if her blades couldn’t do the job.

Well, at least I know what the two-wheeler will do to me. Consolation prize.

Starscream doubts that her illustrious leader would allow such a thing, however. Wherever that stupid wretch was.

“Go on, do it,” he goaded, a joyless grin cutting his face, “Megatron will only terminate me for treason if I dare return to the Decepticons.”

At his own words, Starscream unwittingly let out a sigh. That was always it, wasn't it? It struck him just how little difference the two circumstances held in his mind; be killed by his enemy or by his supposed ally, pick the least painful way to die.

And Starscream was almost certain the Autobots held more mercy for him in their sparks than Megatron ever did, if that says anything.

“You may as well be the one to put me out of my misery,” he snarled, unable to truly rid his voice of the despondent quality that overcame it.

At this, Arcee gave pause, reeling back minutely with a look that could almost be described as conflicted, all to Starscream’s utter shock. 

What, that’s what does it? Is she surprised? Which part caught her attention, his semi-serious acquiescence to her killing him or his admittance of being miserable?

The hesitation didn’t last long, however, as no longer than a second passed and she was back to thrusting her blades against his neck cables.

“As if I needed convincing,” Arcee hissed, servos twitching as she prepared to plunge her knives into his throat.

A sudden bolt of panic shot through Starscream’s chassis, previous apathy forgotten in the face of his imminent deactivation. No matter their outlook, he supposed a mech always feared deactivation, in the end.

“W-what!? Wait, no! ” he cried, struggling to free himself, use his missiles, kick her off, anything, but Arcee was already reeling back and—

A loud bleeping knocked Starscream out of his panicked haze. He turned to look in its direction—as did his aggressor—to find the Autobot scout, staring down at them from his perch on a boulder.

He whirred again, looking directly into the femme’s optics, tilting his helm and reaching forward. Starscream didn’t have the energy nor the wherewithal to attempt to decipher the scout’s incessant beeping. 

His attacker, however, did.

After a few moments more of the staring contest between the scout and the two-wheeler, the femme whirled back towards her quarry, sneering. The shredding cuts that Starscream had expected never came, and he was instead shoved roughly onto the dusty ground, landing hard against his strained wing joints. Any newfound hopes of fleeing were quickly dashed by the feeling of cuffs locking back over his wrists.

What the pit?

He was not dead, but he hadn't escaped either. Whatever the scout had said, it led to the Arcee abandoning her assault and instead locking him back up. 

Starscream didn’t know whether or not he should be grateful, considering the state of things.

Now now, Starscream, no need to panic! You can still get out of this, you still have your legs! You just have to—

A blaster shot rang out and a searing pain caught him right in the seams of his knee joint, completely shattering it and rendering the leg useless. It was only his exhaustion that prevented a pathetic scream from making it past his lips.

M-maybe not. . .

Through the blinding haze of pain, Starscream barely processed the two-wheeler collapsing before him, nor the little scout’s frantic chirps as he skid down the rock towards his teammate.

Oh come on, I’ve been through worse, been in more pain than this before and walked away just fine, just get up just getupjustgetup—

But the universe had a whole new punishment planned for him it seemed, because Starscream passed out right as the scout reached them.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

When Starscream woke up, he was still laying in the same patch of dusty earth he’d passed out on.

He couldn’t tell if he was surprised by that or not.

More distressingly, he also couldn’t tell was what was going on around him. He could hear the muffled voices of mechs around him, and strained to hear them more clearly.

“—ou can’t be serious! He is a hazard, not to mention we would be putting at ris—”

A femme, that voice was. And an angry one at that. Along with. . .

“—have to agree, I think we should just leave ‘em here, cuffs an’ all—”

A mech this time, and—frag, they were definitely talking about him, weren’t they?

“Everyone,” a deep, striking voice cut through Starscream’s processor, “I know this is a difficult situation, bu—”

Starscream’s thoughts swam. He refused to online his optics.

Megatron found me, Arachnid must have gotten back and now he’s here and I’m going to di—

“—ituation. We must act in accordan—”

The voice again. No, the (worryingly small) rational part of his processor reasoned, Megatron usually sounds like his vocalizer is full of ash and gravel. This mech sounds at least halfway-decent.

More than halfway, actually, it added.

Hmmn. Maybe not so rational after all.

Oh, right! Starscream was supposed to be listening to whatever was going on, huh?

“We mustn't let our emotions get in the way of our duties, and right now our duty is to make sure Starscream does not fall back into the clutches of Megatron.”

Now that sounded important.

Wait, if these mechs weren’t affiliated with Megatron. . .

Scrap.

Autobots.

It took embarrassingly long to realize, he’d admit, but in his defense his knee was killing him and one of his wings was definitely bent the wrong way.

Starscream finally onlined his optics, if only to make his captors start talking to him instead of about him. Especially if they were discussing what they’d do with him.

Or to him.

Turned out that one of them was standing much closer than he first thought, the big, green wrecker-one. Their optics met, and Starscream barely had time to open his mouth before one of the wrecker’s peds jabbed him none-too-gently in his side. He then looked back to his companions. “He woke up.”

If his voice box would’ve worked, he’d have bitten out a ‘Lucky you,’ but his vocal components refused to cooperate. Starscream chose to blame it on potential damage to his neck cables, and definitely not the fear in his chassis as five pairs of blue optics shifted to stare directly at him.

The biggest of them, Optimus-fragging-Prime, walked over to him and lowered himself into a crouch, keeping optic-contact.

Starscream belatedly realized that he was trembling.

He didn’t even bother begging for his life, he simply shuttered his optics again and hoped that Optimus would get it over with quick.

Oh Primus, is this really how I go out? Laying in the dirt, bound and stuck on this filthy, pest-ridden rock, left to the tender mercies of my sworn enemies? Anything would’ve been better. . .

“Starscream,” Optimus rumbled, voice just as powerful as it always was. His whole frame rattled from the sound.

A larger servo landed on his shoulder, and of course that’s when his fritzed vocalizer started up again, only to squeak out a pathetic whimper. Just his fragging luck.

“Starscream,” Optimus repeated, voice notably softer. Now why was that. . .?

“Would you open your optics,” he continued, then added, “please.” 

The absurdity of it all had Starscream unshuttering his optics to stare back at the mountain of a mech, trying to pretend he wasn’t shaking like a wet earthly feline.

“Please?” he managed to rattle out, concerning amount of static notwithstanding. “What kind of captor makes pleas to his prisoners?” he tried again, satisfied when the statement was more word than static that time.

A frown—or at least, what he assumed was one under the mask—marred Optimus’s face, and Starscream almost wished he could shove the words back into his throat. Almost.

Let it never be said that I didn’t die as I lived: aggravating the living pit out of mechs to the point they want me dead.

He closed his optics once more. “Get it over with,” he croaked.

A heavy pause, and then, “Starscream, I do not aim to harm you.”

Primus, can he ever talk like a normal perso—

—Wait, what did he say?

He opened a single optic to stare into Optimus’s face. The frown he’d noticed before, now that he really looked, was one of concern, not anger.

Starscream’s chassis hitched. And then he burst into hysterics.

Maybe he hit his helm too hard when he was slammed to the ground. Maybe it was the energon loss. Maybe it was the fact that the leader of the enemy faction was looking at him like he was a lost sparkling. Whatever it was, it was fragging hilarious.

Soon enough, four others leaned over him, expressions ranging from mild alarm to vivid disgust. 

“O-oh Prime,” Starscream tittered, raising his helm as far off the ground as his strained cables would allow, “You don’t ‘aim to harm’ me?” And wow did his voice not sound right, and it felt like his spark was trying to burn right through his cockpit. Maybe he did knock his processor a bit too hard. The looks in his spectator’s optics told him they had the same idea.

Optimus’ frown seemed to deepen somehow. “Starscream, I don’t—”

“Shut it, Prime,” he hissed back, “I know you’re lying. Just get it over with and kill me.”

Optimus didn’t respond, so he continued. “You’ve got your enemy’s second-in-command helpless at your peds. Don’t tell me you’re such a slag-brained leader that you can’t see killing me would help your cause. I thought you were smarter than that, Prime!”

Bleary-eyed, he watched the scout puff up and whirr in outrage, along with various other offended noises from the audience. The two-wheeler growled and stomped forward, blades already out, “If you insist, you disgusting—”

Optimus raised a servo. “Arcee, please.”

The femme’s whole frame seemed to shake with barely restrained rage, but she paced away.

Optimus turned his attention back onto Starscream. “Star—” he broke off with a sigh, before gathering himself and trying again. “All I ask is that you listen to me, if only for a few minutes.”

Whatever energy had possessed Starscream now faded. His helm was back in the dirt and all he could do was glare. “There you go again, Prime. You’re asking me.”

Optimus frowned at that—or maybe he never stopped frowning. Primus, did the mech have any facial expression besides disappointed concern?

“I will not force you to hear me out.”

Starscream scoffed, “Right, like I’m going to get up and walk away from your blithering nonsense.” For effect, he displayed his injured leg, wincing when he felt something move that definitely shouldn’t have, leading more warm energon to leak sluggishly from his shattered knee joint.

Optimus sighed and shook his helm slightly, “Starscream, when you asked to join the Autobots, did you mean it?” he asked.

All of Starscream’s thoughts came to a halt. He automatically wanted to shout ‘Of course not you dense hunk of scrap metal!’ but, for some reason, he stopped.

Did he mean it? He certainly didn’t when he first said it, he just didn’t want to die. But now. . .

But now. . .

Well, the thing about dying certainly hadn't changed since then.

Optimus seemed to notice his inner turmoil and leaned in closer, optics hardened. “It is okay to be conflicted. This may be the most difficult decision you will ever make, but I trust you will do what is best, both for yourself and your fellow mechs. Please, Starscream,” Optimus implored, “Make this leap.”

Starscream was at a loss. The unabashed sincerity in the Prime’s optics was almost hard to look at. He could practically feel the uncertainty, the concern, the rage emanating from the mechs surrounding him, but none of it seemed to matter under Optimus’ unfaltering gaze.

This is all in my own self-interest, Starscream reasoned to himself, though he didn't know why he bothered in the first place, I’m sure if I reject their offer, they’ll sic the two-wheeler on me.

Ignoring the ever-growing pit of anxiety and skepticism in his chassis, Starscream reset his vocalizer and sighed.

“Alright, I’ll play your game, Prime.”

Chapter Text

Optimus was amazed that a physical altercation hadn’t occurred since returning to base. It’s not that he didn’t trust his team to follow his orders but. . . well actually, it would be on-brand for them, now that he thought about it. Especially for this kind of order; a cease-fire on the Decepticon second-in-command, who was currently lying unconscious in the medbay, presumably due to energon loss (he’s no Ratchet, and the mech himself refused to comment save for a few choice curses under his breath in Optimus’ general direction).

A lack of physical fighting did not exclude arguing, unfortunately.

Sometimes Optimus wished the Matrix accepted vacation days. Or a two-weeks-notice.

“Optimus, you can’t seriously be considering keeping him here, I just won’t stand for it!” Arcee said as she paced the length of the command deck.

“I’m worried too,” Bumblebee beeped, “but. . . I trust Optimus’ judgment.” Bumblebee walked up to Arcee and placed a gentle servo on her shoulder. “Besides, it’s not like he’s a free mech. We’re keeping him cuffed and guarded, so he can’t try anything sneaky.”

Arcee shook off Bumblebee’s servo. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll find a way,” she growled.

“I have to agree with ‘Cee about all this,” Bulkhead added, “After what he’s done. . . I say we throw him to the ‘Con’s, let them deal with this problem for us.”

“We will be doing no such thing,” Optimus interjected sternly. “I understand you all have doubts regarding letting Starscream stay at our base, but I do genuinely believe it is safer for all parties involved if he does.” He continued, “Even if I am unsuccessful in recruiting Starscream to our side as an Autobot, the fact that he is here and not under Megatron’s command means that there is one less mech fighting against us.”

Optimus looked over his team. Bumblebee—bless his spark—seemed to be the only one even slightly hopeful. Arcee and Bulkhead were currently sharing skeptical looks with each other. He sighed and turned to look at Ratchet, who had just exited the medbay and was absently wiping dried energon off his servo’s. “What do you think, old friend?”

Ratchet stops his cleaning and looks up, impassive. “Personally? I think you’ve lost your mind.” He paused pensively for a few moments before adding, “But if you really think this is the best course of action, I won’t tell you otherwise.” Ratchet threw a small, hesitant smile in Optimus’ direction. “If there’s any mech that can change him, it’s you.”

“Thank you, Ratchet,” Optimus responded gratefully, “And while you’re here, could you inform me of Starscream's status?”

Ratchet had looked away and was now rifling through his desk. “Nothing too bad, certainly nothing that can’t be fixed.” He pointedly ignored Arcee’s muttered, “Tragic,” as he moved from the desk to the center console. “A few nicks in his neck cables, dented shoulder kibble and wrist-plates, and the odd scratch here and there.” Ratchet huffed in frustration as it seemed he couldn’t find whatever he was looking for. “Ugh—the worst of it is the knee joint. The plating over the joint shattered and melted into the inner circuitry, and since Seeker frames are so intricate and specialized, it’s going to take a lot of work to fix up. I can only hope his repair nanites can get to most of the smaller bits. You can only do so much with the lackluster tools we have around base.”

“I’m glad to hear that he’s doing well despite the circumstances,” Optimus said gently.

Ratchet seemingly gave up on his search for his mystery tool and leaned back on his heels. “Yeah, ‘doing well,’” he muttered, sweeping the room with his optics. Then, as soon as he entered, he trudged back over to the medbay.

Ratchet waved a servo over his shoulder. “Also, Arcee is banned from the medbay for anything except repairs until further notice.”

“What?!” the femme in question shrieked.

Ratchet turned to face her, unimpressed. “I can feel your violent intent from here, and I will not have you undoing all my hard work. If you really want to beat the slag out of him, you can wait until he’s off bedrest.” Without waiting for a response, he turned back and walked into the medbay, leaving a fuming Arcee in his wake.

She sneered, “Oh so you all let that—that murderer into our base, and I’m the one being punished.”

Optimus tried, “Now Arcee, I don’t think Ratchet meant it like that—” 

“I’m going on a drive,” she interrupted, stalking towards the exit. “Comm if you need me for anything.”

Bulkhead glanced between Optimus, Arcee, and the medbay door, before shrugging and hurrying after Arcee. “I’ll—err—go with her. . .”

Soon enough, Optimus and Bumblebee were the last mech’s standing.

Optimus turned to face him and hoped that he didn’t look as tired as he felt. “Would you like to weigh in, Bumblebee?”

His scout responded with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Perhaps he wasn’t hiding his fatigue as well as he thought. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing,” Bumblebee whirred, “We’d be no better than the ‘Cons if we were to turn away a fellow mech, even if Starscream’s the worst of the worst.”

Not quite how Optimus would’ve put it, but he’ll take what he can get.

He smiled, “Thank you, Bumblebee. You may retire to your quarters now, as it seems Arcee and Bulkhead have decided to take over your night-patrol duty.”

Bumblebee chirped a laugh and walked out of the command deck, leaving Optimus standing in the middle of it.

Now alone, Optimus wearily collapsed his battle mask, letting fresh air hit his intake vents.

Seems like tonight will be another recharge-less night. Ratchet will have a fit.

Maybe while he’s here, he’ll organize some reports. He used to be an archivist because he liked it, after all.

Chapter Text

Being cuffed to a medical berth was probably one of the most alarming ways to wake up. Just in general. Overall.

Especially when Knockout was your primary physician. Primus only knew how that mech got his certification.

Starscream, however, couldn’t hear the sports-car’s obnoxious humming or the blaring of revolting human “pop” “music,” so it was safe to say he wasn’t in his medbay.

Or maybe Knockout just wasn’t here.

Wait, no, Knockout would never pass up the opportunity to annoy the pit out of him, and Starscream was pretty sure he’d have noticed if Knockout had up and died or something in the past few weeks, so—

“I know you’re not in recharge anymore, so you can quit faking.”

. . .That was distinctly not the silky baritone he’d come to expect from Knockout. The exact opposite of that, actually.

Starscream quickly onlined his optics to see a pair of bright blue ones staring back at him, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

He tried to smother the panic rising in him as he bared his teeth at the mech.

"Let me go,” he snarled.

Or at least, he would’ve, if his voice box hadn’t decided to fail on him, producing only a strangled blat of static.

The medic frowned, “Wait, let me see. . .”

Starscream thrashed as best he could against the other mech’s—what was his name? Hatche—no definitely Ratchet, the Prime’s pet medic—advances, spark hammering desperately in his chassis, but the restraints locked around nearly every moveable extremity prevented much progress. The medic finally managed to get his servos on Starscream’s neck, despite his best efforts. His processor was suddenly filled with replays of memories of Megatron picking him up by the throat, crushing his neck cables, and throwing him into the wall, slamming his peds into his back and tearing his wings—

Once I get my claws free, I’m going for the optics first. Then the spark chamber.

But to Starscream’s surprise (and utter relief), Ratchet didn’t try to mutilate him or choke him out, he simply fiddled around with some of the cables near his throat.

A few moments later he heard a click and the medic pulled away.

“Try now.”

He did. 

“Back up,” Starscream rasped, leveling his best glare.

Ratchet rolled his optics and took a few steps back. “Right, anyways, now that you’re awake I want to ask a few things of your condition,” he picked up a datapad sitting on the table next to him. “First off, how are you feeling right now?” Ratchet asked, sounding like he didn’t much care about the answer.

Starscream was a little dumbfounded. What in the pit was going on? He remembers agreeing to join the Autobots, but he didn’t actually believe they’d take him to their base.

“I’m fine. . .” Starscream answered warily. I’d feel better if I weren’t cuffed, he wanted to say, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he shouldn’t anger his captors while he was tied to a medical berth next to an assortment of sharp-looking surgical tools. Scenes like that typically ended poorly for the person on the berth.

“Good,” Ratchet said dispassionately while typing on the datapad (it was of Starscream’s personal opinion that Ratchet wasn’t actually typing anything, he was just using it as an excuse not to look at him), “Now then, does everything in your knee joint feel properly aligned?” The medic seemed slightly more interested in his answer to this question, giving Starscream pause.

He couldn’t help himself from responding, “Shouldn’t you know if everything’s back in the right spot, medic?” Despite his muttering, he did bend his leg a bit to get a gauge on the doctor’s work. 

“It’s adequate,” Starscream added before Ratchet could respond to his quip. His knee didn’t really feel right, per se, but it was certainly better than completely non-functional.

Ratchet hummed in response as he inspected the knee joint while Starscream moved it. He typed a bit more on the datapad and leaned back away again. “Alright, and does anything feel off anywhere else?”

"No,” Starscream growled, wishing the medic would just hurry it up and put him in his cell or something. He didn’t have all day, and Starscream wanted to put aside some time later this evening to lament his Primus-forsaken life.

“Mmhm,” Ratchet hummed, “and while you’re here, I’m going to need to get your files in order. Do you have your medical records downloaded to your HUD?”

Starscream scoffed, “Of course I do! What kind of idiot doesn—”

He suddenly shut his intake very closed. Curse me.

What kind of idiot indeed. . .

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. “So you do have your medical records on you.”

“I have no idea what makes you think that. You must be going senile in your old age.”

“You know,” the medic replied, “my scans showed that your processor is nearly as old as mine. Funny that.”

Starscream stiffened where he lay. “Scan?!” he damn near screeched, “I did not give you the medical authority to—”

“Oh, calm down,” Ratchet rolled his optics at him, “I did one of the most surface level scans possible.” He continued, walking away to pick something off his desk, “I only did one in the first place because you went into stasis shortly after arriving, something that wouldn’t usually happen at your rate of energon loss. I was making sure you didn’t have any processor damage.” 

The doctor muttered something under his breath about ‘ungrateful mechs,’ but soon enough shoved a datapad with a scan report on it into Starscream’s servos.

He studied the report, but ultimately couldn’t find anything too invasive, though he did sneer at a note reading ‘possible stress-related damages.’

No scrap, doc. Show me one mech in this Primus-damned war who isn’t stressed out of their mind. The ones who aren't are likely dead and rusting right about now.

“Now that I’ve soothed your worries,” Ratchet began, sounding for all the world like he didn’t actually care all that much about his worry, “are you going to give me your medical records or not?”

Starscream sneered, “You’re supposed to be smart, medic, I think you can guess my answer.”

Ratchet sighed. “You’re only hurting yourself if you withhold your records from me. They could be vital if you are ever severely injured and in need of my care.”

“Oh, I think I’ll take my chances.”

Starscream’s medical records were something he wasn’t going to give up without a fight. Every failure, every disciplinary punishment, every beating he’d ever received was on that file, complete with pictures in full technicolor. It would be obvious, too. Starscream was rarely ever fighting in the field these days. After all, who needs to command perfectly programmed drones? No, it would be painfully obvious just who gave him all those wounds. All of this discounting the mounds of other sordid information in that file. The Autobots had no need to know the amount of broken sparkbonds he’d had over the course of his functioning.

There was simply too much personal, too much painful information on that cursed document for him to ever consider giving it to anyone, let alone an enemy.

Or-well, that wasn’t quite the case now, was it?

“Say, medic, what is the Prime going to have done with me?” Starscream asked, and he surprised himself with just how defeated he sounded, even to his own audials. He hoped the doctor hadn’t noticed. Or at least, didn’t care.

“‘Have done with you,’” Ratchet mocked, as if it were such a stretch to believe that something bad was going to happen to Starscream at his team’s servos. “Well, since Optimus is such a kind-sparked moron, he’s letting you stay at base under a few conditions.” The medic held up a servo to count, “One, you are not to wander without an Autobot present. Two, you’re required to be in stasis cuffs at all times, though they will be modified to let you move your arms freely. Three, you are prohibited from leaving base without express permission, and are confined to your room at night.” He sighed, “Optimus will be keeping an optic on you and will ‘make sure you’re acclimating well into the Autobot way,’ whatever the slag that means,” Ratchet muttered the last part.

Well, we can agree on something, medic.

Despite Starscream’s indignation at the Autobots pretending he was anything more than a prisoner, he had to admit that these terms were far more lenient than he was expecting. Though there were undoubtedly hidden rules and requirements to his stay, if what the medic said so far was true, then this capture would be like a vacation compared to his life on the Nemesis.

There’s going to be a catch, his thoughts whispered, there always is. It’s not like they’re taking you in out of the good of their sparks. There is always a price.

Well, whatever. So far, he wasn’t dead in the middle of a desert or being beaten to scrap on the Nemesis' command deck, so he’d just cross that bridge when he got to it. Starscream knew that the Autobots were far to virtuous to torture him outright, so he can somewhat count on his safety so long as he behaves himself and stays useful.

Unfortunately, Starscream wasn’t sure what constituted ‘good behavior’ by Autobot standards. Probably nothing less than saving a shuttle full of sparklings while preaching the powers of friendship and harmony. 

Ha.

“Alright, that’s enough glaring at the wall for you,” Ratchet’s voice broke him from his musings, “If you’re not going to give me your medical files you might as well get out of here. I have better things to be doing than watching you mope.”

Before Starscream could add a very insightful comment about how he was still chained to the berth and that he wasn’t moping thank you very much, Ratchet pressed a button on the side of the berth that released the clamps on his wrists. Before he could enjoy his newfound freedom, however, his servos were grabbed and stasis cuffs were slapped to his wrists. 

Well, he says cuffs, but they were more like clunky, ugly-looking bracelets without the band in the middle holding his servos together. He could still feel the transformation jammer working in full effect though, much to his disappointment.

No flying your way out of this one, Starscream.

The voice sounded far too much like Megatron for his liking.

“Stay here while I get Optimus, he’ll give you a briefing and take you to your quarters,” Ratchet said as he walked towards the medbay door.

Now it was Starscream’s turn to raise an optic ridge. “What, not going to tie me to something while you’re gone? Wasn’t the first of your rules that I stay guarded at all times?”

Ratchet gave him a humorless look. “Consider this your first test. Touch anything in this room, and I’ll take you out back and offline you myself, Optimus-be-damned.”

And with that, he walked out and shut the medbay door behind him, and Starscream heard the unmistakable sound of a door bolting shut.

Starscream would’ve been more worried if he didn’t know that Ratchet was bluffing. Something-something-medical oath-something-something-do no harm. It’s why he (reluctantly) trusted Knockout not to swap his internals around during surgery. Not that he believed Knockout had any moral backbone to speak of, it’s just fundamentally more difficult to play off the mutilation of your commanding officer as ‘self-defense’ other than, say, an enemy soldier.

But despite this, he still wasn’t going to break anything.

Now, believe him, Starscream wanted to absolutely wreck this place. He felt a deep, irrational need to take his emotions out on the fragile-looking medical equipment around him, but he managed to restrain himself. If he was thinking rationally, the cuffs prevented him from flying away, if he could even make his way out of their base in the first place.

So Starscream sat like a good little mech and waited for Optimus to take him away.

Chapter Text

Starscream’s new quarters were surprisingly well put-together. A small storage closet with a berth shoved into the farthest corner and a small desk against the wall with a datapad on it. Of course, compared to his quarters on the Nemesis it was paltry, but considering he was bunking with the enemy faction, it was certainly a few steps up from a cell in the brig.

Er—wait, no, this was his faction now, too. He’ll have to work on that.

Starscream still hadn’t exactly gotten it into his head that he was technically a new member of the team and not a prisoner of war. It was truly surreal, simply existing in the same space as mechs he’d sworn to exterminate. Starscream knew Optimus insisted that he could integrate into his team if he put enough time and effort into it, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe him. In all honesty, he felt more like something in-between. He was allowed in their base, but he wasn’t welcome in their base. He was with the team, but not a part of it. 

Not that Starscream expected better. Honestly, he was just glad the medic didn’t dump poison into his energon lines while he was passed out.

“Is everything alright, Starscream?”

Ah, right.

Starscream thought his biggest issue with the change in scenery was his new. . . leader, the first problem being just that. Starscream had no idea what to call the damn mech, and every time he asked, he got some roundabout reply along the lines of call me what makes you most comfortable, you are allowed to do as you wish, freedom is the right of blah blah blah and Starscream didn’t know how to inform the convoy that that didn’t help in the slightest. Sure, Optimus may say he had no title, but no officer ever meant that. They’d throw their arm around your shoulder, tell you to call them anything you’d like, then next thing you know you’re being kicked to your knees for not referring to them as ‘Lord Super Emperor of the Known Multiverse’ or whatever.

Even worse, he was an enemy soldier-no—uhg—former enemy—er-or. . . something.

So he settled on his Primus—allegedly—given title, Prime. Starscream certainly wasn’t going to be using his name like the rest of his team does. Honestly, he couldn’t believe Optimus really let them get away with that considering how much higher in rank he was, but Starscream supposed that everyone here were friends. Truly inconceivable. Surely there must be some kind of inter-factional hatred going on around here. In any case, there’s definitely going to be some now, considering Starscream’s unceremonious integration into the Autobot’s ranks. 

“. . .Starscream?”

A servo on his shoulder pulled Starscream from his thoughts.

He certainly didn’t jump, though. Of course not, that would've been absolutely humiliating.

“Yes M—Prime?”

Ahh, he remembers now. Another thing he hated about his new leader was the stupid look on his face whenever Starscream. . . well, actually, he hadn’t quite figured out the pattern. It usually happened multiple times every time they had a conversation, though his sample size was admittedly small.

Starscream wondered what it was this time. Maybe he didn’t like his choice of title? What else could he call him?

“I was wondering if you are okay with your new quarters,” Optimus asked gently.

He nearly rolled his optics. As if Starscream had much of a choice. What was he going to say? No sir, the cell you’ve provided is too stuffy, find me one up to my standards. In his point of view, Starscream was lucky to be fragging alive.

“Of course, Prime. . .” Starscream answered slowly as he walked into his fancy new cell. He wanted the other mech to get to the point. To get all the ‘pleasantries’ out of the way. To get to the catch.

“I’m glad to hear that, Starscream,” Optimus responded warmly, “While you get settled, I would like to discuss the terms of you joining the Autobots.” As Optimus said this, he walked into the room behind Starscream. 

Starscream blanched.

Oh Primus, this is it.

Starscream spun around and pressed back against the wall, staring at the exit that was now being blocked by the bigger mech. The claustrophobia he’d been trying to ignore reared itself into the forefront of Starscream’s thoughts and he just couldn’t get the looming silhouette of Megatron out of his mind.

Starscream knew this was going to happen. All the signs were there. Optimus was being far too nice to him, and Starscream knew better then that. This would be the point where Prime dropped his gentle sweetspark act and forced him to spill any and all information he had on the Decepticon’s plans and then lock him in this cage to starve.

All mechs are the same. Some just had better PR.

Starscream couldn’t help but recall how Megatron used to pull this trick. Back when Megatron cared about his reputation as a reasonable leader. Back when Megatron acted like he cared for him.

Back when Starscream believed him.

But make no mistake, he would not fall for it again.

In the midst of his daze he noticed that Optimus had stepped back out of the room, servos half-raised in confusion and worry.

“Starscream?”

Right. This was fine. He just needed. . .

“. . .Starscream.”

Needed. . .

“Can you hear me?”

Starscream was thrown back to reality with a start. His wings were pressed flat against his spine and he was backed against the wall opposite the door. 

“Yes. . . Prime. . ?”

Oh, this is awful.

“Ah, I was going to ask if you would prefer having this conversation tomorrow, after you’ve had time to recharge properly.”

Truly the worst.

Starscream put on a sneer and tried to pretend like he didn’t want to phase through the ground and die there. “Oh? How generous of you, Prime. Not going to chain me to the berth?”

Optimus’ optics widened slightly, and he leaned forward to give Starscream a firm look. “No, Starscream. While you may have less freedom than you normally would, you are not a prisoner here.” Optimus sighed softly and shuttered his optics for a few moments before opening them again. “And, let it be known that, if you truly wish it, you may request to cut ties with the Autobots and be released.”

Starscream rolled his optics. This is what he meant about the long-winded monologues. Would it kill the mech to shorten it down a little? There were only so many hours in a day. “Yes yes, thank you Prime, but shouldn’t you be going? I heard you say something about ‘recharge,’ hm?”

Optimus nodded and stepped out of the doorway. “Of course. Your door will be locked during the night, so if you need anything you can use the datapad on your desk to contact one of us.”

Starscream resisted the urge to scoff. Being locked in here was only marginally better than being chained to the berth, in his opinion. “Is that all?” he asked impatiently.

“Yes,” Optimus affirmed as he moved to the panel to shut the door, before looking back towards him. “Oh, and Starscream?” 

Fragging liar. “What.”

The corners of Optimus’ optics crinkled in a way that could only imply he was smiling underneath his mask. “Thank you.”

And with that, the door shut and Starscream was left alone.

. . .

What the frag was that!? Who did Optimus think he is? What was his game? If Starscream wasn’t trapped in that closet, he’d find the mech and tear him a new aft for the audacity alone.

Well—verbally, of course. Optimus could probably bench five of him without even struggling.

. . .And now Starscream was reminded of how easily the Prime could rip him apart if he wanted to.

Primus, this day was draining. Maybe recharge wasn’t such a bad idea.

So Starscream did just that. He threw himself onto his new berth and hoped to wake from the horrid, confusing fever-dream he’d found himself in.

But not before upending everything in the room to find any bombs and-or recording devices. As is nature. Starscream wasn’t stupid.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Unbeknownst to Starscream, immediately after leaving the room Optimus felt the overwhelming urge to hit his helm against the wall for a good few minutes. He hoped it would improve his decision-making abilities.

He had no idea what he was doing! Ten whole minutes of conversation and Optimus felt he’d already made some kind of mistake. Not in taking Starscream in, no, but in his approach in dealing with what came after that. Of course, he wasn’t naïve enough to think the seeker would trust him right away, but how could he anticipate the look of terror in the other mech’s optics when he did something as simple as walk into the same room as him? 

The worst of it was that Optimus just didn’t know why. He knew they'd been at war for an uncountable number of years, but Starscream wasn’t a mech known for cowering at the peds of his enemies. Running away, maybe, but never cowering. Quite the opposite, actually. Instances of him hurling insults and threats at any Autobot captors before his inevitable escape came to the forefront of Optimus’ mind.

What changed?

Nevertheless, Optimus did not slam his helm into the wall. He was a strong, infallible leader with a reputation to uphold. No matter how often he’d tell everyone he’s not.

Sighing, he walked down to the command deck, hoping to find Ratchet and get his assistance with making sense of all this.

And maybe a little support. He was only a mech, after all.

Thankfully, Ratchet was right where Optimus thought he would be: working overtime at the center console instead of recharging. Ratchet certainly was a hypocrite, to be hounding Optimus about his poor recharge schedule while doing the exact same thing. Optimus ought to bring it up, but he supposed that would make him the hypocrite, now wouldn’t it?

Optimus made his way into the room and sat down on some makeshift seating a little out of the way.

“Optimus,” Ratchet stated, in lieu of a greeting.

“Ratchet,” Optimus responded warmly, nodding toward the medic.

Ratchet sighed, “I assume you’re here to ask me about the state of our new. . . member.”

Optimus appreciated Ratchet’s attempt to hide the derision in his voice, however poor it was.

“Yes, but I was hoping to have more of a conversation with you, my friend,” he gestured to the seat next to him, “Please, sit down.”

Ratchet grumbled a bit at the request, but finished up what he was doing on the console and walked to where Optimus was sitting.

“Well, get on with it then,” Ratchet muttered as he sat down.

Optimus leaned back, taking a few moments to collect his thoughts.

“Do you think I did the right thing?”

Ratchet furrowed his brows and opened his mouth to respond, but Optimus quickly spoke before he was able. “I know you’d said as much yesterday, when Starscream was first brought here, but. . . I would like your in-depth opinion, away from the audials of the others.”

Ratchet stared at Optimus for a moment, at a loss for words, before narrowing his optics. He pointed an accusatory finger at Optimus. “First of all, if you are trying to imply that I would lie to make you look better in front of the crew, you’re crazy. Second of all—ap-ap-ap, let me finish—I meant it when I said I trusted you. I may not always understand what’s going on in that big empty helm of yours, but I’ve known you long enough to know that whatever comes of this, you’ll handle it.” Ratchet took a vent and poked Optimus in the chest. “Even if your spark is too big for your chassis sometimes.”

Optimus couldn’t help the smile on his face as relief washed over him. “Thank you, truly. And I hope you’re right.”

Ratchet waved his servo dismissively, “Yeah yeah, anyways,” he coughed, quickly changing subjects, “you’re here to talk about our resident ‘Con, aren’t you?”

“Starscream isn’t a Decepticon anymore,” Optimus reminded gently, though internally he had to wonder if that was truly the case. Optimus had certainly thought up the possibility that this sudden change of spark could be nothing more than a ploy to infiltrate the Autobot ranks, but damn him if he wanted that to not be the case. If he could just show Starscream that he could be better, show him that there was more to the universe than this endless cycle of vengeance and pain, then maybe they'd all get somewhere in this Primus-forsaken war. Maybe if Optimus had gotten this through to Megatron sooner, all this tragedy would’ve been avoided. . .

Ratchet snapped his fingers in Optimus’ face, “Oi, knock it off with the sad little thought spiral you’ve found yourself in, or I’m staging an intervention.”

Optimus nudged the other mech’s servo away, “Yes, thank you Ratchet, but I was just thinking.”

Ratchet gave him a deadpan stare. “That’s the problem.”

“Moving on,” Optimus said, “I wanted to ask you for a medical overview of Starscream, if that’s alright.”

“Right, of course,” Ratchet vented deeply, “All the wounds he’d sustained being captured have all been fixed properly, and the preliminary scan showed nothing too wrong with his internals—though, I’ll admit I’m not the most familiar with seeker physiology. Overall, he seems fine, at least on a physical level. Everything else, however. . . I’m no Rung, so I don’t think I have the qualifications to comment on that.”

Optimus leaned forward. “What do you mean by that?”

“As I said, nothing I have the specs to talk about,” Ratchet waved him off.

“Just your opinion then, please,” Optimus implored, “You’ve spent the most time with him out of all of us, and any insight on Starscream’s mentality is helpful if we truly want to integrate him into the Autobots.” Certainly a bit of a stretch on Optimus’ part. He couldn’t deny his own personal curiosity on the subject, but more than anything he just wanted to understand. And Optimus couldn’t think of anywhere else to start but here.

Ratchet stalled slightly, muttering something about ‘unprofessionalism,’ but eventually gave in and began talking. “Most of it’s what you’d expect from any soldier; heightened baseline stress, hair-trigger paranoia, extreme defensiveness, and a general distrust of other mechs, but. . . there definitely seems to be more to it than normal war-weariness,”—and how sad is it, Optimus thinks, that such effects of this pointless war are considered ‘normal’— “I know I’m in no position to speak, but,” Ratchet paused, looking for the words, “I think there is something truly wrong in the Decepticon ranks, more so then we first assumed.”

Optimus’ spark sunk to his peds at the notion, despite presuming as much himself. He had always tried to give Megatron the benefit of the doubt—no matter how foolish he felt doing so—that he would at least treat his soldiers with a modicum of respect, if only to serve his own goals by having a well-functioning army, but Optimus supposed even that was too high a standard for the warlord.

He felt a servo on his shoulder, snapping him from his thoughts. “Whatever it is you’re thinking about right now, stop.” Ratchet leaned over to stare Optimus directly in the optics. “There’s no use dwelling on things you can’t change, and besides, my observations could mean nothing, there isn’t any proof. I’ll admit a tendency to overreact when it comes to my patients.”

Optimus could hear that Ratchet didn’t quite believe the words himself, but he didn’t mention it. Instead, he pulled Ratchet into a hug, briefly laying his helm on the other’s shoulder, finials splayed back. They sat there for a few moments before Optimus dragged himself away, embarrassed by his outburst.

Optimus cleared his vents, “Ehm—thank you Ratchet, for indulging my questions, but I do believe it is getting late. We both should be going off to recharge.”

Ratchet crossed his arms and raised an optic ridge. “Oh really, you as well?”

Ah, he’s noticed. Optimus was glad his mask hid the flush on his cheeks. “Of course, Ratchet,” Optimus said, playing dumb, “all mechs need recharge.”

Ratchet scoffed. “Oh yeah? Glad you finally figured that out.”

Optimus smiled and stood up. “Again, thank you,” Optimus said, moving to leave before Ratchet could start interrogating him about his refueling habit too.

“If I find you out here playing with data files at four in the morning again I’m locking you in your hab for the next cycle!” Ratchet called back.

Optimus very much believed him, and started walking faster.

Chapter Text

One. Day.  

One fragging day.

Starscream couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good day, but he foolishly assumed that being locked in the Autobot base without any duties would bring the average up to decent.

But damn, maybe he was a moron!

Actually, everything had been going fine for, say, the first hour or so. Starscream woke up early, paced around his little room and half-heartedly planned an escape just to say that he did, then Optimus came by to give him his morning ration and invite him outside—outside his room, that is. He wasn’t stupid enough to think they’d trust him outside their base this soon. Even so, just thinking about the sky made his wings twitch. . .

Anyways, everything was going fine! But no, he just had to agree to go sit in the command deck with the rest of the Autobots.

Most of the ‘Bots, anyway. He’s pretty sure the little yellow scout was out doing. . . scout things, and the medic was hiding in his medbay, probably. Not that he cared.

Starscream had purposely chosen to sit out-of-the-way, but that didn’t stop the two-wheeler from staring him down as though her glare alone could de-apparate him from existence. It was getting a little creepy, actually. He doesn’t think he’d seen her blink for, like, ten whole minutes. Even the big green one was starting to look a little concerned. Starscream had been trying to ignore it, though. He didn’t want to encourage. . . whatever this was.

If Starscream was being honest with himself—which he always is, he swears!—he couldn’t blame the femme, not in good conscious. He knows he killed someone important to her, and he of all mechs could understand the deep, ever-present rage that came after a loss, but—damn it, they were at war! Maybe he was a bit too eager to kill the stupid red ‘Bot, and maybe he was still a little proud of it, but that's just how it was. He’d bet his left optic that the self-righteous little Autobot had a few kills she was proud of as well, and even more so that those poor sparks had at least one mech that missed them. The only difference between the two of them was that he was a little more open about it.

Starscream sighed and stood up to put his empty cube away, only to see the two-wheeler do the same.

Only, her cube was still nearly full.

And she had set it down on the table next to the wrecker.

. . .And was walking towards him.

Oh frag no.

Starscream pointedly ignored her and put his empty cube next to the energon processor to be disposed of, before turning to hurry back to his room. He wasn’t needed out here, anyways, and he doesn’t think the ‘Bots could get mad at him for sitting pretty in his cell all day like he’s sure they wanted him to.

Unfortunately, he only made it to the command deck door.

"Where do you think you’re going?” said a sharp, clipped voice behind him.

Starscream let his claws fall off the door panel and scrape the metal underneath, a scowl marring his face. He didn’t owe the stupid bike anything. If she didn’t like him being here, she could take it up with her leader.

He didn’t turn around to face her, still hoping that she’d just give up and leave him alone. The only reason Starscream hadn’t already unlocked the door and ran to his room by now was because that would give the femme an actual reason to be suspicious, and he couldn’t have that, now could he?

Starscream clicked his claws against the wall impatiently. “Well. . . Arcee,”—and see, he did remember their names, thank you very much—“since I’ve finished my energon and have nothing else to do here, I’ll be going back to my room.”

He glanced over his shoulder to gauge her reaction. Starscream expected some stuffy response about going with him, a pedantic effort to harass him further using the rules placed against him, but instead she threw him a haughty sneer. “Running off now that Optimus isn’t here to protect you?”

Wait, what? No, Optimus was. . .

Starscream’s optics snapped over to where he’d last seen the convoy, the center console, only to find it vacant.

Oh.

Optimus had left at some point, leaving him alone with the wrecker and the two-wheeler.

Oh no.

Starscream slammed his servo against the panel and threw the door open, suspicion-be-damned. He had to get out of here. He moved to leave but—

A servo grabbed him by the base of his wings, hard enough to dent, eliciting a strangled cry from the seeker. He was thrown back into the command deck, just barely avoiding falling on his aft. He could see Arcee slamming the door shut again, cutting off his exit.

Through the static in his audials, Starscream heard the wrecker get to his peds. “H-hey now Arcee, I hate ‘em as much as the next mech, but I don’t think—”

"Fight me,” the two-wheeler spat, showing no indication she’d heard the mech. Her gaze was locked on Starscream’s frame.

If he had been in a better mood, Starscream might’ve laughed. Oh, the little ‘Bot wanted a fight, huh? She must think she’s so virtuous for challenging him “fairly” instead of just sneaking into his room one night and slitting his throat. How polite!

Starscream steadied his trembling legs and snapped his wings back, baring his fangs. 

An inevitability, I suppose. This was always going to happen.

“If you insist,” Starscream mocked, and flung himself at the femme, claws poised.

And so it started. Starscream managed to put a few scratches into Arcee’s chestplates before she slammed a fist into the side of his helm, nearly knocking him off his peds. Starscream spun around and dug his claws into her shoulder, snarling. He tore down, leaving deep gashes in the thick metal. The satisfaction of Arcee’s energon dripping from his servo wasn’t quite enough to dull the pain of the next blow, this one aimed at his side.

Oh, the two-wheeler was lucky Starscream didn’t have his missiles. If he did, she’d have been a gory smear of energon and shrapnel by now. 

The two mechs grappled, Starscream’s claws trying to find purchase between the seams of the other’s armor before Arcee gained the upper-hand and shoved him into a wall. 

Starscream’s engine growled in warning.

Arcee threw another punch but Starscream managed to duck just before it connected. Her fist struck the wall right next to his helm, denting the metal. 

He took his chance. Starscream dragged his claws against her faceplates, and as she reeled he slammed his ped as hard as he could into the femme’s exposed midsection. Arcee stumbled back a few steps, vents sputtering as she clutched her middle. Her optics narrowed to slits. “You can only fight dirty,” she hissed, preparing another strike.

Said the grounder attacking a downed, transformation-locked flier.

Starscream sneered and started to retort, but was interrupted by the sound of a door opening.

Optimus Prime, in all his glory, stood in the doorway of the command deck, blank optics glancing between Arcee and Starscream.

Both mechs froze.

“What is the meaning of this?” Optimus asked, his tone unreadable.

Frag.

The mech took a few steps into the room, and Starscream’s wings unwittingly snapped down, pressed tight against his spine.

This isn’t good.

He watched as Optimus scrutinized the claw marks on Arcee’s frame, the femme crossing her arms and stubbornly refusing to comment.

They’re going to pin it all on me. 

It would be so easy, too.

Optimus turned to look at Starscream.

Primus help me.

"Star—” the convoy began, but Starscream never heard the rest. He flew out of the room as fast as his peds would allow. 

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Optimus should’ve expected this to happen, but he was surprised by just how soon it was. 

Or maybe, this was all because it was so soon. 

No matter though, because Optimus hoped this wouldn’t’ve happened at all.

Optimus watched Starscream bolt from the command deck with a frown. He needed to do something about that, but. . .

One problem at a time.

“Arcee, Bulkhead comm’d me and informed me that you and Starscream were fighting,” Optimus said, voice grave, “what happened?”

Arcee’s silence stayed firm. She glared at him with a challenge, daring him to do something.

He didn’t. “Bulkhead,” Optimus sighed, turning to look at the mech, “can you explain to me what happened here?”

Bulkhead avoided his gaze, thoroughly uncomfortable. “Err, well. . .” he glanced at Arcee, “. . .she started it?”

Optimus suppressed another sigh. He assumed as much, against his better judgment. Starscream may be a volatile and unpredictable mech, but he was far from stupid. At the very least, he could trust the seeker not to get into too much trouble purely to maintain his own safety and security within the Autobot ranks. Arcee, on the other hand, had no such misgivings.

He turned to her. “Arcee. . .”

“What,” she snapped back, a defiant glint in her optics, undoubtedly masking the pain he was sure was there.

Optimus knows his decisions have consequences. Bringing Starscream in was a decision, and this was a consequence. He never expected this to be easy, but he only hopes that things will get better. Grief never truly disappears, but with enough work one learns to go on. Primus knows he understood.

“Please go to the medbay and get those scratches taken care of. We can talk later.”

Arcee stalked out of the command deck without another word.

Optimus watched her go, scrubbing his face with his servos once she was safely out of sight.

“Thank you for contacting me, Bulkhead. Could you make sure to bring that to Arcee in a bit?” Optimus pointed to the nearly-untouched cube of energon the femme had left of the table.

Bulkhead startled and looked at the cube, just remembering it was there. “Oh-oh yeah, ‘course, Optimus,” he responded, looking nervously at the door Arcee had just left through. “She looks like she might need it.”

Optimus agreed. It certainly wasn’t the worst damage in the world, but the scratch on her shoulder was leaking enough to be worrying.

Alright, first issue somewhat dealt with, Optimus thought as he stepped out into the hallway, walking towards Starscream’s quarters, now on to. . .

Optimus heard a crash emanate from the room as soon as he came to stop in front of the door.

That.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

I have to get out of here.

Starscream paced the length of his room, uncomfortably aware of how small it was. The ground tilted under his peds and the ceiling was far too low. His spark was trying to tear him open from the inside, he was sure of it.

This whole thing was a horrible, horrible idea. He could never make it as an Autobot, and he must’ve been glitched to even try. These mechs hated him and he hated them and that’s just how it was always going to be.

Now he just had to fix his mistake without getting offlined.

Optimus wouldn’t kill me, Starscream tried to reason, he. . .

. . .Why wouldn’t he? It’s not like the Prime's a pacifist.

The walls inched closer.

Okay, next plan! The whole ‘being an Autobot’ thing clearly didn’t work out, so he had to get out of their base. He always worked much better on his own, anyways. Starscream could run out of here, get to the exit, find some way to get these stupid cuffs off, and then he’d be able to get as far away from here as—

Where’s the exit?

Starscream’s vents hitched. He paced faster.

Starscream knew where the groundbridge generator was, but that was also where all the Autobots were, he couldn’t go there. There must be another way out. It would be moronic to have a base with only one exit. Let’s see, the groundbridge is a no-go, he doesn’t remember where any doors would be, did he ever see any windows?

We’re underground.

Starscream growled and focused on the sound of his peds hitting the floor, trying to delay the metaphorical death spiral he could feel himself slipping into. His spark was starting to hurt, damnit! That’s not normal.

His efforts were in vain the moment he heard the heavy pedsteps of the Prime coming towards him.

Starscream froze.

The world spun on its axis.

Then he had an idea.

Definitely one of the worst ideas he’d ever had, but a bad idea was better than none.

Starscream grabbed the berth and shoved it in front of the door. All he needed was a little time, that’s all! The berth wouldn’t stop the Prime, of course, but it would stall him. Then all Starscream had to do was break the cuffs off, pull his blasters out, and fight his way out of this hole.

Or something.

Anything.

He rushed over to the desk next, grabbing his wrist with his other hand and slamming it into the sharp metal corner of the table. A loud crack rang out, and from the sudden burst of pain in his wrist and the smear of energon on the desk, Starscream could safely assume it wasn’t the cuffs cracking.

It’s fine. He’d had worse.

Another swing, another jolt of pain, but—oh, the cuff dented this time! Progress.

Another swing, which had Starscream cursing as the fracture in his wrist widened.

Another swing, and—

The door flew open.

Optimus and Starscream locked optics.

Time’s up.

Now for plan B. . . I think you know how this one goes.

Starscream threw himself to the floor and got to his knees. He held his pride dear, but he held his life dearer. “W-wait-wait, please, Prime—”

Optimus stared at him from the doorframe.

“—I-I messed this all up, but I swear, I swear— ”

The berth was pushed back out of the way. Starscream curled in on himself.

“—I can do better, just one more chance, p-please—”

He heard the door slam closed. Starscream’s vents choked.

“—I’ll do whatever you want—”

Optimus knelt in front of him.

“—j-just please—”

Starscream thought he heard talking, but he was beyond processing anything more than the static in his helm.

“—please, have mercy—”

He clasped his talons together.

“—don’t k-kill me— ”

“Stop.”

Starscream’s mindless rambling was cut off by the Prime’s piercing voice. He risked a glance up at the mech.

And oh, he looked horrified.

“Starscream. . . I’m not going to hurt you.”

He might have found this revelation insightful if he was capable of forming a thought more complex then white noise.

Optimus didn’t say anything else for some time—or maybe it just felt long—only looking into Starscream’s optics with an indecipherable expression. It seemed like he was trying to choose between being distraught and furious.

Starscream did not like that second option.

“Please sit up.”

He did as he was told, hoping Optimus would overlook the shaking, if only for the sake of Starscream’s own shattered pride.

He watched with an odd indifference as the Prime opened his intake as if to say more, only to close it and lean back on his struts, shuttering his optics. Optimus cycled his vents once, twice, three times, until Starscream half assumed he’d fallen asleep.

Honestly, Starscream felt like he was flagging. The panic that consumed him had all but diffused, leaving him feeling like a pathetic, strutless mess. There was nothing else he could do, in any case. Starscream played each and every card in the awful hand life had dealt him and now he just had to sit here and take the rest.

Eventually, the Prime decided he’d had enough of sitting perfectly still on the floor and opened his optics. He leaned forward slowly and, after a moment of consideration, gently took one of Starscream’s servos in his own.

The one that’s bleeding, Starscream noted dully. He couldn’t even muster the energy to flinch away from the touch.

“Starscream,” Optimus murmured, “I will not profess to know what you’ve been through, nor how you had been treated at the servos of Megatron, but I would like to make something very clear,” his tone was near grave, “you are not with the Decepticons anymore. You are an Autobot. You will not be—you will not be punished with violence. Something bad happened today, and I intended to fix it by communicating. I will not jump to conclusions and I would like to hear both sides of the story, but first you must understand that this is no dictatorship. You will be treated with dignity, and you are no prisoner of mine.”

. . .Hmm. Starscream supposed he understood what those Autobots were always going on about, now. The Prime and his speeches. Enough to rally a dead mech to rise. Something with his voice, probably.

. . .Scrap all that, Starscream was too exhausted to be having these kinds of emotions put upon him.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Optimus asked quietly.

“Hmn?” The static wasn’t quite getting better, was it?

Optimus responded by tapping a digit next to the crack in his wristplate, which had energon already congealing at the edges. “You’re bleeding here, but I was wondering if you sustained any wounds from your fight with Arcee.”

Oh, Starscream practically forgot about that. It must’ve been only half an hour, but it felt like days.

“No. . .” he mumbled, then added, “she’s a worse fighter when she’s mad.”

Optimus huffed a noise that could loosely be considered a laugh and rubbed Starscream’s servo. “I assume you’ll be going off to recharge in a bit?”

Starscream only hummed again, which was a decent indication of his answer.

“Okay,” and Optimus slowly got to his peds, yet keeping their servos entwined.

It took Starscream a few long moments of staring at his servo before he realized Optimus intended to help him up. Even then it took a few tries to get steady, leaning heavily on the Prime’s strong frame.

Optimus set him gently onto his berth, still slightly askew from earlier. “If you need anything, please comm me,” he said, only as some kind of formality. He finally pulled their servos apart—and Starscream found himself missing the touch despite himself.

He watched Optimus walk over to the door and open it, stepping through the frame. The mech turned back and said, “Good night-er—afternoon, I suppose.” 

Then he stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

Starscream was left to himself.

Part of him wanted to stay awake, to try and attempt to understand what in the pit just happened, but a not-inconsiderable part of him disagreed.

In fact, the second he laid his helm on the berth, Starscream was pulled into a deep, dreamless recharge.

Chapter Text

Whoever was making that noise was going to die.

Sure, Starscream did promise himself that he was going to ‘do better at being an Autobot’ or whatever that meant but he felt as though this was an extenuating circumstance. Anyone making whatever the pit that sound was this early in the morning—or ever—deserved to be shot on sight.

He groaned and rolled off his berth. Starscream already had a headache and this wasn't helping. What happened yesterday—which was something he was going to dutifully ignore until he had no other choice—did a number on him in ways that only excessive recharge could fix, and whoever interrupted that was just going to have to deal with the consequences. 

Walking over to the door, Starscream surveyed his options. He was currently locked in his room, so he couldn’t just storm out and hunt the monster down, so he had to settle for whatever he could accomplish from here. Which, unsurprisingly, was very little.

Let's see, he could. . . scream? Hmm, it would sure get some attention but—wait, wait. No. Why was he even considering it? He was not a sparkling! Doing so would be completely pitiful and juvenile in every sense of the word.

So, what else. . . ?

. . .

Starscream picked up a ped and slammed it into the door. 

See? He could be reasonable.

A loud bang resounded through his room, and hopefully out into the halls as well. Maybe it would get that inane screeching to stop. Or someone would come let him out. He’s not picky.

He kicked the door a few more times for good measure. 

Satisfied with his work, Starscream pressed his audial against the metal, beyond pleased when he heard the racket come to a halt. Perfect. Now he could go back to sleep and continue ignoring his pathetic, useless emotions.

Moments later, as though summoned by his thoughts, the hab door clicked open and revealed Optimus standing in the doorway.

Oh joy.

"Do you need something, Starscream?”

He hissed softly and scrambled to stand properly.

"I do, actually,” Starscream huffed, summoning some of his strained pride. “I need you to tell me what the pit that horrific noise was.”

And whoever caused it, because I need to ‘talk’ to them.

Optimus’ optics widened slightly. “Oh, it seems I forgot to inform you, our human companions are at base today.”

Starscream wrinkled his nose. Oh, right. The ‘Bots felt the need to keep a few members of the native vermin around. Primus only knew why. Who gets a pet in the middle of a war? It seemed like fancy collateral from his point of view, but maybe he was just a sparkless bastard.

"Do they make that noise all the time? Because if so, I want to leave.”

He was only half joking.

Optimus shook his helm. “No, they don’t. The noise I assume you are referring to was Miko playing on a. . . human musical instrument.”

"Music?” Starscream sneered, “If that’s what these creatures consider music, I do not think they’re quite so intelligent, hm? I don’t know why you keep them around.”

It occurred to him as soon as it left his intake that saying that probably wasn’t the best decision he’d ever made. Optimus’ face fell slightly, and Starscream despised the twinge of nervousness he felt at the simple expression.

"Now Starscream,” Optimus rebuked, “I know that you may not have had much contact with humans while with the Decepticons, but here, you will be around them far more often. They are a part of our team, human or not. I expect you to treat them just as well as you would a fellow Cybertronian.”

Well, first of all, Starscream wasn’t sure if Optimus knew him, but treating someone ‘just as well as he would a fellow Cybertronian’ meant next to nothing to him. Second of all, Starscream still wasn’t aware of the actual value of having the little pests on the ‘team,’ but he’s sure if he questioned Optimus any further on the subject he’d get another lecture, so he decided to ignore it for now. 

"Okay Prime, I understand, these. . . humans are important and I shouldn’t be mean to them.”

Optimus seemed to untense—and oh if that didn’t make him feel better, dear Primus, he hadn’t realized how bad it was getting—and he nodded gratefully. “Thank you. I am sure that, once you get used to them, you will begin to appreciate the kids’ presence. They do grow on you.”

Respectfully, Starscream doesn’t think that’s ever going to happen. Unless humans doubled as a mold of some sort. A type of rust infection, maybe.

"Actually,”—oh, he was still talking—“I was hoping you would be willing to join me in the command deck for breakfast, to get you acquainted.”

Ahh, Optimus was smart, saying ‘join me’ instead of ‘join us,’ but it would take a bit more than that to get him to subject himself to the displeasure that was the rest of the Autobots.

. . .Although, Starscream was supposed to be on his best behavior—especially after the fight that he wasn’t going to think about—and maybe this was part of that. Making nice with the local parasites and other such riveting activities.

"Okay,” he responded slowly, making his reluctance known. Starscream had a reputation, after all, he couldn’t just start sucking up to the Prime. That will be reserved for special occasions only.

"Thank you, Starscream,” Optimus replied, giving a small, sincere smile, and Starscream didn’t know whether he wanted to claw that pitiful expression off of his face or do more of whatever put it there.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Starscream walked into the room behind Optimus, trying to pretend he wasn’t hiding behind the bigger mech. He wasn’t, really! The doorway was narrow, that’s all.

His optics glanced quickly around the command deck, searching for the blue-and-pink bike. He’d rather not have a repeat of yesterday, even with Prime keeping watch.

"Arcee is currently out on patrol,” Optimus said, seeming to notice Starscream’s discomfort.

He glared up at the bigger mech. “What of it?” Starscream challenged. He was fine. He didn’t need Optimus to reassure him every few clicks. Whether Arcee was here or not, he was still going to be here, regardless of her feelings on the matter.

But still, he’d rather not deal with it. That’s all.

"Hey Screamer!” shrieked a piercing, squeaky voice.

. . .And he’d rather not deal with that, either. But we can’t all get what we want, now can we?

Starscream turned to face the source of the voice, finding three small humans watching him, along with the little yellow scout.

The mech among them beeped a timid greeting, but Starscream ignored him, instead focusing on the annoying pests, trying and failing to hide the scowl on his face. “What?”

Out of the three humans staring at him, the odd pink one puffed up and pointed him out. 

"I could ask you the same thing!”—what, that doesn’t even make sense—“What’s a stupid ‘Con doing here? You and your creepy fingers should’ve stayed far away from our base!” She ended her little statement by planting her servos(?) onto her hips(?) and huffing.

Starscream rolled his optics. He thought he might know a little peace with the two-wheeler being away, but it turns out the ‘Bots had a mini version of her primed and ready to insult him as well. At least this one was a bit more straightforward with her opinions. And too small to corner him and beat him up.

Not satisfied with his lack of response, the loudmouthed human started up again. “You shouldn’t even be here. I don’t know what Optimus was thinking, but he should have never let you in.”

And owch, that one actually hurt a little bit. Which was weird, because some of the things the vermin said before were arguably worse (his claws were not fragging creepy. The stupid fleshies wished they had servos as sharp and deadly as his, instead of their gross meat stubs). Something irrational must be coming over him.

Maybe it was because he was starting to think Optimus made a mistake, too.

Starscream narrowed his optics and stalked over to where that rat and her friends were standing, ignoring Bumblebee’s panicked chirps and an arm held protectively in front of them.

As if that would stop him, if he really wanted to hurt them. 

But no, he couldn’t indulge himself in killing the soft, squishy organics. A strong breeze could probably do that job for him, in any case.

Instead, Starscream leaned down, getting about as eye-level as he could with the humans. The other two skittered away from his gaze, but the pink one held firm, leveling with her own challenging glare.

"If you care that much, take it up with your leader,” Starscream growled, flicking a wing in the direction of the Prime, who was still standing by the doorway looking for all the world like a worried statue. He was getting real sick of others blaming him for the decisions of their dear faultless leader. They could find someone else to burn on their pyre of guilt for once.

Instead of cowering like he’d have liked, the loud fleshy snickered, staring triumphantly up at him as though she had won something.

"Yeah well—” 

Whatever she was going to say next was cut off by more chirping from the scout, a warning. The human certainly seemed to stop, but before Starscream could boast that ha, he had won, actually, one of the other humans piped up. This one, miraculously, was even smaller than the one in front of him.

"Er, M-Miko, Bee said that you shouldn’t do that. . .” he stuttered out.

Starscream’s gaze snapped to the orange human, ignoring whatever inane nonsense the pink one—Meekoh, was it?—was going on about now.

"How do you know rudimentary Cybertronian?” Starscream asked, though it sounded more like a threat than he intended. Sue him for being a little angry. . . all the time.

The little human shrunk in on himself. “Uhm-well, it’s—it’s like. . . binary?”

Starscream narrowed his optics in confusion.

I. . . I guess? I suppose they’re similar, but I thought humans were organic.

"What is your name.”

He looked around as though Starscream could possibly be talking to anyone else. “Ah, it’s Rafael—or just Raf,” he said, wringing his servos.

"Hey!” Miko squeaked right in his audial, “Why didn’t you ask for my name?”

"Because you’re annoying and I don’t like you,” Starscream shot back, glaring at the pest.

". . .But you like me?” Raf asked meekly, looking about as confused as he sounded.

“No!” Starscream snarled, flaring his wings, “I hate all of you, but I hate Mee-coh the most.”

“You say my name weird,” Miko complained, crossing her arms.

“Your name is weird,” Starscream retorted.

“Oh yeah? Well what kind of name is Starscream, anyway?”

“What kind of name is—” he squawked indignantly, “A ‘Meecoh’ isn’t even a real thing!”

Miko scoffed, “As if a ‘star scream’ is a real thing either. Stars don’t scream, stupid!”

Starscream growled and bared his fangs. “They do when you blow them up. Now shut up. This conversation is rotting my processor.”

The annoying brat leaned back on her heels and grinned, looking far too pleased with herself.

Starscream stalked off, quickly grabbing a cube and sitting down as far away from the humans as possible. His helm was already killing him, he didn’t need to die of annoyance as well.

He looked to the Prime, if only to gauge his reaction, but it seemed the mech had gotten distracted, doing something at the center console.

Starscream sank deeper into his seat. The day just started, and he already couldn't wait for it to end.

The miniscule peace only lasted a few moments before he heard three high, whispery voices.

“Miko, knock it off! Do you want him to kill y—”

“Aw Jack, don’t be a baby, I can take him!”

“No no no, Miko, you cannot take him! You only go up to his ankles.”

“. . .Well, yeah, but he’s not allowed to hurt me, Optimus said so!”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll listen—”

“Um, guys? I think he saw us.”

The little orange one pointed at Starscream, who had indeed seen them. He was looking right at them, observing their pitiful attempts to sneak up on him.

Undeterred, Miko shook off—Jack? Was that it? Finally, a somewhat reasonable name—Jack’s attempts to hold her back, marching right over to where Starscream was sitting.

Before Starscream could comment, the pest climbed her way up to him. How she did so with those soft, fleshy stick-arms was beyond him.

“I propose a deal, Starscream,” Miko said, putting her servos on her hips, with a voice he’s sure she thought was authoritative.

“I don’t make deals with vermin. Leave me alone,” Starscream muttered, sipping his energon.

“So the deal is,” she continued, acting as though she didn’t hear him, “that I’ll be nicer to you, buuuut,” she stressed, “you have to take me for a jet ride.”

Starscream just stared at her.

He had to admire the sheer audacity, but the human was certainly as stupid as she looked.

“Not sure if you noticed,” Starscream sneered, leaning towards Miko, “but I’m not allowed outside, nor am I allowed without stasis cuffs.” He clicked a claw against the metal band for effect. “And even if I was, I certainly wouldn’t let a filthy organic inside my cockpit.”

Miko pouted at the insult. “Oh yeah?! Well you’re just a—just a-um,” she stuttered, “a meanie!”

Starscream was at a loss for words.

So he burst into laughter.

“Ah, human,” he began once he got his vocalizer back under control. “While I am truly wounded by your opinions of me, I simply cannot indulge your request. My deepest apologies,” Starscream purred, a sardonic grin plastered on his face.

Apparently he’d leaned forward too far this time, because Miko, fuming with annoyance, kicked him in the cheek as hard as she could.

The grin fell from his face.

Her audacity was no longer admirable.

Miko opened her mouth to say something, but never got the chance. Starscream wrapped a servo around her, yanking her into the air and holding her at eye-level.

Bumblebee, who up until this point had been watching nervously from afar, chirped sharply and shot to his peds. Optimus had looked up from the console screen, wide optics darting between Starscream, Bumblebee, and the humans, debating whether or not to intervene. The two human boys by Starscream’s peds gasped in alarm, looking worried for their friend’s safety.

Such pandemonium, but Miko herself seemed more annoyed than scared.

“I believe one of your pets is broken,” Starscream drawled, waving Miko around and ignoring her indignant protests, “this one seems to be missing a processor.”

Bumblebee scrambled over to Starscream and Miko, whirring incessantly. “Put her down!” he beeped, holding out his servo.

“Yeah, whatever Bee said!” Miko squeaked, pounding her fists against Starscream’s claws. It was almost cute how ineffective it was.

“Hmmm. . .” Starscream hummed. He pretended to think about it for a few clicks, before he got bored and dropped the unruly girl into Bumblebee’s open palm. Miko landed with a soft oof.

“Well,” Starscream started before anyone else could speak up, “this daily accosting session has been fun, really, but,” he stood and shoved his cube into the disposal, “I believe it is time for me to go.” He then stalked to the door and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The command deck was silent for a few moments.

“What a jerk!” Miko exclaimed, pushing herself up to sit properly.

Bumblebee turned to Optimus, looking for—well, anything.

Optimus only sighed.

Chapter Text

“—it’s not about that, all I ask is that you take the time to understand them, and to refrain from insulting them,” Optimus implored.

“Tell that to your pets first,” Starscream exclaimed, flaring his wings, “That annoying pink one started it!”

“I know, and her name is Miko, and I have already discussed that with her.”

Starscream just sank into his berth and seethed.

“Look,” Optimus sighed, “I am not trying to force you to be friends with them, but they are going to be here regardless, so it would simply be easier for everyone involved if you would try and tolerate them, at least.”

“Only if they can tolerate me.”

Optimus shuttered his optics and nodded. “Of course. And I would have no less for you.”

Okay, that one got him a little. Say what you want about the Prime, but he’s got charisma.

Starscream leaned back and hummed, trying to act like he might actually say no. He can’t seem that easy.

“Yes, okay,” he sighed eventually, waving Optimus off, “I’ll consider it. Now get out.”

Optimus complied with a smile, which was just the worst. That meant he’d actually have to do it now.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Starscream unceremoniously sat down next to the human’s little. . . enrichment center? The place where they played games or something. He figured the sooner he started with this stupid assimilation project, the sooner he’d never have to talk to them again.

The pink one—ehem—the Miko either refused to acknowledge his presence or was too absorbed with whatever was playing on the screen to notice, both of which were equally likely. Jack only threw him a confused, displeased glance before turning back to the T.V. Rafael was the only one to acknowledge him in any meaningful manner.

“Uhm, h-hello, Starscream,” he squeaked, doing a little half-wave.

“Hello, Raf,” Starscream responded amicably enough. It was the least he could do, since he was certainly the least incorrigible human so far.

“. . .Er-what—what are you doing here. . . ? N-not to be rude or anything!”

Starscream hummed, ignoring the near-terror in Raf’s voice. What was he doing here? Well, Optimus had told him to try talking to the humans again, but it’s not like he could just admit that. That would make him look like a pushover.

“I’m watching you.” There. Simple, to the point, and technically true.

Raf tilted his head a bit, confused. “Like. . . watching the game?” he asked, pointing slightly towards the T.V.

Starscream leaned over and squinted at the screen, trying to make out whatever the pit was on it.

“. . .Sure.”

Suddenly, Miko jumped up from her spot on the couch and shouted, causing Starscream to reel back.

“HA! I told you I’d win, pay up!”

Jack’s expression soured. “That’s not fair, Starscream distracted me,” he complained, pointing an accusatory finger in the mech in question’s direction.

He hissed and flicked his wings. “What? I’m just sitting here!”

“Exactly.”

“Whatever, Jack,” Miko scoffed, “just hurry up and pick your stuff so the round starts!”

“Wh—” The human scrambled to pick his controller up off his lap. “Make up your mind!”

Starscream rested with his face in his servos and dully watched whatever was going on in the game. It was loud and bright and annoying, but at least the humans stopped making noise.

“What is this nonsense?” he muttered to himself. Maybe he actually preferred it when they were busy insulting him, because at least that was interesting drivel. This was just headache inducing boredom.

“It’s Mario Kart.”

Starscream’s gaze snapped to the source of the voice, Raf.

“What?”

“It’s uh,” Raf stuttered out, “It’s the. . . name, of the game. The racing game-er—the one they’re playing.”

Starscream stared at Raf for a few moments, and the little human shrunk in on himself.

“Neither of those words are going through my translator properly.”

Not entirely true, ‘cart’ went through just fine, but those ‘carts’ clearly have nothing to do with racing. 

And Starscream didn't know what a ‘horse’ was.

“O-oh, ‘Mario’ is a-uh-character, and the ‘Kart’ is what they’re driving,” Raf explained, pointing at the tv screen, where Starscream could now make out two horrifically deformed creatures driving. . . well, those were just cars, now weren’t they? Wait—no, there were a few bikes there too.

A snicker sounded from the couch. Starscream whirled around and glared at Miko, but unfortunately that only seemed to spur her on. “Pfft, you sound like an old guy—wait! You sound like Ratchet! ”

He narrowed his optics and hissed, “If you compare me to him ever again I’m flying to this planet’s stratosphere and dropping you from it.”

Miko smirked. “Does that mean you are going to take me for a jet ride?”

Starscream only growled and turned away.

“-or he’s like a cat,” Miko whispered to Jack, who seemed more occupied with keeping his car-thing from falling off the track for the fifth time.

What’s a cat?

Starscream decided to spend less time on humoring Miko’s inane taunts and more time looking at these earthly ‘cats.’ He opened a browser window in his HUD and began looking through the terabytes upon terabytes of files on these little creatures.

Hmm, these ‘cats’ must be quite popular with the humans.

He opened the first video he saw and stared at the squirming mass of mottled fur on screen, studying it. Apparently, the video he was watching was. . . hmn, three hours long?—Primus. The ‘cat’ was bumbling around, using its four stubby legs to drag itself around the soft-looking cushion it was walking on, then—oh! It made a quiet, shrill mew at the camera, showing off its pointy teeth. Begrudgingly, he had to admit it was endearing.

Starscream watched the little thing wander around for a few more moments, then shut the video off.

And immediately turned on another. 

This one was bigger, but paradoxically had less fur. It was a solid dark color and it was prancing around what looked like someone’s hab, chasing an odd looking toy on a string and clawing at it. The whole thing reminded him a bit of Ravage. Though, it would’ve been more accurate if the little toy being battered was instead the severed helm of an Autobot.

Starscream turned the video off as soon as the human holding the camera started focusing on themselves instead of the cat. He then settled into scrolling endlessly through pages and pages of pictures of the creature.

. . .He supposed he didn’t mind being compared to these things. They kind of reminded him of sparklings, all soft and squeaky and cute.

Not that he would ever admit that, of course. The great Decepti—eh- Autobot Air Comma—er-(what was his rank here again?)

Whatever! Whoever the hell he was, he was not cute! He would be loath to be called that—at least, called that anywhere other than in the privacy of his own berth.

. . .What was he on about again?

Oh right. Cats. . . or whatever.

. . .

Something hard slammed into Starscream’s helm. He blinked furiously for a few moments, trying to regain his bearings, before turning to the source.

The fact it was Miko was hardly surprising at this point.

“Screamy! Screamer! HEY—oh, you’re awake! Thought you fell asleep with your eyes open, which would be weird, but I guess your guys’ eyes don’t need to stay wet, huh.”

Starscream frowned, trying to clear his helm. “What nonsense are you going on about now?”

Miko blinked. “Huh? Oh-oh!” Her face suddenly shifted from confused to furious, probably breaking a record somewhere. “Why weren’t you watching the game!” And just as quickly, her anger dissolved into grating smugness. “I won by the way.”

Starscream sighed, sinking down where he was sitting. 

A weird, annoying fleshie after his own spark, he supposed.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

It was official: Starscream no longer wanted to tolerate the humans. He did well the first time, he really did, he didn’t even yell or anything!

But if Miko kept trying to force him to listen to human music, he might just snap that little instrument of hers in half.

“I’m telling you, Screamer, you just gotta find what you like! Everybody likes music,” she squeaked, picking up her radio-thing again and pressing a few buttons.

“And I’m telling you,” he growled, through grit teeth, “I do like music, just not this weird alien drivel.”

Miko scoffed. “Well, technically, since you’re on our planet, you’re the alien here.”

Starscream rolled his optics. “Oh, just get on with the next torture session, human.”

“Miko,” she corrected pointedly.

“Human Miko.”

Her face scrunched up. “Close enough, I guess. Anyways—!”

She abruptly shoved the music player in front of Starscream and pressed the ‘play’ button.

Immediately, he was struck by some of the loudest, screechiest music he’d ever heard. Banging, literal screaming , and probably explosions if he listened closely enough. Not that he wanted to.

“Turn it off!” Starscream shrieked, slapping his servos over his poor, aching audials.

Miko took her sweet time turning the song off, clearly reveling in Starscream’s discomfort. “Take it you don’t like death metal, then,” she said, grinning.

“‘Death’ is right!” Starscream squawked, “That is not music, that sounds like a recording of the Battle of Iacon!”

She snickered. “Alright, alright, lets try something else—”

“No,” Starscream interjected, “I believe I’ve established that I’m not going to like any of your so-called ‘music,’ so leave me alone.”

“Aw, c’mon, just one more!”

Starscream let out a slow, raspy vent. “Fine. ”

“Yay! Okay, and three, two, one—play.”

He leaned in, listening to the weird, pulsing beats and the odd shrieking noises for a few moments before he leaned back away, lip curling back in disgust.

“Eugh, that sounds like two mechs interfacing, why in the pit would you want to listen to that?” Starscream complained, poking the music player with a claw.

“It’s just dubstep, it’s not that bad!” she exclaimed, before turning back, confused. “Wait—what’s interfacing?”

Starscream blanked. 

Oh, right. These were human sparklings, weren’t they?

Oops.

“Nothing you need to know about,” he responded quickly, waving Miko off. “Anyways, I mean it now, stop making me listen to horrible music, or I’m telling Optimus you’re harassing me again.”

Miko gasped, enraged. “That’s not fair—” she huffed and shoved the music player at him. “Fine! Why don’t you show me what music you like? You gotta have something, Screamy.”

Starscream initially sneered at the suggestion—and that infuriating nickname—but then he thought about it and that might actually help.

At the very least, it would get the annoying rat to leave him the frag alone.

Starscream pushed the player back at Miko with a smirk. “I don’t need your primitive human technology to play a song, Miko.” He tapped into his internal radio, then searched through his HUD to find something to play that actually constituted music. He didn’t have much—and sue him, there were better things to be doing during the fall of Cybertron than downloading dance-tracks and musicals, but he must have a few.

At last, he found one; Cloudgrazer, an old, old Vosian ballad. Why did he have that one saved again. . . ?

Whatever, it was a song and he did like it, so on it goes. Starscream didn't feel like looking for much longer, anyways.

Starscream clicked on his radio and the song started to play. Miko leaned forward, apparently enthralled.

A soft, sonorous melody rang out, a quiet swell of reed instruments and a gentle bass. Miko listened for a few moments before her face scrunched up in confusion. 

“What?” Starscream hissed, “You asked for a song and I showed you one.”

The vocals came in at this point, sweet and silvery. This only made Miko’s expression skew further, before her eyes widened to saucers.

Then a wide, sardonic grin spread across her face.

"Oh my god!” Miko squealed and jumped up, making Starscream wince. “You like love songs?! ”

Starscream glared at her, wings twitching. “It’s not a. . .” 

Well, yeah, it was a love song. A very dramatic, saccharine one. The singer, a lonely, un-trined seeker, tells the tale of being in love with love itself, with the idea of having another mech to belong to, to soar the skies of Vos with, hence the name ‘Cloudgrazer.’ It ends on a sad note, with the singer lamenting that his Cloudgrazer might never exist, destined to remain alone for the rest of his functioning, holed up in his hab.

Ahh, now he remembered why he had this song downloaded; It was practically standard curriculum in any high-level classical arts class, a class Starscream had the misfortune of being forced to take to get his qualifications (why the frag he needed to learn about some old shut-in who died of sparkbreak when he was shooting for a science degree, he had no clue).

He tried again. “It’s not my favorite, I just picked the first song I could find.”

Miko clearly wasn’t listening, though. She was parading around, giggling. “Big bad Screamer likes cute love songs. That’s adorable! ”

“Shut up!” Starscream snarled, “You just can’t appreciate real music! Your tiny processor just can't handle the nuance of meaningful art!”

At this, Miko burst out laughing.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

It seemed Jack was quickly moving his way down the list of humans he found tolerable. Probably because he acted just like that glitch of a bike.

“What in the world could you want,” Starscream hissed over his shoulder, watching the boy sneak towards him, “Here to harass me now that your carrier of a guardian cannot?”

The human gave him a confused look, but crossed his arms defiantly. “No, I want to talk to you.”

Starscream rolled his optics. Right. He forgot these humans had such a primitive language. He couldn’t even insult them properly.

“Well I don’t,” he responded flippantly, turning back around and continuing back towards his hab. “Goodbye.”

Jack did not relent. His tiny legs struggled to keep up with the mech’s purposefully long strides. “Why not?” he accused, “If you’re going to be here, wasn’t one of the clauses that you have to be civil?”

Ugh. Even in the hallway?

Starscream stopped abruptly and spun around to face the pest, feeling a completely normal amount of satisfaction at the sight of Jack nearly tripping and falling on his face.

“Go on then. But I suggest you make it quick, as it seems your guardians are preparing to drop you back off at your nest for recharge,” Starscream drawled, leaning forward to tower over the human. Not that he didn’t do that already.

Jack stared back up at him, giving no indication of being threatened. “Unlike Miko, I won’t rise to your taunts.”

“You started it!” Starscream hissed.

“How? By implying that you be polite?”

“. . .Yes.”

Jack let out a frustrated noise and rocked on his heels. “Look Starscream,” he began, “I don’t trust you. In fact, no one here trusts you. In our eyes, you’re nothing more than a Decepticon. You have done nothing to prove to us that you’ve changed! 

Starscream narrowed his optics and stared at Jack. So another harassment campaign it was. If only he wasn’t so right all the time.

Jack continued, “In fact, I think you're just here to leech off the Autobots. you’re taking advantage of Optimus’ kindness to—to meet your own ends!” 

Maybe. But what’s it to you?

“So Starscream, why are you really here? If you wanted to destroy the Autobots from the inside, you sure are taking your time—”

“Shut up, little human!” Starscream barked suddenly, taking a step towards Jack. “You think you’re smart, don’t you, parroting off all the slag your guardians spout about me, but you don’t know anything, rat.”

Jack was stunned into silence, but even if he wasn’t he still wouldn’t’ve been able to respond regardless, considering the speed at which Starscream was ranting.

“You know what? I don’t care what you think. I am an Autobot now, and I am not going to be run out by some glitched bike and her acquired spawn, so you might as well save the precious seconds in your short, pathetic organic life!”

Starscream was venting hard once it was all said and done, and he finally shut his intake and glared at Jack, waiting for a rebuttal.

Jack just stood there, eyes wide. He didn’t have a response.

“Hmm, what was that? Now you seem to be at a loss for words? Where did all that biting criticism go?” 

Again, no response. It seemed as though Jack was well and truly shocked into silence. No matter, that’s exactly what Starscream was hoping for. He turned on his heels and began stalking back to his room. All he wanted was to put all this slag behind him and recharge. For all he was supposed to be ‘playing nice’ with the humans, he couldn’t muster the will to care if the little parasite went tattling to the Prime about his ‘uncivil attitude.’

But then Jack spoke up again.

“Do you mean it?”

Starscream stopped. Turned around. And sneered.

“Which part? The one where I called you a rat? Because if so, I’ll have you know I mean it more every time I say i—”

“When you said you were an Autobot,” Jack interrupted, unreadable.

Starscream’s optic twitched. Never before had he more wanted to claw his own faceplate open in frustration. “Of course I meant it, and I also meant it the first fifty times I’ve said it before this!” he growled, “Why is that so hard for all you morons to understand?”

At that, Starscream turned around—for good this time, no more side-tracking—and stomped into his hab, refusing to look back at the nuisance of a creature behind him.

Starscream didn’t care what he thought, a stupid fleshie was not going to preach to him.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

“What are you doing.”

The small orange hu— Raf, Raf jumped at the sound of Starscream’s voice.

“Huh-uh what?” Raf was now holding whatever he was working on over his face and staring up at the mech looming over him.

“I asked what you were doing,” Starscream repeated. Honestly, the humans would be so much more bearable to talk to if they could listen to him properly.

Raf didn’t respond for a few moments, looking on like he was studying Starscream, before his eyes widened and he suddenly blurted out, “Oh, you’re interacting with us because Optimus told you to.”

Starscream flared his wings. “No!” he shouted, before catching himself and sheepishly glancing around. He stared back at Raf. “. . .Well,” he corrected, “ this interaction is willing, at least. Your presence offends me less than the other two.” Yes, this would work. Most creatures were appeased by compliments. And Starscream was even telling the truth!

“Unlike when you talked to Miko and Jack, which was. . . unwilling?” Raf questioned.

Starscream rolled his optics, “Yes, that is what I just sa—” He cut himself off. Polite. “Ehm—they accosted me into speaking with them.”

“Yeah, they told me about that,” Raf responded, laughing a bit and finally lowering the papers away from his face. “Miko called you a softie, and Jack called you a word I’m not allowed to repeat.”

“I’m sure,” Starscream scoffed, “And also, if I’d had it my way, that conversation with Jack would’ve never happened.” Really, if the brats didn’t like talking to him, why did they try so hard? “But you haven’t answered my question,” he continued, getting back on topic. Starscream clicked his claws in front of where Raf was sitting, “What are you doing?”

". . .Just my math homework.”

Starscream furrowed his brow and stared closer at the small papers in the boy’s lap. The equations were positively primitive, questions that even sparkling would know the answers to innately.

Ah, but he supposed he was supposed to be acting nice.

"Very. . . interesting,” he managed, “For what are you studying math for?”

Raf looked at him a little confused, but answered anyway. “Uhm, well, math in general is a required course, but I’m in a higher level math then normal because I’m ahead of my class.” The slight pride in the boy’s voice didn’t go unnoticed by Starscream.

“‘Required?’ So you’re studying to become a scientist?”

“Oh,” Raf hummed, “I do think I’d like to be a scientist or something like that when I grow up,” he started quickly, “But, uh, math is required for all students, not just scientists.” Raf seemed to mull over something for a bit, before asking, “Is it—or, ah, was—different then that on Cybertron?”

Starscream hummed, staring at the little human. Now that he thought about it, it didn’t seem like there were any obvious castes for them to be split into. None that much affected education, at least. “Yes, on Cybertron, mechs were only permitted to be educated for the work their frametype was ‘for.’” Starscream couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice, doing little quotes in the air with his claws, but he quickly perked up again. “Aha, with yours truly as one of the exceptions! The headmasters at Iacon tried throwing every trite, obscure rule at me to get me expelled from the Science Academy, but being the prodigy that I was, they had no choice but to let me stay!” 

Starscream conveniently left out that he was halfway a, quote-unquote, ‘diversity admission,’ a last ditch effort for the Academy to combat the rising anti-functionalist sentiments. It didn’t take away from the fact that he was the best damn scientist they’d had in centuries, so who cared. Not him.

Raf’s eyes widened at the revelation. “You used to be a scientist?”

The mech huffed, crossing his arms. “Not used to be—or, well, maybe I am not actively working as one, but I still have my credentials.” 

Starscream also conveniently left out that he technically never graduated, for reasons he refused to think about. Though, even if he had, what use were credentials from a smoldering pile of rubble and ash?

A few moments of silence followed, until Raf suddenly blurted, “Oh-oh! Does that mean you can help me with my science homework?” Without waiting for a proper answer, Raf scrambled to shove his abandoned math assignments into his backpack and pulled out some other assorted sheets. “I’m usually really good at science—computer science, that is—but they said I had to take biology this year,” he explained while shuffling through the crumpled stack of papers, “Ah, wait, maybe you wouldn’t know much about organic biology, considering. . . you know, but—”

Starscream cut him off with a scoff and a flare of his wings. “Excuse you, I happen to know plenty about your organic biology. In fact, our entire thesis was on the topic of alien organic biodiversity! I did not planet hop collecting mud samples for eight years straight for my work to be overlooked like this!”

Raf paused. “. . .Our?”

Starscream fell very quiet very quickly.

Longer than he really should have, he stared at Raf, optics blank, before suddenly shaking himself and letting out a frustrated growl, making the boy jump.

“Oh, whate—just give me that!” he hissed, snatching the tiny papers out of Raf’s hands. Starscream started skimming over the inane assignments, mostly in an effort to ignore the sudden, sheer temperature drop in the room. Not his problem, anyways.

The Autobots should fix their heaters.

Chapter Text

Whenever the Autobots had their meetings, Starscream often didn't attend. It wasn’t like he wasn't interested in their goings-on (in fact, he felt an inexplicable need to fixate on them, if only to give him something to do besides watch mindless human television), it was just that he never felt particularly welcome, so to speak. Optimus encouraged Starscream to join them on occasion, presumably to acclimate him to the rest of the Autobots like some kind of wild animal. The implication alone had him declining on principal.

It didn’t help that the Autobots didn’t want him there to begin with. Really, it was like they weren’t even trying to hide how much they didn’t want him around. Optimus was infuriatingly polite as always, and Ratchet and Bumblebee seemed at least indifferent on the matter, but Arcee and Bulkhead burned him the dirtiest looks imaginable whenever he dare vent in their presence. 

Needless to say, that didn’t make him too eager to get involved in their group activities.

However, Optimus insisted on this one, saying that the meeting ‘required’ Starscream to be there. That hadn’t happened before, what with Prime and all his choices. It was starting to set him off. He was pacing around his hab and practicing holding his wings still, with little success. 

The complete lack of flying (or proper wind flow, or windows, or oh Primus he’s underground this place is a damned deathtrap—) over the past three or so weeks had made him unbearably twitchy. The change in his newfound status-quo even more so.

On the Nemesis, a required meeting would’ve only meant two things: a passive-aggressive mission assignment, or an aggressive-aggressive beating, but neither of those options were viable here. Starscream didn’t have assignments. The Autobots didn’t trust him with any task more involved than sorting spare parts in the medbay, and even then that glitched medic watched him as though he were defusing a live explosive.

Or planting one, more accurately.

As for punishment, Starscream had been extremely careful about behaving himself. . . or at least a bit cautious, really. . . or maybe he’s been a nightmare to interact with on all fronts. 

In any case, the Prime didn’t seem to be one for punishing his soldiers in front of others. Him doing so in private was the most likely explanation, considering how the others spoke of him. After a roundabout grilling of Bumblebee (of which the scout seemed desperate to escape, but as if he cared), the little bug assured him that the Autobots were never laid a servo upon by Optimus.

He knew better, of course. Bumblebee was the youngest mech on base by a long shot, and even Starscream didn’t have such a low opinion of the Prime to think he’d hit a mechling. The scout was probably speaking on his team’s behalf, and was probably wrong. It must be the case that Optimus deals his blows away from prying optics. It made sense, considering the pure-of-spark act the mech liked to foster.

Starscream didn’t mind, he was prepared. Better to take his licks in private then to be made a spectacle of.

All of this was to say that whatever this meeting required of him, he had no idea, and it was starting to worry him. He could decline—no, no he couldn’t, he’d done that before and it was clear that skipping out wasn’t an option this time. Then what? Maybe the rule about beating his subordinates in private didn’t apply to Starscream, considering he is—was a Decepticon. It would surely prove a poi—

Starscream received a ping from Optimus.

'Hello Starscream, will you be joining us in the command deck?’

His processor stalled. He’d forgotten they’d unblocked his comms. Just barely, mind you, the only other frequencies he had access to were of the Autobots stationed here, minus Arcee. For his sake or hers, he didn’t know.

Starscream broke his pace and turned on heel to face the door, slamming his servo against the door panel and making his way out of his room. He’d stalled for too long. Curse him, why didn’t he just leave with Optimus? Starscream has been regrettably lacking in good decisions lately.

He arrived at the command deck far too quickly for his taste, but alas. Starscream hiked his wings and straightened his spine. If he acted like he did nothing wrong then perhaps it would become convincing at some point.

When the door flung open, several pairs of optics locked onto his frame. The only mechs who refrained from doing so were Arcee and Ratchet; Arcee due to her newfound streak of acting as though he didn’t exist (poorly), and Ratchet because he was too busy cursing out the monitors he was sitting at (something he did often, Starscream was beginning to think the mech believed the console could actually hear him).

Optimus spoke first, nodding in his direction. “Thank you, Starscream,” he said, gesturing for him to stand next to him, “Now we may begin.”

Starscream did not want to go stand next to the Prime, certainly not within arms reach. In general. Amenably. Nothing personal. Just seemed like a good course of action.

He did it regardless, but still.

“So, Prime,” Starscream drawled as he stalked over to where Optimus was standing beside the center console, “what was so important that it couldn't be contained in a memo?”

Optimus nodded graciously. “Do you recall the Decepticon mine you gave us the coordinates for?”

Of course he did, and he was still on the fence on whether or not that was a good idea. At the time it felt like it, maybe. Starscream wasn’t doing enough, and even someone as supposedly charitable as Prime couldn’t commit to fueling a dead weight. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were on the verge of kicking him out on his aft, and Primus only knows how he’d manage to find energon by himself.

Or worse, they might decide to take a more proactive approach to his disappearance.

So, in a strange, exhaustion-fueled fit he refused to call panic, he sent Optimus the coordinates to one of the many Decepticon energon mines he had saved to his HUD.

Along with a long-winded message about how so very useful he is and how it would be such a shame to lose such an asset.

At around three in the morning.

He really hoped Optimus left those parts out when he relayed the information to his team.

“Former Decepticon mine,” Starscream corrected, “It hasn't been active in ages. . . but yes, I do.”

He remembered the fight with Megatron over that quite clearly. ‘Starscream!’ the mech would yell, as Megatron was seemingly incapable of speaking at a reasonable volume, ‘I refuse to waste resources on that little pet project of yours any more, call off the vehicons!’ Then Starscream would say, ‘But Master, the whole point of a mine is to bring in more resources, you stupid glitch,’ like a reasonable mech. Then Megatron would insult him back, and vice versa, ad infinitum. Or at least until Starscream got thrown into a wall.

That’s how he remembered it, anyway.

Optimus continued, “As it stands, our earlier scouting excursions found no Decepticon activity in the area.”

Starscream made a very conscious effort to keep his optics from rolling. Mine, keyword, ‘inactive.’

“I told you that,” he hissed, “Megatron doesn’t make a habit of keeping things he deems unnecessary.” Starscream shifted on his peds nervously. Whatever Prime was reiterating all these things he already knew for was beyond him. Lunacy, perhaps.

Or-or Prime was accusing him of something. Slag it all.

“But-ah,” Starscream continued quickly, willing himself to still, “what does all this have to do with me, exactly?” He already gave them coordinates, what else could they possibly want?

At that, Optimus looked to him again. “I, as well as the rest of the team—” and the very much not thrilled looks on the rest of the Autobots faces at that statement were not lost on Starscream, “—have come to the conclusion that you should be allowed to join the collection party, as it was your information that resulted in the acquisition of these resources.”

. . .Oh, what?

Whatever Starscream expected him to say, it wasn’t that. He gets to join? As in go outside? For a mission to go get some energon from a little defunct mine he happened to give to Optimus in a fit of anxiety. 

All the usual considerations ran through his processor, Prime’s lying, this is a trick, they’re going to pin me somewhere and tear me apart. . . but none of it clicked the way it should’ve. They could do all that slag in base if they wanted to. Maybe they just don’t want to clean the gore up. . .

Take it as it comes.

“Does this mean I get to fly?” Starscream responded before he could think about it, near feverish, “I mean—you can't expect me to walk there, can you? Why, I think it’s only reasonabl—”

His rambling was interrupted by the Prime once more. “Of course, Starscream, you will be allowed to fly there in your alt, so long as you behave yourself. Your stasis cuffs will be removed for the duration of the mission.” He touched the medic on the shoulder to get his attention, who seemed to have given up on cursing and was simply glaring, and gestured to Starscream’s banded wrists. “Ratchet, if you will.”

Starscream watched blankly as Ratchet pushed himself off the console and finally turned to face the rest of the room, and more specifically him.

“Well, come here then!” he snapped, apparently expecting Starscream to go to him instead of the other way around. Starscream only had the wherewithal to half-heartedly hiss in annoyance as he not-so-successfully tried to make it look as though he wasn’t itching to get the stupid things off. His processor stalled the moment Prime said ‘allowed to fly.’

“‘Still think this is an awful idea,” Ratchet muttered as he fiddled with the cuffs. Starscream couldn't even be bothered to spout any derisive responses at the medic. He’s going outside. Outside! And he gets to fly! Primus, being prisoner here was less restricting than even the lightest of punishments on the Nemesis. Megatron let him stew in a cell for at least a month before letting him wander around base again, let alone fly. Starscream’s wings twitched at the thought, and the excitement of it all nearly wiped the ever-present scowl off his face.

Unfortunately, his budding good mood was ruined by the big annoying wrecker. “Before you get any funny ideas, ” Bulkhead threatened, waving around another pair of stasis cuffs—the ones with the energy string this time, “Me ‘n Bee have got a pair on us for the trip, just in case.”

Oh, right. Logically Starscream knew there was no way he’d have been allowed to go out on his own, but that didn’t mean he liked the thought of being dragged down by a bunch of slow ground-pounders. The lineup wasn’t the worst though. No glitchy bikes to stage an ‘‘‘accidental’’’ cave-related accident and no Prime breathing down his neck. The scout seemed decent enough, even if he did act like Prime’s little sparkling. The brutish wrecker seemed to have it out for him, but the lesser of two evils or something like that.

To combat the inevitable assassination attempt, though, he’d have to put on a bit of a performance. “Uhhuh-yeah, of course, wre—ehm- Bulkhead, I shall be on my best behavior. Promise” Starscream purred, accompanied by what he thought was his most disarming smile. 

His mark merely grimaced as though he’d dropped a rust infected corpse at his peds.

. . .Hmn, maybe Starscream was getting a little out of practice.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

The moment his peds hit the dirt, Starscream transformed and bolted into the air, ignoring the startled shouts of his teammates. Wind slid over his wings, and the tension practically melted from his frame. For a moment, the annoying prattling of the grounders below him didn’t matter anymore.

But it seems he forgot they didn’t need him around to get to his comms.

‘Hey! If you don’t get your aft down here right now, I’m shootin’ you down!’ Bulkhead barked into a group channel, and Starscream resisted the urge to fly even higher out of spite. The sky was so lovely in the morning, with the colors and the cool air. Getting chewed out could wait.

‘Bulkhead!’ Bumblebee exclaimed, ‘It’s barely been a minute! Optimus said he could fly, y’know. . .’ 

‘Oh yeah?’ Bulkhead huffed, ‘Optimus also said that he has to stay within a certain range of us.’

Starscream hadn’t been informed of that particular rule, but he’d assumed it was implied, considering his pseudo-probation.

‘He hasn’t, though, all he did was take off,’ Bumblebee reasoned.

Bulkhead snorted, tone dripping in disbelief, ‘Yeah, and he’s gunnin’ it plenty quick to leave that range soon enough!’

Ugh, if Starscream didn’t want to ruin his little bubble of not being involved, he would’ve politely informed the stupid truck that jets were simply faster than ground vehicles by way of nature and any basic laws of physics. Him ‘booking it’ was damn-near the slowest speed he could take without falling out of the sky. Not that a moronic, ground-bound afthelm could underst—

‘C’mon Bulk’, can we not argue?’ Bumblebee whined, cutting off Starscream’s internal rant, ‘We're about to get a whole load of energon soon, and Screamer’s not even done anything bad yet. We can take it easy for now.’

‘I cannot believe you’re falling for his stupid goody-mech schtick,’—‘goody-mech schtick?’ Autobots have no self-awareness, honestly— ‘And that’s another thing! I bet my left optic we’re walkin’ right into a trap. Why does he pick now of all times to give us the coordinates to ‘Con mine?’

'We’ll just call base if that happens, which it probably won’t,’ Bumblebee responded, starting to sound exasperated, ‘The only comm signatures Starscream has access to is ours, and he’s never been left alone near any of the terminals. How would he even stage an ambush without us finding out? I’m all for caution, but that’s kinda ridiculous.’

The support from Bumblebee was welcome, but entirely unprecedented. Whatever possessed him to suddenly start acting as Starscream’s defense lawyer was beyond him. Was it a reward for being civil with the ‘Bot’s human charge? In any case, hopefully he kept it up. As much as a mindless denthead that wrecker was, you didn’t need to be smart to break a seeker in half with a mace.

Bulkhead made a frustrated noise into his comms. ‘But what if—’

Growing bored of the back-and-forth, Starscream lowered the audio on his comms and flew just a bit higher, focusing on the landscape in front of him instead of his two incompetent wardens below him. Not that he found the view of this horrid mud planet too thrilling, but it was better than whatever drivel was being spewed from the intakes of the Autobots.

The ground may have been bland and ugly, but even Starscream had to admit that the sky was a decent sight, this early in the morning. Nothing would ever compare to the skies of Vos, with the ever-present swirls of nebulae and endless star systems at one’s wingtips, but the way the gasses in the atmosphere interacted with the local star’s light was certainly something. Midnight and midday were boring as anything, but of the few times he’d seen the twilight hours of this planet were something to behold. If he was able to look past his cynicism for a moment, he might even call it pretty.

Almost pretty enough for him to ignore the still arguing ‘Bots in his comms. Really, had they forgotten it was a three-way call? He’d have hung up if he didn't think they’d notice and start paying attention to him again, and Starscream couldn’t have that. He was trying to make the most of this little outing before they put him back in that hole they called a base.

But in any case, they’d finally come within walking distance of the mine, and Starscream mournfully slowed his thrusters. The flight was far, far too short in his opinion, but he didn't think he’d be able to get away with going on a joyride while the grounders did all the digging, as he usually (always) did with the vehicons.

Sue him, his claws weren't made for digging, they were made for gouging.

‘Alright, now land,’ Bulkhead suddenly said into the comm link, apparently remembering the fact that he was on the comm to begin with, and Starscream twitched a bit. The tone the wrecker took with him made him want to refuse on principle, but he soon remembered that he was almost certainly the lowest rank here. Starscream didn't make orders now, he obeyed them. 

Theoretically.

But today, he would make an effort to acquiesce.

Starscream looped around a few laps until he was close enough to drop safely, then he transformed and landed gracefully on his peds. He flicked his wings and preened a bit, even if the sand sinking into his seams made him want to claw his plating off.

Bulkhead rolled his optics. Bumblebee, at least, didn’t do that.

Ah, see? It’s simple, the scout and his pet human are the most tolerable. Easy categorization.

Now that Starscream was on the ground, Bulkhead wasted no time on pleasantries. “You stay in front,” he ordered gruffly, unceremoniously shoving Starscream forward with a servo on his back. He hid his jump of terror with a hiss as he paced a good few steps in front of him.

“Keep your filthy servos off of me!” Starscream snapped, but he did keep walking in front, if only to avoid any more unwanted contact. No manners, these ground-mecha. Where were they, an alien desert or the red-light district of Tarn?

Starscream continued talking after a while, once the silence began to grate. “Honestly, I cannot understand how you grounders can stand rolling around in this mess,” he complained to no one in particular, for a lack of anything better to do, “My ankle joints feel like they’re being sanded down into scrap!”

“Maybe because it is sand, Starscream,” Bumblebee quipped, but before Starscream could reply back with with an equally scathing remark about the scout’s intelligence, he continued, “but it does seem like your peds have more gaps in them then ours, maybe that’s why.” He whirred softly, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away, “I don’t know much about fliers though, and I’m not a doctor.”

Starscream looked at Bumblebee, at a loss. Eventually he settled for his default; a scoff and a sneer. “Why, of course you wouldn’t understand, despite those fake little wings of yours.”

But, well, he did try and understand, didn’t he. That was. . . tolerable? Nice? Quite progressive for a mech who’s only real experience with fliers consisted of battlefield violence?

Starscream closed his intake and didn’t attempt to break the silence again.

The silence didn’t stay unbroken for long though, because Bulkhead spoke up once they were in front of the mine. “Alright Screamer, where’s the energon.” He crossed his arms as he spoke, gaze hard with distrust.

Primus, does this not tire them at some point?

“That dull, are you wrecker?” Starscream leered, optics narrowing. Oh, he knew it wasn’t really a question, it was an accusation, but Starscream had no interest in entertaining Bulkhead. If the mech wanted to say something to him, he could say it plainly.

Turning on his heels, he flourished dramatically at the dull cave entrance. “Why, it is at your very fingertips, Your Majesty,” he purred, injecting as much disdain into his voice as physically possible, “You see, this is a mine. Perhaps you’ve never seen one before.”

Bulkhead scoffed at Starscream’s derision, uncurling to point an accusatory digit towards the mine, “And maybe you’ve never seen one before, ‘Con. Usually in an energon mine, you can see the energon.”

Starscream's energon boiled in his lines. Bulkhead was being obtuse on purpose, for no other reason than to trip Starscream up and give him an excuse. How very Autobot of him.

“I never said it was overflowing, moron,” he ground out, “In fact, I believe I specified that it was abandoned, and therefore depleted somewhat.” 

"So what? Are you saying this was all just a waste of time?”

Just who’s wasting who’s time right now, wrecker?

Starscream let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Oh please, maybe of it was only your time I was wasting, but I also have to trudge around in the muck for this,” and Starscream made the informed decision not to remind Bulkhead of the fact that he didn’t know he was going on this trip until about an hour ago, “I can assure you this mine has yields, especially for a crew as scant as your own.”

Bad phrasing on Starscream’s part. Horrendous phrasing, actually, but it wasn’t like he was wrong. The Autobots didn’t have an army of vehicons to fuel. Their team was far smaller than the Decepticons, at least on Earth.

It just so happened to be that Starscream had caused the lightening of their team by a solid one.

Bulkhead, for all his idiocy, noticed the slip almost instantly. His optics widened for a moment, bright with rage, before narrowing into cyan slits. He took a threatening step towards him, servos clenched into fists.

“And just who’s fault is that, ‘Con?” he intoned through clenched teeth.

Oh, this was bad, this was bad, Starscream was losing the rails. When did the conversation turn into an argument and when did the argument turn into a threat? He used to be better at seeing these things, but he was getting complacent. Starscream had no leverage over these mechs to stop them from beating him and leaving him to bleed out in the sand, and Bulkhead certainly knew that too.

But Starscream was not weak—no, he was sick of being weak. Bulkhead could get over himself.

Starscream flared his wings wide and met Bulkhead’s smoldering gaze with his own scathing glare. “Maybe if the lot of you had even a single processor between you, you wo—”

He didn’t have the chance to finish before Bulkhead lunged at him with a roar of his engine, servo transformed into a mace and aiming for the helm. Starscream’s frame locked up without input, wings snapped low. He flinched hard and threw his arms over his face on pure instinct, spark stuttering in his chassis.

Clawed servos crushing his limbs, dragging him like a doll—

“‘Bulk!” Bumblebee whirred, finally moving from his spot frozen beside his teammate and grasping onto the edges of his plating in an attempt to hold him back, “Hang on—”

“No!” Bulkhead shouted, pushing the smaller mech off. Bumblebee gave a startled chirp, but Bulkhead had already turned to face Starscream again and was stomping back to loom over him. Starscream finally found it in himself to stagger back, tripping over his peds in haste. It felt like the ground was tilting beneath him.

—Kicking him to the ground, tearing his neck cables—

Bulkhead, despite the posturing, didn’t move to strike again, instead transforming his servo back and waving an accusatory digit in Starscream’s face. “You,” he spat, “You spout off like some kind of untouchable little prince, but whenever someone tries t’ take you to task for the things you say, you act like everyone else is at fault, and I’m fraggin’ sick of it!” He was near-yelling by the time he finished, fists clenched tight enough to dent.

—Blowing out his voice box, throwing him into a wall—

"O-oh really?” Starscream managed to titter out, voice too high and too brittle. “And I’m sure you’d love to ‘bring me to task’ with your fists, O Good. Righteous. Autobot.”

Bulkhead growled low in his throat and slammed his fist into his palm, “If that’s the only thing that works on yo—”

“Bulkhead, enough!” Bumblebee shrilled, vocalizer staticking out with strain.

The wrecker froze, and Starscream used the distraction as an opportunity to stumble away further, getting well out of arm's reach.

Neither Autobot seemed to notice nor care, both merely staring at each other. Bumblebee huffed and crossed his arms, glaring at the ground. “We just have to get the energon and leave, alright?” Bumblebee tried, “It won't take that long.”

Bulkhead didn't respond for some time, but he eventually hissed and walked into the mouth of the cave with a frustrated noise.

“Yeah. Whatever,” Bulkhead acceded, stalking deeper into the cavern, “C’mon ‘Bee.”

Bumblebee slumped where he was standing, but did follow him into the dark. 

Starscream followed as well, despite not being explicitly invited.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

The mine was just as derelict as Starscream remembered, with old mining equipment left to rust and the occasional empty frame of a long-deactivated vehicon marring their path. The cavern’s walkways were far too narrow for his tastes, owing themselves to the sudden abandoning of the mine and how little time the Decepticons mined it. Whatever the reason for the crampedness, Starscream wanted nothing more then to fly back out into open air and never come back. Not only wasn't he suited for digging, he wasn't suited for being underground, period. But this was his idea, he supposed.

Curse moronic past him. He could've just given them some Nemesis' command codes or something. 

Despite the horrific scenery, the deeper they went, the more energon that began to reveal itself. The cavern walls were studded with it, bright electric blue crystals that managed to light the space better than any lights they had. Turns out the trip wouldn't be a waste after all.

A good thing specifically for Starscream, too. He didn't really want to know what the Autobots would do with him if they found his intel to be faulty.

If they found him to be useless.

But in any case, there was energon, and because there was energon there was no need to consider that (for now). Even Bulkhead, who had seemed ready to bring the whole mine down on their helms in a fit of simmering rage, seemed to be brightening in light of the not-inconsiderable amount of fuel they were set to bring back. 

Bumblebee and Bulkhead were the ones doing most of the digging, with Starscream relegated to packing the raw energon crystals into the crates that would be bridged back to base. Not the most glamorous job, but not much could be very glamorous beneath millions of tons of rock.

As he worked he let his mind wander, processor desperate to think about anything other than the mind-numbing drudgery at his claws. 

He wondered what it was like on the Nemesis right about now. Not a new thought, as he'd made a habit of guessing at how the group of ingrates were managing without him. Surely the reason the Autobots hadn't seen a single glance of them since Starscream's quote-unquote 'capture' was because the whole faction was reduced to a flaming pile of scrap without his invaluable contributions to the cause. In fact, he’d also made a habit of imagining strange and amusing ways his most insufferable coworkers could have succumbed. 

All very reasonable and realistic situations, rest assured.

Megatron was, of course, tied to a rock with a swarm of scraplets eating his internals over and over again, always being brought back from the brink just to be torn open again. Always a delightful daydream.

Soundwave. . . hmm. Starscream could never decide on the right one for Soundwave, the strange unknowable mech he was. Perhaps being made to do tedious little fetch quests for Megatron without ever getting time to play on his precious console. Serves the fragger right for assigning all the most horrid of grunt work to him on his petty revenge trips.

Knockout was easy; sandpaper to his oh-so-pretty paint. The high grit kind, that left annoying scratches that had to be buffed out for way longer than normal. Surely worse then torture, in the doctor's optics.

For Breakdown. . . being made to clean up Knockout's scratched up paint while listening to him complain the whole time. Also worse then torture, objectively. 

Starscream hummed as he mused on the various delightful methods of torment he would inflict upon the mechs he hated most. He supposed that, now that the Autobots were his horrid ingrates of coworkers now too, he could start on theirs as well. Arcee first, because she was his least favorite at the moment (though Bulkhead was quickly moving up the ladder). Maybe something with spiders? Hmm—

A loud, reverberating crack broke Starscream from his thoughts with a start (and an unflattering yelp, but that would remain unmentioned), and he jumped high enough to slam his wings on the rough rock ceiling. A sharp sting and the feeling of warm energon beading down his left wing told him it wasn't just some surface scrape.

Starscream growled and flicked his injured wing, trying to shake off his growing discomfort. First he was rudely interrupted from his very normal daydreams, then he was given even more reasons to hate the entire concept of being underground. 

Rock pressing in from all sides, no exit in sight. . .

It's not all going to come down on us. You'd notice something like that, right? Wouldn't you?

He shook himself again, trying to dislodge the images of Megatron's fusion cannon from his processor, and glared at the offending chunk of stone, smeared with a few drops of his energon.

Looking up to see where it came from, and for any sign of more unprompted rockfall, he noticed a slight, near-imperceivable movement in the dark of the cavern. 

Even slighter, the faint glow of red.

"Starscream!" A mech grabbed him roughly on the shoulder, causing another jump and another screech.

"Primus—do not touch me!" Starscream snarled as he whirled on Bulkhead, spark hammering in his chassis.

Bulked rolled his optics at the display. "What else then?" he huffed, "You weren't answerin' and you clearly weren't going to respond to anythin' other than another rock thrown at you!"

"You threw that thing at me?" Starscream replied, incredulous.

"No, but I was thinkin' of throwing a different one to get you to stop starin' into the dark like some kind of horror vid character."

Starscream scrunched his face and shoved Bulkhead's servo off of him. "What did you want, anyway?"

Bumblebee answered, "We're done here, at least in this section. We haven't got any more crates to fill."

Starscream blinked and swiveled his helm around to see that the cavern was nearly depleted, the bright glow of energon reduced to a few dull spots here and there, leaving the mine even darker than before.

Not helping with his palpable fear of this horrid dirt hole, but at least it meant they got to leave soon.

"Oh," Starscream muttered, absently swiping specks of dirt from his scuffed frame, "Well, what are we waiting for then?"

Bulkhead glared at him. "You, obviously."

"Obvious to you, perhaps," Starscream started, but then came to the conclusion that starting another fight with the mech while stuck underground was an objectively bad idea, so instead of continuing with his rant he ducked his helm and began following Bumblebee out of the cave.

See? Starscream had self control. It just took a while.

Each member of the team took a few crates of energon each, dragging them back to the surface in a trek that felt way longer than Starscream remembered. 

Thankfully, before the belief that they could've gotten lost somehow could worm itself into Starscream's helm, the light of the sun began filtering into the air.

Swallowing a chirp, he unceremoniously shoved his way to the front of the group and flung himself onto the open desert sand. He never thought he could be so relieved to see the plain scenery of Earth, but anything was better than a cave. How he managed not to drop the crates he was holding was a miracle.

Starscream took a vent of warm, blessedly not-stale air and pointedly ignored Bulkhead calling him a drama queen a few feet behind him. 

Bumblebee took initiative and commed Ratchet first. "Hey Ratch, we've finished with the mine here, could we get a bridge back? Prepare for loading, too." A few clicks of silence. "Yes," Bumblebee whirred, optics bright, "the mission was a success. I think there's even enough energon left for a second trip." Another click. "Thank you," he chirped, and the comms dropped. Moments later, a groundbridge materialized before them, and the team wasted no time dragging their crates through the portal.

Chapter Text

"It is not optional, Starscream!” Ratchet repeated for what had to be the hundredth time, servo clamped in the gap between his shoulder guard and his chassis, preventing him from moving more than a half-step forward. Starscream would’ve been more worried about that if he wasn’t so fragging annoyed.

"Oh?” Starscream hissed while clinging awkwardly to the medbay doorframe, trying—in vain—to wriggle his way out of the medic’s grasp. Why in the name of Primus were doctors forged so strong? Unnecessary and deeply unfair. “And to think you Autobots claim to be against tyranny. I think I should have a say on whether you invade my frame or not!”

Ratchet rolled his optics so hard Starscream feared he’d break them. “Oh, save it. It’s a check-up, not an autopsy.” He let out a put-upon sigh and started painstakingly peeling Starscream’s digits off the doorframe. “Honestly, you’re worse than Arcee.”

Starscream gasped, viscerally offended by the comparison, and struggled harder, claws making furrows in the metal. “I’m fine! Go away! There’s nothing wrong with me, you pest. Why don’t you bother one of your humans instead? And leave me alone.”

His servos were roughly forced off the doorframe again, this time held up to prevent him from reattaching them. “You’re bleeding, moron,” Ratchet scowled, “Still bleeding, even after thirty minutes of this nonsense. You are going to the medbay whether you like it or not.”

A growl rose from his chassis and Starscream thrashed some more, trying to slap Ratchet with his wings. He narrowed his optics at the servo trapping him, genuinely considering biting it. 

“Listen you quack,” Starscream hissed, twisting his neck to glare directly at the horrible, horrible medic trying to subject him to the indignity of a ‘check’ ‘up,’ “I am tired. I haven't recharged properly since forever, and I. . . eh?”

Starscream trailed off in confusion as Ratchet suddenly loosened his grip and stopped fighting him. He stumbled on his peds and watched nervously as a cruel, nearly gleeful smile spread across Ratchet’s face. Before Starscream could ask what in the pit he was up to, his next actions answered promptly. 

Ratchet made a show of turning on his comms, turning slightly away from Starscream and blinking slowly, smile never leaving his face.

“Oh hello, Optimus. You wouldn’t happen to be busy right now, would you?”

Starscream startled as though he were dunked in ice water, optics blown wide and spark dropping to his peds.

Ooooh. His processor finally caught up. Oh medic, you sick bastard.

There was a slight pause, and Ratchet went on. “No, don't worry, nothing’s wrong, I just need a little help. Could you come by the medbay for a moment? . . .Yes, thank you Optimus.”

Starscream gave a strangled hiss as Ratchet closed his comms with a hum and leaned against the doorframe, looking distinctly self-satisfied as he sputtered.

He finally got what Miko meant when she referenced a ‘shit-eating grin.’ Which was convenient, because he sure would like the stupid medic to eat shi—

“Ratchet, Starscream,” a deep voice behind him greeted, and Starscream jumped and spun to look at his leader. Optimus stood in the doorway, looking a bit lost. Or not. It was hard to tell with the mask on. “What did you need me for?”

Starscream curled in on himself as Ratchet flicked a servo in his direction and plainly answered, “Order him to submit to a medical exam.”

Hah! Order. As if he ever cared about orders. Starscream was pretty sure he was known for doing the exact opposite of following orders. And good! Following stupid orders was beneath him.

. . .Though he had to admit, he preferred doing his order shirking while his leader was out of the room.

Optimus tilted his helm at Ratchet’s request and turned his gaze to meet Starscream’s. He thought for a moment before asking, “Is there any particular reason why you do not want a medical exam?”

Stupid question. “W-well, it’s unnecessary!” he squawked, then cleared his throat. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” As I’ve said.

Optimus nodded mildly and blinked, and Starscream winced.

On the barest surface of his processor, he acknowledged that Optimus probably wouldn't do him any damage. It would be counter-intuitive to do so in front of the mech demanding he get medical attention, in any case.

That being said, he still shuffled back a bit. Posterity.

"I didn’t say there was anything wrong with you,” Optimus stated, “but you do need to get your wing patched, since it is leaking energon.” At that, he began gently herding Starscream back into the medbay from where he’d been no-so-subtly attempting to sneak away. “Check-up’s aren’t that bad, really,” Optimus assured, and he could swear he heard Ratchet mutter ‘hypocrite’ under his breath. That was interesting.

(And funny, but Primus forbid he think the crotchety old medic was funny.)

Optimus either didn’t hear the comment or chose to ignore it, because he merely bid them farewell and quickly left the medbay, shutting the door behind him.

Ratchet’s expression was subdued but no less insufferable as he dragged Starscream towards a vacant medical berth and sat him down on it. Starscream hated being there immediately.

The berth was too hard, the lights were blinding, and he could still see the fragging shackles the medic used to pin him down that one time. The incessant beeping of machinery was already giving him a processor ache, combined with the fluorescent lighting—had he mentioned the lights? Oh, and the scent of disinfectant was—

“What, is Prime scared of needles?” Starscream tittered (a full minute later than socially acceptable), attempting to lead the medic’s focus on anything that wasn’t him, “He sure left in a hurry.” 

Ratchet snorted and started shuffling around various equipment, most of which were—concerningly—going to be used on him. “Oh, he thinks that if he avoids the medbay like the plague, I’ll forget all about his overdue medical exam,” he complained, exasperation clear in his voice, “Which I haven’t, and I won’t, and the next time he’s in here I’m welding his aft to the berth and putting him through a full system defrag.”

. . .Hm. Starscream was beginning to wonder just who ran this army. Don’t get him wrong—watching Ratchet ream Optimus out for skipping his check-ups would be hilarious and almost worth getting one himself, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t confused out of his processor over how or why Ratchet was even allowed to do that.

“Now,” Ratchet continued, snapping Starscream from his musing, “enough about Optimus—and you’re not as subtle as you think you are, by the way—and more about you.” Ratchet proceeded to pick a cloth up off his cart and gestured for Starscream to turn around. “Let’s get the easy stuff over with first, patching your wing.”

Starscream narrowed his optics. ‘First?’ He thought his wing was the only thing he was here for.

Never matter. Even with Ratchet’s posturing, Optimus didn’t order him to do anything more than get the wound on his wing fixed, and he could get up and leave whenever he wanted.

Probably.

He turned so that his back faced Ratchet. Slowly, and while keeping his optics on the other’s servos. Trust never served no mech. Not well at least.

Ratchet gave him an unimpressed look, but moved on without comment. He hummed absently while he inspected the injury, and Starscream fought back a flinch when he grabbed his wing to push it to the side. The action earned a twinge of pain from the wound, re-opening the seal of crusted energon that had formed over it. 

Taking the time to look at it, Starscream was sure it seemed worse than it really was. It was covered in dirt and dust from the cave, and it steadily dribbled energon down his spinal strut, but it didn’t look like the falling rock did any more than nick an exposed line where his wing connected to his back. Really, if it weren’t for the placement, he would’ve been able to fix the thing himself. Not that Ratchet would’ve cared about that, the hardaft.

Though, for all his griping and threats earlier, the medic was shockingly careful as he pinned his wing down and started cleaning the wound, scrubbing the grime away and exposing lines and mesh in its place. Starscream was so lulled by the rhythm of it that he practically jumped out of his armor when Ratchet spoke up again.

“Since you’re here,” he began with little grace, “I must ask again; are you going to give me your medical records from your time at the Nemesis?”

All at once, the lull he’d found himself in evaporated in an instant and Starscream stiffened, staring down the mech behind him. “Well, medic, I believe I made it quite clear my answer to that question the last time I was here.”

Ratchet hummed, not looking up from his work. “Actually, I recall you telling me to guess your answer, Starscream. Not exactly ‘quite clear,’ is it?”

“Don’t play stupid, medic,” Starscream hissed, flicking his wing out of Ratchet’s grasp. He responded with a huff of disapproval, but made no move to grab it again. “I know you knew what I meant.”

Ratchet didn’t answer at first, looking far less invested in this argument than him. He wiped the last of the energon off the cut and reached for a patch, then meticulously applied it, all while ignoring Starscream’s pointed glare. His energon boiled in indignation, because Ratchet was ignoring him, after an argument he started, after asking a stupid question he already knew the answer to.

Eventually though, once the patch was properly sealed and Ratchet leaned back to scrutinize his work, the medic finally opened his mouth to respond.

“Hm, you’ll have to forgive me if I didn’t interpret your vague response correctly, I am senile after all.”

Primus almighty, I fragging hate it here. At least Knockout had the decency to look pretty when he was being an absolute aft.

“Well then, let me make it very clear for you,” Starscream sneered, hiking his wings, “You aren’t getting those records.”

Starscream didn’t know what he expected the response to be, but it certainly wasn’t utter neutrality. “Okay then,” Ratchet replied plainly, wiping his servos down, “Lay back on the berth. I’m doing a physical.”

“Uhg—no!” Starscream squeaked, “I don’t need a—” No, he was not whining, honest. “—For Primus’ sake, leave me alone!” He scrambled off the berth and started for the door, but Ratchet bodily hauled him back as though he weighed nothing. He proceeded to place him back onto the medical berth, not acknowledging Starscream’s indignant screeching.

“Since you aren’t willing to give me your records,” Ratchet said, “I need to know what’s going on with your frame for future reference—and do not make me use those restraints,” he snapped when Starscream started shuffling back off the berth, glancing at the closed medbay doors.

Starscream froze, narrowed his optics, and eventually gave up. If Ratchet wanted to waste both of their time, that was his prerogative. “There is nothing wrong with me,” he reiterated, eyeing Ratchet as he tapped his ped.

“There’s something wrong with everyone, mech. Now lay down—Primus, why does everything have to be pulling teeth with you?”

Well, good thing we already know what’s wrong with you, doctor, saves a lot of time and effort. Starscream finally laid down, a scowl etched onto his face the whole time as he glared at the ceiling. 

“Thank you,” Ratchet sighed and pulled out a variety of scanners to use on his poor frame.

The check-up went regrettably smooth after that, and the most painful thing he had to endure was the sheer tedium. Ratchet would pull out a scanner of sorts, tell Starscream what exactly it was scanning, they would wait the excruciating minutes it took the scanner to do its job in total silence, Ratchet would look the scan over, then he’d catalog it. Another scanner, rinse, repeat, and die inside every time he had to find something to do with his optics that didn’t involve staring at the medic hovering over him. 

He’d started counting ceiling tiles. He was up to ‘god I wish Prime had just shot me back there.’

So all in all, a decent check-up.

That is, until the horrible medic decided to open his fragging intake again.

Ratchet was staring at the render of the latest scan he did—protoform integrity or something, Starscream stopped paying attention once it was clear he wasn’t about to be shot dead on the exam table. If he still was at this point, Ratchet would go to Autobot jail for cruel and unusual punishment before an execution.

Anyways, Ratchet was staring at the render with a furrow in his brow, and he was taking nearly twice as long to process this one as all the others.

Eventually he glanced back at Starscream and pointed to something on the screen. “Do you remember how this happened?” he asked, tone unreadable. 

Starscream followed his servo to where he was pointing, taking in his form in black and white on the screen. The render was more than a little grainy, but he could still see the mangled, distorted section right about his left side, a near-perfect circle highlighted in various shades of red and orange to signal severity. He twitched when he recalled Ratchet’s question.

Right. Yes, he remembered that one. Megatron would have to hit his processor harder if he wanted him to forget.

Starscream had done something wrong, or perhaps they were just arguing, that part was pretty fuzzy, but what he did remember was Megatron backing him into a wall and holding his charged fusion cannon against his side for as long as Starscream could stand without passing out. Knockout had to have Breakdown peel him off the floor after Megatron got bored and left. He’d been used to seeing puddles of his own energon at that point, but droplets of melted plating and mesh was a rather visceral sight.

Ratchet’s question. . . ? Of course he remembered, but Ratchet had no right to that memory.

“Hmph, this war has been going on for millennia, you can’t expect me to remember every scrape and dent, do you?” Starscream answered slowly, willing his voice to keep a lofty tone.

Ratchet hummed, uncertain, and turned around to pull up the rest of his scans. “It wouldn’t take that long,” he muttered, talking almost to himself, “For the damage to disappear, I mean. It takes about a hundred years for nanites to fully repair a meter of completely destroyed protoform structure. . .”

Why don’t you stick your face in someone else’s slag, medic.

“Perhaps my memory is just as bad as yours, then,” Starscream tittered nervously, crossing his arms over his chassis.

Ratchet drummed his digits against desk for a few moments, staring distantly at his monitor, before swiveling back around to look at Starscream. He gestured to his side. “Could I take a look at—”

"Absolutely not,” Starscream snapped, too quickly and too loud. He winced internally. Great, now he knows I give a damn.

Ratchet didn’t press the issue, but now he was inspecting the scan renders more closely. Unwittingly, Starscream did as well.

There didn’t seem to be a single part of his frame free of latent damage, and Ratchet seemed less content with every discovery. And he began asking more, too.

Integral damage to the back of his helm—“Not an uncommon place to be attacked, medic.”

Repeatedly torn limb and wing joints—“You said it yourself, I am old.”

Crushed plating hinges and dented internals—“Well. . . maybe I fell.”

Ratchet huffed a vent through his grit teeth after the third dismissive and clearly fake answer.

“Starscream,” he stressed, “I need you to tell me how you sustained these kinds of injuries.”

Ooh, Ratchet could play as nice as he wanted, but it wasn’t happening.

“You don’t ‘need’ anything, medic,” he sneered, “and I don’t think it is such a leap of logic to assume your own mechs did this to me.”

A weak argument and they both knew it. 

Ratchet leaned back with a frustrated sigh, pulling back up the first irregularity he noticed.

“This,” he pointed to the round distortion on Starscream’s side, “is the exact size and shape of Megatron’s fusion cannon.”

The pin dropped, and neither mech spoke for the longest time.

But the world doesn’t end that easily.

“Well doctor,” Starscream forced out, keeping his movements smooth and deliberate as he slid off the medical berth and onto cold concrete, “A lovely meeting, but I think we’re done here.” He looked at nothing but the door as he started for it. “Keep your delusions to yourself, if you would.”

He managed not to look back as he fled the medbay, even when Ratchet called out his designation.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Knockout filed his claws while leaning against the workstation of some poor vehicon as he watched the show.

'The show’ being Megatron staring blankly at Soundwave’s terminal.

A ship-wide meeting was called because of some shiny, brand-new intel regarding their wayward air-commander, collected by Lazerbeak herself. Megatron had requested the presence of everyone who wasn’t a drone to watch the footage, naturally.

Good thing too, because Knockout wouldn't miss this mess for the world.

The video was dreadfully boring at first, with the only thing shown being the yellow one and the green one driving through the desert doing a whole lot of nothing, but once the two came upon a nearly-nonexistent mine entrance, a silver mech practically dropped out of the sky.

There Starscream was, shiny aft and all.

After a few minutes it became very clear that Starscream was no prisoner of the Autobots. Hell, there wasn't a single fetter on the seeker, and no transformation blockers when you considered the flying.

The group had a spat, went into the cave, and bumbled around collecting energon while Starscream looked positively bored to death. The clip ended when Lazerbeak accidentally knocked a chip of rock loose from the ceiling and hit Starscream with it, causing the mech to jump about twenty feet and forcing Lazerbeak to retreat.

In Knockout’s opinion, the footage wasn't that interesting. Sure, maybe the first time, but Megatron had to have replayed the thing at least five times by then. Still hardly a word from him too, just clutching the keyboard like it owed him creds and blowing more steam out of his vents than a smelting pool after a riot.

For that, he blamed the dark energon Megatron insisted on shoving down his own intake. ‘Your dear and glorious Majesty,’ (Knockout did not say that), ‘I care deeply for you and your continued health,’ (not even close), ‘and I believe it is in your best interest to cease ingesting that horrible poisoned hell-rock from space, my liege’ (in not so many words). No matter, the madmech still eats the stuff like candy.

. . .Maybe Starscream had a good point, with the whole ‘defection’ thing.

And of course, Knockout wasn’t really sure why Megatron was so shocked by this turn of events. It wasn’t like Starscream was a paragon of loyalty, and he and the Autobots practically have the same goal; Screamer wanted Megatron dead, the Autobots wanted Megatron dead. . . really, it was a miracle this hadn’t happened sooner. 

But back to the point; Megatron was fuming, Soundwave was doing a stunning imitation of a statue, Airachnid looked remarkably disinterested, and he and Breakdown were hanging back near the exits like sensible mechs.

On the terminal, the rock fell and Starscream leapt to face the camera for the sixth time, and Megatron put his fist through the screen with a furious scream.

Ah, there it was. Right at the seeker himself too. Perfect score.

“That traitorous GLITCH,” Megatron seethed at a decibel that could shatter glass, “Working with—giving mine locations to the Autobots!”

And so began the long-winded rant against Starscream, then the Autobots, then right back around to Optimus Prime as usual. Everyone present blocked it out, and Soundwave visibly mourned the violent death of his monitor.

“Man,” Breakdown whispered into Knockout’s audial, “I’d really hate to be Screamer right about now.”

Knockout breathed a laugh, quiet as to not draw any certain mech’s attention. “I think anyone would hate to be Starscream.” His gaze was drawn to the shattered, glitching projection of his former commander’s face, optics wide with shock. “Not the least of all, himself.”

Chapter Text

Starscream landed on the sand with a distinct sense of déjà vu, straightening out his legs as he transformed. The mine looked exactly as it did when he’d left it, and to him it was more suspicious than if it had been completely wrecked. Perhaps he was paranoid, but Megatron was due for an appearance any day now and Starscream was sick of the anticipation. Megatron had to have found out about the Autobots using this mine; Soundwave never got rid of the records of previous mines and Starscream wouldn’t be surprised if he sent his drone to check them occasionally. To him, every time they went back was a gamble.

Or again, maybe he’s just paranoid.

But regardless, they were there again. The goal was to strip the mine for the rest of its energon, and it should only take one more pass. There was a bigger patrol this time since they knew the mine was actually viable, and just about every mech on Prime’s little team was present besides their shut-in of a medic. That included Arcee, which only heightened his distaste for the outing. Sure, flying was great, but Starscream hadn’t been ground-bound long enough for the sky to be worth a caved-in helm.

The group was huddled in front of the entrance, discussing how to tackle the issue of fitting a bunch of mechs into a space that could hardly accommodate two of them standing next to each other at a time, and Starscream already regretted agreeing to come along a second time.

"You think we should just go in single-file?” Bulkhead asked skeptically, peering down the pitch-black cave, “There aren’t many real offshoots to the main tunnel, we’d be kinda stuck like that until we get to the main cavern.”

Starscream certainly didn’t like the word ‘stuck’ being used in the context of descending into an underground deathtrap, but at least walking single-file would give him enough space to turn around and escape if needed, as long as he wasn’t in front of Prime or something.

"Do we all have to go in?” Bumblebee whirred, “That seems unnecessary, don’t you think someone should watch the entrance?”

Optimus nodded at him, and it still astounded Starscream that the Prime dignified his subordinates with deliberation. “That is a good point, Bumblebee. I assume you are volunteering?” The mech nodded enthusiastically, and Starscream suddenly recalled the amount of complaining he did the last time around, for all his talk about how good a new supply of energon was. “Good,” the Prime hummed, “That also relieves the space issue slightly.”

Bumblebee slumped in visible relief, and Starscream glared at him with poorly-disguised envy. If he’d known he could’ve gotten out of this underground field-trip by merely suggesting to stay outside he would’ve done it first—but then again, Starscream supposed that the ex-Decepticon suggesting to stay behind and watch the only exit would be slightly more suspicious than the cute little bug doing it.

In any case, he was to be in the cave again.

The discussion on the exact plan for the mining operation went on and the only thing Starscream was sure of was that he wanted to keep a mech’s length between him and Arcee at all times, considering the way she kept glancing in his direction when she thought no one was looking, staring him down with a look that could melt steel. Being trapped underground with that was not high on his priority list.

He slowly inched his way to Optimus’ other side, keeping the big metal wall of a mech between him and the murderous bike.

The plan was decided upon eventually, and deceptively simple; single-file until the cavern opened up, Bulkhead in the lead, Arcee second, then the Prime, and him last. Optimus had begun to volunteer himself for the end of the line, but Starscream managed to spin something or another about being more maneuverable and better suited for the role, and Optimus allowed it with little fanfare.

So on they went into that awful hole, Bulkhead engaging Arcee in some pointless conversation he couldn't be bothered to follow while he and Optimus trailed behind them. Starscream’s sense of unease refused to abate despite his best efforts.

Underground, close quarters with his leader. Worked out so well the last time.

There has been a net-zero number of instances in which he has even implied wanting to harm you since you’ve become an Autobot, he tried to reason to himself, watching the light of Earth’s star grow dimmer and dimmer, and if his resolve is going to crack now it’s not going to be in front of a crowd, Prime likes his reputation.

It did not make him feel better, per se, but the assurance cleared his helm slightly.

But regardless of how Starscream felt on the matter, he had to make sure he didn’t make a fool out of himself on this little mission. He need not lower their opinion of him more.

The dark, cramped stone tunnel was not kind to his processor, however.

With every step he took through the pitch-black cave his nerves wound tighter, and it got to the point where he was genuinely worried he might have a spark-attack if someone happened to make a loud noise—the mine itself was already trying its very best to cause one, what with all the unnaturally resonant rockfalls and other worrying sounds of dubious origin. He also couldn’t spread his wings without brushing the walls, which was. . . fine. 

Starscream kept his gaze on the subtly shifting armor of the Prime in front of him instead of the cloying darkness attacking the edges of his vision. He’d made the right choice, definitely. If the cave started collapsing on them, he could get out easily—really, he could. But if for some completely illogical and unrealistic situation in which he’s rendered unable to leave—which he would not think about—he could just use Optimus’ thick frame to keep the rocks from crushing him.

(A very normal thing to consider.)

Honestly, in Starscream’s educated opinion and personal experience in the form of watching the mech fight for millions of years, someone could drop a planet on the Prime and he’d shake it off like a light punch, a concern and a comfort in equal measure. Really, he’d seen Optimus throw vehicons around like they were made of tin. Maybe the next time he saw Primus he’ll ask what he made Optimus out of, because it was unfair—

Starscream tripped and his gait faltered. 

There is someone behind me.

The faintest echo of pedsteps rang clearly throughout the tunnel, and the ticking of intimately familiar systems deafened him.

That was. . . the sound was coming from behind him, right? It could be the steps of the mechs in front of him, bouncing off of the narrow, solid walls surrounding them. Could be, should be. . .

But Starscream’s hearing was phenomenal—it had to be, to hear things while at Mach speeds—and the sounds resonated from behind him, unmistakable.

He grit his teeth so hard they creaked and made every effort to walk normally again.

It’s just Bumblebee, he tried to assure himself, the annoying little bug got bored of sitting outside all by himself and is deciding to grace us with his presence.

Thump, clink. . . thump, clink. . . thump. . .

Just a bug.

The steps were too heavy to be a sports-car’s, and the excuses rang hollow even to himself.

Starscream walked faster, unseeing of the concerned glance Optimus threw over his shoulder.

I’m hallucinating, he decided, It’s okay because I’m hallucinating. Just the claustrophobia kicking in, it’ll go away in a few minutes.

But even as he stared at his chronometer and watched the seconds tick by, the sound refused to dissipate, instead growing into an all-consuming buzzing between his audials, drowning out his thoughts.

Not real, it’s not real, for the love of Primus I beg of you—

"Optimus Prime,” a low voice boomed throughout the cavern, “Care to explain what you’re doing in my mine?”

Starscream’s spark stuttered in his chassis, energon frozen over in his lines. All conscious thought seemed to vanish along with his sense. His field of view narrowed to the horrible realization that his paranoia was right.

But did he ever have his survival instincts, so he whirled around to face the voice, vaguely hearing the rest of the Autobots doing so in turn, shouts of shock and fury following them.

Megatron stood hunched in the low tunnel, the way the lowlight shadowed his figure making vivid red optics and dull biolights glow like twisted skylights. More visible was the struggling mech at his side, held by the neck in a single clawed servo. Either out of an inability or mortal fear, Bumblebee didn’t make a sound, save for the light scuffing of peds that hardly reached the ground.

A memory occurred to him just then, through the odd stillness of panic, of the reason Bumblebee couldn't speak anymore. Not that he was there, but Megatron had bragged and-or seethed about the incident enough for Starscream to have a decent idea of the situation. Senseless maiming, for no reason other than pride and violent retaliation. It wasn't effective in its supposed goal, the mech could still communicate with relative ease. An attack not for the cause’s sake, but for Megatron’s ego.

He didn't know why it crossed his mind then. Maybe because he recalled just how many times his Lord wrapped a servo around his throat and demanded his silence. Maybe because Bumblebee looked just like him, like he was watching some particularly vibrant security footage.

And it occurred to him, a horrible thought; he was just as helpless to save the little bug as he was to save himself.

To think he called himself a soldier.

"Megatron, release my mech,” Optimus ordered, his usual pragmaticism laced with something far more dangerous. Starscream twitched at the noise, but couldn’t bring himself to move from where he’d backed up between the Prime and the stone walls. 

The silhouette tilted its helm, a thoughtful glint in its optics, and Starscream distantly wondered if Knockout had finally convinced the mad-mech to stop taking dark energon. He didn’t think he’d seen Megatron so focused since his extended trip into dead space, but of course he suddenly became competent the second Starscream left. Mindless rage was easier to endure than calculated torment, and he was sure he incurred both with this stunt of his.

The silence was drawn out moments longer, but Megatron quickly seemed to come to a decision. “Of course,” he purred, carelessly throwing Bumblebee at Optimus’ peds, all to the shock of the Autobots. The little mech beeped shrilly when he tumbled to the ground, but quickly pushed himself up and began hurling curses at his attacker, looking about ready to throw himself right back at Megatron before Optimus laid a servo on his shoulder and held him still.

Starscream watched the display blankly.

Megatron cut off Bumblebee’s ranting with a sharp laugh and a wave of his servo, a cruel grin marring his face before he opened his intake again. “All I ask is that you extend me the same courtesy,” he finished, the wave turning into a pointed gesture in Starscream’s direction.

A false trade then, is what Megatron wanted.

All at once, the fugue abated and Starscream began to think very quickly.

'I am going to die down here’ was the predominant theme for most of them.

"This bid of. . . altruism is certainly amusing, I’ll give you that,” Megatron continued when no one spoke up, “But it has already gone on for too long. You need not pretend that Starscream is a part of your ranks anymore, Prime.”

Starscream spared a glance at Optimus’ face, wings twitching flat against his back. Behind the mask, his expression was completely unreadable.

The Prime straightened as much as the low ceiling would permit. “Whatever you are implying, Megatron, it will not allow it.”

Starscream stilled his frame and blinked.

What.

Megatron narrowed his optics at the dissent. “Come now Prime, I know your sense of pity had made you a fool, but this level of stupidity is beyond you,” he scoffed, “That. . . seeker—” and the tone in which the word was said made Starscream’s wings twitch lower, “—has single-handedly ruined every operation I have ever put him in charge of, and I do not believe that your diminishing numbers have left you so desperate for soldiers that you would settle for a defective traitor.”

"Why d’ you want ‘em back, then?” Bulkhead muttered when Megatron finished his spiel. Perhaps the rest of the Autobots were wondering the same thing. 

Starscream did not have to guess. On the Nemesis, nothing awaited him except for a public execution.

"We are not here to consider your requests,” Optimus responded, ignoring Bulkhead’s comment. “Leave peacefully, we do not have to fight here.” As if on cue, loose pebbles fell from where the Prime’s helm brushed the ceiling, and Starscream’s spark stuttered in its chamber.

But if we do fight here. . .

Megatron snarled low in his throat, claws twitching as he loomed ever closer. “It is not a request, it is a demand. This charade ends now. I am not leaving without my lieutenant.”

"Yes, you will,” Optimus countered, voice edging on a growl.

The two mechs stared each other down for what felt like hours, but Megatron’s burning optics fell upon him, and time sped beyond them.

The shadow lunged, and everything became very, very loud.

Starscream couldn’t fight underground, he made absolutely sure he never had to. He tried to remember; close-quarters combat was always everyone’s least favorite unit in the Vosnian Flight Academy.

Keep your wings close—his back hit the wall, rock biting into his plating—you won't be using them anyway.

An engine roared in his audials, who it belonged to was beyond him, but something pulled him forward and slammed him back harder, making pain burst behind his optics.

Do not use your missiles unless you know the surrounding material can withstand the shock—a massive clawed servo crushed his forearm and threw him. . . somewhere, his vision spun too much to tell—a cave-in might dispatch your opponent, but it’ll dispatch you quicker.

Starscream laid dazed on his side, warm dust clogging his vents and making his throat feel sticky. He got his trembling arms underneath him quickly enough, though.

Getting out of range and back to the high ground should be your first priority—he stumbled to his peds, but the silver claws returned and he was hauled off of them soon after—but activating your thrusters in a confined space will only lead to a painful deactivation by overheating.

Vertigo rushed through him, churning in his tanks as a sense of non-gravity flooded his sensors as the recent blows to the helm started making their effects known.

And whatever you do—he was dragged across the floor near-effortlessly and thrown back to the ground, and in his state the first thing he noticed when he opened his optics were not the claws around his neck, it was the bright blue sky he saw above him—don’t get pinned.

The sky was soon replaced by gray spikes and jagged teeth, and it was right then that the shock wore off and panic began to take its place.

Starscream spun his helm to look side-to-side, ignoring his attacker for the moment—Primus unwilling, Megatron would do as he pleased whether he watched or not—and tried to force his optics to cooperate with him. Pointy blurs of black and purple streaked across his vision, tangling with various other multicolored blurs, accompanied by the piercing sounds of battle.

Vehicons, backup, Megatron; they’d walked into a trap.

Starscream was right. He was always right.

But being right had never helped him before, and it wouldn’t now.

Megatron recaptured his attention with a violent snarl and a deep pressure on his neck cables. Of course, his Lord wasn’t very creative.

Or intelligent; his arms were free.

Starscream recognized the futility, but perhaps the energon leakage would distract the mech enough for him to escape. Splaying his claws, Starscream choked on a hiss and quickly dug them into Megatron’s chestplate, pushing them as deep as they could go and shoving down, splattering thick energon across his front.

Megatron reared back with a roar and his grip loosened, and Starscream found enough of his courage to draw a leg up and slam it against the larger mech, the pointed stilts on his ped striking the open gash with a sickening crunch.

He was released fully at that, with Megatron on his knees and grasping at his wounds, and Starscream was standing before his thoughts could catch up to his frame. He spun on his heels and ran—nothing wrong with running, nothing at all, running meant staying alive—but if Megatron could be defeated in a single blow the war would’ve ceased long ago. 

A slick servo caught the edge of a wing and pulled him back, then another dug its claws into the smooth plane of the other and tore it open like soft wax. Starscream choked and stuttered as his vocalizer struggled to accommodate the pain. Claws still puncturing his wings, he was lifted into the air and slammed onto the ground once more.

"You—” Whatever insult followed was drowned out by the static in his helm that followed Megatron stomping down on his leg, grabbing his ped, and—

Snap.

Despite being completely stationary, Starscream’s gyros spun like he was in freefall, and a shaky silence fell over him. The pain took so long to arrive that he thought he was mistaken, but all at once it crashed into him.

And he wailed.

For what felt like an eternity, Starscream’s world consisted of nothing but a sharp, endless pain ricocheting through his sensors, but when he was finally able to feel the rest of him, it took every ounce of his energy not to purge his tanks all over the sand.

At that point, most things went by in a senseless haze.

At some point he was picked up and thrown again, at some point his optics were damaged, leaving only one functioning, and at some point something in his chassis cracked. Nothing stood out in detail—nothing could, really. Starscream had a very high pain threshold, but a threshold nonetheless. Being halfway-conscious was about as much as he could ask.

His processor wasn’t producing many coherent thoughts, but one in particular stood out in stark clarity.

He doesn’t have to stop this time.

It took a few passes for the idea to really sink in. 

Megatron doesn’t have to stop this time. Starscream doesn’t have the miniscule thread of seniority and importance that always made him stop a breath before the killing blow.

Nothing to get him to stop.

Nothing, except for a massive semi-truck, it seemed.

The constant pressure crushing his frame lightened in an instant, accompanied by the roar of an engine and a tangle of voices he couldn’t make out. Comprehension faded in and out, in-time with the painful flickering and fading of his vision. Yelling, shooting, running. He was picked up again, but it wasn’t like all the other times, somehow. 

Less fast. And less. . . spinny.

His cheek fell against broad glass, and he lost consciousness right as a painfully bright green light washed over him.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

In a word, Optimus was. . . worried.

The liter’s worth of energon spilled all over his front was certainly a factor, but none more so than Ratchet’s harsh reprimands stuttering to a halt when he spotted the broken mech in his arms. He rushed Starscream to a medical berth faster than he could blink and began hooking him up to all manners of medical devices and monitors. Ratchet began work immediately, jaw tight as he scanned over his patient.

Optimus managed to tear his optics away from the scene and left to give the medic space to work.

The rest of his team was already gathered in the main room, standing in a loose semi-circle and dead quiet.

. . .Dead being a poor choice of words on his part.

"So,” Bulkhead said awkwardly, deafeningly loud in the silent room, “Guess we’re not going back there again.”

"A trap!” Arcee spat, causing the rest of his mechs to jump. “I knew Starscream would turn on us eventually.” Discontent with her position against the wall, she jerked away and began pacing across the command deck. “That small mine was the perfect set-up for an ambush. Secluded, difficult to maneuver, and sparse in resources—all perfect for a dummy sacrifice to get us all in one place and defenseless. There was no possible way for Megatron to find our location except if Starscream—”

"He had his chest cracked open,” Bumblebee interrupted meekly, and Arcee stopped dead in her tracks and snapped to look at him, face blank. “If-um. . . If he was really planning this with the Decepticons, I-I don’t think that was part of the plan.” He didn’t look Arcee in the optics, instead staring down at his peds with a lost expression. “Or, well, along with the rest of the. . . damage, really.”

Arcee stared at him for moments after, but turned away and began pacing again. “I’m not putting anything past that mech. . .” she muttered, but added nothing more.

Optimus’ gaze traveled over his mechs, searching for wounds not already apparent, but not much more than excessive dents and scratches. Vehicons weren’t known for their aim.

"Arcee, are you fit to patrol?”

There was no pause in her steps, and she answered without facing him. “Always.”

Not an ideal response, but he had to trust she wasn’t lying about any debilitating injuries. She could walk just fine, at any rate.

"Then you will be on tonight’s patrol.”

She stopped to look at him this time. “May I leave early?” 

Nearly five hours early, if he wasn’t mistaken.

Optimus stifled a sigh. “If you so wish, Arcee. Please comm back if you require assistance.”

Arcee raced out of the compound about as fast as he expected. 

“Bumblebee, Bulkhead, do either of you have any injuries that require medical attention?” he asked once the sound of the garage closing resounded through the base.

"Nah, bossbot, just banged up from all those rocks, y’know?” Bulkhead answered, still sounding like he didn’t know what to do with himself, and Bumblebee beeped a simple negative.

"That is good to hear,” Optimus responded, hoping he didn’t sound as tired as he felt, “Then the two of you are dismissed.”

At that, he allowed a glance down at his own frame, barely suppressing a wince at the gory mess that coated him, the congealing energon sticking to his seams. All of his internal scans showed that not a drop of the energon was his own, and his tank flipped a little.

"If either of you need me, I will be in the washracks.”

Chapter Text

Lots of whirring. Lots of beeping. Shapeless voices spouting nonsense noise around him. Quick pedsteps. All of it was quite familiar, it was nearly comforting.

It hurt, though. In an ever-present, sourceless manner. It was just as familiar, and it was just as comforting. He was only glad he’d stopped moving.

What had happened this time? Starscream couldn’t remember, not that he tried all that hard to do so in the first place. Honestly, he was dedicating a lot of processing power towards making as little noise as possible in lieu of anything else. He didn’t know if it was working though, what with the thick static that had taken residence between his audials, drowning out most things and giving him a splitting headache.

At some unknowable point in time, he was laid slowly onto his back. It didn’t matter what, because the only sensory feedback he registered was searing agony. His cracked backplates and shredded wings screamed at the pressure and his few jumbled thoughts were immediately overwritten by a mindless need to get it to stop stop stop—

Moving made everything worse, but he didn’t know what else to do. His optics wouldn’t even online, and he didn’t think he was physically capable of getting his peds under him, but it would all be fine as long as everything stopped.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t get very far, on account of the everything that was wrong with him and the new pair of servos now pinning his wrists. The voices’ back-and-forth was growing quicker, more frantic, with one of them using a remarkable number of curses. That was also. . . familiar. Starscream couldn’t place it though.

The pain in his back was starting to reach the plateau point of deep, formless aching, and the tiny burst of energy left as quickly as it came.

Making use of his sudden stillness, a servo grasped his jaw and tilted his helm just so, shockingly gentle. Not familiar.

Nearly immediately afterwards, there was a small prick on one of his neck cables, and he suddenly felt a blissful amount of nothing. All of the pain faded out into a heavy blanket of static over his sensors, and the release of tension caused his entire frame to go limp.

And without the pain keeping it engaged in the world by a thread, his processor followed suit.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Crawling through the thick muck that was unconsciousness, the first thing Starscream noticed was that everything was flipped. Upside down. Kind of. He was lying on his front instead of his back. That was nice, but it would’ve been more helpful earlier. . .

Wait. Earlier? How much earlier? Where, when. . .

Cutting off that mildly alarming train of thought, was the odd pressure on his numbed wings.

Another thing he just noticed: he was numb in most places. He could feel his arms, but only below the elbows and they tingled oddly, and he could feel his face where it was buried into a pillow, but everything else was horribly vague. Only wobbly pressure sensors telling him about where he was in space and nothing more.

“Now—how’d you manage to shake all that anesthesia off?” a rough voice muttered from beside him, causing Starscream to jump—or twitch, more like.

Using a truly herculean amount of effort, he managed to turn his neck and face the direction of the sound, then being rewarded with a flat red-and-white blur messing with a gray blur. His right optic functioned like it had been coated in wet gauze and his left optic refused to online at all.

Okay, that’s a different problem for a different time, I’m busy.

Namely, trying to get his vocalizer to cooperate.

“You really shouldn’t be moving, Starscream,” the blur warned, but made no move to put his helm back against the pillow, so it was fine. His vocalizer clicked once, twice. . . no luck. Three times and his vocalizer onlined with a harsh pop and a constant output of static that probably wasn’t supposed to be there.

The sound seemed to cause the blur to stop doing whatever he was doing with the gray thing and instead turn fully towards him. The odd pressure in his wing ceased.

“You shouldn’t be talking either,” it huffed, and Starscream flinched as a pair of servos reached over and started touching his neck, presumably to get the noise to stop. Perhaps the sound was annoying and whatever was touching him was becoming irritated with him. That was usually the case when anyone—

—Fallingcrashingcrashingpain and damn it all he couldn’t vent and his intake burned and his processor felt like it was shutting down and he was scared scared scared—

Well. Well he couldn’t move anyway. Wasn’t moving regardless.

The servos kept fiddling with wires he couldn’t see and Starscream swallowed roughly. He didn’t think he was making the noise on purpose. Should he apologize? He didn’t even know who he was apologizing to.

Wait, didn’t know who. . . ?

A pang of nervousness struck his chassis, unaffected by the inexplicable numbness. He should know, shouldn’t he? Why didn’t he—

Coughing through the static, Starscream forced out a quiet, “W-who?” vocalizer stuttering through the single word.

At that, the blur quit messing with his throat and paused. “You don’t recognize me?”

Starscream wasn’t about to waste energy trying to answer that question he’d very obviously answered already, but the blur had moved on before he had a chance to anyway. “How does your helm feel?”

He didn’t know. He didn’t know much at the moment but he did know that the awful nervous feeling in his tank was starting to evolve into a low-grade panic. He didn’t know how he felt or where he was or who he was with and he didn’t think he wanted to be here anymore.

Just as a cracked snarl slipped past his lips, a shrill beeping noise rang out and his spark spun hard in his chassis, making something deep inside him hurt bad. It shouldn’t hurt like that, nothing should hurt like that, and—

“Frag!” the voice barked, and Starscream really, really wished it didn’t. He realized, decidedly, that his helm hurt actually and he wanted everything to leave him alone. 

“Bumblebee, do me a favor and give him another dose before he panics himself into spark failure. Five—no, eight grams.”

Something chirped in response, and a light clinking sounded from somewhere above him.

Starscream’s optics widened, flickering. Oh, no no nonono—

He tried getting up as quickly as possible, but his legs refused to respond, the right one in particular sending out strut-deep signals of wrong wrong wrong and he was hardly able to push himself an inch of the berth before collapsing again.

Venting hard, Starscream blinked away the tears of pain that were rapidly wetting his optics—and they are just from the pain, honest—and tried desperately to shake off the servo pressing against the spot between his wings, effortlessly keeping him pinned. He had no time to cry out before a prick in his neck distracted him, eerily familiar.

Once again, his processor melted back into nothing, and he fell unconscious.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Waking up again, it was immediately obvious just how much worse he felt, in every aspect. Uncomfortably warm, though paradoxically he couldn't stop shivering. The numbness had clearly worn off, with Starscream’s entire frame stiff and aching, though he could pinpoint a few places that were worse off than others.

As if that mattered, since he could hardly move enough to fix anything, but it was nice to know.

A heavy, pulsing pain was clawing itself through his right leg struts, and his throat was cloyed and sticky with what he hoped wasn’t his own energon, but on the bright side both of his optics were working again. Working poorly, but working nonetheless.

Onlining his optics slowly, Starscream took in the bright lights above and the various different machines hooked up to him, and came to the belated—yet extremely obvious in hindsight—realization that he was in the medbay. And—Primus above, he better hope he was in a medbay, considering the concerning amount of alerts popping up on his HUD.

Ah well, what’s a mech to do? At least the berth he was on was decently soft. It obviously wasn’t designed with seeker wings in mind, but he could hardly expect accommodations like that with the Decepticons, let alone the Autobots, full of grounders as they were. . .

. . .Wait. The Autobots?

Starscream blinked rapidly and glanced around the room again, truly seeing it that time. Right. A conspicuous lack of dark metal and dim purple lighting, and a conspicuous lack of cherry-red speeders buffing their paint. Not the Nemesis, not the Decepticons. 

He was with the Autobots because. . . they were nice to him?—No, no, he was with them because they didn’t try to kill him (much).

Those two things were very different. Starscream went through a lot of trouble to convince himself he believed they were different.

But, well. . . was that really it? If he was with the Autobots, then how did he end up in a state like this? He was only ever injured that severely because of. . .

Because of. . .

Through the static still lacing his audials, Starscream picked up the tinny sound of heavy pedsteps hitting the ground, the echo steadily getting louder.

All at once, scattered memories dragged themselves to the forefront of his mind, all similar instances; Megatron coming to visit the medbay. To admire Knockout’s work.

Or his own.

Starscream could always hear him coming. Megatron was never one for subtlety.

Some part of his awareness was slipping, chassis aching with the rapid beat of his spark. He knows he’s not there—isn’t he?—He’s with the Autobots—but to what end?—And Megatron could not possibly be here—when has that ever stopped him before? The specter of agony that clouded his life seemed to appear wherever and whenever it liked, and impossibilities loved Megatron like an old friend.

A door slid open somewhere close to him, causing a jolt to run through Starscream’s frame. He was torn between blind panic and pure resignation. The pain relentlessly attacking his sensors was not helping him decide in the slightest.

“You’re awake,” a mech stated, with little affect coloring his tone, and Starscream quickly looked to the side in an effort to place a name to the voice. His memory had been worryingly fleeting recently.

He was still having issues with his optics staying in a constant unfocused state, but he could make out a blocky red and white frame—medic colors, he was in a medbay after all, he had to remind himself.

“That is a good sign, I assume,” another voice remarked, and Starscream’s spark leapt to his throat as he searched for the source. How hadn’t he noticed that another mech had entered?

“Are his audials damaged?” the same mech asked, not unkindly, if the softness of his voice was genuine. Starscream finally managed to land optics on the other speaker—tall, red and indigo paint, with crystal blue optics.

Not silver plating, no glowering crimson optics.

And yet the fear would not leave him.

He was beginning to think it might never.

“Not particularly, no more so than the rest of him,” the first mech—the medic, Primus, what was his name?—responded. It occurred to him then that the reason they probably thought his audials were broken was because of the extended length of time Starscream had spent utterly silent and glancing wildly around the room like a caged turbofox.

Nevertheless, the medic continued, walking around to hand the bigger mech something.

“Get him to drink this while I finish up his leg. Make sure he doesn’t choke or pass out, I need him awake to test the joint elasticity,” said Ratchet—Ratchet! That was his name. Starscream had it, his processor hadn’t turned to sludge just yet.

Oh, but what did he just say?

After handing off the cube, Ratchet walked back towards him and brusquely snapped his digits in front of his face. “With us, Starscream?” he started, “You can talk now, your vocalizer’s fixed.”

Starscream, even when drowning in a haze of confusion and pain, was not one to forget himself. He narrowed his optics at the offending digits and rumbled an unsavory phrase in Ancient Vosnian about the medic’s carrier.

Ratchet huffed and rolled his optics, either out of an understanding of the statement or the reasonable assumption that most of what came out of Starscream’s intake was an insult, and promptly ignored him in favor of the other mech present. “He’s obviously awake enough to be upset, so that’s a good sign. Help me sit him up, would you Optimus?”

Optimus?

Oh, Optimus. The Prime. Right. He was with the Autobots and the Autobots meant that the Prime was generally around.

. . .Wait, what was the Prime doing here?

Well, at the moment it seemed he was picking Starscream up like a cat and making the room spin a whole lot.

Once he was propped up against the pillows and headboard, Ratchet grabbed one of his legs and strapped it to the berth. It wasn’t exactly something that made him feel very at-ease, but it wasn’t as though medbays were particularly comforting in the first place. The straps were just a bonus.

Apparently satisfied with Starscream’s placement, Ratchet pulled the temporary joint covering off of his knee and began doing a whole manner of things far beyond Starscream’s scope. It wasn’t comfortable, per se, but it didn’t overtake any of the other worse pains afflicting him, so he couldn’t say he minded.

Pulling him from his thoughts was a light tap against his forearm, and Starscream looked up at Optimus, who had taken a chair next to the medical berth and sat down at some point. These lapses in awareness would’ve alarmed him more if he wasn’t so inexplicably exhausted.

“You can hear me, correct?” he asked, though it wasn’t as angrily as Starscream would’ve expected from that kind of question. Perhaps he was genuinely asking.

Starscream nodded, trying not to let how light-headed action made him show in his posture. Poorly.

“That is good,” Optimus replied warmly, and Starscream considered, not for the first time, that there was a possibility that he was stuck inside of some strange dream. “Are you able to hold this?” 

With that came an energon cube pressed carefully against his servos, and Starscream scrambled to gather himself and wrap his digits around the smooth glass before he made a fool out of himself. More of a fool, that is.

The Prime then proceeded to help him lift the cube to his lips and instructed him on taking small sips, and Starscream decidedly hoped he was dreaming this all up, because the resulting shame would be unbearable otherwise.

On the bright side, the liquid did clear his sticky throat and got rid of the horrible taste in his mouth, and the action helped distract him from whatever the medic was doing with his knee. The fuel hitting the bottom of his empty tank did cause a wave of nausea to roll over him, though.

It went on like that for a bit, with Optimus intermittently helping him drink and saying nice, encouraging things at him that weren’t exactly entering his processor correctly, until the cube was nearly half-empty and Starscream couldn’t physically stomach taking any more of it. He lightly pushed the cube back into the Prime’s servos with a wince and hoped that not finishing it was, like, something he was allowed to do.

Thankfully, Optimus took the energon away without comment and then said something to Ratchet that he didn’t catch. In all honesty, the pounding ache in his helm had slowly increased to near-unbearable levels since he woke up and his vision swam under the bright exam lights, and the only thing he felt like focusing on was going back to sleep as quickly as possible.

“Starscream,” Optimus prompted again, and he tried his best to look attentive for his leader.

“Are you. . . alright?” he seemed to wince as he spoke, not that Starscream understood why.

For his part, Starscream looked around at his scratched, dented frame and his exposed (and completely mangled) knee, then looked back up at Optimus.

“Probably n-not,” he answered succinctly. He hadn’t the wherewithal to figure out himself if he was joking or not. The question did seem to have an obvious answer though, even if Starscream didn’t exactly remember all of the. . . details.

“Ah, I mean,” Optimus amended, gesturing slightly towards Starscream’s trembling servos, “Do you need any more pain blockers?”

Optics idly drawn to his servos as well, Starscream turned the statement over in his mind, trying to puzzle out exactly why the question was so hard to answer using the very limited amount of processing power available to him.

“Uhm-n,” he tried, interrupted by a scratchy cough, causing starbursts to explode behind his optics. “Wh-y-y?”

At that, Optimus tilted his helm, an emotion Starscream couldn’t place flitting across his face before settling on something just as unidentifiable. “If any of your injuries are bothering you, we can give you a pain blocker to help you deal with the discomfort.”

Optimus sounded a little confused, and Starscream resisted the urge to inform him that he knew how pain blockers worked thank you very much, but he supposed a single ‘why?’ was a bit too vague.

Starscream contemplated the best way to rephrase himself while using as few words as possible, and settled on a rough, “Wh-what f-for?”

Once he got it out, Optimus reeled back a little and Starscream got the distinct impression that that was the wrong answer, and Starscream wished the Prime would tell him what he wanted him to say already. It would make their conversations a lot easier.

“Well,” Optimus began, looking a little lost, “Being as injured as you are causes a lot of pain, and you do not have to be in—” He cut himself off with a sharp sigh, and shook himself lightly.

He restarted on a different track. “Are you in significant pain right now?”

Oh, that one was easy. “Yes.”

At that, Ratchet looked up from his work with a start, focusing on Starscream himself instead of his leg for the first time since rudely clicking at him.

“Your frame isn’t numb?”

Starscream blinked. “No.”

“Not even your limbs?” Ratchet sounded incredulous.

“. . .No.” Starscream blinked again. Was this some sort of odd trick? “Sorry?” he cautioned.

“Frag—!” Ratchet suddenly cursed and stood up, causing Starscream to practically jump out of his plating. “Primus, your frame runs through blockers faster than a Syk addict’s,” he ranted as he started digging through a drawer somewhere. “I just dosed you a few hours ago!”

Uhm, sorry again? Not sure how I can fix that. . .

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ratchet asked sharply while prepping another blocker, looking directly at him.

Starscream glanced around, looking at a whole lot of nothing while he tried thinking of an acceptable answer. He didn’t think he could get away with another ‘why?’ or ‘what for?’

He supposed he took too long, because Ratchet shook his helm with a sigh and pushed the blocker into his wrist port with little fanfare. Fuzzy relief started sluggishly curling through his frame, causing his struts to unwittingly uncoil and his plating loosen, despite his persistent migraine.

(And if slumped against the Prime’s side afterwards that was no one’s business besides his own, and if they told anyone he would kindly raze their base for the trouble)

After doing one last look-over, Ratchet huffed and moved away to sit at his desk, presumably ending the medical check for the time being and working on whatever nightmare of a file he had on him. “Tell me next time,” he ordered, waving a stylus at him, “These machines don’t tell me everything, you know.”

Well, that was. . . Starscream just didn’t get it. Was it that important to them, the pain blocker thing? Did they have the supplies to waste on bed-ridden soldiers? He could understand the insistence if they needed him to get up and do something, but if these Bots had anything they wanted from him they were taking their sweet time telling him what it was. It couldn’t be purely out of the good of their sparks, it just didn’t make sense.

It just didn’t make sense.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to consider the devastating emotional ramifications of having someone genuinely worry for his well-being, because the blocker finally reached the throbbing sensors in his helm and muted the aching, leaving little except exhaustion on his mind.

So, for once, he stopped thinking and willed the world to disappear along with him.

Chapter Text

“Starscream, are you even listening to me?” 

Blinking the fog out of his optics, Starscream looked up at Ratchet, hoping his disdain was self-evident.

“Did you hear anything I said regarding your discharge?” Ratchet repeated, arms crossed and a frown etched onto his face. If Starscream hadn’t known better by then, he would’ve assumed that the medic was upset with him, but spending many a cycle holed up in the medbay had taught him that ‘on the verge of an aneurysm’ was Ratchet’s default facial expression.

“Eh,” Starscream drawled, “Something about no running. . . probably.”

Ratchet sighed, in that moment looking for all the world like regretted ever being forged a medic. He turned around and dug through some storage closet while he spoke. “No standing or walking for longer than forty earth minutes at a time, and take your weight off of your right leg if at any point your knee joint begins to hurt. No extraneous activity and no heavy lifting for at least a week—the welds on your chassis aren’t coming together as quickly as they should, so I’ll be checking on them every other day, and yes, ” he finally pulled himself out of the closet and shoved a long device into Starscream’s arms, fixing him with a glare that could melt steel, “no running.”

Starscream scoffed and leaned back, inspecting the thing just handed to him. Long metal tubing and plates patchworked together, one curved over and the other tapered to a flat point.

“A crutch,” Ratchet supplied, and Starscream openly scowled. “You have to use it when walking,” he ordered, rightfully assuming Starscream’s objections to doing anything with the device besides hiding it in his hab directly after this lecture. “If I catch you wandering around without it, I will put you back on bedrest. Understood?”

In response, Starscream glowered at him with as much contempt as possible. The only thing worse than hobbling around Autobot base like some decrepit relic was being stuck in a medberth for a single second longer than he already had.

“Yes doctor, understood,” he hissed, pushing himself off the berth he was sitting on and stood on his own two peds, stubbornly refusing to let his leg tremble. His brief stint of physical therapy involving Ratchet re-teaching him how to walk was almost certainly too short for the medic’s impossibly high standards, but Starscream had insisted that, in no uncertain terms, if he were forced to spend a moment longer living in the medbay he would kill Ratchet in his sleep.

Suppose the crutch was a compromise of sorts.

Starscream took a few quick steps towards the door before noticing Ratchet’s warning glare, and pointedly put the crutch on the ground and made a show of kinda-walking with it.

Ratchet huffed and turned away, apparently recognizing the futility of arguing with him.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

About an hour into his liberation, Starscream was already breaking his half-hearted agreement to use the crutch to get around, but in his defense, having an important conversation with his leader was a reasonable exception in his opinion. Show no weakness, et cetera, et cetera. He had to make up for falling asleep on the mech.

“You wished to speak with me, Prime?” he lilted, leaning against the doorframe as he watched Optimus turn away from the terminal with an action that couldn’t really be called a start. 

Optimus nodded with a soft, “Yes, Starscream,” and finished whatever he was doing with the computer, shutting it off before turning to face him fully. “How are you?”

Again with that stupid, abstract question. “Er, I’m doing alright,” he hemmed, quickly moving on, “But you didn’t call me over just to ask me that, did you?”

An odd, nearly sad look crossed the Prime’s face for a moment, before disappearing just the same. “No, it was not the only thing I wished to discuss with you.” The mech seemed to sigh. “Do you recall the modified stasis cuffs you had been made to wear?”

He sneered, lifting his arms to show his wrists. “Why of course, I am not defician—” and it was then that his optics locked onto the conspicuous lack of metal bands decorating his frame. 

Starscream’s processor blanked out on him and he straightened suddenly, talking very quickly. “Ah-aha, I hadn’t even noticed they were gone, really!” He squeaked, waving a servo, “If anyone’s to blame it’s your medic, he must’ve—”

“Please Starscream, at ease.” Optimus interrupted, and Starscream clamped his intake shut. “I was the one who asked for them to be removed. I only brought them up in order to inform you that I, with the input of the rest of my team, have decided that you are no longer required to wear them.”

Starscream blinked, lowered his arms, turned the information over in his helm a few times, and politely refrained from laughing. That quote-unquote input probably only amounted to the Prime warning his team about a decision he made on his own out of sheer pity, what with the lot of them barely tolerating him most days, but Starscream appreciated the stupid lie nonetheless. Made him feel—hah!—important, or something like that.

“Truly?” he hummed, if only to reaffirm his thoughts. And give Optimus the opportunity to change his mind.

“Yes, truly. As long as you are accompanied and it is not the off-cycle, you are free to come and go as you wish.”

Starscream paused. “Those are two different things, Prime.”

“Are they?”

“Of course!”

“The stasis cuffs were meant to prevent you from transforming into your alt mode and returning to the Decepticons, should you have left this compound unattended.” It was Optimus’ turn to pause. “What did you think they were for?”

To jam my missiles and mitigate substantial self-defense efforts, he didn’t say. “Well of course I knew that. A mech without a processor could understand such a train of thought.”

Optimus blinked a few times, not quite looking at him, as though he were recalibrating something, before shaking his helm near-imperceptibly. “In any case, you no longer have to wear the stasis cuffs and you are no longer confined to base without express permission from me. Should you so wish, you may go along with the others on their patrol routes, so long as they agree as such.” 

 Starscream neglected to mention that there was really only one-and-a-half of them that would ever actually agree to that; the Prime himself (as to not look like a hypocrite) and possibly Bumblebee (not that Starscream was sure nor would he ever ask). The other two would almost certainly kill him if they were left alone with him, and Ratchet didn’t even do patrols.

Maybe it’s the thought that counts. Whatever.

“With that,” and oh, he was still going, “I also intend to include you further in our operations as an Autobot. In my opinion, you've more than proved that your commitment to change is genuine, and for that I believe you deserve to be more involved with our everyday plans, instead of just providing information on the sidelines.”

From anyone else that statement would've been an insult, but Starscream was almost beginning to think that the Prime didn't know how to insult someone. As for the sentiment itself, it was more than a little abstract. It was probably just a fancy way of saying he’d have to start doing more work from now on, a neat little exchange for his new freedom allowance.

“Does that mean I have to attend all the meetings?”

Optimus’ optics turned up at the corners. “Yes, it does.”

Great. Starscream loved that. His favorite part of having responsibilities was always the meetings.

“On that note, since it is nearly time for my Oregon route,” Optimus began, closing his work on the terminal, “I would like to invite you to join me during it. Your alt mode may be more conspicuous than a grounder’s, but I have informed the local authorities that you are not a hostile anymore.” Turned away, he heard him mutter, “I would appreciate it if Fowler would stop yelling at me about it, though.”

Starscream bit back a snicker, but quickly sobered as he considered the Prime’s offer. For some (unfathomable and completely unprecedented) reason, the thought of leaving the Autobot’s compound made him nervous. Not even the prospect of a leisure flight could dull the heavy weight of apprehension that plagued him.

No idea what it could be. Certainly no clues to be gleaned from his recent string of highly specific nightmares involving Megatron methodically hunting him down and slowly tearing him into tiny smeltable pieces. Truly a mystery.

“Hmmn, well,” Starscream answered finally, “I appreciate the offer, but no, I would prefer to stay here.”

Optimus nodded at him again, as though he expected that response. Starscream didn't know how to feel about that. “As you wish,” he hummed, finally making his way towards the groundbridge and punching in a few numbers, making the portal flare to life. “Perhaps another time, then.”

He then transformed and drove through the groundbridge, leaving Starscream standing a bit limp in the middle of the command deck. Once the groundbridge had shut down automatically behind the mech, Starscream mumbled out a “perhaps,” not entirely sure who he was talking to or why he suddenly felt as though he'd been thrown off a cliff.

Every conversation he had with Optimus seemed to throw him off-kilter. It was scary—he was scary, but not in a way Starscream was used to. Not in the way tight spaces or loud noises were, but. . . in the way that a perfect, clear sky was unsettling. One had to wonder when the peace would melt away. Because it will.

Just not today, perhaps.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Starscream's room was. . . very small. With quite a low ceiling as well. It became even more obvious whenever he wanted to pace, which practically negated the point of pacing in the first place. He’d noticed the abysmal size of his quarters on other occasions, but it had only bothered him on particularly bad nights or instances in which he spent too long holed up in it.

Unfortunately, he was coming up on the amount of time that constituted ‘too long.’ Despite the Prime’s generous offer, Starscream hadn’t yet taken him up on it. Didn’t plan on doing so, either. 

He was not scared to go outside, he just. . . would prefer not to take the chance. Chance was antithetical to Starscream’s continued existence, especially when he had a poison-addicted tyrant trying to find, capture, torture, and kill him. He could lock himself up in a hole for as long as necessary if it meant staying alive. And he was fine, anyhow. He’d been confined for longer and did so with minimal amounts of maiming, he could keep his processor intact up until. . . well, whenever his self-imposed agoraphobia let up.

And until then, Starscream was content to stay right where he was, walking the (very scant, very meager) length of his room and trying not to look up.

. . .

Primus, who was he kidding? Starscream was losing his mind. He needed something to do. He was reminded nearly every day of his lack of role, lack of responsibility here, and he would’ve enjoyed the vacation from his typical thankless duties as second-in-command if this long-standing war hadn’t ruined any sense of calm that came with prolonged inactivity, and none of that’s to say anything for his growing need for the sky.

So. Starscream was not doing the best. And he had very few options in the way of fixing that.

Starscream hissed as his leg gave a warning pulse of pain, not appreciating his worried habit and making that very clear. He would’ve ignored it as well, if not for the concerning tremble in his knee joint and a sharper, deeper pain proceeding it.

Huffing indignantly at no one in particular, Starscream sat heavily on his berth and, after a moment of severe and agonized consideration, dragged the horrid and ugly crutch out from under it and laid it next to him, sneering at it as though it were personally responsible for his current predicament.

That’s another positive to never leaving my hab, he thought weakly, I don’t have to use that thing.

His hatred of the device went beyond purely superficial reasons. Sure, he didn’t want to be seen leaning on a cane to get around, it bruised his pride a little—but it was more about the. . . reminder. Implications of his failure, the evidence lingering on his frame deeper than any scar or dent or twitch. It was constant, and persistent. As if the nightmares and ever-present paranoia weren’t enough to remind him of just exactly where he stood in the grand scheme of things.

But unfortunately, in order to alleviate his ever-increasing sense of cabin fever, he would have to leave his hab, and in order to leave his hab he had to use the crutch, lest he run into that incorrigible medic without it and have his personal freedoms revoked in the name of recovery.

Still, better than tearing a limb off in a fit of claustrophobia-fueled mania, so he’d just have to deal. Starscream was great at dealing. Allegedly.

So he sighed, stood up with the crutch in-servo, practiced a few paces with it in an effort to look as dignified as physically possible, and strode out his door before any doubt could creep up on him.

Almost immediately Starscream was hit with a roadblock: He had no clue what he was going to do, after all that. He knew he wanted to do something other than pacing around his cramped, dim room, but he didn’t know what he could actually do with his time that wouldn’t drive him even crazier.

He paused in the hallway for a moment, but picked back up immediately afterwards. He could just ask Optimus for some benign task, considering his apparent efforts to make him more involved. If all else failed, he could just sit in the command deck and stare at a wall for however long it took to relieve the crushing pressure in his chassis. Starscream couldn’t afford to be picky.

He made his way to the command deck doors quickly enough, straightened himself out a little, and walked in as confidently as he could manage.

The room was packed and likewise uncomfortably loud, and after a moment of observation it was obvious why. The human children and their guardians were all about, apparently just recently arriving at the outpost. Something about getting out of school, Starscream didn’t really care beyond how negatively it was affecting his poor audials.

Spotting him enter, the most annoying one out of the group turned towards him with a jump. The grin creeping onto her face did not bode well for him.

Miko waved and shouted out, “Hey, Starscream—”

He immediately ducked into another room to escape the girl. Why Bulkhead bothered to deal with her was beyond him. And the wrecker had the gall to call him annoying! The fact that Bulkhead could find that pint-sized menace more tolerable than him was deeply offensive and insulting on many levels.

Starscream growled complaints under his breath as he leaned against the door he’d just shut behind himself, before he realized just where he’d wandered into. The medbay, just as bright, cluttered, and sterile as he remembered. Even better, Ratchet was there, helm whipped around to look at him as soon as he entered. 

Starscream stared tensely at him, waiting for admonishment or a rebuff or even just a snide quip in regards to getting run out by a small human child, but Ratchet didn’t say anything to him. He only glanced at the crutch held loosely in Starscream’s arms and nodded, then turned back towards the terminal, as though ticking some sort of mental box. 

After a small eternity of pressing himself against the door and waiting for Ratchet to do something, Starscream finally let himself slink away from the door and into the medbay proper, keeping his optics on the medic. At some point he’d resolved not to speak until Ratchet did first, for whatever reason.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Is there a reason you’re watching me like I’m a bomb about to explode, or is this just another quirk of your charming personality?” Ratchet intoned dryly, hardly bothering to look away from the screen to address him. 

“You’re one to talk about charming personalities, medic,” Starscream sneered back, opposed to the odd relief settling inside him. At least nothing had changed on this front. Mindless ribbing with a shocking lack of consequences.

Starscream was still better than him though. On principle.

“You still haven’t answered me,” Ratchet bit out, “What do you want.”

Starscream huffed. “So presumptuous. I never said I wanted anything from you.” He crossed his arms and pointedly turned away from Ratchet, instead looking for something to occupy his time.

Ratchet rolled his optics and glared at the back of his helm, watching him walk away. “Use your crutch.”

Starscream openly hissed at him. Maybe he would take his chances with the pink menace instead.

No matter his claims though, Starscream had no intention of going back out into that mess and subjecting himself to their scrutiny. At least in here there was only one afthelm, as opposed to six.

And I don’t even know where the Prime is. I don’t think he was out there with them all.

Understandable but inconvenient. He supposed he could ask Ratchet, but then he would reveal that he actually did want something from the mech and that would just be unbearable, so he wouldn’t. Instead he would stay right in here and pretend he had a reason.

Starscream made his way across the medbay—making a point to click his crutch against the ground as loudly as possible—and eventually busied himself by rooting through one of the supply closets.

Out of the corner of his optics, Starscream saw Ratchet continuing to glance between him and his monitor, drumming his digits against the desk. Starscream kept his gaze locked firmly in front of him, anticipating more pestering from him.

“Are you bored?” Ratchet drawled.

Sure enough.

Starscream hiked his wings and glared over his shoulder. “No, whatever gave you that impression?”

“Forgive me for doubting that you’ve suddenly gained a keen interest in the organization of my supplies.”

Starscream narrowed his optics and turned back towards the closet, eyeing the haphazardly stacked crates and random boxes of unsorted parts. “I think you mean lack of organization,” he scoffed.

That comment seemed to hit a nerve with Ratchet because he swung back around to his terminal and made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. “I’ve had better things to be doing instead of cleaning, unfortunately. Keeping you from joining the Well early, for one.”

Early? Primus must disagree with you, for how often he tries to take me back.

“What, you mean your job?” Starscream snapped, “Going to lord it over me, are you?”

Behind him, Ratchet leaned back in his seat, giving Starscream an odd look. He apparently decided that responding was more trouble than it was worth and went back to typing. “So that’s what you think, huh?” Starscream heard him mutter. 

Not bothering to dignify him with a response, Starscream mildly inspected the messy boxes, trying to figure out where to go next. He didn’t exactly want to go wandering the halls of the Autobot base looking for Optimus like a lost puppy, but he also didn’t want to lurk around the medbay for much longer, what with Ratchet’s cuddly, welcoming demeanor and all.

Arguing with him did make him feel a bit better though. A good a distraction as any.

“If you are bored, then maybe you can fix that lack of organization, if it really bothers you that much.”

Never mind. Bad distraction. Mean and incredibly annoying distraction.

Starscream prepared another defensive insult in response, but paused before letting it leave his intake. Cleaning. . . wasn’t too bad a task to occupy himself with. He doubted Optimus would have anything more significant for him to do, so he might as well skip all the hassle and organize Ratchet’s stupid boxes.

“Not even a please, medic? And you call me rude,” Starscream tisked, but he still grabbed the first crate that wasn’t unmanageably overflowing and sat himself on a far-off medberth to deal with it. He noticed Ratchet staring him down as he did so, but Starscream ignored him.

Starscream, in spite of what many assumed about him, did not hate cleaning. He hated being forced to clean, but that act itself didn’t bother him. Some believed that seekers had a knack for organization (though if they were ever in the presence of a certain violet jet, they would’ve changed their mind immediately), and Starscream was a little ashamed to admit he fell into the stereotype. It was just a mindless, relaxing activity that required little effort and prevented most unwanted social interactions.

So Starscream sat there and sorted through the tangle of useless-looking scraps of metal and knotted wires, all while pretending that Ratchet didn’t exist a mere few meters away.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

At the tail end of a good two hours, Starscream was surrounded by many tidy piles of junk sorted into whatever arbitrary category he decided they went into and was miraculously spared from any input from Ratchet for the entire time. After the first thirty minutes of blissful silence, Starscream had to check to make sure the medic hadn’t had a spark-attack at his desk in turn. But sure enough, Ratchet was still working quietly at his terminal, spark continuing to tick despite the amount of time he’d gone without making some asinine comment at him. It was quite refreshing actually.

Starscream clicked quietly as he began packing the different piles neatly back into the box they’d come in, and this was the moment Ratchet suddenly remembered he existed and turned towards him. Ratchet’s optics widened slightly as he glanced at Starscream’s work, and he thought that Ratchet might make some sort of remark about it, but he didn’t.

Instead, Ratchet got up from his seat and looked over at the re-filled crate, then at Starscream, then back at the crate, and finally picked up the crate as soon as the silence got awkward enough for it to become clear that Starscream wasn’t going to say anything. He then shuffled around and put the box up in a different closet, one that was presumably for organized boxes of dubiously-useful slag.

It was then, in that horrifically awkward silence, that Starscream heard the light drumming of digits again, and then a stilted statement.

“Thank you. . . you didn’t have to do that.”

Hmn. That isn’t the usual response he gets when he does something he wasn’t explicitly ordered to do. It was usually all ‘who are you and what did you do with the real Starscream’ and ‘you would be more tolerable if you did that all the time.’ Being thanked was a pleasant alternative he supposed.

Starscream turned his chin up airily and waved a servo. “Whatever. Maybe I am bored. Hand me another.”

And Ratchet did so with little fanfare, so Starscream spent another two hours organizing another box of scraps, and was even rewarded with another ‘thank you’ when he was finished.

Remarkable. A decent amount of his time spent without a planetary-fragging-issue. The universe must be smiling upon him today.

Unfortunately, Starscream’s multitudes of less-than-healthy joints did not appreciate him sitting in one place for four hours straight and his spinal strut felt as though it were beaten in with a hammer, and he was also strangely tired for only sitting in one place for hours, so he wanted to leave before he inadvertently put himself on bedrest, no coercion necessary.

As he was leaving though, Ratchet spoke up again.

“If you still feel like cleaning tomorrow, you’re welcome to come by again.”

Starscream huffed and tried to convince himself that the sentiment didn’t mean anything to him. “Trying to pawn your chores off on me?” he tittered, “For shame, doctor.”

“Whatever, goodbye.”

Starscream did not say goodbye back, and was thoroughly disgusted with the fact that he considered it.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

To Starscream’s complete and utter shock, when Ratchet wasn’t treating his current injuries or interrogating him on past ones, he wasn’t the worst mech in the universe to abide. The competition wasn’t very steep, but it was still an accomplishment.

He didn’t make too many obnoxious comments and stopped taking part in arguments if Starscream stopped as well (which was ungodly difficult for him mind you, but it was nice). Ratchet was also quite amiable to no speaking whatsoever, seeing as he almost certainly didn’t get any silence from most anyone else around here, so Starscream didn’t have to participate in the soul-rending farce that was small talk.

It also helped that doing Ratchet’s chores occupied the paranoia creeping into every waking second, fed his need to isolate himself from both the outside world and the other Autobots, and made the mech himself be nicer to him. A great deal, for just a few hours of menial labor every day.

All of that was to say, Starscream had grown to tolerate Ratchet. Completely against his will, of course. The Autobots probably put something in the air that made logic circuits malfunction.

This was relevant because now, according to natural progression, toleration and the barest hint of trust had inevitably led to this. . . whatever this predicament was.

Starscream was being facetious. He knew what this was.

A dark, oppressively tight stone cavern, or perhaps a hallway. The ground was too slick with dull energon to tell. Impossibly long yet painfully narrow, there was no chance of escape, no matter how far he ran.

His frame had been shaking violently since the moment he’d woken up, and it was all he could bear to watch the kliks of his chrono tick slowly up, HUD glitching and wavering behind his optics. He tried not to let himself focus on any of the warnings flooding his vision.

He ran anyway, because what other option did he have? His wings scraped against the low ceiling and his shoulders brushed against the walls, never leaving him to himself. The sticky, suffocating feeling of the world collapsing onto him just wouldn't abate.

The warnings were fake, and he knew that. Panic was disorienting him and tampering with his perception. No matter how much it felt like his spark was imploding in on itself, he knew it was merely a figment of his addled processor.

Starscream wasn’t good at being convinced of things, though. Certainly not by himself.

Something was on top of him. Crushing and tearing and breaking everything into tiny, tiny slivers of metal. The energon leaking from his frame was just as dull as the energon already coating the floor.

And there were other issues, of course, even once he’d managed to sit up, gasp a few shallow vents, and look past the cloying darkness coating everything around him.

He really, really wanted to leave. Needed to.

But when he stumbled over to the door panel and shoved a servo against it, nothing happened.

He could not leave his hab. The door would not open.

Because it is night and the door is locked, something said.

Because I am trapped and I will die here, something said.

His frame gave a violent shudder and he managed to stagger back to his berth and all-but collapse onto it. Even though it had only been a few seconds, his leg throbbed as if he’d been walking for hours.

Or running.

Starscream was not dealing. He was not even producing coherent thoughts most of the time.

He wanted to leave. He could not leave.

I can ask someone.

Starscream blinked, and the loud static dulled into the more real sound of his rasping vents bouncing off of the—close close close—walls.

Right, ask? He can. . . do that.

He shifted on his berth and the resulting creak sounded so much like cracking stone that it nearly made him burst into tears.

Ask. Ask ask ask ask. . . who?

He did not like any of them. He did not trust any of them. He was going to die—

Medic. Message that stupid fragging medic.

Ratchet could open the door, most likely. Starscream could defend himself against Ratchet in a fight, most likely. Ratchet was awake at one in the morning, most likely.

Starscream mustered the energy to send a ping. Blank. What would he write anyway? Nothing flattering.

For a moment his HUD spat back a bright ‘NO SIGNAL’ warning, a lie a hallucination a stupid horrible trick by his traitorous processor—

‘SENT’

There. It’s right there.

He sent another afterwards, just in case.

‘SENT’

Good.

Now he had to wait. Just wait. For. . . something. Help? He didn’t like calling it that. He didn’t know why.

Starscream struggled to stay sitting up. He was dizzy, even though he hadn’t really done anything that would cause such a reaction. His gyros must’ve been malfunctioning. Something to mention to Ratchet, whenever he decided to show up. 

Because he will. He will.

Starscream made sure to keep his optics on the floor. Whatever was wrong with his gyroscope seemed to be caused by looking at the walls, or Primus forbid the ceiling. It was unfortunate, because there wasn’t much floor to look at.

It occurred to him that he didn’t quite have a plan for if—not if—Ratchet decided to show up. Starscream wholeheartedly refused to tell him the real reason, if he even understood the real reason himself. Make up a medical issue? Ratchet seemed partial to those. Starscream wouldn’t have to reach that far, he had a lot of problems to work with.

As he, not-irrationally, considered his options—though never considering the truth—he failed to notice the distinctive sound of pedsteps against metal until they were nearly at his door, and Starscream went stock-still.

The steps echoed in his helm and brought discordant memories up from their recesses.

He hadn’t the chance to react before, all at once, there was a piercingly loud banging at his door, and Starscream froze. He was very nearly convinced that it really was Megatron who was outside his room, but he came to his senses. 

You just pinged someone. It is only logical that it would be them who is there. Get a hold of yourself.

Again the knocking came, but Starscream just couldn’t bring himself to speak, let alone answer. His vocalizer would not cooperate with him.

Faintly, he heard a muffled grumbling from the other side of the door, and afterwards a sharp beeping noise. The control panel.

Even with that forewarning, Starscream jumped as the door slid open with a metallic shriek. The hallway was startlingly bright compared to his hab, and he fought back a wince.

Standing in the doorway was, miraculously, just the medic. Just Ratchet.

The magnitude of relief was so great that Starscream nearly forgot himself.

There is someone else in the room with you now, something inside him stressed, you have to act normal.

So he straightened out, sat neatly on the edge of his berth, and forced his wings into a poor facsimile of ease. An obvious act to some, but there were benefits of never being around any other Vosnians nowadays.

“My leg,” he shot off quickly, gaze never really landing on the medic, “It is. . . acting up.”

Ratchet didn’t quite respond, only leaning against the doorway expectantly, expression set.

“I couldn’t recharge,” Starscream added, optics flickering.

Again, Ratchet didn’t respond right away, nor did his expression shift from its near-constant state of ‘dispassionate annoyance,’ but he eventually sighed and dropped his helm.

“Alright, come on then,” he said, waving Starscream forward and leaving before he could answer, “Use your crutch.”

Starscream blinked, damn-near astounded by how easy it was to convince Ratchet to abide him, but he managed to push through the haze and lurched after him. He also managed a sneer towards the cursed crutch, just to ground himself.

It was difficult to move, which surprised him little. If it was hard to sit up straight, then walking was a nightmare. His vision swam behind his optics and shadows flicked in and out of his view, and that difficulty was discounting the more tangible obstacle that was the aching pain winding through his frame. Even so, Starscream had powered through worse maladies in his life, and he managed to get through his doorway without incident, though Ratchet did throw him a few looks over his shoulder.

At that point, Starscream couldn't care less if Ratchet saw him stumbling over his peds or not, if only because he had a few more pressing things to be hiding from him at the moment. Trying to push down the burgeoning emotional breakdown clawing its way to the forefront of his processor was difficult enough without forcing himself to walk smoothly on a mangled limb.

But everything would be fine. He was very good at hiding it, after all.

Or, well, he believed he was good at hiding it. He doesn’t exactly ask for much peer-review in that area. Or any.

As long as Ratchet kept any prying and invasive questions to himself and any untoward observations unvoiced, they could both leave this interaction unscathed.

And on that note, Starscream realized a bit late that he didn’t know what he would be doing, now that he was out. It was all that was on his processor, getting out, that now that he was out, he didn’t have a plan.

Ratchet’s taking me to the medbay for my leg, he recalled, ashamed to admit it’d slipped his mind since he stepped past his doorway, That’ll occupy me for a while.

And then, a darker thought; He’ll send me back at some point. I can’t stall forever.

His wings clinked against his spine at the thought, unwittingly. Ratchet looked at him again. Starscream willed him to keep his intake shut.

Ratchet did. Keep his intake shut, that is. Maybe because he was too busy opening the doors to the command deck.

They opened quicker than expected, and Starscream would’ve been perfectly satisfied with just standing there, in that cavernous room with its high ceiling and dim lights, but that would involve ignoring his excuse, and his excuse laid in the medbay.

He followed Ratchet’s frame across the deck and through another set of doors, and sagged a little at the familiar sight. In relief or irritation, he couldn’t tell.

Starscream managed to stumble his way onto a berth and slumped in exhaustion, just barely trembling with the effort. Among other things. He let the crutch clatter against the ground.

Mercifully, if Ratchet noticed his turmoil, he made no comment except for a mild request for him to extend his leg to be inspected. Starscream did so with noticeable difficulty, and Ratchet tisked as he began poking at his seams. Starscream probably would’ve had to come here anyways, nightmares notwithstanding.

As Ratchet was going through all manners of tests on his struts, Starscream’s awareness began to slip, despite his best efforts. It was as if all the panic forcing his frame awake was dimming, causing all the fatigue to rush back to him. Didn’t make him any calmer, mind you, now he was just scared and tired.

What brought him back to reality was a sharp, deep pain striking though his knee joint as Ratchet moved the limb just so. The pain tore a gasp from his throat and made his frame jolt violently.

For a second, Starscream wholeheartedly believed he was lying in the sand again.

Ratchet glanced up at him, expression blank for a moment, but understanding quickly dawned on his face and he stood up, muttering an, “Ah, right,” as he moved to dig through a desk drawer. Eventually he produced a small metal drive from the depths of the compartment—a pain blocker.

“Didn’t I tell you to say something about things like that?” Ratchet asked benignly as he pushed the drive into one of Starscream’s arm ports.

He didn’t respond. Ratchet made no follow-up as to convince him to do otherwise.

As the blocker slowly wicked pain away from his sensors, the medic made a couple more minute adjustments to his knee and finally splinted the joint straight with a few small metal plates, thin enough to fold his armor over. Ratchet pressed on the limb a few times, testing his work, before he hummed and nodded. He got up and began doing something else by his desk, Starscream couldn’t bring himself to care what. He tested the range of motion in his leg and estimated how difficult it would be to escape on.

Ungodly difficult by the feel of things, but what else was new?

Starscream huffed a sigh and, with nothing else to engage his mind, his thoughts returned to their slow but steady spiraling.

He’d come to think that it wasn’t really the darkness that was messing with his helm, though the glimpses of crimson optics marring the shadows weren’t helping. Starscream quite liked the dark sometimes. It was better suited for hiding and soothed headaches quicker than a lot of things. But something was wrong with him.

There were obviously the narrow spaces and low ceilings and dense unyielding kilometers of stone and—

“Are you cold?”

He was cold, somehow. Being buried alive under tons and tons of stone traps one in a tight space with the heat of their panicked frame, but said stone also saps the heat away from one's frame quicker than it can be produced. It was much like being shot to death; the blast was always burning hot and yet losing all of your energon made you very very cold—

“Why?” he asked. He was as surprised as any that the word came out steady.

Ratchet gave him a long, blank look. He was almost as good at those as he was at scowls. “Because you’re shivering.”

Starscream looked down to see his arms shaking where they were held over his chest, along with the rest of his frame.

He wasn’t shivering, he was trembling. A doctor such as himself should know the difference, but he was glad he didn’t. Or was pretending he didn’t. Same result.

“I’m fine,” he tried. He nearly believed it too.

“I didn’t ask if you were fine, I asked if you were cold.”

Starscream managed a weak glare in his direction. Thinks he’s smart, doesn’t he.

“Sure,” he spat, turning his gaze back to the floor. Why the medic gave a damn was beyond him, but these Autobots seemed to care about a lot of things Starscream didn’t understand caring about. Pain blockers and being cold and such.

At his admission, Ratchet turned back around and shuffled through a storage closet and pulled out a—surprisingly neatly folded—thermal blanket from its depths. He placed it at Starscream’s side and walked to his terminal afterwards, seemingly content with his badgering for the night.

Starscream vaguely noted that the mech still hadn’t told him to leave, though it seemed he was done having his leg messed with.

Quickly pushing that away, Starscream occupied himself by peeling the blanket open as slowly as possible, as though it were rigged to explode. Could never be too careful, he’d say.

And once he had it spread out, it must’ve said something about his mental state that he actually wrapped it around his shoulders instead of tossing it onto the ground like such an offering deserved. 

The thick mesh fabric was soft against his plating and weighed pleasantly on his wings, and the way it warmed his frame did ease something in his chassis, but it didn’t fix anything. Nothing did, really.

For a lack of anything better to do, Starscream checked his chrono. At least it wasn’t glitching anymore. 

Local time: Hour twelve, minute eighteen, second twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-ni—

He closed his chrono.

Had it really been so little time since he’d woken up? Primus, he really was losing it. That is, if his chrono hadn’t just up and broken on him. Should he bring that up? He was already in the medbay and the medic wasn’t too fragged off at him at the moment, but if it wasn’t a malfunction then Starscream would only succeed in outing himself as an unstable loon.

More so than he already had.

. . .Does Ratchet accept bribes—?

“Starscream.”

He jolted and flicked his wings as he glanced up at the medic, the movements accentuated by the rustling of the blanket.

Ah, that’s it, Starscream mulled, this is when he casts me out of the medbay. Must’ve remembered I was here.

He tried to stay impassive about it all, but the thought of going back so soon left a cold pit of anxiety churning in his tank.

However, the longer it took for Ratchet to get on with it, the more confused he got.

Ratchet was looking away from him, tapping his digits against the counter in thought, before heaving a harried sigh and beginning to speak.

“Starscream, I. . .” he trailed off, glanced at him, and cleared his throat.

 “I wanted to apologize,” Ratchet finally said, and Starscream’s previous thoughts skipped over themselves. “For how I acted during your latest medical exam, I mean,” Ratchet added quickly, as though that clarified much.

Going crazy. Yes, very plausible. Maybe it was contagious too.

Regardless, Ratchet continued. “I was acting beyond my scope as a medic by interrogating you about your past injuries. It was. . .” he looked away, seeming at a loss. “It was wrong of me to try and force your hand, and to cause you the distress I did, and for that, I am sorry.”

Starscream stared blankly ahead as the mech finished his tirade, the words practically rolling off his processor with little connection made.

. . .What? he finally managed, What did he say to me?

He turned the medic’s words over in his exhaustion-addled mind. An apology. For. . . upsetting him, that one time. Which was odd, because Starscream wasn’t even that upset and also it was unreasonable that Ratchet would even care.

Maybe it came from the same place his fixation with pain blockers came from.

During this extended break in anything resembling a response, Ratchet sighed a bit and turned back around to continue working on his console.

It must be a trick. Some sort of manipulative stunt.

And then, Would you even be able to tell?

Do you even remember what a genuine apology sounds like?

At that thought, Starscream came to a screeching halt. It was overwhelming, even. He tried desperately to recall a similar instance, but nothing came up.

It was then that—though he would make every effort to blame it on the lack of recharge and upon no other factors—he began to cry.

It was stupid. It was moronic. It was wholly pathetic. It was—

It was all too much to bear. He was tired and sick and scared out of his mind and his frame finally reacted in spite of him.

Starscream clutched his wings tight to his spine as he heaved strangled gasps into his palms, not bothering to wipe the coolant off his face. His servos did little to muffle his sobs. A miserable state, he was sure.

Through it all, he all but forgot his company.

Starscream had curled on his side, struggling through the tail end of something he could not quite call panic and on the verge of passing out, when Ratchet’s metallic steps came upon the medical berth he had commandeered.

He hadn’t the energy to look up. Hardly enough to keep his optics open. His paranoid musings supplied that Ratchet might just kill him right then, but the thought was dismissed soon after.

Probably only finally, finally, telling him to leave.

But Ratchet neither made an attempt on his life or kicked him out. Instead, Starscream felt something soft loop over his sensors and lay over his frame. A blanket.

“‘Didn’t think I was that bad at apologies,” Ratchet muttered.

Starscream almost laughed. Mostly just choked on his vents a bit more.

“I still hate you,” he rasped out eventually. He didn’t know why he said that. He didn’t even know if he meant it.

Ratchet huffed. Starscream heard the pedsteps begin to recede. “For the love of Primus, go to sleep.”

I don’t think Primus is going to start caring about me now.

But he hardly had the wherewithal to bother fighting recharge at that point, and his frame was getting sick of humoring consciousness. He finally managed to slip into a—blissfully peaceful—recharge.

The silence of the medbay followed him there.

Chapter Text

Starscream came to slowly, blinking himself awake as his systems took their sweet time booting up. His optics struggled to focus, though he was momentarily confused over the odd berth he was staring at, until the rest of the room faded in and gave him even more reason to be confused. 

Stark walls as smooth floors, even shrouded by darkness, were completely different from those in his room. He also failed to recall having such an excess of medical equipment in his personal possession.

Moments later he came to his senses, the memories of last night—or by the looks of things, a mere few hours ago, everything was still dark—coming back to him, washing away any lingering fatigue and replacing it with anxiety.

Oh slag it all, what is wrong with me?

He grit his denta as he struggled to sit up, closing his optics against the sudden rush of vertigo that rewarded him for his efforts. He opened them again once he was sure he could do so without purging his tanks all over Ratchet’s freshly cleaned floor.

And speaking of Ratchet, Starscream couldn’t see him around, so either the stress-induced hallucinations were getting far worse or Primus decided to take pity on him for once and allowed him the mercy of waking up in shame alone.

Either way, Starscream forced himself to his peds while ignoring the crick in his joints, and distantly allowed himself to drag the crutch along with him as he vacated the room.

It was only when he had safely navigated the halls and locked himself back in his room did he notice he’d brought the blanket with him.

He stared at the gray mesh fabric as he mulled over the night’s regrettable actions, Starscream briefly considered using his claws and tearing the insulting thing into a million pieces.

It crossed his mind, first, that he didn’t want to destroy the blanket because he liked it and doing so would just upset him further, and secondly—and more rationally—that the Autobots were low on resources and destroying the blanket would probably upset them, even if that resource was a simple thermoregulatory device.

So he threw the thing on his berth and pretended not to use it when he crawled in afterwards. 

. . .Primus, there weren’t even any cameras in here. The door was locked.

Perhaps he was overthinking the whole blanket thing.

In an effort to distract himself, Starscream transferred his train of thought onto other, more relevant things. Like how he was going to force that doctor to keep his mouth shut over this whole regrettable little event. Ratchet didn’t strike him as the particularly gossipy type, but that didn’t mean Starscream trusted him not to let it slip.

So he opened Ratchet’s comm link and stared at a blank ping, trying to come up with the perfect threat to keep him quiet.

Ah, but he supposed being civil first might bring him a better outcome. He didn’t want to give the mech any further vendetta against him, especially now that the mech had some impeccable blackmail material against him, but how in the world could he convince anyone of anything without threatening them first?

He thumbed through every interaction he’d had with the medic, and came to an epiphany. 

Ratchet was always asking for those files, wasn’t he? For whatever reason, Ratchet valued his medical records higher than cold creds, so it was a logical choice for bribery.

But if that was going to happen, a healthy amount of editing was going to be needed.

The first thing he did when he opened his well-buried medical files was redact any mention of his spark or sparkbonds. Completely irrelevant to anything Ratchet would ever need to do with him. The second thing he did was redact every single incident report on there. The medic had no need to know how he got injured, he needed only the actual injuries.

Lastly, Starscream deleted most every “additional note” left by Knockout. He usually only used them to complain incessantly about Starscream’s conduct within the medbay. Entirely unnecessary. Ratchet’s personal experience probably said enough.

After this thorough butchering of his personal files, Starscream read and reread and reread them some more, until he was one-hundred-percent sure that he could stand this information going out to someone.

He shakily attached the files to the ping, along with a. . . delicately-worded threat about the medic’s general health and lack thereof if he were to ever tell anyone about Starscream’s brief emotional lapse.

If it took a few minutes to muster the courage to actually send the thing, that was no one’s business except his own.

He was still lying awake when he got a response from the mech (filthy filthy hypocrite, daring to police others on their recharge schedules), and all that was attached to it was a simple, ‘Thank you.’

Starscream blinked at it, his exhausted, overtaxed processor desperately parsing the short response for any sort of double-speak. He couldn’t find any, naturally, because it was two words long.

So instead of responding, he forced himself to shutter his optics and initiate recharge.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Waking up—and he used the term waking up very loosely, as what he was doing barely constituted as sleep in the first place—was unduly painful and came far too quickly in his opinion. Maybe the severe lack of recharge and waking up every thirty-odd minutes due to whatever happened to startle him that time had something to do with it, but he did not care why he was so tired, all that mattered was that he was.

But he had to get up and leave. It would only get worse if he didn’t.

That’s how he found himself in the command deck, curled up on the makeshift seat-thing made up of crates and staring directly into the lights in an effort to avoid passing out in the middle of the day.

He gave up on that plan after nearly five minutes. A good run. No one could fault him for trying.

Instead he looked around for any unwanted company (which there rarely was at this time, most everyone was usually busy right around now), sighed deeply, and let himself lean against one of the raised platforms, eventually laying his helm on the catwalk atop his crossed arms.

A fatal mistake, as he'd forgotten that this particular catwalk was the one often used by the human children. Who were returning from their studies just now. That’s where everyone was, he realized.

The command deck exploded with noise as soon as the three Autobots and their wards passed through the groundbridge and gave Starscream one of the most impressive turnarounds for a headache he’d ever had. It was ridiculous, really. The Nemesis hadn’t ever been this loud, and there were far more mecha there. Maybe it was an Autobot-specific skill.

Starscream groaned and shoved his face deeper into his arms.

The group’s energy dimmed as they stumbled upon him, but it certainly didn’t make them quiet down much so Starscream didn’t care. He also didn’t care about their reproachful glances at him, because he sure wasn’t going to be leaving just to spare them the discomfort of his presence. What did they take him for, a pushover?

While the mecha were content to ignore him, save for a few polite chirps in his direction courtesy of Bumblebee, but unfortunately the humans had no such reservations, with Miko snickering at him as she was placed onto the catwalk. She bounded towards him with unprecedented glee while the others followed more hesitantly. The two of them were at least quiet, but Miko probably didn’t know what the word quiet meant.

“Hey Screamer!” she yelled, as though his face were not mere meters away from hers, “Heard you got your butt handed to you by your old boss, like, a week ago!” All the subtlety of a train crash, that one. “I’d know, ‘cause Ratchet started kicking me out of the medbay even more than usual.” 

Charming. And tactful too. Not that he expected any real concern, that would just be hypocritical. 

Their present company cringed away and glanced at him as though he would start attacking the child or something, but Starscream really couldn’t be bothered to do much besides roll his optics. He couldn’t care less about the well-wishes of underdeveloped fleshies.

“Yes, well,” he hummed, settling further on his arms and flicking his wings, “We cannot all have the leisurely, hardship-free existence of a lap pet, unfortunately. I suppose you wouldn’t understand.”

Miko gasped, thoroughly offended, while the rest of the audience had similar—if significantly more subdued—reactions.

Bulkhead in particular narrowed his optics at him and crossed his arms in what he was sure the wrecker thought was intimidating. Starscream challenged him to do any worse than what had already happened to him. Break his other leg, maybe.

Bulkhead did not break his other leg, he merely spoke. “Miko isn’t my pet,” he rumbled, “She’s my friend, but I’m sure the concept if foreign to you.” 

‘Ooh, you have no friends!’ Never heard that one before. Maybe the reason Bulkhead punched everything as a reflex was because he hadn’t the processing power to think up proper insults.

Starscream didn’t rise to the taunt like he was sure Bulkhead wanted. He had a hard time even feeling offended. These sprints of apathy were new for him, but he supposed apathy sure wasn’t the worst feeling in the world, so barely minded. He merely huffed and ignored the mech, optics half-shuttered. He made a note to ask Ratchet for some sleeping aids at some point. 

Bulkhead visibly deflated at Starscream’s lack of reaction, but Miko didn’t seem at all fazed and was already gearing up for more idiocy.

He gave Primus a few strongly-worded complaints in his helm.

“Okay! So,” she began, taking a deep breath, “I know you’ve been avoiding me—sooo not cool by the way—and I’ve been waiting for forever to actually see you again! I mean, I was beginning to think you were still locked up with Ratchet but then I saw you a few days ago but only for like two secon—”

Starscream actively tuned her out and instead observed the mecha present, with Bumblebee poking his teammates timidly and chirping out a “We all have patrols like, two minutes ago.”

This seemed to shake the wrecker out of his angry stupor and shake his helm, turning back towards the humans. “Right, right. Miko, wanna join me?”

The question cut off the endless stream of nonsense spewing from the girl’s mouth, and she spun towards her guardian with an unreasonable amount of energy. Oh, to be a sparkling.

“Ehe, um,” she sputtered, bouncing on her heels, “Not this time, Bulk. I’ve got like, lots of homework to do. Like, pounds!” she exclaimed, unconvincingly.

“Oh, uh, yeah, me too,” Jack added, far less enthusiastic and even less convincing.

“Me too!” Raf piped up as well. At least he sounded like he meant it. 

The Bots were skeptical of these incredibly obvious lies, they still held the humans to it. The mecha reluctantly left their wards under the watchful optics of Starscream—though not without a ping to Optimus and a silent-yet graphicly clear threat courtesy of Bulkhead.

Miko, finally left alone with her quarry, wandered even closer to him and sat right next to his claws. She even tugged on them, proving her species’ lack of a fear instinct.

“Hey, hey hey hey. Starscream look at me,” she chirped.

“Why?” he muttered, refusing to turn his helm.

“‘Cause I wanna talk to you!”

“My audials are not connected to my optics.”

“Okay, fine, whatever,” she huffed, face pinched. In his periphery he saw the oldest human rubbing between his eyes as though fending off a headache, and, shockingly, the smallest one was actually doing homework.

“Anyways,” Miko scoffed, “What’s that thingy you’ve been carrying around?” she asked, pointing at the metal contraption he had leaned on the walkway.

Starscream blinked and quickly turned to glare at her. “I have not been ‘carrying it!’” he insisted quickly, glancing around the command deck for any wayward medics. “I have been using it correctly and often.”

Miko lifted a brow. “Uh, okay, I believe you, but you didn’t tell me what it is.”

“It is. . . a medical crutch,” he answered. “Though I hardly need it anymore,” he lied through his teeth. “Despite what some mecha think,” he muttered afterwards.

“Ooh,” Miko exclaimed, finally interested in the conversation. “Is that ‘cause your legs are all messed up? Lemme see-” she rambled, leaning over the guardrail and looking him over.

Starscream scowled and drew his legs closer to his frame. Her obsession with gore and violence was disturbing, and that was coming from him. “Wouldn’t you like to know, sparkling.”

“That also from when Megatron beat you up?” Jack piped up, staring directly into his optics. Creepy. Starscream had no idea what he did to that child to make him hate him so much.

“Hasn’t anyone ever taught you incorrigible whelps any manners?” he snarled, “Where are your parents?”

“Work.”

“In a different country!”

“Well, they’re busy watching my siblings, probably. . .”

Starscream huffed and shoved his face back down, closing his optics. What a shocker, the three menaces of Autobot base have little-to-no immediately available caretakers besides a group of violent metal aliens twenty times their size. Figures.

Not that Starscream had any room to talk. The large, imposing, non-sentient machines that cold-constructs like him were loath to call their creators probably cared about them a lot less than some semi-absent birthing apparatuses.

“Do you guys even have parents?” Miko asked, and it took a bit for him to realize that by ‘you guys’ she meant the Cybertronian race as a whole.

“Eh,” he hemmed into his arms, waving a few digits in place of a usual hand. “Depends, on many factors. Cybertronians do not have ‘parents’ in the way that organics do.”

“Huh,” Miko crossed her arms and tapped her foot, her tiny processor working very hard inside of her soft head. Eventually she tipped over and leaned on his helm crest, earning herself a soft growl. “Do you have parents?”

“Did they happen to teach you any manners?” Jack intoned, and Starscream scowled at the darkness behind his shutters.

“Well, if you must know,” he snarled, briefly lifting a servo in order to push away the small human using him as a grappling board, “I do not have any such ‘parents,’ nor anything quite resembling any—get off of me!”

Miko did not, in fact, get off of him. Instead she had wedged herself between his elbow and his cheek vent, and began squeaking directly into his audials.

“Awwww. . . That’s really sad, actually,” she cooed, “My host family here kinda sucks, but it’s still way better than going out and doing whatever all by myself.” 

‘Host’? Why, he knew he always compared humans to parasites, but maybe he was closer to the mark than he expected. Did some humans infect others’ nests like those creepy little birds he’d heard of once? Miko must've been more closely related to a scraplet than he first assumed.

Starscream was shaken from his mild sleep deprivation-related musings by Miko making a confused noise at him while swinging her legs, seemingly over her previous pity-fueled lamentations. “Wait—if you don’t have parents or something then how do you learn stuff? Do you guys have school?” Her face scrunched up as though the word itself offended her.

Before he could answer—or more likely, tell her to go ask an amiable wall instead—Raf spoke up, reminding Starscream of his existence.

“They have schools, I think. Starscream told me about one he attended, to get a sort of science degree—or, well, whatever the Cybertronian equivalent is.”

Listening to him, Starscream was nearly flattered that the boy had remembered being told that little remark about his life, but Miko was already starting back up before he could get too enthused.

“No, not college,” she huffed, “I mean like, kid school, y’know? Where you learn your alphabets and to not bite people and whatever. . .” She trailed off, taking so long to continue her thought that Starscream assumed she had shorted out her neurons, but then, “Do Cybertronians have babies?”

Starscream’s forlorn groan was muffled by his arms.

I should be getting paid for this slag—actually, no amount of creds or cubes would be enough to properly compensate me for my misery.

“Wai-wai-wait!” Miko cried suddenly, jabbing his shoulder guard, “I’m getting distracted—how do you ‘not have’ parents? Were you built in some jerk-making factory and popped out as a fully-formed jerkwad?”

Starscream sighed deeply. “If I say yes will you leave me to recharge in peace?”

“Why are you sleeping in the main room, Starscream?” Raf asked.

“Mind your business,” he muttered, but Miko ignored the exchange to exclaim, “Nope!”

Starscream growled and propped his helm up to glare at the pink human, shaking her off of her little perch and causing her to let out an indignant squawk. “Gh—fine! Fine.” If the Autobots were too busy to be giving their wards Cybertronian history lessons then he might as well start them off. 

“Approximately an eon or so ago in your terms, some sparks, instead of being allowed to emerge from the core of Cybertron through a hotspot and develop their protoforms naturally, were instead harvested en masse, frozen, and doled out into pre-made frames at Nova Prime’s discretion. These mecha were then given various basic data packets to keep them from offlining themselves in ignorance and sent off to perform whatever job the overseer’s demanded. No parents, no guardians, and no ‘kid school.’”

After his tirade, Starscream huffed and plopped his helm back down to rest on his forearms. The humans were mercifully quiet for a long moment afterwards, until Miko broke the silence.

“Wowww,” she breathed, “. . .That’s kinda fucked up!”

The exclamation startled a sharp vent out of him, and a half-hearted admonishment of her language from Jack.

“How progressive of you, child,” he sneered, rolling his optics.

“No, really!” Miko insisted, “I dunno much about sparks and all that, but I think messing around with someone’s heart-soul-thingy for kicks and profit is, like, a pretty awful thing to do.”

Starscream thought that little proclamation over once, analyzed his feelings on the matter, and immediately disregarded it. He already understood, he didn’t need it spelled out by a fleshy alien sparkling.

“Well obviously it was wrong, I of all mecha would know that," he sniffed, unsure of why he bothered talking politics with the humans in the first place, “Perhaps you should instead inform your do-gooding guardians of that same philosophy. I wouldn’t be surprised if their ilk still harbored functionalist values.” 

They certainly used to, may Sentinel Prime’s ugly frame rust in the deepest parts of the Pit, but he had noticed a clear drop-off in such remarks since the instating of Optimus as the new Prime and leader of the Autobots. He was never sure if it was due to any actual internal reform on the faction’s part or if the most vocal of slaggers were merely killed off violently over the course of the war. Starscream could only personally attest to the second factor.

Waiting for their inevitable retort, he glanced over to the humans, only to see Rafael watching him owlishly over the top of his laptop while Jack stared pensively into space. Miko leaned over and whispered (loudly) into the boy’s ear, “Do you think the ‘Bots are robo-racist?”

Starscream nearly laughed at that, but then he really considered the statement. He never truly made any effort to hide his creation status unless absolutely necessary—his sense of pride disallowed him to participate in the sort of self-degradation required to do so, and he had never been one to fall to anyone’s expectations besides his own, but that didn’t mean he did not think about it.

These Autobots, speaking strictly of recent company mind you, had disparaged him for a lot of things, but never for the circumstances of his forging. Starscream sure didn’t look as he used to, and the changes he’d made to his frame to distance himself from the carbon-copy seeker mold did a fine job of making his origins less obvious at a glance, but anyone who knew anything about him would know that.

‘The first war-breed flight frame and cold-construct ever admitted to the Science Academy of Iacon,’ type headlines, queue shock and awe; ‘The Science Academy of Iacon’s failed pet-project student tried and convicted of the aggravated and premeditated murder of his civilian lab partner,’ later on, queue derision and infamy. The title was attached to him like a name and he had since come to expect—if not accept—such things, but he couldn’t help but—

Thwick.

Starscream blinked rapidly, train of thought completely broken by the feeling of something soft and squishy lightly slapping his cheek, and he trained his lenses onto the source. Miko, who had re-attached herself to his arm, was furiously flipping through a large booklet with one of the most concentrated looks he’d ever seen on the girl. Pausing on a seemingly-arbitrary page, she pulled something out of the book and shoved it against his cheek as well.

Thwick.

Scrunching his faceplates in discomfort, Starscream glanced down at the well-polished floor to see his blurry reflection with two shiny pieces of star-shaped paper stuck to its plating.

He turned to the child with narrowed optics. “Wha—”

“Stickers,” she chirped an answer, once again flipping through her booklet as she spoke. “You weren’t responding when I waved and yelled in your face and you started looking really really sad about whatever you were thinking about so I brought out the big guns—” she did a dramatic flourish with her overly-glittered paper, “—My sticker book!”

Miko snickered as she began searching for her next victim, and Starscream continued to glare.

He flared his wings and scoffed. “I am never sad.”

Miko said nothing, looking remarkably unamused as she stuck him with another sticker without even breaking eye-contact. Thwick.

Starscream hissed like a wet cat and pulled his face away from her reach. “Take your ‘guns’ somewhere else, please,” he sputtered, wiping at his cheek, “They itch.”

The girl gave an amused snort at his reaction, but did hop off of him and start to wander away to do. . . whatever. Starscream busied himself by trying to pry the tiny stickers off of him with his far-less-tiny claws.

After a few long frustrating moments of struggling with his own appendages, a small voice rang out below him. “Ah, um, here,” Raf stammered, weakly reaching out a hand at him. “I can, uh. . .” he trailed off, but Starscream got the idea and leaned down to let the human touch him, only mildly embarrassed to have needed help from a miniature organic. “Hold still,” he hummed as he managed to peel the stickers off of him, waving the glittery paper a bit on his fingers. Raf chuckled as he looked away from Starscream nervously. “She does that to us too sometimes.”

Starscream was about to reply with some benign response, but was distracted by the loud page flipping Miko was engaged in over to his right. Turns out, while he’d been busy fighting sticker-based warfare she’d been giving his crutch the same treatment as his face.

“Y’know, I broke my leg once too,” Miko rambled as she plastered that ugly patchwork cane with more shiny decorative shapes. “I was, like, ten or something, and I was really obsessed with climbing to the top of this massive tree my parents have in their backyard, and nearly every day after school I’d do my homework as quickly as I could and then I’d run outside to get to climbing.” 

“I was getting really good at it, but the first time I got more than halfway up, I got so scared when I looked down that I slipped and fell allll the way down.” In spite of the not-exactly humorous story she was telling, Miko still snickered quietly to herself. It was unclear to him if she found reckless personal injury to be funny or if she was just amused by the weird pictures she was sticking all over the crutch. The collection of shapes were beginning to resemble a cartoonish depiction of a traveling meteorite. “My parents were so mad, you’ve got no idea!—er, no offense—and they said they were gonna ground me for the rest of my life!”

‘Ground?’ If humans cannot fly, then what is even the point?

“Well, they really just grounded me for a month, which was basically how long it took for my leg to heal up anyways so it wasn’t that bad,” She said, pointedly ignoring Jack’s sputtered interjections about how much longer the fracture would actually take to heal, “And jokes on them, I got all the way to the top the next time I tried climbing it, ha! I really showed that tree who’s boss.”

Miko was obviously proud of such a grand feat, despite her audience’s reception ranging from concern to slight amusement, but Starscream could only mull over the idea itself.

To get hurt from something as simple and benign as falling from a mild height—such a counterintuitive species, humans are. Starscream would never leave his hab if he were so fragile.

. . .But he supposed that was what he was doing, wasn’t he?

“Why would you even continue with such a worthless feat?” He just barely stops himself from composing some insult about their squishy bodies and lack of external armor. Progress. “What would you and your kin do if you had broken something less fixable than a limb?”

Miko paused and looked at him, humming aloud and taking her time to answer, but she did do so eventually. 

“Well I didn’t, so it doesn’t really matter,” she shrugged, much to Starscream’s incredulity. “Also, I kept doing it because it was fun! I wasn’t going to let a silly injury keep me from doing what I wanted to do. And I mean, broken legs can’t even yell at you, so it’s way easier to ignore them.”

. . .The human mind truly works in mysterious ways.

“I do not believe that earth trees or your broken limbs are sentient,” he muttered as he laid his helm down once again, though he kept his face turned towards the humans and kept one optic open to their antics. Jack was a ways away and typing furiously on that little datapad of his, but Raf had gone to join Miko in defiling his loaned medical equipment—not that he thought the thing could get much uglier. Miko had moved on from the galaxy pattern she was attempting and was now combining various cat faces with silly hats while giggling. Raf looked as though he were attempting to display some sort of Cybertronian Standard glyph set using only the basic phonemic units of the English language (Primus help him).

A sigh worked its way through his vents and he tried not to fall asleep on the job—he was technically supposed to be supervising the children right now—and he couldn’t be bothered to keep up any more conversation; the kids seemed fine to mingle with each other at that point. Starscream shocked himself with the realization that he didn’t quite hate the presence of the humans right then.

A novel and fleeting experience, he’s sure. His leg wasn’t aching that bad, after all.

Chapter Text

Starscream’s optics bore into the terminal screen, the grainy security footage from the latest theft playing silently over top of the dulcet tones of one ‘Agent Fowler’ screaming near-obscenities into whatever clunky transmission device he was abusing at the moment, and Starscream deeply lamented ever allowing himself to stay involved in this war. Scrounging around for fuel in the middle of nowhere like an animal would’ve been more personally and emotionally fulfilling than this.

And yet, here he was, standing in a cramped semi-circle filled with mecha who hated him while his leader attempted to reason with some sort of short-tempered executorial. Suppose the only thing unfamiliar about the new arrangement is the human involved. And a leader capable of reason.

“Agent,” Optimus interrupted, trying to get the situation back under control, as he had been for the past five minutes. His patience was admirable. “My team and I will make every attempt to resolve this string of Decepticon burglaries,” the Prime took a deep in-vent, “but I have a hard time doing so when you insist on having these lengthy lectures every time something goes wrong.”

“‘Resolve?’” Fowler barked, causing his poor communicator to static out from the strain and causing those closest to the terminal speakers to wince. “Prime, I’ve got more incident reports falling out of me than a printer with food poisoning and my boss is threatening to fire me and replace my sorry derrière with Dallas from the IT department, so forgive me for being a little agitated!”

Optimus blinked, clearly understanding very little of the nonsense spilling out of agent Fowler’s mouth.

Why are we even entertaining the whims of this horrible man and his temper-tantrum, Starscream wondered, this is nearly as unproductive as listening to one of Megatron’s rants.

Of course, he did know the reason Optimus bothered; because he respected the human, for some reason. He couldn’t see why, as the human clearly held very little respect for them in return.

“Optimus,” Ratchet called, pulling the Prime’s attention away from Fowler and towards his own screen, mercifully cutting short what was shaping up to be an endless cycle of exactly zero progress for both parties. “Look at this,” Ratchet waved at the chart filling his screen, an itemized list of everything the Decepticons had stolen from various human facilities. “These pieces of technology, all of them are very similar to the components of a spacebridge—if rudimentary, due to the less-than-suitable advancements of this planet.”

“Who are you calling ‘rudimentary’?” Fowler huffed. No one answered him.

“How far along are they?” Optimus asked, leaning over Ratchet’s shoulder to study the list.

“Close enough,” Ratchet muttered, but he did give the items a closer look, before his optics widened a fraction, then narrowed again. “If the Decepticons have all of these devices and they’re still in working order. . . then the only remaining component they would need to create a fully-functional spacebridge is an energy source powerful enough to run it all.”

The room went quiet. Until Fowler burst out with one of those odd non-swears he only used in front of the children.

“If that’s the case, I just got some real bad news for you all.”

Optimus snapped up to look at the human. “Yes, agent?”

In lieu of a response, a new file transfer from Fowler popped up on screen, and Ratchet quickly opened it. It contained a text document, and more pertinently, a collection of picture files showing Soundwave, accompanied by a squad of vehicons, storming some sort of human facility.

As the Autobots scanned the files, agent Fowler continued. “This came in not even three minutes earlier, and I don’t think I’ve got to tell you guys what’s being held in that facility.” At the clear seriousness of the situation, Fowler mercifully dropped his inflammatory tone and sobered up.

“Thank you for alerting us, agent Fowler,” Optimus responded, “Send us the coordinates and my team and I will be there immediately.” Then he nodded, as though thinking to himself, and spoke again. “And please order a full retreat on the compound, military and civilian. It will be far safer for everyone involved.”

Fowler frowned at that, as though the implication that his miniscule human army couldn’t hold back a squadron of giant mechanoids was offensive, but he did as the Prime asked, and soon afterwards the call was disconnected, both parties having better things to be doing than continuing to argue.

Starscream shuffled his wings as Optimus then turned to face the group.

“Autobots,” Optimus began, “we will be dealing with this siege at once. The Decepticons cannot be allowed to complete that spacebridge, for the sake of the future of Cybertron.” He shuttered his optics for a moment, then nodded towards one end of the group. “Arcee, Bulkhead,” he stated, “The two of you, along with myself, will bridge to the human military compound and keep to the center. Our primary goal is to defend the base and the experimental power source, prevent any further Decepticon movement, and avoid human casualties as much as possible.”

Optimus then looked towards Starscream’s end of the circuit, and he couldn’t quite help from twitching. He didn’t address him right away though, instead addressing the yellow scout.

“Bumblebee, I ask that you stay behind in the case that I, Arcee, and Bulkhead are in need of backup,” he said, “From what the photos indicate, there are not so many Decepticon soldiers for a full squad to be immediately necessary.”

Strangely, at the Prime’s words, Bumblebee visibly brightened and chirped out an affirmative. Starscream had assumed the scout was one of those action-junkies from his experiences with the mech on the battlefield, but he quickly figured it out when, as soon as Optimus silently dismissed him, the bug happily trotted over to Raf and began talking to him in excited whispers.

It became clear that Bumblebee’s version of ‘stay behind’ was ‘go out and play with my human,’ and Optimus watched Bumblebee borderline beg Ratchet to bridge him somewhere or another for a moment, then he turned towards Starscream.

“If Bumblebee goes out on. . . patrol, I ask that you accompany him.”

Starscream halted his train of thought, blinked, and looked at Optimus right back.

“Why.”

Optimus glanced over at Bumblebee again. “With the way the Decepticon forces have been acting as of late, I would prefer it if he were not alone while out, especially since everyone else will be occupied.”

Flaring his wings, Starscream immediately wanted to argue against being sent off to babysit—or be babysat, though he absolutely refused to consider that as Optimus’ reason for sending him off—while the big mecha went out and did all the heavy lifting, but paused. Shifting his weight idly, the resultant twinge in his knee reminded him of the delightful outcome of the last time he got into a spat with his former faction—intentional or not. 

Perhaps a little break from the action wouldn’t be too bad.

“Very well,” Starscream sniffed, and stalked over to Bumblebee and his human, resigning himself to following them around until the day ends or until the Prime and his crew got gunned down by vehicons. He just barely heard Optimus call out a genial ‘Thank you’ from behind him.

Soon afterwards, the groundbridge sparked to life and the group left for the battlefield, leaving Starscream with Ratchet, Bumblebee, and a gaggle of humans. He could only hope the next few hours went by as quickly and painlessly as possible—literally and figuratively.

Focusing in on the mecha present, it seemed that Bumblebee had succeeded in getting poor Ratchet to calibrate the bridge to send them to some highway in the middle of nowhere, not that the medic looked too happy about it.

As Starscream moved to leave though, the unmistakable feeling of being watched came over him and he turned towards the source.

Ratchet was glaring holes into his back, and Starscream glared back in a silent request for him to just spit it out already, until Ratchet waved his servo in the direction of the crutch, which was leaning—quite discreetly in his opinion—against the far wall.

Starscream then became decidedly less silent.

“Absolutely not,” he hissed, hoping that Ratchet would drop the topic entirely, “I will be flying, which, last time I checked, does not require my legs.”

Unfortunately, he was never so lucky. “I don’t care what you’re doing,” Ratchet snapped, “you could still be grounded, or maybe you just might land for one reason or another—which means you’re taking it.”

“You’re being unreasonable,” Starscream argued, resisting the urge to stomp his ped like a sparkling, “You are just assuming I will land, which is moronic. Besides, landing for a few moments will not re-injure me.”

Ratchet crossed his arms, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Starscream continued regardless. “In any case, doctor, I don’t see how you expect me to carry that thing around in my alt mode—I mean, it is not as though I can fit it in my subspace. . .”

While Starscream ranted, Ratchet had grabbed the crutch in both servos, clicked something near the middle seam, and collapsed the tubes into themselves, making the device hardly longer than his forearm.

Starscream stared blankly as Ratchet then pointedly handed him the metal stick.

“Oh, would you look at that,” Ratchet said, tone impressively dry and devoid of inflection, “What a miracle.”

His optic twitched. Starscream almost considered tossing the things to the ground and locking himself in his hab for the rest of the week, but Bumblebee was already driving out the groundbridge, and far be it from him to fail the one of the first real missions ever given by his leader—even if that mission only amounted to watching a couple sparklings play around in the dirt. He shoved the crutch deep in his subspace and stalked through the groundbridge after them.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Soon enough, Starscream found himself flying along with the scout driving below him, human in tow. The scenery was fine, as flat and dusty as usual, but the wind currents were a treat to fly through. Starscream did his best to ignore the chatter from below and focus on his wings, twisting through the air and rolling through vents of warm wind.

He. . . he did need this, he decided. The pressure of the atmosphere on his frame was near breathtaking, after such a long time without it, and it was all he could do to stay on course and not go leisure-flying over the plains. Just the steady lift under his wings would have to do.

While gazing out at the horizon and lazily twirling ribbons into oxygen, Starscream was suddenly interrupted by a comm request from Bumblebee. He accepted begrudgingly.

‘Hey Starscream!’ Bumblebee chirped, his friendly tone feeling like small rocks pinging against his helm.

‘. . .Hey.’

‘Hehe, okay—so, Raf just wanted to know if. . . you maybe wanted to race us?’

Starscream wobbled a bit as he flew slower to accommodate a car’s speed, almost forgetting to respond in his confusion. A what? Why would he—

‘Why would I race you?’ Starscream asked bluntly, then winced when he realized how that sounded. ‘I mean—why would you want to race me? You’re a car, you do realize how unequipped you are to keep up with a jet, right?’

The scout made an offended little noise into his comms. ‘Yeah, I guess, but it would still be fun! Not everything’s about winning, Screamer.’

Oh, that little—‘How rich, coming from you. Your mouth is bigger than your frame, not that that’s too difficult a feat.’

‘Just shoosh and line up Screamy,’ Bumblebee tittered, showboating his little engine by revving it, ‘Save the trash-talk for when we actually start!’

I did not agree to race you, you little menace, Starscream groused, but nevertheless found himself hovering over some arbitrary mound of sand while Raf used his clunky laptop microphone to project onto Cybertronian comms and rattle off the rules (something Starscream didn’t think was even possible of earth technology—and who even gave the child his comm code?)

‘Okay,’ Raf said, voice off and grainy but shockingly legible, ‘First one to five kilometers out and back here wins. Everyone ready?’

Bumblebee and Starscream both clicked in agreement.

‘Alright! On your marks. . . get set. . . and—’

The heavy sound of blaster fire bounced over the sand, and after that split-second warning was a searing pain clipping his wing, the purple bolt then striking the ground next to Bumblebee’s tires.

Every cable in his frame locked up. Starscream fought to stay in the air as his fuselage struggled to accommodate the new wound on his leading edge, sensors flaring to identify the threat. The feed between him and Bumblebee cut off as the scout swerved wildly to avoid the shots.

Damn it, damn it, damn it damn it damn—

Starscream whirled in the air with a snarl, just in time to see—

“My loyal second,” Megatron cooed, his gravelly voice projected loud and clear from his alt, “What a surprise. I’d almost say it’s fate—”

Spark hammering, he feigned left and rolled beneath him, firing a missile right into his ventrals. Starscream didn’t care. Not a single molecule in his body wanted to listen to whatever twisted nonsense the mad mech wanted to spew. It didn’t matter anymore, and he was no longer being forced to care.

 The heat of tainted energon blasters singeing his armor disagreed with that sentiment.

“I had only intended to disable that little scout,” Megaton continued as the dogfight went on, tone frighteningly at-ease, “but now I have the opportunity to take care of two of my problems all at once.”

Starscream did not deign to respond. He was far too busy dodging killing blows and ignoring the heady ache in his leg parts.

As the battle progressed, Starscream could only wilt as the tides turned cleanly against him. He was far out of practice, he knew, and his recent injuries only made his performance worse. It didn’t help that he was also playing round two with the perpetrator.

A shot against the other’s wings—dodged. He took a hit to the cockpit—a mere singe, but Primus did it hurt, likely due to whatever slag the mech was putting in his weapons now.

Starscream avoided another barrage, having not even the time to return fire before spinning away from another. He couldn’t get a single proper hit in.

This is always how it goes, he thought, more than a few warnings mar his HUD, always getting the better of me, being better than me.

Megatron laughed as he sped towards him, guns hot.

It’s always a fight I can never win. . .

Before the strike could hit, a pair of bright bolts from the ground tore at Megatron’s primaries. Starscream watched blankly as Megatron howled in rage and pain as he struggled to right himself, then glanced down.

Bumblebee was driving circles into the dirt as he aimed his blasters skyward, firing without pause.

Starscream shook himself back into focus, looking back at the assailant. He took advantage of Megatron’s distraction and fired a missile at his cockpit, finally doing a little damage to the monster.

Megatron snarled, altitude dipping from the force, then sped towards Starscream once more, engines flaring. Starscream tried falling to the right and bracing, but the impact never came. When he re-focused, he couldn’t see Megatron at all. He only regained visual when Megatron feigned and began a sheer dive straight towards Bumblebee and his ward.

His mind went silent as he processed the action, and he threw himself into his own freefall before really considering the consequences.

Such a poor excuse for an aerial attack strategy, Starscream mindlessly chastised as he barreled into the bulk of Megatron’s frame, meters away from the ground, I’ll never hear the end of it from my—

Corrupt electricity raced through him, and he hit the ground screaming soon afterwards. The pain of it all was only consoled by the blurry sight of Megatron skidding through the sand, de-transforming, and falling flat on his face.

Of course, mild amusement didn’t fix fractured glass.

Bumblebee drove up to him, whirring loudly as Starscream regained his bearings, and in the corner of his optic he saw Megatron stumbling to his peds with a low growl, starting towards them with lumbering steps. Bumblebee’s blasters were drawn and pointed right at him, but before the mech could get close enough to attack, he straightened suddenly, his servo drifting to the side of his helm.

A few moments of tense silence later, and Megatron stepped back with a roll of his shoulders, pin-width lenses trained on Starscream alone. “It seems like some of your friends are causing a bit of trouble for me and my plans,” he hummed, jumping back into his alt mode with a couple of gratifying, grinding snaps. “Luckily for you.”

With that, Megatron left just as quickly as he appeared.

Venting shakily, Starscream groaned and transformed back to his root mode, trying to catalog the damage to his systems. Unfortunately, the throbbing in his helm made that very, very hard.

“Starscream!” Bumblebee chittered, headlights flashing, “Can you hear me?”

He grit his denta hard as he rolled onto his front and pushed himself upright, distantly noting the webbing cracks in his cockpit glass.

“Cease your squawking,” Starscream hissed, legs shaking like a newspark’s as he focused on nothing else but staying vertical, efforts not helped by his gyros spinning violently and twisting his vision, along with an odd coating of purple fog over his optics.

Not my best idea, not at all. . .

To his side, the telltale sound of transformation rang in his aching audials, and he saw Bumblebee standing on his own two legs and clutching a trembling Raf against his chassis. The boy was pale and visibly terrified, but by all accounts unharmed. Bumblebee clicked a few quiet reassurances to him before he leaned over Starscream, looking horribly worried.

Starscream quickly blinked away the haze and stumbled a few steps away from Bumblebee, if only to get the mech to stop crowding him.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, though his trembling plating said otherwise.

“You really should go see Ratchet,” Bumblebee said, and Starscream glared at him. “That was one hell of a crash.”

Starscream scowled. “Can you not hear properly? I said I’m fine!”

Bumblebee gave him a flat look and tapped on his comms. “Well we’re going back to base anyways, I have to drop Raf off. Go argue about it to the mech himself, not me.”

Right on time, a groundbridge materialized just a meter away, and Bumblebee began carefully nudging Starscream towards it with his free servo. Starscream hissed indignantly but didn't push him away, after realizing that the scout was about the only thing keeping him halfway stable.

“And for your information,” Starscream added, “I did not crash.”

“Yeah, whatever you say,” Bumblebee hummed, Then paused, tilting his helm.

“Thanks for that save, by the way. Saved me and Raf’s afts back there.”

Starscream didn't respond to that.

The bright light of the portal tore at his throbbing helm, but soon enough found himself in the Autobot’s command deck once more, and immediately accosted by the team medic.

“Primus above, what happened to you this time? Ratchet scolded, quickly moving to shove Starscream onto the nearest seat and poke at his injuries.

“Up yours, medic,” Starscream muttered, though he let the mech do his prodding with little resistance. Ratchet merely rolled his optics.

“Says the mech who can't go anywhere without coming back beat to slag.”

“Must be a skill of mine.”

After Bumblebee had entered the bridge behind him, he’d quickly set Raf on the human’s catwalk, chirped at him a few more times, then wandered over to where Ratchet was treating him.

While Ratchet busied himself brushing Starscream’s cockpit over with generous amounts of glass filler, he glanced at Bumblebee as he approached. “What in the pit happened out there? It was supposed to be a quote unquote ‘patrol’.”

Starscream should’ve been offended that Ratchet hadn't asked him what happened, but he really didn’t feel like talking in the first place.

“We were just driving around—or, err, flying—when Megatron popped up out of nowhere and attacked us,” Bumblebee explained, “Megatron was gunning right for me until Starscream crashed into him.”

Why did he have to tell him that part? Starscream bemoaned, can I not at least keep my dignity intact?

Ratchet’s brows shot to his crest, and he looked back down at the damage he was fixing with a grimace. “‘Guess that’s do it,” he muttered under his breath, then spoke up, “Alright, anything else? Were you or the boy injured at all?”

“No, no, nothing more than a few scrapes,” Bumblebee assured, “All thanks to Starscream, really.”

This Starscream in question pinched his expression. “Don't say it like that,” he complained, “You’re making me feel like a holovid character.”

“Stop moving, you have processor damage,” Ratchet ordered, pressing Starscream back into the seat. “What happened after that? Are you telling me that Megatron just-just left? Just like that?” he said, incredulous, “You couldn’t have hit him that hard.”

“You’re telling me,” Starscream muttered. No one acknowledged this.

“No,” Bumblebee whirred, “He said something about the current raid, I think he left to go help Soundwave or something.”

Ratchet cursed under his breath, swiftly wrapping up whatever he was doing to Starscream’s chassis. “Bumblebee, since you're cleared, I’ll bridge you to the battle site. Sounds like the team could use as much help as possible, if Megatron’s showing himself.” He reached over and tapped on the groundbridge controls, bringing a portal into existence.

In a bid of spontaneity, of which he should stop entertaining, Starscream stood up and started after Bumblebee out onto the battlefield.

Immediately, a servo grabbed the edge of his collar. Starscream responded with a squawk and a bit more flailing than strictly necessary.

“Where on earth do you think you’re going?”

“The under-siege human military compound. I thought we'd established this.”

Ratchet pinched his nasal ridge with a put-upon sigh. “You look like you’ve been hit by a train, Starscream.”

“Why, Ratchet,” Starscream snickered, “You don’t look so fresh out the Allspark either.”

“That’s not the—you know that’s not what I was—”

Ratchet released his grip on his collar to wave emphatically, and Starscream took the opportunity to sprint into the portal after Bumblebee.

Hopefully he’s feeling more merciful when I return, Starscream thought, almost certainly hearing the distant sounds of angry medibot yelling, I do not like bedrest.

The green electricity faded into gray skies and Starscream hit churned dirt, joints aching. He squinted through the smog to get his bearings, but his wings twitched when it became clear that the fight was all-but over. In spite of the numerous empty vehicon frames littering the ground, Megatron was standing in one of the cargo beams of the Nemesis, chest puffed out as he lorded his victory over the stoic expression of the Prime.

It was just too late. The generator and its new owner were already being pulled up to the warship, and the Autobots were left watching from the ground without recourse.

Or. . .

Starscream limped towards the group, just in time to hear Optimus say, “—and Bulkhead and I will infiltrate the Nemesis in order to reclaim the power source and potentially other stolen technologies. Understood?”

The rest nodded, and Optimus nodded back. “Good. Arcee. Bumblebee, bridge back to base and. . .” he trailed off, looking over Bulkhead’s shoulder and meeting his gaze, finally realizing he was here. “Starscream. I am glad to see that the damage to your frame wasn’t unmanageable.”

Yeah? You should’ve seen me before the medic got to me.

“You were saying something about invading the Nemesis?” Starscream cut to the chase, watching the engines of the ship slowly re-engage, “You’re beginning to lose your window of opportunity.”

Optimus dipped his helm. “Right. Bulkhead and I will bridge onto one of the tertiary wings of the ship, while the rest of the team returns to—”

“You wouldn’t mind if I joined you for this little trip, would you?”

Why did I say that? He immediately wondered, and it seemed that most others present were thinking the same thing. Arcee in particular flared her plating as though he’d insulted her carrier.

“Oh, how convenient,” she exclaimed, servos hovering over her pistols, “Why don’t we just hand-deliver you back to your base! Let's make it real easy for you turn us in and curry favor with your—”

“Arcee,” Optimus attempted to placate, briefly resting a servo on her shoulder. “I would like to hear him out on the matter.” He then tilted his helm towards Starscream. “This is not a mission fit for a large party. What reason do you have for wishing to join?”

The time for negotiations, he supposed. The reason he wanted onto the Nemesis. . . perhaps he just wanted to see what had become of the place. Maybe pick up a few spontaneously abandoned keepsakes from his old hab, if the thing hadn’t been torn floor-to-ceiling by now. But those very selfless reasons wouldn’t win him any favors, so. . .

“I have extensive knowledge on the security measures of the Nemesis, and Soundwave can change as many passwords and patrol schedules as he’d like, but he can’t change the infrastructure,” Starscream simpered, leaning towards Optimus. “I can get you in and out of there far quicker than if you’d gone in blind, and I can even hazard a few guesses as to where they’re holding the generator.”

The Prime’s face had taken on a calculating look, and Starscream knew he’d won. Arcee and Bulkhead must’ve noticed too, because they both grimaced as though they’d swallowed a live cobalt finch. Bumblebee didn’t seem too plussed though.

“You pose a good argument, Starscream. You may accompany us onto the ship. Arcee and Bumblebee, please return to base and check in with Ratchet.” He turned towards the mecha in question. Arcee was practically shaking with rage, but she made no further comment as she stalked back towards the groundbridge, a worried-looking scout trailing after her.

Once the bridge collapsed itself, Optimus turned back to the remaining Autobots. “Firstly, Starscream, I would like to hear your insight as to where we should begin. Namely, the cardinal direction and deck level you believe the technology is being stored.”

Starscream couldn’t help the sly smile from curling over his lips. Primus, is this what being useful felt like? How novel.

“Well Prime, the first thing you have to consider is the height of the floors. . .”

Chapter Text

Oh Primus, why are we doing it like this?

Clinging to the edge of a moving warship was not Starscream’s idea of a proper infiltration, but hindsight told him that he shouldn’t have expected a couple of grounders to have done this much differently. Perhaps a few jetpacks could help them maintain, at the very least, airspace parity—but that was besides the point. The point was that the Autobots had somehow conceived of an activity that made a seeker afraid of heights, and he made a very important mental note to have a conversation with the Prime about his high-altitude infiltration strategies. Maybe when his helm was spinning a bit less.

“Prime,” he shouted—and they had to shout in order to speak over the wind shear, as active comms would attract Soundwave’s attention quicker than an active bomb. It made this situation way more fun. Honestly. “When we get to the body of the ship, tear open a section of the hull—the proximity alerts shouldn’t go off, this particular section of the security network has been offline since we—er, the Decepticons arrived on Earth.” One off step and his legs almost gave out on him, and he hissed as he dug his claws into the ship’s wing. What was it that medic said about a concussion. . . ?

Bulkhead burned him a look over his shoulder, optics narrow. “‘We,’ huh? A real vote of confidence for your loyalty, Screamer.”

Starscream scowled. Of course he picked up on that, in spite of him having to shriek his vocalizer out to get his attention just minutes earlier. What a team player.

“You try living the majority of your life serving under a faction and see what you start calling yourself, wrecker,” Starscream snapped, returning the glare all the same. “How many members of that incorrigible terrorist organization are left, anyway? Last time I checked, the Decepticons poach their members just as often as they—”

“Don’t talk about slag you don’t understand, seeker,” Bulkhead growled, as threateningly as he could manage while being buffeted by one-hundred mile-per-hour winds, “Haven’t exactly seen many of those around recently, I wonder—”

Starscream swiped his claws at the smug mech’s faceplate with a snarl, and the action finally caught the attention of their leader, who was taking the lead crawling up to the ship proper. “Enough,” he ordered, optics flashing. “Now is not the time for petty arguing. The fate of Cybertron itself is at stake.”

Starscream and Bulkhead, both chastised, quickly slinked away from one another. Starscream settled for staring at the back of the mech’s helm, seething.

The Prime’s lucky I’m in such a forgiving mood right now, he thought, continuing to claw his way up the rough, unkept metal, and that wrecker is lucky he didn’t get to finish that statement. If he were to bring up my trine. . . well, not even the Prime himself could stop me from sending that truck back to the ground where he belongs.

Blinking harshly, Starscream willed the less-than pleasant thoughts from his mind and focused on the task at hand, and willed the dizziness to go with it. They were reaching the body of the Nemesis, and Optimus waved them forward, almost pointedly keeping his own frame between Starscream and Bulkhead. Starscream had the oddest impression of being treated like a sparkling.

“Cut along here?” Optimus asked, dragging his digits across one of the metal seams and looking to Starscream for confirmation.

Starscream bowed his helm. “Right. Once past the major exterior plating, you have to push through a bit of internal circuitry, then lastly through the internal plating. We should be adjacent to a storage sector, so there shouldn’t be much to tear through,”

Optimus nodded and transformed his servo into an energon blade, and motioned for Bulkhead to do the same, though Starscream personally chose to stick with his claws. The group hacked away at the dull purple metal until solid alloy collapsed into a mess of pipes and wires.

“Ugh,” Bulkhead groaned, shoving his face into the mech-wide gap they’d managed to tear open, “You really had to pick the most annoying spot to crawl through, huh?”

“Oh you could just complain about anything, couldn’t you?” Starscream scoffed, shoving a path of tangled cables, “What are you, a soldier or a newspark?”

“‘More a soldier than you’ll ever be,” Bulkhead muttered, roughly denting a particularly stubborn pipe in his way.

Optimus only sighed from behind them. Starscream felt bad for him for all of five kliks before quickly getting over it. At least he could order his lot to shut their mouths; Starscream was no longer afforded such luxuries.

A few long, torturous minutes later and they’d reached the inner plating of the Nemesis. Starscream gave hardly a chirp of warning before cleaving through to metal like aluminum, eager to free his wings of the wires attacking them.

Kicking away the walls revealed first a startled group of vehicons, then the very familiar power generator in the process of being plugged into the floor.

Well, would you look at that. You got it in one, Starscream.

There were a few stunned seconds of stillness from both parties, before violence broke out.

The vehicons managed a few poor shots in their direction before Bulkhead pushed past him and clobbered one right in the helm, nearly tearing it off in the process. Optimus pulled out his pistols and shot after him, dispatching a good few of them with stunning efficiency, and Starscream took the chance to dart past them into the room proper, sinking his claws into the drones near the back who were reaching for their comms.

It was all over remarkably quick, but Starscream supposed that vehicons weren’t exactly known for their abilities in battle, hardly even sufficient for mining as they were.

Maybe this is why we’d made so little progress on Earth, Starscream mused, pulling his slick digits from the cooling internals of yet another drone, wasting all our resources on canned soldiers who aren’t even good at being soldiers.

Starscream should start a ‘really, what was Megatron thinking?’ list, but it would likely become larger than his own criminal record.

Once all was said and done, there were half a dozen vehicon frames littering the floor, and the faint sound of yelling ringing out in the silence.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to recognize that the sound was not even near the room he was in, and it took even longer to convince himself that fact made him feel better.

It nearly gave Starscream a spark attack, and his processor may or may not have finally caught up to the fact that he was back on the Nemesis with Megatron on board, and that means of escape were limited—well, limited if the Autobots happen to decide to leave him here. Which was always a possibility.

But it was strikingly obvious to him now, listening to yet another screaming fit of Megatron’s a few halls down. Starscream grimaced and held his wings tight as he waited for the Prime’s next order.

Soon enough, his troubled mind was busied with tugging at the wires—gently, because Optimus insisted they not break the fleshies’ brand new generator (even if doing so would make their lives much easier), all while listening to distant banging, more yelling, and eventually a familiar effeminate squeak, followed by further yelling. Starscream winced.

Ah, it would be Knockout, wouldn’t it? The mech never did know when to keep his intake shut. . . I wonder what he did to slag Megatron off.

He stared hard at the plugs in an attempt to ignore the Prime watching him like a hawk. None of his business, in Starscream’s very humble opinion.

Honestly, it did surprise him to find Knockout being punished for one reason or another. He’d always assumed that Knockout was more or less immune to Megatron’s rages, if only because he was the sole mech aboard capable of putting Megatron’s sorry aft back together after his horrible plans inevitably went awry, but Starscream supposed that Megatron even realizing that fact would require him to think, and the chances of that happening were dropping exponentially by the day.

Starscream briefly envisioned that prissy sports car whining over his ruined paint and felt a rush of bitter satisfaction for a moment, but once it was over he was left feeling little more than hollow.

No matter. The generator was now packed away, and Starscream could ignore this blip in time and get on with whatever their next step was. Bulkhead was already hauling the thing over his shoulder.

“Thank you both,” Optimus said, looking over the machine with calculating optics before scanning the room. “Taking the power source back to base is our first priority. Bulkhead, I ask that you bridge back to base and secure the technology.”

Bulkhead’s expression became pinched as he shifted his weight. “Uhh. . . just me, Prime?”

Optimus shook his helm, “No, Starscream will leave with you, but I will be staying behind. There is something here I have yet to take care of.”

Huh?

Starscream fluffed his plating, nearly insulted. Did the Prime usually make stupid on-the-spot plan changes like these? He didn’t have enough of a frame of reference to be able to tell.

Bulkhead looked just as confused as he felt, with his intake open to retort, but Starscream beat him to it.

“You’ll what?” he barked, practically incensed, wings twitching behind him. “Care to be a bit more vague, would you? What in the world could you need to do on this ship alone?”

Before Optimus answered, the bright emerald glow of a groundbridge filled the room, and instead gestured towards it.

“Bulkhead,” Optimus continued, completely ignoring Starscream in the process, “once you arrive on base, assist Ratchet with inspecting the generator for tampering or other defects from its time in Decepticon custody, then inform agent Fowler of its retrieval.”

Bulkhead shuffled his peds nervously and glanced between Starscream and Optimus, then the groundbridge behind him. Starscream took a page out of the Prime’s book and ignored him in favor of striding towards his delusional leader.

“I understand why he has to leave,” Starscream hissed, flicking his talons in the wrecker’s direction, “but what does that have to do with me?” Despite his second-best efforts, his wings flared high on his back and he glowered at Optimus. Before the mech could respond, he barreled on. “And you still haven’t explained just what you plan on doing up here all by yourself—besides dying by a vehicon firing squad, I mean.”

From behind them, Bulkhead blinked at the budding spat and promptly retreated into the groundbridge.

“The reason I have not yet explained my intentions,” Optimus began slowly, gaze shifting from the disintegrating groundbridge back to his audience proper, “is not only due to the time constraint, but because my plan is one that others would have no involvement in. It would be unnecessary.”

Starscream’s intake hung open for a long moment as he groped for a response, rendered speechless by the deluge of nonsense escaping the Prime’s vocalizer.

He finally decided on, “How can that possibly make sense to you?” The words practically burst from his throat. “Isn’t your whole ‘bit’ to do with friendship and teamwork and all that disgusting gooey scrap—impromptu solo excursions into the heart of enemy territory isn’t very team-y of you.”

As Starscream turned away to pace, Optimus stayed completely still, expression shadowing just barely. “That is not the point,” he rumbled, helm tilted downwards as his finials canted. “There is something I have come to realize, Starscream—something you yourself has shown me first and foremost. I simply cannot continue to let this—let Megatron, go on for even a single moment longer.” The Prime’s burning optics caught his own once more, and Starscream stilled in spite of himself.

“Therefore,” Optimus continued gravely, “I intend to end this now. Megatron is on this ship and so am I. There is not a single reason for delay.”

Starscream only stared at him.

. . .Wonderful. I’ve traded one delusional neurotic for another.

“Now,” Optimus sighed, “Since I have given you an explanation, would you please—”

“Not a chance in the pit, Prime!” Starscream would’ve shrieked if not for the ship they were currently invading. “Have you lost your processor, or just your logic center?” he sneered, “You’re going to—what? Bring him to task on his own warship in front of all of his officers? Challenge him to an honorable duel and take him somewhere else to kill him?” Starscream swung around and swept his arms across the bloody, flickering room. “How has that worked out for you up until this point?” he scoffed, “Don’t tell me you were merely holding back all the other times you tried rending Megatron’s spark from his frame.”

The manner in which Optimus bowed his helm and glanced away nearly brought him to a conniption.

That’s it. It's all so clear now. I am the only sane mech who has ever existed. May Primus have mercy on my forsaken spark.

“Are you implying that I am weaker than Megatron?” he deflected. Poorly.

“No,” Starscream shot back, “But you are not stronger than him, either.” He leaned back and rolled his optics. “Especially now that he’s hopped up on the ‘Blood of Unicron’ or whatever he’s putting in his fuel now. You’ll be flattened before you can say ‘till all are one.’” Starscream’s face twisted in disgust as he recalled the strange, tampered weapons used against him just a short few hours ago. The sickly electrostatic still stuck to the back of his intake like tainted fuel—and that’s exactly what dark energon was, he supposed.

A weariness settled atop the Prime over the course of Starscream’s little speech, and it never escaped his focus how tired the mech looked at just about every turn. “I can only assume you mean to imply you wish to accompany me on my mission.”

Starscream snorted. “Only if you really do insist on following this moronic attack of conscience to its foregone conclusion, then yes. I would hate to have my shiny new leader die by martyring himself only a month or so after getting him.”

If the barbs held any effect on the Prime, he didn’t show it. Starscream didn’t know whether that meant he’d won or not.

“Besides,” he added quickly, a realization crossing over his mind in a split-second flash, “I would like to collect some of my belongings from my old hab. My departure from the Decepticons wasn’t exactly planned.”

Optimus blinked at the sudden topic switch, and Starscream really hoped he would be kind enough to let it slide—or kind enough to agree.

Eventually, the Prime nodded. “Very well. We can pass by your room while I finalize my course of action. I believe that Megatron and his soldiers are occupied at the moment, we should have the time and bandwidth.”

Humming, Starscream tilted to the side and started for the west-most doorway. “Right, thank you, of course. . .” He stopped. “We?”

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Starscream snarled as he pried his old hab door open, working his claws between the joints of the panel lock with practiced ease. The stale air of the room hit him slowly, and as he got the door completely unhinged, his full vantage point looking over the room told him there wasn’t a single item out of place. Everything was exactly as he’d left it, that short eternity ago. The subpar sheets on his berth were still slightly rumpled, his mine report datapads were still strewn about the room, and the paint scuffs of the far wall he’d been meaning to buff out for a few vorns now were still marring the plain metal.

It would’ve been less suspicious if all of his belongings had been burnt to ash. He had to wonder if Soundwave was still doing his job anymore—this room should’ve been ransacked the second he was confirmed a turncoat. Like, a real one this time, not just an assassin on a losing streak.

Optics narrow and wings tight, Starscream stalked into his—the room with a bitter scowl etched onto his face. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that the Prime had apparently decided to situate himself outside the doorway, gaze held firmly down the hall. He was nearly surprised that he respected him enough to let him gather his things in peace.

Starscream allowed himself one more glance over the dim, silent room before immediately dragging his berth across the floor and tearing open the seam between the corner panels behind it. He wasn’t that sentimental. This place was more of a fancy cell to fake recharge in than anything else. He held no love for it.

The plate gave way relatively easily after a few tugs, and Starscream wasted no time shoveling hoarded crates of energon cubes into his subspace.

I did not realize I had this many. 

Starscream blinked as he swiped away the last of the cubes from the very back of the cache, grimacing as the whole of them sprawled out over the floor while his subspace had already pinged him as half full.

No, he had not gone overboard with his little collecting hobby. He insisted as such to himself as he shoved the not-inconsiderable rest of the cubes over to Optimus to carry. The look on the mech’s face was nearly entertaining enough to be worth never getting that hard-stolen fuel back. Besides, he needed room kept for the rest of his more. . . personal belongings.

Contrary to what one might assume, he was not very keen on doing so. Gathering them meant looking at them, after all, and there was a good reason he hid them away besides keeping them from prying servos.

Sighing softly, Starscream half-heartedly pushed the berth back where it was before, then stumbled his way towards the closet. As he pushed open the closet door, he was greeted by a whole lot more abandoned stacks of datapads along with spare lab equipment he hadn’t had it in himself to throw away. He shoved passed the mess and tore open another secret compartment tucked away in the back of the closet. He pulled open the second barrier, pressed the flats of his claws against the field lock, and snapped the final wires needed to open the tiny safe.

There weren’t many things Starscream held dear. He couldn’t afford those kinds of physical weaknesses, but there were some memories he just couldn’t bring himself to be rid of.

First, he pulled out a neatly folded bundle of cloth, along with the metal ornament laid atop it; a deep magenta cape with beautifully embossed crystals and spires, and a tall three-tined diadem to match, solid gold, ruby-studded, and engraved with the emblems of Vos. Adornments for the ruler of a dead city. He’d loved the decorations once, but seeing them now only ever made him sick. He quickly buried the clothes beneath the cubes.

Reaching back blindly into the safe, Starscream scooped the rest of the contents out into the faint light of the closet. The sharp, glittering object he picked up confused him at first, but turning it over in his servos jogged his memory with all the pleasantry of a high-speed shuttle train crash.

Starscream quickly thrust the mineral into his subspace just the same as the clothes, but he didn’t have the spark not to be gentle with it. The sample they’d taken of the odd opalescent material was the only one they could find on that ocean planet, and it was far too beautiful to subject to any breakaway tests; he had insisted it be a gift—

He ignored the freezing draft and grabbed the last two items, trying his best not to look directly at them, not that it helped. Red on sky blue and purple on cool black, plaques he’d commissioned after they—after. The things had never been taken out of the packaging they’d come in, and he never intended to look at them beyond the cycle he hid them away. Seeing them now, briefly as it were, sent blurs of color screaming at the edges of his vision.

Good thing he was done here, then. Perhaps they’d leave him alone after a little time and a change of scenery.

Probably not, though. The memorial plates were heavy.

Starscream quickly extracted himself from the suffocating closet—or as quickly as he could manage, his knee had decided to act up again—and returned to the Prime’s side, expression carefully blanked and emotions comfortably numbed. Well-timed too, because Optimus looked busy fighting his own demons at the moment. At least, up until the second he noticed Starscream walking towards him.

“Starscream,” he started, in a tone which suggested that what he was about to say was going to annoy him greatly, “I understand what you have expressed to me previously, but I believe it would be in your best interest to return to base, now that you have retrieved your belongings.”

Starscream pretended to consider the offer for half a second. The Prime’s horribly sad optics were not as hidden as the mech himself must think they were.

“No.”

“No?” Optimus repeated, voice strangely toneless.

“That is what I just said,” he rebuffed easily. The purple blur laughed in his audial. The blue one sighed. “Are you going to turn that suggestion into an order?”

The corners of Optimus’ optics turned up, just barely. “If I did make it an order, would you listen?”

“I think you already know the answer to that question,” he hummed, trying to shift his weight off of his bad leg as covertly as possible, “My reputation precedes me.” If the Prime decided to beat him for his insolence now, at least the current location would be thematically appropriate.

But Optimus did not beat him. He only sighed. “If that is the case, then I only ask that you leave my battles to me. You may. . . observe, or whatever it is you wish to do, but this is my fight to end.”

How dramatic. He’d always assumed that he and Megatron had a history beyond merely punching each other’s lights out for however long they’d been faction leaders—for however insane Megatron’s ravings got, Starscream didn't think he’d made up a whole backstory of Optimus’ to obsess over—but he never thought Optimus had taken it nearly as hard as Megatron did. Maybe he was just better at shutting up about it.

“Don’t worry, Prime,” Starscream assured, “A rematch with that lunatic is a bit low on my list of priorities, at least until my current injuries clear up. Megatron is all yours.”

Optimus shuttered his optics for a long second, before he straightened up and walked away from the wall.

“Okay,” he acquiesced, looking back down the hall. “Then we will waste no more time.” Without any further explanation, Optimus started down the length of the darkened hallway. Starscream wondered if he ever got sick of being a cryptic mess.

“Elaborate,” Starscream stalked behind the mech like a particularly pointy shadow.

“Megatron must know that I am here and willing to fight him,” Optimus answered simply, as though what he’d just said was elucidating in the slightest.

“Do you plan on shouting that from the ship’s helm and hoping it reaches his malfunctioning audials?” Starscream huffed.

“Something like that.”

Starscream watched distantly as Optimus then interrupted the next vehicon patrol they could find, tore its comm unit off of its empty frame, and proceeded to call Megatron directly through it.

Well. That was one way to do it.

The whole scene was about as surprising as Megatron responding to that—frankly insane—action by using the Nemesis’ intercom system to forbid anyone besides him from touching the Prime before ordering Soundwave to bridge the mech to his exact location.

Starscream, briefly, attempted to put himself in Soundwave’s peds for a moment, and consider how he would feel if he had been, oh who knows, filing supply allocations or something before having this happen to him. He came to the conclusion that Soundwave was likely planning self-stasis via cryo pod by this point. The thought brought a brief smile to his face.

The Prime’s glowing green chauffeur appeared in front of them before Starscream could recover from his brand new case of whiplash, and Optimus gave him a meaningful glance before disappearing into the electric haze. It would’ve been nice if he knew what that meaning was.

Backing up into nothing, the oppressive atmosphere of the Nemesis sank into his struts, without the blocky frame of a convoy to deflect the worst of it.

Time’s up. 

Starscream needed to get out of this flying deathtrap. There wasn’t a chance in the pit that the mecha and drones aboard didn’t know he was here at this point, and there was even less of a chance that the enemy fire restrictions extended to himself.

Well, the only good thing about being ostensibly discovered was that he needn’t hide his signal any longer.

The distinctive march of vehicon steps approached from both ends of the narrowing hallway as Starscream opened Ratchet’s comm.

“You wouldn’t to have a read on the Prime’s current location, would you?”

Chapter Text

Starscream’s frame rattled violently as he left the groundbridge, and he checked his signal veils for what had to be the twelfth time in as many minutes. His vents immediately tried rejecting the sticky purple smog as soon as they were able to process the sheer filth now invading them, and his alt’s visual and proximal sensors felt similar. Earth’s atmosphere was always some level of disgusting, but the normal ambient debris usually weren’t so caustic. It took him far too long to realize the source.

Plumes of dark energon mixed with dark rocky ash spilled from the mouth of a tainted volcano, cloying the air and charging the low-lying clouds with arcs of purple electricity. Starscream would be lucky if he returned to Autobot base with nothing worse than ruined vent filters and singed plating.

And gazing upon the feverish expression of Megatron as he looked at the stoic form of Optimus like he was a particularly decadent energon treat, he couldn’t say he had much higher hopes for his new leader, either.

Well, Starscream thought, sighing as he finished a circuit around the impromptu battlefield, I did warn him. What else is a simple footsoldier to do?

Watch, apparently.

From his shifting vantage point above the smoggy cloudline, he could just about make out the two mechs’ tense, not-quite conversation through the snarl of lip-plates and he barest echo of words against the wind, before the leaders all-too suddenly launched themselves at each other, literally (but certainly not figuratively) meeting in the middle for a proper round of fisticuffs.

Starscream had expected to feel more. . . well, more while watching what might just be, if all went well, his old master’s last living moments upon this plane of existence. For all the Prime’s lovely platitudes and sparkfelt promises, he couldn’t bring himself to consider Megatron’s death as a real, genuine possibility. He couldn’t even picture it. Starscream’s entire life had been a series of misfortunate instances involving Megatron surviving any and all encounters with certain death as easily as transforming. It was as though he were allergic to Primus himself—or the other way around, with that cursed drug now flowing through his lines.

He’d love to trust the Prime’s judgment, but he didn’t, and he couldn’t. He’d believe it when he saw Megatron’s smoldering corpse dull and gray and staked to the wall with a spear through the spark. Even then, he’d be skeptical.

But of course, that was all besides the point. The battle would go on regardless, the obvious forgone conclusion of the fight notwithstanding, and Starscream—for some very strange, likely self-destructive reason—had elected himself to keep a lookout and perhaps scrape the red-and-blue remnants of the Prime off the ground if it so came to that.

‘Starscream, you better start answering my pings right this second before I brick your mapping gyros and make you fly upside down!’

Oh right, and Ratchet had demanded he give updates on Optimus’ condition about every two kliks, which was very nice of him and not at all unreasonable.

Also, he was at least eighty-five percent sure that bricking his mapping gyros remotely was impossible. Less sure that the medic was wholly bluffing.

“They’re just punching each other,” Starscream sighed, eyeing the two massive mechs grappling on the dusty earth below. “That’s all they ever do, now that I think about it. Maybe if one of them got a bit more creative the war would be over by now.”

‘Thanks, real helpful,’ Ratchet groused, ‘Who’s winning?’

Focusing his attention downward, Starscream attempted to parse the flashing mess of armor and blaster shots. Through it all he could barely make out who was who, let alone what they were doing, so he dropped a few meters, secretly grateful for the mass of filthy ash hiding his presence. 

It was close close-combat, with Optimus alternating between trading punches and using his energon pistol to whittle away at Megatron’s constitution, all with an air of staggering forward-mindedness. Megatron, for his part, kept his pace, but the dark energon was making his movements clumsy and erratic, and the cannon on his arm, though powerful, was unwieldy against the rapid blows of his opponent. For every hit Megatron landed, the Prime landed two more. He was making ground.

And Starscream could hardly believe his optics.

‘Starscream I swear to Primus if you do not open your trap and answer m—’

“Optimus is.”

Unbelievable.

He heard Ratchet spew some colorful curses under his breath for a moment—an odd reaction, he thought, to learning that your side was winning, but Starscream supposed that not a single thing in this awful universe could please that old wretch—before continuing.

‘Okay—any visible injuries?’

“Doctor,” Starscream groaned, “I know you have little-to-no visual on this situation, but you must understand that I can barely make out their limbs, let alone whatever scrapes the Prime might’ve sustained.”

Ratchet hissed and did some rapid, angry typing across the line, and Starscream would’ve rolled his optics if he could’ve. 

“I know you’re prone to fits of hysterics for relatively small reasons, but I honestly cannot conceive as to the reason you are slagged off this time.” The heated updrafts picked up and he spun sharply left, trying to ignore the prickling of his under-wing sensors. “Mind giving me a clue?”

‘The concentration of ambient dark energon at your location is appalling!’ Ratchet finally snapped, ‘Just in-venting too much of that slag will poison you—I don’t want him getting any of it in his lines.’

Just as he said that, Starscream watched Megatron finally land a proper hit; a short cannon blast to the left shoulder and a battering with the end of it just after, ringing out with a sharp bang. It wasn’t too hard to see the bright electric cyan leaking from the resulting crack in Optimus’ armor. It didn’t seem to slow the mech down, at least.

“I’m afraid that ship has already sailed,” Starscream informed Ratchet, who he was convinced was halfway towards a popped neck line. “It was an inevitability, I’m sure. If the dark energon from that blasted volcano didn’t get at him, the saturation of it in Megatron’s weapons certainly will.”

‘His what?!’ Ratchet shouted, and Starscream grimaced for the poor state of his audials. ‘Dark energon in his weapons—the ones connected to his frame? How in the name of Primus is that even possible?’

“Haven’t I told you?” Starscream grit out, spinning away from another gust of stinging, hot winds, running his thrusters ragged trying to avoid them while fighting to keep visual on the ground below. “He’s been eating the slag like candy ever since he came back from dead space with it. Considering the way he’s been looking and acting recently, I wouldn’t be surprised if he ran on the damned stuff now.”

‘By the fraggin’ Allspark,’ Ratchet hissed lowly, typing away at that terminal of his. ‘Alright, I’m cutting the line. Make sure Optimus makes it out of that pit alive—and answer me when I ping you while you’re at it!’ True to his word, the comm line went dead immediately afterward, leaving no room for rebuttal.

Thanks a lot Doc. I’ll get right on answering your lovely messages while I’m fighting for my life up here. No one ever seemed to understand how difficult it was to multitask while doing anything more complicated than flying in a straight line. Whatever the volcano was doing was causing the surrounding air currents to churn wildly around him and it took nearly every ounce of focus he had to prevent himself from falling into a death spiral. The remainder of that focus was being used to watch what he was supposed to be watching, not that it was terribly interesting.

Optimus was, miraculously, still gaining on Megatron, landing blow after blow and shot after shot on his dense frame before ducking away from a sloppily-poised hook to the cheek. It seemed that with every rumble and sputter of the unholy, sickly volcano Megatron lost himself, shaking his helm and nearly stumbling over his peds at points. Starscream had known him for so long he’d lost count of the vorns, but never once has he seen him stagger like a drunkard as such.

Starscream nearly laughed. How funny would it be, after all this time and effort to take him down, if Megatron keeled over and succumbed to his own self-poisoning efforts? Almost funny enough to excuse not being able to have a hand in his death.

Despite Megatron’s poor form, the battle only became more violent from there. What the tyrant now lacked in coordination was made up for in sheer animalistic ferocity. Formless strikes held less tactic but were made harder to predict in turn, and he certainly held nothing back in terms of strength. The few blows that did land were large and dripping crystal blue, leaving a wet pockmarked trail from where Optimus was slowly but surely driving Megatron towards the cliff edge. 

Starscream banked towards the drop for a better view, but was suddenly thrown off-kilter by jets of burning steam ejected from the depths of the Earth. A deep, thunderous roar shook the sky soon after, and he looked around for whatever nightmare of a weather pattern had produced it before a realization struck his chassis like the purple lightning buzzing against his armor.

That noise wasn’t from the atmosphere—it was from under the ground. The volcano was groaning and sparking dangerously, sending tremors through earth and air alike and cracking open the stone around it, revealing a wretched purple light from below. Dread pooled in Starscream’s tanks, and he glanced back down at the fighting mecha below. 

We can’t say here, he though, almost deliriously as he watched Optimus take Megatron to the ground and raise a glistening energon blade above his helm, the formation of this thing wasn’t the end, it was the beginni—

Starscream felt the searing heat before he saw the explosion, but it was a close thing. White static glazed his sight and filled his audials, senses melded together and practically disabled. His sensors burned hot enough to boil for just a moment, but after fizzling back online he was hit with the sensation of thousands of miniscule pebbles of glass slamming into his plating at breakneck speeds. 

A moment after that, and his gyroscopes came online just quick enough to tell him he was dropping out of the sky. 

Starscream banked up in the sharpest angle he could manage, hissing through the pain of pushing his thrusters that hard. Organic dust was starting to melt and stick to their rims, and he would’ve purged if not for the circumstances and current lack of an intake. Once he wasn’t at risk of crashing for the second time that day, his visuals managed to fade back in, and it was then he realized the scope of what he was now looking at.

The debris piercing his armor weren’t shards of volcanic glass, they were shards of pure dark energon.

Oh, now he really wanted to purge.

Starscream snarled and pulled a quick roll, trying in vain to dislodge the slag from between his seams, but only succeeded in agitating the mess floating around him. Disgusting. Ratchet better have a decontamination chamber stashed away in that fragging base, because he was going to need it.

And speaking of Ratchet—he had more than a few missed pings from him.

‘The seismologic graphs I’m getting from the area are getting worse by the second, tell Optimus that I’m telling him to retreat. He’s not answering my pings or comm requests.’

Then one minute later. . .

‘Oh I bet you’re not even reading these either. I work with a whole fragging team full of half-witted ingrates.’

Then two minutes. . .

‘Starscream I am not joking, and I’m not afraid to comm you again. You’ve got ten kliks.’

Any potential following pings or comm requests that Ratchet may have sent were corrupted by the eruption and the following aerial debris blocking incoming and outgoing signals.

I guess Ratchet was right about that, Starscream mused, gaze held downwards towards a ground he could hardly see, I did only have ten kliks.

A massive explosion of dark energon likely wasn’t the ultimatum the medic was thinking of, though.

Ignoring the growing aching in his frame—something he was becoming quite accustomed to—Starscream scanned the earth below him near-frantically, cautioning a drop in altitude just so he could tell up from down again. The haze of dust had become far too thick for anything less, and he’d been growing worried since being unable to hear the sounds of the scuffle any longer. Hopefully Optimus was merely passed out somewhere and Megatron had fallen off the face of the earth into a vat of acid.

Of course, as had been previously established between a very many instances, Starscream had no such luck, not of any kind whatsoever.

The distinctive sound of a mech hitting the ground rang faintly in his audials, and Starscream pivoted in his path to fly right towards it. He didn’t even bother with any stealth tactics; if a seeker’s optics could hardly break through the miasma, then a grounder’s wouldn’t make a dent.

Another metallic slam, closer this time, followed by a low cracking sound that set him on edge. Incomparable to how he felt when he heard the cackling, megalomaniacal laugh of Megatron cut through air.

Not dead in a ditch. Not even unconscious.

Starscream doubled back in a wide arc just in time to make out the figure of the Decepticon leader, laid supine beneath the Prime, tearing off the energon blade being held to his neck and just as suddenly turning it back to bury it into the collar of the mech pinning him, missing neck cables by an inch. While Optimus reeled from the blow, Megatron took the opportunity to slam his peds into his abdomen, before then grabbing him by the forearms and throwing him across the rocky plain.

The eruption had clearly changed something within Megatron. His movements no longer lagged through his frame; they landed with needle-like precision and struck with the force of a mech twice his size. Even more disturbing was the look in his optics, heady with a violence both strangely alien and deeply familiar.

Unease wound itself around Starscream’s spark. He could only recall what his old lord had once said about those strange purple crystals being ‘the blood of Unicron.’ He’d dismissed the notion outright as nothing but myth, perhaps a delusion borne of carrying around chunks of crystalline radioactive intoxicants, but now. . .

Whatever the dark energon was doing to Megatron, it was no longer limited to energy boosts and fits of mania.

Starscream pulled another tight, wobbly loop around the battleground, shoving down the growing pit in his tanks. The Prime tore the broken blade out of his protoform, cutting his palm open in the process, and threw it to the side before reaching for his spare blaster, but he wasn’t quick enough. Megatron had crossed the distance between them with near-unnatural speeds, slamming one ped down on Optimus’ shattered glass chestplates and the other on the offending servo.

Megatron’s optics flickered as he leveled the barrel of his fusion cannon with the Prime’s helm.

Primus I hate it here, Starscream thought, taking in a shaky, ash-filled vent as he dropped altitude.

Megatron kept talking. He always did like running his mouth.

I hate being an Autobot too, he complained to no one, un-docking his missiles as the dive fell steeper, I wouldn’t have to do this slag if I played neutral.

Optimus’ frame tensed as he struggled weakly, before going slack. His dull lenses slid just past Megatron’s shoulder.

Well, he amended, aiming for the spark, at least I’m allowed to shoot him now.

The missiles locked on to their target perfectly, at such short range. He hoped the Prime had it in him to take a few more explosions.

Release, half a klik, and—

A dead-on hit, and Megatron roared as his backplates were torn open by sparked kerosene and shrapnel. Starscream swerved around him, staying just outside of the blast radius.

Face twisted in rage, Megatron swung around from his perch on Optimus’ chassis, waving his cannon around wildly as he searched for the source of the blow. The pit in his tank grew as he realized he wouldn’t be able to escape his sights in time. The bright trails of fire from his jets were like beacons in the dark fog.

Megatron tracked Starscream’s path around the bloody plateau of rock, raving snarl falling blank as he realized just who had come to the Prime’s rescue. Then, a wide, cruel grin spread across his face and he laughed, low and garish and it was not a kind sound in the slightest.

Starscream’s vents shook. He prepared more missiles.

“Oh, I see,” Megatron boomed, loud enough to be heard over the cutting wind and the energon rushing in his audials. “Why it seems, my dear second, that you just can’t keep away.”

It made him sick, how he couldn’t tell if Megatron liked that or not.

“Do you want to know what I find strange, Starscream?” he continued, removing himself from atop Optimus’ frame and staring at the jet circling him like a vulture. “I cannot say I ever remember a time where you had defended me as fiercely as you now defend the Autobot leader.” Every word was strung out and lilted with an eerie false calm.

New missiles clicked into their holsters. He aimed their targeting systems without comment.

Megatron’s optics remained locked on Starscream’s ever-moving form. “I wonder,” he hummed, fusion cannon beginning to glow white hot, “for at which point you drop your facade of loyalty, and the Autobots see you for what you really are.”

Megatron’s frame tensed all-but imperceptibly as Starscream started his newest turn. 

The only good thing about that cannon was that it was impossible to miss.

The massive electrical bolt barreled towards him, deceptively quick for its size, as Megatron spun in his heels and aimed straight at him. Starscream twisted to the side, wingspan tilted well-near vertical to the ground. Armor-melting heat brushed his ventrals. 

Starscream returned fire as soon as he managed to stabilize, vocalizer kept resolutely silent. Talking never worked on him, so he wouldn’t bother.

It wasn’t as though he had any answers for the vindictive ramblings of a violence-craving lunatic.

Rapid, disorganized shots were traded on either side, both hindered by the endless rain of pyroclastic debris and ceaseless shaking of both earth and sky, aided by more than enough nerves. Megatron never uneased from his slow, nearly languid manner as he abandoned the fallen Prime completely in favor of attacking Starscream directly. A strut-deep shudder wracked his frame at the fervent determination in Megatron’s gaze.

You would think he cares more about hurting me than ending the war, for all he seems to care about killing the Prime now that he knows I’m here.

And perhaps he might. The thought inspired a hopeless sort of panic within him.

Starscream leveled a few more ineffective blaster shots to Megatron’s dense chassis, counting down the milliseconds before a new set of missiles were ready. Unfortunately for him and his chances of survival, they were the only armaments he had on his frame capable of putting even a dent on the mech.

He glanced at his HUD for a short moment, staring at the corrupted incoming pings, before in-venting and sending out a distress signal.

‘Error. Signal blocked by unknown obstructions. Please try again.’

Great.

Starscream sent another, more pointedly, and dove away from another cannon bolt. Megatron was still down there, saying. . . something, he couldn’t tell what. He wondered why Megatron refused to use his flying alt. A grounder at spark, likely. Or too stupid to use all of the tools at his disposal.

Or, he wasn’t concerned enough to give proper chase.

Regardless, if this battle was to turn out to be one of attrition, he was sure to fail. Starscream could already feel his reaction time lagging and his weapons losing heat. The endlessly accumulating injuries to his frame were finally catching up to him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d recharged, even.

At least, that would be his excuse, for why Megatron’s movements had escaped his attention so completely that he gained a new hole in his wing before he could even see the simple blaster bolt coming towards him.

Agony crawled through his wires as the shot seared his wing sensors and melted his plating, and the tenuous balance he was fighting to keep against the wind skewed heavily down. His view canted deeply left and when his thrusters sputtered, Starscream resolved to cut his losses and transformed into root mode, trying in vain to use his weakening jets to slow his fall. In all honesty, the wind probably did him more help in that regard, for all of the effort he was providing while every component in his frame attempted to give up on him at once. 

He landed in a messy crouch and something inside his bad knee cracked dangerously, pain lancing up his leg struts and making his spark ache.

That was. . . not good.

About as good as the look on Megatron’s face as he stalked towards the now-downed seeker.

Megatron didn’t bother with words this time, only giving a loud snarl full of teeth as he transformed away his fusion cannon in favor of a heavy fist. Starscream gave an embarrassing squeak as he struggled to lurch away from the attack, leg screaming in protest for every second he forced it to hold even the mildest portion of his weight. He resisted the urge to throw his arms up in front of his face as he might in any other time and place, when he couldn’t allow himself to fight back.

Because that was something he could do now. Fight back, that was.

Unfortunately, whether he would be successful in such an endeavor was up to Primus at this point, for whatever that was worth.

Starscream steeled his nerves and let his higher processes take a back seat. 

Still limping backwards, Starscream activated his thrusters and pushed himself as far away from Megatron as he was able with one less working wing to maneuver with and one less cooperating leg to stabilize on.

It wasn’t much farther away, but it was enough. Starscream threw his arms out and aimed his missiles once more.

Megatron strafed promptly, causing the first missile to miss completely and the second to barely clip his side, and the resulting explosion only teared at his chassis slightly. The mech himself hardly flinched, merely laughing lowly as he continued his march towards his prey.

Starscream’s good wing shuffled against his spinal strut and he pulled out his secondary laser pistol with trembling servos. He sent another useless distress signal.

‘Error. Signal blocked by unknown obstructions. Please try again.’

Thanks, he didn’t get that part the first few times.

Starscream sent a wayward shot into the gap between Megatron’s hip and chest armor, and was rewarded with an angry hiss and a lunge for his worthless little firearm.

Megatron managed to snag his wrist in a crushing grip, using his bodily momentum to drag Starscream towards himself and spin his frame around, throwing him to the ground.

He landed on his throbbing wing, and a static-filled gasp tore itself from his throat. The pistol fell from his grip easily.

A heavy ped landed hard on his chassis, and Megatron took his place looming over him, leaning ever more weight across his chestplates as he leered at his former second. Starscream scrabbled weakly at his leg, giving a brief thought considering why he even bothered trying.

“There was a time once when I respected you, Starscream,” he practically cooed, servo transformed back into his fusion cannon as he waved it almost leisurely as he spoke, “Maybe even tolerated your presence.”

He didn’t know why Megatron bothered either. Did monologuing make him feel better about being deranged and ultraviolent? Starscream shifted his focus to the sliding seams over Megatron’s ankle joint. Losing a claw was better than losing a spark.

“But unfortunately,” Megatron hissed, accentuated by a sharp shifting of weight and a painful strut-deep crack within him. Warmth leaked sluggishly from someplace beneath his chestplate.

“You have only proceeded to prove to me that you are nothing but a worthless coward.”

Ratchet’s not going to be happy about those welds being damaged. His optic shutters fluttered oddly as he moved his digits towards the gaps, shaking violently with the simple movement. Every vent he took rattled his frame, and he could only halfway blame it on pain.

 “Anything to say for yourself? Before I snuff your pathetic spark, that is.”

The barrel of the fusion cannon was sweltering, with the purple-tinged electricity shoved up so close to his faceplates. The color blended in with the burning purple optics staring him down.

Starscream forced himself to hold Megatron’s gaze and tried putting a proper smirk over his face. His claws twitched imperceptibly.

“Ah, well,” he rasped, spark throbbing in tandem with the growing fissure in his chest, “if you in—”

With a flick of his wrists, Starscream speared his trembling talons through the delicate circuitry of Megatron’s ankle joint. Hot energon gushed from the wound and sprayed across his prone frame.

“—sist.”

He grasped at the slick cables, twisted, and wrenched his talons back out of the wound.

Megatron howled, the sound so loud and resonant near his helm that his audials popped and staticked out for a few seconds. His ped slid heavily off of Starscream’s chassis and took a good few inches of metal with it, but at least he could vent again—even if the wet metallic taste filling his throat dampened the relief.

The warlord stumbled over himself, leg quaking as it struggled to hold his considerable weight, and his fusion cannon swung around to counter his balance, relievingly away from his face.

Just as Starscream took the opportunity to scramble away from Megatron while he was distracted, a distant spark of teal light caught the corner of his vision. Accompanying it was—which he had not noticed in lieu of being a bit busy for the past few minutes—were three HUD notifications.

‘SENT’ ‘SENT’ ‘SENT’

Ah. Well—

A fist slammed into the ground right beside his helm, and Starscream yelped and flung himself away from Megatron once more, audials intent on the sound of multiple sets of wheels hitting the hard ground behind him.

"Look who finally decided to show up," he muttered to himself, forcing himself to stand on his own ruined legs and aim a few more missiles towards the Decepticon leader as he backed away. A furious chorus of warnings screamed at him every time he took a step, and as soon as his latest barrage hit their mark square in the chassis—finally—he cautioned a glance over his shoulder.

The Autobot cavalry had, at last, made their way to he and the Prime’s location, and most seemed occupied with dragging said Prime towards their groundbridge. The rest were busy coughing up their vents as the ash-filled air clogged their systems.

None of them saw him yet. Likely, they couldn’t see through the smog.

Starscream hissed and spun fully around. “If one of you could stop being sick for a few minutes,” he shouted, praying to be heard over the howling wind, “I would appreciate a little help—”

A clawed servo wrapped around his throat and squeezed his neck cables like a vice, cutting his vocalizer off with a screech of painful static. He hadn't even the time to cry out before he was slammed face-first into the ground. A heavy knee buried itself hard into his spinal strut.

In lieu of words, Megatron let out a vicious snarl directly into his audial as he dragged Starscream’s chest up off the ground with striking ease, then slammed him into the ground once more. His processor rattled in his helm and noise buzzed thickly between scattered thoughts, and he would’ve screamed if not for the servo a twitch away from crushing his vocalizer into scrap metal.

Sticky energon coated his burning throat, and a terrible, primal fear tore at the edges of his awareness as the claws clutching him started slicing his neck cables open.

Starscream tried calling out again, but could only choke. His HUD was too flooded with warnings to even attempt to navigate.

They heard. They heard. They must’ve. I-I—

His thoughts stuttered over themselves as the unmistakable sound of a fusion cannon charging up cut through them. Strut-melting heat pressed against his backplates.

And the plaques in subspace were so, so heavy.

I can’t—this is—this can’t be how I—

All at once, the pressure on Starscream’s back ceased with a denta-rattling shriek of metal, and his gyros spun wildly at the sudden lack of weight.

Every single part of him screamed in protest, but he forced himself to turn around and look, though his vision flickered wildly.

The green—the wreck—Bulkhead was busy slamming his fists into the faceplate of the Decepticon leader, but his visual field hardly had time to level itself before he felt a servo grasp at his back, and Starscream spun around to claw at the presence before he had time to process himself doing so.

It had felt fast to him, but apparently his movements were slow enough for a white servo to catch his shoulder and hold him still.

“Stop moving,” Ratchet ordered, ignoring his weak struggles in favor of grabbing him firmly by the ridge behind his neck and using the other arm to lift him from under his knees, shakily muttered curses directed at Primus hitting his audials a few seconds too late to be natural.

Starscream had ceased being able to vent properly minutes ago, and being made to face upwards only made it worse. Whatever was causing his own energon to spill into his vent filters had yet to fix itself, and he might’ve felt bad about coughing it all up onto Ratchet’s front if he wasn’t still mad at him for all those annoying pings earlier.

Though he supposed, being mad required being conscious, and he could feel it slipping further and further away from him with every second passed. Endless green light ushered in the wall of darkness preceding complete unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

 “I am never letting you leave this base again.”

Starscream, who was pumped full of about as many painkillers a frame could take before going into stasis, nodded amicably as Ratchet paced around his medical berth like a shark. 

Raf told him about sharks once. Strange, scraplet-looking things, much like Ratchet himself on occasion. He didn’t much appreciate the idea of a creature that lived exclusively inside of liquid, but—

“Hello?” A digit tapped incessantly against the headboard he was leaning against. “Are you listening?”

Starscream blinked at him.

“Good. Now, I desperately need to impress upon you the sheer stupidity of the various actions you’ve taken throughout however many solar cycles have passed on this planet since your desert patrol with Bumblebee.”

“Two days and eight hours,” Optimus provided helpfully from the next berth over, of which Ratchet had decided to magnetize the Prime to in lieu of attempting to convince him to stay on his mandatory medical observation every ten minutes or so; whenever Optimus believed Ratchet might feel like changing his mind—which was, for the record, never. 

“You’re next, so be quiet,” Ratchet hissed, then turned back towards Starscream. “Take a quick guess as to how many struts in your frame were snapped in half, then add twelve, ” he stressed, waving a datapad in his face, on which he could vaguely make out a frame diagram on. “And that number doesn’t include all of the struts that were only almost broken, which would come out to about thirty-seven, give or take a few mechanisms so mangled I couldn’t tell if they were individual parts or not.” 

Ratchet proceeded to take a deep vent at the break in his rant, and Starscream realized mildly that this was going to take a while. He couldn’t even remember what they’d been fighting about.

“And that’s just the strut damage,” Ratchet seethed, looking more like he was arguing with the medical report in his servo than any one mech in particular, “If I were to name everything in your frame that had been impaired just this week, all I would have to do is read an itemized list of all the components in a seeker frame!”

Starscream gazed blearily at the raging doctor before turning to look at Optimus, who was still miraculously locked to his medical berth like some kind of fugitive and not the leader of all Autobots and the last of the Primes.

Said Prime gave him a sympathetic little smile and a shrug. Starscream took that as permission to completely zone out to whatever Ratchet was saying to him.

. . .

. . . . . .

An amazing idea. The best one he’d ever had. It was almost like a vacation—not that he’d had much experience with getting those in recent times. Closest he’d had lately were these stints in the medbay, which didn’t quite count, because Ratchet was always there making him miserable by assuring his speedy recovery. How horrible of him.

. . .Oh right. Ratchet.

“—And the worst part of it all,” Ratchet scoffed, throwing his servos into the air, “is that you’re not even listening to me! I swear, you're worse than Optimus at this point.”

The Prime glanced up from where he was attempting to pick the magnetic locks on his berth.

“Perhaps,” Starscream began slowly, once he was completely sure that Ratchet was done with his rambling, “I am having a hard time listening to you,” he waved a flippant, sluggish servo at the medic and his deeply incredulous face, “because I am very high right now.” He blinked. “On various substances.”

Ratchet blinked right back at him, wind visibly being taken out of his metaphorical sails.

“Right. ‘Various,’” Ratchet repeated, optics briefly roving across his frame. “Does the dark energon affect you in such a way?”

Starscream snorted. “Well, it certainly doesn’t make me more aware.” The bulk of these ‘effects’ only picked up after the liters of adrenaline keeping him halfway vertical during the whole volcano situation vacated his frame as soon as it was even slightly safe enough to do so, and the further liters of sensor-dampening fluids shot directly into his lines did not help.

He did feel a whole lot. . . well not better, per se, but certainly more relaxed. A lot less bothered by things like well-meaning medibot rants and almost dying by Megatron’s servos again.

“And while we’re on the subject,” Starscream continued, working very hard to keep ahold of the tenuous thread of conversation he was following, “When, approximately, will I be free of dark energon poisoning?” He gestured weakly at the various bright electric blue cables stabbed into a variety of his poor energon lines. By way of sheer experience, Starscream didn’t have it in him to be disturbed by the sight of his own energon moving outside his frame, but the needles skewering his mesh were far from comfortable, even with pain-blockers. “Your service has been splendid so far, but this berth setup is not what I would call the height of luxury, in my humble opinion.”

Instead of getting humorously angry at whatever he’d just said right then, Ratchet’s scowl morphed into a sharp grimace and he shifted his glare towards the medical report.

“That’s the thing,” Ratchet corrected, almost hesitantly, and Starscream noticed the tonal shift immediately. “The dark energon in your system. . . it has become resistant to filtering.” His optics roved over the medical report he was clutching. “At least, that’s the best description I’ve got for whatever it’s still doing in your lines.”

Starscream blanched, staring blankly at the medic with incredulity. “What does that mean?” he finally managed after a long moment of wracking his processor, to no avail.

“Well,” Ratchet stressed, seeming torn between worry and annoyance, as was usual for their interactions as a whole, “when I dragged you here and hooked your frame to an energon filter pump to start getting that slag out of your lines, at some point the pump stopped pulling out tainted energon, even though my tests show that there is still dark energon residue in your energon samples.”

Starscream’s optics widened to saucers. “You’re telling me that you can’t get all of it out?” He nearly gagged.

Ratchet scrubbed his face and glared at him. “You’re acting like I want it there! Trust me, the less dark energon in this base, the better.”

“Then get your machines fixed, doctor, because they don’t seem to be working properly,” he snapped back. Just the thought of that slag floating around in his frame much longer made him want to tear his own armor off.

“My ‘machines’ work just fine—they cleaned Optimus’ lines perfectly,” Ratchet retorted as he stalked away to aggressively poke at the controls on the intra-line energon pump. “It would be a whole hell of a lot easier to figure out what’s wrong with you if I had some kind of baseline to work off of, but I only learned that dark energon truly existed at the point where Megatron dragged the stuff out of the sky less than half an Earth year ago, then started making all our lives miserable with it.”

“You’re telling me,” Starscream groaned, vividly recalling the piles of empty vehicon frames that had succumbed to dark energon exposure, after some sort of mining expedition gone wrong. Soundwave was feeling particularly cruel that day and made him file the paperwork on that incident.

Ratchet continued fiddling with his machine, muttering, “I wonder if Megatron would let me run tests on that horrendous frame of his. He owes me a few billion favors after the slag he’s put me through.”

He sounded like he was only half joking, and Starscream huffed a laugh at the mental image of the warlord getting tied down and lectured at by an old, angry medic half his size. He hoped these visions might replace the ones sure to come of Megatron tying him down and rending him limb from limb. One could only hope.

“You!” Ratchet barked suddenly, startling him from his thoughts like a bullet. Embarrassingly enough, the sparkrate monitor jumped along with him.

Thankfully, Ratchet was too busy staring down the opposite end of the medbay to notice his reaction or, worse yet, look concerned at him.

“If you do not sit down on that berth so help me Primus—” Starscream watched distantly as Ratchet stormed across the room and grabbed Optimus by the shoulders, the latter of which nearly managing to escape the clutches of the evil tyrant doctor and had begun walking swiftly yet silently towards the door, only to be thwarted at the last second.

Poor bastard. Better luck next time.

“Ratchet—”

“Don’t bother,” Ratchet cut the Prime off as he dragged him back to the berth. “I’d love to think that you don’t understand what being under a medical watch means, but I know by now that you just don’t care.”

“I feel fine, Ratchet,” Optimus insisted, “and I have responsibilities to attend to regardless.” He said all this while unsubtly attempting to remove Ratchet’s servo from his shoulder. Unsuccessfully.

“‘Regardless’,” Ratchet repeated, drawing out the word in incredulity, ignoring Optimus ill-fated escape attempts and shoving some sort of cable into his wrist-port with little warning, and Optimus gave a minute wince. “You seem to keep forgetting that you also almost joined the Well early because of that pit-spawned volcano, so you’ll have to forgive me for worrying a little.” 

At that, Ratchet pulled up the report given by the plugin, but before he could passionately opine on the results, a shrill alarm rang through the medbay, originating from the terminal. Starscream tried to recall why that might be important, besides the noise exasperating his violent helmache. The rumbling string of curses spilling from Ratchet’s intake as he checked the screen gave him few clues.

“These things just keep popping up like scraplets,” Ratchet muttered as he typed furiously at his monitor, too engrossed in his work to either notice or care about Optimus quickly detaching the diagnostic cable and following him to the terminal. 

Starscream made a concerted effort to push himself into a passable sitting position, if only to help feel less like an invalid, but his vision was still too impaired to see more than a few meters in front of him, let alone across the room at a flashing screen.

It was a good thing Ratchet complained so vocally, otherwise he would’ve had no clue what was going on.

“Another?! Ever since that damned eruption the seismic activity on this planet has become even worse somehow. Why in the. . .” Ratchet dissolved into unintelligible mumbling as he abused his keyboard. Optimus watched silently from behind him, staring thoughtfully at the deluge of information being put to screen.

Vision blurring into the ceiling, a question struck Starscream, though he struggled a few moments to find his words.

“The dark energon was brought here from distant space,” Starscream started, and both Ratchet and Optimus turned to look at him. He swallowed his nerves. “And yet,” he continued, “it has erupted from a. . . fissure, in this planet’s crust, correct?”

Optimus nodded, turning back to the ever-shifting diagrams of Earth.

“How can that be the case?” he posed simply, hoping to Primus that he wasn’t currently in the process of humiliating himself in a drug-addled haze; that was Megatron’s prerogative.

Assuaging his fears though, Ratchet hummed and pulled up even more flashy charts. “Earth has always been an energon rich planet,” he mused, “It’s why we landed here in the first place—and with regards to what little I know about dark energon, I can only assume it’s deposited like regular energon, though if less common. Even with that said,” Ratchet continued more hesitantly, “the sheer volume of dark energon on this planet does seem to be. . . odd.”

As Ratchet rambled, Optimus gingerly took over the terminal controls and typed a few simple commands, seeming to be playing with an assortment of audio files.

Starscream opened his intake to ask him what he was doing, but before the words could escape him, a low and quiet—yet impossibly resonant noise filled the medbay.

Ratchet paused his speech on energon composition and snapped around to stare at the source.

“What is that.” The medic’s tone was clipped, but Starscream could faintly understand why. They of all mecha, holed up in the medbay as often as they were (though for very, very different reasons) would recognize that particular sound even while in the deepest throes of recharge.

“I believe I have a possible explanation as to the strange volume of dark energon within the Earth,” Optimus explained, unhelpfully.

“And what does that have to do with a recording of a mech’s sparkbeat?” Ratchet asked, sounding nearly scandalized.

“It is not a recording, it is a live feed,” Optimus corrected, shoulders hunched ever-so-slightly, “originating from the center of this planet.”

Ratchet gaped at him, at a loss, but he needn’t speak, since the Prime continued promptly, optics shining with an odd light as he spoke.

“Unicron’s spark itself resides within the core of planet Earth.”

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

While it took a few tries to convince his audience of his hypothesis (“No Starscream, for the third time, you are not hallucinating,” Ratchet sighed, “Trust me, I wish I was hallucinating too.”) and the futile herding of the human company (of which Starscream still didn’t understand the need of want of their involvement), the rest of team Prime was made aware of the whole ‘Earth is the resting place of a massive Cybertronian destruction deity’ situation, allowed to freak out about that fact for a bit (mostly courtesy of said humans), then sent across the planet to investigate the most prominent fault sites—Optimus Prime included among them.

Starscream was borderline offended that Ratchet had deigned to clear Optimus for field work and not him, but a quick comparison of both of their energon sample composition results and a far less quick verbal dressing-down had him resigned to his fate as a prisoner to a medical berth. Meanwhile, Ratchet managed the signals and comm channels of those out in the field—quite literally every Cybertronian on base besides himself and the doctor.

Along with his inherent dislike for being benched, the local humans had also taken to bothering him incessantly, as per usual. The children, of course, but two new ones; presumably adult humans, not that age did much for their diminutive statures. The male adult he remembered due to his infuriating voice and that time he tortured him once. The female adult was completely unknown to him, though Ratchet’s stilted and rushed introductions revealed to him that she was Jack’s biological guardian.

It made sense, after he was told. She glared at him the exact same way as her spawn.

Thankfully for him, both mother and child were already too engaged in a hushed argument to bother him, so all he had to deal with was a deeply incensed ‘diplomat’, the pink menace, and Raf.

Starscream magnanimously assisted Raf with the finer details of his speculative biology project while ignoring Miko’s increasingly fervent attempts to get his attention and Fowler’s mad ravings. Helping Raf with ‘school work’ forced him to keep his audials online, unfortunately.

Though it also allowed him to listen to Ratchet rant at his aforementioned ‘team full of half-witted ingrates.’

“Optimus, are you hearing me?” Ratchet hissed, an air of frustration coloring his tone, “Can you please tell me what is going on out there?”

‘Nothing yet, Ratchet,’ Optimus responded patiently, voice crackling through the comms, ‘Though the seismic readings seem to be growing more significant the closer I travel to the recorded epicenter.’

“That’s something, I guess,” Ratchet muttered, then louder, “Keep a lookout for anything unusual; whatever’s causing the readings to go haywire where you are, it’s not nearly as prominent for the others.”

The silence that followed was loud, and the Prime’s comm channel filled with static for an impossibly long moment.

‘. . .Copy that, Ratchet.’

The line went idle after that, and Ratchet pulled his face away from the terminal microphone to groan openly and curse Optimus’ name.

“Something you’d like to expound on, doctor?” Starscream asked, half out of curiosity and half out of boredom.

Almost automatically, Ratchet said, “My designation is not ‘doctor’,” and then, lowly, “And I would if I could. Optimus doesn’t seem to be in a talking mood at the moment.”

Starscream snickered, rolling his helm over to look at the medic’s back. “Is he ever?” he conquered, only half-recalling that he was now talking slag about his leader with his second-in-command (an assumption; he didn’t get a real answer when he first questioned the Prime about the chain of command around here, and at this point he was too afraid to ask). He was very much losing his wits, and he could only blame so much on drugs, sleep-deprivation, and blood loss.

Blissfully unaware of his patient’s internal turmoil, Ratchet let out a sharp laugh and hunched further over his keyboard. “Ain’t that the truth,” he scoffed as he studied the wavering charts covering his screen. “Far be it for me to ask him for updates on his condition right after he almost poisons himself to death. How unreasonable of me to do so,” he complained.

“But there is something I noticed,” he continued, and Starscream was beginning to realize, after being stuck in this damned mediberth so often, that Ratchet was quite the ‘talk it out to a wall’ type (though, Starscream was oft compared to a wall in terms of his receptiveness and responsiveness by a flashier, more vertically-challenged doctor). “The way the data keeps fluctuating with time is starting to skew to the abnormal, even compared to the already-deeply abnormal situation we’re in—ever since we began spreading out to investigate the major epicenters”

Starscream nodded politely, not exactly paying the most attention. He was busy playing with the color scheme options on Raf’s ‘slide show’ thing. He couldn’t decide between bright energon blue and dark burgundy, and no Raf, he couldn’t ‘just use both and move on’, he was a mech with standards.

“As odd as it is to say,” Ratchet pushed on, gaze locked onto the screen, “Nearly all of the global deep-crust activity lessened significantly since the mission began, even disappearing in some spots. Only one has actually increased in activity, and that one is—” 

Ratchet suddenly cut himself off, and didn’t pick the sentence back up.

Starscream reluctantly minimized the presentation tab in his HUD and looked back over towards Ratchet’s post. The medic was now sitting straight up, digits hovering over the keyboard with an uncertain waver. Starscream raised a brow.

“Yes?” he prompted, but Ratchet gave no indication he’d heard him at all, optics narrow, until—

“Frag!” he spat, startling both humans and mecha alike as he slammed a series of commands and snarled all the more curses under his breath. 

Before Starscream could pose the golden question, a familiar comm line crackled to life, not that the mech on the other end had a chance to speak before Ratchet set upon them.

“Optimus, your location is currently being inundated by severe seismic activity,” Ratchet hissed into the microphone, “It’s as though all of the other instances of unusual activity are moving towards your location—you cannot tell me that not a single thing is happening on your end.” He vented deeply. “Do you read me?”

Once the room was silent, everyone could finally hear the strange wash of static flowing through the comm, along with the deep, off-kilter laughter hidden behind it.

Why can’t anything ever be normal? Starscream thought nigh-immediately. And if things must be completely and utterly insane with no cause, why must it always be around me?

Though, he did just learn that the horrible planet he was forced to reside on was the vacation home of the Unmaker itself, so he was beginning to believe that his life in particular was some sort of cosmic joke beyond the scope of both Primus and Unicron altogether.

Yay him.

“For the love of—” Ratchet cut himself off again, scrubbed his face with his servos, and and unceremoniously cut the comm line as well.

The humans squawked in confusion, but Ratchet soundly ignored them and opened a few other lines in its place. The rest of the Autobots, who seemed to have been spared from whatever strange mythical nonsense was afflicting the Prime at the moment. Go figure.

“I’m sending a bridge to each of your locations, which will send you to Optimus’ location to provide him backup. Do not bother asking him if he wants backup when you get there, because I am ordering you to give him backup. Is that clear?”

‘Copy that, Ratchet,’ Arcee responded first, ‘But can you tell us what exactly is going on? What happened to Prime?’ Her tone was just as clipped as he usually heard, and Starscream was beginning to think that was how she sounded all the time, regardless of any pre-established blood grudges against her poor conversation partner.

(Ah, another poor choice of words on his part, but at least it stayed in his helm this time.)

“I have reason to believe that Unicron and-or his forces are cornering Optimus—targeting him, something of the sort,” Ratchet answered gravely, “His comms are corrupted, so I’m sending you lot to intercept his signal. The disturbances at your positions have all-but dispersed, anyway.”

With that, Ratchet sent out a flurry of groundbridges, leaving no room for argument, not that anyone tried. Likely because the medic sounded ready to start taking helms if anything else went wrong today, and because the Prime himself wasn’t able to complain about the sudden reinforcements himself. Starscream could already hear the poetic renditions of ‘No, I’m fine, go away’ from here.

The rest of the Autobots were sent off to deal with whatever slagfest Optimus had gotten himself into this time, and Starscream discreetly re-opened the slideshow window as Ratchet flexed his sordid vocabulary while he attempted to re-establish Optimus’ comm line.

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

“You are just being unreasonable at this point!”

“Pah! Said the mech trying to wrestle the groundbridge controls from my fragging servos!”

“Because you’re holding me hostage! I am in fact fit for the field, and I asked first but you didn’t listen, so I have no other choice—”

“A hosta—you LIVE here!” Ratchet shouted, and Starscream was all at once pried from the groundbridge controller and hauled back to his medical berth, an angry ball of talons and flapping wings.

Never one to give up, Starscream continued to complain even as the Hatchet waved the threat of the magnet cuff controller in his face. “You are treating me like both a misbehaving sparkling and a mech nearing their death throes, and I object to both characterizations.”

“Good thing I don’t care, then,” Ratchet rebuffed easily, deigning to not wrongfully imprison Starscream to a sub-par berth pad and instead shoved a medical report in his servos. “I will do my job as your primary physician whether you like it or not.”

Starscream rolled his optics at the dramatics and glanced through the report. It displayed his vitals and various part statuses, all below average for a healthy mech—or exactly average for a healthy Starscream. Perhaps the doctor didn’t understand that he was running on a different sort of metric when it came to his shoddy health.

“There is hardly anything wrong with me, Ratchet,” he drawled, and the medic gave him a look that could melt steel. Starscream ignored it and turned the datapad back around to face him. “See? Did you even look at the most recent report?”

Ratchet scowled and snatched the datapad from him, turning his glare to the screen instead. “No matter what you think, these are not healthy vitals,” he insisted, but there was a note of uncertainty bleeding into the statement. “But, now that I have a few of them to compare to each other. . . your self repair is working remarkably quickly.”

“Then you have absolutely no reason to keep me trapped in this cursed medbay,” Starscream reasoned smugly, until he let the words being said to him actually process. “. . .What do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said,” Ratchet grumbled, flipping through the datapad with an ever-critical optic, “Compared to the average Cybertronian, and to your previously-recorded vitals, repair nanites are being overproduced in your frame and your self repair is working overtime, though I’m not exactly sure as to the reason why.”

Starscream grimaced. Such a symptom may or may not have sounded familiar to him; it was one of the first of many, many oddities reported by Knockout in regards to Megatron after he began replacing the majority of his meals with dark energon chunks.

Uh oh.

Starscream rebuffed easily, doing his best to hide his worry behind scorn. “You seem to be ‘not knowing’ much of anything recently, medic.”

Ratchet made another reach for the magnet cuff controller but Starscream snatched it first and quickly buried it at the bottom of his subspace, underneath the piles of cubes, the redundant crutch, and—oh. He’d forgotten to empty it, what with being sent immediately to berthrest and all. Whoops.

“As if you know any better about your health, trying to throw yourself out onto the battlefield after all the slag I fixed just to get you up and running,” Ratchet scoffed, “I’m starting to think you care about your life and safety about as much as Optimus himself!” 

Starscream gasped and flared his wings. The audacity to say such a thing—

The center console speakers crackled to life, and Ratchet reluctantly abandoned his attempts to harass him and opened the comm request. “What’s going o—”

‘Please tell Prime how completely unreasonable he’s being at the moment,’ Arcee’s voice hissed through the speakers, laced with both indignation and incredulity in equal measure.

“Not that I don’t believe you,” Ratchet started slowly, “but could you elaborate?”

Arcee did not, decidedly, elaborate, and instead had an unintelligible argument with someone on the other end of the call. Ratchet opened his intake to question her once more, but was again interrupted, this time by a sudden live audio projection from Arcee instead.

‘. . .your true intentions for proposing such a deal. I cannot imagine it being out of a sudden and uncharacteristic care for this planet and its inhabitants.’

The Prime’s voice, though grainy and static-laced through the speakers, was nevertheless unmistakable. Yet—and maybe his processor was still lagging behind itself—he couldn’t understand the context of what the mech was saying. It sure didn’t sound like a speech.

At least, he didn’t understand until the feed continued.

Low, horribly familiar laughter rang out through the room, and all of Starscream’s armor tightened against his protoform before he could even think about it. Not that he could be blamed; it had suddenly become very hard to form useful thoughts.

‘Of course not!’ Megatron’s gravelly voice resounded through the command center, and his laughter continued on to the point of acute discomfort. ‘I won’t lie to you Optimus, I can’t bring myself to care a single iota about this planet besides what meager resources it can provide me, but rest assured, I have enough reason on my own to wish for the destruction of Unicron.’

While Starscream stood suddenly and backed up, attempting to gather himself, Ratchet attempted to pull his jaw back up off the floor and talk to. . . well, whoever was willing to respond to him, really.

“Why in the Primus-damned Pit is Megatron there?” he snapped, looking about ready to throttle the poor terminal for lack of a physical team member present to aggressively question.

Except for Starscream himself, he supposed. But as if he ever knew what was going on, either.

There was more inaudible arguing from the other end of the call and whatever conversation the group—and Megatron—were having was lost underneath the din, and Ratchet gripped the keyboard hard enough for the glass to creak. He benched Arcee’s feed and opened Optimus’ comm directly.

“Tell. Me. What’s. Going. On.”

Like clockwork, not even the hint of an acknowledgement followed, and Ratchet looked about ready to put a hole through his monitor, but was stopped when a groundbridge request of all things flitted across the screen. From Optimus.

Ratchet went stock-still, straightened slowly, then deliberately and excruciatingly punched in the groundbridge activation sequence one by one, optics dangerously narrow.

Time to find out if that ‘do no harm’ medic code still applies.

Starscream backed neatly up against one of the far walls, watching the expanding bridge with coiled nerves. Both of the opened audio transmissions weren’t active—he knew for sure, he’d watched Ratchet close them out himself—but for some reason, he could still hear Megatron’s resounding cackle echoing between his audials.

But it wasn’t Megatron who was lumbering through the groundbridge (of course not, he told himself, near-desperately, it’s out of the question), it was the Autobots, with Optimus Prime leading the lackluster march.

The bridge shut unceremoniously behind them, but before the group could get a word in edgewise, Ratchet—over the course of about five kliks total—gave each member a cursory glance-over, gave Optimus an extra glance-over for good measure, picked up the nearest un-occupied tool (a pair of pliers), and threw it directly at Optimus hard enough to dent and fast enough to strike true. That last mark was apparently unnecessary, because the Prime made no attempt to avoid the projectile, letting the pliers smack into his shoulder and clatter to the floor without so much as a twitch.

Only after this entire stunt did Ratchet deign to give comment with a sharp, impassioned, “What the actual frag is wrong with you?!”

If Starscream were in any better of a mood he would’ve laughed, but he was too keyed up for the blatant show of authoritarian disrespect to be anything other than nerve-wracking.

The statement settled around the command deck, and Optimus gave a faint sigh before explaining himself, though it left much to be desired.

“While holding back the manifestations of Unicron, Megatron appeared and. . . assisted, with the battle.”

“You mean he saved your life then started talking like a crazy mech!” Bulkhead exclaimed, in clear disbelief.

Optimus winced, less subtle than before. “In not so many words, yes.”

For the first time in what felt like hours (but was likely only a few minutes), Starscream willed himself to speak.

“What do you mean ‘talking like a crazy mech’?”

“Why is that the part you’re worried about?” Bumblebee whirred, wide optics blinking at him.

“Because Megatron saving the Prime’s life is not as unusual as you’d think,” Starscream reasoned, just barely managing to avoid stuttering over his previous master’s name, “And it just so happens that he says things that matter, though on very rare occasions.”

Arcee scoffed and struck him with an incredulous glare. “Not unusual? All Megatron ever seems to want to do is take Prime out of commission with his bare servos!” 

Huh, I think that’s the first time she’s willingly spoken to me since our spat. How novel.

“Exactly my point,” he drawled, rolling his optics, “Let me guess—the Prime was nearly torn to scrap by those effigies of the Unmaker, and Megatron flew in at the last second to save him.”

“More like crushed to scrap, but yeah,” Bumblebee affirmed hesitantly, and Starscream nodded with a grimace.

“You see, Megatron has what I can only call an obsession with ending the Prime’s life himself. He sees anything less as a personal insult—in fact, he nearly snuffed my spark for my attempt against yours that short time ago—” 

Belatedly, Starscream realized that everyone in the room was staring at him.

“Well, ah, water under the bridge, right?” he laughed nervously, clasping his claws.

The various Autobots gave him a mix of looks ranging from confusion to worry to mild disgust, but they were put back on track when Bumblebee turned in front of Optimus and leaned towards him.

“If he wants you dead so bad, then why are we working with him?” Reproach was thick in Bumblebee’s tone, even through the limitations of rudimentary Cybertronian, as he stared up at Optimus with his winglets pinned. The edge of betrayal in the little mech’s posture was echoed in Starscream’s own spark.

Shaking his helm at the soft accusation, Optimus decidedly went through the whole situation; Megatron appeared out of nowhere, saved his life (this part was glossed over very quickly), and proposed a deal of sorts: They work together to defeat Unicron, with only Megatron being able to lead them to the titan’s core and only Optimus being able to deal him any damage, via severe dark energon poisoning and the Matrix of Leadership respectively.

Starscream had his focus half on the Prime’s words and half on the individual facial expressions displayed by each of the other Autobots, watching them shift from indignance to deliberative to resigned distaste—all adequate summations of their feelings on the matter, he was sure.

It was funny, because all Starscream could feel throughout the entire speech was vaguely sick, but he was aware that was very much a him problem, and he tried not to let it show too much.

A necessary evil, assuredly. He knew exactly why this deal was on the table and even more so why it was impossible to decline, but it didn’t make the thought of working with that animal sting any less. Hardly a cycle ago was Megatron standing on Starscream’s downed frame as he crowed about his final victory over him, waving that horrid cannon in his face, and now he was set to follow such a monster into the depths of the Pit itself.

Optimus was right in that there was no other recourse, but Starscream never claimed to be a rational and unbittered mech.

He didn’t dare speak his opinions aloud, but thankfully there were others present more willing to do so, with more reason and tact than he likely would’ve supplied.

“And you’re sure there’s no other way to force Megatron to reveal the location of Unicron’s spark without letting him roam around our base?” Ratchet questioned, almost imploringly. “None at all?”

To that, Optimus ducked his helm and shuttered his optics, just for a moment. “Megatron has asserted the point that, even after giving us the coordinates necessary to bridge into Unicron’s frame, he would still have to guide me to the spark itself afterwards.” He sighed. “If time were not of the essence, then I might have been able to devise a work-around for this problem, but as it stands, the fate of Earth and its inhabitants is in too precarious of a situation to delay action.”

The group was mollified by the reasoning, mostly. If they couldn’t put aside their fears and stipulations in order to save a planet—any realities about the fate of Cybertron notwithstanding—then how could the war ever be expected to end, therefore and etcetera—Starscream cared a lot less about this particular planet than the average Autobot, but it wasn’t as though expressing that fact would get him anywhere in this situation other than a demerit and perhaps exile (Optimus Prime was ever-so fond of fleshies, he’d noticed).

Regardless, without a functioning spacebridge or space-faring starship, having the planet he was marooned on blow up under his peds wouldn’t fare well for his immediate future.

“So, what then?” Arcee asked simply, and Starscream had to wonder the same thing. They had to take Megatron here in order to set up the groundbridge—something he could tell Ratchet was quite thrilled about—and take him with them through it. Sure, Megatron wouldn’t be able to get the coordinates of the base past the bridge and internal signal scramblers, but that certainly wouldn’t stop him from destroying everything in reach before slaughtering them like chattel in a pen.

Blind faith that a madmech like Megatron will understand and care enough about the gravity of this situation enough not to betray them was all that stood between them and that not-so-distant reality.

“Myself, along with Bulkhead and Arcee, will return to Megatron’s location and fit him with a pair of transformation cuffs to mitigate the risk he poses to our base.” While giving his outline, Optimus pulled a large set of these cuffs out of a storage crate. “Afterwards, we will bring him though the groundbridge back to Autobot base and have him assist Ratchet in setting up the groundbridge outgoing into Unicron’s frame.”

This Ratchet in question’s face scrunched as though he’d swallowed pure sodium metal and he turned to hunch over his keyboard, muttering curses.

“Meanwhile,” Optimus continued, ignoring him, “the rest of you will prepare the base for foreign entry; remove identifying markers, lock down unnecessary background processes and windows on the central terminal besides those required to run a groundbridge, and most importantly remove and keep the humans away from the command deck for as long as Megatron inhabits it.”

“Each of you will come with Megatron and I for the fight against Unicron except for Ratchet, who will man the groundbridge controls for our entry and exit.”

As soon as the words ‘Each of you will come with’ left Optimus’ intake, Ratchet snapped up from his sulking fit and locked optics with him.

Starscream pointedly ignored him and did so very well up until the point the Prime and his group vacated the base, after which Ratchet grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the back of the command deck, without even bothering with an address before admonishing him.

“You are not,” Ratchet stressed, “I repeat, you are not going down there to fight Unicron.”

“Prime ranks above you and he said I am going,” Starscream responded with immediately.

“In spite of rank,” Ratchet spat the word, “Optimus will listen to me if he knows what’s good for him.”

“But you said it yourself,” Starscream pivoted, “I’m all-but fine as we speak. My healing is accelerated.”

“Of which I do not understand the cause, nor do I know the side-effects!” Ratchet snapped, “What part of ‘you almost joined the fragging Allspark half a day ago’ do you cyclical proto-processors not get?”

As they argued fervently, Bumblebee occupied himself by gently herding the human company into another part of the compound.

“Those ‘side-effects’ will hardly matter when the planet explodes beneath my peds!”

“Do you really think your showing up would tip the scales so much?”

Owch. “Excuse you, that actually stings a little, medic.” Starscream ducked and pulled his arm from Ratchet’s grasp. “I know my recent track record hasn’t done my reputation any favors, but I wasn’t second in command and air commander of the Decepticons for show. I was—am—a formidable opponent to all who cross me.” He allowed himself to flick his wings and preen, even as doubt crawled up his throat. “It’s just that. . . there’s one mech who cannot cease to get the better of me.”

“And you want to go crawling into literal Pit on Earth with him leading the march, right?” Ratchet questioned, all haughty incredulity.

“That’s the point!” Starscream snarled, a sudden well of emotion making him grasp Ratchet by the shoulders and pull him forward. “Ma-Megatron is going to pull something with Optimus during this mission, I know it.” He felt crazy, speaking his thoughts so candidly to someone with no reason to listen, but he was possessed with the need to regardless. Facing one’s mortality so many times in a month would do that. 

“You’ve seen how Megatron looks at him, and it’s not as though his obsession is any secret. I’ve been in his immediate company ever since the war was fresh on Cybertron, and I know how he acts. For all his talk of snuffing the Prime’s spark, I can say that whatever he truly desires of him is worse.”

All at once, Starscream slumped as though the strings keeping him up had been severed, and Ratchet watched him appraisingly. “And you’re going to stop him?” He didn’t sound particularly judgmental, just cautiously inquisitive.

“I can try.” And wasn’t that just it? He was always trying, wasn’t he? “I’d recognize the signs better than the rest of them, at least.”

Ratchet stared at him, long and hard and, shockingly, thoughtful. The fact that he even bothered considering it was astounding to Starscream. Eventually, after pulling a myriad of interesting facial expressions and setting his jaw, he said, “Okay—okay, you can go—” Starscream bolted upright. “—ah ah, cool it, let me explain— I am only letting this happen because your point about the planet blowing up was decent, if tasteless, and if Megatron does try anything to jeopardize the success of this mission, then we need to use all the tools at our disposal.” Ratchet paused, then looked back at him. “No offense.”

Offense? How could he take offense when Ratchet had just agreed with him? Starscream should be thanking him!

He didn’t though; he had a bit of pride to maintain.

“I’m very glad you could see reason,” Starscream still cooed, straightening his back and neatened his wings. “And just in time, too. You’re being hailed.” He pointed to the blinking groundbridge request.

Ratchet rolled his optics hard and stalked over to send said groundbridge, and it quickly hit Starscream that that meant Megatron would be appearing in under a minute’s time.

Starscream quite dignifiedly skittered after Ratchet to the terminal and put the two heaps of heavy metal in between him and the bridge dock. Ratchet gave him an indecipherable look and turned away from him to watch the growing portal after the coordinates had been entered, and Starscream let his higher emotional processes numb out while half-staring between the medic’s shoulder blades instead of the approaching guest of honor.

And Megatron sure walked like he were a guest of honor, sauntering through the bridge as though there weren’t a pair of cuffs pinning his servos to his front and wasn’t a wrecker-bot holding onto his elbow like he were some sort of lowly fugitive. A horrible, self-assured grin was plastered across his face, and his optic lenses roved lazily around the Autobot’s command deck.

And from the slight vacancy in those optics, Starscream could tell something was long missing behind them.

“Is this it?” Megatron hummed, lenses finally coming to rest upon the Prime, who refused to return his gaze and instead shouldered his way into the building, disappearing from the command deck with a brief assurance of his quick return. Megatron huffed airily. “It’s quite quaint.”

No one responded to his jab, and the tense atmosphere grew thicker in the packed room. Departure couldn’t come soon enough.

Megatron was back to deconstructing the base with his optics, though he seemed to be looking for one thing in particular. 

Something heavy settled in Starscream’s tanks, and no sooner than it had did Megatron finally spot him, attempting to look as natural as possible while pressed against the side of the terminal and shifting to keep Ratchet neatly between the two of them.

Megatron’s grin became crueler still, and grew to split his faceplate. More of a leer than anything.

“Ah, if it isn’t Starscream,” he sighed, and everyone in the room shifted on their peds—except for Ratchet, who was still standing in front of the console keyboard with a false ease and intently focused on the doorway Optimus had vanished through. “Seeing you here, in their base. . . why, it’s almost surreal! I would say I never thought I’d see the day, but. . . well, I’d be lying.”

Starscream knew he shouldn’t respond. He was being plainly goaded and responding would get him nothing besides an anxiety spike and a helmache, but their silent audience was making him tetchy.

“Do you talk just to hear your own miserable voice echoing inside your empty helm, or do you have a point you’d like to make?” He sneered, trying to keep his tone as airy and unbothered as possible (and the visible cuffs around Megatron’s wrists certainly helped in that regard).

A spark of rage flashed in Megatron’s optics, for only a fraction of a second, but smothered itself out just as quickly by false mirth. He blinked and leaned forward. “Does Optimus Prime let you speak to him like that?”

Heat seared behind Starscream’s chestplates and his wings snapped up behind him before he could control himself. “‘Let me’?” he shrilled, willing his voice not to shake, lest it ruin any and all point he might want to make now or henceforth, “The Prime does not dictate to me the exact manner of my every action as though I were his pet, but I suppose you might have some difficulty understanding the concept!”

Megatron tilted his helm and his gaze darkened, and for the first time since exiting the groundbridge did the false grin marring his faceplate slip off of it. “It would do you well to remember just who’s lineage was known to have kept seekers as slaves. Was it this lowly miner, or the Primes—”

“Megatron.” The low, sharp voice broke Starscream from his building rant, and he jumped to attention and turned towards the source even though it wasn’t quite directed towards him. 

Optimus had returned from whatever task he decided needed doing right that moment and glared daggers at Megatron. The two had a silent staring contest for a few infinitely long microkliks before Optimus motioned towards the groundbridge controller, optics still narrow and locked on Megatron’s.

“Do as you are here to do and assist Ratchet with entering the bridge coordinates.” His tone left no room for argument.

A sharp huff and a half-roll of his optics was all Megatron had to respond to that with, but he did begin leisurely ambling towards Ratchet and his terminal as soon as Bulkhead (reluctantly) released his arm.

Starscream watched Megatron approach with a growing mind-numbing fear and a boiling pit of rage in his tanks, and could hardly bring himself to not look relieved when Optimus waved him over from his ineffectual hiding spot to stand next to him. The rest of the party was there, each preparing for the undertaking they were all about to shoulder.

He would appreciate it if they refrained from stealing glances at him. This cycle was already horrible enough, and it was only set to become even worse without unwanted attentions.

From those unnamed specifically, he thought as he felt a burning red gaze on the back of his neck every few minutes.

More than unwanted however, was Optimus leant beside him, speaking quietly into his audial.

“Ratchet has cleared you for field work?” The question was far more curious than interrogatory, and Starscream was a little surprised. He was expecting something. . . well, he really has no clue, actually.

“Not without a truly arduous fight,” he muttered, “and just barely then.”

Optimus hummed in acknowledgement, with the barest twitch in the corner of his optics to denote a smile. Starscream made a note as such and proceeded to ignore it for his own sake. The Prime sobered quickly though, and looked off into the distance before continuing. “And you are fit to take part in this mission?”

Old, well-trodden annoyance flared up once more. “Why does everyone assume that I’m a worthless blank on the battlefield? I have not been inactive on it for that long.” Starscream managed to keep his voice down, but just barely.

“I did not mean to imply as much,” Optimus corrected, then gestured carefully back towards where Ratchet was engaged in a extremely passive-aggressive one-sided argument with Megatron as they puzzled out the proper coordinates that wouldn’t get them bridged into solid rock or a magma pool. “I only worry for the arrangements of this particular situation.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was referring to.

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted quickly, more defensive than strictly necessary. Optimus, for his part, never seemed to judge him as such. “It is not him that I am worried about,” he added, recalling his earlier admission to Ratchet.

All of a sudden, he didn’t want to meet The Prime’s gaze.

Optimus gave him a strange, nearly confused look, but before he could voice any further questions, Ratchet spoke up from his position by the groundbridge controller.

“A successful groundbridge route has been attained,” Ratchet called out, “Ready to launch when you are.” No later than he’d made the announcement did the medic begin unsubtly and even less kindly shooing Megatron away from him and his things. Optimus nodded gravely.

“Thank you, Ratchet. Please activate the groundbridge—there is no cause for delay.”

Ratchet confirmed and a swirling teal portal sprang to life in moments, and the rest of the Autobots—and Megatron—stared into it, almost anticipatingly.

At last, someone made a first move; not Optimus, surprisingly, but Arcee. She backed away from the mouth of the bridge and gestured snidely towards Megatron. “You first.”

So he did. 

And the Autobots followed their enemy into the gallows.

Chapter Text

Cybertronians live, what most extant species would call, extremely long lives. Naturally, any sort of novelty associated with new experiences typically wore off at around the two-hundred vorn mark or so, even considering things like war or mass exodus’ and the like. Being as it were, since Starscream was three thousand five hundred twenty-six vorns and going on too old for this slag, it took quite a high concentration of nonsense to surprise him. Being shocked was common of course, as were oh Primus why me type lamentations, but nothing he couldn’t look back on later and say to himself, ‘that was strange, but certainly not impossible.’

Crawling through what looked to be the cardiovascular system of a titanic, assumed-dead deity of destruction with his manic ex-leader and a gaggle of Autobots was, and he was certain of only this, not going to be one of those mere oddities.

Megatron had taken up the front and looked almost too content—frequent twitches and occasional full-frame dizzy spells notwithstanding—to be leading them all through the depths of Unicron’s frame. The sheer volume of dark energon (the ‘Blood of Unicron’ moniker was far more literal than he’d first assumed) was making them all progressively more sick, to the point where even Megatron’s tolerances for the slag were failing him.

Not that it dulled the fragger’s spirits any. Starscream was almost convinced he’d start making stops to shovel some of the radioactive waste into his subspace for the road, splitting helmaches and seizure-like spasms be damned.

“We’re getting close,” Megatron assured absently as he led them through another seemingly random turn, with an air of nonchalance completely ill-fitted to the situation at hand. “Be prepared. Whatever Unicron attempts to do as a response to our presence, I am certain it will not be kind.”

No one responded to his vague assertions, unless Arcee’s utterance of “How insightful. Real glad we brought you along,” counted. It did to him, if only because she was undoubtedly right.

. . .Oh, the world must truly be ending if Starscream and Arcee were agreeing on things now.

Another turn down another strange, uncomfortably damp ‘tunnel,’ punctuated by another fit of growl-laden mutters from their march leader of questionable sanity, and Starscream found himself gradually forcing his position to the back of the group, the concerned glances thrown his way by the Prime be-damned.

Not that it was particularly difficult to fall tactfully behind; if Megatron had gotten the flashy ‘communion with the undead and visions of planetary doom’ side effects of dark energon poisoning, then Starscream got the far less appealing ‘constant vague nausea and even more constant stimulant-esque jitters’ type-ailments. 

Much like how being encased within layers upon layers of the radioactive blood of the Unmaker had rapidly developed Megatron’s quirk of odd-though-still-occasional bouts of madness into what most would consider severe clinical lunacy, it had also quickly revealed the extremes of Starscream’s newfound status as a dark energon user—as in, if he were to attempt to walk any quicker than currently was, his legs would likely start shaking hard enough to be noticeable—and therefore unbelievably humiliating.

The unending ache of physical sickness permeating his frame was also becoming nearly intolerable, but Starscream had certainly carried out complete missions in worse states, so he felt not the need to dwell on things he couldn’t fix. Besides, sticking near to the Prime’s frame did away with the worst of the pain and vertigo; and he needn’t think too hard about why—if Optimus and that fancy relic of his was expected to be able to banish Unicron himself, then simple traces of dark energon shouldn’t be too difficult to purify, even if only temporarily.

I wonder if such abilities could be utilized in other manners, he considered idly, optics flicking over the truly disgusting walls-slash-floors-slash- whatever part of Unicron they were traversing the insides of, and more importantly, what are the properties of purified dark energon? Does it simply dissipate, or does it turn into regular energo—

Optimus halted suddenly, and Starscream stopped just short of tripping right into his backplates. Before he could voice his complaints, Optimus shifted and revealed the ‘room’ ahead.

It was difficult to make out past all the frames in front of him, but the area was much more open than the tunnels they’d been traversing previously; large and cavernous, and filled with what looked to be upscaled fiber webbing, stretched between the ‘wall’ they were exiting and the ‘wall’ on the other side. Straight ahead, across some of the more sturdy-looking webs, was a massive twisted structure that looked eerily like a vault door.

“Just across this chasm is Unicron’s spark chamber. I can sense it.” Megatron was the first to start trekking across the nearest bridge, not caring enough to check if he was being followed.

Starscream just barely refrained from commenting on Megatron’s resemblance to a particularly deranged tour guide. In fact, he refrained from commenting whatsoever—something that could not be said of others present.

“And what exactly do you expect all of us to do when we actually reach the spark?” Arcee asked tersely; being the second to brave the path ahead, she stalked after Megatron with no small amount of contempt rolling off of her frame in waves.

“You will do nothing,” Megatron assured, blasé as anything, and Arcee scowled at his back. “In fact, the only individuals who will be doing anything in this situation will be Optimus Prime and myself. The rest of you. . . well, I shall not dictate to you how to waste your time.”

Various highly offended voices and beeps rang out through the echoing space, though they all still followed one after another onto the bridge, some more hesitantly than others. Starscream paid their complaints no mind—he’d long-since learned to avoid outwardly reacting to Megatron’s barbs whenever possible—and instead stared hard down the seemingly endless abyss a mere meter or so from his peds. then glanced back up.

The others were making their way across the precarious ‘bridge’, and Megatron, notably, was yet one of them.

Was there any particular reason Megatron chose not to fly across the chasm in his perfectly functional flying alt? Either he knew something that made flying more dangerous than risking a fall into a bottomless pit and had neglected to tell Starscream out of spite, or the radiation had rotted his neural processing circuits so deeply that he forgot what his own alt mode was.

It could really go either way. Both scenarios were very likely.

Sending a final glare to the back of Megatron’s helm, Starscream steeled his resolve and jumped from the ledge, transforming mid-air, tanks churning from the sudden shift. Though, as much as he wanted to speed ahead and wait for his group of dead-weights to meet him from the safety of the landing, he decided to instead hover slowly over the grounders. He did not particularly feel like being accused of. . . well, he couldn’t think of any accusation that could come of being too efficient, but he also didn’t feel like finding out what they could come up with.

As Starscream leisurely cruised, he took in the area around him, trying to think of something other than the growing ache in his processor. But, far too soon after his flight began, a strange, chittering whine hit his audials, faint but rapidly growing louder—closer, he corrected. Whirling to his right, Starscream aimed and shot a laser bolt at the source before he could even see it properly.

A small, dark something fell down into the darkness below, leaving a trail of black smoke as it slammed into deeper and deeper structures, until it’d fallen too far into the darkness to see.

When he finally looked over at the group, he could see them all glancing between the falling object and him, plating flared in alarm.

All except for Megatron. He only stared directly at him, gaze unwavering.

Starscream couldn’t help the low snarl building in his engines.

“Any guess as to what that thing was, Megatron?”

“It would be foolish to assume that Unicron is completely devoid of internal defenses,” he gave as a non-answer, and in that moment Starscream felt a nearly unbearable urge to pelt Megatron with enough missiles to raze a small polity.

Alas, he was able to resist the siren song of cathartic violence long enough to ask, “And you didn’t find it relevant to mention this eventuality before now?” The anger had grown to form a sharp buzzing between his audials and. . . wait. That sound was not wholly internal.

Strafing up hard, he was just barely able to avoid a swarm of flying, tentacled, scraplet-looking things and their spray of blaster fire. Starscream hissed to himself and returned fire.

Only a being as universally horrendous as the Unmaker could come up with an idea like giving guns to scraplets.

Optimus—or Megatron, he just couldn’t tell—shouted something, and it was suddenly a whole lot harder to get his bearings among the sensory overload of an all-out firefight. Shots whizzed dangerously close to his frame, and he tucked his wings into a tight dive, trying to throw off his pursuers.

He got just outside the blast radius before unloading a missile into the shrieking purple swarm, and his attentions were unwittingly drawn to the rest of the group.

The creatures were everywhere. Concentrated around the grounders while they all fired wildly at the dense clumps of drones. The only place where there were more of them was around him.

Starscream’s engine snarled loud as he pulled another skillful, dizzying spin away from the swarm, dodging both enemy and friendly fire alike while taking down as many of them as possible.

In between one charged bolt and another, a priority all-units ping flashed in the corner of his HUD, a pulse of light-headedness accompanying it.

From the Prime; ‘Move towards the chamber. Defend the entrance while I and Megatron infiltrate.’

Oh, Starscream had some opinions he’d like to express in regards to that slagged plan, but a singed wing and a few dozen more deactivated drones later, and Starscream decided that perhaps the middle of battle wasn’t the best time to be getting in arguments with his commander over pings.

But over comms—

Needle-like laser bolts bit into his fuselage, and Starscream scrapped that plan in favor of giving his full attention to keeping himself in the air.

The area had looked deceptively open before, but the thick stretches of sinew and swarms of flying vermin left little room to vent, let alone fly properly. He dove down further with a twist of his ailerons, spinning deftly below the main catwalk and firing shots behind him all the while. His best bet would be to follow the vague group of swarmed grounders, because he sure couldn’t figure out where the pit the vault doors were.

Starscream darted around the chasm, trading blows with the drones in double-time. It was horrible, how the battle felt both impossibly quick and unbearably slow at the same time, aided in no small part by the fact that the drones would not stop coming. Every ten he cut down was promptly replaced by twelve more, and the only things he had to orient himself with was the resonant sound of mecha fighting and the dubious origins of any blaster fire that wasn’t purple. Not quite an exact science.

Just as he flung himself a few of the little parasites from chewing on his wingtips, a very conspicuous series of clinking noises hit his ringing audials. before an odd blur fell past his line of sight.

It was far too large to be a dead drone, that was for sure.

He sped towards it without thinking much of it—catching downed allies had practically been a part of his job back when he actually commanded a squadron of fliers not entirely consisting of vehicons. He transformed as soon as he was close enough and used his thrusters to keep himself aloft, then struck out his talons to catch the mech—a bike, Arcee he realized, once he caught sight of the particular shade of blue coating their plating.

Huffing derisively, Starscream rerouted to drop onto the nearest ‘bridge’ and let her fall from his grip. He refused to admit to being impressed when she managed to land neatly on her peds instead of crumpling into a heap.

 Arcee glared up at him and shook herself as though she’d fallen into a mud puddle instead of being graciously rescued from an untimely death by bottomless pit. She opened her intake, surely to start complaining for no reason, but the drones had already caught up with them, and they both scrambled to fend them off. Starscream in particular transformed back into his alt and sped away with a twist.

Oh whatever. That could be his good deed for the day. Good on him and whatever else nice people thought whenever they did nice things. Very fulfilling and all that; perhaps Prime would make an Autobot out of him yet. 

And speaking of the Prime, Starscream found his large red-and-blue frame between the plumes of black plating, and he—along with most of the others—had reached the far end of the ravine. Even Arcee had managed to platform-hop her way up there too.

Fragging finally. As soon as Optimus touched down on the other side of the bridge, Starscream jetted off after him.

The rest of the group hit the landing soon after, and he pulled a few tight rolls to shake his attackers before transforming and landing in a crouch. He winced in pain, but if anyone asked, it was due to his innumerous blaster burns and not his knee.

They’d stopped moving, the drones very much did not, and Starscream continued to shoot down wave after wave—though his attentions were locked elsewhere.

Megatron ran a servo near-reverently over the vault doors, as though he were capable of worshiping anything besides himself. The thick metal groaned and shifted jerkily, and the small opening started growing rapidly, a sickly purple glow emanating through the cracks.

Starscream watched the vault open with building apprehension, even more so when Megatron waved Optimus over to his side, speaking quietly enough to avoid being overheard.

Leaping away from another close strike, he unwittingly recalled the ping the Prime had sent mere minutes earlier.

They intend to infiltrate Unicron’s spark chamber alone. Just the two sworn enemies battling an ancient deity all by themselves. Without any backup to speak of.

“Hold the entrance,” Optimus called out, already halfway through the doorway after Megatron, his tone inviting no room for argument.

Good thing Starscream never needed permission to argue with orders. 

Flipping suddenly back into his alt, he forced his thrusters to run as hot as they could before shooting off in a dead-set through the rapidly shrinking doorway, screaming engines and rushing energon covering up the sounds of the others’ shouts of confusion.

He just barely made it, the twisting metal of the converging plates scraping stiffly over his tail fins before snapping closed right behind him. The cacophony of blaster shots and metallic clashing were cut off along with it, to a truly unnerving effect, with only the sound his own systems ringing in his aching audials. They echoed within the new cavernous space, along with, of course—

“What do you think you’re playing at, Starscream?” Megatron bellowed as he flew over him and his Primely charge, before he again transformed back into root mode and landed at Optimus’ side. He couldn’t help but stagger that time, snarling through the pain.

“Starscream,” Optimus started, voice heavy with reproach or admonishment or something else he couldn’t be bothered to care about, because he was currently engaging in his favorite emotion: incandescent rage.

“Every single plan you’ve ever had in my presence has been so horrible it is astounding that you haven’t been wiped off the face of the universe yet,” he whirled on his leader, hissing in exasperation more than anything, before he turned back to the subject at-hand.

Megatron was staring hard at him, servos twitching as though it were taking every ounce of his very inconsiderable amount of self-control to keep from tearing his old second into multiple new pieces.

They continued to tread familiar ground, then.

“What are you doing here?” Megatron stated more than asked, doing his best to loom over him even with Optimus bodily in his way. “Perhaps I was mistaken about your loyalty to the Prime—what kind of pet cannot follow even the simplest of orders?”

Starscream’s wings rattled as he flung them down in what he would prefer to call outrage. “Why yes! I used a little something called free will, a concept you must be unfamiliar with at this point, with the kind of leash the Unmaker has you on.”

Megatron’s gaze darkened further, the snarl in his engines promising violence—and it cannot be helped, this cannot play out any single other way—before Optimus stepped in.

“Enough arguing,” he ordered, sounding far more tired than particularly authoritative. He stole a glance in Starscream’s direction, though quickly refocused on Megatron. “What’s done is done. We are here for a reason, and I intend to fulfill my role regardless.” With that, Optimus, about as pointedly as he'd ever seen the mech do anything, gestured for Megatron to continue onwards. 

And, with nothing more than a sharp sneer in their direction, Megatron did just that; he turned around and stalked farther down the twisting labyrinth that was Unicron’s frame. Frag—for him, that was damn-near a joyful acquiescence from the likes of him.

Starscream followed very, very cautiously.

Optimus, curiously, stuck close to him as they pushed forward; though he realized the intention once he leant down to speak lowly into his audial, mindful of their deranged, very-much-within-hearing-range guide.

“Why did you disregard my orders, Starscream?” His tone was less chastising than such a statement implied, but he certainly didn’t seem happy about the recent turn of events.

 “Name a time I haven’t disregarded your orders,” Starscream deflected, flicking a wing at the Prime. Really now, what did he expect? They’d been allied long enough for him to get the gist of his modus operandi, he was sure.

Ever-sedate, Optimus replied with a level, “You typically have your reasons to do so, and you are typically quite vocal as to those reasons.” The subtle prod to explain himself was not lost on him.

Since when are you familiar with my typicalities, Prime?

“Perhaps I simply felt like being difficult,” Starscream lilted, focusing more on keeping his gait steady instead of something as pointless as consistent optic-contact.

“Starscream—”

“You were going to crawl into the Unmaker’s spark chamber with only your sworn enemy serving as backup,” he finally spat, just barely remembering to keep his voice down in a bid against prying audials. “Your mindless sense of duty and foolish nostalgia have clearly blinded you.” He straightened his posture, turning to look Optimus right in his crystal lenses. “So I am here to serve as your optics.”

It was Optimus’ turn to avert his gaze, apparently. He didn’t refute anything he’d claimed, either.

Point for Starscream, then; though he wasn’t quite celebrating.

“Everything will work out,” Optimus said eventually, looking stiffly ahead, “I will make sure of it.”

Starscream couldn’t help but scoff at that maudlin declaration.

You’re in over your helm, and you never even consider accepting help with pulling yourself back to dry land, he didn’t say, because he wouldn’t moralize to a fellow neurotic.

Your extremely obvious yearning for the past is clouding your judgment of the present, and you would never follow that warlord into the Pit alone if that weren’t the case, he didn’t say, because Primus knew he himself got trapped back there often enough.

I think Megatron is using this mission as a transparent front to weaken you to the point where he can capture you and commit unspeakable acts against you and-or your deactivated frame, because he is patently obsessed with you, he didn’t say, because. . . well, they’d arrived at their final destination.

Making the final turn into the spark chamber proper nearly blinded him, the electric purple flare coiling and writhing on the walls, permeating every corner of the chamber. It was nauseating. Every pulse of light and energy felt like it was tearing tiny chunks out of his processor, and—unwittingly—he staggered into Optimus’ side, scrabbling to grasp his plating before he collapsed onto the smooth ground. The proximity just barely relieved the throbbing in his helm enough for him to get his bearings.

As expected of a being as titanic as Unicron himself, the spark was massive. Spires of luminous purple electricity arched off of its core in sharp, irregular waves, and the center of the mass itself was too bright to look at for any length of time. The shadowed halo imprint of the horrid spark marred the inside of his optic shutters.

And that was only speaking of the physicality of it—the sheer strength of its rancid field had Starscream feeling as though he’d spent far too long within the new cargo hold of the Nemesis.

Not a bit of this bothered Megatron any; he stood stiffly at the very edge of the overhang, right before the chamber proper, gazing up at the spark in some parody of awe.

Starscream wanted to analyze the mech’s strange behavior further, but Optimus had regathered his senses and began pushing his way closer to the spark. He followed after him at a swift limp, no longer bothering to hide the collective ache his frame had become over the course of this mission.

Optimus made it to Megatron’s side in moments, and, after a short nod to them both, squared his shoulders and stepped closer still to the swirling, raging ball of malice. 

Starscream’s vents stalled as Optimus moved further away from the overhang, waiting for. . . whatever the matrix would do and however it planned to do it, but he knew that such a simple task would always find complications, and Unicron sure wasn’t content to merely roll over and accept his fate.

Optimus hit the halfway point of his death march and just as he did, like striking a tripwire, a white-hot flare of energy shot out from the spark, sending them all to their knees.

For mere nano-kliks, an agony poignant enough to paralyze washed over him, but quickly dulled into a complete, buzzing pain before he could even cry out.

He forced himself up on shaking limbs and choked vents, just in time to see Megatron curl over himself, clutching his helm and muttering incomprehensibly under his breath. The violet, cracking electricity seemed to claw at his armor and without any warning besides a twitch, he stood up and lurched towards the Prime’s downed form.

This feels familiar, he couldn’t help but think as Megatron unsheathed his blade and drew it up above Optimus’ neck for a killing blow. It was only the direness of the situation that stopped him from complaining out loud.

Instead, Starscream expressed his displeasure in the form of a laser pistol pointed at Megatron’s back. Missiles were on hold; he had no idea how such volatile compounds would react in the presence of such a powerful energy source.

The flurry of shots hit Megatron directly between the shoulder blades, perfectly on the mark despite the trembling in his arms and the unnerving twitchiness of his target.

Megatron snarled, an unnatural edge to his rough voice, and stumbled away from Optimus. Curiously, he merely continued grabbing at his helm and shaking it hard, instead of the vicious retaliation he was expecting.

Regardless, Optimus was shoving himself up, making a concerted effort to get as close to the spark as possible. With every few steps the Prime took, Megatron seemed to fight with himself; weapons systems engaging and disengaging, with jerky, aborted movements towards the other. In fact, it seemed as though Starscream’s attack hadn’t affected the mech in the slightest, besides in the way it’d interrupted his attack against Optimus.

Realizing that, it became exceedingly obvious that something other simple old rivalries were at play here. Starscream chose to blame his recent lack of perceptiveness on the splitting helmache that had taken residence within his sensor-net ever since entering this horrid place.

Unicron was attempting to commandeer Megatron’s frame to aid in his disposal of Optimus; the only real threat to him at the moment. And Megatron had spent too much time guzzling the Unmaker’s specific brand of poison to be able to fight off his influence all that effectively.

Well, Starscream thought, forcing his burning leg struts to move forward, charged pistol in-servo, Allow me to assist the poor mech, then. I certainly don’t mind!

Another volley of blaster shots glanced off Megatron’s chassis, from where he was taking step after strained step towards Optimus. Resisting the control of the god of destruction was not going to be a battle Megatron will win.

Hopefully this failure takes him down a few pegs, he watched Megatron hiss at the small burns and finally turn to look at him, away from the Prime.

Starscream prepared his poor legs to strafe as Megatron opened his intake with a sneer, but before either of them got any further, the spark of Unicron released a piercing EM pulse. It was a testament to how numb his whole frame had gotten to the constant pain of being there that he just barely managed to keep his peds beneath him.

Megatron, for once in both their sorry functionings, wasn’t so lucky. His purple optics flared once, nearly whiting out, before the big mech dropped like a sack of lead bricks.

Optimus continued to clamber, painfully slow, towards the spark in a bid to get close enough to use the matrix. The only thing here that truly mattered, he supposed. Every action that didn’t result in Unicron’s demise was superfluous.

Another pulse—Primus his processor was melting into slag in its casing and his struts were starting to quake uncontrollably—and a low keen slip unwittingly past his lips. He was forced to kneel, lest he keel over and truly crack his helm open.

A bleary sweep of the chamber revealed his luck had run dry just as quick as it’d appeared; Megatron was on his peds and—

A low, resonant laugh echoed in the overcharged air, distinctly and strangely unfamiliar from the intake it was coming from.

Not Megatron, Starscream realized. Not anymore.

The twitching was gone, and his stance had straightened with an authority behind his posture. Violet sparks glanced off of bright armor, and his expression was so ill-fitting on his face that it gave him multiple kliks of pause.

Unicron was fully at the wheel now, and he’d already managed to raise his puppet’s cannon and point it at the Prime, the shriek of it powering up being all-too familiar still.

Starscream, decisively, chose to risk the missiles after all, and promptly sent two of them careening into Megatron’s (Unicron’s?) side, throwing the beast off-balance and skewing his aim.

Stealing a glance at Optimus, Starscream forced his legs to move once more, aiming for Megatron’s other side before unloading another missile into him. Unicron let out an enraged roar through his stolen vocalizer and finally turned his attentions onto Starscream for the first time.

His attentions were not pleasant. The pulsing, electric gaze pinned him like an insect to a board, and the tell-tale hiss of weapons being engaged hit Starscream’s perpetually-ringing audials.

I only have to last until Prime manages to pry open his damn chestplates and use that stupid defunct relic. That should be soon enough. 

Unicron made his puppet send a tainted fusion cannon bolt screaming towards him, of which he managed to dodge, and he retaliated with a fresh volley of blaster shots at the annoyance’s faceplate for the trouble. For all of Unicron’s unimaginable breadth of power and influence, he wasn’t as skilled with his usurped weapons as the mech in which he’d utilized them.

And for Starscream, that miniscule advantage was all he needed. He had much experience with any weapon that frame had to offer, and even more experience with the skills of their true wielder.

Likely sensing (rightly) that Starscream wouldn’t be dissuaded from protecting the Prime save death or grievous bodily harm, Unicron turned his pawn fully upon him, and Megatron’s incandescent frame marched towards him with a vicious sense of purpose.

Somehow, Starscream found it in himself to stand his ground, gripping his pistol ever-tighter. For reasons unexplainable, he was a whole lot less afraid of the thing currently wearing his old master’s plating than the true mechanism laying dormant beneath. Unicron was an objective threat, but not a personal one.

As it turned out, that clinical edge was an indispensable advantage. Every new swift, impersonal attack thrown his way reminded him further of who he was fighting—or rather, who he wasn’t.

Unicron didn’t bother taunting him. The only thing fueling his puppet’s movements was cruel efficiency.

He traded blows for as long as he was able, and with each strike he weathered he resisted the urge to look back at Optimus, for fear of reminding his attacker of just who the real threat here was. The fight couldn’t have gone on for more than a minute, but the passing of time dilated so strangely within the Unmaker’s domain that it could’ve taken a thousand vorns and he’d have been none-the-wiser.

But, with a slow-building staticky whine and the acrid scent of ozone, crystal blue light permeated throughout the chamber in a flash, and Starscream’s optics were drawn to the source almost instinctively.

Optimus’ chestplates were pried open and, directly overtop where his spark chamber would’ve been, laid the matrix of leadership—or so he could only assume. He couldn’t make out the form of it past the intense glare, but from the lights-show and the way Unicron was howling in rage and agony, he could assume it was working.

The static reached its crescendo with an audial-shattering pop, and the chamber went completely dark and the pressure dropped into the negatives.

 . . .And, so did Starscream. He was out before he even hit the ground, waking up an indeterminate amount of time later curled up on his side, now sporting a new set of dents and scratches.

His optics struggled to adjust to the newfound darkness and the endless spinning of his gyros, but he managed to lift himself enough to see Optimus sprawled out on the ground where the spark of Unicron once hovered, just as out as the lights.

He wasn’t moving.

Shoving himself to his peds, ignoring the way his struts creaked dangerously, Starscream stumbled towards him, anxiety striking him like a blade. He realized then that Optimus hadn’t actually told them how using the matrix for such a task might affect him. Did he even know himself?

He reached the fallen Prime and knelt haphazardly beside him, searching—and he wouldn’t say desperately—for any sign of life.

Miraculously, Optimus’ field still pulsed sluggishly from his frame, and with it he could sense his imminent awakening. Though, even with his low familiarity (or so he claimed), he could feel something. . . off, about his field.

And when Optimus finally awoke with a quiet groan and a fluttering of his shutters, alarms began to ring in the back of his mind.

He didn’t seem like Optimus—well, he still looked largely the same, save a few more scuffs than usual, but his face was all-but familiar from something he couldn’t quite put a name to.

Though, the most obvious oddity was the sheer level of confusion in Optimus’ optics—he couldn’t have hit his helm that hard.

Then he shifted away his battle mask unprompted, and Starscream really began to worry.

“Who. . .” Optimus trailed off, tone strangely soft in his throat, swiping his forearm across his face where his mask used to be; stranger still, his optics widened almost comically when he caught sight of his own plating.

“Did you happen to spill your processor all over the ground along with your spark, Prime?” he clicked, shaking off his unease with a flick of his wings and holding out a servo to help him up. Who would’ve thought that defeating an ancient deity with nothing but a bit of spark-power would take a lot out of someone?

Optimus blinked hard at him and the offered servo, before catching his gaze again with the slightest tilt of his helm.

“I’m. . . why did you call me that?” he asked. “And who—apologies, but who are you?”

Starscream stilled.

. . .What?

“Hello. My designation is Starscream, and your designation is Optimus Prime,” he chirped, almost hysterically, “Very nice to meet you. Please get up.” He waggled his talons for emphasis. Perhaps standing up would knock the Prime’s processor back into place.

Hopefully.

Looking supremely lost both literally and figuratively, Optimus raised a hesitant servo and allowed Starscream to help him to his peds—though he nearly took them both back down to the ground when he stumbled over his own legs like a newspark.

The alarms were only growing louder by the second.

During the laborious process of getting Optimus to stand on his own two peds—please just be a concussion please just be a concussion please just be a—the resonant sound of clanging metal rang out from behind him, and Starscream whipped around in search of its source—not that it was a tough guess.

Megatron had regained consciousness, and his engine snarled loudly as he fought his way into a standing position, lifting his gaze and staring directly at them.

Optimus and Megatron locked optics, and the Prime jolted in Starscream’s grip, optics widening once more.

“Megatronus?” he called, voice thick with a number of emotions, relief being chief among them.

The alarms reached bomb-threat-level severity.

Megatron froze in his tracks, intake half-open from an abandoned attempt at speech, faceplate shifting through a myriad of different expressions within micro-kliks. Just as quickly, Starscream ran through the facts.

Optimus was deeply confused. He didn’t recognize him nor his own name, but he recognized Megatron immediately, by his old designation. His demeanor was too yielding, and his tone too subdued.

Did Optimus provide Unicron his spine instead of the matrix?

Eventually, Megatron settled on ‘perverse delight’, and he walked quickly towards them with an unnerving smile curling his lips.

Starscream tried to shuffle away, but he still had ahold of Optimus, and he had spontaneously rooted to the ground.

“Orion Pax!” Megatron practically cooed, leaning into Optimus’ space. His gaze flicked towards him for just a moment, a violent warning hidden behind it.

Oh absolutely the frag not—

“Where are we?” Optimus (Orion?) asked, not an ounce concerned about being in such close-quarters with the very mech hellbent on his destruction.

He’s lost his mind, Starscream thought, then quickly corrected himself; No, he’s lost his memories.

He was confused by being referred to as the Prime, but found no issue with being called Orion Pax. And, while Starscream didn’t make a habit of cataloging the every move of the Primacy and its avatars, he did know that Optimus Prime, as he was now known, used to be a mech of the designation Orion Pax; before becoming the new Prime and receiving a hefty reformat, he was a simple archivist working in the Hall of Records.

Such information wasn’t widespread, but access to Soundwave’s impeccable records and unwilling exposure to Megatron’s unintelligible ramblings made the basic facts known to him.

All of that was to say: Oh Primus below and Voxus above, what am I possibly going to be able to do about this mess?

“Don’t worry about that, my friend,” Megatron side-stepped the question, then reached out to clasp Optimus (Orion.) on the shoulder. “You must not remember; you hit your helm quite hard—”

As soon as Megatron’s clawtips brushed Opt—Orion’s plating, Starscream brandished his pistol and pointed it directly at the tyrant's spark. The only thing stopping him from pulling the trigger was the way Orion physically recoiled at the sight of a firearm.

“O-Orion,” Starscream started, the old designation rolling awkwardly off his tongue, “I know you’re confused, but you have to listen to me.” He tightened his grip on Orion’s servo, spark hammering in its chamber as the words tumbled from his intake. “The mech you are looking at is not the Megatronus you knew—know.”

Keeping the gun aloft, Starscream pulled Orion back a step, and the mech tripped over himself with the simple movement, shocked lenses flicking nervously between Starscream, Megatron, and the pistol between them.

“You might not know me,” Starscream continued breathlessly, catching Orion’s gaze with an unabashed desperation.

Megatron cannot get ahold of Optimus in this state. He can’t.

“But I swear on my spark that you cannot trust that mech—”

Megatron narrowed his optics and lunged for their retreating figures, but stopped before contact, digits twitching over empty air. He was focused on Orion’s face. Orion’s very confused, very afraid face.

Megatron immediately leaned back and forced his demeanor into some worthless parody of ease.

Starscream could still hear his weapons systems running.

“‘Can’t trust me?’” Megatron repeated with a scoff. “Of course you know me, Orion. You see, that seeker is clearly insane. He intends to hold you hostage, merely to spite me.”

No matter his desire, Megatron was a poor actor—poorer still whenever Starscream was involved. The undercurrent of malicious brutality just couldn’t be hidden behind sugared tones and delicate words.

“I-I. . .” Orion stuttered, before he lost his nerve. His focus continued to bounce around the chamber.

And he took a shaky step away from Megatron.

“Orion,” Megatron implored gently, but the quick flash of anger in his optics gave him away.

But, very quickly, it ceased to matter. A bright swirling groundbridge materialized beside them, and from the triumphant tilt in Megatron’s optics, it wasn’t one of Ratchet’s doing.

Abandoning any sense of his friendly facade, Megatron’s relaxed grin dropped into a sneer and he lunged for Orion once more, no longer holding back.

Jerking away in shock, Orion both tore his servo out of Starscream’s grip and scrambled away from Megatron’s advance—but before he could make it more than a few paces, his legs buckled and he fell to the ground with an unflattering squeak and a sharp clang.

Everything happened so fast, and Starscream’s processor went a little blank. Decidedly not holding back either, he shot Megatron square in the chassis, ignoring Orion’s short gasp.

He’ll see a lot worse than that, if Megatron gets his way.

Starscream turned briefly to Orion, shaking on the ground and expressing more fear than he thought he’d ever see grace the Prime’s features, and opened his intake to demand he get up you stupid librarian, get out of the chamber and as far from that bridge as possible, but a loud boom and the collective pounding of rapid pedsteps interrupted him.

The Autobots, spontaneously relieved of door-guard duty, came crashing into the now-hollow chamber, guns hot.

Hissing, Starscream pivoted, shouting out before they had a chance to speak, “Get Optimus out of here! He’s—”

Again he was interrupted, this time by a fist slamming into his cheek, which sent him sprawling across the floor with a static buzz taking over his audials for a good few kliks.

“They’re all delusional,” Megatron growled, punctuated by the pointed clang of his steps, and Starscream looked up to find him hauling Orion up by the upper arm and all-but dragging him towards the bridge. “And you’re coming with me.”

Growing panic continued to rattle around his spark chamber (or perhaps he’d broken something again), and he flew to his peds in spite of the spots floating in his vision. The other Autobots had finally caught on enough to attack Megatron, but they were simply too far away to make it in time.

Unlike him.

Gritting his denta, Starscream forced his thrusters online and threw himself at the retreating tyrant. His landing didn’t stick—in any other scenario, he would’ve landed flat on his face—but he was too busy burying his talons into the seams of Orion’s armor for that to matter.

Sorry Pax, he thought as he pried the mech from Megatron’s grasp and threw him as far away from them as possible, I’ll apologize later.

Orion was safely out of dodge—if laying banged-up and terrified on the ground—but in Starscream’s panic his foresight was flawed; both he and Megatron were now practically on top of the Decepticons’ groundbridge.

That close to it, he could see the edges of the portal tapering and wisping into the atmosphere. It would destabilize soon.

Perfect. A vicious smile played on his lips as he twisted around and slammed a sharp heel dead-center of Megatron’s chestplate, sending him falling back into the bridge behind him.

Good riddance, you pathetic excuse for a—

A servo wrapped around his ankle and buried its claws deep enough to draw energon, dragging him into the electric green right after.

Cloying, sickening vertigo washed over him, along with the all-consuming light, until he was unceremoniously spat out onto a cold, dark metal floor.

. . .master.

The vertigo ceased but the nausea remained. Starscream forced his gaze upwards and prayed for a miracle.

Megatron shrieked as the groundbridge collapsed into neon ribbons before his optics, waving his (energon-coated) claws through the space that used to be a portal as though it would take him back to his quarry regardless.

When that obviously didn’t work, Megatron gripped the side of his helm and howled, “SOUNDWAVE! Send another groundbridge to those exact coordinates NOW!”

Silence reigned. There wasn’t another bridge, either. Of course not; groundbridge generators had cooldown periods. Megatron knew that.

So did Starscream.

No way out, you stupid seeker.

Megatron raged and stomped around and complained for all to hear, before something froze him in his tracks, intake snapping shut with an audible clack.

Burning red optics slowly turned to look down at him.

When’d they stop being purple? he wondered, perhaps a bit hysterically. His mind didn’t feel all that attached to him, in that moment.

Starscream blinked, and suddenly his back was against the wall and those burning optics were level to his own. The jittery throb in his wings and the tightness in his throat filled in the blanks well enough.

“You,” Megatron breathed, dangerously soft and close enough to feel, “are going to deeply regret ever stepping a single piston out of line.”

The claws wrapped around his neck cables tightened like a slow vice, but Starscream couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“I can promise that you will.”

Chapter Text

Ratchet stared at the scanner’s output projected into the terminal screen in front of him, unabashedly praying that it would somehow change before his optics, to display anything other than what it currently displayed.

Optimus was sitting on a medical berth at his side, fidgeting uncomfortably under all the scanners and diagnostic cables stuck into him, let alone the full and undivided attentions of everyone in the room. His gaze wandered to anything that wasn’t another mech’s face, and his digits kept curling in and out of the thin berth-pad beneath him.

It had been a very, very long time since he’d seen Optimus do anything of the sort, openly or otherwise.

His vitals were about as normal as they could be. Slightly elevated spark-rate, average processing speed—and Ratchet was ashamed to admit he was hoping for different results, if only because the alternative was far worse.

No processor damage and no spark irregularities. Optimus was still a normal, mostly healthy mech—and now, a mech with a dead matrix in his chassis, his mind sent back to a time his frame forgot. The energy required to take Unicron down had drained the matrix completely, and now Optimus could not remember the span of the entire war.

The reality of the situation was slapping him directly in the face about every minute or so, in no small part due to the wisp of an archivist wearing the frame of Optimus Prime that sat before him, hunched over on the medical berth and staring resolutely at the floor.

The rest of the Autobots were hovering around the room, getting progressively more concerned as Ratchet’s silent examination went on. He could practically feel the sheer weight of all the questions they were dying to ask—and worse still, the resident human company held no such restraint.

“Is the machine telling you why Optimus is acting so weird?” Miko asked, completely missing the mood of the room. At least she had the good sense to sound worried.

Ratchet gripped the keyboard edge even tighter. He didn’t have time to snap.

“It might as well be,” he muttered instead of screaming inarticulately at the sky, finally freeing the terminal from his grasp to dig around his subspace for a spare datapad. “And unfortunately, it’s not an ailment I can fix, as it stands.” Ratchet connected the datapad to his console and downloaded some key files, then locked it and handed it over to Opti—Orion. He was Orion Pax, now.

“Here, read this. It’s chronological.”

Orion jumped slightly, but took the tablet all the same. “. . .Thank you,” he said, sounding unbearably lost.

Don’t thank me yet. You have no idea what’s on that thing.

“So do you know what’s up with him, Ratch?” Bulkhead blurted out, showing hardly any more restraint than his ward. Orion twitched and kept his gaze down.

“It seems he’s lost a substantial portion of his memories,” Ratchet sighed, finally turning to face the rest of the room. “Speaking more specifically, I believe that, when Optimus used the matrix to dispel Unicron’s influence, the matrix was completely drained of power—and thus rendered no longer functional. As a result, Optimus has reverted back to who he was before he became the Prime.”

Ratchet stole a glance at the mech sitting at his side, frame taut and finials bowed, staring blankly at the documents before him and clearly not reading a single glyph of them.

“Mentally reverted, that is,” he added, looking away reluctantly. “Physically, he remains largely unchanged.”

The room fell silent as the full extent of the situation sank in. His teammates glanced at each other in disbelief while the humans looked on with confusion.

Clenching his jaw, Ratchet worked to update Optimus’ file, not that it was the most pressing task at the moment. He just needed something to do with his servos.

Bumblebee broke the silence first. “You’re sure it’s not just processor damage? He was pretty banged up when we pulled him from the chamber. . .” He trailed off uncomfortably.

“I was checking for that earlier,” Ratchet responded gruffly, trying not to snap at the young mech. “There’s nothing wrong with him besides some scrapes and a dead matrix. That’s the only explanation for this. . . situation.”

“You mean, Optimus wasn’t always all strong and leader-y?” Miko exclaimed in a hush.

“He wasn’t always. . . Optimus Prime?” Raf added softly.

Ratchet bit his glossa for what had to be the thousandth time. For how terribly strange the whole situation was, the explanation he needed to provide them all with was shockingly simple. To give it right in front of Orion though, felt needlessly gauche. Cruel, even.

His attention flicked back to Orion. He still wasn’t actually reading that document.

The thing was, Ratchet also didn’t want to let Orion out of his sight.

“No mechanism is created a Prime of Cybertron,” Ratchet began, mostly for the humans’ sake. “It is a title to be earned. Mere cycles—days before the Autobot-Decepticon war was officially declared, one of the archivists of the Iaconian Hall of Records—” He flicked a servo towards his patient. “—Orion Pax, was chosen to inherit the matrix of leadership by both the Council and the matrix itself following the assassination of Sentinel Prime. The matrix overhauled his frame with a reformat and. . .” Ratchet paused, expression screwed, “’Imparted upon him the wisdom of the Primes’,” he quoted, tone plainly irreverent.

Huffing derisively, Ratchet turned away from his uneasy onlookers. “My assumption is that the matrix’s integration with his processor resulted in any and all memories created during and since its implantation to become attached to it—and because the matrix is powered down at the moment, so too are the bulk of his memory banks inaccessible.”

The humans blinked at him, silent for once, while the other mecha merely glanced at each other, uncertain.

Many knew of Optimus Prime, naturally, but far less knew of his origins as Orion Pax. It wasn’t a secret, necessarily, but it was one of the many little details lost amongst the chaos of Sentinel’s—well-deserved, don’t get him wrong—deactivation and the subsequent onset of a planetary civil war. The mech formerly known as Orion Pax did indeed exist at one point, but anything beyond that wasn’t seen as relevant by many, and as far into the decimation of their species as they were, historians were in short-supply.

Not relevant, except to those who might’ve potentially given a damn, a group of which Ratchet found himself planted squarely in the middle of—all of which was besides the point, because he was forgetting the actual problem at play here.

And, as Orion gazed blankly down at his own life story laid before him, Ratchet started to realize that ‘relevance’ and ‘things he gave a damn about’ were now overlapping.

Or crashing head-on into each other. Either-or.

“As it stands,” Ratchet sighed, “Optimus—now Orion, doesn’t remember anything since the beginning of the war and beyond, and the only way his condition could be reversed is by re-activating the matrix.”

Another stiff, charged silence filled the command deck (and Primus, was he getting sick of being the one filling that silence). There wasn’t anything to say on the matter regardless; the infeasibility of reactivating the matrix was self-evident.

Steeling himself, Ratchet turned to Orion. There were factors besides practicalities at play here—perhaps less relevant, but still important to those who gave a damn; Ratchet again.

“How are you holding up?” Ratchet asked, not trusting himself not to stumble over the old designation, looking at him now.

Orion startled at the address, looking up at him with wide, sad optics. He was still stuck on the first page of the document.

“This is n-n—” His words tripped over themselves, and Orion cringed as he started over. “This isn’t hyperbole, is it?”

Everything in his demeanor begged Ratchet to correct him, but he couldn’t.

“Cybertron’s. . . the planet’s. . .” Orion trailed off. Ratchet set his mouth in a firm line and nodded, resisting the urge to look away.

“And—and. . .” Orion faltered, trying to collect himself. “And Megatronus—”

His intake clicked shut. His gaze snapped down to the document for a long moment.

“Megatron,” he finally corrected, miserably.

Ratchet grimaced, and really did look away that time. He didn’t nod, if only because Orion already knew the answer. Saw it first-hand, even, in that damned cavern.

Orion balked, discontented. “Why—why wou—”

He stopped abruptly again, but made no move to speak back up. He kept frantically scanning over the datapad, searching for Primus-knows-what.

Ratchet didn’t have to answer that question either, with the answer laid out right in front of him.

“Is there any way to, ah, re-charge the matrix?” Bumblebee asked quietly, breaking through the emotional fog like a brick through glass. “I know it’s. . . well. . . is there a way?”

Ratchet rapped his digits against the terminal. Now that he thought about it, Bumblebee was likely too young to have been taught about Vector Sigma or how the matrix worked. He sighed. More explanations. “Yes, but. . . the only way to do so is entirely beyond our means as of right. . .”

He trailed off, audials twitching. His digits stilled, but the tapping remained.

Swinging around, Ratchet faced the humans huddled together on the warehouse catwalk, fully prepared to reprimand whoever was so irreverent as to interrupt him, but the words died in his throat. 

Jack, leant against the railing and staring deep into the middle distance, held a silvery glowing data-key in his hands and was thoughtlessly tapping it against the metal; clearly a device of Cybertronian design.

It took only a few micro-kliks after that to understand exactly what the device actually was.

“Where did you get that?” Ratchet asked, nearly demanded of the boy, but the patent misery of this awful day left him with little energy to check his tone.

Jack, for his part, hardly flinched under the scrutiny, though he did seem confused, and held out the device to him for a better look. “This?” he asked, practically rhetorically. “Optimus gave it to me right before he went after Unicron—said it was the key to the groundbridge’s power supply.” Jack tilted his head after a moment, glancing between the data-key and Ratchet. “You’ve. . . never seen it? You practically own the groundbridge, Ratchet.”

“There is no key to the groundbridge power supply, it’s all hooked up to—” He cut himself off, shaking his helm. “That’s unimportant,” he said, reaching out—carefully—to take the thin slab of filigreed metal from Jack, anxious to inspect the device.

Once in his palm, the data-key unfolded out of itself from human-sized to its proper Cybertronian form, letting Ratchet see its every minute groove and spark and leaving no room for doubt.

“This is the key to Vector Sigma,” Ratchet exclaimed, nearly incredulous. He straightened suddenly, staring back down at Jack’s confused, worried face. “You said Optimus just—handed it to you? Prior to leaving for Unicron’s spark?”

“Yeah?” Jack confirmed. “Right after he got back from bringing Megatron here.” The boy started looking nervous. “What’s Vector Sigma? Why would Optimus lie about giving me the key to it?”

More importantly, why would Optimus give you the key in the first place?

Ratchet could offer a guess as to the answer to Jack’s last question, and he liked it about as much as he liked this whole situation.

“Vector Sigma is a place of utmost importance on Cybertron,” Ratchet explained, pulling up a few files on the subject meanwhile. The glistening key stayed clutched in his servos. “It is a monument to a great many things, but in regards to the key, it is a repository of the Prime’s power. It’s the only thing that can revive the matrix. And since he gave you the key. . .”

I would never be so bold as to call Optimus an idiot, but. . . oh who am I kidding? Optimus must’ve had his helm shoved deep enough in his aft to hear his own spark turn to make a decision like this.

“It has imprinted on your EM signature, and so you are the only one capable of utilizing it,” he finished.

“What?”

Both Jack and Nurse Darby spoke at once, but the older human was far more incensed.

“How can that be the case?” she continued, glaring up at him. “And—what? You gave him of all people that fancy relic, so you expect me to send my son off to some far-off alien planet to deal with your problems?” She nearly spat the words at him, not that he begrudged her anger; he’d imagine that if he had a young creation, he’d be just as furious as her at the idea of putting them in harm’s way.

Images of a gutted vocalizer flashed across his gaze, but he shook them away quickly.

Ratchet leant down to address her properly. “First of all, I didn’t do anything—for whatever reasons he had, Optimus was the one who entrusted Jack with the key, and as it stands, we sure well cannot ask him why. Second of all, this would only matter if we had a way to get to Vector Sigma, which we simply don’t.”

June lifted her chin, arms crossed. “And if you did?”

The question caught him off-guard. It’d been so far-fetched to him that he’d never even considered it. Now that he was, though, he was acutely aware of how binary his choices were, if they were to somehow find a way onto Cybertron.

Either they have Jack carry the key to Vector Sigma himself and use it to reactivate the matrix, however that would come to pass, or they would have to leave Optimus without his memories, forever.

He knew in his spark which option he preferred, but it was all-the-harder to pose to a protective carrier.

At once, he broke eye-contact with June. “I believe that is to be discussed with your son, Nurse Darby.”

“Yeah—Mom,” Jack piped up, stepping forward. “Why shouldn’t I help them? Optimus lost his memories to save the Earth! The least I can do is. . . use that key thing.”

June turned to her son, incredulous. “You’d be using it on an alien planet!”

Jack was visibly undeterred by the notion.

“You’re sixteen,” June stressed.

“So? I’m basically an adult!”

June stopped for a long second, then grabbed his wrist and began dragging him to the back of the room. “We are talking about this elsewhere.”

“Wait!” Jack stumbled after his mother, but held back to look at Ratchet. June reluctantly stopped. “You didn’t answer my other question; Why did Optimus lie to me?” The boy sounded nearly hurt by the notion.

It hurt Ratchet too, because if his suspicions were correct—and they often were—then he knew why. And he hated it.

Ratchet’s grip on the keyboard tightened dangerously. “The reason he would lie. . .”

He quickly released the terminal for fear of breaking it, curling his servos into trembling fists instead. 

“He gave you the key because he did not expect to return—he lied because he knew that I—” He swallowed thickly, then tried again. “I would not have let him leave with that sort of plan in mind.”

The weight of the truth laid heavy on the Autobots, not least of all on Orion Pax, stayed curled over on the medical berth, looking for all the world like he wanted to melt into the floor and stay there.

Suppose Optimus was right to worry, in the end. He didn’t return from that damned mission, Orion did.

There wasn’t even anything left of Optimus for him to seethe at, with Orion less-than culpable for his future self’s truly horrid sense of self-worth.

“Since we have the key, ain’t it still possible for us to fix th’ Pri—the matrix, I mean?” Bulkhead asked, wringing his servos.

Ratchet tried biting his tongue, but his already short fuse was growing damn-near nonexistent as the seconds ticked by. “If you somehow haven’t noticed, we aren’t quite on Cybertron at the moment.”

“Couldn’t we use the groundbridge?” Raf asked, unperturbed by his raging. “Expand its range or something?”

“Yeah!” Miko added, “Aren’t groundbridges and spacebridges the same thing?”

“If they were the same thing they’d have the same name,” he groused. “And, the amount of time, power, and materials necessary to reverse-engineer a spacebridge from a groundbridge is simply infeasible. Not even the Decepticons and all their resources managed to build one yet, and they’ve been at it for years.”

“But, what if instead of building a whole ‘bridge, we accelerate the groundbridge’s output enough to temporarily boost its distance range—is that possible?” Raf asked hopefully.

Ratchet sighed. “That would be. . . theoretically possible.” Maybe. “I could try that later.” Maybe again. He didn’t want to get the younglings’ hopes up. It wouldn’t do them any good.

The command center fell silent once more, without him carrying the conversation. Ratchet counted down the kliks until he assumed someone would reveal another world-shattering issue.

Sure enough—

“We, ah. . . there’s still something we have to report, Ratchet. . .” Bumblebee clicked hesitantly, trailing off as Ratchet turned his heated gaze upon him.

“Out with it then.” Ratchet flicked a servo at him, in no mood for more surprises. He could hardly conceive of what other blight could possibly contribute to this mess.

“W-when Megatron got away, he—he captured Starscream.”

“Presumably,” Arcee added quickly, tone as irreverent as one would assume.

“We only managed to bust into the chamber right in the middle of whatever was going on,” Bulkhead continued, “But it looked like Screamer was fighting with Megatron while he was tryin’ to drag Prime into a bridge, and the two of ‘em fell through it an’ left Prime behind.”

All of it was said in a rush, each member of the team gauging Ratchet’s reaction—but Ratchet was frozen in place.

Starscream—he too had been on that pit-spawned mission, and he hadn’t returned. Ratchet was so used to Starscream holing up in his hab during debriefs that, with everything that’d happened from his sending for a return bridge and since, he’d completely forgotten the newest mecha on his list of responsibilities.

“Damn it all!” Ratchet barked, pushing back against the console in front of him. “How in the Pit are we supposed to stage a rescue mission alongside having to fix all this other scrap?”

Orion watched him with soft optics as he spiraled, while the others winced. Arcee in particular seemed nearly affronted.

“Who said we were going to stage a rescue for him?” she asked cooly, venom practically dripping off her tongue.

Jolting where he stood, Bumblebee whipped around and beeped harshly at her, while Bulkhead shifted in place, silent.

Ratchet narrowed his optics. “I would assume it wouldn’t need said,” he countered lowly, meeting her defiant gaze head-on. “Like it or not, Starscream is an Autobot soldier at this point, and has been for a time. That grants him the support afforded to all Autobot soldiers; Optimus officiated it as such.”

“Optimus,” she hissed, gesturing pointedly at his patient, “doesn’t even remember his own designation as of late. Whatever orders he may or may not have given take a bit less of a priority than that!”

Ratchet decided to ignore her borderline-treasonous statements (Optimus had a habit of doing that as well, which had probably caused multiple of their current problems), and leaned forward. “Good thing he was in full possession of all his faculties when he instituted those codes.” He crossed his arms. “The question should be how we will be managing the rescue, not if.” He trailed off and muttered as he started typing into the sparse little document acting as a sorry excuse for a mission brief. “Not that it’ll be easy.”

What do they know as of that moment? Unicron was banished, but had taken Optimus’ mind with him. Megatron captured Starscream in turn, and was doing Primus-knew-what to him as they spoke. The only way to ‘fix’ Optimus would be to send an alien child off to a dead planet in the hope that he’d locate Vector Sigma, figure out how to operate it and it’s key properly, all without dying in the process—nothing of which even mattered, because they have no way of getting to Cybertron in the first-fragging-place.

Anything else?

. . .Ah right, of course. He could hear Fowler’s cellular device making a racket, which usually meant that they’d all have to drop everything they were doing and go on another on-demand mission in order to redirect the ire of the human government. Again.

Who is second-in-command of this damned place, because it better not be me. 

The real answer was likely hidden in the depths of some operative file or another (his primary guess was Arcee; Starscream’s poor luck precedes him) but, unfortunately for his mental-emotional wellbeing, most of Optimus’ responsibilities end up falling onto him eventually, whenever he ends up indisposed.

And, sure enough. . .

“Oh, son of a—” Click. “‘Yellow?” . . . “No, how would I’ve—” . . . “The Earth just managed to be swiped back from robo-satan’s clutches, a few minutes of downtime is reasonable, I think!” . . . “Fine.” . . . “I’ll be right on it, sir.”

The phone clicked off, and Fowler muttered something about ‘using my vacation days.’ He then sighed and turned back to face them, clearly having trouble trying to figure out which of the mecha were actually in charge now, before he settled on addressing Ratchet.

Great.

“The ‘Cons are raiding yet another high-priority military compound as of a minute ago, and they seem to be aiming for some of the experimental tech they have locked up there. Seems like they didn’t appreciate your lot taking away their previously-stolen goods and decided to come back for more.”

Of course they couldn’t catch a moment to breathe after everything that had happened. That would almost be kind.

“They’re still trying to activate that spacebridge, huh?” Ratchet muttered, glancing at his screen. Louder, “You three,” he nodded towards his teammates, “are going out to go deal with that. Keep the targeted technology from being taken, avoid human casualties and unnecessary exposure, etcetera.” After that truly rousing speech, Ratchet activated a bridge with the coordinates kindly provided by agent Fowler. 

This is why I refuse to take any position higher in rank than CMO, he thought as the three mecha sped away without much more than a few stilted ‘Yes sir’s. It was an act of mercy both to himself and any potential subordinates of his.

Ratchet eyed the bridge as it closed, then sighed as he pulled up the mechanical specifications of the groundbridge on the main screen.

“Are those the groundbridge configurations?” Raf asked, leaning over the railing. His enthusiasm would’ve been endearing if not for the circumstances. “Are you going to try increasing its range?”

“I’m not going to do anything while the others are out.” Where would they be if he managed to break the groundbridge before bringing everyone back to base? “But,” he sighed, “I can try to make it work.”

Raf stared intently up at him with big, glittering eyes.

Another sigh. “Yes, you can help.”

The boy smiled brightly and started pulling a variety of notebooks and electronics from his bag, rambling on about his ideas and theories on bridging technology. The endless passion of sparklings was enviable, really.

With the humans more-than-not occupied with their various obligations, Ratchet steadied himself with a long in-vent.

“Have you finished reading that thing yet?” He knew Orion was stalling, but Ratchet really wished he’d stall at a better time. As much as he hated the thought, the sooner Orion was both caught up to speed and through with his impending emotional breakdown, the sooner they’d be able to get on with fixing anything.

. . .Perhaps the war had made him worse as a person. Slowly but surely.

“I stopped at a third,” Orion responded quietly. “I think I got the general idea down, right about then.”

The bitterness was new, and Ratchet turned to find Orion clutching the sheets hard enough to tear. He couldn’t even begin to pin down the expression on his face.

“You can skip to the most recent section, if you’d prefer,” he offered. “From the point we crashed on Earth and onward.”

“Is that what this planet is called?” Orion murmured as he scrolled down.

Ratchet hummed an affirmative. “The bipedal organics you’ve seen around here are called humans. They’re the dominant sentients on this planet.”

“Ah,” he responded mildly. Ratchet had been hoping to see some spark of curiosity in his crystal optics, but they were as flat as ever.

Ratchet turned away to let him read in peace, typing some simple procedures for trialing the groundbridge in the meanwhile. He was content to let Raf do much of the suggesting.

It only took him a couple minutes to speak back up. He’d always been a fast reader.

“I have questions.” His voice hardly reached his audials.

“I’d be worried if you didn’t have questions,” Ratchet tried to joke, turning back to him.

Orion’s lips hardly twitched.

“Alright.” Ratchet dropped his arm and returned to the terminal. He told himself it was because he was eager to get back to work. “Ask away.”

𑁋⭑✦♜✦⭑𑁋

Knockout was not having a good cycle. In fact, he would be confident in saying that the past however-many cycles it’d been since Starscream’s defection had been some of the worst he’d ever lived through; almost exclusively courtesy of one dear Lord Megatron.

If the mech was crazy before their air-commander’s disappearing act, then Knockout had no words for his behavior now—without even taking the big mech’s dark energon usage into account, which was its own type of ordeal.

Under that kind of dedicated and magnanimous leadership, it was a genuine miracle that any ‘Con aboard the Nemesis remained functional for any length of time (sans the vehicons of course, mild-mannered paper soldiers as they were).

“If I ever see Starscream again,” Knockout began, apropos of nothing, “I fear I may just have to apologize for every time I ever insinuated he didn’t contribute anything to the cause.” He gave a melodramatic sigh as he wiped down a set of scalpels that had certainly seen better days. “Do you remember when we had a commanding officer who would actually talk to us? Starscream might’ve been chatty but at least I knew what was going on half the time!”

Breakdown glanced at him briefly from where he was draining a bucket of filthy solvent down the waste disposal and acknowledged his complaining with a shrug. “More like talk at us, but I see what you mean.” He quickly rinsed the bucket before dropping it and nudging it under the cleaning shelf. “I kinda miss getting news at regular intervals—Megatron doesn’t tell me slag about scrap when he sends me out to do his dirty work.”

“Well,” Knockout hummed, gesturing mildly with one of the blades, “you could always ask Soundwave. I’m sure he knows all the ‘who’s what’s’ and all that.”

Breakdown balked as though he’d suggested to shove his arm into a live smelting pit. “Talk to Soundwave? Willingly? Sounds like a great way to get deactivated, if you’re pressed for time and ideas. You ‘n I both saw the smackdown he laid on Airachnid, like, two days ago.”

“You’re not staging a coup,” he scoffed. “You’re asking some clarifying questions of your boss.”

“Yeah? They fraggin’ hate ‘clarifying questions’ around here.” Breakdown jabbed a digit at him. “You talk t’ him. I’ll watch.”

“No thank you,” Knockout said quickly, before glancing up at the shadowy corners of the ceiling. “You could also speak your queries directly at the walls.” Metal clanged as he dropped his tools into the washing basin. “A little birdy once told me he’s got audials in there.”

“Don’t say that!” Breakdown hissed, glancing wildly around the medbay as though the spymaster himself would apparate beside them if they weren’t looking. “I dunno ‘bout you, but I don’t want to piss off the mech responsible for half our mission assign—”

Breakdown cut himself off as a new high-priority ping splashed across Knockout’s HUD. Chances were, his partner had just gotten the same.

With a healthy amount of trepidation borne from being in the Decepticon army for so long, he opened the ping, which was—oh happy days—sent by Soundwave himself. Much like the mech in-person, his messages were short and to the point.

‘New mission assignment: Approaching medical bay. ETA: One minute—local time.’

“At least he’s in a good enough mood to mock us,” Knockout griped.

“Why’d you have to go and start talking about him,” Breakdown whined, “You summoned him!”

“Oh, that’s just superstition and you know. . . it.”

Slow, heavy pedsteps clamored against the metal floors of the Nemesis, growing louder by the second. Knockout trailed off in kind.

Those steps most certainly did not belong to the Decepticon third-in-command. In fact, there was only one mech on the ship capable of sucking the air out of a room before even entering it.

Like a switch flipped, he and Breakdown silently resumed cleaning the medbay, dreading whatever inane task their leader needed them to perform.

One minute, on the dot, since Soundwave’s ping later and the medbay door slid open with a sharp schink, with no more warning than a cursory proximity ping—two proximity pings, at that.

Odd. He could’ve sworn there was only one set of pedsteps. . .

Abruptly, and without so much as a heads up, the mangled, twisted frame of some poor unfortunate mechanism hit the ground near Knockout’s peds, and worryingly cool energon splattered over his peds.

The doctor paled, and a chill rushed down his backstrut, but he wasn’t stupid enough to take his optics off of Megatron while he was in a mood. Breakdown, bless his spark, was never one to be so stoic, and a shuddering gasp rang out through the silent medbay from behind him.

Thank the Creator, the Unmaker, and everything in between, because Megatron paid the big mech no mind. In fact, judging by the strange, clouded look on his face, he was in short-supply of much cognizance as it stood.

“See to it that this wretch is repaired to the point of stable processor functioning, but no further,” Megatron ordered, in lieu of a greeting. He failed to acknowledge the litres of bright energon painting his front nor the near-corpse he’d left at Knockout’s peds like some kind of misguided cat. “Quickly, if you value your, might I say, covetous position on this ship.”

Megatron’s engine growled in warning, and Knockout found himself nodding before he even fully processed the demand.

“Why of course, my liege!” he tittered, privately wondering why they would ever need to give someone a so purposefully half-baked repair job. A prisoner, perhaps? “I’ll have it done in no time, worry you not.”

His leader’s gaze narrowed dangerously at the display, but after a few long, torturous moments of silent optic-contact, Megatron nodded sharply and turned away, leaving just as quickly as he came.

“There will be three armed guards stationed outside until I return for my prisoner. Do not leave the medbay until then.”

With that charming little sign-off, the tyrant was gone and the door slammed shut behind him. Still, their vents were held as long as it took for the echo of pedsteps to retreat.

Knockout recovered quicker than his companion, who was still frozen and staring, horrified, at the frame sprawled on the floor. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Megatron had made it clear that neither of them had the free time to gawk at this week’s latest monstrosity.

“Breakdown, get them onto a berth—I certainly can’t work my magic with my patient on the. . .”

His vocalizer failed him as he finally looked down at the wrecked mechanism. Something clawed at the back of his processor as he stared at them. It took him far longer than he’d like to admit to find their faceplate amongst the mess of cracked armor and congealed energon, but once he had, he was struck by its familiarity.

With half his face smashed in and leaking fuel Knockout could still distinguish the unmistakable figure of former air commander Starscream, though seemingly lifeless as it were.

Knockout’s spark dropped to his peds. Despite his enduring common sense and any notion of faction loyalty—which for him was, admittedly, little—he’d hoped that Starscream could’ve lasted just a bit longer outside the twisted grasp of the Nemesis and its Master. As hardly-cordial and strictly professional(-ish) their relationship had been, he still didn’t particularly enjoy seeing the poor seeker. . . well, looking the way he did right about now.

Still, he had a job to do and a life or two to preserve, so the moral-emotional crisis of consciousness would have to wait.

“Quickly now, Breakdown,” he called, carefully stepping away to collect his tools—of which he’d be needing practically all of, from the looks of things. “I’m sure we haven’t got all day.”

Snapping to, Breakdown shook himself from his stupor and scooped Starscream up, slowly carrying him to the nearest medical berth and taking care not to aggravate any of the open wounds (not that the effort helped much; Starscream’s entire frame was one big weeping gash at that point). Breakdown winced as Starscream’s shredded wings and backplates hit the smooth metal.

“While you’re at it, hook him to spark-support and check his vitals.” Knockout stole another glance at Starscream. “. . .And start him on an energon drip.” Considering the fact that a good ten-to-twenty liters worth of energon was now decorating both his floors and his peds. He made a note to deep-clean those seams later.

“His spark output is unusually high,” Breakdown said as Knockout shoved the equipment cart towards the berth.

“Starscream’s always ran high,” Knockout sighed, dumping two doses worth of line coagulant into the energon drip as soon as it was set up—how Breakdown found a workable line port so quickly was beyond him, but he wasn’t complaining. “The fault of a mild spark anomaly of his, I believe—not that he’s ever let me check, the paranoid little scraplet.”

The sheer amount of spilt fuel covering Starscream made it hard to know where to start, but Breakdown’s quick work with a washcloth revealed the worst of the injuries. The pattern was familiar, even. In the way of punishments, Megatron was thorough but precise. Most wounds were arranged with the most pain and discomfort in mind, but potential deadlier injuries were avoided. Hence, Starscream’s wings and limbs were all-but torn to ribbons, but his chassis and helm were only marred superficially—superficial in Megatron’s optics, that is. Half of such wounds would be enough to make even the strongest soldier retreat.

Though, retreat tended to be a little difficult when one was trapped with their adversary.

Murmuring something about having ‘half the mind to dump a bucket of solvent on him and be done with it,’ Knockout peppered Starscream’s frame in quick, messy (Primus, that was going to bother him forever) welds to any split energon lines he could easily reach, grimacing.

What exactly did Megatron mean by, ‘stable processor functioning, but no further?’ I don’t feel like being summarily executed just because His Lordship didn’t feel like being specific.

Knockout managed to quell all but the most minor of split lines, and was now, and started looking over the struts with a frown. Snapped primary struts needed mending, of course, but secondary and tertiary struts? Were they ‘essential’ enough? Say what you would about him, but he never half-afted his job, if only for perfectionism’s sake.

Well, he’ll certainly have the time to consider his options, when splinting all of the primary struts would take him at least an hour. Silver linings?

Lines, then struts, then mesh, armor, and etcetera. All the while he kept an optic on Starscream’s vital readout, just in case the seeker pulled a sudden nosedive and started coding, but Knockout had long-resigned himself to the medical miracle that was (ex-) Commander Starscream, and he knew that seeing him expire once and for all was even less than unlikely.

Even so, Starscream really outdid himself and, while Knockout was soldering shut a particularly large tear in his thigh’s under-armor mesh, woke up.

I mean, Knockout thought bitterly as he watched his patient’s processor activity jerk clumsily into the ‘thinking and (poor fragger) feeling’ range, Primus forbid he act normal, even when it comes to baseline Cybertronian functioning. I swear it’s an attention thing.

Mere kliks after his readings rose above the required reading for a coma, Starscream’s remaining functional optic onlined to a dull, faded magenta, squinted against the harsh operation lighting. It was doubtful he could see much past his helm crest

Knockout hummed and turned back to his work. “Funny seeing you here, herr kommandant. It’s been a while.” The mesh was safely sealed and taped, and only then did Knockout pull his servos out of Starscream’s thigh and hold a few digits in front of his dull optics. He timed the micro-kliks it took for his lenses to follow the movement on his chrono.

. . .Too long to be healthy, that was for certain.

Starscream clicked his vocalizer at him, gaze still half-lidded. Considering how calm he was along with the complete lack of writhing and screaming, his pain and damage sensors weren’t online yet. All the better, at this point. For all their sakes, Knockout would wait on repairing them for the time being.

“Can you online your vocalizer for me, dear?” He leant over to inspect his neck cables. On the other side of the berth, Breakdown mouthed, ‘How is he awake right now?’

Knockout shrugged. Starscream clicked again; it was oddly reminiscent of the sounds sparklings would make, before their vocal components fully activated.

“Alright, let’s see. . .” He poked at the cables, shifting past the overwhelming amount of crushing damage to mess with the vox breaker, flipping it on and off a few times. “There?”

Knockout pulled away, resisting the urge to straighten the cables out and pull the dents. ‘But no further,’ he’d said. Can’t have their Autobot (?) prisoner (?) looking all put-together, Megatron wanted him only half put-together.

“Mn,” Starscream replied intelligently.

“Good to hear it,” Knockout chirped, then motioned for Breakdown to scan Starscream’s helm for the degree of processor damage currently present.

Starscream shrank away from the scanner, but thankfully made no move to claw at it; his limbs had been so battered that Knockout had felt no need nor want to cuff him to the berth. As the scanner ran, Starscream clicked again.

A few moments later, Breakdown showed him the readout, and Knockout winced.

Exactly how functional did Megatron want Starscream’s processor?

While Knockout debated how many multiples of cycles he could realistically ask for to let his patient’s neural wiring to piece itself back together from shambles, Starscream suddenly stiffened where he lay, talons scratching against the metal berth.

“Put a double dose of high-strength pain blockers into the fuel drip,” he told Breakdown. Curse Starscream’s pit-spawned self-repair nanites. He’d hoped those sensors would’ve stayed offline a little longer.

With a flash of his blown-out optics, Starscream arched off the berth—or at least made a feeble attempt at doing so—and cried out through thick, shuddering static.

Knockout cursed under his breath and had Breakdown hold the flailing seeker down before he broke even more of himself. 

“Get-ge-t-g—t-t—” His pleas were quiet, if only because his vocalizer was so shot that it couldn’t produce anything louder, all the while he scrabbled weakly against Breakdown’s grasp. Knockout quickly prepared a hefty drug cocktail strong enough to put even Starscream’s anomalous aft into stasis, and just as quickly injected the whole thing into his neck line port.

Starscream struggled fruitlessly for a couple kliks longer, until the drugs kicked in and he slumped back onto the berth, shutters fluttering closed once more.

Knockout shared a meaningful look with Breakdown.

“We have got to get this,” he waved at the general area of Starscream’s frame, “put into at least a workable state before he shakes that off.”

Breakdown winced. “But Megatron said—”

“Megatron’s no doctor. He doesn’t know what necessary maintenance is or isn’t.” Obviously, he added silently, considering the state of some of the vehicons he makes me release.

Breakdown looked skeptical, but kept quiet as Knockout pried damn-near half his patient’s plating off and helped him patch and smooth the dents of all the worst blunt-force trauma. Knockout also planned his patented excuse speech full of fancy terms like ‘extremity-based psychosomaticism’ and ‘intermesh venous hemorrhaging’ in case Megatron suddenly felt like playing medibot.

He and his partner worked in relative silence and, save for a simple, ‘Query: Estimated project completion time?’ ping from Soundwave, with few distractions. They managed to get Starscream’s sparkrate and line pressure stabilized, and all neural-sensor connections were mended. Most of the work came down to reverse-engineering uncrushed armor out of the mangled remains of what used to be plating, without further damaging any key components—and that was to say nothing of their future functioning.

His right knee was a complete lost cause. It was simply too wrecked to have a chance of recovery, and Knockout wasn’t sure that Megatron’s ignorance of medicine would protect him from the ramifications of ordering a whole replacement part from storage.

Reluctantly, and with no small amount of internal reproach, he settled for splinting the entire leg rigid-straight and gutting the used-to-be-a-joint.

The left knee was more salvageable, though not without complications, and the arms had more cosmetic damage than anything—relatively speaking. Thick gouges and claw wounds, as they were, but armor patches would do the trick.

By the time they were through with him, Starscream looked like he’d been run over by only one train instead of twelve, and not a moment too soon, because their dear ex-commander had already burned through enough knockout (Ha.) drugs to keep a normal mech down for days in merely four hours, and was waking up. Again.

Here’s to hoping for a better return to consciousness, Screamy.

Starscream came to slowly, and fortunately with less flailing. When Knockout brushed his frame, he could feel that his field was coiled tight with pain.

Nothing to be done about that, really. Knockout didn’t have painkillers strong enough to fight with Starscream’s messy software and overactive firewalls.

“Back so soon, Starscream?” he curred quietly, keeping a close optic on his levels. “I suppose you just can’t get enough of me, hmm?”

Starscream didn’t outwardly respond, but his field twisted in confusion and his talons twitched against the berth. Before Knockout had the chance to check if he’d managed to short his visual processors since the last bout of wakefulness, his left optic flickered on. Its lens dilated and contracted over and over again—perhaps they were broken after all?—until they finally focused on some point in the middle distance. 

“Starscream?” Knockout repeated slowly.

At the address, Starscream’s field skewed distinctly miserable.

“Oh, kommandant,” Knockout sighed, patting his cockpit gently as he stepped closer to his helm. He pinged Breakdown to open up more monitor channels on Starscream’s essential processors. He felt bad for the seeker, he really did, but he also preferred living to deactivation, so his job he would complete.

“I know we haven’t been on the best of terms lately, but I thought we were at least cordial,” he tried to joke.

In the back of his vocalizer, Starscream made a truly piteous noise. Knockout grimaced.

“No, I agree—not a great time for a reunion,” he went on, pressing the pads of his digits against some of the less injured areas of his faceplate, in an attempt to get Starscream to focus on anything that wasn’t the ceiling. “But, I still have to check how well that marvelous processor of yours is working, and that means a bit of talking.”

Starscream’s gaze dragged painstakingly towards his digits, and Knockout quickly retracted them when he saw that calculating tilt that often came with being bitten. The noise he made then was far less feeble than before.

“Look, Starscream, we can either have a proper, hopefully less-than-excruciating conversation to check your processor, or I can go over the textbook ‘age, creation date, stellar cycle, current Prime’ questions, and I know how much you love answering those questions every time you’re in here.”

Starscream sent him a vicious glare. 

Knockout had to give it to him, he wouldn’t have been nearly as spirited if he were in his peds right about now, but it also wasn’t making his life any easier.

They stared each other down for a few long seconds, then Starscream’s optic flickered.

“I-I’m—wai-wa-ting-g,” he spat, impressively forceful through the static interference. “Go—o-o-n. Ta-l—k.”

Why, that was the attitude he knew and tolerated. About time—though the glitchy vocalizer was a bit of a drag.

But, he could also sense the air of genuine hostility in the other’s demeanor. It set something heavy weighing on his internals. They’d never been friends per se, but they’d been friendly, hadn’t they?

Knockout forced his field level and focused his attentions on Starscream’s vocalizer as he spoke. “So, you’ve been playing for the other team, eh?” It was Knockout’s best guess—and a likely one, with how Megatron kept on about it. 

Starscream glare held steady. “Yes-s,” he answered simply. It was clear in his tone that his curtness had little to do with his damaged voice.

Knockout barely kept from sighing, glancing briefly at the processor scanners. Decent speed and recall—considering the circumstances. Megatron’s standards are beyond me, though.

“And what of the Autobots, hm? How are they holding up?” he asked absently, moving from the vocalizer (whatever was wrong with it couldn’t be fixed without taking the whole thing apart or waiting for the nanites to do it, and he certainly hadn’t the time for either of those) on to his helm, looking for any missed dents to deal with. He wanted to get his processoral functioning up to around a Starscream-middling, or close enough for Megatron not to complain about it.

The kliks passed, and Starscream stayed silent.

Knockout really did sigh that time. “Don’t want to answer that one?” He didn’t bother waiting for that response. “Well, are they treating you properly, at least?”

At that, Starscream’s good optic flashed, and his gaze narrowed even further. “Ba-d—in-te-terr-r-gation-n. Sti-k—to—med-i-ci-cine.”

A wave of emotion struck him, out of nowhere. He’d pushed it all aside to do his job, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore his awful gooey emotional attachments to this situation. Work with a mech long enough and one starts to perhaps care about them, despite themselves—and he couldn’t deny that he’d hoped, deep down, that Starscream could’ve gotten out for good, as unlikely as that sounded.

 The aloof medibot schtick wasn’t always so easy to pull.

“Is it so hard to believe I care, Starscream?” he snapped. “I’m not interrogating you, I was simply asking.”

 A vent escaped him with a hiss. “I can go back to the textbook questions, if you’d prefer.”

Starscream seemed genuinely taken aback, blinking slowly at him. Eventually, he stated, “D-dat-a-p-ad.”

The non-sequitur snapped Knockout from his impasse by way of sheer confusion. “Huh?”

Starscream looked at him as though he were stupid, then pinched in concentration. His arm twitched, and his optics gained a distinctly haunted quality when it refused to obey his commands. Then, he pointedly glanced down twice, sharply, and said, “V-ox—fr-a-frag-ed. T-oo—l-on-g-g.”

Understanding dawned on him. “Ah, I see—Breakdown,” he turned, “Grab a blank datapad and a stylus, please.”

Knockout sat the berth up, politely ignored the long whine that escaped Starscream’s lips as he did, and Breakdown promptly deposited the datapad on Starscream’s lap. Before Starscream could have another miniature freak-out over his limbs, he carefully folded his arm up next to him and placed the stylus in his servo. Starscream snarled at him for his effort, but managed to flex his wrist and digits enough to write legibly. Knockout politely ignored that as well.

Starscream wrote, in squished, shaky cy-stan, ‘Ask your stupid questions before Megatron interrupts you to lock me in the brig forever.’

I’d love to reassure you against your suspicions, but I have a feeling that what Megatron wants with you is far worse than a cell. 

“We have time,” Knockout asserted instead, “At least until your mind is back up to par.”

Strangely, a flash of knowing terror flashed across Starscream’s face for a moment, before he covered it up in a familiar incensed veneer. ‘Megatron ordered that specifically, did he?’ Then, after a few kliks, ‘I don’t think he’ll be too happy with you spilling his plans to his prisoner, doctor.’

Knockout paused his ministrations, confused. “I. . . don’t know his plans.” He scoffed, “In fact, he failed to clarify much of anything when he dropped you off here. He only specified that your processor be kept fully functional.”

‘I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.’ Starscream’s expression shadowed. ‘Megatron is not a patient mech.’

Now, Knockout almost wanted to ask him what that meant, but refrained. If Starscream was right—and, unfortunately, he’d proved himself correct many times—then, well. . . he’d find out one way or another.

“Besides that,” he moved on, “how in the world did you manage to convince the Autobots to let you in on their little club? Of all the Decepticons I could think of turning to the reds, you weren’t my first pick.” Of course, Starscream, the quintessential traitor, turning against the Decepticons wasn’t surprising in the slightest, it was the fact that he went to the Autobots to do it. Not to insult Starscream or anything, but. . . he was sure the Autobots had a higher moral standard for their soldiers than even the most charitable of Starscream’s moods.

‘I am an extremely apt negotiator,’ Starscream wrote quickly.

At Knockout’s dry look, he added, ‘The Prime seems to be highly swayed by tales of redemption, and it wasn’t as though they were overflowing with new applicants in the first place.’

Knockout hummed, tilting his helm. Not that convincing, but the exacts of it hardly mattered at this point. “Well, are you?”

Starscream became bemused. ‘Am I. . . ?’

“‘Redeemed,’ however you put it.”

He blinked, slowly. He started and stopped writing multiple times, before settling on, ‘How would I know? I hardly even know what that means.’

Huh. “I assumed that the Prime gave out little trophies to whoever was the nicest that month or something. Tally those up, Screamer.”

Starscream scowled. ‘Move on, doctor.’

“Hmmm. . . ah, I have one.” Chances were that he would regret this one at some point, but everything was worth trying once. He leant in to speak directly in Starscream’s audial, masking the movement as inspecting Starscream’s helm. “Do you think the Autobots are soldier-poor enough to accept a couple new members?” he murmured, “Asking for a friend, of course.”

Starscream jolted a little on the berth, staring back at him with an unreadable expression. Then, after a long few moments, responded. ‘Not my question to answer.’ He paused, glanced at the ceiling, and added, ‘Not unlikely, however.’ He quickly cleared the datapad after that.

Knockout smiled and pulled away. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, what—”

The door the medbay slammed open suddenly, and Knockout was not ashamed to admit that he nearly fainted when it did. A small squeak escaped him as he turned to greet the interloper. Had no mech the decency to knock anymore?

Megatron was standing in the medbay door-frame, optics glowing menacingly in the dim Nemesis lighting—not that they were ever not menacing, considering the mechanism they were attached to.

“Have you gotten your patient running smoothly yet?” Megatron asked in a tone that only he might’ve considered genial. “You’ve had quite a bit of time to do so, Knockout.”

Maybe it wouldn’t have taken so long if you went easy on your targets more often, Megatron. Instead of that, he said, “See for yourself,” and gestured to the screen full of Starscream’s vitals. They were. . . modest, but his processor functioning was all-but average. Against all odds, he hoped they might satisfy Megatron.

Megatron studied the screen for a long minute, then let his gaze slide over to Starscream himself. It was distinctly uncomfortable, the way he looked at him. That was the reason he hated being in the room whenever they had their ‘talks.’ He always got to see one or both of them regardless, after all was said and done. 

It also didn’t escape his notice how every hint of spirit left Starscream the moment Megatron entered the room. Knockout would’ve assumed he’d deactivated right there on the medical berth, if not for his single lit optic. 

Megatron trailed over Starscream’s frame slowly, as though cataloguing every single scratch and scuff on his armor, until his optics locked onto the datapad sitting in his lap.

“What’s this?” he hummed, reaching over to pick the device up off him like it were a scraplet.

“Just something I used to evaluate his functioning, sir,” Knockout answered quickly, before Megatron got any funny ideas. “I had him write the answers to the questions I would ask him—textbook stuff, I assure yo—”

“Quit prattling,” Megatron chuffed, and Knockout’s intake snapped closed. Megatron’s optics turned up with a twisted sense of amusement. “Had he trouble using his vocalizer?” He reached out to pluck a claw across Starscream’s neck cables. “What a shame.”

Starscream was trembling against the berth, at this point.

“A-ah, well,” Knockout piped up, if only to interrupt. . . whatever that was. “Since I’ve repaired him to your liking, was there. . . anything else you needed of me?” Plainly asking ‘what the hell are you doing now?’ would likely get him clawed open like a piñata, so he liked spinning it as an offer of assistance instead. It was the little things that kept you alive on the Nemesis.

“There is.” Megatron pulled a separate datapad from his subspace and handed it to him. “Read this very carefully. I’ll need you to be able to perform that procedure perfectly by tomorrow. See to it that you can.”

Knockout took the datapad gingerly, not yet turning it on. An instruction to learn a medical procedure? Sure, he wasn’t the greatest medic to ever function, but it was still a little insulting to assume he didn’t already know it. Since when was Megatron a perfectionist?

Starscream watched the exchange with a resigned sort of terror, and Knockout hadn’t the chance to ask before Megatron continued. “I will relocate the traitor to his. . .” He gave an eerie pause. “. . .Cell, for the rest of the cycle. I take it he is fit to move, doctor?”

He wouldn’t be, Knockout bit back his complaints, if I would’ve followed your horribly vague instructions. “He is—not on his own, mind you, but he can handle being moved.”

“Splendid. Now, Breakdown—” The big mech jumped at the address. “—detach him from the medical equipment.”

Breakdown practically ran to free Starscream of the various cables and lines stuck into him. Uncharacteristically, Starscream said not a single word throughout the entire thing. Instead he laid silent, optics never leaving Megatron’s frame.

Once all the cabling was removed, Breakdown moved to scoop Starscream into his arms, but Megatron barked a sharp “No,” and Breakdown startled so hard it was a miracle he didn’t drop the mech.

“I will be the one transporting him,” Megatron ordered, holding his arms out.

Breakdown hunched a little, and Knockout just barely heard him mutter a “Sorry” to Starscream before handing him off to Megatron.

He couldn’t get another glance at the seeker before Megatron turned and started for the doors again. “Soundwave will send you the particulars of your next assignment—despite all of the recent. . . complications, our prior goals remain the same. The spacebridge is still in need of a power source, and I expect the two of you to retrieve it for me.”

Knockout and Breakdown gave a chorus of ‘yes sir’s, and Megatron left without a second glance.

The medbay doors shut with a poignant clang, and Knockout let out the vent he’d been holding since Megatron showed up.

“Primus almighty,” he exclaimed, “Would it kill him to lay off for one cycle?” He almost waved his servo around for emphasis, but remembered the datapad he was holding. Curiously, he finally clicked it on and read the header; ‘The Cortical Psychic Patch Procedure: instructions and additional information’.

Well, he’d be damned—he really had never heard of that before.

“Probably.” Breakdown began diligently putting away all of the (many, many) devices used to pull Starscream’s spark back from the Allspark. “. . . Man, I’d hate to be Starscream right now.”

Knockout allowed himself a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, how do you think he feels about it?”