Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The city was silent, save for the crunch of metal debris beneath heavy Autobot pedes.

Twisted spires of once-proud Cybertronian architecture jutted toward the darkened sky, their skeletal frames casting long, jagged shadows across the rubble-strewn streets. The city—once a thriving hub of science and innovation—now lay in ruins, a grim testament to the endless war that had consumed their planet.

"Optimus, this sector is clear. No Decepticon energy signatures detected," came the clipped, professional report from Prowl as his optics scanned the perimeter.

Optimus Prime nodded solemnly. "Stay alert. The absence of the enemy does not mean the absence of danger."

From the side, Bumblebee let out a series of beeps, his tone questioning yet tinged with unease. Arcee, perched atop a collapsed archway, responded with a shake of her helm. "No signs of life. Or what passes for it these days."

The team pressed on, their search methodical. Every building was a tomb, every street a reminder of what had been lost.

It was Ironhide who spotted it first.

“Something here. Not scrap.” His deep voice rumbled through the comms as he knelt by a half-buried console, carefully pulling free a small, dust-caked object. It gleamed faintly beneath the layers of ash—an old but intact datapad, its surface etched with the official insignia of the Cybertronian Senate.

"Well, that's ancient," Ironhide muttered, turning it over in his servos. "But she's still got power."

The find was unexpected. A relic from a time before Decepticons and Autobots, before faction symbols drew lines in the metal of their world.

"Bring it back to base," Optimus ordered, his tone thoughtful. "Perhaps the past still has lessons to teach us."

The return to base was swift, the mood among the Autobots subdued yet tinged with curiosity. Ratchet awaited them, already prepared with diagnostic tools and an air of cautious anticipation.

"Hand it over, before you rust it with your grimy fingers," Ratchet snapped, though his optics betrayed a spark of intrigue. With deft motions, he connected the datapad to the main terminal. Lines of Cybertronian script scrolled across the central screen.

"It’s not encrypted," Ratchet noted, surprised. "In fact, it seems… deliberately accessible."

The team gathered as the first lines of text filled the display. The ancient Senate crest dissolved into a personal header: ‘Private Journal of Senator Altoris Hex’.

Ultra Magnus frowned. "Altoris Hex? That’s a name I haven’t heard since the first cycles of the war."

"He was one of the last senators before the fall of Iacon," Optimus murmured, memories of a different Cybertron stirring in his spark.

But what followed silenced even their internal processors.

The journal was not mere recollections of political maneuvering or empty rhetoric. It read more like a confession. A candid, almost desperate admission of guilt. Detailed accounts of corruption within the Senate, exploitation of Energon resources, and most strikingly—repeated references to a name that made every Autobot present exchange uneasy glances.

Starscream.

A scientist. A seeker. Once a promising mind in Cybertronian energy research. Now known as the air commander of the Decepticons—infamous for his treachery and cruelty.

But the diary painted a very different picture of the mech they thought they knew.

"We silenced dissent in the name of order. We sabotaged progress in the name of control. Starscream—young, ambitious, brilliant—stood in our way. We made certain his name would be tarnished, his efforts discredited. But in doing so, we forged our own executioner."

Ratchet's optics narrowed as he skimmed through the data streams. "Primus... this is an admission of malpractice. Of academic suppression. They destroyed his work. His reputation."

Arcee crossed her arms, visibly uncomfortable. "You're saying the Senate made Starscream into what he is now?"

"It would seem they gave him every reason to turn against them," Optimus said quietly.

The room was heavy with tension.

The file continued, revealing project reports, intercepted communications, even internal memos where Senators discussed how to manipulate public perception against Starscream. It was a systematic character assassination—calculated and cruel.

Bumblebee emitted a low, mournful tone.

Ironhide’s fists clenched. "We all knew the Senate was corrupt, but this… This is cold. Even for them."

"There’s more," Ratchet announced grimly. A secondary file was now visible. Its title was stark and clinical: “Psychological Profile: Starscream – Threat Assessment”.

The data was extensive. Vulnerabilities, patterns of behavior, trauma triggers. It was clear the Senators had kept a detailed watch on Starscream long after they’d ruined him—perhaps in fear of the very uprising they helped create.

The question now hovered in the air like a static charge.

They had the information. They had the key to understanding one of their most dangerous enemies—perhaps even to exploiting his weaknesses.

Optimus Prime's optics dimmed as he considered the datapad's damning contents.

To use it would be pragmatic. Effective. Perhaps decisive in ending the war.

But at what cost?

"Leave it to me," Optimus finally said, his voice a low rumble. "I will decide how this knowledge shall be used."

No one argued. The weight of that choice was his to bear.

As the team dispersed, one by one, the ancient words of a long-dead senator continued to linger on the screen. Words of regret. Words that had come too late.

And Starscream’s name burned brightest among them.

The silence in the command room was suffocating.

The datapad’s revelations still echoed through the Autobots' processors, heavy with the bitter taste of truth. No one spoke—until Prowl, ever the tactician, broke the stillness with a clipped, pragmatic tone.

“Optimus, this information should be accessible to all Autobots. What we have here could turn the tide of the war.”

His words were sharp, efficient. Cold, some would think. But survival was Prowl’s primary protocol.

“This is not mere gossip or history. It's a tactical asset. A psychological profile of one of Megatron’s highest-ranking officers. We cannot afford sentimentality.”

Across the room, Arcee’s optics flickered with discomfort. Ironhide said nothing, but his frown deepened. Bumblebee glanced between them, worried.

Optimus Prime remained still, his optics dim as he considered Prowl’s words. His spark, however, was anything but calm. There was a weight to knowledge. A responsibility. And the question gnawed at him:

Would using this truth make them protectors of Cybertron, or just another face of the same corruption that birthed the war?

But Prowl pressed on.

“We’re fighting for the survival of our planet, our people. If Starscream’s history can give us an advantage—even understanding his patterns, his motives—it would be negligence not to use it.”

Optimus exhaled slowly, the sound like distant thunder.

“Very well. Let the data be shown. We will all bear witness.”

Ratchet nodded grimly, his servos flying over the console. The screen flared to life once more, the diary’s next section emerging from the archives of Cybertron’s buried sins.

A voice, mechanical yet old, crackled through the speakers. The recorded vocal imprint of Senator Altoris Hex. It was not the voice of a statesmech—it was the voice of a guilty mech unburdening himself at the end of a long, dishonorable cycle.

“If you are seeing this, then perhaps justice is not as dead as we believed. This is not a record for preservation. It is a confession. And perhaps, an apology.”

The Autobots stood in tense silence as the file scrolled on.

“Starscream… a name now reviled, yet once spoken with admiration. He was—without exaggeration—the most brilliant Energon scientist of his generation. Perhaps of any. A Seeker, yes, but it mattered not to him. He toiled not for glory, not for faction, but for Cybertron herself. His research promised innovations that would benefit all—grounders, flyers, mechs, femmes, neutrals, even off-worlders. To Starscream, function and frame were meaningless in the face of progress.”

Optics across the room dimmed in surprise. This was not the Starscream they knew—the petty, conniving Decepticon commander. This was someone else.

The voice continued, wearied by time.

“But to the Senate—especially those of us chained to outdated caste prejudices—he was a threat. The first aerialbot to be accepted into Iacon College. A Seeker among grounders, surpassing us in every field. His existence was an affront to our fragile egos.”

Arcee’s lip curled in disgust—not at Starscream, but at the Senators.

“Expulsion was our goal. But we needed cause. So we created it.”

The admission hung in the air like a blade.

“We paid off his peers. Promised upgrades, status, even credits. In return, they waged a campaign of silent war against him. His dormitory was vandalized repeatedly. His research data erased. His prototypes sabotaged. His laboratory set ablaze.”

A low growl rumbled from Ironhide’s chest. Even Bumblebee emitted a sharp, agitated series of beeps.

Ratchet’s optics narrowed as he read ahead. “They tried to break him. Repeatedly.”

But the Senator’s tone, bitter and tired, spoke the most damning words.

“Yet, every time we thought he would fall, Starscream rose again. Rebuilding his research from fragments, improving it beyond what we had destroyed. He endured, more determined with each strike. Our cruelty only sharpened his brilliance. And our fear of him grew.”

“We did not realize… we were creating the very Decepticon we now fear. Not with ideology. Not with Megatron’s rhetoric. But with our own hands.”

The feed paused. For a moment, no one spoke.

Prowl broke the silence. “Tactically, this explains much of Starscream’s resilience. His independence. His disdain for authority structures.”

“That doesn’t excuse what they did,” Arcee snapped, glaring at him.

“I am not excusing it. I am analyzing it.” Prowl’s tone was calm, though his optics flickered sharply. “Understanding the roots of a threat is critical.”

Optimus raised a servo, silencing further argument. His optics remained fixed on the screen, his voice low but resolute.

“Continue, Ratchet. Let the truth be known. All of it.”

Ratchet nodded, fingers deft upon the controls. The next section of the confession loomed, promising deeper revelations—about Starscream’s fall, the Senate’s final betrayal, and how the Seeker’s war against the system truly began.

And so, they watched. As history, long buried beneath rubble and lies, rose again.

The command room was silent, save for the soft hum of the main console as Ratchet brought forth the next segment of the diary.

Jetfire stood at the back of the room, his large frame rigid, optics dim with old pain. This part of the story was not history to him. It was memory.

The senator’s confession resumed, a voice heavy with something resembling regret—but far too late.

“Our opportunity came under the guise of academic excellence. Starscream had proposed a research expedition to a frozen outer planet—designated Glacius-9. His theories on xenobiotic energy formations had become too advanced, too... unpredictable. We saw a chance to be rid of him without direct bloodshed.”

Ratchet’s optics darkened as he read the files aloud, his voice growing colder with each line.

“They assigned Starscream, and another aerialbot—Jetfire—to the mission. On paper, it was scientific exploration. In truth, it was exile.”

Jetfire’s wings twitched, his fists clenching silently.

“The expectation was simple. The planet was a wasteland of ice storms and sub-zero death. Two aerialbots sent to their ends. Without witnesses. Without scandal.”

But what followed was not what the Senate had planned.

“Starscream... persistent, infuriatingly so, sent regular transmissions. Reports of environmental stabilization. Signs of emergent lifeforms. The planet was not dead. His work was succeeding. Perhaps... too well.”

The senators’ fear was palpable in the recording.

“The implications were catastrophic—for us. A Seeker scientist succeeding where countless grounders had failed. Creating a potential non-Cybertronian life form. A new species born from Seeker ingenuity. It would dismantle every caste belief we clung to. We could not allow it.”

Arcee’s optics narrowed to slits. Bumblebee gave a soft, mournful beep.

“Thus, we hired mercenaries. Untraceable. Disposable. Their orders were clear—ensure Starscream’s demise, make it appear a tragic accident. An avalanche was arranged, engineered by seismic disruption.”

The image on the screen shifted to grainy footage—archival, cold. A massive wall of ice collapsing, swallowing a ravine. Two small figures, winged, were caught in its merciless path.

Optimus’ fists clenched. Ratchet’s voice dropped to a near-whisper.

“Starscream survived. Jetfire did not.”

Jetfire bowed his head, optics shuttered in silence. The weight of old memories pressing against his spark.

“Starscream emerged from the catastrophe with only minor damage. His partner, however, vanished beneath tons of ice and stone. Yet, even then, Starscream did not retreat. He initiated emergency evacuation protocols. He sent distress calls. He combed the frozen wastelands, searching for Jetfire.”

The next words were spoken with bitter finality.

“We received every transmission. And we deleted them all.”

A wave of disgust rippled through the Autobots. Ironhide slammed his fist into the console, denting the metal with a sharp crack.

“He begged for help,” Ratchet said quietly, his optics burning. “And they made sure no one ever heard him.”

“Weeks passed. His survival should have been a triumph. Yet when he returned to Cybertron, desperate for aid, exhausted, alone... we struck.”

“Accusations of negligence. Then of malice. Fabricated testimonies painted Starscream as a murderer. A Seeker driven by ambition, willing to sacrifice his own for glory. The College expelled him. His reputation was obliterated. Every project, every theory, every invention he had crafted... was seized, reassigned to more ‘acceptable’ grounder scientists.”

The screen flooded with legal documents, transfer orders, and public broadcasts—false narratives painting Starscream as unstable, dangerous, treacherous.

“We fed the public stories of Seeker arrogance, of Starscream’s supposed betrayal of his own kind. Rumors, lies, slanders. Until his name became synonymous with deceit.”

Jetfire’s voice, quiet yet resolute, cut through the silence.

“I never blamed him. Even buried under ice, I knew who the real murderers were.”

The confession was reaching its crescendo.

“We created a villain where there had been none. We crushed a patriot and crafted a Decepticon. Not through ideology, but through our fear. Through our hate. If he stands against us now, it is because we gave him no other choice.”

Ratchet stopped the playback. The room was deathly still.

Optimus Prime’s optics were dim, yet his voice resonated with the weight of ancient guilt.

“We failed him before he ever became our enemy.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Prowl, always the tactician, broke the silence—but this time, there was no cold detachment in his tone.

“Optimus. This is more than history. This is a weapon. Not against Starscream. Against the Decepticon narrative. We must reveal the truth. To Cybertron. To everyone.”

Prime’s gaze remained fixed on the screen. The image of a young Seeker scientist, brilliant and bright, now buried beneath lies.

“Perhaps,” he said softly, “the truth is not a weapon. But a chance for redemption.”

And somewhere, deep in the Autobase’s data servers, Starscream’s story waited to be heard.

The datapad's screen flickered, processing the next batch of encrypted files. The room was tense. Jetfire stood unmoving, optics locked on the data as if bracing for another wound. Ratchet's fingers hovered over the console, pausing.

"This next file," he said grimly, "was hidden in an auxiliary archive. Harder to decrypt. Deliberately buried."

Prowl's optics narrowed. "Show it."

The recording began. The same senator's voice returned, but this time stripped of arrogance. There was a tremor now. Regret. And fear.

“Over the cycles... guilt consumed me. What we did to Starscream was unforgivable. I sought redemption—not for forgiveness, but to face the truth of what we had destroyed. I thought... if I learned more about him, perhaps I could offer a formal apology. Perhaps I could understand why he still fought—why he still survived when so many wanted him gone.”

The senator inhaled sharply, static crackling with the depth of his confession.

“What I found... was a truth that chilled even the most ironclad senators. A truth we had never imagined. A truth we sought to erase—but could not.”

Ratchet switched the display. A series of documents, sealed by high-level Senate encryption, filled the screen.

"Starscream's lineage," Ratchet muttered. "They went after his past."

The senator continued:

“Starscream was not the empty Seeker we claimed him to be. He was not a cold, hollow shell molded by desperation. No. He was born naturally. Raised traditionally. He had a Sire. A Carrier. And seven older siblings—five mechs, two femmes. A full family line. A noble line.”

Shock rippled through the Autobots.

“His family hailed from Vos. Though I dare not name the clan even now, for their influence once rivaled the Senate itself. Power. Wealth. A legacy of warriors and scientists. Starscream was the youngest... and unlike his brothers, he did not hunger for power.”

The display shifted—images and short video clips of a young Starscream, his frame slender but sharp, his optics bright. Footage of a cadet, of a scientist in the making. Surrounded by towering brothers, their postures proud, yet the smallest Seeker always apart.

“He shunned the courtly games of power. He sought knowledge. His dream was to uplift Cybertron through science, not politics. Disillusioned by his family's thirst for dominance, he left them. Alone, he entered Yacon College to forge his own path, to become a scientist of renown by merit, not bloodline.”

Arcee's gaze softened. Bumblebee beeped low, mournful.

“But the truth was deeper still. In uncovering his records, we discovered why Starscream was more than an anomaly. He was the last true Seeker.”

A new file opened. Titles in ancient Vosian script. Ratchet’s optics widened as he read.

“The Seeker Trials…”

“To earn the title of Seeker, one must surpass three trials. Each designed to break body, mind, and spark. The last to pass all three, centuries ago, set records believed unassailable. Until Starscream.”

Images of those trials appeared: the Trial of Sky's Edge—where Seekers had to ascend through atmospheric turbulence that would shred unworthy wings. The Trial of the Void—navigation through deep-space anomalies without guidance systems. And the Trial of the Hunt—combat against specialized drones designed to adapt and overwhelm.

“Starscream did not merely pass these trials. He obliterated every record. His performance was... beyond calculation. His scores redefined the metrics themselves. To this day, his records remain untouched. Perhaps they will remain so forever.”

The Autobots were silent, absorbing the weight of it.

But the revelation was not finished.

“This alone would have made him a legend. But what we discovered next drove the Senate to terror. Powers... abilities that exceeded any known Seeker parameters.”

The screen listed them one by one:

• Hyper Speed
Starscream could break the sound barrier in less than a nanosecond. His acceleration was so rapid that ground-based sensors could not track his initial movement, rendering him a blur of afterimages in combat simulations.

• Tactical Genius
Beyond mere intellect, Starscream’s mind functioned on multiple tactical layers simultaneously. He could adapt strategies in real-time, accounting for enemy variables with terrifying precision.

• Sonic Shatter
A vocal attack—his signature screech amplified into a focused sonic blast capable of paralyzing bots across vast distances. Initial tests had shown it could rupture audio receptors and even fracture delicate internal systems.

• Micro-Singularities
Perhaps his most fearsome ability. Starscream could generate controlled, localized black holes, small enough to destabilize machinery and armor, yet potent enough to tear through squads of enemies. These singularities were not natural phenomena, but engineered through his understanding of dark matter manipulation.

• Enhanced Agility and Dexterity
Starscream’s frame, deceptively slender, was a marvel of biomechanics. He could navigate complex terrains, adjust to sudden environmental shifts, and evade attacks with fluid precision. His reflexes surpassed even elite seekers.

• Echolocation & Energon Detection
An innate ability allowing Starscream to locate energon veins and other mineral resources with uncanny accuracy. His sensory mapping was so refined it rendered most mining technologies obsolete.

“But there was more. Starscream had undergone military training from the moment of his first flight. His preferred weapons were Dual Blades—custom-forged, capable of cutting through titanium with ease.”

Optimus' optics dimmed. "He never used those in the war."

Jetfire’s voice was low, bitter. "Because he never wanted to kill like that."

The senator's confession grew heavier.

“We had created a narrative of Starscream as a coward. A backstabber. Yet, in truth, he possessed strength, skill, and power we could not control. Powers he chose to restrain. His restraint... frightened us more than his potential. We feared that if ever unleashed, he would be unstoppable.”

A final folder opened—financial records, covert transactions, the obscene amounts of credits spent to breach Vos’ sealed archives.

“It cost us dearly to obtain this information. And once we had it, our fear turned to desperation. The Senate agreed—Starscream had to be erased. Not politically. Not through exile. Erased physically. His body dismantled. His spark extinguished. Only then could we feel safe.”

Ratchet’s fists tightened at his sides. The screen flickered with the last line of the confession.

“But we failed. Time and time again. Starscream survived. He always survives.”

The recording ended. The silence was suffocating.

Prowl was the first to break it.

“This isn’t just corruption. This is a deliberate systemic annihilation of an entire legacy. A war crime before the war ever began.”

Optimus bowed his head, the weight of eons pressing upon him. “We condemned him long before he ever lifted a weapon against us.”

Jetfire stepped forward, his voice steel.

“I was there when he was left to die. I saw his courage. His compassion. You call him a Decepticon. I call him my brother.”

Optimus turned slowly. “This truth... it must be shared. No more lies.”

“Agreed,” Prowl said, his tone colder, yet determined. “But be warned. When Cybertron learns this truth, the cracks will run deep. Alliances will fracture. Loyalties will waver.”

“Perhaps,” Optimus said quietly, “it is time for Cybertron to fracture. So it may heal anew.”

Ratchet sealed the files, but not before copying them to a public server.

The Seeker’s truth would be heard.

And the Senate’s fear would become their downfall.

FINAL DATAPAD LOG: Senatorial Archive 999.ARCH-X//CLASSIFIED – SENATE EMERGENCY PROTOCOL
VOICE RECORDING // TEXT CONVERSION INCLUDED

"If you’re reading this... then I am already dead. Likely one of the last. I leave this log for whoever survives, though I doubt many will."

"His name is Starscream. And we—we—the Senate... we made the gravest mistake in Cybertronian history."

The senator’s voice crackled through the playback—hoarse, weak, trembling with terror and regret, each word soaked in blood and sputtering static.

"When he discovered the truth... when he finally uncovered that it was the Senate who orchestrated his extermination—his clan’s erasure—he came for us. He didn’t send assassins. He didn’t plot from the shadows. He walked in through the Senate’s great doors on a day of full assembly—when all of us were present—and he tore us apart."

"One by one. Personally."

The datapad included images—distorted, shaky security footage of the event. Senators trying to flee as a silver blur descended upon them. The recording cut out and resumed intermittently, each time revealing another grotesque moment: bodies bisected with unnatural precision, screams muted under the sound of a thunderous screech, shadows contorting as a vortex formed mid-air, dragging metal and machinery into a pinpoint void—a black hole no larger than a spark chamber, yet infinitely more terrifying.

"He spared none of us. Even the guards—those poor fools—didn’t last a second. But it wasn’t just rage. It wasn’t chaos. Every movement was calculated. Controlled. Deliberate. He punished us with logic. With justice, perhaps, in his own optics."

The senator’s breath hitched. Metallic fluids were audible—he was leaking heavily now.

"I was the last. I think he let me be the last, so I would see it. So I would remember."

"He stabbed me. With his blades—those dual blades he had hidden all these stellar cycles. Not guns. Not bombs. But the weapon of a warrior born in the old Vosian rites. He looked me in the optics as he did it."

‘You feared what I might become,’ he said. ‘Now you’ll see what you made.’"

“I wish I could say he showed hatred. But he didn’t. He showed clarity. Cold clarity. And I was terrified not because he hated us, but because he was right to do so.”

The datapad shuddered slightly as a new segment of text loaded—an emergency sub-log embedded directly into the senator's dying memory drive, encoded with the words he could barely speak.

WARNING TO FUTURE GENERATIONS – PERSONAL TESTAMENT

"Do not make the mistake we did. Starscream only reveals his true power when pushed beyond reason, when wounded so deeply that pain no longer matters. His strength is not just in might. It is in devotion—the kind we cannot control, cannot replicate, cannot buy."

"He will bleed for those he calls his own, even if they are beneath him, even if they are unworthy. He would endure torment, suffering, degradation, if it meant keeping his subordinates from harm. He would shatter his own honor, his name, his reputation to shield someone who follows him. And that—that is the mark of a true leader."

"The public sees a traitor, a coward, a manipulator. But I have seen his truth. And it is terrifying."

The screen flickered once more. One final line of text appeared, seemingly written with trembling fingers, or perhaps voice-dictated in the senator’s last lucid moment:

"He hides his strength not out of fear—but out of mercy."

"And should that mercy ever vanish... Cybertron will remember Starscream not as a second-in-command. Not as a traitor. But as the last god of war."

[END OF DATA]

The room was suffocatingly silent.

The last lines of the senator’s confession hung heavy in the air. Not even the soft hum of machinery dared to interrupt. The datapad's projection still shimmered with the senator's last, ominous warning:

“…should that mercy ever vanish… Cybertron will remember Starscream not as a second-in-command. Not as a traitor. But as the last god of war.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, slowly, the Autobots began to react.

Windblade's optics were wide, her face a frozen mask of disbelief and horror. She had known Starscream—or thought she had. Memories assaulted her: studying together in Yacon, late-night debates over the ethics of scientific progress, Starscream’s sharp tongue sparring with her righteous ideals, but always with a hidden, vulnerable edge.

She gripped the edge of the console so tightly that her fingers trembled.

"All this time…" she whispered, voice cracking. "All this time we condemned him… We let them bury the truth."

Her wings flared involuntarily, trembling with rage—not at Starscream, but at the Senators, at herself, at the entire corrupt system that had destroyed him.

"Primus forgive us, he was never the monster we claimed. He—he was surviving the only way he could."

Her optics burned with unshed tears.

"And he still never used his true power. Even now, he holds back. Because he still believes… in us. In Cybertron."

It was not pity on her face, but a terrible, shamed admiration.

Jetfire staggered back as if physically struck. His servos came to his face, clutching at his helm. He remembered.

The frozen planet. The avalanche. Starscream's voice, ragged and desperate over the comms, begging for rescue. He had believed, back then, that help had never come because of circumstance. Bad luck. A miscalculation. Now the truth was laid bare:

It had been murder.

"By the Forge… it was them. All of it. And I—"

Guilt roared through him like a burning furnace. He should have known. Should have questioned. Starscream had searched for him. Never stopped. Fought for him. Alone.

"He never gave up on me," Jetfire choked, his deep baritone breaking. "Even when they tried to erase him… he fought. For me. For a fellow Aerialbot. While I… I let him be vilified."

His wings drooped, heavy with the weight of guilt.

"We owe him everything. And we repaid him with exile and slander."

For the first time in cycles, Jetfire felt small. He was ashamed to call himself an Aerialbot while Starscream bore the title alone in honor.

Ratchet’s face was stony, but his clenched fists trembled at his sides.

"I suspected there was more to his history. Too many gaps. Too much fabrication. But… this?"

His optics narrowed, full of bitter regret.

"We called him a coward. A liar. Yet all this time, he was stronger than any of us. Not just in power, but in restraint."

He exhaled, long and slow, the breath of a medic who had seen too much suffering.

"What they did to him was malpractice. Political butchery. And we enabled it by turning a blind optic."

Ratchet's voice softened as he looked toward the hologram of Starscream's records.

"Starscream should have been one of us. He was a healer of the planet in his own right. And we let the corrupt tear him down."

Prowl's reaction was quieter but no less intense.

His tactical processor whirred furiously, reanalyzing every past engagement, every report on Starscream, now through this new lens.

"All his betrayals. All his 'schemes.' They were reactions. Adaptations. He was cornered, manipulated, forced into survival mode."

Prowl’s fists were tight.

"We judged him by grounder standards. Political deception. But his moves… were Vosian war tactics. Defensive countermeasures. Not acts of unprovoked aggression."

His optics dimmed, calculating.

"Starscream was not trying to conquer. He was trying to survive annihilation."

Bumblebee, often the heart of the team, was visibly shaken.

"He… he never showed it." His voice came soft, childlike.

"He acted like he didn’t care. Like he was above it all. But he wasn’t. He was hurting. And we mocked him for it."

His optics shimmered as he looked away, shame burning.

"All those times I called him a traitor… I never once stopped to ask why."

For Bumblebee, the worst pain came from realizing he had once admired Starscream’s defiance—and then joined in tearing him down.
Arcee’s optics were narrowed, jaw tight.

"I always thought he was just a slippery snake. A survivor, yes, but a selfish one."

She crossed her arms, but her voice wavered.

"But this? This shows a mech who sacrificed everything—his name, his home, his own clan—to protect what little he had left."

She shook her head, anger barely contained.

"I can respect that. Primus help me, I respect that."

But under the respect lay a simmering fury—aimed at the Senate. And at herself.

Optimus remained silent for a long time. Longer than the others.

His optics were shuttered, his hands clasped before him, but his fingers were tense.

"I bear the greatest guilt of all," he finally said, voice deep, filled with the weight of a leader's burden.

"I allowed the Senate's narrative to shape my perception. I failed to see the truth of the mech beneath the mask."

He looked up, his optics heavy with sorrow.

"Starscream was a victim of our failure as leaders. He endured betrayal, exile, defamation. And yet he stands. Because of his own strength. Because of his belief that Cybertron was still worth fighting for, even when we showed him otherwise."

His next words were softer, but carved with resolve.

"We owe him a debt we cannot repay. But we must start by acknowledging it."

Optimus turned to Windblade and Jetfire, his gaze meeting theirs.

"It is time to bring Starscream to us. As an equal."

While the others were still reeling from the emotional weight of the datapad, Jazz’s visor gleamed sharply, reflecting not just shock—but suspicion. His processor raced, fitting the puzzle pieces together, pieces that had been right in front of their optics for centuries.

He stepped forward, voice low but cutting through the suffocating air like a vibroblade.

"You know what’s buggin’ me?" he started, tilting his helm, optics narrowing behind the visor. "All those times Megatron laid into Starscream, pounded him into the ground, tore him apart in front of everyone."

His servos curled into fists, tone darkening.

"But think about it—he never once turned that rage on the other Aerialbots. Not even when they fragged up a mission worse than Starscream’s so-called ‘failures.’ It was always Starscream takin' the hits. Always him thrown against the walls, crushed, humiliated."

He paced slowly, voice rising with each step.

"What if that wasn’t just Megatron’s ego trip? What if—Primus help us—it was Starscream steppin’ in, makin' himself the target to shield his squad? What if every ‘punishment’ he took was a choice? A way to keep the seekers under his command safe?"

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"That mech’s been playin' a game of bloody chess while we watched the wrong board."

Jazz then stopped abruptly, turning his helm toward Optimus, voice dropping, sharp as energon glass.

"And if that’s true, then someone else knew. Someone who sees everything. Records everything."

He didn’t need to say the name, but he did anyway.

"Soundwave."

His visor flared faintly.

"Ain’t no way Soundwave didn’t know the truth. He’s been Megatron’s shadow for ages. He saw it. Recorded it. Probably archived every slaggin' blow. The silence from him? That’s not ignorance. That’s complicity."

Jazz's voice dropped into a low growl.

"So now the question is: why has Soundwave kept his mouth shut? And more importantly—" he pointed at the still-glowing datapad, "—how far did this conspiracy go?"

The Autobots exchanged glances. For the first time, the silence wasn’t from shock—but from the cold, dawning realization that they had been played not just by the Senate, but by the Decepticon high command’s carefully orchestrated cruelty.

Jazz ended with a bitter smirk.

"Guess the ‘traitor’ wasn’t the only one hiding things, huh?"

Chapter Text

Location: The Sinedra Abyss — an ancient, half-collapsed Energon mine beneath Cybertron’s surface.
Narrow tunnels, crumbling metal supports, flickering Energon veins running like exposed nerves through the walls. A battleground of ambushes, echoes, and close-quarters brutality.

The Autobots hit first.

From the collapsed east corridor, Ironhide and Arcee burst out, blasters firing synchronized suppressing shots, forcing the Decepticons to retreat deeper into the mine. Bumblebee flanked from the left, swift and lethal, knocking a Vehicon into a jagged Energon vein, the poor grunt spasming as energy coursed through his frame.

From the upper scaffolding, Cliffjumper dropped, seismic fists crushing a Decepticon trooper to the floor, energon splattering the rusted plates.

But this wasn’t going to be easy.

At the opposite end, Soundwave stood tall, flanked by his Deployers—Laserbeak and Ravage. He raised a single servo, silent yet commanding.

Within a breath, Vehicons poured out of the shadows, using the maze of corridors to encircle the Autobots.

A brutal, claustrophobic brawl erupted.
Optimus Prime cut through the chaos, Ion Blaster in one hand, energon axe in the other, his movements precise, devastating.

"Autobots, maintain formation! Control the choke points!"

But Soundwave anticipated every command. His silent coordination was mercilessly efficient.

A subtle tilt of his helm—Laserbeak soared, slicing through Autobot comm channels, sowing disarray.

A sharp flick of his finger—Ravage lunged from the shadows, pinning Bumblebee, serrated claws biting into his armor.

Even without Starscream, the Decepticons fought like a machine with one mind. Because they were—Soundwave’s mind.

But Prime had one objective: reach Soundwave.

With a thunderous charge, Optimus broke the Decepticon line, clearing a brutal path through vehicons.

Soundwave turned, anticipating, but Prime’s shoulder tackle drove him through a reinforced wall, isolating them into a collapsed sub-chamber, strewn with ancient Energon machinery.

The walls trembled. Dust cascaded. Silence settled.

Optimus stood tall, voice firm.

"You’ve always known about Starscream, haven’t you, Soundwave?"

No need to specify what. Both understood.

Soundwave’s visor flickered. His frame remained still, but his servo flexed slowly.

"Affirmative."
A voice patchwork of recorded phrases, yet the meaning was real.

"Starscream requested secrecy. I obeyed."

Optimus’s optics narrowed.

"Even when Megatron beat him nearly offline? Even when his troops were scapegoated for failures not their own?"

Soundwave tilted his helm.

"Correct. Loyalty to Megatron: Priority. Starscream calculated risk: Acceptable. Requested silence: Granted."

A faint ripple passed through Soundwave’s visor—regret, or merely a status update? Impossible to tell.

"Starscream believed that one day, truth would emerge. He chose the burden of betrayal to protect his subordinates. I was the keeper of that burden."

For a moment, even Optimus faltered. The weight of those words struck deep.

But what neither of them noticed—what no sensor caught—was the cold glint of optics hidden above in the jagged ceiling. Skyquake. Listening. Watching.

Meanwhile, the battle outside surged on.

Ironhide held a corridor against a barrage of Vehicons, every shell casing from his cannons clanging as they hit the metal floor.

Arcee danced through the chaos, blades flashing as she took down two, three Decepticons with lethal precision.
Cliffjumper and Bumblebee, back-to-back, fought like twin hurricanes, their camaraderie a deadly rhythm.
The Autobots felt the absence of Starscream’s usual aerial strikes, but Soundwave compensated with his deployers, making every counterattack razor-sharp.

Yet, even as the Decepticons pushed forward, a ripple of unease stirred. Their commander was isolated. The Autobots were adapting.

Perched in the dark crags of the ceiling, Skyquake’s optics narrowed.

He had heard everything.

“Starscream… took the blame… to protect the Seekers and Aerialbots?”
“Soundwave knew… and stayed silent…”
“Megatron’s cruelty… a theater of control…”
The data sparked fury in Skyquake’s core. His loyalty to Megatron had always been absolute, but this—this reeked of betrayal in its purest, most insidious form.

He clenched his fists, energon talons biting into the metal ledge.

"No more."
His voice was a graveled growl, unheard beneath the rumble of battle.

Skyquake’s wings flexed.

He wouldn’t act yet. But the truth was a toxin now in his spark. It would change everything.

Location: Decepticon Warship Nemesis, War Room
The Decepticons’ return was not a march of triumph. It was a retreat cloaked in the bitter sting of failure.

Soundwave stood before Megatron, his towering frame untouched, pristine as always, but the faint scorch marks on his deployers told the truth: the battle for the Sinedra Abyss had been lost.

The war room trembled with Megatron’s fury.

“An Energon mine, Soundwave! Lost to those accursed Autobots!”

He struck the command table, the impact denting the reinforced alloy. The holoprojection of the mine flickered violently.

Yet Soundwave remained still. Unshaken. He processed the data calmly.

“Lack of aerial superiority: primary factor. Seekers absent. Aerialbots absent. Autobot ground forces adapted. Advantage: secured.”

His synthesized voice was calm, detached.

Megatron’s optics blazed.

“Excuses, Soundwave?”

“Analysis: facts.”

The room went silent. Even the Vehicons shifted uncomfortably.

Inwardly, Soundwave knew this would happen. The absence of Starscream, still recovering from Megatron’s last violent "lesson," had left the Decepticons without air dominance. Without Seekers raining death from above, without Starscream’s unpredictable but devastating maneuvers, their ground forces were exposed, boxed in, outflanked.

Megatron snarled, turning away, fuming.
But Soundwave said nothing more. He had already obeyed.

Elsewhere in the Nemesis hangar, amidst rows of idling Seekers and recharging aerialbots, Skyquake found his twin brother, Dreadwing.

“Brother, we need to talk.”

Dreadwing turned, optics narrowing. He was a soldier through and through. His loyalty to the Decepticon cause, to Megatron, was ironclad.
Yet Skyquake’s tone made him pause.

“I overheard Optimus Prime confronting Soundwave… About Starscream.”

Dreadwing folded his arms, expression unreadable.

“I heard that all the beatings Megatron gave Starscream… were scapegoats. Starscream took the blame to protect the Seekers. His troops. Us. Soundwave knew. He was asked to keep it secret.”

A tense silence followed.

Dreadwing exhaled slowly.

“Brother, you give too much credit to the treacherous. Starscream’s ambition knows no limits. Protecting others? Sacrificing himself? That is not the Seeker we know.”

Skyquake’s fists clenched.

“You weren’t there, Dreadwing. I heard it with my own audials. Soundwave confirmed it. He knew. He kept it hidden because Starscream asked him to. Does that sound like typical Starscream behavior to you?”

“It sounds like a calculated lie, brother. Meant to weaken your loyalty.”

Skyquake’s wings twitched in frustration.

“So even you doubt your own twin now?”

Dreadwing’s optics softened, but his reply was firm.

“I trust you, Skyquake. But I do not trust Starscream.”

Behind them, the murmur of the hangar stirred.

“What’s this? Someone spreading stories about Starscream’s hidden 'nobility'?”

Ramjet sauntered in, flanked by his trine—Thrust and Dirge—their smirks matching their sharp, mocking tones.

“Skyquake, I knew you were loyal, but gullible? That’s a surprise.”
“Starscream, the hero? Please. Next you’ll tell us he took a beating to save Megatron himself.” Thrust sneered.

Dirge gave a dramatic sigh.

“It’s always the same. Starscream schemes, fails, and then spins a sob story. Let me guess—Soundwave’s in on it? Please.”

Skyquake’s spark boiled.

“I’m telling you what I heard. Starscream bore Megatron’s wrath to protect the Seekers from punishment. From execution. You think Megatron would hesitate to recycle us all if it served his point?”

But their laughter echoed through the hangar.

“Of course he would recycle us, but Starscream wouldn’t stop him. He’d be the first to offer us up if it meant his own survival.” Ramjet spat.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Skyquake’s voice dropped to a growl.

But no one believed him.

The murmurs spread.

Blitzwing appeared next, chuckling in his chaotic, glitching voices.

“Protect his truuuupssss? Hah! Starscream only protects himself. You’ve been watching too many Autobot propaganda vids, Skyquake!”
(Then in a colder tone:)
“Besides, Megatron teaches through pain. Starscream learns slowly. That’s all.”

Skyquake’s optics dimmed. His own faction rejected the truth.

But deep within, a seed of doubt was already growing—one that would not be silenced.
Nemesis – Medbay Hangar
The door slid open with a soft hiss.

Starscream sat on the repair berth, posture ramrod straight despite the freshly welded plates across his torso. His wings trembled subtly—residual tremors from his injuries—but his optics were sharp, calculating, alive.

Skyquake stood before him, arms crossed, optics burning.

“Starscream. We need to talk.”

Starscream's expression soured immediately.

“If this is another lecture about failure, spare me the theatrics, Skyquake. Megatron has more than fulfilled that duty.”

Skyquake stepped closer, voice low but sharp.

“I overheard Soundwave and Optimus. About you. About what you’ve been doing to protect the Seekers.”

For a moment, a flicker of something—something vulnerable—crossed Starscream's face.

But then, as if a switch had been thrown, his trademark smirk returned.
Sharper than any blade.

“What noble fantasy have you conjured now, Skyquake? Protecting Seekers? Sacrificing for others? Do I look like such a selfless fool to you?”

Skyquake’s fist clenched.

“You think I’m blind? Deaf? Soundwave confirmed it. You take the punishment to shield the Seekers. You’ve done it for cycles.”

Starscream’s wings flared slightly—defensive, irritated.

“I survive because I am useful. Nothing more. There is no grand self-sacrifice here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have command reports to falsify.”

The dismissal was as sharp as a blade.

“Starscream…” came a deep, measured voice.

Dreadwing had arrived.

“My brother believes you a martyr. I do not. But for the sake of clarity, I ask: is there truth to his claims?”

Starscream's optics narrowed. The tension in his frame was visible now, despite the veneer of arrogance.

“Dreadwing, you of all mechs should know—survival is the only virtue Megatron respects. If I take a blow, it is because I have failed to avoid it. Nothing more.”

Dreadwing’s optics remained cold, but he inclined his head.

“So be it. We have your answer.”

Skyquake’s vents flared with suppressed rage. His wings twitched as if ready for battle.

“Fine. If you won’t speak, I’ll find someone who will.”

Starscream returned to his datapad without another glance.

The journey to Soundwave’s domain was quick. Few sought out the silent spymaster voluntarily. Skyquake, however, stormed through the Nemesis, his heavy steps echoing in the cold metallic halls.

The door to Soundwave’s quarters slid open without resistance.
The air inside was dim, lit only by the soft glow of countless monitors.

Soundwave stood at his console, unbothered, as if expecting him.

“Soundwave.”
Skyquake’s voice cut through the cold silence.

“I want the truth. From you.”

Soundwave turned, visor flickering with encrypted data streams. He said nothing, but his posture was open—listening.

“I know what you said to Optimus. I know Starscream asked you to keep it secret. But I want to hear it from you. No evasions. No distortions.”

The pause was long. The tension, suffocating.

Then, in his cold, mechanical tone, Soundwave answered.

“Affirmative. Starscream shields the Seekers. Accepts Megatron’s punishments. Strategy: maintain unit cohesion. Morale. Survival.”

Skyquake's optics narrowed.

“Then why deny it? Why lie to my face?”

“Starscream: aware of perception. Heroism: weaponized against him. Knowledge: leverage. He protects through denial.”

Skyquake’s spark twisted. The truth was laid bare—cruel and bitter.

“And you, Soundwave? You obey Megatron, but you aid Starscream in this farce?”

A subtle tilt of Soundwave’s head.

“Loyalty: complex. Megatron commands. Starscream requests. Both obeyed.”

Skyquake’s fists trembled, torn between respect and fury.

“He’s still bleeding from your leader’s fists. And you enable it.”

“Starscream chooses. Soundwave observes.”

Skyquake wanted to strike something. Anything. But he knew it would be useless.

He turned, striding back into the cold halls of the Nemesis.

“You’re all fools,” he muttered to himself.
“And cowards.”

But in his spark, a new resolve was taking root.
One day, the others would see what Starscream truly was.

And Skyquake would make sure of it.

The door slid shut behind Skyquake, sealing him once more in the cold hum of Soundwave's sanctum.

Skyquake's heavy steps slowed as he entered the darker corridors, his mind a maelstrom of frustration and bitter clarity. His fists were clenched so tightly his servos groaned.

“I need proof…”
The words slipped out, a harsh whisper lost to the mechanical drone of the ship.
“Without it, the others will never believe me. Not Dreadwing. Not the Seekers. They all think Starscream's a vain coward.”

“Proof: Available.”

The voice cut through the silence like a scalpel.

Skyquake froze.

Slowly, he turned his head.

Soundwave had not moved from his console, yet the air seemed to tighten around him.

“Explain.”
Skyquake's voice was sharp now, predatory.

“Surveillance: extensive. Visual and audio logs. Starscream—Megatron—interactions recorded.”
A slight flicker pulsed across Soundwave's visor as he spoke.
“Secrecy promised. Silence maintained. However—disclosure never forbidden.”

Skyquake's optics widened slightly.

“You’ve had this all along. And you said nothing??!!”. Skyquake was almost having a spark attack

“Orders obeyed. Yet opportunity—present.”
Soundwave’s hand moved with surgical precision, typing a few commands into his console.
“Decepticon hierarchy: fragile. Data—volatile.”

A panel slid open from the wall, revealing a datapad. Its sleek surface gleamed cold and clinical, but Skyquake could almost feel the weight of its contents. The weight of truth.

Soundwave extended the datapad toward him without a word.

“Logs: visual, auditory, timestamped. Observations of Megatron’s disciplinary sessions. Starscream’s interventions. Seekers spared.”

Skyquake stepped forward, taking the datapad with care, as though it were an explosive.

“You’re giving this to me freely?”

“Correction: You requested. I provide.”
Soundwave’s visor pulsed once more.
“Utilization: your discretion.”

Skyquake looked down at the datapad, his reflection warping across its surface.

“With this… they’ll have no choice but to believe.”

He looked back at Soundwave.

“Why help me, Soundwave?”

A long pause.

Then, in his cold, unreadable tone, Soundwave answered:

“Because Starscream knew one someone you would ask.He had hoped for that.”

For a moment, Skyquake's spark pulsed painfully. He turned without another word and left Soundwave’s quarters, the datapad clutched tightly in his servo.

As the doors hissed shut behind him, Soundwave returned to his console, silently observing, his visor awash with ghostly reflections of all the secrets still buried.

Nemesis – Private Quarters, Skyquake's Room
The datapad sat on the table like a bomb primed to detonate.

Skyquake paced, his heavy steps making the deckplate shudder beneath him. His wings twitched in restless agitation. The conversation with Soundwave echoed relentlessly in his processor.

“Starscream knew one day you someone ask.He had hope.”

With a growl, Skyquake grabbed the datapad and sat heavily on the edge of his berth. His talons hesitated over the activation rune before he snarled to himself.

“Enough doubts. Time to see the truth.”

The screen flickered to life.
[File 1: “SEEKER SANCTUARY INCIDENT — Timestamp: Eons Ago”]
The feed was grainy but clear. A long corridor of the Decepticon base, cold and metallic, filled the screen. The unmistakable thunder of Megatron’s footsteps echoed, his frame a dark storm heading toward the section where Aerialbots and Seekers gathered.

Skyquake’s spark constricted.

Megatron (snarling): “Pathetic incompetents! How DARE you lose the objective because of such foolish disobedience!”

The warlord’s optics blazed as he marched toward the bay, ignoring the flinch of every Seeker and Aerialbot in his path.

Megatron: “RAMJET!”

The white and crimson Seeker stumbled forward, visibly trembling.

Ramjet: “L-Lord Megatron, I—”

Megatron: “SILENCE.”

The tension in the air was suffocating. Every bot froze, wings half-raised, bracing for the inevitable brutal punishment.

But then—

“WAIT!”

A blur of tricolor moved into view, Starscream—lithe, sharp, purposeful—ran to intercept Megatron. His gait was unsteady but determined. He positioned himself between the warlord and Ramjet, arms outstretched. Starscream orders to Ramjet go out and back to duties, the seeker cone headed obeys.

Starscream (loudly): “My fault. The mission failed because I did not train them well enough.”

Megatron (growling): “You DARE claim responsibility for their incompetence?”

Starscream (steady): “Yes. As Air Commander, their failures are mine.”

A cruel smile spread across Megatron’s face.

Megatron: “Then you will answer for it.”

The blow came swift. A massive backhand sent Starscream sprawling against the wall. Skyquake’s servos tightened.

Megatron: “On your peds, Starscream. I’m not finished.”

And Starscream obeyed. Unwavering, he stood again, wings quivering from the impact, but he lifted his chin.

Starscream: “So long as Ramjet and the others are spared, my Lord.”

Skyquake watched in cold horror as Megatron pummeled Starscream mercilessly—fist after fist, denting plating, cracking frame, until Starscream slumped but still did not break.

Megatron (sneering): “Pathetic, but loyal. For now.”

The feed ended.

Skyquake sat still for a long moment, optics wide.

“Primus…”
His voice was a rasp.

But the datapad blinked again.

[File 2: “THRONE ROOM — Blitzwing Incident”]
The video shifted to the throne room—harsh lighting, high ceilings echoing with ominous silence.

Starscream knelt at the foot of the dais, wings low, posture submissive. Megatron sat upon his throne, exuding fury.

Megatron (furious): “Blitzwing—fallen into a frozen lake, wasting energon and resources—because his addled minds followed Autobot trickery!”

Megatron: “Whose fault is this, Starscream?”

Starscream (softly): “Mine, Lord Megatron. I should have reinforced his conditioning. The blame is mine.”

Skyquake’s fists curled.

Megatron (mocking): “Would you do anything to earn my forgiveness, Air Commander?”

Starscream (without hesitation): “Yes.”

Megatron rose, descending the steps. His large frame loomed over Starscream, and with a violent tug, he yanked Starscream up by the arm, dragging him towards his throne.

Megatron: “Then come, Starscream. Let us find a… more pleasurable punishment.”

Skyquake’s intakes hitched.

He watched, helplessly, as Megatron forced Starscream onto his lap, positioning him like a prize to be displayed. His large servo cupped Starscream's chin, forcing his gaze up.

Megatron (voice like acid): “Your beauty is wasted on groveling. Perhaps this time you’ll learn through more… personal correction.”

Starscream's wings flinched, but he did not resist.

Megatron: “You will give yourself freely, or your precious seekers will suffer. Choose, Air Commander.”

Starscream (whisper): “I submit, my Lord.”

The datapad showed only enough to make Skyquake's fuel churn. Megatron's hands roamed without mercy, groping, marking, humiliating the slender seeker, his tricolor plating smudged under those cruel fingers.

The sounds. The degradation. The way Starscream bore it in silence—to protect his subordinates.

Skyquake's hand shot to his mouth.

“Primus! Frag you, Megatron…”

He nearly emptied his tanks right there.

[End of File]
The datapad dimmed, leaving only the reflection of Skyquake’s horrified expression.

For a long moment, there was only the ragged pull of his vents.

“He took the beatings… and worse… so we wouldn’t suffer…”

Memories flooded him—times when Starscream had emerged from the medbay battered and broken, yet still leading the fliers, still barking orders, still shielding them from Megatron's wrath.

“All of us thought he was a coward. Vain. Weak.”
“But he was the only one standing between Megatron’s fury and our sparks.”

His fists trembled.

“And he never told us.”

Skyquake set the datapad down, his optics burning with shame and fury.

“Not for glory. Not for rank. Just to protect us.”

He straightened, renewed purpose radiating from his every movement.

“They’ll believe me now.”

With a last glance at the datapad, Skyquake whispered:

“I swear, Starscream… this ends here.”

He marched out of his quarters, datapad in hand, ready to confront the Seekers, Aerialbots, and even Dreadwing with the undeniable truth.

Chapter Text

Nemesis – Flight Deck Assembly Hall
The great assembly hall echoed with restless wingbeats.

Seekers—tall, sharp-winged, proud—and Aerialbots, with their sleeker frames and slightly different sigils, crowded into the space. The atmosphere was tense, filled with low murmurs of curiosity and annoyance.

Skywarp (grumbling): “What is this even about? You dragged us all from recharge for—what—more drills?”

Ramjet (scoffing): “Skyquake’s suddenly playing at being boss, huh?”

Dreadwing (stern): “If my brother calls, you listen.”

Skyquake stood at the front, datapad clutched in his talons. His expression was grim, carved from cold stone.

Skyquake: “I called you here because it’s time you all see the truth. The truth we ignored. The truth we were blind to.”

Thrust (snorting): “Spare us the dramatics. Truth about what?”

Without another word, Skyquake activated the datapad.

The videos played.

The footage of Starscream taking Ramjet’s blame, intercepting Megatron’s wrath, enduring brutal beatings—played before their optics. The room fell into suffocating silence. Aerialbots exchanged uneasy glances. Seekers stood rigid, wings frozen in mid-flick.

Dirge (voice low): “That… that happened? Because of me and Ramjet?”

Slipstream (whispering): “He never told us.”

Skywarp’s expression twisted. His wings lowered, his field curling in on itself.

Skywarp (guilty): “All those times I called him a coward…”
Starscream, kneeling, taking responsibility yet again. Being humiliated. Megatron’s grip on his chin. The forced compliance.

This time, the visceral sounds of degradation silenced even the worst loudmouths among them. Even Thrust was pale, his vents pulling sharply.

Air Raid (shaken): “Primus… he let himself be… so we wouldn’t be…”

The footage ended.

The silence was absolute. No posturing. No snide remarks.

Just shame.

Skyquake (quietly): “He bore every blow. Every degradation. For us.”

Skyquake: “We were blind. We called him vain. Weak. But there’s no bot stronger than him.”

A collective, silent weight settled over the assembled fliers.

Dreadwing (voice like gravel): “Then we must go to him. Tell him we know. Stand by him.”

Agreement rippled through the ranks.

Slipstream: “He deserves to know we understand now.”

Skywarp: “Yeah. We’ll tell him. Show him we’re not idiots.”

But then—

“A terrible idea.”

The voice, smooth, rich, and tinged with sardonic amusement, sliced through the assembly.

Knockout strolled in, crimson plating gleaming, a datapad of his own tucked under his arm.

Knockout: “As charming as this little uprising of guilt is, confessing to Starscream would do more harm than good.”

The aerialbots bristled.

Air Raid: “How dare you—!”

Skywarp: “He deserves to know we saw it!”

Knockout raised a hand, utterly unimpressed.

Knockout: “Listen to yourselves. What do you think would happen if you corner Starscream, dump your newfound pity on him? You think he’ll be grateful? Relieved? No. He’ll be humiliated all over again.”

The room wavered in their certainty.

Knockout (calm but sharp): “Starscream’s pride is what keeps him functioning. Every time Megatron crushes him, he stitches himself back together with sheer spite and pride. Your sympathy would be like flaying him alive.”

Slipstream (angry): “So we should just ignore it?”

Knockout (softly): “I didn’t say that.”

He folded his arms, optics narrowing.

Knockout: “Hook and I have known for a long, long time. We see the medbay reports. We patch him up. We know exactly how many times he takes a hit that wasn’t meant for him. We kept quiet because we know the truth would cut him deeper than Megatron’s fist.”

A murmur rippled through the fliers.

Knockout: “But—action speaks louder than words.”

He stepped closer, gaze sweeping across the gathered aerials and seekers.

Knockout: “You want to honor what he’s done? Then you follow his orders. No snide comments. No backtalk. You fly when he says fly. You fight when he says fight. You back him up, not out of pity, but because now you know what he does for you.”

For a long beat, silence.

Then Skyquake straightened, fist slamming into his chestplate in salute.

Skyquake: “Agreed. From this moment forward, Starscream’s word is law.”

Dreadwing: “By my spark.”

Slipstream: “So be it.”

Ramjet: “Count me in.”

Skywarp: “No more fragging around. He’s my commander.”

Even the Aerialbots, though technically outside Decepticon hierarchy, nodded in grim respect.

Air Raid: “He saved us from worse. We owe him. He’ll have our wings at his command.”

Knockout’s smirk was faint, but there was something genuine behind it.

Knockout (murmuring): “That’s better. Perhaps next time he’ll stand a little less alone.”

The assembly dispersed with purpose.

From that moment on, the dynamics shifted. Orders once met with eyerolls or mocking comments would be obeyed to the letter. Starscream wouldn’t need to know why—but his Seekers, his aerials, would stand behind him like the wall of wings he had always deserved.

In silence, they vowed to uphold the honor he thought he had lost.

And above it all, from the shadows, Soundwave watched.

Recording.

Always recording.

Nemesis – Hangar Bay, Several Solar Cycles Later
For a long time, Starscream thought it was a coincidence.

The first cube of high-grade energon appeared in his quarters after a particularly grueling patrol. No note, no signature. He narrowed his optics suspiciously, but in the end, he drank it. A gift from Megatron would have been poisoned. This one wasn’t.

He chalked it up to an overenthusiastic supply drone.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Flight Deck, Routine Maintenance Cycle
Thundercracker (casual tone): “Hey, Screamer, sit down. Wings up.”

Starscream’s wings twitched upward in surprise.

Starscream (suspiciously): “What are you doing?”

Thundercracker: “Massaging your wing joints. Can’t have our Air Commander flying with stressed struts, can we?”

Before Starscream could protest, careful hands were already working along the delicate edges of his wings, easing knots of tension he hadn’t even realized had built up.

Thundercracker (gruffly): “You let it get this bad? No wonder you’re so cranky.”

Starscream (bristling): “I am not—!”

But the words faded as Thundercracker found a particularly sore spot, making his vents stutter.

The next day, it was Skywarp.

Skywarp: “Wing polish. Non-negotiable. You’re molting paint in places I don’t want to see.”

Starscream (flustered): “I am perfectly capable of tending to my own—”

But Skywarp just grinned and kept working, humming tunelessly as he buffed Starscream’s red wing panels to a gleaming mirror finish.

Skywarp (softly): “Gotta keep our commander looking sharp.”

Starscream had no retort for that.

Command Deck, Mission Briefings
The real shock came during a strategy meeting.

Starscream: “Slipstream, organize the eastern patrol grid. Dirge, reinforce the outer perimeter. Ramjet, you’re on escort duty—and for the love of Primus, don’t improvise.”

Once upon a time, these orders would’ve been met with groans, excuses, or—at best—sarcastic compliance.

This time?

Slipstream: “Understood, Commander.”

Dirge: “Consider it done.”

Ramjet (saluting): “On it, Commander.”

No backtalk. No complaints.

Starscream blinked.

He deliberately added a few more tasks, expecting to provoke something. Nothing. Perfect, professional obedience.

He walked out of the room with his wings rigid in disbelief.

Starscream (muttering to himself): “What in the Pit is going on?”

Medical Ward, Casual Visit
Even in the medbay, things were… different.

Hook (without prompting): “I’ve recalibrated your wing struts. Slight misalignment. Subtle, but it would have caused long-term wear.”

Knockout (smirking): “What, you thought we didn’t notice? We take pride in our work, dear Starscream. Can’t have you falling apart.”

Starscream narrowed his optics at them, but he said nothing. Still, suspicion curled tighter in his core.

Private Quarters, Later That Cycle
He paced.

Starscream (to himself): “This isn’t right. They’re up to something. They must be.”

His wings twitched, fluttering uneasily. The Seekers weren’t prone to this level of compliance. The Aerialbots were being civil. Even the grounders had stopped sneering when he walked by.

Starscream: “A prank? A mutiny in disguise? Or…”

The thought lodged uncomfortably.

Starscream (bitterly): “Or they’re mocking me. Humoring the poor, beaten Air Commander.”

But their faces hadn't shown mockery.

He kept watching. Kept testing.

He ordered Dirge to handle sensor sweeps alone at zero-dark-cycle. Dirge didn’t complain.

He sent Slipstream into an orbital dust storm to retrieve a fragment. She returned without a scratch and a respectful nod.

Even Ramjet, who used to crash his way through every assignment, followed his orders with precision.

It was wrong.

It was unnerving.

Yet—Starscream couldn’t deny the small, flickering ember of warmth that crept into his spark. The ache in his wings eased. His burdens, shared.

For the first time in countless vorns, he didn’t have to scream to be heard.

But that very fact frightened him more than Megatron’s wrath.
The doors hissed shut behind him.

Alone, at last.

Starscream’s optics dimmed as he leaned heavily against the nearest wall, wings sagging with exhaustion. The cube of high-grade energon resting on his desk mocked him with its perfect, untouched surface.

Starscream (bitterly): “Another anonymous gift. How touching.”

He hadn’t asked for it.

He hadn’t asked for any of it.

Yet suddenly, his subordinates moved with clockwork precision at his every word. His Trine hovered around him, too helpful. The Aerialbots—those self-righteous, wing-polishing fools—no longer looked at him with veiled contempt.

No, now they looked at him with something worse.

Pity.

Or was it guilt?

Starscream bared his denta in a snarl, pacing the confines of his quarters, sharp steps echoing off the cold metal.

Starscream: “No one changes this suddenly. No one obeys without an angle. This—this kindness—it’s a prelude to something.”

He stopped by the mirror.

The reflection that stared back was still him—lean frame, proud wings, those sharp, tricolor markings that once commanded attention.

But his optics… they looked tired. Haunted.

Starscream (whispering): “Or perhaps… you’ve finally lost your mind, Starscream. Perhaps the years of humiliation, the beatings, the… other punishments have taken their toll.”

His claws curled against the desk edge.

Starscream: “Yes, that must be it. The great Air Commander, imagining that his troops respect him at last. Hah! A cruel hallucination, born of desperation.”

He pressed his palm against his forehead, vents hissing a shuddering ex-vent.

Starscream: “What next? Will Soundwave praise my leadership? Will Megatron hand me his throne? Hah! As if.”

And yet… the cube remained.

The wing massages had happened.

Orders were followed without challenge.

Either the entire Seeker and Aerialbot divisions had conspired to pull a grand, elaborate farce at his expense—

—or his processor was fracturing, hallucinating affection where there was none.

Starscream (voice cracking): “Neither option is tolerable.”

He slammed a fist onto the desk.

The datapad nearby flickered with status updates. Subordinates reporting their missions. Punctual. Efficient. Respectful.

Starscream (to himself): “You’re not that loved. You’re not that lucky. You’ve never been.”

But the evidence betrayed him.

They followed.

They cared.

Or pretended to.

He felt the tremor beneath his plating, the creeping terror that perhaps this wasn’t deception… perhaps it was pity-born loyalty, because they had seen something they weren’t meant to see.

The secret he buried under bravado and barbed words.

Starscream (hoarse, to himself): “No. No, I refuse to be their charity case. I am the Air Commander. I am Starscream.”

But even as he spoke, a part of him whispered: “And you are tired, aren’t you?”

Exhaustion warred with pride.

Starscream (quiet, trembling): “If this is madness… perhaps it is merciful.”

He laughed then—a bitter, broken sound that echoed like static across the cold steel walls.

Starscream: “Let the glitchheads have their joke. Let my mind fracture. If they want to pretend… then so will I.”

Yet even as he said it, the next cube of energon awaited him, glimmering softly.

And Starscream, with shaking hands, raised it to his lips.

Starscream (softly, almost resigned): “I will play this farce with you. Until it breaks. Or I do.”

And as the rich energon washed down his throat, for one fleeting moment, Starscream allowed himself to pretend that the loyalty was real.

Days passed.

The whispers had ceased.

The stolen glances from Seekers and Aerialbots no longer felt like daggers to his wings, but… oddly neutral. Tasks were completed before orders finished leaving his vocalizer. Wings tended to without him asking. Reports filed, messes cleaned, formations drilled to perfection.

For once, no one questioned his decisions.

For once, his voice wasn’t rising to screaming pitches just to be obeyed.

It was… peaceful.

And yet, deeply unsettling.

Starscream’s processor had run through every scenario, every possible prank, betrayal, hidden motive. But nothing came. No trap. No public humiliation.

Just… cooperation.

And as much as his spark refused to believe it, his frame was beginning to show the effects.

His posture wasn’t as tense. His wings didn’t twitch with every approaching set of peds. His claws, once perpetually curled with stress, now rested idly at his sides.

He even caught himself humming once.

The realization nearly sent him into self-diagnostics.

Starscream (muttering): “They’re still playing with you, Screamer. Don’t lower your guard. This tranquility is a battleground in itself.”

Yet, even as he said it, there was no denying the truth.

For the first time in countless vorns, Starscream wasn’t constantly fighting his own ranks.

It was intoxicating.

Starscream was reviewing the last set of practice missions—formations, skirmish simulations, supply runs. All flawlessly executed under his command.

It was the sort of efficiency he had dreamed of. The sort of record that should bolster his pride, inflate his ego.

Yet all it did was make him suspiciously calm.

And then—his peace shattered.

Soundwave (flatly): “Performance: exemplary. Leadership: effective. Conclusion: Starscream – excellent execution.”

The words hit him like a plasma blast to the spark.

For a moment, Starscream’s entire frame froze.

He could feel his cooling vents stutter, his optics blinking rapidly as if Soundwave had just casually dropped the fact that Cybertron had exploded again.

Starscream (in disbelief): “What… did you just say?”

Soundwave (tilting helm slightly): “Starscream’s leadership: optimal parameters achieved.”

It wasn’t the words themselves.

It was the fact that Soundwave—cold, detached, brutally efficient Soundwave—had just offered him something akin to praise.

Not a backhanded comment. Not a silent stare of vague disapproval. Praise.

For Starscream.

For his work.

Starscream (voice raising): “Are you malfunctioning? Has Megatron sent you to mock me in new, crueler ways? Tell me the truth, Soundwave!”

Soundwave said nothing, as always. His visor pulsed lazily, the picture of composure.

Soundwave (simply): “Data: does not lie. Starscream’s competence: observed. Acknowledged.”

Starscream’s wings spasmed. His claws twitched.

Starscream: “I—I think I’m going to short-circuit.”

His vents hiccupped a harsh, static-laced ex-vent as his entire frame struggled between pride and raw panic.

It wasn’t a prank.

It wasn’t a trap.

Soundwave, the ultimate spy, the keeper of every sordid secret, had voluntarily acknowledged his effectiveness.

Starscream’s processor buzzed dangerously.

Starscream (muttering to himself): “I’m not equipped to handle this level of… of validation. This is a new form of psychological warfare. Must be.”

Yet even as he flailed internally, he realized something horrifying:

He liked it.

He wanted more of it.

And that was the most terrifying realization of all.
Soundwave (pausing at the door): “Starscream: continue.”

And with that, he was gone.

Leaving Starscream standing alone, utterly still, caught between smug satisfaction and utter existential crisis.

Starscream (to himself, almost whispering): “I… Starscream… have done an excellent job.”

He let out a strangled laugh, half-hysterical.

Starscream: “I need to sit down.”

And he did, wings drooping, staring blankly at the datapad as if it were a foreign object.

For the first time in millennia, Starscream was experiencing the bizarre, terrifying sensation of being respected for his abilities.

And it might very well be the thing that short-circuited him before Megatron ever could.

Nemesis – Seeker Barracks, Late Cycle
The air in the barracks was heavy with silence.

Starscream sat perched on his personal berth, datapads around him, meticulously reviewing reports he no longer needed to micromanage. His wings were slightly relaxed, his usual scowl absent, replaced by a tight-lipped focus.

Which made what was about to happen even more jarring.

Skywarp (grinning, walking in uninvited): “Hey, Screamer! Got a minute?”

Thundercracker (following, tone more measured): “Or ten. Maybe twenty.”

Starscream’s optics narrowed immediately.

Starscream: “Skywarp, Thundercracker, if you’re here to waste my time with another one of your absurd antics, save it. I am very busy.”

Thundercracker (ignoring that): “Relax. No pranks this time.”

Skywarp flopped onto a nearby berth, wings splaying dramatically.

Skywarp: “You’ve been doing great lately, Boss. Real great.”

The word Boss—so casual, so familiar—hit harder than any formal “Air Commander” title.

Thundercracker: “You always were a good leader. We just didn’t see it sometimes. Or maybe… didn’t want to.”

Starscream’s wings twitched.

Starscream: “Is this some elaborate ploy? Some cruel joke orchestrated by Megatron? Did Knockout put you up to this? You’re trying to soften me up for something, aren’t you? Sabotage? A mutiny?”

Skywarp laughed, genuinely amused.

Skywarp: “Primus, no! You think we’d mutiny against you? Screamer, c’mon. You remember what you did for us when we were fresh out of the assembly lines?”

Thundercracker sat down carefully, wings folding in a rare moment of vulnerability.

Thundercracker: “You took responsibility for us. Taught us how to fly in formation properly, even when the higher-ups didn’t give a slag. Remember the old acid rain zones? You led us through those death traps yourself.”

Skywarp (nodding): “And don’t forget when you snuck energon rations for us after Megatron sent us on those pointless suicide dives. You patched our wings up yourself, Screamer.”

Starscream’s optics softened, just a fraction.

Those memories were ancient. Dusted-over files buried beneath cycles of humiliation and pain. But they were real.

The cold steel of acid rain pelting his frame as he shielded his trine.

The bitter satisfaction of teaching Skywarp to stop overshooting his warps.

The frustration—and pride—when Thundercracker finally mastered the Seeker Spiral maneuver.

Small moments. Fleeting. Precious.

Thundercracker (quietly): “You’ve always been more than Megatron ever gave you credit for.”

Skywarp: “And more than we ever told you. Sorry about that.”

Starscream’s wings drooped slightly. His hands twitched as if unsure whether to reach out or recoil.

Starscream (voice lower, uncertain): “Why now? Why tell me this now?”

Thundercracker: “Because we finally pulled our heads out of our afts. And because you deserve to hear it before your spark explodes from sheer paranoia.”

Skywarp (grinning): “And it’s funny watching you glitch out when people are nice to you.”

That earned a sharp glare, but the usual biting retort didn’t come.

Instead, something warmer spread through Starscream’s circuits.

A rare, almost alien sensation.

Gratitude.

And with it, exhaustion.

The good kind.

Starscream (sighing): “You two are going to be the death of me.”

Skywarp: “Nah, you’ll outlive us all out of pure spite.”

Thundercracker (small smile): “Sleep, Screamer. You’ve earned it.”

For once, Starscream didn’t argue.

He shifted, laying back onto his berth, wings settling in a relaxed droop. His optics dimmed as his processor—still buzzing—latched onto those old memories. Skywarp’s clumsy first flight. Thundercracker’s stubborn refusal to follow formation until Starscream physically dragged him into position.

Those moments had hurt back then. Frustrating. But now…

Now, they felt like treasures.

Starscream (murmuring, half-asleep): “You two… were always more trouble than you were worth.”

Skywarp (softly): “Yeah. But you still took care of us.”

Thundercracker watched as their tricolor leader’s frame slackened, vents slowing into the soft rhythm of recharge.

For the first time in countless cycles, Starscream slept without tension in his frame.

And the other two Seekers sat nearby, standing guard—not because of duty, not out of command—but out of something far rarer among Decepticons.

Loyalty.

Skywarp (whispering): “He’s really gonna short-circuit when he realizes we mean it.”

Thundercracker: “Let him. Maybe it'll fix what Megatron broke.”

In the soft hum of the Nemesis, a battered trine mended itself, one memory at a time.

Autobot Command Room, Secure Meeting
The war room was dimly lit, holograms flickering overhead with datafeeds from the Nemesis. Silent footage—gathered by spies, satellites, and perhaps even a few sympathetic Decepticons—played in cold resolution. But there was no mistaking what it showed.

Starscream.

Enduring. Enduring everything Megatron threw at him.

Ratchet (growling): “It’s barbaric. No… it’s monstrous. And yet he stays.”

Ultra Magnus (grim): “Decepticon loyalty, however misplaced.”

Arcee (bitterly): “Loyalty? This isn’t loyalty. This is survival. He’s trapped. And he keeps choosing to go back to the one who keeps breaking him.”

The room was thick with tension.

Optimus Prime stood at the center, his optics dimmed with the weight of deliberation. His arms were crossed, but his frame was coiled—restrained command, barely suppressing the fury deep within.

Bumblebee (through radio clicks): “Starscream’s too deep in. He won’t come willingly, Prime. He’d rather scrap himself than defect.”

Wheeljack (leaning back): “Then maybe we shouldn’t give him a choice.”

That earned a sharp glance from Ultra Magnus.

Ultra Magnus: “You’re suggesting abduction.”

Wheeljack (unapologetic): “I’m suggesting rescue. Even if he kicks and screams the whole way.”

Optimus’s optics flickered brighter.

He had long respected the principle of free will. Even for Decepticons. But what he saw—what he knew—was that Starscream’s will was not free. It had been taken, piece by piece, crushed beneath Megatron’s boot.

Optimus (quiet, but resolute): “Starscream has been a victim of Megatron’s tyranny longer than any of us have known. He has withstood what would have broken most sparks. Yet he persists.”

Ratchet: “For how long, Optimus? He’s only functional because he keeps sacrificing himself for his trine, his seekers. He’s bleeding himself dry.”

Arcee: “He won’t ask for help.”

Optimus: “Then we shall offer it. And if he refuses, we shall give it nonetheless.”

That made the room fall into silence.

Optimus (commanding tone): “We will extract Starscream. Even if it is against his will. We will bring him to safety. Not as a prisoner. Not as a trophy. But as a Cybertronian who deserves freedom.”

Ultra Magnus (after a moment): “You are aware this could reignite full-scale conflict, Optimus.”

Optimus: “I am aware. But I will not stand idle while a spark is slowly extinguished before our optics. Not again.”

Bumblebee (softly): “Like Orion Pax would do.”

Optimus’s gaze softened, for a moment. But only a moment.

Optimus: “Prepare an extraction plan. We do this swiftly, with precision. And with as little collateral as possible.”

Wheeljack (grinning): “Now that’s a plan I can get behind.”

Ratchet (sighing): “Primus help us all.”

As the Autobots dispersed, the course was set.

Starscream was going to be rescued.

Even if he’d claw, shriek, and resist every moment of it.

Because Optimus Prime had decided.

Starscream would be free.

Chapter Text

Autobot War Room – Holo-Table Briefing
The holo-table flickered to life, displaying a detailed 3D model of the Nemesis. Its sleek, menacing silhouette rotated slowly in the air, highlighted with blinking points of interest.

Wheeljack (grinning wildly):
“Alright, bots, listen up. This ain’t your typical stealth op. We’re gonna knock on Megatron’s front door so hard, he’ll think we brought the Pit with us.”

Ultra Magnus (stern):
“Subtlety is not part of this plan, I presume.”

Wheeljack:
“Subtlety is exactly what they’ll expect. We’re not gonna give ‘em that. We’re flipping the table.”

With a press of a button, Wheeljack’s projection exploded into colored sectors.

Red zones: Command deck, energon reserves, weapon batteries.

Yellow zones: Hangars, barracks, refueling stations.

Green marker: Starscream's last confirmed location.

Wheeljack:
“We hit hard, we hit fast, everywhere. Autobots will split into pairs, infiltrating different sectors. We’ll plant black grenades—small boomers—meant to rattle their struts, nothing catastrophic. We want chaos, not a crater.”

A compartment on the table slid open, revealing two types of grenades:

Black grenades: Compact, shaped like sharp-edged mines.

Blue grenades: Sleek spheres with electric conductors around the core.

Wheeljack:
“But this—this pretty little spark-tickler—is the real prize.”

He picked up a blue grenade, spinning it in his servo.

Wheeljack:
“Custom-built for seekers. The charge won’t offline ‘em, but it’ll shock their motor functions long enough to get restraints on. Starscream’s fast, agile, and slippery. We pin his feet to the floor, he’s ours.”

Ratchet (grumbling):
“It won’t harm his wings, will it?”

Wheeljack:
“Relax, doc. Seeker wings are sensitive, I accounted for that. It’s a localized pulse, calibrated to his lower limb actuators. It'll sting, but no permanent damage. Probably.”

Bumblebee (radio clicks):
“How many do we have?”

Wheeljack:
“One blue grenade per bot. No margin for error. If you miss, we improvise. Black grenades, though? Got enough to make Soundwave’s quiet world very loud.”

He gestured to the projection.

Wheeljack:
“Once we hit, the Nemesis’ll be drowning in alarms, scrambling to find the ‘invaders’. Meanwhile, a few of us—strike team Alpha—go straight for Starscream. The rest keep the cons busy.”

Arcee (smirking):
“Megatron will be furious.”

Wheeljack (grin widening):
“Exactly. A furious Megatron is a distracted Megatron. And that’s when we slip Starscream right out from under his nose.”

Ultra Magnus (reluctantly):
“Reckless. But tactically sound. They won’t anticipate a direct assault.”

Optimus (nodding):
“Proceed with preparations. But remember—Starscream is not an enemy in this mission. He is the objective. Minimal force.”

Wheeljack (muttering):
“Minimal force with seekers? Sure, Prime. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Ratchet:
“And if Starscream fights back?”

Optimus (solemnly):
“Then we endure. For his sake.”

Strike Team Alpha (Extraction):
Optimus, Wheeljack, Arcee, Bumblebee.

Distraction Teams:
Ultra Magnus & Ratchet, Bulkhead & Smokescreen, Blades & First Aid.

Each with their black grenades for controlled chaos, each with their one blue grenade for the objective.

Wheeljack (final grin):
“Alright, Autobots—time to rattle the Nemesis and steal their Air Commander.”

The Autobots scattered to prepare.

The storm was coming.

The holo-table hummed with tension. Wheeljack’s explanation was barreling toward its loud, chaotic conclusion when a sharp, crisp voice cut through the chatter.

Jetfire (calm, but firm):
“Before we start celebrating how hard we’re going to hit the Nemesis, a word of caution.”

All optics turned to him.

Jetfire:
“When we bring Starscream back—he must believe he’s a prisoner of war.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Wheeljack’s grin faltered, tilting his helm.

Wheeljack:
“You wanna run that by me again, flyboy? We're busting him out to save his tailfins, not throw him in a cell.”

Jetfire:
“Exactly. But to Starscream, this will look like defection. Treason. A stain on everything he’s tried to protect—his Trine, his Seekers, even Megatron’s leash. If we tell him the truth… that we’re ‘saving’ him from his own choice, it'll break him in ways Megatron never could.”

Windblade (soft, but resolute):
“Jetfire’s right. Starscream’s pride is a double-edged blade. He’ll never accept ‘rescue’. Not openly. But as a prisoner? Captured in battle, forced into Autobot custody—that, he can tolerate. His mind will twist it into duty. Endurance. A test.”

She stepped forward, optics hard but filled with quiet understanding.

Windblade:
“He’s been protecting his subordinates with his own body, his own spark, for countless vorns. Every scar he has is a choice he made to shield others from Megatron’s wrath. If we take away that choice… we’ll crush the last piece of him still standing.”

Bumblebee (radio clicks):
“So you’re saying... let him believe we’re the enemy? Until we can make him see otherwise?”

Jetfire:
“Exactly. Let him be angry. Let him fight. But at least he’ll be alive. In time, when he sees he’s still commanding respect—even from us—he’ll realize we’re not his jailers.”

Wheeljack (grumbling):
“Y’know, I hate how much sense that makes.”

Ultra Magnus (nodding):
“A tactical deception with emotional consideration. Acceptable.”

Optimus (solemn):
“A heavy choice, but necessary. Very well. Starscream will believe himself a prisoner of war.”

The plan now had a new layer—an ugly necessity wrapped in compassion.

Windblade (quietly):
“We’re not saving a soldier. We’re saving his soul. One battle at a time.”

Wheeljack closed the holo-table with a sigh.

Wheeljack:
“Alright, bots. You heard the lady. Let’s make Megatron’s day miserable and bring Screamer home... even if he hates us for it.”

--------------------

The day had begun like any other aboard the Nemesis.

Drones marched through corridors with supplies. Engineers buzzed around maintaining the ship’s dark heart. The ever-present thrum of Energon converters echoed through the vast metal halls. Decepticons manned their stations with military precision.

Starscream, though still moving slower than usual, was hunched over datapads, reviewing flight formations and reprimanding a lazy Seeker squadron with his typical sharp tongue. Soundwave remained at his console, silent, observant, the Nemesis’s ever-watchful optic.

Everything was... routine.

Until it wasn’t.

KLAXON ALARMS SHRIEKED.

“INTRUDER ALERT. BREACH DETECTED. MULTIPLE POINTS OF ENTRY.”

An explosion ripped through Hangar Bay 2. The deck plates buckled as black smoke billowed through the corridors.

Starscream (snapping his helm up):
“What in the name of—?!”

Barricade (over comms, panicked):
“Autobots! Inside the Nemesis! They’re—ARGH!” [Transmission lost]

The next blast came from Engineering, sending showers of sparks raining down. Sirens blared louder as emergency bulkheads slammed shut, too late to stop the chaos.

Megatron (roaring):
“HOW DARE THEY! Defile MY SHIP!”

The Decepticons scrambled.

Vehicons tripped over themselves, their weapons drawn but no targets in sight. Communications jammed. Reports flew—explosions in multiple sectors, Autobot signatures detected in the armory, Energon stockpiles compromised.

Breakdown (frustrated, swinging his hammer):
“They’re hitting us from EVERYWHERE!”

Knockout (dodging falling debris):
“Do I LOOK like I’m equipped for guerrilla warfare inside a flying fortress?!”

Thundercracker (wide-eyed):
“They wouldn’t dare… they wouldn’t DARE hit the Nemesis head-on!”

Another explosion shook the ship, this time from the flight deck. Consoles sparked. Lights flickered.

Soundwave (monotone, but fast):
“Autobot strike teams: Hangar, Engineering, Medbay, Bridge Approach. Coordinated sabotage.”

Megatron’s growl was deep, murderous.

Megatron:
“FIND THEM. KILL THEM.”

But it was chaos.

Autobots struck in pairs, melting into the shadows after every hit. Black grenades burst in small, strategic explosions—not enough to destroy the Nemesis, but enough to sow fear and disrupt every command chain.

Skywarp (teleporting in with a snarl):
“They’re playing mind games, Megatron! Blowing holes, vanishing, reappearing where we don’t expect! This isn’t a fight, it’s a FRAGGING HUNT!”

Starscream’s wings flared, frustration seething through his vents.

Starscream (hissing):
“Sloppy, desperate tactics. Do they think they can win by sowing petty panic? Fools.”

But something felt… wrong.

The Autobots weren’t attacking to cripple the Nemesis permanently. Their strikes were calculated—crippling, but not lethal. More smoke than slaughter.

Starscream (thinking, optics narrowing):
“They’re… distracting us. But from what?”

Another blast rocked the walls. Screams echoed through the comms. Reports of Autobots disappearing after every strike.

Skywarp (appearing in a burst of teleport energy):
“We can’t pin them down! They hit and vanish! This isn’t an assault—it’s a kranxing ambush!”

Megatron (snarling):
“They want to humiliate us. Break into my fortress and make us bleed for sport. I will answer their arrogance with death.”

Starscream’s sharp mind whirred, piecing together the bigger picture. But still, he thought the Autobots were here for general sabotage.

Not him.

Starscream (gritting his denta, muttering):
“They’d never be so foolish as to target the Nemesis directly in this chaos…”

Still, he kept his blasters close.

He didn’t notice the shadow creeping closer.

Smoke billowed through the Nemesis. Red emergency lights bathed the corridors in a sinister glow. Sparks hissed from severed cables, casting fleeting flashes of light on the chaos.

Starscream was in his element—or so he thought.

His sharp voice sliced through the comms.

Starscream (commanding):
“Thundercracker, reinforce the port wing! Skywarp, cover the aft corridors and flush out those pests! I want that blast team neutralized!”

He was moving too fast, too focused, wings flicking sharply as he gave out orders with increasing agitation.

For once, his shouting was met with swift obedience. Subordinates scrambled to obey. Seekers moved to secure positions, responding promptly.

But it was because they knew the real reason the Autobots were here.

Starscream didn’t.

Starscream (gritting his denta, optics darting):
“Slag it… they’re tearing through our defenses faster than we can regroup… Ramjet! Divebomb! Respond, frag you!”

His claws tightened over the comm console.

Starscream (voice cracking with hidden worry):
“Where are they…?”

He wasn’t worried about himself.

He was worried about them. His fliers. His command.

So, he never noticed the shadow creeping up from the side corridor. The Autobot team moved like wraiths, undetected in the mayhem.

Cliffjumper and Arcee flanked from the left, Sideswipe and Windblade from the right.

Windblade (whispering through comms):
“Target in sight. Waiting for green light.”

Wheeljack (from the Autobot channel):
“Blue grenades. Don't miss. Paralyze first, grab later.”

Jetfire (low voice):
“Remember, he must believe it’s a standard capture. Don’t let him see it’s a rescue.”

Optimus Prime (calm, final):
“Execute.”

Four blue grenades arched through the air, silent and precise.

Starscream’s wings twitched as he sensed motion, but he was too late to react.

Starscream (turning, optics widening):
“What—?”

—SHRAK-CRACK!—

The grenades detonated at his peds.
A wave of electrical paralysis surged up his limbs, short-circuiting his motors. His frame convulsed violently, his wings snapping rigid as the shock overrode his neural network.

Starscream (with a strangled cry):
“Wha—AAGH!!”

His knees buckled. The paralysis seized his joints. His claws scrabbled uselessly against the floor as he collapsed forward.

Starscream (snarling, teeth grinding):
“Cowardly—! Backstabbing scraplet—!”

The world tilted as his systems stuttered. He tried to move, tried to lift his helm, but nothing responded. His wings sparked, twitching erratically.

Around him, the Decepticons were still locked in chaos, too preoccupied with the larger attacks to notice their Air Commander’s sudden fall.

Cliffjumper (grinning as he secured Starscream’s arms):
“Gotcha, Screamer. You’re coming with us.”

Windblade (kneeling by his side, her voice softer):
“Don’t fight it. You’re safer this way.”

Starscream (spitting venom):
“Traitors—all of you! You think you’ll get away with this!?”

The blue pulse still rattled through his frame, each surge weakening his defiance.

Sideswipe (mocking):
“Pretty sure we just did.”

Starscream's optics dimmed slightly. His vents rasped with strain.

Starscream (bitter, breathless):
“You’re wasting your time… no Autobot will break me.”

Jetfire (his voice a quiet pang of regret):
“We’re not here to break you, Starscream.”

As the Autobots lifted his paralyzed form, cradling his frame to avoid further damage, Starscream’s thoughts spiraled. The paralysis wouldn’t last long—but it was enough.

The Nemesis roared with distant battle, but for him, the fight had suddenly gone still.

Starscream (inner monologue, confused, furious):
“This… wasn’t about the ship. This was about me.”

But why?

His wings sagged as stasis began creeping in. Darkness flirted at the edges of his vision.

The last thing he saw before systems forced him into offline stasis was Windblade’s expression.

Pity.

And Starscream hated it.

The Autobots regrouped quickly around Starscream’s prone form. The blue grenade’s effects were still pulsing through his frame, his optics dimming, his struggling weakening—but his glossa was still sharp.

Starscream (slurred, venomous):
“Pathetic… ambush tactics… you’ll regret—this…”

But his words faltered. His vents rasped harder, consciousness slipping away.

That’s when Optimus Prime arrived.

The heavy thoom-thoom of his steps echoed through the battered corridor. Flanked by Ratchet, his face was its usual stoic calm, but his optics were sharp, calculating.

Optimus (deep, clear voice):
“Status, report.”

Cliffjumper (grinning):
“Package secured, Prime. He didn’t even see it coming.”

Optimus (with a small nod):
“Good. The Decepticons will not let this insult go unanswered.”

He knelt beside Starscream, reaching out with surprising gentleness for such a massive mech. Carefully, he slid one arm under Starscream’s slender frame, the other supporting the seeker’s wings to avoid damage.

Starscream weakly attempted to struggle, but his limbs barely twitched.

Starscream (hissing through his teeth):
“Unhand me, you overgrown scrapheap…”

Optimus (with deliberate firmness):
“I have no intention of damaging you, Starscream. But you leave me no choice.”

He spoke the next lines louder, his voice resonant, echoing through the ruined hallway with the perfect tone of a ‘capture’ operation.

Optimus (clear, for the cameras):
“We are taking Decepticon Second-in-Command Starscream. He possesses critical information about Nemesis operations and Megatron’s plans. We will extract that intel—one way or another.”

His optics flicked briefly to a wall-mounted camera.

Optimus (inwardly, cold logic):
“You see this, Soundwave. I know you’re watching.”

Behind him, Jetfire and Windblade exchanged a glance of grim satisfaction.

Jetfire (quietly):
“Perfect. Now even Soundwave will believe it.”

Windblade (softly):
“This will hurt him less… in the long run.”

Ratchet (cutting in with authority):
“Enough sentimentality. We have the target. Everyone regroup and fall back to the extraction point. Emergency bridge in section D-13. Move!”

The Autobots obeyed instantly.

Ratchet followed close to Optimus, keeping an optic on Starscream’s vital signs. The tricolor seeker was dangerously close to system stasis, but still aware enough to hear every word.

Starscream (inner thought, dizzy):
“Of course… they want information… typical Autobots… they’ll never get it from me…”

His vision blurred. He could feel himself being carried, helpless, humiliated. But to him, this was simply the cost of war.

He didn’t know the truth.

Optimus carried him with care, his tone remaining grim, professional—playing his role perfectly.

Optimus (for Starscream’s benefit, low but firm):
“You will tell us what we need to know, Starscream. For the sake of Cybertron.”

Another camera recorded everything.

Far away, Soundwave’s visor flickered.

Soundwave (silent, but recording):
[Data Logged. Operation: Rescue Pending.]

As explosions continued to rock the Nemesis, the Autobots disappeared through a shimmering emergency ground bridge, carrying with them their fragile, unwilling prize.

Starscream’s optics dimmed to black.

The emergency bridge closed with a final snap of displaced air, taking with it the infiltrating Autobots and their unexpected prize: Starscream.

But the damage had been done.

The Nemesis groaned under the weight of the explosions. Plumes of smoke billowed from multiple decks, alarms still blaring in overlapping, frantic tones. Fires raged in isolated pockets despite the efforts of drones and panicked Vehicons.

The Decepticons were still scrambling.

Vehicon (yelling, frantic):
“Security breach in main corridor seven—no, wait, they're gone! They’re gone!”

Knockout (snarling, exasperated):
“Obviously! Thank you for that brilliant report, officer-obvious!”

Amidst the confusion, Megatron stormed through the damaged corridors, his steps thunderous, crimson optics narrowed in volcanic fury. His glossa curled in disgust as a section of ceiling sparked and crashed down beside him.

Megatron (growling):
“How could Autobots breach this ship? This—this—is an insult of the highest order!”

Soundwave, trailing silently behind him, replayed clips of the attack. Fragments of Optimus Prime’s “announcement” echoed through the speakers.

Optimus Recording (cold and clear):
“We are taking Decepticon Second-in-Command Starscream. He possesses critical information about Nemesis operations and Megatron’s plans.”

Megatron’s optics flared dangerously.

Megatron (snarling):
“Of course… intelligence gathering. Pitiful tactics. They dare steal from under my nose!”

Further down the corridor, Shockwave stood amidst the wreckage, drones working methodically around him. The cyclopean scientist was already cataloguing the extensive damage.

Shockwave (calm, clinical):
“Energon stockpile delta-seven has been reduced by thirty-two point seven percent. Autobots retrieved several crates during their retreat. Estimated resource loss: suboptimal.”

His monotone carried no emotion, but even Shockwave’s calm could not soothe Megatron’s rising wrath.

Megatron (barking):
“First my ship, then my stockpiles—what next?!”

He moved with forceful purpose toward the throne room, optics blazing.

Megatron (muttering darkly):
“At least Starscream will have much to answer for. My so-called Air Commander… where is he?”

He pushed open the heavy doors with a metallic growl.

The throne room was empty.

Decepticon banners fluttered weakly from the residual shockwaves of distant explosions. There was no flash of red and silver pacing before the throne, no high-pitched voice screeching orders or excuses.

Only silence.

Megatron froze.

Megatron (quietly, then with growing rage):
“Where… is… Starscream?”

His servo curled into a crushing fist, denting the throne’s armrest as the realization sank in.

Megatron (roaring):
“SOUNDWAVE!”

The silent communications officer merely tilted his helm slightly, replaying Optimus’ declaration once more, a perfect, damning echo:

Optimus Recording:
“Starscream possesses critical information. We will extract that intel—one way or another.”

For a long moment, Megatron stood utterly still.

Then he turned, his voice low, vibrating with lethal intent.

Megatron:
“Prepare a counterattack. I want every satellite, every outpost scanning for their ground bridge signature. Shockwave, assess how much firepower we can spare for an immediate retaliation.”

Shockwave:
“Understood. Countermeasure protocol initiated.”

Megatron (to himself, furious):
“You think to humiliate me, Prime. You think to use Starscream as a pawn. I will raze your base to its foundation.”

As Decepticons scrambled to obey, the storm inside Megatron only grew.

But deep beneath the rage, in a place he would never admit even to himself, there was the faintest flicker of something colder.

Worry.

Megatron (inner thought, begrudging):
“Foolish as he is… Starscream is mine to punish. Not theirs.”

The Autobot Ground Bridge sealed behind them, and with it, the chaos of the Nemesis was left behind. In its place, the hum of the Ark’s medical bay filled the air.

Optimus Prime gently carried Starscream’s limp frame, careful despite the weight difference. The seeker’s wings twitched unconsciously, his armor scuffed and dented from the earlier battle. His colors—once sharp reds, gleaming silvers, and deep blues—were dulled by dust and scorch marks.

Optimus (calm but firm):
“Ratchet. First Aid. Begin assessments immediately. We do not know what injuries Megatron has allowed to linger.”

Ratchet (huffing as always):
“That tyrant’s neglect is half the reason this is necessary in the first place.”

The CMO signaled for First Aid to assist, the younger medic already prepping tools and scanners. With practiced hands, they transferred Starscream onto the medical berth.

First Aid (softly, almost sympathetic):
“Vital signs are stable, but his stress levels… they’re off the charts.”

Ratchet:
“Wouldn’t surprise me. When does that seeker not run on pure anxiety?”

Yet, even the cantankerous medic’s voice lacked true bite. As they worked, micro-welders sealed hairline fractures, energon patches applied where thin leaks had gone unnoticed. The Autobots might call him “Decepticon,” but at this moment, he was simply a patient. Elsewhere, in one of the Ark’s cargo bays, Bumblebee, Ironhide, and Sideswipe organized the stolen energon crates. The energon theft had been pure improvisation—but too valuable an opportunity to pass up.

Ironhide (grinning, satisfied):
“Wasn’t part of the plan, but scrap it if it didn’t go well. This haul will keep us running for weeks.”

Bumblebee (chirping approvingly):
“At least something exploded in our favor.”

Sideswipe (smirking):
“Gotta love a little creative looting. Besides, Decepticons owe us.”

They worked efficiently, securing and cataloging the crates, while keeping an optic on perimeter alarms.

In the Ark’s command deck, Jetfire and Wheeljack hovered over the consoles, their servos a blur across the holo-keys. The ship’s frame rumbled slightly as the engines powered up.

Jetfire (gruff, calculating):
“Chameleon protocols engaged. Nemesis-level stealth, optimized for our old bird. We’ll be a ghost on their sensors.”

Wheeljack (grinning, energon smudged on his faceplate):
“And in case they do get lucky—she’ll be fast enough to make ‘em dizzy.”

The Ark lifted, inertial dampeners kicking in, shifting the massive aircraft away from its previous coordinates. The Autobots knew the Decepticons would retaliate swiftly. They wouldn’t find the Ark in the same place twice.

Jetfire:
“Changing vectors every cycle. Even Shockwave’s probabilities won’t catch up to us.”

Wheeljack (smirking):
“Come and get us, ‘Cons. If you can.”

In a quieter corridor, Optimus Prime stood, observing the medical bay from a distance. His optics were narrowed—not in anger, but in thought. He had followed through with Jetfire and Windblade’s suggestion. Starscream would believe himself a prisoner of war, taken for interrogation.

A necessary deception.

Optimus (quietly, to himself):
“It is not yet time for you to see the truth, Starscream. But we will protect you… whether you accept it or not.”

Beyond the medbay glass, Starscream’s optics flickered beneath shuttered lids, wings twitching again.

The first steps of a much larger plan had been set into motion.

The Ark's medbay was quiet, save for the soft hum of scanners and the occasional muttering of Ratchet.

Ratchet (frowning as he studied the holo-display):
“Pit... Starscream, what in Primus’ name have they done to you?”

The detailed scan of the Seeker’s frame revealed layers of neglected internal damage. Stress fractures in his protoform, micro-tears in sensitive wing joints, servos repaired crudely or not at all. Signs of patchwork mending were everywhere—temporary fixes meant for the battlefield, never true recovery.

Ratchet (grumbling but with unusual softness):
“Hook didn’t repair him. He kept him functional. Just barely. Like a tool, not a soldier… not a living mech.”

First Aid’s optics dimmed in dismay.

First Aid:
“He was remended, not repaired. Reused until he couldn’t fight anymore.”

Ratchet's tools worked meticulously, sealing wounds that had lingered for far too long. This was no longer just a medbay job. This was undoing years of mistreatment.
In the Ark’s data center, Bumblebee sat with the confiscated datapad taken from the Nemesis. Originally, it was standard-issue: troop logs, mission details, nothing unusual. But Bee, curious as always, kept digging.

A folder. Hidden within another folder. Misfiled deliberately.

Bumblebee (chirping curiously):
“Hmm... what’s this, Screamer?”

Inside the subfolder: recipes. Not battle data. Not surveillance.

Energon recipes.

Meticulously cataloged combinations of high-grade energon mixed with sweet additives. Crystalline infusions, solvent glazes, even soft energon cubes with delicate layering. Far from the standard Decepticon rations.

Bumblebee (amused):
“He’s got a sweet tooth.”

He flagged the find to Prowl, who arrived with his usual deadpan expression.

Prowl (scanning the files):
“This is... surprising. Tactical mind, combat proficiency, and yet…”
“Sweet energon confections.”

But that wasn’t all.

Deeper in the subfolder, Prowl found another document. A schematic diagram of Starscream’s frame, annotated by the Seeker himself.

Prowl (raising an optic ridge):
“He hides his double blades here.”
(He pointed to compartments just beneath Starscream’s wings, well-disguised.)
“Custom modifications. Self-designed.”

Further files appeared—video logs. One by one, Prowl opened them.

In them, a much younger Starscream stood in what looked like an old, battered training hall. The Seeker documented his personal tests, trial and error attempts at perfecting the flight patterns, high-speed maneuvers, and combat efficiency required to become a Seeker.

Young Starscream (in the recording, voice sharp but determined):
“Seeker flight is more than transformation. It is instinct, yes, but it is also calculation. Precision. I will master it. My Trine will be the strongest.”

Beneath the arrogance, there was passion. Dedication. Pride not in conquest, but in creation.

Prowl silently saved the files into a secure archive.

Prowl (to Bumblebee):
“Ensure Optimus sees these. They may prove… useful.”
(He paused.)
“And perhaps enlightening.”

Back in the medical bay, Ratchet finished the last of the repairs, stepping back with a quiet sigh. Starscream’s systems were stabilizing, his expression no longer tense even in unconsciousness.

Ratchet (gruffly):
“You’re safe here, for now, Seeker. Whether you like it or not.”

The pieces were aligning. The Autobots were starting to understand that Starscream was not merely a Decepticon officer. He was a survivor. A craftsman. A mech who had been neglected and yet continued to fight—not just against enemies, but against the indifference of his own side.

The main holo-projector bathed the room in a soft blue glow. The Autobots gathered—Optimus Prime, Jazz, Prowl, Ultra Magnus, Bumblebee, Wheeljack, and Ratchet—their optics fixed on the series of videos playing before them.

On screen, a younger Starscream performed solo test flights in an abandoned hangar. Every maneuver was meticulously documented: sharp dives, barrel rolls, stabilizer tests. Failures were many, but so were the small victories. His voice echoed in the chamber, half-commentary, half-determined muttering.

Starscream (recorded, wings twitching in frustration):
“If it were simple, any winged protoform could call themselves a Seeker. But precision is what defines us. A Seeker flies where others fall.”

Jazz leaned back, arms crossed, visor gleaming.

Jazz:
“Alright, someone explain how a former senator like himHe gestured toward the segment displaying the hidden compartment diagrams beneath Starscream’s wings. Specialized double blade concealment, clearly custom.

Jazz:
“This is personal. This is intimate data.”

Prowl’s expression remained impassive, but his optics narrowed slightly.

Prowl:
“It’s unlikely Starscream willingly handed this over. The acquisition was targeted, calculated.”

Ultra Magnus, arms behind his back, stepped forward.

Ultra Magnus:
“Possession of such specific data would have required substantial resources. Likely, him invested considerable energon credits to acquire it.”
(His tone was grim.)
“Perhaps from illicit data brokers. Or through forced extraction from Cybertronian archives before the Senate's fall.” got his servos on this kind of footage. This ain't public domain stuff. Flight schematics, training archives, even his energon preferences? That’s not standard war loot.”
Optimus remained silent, optics reflecting the image of Starscream pushing through failed trials, only to rise again. The footage spoke of relentless perseverance—nothing like the conniving image most Decepticons wore proudly.

Optimus Prime (softly):
“He fought for the right to soar. Not through war, but through self-determination.”

Bumblebee, seated nearby, added his own observation with a series of beeps and chirps, his translator clicking in after a beat.

Bumblebee:
“And Megatron turned that dream into a chain.”

Jazz huffed, shaking his head.

Jazz:
“You gotta wonder, though… if Megatron saw this datapad and what it contains or if he’s just that obsessed with controlling him. Either way, Starscream’s more valuable than we thought.”

Ultra Magnus inclined his head.

Ultra Magnus:
“Which makes our mission to protect him even more urgent.”

The room fell into thoughtful silence as the last video played: Starscream’s first successful high-velocity Seeker maneuver. He landed with a stumble but laughed—a rare, unguarded moment of genuine pride.

Starscream (recorded, with a tired but victorious smirk):
“There. A Seeker's wings are earned, not gifted.”

Optimus’ voice, when he spoke again, carried the weight of conviction.

Optimus Prime:
“Then we shall ensure he remembers that.”

The medbay was still filled with the hum of scanning equipment, the soft beeping of monitors tracking Starscream’s vitals. First Aid, arms crossed and visor blinking, looked up from the datapad with a worried frown.

First Aid:
“Ratchet, we can’t keep him here. Once he wakes up, he’ll be disoriented, probably combative. But throwing him in a cell… that’s a bad call.”
(He looked to Optimus.)
“Prime, if we’re trying to convince him he’s a ‘prisoner of war’, shouldn’t we make it believable but not degrading? What’s the plan for his quarters?”

The question landed with a heavy thud.

A long, very awkward silence followed.

The Autobots all exchanged looks.

No one had thought that far ahead.

Wheeljack (scratching his helm):
“Uh… yeah, we’ve been so busy figuring out how to grab him, we didn’t think about where to put him after.”

Jazz (half-laughing):
“You’d think someone would’ve brought this up before we pulled the trigger on the whole snatch-and-run.”

Prowl (flatly):
“The lack of strategic foresight here is… concerning.”

Bumblebee (beeps, then translation chimes):
“We can’t put him in a brig cell. That’ll backfire. He’ll scream treachery and make it harder to talk to him.”

The tension in the room crackled as optics turned to Optimus, waiting for the leader to provide a miracle answer.

But it was Ironhide who cut through the noise with a gruff snort.

Ironhide:
“You’re all thinkin’ too complicated. Just gut a berth out of one of the spare crew quarters. Leave the frame bare, slap a surveillance camera in plain sight. On the floor? Couple of those spare pillows and blankets from storage.
Ain’t a cell, but it ain’t luxury neither. Looks rough, gets the job done. No fraggin’ nonsense.”

There was a beat of silence.

Wheeljack:
“Well, I’ll be rusted. The old warhorse used processor power instead of brute force.”

Jazz (grinning):
“Mark the day. Ironhide’s gears turned without smashing anything.”

Ironhide grumbled, crossing his arms.

Ironhide:
“You bunch of glitch-heads act like I can’t strategize. Sometimes you gotta think like a Decepticon to deal with ‘em.”

Ratchet (grudging but approving):
“He’s right. It’s simple, effective, and we can prep it fast.”

Optimus Prime (nodding):
“Proceed with Ironhide’s suggestion. Wheeljack, Jetfire—prepare the quarters. Make sure the surveillance is overt, but leave no obvious restraints. Starscream must believe this is a controlled interrogation space, not a prison cell.”

Prowl added, ever the tactician:

Prowl:
“We’ll rotate shifts. Constant monitoring. We cannot afford him slipping away.”

Bumblebee (soft chirps):
“Or slipping into thinking we’re doing this for his sake.”

Optimus Prime:
“Agreed, Bumblebee. Until the truth can be revealed safely, we maintain the illusion.”

With newfound purpose, the team dispersed, each one with tasks to ensure their “guest’s” stay was as controlled—and as complicated—as Starscream himself.

------------------

The quiet hum of the Ark was the first thing Starscream registered.

For a fleeting moment, his optics refused to adjust. Everything felt… wrong. The air was too still, the background noise too foreign. Where was the Nemesis’ engine rumble? The subtle thrum of Decepticon activity?

He groaned low, ventilations rasping as his systems struggled to reboot from the stun grenade’s effects. His wings twitched — but there was no familiar ache from a medical berth… because there was no berth beneath him. Just a cold, flat surface softened slightly by what felt like a pile of mismatched blankets and cushions.

That was his first alarm bell.

Starscream’s optics flickered online fully, focusing on the stark, undecorated room. Bare walls. Exposed support struts. A very obvious surveillance camera blinking red above the entrance.

A cell disguised as… what, a guest room?

Starscream (groggy, hissing):
“What… where—?”

His wings twitched again, trying to flare out in a threat display, but his joints protested. He’d been patched up — but roughly. Too roughly. No delicate recalibrations, no cosmetic repairs. Just functional fixes.

His processor caught up with reality fast.

Captured.

His spark pulsed hard against his chassis.

Starscream (teeth bared):
“AUTOBOTS.”

The door slid open with a hiss, and there stood Optimus Prime.

Composed. Calculating. The very picture of moral authority.

Optimus (calm but firm):
“Starscream. You’re awake.”

Starscream snarled, immediately scrambling to his pedes, wings flaring despite the pain. He staggered slightly, but kept his glare sharp, talons flexing.

Starscream:
“Cowards! Attacking the Nemesis like spineless scavengers! If you think you’ll extract information from me, you’re more foolish than you look, Prime!”

Optimus didn’t react to the insult.

Optimus (deliberately loud, so Soundwave’s tapped feeds would catch it):
“This is not a rescue. You are a prisoner of war, Starscream. The information you possess is valuable. You will answer our questions.”

The words echoed in the empty space, just loud enough to be recorded. Just as planned.

Starscream’s wings twitched. His optics narrowed.

Starscream:
“I will never betray the Decepticon cause. You’ve wasted your time.”

From the doorway, Ratchet and First Aid observed silently, ready for another outburst.

Ratchet (muttering to Optimus):
“We’ll see how long that bravado lasts once he realizes his own ‘leader’ left him to rot.”

First Aid (softly):
“For now, it’s good. Let him believe it’s an interrogation.”

Starscream’s lip curled, stepping forward as if challenging Optimus physically.

Starscream:
“You’re making a grave mistake. I am second-in-command of the Decepticons! When Megatron finds out—”

Optimus (cutting in, cold):
“If he wanted you back so badly, Starscream, why wasn’t he there to protect you?”

The words hit harder than any physical blow. Starscream’s field flared with volatile static before he reeled it in, disguising it behind his signature sneer.

Starscream:
“Tch. You wish to turn me into a traitor. Typical Autobot delusions of moral superiority.”

Optimus:
“No. We wish to prevent your destruction.”

His tone was final. Heavy with double meanings Starscream wasn’t ready to decode yet.

The Seeker bared his denta in a snarl, but he felt the cold chill of uncertainty coil in his spark.

Why hadn’t Megatron protected him? Why did this all feel so... orchestrated?

He had no answers yet.

But he’d find them.

And when he did, the entire Ark would hear his fury.

Chapter Text

The door sealed shut again with a final hiss, leaving Starscream alone.

Silence returned. Not the low hum of the Nemesis — not the subtle sound of Decepticon activity that had become his rhythm over the vorns. No, this silence was foreign. Clinical. Clean.

Too clean.

The makeshift bedding under him felt like an insult. A parody of comfort. A soft cage disguised as mercy. He didn’t sit. He didn’t rest. He paced. Wings twitching erratically, frame tense, vocal processor quiet save for the occasional sharp ex-vent from his systems trying to regulate his rising panic.

“So this is how it ends. Kidnapped like a trophy by those self-righteous hypocrites.”

He muttered it to no one. To the walls. To the camera blinking in the corner like a quietly mocking eye. The burn of humiliation settled deep in his core.

He had screamed for order during the attack. Issued commands. Tried to protect the Vehicons. Tried to be a good commander. And in return—

“They took me. They planned this.”

He could still see flashes. Explosions rocking the corridors. The shriek of metal tearing. His own body seizing under that cursed blue grenade, the electric pulse robbing him of motion before he even understood what was happening. And then…

Optimus. Lifting him. Cradling him like something fragile.

“Hnnh…”
Starscream’s claws dug into his forearms as he finally slumped to the floor, seated now with his wings drooped behind him.
“Even in humiliation they treat me better than he ever did.”

The words spilled out unbidden. And once they did, more followed, rising bitterly from the depths of his exhausted, aching core.

“Megatron never lifted me when I fell. Never even looked back when I bled. I patched my own energon leaks while he praised others. I delivered victories only to be beaten for imagined slights. And yet—”

He looked up sharply at the wall — as if daring it to contradict him.

“And yet I stayed.”

His voice cracked at the end. He hated it. Hated that sound from his own vocalizer.

“Because I believed. Because someone had to protect the others. Because if I wasn’t second-in-command, they’d all suffer worse. Because if I wasn’t visible—he would have devoured someone weaker.”

He paused. Vents slowing.

“I stayed to protect the others from him.”

The truth was like a toxin on his tongue. It didn’t feel good to say. It didn’t feel liberating.

It just hurt.

And yet.

“But I won’t join the Autobots. I won’t. I’m not one of them.”

His voice grew hard again, as if trying to steel over the crack that had just been exposed.

“They want to use me. Just like he did. No different. No better. Their concern? A tactic. Their mercy? A lie.”

His talons curled, digging into the floor now. He pulled his wings in tightly around himself — protective. Defensive. Isolated.

“I am Starscream. I am a Seeker. I do not break. Not for Megatron. Not for Optimus. Not for anyone.”

But as the minutes passed, the silence grew heavy again. And the only thing that answered him was the soft hum of the Ark — gentle, persistent, and alien.

And for the first time in a long, long while…

Starscream didn’t know who would come for him.

Or if anyone would.

The lights in the medbay were low, the hum of systems consistent and familiar — like a well-kept heart beating in the hull of the Ark.

First Aid sat in front of a monitor, one optic dimmed slightly as he leaned closer. The feed showed Starscream in his makeshift quarters — pacing at first, then curling into himself like something cornered, something hurt. The video had no sound, but the tension in the seeker’s form was loud enough.

First Aid didn’t say anything for a while. He just watched. His optics flicked to Starscream’s wings — sagging with weight no one had put there physically. They shifted restlessly, sometimes curling in tightly, sometimes twitching when no one was near.

“He’s not recharging,” First Aid finally said, quietly.

Ratchet grunted without turning away from the datapads he was cataloging. “Of course he isn’t. He thinks he’s a prisoner.”

First Aid’s tone stayed soft. “He is a prisoner.”

Ratchet stopped then, slowly raising his helm. The tired lines in his faceplates were deep. He walked over to the monitor and stood beside his protégé, watching the muted feed of the seeker sitting slouched against the wall, unmoving now except for the occasional, slow vent.

“I scanned him. There are microfractures all over his internal structures. Scar tissue from improper welds. Stress layering on his rotator joints. That right wing joint? Reattached at least twice. Hook didn’t repair him — he slapped sealant on him like patching a hole in a wall.”

First Aid glanced up at him.

“He was flying like that?”

Ratchet gave a slow nod. “And commanding troops. Training Seekers. Getting results. That’s not ego — that’s endurance. Starscream’s survived more than we’ve given him credit for.”

The two stood in silence again, watching as Starscream shifted and spoke something to the wall. No one to hear it. No one to answer.

First Aid swallowed softly.

“I don’t think he even knows how hurt he is.”

Ratchet nodded again, voice lower. “That’s the problem with long-term trauma. It buries itself in your code. Teaches you to wear pain like armor.”
He crossed his arms, glancing to the younger medic.

“But if he doesn’t let someone take that armor off…”

“He’ll rust from the inside out,” First Aid finished.

They watched a little longer. Starscream eventually curled tighter, wings folded like brittle paper behind him.

And for all his boasting, his sharp tongue, his legendary temper—there, in that moment, he looked small.

“What do we do?” First Aid asked, uncertain. “He doesn’t trust us. He’s not going to accept help.”

Ratchet ex-vented slowly. “We don’t force it. We don’t smother him. But we stay. We watch. We patch him up when he lets us.”
A beat.

“And when he finally breaks…” He lowered his optics. “We’ll be ready to catch what’s left.”

The lighting in the Ark’s halls was gentler than the blinding fluorescence of the Nemesis, warmer in tone and lower in intensity, as though the ship itself understood that its newest and most reluctant guest was a creature of shattered pride and silent wounds. Starscream had not asked for the glow of the overhead lights to be dimmed, nor for the subtle whir of his door to be softened—yet someone had done it.

He noticed.

From the first moment his systems rebooted and his optics blinked open to that strange, unfamiliar hush, he noticed.

The makeshift room, somewhere between a cell and a chamber, was neither cold nor hostile. It was bare—yes—but not barren. The surveillance camera was easy to spot, but its blinking light had been covered with a piece of medical tape, as if the person who installed it had wanted him to know they were watching, but not to make him feel like prey.

He noticed that, too.

The first few days were strained. The Autobots were distant but not cruel. They spoke to him with caution, with careful steps as though he might lash out, bite, or break under pressure. He had expected bars. Interrogations. Perhaps a surgical probe or two.

Instead, Ratchet was the first to enter, scanning him silently, no restraints, no questions. When Starscream hissed and reeled back from the scanner, expecting pain, Ratchet merely raised an optic ridge and said:

"If I wanted to hurt you, Starscream, I’d have done it already."

That was all.

Optimus never rushed it. He visited often, sometimes with questions, more often with silence. At first, Starscream didn’t speak. Not a word. He sat with his wings curled against the wall, optics half-lidded, guarding what was left of his tattered dignity.

But Optimus was patient.

Sometimes, he brought datapads—general readings, world updates, harmless things. Other times, he brought energon—basic rations, nothing fancy. Once, after the third silent visit, Starscream found the energon had been warmed to his preferred intake temperature.

He didn’t comment. But he drank it.

It was Bumblebee who cracked the first smile.

The young scout, ever-curious and far less rigid than his older counterparts, often appeared at Starscream’s door to drop off something strange—a recorded video of Earth wildlife, a digital puzzle game, once even a paper airplane that glided in clumsy spirals when tossed.

Starscream had sneered at it, called it foolish.

But he didn’t throw it away.

Ratchet was the one who finally brought up the truth.

Not all at once. Not even directly.

It began with the question: "Did Hook ever fully repair you after the Vos campaign?"

Starscream, who had been sitting on the floor, wings splayed tiredly, snapped his optics to the medic. "That’s none of your concern."

"You’re right. It shouldn’t be," Ratchet replied. "But you’re under my care now, and I’ve seen your internal scans. You haven’t been properly restructured in vorns. Hook… he didn’t help you. He patched you. There’s a difference."

Starscream didn’t answer. Not then. But the tremor in his wing joint as he folded it back around himself said everything.

Over time, little by little, things changed.

Wheeljack brought him a toolkit one morning—left it without a word. Just a nod and a muttered, "Figured you’d wanna tune your own stabilizers."

Windblade started stopping by—not to interrogate, but to talk. About flying. About the sky. Once, she mentioned Vos. A slip. But when Starscream froze, lips parting slightly, she only said, “It must have been beautiful once.”

He didn’t deny it.

Then there was Jazz.

He was casual, light-footed, too calm for Starscream’s liking. But he was observant. He asked questions that didn't sound like questions.

"So, you ever miss the stars?"

"They were never mine to miss."

"You sure about that? ‘Cause from what I’ve seen, you were always reaching for ‘em."

Jazz never stayed long. But he always left something to think about.

Prowl approached differently—calculating, but not cold. He was the one who brought the datapad Bumblebee had discovered. The one with files inside files. The one with Starscream’s test footage. His blueprints. His favorite energon blends.

“Where did you get this?” Starscream’s voice was sharp, dangerous.

Prowl didn’t flinch. “Someone gave it to the Senate. Your records were sold before you ever became second-in-command. Before Megatron ever noticed you.”

Starscream’s expression cracked. Just a little.

The Ark was unusually silent.

For the first time in ages, Starscream could hear only the hum of low lights and distant systems. No alarms. No shouted commands. No barked insults. No tension biting into the air like electric wire.

He had been...listening.

Watching.

Waiting.

The Autobots—those infuriating, smug fools—had not tortured him. Had not even tried to interrogate him. They had treated his wounds with more care than he had received in vorns. They had not pressed him for information. Not even once. They had brought him energon—sweet, unfamiliar blends of it—and always asked before speaking, before entering.

He hadn't trusted it, of course. He couldn’t. That wasn’t how the world worked.

But now, something had changed again. He sensed it in the weight of the air.

Footsteps approached his "quarter-cell," and for the first time, Starscream didn't immediately posture or prepare to spit acid. He merely turned his helm, watching.

Windblade, Jetfire, and Optimus Prime entered with a kind of gentle purpose. They stood just far enough not to crowd him.

Windblade held something in her hands. A datapad.

Starscream’s optics narrowed.

“We found something,” Optimus began softly, “Something that belongs to you.”

Windblade stepped forward, slowly, and handed him the datapad.

Starscream took it with suspicious fingers. He recognized it instantly. His own personal coding in the encrypted layers. But—there were things there he did not place.

He opened the file.

His spark nearly seized.

:: ENCRYPTED ARCHIVAL FILE: SENATORIAL RECORDS – SUBJECT: DESIGNATE STARSCREAM ::
PROJECT: SCYTHEBORN
Experiment: Behavioral manipulation, transformation regulation, wing articulation design.

There were videos. Of him. From before.

His Seeker trials. His testing. His youth—raw and proud and hopeful.

His talons trembled as he skimmed page after page of testimonies, of schematics, of footage from secret chambers of the Senate. Scans of experiments, forced upgrades, psychological observations written in cold fonts.

And at the center—him.

A subject. A pawn.

“You weren’t imagining it,” Jetfire said quietly. “They built you. And broke you. And made you believe it was your choice.”

Starscream was silent for so long it felt like time had stopped.

Optimus Prime finally stepped closer. His voice was grave. Clear. Sincere in a way that cracked stone.

“On behalf of the Primes, the Autobot High Council, the entire Senate—and on behalf of every Cybertronian who turned away while you suffered…”

He paused. His voice dipped.

“I’m sorry, Starscream. Deeply. Eternally. Sorry.”

Starscream’s hands tightened around the datapad. His wings twitched sharply.

And then—without warning—

He broke.

The tremble of his frame began in his shoulders. A rattling ex-vent escaped his chest, and then another. His optics dimmed. He slid to the floor, fragging datapad slipping from his hands, wings splaying slightly behind him. He clutched his helm and let out a broken, gasping sob.

The kind that sounded like it had waited a thousand years to escape.

Not performative. Not manipulative.

Real.

Windblade slowly knelt near him, not touching, but close enough to feel.

“You’re safe now, Starscream,” she whispered.

Starscream vented rapidly, optics blinking furiously, tears sparking at the corners and dropping to his knees.

“I—I tried so hard, and no one ever—no one ever listened! They made me! They made me this!”

“We believe you,” Jetfire said, gently.

Silence.

His crying slowly softened into low vents. His frame shook. But this time, he didn’t cover it with bravado.

He let himself be seen.

Later, hours maybe, he lay curled in the corner, datapad close to his chest. His wings no longer flicked in anxious angles. His optics were off, but he was awake. Processing.

He didn’t resist when Ratchet adjusted his armwraps or offered him another energon blend. He didn’t snap when Bumblebee quietly left a clean cloth and a datapad loaded with aerial schematics beside his berth.

He didn’t even move when Jazz came to sit quietly in the corner and hum some gentle tune from the golden age.

He was beginning to… trust.

But when he next looked up, his voice rasped:

“My trine. My seekers. They’re still on the Nemesis.”

A beat.

He sat up, alert, a sudden spike of panic lighting in his optics.

“Megatron will punish them! He’ll think—he’ll hurt them for letting me go!”

“No,” Optimus said calmly, stepping inside with Ratchet. “He won’t.”

Starscream stared at him, stunned. “How—?”

“We took precautions,” Ratchet said. “Before we left, I sent a coded, decographed message to Soundwave. I made sure it could only be opened by him. No traceable link to you.”

Starscream blinked, confused.

“What...what did it say?”

Optimus explained gently, “We told him why we captured you. Soundwave told us that all the aerialbots knows the truth now because of Skyqake, he listened me and soundwave while we were battling some eons ago. Skyquake shows all the others the truth too”
Starscream’s mouth parted.

His wings slowly dipped low, uncertain. Disbelieving.

“That’s why…” he whispered, remembering it now. “They...they started obeying me. No shouting. They offered me energon. They cleaned my wings. Thundercracker...he smiled at me.”

“They knew,” Jetfire nodded. “And they respected you for it.”

Starscream’s expression twisted in something terribly vulnerable. A crack in the core.

“I thought… they were plotting against me,” he said faintly, with a half-laugh, half-sob. “I thought they were mocking me.”

“No,” Ratchet said. “They were trying to thank you.”

Starscream buried his face in his claws, utterly undone.

But this time, his frame shook not from despair.

But from the terrifying, unfamiliar warmth of hope.

And acceptance.

And something dangerously close to being loved.

--------------------

The bridge of the Nemesis was still.

Soundwave stood alone, screens flickering before him. His field pulsed gently with unreadable frequency as data streams unfolded like waves across his visor. But his gaze was fixed on one file—one message.

Ratchet's transmission.

Encrypted with medical code, disguised beneath surgical reports and harmless diagnostics—but inside it was everything.

Starscream.

Protective protocols stirred in Soundwave’s system. He replayed the message again.

“He’s alive. He saved them. All of them. Lied for them. Took punishment for them. And now... he’s broken.”

Soundwave's claws trembled. The silent mech vented, slow and deep.

He had watched Starscream for centuries. Watched his deception, his defiance, his ambition—but also his agony. He had seen the beatings. The punishments. The times Starscream had spoken too sharply and paid the price. The subtle ways he would intervene to redirect Megatron's wrath, sometimes toward himself, sometimes toward others, but rarely away from his wingmates.

And Soundwave had done nothing.

He had documented it. Filed it. Saved it.

But never intervened.

Until now. He had revealed everthing to Skyquake some eons ago and now,It was time to change everthing. With steady hands, he opened a secure channel. Not to Megatron.

To Skyquake.

:: Transmission Secure ::
Soundwave: :: Starscream – protected.

Skyquake: [Pause] :: …Understood. You are certain? ::

Soundwave: :: Verified. Ratchet sent confirmation. Evidence – solid. ::

Another pause.

Then came the response that set the tremor across the Decepticon ranks.

Skyquake: :: It is time. ::

Thundercracker adjusted his helm, watching the darkened hangar through narrowed optics. His claws flexed, once, twice, then relaxed.

Skywarp landed behind him, folding into view through a flicker of short-range teleportation. He looked grim. Quiet.

“Skyquake confirmed it,” he said.

Thundercracker nodded. “Then it’s real.”

Their trine—his trine—had always been fractured. Starscream, for all his cruelty, had carried them. Took the heat, took the hits. Made himself the target. All so they didn’t have to suffer Megatron’s fury. They hadn’t understood at first. They thought Starscream wanted control for himself.

They hadn't realized he had been protecting them from the shadows.

Skyquake approached now, flanked by two more aerialbots—Slipstream and Dreadwing. Both carried a strange tension in their posture: dread... and readiness.

"Word is spreading,” Skyquake said. “Soundwave isn’t stopping it.”

Thundercracker stared. “So he’s… with us?”

Skyquake looked away. “He may not say it aloud. But he’s not stopping us. For Soundwave, that’s everything.”

A long silence.

Then Thundercracker’s optics burned with fierce clarity.

“Then we move.”

It began slowly.

An energon manifest that “got lost,” cutting the warriors’ rations while the Seekers’ wing was fully stocked. A weapons shipment diverted to storage instead of the frontlines. Patrol logs rewritten so Decepticons under Megatron’s command found themselves isolated, confused, vulnerable.

Then came the whisper networks—Seekers speaking to ground forces in hushes, telling the truth.

“Did you know Starscream used to be a scientist?”

“Megatron cut his wings once. Publicly.”

“He protected Skywarp when he mouthed off.”

“They broke him. The Senate made him into this.”

The younger Decepticons listened.

The old ones remembered.

By the time Megatron began noticing shifts in behavior, it was too late. Seeker squadrons stopped obeying direct flight paths. Aerial patrols “malfunctioned.” Ground troops asked too many questions.

And Starscream’s name?

It echoed.

Not as a joke.

But as a warning.

And a promise.

Back on the Ark, Starscream stood by the window of his modest cell-room. His arms crossed, wings still.

He didn’t know yet.

But he felt something.

The wind shifting.

The signal change.

A faint static pulse on an old frequency, one only Seekers would notice, tickled the back of his mind. He frowned. Tuned in.

Thundercracker: :: We’re coming, brother. We remember. ::

Skywarp: :: You kept us safe. Your turn. ::

Starscream staggered back from the wall, helm bowing.

A strangled laugh escaped him, followed by a broken sob.

He was no longer alone.

He was not forgotten.

And Megatron… was no longer untouchable.

Chapter Text

The throne room of the Nemesis was colder than usual.

Megatron sat alone, helm lowered, servos pressed against his temples. The silence was not peaceful—it was ominous, crackling with the weight of betrayal and confusion. Since the Autobots' raid, something had been off. Unsettlingly quiet. Too many optics diverted from him when he entered. Too many silent comm lines, words spoken behind encrypted frequencies.

Even Soundwave was... withdrawn. Not in action—he still performed his tasks—but emotionally muted, as if guarding himself.

And Starscream…

Megatron's optics narrowed.

Where was that wretched Seeker? No one could find him,not even Soundwave when the Autobots kidnnaped him.

Shockwave entered, data pad in hand.

"Report," Megatron snapped, optics glowing faintly with restrained fury.

Shockwave did not flinch. “The data center has been breached. Several encrypted files were extracted during the Autobots’ escape. Records show... the datapad was from an old Senate terminal.”

Megatron’s optic ridge twitched. “Senate terminal?”

“Yes,” Shockwave confirmed. “And it appears to have contained confidential records… all centered around Starscream. Medical procedures. Experimental data. Surveillance logs.”

Megatron stood slowly, towering and unyielding. “What kind of data?”

“Everything,” Shockwave said without emotion. “The senator's journal. The illegal augmentation logs. A full recording of Starscream’s Seeker trials.”

The throne cracked beneath Megatron’s grip.

A silence fell between them.

“He knows, then,” Megatron muttered, voice low, almost… unsure.

Shockwave tilted his helm. “Perhaps more than you do.”

Megatron turned sharply. “Speak clearly.”

“You were not the first to hurt him, Megatron. And now, he knows that.”

The tyrant’s expression hardened. “He was mine. My second. My creature of ambition and rage. Mine to mold. And now…”

He paused. A flicker of something—an emotion buried deep in the spark he denied existed.

Loss.

“Now he's gone,” he said, more to himself than anyone.

“—Slipstream secured the lower hangars.”

“And Dreadwing took command of one of the cruiser wings. No pushback.”

Thundercracker’s field buzzed with unfiltered energy. The revolution was happening—not with explosive battles, but precision, planning, and loyalty.

Starscream’s trine had always been considered chaotic—unpredictable and volatile. But now?

They were unified.

And lethal.

Skywarp flickered into visibility beside Thundercracker. “Soundwave routed us new frequencies. Says if Megatron detects any trace, we fall back. But he won’t intervene.”

“He’s helping us,” Thundercracker murmured. “Quietly, but… he's helping.”

Slipstream entered the command room. “We’ve got fifty percent of the Seekers. Some ground forces too. Breakdown, Swindle, and a few Vehicons are watching Megatron’s movements.”

“Still think we should just kill him,” Skywarp muttered.

Thundercracker gave him a sharp look. “No. We take power from him the way he took it from us—by outwitting him.”

Slipstream smirked. “Starscream would be proud.”

A hush.

They hadn’t seen him yet. Not really. Only the updates from Soundwave. The medical readings. The cryptic photos Ratchet sent them through intercepted signals.

But they remembered him.

And they would make sure he remembered them.

Later that night, Starscream stared out the small window in his quarters. The datapad still sat on the table beside the now-empty energon cube.

He felt… strange. Not angry. Not quite relieved. Not safe—but getting there.

Then a flicker danced across the screen.

An encrypted signal.

He tapped it.

Thundercracker’s voice.

“We’re coming.”

“You’re not alone.”

Another voice. Skywarp.

“We see you, Screamer.”

Slipstream.

“We believe in you.”

Dreadwing. Skyquake.

“You saved us.”

He gripped the pad, falling to his knees.

They hadn’t turned against him.

They had waited.

Megatron’s rule was cracking.

And he—Starscream—was no longer a pawn or a broken tool.

He was something new.

And the next war… might just be his.

------------------------

The Nemesis was too quiet.

No shouting. No arguing. No panicked reports. The bridge was functional but hollow, manned only by a few Vehicons who avoided Megatron’s gaze like it might burn straight through them.

He stood by the command console, staring at the shifting tactical displays. Territory reports, power supply statuses, patrol routes—all wrong. Altered. Trimmed. Tampered.

“Where is Soundwave?” he growled, fangs grinding together.

No answer.

He called again. “Soundwave! Report to the bridge.”

Still nothing.

That silence was more damning than rebellion.

His optics flared. One by one, his lieutenants had gone dark. Thundercracker, Skywarp, Slipstream—missing. Dreadwing, unreachable. Skyquake had requested “long-range reconnaissance” and hadn’t returned. Even Breakdown and Knockout were delayed at every turn.

It wasn’t sabotage.

It was abandonment.

“Cowards,” he hissed, slamming his fist into the console. The metal cracked.

He turned away from the display. “Prepare the drop ship. We’re going to the Ark. We retrieve Starscream, we end this at the source.”

The drop ship hissed through Earth’s atmosphere like a jagged blade tearing through velvet sky.

Megatron stood inside the launch bay, flanked by his dwindling forces—Vehicons, a few remaining loyalists, the ever-silent Soundwave…

Only Soundwave didn’t move like he used to. His posture rigid, but no longer alert. Not watching. Not guarding. Waiting.

Megatron’s optics narrowed on him.

“You still obey me, don’t you?” he asked, voice soft, dangerous.

Soundwave did not respond.

Not with words. Not with data.

Only silence.

The Ark’s perimeter lit up the moment the Decepticon ship entered their radar.

“Megatron’s coming,” Ratchet said grimly, staring at the readings. “This isn’t a diplomatic visit.”

Optimus nodded. “Then we greet him with clarity.”

Starscream stood behind them, flanked by Windblade and Jetfire, his optics sharp but his frame trembling slightly beneath the surface.

“Don’t let me see him alone,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Optimus put a hand on his shoulder. “You won’t.”

The drop ship touched down hard, steam hissing off the landing pads.

Megatron emerged like a storm—tall, scorched, all fury and presence. He walked toward the Ark gates with Soundwave behind him and the remaining loyalists close behind.

The Autobots stood waiting.

Optimus. Ratchet. Bumblebee. Arcee. Windblade. Jetfire.

And then—Starscream.

He stepped forward.

And everything stopped.

Megatron's optics zeroed in on him. The rage. The hurt. The disbelief.

“You…” he said, voice cracking. “You dare stand with them?”

Starscream didn’t flinch. “You lost me long before they found me.”

Megatron bared his fangs. “I created you!”

“You broke me!” Starscream roared, stepping forward now. “And you called it power!”

The Ark’s walls pulsed with energy. Inside, the others watched—nervous. Ready. Holding their breath.

“You think they will save you?!” Megatron howled, optics wide. “You think they see you?! You are a monster of my making, and no pity party changes what you are!”

“No,” Starscream said quietly, “but I can.”

Megatron moved forward like a charging beast.

But Soundwave moved faster.

He stepped between them.

And for the first time in a very long time… Soundwave raised a hand against Megatron.

“Stand. Down.” Soundwave’s modulator finally said.

Megatron froze. “You—”

And then behind Megatron, footsteps.

One by one, his army was gone.

Thundercracker.

Skywarp.

Slipstream.

Skyquake.

Even Dreadwing.

They stood at the Ark’s edge now. They had defected.

They had chosen Starscream.

“You are alone,” Optimus said solemnly. “This is your last chance to walk away without shame.”

Megatron's frame trembled with fury. His spark pulsed like a supernova.

He roared—and lunged at Starscream.

But he never reached him.

A wall of wings.

Thundercracker and Skywarp shielded Starscream. Windblade’s blade met Megatron’s arm mid-swing. Jetfire and Arcee flanked from either side, weapons raised.

Soundwave raised a glowing blue hand—and triggered a magnetic pulse that disabled Megatron’s cannon entirely.

It was over in seconds.

The tyrant was surrounded.

On his knees.

Alone.

Panting.

He looked up, and saw Starscream not smirking. Not gloating.

Just sad.

“I wanted you to care,” Starscream whispered. “Once.”

Megatron said nothing.

He didn’t beg. He didn’t scream.

He just sat there.

And for the first time in millennia, he had no power left.

Starscream watched from above as they detained Megatron.

He did not smile.

He just stood, wings still, frame tight.

Thundercracker came up beside him.

“Now what?” he asked.

Starscream looked at the sky.

“We build something he never could.”

Skywarp threw an arm around both of them. “Yeah, starting with nap time. You look like death.”

“Charmed,” Starscream muttered, but didn’t resist the embrace.

Optimus joined them, his voice warm. “He will stand trial. But not by us. By Cybertronian justice.”

Starscream nodded slowly.

And for the first time, truly and deeply—

He felt safe.

He was free.

And the war... was changing.

Chapter Text

There was no rage left in him.

No spark-burning fury to ignite a rebellion, no weapons to threaten the world. Megatron sat silent in his cell aboard the Ark—an energy field dimly pulsing around him, not to trap his body but to keep others safe from the echo of the tyrant he had been.

He had refused to speak.

Even to Soundwave.

Especially to Starscream.

Optimus had gone to him once.

"You could help rebuild what you shattered," the Prime had said.

Megatron had merely turned away, not out of shame, but emptiness.

He was no longer a leader. He was no longer anything.

Even his own name felt like a ghost.

And in the quiet, the galaxy finally turned without him.

It was Bumblebee who handed Starscream a small box—clumsily wrapped in silver foil and blue string.

“What is this?” Starscream blinked, suspicious.

“It’s a gift,” Bumblebee chirped. “You looked sad.”

“I don’t get gifts,” Starscream said flatly.

“You do now.”

He opened it with stiff fingers.

Inside: a tiny carved jet, hand-made from a scrap of Ark metal.

Starscream said nothing for a long time.

Then, quietly, “...thank you.”

Bumblebee beamed.

Starscream’s quarters were modest. Blankets, a recharge berth, a monitor. Nothing extravagant.

But over the next few cycles, small things appeared:
A book from Ratchet.
A polished crystal from Windblade.
A repaired wing pin from Jetfire.
A datapad filled with Trine memories from Thundercracker and Skywarp—one of them drunk, the other deadpan, both ridiculous.

And most surprisingly, a sketch from Soundwave: a young seeker, brilliant in red and white, looking up at a sky that stretched forever.

Above it was written:
"You were always meant to fly free."

For the first time in eons, Starscream laughed.

And when he fell asleep that night, it was to the sound of his Trine arguing over which blanket was theirs, and Bumblebee humming through the comms.

It wasn’t a barracks. It wasn’t a cell.

It was a home.

The Autobots and Decepticons gathered beneath the Earth’s moonlight—no longer as enemies, but survivors. Optimus stood in the center, flanked by Soundwave and Starscream.

“Cybertron cannot be what it was,” Optimus said. “It must be better.”

“No more gladiator pits,” Soundwave added, modulator calm. “No castes. No forged or cold-constructed divide.”

Starscream stepped forward. “No Senate that hides the truth.”

The words were heavy. Everyone knew what it meant.

It meant building again—from nothing.

“I don’t want to rule,” Starscream said aloud. “I never did.”

“But you should lead,” Windblade countered. “Because you know what it is to suffer beneath both tyranny and apathy.”

“I’m no Prime.”

“No,” said Optimus gently, “you are something rarer. You survived both Megatron and the Senate. And you still stand.”

Soundwave added, “You see all. The cracks. The cost. The potential.”

A pause.

And then Optimus knelt.

Soundwave followed.

Jetfire. Ultra Magnus. Ratchet. Even Arcee.

And then Thundercracker, Skywarp, the Seekers. Decepticons.

Finally, Bumblebee, with a chirp:

“Don’t make me kneel, my knees are terrible—just say yes.”

Starscream stood still, trembling, wings slowly unfurling in the glow of Earth’s twin moons.

“I will not be your king,” he said, voice breaking. “But I will be your storm.”

He looked up.

“I will lead. But you—” he turned to them all “—you will keep me from becoming what I escaped. I want your honesty. Your criticism. Your challenge.”

Optimus smiled.

“Then, together, we begin.”

--------------------------

Years passed.

Cybertron was reborn—not as a symbol of war or hierarchy, but as a patchwork of reclaimed memory and new dreams.

Starscream led not from a throne, but from a tower open to the sky. At his side, the Senate—a new form of governance—was built from equals. Optimus, Soundwave, Windblade, even Jetfire and Arcee had seats.

The Trine taught young fliers not just how to soar, but how to choose their sky.

Seekers were no longer weapons.

They were legends.

Bumblebee ran programs to educate new generations in both Autobot and Decepticon history. Ratchet and Knockout rebuilt the medical core. Soundwave oversaw planetary communications, ensuring no voice was ever silenced again.

Even Megatron remained—under voluntary exile, allowed only the simple comfort of watching from afar. He never spoke. But the silence had changed.

It was not angry now.

It was contemplative.

Starscream stood atop a tower, cape fluttering in a light Cybertronian wind. Beside him, Optimus and Soundwave.

The sky was alive—blue and golden, streaked with Seekers in flight. Laughter echoed.

He held that old carved jet in his hand.

“I never thought I’d see this.”

“You built it,” said Optimus.

“We all did,” Soundwave added.

Starscream smiled faintly, optics glassy.

“No. We chose it. That’s the difference.”

Below, his people soared.

Above, the stars blinked approval.

And in the core of Cybertron, a broken spark finally began to beat with hope.

THE END (...or the beginning.)