Lord Starscream

Something about “phase shifter” and “grave insult” and “full, unprovoked attack,” getting louder as Starscream stomped down the stairs, until he could be heard clearly: “… of all the days to leave the Apex Armor down in the mines, I’ll just deal with this myse—”

He stopped dead. And stared at Smokescreen.

Then silently, pointed at him; and then, lifted up an aft and pointed at it.

Smokescreen looks up at Starscream, and at his aft, and nods. Yep, that’s his. But why does Starscream have it, of all bots? Did Soundwave just want to make this even worse for Smokescreen? He could believe it. Even after showing him the covenant and everything!

Still, it’s probably not Starscream’s fault. Smokescreen awkwardly smiles at Starscream, holding out a servo to take the aft.

The receptionist has called Lord Starscream. He was just here a couple of minutes ago, he can come back and deal with this.

Nobody else wants to be the one responsible for dealing with Smokescreen. They know. They know what anarchy follows in his wake.

Smokescreen can probably already hear Starscream shouting from the next floor up.

“Wait- wait, Seriously, I just need my aft back! Can you give it?”

Smokescreen’s lying on the ground, still, looking up at the receptionist, hoping to catch their attention. He’s probably had the worst day out of any Cybertronian today!

He stopped dead. And stared at Smokescreen.

«What?! WHAT?! Just WHAT sort of filth are you insinuating?! You want to get into it? Do you?! Huh?! Aaaall right then! You’re probably just jealous that I’m getting some, hmm? Is this your idea of lashing out because you proposed to the New Praxus Police Commissioner and she shot you down? Absolutely juveni—»

Dead silence.

«… I uh… I—eheh—I knew that, of course.» Awkward pause. «Thank you. We appreciate the spare parts.»

Oh, sure, the ground could shake and open up to swallow and kill the Prime, but it never did it to Soundwave when he wanted it. That was fine. He could still snatch hold of a scrap of dignity and paste it onto his spark before it all fled.

[[He is quite content,]] or was, before he made a mess of everything, [[and there was never any proposal. If he had performed one, it wouldn’t have been directed at Commissioner Prowl, of all mechs.]]

[[Good. Try to remember that in the future. He’s certain New Praxus wouldn’t mind if he stopped evenly splitting shipments and started sending everything to them.]]

An indignant squawk.

«I am NOT into collecting— HE’S NOT EVEN AN AFT ANYMORE! Of all the insulting— Ohhh, I thought you of all people were better than that sort of, of—of low blow.»

(Starscream knows damn well that Soundwave isn’t.)

Sometimes - just sometimes - he missed hearing those. And no, he wasn’t above that sort of low blow. Not that kind, anyway.

[[He is. It’s why you are in a relationship with Ratbat and he never was.]]

All right. He’ll stop antagonizing Starscream now. The mech’s been relatively good for a while and deserves a minor break.

Dead silence.

Smokescreen’s about to drop straight through the floor and land in front of the poor receptionist at the New Kaon hospital in possession of the aft.

Enjoy that.

Nobody else wants to be the one responsible for dealing with Smokescreen. They know. They know what anarchy follows in his wake.

Apparently Starscream thinks any packages sent to the local hospital are a message personally directed at him. To be fair, the Vehicons hadn’t had time to explain it wasn’t before he got angry.

And apparently, at his pointed question, they did have time to explain who it was from, because «SOUNDWAVE! IF THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A JOKE AT RATBAT’S EXPENSE, I SWEAR—»

[[He apologizes. He thought you were into collecting afts.]]

«I am NOT into collecting— HE’S NOT EVEN AN AFT ANYMORE! Of all the insulting— Ohhh, I thought you of all people were better than that sort of, of—of low blow.»

Starscream caught Knock Out glancing at himself. “You’re gorgeous as always. I only thought you might appreciate the opportunity to buff out any scratches before going home.”

And he caught him eyeing the berth, too. What was going through his head? Did he not want to? Was he uninterested? Sure, he was getting on the berth now, and that little smirk looked just as it should—but Starscream wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if he’d practiced it in the mirror.

“Hmph. It would be the first time in your life you’d be ready to do whatever I required.” He slid onto his berth as well, leaning on one arm to face Knock Out—but leaving him some space, not touching him. “Who managed to teach you the ‘hapless little medic’ act, hmm?” Unspoken: how did they teach him? Did he learn willingly? Something was up, here, and Starscream wasn’t sure if it was the awkwardness of an unscheduled once-a-year reunion or if there was something more going on.

A brief moment where Knock Out glances away from Starscream occurs. He knows he hasn’t been the best to the jet and there is a bit of shame in that. “Survival,” he answers so nonchalantly and undisturbed. “No one hires a Decepticon butcher.”

He leans up just enough to close the distance between them, offering up an all too sweet but short kiss. Then distance is created again, though for Starscream’s sake and the chance to run sharp digits along the nearest transformation seam.

“Imagine it. You actually get to boss me around. A brand new experience. Every little rule followed and zero chance I might get too excited and maim you.” Okay, so the last bit is more or less true regardless. There has never been a time where he wanted to maim Starscream during their games. But he doesn’t need to know that.

He leaned into the kiss—it shot an electric shock from his lips down to his spark—but didn’t pursue when Knock Down pulled back. Interested, but not overeager. There was plenty of time to get hungry later.

“Hmm... sounds absolutely delightful. Although I hope you know, if you ever did attempt to maim me, the damage you’d have to worry about from me would go far deeper than the merely cosmetic.” How long had it been since they’d seen each other? They were far overdue for reestablishing their boundaries and renewing their understated guarantees of mutually assured destruction.

He considered the question for a moment, optics gliding up and down Knock Out’s frame, deciding how best he’d like to admire it.

Starscream’s favorite treats happen to be Aurum Hypergellos. Their main components—besides energon, of course—are gold, and red energon.

Trace amounts of red energon. So little that if the red energon from an entire week’s worth of Aurum Hypergellos were extracted, it would barely be enough for thirty seconds of action before the dose wore off. An entire week, for only thirty seconds.

Well. It’s been two hundred and sixty weeks. And Starscream has been dutifully emptying his box, every single day.

A massive crate in one of the Nemesis’s smaller storage rooms has been devoted to containing the spare treats. If the Decepticons were to extract all that red energon, they’d have enough to power one hundred and thirty minutes—over a full two hours—of sustained time in hyper speed.

“If I’d had more warning that you were about to resurface, I would have stowed a buffer in my room.”

He glanced over Knock Out, trying to gauge how he’d been doing. It was a challenge, with him. Knock Outs were capable of disappearing into the wilds of Earth for a couple months at a time and come back looking better-groomed than when they’d left; if he’d been unwell or living hard, Starscream certainly didn’t expect to pick that up from the state of his armor.

Starscream decided that comparing him to a tourist that collects ridiculous trinkets was probably an insult, and also decided that he probably wasn’t going to see Knock Out long enough for it to be worth his trouble to challenge the insult. “I’m flattered you thought of me.”

Starscream gestured to his berth—an invitation. It was bigger and sturdier than the last time Knock Out had been on the Nemesis—for those rare times when Starscream’s wayward trine drifted back home—but still round and still hanging from the ceiling. Because that’s how Vosians do. “Do make yourself comfortable.”

For a couple of moments, Knock Out looks down at his frame, examining it for why exactly Starscream would mention a buffer. Had he missed a spot? No, no. He looks fine. Deep ex-vent.

His gaze lifts again, a glance to Starscream then the berth. Hesitation. He can’t recall what their relationship had been exactly when he cut contact with Cybertron. Were they in one of their famous fights? Or were they tolerating one another? 

Could this be a trap? Starscream had mentioned being happy but Starscreams lied. And his previous boss was big enough to cause major damage should he chose to, and without much effort.

“As you wish,” he purrs regardless, moving to the berth and parking his frame on the surface. It doesn’t take him long to place palms flat and lean back on them, crimson optics scanning over Starscream’s frame, trademark all-too-easy smirk on pallid faceplates.

And he caught him eyeing the berth, too. What was going through his head? Did he not want to? Was he uninterested? Sure, he was getting on the berth now, and that little smirk looked just as it should—but Starscream wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if he’d practiced it in the mirror.