#my writ

Starscream’s spark dropped into his fuel tank, drowning in a barrage of emotions that were all unambiguously his. Panic, dread, excitement. A complex, unstable, malignant mixture that warmed his internals, sizzling the energon in his lines.

Scrambling to stand, fans whirred loudly to compensate for fast and shallow vents that did nothing to cool his frame. He had to clench his jaw, denta grinding, to stop himself from panting; there was nothing he could do to keep his wings from rattling. Their sensors were primed, seeking out any shift in the air, any tiny uptick in temperature. His audials cranked to their highest setting, impatiently awaiting the sound associated with Skywarp's teleportation.

This would be his first fight since awakening from the ice. His first true battle with a Decepticon.   

Blue optics were wide, darting left and right, up and down, as Starscream waited for the purple pest to reveal himself. All he saw was a red coward, one pede on the roof’s ledge, human pet held close and caged in grey servos; prepared to flee at the first sign of danger.

Perhaps Ironhide’s proposal that Powerglide could learn a thing or two from the seeker had not been so sarcastically delivered after all.

Vop!

Purple servos reached out from inside a bright flash of fuchsia, the tips of sharp talons grazing over Starscream's shoulders as he leaped back. A cackle followed after him, then a frame. Skywarp stood directly in front of him, pink energon dripping from his olfactorate, framing an arrogant grin.

Starscream gave no attention to his rapidly spinning spark or the heavy drop of his fuel pump after narrowly dodging Skywarp's grab. His wings’ tremors had finally stopped, and there were no discernible chinks in his armor. The weakness circulating through his lines could be reexamined after the battle had been won.

Skywarp apparently saw no such need, snickering, “Don’t tell me you’re scared already?”

Giving no answer, Starscream dropped into a combat stance.

The other seeker’s grin sharpened. “Good.” He lunged.

Blue optics widened as Starscream took a staggering step back, bracing for impact, nearly losing his balance in the process. Damn it. Clenching one servo, he—

Vop!

Blue optics widened as he realized his mistake. Mad dashes and lunges augmented by an outlier; their fight would not be the conventional servo-to-servo. His strategy would have to adapt, pulling from a well of experience that had frozen over before it could be filled. Despite all of Starscream’s specialist military training—he had never fought anyone like Skywarp before.

The air at his back warmed, causing his wings to lift high—

Vop!

—right into a pair of waiting servos, one squeezing around thin metal, the other sliding along a wing’s edge, talons tapping an uneven pattern. Shock (horror, nausea, pique) caused Starscream to stumble, his back smacking against Skywarp’s canopy.

Giddy vocals blew over the top of his helm, “Been wanting a servo full of these since I first saw you.”

Starscream’s answering snarl turned into a screech of outrage when Skywarp tightened his grip and yanked down. “Get off me!” He slammed his helm back—vop!—hitting nothing but heated air.

Only this time, he was ready and threw a leg out behind him to support his weight, adopting a more bent-kneed, spring-loaded stance to better counter Skywarp's unpredictable teleportation. That pesky ability was more annoying than Starscream had initially anticipated.

Did it have no limit? A tell beyond its simultaneous—vop!

Something sharp tapped the backside of his left knee. He twisted his helm around, glaring at Skywarp, who was lying on his front, chin propped up by a servo, raised legs kicking nonchalantly in the air.

The purple talon dug into a seam, right over a sensitive bundle of wires that connected the mechanics of his upper thigh and ankle joint; Starscream's leg shook, threatening to buckle.

Fire burst from the thruster, launching his leg forward, drawing a yelp out of the unserious seeker, and a growl from Starscream as he cut its power and slammed his pede back down over where Skywarp’s helm would have been.

Vop!

Nothing but an empty roof and heat shimmer. The pavement didn't even crack under the force of his stomp. Both enraging and…how? What was this building made of? From what he understood of the planet's limited construction materials, the skyscraper should not be sturdy enough to support the combined weight of three Cybertronians.

Wait. How had the crane remained upright with a seeker perched atop it?

Starscream twisted in its direction, brow ridge furrowing as information nodes refused to connect. It was still standing, pearlescent and glinting under the sun. There was something strange about this whole scenario, and it wasn’t just the freak who—

Vop!

“On one hot-wing, I can’t wait to tell TC I’m not the only one who gets distracted during fights.”

Without so much as a glance in the con’s direction, his fist swung out to the side in a parallel arc, hitting empty air. The heavy winds rolling across the rooftop were quick to cool the heat encircling his servo.

“On the other equally sexy wing—am I boring you?”

Talons bared, he jumped and spun, slashing through the fuchsia light. Just as the tips of his pedes touched back down, a purple servo surged out and latched onto his wrist. Skywarp fully materialized and lifted Starscream closer, using his hold to keep the shorter seeker dangling just above the roof's surface while grabbing the side of his helm with the opposite servo.

Skywarp pulled Starscream’s helm forward, a purple thumb digging into the space between helm-vents.

Gasping, Starscream wanted nothing more than to slip out of the sleazy seeker's greasy hold—but an astro-second’s formation of a plan slowed anxious gears. While touching Starscream, Skywarp was tangible. His best chance to prevent further contact was to encourage more of it, for longer and without guard.

Forcing Starscream’s helm down, close enough that he could smell the crude oil on Skywarp’s vents, the deranged seeker asked, “Still bored?”

His tank rolled. However, remembering Skywarp's comment about still being able to feel his emotions, he tamped down any semblance of nausea before it could leak into his field. Instead, he pushed forward interest, going so far as to make his wings flutter at the larger seeker's oh-so impressive display of strength.

The emotion wasn't false, even if his real interest lay in the other's gruesome demise.

“You could never bore me,” he countered, adding the tiniest amount of whine to his vocals and putting forth the weakest of struggles against the other’s indecent hold.

His gaze locked onto black neck cables as he imagined leaning forward and ripping them out with his denta. There was a chance the energon loss wouldn’t kill Skywarp right away, leaving Starscream with reasonable deniability should Prime come questioning. After all, he was only defending himself….

Skywarp smirked, “Cute.” Then bumped their canopies together, a gentle mimicry of their last encounter. “But I don’t think you get how this whole resonance thing works.”

The opportunity to lash out and have his attack land was now, but…so was the chance to learn more about this accursed half-bond. Skywarp sounded like a mech about to monologue.

“Wha-what do you mean?” Starscream simpered, wings fluttering again; he fought down a smirk as red optics hungrily followed the movement.

“Closing that angry field of yours won’t stop me from knowing what you feel. Until you learn how to block your spark, there’s nothing you can hide from us.”

Their glass slid together, a soft scrape that wouldn’t leave so much as a scratch.

“Want me to teach you? All you have to do is slide this down.” One of the black metal rings around Skywarp’s cockpit caught against Starscream’s white. “Spread those pretty plates and let me get a good look at your murderous self. We can do it here or go somewhere more private if you want. I don’t mind either way. It’s whatever you want, Screamer.”

Informative and useless at the same time; Skywarp really was the whole incomplete obnoxious package.

All the mech had done was remind Starscream they had an inactive audience. The human was unimportant, and most non-Vosians were unfamiliar with artificial spark resonance. But allowing Skywarp to yap uninterrupted—the best plan his genius processor had come up with under duress—might need to be revised.

Starscream was supposed to be gathering blackmail material on the Autobots while usurping his enemies, not permitting his enemies to divulge his own closely guarded secrets for a craven like Powerglide to overhear.

And there was one word all Cybertronians would recognize, regardless of their class or city status.  

"If what I wanted mattered, you wouldn't be using our fight as an excuse to grope me," he said while giving a cursory tug at his living-metal shackles.

Their faceplates were so close together that Starscream could taste Skywarp’s rancid rebuttal, “You say that like I need an excuse. The only reason I haven’t just taken you back to our base yet is because TC told me I can’t. And I. Don’t. Get it. He wants you. We’re tri—” 

Starscream’s legs swung upward, boosted by his thrusters. Skywarp yelped and disappeared just as twin flames grazed across his canopy, but not before black scorch marks marred yellow glass.

He grinned. So close.

Rather than cut his thrusters, Starscream used their momentum to flip backward, landing in a half-crouch, spread-legged stance with his arms bent at his sides. Leaving himself wide open and terribly vulnerable.

Soon, Skywarp’s perverted compulsion would see the lilaceous seeker grounded. Permanently…if not for Prime’s pesky rules.

In example of Starscream’s thesis: bright fuchsia light danced around him, each vop coinciding with a vexatious, lecherous caress. 

A tap against his shoulder. Another on the tip of a wing, the offending touch disappearing before it could be flicked away. A bawdy laugh accompanied by a swift rub against his hip, just a talon tip shy of his aft. The flat palm of a servo ran up the length of his back, and Starscream had to suppress a growl as his temper teetered over the edge of reason.

He had to stick to the plan; wildly swinging would only embolden Skywarp further and give the aberration another opportunity to off-balance him. Again. And worst of all, make Starscream look like a bumbling fool.

But another touch, vop! A servo running up the length of his inner thigh, resulting in Starscream slapping himself hard enough for the metal to ring—and impatience nosedived over the thin ledge of acumen, dragging his restraint down with it.

The time to act was now.

“You’re toying with me,” he stated, because it wasn’t an accusation, but an absolute certainty. The fact of which incensed the seeker more than every inappropriate grope combined. That he could not kill an enemy combatant and the source of his frustration during a war might have been a close second.

Skywarp vopped into existence high above him, forcing Starscream to crane his neck back to maintain a visual. His fury briefly waned, giving room for incredulity. The purple seeker was floating in the air, his thrusters dormant. How? A secondary levitation outlier or an extension of his teleportation ability?

The gravity-defying freak put on a stricken expression and clutched his canopy, gasping, "What? No! I would never treat you that way, Screamer.”

Vop!

Warm air brushed against the back of his helm; Starscream’s wings flinched but remained upright as Skywarp appeared directly behind him. Upside down. Delivering a gleefully sinister, “I break my toys.”

Starscream shuddered, revulsion and something depraved crawling over his protoform. Skywarp chuckled, then—vop!

An optic twitched, and there was no doubt Skywarp had felt how much Starscream had wanted to hurt him in that moment. Was the moron clever enough to wonder why Starscream had not acted on his violent impulse? (Wanting nothing more than to bash the back of his helm into Skywarp’s faceplate until the empty shell caved.)

No, of course he wasn’t. The idiot wouldn’t have made himself Starscream’s enemy if he were.

Would Skywarp avoid danger even if it was wrapped in perfectly forged, incomparably beautiful armor? Again, of course not.

And to demonstrate Skywarp’s folly in comparison to Starscream’s tactical brilliance—

Seams tighter than a hermetic seal loosened, showing off generous portions of tubing and bright wiring. The segments of his waistline parted, and if someone were looking hard enough, they might be able to make out the slight bulge of his fuel tank behind tightly packed cables.

From his observations, Skywarp could maintain some level of battle space awareness during teleportation. Inverse of his nascent hypothesis, the air warmed before Skywarp appeared, notafter vanishing. Milliseconds, three to be exact, before the vop. If Starscream's wing sensors, cranked to their highest, fuel-inefficient settings, he could detect a close-range decrease in air pressure, suspiciously seeker-esque in its contour.

His glossa darted out to wet his derma; a peak of light grey then gone. Swallowing, Starscream’s vocals wobbled, “Prove you’re not just playing with me.” He bit his bottom derma, scraping his denta against it and releasing the soft metal with a pop.

The next vent Starscream took was warm. The gears in his right arm tensed. A faceplate appeared directly in front of his own, purple and black arms stretched behind his helm.

An excitedly whispered, “Anything for you, Screa—”

Metal crunched under Starscream's fist as he punched the side of Skywarp's helm with all the tensile strength he possessed, just short of helm-crushing. He followed the blow's downward trajectory, pivoting on one pede and not letting up until he’d smashed the Decepticon directly into the roof.

Only letting up once thick concrete finally cracked.

A short hop back, then a bounce to regain his bearings. And for the finishing touch—Starscream reared his leg back and swung it forward directly into his downed opponent’s midsection. The resulting clang was almost as satisfying as the splurt of energon-bile Skywarp coughed up immediately after the hit connected.

Starscream sneered down at the Decepticon, watching him groan and curl up on himself. Wrapping a purple arm around a satisfyingly deep dent right over his tank, the opposite servo clutching at his crushed and sparking helm-vent. Truly, the most heinous example of a seeker. Were there not a disgustingly high chance Skywarp would like it—Starscream would have spit on the pathetic creep.

Considering the enemy air commander had spent millions of stellar cycles with only Skywarp as a trine mate, it was no wonder Thundercracker was so desperate to have Starscream join him. Though considering the blue seeker’s warped idea of romance and respect—the repugnant pair deserved each other.

And no one else.

With little more than a snort of disgust, he turned away and marched toward his cowardly Autobot compatriot. The red flyer had not moved from his escapist perch, though his human had somehow managed to free herself from the digit-bar cage Powerglide had held her in.

Astoria was standing on her, eugh, beau’s shoulder: one hand placed over her chest, the other flatly pressed against a red, protruding shoulder wing. They walled in Powerglide’s cone-like helm, drawing unflattering attention to the mech’s already lamentably shaped frame.

It was no wonder the timorous, nugatorious, impuissant veteran was so overwhelmed by the prospect of facing a seeker's superior construction that terror rusted his gears immobile.

Seeing Powerglide’s unconcealed glower directed at him rather than their defeated shared enemy, Starscream could only think that Astoria’s taste in mechs was somehow indisputably worse than Powerglide’s predilection for flesh. Which should not have been possible.

The new world’s wonders never ceased.

Besides, for all he knew, the woman was a paragon of organic beauty. However, Starscream remained certain, even after war had decimated their numbers, that Powerglide was barely an average specimen by Cybertronian standards—a mediocrity salvaged only by his flyer status.

Blocky, stubby wings were still wings, after all. Powerglide stood above his grounded comrades only because he could literally fly above them. Well…all except the golden twin, Sunstreaker. The sole exception to an otherwise very firm and unremitting rule.

“Wow, what a woopin’! You sure showed that creep what for. You okay though, sugar? Glidey here barely let me see a thing, but if you need a repair bay, I—”

"Why can't I kill him?" Starscream demanded as he came to a stop directly in front of the couple, cutting Astoria off while glaring directly at her lesser half. 

It was because of her near saintly status, providing a charity toward their people—dating Powerglide—more generous than any Primacy temple priest ever had, that Starscream almost felt something akin to not-quite-guilt for ignoring her. If only his unbridled umbrage at Skywarp's continued survival wasn't so fierce, smothering any non-belligerent emotion before it could so much as spark. 

Powerglide glared right back, “Because Prime said so.”

Starscream sucked in a heavy vent, his denta grinding as he pursued, “I know that, but why did he order us not to kill Decepticons?"

Were it physically possible, one of Starscream’s optics would have cracked at Powerglide’s incurious answer of, “Dunno, didn’t ask.”

Throwing his arms out in utter bafflement, Starscream shouted, “What do you mean you didn’t ask!”

Was it possible the pointed shape of Powerglide’s helm had affected the size of his processor—if he even had one!?

A flock of iridescent vermin, shifting between shades of dark blue and purple, flew behind Powerglide—clicking and cooing as they settled atop the crane’s angled jib. One avian, perched at the crane’s peak, cawed loudly. The sound acting as a sander, sharpening the tension between the bots to a fine, lethal point rather than cutting through it…well, what should have been a lethal point. If not for Starscream’s talons being clipped by an order Powerglide didn't even care enough about to question.

But was just enough of a menial military drone to blindly obey.

Powerglide, having clearly caught the heated rancor of his field—Starscream wasn't exactly bothering with a dampener—moved one servo to hover protectively near Astoria, the other cocked on his hip.

Vocalizing slowly and with undisguised disdain, Powerglide said, "I mean, when Prime gives an order, I don't ask questions. Is that what you're doing? Questioning Prime’s order? Eh, seeker?"

Starscream’s chassis heaved; his vents rapidly cycled biting winds in an intensely necessary attempt to cool his calescent internals. The seeker’s furor having been reignited after realizing he had gone from one fettered fight to another. Only when against a supposed ally, his available ordnance was even more restricted. 

Regretting his exposable loss of composure, Starscream wrapped his field back around himself and began to consider his limited options. Feign innocence, confusion, flutter his wings in offense, redirect the conversation entirely? Play up his non-existent fear toward Skywarp’s unwanted advances?

No, no, not even he was that good a liar.

Powerglide’s optics narrowed into icy-blue slits. Starscream smiled into them, allowing real confusion (at the inferior flyer's gall) to ooze out of his tightly controlled field. His wings dropped, and then, expression ever so slightly softening, he prepared to sweetly coo—

“This guy bothering you, Screamer? Want me to take him out for you?”

Skywarp’s staticky vocals jolted both fliers still, a zip of fear tearing through Powerglide’s hostile field before it was quickly contained. Glancing at the purple seeker out of the corner of his optics, Starscream watched as the con hobbled forward with one arm wrapped around his damaged waist, crushed helm-vent sparking. Not stopping until he was standing right next to the shorter seeker.

Crazed crimson optics bore into Powerglide; the Autobot flinched back. Skywarp’s grin widened, showing off pink smears across sharp denta. Taking one threatening step forward, the Decepticon’s vocals dropped as he challenged, “You know I can take you, right?”

Powerglide’s servos shot up to cover Astoria, the woman shouting something that was muffled behind closing metal digits. The red flyer’s armor was clenched so tightly that its seams became imperceivable, and he looked seconds away from leaping over the edge. His field, fierce and buzzing with animosity, had fermented into a thick fog of fear.

Starscream’s optics hovered on the viscous seeker next to him, to wide blue optics, so bright they neared white, to the guarded space on Powerglide’s shoulder. Between grey plating, he caught a flash of yellow.

Derma thinning, Starscream huffed through his olfactorate before outstretching an arm. It clinked softly against Skywarp’s canopy as it made contact.

“Don’t,” he ordered flatly.  

Under his delicate touch, the taller seeker stilled, and it seemed as if the winds themselves were weighed down by the surrounding tension. Silence, a spark pulse, humming circuitry, then—

Skywarp's posture relaxed, and he responded with a loose, one-shoulder shrug, "Yeah, alright." Before resting his servos behind the back of his helm.

The sound of Powerglide’s jaw hitting the bottom of his mask punctuated the suspenseful moment’s end.

“Wait, seriously? You’re…” The red bot’s bewilderment trailed off into an uneasy silence. And something far more dangerous than the Decepticon among them glinted behind blue lenses.

Recognition.

One of Powerglide’s servos dropped to hang limply at his side, the other remaining firmly over Astoria’s surely flattened body. “You both look almost identical,” the red bot started.

“I beg your undue pardon,” Starscream snipped, not even trying to hide his insult. Next to him, Skywarp preened.

Raising a digit, Powerglide tapped it to a discovery-like rhythm against the air. "Skywarp let you win a fight—"

“Let me!?”

“—and now he’s doing what you say?”

Powerglide slapped a servo over his forehelm, “Jumping jumper cables, you’re trine!”

“No!” Starscream shrieked. 

“Yes!” Skywarp cheered. 

Olfactorate flaring, he made a fist and promptly punched Skywarp in the faceplate.

The purple mech groaned and clutched his busted mouth, nearly tripping over his own pedes as he staggered backward. He watched the deplorable wretch shudder in agony just long enough to see pink energon drip through the gaps in his talons.

Unsatisfied with the damage, but with no time to deliver more, he turned his attention back to the immediate peril.

Powerglide and his stupid, pointed processor's fallacious conclusion.

Wringing his energon-stained servos together, Starscream struggled to smile in the face of the other's accusation. His expression wavered between incredulous and incensed, and there was a catch in his vocals when he simpered, "Powerglide dear, please, I can assure you that whatever you think you've noticed—you haven't. Why, how could I possibly be trine with mechs I've only just met?"

Refusing to back down, Powerglide pressed, “I don’t know how you Vosian freaks do it. But, ah, did you say mechs? As in plural?” Tilting his helm as if in some shared conspiracy, the red mech mock whispered, “You’ve met Thundercracker?”

Something in the seeker’s posture—maybe it was his quavering wings or grinding denta—provided Powerglide with an answer before Starscream’s vocalizer could deny it.

"You know, Starscream." A little nod, "Or maybe you don't. Thundercracker doesn't go out much. But of the three times he's left the Decepticon base since we've been on Earth, two of them had to do with you."

Whatever it was Powerglide had taken from Starscream's rigid stance as confirmation; the mech's smug smirk could be heard through his homely battle mask. "Guess that makes three now.

For one brief, satisfying moment, he envisioned himself punching right through Powerglide's terribly shaped helm. Skywarp would take the blame. And Starscream could use the manufactured shock and trauma of it all to avoid being sent out on patrol with another Autobot ever again. He could focus on his work and wail to Prime about the unfairness of it all: fighting a murderous enemy with no lethal recourse. Perhaps in all his Primely wisdom, Optimus would reconsider….

Then, a furry brown head popped up between Powerglide’s digits to loudly ask, “What’s a trine?” And the moment was lost.

More grateful for the distraction than he should have been, Starscream offered Astoria a less strained smile as he—

“A thruple of seekers.”

Powerglide had responded to his human mate with an abundance of confidence that only pure, crystal-distilled idiocy could nourish.

Just how incredible was Starscream’s luck for him to keep beating such impossible odds? Trapped on a primordial organic planet, and he still managed to get stuck on a roof with the only two Cybertronian flyers dumber than the wet-brained birds that inhabited it. A divine comedy, and he was the only one seated intellectually high enough in the theater to appreciate its hidden tragedy.

If only the scientist could invent a way to weaponize Powerglide’s imprudence and Skywarp’s insanity—his power would surpass that of the Matrix.

Enlightened by the revelation of Powerglide's stupidity and thus his unreliability as an informant, Starscream was able to release the remnants of his hostility through a pleasantly long sigh.

Calmly, he corrected, "A trine is an elite aerial strike force consisting of three seekers. It's a Vosian tradition dating back to…let's just say before your Glidey was even a shimmer in Vector Sigma's well. Once used as Vos's primary defenders, by the time of the Golden Age, trines had become a status symbol for the elite. Our frames are costly to maintain, and the fuel requirements for a lone seeker, much more three, were more than the city council would allot for public defense. By the time of my, hm, disappearance, trines were an archaic expense only those whose shanix meant nothing could afford to commission for their personal guard.”

Starscream took a short pause for questions, readying himself to deflect any accusation and denounce all assumptions.

Astoria climbed up and out of Powerglide’s curved servo, giving his pointer digit a hard stomp before hopping onto his shoulder. She brushed her hands over her yellow covering, flattening out any wrinkles before placing her hands on her hips.

Pursing her lips, Astoria said, "I'm not going to lie to you, Starscream—because I would never do that to a friend. But I don't know what half of those words mean. The bots haven't given us any lessons on Cybertronian culture, and I'm usually busy learning, uh, other things when Glidey visits." After twisting her painted mouth in a way that showed off her skin’s elasticity, Astoria raised fuzzy brows and added, “It sounds to me like, and I don’t mean any shame by it. I’d never do that to a working girl. That trines are the Vosian—” Under her breath, Astoria whispered, “Did I say that right?”

Powerglide gave her a reassuring nod. The human smiled fondly back at him, then continued, "Version of a specialty escort. Only instead of stunning a room on some powerful guy or gal's arm, you're guarding their door."

Powerglide snorted a laugh and gazed down at his woman with so much affection that Starscream could practically taste the sickening sweetness in the mech’s field. It caused his tank to gurgle as his processor involuntarily conjectured what other things the human had learned about their species during her mate’s visitations.

Saving Starscream from opening his mouth and purging all over them both, Powerglide spoke up first, jeering, “Yeah, that sounds about right. Courtesans are what we called them. Except you missed the part where all trines are bonded and hooking up. That’s the famous part. Vos was known as the city of…what was that word you taught me? Ménage à trois.”

Household of three. Hm. How apt.

To uneducated day laborers, maybe. Mecha with tires melted to the pavement loved nothing more than to waste their limited processor capacity on philistine fantasies featuring those who lived within the lavish towers shadowing over them.

Not rising to the pathetically low bait, Starscream maintained his scholarly tone as he objected, “I did not miss anything; not all trines are romantic. Some even despise each other to the point of living separately.”

Starscream certainly did. Or would. If he had a trine. And if it theoretically consisted of the terrors his spark had shared an enkindler with. Which it didn’t. Because he didn’t have a trine. The point was moot.

So, why wasn’t Powerglide dropping it? Instead, the red mech continued to prod, “But they are all bonded.”

Internally seething, Starscream’s smile stretched high, stopping just short of pinching his optics completely shut. “Which we—I. Am not.”

“Not yet.”

Red and grey helms whipped in the direction of the speaker just in time to see him spit a small metal shard covered in energon onto the roof. Already half-hunched over, Skywarp bent lower to pick it up, a smile revealing what the piece of scrap was as he brought it to his optic to admire.

A broken piece of denta that had snapped off the top-center, giving him a triangular gap between the rows.

Snickering to himself, Skywarp subspaced the piece. His ugly little laugh grew manic in energy and volume as he stood to full height, becoming a full-blown cackle as he threw his helm back.

Powerglide's servos descended over Astoria again, ignoring her squeaks of protest. In turn, Starscream positioned himself slightly in front of the older flyer, his talons out and primed to intercept should the Decepticon attempt a mad dash toward them.

Why? Because he wanted the satisfaction of smashing in the rest of Skywarp’s denta, of course. The squashable passenger on Powerglide’s shoulder was not even a vestige consideration of his battle strategy.

As Skywarp’s laugh petered into nasty giggles, the con lolled his helm to the side and gave Starscream’s frame a slow, seedy appraisal. From pede to helm, grey glossa rolling between his denta-gap as red optics lingered on a badgeless wing.

“Nasty freak,” Powerglide hissed just loud enough for Starscream to hear. It was the closest thing to support the red bot was likely capable of showing.

Skywarp tapped the side of his crushed helm, “It’s been fun, Screamer.” Then, lifting a servo to cup and slowly rub his throat, “Real fun. But the Structies have grabbed everything they need, and I gotta head back to base.”

Having no idea what a Structie was, Starscream could still infer the implication of them grabbing what they needed. Skywarp’s appearance had not been another instance of the Elite Trine’s unconventional idea of courtship, but rather an actual Decepticon—

Interrupting his thoughts, Skywarp confirmed the scientist’s theory as if he’d heard them (and maybe he had).

“I thought keeping the bots from finding out what we’re stealing would be just another pointless, boring mission. So. Thanks for that,” the con finished with a quick, appreciative optic ridge lift.

To have been outwitted by Skywarp…no. No, it wasn’t possible.

“You’re not stalking me?” He croaked, not sure if he was more desperate for confirmation or denial.

The purple seeker laughed, bright and cheerful. “Oh, we definitely are. Just not this time. Why? Disappointed?”

Yes. No? Starscream's fall from the box-seat of brilliance and onto the dimly lit center stage, along with the rest of the jesters, had left him momentarily disoriented.

Skywarp chuckled, “You’re so cute, you make it hard to leave. But hey, duty calls. Well, TC’s calling. I don’t actually give a retro-rat’s aft about duty.”

After a wink in Starscream’s direction, the con started toward them, doing that silly run the teleporter liked to do before disappearing. In a frantic attempt to get anything out of this disastrous failure of a patrol and salvage the tattered remains of his pride— advanced processor firing at maximum power, he held up a blue servo and shouted, “Wait!”

Stopping mid-run, Skywarp’s arms pinwheeled at his sides to stop himself from faceplanting. Not wasting an astro-second of opportunity, spark whirring, Starscream turned his servo palm-up and composed the most compelling demand his genius could devise.

“Before you leave, give me one of your nullrays.”

He opened and closed his palm in a give me gesture. 

From behind, Powerglide muttered, “You have got to be kidding me.”

In front, Skywarp looked down at the shorter seeker’s open palm, then to the sky, hummed, and—

“Sure.”

Starscream's optics cycled, and his audials clicked, resetting and replaying to be sure he'd heard the other seeker correctly. Asking for the nullrays had been such a throwaway request. He hadn't thought it would do anything but buy them more time by confusing Skywarp and creating curiosity around why he would want one.

Actually, Starscream had done his best to ignore the fraudulent nullrays' existence on Skywarp's shoulders right up until he'd asked for them. Their attachment to anyone's arm but his own served as a bitter reminder that more than just time had been taken from him while trapped under the ice.

Were the Decepticons even aware that their lead weapons developer had stolen the design? Would they care? Or was thievery, along with betrayal and unflattering repaints, considered laudable by the buffoonishly villainous faction?

There would be ample time to ponder what wickedness the Decepticons extolled as virtue while he waited, due to a nullray’s removal being a long and arduous process. One Starscream was not uncertain that Skywarp lacked the scientific wit and technical dexterity to, for lack of better phrasing, pull off.

With a stronger inflection of disbelief, Powerglide repeated, “You have got to be kidding me.”

He wanted to look over his shoulder to smirk, but Skywarp, gripping one of the fake nullrays by its barrel, kept his attention firmly forward. Was the crazy mech just going to rip it off? With how deeply embedded a nullray was into its user's systems, the process would be excruciatingly painful and messy. Wiring would stretch and snap, energon tubing would tear, and armor would bend upward, becoming disfigured. 

Oh, how Starscream really, really hoped that’s what….

What?

His optics widened, repeatedly cycling when Skywarp gripped the counterfeit nullray by its barrel and detached it with ease. The only signifier that it had ever been connected to the purple seeker at all being a gentle click of release. None of the ripping or tearing Starscream had been anticipating.

Skywarp held out the weapon, dropping it into Starscream’s servo with a simple, “Here you go.”

Lightweight and with a smooth block base, the differences between the pilfered design and Starscream's original were obvious at a glance. He curled his talons around the weapon, delighted by the (ha!) magnitude of this discovery.

“That’s a real nice evil grin you got there, Screamer,” Skywarp leered.

Still reeling from the unexpected epiphany, Starscream looked up at the other’s pink splotched faceplate, his expression unwavering. “Huh, what? I don’t know what you mean.”

Skywarp huffed a laugh, "Damn, you make it hard." Then, his optics widened, and he burst out into another round of voracious laughter, his entire frame shaking. "You get it? Cause-whew, haha, hard?!" A long vent followed by a contented sigh that gradually morphed into an annoyed frown, and the taller seeker yanked out an exposed green wire from his cracked-open vent. Flicking it to the ground, Skywarp imparted an ominous, "Be seeing you real soon, Screamer."

A gap-dentaed smirk reflected across Starscream’s yellow canopy, the air warmed, and then—

Vop!

The Decepticon was gone, leaving the two mechs, one elated, the other confused, an angry human squeaking insults through her mate's protective hold, and several unanswered questions behind.

What was a Structie? What had they stolen? How were the Decepticons stalking him? Had Skywarp really outsmarted him (of course not!) or was the distraction their fight created just one poorly timed coincidence? Would Powerglide open his dumb struck mouth and tittle-tattle to the Autobots about the Elite Trine’s stated desire to bond with Starscream?

Did either faction comprehend just how astronomically the Decepticons had failed to recreate Starscream's nullray? Did it matter? Soon, any remaining doubters of the seeker's scientist agnomen would be put in their place as penitent idolaters. And Jetfire that…that….

“What a piece of work, eh? Can’t believe whackjob-warp just gave you a nullray. Wheeljack's been trying to get a hold of one since they first showed up. Must be nice to have those trinely connections, eh, Screamer?”

His grip on the nullray tightened, though not too tight. The thing was so terribly crafted that its barrel would snap in two were the seeker to hold it with all his strength.

Starscream used the phony nullray’s confirmed inferiority as a twist cap for his temper, bottling it away to be used as a readily tapped source of motivation at a later date.

After a deep, fortifying vent, he slowly turned to face the red bot and said, “Don’t call me that.” And with pleasantly casual vocals instead of the harsh beratement Powerglide was deserving of, he repudiated, “I have no trine.”

But the temperamental bottle having already been shaken quite vigorously by Powerglide; a tiny, fizzy bubble of enmity leaked out the loosely screwed top. Rising up between the two flyers, its pop sounded identical to Starscream’s acrimonious vocals.

“I share as much of a bond with the Elite Trine as you do with your human mate. How do the other Autobots feel about that little queeriosity, I wonder? Or has someone ordered that they hold their wagging glossas in check? For bestiality to be tolerated amongst the troops…”

Giving a winsome smile, Starscream beamed, “Well, Optimus Prime must truly be a most forgiving leader, eh, Glidey?”

Powerglide’s resulting glare could have been described as hot enough to melt ice, but he refused to accredit such a loathsome miscreant with any feat of merit. Let alone one that might have spared Starscream the agonizing affliction of his company had it occurred a few million stellar cycles sooner.

Without a word of rebuttal, Powerglide's gaze shifted from Starscream to where Skywarp had been standing mere klicks before. His glare slowly began to drop, as did his servos. Both falling away to reveal a pink-faced and frizzy-maned Astoria. She was huffing and glaring at her mechanical suitor, who was still staring off into empty space. The mech shook his helm, a quick little motion like he was trying to dislodge something stuck, then looked down at the unhappy human who had begun stomping to get his attention.

Starscream used the organic’s distraction to deftly subspace the Decepticon nullray before any more questions surrounding it could be asked—and to scheme for both parties’ silence.

Puffing up at her partner, the woman shouted, "Glidey, if you put me in hand-prison one more time, oh!" With a shake of her fist, Astoria threatened, “You’ll be sleeping on the couch for a month!”

Powerglide responded with an unbothered, “You don’t have a couch big enough to fit me.”

She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest bumps. "I've got my people working on it. And while they're at it, I'll tell them to build a doghouse too, just so I can put you in it. You can't just lock me away whenever you get scared. Has no one ever taught you how to treat a lady?”

So, the red bot’s fear of Skywarp had been so palpable that even an organic could sense it? Interesting.

“Isn’t that your job?” Powerglide drolled.

Astoria’s tiny mouth dropped open, and she began twirling a finger through her messy hair. “I, well, I-uh…yes. That’s my job.” She walked forward, not stopping until she reached a shoulder wing. The woman rubbed her fleshy hand up and down the edge of it in a…was that supposed to be seduction?

Starscream’s throat cables constricted as he held down a gag.

With a sultry smile, Astoria purred, “I’ll give you a lesson tonight, big bot.”

Sounding genuinely disappointed, Powerglide replied, “I’m ready to learn, doll, believe me. But if I get caught staying out another night with you, Prowl is going to start answering his own questions. I’ll never get another solo patrol again if he figures out I’m leaking the routes to you.”

Sighing, Astoria patted her mate’s red wing and relented, “I get it, Glidey, I do. Fun police-Prowl. It’s just the researchers finally built a bed sturdy enough for you. We could have given it a few tests after your lesson. You did mention leaking after all….”

Actually, what did Starscream need Powerglide or Skywarp for? Weaponizing Astoria’s shamelessness would break every metric scale of strength in existence. Not even Cybertron’s fabled planetary-god Primus was scriptured to have wielded such ineffable power.

Holding back a nauseated groan, Starscream could only lament: where were the Decepticons to shoot him out of the sky when he needed it? Escaping with their pilfered goods, apparently.

Faking a small cough, Starscream interrupted the degenerate duo to refocus their attention to what actually mattered. “Not to disrupt your adorable mating ritual, but we do have a somewhat pressing matter to discuss. Straying from our patrol path has allowed the Decepticons to steal from the humans. Is there a procedure for calling back to the Ark and alerting the other Autobots, or some kind of report…?”

What an open, leading question that Starscream definitely hadn’t phrased in such a way to place the patrol’s failure squarely where it belonged. On unsightly red shoulders. Now, of course, a dutiful, respectable Autobot would surely respond that they needed to return right away and take full accountability for their mistakes. Admit to his own wrongdoing and how he’d allowed his faulty base programming to lead a young new recruit astray.

Powerglide, however….

“What do you say we keep this little Decepticon detour to ourselves, eh? You don’t say anything about me ditching patrol to hang with Astoria here, and I won’t say nothing about you definitely being part of the Elite Trine. Howzat?”

Personal slander and double negative aside, the older mech had said everything Starscream required to complete his plot. Gasping, he made sure to convey the appropriate amount of indignation generated by the scandalous deal Powerglide had offered.

“What are you talking about? You sent me back to base at the first sign of trouble. Right now, I’m on my way to report how you bravely pursued the dastardly Decepticon Skywarp alone, but alas. Before I was out of range, you commed to let me know he’d teleported away. Dedicated as you are to….” His optics briefly flicked to Astoria. “Humanity’s safety, you decided to patrol all night to ensure the danger has truly passed.”

Placing a servo over his spark, Starscream professed, “Your commitment to the Autobot cause is truly admirable, something my report is sure to reflect.”

Powerglide looked down at his human, then back to the seeker, a sly undertone to his vocals as he approved, “Yeah, that does sound like me. And harassing a new flyer just because he can? That sounds just like Skywarp. No relation required.”

Tilting his helm in agreement, Starscream warmly chuckled, “I’m so glad we could clear up that little misunderstanding before I left.”

At that, he plotted a course back to the Ark, protoform itching beneath his armor to get away from the grotesque lovers. Just as he'd stepped past Powerglide and placed a pede on the roof's edge, sounding somewhat put out, Astoria called to him, "Starscream! Are you really leaving already?"

Without looking back, he nodded, “Yes, the Decepticons’ theft must be reported. Why? Sad to see me go so soon? And here I thought you’d be grateful to have more alone time with your beau.”

"I am, really, Starscream, thank you for that," Astoria said. "It's just I don't see the other bots often, and it's nice to finally meet one of Glidey’s friends. Maybe next time you could stay longer? We could all hang out, or-or just us. As friends, I mean.”

The woman’s pitifully hopeful tone gave Starscream pause. And nothing else. Friendship between an organic and a Cybertronian was doomed to failure. Either by time, nature, or…other extenuating circumstances. Recognizing his past mistakes meant learning from and never repeating them. Not that he’d ever been friends with an organic, vaguely attached to, maybe. As a pet. Never more.

He tilted his helm back and looked into the sky. Clear blue brightened by an alien sun. Any birds that had been flying were either returning to their stoops or scavenging for food below. Morning had become midday in only a few joors. A blip of time that would have been filed away as inconsequential on any other planet.

Repressing a sigh, Starscream filled his vocals with pretend pep and pacified the human by telling her exactly what she wanted to hear. “I’d be delighted to, Miss Astoria. Why don’t you tell Powerglide the next time you’re available and he’ll comm me the details. We can make a day of it, have a chat.”

Her shriek of delight contrasted spectacularly with Powerglide’s sudden burst of anger; his field lashing out at Starscream’s like a buzzing nest of scraplets at the mere suggestion of another mech being alone with his mate. Organophile and the jealous type? Astoria really knew how to pick them. Next, she was going to say Skywarp had left a good impression and that she couldn’t wait to invite him over for a polish session and oil-cake. 

…It was misguided judgement brought on by youth. That must be why she thought Starscream, of all mecha, would be her friend. It would also be why she and the seeker would almost certainly never meet again.

Powerglide’s field spoke for him. No words need be said between them for the message to be passed along—Starscream would never be getting that comm.

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

Starscream landed in a half-crouch directly outside of the Ark’s doors. No alarm was blaring; no group of inquisitive bots was out to greet him. There was no scent of burnt tires from grounders racing to action. The tread marks outside the ship appeared mostly old and easily distinguishable. They had not been made in a rush or by any significant number or mecha.

Derma thinning, he hummed as he looked around the base's exterior. A rocky desert that stretched out into flat, sandy plains. The atmosphere and temperature readings all showed normal parameters.

All was quiet, suspiciously so.

His gaze landed on a rock wall that led around a corner to—his mouth tightened into a frown, brow ridge furrowing as he thought about the greenhouse. The assurance he'd made the night before to its owner. A mech who was possibly inside the plantae sanctuary, cleaning up the mess Starscream had made.

He turned his helm away from the direction of the greenhouse and back to the Ark’s copper doors. Hound would understand, of course, why Starscream wasn’t hastening to his side. While repairing the greenhouse was…not even a little bit important. Its restoration was still a promise he’d made to a mech whose good graces he wanted to keep. For the decidedly limited time they would last.  

But. Starscream had a report to deliver, one he’d taken painstaking care to craft during his return flight to the Ark. Then, there was the subject of his latest scientific discovery, being that the Decepticons had not actually made any in regard to his nullray.

All in all, it was a very busy day for the seeker. No time to sweep away dirt or straighten plant stems. Tomorrow, early morning, Starscream would make time. However short his recharge need be to fit the greenhouse into his densely packed schedule, he would do so with nary a complaint.

…Well, maybe a little complaining. He would limit himself to three.

For now, however, Starscream entered the Ark, casting one last look over his shoulder as its doors silently opened for him. He stood by the entrance, servos clenched and wing sensors heightened; all he felt at his back was the gentle breeze of metal doors closing and the transition from the desert’s arid heat to the ship’s more tepid interior. No one had followed him.

Arms swinging at his sides, Starscream began a measured march to Prowl’s office.

Hound would understand. Hound always understood. 

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

Remembering the way to Prowl's office, despite the lack of visible directions on the ship's walls, allowed him to make short work of the distance, the trek made easier by a lack of Autobot interlopers. There was no sign of life within the copper crypt until he'd turned the corner and was forced to come to a halt.

Helm tilting, Starscream asked, “What are you doing?”

Sideswipe didn't look up from where he was kneeling in front of Prowl's door, a spray can held in both servos. He shook a white one and began using it to outline the pink, curly-tailed creature that had been painted on the lower half of the office door. It had a flat, rounded snout and…wings? No, door wings, black and white, sticking out of its back.

“It’s called art,” Sideswipe responded once the outline was done. He then shook the black can held in his opposite servo and started writing something in Kaonite above the animal. “It’s this thing when you take something boring and make it cool.”

Before he could stop himself, Starscream quipped, “For Prowl’s door? You’re going to need a lot more paint than that.”

The red bot laughed, “Don’t have to tell me. Prowl wouldn’t know cool if he was locked in a freezer.” Followed by a quick look and a, “No offense.”

Starscream tried to find some, really, he was in the mood for it, and Sideswipe was red. The worst Autobot color (on anyone but him). But amusement won out, and he huffed a laugh. The fake nullray in his subspace doing wonders to keep his usually laden temper buoyant.

“None taken,” he replied, his optics narrowing shortly after. What was it Sideswipe had written on the door? Starscream had downloaded all major city-states’ unique languages as part of his early training in Vos, but the sequence of black glyphs was totally unfamiliar to him.

Oink Oink.

Must have been some old Kaonite insult. Having never visited the city, Starscream wouldn't know its uncouth colloquialisms; he had only mastered its formal speech.

Though he wasn’t about to reveal his linguistic knowledge and ignorance by questioning the painted words. Vosians very rarely bothered to learn any language but their own and Cybertronian common; understanding a language none expected him to has aided the seeker more than once in the past. Besides, the Autobots already knew too much about his personal history.

If the faction truly was wholly apposed to Cybertron’s old system of governance and all those who enforced it—better not to give them any hints as to the role he’d been designed to replace.

Sideswipe nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied with his work, and subspaced both spray cans before standing. “What brings you here, by the way? Heard you were out on your first patrol with Powerglide.” The red bot pulled yellow and blue spray paint from subspace and took a step back from the door, likely to assess what his next art piece would be.

“And I mean heard,” the mech added. “Ratchet and Prowl both were giving Hide an audial full for that. Not the first time he’s been in trouble with those two, but I’ve never seen the old mech treated like a misbehaving youngling before. Slag was hilarious.”

“I’m sure,” the Starscream acquiesced. So, the good doctor hadn’t wanted him to leave the base for patrol? Suddenly, any remaining ire toward Ironhide dissipated into something that loosely resembled gratitude. Even his odious encounter with Skywarp was as weightless as graphene when stacked against the scale of Ratchet’s thwarted desires.

Speaking of thwarting—

“That’s why I’m here, actually. Skywarp appeared, acting as a distraction for a group called the Structies. Powerglide is trying to find out why they were in the city, and I was sent back early to report the Decepticons’ presence.”

The yellow line Sideswipe had been painting veered off into a jerky zig-zag, the mech’s optics widening. “What, really?!” He exclaimed, field practically bouncing off the Ark’s ugly walls in shock.

Was it the Structies’ or Skywarp’s designation that had elicited such a reaction? Either or, that meant there would be more scrutiny of his report than expected. Perhaps he should comb through it one more time, just to be sure there was nothing explicitly—

"You just got back from patrol, and you're already turning in your mission report?"

Sideswiped whistled and gave the seeker a once-over, as if seeing him for the first time. It was markedly less uncomfortable than Skywarp's obvious ogling had been. “Wow. No wonder Prowl was so excited to have you on board. I can’t remember the last time anyone turned in a report on time. Dang, now I almost feel bad he’s not here to get it in person.”

“Why would you feel bad about that?” He queried.

Smirking, Sideswipe sprayed a blue dot over a silver metal box with a wide, long slit cut into its top bolted next to the door. “Prowl installed this drop box not long after we woke up. We think it’s because he realized he’d never get to leave his office if he kept waiting for bots to show up after missions.” 

Switching from a blue spray can back to a white, Sideswipe began painting over it, singsonging to himself, “It’s his little white flag.”

Starscream’s optics cycled, and rather than point out the other’s obvious misdirect, he puzzled, “How long has this been here?” Did, after we woke up, mean this very morning? As in, after the seeker had already left for patrol? The last time he had been to Prowl’s office, the only thing outside the door had been the remnants of poorly scrubbed off paint—ah, now it made sense.

Standing back to admire his work, Sideswipe answered, “It’s always been there, kind of. Weird how it keeps disappearing though. No idea what that’s about. He’ll get his report, though.” A wink, then, “Promise.”

Right.

No discernible ranks. Organophiles. Friendly Primes. Enlisted mechs openly messing with the second-highest-ranking bot in the army. What was next? A giant purple mythical mechanoid creature that could fly and shoot lasers out of its beak?

Anything was possible, apparently. Seeing as Starscream had not just been frozen in time but transported to an alternate reality where the inanely bizarre was considered routine.

Offering Sideswipe a polite smile, Starscream stepped forward, took the light blue datapad he had used to write his report, and dropped it into the box. A hollow clang rang out as it hit the bottom. The grounder and flyer slowly swiveled their helms to look at each other, blue optics locking. Both snorted before breaking out into little laughs that, were Starscream any less refined, might have been classified as giggles.

It was Starscream’s turn to look at Sideswipe as though seeing him for the first time, his smile remaining as he realized the shared moment hadn’t been forced. His laughter had come naturally.

An alternate reality, indeed.

Holding up his yellow spray can and waggling it in the air, marble inside rattling, Sideswipe asked, “You want in on this?”

Regretfully, really-truly, Starscream had to turn the shorter mech down. “Much as I would like to add color to this homochromatic opticsore—I need to head to the lab.”

Sideswipe shrugged in a your loss kind of way, then swapped the yellow can for a purple. “You sound like Sunny. Not the lab part, but the ragging on this place. He hates the color too, says it messes with his reflection in the metal.” Grin widening, the bot cheerfully offered, “Hey, if you ever want to spruce up your room, just hit me up. Sunny has the best paints on board, and I’m the best at sneaking them out of our hab.”

Smiling, Starscream said, “I’ll have to take you up on that offer sometime.” He wouldn’t. There was no need. The war wasn’t going to last long enough for the Ark’s walls to do permanent damage to his optical sensors. His newest discovery would ensure it.

Rather than a simple goodbye, Starscream made his exit with a light-sparked, “Try not to get caught.”

Still holding the purple spray paint, Sideswipe gave him a two-digit, parting wave. “No trying to it.”

The bot then turned back to the door and began to paint what might later become the Decepticon symbol. Starscream wasn't going to stick around to find out and had no plans to be back at Prowl's door before the red twin's graffiti was inevitably ordered to be removed. 

Stepping past the vandal, Starscream tried to walk as though the fake nullray hadn’t begun to burn a hole through his subspace pocket-dimension.

Mission reports would become yet another thing of the past once the scientist put an end to the need for missions altogether. Because his brilliance, along with the Decepticons’ duncery, were about to coalesce into a cataclysmic concoction that ended the war.

His trek to the lab began as a casual stroll, then an intentional gate, pace incrementally quickening until he was racing through the hallways, wings shaking with excitement as he neared the laboratory door.

It opened, and the seeker rushed through, moving right past the two mechs already inside and toward an unclaimed worktable at the back of the room.

Wheeljack, who was pulling an empty beaker out of a cabinet, let out a startled, “Starscream?” Before dropping the glass container, shattering it against the floor. 

Perceptor, who was in his alt-mode and observing something green and wriggly inside a petri dish, hastily transformed. The dish clattered to the floor and crunched under Perceptor’s pede just as the mech happily shouted, “Starscream! You’re back!” Only for him to then slip on the green specimen and fall onto his aft.

Ignoring both scientists, practically giddy with disbelief, thrill, amazement, all of the above and more—Starscream tossed the fake nullray onto the empty workstation. Then, he removed the genuine, original nullray from his subspace and carefully laid it next to the poor excuse for a replica.

More to himself than anyone else in the room, Starscream excitedly whispered, “Jetfire, that misbegotten fool—he never figured it out.”

Perceptor, having recovered from his fall, came to stand next to the taller mech, his attention solely on the original of the two weapons. With a tilt of his helm and a curious squint, Perceptor inquired, “What do you mean?” Only to follow it with a gasped, “Are those nullrays? How did you…wait. They do not appear to be identical. We have always theorized that seekers’ nullrays are all identically made. Why are these different?”

Oh, how Starscream had been hoping he’d ask. Of course, a smart mech like Perceptor would move right past the how of procurement and focus on the much more important why.

“Why, yes, yes they are,” he purred. “What keen optic you have, Percy dear.” Gesturing over the table with a sweep of his servo, he began, “One of these weapons is a nullray, the other is an inferior copy of my work—”

“You have the original prototype!” 

Had the bubbled outburst not been delivered by such amazement and unconcealed fawning, Starscream would have popped it. However, since it was wonderfully worshipful, he took a savory moment to preen. Ending it only to tease, “Percy, my sweet, I made the original.”

The bot gulped, stuttering, “I-I know, it’s just we thought Jetfire had repurposed the original to-to create what the Decepticons now use. It never occurred to me that you would have an original with you.”

“Not just an original. The only,” Starscream corrected. “I left no working prototypes behind.”

Nor had he left any notes or schematics. Everything relating to the nullray was either sitting on the table in front of them or preserved safely within Starscream’s subspace. Scientific enemies abound; the seeker had been too cautious to leave his life’s work behind during an expedition.

The attempted theft had been anticipated and accounted for, the thief, however….

His optics glazed over with a near-manic silica, and his smile stretched just a little too high. “Do you want to know the difference between them, Perceptor? Do you?”

The shorter mech rapidly nodded his helm yes. Simply adorable!

“The Decepticon nullray is magnetized. Which means its power source is built directly into the weapon itself. While its overall design is still perfectly crafted to match a seeker's ground and flight specifications—because I designed it—the actual purpose of it being called a nullification ray has obviously been lost."

He cast a quick look over Perceptor’s helm, just to ensure the Autobots’ lead scientist was fully engaged before Starscream explained the breadth of his brilliance.

Wheeljack’s servos had stopped moving, his glass shard cleanup halted; a finial was subtly turned toward the seeker’s workstation.

Starscream smiled.

“I made the nullray to paralyze any system that uses electricity to function. Organic or mechanical. A strong enough shot could strike an organic and stop its beating heart cold. It could cause instant spark failure for any mechanoid. Immediate death with no mess.”

On many a lone Cybertronian night, Starscream had found himself sighing dreamily at the fantastical idea.

“Now, I ask you—what energy source is powerful enough to amass that kind of destruction?” The question was rhetorical, and Starscream gave Perceptor no time to answer before responding, “The same one that powers the most advanced species in the entire universe. Energon! But not just any energon—it must be filtered through our systems first, heightening its already incredible power. The Decepticon nullray being magnetized means Jetfire missed this concept of its creation entirely.”

What concept? Starscream answered before the question could even be asked.

“External-internal weaponry!” A million ideas zipped through his processor, connecting and interlinking with all the possibilities derived from his own virtuoso. Miniscule guns attached to minibots that could be shoved between the Decepticons’ seams. A rotating turret on top of a slow, but heavily fueled mech. Or a shuttle class with a—

Slapping his servos over Perceptor’s handsomely sculpted cheeks, Starscream brought the shorter mech closer to passionately announce, “We can bomb them from orbit!”

The war was over! The nullification technology would only ever be as powerful as its wielder, but what did that matter when they had the Matrix on their side? One perfectly timed shot, aimed right at the Decepticons’ base while the majority were inside (specifically Skywarp and Thundercracker), and—

“No doomsday devices.”

Every gear, belt, and coupling in Starscream's frame ground to a complete stop. Only his fans, spinning loudly and blowing hot exhaust out the sides of his helm, continued to move. Even Perceptor, whose optics had fogged over from the heat, went utterly still. The red bot's hold over the larger mech's wrists remained loose; Perceptor was making no effort to extract himself.

Looking over Perceptor’s helm to stare directly at Wheeljack, through a painfully wide grin, Starscream asked, “What?”

The lead scientist had gone from cleaning up the broken beaker to standing by Perceptor’s workstation. Both of his servos were pressed flat against it as he leaned forward. Speaking as calmly as one explaining why running with a laser scalpel was dangerous, the masked mech elucidated, “No doomsday devices or anything that could be used as one. Prime put a ban on them after the cons stole the last one I made and used it to blow up a moon. Two moons. Alright, it was every moon in the Plox planetary system at once. Don’t ask how.”

Starscream chuckled; he had to. What Wheeljack had said was so preposterous that it had to be a joke. A hyperbolic retelling of a past incident for comedic effect. Or, Wheeljack was misinterpreting the Prime’s order.

Playing along with the ridiculousness of it all, the seeker hedged, “It wouldn’t doom a day, necessarily, just the Decepticons.”

He’d made a joke, a silly little gag. Next, Perceptor would tell Starscream how funny he was. Wheeljack would laugh and compliment his wit. They would clap their servos and congratulate him for ending the Cybertronian civil war. Optimus would burst into the lab and tell the seeker how proud of him he was. Ratchet would grovel at his blue-tipped pedes and apologize for ever doubting him.

Wheeljack shook his helm, finials blinking blue with every disappointing word. “I like your enthusiasm, Starscream, but I can’t approve that project.”

Perceptor took a turn shattering the seeker’s expectations to solemnly say, “I’m sorry, Starscream. Your idea is brilliant, impossible, but brilliant.” Sighing, the bot gently rubbed his thumbs on the underside of Starscream’s wrists as if to comfort him. “Optimus has given us orders not to pursue any lethal weaponry. He would prefer it if we did not invent weapons at all, actually. At least, while we remain on Earth.”

Starscream’s olfactorate flared; metal shavings shed into his mouth from how hard he was grinding his denta. With a growl, he shoved Perceptor away, uncaring of the bot’s pained yelp as he thudded onto the floor. Twisting away, the seeker hunched over the worktable and glared at the incomplete nullrays; his wings lifted to block any slant of his faceplate from view.

Hot air howled through the slats of his helm-vents, an incandescent fury turning his blue optics near white. He tried to vocalize, but all that escaped was a robotic glitch. It was only through his chastened resolve, repeatedly beaten and seared into his protoform until it scarred, that Starscream managed to choke down his rage.

Though he could do nothing to stop his vocals from trembling as that despitous electro-viper tried to slither its way back up his willfully clogged throat.  

“I don’t understand. Why has Optimus ordered us not to kill the Decepticons? I’ve read your past—I know you’ve spent the last eight million stellar cycles slaughtering each other. Cybertron was crumbling under his holy pedes, and no such order was given. Why here? Why now?" A laugh. Incredulous, livid. "Has there been a ceasefire, and no one has simply bothered to tell me?"

It was Wheeljack who answered; the metallic clamoring from behind suggested he was helping Perceptor to stand.

“We don’t have a truce with the Decepticons, and we don’t know why they’ve stopped trying to kill us either. They’ve had plenty of chances. But so far, no con has taken the shot, not even Megatron.” A pause followed by the soft clank of approaching pedesteps. “Prowl thinks if we’re the first ones to pull that trigger, the cons will do something drastic. Destroy a human settlement, target our allies, start the war back up for good.”

Concern brushed up against his own closely held field; Starscream refused to welcome it.

“So, Optimus ordered us not to kill any Decepticons or do anything to make them think we’re trying to. It’s not that no bots are questioning Prime’s order; it's just that after what they’ve been through up till now, most of them don’t care. The war’s all bad, kid, and this may be hard to believe, but you’re seeing the best of it.”

A semi-private audience with Wheeljack, Cybertron’s famed greatest inventor, was once a flight of fancy for the seeker. Something to scribble in his notes and fantasize about between classes. Millions of stellar cycles later, found on an alien world and after enduring the cold sting of betrayal—he finally had his idol’s undivided attention.

And all the mech did was spew weak, benighted, recreant tripe.

He was going mad. He had to be. Vocals rising in pitch, Starscream said, “The Decepticons have already targeted your human allies. They killed your wheeled charge, or have you forgotten?”

Perceptor stood at his back, servos hovering over the seeker’s wings. The shift in the lab’s air displacement told him the red bot was the only mech who had dared to near him. How preciously valiant for a civilian frame, especially one who wore something so…breakable on his shoulder. But the microscope’s courage was directed at the wrong warbuild.

With a nauseating amount of sympathy, Perceptor attempted to assuage, “I am deeply sorry for what happened to your friend, Starscream. His loss is felt by all. If there was anything that could have been done to save him, I promise you, it would have been done…but his death was an accident.”

Starscream slammed his fists onto the table and screeched, “It wasn’t an accident!”

A beat of shocked silence passed before Perceptor tentatively inquired, “What do you mean?” 

Taking a vent to comport himself, Starscream expounded upon the obvious. “Jetfire ordered the child’s execution due to his perceived connection to—” His mouth curled in a wicked smile. “—Prowl.”

After a weak shudder, he dropped his wings and turned to face Perceptor. His optics were drawn wide, trembling derma were partially open, and a servo was pressed against his canopy; blue talons dug into the enclosing seams as though nervous. “It…it’s why we fought in the quarry. The reason I turned down his offer to join the Decepticons. Perceptor, you were right. I wanted so much to believe my partner was still the same, even after so much time had passed. That Skyfire was still the same mech I’d come to know and trust.”

He looked sharply away from the shorter mech, directing his despondency at the floor. “But when he told me he ordered Blitzwing to kill that human, an innocent child, just to prove the Autobots, you, could not keep your pets—” He spat the word out like it was poison. “—safe. I knew I could never join him. Jetfire or Skyfire…if there was ever any difference at all.”

Slowly, and after several deep vents, he turned his faceplate back toward Perceptor. His field unwound; grief had whittled anger into anguish. It slid into Perceptor’s readily offered solace. Finally, Starscream reached out to grasp a small black servo, cradling it in his own. “I did not mean to let my anger get the better of me; it was just so. Hard. To let go knowing what he did. It didn’t make any sense to me how you could, but now I understand.”

Lifting his gaze higher, Starscream locked optics with Wheeljack before uttering softly, “You didn’t know.”

The science officer’s finials had turned a pale, sickly green. However, unlike Perceptor, Wheeljack’s field was unavailable to the seeker. Not that he couldn’t hypothesize what the color reflecting off the mech’s mask expressed.

Ah, but it really was just so hard—not to smile.

Perceptor, a veritable intellectual, cutely clinging to him. The smaller mech’s field was full of regret while also struggling to maintain some form of structured, consoling support, even as the seeker's heavier field weighed down on him. The famous Wheeljack, struck dumb by his own ignorance. 

All over a little simpered sorrow. Not that anything Starscream said through his field had been a lie, per say. He genuinely was grief-stricken by pity over how pathetic a faction the Autobots were. Aguish over their collective cowardice was only to be expected. And the seeker’s anger at his nullray design being denied yet again was an understandable reaction.

“Oh, Starscream,” Perceptor began. “I cannot believe you had to endure such knowledge alone. Why did you not tell anyone? Had I known, I…no, it should not matter what I knew.” The red bot placed his free servo on the outside of Starscream’s. “Listening to Ratchet was a mistake. I should have been there for you sooner.” 

So, that was one mystery solved. What a predictable anagnorisis.

"I thought you knew," he replied. "It just seemed so obvious, what with how much Jetfire and Prowl hate each other."

Or at least, Starscream surmised that the opposing second-in-commands hated each other.

Bringing Perceptor’s captured servo closer, the seeker leaned down. Though not too close, he still wanted his faint smile to be visible as he assured, “Dear Percy, I could never hold a grudge over you doing what you thought was best for my recovery.”

A certain geriatric doctor, however….

“What matters is that you’re here now,” Starscream finished.

They gazed into each other’s optics, blue meeting glimmering blue. The servo within his own grew warm, and Perceptor dropped his helm to stare down at where they joined. Thin derma lifted into a weak smile, and the shorter bot huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh before looking back up.

“Starscream,” the red bot vented.

“Perceptor,” the seeker whispered.

“Is there anyone else you’ve told this to?” The science officer inserted himself.

The warbuild could have snarled, he was so vexed by the disruption. A klick longer, and Starscream would have had Perceptor eating energon gummies out of his servo. Literally, if he so wished.

Grip on Perceptor’s servo tightening ever so slightly, he managed to maintain his smile as he addressed the officer. “No, I didn’t want to peel welded wounds by bringing up a topic that I thought everyone was avoiding.”

Wheeljack began pacing, stopping after only one loop from the wall cabinet and lab door. Running a servo over the back of his helm, the masked mech nodded, “Good.” Pointing at Perceptor and Starscream, he orderd, “Don’t tell anyone Blitzwing was acting on Jetfire’s orders. I’m calling an emergency officers’ meeting.” His servo dropped. “Prowl probably already suspected this, damn it.”

Puzzled, Starscream dropped his hold on Perceptor’s servo and asked, “If Prowl already suspected Jetfire’s involvement, then why do the Autobots still think the boy’s death was an accident?”

To avoid scrutiny by the Earth governments, perhaps? From Starscream’s own limited exposure, the Ark’s rumor mill production was both fast and unregulated. Voluntary cooperation with the Autobots might not be so forthcoming once they learned how little the faction’s protection was actually worth.

Finials blinking red, Wheeljack replied, “Because Prowl wasn’t the only bot close with Chip.”

Perceptor took a step toward Wheeljack, clearly confused. “Who?”

“Sunstreaker.” The officer deadpanned.

The red bot placed a servo over his mouth and gasped, “Oh my.”

Starscream swiveled his helm between the two bots, and when no explanation followed the designation, he was forced to prompt, “This means something?”

Perceptor lowered his servo before responding, “This means we cannot tell anyone what you know until the officers have convened and decided what to do. Sunstreaker is a restrained mech, but can be, how to say—” The red bot hummed, “Mm, triggered into prodigious explosions of unpredictability.”

Oh, really? What a delicious little morsel of insight for Starscream to sink his denta into later.

Shifting from one hip to another, Perceptor threaded his digits together before adding, “It is why he served with me as a Wrecker for so long. Prowl thought it would be good to send him somewhere the collateral from those outbursts was—” Another hum. “Immaterial.”

Wheeljack started to pace again, scowling, "We're going to have to send him to Mars if this thing goes sideways." The rest of his curse-laden grouse was too mumbled to understand. But as Prowl's designation popped through more than once, he could appreciate the sentiment all the same.

Finials beeped blue, and Wheeljack paused his circular trench to relay, “Meeting in a joor—and I don’t care what Prowl says. I’m letting you know why we do…whatever it is we decide to do.”

“I’d appreciated that,” Starscream said, surprising himself with the short statement’s honesty. Though could he trust any reasoning given that was approved by Prowl, who had apparently known all along that the Autobots’ humans were being targeted, and told no one?

The rhetorical question nearly caused a laugh to break through his somber mask. Trust in the same sentence with anyone, let alone Prowl? Ha, of course not.

"I take it Prowl does not want Starscream present for the meeting, then?" Perceptor ventured.

Wheeljack sighed, “Just in the base, at least until we get this whole thing cleared up.” Then, directly to the seeker, “Sorry about that, Starscream.” 

"It's not your fault," he assured, then, bemused, "What to do with my time? I'd intended to clear my helm with a flight, but now it seems I'm—excuse my poor sense of humor—grounded.”

Both bots laughed, and Starscream was sorely tempted to bow. Instead, he waited for either of them to propose their own will of want on the seeker.

Optics brightening, Perceptor bubbled, “We could work on the energon gummies! I have already submitted a request form—”

“That I approved,” Wheeljack interjected.

“—And gathered the relevant materials and equipment. All that is left is for us to begin our study. To which, ah-ha, I am already well aware of your excellence in the research department.” The red mech chortled, “Do you get it? Because you were in the research department at the ISR. It's a pun! Just like the one you made about being grounded. Since you're a flyer, it, ah. I suppose the humor is less effective if its origin must be explained…."

It would seem the one thing Perceptor the erudite didn’t know, was how to disappoint.

Starscream smiled dotingly at his little fan; unperturbed by the way Wheeljack had started to observe the red scientist as though he had spontaneously sprouted organic matter out of his microscope lens.

“I appreciate the offer, Perceptor, really. And I am looking forward to recreating the candy with you, it’s just that I’d hoped to spend more time in the research department—” He winked. “Before committing to any projects or submitting new requests of my own.”

His optics widened, and he snapped his digits as though something important had just occurred to him, muttering a quick, “Drats.”

“What is it?” Perceptor questioned. And Starscream could have done anything for him. Such a helpful player. Co-star material, were the seeker accepting applicants.

Derma twisting into a frown, Starscream bemoaned, "I'd planned to conduct more in-depth research using Teletran-One, but my clearance hasn't gone through yet, and I have no accounts."

Now, all that was left was for Perceptor to oh-so kindly suggest that Starscream could—

“You can use mine,” Wheeljack declared.

"Wha-really?" Starscream remarked, perplexed as to why Wheeljack would make such an offer. As the lead science officer, the mech would be giving Starscream access to information he likely would never be cleared to know.

"Sure," Wheeljack shrugged, his finnials glowing yellow. "Just keep this between us, alright? Red Alert is already going to be sparking up a lightning storm after this meeting, and finding out I let an uncleared bot use Teletran-One might finally cause him to crash.”

"I—yes, of course. Thank you." Starscream said, his pedes carrying him across the room faster than his processor could register. The masked mech pulled a small data-card from subspace and held it out to the seeker, who had to manually control every motorized movement to ensure his servos did not shake.

“No problem,” Wheeljack reassured. “It’s the least I could do after turning down your nullray idea. And you know…” If not for the mask, the bot might have grimaced. “Everything else.”

The officer likely had no idea the total sum of transgressions he was apologizing for; certainly not all the terribly true things Starscream had called him in his helm. And while granting the seeker unrestricted access to the Ark’s systems would not make up for the utter disappointment Wheeljack had turned out to be—it was a start. A slow, crawling start to a marathon that would never finish.

“I forgive you,” Starscream said, accepting the chip. “Though I’m not exactly sure for what.”

Nothing, as far as he was concerned.

Gripping the chip firmly but carefully, he went back to the workstation he had claimed; Perceptor stepped to the side as the seeker passed. He picked up the original nullray, the only invention worth recognizing on the table, and placed it in subspace. If Wheeljack would not grant Starscream’s request to continue the weapon’s development—

Then he would not ask. Not for permission, nor forgiveness.

“I’ll be in the server room if you need anything,” he informed the bots, already on his way to the door. “Unless there’s something else you would like to discuss with me?”

"I'm sure there's plenty, but ah, it can wait," Wheeljack replied, his digits making some strange wiggling motion as he stared directly at Starscream’s abandoned workstation. An exigent tunnel vision, carved out by an intractable scientific curiosity, having locked his gaze onto the fake nullray. “Can’t believe I finally get to take one of them apart…”

In all the multitudinous ways Wheeljack had lost Starscream’s rarely bestowed respect over the course of this interaction, the science officer being distracted by an apparently long-held obsession was not one of them. It happened to the best of inventors. And the worst, so it seemed.

“Can I expect you back in the lab anytime today?” Perceptor called out, doing a poor job (or none at all) at hiding the hopefulness in his vocals and field.

Pausing at the door, Starscream gave the red bot a small nod and a smile, “If there’s time.”

There wouldn’t be.

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

The elevator’s descent into the ship’s orlop deck was slower than Starscream remembered. Its steel frame scraped noisily against the hoistway, and the counterweight's hydraulic fluid pressure could be heard releasing in a series of puttered squeaks.

Its door squeaked open, and the seeker stepped into a narrow, long hallway that led down to only one door. The click of his heel struts against rusted metal flooring was slowly drowned out by the steady, low-frequency buzz of several tall server racks.

A droning that grew louder once the door containing them opened; not even the seeker’s own internal mechanical whirs could be heard above the noise.

He walked in a straight line toward the tall vid-screen and the attached console against its wall stationed left of the caged server racks. Their bouncing, squared yellow and green lights brightened as he booted up Teletran-One. The screen glowed grey, dulling the blue paint of his servos as they hovered over the glyph keys. He inserted the access chip into a thin slit at its top, started to type in a closed bracket search, then—

Stopped.

What to do? Intelligence classified at such a high level would not be so innocuously offered to him again. As painful as it was for him to admit, Prowl did not suffer from the same acute imbecility glitch as his fellow officers. Whether or not Red Alert was infected had yet to be revealed. Either way, Wheeljack’s credentials used to access Teletran-One in the server room while the mech was known to be in the lab, and later an officers’ meeting, would not go unobserved.

Anything he typed, any search term he entered, any passage he lingered on—the Autobots would see. They would infer where Starscream’s logic drives had charted his interest. The mildly clever amongst them (Prowl, Perceptor) might even deduce why. His plans foiled before they were properly conceived.

He tapped his talons idly against the keypad as he contemplated his options. Misdirect? Search for things he held no real interest in? But that would be such a waste.

Encumbrance? Research nothing and everything all at once? Giving each topic the exact same amount of coverage to prevent them from accurately guessing where his true interest lies?

But that would take up so much of his time, and he had no idea how long the officers’ meeting would last, or if they would comm for him at its end. He may never actually get to, or enough of, any intelligence of value.

Total disregard? He could search for what he wanted and try to excuse himself later, pretend he had no idea why what he'd done could be considered suspicious. But. That horrible CMO had already presumed to know Starscream's intentions for joining the Autobots. There was a high chance he would share that same inference with the other Autobot officers, if he hadn't already. 

Starscream sucked his denta, glossa running over a sharp fang.

If only he could pluck out the Autobots wandering optics to…oh. Now, there was an idea.

Removing not the observers, but the observable. Make the information portable and take it with him. A massive download of everything the Autobots had on all known Decepticons still in active duty. Privatized research.

Reaching into subspace, Starscream began pulling out thick, bright blue datapads. One after the other until there was a stack as tall as his canopy placed atop the console.

The original nullray and the research behind it were not the only personal projects he kept with him when away from his Iacon apartment. Schematics for alternate-energy generators, data derived from scientific experiments, and logs from every expedition he had ever undertaken with…someone who would not care if they were gone.

Starting from the top datapad, he pressed the tip of a talon against a small circle on its outer edge. It moved inward, then opened, revealing a thin black cable. He tugged it out and plugged its jack into the datapad below it. The process repeated until all of the datapads were attached, creating a crude server stack of his own. He pulled out the base datapad’s transfer cable and searched for a compatible port to connect it to the console. Finding one, it slid in place with a soft snick.

He then keyed in a command that would gather all intelligence reports, information collected, and target packages on the Decepticons. Four million stellar-cycles worth of data presented itself. He would require every petabyte of storage on the datapads to take it all. Nothing of their original content would remain; the only ones he had kept in subspace were those pertaining to nullification technology.

Everything Starscream had ever done—his life’s achievements, discoveries, creations—was on these datapads. Once they were gone, they could never be recovered. His records in the ISR were faulty, and his inventions were attributed to a maligner.

…

…What excuse could he plausibly use to justify why he had downloaded everything about the Decepticons anyway? The Autobots—Prowl—could not be allowed to know he was aware of their watchful machinations. If Starscream were to go through with his plan, they would receive a rather sizable hint. Possibly even a clue. So, what could he…oh, but of course.

Prowl was the answer, or more so, his deceased human pet. Aware that the already short-lived organic’s life had been taken prematurely, Starscream had been so overwrought with grief afterward that he'd turned down his old partner’s offer to join him. The shuttle had been all but begging the seeker to leave the Autobots whilst in the quarry. A beautiful sight and nigh impossible plea to turn down.

Ultimately, Starscream’s deep-seated care for organics and steadfast morality had won out, leading to their fight and subsequent Decepticon ambush.

Remaining in the server room for any extended amount of time was bound to bring back recent, woeful memory fluxes. Thus, it made sense for him to find a way to leave it as quickly as possible while still researching his newly acquired enemies. 

Starscream grinned and tilted his helm to the side, looking down to croon, “Even postmortem, you still find ways to aid me.”

An untouched keyboard, far too minuscule for even a minibot's servos, stared back at him. His smile dropped, and his gaze jerked forward, derma pressing into a tight line.

The Autobots really needed to pick up their trash. It was cluttering up the place.

A few taps on the keyboard, and he’d initiated a bash request—download all—not even bothering to skim the gathered information. Overwrite existing data? Popped up on the screen. Without hesitation, Starscream pressed yes.

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

Starscream’s calm façade dropped the moment the doors behind him closed; the journey from the server room to his personal quarters little more than a copper blur.

His wings hiked high as he began to pace, arms swinging furiously at his sides.

Ten million stellar-cycles. Ten million stellar-cycles and his innovative brilliance was still being denied. The Arctic's ice had gift-wrapped the Autobots’ salvation, and once opened, they spurned its benevolence. Rejecting a dagger—one that had not been dulled by the harsh passages of time or complacency—that could pierce directly into the pulsing spark of the Decepticons.

A seeker, a scientist. A younger, smarter, faster, stronger warbuild than any that stood against them on the battlefield—and they wanted him to coddle their enemies and withhold his lethality?

They did not know what they asked of him. His nullrays being rejected yet again could be lived with. He had long since learned to endure. But to rebuff his rightful claim to revenge?

He would sooner carve out his own still burning spark and choke on it than allow the mech who had stolen everything from him to continue any form of wretched existence. Dead-metal grey would be the only armor he was permitted to wear—even if his current paint already resembled the color closely.

Snarling, he came to a stop in front of his desk and sneered down at the cactus. An unwanted reminder of what happened when he allowed his anger to move his mechanics. Right. Wanton destruction would only create more problems for the star-crossed seeker. All the best experiments were tightly controlled, even the ones with foregone conclusions.

The Prime had given an order, and Starscream was going to follow it. Though not in the way it was certainly intended. If suffering through his own repeated forging had taught the seeker anything, it was that every micro-metallic piece of him, down to the smallest pins in his protoform, was adaptable.

Retrieving the datapad stack out of subspace, he tossed it onto the desk; it fell apart as it hit the colorful datapads he’d been studying the previous night already on it. One landed on top of the cactus, covering it completely. Starscream glared down at it, his reflection glaring right back—until a white light flashed. The datapad had somehow turned itself on.

To a most appropriate entry, he might add.

He chuckled. The sound emanating from deep in the base of his intake. Becoming a wheezing sort of laughter that reverberated off the walls. Filling the room.

On the desk, the whitened datapad darkened, revealing the image of a deranged, sinister smile seared onto the ancient faceplate of a grey-helmed mech. 

“Fine if I can’t kill a Decepticon, then I’ll kill the Decepticon.”

                                                Chapter Two

Pop.

Sans blinked once, twice, looking from the empty bar stool to his own held out hand.

Had that little… no, not possible. It was a well-known fact that Sans was the only monster in all of the world who could teleport. It was a powerful ability that required a lot of magic, more than some puny, calcium deficient looking skeleton could pull off.

The ability couldn’t be called rare, because that implied there were others who had it. Teleportation was a one-of-a-kind type of power that had monsters jumping at their own shadows and turning to look down every dark alley they passed. Just out of fear that the most mobile of the Gaster brothers would be there. The terror he had painstakingly crafted for years around the use of such an ability was a point of pride for Sans.

But if not teleportation, what other explanation could there be for the loud, familiar pop sound followed by the sudden disappearance of the runt? Unless the runt had turned to dust right in front of him out of sheer terror after learning just who he’d been insulting, but as there was no dust on the bar stool; Sans couldn’t think of another explanation.

And sans any other explanation, he would have to accept the most obvious one available to him, for the time being. Could be teleportation was a skeletal ability. There wasn’t a large enough population of them to really know. Only three- now four.

But if the runt had teleported, that would mean….

Why, of all the disrespectful, insolent, downright rude—That little daisy had run out on him!

Sans’ open hand clenched into a fist, the bones pressed together tightly as he shook with barely contained fury.

“That little…” Glaring at where the stranger had been sitting, Sans slammed his fist onto the counter, cracking it. “Grilby, get your flamin’ ass out here!” He shouted, anger burning hot in his chest.

Just wait until he catches that grifter, Sans will show him what comes of taking one of the Gaster brothers for a sucker. He’ll bend those slender fingers back until he hears them snap, and he won’t stop until that daisy apologizes proper for his rude behavior. He’ll—

“You called?” Grilby said loftily, interrupting Sans’ angry internal tirade and acting like a man who’s done no wrong. The flame monster looked around the bar, from the bar stool, to Sans, to the door. A slight smile spreading across the man’s face as he noticed the lack of miniature skeleton in the room.

“Who the fuck else?” Sans snapped. His language always deteriorated with his mood, and right now he was in a real fucking bad one. Called before the sun could even rise about some strange skeleton, only to show up and have the stranger act all uppity and disappear like he had that right. And now this trash was smiling at Sans like he was the one who messed up.

If only Grilby could read a fucking room.

“You lost him,” the flame monster announced, eyes slight in that taunting way.

Sans responded by reaching across the counter, grabbing Grilby by the front of his cheap jacket, and pulling him half way over it to glare directly into the flame monster’s face. He’s not about to be disrespected twice in one night. Especially not by some do-nothing bar keep.

“Might lose somethin’ else if you don’t watch your fuckin’ tone.” Sans threatened

“You can’t kill me, big brother’s orders.” The flame monster smirked at him. But Grilby wasn’t as effective at coming off unthreatened as the little skeleton had, Sans noted. He could see the purple flames losing their brightness, he could see the shadow of fear darkening those lilac eyes. Grilby shook slightly in Sans’ grip, his breathing was shallow and uneven from poorly concealed panic.

Not that he blamed the flame monster. In all honesty, they both knew Sans had killed for less than a little back talk. Just like they both knew, Gaster’s orders be damned, he’d kill Grilby if he pushed the familiar attitude too far. Sans didn’t tolerate flipmouths well on the best of days, and today was not turning out to be a good fucking day.

It was reassuring though, to see that after the disappearing stint that runt had pulled, he hadn’t actually lost his terrifying touch. That little daisy’s nonchalance had simply been a fluke. The knowledge did wonders for Sans’ temper.

His grip on the other’s jacket loosened, but he didn’t let go. His expression shifted from murderous to calculating. Both threatening in their own, unique ways. Grilby might have gotten the point; that he couldn’t talk to Sans like they were anything close to equals. But Sans still needed to hammer that nail in deeper. Maybe splinter the wood in the process, it all depended on how well Grilby understood the deal that was about to be made.

And if it came across as Sans taking his anger at the little daisy out on Grilby, then he had that right too.

He lowered the other monster just enough that his feet touched the ground. Enough that Sans once again towered over him, eyes glowing bright as he regarded the smaller monster with a calm he didn’t feel. The thinnest wisp of red magic beginning to leak out of his left eye-socket.

Grilby gulped and Sans smiled at the sound.  

“How’d you like to lose another bar?” He asked casually, like he hadn’t been a hair’s breath away from ending the flame monster’s life. Sans could let Grilby go now, but even the bravest of monsters lost their bravado when Sans was so close. And no one had ever called Grilby brave. The other’s flame belying just how slimy he really was.

“You… you wouldn’t!” Grilby shouted like a man afraid to raise his voice. “Where else would I go? Wh- where else would you get your mustard?”

Oh, bad move. Trying for sympathy, trying to make it out that Sans needed him in any way. Like he wasn’t some disposable piece of trash that was only spared the compactor because Gaster had taken some small ounce of pity on him. When would he learn things weren’t the same as they were ten years ago? Sans had moved up and on from the days where Grilby could be considered anywhere within the realm of his equal.

“Not my problem,” Sans said. “My problem is your attitude, talkin’ to me anyway you want.”

“No- no I… I didn’t mean—” Grilby began, only for Sans to cut him off with a shake of his head.

“Was losin’ one bar not enough? Gettin’ kicked outta Fell?” They were rhetorical questions, but Grilby still not getting the point, answered anyway.

“It was one mistake!” Grilby began heatedly, like he was about to start up that long dead argument. Like he didn’t already know Sans hated repeating himself.

“Don’t,” Sans warned. “You got off better than ya deserved.” Considering Grilby was still alive, Sans wasn’t wrong. Not that he ever was anyway, at least where trash like Grilby was concerned.

Sans was already thinking about how easy it would be. The bar was old, fire resistant by the same magic that allowed the flame monster to wear clothes. Course a fire would have been a dull way to do it. Fire’s take everything out quick and clean. Good for taking out competition or doing in the businesses that refused to pay their bills, but not when the intention was for the recipient to really suffer. Fires were just so impersonal, a bat or crowbar, however…

Yeah, yeah… even if their conversation went exactly the way Sans wanted, he might send some of his boys back in Fell City down to Snowdin anyway. Have them smash the place up real good. Might actually do Grilby some good. Remind him just low down in the pecking order he was. That the shitty old bar he clung to was a fucking privilege given to him by the Gaster brothers. And they could take it way just as easily as they had his bar back in Fell City.

Grilby has been skating on thin ice for the past three months, and he’s burning through it fast.

“Ya see, my bro only said I couldn’t kill ya, he didn’t say nothin’ about your bar…” Sans trailed off, the amusement he derived from tormenting Grilby slowly starting to creep into his voice. “… Unless ya were to apologize for disrespectin’ me and lettin’ that little daisy go.”

And there it was. If his brothers were to find out about his first meeting with the new skeleton, it wouldn’t be Sans taking the fall for him escaping. Wasn’t really his fault, anyway. Grilby should have known to drug the bastard’s drink.  

“Bu… but I…” Grilby’s gaze darted around the bar, taking in all he had left in the world. A dirty bar with no patrons. It was more than most had these days.

Grilby looked down at where Sans had his jacket gripped, voice soft as he finally said, “I’m sorry.”

Sans grunted.

“… Sir,” Grilby added dispiritedly.

Sans grinned and released his hold on Grilby’s jacket. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” He mocked, condescension dripping off every word, chuckling when the flame monster stumbled back from the abrupt release, hitting and rattling the alcohol bottles on his back shelf.

“I was startin’ to think that runt’s bad manners had rubbed off on ya,” Sans continued conversationally.

Grilby didn’t say anything as he straightened his jacket and dusted off his shoulders. Instead the flame monster watched Sans through trepid eyes. Finally, not answering Sans’ rhetorical remarks.

Reaching behind his vest and into his left breast pocket for a cigar, Sans nodded approvingly. Lesson learned; it was back to business. The mark of a professional was being able to turn down the heat after a successful negotiation. Threats would become meaningless if after the desired results were achieved, he went and carried out the threat anyway.  

“Did you know he could teleport?” Sans asked.

“He can teleport?” Grilby simply parroted back, voice still full of that wonderful tamed quality. “That would explain why I didn’t notice him coming into town…”

“So, you didn’t see nothin’ until he walked into this shit hole like it was open for business?” Sans asked, eyes carefully observing the other monster for any signs of deception… or disrespect.

“It is open for business—” Grilby started defensively.

Sans snorted, “course it is, course it is.”

“I… I mean, yes, I didn’t see anything until he was already at the counter,” Grilby said, sounding just the right level of submissive.

Sans reached around to his back pocket to grab a lighter. “And what did the guy want? Couldn’t be your company.”

Grilby sniffed, affronted by Sans’ intentional jab, but too shaken from earlier confrontation to quip back. Good, looked like Sans had hammered that nail in deep. He couldn’t have the guy thinking they were pals just because he made Sans’ favorite drink. Just because, back before Sans’ name meant something, he and Grilby might have been…

Frowning at finding no lighter, Sans checked his other back pocket. Nothing there either. Seemed that in his haste, he had forgotten his lighter back home. Not that the rush could be blamed, after all a skeleton monster was a rare thing.

Though rare as they were, he still hadn’t expected to walk in and see that choice piece of calico seated at the bar looking like he’d just been waiting for Sans to show up and liven up his morning. The strange skeleton had been about as small as a monster could be, looked real fragile too. Not like the usual straggler types Sans came across. The runt had looked so queer in those ugly shorts and slippers that Sans hadn’t known what to make of him. Still, the puns shouldn’t have caught him off guard the way they did. Though, more off putting had been his own reaction to them.

Looking back on it, Sans should have just yanked the little fucker to him and teleported them both back to his place.

“… He did ask for ketchup, if that’s of any interest to you,” Grilby said as he began to shakily put the bottles that had been knocked around back into place.

“Ketchup?” Sans raised an eye-socket, looking down at the half-empty bottle on the counter. It was on its side, having fallen over either when he hit the counter or pulled Grilby over it. He chuckled and reached for it. Such a fruity drink.

“He really is a fruit cake,” Sans said while inspecting the bottle, giving it a little shake.

The bottle should still have some of the runt’s scent on it, meaning he could pass it over to some of Fell’s finest bent cops for inspection. Half of them being dogs, it would be the easiest way of tracking him, not that Sans wouldn’t put some of his own leg work in. Even with Grilby set up to take the fall, if either of his brothers discovered the runt first, there was a chance he'd let something slip. And if his brothers found out Sans had not only been told about a skeleton monster none of them knew, but had also let said skeleton monster escape…

Sans shook his head to lodge the gruesome visualizations from his imagination. Best not to think too deeply about it. He and his brothers had been on… non-too-hostile terms for some time now, and he didn’t want anything to jeopardize that- certainly not some runt of a monster who ought to consider himself lucky should Sans decide not to feed him to the dogs after catching him. Small thing that he was, not like there’d be much to chew on.

Sighing, Sans decided he should finish his business at the bar before his anger could begin fizzling inside him again, a low heat but ready to boil over at any moment, as it was ought to do.

“Ey, gimme a light,” He ordered Grilby with a sadistic smile.

The flame monster’s thin lips tilted down into a hesitant frown, but he knew better than to tell the skeleton no. Without a word, Grilby stepped forward and leaned across the counter, trembling slightly as he blew purple fire onto the tip of Sans’ cigar, lighting it up. Heh, looked like Grilby still remembered the last lesson Sans had taught him.

“Appreciate it,” he said smoothly, bringing the cigar to his mouth and holding it there between his clenched teeth. Sans was a Mafioso, sure, but he still had manners- when they were warranted. It’s what separated he and his brothers from the general criminal population of Fell City. And other, smaller skeletons, apparently.

Though, would the little daisy even be in the city? If he didn’t know who Sans was, there was a good chance he didn’t know Fell was exclusively the Gaster brothers’ territory. Not a crime was committed in that city, not a single weed plucked, without the one doing it stopping to consider if it would land them on the wrong side of a magically sharpened bone.

But if not Fell, where would the stranger go? There was nowhere else to go. The Underground wasn’t the populated place it once was. After the barrier had been lifted, the citizens had rushed to the surface, gasping in the new air like fish that had been held out of water. Sans would have considered it pathetic had he not been right there with them. As it was, there wasn’t anywhere to go in the Underground that a little daisy could be safe. They needed a different kind of light than what the Underground could offer.

No, the runt had to be on the surface, in Fell. Teleportation was limited to the amount of magic Sans could use at any given time, and he’d bet all of his ill-gotten green that it was the same for the smaller skeleton. And there was no way such a tiny thing could carry more magic than him. That meant he had to be up top, probably not far from the mountain. Either already in the city or on his way there.

It was convenient timing, the little daisy’s arrival. What with the elder Gaster brother out of town for the foreseeable future; meant Sans got to deal with the new skeleton his way.

Wing Dings was off in Hotland doing who knew what in the labs, which gave Sans and Papyrus free reign of the city to do as they pleased with it, within reason. Of course, neither of them had any particularly big plans for it. The big plans were always left up to Wing Dings, while Sans enjoyed with the smaller problems in the city. Not because he couldn’t. While their older brother was gone, Sans was perfectly happy to leave the majority of control to the city to Papyrus, who reveled in the chance to make the city more into his image.

Which meant that in the few short months that Wing Dings has been gone, at least three new Italian restaurants had opened up.

The only real instructions Wing Dings had left for them was to continue collecting their protection fees, keep the drug and weapon trade running smoothly, make sure the other mafia families didn’t get too curious about their brother’s vacation, and to report back any suspicious behavior should something out of the ordinary happen. Whatever that had meant.

Now Sans was starting to get an idea. If only he hadn’t been so damn patient with the runt. If only the little daisy hadn’t been so damn funny. Practically a ray of sunshine compared to the kind of folks Sans usually interacted with. Times as they were, every milksop and gadfly was walking around looking like gray was a mood. Who could blame Sans for enjoying a bit of color? Everyone had their vices, and shitty jokes just happened to be one of his.

Sans took a drag of his cigar, lazily blowing the dark red smoke out his nasal concha. It curled in the air and Sans watched it through half-open eyes.

He had wanted to take the little daisy’s hand and teleport them to the top of Mount Ebott, just to see his reaction. It was a rare sight to see a monster without at least one nick in him, even rarer to see him looking all soft and innocent, guarded without really knowing what he was trying to keep out. Made everything he did interesting to look at.

Weird clothes, though. The smaller skeleton had been showing a lot of bone, and while he appreciated the view, Sans had to wonder if it had been intentional. Meant to distract enemies, or maybe the guy was just one of those flamboyant types. Then there were those pink slippers. Pink. On a man! Of all the crazy footwear…

Sans sucked in another drag from the cigar, contemplating his next move.

He needed to find the little runt before people started to take notice of him, and not just because of his brothers’ potential retaliation. Folks were going to assume things, and Sans wouldn’t let the Gaster name be associated with a random skeleton out there looking like some trampy bum.

They had a carefully crafted image to uphold, after all.

With that thought, he turned and walked out of the bar, without so much as a goodbye to its owner. The man wasn’t worth the words, and that Sans turned his back to Grilby was a sign of just how inconsequential a threat he considered the other monster to be.

Sans stepped out of the bar with a yawn and flicked the remnants of his cigar into the snow. He would teach that little daisy to think he could walk out on a conversation with Sans C. Gaster… right after a nap. It was too damn early for this shit.

 ~ Fin

AN: So this was a much, much shorter chapter. I'm trying not to have Fell Sans come out and just info dump everything about this world, but rather have it be revealed organically throughout the story. The next chapter will be longer and back to OG Sans' POV and contain more world building. (i know he's technically called classic, but i like calling him the true OG.)

I'm so glad people are interested and thus far enjoying the story. And as always, continued feedback is appreciated, even (constructive) criticism.

1900s Slang:

You were just finishing up dusting an old bookshelf in the living room when you heard the first few drops of rain beginning to hit the roof upstairs. There was something calming about summer showers; they were never was as aggressive as the ones in the chilly winter. You leaned against the nearby windowsill and watched the scattered drops fall onto the town below. 

A low rumble of thunder rumbled across the valley, and with it came a muffled thump from upstairs. You ignored it. Bo was home napping, after spending all night out the night before doing… whatever it was that Bo did.

Bo came running down the steep staircase, nearly tripping as he yanked on his shirt. 

“You seem in a hurry. Where you off to?” You asked, bemused and unworried. 

“Today was fuckin’ laundry day.” Bo said angrily before slamming open the door to the backyard. 

Your brow furrowed. Laundry day? But that would mean… oh no. All your clothes, everybody’s clothes, were hanging up on the drying lines outside. 

In the rain. 

You gasped and started pulling off your dusting rubber gloves as fast as you could. You needed to get out there and help bring all the clothes in before they were completely wrecked. Just at that moment Lester and Vincent pulled in outside in the truck, holding old newspapers over their heads as they ran to the front door. 

You got the door for them. “I need you both to help me in the backyard ASAP, boys.” You said before Lester could even open his mouth to say thank you. 

Sure enough, when you all got to the yard, Bo was already there stomping from line to line of laundry that was flapping in the rainy summer breeze, grumbling under his breath. Vincent ran forward to help him, ever dedicated to making his brother’s life easier. Together you and Lester tackled the line in the front, yanking down slightly-damp articles of clothing. Lester took a flannel shirt straight to the face with a gust of particularly strong wind, making him splutter. 

Soon the whole Sinclair family had a bucket brigade system down pat, running back and forth between the house and the backyard to throw laundry onto the couch. 

After a few minutes it was done. No sooner had Bo dropped the last pair of work jeans onto the sofa, out of breath, did a particularly loud clap of thunder roll through the town. It brought a summer monsoon with it. Vincent watched the heavy rain fall from the backyard screen door, slowly unsticking long threads of soaking black hair from his mask. You tutted and smiled, pulling locks of it away from his eye. 

“Well. That wasn’t too terrible. Go team.” Bo said, cracking open a beer from the fridge. 

You only turned to look at him when Lester hid a snort of laughter in his hand, trying and failing to hide a wicked grin. You immediately followed suit, desperately trying to keep a smile off of your lips. 

Laying right on top of Bo’s hat, just out of his sightlines, was a pair of dripping wet tighty whities. 

“What.” He said sourly at your expression. “What.” He subconsciously followed your gaze with a free hand, his fingers making contact with the garment. He blanched and ripped it off of his head, and Lester broke into a howl of laughter. Bo grimaced and threw his brother’s underwear at his face, which he artfully ducked. 

“Y’all,” Bo said grouchily, pointing at Lester, Vincent, and you, “Are a bunch of children. I’m goin’ back to bed.” With that he stalked back upstairs, draining his beer can. 

“Well I thought it was funny. Didn’t y’all think it was funny? It was funny!” Lester defended himself with glee. You pinched the bridge of your nose, huffing and smiling unwillingly. Vincent turned around, betraying his opinion of the situation; he was hiding a smile that was already hidden by the mask. 

“Well, I mean. That’s one way to dry laundry.” You said quietly.