#tyrantofthefirmament

Crowds: What does your muse think of big cities?

They’re weird to be in, after so long. Starscream had grown used to the jagged ruin of fallen buildings and blown up structures, and everything on Earth was built to such a small scale it almost seemed designed to make a mech feel tall and imposing. Even fleshling cities with their skyscrapers and monuments were comparatively tiny to what the Cybertron he’s fled to sports. Having buildings tower over him now-a-days is vaguely claustrophobic.

But the big city is an excellent place to disappear in, even when one is as distinctively shaped as he is.

Ghosts: Has your muse ever seen something they couldn’t explain?

In all their long history, the whole sordid affair, affection was something neither required from the other. The very thought itself repugnant. What need was there for affection between master and slave? None. There had been none and even in the years to come, when Cybertron was bright once more; a jewel among the universe, affection would always remain a word applied to others. Offered only to those select individuals tenacious enough to close the distance between shell and spark. Never for them.

There may come a time, though, when the planet was bright. When countless years had smoothed the scars of battle, of war, and previously ominous steps echoed through a lavish office high in the towers of Vos. Steps that no longer brought anxiety. A presence that no longer oppressed, but protected, standing behind a proud set of wings.

Quiet would follow, but no longer did it hold judgement. Observation, quiet and studying, assessing, yes, always assessing. Some habits, born of a need for survival, would never leave; the wounds having been too deep to heal. A quiet countenance that brought with it neither wrath nor fury until called upon. Calm. Assured.

“Vos is magnificent,” words spoken in a soft voice. Honest. If not for the one who was hearing them, perhaps merely a passing comment. “A feat to be proud of.”

Carmine optics never moved, looking out upon the city still. Never would they traverse the distance to look down at one once cursed and hated. Arms resting at the small of the back, massive frame standing proud and unbent after all that had occurred. A presence once that brought with it only fear.

Approval wasn’t required any longer. There was no need for it. Not when the proof stood before them; towering. A magnificent accomplishment without need for embellishment, but still it was there. Approval and pride, but beyond that the words belied the truth. A truth that would never be spoken, for the spark they belonged to was too proud. Capable of only so much change.

Within those words he admitted he was wrong, in as much as he could. Never would an apology leave scarred lip plates. Never would there be a question of forgiveness. Some things, as the other would understand, were beyond them: the great and terrible. That which occurred in the past could not be undone and was not of value to cling to. Not when new forms soared through the air. Wind on the wing, and joy in the spark at the very essence of freedom.

Nothing further would be said. A broad back turned freely on one, an odd sense of trust where once it was a dare. ‘Dare you attack me? Even when my back is turned?’ It was presented without expectation, without intent to goad and to lash out.

Megatron is the obvious answer, so I’ll go the second one: Overload.

Aaaaaaaaahhhhh so cool!