Lost in translation

There was a sharp knock on the door to Starscream’s imperial private quarters, tucked away in the tall recesses of the basilica, before a quiet yet perky beep sounded, as though someone had successfully entered an access code. Starscream could count on one hand the number of people who were supposed to have that access code, immediately truncating his list of probable visitors.

Unlocked, the door slid sideways into the wall with a soft hiss.

Windblade’s face appeared in the opening as she leaned through, her eyes wide and her shoulders lifted, a datapad held tightly to her chest. High-strung as usual. Earnest and well-intentioned, but high-strung. This was occasionally useful, but today? Potentially annoying.

At least she was on that short list of approved guests. Even if sometimes he wished she weren’t.

Starscream, reclining on his hastily reupholstered chaise lounge in the front room, decided to “ignore” her for the moment. He pretended to be focused on Rattrap, who had been settled on the floor in the middle of the room to polish one of Starscream’s crudely fashioned crowns.

Frankly, he ought to have expected her arrival after declining to answer her calls for the past twenty minutes. It would only have been a matter of time before she inevitably barged in. Or half-barged in as the case was.

“Starscream, what are you planning to tell them?” she asked, still standing in the doorway, a little like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to enter. She technically was and blocking the doorway was bordering on being ruder than simply walking all the way in and being done with it.

With a sigh, he continued watching Rattrap polish his crown, a quickly fashioned ring of pewter plated with a cheap but effective aluminum bronze to mimic delicate gold. And limit the development of verdigris that would give away the game. Corrosion was minimal, of course, in this alloy but best avoided where possible. Lest anyone see the emperor’s crown was made of the same material as their shovel or propeller.

Once proper trade routes and manufacturing were in place for industrial items (and luxury items, of course), Starscream would be getting some significant upgrades across the board. Though, for now, true gold, wherever it could be recycled from scrap and debris, was limited to civic rebuilding purposes.

When society was being rebuilt from literal rubble and war-torn wasteland, making do was the name of the game.

“Starscream!”

Apparently he couldn’t get away with shunning her this time.

He rolled his optics and waved for her to enter. It would make her go away faster to let her speak her piece.

He probably should have just answered one of her calls and saved them both the trouble. However, she hadn’t left voicemails so… she was really the one at fault here.

The room itself was at least somewhat well-appointed, so she’d have somewhere to sit if necessary. Well-appointed enough to not be embarrassing, anyway. Given the present economic circumstances.

Windblade tucked her narrow wings up behind her back to sidle through the door—the work order to get the passage widened was still “in progress” despite the emperor also having the wing width problem—before settling on a chair that had been given a a fig leaf’s worth of padding, a suggestion of something adjacent to comfort and an awareness of the concept of luxury. A textile industry beyond reusing and cleaning salvaged debris was still forthcoming.

“What are you—“

“I heard you the first time.”

He just wished he hadn’t. That was separate.

Windblade continued, forcefully tapping her finger against the glowing screen of the datapad in her hand.

“The Eart—“ One of the popular names of that planet had a difficult sound for some of their kind, but Starscream would save his judgment on her pronunciation for another time. The phonological limitations of Camien Neocybex couldn’t be helped. “—government agencies want you to submit a summary of your speech in advance.”

“Why?” He remained reclined on his lounge; this wasn’t worth sitting up for. “We don’t leave for another two months.”

Windblade shrugged, apparently sharing in his confusion. Just as well. She was only the messenger in this case. Her role as an ambassador since leaving her Council of Worlds post was chiefly to shuttle information back and forth.

That and smile at aliens so they didn’t pull their guns on Cybertronians out in the universe. Dead Cybertronians didn’t pay taxes. It was important work that she didn’t need to know he considered so vital. Or she’d demand a raise.

“As much as I’d like to blame Megatron for this,” Starscream said, pinching his nose, “I can’t. Not solely. Regrettably he had help.”

In the form of Optimus Prime. And Zeta Prime. And Sentinel Prime.

Directly anyway.

If he wanted to include indirect collaborators that spurred on the conflict through societal conditions or bad choices, Starscream could probably name nearly every living, dead, and otherwise Cybertronian. Including himself. Especially himself.

Alright, true honesty would have meant some of those were a little more direct. Starscream did actively destroy a city council and a jail. Among other things. Many, many other things. Credit where it was due and all.

Relatively few of them on Earth though. Earth had merely played host to some of his and Megatron’s later schemes, not really because Earth itself mattered.

“So apologizing to Earth and promising to make nice going forward after we trashed their planet… and then Prime attempting to annex it… is a mess.”

And that was the whole reason Starscream had to visit in the near future to formally relinquish all claims to the world. And probably promise to pay reparations as well. Somehow, given that Cybertron was functionally bankrupt.

“No one would buy it if I just said—“ He put on a faux apologetic face, exaggerating his frown and opening his optics wide. “—‘It was all that terrible Megatron’s fault. Megatron made me do it. I’m sorry.’”

No one with a functioning brain, anyway. The odds, therefore, weren’t zero, given some of the people he knew would be present.

Besides, that had basically been his election platform. He’d already used it once.

Windblade squinted at him, but wrote nothing down despite her hand being poised to enter glyphs.

“So what do you want me to tell them?” she asked.

Understandable. They did have to send some sort of reply, even if just to acknowledge receipt of the request. And, while Windblade was a capable diplomat, she wasn’t going to put words in his mouth when their galactic colleagues wanted a statement from him specifically. There were better times to put words in his mouth; they both knew that.

He sighed, waving a hand flippantly at nothing in particular.

“They’ll have a speech in two days.”

The squinting continued but was redirected to the datapad’s screen rather than Starscream. He watched as Windblade finally tapped a message of some sort into the datapad.

“A draft only,” he added, pointing at her. “Be sure that’s clear.”

He didn’t want to be tied down to any particular words he might say until they had left his mouth. Sometimes even then.

It was always a wise move to keep one’s options open. One oughtn’t commit to anything without good reason. --

The flash of cameras and the blue dot-like lights on drones as they zipped around like stars almost seemed to frame Starscream and Soundwave in the glow of the galaxy itself as they stood on the steps of the refurbished primal basilica in Iacon.

The basilica bore little resemblance to its glory days before the War, missing all of its paint and several towers, but it was still by far the most appropriate and best looking setting to have a historic reuniting of Cybertronians who had gone their separate ways in the chaos of the post-War fallout.

Most of the obvious debris had been cleared away ages ago, with only cracked and scorched stone remaining in view to mar the majestic image of the people’s chosen emperor, palm to palm with his estranged former colleague, Soundwave - the de facto leader of the remaining Decepticons, as they beamed at the cameras.

Well, as Starscream, dressed up in one of his crowns and a cape, beamed at the cameras.

Soundwave’s lack of a scrutable face could at least be interpreted as professional and appropriate, with some editorial embellishing on the caption that would later be published along with the photograph.

At least Soundwave would have—or should have, at any rate—anticipated a little public relations manipulation. They had already discussed some features of it prior to Soundwave’s arrival.

“Reconciliation” was the theme of the day. Or at least, it’s the word that Starscream had told everyone in his press team to describe the day as this morning when he briefed them. The theme for the worlds (and the expat station) inhabited by their species.

Well, chiefly for Cybertron and Sanctuary Station given the circumstances in which they had parted ways. The other members of the Council of Worlds were there for visible support.

Soundwave had sent a delegation, of which he was naturally a part, from Sanctuary Station to meet in advance of Starscream and his own entourage leaving for Earth, in hopes of presenting a somewhat united front as a species, despite Sanctuary Station’s complete political separation from Cybertron and the Council of Worlds. Then again, Sanctuary Station, being Earth’s nearest neighbor had substantially more immediate risk if things went poorly with the humans, the humans who had helped build their station no less.

Perhaps some manner of open communication and cooperation between the homeworld and the inhabitants of Sanctuary Station was possible, Starscream thought, especially with Galvatron having been torn apart by Prime. Given how Prime himself had ended up not long afterward, there was something rather poetic about it, but he would leave that charming composition to Megatron’s ghost.

Additional nominal representatives from Cybertron, the Council of Worlds minus Earth, and Sanctuary Station waited politely off to either side, invited to the press gathering solely for the camera’s eye. Rattrap, Windblade, and the delegates from Caminus and Velocitron on Starscream’s side of the staging area. To even things out, the delegates from Devisiun, Eukaris, and Carcer stood on Soundwave’s side in the company of Sky-Byte and Needlenose. Rattrap had been instructed to stand at the far edge of the group.

Among the representatives, only Windblade and Knock Out likely possessed genuine smiles, in Starscream’s opinion, despite the fact that he couldn’t technically see them from his position. But his social instincts painted enough of a picture. The others were almost certainly either performative grins or lacking entirely.

Marissa Faireborn of Earth was also notably absent, but given that the upcoming summit was about Earth’s “amicable” separation from the Council of Worlds and Cybertronian control, that was how this press event was intended. Hopefully she would never set foot here again, which was most likely how she wanted it.

Starscream and Soundwave let their hands part ways after a socially acceptable period of time now that the cameras and reporters had had their fill of the sight.

They approached a shared podium with two microphone drones hovering at an unobtrusive distance in front of them. Starscream immediately put his hands on the podium, shoulder-width apart as he dramatically leaned against it, his notes on a datapad hiding there.

“Welcome.” A generous pause. “I, Starscream, Cybertron’s lawfully elected imperator, would like to thank everyone who is here today.”

Standing up, he gestured with one arm behind him to the mechs lined up in an arc on the staging area of the basilica’s steps.

“Delegates from the Council of Worlds for showing their support in our efforts to make amends.”

He swung that same arm to the front, turning his palm up and outward with his fingers spread to indicate the audience.

“All of the citizens who have come to hold us accountable.”

On paper anyway. It was useful platitude to leverage, especially after millions of years under various tyrannies. “Accountability” was currently skyrocketing in popularity. He’d be a fool to not pay it some lip service.

“And lastly, but in no way the least,” Starscream said, turning to the side to face his former colleague with a practiced hint of choked emotion in his voice, “Soundwave and his comrades from Sanctuary Station for coming here in a spirit of brotherhood to show that a way forward is possible together.”

Soundwave stared at him silently and, like they had discussed over communicators prior to Soundwave’s arrival, they lifted and entweined their adjacent arms to rest palms on each other’s shoulders in a show of “spontaneous sparkfelt affection.”

Amidst the thunderous applause, camera drones frantically circled, clicking and flashing to capture the moment for posterity. And for future propagandist usage. More powerful, surely than even the traditional greeting gesture at the start of the proceedings.

And Rattrap ought to have slunk away by now in the chaos.

Starscream still wished that it had been his idea originally, but alas. It was an invaluable tool he would have to borrow from Soundwave for later diplomatic use.

Arm still locked, Soundwave now leaned forward, but without a datapad to reference. He either had memorized a short piece to fill the planned slot or had a surprise monologue prepared.

“Over millions of years, Cybertronians, Decepticons and others alike, have forgotten what bound them together in the first place: a search for peace together.” Specific on its face and easily generalized underneath. Well done, Starscream thought. “Today I am pleased to share that dream with the homeworld again.”

Another peal of applause was allowed to swell up and then fade as Soundwave stood back up. He and Starscream allowed their arms to slide free.

All according to schedule then. Good.

Starscream broke his practiced smile to conclude the prepared statements portion of the press event.

“Before we wind down from this beautiful reunion, I have an announcement.” A few camera drones clicked and flashed, trying to capture every crumb of history in the making. “I am honored to inform you that after our visit to Earth, Sanctuary Station will formally join the Council of Worlds. They will be represented by Needlenose and Sky-Byte.”

More applause, more flashes, yes. Drink it in. This was what the public wanted to see. This was what Starscream wanted the public to want to see.

He gestured backwards towards where those two fledgling delegates stood on the steps with the others. They would not be making statements today. “Time constraints” had been the excuse.

Soon, a polite silence returned to the steps of the basilica.

Now the question portion. As announced by a prerecorded voice, played by Rattrap over a loudspeaker from elsewhere, out of sight in the staging area.

Thankfully, a few carefully planted “reporters” would be selected to ask prescreened questions, projected from speakers worn just under the rim of their collar farings. No need to leave that up to chance, representing real-on-paper news agencies of various manufactured slants with equally legitimate press credentials for technically extant on payroll reporting staff. Rattrap had assured him that they had been sprinkled around the crowd, paid actors ready to “speak.” Starscream was to look for raised green palms.

He waited as hands both eager and timid lifted into the air from the press pool below.

Ah, a green hand.

“Yes, you in the front there first,” Starscream said, pointing to the actor.

“Hello, I’m Voxel from Dead Pixel News and I was wondering what your thoughts are about…”

All according to plan. --

“What do you think about if we gave the people of Earth a gift?” Rumble asked, having climbed right up onto Starscream’s desk. Datapads scattered away from his feet and several clattered to the floor. Thankfully, none appeared to be broken.

Yet.

The miscreants hadn’t even said “hello” first.

Frowning, Starscream continued holding onto his light-pen, despite the fact that he now had nothing to write upon with it. So much for that road infrastructure budget. It would simply have to wait.

“Gift?” he asked, “What do you mean ‘gift’?”

Rumble, of course, probably meant a prank of some kind. Despite the long, adventurous life he and Frenzy had led, neither of them had ever really grasped “now is not the time” as a concept.

Soundwave’s delegation had arrived a few days prior, with Starscream’s blessing. Greetings had been choreographed and thoroughly publicized. The cameras had thankfully caught it all; the cascade of eye-catching headlines had been delightful morning reads the day afterward. A good way to boost his personal morale.

Unfortunately, the delegation’s presence prior to heading to Earth as a collective meant Starscream had to deal with Soundwave and his little friends. Mostly the little friends. And pretend to be the bigger person about it more than literally.

Soundwave was usually reasonable, but his contingent of minicons…. Well, it was a shame that Ravage had died—He had been one of the more sensible of the bunch, but then again he had mentored Soundwave. Laserbeak and Buzzsaw had “supervised.”

Frenzy, optics wide and full of mischief, peeked up over the edge of the desk, his tiny hands grasping the metal like he was debating joining Rumble at any moment.

Frankly, Starscream would have rather dealt with Soundwave right now but that formal meeting series was scheduled to begin later in the afternoon. Leaving him now stuck with Soundwave’s unchained little goons.

“You know, a goodwill gift,” Rumble said.

Frenzy finished the thought, “To show no hard feelings.”

They were doubtless up to something. While normally Starscream would consider that to be Soundwave’s problem now, the current situation meant whatever Rumble and Frenzy did would reflect upon Cybertronians as a whole… including and especially Starscream.

The seemingly wise thing to do would have been to say “no” and walk away from the situation, but he knew they would likely do whatever they wanted anyway regardless of if he officially sanctioned it. Depending on what they were up to, denials could only get him so far. The situation with Earth was too important to risk letting some pint-sized clowns screw it up for him and hope a flimsy “I don’t condone…” excuse would hold up.

“Alright.” Starscream sighed and set aside the pen, though he kept his frown firmly in place. “Alright. Fine. What kind of gift do you have in mind?”

“A gift of goodwill,” Frenzy said, rapping his fingertips against the metal surface. What was certainly a mischievous grin was just barely hidden by the top of the desk.

Very well. He could play word games too. Over the course of his life, it had all too often proved to be the only way to get anything done. Trying to convince Megatron of anything was an extreme example. Compared to that, a battle of wits with Rumble and Frenzy ought to be a light mental exercise.

Not that they were stupid, no. Far from it. They just loved mischief more than their own lives.

"Do you even have any goodwill to give them?”

Rumble’s jaw was left hanging open, silence, as though he had nearly started to say something before Starscream’s words parsed.

Starscream smirked.

Maybe that would shut them up for a few minutes, but he wouldn’t hold out too much hope.

“We have plenty!”

The fledgling hope was crushed as Frenzy all at once heaved himself up onto the desk, practically shoving Rumble out of the way. Even more of the office supplies and datapads were kicked unceremoniously to the floor. Sickening cracks and pops as the lot cascaded downward told Starscream that some of them were now definitely broken if they hadn’t been before.

Worst of all, Starscream’s beloved “#1 Emperor of Cybertron” mug with cold stimulant-infused energon died a wet, painful death on the rough metal tiles.

“We just want to make them something nice!” Frenzy shouted, arms waving it the air.

Rumble pointed at Starscream’s nose, his tiny hands nearly within biting distance.

“We’ll give it to them at the end! It’ll be nice!”

“Don’t you want them to think you’re a generous leader?”

“It’ll be a surprise!”

The back-and-forth begging from both of them continued until Starscream couldn’t take it anymore.

“Fine!” he snapped, “Give them a gift!”

Starscream mustered all of his self-control to not just sweep out his arm and knock the hellions from his desk. A diplomatic incident wasn’t worth it. Not today, anyway.

“I don’t care! Just get out of my office!”

As long as he didn’t come to regret those words. --

A small conference room, modest even by the refurbished basilica’s standards, was all that they had needed for this type of meeting, between two leaders talking on nominal equal footing, on opposite sides of a table hardly bigger than a desk crammed into a room with barely space for the minimum number of chairs to go with it.

But that meant Starscream and Soundwave would be alone, for once. And could talk frankly.

The shades had been half drawn down on the windows, letting in some sunlight but not too much. A courtesy for Soundwave despite the encroaching shadows that Starscream would have preferred be kept away.

Perhaps, though, their similar standing wasn’t truly any different from how things had been before. Even back when, when Starscream was Soundwave’s immediate superior, Soundwave still only ever took orders from Megatron. There had been an… understanding.

Starscream tapped his fingertips against the desk, a blank datapad with a light-pen waiting nearby. Across the table, Soundwave already had his own datapad on, a blue glow haloing his inscrutable face as he scrolled for some piece of information.

“Well,” Starscream said, “I suppose introductions aren’t really necessary… we can get right to the point.”

Soundwave nodded.

"Like Cybertronians, humans are political animals,” Soundwave warned. As though Starscream weren’t already keenly aware of that. If they weren’t, then this apology tour—a “tour” with only one stop—wouldn’t be happening. “You’ll need to choose your words carefully when you address them.”

Soundwave was probably saying it for the record later, honestly, in case anything went wrong. They both knew this was obvious and that even if Starscream were to have a massive memory failure, he would still default to choosing his words with an eye towards their value.

“Yes, yes, but that’s not the topic of today’s discussion,” Starscream countered, leaning back in his chair. “We’re here to talk economics… or did you get the wrong agenda?”

There hadn’t been an agenda this time. They also both knew that.

They both knew that Starscream was offering a way to sidestep Soundwave’s topic choice, but would Soundwave take it?

Besides, it could even have been a productive avenue of discourse. Perhaps, Sanctuary Station’s proximity to Earth would go some ways to easing their way into some trade deals. The filthy mudball did have some useful materials, for all of its other… moist faults. Plentiful iron and silicon just sitting there on the surface.

A shame almost all of the life on the planet seemed to carry the ocean around with them, even onto what should have been a refuge from the sea on dry land.

The price was truly sometimes the cost.

At least, with Soundwave’s social and diplomatic inroads as humanity’s neighbor, perhaps they could fast-track some of the negotiation. Eventually.

The upcoming speech and delegation was meant to be a show. Any leverage gained could be used later.

“It seems I did.”

Not even a moment’s hesitation.

“Wonderful.” --

The deep blue fabric felt rough in Starscream’s hand, small slubs left in the imperfect weave catching on his fingers as he checked for frays and wrinkles. Textiles had always been a luxury on Cybertron, even before the War, given that their species had both little need for clothes and few materials suitable for weaving. Extruded plastic fibers and wires pulled thin were as close as they could get.

Standing in the closet in his quarters, Starscream would, regrettably, take it.

His handful of capes that he had had made shortly after his coronation were the options available to him for his public appearance on Earth.

He couldn’t show up naked; this was an event after all.

Holding up the “gold” embroidered hem to his eye for inspection, Starscream began to check for flaws.

While the slubs were innate to the material, other damage could be repaired if he flagged it for Rattrap.

An alarm screamed nearby, causing Starscream to tense on reflex as bells shrieked in their high pitched peals.

Unauthorized access to his quarters.

He sighed, allowing his shoulders to relax again. A genuine attempt on his life wouldn’t have tried the door.

“Starscream!” Of course, Soundwave’s idiots. “Starscream!”

Excited voices continued to call for him from the sitting room, as though they couldn’t figure out that he was probably somewhere else in the quarters. Geniuses. Or maybe they wanted to drag out how annoying they could be.

“In here, you nitwits!” he called, not even bothering to turn around from inspecting his cape as the sounds of stampeding small feet approached.

The hem seemed intact, each little brassy thread doing a wonderful job pretending to be far more precious than they truly were.

“We’ve finished our gift for the humans!” Rumble said. Starscream could hear him and his inseparable companion Frenzy jumping up and down on the lightly cushioned bench in the closet.

“Want to hear it?”

“Hear it?” Starscream asked.

“Yeah, we wrote a poem!”

“A poem?”

Perhaps this would work well after all, assuming they didn’t bungle it. Soundwave had said that humans were fond of words. Words wrought into the shape of art would be an ideal gift at the low, low cost of letting some grunts put in the necessary intellectual labor.

Which it sounds like Rumble and Frenzy already did for free… minus the cost to Starscream’s patience.

“Yeah, for peace!”

“Well, obviously for peace, Frenzy,” Starscream said, grabbing the hangar from the rack so he could put the cape away for the day. It was fine, no tears or rips. “That’s the whole point of even going to Earth and making nice to the humans in the first place. Did you only just figure out what we’re doing?”

“In English!”

A poem for peace.

Starscream tried to push aside the thought of Megatron and his poetry that forced its way into his mind. With limited success.

The hanger creaked in his hand as he squeezed it.

“So do you want to hear it or not?”

“No, I don’t want to hear it!”

Starscream threw his cape to the ground as he rounded on the nuisances crowding into the safety of his closet.

“Out!”

“But—“

He pointed at the door.

“Get out!”

Rumble and Frenzy scrambled out of the closet, afraid of something. Whether that something was Starscream remained unclear.

Moments passed as Starscream allowed himself to calm down, staring at the cape on the floor that would almost certainly now have fresh wrinkles.

He consoled his ego with the thought that his former boss’s artistic expertise left something to be desired, even if the evidence that that had been true was in regrettably short supply.

At least from beyond the grave, that old wreck oughtn’t have been able to steal the show. Small mercies.

Rattrap could get the wrinkles out with his deft little hands. --

“People of Earth,” Starscream started, his hands resting on a podium that had been scaled up to be of a size with him. Human furniture, understandably, was far too small to be of much use for members of his kind, but at least they had kept the local styles in crafting one for him. If they were lucky, it would only ever be used the once.

He threw his arms wide, his cape flaring dramatically behind his wings in the resulting breeze as he stood before Earth’s assembled leaders and dignitaries… on a screen. The building housing his audience in New York City had been, reasonably, built with humans in mind rather that Cybertronians that towered above them. Rattrap, being of much smaller size, had gone to be present in a corner of the room in a show of good faith. Instead, he was on the lawn of a building not-so-creatively referred to as the White House, one of this nation’s important capitol buildings housing their leader, many hundreds of miles away. This place seemed appropriate for an apology… as it was where Earth’s people had rent Optimus Prime asunder some months previous.

It was only in the handful of minutes before going out before what was apparently called the “General Assembly” that Starscream had been informed that the United Nations was not, in fact, the planet’s governing body so much as a façade thereof with limited-to-no enforcement power.

Amazing.

What self-respecting planet didn’t have a global governing body? Ridiculous. No wonder the humans had barely ventured off their little mudball. The required coordination on such a large scale seemed somewhat beyond their collective simian grasp.

After what they did to Prime, however, maybe that was for the best. That they just… stayed right here. Away from the rest of the universe with bleeding hearts like Soundwave—Starscream cut the thought off as he realized Cybertronians also resembled that remark. At least to some extent. Being competent spacefarers as a species was, in fact, one of their notorious flaws.

“Respected representatives,” he continued, nodding at the camera.

Why was he, in his position as the emperor of a war ravaged world in his own right, addressing this circus? Windblade had assured him that, unfortunately, this was the closest he was going to get to something of a peer-institution to his position.

“It is an honor of the highest order to be here on Earth.” He gestured to the backdrop with one arm. “Your absolutely beautiful world.”

With endless water and fungus everywhere.

The grassy lawn beneath him and behind him was cleverly hidden with an impromptu dais and a screen meant to simulate the walls and decor of the General Assembly, meant to give the impression that Starscream was actually present despite the fact that the only way he would fit in the building would involve taking off the roof.

A different, smaller assembly of chairs ringed with guards wearing black glass over their eyes and wrapped in some sort of equally black uniform sat behind the camera crew to remain out of the broadcast’s eye.

In the chairs sat representatives of his host nation’s leading officials. This included the current president, what this nation called their leader, who was politely not glaring daggers at Starscream. President Wallace, it seemed, had plenty of tact.

She had historically made it very clear that she did not care for Cybertronians and their … forceful influence, especially with Prime’s demands for her planet to join the Council of Worlds. Starscream’s understanding was that she had pardoned those who had rushed the field with cutting torches to rip Prime apart in front of her house. It would have been quite the show.

Hard to blame her. In her place, he might have taken the opportunity to rub it in rather than taking such a high road of courteous indifference.

That said, Thundercracker’s friend and former Council of Worlds delegate, Marissa Faireborn, was seated at her side. In her military uniform. A point well-taken. Hopefully, Starscream thought, this would be the last time they would meet.

Thundercracker himself was conspicuously absent. Likely somewhere with that yapping animal of his.

Skywarp, despite having gone with Soundwave and Galvatron to Sanctuary Station, was also missing. Perhaps they were missing together.

At least the lawn had been cleaned up. The smell of coagulated, oxidized energon would cling to the olfactory sensors in a way that even a thorough pipe-cleaning with rubbing alcohol wouldn’t erase. The lack of odor now meant that the humans had done a marvelous job of doing away with the evidence.

Windblade and Soundwave had arranged the other members of their combined entourage into various clumps around the lawn to watch at a respectful distance from the humans… as defined by the black-suited Secret Service teams.

“Thank you so much for magnanimously inviting me here and giving me the opportunity to share but a few humble words.”

Assuming the live translators were accurate. Cybertronian and human interpreters had been assembled to whisper into various microphones at an astounding speed.

While there was live translation software, it’s system flaws rendered it inappropriate in a circumstance where an incorrect tone or misplaced particle could be disastrous. The one developed for Cybertronian contacts with alien civilizations worked well enough usually, but there was always a chance. Starscream had no interest in risking calling the dignitaries names unfit for public broadcast, let alone a meeting of this magnitude. A small chance.

A few humans in suits were mouthing something into headsets that presumably went to the headphones the audience wore. Except for Marissa. Starscream wanted to blame Thundercracker, but picking up a working understanding of spoken and written Neocybex had been crucial to her previous delegate role.

“I have come here,” he continued, hands laid flat one over the other on his spark, “on behalf of my world, on behalf of my people, to apologize.”

But mostly to deflect as much blame as possible onto the dead and stupid.

“We have brought war and destruction to your world and to your people for no purpose.” No purpose that had panned out anyway.

“Those that sought to control you have now been brought to justice.”

Well, only Megatron had been punished through legal mechanisms. Starscream had skipped the execution, having sent Rattrap in his place.

Galvatron and Optimus Prime getting rent asunder in rapid succession was probably a form of justice. Even if extralegal. Especially since the humans had set up one of Optimus Prime’s legs on display elsewhere on the property. If Starscream were to stretch up onto his toes, he could probably see the tip of Prime’s foot just behind the big house the President lived in. Soundwave had told him on the voyage over that this wasn’t even the first time this particular nation, the Americans, had taken and displayed an enemy’s leg.

Best to not provoke them then.

“In one way or another. We—“ But not Starscream personally. “—take full responsibility for their failures.”

By this point, no one was listening, he knew. This was usually where eyes began to roll, bodies slumped in their seats, and brains tuned out. Which meant all he had to do was keep talking, stick to his notes, and make it to the conclusion. While everything was obviously being recorded for posterity, only the start and the end would really be remembered by anyone who wasn’t doing a deep dive of the records. The record keeping is what the bland, but carefully crafted middle was for after all.

After several minutes, all Starscream had to do was bring it home.

“I cannot ask Earth’s people for forgiveness.” He brought his arm across his chest. “But I humbly ask that you let us start again.”

He bowed his head and shoulders forward, the gesture limited by the podium.

“Thank you.”

As he stood back up, there was a round of polite applause. He could only assume there was more going on in the General Assembly as well, but he didn’t have a feed of the room to know for sure. Rattrap would surely report on how well received his speech was later.

President Wallace stood up, as planned, and approached him. He stepped out from behind his podium as her suited goons swarmed just off-stage, just out of sight of the cameras.

Next to him, she spoke, voice amplified by the microphone clipped to her lapel and pushed through his translation software, “Emperor Starscream, let’s do as you suggest.”

She held her hand up, in an offer to shake which Soundwave had warned him was the traditional gesture, and that he should expect this. It meant nothing, of course, but it was the diplomatic thing to do.

“Let’s start again.”

Starscream leaned down, letting her take hold of the tip of his index finger and performatively jostle it. The original gesture had been modified for the limits of their incompatible scales. Any motion he might have made could have seriously injured a human, so he remained motionless until she let go.

“Of course, Madame President.”

An announcement played from a speaker, prerecorded by Rattrap, telling the audience that the Cybertronians and residents of Sanctuary Station, would like to present a joint gift to the people of Earth.

Starscream and President Wallace stepped aside, allowing Rumble and Frenzy to join them on the stage.

They gracelessly clambered up a stool that had been set behind the podium so that they could both be seen and better access the microphone.

“We have written a poem,” Rumble started, “for the people of Earth.”

“In English,” Frenzy added.

Surprised looks spread across faces as the news came through the Neocybex translators. Surely, something similar was occurring in the General Assembly. Or perhaps not; as far as Starscream knew, most nations of this world did not speak English. Starscream was certainly among them. He mostly knew enough to read posted signage and say names.

“As the birds begin to sing at dawn, the fecund land begins to heal.”

Marissa suddenly grimaced, as Rumble continued the stanza. The poem was dull and poorly constructed, but surely not worth pulling a face over.

“As the sun rises in the sky, the humans and Cybertronians will know each other, relaxing with their feline friends.”

Weirdly specific, but alright.

Starscream’s HUD lit up with an emergency message from Rattrap.

A number of audience members broke their stoic propriety, starting to shriek and cackle.

Windblade, knowing practically no English, looked around the lawn with an uncomfortable smile on her face as visibly tried to make sense of why some of the humans were coming unglued.

Soundwave watched, passing judgment in silence.

:: Boss, I think the boys might have taken some liberties with their vocabulary. ::

Rattrap rapidly provided a more naturally localized copy of what Rumble and Frenzy had actually written. It seems the translation software had also taken some liberties.

“As the cocks start to sing at sunrise, the fucking dirt gets better. / As noon comes, the humans and Cybertronians will have sex, playing with their pussies.”

Well… there went all of Starscream’s hard work.