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Clouds. Winds. The whine of engines and the deafening roar of jet thrusters. The fogginess of going through a cloud and the moistness of the atmosphere.
Feels like ice on his plates. Maybe there is, or would be, if he wasn't so warm-framed. If his thrusters weren`t spewing fire and white-hot air. There’s snow this high up into the atmosphere, white crystals and they go clang-pat-crick against him, and he speeds through the air, still.
There is a rancid warm rage fanned out in his processor, ebbing and pulling in waves. There’s humiliation too, but that he can push down and swallow up to speak sweet, unlike the warmness of the anger. The feeling makes him think of the way those carbon-based organisms rot. Soft and warm and moist and ill-aired, covered in bacteria and fungi, bulging white to turn black and shrivel. Disgusting.
(he loops around an elongated cloud twice, and white tendrils follow his wingtips sluggishly)
The reason for his discontent was, as most often, his glorious leader. Master of the decepticons. The idiotic, problematic, bull-headed, temperamental, rust-addled glitch of a mech.
(His flight engine keens in a growl, he goes in for a sharp dive)
Starscream hadn’t exactly done anything. The fact is, he had been on relatively good behavior for some orns now. Doing all paperwork on time. Filing reports. Monitoring patrols. Overseeing the military training sessions of the troops and keeping them at bay. Megatron had not seemed to mind at first.
...But then he’d gotten paranoid, constantly and restlessly interrogating and double-questioning his First lieutenant, fidgeting this way and that up on that steely black throne as well as pacing about the command centre, lingering just behind Starscream, close enough to be uncomfortable to both of them, probably, staring entirely too intently at the screen and the glyphs on it as if they held answers to all of life’s questions(or all of his questions about any dubious activity from the Air commander).
Megatron had a tendency to go on and on and on about how gracious he was to spare him, how kind. How much better he was, how nothing Starcream could come up with - no plan or plot, or manipulation- would ever touch him. Starscream had been amused, to say the least. Up until the point he hadn’t. And he can pinpoint the exact astrosecond that had been.
(just meters from the earth he transforms into root mode, lands with a roll, jumps, and ignites his thrusters again, taking up and off)
Staring into the swirling lavender light of the fusion cannon at point blank always did have a way of ruining his jests, even the ones the drones in the command room pretended not to snicker at. Those were the really juicy ones.
(and engaging jet mode, he, tilts himself almost straight up, and the force of the acceleration would have ripped one of those meatlings to bits)
Evidently, gracious Master thought Starscream could not function without making petty attempts to stall or injure Megatron. Pretty pathetic. And close-minded. Tut-tut, the little things like this did nothing but pile up against him.
(he begins a series of loops and weaves and dives and pirouettes, shifting expertly through the relatively sparse space filled with small clouds, gaining altitude again, slowly)
He would have been shot, too, if not for his own quick thinking. He`d blabbed out some raw, unrefined outline of a plot which he was supposedly bringing to fruition. Megatron had bellowed laughter, then, insulted the fabricated plan and Starscream too, just for good measure. Between the abusive remarks had been the ever-popular classics of “coward”, “weak-sparked traitor”, “scum”, “power-whore” and “inept imbecile”. Always so degrading. Always the same. (Maybe he ought to be insulted that Megatron never comes up with anything new?) It stung and chipped his pride more than anything, but a sting was far from what he was capable of taking without as much as a twitch.
(as his speed picks up and the altitude changes, the maneuvers get more angled and sharp, nearing the 180° mark. It`s reckless flying at it’s finest, but Starscream just doesn’t care at the moment)
Not to mention that the throne room had been full of mechs, silent like graves as he explained and pleaded and expertly shook his voice in a most pathetic way to earn forgiveness for a crime he had not committed. Forgotten be the fact that Megatron had Soundwave, who routinely crawled through Starscream’s documents and kept close records on his whereabouts and meetings and the like, whispering secrets and stories of whatever he learned from the seeker into the tyrant`s audio receptors . Oh, Soundwave had stood by the side and with the single glance Starscream had spared him he’d though the mech`s shoulders were shaking, as if voicelessly laughing over a joke no one else had heard or understood. Oh, that slagger. Starscream would enjoy cracking that visor and giving him pain, just to see how well he fares.
(To him comes a radio message from the country whose airspace he'd entered, he ignores it and continues the high-speed acrobatics)
There has always been a cruel streak running in the decepticon ranks and society. He'd been on the giving end of it so many times now. Not mention a detail here, allude to something sinister there… just like that, ever so subtly, and then someone is in the medbay, or punished with one humiliating task or another, or gone. For good.
(He sees human jets tailing him from somewhere lower in the atmosphere. He’s just that much faster, though, and they don’t catch up.)
He supposes Soundwave just doesn't bother with sparing mechs pain. He’s a busy one, after all. Communications and surveillance, knowing everything and being emotionally impotent, Starscream was sure Soundwave's ornly agenda was full of any combinations of that.
(He’s lost them by now and there is an ocean stretching out beneath his belly, but he doesn't care to bring up his maps to check which one. He'll be over it soon enough)
He continues stewing, huffing and hissing over the whole ordeal for some minutes.
Over the ocean, over some strip of dirt. And the land takes on a chilly pallor. The ice this high is getting to be a bother so he loses altitude. There’s a flock of birds some way ahead but he’s coming in fast and not paying as much attention as he should, and neither the flock nor Starscream can get out of the way fast enough.
The stupid winged organics are blaring so loud you’d think they’re being murdered agonizingly. But then, something crashes hard against his nose cone, splattering along to glop and cling to the tinted glass of a cockpit, and going along the belly of his alt-mode and, oh dear, he’s forced into a landing. At least the birds fly off. It`s a pathetically small consolation. Maybe big enough to kiss his shiny aft if it were on stilts.
...Well, he’ll always have his razor-edged humor if nothing else, at least.
Now for whatever is sullying his paint job- ah, frag. He can’t help but give a black look to the sticky, haematic liquid dyeing his plating bloody. And, are those bones? Ew, no, it`s the whole disgusting organic mess. All the liquids and the organs. Maybe that bit is is the beak? Or the foot? Hard to tell. Evidently transforming hadn`t been the best idea, because he can feel tidbits of muscle where there seriously should never be any. Right in the transformation seams.
This can’t possibly be sanitary. But how to get it out? The biggest bits he can pluck out, and the liquids sort of flow and drip on down by themselves, but there are finicky bits at tender little connections and it feels like a wet, squishy appendage licking at his insides which sort of almost makes him feel scandalized, except, well, the thing is dead.
Just one triumph after the other, eh, commander? First he gets his aft handed to him and then a stupid winged organic thing jumps into him. Primus must be having a field day, or at least leaking lubricants from laughter.
He decides to enlist the help of water. Really, how was it that washing was not his first idea escapes him. But once conceived, it’s put to praxis.
Works like a slagging charm.
He could take off, finish the ‘patrol’ as he’d put it in an activity log. He could, but doesn't. Maybe he doesn't have to conform to the rules of the world for every moment of his infinitesimal existence. Maybe he deserves a break. From speed, Decepticons, war, responsibilities.
Just for a little while. Just a little pause in the line of his life. No one will notice, no one will care.
Starscream disappeared? What do you mean you can't find him? Whatever, bring out the high-grade. This is an occasion to celebrate.
He glowers at that idea. He doesn't quite care what others think but when they all say the same thing, sing the same mocking song for so long it doesn't feel much like a coincidence at all. Oh well. Whatever. It`s common nature to curse at and belittle others. Pit, he does it too. All the time. Both loudly and in thoughts. Besides, this gives him the space to get some air to breathe. Megatron wouldn't bother looking yet. He had this thing about letting Starcream ‘lick his wounds’, the moron.
He'd turned off his locator beacon somewhere over the Mediterranean sea. Soundwave wouldn't be happy about him going off the grid, but slag what Soundwave felt. Thrice. The was air fresh and pure, if not cold, but the crispness feels nice to his wing sensors and the natural fragrances soothing for the chemical analyzers scattered about the plating.
Where he finds himself is like some forgotten corner of the universe. Nothing sentient, no one annoying. He usually hates quiet. It`s a seeker thing. Hate being silent, hate staying still. There are two more to that, about small spaces and the pitchy sable of complete darkness, but when the sun sets the stars will be out. Brightly. It`s a rural territory, after all.
The sight of the setting sun is, Primus be damned, completely fan-stalling. Still alien and so damn Earth-like, but gorgeous none the less. Erythraean optics watch the titian-coloured side of the skies. The almost-seams of visual wavelengths, like a flopped over fat rainbow covering the entirety of the skies. Specks and strokes of bulbous clouds, three dimensional and painted over every which way.
Maybe this is what peace feels like. When you dial down your proximity sensors to barely inches from your plates, when you don`t think about who poses what threat and when and why and how, when your weapons don't whine and buzz and overheat because they`re online all the time.
When you don't have the responsibility to care about anything beyond what you are experiencing. Sort of empty, kind of pointless, but it feels nice. And when the shiny little lights in the skies come out and he checks off lists of constellations it feels even better.
Ah, he hasn't felt this good in what seems like aeons. But then a shadow of a memory of a white-red shuttle and so many words twists the coziness in his spark bitter. They used to do this together. But now he is alone, and never again will he not be. No trine, no mates, no people who wish him well.
He wonders what led him here. What led him so far from what he used to stand for. He'd been an energon seeker, an explorer. So many places he'd seen, so many civilisations made peace to. Now he wants to be feared and called “Emperor Of Destruction”. Seems so stupid here. All the diplomatics and politics nothing but plots of power-grabbing, and each time he tries to break the cycle, both for his own sake and other`s, there`s a glitch in the machine. All the little pawns and the rooks sent back to their places, as if nothing ever happened. As if decency between factions was the universe’s biggest taboo.
He could have been an Autobot, even. But duty to his frame-kin outweighed his individuality. Why had the seekers even went to the cons? Can`t remember. Some files are missing. The perks of getting knocked around all the time.
Yeah, this felt nice, he feels his systems slow. His optics go out of focus slightly and the strange blanket-like sensation of unconscious wraps around and slides through him.
Beep-swish-ka-chlik. Sensor by sensor reality slips. So nice. So tired. Hey, when did his anger fade? Ah, sweet respite. Hey, when had -
...
The first thing he hears is a whirrrrrrrrr and the first thing he feels is target-lock. He senses something-someone large with his field before his optics ignite, but when they do, instead of red they meet blue.
Alone, but it is the -Adaptus be damned! - Prime himself.
The weak, staticky little chirp of “what” is out before Starscream can keep it in.
“What is your purpose to being at these coordinates, Starscream.”
Reset. Reset. Adjust optic focus. He opens his mouth again- “what?”
“I asked you to state your purpose for being at these coordinates.”
A reason? He doesn't even have one, does he? He half sits up (he'd have done it fully if not the subtle twitch of the cannon aimed at him) and sort of shrugs, accompanying the sound with a kind of unsure click.
Optimus' optics narrow and his jaw tenses, but he doesn't say anything quite yet. His head tilts to the side a bit and maybe he`s contacting the other Autobots?
Looking himself over, Starscream sees patterns of frost on every which one of his plates. Right. Tundra. Reminds him of the traditional Vosian celebratory paintjobs. Intricate and frail, unlike the lethal harshness of the military frame-build. It melts as his systems resume normal parameters.
“Alright, I am asking again, Starscream. And I`m afraid I must insist you answer this time. What is your purpose for-”
“How did you find me? I remember turning my beacon off.”
Well, Optimus looks severely thrown off his horse, but the expression that adorns his face is hilarious (doesn't he usually have a battle mask?). He opens his mouth a couple of times but isn't talking.
“As entertaining as watching you imitate organic water-dwellers is, I really am waiting for an answer, Prime.”
Oh, he looks shocked now. Starscream can already hear “but i asked first!” except, well, Prime-ified. It doesn't come.
“The Autobots were not the ones who located you, but rather the Canadian government. We are currently in the northern part of their territory. They had been worried about the fast aircraft which hadn`t answered hails, and contacted the government of USA in hopes of support. The government of USA, in turn, talked to the Autobots, because we- and I quote the message- “might have some experience with this”.”
“Thanks for the speech, lector.” is the dry retort. Damn, when the mech answered a question he answered a question.
“You have yet to answer my previous query. What is your pu-”
“My purpose to be at these coordinates, yeah, yeah, I know. I have none.”
The stare is so deadpan it feels like a literal blunt force blow. Not impressed, eh?
“I'm serious, okay? I really am not planning to do anything that would get the cavalry on my back. I`m just resting.”
Now the mech just looks confused. Very, very deeply confused. In the impact of his confusion he even lovers the cannon. Those eyebrows look funny at that angle.
“Resting?”
He says it like trying to pronounce a foreign word for the first time.
“Yes, we get a little rowdy over on the battle-ship. I'm taking a bit of a break.”
It feels like talking to a sparkling.
“I… see….”
He obviously doesn`t.
“Hey, you can even scan me for explosives or suspicious machinery! Do a pat-down if you're brave enough! I'm just resting!”
Maybe the gesturing was a bit overdone, but he couldn't help it when he got defensive. He had very expressive body language, another seeker trait. Optimus stares straight at him, keeping eye contact for a long while.
And then sits down, mirroring Starscream. The cannon shifts back into a servo. He doesn't even say anything, just.. sits. How strange, he should feel on edge, there`s an enemy right there, but alarm doesn`t come. It feels companionable, even. Easy. Though maybe there`s a reason for that. Threat assesment doesn`t buzz, just points to information assessment. Optimus doesn't like fighting, if he can help it. He likes peace. He likes believing in the good in others. He would not be the one to raise his hand first. There's silence for the longest time, until Starscream breaks it. This is a good chance to bring up something he's been thinking about.
“Do you remember how you tried giving me a chance at redemption, that one time? Tried to let me be an Autobot? It didn't work out, of course, it never does, but you did try."
Prime kind of squirms, a bashful gesture.
"Yes, I recall. It is a pity Arcee had a grievance with you, though I can not blame her, considering..."
It's Starscream’s turn to squirm, he feels the blaming stare on him like a bad omen.
"Ah, yes. Cliffjumper. I feel that's come back to bite me time and time again."
Optimus is not pleased by those words, if the growl of his engine is any indication.
"You should be ashamed. To speak of the departed like that."
He feels so chastised. Not an easy feat to accomplish. Optimus must have practiced.
“And yet, I do not. He was my enemy just as you are. And just as I am yours.”
Reality is a sad little mistress, walking hunched and sullen.
“What a shame it is that those words are true, Starscream.”
Optimus' gaze shifts away from him and then up, where dawn has not yet reached the dots of white in the early morning sky.
“If only it did not have to be like that. If only we could live in peace. If only there was not a schism between the ideologies we hold ourselves to. If only… if only…”
The thought drifts off, and Starscream finds himself agreeing with the sentiment.
“Do any of us even know what we’re beating each other bloody over anymore?”
“...I do not think so.”
“Figures.”
Silence. Again. It`s lulling, the way this conversation keeps ebbing and flooding like the tides.
Optimus shifts, as if to say something but then aborts the motion. Starscream raises an eye-ridge at him inquisitively.
“Starscream. I am not sure I understand this situation to it’s extent, but you seem… different from how you usually seem. Is it a by-product this “resting”, as you put it?”
Something warm blooms in his spark, flutters like a bird from a cage. Someone was asking him about him. In a not condescending way. Form genuine curiosity. His CPU is spinning and he lowers his helm a bit.
“Was that a bad thing to ask? Are you alright?”
Slagging Prime and his godly manners.
“`M fine. Just... wasn’t expecting a question like that.”
When Starscream looks up, the semi-truck’s eyes are wide and a bit worried. ‘Are you sure?’ they seem to ask. Another rush. Too much. No one was supposed to care. He could accept it, but Optimus was actually concerned. Starscream starts giggling. He’s quite aware of how crazy this looks. The knowledge only drives him to giggle and chortle and laugh harder. His optics are leaking. The Prime moves to hover an unsure hand above his forearm for a second before he touches.
Starscream stops laughing almost immediately. There is an awkward standstill. No one knows what to do next. Optimus' palm is warm and thrumming, and the energy of both the mech and the matrix he carries tingles where it goes through the seeker. It feels like being cleaned from the inside out. All the nasty gunk and the gory parts and black tar thoughts and feelings, all washed away with a white, soft light. He'll pass out soon, if this keeps up.
He`s not sure who moves first or how the thought comes to whichever one of them it was, but he has his arms around the red of Optimus' torso and the Prime`s large forearms are on any side of him and the mech`s palms are on his back, right next to the hinges of the wings and they're both keeping the other in a warm and brotherly embrace.
It feels like shelter both for the affection-deprived seeker and the warm-but-distant bearer of the Matrix.
Because this is war, and they both have grief and regrets. Because who will understand you better than the one who has to use you against yourself because that`s how battles go. Because no one else has to know they're weak.
The hug ends as abruptly as it had started. They sit back, facing each other again.
Somehow, they both manage to start talking at the same time, only to stop in sync and both their faceplates darken in embarrassment from it. This really is as far from the usual as it goes.
Prime regains himself first with the help of a well-placed (and fake) cough.
“Starscream, I believe my perception of you has somewhat changed today. I think I would be willing to extend an offer for a place of your own with the Autobots... if you are fully willing to cooperate with and not harm any of them, of course.”
And maybe Optimus sees fear in the shiny round red of Starscreams optics, and maybe it`s just the sun that's barely above the horizon at this point, but the anxiety in the flyer's field is real and jittering like insect wings. Because this is not as simple as a choice. There are responsibilities. What of the armada, his seeker troops? He wishes unto no-one the excruciating pain of having a voice just under Megatron`s nasal ridge. Opinions are not appreciated. Criticism is met with barely contained violence in the first incident, but repeat offenses… But that`s not something a green-cone would know. Just recently had Starscream begun to re-train them to fight more effectively. Learning to maneuver the earth terrain. With teaching came pride, with pride - attachment.
And then of course is his stellar personality. He can take being pilloried by the autobots, but his patience is limited and set up like a fuse to a bomb. But less like dynamite and more like hydrogen. Boom. His time as a `con has left him with a nasty habit of really laying into perceived threats. Soft-soft-squishy `bots wouldn’t like that, oh no. Sweet little dears they are, they’d blast him through the guts and stuff him into the brig. Then wave it off as him just having a snit. Because even the honourable were ugly when being made to play peace with someone they despise. Well, except Optimus, probably. He’d be disgustingly civil about it.
“Well, it`s…” he almost chokes on a chuckle “certainly a nice offer...”
Optimus' optics turn a bit darker, morose but understanding the meaning of the words perfectly.
“...but I’m afraid I can not accept it at the moment.”
“I see, and I respect your choice. Though I would like to know the reason why, at least.”
Ah, yes, quicksand. Careful now, don't step in it, and if you happen to do it anyway, don't thrash… If the look in Optimus' optics were just a bit less kind and open, it would have been predatory.
“Well… I could say that currently pulling something like a defecting high-ranking officer, especially me, would be very tricky.”
Starscream feels his wings twitch. Optimus still looks expectant. Oh, he wants the whole reason. All of it. He'd planned to leave it at that, but suddenly he`s getting ideas about this whole leaving the `cons thing. The relatively beneficial-to-more-than-just-me kind of ideas. Oh, he had gotten trouble over it last time because he'd left alone and without resources. Camping out in an abandoned warship was hardly a way to instill progress of any kind, but with allies or even semi-allies? Now that was something he could work with, unlike the stubbornness of the decepticon warlord. Time to play cards...
“And also, what do you think your posse would say if you suddenly came back with me in tow?”
Optimus thinks, and when he speaks it`s more of a mumble than anything Starscream has ever heard from him. The usually perfectly clear, crisp diction replaced with a low, rumbly softness is just another oddity in this scene.
“They would think you are deceiving me and, in extent, them.”
“Exactly.”
“So what is it that you are proposing? Defecting while remaining a decepticon?”
“Well, maybe I would not phrase it quite like that, but in a way? More like just defecting from the `cons without quite joining the bots. If I were to go, I would not do it alone, I believe the armada would come with me, given the appropriate incentive and reasoning. Perhaps Knock Out as well. But this would require a larger plan than can be fleshed out in a few minutes. I would need resources, or at least the means to gain them… fuel as the primary worry. I was an energon seeker so I took up classes and engineering in energy efficiency and conversion, maybe with some schematics and someone with greater experience in mechatronics...”
His bout of sudden rambling is cut off when he realizes the perfectly spherical optics staring at him in not-quite-negative surprise. Optimus' mouth is also in a soft “O” shape. Starscream suddenly finds himself fluffing his armor up in a defensive manner. Prime immediately brings his palms up, wrists out, the universal peace gesture. It settles the flyer but he still narrows his gaze to what can almost be called a glare.
“Well, that`s the basic idea, anyway.” he finishes, deflated.
“I believe this is a good plan. I have hope that you will bring this fruition.”
Okay, he can’t just not make a “really?”. He tries. But the mannerisms of this mech are simply ridiculous sometimes. ‘I have hope’ says the main commander of a warring faction of a dying species.
“Yeah. Whatever.”
But Optimus radiates warm satisfaction and pride(and this gives Starscream a pause) like a thick veil. Fear rings his audios like bells at calculations of possible mishaps.
“Let`s just hope it goes right for once.”
That`s a warning. Starscream has a history of grossly bad decisions. It`s like the world just loves pulling him astray and into misery. Maybe his expression shows his thoughts a bit too well just then because suddenly there`s a rumbling sound from Prime`s chassis.
“You need not think badly of yourself about this, Starscream. Maybe what you seek is purer than it seems. And do not forget, every sentient being is capable of change. That includes you, no matter what anyone else says.”
That`s probably true, but Starscream is quite afraid to try. Terrified to fail. Again. And again. And again. He’s still in a bad place, mentally, no matter what Prime may believe from this conversation. A little scheming doesn't change people. Not by a full 180°. He cares too little and hates too easily. Vorns of violence, vorns of fire all line up like rounds in a chamber. Bang. Fatality. Oh, how much work he has to do find something good to hold onto. Oh, how his CPU hurts already with writhing information and scenarios.
“What happens from three repeat times and up is a pattern. Everything up to this point isn't a scribble in the sand, Prime. It`s code. What we’re considering will require communication and cooperation. I’m not planning to be laying in a ditch somewhere by the end of this. You won`t be the only taking a leap of faith.”
Optimus grows somber as Starscream says it. The words are heavy like the letters of a fully binding, unbreakable contract. Then his optics peer into Starscream`s like drills, weighing his sincerity and very spark. The jury deciding a sentence.
The last time they had struck a bargain it had ended bad. Starscream scared off by an act of violence caused by grief. It would be hard to get the other Autobots to understand the absolute necessity of this agreement. This was not only a chance to take out a large chunk of Decepticon forces and gaining said forces as allies, but also their chance to step forward and begin steering the wreck of the Cybertronian race away from certain extinction and towards peace, towards forgiveness. And if it had to begin with a quick deal with the worst of the worst in the cold light of morning in the tundra of Earth, then so be it. How could they continue if they could not begin?
Optimus Prime feels the warm, weaving whisper of the Matrix of leadership agreeing. In the dusk of a planet not their own, bleached of colour and vibrance like the dying, they both had acknowledged a cycle of mistrust and abuse and violence older than the war itself, from way back when the Senate sprawled like fleshy limbs, parasitizing Cybertron and it’s people, wrenching them dry through functionalism and classism, dividing a unified species into bits and pieces, like dissecting a specimen for research.
And when the red of Starscream`s optics doesn’t waver or reset, and he sees bleeding gory instead of cowardice and spiteful vanity in the curves and angles of the seeker`s frame, Optimus knows that both of them are making the right choice.
Starscream`s spark flares wide and whirls fast when their servos touch in a firm fate-sealing handshake. And he`s pretty sure Optimus says something to him in hand right then but he'd never learned the language so what exactly the message was is lost to him.
And when he is met with the furious metal of Megatron’s fist and the icy disapproval of Soundwave’s visor upon returning to the warship, he finds that he does not fear the hit nor the yell, nor the corridors to the medbay, where he walks wounded and easy to pick off.
Knock Out is apprehensive at his quiet and his stillness as he repairs the broken optic and buffs out the bent plating, but there is a soft note to his facial expression, and maybe it had always been there, and maybe it had appeared just this once, and Starscream wonders if the medic can feel the thrumming joy of his spark, the buzz it sends through his circuits, if it brings mirth to him as well, because there are many who believe in subconscious adjustment to those around you and, well, anything feels possible at that moment.
Then, later, when he stands near the edge of the aerial deck and overlooks the lands below, where someplace is Optimus Prime and his Autobots, who so suddenly are theoretically his allies, he continues to wonder. Even with the clashes and bangs of troops sparring and target-practicing somewhere behind him, he wonders.
Will this really work?