Chapter Text
It hurt.
It hurts.
It’s cold.
Freezing.
He feels the trickle of something scalding drip along his hip plating, sliding along his thighs in slow rivets.
He tries to cycle his optics again only to be met with nothing. Pain surges through his circuits, making his tanks churn and his processor swims from the overstimulation.
He lets himself go limp, wing bending at an unnatural angle as he slowly becomes more acquainted with the floor than he has been in cycles. The gentle hum of the ship eases his pain ever so slightly, soothing his aches. For a moment he ignores the quiet voice in his helm telling him to stand and get a grip.
Is it really so bad? He wonders, processor hazy and distant. He should be allowed some rest after a beating like that. The floor feels pleasant again his aching frame despite his odd angle. He feels the hum, the vibrations gently rumbling along his sensor net, he feels the ship breathe. As much as he knows the titan can. Each heavy vent makes the hull creak and lulls Starscream further into relaxation. Still, the voice lingers, growing louder with each passing moment until his helm feels like it’s splitting.
His claws tear into the floor, leaving deep gouges in their wake as he slowly begins to push himself up. His ped slips in something slick on the floor, his knee hitting the ground with a sharp clang that makes a strangled hiss leave his crippled vocalizer. A groan follows after as he finally finds his footing, using his berth as a stabilizer. He vents, slow and struggling. One rattles with each invent of air, likely knocked out of place.
He finally cycles his optics again and his visual feed finally develops, it’s grainy and doubled. He cycles them again, still grainy but it will do. It laces with static for a moment before he finally manages to take in his surroundings, pushing himself away from his berth to glare at the energon congealing on his floor.
He’s freezing.
But it’s beginning to warm.
He flexes his talons, optics trailing from the energon towards his desk. The voice yells again and he moves without much further thought. He swipes, tearing datapad and decor from desk only to hear it clattering against the floor. Something shatters and the seeker only snarls a vent of frustration, claws finding the edge before he flings the secretaire to its side.
Rage pools, his cold frame warming with each angry movement. His claws find things to gouge and he stomps his ped down against a broken datapad hard enough to make the room tremble with his weight. Fury seeps from his very spark and he rips another datapad from the floor to fling it at the wall. His rampage eases his energy but still, fury resists. He wants to yell.
He wants to snap.
To bite.
To claw.
To kill that wretched tyrant and mount his helm on a pike before the entirety of the Decepticon Armada.
What was it?
What had Megatron said before the beating began?
That he was running out of chances?
Starscream’s frame finally breathes, plating tense against his frame.
He doesn’t need chances. He needs Megatron deactivated.
He needs to prove the incompetent slagger that Starscream is not running out of chances.
Megatron is running out of time.
And Starscream will be his end.
It’s hot.
Burning.
Yet it all melds together.
It hurt.
It hurts.
It’s hot.
It’s burning.
Fire courses through his frame in an unyielding torrent, a downpour that refuses to ceases. His helm feels cold, an overwhelming freezing sensation that makes the burning intolerable.
His vents pull in air, attempting to cool the rage buried deep in his frame but it does nothing but agitate that imaginary flame. His habsuite has long since been destroyed, there’s a fresh dent in the wall. It blends well with the myriad of dents already littered among the surface.
He finally allows his frame to relax, settling down in his berth in a way that could be seen more as a collapse. His knees click together as he hunches over, his doorwings slowly falling from their uptight position. He allows himself to slump, to feel the cool pain of his servo. The plating now slightly dented from his previous outrage, paint chipped revealing the matte gray beneath. It’s nothing his nanites can’t handle.
Is it really so bad? He wonders to himself, optics glinting over his damaged servo before they ghost along the wall to staring blankly at the ceiling. The Decepticons are mechs too, he can acknowledge that, but at the same time many of their actions have been unforgiving. Calm eludes him, his processor reminding him of everything that’s occurred over the past few million stellar cycles. Prowl is not allowed to relax, he is not allowed to breathe, not allowed time. Not when there’s so much to do. To think, to consider. He feels mocked by the bright orange, as though he’s being admonished by it. Still, it’s simply a ceiling, cold and unapologetic.
His claws twitch in their housing units, an urge to extend and sink them into something that eases his rage. Instead, he cycles his ventilation and gently grips the thermal blanket of his berth. It folds in his servo, forming into something plush he can squeeze as he slowly begins to ease his processor.
For a moment he allows his optics to power off, finally shielded from the blaring orange as he shuts off his visual feed. It’s a reprieve, one that brings him a comfort. He cycles them back online to turn his helm back to his wall, taking in the sight of the dents with a simmer of regret.
He’s burning.
But he’s beginning to cool.
The comfort of the berth soaks in the pain of his achy joints and his chassis quietly rumbles with every pull of air through his vents. His processor finally blanks, easing his thoughts from everything that melded together earlier. He doesn’t feel bad, he doesn’t, he has no qualms with what he said for it was true.
His optics find the unapologetic ceiling again, it’s horrific shade berating him with each passing moment. He doesn’t turn his helm away again, allowing his door wings to adjust beneath him so he can sink further into his berth. He wants to relax.
He wants to be happy.
To smile.
To laugh.
He wants to look at Optimus and give him a solution that benefits them all without killing innocent lives for the sake of this war.
What was it?
What was it that Optimus said before Prowl’s anger boiled over?
That violence wasn’t the solution?
Prowl’s frame finally breathes, plating going slack as his tension finally melts away.
They need violence. Megatron needs to be deactivated.
He needs to prove that without Megatron the war would finally go in their favor.
They’re running out of time.
And Prowl won’t allow this to be the end.
It’s cold.
Freezing.