Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

  He hates the color blue.

  It used to mean something — blue.  It was the open sky.  His wings cutting violently through the air.  His overheated plating steaming with thin, white tendrils, chilled from an eternal breeze.  His servos searching, stretching upwards, reaching for that never-ending space just beyond the sky.

  It was freedom.  His thinks of crystalline blue optics, full of sincerity, and whispered promises of peace.  It was all too easy.  To fall for the color blue.   He thinks of the frozen water cracking beneath his heel struts, blue splintering and spreading along icy white.

  “Star-“ Thundercracker’s vocalizer spits garbled static, stealing the rest of his words away.  But he doesn’t hear him.  All he can think about is blue.  Across his wings, down his chassis, and along his tibulen and cadulen.  It’s so much blue.

  There’s a bright blue liquid- boiling hot, bubbling and warping the paint of his servos- spilling out between the cracks of his digits.

  It isn’t right.  It’s jagged rocks digging, burrowing into the smooth grooves of his plating.  There shouldn’t be any blue here.  The cables along his spine are stiff, straining beneath a pressure that he doesn’t dare let up on.

  “Starscream,” Thundercracker rasps, his vents rattling ominously.  But he can’t look at him — he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the blue that pours over, trickling down the delicate cords  and wires that make up his wrists.

  “What?” He hisses, his talon-tipped servos slipping dangerously.  “Can you not see that I’m a bit preoccupied right now?” Starscream snarls, pressing down harder.  Maybe if he pushes hard enough, he can stop the blue from spreading.   “What is it that’s so important?”

  The silence that follows is thick and cloying.  For a moment, he wonders if his audio receptors have failed him.  He isn’t that lucky, however.

  “Is he-“ Thundercracker hesitates, his intake dry as he contemplates his next words.  “Is he going to offline?”

  His spark- and it’s all too easy to forget that he has one at all- feels as though it stalls deep in his chassis.  “What kind of foolish question is that?” Starscream growls, his sharpened denta flashing in the low light.  “Of course he isn’t.”

  “Star-“ Thundercracker tries again, his optical ridges pinching as his vocalizer stalls and clicks.  “He’s turning grey.”

  “Enough,” Starscream bites out, “we aren’t having this conversation.”  He in-vents harshly, his fuel lines feeling as though they’ve been filled with a raging fire that refuses to be put out.  No trine mate of his would dare… “He’s going to be fine,” he says sternly.

  “Look at him!” Thundercracker shouts, his servos curling into tight fists at his sides.  “Open your eyes and look at him,” he gasps, his vents hitching.  “You are many things, Starscream, but you are not a liar — not to me,” he says quietly, the fight leeching out of him as quickly as it’d come, “so don’t start now.”

  “What would you have me say?” Starscream asks just as quietly, his tone scathing.  “That this is my doing?”

  His next ex-vent is a slow and shaking thing.  It was his insolence that led them here.  He sinks his fangs into thin derma, his optics shuttering at the pinpricks of pain.  It’s what he deserves.

  “Stop,” Thundercracker says, gritting his denta as a wave of vertigo washes over him.  "None of this is your fault,” he swallows thickly, his tanks rolling, “it’s his.”

  It’s flecks of blue splattered high on his cheek, his optics wide and unseeing as he drags the tips of his digits through it.  Blue.  It’s his wings held so low against his back strut that they scrape against the metal grating of floor beneath him.  He didn’t dare to move.

“I made him do this,” Starscream whispers, turning haunted optics towards his trembling trine mate.  “I just- I didn’t know that he’d do this- that he’d go so far.”

  Thundercracker’s helm tilts to the side, revealing the splintering cracks along sensitive plating.  The seeker’s red optics are unnaturally pale and flickering with white, his olfactory sensor scrunching as his vision begins to fail him.  His intake twists.

  “None of us did,” Thundercracker says, but that’s isn’t necessarily the truth, is it?  “Star… what are we going to do?” he asks slowly, his vocalizer beginning to buzz again with static.

  “I don’t know,” Starscream admits quietly, his frustration mounting.  He watches as a droplet of blue trickles down the side of Thundercracker’s helm — something akin to terror floods his fuel lines as his fellow seeker doesn’t even seem to notice.  Can he feel it?  He wonders with a sickening intrigue.  What it must feel like… the pain of having one’s own helm cracked open.

  “We can’t go back,” Thundercracker slurs, his helm bobbing ominously.  “I won’t go back.”

  “What choice do we have?” Starscream asks, resigned.  It was foolish of them to allow something so base as emotions to control them.  “Every nano-klik we waste leaves him that much closer to deactivation,” he says, watching as purple begins to fade to grey.

  “There’s no guarantee that he won’t offline all three of us if we return,” Thundercracker murmurs, “and that is a risk… a risk that we cannot afford to take.”

  It’s the worst kind of suffering, he thinks, to be helpless.

  “What, then?” Starscream asks, his voice rising to match his temper.  “We just sit idly by and watch as his spark extinguishes?” his optics burn with his anger, his wings flaring out behind him, rattling dangerously.  “I would sooner end this farce here and now,” he snarls, his Null Rays whirring to life with a low hum.

  “Don’t-“ Thundercracker gasps, his body twitching as his vocal processor glitches.  “Please don’t.”  He begs, stretching an unsteady, wobbling servo towards the seeker surrounded by a growing pool of blue.

  It is the pitiful sight of coolant dripping slowly from Thundercracker’s splintered and broken optics that begins to shatter what little was left of Starscream’s resolve.

  “I don’t want to do this,” Starscream bites out with an anger that surprises even him.  There’s a spot deep within his chassis that aches; what was once a raging fire has begun to fade into smoldering embers.  “He’s my trine mate too.”

  “Then don’t,” Thundercracker whispers, his optics shuttering.  “Don’t h- hurt him.”  His field is full of pain — of grief.  Mourning for a mech who somehow still functions.  “Swear to me that you won’t hurt him.”  Thundercracker’s static-laced pleading grates roughly on his audio receptors.

  “You know I can’t make that promise.”  Starscream says with a sigh, a quiet and weary thing.  His Null Rays power off with a hollow click.  “A medic,” he says after a moment, listening to the steady plink… plink… plink… of bright blue energon hitting the ground beneath them.  “We need to find a medic.”

  Starscream’s bloody red optics narrow in thought.  It’s true; they cannot return to the Decepticons — to him.  Help will not come from anyone lurking aboard the Nemesis.

  Energon gushes around his digits, his hold faltering as his servos slide against the slithery fluid.  His next in-vent hitches in the back of his intake as he watches it spread, painting everything it touches blue.  The color of trust- of inspiration- of stability.  He presses down harder, his central processor spinning.

  “Thundercracker,” he says slowly, unable to tear his gaze away from the unconscious body before him.  He doesn’t think that he could stand to meet his optics; not now.  Maybe not ever.  “I know what we have to do,” Starscream explains gently, “but I need you to know that there is no universe that exists where this will ever end well for us.”  Not with the things that they’ve done.

  He thinks, idly, of Praxus and Protihex… of Vos.

  “I trust you,” Thundercracker says quietly.  His voice full of an unwavering faith that Starscream knows for a fact he does not deserve.  Despite this, he doesn’t dare refute him or his words.

  “And I, you,” Starscream says without hesitation.  “That is why I need you to stay here with him until I return.”

  “Wai- wait,” Thundercracker’s stutters, spitting static; if it disturbs him, he doesn’t let it show.  He resets his vocalizer with a grinding click.  “You’re leaving?”  He asks as though he hadn’t been interrupted at all.

  Starscream is quiet for a moment.  When he speaks again, his voice is soft and full of emotion.  “I am.”  Each pulse of his spark brings an ache that he cannot shake.  “I have to,” he says solemnly, “for you, Thundercracker, and for Skywarp.”  Because what is he without his trine?

  The answer to that is difficult to swallow; bitter to taste and suffocatingly thick in the back of his throat.

  “You… you’ll come back quick… right?” Thundercracker asks slowly, and his voice is hesitant and small.  His optics flicker, full of uncertainty and something sickeningly similar to fear.  The look of defeat simply does not belong there — not on him.

  It isn’t right.  He feels nothing.  His servos are numb from the wrists down; boiling hot energon melts through his protoform, shortening his circuits and burning his sensor nodes.  He just sees blue.  None of this is right.

  “Thundercracker-” Starscream starts, his vocalizer stalling as he’s cut off by a shuddering moan.

  “I don’t f- feel right,” the blue seeker croaks.  His servo makes an aborted motion towards the large, still-trickling crack in his helm.  His arm drops back down to his side with a thump.  “Star- I can’t see,” he whispers.  The red in his optics is gone, leaving behind a pale white that flashes and flutters with darkness.

  It just isn’t fair.

  Energon continues to leak from Skywarp’s cooling frame; his optics have long since gone dark.  He hasn’t made a sound for… a while now, his face slackened with unconsciousness.  His arms are limp at his side, his digits deathly still.  The blue puddle around Starscream’s knees has grown, the liquid beginning to turn tacky with prolonged exposure to air.  It doesn’t take a medic to know that things aren’t looking good.  For either of them.

  “Thundercracker,” Starscream says sharply, watching as non-functioning optics search desperately for him.  “I need you to hold pressure,” he hisses, “right here.”  Starscream reaches out, viscous energon dripping slowly from the sharp tips of his talons.  He takes Thundercracker’s trembling servos in his own, forcing them against the worst of Skywarp’s bleeding wounds.   

  “What?” Thundercracker asks softly, his optical ridges pinched in his distress.  His servos strain weakly against Starscream’s hold, his vocalizer whining in protest.  “Star?” he gasps, coolant continuing to leak from his blank optics.

  There are a great many words that Starscream could use to describe Thundercracker, but he never imagined that ‘lost’ would be one of them.

  He sighs, a heavy and weary sound.  “Just stay here,” Starscream says with a twist of his derma, “and wait until I- until help comes, okay?”  He cups the uninjured side of Thundercracker’s helm with his servo, thumbing away a damp trail of shining coolant.  “Can you do that for me?” he asks, dread beginning to churn at his tanks.

  Thundercracker’s vocalizer hums lightly with unspoken words.  He leans into Starscream’s touch, a near-violent tremor rattling through his frame.  “Yes,” Thundercracker manages through a burst of static.  “I promise.”

  He chooses to believe him.  What other choice does he have?  His servo curls into a fist at his side, and he can feel the first sharp pinpricks of pain as his claws dig into sensitive plating.  What is a bit of pain in the grand scheme of things?  Pain is inconsequential — there exists a great many things that are far worse than something so base as pain.

  “Skywarp,” he says quietly, gritting his denta against the burning sensation behind his optics.  He wars with himself, taking the seeker’s cold, unmoving servo into his own.  “Don’t you dare give up on us,” he whispers, gently pressing his derma against the icy, greying frame.

  He knows that there is only but so much that self-repair systems can do.  He also knows that he is likely asking far too much of the purple seeker.

  There is nothing left to be said, but he still finds himself lingering, unwilling to let go; there is no guarantee that he will still have a trine at the end of all of this.  The thought is sobering.  It only serves to fuel his indecision — his hesitation.

  Starscream snarls, snatching his servos back as his wings flare out behind him.  His field simmers with anger and frustration.  He spins on his heel struts, never once looking back as he walks away.  Starscream is far from a fool.  He knows that if he looks back, his brittle resolve would shatter; he wouldn’t have the strength to leave them.

  It’s dark now, this planet’s sun having long since fallen beyond the horizon.   They’re running out of time.   He ex-vents hard, trying and failing to stave off the panic that’s been slowly consuming his processor, eating away at him piece by piece.

  He was once led to believe in a greater good.

  “My Master,” Starscream gasps, his digits curling tentatively around Megatron’s wrist.  His tanks churn with a sick combination of nausea and fear, and for a moment- however brief- he thinks that he might purge where he stands.

  “My Second,” Megatron’s voice is a low growl, his servo tightening around the seeker’s throat cables.  “How might you prove your usefulness to me now, I wonder.”  His smile is charming, in a way, but there hides a certain cruelty behind it.

  He no longer believes in such a thing.

  Starscream snarls as branches scrape and slide harmlessly against his plating.  Despite popular belief, he suffers no delusions; he knows that he is no saint.  He has done awful things… monstrous things, all in the name of the Decepticons — of Megatron.

  He has committed a great many atrocities.  That is fact.  It is also true that he is not repentant for the things he’s done.

  In all this time, Starscream has only ever come to regret one thing, and that is placing his trine mates in harm’s way.  It is something that he will never forgive himself for.  And he will never ask for forgiveness.  He knows that he doesn’t deserve it — that he will never deserve it.  Not after this.

  None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for him — and isn’t that the kicker? He thinks with a low hiss, his Null Rays humming to life as his plating trembles.  He no longer knows if the brunt of his anger lies with Megatron or himself.

  That is a dangerous line of thinking that he cannot afford to follow.

  What he does know is more than enough.  Megatron went too far this time.  The thought of his chassis being pressed roughly against a cold, steel wall- of large servos drenched with his trine mate’s energon skillfully twisting and pulling at the delicate cables in his wings- of the color blue, makes him sick.

  “Stop-“ he spits, flinching, his wings pulling close as his plating clamps down tight.  He can feel him there, always hovering… always watching.  A shiver runs down Starscream’s spine, his optics blowing wide at the phantom sensation of his cockpit splintering beneath an unrelenting pressure.

  Starscream bares his fangs as he fires his Null Rays without hesitation and watches as the world before him explodes in flames.

Chapter Text

  “What’s on your mind?” Jazz asks quietly, his voice startlingly loud in the otherwise dark and quiet room.  The arm slung around his middle tenses unconsciously, pulling him in just a little bit closer.  His next ex-vent escapes him in a huff of discomfort, however, as the steady warmth surrounding him disappears completely.

  He half-rolls onto his back, tilting his head backwards to better look at the suspiciously quiet mech lying still behind him.

  “It is nothing of concern,” Prowl says, his voice level despite the near constant trembling and twitching of his sensory panels.  It’s a glaringly obvious tell — one that Jazz clocks onto immediately.

  “As much as I want to believe you,” Jazz says with a soft hum, “I don’t.”  He rolls over completely, his visor flashing pale blue as he turns his gaze onto naturally severe optics.  “You can’t lie to me, Prowler.”  He reaches out and gently taps a fluttering door-wing with the tip of his digit.  “These give you away every time,” he says with a sly grin.

  It’s a close thing — he nearly laughs at how quickly those striking panels freeze into place, but any humor he feels dies quickly in the back of his intake.  He can see the smallest flicker of something behind those cold blue optics; some emotion that he is not privy to.  Whatever this is, it isn’t a joke.

  “I did not intend to keep you from recharge,” Prowl speaks slower now, and his words are laced with something akin to guilt.  “I will go,” he says after a beat, refusing to meet his gaze.  Prowl does not wait for him to give a response.  He sits up, his sensory panels held high and rigid on his back.

  “Hey,” Jazz starts, a small furrow pinching the small space between his optical ridges as the smile falls from his face, “you don’t have’ta run off.”  He reaches out, settling his servo gently over Prowl’s forearm.  “Just stay here- stay with me- and we can talk,” Jazz says imploringly, the word ‘please’ sitting on the tip of his glossa.  He doesn’t dare to tighten his hold.  If Prowl truly wants to leave, then he won’t stand in his way.

  It shouldn’t hurt, when his servo is left to fall limp against their shared berth, but it does all the same.

  “That would be pointless,” Prowl says quietly, “for there is nothing to talk about.”  Prowl’s tone is absolute as he slips from the berth, his pedes touching down gently against the cold floor.  “I will endeavor to not wake you when I return.”

  Jazz’s next in-vents stutters deep inside of his chassis, his optics flashing bright in disbelief.  “I wouldn’t worry much ‘bout that,” Jazz says carefully, “cause if you leave right now, you won’t be comin’ back.”  His tanks roll dangerously.  It doesn’t feel right to say such a thing — his servos curl into loose fists against the white plating that covers the tops of his thighs.

  The Praxian stills.  “I have upset you,” he deduces, his helm tilting gently to the side.  It’s another one of his tells, Jazz notes, as Prowl instinctively falls back upon his Logic Center to make sense of the unexpected.

  “Yeah,” Jazz nods, “yah have.”

  He does not flinch beneath the weight of Prowl’s calculating gaze — if anything, he finds himself relaxing into it.  Jazz is intimately familiar with scrutiny, both on the giving and receiving end.  It comes with his position, as precarious as it is.  It’s expected, he reasons, though it always somehow feels different coming from Prowl.

  “You do not want me to leave,” Prowl says with a confidence that most mechs would mistake for arrogance.  The Praxian isn’t often wrong, which only fuels the frequent looks of judgement and hushed whispers behind turned backs.

  “That’s part of it,” Jazz agrees, “keep going.”  It sounds like an order, and in a way, he supposes that it is.  He shifts on top of the berth and has the pleasure of watching Prowl track the movement with critical optics.

  Prowl’s sensory panels flare upwards, his icy optics glowing just a little bit brighter in the dark room.  “You want to talk,” he says after a beat, recalling the very moment Jazz’s behavior had shifted.  There is less certainty in his voice now and more hesitancy as his optical ridges pinch with the beginnings of frustration.

  “No,” Jazz can feel the paneling on his own back flutter with emotions far too complex to put names to.  “I want you to talk,” he explains, shifting onto his knees to better match the Praxian’s height.  “I want you to tell me what’s goin’ on in that big, beautiful processor of yours,” he says softly, his derma twisting into a small and gentle smile.

  “Why?” Prowl asks, and the smile on Jazz’s face falters at the edges in the wake of such a quiet, spark-breaking question.

  “I can’t remember the last time I woke up from a recharge and found you layin’ beside me,” Jazz says after a beat too long, his optics dim and downcast behind his visor.  “Somethin’s been eating at you for a while now,” he’s chock-full of guilt, his tanks rolling with it, “and it’s on me for not tryin’ to help you sooner.”

  “It is not,” Prowl denies sharply, his field- which is normally locked down tight- radiates surprise and upset.  “The blame lies on no one but myself,” he says, and there’s a bitterness laced throughout his words, “I am… unused to sharing such things.”

  He knows better than most that Prowl, like himself, holds his cards close to his chassis.  It isn’t because he wants to — it’s because he has to.  He knows that.  He does.  He ex-vents slowly, sinking back down to sit on the edge of the berth.

  “I know,” Jazz says ruefully, “we aren’t too good at this whole ‘ conjunx endura ’ thing, are we?”

  “Not quite,” Prowl agrees, stepping forwards to take ahold of the black-and-white racer’s servo, “it is, like most things, an adjustment.”

  Jazz’s vocalizer hums, a soft and quiet sound.  He goes with his conjunx’s movements, allowing his servo to be manipulated and turned over.  Warm digits trace small circles over the delicate joints of his knuckles.  He tilts his helm back to look up into the cobalt blue eyes that gaze steadily back at him.

  “I am concerned,” Prowl starts, looking down towards their entwined servos.  “There has been a significant decrease in Decepticon activities as of recent.”

  “You’re thinkin’ that they’ve got something big planned?” Jazz asks, his optics brightening behind his visor.

  “I know that they do,” Prowl says with a dismissive flick of his door-wings.  “That is not my primary concern.”  He pauses, his derma thinning as he searches for the right words.  “I fear that we have begun to grow complacent.”  His next ex-vent is slow and measured, “and that is how tragedies occur.”

  He wants to deny it- of course he does, because he’s trained so many of these mechs himself, hounding into them the need to always be prepared- but he finds himself hesitating.

  Jazz flinches despite himself as his internal comm pings, sharp and sudden.  He looks instinctively towards his conjunx, his spark sinking at the solemn nod he receives in return.  Before Prowl has a chance to pull away, Jazz tightens his digits around the Praxian’s servo.

  “We’re gonna figure it out, okay?” Jazz says so quietly that it’s nearly a whisper, “and we’ll do it together.”

  Prowl doesn’t get a chance to respond, his derma twisting with annoyance as their comms ring out once again.

  “We’ll talk later,” Jazz promises as he slips off the edge of the berth, his pedes touching down near-silently on the metal grating below.  He stretches upwards, his heels lifting off of the floor so that he can press a kiss against his conjunx’s cheek, a quick and gentle thing.  “Now let’s go ‘fore Red manages to blow a gasket,” Jazz says with a sly grin.

  It does not take them very long to reach the command center, walking side-by-side, but they are still among the last to arrive.

  “What’s happenin’ my mechs?” Jazz asks as he foregoes a seat, choosing instead to prop his hip against the desk.  Prowl, meanwhile, stands silent and tall beside him.  “It’s a little late for a meeting, don’t ya think?” he tilts his helm to the side, his smile never once slipping despite the overwhelming tension in the room.

  “This was not something that could wait,” Red Alert scolds with a pointed glance in their direction, “it would appear that a power station has been attacked.”

  “Decepticons?” Ironhide asks from where he stands with his arms folded across his chassis, his optic ridges pinched in consternation.  The war-built mech looks ready to tear his weapons free from his subspace and go out on his own.  He can understand the sentiment.

  “I have confirmed the presence of at least one Decepticon,” Red Alert nods as a series of small blue sparks fizzle in the space between his horns.  “Prior to the explosion that knocked out surveillance, the footage captured images of Starscream in the area.”  He taps stiffly at one of his many data-pads, projecting a blurred still of the tri-colored seeker.

  “Given what we understand of seeker trines,” Prowl adds, “there is a high probability, approximately 92%, that his trine- Skywarp and Thundercracker, respectively- are there as well.”  The Praxian’s sensory-panels are held high on his back, the edges sharp and cutting.  His field is pulled in tight.

  Jazz chews on the soft mesh of his inner-cheek, swallowing down the questions that immediately jump to mind.  Why a power plant?  He wonders, his olfactory ridge scrunching as he studies the image before him.  Are they that desperate for energon?  The Polyhexian, despite himself, is unable to tear his optics away from the seeker’s thin angular face, twisted with something lost to the haze of digitalization.

  It’s a sobering thought — starving isn’t a nice way to go.

  He places a servo against his thin abdominal plating.  Jazz remembers coolant-filled optics and the painful cramps that came with having too-empty tanks.  He remembers the all-consuming desperation and the length’s he’d go to in order to keep from deactivation.  His past isn’t something that he likes to think about; it’s better off forgotten, lost to time.  Jazz can feel his conjunx’s worried gaze boring into the side of his helm, and he realizes that he must have loosened the tight hold that he normally has on his field. He’s quick to smother those emotions beneath his familiar mask of a smile.

  “Why now?” Ironhide asks, his optical ridges pinching in thought.  “It can’t just be me who thinks that the timing’s off,” Ironhide says with a grunt, his digits flexing and curling into fists, “something ain’t right.”

  “I agree,” Jazz says, his visor flashing white as he tilts his helm to the side, “but there’s no use in us standin’ around and speculatin’ when we haven’t got a single clue as to what they’ve been up to this past stellar-cycle.”

  “What do you propose?” Prowl asks calmly.  Despite his lack of visible emotion, he can feel his spark beginning to sink within the confines of his chassis.  He already knows what his conjunx wants them to do.

  “Send me,” Jazz says easily, his smile never once faltering.

  “No,” Prowl says immediately, his voice firm, “that is out of the question.”  He levels the Polyhexian with a severe expression.  “I should not have to tell you the likelihood that all of this is nothing short of an elaborate trap.”

  “Of course it’s a trap,” Ironhide growls, his plating rattling with anger, “and I say we go spring it.”

  “What if that is exactly what they want us to do?” Red Alert asks, his helm twitching to the side as a spray of sparks dance along his plating.  His paranoia is expected — his glitch, while familiar, is never easy to watch.

  “Slow it down, Red,” Ratchet cautions, sitting up a bit straighter in his seat.  “Was the power plant occupied?” he asks, a poor-attempt at redirecting the manic mech’s attention.

  “That currently remains unknown,” Red Alert admits.

  And that doesn’t sit well with any of them.

  “It is decided, then.”  Optimus stands, the Autobot Leader looming above even the tallest of mechs.  His word, despite his belief of the contrary, is absolute.

  “You will keep your comms open,” Prowl says quietly, his optics overbright with thinly-veiled concern.  Their conversation from before sits at the forefront of his mind.  His field writhes with worry, but his face remains as stony as ever.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jazz drawls, but his wide grin softens at the edges, “I love you too.”

  The stench of hot, burning metal assaults his olfactory sensors as they near the now dilapidated power station.  Jazz transforms, kicking up a thick layer of ash and dust that clogs his vents.  There’s an eerie silence that’s only broken up by the still-crackling flames and the groaning frame of a building nearing its collapse.

  “Inferno, stick close,” Ironhide says firmly, leaving no room for argument.  His rotary cannons spin in place with a clicking whir, his optics scanning the smoke-filled sky.

  “You just focus on puttin’ out those fires, my mech,” Jazz says with a grin, “and let us worry ‘bout the rest.”

  His words are deceptively pretty — his smile is even prettier.  He’s had centuries, after-all, to perfect them.  They have always served him well.  Even now they serve to hide the unease that sits coiled tight around his spark.

  “I don’t like this,” Ratchet mutters, his gaze fixed on the smoldering destruction before them.  “It’s too quiet.”

  “Famous last words, doc.”

  “I don’t believe in any of that superstitious slag,” Ratchet huffs, his vents cycling audibly as he filters the tainted air around them.

  “Maybe you should,” Jazz says slowly.  There’s a cutting edge to his voice that would silence even the most stubborn of mechs.  He can see it now, the ominous red glow of crimson-colored optics through the thick smog.

  If he can see the seeker…

  “It took you long enough,” Starscream says slowly, his words punctuated with a quiet hiss.  “I should have known better than to expect more from a bunch of lowly ground-pounders.”

  “I’d be careful with your words if I were you, Screamer,” Jazz warns, “you might just damage my delicate sensibilities.”

  “ Delicate ?” Starscream mocks, his vocoder humming with the sharpness of his words.  “Don’t make me laugh.”  The seeker stands, his heel-thrusters sinking down into the first layers of soft earth.  “You haven’t got a delicate strut in your entire body.”

  “Flatterer,” Jazz says lowly, his smile morphing into something a little more genuine.  It’s familiar, this particular song and dance.  He wonders, vaguely, what it says about him that he lives for the high that comes with it.

  The seeker takes another step forward, allowing thin wisps of smoke to curl around his lithe form.

  “That’s close enough,” Ironhide growls, “I don’t do warning shots.”  The barrel of his cannon is aimed at the middle of the seeker’s chassis — where his spark sits beneath thin layers of glass and metal plating.

  Starscream snarls with a flash of his fangs, but he makes no move to ready any weapons of his own.

  “Enough,” Ratchet bites out, tired of the back-and-forth.  “This is nothing but a waste of time, so let me make this easier for everyone.”  He stares down the seeker with a glower, his faceplate twisted with distaste.  “Is this a trap?” he asks boldly, getting to the point.

  “Of a sort,” Starscream admits, his wings twitching low against his spinal-strut.

  “What’s your damage?” Ratchet asks, looking over the seeker’s frame with critical optics.

  The seeker makes a soft noise under his next ex-vent, his optics visibly shuttering.  “This?” he asks with a tilt of his helm, gesturing towards his servos.  They’re dripping with blue; half-clotted energon clinging to his sensitive joints and delicate cables.  “Don’t worry,” he says with a rattling hiss, “this isn’t mine.”

  Jazz narrows his optics.  “Come on, Screamer,” he says after a beat, “why are we here?”

  “That’s an easy one,” Ironhide says with a rumbling growl, “use your processor, kid.”  He shifts his weight around, angling the muzzle of his cannon at the seeker’s helm.  “What do you want?” Ironhide grits out, “because why else would you be here without your master?”

  Starscream stiffens.  At first glance, it looks as though his very frame has been carved from fear.  No, he thinks.  That isn’t quite right.  It’s something deeper.  Something primal.  It’s a terror unlike anything he’s ever seen, and it’s written all over the seeker’s frame.

  His derma move, but he doesn’t make a sound.

  “What was that?” Ironhide’s tone is mocking.

  “I said,” Starscream says sharply, “he isn’t my master… not- not anymore.”  He levels the large war-frame with a heated glare.  “You’ll do well not to speak of him in my presence again.”

  “What did he do?” Jazz asks quietly, his optics narrowed behind his visor.

  Starscream’s vents hitch, his servo curling into a fist at his side.  He shakes his helm, a small and barely there movement; his plating takes on a sickly, pallid tone.  It’s disturbing, he thinks, that this is the same mech who takes punches from his Lord like one does pats on the back.  What did he do?  He wonders, and finds that he isn’t so sure he wants to know.

  “What do you need?” Jazz amends, wanting nothing more than for the hunted expression to be wiped free from the seeker’s face.

  “I- we- need your help,” Starscream whispers, lowering himself to the ash-covered earth.  How often does he look exactly like this?  His optics shutter as he kneels before them, his derma twisting cruelly as something that looks like coolant shines against his faceplate.  “I’ll do whatever you wish, so long as you save my trine.”