Chapter Text
Starscream looks at the red Autobot for a little bit longer than he intended to. His optics linger on his chassis, bright red, full of colour, heaving slightly. Movement that clearly comes from the rough in- and exvents of the mech.
Cliffjumper doesn’t say a word. They both already taunted each other enough. Their optics lock a few times. Red meets blue, and for a split fraction of a klik, Starscream sees something beyond an enemy. He reminds himself that he is alive.
His claws flex. He should be plunging them through that bright red plating, straight through his sparkchamber. He should make it easy for the Autobot, because every other mech he can stumble upon in this hellhole ship would not spare him or give that same luxury.
Only a few drones know. Barely conscious duplicates of one and the same, and Starscream is aware that they would forget about this in the matter of a cycle. Nobody would remember that an Autobot had entered the base. Starscream ignored the idea of Soundwave’s surveillance for now. If Soundwave had found out, then he would be here.
“What’cha looking at, ‘con?”
Seems like Starscream had forgotten to stop staring. He averts his gaze to the floor and continues overthinking.
Starscream feels his claws twitch again. He doesn’t know what to do.
How long does he have left until Megatron comes back from his vacation to look for warriors that don’t exist? How long does he have until his makeshift peace is disrupted again? How long, until everything comes crumbling down again and again and again and again andagainandagain-?
For the past few years, Starscream had built himself up again shakily. His leg struts ache from holding himself in a position that is temporary, until the real leader comes back. His wings feel heavy on his back, but it’s the lightest he’s felt in millions of years. Silver servos are already dented and scratched. Megatron didn’t have scratches on his hands. A real king didn’t have to do the work on his own- his servants would do it for him.
Starscream wasn’t a king then.
Starscream isn’t a king now.
In the optics of the Nemesis, he is a placeholder of the glory that is to come. In the optics of the enemy, he is a white flag that is torn down when war continues. In his own processor, Starscream is lost.
Starscream had lost.
Starscream still loses.
Starscream will lose again.
The wings on his back sag slightly. He looks at the Autobot again. Starscream hadn’t graced him with an answer earlier, maybe he’s mad about that.
His thoughts drift over to the amount of work he still has to do. Mountains of datapads, routine checks, drills and more. They don’t work without Starscream, and Starscream will do it all to ensure they work.
“Don’t you know what to do with an enemy without your master?”
That’s true. If Megatron had been here, this mech wouldn’t have survived. He’d be offline on the floor somewhere, and Starscream would have to move on and do his work anyway. Like any other cycle.
His master. Is he really that dependent on Megatron? Do the Autobots think that Megatron is Starscream’s owner? Or maybe he looks more like a pet instead? Starscream isn’t sure if he’s not actually a slave to the warlord.
The designation Starscream doesn’t fall without Megatron being mentioned first. Starscream is an extension of Megatron. He doesn’t exist without his master, but the master can exist without the extension. Starscream isn’t his own mech. Starscream doesn’t exist.
Starscream belongs.
“Transport him. To my habsuite.”
Cliffjumper makes a slight noise, but the drones move him nonetheless. He stares at the spot where the captive was bound earlier.
Starscream follows, entering his own habsuite as well. Today, it wouldn’t be empty, just like it used to be once before. It doesn't comfort Starscream, and maybe he feels pressured. But these optics are blue, and not red.
This mech had blue optics.
This mech wasn’t that big.
This mech was red.
Starscream’s claw leaves a mark on the frame of the door. It’s jagged and crooked. His servo must’ve been trembling, as usual. Knockout can’t seem to fix that stupid tremor.
The mark on the frame of the door glistens gently. It is joined by dozens of other marks from the past, one lost in the count of many. Starscream feels the doorframe.
Under the touch of his digit, the little cuts and dents seem endless.
How many times had he stood in this frame like this, scared hesitating?