Chapter Text
Cybertron's primary star rose again, casting its cold, metallic gray light across the land. The night's frigid wind had condensed frost crystals on Starscream's armor, which made tiny, glass-like cracking sounds with each labored vent cycle he took.
He sat up abruptly, his shattered right wing shrieking in protest at the movement. His optics scanned the surroundings: still endless ruins and the distant, awakening silhouette of Iacon's core. He instinctively touched his subspace; Thundercracker's energy cubes were still plentiful. Starscream froze for a moment, then consumed one anyway, forcing his fuel tank out of low-energy levels.
It took him a long time to stand up.
It wasn't just physical damage; Starscream didn't want to move. Powering on his optics, moving – it meant confronting a reality worse than having his spark chamber pierced by Megatron: peace had arrived, and he was still alive.
Starscream barely managed to steady himself on a dust-covered metal fragment. A steady silence hung around him, broken only by the occasional slow, mechanical clang of construction cranes in the distance.
Now, he was truly awake. His processor rebooted accompanied by sharp, jarring alarms, bringing an intense, grating sensation like rusted gears forcibly meshing. Last night's memory fragments – the warm glow of Jazz's oil bar, Thundercracker's energy cubes, the blood-red sunset over the wastelands, and that silhouette – Skyfire's massive form sitting silently on the cliff edge – flooded his spark again like corrosive acid.
The frost crystals melted, droplets rolling down his chest plate, hitting the ground, leaving only shadow-like damp spots. He had no clear destination, just dragging his shattered legs, wandering endlessly through mountains of construction debris. The outer ring of Iacon's support towers had just been reinforced, their smooth alloy surfaces still bearing the manufacturer's paint marks. As Starscream moved deeper in, not a single scout drone sounded an alarm, as if he were just a fleck of iron slag mixed in with Cybertron's dust storms.
He contacted no one, nor did he intend to let anyone know he was online.
This era of peace no longer needed Starscream to be "online".
The morning sun outlined his twisted silhouette, like a scarred, battle-worn god-statue returned from hell. Starscream limped into the reconstruction zone.
His arrival caused little stir. Most 'bots just glanced up briefly before returning to their tasks. The reconstruction workload was heavy; no one had time to waste on irrelevant matters.
The main thoroughfare had been repaved. New energy conduits hummed faintly beneath Starscream's feet, stretching out like veins. His steps were light, yet with each one, loose components rattled inside his frame, and joints emitted unbearable, grating friction sounds. Starscream slowly dismissed the dense cluster of red warning alerts flooding his visual field. Compared to the last cycle, he was one step closer to falling completely apart.
Buildings lining the street still bore remnants of wartime structures – mismatched armor plating and piled materials seemed like footnotes to the city's reconstruction. Everything was patched together, everything pretended that past wounds were being smoothed over.
A few transport fliers glided low, pulling huge banners bearing Decepticon and Autobot symbols. Below the banners was a newly erected temporary market, where Autobots, Decepticons, and some unaffiliated neutral 'bots queued for energy rations.
A smooth, nauseatingly artificial electronic voice triggered automatically as Starscream crossed an invisible boundary:
"Resource Allocation Protocol Initiated: Please submit current cycle performance point records. Allocation will proceed sequentially after verification. Rationing zone requires valid work performance credentials. Those without points, please do not linger."
He heard the broadcast say, its voice crackling with static from modified speakers, reminiscent of pre-war automated defense towers, but with an added layer of false gentleness.
A large screen on a building facade by the square flashed, playing looping footage of the armistice signing. On it, Megatron and Optimus Prime clasped hands. Behind them, the treaty's contents scrolled, the projection casting an eerie blue glow on Starscream's faceplate.
He saw himself standing behind Megatron, that face twisted with anger cycling endlessly alongside the peace declaration, appearing ridiculous and ugly, always ending on a glaring line of text:
"Building a Community, Leaving Old Grudges Behind, Cybertron Belongs to Everyone."
Starscream tilted his head back, watching for a while longer, then numbly looked away, his vocalizer emitting a few indistinct syllables. He had once burned a third of his frame parts for this planet's skies. Now, this planet told him – peace was won by other 'bots, and he was just an uncleaned speck of rust on the backdrop of history.
A passing medical inspection drone flew close, its scanner sweeping over the wreckage of his right wing, emitting a "Recommend Repair" alert. Starscream just turned his head and glared at it. It immediately changed course and flew into a repair station's access port.
Starscream kept walking. Behind him, the primary star fully rose, washing the city in bright light, gilding the ruins with dazzling edges. But he knew, no matter whose frame the sunlight fell upon, it had nothing to do with Starscream.
He turned onto a relatively narrow side road. Ground vehicles sporadically sped past. This area had once been part of the city's defense works, now designated as a temporary parts recycling and sorting center. Massive mechanical arms sorted twisted armor plates onto different conveyor belts. In the distance came the piercing shriek of metal being cut. Starscream's optics unconsciously scanned the disassembled metal wreckage – construction debris mixed with discarded frame parts – Decepticon and Autobot alike. A familiar fragment of a Seeker's streamlined wing design slid off a conveyor belt and landed in the dust. Starscream's optics constricted momentarily.
"Leader!"
A panicked voice came from behind a pile of discarded pipes. Starscream swiftly turned, the red glow of his optics instantly locking onto the source.
Thundercracker emerged from the shadows, clutching a stack of datapads. He opened his mouth, but his vocalizer produced no sound, his optics betraying a flicker of anxiety.
Seems he didn't want to see me here. Why?
Thundercracker led Starscream to his work area. Reconstruction had just begun. Skywarp stood amidst the ruins, struggling to flip a huge slab of concrete off the top. Their paint jobs remained the Decepticon blue and purple, but the surface lacked its former luster, dulled by long labor.
Starscream's optics scanned their faceplates one by one, but each gaze was averted. This cautious attitude ignited a nameless fury within him:
"What are you both thinking?!" Starscream's voice was dry and cold, like the crack of ignited metal.
Thundercracker's wings flinched back. Starscream's sudden outburst seemed to startle him. His throat cables moved faintly, optics fixed on fresh scratches on the ground. "We're... clearing debris. We didn't mean to restrict your freedom, it's just that sort of place... it's a bit too dangerous."
Starscream stared him down: "Oh? Then where should I go? Stick myself as a backdrop behind your peace posters?"
Thundercracker didn't reply, just avoided his gaze, pulling the datapads closer to his chest. His optics lingered for a split second on Starscream's shattered right wing before darting away.
His voice was hollow, like an emptied energon can: "Skywarp and I are assigned to East Sector 7 Reconstruction Team. You can come anytime... if you want."
"Reconstruction Team?!"
Starscream almost roared. His left wing trembled violently, damaged joints groaning painfully. Even though he already knew, he couldn't bear to hear his wingman confirm it: "You're hauling cargo for the Autobots? Using Decepticon dignity to build their peace?!"
Look at you! Working alongside those Autobots, hauling garbage like worker ants! Is this your 'reconstruction'? Is this your 'future'?!
Starscream's fury erupted. He lunged forward, his shattered foot plating sinking into a muddy puddle of coolant, splashing filth onto Thundercracker's lower leg armor. "Look at me!!"
"What do you want us to do?!" A furious shout exploded from atop the rubble pile.
Skywarp slammed his pry bar down onto the concrete slab. The deafening clang of metal on metal startled metal birds perched on a broken beam. He jumped down, purple paint smeared with grime and energon stains, optics burning with a fire Starscream had never seen: "Charge at Megatron like you did and rot in the ruins?! Or starve waiting for Primus to appear?!"
"Thundercracker and I were like your loyal turbohounds, abandoned but still guarding the door!"
Thundercracker tried to grasp his companion's arm: "Skywarp! Don't—"
"Let him speak!" Starscream's optics narrowed to crimson slits, his vocalizer's output distorted and grating like metal shrieking.
Skywarp didn't speak further, his chest plate heaving. Thundercracker finally looked up, his blue optics heavy with emotion: "Leader... the living have to find a way."
Starscream stepped back, unsteady, his foot landing on a piece of debris. He looked down: a small fragment of chest armor painted purple, bearing scorch marks.
"You can actually work alongside them?" His voice lowered.
"We want to live." Thundercracker said calmly.
Starscream's fury suddenly froze. He looked at his subordinates' worn joints and dulled paint. In the distance, the crusher roared like a beast digesting, grinding old glory, hatred, comrades' remains... all into fertilizer for the new world.
Three Decepticons stood in the center of the ruins. None moved. None spoke again. A brief silence fell. The roar of distant mechanical arms sounded especially harsh.
The metal birds returned to the beam, watching them warily, as if unsure which world they belonged to: the wartime one, or this seemingly peaceful ruin?
Starscream's vents drew long in the silence. He finally looked down at the filth splashed on Thundercracker's leg armor, silent for a long moment.
"You are free," he said softly. "I thought I was too."
"You are free. We are too," Thundercracker finally spoke, his voice weary, almost pleading. He produced several more energy cubes: "Please take them."
Starscream took them this time. He reached out, the motion of stowing them one by one into his subspace was mechanical and slow, like just another part of routine maintenance. He didn't say thank you, and didn't intend to. He knew why Thundercracker gave them to him – not charity, not reconciliation, just fear he'd deactivate somewhere in a cycle with no one to collect his corpse. He took them, probably because he no longer had the right to refuse.
He was still alive, but this planet was no longer the battlefield he had burned for. Starscream slowly closed his finger joints; the sound was sharp, like the crack of silent resignation.
Is this how you see me? A wreck that needs fuel handouts from you "rebuilders"?
He said nothing more, just slowly turned. The scorched chest plate fragment under his foot was kicked aside, sliding into a patch of shadowed, stagnant water. Starscream didn't look back. His pace was as slow as ever, staggering as if in an invisible storm. Thundercracker didn't follow. Skywarp just stood there, pry bar hanging at his side, the light in his optics dimming.
Starscream passed through mountains of scrap metal. His figure was fragmented by the morning light, finally disappearing into a deep shadow within the city, as if he had never been there. Only the lingering scent of gunpowder in the air, like invisible proof, testified that his existence still lingered in a corner of this world.
The shadows swallowed the last outline of Starscream, cutting off the outside clamor and the complex gazes of his wingmen. He hadn't gone far, just leaned against a half-collapsed, bullet-riddled metal wall. The cold wall seeped through the gaps in his damaged armor into his spark, bringing a sensation of almost numb, blunt pain.
Within his processor, the storm seemed to have drained his last reserves. An overwhelming fatigue, far heavier than anger, completely submerged him.
As he moved deeper into the ruins, his pace didn't quicken, but the wind seemed gentler. A city system terminal announced a new round of construction times in the distance, mixed with the sound of drones activating, echoing in his mind like background noise.
He didn't look back. He didn't want to see Thundercracker's faceplate, looking like he wanted to say something but holding back. Yet, a voice he couldn't completely shake lingered at the edge of his processor, repeating that blunt, yet knife-sharp phrase:
"We want to live."
Starscream sneered inwardly. He was long past being someone easily swayed by such reasons. But the sneer lasted only half a second before snapping off like a broken spur, embedding itself in a silent corner of his spark.
He lived, on others' energy cubes.
His wingmen lived, on others' peace.
Wind swept down between the towers, stirring his tattered wing. Starscream narrowed his optics, adjusting his gait to be slightly steadier. He still didn't feel this was "peace," but he finally realized: this world would not take a single step backward because of his anger. No matter how he raged, refused, wandered, he couldn't turn back time, couldn't reignite Cybertron's flames of war. He was like a stubborn piece of metal refusing recycling, but the planet's entire forge was operating. He would eventually be crushed, assimilated.
Starscream couldn't change the course of this "peace," just as he couldn't repair his wings. Thundercracker and Skywarp had chosen their way to survive – clumsy, humiliating, but at least it had meaning. And he? What choice did he have besides continuing to wander, or finding a place to go permanently offline? The Rust Sea? The thought surfaced again, but it had lost last night's desperate allure, leaving only an equally cold void.
He slowly opened his optics, gaze sweeping over the busy figures on the distant construction site, regardless of faction. An unprecedented, empty calm, like cooled metal, slowly covered his boiling processor. He stopped thinking about Thundercracker and Skywarp, stopped thinking about Megatron or Optimus Prime, even temporarily muted the sharp alarms from his frame. Starscream just walked, like a broken machine programmed only to "move," searching in this new world he couldn't understand or change for a corner where his pile of scrap could go offline temporarily without being immediately cleared away.
He dragged his heavy steps away from the main road, heading towards a partially cleared but undeveloped area of building ruins. Piles of dismantled metal frames and concrete blocks awaiting processing formed a maze of varying heights. Starscream stopped in a relatively hidden depression formed by massive support beams and prefab panels. It was dark enough, quiet enough, to shut out the clamorous, false world outside.
With difficulty and a near self-destructive resolve, he collapsed into the rubble. His damaged armor scraped against the cold metal ground, making a teeth-gritting sound. He shut down most of his sensors, leaving only minimal alertness, preparing to enter stasis. Data streams within his processor began slowly fading into chaos. As he slowly dimmed his optics before shutdown, he faintly heard a low rumble in the distance – not a mechanical arm, not a drone. He didn't try to identify it, didn't care. Now, he just wanted to disconnect from this world – even if only for a few cycles.
A cold thought sliced through the depths of his processor just before plunging into stasis, like an ember not yet fully extinguished:
"If I go permanently offline here, will anyone find me? Who would it be?"
Starscream got no answer.
Consciousness sank into darkness like falling from a great height. He let his broken frame press fully against the construction debris, as if trying to weld himself to this land he had once tried to destroy and later could only watch being rebuilt.
The wind kept blowing. The broadcast kept looping. But it all had nothing to do with him.
------For now.
Chaotic darkness enveloped Starscream like Rust Sea silt. For a few moments, he vaguely heard Thundercracker calling "Leader," or the high-pitched whine of Megatron's cannon charging – until a more tangible vibration came from beneath him.
Not a dream. It was the crunch of treads grinding over broken metal, and... a deliberately hushed, static-laced young voice:
"He's just lying there?"
Another voice, rougher: "...How is he still here? I thought he was long dead."
Starscream didn't open his optics, but his processor regained a sliver of awareness.
"Don't get close," a third voice cut in coldly. "Do you know what he used to do?"
"I've heard things, but I never saw him, don't know him," the younger one said.
"He's the one who air-raided Energy Tower Six. I saw my partner buried alive in the wreckage with my own optics."
A long silence.
"Oh... sorry to hear that," the rough-voiced 'bot said, but his tone was breezy. "But the state he's in now... well, he kinda looks like wreckage himself." The 'bot gave a low chuckle.
"Let's go. Don't gawk. Plenty to do."
Starscream thought that was the end of it, but he now suspected he'd collapsed at some sort of crossroads, as more Cybertronians passed by and stopped near him.
"I have a medkit..." a voice said softly, "...though he probably wouldn't want me touching him."
A pause.
"Should we get Ratchet? He should still recognize Ratchet."
Bleeding spark. Starscream thought silently.
"Slag it... it's that Starscream!"
Another one arrived, voice tight with suppressed fury. "This maniac's the reason I have to rebuild the foundry again! Look at the state of him... serves him right!"
A worker affected by the uprising.
"Tired, huh? You used to be so cocky, mocking a whole line of Autobots without breaking a vent."
"When you used to broadcast, your pitch always rose at the end, you know?"
"I honestly thought you were dead."
"You don't like this version of peace either, do you?"
Where did this babbling lunatic come from?
Another 'bot said nothing at all. He just walked up to Starscream, crouched, draped a scrap of cloth over his tattered wing, and walked away.
Starscream remained lying there.
He didn't move. He didn't respond to any words or offerings.
But in the deepest, nearly stagnant core of his processor, these fragmented perceptions, like stones dropped into stagnant water, left ripples too faint to see. Anger, pity, curses, sighs, indifference... these emotions settled on his still-warm wreckage like differently colored dust.
The wind still whistled through the gaps in the ruins. In the distance, the city reconstruction broadcast continued its loop, the electronic voice piercing clearly, intertwining with the words of those 'bots:
"...Please submit current cycle performance point records. Allocation will proceed sequentially after verification. Rationing zone requires valid work performance credentials..."
The moment Starscream opened his optics, no one noticed.
He just looked at the sky between the towers, listening to the overlapping voices around him like listening to a broadcast about someone else. The area was empty again. No one had tried to wake him.
But perhaps no one had truly left.
A little later, a one-armed Decepticon soldier trudged past. His scars were older than Starscream's, his paintwork etched with the marks of gunpowder. He stopped, optics fixed on Starscream, the gaze like physical flame.
"Coward!" The soldier's voice was hoarse and forceful, each word like a hammer on metal. "You didn't defeat Megatron, you didn't choose to die! You betrayed the Decepticon glory! You failed! Deservedly!"
Naive, cowardly, and stupid. Starscream saw through him instantly – just a minor player seeking relevance by poking scars. He had no time for such a clown. Starscream sat up, his joints emitting faint creaks from disuse. He didn't look at the soldier, just slowly adjusted his posture where he was, as if reclaiming attention that didn't belong to him.
The soldier pressed on, his frame lopsided from the old shoulder injury, looking particularly menacing in the dawn light:
"You think you deserve to stand?"
"Your existence drags the Decepticons down!"
Starscream finally raised his optics, his gaze sharp as a blade, but before he could speak—
"Enough."
A clear voice cut through from outside the gathering, carrying undeniable authority. It wasn't loud, yet it instinctively halted Starscream.
It was Bumblebee. He walked over from the other end of the work zone, his silhouette stretched long in the mix of sunlight and dust, shoulder armor bearing construction ID stripes. He carried no weapons, assumed no combat stance, just repeated softly as he approached:
"Enough."
Bumblebee stopped in front of Starscream, blocking all the gazes directed at him. He didn't look at the soldier, just calmly swept his optics over him and said:
"Starscream has not been stripped of his rank. His Decepticon military status remains intact."
"...What?" The one-armed soldier instinctively took half a step back. "What are you talking about?"
"I said," Bumblebee drew a sharp vent, his voice suddenly rising, tone ironclad, "Starscream is still Air Commander! Decepticon High Command! And your superior officer!"
The air seemed to freeze in that instant.
The fury on the one-armed soldier's faceplate instantly solidified. His optics reflected the name that, even sitting in ruins, still looked down upon them. Not Starscream – but Commander Starscream.
"You can hate him," Bumblebee continued, his tone cooling. "You can question him. But you can't use his scars to fill your own emptiness while he can barely stand."
He took another step forward, fully shielding Starscream.
"If you still consider yourself a soldier, get back to your work zone. Otherwise, bite the words 'superior officer' out of your vocalizer right now, and lie down here to rot with him."
Silence stretched for seconds. The soldier finally said nothing more, just vented heavily and turned, walking into the dust-choked main path.
Starscream slowly looked up, the red glow of his optics floating in the dust. He didn't speak immediately, just studied Bumblebee's faceplate for a moment – analyzing, judging, searching for weakness. He wasn't used to a former enemy standing in front of him.
"You're either propping me up," his voice was hoarse, crackling with processor static, "or reminding them I'm just a 'title' now?"
He looked Bumblebee over, his gaze sweeping from the fresh paint on his chest plate to the clean energy ports on his knees, finally resting on those firmly planted legs. After a brief silence, Starscream looked up, his voice low and cold:
"Don't waste your time. I'm nothing now. None of you need me."
"Done?" Bumblebee crossed his arms. "At least you can sit up. I thought I'd need to call a crane."
Starscream stared at him.
"Unfortunately for you, next cycle, most likely, you won't be coming online again."
"Your spark is about to meet Primus."
Starscream suddenly laughed. The sound carried the brittle rattle of loose metal, quiet but echoing clearly in the empty ruins. "You're stating something everyone knows, bug."
He leaned against the wall, like a weathered statue. "No need to remind me, Bumblebee. It's just... I knew this ending long before you did."
A low hum sounded in the distance.
Bumblebee nodded. "Alright then. I'll make a call." Starscream watched him step aside, make a real-time comm, then step back in front of him, saying: "If you really want to know the ending, then stand steady."
The next second, a bright white medical strobe light cut across the sky – the deep thrum of Ratchet's hover engines sounded as his deep green armor plowed through obstructive debris like an icebreaker entering a silent harbor.
The doors opened. Starscream instinctively tried to turn away, but wasn't fast enough.
Two auxiliary medical drones swiftly descended, activating tractor locks. He'd barely raised an arm, his optics not fully bright, when Ratchet jumped from the driver's seat, movements crisp. Ratchet approached, not even glancing at Starscream, medical scan beams already sweeping over the wrecked frame like searchlights.
"Same old," Bumblebee walked closer. "Another stubborn piece of scrap."
"Left main energon line rupture! Spark chamber pressure critical! Wheeljack—!"
Starscream felt himself lifted. Hydraulic cutters sheared through the steel beam pinning his leg. He instinctively swung an arm to resist, but his wrist was caught in a firm grip. A needle precisely pierced a crack in his neck cabling. He could feel energon surging back into his brain module from his spark chamber. The sounds reaching his audio receptors were distorted.
"Don't move." Ratchet hissed, his voice like grinding gears, his vents hot on Starscream's faceplate. "Stay alive until you get on my operating table—I don't fix corpses."
How strange. Just moments ago he felt he could last half a cycle. Why did he feel like he was dying the moment the doctor arrived?
The icy fluid, mixed with that harsh command, flooded his systems. Before Starscream's consciousness faded, the last thing he saw was Ratchet's oil-stained faceplate—he felt he wouldn't want to see those optics again.
"See this?! This is what you call 'winning'—"
The welding torch sealed the ruptured line, "—winning by turning yourself into Cybertron's most expensive scrap!"
Sparks flew onto the exposed cover of Starscream's spark chamber:
"—winning by making yourself almost impossible for us to save!"
Ratchet was truly furious this time. Wheeljack silently transferred the unconscious Starscream into the vehicle, thinking, this isn't his usual style.
Bumblebee waved his hand, dispersing the onlookers: "Alright, alright, you all heard—don't ignore injuries, get timely treatment. Or your fate will be the same as the Decepticon Air Commander's. Get back to work."
When Starscream awoke, bright surgical lights filled his vision. The sounds of instruments clashing and the steady rhythm of a spark pulse monitor reached his audio receptors. He tried to move, but found half his torso locked in a brace. The armor on his lower body was still disassembled, wiring exposed, energy supply partially interrupted.
"Don't move."
Ratchet's voice was low, like a command pulled from an old recording tape. "One move now, and your posterior spinal strut could snap in two."
Starscream rolled his optics: "Then get on with it. Don't waste time."
"You really want to die?" The welding torch in Ratchet's hand paused abruptly, its beam flashing in the air, leaving a spark. "Are you that stupid, or do you think we're that idle?"
"Aren't you all about showing tolerance, saving lives?" Starscream stared at the lights, his tone cold as ice. "Just don't waste your efforts on this scrap."
Ratchet didn't answer immediately, just continued working. Starscream felt the heat searing ruptured tissue, while some chemical adhesive solidified in the gaps of his joints. His spark chamber vibrated faintly.
After a moment, Ratchet spoke again, his voice softer, sounding more like his usual, calmer self:
"One cycle ago, last night, I found Megatron."
Starscream's optics flared brightly for an instant, the blue welding light reflecting on his faceplate.
"He saw me and said, 'I thought you were here for my spark too?'"
Starscream snorted faintly: "He probably did."
"I went in my own name. No one else knew."
"I told him: 'It's over, Megatron. The grudges, the blood and tears, the smoke and fire... they are all in the past. We are no longer enemies. We are all Cybertronians.'"
Starscream raised an optic ridge, sarcasm almost spilling out: "Is this 'Leader-speak' contagious? Especially around Optimus?"
Ratchet, caught off guard, actually gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle. The welding torch spun deftly in his grasp. "You know? Megatron said almost the same thing. He said, 'Standard Leader-style rhetoric. Trying to erase millions of cycles of war by pretending to erase the divide.' Said he'd heard enough."
"He couldn't possibly listen."
"He listened." Ratchet said. "He looked like he was fed up with us, but he didn't interrupt me."
The welding torch flared again, sealing a crack on Starscream's chest plate.
"I told him, letting go of the past doesn't mean forgetting it."
Starscream didn't respond, but his optics flickered.
"Letting go of the past doesn't mean forgetting it, Megatron."
Ratchet stood before the massive frame, his voice steady but firm.
Megatron looked up. The two moons reflected silver-white light off his frame. His tone still held the Decepticon leader's characteristic chill: "Seems you haven't forgotten those who died because of 'us'."
"We remember them always."
"Then the war shouldn't have stopped!" Megatron cut him off angrily. "The outcome should have been the Decepticons defeating the Autobots, or the Autobots crushing the Decepticons!—Either destruction, or victory! That's war's end!"
Ratchet didn't refute immediately. He was silent for a few seconds, then spoke slowly: "That doesn't matter anymore, Megatron. It's irrelevant. Or rather—Cybertron now no longer needs you and me to decide what 'matters'."
"We remember those who died for their ideals." His gaze was heavy. "That's why we rebuild. That's why we make this planet function again. Only then do their deaths have meaning."
"'We' can't waste more living sparks because of the dead's curses."
"And the living?" Megatron stared at him, voice low and rough. "You think the living don't have curses?"
"They do." Ratchet answered without hesitation. "That's why 'we' are rebuilding—not to make excuses for the dead, but to give the living's pain an outlet."
He looked at him then, his gaze sharp as the welding light: "We're repairing more than the city's structure. We're repairing the trust between Cons and Bots, between Cybertronians, even between Cybertron and the rest of the universe. If we don't do this, the living will become the new dead."
"So you came to save me? To cleanse my spark?"
"No." Ratchet lowered his head, his voice like a quiet nail driven into metal:
"I came only to say, I forgive you."
Ratchet turned, took a set of emergency regeneration fluids from the tool tray, and inserted them into Starscream's lines. He walked to the berthside, leaned down to adjust the partially open chest plate interfaces. The surgery was almost over. Starscream looked at the complex instruments; all readings had returned to normal.
"I give you the same words. I forgive you, just like I forgave Megatron."
"Whatever you did before, I forgive you, Starscream."
Starscream turned his head sharply, optics vibrating intensely.
Ratchet straightened up, continued tidying his tools, not looking at him: "But I won't say it twice."
When the Sea of Rust reappeared at the edge of his vision, Starscream almost felt deceived – as if nothing had changed. Metal ridges wound into the distance, layers of rust flaking off in the wind, scattering into golden dust. Moonlight filtered through broken clouds, falling on his newly repaired red paintwork – smooth, sharp, just like during the war.
His steps halted for a moment. He looked down – new leg armor, pristine, unblemished wings. Every crack had been precisely filled, every piece of armor polished back to its remembered contour. No mismatched parts, no off-color replacements. He could even feel the temperature of the energon flowing beneath the fresh paint. Everything was exactly as it had been.
As if he had never shattered. Never been lost.
...How ironic.
Starscream slowly stepped forward. His metal boot sole crunched on the rust layer. A familiar cold wind blew from the distance, but brought no familiar sting. He couldn't even be sure if the 'him' who stood on that cliff looking at Skyfire yesterday had already become part of the Sea of Rust.
What remained now was just an empty shell, meticulously copied, polished, and filed away.
Starscream masked his spark signature. He returned here only to resolve a doubt within himself.
He didn't rush to find the familiar figure. He walked down the slope and stood firm in the wind. The wind stirred his perfectly new wings, making them sway gently in the air, like a hawk folding its wings, or like the fading shadow of some long-forgotten ritual.
This frame had not a single flaw. It was even more precise than he remembered.
Skyfire still sat unmoving at the edge of the Rust Sea cliff, his back enormous, silent, as if he hadn't shifted an inch.
Starscream stood behind him, silently watching that back. His paint job couldn't hide in the night, but he was certain Skyfire wouldn't turn. The wind whistled through the newly repaired gaps in his armor, a low hum merging with the Rust Sea's roar.
Skyfire remained seated, gazing at the far horizon of the Rust Sea. Moonlight cast long silver lines on his broad back plating, almost blending him with the skyline. His once snow-white armor was now speckled with rust-red stains.
Starscream suddenly wasn't sure why he had come. He just watched for a while, then took a step back and turned. He made no sound.
He vanished like a passing ghost, carrying a body both new and heavy, disappearing silently into the Rust Sea night – unseen.
The dead don't matter anymore. What matters is how to deal with the living. Ratchet said. Starscream thought.