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When the time to clean what once had been Starscream’s quarters, as the prison had become his permanent residence; Windblade had found a plaque with a rather interesting message engraved.
“When faced with extinction, every alternative is preferable.”
She remembered to have sighed in exhaustion, a feeble smile crossing her lips as she remembered his tired frame, his wings lowered for perhaps the first time as his back rested against the cell-wall, a soft smile brought by the sight of the hologram of his true self.
Ironhide had insisted on throwing away everything. “It isn’t as if he’s coming back!” he had argued as he was pushing the sole box that his possessions occupied in a corner. Windblade had insisted on keeping them somewhere. As the new Ruler of Cybertron (people were still not used to call her ‘First Delegate’), they had thought it would be best for her to live in the building.
She had had no idea Starscream had lived there.
“I doubt he’ll mind,” had commented Chromia, rather happy to be able to throw Starscream’s stuff away, even when his belongings had not directly offended her. Windblade was happy to have her back, even if briefly as her mission was not over; but after everything, after Starscream having exiled her in order to search for Liege Maximo, after he did not condemn her as she knew he had wanted to… she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of hurt. She understood everyone being angry for the lies he kept, but she also understood Starscream’s reasoning for keeping them, as twisted as said reasoning might have been.
‘You were with me for too long, City Speaker’ she had imagined the Starscream voice inside her processor saying. She had frowned at this, but it could be true. There were lots of missing pieces in relation to him that now fit, in fact.
The place had been cleaned, the possessions gathered and sealed, ready to be put into a storage room out of the building, and then Windblade’s stuff had been brought in.
Hers were even fewer belongings, despite the fact she had been exiled. Too devoted to her work, Windblade had nothing but her sword and some personal-care tools. Her makeup always travelled with her, but even so, it wasn’t that much of a luggage. Blurr had brought everything to what were to be her quarters in one swift trip and, more due to the overwhelming burden that was then settling in her servos than to the effort during the clean-up, Windblade had excused herself and asked to do it on her own.
No one had protested, though Chromia had lingered for a while longer. Now that Windblade was no longer Camien by right, Chromia was not her bodyguard. The Mistress was probably going to make sure Windblade and Chromia never met again, but as the news of Windblade’s election had reached her audios, Chromia had been quick to return in secrecy, if only to see her best friend awake before parting again. Plotting her dismissal of Caminus too was an option, but Windblade opposed to this idea. As soon as Chromia had left the room, reassured by Windblade’s own words of “we’ll work something out,” the ‘First Delegate’ had heaved another tired vent before taking in the view.
It was a very spacious room, with a balcony for a better view of the city. The windows had been open when they had arrived, and Windblade had never closed them after laying her sword where a model-version of Starscream’s own seeker frame had previously rested. She had left her tools and makeup packed and placed the box at the end of her berth.
And that had been it, really. That was all she had needed to do.
Time had gone by very swiftly after that. Chromia had departed once more in search of Liege Maximo, now pardoned of her crimes and with the advantage of being able to travel freely; the Council, though unwillingly in its entirety, had strengthened their bonds and defenses, for the time when Liege Maximo was either found or returned to imprisonment. Life in Cybertron had slowly, yet steadily and constantly, started to improve under Windblade’s ruling. And yet there were nights in which she remained awake, gazing upon the starry sky as if lost. A part of her had never let go of the moment in which, with the press of one digit onto the datapad, she had locked up perhaps forever the once called and revered (by a few), ‘Chosen One’.
She sighed that night, her wings as low as her spirits. Her optics focused on the brimming lights now that Metroplex was able to provide more energy for their people, she let her thoughts to trail back to the previous ruler’s belongings, of which a golden crown with embedded rubies stood among all. She had placed the crown inside the box, along with the rest of his possessions, but had taken it out more than once, if only to wear it in front of a mirror Starscream had also had and for which she had found the very same practical use of checking how she looked.
The first time she had taken out the crown, she merely thought it matched her plating, and then put it back to concealment.
The second time had been for a formal ceremony with the rest of the Council members, she had taken it out just as a complement of her attire, but eventually discarded as it was too ostentatious. She had left it lying in her berth and returned it to its box once she had returned, later that night.
But the third time had been different. It had been a year since she had started to rule and though it was a very short time-period for a Cybertronian, it was unfortunately marked by the first news she had received of Starscream.
According to one of the doctors called upon prisoner’s needs, Starscream was starting to show the symptoms of a common-for-grounded-seekers mental illness, caused by his flying-deprivation. She had been swift to call the Council and ask on what it should be done, only to realize they were not as eager as her on doing anything that compromised his lack of liberty.
“No one would ever accept Starscream flying even if escorted,” had argued Elita rather stiffly. She had sadly been right. Caminus shared this concern, though Windblade could not shake the feeling the Mistress had done it mostly to upset her. Eukaris had been more lenient, understanding the need to fly; but Navitas had settled the vote. Knock Out disagreed entirely and Moonracer, although understanding Starscream’s predicament, could not deny it would be a good opportunity for Starscream to escape.
Windblade had gone to Blurr’s bar that night, hoping her friends would offer some comfort. She had felt guilty later that night, hoping to hear words of encouragement to release her from the guilt that slowly started to form in her spark. Wheeljack had shown more concern when he heard the news, and tried to visit Starscream more often, though his visits were limited and regulated by Ironhide, who would not budge as often and as both Wheeljack and Windblade thought it was necessary. Eventually… Eventually, Starscream requested not to be seen at all anymore. Only by a doctor, if they thought it necessary. Windblade had tried to schedule more visits from the doctor than the ones already arranged, but it was as if he had expected this. He rejected to see the doctor, and that was the last she heard of him for a long time.
As night covered the skies of the city, Windblade had retreated to her quarters, thinking once again about what might have become of Starscream. The crown no longer rested in the box with the rest of the owner’s belongings, but rested next to her sword; always in sight whether she went to rest or woke up. It was a grim reminder of whom it belonged and of the things he had done in order to keep it.
The things she was supposed to avoid, the temptation she must never give in.
Tonight, however, the crown was dangling from her digits while she admired the night beauty from the balcony. Stars shone dimly in comparison with the bright lamppost of the city. The buildings were engulfed by a glowing mist of oranges, yellows and pints of whites. It was incredible how it had become a city of brimming life; it was nothing like the Cybertron she had met when she had arrived. It was a bit unfair.
She grabbed the crown and held it tightly, knowing she had done the right thing. It was the entirety of the Council who had voted for life imprisonment, and at that moment she had agreed to it (it was better than execution in any case). Yet she had never expected Starscream to go insane and, as time had gone by, she had started wondering whether it even made a difference.
The progress she had been able to see through had come to a great personal expense. The debating hours with the Council were long and draining, but she assumed that would be nothing if it wasn’t for the constant opposition she faced from Elita and the Mistress of Flame. She could not trust them anymore and, as everyone maintained an air of impartiality in their silent war for doing what each considered ‘the right thing’ to do, Windblade had started to feel lonely.
When she took the crown out of its hiding spot for the fourth time (for she feared what others would say if they saw her with it), Windblade had worn it in front of the mirror and thought of how heavy it must have felt for Starscream, with every crime piling up. She wondered of the flightless days and nights (albeit free) in which he had to either work or scheme for his own benefit and safety. She wondered of the constant anxiety in which he had lived, making sure nobody had anything that could be used against him. She wondered of his own loneliness, caused by his fear of being caught.
And now… now she wondered if she was about to take the same path as him.
She had nothing to hide, but there was no denying she did not feel entirely safe around every one anymore. She had thought Starscream was bad enough but, in retrospective, they had learned to… deal with each other. Something that could no be said for her new dissidents.
Heaving a sigh, she walked back inside her quarters, the weight of the crown drowning even further her spirits. With Chromia still away, and nobody in a position to either give her advice or merely understand her, Windblade took a seat at the edge of her own berth, her optics travelling from the embedded rubies on the crown to the stale metallic ground. She had never thought being honest and true to herself would have costed her what it did. Or maybe they had just revealed their true colors?
“This won’t do,” she thought bitterly, a smile on her lips as she thought of the one being that would understand her. She wondered whether Starscream had actually gone insane… or just needed someone to talk with. Maybe that was why he had started to ‘talk’ with Bumblebee. However, if she could choose to talk to anybody…
“He’s still alive,” she told herself before her own mind could remind her in the probable state of mind in which she could find him; if she dared to pay him a visit after all this time.
Did she dare though? She had said her goodbye, she had left him there. Outcasted and uncommunicated with the outer world, unable to fly and on the verge of going insane (if not insane already), would it be even safe? She knew her physical integrity would be unscatched, he would not attack her. But what about her own mental stability? Could she be able to face Cybertron after taking in the sight of her decision, of her ruling, on a single being?
No sound interrupted the time while she pondered on this question. The answer, as she dragged her resolution, was clearly ‘no’. And yet, as she stood up and faced the mirror, she had settled her mind.
She was going to visit him.
She held the crown tightly before leaving, standing up to meet her reflection in the mirror. Though polished, well-nourished and protected, Windblade met the sight of her frame with critical optic. She had refused to wear the garments of someone of her political level, convinced this would bring discourse at her back from the Mistress due to her no-longer-hers Camien ancestry. The makeup she still wore was to remind herself of her origins, of her oath as a City Speaker and of who she had decided to become. Her wings were never raised as high as to express she would not consider another opinion, yet her gaze was unusually determined. Somehow, she looked the same as when she had arrived, and yet she felt so different.
She looked at her reflection, for once feeling angry with herself. She would never be able to wear that crown. It just weighted too much. It was a burden greater than she could ever lift, let along carry it for as long as she lived. She was not a ruler of this land; a ruler was the kind of being who would decree and not look back, doing everything for the ‘sake’ of progress. No, she was a delegate, someone the people had confided in, entrusted her with the power to do good. If she could not face Starscream after everything then she had failed. If her conscience was truly free from guilt for the verdict…
“If I cannot face him,” she thought, the crown held tightly in her servos, “then I am not fit for this. If I cannot learn to regret my decisions, accept a mistake, to judge in something more than absolutes, then I am not fit to guide these people.”
She stared at the crown for the last time, knowing she would never be able to wear it. She was there to help, not to rule. Though right now… it was she who needed to be helped. Starscream had never believed there were others he could rely upon. She had to believe the opposite in order to become better… whether he was the right choice to ask for help, it was a different matter.
But she had to try.
Placing the crown next to her sword, and willing herself to go unarmed, she ran towards the balcony and jumped, transforming in mid-air and setting course to the prison in which Starscream was still being held. The Combacticons had been eventually moved, their brawls for Blast-Off’s treason becoming too frequent and too violent for any of them to remain in the same cell. Rattrap had eventually asked to be further trialed in Eukaris, in where he got off from his life-sentence though he could no longer travel to Cybertron. Only Starscream remained in that building. The rest of the Cybertronian population seemed to be behaving quite well.
She doubted any guard would remain awake, no matter how efficient they could be at their job. Knowing Ironhide would never grant her permission (unless it was a life-or-death situation, one she could explain), to visit Starscream in the conditions he supposedly was, Windblade had no choice but to sneak into the prison, carefully landing and walking so as not to disrupt the silence of the place. With darkness as her cover, she trod through the corridors, her digits always touching the walls in search of corners or dead ends. For when she reached Starscream’s corridor, she stopped. The lights of the hallway, though flickering feebly, were still on.
She walked almost fearfully, her wings fluttering as she felt the tension rising. She could distinguish his frame more as her steps led her closer to him. He seemed to be curled up in the corner, his wings pressed stiffly against the cold metal. His optics were not entirely closed and facing the lower side of the wall next to him. The usual mischievous glint that shone alive whenever he had a terrible idea had vanished.
“S-Starscream?” she asked tentatively upon reaching his cell. There was a faint muttering sound coming from his lips but no signal of acknowledgement. He did not direct his gaze towards her at the sound of her voice, but the muttering became more distinctive. She did not want to think with whom he was talking to.
Sitting on her knees to be optic-level with him, she decided to press on.
“It’s…” there was no point in saying ‘me’ if he no longer knew who ‘me’ stood for. “It’s Windblade, I…” a small pause, “I came to see you.”
“I wanted to talk to you about, well…” she went on, feeling slightly discouraged by the lack of response. She was speaking softly, though not in a low voice. She wanted to be heard by him, but she dared not to demand his full attention when she had neglected her own as his condition had worsened.
“There are so many things I actually need to tell you,” she corrected herself. “I guess I should apologise first for, well… abandoning you.”
Something akin to a grunt came out of the restless mech. His wings twitched instinctively and his expression darkened. As terrible as these signs were to what she wanted to tell him, a part of her was glad that he was listening, that he was still there, even if not fully conscious.
“I never intended for things to end like this,” she tried on, even though her vocalizer started malfunctioning. “I knew you’d have to pay for the things you did wrong,” a short pause, she wanted to check she was not making him angrier, “and I admit I was pretty angry myself when I learnt about everything... and yet…”
Yet she thought he did not deserve this. A life of imprisonment had proved to be too much of a punishment when others who had done worse had gotten a better treatment. What was worse, nobody knew what haunted Starscream, nobody could understand the painful process of transformation he had gone through. He would probably still be unreliable to the optics of Cybertron… but she at least was willing to give him a second chance. After all, wasn’t he ravaged by the war too? And yet he was elected to rule when even himself did not know how to do it without betraying, backstabbing and scheming as he had always done to survive.
Well, there was his own ambition to think of… but even the best of desires can misguide someone.
“I’m sorry, Starscream,” she whispered, “I… I really tried to help you.”
There was no response from the inmate. Windblade had no idea if Starscream was even paying attention anymore, her optics were facing only her knees, where her servos rested, clenched due to the repressed feelings. Had she lifted her optics she would have noticed though, his frame had become still as a statue and though his optics remained averting her spot, the muttering had stopped.
“I tried to plead your case with the Council,” she went on, “but the majority voted against the options provided,” her voice cracked once more but she persisted, “Wheeljack tried to visit you as often as he could but then you dismissed having visitors unless they were a medic... and even that you shut off when I tried to schedule as many visits as they thought necessary!”
She had not yelled but her voice had raised and her will to remain calm failed her. It had sounded like an accusation because she had meant it as such. Why did he have to make things more difficult? Why couldn’t he accept help after everything he had gone through? With her previous concerns as a leader forgotten, she raised her sparkling blue optics to face him, to meet that dejected look in his optics and wait for an answer.
But nothing came. He was still looking to a side as if lost in thought. His wings had slumped to the ground, revealing nasty scratches caused to the wall, its intensive twitching and fluttering becoming a harmful distresser of his condition.
“He needs to feel something brushing against his wings, usually wind-currents provide that feeling”, had explained the doctor in one of their reports. Windblade, though overwhelmed by her current anger and frustration, refused to avert her optics from him. She knew she had to see him, see what he had become. She was responsible for this, too.
Gulping down her outburst, she quieted her voice for a moment. Her optics travelled through his frame. The paint was fading and in some spots it had already come off. The blue of his arms seemed to have some scratches, no doubt caused by his own digits. Everything about him seemed worn off, torn, bruised.
“I’m really sorry, Starscream,” she said, this time her optics pleading for his to face her. She had never wished more to unlock the cell and try to be… friendly, though she imagined he would recoil at the contact. He had not been much different when they had just met.
She sighed, knowing that her visit had been futile. Maybe he was not listening on purpose, maybe he had no intention of being involved in her affairs any longer. Maybe, now that he was losing it, he resented her? She tried not to dwell on this, but as the doubt settled in, she started to believe maybe it had been a mistake to come… maybe there was nothing to be said between them.
'Maybe I shouldn’t unload my troubles on him.'
Not a sigh but tears came out from her, knowing this time she would face adversity on her own. Her optics averted his frame and rested on the dull ground around her. She imagined this was how everyone in charge must feel at the beginning, thinking themselves incapable of doing the damage they eventually do. She imagined not everyone meant to do it, but there was nobody that could do everything perfectly. It was time she learnt she eventually would go down like the rest, she would let down some people.
Doing what was best for the majority, leaving both the spotted and unspotted outcasts as such…
She broke into an ugly sobbing, her servos covering her mouth to muffle the sound, as she realized and feared the day she would become the Mistress of Flame, getting rid of the misfits by sending them in an exploring mission off-world. While it had worked in Windblade’s favor in the long run, she would never deny how it made her feel: unwelcomed, unnecessary, unloved by what she had considered her home. If she was going to work to make Cybertron a more inclusive world, she could not be like that; and yet...
She resisted the urge of break down crying, not wishing to bring unwanted attention to her location. There was nothing else she could do for him, and thus it would be extremely unfair (not to say useless, given he was not giving any sign of acknowledgement of her presence), to demand the same from him. Drying the tears that were about to fall, cutting the trail formed by the ones already shed, Windblade heaved the last sigh before deciding it would be best to take her leave.
It was then, when she locked optics with him for the last time, that she noticed.
He was looking at her.
She remained in silence for a moment, too stunned to think of anything to do or say. She was not sure he was actually looking at her, though he seemed to be focused on something in her direction. He didn’t look very happy though, she was about to dismiss everything and stand up when his voice cut the silence, startling her.
“Is that it?” he said, bitterly. “You came to weep your guilt and leave?”
He stood up rather slowly, his optics gleaming dangerously. Windblade had only enough time to gulp before standing up herself and facing him at optic-level, though she did not feel strong enough to face his accusations if they were to come.
He had the right to be angry, she knew that; not just had she left him alone, but might have even disrupted him while trying to rest. Despite she needed to talk with him, she no longer felt the courage to do so. The way he was looking at her, the seething anger, the mistrust… it just reminded her too much of what she was trying to escape. The slowly poisonous struggle she daily faced against the Mistress of Flame and Elita One.
“... I,” she started, trying to gather her thoughts albeit clumsily. “No, I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t…. I just wanted… to… I thought you weren’t… sane anymore!”
Finally, a coherent thought, even though it probably wasn’t the most sensible approach. Starscream did not reply, but the expression on his face somewhat lost its rigidity. He moved his servo to a side and pulled a small device from somewhere near his hip. Upon clicking it, the device revealed the hologram of a small, red, blue and white flier, with bright purple optics.
“Your little gift kept me sane… for the most part,” he added, giving her the first Starscream-grin in a long time.
Windblade did not know whether to burst into tears again or continue with being shocked. Not just he was sane, but he was also… him. Deceptive, cunning, maliciously charming. She was too stunned for her facial expressions to express something else, but her spark skipped a pulse as warmness started to emanate from it.
Slowly, her lips started to curve into a smile, a genuine one.
Silence reigned in the room as both took their time to analyse the other. Now that he was standing, the hologram still flickering though not as vibrant as it had done so when she had just given it to him, she could notice his wings still standing tall, his face still undeterred by solitude and imprisonment. He looked weary, indeed. But in his optics still flashed a willingness to remain in the realm of the conscious. It made her happy.
“Why the long crying then?” he asked again as he clicked off and put the holopad back into concealment. He was not as hostile as he had been so first, though she figured they would come back to that point later. His optics were studying her frame, her face, her optics. Could he tell she felt tired of carrying her burden?
“I…” she lowered her gaze for a moment, knowing she now would have to admit to something she had not done even to herself. “I think I’m in trouble.”
“The Mistress of Flame and Elita One do not trust me,” she said. “I can see why, given my initial move of going against a decision made by the Council, but… somehow I’ve started to think that it runs deeper than that. I think… I think it’s personal, for them”.
“I’m…” she repressed a chuckle, she was about to admit she was becoming paranoid to the one being she had labeled as such long before she assumed her current position. “I’m thinking the Mistress still cannot forgive my ‘blasphemy’ against the Primes… nor that I turned out to be in the right about speaking the truth. I think she loathes that I became so influential when I in Caminus was easily restrained by her authority.”
“I think she hates me.”
“As for Elita,” she went on, taking a short pause to regain her focus, “I don’t think she forgives me for having exposed her. Carcer is still very supportive of her, but the rest of Cybertron does not hold her in high esteem. She has not been openly hostile, but of the two she knows exactly how and when to strike to delay my…” but she dared not to say ‘plans’.
“Plans?” Starscream finished for her, a bit sceptic of the word himself.
She looked uncomfortable to a side, unsure on how to explain herself. She did not mean anything bad, or selfish, or secretive, by saying it; but somehow the combination of all made the sound and taste of the words ‘my plans’ feel wrong. She was trying to work towards a better world. However, its definition seemed to be different for her opponents.
“You’re scared you’re becoming me?” asked Starscream, his wings fluttering as he smirked. He was mildly amused by the situation.
Windblade merely shook her helm.
“I am not planning anything to ‘save myself’ from any wrongdoing I may have done,” she simply explained. No resentment, no accusation, no attempt for justification. “I just thought it sounded--”
“Selfish?” Starscream cut her off this time.
“Personal,” she corrected. “Which is not. I have ideas I’d like to see through but I am more than willing to hear others as well. It’s just-- when it’s them talking… I don’t think they are actually trying to help.”
“I thought Obsidian was the representative for Carcer,” commented Starscream after a pause. “Has Elita been visiting the building a lot?”
“Sometimes,” Windblade explained, “I thought I could work with Obsidian, but his loyalty to Elita forces him to voice thoughts I know they are not his! Regardless how good I do, he still puts doubt into what I say.”
Starscream pondered in silence. He started pacing from one side to the other, a servo pressed to his lips as he thought through her words. He seemed focused, interested; though she doubted he could do or say anything really reassuring, Windblade felt glad there was someone else considering her situation.
“I suppose there haven’t been any assassination attempts against you,” Starscream half-commented, half-asked. He was facing the side-wall, still deep in thought.
“N-no,” she replied, visibly alarmed of how Starscream had jumped from her suspicions to hypothetical facts. Had she done the right thing in confiding her concerns to someone who feared being overthrown by anyone near him? Or maybe she was the one deluding herself. Elita had not wasted time when she had fallen into a coma, promptly blaming both Starscream and her for the destruction of Carcer.
Starscream scoffed at her reply, his features relaxing a little. His usual smile crept back into his lips as his wings lowered slightly.
“Well, I doubt you’d have noticed unless it had been a direct attack,” he commented, his servo finally out of his lips.
“Excuse me?” she was not sure of what he was implying, but she was certain she was not liking it.
“Let’s just suppose you’re on a parade, and the transport you’re going in suddenly malfunctions, catching itself on fire,” he elaborated, once again pacing from one side of the cell to the other. “You’d suppose it was a very unlucky accident!”
“I am not that obtuse,” Windblade retorted back, “and I’d have Ironhide investigate the real cause! Besides, I don’t have time for parades, ever since I moved to the main building, I’ve barely left th--”
“Wait, what?” he had sounded astonished, but one exchange of looks and Starscream was once again looking furious while she had become submissive again. Her wings dropped alarmingly fast. His raised rather dangerously.
“You… You moved into the main building?” he took a step forward, “You move into MY apartment!?”
Windblade took a step back.
“I-it was Ironhide’s idea!” she sputtered, “I had no idea you lived inside, I promise! I was against it but since you weren’t going to return, he and the rest…”
She had lowered her voice progressively until she no longer wanted to finish her sentence. Starscream remained angry at her one more second before leaning against the wall and letting his frame clank against the ground as he slid down.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered.
He sighed, his legs sprawled on the floor. He let his servos rest on each side and remained still and silent for a few seconds. Windblade used his inactivity to lie down in a similar fashion. With her back pressed on the same wall, she hugged her knees closer and waited for him to speak again, her optics expectant.
“It’s okay…” he said at last, and Windblade felt a pang of guilt at his voice’s dejection. “They aren’t wrong…”
Windblade did not dare to confirm or deny this. Her power was limited, but the future had shown her so many surprises…
“What happened with my stuff?” he asked after a pause, trying not to whine. Windblade couldn’t help but think how attached he must feel to his possessions, as few as they were; she was glad she had not thrown them away.
“They are sealed in a box in…” she was careful not to say ‘her’ apartment, “... there. I haven’t moved them away.”
“You kept them?” asked Starscream, an optic ridge raised as he looked at her. “Why?”
“I just felt wrong throwing them away,” she replied, though not meeting his optics immediately. “And I didn’t want to leave them to dust in my previous location. The place is no longer open, but the neighbourhood is still not entirely safe.”
Starscream sighed in exhaustion yet again, but his next words sounded relieved.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, with a warm smile.
Both fell into silence once more, both facing the opposite wall, their minds occupied elsewhere. Windblade was glad, in spite of the roller coaster of emotions and her unsolved issues, to have come. Most of her unspoken burdens had been laid down for the night, and what was best? Starscream was not insane. Which begged the question…
“Starscream?” she asked, every wire of her more relaxed now that all of the pressing issues had been laid down. The mech in question only hummed to show he was paying attention still.
“Why did you stop accepting visitors?”
She directed her gaze back to him. He had not moved much but his optics were closed now, his frame resting peacefully at the side of the cell. Could it be her visit had helped him too?
“They were driving me crazy,” he finally said.
It was as if her cue to stare at him reproachfully.
“How can you--!?” she started but was interrupted by Starscream.
“Don’t get me wrong!” he only raised his voice so she would listen before bursting into arguing. “I enjoy company as much as anyone who has been cut out of news from the outer world can, but ever since I was diagnosed ‘on the path to insanity’, his sole purpose was to ask whether I was okay, and so on.”
“He was worried about you!” argued Windblade, not ready to include herself in that statement, though her past tears were enough giveaway.
“He was not helping!” stressed Starscream. “I didn’t need to be reminded I was losing it.”
“Anyway,” he went on, after checking Windblade would not argue against his last point. “The medic was not any better. They kept asking about past injuries, war situations and what not.”
There was a restless silence.
“I do not need to re-live the war while I’m in prison.”
“So,” started Windblade after another long pause, “you just grew tired of their talk?”
“More or less,” he admitted, “I regretted having sent Wheeljack away sooner than the doc., but I wasn’t going to tell that to Ironhide. What I needed was to be distracted from my current situation, City Speaker; not to be further reminded of it.”
It was Windblade’s turn to sigh. There was some logic behind that, but she did not like it much.
She decided not to start another argument on her new title, opting instead for the peaceful silence that had settled between them. It was uplifting, the burdens that overwhelmed her were no longer as heavy as she had originally felt them. Though standing alone at the Council, she still counted with allies in different places. Enough people trusted her and, what was best, she still had some people in whom she could trust.
She would be okay.
Time had become endless ever since she had stepped into the prison, there was no window, no natural light to warn her of the time gone by. She was about to press another question when a distant sound echoed through the hallways of the building; making her jump in alarm, her wings fluttered excitedly and ready to move out. Though she was in no real danger for simply being there, anxiety crept into her spark. It was time to say goodbye and she knew it, a different thing was to want to.
“It’s the guards,” said Starscream, standing up as his optics were now open and carefully squinting the door from where Windblade had come. “They come at dawn and wake up everyone by rattling the walls around the place.”
Dawn. She had come in the dead of the night. Unless she wanted to be seen --although it was not an inexplicable sight--, she’d have to leave quickly. She would rather inform Ironhide and the rest of her visit herself than have the reporters taint her reputation and give ammunition for gossip.
“I’ll try to come again, though it’ll take a while,” said Windblade, quickly standing up, her optics locked on the distant door.
“Don’t worry,” said Starscream dismissively. “If you’re gonna come to weep and wet the floor I’ll rather have Wheeljack and the Doc with their annoying questions back.”
It took her a second to register the mild insult, quickly turning around to face Starscream though not ready with a comeback, when she noticed much to her relief that he was smiling as usual again.
“I’ll let Wheeljack know he can come again, then.”
It was a kind smile the one that came out from her. Though she meant the comment, she was not sure it counted as a proper goodbye. It would have to do considering there was little time, though even if there was any more, she doubted she would know what to say. It had been easy to be fully honest with him when she thought him insane, and so did it when he demanded to know what was happening. However, if she expressed any gratitude, relief or joy at this, she would be subjected to his comments, probably making of her feelings something more complicated than what she felt. She too wished to give him even if some encouragement. Regardless her ruling and everyone’s decision, she did not believe he would be there forever.
Neither did she want to admit that a part of her was hoping for it.
“I should be going,” she added, feeling awkward for the first time since she had arrived. She had barely turned around and given the first step when she felt Starscream’s servo reach hers and hold it tightly.
It must have hurt, to pass his arm through the energy cell-bars. The room was filled with the soft humming sound of the laser making contact with his metal plating, but he remained ignorant of it, as well as the puffs of smoke starting to come out. Suddenly she understood how he had gotten some of the marks on his plating, though it formed the question, why did he do it?
“Windblade,” he said seriously, ignoring his pain and the shocked expression on her face. He went on before she could stop him.
“While the Mistress may disagree with your title and everything else, I doubt she will truly oppose you. She might be unforgiving for what you said and did, but she will yield if she sees you were right. Or at least, reduce her actions to merely scowl at you”
Windblade let the words sink in; it did sound like something the Mistress would do, but the fire in her optics each time they made contact with hers still made her act defensively. Guess she would have to get used to that.
“As for Elita One…” and he took a pause before proceeding, “never give your back to her. She is not to be trusted until Liege Maximo is eliminated.”
She looked at him, surprised at first, then determined to do as he said. She had not even thought about what would they do once they had Liege Maximo. For all the past damage and future possibilities, it sounded logical to leave a trial out of the question. She was not sure, however, she was fit to order an execution, though she guessed Elita would be more than willing to do it.
‘Maybe then she will stop ambitioning my position’, thought Windblade.
“Thank you,” she replied instead, a tired yet kind smile formed on her lips.
Starscream didn’t reply in return, he let go of her servo perhaps with a bit more delicacy with what Windblade would have expected, but he did not address it. Instead, his optics travelled to his injured arm.
“You better leave now,” he simply said, “don’t wanna give the Council a reason to doubt of your judgement now, do you?”
Windblade nodded, but it took her a few moments to start moving. It was clear to her he did not want to be alone in there any longer, but for the time being there was nothing she could do.
“Bring snacks next time,” Starscream added, as she made her way back. Windblade looked back the last time, glad to know she wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome if she came again.
“Will do.”
Exiting the building with the guards awake was not difficult but impossible. However, she managed to get out making use of her title (a deed she would make sure to never repeat), she requested Ironhide’s presence in the main building and then wasted no more in returning to her quarters. Maybe she could get some recharge, now that her processor was not troubled anymore. To begin with, she would be honest with Ironhide and what she had done, making sure Starscream regained his visits right (perhaps removing his liberty of choosing visitors since he was not as insane as he had been diagnosed). Then, she would get back on track of everything, making sure to remain confident, strong, determined. It was impossible she could always know what was the best for Cybertron.
But she was going to give her best trying.
Yet, while Windblade rested once more in her berth, Starscream remained awake in his cell. With her gone once more, he went back to his corner of the room, his wings flickering and scraping painfully against the metal of the wall. He took the holopad from its compartment and clicked it on, the faint glimmer of what was supposed to be his true self meeting his optics.
He looked at it silently, pensive. Bumblebee’s figure was soon enough next to him, a smug grin on his lips.
“Well, that was unexpected,” he commented as if wanting to nudge him for further teasing. “Were you really that desperate to hold her servo?”
“I just had to make sure,” Starscream replied, his optics still focused on the smiling face of the hologram.
“Make sure of what?” asked Bumblebee, a hint of his mischievous grin still present, but genuinely curious at the same time.
“That she was real.”
The smile erased from Bumblebee’s lips, remembering that his illness had played him more than one trick already. He fell instead to watch him silently stare at the hologram projector, knowing all too well that his obsession with it had surpassed the healthy boundaries.
“Why do you keep staring at it?” he asked to Starscream, his old joints creaking as he sat on the ground next to him.
“There’s nothing else to do,” was Starscream’s mumbled reply. He was no longer in a mood to talk.
“Well,” Bumblebee decided to try anyway, “I don’t see why the fuss about it.”
Starscream’s attention snapped from the holopad to his imaginary companion, knowing he could not hurt him mostly because he was not physically there, but also because he was his only company. That, however, did not prevent him from glaring at him, demanding him to better explain himself before they started to argue.
“I’m just saying,” Bumblebee began right on cue, knowing all too well what Starscream’s glare meant, “that having that frame,” he pointed at the holopad, “won’t change you!”
With anger fading, Starscream’s glare dropped to the ground. What hope was for him then?
“What I mean is,” Bumblebee corrected himself, “you don’t need a new frame, or your ‘real’ frame, to be a better being, Starscream. You can be a better version of yourself if you set your mind to it. You’ve been determined to do and become other things before, why this wouldn’t work?”
The hopeful smile along with the gleam in Bumblebee’s blue optics brought back the sincere desire of helping of the very one who had just visited him. He wanted to be angry at him, then at her, but he could not muster that anger. He no longer had it, and he felt both relieved and scared of it not being there. What was he without it, but a confused and lonely seeker with no destination?
“Because nothing I’ve ever tried has worked before,” he answered dejected. “Not in the long run, at least. I tried to have Megatron executed and look how that turned out. I tried to rule Cybertron and… here I am.”
“You saved Windblade,” offered Bumblebee, hope never leaving his voice, nor his optics. “You did something for someone else.”
“Technically, I did it for myself, I needed her to expose Elita.”
“And yet you didn’t plan on murdering her when she exposed to you your… ehm…”
“Crimes?” offered Starscream. The only not-a-crime she had listed was talking to Bumblebee, but he knew what exactly was wrong with that, so neither of them mentioned it.
“No one will ever believe that I can change, and I don’t blame them. I can’t stop being who I am and it’s not like anyone will let me as long as I look like… me. This is the most I can do and, for better or worse, I’ll have to live with it.”
Starscream turned off the holopad, and let his helm rest against the wall. He closed his optics, sighing in exhaustion as he tried to shut down his processor and get some rest. Bumblebee wanted to say something more, but nothing came out. It was hard to think positively when they were sleeping on the ground in a tiny cell. He could only hope. Hope that things would improve with time. Hope that Starscream would realize how much he had accomplished, in letting go of his crown.