Work Text:
Starscream swaggered into the colosseum like he owned it, which he practically did. The colosseum greeted him appropriately, with the ring of blade on blade and the shriek of scoreboxes. Starscream tipped up his chin and favored the nearest competitor with a smile.
The fencer ignored him. Well, not everyone could be as observant as Starscream. He let his smile slide into a sneer.
Starscream loved planetary tournaments. They were large and loud and everybody who was anybody was there. You had to be. You couldn't skip, not even if you wanted to, not if you were trying to be relevant. Such a blessing that Starscream loved them so much. Such a shame that he'd missed so many last season, through truly unavoidable circumstances. It was never a burden to go, even if he only had a paltry few fencers to coach.
That just left Starscream more time to catch up with his many admirers and snub his rare detractors. Another blessing.
A pity it was only four orn. Four orn, once a quartex. Almost every Pit-damned quartex.
Starscream caught the line of thought and shoved it out of his cache. He was looking forward to the new season. Absolutely.
His fans were whirring unevenly. A small mechanical fault. He shut them off and forced his optics up from the floor. He gazed over the competition floor that he owned, he belonged here, and froze when he caught a glimpse of a broad gray back rising over the crowd.
Windblade: I'm on B2
Starscream scurried—no—strode to the B pod of fencing strips.
"I saved you a seat." Windblade bounced on her toes and swung her arms, stretching. "And you can relax a little. There's no one from Lost Light in my pool."
Starscream sat in the flimsy folding chair and tried not to hunch in it as well. "Shame," he said. "It would have been fun to see you destroy them."
"Mhm." Windblade bent forward and her fencing armor shifted over her back plating. "Try not to terrorize the referee, he looks new."
"It's good for them," said Starscream. "They need practice thickening their plating. Half the referees here wouldn't survive five minutes at a galactic competition."
Windblade didn't say anything, just touched the tips of her feet in a remarkably skeptical way.
"If you don't want me to yell, just win all your bouts," said Starscream.
"First bout, one and two," called the referee. Windblade tossed Starscream a salute with her sabre as she stepped out onto the strip.
---
"Where did you come from?" asked Starscream wonderingly. "Do you even know what sport this is?"
"If you have a question about the call we can talk about it after the bout," said the referee. He really was new. Some fledgling Insecticon with a pointy helm and a thin neck that almost begged to be throttled.
"I don't have a question about the call," said Starscream. "The mistake was obvious."
"There's hesitation on the left," said the referee, doggedly. You almost had to admire such blind conviction.
"Windblade hesitated," said Starscream. "Windblade hesitated. Windblade hesitated."
"I'd really like to move on with the bout now," said the referee with a small quaver in his voice and, oh, there it was. There was Windblade's exasperated glare, piercing even through her fencing visor. Starscream subsided in his chair and waved a hand for the referee to continue.
He'd done enough, anyway. The next action was exactly the same as before, and the referee paused and called it simultaneous, correctly. Then Windblade's opponent tried to pull distance and Windblade smoothly lengthened her attack so her sabre just brushed her opponent's helm.
It was beautiful. The perfect integration of tactics and technique. Windblade’s old club on Caminus had really done well by her. Of course, Starscream was instrumental in her current success, as he'd just amply demonstrated.
Bout done, Windblade sat down next to Starscream. "What did I say at the beginning of the pool?"
"Can't remember," said Starscream. "It was so long ago."
"He's doing his best," said Windblade.
"Did you hesitate?"
"No."
"There you are, then. The kid's optics are miscalibrated and someone has to tell him. It should be an honor to be corrected by me when he's clearly just wandered in off the street and been shoved in front of a strip. Doesn't he know who I am?"
"You're Starscream," said Pointy, still with that quaver and his optics glistening with cleaning fluid. He was holding a datapad—Starscream hadn't realized that the pool was already over. "You won the planetary championships four times. You medaled at the galactic championships twice. And you're a total jerk. Windblade, can you sign for me please?"
Windblade signed; Starscream tried to think of the best possible response. He was just opening his mouth when Thundercracker patted his shoulder, which was why he made a noise that may have sounded like a yelp.
"Great job, Bluebottle," said Thundercracker. "Why don't we have a quick chat?"
Pointy hit the button to beam results to the bout committee and looked sullen. Starscream recovered his dignity and looked superior. Windblade, the fragger, looked amused.
"You don't have to talk to coaches, but it helps your development to engage with them constructively," said Thundercracker. "And now that Windblade's won all her bouts, Starscream will be a lot more constructive."
Thundercracker's hand tightened uncomfortably on Starscream's shoulder. Starscream resigned himself to proving Thundercracker right.
"You're overcalling the middle," said Starscream. "You can't give points for style. If neither fencer is making a greater effort to establish an attack and neither fencer is waiting or making a mistake, it's just simultaneous actions. It doesn't get to be my attack just because my hand is in a nicer position or my lunge was a little longer."
"I didn't—" said Pointy.
"And this is where you say thank you, shake Starscream's hand, and walk away," said Thundercracker. "Try to digest the advice. It's good advice, even if you think it doesn't apply to every touch Starscream was yelling about."
Pointy muttered something that could be construed as thank you and gingerly took Starscream's hand. Thundercracker still had a mildly painful grip on Starscream's plating, so Starscream swallowed his impulse and gave Pointy a firm handshake instead of a vindictive one.
"And Bluebottle?" Thundercracker caught Pointy before he could actually go. "Don't let Starscream be a jerk to you again. Give him a warning card next time and he'll settle down."
"Give Starscream a card?" asked Pointy incredulously.
Starscream felt his wings flick with surprise, even though the fledgling was only showing the deference and healthy caution Starscream deserved. "I like this one, Thundercracker."
Pointy's optics widened, and he scuttled away to the referee corral with only a few looks over his shoulder. Ah, if only every referee was so respectful.
Thundercracker laughed. "You don't even know his designation."
"Blue...streak?"
"Bluebottle," said Windblade. "Thundercracker said it twice, Starscream. And you know Bluestreak doesn't look anything like that."
"How did Bluebottle actually do?" asked Thundercracker. "He hold it together okay?"
"He made some tight parry and beat calls," said Windblade. "But the middle was way open in the beginning. You could do anything and it would still be simultaneous. So then the yelling started—"
"It wasn't just me," said Starscream. "Optimus was here for all of five seconds, and he still managed to etch his profound disappointment into everyone's processors."
"—and then Bluebottle started calling it way too tight."
"He's got potential," said Starscream. "He just needs to stop sniveling."
"Or stop listening to coaches," said Windblade.
"Listen, but not capitulate," said Thundercracker. "Got it."
Wheeljack: all ok?
Starscream: Windblade won her pool.
Wheeljack: and?
"What's up?" asked Windblade.
Starscream forced his focus back to the mechs in front of him. "Wheeljack commed me for an update. He's with the youth events," he told Thundercracker.
"And you just have Windblade?" asked Thundercracker.
Starscream shrugged. "Chromia is out for the rest of the season. Waspinator fences tomorrow. We're building a new club—"
"Revitalizing an old one," corrected Windblade.
"—So apparently I should be grateful to have two and a half real competitors."
Windblade poked Starscream in the side. "Don't be so mean to Waspinator."
"Did I say anything about Waspinator?" Starscream paused for thought. "No, no, I think you're making cruel assumptions. For shame. But he is terrible."
"Uhuh." Thundercracker finally let go of Starscream, then promptly undercut the courtesy by patting Starscream sharply on the base of his wings. "So you're free to chat."
"I suppose I can spare you a moment of my precious time." Starscream pointed at Windblade as he got to his feet. "Stay warm for the next round."
Windblade grinned. "Always, Maestro."
Wheeljack: hey seriously all ok?
Wheeljack: do you need me over there?
Starscream: I'm fine. I'm with Thundercracker.
---
Starscream graciously accompanied Thundercracker to the bout committee, where he sat and surveyed the tournament while Thundercracker assigned referees for the next round. Starscream liked sitting at bout committee. It was elevated, and he could see anyone coming, and no one was supposed to be there unless they were a tournament official or specifically invited. It was probably the best place to be in the colosseum.
For instance, he could see right into the referee corral, where Bluebottle was being destroyed in cyber poker.
“Fold,” he called. “No, don’t raise, do you want to lose your credits? Fold!”
“Leave me alone!” wailed Bluebottle. “We’re not even playing for real credits!”
Thundercracker reached over and swiveled Starscream’s chair so he was facing the opposite direction. Starscream resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.
“Probably should have taken his advice,” said a referee that Starscream could no longer see. “That’s all your chocolate wheel nuts, right?”
“He couldn’t even see my hand!”
“Having fun?” asked Thundercracker.
“Oh, you know me,” said Starscream. “I just love these planetary tournaments. So glad to be back.”
Thundercracker hummed and made another change on his datapad. "If you want the full experience, you should fence in the veterans' event next month."
"Is that the time?” Starscream bounced upright. "I should really help Windblade prepare for the next round—"
Thundercracker caught Starscream's wrist and hauled him back down to his seat. "I'm just saying. It's a good time. A bunch of old mechs reminiscing and beating on each other."
"Registration deadline's past." Starscream shook his head regretfully. "I'm not paying triple late fees just to fence the same mechs from a dozen vorns ago, only slower and creakier."
"I might know someone important at bout committee who could hook you up, as a favor for a luminary of the sport." Thundercracker had about as much subtlety as a sledgehammer, but Starscream felt his treacherous spark warming anyway. "Come on, when was the last time you fenced?"
"I fence in the club all the time," said Starscream.
Thundercracker didn't look impressed. "Right, with your students. When was the last time you actually had to try to win?"
Oh, Starscream could remember that clearly enough. The last time Starscream had really tried to win was at the old Decepticon club, just at a normal practice. The night before it all went to the Pit. Skywarp and Thundercracker on the sidelines, egging him on, Soundwave and Shockwave at the other end of the strip, daring him, and Starscream had raised his sabre and saluted as Meg—
The editing subroutines Starscream had installed to keep himself from dwelling cut the memory and deleted the whole train of thought, leaving only a notification so he knew why he'd just lost three nano-kliks.
"I don't think about that," said Starscream, mechanically, not quite sure what it was he didn't think about.
Thundercracker was watching him with an odd, detached expression. "What about the last time you had a proper recharge?"
"Did you ask me over here just to fuss?" Starscream sneered. "I thought you wanted to scold me for making your fledgling referee cry."
"He has allergies." Thundercracker sighed. "I really did think Bluebottle could handle you. He did so well last season."
"Was I a test?" Starscream tried to decide if he should be pleased or offended. Well, both was always a safe choice. "Glad I could be of service."
"He needs to learn what to do when an entitled and overdramatic coach starts tearing into him," said Thundercracker. "At least you're usually right when you start yelling."
Starscream laughed, balance tipped abruptly to pleased. "Put that on my tomb. Maestro Starscream. He yelled, but he was right."
Thundercracker smiled at his datapad. "And how is the club, Maestro?"
"Despite the lack of serious competitors, it's thriving," said Starscream. "Full of youth and vigor. You can hardly move without tripping over a sparkling waving a sword. In twenty vorns some of them might even be tall enough to pose a threat above the shins.”
“You’re very lucky.” Thundercracker transferred the smile to Starscream.
“Talented,” corrected Starscream. “Talented and driven.”
"Yes, that does sound like you." Thundercracker was still smiling.
"Is something wrong with your face plate?" asked Starscream. "It's seizing."
"I'm happy," said Thundercracker. "I missed you last season."
"Should have made more of a fuss when I was banned." Starscream folded his arms.
"You shouldn't have thrown a chair at Turmoil."
"I didn't throw it at him. It was a warning shot. And he was being insulting."
"Which is why he doesn't referee anymore." Thundercracker spread his arms. "Come here."
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"What if I just—" Thundercracker leaned out of his chair and wrapped Starscream in a hug. It squashed Starscream's crossed arms against his chest, and crushed his neck against Thundercracker’s shoulder. It was unbearable. Starscream felt his plating relax, micron by micron.
Thundercracker was comfortable and warm. He'd always been warm.
"If you miss me, you should come back," whispered Starscream.
No response. It was as if Thundercracker hadn't heard him. Maybe Starscream was too quiet. Maybe Thundercracker had his own subroutines to protect his processor.
Thundercracker did seem happy. Starscream wasn’t deluded enough to think that it was actually because of him.
Wheeljack: still ok?
Starscream: Fine, fine. Do your job and leave me alone.
Thundercracker patted the base of Starscream's wings and released him, reaching for his datapad. "Direct elimination round's going out now. Windblade is in F pod, by the way."
Starscream reluctantly got up to rejoin the teeming masses on the floor. No. He leapt from his seat, because he was eager to lead Windblade to victory.
"Don't throw any more furniture," said Thundercracker.
"You can't call those flimsy chairs furniture."
"There was a serious bid to call it assault, Starscream." Thundercracker was still smiling, but somehow the warmth had disappeared. "Just don't."
---
Windblade cruised through the rounds; bye in the first round of 256 fencers, no problems in the 128 or 64. She struggled a little against Knock Out in the 32, and Starscream made a nuisance of himself to another referee, some red and white minibot who was clearly being pushed too far and should have been released from the event before the bouts became important. Knock Out was quick, the referee kept mistaking the fast counterattack for attack in prep, and Starscream was going to tear someone's face off, his own, the referees, or Breakdown's, that smug fragger watching Knock Out with pride from the sidelines. Finally Windblade listened to Starscream even as the referee pretended not to hear him. She stopped finishing her beautiful smooth wasted attack, just parried the damn counterattack instead, and won three straight touches to end the bout.
Starscream shook hands with the referee and didn't even try to look gracious. He shook hands with Knock Out too, who looked wry.
"Yeah, I know," said Knock Out. "But if it works—"
Starscream leaned in. "Come to Metroplex," he murmured. "I can teach you something besides speed."
Knock Out's mouth twisted, but he didn't let go of Starscream's hand. "I couldn't leave Velocitron."
Starscream glanced at Breakdown, who was happily chatting with Windblade. None of the Velocitron coaches had come to the Coliseum. Knock Out was the only fencer in the colony who could go far at a Cybertronian tournament—Breakdown hadn't made it past the second round. Apparently it wasn't worth their coaches' time to make the trip.
"Think about it," said Starscream. "It's an open offer. And not just for you."
Let Knock Out chew on that. He'd be a fool to pass up the opportunity, and Starscream needed—Starscream could afford to be generous to Breakdown.
"Windblade!" called Starscream, not waiting to see if she'd follow. "Next round in the video pods!"
Starscream loved the video pods, where the actions were recorded and referees paired so they could confer over playback if a call was challenged. Starscream especially loved challenging.
It was the same minibot referee from the last round. Swerve, that was it. He clearly didn't know what establishing an attack looked like. And there was Blurr getting ready to fence, Blurr who was king of the fast deceptive counterattack. And there was Grimlock on video behind Swerve, Grimlock who had made his career by establishing slow, brutal attacks. Oh, it was perfect. Starscream was going to win through humiliation.
Windblade stared at Blurr as she rotated her arm. "Parry the counterattack?"
"No, just finish the attack," said Starscream. "And call for review when I tell you."
The first few touches went precisely to plan. Windblade established a nice slow attack, Blurr made a fast counterattack, and Starscream had Windblade send it back to video when Swerve inevitably made the wrong call. Starscream leaned back in his flimsy folding seat and basked in the lowered but unmistakable tones of Grimlock explaining exactly why Swerve was wrong. And then Swerve came back, awarded the touch to Windblade, and the cycle began again.
Blurr wasn't a complete incompetent and, more to the point, neither was his coach. He changed things up, made Windblade work for it. But Windblade was so implacable. Starscream knew from experience how tempting it was to try and catch her in the middle of her attack, and every time Blurr fell for the bait Swerve would call it wrong and get sent to video. His conversations with Grimlock were getting a little more frantic, even as Grimlock patiently corrected the fault. Windblade was up 7-4, one touch away from the break and almost halfway to victory. They still had all their video challenges. Starscream could do this all day.
Wheeljack: ok?
Starscream: Fragging marvelous.
Swerve was certainly trying. He hesitated with almost every call now, looking for the established attack and second-guessing his impulse to credit a fast hand. The next call in the middle was simultaneous, clearly simultaneous, but Swerve went back to video without even trying to make a call. Starscream smirked at Windblade and glanced back at the growing crowd.
Oh. There was Hot Rod, or whatever ridiculous thing he was calling himself now, Rodimus. Starscream had watched him learn to fence, he was too young for such a dignified name and too old for the pretension. And there was Drift, and Ratchet, and Thunderclash, and Perceptor, and—
Starscream forced his optics back to the strip, ignoring the fact that the entire Lost Light club was gathered behind him. They weren't worth his attention. Swerve was calling simultaneous, very adequate of him.
The next touch was Windblade's parry-riposte. Starscream got up to coach her through the break and almost killed himself tripping over the metal barrier on his way to the strip.
"Are you okay?" asked Windblade.
Starscream gave that all the answer it deserved. "Focus. It's working. You just need to keep powering through."
"Swerve is getting pretty flustered," said Windblade. "I think this is the first time he's refereed this far into the upper division. You know he fences at Lost Light, right?"
"I'm gathering," said Starscream through gritted teeth. "Focus."
It didn't matter. The plan was working. Windblade was winning. Megatron wasn't even there, not yet, though Starscream didn't look back when he took his seat and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to hear Megatron's heavy footfalls among the clanging and crashing of the competition. He remembered when he always knew where Megatron was, didn't even have to look to know, just felt it spark-deep—
Starscream's editing subroutines cut almost five nano-kliks, and the score was 9-6 when he dismissed the notification and started paying attention to the bout again. Windblade was looking at him for suggestions. Starscream made a gesture and hoped she could project something useful onto that.
It only took until 9-8 before Starscream swallowed his pride. You had to be realistic about these things.
Starscream: Not ok. Need you in the video pod right now.
No response, just a notification that Wheeljack had seen it. The youth events were halfway across the colosseum. Windblade would probably have lost by the time Wheeljack could get over here.
It was 10-10 when someone clapped Starscream on the shoulder and Starscream nearly jumped out of his plating.
"He's not here." Wheeljack didn't move his hand. In fact, he was squeezing, as if he wanted to hold Starscream there by force. Starscream found it immensely irritating to be manhandled twice in one day. He'd shove Wheeljack away, but he didn't want anyone to speculate about the coaching dynamics in his new club. Oh, Starscream, drama just follows him, doesn't it?
"Did you run?" asked Starscream. Wheeljack's fans whirred busily in answer.
"It's good for me." Wheeljack pawed at Starscream's shoulder some more. "What's the situation?"
The situation was 11-10 now, Blurr's favor. Starscream told Wheeljack the plan as Windblade eked out a few simultaneous actions and then made a touch. He didn't need to explain Blurr's weaknesses or Windblade's strengths. Wheeljack might prefer coaching Metroplex's youth fencers, but he'd been a strong competitor during the most vicious period of the Decepticon-Autobot rivalry. He knew how Blurr fenced. He knew what Windblade needed to do to win. He was a good coach.
Better than Starscream, right now. Maybe always. He'd managed almost all of the last season on his own, hadn't he? He'd been there when Windblade won the middle division at the third planetary tournament, and when Windblade had made the top sixteen of the upper division at the fifth tournament. Wheeljack had grumbled about stretching his time across both the adult and youth events, but Windblade hadn't complained. She'd been ecstatic about her results.
It would have been better if Starscream hadn't come. He wouldn't be on the edge of panicking. Windblade wouldn't be falling behind. Megatron always said that—
The editing subroutines kicked in and stayed on for most of the bout. Somehow, Starscream kept his head up and his back straight. Somehow, Wheeljack kept his grip on Starscream's shoulder. Somehow, Windblade managed to win.
Starscream would have to look at the video later.
---
Windblade lost in the semi-finals to Drift, 13-15. Rodimus had coached the winner, not even a hint of gray plating in the audience. Starscream had managed to hold it together enough to give Windblade useful, workable advice.
Large parts of the bout were still missing from Starscream's memory, excised by the subroutines he'd entrusted with his mental stability. It didn't matter. Wheeljack had been there to fill in the gaps. He'd said that Starscream had done a good job.
Of course Starscream had. Obviously. He'd been the best fencer on Cybertron, and it was only a matter of time before he was recognized as the planet’s best coach. Windblade just wasn't fencing at Drift's level yet. She needed a few more vorns in planetary competition before she could reliably engage with someone of Drift's experience.
Wheeljack: i'm turning in soon
Wheeljack: all ok?
Primus, Starscream could remember when Drift had been learning to fence. Back when he'd been one of the awed guttermechs following in Megatron's shadow. Deadlock had been awed by Starscream too, awed but a little disdainful, as if Starscream wasn't as good as Megatron just because he was doing what he was supposed to—
Starscream steadied himself against a nice sturdy chair, feeling frighteningly vulnerable in the hotel lobby. Notifications from his editing subroutines spread over his HUD, and he dismissed them with a shudder. Had it been this bad last season, before the ban? Starscream couldn't remember. Had Megatron been there? Starscream couldn't remember. The editing subroutines were blunt instruments, carving knives instead of scalpels. Starscream had wanted the knife when he'd programmed them. Cut out the parts that hurt, and leave clean energon dripping in its wake—
Starscream's internal clock stuttered, and another notification crowded his vision. He seriously considered shutting the subroutines down. But he couldn't even remember why he wanted to. The editing subroutines were annoying, but they kept him functional. He needed to be functional.
He needed a drink. Yes.
Starscream let go of the chair and was pleased when his hand didn't tremble very much at all.
Wheeljack: starscream?
The hotel bar was overpriced and full of people who knew him, but it was convenient. Starscream would get a drink, take it back to his room, and try to recharge. He'd be in the bar for less than five kliks. He wouldn't have to talk to anyone.
The plan propelled Starscream through the lobby, past the elevators, and into the bar. He ignored the few perfunctory greetings as he ordered. Not as many greetings as he expected, to be honest. He probably had an intimidating expression.
His glass was actually in his hand when Starscream registered the spray of notifications created by the editing subroutines. He hadn't even been thinking. There must be something in the bar that was triggering the subroutines, something Starscream couldn't even consciously recognize because the subroutines had become so aggressive.
Starscream tried to convince himself to go back to his room and drink and leave it all alone. Then he deactivated the subroutines and the bar burst into life.
It was like taking a bag off his head. There was so much more sound. Starscream could see people looking at him, and he knew they weren't looking at Starscream, the greatest fencer on Cybertron. They were looking at Starscream, former star of the Decepticons. They whispered as much behind their hands, explaining to companions who were too young or too ignorant to remember. The mechs at the center table weren't even bothering to whisper, alternating between staring at Starscream and gabbling at each other.
"—Can't believe they were in the coliseum all day without strangling each other—"
"—Did you see the way Screamer looked during the final, I was sure he was going to fall over—"
"—Can't believe Megatron skipped the final, how do you think Drift felt—"
"—Never goes near a strip if Screamer's there, probably doesn't want to get banned if someone does get strangled—"
"—Or hit with a chair—"
"—Can't stand the way Screamer goes after referees, it's like he thinks everyone's out to get him—"
"—Can't stand Screamer—"
"—After last season, you're not alone. I heard—"
"—Shh, he's right here, don't—"
"—Don't worry, he's already overcharged, just look at him—"
"—I think you're being cruel—"
"—Just look at him—"
Starscream mechanically sipped his drink. He thought he looked unconcerned. He must, no one was actually pointing and laughing at him yet.
Wheeljack: starscream
Wheeljack: just give me a quick yes or no
"Cruel," repeated a cone-headed mech, in a ringing voice. "I don't know what happened with the Decepticons—"
"Come on," said one of his friends, "everyone knows—"
"I don't know, and neither do you," said Cone Head, smugly. "Gossiping like this, especially when Starscream's clearly been the victim of some kind of abuse, is just so irresponsible—"
Starscream watched himself push away from the bar. Watched himself carefully set his barely-touched engex on the group's table. Watched himself lean over Cone Head and murmur "I completely agree" in his ear.
The table of gabbling mechs was suddenly as quiet as a tomb. So gratifying.
"Irresponsible." Starscream rolled the word in his mouth. "Yes. Offensive. Malicious." His hand curled around Cone Head's shoulder. "Dangerous, even."
Wheeljack: starscream
Wheeljack: are you in the lobby?
Wheeljack: i'm coming down
Starscream shut off his comm. He needed to concentrate on Cone Head and his little friends. They had light, middle-class frames, designed more for paper pushing than athleticism. A few might even be forged rather than cold-constructed. The kind of mechs that fenced for fun, not because they felt the need of it thrumming in their circuits.
"I was defending you," said Cone Head. He had the audacity to be indignant.
"Oh, I'm sure you thought so." Starscream generously resisted the urge to squeeze. "Next time you can just keep your thoughts to yourself, you mediocre little slag-merchant. I can hear you reveling in your sympathy. You'd pity me but you wouldn't ever take me seriously, would you, you fragging—"
Someone pried Starscream away, guiding him out of the bar with a hand on his arm and one on his waist. Starscream watched himself fight, dully, listlessly, until his rescuer had forced him into the elevator. Once his back was pressed against the wall, Starscream watched himself surrender, shoulders slumping as he looked up into concerned red optics.
"How much did you drink?" asked Megatron.
"Two sips," said Starscream. "One. I wasn't going to hurt anyone."
"I'm not worried about them," said Megatron.
Starscream snorted. "I can't imagine that you're worried about me."
Megatron looked at him. Starscream didn't like the way Megatron's gaze lingered, as if he were judging and weighing Starscream's condition.
"What floor?" asked Megatron.
Megatron looked the same as he ever did. Unmarked by time and separation, broad and implacable and— And he'd had the Decepticon brand removed. Starscream remembered when Soundwave had made the brand, their first step to becoming a real club instead of a collection of fencers in a makeshift gym.
"Starscream?"
Of course Starscream had buffed away his Decepticon brands. His plating was pristine now, good as new. He didn't wear the Metroplex brand on his plating, just his coaching armor. Megatron's plating would never look new, but he didn't have a Lost Light brand that Starscream could see. Starscream didn't even know what the Lost Light brand looked like.
"Starscream." A hint of irritation surfaced in Megatron's tone. "I can't lean on the door-close button forever. What floor is your room?"
"Thirty-first," said Starscream. "How much did you hear? In the bar?"
Megatron punched the button, and the elevator began to ease upward. "Very little. I'd just walked in when I saw you starting a tirade."
"They said you won't go near a strip if I'm there."
Megatron didn't answer. The elevator shuddered through three or four floors.
"Are you avoiding me?"
"Does it look like I'm avoiding you?"
Starscream watched the numbers climb on the elevator's display. "I won't do anything. Whatever horrible thing you think I'm going to do. I'm capable of acting with dignity."
"No one said anything about—" Megatron cut himself off. "I'm only extending a courtesy. After everything that's happened."
Higher and higher. Nearly there.
"You should be able to coach in peace," said Megatron.
Starscream laughed, and then covered his mouth with both hands to muffle it.
"You were right," said Megatron. "What you were saying in the bar. Idle words of sympathy are only meant to valorize the speaker. It's your actions that show the kind of mech you are."
Thirty-first floor. Starscream stepped out of the elevator and stumbled on the thick shag carpeting of the hallway. Megatron caught his elbow, and Starscream found himself leaning in instead of flinching away. With the editing subroutines turned off, it was easy to slip into a familiar script. Taking Megatron to his hotel room, Megatron's hands on his plating, the anticipation of what would come next—
Starscream tried uselessly to cudgel his processor into silence. This was why he had the editing subroutines. He felt fine at Metroplex. More or less. He felt better at Metroplex, put it that way. There were too many memories at the planetary tournaments. Especially at the hotels, which had once offered a heady illusion of privacy compared to Megatron's crowded communal house or the tiny apartment Starscream shared with Thundercracker and Skywarp near the club in Kaon. They'd abused that illusion by passionately fighting and making up until their neighbors' banging against the walls and threats to call the authorities finally drove them to more silent passions.
"Do you want me to guess which one is your room?" asked Megatron. "Should I start knocking on doors?"
Starscream couldn't think of a clever response, so he shoved at Megatron instead, maneuvering them into a right turn. His room was this way, probably. Around the corner.
"Really only a few sips?" asked Megatron.
"It's been a long day." There was the room. Starscream fumbled in his subspace for his keycard. "You should come in."
Megatron dropped his elbow. He didn't step back, but he leaned away. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"I don't care what you think." Starscream managed to get the keycard into its slot, but the lock was unresponsive.
"That's one of the many reasons why it's not a good idea."
Starscream could feel Megatron's gaze on the back of his head. He hiked up his wings defensively and jammed the keycard in a few more times. Finally Megatron took the keycard away and put it in the lock the right way up. The lock clicked, and Megatron swung the door open.
"Come in," said Starscream, staring into the empty room. When Megatron didn't move, he turned to catch Megatron's optic and brought out the heavy artillery. "I miss you."
Megatron looked unimpressed. "No, you don't."
"I do!" snapped Starscream. "I was happy with the Decepticons—"
"We were miserable." Megatron’s voice was heavy and bitter. "We were failing in our goals, and I was taking it out on you—"
Starscream tried to take Megatron's hand, missed, and seized his wrist instead. "We were the most successful club in Cybertronian history!"
"It was never about winning." Megatron had the gall to look regretful. He didn't try to pull away, not even when Starscream's hand clenched painfully tight. "When I think about what I've done, what I did to you—"
"It's always about you, isn't it?" Starscream dropped Megatron's wrist, disgusted. "Don't flatter yourself."
Megatron's optics flared, and Starscream felt caught between anticipation and trepidation. But Megatron calmed himself with disappointing ease. No shouting, no recriminations, no shoving Starscream against the wall... Mechs kept telling Starscream how much Megatron had changed. As if he'd be pleased.
"What could you possibly miss?" asked Megatron, with only the shadow of his once-familiar scorn.
Words crowded into Starscream's processor and jammed his voicebox. So much he couldn't say. He missed everything. The feeling of being the best. Crushing the opposition under foot. Showing Cybertron exactly what a real fencer looked like. Not like one of their rich, cultured amateurs. A fencer looked like a bulky ex-miner with an attack that knocked you off your feet. A fencer looked like a lightning-fast seeker who wasn't shy to share his opinions of the referees. A fencer looked like a Decepticon, an army driving toward domination. First Cybertron, then the galaxy.
Starscream had wanted more. First he'd wanted the championship, and then the Maestro certification, and then to be respected as the greatest fencer-turned-coach in the galaxy. Megatron had wanted more. First and foremost, he'd wanted Starscream's obedience to his vision.
Starscream hadn't been very good at obedience. But he still craved the vision. He felt like a hollow drone, flying in circles with his navigation systems cut out.
"I miss fencing Soundwave," he said, at last.
Megatron smiled before he could stop himself. "It was an experience."
"It's not as much fun, fencing the up-and-coming generation." Starscream slumped against the doorway. "They don't want it as much as we did."
"I don't think it's possible to want anything as much as we did," mused Megatron.
"Come inside," murmured Starscream, instead of any of the other things he wanted to say. "Just for a few kliks, just—"
Megatron leaned in a micron, and Wheeljack rounded the corner at a run.
"Starscream, are you— Oh."
"I was just leaving," said Megatron.
"Good," said Wheeljack tightly. "Starscream?"
Wheeljack actually waved his hand in front of Starscream's face. Starscream slapped it away.
"You're with me, right?" Wheeljack peered into Starscream's optics. "They were talking about some kind of incident, down in the bar, and I keep telling you those subroutines aren't meant for long-term use—"
"You could hardly call that an incident by Starscream’s standards," said Megatron. "All of the furniture remained in place. What subroutines?"
"None of your business," said Wheeljack. "I thought you were leaving? Why are you even here?"
"I was assisting Starscream to his room," said Megatron. "He was distressed by the slag-merchants in the bar. Have you been meddling with Starscream's programming?"
"Both of you shut up." Starscream tried to keep his voice steady, but both Megatron and Wheeljack winced at the high edge of feedback. "I'm fine. You can go."
Megatron looked at Wheeljack, as if waiting for him to leave first. Wheeljack folded his arms and didn't budge. Finally Megatron shook his head and stalked down the hall. Wheeljack followed him for a few steps, then came back when the elevator chimed.
"He's gone," he said. "Are you really okay?"
"If I say yes will you leave?" asked Starscream.
"Yes." Wheeljack was clearly struggling to cover his irritation. “Just say the word.”
Starscream didn't say anything. He pushed himself away from the doorway, stumbled through his room, and collapsed onto the berth. His processor felt like it was going to burst through his cranium.
Wheeljack closed the door behind him. "What did Megatron do?"
Starscream laughed, and didn't bother to cover his mouth this time. "I think he was trying to apologize."
"In the bar they just said that there'd been an argument, and that he dragged you away—"
"Who said? A little mech with a cone on his head?" Starscream turned his face into the berth covers. "I'm going to kill him."
"Don't tell me that," said Wheeljack. "I don't want to be a witness for the prosecution when it comes to trial."
"Would you be a witness for the defense?"
"Sure." The berth shifted as Wheeljack sat down. Not touching, just close enough for Starscream to feel the heat of his engines. "Your honor, I cannot deny that Starscream may have murdered the victim in cold blood. But he probably had it coming."
Starscream laughed until his vocalizer cracked and Wheeljack grabbed his wing to keep him from falling off the berth.
"It wasn't that funny." Wheeljack ran his thumb along the edge of Starscream's wing before letting go.
"Thundercracker said almost the same thing about me," said Starscream. "Neither of you are allowed at my trial, but you can come to my funeral if you want."
"You turned your comm off," said Wheeljack. "Metalhawk told me what happened."
Starscream turned his comm back on and winced as he deleted about fifty urgent messages from Wheeljack. "I didn't even see Metalhawk in the bar."
"He said you looked pretty out of it." Wheeljack’s finials flashed. "I might have restarted our feud with him, by the way. I know you’re not on good terms, but he just sat and watched while you went off with your, um. With Megatron. He knows why that’s not a good idea, and he didn’t even check to make sure you were okay."
"It's our feud now? Poor Metalhawk, can’t seem to do anything right." Starscream twisted so he could aim a smile at Wheeljack. "Did you come to rescue me?"
Wheeljack's mask hid any expression he might have, but his back straightened. "I don't think you need rescuing."
"Megatron thinks I do." Starscream's comm chirped, and, oh, frag Megatron. He turned it off again. "He's just sent me the contact information for his therapist."
"Wow." Wheeljack didn't say anything for a long time. "Well, it wouldn't be the worst idea—"
"Frag you."
"I'm just saying."
"I'm tired,” decided Starscream. “I'm recharging."
Wheeljack sighed. "We can talk about it later."
Starscream didn't reply. He just curled on his side with his back braced against Wheeljack's hip and his wings probably jabbing into Wheeljack's side. Wheeljack rested his hand on Starscream's thigh.
"Windblade did really well today."
"She's getting there," mumbled Starscream. "She should be able to beat Drift. I never lost more than five touches to Drift."
"He's better than he used to be," said Wheeljack. "And Windblade's not as good as you were."
Starscream turned that over, trying to decide if it was a compliment, or an insult, or just true. Drift was Megatron's, wasn't he? And Windblade was Starscream's, and Drift had beaten her... Except Drift wasn't Megatron's, everyone knew he'd fenced at Crystal City for almost a vorn after he quit the Decepticons, and now he took his lessons with Rodimus or even Ratchet. And Windblade was Camien to the core. All Starscream could do was give her the tools, he couldn't touch the instincts that told her how to use them.
It wasn't like losing to Megatron when Windblade lost to Drift. But it wouldn't be like beating Megatron if Windblade won.
He hated bouting by proxy. He hated the half-wistful, half-repelled look on Megatron's face. He hated the way his plating still tingled where Megatron had touched him. What was wrong with him? Megatron was right, they'd been miserable in the end. The Decepticons hadn't dissolved so much as imploded. Where was the glitch in Starscream's processor that made him want more of it?
"I'm starting to agree with you about the editing subroutines," said Starscream. "They're too aggressive for daily use. Especially here."
"Really?" muttered Wheeljack. "You think?"
"But I'm turning them back on. Just for now. Just so I can recharge."
"Oh, you're going to use them the way I designed them? That's novel."
Starscream graciously ignored the sarcasm. "Remind me to turn them back off in the morning. I’ll need all my faculties to coach Waspinator, I’m sure."
"You got it, boss." Wheeljack tapped Starscream's thigh, and then got up. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Starscream's plating felt cold where it had touched Wheeljack, and he barely stopped himself from calling after Wheeljack before the door closed. But turning the subroutines back on felt like slipping into a pool of warm oil. Starscream's mind went blissfully blank, and he realized that his fans were cycling down after nearly a cycle of constant humming. He'd been so worked up about... something. He couldn't remember.
He'd worry about it in the morning. If he knew himself, he'd probably worry about it for the rest of his life.