Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Welcome!

Everything is fine.

It’s quiet here. There’s a gentle trickling sound of oil being drizzled over rocks in one of those little desktop sculptures designed to help bots with overactive processors vent at the proper intervals, but the source isn’t immediately obvious. In the center of the room, there’s a long couch, and in the center of the couch, there’s a mech. He stares at the wall opposite him. He reads the sign. He smiles.

The walls are pale, attractive shades of blue and pink, gently raising and lowering their intensity in pulses of light. It feels very familiar. He’s not actually sure where he is, but it has the soothing, reminiscent quality of massage parlors, or particularly expensive hospitals.

Probably the latter.

The door on one of the far walls opens, and a docbot peers out from inside. “Starscream?” he says, smiling. “Come on in.”

“Oh,” Starscream says, and smiles. “Right.” He stares vacantly around the room, then follows the other mech through the door. Older frame, sort of attractive. Not exactly a seeker, but definitely a jet form. Slim. He can get into that.

“Please, take a seat,” the jet says, motioning towards the chair across from his own desk. After a moment of deliberation, Starscream sits, and the jet sits as well. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Starscream,” he says, “I’m Pharma.”

“Hm? Right,” Starscream says, “of course. Nice to meet you too. I have some... questions? I have many questions.”

“I thought you might.”

“Where...am I?” he says. “How did I get here? Who are you?”

“I’m Pharma,” Pharma says, “remember? We just met.”

Starscream stares at him.

“Just kidding,” Pharma says, “can you imagine? No, I understand you completely. Let’s start at the beginning. You, Starscream of Vos, are dead. You have moved on to the next stage of your existence.”

“Thank you,” Starscream says carefully, “I now have more questions. How did I die? I don’t remember.”

Pharma shifts in his chair. Starscream notices that his chair looks significantly more comfortable than the chair Starscream is sitting in, and also that he still--somehow--looks very uncomfortable. “Well, ah, right,” he says, shuttering his facial vents, “in the case of embarrassing or traumatic deaths, we… erase the memory, to ensure an easier passage from one to the other. That said, if you really want to know--”

“I do.”

“--Then I guess there’s no harm in telling you.” The jet shrugs and, out of apparently nowhere, produces a slim datapad. Starscream cranes his neck instinctively to see what’s written on the other side, but Pharma’s hold is too angular, and he can’t get a good look. Pharma slips a tiny pair of lenses out of his subspace and opens them with a flick, setting them on his aquiline nose.

“Well according to this,” he says, “on the day you died, you were overcharged on the job while you were building some kind of... extremely volatile secret project, I mean your FIM chip was absolutely corroding with engex, you knocked into several walls on your way out of the laboratory--”

Starscream’s mouth twitches.

“Earlier that day, you had a tantrum at work and threw your things around the station until your boss sent you to your rooms to cool off. While you were bringing your invention back down to show him, your boss I mean, after several doses of nightmarefuel, you tripped and fell on one of your own post-tantrum datapads in the middle of the bridge and shot yourself in the spark, straight up through the… vitals. Funnily enough, your boss was actually the first one to--”

“Okay!” Starscream says, with a forced smile that is making his cheek pistons creak. “That’s enough!”

“On the post-tantrum datapad were all your embarrassing spike pics, which you’d been planning on sending him before you lost your nerve. If it helps, he found them.”

“It doesn’t,” Starscream says, “thanks.”

Pharma peers down through his specs. “So did everyone else on the ship.”

Starscream’s claws crack several holes in the arms of the chair.

Pharma puts down the ‘pad, spreading his beautifully articulated hands. “But never mind that,” he says. “It’s all behind you now! You have so much to look forward to!”

The blue lights fizzle and glimmer; the oil sculpture drips its soothing regular drip. Starscream looks from Pharma’s charming square smile to his medic’s paint, and says, “Do I.”

“Ah, an atheist? Don’t worry, we’re not too concerned with what you believed, around here. We’re much more interested in what you did. And you, Starscream, a devoted philanthropic scientist who roamed the galaxies helping war-torn organic species recover from endless cycles of poverty and violence--well, your actions speak for themselves!”

“Right,” Starscream says, “that’s me. Those are… my actions, alright, and of course they--so this is, um…” he pauses, and purses his lips in a way at least one other mech has told him they found attractive. “There’s no tactful way to put this, is there. Am I…” he wiggles his fingers uncertainly, then points upwards, raising an eyebrow.

Pharma laughs, and waves a hand as though he’s brushing a speck of debris off his desk. “Well, the dichotomy of the afterlife isn’t really analogous to any single religion dreamt of in your philosophies. Most major religions are...about 5% right, on average.” He taps his ‘pad. “The Primalists are a little right, the Solists, sort of right... the Circle of Light, the Clavis Aurea--I mean, everyone got a little bit of it right. Except for Waspinator.”

“Who?”

Pharma leans back and raps a fist against the wall behind him. The tasteful paneling buzzes to life with the image of an insectoid beastformer, caught in a moment of supreme bug-eyed terror. Pharma grins. “Waspinator,” he says. “One hundred percent right, down to the color of the bolts. Once during an overnight stay in an illegal blitz parlor, Waspinator took three doses of Unicron’s Finest and went into a dissociative fugue. His dealer, a bot by the name of Swindle, prodded him and said ‘hey, what do you think happens when we die?’, and Waspinator just went off. Started rattling things off left and right!”

Starscream squints at the portrait. Underneath the picture, the caption ‘Waspinator: closest guess’ blazes in square orange letters. “Wow,” he says, because it seems like the right sort of thing to say. Pharma’s eyes have the familiar, fanatic blaze of a white-knighter typing out a defense for a minibot he doesn’t know on robot twitter. Is there robot twitter in the afterlife? Where is his comm link? He could’ve sworn he had it in his subspace--oh, right. He’s dead.

That’s going to take some getting used to.

“But generally speaking, there’s a... good place and a bad place,” Starscream prods, like a tongue poking a broken mouthplate. “Right?”

“Oh yes,” Pharma says. “There is.” He smiles, and his aura radiates pure comfort. Acceptance. It washes over Starscream like an oil bath he’s not supposed to be taking. “You’re in the good place, Starscream. You made it.”

Somewhere in the walls, a chronometer lets out a perfect, ringing chime. “Okay,” Pharma says, and claps his hands together. “Let’s take a walk!”

The neighborhood looks a little like an upscale Ioconian neighborhood, or at least the way those look in vids from the Novan Era, which is the closest Starscream has ever been to an upscale Ioconian neighborhood. One of those old sweetsie plots where the beautiful jet falls in love with the brooding loner outcast. Lots of mosaic and carved masonry. Everything glows a little pink at the edges, where shadows would otherwise be. In places the sunlight doesn’t even seem to touch it, the whole thing is lit from within itself like an expensive crystal sculpture. In the gazebo a couple of boatformers are canoodling.

“This is Neighborhood number 322^7,” Pharma says, “or, the Cosy Cosign as we like to call it. Some are bigger, some are smaller, some are more sunny and some are less. Really, it’s about what will make you, the experiencer, happiest.”

Nothing here is more than a story high. The total effect is cheery and relentlessly quaint and so open under the clean clear sky that Starscream cannot stop looking up every couple seconds, waiting for something to drop out of it. It’s claustrophobically open here. He can feel the walls refusing to close in around him. He continues smiling.

“There aren’t, ah, more urban options are there?”

“Oh sure,” Pharma says, “we’ve got skyscrapers and colonial compounds and all kinds of things, but of course you wouldn’t be interested in that. It’s all in your file. We keep track of everything, right down to the number of iron shavings you put in your morning fuel.”

Starscream is half convinced that the shop windows are winking at him. Even the luxury here seems to have a cheeky self-effacing boldness. There’s wax and polish shops, several restaurants, a little boutique that appears to sell nothing but artisanal coolant, and a bar. Starscream relaxes like Pavlovitron’s turbofox just at the sight of the place.

“You mind if we swing in there?” Starscream says. “I could really use a drink. I mean a celebratory drink! Of course.”

“Before noon? You kidder. Here, let me show you the frozen yogurt shop.”

Starscream lingers in agonized longing, thrusters sinking into the decorative gravel. “The what now?”

“Yogurt. It’s some kind of organic fuel. I’m not sure what it’s for, there just always seems to be a shop in these neighborhoods. It’s kind of a universal constant. Don’t actually put it in your intake, it’ll gunk up your tanks.”

Starscream catches up to him as he comes to a stop in front of a cute little shop with some kind of a buffet line inside, the courtyard outside full of brightly colored parasols and picnic tables.

“We keep track of everything," Pharma says again. He regards the shop front with an intense expression of pleasure, that same flare of white-knight zealotry from the office earlier. “Every time you saw a credit chip on the sidewalk and you wondered, ‘would anyone know if I just took this?’ We knew. Every time you were alone with someone else’s diary, every time you took one stick of candy instead of two, every time you drank ore-3 engex mined by freetrade non-indentured workers even through it’s three times as expensive as the standard stuff and doesn’t taste as good? We knew.”

Starscream gives the wide flat sky another fleeting automatic scan.

“Everything you did in your life has a positive or negative score marker,” Pharma tells him. “You see, Starscream, this place is made for people like you.”

“People like… me,” Starscream repeats. There’s a pale green minibot poking curiously at a bowl of rainbow goop, which could be ‘frozen yogurt’, or possibly some kind of rust-based bioweapon hidden under innocuous--no, that’s ridiculous. Bioweapons. Nobody messes around with bioweapons when a gun would do just as well.

“The good people,” Pharma says, oblivious to Starscream’s ogling, “not just good people. The best people. See, it’s a perfectly balanced system. Every single action, positive or negative, has a perfect mathematical value assigned to it. While you’re living your life, there’s a tally running every time you take an action, a positive or negative score. At the end of your life, we add it all up. But to end up in a neighborhood like this...well, that takes only the highest scorers of all.”

“Right,” Starscream says, “the highest scorers. Like me.”

Pharma smiles. “I say best, ” he says, “but just looking at your record, I feel like I should really be saying perfect. ”

“Haha,” says Starscream.

“And a person as perfect as you is going to have a perfectly perfect sparkmate,” Pharma goes on. “Of course.”

Starscream does a full sensor reboot, just to be on the safe side. “What,” he says, “like a conjunx?”

“Oh, some are amica, some are conjunx. The details don’t matter. What matters is--” Pharma takes his arm and guides him away from the shop, firmly, with a brisk relentless step, “--someone in this neighborhood is meant just for you! Yes, one of these mechs is your destined spark companion, your other half, your ideal match. And you’ll spend eternity together, in absolute domestic bliss!”

Domestic, huh. Right.

The garden Pharma leads him through looks like it took several millennia to cultivate, with expensive calcium stalagmites in placid orderly rows. The topiaries alone look like they took some gardener with a dripper-can the better part of an entire career to shape. That one’s shaped like Luna 2 in a crescent wane, and he doesn’t even dare get started on the gem-grade crystals. Is that bonzai a zirconium?  How did they afford that?

Oh. Afterlife. That’s… still not quite sinking in.

“Eternity, right, fantastic,” he says. “The thing is, I don’t feel dead, Pharma.”

“Gracious no, you wouldn’t,” Pharma says. A polyhedix crystal gives a beautiful chime as he flicks it on his way past. “It wouldn’t be a very good place if you could feel your spark corroding in your corpse while you tried to have brunch, now would it?”

Starscream touches his chest before he can stop himself. “No,” he says, slowly, “I suppose not.”

“All that rusting and decomposing,” Pharma says, clicking his tongue. “Not to mention by now you’ve been disassembled for spare parts by your ship’s doctor. You were a cold construct after all. What you see here is more of a spark experience than a physical reality. The fact of the matter is, you don’t have a physical reality anymore.”

Starscream tries to imagine the ship’s doctor who would have stripped his gears and kibble for scrap, but no matter how hard he cards through his memory, he really doesn’t have anything on the place where he died. Was it on the expedition with Skyfire? Or--no, Skyfire offlined in that arctic hellhole in the Orion Spur, under some paltry tons of frozen water crystals. And anyway, Skyfire would never have let the vultures scrap him for parts. Probably. So who was he with?

The last thing he remembers--he strains his processor so hard he thinks he can actually hear it whirring. He was still at the bar after closing, Thundercracker’s place. Slam poetry night. Thundercracker told them he’d dock their pay if they didn’t come (never mind that he didn’t pay them anything) and then hid behind the bar cleaning stemware while Skywarp got belligerently intoxicated and tried to smash a glass on a constructicon’s face. He tried to flip a table over, as if it wasn’t (like everything in Thundercracker’s place) literally nailed to the floor.

But there’s no way Starscream sent Thundercracker pictures of his spike. Or had even wanted to. And the gun he wasn't supposed to be working on in the back room hadn't even been finished yet.

What is he missing?

“It’s alright,” Pharma says, “it is going to be strange for a while. But in no time, you’ll feel right at home with the rest of your neighbors! Why, you’ll be feeling cosy as a screw in a socket once you get a load of your new house!”

“A house?”

Pharma walks on ahead, crooking a finger over his shoulder at Starscream. The glitter of crystals gives way to a smooth winding path down a hill, at the bottom of which sits a little house. It certainly is a little house. Pharma sweeps his hand over it with almost palpable satisfaction. “Welcome to your new home!”

It’s--it’s flat. To the ground. It catches the light like a gem stone of some kind, which is reasonable, because it appears to be ninety percent windows. Each flat glass pane looks out onto the lawn, with a clear view both ways. Even at this distance, he can clearly make out the interior furniture.

“Oh,” he says, and carefully resets his vocalizer. “An open floor plan.”

“It’s perfect, isn’t it? You see, in the Good Place, everyone has homes that match their true essence.”

It really is at the bottom of the hill. Starscream worries for a moment that he’s going to trip and tumble the rest of the way down before he can even transform. Pharma just trots right along, like gravity doesn’t exist.

“And that’s why I have a place without a tower, or a landing pad,” Starscream says. “As opposed to someone else, who might actually be able to fly in and out of their home.”

“Exactly!” Pharma says. “I knew you would understand.”

At the door, Pharma lets them in without a key or a code or anything remotely resembling security measures.

Just past the picket white fence, the neighboring place has an absolutely beautiful set of towers, an absolute embarrassment of towers, and a floorplan that looks gothic to a degree that verges on labyrinthine. It takes Starscream several long seconds to stop staring at it and follow Pharma into the little glass house.

The plush, snuggly berth has no walls around it; in effect, the entire house is also the berthroom. Starscream stares at its luscious padding as Pharma gives him the little tour--here’s the washrack, here’s the fuel dispenser, here’s the enormous collection of portraits of crying mimes--

“Oh!” Pharma says, “And here’s the footage from your Organic Rights trip to the Orion system, where you fed seventeen different warring cities as you single-handedly arranged peace talks. You got a ton of points for that one. Look! There you are, nursing an infant with a tiny bottle! Wow, that’s an awful lot of dirt. You can’t even see the paint underneath!”

Those sort of look like Starscream’s hands. It’s first person perspective, like archive footage from one of those old fashioned memory sticks.

“Really,” Pharma says, “just remarkable. It takes a humble mech to walk around in that state of bedragglement. Did that organic just throw up on you? Wow. You really are the picture of modesty.”

“Yeah, well,” Starscream says, glancing at the door. Pharma is between him and the only escape. Of course, the walls are all made of glass. Maybe a little blaster fire-- “Once we knew that their...fluids weren’t toxic to our kind, it was just a matter of doing the right thing. What’s a little dirt?” He roots through his processors, finds the most brilliant (yet sensually humble) grin he knows, and plasters it, big and fake, across his face. “Dirt washes off. Actions...actions are forever.”

Pharma claps his hands together, giddy, and Starscream takes a moment to be proud of his showmanship (which is returning to him at last, thank Primus) before it all comes crashing down on him again, A.K.A. Pharma opens his damn mouth. “Oh, it’s so thrilling to hear you say that,” he says, absolutely gushing, “I never believed I would hear such a perfect person say such perfectly perfect words! You know, you truly belong here, Starscream. And I’ve got the very last detail, to make sure you know just how deserved this all is.”

Starscream’s wings give a twitch. “Well of course you do,” he says. He gives the video footage another quick glance. “What… ah, what is it?”

Pharma lifts a finger and, like choreography, there’s a knock at the door. Starscream twists around to see a massive blue bot hesitantly stepping over the threshold, ducking just a little bit to get through. He looks combat class, built to crush canons in his huge grey hands.

“Starscream, meet your sparkmate!” Pharma says, with a grand gesture known best to used-parts salesmen. “This is Ultra Magnus, duly appointed enforcer of the Tyrest Accords.”

“Hello Starscream,” says Ultra Magnus, Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accords. “It is an honor to meet you. I--”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” Pharma says. “I just love getting to see new residents coming together! This is really what makes the job worth it, watching two warm little sparks getting all comfy cosy in their new life. I wouldn’t miss this for the world!” His eyes burn, huge and bright, as he looks from one to the other, back and forth. Expectantly. His hands clamp together, fingers interlacing. Are they supposed to… do something? He’s definitely expecting them to--oh. Right.

“--Ah,” Starscream says, bracing himself. “Well! That’s just delightful. Bring it on in, big guy!”

He opens up his arms, trying to look winning and eager. The chances of getting a blade in the back in the next several seconds are much higher than he would like, but, look, sometimes you’ve just got to take that risk. And anyway, Ultra Magnus is large , sure, but Starscream has dealt with larger. Not usually after literally welcoming them in with open arms… but not never like that, either.

Ultra Magnus only stiffens. “Oh, no,” he says. “I’m not much of a--” his mouth forms the word like he’s spitting out a bio-hazard, “-- hugger. ”

“Oh,” Starscream says, with a mixture of relief and also immediate waspish irritation.

Given that he’s such a big guy, for a second Ultra Magnus looks awfully small as he shifts from pede to pede. “Then again,” he says, and looks at anything but the two mechs actually in the room with him. “I suppose if there was ever an appropriate time--”

Primus, he just eats up the floor with those big steps. Starscream has half a second to flinch and half a second to force himself to un-flinch before Ultra Magnus has him swept up in his arms, pulling him firm and tight against his chassis. The palms press flat against Starscream’s back. Huh. No knife. That’s good.

It takes a moment of firm, warm pressure, and then Magnus lets him go. Starscream reels a little bit, as his pedes touch the ground again. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him like that. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him without a reason, either underhanded or vicious.

“Sorry,” Magnus says, hands stiff at his sides again, clenching and unclenching. “Perhaps that was incorrectly executed. I still have much to learn about the protocols of… interpersonal bonding.”

The thoughts are running through Starscream’s processor so fast that they feel more like trajectories of shapes than thoughts. He needs an ally here. He can’t trust Pharma, obviously , but this one--he’s physically capable, inexperienced, and he oozes insecurity like oil from a wound. If Ultra Magnus wants a sparkmate, why not give him one?

Only a fool would pass up resource like this when it was so earnestly offered, spark on a platter.

“Don’t worry,” Starscream says, and flashes his warmest smile. “We’ll have plenty of time to get it absolutely perfect.”

“Technically, you have plenty of forever to get it perfect,” Pharma interjects helpfully. “Oh, I’m so glad you two managed to hug each other. I was worried this big guy wouldn’t quite have the hang of it. You’re already bringing the best out of him, Starscream.” He winks.

Magnus frowns. “I’m not sure you could classify physical touch as the ‘best’ of--”

“You know, I would just love to stay and chat,” Pharma cuts him off, and Starscream catches a glimpse of real irritation flitting across Magnus’ face (this guy is so easy to read, is he lucky or what? ), “but I actually have a couple other residents I need to make sure feel welcome and secure in their new homes. I like being really ‘hands-on’, you know? Is that what you say? Mortals are hilarious, you all just say the best things. Well, I just can’t wait to get my hands on--do you get it? Get my hands on-- you get it, okay, you get it--a few of your neighbors. Take it sleazy, gentlemechs.”

He turns to go, and Starscream releases a vent of air--but just as he’s loosening the pistons in his hands, Pharma is swirling back around. “Oh, I can’t believe I almost forgot,” he says, and claps, “there’s an event tonight--a sort of ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ thing--hosted by your neighbors. Everyone’s invited, of course. Oh! I could bring them around, introduce them to you two?” He raises an eyebrow.

Starscream glances over at Magnus, who has a face of surprisingly stalwart panic, and then back at Pharma, who looks like a kid halfway through a joke, waiting for it to land. “Oh, right,” he says, diplomatically, “um, or maybe we could meet them at the party? At the same time as everyone else. So that the two of...us? Could get to know each other first?” He waggles a finger, indicating himself and his ‘sparkmate’.

“Of course! You’re so right--I’ll see you both this evening, then? Let you two lovebirds get acquainted?” Pharma winks. Starscream can literally hear the elbow-nudging in his voice. “Wear something special! Paint jobs! Whatever you do to look sparkly! I’m looking forward to--”

As he speaks, he’s been sliding back out through the door, and at that moment, it shuts in front of him. Through the glass, Starscream can see his mouth moving, but--with relief--cannot hear him. After another moment, his shape disappears.

Starscream purses his lips. “Does that guy creep you out, too?”

“He’s very...earnest,” Ultra Magnus says, and sniffs disapprovingly. “I suppose he’s just excited. He told me this was his first neighborhood.”

Starscream shoots the nearest glass wall an acerbic look. “No kidding,” he mutters.

“I offered to make a thorough inspection of his work,” Ultra Magnus goes on, “just in case anything here is not up to code. I am, in fact, a seasoned appreciator of minutia. The front door to your house, for example, is skewed three degrees to the left of a perfect ninety degree angle. I’m sure you could feel that something was not right as soon as you walked inside.”

“Oh,” Starscream says, “I definitely could.”

“I am certain that I could be of service, if he would allow me. Prior to my appointment as Enforcer of the Tyrest Accords, I was engaged as an orator for the defense. My ability to parse, interpret, and recall detailed legal prescriptions is second to none.”

“Oh, you don’t have to impress me," Starscream says, and is subsequently both amazed and delighted to see Ultra Magnus flush hot across every biolight on his plating.

“Of course not,” the big bot says, like someone who definitely was doing that.

A lawyer, huh. Starscream flicks back through his memory files of various courtroom proceedings, of which there are several, looking for a trace of the bot before him. He expects that Maggy got an upgrade when he switched jobs; he’s never seen a lawyer that bulky before. Switching jobs is a kind of caution flag in and of itself--people don’t just switch jobs anymore. Either it happened back before the government went Functionist majority, or he was somebody pretty important, to be allowed that kind of mobility.

Anyway, Starscream can’t remember ever seeing anyone who resembled Ultra Magnus on any of his visits to the old reprobate pulpit, so they’re probably fine.

Ultra Magnus resets his vocalizer with a burst of static. Starscream hastily closes out his irritating but also highly sensual memories of being arrested by that Pax guy in the alley behind the Little Nyon syk lab.

“I’ve never been a mech of great sentiment,” Ultra Magnus says, folding his hands behind his back in what some part of Starscream’s processor recognizes as parade rest. “I’ve spent my life in pursuit of law and order, even when it was difficult for me, on a personal level. But more than that, I have believed in justice. And you and I--”

Sweet Solus, is he getting choked up?

“--I’m just very grateful,” Ultra Magnus says, after a moment, looking past Starscream entirely, “to have finally met you. I look forward to the commencement of our relationship and the pursuit of our mutual satisfaction.”

“Mutual satisfaction, huh,” Starscream murmurs. “Well, why wait? We might as well… commence now.”

Ultra Magnus startles, optics resetting like he forgot Starscream was there. “Now?” he says. “Shouldn’t we get to know each other first?”

“Uh,” Starscream says, “I thought we were done? I mean, we’ll spend... you know, all of eternity or something getting the minutia down, but is there really anything else?”

“There’s plenty more groundwork that needs to be discussed before we can move forward,” he says, “to start with, I don’t know the first thing about you. ”

“Me? Oh. Me.” Starscream purses his lips and stares at the video screen in his house, which is still playing footage of someone who might be him, now bandaging the open wounds of an organic adult female.

There’s a lot that he can say about himself, actually--in fact, back on Cybertron, talking about himself was Starscream’s favorite pastime. But that was back when the things he was saying about himself were about who he pushed out of the way so he could get tickets to one of Libretto’s concerts, or how he had martinis with Blurr before he was even famous, or what paint scheme looked best when spattered with energon. How long that bender lasted. Why Skywarp once found him unconscious in a bath empty of oil but full to the brim of engex bottles.

Basically, the Starscream Oeuvre™, none of it easily consumable for someone who “believes in justice”, his own words, or who appears to have a perma-frown, or thinks his sparkmate belongs in the good place, period. Starscream looks up at him and decides to go for broke. “I’m not very interesting,” he lies, “but if you have any questions--oh, or you could tell me something about yourself, and then I can also say… that. But for me.”

“Just give me the basics,” Ultra Magnus says, and furrows his brows like he’s trying to go for a casual expression, except he forgot which direction his forehead was supposed to go in. “Where were you forged? What did you do for a living?”

Where were you forged? That’s a loaded question. Starscream’s halfway to opening the ‘oh, actually, I wasn’t, I’m a cold construct and I’m a little insulted you phrased it like that’ can of worms before he remembers there was a second half, and swerves so hard he almost gives himself whiplash. “I was a scientist,” he says, “professionally. I was in…”

He purses his lips. Somehow, he doesn’t think telling a defense lawyer who ended up in the good place about his botched experiments with military-grade explosives. The mental image of half-melted mannequins engulfed in the blue-green flame of ammonia poisoning fills his processor.

“...Development and testing,” he says, and nods. “I can honestly say that.”

“Were you worried that you couldn’t?”

“What? Oh, no, I--uh, well, that’s all the time we have for me. Where were you forged?”

“Ambustus Minor,” Magnus answers promptly.

“Swanky.” He doesn’t think they’d let even a purebred flight frame settle down in Ambustus Minor, let alone a tin-plated knockoff. Is there any engex in this house? Primus there has to be something.

“I lived there for some time, but after earning my Juris Doctorate I became aware of a lack of capable public defenders in the--what are you searching for?”

Starscream jumps, knocking his helm against the underside of the sink. “...Cleaning… fluids,” he says, from inside of the cabinet. “Just… household solvents and such. Never can have a house too clean!”

Ultra Magnus brightens immediately. “I completely agree,” he says. “Dedicated though he may be, Pharma is clearly incapable of correctly attending to the details of his design work. Why don’t I help you wipe down your new residence. We can even adjust the tightness of any screws we encounter to regulation compliance.”

For a moment, Starscream contemplates uncapping the jug of anti-corrosive his hand just touched and pouring the whole thing down his intake. Too bad he’s only 90% sure he can’t be killed a second time.

“You know what, that sounds like so much fun,” he says. “I’m so glad you suggested it.”

If the outside of the mansion was breathtaking, the interior of the mansion is resplendent. The whole interior of the great hall is comprised of huge vaulting columns of marble, veined with sparkling strains of blue and white opal, glowing with some interior light like the rarest ores of volucite, mined only from the farthest reaches of the galaxy. Every detail is in dripping diamonds and deep ocean black pearls, and far above them, at the apex of the ceiling, a series of gorgeous murals and paintings of creation that seem to shift slightly in the crystalline light. Starscream takes a moment away from being furiously envious, just so he can let slackjawed horniness have a turn at the wheel.

In one hand, he tugs awkwardly at the hem of his cape. Yes, he’d gone for a cape. Red, with gold lining. It’s not as though anyone’s going to accuse him of vanity, right? It’s the good place. Everyone thinks he belongs there. Anyway, it’s not as though he completely reframed for one evening. Some of these mechs definitely did.

He snatches--er, he lifts , elegantly lifts--a flute of pale pink bubbly off some skinny bot’s passing plate. Is that guy a resident of the neighborhood? Why would he be working at the party if he lived here? Maybe he’s from the bad place, Starscream reasons, and the real hell is serving entitled rich people for all eternity. He’s certainly never enjoyed it.

“Well, this is diverting,” Ultra Magnus says, and Starscream tries not to visibly jump as he manifests from the shadows. He’s got two flutes, one in each hand--belatedly, Starscream realizes one of them is supposed to be for him, and feels a little dumb about grabbing one himself. But then, he does have two hands. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Ultra Magnus looks good, Starscream decides. He’s always had a hot spot in his chassis somewhere for big bots, and under the sparkling blue light, especially after a solid polish, those highlights really pop. Unfortunately, he’s still a goody-two-shoes lawyer and a nerd to boot. The two things cancel out.

“I mean, I’m never going to say no to a gig with free engex and those little crunchy... what are those, the rust wrappers on the soft cubes--you know the ones.” Starscream peers up at one of the light fixtures and wonders if the owner of the house would notice a few dozen pearls missing. It’s almost two hundred feet up. If he could just get up there, surely the guy wouldn’t notice? He’d better get a read on the homeowner first, although if precedence with other residents is anything to go by, the guy would probably good-naturedly assume there was a glitch in the system before doing anything so untoward as pointing fingers. Primus forbid any blame be thrown around.

“Interesting music,” he adds after a moment. “I think it’s Ponte.” It’s instrumental, just a string quartet, but Starscream remembers seeing a performance of it once. The piece is from the first act, and he hadn’t managed to get ragingly sloshed until after the first intermission. Something like… ‘In all the world, there could ne’er be / a more contented mech than me.’ He’d missed the rest. The slapstick had been funny.

“Oh,” Ultra Magnus says, “do you like opera?”

Starscream eyes the second glass of engex in Ultra Magnus’ hand, the one he hasn’t touched. He might be able to just kind of...reach over...and… "It’s okay, I guess,” he says diplomatically, fingers just brushing the stem.

Ultra Magnus grunts. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Starscream’s sly little hand yet. “Personally, I find theater to be a frivolous waste of time, energy, and financial resources that could be better focused elsewhere,” he says.

Now with two fists full of bubbly, Starscream feels his mood shift palpably. “Oh, what a relief, ” he says, and leans in conspiratorially in a way that both assures his interest and shows off a great view of his neck-to-chassis cabling under the loops of his cape, “I can’t stand live performances of any kind, they’re so gaudy and loud--I would’ve said before, only I didn’t want to offend you, in case you did enjoy it.” He sweeps his gaze up and delivers the Killing Blow--a subtle bite of the lip with direct eye contact.

Ultra Magnus looks back down at him. For a second, Starscream experiences a moment of terror, that his seduction skills are too good and he’s going to have to interface with the guy totally sober (well. Almost totally sober), which he is not prepared for--but then he sees the solid downward turn of his mouth. Oops. “I would prefer,” he says stiffly, “if you would simply be honest in your feelings from the beginning. Please believe that I will respect your opinions, so long as they are not harmful to others, and do not be afraid to share openly with me.”

Starscream clicks his tongue. “Right,” he says, trying to save some kind of flirtatious face and losing ground miserably, “of course. I’ll. Work on it.”

“Your effort is noted and appreciated,” Ultra Magnus says. He straightens to his full height, chassis bulging out with a swell of barely disguised pride, and turns to inspect one of the pillars. For some reason. Starscream checks to make sure he’s not watching, then empties one of the glasses straight into his fuel intake in a single gulp.

“So,” he says, trying to fill the space, “when are we going to meet the hosts of this whole shindig? I’d like to make friendly with whoever’s pad this is.” ‘So it’s less likely to get pinned on me when a bunch of their gold stuff goes missing, ’ he makes the conscious decision not to say out loud.

“Oh, and we’d just love to make friendly with you!” says a voice behind him, and Starscream whirls around so fast that his cape doesn’t even get the air to flare out behind him, instead hitting Ultra Magnus in the leg with an undignified whump. A not-insignificant portion of his engex sloshes out of its glass.

He looks up at the mech in question. And up. And...up.

If Starscream thought Ultra Magnus was big, it’s nothing compared to rich-and-handsome here, who’s smiling down at him with an infuriatingly magnanimous look in his eyes. His paint scheme is so...it doesn’t feel right to call it gaudy. It’s… extra. His legs are a different color than his chassis. He’s got an eagle painted across his front.

An eagle.

“First of all, I want to say thank you for coming,” the mech says, spreading his arms wide, “and welcome to our home! My name is Thunderclash, and this is my sparkmate, Hot Rod.” He gestures to the mech next to him, a slim red racer of a slightly more tolerable size, with one of those flat-all-over faces that you usually only see in magazines about beauty standards in exotic locales. Totally blank, save the eyes. “Oh, Hot Rod is a Camien Monk, who studied under the Cityspeakers in the mountains of a distant planet, and took their traditional oath of silence until the day that Solus reawakens,” he says, “which, of course, may not happen for another million years! Or, maybe, tomorrow. Sometime between tomorrow and a million years. Or forever.” He gives a bubbly little laugh. Hot Rod blinks slowly and nods.

Starscream glances up at Ultra Magnus, who seems frozen by the sight of a mech taller than him. Their shoulders are actually around the same size--maybe Thunderwhatsit is wearing extensions on his legs? It’s the only way a bot gets that big.

Anyway, he’s getting no assistance from his own corner. Time to go it alone.

“I’m sure I speak for both of us when I say how... thrilled we are to finally meet our neighbors,” Starscream starts, but Thunderclash gives a trill and throws a very friendly, very unwelcome hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, you’re the one who’s living in that adorable little house,” he says, “you know I was just saying--wasn’t I, Hot Rod?--I was just saying how quaint and sweet that little house looked, and how much I wanted to get to know the residents who lived there so I could visit. It looks so homey,” he adds, “you must feel very snug in there.”

Starscream’s smile is frozen. He’s clinging to it for dear life. “Yes,” he says, trying not to visibly grind his denta, “it’s very snug. Although, you know, if you want to come visit us in our house, I guess we’ll just have to come visit you! In this giant house, with the launch pads all over the place!”

“Oh, well, you’re welcome to those,” Thunderclash says, “it’s not like either of us need them! Honestly, I’m not entirely sure why they’re there, except that this house is so beautifully extravagant that I suppose Pharma just assumed we needed them!” He lets loose another one of those high, trilling laughs that makes Starscream’s plating stand on edge. “But you know, I was so busy complimenting your adorable house--”

“And tiny,” Starscream interjects, “don’t forget tiny.”

“Your adorably tiny house,” Thunderclash barrels on, apparently unaware of Starscream’s increasingly grating tone, “that I didn’t even ask your name! How rude of me, and we’re going to be such good friends. I don’t want to get off on the wrong pede at all.” He smiles, and abruptly, the wash of condescending words halts in its tracks. Starscream stares back.

The engex is making itself known now, glittering at the edge of his swimming vision. He’s supposed to be doing something here. What is he supposed to be doing here? He glances at Hot Rod for help, and then gives him an appraising look. He's pretty, with those gold lines curling around his eyes and over his cheeks. Pity he's a monk.

Not that that's going to stop Starscream from giving it a shot. It just makes his odds of success less likely.

“Ultra Magnus, duly appointed enforcer of the Tyrest Accords,” Ultra Magnus says at his side, and Starscream startles as the two huge mechs reach forward to shake hands right in front of him. “And this is Starscream.”

Not his sparkmate, Starscream notes. Interesting distinction. What, is he embarrassed or something? Embarrassed of--who, of Starscream? For what? Did he say something wrong? Well, screw him for trying, he guesses, while Magnus’ whole mouth locked up.

Wait, maybe it was the very prolonged stare Starscream was giving Thunderclash's squeeze. Oh well.

“It’s wonderful to meet you both,” Thunderclash says, reaching forward to clasp Magnus’ hand with both of his, which is literally 100% unnecessary and he does not need to be doing it, “and we’re so excited to spend our eternity together, with each other and with you. ”

Did he say that to just Ultra Magnus? Starscream narrows his eyes. He definitely did. And Ultra Magnus doesn’t even seem grossed out by how much hand contact they’re making! When he full-on freaked out about one hug?

Luckily, there’s another glass in Starscream’s other hand. He stares Hot Rod directly in the eye and drains it in one go. Not a twitch on that lipless face.

“I would love to stay and get to know both of you for the rest of the evening, but part of our due diligence as hosts is to make sure we talk to everyone,” Thundercrash is saying. “It’s hard to say goodbye, but everyone here is so gifted and generous. Please, make conversation! I’m sure you’ll see the best in everyone else, just like we do.”

“Please, don’t let us keep you,” Ultra Magnus replies, and Starscream almost sighs in relief. “Protocol must be followed at all cost.”

“I love that. ‘Protocol must be followed’. You certainly have a way with words, Magnus, if I might be so bold as to call you Magnus. I shall include it in my own vocabulary starting tonight,” Thunderclash says, smiling. With no small twinge of betrayal, Starscream watches a collection of biolights flare along Ultra Magnus’ arms as Thunderclash and Hot Rod sweep past them. Feeling displaced, he slides his own hand through the loop of his sparkmate’s arm.

“Who was that guy?” he asks, sneering at their host’s retreating back as he slips out of hearing range. Ultra Magnus gives him a strange look, and his hand an even stranger one.

“He’s our host, ” Ultra Magnus says, “he just came up and introduced himself. Are you well?”

Starscream waves an empty glass. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, “I just mean--you were acting like you knew him, I mean, I figured he was your pal from like, being alive or whatever.”

Ultra Magnus gives him a disapproving look. At least, it seems disapproving. Then again, everything about this guy’s face seems disapproving. He’s got...resting...disapproval face. “You were just expressing your interest in, and I quote, ‘making friendly’ with our neighbors,” he says, “I thought it would be best to be friendly, so as not to disappoint your expectations.”

Oh. Well. That’s just about the nerdiest way any guy has ever told Starscream he wanted to impress him, but nerdy or not, he still said it. “You remember what you said earlier?” Starscream asks. “About you respecting my opinions or whatever. You know that goes both ways, right? You don’t have to impress me. Besides,” He says, dragging his optics down over Ultra Magnus’ chassis meaningfully, “there’s no way you’re going to disappoint.” Primus, this bot is legitimately huge. His fuel tank churns nervously.

“It’s not as though it was difficult,” Ultra Magnus says, staring back at the party, apparently unaware of that expertly crafted and delivered piece of flirtation--which, rude, Starscream’s been perfecting the ‘Sexy Seeker Once-Over™’ for over a century-- “Thunderclash seems very apt at otherwise recreational pursuits. Erudite, gracious, and welcoming. He seems a perfectly suited neighbor for you.”

“For me? ” He could spit. He could spit. “You might get on with that condescending spawn-of-a-glitch, but I--” he stops, coughs. “I mean, that spawn-of-a- glitch,” he says again. “Glitch. Of a glitch.”

Ultra Magnus stares down at him. Starscream stares back up.

“Why can’t I say glitch?" He asks after an uncomfortable pause.

“If you’re trying to curse," Ultra Magnus says, forming the word like it personally offends him and letting it dribble out of his mouth like so many machtinis on one of Starscream’s bad vacations. “You can’t here. It upsets most of the residents, so there’s a filter that’ll stop you from doing it.”

Starscream has a sneaking suspicion Ultra Magnus might be one of those residents.

“What? That’s bullslag.” He frowns. “Wait, how do you even know about this? I mean, not to brag, but I used to curse a lot back on Cybertron, I mean, I was kind of a bad boy in comparison to--whatever, it’s not important, the point that you’re making me belabor is, why didn’t anybody tell me? How do you even know about this?”

“Obviously, I asked Rung about it,” he says, puffing his stupid chassis out again. Silently, Starscream wonders if Ultra Magnus thinks Starscream’s dumb enough to have forgotten what it looks like, or if he’s just insecure enough that he thinks he has to remind him every five fragging seconds --wait, he can’t even curse internally? He can’t even do that? --that he’s ridiculously huge. He probably turns into one of those monster trucks or something. “I was curious about the neighborhood, and asked for his expertise on anything I could think of. Language filters came up naturally, in a discussion about the Babel Fish that translates all our different languages here in the afterlife.”

“I was wondering why some bot from Ambustus Minor could make out my --wait a klik, what are you talking about? What’s a Rung?”

There’s a gentle chime, like someone engaging his comm link. “Hello. How can I help you?” asks the skinny little bot who definitely walked past him and far away into the room, like, fifteen minutes ago, but who is nonetheless just here, now, apparently, smiling placidly at him. Starscream fumbles the empty glasses in his hands.

“What is that," he manages, and fully drops both glasses. Instead of shattering on the floor, they hover in midair, then reappear on the tray in the bot’s hand.

In front of his eyes, they refill with pale engex, the kind he used to stare winsomely at when forged bots above his status knocked them together at tables he didn’t dare approach. The tray spins towards him. Hand shaking, he takes one.

“I’m Rung,” says Rung with an easy, modest little smile, “I’m the informational assistant for your neighborhood. How can I help you?”

Starscream eyes the bot’s kibble, or rather lack thereof. He opens up his vents for a steadying intake of air and stills his fingers against the glass. Not much you could hide in a frame as stripped down as that one. He knocks back his engex.

“You’re a search engine?” he asks. He swears there’s a spark behind that blue plate glass. It must be for the aesthetic, but it still strikes him as offputting to rig out what basically amounts to a drone with a spark.

“Much more than that,” Rung gently corrects him. He reaches out and taps the rim of Starscream’s glass, and the half-empty drink refills again with pale glittering liquid. “My essence is the foundation on which this neighborhood was built.”

Starscream looks down at the floor and gives it a testing prod with the tip of his pede. Rung doesn’t seem to register it; Rung stands there politely waiting for whatever he’s waiting for.

“Well,” Starscream says, and casts a sidelong glance in Ultra Magnus’s direction, “it is of course a pleasure to meet you. My sparkmate and I were just having a discussion about the speech parameters here. I don’t suppose there’s any way for me to re engage the cursing? Only for really important things, of course. Seeker’s honor!” He holds up two fingers.

“I’m afraid not,” Rung says. “As a matter of fact, the fabric of this reality is tightly interwoven with--”

Starscream lifts his glass and tunes him out.

“Wow, that’s so interesting,” Starscream says, in the breathless sort of way that you get when you just finished swallowing an entire glass without venting and now you have to pretend it didn’t knock the wind out of you, “while you talk about how interesting that thing you were talking about is, would you mind--?”

He gestures with his stemware. “Of course,” Rung says, smiling, and the glass is full again.

Ultra Magnus frowns at him, brows furrowed. “You’re going to regret that in the morning,” he says, like a teacher reminding a student who he can visibly see cheating that cheating will result in a zero on the test.

“Rung,” Starscream says, not bothering to look at Ultra Magnus, “do hangovers exist in the good place?”

“Great question! They do not,” Rung says, smiling as Starscream throws the rest of his glass back. “Hangovers are a result of corrosion of the FIM chip in the brain module. As no permanent physical damage can be sustained in the good place, the FIM chip will remain in perfect condition, and there will be no pain to accompany it.”

“Cool,” Starscream says, as his glass refills, “it’s almost like, after spending a life doing nothing but constant good deeds, some of us deserve to do, like, stuff, without worrying about, you know, consequences.”

“You’ve had quite a few of those already,” Magnus says, “Rung, I’m sure you have someone else to attend to.”

“Don’t worry! I can attend to all of the residents of the neighborhood simultaneously, as part of the good place’s central matrix. I am not a resident or a living being, and therefore do not follow the same rules of physics as a being with a physical body.” He smiles. “Is there anything else I can do for you two?”

“Yeah, can I get a big plate of those curvy pink crescent thingies that Thunderclash is having?” Starscream says. “Actually, can I have... his? The ones he’s having?”

“I can do better than that,” Rung says. There’s a soft chime, and the plate in his hand is full of those nasty, crunchy little snacks. “You can have your own! There’s no shortage. I can create any object in the multiverse.”

“Well aren’t you talented,” Starscream says, scowling down at his plate. On second glance, they look like some kind of invertebrate mechanimal straight out of the Nyon canals. He can’t actually eat things off the plate and hold his drink, and he only wanted the snacks because that would mean Thunderclash wouldn’t have any. So, okay, maybe some bots would be generous, but it’s not like he’s the one going around, telling other bots how small he thinks their houses are.

“Rung, please go,” Ultra Magnus says, and Starscream startles. His drink isn’t even half-empty.

“Okay!” Rung says. “Goodbye!”

There’s a soft chime, and he’s gone. Magnus turns to glare down at Starscream, who chews thoughtfully. “You can have one,” he says, and offers the plate, “I don’t even like these.”

The night ends with bots of all shapes and sizes streaming across the lawn, flashes of varnish and shadow in the bobbing lights that hover over the paths and gardens. They have two racetracks. Starscream isn’t even a racer and he’s livid with envy. Also with engex.

There’s something in the pit of Starscream’s fuel tank that he doesn’t like, and it gets worse every time he glances over his shoulder. Thunderclash stands on the doorstep with his dumb bot-friend waving goodbye to everyone, like some kind of shop window display, back and forth and back and forth, perfect denta flashing.

Starscream staggers back into his stupid tiny house with its millions of all-exposing windows and allows Ultra Magnus to catch him under the waist, as the force of heel-kicking open the door causes him to tumble backwards. A shiver runs down Starscream’s spinal strut. Ugh. Where does he get off being so big? His huge, canon-rending hands hold Starscream as easily as a cup, like something to be crushed and discarded.

“You’re so strong,” Starscream slurs, although it comes out more like yrssustronk. Oh well. He’ll manage. It’s not like he needs his silver tongue for this part. He can officially put that piece of anatomy on shore leave for the night.

The berth waits at the far wall, overlooking the room like a throne, huge and luxurious and impossible to look away from.

“You are inebriated,” Ultra Magnus observes.  

“I certainly am,” Starscream purrs. Or thinks he does.

The expression on Ultra Magnus’s face has an unmistakable edge of disapproval. What’s he complaining about? If he wanted to get drunk he had more than enough opportunities

Starscream pushes free of Magnus’s grip and makes his way through the dim room, kicking blindly at anything that gets in his way.

That damn video is still running, and Starscream fumbles for several seconds trying to get the thing to turn off. He doesn’t want to see whoever’s memories those are, with their grubby hands and their gunk-streaked plating. Ew. Who wants to be that guy? All those pitiful squishies looking up at him with big shiny eyes, treating him like some kind of a hero, lavishing him with—what was he doing?

The screen falls blank. In the thickness of real dark that settles over the room, Starscream turns around and brushes his hands together. “Well," he says, “that’s enough of that.”

Ultra Magnus is still lurking near the door, the blue of his optics radiating a glow that reminds Starscream hazily of the sky over Iacon, the night pale with light pollution. It’s nice that he’s not crashing right into it, but honestly, a little more initiative would have this over with a lot sooner.  Starscream unclasps his cape and lets it fall to the floor, hip cocked, and brushes a clawtip over his turbines.

“So where do you want me?” he says.

Ultra Magnus gives him some kind of look. “Based on your state of intoxication, right now I would prefer you in your berth.”

Berth. Okay, yes, he can handle that. Starscream sways back across the floor and lets himself tip into Magnus’s chassis. One thruster pops behind him, as he leans his weight against the broad bulk and traces his clawtip over a transformation seam.

“Why don’t you take me there, handsome?” he says. “I’m so lightheaded.”

Ultra Magnus stiffens as Starscream hooks a finger between two of his plates. “Why don’t you engage your FIM chip?” he asks, with his arms firmly at his sides.

“What?” Starscream flutters his ailerons. “Don’t you like me like this?”

“I am certain that I would like you regardless,” Ultra Magnus says.

Despite himself, Starscream perks up. “Really?”

“Of course,” Ultra Magnus says, sternly. “You are my sparkmate.”  

“…Right,” Starscream says. He grimaces into the warm chestplates, tasting something bitter behind his denta. It’s—whatever, it’s fine, Ultra Magnus is nothing but a convenient patsy in the grand scheme of things. Who cares if he thinks Starscream is someone he’s not? Starscream doesn’t want this guy to be his real conjunx.  Big fragging… bore, who cares what he thinks as long as he’s doing what Starscream needs him to do?

Starscream is gonna twist this faucet-drip around his little finger and he’s never needed the truth to do that.

“However,” Ultra Magnus says, “if you require assistance…”

All at once, there’s a hand under Starscream’s knee. The world spins; Ultra Magnus hefts him like so much loose padding. He bounces in the big bot’s grip, clinging to his chassis for dear life. Oh, oh wow. When he said take me there he wasn’t thinking literally. But Magnus carries him to the berth, easily, and lays him down on the inviting softness instead of just, like, tossing him around either. As he draws back, carefully, he seems to be actively minding the delicate bits of Starscream’s wings.

The world is still spinning. Starscream blinks up at him.

“…Strong opener,” he says, and allows his thighs to fall open. He leaves the modesty panel closed—certain rough types like to pull those open manually, and Starscream is just drunk enough to put up with it right now. He can take a little wear and tear.

He can still taste the clean sweet flavor of good engex, like acid on his tongue.

Ultra Magnus doesn’t say anything. Ultra Magnus stares at Starscream’s open legs like he’s seeing something completely new to him. One of his hands is frozen in mid-air, the fingers not quite curled closed.

Starscream tamps down a flare of self-consciousness. He wriggles down a little deeper into the padding and stretches his arms over his head, arching up into an appealing little stretch. His vision offlines. At any moment he’s going to feel Magnus’s hands on his frame—the blunt fingertips, the prodding and squeezing, the pressure against his panels. Any moment. Any… moment.

Starscream reengages his optics. “Why are you still up there?” he says.

“Where else should I be?” Magnus says.

Starscream eyes him, and then drops his pose with a huff. “Down here,” he says, “with me. Come on, I don’t have all night.”

Magnus recoils.

“What is it?” Starscream demands, narrowing his swimming optics. “You said you wanted it on the berth.” He reconsiders himself, his open legs and arms, and pauses. “Oh,” he says, smirking, “you want me on my front, is that it?”

The hovering hand finally withdraws, closing into a fist before it disappears from view. “We can’t do this. You’re inebriated.”

Starscream scoffs. “I’m the one who’s drunk,” he says, “it’s okay if you wanna do... whatever, I won’t even remember it.”

Magnus doesn’t return his smirk even slightly. After a moment, Starscream’s expression slides off his face. Primus, is he talking to a drone here? Starscream nearly pops his own panel out of sheer frustration. He climbs to his knees and lunges for Magnus’s collar faring, as much for support as to get the mech’s attention. He gropes blindly at Magnus’s frame with the hand that isn’t holding him up, searching for something that will make him give in.

“Wasn’t that a nice party?” Starscream urges him, “Didn’t you have a good night? Don’t you want to break me in?”

“Starscream,” Magnus says, and his voice is a low warning rumble that makes Starscream’s valve ache in the worst way. What a fragging time to start being sexy!

Magnus takes his grabbing hand and pries it away from a panel of armor.

“Come on,” Starscream whines, “take advantage of me!”

He’s got to salvage this. If Ultra Magnus doesn’t want him, there’s no way he’ll make it more than a few days in this place. They’ll know. That medi-jet slagger, he’s already got Starscream’s number, almost certainly. There was something about the way he watched Starscream introduce himself to Ultra Magnus—something in his optics, something too intent.  

He needs Ultra Magnus to want him, it’s got to be hook line and sinker. It’s not just a matter of dropping back somewhere a little less cushy—Starscream knows what kind of person he is, and he knows where he’s going if Pharma finds him out. There's too much of the wrong kind of grime on his hands.

Magnus gathers up both of Starscream’s wrists in one hand and holds them there, away from himself. “You need to recharge,” he tells Starscream, who can’t stop looking at both his wrists pinned in the same solitary hand.

“You want me to be asleep?” Starscream tries not to totally panic at the idea. “Isn’t there—I mean I’m sure I could think up something more interesting than that—”

“That is not remotely what I meant,” Magnus says, “if I even take your meaning correctly, which I’m not sure I have, given that it is utterly depraved.”

“Oh thank Primus,” Starscream mutters.

Ultra Magnus sets his mouth in a grim line. “As flattering as this is…” he goes on, his gaze flicking back to Starscream’s hips like he’s having trouble keeping them focused on his face, “You needed assistance crossing the length of a single room. You are in no condition to be propositioning anyone.”

The hot, ugly feeling in the pit of Starscream’s fuel tank collapses into a bitter black wreckage. It feels like someone was cooking syk in his tanks and the fraggers blew the lab. He wrenches against Magnus’s grip, wriggling and tugging to the best of his abilities. His visions spins again. If he wasn’t being held up, he would definitely tip over.

Magnus gives him the kind of look that a caretaker gives a troublesome pet. He lifts Starscream up by the wrists high enough that the seeker can’t touch the berth with his knees anymore, and he doesn’t even have the good grace to pretend like he’s having a hard time with it.

“Why won’t you just do it,” Starscream snarls. “It’s fine, everyone else does it!”

The shape of Magnus’s expression contorts in a way that Starscream just doesn’t have the resources to parse, but it doesn’t look good.

“I can take it,” Starscream insists. “I—”

The look on Magnus’s face is making it hard to do this. It just keeps getting… weirder. Worse. Starscream becomes aware that his mouth is still open, and abruptly shuts it. This isn’t over. He just—he’ll just pretend to be out for long enough to get Magnus off his back, and then he’ll—

Magnus lowers him down into the berth by his wrists and, with a firm hand pressing his chassis to the padding, pushes one of those extremely fluffy pillows under his cheek. Starscream glares at him for a moment before offlining his optics entirely.

“Bet you’d frag me if I was a medi-jet,” Starscream mumbles into the pillow.

“You’re incoherent,” Magnus says, and pushes another pillow into his arms, which he reluctantly snuggles.

Starscream grumbles something, but even he isn’t entirely sure what it’s supposed to be. He has a hazy thought that he may have made a minor tactical misstep here, possibly.

“Recharge,” Magnus says. “I will come check on you in the morning, of course.”

Oh. Starscream’s intake tube gives a throb, deep in his throat, and the sinking feeling takes him all the way through the blown syk lab in his tanks and down into a heretofore undiscovered subbasement level of misery. “What’s wrong with you,” he mutters. “Why are you being so nice to me? It’s weird. You’re so weird.”

There’s that pit-damned face again. Part of Starscream wants to rip it off and shred it to scrap, and part of him wants to gently peel it free, hold it up to the light, dissect it for the hidden edge that makes his spark throb and sputter inside him.

Magnus retreats a step.

“Mag—Magsy,” he says, and throws up a blurry arm, managing more by luck than by skill to catch Magnus’s hand.

Magnus pauses. They both look down at the place where their hands overlap.

Starscream immediately pulls back, squeezing the pillow against his chestplates with both arms.

After a moment, Magnus clasps his hands behind his back and says, “Rest well, Starscream. Please do not ever refer to me as Magsy again.”

Starscream wakes up the next morning with one plan and zero hangovers, which is a significant step-up from every other morning as far back as he can remember. So, okay, he technically doesn’t remember most of last night except the part where he fucked up real bad right there at the end, but his brain module isn’t actually throbbing inside his helm.

And yeah, okay, so his plan is just ‘pretend not to remember last night, apologize to Magnus, and socialite him out of the water until he’s letting me blow him under a cafe table’, but at least it’s a plan. It’s got a motive, a desired result, a reliable fallback excuse in case it blows up like everything seems to when he’s dealing with this guy, and a way to get him in his pocket for real. Figures Magnus wouldn’t like drunk sex, what was he even thinking with that? He’s like a goofy romcom virgin waiting for ‘the one’. He definitely wants dinner first.

He’s halfway through planning out the look he wants to go for (something thin, modest--sophisticated with only a hint of slutty, maybe blue? He’s going on a hunch, here, and assuming Magnus probably likes blue) and searching through the cabinets in his stupid glass house that he hates when he hears the first scream.

He’s used to hearing people scream outside his house at stupid hours of the morning, but this one catches his attention. Partially because it is so shrill, partially because it’s followed by another chorus of equally shrill shrieks, but mostly because he’s in the good place, and people shouldn’t be screaming here. He looks out one of his giant wall-windows, up the hill, back towards the center of town.

“What the pit,” he grumbles, squinting, “what’s that supposed to be?”

There’s a dense, pink cloud over the horizon, writhing and gnashing its teeth. Absurdly huge, wriggling, living snacks, flopping down in droves onto the pavement and crushing any shrubbery in their paths. Racing across the lawns, dropping from the sky and shooting back up into it, there are these huge, hideously neon blue-and-yellow mechanical birds--are those eagles?

It looks like just about everyone from the neighborhood is out in the wide-open spaces, running back and forth, arms akimbo, and they’re basically all screaming. Suckers. If they were smart enough to stay inside, like he is, they wouldn’t be-

Something smashes through his very glass wall by force, and he screams, scrambling to the floor. It rolls to a stop just in front of his face. A black deep-sea pearl, like the ones on all of Thunderclash’s interior decorating--except that this one is the size of his fist. It’s got to be, like, five hundred times the size of the real ones, because Starscream definitely stole way more than five hundred of those things, and they all fit in his subspace. Actually... he pauses from panicking for a second to check. Yep, those are all still in there. What is he supposed to do with these? Why did he decide to nick them in the first place? It’s not like he can sell them for money. Or decorate with them without someone noticing.

The one in front of him, though... a pearl of that size? That’s got to be worth, what, four, five hundred thousand shanix? Yes, it smashed through his window, but he can pay all that back. He reaches towards it-

With another deafening smash, a second pearl rockets through another pane of glass. Starscream covers his head. This sucks. This sucks.

“In all the world, there could ne’er be
a more contented mech than me!”

He peers over the nearest piece of furniture towards the shattered, gaping hole in his wall. He knows that song. How does he-- know that song? It’s a baritone aria from that opera--they were playing it last night, at the party! He scrambles forward on hand and knee--maybe if he can get a closer look at the people outside. There’s something strange about the way they’re moving, something strange about their bodies. They don’t quite look real from down here. Something about their faces.

The door bursts open as Magnus--true to his word--barrels in. “Starscream,” he calls, “are you alright? Where are you?”

The light catches on him, shining and sparkling at every angle. There’s an energy radiating from him, something indescribable--the deja vu of seeing him here, kicking the walls down --Starscream leaps from his hiding place and bounds towards him, once, twice, and clings to his side. “Magnus,” he says, voice as breathless as he can realistically get it, “what’s happening? It’s chaos out there!”

The embarrassing thing is, it’s not even 100% fake. It’s about 85% fake. That might seem like a lot, objectively, but that still means 15% of Starscream wanted to leap into his fake conjunx’s arms like a dewy-eyed bikeformer at the end of a silver era film. Primus, it’s only a step removed from being tied to some railroad tracks.

Still. Magnus wraps a protective arm around him, and his stupid, huge chassis is swelling up with pride again, biolights flaring. He’s even shifting his own body between the window, beyond which all pit seems to be breaking loose, and the bot in his grip. Figures he responds well to all that stereotypical crap. Starscream chooses a romantically orange-red backlight for his optic array, splays a hand across that barrel-wide torso, and turns his glossy gaze right up at his face.

And yelps with terror, tearing right back out of his grip.

“What is that?” he manages. “Magnus! Your face!” He covers his own mouth with both hands. “What happened to you? Is it contagious?”

Magnus touches a hand to the flat, featureless plane of his face, fingers prodding at the place where his mouth used to be. “Contagious?” comes the reply, which is--relievingly--still in his own voice. There’s a burn of synthesizer around the edges, but it’s still him. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s why it hasn’t happened to you yet--”

“What? What are you saying?” He’s not sure how to play this. Does he keep his own hands on his own face? Does he reach forward and cradle Magnus’ in his palms instead? He doesn’t watch enough of these movies, but even if he did, he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t give him a good solution to this highly specific problem.

“It’s happening to everyone,” Magnus intones, “the whole neighborhood. All the residents woke up with their faceplates like this. Except, apparently, you.”

Starscream’s hands fall away from his face. “Slag,” he says.

Chapter Text

“My question is,” Thunderclash says politely, “how does something like this happen? I mean, was it scheduled?”

The unhappy chatter of the crowd, too polite to go much louder than a low murmur, bounces between the glittering columns of Thunderclash’s house and disagrees with its own echo. The light of the chandeliers passes through the empty stations of several missing pearls.

“Great question, uh,” Pharma replies, his grin wide, wobbly, and painfully fake, “in fact, the only question worth asking! Uh, well, the short answer, um, is, ah, Rung?” He turns his body, perpendicular to the crowd taking refuge in Thunderclash’s magnificent front hall. “Rung, was this event… scheduled?”

Rung, stationed at his left elbow like a king’s grand vizier, smiles up at him. “The chaos event was not scheduled,” he says. “The events scheduled for today are: basic video orientation at 10:JB pre-noon, flying for grounders at 14:IE post-noon, racing for--”

“Rung,” Pharma says, and the automatic rattle shuts off immediately. “How could something that isn’t in your schedule happen in the neighborhood?”

“Unclear. The most likely cause is a virus, or another alien presence. At your request, I can run a diagnostic.”

"An alien presence?"

Starscream nudges Ultra Magnus in the arm. “Hey,” he intones from behind his brand-new flat face. “Does this guy have showmanship under his belt or what?”

The whole tableau disappears behind the heads and shoulders of the crowd. They’re stuck about four rows back in the mass--not statistically bad, given that there’s about twenty rows of anxious mechs pushing and jostling at each other between those vaulting marble columns, but it’s just enough that since Starscream caught up with Magnus he now can’t see over anybody’s heads.

He can just make the tips of Pharma’s wings out, plus those stupid little helm-points, and he can’t see Rung at all, but he knows when someone is working a room. It's so sad how some people will do anything to make the situation about themselves. These chumps are hanging on to Pharma's every nervous twitch.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Ultra Magnus says stiffly. His stature puts him a good head and shoulders above the masses, and he’s shown himself to be one gullible spawn of a glitch so far, which means he’s probably eating it up like the rest of these goody-two-pedes. “It might behoove you, in the future, to avoid such--your face, Starscream! When did that happen?”

Behind his chic new mouthless faceplate, Starscream purses his lips.

~~

“It’s happening to everyone,” Magnus intones, “the whole neighborhood. All the residents woke up with their faceplates like this. Except, apparently, you.”

Starscream’s hands fall away from his face. “Slag,” he says. “So, I mean...what do we do? I mean, what do we do? Magnus? What do we do?”

“Firstly, we stay calm,” Magnus says, “secondly, we move towards cover. Thunderclash has offered refuge in his home to all residents until this… unpleasantness is over, but residents are in a frenzy, and aren’t likely to be thinking rationally. I’ll get you to cover, then take to the streets and redirect whoever I can towards safety.”

Starscream gets a brief mental image of Magnus tucking him under one arm like so much dirty laundry and sprinting across the lawn, fighting fists akimbo, heroically saving his sparkmate from harm. He would like the opportunity to do that, wouldn’t he.

“No way,” Starscream says, “I’m not a--I mean--I want to help too. I know where Thunderclash’s place is. I could really… expedite the process. Plus, I mean, it’s a great date activity. You and I? Saving people’s lives? Working together for the common good? We could really get to know each other. From across the green.”

Magnus sniffs. “Perhaps our time would more wisely be spent reaching out to others in the neighborhood,” he says, “since the entire purpose is to direct them to safety. However, I am moved by your offer of assistance.” There’s a crash in the distance, and Magnus stiffens and turns to watch as a giant pink snack hits the landscape with force. “There. There’s a group of them. I’ll go and make sure it’s safe, you follow.”

With a leap and a bound, he’s plunging through the open wall and heading out on the green. Springing uphill. There must be some serious pistons in those legs.

Starscream scowls at Ultra Magnus’s retreating form for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary, then hurries behind the washrack. It’s just a wall hiding the plumbing and not ideal cover, but it’s one of the only solid walls in this stupid glass house so at least it’s something.

“Slave robot,” Starscream says into empty air. Nothing happens, and he tries not to feel as foolish as he must look.

“Tiny slave robot?” he tries, in case this place has more than one slave robot and they want him to be specific. Nothing. Starscream wracks his processor. The mech had had such a simple name. Eminently simple. Agonizingly simple. It started with an R, right? Rang?

Starscream tries it. The bot doesn’t appear, and he tries not to grind his teeth too hard.

“Ring? Rong?” He stomps his foot. “Rung?”

“Hello!”

Starscream definitely does not yelp when he whirls. “Rung!”

“Hello,” the little mech repeats with a polite smile. He’s kind of cute, if you like smaller bots. “How may I assist you?”

“What’s going on?” Starscream demands.

“Unclear,” Rung says. “There appears to be a glitch in the neighborhood.”

Starscream takes a deep breath and tries to tamp down his frustration. “I can see that,” he says around gritted teeth. “Why isn’t it affecting me? Or you?”

“Unclear,” Rung repeats. “If I had to guess, and by guess I mean look at the most likely of over fifty-thousand possible causes and run a mathematical algorithm to find the most commonly occurring problem, I would say that the glitch is most likely caused by a virus, or an alien program. Something that’s not supposed to be here.”

The energon in Starscream’s veins runs cold. “Something that’s not supposed to… be here?”

“Or a virus. It’s possible that a trojan--”

“Rightrightright , right, trojan, right,” Starscream says, biolights beginning to rocket heat back and forth over his plating in a way he does not enjoy. He bites down on a claw tip. “Rung. The face-plates that everyone has. Do you know how I could… get one of those? For me? For my face?”

There’s a soft chime. “Here you go,” Rung says, and holds up both his hands. Cupped between them, sure as day, is a full-face replacement plate. No nose, no mouth. It’s exactly Starscream’s size. Without thinking, Starscream snatches it up in both hands and tests it over his own plate. Perfect fit.

“You’re incredible,” he says, “but can you frag off?”

“Goodbye!” Rung replies, grinning. There’s a soft chime, and he’s gone.

“Starscream?” calls Ultra Magnus from a distance, and Starscream jumps, shoves the plate into his subspace (right next to all the pearls. He really needs to dump these somewhere). “Are you there? We need to take more permanent cover. It’s dangerous out here.”

“You are so right,” Starscream calls back, hands fumbling, “um, why don’t you go ahead? I’ll make sure people who are, um, further away know which direction to head in--if we’re both working on our own, the work will go faster.”

There’s a beat, and for a second, Starscream is panicked he’s said the wrong thing--until at last, at a significantly lower volume than before, “Sound logic, Starscream,” Magnus says, voice breathier than he anticipated it would be. “Very sound. I will find you at the apex, under the fourth volucite banner.”

“Uh,” Starscream says. “Right. Fourth… yes. Right.”

~~

Four rows back in a crowd of nervous milling residents, Starscream purses his lips under his false face.

Ultra Magnus had been so helpful in directing people towards Thunderclash’s palace (which is really the right word for it, and honestly, had he actually needed to take the time to direct people? Couldn’t they just use their eyes and look at the horizon, and head towards the eight billion turrets poking into the sky? ), that it had been… almost too easy.

“You know,” he says, running delicate fingers over his beautifully flat new face, “I bet it is a virus, like Rung keeps saying it might be. Someone probably passed it to me while I was... you know, touching them and, uh, making sure they were going in the right direction out there… I take it with pride, actually. Having your frame mutated may be repulsive, to some, but to me? It’s just proof that I did the right thing.” He nods as sagely as he can. Head tipped to one side, eyes almost shut--88% of the time, it works every time. He’s practiced it enough.

“I don’t think--” Magnus begins, but he’s interrupted by an excited little trill at the front of the room. Starscream rolls his eyes. There’s only one mech a voice like that can belong to.

“Look!” Thunderclash exclaims, turning to face the room at large. And he does face it--with something between shock and relief, Starscream realizes the flat mask is melting away like one of those thin energon globules at the super-fancy restaurants on TV where the waiter comes out and pours a different, hotter liquid energon over it to reveal that there’s another, separate, non-energon related desert. Only instead of another dessert, it’s his infuriatingly sculpted nose and perfect, full lips. “It’s going away! Perhaps that means this awful time of chaos and confusion is behind us!”

“Oh! Yes!” says one of the annoying neighbors hovering around Thunderclash. “Everyone, look at this! If it’s going away, that might mean that this whole event is close to being over!”

As if on cue, the rumbling of super-huge pearls hitting the several roofs of the palace shutters and quiets down.

Pharma sighs, brushes a hand over his cockpit with no small aura of relief. “It might be too early to say,” he says, “but I think the storm might be passing. Alright, first things first: Rung, what’s the extent of the damage look like?”

“The destruction is almost total. Only a few buildings were spared of major structural problems, and only the building we’re currently in has been entirely protected, on account of its location, size, and defensive measures.” He smiles. “I have access to a clean data sweep of the neighborhood. By my estimates, it should take about six Rs to repair, clean, and maintain the city square until it’s back to its original form.”

Starscream slumps his shoulders unattractively. “Ugh,” he whispers, nudging Ultra Magnus, “did he just say six hours? ”

“He very clearly and distinctly said ‘six Rs’.”

“Oh.” He considers this. “What’s an R? Is that like an hour?”

“I would assume it’s some unit of time,” Magnus says, sounding more sure of himself than he can possibly feel. “It may be exclusive to the good place. Could be logical, if time moves differently here than on Cybertron.”

“What? That’s bullslag. Let’s just ask.” Starscream sizes up the crowd in front of them, pursing invisible lips. “You’ve got longer arms. I don’t think anyone up there’s gonna notice me waving like a schoolbot. You ask.”

Magnus considers Starscream, and considers the length of his arms. At first, Starscream thinks they’re going to get into an argument about the various heights of the bots between them and distance of Pharma and who could be seen over whose stupid ridiculous kibble, but after a moment, he swings his arm up over his head. Starscream has a moment of instant relief. Right, it’s not like Magnus is Thundercracker, he only gets into arguments about, like, morality and logic and stuff. Besides, he seems like kind of a good-intentioned, sweet, totally gullible mech who’d do anything to make his ‘sparkmate’ happy, like ask how long an R--

“Rung, is there anything we, as citizens of the good place, could do to assist you in this process?” Magnus says, and Starscream’s tank grinds with betrayal. “This is our home. I’m sure there are plenty of mechs here who would be willing to assist you in this task.”

“Great question. Yes, while assistance is no way asked of you or required, if you have the desire to do so, it would be a great help to mark the location of various destroyed buildings and call me to you. Because of my protocols, I can’t appear in multiple places at once unless I’m assisting residents of the neighborhood. But I can help all of you at once, as long as you ask me to repair the building for you.” He smiles. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes. How long is an R?”

“Shorter than a B and longer than an i,” Rung says, “does that help?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Rung’s chipper ‘you’re welcome!’ is drowned out both by the pump of Starscream’s fuel lines now roaring right in his audials, and by another round of unnecessary applause from Thunderclash.

“Oh, what a wonderful idea,” their host says, “of course, Hot Rod and I would be thrilled to help Rung as well. What a splendid team building activity, what a joy to have suggested it.”

After that, it’s just a fest of murmuring agreements and various residents raising their optical ridges at each other and saying well, if only I had thought of that, and smiling at Magnus or reaching forward as though to shake his hand before Starscream glares them off, the glow of his optics as bright and disrespectful as he can get them without burning himself. Next to him, Magnus’ own mask starts to melt away, revealing a stern--but ever so slightly upturned--smile.

And then people are pushing off in every direction. “I believe we should focus our efforts in the center of the town square,” Magnus says, as they walk back through the entrance of Thunderclash’s (unfairly, undeservedly) beautiful home. “It contains the majority of buildings, and they’re close together. We can begin there and proceed out along a grid.”

The lawn is pitted with craters, some of them still holstering the black heft of meteoric pearls, although a lot of the big round headaches just hit the ground and kept rolling downward. At the bottom of the hill there’s a pile of them lined up placidly against his front door like a queue to a concert.

“Uh, you know, actually,” Starscream says, “just because--you know, we’re here, and, um--well, I figured I’d go get Rung to clean up my house, just, while I’m on the way to the town square, otherwise we’re going to have to double all the way back up here to ask him about it later. Why don’t you go along to the square, and I’ll meet you there? Once all this broken glass is swept up.” He waves a hand towards his house, as if to indicate 1) how close it is and 2) that it’s a hazard, and made of broken glass.

Magnus gives him a deeply suspicious look. Starscream is… kind of offended. He hasn’t even done anything that bad yet, it’s not like Magsy really has the right to be judging him. He doesn't even know about the time that Starscream left to catch a match in the middle of a biochemistry conference and Skyfire had to give their joint presentation by himself.

“Very well,” he says, “I will… see you there.”

“In less than an R!” Starscream promises, smiling. “In an... i, in fact!”

Okay, okay. The relentlessly peppy, kitchy, condescending miasma of the good place has been starting to get at him like a scraplet in his knee servos, but—Primus he’ll take a squadron of these cookie cutter pricks any day if it means getting washracks like these.

The solvent is just cool enough to make his joints ease into something resembling relaxation for the first time since he woke up in this middle class wetware dream. The pressure is incredible, almost like having so many busy spa hands working over his armor. It smells incredible. There’s an oil tub . Starscream luxuriates in it for longer than strictly necessary, long after the dust and gravel of the morning’s chaos has all been chased out of his creases. He thinks about going for broke with the wax and polish, but he’s a little out of practice with the hard to reach spots. He hasn’t really done that for himself since he trined up with—

He turns off the solvent flow abruptly. He’ll just go to one of those detailing shops later. Yes. He wouldn’t want to come out streaky, not with all the endless prying optics in this place just waiting for him to slip up.

Damage control is well under way by the time he gets back up the stupid hill and into the city center, fresh and clean and reasonably shiny. He’s this close to just transforming and to the Pit with that hill, but he’s got these visions of scraping his undercarriage against the turf on the launch up and he can almost feel the way the pumice would grind off his topcoat.

Starscream saunters through the main quad and straight into the hard eye-contact of Ultra Magnus, who is holding up a doorway while the rest of the building resets brick by brick around him. His expression redefines “grim”.

“Starscream,” he says, coldly, and steps out from underneath the perfectly whole, neatly reassembled Frozen Yogurt place.

Starscream becomes aware that he is currently the shiniest person in the dusty bustle of the market.

“Good of you to join us,” Magnus says, flicking a mote of concrete from his shoulder. It bobs in mid-air and then zips back towards the building to join the rest of the masonry.

“Yes, well,” Starscream says, his processor running so many parallel programs that his cooling fans threaten to kick on. “I’ve just been over by the, in the gardens, you wouldn’t have seen me--”

If anything, Magnus’s expression becomes colder. “You abandoned your neighbors during a time of crisis in order to indulge your personal vanity.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Starscream mutters. He crosses his arms across his chest. “It isn’t my fault that everyone else is so efficient.”

“You said that you would help, and then you did not,” Magnus rumbles. “I am familiar with the prevalence of seeker narcissism, but I expect you to rise above--”

“ Seeker narcissism ?” Starscream snarls. “ Seeker narcissism? Do you realize that more bots of my frame type have died from mud in their tanks than relinquishment accidents and overdoses combined? We aren’t built to survive without maintenance!” He jabbed a finger at Magnus’s nose, venting steam. “If I don’t get these parts scrubbed I will literally fall apart! Seekers aren’t made to last!”

Magnus frowns at the claw tipped finger for a moment. “You were cold constructed?”

Starscream snatches his hand back against his chest. “How endearingly blunt of you,” he sneers. “Of course I was! Every seeker was! If you know enough to know about seeker narcissism, you ought to know that.”

“I’m... not sure where I heard that phrase,” Magnus says. He seems genuinely uncertain, his gaze defocusing as if he’s scouring his memory files for a match. Starscream eyes Magnus’s stoic bafflement. There’s one sure place where the usual stock of frame-type belittlements would definitely have come up. After that whole debacle last night, Magnus certainly doesn’t strike him as the type to watch a lot of fetishy cold-con porn, but you never know with people. One minute they’re fine and the next they’re asking if they can touch your casting seams.

Starscream relaxes marginally. Probably had a coworker with specific tastes. There aren’t really a lot of seekers left on Cybertron these days, but simvids live forever.

Either way, Magnus is losing steam, which means he’s on the offensive now, riding the updraft and ready to dive for the kill. Starscream cocks a hip and says, “I’m so sorry that protecting my health and wellness came as such a blow to your reconstruction efforts. I can see that absolutely nothing was accomplished without my help today. Next time I will be sure to get a good long vent of concrete dust, and then when my t-cog ruptures you can bury me in the foundation of the yogurt shop, how does that sound?”

He stands there, triumphant, mouth pulled back over fangs, for a single glorious moment. And then Magnus furrows his brows. “But you’re already dead,” he says.

Starscream opens his mouth. The figurative firing pin drops.

“Slag,” he says.

His processor starts running trains of thought on parallel tracks. Magnus’ expression is no longer outright hostile, which is good, but he did very much just call Starscream out on doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing and--because of the whole ‘dead’ thing--literally has no excuse for. Which is bad.

The tracks converge, and the trains crash into each other.

“Well, I--forgot. About that,” he says, because it’s true, “but I… I mean, afterlife or no, I don’t like getting dirty. It feels dangerous. Even if, uh, technically nothing here is dangerous.”

Magnus stares at him, brows still furrowed. “That is… I suppose I cannot entirely fault you,” he says after a moment. “I hadn’t considered your physiology.”

There’s this weird, deflated pause as they stand in the shadow of a once-ruined Yogurt shop, staring uncomfortably at each other. Starscream kind of wishes they were still fighting, and Magnus hadn’t brought up that whole awkward--but then, Magnus looks like he wishes they were still fighting, and Starscream hadn’t brought up that whole awkward--so, there. They’re stuck in this together.

Magnus shifts his weight from one pede to the other. “If my prying about the nature of your construction was inappropriate, I apologize. I had not considered---”

“S’okay. Don’t worry about it,” Starscream mutters, “you would’ve figured out sooner or later.”

“But that doesn’t make it--”

“I really don’t mind,” he lies. “Look, I’m--in light of your very true comments about how we’re dead and I can’t die from getting dirty, I’m sorry. Okay? And to prove it, I will... touch... some dusty things.” His nose wrinkles. “In the name of reparation.”

It doesn’t seem like the largest sacrifice in the world, now that he’s getting a good look at what ‘reparation’ looks like around here. It’s basically just mechs holding up pieces of wrecked buildings while Rung warps around and does everything else. He is part of this neighborhood, isn’t he? Or more, he is the neighborhood, or something like that. Starscream wasn’t actually paying attention. Point is, Rung seems to have this under control.

“You know what we should do,” Starscream says, turning back to Magnus, “you and I? We should actually do… like, a lunch thing. Get some coolant? A bunch of these wrecked buildings are actually nice, high end places, I could spend a few hours in one of these.”

There’s that cold look again. “There is still work to be done here, Starscream.”

“I meant after we single-handedly do all the work to repair this place, top to bottom, saving it from its own destruction with our own two hands and our construction abilities,” he says, and rolls his eyes. “That should take, what, two hours? Rung’s really going for it over there. Come on. Lunch date. Me and you.” He pivots on his heel and just starts walking, which is how he’s won kind of a lot of arguments in his life. “See you there!”

True to form, Starscream makes it several blocks away, makes sure he’s totally out of sight, and then finds a cutesy wicker chair to sit down in and nods, approvingly, as other people get work done. After a moment, he picks up exactly one piece of rubble to hold up in case Magnus somehow rounds the corner to catch him doing nothing. Now no one can say he isn’t helping, right? He’s got a rock, and everything.

Starscream jolts awake some time later as someone unfamiliar touches his arm and immediately prompts his survival protocols to launch this convenient rock straight through their intake.

“I’ve got a rock!” he shouts, and scrambles to his feet to get a look at his assailant.

“I... can see that,” Thunderclash says, and gives an awkward little laugh. Starscream, processor still scrambling, decides his best course of action is to laugh back. “Didn’t get too much sleep last night? Everything’s just about done here.”

“No, yeah, no, I...did. Not. Sleep much last night,” Starscream lies, gaze lashing out for anything he can catch. Next to Thunderclash, Hot Rod is also holding a piece of rubble--when he makes eye contact with Starscream, he drops it on the ground. “Must have been...nerves? Yes, nerves. Sorry to say I, uh, probably didn’t help too much. But you must have done a lot. Look at how dirty you two are. So official! So cute.”

Thunderclash pulls Hot Rod against his side with a cloyingly playful squeeze. “We’re so glad to have been of service,” Thunderclash says, as Hot Rod kind of… limply leans away from the arm around his middle. “I hope all of this messiness is behind us now! Poor Pharma, he does try so hard.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer mech,” Starscream mutters.

Across the quad, Pharma is directing Rung as the AI pieces back together the shattered remains of the last decorative fountain with little more than the flick of his fingers. Rung doesn’t seem like he really needs directing. If this place is made of him, or whatever, he probably knows how to rearrange the rubble better than Primus’s glorified HR minion does.

Hot Rod stiffens as Thunderclash seems to squeeze him a little more tightly without noticing it. The big mech’s optics are following Pharma with a kind of single minded focus, something far away, as if Pharma is the lone player in some holovid only Thunderclash can see.

“It does worry me that he doesn’t seem to know the source of the glitch,” Thunderclash says. There’s a tightness in his voice that… Starscream doesn’t think he’s heard before. It’s barely there, but it lights up the back of Starscream’s processor like a klaxon in a windowless vessel. “I wonder what the cause is.”

Hot Rod gives a little wriggle, and suddenly Thunderclash seems to realize what he’s doing. He snatches his arm away, apologetically, and Hot Rod skitters a couple feet back on the pavement.

Starscream’s gaze flickers rapidly between them. A thought is blooming in him like a crystal growing in fast motion and it feels like safety, it feels like the hot yellow promise of daylight after the dull claustrophobia of the underground.

“I wonder about that too," Starscream says. “I wonder if Roddy here has any ideas about it.”

The problem with Hot Rod’s face is that it’s stubbornly resistant at doing anything a face is supposed to do. Starscream’s known his share of mask-and-intake bots—it’s a popular look for disposables, even the forged ones, and there were always disposables in the Shades—but Hot Rod’s whole… look, whatever, is a different heap of scrap entirely. The eyes barely move. It’s just a lot of fancy paint and eyelids, which are uncommon enough to make anyone a little uneasy with them. Why the pit he couldn’t just have glass pane optics like everyone else—

“Think about it,” Starscream purrs. “He’s the only one in the neighborhood without an intake or anything. Almost like an empuratee. Do we really know anything about Caminus? Do we know what they do to criminals?”

Oh—he may have written Roddy off too soon. His face might be a dead blank canvas, but his body language is surprisingly expressive. His fists clench at his sides, his pedes dig into the ground with a low grind. Is he shifting his stance?

“Are we really sure that Hot Rod belongs here?” Starscream says, leaning in conspiratorially. “Like the rest of us do?”

Thunderclash opens his mouth. He closes it. He looks from Starscream to Hot Rod, who is almost rattling with suppressed rage, despite his perpetually smooth, serene faceplate. Starscream gives him a winning smile.

“Ah,” Thunderclash says. All at once he relaxes, and he returns Starscream’s smile with one of his own, although this one is so patronizing that condescension just about condensates on it. “I understand you’re frightened. You want the best for this neighborhood, as do we all. But Hot Rod earned his points the same as you did. Why, he belongs here as much as any of us!”

For some reason, Roddy doesn’t seem to find that particularly reassuring. There’s a vicious little burst of pleasure at the bottom of Starscream’s spark, because Hot Rod clearly knows the same thing he knows—once you’ve put an idea into someone’s processor, nothing short of mnemosurgery can take it back.

“Of course,” Starscream says, shifting back. “My apologies. I shouldn’t let my suspicion subroutines get away from me like that.”

Thunderclash settles a big, heavy hand on both of their shoulders, and both Hot Rod and Starscream flinch at the same time. “You know, Starscream,” Thunderclash says, “you and I haven’t spent any time at all here together yet! It’s understandable that you’d like to get to know me. Why don’t we set up a little one on one time at the race tracks?”

Starscream’s wings twitch in their housing. This self-obsessed gearstick actually thinks— “Of course,” he says, still baring his denta, but he can feel the edges of his smile going brittle.

“Let’s make it tomorrow night!” the garish fragger says, beaming at Starscream. “Maybe Hot Rod and your Magnus would like to become better acquainted as well! He seems a very noble, calm soul. I’m sure Hot Rod would be delighted. Wouldn’t you, sweetspark?”

Starscream’s gaze catches on Hot Rod. He’s got a good paint job. Attractive kibble. Something about his aura indicates that if he had a smile, it would be both understated and stunning. He’s absolutely the picture of a racer crowd darling. Ultra Magnus will love him.

His HUD pings him. ‘ Engage combat protocol [Y/N]?’ Quickly, he dismisses it, reinforcing his grin. “Obviously, that’s no problem,” he says. His jaw hurts with the effort of smiling. “I’m sure Magsy would just love to hang out with someone so... calm and noble. Only if you want to, of course!”

There’s a moment of perfect stillness, and then Hot Rod gives a slow, almost hesitant nod.

‘ Engage combat protocol [Y/N]?’

Starscream keeps his smile on, even as he closes the prompt three successive times.

“Well there you have it!” Thunderclash says. He claps Starscream once on the back and Starscream stumbles, wings stinging, leaning into the shove just to get out of range of those huge hands again.

Once he's got a little space, he rights himself and brushes his wings off. “What fun,” he says, and manually disengages the targeting system that has decided Thunderclash is now a better place than Hot Rod’s chic shiny face to rehome a null-ray. “I’ll just go let him know what we have planned for him. I’m sure he loves surprises. He seems the type.”

As he extricates himself socially from the slag pit that is the Dream Duo, Starscream takes note of the fact that--except for the blinking--Hot Rod has not taken his eyes off him this entire conversation. In fact, he still feels Hot Rod’s gaze on his back as he skitters through the market square in search of Magnus, who might make him hold more rocks but at least won’t blink at him with those horrible eyelids.

Ultra Magnus couldn’t look more uncomfortable if he tried. It isn’t entirely his fault; the table and chair, while the perfect size for Starscream, are just a shade too small for a mech of his size, and he has to hunch in on himself in order to fit. Most of it, though, is a prison of his own making. He frowns in distaste at the menu, clearly reading through the long lists of ingredients in the dozens of dishes, then looks around.

“Shouldn’t someone have come to get us drinks by now?” he asks, and Starscream fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“This isn’t a diner,” Starscream says, lips curling around the word in vague disgust. “It’s a cafe. We’re here for the ambience. Relax, you might enjoy yourself.”

He smiles, aiming for soft and pretty, and Magnus blinks like he’s trying to figure out if he should be insulted. If he is, he doesn’t deign it with a response. He looks back at the menu, and the distasteful expression returns.

“Do they have just coolant here?”

This time Starscream can’t contain his eye roll. “ Darling,” he says, “you can’t just come to a place like this and order coolant. I mean you could, but what’s the point? Here.”

He stretches up over the little table to read Magnus’s menu upside down. He doesn’t know a lot about Ultra Magnus yet, but he knows the guy’s uptight, and more importantly, Starscream knows how swanky bots like him think.

“Try this one.” Starscream taps the tip of a claw on a picture of a bright blue concoction. It’s mostly antifreeze, but there’s coolant in it, the big guy can’t protest that much. Ultra Magnus purses his lips.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It seems a bit excessive.”

Starscream slumps back in his chair and drags a hand down his face. Primus help him, he has the most dense fake sparkmate.

“Magsy,” he starts.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Ultra Magnus, sparkmate of mine, we’re in the afterlife. Heaven. The good place. Whatever. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself.”

Magnus makes a face like he’s thinking about arguing, and in a flash of inspiration, Starscream hooks both of his ankles around one of Ultra Magnus’s huge ones. Whatever argument Magnus was going to make dies before it leaves his mouth as Starscream gives him the most simperingly-pleading-yet-genuine look he can muster.

“Please?” he asks, and he can feel his victory before Magnus sets down the menu with a fond but exasperated: “fine.”

As if on cue, or as if watching from a safe distance, a luridly green and orange minibot with a notebook and a wide smile appears next to their table almost as suddenly as Rang. Rung. Whatever.

“What can I get you two sweetsparks to drink?” the minibot asks, and Starscream dearly wants to test Pharma’s assurance that no one can get hurt here.

Instead, he smiles, the sort of vacantly polite smile that he’d seen turned on staff at nice places like this and never on himself, and places their orders. Both of them, because he desperately needs to win some points back in his favor. He says please and thank you and everything.

“Wonderful!” chirps the waiter, and turns to Ultra Magnus. “Would you like cobalt shavings in your antifreeze?”

“Oh, um-”

“Of course!” Starscream interrupts before he can finish his refusal. Magnus gives him a sidelong look but doesn’t argue, and Starscream chalks it up as a victory. The waiter promises to bring their drinks right out and disappears back into the kitchens so quickly that Starscream can see the negative after image of that Pit damned paint job burned into his optics. He turns to see Ultra Magnus staring at him.

“You’ll like the cobalt, I promise,” Starscream says.

“It ruins the integrity of the compound,” he says stiffly.

Starscream lets out a helpless laugh. “It’s just antifreeze, it doesn’t have integrity. We’re trying to get you to have fun, remember?”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Ultra Magnus asks, voice going a little cold, and Starscream winces internally. Right. He’s still mad at him about earlier. “I thought we were trying to clean up after this morning’s disaster.”

“We are!” Starscream says quickly. “And we did! But you can have fun too. What do you think caused that anyway?”

It’s a pitifully obvious subject change, and Magnus doesn’t seem too keen on indulging it. “Starscream-”

“I think it was Thunderclash’s sparkmate,” Starscream bulldozes on. “Hot Rod, or whatever. I mean, everyone’s face was just like his. And his house was the only one that didn’t take any damage! Maybe he’s the trojan.”

He’s aware that he doesn’t actually need to lay this groundwork with Magnus, who doesn’t seem particularly curious about anything and would probably be happy to stand at attention for the next several vorns watching the crystals grow if Pharma suggested they needed a firm hand, but there’s an itch at the back of his processor that won’t quiet down until he’s made absolutely certain the finger of suspicion is pointed well away from him.

Magnus’s frown deepens. “Hot Rod is a monk. He has earned his place here just as much as the rest of us.”

Not all of us, Starscream thinks. As much as he tries to keep his expression neutral, something on his face makes Magnus’s frown soften.

“If our goal for this venture is... enjoyment,” Magnus says, “I believe this is the wrong subject.”

“Probably,” Starscream says. Why couldn’t this place be full of normal people? He used to spend hours with Thundercracker and Skywarp just talking about one of their regulars’ new paint job. The chaos from this morning would’ve kept them going for days.

“What’s wrong?” Magnus asks, and Starscream remembers that for however gullible he is, he was also a lawyer. Just his fragging luck.

Starscream vents heavily. “I just want this to go right,” he says, gesturing between them, “but I keep messing up. I keep putting my pede in my mouth, and I never know when I do until you’re giving me that look.”

It’s a surprisingly honest answer, as close to honest as Starscream’s been probably since he got here, and it does the trick. Magnus’s frown vanishes completely, replaced by a soft, soppy look. He leans forward, and Starscream belatedly realizes he never unhooked his ankles from Magnus’s leg.

“I understand the transition has been difficult,” he says, with so much naked earnesty that Starscream almost feels bad. “Your effort is all I ask. The rest will come with time.”

Starscream looks away and clears his throat, saved from having to answer by the waiter returning with a tray with two sickeningly adorable cups. The effect is probably supposed to be romantic, but the effect shoots right past sweet to the point of caricature. Still, Starscream will give credit where it’s due: the waiter doesn’t spill a drop as he sets the saucers with their drinks, full to the brim, on the table. Magnus’s drink fizzes softly with something other than just cobalt shavings, and Magnus eyes it suspiciously. Far be it for Starscream to call anyone paranoid, but seriously. They’re in the good place.

The waiter leaves, and Starscream is about to sip his own drink (nicer oil than he ever had on Cybertron, with magnesium flakes) when Magnus lifts his cup. With the saucer still on the table.

“No, no, stop,” Starscream says, setting his saucer and cup back on the table. Magnus pauses. “You’re supposed to hold the saucer under your cup.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t dribble on the table cloth,” Starscream says with only a little exaggerated slowness. “Like you’re about to.”

Magnus barely avoids spilling, and picks up the saucer. He’s holding it far too close to the cup, nearly knocking them together, and Starscream wants to bury his face in his hands. Instead he watches the look of surprised delight, or as close to it as a mech so unrepentantly serious as Ultra Magnus gets. It’s sort of adorable.

“Told you so,” Starscream says smugly, and takes a sip of his own drink. The magnesium adds just a hint of spice that sends warmth curling through him. “I can’t believe you didn’t know how to use a saucer. Look at you, you’re hopeless, it’s darling. Aren’t fancy lawyers like you supposed to know this stuff?”

“I didn’t go out much,” Magnus admits, looking embarrassed. He sets the saucer back on the table, then the cup on the saucer, and gives the set a look. “Is it a standard redundancy to have a smaller plate for your cup?”

“I just told you it’s for spills,” Starscream says and sets his cup back on the saucer, then as an afterthought adds, “And it makes a very satisfying clink.”

Something like amusement glints in Magnus’s eyes, and his mouth twitches. “How do you know so much about this? I thought you were a philanthropist.”

Starscream stares down at his cup and purses his lips, mind racing. He’d known he’d have to talk about himself at some point, but he doesn’t have to like it. He unhooks his ankles from Magnus’s leg.

“I was,” he says, “but you can’t do scientific philanthropy without funding. This was my life back on Cybertron. Bowing and scraping and smiling at bots who wouldn’t give me the time of day if I didn’t meet their impossible standards. I got good at it.”

“Oh.” Magnus looks abashed. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well,” Starscream shrugs. “I got used to it. Cold cons have to be twice as good to get half of what forged bots do. Doubly for fliers.”

Magnus looks anguished. “You shouldn’t have had to get used to it.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Starscream says. “I’m dead, and everyone here is too polite to say anything about me.”

He takes a sip of his drink and lets the warmth run through him. That had been uncomfortably personal, too close to sincerity for his tastes.

Small mercies, Magnus seems equally eager to drop the subject for something lighter, and they end up spending the next hour talking about restaurants they’ve been to. Starscream’s list is far longer, but, as Starscream finds out in between ordering food and more drinks and their arrival, Magnus’s is much more impressive. Starscream is practically drooling with envy. He would have given Skywarp’s left arm for reservations at the Orbiting Cirque.

By the time they’re both done eating and the sun is setting outside the window, Starscream feels like he’s making progress with Ultra Magnus for the first time since meeting the big mech. Took him long enough to get his takeoff stabilized.

“So,” he says, running his pede slowly up Magnus’s leg, “ready to get out of here?”

Magnus’s contented expression falters, and Starscream’s spark sinks. He fragged it up again.

“Starscream,” Magnus says, reaching across the table and taking one of Starscream’s hands in both of his own. He doesn’t look disappointed or annoyed. Just sad. “I can’t imagine how your life on Cybertron was, but things are different here. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to prove yourself to me. You’re my sparkmate, and I’ll be loyal and faithful to you for eternity. You are required to give nothing.”

It’s incredible, really, how quickly Starscream went from having control of the situation to having his footing ripped out from under him. His spark feels tight in its casing, fragile. He hates the feeling of weakness almost more than he hates the way Magnus must be able to feel the trembling of his trapped hand. The three attempts at rebooting his vocalizer before he can speak are not an act.

“That,” he says, “was like staring into the sun.”

It’s an odd thing to say, he doesn't know why he said it, but if it confuses Magnus, he doesn’t show it. He seems placated, even, and when they leave together (without paying, that’s a thrill even though there’s no money in the good place), Starscream allows him to twine their fingers together.

Officially, they’re supposed to be walking home. They stop in the town square. They stop by the fountain. They stop in the garden, watching the zirconian crystals flare as the light on the horizon dims, dipping the evening into a soft purple glow. Under their pedes, the sheen of black obsidian blooms with starbursts of blue light where they touch it. The lights glow as softly as though they were deep within the rock and glistening like they were protected under glass. They burst up quickly under each step, and slowly melt away as they’re left behind.

Twice, Starscream has to remind himself of his manners and snatch his hand back as it reaches out to touch the long strands of pink diamond that web back and forth in a net around intricate amethyst carvings. He raises the intensity of his optics to stare at the fine details of a chalcedony bubble-structure--then he lowers it to reduce the glare on the glittering blue opal raindrops, hanging airborne off bushes. A voice in his processor that he remembers from somewhere reminds him indignantly that ‘ beauty is the worthless cross-section of expensive vanity and pacifying showmanship ’, and he tells it to shut up and let him look at the mesolite blooms springing up from the cracks in the tiger jasper.

Twice, Starscream glances at his companion to catch him staring back at him. Each time, Magnus quickly and awkwardly turns away, like he’s been caught out.

After the second time, Starscream says, a little sadly, “I guess we should go. It’s getting late. I think.”

“It is hard to tell,” Magnus agrees, “but if you want to stay a little longer, I am of course willing to accommodate you.”

“Hm? Oh. No, this must be boring for you. Besides, it’ll be here for eternity. I don’t need to see all of it at once.”

“What makes you think I’m bored?”

Starscream shrugs. “You’re not exactly admiring the sculptures.”

“No,” Magnus admits, “I’ve been admiring something else.”

Wh-

Starscream feels his biolights flare with heat, his optics burning in their sockets, and he turns suddenly to make eye contact with Magnus, who looks surprisingly un flustered and kind of handsome and smug about it. “I-” he manages--then, fully aware that the headlight-glare he’s currently turning on his fake-sparkmate is either blinding or a dead giveaway, turns his face the other way. He brings up one hand against his cheek to protect himself from Magnus’ gaze.

Get the ground under yourself, he thinks viciously, stop flaring up every time he says something mildly flirtatious! I love fake people, I love drama, I love games--

He sucks a vent in and cycles cool air through his tank. His biolights won’t go down, but he can dim his optics manually, and he turns back to smile at Magnus. “Wow,” he says, and laughs breathlessly, “you’re kind of smooth, Mags. Are you going to write me a sonnet, wordsmith?”

Magnus clears his intake uncomfortably. "It's Ultra Magnus," he says. He still looks utterly shifty.

"Can you write me a sonnet?" Starscream asks, with dawning delight. "You weren't satisfied with being a cop and a lawyer, eh? You had to take up poetry too?"

“I’ve… dabbled,” he concedes with a shrug. He looks a little light-flushed himself, like he’s admitting to some dark secret. Starscream thought fancy upper class types were all supposed to be lavish purveyors of art--well, maybe it’s a different thing to patronize it than to do the dirty work yourself.

Magnus steadies himself. “I promise, as long as you wish to stay, I shall be perfectly diverted.”

Diverted, huh.

Starscream glances around the various pathways and clearings. The garden really is huge, spiraling and sprawling in every direction. Surely there’s at least one--oh, there. He points, and sends a smile with just a glimpse of teeth in Magnus’ direction. “I’m going to go sit down on that bench over there,” he says, “you’re more than welcome to join me.”

“By all means,” Magnus says, and offers an elbow, “allow me to escort you.”

The bench is basically perfectly designed. It’s right in the middle of a grove, with tall branches and growths all around it to shield it from view, and it’s slightly too small to sit apart from one another on. By design, they press into each other.

“I think this bench is too small,” Magnus says, “perhaps I should stand.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Starscream replies, “it’s because your arm is between us. Put it around me.”

He glances up at Magnus as a hand settles awkwardly over his wings, half-expecting to get another face full of adoring stare. Instead, he catches him staring up directly overhead. Starscream follows his gaze.

Far from each other, the two moons are both huge and full on either side of the horizon. As the dark of the night descends, the sky lights up with a half-trillion stars, clustered here and there in swirling patterns or scattered thickly through the navy-black velvet of the evening. “They’re beautiful,” he says, because it’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to say about the stars. Honestly, they just remind him of interstellar travel, which tends to be long and boring. And lonely. And cold.

“They’re different from the ones back home,” Magnus says, “they look like they’ve just been arranged for some aesthetic purpose. I don’t suppose they’re real--surely Pharma designed them to put us at ease.”

Starscream considers admitting that he wouldn’t know--he barely ever saw the evening sky back on Cybertron, spent most of his nights in the murky underground of Iacon once his exploring days were finally behind him--but decides on a different tack. “This is home now,” he says gently, pressing a servo into Magnus’ chassis. “There’s no going back. I know you miss Cybertron--”

“I’m hardly so sentimental,” Magnus says, maybe a little too quickly.

“--I miss it, too,” Starscream lies, “but I’m here with you. We’re here, together. This place existing is the only reason we found each other at all. Give it that much credit.”

It’s a good bit. A really good bit. Starscream doesn’t shutter his optics or purse his lips or get his glossa involved or anything to undermine it--it’s enough that it’s quiet and almost husky. And that they’re so close to each other.

Magnus is attractive. Especially this close, with his optics slightly too bright, their shutters blown wide. He’s got a heady scent around him, like coolant and iron, slightly burnt like his engine is running too hot. This won't be so bad.

Starscream tips his head just slightly, dims his optics, and leans a fraction forward--

Magnus jerks back like he’s been struck, arm recoiling from its place around Starscream’s shoulders. Before Starscream can get his balance back, he’s on his pedes, fans venting, biolights thrumming in unfamiliar patterns. “Allow me, to,” Magnus says, the words stumbling over themselves as Starscream stares up at him from his (now very lonely) seat on the bench, “that is, you are correct, it is late. Please, allow me to walk you home.”

“I,” Starscream says, brow furrowing, “sure, okay.”

The worst part is, Starscream muses as he takes Magnus’ elbow once again and allows himself to be led back towards the city square, he doesn’t even know what he did wrong. It was basically natural--he was only faking, like, 25% of that. Maybe less. And right up until he tried to kiss him, everything was going fine.

And it was only a kiss. It’s not like he tried to crawl on Magnus’ lap and have him right there, or stuck a glossa in his cables or anything. He wasn’t even gross about it. It felt natural. Was the evening light bad for his shading? Was he streaky somewhere from his morning wash, somehow, and no one told him?

If it bothers Magnus that Starscream doesn’t say anything the whole walk home, he certainly doesn’t mention it. Or anything else. They make it back to the awful glass prison at the bottom of the hill in total silence.

“You know, I don’t normally do this,” he half-jokes as Magnus lets go of him, desperate to break the silence in any way he can, “but do you want to come in for some coolant?”

Magnus’ brow furrows. “We’ve just had some,” he says.

Starscream turns his optics. He shutters them once, then smiles. “Goodnight, Magnus,” he says, “I’ll see you whenever tomorrow is.”

He’s only a little ashamed to admit that he watches Magnus go, through the glass of his stupid walls. But if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have seen Magnus storm up the hill, fists clenched, shaking his head, and hit himself directly in the forehead with his palm at the very top of the ridge.

Which makes him feel a little better.

The first thing Starscream does, when he wakes up, is to wriggle deeper under the covers on his berth, to block out the miserable sunlight bearing down on him from every angle. The second thing he does is try to curse. It’s cutesy and adorable. He hates it.

Thirdly, in a panic, he throws his covers off and pats himself to double check that he’s still here, and in one piece. A cursory glance to literally any wall in this stupid house guarantees him that he’s still in the good place, and that there’s no chaos raining down from the sky. So that’s all...good.

Magnus isn’t here yet. It occurs to Starscream that they never actually agreed on a time to meet, or a place. Maybe Starscream should go see him, at his house? Apartment? He actually has no idea where Magnus lives. He could probably ask Rung. After he gets some fuel.

Or maybe some engex. He hasn’t had a hard drink in, what, a whole day? That’s longer without straining his FIM chip than he’s gone in at least a thousand stellar cycles. Surely Magnus wouldn’t hold it against him, and maybe it’d give him the courage to ask why he got so cold and iffy last night.

With a plan fully formulated, Starscream heads towards the door, feeling upbeat and ready to get into a fight. And stops.

There’s a piece of paper on the step just outside. A cursory glance to either side of the house reveals no potential perpetrator, leaving him to just pick it up and flip it over.

You don’t belong here, it says.

Chapter Text

You don’t belong here.  

Although he is alone in the gilded cell of his new home, Starscream can still feel the weight of an arm--heavy, armored, unwelcome--wrapping around his shoulders, trapping his wings. Can still hear a quartet of ringing mandolins and stemware imitating the ethereal motions of the seven celestial spheres. Sparkling wine and sparkling glass and a thousand glances thrown his way. A pretty grounder, slim and chic, bringing him close with an arm on his elbow and leaning against his audial. “Why are you here, seeker? You don’t belong here.”

The note stares accusingly up from his hands.

He could boil over. A thousand microcosms, a thousand little parties and gatherings and events until his corpse was literally in the smelter, broken down for spare parts, and nothing has ever changed. He’s still out. His processor is running hot, and he clutches at his helm in pain as it burns against his casing.

The good place. The good place! He’s literally in robot heaven and he’s still not good enough! Starscream vents, hard, and clutches at his turbines. He needs to stay calm. “Don’t belong here,” he mutters, “don’t belong… in the good place, obviously. Who would…”

There’s someone. There’s a perpetrator somewhere. He vents, in and out. His processor starts to slow and cool. That’s right, this is someone’s fault. He’s being attacked, here. There’s nothing like a little time playing the blame game to bring him back to center. Someone might be attacking him, but this time he can do something about it.

He vents deep. “I love fake people, I love games, I love drama,” he mutters to himself, “music means nothing to me…”

Ultra Magnus, he thinks, wings so flared in rage that the joints ache. Sneaky fragging lawyer must have figured it out. That was why he didn’t kiss him last night; Starscream’s performance was fine.

Still, something keeps niggling the back of his processor. Something’s not right here, beyond the obvious. Magnus isn’t the type to leave a note and watch a mech squirm. He isn’t cruel, unless he’s a far better actor than Starscream’s been giving him credit for. More likely to just go straight to Pharma and let him do the dirty work.

Besides, if Magnus was going to leave him a threatening note, it would probably be itemized or--notarized, or something.

Starscream looks at the note crumpled in his hands. Only one way to find out. He needs a handwriting sample, and a mech as uptight as Magnus must’ve written something down by now.

It takes longer than Starscream thought it would to find Magnus’ apartment--and it is an apartment, not a house, which takes him a little by surprise. You’d think he’d want something big for a big frame. Maybe that’s why he’s never home, always hanging out around town. He actually should ask Rung.

While he’s storming up the stairs to the fourth floor (why aren’t there elevators in paradise?), he’s formulating a plan. Step one: invite himself in. Step two: get him to write something down. Step three: crow victory or grovel for forgiveness, depending.

He throws the door open, note clutched in one hand, and sees Magnus sitting by the window, reading something on a datapad, wearing optical augmentors. Which would be cute, if he wasn’t currently furious.

“Starscream,” Magnus says, “what a surprise. I thought we were going to meet in the--”

“Yeah, of course, the thing,” Starscream says, waving a hand in the air like he’s brushing away a bug in his face, “actually, can we scrap that for a moment and talk about--you write poetry! And that’s interesting. I wonder if I could see some, maybe right now?”

Magnus’ biolights flare dramatically. He stands, setting aside his reading materials, not quite looking at Starscream. “That work is--personal,” he mutters, “I have no doubt you would find it inadequate. What about the works of Phoros? I think his lyricism may appeal to you.”

“Oh, lyricism,” Starscream says. “Forget that. I want to see your writing! In fact, the more raw the better! Maybe you have some scribbles lying around, rough drafts, notes?”

Magnus creaks like he’s straining against stasis cuffs, and says, “No, no I—perhaps I could show you some of the works that influenced me. Milli Ton, or The Voice Of—”

“This isn’t about poetry, Magnus,” Starscream snaps, trying to sound like he’s not losing it, “I want to see a sample of your handwriting. Maybe a—checkbook, or—no, it’s the good place. What about—”

“Why would you want to see my handwriting?” Magnus asks, baffled. “I mean, I was awarded several honors in my schooling for neatness, but I hardly think—”

“Did you write this?” Starscream snaps, shoving the note up into Magnus’ face.

“I don’t understand,” Magnus says, still sounding reasonable, “what are you—”

“Did you write this,” Starscream repeats, panic rising, “yes or no, Magnus!”

Magnus pauses. He gently takes the note out of Starscream’s hands and looks down at it, optics focusing. He frowns. “What is this?” he asks. “No, I didn’t write this. Where did you--”

“Your handwriting,” Starscream interrupts, “I want to see a sample of your handwriting.”

“Starscream, stop,” Magnus says. He grabs Starscream by his shoulders and holds him steady, staring down at him with those soft blue eyes. His field radiates concern. “Calm down. You’re being hysterical.”

Starscream glares back up. “I am not,” he snarls, “being hysterical! I am being perfectly within my rights by wanting to know who would leave this on my door! And you’re the only one who knows anything about me.”

The big lug looks shocked. Maybe a little hurt. “Someone did this? This is the good place. It must have been a mistake.” He shakes his head. “Starscream, I know you’re upset. But you do belong here. With me.”

“No, I don’t,” he snarls, “I am a mistake! This was a mistake! I should not be here!”

As it comes out of his mouth, he tries to reach out and catch it--take it back--but it’s too late. The confession tumbles out all over Magnus’ chest.

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, I’m not supposed to be here,” Starscream repeats, slowly, as though talking to an imbecile. He thought this would feel awful--he hates being honest, even when it makes him look good--but instead he feels so incredibly relieved. “There’s been some mistake. I’m not a good person. Well, I mean--I’m kind of a good person, I’m not--there are definitely people worse than me, is all I’m saying.”

“Starscream, you think so little of yourself. Have a little more faith in--”

“This is not a faith thing!” Starscream shoves Magnus’ hands off his shoulders. “The house Pharma assigned me? I hate. The memories that are always playing on that video screen that like, rarely ever turns off? They’re not mine. I’ve never been a philanthropist! I’ve never helped organics on off-world expeditions. I like opera! I’m not a good person. There’s been a mistake. I’m not being modest, Magnus. I’m not supposed to be here.” He waggles the note. “And somebody knows.”

Starscream stares at Magnus, feeling breathless. Magnus doesn’t stare back.

There’s a heavy, awkward pause.

Magnus is staring at the ground. “So everything you told me was a lie.”

He startles. Oh no, back up, back up. “No! Not everything! Just all the stuff that made me, you know, look good. You know, most convincing lies are based primarily on truth--”

“You have done nothing but lie to me, and to everyone else, for the entirety of your stay here,” Magnus repeats, voice rising, “not only have you made a fool of me and of everyone who has treated you with honesty, respect, and kindness, you have also personally contributed to the unmaking of this neighborhood, the destruction of which everyone else has taken care of for you.” He takes a step forward, and Starscream stumbles back.

“What? No!” The transformation seams in his arms clatter--as his back bumps into the door, he raises both null rays in terrified desperation. “Don’t come any closer! I…”

Magnus stops, shocked. Then, as quickly as he had approached, he turns a shoulder and looks away. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says in that same quiet, spooked animal voice of the past few days--but then, stronger, “I will report to Pharma what you have told me. He is the authority on such matters, and will handle you himself.”

Starscream splutters. “You’re going to turn me in?” he quails (why not? If Magnus reacted to fear when it was genuine, he may as well keep putting it on after the danger is gone. His hands remain firmly locked and loaded). “But...what about your promise?”

He pauses. Glances back over his shoulder. “I made no promise to you,” he says, uncertainly. Starscream scowls.

“Really? ‘I’ll be loyal and faithful to you for all eternity’--sounds like a promise to me,” he sneers, “or do you only keep the promises that are convenient to you, and forget all the rest? I have to admit, I’m surprised. You didn’t seem the type.”

The glow of Magnus’s optics blinks once, twice, before his eyes go cold. “I made that promise to my sparkmate,” he says coolly, and Starscream winces like he’s been slapped. He feels like he’s been slapped. “Now, if you would prefer to tell him yourself, I will, of course, escort you to his office. Otherwise, I must ask you to step out of my way.” He stares pointedly. “You are blocking the door.”

Starscream stares down at his own pedes and dims his optics miserably. He has nothing. He has no plan. After a moment, he takes a step to the side.

Wait.

“Wait,” he says, as Magnus’ hand hits the doorknob.

“Starscream--”

“Magnus,” he replies, spark surging, “what if--I am your sparkmate?”

Ultra Magnus pauses, frozen in place. One hand rests on the doorknob. Inside his tank, Starscream feels something lift--he’s got something, he’s got a thread. It’s time to pull.

“Think about it,” he continues, voice starting to pick up the pace, “Pharma says this whole place runs on a perfect system, right? How could someone who doesn’t belong end up in the good place if the system is perfect? What if--what if it’s because of you?” Dramatically, he reaches forward, touches feather-light fingers to his chassis. “You--you’re an amazing person,” he breathes, biting his lip, “and this is supposed to be your paradise. Any perfect paradise would have the perfect sparkmate to complete it. If I’m your sparkmate, maybe the system brought me here for you, and--made up a whole bunch of data to support the glitch! It happens with computer systems all the time.”

He pauses for a moment. Come to think of it, maybe that is why he’s here. And maybe he’s not the only glitch. It would certainly explain Thunderclash.

“It would certainly explain why my score was so high in the system,” he adds, holding up a finger and shaking it slowly for the full, working-it-out effect, like Skywarp does when he’s orchestrating and a musical line isn’t quite right, “if it’s generating random information, it wouldn’t factor in negatives. It’s probably not counting any of my real actions on Cybertron. It’s just…dummy positives.”

Magnus lets go of the doorknob, which is a step in the right direction, but he doesn’t move away from the door entirely, so this could be going better. “That’s all assuming that you are my sparkmate, and that you’re not lying to me, as you just informed me you have been for the past two days,” he says. Starscream feels his face fall.

“Don’t you know why I just came clean about everything? I feel awful lying to you,” he lies. “I’m not… asking you to be in love with me, okay? I’m not even--I’ll be honest, I don’t even want to know what you think of me right now, because it’s probably awful and… you’re probably right. But I know how I feel about you. I’ve never…” careful, here. Delicate touches are key. He looks away, presses his finger to his mouth like he’s collecting himself. “I mean… I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he says, hushed, “I’ve known you for two days and I’m literally putting my life in your hands, here! Er, my afterlife, anyway. I’ve never trusted anyone like I trust you.”

When he looks up at Magnus, the big mech’s eyes are glistening like distant constellations. “I,” he says, voice thick with static, and there’s the soft sound of his voice box rebooting. “Excuse me. I believe that…you believe that you are my sparkmate.”

“Oh,” Starscream sighs, and leans his head against Magnus’ chassis in relief, ignoring the twitch as he startles, “Magnus, you don’t know what that means to me.”

“I also believe your theory holds some weight,” he adds. “Pharma’s neighborhood has had small errors, here and there, since we first arrived. It doesn’t seem impossible that larger issues may have slipped through, especially, as you say, in cases of conflicting priorities. The two of us will go to his office and ask him how this could have happened.”

Starscream jerks back as the other pede drops. “What?” he says, maybe a little too loudly. “But--I thought you said you wouldn’t hurt me!”

“I’m--not,” Magnus replies, looking confused.

“No, you’re just letting someone else hurt me instead,” he snaps, “giving it away to whoever else is around, huh?”

It hits Magnus all at once--his eyes go wide, guilt billowing up plainly on his face. “No! That is not at all what I meant,” he says, “I will be with you every step of the way. We could quickly find out why you have been placed here--”

“--And get me sent straight down to the bad place,” Starscream snarls, “tell Pharma, and I’m gone! He’s not like you. The second he figures out I don’t belong, he’ll just zap me away so this place can be perfect without me.” He crosses his arms--considers. A little petulant, a little selfish. He can do better. He glances up. “I don’t want to leave you. Here. Alone.”

Direct hit. Magnus bites his lip.

“I can’t lie to Pharma,” Magnus says after a moment, sounding miserable, “I don’t tell lies. It’s against my personal code of conduct.”

“You don’t have to lie to him,” Starscream insists, “just don’t tell him all of the truth! Leave it out, if I come up.”

He frowns. “That is the literal definition of a ‘lie of omission’.”

“Wh...I…” Starscream blinks, squinting up at Magnus. “I didn’t go to lie school, okay? I’m self-taught. An autodidact in the art of mistruths.”

Magnus clears his throat. “It’s actually law school,” he says, “easy mistake to make. The pronunciation is key.”

Starscream scowls. “That is not at all--”

He jerks his hands down to emphasize his point, and his null rays--which are still armed and live--shoot off. Confetti bursts out.

As one mech, they look down at the little colored strips of paper now floating in the air.

“Has that ever… happened to you before?” Magnus asks.

“Um,” Starscream says.

Wordlessly, Magnus transforms one of his huge hands into a barrel gun and aims it at the floor a safe distance away. He fires. Cheerful pink and green flakes explode with an excited little pop.

“What the frag,” Starscream mumbles.

“No need for weapons in the good place,” Magnus says, sounding a little shell shocked himself.

At that point, it seems difficult to proceed. Starscream kicks a fleck of green confetti and shreds it against the floor as Magnus stands stock still, his biolights flaring in fits and bursts. After a moment, Magnus’s voice box gives a telltale little burst of static as it resets.

“The philanthropy,” Magnus says, without looking at him, “the charity work… was any of it true?”

Starscream finds something interesting to look at which is conveniently located in the opposite direction of the huge glowering blue bot he’s having a conversation with.

“Well,” he says. “Some people would say I was still…serving the people…uh, a little closer to home.”

~~

The blue seeker that Skywarp introduced as Thundercracker glances up from his datapad, which looks like it’s been passed through a trash compactor as only the start of its very bad day. He’s factory mint, show-room handsome, no casting seams, no custom parts, no bubbles.

The restaurant is crusted with oil from old bar fights and sticky with spilled drinks. The tables are more carved up than a gladiator’s back, but when Skywarp called him up looking to see if anyone in their old unit was interested in some low-risk, under-the-table work at the edge of the Shades, Starscream had hardly expected glamour.

“Then you ask them if they want the extended tour,” Thundercracker says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “If they say yes, you take them through the employee door and show them the break room or the back alley or whatever grimy slag they want to see. And then when you’re done with that, you ask them if they want to see anything else.”

“Sometimes they say no!” Skywarp pipes up, behind the bar.

“Yeah! Sometimes they say no.”

“But moooostly, they say yes.”

“Yeah.”

Skywarp shrugs his wings. “And then, whatever, you snap your panel back and reroute the receptors so you only kind of know what you’re feeling,” he says. “Or if they open theirs, ask ‘em what they want, and—I mean they’re mostly old, it doesn’t take more than five minutes, and they’ll palm you what they owe you in cash.”

“Try to get them to go for the valve,” Thundercracker advises him. “Everyone knows it’s worth more.”

“You might wanna make some noises, they usually like that.”

Thundercracker gives him a reserved once-over. “You okay, there? You got it?”

One of the drooping patrons at the back table topples over in slow motion and lands flat against the floor, spilling engex all over himself.

Starscream scoffs. “Yeah, buddy, I got it. You want me to let gross old codgers fingerfuck me for money. It’s a prostitution ring, not rocket science. Which tables are mine?”

~~

“It was more like...” Starscream says, “customer service.”

Magnus gives him a long, unimpressed look.

“I did go on a space mission once,” Starscream says, defensively. “It wasn’t all grunt work! I have most of a degree in practical chemistry from Nova Point! I was a senatorial aid for six hundred years! I’m at least--half-way the person in Pharma’s system.”

“That is not the same thing as being that person.”

“No no no, listen,” Starscream says, inspiration all at once lighting up his processor. “So I waited tables a dive restaurant and got thrown out of Nova Point and sold contracts to shady bots for cash, so what! I didn’t ask to live like that. If I’d had a fighting chance from the start, Pharma’s version of me could be me.”

“Did you say you got thrown out of Nova Point Academy?” Magnus tries to interrupt, but Starscream just keeps talking, barreling past him.

“If I hadn’t been slapped out on an assembly line I wouldn’t have been an energon seeker! And if I wasn’t made an energon seeker, then I wouldn’t have been dropped by the mining company when they moved to off-world surveying projects, and if I hadn’t been out of a job I could have been somebody, and I could have finished my degree, and then who knows where I would be! It’s not my fault! None of it is my fault! If I’d had half a chance, I could be that person!”

He stands there almost shaking, his processor burning with triumph and fury until the whole room is nothing but a blind cascade of unparsable data.

After a moment of almost rapturous bitterness, Magnus’s voice cuts through his revere.

“Very well,” the enforcer says. “Then now is your chance.”

The white hot inferno in his head collapses. “What?” Starscream says.

“You believe that Pharma’s data represents some hypothetical projection of yourself, adjusting for factors of bad luck and outside influence. If that is the case, then this is your chance to become the better version of yourself. The more selfless, more honest version.”

Starscream frowns. “You don’t like me how I am?”

“I would prefer to help you improve, yes,” Magnus replies with a sniff. “If we aren’t going to tell Pharma about you, vis a vis your relative mathematical morality, you must at least attempt to improve.” He puffs his chassis out. “I studied and practiced law for the entirety of my functioning. Accept my help, and I will instruct you in legality and ethics. With my tutelage, you may yet become…”

He glances once over the entirety of everything Starscream is, and clearly finds him wanting.

“...A moral person,” he finishes. “A person worthy of residence here in the neighborhood Pharma has worked tirelessly to provide.”

“How generous of you,” Starscream almost spits. “And if I refuse?”

“That is within your right,” Magnus says. “If you choose to remain as you are, what we have said here will stand as evidence, and I will bring it to Pharma. It is his neighborhood. He will decide what to do.”

Starscream’s tank churns with an audible scraping. “Wonderful,” he snarls, “at least you can keep taking care of charity cases in the afterlife! Maybe I will go tell Pharma myself. Then I can be tortured for eternity on my own terms, instead of being betrayed by someone I thought I could trust.”

“I am offering you a plea bargain,” Magnus replies, and straightens almost to his full-height, the back of his head scraping against the cramped ceiling, “I suggest you think carefully before you answer.”

“I’m not giving you an answer,” Starscream snaps, “I don’t need to! I don’t need you or anyone else. I’ll just do it all myself! On my own, like everything else!”

“Starscream--”

“Good-bye, Ultra Magnus.”

The door makes a satisfying whunk when it slams behind him.

Sparks strike up under Starscream’s thrusters as he stalks through the market, little yellow stars flaring under his pedes. He doesn’t know where he’s headed, except that it’s wherever Ultra Magnus isn’t. As far across this neighborhood as he can get without banging nose-first against a glass wall or ending up back where he started or something equally annoying. Maybe there’s a hatch somewhere in this joyship, and he can just—climb out into someone else’s heaven, or—

“Starscream! Just the bot I wanted to see!”

Starscream freezes in mid-stride, wings twitching as he fights the t-cog that wants to transform him into something that can make a quick getaway.

“Pharma!” he says, spinning on his heel. He smiles brightly. “Whatever can I do for you?”

Pharma comes across the quad with his arms thrown open, as if greeting an old friend. “Starscream, how are you? Good? Good! Look, listen. I need someone I can trust with a little responsibility around here, while things are…settling.”

“Responsibility?” Starscream echoes.

“Yes!” Pharma says, with visible relief. “After all that unfortunate disorder yesterday, it’s my feeling that the neighborhood needs some reassurance. I need someone I can trust to liaison with the other residents, someone who can handle their concerns while I work on getting to the bottom of the glitch.”

“Getting to the—” Starscream clears his intake. “Isn’t it over now, though? Why look into it, when there’s so much else that needs doing?”

Pharma taps the side of his nose. “Ah, you’re right, but that’s what I’ve come to you for. Too much is riding on this neighborhood’s absolute perfection for me to dare risk ignoring a problem this early in the process. It needs my full focus.”

“Right,” Starscream says. His spark sinks.

“People need a face of stability, if you follow. And then it hit me: who better to oversee my perfect neighborhood than my most perfect resident! It’ll be challenging, time consuming, a lot of work, but—” Pharma gives him a friendly clap on the shoulder, “—I know you would never turn down the opportunity to serve your fellow Cybertronian, no matter how thankless and difficult the task.”

Starscream reboots his optics like that’s going to make this not be happening to him. “Maybe you should ask Ultra Magnus," he says, temporarily forgetting that he really doesn't want Pharma to talk to Magnus right now. "He—”

“It’ll be almost like you’re my second in command!” Pharma carries on, as if he didn’t hear. “Or maybe my third. After Rung. Except you won’t get a title or a paycheck or anything, of course! Just the warm, happy feeling of a job well done.”

Third? After a drone? Starscream’s denta creak under the pressure of his jaw still clenched in a smile.

“How could I possibly refuse?” he manages.

“That is exactly what I thought you would say,” Pharma says, and taps a blue finger against Starscream’s turbine.

Starscream watches the finely-forged finger tapping his engine and tries not to twitch at the echoey, intimate feeling. Pharma is already too keen for anyone’s good, underneath all the hand-wringing and the blithe cheerfulness. Being near Pharma feels like being tracked by a target lock, like being watched by someone else just behind the friendly blue eyes.

Gracefully built and smoothly proportioned, Pharma shines in the sunlight like every grounder’s dream of what a flight frame should be: useful, beautiful, and effortlessly natural. Whatever Pharma actually is, it certainly comes in an effective package.

“You must be proud of this neighborhood,” Starscream says. “I heard Ultra Magnus say it was your first…?”

“Oh! Yes!” Pharma says. He gestures broadly to the neighborhood as a whole. “Yes, it’s my first project. All those long nights slaving away over the blue-board finally paying off! I pitched the plans for ages before I got the OK. I’m known as a bit of a rogue with the management, if you can believe that. It’s not how we normally do things, they said! But, well. I really want our residents to feel that personal touch, you know?”

Starscream eyes the gilded sign of the Berth Bath and Beyond. “I suppose you would be terribly upset if anything were to interfere with the smooth running of the place.”

“I’d be devastated,” Pharma says, pressing a palm to his chest plates. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but there’s quite a lot riding on this project.”

Hmm. The motivation is there, but the more he thinks about it, the more he finds himself stuck on the method. If it was Pharma, why bother with a note? There may be an angle here he’s not seeing yet, but--if it was Pharma, wouldn’t he just pull the cord on the trap door and send Starscream pitching pedes-first into the old inferno?

Everyone knows where bad little bots go, he thinks, with an uneasy prickle of heat in his coolant lines.

He guesses he has to make nice with Pharma, even if the note was his—after all, the fragger runs this place, and Starscream dearly needs that on his side. Even now he can feel the phantom heat of that great big Smelting Pit of the Soul cooking against his pedes. If this is the end where the boutiques and the oil baths are, then he doesn’t like to think what’s on the other end.

Anyways, he’s just lost Ultra Magnus. And sure, he can win the big lug back, but it’ll take time. It’ll take maneuvering. It’ll take…a show of character, perhaps?

“Sure,” he says, and holds his hand out. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

Pharma claps his hands together with a bright little “Ah!” and he at least looks genuinely pleased that Starscream passed his test. He takes Starscream’s hand and squeezes it, just firm enough to be playful, not hard enough to imply a threat. “As I said, morale took a bit of a hit yesterday what with all the…excitement. It would mean the world to me if you could do a little something to make people feel at ease! Turn on that winning personality! Make them feel at home!”

“Shmooze, in other words,” Starscream scoffs. “I can do that in my sleep.”

Pharma gives him a nonplussed tilt of the head, and his brief moment of smug certainty goes sour. Of course these people won’t be flashy entrepreneurs and politicians; these are good people. They probably have integrity, or whatever. How in the Pit is he supposed to talk to good people?   

Trust heaven to ruin even the sanctity of a good old fashioned shmooze.

Starscream’s gaze wanders past Pharma, trailing over the refreshed bustle of the market quad to rest on the screaming teal visage of Thunderclash. He stands out in any crowd, if not for his colors then at least for his height.

A gaggle of admirers have him penned in at the mouth of the Wax and Polish, cooing and making spark-eyes at him while he gently indulges them. Someone holds out a pad and a stylus, in the universal appeal for a signature. Thunderclash takes it easily. He’s head and shoulders over most of them, leaning effortlessly into their attentions. Someone asks him a question, and he answers easily as they all swoon away from him, flushed and tittering. He looks like a Prime holding court over an adoring multitude—regal, effortless, like the fragging sun rises out of his spark chamber.

“You’re up to the challenge, I hope,” Pharma is saying.

Starscream abruptly looks away from Thunderclash and interlaces his fingers, stretching his servos. A grin of his own settles across his faceplate. “My dear Pharma,” he says, “you’ll soon learn not to doubt me.”

The oil soak stays cool against his raging frame for ages and ages, like you would expect it to do in heaven. It’s the perfect temperature with no sign of surrendering to thermodynamics, and yet Starscream still can’t seem to relax. The washrack is the least exposed part of his house, so it’s not the sense of being watched that’s putting him on edge. At least, not primarily. He wriggles down into the oil and tries to get comfortable, flaring his plates to let a little more soothing coolness wash against his protoform.

The smelter and the all-spark. Starscream had heard of them in a hazy sort of way, the way you remember a rhyme you heard over the comms on your first assignment. Religion was never big in Vos, and in the Shades people had other things to pray to than gods. As far as he could tell, everybody had their own opinion about the all-spark: silent grave, ethereal paradise, tearful reunion. The smelter, though. With the smelter, you knew exactly what to expect.

Starscream lifts one of the luxurious little coolant cakes off his eye and pops it into his mouth. “A moral person,” he sneers. The coolant melts on his tongue.

Tax evasion. Arms dealing. Impersonating an officer of the law. Trading in banned goods. Assault with a deadly weapon. Jay-walking. The harder he tries to calculate his theoretical rap-sheet, the less good the bath seems to be doing him.

Oil splatters over the sides of the bath as Starscream sits upright, all at once. He lets the stuff drain and pulls himself out, shakes off, lets the airblast clear out the excess between his plates. His wings won’t stop twitching. He wants to fly, or run, or drink his tank capacity in engex.

“A moral person,” he snarls at his reflection. A moral person! Back home, nobody cared if he was a moral person. They’d all been terrible, but at least they’d been terrible together.

Home seems a very long way away.

“Rung!” he calls.

Their informational aid appears at the side of the bath, hands clasped easily behind his back.

“Hello,” Rung says. “How may I assist you?”

The easiest way to get a note into Starscream’s house would be with Rung. You could write it anywhere, and then have the drone deliver it in a nanosecond without mess or witnesses. It’s what Starscream would do.

With his round little glasses and his skinny ball joints, it’s hard to imagine anything less threatening than Rung. It’s like he was designed to be unobtrusive, which Starscream supposes he must have been. He waits patiently while Starscream scrutinizes him, examining every curve of bright plating and greenish glass.

“Do you keep a record of things people ask you for? Searches people make?”

“Great question,” Rung says. “I do not. That information is confidential.”

Starscream purses his lips. Well even if he did keep a record, he wouldn’t say so, would he? Let’s come at the problem from another angle.

“Is there anything you’re not able to do?”

“My function is to assist the residents of this neighborhood,” Rung says, with an easy smile. “I am enabled to accomplish almost any directive as long as it is within those parameters.”

“But you won’t tell me what other people searched for,” Starscream grumbles.

“Correct. The privacy of individuals takes precedence. You can also ask of me whatever you wish, with the full assurance of your privacy.”

Starscream narrows his eyes. “I had better be able to,” he says, “because if you mention one word of the thing I asked you for yesterday to anyone, especially Pharma, I’ll rip that fake spark right out of your-”

Drone. Smelt him down for salvage, he’s reduced himself to threatening a drone. Starscream kicks the cabinet where he found the coolant cakes and listens to the stack of boxes inside toppling over.

Rung just stands there, benignly patient, unaffected by the threat of violence. Does it want anything, Starscream wonders. Can sufficiently advanced AIs be bribed? If it has a sense of self, he reasons, it should understand self preservation.

“If you need assistance,” Rung reassures him, “you only have to ask.”

Starscream flicks a stubborn drop of oil from his wing. Rung’s inability to judge anything he might say brings certain thoughts swirling up to the top of his meta-processor.

“Do you know--” Starscream pauses and clicks his tongue, fingers tapping. “Could you tell me what happened to Skywarp and Thundercracker? I mean, not that I care or anything. But if they’re dead too, I might as well know. Skywarp owes me sixty shanix.”

“Neither Skywarp nor Thundercracker are in the Good Place,” Rung tells him, brightly.

Starscream looks away, fingers drumming harder against his forearm. He could have worked that out for himself. “But are they dead,” he says. “Did I-- Were they with me when I died?”

He shot himself with his own science project, Pharma had said. He’s not sure how his last clear memory and Pharma’s report of the final event matches up, but there's clearly a gap, and--and he doesn’t remember being on a ship. They couldn't possibly have been there when he--

“At the time that you entered the good place,” Rung says, “neither Skywarp nor Thundercracker were with you.”

Starscream’s wings drop, releasing a tension he didn’t realize they had been holding. “Oh well,” he says, waving off the whole conversation with a flick of his hand. “I shouldn’t be surprised. They always wriggle their way out of trouble somehow.”

In fact, they’re probably toasting a glass of that Rodion Violet to his memory right now, crying probably, talking about how great he is--was--whatever. There better be a speech. There better be a bar full of leakers and scavs and general no-gooders knocking back a bitter one for him right now, because by the allspark if he can’t have a real burial he can at least have a fragging memorial that’ll kick your denta in.

They’re probably--fine. Without him.

He opens his mouth to dismiss Rung, but the words get lost somewhere along the way, and what comes out instead is, “can I see them?”

“No,” Rung says, and Starscream’s wings flinch upwards again. “In order to ease the transition to the good place, I cannot show anyone any images of their loved ones at any time.”

“They’re not my--” Starscream cuts himself off with an irritated noise. “Nevermind. Can you tell me where they are? Are they okay?”

“I cannot,” Rung says, and something in his voice seems gentler under the vacant pleasantness. “And I cannot speak to the condition of your friends.”

“Why not!” Starscream demands. “Don’t you know everything?”

Rung seems wholly unfazed by Starscream’s sudden rise in volume. “At the time I came online, I was filled with knowledge in the universe until that point. I am unaware of the goings-on of Cybertron at present. The only comfort I can offer you is that Skywarp and Thundercracker were not with you when you entered the good place.”

“You said that already,” Starscream says. “Couldn’t you try? Pharma says I’m the best mech in the good place, can’t you bend the rules a little for me?”

“No,” Rung says. “My protocols prevent me from showing anyone their loved ones back on Cybertron.”

Starscream vents hot air. “You said that already,” he snaps. “Goodbye, Rung.”

“Goodbye!” Rung says, and Starscream’s wings droop until they nearly brush the floor.

Starscream arrives at Thunderclash’s mansion wound tighter than a chronosmith’s spring and as exhausted as if he hadn’t slept since he arrived. Over the course of the walk here he’s talked himself in fragging circles. Maybe it was Ultra Magnus who left the note. He could have been putting on an act this morning; could have been playing it up to twist the screws. Nobody has an aft bolted on that tight. Maybe he’s a sparkless monster just like Starscream, after all. Maybe he likes to watch a bot squirm.

Starscream nearly punches the glass out of the visitor’s intercom when he presses it. A moment later, Thunderclash’s voice comes back with a smooth little “just a moment!” as Starscream sulks back against the facade.

Thunderclash doesn’t deserve this house. Starscream deserves this house! The scrap he put up with from the day he onlined, the grind he worked, the disrespect? He was born with nothing, not even his own face. He deserves a mansion as much as any goody-goody glory hog!

“You’re early!” Thunderclash says, throwing the door open with a suddenness that startles Starscream right out of his sulk and straight onto his aft. He hits the ground with a clang and screech.

“Oh—” Thunderclash immediately reaches down and takes hold of his arm, hauling him upright. Thunderclash has to plant his pedes and strain a little harder than Ultra Magnus would have, which is weird, maybe. Starscream wobbles upright and then rips his hand free, shaking his fingers at his side.

“I apologize sincerely,” Thunderclash says, his hands hovering in front of himself as if he’s only barely stopping himself from reaching out again. “Are you hurt? Any bolts loose? Old wounds acting up?”

“I’m fine,” Starscream snaps. “I don’t get wounded.”

Thunderclash opens his mouth and then closes it again.

“I’m early,” Starscream goes on, “because Pharma has put me, the best person in the good place, in charge of an essential administrative duty. And being in charge is 90% delegating to other people, so I thought--why not make our little rendezvous benefit the collective good of the neighborhood? Let’s make this a social night. You can cheer everyone up, and I can…supervise.”

“Oh,” Thunderclash sighs, “Starscream, you are a wonder. How lucky we are to have you.”

“That’s true,” Starscream says, examining his gleaming claw-tips. “I should have a sash or something. Maybe a crown? Do you think a crown is too much? Of course it isn’t, what am I saying.”

“Not to fear.” Thunderclash turns back towards the interior of his home, tapping his mouth with one finger. “Of course I’ll accompany you. I’m sure it will do the neighbors a world of good to see that I’m here with them. We should bring them a little something, eh? A housewarming present, perhaps. Hold on a tick.”

“Well, I,” Starscream says, just as the heavy door slides shut in his face.

He resets his optical feed. The decorative ceramic inlay stares back at him.

“Well,” he says.

After a bit of distant clanking and rattling, Thunderclash comes back out with a box in hand, some sort of transport for delicate items. The urge to wiggle a hand inside of it and skim something off the top is almost unbearably tempting.

“I want people to feel that I’m visiting them as a fellow resident. As another working mech, just like them,” Thunderclash says, as he closes the door behind himself. “I don’t want people to feel like I’m just a celebrity, you know.”

Starscream sniffs. “I don’t know you,” he says.

Thunderclash pauses, half way down the steps. “You don’t?”

“Trust me,” Starscream says, “I never forget a paint job.”

“Intrepid Merchant Rescues Stranded Research Team?” Thunderclash suggests. “Plucky Transport Ship Takes Pirates?”

Starscream, who hasn’t accessed a newsfeed since the last time he shorted out his FIM chip on a weeklong bender after finding out the Grand Taxonomy had passed with a sweeping majority on the senate floor, says, “Nope.”

“I was awarded the golden spark for civilian valor,” Thunderclash says. “You may have followed some of my more unusual adventures in the ‘venture reels. We had a little archivist along with us for a while. They put on a historical at the Tetrahex Opera House based on his footage. People certainly seemed interested in our exploits; we could hardly move for admirers by the time we returned to Cybertron. Naturally,” he adds, “I understand the public’s keenness for news of the galaxy, especially with the unrest at home.”

A fuzzy memory of a screen pings in his processor. Thundercracker always liked the ‘venture reels. A lot of the other seekers did, actually--restless and sky-sore, it was hard not to ache for even the illusion of freedom, open skies, adventure. They wouldn’t be so keen on it if they’d had a taste of off-world living, he’s sure. Adventure is nothing but aching, low tanks and dirty snow melting into the crevasses of your armor. There’s nothing romantic about alien skies once you’ve stood alone underneath them.

“I guest starred on several topic panels, gladiatorial reviews,” Thunderclash goes on, “talent shows, before those were banned. Maccadam’s had a drink named after me.”

“Oh!” Starscream startles. “The Thunderclasher! We used to buy that for my trine-mate when we were in Rodion because it sounded like--” He snaps his mouth shut. He flicks his wings. “I didn’t realize it was named after a grounder. You know how it is with jets, we’re all ‘thunder’ this or ‘sky’ that--” he rolls his wrist with a careless flick. “I assumed it was named after one of us. Some fling the owner had, or something.”

Thunderclash looks at several of the facade’s architectural flourishes but not actually at Starscream as he says “I make it a personal policy not to engage in flings with fans.”

“Huh,” Starscream says, grinning. “Sounds like maybe you learned that the hard way, stud.”

Thunderclash’s face remains impassive, but his biolights give a suspicious flicker.

“Anyway,” Starscream says, “if you had gotten a little naughty, maybe I would know you. Interpersonal dynamics are kind of my specialty. Senators, moguls, prima donnas, you name it. I knew who every single priest in Iacon was paying for lap dances.”

Thunderclash visibly startles, and then settles into wary disapproval. “All that?” he says. “Why would you care?”

Starscream’s fans threaten to kick on at the familiar, uncomfortable rush that comes from standing on the precipice of a lie. “We should,” he says, “we should always concern ourselves with corruption, shouldn’t we, Thunderclash? Especially when it concerns those in positions of power. People in the public eye have to maintain a standard, don’t you think?”

“--Of course.” Thunderclash relents gracefully. “In that case, I’m glad that I gave you no reason to concern yourself with me. I always aimed to maintain a…standard.”

“I’m sure you did,” Starscream purrs.

He strolls down the steps, and after a moment, Mr. Big Shot deigns to follow after him.

“Compared to everyone else here I must admit I feel out of place,” Thunderclash says. “Learned law persons like Ultra Magnus, doctors and political activists—tireless pedes-on-the-ground charity workers like yourself…I really have nothing to boast but incredible wealth and fame.”

Starscream rolls his eyes and curls his lip where Thunderclash can’t see him. Thunderclash keeps on talking, with big sweeping gestures, like he’s delivering a monologue to the lawn ahead of them.

“Yes, there were credit accounts, and guest slots on sold out venues, and upgrades and scores of cheering fans, but those things aren’t what are important, you know? I’m most proud of the lives that I saved while we were abroad in the galaxy. That’s what I’d like to be remembered for.”

A sudden ice age passes through the core of Starscream’s spark, phantom snow biting through his internals. If Thunderclash was an actual space-farer, an actual do-gooder, was it possible that he had realized something was amiss with Starscream’s credentials? Had he unthinkingly said something to give himself away over the last two days? His memory of the party in Thunderclash’s mansion is almost nonexistent after about glass six of that engex.

Between Starscream’s genuine disinterest in literally everything Thunderclash has to say and his own whirling processor, he’s managed to tune out so much of his surroundings that he nearly walks into the doorframe of the first house on their list. Thunderclash sticks out a broad hand to catch him as he presses the visitor’s intercom.

Big house. Attractively decorated. Gorgeous meditation garden of sand and pebbles for a front lawn. Starscream scowls. Does everyone have a bigger, nicer house than his? With no small amount of spite, he scuffs a pede against one of the carefully placed rocks (green, shiny, probably worth more than Starscream’s entire apartment back on Cybertron), sending it rolling over perfectly manicured ridges of sand.

A quick glance tells him Thunderclash is preening at his own reflection in the glass of the door. Good. He doesn’t even have to give an exaggerated ‘my bad’.

“Oh, wow--is that Thunderclash?” gasps a decidedly feminine voice, and Starscream turns to see a femmebot hurrying her way up the path. “I guess I got home just in time! I’m so sorry no one answered the door--my sparkmate’s probably out in the back, doing some amethyst gardening--she just loves that eco-sustainable DIY stuff. Or maybe she just didn’t hear--she’s been deaf ever since she donated all of her auditory systems to the Metallurgist Society for Damaged and Unfinished Protoforms.”

“She’s still deaf?” Starscream frowns. “In the good place?”

“How can we be of service, Thunderclash?” she says, turning a shoulder so she’s facing fully away from Starscream, planted between the two of them like a jealous lover in one of those low budget serials where everyone is always cheating on everyone else. Skywarp watches them constantly, mostly because they make Thundercracker so mad. So. He’s seen the occasional episode.

It’s not like he would watch them on his own, is the thing. It’s not like he went through a whole case of freezerburnt coolant-alloy spoon by spoon during a marathon once. He definitely didn’t cry.

“Oh, this is just a social visit,” Thunderclash is saying, “Starscream had the most wonderful idea, that we could go around together and see how everyone is holding up after the awful event yesterday.”

The femmebot stares serenely. “Who?” she asks. Starscream’s engine burns.

“Of course, allow me to introduce you,” Thunderclash says, reaching past her to press an uninvited hand against one of Starscream’s turbines. “Starscream, this is Axel--back on Cybertron, she was an artist fighting for the rights of sentient beings in the Hexactrix Nebula. Her sparkmate Booster was an environmental lawyer, just exactly like your Ultra Magnus, isn’t that right? Axel, this is Starscream, Ultra Magnus’ sparkmate.”

“Oh, my polish,” Axel breathes, “Thunderclash knows who I am! You are just the best! Isn’t he just the best, Starshriek?”

“It’s Starscream,” Starscream says, grin frozen on his face, “actually.”

“Oh! Whatever!” she says, smiling right back. “Well, if you’re here on a social visit, come on in! We are just so excited to have Thunderclash and guest with us in our home, I’ll run back and grab Booster and then you can tell both of us all about that heroic off-planet rescue we’ve heard so much about!”

“You know you’ll have to be a little more specific than that, Axel,” Thunderclash says, laughing, as he follows her into the house, “the one on Fishoot or Arizenith-5?”

As Axel explains that she actually meant a fully different rescue that Starscream’s also never heard anything about, he kicks the green stone again--further, this time, and much harder--and hurries after them. The door doesn’t literally shut in his face, but it may as well have.

It turns out Axel and Booster are both as boring as they are sycophantic. They spend the better part of an hour fawning over Thunderclash’s oeuvre and chatting with him about the abstract paintings all over the walls, which Starscream is given to understand are all replicas of pieces Axel did while alive that sold for more than seven million shanix, apparently as some form of charity organization. This one is a blue period, Thunderclash rescued a ship full of unregistered protoforms from the pirates of whoever, Booster is learning how to grow organic plants to donate to organic charities that literally she can’t do anything for because she’s dead, the mechachondria is the powerhouse of the cell, blah, blah, blah, Thunderclash made oil cakes--

“They’re from an archaic recipe I uncovered during one of my travels to the great and forgotten ancient cities of Cassatheia, the planet where the map of Scalantix led us to believe the body of the great old one whose name must not be spoken may have been buried,” Thunderclash is saying, opening the attractively decorated container he’d brought with him, “of course, I had to make some tweaks--you can’t get fermented pearl shards on Cybertron, and after some experimenting here I think the recipe is stronger without them, it must have been the flavor of the times. Very strong umami. Please, have some.”

Starscream peers into the basket and plucks one out as the femmebot couple is cooing that they couldn’t, not Thunderclash’s hospitality, but if he insists, and tuts. “Oh, Clasher, you shouldn’t have,” Starscream says, “sorry to say it--mm, I shouldn’t--oh, but you only want the best for our neighbors--they do look a little burnt.” He crinkles his nose and pointedly takes a pity-bite.

They’re not burnt.

“But they are…not,” he admits after a moment, “they are not. Oh, frag, that’s good--”

“They are so good,” Booster agrees, “you truly are the crown jewel in the constellation of this neighborhood, Thunderclash. We are so lucky to have you.”

Starscream hides his scowl behind his oil cake. Constellations aren’t made of jewels, he doesn’t say. “We are so lucky,” he manages instead, “actually, though, I think we’d better be moving along soon...I’d really love to meet everyone, and I bet everyone in this neighborhood would love to meet you.”

“Well, we’d never deprive our countless neighbors of the opportunity to meet the real Thunderclash,” Axel insists, smiling, “if you two have to get going, I completely understand. It was so good getting to meet you as a real person, Thunderclash! Your secretary is so lucky to get to spend all day with you.” She glances at Starscream and winks. With some effort, he dismisses a combat protocol prompt that’s popped up on his hub.

“Oh, Starscream isn’t my secretary,” Thunderclash says, throwing an arm around his shoulders, “he’s my best friend! Isn’t that right, Starscream?”

Starscream grits his teeth, which might look like a wide grin from far away, or to an insane person. “Oh, yeah,” he manages, “besties.”

At the next house, they meet a boatformer who dedicated his life to installing solar panels on every planet in his system, even the frozen wasteland ones no one else could reach. At the mansion after that, a combiner whose gestalt was part of a water-processing plant for organics at the far reaches of the galaxy.

“The medibot on duty told me he couldn’t arrange for me to donate all of my techno-organic parts, because he said I could die if I tried to give them away to the whole ward,” a cute little jet tells them in the comfortable shade of his back porch, looking over a scenic lazy river, “but I couldn’t let them die instead of me! So I went and got myself a medical degree, and signed the forms for the transfers myself.”

In a marble building packed with shelf after shelf of datapads, Starscream tunes back in to the submarine explaining to a fascinated Thunderclash that “...when I realized there were still people inside, I thought, ‘I don’t care if it’s on fire! Someone has to get them out!’ Of course, as I suspected, the ash had gotten into their ventilation systems, and they’d gone into stasis. If I hadn’t gone in, they’d be dead.”

“Tell me all about the crash on the dead planet! Is it really as dangerous there as the ‘venture reels say?”

“I hear you beat Blurr in a charity race on Nova-12. Was he stiff competition? Is he really as nice as everyone says he is?”

“I can’t believe I’m meeting the real Thunderclash. Isn’t he just the best?”

“You are so lucky to be working with him. I would give anything to be his assistant.”

“Oh, wow. Is that Thunderclash?”

“Huh,” Starscream says, smiling and waving as they walk away from the last apartment building, every resident leaning off their balcony to watch them as they go, “you really are famous. It seems like I’m the only one with no idea who you are!”

“And I’m the only one who knows you,” Thunderclash says, “and that’s why we’re perfect friends. No reputations! Just the two of us, exactly like we were when we were forged, before we dedicated our lives to improving the lives of other people.”

“Haha,” Starscream says.

“Actually, I feel like you’re the only person here I can be totally honest with,” Thunderclash admits, “like you said, you don’t care about celebrities. I never want to disappoint his fans, but Blurr’s actually kind of an aftport. He made fun of my paintjob any time the cameras stopped rolling.”

“No way. You lied?” Starscream raises an eyebrow in faux surprise. “Clash. What about maintaining a standard?”

“But this is about protecting their feelings,” he insists, “I’m willing to sacrifice talking about my own if it makes others happy. But you don’t need me to do that! You’re totally self-sufficient. Ultra Magnus must feel very lucky.” He brightens his optics--in the falling dark, false stars beginning to peek out overhead, they gleam an attractive orange.

Starscream thinks of Ultra Magnus, hunched slightly against the ceiling of his apartment, stuck with a hot fraud for all of eternity, determinedly offering to study ethics with him. Desperate for even a chance of a happy afterlife, saddled with some buymech seeker from the wrong side of Vos. “You know,” he says, “I’m pretty sure I’m the lucky one.”

Thunderclash touches his own chassis and makes a soppy face as he leads Starscream through the front door of his own stupid, stupid, worthless huge palace that Starscream deserves and this guy definitely doesn’t deserve. “You two are so perfect for each other it makes my tank hurt,” he croons, “it must be just killing you to be away from him.”

“Yeah, well,” Starscream says, as Thunderclash leads him away from the grand entrance and into an equally grand parlor, “not as much as being away from your Hot Rod must be killing you. ”

“Oh,” Thunderclash says. “Um. Yes.”

'Um'?

Starscream has just had an objectively miserable day. He’s being blackmailed or threatened or whatever by some invisible attacker, Ultra Magnus hasn’t committed one way or the other to helping him, Pharma apparently thinks him being Top Point Getter means he’s some kind of errand bot or personal assistant, and he spent several hours with Thunderclash. Who has hugged him more times than he can count on both hands, and thinks they are ‘besties’. Who has, just now, belayed some deep-seated and heretofore unknown misery with a misplaced ‘um’.

“Trouble in paradise?” Starscream, swallowing his desire to display sharp, predatory teeth, puts on a somber face. “You can talk to me about it. We’re best friends.”

“It’s nothing,” he says hurriedly, “no trouble! We’re actually, we’re really very happy together.”

“Come on. He’s not back, is he?” Starscream gives an exaggerated glance around the room, as though hunting for the little red monk. He’s not back. Obviously. “He and Magnus only got together for their meeting after we left.”

“Oh, yes,” Thunderclash says. “You know. Bonding time. Aha, ha.”

“Any idea what they’re up to?”

“You know, I bet Hot Rod is probably meditating,” he says, a picture of forced happiness, and lets out a shrill little laugh. “I suppose Ultra Magnus would embrace that, he seems a noble spirit and very…thoughtful, and attentive, like he listens to people’s problems.”

“Yes, my sparkmate and I have that in common.” Starscream nods sagely. “As they say in the annals of organic life in the furthest reaches of the galaxy, spill the beans, girl.”

“What’s a bean?”

“No idea. Organics are funny that way. Out with it.”

He shifts his weight a little. “It’s nothing interesting, you understand,” he admits at last, “it’s only that--well, whenever I see you and Magnus, you just have this rapport, this--immediate understanding, like you were made for each other, and it’s so charming. And I love talking to people! But Hot Rod simply cannot talk back to me! I have absolutely no idea if I’m connecting to him or not. Sometimes, I even get the impression that he doesn’t like me.” He casts a miserable glance at one of his beautiful, half-pearled chandeliers. “And everybody likes me!”

‘I don’t like you,’ Starscream only barely keeps in his mouth.

Thunderclash and his groupies have singlehandedly taken Starscream’s day from awful to unabashedly miserable, and now the big gaudy idiot is vulnerable. This is the perfect moment to twist the knife. There are a lot of ways he could play this--imply that Hot Rod is sleeping with Ultra Magnus right now, maybe? Offer up the idea that maybe everyone is only pretending to like Thunderclash, and they really--

“Give it time,” his mouth says, and his processor stops on its heel, whirls, tries to figure out where the pit that came from. “Hot Rod’s a monk. He’s probably not used to being around other people yet. Solitude can be hard to recover from. Maybe he’s just not ready to connect to anyone, and he doesn’t want to disappoint you.”

What? No! That was good advice, he snaps at himself, we’re supposed to be giving him bad advice.

“Also, you should get an etching of his name over your bumper,” he adds, “I hear grounders love it when you do huge, unprompted, overly-personal grand gestures before the two of you even really know each other yet.”

Thunderclash stares at him--then, he throws his head back and laughs. It’s not exactly uproarious, but it also isn’t that polite little titter he’s been using all day. “Oh, you’re funny,” he says, covering his mouth with scant fingers. “Thank you, Starscream. I shall not give up hope! Besides, I’ve got some things planned, to really connect with him over these next few days. Oh!” He grabs Starscream by the shoulders, just as overly familiar as he always is. “Maybe you could help me practice?”

“Um,” Starscream says.

“I’ve been studying with Rung,” Thunderclash says, and Starscream reels back as the AI appears immediately between them, just underneath Thunderclash’s massive chassis.

“ Hello, Thunderclash,” Rung says, “what a pleasure it is to serve you. Is that a new polish? You look lovely.”

“Thank you, Rung,” Thunderclash says.

Hands folded behind his back, Rung gives the impression of subtly preening.

“Rung has been teaching me about the culture on Caminus, so that Hot Rod and I can engage in some cross-cultural exchange,” Thunderclash continues, apparently unbothered by the small orange admirer standing in his personal space. “It’s been absolutely diverting.”

Diverting, please, like he thinks he can convince people he’s all dignified and refined just by using Ultra Magnus’ word. That’s so sad.

“I’d be honored if you would join me for the tea ceremony,” Thunderclash says. “My understanding is that it’s a noble and delicate art, requiring perfect meditative calm. It’s four hours long.”

“No!” Starscream resets his voice box, which just cracked embarrassingly. “What I mean to say is--I’m very attached to my own culture’s…tea…ceremony. I would really rather not learn another one so… soon. Look. It’s been a long day, what I’d really like to do is stretch my wings. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”

Thunderclash retreats graciously. “Of course not, Starscream,” he says. “Please, feel welcome to any of our launch pads. Do you have a preference for size or altitude? I could show you around the-”

“No, thanks,” Starscream rushes to say, hands up, warding off the whole idea. “I’ll show myself up. You just--you just stay here. Stay. Good.”

Thunderclash watches him with some kind of bemusement as Starscream beats a hasty retreat. There’s an elevator across the atrium, that’ll do. As Starscream steps into the lift, he gets a flash of a glimpse of the two figures remaining under the beaded chandelier. Rung is offering their host an array of tea ores, but Thunderclash is still just watching Starscream. And then the doors slide closed.

Starscream sags against the wall of the lift. He is going to get as far away from that guy and his tea as he can get. Thank god Thunderclash doesn’t have a flight mode.

The roof is wide and gorgeous, underneath the false stars that are just starting to peer down through the violet skies. Two moons are tag teaming their way slowly over the dark cut-out shapes of rolling hills, smooth-worn mountains. There are four launch towers of varying styles, and a runway ending in a balcony for lateral takeoff. Just the feeling of springy mesh under his thrusters calms his spark a bit. Which one to try, which one to try...

Something claps down against his shoulder and Starscream throws himself across the roof with a yelp.

“Whoa,” says a cheerful voice, “you’re gonna scuff your paint there, flyboy.”

The fact that Starscream can feel new abrasions on his knees and palms is not doing anything to make him any less furious. He rolls onto his back, one null ray coming up in an automatic attempt to guard himself, and looks up into the blazing red streak that is Hot Rod.

“Relax,” the monk says, in what sound like the rolling easy tones of a recreational dross-user. His lidded eyes narrow in what could be amusement.  “The look on your face is priceless.”

Remembering the confetti, Starscream reluctantly lowers his weapon.

He’s talking. He’s talking. It’s not unreasonable that someone would keep their voice box despite a vow of silence, he guesses, but somehow when Pharma said the guy didn’t talk, Starscream had assumed that meant he couldn’t.

“Hot Rod,” he greets, warily.

The monk holds up his hands. “Whoa whoa whoa,” he says, “first of all, my name isn’t Hot Rod. It’s Rodimus.”

This conversation is already out of control and they’ve only exchanged two sentences. “You’re not Hot Rod?”

“Well, no. I mean, yes. I mean, I used to be Hot Rod.”

Starscream lifts a brow.

“What! What? People change their names all the time. Mostly like, after coming back from a near death experience or whatever, but you don’t know how many people died of a near death experience and then changed their name anyway!”

“So you died, and then you decided to change your name,” Starscream says, slowly.

“I dunno if I’d call it ‘deciding’,” Rodimus says, hooking his fingers into little claws around the word decide. “That’s just my name. Woke up in Pharma’s office and I knew it was my name. Hot Rod’s out, Rodimus is in, and that’s all there is to it!”

His voice has a slightly distant, faraway quality to it, and drawling accent that Starscream can’t immediately place, but doesn’t seem particularly colonial, let alone Camien. In fact it sounds almost like…

“Little Nyon,” Starscream mutters. “You’re from Little Nyon?”

“Close, but no catch,” Rodimus says. “I’m from big Nyon. The real deal! The Big ‘Still!”

Everything clicks into place like the perfect spin of a forge-fresh t-cog. “You left that note!” Starscream shouts, “It was you!”

"Bingo," Rodimus says, shooting two finger-guns his way. He gives off the distinct impression of grinning even without a mouth.

“Why would you do that?” Starscream snarls. “What do you want? Is this blackmail? You don’t have any evidence!”

“Take it down a gear shift, babe,” Rodimus says, holding up his hands. “I just wanted to talk. You know, shoot the scrap. Chew the rubber.”

“And that’s why you left me a threatening note in my house like some kind of stalker,” Starscream says, through gritted denta.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you for like ever,” Rodimus says mournfully. “Blunderclash won’t let me off his slagging hip for more than a minute, I swear to Nexus Prime, it’s like rooming with a suckerfish.”

He’s had enough of this. Starscream scrambles up, forgetting his paint. “Who told you?”

“You did!” Rodimus says, laughing with delight.

Starscream’s wings arch up high and threatening on his back. “I told you that? I would never have told you that!”

“You told me at the party!”

“At the—at the party?”

“Yeah, you were pretty smashed,” Rodimus says. “It was kind of like…”

~~

“Hey! Hey, nice face, lipless. You kiss your conjunx with that thing? No, don’t worry, I like a guy who can keep a secret. Big mouths are the worst, nothing but talk—a guy with a facemask is just a guy who can’t bite your spike off when you feed it to him, am I right or am I right? Anyway, hot stuff, since I know Solus is never coming back, you might as well know, guess what! I’m not supposed to be here! Go ahead and don’t talk about that to your bird-brain botfriend and his ugly aft paint job! HahahHAHA—Rung? Rung? My glass is empty, Rung!”

~~

Rodimus taps the side of his head with one finger. “It was just like that.”

“Hhhhhh,” Starscream says. He feels like his spark is oozing out through his thrusters. “Maybe I do need good-people-lessons.”

Suddenly the rash of mouthless faceplates from yesterday is slotting right into place with the meteoric pearls and the angry pink snacks. It was him. Not a fluke, not a glitch—just him and his inability to keep it together for one fragging night. Pit slag, what a mess. Starscream and Drunk-Starscream are about to have to have a come to Primus moment.

Rodimus cocks a hip. “I’ll admit it though,” he says. “Was it a dick move? Yes. But was it also pretty funny? Also, yes. What I don’t appreciate is you insinuating to Blunderclash that I don’t belong here.”

Starscream is so disoriented by that comment that he feels almost nauseous, and he’s pretty sure his expression reflects it.

“I mean, I may not be a,” Rodimus twirls a hand, “city speaker monk whatever, but I’m a good person! I’m a pillar of my community! Like—like, just the other day, me and my best buddy knocked over this fuel truck, right? And the first thing we did was pass out cubes to the bots living out on the canal. Okay, so the first thing we did was we bought him some syk, but the second thing we did was we fueled up those disposables down on the canal. You know some of them are living on fifteen percent reserves?”

He looks at Starscream like he expects Starscream to be familiar with the gutter trash in Nyon, somehow. Starscream just stares back at him.

“Anyway, you bet those guys love me down there. They know who’s looking out for them, and it sure ain’t the billionaire ivory tower so called flantropists handing out a couple shanix a year and acting like it makes them some kind of a hero!”

“Philanthropists,” Starscream says.

Rodimus blinks. “What?”

“Phil-an-thro-pist,” Starscream says. He taps his mouth as he enunciates each syllable. “You really don’t run in these circles, do you, Hot Rod?”

“I told you,” Rodimus says, “it’s Rodimus. And I’ll mispronounce as many stupid words as I want. Find a shorter word if you want me to pronounce it right!”

Starscream brushes grit out of his scratched knee armor. “Let’s just cut to the part where you tell me what you really want, Rodimus.” His claws flick over the sore joint.

“I just think we should hang out,” Rodimus says, and slaps Starscream on the wing, which hurts a lot more than the stinging in his knees. “We could ditch this one-wheeled dump truck and have some fun.”

“I doubt it,” Starscream sneers, and before Rodimus can continue, because even without a mouth, Starscream can sense him gearing up to say something else stupid, he asks, “If you’re not a monk, how did you get that face?”

Rodimus pauses and traces a finger down one of the painted red curls near an eye. “You know, I’m not sure. Pharma said I died in a stunt gone wrong showing off to Drift, which, not gonna lie, sounds like me, but I don’t know where the mask fits in to that. Unless we stole it for cash? But I don’t remember that, either.”

“Huh,” Starscream says, because he doesn’t have time to unpack all of that.

“It’s not like I hit my head,” Rodimus continues. “I was trying to backflip off of our apartment building onto my other buddy who turns into a motorcycle, okay? But I didn’t get enough spin, or actually I did but I guess I misjudged the velocity? Cause it got me between the legs, and my spike--”

“Okay!” Starscream all but shouts. “I don’t want to know, and I don’t care.”

“Lame,” Rodimus mutters.

“You’ve distracted me,” Starscream says. “Why should I hang out with you?”

“You distracted yourself,” Rodimus says. Starscream starts to argue, but Rodimus shushes him and brings a hand to his not-a-face. “Check it out,” he says, and presses his splayed fingers to the smooth oval of his faceplate. It disengages with a little click, pulling away to reveal unpainted metal, a nasal ridge, and one wide, grinning mouth. “I’m hiding something too!”

It’s a handsome face, but it doesn’t have any of the curling red lines, or the exotic ceramic smoothness. It’s just a face, a little weathered, a little roguish. In the wideness of the smile, he can see that some of the denta have been cracked and subsequently patched with cement.

“I got the idea to have Rung switch me out of this little freak show when I saw you pulling yours off yesterday,” Rodimus says. “Not having a mouth is weird. And bad. I’ve always had a mouth, I dunno what Pharma was playing at.”

“You can talk,” Starscream says. “And you wanted to talk to me.”

“Well sure,” Rodimus says. “You ‘n me are a lot alike.”

“How, pray tell, am I anything like you?”

Rodimus spins the oval faceplate on the tip of one finger, a sight which would make a more squeamish bot somewhat ill. “‘Cause you’re not who you act like you are,” he says. “And I’m not either.”

Starscream stares at one face, and then at the other.

“And you super hate Thunderclash,” Rodimus adds, tossing the mask and catching it out of the air. “That already makes you the coolest person in this nerd convention.”

“He’s your sparkmate,” Starscream feels compelled to point out.

Rodimus sticks out his tongue. “Yeah,” he says, “and he’s a big dumb buzz kill. Pharma said he was supposed to be, like, my ultimate best friend. Well, I’ve already got a best friend, and his name is Drift, and he’s awesome. Me ‘n Drift used to go racing down in the canals and make big cash, and then we’d party for days. Thunderclash just goes on and on about how many famous people he’s met and then talks down to me, like I’m a newbuild fresh out of the Light House or something.”

“He talked about Transluscentia Heights for an entire block,” Starscream says, flexing his fingers as if he could strangle the mech in question right now. “Just in case anyone didn’t know he was alt-mode exempt, like anyone gives a flying frag in a flaming cockpit.”

“Ugh, he was talking about the benefit gala again?”

“He was!” Starscream shouts, stomping a pede. “Maybe at his next upgrade he can trade in that abominable paint job for a personality!”

“You’re mean,” Rodimus says, with undisguised delight. “Talk more about how much you hate rich people and Thunderclash’s paint job.”

Hmm.

Starscream pauses and considers the bizarre and unlikely mech which stands before him now. Fast and bright and reckless, and pretty, of course. Definitely someone who could  benefit from good, strong influence from someone slyer and wiser.

He’s like a really stupid Skywarp, he thinks. He smiles.

“You know what,” he says. “I guess I could stick around a little longer.” 

Chapter Text

The Tetrahex Opera House is a pinnacle to the industry of architecture, a thing of gold in the evening and red in the sunsets. Banners stream from every turret, light glimmers on every piece of stained transmetal artistry. It stands righteous among the older buildings surrounding it, a new and glorious silhouette against the horizon of progress. Ponte’s operatic adaptation of Omega Prime, glorious in its sets and backdrops and mysteriously missing any of the original text about the dangers of authoritarian dictatorships or the primacy, premieres there tonight, boxes stuffed with senators and the floor deeply painted with frames dictating money and prestige.

A student at Nova Point Academy could never hope to attend. That’s what the Iacon Opera House is for.

The Iacon Opera House is mostly made of granite. It’s two stories high, lit dimly with glowrods, and after only two hundred years of activity, is basically in pieces. There’s a part of the roof that just has a big hole in it, and instead of doing necessary repairs, somebody has thoughtfully covered it with a tarp. Starscream picks through the crowds, nervously covering his subspace in case anyone asks him what’s inside, elbowing and winging his way past drunkards and buymechs alike. Somebody hits their head on a rafter. By the bar, a waiter drops a huge tray of glasses, and the subsequent laughter drowns out the sound of tambolins tuning up.

“I can’t believe you got tickets,” Skyfire says, ducking through a low-slung doorway, “I thought Ponte was crazy famous.”

Ponte is famous, that much is true. The Trials of the Pyramids is well into its forty-fifth season, running nonstop in the dilapidated old building, performing to packed crowds week after week. As soon as tickets go on sale anywhere, they sell out right away. It’s probably good it premiered before the construction of the Tetrahex Opera—there are a few too many jokes about interfacing and malfunctioning FIM chips to play well to that audience.

Starscream waves a cavalier hand, trying not to literally start preening under the attention. “Don’t get too excited,” he says, “we’re sitting in the lugnut gallery.”

“Oh,” Skyfire says, “is that bad?”

“It’s not good,” he replies. “Haven’t you ever been to a show before?”

Skyfire shakes his head, crouching to shuffle under a series of hanging lights. “The academy’s always been really strict about extracurricular stuff,” he admits, “especially the arts. Plus, the scholarship allowances were so tiny you could barely pay rent with them. I didn’t have the time to juggle a job with my courseload, so I mostly just…stayed in before I met you.”

Starscream hums sympathetically, peering down at the tickets for their seat numbers. “Speaking of academy money, how goes the quest to get funding for that pet project of yours?”

“It’s not a pet project,” he grouses, “no one on the board has any appreciation for the benefits that organic lifeforms could offer us!”

“Benefits like…?”

“Like being really cool,” he sulks, “and being interesting to study, and I want to hold one really bad.”

“Wow, real scientific there.”

Skyfire perks up. “You know, I might have a more compelling argument to bring the board if I had a team,” he says, shuffling and scootching his way between the thin aisles to his seat. “I could use—oh, excuse me—I could use a chemist on—“

“—Absolutely not,” Starscream interrupts, and Skyfire’s wings droop pathetically, “there’s no amount of respect and love I can have for you that’ll change how disgusting organics are, and how much I—unlike you, you freak—do not want to touch them.”

“Well, I’m just letting you know you’d be welcome if you change your mind,” he says, and drops awkwardly into his seat.

At the Tetrahex Opera House, they say the chairs are cushioned, draped in rubyfibre mesh and ornamented in gold. At requests of mechs with larger frames—though there are very few unusually sized mechs who can afford a seat there—the seats can be folded or rebuilt to take up more space, making sure every patron of the fine arts is comfortable and secure. The Iacon Opera house avoids this delicate, expensive problem by furnishing, more simply, with benches. Seats are as big as you’re willing to pay for, since they’re priced in yardage, and (as in every theater in the universe) price per yard is lower the further back you go. As a side-effect, the lugnut gallery is usually thick with enormous drill bits and tanks, while the little USBs cram together, packed tighter than sliders on a soundboard near the front. It’s an impoverished minibot indeed who takes to the back.

And an unlucky one. Starscream’s pretty average in size—the seeker frame is as middle-of-the-ground as it gets for fliers—and he’s straining to see over the heads in front of him.

“You know, if you want the board to take you seriously, you might want to avoid the nepotism issue altogether,” Starscream says, leaning one way and then the other, trying to find a visual window to the stage. “Try offering the gig to someone competent, not just your hottest friend. With someone like me, they’d just assume it was some romantic tryst.” He fluffs his plating meaningfully, bats his optics. Skyfire just laughs.

“Starscream, you are the most competent researchdonor in the chemistry department,” he says, “why do you think I approached you in the first place?”

Starscream’s biolights flicker. His plating, puffed up, flattens and flutters uncertainly. “What?”

“I wanted to hire you,” he continues, “form a professional connection! It wasn’t until we started talking that we became friends.”

His biolights commit, and they flare up intensely in excitement and surprise. He nervously covers the ones on his arms. There’s a smile trying to force its way onto his face, but he wouldn’t be him if he wasn’t suspicious that this is all a trick, somehow. “But I’m a seeker,” he mutters, gaze scratching at the rows of shoving and shushing people all around him. It’s his territory. Not exactly the place you go hunting for academics and intellectuals in.

“Who cares about that? So you’re a flier, like me. Does that mean I can’t succeed? Can’t lead my team?”

“What? No! That’s not at all what I—“

“Okay, so shut up about it already,” Skyfire interrupts, and elbows Starscream in the side. “You got that scholarship for a reason, Star. Quit doubting yourself. And quit doubting me! It’s rude. And it makes it way harder to…hire you…?”

Starscream laughs, embarrassed, and prods Skyfire back. He wants to blow his turbines and see if he can break the sound barrier. “Organics are still gross,” he protests, “look, let’s… talk about this later, alright? No more work.”

“So what should we talk about? They’re still tuning up.”

“We don’t need to talk at all,” Starscream purrs, and pulls two enormous bottles of engex out of his subspace. Skyfire’s optics blow wide, beaming bright in the dark.

“You smuggled those in?”

“I always smuggle stuff in,” he replies, matter-of-factly, spark swelling with pride as Skyfire hides his mouth behind a hand to giggle, “they price-gouge like crazy here! And trust me, you’re not supposed to watch Ponte’s early stuff sober. You’ll get all hung-up on the interface comedy and whether or not everyone thinks you’re a pervert for laughing at it.”

Skyfire stops laughing. “Interface comedy?”

“There is always interface comedy,” he says, starting to crank open one of the bottles. “Especially with older works, and especially in act one. Once everybody’s drunk, they can start doing the somber stuff—but it’s a comedy, you know, it’s all a comedy, it’s no problem.”

Skyfire smiles, but he’s chewing his lip, and Starscream curses internally. Of course, he always forgets Skyfire doesn’t like all that bawdy stuff—it’s not like he’s a prude, okay, he doesn’t mind interface talk, but he’s said the jokes always make him feel embarrassed, because he never quite gets them.

In the two years that Starscream’s known him, Skyfire has never once mentioned having a partner, or a one-night stand, or a crush, or anything. If he has a night life, he doesn’t talk about it.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Starscream says after a moment, “you like drinking, yeah?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“This whole thing is for you,” Starscream insists, and pushes the bottle into his hands. “I want to see that thing gone by intermission! No ifs, no ands, no buts!”

“I can’t drink this all by myself,” Skyfire manages, incredulous. The bottle’s almost the size of his forearm. Starscream actually had to clear out some hardware to make it fit. It’s all back at the apartment, ready to be re-installed, of course.

“You can, and you will! That’s the Ponte viewing experience, babe. I can’t help you, I’ve got my own to tear through.” The sound of bots tuning themselves slows to a halt, and onto the stage walks the maestro, a poor-looking mech in an ill-fitted wingframe. There’s a smattering of applause, which he barely acknowledges. Starscream elbows Skyfire just under the cockpit. “Every time someone sings the same note four times when once would do, take a drink!”

“I don’t know enough about music to know when that is,” Skyfire says, looking panicked as the lights dim.

“No problem! Just follow my lead!”

He looks like he’s going to argue further, but the maestro raises his arms above his head, draws his arm back in prep, and slams the orchestra into action, hand striking at the invisible ictus as the music bursts to life, fitting itself to his hands like soft protoalloy in a metallurgist’s careful grip.

The first chords swell, slow and majestic, leisurely in their regal presence, before the first melody snaps through the valleys of their rolling hills, sharp and fast and desperately alive. It rushes up, unusual chords and trilling grace notes, stringfomers bowing up and down their own bodies like they were on fire. The brass heaves—the strings cry—the music runs past them, escapes the fingers of its creators and the audials of its listeners, blooming, exploding into a crescendo that burns through his spark like lighting, like ecstasy, and leaves them all behind. It’s wonderful. It’s too much. It’s just enough.

Starscream’s heard the overture before—he bummed a clip of the first performance’s recording off the little orange guy who lives across the street, turns into a bike or a wheelbarrow or something. It always sounded a little rough—they say the first performance had to be like that because Ponte was still writing the overture an hour before the premiere, and every instrumentalist had to sightread it at their seats. It’s different, now, forty-whatever seasons in. The orchestra follows the arms of her conductor, entranced, memorized in a flight done a thousand, a hundred thousand times before. Every beat, every rest, every sink of music as teasing melodies fall into each other, each one just touching his spark and promising more and better to come, later and longer in the evening—they twist around inside of him and he aches to leap to his pedes, to be a part of them. The slow and wailing plea of a protector with his prime stolen away—the imperial march of the beastpharaoh revealing his noble intentions—the light and clever tune of a maybe-organic-maybe-mundane mech with a magic bottle of engex and a song always on his lips—and among it all, the leitmotif of the hero, a nobody, nothing but a man with no prospects or pay but the cloak around his shoulders and the sword the gods give him, a mech from the poorest of alleys—

It’s no wonder this opera doesn’t play well to the supremacy of the functionalists, to its rich and reserved, who are born into their good fortune—who dislike the idea of a pauper, earning his place among them—

It’s no wonder it continues to play, season after season, in the chipping concrete walls of the Iacon Opera House.

The orchestra saws on, but the volume sinks just out of the way as the patchwork curtains lift, exposing a gloriously colored stage, little fake jewelgrowths dotting the landscape in front of a gorgeous mountainside set. No one in the audience has probably ever seen mountains—Starscream supposes they could look like anything—but there’s something about the underwater-glitter of the lights fading in and out in waves. What the production team lacks in money, they make up for in artistry and dedication. There aren’t many art jobs out there—the opera house can pay whatever it wants, and get the best.

Over the low, intense pulse of the instruments, the hero bursts from the backstage, sprinting away from a pursuing predacon, and launches into a diatribe about his plight. Starscream smiles. Tamino always was a protagonist after his own spark—anyone introduced in the midst of cowardice has him convinced. With a powerful tenor, he begs the audience to help him—“Or else I shall perish!”

Then, after a beat or two, he repeats “Oh help me, or else I shall perish!” And that’s the Ponte Starscream knows. Primus forbid anybody ever say anything just once.

He elbows Skyfire. “That’s twice! Drink!”

“What?”

“Drink!”

“Oh!”

 By intermission, Skyfire is gone. Starscream implores him to engage his FIM chip, but he keeps putting his head on Starscream’s wing and giggling and it’s sweet, okay, he didn’t want to admit it but it’s kind of a relief that even someone as overworked as—well, as any grantfund student—can take a break and forget about work. But also, he could use some coolant to wash all that engex down with.

Starscream isn’t the worst friend in the world. He doesn’t want Skyfire waking up tomorrow feeling, like, big fucked up in his lecture halls, and, whatever. He manages to detangle himself from the grasping arms of a wasted carrier-jet and shuffle down a couple seats. “I’m getting you coolant,” he calls, “you want anything else?”

“Do they have lugnuts?”

“I dunno. I’ll check.”

With a series of shoves and well-placed shoulders, Starscream starts making his way into the lobby to the always-bustling refreshments bar—the only part of the whole building that seems kept up. He pushes past another seeker with a blue paintjob, cute red accents, who’s telling his companion something about how “Ponte’s overrated. Did you hear he’s writing for the senators now? Yesterday’s news—I never thought he was that good, anyway—“, and starts flagging the bartender down.

“Hey, two coolants,” he hollers over the wash of the crowd, “you guys got lugnuts here?”

The bartender tells him he’ll check, that they might be out already, but they’ve definitely got coolant and he’ll get that for you sir—a title he only hears when he’s got shanix visibly clenched in his hand—and then he finds himself comfortably alone, leaning against the bar in the crush of people. Quietly, he hums the protector’s theme to himself, a long and convoluted string of notes that only the truest of performers can do in time. They’ve got a good high-frequency spinto playing him, strong voice—‘you, you, you! Shall boldly go forth to save him! You shall restore that mech of mine’—commitment to the character, of course, the color of his optics flickered and cycled as he wailed through the grieving recitative…he’s no Bocal, of course, but Bocal found work in Tetrahex and hasn’t been seen by anyone save the superrich since. So the spinto will have to do.

There’s a raucous chorus of drunks across the way blasting their way through some of the catchier tunes of the evening, and they burst into the first comedy number—each mech in his own key, of course—and Starscream smiles and changes in the protector for the featherpet. His pede taps against the ground.

‘In all the world there could ne’er be
a more contented mech than me!
I make my trade with—‘

“Starscream?”

He blinks, shakes himself out of the reverie, and turns to see another seeker—smaller than him, silhouette tucked in oddly around the edges. Slightly misshapen. There’s something familiar about him—

“Stripseeker?” he asks, squinting.

Stripseeker shifts uncomfortably from one pede to the other. “It’s Slipstream now,” he says, and his voice is higher, more mellifluous, maybe. Strange.

“Slipstream, right. Primus, it’s—I didn’t recognize you. Been a while.”

He crosses his arms. “I’ve been working off-planet for a while. The pay’s good.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Isn’t everything?”

Starscream shrugs, looks away. He used to work with Strip—Slipstream, down in the barracks. They never talked that much. He wasn’t being dramatic—it’s been a long time.

After a moment, Slipstream reboots his vocalizer. “Skywarp says you’re doing the University thing now,” he says, and there’s something odd about the way he says it, something that sets Starscream’s wires humming with discomfort, “isn’t that awfully expensive?”

“Not as expensive as re-framing. Why did you—I mean,” he says, “I mean—it’s not that it’s bad. But you had a pretty good one before, no bubbles or anything.”

Slipstream stares at him, looks away over the bar. “That’s not me anymore,” he says, “I’m not…you see stuff off-planet, there’s…I’m a she-her now.”

“A what?”

“Like…one of the femmes,” she (her?) says, “like the…like that gladiator, Arcee, the one with the pink scheme.”

“The sociopath?”

Slipstream sniffs. “We prefer to think of her as a…single-minded activist,” she says. “She’s the reason most of us figure we can do it at all.”

“Oh,” he says, frowning. It’s not like he’s dumb, he knows femmes come from somewhere. It just kind of…he never really realized that femmes were someone before they were femmes. He’s never known a femme before. “So, you’re, uh…you staying on Cybertron long?”

“I quit the drilling job,” she says, “I was only doing that stuff so I could get my reframing done. Like you said, it’s not cheap—especially the voice processor stuff—and risky work’s the only kind that pays. But I didn’t want to keep it once I was done, and Skywarp told me he had a job I could take, so…” She shrugs. “It’s just nice to be home.”

The bartender returns, two coolants in his hand and an embarrassingly greased-up minipack of lugnuts that look like they passed their rust-out date thirty cycles ago. Starscream grimaces and pays extra for the tip.

“You here with one of your friends from school?” Slipstream asks, eyeing the two canisters. Starscream glances at her.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, “one of the grantfunds in my program. He’s nice.”

‘Oh, should I find a handsome mech
Whose oil could fill my homely nest,
Then could I find, by—‘

“He doesn’t get it, does he?” she says. She doesn’t sound like she’s asking. Her optics are focused on the group of miners who are joyfully cackling their way through the verse about exactly where Papageno’s future Conjunx might deign to put his spike. “The opera. A grantfund’s probably a little too educated for this stuff, right?” Starscream stares at her.

“What are you talking about?”

Her optics dim—brighten—shutter. Like she’s practicing using them. Maybe they’re a new set. “Skywarp has a couple jobs,” she says distantly, “you know, for seekers. One of his friends is looking to hire. It’s not bad work. It’s better than drilling. I can give you the frequency if you think you’d need it.”

“Thanks, I’d rather find work in my field,” he says, feeling bitter. He can taste his optics in the back of his mouth. Professional connection, he’s here as a professional connection.

Slipstream snorts. “Your field?”

“Chemistry,” he says, “I’m studying at Nova Point. That’s good work. Field opportunity. Upwards mobility.”

‘In all the world there could ne’er be
A more contented—‘

“You think you’re so much better than us, don’t you?”

“I don’t think anything,” Starscream says, “I’m just not going to waste my time in some dive bar when I have an opportunity for a real career. Don’t you ever get tired of just being a seeker?”

“I am a seeker,” she says, “and I’m proud of it. Seekers stick together! You were supposed to stick with us.”

“I didn’t ask for that!” he snaps. “Face it, I don’t have anything in common with any of the rest of you! We worked together on a job. That’s it. I’m not friends with you just because we got pumped out of the same mold—that you don’t even want, apparently—and got hosed down in the same washracks for a few cycles. It’s my turn to have my own life, and I don’t want anything to do with what I had back then.”

“You mean anything to do with us,” she says, “you’ve got a scholarship and a university position and a new friend and suddenly, you don’t need us anymore!”

“No,” he says, crossing his arms over his chassis, “I don’t. And you don’t need each other, either. You don’t have to be tied down to ‘sticking together’. You could do whatever you wanted.”

He knows it’s a losing fight. He’s had it with Skywarp before.

“Whatever I wanted,” she says, sneering, “I could go to university, just like you, and spend—what, four, five cycles convincing myself that a degree would get me a real job and a real career and opportunities? Face it, Starscream, you’re deluding yourself. You’re there for diversity so they can pat themselves on the back for having a seeker on the campus, and that’s it. They’re never going to give you a real assignment.”

Starscream stares her down, fury roaring in his processor, systems running hot. Two cans of coolant hang in his hands. As it happens, he wants to say, I just turned down a job offer, I’m drowning in them. He wants to sneer and strut and tell her that actually, Skyfire and I are working to get a grant for a project right now. It would be so easy to mention that it’s off-world, dangerous, pushing-the-envelope kind of stuff, it would be so easy to pretend they’re here celebrating right now.

What is he doing? Showing off to some femmeseeker who apparently hates him anyway? Trying to prove himself?

“Maybe they won’t,” he says, “they definitely won’t if I don’t try. Bye, Slipstream. It wasn’t particularly pleasant.”

He turns, and starts to elbow his way back through the crowd.

“Starscream, wait,” Slipstream says, and when he turns, she’s stumbled a few meters after him, “I didn’t mean it like that, it’s—of course you’re capable, but only other seekers are ever going to see it. We just don’t want you to get hurt. We’re worried.”

“You don’t need to waste the energy,” he says, “I’m fine on my own.”

Skyfire accepts the coolant gratefully. “You got lugnuts!”

“Careful with them. I’m not sure they’re actually any good anymore,” Starscream says as he wriggles his way back into his seat. “The bartender found them at the back of a cabinet, so, you know, give them a sniff first.”

“Is that what took so long?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Starscream shifts in his seat. “Plus, you know, there’s the line—hey, uh, what do you know about pronouns?”

“Pronouns?”

“Yeah, you know that linguistics history stuff better than me. Do you know where the, uh, the she-her pronoun came from?”

“I think it was the root stem from Solus Prime,” he says, chewing his lip like he always does when he’s thinking hard, “yeah, it’s—it’s one of the thirteen Prime sets. It’s like, ‘Primary: I/you/she-her, Secondary: [blacksmith]/[forger]’. Pretty florid iconography, but old Cybex usually is. Associated with building and forging, either objects or life. Of course, it switched over to ‘Primary: I/you/he-him, Secondary: [citizen]’ during the early revolutions, like all the rest of the archaic sets. Nobody uses it anymore.”

Starscream frowns. “I think I heard femmebots are…reclaiming it,” he says, after a moment.

“I guess that would make sense.” Skyfire shoots him a sideways glance. “Everything okay?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine.” Starscream peers over the heads of the slowly-reforming crowd, thinner (as usual) for the second act, now that the truly overcharged have been dragged out by their friends. Too bad. For them, anyway. Starscream’s going to appreciate having a clear view to the stage for the best aria of the performance, still yet to come.

“Because you know if something wasn’t okay, you could—“

“Sky, I appreciate it, but seriously,” Starscream says, “I promise I’m fine. It’s just seeker stuff, it’s like…it’s weird coming back here. That’s all. Lots of people I used to know. It makes me feel like I’m not supposed to be here.”

“You’re moving on,” Skyfire says, “that’s part of self-improvement. Moving on, moving up.”

“With you.”

“Yeah,” Skyfire says, smiling, “with me.”

There’s a smattering of applause from the front of the house, and Starscream sees the curtains shift and bend as the maestro returns to the front of the orchestra. The few lights that still work in the house dim.

“Skyfire,” Starscream says, “that grant you’re trying to get. It’s for…”

“Off-world exploration of systems which have traditionally beamed back signals of organic life,” he rattles off automatically, “with a focus on soil samples and atmospheric conditions.”

“Right. And you would need a chemist to…”

“Take measurements on the makeup of said samples and how they differentiate from the cyberforming on mechanic lifeform-supporting planets, like Cybertron and Caminus.”

“And I’m… I mean, of the chemistry department, my grades are the best,” he says, shifting closer as the maestro taps his baton against his music stand demonstratively, “I mean, your work would be better with my analytical techniques. And it would help me move into the grantfund program, so I could get paid for my own research for once.”

“Are you asking—“

“You’re the one who asked,” Starscream interrupts, biolights flaring, “I’m just saying yes. Okay? Yes, I will go on your dumb expedition. I’ll be your chemist. You’d be lucky to have me.”

When he looks up, Skyfire is beaming, optics fully flared and flooding him in light. His mouth is split in a wide grin, denta on display. “And you’ll help me petition?”

The first note of the orchestra strikes.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Starscream whispers, “okay? After Act Two.”

And if he thrills when Skyfire wraps a huge arm around his waist and squeezes him close, he doesn’t say anything about it. And if Skyfire is startled when Starscream crawls up into his lap (“for a better view! There’s too many tall bots here!”), he doesn’t say a word about it, either.

They watch the show, and don’t say anything else to each other at all.

Chapter Text

“Come on in,” Rodimus says, knocking the door open with an easy hand, “this is the Rod Pod. ”

As far as Starscream can tell, the ‘Rod Pod’ is mostly Rodimus’ best efforts to recreate the entirety of the slums of Nyon in a space only barely large enough for the two of them to stand comfortably in. Garbage--mostly wrappers from energon candies and rust sticks--carpets the floor so thickly that Starscream couldn’t hope to guess at the color. The video game paused on the vid screen plays an annoying, high pitched jingle, and the walls are plastered in posters, including several for various races Blurr was in, and several more for various softcore photo shoots that Blurr had also been in. The only available seating option is a massive stuffed bean bag that, even if Rodimus hadn’t just dropped down in it with a satisfied noise, Starscream would never sit in. He likes having a spinal strut in one piece, thank you very much.

Rodimus tilts his head back to look at Starscream and beams. “What do you think?”

Starscream opens his mouth to say whatever nasty thing first popped into his head, then thinks of Ultra Magnus’ angry and disappointed stare and snaps it shut again. “It’s very Nyon,” he says finally.

“Bomb,” says Rodimus. “Wanna frag?”

“Excuse me?” Starscream says.

“Oh, sorry,” Rodimus says, and resets his voice box like pronunciation was the issue, “I said, you wanna frag?”

Starscream raises an eyebrow and gives him a once over. He is annoyingly handsome. “If by frag,” he says, “you mean I suck your spike, then sure.”

Rodimus rolls over in the bean bag, eyes lighting up. “You wanna ‘face-number? I’ll eat your valve, I’m real good.”

Something ugly curdles in Starscream’s tanks, and he wrinkles his nose. “I only do valve stuff for cash.”

With a lazy shrug, Rodimus rolls back. “There’s no money here, man. Guess that rules that out.”

Just like that. Starscream resets his optics.

Rodimus roots around in the garbage and pulls out a half eaten pack of rust sticks with a small, triumphant noise. Starscream eyes the place where, hanging on the back wall completely without irony, a banner reads “I SPARK NYON” with a little graphic rendering of the iconic canal system as seen from above. It’s the tackiest thing Starscream has ever seen.  

“So what’s the deal with Rung?” Rodimus says around a candy. “Is he like, Pharma’s conjunx?”

Starscream whips around to stare at him. “What?” he says. “No he’s not Pharma’s conjunx, what are you talking about?”

“Oh tight, he’s single?”

“What? No!” Starscream gestures fervently at nothing useful. “He’s a drone! Are you high?”

Rodimus scrunches up his newly expressive faceplate. “I wish I was high,” he says. “You know who’s always got Dross? Rung. Every time I ask him about it he’s like ‘here you go buddy!’ and he just gives it to me. He’s great.”

“That’s because he’s specifically conjuring it for you! Because he’s a—he’s a part of—an artificial—because he’s a drone!”

“Yeah, he’s magic or whatever and it’s hot as frag,” Rodimus says, and frowns. “Hey, you know what I’ve noticed? Why can’t we say frag? I mean, frag. You know I mean frag and not frag, right?”

“There’s no cursing here, it’s the good place,” Starscream says, rubbing his temples. “Look, can we focus up? You can’t frag Rung. You have to frag Thunderclash. He’s your sparkmate.”

“Ugh, ” Rodimus says, slumping backwards over the beanbag like so much mesh over a chair, “I’m telling you, Thunderclash is not my sparkmate! He’s boring, and I hate him!”

“Okay, Magnus is boring too, ” Starscream snaps, feeling a little peeved off, “but he’s my sparkmate anyway . Sure, we don’t get on with them now, but we have to make the best of it.”

“How d’you figure?”

“How else did we get here?” Starscream jerks his shoulder in an aggressive shrug. “Our proximity dragged us with them. Magnus is my sparkmate, but he’s good and I’m not, so… I’m part of his paradise. It’s the same for you and Thunderclash--kinda weird, I figured he was the interloper--”

“Oh, you mean Magnus like the blue dude,” Rodimus says, only now getting on the same page, “the big guy! How hard have you been working him? He is, like, so into you.”

What?

“What?” Starscream says, something scraping inside his tank, “how do you--did he tell you that?”

“Well, I mean, he’s like, mad at you, I think,” Rodimus says casually, “but, you know, like, obsessed. He knows, right? Or at least, you know that he knows, right? ‘Cause he knows.”

“Rodimus, if you’re fragging with me--”

“Hand over spark!” Rodimus slaps his own chest. “We had this stupid friend-date thing set up, right? Thunderclash made me go over there and bother him for, like, hours. So I sat in the corner, pretending to be meditating--which is what I always do when Blundercrash is talking too much, by the way, it’s a great way to sneak in a nap--and he was literally, the whole time, he was like, ‘blah blah blah, I owe him a second chance, blah blah blah, I can’t tell Pharma because whatever or something, he can’t have been lying about everything, something, something, and then he asked me what I thought about you and--I did you proud, okay?” Rodimus grins winningly. “I gave him one of these.”

Starscream stares dismally down at Rodimus’ outstretched thumbs-ups. “Was he receptive?”

“How should I know? He kept talking for, like, a thousand hours. Or something.” He shrugs. “I just went into recharge after like twenty minutes. Pain in the aft. Did you know he used to be a lawyer?”

“Unfortunately,” Starscream mutters with a snort. “Did you know he wants to teach me about the law? Teach me how to be a good person?”

“Ugh, gross, ” Rodimus replies. “We’re already good people! The best people! You wanna rip some dross with me? I can get some. Rung’s, like, super cool. Is he single?”

“We just talked about this,” Starscream says.

He and Rodimus do have a lot in common, actually, if by a lot of things you mean one thing. Magnus is planning on ratting him out, right? This might be his last night in the good place. He’s spent a lot of ‘last night alive’ parties blasted and wet on compounds harder than dross or engex, and Rodimus really isn’t that bad looking.

So what if he feels...what’s that word. It’s like...that feeling when you do something bad, and then later, you feel bad about it. What’s the word? There’s definitely a word for that.

He’s feeling that.

“I think I have to...go,” he says, feeling fuzzy, “I...Magnus said he’d--I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to--”

“You guys are so cute,” Rodimus says, “are y’all already clankin’?”

“What?” Starscream stares Rodimus down, his processor already whirling away elsewhere. “No, we’re not--and that’s none of your business if we are, anyway.”

“Tetchy.”

“I’m not tetchy,” Starscream says, tetchily. “I’m leaving. That’s what I am. Leaving.” He can retrace his steps back to the apartment. That’s where this whole slagging day started. “I’ll--I’ll come up with some excuse to see you tomorrow. We’ll figure out what to do then.”

He turns on his heel and gets the door back open. As he closes it, he can hear the muffled sound of Rodimus going “So no head?” and then laughing hysterically to himself. He doesn’t get it. Nyonite humor, probably.

The apartment is empty. In retrospect he shouldn’t be surprised by this, because Magnus hardly ever seems to be at home. Nonetheless, Starscream stands in the doorway of the apartment he just broke into-- firmly let himself into, he mentally corrects--and feels a sandstorm of anxiety grinding through his tanks. It’s getting late, and Magnus really struck him as the early-to-bed-early-to-rise type.

“Rung,” Starscream calls.

Rung appears at his elbow with a bright little chime. “Hello,” he says.

“Find Magnus for me, I need to talk to him about something.” There’s a ‘pad out on the table inside the dark apartment. Starscream picks it up and taps it, opening up the page where Magnus left off.

“I cannot share the current whereabouts of any resident,” Rung replies. “That information constitutes a breach of privacy.”

Starscream turns and glares at him. “What?” he says. “I’m not going to assassinate the guy, I just want to talk.”

“Regardless,” Rung says. “I cannot share the current whereabouts of any resident.”

“What possible reason could there be for a rule like that!”

Rung tilts his head slightly. “That is an interesting question,” he says. “It is, of course, beyond the scope of my awareness.”

“Why is everything so difficult here!” Starscream says, stamping his pede. “Every time I try to accomplish a simple task I feel like I’m back on Cybertron trying to cancel a subscription package!”

“If I’ve inconvenienced you, I am sorry,” Rung says, without any particular tone. “I can tell you the location of his home residence if you want.”

“I already know where he lives!” Starscream shouts, “I’m in his fragging house!”

The ‘pad hits Rung square in the chest before Starscream even realizes he’s flung it. The glass makes a sad popping sound and goes dark as it bounces off Rung and falls to the floor. Rung, belatedly, looks down.

“It seems that you’ve broken this datapad,” Rung says. “Would you like me to provide a replacement?”

“Aaaa ughhh!” Starscream shouts, flexing and clenching his fists in impotent rage as his fans whirl desperately in his chassis.

For a moment, Rung does nothing. And then Rung picks up the ‘pad, taps it once, and restores the screen to a single smooth pane of uncracked glass.

“Here,” he says, almost gently, holding it out with both hands. Starscream stares at him for a long moment, fans clacking, heat bellowing out of his armor. “In-vent through your dorsal intake for a three count. Let your fans push the excess back out.”

Starscream obeys before he can remember to ignore Rung on principle. The fresh air in his tanks makes him feel both uncomfortably full and also less overwhelmed with heat exchange errors. Once his system has calmed down enough for his processor to reassert itself, he snatches the ‘pad out of Rung’s hands and clutches it against his chassis suspiciously. The page on the screen is still the same as Magnus left it, when he pauses to peek down at it. Lectian Moral Deserts: Do We Get What We Deserve?

He tucks it back flush against his chest. Okay, no harm no foul. He’s fine. He does not have to start his new ethical lifestyle with the breaking, hiding, and lying-about of Magnus’s possessions. It’s all fine.

“Thanks,” Starscream says, warily.

“Of course,” Rung says, perfectly gracious. He steps back and falls into patient attention, waiting for his next order. Not for the first time, it strikes Starscream that he’s being sort of a gearstick to something that couldn’t fight back if it wanted to. Maybe Rung doesn’t know the difference. He’s not a real person, so why should he? And yet, there’s something about this moment--this conversation--that feels to Starscream like looking at his own memories from the wrong end. His tanks turn a little queasily, as he tries to find something to say that will paper over this uncomfortable moment.

“You can, um,” he says, “you can go. Now.”

Rung disappears with a pleasant chime.

Moral Deserts, Magnus’s datapad asks him: Do We Get What We Deserve?

He thinks of Magnus again, crunched down in his undersized apartment, tapping through his books of morality as the big empty chasm of eternity yawns open in front of him. Magnus, stumped and delighted by the mere concept of a plate with a smaller plate for your cup. Did Magnus get what he deserved?

A truly good person would turn themselves in right now. They’d walk up to Pharma’s desk, hold out their wrists, and allow the wheels of ineffable justice to exchange them out for someone who might stand a chance of making Ultra Magnus happy. Well, Starscream isn’t a good person. He’s not going to throw himself on anyone’s mercy.

Starscream sets the ‘pad down on the table, turns off the light, and closes the door behind him.

The cafe should still be open for a while. He’ll start there.

The ambiance is different than it was in the dusty, sunny afternoon of yesterday. No longer is there a pale, sunlit rosy tint to the air--in the dark of the evening, the cafe looks more like an inexplicably gorgeous version of a hundred-thousand bars Starscream was never quite polished enough to get into on his own. It’s dim with the pale, pervasive blue of burning mercury in neon-safe glass, running in attractive circles around the perimeter, while each little booth has its own yellow-white bulbs built into the wall to better illuminate the table. It’s quiet of both hustle and bustle, the clinking of glassware replaced by a few hushed conversations in dark corners.

And, at the same table as their lunch date, Magnus’ slightly-too-big frame, curled over itself. He’s got a cup in one hand and--yes--a saucer in the other. With a strange swell of glee, Starscream realizes there’s three more of them sitting, stacked, in front of him on the table.

Belatedly, he catches a smile on his face, and straightens it out. Okay. Penitent, right. Penitent, with just the right hint of namedropping, humblebragging, and a gentle overtone of ‘I told you so’ about his overall goodness. But not in, like, a smug way. Just a--a sort of--okay. Alright. Showtime.

“Hey,” Starscream says, sliding into the seat across from him, “thanks for agreeing to meet me here.”

Magnus eyes him suspiciously. He sets his saucer down. “I didn’t,” he says. “You just sat down and started talking.”

“Whatever, I don’t have time for a history lesson,” he says, waving a cavalier hand. “So, I spent all day doing... selfless charity work-”

“Say that again,” Magnus interrupts, “and this time, tell me the truth.” He takes a sip of coolant. Starscream’s wings droop.

“Pharma asked me to do it, and I was scared of what would happen if I said ‘no’,” he admits, face scrunching up. Primus, telling the truth feels awful.

Magnus stares contemplatively at him over his coolant. There’s something inscrutable in his gaze. If he’d ever forgotten the big guy used to be a lawyer back on Cybertron, the realization that he’s been openly emotional on his own terms might have been a crueler awakening. “And what did you think would happen then?” Magnus asks after a long moment. Starscream has the awful feeling he’s being cross-examined.

“I didn’t exactly leave on the best terms,” he mutters, and sinks lower in his seat, “just kinda figured you’d rat me out and be done with it.”

There’s a clattering of dishes not-quite being dropped, and a couple of bots rush to help pick up a spilled tray on the other side of the bar. Distantly, Starscream can hear the waiter apologizing and thanking them in words he can’t quite make out, but a tone altogether too familiar to him.

“As a matter of fact, Pharma did come to speak to me,” Magnus admits after a long moment. “We had a long conversation. You didn’t come up.”

Starscream startles. “Really? Why?”

“Contrary to your beliefs, there are other topics of discussion,” he says, sounding a little chilly. “He wanted me to pursue a “hobby” of some sort. I was too distracted to put much thought towards you.”

“Right, until your date with Hot Rod,” Starscream says, “and of course, you couldn’t talk to him about any of this.”

A flash of guilt passes over Magnus’ face, which he takes as a small victory. “Regardless,” he concedes, “Pharma asked you to…”

“Go around cheering people up, basically,” Starscream allows himself to be prompted, “and I spent the whole day hanging out with people who are way better people than I am--and Thunderclash--and I...you were right. If I want to earn a place here, I need to be...a better person. Way better. I suck. ” He sighs. “And so does telling the truth. Gross. Does your...plea bargain still stand?”

Magnus settles back in his chair. “I never set a deadline,” he says after a moment, “in a legal context, it would be impossible to rescind it.”

“Well then!” Starscream says, concealing his relief. “How does this work? Are you more of an assigned-readings-with-midterm-testing type or more of a field-work-with-reports type? I don’t suppose you could really assign me lab work in this context, which is a shame, because I have been told that I am, and I quote, ‘terrifyingly results oriented in a laboratory setting’.”

The top of Magnus’s coolant is covered in a delicate white foam, spotted with several blue flakes of cobalt. Starscream spares a moment of smug vindication at the sight.

“I will be instructing you in a rigorous, one-on-one setting,” Magnus says, lifting his cup and taking a sip of his coolant, “with constant supervision, to make certain that you are retaining and comprehending the concepts that our lessons will untangle.”

Some of the foam sticks to his lip; Starscream spends a second staring at it in unexpected delight. Then Magnus’s words finally register. “You don’t think I can handle it on my own?” he asks, his tanks curdling.

“It’s not a question of handling,” Magnus says, primly. “You have no background in the subject; you don’t even seem to have a clear handle on the ethical logistics of your own subjective experience.”

“I mean, I’m not totally clueless,” Starscream insists, feeling slightly wrong-footed, “I’ve been--uh--” is he supposed to start being honest right now? He gets a lesson first, right? He’s not mentioning that he got arrested for selling homebrew Syk to an undercover cop in a back alley yet. “I’ve had jury duty before. And I’ve seen episodes from Judge Judicious back when I was stealing frequencies from our neighbors.”

Magnus’ biolights flicker queasily. “That is worse than knowing nothing,” he says.

“What?”

“The first step towards becoming an upright citizen is a thorough understanding of legal philosophy,” Magnus says, sitting forward. “After a thorough grounding in the underlying logic of legal code, we will graduate on to the particulars of each major governing body on Cybertron, accounting for the variation between provinces and the influence of common law, which while out of favor in modern Cybertron still provides the basis for many obscure criminal verdicts.”

“Uh,” Starscream says.

“I’m probably a bit old school,” Magnus goes on, “but I think that a proper education in the law involves a thorough examination of the precise wording of each item, rather than a broad overview of the effect of that wording. I like to go line by line, teasing out the implications of the phrasing and syntax, subjecting each proposition to a series of ethical stress tests, and scrutinizing areas of philosophical ambiguity.”

Starscream goggles. “Syntax? ” he says.

Magnus frowns at him. “You said you wanted to do this. We’re going to do it the right way, or not at all. I will not help you cut corners on this of all things.”

“Ethical stress tests?”

“There are times in which the law can seem to be at odds with itself,” Magnus allows. “If you understand the essential precepts behind the law, you can anticipate the correct action in any scenario, regardless of your familiarity with the rule in question. This will put you in the most defensible position if the time ever comes that your actions are subjected to judicial scrutiny.”

Starscream lets out a half-hysterical laugh. “I thought this was going to be more--don’t do crimes, er, give back those pearls you stole, stop pushing people out of the way so you can get to the front of the line during a limited time sale at the Wax and Polish--”

“You stole what?”

“Hypothetical example!” Starscream says, quickly, “Totally hypothetical! I just mean… you’re really talking about every law on the entire planet?”

“And several colony worlds,” Magnus says. “The ones that have their own court system, in any case.”

Oh, sweet Solus Prime. The Eternal Smelter is starting to sound like a hot oil bath.

Magnus must notice the absolute dread broadcasting off every panel of Starscream’s frame. He softens marginally. “Relax,” he says, “a few centuries of cripplingly intense study and it’ll be over before you know it. You’ll be ready to live out the rest of your… death… in peace and relaxation. Who knows, it might even be…”

Starscream quirks a brow. “Diverting?” he suggests.

Magnus points at him. “Excellent word. Yes. Diverting.”

Starscream slumps. He offlines his optics and focuses on the thrum of his engines, in-vents through his dorsal intake for a count of three, lets his fans push out the excess.

“Okay,” he says, after a moment. His optical feed is still as dark as the underside of Iacon during a blackout. “But only, and I want to stress this, only because it’s you.”

It’s a brand new day in a perfect neighborhood, and Thunderclash wishes he could say he was feeling just as upbeat and positive as the lovely mid-morning sunshine seems to expect him to be, but unfortunately, he can’t quite get there. He folds his hands on the edge of the bridge and forces himself not to edge away from Pharma.

There’s something about the medical red of Pharma’s paint job that makes Thunderclash deeply uneasy. He felt it the moment he stood up from the waiting room chair and entered the office--the soft blue lights like a high end hospital, the clean medical tiling, and the red of Pharma’s paint job. He doesn’t remember being this nervous about medical facilities when he was alive. He’s been in and out of so many of them over the course of his eventful life, he’s sure he would remember if he was. But maybe that’s the very problem--he’s been in so many. And Pharma did tell him he died in a hospital…

“Complications arising from a spark related injury,” Pharma had told him, grimacing apologetically as he closed Thunderclash’s file. “You took a blast straight through the casing while you were trying to prevent a mutineer from blowing up the ship. Thanks to your selfless actions, almost a third of the crew were able to reach the escape pods before the cruel vacuum of space swallowed everything onboard.”

A third. He gave Pharma his best smile and tried not to let his own guilt show on his face. A third.

Why would someone mutiny against him? Everyone loves him. He was voted Cybertron’s Most Relatable Personality three vorns in a row. He must have made a mistake--there must have been a misunderstanding--if he’d been a better captain, more approachable somehow, maybe--

“You really are zoned out right now, aren’t you?” Pharma says, abruptly shaking him from his revere with just the knowing quirk of a brow ridge.

Thunderclash gives him an apologetic little laugh. “Sorry, Pharma. Go on, I’m listening.”

At this point, the two of them are standing on the bridge above the decorative mercury pool, which is full of the sail-shaped fins of decorative Altaran koi. Thunderclash has been wandering around town all day, ever since his attempt to share the Camien tea ceremony he worked so hard on ended with Hot Rod just staring at him for several seconds and then moon-walking backwards out of the parlor. Thunderclash wasn’t even aware that mechs could move their legs like that.

Did that mean something? Was Hot Rod trying to communicate with him somehow?  Thunderclash had stood there, tea pot in hand, staring at the door for long enough that the waiting solvent started to go cold.

“I was saying,” Pharma goes on, “you did such a good job of doing Starscream’s job for him, I was thinking of passing on some tasks directly to you.”

“Oh!” Thunderclash brightens immediately. Having a job to do always makes him feel better. He’s felt edgy and over-energized since he arrived here with nothing to do but relax. “What would you like me to do? I didn’t even know there was work to be done in paradise--but of course you must be doing all kind of difficult moderating work behind the scenes, to keep something of this scale running, I’m sorry for not thinking of it before.”

“Actually Rung does most of that,” Pharma says, “somehow. I was thinking something a little bit more front and center, a little less backstage.”

“Oh.”

“One of our residents--you know Vega?”

“Jumpstart’s conjunx? Turns into an energon transfusion machine?”

“That’s the one.” Pharma snaps his fingers. “Well, his dream was always to open a restaurant, but things being what they are back in the land of the living, it never worked out. His eternal reward won’t be complete without the realization of his lifetime’s dream, you know?”

Thunderclash nods mutely, still a little embarrassed about getting his last guess wrong.

“Rung is taking care of all the structural details, of course,” Pharma says, and gestures at an invisible billboard with his open palm, “--corinthian columns, ice sculptures, the works! But it’s not going to be much of an opening night if nobody organizes it. And I’m just a mess with this whole glitch in the system, I’m positively tearing my flight panels out, I’m worried that I’ll let everyone down if I try now.”

Thunderclash turns and reaches for him immediately. Pharma stares down at their joined hands in blank surprise while Thunderclash says, “Oh, Pharma, you must be deeply distressed. Of course, no one would think less of you if you postponed some of the individual rewards until after the problem is solved. You shouldn’t feel at all as if you are letting us all down, I won’t hear of it.”

Pharma looks several times between Thunderclash’s face and his hands before extricating himself from the reassuring grip. “--As a matter of fact,” he says, as he shakes out one hand sort of behind his back, “I won’t feel that way at all, because you’re going to help me! You are going to help me, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” Thunderclash says, with a reassuring smile. He wonders if he perhaps held Pharma’s hand too tightly. He always forgets things like that until it’s too late.

“I’d like you to organize the opening night,” Pharma says. “Invitations, place settings, all those sorts of details.”

A flicker of unease pulses through Thunderclash’s spark. “Ah,” he says. “I’ve never really… organized an event before. I mostly just attended them.”

“Well then you have plenty of experience to draw on!” Pharma tells him. “Just do whatever other people did for you in perfect reverse order!”

He tries to remember the last party anyone threw for him. They all kind of blur together after the first fifty.

“...Right,” Thunderclash says. “How hard can it be?”

It’s a small neighborhood. He can handle this. He’s given spark-to-spark resuscitation in the middle of a gunfight on an alien vessel. What’s one little party?

“Wonderful!” Pharma says. He takes a step back, away from the koi pond, in a steady retreat that makes it hard for Thunderclash to ask any follow up questions. At the edge of the bridge, Pharma calls out, “Remember! The responsibility for everyone’s good time is entirely on you!”

And then he’s off like a shot, a blue and red streak against the sunny midday sky.

“Oh,” Thunderclash says, mustering up a smile. “Is it?”

Despite the fact that Thunderclash knows the names and occupations of more than a hundred mechs in his immediate vicinity, he feels deeply, powerfully alone.

The Annalects of Alpha Trion: Unabridged and Annotated

“We will start with this,” Magnus says, and aims his laser pointer at the large, neat writing on the holo board. Starscream squints at the device in his massive hand.

“Is that alive?” he says. “It looks awfully similar to someone I used to know in Iacon. He never paid his tab. You wouldn’t believe how much engex those little tanks could put away.”

Magnus hesitates. He looks at his hand. “No,” he says. “I’m sure it’s… just a convenient… device.”

Nonetheless, he sets it down on the top of the podium Rung conjured for him ten minutes ago and pushes it away with one fingertip. He resets his voice with a little pop .

“The Analects of Alpha Trion,” he starts again. “Rung has provided you with a copy.”

Like clockwork, Rung is at the edge of the desk, holding out a ‘pad in the same basic shape as the ones Starscream used to buy as a student. It unfolds into two screens, one for notes and one for whatever download he’s looking at. The Analects are already queued up for him. He longs powerfully for some of that brackish homebrew the sleep-deprived denizens of the chem lab used to whip up.

“According to Alpha Trion, society begins with the Prime,” Magnus says. “The Prime of Primes is Primus, who models the perfect relationship of subject to overseer… The relationship of a captain to his soldiers is modeled off this on a smaller scale, and the employer to his employees… Rules are put in place by the overseer for the benefit of the subjects…”

Magnus turns to the board, neatly writing the glyph for “alpha” [beginning][first value of a set] next to “prime” [beginning][source code].

“Alpha Trion argues that order begins with the logic tree,” he says, tapping the glyph for prime. “It is an important distinction to make that this beginning is rooted in a concept of genesis rather than--”

“Okay that was fun!” Starscream says, and shoots to his feet. “I feel like a better person already, let’s call it a day.”

“Sit down ,” Magnus says, in a voice that could make a typhoon sink away in shame. Starscream sits. Scrap. That was pure instinct, he didn’t mean to do that.

“Look,” he wheedles, leaning forward over the desk onto his elbows. “Can’t we at least do the abridged version? The Idiot’s Guide to Ethics? I don’t need to know who invented moral philosophy, do I? Can’t I just--download a patch or something?”

“You mean shadowplay,” Magnus says, looking as if Starscream had set a wriggling organic parasite down in his soup bowl.

“What? No!”

“You would like me to patch your core processor with a completely foreign set of values, altering your ability to perceive the world, your sense of self, and your most basic personal autonomy,” Magnus says. “In short, shadowplay.”

Starscream sucks on his lip, tapping the tips of his fingers together. “Okay,” he says, “so… not that, then.”

“I am teaching you from the beginning because of Alpha Trion’s precept,” Magnus says. "Order arises from the source . The law doesn’t just exist , Starscream. Each regulation and ordinance exists to combat an outgrowth of disorder.”

Starscream give him a narrow, mirthless smile. “The law exists to make crimes,” he says, with a familiar sing-song lilt.

“That is a grossly inaccurate understanding of legal philosophy,” Magnus says, stiffly.

“Prisoners do the jobs nobody else wants to do, and they do them for free,” Starscream counters.

“There must be punishment if the law is to be taken seriously.”

“Right,” Starscream says, “and I suppose it’s only a coincidence that manual classes are sentenced to hard labor while the desk jockeys up in the towers get let off with a fine, eh? Nobody benefits from that, I’m sure.”

“The labor of a microscope would not serve the state in the same way as--”

“Sure, sure,” Starscream says, “but if that’s the morally correct punishment for the crime, it should be morally correct for everyone, shouldn’t it?”

Magnus considers him for a moment. Then he turns to the board. “What you’re describing is a school of moral objectivism,” he says, sketching the glyph for the term below the other two, “in which there are rational procedures for identifying morally impermissible actions--”

He sketches an equation, a = a, and then a more complicated series of iterations from that.

“But your suggestion doesn’t take into account the increased suffering of a frametype not built for the work they’ve been assigned. Increased suffering, as punishment for the same original crime, doesn’t satisfy the rational procedure for universal sentencing.”

Starscream tightens his jaw, the claw of his thumb slowly digging into the desktop. He knows there’s something wrong here, but he can’t articulate it--can’t pry it out of the long string of fancy words Magnus is throwing at him.

Is he meant to feel stupid? Is Magnus putting him in his place?

“ Perhaps ,” he grits out, “if you began by defining your terms?”

Magnus considers him for a moment, and then pushes the current contents of the screen aside, opening up a new space on the board. “Forgive me,” he says. “I forgot that we are not currently in a scholastic setting. You haven’t received the primary linguistic downloads.”

He starts laying out neat lines of glyphs, some of which Starscream recognizes, and most of which he does not.

“First we will work on laying a groundwork for your vocabulary,” Magnus says, “and then we will move on to the Analects of Alpha Trion, which is the basic philosophy upon which all later legal systems are founded. It is one of the few complete works to survive the Warring Primes era, and I think you will find it surprisingly non-Functionist…”

And Magnus just barrels on, without stopping to rub in the fact that Starscream basically just admitted he has no idea what most of these words mean. If anything--and it’s hard to tell, because Magnus doesn’t exactly express positive emotions like a normal bot--he seems like he’s more enthused about doing vocabulary work than he was about just lecturing.

He really does have neat handwriting.

So this is still terrible, but it seems like Magnus isn’t actively trying to make him look like a fool. It’s a small comfort, but, still. In a place like this, he’ll take what he can get. Starscream slowly un-tenses, first at his fists, and then his shoulders, and then his ramrod spine.

It’s an excruciating thing, to be known--the last person to know Starscream is long gone now, and that knowing long gone with him. Magnus hasn’t smiled for him since that night in the garden, when he thought he was watching the stars with a dashing philanthropist. If he smiled now for the real Starscream, laid bare in the daylight, what would it be like?

He thinks of a smile that he remembers from exhaust-stained dormitories and crowded starship laboratories, and wonders if Magnus’s smile would look anything like the same.

Chapter Text

Out of the many many residents of the Cosy Cosign, only two have no prior expectations of Thunderclash, Daring Adventurer and Unflaggingly Winning Public Personality. Even Ultra Magnus, otherwise quite dour, has admitted to Thunderclash (during a quiet moment at the welcome party) that he found Thunderclash’s publications on the topic of punctuation and syntax in contemporary standard neo-cybex to be a personal inspiration. And he said it so shyly, stiff and awkward, that Thunderclash had no choice but to find it endearing.

Thunderclash had thought: of all the things from which someone could form an opinion about him, better that it be something he had put genuine effort into than something he had stumbled across by accident. His dozens and dozens of research papers authored over the centuries were at least his own work, from start to finish, and they hadn’t been paid for in spilled energon and wreckage (except in the way that all his successes were ultimately paid for in the like).

Nonetheless, Ultra Magnus was still a fan, and a fan could not be dissapointed.

This left, somewhat ironically, the two mechs to whom Thunderclash felt closest. There was, of course, Hot Rod, who lived in his home with him and who, of course, was something of a twin spark pining away for love of him the same way Thunderclash was, and vice versa, and things like that. Somewhere behind that mask, anyway. A dear soul and spirit who, nevertheless, literally cannot answer any of Thunderclash’s anxious questions. Side-stepping the issue of vocal gymnastics for a moment, he is a monk, with zero prior social experiences, who would probably be pleased with anything Thunderclash produced, not simply out of love but also because, darling thing that he was, he legitimately had no standards.

Which leaves Starscream.

There’s something so refreshing about Starscream, Thunderclash decides, stopping to make idle conversation with a gaggle of mechs asking for a few more autographs. Starscream doesn’t fawn. (Not that the mechs who do fawn are bad. It’s just that he can’t often get from point A to point B without rehashing some old story about some amazing thing he did back when he was alive, and everyone always has a specific one in mind they want him to “do”, and then--well, that’s just his night.) Sometimes, he acts like he doesn’t even like Thunderclash, rolling his eyes or doing that thing with his hand where he pretends it’s a mouth and makes it talk too much, which always makes him stop and laugh. It’s been so long since anyone just treated him like a person. It’s been so long since anyone just gave him a little slag.

Starscream’s a perfect friend, an immediate and trustworthy confidant. That’s why Thunderclash is terrified of coming off too clingy--how much is too much? He hasn’t had to do any work to preserve his side of a relationship in megacycles.

Nevertheless, he’s not just a true friend--Starscream’s a socialite. He knows how parties work. If there’s anyone Thunderclash could ask for advice from (and, simultaneously, not be letting down by doing so), it’s Starscream. It’s all just a matter of asking him at the right time, and not looking desperate.

Yesterday, when they were having an all-day spark-to-spark, Starscream mentioned a specific cafe that he enjoyed frequenting with Magnus. It feels like lunchtime, or just-before-lunchtime, so they’ll probably be going there. Thunderclash just has to be there first, so he can run into them! But incognito, so he isn’t being swarmed and doesn’t miss his chance.

“Rung,” he calls, and the little mech appears beside him.

“Good morning, Thunderclash,” Rung says, “you’re looking particularly vibrant today. I love that can-do attitude I can feel in your field. How can I help you make your dreams come true?”

He smiles gracefully down at the little mech in front of him, which is a great way to not look uncomfortable. He’s not really sure why Rung spends so much extra time complimenting him , and nobody else. Was he specially programmed to do that? Does Pharma think he needs that to be happy in his afterlife? Does he need that to be happy in his afterlife? What does that say about him?

Rung smiles back up at him. One of the little mech’s pedes starts to twist in the dirt with the nervous, flustered energy of a hundred other fans before him, hands clasped low in front of his pelvic plating.

“Right, of course,” Thunderclash says, “Rung, I was wondering if maybe you could find me...some sort of disguise? Nothing big or fancy, just something that would make me...not look like me, for a little while.”

Something weird happens.

Thunderclash stares at him. “Rung?” Confusion swirls in his tanks. “Did you--I swear you--are you alright?”

“I am fully charged and ready for duty,” Rung says with a smile. “Preliminary scans show no sign of internal damage or redundant code lines.”

“But you just--”

“Would you still like your disguise?” Rung interrupts, raising it up, and Thunderclash blinks. He can’t quite remember what he was saying to Rung--he was sure it was important--

“Oh, it’s perfect,” he says as he glances down at last. Gently, he takes the fake optical augmentors out of the smaller mech’s hands. “There’s even facial insignia on it!”

Rung clasps his hands behind his back, shoulders hunching ever-so-slightly in modest shyness. “And a nose,” he says, “to hide your extremely famous profile from onlookers. Does it meet your expectations?”

“It’s perfect, ” Thunderclash says, smiling. “And there was something else--I swear there was something else--” he pauses, pursing his lips. Something--oh! “Could I get a newspaper, too? Um, a big one. I’m feeling sort of old-fashioned.”

The host gives Thunderclash a corner booth and an odd look at his request, squinting down at him in something like confusion before assuring him a waiter will be with him shortly and walking off. Probably, he thinks, confused by the presence of an unfamiliar new mech in the neighborhood, who no one has ever seen before and is incredibly inauspicious. Is that the word he means? Insuspicious. Incipid. Insomething.

At a table closer to the center of the room, Starscream and Ultra Magnus are leaning intently over something on their table. It looks like a big piece of painted aluminum in spun-candy colors. Little miniature tech-ewes and meeples dot the landscape. They seem focused--still, Thunderclash doesn’t want to be caught spying. He unfolds his huge hardcopy newsfeed and hides his face behind it.

“That’s my tile you landed on,” Starscream is saying, “you have to give me--it says forty-k here. So sad.”

“That isn’t your tile.”

“My house is on it! See? There’s a little house, and it’s green. I’m green.”

“You couldn’t possibly own that property. It’s been out of your budget all game,” Ultra Magnus says calmly, “besides, I’ve had it marked down since round two on my Longest Road card.”

“It can’t be yours! You must have made a mistake. Your little house isn’t on it.”

“What’s in your hand?”

“Nothing!”

“What’s in your hand.”

As they erupt into a small argument about whether or not Starscream has been stealing Magnus’ pieces, Thunderclash gives his newsfeed a once-over. There’s an awful lot of articles for a publication in a neighborhood where everyone is already dead, but most of them seem to just turn into keysmashing about three paragraphs in. On page J13, there’s a picture of Ultra Magnus, looking confused and slightly blurry. ‘Prospective editor in chief?’ The caption says. ‘Exclusive interview below!’

“If you would just pop the pop-o-matic popper and do some basic subtraction, ruled on the laws of general mathematical probability--”

“Don’t use logic against me, we’re talking about your relative guilt vis a vis how many of my sheep you have under the table.”

“Four! Okay? I have four of them! But I stole them out of your supply at the beginning of the game, I didn’t take them off your tiles or anything once they were down!”

Thunderclash finds the interview on the page. ‘New editor in chief? The former lawyer Ultra Magnus has the stuff! “I don’t understand the purpose of journalism in the afterlife,” he says. “Also, I’m uncomfortable with how subjective it is. And nobody reads the paper, anyway. Where are they even distributed? I haven’t seen any stands. How can you be sure they’re up to code?” We’re excited to have him on the team!’

“So what? The point of games is to win!”

“The point of games is to play.”

“Oh, whatever. I can’t even have this argument with you right now. I’m taking a breather.” Starscream stands from his table, scattering little figurines of animals and resources across the board, and turns on his heel, storming away from his table.

Right towards Thunderclash’s booth.

“Hey, I’m sitting here,” Starscream says authoritatively, slinging himself into the padded seat across from him. “Magnus is being a total aftport about board games right now. Who even invented those, anyway? Someone who hates fun?”

Thunderclash reboots his optics behind his amazing disguise. “How did you know I was here?”

“Uh,” Starscream says, “I saw you the minute you came in?”

“Through my disguise?”

Starscream purses his lips. “I don’t know if you, uh, know this, ‘Clash,” he says, “but there’s like, a huge eagle. On your chest. It’s blue. There’s a border to make it pop, in case somebody misses it. Nice beaglepuss, by the way, the paper’s a nice touch.”

Thunderclash sighs. “Of course it wouldn’t fool you,” he concedes, pulling it off his face, “you just pay such close attention.”

“Uh, sure,” Starscream says, squinting. Distantly, Thunderclash is aware of a minibot three tables down squealing ‘omigosh, is that Thunderclash?’ as soon as the augmentors drop. “So is there a reason you’ve been sitting in the corner spying on us for a quarter of a… I can never remember how time works here. A quarter of an R, maybe? An e?”

“I haven’t been spying!” Thunderclash insists. “I was just… waiting. I didn’t want to interrupt your… together time.”

“First off, gross,” Starscream says, “second off, if you ever see me trapped in a board game, you’re free to interrupt any time. You’re literally rescuing me. They should spell it B-O-R-E-D, am I right? Bored game.”

“I can hear you,” Ultra Magnus calls from the other table, where he’s delicately placing pieces back on the tabletop.

“Then stop listening, this is a private conversation between me and my best friend Thunderclash,” Starscream yells over his shoulder, and turns back to face Thunderclash, who hides his smile behind his hand with a little thrill in his spark. “So I rephrase my apparently impossible question: why were you… waiting to talk to me?”

“Oh, um,” Thunderclash stammers. It’s one thing to know he needs help and who can help him--it is quite another, he realizes, to ask for it. He’s supposed to be good at everything--people rely on him, they--they’re everywhere, crushing in around him. Would the waiter think less of him, knowing he couldn’t do this on his own? Would the minibot in the corner, quietly recording him with a built-in camera? Would Starscream?

A hot, heavy feeling stuffs his vents. There’s no going back now--he covers the side of his face with his hand, shielding himself from the rest of the restaurant, and leans forward over the table. “I, um,” he says, “I need some… help. Advice.”

Starscream pauses--his optics move left, then right, brightening and dimming like a hyperspeed light cycle. They focus on his hand, on his elbow pressed into the countertop.

And then he leans forward and raises the opposite hand, hiding his own face, and dims his optics subtly, blocking the both of them from view. “Romantic trouble?” he mutters, lowering his voice. “Rod--uh--Hot Rod giving you heel?”

“I--oh! No, ah, I’m still fighting the fight on that front, yes,” Thunderclash says, “but that isn’t what I came to ask about. Um.” He bites the inside of his cheek and glances at the little wall of servos that--without hesitation--Starscream built with him. He doesn’t expect anything from me, he reminds himself. “Pharma asked for my help in planning an… event,” he says, “because I helped you the other day? And of course I said yes, because he’s the architect and helping him means making this place run smoothly, and he said it would be so helpful and that it would make everyone so happy, because they love me and they all want to be at something I planned. And I love having a project.”

“Wow, big stuff. Are you just here to brag?”

“No!” Thunderclash hisses. His spare hand scrambles in a spasm against the tabletop and jerks up to his face. “I have no idea how to plan an event! I’m going to do a terrible job and it’ll be awful and I’m terrified!” He grabs for his own mouth, like he can catch the terror spilling out of it and shove it back in. After a moment, he offlines his optics and ex-vents, blowing heat across the table in a wave. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I just--”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Starscream says. Thunderclash keeps his optics offline. Even sinking his heat hasn’t made him feel calmer--he couldn’t possibly look up now. “First of all, you did the right thing by being bad at something, so that you have to ask me for help.”

He onlines his optics again, managing a smile. It always does make him feel a little better when Starscream starts “roasting” him. “I’m glad you’re here,” he replies. “I didn’t feel like there was anyone else I could go to.”

“Uh,” Starscream says, “sure.”

Too much? Thunderclash wants to sigh. He never knows exactly where to stop, and Starscream looks slightly uncomfortable. He just hopes he didn’t overstep his bounds entirely--maybe he can pull this whole thing back. “You told me yesterday you used to organize… events,” he says after a moment, “charity galas, and things. Pharma wants me to organize the opening of Vega’s new restaurant, it’s his lifelong dream that he can only achieve here. It’s the most important thing in his afterlife, and it’s--it’s really important for it to go well. I don’t know if--well, I don’t know where to start.” He flexes the fingers in their little hand-wall. “You’ve done this before. What do I do?”

“Oh! Okay, yeah,” Starscream says, tapping the index finger of his other hand on the table. “Okay, so party planning 101 is literally just making someone else’s vision come to life. Who’s opening the bar?”

“Restaurant.”

“Whatever. Vega, right? You need to talk to Vega. Go to him and ask him, like, ‘what kind of music do you want? How crowded should it be? Who do you want there?’ Is there a guest list?”

Thunderclash feels his tank churn. “Yes, um--”

“So you can look at that and figure out how many people you’re going to need to sit in this venue. Go to the building, check it out, figure out how many seats you’re going to need.” He throws a tiny, delicate hand to the wind. “And that’s it! I’m not kidding, that’s literally it. Music, seating--it’s a restaurant, so you don’t need to worry about food or drinks, the house should be providing those. Just double-check with him so he knows that’s on him, make sure he has wait-staff. That should all be in place, but double-check, and if he doesn’t, get in contact with a--I guess there aren’t temp agencies here, huh? Grab some volunteers from town. And that seems like all you’re supposed to be doing. Everything else is hardware, which I assume Rung is taking the lead on.”

Thunderclash curls his fingers nervously on the tabletop. “But I don’t really know how to do--even those things,” he admits.

“You don’t have to! You’re just planning. No one’s asking you to get up on stage and start, uh, trilling. Orating?” He wrinkles his nose. “You know, actually I did once have a performer bail on me, and I did get up there and give it my all. Not too bad. No one threw rocks, and that was a tougher crowd than this. You’ll do fine.”

“Really?”

“Well, I don’t know your range. Maybe you could do a bit from Cuckold’s Revenge, that always gets the crowd--”

“I just mean--” Thunderclash flails for words, biting the inside of his cheek. “You make it sound so easy, but I feel really… overwhelmed.”

“It’s just asking for help, TC,” Starscream says, “and you know everyone. Ask people for help with music. I’m sure someone would be willing to play, especially to help you. Everyone loves helping you. They basically worship you here.”

“They do,” Thunderclash says with a smile, “everyone but you. That’s why--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Starscream cuts him off, waving his adorable little hand through the air, “that’s why I never help you, and I’m always mean, and you have to go into recharge wondering what my damage is every night, right?”

Thunderclash smiles. “I was going to say that’s why I asked you,” he says, “is there something you need to tell me?”

“What? No!” Starscream sits up straight, shoulders rolling back, well-polished wings bouncing. “I’m an upright citizen of great renown, who never keeps secrets, and you’re lucky to know me, actually.”

Thunderclash laughs. “Thank you,” he says, “I’m going to--I’m going to ask for help. I think I can… I think I know how to start.”

Starscream crosses his arms over his chassis, optics unreadable. “Look, I should go,” he says, “Magnus and I were going to try to finish this dumb, pointless game thing as a morning activity, and I’d love to blow him off, but right now I’m losing and I can’t let him have the satisfaction.”

“I understand.”

“You said this thing’s in a few days?”

“Yes, it--oh!” Thunderclash startles, pops open a cabinet in his subspace. “I have your invitation, actually,” he says, rummaging around, “I wanted to give it to you personally, just to make sure it got to you.” He frowns as he produces it. He’d had to ask for it to be made special. Starscream hadn’t, actually, been on the guest list, which was odd, because everyone else in the neighborhood had been--even Hot Rod, who wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and anyway had already mimed his choice to decline with surprising fervor. Vega probably left him off by accident, or maybe there had been some kind of glitch with the system.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it felt a little deliberate.

Starscream takes it in a slim hand, peers down at the meticulous diamond shard calligraphy. “Thanks,” he says, “uh, look. I live right next door. How about I come over in the afternoon the next few days? Help you out if you need help, get skid marks over all your nice furniture… Magnus is kind of an introvert, he needs a lot of personal time in a day so he can recharge, and I get bored. I’m actually just being selfish, here.”

“Oh, Starscream,” Thunderclash says, “you’re too kind. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

And he smiles--and Starscream, after a moment, smiles back.

Another day, another lecture. Starscream’s servo is going to leave a mark in the soft proto-metalloy of his face as he scribbles notes and tries desperately to want to care about whatever it is Magnus is explaining to him.

Outside, on the hill, several of their neighbors are playing fetch with tame turbo-kits, which are adorable if you forget that their teeth were evolved to break open primary fuel lines and siphon live energon from screaming prey. The weather is beautiful, like it always is. Starscream wouldn’t admit to wanting to play with a larval turbo fox like some kind of bourgeois idiot, but he can admit to wishing he was up there, in the atmosphere, stretching his wings.

“Alpha Trion, however, argues that a correct ruler will govern his subjects with love and concern for their wellbeing,” Magnus is saying. “Rather than the fear of coercion, with reciprocal love--”

They say turbo-kits are safe as long as they’re well fed. As long as the maturation blockers keep them from reaching their adult stage, as long as they still regard their owner as their care provider. They say that.

“Of these,” Starscream murmurs, “it is better to be feared than loved.”

Magnus turns and frowns at him. “We haven’t covered that. What are you quoting?”

What is he quoting? He looks away from the window, frowning as well. He can feel the words in his head, the familiar rhythm of them. It’s something he’s said to himself before, like a mantra, something so old it’s almost worn meaningless. It’s--the smell of discharging null rays, the hollow feeling of a dark room, a smile that isn’t a smile on a mouth that--

“Some old rhyme, probably,” he says. “Forget it. Can we finish early today? Thunderclash’s thing is tomorrow, I feel like I should go over a little earlier and help.”

Magnus gives him a strange look. “You’ve been over there the past few days,” he says, “surely there can’t be so much more to do, so close to the event?”

Starscream frowns. “Well, it’s not that,” he says, “I just want to… I mean, he seems so anxious. I dunno. And I actually feel like I’m making progress with that.”

“Do you not feel like you’re making progress in my class?”

“That’s not it, I’m just--” he pauses, heaves a little ex-vent. It’s hard to say exactly what his problem is, actually. It’s so nice out, but they can’t ever study outside because someone might overhear them. Little turbofoxes run this way and that across the lawns.

“When I make progress here, I’m learning about laws and how to be a good person,” he says after a moment, “and every day I learn something new, I’m learning about how something I used to do that I thought was smart or cool or worthwhile is actually wrong, and I was bad for doing it, and it makes me feel like garbage. At least when I’m helping Thunderclash, I feel like I’m making something good happen because I have a skill, and I’m using it to, I don’t know, make something work? It just feels productive.”

When he looks up, Magnus is regarding him carefully. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” Magnus says. “I assumed your recalcitrance came from boredom, or disinterest in the subject. I apologize if my lesson plan--”

“Oh, Primus, don’t apologize to me,” Starscream says, waving a hand, “look, there’s nothing you or your lesson plan can do that won’t make me feel like a heel, okay? That’s just… I can get through it, alright? I’ve felt like a heel my entire life. At least now I’ve got the option not to feel like a heel, even if it’s by feeling like a heel.” He sighs. “I’m just tired. I need a break. Then I can get back to it.”

There’s a pause as Starscream stares out the window, only 15% aware of Magnus fiddling awkwardly with his holoboard stylus. “I admit to feeling slightly fatigued, myself,” he says. “Perhaps you should visit with Thunderclash for a while. I could get started on reading your most recent essay.”

Starscream perks up. “You could go for a walk or something, you know,” he says, already straightening his desk and shutting down his notepad, “it’s a beautiful day out--I won’t be long, just an hour or two, I won’t even stop and meditate with Hot Rod--”

Magnus hums noncommittally, gazing out the windows. “Maybe I will,” he says, as Starscream fiddles with the door handle, “Starscream?”

“Hm?”

“You are making unprecedented progress,” he says, “and I’m pleased that your activity of choice is to help someone else, rather than to serve yourself. It suits a resident of this neighborhood.”

And as Starscream strides across the lawn, stumbling up the hill, he tries to figure out what it is about a sentence like that that makes him feel so guilty.

He is helping! He is! So what if it’s basically just an excuse to be in the house so he can sneak away and hang out with Rodimus after he’s given Thunderclash some super-basic instructions? So, technically, he’s taken a hit or two of dross in the past week, but he’s stressed out about literally everything. Anyone who wasn’t Ultra Magnus, Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accords, would totally get it. They’d probably do the same thing.

Anyway, befriending people is good, right? Being nice to them. Getting to know them. Starscream’s got a twofer on that. He smiles and nods at TC, and then makes pained eye contact with Rodimus behind his back when he starts going on about how fragging famous he is again.

He is there kind of early. Starscream lets himself in through one of the many side-doors, partially because he can’t take an excited face full of Thunderclash without a little prep time first and partially because it’s closer and he doesn’t feel like walking all the way around the building to get to the front door when he knows he’s allowed in anywhere. He glances longingly at a large, ornamental vase in gold with sapphire inlay. No way would that fit in his subspace.

On the floor above, he can hear distant footsteps--from several rooms over, the sound of talking voices. He picks up the floating sound of Vega’s nasal intonation, and frowns. Is Thunderclash actually taking initiative and doing planning stuff by himself? Maybe he’ll just go hang out with Rodimus upstairs, shoot the scrap and--

“Starscream isn’t here,” Thunderclash’s voice carries. That perks his audials up. Talking about him behind his back? Up on the tips of his pedes, he scrambles forward towards the door to get a closer listen. Finally, proof that Thunderclash isn’t the sweetsie sparkling he’s been acting this whole time.

“Who?” Vega says. Starscream scowls. Okay, maybe not as juicy as he thought.

“Starscream,” Thunderclash repeats. There’s the gentle sound of flapping paper, like he’s handing something back. “Ultra Magnus’ sparkmate? Lives next door? He isn’t on the list. And I put him there last week.”

“Oh, of course,” Vega says, “you said he was working on the team, so he’s not listed as a guest. I have him on the volunteer list--Pharma says he has some experience on waitstaff, so I put him on that.”

Starscream’s countenance darkens. Experience on waitstaff, sure, he’s got loads, he’d love to unlock his null rays and show these two exactly how much experience he’s got--

“Oh, no, there must have been a miscommunication,” Thunderclash says with that polite little laugh, “I didn’t mean that he was volunteering for work at the event. He’s on the organizational team, he’s been working with me on planning. He’ll still need a seat for dinner, just something closer to the back of the house in case there’s an emergency or something.”

Oh. Starscream’s fingers unclench. Of course, Thunderclash wouldn’t say something that might get around. He’s probably more conscientious of gossip, that kind of thing… he was a celebrity, after all.

“Starscream? Isn’t he a seeker? Am I thinking of someone else?”

“That’s him.”

“Well… but…” Vega pauses, like he’s struggling for words. “On planning detail? Doesn’t that seem a little… you know, beyond him?”

Ugh, of course. Starscream rolls his optics. The good place, and he’s still being mocked and underestimated. Only a grounder would buy into such outdated scrap.

The lull in the conversation drags on for… longer than it should.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Thunderclash says stiffly, “has Starscream given you reason to doubt his abilities?”

“No, of course not,” Vega says quickly, “it’s just--well, you know how seekers are.”

“No,” Thunderclash replies, “I don’t know how seekers are.” He doesn’t sound curious. If anything, Starscream thinks, he sounds angry. “Frankly, I don’t think you do, either.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Vega replies, “I just mean--I don’t think big picture stuff is really his area of expertise, do you? I think he’d be much happier on something smaller. You know what they say about--”

“I’ve just told you, I don’t know what anyone else says about that,” Thunderclash snaps, “and I don’t understand why you think his frame should have anything to do with the responsibilities he’s already taken on. Starscream has done more to organize this than anyone else on the team, whether you’ve noticed or not, and I will not put him on waitstaff at the last moment. I need him with me, to make changes on-scene if things go wrong.”

“Oh, Thunderclash, you’re so humble--don’t think so little of yourself--”

“I am not thinking little of myself,” Thunderclash interrupts, “I am thinking-- period-- of Starscream, who you have somehow managed to miss or ignore for the entirety of this week. Either he’s present as my co-organizer, or I won’t be present at all.”

“Thunderclash!” Vega splutters. “Please be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable,” Thunderclash says. “Starscream is my co-organizer and more importantly, my friend. He will not be waitstaff.”

Footsteps, heavy, and coming towards his hiding place. Starscream scrambles back on some old, forgotten instinct and throws himself into the next room to the background sound of voices. His gaze leaps for something innocuous to be doing, settling for the gold-and-sapphire vase and poking it experimentally. Nothing happens. After a moment, he shifts his weight.

Yes, absolutely, the picture of nonchalance.

Actually, he’s kind of reeling. Starscream sort of figured Thunderclash hadn’t cared about the way other mechs in the neighborhood routinely pretended Starscream wasn't right in front of them, or even that he thrived on the way they put him in his place. He definitely figured the big gaudy bastard wouldn’t give him the time of day when he wasn’t useful anymore. But that’s the most nice things anyone has ever said about Starscream at once, and it wasn’t even in front of him, right after he won a lot of money--in fact, it was behind his back, for absolutely zero social capital. Thunderclash took a net loss. For him.

The door bursts open much more aggressively than Starscream expected it to, and he tries not to startle himself out of his super nonchalant ‘I totally wasn’t just eavesdropping on your private conversation’ position when he turns to face Thunderclash. “Oh,” Thunderclash says, startled, “Starscream!”

“Thunderclash,” Starscream replies, “what a surprise to see you in your own house! I assume that open invitation still stands.”

“Of course, always,” Thunderclash says, smiling at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here so early--I have to rush off and talk to Racketwrench, he’s agreed to compose some covers of Vega’s requested song list for the quartet, he wants me to listen in on them.”

“Orchestrate,” Starscream corrects quickly, “orchestrate some covers. Seems like you’ve got it in hand--I’ll let you go, couldn’t let you be late to that. I’ll, er, make conversation with Hot Rod.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come?” Thunderclash’s lips purse slightly. “You’re more discerning about music than I am, I’m sure you’d be awfully helpful with critique…”

“Believe me, if it isn’t perfect the day before the performance, it isn’t getting changed by tomorrow,” Starscream says, “besides, I’m sure they’d much rather hear praise coming from you. Whatever you say will be fine.”

Thunderclash chews his lip. “If you’re sure,” he says after a moment, “of course, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like, I’m sure Hot Rod is upstairs meditating somewhere, just waiting for someone to come make conversation at him--with, make conversation with him--so I’ll just… pop off, and see you when I get back?”

“It’s a plan. Knock ‘em dead.”

He waits until Thunderclash is well away over the lawn before he makes his way upstairs. He pauses briefly to examine a light fixture hanging from the wall, which is slightly discolored in places marked by the absence of black pearls. Maybe no one noticed they were missing, or maybe they can’t be replaced, somehow.

“Rodimus,” he calls, when he gets to the door of the Rod Pod, “I’m not coming in, that place is nasty.”

Rodimus pokes his head out the door. “Is he gone?” he asks, sliding into the over-decorated hallway. Just beyond the railing of the staircase, there’s a sheer drop down to the main hall, giving the little alcove a feeling of grandeur and superiority. And it’s furnished. For obvious reasons, it’s Starscream’s favorite spot.

“Yeah, he’s off doing some final check for tomorrow,” Starscream says, “he left me here, so I figured I’d come up while I wait.”

“Ugh, finally,”  Rodimus says, throwing himself face-down onto the flat of a chaise lounge dramatically. “He’s so annoying. You know, he was talking to that guy in the front hall for like an hour, and I couldn’t even come through here. It’s like he can’t even respect that I’m avoiding him and stay out of high-traffic areas.”

Starscream stares at Rodimus.

“Aw, come on,” Rodimus says, wriggling his face out of the pillows to glance back at him, “what’s that face for? Wait, was it you he was talking to? I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your voice from up here, okay, I was busy trying to--”

“It wasn’t me, okay?” Starscream interrupts, “it was--it doesn’t matter. That’s not what’s bothering me.”

Rodimus squints. “Then… what is bothering you?”

Starscream sits down in one of the high-backed chairs, squinting at the guard railings of the marble stairs. Something in his tank is churning, like it’s trying to whirl the contents into syrup, scraping at him almost painfully.

“We just sit around dunking on him all day,” he says distantly, “and I only… I mean, I don’t see him that often, I don’t really see him in private. Is he really so bad?”

“Don’t get me started,” Rodimus groans. “He’s awful, man, don’t go soft on me. I thought you were cool. All he does is stand around talking to himself and try to make me do long boring things that no one in their right mind would do, you know? You want some dross? I already had some this morning, but I can get you some.”

“I have to work when he gets back,” Starscream says. “Look, I don’t think he’s--I mean, he’s condescending--”

“The most condescending.”

“But he’s--” Starscream bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t like him that much either, but he’s trying. Can’t you just try?”

“Try what?”

“Try… I don’t know. Connecting with him, I guess. Not always avoiding him.”

Rodimus wrinkles his face up. “Gross,” he says, “pass.”

Starscream feels a flicker of frustration. Where the churning of his tank once held an uneasy anxiety, he’s now scraping up irritation. “I’m trying,” he snaps, “you think I want to spend time with Magnus, being honest and open with him? Thunderclash is the whole reason you’re even here. I’m not saying you have to be nice to him, I’m just asking if it would kill you to be a little less awful to him, once in a while.”

“Listen, I don’t need a lecture from you on how I need to be nicer and who deserves it, okay?” Rodimus is straightening up, face definitely veering for the pissed-off. “I have to pretend I’m some slagging Camien monk all the time. At least you have someone you can be honest with, but I just have you! At least when I’m not around him I don’t have to pretend! Do you know what it’s like to be lying to everyone, all the time?”

“Of course I do!” Starscream snaps. “I am well-versed in that existence, okay? Look, I’m not going to tell you what to do, because neither I nor anyone else in this universe can control you, apparently.” He sighs, rubs the circles under his optics. “I’m just saying--the reason he wants to do all that boring slag with you is because he’s trying to… to connect. And he’s your sparkmate! Maybe the reason you can’t get on with him is because you’re pretending to be something else. Maybe you could just--bring a little of whatever makes you you to the table.”

Rodimus leans back, ex-venting in a low rattle. “I like the idea of bringing me to something,” he admits after a moment. “Usually, the problem with things is that I’m not in them, making them good.”

“I feel the same way,” Starscream agrees, “only with me, instead of you. Every event I’ve ever been to could almost certainly not use more of you in it.”

“So… I should be… me,” Rodimus says, squinting. “You think I should get flame decals? I had flame decals back on Cybertron. They were so good, they were like--kind of like his dumb eagle thing, only flames, so it was cool, instead of dumb.”

“Maybe just be… the best version of you,” Starscream amends, “like if you were going to a job interview.”

“I’ve never been to a job interview,” Rodimus says, scrunching up his face. “When I need credits I just go to my guy Bookie down at the canal and ask him to put me in whatever race is paying out best on account of it’s super dangerous and will kill me, maybe. That or I knock over an energon transport, I do that sometimes.”

Starscream stares at him. “How does someone your size knock over an entire transport truck?”

“Oh, it’s way easier now that me ‘n Drift are hanging out,” Rodimus says, “‘cause I’m the fastest thing on four wheels and Drift’s built like a Prix winner with an aft to match, so when he does the bend-and-snap for the transport truck, I just--”

And Starscream sits there in horror and a certain amount of awe as Rodimus describes exactly how he and his partner in crime regularly seduce, rob, and escape from several-ton semi trucks. God damn, a small part of him thinks, I wish we had thought of that.

“Okay, no,” he says, when Rodimus starts detailing the exact backstory and identity of each of his fences, one of which is actually named Fence. “No, no, look. Forget the job thing. Think of this like a… like a slag crucible. The best version of you is the version of you that you want people to see. The version of you that holds up to… scrutiny.”

He’s thinking of the park again--he’s thinking of Ultra Magnus and the shot-scatter of illusory stars, he’s thinking of the night and the glittering garden, the absence of a kiss against his mouth.

“The version of you that someone could love,” he says, almost absently, as his memory retraces the garden again and again. “It’s whatever little of you is worth something.”

“Deep,” says Rodimus. “So yes to the flame decals?”

“The Rule of Law as a concept was first proposed by Lectus Maximus,” Magnus says, poking an overlarge finger at the House of Lectus insignia on the projection. “It proposes that every member of society is subject to the same laws, even those who write and enforce the laws. At first Primes were considered exempt from this, given the divine right of rule…”

Starscream startles from his glazed slump at the sound of something outside the house giving a sudden wump.

“During the warring primes period, however, the divine right of rule came under some scrutiny,” Magnus goes on, despite the growing volume of thumps outside. “Of course at that time only radical secularists denied the divinity itself, but after the Massacre at Ambustus Major, political theoreticians began to argue that Primes themselves should be subject to the same laws as--what is that noise? ”

It sounds like something enormous is going into fuel pump arrest. For a wild second Starscream entertains the horrible thought that this neighborhood could be alive , like the old colony cities, that they could be under the scrutiny of not just Pharma but the ground itself, before he realizes that the erratic beating actually follows a musical progression that he recognizes.

“That’s shard pop,” he says, standing abruptly. He walks to the door and throws it open, poking his head out to peer at the empty hillside. “Why--”

There’s a distant crackle and crash of glass breaking, and then a decorative vase ends its rocketing path across the lawn by smashing flat against one of the few metal struts in Starscream’s glass house. Starscream stares. He can hear Magnus marching over, no doubt to investigate the source of the disorder.

There’s a matching broken window in Thunderclash’s hilltop mansion. Starscream narrows his eyes.

“You wait here,” he tells Magnus, stepping out onto the lawn. “I’ll be back.”

“Starscream,” Magnus says, trying to sound all stern and teacherly and doing an annoyingly good job of it, “we should finish your lesson before--”

“I said I’d be back!” Starscream shouts, already halfway up the hill. He’s getting better at scaling this thing. “Just--collate your slides or something!”

He’s got a very bad feeling that this disruption is more than harmless noise pollution.

Starscream storms into the parlor with his wings up and his thrusters making scorch marks on the lovely altarian tile. For a half a second, as he throws the door open, he thinks he’s walked into an empty room. And then, like a rocket whizzing past his ear, Rodimus comes swooping down from the ceiling.

“Starscream!” he shouts, executing a kind of loop-de-loop in mid air that involves crouching for some reason, and Starscream has a half second to be furious with that Rodimus apparently forgot to tell him he wasn’t even a ground frame , before he notices the hoverboard.

“What do you think you’re doing!” Starscream shouts back at him.

The hoverboard hits the side of a marble-topped desk and grinds along the edge leaving a terrible pink track mark. Rodimus swings wild and launches himself into a handstand that would probably be impressive if you had one neuron in your processing network and several head injuries.

“You said to be the best version of myself!” Rodimus says, as the handstand turns into a hand-spring and he goes careening across the parlor again. “This is the most rad version of me!”

The room, on second glance, looks like the rod pod exploded all over it in a single awful purge of Nyon canal water. On the table there’s a little cube pulsing with light at each beat of the music. The beat is pretty intense, so the effect is more like a strobe.

“This is not what I meant,” Starscream hisses, and slams the power off button. The room falls abruptly silent.

“Hey!” Rodimus whines, hoverboard fizzling to a stop in mid air. “That was the good part! The BPM was just about to kick way up. Turn it back on, you’ll love this.”

“I will not love you getting our cover blown!” Starscream says, and picks up the little cube and throws it, physically, through the broken window.

“Aw slag. Rung!” Rodimus shouts, and of course the informational aid immediately appears just behind him.

“Hello, Rodimus,” Rung says, “you are looking very ‘radical’ today.”

Rodimus spins in mid-air. “Thanks babe,” he says, posing a little for his new audience. The hoverboard wobbles as he shifts his balance to cock his hip out a bit more. “Can you get me a new stereo?”

Another cube blinks into existence.

“Your decals are ‘the bomb’,” Rung tells him, and offers him the stereo.

“Why is he doing that?” Starscream snaps.

“Doing what?” Rodimus says. He’s fiddling with the buttons now.

“Complimenting you!”

“Oh!” Rodimus looks up, flashing him a conspiratorial grin. “I asked him to say nice things about me like he does for Thunderclash. Why should he get special treatment?”

“Rodimus has requested that I remark upon his qualities of ‘awesomeness’, ‘rad-ability’, and ‘general bad-aft-ittude’,” Rung clarifies. “Within these parameters I have generated several hundred appropriate observations.”

“That’s not fair unless you do it for all of us,” Starscream retorts. “I demand that you address me as--”  

The door slams open as Magnus marches briskly into the parlor. “I heard shouting,” he says, in that terse kind of worried way that he gets, “is everything al--right?”

He stops, staring, as the full comprehensive pile-up of this disaster dawns on him. He looks from the wall with the 24th Vorn Grand Prix commemorative banner to the softcore pin-up of Blurr posing with a trophy cup, to Rodimus, who is still spinning in slow circles in mid-air as he fiddles with the stereo.

“What,” Magnus says, “is happening, here.”

Starscream’s core processor whines and bleeds heat like it just engaged some kind of warp drive. His fans kick on furiously.

“This is,” Starscream says, “cultural exchange. Thunderclash was--he was quite the celebrity, as we all know by now, and Hot Rod wanted to--”

“It’s Rodimus, not Hot Rod!” Rodimus calls, still spinning lazily, although it seems like he’s picking up speed now. “Rod-i-mus!”

“What he means is,” Starscream says, desperately, “in his culture, there are true names that, um, are only bestowed on the most enlightened monks, and his name… is… Rodimus.”

Magnus gives Starscream a stony, unreadable look. Then he turns his attention to Rodimus. “Is this true?”

“Nope!” Rodimus says. “Come over here and check out my new hoverboard! It’s got mad kick.”

Starscream stalks over and yanks Rodimus down by the spoiler, sending the newly unoccupied hoverboard crashing through a lamp and into the wall.

“You’re supposed to be pretending to be a good person,” he hisses.

“I am a good person,” Rodimus scowls, from the floor, rubbing gingerly at his spoiler. “I don’t need some prissy doc-bot to diagnose me with Good Person to know I am one!”

“Starscream,” Magnus rumbles, “what is going on.”

Starscream throws up his hands. “Fine!” he says, “I can’t cover for you if you’re just going to undermine me at every sentence! Why don’t you tell Magnus who you are?”

Rodimus rolls to his feet, brushes himself off, and then shoots a pair of finger guns at Ultra Magnus. “Name’s Rodimus,” he says, “cool head, hot rod, and nerves of steel. Sup?”

Magnus looks like he bit into something that just started wriggling. “What is the meaning of this?”

Starscream rubs the place where his faceplate joins his helm. “Okay so you know how I’m not supposed to be here? Well, I’m not the only one.”

Magnus’ biolights blaze like a lightning storm, but his expression goes if anything more stone-faced. “Are there any other secrets you’ve been keeping from me?” he says.

Starscream actually stops and wracks his CPU. “Uh, no,” he says, “no, I think that’s the last one.”

“Are you certain?” Magnus says. “You’re not perhaps hiding some third stowaway in a closet somewhere?”

“Wow,” Rodimus whispers, loudly, over his shoulder, “he’s really mad at you.”

“I’m angry with this entire situation!” Magnus says, the stone face finally breaking into something that it kind of hurts to look at. “There are rules! There must be rules! Even in the afterlife there seems to be no peace, no order--! ”

Rodimus makes a little sympathetic noise and reaches out. “Hey, don’t get worked up, Big Blue. You want some dross? Rung can get us some dross.”

Magnus snatches his arm out of Rodimus’s hold like the metal burns him. “I certainly--I do not want--that is a class four felony, the procurement of--”

“Aw slag,” Rodimus says, shooting Starscream a look of supreme grief and sympathy. “Your conjunx is a narc.”

“He’s law enforcement, you knew this.”

“Mm, there’s a difference between narcs and cops,” Rodimus tells him, with a knowing look. “I knew a bunch of cops who were down in the ringside taking bets with Bookie. I bought syk off a cop once. Being a narc is about what’s in your spark, not your job.”

“Nyon is a pit of depravity and lawlessness,” Magnus says, “please do not speak any more about it.”

“Look,” Starscream cuts in, “I don’t know what’s wrong with Pharma’s neighborhood, but it’s clearly not our fault! We don’t know how to hack into heaven! We didn’t ask to be put here! But we are here, and we’re just trying to make it work!”

“Does Thunderclash know?” Magnus ask.

“No,” Starscream says, “and you can’t tell him!”

“Why not? Doesn’t he deserve to know?” Magnus says. His eyes flash as he looks between the two imposters. “Doesn’t he deserve to know he’s been saddled with a fake? A fraud? A liar?”

“Hey!” Rodimus says, “I’m not a liar! I will tell him, see how you like that!”

“No you won’t,” Starscream says, grabbing Rodimus by the collar faring and jerking him back. “Magnus, come on. Be reasonable. Wouldn’t it hurt Thunderclash more to know that Hot Rod isn’t real? Wouldn’t it… wouldn’t it be cruel to deprive him of the happiness that he’s started to make here, with nothing to offer him in compensation?”

Magnus wavers. His gaze flicks away.

“What’s that, that concept,” Starscream says, snapping his fingers. “Intent of harm. There was no intent of harm in Rodimus just existing. Pharma is the one who brought him here, and Pharma is the one who told him he should court Thunderclash. If anything, Rodimus is obeying the terms under which he arrived!”

“That is… a passably solid defense,” Magnus says.

“Just let him be Hot Rod,” Starscream says. “If you let him continue being Hot Rod, like Pharma wants, then nobody gets hurt!”

“Okay but I don’t want to pretend to be Hot Rod,” Rodimus says, wriggling in Starscream’s grip. “I want to be Rodimus!”

“Too bad,” Starscream hisses. “Because this is what you get. You get this house, and a conjunx who loves you, and all the processor-melting dross you can shovel down your greedy little intake! It’s either this, or the smelting pit. And I think you prefer your spark not boiled down for spiritual recycling.”

Rodimus breaks free, elbowing Starscream off him.

“I’m tired of you telling me I’m a bad person!” he says. “I help people all the time! I take care of the leakers down at the canal and I look out for my friends when they’re fragged up and I get my buddy Drift all the syk he needs, and I don’t narc on my pals!”

“That’s not being a good person!” Starscream shouts. “That’s being a criminal! Nobody cares if you were nice or you helped people, all they care about are the numbers on your rap sheet!”

“You’re the one who tried tell Thunderclash I was a criminal!”

“Because I thought you belonged here!” Starscream throws up his hands. “It would have been the perfect red herring! If you go now, you’re just taking me down with you!”

“Eugh,” Magnus says, groping uneasily at his chassis. “I think I have a fuel leak in my central line. There must be some kind of corrosion in my--”

“Put a plug in it, you wet hypochondriac,” Starscream says, and whirls back to Rodimus. “Your inability to keep your face in a mask is going to get not just you booted, but me too!”

Rodimus makes a face at him. “What? No it won’t.”

“When they realize the system is screwed up, who do you think the first person they’re going to look at is? It’s me! The guy who knew what was going on and didn’t say anything! You might be confident about the state of your immortal spark, but me?” Starscream jerks a thumb back at his own chest. “I know what kind of slag I’ve done, and I know where I’m going. No one cares why you did it, they only care about the stain on your hands.”

“I wouldn’t tell them about you,” Rodimus says, but he sounds less confident now.

“You don’t have to!” Starscream says. “Pharma already half suspects me, I’m sure of it. And I’m the one who’s got a--” he jams a hand into his subspace and pulls out a couple loose pearls, “--a subspace full of stolen chandelier fixings! Primus, I have got to find somewhere to put these! ”

“Why do you have--” Magnus starts to say, but Starscream just shoves the pearls into his hands and keeps on talking.

“If you tip them off that the problem here can be people, it’s only a matter of time before they notice that I don’t belong! And you! Don’t! Narc!” he jabs Rodimus in the chest, “On your pals!”

Rodimus stumbles back from the jabs to his chest, wide-eyed. He looks from Starscream to Magnus. “They wouldn’t,” he says. “Would they?”

Magnus looks up from the fist full of purloined pearls. “I--” he says. “I would vouch for Starscream’s… willingness to improve, but… yes, I think, given the rule of law, he would likely be removed.”

“Which means Magnus,” Starscream says, going in for the kill, “would be alone. Forever. ”

Rodimus looks between them, sighs, and collapses petulantly into a chair. He picks at one of his new decals, which is shiny and golden and completely over the top. There must be something to the idea that he's meant to be Thunderclash’s sparkmate. Their shared taste is certainly tacky enough.

Magnus resets his voice box with a pointed little pop of static. “I have agreed to give Starscream instruction in legal ethics,” he says, straightening up into a stiff military posture. “I will extend the same service to you. Attend my lessons, apply yourself, and you may yet find that you improve yourself enough to settle amongst your peers.”

“Thanks but no thanks, Big Blue,” Rodimus says, still staring at the wall, cheek propped up on his fist. “I don’t want cop lessons from a cop.”

“You do realize I wasn’t a police officer, don’t you?” Magnus says. “I was a member of the primal vanguard, until Tyrest selected me to enforce the accords. Which is an intragalactic post .”

“You say scrap I say slag,” Rodimus replies, flicking his hand. “Whatever. No thanks for the lessons. I know I’m a good person, even if this stupid slagging system doesn’t.”

Starscream doesn’t have to look to know that Magnus is gearing up to argue, and his wing gives an irritated flick. “Leave it,” he snaps at Magnus, “he’s not gonna talk, are you, Hot Rod ?”

Rodimus glares at him for a long moment, then deflates. “Fine. I’ll shut up and be a monk, but I don’t like it.”

“No one said you had to,” Starscream says, then waves his hand at Magnus. “Let’s get out of here.”

He hasn’t taken more than two steps before the sound of the front door being thrown open and a familiar, grandiose voice echo through the house. Magnus gives Starscream a panicked look. Scrap.

“Scrap,” Starscream says, and turns around. Rodimus is also frozen in place and makes no move to help. Panic starts to light up Starscream’s systems, but then his eyes light on Rung, standing calm and patient as ever next to the broken window. “Rung!”

“Yes?”

“Clean this up! Get rid of everything he --” he jerks his head at Rodimus, who seems to be just starting to pull himself out of a haze “--had you conjure.”

“Okay!”

“And fix the window!”

“Okay!” Rung snaps his fingers, and the mess vanishes. The shards of glass from the window fly into place and meld together like they were never broken, and hoverboard and scuff of pink paint vanish with a soft chiming sound.

“Great,” Starscream says, “now frag--”

“Thank you, Rung,” Magnus says with a pointed look at Starscream. As much as he would love to argue about how stupid it is to be reprimanding him about manners now, Thunderclash’s footsteps are getting closer.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” Starscream says in a rush. “Now go.”

Rung vanishes with another pleasant chime, and Rodimus pouts at the spot where he was standing. Starscream looks around, ready to congratulate himself on a job well done, and spots the pearls still clutched in Magnus’ hands.

“Wait, frag , give me those!” Starscream snatches the pearls out of his unresisting hands and crams them back into his subspace. He really should’ve asked Rung to take care of those too.

“And put your face back on!” Starscream snaps at Rodimus.

Thump, thump . There’s a creak at the hinges of the door, and Starscream hurriedly closes his subspace. It’s fine, everything is fine, he’s taken care of it and they’re all going to get away  with it--

Thunderclash steps through the door, and does a double take.

“What… are you all doing down here?” Thunderclash says.

Starscream’s tanks practically ice over. Oh. He didn’t think that far ahead.

“Nothing,” Rodimus says, sullenly, looking at the wall.

Thunderclash looks from Ultra Magnus, who appears physically ill from the effort of resisting the instinct to narc, to Starscream, who is just standing awkwardly in the middle of the room trying not to look like someone who has a subspace full of stolen pearls, to Rodimus, who is still slumped in the chair with his ostentatious new decals.

“I cannot believe,” Thunderclash says, slowly, “that all of you… went behind my back… to try and teach Hot Rod Neo Cybex!”

Starscream resets his audials. “I--yes--what?”

“I should have realized,” Thunderclash says, pressing his palms to his helm, “Caminus has been separate from Cybertron-proper for so long--it was millions of years ago when the colonies broke off--”

Thunderclash just about lunges across the floor, falling to one knee at the foot of Rodimus’s chair. Rodimus jerks back, wild eyed, as Thunderclash reaches nonetheless for him. The big bot takes hold of Rodimus’s golden hands like a knight swearing eternal devotion to a Prime in one of those fancy propagandas.

“All this time I thought you were just refusing to speak to me out of a sense of cultural obligation, but you’re embarrassed! Your dialect probably stagnated several thousand years ago, you don’t know anything about modern colloquial speech on the homeworld!”

Rodimus looks desperately at Starscream, very visibly straining to get his hands out of Thunderclash’s iron grip.

“Hot Rod, my beautiful, innocent Hot Rod--you should know I don’t care how silly your accent is!” Thunderclash assures him. “Nothing you do could ever embarrass me! I’m just happy to be here with you, forever, while we spend every moment of the next eternity learning absolutely everything about each other. You shouldn’t be afraid to talk to me in whatever charming little style your people are accustomed to.”

Starscream fights to keep a straight face. Even by the standards of the Shades, Rodimus’s gutter-slum slang is disorientingly modern. Rodimus, for his part, is visibly offended at the suggestion he might sound either silly or charming.

“Now that you’re speaking,” Thunderclash tells him, “you absolutely must attend the event I’m planning. I want you to be there to see the very first ever Thunderclash Soiree ever thrown--it will mean so much to me to have you there, cheering me on.”

Rodimus nods slowly.

Thunderclash slumps in visible relief. “Wonderful,” he sighs. “I know you’ll love it, I won’t let you down! Well, you or anyone else here, of course, but you especially! I’ve never met a task I couldn’t excel at on the very first try, even with--with so many people watching! And then someday you’ll be able to say you were right there at the very first ever Thunderclash Hosted Event, cheering from the sideline the whole time!”

With the look of someone who has a gun pressed against their head, Rodimus says, “Na...maste…?”

Starscream mouths what? at Rodimus, who gives him an angry little how should I know? shrug. Thunderclash is still clutching his hands like they’re some kind of primal sacrament.

“Well!” Starscream says, clapping hard enough to startle Thunderclash. “That’s enough for today, I think. Thunderclash, why don’t you show Magnus out, okay? I just need to wrap up here with Rodi--Hot Rod.”

“Of course,” Thunderclash says, and then lifts Rodimus’s hand to his mouth. He presses his lips to the knuckles, gently and lingeringly, before he finally tears himself away. The second he’s turned way to collect Ultra Magnus, Rodimus screws up his weird optics and scrubs his knuckles against the chair upholstery.

“Great,” he hisses, as the parlor door closes behind both their fake conjunxes. “Now I’ve got to go to his stupid party and pretend to be some hoity toity Camien for who knows how many hours--”

“Oh how horrible, Primus spare you from free drinks,” Starscream says. “Just keep saying fake words and you’ll be fine. Bow to people. Hum enigmatically. The mask does all the work for you, you’re just being a minibot about it.”

Rodimus thumps some hidden lever and the whole chair clunks backwards into a reclining position. He eyes Starscream, expression inscrutable behind the ceramic faceplate. “It’s not me you oughta be worried about,” he says, after a moment. He nods his head meaningfully at the window, where down below the small figures of Thunderclash and Magnus are paused on the lawn.

Even from here, Starscream notes with sudden unease, Magnus looks like he’s about to crawl out of his frame. It’s a worrying posture to see on anyone, let alone someone with built-in shoulder-missiles.

Rodimus picks up a paperweight in the shape of a Creation Matrix and tosses it, absently, spinning it in midair before he catches it in his hands. “Your bot’s a bona fide narc,” he says.  “How long d’you really think he can keep this up?”

Chapter Text

Starscream points at one of the glittering strings of floating roselights on sparkling aluminum. “See that?” he says, with a little nudge at Magnus’ side. “My idea. ‘Keep the light low’, I said. ‘Low consistent light is good for dinners and dates. Super romantic and intimate’. I think it gives the whole place a nice ambiance. Approachable.”

“It’s beautiful,” Magnus replies. “Almost keeps my mind off the fact that we’re lying to the organizer of this event about his sparkmate, and if any of us are discovered, I’ll be responsible for sending both of you to the smelting pit. Am I an accomplice? How do they attribute justice in the Good Place?”

“Well, frag me for trying to keep your mind off that, I guess,” Starscream says, “come on, we’re sitting over there.” Pushing at Magnus’ shoulder with one hand and grabbing a protesting Rodimus by the spoiler with the other, he starts shoving his way towards the dimly lit corner.

“Nice spot,” Rodimus whispers, “was this whole co-organizer thing just an excuse to get your boyfriend alone in the dark with you?”

“You’re sitting at the same table, idiot, it’s for four people,” Starscream hisses back, “and if you must know, we’re here because it’s near the back of the house.”

Everything about the event really does fit together well. The music’s at a good level, stringformers backing up a woodwind soloist in a soft concerto-form orchestration of Don’t Need Money Don’t Need Fame by BaySea. (Starscream doesn’t own any of her albums, but it’s hard to avoid hearing about that one submarine femmebot who made it big.) Soft lights hang between tall columns and plinths. There’s a variety of table sizes, for larger and smaller social groups, all at a good distance from each other that the noise doesn’t get cacophonous. Starscream’s tempted to go find Thunderclash and give him a pat on the back, tell him it’s a job well done, except then he’d probably be subjected to a thirty-minute lecture on how actually this was a group effort, and oh, how could I have done it without you, my Best Friend Starscream, and basically it’d be a slagshow.

Besides, someone needs to keep an eye on Brainiac and Brainless here. Magnus looks like he’s about to implode, and Rodimus looks like he’s about to explode. Starscream sighs and takes a seat. In front of him is an empty plate, with six sets of cutlery flanking either side, and a sherry glass full of something that smells like it could melt paint off an active F-22 next to a wine glass half-full of something pale and sparkling. He goes for the sherry glass first.

To his credit, he barely winces as he forces it down his intake.

“Don’t give me that look,” he snaps at Rodimus, who’s taken a break from scratching impudently at his facemask to goggle, “I need bracing up. You two are killing me, here.”

“What was that?”

“As far as I can tell? Turpentine.” He shoots a glance the other way towards Ultra Magnus, who’s looking down at his table setting with something like horror and nausea working together to find middle ground. “It’s not as complicated as it looks,” he soothes, placing the tips of his fingers delicately over Magnus’ forearm, “you start at the outside and work your way in. Just follow my lead.”

Magnus glances down at his hand and pulls his arm back. Starscream’s hand retreats like it’s been burned. “How can I follow your lead on anything?” he snaps. “How am I supposed to sit here, across the table from him--”

“Hey,” Rodimus interjects, “I can hear you, you know.”

“--And act like everything is fine?” Magnus goes on, rolling over Rodimus like a dedicated tank on wide treads. “And you--you’re blaming me for having an emotional reaction? Just because you’re some kind of career criminal who takes lying and, and stealing in stride--”

Starscream frowns. “Wait, I might have lied, but I never--”

“You think I don’t know where those pearls came from?” His glare burns into Starscream. “You literally said that they were stolen while you shoved them into my hands. That first morning, the chaos, the majority of the destruction--that was all you. You stole them, the glitch practically destroyed our entire home, and all you care about is covering for yourself.”

Something hot and furious and ugly is burning behind Starscream’s face as he glares back. “You know what? You’re right!” he snaps. “Does that make you happy? Does that make you feel righteous? All I care about is myself! Because I’m the only thing that sticks by me! I can’t count on anybody to have my back! Not you, not him, not--”

The soft cut of cutlery tapping on stemware slices through the room, and Starscream startles with a jump, jerking away from Magnus’ stare to see Pharma on the bandstand, smiling politely, flanked on either side by Rung and Thunderclash. “Thank you all so much for coming,” he declares, grin broad, “first of all, I’d like to say a few words about all of you while the waitstaff is bringing your food to your tables…”

“Starscream,” Magnus says, “I didn’t--”

“Save it,” Starscream interrupts, not looking at him, “we’ll talk later.” He pointedly avoids the look Rodimus is shooting at him, focusing attentively on Thunderclash’s tense frame.

“...Being so supportive of me in this trying time,” Pharma is saying, “which is why I wanted to encourage community-building activities like this opening. If it hadn’t been for Vega’s beautiful vision, we wouldn’t have evenings like this. And, of course, if it hadn’t been for organizers like Thunderclash--” the room explodes into a smattering of applause. “--Yes! Give it up! You know, I feel like you’d all rather hear from him than from me,” he adds jokingly, and glances back at Thunderclash.

...Who raises two modest hands. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” he says, smiling, as the crowd bursts into another round of applause. Starscream squints. He might be overthinking it, but he’s pretty sure that’s Thunderclash’s ‘terrified’ pose.

“Oh, great,” Rodimus sighs, slumping over, “we’re about to get another four-R lecture about how he starred in a vidreel once.”

Starscream watches as Pharma maneuvers Thunderclash into the front of the triad, where he smiles and waves awkwardly. “Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s about to pass the buck,” he says, tank churning. Not to me, he thinks, fingers clenching into fists on the tablecloth, please don’t pass it to me…

“Thank you so much, Pharma,” Thunderclash says, “thank you, everyone. Really, if I’m going to say anything at all about the experience of organizing my very first event, it can only be composed of gratitude. I want to thank Pharma for thinking of me, and for giving me this opportunity, which has been so rewarding and so integral to my development. There were so many other residents who would have been so much better suited to do this, but you thought of me, because it would make so many people so happy to watch me succeed.”

“I’m gonna blow chunks,” Rodimus mutters, “I swear to any and all deities that are listening, I’m gonna blow chunks all over this carpet. I can’t do this, mech.” Starscream kicks him under the table.

“Of course, I also have to thank Vega for even making this opportunity possible,” Thunderclash continues, “if it weren’t for his beautiful dream, I would never have been able to connect with the mechs who assisted and tutored me through this process…”

Not me, not me, not me--

“Starscream, could you stand up?” Thunderclash asks, squinting at him through the murk of the evening lighting, and Starscream feels his tank crumple up inside him. Thunderclash beams and starts waving his hands. “Starscream is--yes, you, come on--Starscream is the true hero of this evening. If he hadn’t been there for me when I first asked him for advice, I would never have known where to begin.”

Standing in the least-lit corner of the room, Starscream waves an awkward little hand and smiles. Sure, sure, get through it and move on to the next person--

“There are mechs who might make the mistake of underestimating Starscream,” Thunderclash rolls on, and Starscream’s smile tightens until his denta crack together, “who might see him and think less of him due to his smaller stature, or even for his social status in life. But having worked personally with him, I can assure anyone in this room that to underestimate him would be a great personal failing. He is intelligent, and honest, and generous with his time and advice almost to a fault. I am lucky to call him my closest--and most intimate--friend,” he says, smiling, “and to say that his sparkmate, Ultra Magnus, is even luckier than I.”

Magnus glances up, apparently in surprise, and Starscream nods and magnanimously waves off a smattering of applause as he sinks back into his seat.

“Of course, I also have to thank Racketwrench,” Thunderclash continues on, and Starscream stares meaningfully at his wine glass. His turpentine-stuff hasn’t refilled yet, which concerns him slightly. Maybe he has to ask Rung specifically?

Rodimus kicks him under the table.

“Ow! What?”

“That was like, so intense,” Rodimus hisses, “are you fragging that guy?”

“What?” Starscream reels. “What are you-- ‘that guy’? Do you mean your sparkmate? No, I am not-- I helped him organize this event, what are you--”

“I mean, it’s okay with me if you are, no hard feelings.”

“For your edification, Rodimus,” Starscream hisses, tanks starting to boil against the rising heat in his frame, “I can get a job and work at a high level of authority without fragging someone! Believe it or not, I do have skills beyond how desirable some grounder finds my frame!”

“Woah, not where I was going with that,” Rodimus says, throwing up two hands in the universal ‘chill out’ signal. “I just meant, that was like, so intense. Also, he said ‘intimate’. I know what intimate means.”

“Oh, thank Primus, Rodimus knows what a word means,” Starscream sighs, and presses two fingers to his temple. “Someone, circle the date on the calendar! An ‘intimate friend’ is just a close friend. He’s showing off his vocabulary, not telling everyone in this room that we’re ‘with benefits’ or something.”

“Drift and I were definitely ‘with benefits’,” Rodimus says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as Starscream shoots a desperate look in Magnus’ direction. His sparkmate is rearranging the cutlery by size and pointedly not looking at him. Typical. Just more sulky, unhelpful behavior. “Of course, Drift’s the kind of guy who knows what he likes, so he was basically ‘with benefits’ with everybody. No judgement, though, ‘cause practice makes perfect, right? I’d go to visit him and he’d always make time, he’d be like, ‘oh, come on up, I’m just distilling some diesel, wink wink,’ and I’d be like--”

Should he apologize to Magnus? No, he’s not--he’s not sorry for snapping, Magnus is the one who came after him like that, just because Magnus is having a terrible day doesn’t mean he has to bend and scrape for him. Starscream’s had nothing but bad days since he got here. Still, it’s not fair that Magnus might have heard--would Magnus believe that, that Starscream and Thunderclash--no, he’s not stupid. And anyway, if--if he does believe it, it doesn’t make it true, and--Magnus is always saying, goodness of character, clean moral judgement, it's about what you do and how you act, not how others perceive--

“--Even though one time, we got like, full-on gooshy,”  Rodimus is saying, “it was lowkey pretty nasty, but Drift was loving it because I have the touch, you know? Which--”

“I am begging you to stop talking,” Magnus interrupts.

“I hate to agree with Magnus,” Starscream adds, “but seriously, your whole disguise revolves around you shutting up, like, 90% of the time. Can you shut up?”

“Why? So you two can keep bringing down the mood by getting out the paperwork and planning your divorce?” Rodimus snaps. “All I’m trying to do is make this table, like, slightly more livable, and all you two want to do is fight and not talk to each other. Well, I wanna talk about Drift and his weird fetish for--”

“--So without further ado,” Thunderclash’s voice cuts through, “I’m going to hand the floor over to Vega, to explain exactly what he’s prepared for this dinner and just how exciting it all is. Please, can we get a round of applause--thank you, thank you--”

Starscream claps politely as Thunderclash dips away from the microphone and fully off the stage, slipping past a few tables into the dark of the restaurant floor. “I’m gonna go check in with him,” he says, “make sure he doesn’t lose it the night of. You guys, just--sit here, and don’t kill each other somehow…”

He gets to his pedes and starts making his way through the dim towards Thunderclash. The big guy looks like he’s about to start stagger-venting, all clenched fingers and tensed arms, and as much as Starscream loves a disaster party, he’d rather not have one when his name’s been so thoroughly attached to it. Besides, if one more thing goes wrong tonight, Magnus is gonna snap and rat him out for sure.

“Hey, good job holding it together,” he says, tapping Thunderclash on the upper arm, “did you plan that?”

“No, Pharma just dropped it on me,” Thunderclash whispers back, grinning and looking slightly hysterical. “But it was okay?”

“Very thorough,” Starscream says. “Excruciatingly so. You know I didn’t think I would ever get enough of hearing about myself but! Here you are! The miracle mech, proving me wrong!” He gives Thunderclash a slightly-harder-than-friendly tap on the chest because he cannot punch him right now. “You look like you’re gonna pop a gasket, do I need to find you a rebooting couch?”

“Rebooting couch!” Thunderclash says, with a thin, uneasy laugh. “Imagine me, rebooting! In front of all these people!”

“Well technically you’re in back of them right now,” Starscream says, as he frantically calculates how much of Thunderclash’s considerable weight he’ll actually be able to support if the big mech goes down.

Thunderclash makes a noise that sounds more like a hiccup than a laugh and slaps a hand over his mouth. “Oh Starscream, you’re so funny!” His optics are so bright that Starscream almost looks away just to protect his own. “I’m so glad you liked the speech, can you believe Pharma didn’t even warn me? I mean I-”

“Everything alright over here?”

“Oh, Pharma! We were just talking about you,” Thunderclash says, and if Starscream were a less observant mech, he would’ve missed the deliberate way Thunderclash keeps Starscream’s wing between himself and Pharma. Interesting.

“All good things, I hope,” Pharma says, rubbing his hands together. “Thank you for giving it your all with that speech, by the way. I know we didn’t prep, but I just knew everyone was expecting something. Of course, I didn’t doubt your abilities to improvise something spectacular.”

“I’m so glad one of us didn’t,” Thunderclash says, and laughs. It’s getting shriller every time.

Starscream suppresses the urge to raise an eyebrow. “Everything’s going fine,” he says, when Pharma continues to stand expectantly, “the music’s at a good volume, it seems like conversation is going well, and the food is so… organic and free-range. Some of this energon looks like it's fresh out of the ground. I think there's still dirt in it.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic,” Pharma says, and clasps his hands together. “Well, why don’t you two go sit down and enjoy dinner? With everything done, I’m sure the two of you would love to ‘chat it up’ with your special somebodies, and surely there’s no reason to remain vigilant all evening…” he trails off meaningfully, glancing around the room.

Starscream risks a glance back at his own table, where Ultra Magnus is now anxiously twirling various cutlery and rearranging it again, presumably into some more mathematically efficient structure. His mood, low to begin with, takes a moment to curdle. “Actually,” he says, plastering a huge grin on his face as he turns back to Pharma, “you’re most likely to have problems come up during an event. It’s important that someone stays on the ground, monitoring, um, things the whole time.”

“I’ll stay on the ground, too,” Thunderclash insists, “I couldn’t possibly leave Starscream to fend for himself out here, when it’s my event. We shall do it together.” He throws an affectionate arm around Starscream’s shoulders and squeezes, as if he’s trying to make a point.

“Uh, yep,” Starscream says, listening to something in his joints creak under the strain, “I don’t know if you’ve been informed of this, Pharma, but we do everything together, now, because we’re best friends.”

Pharma’s grin splits his face. “Wonderful!” he says. “You two are such kindred spirits, I just knew you’d get along and make each other so endlessly happy. It’s wonderful that you have each other to lean on when you’re forced to be away from your sparkmates all evening.”

Thunderclash’s squeeze loosens a bit. “It is too bad,” he admits, “I had hoped to spend the evening growing accustomed to the sound of Hot Rod’s voice--oh, Pharma, you don’t know!” With a squeal of gears, the pressure on Starscream’s shoulders redoubles. “Starscream and Ultra Magnus have done me such an honor in convincing Hot Rod that his lexicon is nothing to be embarrassed of, and helping him overcome his shyness about talking! I so look forward to making conversation with him--but I suppose I shall just have to wait until tomorrow.”

Pharma raises a finger to his lips. “You know, that’s not such a bad idea,” he says, “Vega’s dinner is personalized for each resident. Maybe we could have an activity! To start a room-wide conversation!”

Starscream opens his mouth to mention that actually, dinner parties usually don’t benefit from people yelling across the room to each other, but Thunderclash is off like a rocket next to him.

“Oh, we could have everyone say one thing they liked about their own dish,” he’s saying, smiling brightly, “and then I could both hear Hot Rod’s voice and learn something about him! Doesn’t that sound just wonderful, Starscream?”

Starscream thinks of all of the things he’s learned about Rodimus over the past week, and then he thinks about Thunderclash learning them. Okay, what he said before about avoiding disaster parties? He’s changed his mind.

“Uh, yeah,” Starscream says, “that sounds just… so, super wonderful. The most wonderful. I’m going to… double-check with the kitchen that everything’s going smoothly, okay? Just… touch base with the back of the house. You stay here and cover the tables.”

He turns heel. The world kind of goes… cool. It’s far away from Starscream, who is just a processor running calculations in a head with a mouth that smiles at whoever it needs to. This room becomes a series of angles and pressure points, escape routes, weak spots. His hand snags a cup of clear bright energon from in front of a guest as he walks past.

(“Hey!” he’s dimly aware that someone is saying. “Who was that guy?”)

What are his assets. His nullrays shoot confetti at about the same pressure differential as a loud yawn, and the room is too tight for him to transform in. Rung conjured the stage for them and it’s sturdy metal but it’s too heavy to move with all the performers on top. All the meals are already out, he can’t poison them or--ignite them--

The pale energon in his hand catches flickers of roselight, peachy and warm. In that moment, he sees the crystal-clear line from A to B.

No one notices him swiping bottles from the kitchen into his subspace. No one notices him rounding the back of house, past the curtains, into the improvised backstage. It’s just an alcove behind the platform, something with a view of the lake outside, perfect for a romantic table for two or else for storing sheet music. Through the gaps of the stage curtains he can see the shadows of wind and brassformers as they rock against the platform in time to their parts. He edges closer.

“Perhaps Hot Rod could start us off with something,” Pharma is saying distantly. “Hot Rod, stand up! A round of applause! Hot Rod, what about your meal is so special to you?”

Rodimus’s voice box clicks with reset. “Let me tell you all,” he says, slowly, “about Maccadam’s Old Oil House…”

Primus have mercy.

The salt that Vega is using for the base of his house brewed Old Corroder is a chemical matrix that reacts violently to the kind of solvent they keep on hand for cleaning up sticky spills. Expose energon to that reaction, and you have explosive conflagration. Starscream slides the peachy pale drink up against one of the stage supports, lays the salt down around it, and then crawls back to a safe distance, with his thrusters pressed up against the window and his knees pinning sheet music to the floor.

Arson is a great problem solver. Every time Starscream introduces arson to a problematic situation, he immediately has a new, different problem.

Starscream lines up the open bottle of cleaning solvent with the nose of his nullray, takes aim, and fires. Confetti flowers the air; the bottle rockets forward into the cube and tips it over; there’s a soft crackle like a krsh krsh, and then-

A boom.

The stage collapses sideways, instruments in their altmodes skidding and crashing down in a pile on the floor as smoke and chips of broken marble spit out from the site of detonation. Starscream whips up to his feet and slides out the other way while the room’s attention is on the ten mech pile up stage left. A tuba gives a sad wheeze.

From there it’s easy to rush up to the tangle of mechs and join Thunderclash and Pharma in damage control. Or rather, Thunderclash and Starscream help the instrumentformers while Pharma wrings his hands and does frag all, and Starscream pauses in helping the woodwind untangle her half-transformed arm from a stringformer’s strings to roll his optics. Everyone here needs to get a fragging grip.

Okay, that's his alibi secured. On to the next thing. Where’s Ultra Magnus? The last thing he needs is the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accords snooping around his crime scene.

“Magnus!” Starscream shouts, “can you--there you are! Can you lift this guy for me? I don’t have the leverage. Wonderful, thank you, you’re a peach.”

Magnus squints at him, braced against the ground to lever this admittedly pretty heavy silver guy out of the tangle. “What’s a peach?” he says.

“Great question,” Starscream says, and promptly fucks off.

Everyone is busy disentangling performers or generally rubbernecking in the dining area, so backstage is still empty when Starscream slips back into it. The explosion didn’t leave much behind except for the slagged support strut, but Starscream wriggles down until he can get an arm underneath the platform, fishes out the remains of the solvent bottle, and chucks the melted husk out the alcove window for safe measure. It’s important to be seen responding to the disaster immediately, but it’s equally important not to leave around any suspiciously out of place crime tools where his law enforcement sparkmate can find them.

There. A flawless plan executed flawlessly. Starscream’s vision swims for a moment as the cold clarity of panic finally subsides into the warm relief of satisfaction. His ventilation systems give a full body shudder.

Everyone is mostly back on their feet when Starscream re-engages with the festivities. All the performers are being herded towards the kitchen, presumably for a steadying pull of whatever was in that sherry glass earlier. Magnus passes the last of the stunned mechs into the arms of Pharma, who at last seems to have remembered he’s a medical build and is making himself useful. Or at least he’s wearing a medical build. Starscream still isn’t sure how this heavenly psychopomp thing actually works.

“What did I miss?” Starscream asks, brushing away some dust before settling his hip against the nearest table. One of these glasses is still full. Maybe he can just...

“Where were you?” Magnus asks. “Is something going on?”

Starscream absently brushes a little snowfall of construction dust from his shoulder. “Nothing, nothing,” he says. “Just a bit of last-minute damage control.”

He pauses, hand halfway to the glass at his hip. His fingers appear to be powdered with white lime chalk. He looks up. He looks down.

The building groans.

Starscream saw a sinkhole open up in Vos once, a long long time ago. From the air, watching the support struts of the military quarter collapsing into the swamp of the planet surface had been almost poetic. The rubble and sludge tearing open the ground like a gaping toothy maw hadn’t meant anything to Starscream then. It was all so far away below the frantic evacuation launching from every window and walkway. No one lived on the ground of Vos--it was unlivable, nothing but sludge and rust and the broken shells of ancient garbage that had been easier to push over a discrete ledge than scrap for recycling. From the tower of a senatorial office, the whole cataclysm had barely rippled the liquid of the drink order he had been dispatched to retrieve.

Senator Sherma’s host had tutted, hardly even glancing down long enough to confirm the nature of the disaster. “Should have backed that bill to have the supports repaired,” he had remarked. “Starshriek, bring the coolant over here, would you.”

This is alike to that experience in the same way that a draining tub is alike to a supermassive black hole. In other words, this is not like that.

The ceiling goes first. He would have thought it would be the other way around, but actually the first sign that something has gone terribly awry is the distressed creaking from the ceiling beams, and the growing trickle of dust falling from above. Ragged cracks shoot across the marble from underneath his pedes, rattling the cutlery on the tables as it passes underneath. He wobbles, catches his balance, and throws himself away from the crumbling gash.

“Get back!” he hears Ultra Magnus shouting, as the same time that Thunderclash is yelling, “Walls and doorways! Stick to the walls and doorways!”

The gaping nothingness beneath the restaurant first swallows a table whole, decorative arrangement and cutlery and all. That crashes and shatters against the bottom of the pit, however deep in the gloom it is--another table promptly slides over the edge of the sinkhole after it, and then another, each wreckage worse sounding as ceramics and silver smash into each other. Chunks of the ceiling crash into the floor.

Starscream staggers back into a pillar and steadies himself--everything is cracking up, like an ice flow in a spring thaw--he spots Rodimus, on the other side of the fissure, penned back against their table as the chasm widens before him. Thunderclash is at the exit, directing people through as Magnus hands them off like a well-oiled rescue machine.

Every instinct is screaming at Starscream to transform and flee, but he reigns himself in with gritted denta. There’s too much falling debris, and the space is too confined. Once the ceiling opens up a little wider, he can take off through the clear space, he just needs to wait it out-

The ground beneath Rodimus abruptly splinters into a spiderweb of unstable hairline fractures. Rodimus clambers up onto the table, rucking back the tablecloth and knocking over glasses in his haste. The profanity filter does some creative gymnastics with his cursing while he jabs a finger at Starscream. “You shoulda let me bring my fragging hoverboard!” he shouts, as the table gives a wobble underneath him.

Magnus turns at the sound. Even on the other side of the room, Starscream can feel as much as see the way his optics widen and then narrow, the way his mouth tightens, the way that he goes still for a single perfect fraction of a klik. The decision writes itself over every strut of his frame.

“No,” Starscream says, getting louder with each syllable, “no no no, don’t you even think about--!”

Magnus launches himself. Those pistons don’t hold anything back; his whole heavy body moves like it’s spring loaded, so that for a moment it seems as if he’s in flight. The floor crumbles. Rodimus leaps from the tabletop as the whole thing falls away under him. He throws out a hand.

And then there’s just the whumph and explosion of dust as Magnus hits the inside wall of the pit with Rodimus tucked to his side.

It’s impossible to see from this angle, but it seems like they’re stable. Starscream is deep in thinking about ropes and tablecloths and fabric tensile strength when Magnus calls out, and so it takes him a moment to realize Magnus isn’t talking to him at all.

“Thunderclash!” Magnus calls. “We need an extraction!”

Across the room, Thunderclash perks up.

Starscream pushes off the pillar and skitters sideways towards the edge of the pit, thrusters skidding on the ground. He doesn’t have a very good frame for ground balance, with a high center of gravity and precariously heeled pedes. His hands swing out as he moves, trying to steady himself against the shifting floor.

“I swear to the shadow of the pit-blasted assembly line that spit my chassis into this slagshaft existence,” Starscream snarls, “if you fall in there, I will light you on fire and sell the scrap.”

The floor has opened up so wide that it’s more like the full jawed yawn of paleozoic predacon, a mouth full of half chewed prey, but it doesn’t seem to be spreading as much anymore. Only the occasion bit of roofing crashes to the floor. Now that Starscream is closer, he can see past the rim of the wreckage to where Magnus has anchored himself with one arm to a makeshift handhold in the concrete foundation.

“--Gotta throw me,” Rodimus is saying, “don’t freak, okay, I can handle it--”

In the thick gloom of the dust and the night sky opening in a sliver above them, Magnus’s optics glow like headlights. “I will not recklessly endanger your life after just--”

“Thunderclash!” Rodimus shouts, wriggling in Magnus’s grip until he’s all but climbing the bigger mech’s shoulder. “Big M’s gonna toss me, you ready?”

Without a second of hesitation, Thunderclash bends his knees and locks his stance at the far edge of the pit. The ground gives a threatening tremor below them all.

When Starscream thinks back on this later, he will come to the conclusion that Magnus wouldn’t have gone along with it if it weren’t for the tremor. For a brief flash his eyes are narrow and disproving as he struggles to keep hold of Rodimus, and then--as the ceiling creaks, the marble floor makes a terrible pop, something gives way--they go wide with pale blue realization.

At the same time that the concrete handhold crumbles from beneath Magnus’s grip, even as gravity is reasserting its cold tyranny, Magnus uses the flat of his free hand to springboard Rodimus into one last desperate leap. Like two repelling magnets flying apart, Rodimus goes up as Magnus crashes down.

Thunderclash sweeps Rodimus against his chassis and swings him around and they go tumbling back onto more solid ground, but Starscream has stopped paying attention to them at the first familiar scream of metal being punched in the pit down below. It’s a sound that haunts his recharge--armor grade metal bowing and breaking, the crack and snap of internal components. A short sharp groan, and then silence.

Before Starscream even knows what he’s done, he’s over the edge of the pit and scrabbling down concrete-studded rebar, down the piled-up wreckage of tables and the already slagged stage. In the thickness of the air, with the legs of furniture sticking up at twisted angles, it’s almost as if he’s descending into a shipwreck somewhere deep beneath an alien sea. He skids on dirt and then tumbles the last few feet, and Magnus should be right here below him, but he can’t see anything. He can’t see the blue light of those familiar optics. Everything looks jumbled and unfamiliar down here.

He locates the blunt shape of Magnus by tripping over it. All the biolights are dark, the glow of the optics completely snuffed. He lands kneeling on Magnus’s chest, fingers scraping armor until they find something--wrong.

Something hard and sharp is poking out of the middle of the chest plate. It feels like it might be the slagged support strut of the stage, its once-blunt end forged into a warped tip by the heat of the explosion earlier. Magnus’s body weight must have driven it--

Okay, okay, there’s no point in worrying yet. Yes, the fact that none of Magnus’s lights are on is worrying, a little bit, but it’s probably just because the strut is still stabbed through him. This is the Good Place, after all. If Starscream can just get him off that thing, everything will be set right. Everything will be fine.

Starscream grabs him by the shoulders and tries to lift him up off the spit, with denta gritted and servos protesting as he pulls. Primus, the bot is dense. What’s he made of, solid mercury?

With an earsplitting scrape, Magnus suddenly slides free. Starscream staggers back, just managing to stay upright by dint of will and also still holding on to Magnus’s arms.

“There,” he pants, giving Magnus’s shoulder a squeeze. “Up and at ‘em. This place is an MSHA nightmare, I’m not spending a second longer than I have to here.”

But slowly, with the relentless tug of gravity, Magnus slips backwards and hits the ground again.

“No no no no,” Starscream hisses, grabbing frantically after him and missing him by a finger’s reach. Dust rains down over them both. Magnus remains dark, limp, and inanimate.

He’s heavy, he’s so fragging heavy, and so huge… Starscream grabs him under the arm and pulls at him. “You stupid idiot,” he snarls, furious, “get up, already! Help me out, here!”

Magnus doesn’t twitch.

Across the sinkhole, there’s a loud crash and a clatter as another huge chunk of earth comes loose and drops into the depths. Starscream yelps and covers his head with two hands, some old instinct, folding himself over Magnus’ prone body, protect the wings, they’re too costly to lose/can’t be replaced/high reuse value, but the wings are damaged/shattered/missing/etc., protect the processor, if the processor is intact then they can’t scrap the body, there’s regulations--

The rumbling slows, and Starscream pushes himself up on two shaking hands, staring down at Magnus’ offline optics--they’re so close, they could be outside in seconds if he could just get up. “Magnus,” he says, voice box fritzing and sparking painfully, “come on, Magnus, please.”

“Starscream,” someone says, distant from him.

“I can’t move him,” he says, “he won’t move…”

In his periphery, he’s aware of a huge, pale blue hand grabbing Magnus’ other arm, looping under his shoulder. “Come on,” they say, “I need your help, we can get him outside.”

He nods, mutely, and grabs Magnus by the arm again--dark optics won’t come online--the cannons on his shoulders scream as they scrape upwards, over the marble debris--

It’s beautiful outside, it’s always beautiful outside, the stars are

“He won’t wake up,” Starscream says helplessly, dizzy, he is aware of sound and shapes but they don’t mean anything, they don’t have any form. “What’s wrong with him, this wasn’t supposed to happen--we’re in the, in the good place…”

“I’m so sorry,” someone is saying, Thunderclash is saying, “this is all my fault--”

This is the good place, this wasn’t supposed to happen, why won’t he wake up, they’re in the good place, why

“How could this possibly be your fault?” Starscream snaps, and throws his wings back, high, ready to strike. “How could any of this be your fault? You didn’t build this place!”

His gaze shoots left, right--stops on a red-and-white frame, wings, little blue lights on a bright-friendly-here-to-help paintjob. “He did,” he snarls, and jerks a finger forward, pointing furiously at the architect. “He built a neighborhood where someone like Magnus could get hurt.” He feels optics on him, people are staring but he can’t see them, they’re not important. They’re not who he’s looking for. “This is the bad place.”

Pharma holds Starscream’s gaze, frozen, looking as confused and alarmed as every unimportant, mindless drone behind him. He holds up his hands in what’s clearly meant to be a soothing gesture, and Starscream’s plating flares. He’s a good liar, but Starscream’s a professional. People don’t just lie to him and get away with it.

“Starscream,” Pharma says, coming back into motion, “I know things have been rough, but I’m doing my best. I promise, this is--this is just a mistake.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Starscream shouts. His voicebox sparks and shorts for a moment in a burst of feedback before coming back online, and Starscream clutches his throat. Someone, Rodimus, Starscream thinks, touches his shoulder.

Starscream jerks away, clipping Rodimus on the side of the head with his wing, and snarls, “Don’t touch me!”

He’s aware of Thunderclash wrapping his arms around Rodimus, shushing and mumbling something that garbles into nothing in his audials. His optics fall back on the gaping hole in Magnus’ chest. It’s pretty high up, it might’ve missed his spark, it must’ve missed his spark.

In a daze, Starscream twists back to Magnus and touches the ragged edge of the wound. It’s dry. It’s curled back and delicately twisted and it’s as dry as a scrap heap.

Starscream shoves his claw into the hole and starts tearing.

Metal squeals. “I love fake people,” Starscream pants, “I love games--I love drama--” the armor comes away in chunks, tearing gashes in his palms but he keeps going, “--if you screw with my friends I will help you do it--” his shoulders scream in protest as he hooks his fingers under either side of the widening gouge and pries it apart, metal crumples, “I would betray any of my loved ones at any time--”

His hands are smearing energon, new cuts opening as fast as the Good Place can seal them. Pale tracks of pink make the sharp edges of the armor shine as he methodically rips back everything between himself and the spark he knows is in there, somewhere, just a little deeper. He needs to see it. He needs to see that it’s undamaged.

“Starscream, stop, please,” Thunderclash says, grabbing uselessly at his wrists, “stop, stop, you’re going to hurt him--”

“I need to see it, I need to--” Starscream pulls against his grip, pistons overworking and shaking his arms, “if it’s still there he’s still alive, I’ve seen mechs come back from worse, we just have to, we have to, expose the main line and the engine and, he has to be alive, I can’t, I can’t lose this…”

This is my fault, he realizes, staring down at the crumpled metal plates scattered over the ground. I did this.

“Hot Rod, over here,” Thunderclash is saying over his head, “I need your help…”

Vaguely, Starscream is aware of Rodimus’ body kneeling on the ground at his other side, grabbing his shoulder with one arm and touching his back with the other. His vents are fluttering up and down, unable to sink the heat and struggling to regulate his intake. He opens his mouth to tell them both to get off him, that he’s close to the spark, he just needs to move a few major lines, but all that comes out is a sob of static. His optics are on the fritz.

Self-preservation.

It’s all about self-preservation, it’s all about Starscream first, it’s all about maneuvers that a smaller frame could manage in high winds, it’s all about safety first, reconnaissance second, it’s all… it’s all his fault. It’s always been his fault. Mud and snow and wind, that lonely barren sound of wind moaning between distant hills. The wind-torn fog of snowflakes blotting out an empty, lonely sky full of stars he can’t recognize.

“I should have gone back for him.”

“You did go back for him,” Thunderclash soothes, “you pulled him out. You did everything you could.”

He wriggles his hand free, shaking, reaches out to touch the side of the hole. Energon is streaked over his hand--his own? You can’t get hurt in the good place--unless it isn’t--no one will believe him now. “Why isn’t it healing?” he mutters.

Pharma makes a static sound, like he’s resetting his voice box. “Could be proximity to the sinkhole,” he says, “it’s some error in the system, it must have been set off by that trojan. Stabilizing systems aren’t working nearby. We should… vacate, to safer premises…”

Who’s fault? Who’s fault? Who put themselves before everyone else? I didn’t just cause a distraction, he realizes with a twist of guilt, I ruined something that Thunderclash worked hard on. He destroyed it in front of everyone. To save himself.

He thinks of Magnus’ voice, earlier that night. ‘That first morning, the chaos, the majority of the destruction--that was all you.’ This is him, too. The sinkhole opened because of him.

‘All you care about is protecting yourself.’

“I’m not going anywhere,” Starscream says, optics not moving from the prone form. There’s a steadying squeeze on his shoulder--with some surprise, he realizes it came from Rodimus.

“Let him try it,” Rodimus says, slowly, and reaches across Starscream’s front to take Thunderclash’s worried, reaching hand. “I’ll stay.”

Thunderclash stares down at their joined hands for a moment, face unreadable. “We’ll both stay,” he says, after a moment. “And we’ll… we’ll help you. What do you need?”

“His, his spark,” Starscream says, trying to tear his gaze away from the linked hands on his lap, “it should be under the, um, the CRV plate--if I can see it, it means he’s alive, it’s…”

Rodimus reaches forward. He stops. “Um,” he says.

“It’s fine, I’ll do it,” Starscream says, shaking his head, “I get that it’s kind of gross, I can do it.”

Rodimus doesn’t move out of the way. “Um,” he says again.

“Okay, budge up, lover-bot,” Starscream sneers, and pushes Rodimus’ arm out of the way, “if you want something done right-”

He jolts back with a scream as a tiny arm punches its way out of the open cavity like a corpse forcing its way out of a grave in a B-reel.

With a rustle, the hand retreats. The CRV plate scrapes as it pops out of the cavity entirely. In its place, a tiny mech sits up and rolls his shoulders before turning to look at his small audience. Green paint job. Red optics. Confusion, maybe shock, on the face.

“Um,” he says. “I can explain.”

“Haha,” Starscream says, and then reboots.

Chapter Text

At the end of the night, the noise in the bar winds down to just the clatter and chime of glassware in the wash station, the grumble of shift-closers as they wipe down the stations and haul out the trash. There’s the sigh of old drunks closing out their tabs. They can't stay open indefinitely—this place is no Maccadam's, they just don’t have the resources. As little as he cares for the job, Starscream doesn't want to go home, but he certainly can't stay here. Maybe he'll go to window shop uptown for thruster upgrades until his regulator fries.

Starscream throws his apron into the crate and turns to find Thundercracker lingering at his back. He tenses.

Thundercracker gives him some kind of grin and retreats marginally. “Want me to walk you home?”

Starscream scoffs. A litany of irritating minor injuries are scratching at his already thin patience; the dent in his aft from where some whistling oaf smacked him on his way to the bar, the numbness in his array, the sore spot on his lip where one of the VIPs bit him after slipping him enough cash to make kissing worth his while. Putting up with his boss on top of all that is the last thing he needs.

“Save the chivalry for the minibots,” he snipes, and kicks the crate away with the back of his thruster.

“You sure?” Thundercracker says. “It’s on my way. You live in Scund’s tenement, right?”

Starscream’s wings bristle. “I didn’t give you permission to know that about me. You should cease knowing it, if you have any idea what’s good for you.”

“Sheesh,” Thundercracker says. He holds up his hands in the universal plea for clemency from the righteous fury of a superior combatant. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll wait five minutes and then pretend I’m not walking the exact same way as you.”

“You will not,” Starscream says. “You will walk several paces in front of me, the whole way, so I know you’re not up to any funny business.”

Thundercracker gives him a long, bemused look. After a moment, he says, “Okay, just let me close out the register.”

It takes Thundercracker longer to wrap up at the front than it does for Starscream to get the serving of fuel included in his “wages”, but it doesn’t occur to him that he’s accidentally made it look like he wants to walk home with Thundercracker until they’re both on the street, walking a few steps apart. Thundercracker wastes no time in falling back into pace with Starscream, in direct contrariness to every single word that they have exchanged today.

If there’s anything Starscream has learned about the blue idiot since he started working at this bar, it’s that Thundercracker’s brain moves like a train on rails. It’s been less than a year and he already knows that it’s pointless to try and shut him down. You just end up steamrolled.

They pass down deeper into the Shades, away from the crust of misery tourism at the mouth of the underground. It’s ironic that so many of them--the winged kind--end up down here sooner or later. But if you can’t take the Shades you either starve on the surface, or you give up and go back to Vos.

“You know,” Thundercracker says, “when I said I wanted to hire you on, Skywarp told me I shouldn’t bother.”

“Don’t try to neg me,” Starscream says, “I’m the grand emperor of negging. I’m un-neggable.”

“He said you were a jerk,” Thundercracker goes on, unperturbed. “He said you act like you think you’re too good for the rest of us.”

“Oh yes, an absolute class traitor I am,” Starscream sniffs. “Just because a mech gets some custom parts—ha! Just because I’ve got a degree and the rest of you grunts have been getting blackout drunk in the same dirty bars since they decommissioned your unit—”

“I’ve got a degree,” Thundercracker says, in an absolutely unreadable tone, and Starscream has to do a double take. He’s never heard Thundercracker utilize irony before—in fact, he would have said the guy wasn’t capable of it.

“What in?” Starscream says. “Last I checked they don’t give out diplomas for breaking the sound barrier.”

“Literary composition,” Thundercracker says. “I specialized in metered forms.”

There’s a weird, hollow feeling in Starscream’s tanks. An uneasy, unbalanced feeling. This day is full of surprises in the way that a bad road is full of potholes. Maybe Skywarp will show up to regale them with his mastery of meditative arts.

“...You finished it?” Starscream asks. “The degree, I mean?”

“Yeah,” Thundercracker says.

See the thing is, cons like them don’t just get degrees in literature. Nobody just gets a degree in literature. That’s a thing you do once you’ve already got two or three applied science degrees under your plating, a luxury indulgence of the alt-exempt, a pedigree for prospective senators and trophy conjunxes. Most of those programs still hadn’t desegregated in anything but name.

Starscream looks him up and down. “And yet you run a dive bar where the wait staff gives head in the back alley.”

Thundercracker gives a stiff little shrug. “Just because you’re qualified doesn’t mean you get the work,” he says. “It’s better than relinquishment.”

They share a moment of sober synchronicity, grimacing at the pictures behind their eyes. Quick and nasty body tourism comes in worse forms than theirs.

A rattling old rust bucket lurches past them as they turn the corner, blowing greasy exhaust over the already dim street. Above them, the cavern ceiling is lit up in long buzzing strips like an old warehouse. Struts pounded into the rock slag hold up the weight of Iacon over their heads. Half the buildings down here are built against those support columns--people in the Shades make do with whatever’s on hand. The place started out as a cold con reserve, and to look at it now, you wouldn’t guess that apartheid was supposed to be over.

He thinks of Vos, sometimes. It’s a thing they all say to each other, when the day is so long that you think you might scream if you don’t crack first. You can always give up and go back to Vos, they say.

“Flicker says he’s getting out of the Shades,” Thundercracker remarks, although his impression of an offhanded remark is about as convincing as pasteboard. “He says he’ll sell me the flat up top, where he lives, if I want it.”

Starscream sneers. “He’s just saying that because he thinks you’ll let him get his spike wet,” he says. “He’s got a fetish for cold cons with smooth shiny seams. You’re his dream bot.”

Thundercracker wrinkles his nose. “You think?” he says. “He’s never said anything about it.”

“Trust me,” Starscream says, flicking his wrist. “I can smell a sucker at twenty paces. You’re thinking about buying in, I take it?”

Thundercracker shrugs self consciously. “It’s a three room,” he says. “I wouldn’t know what to do with the extra space. Skywarp says he wants to move in if I go, but, um…”

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Starscream coos. “You want to share a bedroom with the hyperactive processor glitch. I don’t know what’s funnier, a big lumbering idiot like you with a romantic streak, or the fact that you want to subject some third unwitting fool to your desperate clanking and grinding.”

Instead of rising to the bait, Thundercracker just says, “We were thinking of asking you.”

Starscream briefly loses all sensory input, while the entire not-inconsiderable vastness of his intellect furiously tries to process this. He might still be walking. It’s anybody’s guess.

Trine, is the first thing his stupid seeker brain screams at him, from the primal underside of his social coding. Trine! Trine!

Shut up, he snarls at it. He doesn’t need a trine. He hasn’t had a trine since those days in the barracks, where they used to bunk three to a berth, exhausted and covered in grime with their wings and arms in a tangle. Back then the management used to switch in a new member every time somebody offlined down in the wilderness. There was a kind of innocence in their exhaustion, back then, a kind of intimacy like mechanimals in their burrows, like drones in a storage vault. They hadn’t really known anything about each other, because then there was nothing much to know. They were only one step above disposable class, and they had lived like it too.

Trine meant comfort. Trine meant safety. Trine meant someone to mourn you when the whirlwind swallowed you whole over the jagged desert and there wasn’t even enough left of you to be worth hauling back for scrap.

It’s stupid to long for that again. He doesn’t need anyone. He’s doing just fine on his own.

“Why," is what he manages to say.

They’re at his door, he realizes dimly. This is his building. They’re at his door. How long was he just gaping like an idiot while Thundercracker waited for him to reload?

Thundercracker presses the buzzer for him too, because why not, he guesses. Starscream already looks like a complete headcase, what’s a little more incompetence.

“You’re not what I thought you were gonna be,” Thundercracker says, “I mean you’re prissy as hell and you can’t clean worth a damn, but I dunno. You’re alright.”

Something tightens inside of Starscream’s intake. He swallows to disperse it and hardens his spark. Negotiations are no place for weaknesses like that.

“This would just be business,” Starscream says, warily. “The broom closet I’m shelling rent out for right now is positively pitiful, I’d take anything over more of that.”

“Business, sure,” Thundercracker says, with an uncertain flick of his wing. “If you can come up with a third of the cost we’ll have somebody draw up a contract.”

Starscream jabs a finger into Thundercracker’s chassis. “You had better not try to cheat me,” he says, optics flashing hard and bright. “I’ll be looking over every inch of whatever contract your cronies come up with.”

Thundercracker squints at him. “I don’t have cronies,” he says. “I was just gonna get Pitjumper to write us something. He’s been arrested more times than I’ve had hot baths, he knows a bunch of legal words.”

Starscream hums. “Good enough,” he says.

Thundercracker brightens. He sticks out his hand, firm and stupid and handsome, and says, “Shake on it?”

Starscream looks from his expectant hand to his bright, open face, and grimaces. “Just get it in writing,” he says. “If I’m paying for a third I want to own a third.”

Thundercracker slowly retracts his hand. “Right. Um. See you at work?”

Starscream ignores him and pushes open the door to his building instead. “Whatever,” he says.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, Starscream thinks, and starts tallying his credit accounts.

Starscream is sorting through Thundercracker’s old files, sitting on his berth with his pedes kicked up on the wall, while Thundercracker does the actual work of washing the exhaust soot off the flimsy tenement walls. It builds up in places with bad ventilation like these, and it’s gross. It’s gross and unlike Skywarp, Starscream seems to agree that it’s gross, but he also won’t do anything about it.

If we were a real trine, Thundercracker thinks sourly, we’d both be cleaning, instead of just me.

Starscream taps a new file.

“What it costs,” Starscream reads, “in doctors and parts…”

Thundercracker freezes.

“A simple empurata—” Starscream cuts off with an interested noise. “What’s this?” he says.

Thundercracker drops the cleaning solvent and rushes to get the datapad out of Starscream’s hands. He fumbles with it, fingers clumsy and embarrassed. “It’s nothing—don’t read that,” he says, as Starscream wriggles away with the ‘pad still in hand.

“Why not?” Starscream says, holding Thundercracker at bay with one arm while he squints at the ‘pad on his other side.

“I don’t—it’s nothing,” Thundercracker says, “it was stupid, just give it back.”

“Uhuh,” Starscream says. He holds out for a second longer, but eventually Thundercracker lunges hard enough to knock Starscream fully off the berth where he lands in a yowling heap.Thundercracker hangs off the edge of it, the pad clutched victoriously in his hands.

“What is it though,” Starscream demands once he’s gotten up, with minimal drama. Despite being vain as all pit, Starscream’s pretty tough. He doesn’t scratch too easy. He’s the type to spend all his money on engex and upgrades, and forget about everything else. He can take some damage.

Thundercracker hunches over the ‘pad as he closes out the file and buries it again. “‘S nothing,” he says. “You know how I went to the academy?”

You can’t do anything with a literature degree. It’s not meant for doing. You just have it. It costs a fortune in unpaid hours of work, while everything you write there is sold and distributed under the university name. But it’s not as if someone like him could get distributed any other way.

They don’t talk about this, much. Starscream didn’t finish his degree, and Thundercracker feels... weird, he guesses, about the fact that Starscream—who’s whip smart and kind of a tool about it, but definitely still smarter than Thundercracker even on his worst day—didn’t finish his degree while Thundercracker… did. It’s just another one of those weird things about being friends with Starscream.

“I had to send in a writing sample,” he mumbles. “It’s just what I had around back then. I never finished it.”

Starscream makes a humming noise. He doesn’t ask any more questions. Whether that’s because Thundercracker obviously doesn’t want to talk about it or because Starscream just doesn’t care, that’s anybody’s guess.

They’re not a real trine, not really. They’re just a trio of roommates, tripping over the broken glass of each other’s ugly little pasts. A real trine is trust and synchronicity, caring and keeping. This isn’t that. It’s proximity without commitment. It’s convenience and exhaustion and an intimacy they all pretend not to feel.  

Starscream’s always had a tendency to talk to himself. He spent a long time on his own—neither Skywarp nor Thundercracker are sure how long exactly, except that it was long enough that by the time he swaggered into the bar acting like he was doing them a favor by even showing up to interview, he’d all but started falling apart. He was always muttering, hissing under his breath whenever he thought he wasn’t being paid attention to.

He’ll still turn to speak to someone, sometimes, and seem surprised to find anyone actually there.

So it doesn’t strike Thundercracker as odd to hear Starscream mumbling or chanting or whatever to himself in the mirror. He just pulls the door closed and keeps walking past.

And it doesn’t strike him as odd to hear Starscream humming, or singing to himself in the dark, long after they’re all supposed to be recharging. Starscream has his own room, but the walls are so thin that Thundercracker always hears the singing. He hears the crying too. He doesn’t mention either.

It’s weird how you can want so badly for someone to know you, and still flinch at the idea of being known.

Starscream swaggers up onto the makeshift stage, hips swinging, wings high, and the bar breaks out in catcalls.

Thundercracker grins and leans over the counter. “Boo!” he calls, good naturedly. “Boooo! Talking about yourself isn’t poetry! Get off the stage!”

Starscream counters this with a gesture that conveys graphically what Thundercracker can and should do with his opinion, at which point it occurs to him that Skywarp isn’t backing him up with the usual Starscream-slagging routine. He does a double-take at the room. He finds Skywarp preoccupied with one of their regulars, the old drunk Brass Tap, over next to the stage.

Brass Tap, who comes in to see Acid Storm, transforms into a musical instrument none of them know the name of, and which might be one of a kind. There are buttons and bellows and complicated layerings of small and large tubes. He’s gotten sloshed a couple times and transformed in the bar, played lagging, staggering tunes for the others to sing along to, but Thundercracker has never seen him like this before. He climbs up on the table with barely a stagger and transforms smoothly, coming to rest upright on the pitted steel.

On the stage, which is really just a couple of tables pushed together against the back wall, Starscream cocks a hip.

“This one is for a couple of writers who refuse to share what they make,” he says, and then snaps a claw at the corner with Skywarp and the regular.

A low tone unfurls into a melody, one brassy mouth spitting a rhythm to carry the leaping notes of another. Thundercracker looks from the instrument to Starscream, nonplussed. Starscream can sing, he sings whenever they do a bar-round chorus of Lonely Cybertronian or whatever drinking song the night calls for, and every so often Thundercracker will hear him in the dark, at the window, singing something bitter down at the ragged, seething streets of the Shades. But he’s never tried to sing solo for anyone else before. Thundercracker would have assumed his pride was too prickly to suffer being mediocre at something in front of an audience.

Starscream winks at the audience, and then opens his mouth. “I am a mech who loves finer things! The higher the price, the sweeter the drink!”

Thundercracker gives him an indulgent whistle. Not bad so far. It’s a good tune, and one he hasn’t heard before.

“What else to expect from a mech of respect? The judge in his court is a king!”

At which point Thundercracker’s tanks give a wild lurch, like he’s performing a barrel roll without ever leaving his spot. He knows those lines. He wrote those lines. That’s Crucible, the judge. That’s his opera. How--when--?

“The Law, oh yes! The Law!” Starscream sings, his voice wicked and light, trilling up and down a scale that Thundercracker wouldn’t have thought him capable of a month ago. “The craftsman exists to build objects, and the law exists to make crime! The law, oh yes!”

All around Thundercrackers there is laughter and clapping as people realize with delight that Starscream isn’t just a passable singer—he’s blessed with stage presence. Of course he is. Why didn’t anyone ever think of it? On a stage, all his melodrama and grand gesticulation shine like expensive crystal, rather than cheap glass.

He’s been practicing, Thundercracker realizes. He definitely couldn’t have just gotten up here and sung this, it’s too… challenging, it’s too complicated, it’s not the hardest thing he’s ever heard sung but it’s definitely not Lonely Cybertronian.

“Today on the courtroom floor, they brought me a craftsman who had broken the law. Yes, I know, I know—so sad!” Starscream does a beautifully fake impression of someone who actually feels remorse, turning his head, covering his mouth, drooping his wings. “So sad! So very sad!”

Starscream, mid-pantomime of grief, throws his open palm out towards the stage edge, and allows Acid Storm to place a cube of high grade in it. It’s so smooth, so graceful—it’s rehearsed, they rehearsed this, Thundercracker can’t get past that realization. Skywarp, Skywarp must have done the music for it, that’s why he’s over there with Brass Tap, he orchestrated this.

“The prosecution was done up in red, the bailiff was done up in blue—the resting defense fell asleep, but the trial of course must continue! Such a shame, to waste a good craftsman. Such a shame to waste such fine hands! But the labor was done for a laser to sing, and his hands—ah his hands! Were the tools of unicron’s forge!”

The light falls, in the restaurant, until only Starscream is clear in the darkness, red-tinted beneath the jury-rigged spotlight.

“You doubt me?” he presses a hand to his chest. “Oh, you doubt me. You say I’ve denied you your pleasure, by taking the craftsman’s keen hands. His workshop will ever lie empty! His orders will ever lie lost! But a mech of fine taste will assure you, the best pleasures all come at high cost.”

Starscream touches his lips. “They cut out the delicate mouth. How will he kiss? Ah hah! How will he kiss! Let him long for the lips of another, if his suffering brings him to heel. They broke every delicate finger. How will he work? Ah hah! How will he work! Let him starve for his country a while, if his hunger breaks him to kneel!”

Vicious catcalls break out through the bar, denta bared, as Starscream leans back against the wall and opens his legs, a hand brushing lightly down his hip.

“It’s a fine, fine luxury,” he sings, and the part of the instrument carries him through a complicated series of notes as he inspects his glass and repeats: “A fine, fine luxury. A sweet, sweet thing.”

He lifts the glass to the audience, as if for a toast.

“To perform one empurata, what it costs in doctors and parts! One eye at the price of two, one mouth at the price of a spark. The hiring, the wiring, the scrap and the waste!”

Engex glitters pink beneath the lights, as he takes a long, sweet sip.

“But good punishment, like good drink, is expensive! And ah, what a wonderful taste.”

It’s... perfect. It’s every bit Crucible, every bit the villain Thundercracker imagined it would be—every bit the smug false piety, every inch the cultured careless cruelty. In the space around Starscream the whole opera unfolds for him, the staging, the orchestra, the scenes. Crucible indulgently allowing Wist’s aria, as the servant begs for his amica’s life. The chorus of subterfuge and scheming. The execution scene, the reckless last minute heroics, the savage and vindictive satisfaction of bringing just one arrogant slagger to his knees, just this one time.

The lights click back on. Everyone in the bar howls and slams their cups against the nearest flat surface in a riot of delight as Starscream smirks and takes bows and blows kisses. Thundercracker is not clapping or banging the cup in his grip. His hands are much too busy shaking. His body feels far away.

“One for the meistro,” Starscream calls, waving a hand towards Skywarp. The applause flares up again. And then he looks at Thundercracker, and his expression goes hard with satisfaction, a metal-edged contentment nothing like the vamping of moments before. His eyes gleam.

Ribbons of light are bleeding from Thundercracker’s own eyes, he can see them happening, the way they blur the colors and the shapes of everything around him. He’s crying.

“And one for the idiot who wrote it!” Starscream calls, waving a hand towards Thundercracker, and the world dissolves into bleeding light and cheers. Countless hands slap him on the back. He doesn’t see who any of them belong too; he’s blind to everything but the bleeding of light in his optics.

“What is that?” says Bulkhead, who acts as a bouncer for them sometimes. “I ain’t heard anything like that at the opera house.”

“It’s from a three act,” Thundercracker says, numbly. “A dark comedy.”

He looks up at Starscream, who hates it when anyone else is more popular than him, who throws a fit if he’s not the center of attention—and who is still just watching, hard-edged and satisfied, as most of the bar crowds around Thundercracker, demanding to know the rest of the plot, whether there’s more, if they can see it.

Thundercracker curls away from the attention. “I never finished it,” he says “My professors told me it was too radical, and that I shouldn’t finish it, and that I would get into trouble.” He stares at the glass in his hand, rattling faintly against the bartop. “They said I should wipe it out of my memory bank if I didn’t want to get hurt.”

There’s a general bitter murmuring, which Thundercracker isn’t listening to. He’s remembering standing at the desk in an instructor’s office, feeling ashamed and too aware of his clumsy, unwelcome wings. It had been in a thesis meeting—early on in his degree—when they told him in gentle but no uncertain terms that he would be focusing on other topics for the length of his degree there.

A student at any academy traded the rights to their work in exchange for access to downloads and library access and tools, and the academy—he was told—didn’t want products that were going to get them in trouble. Write about the sky or flying, they said. That’s exotic, people will love that.

“They thought a grounder wrote it,” he says. “They had blind applications that year. They gave me a scholarship, and then they saw me, and they told me to throw it away.”

“You should write more!” Acid Storm pipes up.

“No one’s going to see it!”

“Not your professors, anyway.”

“I have been looking for a libretto, y’know,” Skywarp says, which Thundercracker didn’t know, actually. Skywarp almost never talks about music. They all play their secret longings pretty close to the chassis, it seems like.

Thundercracker chews his lip. “I shouldn’t. If someone found radical writing in my possession, I could be in real trouble.”

“You mean like those Tarn poems you keep carrying around?” Starscream says, in a clear voice that cuts through the chatter.

Thundercracker looks up, at Starscream, who is watching him expectantly. The red light remains, catching the white panels of Starscream’s armor, turning the blue pieces a strangely shimmering purple.

He licks his chewed-up lip. “Um,” he says. “Fair enough.”

Later, Starscream will say, “Well of course it was my performance that sold it,” and “I’m just tired of listening to sonnets about engex,” and “You will write the part for me, naturally,” But for now, he only watches from the stage, as something new and rare and unprecedented shines through this single, unexpected moment.

A real trine, he thinks. We could be a real trine.

Chapter Text

Starscream’s vents ache before he’s even woken up fully. Every attempt at funneling fresh air into his systems ends in a wheeze and a hot, muffled strain. He onlines his optics at a muzzy 20%.

It’s Thunderclash’s parlor, he’d recognize those blasted chandeliers anywhere. A pair of red optics swim into focus. “N’now ‘Clash,” he mumbles. His memory core is doing the slowest rebooting job of all history, and he can’t handle any new RAM input right now.

“He’s awake,” a refined little voice says, and Starscream immediately bolts upright as his memory core makes the leap to the last time he heard that voice. Unfortunately this means that Starscream’s facial vents clock the little guy right in the nose.

“Ugh,” Starscream says, at the same time that he says “Ow!”

“Starscream!” Thunderclash says, immediately insinuating himself into the scene. “Are you okay? You rebooted in the middle of the street, you scared us half to death. Well--” he considers it for a moment, “--figuratively.”

Starscream grabs the little green face, which fits full into his hand, and pushes it back out of his space. “I’m fine,” he says, “I’m just full of more dust than a vacuum cleaner right now. I didn’t reboot, I just--I hard restarted, okay? It’s the dust, that’s all.”

Thunderclash gives him a knowing, sympathetic look, which Starscream would like nothing more than to rip off his condescending faceplates and crumple like tin foil. 

“And who’s this?” Starscream demands, redirecting his attention to the minibot currently trying to pry his hand off his face. 

“A stowaway,” Pharma says, and Starscream immediately whips around to look at the jet. Pharma is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chassis, with the grimmest look Starscream has ever seen on his faceplates. It’s nothing like the hand-wringing and wing-fluttering they’ve all grown accustomed to when something goes wrong for Pharma. If Starscream didn’t know any better, he’d almost call it calculating. Certainly cold .

The minibot says something that Starscream’s palm muffles to the point of unintelligibility, at which point Starscream reluctantly lets him go. He’s a finely made thing, with the same sleekness of limb that Rung has and an insignia that could put Thunderclash’s beaglepuss to shame.  

“I said I’m not a stowaway,” the minibot tells them, giving Starscream’s hand an offended little glare. “I was forged Minimus Ambus, Principe Inferior of the House of Ambus. But you know me--you have always known me--as Ultra Magnus.”

“So you’re not a parasite living inside a bigger guy and slowly hollowing him from the inside out to make room for your eggs,” Rodimus asks, leaning over the arm of the couch to the point where a strong wind could probably overbalance him.

Minimus gives Rodimus the exact look of disgust and dismay that Starscream has seen so many times on a bigger, bluer face. It’s a perfect match, despite the fact that Magnus and Minimus look nothing alike in coloring, scale, or structure. It’s unmistakably a Magnus Look.

“No I’m not a parasite ,” Minimus says. “I am Ultra Magnus, and Ultra Magnus is me. At least, the only version of him you’ve ever known. Admittedly, I’m not the first--”

“I have records of Ultra Magnus,” Pharma interrupts, eyes narrowed. “Points totals. A death dossier. I don’t have anything on a Minimus Ambus. This cycle vorn two, Ultra Magnus tracked down and arrested an arms dealer attempting to take Cybertronian technology beyond the bounds of contested space. Extinguished in the line of duty, neutralizing the fugitive.”

“Yes that was--I mean to say, I think that was me,” Minimus says. “It sounds like me. I was appointed to the position by Tyrest after the last Ultra Magnus died in… died of… in the line of duty, I presume. I suppose I was never told…”

“If you’re Ultra Magnus,” Starscream says, “then whose aft did I haul out of that sink hole?”

Minimus pinches the space between his optics and says, “Let’s start this over, shall we?”

Over the next several kliks, Minimus outlines for them the history of Ultra Magnus, immortal lawman. The original Ultra Magnus was a police officer who was offered a brand new post as intragalactic peacekeeper, and after some time comporting himself nobly, was killed in action. First a living mech, then a suit in the shape of a corpse: Judge Tyrest had taken it upon himself that the figure of justice should be as undying as the idea of it. Minimus describes the gruesome puppeteering of a dead mech’s likeness in practical, matter of fact tones.

“Presumably, back among the living,” Minimus adds, “Tyrest has already selected the next bearer of the title. No one but those present will ever know that the mech in the suit was killed at all--to everyone else, Ultra Magnus will simply make one more miraculous recovery, and carry forth inviolate.”

“But what about you ,” Thunderclash asks, “the pilot? Minimus Ambus? What does history say about you?”

“Oh,” Minimus says, with a flick of his hand, “long dead, if anyone remembers that name at all. Tyrest had one of his people diagnose me with cybercrosis--a bit young for it, but not unheard of--and I was dismissed from duty in order to seek euthanasia. And so I went, and I was wired into the suit, and there I have been for… quite a long time.” 

Starscream and Rodimus exchange a look. 

“So this is… you,” Starscream says. “The real you.”

Minimus shifts his weight uncomfortably, the same way that Ultra Magnus did, at an uneasy parade rest.  “Well, I,” he says. “I prefer to think of the real me as the… what I mean to say is, Tyrest offered me the opportunity to live up to my potential, after a lifetime of living in someone else’s shadow, and—”

“Except you didn’t,” Pharma cuts in. He taps his stylus against his arm. “That wasn’t you, that was you pretending to be Ultra Magnus.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” Minimus insists, “in the same way that an elected prime is not pretending to have—”

“I don’t think you fully understand the severity of the situation, Minimus Ambus,” Pharma says, holding up his hands. “This doesn’t just affect what we know about you. The system didn’t count you. Points have been misattributed. Your file isn’t your file. Do you understand?”

“I’m afraid not,” Minimus admits, “perhaps you wouldn’t mind explaining yourself?”

Pharma drags a hand over his face. “My file for you,” he mutters, “is labeled ‘Ultra Magnus’. It dates back through the entire life of Ultra Magnus, back to his forging. You say there have been six or seven different Ultra Magnuses? Magni?” He waves his hand in the air. “When you arrived here, and called yourself Ultra Magnus, I assumed you were the Ultra Magnus. You’ve received points for all of their achievements.”

“I see,” Minimus says, fingers catching on his facial insignia and running fingers over it. He seems deep in thought. “A severe clerical error, of course. I apologize. Of course, I would be happy to assist in unfurling any information that has to do with my own experiences. And, possibly, make sure the points of other pilots go to the right mech.”

“We can’t accept your help,” Pharma says, “Minimus Ambus, the number of points it requires to get into the Good Place is extremely high. Ultra Magnus made it in because of his many, many years of heroism and heroics. You? I’m not so sure.”

With a heave of his engine, Starscream’s vents spit out a chunk of dust and a not-insubstantial mist of dirt. “Wait, what are you saying?” he says, wiggling a finger into one of his cheek-vents to try and pry out a clump of wood-chippings that have stubbornly staked a claim just behind his grill. “You mean Magnus—Minimus—whatever—you mean you think he’s not supposed to be here?”

He should be thrilled, he thinks to himself. He wanted a gullible patsy to throw under the bus when the going got tough. But now—Minimus’ tiny frame looks so fragile, so unlike Ultra Magnus’ regal presence. He looks confused. He looks off-kilter.

“I’m saying I don’t know that he’s supposed to be here,” Pharma says, “maybe Minimus Ambus was a good person, maybe he did earn enough points during his time as Ultra Magnus. I don’t know. What I do know is there’s been some mistake, and that means I need to run some numbers. I need time.” He crosses his arms. “Which, due to the most recent series of glitches, we’re probably going to have a lot of.”

Starscream pauses. He feels like he’s missing something. “What does that mean?”

Pharma sighs. “The last glitch has had a cataclysmic effect,” he explains. “We thought it would stop with the sinkhole, but the energy has just rippled out. The framework of the neighborhood is mostly in place, but the air is thick with kinetic energy and general bad vibes. I’m putting the whole system on hold until I can figure out how to fix this most recent disaster.”

“On hold?”

“We’re all under house arrest,” Rodimus interrupts, looking for all the world like he’s going to overbalance and sprawl across the floor any second, “indefinitely. Rung’s offline, too.”

“Not ‘offline’ like he’s hurt,” Pharma quickly adds, like anyone was worried, “he just won’t be accessible to the residents until we can fix the structural… integral… issues.”

“House arrest? Here?” Starscream scrambles to his pedes, then sways as heat warnings blaze across his HUB. “I mean, house arrest, fine. But can’t I stay in my house? I need to wash up.”

Thunderclash frowns. “I admit the dust did a number on all of us,” he says, “and I understand the desire to remain tidy. But isn’t a wax and polish a slightly lower priority, right now?”

Starscream opens his mouth to say he’s got a lot of priorities, right now, that they’re all coming at him at once and he’s just answering them as they dip in, but before he can say anything, he hears Minimus Ambus’ proper little voice saying: “Seeker frames can become seriously damaged with particulate build-up. Not washing up would have been a death sentence on Cybertron--it makes sense as a first priority.”

“No one is going anywhere,” Pharma says curtly, “except for me, back to my office. You have plenty of space here for four mechs, especially since one of them is…” Pharma gives Minimus Ambus an appraising look, “...so economically sized.”

Minimus stiffens. 

“Anyway, you’re all such good friends now,” Pharma says, “I can’t imagine it’ll be any real hardship for you. Take some time to get to know each other. Really get in there, find out what you’re all about. There’s nothing like the relentless psychological pressure of house arrest to bring people together!”

“...Wonderful,” Starscream says, through gritted teeth. He can almost taste the walls closing in. When Starscream said that he should get this house, he did not mean with everyone else still inside it . 

Pharma tosses the stylus in his hand; it folds itself into thin air and disappears. “Don’t worry, I’ll get to the bottom of this in--as little as a few B’s! Or a few Bearamies, maximum. Somewhere between one B and several Bearamies.”

Rodimus is rocking vaguely from his perch on the arm of the couch, which seems to be what he does when he can’t fidget with anything in arm’s reach. Thunderclash is watching everything with big, uneasy eyes. And Minimus--like a soldier waiting for an enemy firing squad, he’s looking at none of them, shoulders stiff and eyes fixed on the far wall.

Pharma pauses at the door. He looks over his shoulder and flashes them a smile. “I’m sure you’ll make the most of it. After all, you may not all be together again like this in the future.”

There’s a metallic click, as Pharma disappears. The sound of heavy steel shutters closing down on every window throughout the house bounces off the high walls and ceiling of the parlor, leaving the four of them collectively speechless in its wake. A dimness falls over the home.

Well. Prison at last, after all these years of just skating through by the tips of his wings. And it only took Heaven to finally make it stick. What is it you’re supposed to do on your first day of incarceration? Pick the biggest guy in the yard and take him out? Well the good news is that Thunderclash looks unsettled enough that a stiff pat on the back would knock him over.

Starscream takes a mental inventory of the washracks in this luxurious new prison. “Dibs on the east wing,” he says. “East wing is mine, no take backs.”

Minimus Ambus walks the halls in his own body for the first time in millennia. Everything resists him; his joints threaten to creak. The nature of the Ultra Magnus suit is that, for all its considerable assets, its removal leaves the pilot’s body more than just exposed. Stiff gears struggle to spin. Pistons whine. Not to be flagrant in his use of figurative language, but curled in the dark inside the chest cavity of the massive machine, Minimus Ambus had functioned as nothing so much as strange and heavy spark. His frame protests at the sudden autonomy.

The familiar mansion is disorienting from this height. Irritatingly, he spots several new discrepancies in the architecture, which he can only attribute to shoddy workmanship in the coding of the Good Place. The paint underneath the ¾ molding clips up onto the white railing in several places. 

After Starscream marched off, spitting puffs of dust with every pede-fall, Minimus had been left alone with the bots who could no longer accurately be considered his neighbors. His internal sorting algorithm keeps trying to re-classify them as kin. The trouble is the house, of course--while not as complex and sprawling as the House of Ambus had been, it is still a shared living arrangement with individuals who would expect…

And each time the reclassification arrives at this point, it stalls and drops. He does not know what they expect of him. This is not the House of Ambus. These are not staff or siblings or mentors. They are: 1. some kind of street urchin impersonating a monk; and 2. a bot whom Minimus respects and whom he has nonetheless been lying to, for an entire day now, as he may have to continue doing for the foreseeable eternity. 

He has judged it best to escape their company.

Out of sheer discomfort he’s begun to compile a mental list of imperfections, flaws, and poor design choices throughout the halls. His work as a defense lawyer even before his time as Ultra Magnus--he always acted with the most upright intentions, but perhaps he defended someone insufficiently? He rarely spent time getting to the bottom of his clients'-- there , a crooked window pane, two degrees acute, forcing the rest of the glass to bend slightly to fit into a vaguely rectangular shape. It’s rucked up the wallpaper at the bottom of the sill.

He opens a door he assumed led to a staircase down to some lower level--why else would it be centrally located on the southernmost point of the building’s main vaunt?--and gets several shelves full of linens and towels. He prods at one, disgruntled. They’re soft, clean, and they smell faintly of a slightly organic scent he can’t put a name to. Something off-planet.

With a frown and a gaze fixed on the uppermost hinges, Minimus swings the door back and forth slightly in his hand. He’s no expert on interior design, but a toiletry closet really ought to have a folding door. For what it’s worth, it seems to hang well.

Had Starscream thought to grab towels on his way to the washracks? He’d seemed in quite a hurry--of course, if he’d been in pain--maybe it wouldn’t have crossed his mind. Perhaps he could comm--no, there are no comms in the Good Place. He sighs and shakes his head, lifting a small stack of towels and nudging the door shut behind him. There’s no harm in checking, anyway.

The East Wing isn’t far, although Minimus’ internal navigator reminds him with little red errors that there aren’t really cardinal directions in the Good Place whenever he thinks things like ‘Southernmost point’, and once he’s there he follows the sound of running water. Perhaps, he thinks, he could find a sponge and oil and scrub this whole building clean. Scrub the rust off the pipes and dust off the paintings and little ugly lies and untruths off himself.

“Starscream, I brought you these,” he says, opening the door to the washracks, and promptly swallows his tongue.

For one second, frozen: Starscream under a stream of water, his chassis unlocked and open, delicate fingers buried deep inside himself to brush out dirt and mud, optics flaring up from a euphoric dim, panels opened all the way up his legs to his--

“Uh,” Starscream says, crossing his arms over his chassis, and Minimus rockets back into the world with a furious crash.

“I--excuse me, I, towels,” he fumbles helplessly, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t--”

“Uh, it’s fine, it’s--”

“I’ll leave them here, I,” Minimus says, as they fall out of his hands, “excuse me, I, the door--” 

With two backwards steps, Minimus half-strides, half-stumbles his way out of the washroom and slams the door shut in front of his face. He can feel the heat from his optics warming the faceplates around them. His vents shutter, open-close-open, cooling fans redistributing the air flow. 

He shutters his optics and immediately regrets it. Without optical input, Starscream’s form is seared into his vision.

There’s a knock from the other side of the door. “You okay out there?” Starscream’s muffled voice says. “I’m not mad--I mean, knock next time, maybe, but it’s not… you know, I’ve had worse.”

Minimus thinks of that form, twisted under him in the almost-dark of the Good Place’s night, intoxicated and pretending at attraction. His jaw tightens. “I’m sorry,” he replies miserably, “for everything.”

“You know you’re not the first bot to see my turbines, right?” 

“That’s not--” he breaks off, sighs, and runs a hand over his face, fingers prodding at the soft protoalloy under his optics. “I mean, I am sorry that I barged in. But I--I’m sorry I felt that I was qualified to criticise you. If I could make any defense of myself, it would only be that I thought my credentials were sound.”

“What the scrap is that supposed to mean? Are you trying to--” Starscream cuts off with a grunt. “Hang on, there’s something in my turbine--just gotta--dislodge it--”

Completely unbidden, Minimus’ processor fills with hypothetical visuals and starts running scenarios. Starscream, his chassis gaping open, turbines exposed and wet as he needlessly leans back with his--

He jerks a hand out and slaps himself across the face with a sharp metal thwang, and the images depart. His face is still painfully hot.

“Ungh,” Starscream groans, “there we go. Primus, that thing’s huge. I’m amazed it even fit.”  

Thinking diplomatically, Minimus declines to comment.

“Sorry, you were saying something,” Starscream says, “something about your--your credentials? Honestly, I’m having a hard time following here.”

Starscream is handsome, Minimus thinks, in a blithe, unbothered sort of way. He looks like he could’ve been a movie star, under all that travel damage on his frame. He’d never actually met a seeker, back when he was living on Cybertron--they didn’t live in the sort of places he visited. They’re all supposed to look the same, aren’t they? On account of being cold constructed? But why bother designing them to look… they were built to find energon, weren’t they? So why… 

His tank churns again. “Why won’t you just do it,” that old recording plays in his helm, “it’s fine, everyone else does it--” 

“Minimus?” He jumps as Starscream raps on the door between them. “You still out there?”

“Yes! Yes, I--” he resets his voice box. “Sorry, I was just--thinking.”

“Oh, well, don’t do that,” Starscream says. “You’re spiraling, aren’t you? Listen, you’ve got to stop thinking at once, otherwise you won’t be getting any recharge tonight.”

“But I can’t,” Minimus says, shuttering his optics as tightly as he can, “how can I just not think about things? I’ve condemned you to an eternity of torture because I failed to self-analyze! How could I believe I belonged here? It was that very inaction, the desire to accept a good situation without wondering if it was deserved. I didn’t even stop to consider that telling you that I was Ultra Magnus could be a lie. I believed it.”

“Yeah, see, that’s what I’m talking about,” Starscream continues on, like he’s barely even listening, “you’re retroactively freaking out about everything you’ve done and blah, blah, blah. ‘Did I do the right thing,’ and whatever. Just quit it! If you think about things that upset you, you’ll just fall down and never get back up again. It’s better not to care if you ‘did the right thing’ or not.”

“Is that what you do?” Minimus asks. “You just don’t think about it?”

“I’m an advanced player,” he replies, a little faster than Minimus thought he would. “It’s alright for you to just not think about things, you’re a beginner. Me? I got my processor all the way around to the other side. I take pride in doing the wrong thing.”

Minimus frowns, opens his mouth to ask how that had worked out for him, in the long run--then stops, closing his mouth again. What is acting high and mighty going to do? If Pharma is right, if he doesn’t belong here--well, that’s just it. He hasn’t earned the trueness of morality which would allow him to instruct another on proper moral behavior. Maybe Starscream is the one who’s supposed to be here, and Minimus is the one who broke in--he can’t be certain of himself. Maybe he’s the one guiding someone else down the wrong path.

Then he thinks about Starscream’s subspace full of pearls, and feels the tightness of his gears ease up slightly. There are thought exercises about morality, and then there’s absurdity. There’s no way he made it to the Good Place on his own.

“Starscream,” he says, “I don’t mean to change the subject, but I feel that I need to know. Are you… I mean, does this all come as…” he pauses, shifting from one pede to the other, unable to look directly at the door that separates him from Starscream’s open chassis, his stripped down form. Despite the reality of the situation, he feels desperately vulnerable, as though he were the naked one without a lock. “What I mean to say is, I must apologize for being… me. I’m sure this is all very… disappointing.”

“Disappointing?” There’s a rattling of plates, and a little gasp, as though something very cold has touched someone comfortably warm. “You’re gonna have to-- ohh-- rephrase that, I don’t-- mmh-- know what you mean.”

“What are you doing in there?”

“None of your business,” he snaps hotly, which might be intimidating if it wasn’t sandwiched in between the borderline inappropriate sounds of someone enjoying a shower far too much. “And you’re stalling.”

“I just meant about my appearance,” Minimus says all in a rush, “I know the--I know that Ultra Magnus is larger and more--impressive, and I--that I lied to you about it, and I’m--I’m sorry.” He rubs his forehead. “Are you angry with me?”

“Angry? I’m thrilled.” The sound of the water shuts off abruptly. “I’ve never been the tall one in a relationship before.”

Minimus blinks, turning to face the wood paneling of the door. “Relationship?” he asks, inadequately.

“I’m still your sparkmate, aren’t I? That was the whole thing. I’m here for you. That’s sort of the whole deal.”

“You are Ultra Magnus’ sparkmate,” Minimus corrects quickly. “It was his number you were matched to, not mine.”

“See, that’s the thing,” Starscream says, “that’s convenient, isn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t add up, does it? Think about it.” There’s a gentle rustling, as though Starscream is moving closer, and as Minimus leans against the door, he can hear the seeker’s lowered voice through the wood. “You ‘got’ Ultra Magnus’ points? So where’s the original Ultra Magnus? He died, right? You said he died. So how come they wouldn’t have him here already? I’m just saying. How could an error like this happen?”

“Good people make mistakes all the time,” he replies. “I mean, look at this house. It’s riddled with so many errors I can barely stand to stay in any one room for longer than a few minutes.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Starscream hisses, “ good people make mistakes. Bad people make malicious choices--like designing an apartment for a perfectionist like you with a ceiling that’s too low and--and a door that hangs wrong.”

“The door to my apartment hangs perfectly,” he snaps. He should know--he fixed it the very first night he was there while he was trying not to think about… things. That might have been. Said.

“Okay, bad example,” Starscream says, and there’s a noise of pedes moving away. “I’m just saying, it seems like we’re being kept in the dark on a lot of stuff. How do we even know this is the Good Place? Because Pharma told us? Pharma, the guy who can’t even get the right bolts on the hinges in my--did you bring a washcloth? I need to wipe down my rear fuselage, I can’t put it under direct water--oh, here’s one.”

For a moment, Minimus forgets to be indignant about the implications Starscream’s throwing at Pharma to be half-blinded by the implications about his fuselage. Just how open is his chassis? Is his--his cockpit detached? For a moment, he thinks he can hear a choked little ‘oh-’ from the other side of the door, and his face burns hot.

Then he refocuses, and the gaussian fantasy of Starscream’s internal fan monitors melts away in the heat of his fury.

“You’re asking me to question an authority on no evidence but the desire to further my own well-being?” he says. “I can’t help you. I won’t. I shall wait to receive my due, whatever Pharma concludes that to be.”

There’s a sharp and heavy click behind the door.

“Yeah yeah, just set your chin down in the apparatus,” Starscream scoffs, “don't mind the blade. It'll be fine, I’m sure. Whatever.”

As lovely as this house that Pharma has provided him might be, the truth is that Thunderclash still has a hard time thinking of it as home. His ship is home to him—his little bubble floating through the horizonless sea of outer-space, the long flights and waiting destinations, the crew and captain’s chair. 

One might think that what with the radioactive void of space and the constant threat of debris, he would be more comfortable being locked inside his mansion. Actually, the moment the blast doors come down behind Pharma, claustrophobia starts climbing up Thunderclash’s spinal strut like a spotted rust-crawler.

With Mag—Minimus, with Minimus gone, the parlor seems ominously quiet. Hot Rod is slumped over the back of the sofa, staring inscrutably at the door through which Minimus left them moments before, as silent as he ever was. The chronometer on the far wall continues to count down to something Thunderclash doesn’t understand or recognize, two pointers like a paired finger and thumb spinning around and around.

“Um,” he starts, and clears his intake behind the polite cover of his fist, “Hot Rod, that was very brave of you, what you did in the restaurant, earlier. Um.”

Hot Rod turns his head slowly, pinning Thunderclash with a low, unimpressed stare. Thunderclash resets his voice box. This won’t do! Hot Rod has had a very difficult and confusing night! He needs to project confidence, to take charge and reassure Hot Rod that everything is under control now.

“Will you please sit down?” Thunderclash says, gesturing at the part of the sofa that people normally sit on. Hot Rod regards him for a moment in persistent silence, and for a worrying moment Thunderclash is afraid he’s just going to get up and leave—but then he obliges, sliding down into the seat and slumping there, legs akimbo. It’s crazy to be intimidated by your own sparkmate, so Thunderclash isn’t, but—

Thunderclash settles onto his knees at Hot Rod’s pedes, although he still manages to be on eye level with his sparkmate. Even with the unsettling mouthless faceplate, even a bot with sonar can see Hot Rod is gorgeous, a racer dream, with his narrow waist and broad shoulders, all pipes and spoiler and the promise of speed. On their homeworld, he would have been an overnight superstar. Maybe they would have hosted an event together at some point. Ended up at the same parties. Found each other drinking in the crystal garden behind Baysea’s summer house. Maybe they would have even fallen in love.

He wonders if Hot Rod and he are destined to be conjunx, or amica, or… or something else? Something Camien? He’s been too embarrassed to ask Pharma for clarification, and part of him is afraid that even Pharma wouldn’t know.

“You talked to me,” Thunderclash says, “at the restaurant. I mean, you shouted at me, but still. You have a good voice. I’d like to hear it under better circumstances.”

Hot Rod says nothing. Thunderclash slumps a little. Well what did he expect? That was a terrible conversation starter. He wonders what they’ll do for however long it takes Pharma to straighten this out? Surely they can’t just play Kleptocracy forever, they’ll have to find something constructive to do…

“…Good catch,” Hot Rod says.

Thunderclash looks up. “Pardon?”

“At the place,” Hot Rod says. “With the floor and all. Good catch.”

Thunderclash brightens. “Thank you!” he says. “You too! I mean, good jump! Right, yes.”

Hot Rod just keeps looking at him. Why is this so hard?

“Can I see your hands?” Thunderclash asks, holding his own open between them.

Hot Rod obliges, after another uncertain pause. Thunderclash carefully turns them over, bending each digit one by one as he examines the joints for jammed particles, or spring strain, or anything else that seems out of the ordinary.

“…What are you doing?” Hot Rod asks, at last, and Thunderclash whips his head up immediately.

“Damage check,” he says. “I know we should all be healed by now, but what with all the glitches happening, I thought it would be a good idea to double check. Especially if something healed back in the wrong place like a slipped joint, or a dislocated slip-plug—”

Thunderclash releases Hot Rod’s hands and pulls his left leg into his lap. His fingers skid lightly over the back of a calf, where three exhaust pipes connect to a nitro burner, searching for anything out of place.

“This kind of kibble is prone to coming out of alignment,” he explains, as Hot Rod stiffens under his touch. “Auto-repair can’t move whole pieces around, it can only patch microtears and coating wear. Someone has to pop these back into place by hand if they come loose.”

“It’s not loose,” Hot Rod says.

“No, not here,” Thunderclash agrees, and switches to the right leg, pushing the left one away again. Hot Rod’s pede twitches as Thunderclash smooths his fingers up the back of this calf as well.

There’s some surface damage to the top coat, but nothing much worse than that. It looks old anyway, maybe something he acquired before dying. Thunderclash imagines him living a rough life on a rustic mountain top somewhere far away, carving out his serene monastic life among the alien flora.

“It’s not loose,” Hot Rod says again, more impatient this time. “I popped those back in enough times, I can tell when it’s loose.”

Thunderclash pauses, thumbs on the warm piping. “All by yourself?”

One of Hot Rod’s eyes squint closed. “Had to have someone kick it into place once,” he says. “Usually I just do it myself with whatever I’ve got around. Don’t usually have a medic handy.”

Well, that makes sense, what with the rustic wilderness and everything. Thunderclash pulls his hands back to himself, feeling a little foolish.

“I’m not a real medic,” Thunderclash admits, his biolights flushing a bit. He hopes Hot Rod can’t see that as much from where he’s sitting. “Wrong kind of alt mode, they wouldn’t let me take the admission test. I wasn’t alt-exempt back then. I thought maybe they’d let me be a paramedic at least, maybe a nurse, if I could just do well enough on the admission test. Back then they’d let anyone with a cargo alt at least take the test. You couldn’t be a real doctor unless you were an ambulance or a defibrillator or something, but—anyway, I showed up for the test and they said no, we just turned out a batch of constructed nurses and we aren’t taking cargo alts anymore. So I had to go.”

 Hot Rod stares at him.

“Do they,” Thunderclash hesitates, “do they have functionism where you’re from?”

Slowly, Hot Rod nods.

“Too bad,” Thunderclash says.

For a moment they just sit there like that, Hot Rod’s pede sitting in Thunderclash’s lap, Thunderclash fiddling with his own hands, mouth twitching against a frown.

“You know doctor stuff, though,” Hot Rod says, finally, sounding confused.

“Oh,” Thunderclash says, “well, you don’t need to be a doctor to know things about doctoring. All you have to do is get access to the med school downloads. Which is pirating, of course, so you can’t just do that unless you’re good enough not to get caught. And it’s expensive to find someone to hack on your behalf. But there are other ways to get access to testing materials, if you’re subtle about it.”

“Oh,” says Hot Rod. “ Blackmail .”

Thunderclash lets out a startled laugh, clapping his hand to his mouth a second too late. “No! No, nothing like that. I just went to the bar nearest to the school library and hung out with the students there. After a while I made friends with one of the medical students, and then I offered to quiz him on the material every time he had a test coming up.”

Thunderclash smiles, setting his chin on Hot Rod’s knee as he thinks about the long nights in a cube-strewn dorm room, the furious “damn it”s at every wrong answer and the early morning nitro shots after an all-nighter.

“We ended up being good friends,” Thunderclash says. “And once he realized what I was trying to do, he just copied all his downloads for me instead of turning me in to the board, which was nice of him.”

“He’s not famous?” Hot Rod asks.

“Oh,” Thunderclash says, brow furrowing. “No, he’s… pretty famous now, in his way. Probably the most high profile doctor currently practicing.”

“So why didn’t you start with his name?”

Thunderclash pauses with his mouth open, not sure why Hot Rod is asking or how to answer him. He sucks the inside of his cheek for a klik. Normally he tries to connect his stories to whoever is most famous in them, for… name recognition, to keep people interested, to entertain, to be entertaining. So that people will look at the people he knows instead, and not look too hard at him.

“I’ll do better next time,” Thunderclash says, glancing away. “Forgive me, I was just... lost in the memory.”

Hot Rod pokes him in the chest plate with the point of his pede. “Relax,” he says, with the casual confidence of a native speaker, “it’s a good story. Better than your usual stuff.”

“...Thank you,” Thunderclash says, “I think?”

“Needs more heists, though,” Hot Rod goes on. “I can coast on a good heist. You got any heist stories, superstar?”

Thunderclash laughs, startling himself. He presses a knuckle to his lips, hiding a smile. “I was once in a hold up in a bank on Antarus II,” he says. “The locals traded in radioactive isotopes, so the whole vault was like a nuclear reactor--this isn’t one of my better stories, though, people never ask for this one. You might--” his smile wavers, “-you might prefer something else.”

Hot Rod pokes him again. “How come?”

“Well I,” Thunderclash starts, and then clears his intake against the back of his fist. “I didn’t comport myself very… heroically. Truth be told, I didn’t realize there was a robbery at all until the enforcers showed up to arrest me along with the robbers.”

Hot Rod hasn’t got a mouth to open or cheek pistons to engage, but there’s no mistaking the way his eyes glow up, optics brightening. 

“ You ?” he says. “ Arrested? You need to tell me the rest, like, yesterday.”

Thunderclash’s spark whirls and pulses, like it’s trying to match the output of Hot Rod’s eyes. It almost hurts. He doesn’t mind it much, though; he’s too busy thinking about how to tell this story, as his fingers absently trace the outline of Hot Rod’s pipes.

There are things in this life which are certain. Minimus has been aware of them since he was first forged and awoken, back in the old and dark days which have since slipped from his memory. It is the duty of the strong to protect the weak; a good life is produced from good thoughts, good actions, good deeds; the law was put into place to benefit The People by a superior ruling body; that I comes before E, except after C (or when sounding like ‘A’, as in ‘neighbor’ and ‘weigh’).

(His back hurts, hurts, hurts, but he is built to withstand pressure and pain alike.)

“I grabbed us the best one,” Starscream is saying, waving his arms with less fluidity and grace then he typically possesses. The clicking of his thrusters on the marble tiles echoes in the cavernous space, and a small part of Minimus’ mind takes a moment to register that this is the hall from the party the first night. The space feels hostile now, and not just because of his sudden change in stature. Without swirling groups of polished mechs moving around, flaws jumps out at him. The rows of tiles are slightly off center, so the edges of the ones he and Starscream are walking on are a full centimeter closer to the wall than the ones in the same row at the far end of the hall.

Minimus looks up. Far away, in the dazzling ceiling, there are little golden voids among a sea of black pearls. He stops walking.

“Starscream,” he says, “you need to put the pearls back.”

“What?” Starscream stops walking, glances down at Minimus, then follows his gaze up to the ceiling and the winking little voids. He looks back at Minimus incredulously. “You’re thinking about that now?”

“We’re here,” Minimus says. “You should return them.”

Starscream snorts. “Thunderclash hasn’t noticed. No harm, no foul.”

Minimus’ empty tanks give a fitful roll. How could Pharma’s system have even thought they could be sparkmates? They’re nothing alike, Minimus would never think to conduct himself in a manner such as Starscream’s. 

“You said you claimed this part of the house,” Minimus says after a moment. “Don’t you want it to look nice?”

Starscream opens his mouth. Starscream closes his mouth. He crosses his arms over his chassis, eyes wide with indignation. His lips twitch into something that Minimus would almost call a smirk before settling into a scowl.

“Fine,” he snaps. “I’ll have Rung do it whenever he gets fixed.” He whirls on his heel and stalks through the hall so Minimus almost has to jog to keep up.

(His hips, back, knees all ache with the effort of pushing himself forward, but he ignores them.)

It’s likely Starscream just lied to him. Most likely, he will conveniently forget to ask Rung to put the pearls back and hope that Minimus has also forgotten.

“If we’re all trapped here, we may as well insist on some privacy. Not to brag, but I’ve spent a lot of time taking stock of this house over the past week. I’d covet it if I could figure out how. Maybe I can still get my dirty little hands on the lease. Think I could frame Thunderclash for murder?”

Lying is not just a great sin, Minimus thinks. Lying undermines the machinery of law. Lies are dishonorable by nature, because to be dishonest is to be against reality. Is a falsehood a lie if it is unintentional? If only Pharma would have stayed to answer his questions, he could have at least eased his own mind’s insecurities. The variables, the unknowns. Even if they had pointed against him, at least he could stop providing himself with a heretofore untapped well of self-judgement and terror.

“Mag--Minimus? Hello?” Starscream’s voice cuts through his fog, and he blinks up hazily. “You know I was just joking, right? I’m not that much of an aftport. What, bad taste?”

“Oh--I’m sorry, I,” he manages, and shakes his head, “have some things on my mind at the moment. I apologize if I was… if I lacked presence in the conversation.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Starscream says furtively, “look, I get that it’s hard to forget about stuff like that when you first get into the ‘forgetting about it’ business. You need a distraction so you’re not just moping around the house for a… Bearimy.” He furrows his brow. “However long that’s supposed to be.”

Minimus stiffens, feeling a little offended despite himself. “I am not moping,” he insists, “I am merely considering the very real possibility that I have not been half as upstanding as I have always prided myself as being.”

“I’m trying so hard not to make a short-guy-inside-a-big-guy joke here,” Starscream says. “Alright, fine, so you don’t need a distraction. I do! I mean, Thunderclash is--eh--and Rodimus is-- ugh-- but I can’t hang around them all the time, I’ll go insane. So! If we need to wait around, you can at least teach me some more ethics or whatever.”

He stares up at Starscream. “You want me to continue teaching you?”

“Well, don’t get all weird about it,” Starscream says, waving a cavalier hand as though flicking something out of the air. “Yeah, you’re a good teacher, okay? It’s weird, I never even cared about this subject, but it’s like my processor is horny for knowledge. Not even downloads! Anyway, we’ve got to kill time, right?” He sets a hand on his hip, poses jauntily. Minimus swallows.

“I--” he says, trying to reset his voice box without an audible pop, “that is to say, Starscream, I’m very flattered that you--I mean, I’m happy that the field of moral philosophy and legal efficacy has started to compel you. But I don’t think…” his processor whirls. Moreso now than ever, he has to pick his words carefully. “I’m just not certain that I am… an adequate fount of this… particular… body of knowledge,” he settles on, finally. “Frankly, I don’t believe that I am--in light of recent revelations--fit to teach.”

Starscream stares down at him, stopped in the middle of a new room, smaller and warmer than the great hall. There’s that face again--the one he makes when he doesn’t want to let on what he’s really thinking. He made it all last night. Minimus is immediately on guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

Minimus sighs. “Be honest with me,” he huffs, “you can’t really want lessons on morality from someone who hasn’t--to speak frankly--proven that he has any.”

Starscream is looking at him. Starscream will not stop looking at him. “So what you’re telling me,” he says, “is that only a master in a particular field of study can teach that field.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Minimus says, “I’m saying that someone who is not moral should not instruct others on moral behavior.”

“Right,” Starscream says. “Moral philosophy. Would you argue that moral philosophy is an academic pursuit? Would you argue that a person can learn to be moral?”

Minimus narrows his eyes. Something is happening in Starscream’s voice, and he’s not certain it’s something he likes. It’s different, from Starscream’s normal self-important, voluminous peacocking, or snarky self-satisfied jabs of varying levels of pettiness. He doesn’t know how to handle it, and with Starscream, not knowing how to handle something can be dangerous. “I would argue that… the principles of morality can be taught, yes,” he says after a moment’s pause.

“Thank you,” Starscream says, in an odd tone of voice, “then, would you also call the study of… oh, let’s say opera. High art. Would you say that the study of musical composition is an academic field?”

“I… suppose so, yes,” he says, “Starscream, what is this about?”

“Oh, just a curiosity I had,” Starscream says casually, moving closer to Minimus and bending, slightly, to make optical contact. “So, Minimus, could you tell me who Ponte is?”

Minimus blinks. “He’s a composer, I think,” he says, “forgive me, I was never much a fan.”

“We’ve discussed it, yes,” Starscream says, “Minimus, do you think you could tell me who Ponte’s teacher was?”

Minimus blinks again. He can’t ascertain any intent in Starscream’s face. It’s making his panels rattle a little under his gaze. “As I have said, I have little knowledge on the subject,” he says, feeling wrong-peded and a little frustrated. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, that’s alright. It’s perfect, in fact, thank you,” Starscream says, and leans away. “So you would say that Ponte is more famous than his teacher?”

“Yes.”

“So you would say that, while Ponte is a master in his field, he was taught by someone who was not a master in the field,” Starscream says authoritatively. “For what it’s worth, his name was Breckt. My friend Skywarp studied under him at university. Apparently he was never too easy to get on with.”

Minimus frowns.

“Starscream, I appreciate the, er, history lesson,” he says, “good for your friend, in his higher pursuits. But what does this have to do with anything?”

“Oh, it’s pure curiosity,” Starscream says. “I wonder if you would tell me who taught you the field of law?”

“My professor,” Minimus replies, “professor Valeneia at the Cybertron Justice Academy.”

“Your professor, who taught you, Minimus Ambus, the most gifted orator for the defense in the history of Cybertronian trial,” he says, and Minimus bristles.

“Not gifted,” he says defensively, “that is to say, there’s no way of quantifying the skill of every mech, simply--to say, simply, that I had a record which went unmatched in the time I was functioning.”

“An unbeatable record,” Starscream agrees, stepping forward, “then, you would say your professor Valeneia had a record which was not, strictly speaking, comparable to the record you inevitably developed?”

“She was a teacher,” Minimus says quickly, feeling hurt, “she chose to teach, rather than to practice. There’s no shame in that.”

“For once, we agree totally, Ambus,” Starscream says, and suddenly, a furious sear of recognition burns its way across Minimus’ processor. The way he talks, the way he moves, those little leading questions and too-familiar closeness, of course it’s familiar because Minimus has seen those steps, those faces, a hundred thousand times on a hundred thousand different mechs. “So I want to know what the difference is between her, and you. Not in the field of law, but in the broader field of academia.”

“Starscream, I don’t--”

“You learned from someone who was not a master,” he interrupts, barrelling over Minimus, “Ponte learned from someone who was not a master. You agree to both these points! And yet you believe you must be a master of the field of moral philosophy in order to teach it. Tell me, Minimus, why are you different from them?”

“Stop cross-examining me!” Minimus shouts, desperate under the onslaught. His pulse is burning through him, his hands balled into fists. 

“Give me one good reason,” Starscream replies, looking cool and focused as ever, pistons flashing in the light. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I don’t have to!” Minimus yells. “I’m not on trial!”

“Yes! You are!” Starscream throws his hands forward, so suddenly and aggressively that Minimus stumbles back on awkward pedes despite himself. “And when you get up on the stand, Pharma is not going to be as nice as I am! You need to be prepared. You need to know what he’s going to ask.”

Minimus stares up, his anger starting to drain away. “You… you’re doing prep,” he says. “You’re doing prep? For me?”

“I’m not doing any thing for you,” Starscream says, “I just currently happen to be a little ticked off by you implying that I can’t learn to be a moral person, and I’m aware that if you go on trial, that’s a decision you’re going to have to defend.”

“That isn’t what I was implying,” Minimus says, “will you let me get a word in edgewise?”

“Because they’re going to let up on you?”

“We don’t know what they’re going to do,” Minimus says, “I’m flattered. Starscream, I’m--I’m touched. That you would even... want to help me with this. But this is the Good Place. I don’t need a legal representative.”

He wants to add that if he was going to choose council, he would choose a real lawyer, and not Starscream, then finds that he can’t honestly say that. He’s feeling sort of breathless, actually. Starscream is driving him hard--keeping him up and fast on his feet, desperately fending off question after question that his prosecutor doesn’t even seem to be formulating so much as spitting out, one by one, on a maddening and unflinching attack. Starscream watches people, he realizes. He knows their nervous tics, their little ways. He smells energon in the oil spill and darts forward to bite. He would be a killer prosecutor. 

“You don’t need representation, okay,” Starscream says, “so, on Cybertron, how often did you advise a client to refuse legal council in favor of defending themselves in court?”

“If they were my client, they had already made the choice to accept legal council,” Minimus corrects him, “ my legal council.”

“Let me rephrase,” Starscream says. “If you were speaking with a citizen who was going to be prosecuted, would you advise him to accept legal council, or to defend himself in court?”

“To accept council, of course,” Minimus says, “but we’re not on Cybertron. A citizen defending themselves wouldn’t know the proceedures as a lawyer, wouldn’t know the vocabulary, and wouldn’t be able to adequately build a case in their defense. In the Good Place, that won’t factor in. The vocabulary in use isn’t legal, it’s moral.”

“Are you calling the Cybertronian justice system immoral?”

“No!” Minimus scrambles. “The justice system exists to uphold the law. It is--moral, in the sense that the law is moral, that it is immoral to punish someone for a crime they did not commit.”

“If the Cybertronian justice system is moral, why would anyone need a lawyer? Wouldn’t their judge and jury have the best moral intentions?”

“You’re trying to mix me up on purpose,” Minimus snaps, “it won’t work! The position of a lawyer is to protect a client from the well-intentioned but ultimately flawed Cybertronians who all work together to discover the facts and the nature of a case. The legal system on Cybertron is a well-oiled machine with multiple moving parts. A defense lawyer is necessary because they are in a position to look at the case from the outside on behalf of their client, who cannot, and illuminate facts that an untrained eye wouldn’t think of or consider necessary. That is not--that is not the case--” he pauses to suck in a vent. “In a trial by omnipotent beings,” he finishes. “Pharma knows everything. He knows all of my mistakes.”

“Pharma does not know everything,” Starscream says, pouncing on him while he struggles for cool air, “he didn’t even know you weren’t Ultra Magnus! Frankly speaking, Pharma doesn’t know scrap. If a defense lawyer sees angles that the judge wouldn’t consider and the client wouldn’t consider, that’s still applicable! Let me do it. Minimus, let me do this. Let me help you.”

Minimus shutters his optics and clenches his fists. “I don’t want help,” he snarls, “I want to be viewed and measured by--”

“A flawed ‘omnipotent’ being? Primus, Minimus, what do you think you’re saying? You aren’t even listening to me!” Starscream throws up his arms in frustration. “I’m trying to make you realize that you need help! Don’t you want to be here?”

“Of course I do, but I--”

“Don’t you think you deserve to be here?”

“I don’t know!” Minimus shouts.

They both pause for a moment, as mortification constricts Minimus like a full set of stasis cuffs. He feels--hot, all over, humiliated. Starscream is staring down at him.

After a moment, he watches as Starscream’s facial vents open and release a small puff of hot air. “Okay,” he says, “let’s start over.”

“It doesn’t matter how you lead to it,” Minimus says, miserably, his tongue heavy in his mouth, “I’m never going to be able to answer that. I can’t…” his voice box refuses to react, and he restarts it. “I can’t build my own defense,” he admits. “I don’t know what to think. I need someone to tell me what to do.”

Starscream turns away and stares at the opposite wall, focusing on one of the bare pearlescent lamps. Benignly, as he always does when Starscream’s processor is focused on something far away, Minimus realizes he’s beautiful, with his sharp chin and his proud, unsmiling lips. When Minimus loses this case, he’s going to lose him, too. Maybe he’d better make peace with that.

“I think I’m going to miss you,” he says, and Starscream looks at him sharply, as if taken by surprise. “When they take me away somewhere else. I’m not going to miss this place, but I suspect I’ll miss you.”

“You think?” Starscream says. “You suspect?”

All at once, his optics flare aggressively, too bright, and Minimus has to wince back. “Listen to me, nerd. Every day away from me is going to be a hellscape, and you’d better get used to that! ‘You suspect’, slag. Listen to me!” He stamps his pede like a petulant newform, hissing and spitting. “Can’t defend yourself? Fine! I’ll do everything myself. Look there!”

He jabs a finger, aggressively, at an empty chair across the room. Minimus glances at it, confused.

“There sits your client, Ultra Magnus,” he snarls, “how do you defend Minimus Ambus? His afterlife is in your hands. How does he plead to the charge of lying his way into the afterlife?”

Minimus shakes his head. “I’m not Ultra Magnus,” he says, “not anymore. I can’t be.”

“You pretended to be him for millennia,” Starscream says, “all I’m asking you to do is pretend to be him for a little longer. Mins, I’m not a lawyer.” He places two palms over his cockpit. “I don’t know how to build a case. And I need you to be proactive and help me, because, stupid as it sounds, I don’t have a chance without you. If you just give up and roll over, you’re condemning me to the pit, too.” He reaches out and grabs one of Minimus’ hands, angrily glaring down at it like he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with it. “I’m not a good person,” he snaps, “you’re the only one who ever thought I could be. I’m not letting you give up on you because I need it, because I’m selfish, because you haven’t taught me enough to keep me from grabbing at what’s not mine.”

And Minimus stares up into his furious face, into the sear of his optics and the burn of exhaust pouring out of his vents and heating his face, and he wants Starscream. Wants him like this, vicious and alive and about to bite one of his fingers off, unpredictable and angry and brilliant and disrespectfully bright, never dimming, never cooling down. He’s not passively handsome, he’s not just a sexual object made for somebody else’s pleasure. He’s pissed off. He’s radiant. He’s divine.

“My client,” Minimus snaps right back into his face, “has been misused and persecuted by the very system that claims to reward the honesty he has lived his life trying to uphold.” 

He pulls away, desperate to make distance between himself and his revelation.

“Your honor,” he posits to an imaginary bench, “I intend to prove that Minimus Ambus is not guilty on this count. He has been unlawfully misled by authority figures, and was asked to confess to crimes with no attorney present. I seek to prove firstly: that as an official bearer of the name Ultra Magnus, he should not be punished nor charged with fraudulent behavior for identifying as such, and to prove secondly: that even without the legacy that his secondary name implies, his intentions and actions have always been designed to uphold a strict code of morality which is synchronistic with the values of the Good Place. By these two points I intend to prove that the motion to displace him is unlawful and misguided by an authority figure looking to place blame.”

The office, all of its windows shuttered with the same blast shields as the mansion they have spent the last week inside of, glows with the light of the projection.

“Leaving my service record as Ultra Magnus, at this point,” Minimus says, turning to gesture at the projection, which Starscream switches over seamlessly, “on the screen, you will see a graph describing the ratio of cases I defended to cases I won during my time practicing law as Minimus Ambus.”

Pharma narrows his eyes over the interlocked bridge of his fingers. “Braggery isn’t a particularly virtuous trait,” he said.

Starscream’s turbines give an irritated spin at his inability to just kick Pharma out of the office and declare himself the new architect. That would solve everything. But if that was an option, Starscream would have just done it a week ago and then popped open a new case of engex as a congratulations present to himself. 

“I assure you I’m not self aggrandizing here,” Minimus says. “I mean to show the effect that these cases have had on the living world in a demonstrable way. Each innocent that was set free reduced the amount of general suffering in the world and increased the amount of happiness. Their dependants and kin all benefited from their continued freedom, and therefore all of their dependants and kin. There is a rolling chain of benefit which must be mathematically accounted for in the valuation of my life on Cybertron.”

“You don’t mean to tell me you never once defended someone who was guilty?” Pharma asks, his almost lazy tone belied by his sharp eyes. 

Minimus clasps his hands behind his back. “I never made claims counter to what I knew at that time to be true. I don’t lie. It has always been a personal policy. However, in many cases, I did build and submit defenses based on legal technicalities.”

Starscream switched the slide for him.  

“Even in cases where a defendant who committed the infraction in question was acquitted on a technicality, this result has a beneficial effect on the justice system as a whole. Police efforts are rewarded for their adherence to procedure, which in turn reduces the amount of false or premature accusations are filed. For example, if a warrant was not granted prior to a search--”

Starscream holds his finger hovering over the projector button, wings quivering with anticipation. 

Days of pouring through law books, scribbling furious notes on a lightboard, shouting at each other in the library as Rodimus slurped engex with a little umbrella poking out of it and watched them with bemusement. Exhausted hours where Minimus slumped over an open ‘pad with his face in his hands saying, “I don’t know what’s admissible--I don’t even know what’s relevant --”

The download suite in the mansion contained just the right array of top of the line equipment to make copying and transferring stills from Minimus’ memory as easy as pi. By which, Starscream meant that it was doable, but they had to limit themselves to what was actually within their capacity. They were never quite able to figure out how to download full scenes of memory, like the ones the Good Place had lifted to play in Starscream’s house. Wherever those had actually come from.

All of that work to watch Minimus now, shining in the light of the projector, granite and durasteel and unflappable, unstoppable certainty. 

If Pharma doesn’t see how much Minimus deserves this, as much as and more than anyone else in this pit-blasted joke of a heaven, then he’s even stupider than Starscream gave him credit for.

Minimus stops in front of Pharma’s desk, falling into parade rest. 

“In conclusion,” Minimus says, lifting his chin, “I acted in good faith, and it would be a perversion of justice for the Good Place to disregard my evidence of good conduct in favor of the clerical error in which I had no part.”

The projector whirrs. Pharma’s eyes glow, his wings perfectly still behind him. 

Starscream can’t take it anymore. “Well?” he demands, slamming his palms against the tabletop.

Pharma is still for a moment more. And then he sits back with a sigh, wings slumping, and snaps his fingers. All at once the blast shields around the room roll up and disappear into nothing. Blue, bright daylight pours in, complete with the sound of an ornamental waterfall rushing serenely in the distance. 

“How wonderful,” he says, and smiles at them. “I’m so happy you all got the chance to… to really get in there, to spend this… this quality time together. You know, I knew you two--”

“Please don’t prolong the verdict,” Minimus says quietly.

Pharma seems to be wavering. “It’s just such a--an orgy of evidence,” he says, his mouth quivering, “of course, I’m so happy for you two! Er, you seem so… happy, and hardworking. It’s difficult to say ‘no’ to a display like this.”

“Then don’t,” Starscream says. “You’re not supposed to judge a case before you see the evidence. If anything is good enough, it’s this.”

“That’s not really… the problem that I’m having,” Pharma says. He lists to the side, dropping his forehelm into the cradle of his fingertips. “Er, oh, yes, um, well done. I was running numbers for Minimus Ambus, it seems fine. Plus, of course, all your hard work! Right, yes, Minimus Ambus can stay, sure, fine.”

Starscream looks at Minimus, who covers his mouth with his servos and shutters his optics in a silent bend of relief. He looks back at Pharma. “Really? I mean--right, good! Of course, we--”

“It’s just,” Pharma interrupts, “that if Minimus isn’t the one who’s supposed to go… I mean, things are wrong here. Really wrong. Something’s falling apart here. The structure is wrong. Rung hasn’t come online in a Beari and the sinkhole is still open and--” he stops, sucks air in through his vents. “Unless someone comes forward with a great idea in the next--oh, day, or so, I’m going to have to remove somebody.”

Starscream stares. “Somebody?”

Pharma shutters his optics, flutters his fingers nervously, and places them on his collar. “Somebody,” he repeats. “Me.”

Chapter Text

Starscream barges into the house with enough force to make the front door bounce off the inside wall and knock Minimus back onto the lawn, but look, he’s not worried about it, the guy can handle a little blunt force. He was a fragging space cop.

“House meeting!” Starscream shrieks, firing off his integrated confetti cannons. 

Thunderclash and Rodimus both pop their heads out of the same room, which happens to be the Green Parlor, and Starscream makes a beeline for them. They’re covered in uneven splatters of pearl topcoat. The Green Parlor, Starscream’s favorite parlor, is back to its natural state of sunlight and wide windows. Starscream pushes past them and shoves everything off the window seat, plopping himself down there instead.

“Items on the docket,” he says, and pushes down a finger with each item, “1. Is Pharma going away, and 2. Should we care.”

“Pharma’s going away?” Thunderclash asks, looking concerned. And also disconcertingly pearlescent. 

“It’s not a certainty yet,” Minimus says, stepping into the parlor and closing the door behind him with a distinct air of disapproval. “He suggested that the problem with the neighborhood, given the elimination of possibilities thus far, might be himself. If so, he may need to remove himself from the project. He is, technically speaking, a foreign entity to the system, as he is neither a resident nor a neighborhood interface.”

“Unless someone can come up with any other theories to test out instead,” Starscream says, “which brings me back to item number two.”

“Shouldn’t we help him?” Thunderclash says, shifting uneasily. “He’s worked so hard on this.”

“Counterpoint,” Starscream says, “he’s insufferable and I don’t like him.”

“Starscream,” Thunderclash says, taken aback. “I know he’s not very… good at his job, but that’s a mean thing to say. He’s trying his best.”

“Oh, don’t stick up for him,” Starscream says, screwing up his face. “Look at the way he treated you just the other night! Throwing you to the sharkticons like that, when you didn’t even have a speech prepared.”

“I’m with Starscream,” Rodimus says, at which point Starscream belatedly notices that he’s sitting in the middle of a stained tarp, surrounded by jars of paint. “All Pharma ever wants to do is have boring dinner parties and tell us not to do stuff. And he took Rung away! That guy is dope as frag, has anybody seen him recently?”

“Of course we haven’t seen him!” Starscream says. “You’re the one who said he was offline! What are you doing down there?”

“Mixing paint,” Rodimus says. “Duh.”

“The blast shields are up,” Minimus observes, moving to inspect the windows. “I would have expected Rung to come back online with them.”

Hovering behind the couch, Thunderclash folds his fingers together in front of his mouth. “Didn’t Pharma say this neighborhood was unusual?”

“Unorthodox, I believe, was the word,” Minimus replies.

Starscream leans back on his palms. “It’s something his boss wasn’t keen on, whatever that means,” he says. The seat under him gives a creak. “Which… mm. That could be a problem. If he gets taken off the project, the whole place could get scrapped. And some of us--” he eyes Rodimus and then Minimus in turn, “--like where we are.”

Rodimus sticks a paint-covered finger in his mouth and sucks the paint off it with a pop. “Pharma’s bad enough. I bet his boss is a total skidmark.”

“Don’t put that in your mouth, Rod--Hot Rod,” Minimus says. “Paint isn’t for eating.”

“Uhhh, then why’s it taste good,” Rodimus says, smugly. “Check point.”

“Check mate,” Minimus corrects. 

“No,” Rodimus says, “you can't check me, I already called dibs. Anyway, what’re we supposed to do about Pharma being a bad mayor? Other than dismantling his house panel by panel, which was what we used to do when the politicians in Nyon did something fragged up. Like flooding Low Street so they could make a water feature for the senator’s mansion. But I don’t even know if Pharma has a house.”

“Go back to eating paint,” Starscream snaps. “What we need is something we can dangle in front of him that will keep him too preoccupied to worry about a couple sinkholes here and there. Some suspicious looking nimrod, maybe. I volunteer Vega.”

“Even if throwing Vega to the turbofoxes was an ethically acceptable alternative,” Minimus says, “which it isn’t, it would only occupy him for long enough to discern that Vega isn’t the problem. You would buy perhaps a day or two at the most.” 

Starscream purses his lips. “I could seduce him,” he offers. “That’ll keep him busy for a while.”

Minimus stiffens. “Absolutely not.”

Starscream flares his wings. “You don’t think I could do it?” he says. “You don’t think I’m sexy enough?”

“I don’t--that’s not--” Minimus squeezes his forehead with his fingers. “I’m sure you could, but good people don’t engage in sexual relationships under false pretenses. That is basically the least ethical thing you could do in this situation.” 

“Okay so we have Rodimus seduce him. Rodimus doesn’t care.”

“Who?” Thunderclash says, from the sidelines, and is ignored.

“No one is seducing anyone!” Minimus snaps. “There has to be a way to buy time without lying or harming anyone.” 

“Soooo,” Rodimus says, “does shoving him in a closet for the rest of ever count as either of those things?”

Starscream gnaws a clawtip. “Some kind of wild insecticon chase?” he suggests. “We could sell him on the idea that one of the rocks in the rockery is a coding glitch. Have him sort through all of those for the next couple Bearimies.”

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be that complicated,” Thunderclash interrupts.

They all turn to look at Thunderclash, whose fans click on nervously at the sudden surplus of attention. The topcoat splattered over him is mostly on his face and chestplate, and he wipes at it like he’s only just noticed it’s there.

“Well, it’s just that,” he says, “this neighborhood is glitching on a code level. You know what they tell you when your datapad is glitching. Have we tried turning it off and turning it on again?”

“Turning it off?” Starscream repeats.

Thunderclash nods. “The neighborhood is part of Rung’s essence. If he’s what it’s built from, maybe it’s him who’s having the root problem. Maybe the solution is to reset him somehow.”

Starscream considers it. It’s not a bad thought. Of course it’s not really going to fix the problem, because the problem is him, but it might put them back to baseline. If he can just be very good at his good person lessons, they might be able to skate through. “Alright,” he says. “Votes?”

“I want Rung back,” Rodimus opines. “I was gonna show him this hoverboard trick I came up with last night. Also, I’ve been sober for a week now and it sucks."

“Right, I’ll take that as a yes,” Starscream says, and turns to Minimus.

“It does seem like the most logical solution,” Minimus says. “I’m a bit ashamed we hadn’t considered it before.”

Starscream turns to Thunderclash.

“I saw Rung do something… strange, the other day,” he says. “I’d like to give the reset a try, even if it doesn’t fix the neighborhood. In case it helps him at all.”

“Okay, that’s a full vote,” Starscream says, and slaps his hands together. “Let’s go do Pharma’s fragging job for him, eh?”

Striding briskly across the riverwalk, Pharma looks almost like he’s trying to shake the tail of Starscream and all his housemates scrambling to keep up with him.

“Oh, it’s possible,” Pharma says, “the thing is, though, that I don’t like to do it. It can cause… damage.”

“Damage worse than the entire neighborhood going bonkers?” Starscream says, then sticks his tongue out. He can’t believe he just unironically used the word ‘bonkers’. This whole ‘no cursing’ is starting to wring his vocabulary dry.

“Well, things can get… fuzzy,” Pharma says, nervously. “Sometimes, it takes two or three tries to get it, er, right. Rung’s coding is a little… unusual, for a baseline system. Normally, I’d suggest you all stay inside for this bit, but, um…” he pauses, chewing on his lip. “I don’t think it’d help,” he says after a moment. “I think Rung knows the neighborhood a little too well for his glitches to stay in one place.”

“Glitches?” Thunderclash calls from behind. He’s scrambling to keep up, which would be funny, if it wasn’t so sad. “What kind of glitches? More sinkholes and things?”

“Mmph,” Pharma says noncommittally, then stops so suddenly that Rodimus slams into his wing and wipes out on the concrete. “You know what? I think you’re all right,” he says, wheeling around and smiling a little too brightly, “so why don’t I just show you what I mean.”

“Show--show us?” Starscream says. His processor is reeling backwards and forwards, trying to make sense of what it is that Pharma’s saying exactly. “So you’re going to do it?”

“Well, I may as well give it the old university try,” Pharma says, and titters this humorless little laugh that sets Starscream’s denta on edge. “Of course, since Rung isn’t responding--I’ll just have to open up a tiny little hole in reality, it won’t take a moment--”

As Starscream looks on in hard-earned amazement, Pharma reaches over into the air and takes hold of something, like he’s grabbing a cabinet handle that no one else can see, and pulls. A tiny door in nothingness opens, something mechanical like a series of areoinstruments on the other side.

“I’m going to have to summon him manually, which is a pain,” Pharma mutters, reaching in, apparently deaf to Thunderclash’s tiny ‘what is that’ and Rodimus’ general exclamations of excitement as he scrambles back to his feet, “since we’re going to have to reboot him physically to start the process… ah, there we are.”

There’s a klunk, and suddenly, Rung is standing there, as immediately and effortlessly as if one of them had called for him. He doesn’t greet any of them--he just stands, staring straight ahead, optics dim.

“Rung!” Rodimus says. “Hey!” Then, “he looks kind of underfuelled. Does anybody have some energon they could spare?”

“He doesn’t need to be refueled,” Pharma says impatiently, “he needs to be reset. I suggest you all stand back.”

Starscream takes several large steps back, and is vaguely aware of Thunderclash grabbing Rodimus by the spoiler and dragging him away in his periphery. There’s something about this that he doesn’t like--Pharma seemed scared of this just moments before, but suddenly, he’s the plan’s number one fan. ‘Glitches’, that’s what Pharma had said. Glitches?

“Pharma,” he says, “when you said ‘glitches’...”

Pharma ignores him. Pharma is running elegant hands along the sharp jut of Rung’s little chin, his jaw, up behind his audials and over the back of his helm. With some pressing and fiddling, the petals behind his brows begin to unfurl, the entire back panel of his head opening like an explosion in slow-motion. With the sudden uncomfortable feeling that he’s spying on something intimate, Starscream diverts his gaze.

“Um, Pharma,” Thunderclash pipes up, “far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, but would you mind telling us what it is, exactly, that you’re doing?”

“I’m keeping him vulnerable,” Pharma says, “in the event that he malfunctions and attempts to harm the residents of this neighborhood.”

“Harm us? What does that--”

“There we go,” Pharma interrupts, sounding triumphant, and then there’s a clack, and the lights go out.

Not literally, Starscream reminds himself, as his spark and processor cycle down in pure terror. The entire neighborhood has gone totally black--it’s not just that it’s night, because there are no stars in the sky above them. Underneath them, above them, around them, are racing matrices, white lines forming grids all along the ground, the skybox, mapping out the shapes of objects as they interact with each other. Starscream looks down at his hands and tries to shout in panic as he sees more white lines on a black grid, a skeleton system forming his outline.

“Woah, tight,” Rodimus says, and Starscream tries to yell at him, only to find he can’t make any noise at all, “what’s with the lightshow?”

“This is what the neighborhood looks like, without Rung’s system running,” Pharma says, almost apologetically. “He’s the one who maps color and texture onto the basic format we’ve got here. As you can see, there’s not much to enjoy without his, er, aesthetic discernment. Let’s see. Here we go.”

With another clack, Rung straightens up in Pharma’s arms, his armor freshly glowing a unique teal blue color. “Hello,” he says, “hello, architect.”

The ground shudders under them, and there’s a ripple of growth that blooms out from under Rung’s pedes. The sky flashes through a rotation of colors and settles on a smog-blasted red. Starscream peers up at it. “That’s more like it,” he mutters to himself, “Rung! Can you build some bigger buildings?”

“Don’t confuse him!” Pharma snaps. “Something’s wrong. I think he’s going to--”

With a rattle, Rung’s joints start to separate from each other, his form suspended like a model dummy hanging from a rack in a medical classroom, arm and shoulder and chassis extended and open, biolights flaring. Underneath them, the ground goes green and organic, and Starscream feels his thrusters sinking into wet dirt. He stumbles, arms pinwheeling.

“Pharma!” Minimus Ambus grabs Starscream by the arm, steadying him. He’s already taken a combative battle stance, which seems to be keeping him standing solid on the uneven terrain. “What’s happening?”

“He’s glitching out,” Pharma snaps back, “like I said might happen. This is what I was afraid of! We’re going to have to reboot him again.”

Rung stiffens, as much as he can with his body distended in pieces. “No,” he says, “I don’t want to--let me go--”

“Stop struggling!” Pharma grabs at his helm as Rung’s arm whips back to strike him in the side, “you’re malfunctioning--this is for your own good--”

“--Let me go--”

Clunk.  

Starscream is expecting the matrices this time, and pulls air through his vents. There’s no satisfaction that comes with it--he doesn’t feel overheated or overrun. “What,” he says, having found his voice, “the fuck was that--”

“Starscream!” Thunderclash cries, sounding scandalized. “Language!”

“When Rung’s offline, so is the profanity filter,” Pharma says, warningly. “I suggest you all take a little more care.”

“Be careful? I can finally curse for real again!”

“Don’t get used to it,” Pharma says, “I’m going to try rebooting him again.”

Clack.

“What the frag--oh, frag,” Starscream sighs, staring up at the gently pulsating and totally unfamiliar buildings. They look wet and wobbly, throbbing like something alive.

Minimus makes an interesting little noise. “I hadn’t thought about it because of the filter,” he says, “you really do curse a lot, don’t you?”

“Why is that what you’re focusing on?”

Hello! Says Rung’s voice, echoing from everywhere. His body is limp as a ragdoll in Pharma’s arms, his frame a lovely pale purple, several pairs of glasses stacked up on his head and neck like an eccentric necklace. Hello! Hello! Hell! Hell! Hell! Hello hello hello hello

“What’s happening,” Thunderclash yelps, and grabs Rodimus around the shoulders.

Hello hello hello hello hello

“What do you think is happening?” Pharma snaps, one hand covering one of his audials under the onslaught. “Just let me turn this thing back off--”

Hell hell hell hell hell hell

Clunk. 

“Is it fucked up that I’m starting to prefer this?” Starscream mutters. “At least nothing crazy happens when this whole thing is turned off.”

“Will you please stop cursing,” Thunderclash says, wringing his hands nervously. 

“Relax, you guys,” Pharma says, “I have a good feeling about this next one. I think he’s really going to fall into line.”

Rung’s little form moves in his arms.

“Uh,” Starscream says.

“Pharma,” Rung says, and Pharma startles. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”

“Uh, nothing,” Pharma says, hurriedly. “Nothing’s going on! You’re malfunctioning! Just sit still.”

“Where are we?” Rung asks, audible panic rising in his voice. “We were in the lab. What’s happening? What’s--”

Clunk.

There’s a distant sound of running water, from the little river that slides under the copper bridge. Underneath them, familiar as anything, the pretty pattern of opal and granite stones. There’s the sound of laughter and conversation coming from the hubbub of the city square, the sound of the fountain. Above them, the sky is a gorgeous blue, streaming through a tasteful cloud cover onto their familiar home. In Pharma’s arms, limp with exhaustion, Rung is his ever-familiar orange, all in one piece. His shoulders are trembling slightly.

“There,” Pharma says, a nervous smile wobbling across his face, “all back to normal!”

“What was all that?” Thunderclash manages, grabbing at Rodimus’ shoulders and holding a little too tightly. “He was talking. I heard him--when he was supposed to be off--”

“That’s entirely normal,” Pharma interrupts, holding a hand up. “Parts of his system were feedbacking into each other! That’s all. It’s absolutely nothing to worry about, Thunderclash. Everything is fine! If you would like to inspect the details of your various homes, I suspect they will now all be perfectly safe to--”

“What’s wrong with Rung?” Rodimus interrupts, pointing at the unconscious form in Pharma’s arms. “Is he hurt?”

“Rung is perfectly fine!” Pharma snaps. “He just needs some time. Rebooting like that takes up a lot of energy. And his data storage might be… damaged.”

“Damaged?”

“Wiped clean,” Pharma admits. “He’s going to have to re-download most of the information that was there before. It’s going to take some time. Please be patient with him.”

Rung straightens up suddenly, and Pharma lets go of him, takes a few steps back. The petals of his head fold closed as his optics brighten, head swiveling back and forth. “Hello, Thunderclash,” he says, and Thunderclash stumbles forward to touch him gently on the shoulder. “You’re ______.”

“Rung? Rung, are you alright?” Thunderclash says. “Oh, we were so worried--”

“Hello!”

Rodimus beams at him. “Hey!”

“Hello!”

“Er, yeah, this can happen,” Pharma says to Starscream, as Rodimus and Rung shoot greetings back and forth at each other. “Since when is Hot Rod so talkative?”

Starscream, thinking fast, decides to shrug noncommittally. 

“Rung,” Pharma says, and Rung disappears from Thunderclash’s grip and appears in front of him.

“Hello, Architect,” he says, and holds up his hand. “Please enter your PIN.”

“Look,” Pharma says to the small gathering, “why don’t you all… go home. I still have a bit of setup work to do with Rung before he’ll be fully operational, but if you need his help, you should be able to call him by the end of the day. I’m going to swing by the restaurant, see if the sinkhole has been fixed, and then… you know, we’ll go from there.”

“Pharma,” Minimus says, “how long do you think it’ll be before we know for sure if this worked?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the architect says, sighing. “A few days, maybe? A few Jeremys? There’s never been a problem like this in a neighborhood before. I’m not sure what to look for.” He waves his hand in the air. “Just--go home. Find a way to spend the time. I’m sure you’ll all be very happy to have your own space back. I have some things to deal with here.”

This morning, Rodimus is taking down his tarp from where he’s used the outstretched hands of a couple stuffy statues in the garden to hold the corners while it dries. He hasn’t got a clue who these guys are. Friends of Thunderclash’s, maybe? They both look like they’d split their jaws off if they tried to smile. One of them’s got a crown.

It’s been kind of weird around here since they stopped being able to just ask Rung for things and get them, because like--Thunderclash didn’t even know how to mix his own paint when he scraped half his shoulder off trying to fit through that side door, so Rodimus had to show him how to do it or else he would have just walked around all sad and looking like a bigger doofus than usual. Lucky for all of them the kitchen had stayed stocked all week while they were locked in, because Rodimus had never been much good at distilling. His batches have a tendency to catch fire at the halfway mark.

He missed being able to stretch his wheels. First thing he did when the blast shields went up was blow out a tire on the race track out back. He keeps expecting it to still be kind of sore; self healing on rubber usually moves like lukewarm tar. Blunderclash went totally fritzed about it, which was kind of cute in an annoying way--Rodimus knows how to patch a tire, he’s done it a million times. Not everyone can afford to go out and buy a spare every time they lose a wheel, which is what Thunderclash wanted him to do.

They do have a body shop in town here, and he guesses it’s free. Not totally sure he likes the idea of a bunch of strangers messing around with his frame though. He knew a guy once who blew his winnings on a refit at a cheap pop up shop and came out with his pistons so jacked up he had to go see an actual doctor.

He could use a second pair of hands here, to help him fold this thing back up. He doesn’t really want to call the others out here--Starscream and Little M are having some kind of spark to spark inside, and Thunderclash would probably jump to help, but then he’d hang around afterward, trying to make conversation. Pass. It’s fragging exhausting to have to pay attention to every little bitsy thing that comes out his mouth but if he doesn’t Starscream will go feral on him, so--

He brightens. “Rung!” he shouts, “Rung, are you back--”

Rung pings into existence, but facing the wrong way. 

“Hah, hey,” Rodimus says, and spins him round the right way. “Over here.”

Rung’s gaze wanders for a second before locking onto Rodimus. “Hello!” he says. 

He doesn’t look… right. He’s the right color and all, so that’s fine, but there’s something about the way he’s standing. Or the way he’s holding his head up. Rodimus has seen that look in mechs who blew their circuits out on boosters, and he immediately has to fight to keep the smile from slipping off his face.

He straightens his shoulders. “Hey,” he says, keeping it easy and casual. “Wanna give me a hand with this?”

There’s a pause, and then Rung offers his hand, palm open, like he’s going in for a handshake. 

Rodimus considers this for a moment, and then shrugs. “Okay,” he says. “You just hold your end and I’ll do the other thing.”

He’s not, like, good at folding stuff. Minimus saw him doing it the other day while he was getting his supplies out and nearly blew a fuse, apparently there’s all this stuff about corners and angles and by the time Minimus was done with it, the thing looked as sharp as a jetliner. Rung doesn’t seem to mind he’s just sort of crunching it up, though. 

“So Pharma’s letting you out again, I guess,” he says, as he rolls the last of it into Rung’s arms. 

“The online t-cog ‘one piece’ transplant procedure was outlined by [ ] in cycle [ ] vorn [ ],” Rung replies, brightly, like it’s the answer to any question Rodimus ever asked.

“Ooookay,” Rodimus says. He really doesn’t like the way Rung is looking at him. Or not looking at him, which is the problem.

Rodimus takes the glasses off Rung’s nose and pulls them up onto his helm, examining his eyes. Rung just stands there and lets him do it, which is kind of unnerving, because the last time Rodimus tried to touch his glasses he pinged right out of existence and then said to Never Do That Again. 

“You look okay,” Rodimus says, poking at his faceplate a bit just in case there’s something wrong he’s not seeing on the surface. “You feeling okay?”

“I am omnipresent and impervious to harm.” Rung follows this up by listing so far to the side that Rodimus has to scramble to catch him before he goes down like a demolished building. He settles right into the crook of Rodimus’ arm, and begins patting Rodimus’ face blindly, like he’s fascinated by the texture.

Rodimus whistles. “Dang, that’s some trip you’re on.”

Rung hiccups out a sound that is exactly like a chronometer alarm going off. 

Rodimus makes a face. “You can’t be wandering around like this, you’re gonna get your cog snatched.”

“Though starvation dims your shattered optics, beneath the floating freeways/In that sunless deep, your twin starlight will guide ships,” Rung recites. “Quotation referenced by Photon of Vos in his treatise on the Psychology of the Malcontent, cycle [ ] vorn [ ].”

Rodimus thinks for a second, and then scoops Rung up in his arms. “Okay, first order of business,” he says, “we gotta get you somewhere secure to burn this off. You got a hab?”

“I am omnipresent and impervious to harm,” Rung says, again.

Rodimus taps his pede against the lawn. “I’m not taking you back to Pharma,” he decides. “If he let you wander around like this he’s already on my scrap list.”

He racks his processor for a good place to stash a skiv around here. No decommissioned buildings. No scrap yard. Oh, but Rodimus has his own place, doesn’t he? Or, Thunderclash’s place, anyway. He grins. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

He bundles the tarp up into Rung’s arms and then bundles Rung up into his own arms, and he takes off for the mansion.

“I’ve got you,” Rodimus says. “You stick with me, babe, you’ll be fine.”

Starscream finds Minimus in one of the grand empty rooms that this place is full of, staring up at the gashed open Magnus Suit propped up empty and dead eyed at the back wall. Starscream hesitates in the doorway, with the uncomfortable feeling that he’s about to walk in on someone mourning a dead amica.

“Knock, knock,” he says awkwardly, rapping his hand on the doorframe and cringing at the way Minimus startles. “Can I come in?”

“Oh. Um--yes,” Minimus starts, “right, of course.”

Quietly, Starscream walks in and stands himself next to Minimus. On instinct, he shrugs his wings down for that extra half-inch of space, then remembers that Minimus isn’t anywhere near his wing tips and settles them back into place.

“So,” he says.

“Yes,” Minimus replies, as though agreeing to some vast formal statement.

They stare at the suit a little while longer.

“Are you going to get it repaired?” Starscream asks, because the silence is starting to weigh on him in a way he doesn’t particularly enjoy. “I mean. Can you even get it repaired? Would you need a doctor for that, or a mechanic?”

“Ah. I--that is--” Minimus shifts from one pede to the other. “I’m sure that once Rung is at full operational capacity, he would have no difficulty in repairing it.”

“Oh.”

“If that’s what I wanted to do with it.”

“Oh?” Starscream glances down at him. “So… you aren’t going to get it repaired?”

Minimus sighs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “In light of--recent revelations, both about the structure of the Good Place and what the Magnus suit actually means--what wearing it does to other people’s perception of me, I--it doesn’t seem moral to continue wearing it. If Pharma considers my portrayal of Ultra Magnus to be deceitful, rather than another step in my transitionary… er, transition…” he sighs again and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know that ‘being’ Ultra Magnus anymore is the morally correct course of action. I don’t know that I can argue to Pharma that I shouldn’t be punished for ‘being’ Ultra Magnus because I didn’t know that it was wrong, and then continue to do it after learning that I was making a mistake.”

Starscream almost wants to laugh. “See, now you get how I feel when I take your classes,” he says, and smiles when Minimus turns to blink up at him. “I used to be proud of blagging my pals into seats at the opera and nicking wallets off drunks and building weapons for… for, uh…” he trails off.

Who did he build weapons for? He can remember building them, but it’s not like he ever knew anybody who needed them.

“For myself,” he says, after a moment’s deliberation, and holds up his null rays. “But all that is wrong, apparently! I never would have guessed.”

“Thank you,” Minimus says dryly, “you have bucked my spirits profoundly.”

“Anyway, what’s even the pro of wearing this thing?” Starscream says, gesturing grandly towards the slightly-too-familiar-looking corpse—suit, it’s a suit. Not a body, not a person he was close to. “On Cybertron, sure, I can get wearing this thing. No lines, for one thing! Super famous mech, super huge—I bet you can get from one place to the other in that in no time. People probably used to clear a path! But if this is the Good Place, why not take leisure time? Slow walks are supposed to be good for your spark.”

It's a suit. Not the mech who held him down and wrapped him up in his berth, flustered and flattered and all too worried about a life Starscream had long since learned to take for granted. Not the mech who hadn’t kissed him in a starlit garden, when the time was right and the night was beautiful. Not the mech with tidy little lines of handwriting, sitting so close that Starscream could feel the heat of his engine pouring out of his vents against the soft protometal of his face.

Not a corpse. Just a suit.

“The suit helps me,” Minimus admits, “with my chronic pain.”

Starscream resets his optics. “Your what?” he says, doing an impressively comical double-take. “Wait, your what? You have what?”

“It was sort of a self-fulfilling prophecy, in retrospect,” Minimus barrels on, not even sparing Starscream a glance. “I didn’t have any pain before I started my time piloting the suit. Now, however--well, now I’ve spent decavorns curled up inside it, and my body is… feeling its absence.”

“If we’re in the Good Place, shouldn’t that all go away?” Starscream crosses his arms.

Minimus twists his shoulders up. “I’ve run internal diagnostics,” he admits, “and there’s nothing really, deeply wrong with my body. It just hurts. I fear my time in the suit may have done irreparable psychosomatic damage.”

“Who had any business building a suit like that? How were you supposed to live outside of it?”

“I wasn’t,” Minimus says, shrugging. “I was supposed to die in it, remember? I did die in it. I don’t think Tyrest was worried about what my afterlife in it was going to look like.”

Starscream glares up at the big empty shell on the wall. All his mushy feelings for ‘Ultra Magnus’ have completely vanished. Stupid--it was Minimus, the whole time. So what, if he’s little, and green, and he doesn’t look anything like the protagonist of a silverscreen reel, the type who kicks down a door to carry minibots out of a burning building? He’s the one who took pity on Starscream, he’s the one who wanted to help him be a better person. Ultra Magnus is nothing but chaff.

“I’m going to miss him, though,” Minimus says. “I think--the me that was him, I think that version of myself--I think he was a better person.”

Starscream sneers. “The you that was him,” he says derisively, and Minimus glances up at him, “that was still you, Mins. This piece of slag didn’t make you a different, better person! It just made you--taller. Taller!” He waves his arms in the air. “Like being tall is a sign of--of anything!”

“I appreciate your feelings on the matter,” Minimus says oddly, “but with the desire I had to achieve Magnus’ way of behavior, to further his legacy, I took actions as Magnus that I would never have made by myself.”

“Okay,” Starscream says, “let’s say that’s true. You still weren’t changed by him! You wanted to be more like the other little--loadbearers, the other minibots, who were playing him. He might’ve made you big and brave and heroic, but you already knew those actions were the right ones. Frankly, I think this guy--” he waves a demonstrative hand at the big heap of slag leaned up against the wall, “--is just a scrapyard waiting to get pilfered!”

Minimus narrows his optics. “Are you trying to… cheer me up,” he says, sounding unconvinced. “It’s not working very well.”

Starscream lets loose a cry of utter fury. 

“I’m not trying to do anything!” he shrieks. “I’m having a temper-tantrum! Every which way you turn, every corner you wheel around, every kitchen of some big important bot opening his famous restaurant, and you find us little guys in the back, working and slaving away! Ultra Magnus died thousands of vorns ago, and people still can’t stop sucking his spike! Not even you!” He jabs an accusing finger into Minimus’ chassis. “I mean, what did you work for? What did you slobber and slave at for all that time? The chance to die in an unmarked grave? So people can go on praising some big ugly cop who never did any thing for any one except suck them all up into his cult of personality?”

“Ultra Magnus was instrumental in many-”

“Who cares!” Starscream yelps, and stamps his pedes. He’s really starting to work himself up, a full-blown, dramatic, artistic, theatrical temper-tantrum to sully the ages, the type he did whenever [ ] refused one of his budget requests and told him that he’d been hired to [ ], not to [ ], that he should stick to what he was good at. His fists pump up and down, his wings flap in big exaggerated swoops. “Who cares what he did! He’s dead! He’s dead! We’re dead! I’m sick and tired of getting kicked in the face again and again and again by the memory of dead somebodies and dead so-and-sos and the legacy of corpses! Minimus, aren’t you tired? Doesn’t it make any body else just want! To! Scream!”

“Starscream,” Minimus says, and reaches out to touch his arm. Starscream cries out and jerks away from him.

“Why can’t we get away from it? Why can’t we just get away from dead names and dead mechs and just, just be dead on our own, away from everyone else?” He kicks the Magnus’ leg furiously and ineffectively. It hurts his toepedes. “I thought being alone here was so awful,” he says, “without anybody I knew when I was alive here with me. No friends, no trine, nobody I even hated in an interesting way! But this is worse, isn’t it? Heaven’s just strangers and it’s chock full of memories of people who don’t even live here! It’s not enough to be by yourself for eternity, you have to live with this big piece of garbage taking up space in your apartment, in your processor, you have to--”

“Starscream,” Minimus says again, and grabs him firmly by the wing, “you’re not alone here, Starscream. I’m here, too.”

“Gnrh,” Starscream chokes out.

“Starscream,” Minimus says, with his funny little voice that doesn’t sound anything like thunder or drums or the racing music of an overture on the other end of Starscream’s memory, “will you please calm down and open your ventilation system properly?” And his queer little hand, small as a bird in sunlight, runs up his wing and scratches tactile lines against his immaculate paintjob.

“I’m, fine,” Starscream manages. “I don’t need anybody else--I love fake people, I love, games, I love drama--”

“--Music means nothing to you, I know,” Minimus interrupts, and pushes a thumb into his back.

It doesn’t feel... foreign, it doesn’t feel alien, the way hands grabbing at him usually do. He’s had people grab his wings before, wiggle their fingers into the fixtures of his back, out of fascination or perversion or whatever else. This isn’t that. Minimus isn’t grabbing for him--he’s pushing something back into place.

It feels like--so many long nights, crammed between Thundercracker and Skywarp, all three of them insisting it’s about not giving up territory, about being in the one room with the working heater. Hands trailing over anatomy, pretending to be asleep, just looking for that traitorous note of comfort. Something that they can’t trade for, something they can’t give.

“My spinal strut is fine,” he insists, feeling a hole of vulnerability gaping through him.

“You pushed some of these gears out,” Minimus murmurs, “from flapping--do you want me to stop?”

Starscream bites down on his tongue. “Don’t ask me that,” he says, and sighs, and gets down on his knees. “Can you reach it better like that?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Just do it quickly,” he mutters. He focuses his gaze very sternly on the Ultra Magnus Corpse’s pedes, which he still wants to stomp on until he gets a yelp out of it. He does not want to focus on the feeling of small, gentle-working hands. “How did you know I was going to say that? About the, uh, music.”

“Oh,” Minimus says. “Well. You said the same thing, when you were--er--” he makes an odd little noise with his voice box, not so much a reboot as a removal protocol. “When you pulled me out,” he mutters, sounding embarrassed.

“You,” Starscream says, “heard all that?”

Minimus doesn’t answer. Then, he says, “there, that looks good,” and removes his hands all at once, takes a few steps back. “I think it should be back in alignment--that is, it looks right--”

All too eager to help Minimus make space between the two of them, Starscream climbs quickly to his feet and wiggles his wings experimentally. “Oh, that is better,” he says, rolling his shoulders, and watches Minimus in the periphery of his vision relax slightly. “You know, I don’t know why I’m not doing that for you.”

“What?” Minimus waves his hands quickly. “No, I promise you, my scans of my own physiology have been extremely extensive. I try to be meticulous in my studies.”

“I know that,” Starscream says. “Believe me, I think I know you pretty well. But it feels good, even if there’s nothing actually wrong back there, right? Maybe it’ll alleviate some of that, uh, loadbearer stiffness.”

Minimus says nothing. Starscream shifts uneasily from one pede to the other.

“I’m good at it,” he insists, feeling nervous in the silence. “Trust me! I used to do it for, uh, for a friend of mine back on Cybertron. He was first mold, real shiny stuff, but his wings kind of wore him down after a while. It happens to the best of us!”

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” Minimus says, “I don’t think it can be fixed with--with momentary comfort.”

“I know I can’t cure it,” Starscream says, “but I mean--if I can alleviate it for a little while, that would be good, right? It would help.”

Minimus peers up at him, one optic narrowed. “Why are you offering?” he asks. “Is there a hidden benefit in it for you that I’m not seeing?”

Touching you, Starscream almost says, and then pulls it back because like, being seductive is very much not the mood here. “I want to be a good person,” he says, and crosses his arms over his chassis. “I know I’m not, but I’m trying. And I’m--” He wriggles his jaw and resets his voice box, trying to amp himself up. “--I’m sorry,” he spits out, before he can swallow it back down.

“You’re what?”

“For freaking out!” Starscream throws his arms up. “I’m sorry! Okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’m tired of being a pain in everyone else’s aft! I’m sorry I ruined your afterlife, just like everyone did when you were alive! I broke this place and this whole glitch-in-the-system thing is my fault, and you’re covering for me and I’m sorry and I want to help you.” He jerks his leg up to stamp his pede down hard on the ground, then catches himself winding up for another temper-tantrum, and instead sets it delicately back on the marble. He vents deeply. “I hate apologizing,” he adds, miserably.

“I know,” Minimus says, “believe it or not, I think I know you pretty well, too. You don’t have to keep doing it.”

“Keep--I haven’t been doing it!”

“Being nice to me,” Minimus clarifies, “offering me things. Acting angry on my behalf.”

“Acting?”

“Being,” Minimus hurriedly corrects, “being angry on my behalf. I don’t need your penitence. And I don’t want you to think you owe it to me.”

Starscream considers this for a moment. “I don’t think I owe you a backrub,” he says, “but I think you’d like one. I think I’m good at them. I think... if you let me try, it could be... nice. When’s the last time you-- not Magnus, you-- had something nice?”

“All last week. You saved my afterlife.”

“No, that was heroic and beautiful and stunning of me,” Starscream says, holding a finger up. “Bombastic! Artistic! I’m talking nice here, Minnie.”

Minimus makes a face at him. “Please don’t call me small.”

Rodimus gets to throwing open cabinets at random, starting with the ones mounted just behind Pharma’s desk. Seems like the place to go. It’s mostly files, like, hardcopy files? Rodimus pulls those out onto the floor just in case there’s something hidden behind them, but there’s not, so he moves on to the next cabinet. Looks like a bunch of awards and stuff? He pulls those out on the floor too, because he’s already started doing that, so why not.

“What ,” says the voice of Pharma, “are you doing?”

Rodimus jumps. Since he’s currently halfway into the cabinet looking for a secret hatch panel, that means his helm whacks the underside of the cabinet top. Ow.

“Uh,” Rodimus says. “Scavenger hunt?”

Pharma gives him a once over. “I didn’t organize any scavenger hunts today.”

“Thunderclash,” Rodimus says, immediately. “He wanted to do some dumb bonding activity, so--”

“You’re awfully talkative,” Pharma says, sidling closer. “What happened to your vow?”

“Oh, the vow,” Rodimus says, “the vow of silence that I took, the monk vow, right, that vow. Well, I--so it turns out I checked the monk code and you don’t have to keep doing it after you die! Wild right? Who knew.”

“The monk code,” Pharma repeats.

“I wouldn't expect you to know about it,” Rodimus says, ducking back down inside the cabinet. “Not a monk.”

Pharma watches him silently for a moment. There’s some kind of model organ in here? It’s weirdly wet. He pokes that aside with a finger and keeps digging.

“What are you looking for, on this scavenger hunt?” Pharma asks.

Rodimus congratulates himself on his smooth talking and briefly shakes his own hand. “Fuel for Rung,” he says. “Where do you keep it, I’ve been looking for six hundred years."

“I don’t keep fuel for Rung in my office,” Pharma says. “Why would I do that?”

“He lives with you, doesn’t he? What kind of fuel does he take. Mid-grade? Low grade?”

“He doesn’t take fuel.”

Rodimus pauses and sits back on his heels. He looks over Pharma’s fancy paint job and his smooth classy lines, and frowns. “You don’t have him on disposable grade, do you?” he says, already calculating how he’s going to flush that arterial blockage out of Rung before it can crystalize his fuel pump solid. It ain’t gonna be pretty. On the other hand, Rung is so out of it, who knows if he’ll even remember afterward. 

They’ll need clean solvent. No problem, Blunderclash has like six washracks in that palace of his. And a hypodermic, which is gonna be harder to find, but Pharma’s a doctor so maybe if Rodimus can find the right cabinet--

“He doesn’t fuel at all,” Pharma says, sounding impatient.

“You’re not feeding him?” Rodimus demands. “He works for you! I know you’re not giving him money, everyone says there’s no money in the Good Place!”

“He’s not a real person!” Pharma says. “He’s a--a construct, he’s part of the neighborhood, he’s not alive .”

Rodimus squints at Pharma. “So what,” he says, “he’s like an empty or something?”

Pharma’s fancy blue hands twitch. “He’s a construct,” Pharma says, firmly. “He doesn’t need fuel because he doesn’t burn fuel, because he’s not alive.”

Rodimus mentally marks Rung down as extremely nice, for being undead. 

“Look,” Pharma says, in a tone that Rodimus doesn’t really appreciate, “I can see you’re worried about Rung. But you don’t have to be! He just needs a little time to catch up with where he is.” Pharma comes around the side of the desk and pulls Rodimus up to his feet, dusting off his shoulders for him. “Go play with the turbokits in the park, or get a fancy coolant or something. Relax. Rung can take care of himself.” 

“...Cool,” says Rodimus, who is definitely not going to do any of those things.

He leaves the office, irritated but not even remotely surprised. He’s never expected fancy bots like Pharma to be good for anything but having lightweight valuables lying around. Anyway, he’s got a fuel gauge reader in his subspace now, courtesy of Pharma’s cabinets, so he can manage the rest on his own.

Rung is waiting right where he left him, cocooned in thermal sheeting in the beanbag nest Rodimus built him. Rodimus congratulates Rung on staying put while he was gone as he checks Rung over to make sure no mystery dents or sprains happened in his absence. Rung informs him that the half life of Uranium-235 is eleven thousand, seven hundred and thirty three standard kliks. Rodimus says that’s hella, babe, would you pop the cap on your medical port for me?

The gauge pops in and syncs up no problem, which is good, because Rodimus hasn’t ever seen a medical array quite like this one before, and he’s seen his fair share.

“Huh,” Rodimus says. He takes the fuel gauge and shakes it out, pops it back in. The digital readout just blinks an infinity symbol back at him. “Well,” he says. “Guess you’re topped off.”

“In Xanadu did Kublah Khan a stately pleasure dome decree,” Rung says, brightly and nonsensically. “Where Alph the sacred river ran, through caverns measureless to man, down to a sunless sea.”

“At least you’re having a good trip,” Rodimus says, and pats him on the back. “You’re probably due for some coolant, the way your processor is firing.”

While Rung is listing off the periodic table of elements--or at least he thinks that’s what it is, either the periodic table or a roll call of famous scientists--Rodimus digs through his junk to find the coolant he was saving for his next big dross blowout. A thought occurs to him, as he’s ripping the seal off the cube.

“You can’t make stuff yet, can you?” he asks. “Like, you couldn’t magic us up some more coolant, could you?”

Rung presses his palms together and then opens them, revealing the tiniest potted plant of all time. Rodimus isn’t any kind of expert on exotic pets, but it looks kind of fat and green and squishable.

“Not exactly. Try again.”

Two potted plants. Both adorable. Neither remotely drinkable.

“Alright forget that, we’ll make do,” Rodimus says. He tries to get Rung to hold the cube. Fine motor control is still escaping him, apparently. He ends up holding Rung in the crook of one elbow and tipping the coolant into Rung’s mouth. Works well enough. The stuff seems to almost disappear when it hits Rung’s tongue but hey, progress is progress.

“This takes me back,” he tells Rung, who is now examining the cube like he’s never seen one before. “You know what we should do? We should go down to the riverwalk and see if there’s any good junk at the bottom of it. Me and Drift used to do that all the time.”

He takes the two tiny plants and moves them to the top of a stack of old dishes. Rung claps and disperses the cube, which would be totally fine except it’s just a regular plastic cube from the kitchen, and they’re definitely not supposed to do that. Oh well, one less dirty dish for Starscream to complain about, he guesses.

“You better come with me,” he says, “‘cause if you make my stuff disappear while I’m gone, I’m gonna be ticked.”

Rodimus secures Rung in his bundle of sheeting, just in case he decides to get adventurous on the way down, and says, “You can cheer for me when I find something good. In a neighborhood this bougie, there’s got to be some primo trash down there.” 

He tosses Rung over his shoulder. “People this rich,” he says, “heck, they probably throw away whole tables when a leg gets broken.”

Starscream is crossing the bridge over the mercury ponds, on his way to soothe his sparking emotional core processor with the fluffiest coolant whip the barista will give him, when he notices garbage on the pristine lawnscape. His first thought is that he absolutely must deploy this in the most devastating way possible the next time he’s forced to occupy the same room as Pharma. His second thought is that the garbage almost looks like it has a little face.

What?

Starscream comes to a halt in the middle of the bridge, squinting at the shore of the pond.

That’s Rung on the hill down there. Wrapped up like a radioactive power core in shield padding, sure, but that’s definitely his little face. Starscream leans over the railing for a better look, just as the liquid down below splashes open around a red helm. Rodimus surfaces, clinging to a line dropped down from the arch of the bridge.

“Got another one!” he shouts back at the shore.

Rung brightens in his cocoon, bespectacled optics glowing. There’s some kind of broken up object on the ground next to him, which in retrospect only contributed to his being mistaken for trash.

Starscream leans until one of his thrusters is in the air. “What in the name of Primus’s holy pikesleeve are you doing down there,” he says, which is not what he was trying to say, thank you. He silently laments the return of the profanity filter.

Rodimus blows out his vents, and a cloud of steam billows up around him. “We’re on a date!” he shouts back. 

“You’re on a date with who?” Starscream says, eyeing the water suspiciously. If Thunderclash is going to come popping up out of that like a hungry sharkticon, he wants to be much further away from it all.

“Rung, duh,” Rodimus says, thumbing in the direction of the shore. “I think it’s really going good! Except all I can find in this lame aft holding pond is smashed up pictures of mimes. Who the frag is buying these mimes and then throwing them in the river?” 

Starscream does not grace that with a response. “Why would you want to date Rung?” he says.

“I like the skinny little bots,” Rodimus answers, “they’re always real impressed with my kibble. Do you think Rung likes spoilers? Everyone likes spoilers, what am I talking about.” He turns back to the shore and cups his hands around his mouth. “Rung! Do you like! My spoiler!”

Rung wiggles an arm free and cups his own mouth. “It’s very nice!” he calls back.

Rodimus wriggles up his line a little higher and beams. “Like I said, we’re hitting it off.”

Starscream curls a lip. “Is he even sentient?”

Rodimus opens his mouth, and then he closes it. “Rung! Are you—!”

There’s a chime, and then Rung is sitting on the railing of the bridge, still swaddled up in padding. Starscream staggers back.

“Hello, Starscream,” he says.

“Babe,” Rodimus says, wriggling towards them, “are you sentiment?”

“I am an autonomous sentient being,” Rung confirms.

Starscream edges back from him, warily. The sky doesn’t do anything weird, but he still hasn’t forgotten Pharma opening up Rung’s helm ‘for their protection’. There’s a reason why everyone has avoided calling on the construct since he was rebooted the other day.

“You seem… talkative, again," he settles on, picking his vocabulary with care.

“He’s been coming down for a while!” Rodimus volunteers. “He’s pretty good except for the words.”

“Words,” Starscream repeats.

“Occasionally I have been having problems with ending sentences on the right muffler.”

Starscream stares at him. Starscream presses a finger to either side of his helm and digs in until his claws are threatening to rupture the metal. 

“This is not my problem,” he mutters. “This is not my problem, and I’m going to get a coolant before I overheat and turn into a puddle of sludge. If anyone asks after me, tell them I drowned.”

He gets all the way to the far end of the bridge before he pauses, one pede hovering over the stone walkway.

“Unless it’s Minimus,” he amends. “Then you can tell him I’m at the Cool Cube, getting a frostie.”

Chapter Text

It’s easy to cast blame when big stuff happens. Starscream should know--he’s the premiere intelligence on pointing the finger at anyone but himself. But for once, he doesn’t know where to cast it. He doesn’t even know where to start.

He’s laser-focused on Minimus, that’s mostly what he remembers. Laser-focused on his joints, on the elegant way his plates slip into and under one another when he shifts, real silky-elegance type scrap. The whole rig looks expensive--the fact that it’s so little really just adds. Starscream’s never turned his nose up at a little box. That’s where you keep diamonds.  

Plus, he’s so smooth, and he’s letting Starscream touch him. Like, really touch him, like, get his hands on him and everything. ‘Letting’, that’s an interesting way of putting it. He’s basically begging, lying face down on the berth and begging Starscream to let him have it.

“Please,” he gasps, in that queer little voice, “I can take it deeper, so, please--”

Starscream throws some of his weight into the next thrust, and Minimus moans out loud. “It’s just really tight,” he mutters, “you should’ve called me in to loosen you up ages ago, Mins.”

“I didn’t know you were so good,” Minimus mutters into the berth, “or, that is--no--I didn’t realize anything could be this good--”

“I see it!” Starscream interrupts. “I’m going in--hold on tight to something--”

“Starscream--”

With a heave and a grunt of effort, Starscream jams his fingers deep into the mechanisms of Minimus’ back and shoves a stray cog, which must have come loose with the effort of carrying the Magnus suit for literal decavorns, back into its place. Minimus gives a great cry and goes limp in the way that only a really excellent massage can provide. Starscream takes a moment to look at him, bleary and loose-limbed and grinning, and feels exceedingly smug as he rubs and pets the remaining pain away.

“Told you so,” he says. Smugly.

Minimus opens his mouth to say something, but it doesn’t come out before the lights go out and they’re plunged--unexpectedly, unremorsefully--back into the gridvoid.

After the circuit melting overload, Rodimus collapses back into the berth, which doesn’t even hurt his spoiler because this thing is padded so good. This really is the fragging life. His engine is idling down, comfortably hot with how hard he’s been running, and all his limbs feel that kind of achy stretch you get after a really good ‘facing. Rodimus has heard before that the world is supposed to move, but he’s fragged a bunch of bots in a bunch of different ways and he’d never seen it do that before.

It had been right about the time when Rung’s optics suddenly went wide and white, and he said, “oh--” And then the ceiling and everything else inside the Rod Pod had blacked out into streaming white lines on a blank endless grid. Rung clutched at him, burying himself deeper as he blazed through one of the prettiest overloads Rodimus had ever seen outside of actual porn. The empty void and Rung’s blazing optics, lines going on forever and ever as if they were all one single endless organism sharing a moment of spark-breaking bliss.

It was only when he finally slumped, fans whirring, that Rodimus’ room began to flicker back into place one crushed oil can at a time.

Rodimus rips off the top of a little paper tube and pours powder onto his tongue, then offers Rung the last third of the dross. The guy is still faintly sizzling with residual charge.

“No thank you,” Rung says. “I think that would end very badly for everyone inside of me.”

“Mm, you want someone inside you?” Rodimus asks, knocking back the last of the powder. It tastes like blue, which is cool, and it kind of pops over his tongue like only the really good stuff does. “Give me a couple kliks and I’ll get you back.”

“That’s not what I was saying,” Rung says, like he thinks it’s kinda funny. “But I wouldn’t object, if you were up for it.”

Rodimus grins at him and opens up his arms. Rung hesitates for a second, but then he lets himself be pulled down into Rodimus’ grip. He fits so good in Rodimus’ arms, just the right size to hold now that he’s bigger and all. Rodimus, that is, not Rung. Could Rung get bigger too? Hopefully he won’t. Rodimus kind of likes him better the way he is. 

Rodimus kind of likes him a lot, actually. Maybe it’s just his processor going all fuzzy and slow from the dross, but he thinks he could stay like this for the rest of his afterlife and be just fine with it, really.

“We should get hitched,” says Rodimus, absently playing with Rung’s neat little fingers.

“Okay,” says Rung.

Rodimus bolts upright, almost knocking Rung out of the berth. His pipes give a pop of flame. “Yeah?” he says. “Yeah! Hell yeah! Let’s get hitched!”

Then he pauses, having caught Rung by the wrist just as the aide was about to go over the edge. “I’ve never been anybody’s conjunx before,” he admits. “How do you do it?”

Rung grabs his arm and levers himself back up properly onto the berth. Rodimus pulls him the rest of the way into his lap and leans back against the wall.

“There are four principal movements of the conjunx rite,” Rung informs him. His voice still sounds competent and casual and warm despite the fact that he just finished pounding the living spark out of Rodimus’s aft. It’s super hot.

“Tight. What’s the first one?”

“Extended and meaningful intimacy,” Rung answers. “Typically this is done in a place that holds emotional significance for both parties.”

“Oh dang!” Rodimus says, “Check that one off. We’re already so good at this marriage thing!”

Rung conjures a large holographic score board and checks off the first line of it with one finger. It goes ping when Rung marks it off.

Rung says, “The next steps are acts of disclosure, proferance, and devotion. One party shares a deeply personal secret and offers a token of their intentions. The other party demonstrates their acquiescence to the rite by performing a gesture of devotion.”

“A gift huh,” Rodimus says, tapping his chin. “Kinda tricky. I don’t have any money, and you’re magic. It’s like the guy who invented this never even worried about what was gonna happen when a normal dead guy wanted to court some kind of immortal undead angel.”

“They likely did not,” Rung replies, with the slightest quirk of an eyebrow. 

“No sweat,” Rodimus says, relaxing. “I’m the king of improv. I’m the maestro. Tell me what kinda stuff you like.”

“Like?”

“Yeah!” Rodimus says. “What’s your speed? Flashy or cute? Mod or retro?”

“I don’t understand.”

Rodimus pokes him. “What makes you happy, smart guy?”

“My function is to assist the residents of this neighborhood achieve maximum satisfaction by providing aid, comfort, or advice,” Rung says. “When I fulfill this function, I am satisfied. Your happiness, in short, is my happiness.”

“Aw, no,” Rodimus says. “No, Rung, c’mon. You must like some stuff just for you. Think about something that makes you feel good that doesn’t have to do with any of us losers. Open up that big sexy memory bank and get in there deep. You’ve got the whole history of the planet to look at.”

Rung gives him another one of those eyebrow-quirks and says, “Very well.”

Rodimus sits back, rolling the empty dross tube through his fingers, and watches as Rung’s expression goes more and more hollow. His joints start to visibly relax, one by one. His spark chamber throws off light brighter and brighter, until it almost casts its own small shadows. 

“At Maccadam’s, there is a table by the window,” Rung says, slowly, in a voice that seems to be coming from somewhere far away. “If you come in before dawn, before the office opens, you could watch the sun rising between the Intractable Towers. The sky would break blue and green at the horizon, and the sun would pour like molten brass across the glass windows of the world… and there would be hot oil, with two coolants, and a sweetener.”

The light in his spark chamber abruptly cuts out, leaving him blank and hollow like a sparkless device in shutdown, and then slowly, he flickers back to life. His optics blink on and off, and then settle.

“Was that helpful?” he says.

The paper slips from between Rodimus’s slack fingers and bounces across the berth. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah, babe. It was hella.”

Pharma calls a meeting in the town square in the middle of class, which means Starscream has to pick back up up tearing Functionist Virtue Ethics to tiny shredded scrap metal in public, because he’s not going to just let this lie.

“So they’re gonna tell me I’m a bad person because I don’t monitor my every action based on how it impacts the alt based class hierarchy that’s making me miserable every day of my life, and I’m supposed to treat that like some kind of moral truth?” he hisses into Minimus’s audial, elbows slung over the back of his chair to make sure he can’t scoot away.

“For the last time Starscream, virtue ethics are relative by nature, will you please stop shaking my seat.”

Starscream slumps back in his own seat, arms crossed. He was relegated to the benches because of his wings, while Minimus was small enough to need the more delicate raised seating of the first few rows. The fact that they had by unspoken agreement chosen the last of the front rows and the first of the back rows respectively was a fact Starscream has no intention of dwelling on.

“I’m just saying,” Starscream mutters, “Honesty and integrity all that rustwash, I can buy those as virtues. But obedience? I don’t think so.”

“Hello, thanks for coming out, mechs,” Pharma says, clapping his hands together in the middle of the stage. “I just wanted to give everybody a big heads up about tomorrow, so nobody gets any aerions ruffled.”

Starscream sits forward again, folding an elbow over the back of Minimus’ chair. “Bet he wants to throw himself a pity party. I swear this mech is such a prima donna.”

“Shush,” Minimus says, but he can’t bop Starscream with his elbow or anything because they’re in public and he’s so polite. So Starscream wins.

On stage, Pharma claps his hands together and then doesn’t let go, twisting his fingers nervously. He doesn’t look like he knows he’s doing it. “First of all I want to thank you all for being so understanding and supportive of me as we work through all this hubbub and hooplah with the, er, glitches. I’m sure you’re all aware we had another one this morning. Haha. Of course you know. It’s not like anyone could miss it!”

Pharma’s eyes are too bright. After an uncomfortable moment of burbling giggles, he swallows the slightly unhinged laughter and smooths out his facial features with both his elegant hands, wiping his expression off like so much condensation. “But in light of that,” he says, “the Powers that Be are looking for a little reassurance.”

Starscream’s gaze sharpens. Whatever command structure Pharma answers to, his only recourse if Pharma loses control of the project may be throwing himself on its mercy. The more he knows, the safer he is. You do have to know how to prostrate yourself for any given audience, just sobbing and slobbering inarticulately won’t cut it.

“Now it shouldn’t interfere with your day too much,” Pharma says, with a reassuring wing flick, “but we are going to be having some guests. We’re going--that is to say, I’m going to be audited.”

“This is a special project,” Pharma goes on, over the faint murmuring, “there’s a lot riding on us--I’d like us to all put our best foot forward.” 

Beside Starscream, Rodimus leans over and says, “I’ve heard this one before. Y'all’re gonna need some decals pronto.”

Starscream shooshes him with a couple angry hand-flaps and tries to keep up with the speech.

“Really, I think it would be best for everyone to stay out of the way,” Pharma is saying, “rather than all of us getting jumbled up under foot! In fact, don’t even leave your houses. Have a day in! Do a spa routine! Don’t come outside, and don’t talk to any strangers you might encounter.”

Rodimus and Starscream exchange a glance. Up on stage, Pharma smiles big. It looks borderline painful.

“I know it’s been a lot!” he says, “But if everything goes well, just think! The future of Good Place might be the Cosy Cosign, you never know!”

Starscream watches Pharma tromp off the stage, the wings with their medical crosses twitching, the perpetually bright and cheerful streamers pinned around the stage support struts all blue and fresh in the warm evening. He narrows his eyes. Like hell he’s staying inside for this.

While it wasn’t exactly illegal, the amount of suspicion and sheer disapproval a mech with a wheeled alt would encounter just standing in a train station was enough to keep most from trying it without good reason. As someone whose alt was cargo based, Thunderclash had never been particularly welcome on public transport back home prior to becoming a cultural sensation and overnight celebrity. After that, it had been difficult to go anywhere with large crowds of people, not without getting bogged down meeting and greeting, and waylaid signing datapads or extraneous bits of kibble.

So the train station in the Good Place is a pleasant novelty.

“I say,” Thunderclash remarks, knocking a support pillar with the backs of his knuckles, “it’s a charming little place you built here. The big chronometer is a nice touch. Although I can't say I recognize any of the numerals.”

Pharma waves him off, his attention never breaking from the far end of the track, where a great stone arch rose from the gravel. On the near side of it, a single polished rail unfurls from the mouth of it. On the other side, there is only flat gravel.

“It’s highly technical afterlife infrastructure,” he says, “you wouldn’t understand.”

It’s just the two of them on the platform, waiting for the incoming train. Starscream is hovering around the outside of the station, most likely out of consideration for not crowding their guests right out of the gate, which is just the kind of thoughtful thing he would do. Or it might have to do with Pharma telling him to go home and stay inside several times on the way here.

Pharma is watching the track like a day laborer watching the foreman assemble a stack of pink slips. His wings twitch. Thunderclash is struck with a pang of fond pity for the poor bumbling creature. He couldn’t imagine letting Pharma shoulder this all on his lonesome. It was very kind of Starscream to take Thunderclash’s side about the whole last minute speech debacle, but it wasn’t as if it had been out of malice. 

“I just want to say,” he tells Pharma, laying a comforting hand on the flattest part of the shoulder, “how honored I am that you were willing to let me support you in this trying time. I promise to do my upmost to represent your project.”

Pharma looks down at the hand, expression inscrutable, and then opens his mouth. At the same time, a far away boooing rattles the glass roof of the station, and Pharma’s mouth snaps shut as he turns to glare at the chronometer on the far wall. The wiggly arrow has spun down to land on its southernmost point. 

The pebbles below the platform begin to vibrate.

The train tears into existence, almost as if the arch is a mouth spitting it whole onto the track. There’s a scream of brakes, a streak of golden glass and white metal and blue smoke curling up from beneath it, and then it grinds to a halt in front of them. There’s a faint sigh of pistons as the train settles down against the ground, and then the pneumatic unlatching of a compartment door.

There’s a faint motion of shadows behind the golden glass. Pharma makes no move to approach. When Thunderclash turns to look at him, his expression is leaden.

“You’re not going to go up and welcome them?” Thunderclash says, gesturing at the compartment door.

“No, I, er,” Pharma says, actually retreating a step. “No I don’t think they would… appreciate that. I’ll just wait for them over here.”

Thunderclash frowns, but politely doesn’t comment on Pharma’s lack of hospitality. Not everyone can be graceful under pressure. Some people just aren’t wired for heroics.

“Well, I’ll go up and greet them,” he decides, after a moment. “On behalf of the neighborhood.”

He settles a few steps away from the doors, just as the glass splits and parts. As the first auditor disembarks, he thrusts out his hand and offers his brightest smile. 

“Welcome to the Cosy Cosign!” he tells them. “It’s such a pleasure to have you!”

The mech that steps through the soft blue smoke turns, upon hearing his voice, and fixes Thunderclash with the glare of empty eye-sockets. They are perfectly black, not black glass but empty shadows, clean empty optics.

Thunderclash staggers back a step, before his processor can make sense of what he’s seeing, and his friendly handshake wavers in midair. Mortillus, a small terrified voice in the back of his memory whimpers.

The mech shifts his attention away. He smiles. “Pharma,” he says, in a tone that doesn’t quite feel friendly. “We’ve missed you back at the office. The boss especially.”

Pharma smiles in a way that is 90% grimace. “I’m sure he has.”

Thunderclash shakes off the unease of moments before. He supposes that there’s no reason he should expect the natives of the afterlife to resemble living mechs. As pleasant and lively as this place is, it is the afterspark. He shouldn’t forget that, just because Pharma has put so much effort into making the place feel like home.

The eyeless mech ignores him, and the next auditor off the train--ornate blade-shaped finials, blue visor--just gives Thunderclash’s offered hand a scoff and carries on past him. Thunderclash slowly closes his hand and lets it fall to his side. 

One by one, the auditors file out of the compartment, blinking up at the sun-bright glass roof. They’re bigger than Thunderclash was expecting--certainly nothing like Rung, the little slip of a thing. One of them is easily as big as the Magnus suit, and the one who unloads after him is bigger. But then, Pharma is fairly large himself, so perhaps that’s just the norm. 

He clears his intake politely behind a fist. “Perhaps introductions are in order,” he says. 

There’s a general lack of enthusiasm from the group. The big one with the cross-shaped visor leers down at him. Or at least it feels like leering. The visor makes it hard to tell. 

Thunderclash thrusts his hand back out again. “I’m Thunderclash, yes, that Thunderclash, thank you. And your designation would be…?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, you pathetic little mechling,” the auditor rumbles.

Thunderclash opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

“Pharma,” the eyeless auditor says, slinging an arm around Pharma’s back as if they’re old friends. The spires mounted in his shoulders bang against Pharma’s shoulder mounted vents, and Pharma flinches. “You gonna give us the tour, sweetspark? We’re just dying to see what kind of gingerbread house you have these fine mechs living in.”

“Yes,” Pharma says, “yes, of course. Just. Why don’t you go on ahead and I’ll--I’ll put the train away. Just a moment.”

“Don’t be long,” the sharp-faced one says, in a warning tone. 

Pharma and Thunderclash stand next to each other for a moment, just watching the auditors make their way out into the sunshine. 

“Gosh,” Thunderclash says, “they aren’t very nice, are they? I thought they would be, you know… nice.”

Pharma stiffens. “Heaven is nice,” he says, “The good place is nice. Office politics are never nice. Bureaucracy is a bully’s game, and you know it as well as I.”

“Ah,” Thunderclash says. 

He thinks of exemptions and red tape and a hundred little things that should have been so easy but never were--train stations and entrance exams and pilot licenses, every deviation from the status quo punished with triplicate paperwork poured into an uncaring void.

“That doesn’t sound much different from Cybertron after all.” He sighs. “Too bad.”

He pats Pharma on the shoulder, trying to inadequately convey some sense of solidarity while Pharma stands there, fingers twitching like he’s trying not to let them ball into fists. 

“Yes,” the architect says, at last. “It is too bad.”

Starscream watches the strangers roll in, all right. He hasn’t been taken in like the rest of these suckers about where exactly they’ve been hanging their hats all this time, and that makes him particularly anxious about their upcoming visitors. Upper management, Pharma had implied--real tough guys, important sorts. Starscream had imagined big mechs with little frames throwing their weight around, a sort of pompous callousness as an echo of the hideously cavalier attitudes of the Good Place’s inhabitants.

He hadn’t really expected… whatever the auditors are.

First thought: the aesthetic prowess this group is bringing to the table is enough to make Starscream wolf-whistle, if he wasn’t trying to be discreet (he’s currently leaning into the shadows of the train station, optics dimmed in the dark). Big guys, medium-big guys, visors, grotesqueries, hunches, sharp edges… you name it, they’ve got it. After weeks in this miserable pastel cutsey cottagecore bullslag township, with everybody’s big sparkling optics and polished servo joints and blue-and-red heroic wannabe paintjobs, Starscream gazes at them like a starving mech looking at a selection of energon cubes through a glass display. They look vicious. They look like killers. 

Second thought: Pharma is afraid of them. He’s the picture of cringing compliance, all hunched shoulders and fluttering wingtips, trying desperately to stop them from trampling all over him. It’d be funny, if it wasn’t so embarrassing to watch.

“If you’ll just follow me,” he’s saying, all big smiles and splayed fingers as he hurries after the large group, pleading at their turned backs, “I could show you to--the office! Where we could have our conversation without--without worrying about--being overheard--”

“Nice lighting,” X-face says, steamrolling right over Pharma and tapping one of the crystalline light fixtures on the train station’s ceiling. “Didn’t think you’d get all the particle effects right, you know? I guess you are awfully finicky about this little thing.”

“Pet project,” Eyeless hisses from his elbow.

“Spend a lot of time in here, attending to little things like particle effects,” X-face continues, and Starscream proceeds to tune him out for a second to get a good look at the crowd.

Pharma: bringing up the rear, stumbling after the group until one of them deigns to turn (at which point he shrivels back). X-Face: big guy, bigger talker, some kind of de-facto boss bully on sheer account of his size. Eyeless: creepy, crouching, deceptively small in the way that Starscream is “small” next to Thunderclash. Big Blue: just a big hunk of metal giggling alongside his stupid pals.

And then there’s the other guy, at the middle-back of the group. He’s stuffed in among larger forms--no matter how much Starscream cranes his neck, he can’t seem to get a good look at him. All he sees are spines, shimmering against a gentle biolight glow. So that adds Spines: ??? to his list.

The best thing to do, when it comes to grovelling, would be to figure out what X-Face likes. He seems to be in charge, if tentatively--the current strongest, the one struggling to keep himself at the top of the pecking order. Starscream knows that particular anxiety very well--when he was on board the [ ], he was constantly on the lookout for [ ] trying to [ ] for his spot. 

“Of course, it’s all in the interest of presenting the most, um, presentable version of my project to our, ah! To the board,” Pharma is stammering nervously. He doesn’t seem to be picking up any speed, and for a moment, Starscream’s spark hesitates. Pharma seems like a bad liar, which is both the most embarrassing thing to watch in the multiverse and, at the same time, a little damning. If he can’t lie to mechs he knows-- wouldn’t it be more trouble to lie to mechs he doesn’t know?

It’s only a second, of course, before the suspicion and the rationalization and the ‘well of course he probably knows I’m hiding here, or he prepped up this plausible deniability stuff ages ago’ comes creeping back in. But in that second, Starscream wonders if Pharma, maybe, hasn’t been lying about his intentions. If maybe, he’s exactly what he keeps saying he is.

“Presentable,” Eyeless hisses, “is a long shot short of what you’ve spent your time on here. We came down here on business.”

“Important business,” Big Blue echoes from the back, less to aid in the procedure of the conversation than to zhuzh up the atmosphere. 

“We’re down here because something fragged your system up so badly-” Eyeless’ hiss grinds to a halt. “Frag,” he says, and then, “frag.”

(Starscream grins, giddy, in the dark.)

“Why can’t I say frag? Is this another one of your,” he waves a hand in the air, “little ‘glitches’ in this system?”

“Oh! No!” Pharma throws his arms wide. “No, it’s a profanity filter. It’s intentional! It adds a certain something to the neighborhood, makes the stay here feel more… definite.”

“It’s awful.”

“It does exactly what it’s meant to,” Pharma says, a little confidence warming up his voice in places. “It’s perfect for the residents.”

“The residents,” X-Face says, “are exactly what we’re here to discuss. As a matter of fact, we’d like to see them. To make sure they’re where they’re supposed to be.”

“Of--course they’re where they’re supposed to be!” Pharma stumbles towards the door. “Where else would they be?”

“Where indeed,” X-Face says. “Show us, then. We’d like to meet them. Walk around your little neighborhood. Discuss the business acumen of the thing.”

“The acumen,” Pharma repeats, dumbly. “Yes, of course. Please, let me convince you-”

Whatever Pharma was planning on convincing his group of Bullies-In-Business-Attire is cut off as he opens the two giant double-doors leading the train station back out into the neighborhood. The group shuffles out as one, and Starscream fumbles with a decision. He could follow them close, biolights low, and hope they don’t notice him. He’d get to hear whatever it is that Pharma has to convince these mechs of, which could be crucial in getting their motivations--but he could get caught, easy, and he’s not sure what kind of trouble that’ll land him in. On the other hand, he could wait a minute or two, let them get a little distance, then slip out and catch up to them at their next stop along the way.

While he’s deciding, the door shuts, and leaves Starscream drenched in darkness. He tries to curse, stamps his pede, and storms after them.

Thunderclash stares miserably up at the train. He’d let the auditors and Pharma well enough alone once they’d made it perfectly clear they wanted him gone, but since there’s only one way out, the best way to give them space is to stay where he is. He doesn’t know how long he ought to kick around here, but it’s… fine. This is fine! The train is so unusual, and the station is so… quaint, and… 

He sighs and nudges one of the stationary wheels with a toepede. The excitement of being in a train station has rather evaporated, along with his good mood. The train, which had so excited him in prospect, looks dull and black and primitive.

“Hello,” he says to it, tapping on the heavy cast iron of its body. There’s no motion to indicate that it’s even alive.

“Hello,” a little voice says behind him, and Thunderclash startles and wheels around to see Rung, materialized in the station with him. “Thunderclash! Your paint is looking so,” he says, and then stops, his mouth frozen in a little ‘o’. 

“Rung?” Thunderclash stares down at the little mech, and touches his shoulder tentatively. To his relief, Rung looks down at the hand, then looks back up and beams at him, optics bright and smile serene. “Oh, how are you, Rung? I was so distraught--the last time I saw you, you didn’t seem to be doing well at all.”

“I’m doing much better, thank you,” Rung says. “Hot Rod has been caring for me, and helping me to recover. We’ve spent a lot of time working together.”

Thunderclash’s spark swells, the disappointment of the train all but forgotten. Of course, his wonderful sparkmate--who he hasn’t seen much of, these past few days--has been caring for their neighborhood’s very own, um, whatever Rung is. Only someone truly compassionate would think of it! How exceptionally lucky he is to be bonded to someone so quietly considerate! “Oh, how wonderful,” Thunderclash says. “I’m so happy to hear the two of you have been getting on! Isn’t he just marvelous?”

“Extremely,” Rung says, and smiles.

“What sorts of things have you been doing together? Camien tea rituals? Meditating?”

“Actually, I’ve been helping him to organize an event,” Rung says, “he’s very excited about it.”

If Thunderclash’s spark had been swelling, now it is full almost to a bursting point--he throws his hands in the air (which is to say that he allows them to flick out from his elbows, where he retains control, because of course he must have respect in conversation) and ejaculates a little “oh!”. “An event, what excitement!” he says. “Of course, he has sent you to me to ask for help, oh! I would be thrilled, Rung, thrilled!”

“On the contrary,” Rung says quickly, and Thunderclash blinks, feels himself deflate a little bit. “Hot Rod has sent me to you, but it was for a very different reason. He would like you to remain off the premises until nightfall. I gather he wants the event to be--” and here, Rung raises a finger and presses it to his lips; “--a ‘surprise’.”

“A surprise?” Thunderclash says. “To me? But--what sort of--”

“I am forbidden from revealing that information,” Rung says, smiling, and clasps his hands behind his back. If Thunderclash isn’t mistaken, he looks just as excited as Thunderclash is (though extremely restrained, as though emotions were too unbecoming to an intelligence as high and unknowable as he). “I am honor-bound to secrecy.”

“Oh my,” Thunderclash says, his face starting to warm as his processor spins up any number of scenarios. A surprise party? For him! Hot Rod has decided to throw him a surprise--well--a surprise event, it might not actually be a party, but it’s-- “is anyone else… invited?” he asks after a moment, picking his words carefully.

Rung pauses. “Hot Rod wanted to be in charge of writing the invitations,” he says after a moment. “I have prepared some amount of seating, but the actual guest list has not been provided to me. I believe he wanted to add a ‘personal touch’.”

“A personal touch,” Thunderclash murmurs back, dazed. “Then--I--oh…”

“Do I have your RSVP?” Rung asks, politely, and Thunderclash blinks himself (unwillingly) back into reality, batting away little fantasies of an invitational letter in his sparkmate’s presumably beautiful calligraphic handwriting.

“Oh, I,” Thunderclash says, “yes! That is, I promise not to appear at the house while you two are preparing. And I am to return at nightfall?”

“Correct,” Rung says, and smiles. “We will see you there! Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, no, you may return to your duties,” Thunderclash says, touching a hand to his face, and is hardly aware of the little “goodbye!” and accompanying ‘ping’ of Rung’s disappearance.

A surprise event, of some nature--one that Hot Rod wants to be personal, to be done as a secret from Thunderclash, that he took the initiative to ask Rung for help on--is in the works at their shared manor. He feels a little thrill, and (after checking that no one else is present at the train station) gives a little skip of the pede, to get all that extra excitement out. Then he sucks cool air in through his vents and tries to think. Of course, the whole point of a surprise is that he won’t be able to figure out what Hot Rod is intending to do, but he has a few guesses.

They’ve been getting along so well this last week--Hot Rod has been saying actual full sentences to him and everything--maybe Hot Rod is planning on finally courting him? Wouldn’t that be wonderful, a night of charming Camien celebration, some of their close friends attending to see his formal declaration before a private tete-a-tete in their upper lounge. They’d drink fine engex, laugh at little jokes, recline on pillows and maybe--perish the thought--sneak a brush of formal, courted contact? Thunderclash knows he’s held Hot Rod close to him before, but that was before. Once Hot Rod has told him his intentions, everything will be more charged, more alive. A touch won’t just be a touch anymore, and all the things that follow that.

Oh, but he can’t let on that he knows any of this! It wouldn’t be right, with the lengths his sparkmate has gone to keep it from him! The sweet thing must think he’s being so sly, so clever. Thunderclash smiles privately to himself. But, of course, what if the poor mech loses his nerve? Doesn’t realize that Thunderclash is--is receptive? He must do something. Something small, but meaningful. A gift, maybe--a small, decorative arrangement of crystals, the sort that grow abundantly in the garden!

He opens his mouth to call to Rung, then shuts it abruptly. If Hot Rod is going to such lengths to personalize his own half of this, Thunderclash reasons, then so too should he. He’ll speak to the gardener, and get clippings himself.

And with a game plan in motion, he struts towards the station and back into town.

Starscream manages to catch up to Pharma’s little tour guided group just on the outskirts of the town. He finds a hiding place between two of the quartz pillars across the quaint gravel path that separates the crystal garden from the stalagmite forestry and pulls himself in as much as he can. There’s not much cover, and he’s dangerously close. His audials are straining.

“Nice gravel,” Big Blue is saying. “Crunchy.”

“--Project does seem to be progressing nicely,” X-Face says, “but it’s about time that we see some long-term results. If you could show us--”

“Oh! Here’s one of our residents now,” Pharma says, throwing a hand out, and there’s a curdling in Starscream’s tank as he sees the resident in question halt in place on the garden walking path, lips pursed in confusion. “This is Minimus! Minimus, these are my… superiors. From upper management.”

“Er, yes,” Minimus says, his face a mask of polite confusion. “I… didn’t realize we were preparing to meet them personally, I apologize. Of course, I am Minimus Ambus, of the legal council of-”

“Bored,” X-Face interrupts, and Starscream watches a blank flutter of embarrassment cross Minimus’ face, before it melts into frustrated acceptance. He knows the face well enough--you’d see it on your coworkers across the way, when a client interrupted their spiel to ask if those wings could do anything for me-- but it hurts to see it on Minimus. It doesn’t feel so relatable. “Pharma, where are those big names you promised us? Where’s Ultra Magnus?”

Pharma looks pained. “I sent you a memo about this,” he says, “you do read my memos, don’t you?”

Minimus shoots him a commiserating look.

“Minimus Ambus was--was holding the position of Ultra Magnus. The official title. It was the source of some trouble, actually,” Pharma rolls right on, glancing back at Minimus and stumbling slightly over what he’s seeing, “it was a--er, a clerical error--I filled some paperwork about it?”

X-Face makes a dismissive noise. “I don’t read paperwork,” he says, “that’s all Vos’ job. Vos, you hear anything about this ‘clerical error’, or is tiny just making scrap up again?”

Spines--Vos--doesn’t answer. He is staring, very intently, at Minimus. He is not moving.

“That’s his way of saying yes,” Eyeless hisses after a moment.

“Ha! Classic Vos,” X-Face says. “Hey, nice crystal garden. The rendering on those facets is impeccable. You spend a lot of time rendering those facets, Pharma?”

“Oh, the facets, yes,” Pharma says, waving a hand at the garden. The auditors, to their credit, turn to check out the crystals. Big Blue even whistles. Maybe they do have an appreciation for a couple select finer things? But Starscream is more interested in watching Minimus tap Pharma’s shoulder and lean in. Pharma frowns, but leans in, like a co-conspirator, lower lip jutted out in frustration.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you at work,” Minimus says quietly. “I just need to find Starscream--I thought he was with you.”

(Starscream thrills, a little, from his hiding place, and chooses not to examine why.)

“No, I sent him home,” Pharma says, then frowns. “He did go home, didn’t he?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Minimus says. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

“He’s not with me, that’s all I can tell you,” Pharma says. “Maybe he’s somewhere else! Away from here! You know, Thunderclash is at the train station.”

“Thank you,” Minimus says. He doesn’t sound particularly grateful. “Very helpful. I’ll look for… Starscream… there.”

“Good! Wonderful! Go now,” Pharma says, and with a not-too-subtle push to Minimus’ shoulder that has the little bot stumbling on stiff knees, sends him off towards the train station. Starscream would be fixing him with a sympathetic look, if he wasn’t so busy watching Spines. 

Spines isn’t watching the crystal garden like the rest. He doesn’t seem particularly compelled by the vast collection of home-grown rocks. In fact, he’s standing stock still, staring directly ahead, no gears shifting or machinery whirring, except to precipitate the movement of his neck as his head slowly, slowly, turns to watch Minimus go.

“Pharma, this is all very pleasant,” Eyeless says, tapping one of the mesolite blooms with the tip of his finger, “but frankly, we’re concerned. No Ultra Magnus. No procedure. We’re just not sure you know what you’re doing down here.”

“I’ve sent you all--several memos,” Pharma says, holding his hands up, “voice memos, too! So you don’t have to waste your time reading the written memos! I’ve kept you all as updated as possible on the work I’m doing. I think it’s very efficient. I think--I think the results might really surprise you.”

“It’s not that we think you can’t do it,” X-Face says, in a voice that’s probably supposed to be soothing (or supposed to sound soothing, while riding a wave of menace that has Starscream’s denta standing on edge), “it’s just that--upper management is getting a little antsy. He doesn’t think the readings we’re getting are comparable to the ones I could get out of a project with this kind of funding.”

“Well--yes, they’re not as--as immediately obvious on a chart,” Pharma mumbles, “but I think the effects of this are, are long-term, and--could precipitate a major change in the way we do business! I think you’re too hasty in signing this whole thing off as a failure. I think--”

“I think,” X-Face says, and grabs one of Pharma’s wings in a big stupid show of force, “you’re out on a limb here, Pharma. I’m not going to help pull you back off it.”

Pharma wriggles and yelps in pain, and Starscream recoils, his own wings hurting in sympathy, folding them back out of sight as far as they’ll go. He’s not a seeker, sure, but Pharma is a flier, he’s a medi-jet, he’s being hurt--here-- in the Good Place. Because he’s not a resident, maybe? Is there no pain filter on him--

Big Blue elbows X-Face, and after a moment more of digging his fingers in, he lets Pharma go with a shove. The jet stumbles away, cowering slightly, his wing fluttering and twitching. With a twinge of sympathy, Starscream sees finger-shaped dents in the leading edge slats.

“We’ve been seeing some weird, major readouts on your monitors,” Eyeless says, “system reboots. Things like that. Not a lot of control.”

“I have it--under control, now,” Pharma whimpers, hands up defensively. “I swear! This is the first run, glitches are--expected, I can figure them out and fix them on the ground here--please, I just need some more time--”

“Time to get a case together,” Eyeless says, “I can’t speak for Tesarus, but frankly, I’m impressed, Pharma. By this system. By the way you’re running this thing. I think it does have uses.”

“I--wh--you are?” Pharma startles. “Then why--”

“I don’t think the way you’re using it is going to help our cause,” Eyeless says. “I don’t think this is a good scenario to run. I don’t think this is the right group to use it on. Take that into account, Pharma. I think that’s the case you need to make to Tarn.”

“Tarn?” Pharma says. His shoulders are hunched around his face. “There’s no need for Tarn to come down here. There’s--there’s no need for that, is there?”

“He’s interested,” X-Face says. “That’s all we can say right now. We’ll tell him what we’ve seen, if we think he should spend the time on a visit.”

“Interested,” Big Blue repeats, and laughs.

“I’ll put in a good word for you, Pharma,” Eyeless says, smiling. “But I doubt that’s going to dissuade him. You might want to start preparing that case. Vos? What do you think?”

Vos says nothing. He is staring down the road in the direction of the train station. After a moment, he turns his body and starts to walk away towards it.

“Classic Vos,” X-Face says, “anxious to get home. Never very comfortable in these neighborhoods! He doesn’t like the way the lighting works.”

“Poor Vos,” Big Blue says. He nods sympathetically. “He gets sick.”

“Thank you for a lovely time, Pharma,” Eyeless says, smiling, and steps forward with a hand out. Numbly, Pharma fumbles forward and shakes it. “We’ll have plenty to talk about on the ride back. Sorry we couldn’t stay for dinner.”

“Thank you, Kaon,” Pharma says. His voice is void of all expression. “You are--of course, always welcome.”

“We know,” Eyeless says. “What’s the name of your charming assistant, again? The one who sends the train off? What a design he has. He looks so familiar.”

“Rung. You’ll, you’ll want to call for Rung, as in ladder.”

“Rung. Of course,” Eyeless says. “Thank you again, Pharma. You’ll hear from us soon.”

And then, with the rest of his rat pack, that one is gone, headed off towards the train station. X-Face claps him on the back and says something Starscream can’t hear, which prompts both of them to glance over their shoulders at Pharma and start laughing. Pharma stares after them, hands clasped together, body frozen in the light of the false setting sun.

Minimus would say--Minimus would argue that the correct course of action, here, would be to pretend not to have seen. Well, Minimus would argue that to spy on Pharma’s personal business at all was wrong, but that, inevitably, it would be nobler to save him the embarrassment of being witnessed than to offer the minor salve of comfort. And maybe that would be some kind of right, in Minimus’ world or in anyone else’s. And yes, Starscream isn’t, like, a master of technical ethics--his essays for Minimus’ class are usually passionate rants arguing that all these old dead mechs haven’t got scrap on him, a cool guy who knows how to mix drinks at parties which makes people happy, and Minimus always shakes his head when he’s reading them, but he smiles, too. And Starscream’s okay with being a different sort of person than Minimus is.

He steps out from behind his hiding place and just looks at Pharma for a second. “Hey,” he says, and the architect startles and stares at him. “Are you okay?”

“Starscream,” Pharma says, and steps back, brushing hands over his fuselage and pointing his chin up like that’s going to get him his dignity back, “exactly how long have you been squirreled away back there? Spying on me? I told you to go home. Minimus is looking for you.”

Starscream shrugs and stares down the gravel path. The auditors are long gone by now, even their shadows missing from his line of sight, but their shapes are seared into his memory core. “Don’t think I heard anything incriminating,” he says at last. “Just saw a bunch of gearsticks show up and throw their weight around.”

Pharma stares at him, expression unreadable. His wing is still dented. “Yes, they do that,” he says after a moment. “I’m used to it.”

“Right,” Starscream says, and kicks a piece of gravel. “I’m sorry you have to be.”

Pharma stares at him. He doesn’t say anything.

“Grounders,” Starscream mumbles, more to himself than to Pharma, and takes a few steps closer. The medic’s wings flutter back, defensively, before easing down. Right, Starscream thinks. We both know I’m not going to hurt you. “What do they ever do except show up and shove us around?”

“We don’t have very much in common, Starscream,” Pharma says, watching him out of the corner of his optic. “I appreciate it, but I don’t need any sympathy from you.”

“I’m not offering sympathy,” Starscream says, “just solidarity. If that’s the other team, then I’m on yours. That’s all.”

In retrospect, he’s not sure why he does it--but at the time, it feels right to reach out and take one of Pharma’s hands.

Pharma looks down at it, and then back up into Starscream’s face. He looks--surprised, maybe. Shocked? Confused. “Starscream,” he says. “I’m… thank you.”

Starscream wrinkles his mouth up. “Don’t make it weird,” he mutters, and squeezes Pharma’s hand once before letting it go. “Anyway, that’s all. I should go, uh, find Minimus, or whatever.”

“I think he’s at the train station,” Pharma says distantly, straightening. “I’m headed back to my office. If you need anything, of course, you can always call Rung. Excuse me.” 

He turns on those odd little feet (seriously, who designed those) and starts making his way back to the office. Starscream digs his heel into the gravel path for a moment, considering. He’s not really interested in going to the train station, where the auditors might still be, but he wouldn’t want Minimus trapped with them there. Then again, Minimus probably isn’t still there, or maybe never went there in the first place. Why is Minimus looking for him, anyway? He tries to ping the little guy on his commlink, only to realize (for the four billionth time, basically) that comms don’t exist in the good place. He knows he can’t curse, but he gives it a go anyway.

“What language, Starscream,” Thunderclash’s voice rings out, slightly giddy with excitement, and Starscream glances up to see his neighbor pop out from in between the chalcedony sculptures of the crystal garden, grinning, with a basket of clippings in his elbow. “I mean, I assume it was something unacceptable, before the system got to it. Oh, how are you?”

“Thunderclash?” Starscream frowns. “What’s with the--”

“Oh, but I’m just wonderful, Starscream, everything is just wonderful!” The big lug steamrolls right over him, clasping Starscream’s hands up in his own. “You would never believe it, would you, that things could go so well for me? When I was so down this morning, and now I’m so up! So totally lifted up!”

“I’m happy for you,” Starscream says, and tries at a smile. It feels like a grimace. His hands are kind of starting to hurt. “What’s happening?”

Thunderclash looks up at the sky, grinning giddily at the first peek of false stars in the dark. “Oh, there’s no time to tell you now,” he says, “I’ll explain everything on the way! Do you like this arrangement?”

Starscream looks down at the collection of clippings twined together in Thunderclash’s basket. There’s absolutely no rhyme or reason to their organization, and they seem chosen at random. “You did that yourself?” He asks, trying to figure out the most delicate way to put this. “You’re… are you done with them?”

“Yes! No more fiddling for me,” he says. “You’re a discerning sort. Does it look right?”

Starscream stares at the arrangement. The arrangement stares back. Finally, he thinks, he’s found something Thunderclash is absolute fragging rubbish at. “It’s very,” he says, “you.”

“Oh, I did make it myself, thank you for noticing,” Thunderclash says, “come on! Come on come on come on--”

Before Starscream can think to say that he’s got to go find Minimus, or literally any other excuse that can put distance between himself and that crystal monstrosity, Thunderclash grabs him by the arm and starts pulling him back towards the mansion.

The first sign that everything’s about to go sideways is the throbbing beat of EDM ringing out from the mansion, rumbling along underneath Starscream’s pedes as far away as the bottom of the hill. The second sign is the projectile that smashes through one of the upper windows and flies over the lawn, bouncing away in the distance. Starscream grits his denta.

“How do I look?” Thunderclash asks nervously. “Is my paintjob okay? Oh, I should’ve gone into the bodyshop and got a polish. Do you think he’ll like it? What if he decides not to--”

“Hey, bud, maybe you should--I mean, we don’t know what Hot Rod actually wants to do,” Starscream starts, “maybe play it cool like you haven’t already, uh, figured it out, okay? You wouldn’t want to--you know, embarrass him, if he wanted it to be a surprise.”

Thunderclash isn’t listening, which is sending Starscream’s tank twisting in anxiety. “I’d better hold this behind my back,” he’s saying about the crystal arrangement, which actually is a good idea, if not for the reason he thinks it is, “so he can get out what it is that he wants to say to me, before I say anything to him. Let him get it out--you know how hard it is, for him to say things.”

“Uh,” Starscream says, which is all he manages to get out before Thunderclash throws open the door and reveals the worst.

There are streamers absolutely everywhere. There are also fireworks. Inside the house. Projectiles are being launched back and forth by a randy crowd of increasingly drunk residents, who mostly seem to be hooting and hollering about everything in the world and nothing in particular. The music, audible even from outside the sturdy marble of the exterior facade of the house, is borderline deafening inside. And, most damningly, there is a huge banner stretched between the two large staircases.

RUNG + RODIMUS = CONJUNX
ENDURA!!!!!!!!!! (endura means forever)

“Uh,” Starscream says.

“What is,” Thunderclash says, “I don’t--but--I don’t think I understand?”

“Staaaaarscreeeeaaaaam,” Rodimus hollers from the second floor balcony, and Starscream’s head jerks back to watch him leap onto one of the staircase banisters and slide down the railing to the ground. “My favorite mech! Check it out! I! Got! Hitched!”

“You’re bonding?” Starscream spits, unable to tear his optics from the incredibly gaudy banner. It looks hand-painted. “When? What?”

“This afternoon, mech, duh,” Rodimus says, and punches him--hard--in the shoulder. “We wanted to have the party right after! Oh, Thunderclash, you’re here too,” he says, almost as an afterthought, “glad you made it! Sorry for kicking you out, but we had to do a lot of stuff to prep. What do you think?” He throws his arms out. “Pretty sweet party, right?”

Thunderclash has gone absolutely rigid, his lips pressed in a firm line. His optics keep darting back and forth between the sign and the chaos currently destroying his house. The arrangement, still held tightly behind his back, crackles in his grip.

“Rung wanted it to be kind of private,” Rodimus barrels on, “kind of intimate. But I was like, no way, this is huge! It can’t just be close friends, you know? And it’s not really for me, to be honest. I mean, it’s kinda for me, all the fireworks and stuff--but I just wanted everyone to see him!” He throws an arm up and points up to the top of the balcony. Starscream follows the line of sight, even after he hears Thunderclash make a strangled noise at his shoulder, and sees--

It barely looks like Rung, under all the ornamental garb. The soft, gauzy rubyweave around his shoulders flutters in the breeze, glittering in the heat and the damp of a drunksunk room. His polish almost glows--the light of his spark is radiant in his chassis. He’s radiant, that’s it--draped in little lights and jewels and red Camien paint on his face. And he’s smiling, not politely, but with the illumination of true, inextinguishable happiness, something totally his own and for himself.

“Everybody knows Rung, you know? And everybody loves him,” Rodimus says, knocking himself twice on the chest, “so I gotta let everybody know he’s off the table! And as a bonus, they all get to admire my squeeze! Suckers.”

Starscream tears his gaze away from the inexplicably gorgeous server drone to look at Thunderclash, who is stock still, jaw working, optics burning. 

“Of course,” Thunderclash says weakly, “that is, I didn’t expect--but, you must allow me to give you my, most, heartfelt…”

“Hey, in a couple dozen vorns, maybe you and I can do one of these for Amica!” Rodimus says, and prods Starscream in the chassis. “You never know! I can see that you’re impressed.”

“This is my kind of party,” Starscream admits, “except there’s not enough disarray. No one’s drinking themselves into unconsciousness. And I don’t like yelling over the music, so take that into account when you design the playlists, okay? I want people crying that they can’t have me--”

“--Congratulations,” Thunderclash spits out, “my most heartfelt congratulations, on your--your bond. Here!” With two awkward arms, he shoves the arrangement out at Rodimus, who stops talking and stares down at it in confusion and barely disguised contempt. “I--I made it myself. It’s for you!”

Rodimus crinkles his eyelids up. “It’s ugly,” he says, and Starscream almost startles. It’s not that he’s wrong, it’s just-- “you’re not very good at this, are you?”

“I’m--sorry,” Thunderclash says, “I’ve never done it before. But I--”

“Anyway, I don’t need that,” he says, waving a hand between himself and the arrangement, as though to shoo it away from him like a cockroach, “I already did all the decorations, and they look dope. I’m good without your garbage. Plus, I’m allergic.”

Starscream is frozen in between the two of them. His gaze whips from Thunderclash’s face, to Rodimus’, and back. He feels something sick in his tank.

Thunderclash gives the world’s most wooden smile. “If you’ll pardon me, just a moment, so sorry, I have this--something stuck in my vent, I’ll just--thank you, congratulations again!”

And then he spins on a heel and marches out of the room like he’s fighting not to transform and book it like a race car on circuit speeders. 

“Well, that was unpleasant,” Rodimus says, “you think he’s gonna go throw a fit?”

Starscream stares at him. “What’s wrong with you?” he says. “Even you couldn’t miss that he was trying to be nice.”

“I don’t owe Blundercrash a smile because he was trying to be nice,” Rodimus says, rolling his optics. “Come on, I’ll show you the open bar.”

Starscream looks back down the hallway towards Thunderclash. Normally his priority tree automatically reorients itself at the mere mention of an open bar. For some reason, it’s not happening this time. “I’m going to go see if he’s okay,” he says. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“He’s being dramatic,” Rodimus snaps, “for attention! Because something isn't about him for once! I can’t believe you’re falling for this. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

Starscream stares at him for a second. “Do you hear yourself?” he asks. He feels cold all over. “When you talk?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He goes.

Starscream is barely four rooms down the central hall before one of the eight million entrances into this place bangs open and in rushes Minimus, stumbling over the speed of his own stiff little legs. “Starscream!” He gasps. “There you are! Where have you been, I’ve been looking all over for you--”

“Yeah, I know,” Starscream says, catching him in his arms before he trips and falls on the floor. Those joints could probably use some oil; Minimus doesn’t move so well, now that he’s out of the Magnus suit. Must be residual pain stuff. “I mean, uh, Pharma told me, but I couldn’t find you. And then Thunderclash--”

“Thunderclash!” Minimus gasps. “Starscream, we have to keep him away from the mansion. Rodimus conjunxed Rung, he’s throwing a party, if Thunderclash sees it it’ll ruin him! Have you seen him?”

“Uh,” Starscream says, “not to tell you that you’re too late…”

“Oh, no,” Minimus says, “he saw?”

“I gotta go,” Starscream says, and then, awkwardly, “I’ll find you afterwards, I’ll figure it out--save me a peach bellini or something.” And with a hand up, he sprints away.

The music fades to a featureless series of thumps behind him as he goes. Starscream slips into the east hallway and follows the sound of a hiccuping vocalizer until he locates the washroom. He raps the backs of his knuckles against the wall. “Uh, Thunderclash,” he calls, “everything… okay in there?”

“Go away.” Thunderclash’s voice, muffled from behind the door, sounds far too small to be coming out of a mech his size.

“‘Clash,” Starscream says, struggling to find the right words. Primus, why is being nice so hard? “I know you’re upset, buddy, but you’ve got to let me in.”

“No.”

Annoyance flares in Starscream. Not directed at Thunderclash, not really, although this petulant thing isn’t cute. Mostly, he finds, he’s mad at Rodimus.

“Frag this,” Starscream mutters, and grabs the door handle. With a sharp twist, he snaps it off and pushes the door open. The washroom is almost the size of Starscream’s whole apartment, sparkling white and gold, but for once, he’s not really jealous. 

Thunderclash sits on the floor against a tub large enough to hold four mechs of his size, a picture of misery with his mouth open in shock. “You broke my door.”

“Sure did,” Starscream says, and glances over at a perfectly good seating area with very comfortable looking chairs and big mirrors for fixing flushes and oil stains. “You, uh, want to sit at the table and talk about it?”

“No,” Thunderclash sniffles. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Starscream only just suppresses a sigh. “Guess I’ll join you, then. On the floor.”

“You’re a good friend,” Thunderclash says, sounding on the verge of full scale weeping.

Starscream grunts in reply and less lowers himself and more falls in a heap to the floor. There isn’t really a comfortable way to rest his wings in this position, not while being close enough to Thunderclash to be comforting, but if he hikes them up a little he can manage to stop them from getting pinched between Thunderclash’s elbow and the edge of the tub. He pats the aforementioned elbow in a way he hopes is comforting.

“Seriously, big guy,” he says. “You want to talk about it?”

“I thought we were finally bonding,” Thunderclash chokes out, “after the earthquake, and last week, but it turns out he’s been-”

Starscream pats his elbow some more. “Let it out babydoll, go on.”

“I mean, with Rung!” Thunderclash wails. “Rung! Of all people! Rung! He’s a system! He’s not even a person! He’s a com puuuuter!”

“Yeah. I can’t believe he stole your mech.” 

“He looks so ha-aaa-aapy,” Thunderclash sobs, burying his face in his arms. “I can’t even find it in myself to be angry, he looks so beautiful and excited and, and, Starscream he sparkles--”

“Oh, babydoll,” Starscream says, pressing a little finger into the crunched up gears of Thunderclash’s shoulder joints. “I know you’re sad, honey. But getting sad won’t help.” He pats the big shaking shoulder twice. “You need to get revenge!”

“I don’t need to do that!” Thunderclash says, staring at him aghast.

“Why not? Hot Rod’s being a total gearstick,” he says. “You have to ruin his life. I’ve done it to tons of ex-botfriends before. The key is to steal his mech after you slash his tires, so he can’t get to you when you’re driving off with Rung in your passenger seat.”

“Starscream!” Thunderclash is goggling at him, but he chokes out a humorless giggle, which at least means he isn’t crying. Starscream grins. Distracting a big sappy sop with offensively mean jokes in the bathroom: works every time. “That would be exceedingly cruel! You cannot possibly suggest such a thing!”

“Exceedingly funny,” Starscream says. “Have your wedding the day before he has his.”

“No!” Thunderclash gasps. “I mean, he’s already had his, hasn’t he? And even if he hadn’t, that would be simply terrible advice. Starscream, I understand that as my best friend, you are angry on my behalf, but you must not allow that to control you when--when--” he hiccups, and a fresh wave of wet agony comes out on the next breath. Starscream grimaces.

“Right, that’s the other thing,” Starscream says, “can I give you some real advice, from one trashbag sitting on the bathroom floor to another?”

“No, I--”

“The best way to be interesting is to be interested,” Starscream says, and Thunderclash stops trying to tell him to shut up. “You just keep assuming that everyone’s motivations are on your behalf. I’m not angry on your behalf!” He considers taking a half-second to add that he’s not Thunderclash’s best friend, either, then decides that ‘I don’t even like you that much’ might not be well-received with the rest of this very-difficult-to-swallow pill. “You never bother asking me how I feel about almost anything, which isn’t a problem for me, because I love to talk, but trying to dissent in a conversation with you is like fighting a big, crazy, well-intentioned steamroller! You never listen, and you do it to everyone! If you want Hot Rod to like you, you need to actually listen to him. Learn about him as a person, not some anthropological, um, tea culture ceremony strawman.”

Thunderclash stares at him with huge optics. “I never thought of that,” he admits. “I was just so excited--” his voice gets a little choked up, and he scrubs at one optic with the heel of his hand. “Oh, Starscream, I--if I have--have steamrollered you in any way, I am sorry. If only I had--and now they’re bonded! I suppose you must think me very foolish for missing something so obvious.”

“No,” Starscream says, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on Thunderclash’s arm. “I mean, let’s be fair, it’s not like anyone saw this coming. Even me! And I’m usually very on this kind of thing. Relationships are difficult, even in the Good Place, and--”

The door opens, and Starscream breaks off, half expecting to see drunken revelers looking for a place to purge their tanks in peace, but it’s just Minimus, looking more than his usual baseline frazzled. He gives Starscream a disapproving look.

“You broke the door,” he says.

“Is that really what you’re focused on here?”

“I just fixed them!” Minimus says. “When we were trapped here!”

“Whatever,” Starscream says. “Did you bring me a peach bellini?”

“No,” Minimus says, “because there’s no such thing. You made those words up to make me look foolish in front of my peers. I asked the bartender about it and he looked at me like I was crazy.”

“I didn’t make them up!”

“Well I’ve never--”

“Guys!” Thunderclash shouts. “My sparkmate is marrying a computer and you’re arguing about fake words!"

Starscream winces, and Minimus looks guilty.

“Of course,” Minimus says. “Thunderclash, I am sorry. Shall we get you to a chair?”

“Great idea!” Starscream jumps to his feet. His wing joint is almost numb from holding it at such an awkward angle. Thunderclash looks reluctant, but after some cajoling, he allows himself to be hauled up by Minimus and lead to the little seating area.

“Thank you both so much,” he says, leaning heavily on the table. “I really do feel better.”

“Good,” Starscream says. “If we’re done here, I’m going to go yell at Hot Rod.”

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary,” Thunderclash says quickly. “The best way to handle this is with grace. I shall congratulate Rung on his, on his happiness, and then go… elsewhere.”

“That’s nice,” Starscream says. “I’m still going to yell at Hot Rod.”

There it is, at the back of the property all of a sudden, sitting there like it had any business existing: an open-edged work pavilion, like if a body shop had won big at the Tetrahex Derby and upgraded itself with the cash. The whole thing smells overpoweringly of paint, worktables strewn with what appear on closer inspection to be paint testing swatches. Rodimus is inside, working with his camien mask pushed up on his helm like the visor of a metallurgist, where anyone walking past could see him, glossa pinned between denta. 

Starscream slams into the new building as best he can, given that it doesn’t actually have a door. Rodimus jumps at the sound of him knocking over a stack of sheet metal, immediately slapping a hand down over what he’s working on as if that will stop Starscream from seeing the giant fragging canvas. 

“What was that?” Starscream demands.

Rodimus squints at him, and then looks down at the floor where the sheet metal landed. “Low carbon iron mostly, I think,” he says. “Takes an undercoat better than steel.”

“Not that!” Starscream says. “The thing with Thunderclash! The conjunx party!”

Rodimus gives him one of those defensive guarded shrugs and turns back to his current project. “It’s a conjunx party, I dunno what you’re so stuck on. You’re way older than me, you gotta know what a conjunx is by now.” 

“I know what a conjunx is! And I know you can’t conjunx Rung!” Starscream insists. “Why would you even want to?”

Rodimus purses his lips. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those bonding puritan--purir-- one of those guys who don’t believe in relationships.”

“I’m not a bonding puritanical! I have a trine, you fragging idiot!” Starscream snaps. “It’s not about the conjunxing, it’s about Rung! He’s not even a person, and even if he was, you barely know him! You’ve got a perfectly good sparkmate assigned to you and instead of getting to know him you’re throwing your spark at a fragging customer service drone!”

Rodimus stabs his paintbrush at Starscream, splattering red paint across the concrete floor. “Yeah, and how many stuck up bougie crankshafts woulda said the same thing about you?”

Starscream’s mouth snaps shut.

Just behind Rodimus, the painting glitters orange and teal with the shapes of skyscrapers splitting a hazy warm sunrise. It’s done in the style of one of those false windows you sometimes see in the Shades, especially in the homes of groundsick seekers and the like. Bars of black paint to imitate a window frame with the sky beyond it, frozen in a single moment of perfect light. Only, at the bottom of the sheet, there’s what looks like the edge of a table underneath the bottom of the window frame. The still mostly-blank outline of some kind of drink is sketched there, and beside it what will probably become a shotglass of coolant. It’s a scene Starscream can’t help but recognize from so many early morning shifts, stopping into a cafe early in the morning to jumpstart his system with something rich and reviving. 

And it doesn’t look like Nyon. 

“You’re being so fragging cavalier,” Starscream mutters, at last. “That’s the rest of your afterlife you’re throwing away on barely a week of dating someone, if you can even call this dating. I’ve known couples who were together for half a million years before they even thought about bringing up amicaship, let alone conjunxing!”

“I’m having fun with Rung,” Rodimus says, turning back to his project. “I like him, and he likes me. Does it gotta be more complicated than that?”

“Yes!” Starscream says, wings snapping up. “Yes, it does! You can’t just--you can’t just walk around handing your spark out to the first person who makes you feel happy!”

“Why not?” Rodimus says.

Starscream grabs at the air like he can strangle it. “Conjunxing isn’t like going halfsies on an apartment! If it was, everyone would be doing it! It doesn’t just happen. Conjunxes are like binary stars, they change everything about your life. It’s--it’s too good for the likes of us, and Pharma went and dropped ready made sparkmates in our laps anyhow, and now you’re just--throwing out the coolant and eating the cube --”

Rodimus huffs. Scattered around the main work table there are haphazard stacks of scraps, all of them streaked and splattered with shades of the same orange and teal. Starscream has a dim awareness that it’s more effort than he expected to see Rodimus put into anything.

“Everybody is so fragged up on conjunx this and amica that,” Rodimus says. “Like you think it’s gonna fix whatever’s wrong with you.”

Starscream bristles.

“Everyone’s got this idea that finding your sparkmate is magically gonna change your life,” Rodimus says, slashing orange paint across a cartoon sky. “I guess because so few people every actually manage it. What do you think, maybe… a drop of fuel in a tank, that’s how many people ever get to try out being endurae.”

Starscream frowns. “What’s your point?”

“My point is,” Rodimus says, “maybe it doesn’t need to fix you. Maybe it doesn’t need to open your spark up and reformat you like a Prime for it to be just, like, good? Maybe you don’t need to worry about whether it blew your mind enough and the planet moved and the Core sang and all that slag. Maybe you can just do it because you want to.”

Rodimus reaches for a spray can full of clear glaze, and Starscream spends a second just pushing air through his vents, trying to cool down his overactive systems. He’s really good at throwing tantrums and they never seem to get him anything but awkwardly pitied. He’s not going to fall apart, not when he’s the only one left tonight who can hold it together.

“If you’re willing to give an A.I. you’ve known for a week a chance,” Starscream says, slowly, “why aren’t you giving Thunderclash the same?”

“Because he fragging sucks, man. I thought you were with me on this.” 

“He just--ugh-- arggh--” Starscream digs his fingers into his helm. “He’s been trying to be nice to you for ages and you just blow him off!”

Rodimus scowls. “Why are you such a big fan of Blundercrash all of a sudden?” 

“Because I’ve been spending time with him, unlike you!”

“I’ve spent time with him,” Rodimus sniffs. “He’s a snob and a self-centered gearstick, and doing a couple stupid bonding activities ain’t gonna change that.”

“You’re determined to hate him, aren’t you!” Starscream says. 

Rodimus makes an irritated dismissive noise and sprays more paint.

“That’s what’s going on here, isn’t it?” Starscream snaps his fingers. “You’re too stubborn to give him a second chance! You want to be better than him and you’re too petty to deal with the idea that maybe you’re not! Maybe he’s actually pretty okay! Maybe he’s a decent fragging person who’s trying his best!”

“If you like him so much, why don’t you conjunx him!”

Starscream jabs a finger at him. “You just can’t stand the idea that someone else deserves to be here and you don’t! You’ve been in denial since you even introduced yourself! You could have at least put his stupid garbage arrangement in a dark corner and said thank you. He didn’t do anything to you and you’re just jerking him around to make yourself feel better!”

“He had everything!” Rodimus shouts, slinging paint across the floor. “Alt exemption, a ship to captain, a crew, a fragging career, legions of fans gagging for him, and you want me to feel bad for him? I had slag-all! I drank energon out of wrecked drag racers while the paramedics were en route to collect the corpses! I could have been a real racer, you know that? There was a scout from Tetrahex who wanted to sign me, I coulda gone! I coulda been just as big as Blundercrash!”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I could!” Rodimus’s engine is going so hard his spoiler is visibly vibrating. “And I stayed behind to take care of my people! If I left they would have starved! I was the only one who could bring in enough shanix to feed the neighborhood, so I stayed! I did what I had to do to keep us all online, and if the price for that is being a bad person then I don’t want anything to do with good fragging people!”

They stare at each other, engines running hard, vents pouring hot exhaust. After a moment, Rodimus turns stiffly to his painting and starts scraping away stray specks of red paint. 

“Maybe I’m a bad person, but you’re a bad friend,” Rodimus says, his mouth a grim line. “I know you only hang out with me because you think I’m worse than you are. You like being better than me.”

For a moment Starscream just stands there, inadequately, because what can he say--it’s true and he does. There’s some kind of gross emotional experience collecting in the pit of his tanks. Like a slime. He didn’t think Rodimus knew. Somehow, him knowing suddenly makes the whole thing seem... bad. 

For the first time, Starscream looks at him and sees something more than a hot young idiot with terrible taste. Just like Thunderclash was something else underneath the shape of his insufferable showboating, Rodimus is something underneath that. Trying to hold both things in his head at the same time gives Starscream a headache. Sympathy is exhausting.

Starscream swallows thickly. “I understand what it means to make the hard call for the people you... know,” he says, “better than you think I do, maybe.”

Rodimus makes a noncommittal noise. “Maybe,” he says. 

“So maybe good and bad aren’t as clear cut as all that,” Starscream says, in a rush. “Maybe you’re a little good and a little bad, I don’t know. Minimus would say it’s never acceptable to break the letter of the law for individual gain, but I’ve never bought into the idea that there’s anything inherently good or right about some legalese on a bill drawn up by senators who’re all fragging hookers on the weekends.” 

Rodimus reaches up and flipped down the cityspeaker mask. “If you’re tryina say sorry for calling me a bad person all those times, it’s fine, I guess. I know you got your own baggage to deal with.”

Starscream shifts from pede to pede, chewing over his next thought. 

“I already got onto Thunderclash for assuming he knew what you wanted without bothering to ask you about it,” he says. “But I guess I never… really bothered to ask you what you care about either. I don’t really know scrap about what matters to you. In my defense, when you talk about where you’re from it all kind of sounds like jokes. Which, I get. I used to talk about the seekers like that too when I went off to the academy.”

Rodimus gives him a sideways look. “You got education?”

“Yeah, I mean, some. Unfortunately I got thrown out for having chronic backstabbing glitch disease. But look, I was there for vorns and I hated most of it, everywhere I looked someone was doing better than me--better alt class, better project grades, better funding, better... “

He can feel himself teetering on a spiral, and he shakes his wings free of the hiked up tension they’re developing. Rodimus looks bemused. 

“I hate it when people have things I don’t have,” Starscream says. “I hate it when people think they’re better than me. When people are better than me. So I guess it’s on me if I assumed you hate Thunderclash because he’s better than you. Primus knows I hate everyone here a little bit for that, and I even like a couple of you.”

“You don’t gotta worry about any of that with me,” Rodimus says, with an ugly smile. “I’m just canal trash, you were right.”

Starscream makes a face. “At least you cared,” he says. “At least you tried to help people. I never tried to do anything except get rich and get even.”

Rodimus’s expression is hidden, but the hard angles of his frame soften.  

“If you want,” Starscream says, “I could give you the same BFF treatment I just gave Thunderclash. Which is to say, we can sit on the floor of the washracks and I can tell you you’re being a big wet slug.”

“Pass,” Rodimus says, but Starscream can hear him trying not to smile.

Starscream focuses all his attention on testing the dryness of some paint-splattered scrap metal at his hip, not looking at Rodimus. “I’m trying to be better,” he says, rubbing his dry fingers together. “Maybe that means being a better friend. To anyone who still wants to be my friend.”

There’s a smirk in Rodimus’s voice when he says, “Oh, I’ve been friends with syk addicts. You’ve gotta be a lot worse to scare me off.” 

“Comforting,” Starscream says. “I’ll remember to draw the line at crawling into your room and syphoning fuel off you while you’re asleep.”

Paint glitters wet on the sunrise in the fake window. From this angle, it almost looks like real sunlight.

“But did you really call 'Clash a slug,” Rodimus asks, fiddling with his mask again. 

Starscream snorts. “No, not really. But he was crying an awful lot. You really did a number on him.”

Rodimus scrunches up his face. “I don’t get what he’s so fragged up about. There’s a whole neighborhood of other bots who’d kill each other for the chance to lick his treads clean. He can just go let one of them propose to him. Pit, he could have two or three at once, what’s he need me for?” 

“Well, you are supposed to be his sparkmate,” Starscream points out. “And I don’t know if you noticed, but he has spent the last month trying to impress you. As abysmal of a job as he’s actually done there.”

“...I wasn’t trying to be a total crankshaft,” Rodimus admits, with a tight little shrug. “I just didn’t think anything I said would pop through that bubble he’s got around his head. I didn’t think he was gonna go cry about it.”  

“Minimus isn’t here to let you in on this secret, so I suppose I have to fill you in on his behalf. The stuff you do has consequences, Rodimus. You’re not just pingponging around in a void doing sick flips off marble statues. Things break.”

Rodimus grimaces. “I mean… I’m just some fake monk with a shiny aft. Since when does what I say even matter?”

Starscream gives that the consideration that he guesses it deserves, based on how the day has gone. He settles back against a counter, fingers tapping his forearm. “I don’t know,” he says, “but it sure seemed like it mattered a lot to him.”

Thunderclash slinks out of the washroom after having a good hearty sniffle during which Minimus, the dear old stoic, patted him on the shoulder once every two point five standard kliks with a rhythmic little tink tink tink of metal barely tapping metal. It wasn’t very comforting, really, but Thunderclash appreciates the gesture.

The party is still going. Hot Rod is nowhere to be seen, which possibly means he’s been pulled aside so that Starscream can give him what for. Thunderclash can’t decide if he feels better or worse at that prospect. 

All of their neighbors seem oblivious to the drama of the household, milling about in the same vague groups in the same light conversations as when he left. Rung is in the middle of it all, just as pretty as a parade, overseeing the good cheer with absent benevolence. Only--Hot Rod said this was for Rung, but nobody seems to be… talking. To him. It can’t be fun to be left alone at your own party on your big day.

Should he go up and say something? Would Rung want to see him at all, under these circumstances? Thunderclash bites his lip. Perhaps Rung doesn’t even see him as a romantic rival. All this time Thunderclash thought that things were progressing towards a blissfully bonded future eternity, and… he’s not even amica material, apparently. Rung would be right to dismiss him, and that’s the sad truth.

Thunderclash stabilizes his gyros, straightens his shoulders, and approaches Rung.

“Congratulations,” he says, after a polite little cough into his fist to assure that he won’t startle the happy conjunx. “On your union, I mean. Your party looks lovely.”

“Thank you, Thunderclash!” Rung says, brightening. “You’re looking very dashing this evening. Is that a fresh wax?”

“Yes,” Thunderclash says, smiling miserably. “Thank you for noticing.”

Rung does look lovely. He’s usually--and Thunderclash means this in the nicest way--an unusually plain and almost pathologically unobtrusive figure. Thunderclash has spent quite a lot of time with Rung, practicing tea ceremonies and studying famous works of Camien theater in hopes of… impressing Hot Rod… but he’s never put much thought into Rung himself. This might be the first time he’s ever stopped long enough to notice the color of Rung’s optics. 

“Here,” he says on impulse, lifting his somewhat crushed crystal arrangement from his subspace. The ribbons are sort of crunched up now, and one of the diodes is cracked. “It’s--not much, I suppose, you do have so many others--but, if you’d like it, it’s yours.”

Rung reaches up and takes it gently from his hands. All the pale blue and orange crystals glint in his biolights. He rotates it in his grip, turning it this way and that, brows high and up-slanted.

“This is unusual,” Rung says, pinging one of the obelisk crystals with a fingertip so that it lets out the faintest chime. “How did you get these? I didn’t summon them.”

“I collected them from all over the neighborhood, as a gift. I thought that--that it was appropriate for a courtship.” He clasps his hands behind his back. “Or a wedding.” 

“Well they’re absolutely wonderful,” Rung says, with perfect confidence, and Thunderclash feels his intake winching tight inside his neck as Rung pulls the arrangement close to his spark. “It must have been difficult for you. Thank you so much.”

Thunderclash feels his optics starting to bubble again. “You’re welcome,” he says. “You know, you do such an important job around here. You deserve--you deserve good things.”

Rung sets the arrangement down on the table beside him and reaches up, taking Thunderclash’s hand in his own small hand. “You deserve good things too,” he says, peering up over his glasses as if to make absolutely sure Thunderclash knows this. 

Thunderclash looks away, but doesn’t let go. “Oh, even in the Good Place, I’m certainly not short on accolades or fans. Everybody loves me. I’m a hero! What more can I ask for?”

Rung’s grip tightens on him, just a fraction. “You deserve to be loved even when you’re not performing,” Rung tells him. “You are a person, and you deserve to be loved regardless.”

Thunderclash realizes several kliks later that his mouth is open.

Later, under the shadow of some exotic floral pet with flat green leafy limbs, in a dark corner of the party near the open bar, Thunderclash lets his head thunk forward onto Starscream’s shoulder and slurs, “I know you said steal his mech as, as a joke, but, I’m… goin’a do it.”

To which Starscream responds by knocking back a triple shot of nightmare fuel and saying, “God fragging scramble it, now that’s what I’m talking about!”

Chapter Text

When Thunderclash finally gets ready to summon Rung into the sunroom, he can barely keep himself from bouncing on his pedes. He does keep a lid on it, of course. Bouncing wouldn’t be very dignified, he shouldn’t be seen bouncing, and he wants to do this right.

“Hello Thunderclash,” Rung says, immediately, as he pops into existence. “You’re looking vivacious today. What can I do to help you?”

It’s been several days since the whole surprise conjunxing debacle, and Thunderclash has spent half of it furiously drawing up plans that Starscream just as quickly nixed for the sake of his wellbeing, and the other half putting this surprise together, once Starscream finally okayed this one for implementation. He hasn’t seen Rung much since then, but he supposes… that’s for the best.

Rung is looking directly at Thunderclash with no attention spared for anything else, as focused as he is patient. He really does give all of them such individual attention. It’s terribly considerate of him; it’s so strange that Thunderclash has never stopped to think about this before. Rung is a marvelously devoted assistant.

“Actually,” Thunderclash says, reaching out and gently turning him by the shoulders, “today I was hoping you could help me help you.”

The pale blue sunroom, previously furnished with not much more than a single paisley lounge, has been redecorated with all the things that Thunderclash assumes Rung will like. Shelves pulled from the east wing, a cosy reading chair too small for Thunderclash to comfortably use, garlands of crystals pulled from all over the neighborhood with brightly colored ribbons. Thunderclash puffs up a little in pride just looking at them. He’s getting better at those! If Rung liked his wedding present, he’s sure to love this!

Rung’s antenna flicks. He peers left and right, taking in the room, with Thunderclah’s hands on his little shoulders.

“Please clarify your request,” he says, tipping his head back until his bespectacled optics can look up at Thunderclash again.

“It’s a room!” Thunderclash says, inanely, and then bops himself on the forehead for being ridiculous. “I mean it’s a room for you! Here, it’s your room! In my house!”

Rung just looks at him, eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement. “I am omnipresent and impervious to harm,” Rung says. “I am in all places simultaneously. I do not require shelter or living space.”

Thunderclash blinks down at him. “Well, yes,” he says. “But not requiring something... is different from not wanting it... right?”

Rung frowns, and then considers the room a second time, this time much more thoughtfully. “I’m not certain,” he says. “That’s the case for all of you residents, but as for myself--shouldn’t necessity suffice?”

“You’re bonded with Hot Rod,” Thunderclash says, and only has to swallow once, dryly, before he can get the words out in a cheerful voice. “So this place is your home now too! I thought this would be a--a good way to welcome you into the family! So to speak!”

Rung doesn’t say anything. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, when he’s facing away from Thunderclash like this. His little shoulders are so round and fine, the perfect size to cup inside the hands of a bigger transport frame. Does Hot Rod like that about him? Does Hot Rod like to scoop him up, maybe, and feel his little engine thrumming?

“I know you, um,” Thunderclash says, “might not end up liking all of this, but it’s your space and you can do it up any way you like now that you know it’s here. But if there’s something you’d like that I can help with, consider me at your service.”

“You gave me shelves,” Rung says, sounding a little lost. “Shelves are for putting things on. What should I put on them?”

Thunderclash chews his lip. “Well, what sort of things do you like?”

Rung makes a little noise of surprise, or perhaps amusement. “You’re the second person to ask me that. It’s still so strange--such a novelty to contemplate.” He takes a step forward, and then another, and then he’s at the shelves in a little chime of rearranged reality, running his hand over the exotic, polished material. 

“I like…” he says, tilting his head. “...toys, I think. They’re so small and bright.”

On the top of the shelf a series of little models pop into existence, one after another, fat and shiny spaceships between teeny tiny trucks with teeny tiny mirrors.

He turns and looks up at Thunderclash. “Is that good?” he asks.

“That’s great!” Thunderclash says. “You’ve still got plenty of space, too. How about something else?”

Rung tweaks the mirror of a tiny truck while he thinks about it. “I have an enormous store of literary knowledge,” he says, “but it would be pleasant, I think, to hold it in my hands.”

Books big and small, digital and hardcopy, cascade into being along the remaining shelves. 

“Holding things makes me feel more present,” Rung muses, pulling one of the hardcopy bindings from the collection and unfolding it in his hands. “More like a person, perhaps.”

Thunderclash feels an uncomfortable bubble of guilt pop in his tanks. Rung isn’t a person--Pharma has been very clear about that with all of them from the start--but, there’s something about being reminded of this that… feels… wrong. Sad. It makes all the envy he feels about Hot Rod and Rung and this house and their relationship tangle and twist inside of him until he can barely tell up from down.

Why would someone make a lifeless thing that can envy the living? Worse still, that can envy the dead?

“What did you put in your collection?” he asks, trying to shake off that looming feeling of wrongness.

Rung turns back to the shelf and runs his fingers over the various bindings, listing them off without needing to check inside them. Some of them have names on the sides, if the binding is wide enough to allow for it. Thunderclash recognizes Lectus and Sparkbright and Alpha Trion, but the rest is just a blur of unfamiliar designations. 

“What’s the one in your hand?” he asks, because he hates to admit he has no idea what any of this means.

Rung snaps it closed and holds it out where Thunderclash can see the strangely fluid glyph on the front cover. “Poetry, mostly. I have poetry from all over the galaxy in my databanks. I thought these would look nice displayed on a page--they’re the sort of form that was meant to be written down.”

Thunderclash resists for barely half a klik, and then gives in to the guilty impulse. “Is any of it Camien?” he asks. “That is--since Hot Rod is your conjunx now, you must have some things from his homeworld too?”

Rung’s bright smile is too guileless, and Thunderclash immediately feels like trash. 

“I have a section of that,” he says, and flips effortlessly to a spot in the middle of the volume. “Would you like to hear one? There’s a genre of short poems on Caminus that are meant to be read in three breaths.”

Thunderclash immediately settles back onto the lounge. “Yes, please,” he says, and watches the way that Rung glows in the afternoon sunlight glows of the panorama window, book in hand, and feels some kind of longing like an ache in his spark chamber.

“This one is Planetrise, by Lux of Caminus,” he says, and reads:

“It is the season of death
And I am on the snowblown horizon of the world
Watching you rise in glory.”

Thunderclash hums. “What does it mean, planetrise?” he asks.

“Caminus is technically a moon, not a planet,” Rung tells him, flipping a few pages forward. “When they come into rotation with the planet positioned between the moon and their sun, the planet blots out a third of the sky, they say, like a swirling blue stormcloud. The colonists were understandably struck by it.”

“Oh,” Thunderclash says, imagining it. So alien, so stark. Is that the world where Hot Rod was forged? How odd must the sky of this afterlife seem to him.

“There’s another poem by Lux on the same theme,” Rung says, “dedicated to a lover. Would you like to hear it?”

Thunderclash says yes, probably too quickly. Rung smiles warmly at him, and then reads:

“The balcony was thrown wide open by the wind
You went to close it, 
The planetrise stole over us in leaps of black shadow
I was eclipsed; you were titanic.”

Rung wanders closer, the book still open in his hand, his mouth savoring each word like a rich and bitter vintage of fuel.

“The berth, the cold, your shining arm.” Rung reaches out. “You took my hand,” his fingers touch Thunderclash’s metal. “How dread - how beautiful.”

Thunderclash looks down, at where Rung’s burnished hand has come to rest lightly atop his own, and his spark leaps into his throat. Everything in this moment feels strange and urgent and compelling, and he wants, and he wants to go wanting on forever. That bare touch threatens to unravel him.

Thunderclash has to try twice to speak before he can ask, “Why is the planetrise dreadful if it’s beautiful?”

“Oh, the planet blocks out the light of the dwarf star for a season,” Rung answers, as easy as anything. “It’s an amazing view, but it ushers in a winter of borderline starvation for everyone on the surface. Hence the season of death .”

Thunderclash sighs. He thinks of Rodimus and how Rodimus must feel having lived in a place like that. He thinks of Rung, copper and bright like a tiny burning sun, so warm now where his fingertips meet the back of a larger hand, and wonders if it’s too cruel of him to contemplate taking light from someone who has had so little of it.

“What else do you have in there?” Thunderclash says, and holds out both of his hands open to Rung, inviting him down onto the lounge. “Anything else you’d like to read me?”

Rung takes his hands, and lets himself be pulled down into the space between Thunderclash’s legs--one bent beneath him, one hung over the edge of the cushioning--like a corner piece of a puzzle slotting into place.

“Oh yes,” Rung says, laying the book open on Thunderclash’s substantial thigh. “I’d be more than happy to share.”

When Hot Rod walks in on them reading together several sub genres later, Rung tucked against Thunderclash’s hip and pointing out examples of something he’s calling chiasmus, Thunderclash jumps guiltily in his seat. He doesn’t succeed in moving himself anywhere, because Rung is still leaning against him; in fact all he succeeds in doing is making Rung topple backwards into his lap.

Hot Rod stops midstep, his optics going round as hubcaps. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“We’re, we,” Thunderclash says, and in the huge glaring void between his inadequate words, Rung goes: “I’m sharing my collection with Thunderclash! Would you like to hear some poetry as well, my love?”

In the wake of that endearment, Thunderclash experiences a cocktail of dread and longing and envy that would leave a lesser mech tankhammered and seeing stars. He watches the angle and diameter of Hot Rod’s eyes go through a similarly difficult-to-parse series of emotions.

“What’s going on with this room?” Hot Rod demands, abruptly spinning on his heel so that he’s no longer facing either of them. “Why’s it covered in random rocks?”

“It’s a room for Rung,” Thunderclash manages. “To say welcome? I decorated it.”

“What’s he need a room for?” Hot Rod demands, whipping back around just as fast. “He’s my conjunx, he lives with me!”

“Technically you live with me," Thunderclash replies. “Which means Rung also lives with me. And as a member of this household, he should have his own space, don’t you think?”

Hot Rod makes several inarticulate noises of frustration, eventually dissolving into a long pained mmm with his fist pressed against his immaculate white forehead.

Seeing Hot Rod frustrated makes a nasty little part of Thunderclash feel warm and snug, and he’s not proud of it, but it does feel nice. He sneaks a glance down at Rung to see what Rung is thinking, but it’s hard to tell.

“Surely you don’t want me to take away Rung’s room,” Thunderclash ventures, knowing that there’s no good way to answer that question. He’s got Hot Rod pinned and they both know it. Hot Rod just stares at him.

That nasty little part of Thunderclash wriggles down in its cozy den and purrs.

“Fine!” Hot Rod huffs, throwing up his hands. “Okay, this is Rung’s room now, whatever. But it’s not as good as my room, so don’t get a swelled head about it!”

And then he turns and stomps off, thigh vents puffing steam.

Turns out, hanging out with Thunderclash when he’s scheming to steal someone’s conjux is tolerable. Pleasant, even. Starscream’s wings keep twitching with delight as he leans over the cafe table and listens to Thunderclash outline his next batch of ideas. He’s very enthusiastic after his first big success. Most are too over the top to ever work, but they’re fun to listen to. Thunderclash pouts and takes a sip of his kick-in-the-teeth sweet drink when Starscream tells him this.

“They’re not all bad,” Starscream says. “They just need some workshopping, and that’s why I’m here.”

Thunderclash’s amicable agreement is interrupted by a figure peeling itself away from a group of mechs that have been tittering and glancing at them for at least a half hour. Starscream’s been ignoring them, but now his lips curl in distaste as he recognizes the mech making a beeline for Thunderclash. Vega.

Apparently he’s gotten over the argument he and Thunderclash got into before the party. Judging by the way Thunderclash stiffens, though, Vega is the only one. Starscream takes a sip of his drink, eyes flicking back and forth between the two.

“Thunderclash!” Vega trills, showing a spectacular inability to read the room.

“Hello, Vega,” Thunderclash says politely. Poor mech looks like he wishes another sinkhole would open beneath him.

“Axel and Booster were telling me about your rescue on Arizenith-5, and I’d love to hear the story from the mech himself!”

Thunderclash makes a face that was probably supposed to be a polite smile. “I’ve already told Axel and Booster everything,” he says. “They can tell the story just as well as I can. And I’m spending time with Starscream, so I-”

“But it’s not the same!” Vega protests. His gaze had barely flickered to Starscream at the mention of his name, but the contempt was palpable. Starscream’s answering sneer is wasted when Vega turns pleading optics on Thunderclash.

“I…” Thunderclash chews his lip, and Starscream can actually feel the mech’s resistance crumbling away.

“No,” Starscream says, and both mechs look at him in surprise. Starscream keeps glaring at Vega. “He told you we’re spending time together. You can hear the story from Axel and Blaster.”

“Booster,” Vega corrects, but Starscream waves a dismissive hand.

“He said he was busy,” he says. “Leave us alone.”

Vega looks flabbergasted and turns to Thunderclash, who’s gone slack jawed in astonishment.

“Thunderclash,” Vega says, and reaches out to touch Thunderclash’s shoulder. Thunderclash flinches away, a barely perceptible thing, and Starscream’s optics blaze in sudden fury.

“Actually,” he says, louder than necessary, “I’m not thirsty anymore. Let’s go, ‘Clash.”

He nearly knocks his chair over getting up to grab Thunderclash’s arm. Thunderclash says something he can’t parse through the sudden roaring in his ears, alarmed but not protesting, so Starscream keeps pulling and dragging until they’re out, free of the tangle of chairs and staring optics. Only when his shins hit the fountain does Starscream stop moving and drop Thunderclash’s arm like the metal is burning him. 

“Starscream!” Thunderclash says, and Starscream is aware of his hands making aborted little movements like he wants to touch Starscream and check on him, but isn’t sure if it’s safe. “Are you okay?”

Starscream sucks in a ragged vent of balmy air and lets it out slowly. He keeps his eyes on that stupid eagle, breaking it down into lines and angles. By the time he’s calculated area and perimeter, he’s at least eighty percent sure he isn’t going to start shouting. His vents are even, at any rate.

“Listen to me,” Starscream says, low and serious and more steady than he expected. “You’re allowed to say no. You don’t owe those slagheads your time or energy, and definitely not an explanation. If you want to be left alone, they don't get a say in it. Understand?”

With fingers tangled in an anxious knot in front of his mouth, Thunderclash nods. Some of the abrupt, manic tension bleeds out of Starscream’s frame, and his plating, clamped tight like he’s bracing for an attack, loosens just a bit. 

“Are you okay?” Thunderclash repeats, sounding much too small for a mech his size.

Starscream sighs and forces his wings to relax. “Yeah, I’m okay.” He glances back at the cafe, where he can see the silhouettes of curious spectators vying for the best view of his near melt down. “Want to go to the gardens?”

Still tucked into himself like he’s trying to minimize a target, Thunderclash nods. It would be a nice walk, probably, if Starscream was paying attention to the scenery at all. Thunderclash follows a step or two behind him, deferential almost, and Starscream thinks he should feel smug about that but all he feels is antsy. He doesn’t think Thunderclash understood what he was saying. He doesn’t think he understood what he was saying. He just saw Vega reaching out his grubby little paw and, and--

Anyway, the amethysts are nice. They’ve got halved geodes as big as a mech is tall, and you can touch if you want to, because it’s public property. They spend a while poking at the crystals and debating what wavelength of light is being emitted by the fractal. They don’t talk about Vega, and Starscream thinks maybe the moment will dissolve into a forgotten discomfort after all. Right up until Consequences arrive.

Starscream sees the exact moment they’re spotted, because Minimus sets off up the path toward him and Thunderclash with the determination of a guided missile. Rodimus trails behind him, wearing the familiar expression of a mech about to watch someone they don’t like get arrested for illegal weapons manufacturing. Despite Minimus being tiny, Starscream has to resist the urge to duck behind Thunderclash. He could always transform and fly away, but then he’d just get even more of a lecture when Minimus inevitably cornered him. No, better to grit his teeth and find out what’s got a wrench in his gearbox.

“Hello, Minimus,” Thunderclash says politely. “Hot Rod.”

Minimus nods a hello, and Rodimus doesn’t say a word. 

“Hello Thunderclash,” Minimus says, maximum stiff and formal. “I just need to have a word with Starscream. Starscream, will you come over to the pagoda with me?”

Starscream looks between his grim sparkmate and the cute little pagoda which is sized perfectly for a couple of minibots and which he will almost certainly scrape the scrap out of with his big wings. Frag that. If they’re going to do this, he’s not cramming himself into fragile decorative architecture on top of everything else. “No,” he decides, “I’m good here.”

“I would prefer to discuss this in private,” Minimus replies.

“Tough transistors,” Starscream says. “Whatever you want to say to me, let’s have it out now.”

“Vega says you insulted him and wouldn’t let Thunderclash talk to him,” Minimus says. Starscream puffs up with an indignant response, but Minimus holds up a dainty hand. “Obviously, I know you two… don’t see optic to optic, so I wanted to get your side of the story before I said anything. What happened?”

Starscream crosses his arms and drums his fingers. “That lying fragger. He interrupted us and was trying to bully Thunderclash into repeating one of his stories we’ve all heard a million times before and wouldn’t leave when ‘Clash asked. I just made it clear that it wasn’t optional is all. I didn’t even threaten him.”

Minimus’ mouth pulls down slightly at the corners, which makes Starscream frown. He thought he’d handled the whole situation pretty well. He didn’t fire a weapon or anything!

“I understand your concern,” Minimus says, and Starscream gets the feeling that he’s not going to like what comes next, “but as a public figure, Thunderclash owes the public some of his time, and that may include repeating a story.”

Behind Minimus, Rodimus snorts, and Starscream can’t help echoing him. “That’s a bunch of scrap.”

“He owes--”

“Alright,” Starscream says. “Say he does owe them his time. Then more time. Then a drink. When’s it stop? When’s he get to say no? A date? A frag?”

Minimus balks. “That’s not what I said.”

“If he can’t say no to a chat,” Starscream tears onward, “then people will find a way to make him owe more than a chat. Other things he doesn't want to give them.”

“I’m right here,” Thunderclash protests, to absolutely no effect.

“As a member of the upper class,” Minimus says, voice clipped with carefully controlled anger, “Thunderclash has a duty to the populace.”

“A duty,” Starscream sneers. “You upper class mechs are so desperate to be important, you’ll invent any old reason to make us worship the ground you walk on and then you'll buy into the lie you’re selling.”

“Every class has a duty,” Minimus says. “That’s how a society works, I know you--”

Starscream’s laugh burns like acid as it bubbles up his throat and over his lips. He’s been mad a few times since he got here but nothing with a flavor quite like this. It’s almost nostalgic, the black fury like he hasn’t felt since he was first trapped in The Shades, trapped in Vos, trapped in his stupid factory made body with its stupid little serial number, and now he’s dead and in heaven and he’s still trapped.

He’s aware that the others are staring at him, sucks in vents to try and stop the unhinged laughter. “Guess it’s all my fault then, right? Stupid, silly seeker. Know your place.” Another hysterical giggle slips out, and he meets Minimus’ alarmed gaze. “Your lot certainly put me down as low as a mech can go. Tell me, was it my duty to have my aft smacked and my wings groped by every drunk senator who decided I owed it to him?”

The crystals chime with the force of the silence that follows, still and silent as the mechs standing between them. Minimus looks like a bomb just went off in his hands, which probably would’ve been less dramatic, but Rodimus just looks uncharacteristically grim, with not a trace of surprise about him.

“Starscream?” Thunderclash says, and Starscream jumps. He’d kind of forgotten the big mech was still standing behind him. He doesn’t have a clue what to say now, but he’s spared by Minimus’ voice, smaller and more unsure than he’s ever heard it.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he says.

“Doesn’t matter,” Starscream says. He scrapes the pathstones with the casing of a thruster. “It’s what you said.”

They don’t get a town meeting for this one. Pharma doesn’t call anyone in, doesn’t take anyone aside, doesn’t send a whisper along here and along there that he’s going to be busy, so make sure you can all take care of yourselves, okay? Starscream only hears--and expects--the worst because he’s awake in the middle of the night, lying in his empty berth that’s too big for one seeker and too small for three, and he hears the sound of the train.

He’s heard the train at night before, actually. Starscream’s pretty bad at recharging at normal times, because if you recharge regularly someone can learn your schedule and figure out when you’re weak and garrott you from behind, so it’s good to shake it up and recharge randomly throughout the day. So, basically, he’s been awake at various times of various nights, and he has heard the train before. Thing is, the train usually goes through town at dusk and at dawn. It’s probably programmed to do that, it’s on an ambient schedule. An excuse to do minor repairs on Rung, who’s usually not available for those deep nighttime hours, getting rebooted or touched up or whatever.

This train’s different. This one comes in the dark.

Next morning, the town square is empty, devoid of motion or music. All the stores are open, but when Starscream pokes his head into them, there’s nobody inside. He can hear… wind. Faraway wind tearing at the surface of the oil lake in the distant amethyst thicket, howling in low savage moans between mountains. It’s an ancient, lonely sound, feral in its isolation, and Starscream shivers at the sense memory of icy mountains, impossible to search, heavy and pounding with snow. It doesn’t belong here.

You don’t belong here.

He wanders for a while, hoping fruitlessly that Minimus or Rodimus or someone will pop up like a newforged spark and explain that this is all an elaborate joke the town’s playing on Starscream for just being such a huge gearstick this whole time, or at the very least be as creeped out by all this as he is. No such luck. Maybe Minimus is having a morning in, reading some legalese bullscrap and sitting comfortably in the furniture he can actually fit into now. Rodimus is probably getting gasterblasted, or interfacing, or sleeping, or doing whatever it is that he just does all the time. If he is ‘facing, it’d probably be poor form to call Rung up and ask him what’s going on, right?

Starscream smirks, and opens his mouth to--

the petals behind his brows begin to unfurl; the entire back panel of his head opening like an explosion in slow-motion;

Starscream closes his mouth. No, he thinks, looking at the visible and apparent damage of the town, the ghostly nothingness of all of it, maybe calling Rung closer to him right now isn’t the best idea.

He goes to Pharma’s office instead, sneers at the Welcome! Everything is fine. platitude still enshrined on the wall opposite the couch in the lobby, and prepares for his scathing critique of whatever’s gone wrong this time just outside the door. He’s just going through the notepad he keeps on his HUD and remembering that yes, he was going to bring up all the trash that’s in the river, when the sound of voices from the other side stills the whirl of his processor. He slams himself flat up against the wall and forces his fans still.

One voice is Pharma. The other one is… it’s not one of the auditors. It’s totally unfamiliar. Starscream frowns and leans in.

“I’m not here to listen to excuses,” the alien voice says, and Starscream’s struts crack and freeze in their joints.

It’s a low voice--no, that isn’t it. Low is a basso profundo. Low is the commendatore, striding on stage with a finger pointed, condemning the villainous hero to the pit for his pride in refusing salvation. It’s something mellifluous and powerful, bold as a brassformer in his prime.This isn’t a low voice. It’s a deep one. A yawning chasm opening below his feet, a hopeless tumble down an abyss with no bottom. Starscream thinks of staring down a trench with nothing but blackness below his feet, plating creaking and crunching under the increasing pressure of a heavy ocean as something drags him down beyond redemption.

He can feel nothing. Terror has frozen him completely.

“I’ve been looking over these files, Pharma,” the voice says from behind the door, and Starscream quavers in a fresh wave of agony, “your case files. The special focus studies, the balancing work you’ve done. The soulmate project. Pharma. I’m disappointed.”

“Please,” Pharma’s voice chokes out, and there’s none of the overspeaking and fumbling of his time with the auditors, none of the excuses and over-explanations, “just tell me why. I’ll fix it. I’ll do better.”

“Perhaps you would be so good as to read the briefing I wrote for you,” the voice says, and Starscream’s engine stutters like it’s hiccupping over a fatal blockage, “so that I do not have to explain.”

“You said there was a--a stowaway,” he says dumbly, “an interloper. But I don’t understand how you knew. Did Kaon--”

"Of course, none of your auditors suspected anything," the voice says snidely, "much like you, Pharma, they are not hired for their intelligence or their creative problem solving. I simply sent them to observe and report. It was I who studied their individual case files, and your case files, and found... inconsistencies. This world is not as you described. No doubt most of that is due to your incompetence, rather than malice; I doubt anything but servitude has ever crossed your mind, which is why you are still alive.”

“Yes, sir,” Pharma says, quietly. “I am incompetent.”

“But I am not,” the voice replies. “I have selected four case files, the most suspect of your neighborhood. You will bring them before me and allow me to rule on their cases.”

“Which four?”

“Starscream,” the voice says, and Starscream feels his plating creak as it’s crushed under an unknowable force of weight, “Minimus Ambus, Thunderclash, and the Camien Hot Rod, if that is his name. I very much doubt it. It sounds exceedingly… Cybertronian, shouldn’t you have guessed?”

“When do you want them?”

“Immediately,” the voice says. “Create a judgement hall.”

“I’ll try,” Pharma mutters, “but creating space--it takes time. It takes my system. I need to call Rung, I need to…”

Pharma keeps talking, but Starscream stops listening. He takes two long strides towards the exit, back the way he came. He’s heard enough to know he’s in danger if he stays, and further information won’t help him stay in the Good Place if he gets caught and dragged back to the Bad Place right here, right now. The sound of that voice paralyzes him, but when Pharma’s the one speaking, his courage creeps back into him, and he has just enough to run now. He might still be able to warn Minimus, to warn Rodimus, somebody, if he can just--

And then he is somewhere else.

It’s some kind of judicial hall, all dark steely greys and long benches, and Starscream stumbles to avoid colliding with obstacles that are suddenly there. He thrusts a hand out to catch himself on a table, and his hip still collides painfully with one of the corners. There’s a painful k-tink.

“Ow, scrap,” he yelps, and then whirls around to get a better view.

It’s big, and empty. Actually, scratch that--with a start, Starscream’s conscious reforms around the figure of Minimus, sitting at one of the benches. Minimus glances up, blinks in confusion. There’s a mug in his hand. He looks like he was just tucking into a nice morning in.

“Minimus,” Starscream says, then remembers he’s still kind of mad at him and looks away huffily. “You’re here, too.”

“What--” Minimus’ head swivels back and forth in a panic. “Where are we? What’s going on?” His gaze catches on Starscream, and his optics narrow. “Did you do something?”

“No! Maybe!” Starscream throws his arms up. “Not everything is my fault always, you know. I’m actually 99% sure this one doesn’t have anything to do--”

“Oh!” interrupts Thunderclash, who is Here Now, Also. “I--oh! Hello? Oh, Minimus, Starscream, I--er--this is embarrassing, I swear I was just talking to Booster, have either of you seen him?”

Starscream turns his attention to an empty corner and crosses his fingers on both hands. “Hot Rod,” he says, intensely, “c’mon, universe, Hot Rod. No whammies no whammies no--”

Rodimus appears directly in front of him. Starscream, all existential terror dumped from his system, takes a moment to pump a glorious fist in the air.

“No whammies, put ‘em up,” he says, throwing a hand in the air.

“Dude, what,” Rodimus says, but puts it up and high fives him anyway. That’s the code. “Where are we?”

“Welcome to the summit,” the voice says, and Starscream’s machinations chill and slow all at once, that horrible aching tick in his engine beating in terror. “You are here to be judged.”

“Judged?” Minimus gets to his feet, setting his mug down. “Forgive me, but what more can we prove to you? Haven’t you put us through enough?”

“Be silent,” the voice says, and Minimus is. “What you have said to Pharma is inconsequential, and what he has believed or agreed to has no impact on me.”

Before them, the voice materializes, enormous, crushing the rest of them back into themselves. Starscream feels his chassis collapsing into itself, choking him. Enormous, dark, omnipresent; optics gleaming like a half-dead star filling the darkness. Beside him, small and cringing and compliant, Pharma huddles in his shadow.

“I am the judge of everything in this life and the one before it,” the voice says, “I am Tarn. You will submit to me because I have instructed you to do so, Minimus Ambus.”

There’s a movement in the room, and Starscream is vaguely aware that Thunderclash has moved towards Minimus, placing protective hands over his shoulders. It’s hard to look at them; it’s hard to look at anything but the enveloping darkness at the center of the room. “Please,” Thunderclash says gently, “Tarn? We don’t understand. Why are we here? I thought--I thought we had already been judged, before we were placed here.”

“You were judged poorly,” Tarn says. “You were judged by an ingrate of no consequence. No matter. I will judge each of you now.”

“Why?” Thunderclash asks. “Why now? Why--why this?”

“Because one of you does not belong here,” Tarn says. “Amongst your lot stands a traitor, a liar, and a thief. He has stolen a place here from someone more worthy. Three of you are innocent; those three have nothing to fear. But all of you must be evaluated.”

Starscream looks at Rodimus. Rodimus looks at Starscream.

“This is the memory viewer,” Tarn says, and gestures; before them, a screen yawns out of the nothingness of space, black and flickering like stolen cable. “It will allow us to see, and to review, the genuine actions each of you performed on Cybertron during your life. No system errors; no filling in the gaps. None of the imperfection,” he spits at Pharma, who shrinks away from him helplessly, “that the original case files were designed upon. None of the old mistakes of a system that never was all that reliable to begin with.”

“I don’t understand,” says Thunderclash, and Starscream realizes, suddenly and helplessly, that Thunderclash is the only one who’s telling the truth. He’s the one who’s been locked out of the loop. He’s the only one of them who’s being tested for no reason at all. “Everyone here is a good person! You accuse us of fraudulence?” He looks at Starscream, who can do nothing but gaze back in stupefied terror, then jerks his gaze back to Tarn. His optics burn with fury. “How many times do they have to prove themselves to you? Your methods are unjust and untoward, and you employ them strategically to denigrate those with the least opportunity to defend themselves!”

“Do not forget your place,” Tarn says. Thunderclash winces, and is silent--but, to Starscream’s amazement, the look on his face hasn’t changed. “Such a stirring cry, Captain. Your honor is evident. We’ll start with you.” With a flick of his wrist, the screen snaps into color, glowing in the mid-dimness of the room. In focus, at the center of the screen, is an image of Thunderclash frozen in time, a gun in one hand and a body under the other arm, face damaged and determined. It looks straight out of a vidreel about a heroic rogue rescuing a crew of thirty (including his beloved), except there’s no makeup and the lighting’s all wrong… 

And that’s the real Thunderclash, Starscream realizes. That’s just his life. 

Thunderclash doesn’t seem blown away by any of this--his body is still keyed up, pauldrons hunched, mouth scowling. “Fine,” he says, throwing a hand at the screen, “I hope I am your fraud. It would save this good company the agony of being subject to this accusatory filth yet again. Go on! Show them all my failures and faults, if that’s how you want to punish me.”

“Your wish is my command,” Tarn says. “We’ll start with your failures and move on to what triumphs you have.” 

The screen glitches, and then it resets. Starscream has never been inside a Lighthouse, but he knows instantly what he’s seeing--the blacksmiths in their uniform paintjobs, the strange mixture of medical practicality and gilded religious vanity, the enameled black medical crosses imposed onto every flat surface. It’s an operation room, grim and full of silent nurses moving quickly from monitor to monitor.

A spark is trying to collapse into waveform as three pairs of hands urgently prod and pull at it, metallico jagged and pulsing like an angry halo.

“Captain Thunderclash, whose life ended with a mutiny he failed to quell before it could destroy two thirds of his crew,” Tarn says. “You began your life as a weak and malformed spark, barely able to hold integrity long enough for a team of blacksmiths to rush you into a stabilizing facility. Without medical intervention, you would have been nothing but a smear of slag on the floor of a nursery.”

An array of auxiliary screens flare to life around the central image, each of them containing complicated graphs and running scripts, red and green numbers ticking away at a dizzying pace. The Thunderclash coming together on screen now is missing his ostentatious decal as well as most of his clunkier kibble, the great big shoulders and the out-curving knee guards. The viewer speeds forward, years flashing by in an instant, leaving behind the Lighthouse and the creche, social orientation classes, his first job application, and then--

“Your first failure,” Tarn says. The viewer has paused on a moment of absolute panic and terror, a frozen moment of debris and spattered fluid against grey pavement. And there, in the middle of it all, is the young Thunderclash frantically pressing his big hands against the severed fuel line of a much smaller mech. Energon and oil pour from between his fingers, pooling in filthy rainbows.

“On your first delivery assignment, the militant monoformer movement was demonstrating outside of the dockyard where you were a quarter hour late to rendezvous with your crew. Enforcers were called to put a stop to the demonstration. Tensions escalated. When your crew became involved in the stand off, the situation ignited. You arrived too late to intervene, too late to protect anyone, and too late to save the life of your bleeding batchmate.”

The real Thunderclash, bigger and steadier and brighter than his past self, says, “I didn’t have any medical training. I didn’t know how to weld a carotid patch, back then.”

“Excuses?” Tarn asks, with a dangerous purr.

“No sir,” Thunderclash says. “I failed, just as you say.”

Starscream itches with the uncomfortable urge to look away from this grueling vision. The motion of the auxiliary screen is much safer. The red point markers tick up, of course, but Starscream’s eye catches on the green counter, instead, which is steadily counting up as well. But why--?

He glances back at the center screen, where the memory of Thunderclash is curled tight over his dying friend, cradling him close against that broad chest, tucking him into that neck. A scrabbling hand comes up to clutch at Thunderclash’s back, smearing oily streaks as it pulls Thunderclash down closer.

“Let’s move on,” Tarn says, and the viewer speeds forward until it halts again, abruptly, on the inside of a spaceship. “Your first command assignment. There was a leak in the engine room, due to corrosion that had not been properly repaired when you took possession of the ship. Your laziness with protocol left ten bots in the ICU.”

Thunderclash braces himself, tips up his chin, and becomes almost unrecognizable as the tittering socialite who nearly rebooted from the pressure of giving a thank-you speech.

They rip through the material of Thunderclash’s life, leaving wreckage behind them in the shape of crashed ships and destroyed buildings, ruined relationships, lost lives. 

There are some petty and personal failures: Thunderclash accepted command of a ship and incidentally ruined the career of a would-be rival; Thunderclash broke the heart of a fan who slept with him once after a promotional event; Thunderclash hurt feelings left and right, leaving a slew of little negative impacts behind him, savaging the self esteem of strangers all with a pleasant and earnest smile.

But over and over, until Starscream feels like he’s bracing for a physical punch watching this thing, someone ends up bleeding.

“Your encounter with the pro-organic militants above the Deltaran nebula. Two mechs and twenty allied aliens were killed while you struggled to reach the airlocks.”

There’s Thunderclash, dragging himself across the floor towards the manual lockstation, his crushed legs sparking and fizzling.

“Your ship’s infiltration by Dire Wraiths during routine trade over Polarisi space. Five mechs were assimilated before you managed to staunch the incursion.”

There’s Thunderclash again, with one of his crewmechs thrown over his shoulder, tendrils of some disgusting organic material clinging to his joints like grasping fingers.

“The reactor implosion on Arizenith-5. Seven other mechanicals boiled to death while you were fishing out the two closest to you. You could have done better. You could have done more.”

Starscream clenches his fingers into a fist. He doesn’t like this. It feels bad and there’s nothing he can do about it, and he doesn’t like that even more.

“Your encounter with Altaran Pirates in cycle 335. Your first aid care was insufficient--your communications specialist extinguished in your arms.”

Again and again, the Thunderclash on screen struggles for his life, only to be knocked down by the next waiting disaster. A daring rescue. A last minute escape. It must have looked amazing on the ‘venture reels. Looking at Thunderclash, now, who is looking at himself, it doesn’t feel… so amazing…

“Misfortune follows you wherever you go,” Tarn says. “Your very presence endangers the involved and the innocent alike.”

At last the viewer stills, landing on a moment in which Thunderclash is wiping viscous alien blood from his cheek, the harsh motion of his wrist frozen in time. The red counter offers up four digits of implacable judgement.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, captain?”

Thunderclash holds himself as firm and still as a cliff face against the light of the display, more geology than mech. Above them all, there’s Thunderclash in all his multicolored glory, larger than life with a blaster in his hand, vents smoking in the sunlight of an alien world.

“I’ve never been enough,” he says. “All I can say is that I tried, and I didn’t give up trying.”

Eyes glitter from the heavy darkness, keen and coal red and unmoved by Thunderclash’s humility. Starscream swallows thickly. If Thunderclash could look at all that and still judge himself wanting, what the pit would Starscream have to say for himself?

“It is time to consider your successes,” the judge announces, in the following silence. The viewer resets, and as it furiously rewinds through all the bitter lows of Thunderclash’s life, Starscream glances back at the green counter. It’s a modest two digit number, but it’s incongruous enough that for a moment Starscream thinks he must be misreading it. He nudges Rodimus and nods up at it. Rodimus squints.

“Let’s begin with your first act of volunteer service, as part of the post-crisis cleaning crew outside the dock of the Ambustus spaceport…”

Rodimus and Starscream watch in astonishment as the green counter begins to fly through the triple digits, the red counter barely plodding along in its wake. It turns out Thunderclash donated a frankly sickening amount of his compensation from promotions and endorsements to charity, and that’s not even counting the amount of benefits that were held in Thunderclash’s honor, or fundraising events he participated in. The green ticker is a blur of moving digits.

Starscream can’t pick out one high from another--he was never very discerning about heroic rescues and good deeds and little ugly self-sacrifices that make up tiny point values but build and build when you do them every day, letting others in front of you in line and taking time to regale adoring crowds despite not wanting to--but he went to the academy, all right. He can see that green ticker growing and multiplying. One proffered organ transplant to a dying stranger negates the little red marker entirely.

When it all slows to a stop, Starscream is staring dumbly at a nine-digit number.

“Well done, Thunderclash,” Tarn says. “Even subtracting one from the other… well, I don’t think it’s going to make a dent, do you?”

There’s a whirling of colored digits--both numbers detracting the red sum--and the final score centers. It’s stark and green. It’s still nine digits long.

Thunderclash doesn’t say anything at first--he’s looking away, staring intently at a far wall. But, as the moment of stunned silence passes over the group, he glances back at Tarn. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he says coldly. “Will you let this be over or not?”

“You,” Tarn says, “are finished. We have no quarrel. You have performed adequately in life, and your impertinence in death is of no consequence to me.” The vidscreen shuts off all at once, returning to the flickering grey-black of stasis, and Tarn fishes a file out of his arms. With outstretched fingers, like it disgusts him to touch, he passes it to Pharma, who takes it and shuffles back. “I have no desire to fatigue you all by rushing through this process,” he says. “Nor do I intend to fatigue myself, when this job is so important. You will all take a recess--the rest of the day, and the night, so that you might recharge. It has been explained to me that you require this, even in the Good Place; I will conform to shoddy worksmanship for your sake.”

Pharma stirs slightly in his corner. “The psychological toll,” he mutters, so quietly that Starscream almost doesn’t hear it.

Tarn wheels on him. “What was that?”

“Nothing, sir,” Pharma says, wincing away. Tarn looms over him.

“Speak.”

It’s a word of command, and brooks no argument. Starscream realizes with some horror that his mouth is opening to say anything, just from hearing it, and he snaps it shut at once. Instantly, the inside of his mouth begins to burn, dentae chattering, glossa spiking with pain. He covers it with a hand. Next to him, he’s aware of Rodimus doing the same.

“The psychological toll,” Pharma repeats, “creatures that needed to recharge on Cybertron can’t comprehend an existence without it, even in the afterlife. It’s an important part of the structure of the neighborhood! Without that, residents would start to go insane; living here would be torture--”

“Do not lecture me on torture,” Tarn snarls, and Pharma clamps his hands to his head, collapses to his knees on the ground. “Do not make the mistake of speaking to me except to agree to my terms. Your position is more precarious than you can possibly imagine! I do not owe you this chance.”

The pain in his mouth is too much to bear--Starscream clutches at his jaw helplessly--

“You are a fool, and your neighborhood is only steps away from being an abject failure. If I allow you to retain control over this project after these tests are over, you will know to be grateful to me. And if I find you lacking--”

“Stop,” Starscream yelps, as the pain in his helm reaches a fevered pitch, “stop! Stop talking to him like that! Don’t you have any decency?”

The room stills. In a slow, terrible movement, Tarn turns to face him. “Starscream,” he says, and there’s that deep abyssal chasm of sound again, “how wonderful for you to join us.”

Every piston in his body is jumping with terror. Starscream can feel himself leaping off the edge of something he can’t come back from, bolting into the unknown. He’s opening himself up for attack; he can’t stay quiet any longer. He can’t just sit and watch as Tarn bullies his way around the circle.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, throwing his hands in the air. “You came to test us? Fine! Sure, I’d be the first to admit something’s wrong around here. But what the frag is your problem? You treat Thunderclash like scrap for asking you questions, and he’s basically the best person any of us know! And you’re only going after Pharma because he can’t defend himself against you!”

“Get him, Starscream,” Thunderclash says, voice prim and tight with excitement.

“You’re a bully! I got enough of this back on Cybertron,” Starscream says, digging his heels in. “You think you can walk in here and be a prick to everyone? Maybe you can, because you’re high and mighty, but you shouldn’t! And if you don’t even understand that, I don’t know why you’re allowed to cast judgement on us!” 

Tarn does not look particularly moved. If anything, the eyes behind that blank and soulless mask seem almost amused, cinching up at the corners. “How coherent of you,” he says. “Bravo, Starscream. And here I was, debating the pros and cons of subjecting Minimus Ambus to scrutiny tomorrow.” He casts his gaze around the room at the various stilled figures. “All this distress, this tension--you’re right, I should relieve some of it. Three of you, after all, are in the Good Place. Perhaps it would put everyone at ease if we perused your case file next.” He smiles. “Oh, ye of great honor, of vivacity. Defending your poor, innocent architect. Surely someone so bold has nothing to hide."

There’s the plummet. Like freefall when your jets aren’t working and your boosters are jammed, the sudden panic of grounders at a height. “Me?”

“Tomorrow,” Tarn says. “I look forward to it.”

And then they are somewhere else.

They go their separate ways. Not all at once; actually, when they first find themselves in the town square, with Tarn and Pharma nowhere to be seen, Thunderclash hugs Starscream and holds him tight, and Starscream tells him he’s crushing his wings, can you be a little more gentle? That’s how Rodimus wriggles out of it--when Thunderclash is apologizing for denting Starscream’s wings, and then apologizing for touching his wings and being inappropriate, Rodimus just dips. Starscream doesn’t see him go, and doesn’t blame him for going. They’re all shaken.

Minimus is mostly quiet, nodding at intervals. He breaks his silence to ask Thunderclash if he would like some companionship for dinner, but Thunderclash smiles and shakes his head.

“That was very… difficult,” he admits, “all that history. And that judge, how terribly unkind. I… I have some things I need to think about. That’s all. We’ll all be together tomorrow.”

“You probably don’t have to come,” Starscream says. “He said everything was settled with you. I bet if you ask him, he’ll let you go back to having your afterlife.”

“And leave you alone? Fat chance,” Thunderclash says, with such heat and venom that Starscream is momentarily embarrassed. “How dare he try to tear us all apart! Hot Rod and I are your friends, Starscream. We will be there to support you. Both of you.”

Starscream’s mouth is dry. “Thank you,” he says, the terror coming up on him at once. He’s going to be known, revealed in front of his friends. And there’s no instant satisfaction of the blow; he has to wait. 

Thunderclash goes home, and then it’s just Starscream and Minimus, standing in the halted quiet of the square.

“Are you hungry?” Minimus asks. “We could. Eat.”

“I’m going to the pit tomorrow,” Starscream says flatly. “You know that, right? There’s nothing else I can do. We’re at the end of the line.”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” Minimus says, and then, after resetting his voice box, “not without a fight.”

“You don’t have to fight for me, Mins,” Starscream says. “I’m just--I’m gonna go make the most out of whatever time I have left. Really go for it, drink myself into a coma. You know. The full Starscream package! WYSIWYG. Make sure I disappoint everyone out here before I do it in there.”

“Starscream,” Minimus says, and he sounds pained. “Please don’t give up now.”

Starscream crosses his arms and stares at the ground. “There’s nothing to be done,” he mutters. “There’s nothing we can do. You can’t get that yet because you haven’t--you haven’t seen everything yet. There’s no saving me.”

“Please don’t go off on your own and--and hurt yourself,” Minimus says. “Look, I know you’re angry with me because I--and you’re right, I was out of line, but--”

“People say things to me all the time. You don’t have to apologize.”

Minimus writhes on the spot. That makes Starscream feel, like, 1% better. 

“Don’t go off on your own,” he repeats after an agonized moment, “I don’t--I don’t think you should be alone before all this.”

Starscream doesn’t say anything. His arms remain crossed over his cockpit.

“Come back with me,” Minimus says, and that makes Starscream startle.

“With you?” he says, optics flaring light. “To your--to your place?”

Minimus is so close to him, and so tightly wound--it occurs to Starscream that an offer like this is far outside his normal conversational repertoire. Minimus hasn’t ever even--that is, he doesn’t even look at Starscream. Not at his wings, or his thrusters or anything. Nothing that matters. Unbidden, Starscream’s hands suddenly itch to reach out and touch him, to wear a little of that tension away. The enormity of what Minimus is asking is swelling up against him, and Starscream feels breathless with it.

His hands stay at his sides. He can’t reach out and touch. There’s something heavy on his fingers.

“I have adequate space,” Minimus says, wringing his hands. “I’m sure you would be more than comfortable on the couch, and I could summon berthdressings and whatever else you needed. You wouldn’t be alone.”

He’s offering--oh.

“Oh,” Starscream says. And then, “thanks.”

“Starscream,” Minimus says, “We have done this once before with success. I do not doubt that I will be able to mount a defense on your behalf. You can trust me. Er. Do you much go in for blankets?”

“Not really. I make heat okay.”

“I see,” Minimus says. “Right. That won’t be difficult to prepare.”

Starscream makes a noncommittal noise and looks away. A little hand touches him on the arm.

“Do you trust me?” Minimus asks.

Starscream looks down at him. “Yes,” he says. “Fine. Yes, I’ll stay. I don’t trust much of anybody, but I guess I trust you.”

Rodimus hasn’t ever been under investigation before, but he’s decided real quick that he doesn’t like it. Sure, he’s been pulled over before, and he’s been on the lam while he waited for the heat to die down on one of his less successful fetch quests, but this… feels... different. You can’t run once they get your serial number, that’s what his old mentor used to say. Once they got you in the Books, no amount of clever wriggling can get you out. He’s not sure exactly what books those are supposed to be, but this Tarn guy seems like he’s got his pick of them.

Rodimus definitely isn’t looking forward to visiting the judgement pit again. It’s spooky as all get out in there, and Tarn’s weird voice makes his chest ache.

But when you worry you suffer twice, so Rodimus is determined not to blow that bridge until he gets to it. He’s gonna do what he does best: ignore a problem until it explodes in his face. 

Because it’s a nice day out and Thunderclash is nowhere to be found, Rodimus walks into the Rod Pod to grab his hoverboard from where he’s got it stashed all secret-like for a couple rounds of a little game he likes to call Roof Dive Death Jump. And stops in his tracks. A ruststick wrapper crinkles under his pede.

Thunderclash has the hoverboard laid out across his lap, big fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the polymer. Rodimus looks at it, and then looks at Thunderclash, and then seriously considers whether he could fake his own death to get out of this moment. Like, yes, he’s already dead, but everybody bought it with Big M before so maybe-

Thunderclash sit forward. His mouth makes a stern, disappointed slash across his face. “Looking for this?” 

“Me? No! I don’t even know what that thing is! What is that thing? Definitely not something I would have.” He grimaces behind the security of his mask. If there’s one thing the mask is actually good for, it’s that.

Thunderclash silently flips the board over, revealing the sick engraving of Rodimus’ face on the underside. The bad news is, even with the mask it still looks a lot like him; it’s got his helm shape and all. Rodimus grinds his teeth and tries to will himself through the floor. Starscream is gonna pitch such a fit about this, he’s gonna have to replace his audials afterward.

“The first thing I noticed was when you and the others were talking about Nyon,” Thunderclash says, thumbing at the engraving. “You talk about Nyon like you’ve more than visited. Like you’ve lived there. And then you mentioned the moonrise back home, but I have it on good authority that Caminus is not a planet but a moon itself.”

“Uhhh,” Rodimus says. “Moons, planets… What’s the difference?” 

“So I went to talk to Minimus,” Thunderclash goes on. “And Minimus said that he hadn’t seen anything amiss, but then he just happened to mention your room. The inside of your room. Which I was under the impression was forbidden to anyone not of the Way. So today I came up here, and I took a look inside, and what do you think I found?”

Rodimus looks around the room at his collection of posters. “An extremely cool hideout?”

“An extremely cool hideout,” Thunderclash agrees, “furnished by someone who is most definitely not a Camien monk. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Hot Rod, if that’s even really your name --”

“Oh, it’s actually not!” Rodimus says. “I’m Rodimus.” 

“Wonderful, that’s a wonderful name and I don’t understand why I’m only learning it now!” Thunderclash’s fingers are tight enough to make the board creak in his grip. “I don’t understand! What else are you keeping from me?”

“Uhhh,” Rodimus says, and then starts counting off fingers: “I broke your crystal thingy back while Rung was shut down and hid the bits in your additives cabinet--”

“I don’t understand why you didn’t just tell me!”

“Well, when I broke it I also broke--”

“I mean about your name! About where you’re from!” Thunderclash slides his fingers down his chiseled, perfect face. “Tarn is looking for a traitor, and you’re hiding this entire life from everyone!”

“I’m not a traitor!” Rodimus rips off his facemask and throws it on the floor where it clinks and bounces. “I got stuck with this stupid face and this stupid fake life, I didn’t want it and I didn’t ask for it! I haven’t done nothin' to nobody, alright!”

Thunderclash actually looks more distressed now, which just gets Rodimus even more wound up.  Where’s he get off acting like this is an attack on him, when Rodimus is the one who’s had to live this boring slag for months?

“Hot Rod--Rodimus,” Thunderclash pleads. “I’m not calling you a traitor or anything else. But why didn’t you tell me? All this time I was trying to get to know you and I didn’t even know who you were!”

“Yeah,” Rodimus huffs, “sorry for not warning you that you were wasting your time on some canal trash nobody, but hey, you got the rest of forever to ignore me and my Rod Pod and my fragging conjunx, so try not to hold it against me.”

“Rodimus,” Thunderclash says, disapprovingly. Big stupid perfect jerk, can’t he even stand fake Good Place cussing? Or... is it-

“You’re not seriously gonna kick me out for this?” Rodimus demands, and takes four furious steps across the room. “You don’t have the right! I live here too! I just got my room done up the way I want it, and if you think I’m gonna let some polished-up, diesel-burning--”

“No!” Thunderclash says, “no, of course I’m not kicking you out! I don’t want you gone, I just want--I want--”

Rodimus stands there, confused and uncomfortable and steaming a little from firing up and cooling down in such short succession, while Thunderclash makes uninterpretable gestures at everything and nothing. What the pit is going on here? Does he need to throw a fit or not?

“I just want to know who you are,” Thunderclash says, finally, slumping over the hoverboard. “Why didn’t you trust me?”

Rodimus scrunches up his face. He might not have understood everything that was happening in Thunderclash’s memories, but he knows a posh life when he sees one. Bet Thunderclash never had to sleep in a dry drainage tunnel because that last courier job that was supposed to be legit had ended with the guy on the other end shaking him down for all he was worth.

“You wouldn’t understand it anyway,” he says. “It’s my life, in my city, and you crystal-glass types only care about us when it’s time to come down and slum it on festival weekends. I’m not fancy and exotic like some colony where they drink tea and write poetry and whatever.” 

“I don’t care about the tea,” Thunderclash protests, “I care about you!”

“Yeah right,” Rodimus says. “You got so excited to be partnered up with a real life monk I think you popped an oil pan.”

“I was excited to have a soulmate!” Thunderclash says, distressed. “I’m sorry if I made it seem like I was more interest in the--in the trappings of you than yourself! It wasn’t what I intended!” 

Rodimus shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t even know what a soulmate is, man. I had a life before you and Pharma and this whole place. I mean sure, we were hungry a lot, and sure there was syk and cops and water damage, but I had friends, and we were happy. I don’t need a soulmate. I don’t need your pity. And if I tell you about how I used to live, that’s what you’re gonna give me. A bunch of expensive pity.”

“I wouldn’t pity you!”

“Yeah?” Rodimus says. “So when I tell you that my mentor rusted out under a bridge less than a vorn after we were kicked out of the workhouse because we couldn’t afford the solvents for his rust infection, what are you gonna say?”

Thunderclash looks up at him with these big soft optics. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says.

“There! Right there! That’s pity, and I don’t need it!”

“That’s not pity ,” Thunderclash says, drawing back. “That’s what you’re supposed to do when someone tells you about something that hurt them. You’re supposed to feel bad for them. I can’t imagine how I would have dealt in that situation, all by myself in such a rough city.”

“It’s fine,” Rodimus says, shortly. “It was fine. I got by. I made friends.” 

“Will you tell me about them?” Thunderclash asks. “Your friends? 

Rodimus regards him warily.

“They seem, um. They seem like they were important to you.”  Thunderclash twists his hands together. “And I want… to know you. The real you. Whoever he is.”

Rodimus hesitates, and then he edges into the beanbag, not quite taking his eye off Thunderclash just in case this turns out to be a ruse. There could still be a lecture in here somewhere. Whenever people are mad at him, there’s always a lecture. 

“I could tell you about them,” he says. “A little bit. I mean, you’re gonna see a bunch of it anyway when it’s my turn, but I bet that spooky crankshaft won’t show you any of the good bits.”

Thunderclash’s mouth tightens, and for a second Rodimus just thinks about how many people he saw die today, and a lot of them in Thunderclash’s arms. Maybe Thunderclash gets it more than Rodimus is giving him credit for.

“I had a lot of friends,” Rodimus says. “Drift was my best friend, but he’d actually only been in Nyon for a little while when I kicked it.”

Rodimus doesn’t say it, but he still feels a sick swoop of grief whenever he remembers Drift standing on the stair of the flophouse he’d been living in, caught redhanded in the act of trying to ghost out of Rodimus’ life. Rodimus had talked him into staying in town. Rodimus had promised him a good time, promised to take care of him if he’d stay, and then Rodimus had died. 

“He’s kind of a lone roller type, doesn’t spend too long in any one place,” Rodimus explains. “We got along like a distillery on fire right from day one, though. He showed up at this last minute race I’d signed up for and just about drove me off the track on the first lap--see, the thing about Drift is he’s not very fast but he’s got this strategy where he takes out the best guy on the field in the first lap and then he coasts around the wreckage, but he couldn’t even get me into the wings, so after the race he came up to me like--”

Rodimus stops, abruptly, as he realizes he’s coming up out of the beanbag with a knee on the floor, his hands open in mid-air as if he were reaching for a hand to shake. Thunderclash is watching him in rapt attention. 

Unbalanced, confused, Rodimus pulls his hands back against his chassis.  “What,” he says. “What, did I say something stupid?”

“That’s not it.” Thunderclash shakes his head, “It’s just… I’ve never seen you this excited about anything. You’re louder than I expected.”

Rodimus feels the plasma of his biolights heating up and crosses his arms to cover it. “You were the one who said you wanted to hear about it,” he mutters. “I don’t have to tell this story.”

Thunderclash actually sits forward, like he’s afraid Rodimus is going to make a break for it. “No, please! I like how you talk! Go on!” he says. “You can talk about Drift or about racing or whatever you like, just go on.”

Rodimus gives him a sideways look. “Really,” he says, letting his tone speak for itself. It feels weird but like good weird? And that’s weird weird, like, he doesn’t know what’s going on any more.

“I want to know what matters to you,” Thunderclash tells him, so earnestly you’d think it was fake coming from anyone else. “I want to know about your life and your values and your hobbies! I want to know where you onlined! I want to know what your first job was, who mentored you, what kind of candy you like!” 

“...I didn’t think you’d be interested in this,” Rodimus hedges. “Not really your scene and all.”

Thunderclash clasps his hands in his lap. “I’m interested in everything,” he says, and the way he says it is so god damn earnest, a kind of quiet yearning, as if he was in love with the whole galaxy and everyone in it-

And Rodimus feels a different kind of swooping sensation, different than grief and different than fear but somehow like both of them--like both of them but going up instead of down, like cresting the edge of a jump when your wheels hit empty air and you see the other ramp in the distance and you think,

Oh Primus what am I doing.

Rodimus realizes that he’s just figured out what it is that makes people like Thunderclash so goddamn much, and he’s figured it out at the worst possible time.

Minimus left him a pillow and a spare recharge cable, and the promise that they would get through this together. The pillow is remarkably stiff, which is probably how Minimus likes it anyway. The promise is ringing around Starscream’s head, the firm small words that Starscream didn’t know how to answer then and still doesn’t now, in the empty quiet after.

Starscream shifts in the cool darkness of Minimus’ apartment, the low gleam of his own biolights the only illumination. It’s small. Comfortable. Without the Magnus suit, it’s perfectly suited to Minimus. The right size chairs, the right size couch, the right slim datapads and kitchen and low-slung doorways.

He thinks, with a little smile, of Magnus’ ridiculous stature, crunched and cringing like a giant in a dollhouse, head bent to avoid brushing the roof or kissing light fixtures by mistake. Even if Pharma didn’t know, this neighborhood must have, right? Rung must have, or something. That he’d be happier if he was the real him.

Must have been hard, that first week. Pretending to be big, even in the privacy of his own little home.

Yes. Yes, it’s the right size for him. Just him. Starscream wiggles his wing uncomfortably and shifts onto his back. His wingspan is bent awkwardly, sticking off the sides of the couch, keeping himself in a little crook of the thing.

Surely someone so bold has nothing to hide.

Starscream stares at the shelves packed full of datapads, offline and flickering pale colors in the light from his optics. Minimus is away in his own room, isn’t he? Recharging in his own berth, probably. Two separate rooms because--because--well, somebody has to face it, and Minimus isn’t going to--because there’s no room for Starscream in Minimus’ afterlife anymore. Probably, there never was. He just forced his way in and threw himself on Minimus’ mercy and let Minimus catch him, and he’s been crushing him under his own weight ever since.

He feels so stupid. No--he doesn’t feel stupid. Starscream’s used to being stupid, to being called stupid, to feeling stupid. He doesn’t feel stupid. He feels--cruel, immoral, indecent, unkind. Guilty. He never used to feel guilty. That’s stupid Minimus’ fault too, he supposes.

This little apartment, too small for him, is perfect for just Minimus. And the little house for himself is wrong in every way. Thunderclash’s mansion is designed to be filled up with friends that Starscream could never make. He isn’t supposed to be here. He doesn’t fit. And he’s going to pay for having the audacity to try.

He gets up, and on soft footsteps, closes the door behind him as he leaves.

Rung operates the train; therefore, to leave the neighborhood, you need to get Rung to get the train for you, and Starscream isn’t totally sure Rung will do it for him. Rung certainly wouldn’t show him if Thundercracker and Skywarp were okay on Cybertron--and that was a super easy request--but he is about 95% sure that Rung would do it for their resident Rocket Skater Supreme ™.

“Rodimus,” he says, approaching, and then, “what are you doing out here?”

Starscream had intended to go to the mansion, but he didn’t, actually, have to. Rodimus is walking through the center of town, straight away from his home, with Rung right beside him. He seems as surprised to see Starscream as Starscream is to see him, which is to say the mild surprise of two troublemakers (often in cahoots) who are, through two separate troublemaking methods, both sharing the space they intended to be alone in.

“Starscream,” Rodimus says, “what are you doing out here? I figured you were getting one last good frag out of Mins before the death sentence thingy. Is it a death sentence? Can we die?”

“We can’t die, and I’m not fragging Minimus,” Starscream says, “I just came to say goodbye.”

“You are definitely fragging him, though,” Rodimus says, ignoring the sparkfelt thing as per fragging usual, “like, you can’t lie to me about this, dude, I have heard you blowing his mind before. Y’all were like, parked at our place for a week. No shame. Just saying.”

“We’re not doing anything,” Starscream snaps, “that’s the whole point! I’m getting out while the getting’s good. I mean--” he freezes. He’s normally so much more careful with words than that, but something about Rodimus just sets them pouring over his lips like so much blood. “I’m taking off,” he says, finally, “I, uh, I came to ask if I could borrow your conjunx for the evening. I’m taking the train to--to somewhere else.”

“Oh,” Rodimus says, looking confused. “Uh, you don’t have to borrow him, dude. We’re taking off, too.”

“I know you don’t-- what?” 

“Yeah, we’re out of here,” Rodimus says, “that Tarn guy is writing on the wall, isn’t he? I, uh, don’t think I really got that until I was watching all that--all that stuff Thunders did when he was alive. We’re scrap metal, aren’t we?”

“You think you’re scrap metal? You haven’t seen an iota of what I’ve got going on,” Starscream says, and gets ready to puff up and start listing all the scrap he ever got away with back on Cybertron--and feels a hot strike of embarrassment. He doesn’t, he realizes, want Rodimus to know about any of that. He’s not proud of any of it. “I mean, it’s not--I mean, there’s people worse than me, it’s not like I ever killed anyone or anything, haha--”

“Hey, man, it’s no big,” Rodimus says, “you’re scared, right? You’ve got it worse than me, that Tarn guy has a total hard-on for you. So!” He claps his servos and grins hugely. “Guess this is gonna be more of a road trip, huh? Anyone got a mix-tape?”

“Wait,” Starscream says, “where are we going? Where does the train even go? I thought it could only go between here and, uh, the real Bad Place. I was gonna stop in a field or something and just exist out there, but barring that, I’m ready to infiltrate the demonic bureaucracy, maybe shake my aft at some of them, frag my way up the chain, get better engex, sit on somebody’s lap so they can pet my wings, and, uh--” he looks down at Rodimus’ hand, which has wrapped itself tightly around Rung’s. “You don’t seem like that’s… 100% your thing,” he says after a moment.

“Yeah, the pit doesn’t sound like a dope option,” Rodimus agrees. “The field thing sounds boring as scrap, but it’d be better. Plus with someone else it wouldn’t get so boring.”

For the first time in the conversation, Rung brightens. Up until now, he’s been slumped slightly, staring distantly at the buildings in the town like an underwhelmed tourist gazing at ruins he’s not allowed to touch. At the words someone else, however, he straightens up, antennae flicking attentively, and his optics glow a little brighter. “Are you two looking for further companionship?” he asks. “If you would like, I could procure an invitation for Thunderclash, or--”

“We talked about this, babe,” Rodimus interrupts gently, and Rung wilts again, “he’s okay, he belongs here. He wouldn’t want to mess around with--with grass. I don’t think he’d even totally get why we’re taking off.”

Starscream frowns. That’s… not the tone Rodimus usually uses when he’s talking about his fake sparkmate. Maybe he’s being delicate, for Rung’s sake. Because Thunderclash was seducing Rung, and doing an amazing job of it, probably, because Starscream was advising him and Starscream is, not to brag, really good at ruining other mech’s stable relationships.

“Surely you two don’t really want to sit in the endless expanses of grassy nowhere I conjured up to surround this neighborhood,” Rung says. “It’s recurring code out there. If you leave the functioning structures, there’s no guarantee the space won’t multiply between you and the train and trap you in an abyss forever.”

“Cool,” Rodimus says. “Babe, you’re so talented.”

“Uh,” Starscream says, feeling less bucked, “and the only other option is… The Bad Place. What a spicy decision to make. I mean, they’re both so good, it’s hard to pick.”

“What about a Medium Place?” Rung says. Starscream freezes.

“A Medium Place?” he asks, after a moment. “What do you mean, a Medium Place?”

“In a Medium Place, things are always the same,” Rung says. “They can never get any better, but they can never get any worse. Do you want to go there?”

Starscream hesitates. Rodimus is nodding enthusiastically, like he’s trying to hint his approval to Starscream in the most unsubtle way possible. It might work. It might work. And if it doesn’t work, he can always fall back on the shmooze-and-seduce option. That’s a pretty safe gig, with his credentials.

“Hmm,” Starscream says, “it’s better than infinite grass prison, I suppose.”

The knocking at the door rouses Minimus from a defragmentation in which he was attempting to calculate the last prime number in Pi even as the definition of a prime number was being disputed in his office by two senators who expected him to pick a side. That is to say, he comes awake feeling disoriented and somewhat hunted. 

He pulls the door open, gathering himself enough to stand up straight and stop squinting in the face of Company. “Yes?” he says into the hall outside.

“Hello Minimus,” Thunderclash says, with a weak smile. He quite thoroughly fills the doorway with his mass, and Minimus has an unpleasant sense memory of being the big body in that tiny doorway. A pang of unexpected gratitude for Starscream, who had thrown such a tantrum that Minimus finally discarded the last lingering guilty thought of sliding back into Tyrest’s constrictive armor. 

“It is highly irregular to make a social visit at such an hour,” Minimus says, resisting the urge to out-and-out reprove Thunderclash. Surely there is good reason for it, but even so. 

“I know,” Thunderclash says, visibly abashed. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was only hoping to talk to Starscream.”

It’s not until this moment, with Thunderclash looking expectantly down through his doorway, that Minimus realizes Starscream should have heard the door first. But Starscream, on a quick survey, is nowhere to be seen.

“You mean you don’t know where he is?” Minimus says, as he forces himself not to become sidetracked with a search for his overnight guest.

“No,” Thunderclash says. He shakes his head. “Rodimus is missing and, I just--I miss when we were all living in my mansion together, it was so much easier to--”

“Rodimus is missing?” Minimus says. And then he says, “ Rodimus is missing?”

“Oh,” Thunderclash says, twisting his hands together, “I forgot, you don’t know! Oh this is such a mess, I don’t even know where to start. So the thing is, Hot Rod is actually--”

“Rodimus of Nyon, I know,” Minimus says. This changes things. He’s uncertain if it’s safe to feel this relief yet. “What do you mean he’s missing? Where’s Rung?”

“That’s the thing, Rung isn’t--What do you mean you know?”

Minimus pauses, with the sinking realization that he’s made a severe conversational misstep, which feels uncomfortably like putting one’s foot down on a patch of ground that goes click. “I have been privy to certain… sensitive goings on, in the neighborhood…”

“You knew?” Thunderclash says. “You lied to me?”

“I did not lie to you,” Minimus says, aware that he is stretching the definition of a word for his own benefit and hating himself a bit for that. “Starscream merely suggested that it would be better to keep--”

“You were both lying to me?” Thunderclash demands, his usually deep voice cracking painfully. “You were all lying to me?”

“Oh pit,” Minimus says. “You had better come inside.”

He ushers Thunderclash into the room and sits him down on the delicate chair, which creaks and sags under his considerable weight. In Thunderclash’s wounded silence, he does his best to explain the logic that went into the decision to keep silent. He doesn’t bother to enumerate how he went back and forth for days talking himself in and talking himself out of a decision. It doesn’t do Thunderclash any good now. In the end, he says, it hadn’t been his secret to tell. 

“What about Starscream,” Thunderclash asks, at last, “how does Starscream fit into this?”

Minimus hesitates. The mech is distressingly vulnerable, and Minimus has never been any good at handling fragile things. That’s not his secret to tell either, but now that he’s being asked directly he can’t… he can’t justify lying to Thunderclash any further.

“I don’t really know the whole story,” Minimus says. “There seems to have been quite a lot of systematic injustice in his life. It wasn’t at all what Pharma made it out to be, that much is certain.”

Thunderclash looks up from his folded hands. “Is he…?”

Minimus stares at the empty couch, the haphazardly replaced pillow. He doesn’t need the deductive processor of a lawyer to understand that. “He ran away.” 

“Are you sure?” Thunderclash asks. “What was the last thing he said to you?” 

“I promised to protect him,” Minimus says, numbly. “I promised to protect him, and he said he trusted me.”

“From what?” Thunderclash asks, his anxiety tipping his tone into pleading. “This is all a mistake, none of us have done anything wrong! It’ll all blow over when this Tarn fellow realizes he’s run out of people to bully.”

“Rodimus--Starscream--they really aren’t who Pharma thinks they are,” Minimus patiently explains. “Their memories don’t match.”

“So what if they don’t match,” Thunderclash cries, “they’re still our friends! They’re good people, every bit as good as you and I! Pharma will see that, and so will this Tarn.”

Minimus prefers not to rely on the vagaries of intuition. He is a mech of logic and order, not superstitious whims. So he does not inform Thunderclash that his gut tells him otherwise, no matter how persistently the feeling sucks at him. He pats Thunderclash once, uncertainly, on the hand. This seems to be protocol for most kinds of emotional encounters.

“We’re best friends,” Thunderclash says, biolights flushed and features skewed into a tight, unhappy series of lines. “He could have told me. They could have both told me. I feel so--I feel--”

Minimus winces at the warble in Thunderclash’s voice. And he resents Starscream a little for this, too--somehow he keeps being left to gather up the pieces of Thunderclash that someone else leaves behind. He, who is least qualified for it. He, who is most likely to screw it all up.

“I would advise you not to take it all that personally,” he says, looking away. “After all, I’m supposed to be his sparkmate. And it appears he doesn’t trust me either, after all.”

Thunderclash doesn’t look any happier. Perhaps they are both wondering the same thing: if Starscream found it preferable to run away rather than face justice, just what exactly is he hiding from?

And where, indeed, is Rodimus?

Chapter Text

The Pit of Justice is just as boundless and uncanny as yesterday, a formless black pocket like a world in the middle of a smoke cloud, but it feels colder, without Starscream and Rodimus. Thunderclash hovers within arms length of Minimus, wanting to comfort but having been batted away previously when he got too close. Thunderclash tries not to resent him for it. 

Pharma is pacing, wings flicking, underneath the lightless screens. He’s taking the news much worse than Tarn, who is only watching Minimus with his unblinking red eyes, the shrouded shape of his helm cocked slightly to the side.

“Why would he run?” Tarn asks.

“I don’t know,” Minimus says, without looking up. His eyes are cradled in the palm of one hand, so that his expression is harder to read. Even still, there’s an ugly intensity of grief about him, and Thunderclash knows him well enough at this point to suspect that he’d like to have his face sunk into both hands.

Maybe he’d like to slump over the table, too. But no matter. The old stoic probably thinks that it would be too undignified to allow himself an emotion in public.

“You’re his Sparkmate, aren’t you?” Tarn asks. “You don’t know?”

“I already told you that I don’t!” Minimus snaps. His mouth makes a grimace. “I don’t know why he would run away! I don’t know.”

Tarn withdraws, all smoke and hulking black mass, but his eyes narrow into unkind slits. “No matter,” he says. “There is no further gain to this line of interrogation. The truth will out.” 

Minimus half lifts his head from his hand. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Tarn says, drifting away, “that we don’t need Starscream present in order to judge him.”

Thunderclash immediately looks to Pharma for confirmation, but the jet is still pacing, with no signs of being invested in the current conversation. Thunderclash feels his tanks go sour. Of course Pharma would be no help. Why should he expect anyone to tell him anything? Clearly no one cares whether he’s confused, or ignorant, or banging about in the dark like an absolute knobhead for months.

“What about habeus corpus?” Minimus demands, straightening up out of his slump.

“Irrelevant,” Tarn says. He turns to the blank black screens. “Mortal technicalities do not constrain the infinite. The investigation is already opened. Let us see what specters your Starscream is outrunning.”  

Pharma reluctantly marches out from beneath the screens and takes up a restless seat on the edge of the table, next to Tarn, his thigh crossed over thigh and knee jittering. Tarn doesn’t take his attention from the screen; Thunderclash almost doesn’t believe what he’s seeing when he notices Tarn reach out, firmly, and still the jittering with one hand. 

“Thunderclash,” Tarn says, without turning. Thunderclash jumps. “You really don’t need to be here, you realize. You’ve already been exonerated. Perhaps you would like to go back to the neighborhood and proceed about your day with the rest of your cohort.”

Thunderclash feels horrible, but there’s no one to commiserate with. Minimus is back to holding his head in his hand, stiff and motionless, with only the whirl of his fans disturbing his stillness. 

Go home, back to his big empty house and the sunshine and his legion of expectant fans, ignorant, out of the loop?  The thought doesn’t even make it off the ground.

“No. I said I was staying, and I’m staying,” Thunderclash replies. “I want to know what Starscream thinks is so bad he couldn’t tell us about it himself.”

Tarn makes a neutral sound, but his hand comes up, and the screen flares to life. Thunderclash swallows down a bitter taste. Yesterday he had expected to stand here, shoulder to shoulder with his friends, supporting them through the humiliation of Tarn’s relentless judgement. He wanted to be there for them. To reassure them.

Now he just wants to know what else they’ve been hiding from him.

Starscream steps off the train and onto a rickety dock in an endless shallow sea. Tepid water rushes into the cracks in his thruster seaming; he gives a full body shudder and finishes climbing the ramp up out of the sea in a rush. There’s nothing but water in every direction save up, which is clear and clean and blue like Primus went nuts with the nitrogen in the atmosphere and didn’t know when to stop. 

And there’s a little house.

Right there.

In the middle of the ocean.

Starscream screws his face up. The house looks like one of the rusty old claptraps they all used to live in as students--silver age building construction that must have been nice a million years ago when it was new, but now the red streaks from the window sills and the scratched up wall casing betray it as hard-used, drafty, and totally absent of any decent wash rack.

How had the silver age survived with only communal public showers for so many eons? Imagine having to leave your house and find a bathhouse every single time you wanted to flush your vent system. In fact, Starscream doesn’t have to. He’d lived that joy for most of his unfinished degree. He’s got no desire to revisit the memory files.

The dock wheezes and clatters as they make their way down it, swaying slightly above the clear blue water. Rodimus whistles. 

“Never seen this much water before!” he says, leaning way farther over the edge than is at all safe. “There’s a river out past the canals, but you can basically see the other shore from anywhere you’re standing. We used to drive along there, for the really dangerous races. You fall in and you’re almost guaranteed to come down with a rust infection.”

Starscream grabs him by the spoiler and drags him away, before he can demonstrate the phenomenon. Cybertron, of course, doesn’t have any oceans, and Starscream prefers it that way. 

The little house floats a few feet above the sea, its foundations crumbling away into empty air. Starscream, as leader of this adventuring party, marches up to it and bangs on the door. It’s one of those doors with the transparisteel windows that fold back into slats when you want to look through them, or let in some air, which is all fine until some of the slats start sticking together and not transforming back anymore.

A pair of narrowed optics, blue, peer through the gap in the blinds like a predacon glaring out of a cavern. The door abruptly swings open, rebounding off the inside wall of the building. A medical-red hand shoots out and grabs Rodimus by the collar, hauling him inside. 

Starscream and Rung both startle, dumbfounded for a moment, before rushing in after.

The inside of the house is about what you’d expect from the outside. Cramped, worn, and haphazardly stuffed with junk. The mystery bot doesn’t have a blaster trained on Rodimus’ forehead, small mercies--he’s just rifling through Rodimus’ subspace, elbow deep in a pocket located over Rodimus’ shiny hip.

“Help,” Rodimus whines, “I’m being pickpocketed by this crazy medic.”

“Shush,” the medic says, bopping Rodimus absently on the forehead with his knuckle. “I just need to know if you have any-- damn. What’s this slag?”

The broad red hand come back out coated in something white and slippery. 

“Froyo,” Rodimus says, promptly.

“What is it?” the medic says. “Why is it here?”

Rodimus shrugs, scraping his spoiler against the floor. “It’s squishy,” he says, “and cold, and it stays cold if you put it in a subspace pocket, so I did.”

The medic looks up, as if checking Starscream to see if he had heard that right, and how he should be reacting to it. Starscream just cocks his confetti canons and hopes he doesn’t have to call his own bluff here.

“Get off my idiot and back away,” Starscream says. “He doesn’t have anything of value, I guarantee it.”

“Actually I’ve got some dross-”

“Sssshut up, shut up!”

But the medic is already climbing off, grimacing at his hand as he shakes the goop off it and onto the sunken furniture. He’s a brick house of a slagger, an ambulance by the look of it, with the kind of face that came out of the ground looking undercharged and worn out. 

“If you’re gonna shoot me with that thing, you might as well do it,” the medic huffs. “Fixing a scorch mark would at least give me something new to do around this place.”

Rodimus skitters back across the floor on his heels and his aft, when Starscream points sharply at the floor beside his pede. 

“Who the hell are you all, anyway?” the medic says, “ I don’t know you.”

“Rodimus, Starscream,” Rung chimes in, “this is Ratchet of Vaporex, single and sole resident of the Medium Place.”

“M.D.” Ratchet adds, now rubbing his sticky fingers together with profound distaste. “Look, are any of you carrying any electrical components? Copper? Maybe you’ve got a tangle of wires in the bottom of your subspace you keep meaning to get rid of?”

“Nope!” Rodimus says, at the same time that Starscream says, “Why?”

Ratchet flattens his already thin lips. “I’ve been trying to build myself a cathode stimulator, but I ran out of parts after I disassembled the recharge slab for wiring and blew the fuse in there.”

“Sorry,” Starscream says, “you broke your recharge slab trying to build a sex toy?”

Ratchet sticks out his arm and wriggles his fingers impatiently. “Are we going to stand around gawping all day or are you gonna empty your pockets already?”

“That’s disgusting,” Starscream mutters, and then--because he’s not a totally sparkless monster, withered to the suffering of others by the passage of time--pops open his subspace and rifles around to see if he’s got, like, a datadrive or an HDMI or something.

“What about you?” Ratchet says, turning his unnecessarily combative glare on Rung. “You got anything in your pockets?”

“I do not have subspace pockets, as I was never alive and have never purchased the mod,” Rung says. “I do, however, have an assortment of physical compartments. One moment, please.”

And then, horrifically, he starts to pop open segments of his limbs and hips and shoulders , and starts pulling out objects that Starscream can hardly believe fit in there. One compartment shakes out to reveal the dissembled pieces of an entire miniature ship, folded together like camping gear. Most of the rest is candy. There’s a lot of candy. He pulls out an entire box of unopened rust sticks. 

"That’s a weird design,” Ratchet says. “What do you turn into, a suitcase?”

In response to this, Rodimus has put his hands out and is simply catching candy as it falls to the floor, delighted by the development. “You’re the best, babe,” he says, shoving something fizzly into his mouth. 

“I am not a person,” Rung says, “I do not transform into any alt class. Also, suitcase is not a recognized alt class.”

“Give ‘em a vorn,” Starscream mutters, jamming an arm into his own pocket. “I’ve seen stupider designs get funded.”

Rung ignores him. “Unfortunately,” Rung says, still showering his conjunx with individually wrapped goodies, “I don’t appear to have any electronics.”

Fat lot of good he is, then. Starscream rummages around until he finds something that isn’t just stolen pearls. There’s a kinked up cable at the bottom of his subspace, which he reels out and passes to Ratchet.

“Thanks,” Ratchet says, gruffly, and snags a hard candy from Rodimus’ open palm. “So what are you people doing here, anyway? I’ve never gotten visitors before. Don’t think I’m really supposed to, come to that.”

“We’re on the run,” Rodimus says, around his tank-rotting mouthful of sweets. “Can we crash with you?”

“Can you what?” Ratchet says.

“What my colleague means to say,” Starscream cuts in, “is that we currently find ourselves in the unfortunate position of being between places. Somewhat like you, apparently, are.”

“Between places, huh,” Ratchet says. He gives Starscream a once-over, and then turns around, making his way back towards the preparation block that constitutes a kitchen in a house like this. There’s a homebrew-still taking up most of the counter space, which looks like it’s set up to produce a kick-in-the-teeth hangover cure. Can you get hangovers in the Medium Place? Note to future self.

“One berth,” Ratchet says, over his shoulder, “so I don’t know what you think you’re going to do about recharging. I’m not giving up the one I have.”

“Didn’t you say you broke it?” Starscream asks. “What are you doing for recharge instead?”

Ratchet shrugs. He’s pulled open the cabinets and is rifling around in there for something, apparently disinterested in all of them. “Haven’t been doing anything, really,” he says. “Don’t think I actually need to be plugged in. I just lie down on the slab and power down, and the next day I’m up again.”

Starscream scans the place. There’s a couch, which is big enough that Rung could probably sleep on it (if he even sleeps), but both Starscream and Rodimus have too much kibble to really lay down. Maybe if they turned Rodimus sideways… Starscream has heard of bots who slept on their sides in catacomb style housing, to save the company money on lodging. 

“You can sleep on the floor,” Ratchet decides. “I’ll clear off a couple spots and put down a tarp. If you start going crazy in a couple days because you can’t defrag without being plugged in, we’ll rip some of the wiring out of the walls and see if we can rig up a Dead-End jack.”

“Couldn’t one of us just sleep in your berth?”

“No,” Ratchet says shortly. “I need that for overloading at night. Since I don’t have any toys, I’ve got to do it all the old fashioned way, and it takes a lot of work. I swear to god I’m horny all the time since I got here, way worse than it ever was on Cybertron and way harder to kick. It’s insufferable. Must be the boredom, that’s all I can figure.” He turns and points at them, Rodimus and Starscream. “You two, pick out a section of floor and start shoving scrap out of the way. Most of this stuff I don’t really need, it just came with the house.”

Starscream toes an album of flimsies away, probably a collection of diagrams judging by the cover. “Why would a fake afterlife house have so much random junk in it?”

Ratchet finds whatever he was looking for, setting down a jar on the countertop. “I used to live here, when I was teaching,” he says. “All this is stuff that was laying around back then, I think. Kid, come over here and help me mix this up.”

While Rodimus and Starscream are busy exchanging a series of “I’m not a kid, he must mean you” looks, Rung actually closes up his myriad compartments and heads over to assist. The jar pops open with only minimal grunting and yanking. A flurry of power makes both the bot and the construct stop and hack their intakes clear, vents wheezing.

“I’m not nice,” Ratchet warns them. The fact that they can hear his fans flapping pathetically doesn’t really make the landing stick. Rung gives a very delicate sneeze, power puffing out of the lateral vents on his chest. After a second, Ratchet wipes washer fluid from his optics and pretends like it never happened.

“You give me trouble and I’ll toss your afts into the sea and you can figure out first hand what salt water does to a ventilation system,” Ratchet tells them. “And if you’re gonna stay here, you better not complain about my routine.”

Rung helpfully keeps holding the jar for him, while he fetches a spoon and gets to fiddling with it.

“Every morning I get up and I wipe the place down, because if I don’t it’ll start to rust,” Ratchet says, as he scoops out a spoonful of what looks like only mildly expired rustflakes. “Then I jack off. Then I watch every vid that came with this house’s entertainment center, of which there are four. Then I make myself dinner, perform a series of extremely irritating household tasks, jack off again, and then I put the food out for the neighborhood stray--”

“But there’s no neighborhood,” Starscream points out. “You’re dead, in a house suspended over an endless fragging sea. Why do you do that?”

Ratchet stares at him. His optics narrow. “I don’t know,” he says, “I just do it every day. Did you come in here just to criticize my daily routine?”

“It’s very kind of you to let us stay,” Rung gently interrupts. Starscream mentally kicks himself for forgetting that part of the transaction. Although he doesn’t actually have to keep being nice now that he’s made a run for it, part of him--stupidly, alright--hopes that one day he’ll be able to see Minimus again after this has all blown over. And on the day that they meet again, he doesn’t want Minimus to be… disappointed. In him.

Ratchet seems just as surprised as Starscream though—he startles, and then quickly turns his attention at something irrelevant. “Don’t mention it,” he says gruffly. “My roommate tells me I’m always feeding strays. Why stop now?”

“Roommate?” Starscream perks up. “Who’s your roommate?”

“He’s,” Ratchet says, and then stops.

“You said there was only one berth,” Starscream says, eyes narrowing. “How do you have a roommate?”

“I don’t think--I don’t think he’s here anymore,” Ratchet says after a moment. “I think he comes by at night, sometimes… no. No, I must just be misremembering.” 

Starscream stares at Ratchet, and then, discomforted by the distant, blank stare on his face, looks at Rung, who is holding his hands up as if to catch something and gazing up at Ratchet. He looks--confused. It’s not a face Starscream’s accustomed to seeing Rung make.

“He used to work days, so he’d come home at night,” Ratchet says distantly, “that was when I was alive, I guess. And I worked days mostly, too, so I didn’t notice how late he got home until it was just… me, here, waiting for him to get back…” He frowns. Shakes his head. “You know the real problem with this place,” he says, tone changing so suddenly that it actually gives Starscream whiplash, “all the engex is lukewarm and the lugnuts are stale.”

“Well I don’t care about that,” Starscream says, “you have engex?”

“I have one six pack of PBR,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “That’s all I used to drink at the university. It’s--I mean, it’s fine.”

Starscream makes what he hopes is an appropriately sympathetic noise and starts nudging his way through the carpet of garbage covering the floor. There’s a couple of doors across from the sorry excuse for a kitchen that he wants to investigate. Good news: the first door leads to a wash rack. Bad news: the wash rack is so dingy that they make the ones from Starscream’s university days look glamorous, and he shuts the door quickly. This is not the time to see if the Good Place’s no harm policy extends out here. 

The second door leads to the berthroom, which Starscream is mostly poking his nose into on principle. Given how much Ratchet apparently self services, he’s not sure he wants more than a peek. A cursory glance tells him that the berth is easily big enough for two people. Starscream snorts. What a selfish gearstick.

“Don’t suppose any of you brought any raunchy downloads,” Ratchet is saying, back in the main room, “I’ll take softcore at this point, groping, whatever.”

Starscream closes the door and wrinkles his nose. “No,” he says. “And even if I did, why would you need it? You must have your own.”

“All I can get in this place is mediocre sim porn,” Ratchet gripes. “I know it’s supposed to be more ‘ethical’, or whatever, but the sims always look like a bunch of stupid moaning puppets, and the only ones they’ll let me have here are practically 50% cuddling, so it’s hard to really get a charge going.”

“Oh!” Rodimus says, “I’ve got a bunch of old cutecore saved!”

“You’ve got what ,” Ratchet says.

“Cutecore!” Rodimus says, flicking open his hardline port cover. “It was really big for a little bit there, before I was forged, and this guy I used to know let me download his whole stash while we were hiding from the cops in this burnt out syk lab! We were there for like two weeks, so there was plenty of time for transfer.”

Starscream’s spark drops like a brick off the edge of the pier. 

“There’s one with these two minibots doing each other’s polish,” Rodimus says, clearly flicking through the files internally, “and this other one at a carwash, lots of suds, and--oh, a trine of seekers having a pillow fight, I forgot I had that--hey, Starscream, you’re a seeker! Did you know--”

Starscream dives for him, taking him out at the knees with the full tonnage of a jet plane launching. Rodimus barely has time for the startled oof before they’re both shooting out the door onto the pier, where they crash in a heap that knocks chunks of material down into the watery deep.

Rodimus’ mouth has popped open.

“Do not,” Starscream says, “show our host that file, or else.”

Rodimus closes his mouth. Slowly, his eyes go wide. “ Starscream,” he says, “you didn’t tell me you were a movie star!”  

Starscream groans and regretfully throws in the metaphorical washrag. It’s no use trying to change his mind once he’s taken an interest in something. It just makes him more interested.

“It was Skywarp’s idea,” he mumbles. “We were short on funds one month and he thought we could make some last minute cash. We were gonna go to Six Lasers.”

“You didn’t make any money?” Rodimus asks, aghast. “But it’s really good! You’re super sexy!”

“No, no, we made a lot of money,” Starscream says, “actually like, a worrying amount. For softcore. But then we got drunk and spent it all on getting matching aft engravings at Lockdown’s mod shop.”

“You’ve got a tramp stamp!” Rodimus shouts. “When were you gonna tell me? That’s the coolest!”

“Oh Primus,” Starscream says, “please don’t say that.”

“Where is it?” Rodimus says, wriggling madly under Starscream’s weight. “Is it inside your panel?”

“ No ,” Starscream says, a little to quickly. “No, it’s not anywhere! I got it removed when I upgraded! Stop pawing at me!”

“Aww,” Rodimus says. Then he perks back up. “Should I get an engraving? I was gonna get decals again but I could rock some tattoos, don’t you think I could rock some tattoos? I should ask Ratchet, he’s a doctor, right? Doctors know all about mod stuff. My friend Long Lorry down at the dock dropped out of med school, and he’s been running mods since before I even came online!”

Now that the question of risque pillow fight vids is completely removed from memory, Starscream relaxes. “Sure,” he says, “you should definitely tell Ratchet all about your engraving ideas.”

He rolls off, and Rodimus springs to his feet, dashing up the length of the pier to the house with its weathered door still swinging wide open. The clean air is nice. The sea is pretty, in a deadly sort of way. And Starscream’s had worse roommates than Ratchet.

Yes, Starscream thinks, they can definitely do this for a while.

The graphs flare to life. In the judgement hall, everything is illuminated in their colors.

The green counter rests at zero. The red counter rests at zero. On the screen above them, magnified to almost titanic scale, there is Starscream. Not yet red and white, not yet alive--his open chassis ready to receive the ball of light carelessly extended in a factory worker’s hand. All down the line, like corpses waiting for the smelter, identical grey seeker bodies lie in patient order.

Thunderclash would like to say that he doesn’t carry any of that outdated cold con prejudice. After all, some of his best friends were cold constructed! But still, the line of lifeless grey frames sends a shiver of repulsion up his spine. It’s wrong, fundamentally and intuitively wrong. Intensely uncanny. Disquieting. That’s not how things are supposed to be.

People say there’s something wrong about cold constructs. They don’t have real morals, people say, they just ape them. They don’t make or contribute anything of value, because they’re lacking something essential, that something more that separates the mech from the mere machine. Thunderclash doesn’t believe it, of course. Of course. But looking at this scene, with static crackling down the back of his neck, he can see how some people started to say it.

“Well,” says Tarn, “let’s begin.”

Chapter Text

It’s a forty-five minute walk to Thundercracker’s bar from Starscream’s apartment, which isn’t too bad, considering it was an hour and a half walk from his last one. There’s a tram, too, public transport that’ll get you there in ten minutes if you time it right and you’ve got a couple shanix to spare on the daily, provided you won’t miss them. Starscream gets up early and walks.

It’s not the worst, all told. He hears Thundercracker get up early every morning, earlier than him, and take off long before he’s even stirring. That maniac works the whole shift, every day. Starscream only really gets to talk to him because Starscream always closes, which means they walk home together. The fact that they live together now barely qualifies them for quality time. It’s not like they’re friends.

Okay, so, they spend most evenings together these days, the two of them and Skywarp. So what? That doesn’t mean anything. It’s a crowded apartment.

It’s kind of a cold day, so Starscream blows the shanix he could have spent getting a ride on the tram getting a steaming mug of Eng-Bilge, which is basically motor oil with a lot of anti-freeze in it. Anti-freeze is cheaper than oil. They’re not really compatible flavors, but it’s hot, and it’ll keep your engine from stuttering if the chill gets really bad. Starscream’s musing on how the stuff he made in university backrooms was better than this when he hears the screaming.

“Shit,” he mutters, “I could’ve spilled.” And, with the tentative curiosity of all people everywhere, waits until a couple other mechs have stopped what they’re doing to go investigate before he quickly falls in behind.

It’s cops. Starscream rolls his eyes. It’s always cops, these days. They run around busting syk labs and killing civilians and acid-washing seekers, usually over nothing. Two of them. Big ugly guys, one with shoulder wheels and one with a visor, making a scene about… Starscream squints. Yep, graffiti. Big chunky letters, ugly half-done drawing of a mouthless face. You are being deceived. Same shit as usual. Handwritten.

“But I didn’t do that!” The seeker on the ground is saying. Visor-cop has his wing in a hand and is twisting it, so that he has to stop and cry out in pain or struggle through it. Coolant is stinging his eyes. “I don’t even know how to write! I was just walking by!”

“Yeah, yeah,” shoulderwheel cop says, sneering. “Nice serial number. You really a number two mint?”

“He doesn’t look like a number two mint,” Visor says. “He’s got bubbles in his cockpit.”

“Did you know that it’s a federal crime to get your mint number changed?” Shoulderwheel goes on, smiling nastily. “Those are there for a reason. You can’t just get a number fixed for your vanity projects.”

From the crowd, Starscream raises a hand to cover his own serial number. He got it changed last week. Not to anything as obviously stupid as a one or a two, but if anyone catches another seeker standing around—well, the acid wash is already in their bucket. They could check him out, too, just for gawking.

That’s the newest thing the cops are doing, to scare people back down. Technically, it’s an old technique from Vos, something they threatened the troops with when cadets were getting tired and uppity: if you suspect a CC of getting a mod, you can mix up a batch of hydrochloric acid with sodium and an oxidizer and pour it over them. The mod’ll melt off, burning all the way down to their protoform, where their original serial number is printed. The cops around here are only now figuring it out—the seeker population, which has mostly been running around ‘getting above themselves’, now has something tangible to be afraid of.

It’s almost impossible to die from an acid wash. It’s also almost impossible to self-repair them. The pain is permanent.

“You don’t have any proof!” The seeker is yelling, as one of the cops hauls him backwards to expose his number in an easy-to-reach place. “Let go! Someone get these guys off of me!”

“Everyone stay back,” Visor says, hauling the bucket up into his hands, “this seeker may be a dangerous criminal.”

Starscream is frozen in place, eyes darting back and forth across the growing crowd. People are jostling and restless. Frightened. No one wants to see this—it’s a demonstration. Just more cops, scared out of their stupid minds, trying to scare everyone else, struggling for power. It’s enough to make him feel sick, except that it feels old hat. Same shit, different city.

And then the seeker makes eye contact with him.

“Help me!” he yells. “You! The seeker!”

“What?” Starscream says dumbly. He takes a step back and feels the crowd turning in around him. Shoulderwheels straightens up and looks right at him. “No, I—I can’t—“

“You’re a seeker,” the seeker continues, “you have to help me! Seekers help seekers!”

“I can’t help you,” Starscream stammers. Shoulderwheels moves, shifting towards him, and he stumbles back another step. “I don’t even know you!”

Shoulderwheels takes a step. Starscream turns and runs, and is relieved to hear that no one is following him. It isn’t his fault, he reminds himself, as he hears the splash and the scream of agony. It’s tough all over. It isn’t his fault.

With all the commotion, Starscream rolls into work about ten minutes late, and it’s like, so fucking sue him, okay? Thundercracker is giving him a dirty look over his datapad.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Star,” he says. “You get held up oggling wing mods?”

Starscream makes a face. “I was avoiding police presence,” he sneers. “Didn’t exactly want to lead them to your place. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Thundercracker rolls his eyes and focuses back down on his pad. “Slipstream’s working host tonight,” he says, and holds a hand up as Starscream squeaks in protest, “no buts! If you aren’t here on time, you aren’t working the good shifts. Suck it up and take tables seven-to-twelve.”

“I’m gonna go talk to Slipstream,” Starscream says, “I bet she’ll trade if I ask nicely.”

Thundercracker hums noncommittally and taps something on his datapad. Starscream, feeling wrong-footed and discomforted, focuses his gaze on it properly for the first time.

“What are you reading, anyway?” he asks, and Thundercracker’s head jerks up guiltily like he’s just been caught surfing Erotica-Base at work. Bingo. “You can’t get your optics off it. That porn or something?”

“It’s not porn,” Thundercracker says, in a tone of voice that very much sounds like it is definitely, definitely, definitely porn, “go on, take your tables or talk to Slipstream or whatever, just stop riding my afterburner about this. I’m—I’m busy.”

“Yeah, busy playing with a valve sim or something,” Starscream says. “Let me see that.”

So saying, he reaches forward and tries to grab the pad out of Thundercracker’s hand, but he’s too short, and Thundercracker jerks his arm up over his head. “Hey!”

“Come on, let me see—“

“Piss off, Star!”

“What’s going on back here?” Skywarp says, popping his head into the staff room. “Starscream, we need another waiter. What took you so long? Slips had to cover host for you.”

“Thundercracker’s hiding porn from us!” Starscream insists. “I want to see it!”

“It isn’t porn!” Thundercracker insists, weakening by the moment. “It’s—it’s—educational data files, okay? It’s not porn!”

“If it was edu-files, you’d just download them,” Starscream says, “porn! Porn!”

“I’m with Starscream on this one,” Skywarp says, nodding. “Those are trine rules. You have to show us the porn.”

Thundercracker groans. “Fine,” he says, “go ahead and look. It isn’t porn.”

“Sure it’s not,” Starscream says, grabbing at the datapad and flicking back a few files on it, “and anyway, we’re not a trine.”

“Sure we’re not,” Skywarp says, making a face at Starscream. “Hey, go back a page. That looked raunchy.”

Obediently, Starscream pages back, and they both lean in over the text. “Bring on the good stuff,” Starscream mutters, “uh—fierce love is love, yadda yadda… ‘Scylla, the black hole, is a mouth hungry with love for ships’… hey, this isn’t porn.”

Thundercracker sighs heavily.

“My bad, I thought it was for sure going to be porn,” Skywarp says, “I just saw the word mouth, that’s usually pornographic—“

“It’s poetry,” Thundercracker says, and snatches the datapad back, “educational, technically. Can you two please go do the jobs I pay you for? I’m on my break.”

“Weird syntax,” Skywarp says, “who’s it by?”

“Nobody,” Thundercracker says, “get out, both of you. Now.”

Starscream shuffles his feet and mutters, but he gets out—he has the weirdest feeling that he’s seen something that wasn’t meant for him, something that Thundercracker was genuinely protective of. It just read like some boring old poetry, the kind of shit that art students at the university would argue about the meaning of or whatever. He didn’t realize Thundercracker still—still cared about that stuff. Starscream certainly doesn’t go looking for academic papers on chemical compounds anymore. He can’t remember the last time he recited atomic numbers to calm himself down.

“Slipstream,” he yells from halfway across the room, stomping towards the host stand, “thank you so much for covering, but I’m here now, so you can go ahead and go back to waiter-ing, so sorry.”

“Fat chance, fathead,” Slipstream says, smiling nastily. “I got here early, you got here late. When are you going to learn that your actions have consequences?”

Things with Slipstream are… better, now. Than they used to be. But they’re still tense—Starscream is half-way polite to her, and she’s mean in a friendly way, and neither of them ever says anything about the opera house, or the university, or the job Starscream took. But he knows she saw him, rusted out, swaggering into a position she set him up with. He knows she saw him at rock bottom. He knows that she knows that he dropped out, and that everything she said about him was true, and looking at her makes him feel sick.

It’s awful, being known. Being known by someone you didn’t submit to being known by.

“Okay, so, I came for a different reason,” Starscream pretends to admit, quietly cursing her for not giving him the enviable host shift even though, if he’s honest, he’d do exactly the same thing in her place. “You did notes on the… mm. The close last night?”

There’s a ban, in the bar, about talking about what they do after the doors lock at night. There’s nothing technically illegal about the stagecraft, nothing technically illegal about putting on shows. But nobody’s stupid enough to buy that. Seekers are an acceptable target. No one’s going to say anything that might get back to the police.

“Right,” Slipstream says, eyes widening. “Hang on, I put it in my subspace.”

“Can’t you just transfer it to me?”

“I don’t take it down as data,” she says, fumbling in a subspace pocket under her cockpit, “think about it. If I got caught by somebody, they could pull it out of my processor, or my contacts list or whatever. You know, the comm systems never really delete anything these days. A-ha!” With a jerk of the elbow and absolutely no flourish at all (which is why she stage-manages, instead of playing, Starscream thinks, feeling superior), she produces a folded up piece of…

“Paper?” Starscream asks. “You write it down on paper?”

“It’s not traceable,” she says, “you can just burn it when you’re done with it! And it’s all handwritten. There, take a look.”

Starscream unfolds the paper and looks down at it. Tidy handwriting, square and certain and small. Easy to read.

“Hey,” he says, “I do not wobble on the high notes.”

“Last night you did,” Slipstream says, and sticks her tongue out at him. “Grab your platter and get out of my space, you’re on tables seven-to-twelve.”

Starscream grumbles. And then he grabs his stupid platter and goes.

It’s the only place he feels alive anymore, the stage. Starscream’s body throbs and aches from slaps and the way he lets patrons who pay extra use him badly, drying liquids in his seams sticking and cracking uncomfortably when they close up, but he still bounds straight towards Thundercracker when he pokes his head out from the bar.

“Do we have a crowd tonight?” he asks, rubbing the inside of a clean dish with a rag to make it look like he’s doing something helpful.

“Mostly the regulars,” Thundercracker says, “two new faces, I think. I don’t recognize either of them, but Slipstream does, she says they’re okay.”

Starscream peers around at the smattering of tables. Most of them are empty, being wiped down as they speak, but a few in the back are still inhabited by drunkards or slumping shapes. The sort of people you would expect to hang back at a bar after closing, the sort of people you wouldn’t think twice about leaving for the staff to take care of and arrange rides home for. It’s all part of the game—if you want to see the show, you have to follow the code to get in, and you only learn the code from someone who already knows it. Word of mouth is fairly slow, sure, but it’s safe. No one who sticks around to see the performance more than once is likely to blab to a narc.

“So, I had an idea for the courtroom scene,” Thundercracker is saying. “Last night, when you kind of propped yourself up on your arms? I liked that. Well, I noticed it. I’m not sure I liked it.”

“Can you focus up your critique a little more?”

“I think you should stand up on the bench,” Thundercracker says, and then, waving his hands at Starscream’s incredulous look, amends “not with both feet, packtrunk, I’m not asking you to collapse the table.”

“I am not that heavy,” Starscream snaps, “I won’t break it! I could get up!”

“You are that heavy,” Thundercracker replies, grinning smugly, “you crawled all over my wings that night the heater went out and dented the hell out of them. I had to get them flattened professionally.”

“You’re making that up,” Starscream protests. “Anyway, I’m not saying no because I’m worried about the bench. I don’t think it fits with the core of the character anymore.”

“Skywarp and I are designing a trio to back you up,” Thundercracker admits. “It’ll fit if we add them in.”

“You have to tell me these things, mech,” Starscream grumbles. Still, he gets lackeys. He can get into that kind of edit. “How’s the trio? Any good?”

“Just from what I know," Thundercracker says, “it’s kind of perfect. I’m not much of a music critic, but they say you need three tones to make a harmony, right? Skywarp is really excited, now that Acid Storm volunteered—he’s got a really nice range, he can float those high notes without blowing you guys out.”

This is how it goes, every night. Most days, it’s just rehearsal, practicing staging and trying new things with old scenes. Once a week, they run the whole thing. It’s always the busiest night they’re open, which is the only night of the week they have the full staff—they need all hands on deck for the rush and for the stagework.

Starscream can’t say how long they’ve been doing it. You’d think, after a month or three, the words would get stale and the arias would get tiresome and their audience would shrink away into nothing, which is probably because you think of a stage show as a static recital. But the stage isn’t a vidreel—it’s not caught between panes of glass like a dead organism, done once and frozen forever. It’s a work in progress, changed from rehearsal to rehearsal. Thundercracker’s always rewriting dialogue, and they’re all struggling to memorize new changes quickly before they get on stage, and the words are always fresh coming out of their mouths like they’re thinking of them on the spot. When they’ve forgotten to stage something, everyone struggles to improv their way onto the next beat they know.

It’s rarely a good show all the way through—it’s an amateur production, performed by anybody who’s got a strong enough voice to stand strong by themselves and an absence of stage fright. But it’s theirs. It’s new, every time, because every week there’s something else they’re suffering out on the street.

Somewhere in the show tonight, the judge is certain to say something about acid wash as a fitting punishment for the hero’s crime, and the audience will boo with anathema. And all the ugly feelings inside Starscream will be vindicated by their hatred of him.

“Do you really want to see them?” Thundercracker asks in the quiet of their kitchen, while Starscream is peering into the fuel-vault looking for something they haven't already used up.

“Augh, what,” Starscream says, “my notes from tonight? Yeah, I want to see my notes, TC, Primus. If you say I wobbled on the high notes I swear I’ll weld your kneecaps to your thighs when you’re sleeping so you have to bump around on straight legs like a protoform.”

Thundercracker doesn’t rise to the bait, and that gives Starscream pause—he fiddles with his thumbs, looking this way and that. “Um,” he says, “look, that stuff I’ve been reading…”

“Oh, the poetry,” he says, and frowns. “Look, I didn’t know it was actual academic stuff, you know? I think it’s cool that you’re studying on your own terms, boning up on poetry or whatever again to practice for writing the libretto. You won’t hear about it from me again, okay? I was just being an asshole.”

Thundercracker shifts awkwardly. “That’s not… why I was reading it,” he says, and then awkwardly adds, “you know, I never stopped reading literature when I got out. I just—read what I thought was interesting, on my own terms. Did you stop doing things on your terms?”

Starscream’s processor is suddenly filled with images of the lab he’s got a backdoor into whenever he needs to brew up some syk or backwater engex for a few extra bucks, the workshop he keeps in Thundercracker’s green room at the bar to build custom tools for richer clients on the sly. But that’s different. That’s for cash in hand, easy stuff he learned in his first year. It’s not like he studies chemistry. He doesn’t run experiments on soil samples from other planets. “I don’t exactly have access to a lab,” he lies, “it’s not like I can just go make things anymore.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s—whatever,” Starscream says, and sticks his head back in the cold storage nonchalantly. “So, if you’re not studying poetry to give me better material to work with, what are you doing with the stuff?”

There’s a long awkward pause—longer, now that Starscream can’t actually see his roommate’s face to see if he’s shifting around or whatever. He wants to lean his head back out and see if Thundercracker is, like, distracted by something, except that would indicate that he’s paying too much attention to the conversation. Starscream doesn't get caught paying attention to things these days. That’s dangerous work, paying attention. If you pay attention to the wrong thing, you could get caught out by someone with the power to get you in real trouble.

“Do you know,” Thundercracker says cautiously, “about the Voice of Tarn?”

Starscream says “huh?” which, in retrospect, is obviously not the right answer, but it’s the end of a long day, and his voice hurts. ‘Huh’ is an easy sound to make.

“The Voice of Tarn,” Thundercracker repeats. “He’s—he writes… things the government doesn’t exactly want us writing. His work is, um, technically contraband.”

“Oh,” Starscream says, dumbly, and then, “why?”

“If you’re interested, I could—lend you some,” Thundercracker says, awkwardly. “It’s—I’ve been reading it. I can’t explain it.”

Starscream looks at the shift of Thundercracker’s pedes, the uncomfortable way he moves his weight from one strut to the other. There’s something too heavy here, too sincere, and Starscream is desperate to kick the legs out from under it. “No thanks,” he says, “I’m not a big poetry person.”

“It’s not all poetry,” Thundercracker says, a little too quickly, and Starscream thinks he wants this with a frightened pang in his spark. “There’s—he’s written essays, and manifestos, and—and schematics. He’s the real deal. I could find you—something you’d like.”

“You’re scared.”

“Yes,” Thundercracker says, “but I sleep easier like this. Thinking there’s something coming. Thinking there’s a future for us.”

“Thanks,” Starscream says, “but no thanks. We lived in fear back on Vos. I’m too busy to live like that here, too.”

He waits for a second, to see if his roommate is going to try and convince him, to push some of this illicit contraband whatever into his hands, to insist that he just try to read it. When nothing more comes, he peers around the storage door.

“It’s not like—" he starts, and then drops off. Thundercracker is gone. He stares at the spot on the floor where those pedes were standing, and tries not to feel disappointed. Not that he wanted to be convinced. He just figured—hoped—he was worth trying a little harder for.

Skyfire must have been an outlier, after all.

It’s precipitous, how close everything happens together. It’s only three days later, Starscream wiping down the tables and watching Sunstorm help Nacelle set up the impromptu set, when Slipstream scrambles in and shuts the doors behind her in a panic.

“There’s a police vehicle outside,” she says, breathlessly. “Get it down, quick.”

There’s a brief moment of pause, a shocked silence—but seekers aren’t still prowling the ugly parts of Cybertron because they’re slow to action about covering up for the shit they do out of the law’s prowling sightlines. There’s a scramble, and the table comes down off the stage. Starscream vaults over the bartop and grabs blindly for dishes to clean. “Thundercracker,” he hisses into the backroom, “get out here! The cops are here!”

There’s a rustle, and a “what?”, and then Thundercracker is slicing through the swinging door into the room, optics flicking back and forth over the assembly. Starscream looks up at him, then jerks his head away quickly, gaze settling on Acid Storm and Slipstream, who are corralling themselves together.

It’s just two officers, who push their way through the front doors, wading into the tense atmosphere of the floor. Starscream stiffens as he sees them—he recognizes them, as much as he could recognize any cop. Shoulderwheels and Visorguy, each holding a hefty lidded bucket. No one needs to ask what’s inside.

Starscream looks across the way at Skywarp, who’s dangerously close to the officers. He glances back, his face frozen in stiff, proud terror. No one in the room says a thing. They know better than to do so.

Visorguy clears his voxbox. “Citizens,” he says, “my designation is Officer Clutch, this is my associate Officer Bearing. You have no reason to be alarmed by our presence. We aren’t here to hurt anyone.”

The bucket clunks against his leg. In the uncomfortable silence of the barroom, it rings out like a gong in an act two crescendo.

“We’re looking for someone specific,” Shoulderwheels pipes up. He’s big, Starscream notices. A full head and shoulders above Skywarp, who’s no shortstack himself. Big pistons in those arms. He could take a seeker down with no trouble. “We’re not interested in anyone else. If you can all promise to assist us, we’ll be in and out in no time at all.”

There’s another silence. Starscream’s fingers clench against the bartop.

“Of course, if you choose not to cooperate,” Visorguy says, “we can make this very difficult. For everyone.”

“We don’t want to make this difficult,” Acid Storm says suddenly, and Starscream shoots him a look of shock and disbelief. “But we do need to know who you’re actually… looking for, if we’re going to help you. Sorry,” he adds, glancing at Slipstream, “but it’s true.”

Visorguy stares at Acid Storm, something frustrated and angry palpable in his field even without a face to supplement it, but Shoulderwheels holds up a hand. “The proprietor,” he says, calmly. “Of the establishment. It’s come to our attention that he’s been holding… meetings, of some sort. To discuss contraband material that he’s been writing.”

“We’re sure some of you have been forced to participate,” Visorguy adds, “but if you help us identify… what is it, again? All these seeker names sound the same.”

“Thundercracker,” Shoulderwheels says, and Starscream’s already low tanks sink, “we’re looking for someone named Thundercracker.”

“Right, Thundercracker,” Visor says. “Just point him out to us, and we’ll be along our way. No one blames any of you. We’re sure you were just doing what you were told. Seekers are known for having very low intelligence.”

Skywarp looks at Starscream. After a moment, Starscream looks at Slipstream, who looks at Acid Storm, who looks at the ceiling. No one knows who Thundercracker is looking at—it’s suddenly the most important unspoken task to make no direct contact with him.

“I said we could do this the easy way or the hard way,” Visorguy says, after a pause. “We have the deed for the business, and a roster of the employees. We know who all of you are. Even if we can’t prove that you’ve been involved in whatever Thundercracker’s corralled you into, we know every one of you is involved in the prostitution ring here. We can crack every single one of you and take you down to the district attorney for questioning.”

“We’ve been turning a blind eye to the whole thing,” Shoulderwheels says, “on your behalf. We don’t have to.”

“If you’re just here to arrest this Thunders guy, why’d you bring the wash?” Sunstorm asks suddenly. He’s not allowed to be in the opera on principle—for someone who sings his way through his shift, the mech really can’t carry a tune—but Starscream’s impressed by his performance instincts. Keeping Thundercracker’s full name out of his mouth, to make it sound more unfamiliar; asking stupid questions to redirect their attention. “I thought that was just for seekers who—y’know, mess around with their numbers and stuff?”

:TC, get out of here,: Starscream comms quickly, as the officers pivot on the floor. :Go out the backdoor. We’ll cover for you.:

:I’m not abandoning any of you,: Thundercracker comms back just as fast, :this is my bar. I’m not leaving you all to get arrested for me.:

:We’re standing up for you! Seekers protect seekers! You’re not going to get a better chance than this!:

“What’s your name, mech?” Shoulderwheels is asking.

“I’m Sunstorm,” Sunstorm says, “I’m—I’m new here.”

“Welcome to the team, Sunstorm,” Shoulderwheels says, and grabs him by the shoulder, jerking him forward as he yelps in pain. Starscream winces in sympathy as a hand digs into his wing.

“Let me tell you all how this is going to work,” Visorguy says, stepping forward as Shoulderwheels manhandles Sunstorm onto the floor, yelping and crying out, “whichever one of you is Thundercracker is going to step up in the next ten seconds and confess, right here and right now. Or we’re going to go through all your employees and check every one of their serial numbers.”

“Let him go!” Nova Storm shouts, stumbling forward. “He hasn’t done anything! You can’t do this!”

Visorguy stares at him. “You know what I love about my job, Seeker?” he asks, with such vehement hatred that Starscream thinks he’s going to purge. “I get to do whatever I want to people like you. You think I’m gonna lose sleep over arresting a bunch of criminals? They’ll probably give me an award for making quota so fast.”

The sound of the lid popping off the bucket snaps through the air like a slap to the face. Sunstorm wails and thrashes, his pedes scraping helplessly on the floor.

Starscream has to do something, he can’t just stand here—he needs time, he needs more time, he can’t make a plan like this—he’s a scientist, not some kind of underground political rebel. He just played a part for Thundercracker. He doesn’t—read the poetry, it’s not his cause, he’s not—

“I’m here!” shouts a voice, too loud, and Starscream’s panic is cut clean in half from across the room. In shock, he watches Slipstream push away from Acid Storm, hold her arms out towards the officers, wrists close together. “I’m Thundercracker,” she says, “this is my bar. Don’t hurt anyone, I—I’ll go quietly.”

Visorguy turns to her, looks her up and down. “Sure,” he says, “thing is, our profile says Thundercracker doesn’t have mods. You’ve got…” His optics trail down her frame in barely-repressed disgust. “…A few.”

“Your profile?” Slipstream asks. “Well, I—they’re back-alley mods. They wouldn’t—“

The cop reels back and slugs her hard across the face. She grunts in surprise and pain twice—first when he strikes her, second when she strikes the ground. Someone shouts.

“Let’s try this one more time,” Visorguy says, pulling his blaster from its place on his belt, “I want Thundercracker to step forward and give himself up. Blue paint. First mint serial number. We know you’ve been reading and writing contraband, that you’re an associate of the Decepticon rioters, and that you’re running an illegal prostitution ring out of the Shades. Do yourself a favor and step forward now.”

:Run,: Starscream comms Thundercracker, helplessly.

“I’m right here,” Thundercracker says, and raises his hands. “I have the work on my hard drive. You can patch in and see it.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Visorguy says, and points the blaster at him.

Starscream lunges at Thundercracker to knock him on the ground, moving blindly, and is equally aware of Skywarp throwing himself at the cop. They all crash into the bodies crashing into them, a tangle of limbs and kibble.

“Get the fuck off me—“ someone says, and there’s a shot, and then everyone is screaming and scrambling. The blaster fire must have hit a light fixture—glass shatters, raining shards down on the floor.

“Get up! Get up,” Starscream snarls, grabbing Thundercracker by the collar. Another shot—he can hear Slipstream's voice, screaming, high-pitched and savaged by agony. “We have to go! We have to go out the back!”

“Slipstream,” Thundercracker says, eyes wide, muddling helplessly, “I have to—it’s my bar—“

“Hold him down,” Shoulderwheels is yelling, and then “get off me! Get off—I’ll kill him—"

Starscream scrambles up to his feet, leaving Thundercracker dazed and confused on the ground against the bar. It’s cacophony, it’s noise and sound and terror out there—Slipstream is on the ground, oozing out of a hole in her wing, screaming. Sunstorm is crawling away through a press of seekers, all reaching out for the officers, grabbing, holding down whatever they can get their hands on. Desperate to stop them. No plan in mind.

Seven or eight minds, hands, grabbing at officers with loaded blasters and wash. Another shot—Acid Storm is grappling with the blaster in Shoulderwheels’ hand, and fumbles it away at the last moment, blowing out the leg of a table. It comes crashing down.

Starscream looks out on them all, and watches as Shoulderwheels kicks the open-topped bucket of acid wash to flood out over the floor. Slipstream recoils—she can’t get away from it fast enough—

He turns and runs.

The backroom is mostly filled with random belongings from whoever’s on shift that night—bags, energon cubes, empty boxes that had lunch or dinner in them and pede accessories that help with the long walks home—a smattering of data drives or pads for breaktime. Thundercracker’s poetry is probably in the mix somewhere, if someone got it in their mind to hunt through the evidence. Starscream doesn’t have time for that.

In one of the back corners that used to be a washrack, before the health inspector took them by surprise and got it condemned, is Starscream’s “study”. Emphasis on the heavy quotation marks. No one else comes back here—there’s a smell that permeates the walls, and even Skywarp thinks he just comes back here to jack it when a customer works him up too hard and then just heads home. This is where he builds specialty items for clients he finds in the business.

On the table is a special number. Big. He hasn’t tested it out to see if it works yet, but it’s not exactly processor surgery to build a battery-powered blaster.

It’s got an appropriate heft to it, when he picks it up. He has to prop it up on his shoulder just to keep it steady. No matter. His shoulder can handle a little recoil.

There’s a sound of a table crashing on its side in the other room, and Starscream bolts back towards the swinging door, steadies himself on the bar. Visorguy is struggling to load his blaster back up, and Shoulderwheels is kicking someone with a green paint job in the stomach again and again—they’re too far down for Starscream to see their face. They’re a mess in the middle of an acid wash pool, scrambling back for shelter. Pathetic, every one of them, in their pain and desperation. Ugly with dumb instinctual terror, stupid heavy clunking seeker frames.

Seekers protect seekers, Starscream thinks, and hefts the blaster level with Shoulderwheels’ helm. He shoots.

The air stinks with the burn of fire, and Shoulderwheels crumples all at once, his processor splattering out the back of his decimated face in a sick flurry of energon and cords and minipistons. He hits the ground hard, and the green seeker on the ground—Acid Storm, looks like—scrambles away. Visor whirls, looks down at his dead comrade—looks up in a flare of terror, his field snapping back and flooding out all at once. He looks at Starscream and throws his arms up over his face. The second shot burns right through both of them.

It takes four seconds. Five, tops.

The frantic commotion ceases almost immediately—there’s a low wailing noise of a mech in pain, and Starscream watches Nacelle rush to Slipstream’s side to help pull her to safety, but otherwise, the room is quiet enough to hear the two officer’s plating hissing and dissolving in their own wash. Starscream lowers the blaster off his shoulder and drops it carelessly on the bar. It collapses with a thud. Thundercracker doesn't even flinch.

“Thundercracker,” Skywarp says suddenly, his face dirty with blaster soot but otherwise unharmed. He scrambles towards the bar and pushes through to his trine. “Is he okay? Did he get hit?”

“He’s fine,” Starscream says hollowly. “He’s just in shock.”

“Oh Primus,” Sunstorm says, “oh, gods, Starscream—“

“They’re dead,” Nacelle says, “they’re dead in our bar—what do we do? Oh god, oh god oh god, we’re all going to, they’ll put us down—“

“No one is going to do anything to us,” Starscream snaps, and pushes his way out from behind the bar, leaving his trinemates fluttering and whispering and touching in panic. “No one needs to know. We’ll dump their vehicle somewhere and dump them somewhere else. I’ll—I’ll do it.”

He turns and looks down at Slipstream, who’s sprawled across the floor. She’s in a bad way, real bad—there’s a hole blown through one of her wings, and her legs are melted almost through. The plating of her face is gashed open, revealing the inner workings of her left optic. She looks back up at him and nods.

“We gotta get her medical attention,” Sunstorm says, from behind her. “What do we do?”

“I know a place,” Acid Storm says, “in the dead end. There’s a doctor who can patch something like that up. He’s real classy, won’t say anything when the cops come around. Confidential.”

“Let’s get her there,” Starscream says. “Think you can take her?”

Acid Storm nods, and grabs Nacelle, and together they haul Slipstream up and shuffle her out. She shoots a look over her shoulder at Starscream as they go.

Skywarp puts a hand on Starscream’s shoulder, so sudden that it makes him jump. “I’ll take the cops,” he says, “you take their transport. I know where to drop ‘em.”

“And I’ll stay behind with Thundercracker,” Nova Storm says. “We’ll clean everything up and get closed.” He glances over at the bar, where Thundercracker is stumbling upright, a hand on his helm and the other gripping the countertop. “I’ll make sure he gets home safe.”

“Thanks,” Starscream says. He can't feel something, some part of his frame, but he's not sure which part. “Comm us if you get into any trouble.”

“Sure,” Nova Storm says. “We’ve got your back. Us seekers have gotta stick together, right?”

Starscream looks at the blaster on the bartop. “Well, whatever,” he says. “I never really bought into any of that shit, anyway.”

Starscream drives the car into one of the slagheaps at the edge of town and flies a circuitous route home, picking up takeout and chatting for too long with the two-wheeler on the other side of the glass. A nice, long talk, where he says his name multiple times. A nice, solid alibi.

He drops the food he doesn’t want on the counter when he gets in and takes a long frigid soak in the washracks to get any remaining scent or soot off of him. Of course, there’s no hot water. They keep forgetting to pay the bill, which is to say, they can’t pay the bill with money they’ve already spent on engex. Too bad about all that.

He stares at his hands. They can’t be his—they’re something someone else dreamed up. They don’t look right, they don’t feel right—he can feel heft in them, a weight his own hands never had. When he offlines his optics, he can see the splatter hitting the wall.

Thundercracker is in the kitchen when he makes his way out, vents blasting and dripping disrespectfully on the floor as he goes. He’s crying.

“I’m throwing it away,” he stammers, when he sees Starscream, “all of it. It’s over. I’m not—we can’t do any of it anymore, it’s over.”

“It’s not over,” Starscream says, “you wrote me the role of a lifetime. You don’t get to just throw that out.”

“You could have died,” Thundercracker says, “Skywarp’s all dented up. They’re going to—they’ll be there tomorrow, Starscream, the whole police force. They’re going to shut everything down. They’re going to arrest all of us. We killed—we killed them.”

“I killed them,” Starscream snarls, “me! And they deserved exactly what I gave them! And nobody’s gonna know because I can shut up when it matters! We’re going back in tomorrow, and they’ll ask questions that everyone knows better than to answer. Seekers protect seekers. We have your back.”

“Starscream,” Thundercracker says, faraway.

“We’ll get away with it,” Starscream says, “they can’t prove shit. We don’t have cameras in there. They won’t see Skywarp leave. We’ll get away with it.”

“You’re going to freeze up,” Thundercracker says, “there’s no heat—the heater won’t work, you’re going to freeze up like that.”

There are arms around him, and vents that aren’t his blasting against his wet plating. An engine working harder than his own rumbles, warm, against his chassis.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Starscream says, stilling, resting his head on Thundercracker’s shoulder, “we’ll get away with it. They would have killed us if they’d got the chance.”

“I know,” Thundercracker says. “I know.”

Starscream takes the shift at the bar the next day. Thundercracker is home sick, which means someone has to do managerial stuff. It’s a horribly long shift—on the regular, Starscream thanks whatever deity has kept him out of actual leadership positions up until this point. Nova Storm has to take host, even though he doesn’t really know how to do it, and Skywarp keeps disappearing into the backroom to make calls to People. Who People are, he won’t say.

He’s changing out the keg under the bar to refresh one of the taps when the first—and only—cop shows up. Big guy, brick shithouse of a grounder. Walks right up to the bar, with the occasional “excuse me” or “pardon” as he pushes his way through the crowd.

“Excuse me,” he says, waving to Starscream, “are you the owner of this establishment?”

“Just standing in,” Starscream says, “the boss is out sick. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Orion Pax,” the officer says, like Starscream cares, “I’m the chief of the local police enforcement division down here. It’s come to my attention that two of my officers took it upon themselves to search a few businesses in this area.”

Starscream stares at him blankly.

“They weren’t sanctioned to do so,” Orion Pax says, “if they gave anyone in this establishment any trouble, I want to know about it. They need to face consequences for their rash actions. The department doesn’t stand behind them or any of their decisions."

“Uh, okay,” Starscream says, squinting at him. “Um, when are they supposed to have been here?”

“They turned their vehicle’s GPS off,” Orion Pax says, “probably because they knew they were doing something illegal. I suspect they were here late in the evening, after 2300 hours.” He looks Starscream square in the optics. “I think it’s wrong, what officers are doing in your communities,” he says, very seriously. “I’m on your side. If you tell me when they were here and where they went, it would help me help you. You don’t need to be afraid—whatever they did to you, they’ll be punished for it.”

“Okay,” Starscream says, “see, the thing is, I never saw them? I actually took off half an hour before my shift ended so I could get some dinner before my favorite place closed, and it’s all the way over in district seven, so the boss said I could go early…?”

“Hm,” Orion Pax says. He doesn’t sound very convinced. “You couldn’t have closed on time and still gotten to District Seven? It’s not so far away.”

“Do I look like I can afford a metro card?” Starscream asks. “No, seriously, do I? ‘Cause I’m kinda trying to bougie-up my look.”

“Hm.”

“Anyway, I don’t think your, um, rogue officers showed up here,” Starscream adds quickly. “Most everybody who works here is a total gossip. I guess you could ask around, but I’m lowkey a little offended if you find something that no one bothered to tell me. Like, if some cops showed up, I feel like I would know.”

“I see,” Orion Pax says. “Well, you’ve been very helpful, um…”

“Starscream,” Starscream says firmly, “the name’s Starscream. Make sure you write down in your report that I was helpful, moreso than maybe anyone else?”

“I haven’t talked to anyone else,” Orion Pax says. “Thank you anyway, Starscream. I’ll be asking your coworkers to corroborate your story so I can get an idea of what happened.”

As he walks away, Starscream watches him go. Then he opens up a group comm.

:Heads up. Officer Whoever is gonna interrogate us. I said I left early to get some dope takeout and that no one came by last night.:

:Got it,: Acid Storm comms back.

:Also, not to be a class traitor, but does anyone else think this guy is kind of daddy? Y/N:

:Sorry, I don’t socialize with bootlickers.:

:Y:

:Skywarp, you disgust me.:

“How’s Slipstream doing?” Skywarp asks, as they close up for the night.

“She’s doing okay,” Sunstorm says. He’s going easy on the chairs tonight. With the ragged signs of wear and tear on his plating, no one can really blame him. “She stayed overnight, but she commed me that she’s good to go. I think she just headed home. She might be back in for work tomorrow.”

“Good,” Starscream says. “Listen, we can’t afford to run the show for the next couple of days. Our hours need to look regular. I want everyone going home in pairs or threes. No one leaves alone. We don’t know what they know, and I don’t believe anything that came out of that guy’s mouth, even if he was really hot.”

“A factor that I think you’re wildly overestimating,” Sunstorm grumbles. “You’d better go last, now that you’re the boss, or whatever.”

Skywarp waits behind with him as they find anything they can to clean, waiting up for the bar to empty before methodically turning off the lights. They don’t say anything to each other. They haven’t, actually, spoken directly to each other since last night. Whatever instinct they both had, the long routes they took home, the places they went first and the alibis they planned separately, feels like an open wound. A something that they are and that Thundercracker is not, a sense of self-preservation above all else.

Skywarp dumped the bodies in the contaminated river. He took them apart before he did so, legs and arms and helms torn to unrecognizable shreds. If anyone finds them, it’ll take months to put them back together enough to identify them. Starscream doesn’t ask where Skywarp learned to do that, just like Skywarp doesn’t ask about the blaster Starscream knew how to find. Neither of them did it because seekers protect seekers. They did it because Thundercracker didn’t know how to.

It’s dark out when they leave, which is why Starscream doesn’t see the graffiti at first. Skywarp, who looks up when he walks and keeps his brights on, has to grab him by the shoulder and stop him in his tracks.

“What the fuck, don’t do that,” Starscream snaps, “you scared the shit out of me! You know how high-strung I’ve—"

“Shut up,” Skywarp says, and points. Starscream looks.

Purple paint, cheap to get on a waitressing budget. There at the left is a first attempt at the classic icon, but that little face doesn’t catch Starscream’s attention. He’s looking at the words. He recognizes the handwriting, even as big and sprawling as it is over the side of the bar. The letters are still tidy, and square, even with the little tremors of uncertainty—or maybe of pain—in the spray paint. It’s still easy to read.

You are being deceived.

Chapter Text

“Well,” Tarn says, turning off the video feed with the tap of one finger. Blackness swallows the screen. “I think we’ve all seen enough.”

“Enough?” Minimus says, shooting to his feet. “How can you say that’s enough?”

“Your friend Starscream is not only a grifter, deadbeat, con artist, and criminal,” Tarn says, “but also a murderer. Two deaths on his hands, and no remorse.”

“But it was,” Minimus says, “it wasn’t in cold fuel, there was a situation of escalating tensions, there were extenuating circumstances that need to be considered!”

“In light of the overwhelmingly negative data before the murder, I am determining this case closed,” Tarn says. “I have no interest in quibbling over premeditation and extenuating circumstances. Murder is murder. This is a black and white issue. There are a set number of points deducted for the action, and short of a miracle of good grace, with Starscream’s numbers as abysmally low as they already are, he’s a lost cause.”

“But-”

“Case closed, Ambus,” Tarn says, and the various furniture of the room disappears in a clap of oily smoke. “Continue sticking your neck out for that reprobate, and I will reconsider whether your case needs viewing as well. Just to be safe.”

Minimus grimaces, stiffening his shoulder mechanisms, but before he can summon an appropriate rebuttal, a hand claps down on his shoulder. Thunderclash closes him in an inexorable, warning grip.

“Yes, your honor,” Thunderclash says.

In a dizzying moment of screaming black smoke, the chamber implodes into neat ordinary daylight, leaving nothing but Thunderclash’s absolutely normal parlor in its wake. Minimus reaches out and clutches the arm of a nearby lounge to steady himself and Thunderclash, who is now clinging to him as if afraid that Minimus will also dissolve into ether. 

Tarn is still a fearful smoking wraith with unknowable features, but in the fresh daylight, he feels somehow less omnipotent. His sheer bulk is still fairly intimidating, but now Minimus can’t shake the feeling that it is rude of him to keep smoking like that, when he’s a guest inside someone’s house.

“Pharma?” Tarn holds out his empty hand, expectant. 

Pharma rummages in his subspace and pulls out a comm transponder. Tarn lifts it to his shrouded face and says, in his rumbling profound voice, “Starscream and accomplices, hear this: I have determined the everlasting guilt of the construct Starscream of Vos, for crimes perpetrated during his lifetime on Cybertron. I will be removing Starscream from the Good Place entirely and I will be subjecting anyone who has abetted him to a thorough review. Return to the mansion now, and face your just deserts.”

Pharma leans in and whispers, “What if they just don’t come back? Do we call it a wash?”

“Hmm. Adequate observation,” Tarn says. He lifts the transponder again and says, “If you do not come back to the mansion and turn yourselves in, we will take your sparkmates in recompense. Someone needs to face justice, and after the trouble you’ve all put me to, I’m not particularly picky about whom.”

Tarn turns his head, fixing his glowing red eyes directly onto Minimus even as he says: “You have three R’s. Decide quickly.”

Thunderclash’s hand tightens on Minimus’s shoulder. The plating actually starts to buckle. Minimus has no idea how to shake him off without being unconscionably crass. 

“Come now, Pharma,” Tarn says, tossing the transponder over his shoulder into Pharma’s fumbling hands. “Show me the engex bar in this place. We’re going to make mimosas. I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

The silence in the parlor is deafening. Minimus deeply regrets never bothering to find out what indeed is a bad place, and what might go on within it. It never seemed important before. It was not, so to speak, his problem. 

He should have been more concerned with what would happen to Starscream; he should have been less content to trust in the judgement of an unseen and unknowable panel of eternal judges. Having met one of those judges now, he has several regrets. 

How anxious should he be? Tarn does not seem the type to say something he does not mean.

“The screens…” Thunderclash says. 

Minimus turns around. It only takes half a second to see what Thunderclash is looking at: the memory viewer, blank screen illuminated by the yellow light of Thunderclash’s somewhat overwrought stained glass windows. 

“They’re still here,” Thunderclash says.

Minimus frowns at them. “I suppose they’re just the same screens Pharma summons from time to time,” he says. “No reason why they shouldn’t exist here as well as in Tarn’s courtroom.”

“But look,” Thunderclash says. He’s drifting over to the screens, a hand slowly coming out in front of him. “At the bottom. The timeline is still here. Look, you can see some green sections in the red if you get close. And here, there’s a big chunk of nothing but green, a ways back.”

Despite himself, Minimus edges closer as well. At the bottom of the black screen, apparently not as inert as it appears, there is a timeline running from one end to the other. One can see flecks of green, the closer one gets. The little arrow is suspended currently over a swath of red nearer to the very end of the narrative, presumably the point place of the crime they all just witnessed. After that, there is not much left before time runs out.

“What if…” Thunderclash says.

“No,” Minimus says, immediately. “We are not to touch this. It isn’t allowed for either of us.”

“But it’s right here,” Thunderclash says, his hovering hand drawing closer to the temptation. “We wouldn’t be taking anything. Except, I suppose, knowledge. Which is an infinite resource. The trial is over, it’s not as if it matters to them what we see now…”

“Thunderclash,” Minimus says sternly, “this is improper and invasive. I can’t let you do this.”

“It might be the only way to save him,” Thunderclash says, voice surging. “Minimus, there isn’t much time, we must act now! You are as disappointed as I with Starscream’s actions towards us, but maybe--maybe this cluster is our clue as to why! Maybe--maybe he left with good intentions, maybe he thought, somehow, that he was doing us a favor.” He smiles wistfully. “He always does act like such a martyr, doesn’t he?”

“He does not,” Minimus says. “I’ve never met anyone so self-interested in my life.”

Thunderclash purses his lips and stares back at the video board. “But, factually speaking, they haven’t been fair,” he says, after a moment. “We haven’t seen any of his good qualities. They afforded me that. Anyone on trial is supposed to get--at the very least, to get a defense. If you--what is it, if you can’t afford a lawyer, the state will provide?”

“The right to a fair and impartial trial with a jury of your peers,” Minimus rattles off automatically, “defended by an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, the court will provide one for you free of charge.”

Thunderclash turns back to him, studying him. “I know you’re upset,” he says, “but you must know this isn’t fair.”

“We... owe it to our client to give him the best possible defense,” Minimus says. His jaw is working. “Divine mandate has no place in a court of law. Whether I’m--furious with him or not, he deserves a fair trial.”

“He deserves it.”

“Things have to be fair,” Minimus insists, shoulders ratcheting up. “Things have to follow rules! Procedure! Law! Order!”

“Things have to be fair,” Thunderclash repeats urgently. If Minimus wasn’t so caught up in his own train of thought, he’d think it very likely that Thunderclash was egging him on.

“I don’t care what that mech says!” he snaps, pointing a finger at the door that Tarn and Pharma disappeared through. “I didn’t take chances and look for the best in him for all this time just to have some nobody march in here and tell me what to think! I want to look at the evidence!”

“Me too,” Thunderclash agrees, and steps back. 

Minimus looks up at him. Then he looks down at the controls. “Evidence,” he mutters to himself, like some sort of insane person. And then he hits the rewind button.

Tensions are high in the medium place. It’s been a long, quiet klik since the judge’s voice faded into empty air.

Behind the counter in the nook that passes for a kitchen, Ratchet sips his cheap silt-spotted Prima’s Best Rustgut . “Crimes, huh,” he says. “You certainly left that part of it out.”

“Quiet, you,” Starscream says, “I’m thinking!”

Thinking, in this case, means pacing furiously through the pathway he’s kicked open in the random detritus covering the floor. Tarn went to the trouble of threatening them, which means that he can’t reach them here--or else it’s a dastardly plot to get them to settle down and stay in one place while the spawn of a glitch hunts them down like turbofox bait. 

Can they risk it? Should they burrow in deeper, or flush the hideout and try to make it in one go? How deep is the sea here, and how long could they stay underwater before the rust set in?

“We gotta go back,” Rodimus says, from the floor.

Starscream whirls, wings flaring. “What? Why?”

“Uhhhh. ‘Cause if we don’t TC and Mins get smelted?”

“Why do you care!” Starscream wants to just scream, but he channels it into a more productive squawk at the last second.

Rodimus blinks at him. “I don’t know how to tell you this, dude, but you're supposed to care about people.”

“I care about people!” Starscream says. “I care about you! Who knows what the frag they’ll do to us, if Tarn’s squad get their big grabby claws and who knows what else in us!”

“Yeah okay,” Rodimus says, “like, I’m not excited to get hooked by the hooky guy or spiked by the spiky guy. Heh. Okay maybe a little spiking. You think he’s packing, that guy? He’s pretty big. I’m not usually a valve mech but I could--”

“Rodimus!” Starscream snaps. “You’re worse than Ratchet!”

From the back of the room, Ratchet goes, “Actually, I was taking notes, anybody got a picture of the spike in question or…?”

“I told you to be quiet!”

Ratchet pulls the pen he was using out of his mouth with a pop. “You know I can definitely still throw you in the ocean, pretty bot. Watch yourself.”

“The point is!” Starscream says, jabbing a finger at Rodimus. 

“I know, I know, I’m conjunxed now,” Rodimus sighs, visibly put out. Then he perks up, with a sly look. “Unless Rung is into patching in some freaky circuits--”

“The point is,” Starscream snarls, “Minimus can take care of himself, and your sparkmate never met an authority figure he didn’t want to deep throat. It’s you and me who need to be worried! If we go back, we’re sunk!”

“Mins is just a little guy now,” Rodimus points out. “And TC kinda went to bat with the judge back there. I don’t think they’re gonna get along.” 

Starscream’s wings almost vibrate, they’re jerking so fast. “You don’t even like him!”

Rodimus makes a face at him. “He’s not,” Rodimus says, “the worst. Not the worst ever.”

“I can’t believe this,” Starscream says. 

“Anyway, they both kept secrets for us. They did us right. We gotta do them right too. That’s the rules.”

“Whose rules?” Starscream shrieks. He can feel his coolant starting to bubble, a bright fuzz starting at the corners of his optics, and he wants it to stop, he wants everything to stop!  

Dainty hands grasp one of Starscream’s, and Rung’s voice echoes to him as if from a great distance. “You need to relax your plating. Take a deep vent, that’s it.”

The first vent judders so badly that something must have broken, but the second one is smoother. Starscream focuses on the soothing circles being rubbed on the back of his hand. Piece by piece, his armor relaxes, and as the overheat warnings flicker off his HUD, Rung’s face swims into focus. His mouth is moving, but Starscream doesn’t pay attention to the words so much as the calming tone of them. With a long sigh, the last of the manic terror leaves Starscream.

He pulls his hand out of Rung’s none too gently. He knows Rodimus and Ratchet are watching, can feel their stares burning his plating. The air in the room is dead and suffocating. “I need some air,” he mutters. 

No one tries to stop him, even when he deliberately kicks a stack of boxes full of Primus knows what down the stairs. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

The wind on the roof is strong and bracing. If Starscream closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he’s flying. Almost. If he were flying, he’d be careful to stay well above the spray of salt water that settles over him now and leaves a gritty residue where it evaporates quickly on his over-warm frame. With careful footsteps, he picks his way over rust spots and puddles to the edge of the building, facing the endless gray sea, and sits down. The sound of the waves crashing against the house fades to soothing white noise.

Maybe he could just fly away, pick a point on the horizon and fly until his fuel burns up. There must be other good places out there, Pharma said so when he first arrived. Maybe he can sneak into one of those, convince people he belongs and fade into the background. He’s done it before, in Vos, in Iacon. The Shades. He can do it again.

Starscream doesn’t know how long he’s been on the roof before he becomes aware of someone else’s presence. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Rodimus standing a few feet behind him, looking like he would rather be doing anything else. With the pace of a doomed mech, Rodimus comes over and sits next to Starscream. Neither of them speak for a very long time.

“You should come back inside,” Rodimus says, sounding as grim and serious as Starscream’s ever heard him. “You can get hurt now. You’ll rust.”

“Why are you here, Rodimus?” Starscream’s spark clenches with slow, creeping dread.

Rodimus heaves a sigh and wraps his arms around his knees. “Rung and I are going back.”

Of course they are.

“Of course you are.” Starscream aims for a sneer, but he’s pretty sure he missed the mark.

“You don’t have to come,” Rodimus says.

“You couldn’t make me come anyway,” Starscream says, gearing up for a full blown tantrum because that would be better than whatever this is turning into. Rodimus flicks his spoiler against Starscream’s wing, affectionately exasperated, and with a pang, Starscream thinks of Thundercracker and Skywarp. The half sparked fight drains out of him, and his wings droop.

“Rung and I talked,” Rodimus says. “We’re gonna try to save Minimus too. Returning Rung in exchange for keeping him safe in the Good Place.”

That makes Starscream finally look at Rodimus. His mouth is set in a grim, determined line, but there’s not a trace of fear in him, just calm acceptance. Starscream wants to shake him, yell at him to pull himself together and stay safe, but instead he just asks, “Why?”

Rodimus grins a Starscream, a shadow of his usual cocky smile. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“What about Rung?”

“He’ll be safe,” Rodimus says, even as the smile slips from his face. “He’s too important for Pharma to do anything to him. He’ll be fine.”

“What about you?”

Rodimus’ arms tighten around his legs, and he looks back at the ocean. “It’s not really about me, is it?” He glances at Starscream. “Besides, I figure it’s what I deserve.”

Starscream stares back out at the horizon and tries to vent around the smell of salt and rust and  the suffocating weight of guilt. Next to him, Rodimus gets to his feet, spoiler bumping again at Starscream’s wing. The wind and waves swallow the sound of his retreating footsteps. It almost covers the sound of the hatch leading back inside opening.

He should say something, right? Like a goodbye, or a thank you, something, because Rodimus is being selfless like Starscream didn’t think he could be, and he’s doing it for Starscream with nothing to gain for himself. What would Minimus say if he found out that Rodimus did all this and Starscream didn’t even thank him?

Starscream turns around, words heavy in his mouth, and sees an empty roof.

“Stop stop stop!” Minimus says, “You’re too far back, just--”

The dizzying forward motion stops immediately on a scene in the lobby of an opera house, where Starscream is talking to another seeker--someone from the riot at the bar, Minimus thinks, but it’s hard to tell because the main difference between any two seekers is color--and Starscream is saying “I’m just not going to waste my time in some dive bar when I have an opportunity for a real career.”

“Go back,” Minimus says. “No, wait, I mean forward, I’m sorry, it’s all this back and forth-”

Thunderclash fast-forwards through the school and some laboratories and then a long slash of white just as the arrow passes over the long green section, and Minimus says, “There! Stop, that’s it!” but Thunderclash is too slow fumbling at the screen, tapping everywhere but the arrow, and by the time he gets it to pause again, they’re in a courtroom. Starscream is standing there, wings high, mouth set into a diamond-hard line, as intellectual types filter out around him, already talking of lunch. One with a stole marking him out as a professor, some kind of a microscope alt, leans in as he passes Starscream and puts a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“Surely you knew better,” the microscope says, “than to come back without him?”

Minimus does not believe in “hunches” or “gut feelings”. But something about that tone--the overfamiliar hand on the shoulder--the way Starscream seems almost about to shatter…

“No, this isn’t it either,” Thunderclash sighs. “I went too far again. Let me just…”

And then the arrow is speeding forward again, racing past everything they’ve already seen, into a future very nearly at its end, while Thunderclash attempts to swear (most unbecoming) and tries to stop the trajectory before it arrives at something they truly don’t want to see. Such as, for example, Starscream’s death. Their unspoken agreement thus far has been to avoid this like a rust plague.

When Thunderclash finally wrestles the controls back to view-able speed, the machine has deposited them in a scene of domestic mundanity, a conversation already in progress.

“Skywarp, come get your shit,” the Starscream on the screen yelps, throwing a letter down on the table. “What did I get… bills, bills, porno rag, bills--think I can scribble my name out and write Thundercracker’s and that dumb hunk of scrap metal can pay ‘em for me?”

“I’m right here,” Thundercracker yelps, reaching for his own pile of junk. “You think I can pay for all your unnecessary expenses? I have a bar to run, that isn’t cheap.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Skywarp,” Starscream says, pointing at Skywarp, who’s ignoring him and opening his letter.

“Okay, let’s just clear something up,” Thundercracker says, “when you speak out loud, into the air, you know that I can hear you do that, right?”

“Okay, well, that was a private conversation and it’s very rude of you to listen in,” Starscream says. “Anyway, I don’t spend extravagantly, I just get fun things and put them all on my line of credit. They don’t even make you pay that. It’s free money that the bank just gives you every month.”

“What? No, it’s not,” Thundercracker says. “Starscream, that’s not--that’s not how credit works. You have to pay that money back. Do you not pay off your line of credit?”

“Whatever, it’s not like they make me pay it,” Starscream mutters. “Every time I run out, I just fake my own death and open a new account, and they just give me another line of credit. You never have to pay it off.”

“Oh my God,” Skywarp says.

“Yes, I agree,” Thundercracker says, “Starscream, oh my God. You went to college!”

“That’s not what I’m ‘oh my godding’ about,” Skywarp snaps, sounding affronted, “I wasn’t even paying attention to him. It’s good for your mental health if you just tune out 50% of what he says anyway.”

“Hey,” Starscream says.

“Only 50%?” Thundercracker says.

“Guys,” Skywarp says, ignoring both of them, “I got into the Jhiaxus academy! I got accepted!”

There’s a pause. Starscream and Thundercracker share an enigmatic look.

“Oh,” Thundercracker says. “Um.”

“Slag, don’t jump to congratulate me all at once,” Skywarp says. Minimus looks at his unfortunate face and feels a deep, humiliating pang of empathetic guilt. The seeker is hanging on to a smile from seconds before, looking for a happiness so recent and yet now so utterly out of his grasp. He knows how that face feels. He’s humiliated to know it. “I thought you guys would be happy.”

“No! No, we’re happy,” Thundercracker says hurriedly, “this is, um, it’s just--you didn’t, um, tell us you were… applying.”

“Maybe Thundercracker’s happy,” Starscream mutters. “If you applied, you’d have to give them all this--this personal info. Shit you don’t give to anyone! I mean, you don’t even tell me when you’re going off fuck knows where with some guy we’ve never even heard of!”

“That’s my job,” Skywarp snaps back, “I took my nav systems apart because I didn’t want the government tracking me! You just don’t like that I can take care of myself, do you?”

“Woah, okay, let’s calm down,” Thundercracker says, hands up, voice appeasing, “Skywarp, we’re--we’re thrilled that the university is, is acknowledging you! It’s, um, it’s always an honor when they let one of us in.”

“He means seekers,” Starscream adds.

“I know what he means,” Skywarp snaps back. 

“It’s just that,” Thundercracker says, “that school is expensive, and, um, it takes a very long time to graduate, um-”

“They’re giving me a scholarship,” Skywarp says, displaying the paper in his hands to them. “They think my compositions are good. They’re the best, actually, that were submitted this year. I’m the best composer in the onboarding class.”

“Of course you are,” Starscream spits, “we all have to be, don’t we, to even get considered? I tested out of my entire required first-year courses the week before they told me I was in! And you’ve read Thundercracker’s stuff, his early stuff! If they let us in at all, it’s because we’re the best there is! And it doesn’t matter, because no one employs seekers anyway. Not worth having a set of sticky fingers in the office, that’s what they say! Everyone knows that.”

Underneath the screen, Minimus exchanges a look with Thunderclash. He hadn’t known that. He tries to think back to his law firm, his little home away from home. Had he ever actually worked with a seeker? Alongside one? Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he’d ever even seen a flight form among the cubicles. It wasn’t like their office discriminated against flight forms--they had an open, non-discrimination policy strictly laid out. Anyone who qualified and interviewed well, that was the rule.

Maybe it was that seekers didn’t apply, he thought to himself. He’d never seen a seeker come in for an interview--maybe too many of them thought of the law as something that would punish them for their… for crimes… 

A memory of his own comes to mind, of sorting through paperwork. A colleague throwing resumes aside after a glance, teasing him for reading them through. ‘One glance is all you need,’ he’d been informed, ‘you can tell the right ones from the wrong ones five kliks in.’ But how could you tell? Because they had… a certain kind of name? A certain address?

“You’re just bitter,” Skywarp is spitting back, on the screen, “I don’t even care about getting a job! Okay? I don’t want to be the next Ponte! I just want to learn more about something I care about! Just because all you do with your degree is make drugs-”

"I do that for us!"  Starscream squawks. "It was your idea!"

“Stop, please,” Thundercracker says helplessly, “look, Skywarp, we’re happy for you! We are. But we just--we don’t think--that the academy would actually appreciate you. They--seekers don’t get treated very well there. We’re--we’re just worried.”

“Yeah,” Starscream says, crossing his arms. “We’re so worried.”

“Oh, sure,” Skywarp snaps. “And it has nothing to do with the fact that you’re both jealous that I have ambition and you don’t. That I know how to want something and you don’t!”

“We learned not to want anything! At the academy!” Starscream shrieks. “Because it doesn’t matter how good you are at something if you’re a seeker! One mistake and they’ll throw you out and no one will miss you, because all it’ll do is prove them right!”

“How dare you bring your baggage into this,” Skywarp snarls. “I looked you up before I fished you off the street, Screamer. I know why you got expelled.”

“Please,” Thundercracker wails, “stop-”

“You didn’t blow up a bunsen burner, Starscream! You got someone killed!”

“Fuck you!” Starscream launches the stack of mail across the room, where it flutters ineffectually to the floor. “Fine! You want to ruin your life? Go ahead! Go to the academy! But don’t you ever ask me for help again!”

He turns--moves for the door--

The scene freezes. Minimus glances to Thunderclash, who looks like he’s going to be sick, standing over the controls.

“I, um,” Thunderclash says, “I don’t think that’s our green cluster.”

Minimus looks down at his pedes. They’re a welcome reprieve from looking at Starscream’s furious, wounded, hideous expression. “No,” he says, “I don’t think it was, either. Shall we go back further?”

The sea is broad and blue and it smells like death. The train leaves a series of smooth round ripples in the surface of it, gliding on like something lighter than metal. Starscream watches them go, from the roof. He doesn’t say goodbye. He doesn’t want to. Good riddance! Good riddance to the biggest, reddest pain in his aft since Skywarp changed his paint job!

Ratchet goes to see them off, maybe just to watch the train pull up. Rodimus gives him a big, stupid, unearned hug, and Rung reaches out to shake his hand. When Ratchet turns to go, Rung continues to stare after him, expression unreadable. His arms stick ramrod straight down at his sides.

Starscream watches the train pull away. He watches it disappear over the horizon of blue water. He watches to see if they look back. They don’t.

And then he goes back downstairs into the house.

Ratchet is sitting on one of the couches, datapad in hand. He glances up and nods at Starscream as he comes back into the house, but doesn’t say anything to acknowledge him. Well. Good. If Ratchet is going to be Starscream’s brand new roommate, it’s good to establish that he’s not a big talker right away. Starscream hates it when people go on and on anyway--it’s just more time that he has to spend waiting around for his own chance to get a word in edgewise. He rifles around in the vault until he finds--what else?--room temperature engex and cracks it open.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, because the sound of the ocean is starting to creep him out a little bit, “you got a projector in here, High Mileage? Any kind of vidreel?”

“I’m not that worn out,” Ratchet grumbles, and then says, “but nah, unless you count sexless softcore scrap. They left me with one of those cortical things, in case you had some experience worth revisiting. I’ve already gotten bored of everything I have, but I’m open to new content.”

“I’m not going to let you watch me get railed, give me a break,” Starscream snaps, and throws a mouthful of engex back. It tastes like nothing. Great. “I was looking for something that could distract me from me.”

“Then you’re out of luck,” Ratchet says. “This place reflects back on a person. There's nothing here but you.”

Starscream rests his hip on one of the counters, tapping his glass with one long talon. He got them re-done at the salon in the Good Place, it made Ultra Magnus screw up his face and ask if that sort of vanity was really necessary. Huh, vanity. Minimus is the one who made a job out of pretending to be someone else--maybe he shouldn’t have been pointing fingers.

Maybe Starscream isn’t such a monster for letting them all rot. It’s them or him, after all--he didn’t get this far in his life by sticking his neck out for everyone who looked at him with big, sad optics.

“Actually,” he says, “there is something I wanted to rewatch. But it’s kind of personal.” He stares pointedly at Ratchet.

“Whatever,” Ratchet says, straightening up. “I’m gonna go self-service anyway, it’s almost night.”

“Of course you are,” Starscream says. He watches Ratchet disappear down the hall, then stares up at the projector.

It’s one of those old, post-war models that you have to pull down and hook on something. They had a million of these, back at the academy while he was there, for student presentations and lectures and who knows what else. Everyone said it was because the senate wouldn’t approve grants for the schools to get new equipment, but in hindsight, of course there was money coming from the senate, being funneled directly into professor’s pockets and those stupid project grants. Only ones that would turn a profit, of course, which the academy would take. Skyfire used to say--

Skyfire--

Starscream looks at the patch cord in his hand. He doesn’t need to plug into his actual processor, does he? He can just transfer files through this to the projector. That’s how he delivered presentations back at school. He’s pretty familiar with the tech, actually.

Hooking the cord into place on his arm, he starts to rifle through files he never deleted for one reason or another. School projects he’d just put too much work into before being expelled, the menus for his favorite restaurants, and… yes, there. ProjectRTH.zip, crammed full of mp4s. Ignoring the rising sick sensation in his tanks, he selects the first file… watches it load up on the projector… 

“Hello? Hello? This is a test,” says a familiar voice, and Starscream watches the video pan up, up, up, until it’s straight on with a face he remembers every crease and pockmark of. Skyfire, peering awkwardly into the lens of Starscream’s head-mounted camera, that brand-new blue stripe on his helm marking him the team leader, smiling despite himself. “Are you receiving?”

“Yeah, I got picture,” Starscream’s own voice replies, from behind the camera. “I’m getting audio readouts too. You’re looking good.”

“I’m always looking good,” Skyfire says, winking. The Starscream in the video groans. Starscream in the real world slowly sinks onto Ratchet’s dirty couch, optics glued to the projector. “Right, this is our last day on Cybertron before we go off-world. We’re stocked up with energon reserves, fuel, and our various equipment. We’ve plotted our course to System R, planet TH. And, of course, we’re very excited.” He throws two big thumbs-ups at the camera. “Starscream, what are you most excited for?”

“Hey! Focus! This is for our presentation!”

“Oh, I’ll edit it later,” Skyfire says, waving a hand. “Personally, I can’t wait to see a real, actual mountain. R-TH is supposed to have thousands of them. It’s also the only organic planet that we know supports life in System R. No one’s actually touched down there before. We’re the first! Isn’t this exciting?”

“I’m cutting you off now,” Starscream’s voice says, “we’re just wasting battery space if you’re not going to be serious.”

“Hey, I’ve got a few more--” 

The video feed cuts off. Starscream stares at the last frame, a frozen image of Skyfire with one finger up, blurred in motion. There’s a horrible feeling inside him, something alive and repulsive, like his plating is trying to crawl off his frame. He closes the window, opens the next file in the learned muscle memory of an addict. Green ground, blue sky, Skyfire in the middle of it.

“It’s the end of day three, so we’re checking in with the results of some soil samples,”  he says. “Starscream’s done some bang-up work in testing for natural energon veins. So far, we haven’t found anything, but we have found some fascinating chemical compounds that I’ve never seen occur naturally before. Wait, hang on--let me hold the camera--”

There’s a judder, a shaking of the lens, and then Starscream is centered in the frame. It’s almost repulsive to look at himself now; How young he looks, with that stupid unmodified frame, those scratched wings he thought were so fashionable, and--most damningly--that big, stupid smile on his face, those stupid, innocent optics. The face of a seeker who really thought the academy would let him become something, once he got his chance.

“Pathetic,” Starscream sneers up at the screen, lip curling. He throws back another gulp of engex to quell the desire to purge.

“This planet is almost exclusively water,” Starscream-on-screen is saying, “which would make this project almost impossible for a team of grounders to complete thoroughly. However, since we’re both fliers, we can easily hop from landmass to landmass without much trouble. So far, we’ve covered--”

“Skip,” Starscream mutters, bitterly, and quickly spins to the next file.

Himself, climbing out of the dismal muck of water and dirt from a distance, with a gentle sound of giggling in the background-- “Starscream fell in,” Skyfire’s voice whispers, just audible over the sound of on-screen-Starscream shrieking and kicking his feet to try and get sand off. He looks up--with a yelp, “are you recording this?”

Next file. Skyfire sneaking up on a huge organic creature with large tusks and fur all over its body, reaching a hand out tentatively to pet it--he looks to the camera, optics wide, smile wider, as his hand makes contact. “It’s soft,” he calls, excitedly.

On the couch, alone, Starscream opens his mouth and lets a sob fall out.

Next file. Great dunes of sand, too dirty to land on. Hard-won aerial photography.

Next file. Skyfire, pointing up at the night sky. “That one’s Cybertron,” he says. “Good thing there’s a space-bridge in the next system over. Can you imagine just trying to fly straight towards it? We’re probably looking at light from centuries ago. They’re figuring out functionism right now, I’ll bet.”

Next file. Starscream, poking dismally at a fire. “Despite the heat during the day, it gets quite cold at night,” he says, “we’re trying to keep our systems running normally, without going into overheat protocols, since it burns up too much energon.” Another dismal poke. “Survival gurus, we are not.”

Next file. Skyfire, flying over the tops of trees. Next file. Starscream, holding a small ore of raw energon in his talons, grinning like a lunatic. Next file. A huge chunk of ice floating through the ocean water around them. Next file. Skyfire, smiling and sleepy. “One more day,” he’s saying. “I know it’s cold, but the magnetic charge around here is just incredible. I need a few more readings. Then we’ll head back towards the green landmass, and we can get ready to fly home.”

“We’ve got enough samples already,” Starscream says from his place on the couch, in perfect time with Starscream-on-screen. “We should turn back now. Get out while the going’s good.”

“Just one more day,” Skyfire whines. “We’ve got redundant supplies for at least another two months. One more day. One more day won’t hurt.”

“You’re the boss,” Both Starscreams say. “If you want one more day, I’ll come along and complain.”

“I knew you would,” Skyfire says, smiling. “Let’s get some recharge.”

The file ends. There’s only one left. Starscream doesn’t want to watch it.

“Coward,” he mutters to himself. “Look at it.” He deserves it. Deserves the way it feels.

Last file. An empty landscape, filmed from inside a half-drowned cave. Grey sky. Screaming wind. Snow coming down in thick chunks.

“I’m running out of fuel,” Starscream’s voice says, laden with static from undercharge. “I can’t… I can’t find him anywhere. There’s no rescue coming. I have to go back alone.”

Starscream throws his empty glass on the ground. “No,” he chokes out, processor whirling, optics glitching, “no--” 

He is being suffocated, he is being--crushed, he slams a hand into the side of his helm to force his vents to open. They blast hot air, his engine revs, everything is too much and he cannot stop what is--happening, what is happening, what is--

He is--

He is drinking and the engex burns so right, and he can see, can focus all over again. His vents blast. The inside of the fuel-vault is pouring cool air onto his face, and he closes his optics and slumps forward on his knees and drinks. It hurts--it always hurts, but he can make it go away, he can swallow it down. If he just drinks enough… 

“Here,” says Ratchet, who is standing in the doorway, “take one of these.”

He’s holding out a bottle of pills, and Starscream graciously snatches it out of his hand and throws two back. “What are they?” he asks, once they’re down the hatch. “Ecstasy or something?”

“They’re anti-churns,” Ratchet says, crossing his arms over his chassis. “You purged in the sink.”

“What? I didn’t do that.”

“Tell that to the sink,” Ratchet says. “What were you watching? Some snuff flick you saved on your hard-drive?”

“None of your business,” Starscream says. He drinks more.

“I know you’re feeling guilty,” Ratchet says, shaking his head. “Letting your friends go back without you. You’re reacting pretty strongly to it.”

“This has nothing to do with them,” Starscream snaps. “I gave up on feeling guilty! It never does anything except waste good liquor.” He holds a hand up and smiles bitterly. “I only look out for number one,” he says. “Me first! Other people can’t be trusted to take care of themselves, that’s their problem. I’m the one who made it out, I’m the one--if you want to make it in this world, you’ve got to be number one! You’ve got to win, win, win! It’s not enough to be first place, you’ve got to--you’ve got to push anyone who comes close to you back down. You’ve got to--protect them…” 

Ratchet stares at him. “Huh,” he says. “Riveting.”

“Don’t you dare judge me,” Starscream snarls, snapping his head back to look at Ratchet for the first time in their conversation. “Look at yourself! You’re a medic who couldn’t even make it into the Good Place!”

“Believe me, I’ve looked at myself long enough,” Ratchet says. “I told you, this place reflects back on whoever’s inside. It makes you look at yourself.” His mouth screws up to the side. “Guess you didn’t like what you saw.”

“There’s nothing to like,” Starscream says, “I know what I am! I know what I deserve, but guess what! They can’t get me! All they can do is appeal to my better self, like I didn’t throw him overboard eons ago.”

“And you shoot at him when he comes up for air,” Ratchet says. “I know how that one goes.”

Starscream cranks open another can of engex meditatively. This is--a fight, somehow, this is a standoff between himself and the big horny medibot. He’s got to stop charging in thoughtlessly. There’s a strategy, here, there’s--there’s got to be a win scenario.

Ratchet doesn’t seem to be going on the offense. He’s watching Starscream, looking down at him where he’s sprawled on the floor in front of the household’s engex. There’s nothing particularly calculating in his eyes--he’s waiting for Starscream to attack. He’s ready for it.

“What are you running from?” Starscream asks.

“Nothing as bad as you, I’m sure,” Ratchet says. “Things I didn’t do the right way. Missed opportunities. Mistakes I made, intentions that… actions without intention.” He looks away, stares across the room at the sink. “I saved millions of lives,” he says, and it sounds hollow, “sometimes because it was the right thing to do, but more often just because it was my job.” 

He pauses, like he’s waiting for a biting comment from Starscream. Starscream takes a sip.

“I loved my patients,” he says, “I cared for them, poured everything out for them, and then when they left, I let them go. It’s easier to care about people you never have to see again than the people you see every day.” He looks at the couch. “This was my apartment when I was studying medicine,” he says, distantly. “I had a chance back then, but I didn't take it. There was someone else here with me…”

“Someone you didn’t care about,” Starscream says. “Because it was too hard.”

“Now you’re catching on,” Ratchet says. “You understand that, don’t you? It’s too hard to care about people who care about you. You don’t fall into the sunk-cost fallacy--just because you’ve put effort into caring doesn’t mean you’ve got to go on like that.” He nods. “You and I have a lot in common, that way.”

Starscream thinks about another fuel-vault, one in an apartment he doesn’t live in anymore. He thinks about Thundercracker desperately trying to mean something to him and about Skywarp hunting him down, pulling him off the street tooth and nail to get him a job. Rodimus, coming up to see him on the roof. Rung’s little hand on his own, Thunderclash’s hand on his shoulder. Skyfire, beside him, believing him, smiling at him. Minimus--

Minimus--

“No,” he says, swallowing, “I’m not like you.”

Unsteadily, he gets to his feet. Ratchet holds out a hand, and he takes it, lets himself be helped. “Easy,” Ratchet says.

“I’m not like you,” Starscream says again. “At least, I don’t want to be.”

Ratchet raises an eyebrow at him. “First of all, ouch,” he says. And then, “So, what are you still doing here?”

Starscream stares at him unsteadily, and then stares at the door. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters, downs the rest of his can in a few swift gulps, and sprints towards it. He stops, one hand on the doorknob. Glances over his shoulder, where Ratchet is standing in the kitchen, smiling like he planned this.

“Sorry about the sink,” Starscream says. And then he transforms, and for the first time since his death, he flies.

They stare, speechless, at the featureless white screen. Well, almost featureless. In the flurry of perfect white, a single blue hand is just barely visible through the driving snow. They’ve been standing like this for several minutes, neither sure what to say to the other since Thunderclash hit the pause button on a wail of misery so raw that watching it felt like intruding on the presence of Starscream’s very spark. 

“And what do you bots think you’re doing?”

Thunderclash and Minimus whirl, panicked, to find Pharma standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. One of his fingers beats a tattoo on his plating.

“We,” Thunderclash starts, and then exchanges a pained look with Minimus, “we were…”

“We were using the memory viewer,” says Minimus, who wouldn’t know how to lie if someone had presented him with a fifteen step user manual. “Which is not technically violating any laws or rules laid down during the last two days, although it is most likely prohibited.”

“It certainly is,” Pharma says, narrowing his eyes. 

“Apologies,” Minimus says. “But we had to know.”

“And are you satisfied?” Pharma asks. “Have you picked out the pattern, do you feel that you understand everything now?”

Minimus feels himself heating up in--in shame, perhaps. Because Pharma’s tone is so poisonously patronizing, and because in fact he had just been thinking that if there had been a pattern, this scene simultaneously validated and decimated it.

Certainly, Starscream had some measure of concern for Minimus, although who could ever know how much was self preservation and how much was genuine warm feeling. Yes, he destroyed his hands trying to resuscitate Ultra Magnus, and yes he often defended Minimus from Rodimus’ ribbing despite making fun of Minimus himself in (presumably) a light hearted way that had become more tolerable with each passing week, but there’s no way that Starscream really cares for Minimus in the way that Minimus--that Minimus could , perhaps, care for Starscream. And it had been tolerable, because he had believed Starscream was too hurt and too badly healed to care for anyone that way. He had never been allowed to grow into a full person, stunted and caged and growing into the twisted shape of his cage.

And then this. This screaming and weeping in the snow.

The agony and ecstasy of knowing Starscream is capable of such feelings and sentiments, but that they will never be directed at Minimus Ambus, it’s all too much. He looks away and closes his arms around himself. 

“Well then,” Pharma says, with a mirthless smile, “if you’re all done, then, Tarn is on his way back with the runaways, and you might like me to reset the viewer before he notices what you’ve been doing?”

Thunderclash hastily steps aside. “They’re back?” he asks. “They came back?”

“Well, yours did,” Pharma says. “Hot Rod and Rung just pulled into the station.” 

Minimus’s fuel pump appears to have begun pumping coolant instead of fuel, which is strange, because none of this surprises him. “Just them?” he says, his voice oddly far away.

Pharma makes short work of the machine, speeding it back to that black screen where it had been left. “Just them,” Pharma confirms. “They were babbling something about making a deal, but knowing Tarn, I doubt it’s going over well. Tarn won’t see a construct as a fair exchange for a resident. One of the two of you is probably going to end up pulled by the end of the day.”

“One of the two of us?” Minimus repeats.

“Sure,” Pharma says, disengaging from the screen. “I mean, technically it’s Minimus’ sparkmate who’s still MIA, but Thunderclash, you’re so noble and self sacrificing, I’m sure you don’t want to let a friend of yours go to their eternal damnation for a crime they didn’t commit.”

Minimus feels, rather than sees, Thunderclash stiffen at the same time that he himself stiffens. They do not look at each other. Minimus wants desperately to ask what the nature of damnation has in store for him, in a concrete sense, but he cannot bring himself to ask in front of Thunderclash, not after that. It would be too much like manipulation.

And honestly, he isn’t certain if the thought of going or letting Thunderclash go on his behalf bothers him more.

“Maybe,” Thunderclash says, “Starscream is still on the train.”

“Mm, I doubt that,” Pharma says. “The engine disappears when Rung isn’t there to summon it.” 

Thunderclash winces. He’s seen the ugly truth now, they both have. Minimus wonders what he’s thinking--how he dares to hope for anything, after seeing all that. 

“Do you think,” Thunderclash says, and then swallows and starts again. “Do you think he’ll come back for us?”

“Oh, Thunderclash,” Pharma says, with a little laugh that feels horribly out of place, “no one comes to save you. You have to save yourself.”

And then there’s a summons from the hall, in an impatient rumble, and Pharma turns on a heel to go help. Tarn has apparently made three cocktails in three different shades of pink, each with a different tiny umbrella perched on their rim, and Pharma comes back in carrying all three of them, one tucked into his elbow precariously. Rodimus and Rung come trailing in behind them, looking small and uncertain. Or, at least, Rodimus does, with his uncertain grin. Rung looks preoccupied, a faint frown furrowing his eyebrows.

“Hey,” Rodimus says, with the smallest wave at his neighbors.

Thunderclash offers him a smile and a matching wave. “Welcome home,” he says.

Rodimus’s grin stutters and wavers for a klik before turning into something more complicated.

“Well!” Pharma says, arms still full of drinks, “if that’s everyone--”

From somewhere outside the window, there’s a faint sound of cataclysmic shattering. Minimus turns sharply, frowning, but he can’t make anything out past the delicate leadwork of the stained glass. There’s a sound like boosters firing. Thunderclash stiffens; Rodimus begins to smile.

And then the window shatters in a rain shower of yellow and red glass, as Starscream catapults onto the room.

Starscream, unfortunately, underestimated his own velocity and therefore hits the far wall of the blue parlor going at least 60 mph in a corkscrew; fortunately, this is the Good Place, and so he bounces off the wall paneling like a pong ball and skids to a stop on the backs of his wings at Rodimus’ feet. 

“Ta-da!” he says, giving a woozy attempt at jazz hands. 

Rodimus grins down at him. “Glad you could make it.”

Starscream’s left thruster gives a stressed little pop of smoke. “Third time’s the charm!”

Minimus--oh there he is--says, “Where was the first place you demolished?”

“Huh?”

“You said, third time’s the charm,” Minimus says. “If your house was the second thing you smashed, what was the first?”

Starscream painstakingly rolls himself over onto his arm, wings gouging the nice floor. “I don’t have time for a math lesson, okay, I flew all the way here from the middle of rusty aft end of nowhere and I’m--” His arm slides out from under him, as he’s trying to push up, and his helm thunks against the floor. “I’m a little drunk,” he finishes. 

Rodimus gets an arm under his arm and helps lever him to his feet. 

“I can make you not drunk anymore,” Rung offers, looking way more disapproving than a construct ought to be able to.

“No! It’s courage! Liquid type, er, courage,” Starscream says. “This is very hard for me.”

“I’m going to make you not drunk anymore,” Rung says, firmly, and then suddenly the gyroscopes of the world kick back in, and Starscream’s fuzzy vision does a hard reset. He staggers hard to the left, and stumble-knocks into Rodimus’s side. 

“See if I ever save your ungrateful aft again, you narc,” he mutters, clutching his ringing helm. After a second of setting himself right again, Starscream straightens up. “Alright,” he says. “I’m not used to this heroics stuff, so I’m not sure how this next part goes. Roddy, what are we doing here? You wanna give me a crash course in self sacrifice?”

“Real talk?” Rodimus says. “I don’t fraggin know either, dude. I’ve never done this before. Normally I’m more the guns blazing, last stand type.”

“Fat lot of good you are,” Starscream mutters. And then he turns around, to where Pharma is delicately picking shards of glass out of his seams, and looks past that to where Tarn is waiting. Silently. Like a motherboard-fragging ghost of judgement or some such dross.

“I don’t suppose we could negotiate something here?” he says, weakly. “Maybe a work release program? Community service? I’ve got lots of skills.”

“Love the enthusiasm,” Pharma says, flicking a chunk of glass out of his shoulder vents, “but do you really think we would let someone with your record wander around the afterlife?”

“Hey, I wasn’t all bad!”

“Starscream,” Pharma says, with false patience, “you cooked syk and sold it to a dealer who targeted vulnerable addicts. For years. You listed this as your ‘side hustle’ on robot twitter.”

Starscream points at Pharma. “Okay, yes, but I only did that so I could take my friends out to nice dinners! Where we boosted the economy by purchasing drinks at restaurants, got drunk, and then patronized the arts by heckling singers on stage until they stopped in the middle of their act to yell at us!” He paused. Rewound the mental tape. “...I realize this doesn’t sound as good out loud as it did in my head.”

“Honestly? We didn’t even expect you to come back,” Pharma says. “You’ve kind of thrown off my plans here, actually. But, now that we’re all together again, we can-”

“Where were you?” Tarn cuts in, his rumble shattering Pharma’s tittering little voice like canonfire. 

“Uh, pardon?” Starscream says.

“Where were you hiding?” Tarn asks. “Who was harboring you?”

“Uhhhh,” Starscream says, because he doesn’t like Tarn’s tone but he can’t figure out where the pit trap in it is. “The medium place?”

“ What,” Tarn says, “ medium place?”

Starscream and Rodimus exchange a confused look. It’s only as he’s turning back to Tarn that he notices Pharma, standing frozen, something like terror in his eyes. 

“We were staying with Ratchet,” Starscream says, slowly, “You know. Frag load of water, rickety dock, bad engex? The medium place.”

There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Pharma,” Tarn says.

“Haha,” Pharma says. “Ha. Oh. Yes, I was going to… tell you about that.”

“Ratchet?” Thunderclash echoes, from across the room.

“What? You were going to tell me that you created a safe room?” Tarn snarls, his voice thundering like heavy rain. “What is this medium place, into which all your subjects can slip away?”

“Yeah, he was this super cool medibot,” Rodimus is saying to Thunderclash, “you would’ve loved him, dude, he was super weird and his place was a mess. Totally pre-Functionism, totally retro. He was, like, so into porn, also, Minimus, did you know Starscream’s in a porno?”

“What,” Minimus says.

Pharma throws his hands up. “It was experimental!” he yelps, stumbling back. “I had to see what I could do with the space, that’s all! I--I swear I didn’t know it was still functional, I didn’t know the train could get there! I swear! I didn’t know we could get locked out! I’ll fix it, I swear, I can--”

“I have had enough of your side projects,” Tarn says. “We are going to have a talk.” He reaches out, as if to grab Pharma by the throat.

Here is what Starscream understands in that moment, faster than calculating the chemical reaction of oxygen and heat: Starscream has vivid and storied experience with violence, whereas Pharma is some kind of immortal heavenly construct (and not even a very competent one) who presumably wouldn’t even know how to take a punch let alone give one, and when one person has a strength and another person has a weakness, all you can do is band together and hope for the best.

And maybe all that conscientious showboating and moral posturing has sunken in deeper than he thought it would, or maybe he's always known the right thing deep down, because he doesn’t have to think about it; this time, instead of just standing there and saying it’s not his problem, he moves. 

Tarn’s huge wrist thunks into Starscream’s hand. Wings flared out between Pharma and the tank-looking motherforker with the bad justice habit, Starscream says “Back off. Now.”

Tarn stares at him.

“If you don’t back off,” he says, “we’re gonna find out if that can’t get hurt in the Good Place rule still applies to things from outside the system.” And then Starscream starts the power up sequence for his null rays, letting the buzz and crackle of heat near Tarn’s captured wrist make his bluff for him. Primus, he hopes this works. If he has to blow confetti on this guy, it’s barely going to give him long enough to snatch Pharma up and blast off. 

But after a second, Tarn withdraws. His ember glowing eyes regard Starscream with something almost like amusement. “They’ve made such a hero out of you, haven’t they?” he says. “Not that it matters, does it? You’re mine now.”

Starscream braces himself.

“Is anybody going to listen to me!” Thunderclash yells. “I know Ratchet! I knew him back on Cybertron! He’s not dead!”

You could have heard a pin drop.

“He--what?” Starscream spares a glance towards Thunderclash, optics barely shifting away from Tarn, just for a second. “What does that--wait, what does that mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything!” Pharma says hurriedly. “Time works differently here, in the Good Place. Why do you think we measure everything in Jeremy Bearimys? We can’t use kliks or vorns or cycles because they don’t really mean anything. This--Ratchet character, whoever he is, he might have--have died right after you, in some horrible accident, and been assigned to the medium place that I built as, as, as a warm-up! I don’t know! It’s a bureaucratic nightmare out there! None of you know what kind of paperwork you have to go through to build a neighborhood like this, it’s really--”

“Ratchet was placed in the Medium Place a full two Jeremy Bearimys before this neighborhood began construction,” Rung interrupts, chirruping happy little facts with his arms clasped behind his back. “He has been here since long before any of our wonderful residents arrived.”

The room swivels to look at Pharma, who is staring, denta gritted, white-faced, at Rung. “Nobody,” he hisses, “asked you, Rung. You are not designed to initiate conversation! You answer questions.”

“Thunderclash was going to,” Rung says. “He has his little ‘about to ask a question’ face on.” He glances at Thunderclash and smiles. Awkwardly, Thunderclash smiles back. “It’s the same one he always has when he calls me, and it’s adorable. And frankly, Pharma, I don’t think I like your tone.”

“Yeah, I also don’t like your tone,” Rodimus says, “Starscream, I thought you were cool, how come you’re out here defending this clown?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do, at the time,” Starscream says, guns pointed akimbo, “but, uh, yeah, the energy has gotten so out of whack in, like, a couple of seconds. Now it seems like the wrong choice? I don’t know for sure, morality isn’t really my strong suit--Minimus!” 

“You really think it’s cute?” Thunderclash is saying, hands on his cheeks.

“I’m here,” Minimus calls. There he is--tiny, with one arm raised, like he’s worried Starscream won’t be able to see him without a visual cue. 

“Minimus, did I frag this up,” Starscream asks, “I thought I was being moral, but it seems like things changed, and now I’m doing something bad.”

“Intention is the birthplace of morality,” Minimus says, “before the wheels of the justice system comes intent. Why does Rodimus have access to your pornographic video, in which you starred?”

“Okay, I hate everyone in this room,” Starscream says. “Just to be clear.” He raises his other arm, blaster crackling with charge, and points it at Pharma. “I’ve had a suspicion from the start,” he says. “Basically the start. Very early on, anyway. But nobody believed me when I said this was the Bad Place! Minimus, I told you this was the Bad Place just a couple weeks ago!”

“Starscream, please come away from there,” Minimus says, wringing his little hands.

“The Magnus Suit getting perma-busted,” Starscream steamrolls ahead, “the constant disasters, the nonsense housing arrangements, Vega! It’s all a sick mind game designed to make us feel as bad as we can possibly feel for the rest of our afterlives. I’ve never been this anxious in my entire life! And I used to work in a Syk lab! This is the Pit, I’m telling you, and we’re getting worked over like a slab of crude copper!”

Minimus reaches his arms out, like he’s trying to clasp Starscream to him. Or just grab him. But the clasping thing feels more romantic. “I believe you now, all right? It’s--it’s obvious we’re being lied to."

With unsteady footwork, Starscream starts to twist his way out of the position he’s in, guns pointed, backing up slowly. He can probably carry Minimus out of here. Maybe he can rely on Rodimus to follow his lead, grab Rung and Thunderclash when they bolt.

And then Pharma starts laughing. Hysterical, frightening laughter, laughter like the prowling cry of an apex predator at night. He bends forward, hands on his knees, shoulder vents wheezing and rattling. Light glints off the shattered yellow glass at his feet.

“The bad place,” Pharma gasps, “the bad place! That’s amazing, this is hysterical. You think you’re in the bad place?” 

He levers himself back upright with an unsteady grace, and there’s something wild in his blazing blue eyes. He claps his hands together.  “You fucking morons! You’re not even dead!”

Chapter Text

“It’s been a good run, folks,” their captain says, lifting his mud-black rotgut up in a mockery of a toast. “You stripped this blasted planet dry, you did. What more can a cold con ask for but to do his Primus-and-Senate given duty?”

Every energon seeker in the barracks lifts their own rotgut in answer. There’s a palpable feeling of black misery, darker and thicker than any barrel-brewed tranq mix. They received the word this morning, after the last of the squadron had come back from routine maneuvers. They had expected word of their next assignment, telling them which section of the planet's dwindling wilderness to grid off and scour next. They expected the day to arrive like all the days before.

The turnover rate in their line of work is brutal and fast, and Starscream is young, for a Cybertronian. He’s barely had enough time to pay back the company for the cost of his assembly and onlining. Like everyone else in this room, these barracks are the only home he's ever known.

“Here’s to y’all,” their captain says. “Do your next job worse, whatever it is! Maybe you’ll keep it for longer.”

The captain has the same face as the rest of them, the same body, the same fingers and thrusters. His serial number reads 1/500 B:A. Someday, when another seeker leans across the bar at Thundercracker's place, showing off his obviously counterfeit 1/500 B:A serial with his bubbly solvent-spritzer in hand, Starscream will remember this moment: their captain smiling mirthlessly - his mud black rotgut - the look in his eyes as he watched his squad drink their toast, not yet knowing what awaited all of them. If he had known then about the relinquishment clinics, the off-world contracts for seeker assignments in the dirt and the wilderness, the gutters and the porn, would he have given a different toast? Would there have been anything else to say?

“But where will we go?” asks an acid green seeker, as Starscream tips his sludge back into his mouth and takes a shot-

The diamonds of the draping chandelier glitter with blue light above them all. Starscream lays his tray of drinks down. The lounge hums with a low vibration of chatter, while this particular party holds court at the pristine center of it all.

“You’re a pretty one,” says the senator, his black racing stripe flashy and daring among all these reserved whites and blues. “Much too pretty for wait staff. Why don’t you have a drink with us, gorgeous?”

All his sycophants and aides pretend not to watch, rings on their fingers, golden bands on their antennae. Starscream pulls away coyly, fluttering his ailerons. The senator’s keen gaze follows the movement.

“I don’t know,” Starscream says, pressing a claw tip to his lips. “I’m on the clock, I could get in an awful lot of trouble with my boss. You’d have to make it worth my while.”

“Oh,” the senator purrs, “I think I can manage that.”

The senator lifts his hand, an implicit command which Starscream obeys—he accepts the hand and allows himself to be pulled into the lap below. There’s plenty to be had in this world, if you work for it. Gold rings are easy to remove, especially with a little playful tongue work. Subspaces are easy to hack, especially with a little engex to take the edge off of a mech’s vigilance. If you work, and you work hard for it…

Starscream watches with envious eyes as the Senator lifts his clear, lovely, pale engex and takes a—

“You know I’m thinking of getting out of here,” Starscream says, with a flute of bubbly suspended languidly between his fingers.

“Out of the party?” asks the junior aide. His name is Screwshine. It’s a clunky freighter name for a clunky freighter, out of place among the jumped up Vos wanna-be elite. He is holding his drink like it’s the only lifeline in an uncaring spatial vacuum. Condensation drips down his fingers, as the engex spritzer starts to approach temperature equilibrium with the rest of the stuffy room.

“Out of Vos,” Starscream says.

“Out of—” Screwshine says, “out of Vos? Where would you go?”

They started work at the Senatorial office the same week. Six hundred years ago. They’ve both watched newer fresher faces climb the ranks all around them, bots of better classes rocketing to the top of the billboard with promotions and elections, campaigns all their own. He can call himself a personal assistant all he wants, but Starscream is still barely better than a server with a nice polish; Screwshine is still running data pads between buildings for signatures.

“Anywhere,” Starscream says. He does not look at Screwshine as he says, “I’m applying for Nova Point Academy. You could come with me.”

Screwshine’s clunky landing gear doesn't glitter in the light, matte and heavy. There are several million shanix left in Senator Sherma’s campaign fund. It would easy for a little bit of that to disappear into a savvy pocket.

“Oh no,” Screwshine says nervously, hiding his face in his drink. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. I have a good thing going here. Where else is a delivery model going to find a job mostly indoors?”

Starscream lifts his own drink to his mouth. “That’s fine,” he says, as Screwshine makes a big show of noticing some else it's necessary to talk to. With a narrow little smile at nothing and no one, he adds, “I was going to rob you at the station anyway.”

He knows the flavor will be stale and cheap, but even so, he takes a—

“The rest doesn’t matter!” Skyfire insists, holding out his cube of roiling green moonshine. “Who cares why they said yes! You’re in!”

“As an energon seeker,” Starscream snarls. “Not as a scientist, not as the one who wrote the cornerstone paper on chemical entropy, not as the one who invented the retrograde vacuum induction method!” He sweeps documents off his desk and onto the floor in a fury of hardcopy and bouncing datapads. “Just a seeker, after all this.”

Skyfire shakes his head. He’s too big for the chairs they keep in the dorms, so he’s knelt in front of Starscream’s rickety little table. His massive presence in Starscream’s already small habsuite ought to make the place feel claustrophobic, but instead, it almost feels… close, like an embrace.

For ages and ages, Skyfire has been campaigning to get Starscream on the roster for his survey mission. It's an incredible opportunity, not just to learn but to build a career, a stepping stone for even the most unlikely student to climb out of the crustacean bucket once and for all. Skyfire, with his space-faring alt, with his solid scores and winning smile, has not stopped petitioning the grant committee for Starscream's approval since they greenlit the expedition a vorn ago.

All the papers, all the peer reviews and research and assessments, and the only reason they finally added his name to the roster was because a couple thousand years ago he'd rolled off an assembly line for the sole purpose of evaluating terrain for resources.

“Even if that’s part of why they let me take you,” Skyfire says, “it’s an opportunity, not a life sentence. You’ve got a chance here to show them what you can really do! Starscream, you’re brilliant! We both know it. So show them how brilliant you are.”

He holds out the moonshine again.

“I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge,” Skyfire says, in a voice so warm that it seems ready to melt the ice caps of an entire world, send a dark planet spinning dizzily into spring.

The engex is murky, it filters the light strangely. The bots down in the e-chem lab brew up a mean moonshine. It will taste like bunsen burners and formaldehyde, which Starscream knows, because he’s brewed more than his share of the stuff when tuition came up tight. Skyfire holds it out, shining with a kind of clarity Starscream has never tasted, and Starscream reaches out, Starscream takes the—

The red minibot slams his fist on the counter, overcharged and steaming, shouting at whoever is nearest—the barkeep, or the old bulldozer knocking back a Silurian Sunrise, or the gaggle of sooty bots just off shift from the waste disposal plant. There’s something in his hand, something flimsy and bright and familiar.

“You know when we elected the functionist party, it was supposed to be all ‘no one ever without a job!’ but I say-" he waves the flimsy hardcopy, "– what do you call this?”

The red bot slams his notice-of-contract-termination form down on the table. At the register, the barkeep subtly cashes out his tab. Starscream can't be bothered to pity one more lamed and furious lost soul. He's all dry of pity. His mouth tastes of snow and alien seas, his tanks are heavy with the mud of another world.

Slumped in the tripod of his own elbows, Starscream offlines his optics and takes a—

The bar howls. Skywarp and Starscream grab each other by the waists and spin, hips grinding, wings bouncing. People lift their cups and cubes out of the way as they whirl across the bartop, their thrusters never slipping in all the frothing spillage. Skywarp dips Starscream, and Starscream flips up two fingers, licking the engex-sticky crevasse between them as he makes eye contact with the mech in the back booth.

Delighted jeers rattle the tinted windows, rattle the shelves of bottles behind Thundercracker, who is polishing glassware in time to the music. The mech in the booth curls his finger at Starscream.

Skywarp rights him and spins him effortlessly into Thundercracker’s grip. The blue seeker catches him and lowers him to the floor, glass still held in his free hand. It’s so easy, the way they lift and pass each other, the thoughtless synchronicity between the three of them. Thundercracker presses a cube of something into his grip and twirls him out past the edge of the bar. Starscream half staggers across the floor, grinning and high and full of the prospect of money, of more engex, of Skywarp and Thundercracker at his back cheering for more.

He tips back his head, steadying himself on the back of a chair, and takes a—

Starscream looks down the sights of a fusion canon. He feels a broad hand press against the small of his back, a touch that is at once proprietary and barely-there.

Ten thousand megatons of explosive power. Their planet is already an inferno, a smoking tar trap, the air so thick that you can’t walk through it without needing to scrape your vents. The blackened heavens glow purple with Decepticon lights, all of them but this one, last, red flicker. This one last unscarred field. The familiar outline of Iacon remains, brittle and proud against the coal-smeared skyline.

“Go ahead,” the low voice says, somewhere behind him, and in the rumble of that voice Starscream is a targeting system, a set of fingers, a fuel pump and a madly spinning spark, he is the ghosting warmth of a broad grey hand against his armor.

“Or can’t you even do this right?” Megatron says.

Starscream releases a vent of hot air. He stills his shaking fingers. He lines up his target sights, and

(his home is a smoking ruin his world is a dead thing he can taste the tar in his throat he can feel the incinerated bodies in his vents,)

he takes the shot.

.

..

....

Chapter Text

Then:

What can you say about Delphi that a hundred miners snapping icicles from their frozen backs haven’t said about it before? It’s white, it’s cold, it’s snow on top of stone on top of a cooling molten core on top of a sector of space just a little too far from anything else to be worth stopping on. When Prowl asked Pharma to come here, he’d painted it as a little bit of pre-war stability, a quiet vacation from the war front where Pharma could stretch his wings and actually get some research done again.

You’re cracking, Prowl had said to him, because that’s the kind of thing Prowl said to people, and the words hit Pharma like a wedge driven into a transformation seam. 

Cracking. Pharma didn’t crack. He was a prodigy, first in his class, a pioneer in experimental surgery, cool under pressure at the operating table. Ratchet didn’t crack, and Pharma was twice the doctor his never-quite-a-conjunx was. 

His pride would have kept him in the Deltaran facility, just to spite Prowl, except that Ratchet took off to some mudball planet without saying goodbye, and then it was just another echo chamber in a long line of echo chambers reflecting back the ghost of where Ratchet had been.

Anyway, it was not relaxing, or a vacation, on Delphi.

Had Prowl not known, then, that the last medical chief on Delphi was killed by the DJD? That the nucleon vein their autobot mining wing had dug up on Delphi attracted psychopaths like scavengers to a fresh corpse? That he was sending Pharma into the graveyard of his predecessor, witless?

Oh, Prowl knew everything. Of course he had known.

The little ship touches down on Delphi out of the blue--or out of the white, as it may be, there’s been a blizzard here for the last two hundred days and it shows no sign of stopping--just as Pharma is wrapping up an autopsy in which a transformation cog has been neatly removed and bagged for testing later on with all the appropriate paperwork citing trace corrosives and worry for facility health. It’s not strange that a medical officer might be wary of unknown contaminants in the body of a working mech. It’s an alien planet. Who knows what sorts of micro-cultures might be growing inside all of them?

The proximity alarm for the landing pad goes off in the middle of scrubdown, and Pharma startles so hard that the clamp he was sterilizing shoots out of his hands and goes bouncing around the soapy sink. They’re early, is his first, panicked thought.

But it’s just the little orange ship on the video feed, when Pharma scrambles to pull it up. He slumps, hands in the sink, solvent rushing around his numb fingers. The ship is registered to autobot medical, when he checks the credentials. 

There’s a ping on his private frequency. What? He hasn’t given that out since before the war--everyone around here uses inter-autobot radio. Private comms are insecure and anyway, too personal, too private…

“This is Pharma,” he says, accepting the call in spite of everything, thinking, it could be Ratchet, it could be-

“Pharma, I’m so glad I caught you,” says a pleasant little voice, warm and polite. Not Ratchet. Nothing like Ratchet. Pharma’s treacherous spark contracts.

“I’m very busy,” Pharma says, which is sort of true, “who is this?”

“Oh, ah.” There’s a burst of silence, unreadable. “I suppose it has been a while. It’s Rung, Pharma. Don’t you recognize my frequency?”

Pharma stiffens, wings jerking upward, as he abruptly remembers. Rung, of course. How could he forget Rung?

“Sorry,” Pharma says, “I’m a little scattered right now--yes, Rung, of course. What are you doing here? Last I heard you were babysitting the Wreckers after that Pova debacle.”

“Why don’t you come up to the landing deck and show me to the guest barracks? We can talk there.”

“Guest… barracks…” Pharma says. He has a sinking sensation like a boat taking on water. “Rung, you can’t stay here. We can refuel you and resupply you for wherever you’re going, but you can’t stay here.”

“Why not?” Rung counters.

Because there’s far worse things on this planet than the cold, and several of them are due to drop in on me in a matter of days, Pharma does not say. What he does say is, “First Aid! You demoted him, Rung, you knocked him back down to nurse and it wasn’t very long ago. I don’t want any more trouble with my staff, it’s hard enough to keep people out here.”

There’s a hint of a smile in Rung’s voice as he replies: “You let me worry about First Aid, alright? I’ve dealt with much scarier autobots than one obsessive nurse.”

“But-”

“Just come meet me at the landing deck. I want to talk with you.”

Rung of the Pious Pools never seemed to change. The first time Pharma had met the mech, he’d been teaching at Iacon Medical College, giving a course called “Theoretics of Behavioral Neuroscience” which Pharma took out of spite, because his last advisor had said something like, you are only a medivac unit, after all; you won’t need any of these philosophical courses. In his memory, Rung looks exactly the same--neat and small, in a friendly approachable orange. He’d been a professor, then, but there wasn’t much room in the world for professors now.

Rung steps down into the loading bay, brushing snow from his shoulders as the doors grind shut behind him.

“Pharma!” he says, brightly, holding his hands open just so, inviting Pharma to embrace him without drawing too much attention to the invitation. “I’m so glad to see you in the metal again, finally.”

Pharma can’t bring himself to accept a hug, not with his nerve relays raw from worry. Instead, he reaches out and squeezes both of Rung’s hands briefly, before letting them fall. 

Rung gives his hands a thoughtful look. “How are you doing, Pharma?”

Pharma steps back. “Did Prowl send you to evaluate me?” he asks, optics narrowing. “I’m fine, I’m doing just fine out here except my actuators are frozen stiff most days.”

“No, Pharma, no one sent me.” Rung gestures meaningfully towards the door. “Walk with me?”

“I don’t really seem to have a choice,” Pharma grumbles.

“Oh Pharma,” Rung says, lightly, “you always have a choice.”

The halls are sparse and dim; most of the facility’s power goes to keeping the heat on and operating the machines in the long-term care ward. There are a dozen nurses and three ward managers, a handful of general doctors, and Pharma, the surgeon. The halls are generally pretty empty, except for when there’s an all-hands emergency. Rung quizzes him about the staff, about their personalities and ambitions, their specialties, as they walk.

“And you?” Rung asks, finally, when they reach the operating theater. “How is command treating you? I know you once had ambitions of chiefing a facility like this.”

Lonely, Pharma doesn’t say. “Oh, it’s rewarding enough, I suppose. I’d really prefer to be heading somewhere more central to the army, it’s not terribly prestigious, overseeing a backwater mining facility on a lifeless snowball. You can tell Prowl I said that.”

“If it comes up,” Rung agrees, “but as I told you, he didn’t send me.”

“Then why are you here?” Pharma demands.

Rung stops walking. He turns to Pharma, his eyebrows gently furrowed over his expressionless glasses. “Are you well, Pharma?” he asks. “I can see streaks on your plating. There’s dried fluid between your finger joints. I’ve never seen you anything less than perfectly groomed outside the operating room.”

“I’m fine!” Pharma says. “I’m busy! Anyway there’s no one to show off for here, is there!” 

Rung gives him a look too knowing to be borne. Pharma whirls, stalking off down the hall, half hoping Rung won’t follow, knowing that he will.

“I’m not your student,” Pharma says, “I haven’t been your student in millennia.”

“No, of course not,” Rung says. 

“I don’t need you hovering over me, coddling me like some kind of idiot newbuild. I have it under control. I’m a soldier now.”

“Are you a soldier, Pharma? I thought you were a doctor?”

Pharma flicks his wing irritably. “Anyway, Prowl’s not like the Dean of the medical college. You can’t just march into his office and talk him in circles until he approves my transfer application.”

“Do you want to transfer, Pharma?”

Pharma grits his teeth. 

Part of him wants nothing more than to strip this place from his memory and never think of it again. No more snow, no more miserable grey days, no more looking over his shoulder. This place is a knife down his back, slowly stripping the plating from his struts. He doesn’t think Prowl is ever going to respond to his transfer requests, but sometimes he thinks about going AWOL, stealing a shuttle and charting a course for some neutral planet.

But. But. As much as he loathes this place, he can’t seem to let it go. This is his command, his staff, and he’s come this far--they’ll pry control of this place from his cold deactivated frame--

“I don’t know,” he says, forcing a casual tone into his voice, “I suppose I’ve gotten used to it.”

Rung hums something that isn’t quite agreement and isn’t quite disbelief. Neutral, he’s so neutral all the time, and for the first time Pharma doesn’t find it soothing at all--the opposite, in fact, it sets the armor up his back itching.

“Let’s step into your office,” Rung says. “You haven’t shown me your office yet…”

“No!” 

A thick film of mortification wraps itself over Pharma. He can feel Rung looking at him.

“I mean,” he says, “I haven’t fueled yet. Let’s stop by the mess and have a meal. Just the two of us. Like old times, when you were helping me write petitions to the surgical college, you remember?”

“Yes…” Rung says, slowly, his inscrutable optics fixed on Pharma. And then he brightens, smiles a vague, wistful smile. “Yes, I thought perhaps you had forgotten. Yes. Let’s have dinner.”

Hours later, as if his own fears summoned him into being, Commander Tarn of the DJD appears in Pharma’s living quarters. The lights come up, illuminating the violet sheen of a huge, monstrous tank, relaxing in Pharma’s only chair with a glass of Pharma’s good engex. Pharma’s first emotion is rage. His second emotion is terror.

“Busy today, I see,” Tarn remarks, sipping engex through the hinged mouth of his horrible mask. “What a popular bot you are, doctor.”

“Were you seen?” Pharma demands. 

“And what will you do if I say that I was?” Tarn’s optics glint. “Hmm?”

Pharma tightens his clenched fists, but what can he do? If there was anything he could do about any of this, he would have already done it.

“I’ll take what I’m owed now, if it’s all the same to you,” Tarn says, and holds out his palm lazily, expectantly. 

Pharma shoves his hand into his subspace and rips out the crisp biohazard bag, throws it at Tarn’s chest. Regrets it a second later, because if any of those cogs just cracked-

Tarn delicately peels open the bag and flicks through the contents. “Pharma,” he says, “I only count four in here. I distinctly remember our agreement was for five.”

“Four a quartex is already unsustainable!” Pharma tells him. “Five is impossible. I don’t have enough patients! I don’t have enough time!”

“And yet,” Tarn says, “you have bargains to keep. Or shall I only somewhat spare your little hospital? How about the traitor, you don’t need him, do you?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Pharma snaps, “the staff here are mine, you keep your paws off of them.”

“Well if you don’t want partial protection, you had better come up with something better than partial payment, hadn’t you?”

Tarn stands up, sets the empty glass cube on the nightstand. Everything he does is methodical, considered. How did he even get in here without setting off any of the alarms?

“I’m working on it,” Pharma snaps, “but things are changing out here! My supervisor just showed up unexpectedly! I’m trying to keep him off my trail. If he suspects anything, I’ll be out of work. You won’t have anyone to deliver your supply.”

“Oh, Pharma,” Tarn says, draping an arm over his shoulders, “believe you me, the autobot ranks are filled with squirrelly cowards just like you. If you can’t fill your quota, I promise you, I can find someone to replace you.”

Pharma shrinks, trying to slip out from the pressure Tarn is applying to his frame, but the grip just tightens. “I need more time,” he manages, choking, “I just need a little more time--”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Tarn says, and all at once, recedes like shadow at sunrise, “for the last cog. Figure it out.”

And then he’s gone. Pharma crumples over himself, breathing hard.

Rung is here now, he thinks, someone with some authority has come to Delphi at last. He could--ask for help--no, what can Rung do? What could any of them do? It’s his job to protect this place. He’s just going to have to make it work.

There’s… there’s a few comatose patients. Yes, there’s--Crankshaft is too close to recovery for sudden shutdown to make any sense, but there’s Gain, too, or Maximus--no, too risky. First Aid’s pesky pet project. Gain it is. It’ll be hard to lose him and then explain away his TCog, but. Well. He’ll go get it, and then figure something out afterwards.

He slips out of his office and down the darkened hallway. It’s the middle of the third shift, which mostly means lights out in the facility except for the skeleton staff. He’s done extractions like this before. It’s fine. It’s fine. 

There’s no one in Gain’s ward. The extraction is fast.

He has his hands inside Gain’s still-warm chassis when the ward door chimes its soft little warning chime. Who would--if it’s Ambulon reporting for alpha shift early, Pharma can probably scare him off the few critical kliks he needs to close up the body, but he can’t be caught here, with his hands in the mech’s tanks--

The important thing, his overworked processor insists suddenly, is to prevent any of the machinery from going off on those horrible little patient alarms. Detach everything. Unplug the joist monitoring his pulse and the tubing down his intake--

He pulls and unplugs and shoves, hands shaking, optics blurring; once and only once, one of the monitors peeps in alarm as one of the plugs gets stuck, but he grabs the crowbar off his tray and yanks it free. Then he’s home free, glancing back and forth from the door to the body--fast, he just has to be fast.

Lights off--it doesn’t have to be perfect, he reminds himself, with his spark thrumming loud in his audials, it just has to be quiet. No time to clean his hands; and anyway, he doesn’t have any way to bag and tag the cog. He snatches it up off the table, hits the lights, and scrambles out through the door.

He just has to close it--there’s an auto-lock, old tech, it has to be done manually--

“Pharma? What are you doing here?”

Pharma almost jumps out of his plating--he whirls around, the hand with the T-Cog hurriedly shifting to stay out of sight. “Rung,” he gasps, “you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. My spark could’ve sustained damage, you know.”

“Pharma,” Rung says, peering up at him through those queer little glasses, “your shift ended hours ago. We had a meeting scheduled? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He looks Pharma up and down, and then (Pharma’s tank drops like a rock) peers past him at the half-closed door behind him. “Why are you in the ward?”

“I forgot something,” Pharma lies, aware of how stupid it sounds, “my, um, spectrometer. I had to come back and get it--yes, here it is.” He transforms his spare arm to produce the piece of equipment, smiling nervously. “Right here. Yes. That’s why I came back down.”

Rung’s eyes don’t leave his face. “Please open the door for me,” he says, effortlessly calm.

“Don’t you trust me?” Pharma asks, fishing for something, “Rung, I’m hurt. I can promise you that absolutely nothing--”

“Pharma, I know what you look like when you lie,” Rung says flatly. “I want to believe you. But I’m not going to stand here and let you make excuses for--for whatever it is that you’re doing.”

“What I’m doing?”

“I’ve seen the numbers coming out of Delphi,” Rung says. “You’re too good of a doctor to lose this many patients. Either something’s wrong, or…” his little mouth hardens in a line. “Or you have become a soldier, after all.”

Pharma stares at him, nauseous and dizzy. At long last, someone who’s looking at him, he thinks hysterically, at long last! No one ever looks at him unless he’s done something wrong; when he’s at his best he goes unnoticed and here, now, after months of shooting thickly-coded distress beacons at nearby autobot warships, all that appears is a scrawny non-combatant arrived to cast judgement on him.

What does Rung know about him? About the way he lives? How dare he come here, full of false concern, here to catch him out in some perceived evil?

“Go ahead,” he says, and steps away from the door. “Look, if you like! What could I dream of hiding from you, Rung? You? When all my life you’ve been a teacher and friend to me?”

Rung stares at him, and then, straightening his shoulders, steps through the half-open doorway. Pharma, one hand mentally tracing the position of his tool tray in the room, steps in behind him.

His little body stiffens when he sees it. Gain wasn’t closed up properly--they were supposed to come across it tomorrow--the body is still warm--

He reaches for the crowbar.

“Pharma,” Rung says, as Pharma lifts his arms above his head, prepares to swing, “what did you--”

He brings his hands down--

Rung turns to look at him, he wasn’t supposed to turn, Pharma wasn’t supposed to see his face, their eyes meet as he--

The crowbar smashes through his helm like a cheap plaster cast, his glasses skid away, and that face Pharma has known for so much of his life crumples into nothing under the pressure.

His body hits the floor, there’s energon everywhere, Pharma’s hands

His hands

“I’m so sorry,” he tries to say, his hands fumble at the door to shut it behind him, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry--”

Rung’s shoulders-arms-chassis jitter. A noise spits out of him, static, he’s trying to speak, he’s still in there--

Pharma brings the crowbar back down on his head. And then he does it again. And again and again and I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m and again and so sorry and

Now:

“Wait a second, back up,” Starscream says. “What do you mean, we’re ‘not dead’? Of course we’re dead! You told us we were dead!”

“I lied,” Pharma says, frowning bitterly. He can look at each one of his subjects now, their faces mangled with confusion and horror, hideous and pathetic. How disgusting, every one of them, how did he manage to smile so much, all this time? “I thought you, at least, would recognize a lie when you heard one. That was the hardest balancing act, really; keeping you so afraid of being discovered you wouldn’t start investigating."

“Keeping me what,” Starscream says, just as Thunderclash says “keeping him what?” 

Pharma sighs and sits down. He feels very, very tired. “I was so close,” he mutters, and--because he’s feeling particularly frustrated and impotent--shoves a little decorative vase off of one of Thunderclash’s pretentious little side-tables. It shatters satisfactorily. “I guess you’ll shut all this down now,” he adds gloomily, directing a stare towards Tarn.

“You’re always so sure of things like that,” Tarn says, sounding almost amused. “You’re part of my team, doctor, surely you can see that now. I think you’ve done splendidly. What an excellent trial run. And such fun! I haven’t had this much fun at work since… oh, since Kaon invented the limb shredder.” He sighs contentedly. “It shreds limbs, you know.”

“Yes, I had ascertained.”

“Will someone answer my question!” Starscream shrills. He’s always doing that. “If we’re not dead, then what’s going on? Where are we? Who are you? Why are we here? I demand to know, I--we’re entitled to some information! How dare you just--just sit there and break our stuff! You--”

“Please shut up,” Pharma groans, dropping his head into one hand. “I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“And frankly,” Tarn intones, in the chiding voice of a disappointed school teacher asking her students what all that nonsense was about yesterday that the substitute wrote that note about, “none of you are in any position to ask questions. You’re prisoners of war.”

In the heat of the rising ‘what’, Pharma mutters “I thought they were prisoners of state.”

“Well, Starscream’s a prisoner of state,” Tarn amends, “the rest of you are prisoners of war.”

“Prisoners of war?” Thunderclash gasps, sounding to all the world like an over-inflated know-it-all, like Pharma doesn’t know everything about him, right down to his ugly little inferiority complex, “I’m sorry, but you two are sorely mistaken if you think we could be prisoners of war. There hasn’t been a war for--for--since before the Functionists! For thousands of years!”

“Oh, yes there has,” Tarn says, a smile in his voice, “Pharma tells me it was quite difficult cutting it out of all your little brains--particularly you, Ultra Magnus, apparently it was quite a fright in there.”

“His name is Minimus Ambus,” Starscream snarls, probably pointing a finger, if Pharma could hazard a guess. But Pharma’s not looking at the seeker. He’s staring intently at Rung.

And Rung is staring back at him, face totally blank. It was always so unnerving, having him look at you like that in the academy. It usually meant he had caught you cheating, and was waiting for you to confess quietly. A good thing the mech didn’t gamble, Pharma thinks idly, or he’d be richer than all of Megatron’s most prized assassins and bounty hunters combined. There’s no lying to a face like that.

Rodimus has joined in with the yelling, now, turned away from his “conjunx”, something or other about how if there had been a war wouldn’t he know about it, slaggers in the Dead End always get thrown on the front lines first like grist for the mill, and Tarn nobly waving his hands around and expounding about the minutiae of memory-pruning, which he knows exactly nothing about.

It’s all so much noise, same as it ever was, same as it ever was, and Rung is staring back at Pharma from across the room, ramrod stiff.

Without a ping, without any of the noise of the system to accompany a summoning, Rung brings his hands forward. The metal is stained, wet with energon, and cupped between them is a T-Cog. Very clean. A perfect extraction.

Pharma resets his optics, and it’s gone.

“Alright,” Pharma says, and throws his hands up, “alright! What’s genius without someone to explain it to? Not that any of you would understand, imbeciles to the last, but--look, it’ll be good for my psychology,” he explains quickly as Tarn flashes him an incredulous ‘I thought we were in this together’ look, “you know I’ve been cooped up in here with no one to talk to! That can do something to a mech, if you’re not careful. You have to be careful.”

“You can talk to me,” Tarn says, sounding hurt. Pharma waves his hands.

“It’s not the same,” he says, “I mean, I can’t gloat. I mean, you already know everything.”

“I didn’t know about Ratchet,” Tarn says. “You’ve been keeping secrets.”

“He isn’t a secret!” Pharma snaps. “He was an experiment! To see if I could make people! And once I made him I didn’t want to just--throw away a successful prototype, what if I needed to go back and study him? Haven’t you ever... kept something from an early job? Just to remind yourself where you started?” He’s flailing. He needs to make it--personal, needs Tarn to believe him. “Come on,” he wheedles, “you’re a sentimentalist, too, I just know you are.”

“Sentimentality shouldn’t supersede efficiency,” Tarn says, but he sounds… uncertain. “Although… yes, of course, I have a piece of the spinal column from the first traitor we executed. Just a small piece,” he amends. “It fits into that little shadowbox on my desk. Nothing that would interfere with a job, like this.”

“If there really is a war on,” Minimus interrupts, “then what is any of this meant to accomplish?”

Pharma whirls around to glare at the little loadbearer, only to see that his hand is wrapped tightly around Starscream’s. His lip curls instinctively. Disgusting. “You two don’t have to do that, you know,” he says coolly. “You’re not really anything to each other, are you? Sparkmates aren’t real. I made it all up.”

There's a fraction of a tightness on Starscream's face. Yes, yes, the fantasy of having someone who can't leave you, who has no choice but to love you, just another of Pharma's funny little lies. It must hurt. Haha.

“I don’t care,” Minimus says. Disgustingly, he doesn’t even let go of Starscream’s hand. It’s like he isn’t even embarrassed. Maybe he isn’t. “Why are you torturing us? That’s what this is, isn’t it? Torture? Of some pathetic, deranged variety, anyway. I must admit I expected more--buzzsaws and chains and whips.”

“Yes, yes, which you all would’ve taken on so honorably, I’m sure,” Pharma says, waving his hand. Starscream squawks, affronted.

“I wouldn’t!”

“Yes, I know you wouldn’t,” Pharma amends peevishly. The interruptions, that’s the worst thing about all this. They’re always interrupting for their own reasons, either Starscream’s selfish cattiness or Rodimus’ boneheaded self-assurance or the stick lodged two meters up Thunderclash’s aft port. He shouldn’t stand for this sort of thing, he really shouldn’t. “You’re sort of the odd-one-out, aren’t you? Disloyal, dishonorable, er…” he searches for another character flaw. It’s difficult. There are so many good ones to choose from. “...Tax evading,” he says after a moment.

“You’ve got no proof of that,” Starscream replies hurriedly, “no one has any proof that I regularly commit tax fraud, no proof at all!”

“You were always going to be the difficult one,” Pharma goes on airily, ignoring him. Tarn is staring at him with an almost hungry expression that he’s not sure he likes. 

“If we’re all prisoners of war,” Minimus interrupts, “then torturing us like this is a war crime, and you must cease it immediately.”

“Oh it’s just psychological torture,” Pharma says, “nothing in the Tyrest Accords about psychological torture. Your bodies are all perfectly fine and healthy, plus or minus a few patches from your shuttle crash. Not that Tarn’s team cares about a little thing like war crimes.”

Minimus finally hesitates, at that; his little red optics dart uncertainly toward Tarn.

“It’s a very ingenious method, actually,” Pharma presses on, “which I invented, if anyone wants to applaud. You heroic types, we knew you were never going to be any fun. All ‘I’ll never talk’, and ‘you can take away my arms and legs and genitals and optics and dentae, but you’ll never take my freedom’, all that sort of thing. We needed something more… cerebral, something we could use to gather information if we needed to. Sort of a jacked up cortical psychic patch on steroids. We needed plausible deniability, and a narrative, and… well, and people to get under your plating, really irritate something, like sand in the vents, until somebody snapped. It was all going pretty well, up until the end, there.”

Pharma grimaces, monologue going sour in his mouth. He can still feel Tarn’s too-intent gaze burning into his armor.

“Pharma,” Rung says quietly. “We were… in the hospital…”

Oh no. Dread wells up in Pharma’s tanks. Looking at Rung, now, feels like looking in the mirror always does. He doesn’t feel like a genius. He feels like--like--like he knows what he’s done. Like he’s realizing what he’s done.

“Pharma,” Rung says again, flexing his hands. “You… I wanted to help you. I was trying to help you…”

Pharma does not say anything. The jabbering crowd has gone very quiet. They’re all looking at Rung, like it’s the first time they’ve really seen him. Rung is looking down at his hands, bending his fingers this way and that, and looking up at Pharma, and back down at his hands.

Pharma swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says, and means it. “I never meant--you weren’t supposed to be there, you--you got in the way, and I… I didn’t know what else to do.” 

Rung stares at him hard. “What did you do to me?” he asks, at last. “You did something to me. After you killed me.”

The room erupts.

Tarn arrives while Pharma is still trying to find somewhere in his office to hide the corpse.

“What’s with the broken medic?” he asks, pointing at what’s left of Rung’s frame. “You’re not getting into trouble, are you, Pharma?”

Pharma bites his tongue. “It’s all under control,” he lies. “I have everything under control.”

Tarn peers down at the mess of energon seeping across the floor. “It doesn’t look under control,” he says, and then, the tone of his voice changing oddly: “You know, Pharma, of all the autobots I’ve ever met, you fascinate me the most. ‘Under control’? Are you just scared of me, or do you really think you can fix this?”

“Nobody remembers him,” Pharma says, waving a hand. “He’s come to check in on me. Not on higher orders. He’s just a therapist, he doesn’t--he doesn’t matter, he doesn’t matter to anyone, he--no one will notice he’s gone.”

“How intriguing.” A servo extends and touches Pharma, just under his jaw. It’s ice cold to the touch. “You are slipping. I had guessed, but I wasn’t sure…”

It burns, and Pharma jerks away all at once. “I’m not slipping,” he snarls, “I’m not cracking! I’ve got everything under control! I’m under control!”

He’d gotten Rung back here, hadn’t he? He’d carried him over one shoulder, even with the precious T-Cog in the other, even with the energon all over his hands, even with his weight slipping. For something so small, Rung was so heavy--so heavy--

“How would you like to make all of this go away?” Tarn asks, close to him. “My offer still stands, you know. I have a ship all prepared for you.” His hand reaches out, grasps him just under the shoulder. “We could use a medic, particularly one so… talented, so mechanically minded.”

“No,” Pharma says, his body starting to warm and hum. Something about his voice. Tarn’s voice. It always goes through him like water. “I’m an autobot, I’m not… I’m not like you…”

“The thing is,” Tarn says, “my team has had the very special honor of receiving a new ship--new is quite a generous word, actually, it’s something of a hand-me-down, but good quality--and it’s been fitted with medical technology like we’ve never seen. Uncharted territory. You could help us map it, Pharma. Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”

Dumbly, he shakes his head. His body seems to be getting heavier.

“Come on,” Tarn says, reasonably, “don’t be foolish. Look at this mess. I want to help you, Pharma. Come with me, and all of this goes away.”

Pharma looks down at Rung’s processor. Bared to the world, leaking. They’ll have discovered the mess in the ward by now, they’ll have discovered the remnants of his helm all over the wall. His comm hasn’t gone off yet--no one trying to ping him for attention. Maybe they haven’t found the body, yet. Or maybe they suspect him.

Maybe First Aid and whichever security guard he’s gotten in the good graces of are storming up here right now, about to take him down without alerting him. Arresting him.

“At the very least,” Tarn says, his syrupy voice flooding Pharma’s joints, his audials, his vents, “you could let me help you take care of this body.”

In the end, Pharma doesn’t let him touch the body. He carries it all the way into the belly of the warworld, down into its crawling greenish guts. The place is like a nightmare, a wet, organic nightmare, and Pharma carries Rung all the way down between the rows of grow-tanks into the medical laboratory, where he lays it down at the center of the room and stares at it. He stares at it for a long time. 

“Recently repossessed, you might say,” Tarn remarked of the ship, as he gave Pharma the grand tour. He had strolled down the nightmarish halls as if leading a parade. “We reclaimed it from Scorponok just very recently, although unfortunately the good scientist seems to have put his own cowardly backdoor exits in place for just such an eventuality.” 

Pharma slunk along behind, the remains of Rung scooped up in his arms and so light, so small.

“I really had despaired of what we would do with all the medical tech,” said Tarn. “But as you always tell me, you’re the best, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll prove most instrumental in unravelling this ship’s mysteries.”

“Yes,” Pharma said, gaze darting from cryo-tube to broken cryo-tube, “mysteries.”

Now Pharma stands beneath the dark construction of the last and deepest mystery, in the last and deepest lab. Alien tech, unmistakably--or else something so old and primitive that its genius lies trapped in tangled black cables like the spidery handwriting of a dead language. It hangs over him, a web, threads stretched between spires that catch the light. The circuitry lies in the spires, and in the ribbing of soft silicon that weighs down certain prominent cables.

We think it’s medical equipment, Tarn had said. We were hoping you might be able to get it to run.

Reading between the lines, he’d guess that they’re hoping for a new toy to add to their gruesome collection of torture devices. And if it’s not all they’re hoping it will be, well, Tarn is slavishly devoted to his master and his master’s cause--it could be a gift maybe, to the medical corps, or the tyrant’s personal medic.

Yes, Pharma thinks, touching the sickly bulge of an auxiliary processor, all medicine is both poison and cure. Any tool that can be used for healing can be turned against the body just as well.

Rung’s body is the only spot of warmth in the laboratory. Its presence itches like a hot coal at Pharma’s back as he tries to untangle the machine’s secrets. The orange paint hasn’t greyed. Sometimes it doesn’t--if the dead mech still has his original nanite colony from his forging, the paint can stay vivid for years after spark death. 

Stay alive. That’s the objective. As long as you have this device, you are useful. And as long as you are useful, you stay alive.

And as long as you’re alive, you can always try again.

He gets his first night of recharge, if you can call it that, in fits and bursts. It is a medical office of some kind, despite how twisted and gruesome and anathema the whole design is, and there are a couple of things that you could, if you were feeling particularly generous, call berths. Pharma isn’t feeling particularly generous. To him, they look like cocoons, the sort beastformers wrap their prey in to make it easier to digest. Or maybe coffins.

There are ten in total, spiraling around a central pillar, connected to it with a gruesome collection of cords and cables. Inside the coffins are a series of monitoring cables--those, at the very least, he recognizes--and a gruesome hook that looks like it attaches directly to the stem of the processor.

They look like stasis chambers, he realizes, upon waking up inside one and having a stirring hope, for a moment, that he has been dreaming all this time. He’s woken up in these sorts of things before. No puff of gas escaping as the lid releases, but… well, they must be something like that. Something to monitor… stasis patients. But why not use regular stasis pods?

“Why wouldn’t they just use regular pods?” he asks Rung. The body--unsurprisingly--does not move. He frowns.

“Come on, now,” he chides Rung, “you could at least sit up and pretend to pay attention.”

With this thought in mind, he grabs a hold of Rung and pulls him upward by the shoulders, arranging him in a sitting position. There’s not much left of his head,

It had split open like a plaster-cast, it had gone all over the walls,

But the rest of him looks fetchingly alive and colorful. After a moment of meditation, he takes Rung’s little hands and folds them on his lap. He had sat like that during tests, Pharma remembers vaguely, one knee over the other and hands on his lap, surveying the classroom.

But putting one knee over the other is a little too much to ask, apparently, and the whole thing topples over, and Pharma is back where he started. Pharma scowls.

“Don’t be like that,” he says, “I’m asking you for help. You always wanted to help, didn’t you? Come on, sit up straight…”

He tries again. And then again. The third time Rung collapses in a heap he curses and throws his arms in the air. He isn’t supposed to be mucking around with Rung, who has apparently decided to be unhelpful. He’s supposed to be figuring out what all this equipment is for. “Alright,” he snaps, after he’s gulped down a few good vents of air, “you can sit over near me and help.”

With a heave, he picks Rung up around the torso and drags him towards the pillar in the center of the room. He could lean him up against something, he figures, but the pillar, like everything else in this horrible room, is slightly sticky to the touch. Surely, Rung merits a more comfortable chair than that.

Closer inspection of the pillar reveals that it’s less like a structure and more like a… wossname. They pop up on organic planets all over the place. Like a tree, that’s the thing. Big around the middle, with a goopy mess of cables seeping into the floor and more going into the ceiling, hanging down from it. Like chains in a torture chamber, like those chimes the Camiens hang over their doors to ward off evil spirits, or so people say. Pharma has never been to Caminus, never taken any particular interest. Why bother?

Anyway, the point is that there’s cables hanging down from the ceiling. On closer inspection, Pharma discovers that they’re more or less the same cables found inside the pods. Fascinating. Why? Is it… some kind of matrix, perhaps?

He’s heard of ships powered by the processors of slaves, back in the old days, when Functionism was at its worst, but he’d never really believed it. It sounded too messy, too gruesome to be true, and above all, totally impractical. Say the mech’s processor couldn’t handle it, and he died? Would they all be stuck floating in the dark recesses of space?

But now, looking at a long cable with a hook that most certainly attaches to the processor stem, he isn’t so sure.

For a moment, he considers plugging it into his own head, just to see, then immediately shakes his head. Times are tough, sure, but he isn’t some kind of lunatic. He’s got his head screwed on right. It’s not like he’s slipping.

A courtesy inspection of Rung’s little head it had split open like a plaster-cast, it had gone all over the walls informs him that the processor is still in good condition. It almost sounds as though it’s whirring along, although of course he can see it isn’t doing that. It slips in Pharma’s hands, which are sopping wet and slippery, probably from all this muck and machinery, but he manages to pull Rung mostly upright and jack the plug into him.

Buried in the mess of spindles and cables, a monitor flares to life with unfamiliar characters lit green and black, and something too fanged or feral to be hope snarls to life on Pharma’s lips.

λωτοφάγοι  

“What are you doing with that?” Tarn asks him, as Pharma furiously rips plugs out of Rung’s dataports, slamming them back into slightly different arrangements with the single minded fervor of a mech in the grip of genius. 

The ports spark from the current of the live machine, new and old--the wrist and neck ports are native to the frame, but the new ports gouged and fitted into the raw exposed processor have an ugly bulk to them, cobbled together from whatever Pharma could scavenge in this ship. He has been awake and fitting Rung’s frame with pieces for hours. In a moment he’ll allow himself a moment of recharge on the unoccupied medical berth, in a moment, as soon as Rung stops being so damn uncooperative.

Λωτοφάγοι. And then,...εισαγω. The monitor he’s managed to dig out of the machine’s sprawling web flashes the same characters again and again, like it can’t complete a sequence.  …εισαγω... δέχομαι : {Ναί} {όχι} … λωτοφάγοι...

Tarn cocks his head, his daunting bulk leant up casually against the wall behind Pharma. “You haven’t been fueling, doctor.”

“Do you want your machine or not?” Pharma snarls. “I nearly have it, if you’d just stop distracting me!”

“It’s been three full shift cycles,” Tarn says. “And you haven’t left the lab once.”

“What?” Pharma irritably wipes a splatter of congealed fluid from his mouth and cheek. “No. Three hours, maybe.”

He’s vaguely aware of Tarn’s gaze hot on his back, but he ignores it. The processor induction is so close to working. If he can just get the machine wired through Rung, where Rung’s Cybertronian compatible machinery can process the neural load, Pharma would be able to hook himself in to the end of the chain, and see what the hell kind of program was running on this great pipe organ of a computing machine.

He can fix this thing. If Rung will just help him, he can fix this.

Tarn shifts, armor clinking softly at its stealth-fitted edges. “Be careful, doctor,” he says.

The last plug sinks home into the black graft just behind Rung’s extracted optic socket.

“Mad genius I can make accommodations for,” Tarn says, “but a mad fool…”

Rung’s processor gives a horrible snap of blue lightning that singes the delicate metal of his brain module sooty and black. Pharma snatches his fingers back from the burn and shoves them into his mouth, sucking at the sting.

“Mm,” Tarn says. “Make sure you fuel yourself. I wouldn’t want to have to put a tube down that pretty neck... like you’re one of our stubborn prisoners.”

Still sucking on his scorched fingers, Pharma scowls and hunches forward, over the berth, wings up.

Another hour. He only needs another hour. Everything else can wait.

…εισαγω...
δέχομαι : {Ναί} {όχι} ?

… λωτοφάγοι...

The world is a haze as Pharma fumbles for the single adaptor plug. There is no shift change here in the grim darkness of the deep lab, no passage of the sun, no weather, no change at all but the endless sequence loop on the green-lettered monitor. But Pharma doesn’t care about the passage of time. He only cares about-

Rung, sightless and bristling with cables, sits beneath the shadow of the great machine with his chin slumped against his chest. The cable in the back of his neck slithers across the floor and ends with the jack in Pharma’s hand, which is shaking, which can’t be right, because his hands never shake, so it must be the cable that is shaking, as a matter of fact.

This is it. This is it! He’s cracked it, (Pharma’s hand hovers over the port in the back of his neck), if he’s cracked it he’s a genius, and if he hasn’t then he’s probably going to die here, (his fuel pump is hammering hot energon through his lines), but he’s never been a coward in the face of innovation, that’s always been his strength as a surgeon, (he can feel it in the back of his throat, in his mouth), after all who performed a live fuel pump transplant with himself as the first donor-?

He hesitates. But only for a moment. And then the jack clicks into place, locking against his armor, and the stygian laboratory dissolves into white.

The white void blinks as Pharma resets his optics, which is something he can still do here. Somehow. Without thinking he lifts a hand and finds that he has a hand to lift--he touches his face and finds it as he remembers it, the cheek vents and the chevron all where they’re meant to be.

“What…” he starts to say. And then there is a chime, from some sourceless distance in the void. He scrambles back as the figure of Rung appears just in front of him, whole and blazingly alive and staring at him with those blank round spectacles.

He stands frozen for a long moment. If the feeling of Tarn’s hands on his shoulders sparks fear in him, it’s nothing compared to looking into those optics.

They shouldn’t be here--he shouldn’t have his face it had gone all over the walls but there he stands, face filled with--what, with rage? Shouldn’t he be enraged? Shouldn’t he say something to Pharma, cry out with it and lace his body bloody with vitriol?

Could he kill Pharma like this? Pharma’s processor is plugged into the system, and the system is powered by Rung… total processor death takes, what, eleven, twelve minutes? Ratchet got one back after fifteen, or so he says, except no one else was there and it wasn’t like he ever had any proof…

But he’s not doing anything. He’s just standing there.

“Rung?” Pharma ventures after a moment.

“Hello,” Rung says, emotionlessly. And then, his mouth breaking into a smile, says: “hello, [architect].”

Pharma stares at him. “Rung,” he repeats, and waves a hand in front of his friend’s face. Rung doesn’t so much as flinch. “Rung, it’s me, Pharma. Don’t you remember me?”

Rung stares at him. “Hello,” he repeats, smiling pleasantly, “hello, architect: Pharma. Is this how you would like me to address you?”

“Huh? Oh, yes,” Pharma says, eyes wandering vaguely. It’s all white. He stamps a pede experimentally. He doesn’t feel it jar against something so much as it just stops. “What is this… program? Where are we?”

“You are now inside the λωτοφάγοι program,” Rung says pleasantly. “A part of the Ὀδύσσεια software package, coded by [redacted]. I am the host. You are the architect.”

“The architect?”

“The architect,” Rung repeats inanely, without any kind of vocal inflection to indicate that he’s frustrated at repeating himself, or trying to emphasize the word, or--or anything. It’s like hitting ‘Enter’ again on a text-to-voice program. It’s exactly the same every time. “What would you like to build?”

“So… you’re not, really, Rung,” Pharma says awkwardly. “You’re… you’re an avatar, or something. A memory.”

“I am Rung,” Rung says, smiling.

“You can’t be!” Pharma snaps. “I saw you--fifteen minutes, at most, and who knows if he was lying--your head--”

Rung is still smiling. "I am the host."

“But… you don’t remember me,” Pharma says. “I mean, you don’t know who I am.”

“You are the architect,” Rung repeats. “What would you like to build?”

“Rung,” Pharma says, voice weak. He feels very sick all of a sudden. He’s--fatigued, hungry, he really should have refueled like Tarn told him to, he shouldn’t have done this, he shouldn’t have done this, he shouldn’t have done this, he takes one of Rung’s shoulders in each hand, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Rung smiles broadly at him, dentae showing, and leans in conspiratorially. “I don’t understand,” he says cheerfully. “Please rephrase your request.”

Pharma pulls Rung to him, arms around the tiny body, but Rung does not reciprocate. He just stands there, ramrod straight. “Please rephrase your request,” he repeats from somewhere beside Pharma’s collar.

The void is vast, and empty, and white. Except that frost isn’t lacing over the tips of his wings, Pharma thinks he could almost be back on Delphi. 

Although it would be a lot less empty here, if he could get Rung to construct anything that didn’t immediately collapse and fall apart. Like his fucking life, isn’t it just. He’s been naming any sort of thing he can think of, distinct things that Rung can’t possibly mix up the way that he mixed up the first request for a glass of coolant, and gave Pharma some tesseract monstrosity of a drink that looked like a completely different and distinct object at every angle it was viewed from. 

It’s not working.

“Dammit,” Pharma curses, as the most recent attempt at a potted plant turns to code in his hands and dissipates like melting snow, “haven’t you ever seen a plant before?”

“No,” Rung says, not unkindly. “Have you?”

Pharma looks at him. Small, friendly face, big glasses, big eyebrows. He doesn’t know anything, not really; Pharma’s downloaded encyclopedias into his brain and all he got was a goofy little grin in response. “No,” he admits, “I haven’t.”

Pharma spins on his heel and does a furious ten step pace one way and then the other, while Rung stands there vacantly waiting for input to respond to. Like a drone. Like a drone in the shape of someone Pharma once knew.

Pharma stops.

“Let’s make something I have seen,” he says. 

It barely takes a moment to call up the memory, he’s done it so many times. He takes the smell and taste of the air and wraps it around him like something warm and soft, tracing the exact angle of every object in his mind with imaginary fingers. 

“Something specific,” he says. “It’s a building.” He turns off his optics and closes his arms around himself. “There’s a door,” he says. “The kind with the transparisteel windows that fold back into slats when you want to let the air in. A silver age building. Red streaks on the window sills.” 

He flicks his optics back on. Hovering in front of him, unanchored to anything, the solitary front facade of his college apartment has come into being. He looks over at Rung. Rung smiles encouragingly.

“The inside is cramped,” Pharma says. His hand trembles as it reaches out. “There are almanacs scattered on the floor. The odd engex can. We were messy. He was a research donor and I was a first vorn student.” 

He pushes the door open. He steps into the dusty dim, amid the sunken furniture, and feels his spark throbbing as if it’s in the pit of his throat.

It is exactly as he remembers. The pitted counter in the kitchenette. The beaten metal wall hanging in the shape of a crude glyph. The undersized chillbox. 

“Is it what you wanted?” Rung asks, appearing with a chime at the other end of the room.

His throat is too thick to speak out of. He just nods. A vicious, melancholy longing rises up through him, too strong to deny.

Pharma swallows thickly. “Can you build a person?” 

Rung tilts his head. “I’m not sure. I have not built a person before.”

It’s so close. It’s so close he can almost taste it. Pharma squeezes his hands together and says, “What if I told you that you knew him?”

Tarn dismisses Kaon with a flick of his fingers, turning back to fix Pharma with that coal-bright gaze. The monitor of the machine has stopped flickering its endless green loop--it’s switched to a single static image, behind Tarn, just more ominous nonsense.

“We pulled you out at sixth hour,” Tarn says. “According to ship records, you plugged in yesterday, before beta shift.”

“Really?” Pharma wheezes. “It felt like days.”

The machine sprawls just where he left it, a black tree in the ring of its many berths. At some point in the extraction, Rung was knocked back into the cables and forgotten there while Tarn and his team forcibly disconnected Pharma from the adaptor.

Pharma, slumped onto himself with his aching helm gripped in both hands, is too tired to close the panel over his still-sparking dataport.

“What did you find out?” Tarn asks. “What are its applications?”

“It’s a therapy program, I think,” Pharma says. His helm is throbbing. “Or an interrogation program? Primus, maybe it’s a euthanasia machine for mechanical pets. I don’t know. You could stretch a last few days out for a long time with this machine. Time works differently inside.”

“Yes,” Tarn says, impatiently, “but can it be used for our purposes?”

“Torture, you mean?”

“No, high theater,” Tarn says, dryly. “Yes, I mean torture. We do have a certain reputation to maintain.”

“Well, you…” Pharma frowns. Inside that machine there is a shotgun shack. And inside that shack there are a red pair of hands, on the counter, resting in a moment between two tasks. And right now Pharma is the only one who knows how to get there.

“I… yes,” Pharma says, slowly, “yes I think it could have… applications. You could use it to keep someone on ice, as it were. Like spark-containment, but without the mess of extraction. You could… use it to run psy-ops. Maybe. But you’ll need me to do it.”

Tarn tilts his head. 

“I’ve set myself up as an administrator, I think,” Pharma says. “But I can’t do it for any of you yet, because I’m not sure how it works. Give me a month, I’ll see what I can do. I have ideas.”

“You do, do you?”

Pharma looks up from his hands, with a smile that makes a mausoleum of his mouth. “There’s more than one kind of suffering,” he says. 

Pharma hasn’t been keeping up with how much time has passed outside of the program; he’s in and out of it so often that time becomes like liquid to him. Which is all a long way of saying that the first time he takes a moment to peek out a porthole for the first time since boarding, he gets a nasty shock.

He comms Tarn immediately, of course; the leader of the DJD (and also, if he lets himself think about it, his new commanding officer) gave him his private frequency after only a few days on the ship. “What’s going on?” he demands, forgetting his place. “Why aren’t we on Delphi?”

“We departed days ago,” Tarn replies, amusement in his voice. “You didn’t think we would stay there permanently, did you?”

“You didn’t even ask me,” Pharma says, “I mean, you didn’t tell me, you didn’t warn me, I--what if I needed something from my old office?”

“Oh, doctor,” Tarn says, now chuckling, “you are too precious. Did you really think you could ever go back?”

Plugging in is the only escape he has left. He can control things here. He’s in control here. For all the terror of the ship, the contempt his new crewmates make no show of hiding, he’s still the only one who knows how to make this luffy--leufuh--whatever it’s called, the program. He’s the only one who can make it run.

“Hello architect Pharma,” the thing that looks like Rung says pleasantly, “what would you like to build today?”

“Get out of my way,” Pharma mutters. He’s tired. Tired of playing this game, tired of dancing for Tarn’s amusement, tired of pretending that little drone is his teacher and friend, tired of waiting for divine intervention or destiny or salvation. He wants to go home. He’s going home.

The machine will be a force of nature, once he gets it figured out. It’s his world. No longer is he a weak, crawling insect before the might of the decepticon predators; here, he’s a deity of creation, a god in his own right. He can have whatever he wants. He can make whatever he wants. Let the days go by--here, time obeys him.

“Pharma?” Rung calls after him. He doesn’t follow Pharma’s heated footsteps towards the shotgun shack.

“I’m going home,” Pharma says to himself. Yes--he can remember the day, he can remember it exactly the same way it was. His perfect day. His first job offer, he’d had to walk home from the center of the city but even the long slog hadn’t hurt his feet, and he bought a bottle of engex, triple-distilled, too expensive for the two of them most days, a special luxury to replace their daily reliance on PBRs and rotgut. And he’d opened the door and Ratchet--Ratchet--

He opens the door. “I got the job!” he calls into the living space, cramped--he kicks a stack of datapads on the ground out of the way instead of stubbing his pede on them like he used to do every time. The bottle is heavy and real in his hand.

There he is--his beautiful almost-conjunx, standing in the kitchen, looking at him in shock, finally finally looking away from the chores and the work he dedicates himself to, the work that devoured both of them--

“Seriously?” Ratchet gasps. “But I thought--you said they had a bad track record with fliers--”

“They’re making an exception,” Pharma says, striding over the mess, “it’s in writing and everything, if they try to back out now there’s legal consequences! It’s real--look at the starting pay--”

He thrusts out the stack of flimsies, but Ratchet barely glances at them. He drops the knife in his hands and grabs Pharma around the waist, lifts him in the air, spins him around, and Pharma laughs and almost drops the bottle and kisses him.

Those hands, skilled and strong, all over his hips, his waist; there’s a hunger in the way Ratchet touches him, just like there was in the good days--except the good days are now, this is happening now, it never stopped, he never left. Not here, not here, here in their shotgun shack at the end of the world.

Ratchet breaks the kiss, gasping for breath, and snatches the bottle out of Pharma’s hands. “Is this all for me? You shouldn’t have,” he teases, and laughs when Pharma shoves him. “It says… ‘triple-distilled, mined from kettlebottom veins by monks from the furthest reaches of Caminus, best drunk… in berth’. Would you look at that?”

“Pharma,” says Rung, and Pharma startles, looks up in surprise. Rung stands in the corner of the kitchen, just out of reach, staring at them. “What are you doing?”

Pharma looks down at Ratchet, who doesn’t seem to have heard Rung--still grinning up at him, one eyebrow raised, frozen in time and waiting for Pharma’s answer. He glances back at Rung. “Go away,” he hisses. “This is my apartment. You’re not welcome here.”

“This isn’t your home,” Rung says. “Pharma. What are you doing?”

Pharma turns away from him and looks back at Ratchet. “We so rarely get engex this good,” he muses, “maybe we’d better follow expert advice?”

“What are you doing to yourself?” Rung asks. “What have you done to me?”

“I think we’re supposed to let it breathe first,” Ratchet says, close to him, engine running hot, “but I’m so thirsty. How do we pass the time?”

Pharma strokes a hand under his chin, feels the places where his protoflesh is soft and where it’s chapped, same as it ever was, presses a finger against his lips and feels a shiver run down his backstrut as Ratchet kisses it. You can feel things here, not just textures but physical reactions. “I’m sure I can think of something to sate you,” he murmurs back, and his spark thrills at the way Ratchet looks up at him, optics lowlit and lidded.

“Pharma, this isn’t healthy,” Rung says.

Pharma glares up at Rung. “I told you to get out,” he snarls.

“You can’t--”

Pharma snaps his fingers, and Rung is gone. A figment of the software’s imagination.

Ratchet is still in his arms--still solid, still there, still real. The only thing that’s real. Everything that’s happened, Delphi and the DJD and Tarn and the regrettable instance with the crowbar, has just been one long, bad dream. This is real. The way Ratchet touches him. This apartment. This day. How could he remember it so perfectly if it wasn’t real?

He lets Ratchet fuck him on the couch, and then in their berth. They drink the engex, which they giggle and agree is probably price-gouged slightly, and when the warm softness of it takes them over they fuck again.

“I love you,” Ratchet says, as the lights of their apartment dim to nothing on a timer. They’re tangled up in each other, engines running warm to compensate for the chill of the condensation drying on their plating.

“I know,” Pharma says.

This was our last perfect day, he thinks, feeling Ratchet drifting off in his arms. Everything about it was perfect. It was all downhill after this, busy workdays keeping them apart and jealousy and awards that only one of them could win, and a proposal he kept expecting that never came, but today is, today was, 

It never has to end, he thinks. I can have this day forever.

“I can have you forever,” he murmurs, and Ratchet, asleep, makes a defenseless little cooing noise and rolls over.

Rung is waiting for him outside the shotgun shack, arms crossed, tapping a foot. “Is that why we’re building?” he asks, as Pharma shuts the door behind him.

“It’s not why we’re building,” Pharma explains, feeling uncomfortably like a student being taken to task. “It’s a perk. For me, the architect. We’re--we’re building--we’re building a little world for our test subjects.”

Rung stares up at him. He doesn’t look… the way he normally does. The way he should. There’s something almost intelligent behind his little spectacles, something that looks… almost angry. “This place is gone,” Rung says. “Can’t you see he’s gone?”

“Don’t question me,” Pharma snaps, “ I am the architect, not you. That place is no longer any of your concern! It’s mine. We will commence with the rest of the project. Our--our neighborhood.”

Rung glances up at him, back at the shack. “Will your apartment be a part of the neighborhood?” he asks.

“Hm? Oh. No, this is--we’ll surround it with repeating code,” he says, waving his hand vaguely. “It was… just a beta test.”

“A beta test,” Rung says slowly, like he’s turning it over in his mouth, looking at it from every angle. And then, smiling, “Of course, a test. It’s important to make prototypes before you commit to larger projects. What would you like to build in your neighborhood first?”

Pharma looks at the boundless void around them. “A railway station,” he says at last. “To separate the place that can change from the place that can’t.”

The neighborhood is Pharma’s vision. He worked his aft off to sell Tarn on it--blue-prints, starter scenarios, flattery, the works. He spends several evenings in Tarn’s social company, putting up with his sycophantic odes and condescending pedantry because as terrible and reprehensible as Tarn is, he’s also desperately lonely among his crew of thugs and psychopaths, and he will listen to someone who makes him feel clever.

Pharma tells himself that this is fine, that working with Tarn is fine—after all, they’ll be torturing Decepticons, won’t they? Basically the most Autobot thing you could be doing, other than jumping off roofs and wrestling seekers out of the air.

It was an easier sell than he thought it would be. Tarn, apparently, loves a project. Thank Primus he doesn’t feel the need to oversee the mindspace construction himself. Every minute in the machine is a reprieve. 

Pharma uses Rung to start building the neighborhood; they put a framework down first, and then the structures start to go up. Just a base layer. He’ll customize it with all the horrible little details when Tarn assigns him the program’s first victim.

In the new town center, quite cozy now with empty shop-fronts, Pharma claps his hands together. “You wouldn’t even know it was a first attempt,” he says. “I really am a genius. I wish those blockheads at the Deltaran faculty could see me now.”

“Congratulations, Architect Pharma,” Rung says. “Say the word, and I will commence removal of the beta test structure.”

“The what?” Pharma asks, barely paying attention.

“The little house,” Rung clarifies. “Containing the Ratchet construct.”

Pharma whirls on him. “No! Don’t do that!”

“But the beta house is not part of your neighborhood design,” Rung points out. “Now that the final structures are in place and you understand the principles of the system, you have no need for it.”

Pharma balks. “No, we can’t do that,” he says, “because if that’s not there, who’s to say the whole neighborhood won’t collapse? As far as we know, the whole thing is built on--on the apartment! We can’t get rid of that.”

“The neighborhood won’t collapse,” Rung says, not unkindly. “It’s not built on the apartment. It’s built on me.”

Pharma stares down at his hands. “No,” he says, “no, I need the apartment. It needs to stay there. It’s mine, this is my neighborhood, I get to decide what stays and what doesn’t.”