Chapter Text
The first customer at Jazz's Bar today was still not Hot Rod.
His magenta paint looked worse than it had during the war. Hot Rod walked into the energon bar, irritably shaking out his arm joints. Metal shavings scattered onto the floor, striking the ground with crisp clinks.
"Hey, Hot Rod, how was work today?"
Inside the bar, warm, soft amber light replaced the harsh overhead lamps. The walls shimmered with projections mimicking an Earth sunset or aurora. The air carried the unique aroma of energon, the scent of freshly cleaned metal, and the relaxed atmosphere of leisure.
Jazz leaned against the inside of the bar, casually tossing an empty energon cube. The metal walls of the cube refracted a warm glow. Close to his station, Soundwave sat silently, the red light of his visor glowing steadily.
"A special blend of high-grade. I need it."
Hot Rod plopped down onto the stool next to Soundwave with a dull thud. Jazz music began to flow through the space. What is this? Sounds so… weirdly dreamy, Hot Rod thought.
He picked up the high-grade cube Jazz slid over but didn't drink immediately. Instead, using the cube's smooth, curved bottom as a reflective surface, he swiftly and warily scanned every corner of the bar.
At the other end of the bar, Laserbeak hammered the tabletop with his metal beak – clank, clank, clank – the rhythm frantic. Jazz took a deep vent: "Little guy, my bar top isn't for you to sharpen your beak on." He turned to reach for an energon drum, preparing to refill the cassette's cube.
Just then, Soundwave moved. His arm lifted with extreme steadiness, even an almost deliberate slowness, reaching towards Laserbeak. When a familiar hand abruptly appeared in the cassette's field of view, Laserbeak couldn't stop his motion in time. His hard beak struck Soundwave's hand plating squarely, leaving a shallow dent.
Hot Rod couldn't help but suck in a sharp vent – that looked painful. Jazz froze, the half-filled cube of high-grade suspended in mid-air, his faceplates flickering with embarrassment.
Soundwave remained expressionless. He merely turned his steady red visor towards Laserbeak, seeming devoid of any emotion. After several seconds of dead-silent staring, Laserbeak let out a short, low chirp, lowered his head, transformed, and slid back into the tape deck.
The hum of Jazz's internal fans grew slightly audible. He put down the high-grade cube with relief: "Alright, the little troublemaker's finally settled. That thing's already polished off half a dozen high-grades today. Any more and we'd be fishing him out of the wash rack next cycle." He looked at Soundwave: "Mind your kid next time. My bar top is newly polished."
"Half a dozen? Whoa."
Hot Rod raised an eyebrow in surprise, glancing at Soundwave. For a mini-cassette 'bot, half a dozen high-grades is no joke.
"So, finally managed to recoup a bit of cost from Soundwave today?"
He winked mischievously at Jazz.
"Hah."
Jazz gave a dry chuckle: "Your optimism never disappoints. But, a bet's a bet." He looked at Soundwave, "Right?"
"Affirmative: Victory in wager."
Now Hot Rod was intrigued, leaning forward.
"Lost badly? What did you bet on this time?"
"Actually, it's related to you."
Jazz stared at Hot Rod, shrugging helplessly.
"Wager: Post-shift this cycle, whether Hot Rod would be the first patron to arrive at this establishment." Soundwave's flat electronic voice seamlessly interjected.
Hot Rod slapped the bar triumphantly: "Ha! Jazz definitely bet I'd be first."
"Uh, actually…" Jazz's optics flickered guiltily, sweeping over the quiet doorway as he drawled, "Considering that since this bar opened its doors on cycle one, the first ones here have always been that flock of little fliers who look like they rolled off the same design schematic photocopier—"
"They're definitely still stuck in the square with Ultra Magnus holding some big meeting!" Hot Rod cut in rapidly, "All fliers were emergency conscripted for some assembly. Ol' 'Con's comms were practically smoking! It'll probably take a while—especially the Seekers! Primus, hundreds of them gathered together, buzzing like a malfunctioning particle accelerator, a total mess of mechanical hornets! Couldn't get them quiet no matter how much they yelled, formations all crooked. Even the leader—I mean Optimus Prime himself—went over and couldn't do a thing. In the end, it took Ol' Buckethead firing his cannon at that scrapped signal tower nearby to shut up those noisy flies."
Hot Rod finished his breathless account as his high-grade cube ran dry. Jazz silently refilled it without comment.
Hot Rod took a big gulp and continued: "Besides, no speedster is as fast and as agile in the ruins as me, and I was allowed off shift early today. But strictly speaking—"
He changed tack, looking slyly at Soundwave, "—I wasn't really the first. At least Soundwave got here before me. So he was first."
Hot Rod was trying to salvage Jazz's losses. But Soundwave's deep red visor turned to Hot Rod, finally finding an opening to interject:
"Objection: Soundwave has no on-shift activity record for today. Premise of post-shift arrival invalid."
"So there you go," Jazz put down his polishing cloth and spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. "He naturally doesn't count as arriving post-shift today. I still owe him this high-grade." He smiled, pushing a new, softly glowing low-grade cube towards Soundwave.
A temporary silence fell over the bar. The soothing background music flowed; the deep vents of a few frames and the faint creaks of metal joints became audible. Hot Rod took another sip of his high-grade and again peered into the corner through the reflection on his cube. This brief quiet only made the invisible, oppressive weight in the corner feel heavier. This cold, viscous strangeness was like a cold spring mixing into a warm current, like a discordant note that had lingered for too long.
Hot Rod hesitated, fingers rubbing the rim of his empty cube, but finally made up his mind. He set the empty high-grade cube down on the counter with a soft clink, breaking the silence:
"So…" His voice lowered, carrying a trace of barely concealed tension and intense curiosity, "Why is Starscream here too? What exactly happened a few days ago? Soundwave, you didn't go on shift… is it related to that?"
These questions felt like grit caught in his drivetrain; he wouldn't be comfortable until they were out. Starscream's presence was too strong; that eerie gaze felt like needles pricking his back armor.
Hot Rod's questions were like stones dropped into stagnant water, sending ripples of a brief, suffocating silence through the area near the bar. Jazz's glass-polishing movements paused almost imperceptibly:
"I thought everyone knew about Starscream's little rebellion a few days ago. That was quite the commotion."
"I was on rotation on the other side, didn't see it firsthand, just heard the gist," Hot Rod explained, his gaze still fixed on the corner.
"He wasn't arrested? Just… left like that?"
A short silence.
In the corner, Starscream sat perched on a high seat cobbled together from twisted metal and battered hull plates, like a sculpture assembled from scrap parts, utterly incongruous with the small, meticulously maintained bar. His frame was riddled with damage, several deep, charred fusion scars looking particularly horrifying. If not for those optics locked fiercely on the three of them, Hot Rod might genuinely have missed the heap of metal junk.
Skywarp and Thundercracker stood silently flanking Starscream. Their paint was relatively intact, but their optics were downcast, radiating deep exhaustion and helpless sorrow. Since Starscream's fall, they'd appeared much less frequently in public, clearly remaining loyally by their broken commander's side.
"The day Starscream rebelled…" Jazz lowered his vocalizer's volume, his voice almost drowned by the bass rhythm of the background music. He glanced at Soundwave again; seeing the other remain silent, he regained his composure and raised his voice: "Everyone was scrambling, total chaos around the command post! We knew he was fuming black smoke from his spark over this peace treaty ceasefire, but who'd have thought he wouldn't just blast Megatron with a null-ray at the signing ceremony? Instead, he waited a whole five cycles before acting out? Almost made me think he'd gone soft and peace-loving!"
"Not that patient," Hot Rod made a face. "He was standing behind Ol' Megs that day, looked like he was gonna twist his faceplates into metal fatigue."
"Starscream failed to report to assigned energy survey point that day," Soundwave stated. "Led assault team composed of dissidents. Target: Megatron's temporary command post in Old Foundry District."
"Duration from conflict initiation to target unit incapacitation: Less than 15 cycles."
Hot Rod sucked in another sharp vent. What was Starscream thinking?
"Lucky," Jazz said, "that his crazy streak was entirely focused on Megatron then. Apart from the command post walls needing rebuilding, there was no major damage. Just…" He paused, his gaze involuntarily flicking to Starscream's mangled right wing. "Megatron's aim is usually pretty good when it's pointed at his own."
"Target: Primary rotary joint at root of right wing. Impact. Energy overload caused joint meltdown. Structural failure."
"Megatron intended execution. To eliminate future threat." Soundwave said. "Optimus Prime intervened. Prevented."
Jazz took over, mimicking a steady, compassionate tone, "'…We should not answer past hatred with execution. Termination cannot bring renewal. Starscream… he simply hasn't realized yet… the war has been too long, he needs time…' Alright, I'll stop messing around." Under the optics of the other two, Jazz reverted to his usual tone.
"The leader's exact words were: 'Starscream currently poses no substantive threat. Our focus should be on Cybertron's future, not obsessively settling past accounts. More important work awaits.'" Jazz shrugged. "Then they went off to deal with the other rebels, leaving Starscream alone, smoking on the ground."
Hot Rod's gaze shifted back to the corner, landing on Starscream's ravaged frame.
"Starscream refused all medical or repair procedures," Soundwave confirmed. "Has not returned to any duty station."
"He's been wandering everywhere these past few days," Hot Rod waved a hand, looking uneasy. "You have no idea how creepy it is—several 'bots thought he was a battlefield ghost, almost shot at him. So I'm curious why he's in the bar. Does he look like he's here for a high-grade to relax?"
"Clarification: This is Optimus Prime's directive."
"Regardless, someone reliable needs to keep an optic on Starscream," Hot Rod said.
Jazz chuckled: "Funny thing is, Soundwave volunteered to handle this scrap heap."
Why he'd brought Starscream to his bar was anyone's guess.
In the corner, Thundercracker and Skywarp silently exchanged a look. Finally, Thundercracker stepped forward, facing Starscream.
"Leader." A deliberately lowered voice, edged with cautious tension. Thundercracker subtly pulled all his remaining energy blocks from his subspace and pressed them into Starscream's arms.
Starscream didn't look at them, nor at the energy blocks. Skywarp looked like he wanted to speak but stopped, appearing utterly frustrated. Thundercracker's blue and white paint seemed pale under the light.
Thundercracker took a deep vent. In the quiet bar, under the soft music, he spoke again: "Leader, we have to go now."
"Skywarp and I are sorry we can't stay with you right now."
Skywarp also let out a vent, saying: "Just for a little while. We'll be back. When we do, could you maybe not make us hunt for you again?"
"Keep your tank filled. Don't run yourself into stasis lock," Thundercracker added.
Starscream still didn't move.
Before leaving the bar, the wingmates turned back, giving Starscream one last worried look—
If Starscream truly decided to go somewhere, they couldn't do a thing about it. Thundercracker and Skywarp didn't join the rebellion, but they hadn't known about it either. Or rather, Starscream hadn't bothered to tell them.
"Why'd they suddenly leave?" Hot Rod asked.
"To survive," Jazz replied with feigned profundity.
"Meeting: They are also flight-capable units."
Though no one knew why Starscream hadn't involved them in the treason, the wingmates remained loyal to his command. They were the second wave to arrive at the scene and the first to reach Starscream lying in the crater. Naturally, Thundercracker and Skywarp were also the first to notice his peculiar state—Starscream had backstabbed Megatron countless times, but never left him this shattered, this devoid of life. Thundercracker started searching the universal networks for ways to comfort his commander; Skywarp, unusually, refrained from mockery or sarcasm. But unfortunately, they had their own duties to fulfill, often losing track of Starscream. Even with one doing double work, finding the wandering Seeker took considerable effort.
A distant roar of engines was approaching, mixed with boisterous chatter— the day's work was done. It was time for the Cybertronians who had been busy all cycle outside to enjoy the only relaxation activity amidst the ruins. Life wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was far better than worrying about getting your spark blown out on the battlefield by someone who rolled off the same assembly line.
Finally, Starscream let out an incredibly faint, yet utterly saturated with humiliation and defeat, metallic grating sound, like a sigh forced from rusted gears. He didn't look at anyone. Using his one still-functional arm, Starscream shoved hard against the cold scrap metal beneath him. His frame emitted a series of agonized groans. He finally hauled himself upright in a twisted posture, movements clumsy and slow. Every component screamed in despair. At the destroyed rotary joint at the root of his right wing, damaged armor plates pulled unnaturally with the motion, exposing large patches of charred, twisted wiring and structure beneath. It was the wound he refused to let be repaired.
He didn't head for the main door. Instead, dragging his crippled legs, clutching Thundercracker's energy blocks, he took step after heavy, deliberate step, with a near self-destructive resolve, towards the emergency exit on the other side of the bar. That door, usually only a backup for crowded times, became his sole path of escape from this suffocating space.
Soundwave remained seated, his red visor watching as Starscream vanished into the darkness of the passage. He did not follow. He simply sat there, silent, as if Starscream hadn't been his responsibility to bring here.
In the bar, that invisible, stifling pressure seemed to lift slightly with Starscream's departure. But what remained was a deeper, more complex residue—a mix of pity, confusion, fear, and a sliver of relief. The indistinct lyrics of the background music seemed to regain clarity.
Hot Rod looked at his half-finished high-grade and suddenly found the liquid too thick, too hard to swallow. Optimus's words and Starscream's shattered frame circled relentlessly in his processor, forming an inarticulate metallic thought. Jazz vented heavily:
"Starscream's bolted. Aren't you going after him?"
Soundwave stared at the spot where Starscream had vanished for a moment longer, as if considering.
Finally, he said: "I can no longer assist him."
"Didn't peg you for having such humanitarian spirit. I always thought you were that kind of sneaky Decepticon spook who kept 360° surveillance on everyone," Hot Rod remarked.
"Don't doubt it, he is," Jazz helpfully reminded the younger 'bot.
Soundwave silently stood up, selected a vaporwave disc from Jazz's collection, and replaced the one in the player. Jazz brought out several more high-grade cubes from behind the bar, ready for the incoming patrons.
"Speaking of that scrap heap," Hot Rod asked, "why hasn't it been cleared out yet?"
"Was supposed to be hauled out today," Jazz replied. "But let's leave it for now. We'll deal with it later."
Hot Rod slumped bored onto the bar top: "Can I request some rock?"
"Pay up," Jazz said.
The bar door closed behind him, severing a connection like an umbilical cord to a false world. The last trace of air, mingling with the sweet scent of energon and the warm breeze of jazz, was cut off. It was replaced by Iacon's near-twilight chill, carrying metallic dust and the residual warmth of energy conduits. He dragged his legs, severely unbalanced from the damage, limping heavily into the shadows at the edge of the ruins. Every step scraped his battered armor against the ground, emitting a harsh, grating screech, jarringly loud in the stillness.
Starscream did not look back.
Soundwave hadn't followed. That deep blue, monitor-like silent figure remained within Jazz's bar's warm bubble of "peace." Was his task complete? Or did he deem this heap of scrap no longer worth the effort? A stab of cold, abandoned pain flickered through Starscream's processor but was instantly drowned by a more overwhelming surge of fury at being dismissed. Fine! Good! He was utterly free now— free as a leaf swept into a trash heap.
Cybertron's sun was half-submerged below the horizon. Starscream had left the city limits, trudging deeper into the endless wasteland. The sunset dyed the ground beneath his feet the color of blood. He couldn't remember how many times the Decepticons and Autobots had fought here, how many cycles it had lasted. And now, barely half a stellar cycle later, reality itself had been overturned before him.
The bustling scenes of reconstruction were like the sharpest daggers, slicing through the neural pathways labeled "past" in his processor. He saw Decepticon laborers and Autobot engineers lifting a massive prefabricated alloy plate together, their movements carrying a hint of clumsy coordination. A young Autobot was excitedly showing a data pad to a Decepticon, whose faceplates, once etched with battlefield ferocity, now displayed a trace of… approval?!
Urgh—!
The memory triggered a wave of intense, physiological revulsion. His optics flickered violently; data at the edge of his vision scrambled into gibberish. Millions of years of blood feud! Comrades and enemies turned to ash in explosions! They… how dare they?! How dare they wipe it all away like dust?! Then play the role of "builders" atop these ruins?!
They were still fighting the Autobots just a few cycles before the ceasefire signing ceremony! Starscream limped onward, his internal fans whirring. Peace had arrived abruptly, defying most expectations of how the war would end, yet it was undeniably, unquestionably here.
What was Starscream thinking?
That Megatron was a coward? That he was unworthy to lead the Decepticons? That only Starscream could lead them to final victory—
He had tried. Thousands! Tens of thousands of times! Over countless cycles! Whether sudden or premeditated, it had all ended in failure! The facts were undeniable. When Megatron pointed his fusion cannon at his spark chamber those few cycles ago, he had definitively proven his leadership to Starscream.
Starscream kept walking. Cybertron's giant sun continued its descent towards the horizon. His fuel reserves were critically low. He pulled Thundercracker's energy blocks from his subspace and unconsciously shoved them into his intake.
So… should he accept this sudden "peace"?
The wind from the Rust Sea carried its eternal, nauseating scent of corroded metal. Even from this distance, Starscream could detect the faint tang of decay in the air. He was nearing the edge of the Rust Sea.
The warm lights of the bar, the soothing music, the scent of high-grade, the sounds of… living conversation, the crisp clinks of metal, even Jazz's slagging, peace-time relaxed tone—they all felt like countless red-hot needles stabbing repeatedly at his processor core. A giant, grotesque caricature labeled "Peace," from which he—the former Decepticon Air Commander, the nightmare of Cybertron's skies—was utterly excluded, relegated to a discordant, decaying background prop, reeking of war.
"No longer poses a substantive threat…"
"Should not expend excessive energy…"
Each word was like a hammer blow against the ruins of his only remaining pride.
He was no longer an enemy, no longer a threat, not even worthy of being "dealt with." He was just a pitiable, ignorable relic of war, left to rot on his own. Like a piece of scrap in the Rust Sea, destined to be assimilated, vanishing without a sound.
Why?!
A silent, high-pitched shriek tore through the depths of his processor.
Why him?! Why did he have to endure this?! He'd only done what any true Decepticon should do! Fight! Conquer! Seize the power that belonged to the strong! Four million years! At least four million years of war had forged the hunger for battle, the thirst for victory, the worship of power, into the very core of his spark! That was his reason for existing! The entire melody of his life!
And now? They told him all of it was wrong?!
They laid down their weapons, shook hands, and used laughable bricks and energy to build a fragile sandcastle called "Peace" atop mountains of corpses! They whitewashed everything, pretending the spilled oil, the burning skies, the comrades and enemies reduced to dust in explosions had never existed!
And he, Starscream, a warrior who refused to forget, refused to betray his spark's instinct, became the only "anomaly" in this hypocritical new era?
He walked deeper, straying further from any path. The sun had completely sunk beneath the ground. The bloody crimson light faded from Starscream's frame. An absolute, suffocating silence descended. The metallic, intensely rancid smell of rust grew thicker, so thick it felt like it could condense into droplets on his armor, seeping into his seams. The still air began to carry fine metallic grit, abrading his vents.
Starscream didn't know why he was heading towards the Rust Sea.
The Rust Sea.
Finally, he stood on the edge of the legendary place, symbolizing Cybertron's ultimate decay. Before him stretched the boundless, filthy dark red and sickly brown "sea" of metal, visible only under the dim starlight. There were no waves, only slow, undulating movements like the guts of some colossal beast. Countless discarded metal carcasses crushed, consumed, and dissolved each other within it, emitting a low, continuous moan like the lament of billions of lost souls at the bottom of an abyss. The wind, bitingly cold and fiercely corrosive, howled across the cliff edge, threatening to topple him.
The memory of Megatron's devastating shot seemed to sear his wing again.
Here, far from the lights and clamor of Iacon's reconstruction zone, there was only the dead silence of the "sea"—if the slow-churning, mutually devouring metal flow could be called that—moaning low and constant, like the agonized writhing of a wound Cybertron would never heal.
Starscream's brain module was a cacophony, storm-like data streams churning his neural circuits.
At the edge of the Rust Sea, someone had arrived before him.
It was that traitor.
Skyfire sat with his back to Starscream, the massive transport jet perched on the cliff edge, his shadow completely engulfing Starscream's frame. He didn't say a word.
He hadn't noticed his arrival. Perfect. Starscream forced his brain module to function. He stumbled, but not forward—instead, he took a large, desperate step back. He averted his gaze from that symbol of finality, the Rust Sea. Turning resolutely, if haltingly, he moved away until Skyfire disappeared beyond the edge of his optical sensors.
The chaotic noise in Starscream's mind vanished the moment he saw Skyfire. Only coolant dripping over his damaged frame remained. He ingested another energy block; his neural circuits smoothed out, his brain module clearing.
Why had he come to the Rust Sea?
The limping footsteps scraped against the cold ground again. Unlike daytime, pale moonlight bathed the metallic landscape, casting a faint silvery sheen even on Starscream's shattered frame.
I didn't need to avoid that traitor. He's just a delusional coward, no different from the other Autobots. Despite the thought, Starscream's retreating pace didn't slow; if anything, it was faster than when he'd arrived.
Starscream remembered working with Skyfire on an energy deposit survey a few cycles ago. It was just after the peace began, during those five cycles when he'd been secretly plotting to overthrow Megatron.
So stupid. Skyfire had been wary of him during the project, yet inevitably dredged up old memories Starscream had long discarded. Starscream hadn't cared about him at all. Logically, he shouldn't have wanted to work with the traitor, but the fury burning in his spark chamber had been too intense, leaving no room to process his own disgust.
Starscream stumbled over something, snapping him out of the memory—half an Autobot arm plating, ubiquitous in such places. The faction symbol made him think of Skyfire again. Ha! Even you came to the Rust Sea to rust? The thought, like bad energon injected into his spark, ignited a twisted spark of grim satisfaction.
A low, rasping, metallic scrape of a laugh squeezed out of Starscream's damaged vocalizer. The laughter echoed across the desolate wasteland, sounding desolate and unhinged.
That sanctimonious traitor!
Seems even his best act couldn't hide his own decaying nature—
Perfect, Starscream thought, let slagging Skyfire go meet Primus!
Starscream continued his limping journey back. A fleeting sense of superiority hovered over his spark. Passing through the reconstruction zone, he sneered at the combined Autobot/Decepticon insignia:
See, Skyfire? Is this the peace you wanted?
Starscream forgot the Rust Sea entirely, along with the purpose of his trip there.
But it no longer mattered.
Even if Starscream would never realize he'd actually been scared off by Skyfire.