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Glory to Megatronus
the Fiery Blaze of War,
Nemesis of Quintessa,
Whose Wrath pierces the Wicked,
Whose Requiem wards the Fallen.
——Odes to the Thirteen, Verse 12
The first time, it was a storage pod’s cannon. Because of course Quints put cannons on everything that flew now, why wouldn’t they.
In astrokliks, he was rapidly losing altitude and his comm was out.
His combat subroutines managed a swift mid-air transformation and a sharp turn at the last moment. The only thing that stopped him from slamming into the nearest volcanic peak and exploding into a pile of flaming scraps.
Or so he was told, once he was back online and lucid enough for words.
He didn’t remember slag, except for that field of blue flowers.
That Pit-damned field.
The purple battle mask gazed down at him, untarnished by organic growth and unstained by long-dried energon.
"My Prime," he said, half out of habit and half out of shock.
The tall warrior didn’t say anything back. Just continued to loom over him like one of his old statues.
"Are you here to take me away?" He asked, because there was really only one explanation for this.
Megatronus shook his helm, and then he was falling, falling, past the field of blue, and right into blinding, searing pain.
"—emergency stasis NOW, or spark failure in two kliks!"
What now?
"Assessment: if…stasis now…will not return to…in the foreseeable future."
Speak up or shut up. I can’t…hear a thing.
"What? But we still need a Commander!"
"One klik and ten astrokliks. You, Soundwave, TC, I don’t care who—need to make up your dang mind."
About what?
"Calm down, ‘Warp!" The shout was distant, muffled. "Don’t go in there, don’t—"
"I’M CALM! REAL CALM! Get off me!"
Ugh, this again. He didn’t even know who was yelling, but it felt so very familiar. And annoying.
"Well, that’s one decision maker down! Can't you do a partial stasis—buy more time?"
"I would’ve already, if I could! Forty astrokliks!"
Countdowns…that’s never good. He needed to move. Probably.
Why couldn’t he?
"Twenty astrokliks. Either you make the decision now, or the system cascade failure does it for you."
Start moving.
Move.
Move. Now.
Move move move move move fraggin’ MOVE—
"Medical Monitor: Requires Attention."
"Right, a mech is dying! Thanks for stating the obvious!"
"Negative. Pulse Pattern: Unusual…spikes…rising..."
"—the last erratic flickers, sparks tend to do that when they—Oh."
"Holy Primus, an actual medical miracle." A voice he finally recognized as Hook exclaimed, before the pain faded into nothingness and he faded together with it.
The first medical emergency was always the scariest.
This definitely wasn’t their first. Yet, for some reason, everyone except for Soundwave had been panicking like a bunch of newsparks. And that bothered him to no end.
Yeah, but it’s you who almost offlined, Screamer. Skywarp said, before handing him a cube of med-grade, and it’s only been like, one decacycle, since you got us outta’ there in one piece.
Thanks for the reminder. He replied. The moment I’m up and walking again, I’m drafting a standard protocol for transfer of command power during emergencies.
Um? Say that again? In, like, real Vosian words?
If I’m in stasis or dead, Soundwave takes over as High Guard Commander.
Why?
‘Cause he’s the only one that didn’t lose his slag, while the rest of you were screaming and running around in circles like headless Robo-fowls.
Ha, silly Screamer, headless Robo-fowls can’t scream! Once again, Skywarp chose to focus on the most inane and inconsequential details. Wait, can they?
I literally can’t care less, Skywarp.
If Sounders also died, do I get to be the Commander?
No, the position goes to TC, then Shockwave, then Slipstream. He said, then added pre-emptively, And if we were ever in a position where you were the only mech who could take over, then we were already fragged beyond saving and ranks wouldn’t matter anymore.
The second time, it was Trackers, but they didn’t know that, no.
It was just a flock of mysterious black drones that ambushed his Seekers, after a scout ship’s beam forced them to take cover under a ruined bridge.
They weren’t "the abominable spawns of mnemosurgery and Quintesson science" or "hollow shells that used to be mechs" yet, either, so none of the Initiates felt uneasy gunning them down.
Unfortunately, they also couldn’t shoot for slag.
He barely managed to shut a stammering Redwing up and shove him down the sewer entrance, when a missile exploded against his back plating.
The field. The fallen Prime. The same purple mask, gazing down at him through empty optic-slits.
"So, last time was a false alarm," he said, as he pulled himself back up. "Are you taking me with you for real this time?"
Once again, Megatronus shook his helm.
"Good. I won’t be going even if you offered, not this time." he said. "Now send me back!"
Silence. He waited a little longer. Still nothing.
That was when he finally noticed his missing null rays, after reaching out his digits to feel for them out of habit. A quick system check confirmed that his missiles were gone too.
Huh. No weapons allowed in this strange limbo realm. Okay.
"You see, my Prime, we were under attack and retreating before I got here," he spoke up again, trying to sound as respectful as possible.
"Hopefully, I’m the only unlucky casualty of that missile, but some of my dumber cadets are not above charging out of cover all at once, when only one mech is needed to drag me back to safety." He pressed both servos against his faceplate. "And I really, really don’t want that."
"So please allow me to return to the world of the living, my Prime? O’ Glorious Megatronus Prime, Warder of the Fallen?"
"...Can you even send me back?" He let out a defeated ex-vent, after being met with more silence. "Or are you just the new security guard for the Well now? Let sparks in, keep sparks out, but no more than that?"
He didn’t receive a helm shake. Well, at the very least, the answer wasn’t a "No."
"...Stupid Redwing." He muttered to himself. "If I didn’t wake up on a pile of my cadets’ grey-out frames, I’m kicking his sorry aft back to rear-ech until he learned to switch to a comm while under fire."
That, of all things, did it.
The field faded away, and he woke up inside the sewer tunnels, faceplate pressed against a makeshift stretcher.
With great difficulty, he turned his helm to the side, and found himself staring into the dim light of a portable brazier.
So there were enough of his Seekers left to set up camp, at least.
Good.
He closed his optics and drifted back into recharge, and there were no blue flowers in his memory refluxes.
Third time’s a charm, in the sense that he knew this would be a regular occurrence in his life now. Field, flowers, fallen Prime.
Being hit by a collapsing beam and knocked into the giant hole in the floor was anything but a charming experience.
"Okay, I know that the divinity of Primes is something even you and your fellow Primes struggled to comprehend," he in-vented deeply, as he stood up and turned toward Megatronus, "and you certainly didn’t want us to worship the very ground you walked on."
"But when mechs get visions from, say, Onyx or Primus himself, it was usually about important things, right? Prophecies, warnings, grand destinies…"
He looked up into the sky above the field. Also blue, but of a lighter shade. Nothing like Cybertron’s skies.
"...and they received the messages in their recharge, or through special artifacts, or some other mystical mumbo-jumbo. Not falling building beams!"
"So, do you have an actual message for me, my Prime?" He asked. "Other than ‘Kick Sentinel’s aft’, that is. ‘Cause you bet I will."
"...No, of course you don’t." He felt his wings droop in defeat, as he sat back down. "Probably can’t hear me either. No Well for me again, I presume?"
The warrior shook his helm.
"Wow, great. So you can hear me, but only when I’m asking how dead I am." He said bitterly. "And only long enough to tell me ‘Not yet, frag off’."
He woke up in the basement, lying in a puddle of half-dried energon, stuck between the fallen beam and a carpet of dead Insecticon drones.
According to his HUD, his left wing was definitely broken.
Good to know, because he couldn’t feel either of them.
It took him two orns to climb back up to ground level, and another orn to get to the nearest safehouse.
At which point he dragged himself to the terminal, sent out a distress signal, and promptly fell into stasis again.
The fourth time was no less stupid than the third.
No, it was probably THE dumbest reason yet for ending up in that field of flowers, once he started counting and taking notes.
One of Thundercracker’s mentees got caught by a Vapor Squid.
He didn’t spend all that time and resources sneaking protoforms out under Sentinel and Co.’s optics, only for them to become squid food.
"I know you won’t be letting me in there for a long, long while," he said to Megatronus, "But if I ever end up in the Pit, I know exactly what my corner will look like now."
"Fraggin’ Vapor Squids everywhere!" He screamed, then added, "Teleporting Vapor Squids too. With Sentinel’s faceplates on them."
The fifth time, some slagger in that left-behind settlement sold them out to Airachnid.
He didn’t know which. It was not like Soundwave was on this mission. Or any field operations. He was too valuable for that.
But Laserbeak was, and the Minicon’s keen sensors were the only thing that prevented everyone from being unceremoniously gunned down.
A lot of mechs still got shot. He might be among them. He wasn’t sure. He was too busy drawing Airachnid’s fire and stopping her blades from mowing through his cadets like grass.
"I wonder what Airachnid offered our little traitor here." He mused to Megatronus. "Supplies? A ticket back to Iacon? A position in her Tracker army?"
"The same things the Quints offered Sentinel?"
"Promises of mercy, recognition, luxuries, and…" He snapped his digits. "Absolute power over another mech’s life and death, if only for one brief moment."
He opened his optics in what appeared to be the settlement’s scrapping bay.
Well, if Airachnid was the one who downed him, there was no way in the Pit she wouldn’t have brought his frame back to Iacon.
(Mostly so she could salvage the data in his memory drives. Or, Sentinel just wanted to mount his wings on his new office’s walls and she was all too happy to comply.)
So it must’ve been the mechs in this settlement who dragged him back and dumped him in here, thinking he was as good as dead.
Grave miscalculation on their part. He wasn’t.
The same couldn’t be said for the five other greyed-out Seeker frames in various stages of disassembly, though.
Avia. Blazewake. Blast. Cloudcover. Wheezing Arrow.
There would be no eulogies for the fallen, or assurances that their deaths weren’t in vain, or even a chance to carry their parts back to base.
All he could do was make one promise.
"They’ll pay for this." He whispered, before pulling an E-pick out of his subspace and started prying open the door panels.
A chord later, three High Guard squads returned to the settlement.
They set fire to the main buildings under the cover of darkness, then sniped at the fleeing survivors from the air, until there were no moving frames in sight.
Once the smoke cleared, they looted the structures that were still standing, took off in formation, and moved on to their next assignment.
"I knew what you’d have said to me, if you could talk." The next time he ended up in the field, he told Megatronus. "Or hear me. Or know the things I’ve done."
"And frankly, I don’t care. I’ve let one traitor slip past me. I won’t let any more off the hook."
"Oh, sure, they had no choice but to stay where they were, after they missed the last auto-trains to the underground cities." He continued. "Sure, life up here is harsh, energon is scarce, and mechanimals aren’t that easy to catch, especially with all these Beastformer exiles around—"
"But the High Guards deal with the same slag too, and you don’t see us running back to the False Prime and begging for his mercy!" His fists slammed into the field of flowers below. "We never turn to treachery at the first sign of hardship!"
"...Why am I even explaining myself to you?" He murmured, after being met with the same old silent treatment. "You are dead. You are dead and I’m not."
A shake of his massive helm, and he was back in the real world, lying on the ground in agony.
Such poetic timing, my Prime, he thought, and laughed, and laughed some more, through the gathering coolant in his optics.
They flew into a Beastformer ambush right before sunset.
Zero surprise here. In those hilly terrains, if it wasn’t Techno-Thyracines, it would be Onyx Prime’s feral, ownerless pets.
And they have the gall to call themselves Onyx’s followers, these so-called Predacons?
He silently sneered, as he dodged through the flurries of claws and metal wings and barbed tails, then drove an energon blade through the unprotected gaps beneath the attacker’s red Bolt-bat wings.
At best, they are bandits and nuisances. At worst, they willingly lower themselves to the level of mechanimals and spend all their spare time gleefully rolling around in a puddle of their preys’ energon.
Sadly, he didn’t pierce the spark chamber, but the red and green Beastformer still dropped like a rock, crashing into the barren hillside in a spinning dive.
One down. One went after its fallen partner-in-crime. Only one remained, and it was currently being led on a merry chase by Skywarp.
Good. With that timely bit of distraction, he finally had an opening to disengage and soar to an altitude beyond the reach of their beastly wings—
"Ripclaw!" A fourth voice suddenly roared, shaking the very air with its grief and fury. "You will rue the day you lay your claws on a brethren of Predaking, Seeker!"
He did not expect an enormous winged…Robo-lizard…thing to rise up from behind one of the rock formations, and charge him like a yellow-black static cyclone.
But at least no one could blame him for losing to that.
"Is this some kind of sick game to you?" He deadpanned.
"No, seriously. I asked you if I’d finally gotten myself offlined. You gave me one of your classic helm shakes," he looked up and stared straight into the purple mask’s optic-slits, "and I can’t think of a single scientifically sound or medically plausible reason for me to survive that."
"The first time, it could be a lucky coincidence. Sometimes sparks just do weird things under stress, or so Hook said."
"The other times, my injuries were also in the ‘severe but not totally unsurvivable’ territory." He continued. "That time in the scrapping bay? Weird, sure, but they could just be waiting for me to grey out while taking the other frames apart."
"But this? This?" He jabbed a digit at the warrior, "Look, what I’m hearing from you, my Prime, is ‘Yes, you just got mauled by an angry Predacon, then left to bleed out in the open like some half-chewed glitch-mice, while Skywarp was busy pranking its friend on the next mountain over and might never find your cold, dead frame in the darkness when he got back, but hey, it’s alright! YOU WILL LIVE!’ "
He stopped to catch a vent, optics squeezed shut.
There had never been a time where he fell out of the field and didn’t feel like absolute slag upon waking up. He could get used to that, even though he very much didn’t want to.
But this particular return trip…considering the state of his frame when he got here, no, he was in no hurry to leave the nice field of flowers behind.
Goodness, just thinking about it again made him shudder, because once he woke up how long would he have to wait? How long would he be stuck as a literal scrapheap and feeling every broken screw and raptured fuel line and crushed joint in said scrapheap?
And if no one came for him, would he just stay trapped like that, left to the mercy of surface tectonics and acid rain? Forever?
Then he realized the unsaid implication in those fearful thoughts, and the fear quickly turned into shock and anger.
"Are you…are you the one who’s been keeping me alive this whole time?" His vents came out in rattling, quivering rasps. "If so…for what?"
"No, really, for what? Because I still have unfinished businesses? Some vital duties?" He asked. "Is it the fraggin’ Will of Primus? Or just your own misguided goodwill, if there are still any bits of you left behind that mask?"
"Did one of your fellow Prime spirits put you up to this, because of some stupid design of theirs? It feels quite in line with Liege’s sense of humor." He narrowed his optics. "Are you all just bored out of your minds inside the Well and find my suffering funny? Is this fun for you?"
Megatronus had not responded to a single question outside of That One, and it had become apparent that he would stay that way after the first few encounters, and nothing Starscream said or did in this field could change that, and this silence was no different from all the other silences—
Yet the sight of his mask, at this very moment, still ignited all of his anger like a stray blaster shot in a raw energon vein.
"Say something! Don’t just stand there and shake your helm like a broken drone! You are my Prime, you are better than this…shell!" He lunged forward and grabbed the warrior by one of his huge, armored servos, "SAY SOMETHING!"
His digits were nowhere near sharp enough to pierce a Prime’s armors while they were alive, and it quickly became apparent that they couldn’t leave a single scratch in death either.
But he still clawed and kicked and pummeled his fists against purple armor, over and over, and shrieked and cursed and begged and sobbed, until there was finally nothing left in him other than cold, numb exhaustion.
"Is this my punishment for…failing? For not getting there in time…?" He could barely hear himself, as he fell on his knees in front of the Prime. "For failing you?"
He knelt there until the field sped past him in a blue haze, waiting for an answer that would not come.
Skywarp was staring down at him, through the swirling purple and black colors in his optics.
"Wow, Screamer. You look like scrap. Still, not as scrapped as I thought ya’ gonna be, when I saw that big pred—" He paused. "Slag, are you crying?"
"But you never cried, you didn’t even after—" A nervous in-vent, "Geez, it really hurts that much, huh? ‘Kay, ‘kay, what do I do now…right, base coords, base coords…"
A pair of arms wrapped around him, pulling him up from the ground and pressing his frame tightly against warm metal platings. For a moment, he let himself lean into it.
"Don’t worry. I gotcha." He felt an awkward pat on his back struts, before the world around them rippled and distorted into a blur. "I gotcha, Screamer. Don’t cry."
Turns out, "Not a half-chewed scrapheap" or "Not as fragged as Skywarp thought" didn’t equal "Not painfully maimed and out of action for the next chord or so."
There had to be some kind of accelerated self-repair going on while he was in the field. But not too fast, and not a klik longer, because he just couldn’t have nice things.
You will not speak of this to anyone, he threatened Skywarp from the medberth, knowing full well that he had already told at least one mech, because Thundercracker was sneaking anxious glances at them through the window bars.
Of what? Oh, you mean when you were super scared and cry—
Yes! That! Not a word! He shrieked, then added. And I’m not scared, it was just an automatic system response to pain!
Sure, Screamer. Sure.
As annoying as Thundercracker’s fretting presence near the medberth was, it was still better than the memory refluxes.
No, he didn’t get the bad ones. The kind that caused Shockwave to pace around the base and spend the rest of the night compulsively checking all the generators and essential equipment, in a desperate attempt to not fall back to recharge.
Nor did he get the good ones, of shining spires and academic in-jokes and small, transparent blue wings.
Just mundane, fleeting moments that turned out to be extremely regrettable in retrospect.
Don’t cut queues, he said flatly, before grabbing the blue and golden jet by one wing and pulling him out of the crowd of refugees.
I, but I…He stuttered, gesturing at the fine metal decal on his chassis as if it still meant anything, I’m the Winglord’s emissary. You know, Diplomats First and all that?
I don’t care if you are the Winglord himself, miraculously resurrected from the ashes of Vos. They’ve been waiting for their rations longer than you. Get to the back of the line.
Name’s Sentinel, by the way, he squeezed out a smile, pedes still rooted where he stood, you might have seen me on the holo-screens.
Starscream, and no, I have not. He replied. Now move.
I was on a diplomatic trip to Iacon when… Sentinel paused, looking back at the growing crowd. This happened. Rushed back the moment I heard the news, not that I could help much after I got here. Haven’t refuelled on the way either…
Good. I was on a lunar expedition with my Amica. The sooner you start queueing like the rest of us, the sooner you get to refuel.
Then surely you’d understand—
I do. We all do. He nodded. Get to the back of the line.
But—
Back of the line, Sentinel. Now.
Some would say this moment had pretty much summed up his character from Orn 1.
Others would argue that it was a normal reaction to losing everything in a massive, horrifying catastrophe. Many other refugees would also cut queues and get into fights in the subsequent orns, without betraying their planet to the very beings responsible for said catastrophe.
A few would even say he was being too harsh on the diplomat back then.
If only he had been a little more understanding, if he offered smiles instead of stern stares, and shared the story of his own dread-filled return flight—
There was only one thought in his mind, as the reflux played out.
I knew where the fragger lived. Tent 701, right next to the camp’s medbay. Saw him walking in there while helping Jetfire distribute supplies.
If he could travel back in time, the first thing he would do would be sneaking into that tent after dark and stabbing Sentinel right in the spark chamber.
Moral dilemmas and timeline integrity be damned.
When he came out of the reflux, there was a servo on his left wing, spreading cool gel over the jagged weld marks.
He didn’t flinch or elbow the mech in the faceplate, because he had gotten used to this by now. But Thundercracker knew he was online anyway, because the rubbing motion came to a swift stop.
"Does it hurt?"
"For the 27th time this chord, no, it doesn't." He snapped. "So stop asking."
"I know. Just want to make sure."
"I’m not gonna die of a rust infection if you lay off the gel for one orn, either."
"Sorry. Hook’s orders."
"I outrank Hook."
"Not on the medberth, you don’t."
Huh. He didn’t expect Thundercracker’s snarky side to make a return. It was better than the usual worrying and pained looks, at least.
But also, what was their perfectionist freak of a medical officer thinking? As if medical supplies could be replenished that easily on the surface!
"Right. That’d be the first thing I change, once I’m out of here."
"...There’s a medical reason for this, you know." Thundercracker let out a slow, tired vent. "It’s not an overreaction on our part, especially when it comes to injuries from claws and teeth."
"And I have a logistical reason! This won’t be the last time we clash with Onyx’s rejects, and if you let that idiot medic talk you into wasting all of our corrostop gel on a single mech?"
He couldn’t see Thundercracker’s optics behind his red visors, but he tried to stare into them anyways, for extra impact.
"Then someone else is gonna die slowly and painfully when they could’ve survived. Could be one of your mentees. Could be Skywarp. Think about that for a klik."
That did it. Thundercracker didn’t utter a single word, until he was done with his other wing and walked out of the room.
He heard the unsaid words anyway, because it was always the same old slag with Thundercracker, Trine Right being the stable constant and all.
…Apparently, Thundercracker’s constant was worry and guilt and being a stubborn aft in the most subtle ways.
I know, and I still want to, because you nearly died again and I wasn’t there.
I’d be a terrible Warding Wing if I didn’t at least try to ease your pain. You are not making this easy for me, either.
No, he didn’t, although he knew better than to yell or fume by now.
But it was also the Center’s duty to set course and give directions and see beyond the past and present.
And it didn’t take a genius to see what would happen, should Thundercracker become the living shield he always wished to be.
With no silent Prime specter to keep his spark out of the Well, he’d just be another greyed-out frame in the ground.
When the Thirteen Primes departed and marched toward their doom, there were no last farewells or promises of triumphant return.
He wasn’t expecting any. There were very few chances for goodbyes in war, and you didn’t celebrate until the victory was certain and all casualties were accounted for.
The High Guards’ duty was to keep watch on the rest of the invasion fleet and block any possible reinforcements. So they did, in the air and on the ground, while Cybertron’s dim orange sun rose over the horizon, shrouded in misty purple aurora.
Beyond the horizon lay the ruin of a great city, the first among many.
For a klik, they were all standing on its obsolete borders again, under the same orange sunlight, listening to a voice that was way more quiet and solemn than anyone expected.
To be a Prime, a guardian of mechs, is the highest honor.
Yet, having failed Vos on that front, all I can offer now is vengeance.
For me, for you, and for the fallen.
A gruelling, bitter path, but it is the one I choose to tread.
If you are to walk alongside me, I want that choice to be yours, and yours alone.
If you turn and leave, if you choose another path, I will not fault you for your choice.
It takes immense strength to let go of anger and be gentle, too.
They did not leave, even though they had plenty of other places to go. They were the ones who walked forth, Trine by Trine, pressed their servos against their sparks, and pledged their loyalty to the Nemesis of Quintessa.
Come with me, then, you who once sought the destruction of your cruel masters, who reject all would-be masters of our kind.
From now on, you shall be the first High Guards of Cybertron.
Let wrath be your armor and blade, let me be your Warding Wing, as we reclaim our sky and moon from the spawns of Quintessa!
At last, vengeance was on the horizon, and it was their turn to guard the guardians.
The reflux cut off before a warship appeared on their scanners, in a location it was not supposed to be. It always did.
"Have you ever been tested for outlier abilities?"
His optics came online with a twitch, and immediately caught a glowing yellow dot, blinking down at him in erratic rhythms.
"What the frag, Shockwave." He exclaimed, once it became clear that this wasn’t some bizarre post-reflux glitch. "I thought you solved your recharge problem?"
"There were…bigger priorities."
"Like what? Sneaking into the medbay and staring at me creepily?"
"...No, I mean Soundwave has recently extracted all the commlink logs from the old Lunar Observatory in Altihex and is still pruning the database for potential connections to active Iaconian channels, so I’d rather not inconvenience him further with a defrag request." Shockwave explained, in a frantic pace he had become all too familiar with, before coming to a sudden pause.
"But it does come off as creepy, now that I think about it." Another pause. "Sorry."
Great. He was firmly in the rambling stage of recharge deprivation, but the junk data hadn’t completely jammed up his language and emotion circuits.
Yet.
"Okay. Go find Hook and ask him to do the defrag."
Turns out, replacing recharge with stasis lock and asking another mech to periodically clean up the junk data that piled up inside your processors wasn’t a perfect solution. Who would have known.
But it wasn’t like he got any better ideas, and he couldn’t fault Shockwave for not wanting to revisit his own memory drives during reflux cycles. There was some seriously nasty slag in there.
"Why do you think I’m here?!"
"Well, comm him, then!" He said. "Or his mates! And add an emergency tag to your request!"
"I tried! I-I…I was, yes, I was calling, the Linkchain code is 37-4-33." Shockwave stammered, clutching his right audial fin with his good servo. "The request expired. No one’s online. M-Makes sense, I suppose, they’ve just gotten their own mentees…newsparks s-should not be seeing me like this, no…"
Yeah. Definitely jamming now.
"Shockwave," he said, as he reached for the berth handles and pulled himself up to a sitting position. "I need you to lie down on that other berth over there. Now."
"W-Why? It’s not like I can, and even if I do, I will, I will—" He made a sharp, distressed noise, "I don’t want to—"
"I’m not asking you to recharge! Just lie down, before you panic and trip over something!" And it certainly looked like he was going to, with all the blind back-and-forth pacing. "Lie down and tell me about…ugh, whatever you were talking about when I woke up?"
Shockwave’s pacing came to an abrupt halt.
"...Outlier ability."
"Yeah? What about it?" He asked, optics and attention firmly fixated on the purple mech, who had regained some of his senses at last, and was staggering his way toward the berth.
"A-Are you sure you are not some kind of outlier?" There was a sharp clang, as his prosthetic collided with a nearby monitor. "Ow."
"Careful there. What makes you think that?"
"That…incident with the storage pod." Another clang, this time against the berth handle. "And lack of…chronic impairments, after multiple life-threatening injuries."
"Isn’t that a good thing?" He asked, then winced at the three consecutive clangs, "By the Pit, turn off your visual feed if you can’t see through the glitches! Focus on your tactile sensors!"
"Yes, I…suppose." The lack of further collisions, followed by a soft thud of back chassis against the slab, suggested that Shockwave did take his advice. "You had…outlier tests in the surface cities, right? Back then."
"Please, Crystal City invented outlier tests when Tarn was still a hovel in the ground."
"And they still let you slip through the c-cracks. I…wouldn’t have, if I were in charge of your testing. Just…saying."
He ignored the jab because Shockwave was finally on the other berth now. That meant he could let go of the handles and lie down too.
"Still, accelerated self-repair when the f-frame has suffered near-fatal damage…that is one hyper-specific trigger condition. Not…an experience I-I’d wish on any pre-alt bots, either."
Good grief, his back struts hurt and his arms felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets again.
But at least when Shockwave’s processors inevitably crashed under the strain of all that junk data, he wouldn’t collapse right on top of any breakable medical equipment.
"As curious as I am in the…limits of your outlier ability, I, I don’t think it is…advisable, to further test it out. No, not under our current conditions…"
He shut his optics with a groan.
Yeah, he’d deal with the ramifications of their science officer’s close guess later. Preferably after snatching back some recharge from his own uncooperative processors.
"I’m serious, this isn’t a…don’t act like you are…immune to death! May, maybe you won’t die even when…shot in the spark, but if…theory is wrong, we…I’d be…I don’t want you…"
"Words are falling out of your sentences. Slow down."
What Shockwave really needed was to stop talking and thinking, period. Saying that, however, would only agitate him and make him try harder.
"I, I know. Picked…the worst time…have…an e-episode."
"Right. Next time, send that defrag request the moment alerts start popping up. Don’t put it off because of your pride or some stupid slag!"
"Is…not…I don’t…" His voice was rapidly fading out of audible range. "...a deadweight, not again…so little…I could do.”
There were a few more bursts of static, before silence fell upon the medbay once more.
He didn’t know if the vocalizer shutdown meant the rest of his mind had also followed.
For Shockwave’s sake, he hoped it did.
“You know what? I’m not gonna ask questions you can’t answer anymore.” He said to Megatronus, the next time he was sent to the field by a helm injury. “I’ll just assume I have to earn my right to die, and leave it at that.”
He didn’t try to get up. Instead, he rolled over to lie on his side and gaze at the blue flowers.
They still weren’t anything recognizably organic or mechanical, and felt more like concepts than living things.
They were pretty to look at, though.
“Sure, my assumption’s probably wrong. But it will make me feel better in the meantime. Give me something to work towards.”
“Or, you are a hallucination my processors cooked up, in an attempt to make sense of the effects of my possible outlier ability.” He said. “It’s the more realistic and rational explanation, but I just don’t like it. For no particular reasons whatsoever.”
The field came and went, came and went.
He stopped counting and stopped caring. He did not chase after the field, but seldom did he try to avoid it.
The aftermath still hurt like the Pit, but pain was no longer synonymous with fear.
There was nothing for him to fear, when every bullet hole and dent and weld marks was merely a sign of getting close.
A call to keep fighting, keep suffering, keep on keeping on, until he was the only one left standing, one way or the other.
To never rest, never be satisfied, until vengeance came for Sentinel, for Quintessa, for every traitor and would-be master and coward who sat by and watched and did nothing—
And maybe, at the end of it all, he’d finally get a nod instead of a shake.
The thought brought a wild grin to his faceplate, as he took off and charged into the fog of war once more.
"Starscream: Compromised."
"I did not remember asking for your opinion." He turned away from his desk to glare at the intruder.
"High Guard Command: Should not be on the frontline." Soundwave continued. "High Guard Commander: Should not be putting himself under active fire on a regular basis."
"Well, Head Communication Officer Soundwave should not barge into the command quarters uninvited and start giving unwanted advice in the middle of the night, either." He snapped. "In fact, HCO Soundwave should learn to frag off and mind his own business."
Sharp agony stabbed at his side again as he spoke. He knew better than to reach for the impact spot by now. When it came to outdated concussion weapons, the pain was far worse than the actual damage.
Unfortunately, Soundwave didn’t need his outlier ability to read the twitches in his frame.
"Refusal of medical treatment: Have significant negative impacts on Starscream’s mood and judgment."
Yeah, state the obvious, why don’t you. He thought bitterly. I like you better in the reports. Where that bluntness actually contributes to a working solution, instead of drawing attention to the misery that’s already there.
"Look, I’m still getting work done, am I not?" He pointed to the pile of slates in front of him. "And if you have a problem with my decisions, fix them yourself! It’s literally your job!"
"Inefficiency: Costs additional time and resources down the line. But inefficiency is the symptom, not the cause."
"Right. Trying to save our dwindling med-grade supplies while in horrible pain makes me cranky and mistake-prone. Who would have guessed."
"Soundwave: Knows a mech on the path of self-destruction when he sees it."
That statement, said in the same unemotional, matter-of-fact tone, made him go very still.
"Come again?"
"Signs: Reckless disregard for one’s safety. Increased agitation. Rejection of assistance. Thrill and sensation seeking behaviors." Soundwave paused, then delivered the final precision hit.
"Not actively seeking out deactivation, but not caring if one lives or dies, either." Another pause. "State of Mind: Dangerous to self and others. Leadership: Compromised."
If he wasn’t so fragged up and done right now, he might have responded with an actual argument. Something related to Shockwave’s theory about his outlier ability. Soundwave would probably have dismantled it with the same ruthless efficiency, but at least it wouldn’t be a humiliating admission of defeat in all but name.
Instead, he slammed his fists into the desk as he stood up, sending the pile of slates crashing onto the floor.
"Oh yeah? Then why don’t you just speed up the process? Challenge me for the position and take over, since you obviously think you can do a much better job!" He yelled. "Or do you prefer the ‘wait-and-see’ approach? Sit back and enjoy the fireworks, so you can swoop in and win at the end, without lifting a single digit?"
"...Soundwave: Does not enjoy watching mechs destroy themselves." The reply came, after a lengthy silence. "Mechs in this state like to think it will only be them who suffer the consequences. But there are always others."
"Oh, so you think I’m so compromised, I’ll drag all of you to the Pit with me? Great. Lovely. Issue a formal challenge and eliminate the giant risk factor, then." He said coldly. "Do it. Do it or frag off."
For a brief moment, he was actually anticipating the unlikely option, even though he had no way of winning in his current state.
But, to no one’s surprise, Soundwave chose the "frag off" option and headed for the door, after dropping one last statement.
"Soundwave: Will not lose another companion." He said. "However much they want to lose themselves."
The cluster bomb exploded and then he was in the field.
Right before that, Skywarp teleported in front of him for a quick grab and go.
He wasn’t fast enough.
It caught them both and he didn’t know because he was in that Pit-damned field.
Without Thundercracker the remaining Golden Trackers would’ve finished both of them off, and he wasn’t even online enough to get his audials damaged by the sonic boom.
When he came out of the field half of Skywarp’s faceplate was gone and Thundercracker was kneeling beside the black and purple Seeker’s stasis-locked frame and sobbing and sobbing.
It was an ugly, broken sound and he never wanted to hear it again.
"Welp, Screamer," Skywarp laughed weakly on the medberth, through his new permanent battle mask, "Guess the spark brother jokes are truly dead now? No one’s gonna mistake me for you anymore."
"...You little slagger."
"Woah, that, uh, kinda comes outta nowhere." Skywarp spluttered, even as he relaxed into the tight embrace and wrapped his uninjured arm around him. "I mean, hugs are nice, but you actin’ all mushy and TC-like is, I dunno, so weird. Ya’ sure that bomb hadn’t knocked a few screws loose in your helm?"
"You are one to talk."
"C’mon, it’s just half a faceplate and I get a cool mask outta’ it! The way y’all’s been acting, you’d think I lost a wing or my warp drive or some other real important parts of me."
"Shut up." He gritted his dentas and clutched Skywarp even tighter. "Shut up and let me have this."
"Fine. I got it. I got the fraggin’ clue." He spat. "I’m never going back to that field again."
He had no idea who he was talking to. Not Megatronus, because he was in the middle of a corridor, inside the crashed Quint carrier that had become their main headquarters, and there was neither sky nor blue flowers.
Not Soundwave either, because the Deployer was visiting his Symbiotes at the canyon base and too good for "I told you so" statements.
Certainly not Primus, because Primus lay dormant at the core of their planet and had obviously never given a frag about any of his creations, ever.
It could only be himself he was talking to, then. It always came down to him in the end.
And that was good enough of an answer.
He knew he’d never stop yearning for the nod that would not come, or the pain and thrill that had become a sort of pleasant constant over the cycles.
But he supposed he had to start from somewhere.