Chapter Text
The backstage of the Vosian Opera House was in a state of utter disarray.
Two directors were arguing with each other. Hassled stage hands were taking down a set and yet more stage hands were simultaneously trying to put up another one. All of them were constantly tripping over each other’s tires and wings. Gilded cages, white statues, and wobbling flowers were being dragged in and out. Someone had spilled face paint all over the floor. Someone else had stepped in it.
The large promotional frames around the opera house flickered and glitched, constantly switching between The Viscount’s Ideals, presented by the Troupe D’Iridescence, and Viria’s Song, by the Kaon Dreamers.
“It is unprofessional,” one tall, grey director was snarling. “You cannot pull out of a slot at the very last minute and leave us scrambling to throw something on stage.”
A ripple of chaos broke out among the singers in a corner. Their flute player was missing.
“It is not my fault,” replied a small, verdant flyer in an accented drawl. “My main lead left us in the lurch. She said she got her spark broken. What would you want me to do?”
“Get a replacement!”
“The replacement’s spark got broken too. Apparently they were lovers. An oversight on my part.”
A frantic stagehand scurried up to them.
“Sir,” she squeaked, wringing her hands, but the grey director waved her away.
“You should be thanking me, good sir,” said the green flyer. “A tiny troupe from Kaon would never have gotten a chance on this stage if not for this opportunity. You can present in front of the prince!”
“Sir, I just received word-”
The grey director rolled his optics. “The prince will have cancelled as soon as he heard the news. All we are doing now is presenting a rushed play to an already impatient and irritated audience.”
“Sir-”
“Nonsense! You will find the good society of Vos to be very gracious. Perhaps it is not something you are used to in your own country.”
The stagehand puffed up her plating and inhaled deeply through her vents.
“You are an insolent little-”
“THE ROYAL PALACE JUST SENT BACK WORD!” she yelled.
The noise backstage died down. Everyone turned to look at her, even the directors.
“The prince is coming!”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“What? I shall not be going,” huffed the prince.
The prince’s stylist switched off his buffer and placed his hands on his hips.
“Your Highness,” said the stylist, Knockout. “You already sent back word that you would be attending.”
“Oh.” Prince Starscream looked down at the tablet in his lap. “Well.”
Knockout chuckled and dabbed some more polish on the buffer. It was a late, lazy morning, and the dressing room was filled with the fragrance of polish and scented oils. A variety of tools, tubes, and accessories cluttered the dresser. Starscream sat in front of the ornate mirror and watched him work on his wings with the soft buffer. The stylist had done a good job at concealing the prince’s weariness. His lightly embossed plating glimmered brilliantly, and his slender, regal face had a gentle glowing sheen to it.
“I was under the impression that one of the usual troupes would be stepping in,” he said. “I have never heard of these… Dreamers?”
Knockout leaned over his shoulder to glance at the tablet.
“Kaon Dreamers,” he read. “How intriguing. A foreign troupe! Perhaps you will find a most delightful cultural experience.”
Starscream sighed. He switched off the tablet and put it aside. It was the sixteenth day of the cycle, one that he always left free so that he could visit the opera house. A new play and a foreign troupe were something that he should have been looking forward to, but he just couldn’t build up the enthusiasm today. His evening schedule, which he had meticulously cleared out to rest, was now blocked by a meeting with the Winglord, quickly followed by a drink with him and his guests.
Worst of all, Starscream had a nagging suspicion that he knew exactly what the Winglord wanted to talk to him about. But now, Knockout was placing a tray of jewels in front of him and turning to him with an expectant smile.
“Now, what will it be today?” he asked. “The classic red? Or this lovely new blue?”
So he chose the blue.
It glittered right above his cockpit, and stood out nicely against the bright scarlet of his plating. It showed up well in photos, too, when he arrived at the large, domed opera house. A few clusters of the audience milled around outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He gave them a gracious smile, and felt a stir of satisfaction at their thrilled faces. He was quickly ushered inside then, and seated in his box with one of his guards. His box had a view over the rows and rows of seats for the audience, and also of the beautifully framed stage.
The performers did not dare delay a moment longer in the prince’s presence. The lights on the stage snapped on, the music swelled, and Starscream settled down.
The play was… certainly unique. It had a surrealist whimsy to it, with dreamlike sets and bizarre characters. They wore spiralling face paint and moved hypnotically. It was strange and wild, with music that swayed and swelled to a dizzying degree.
It was… quite fun, actually.
And then the play was nearing its end, with one last set change: a dark, moody night, with shifting spirals in the sky instead of stars. Gilded cages hung around the stage, each containing a musician inside. They played their instruments and sang a soft, eerie tune, and the two main leads joined in the center for their final dance.
Starscream should have been paying attention to them. Indeed, the stark spotlights were only following them around. But his mind, now exhausted by the chaos of the last hours, started to drift, and his gaze went with it. He focused on one of the musicians, the one in the highest cage. His black plating blurred into the dark background, all except for his dove white face. Light rippled over his fingers as they flitted over a flute. Starscream watched, and listened, and a tired haze clouded out everything else on the stage. The sound of the flute rose until it was the only thing he could hear. It flowed steadily, silkily, but with a rasp at the edges. He played a distant, wild, lonely tune. The howling winds at the unmanned wastelands, Starscream thought, would sound like this.
He watched, enraptured, even after the flutist lapsed into silence. The crowd was applauding. The leads were locked in a passionate kiss. Petals rained on the stage. And Starscream’s gaze was fixed, until the lights dimmed and the flutist was swallowed into pitch darkness.
He stared into the dark, feeling dizzy and a little disconnected from reality.
“Your Highness?” came the guard’s voice. “Are you ready to leave?”
Starscream gave himself a shake and sat up a little straighter. The audience below him was stirring, getting ready to leave. From the darkened stage came the sounds of clicking and clinking, and it occurred to him that the singers were being let out of the cages right now.
“I… yes. No.” He rose. “One moment. Stay right here.”
“Your Highness?”
He stepped out of the box and hurried away.
“Your Highness!?”
Starscream did not turn back. He ran down the curved stairs and slipped into the dark passage beside the stage. He could hear laughter and chatter, and ahead of him, at the very end of the narrow passage, he caught a glimpse of a dark figure making his way backstage. He broke into a triumphant smile and rushed forward.
But then there was a flash of yellow, a wall of blue, and-
A crash echoed down the hallway.
“Ow!”
Starscream clutched his head. Something clattered to the floor. He gritted his teeth and looked up at the person he had crashed into. In the dark, he couldn’t make out much more than the glint of blue plating and golden optics reflecting off tall cheekbones.
“My goodness,” said this blue person. “Are you alright?”
Starscream clenched his fists and shouldered past him. The dark figure had disappeared.
“Ugh!” he exclaimed. He was probably with the rest of the crew now, and Starscream certainly did not want to meet them all.
He rounded on Blue.
“Must you be bumbling around blindly back here?” he demanded.
“I- excuse me?” Blindly-Bumbling-Blue bristled. “You ran into me. Dropped my tablet and everything. And you did not so much as care to apologize even once.”
Starscream simmered down a little. He glanced around, spotted the glowing screen of the tablet, and picked it up.
“Thank you,” said Blue. He tugged at the tablet, but Starscream held on.
He tugged at it again.
“Are these notes of the play?” asked Starscream. “Did you take these?”
“I… did indeed, yes. I was about to go meet the writer to discuss them.”
Starscream pulled back the tablet and held it up. “It seems like you might need to review them before your visit. It says here that Ravenwing was secretly “poised as a villain”.”
“I am aware of what I wrote, good sir.”
He gave him a scrutinous look. “Ravenwing’s choice to tear apart the lovers might have been harsh, but he was only trying to help Solblaze. His intentions were pure. One misjudged action does not a bad man make, surely you must know that.”
Blue tilted his head, and a glimmer of golden light fell upon a smiling mouth.
“I know,” he said. “But his intentions were not pure. He was withering with jealousy.”
Starscream narrowed his optics. “Jealousy? Where did you draw that conclusion from?”
“His scarf.”
“The one Solblaze gave him?”
“Of course. It was a symbol of Ravenwing’s loyalty. He initially wore it on his left side, because he was his right hand man. By the third act, it was in the middle, with a jewel on top. Why would he move it?”
He was speaking animatedly now. “Because he did not wish to be the second in command anymore. He wanted to weaken Solblaze. He wanted to take over. And he started by taking away his hopes and dreams.”
Starscream stared at him, amazed. “How did you notice that?”
“They dedicated a lot of time to that scarf. It was only a matter of paying attention.” He reached out and plucked the tablet from Starscream’s hands. “Perhaps you could take your own notes in the future? Maybe then you would not feel the urge to go around crashing into people and trying to bungle their notes instead.”
Starscream’s jaw dropped in indignation. Brash-Bad-Mannered-Blindly-Bumbling-Blue gave him a small bow and stepped away past him, leaving him speechless.
By the time he thought of a good retaliation and spun around, the stranger was gone.
He was steaming with irritation now, but at least the frenzied, magical haze of the play had worn off. And besides, it did not matter. He would not be seeing that fool again.
He dusted himself off and returned to his guard.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The drawing room was quiet.
This one was a small space, made only for two or three people to meet. Three gilded, padded seats faced each other around a little table. An ornate digital canvas hung on one wall, facing the tall windows through which the fading sunlight streamed through. Starscream waited in one of the seats, gazing out of the windows in contemplative silence. The tune from the play kept running through his head. He wondered why they had chosen such a lonely song for such a triumphant moment of the two lovers, wrapped up in each other's arms. But then the door slid open and he snapped back to reality. He rose, clasped his hands, and straightened his posture.
And in came the Winglord.
He was a tall, impressive figure, with white, red and gold plating, and a dark, solemn face. His large, sweeping golden wings brushed against the floor as he walked.
Starscream bowed. “Your Majesty.”
The Winglord inclined his head. “My prince.”
There was a pause.
The Winglord’s face creased into an amused smile. “Are we done with the formalities now?”
“I was simply following protocol,” Starscream muttered.
He chuckled. “Yes, yes. Come here. Have you been well?”
“I am well, thank you. Do not- ow, do not grab my face like that-”
“You look tired. I did not see or hear of you all day yesterday. Or the day before that.”
“I have been keeping busy,” he mumbled, rubbing his cheek.
“Hmm.” The Winglord settled down into his seat, and Starscream followed suit.
“Or perhaps,” he said. “You have been avoiding me.”
Starscream did not meet his gaze. “I do not know what you speak of.”
“Come now. You know what I have been trying to talk to you about recently.”
He pouted, but kept his optics fixed on the window.
“Yes,” he acquiesced eventually. “I know. But I have nothing new to say on the matter.”
“What about-”
“I turned down Lady Lumina. She does not have the temperament to be a princess.”
“I see. And-”
“Lord Cygnus has too much scandal associated with his house. I do not know why he was even allowed inside. And that Duke, Solarstrike, could not string together a single sensible sentence.”
“But he has a lovely visage, does he not?”
Starscream threw his hands in the air. “His visage does not matter. If he cannot perform well as a prince, then I cannot marry him.”
He folded his arms. “I did not like any of the suitors. I sent them all away.”
He braced himself for – at the very least – a firm chiding, but the Winglord said nothing. He just opened his cockpit and pulled out a long glass tube with a curved, fluted end and a tiny mechanism of fans and gears inside.
Starscream sighed in exasperation. He waited impatiently for the Winglord to fill it up with a pale blue liquid.
And then to swirl it around.
And then switch it on.
And then they both watched it bubble and whirr.
And then he brought it to his mouth.
But then he swirled it around some more.
“Would you like to try-”
“No.”
“Ah. Very well.”
And then he took a long draw from the pipe.
He held it in for a few moments, before letting pale blue wisps dissipate from his vents.
“I understand,” the Winglord said mildly. “Finding a conjux is a very important decision. It is good to see that you do not, at least, take your responsibility lightly.”
He took another draw from his pipe.
“That is why,” he continued. “I have taken it upon myself to help you in your search.”
Starscream sat up. “I do not-”
The Winglord held up a hand and cut him off.
“Do not fret,” he said gently. “You are not being forced into a betrothal. I just want you to consider.”
He slumped back into his seat.
“There is an old friend of mine, Stormweaver. He was once a High Guardian. Now he raises his family of four with his conjunx endura. They are all lovely, well educated and well bred. His oldest is about your age: he is called Thundercracker. He is the perfect candidate. He is tall and strong, and has a lovely appearance. He is an accomplished graduate of the Wing Guard Academy, and a captain of the Wing Guard. He is very well mannered, charming, well-educated, well-spoken…”
Starscream dragged a hand over his face.
“He knows three languages, and is well versed in poetry. He comes from an excellent family, he is responsible, he has a pristine record-”
“Perhaps he should be the prince instead of me,” he muttered into his hand.
The Winglord beamed. “Exactly. You should make him your prince.”
“That is not what I said.”
“He is perfect,” he repeated.
Starscream stared sullenly at the window.
“Very well,” he said. “If that is what you wish.”
“If that is what you wish,” the Winglord corrected. Starscream gave him a puzzled frown.
“Thundercracker and the High Guardian will be arriving today. They will be our guests for the coming few weeks. During that time, I would like you two to get to know each other. If, at the end of their visit, you develop affection for him, we may have ourselves a happy engagement to announce.”
“I do not need to wait that long,” he replied. “It will take but one day for me to decide whether or not he is worthy to be a prince.”
“But it will take longer for you to realize that you are in love.”
Starscream opened his mouth to speak, but the Winglord shut off his pipe with a loud click.
“Well!” He clasped his hands together. “How wonderful to speak with you. Our guests will be arriving shortly, so we must be ready to greet them. Come along.”
He got up and stepped out of the room, handing his pipe to a waiting butler. Starscream did not follow. He stayed in his seat, considering his words.
It was only when a butler came to fetch him that he gathered himself and followed after him.
An elaborate table had been set for the guests. Brilliantly colored jugs of energon brews lined the table, and decadent bites were piled high on platters. There were only a few old nobles residing in the palace during this time, and they were seated down the table, while the Winglord waited at the head of the table.
Starscream’s thrusters clicked against the glossy floor and echoed through the warmly lit hall. He settled down on the Winglord’s right side and lifted his wings.
“Is the whole family coming?” he muttered.
“Oh no, just the two of them. Why do you ask?”
“...no reason.”
“Do sit straight, please.”
“I am sitting exceptionally straight.”
“And remember to smile.”
“You do not need to be-”
Three bangs echoed through the hall.
“The High Guardian Stormweaver of the Wing Guardians,” announced the footman. “And the Captain Thundercracker of the Wing Guardians, have arrived.”
The doors hissed open. Stormweaver stepped in first. His plating was a dark blue-gray, and his armour - pauldrons, chestplate, the whole set – was a perfect match, accented with silver. A jagged scar ran across his face, but he had a kind, warm smile that grew wider as he saw his old friend.
And behind him came-
Behind him-
Starscream’s optics widened in horror. They flicked rapidly over the blue armour, that blue plating, and up to those startled golden optics.
Him.
Brash-Stupid-Bumbling-Whatever.
Thundercracker.