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The route between Vos and Altihex is one of the oldest things on Cybertron.
Older than the Senate. Older than the caste system. Older than the cities that mark its endpoints, in their current form at least. It predates writing, predates the forge-programs, predates everything but the sky itself.
In the ancient days, before the Functionalists, before the Golden Age, before anyone thought to draw lines on a map and call one place Vos and another Altihex, the Seekers of the southern spires and the Shuttles of the northern highlands began a migration that would shape the biology and culture of both frametypes for millions of years to come. Twice each great-cycle—once as the southern hemisphere tilted toward the sun, once as it tilted away—the skies between the two regions would fill with winged shapes. Seekers flying north, Shuttles flying south, and in the middle, over the equatorial rust-sea, they would meet.
The Courting Migration, the anthropologists called it later, when there were anthropologists to call things anything. A seasonal gathering of aerial frametypes for the purposes of mate selection, courtship display, and—for those who found what they were looking for—the kind of extended, acrobatic interface-flight that the prudish Senate-era texts would later euphemize as "aerial bonding exercises."
The Seekers came to chase. The Shuttles came to be chased. And in the space between pursuit and capture, in the dizzying spiral of a courtship dive or the synchronized wingtip-pass of a pair who had already chosen each other, new bonds were forged that would last a lifetime.
It was, by all accounts, absolute chaos.
The density of air traffic during peak migration season made modern air-traffic control look like a leisurely cruise. Thousands of Seekers, hundreds of Shuttles, and a smattering of other flight-capable frametypes all crammed into the same equatorial corridor, all of them running hot on courtship protocols, all of them more focused on their wingwork than on basic collision avoidance. The sky, witnesses reported, looked like a swarm of metallic insects—beautiful if you were a romantic, terrifying if you were a pilot, and deeply, profoundly stupid if you were anyone with any sense at all.
Crashes were inevitable. Wing-dings, thruster-damage, the occasional mid-air entanglement that sent both parties spiraling into the rust below. The hospitals at both endpoints stocked up on repair supplies weeks in advance. Medical staff worked triple shifts. The Vosian Winglord's office maintained a dedicated incident-reporting division whose sole function was processing migration-related collision claims. Shockwave, in one of his more memorable attempts to prove Seeker intellectual inferiority, cited the seasonal collision statistics as evidence; the resulting rebuttal from the Vosian aeronautics guild—which consisted primarily of pointing out that Shuttles, not Seekers, had the higher per-capita collision rate, owing to their greater mass and slower maneuverability—was expunged from the Academy records shortly before Shockwave assumed his position on the Functionalist Council, but not before it had circulated widely enough to become legendary.
It was, in short, a nightmare for anyone tasked with maintaining order.
It was also, by all accounts, the most romantic thing that had ever happened on Cybertron.
---
The migration persisted through the Golden Age, through the rise of the Senate, through the early years of the Functionalist era. But the Functionalist Council, with its mania for classification and control, viewed the migration with deep suspicion. It was disorderly. It was unregulated. It permitted—encouraged—cross-frametype bonding, which the Functionalists considered ontologically dangerous. And it was, in the Council's official assessment, "a vector for the propagation of maladaptive reproductive behaviors."
Translation: Seekers and Shuttles kept fragging each other and having spark-merge sparklings, and the Functionalists couldn't stop them.
The prohibition of spark-merge gestation was the first blow. The criminalization of cross-frametype bonding was the second. By the time the war broke out, the migration had been suppressed for so long that most Cybertronians had forgotten it ever existed. The route was still there—etched into star charts, encoded in old navigation computers, whispered in the oral traditions of Seeker trines and Shuttle families—but the skies were empty.
Then the war ended.
And Cybertron, against all odds, began to remember.
---
The first post-war migration happened spontaneously, in the third stellar cycle after Unification.
No one organized it. No one declared it a holiday. A few dozen Seekers from Vos, flush with the strange freedom of peacetime, decided to fly the old route just to see if they could. A few Shuttles from Altihex, hearing rumors of the flight, decided to meet them halfway. Someone painted their wings in courtship colors—the bright, iridescent patterns that had once signaled availability and intent. Someone else brought high-grade. By the time the two groups met over the rust-sea, the flight had swelled to several hundred participants, and the sky above the equator looked, for the first time in four million years, like it used to.
The collisions, predictably, were spectacular.
Ratchet, who had been enjoying a quiet evening at the Iacon Medical Center, received seventeen separate wing-repair cases in the span of three hours. His subsequent communiqué to the Reconstruction Commission contained language that has been expunged from the official record.
But the migration was back. Not as a biological necessity—modern Cybertronians had suppressants and dating networks and perfectly adequate social venues for meeting potential partners—but as something else. A commemoration. A celebration. A collective reclaiming of a tradition that had been stolen.
The Festival of the Skyroad, they called it now. One week, once a stellar cycle. A designated flight corridor, marked with navigation beacons and staffed by volunteer air-traffic controllers. Safety briefings were mandatory. High-grade consumption was prohibited within fifty mechanometers of the flight zone. It was, by modern standards, almost respectable.
Almost.
There were still collisions. There were still wing-dings and thruster-damage and the occasional overenthusiastic courtship display that went badly wrong. The hospitals still stocked up in advance. Ratchet still sent strongly worded communiqués.
But it was, everyone agreed, worth it. Because for one week a year, the sky between Vos and Altihex filled with wings, and the old route remembered what it was for.
---
Starscream had not intended to become a Festival regular.
The first year, he told himself he was merely curious. A sociological interest in revived cultural practices. A scholar's detached observation of post-war folk traditions.
The first year, he flew the route in a state of barely-suppressed competitive fury, weaving through the chaotic airspace with a precision that left other flyers gaping, and landed in Altihex with a new personal record and a thoroughly unsatisfied desire to prove something he couldn't quite name.
The second year, he told himself it was tradition now. One had to maintain appearances. The Winglord of Vos—even if the title was mostly ceremonial these days—had an obligation to participate in Vosian cultural events.
The second year, he flew the route even faster, and when he landed, he immediately commed Skyfire to complain about the incompetence of every other flyer on the course.
By the third year, he stopped making excuses.
"I'm going to fly the Skyroad," he announced, the morning of the Festival's opening day. "Are you coming or not?"
Skyfire, who had been coming every year without being asked, looked up from his breakfast energon and smiled. "Of course."
"Good. You remember the altitude assignments?"
"You fly low, I fly high, and I'm not allowed to descend below ten thousand mechanometers without your express permission."
"You're allowed to descend whenever you want. I'm asking you not to."
"You're asking me to be visible."
"I'm asking you to be conspicuous. There's a difference."
Skyfire's smile widened. "Is there?"
---
The Festival route ran from the Spire of Vos in the southeast to the Plateau of Altihex in the northwest, crossing the rust-sea at its narrowest point. Average flight time for a Seeker pushing hard: four hours. For a Shuttle flying conservatively: six. The crossing took the flyers from the red deserts of the southern hemisphere, across the equatorial rust belt, and into the crystalline highlands of the north—a transect of Cybertron's most dramatic landscapes, seen from above.
The airspace was divided into altitude bands, with specific corridors designated for different activities. The lowest band—three to five thousand mechanometers—was the Display Zone, where courtship flights and aerobatic demonstrations took place. The middle band—five to eight thousand—was the Transit Corridor, for flyers who were simply trying to get from one end to the other without incident. The highest band—eight to twelve thousand—was theoretically for emergency traffic only, though in practice it served as an overflow zone and a quiet refuge for flyers who preferred solitude.
Starscream flew in the Display Zone. Not to display—his courtship days were definitively behind him—but because the Display Zone was where the competition was. It was where the fastest Seekers flew, the most agile Shuttles, the show-offs and the hotshots and the mechs who thought they had something to prove. Flying through the Display Zone at speed, weaving through hundreds of other flyers without a single collision, was the aerial equivalent of walking into a crowded bar and knocking out the biggest mech there just to make a point.
Starscream did it every year. He had never once made contact with another flyer. His paint was as pristine at the Altihex end as it had been at the Vos start.
It was, depending on your perspective, either the most impressive display of aerial mastery in the post-war era or the most obnoxious.
Both, really.
---
"Coming through on your left—no, your other left, Primus, do they not teach spatial awareness anymore—"
Starscream banked hard, slipping between two Seekers who had been attempting a synchronized barrel roll and failing miserably. His wingtip missed the nearer Seeker's thruster by a margin that would have given a safety inspector a spark attack. Starscream didn't even slow down.
"Star," Skyfire's voice came over the private comm, calm and fond and very far away. "Are you terrorizing the amateurs again?"
"They're terrorizing me. Do you know how many near-misses I've had in the last ten kliks? Seventeen. Seventeen near-misses, and every single one of them was someone else's fault."
"I'm sure."
"What's your altitude?"
"Eleven thousand and climbing. The view is lovely. I can see the curve of the planet from here."
Starscream snorted, executing a perfect aileron roll to avoid a shuttle who had wandered into the Display Zone and was looking around with the bewildered expression of someone who had taken a wrong turn and couldn't figure out how to get back to the Transit Corridor. "You're practically in orbit."
"Not quite. Another two thousand mechanometers before atmospheric thinning becomes a concern."
"Good. Stay high. Let them see you."
A pause. Then, warmer: "Is that an order, Winglord?"
"It's a—" Starscream banked again, this time to avoid a pair of Seekers who had decided that mid-air interfacing was an appropriate Festival activity. It was not. It was specifically prohibited in the Festival safety briefing. Starscream made a mental note to have their wing markings logged and their licenses reviewed. "It's a suggestion. From someone who wants every mech on this Primus-forsaken route to look up and see exactly who I'm going home with."
"You're showing me off."
"I am reminding them."
"Of what?"
"That they can't have you. That no one can have you. That you're mine, and I'm the fastest thing in the sky, and those two facts are related."
Skyfire's laugh was a warm crackle over the comm. "You know I'm not a trophy."
"You're not a trophy. You're a Shuttle. A very large, very visible Shuttle who is flying conspicuously above the entire Festival route at an altitude that makes it very clear he's not participating in any courtship displays because he's already spoken for."
"I'm a banner."
"You're a—what?"
"A banner. You're flying me like a banner. Like one of those atmospheric advertising drones, except I'm your conjunx and I have a say in my own flight path."
Starscream opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. "That's not entirely inaccurate."
"At least you're honest about it."
---
Skyfire flew high.
It wasn't just for Starscream's benefit—though that was part of it, the quiet pleasure of being shown off, of being a visible symbol of something his partner wanted the whole world to see. Skyfire was not, by nature, a competitive mech. He had never felt the need to prove anything to anyone. But there was something deeply satisfying about flying at eleven thousand mechanometers while several hundred Seekers below him performed increasingly elaborate aerobatics, knowing that the only reason he was up here—the only reason he had ever been up here, since the first Festival after the war—was that Starscream had chosen him.
That Shuttle, the Seekers below would say, if they bothered to look up. That's the one the Winglord bonded with. The Autobot. The scientist. The one from the ice.
And Starscream, streaking through the Display Zone at speeds that made other flyers pull aside, would say nothing at all, because his flying said everything: Yes. That one. And he's mine, and I'm his, and if any of you have a problem with that, you can try to catch me.
No one ever caught him.
---
"Sky."
"Mmm?"
"There's a Shuttle at your ten o'clock. Altitude ten-five. He's climbing."
Skyfire glanced at his sensors. The blip was small and distant, barely registering on the edge of his range. "He's still a thousand mechanometers below me."
"He's climbing."
"Star, he's not even close to my altitude. I don't think he's trying to approach me."
"You don't know that. What if he's trying to approach you?"
"Then I'll politely decline."
"What if he doesn't ask?"
Skyfire's spark went warm. There it was—the protective edge in Starscream's voice, the territorial rasp that had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with instinct. Even now, even here, in the middle of a cultural festival where the entire point was celebration and joy, his Seeker was watching his back. Watching his sky.
"I'll climb another five hundred," Skyfire said gently. "Will that help?"
"Yes. No. Maybe." A pause. "How high can you go before atmospheric thinning becomes an issue?"
"Another fifteen hundred mechanometers before I'd need to engage supplemental oxygen systems."
"Do it."
"Star—"
"I know it's ridiculous. I know no one is trying to steal you. I know you can handle yourself. I'm asking anyway."
Skyfire adjusted his trim, felt his engines respond, and began a slow, steady climb toward the edge of the atmosphere.
"For you," he said, "anything."
---
The Festival lasted a week. Starscream flew the route three times.
The first flight was always a statement—a full-speed, maximum-intensity run through the heart of the Display Zone that left other flyers stunned and muttering and, in a few cases, filing formal complaints with the Festival organizers. (The complaints were always dismissed. Starscream had never technically violated any safety regulation. He was simply... faster than the regulations had anticipated.)
The second flight was a cruise—slower, more relaxed, with time to acknowledge the cheers of spectators and exchange pleasantries with other flyers. Starscream was capable of being charming when he wanted to be, and on the second flight, he wanted to be. He posed for holos. He gave interviews to Festival broadcasters. He said things like "it's wonderful to see our ancient traditions revived" in a voice that sounded almost sincere.
The third flight was for himself. And for Skyfire.
On the third flight, Starscream didn't weave through the Display Zone. He climbed—straight up, through the Transit Corridor, past the emergency band, into the thin air where only Shuttles and the most powerful Seekers could fly. He found Skyfire waiting for him at twelve thousand mechanometers, wings spread wide, catching the light of Cybertron's sun like a second star.
"Hello," Skyfire said.
"Hello yourself." Starscream pulled into formation beside him, wingtip to wingtip. Below them, the Festival route stretched across the curve of the planet, a river of moving lights and bright metal. "Good view?"
"Best on Cybertron."
They flew in silence for a while, high above everything, the chaos of the Festival reduced to a distant, glittering spectacle. From up here, you could see the whole route—Vos in the north, Altihex in the south, the rust-sea gleaming red between them. You could see the curvature of the planet, the thin blue line of the atmosphere, the darkness of space waiting beyond.
"Do you ever miss it?" Starscream asked.
"Miss what?"
"The old way. The actual migration. When it meant something."
Skyfire considered. "It still means something. It just means something different now."
"Different how?"
"Before, it was about finding someone. Proving yourself. Demonstrating your fitness as a partner. Now..." He tilted his wings, a slight adjustment that brought him closer to Starscream's side. "Now it's about remembering. About saying we're still here. About showing the universe that we survived."
"That's very sentimental."
"I'm a very sentimental mech."
Starscream snorted, but he didn't pull away. Below them, a pair of Seekers executed a particularly elaborate courtship spiral, their wings flashing iridescent in the sun. A Shuttle watched from above, circling, waiting to be chased.
"They're terrible at it," Starscream observed.
"Everyone's terrible at it. They're learning. Most of them have never done this before."
"We could show them how it's done."
Skyfire turned his head. "What?"
"The courtship flight. The old way. The real one." Starscream's optics were bright, and his wings had taken on the particular angle that meant he was trying very hard to be casual about something that mattered deeply to him. "Not for—I mean, we're already bonded. It's not like we need to prove anything. But we never got to do it. Not properly. During the war, it was always rushed, always hidden, always—"
"I'd like that," Skyfire said.
Starscream's wings flicked. "You would?"
"Very much." Skyfire banked, putting distance between them—not much, just enough to establish the starting positions. "Shall I chase you, or will you chase me?"
"The Seeker always chases. That's the tradition."
"The Seeker also catches. That's the tradition too." Skyfire's engines rumbled, a low, anticipatory hum. "Try to keep up."
"That's my line—"
Skyfire dove.
Starscream, laughing despite himself, followed.
---
They flew the courtship pattern as it had been flown in the ancient days: the Shuttle leading, the Seeker pursuing, a dialogue of speed and endurance played out across the thin air at the top of the world. Skyfire's broader wings caught thermals that Starscream was too small to feel; Starscream's sharper turns and faster acceleration let him close the distance in bursts, circling Skyfire in spiraling loops that were half attack-pattern and half embrace.
It wasn't a competition. It was a conversation. A reminder. A celebration of something that had survived ice and war and four million years of separation.
When Starscream finally caught him—matching speed, pulling into perfect wingtip-to-wingtip formation, their fields tangling in the thin air—neither of them said anything. There was nothing to say.
They flew the rest of the route together, at an altitude only they could reach, and when they landed in Altihex, the crowds were already cheering.
---
"Did you see them? Up at twelve thousand—"
"That was the Winglord and his conjunx—"
"Did you see that dive? I've never seen a Shuttle move like that—"
"The Seeker was faster, but the Shuttle—Primus, the Shuttle just kept going—"
Starscream ignored them all. He landed on the Altihex plateau with his wings high and his engine purring, and when Skyfire touched down beside him—a little slower, a little heavier, but with the same quiet grace he brought to everything—Starscream reached out and took his hand in full view of the crowd.
"There," he said. "Now they've seen it."
"Seen what?"
"The fastest Seeker. The highest Shuttle. The best pair-bond on Cybertron." Starscream's optics were bright with triumph. "And they know they can't have either of us."
Skyfire squeezed his hand. "You are the most competitive mech I have ever met."
"Yes."
"You know we don't need to prove anything to anyone."
"I know."
"And yet you do this every year."
Starscream looked out over the plateau, the gathered crowds, the sky still full of wings. Somewhere above them, a young Seeker was attempting a barrel roll and failing. Somewhere else, a Shuttle was circling, waiting for a chase that might or might not come. The Festival was still happening. The route was still open. The sky, which had been empty for so long, was full again.
"I do it," Starscream said, "because I can. Because for four million years, I couldn't. Because there was a time when loving you was something I had to hide, and now it's something I get to shout from the top of the sky." He looked at Skyfire, and his expression was sharp and bright and utterly unguarded. "Let them watch. Let them see. Let them know that the Winglord of Vos is yours, and you're mine, and no amount of war or ice or history could stop that."
Skyfire looked at him for a long moment. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Starscream's forehead, in full view of the cameras and the crowd and the whole watching world.
"Happy Festival, Star."
"Happy Festival, Skyfire."
Above them, the Skyroad gleamed in the sun, and the wings kept coming.