Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The vast, empty landscape stretched out before them, the afternoon sun beating down mercilessly. Arcee and Optimus Prime walked side by side through the barren terrain, heat waves shimmering across the cracked earth. In the distance, mesas rose from the horizon while a lone buzzard circled overhead against the harsh blue sky. This remote location was Optimus's choice — far from the base, away from distractions, a place where troubled thoughts could be aired.

Arcee looked down, kicking at a small rock with unnecessary force, sending it skittering across the parched ground. "Why did you bring me out here, Optimus? If this is about the mission in the canyon, I nearly had that Decepticon scout. If it weren't for the—"

"Your increasing aggression concerns me," Optimus replied evenly. "You've been taking unnecessary risks. Endangering yourself and sometimes the team."

Arcee's optics flashed defensively. "I'm doing my job. Taking out the enemy."

"There is a difference between fulfilling your duty and seeking vengeance," Optimus countered. "I've watched you change since Cliffjumper's passing. Your anger burns bright, but it blinds you."

Arcee stopped walking, her fists clenched at her sides. "Sometimes I still expect to hear Cliffjumper's voice on the comm," she said softly, her anger giving way to raw pain. "His jokes... even those terrible ones. And then I remember how we found out Starscream tore him apart, and I—" She broke off, looking away.

"The hatred consumes you," Optimus observed quietly. "It drives you to hunt our enemies with a ferocity that puts you, and others at risk."

"What am I supposed to do?" Arcee demanded, voice rising. "Forgive them? Forget what they did?"

Optimus's voice was gentle but firm. "Loss leaves wounds that never fully heal, Arcee. But in time, they become bearable. Your rage won't bring Cliffjumper back. It will only lead you down a path that dishonors his memory."

As hot wind brushed across their faces, Arcee stopped suddenly, pointing ahead. "Optimus, look!"

In the distance lay a crumpled metal form, half-buried in sand. Sunlight glinted off exposed chrome as they approached, picking their way through scattered boulders. They recognized Starscream's mangled body against the rust-colored dirt, his sleek, aerodynamic frame a stark contrast to the dusty plains they walked upon.

Energon leaked from multiple ruptures in Starscream's chassis. His slender, elegant wings were bent at unnatural angles, one nearly torn off completely. Deep dents covered his lithe frame, and his faceplate was cracked, revealing damaged circuitry beneath. His right arm, more slender than a typical grounder mech's, hung by just a few cables, sparking occasionally.

"Starscream," Arcee observed coldly, looking down at the fallen Seeker sprawled in the dirt. Despite his high rank, he appeared small and vulnerable from her standing position—a stark reminder of how much smaller fliers tended to be compared to military-class grounders. "Looks like Megatron finally had enough of his treachery."

Optimus knelt to examine the body, his shadow completely engulfing Starscream's smaller frame. A small cloud of dust rose from the impact. His fingertips hovered mere inches from Starscream's faceplate, not quite touching. "These injuries are consistent with Megatron's handiwork. The fusion cannon blast to his midsection... the precise, calculated damage to non-vital systems."

"Megatron wanted him to suffer," Arcee noted, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. She noticed Optimus's hesitation, the unusual gentleness in his normally stoic demeanor, and frowned slightly.

Optimus's optics narrowed, lingering perhaps a moment too long on the elegant curve of Starscream's jaw. "And then discarded him out here like scrap metal." He paused, his expression troubled, voice dropping to a near whisper. "Even for Megatron, this level of callousness toward his own second-in-command is... disturbing."

Arcee shifted uncomfortably, her satisfaction fading as she took in the scene - a once-proud Decepticon commander tossed away in the desert to be forgotten. For a brief moment, she felt an unwelcome pang of empathy for the lighter-built flier, whose finer features and more vulnerable construction made the damage seem all the more brutal. She quickly pushed it aside, though she couldn't help but notice how Optimus's gaze lingered on Starscream's silver frame, now bathed in the golden light of the setting sun.

Suddenly, Starscream's wing twitched, the sensitive appendage responding to some internal system reboot. The delicate panels shifted with an almost musical sound.

"He's still functioning," Optimus announced, relief coloring his voice in a way that made Arcee glance at him sharply.

Her voice turned cold. "Barely. Let's leave him. After what he did to Cliffjumper, he deserves to rust out here."

"That is not the Autobot way, Arcee," Optimus reminded her.

"He wouldn't help us!" she protested. "He'd laugh if our positions were reversed."

"Perhaps," Optimus acknowledged. "But I am not Starscream, and you are not a Decepticon. We have a choice in how we respond."

Arcee crossed her arms. "So we just forget everything he's done? The Autobots he's destroyed? Cliffjumper?" Her voice raised in volume, lashing with her audio system into screeching feedback.

Optimus placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his massive frame steady against her trembling. "I forget nothing," he said, his voice solemn. "But vengeance and justice are not the same, Arcee. To abandon him here would be an act of cruelty, not justice."

The tension in her frame eased slightly at his touch. "And if he recovers only to betray us? To kill more of us?" Arcee challenged, though her voice had lost some of its edge.

Optimus's optics met hers steadily, his hand remaining on her shoulder. "And that is precisely why we must help him. We cannot let our enemies define who we are. The moment we abandon our principles is the moment we lose what we're fighting for."

Arcee turned away, conflict clear on her face, but she didn't move from under his steadying hand. After a long moment, she sighed heavily.

"Fine. But how are we even going to transport him? He's damaged badly, and moving him might make things worse."

Optimus nodded, already calculating. "Then you and I will need to stabilize his main energon lines before we move him."

Arcee knelt reluctantly beside Starscream's broken form, examining the worst of the leaking lines. "I think we'll need to disconnect his damaged wing completely. It's barely attached and will only cause more problems during transport."

Optimus's optics widened slightly. He grabbed Arcee's arm gently but firmly, pulling her a few steps away from Starscream's prone form. "No, Arcee," he said in a low voice. "A Seeker's wings are integral to their identity and sensory systems. Even damaged, they contain neural networks that connect directly to their central processor. Removing it improperly could cause psychological trauma even after physical recovery."

Arcee looked up at him skeptically. "Since when are you an expert on Seeker physiology?"

Optimus Prime's expression softened momentarily. "Before I became a Prime, when I was still Orion Pax working in the Iacon Hall of Records, I cataloged extensive medical and scientific data. The archives contained detailed anatomical studies of all Cybertronian frame types, including Flier frames."

Arcee nodded reluctantly, her skepticism fading. "So what do we do? These energon lines are pulsing erratically."

Kneeling beside Starscream's broken form, Optimus carefully assessed the damage. "We must stabilize the main thoracic line first. It feeds directly to his spark chamber."

Arcee produced a small welding tool from a compartment in her arm. "I've got this. Basic field repair."

As she leaned in to begin the procedure, energon suddenly spurted from one of Starscream's ruptured lines, splashing across her chassis with a sizzling hiss. She jerked back with a curse.

"Careful," Optimus warned. "Seeker energon runs at a higher pressure than ours. Their systems are optimized for aerial maneuvers."

Arcee wiped the glowing blue fluid from her plating with disgust. "Great. Now you tell me."

The desert wind picked up, blowing fine sand across Starscream's prone form. Optimus gently brushed it away from the exposed circuitry. "We need to clamp the line before attempting to seal it. Here—" He produced a small tool from his subspace and handed it to Arcee.

"Hold this steady," he instructed, guiding her hand to a particularly damaged section where energon pulsed in irregular spurts. "His self-repair protocols are attempting to reroute flow, but the damage is too extensive."

Arcee's fingers were surprisingly delicate as she applied the clamp, her movements precise despite her reluctance. "Like this?"

"Perfect," Optimus confirmed, already working on another leaking line. "Now we need to seal the secondary fuel lines before addressing his wing."

They worked in tense silence for several minutes, the only sounds the soft hiss of the welding tool and the occasional ping of cooling metal. Starscream's systems occasionally sputtered and whined, his frame twitching involuntarily as they worked.

"His sensory network is still partially online," Optimus observed grimly. "He can feel this, even in stasis."

Arcee's optics narrowed. "Good. Let him suffer a fraction of what Cliffjumper did."

Optimus paused, his massive hands hovering over Starscream's damaged chassis. "Arcee."

Something in his tone made her look up, meeting his steady gaze. She sighed after a moment. "Fine. I'll try to be... gentler."

As they continued working, Starscream suddenly convulsed, his damaged wing scraping against the ground with a screech of metal. Arcee instinctively moved to pin him down.

"No!" Optimus warned sharply. "Don't restrain his wings. It will only trigger his defensive protocols."

Instead, he placed a steady hand on Starscream's shoulder, applying firm but careful pressure. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, tracing the intricate seams of the Seeker's plating. "Focus on his central processor connections. There—" He pointed to a cluster of delicate neural lines near the base of Starscream's helm. "If you can temporarily disable those pathways, it will ease his discomfort."

Arcee hesitated, then carefully inserted a thin tool into the indicated port. Starscream's frame immediately relaxed, the tension visibly leaving his mangled wings.

"How did you know that would work?" she asked, genuine curiosity replacing her earlier skepticism.

"Before the war," Optimus explained, returning to the leaking energon lines but with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his massive frame, "I once assisted Ratchet in emergency repairs on a downed Seeker. He had been caught in a sudden avalanche while on an energon search expedition. Their neural pathways are mapped differently than ours—prioritizing flight systems and spatial awareness." His optics lingered on Starscream's frame for a moment before darting away.

As they worked, the sun began to sink lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the desert floor. The temperature dropped rapidly, metal contracting with soft pings.

"His main lines are stabilized," Optimus announced finally, sitting back on his heels. "But this is merely temporary. He needs Ratchet's expertise." His voice carried a note of concern.

Arcee nodded, wiping energon from her hands onto the sand. "What about the wing? It's barely attached."

Optimus examined the damaged appendage thoughtfully, his fingertips brushing across the delicate edge with surprising tenderness. "We need to immobilize it for transport. If it shifts during movement, it could sever completely."

He detached a section of his own armor plating from his forearm, the metal glinting in the fading light. "We can use this as a splint."

Arcee watched as he carefully positioned the improvised support along Starscream's damaged wing. "You're sacrificing your own armor for him?"

"A small price to pay," Optimus replied simply, using the welding tool to secure the splint in place. His faceplates remained neutral, but his optics lingered on the Seeker's face with an intensity that didn't escape Arcee's notice.

Working together, they managed to stabilize the wing in a position that would minimize further damage. Starscream occasionally emitted soft, pained sounds, his systems cycling weakly. Each sound seemed to make Optimus's movements more careful, more precise.

"That should hold until we reach base," Optimus declared, surveying their crude but effective handiwork. The desert floor around them was stained with spilled energon, now drying to a dull blue against the sand.

Arcee stood, stretching her joints after the intensive work. "So how do we transport him? He's too damaged to transform, and we can't exactly drag him back to base."

Optimus knelt beside Starscream, his massive frame dwarfing the Seeker's slender form. "I will carry him." Without further explanation, he slid one arm beneath Starscream's shoulders and the other under his knees, lifting him with careful precision. The Decepticon's limp form pressed against Optimus's chest plates, his head lolling against the Autobot insignia. For a brief moment, Optimus's ventilation systems hitched, his optics dimming slightly as he adjusted his hold.

Arcee raised an optic ridge, noticing the unusual care with which Optimus cradled his enemy. "I could help, you know. We could fashion a stretcher—"

"This is... safer for his wing structure," Optimus explained, his voice oddly modulated. "The less movement, the better." He held Starscream's frame close to his chassis, one hand inadvertently brushing against the edge of the Seeker's remaining intact wing. The appendage fluttered in response, causing Optimus to freeze momentarily, his cooling fans activating with a soft whirr.

If Arcee noticed the reaction, she chose not to comment on it.

Optimus activated his comm link, his deep voice steadier than before. "Ratchet, we need a ground bridge. And prepare the medical bay. We have a... patient."

As they waited for the bridge, Arcee looked at Starscream's broken form nestled against Optimus's frame, her expression conflicted. "This doesn't change anything, you know. What he did to Cliffjumper... to countless others."

"No," Optimus agreed solemnly, his thumb unconsciously tracing a small circle on Starscream's arm where he held him. "It does not erase the past. But perhaps it offers something equally valuable."

"What's that?"

"A chance to make a difference," Optimus replied, as the swirling green vortex of the ground bridge materialized before them. He stepped forward, Starscream's lightweight frame held protectively against his own, the Seeker's elegant features illuminated by the otherworldly glow of the bridge..

…

In the medical bay, Ratchet worked diligently, his skilled hands moving with practiced precision as sparks flew from his tools. The harsh lights of the medical bay glinted off Starscream's damaged chassis, highlighting the elegant curves of his aerodynamic frame. Optimus stood nearby, his optics never leaving the prone form on the berth. When Ratchet briefly stepped away to retrieve a tool, Optimus's hand moved unconsciously toward Starscream's wing edge before he caught himself and withdrew it. Arcee paced anxiously, her footsteps creating a rhythmic pattern against the metal flooring, occasionally glancing between the Seeker and her leader with a puzzled expression.

Finally, Ratchet stepped back, wiping his hands on a cloth as he assessed his work. "There. His systems should stabilize now," he announced, satisfaction evident in his voice despite the unusual patient.

"Great," Arcee muttered, crossing her arms over her chassis. "We just saved the Decepticon who's tried to destroy us countless times." Her voice dripped with sarcasm, but beneath it lay genuine concern about the consequences of their actions.

Optimus sighed, "What would you suggest we do with him, Ratchet?" Though his face remained impassive, there was a subtle undercurrent of something more complex in his tone.

"We could return him to Megatron as a gesture of good faith," Ratchet offered, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced of his own suggestion.

Arcee's optics narrowed as she stopped pacing. "Or use him as leverage. The Decepticons might be willing to trade something valuable for their second-in-command." Her tactical mind was already calculating the potential advantages. "Besides, Megatron would do anything to prevent Starscream from spilling all his secrets. He knows too much."

Optimus shook his head firmly. "We will not use threats against a wounded prisoner, regardless of what intelligence he possesses. That would make us no better than Megatron—who, need I remind you, apparently tried to terminate him. We are Autobots. We hold ourselves to a higher standard."

"Yes, but he might possess valuable intelligence on Megatron's latest plans," Ratchet added thoughtfully, glancing down at his patient. "If he recovers here, under our care, he may voluntarily share information that could give us a tactical advantage. Starscream has always been... politically flexible. His loyalty to Megatron has wavered before, and keeping him close could prove useful without compromising our principles."

Optimus opened his mouth to respond, his optics fixed on Starscream's damaged form. "Perhaps there is also value in offering sanctuary to one who has been—"

Their strategic discussion was interrupted by a sudden groan from the medical berth. Starscream's optics flickered to life, the crimson glow weak at first, then strengthening as his systems came online. Confusion clouded his features as he took in his unfamiliar surroundings.

"Where... where am I exactly?" Starscream's normally strident voice was subdued and disoriented as he struggled to focus his optics. "These are not my quarters." His slender fingers clutched at the edge of the berth, as if seeking something familiar to anchor himself.

The Autobots exchanged surprised glances, their expressions morphing from suspicion to confusion as they observed his genuine disorientation.

"Stop playing games, Starscream," Arcee snapped, stepping closer to the berth. "Your acting skills aren't going to save you this time." Her stance was defensive, ready for any sudden movement from the Decepticon.

Starscream's optic ridges drew together in genuine bewilderment as he gingerly touched his head plate. "How do you know my designation? Have we met before?" His voice held none of its usual sarcasm or guile. "My memory banks seem to be... incomplete somehow." He looked around the room with the lost expression of someone in an entirely unfamiliar world. “Did I get caught up in an accident?”

Ratchet took a step closer to the berth, his expression shifting to focused professionalism as he lifted his medical scanner. "Let me get a more detailed neural scan before we continue this conversation," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. The device hummed to life, projecting a pale blue light that swept across Starscream's helm in a slow, methodical pattern.

The Seeker remained still, his crimson optics tracking Ratchet's movements with wary curiosity. As the scan progressed, Ratchet's expression shifted dramatically as he read the scanner results. He motioned urgently to Optimus and Arcee, gesturing them away from the medical berth where Starscream lay looking confused and disoriented.

"A moment, please," Ratchet said to Starscream, his tone professional but gentle. "I need to consult with my colleagues about your condition."

Once they were huddled in the far corner of the medical bay, Ratchet lowered his voice to an urgent whisper.

"By the AllSpark," he breathed, showing them the scanner's display. "His neural circuitry has been completely reset to pre-war protocols. The impact must have triggered a deep memory purge." He glanced back at Starscream, "He has absolutely no memory of being a Decepticon—or anything from the war."

Arcee and Optimus turned their heads in unison, looking from Ratchet's scanner to the Seeker lying on the medical berth. Their expressions were a mixture of disbelief and cautious curiosity.

Starscream was sitting partially upright now, his crimson optics wide and alert as he calmly took in his surroundings. There was none of his usual sneering contempt or calculating watchfulness—instead, his face held an open, almost scholarly interest as he examined the medical equipment around him with the detached curiosity of a scientist rather than the wariness of an enemy combatant.

"Impossible," Arcee whispered, her voice barely audible. "He has to be faking it. This is exactly the kind of elaborate deception he would orchestrate."

Optimus watched intently as Starscream gently tested the mobility of his repaired wing joint, his movements lacking their usual dramatic flair. "I'm not certain, Arcee. Look at his optics—there's no recognition there. No fear. No guile." He paused, his deep voice thoughtful. "Just... curiosity."

Indeed, Starscream was now examining the Autobot insignia on a nearby tool cabinet, his head tilted slightly as though trying to recall where he might have seen the symbol before. His fingers traced the outline in the air, his expression puzzled rather than hostile.

Ratchet cleared his vocal processor. "The scans don't lie. His core memory files are completely inaccessible. Whatever he was before the war—before Megatron—that's who we're dealing with now."

Starscream suddenly looked over to where the three Autobots were huddled in discussion. His optics flickered with confusion before he called out, his voice lacking its usual screechy quality.

"I apologize for interrupting your consultation," he said politely, "but I really should be getting home. My trinemates must be worried sick about my absence by now. It's not like me to disappear without notice." He attempted to sit up further, wincing as the movement pulled at his repairs. "Could you perhaps tell me where I am and how I might contact them?"

The three Autobots exchanged bewildered glances.

"Trinemates?" Arcee whispered, her voice pitched low enough that Starscream couldn't hear. "What in the Pit is he talking about?"

Ratchet's expression softened with sympathy. "Oh dear. He still thinks his trine is alive. Before the war, Seekers operated in trine formations—groups of three that lived, trained, and flew together. The bonds were almost as sacred as spark-bonds."

Optimus's optics widened slightly. "Are you saying—"

"Thundercracker and Skywarp," Ratchet confirmed grimly. "His original trine. They haven't flown together since early in the war. Thundercracker was eaten by pirahacons, and Skywarp by gnaw during the war."

Arcee's expression shifted from suspicion to something approaching pity. "So he's wishing to return to ghosts."

Optimus turned back toward their patient, his faceplates arranged in a gentle expression. "Starscream," he began carefully, "there is much we need to discuss about your... current situation."

Starscream's frame tensed visibly as Optimus approached the medical berth, his wings hiking upward in an instinctive defensive posture. Though his memories were gone, his body's reflexes remained intact—a Seeker's evolutionary response to perceived threats. The subtle movement didn't escape Optimus's notice, and he stopped a respectful distance away, his massive frame deliberately angled to appear less imposing.

"Starscream," Optimus began, his deep baritone gentled, "I understand your confusion. My name is Optimus Prime. These are my medical officer Ratchet, and my lieutenant Arcee." He gestured to each Autobot in turn. "We found you severely injured in the desert. Your systems had sustained critical damage."

Starscream's optics narrowed, flicking between the three strangers with growing unease. "That's... most kind of you. But I really must insist on contacting my trine. Thundercracker tends to worry, and Skywarp will probably be flying search patterns by now." His voice took on a note of aristocratic impatience, though it lacked the malicious edge the Autobots were accustomed to hearing. "I appreciate your assistance, but if you could simply provide me with a communications link—"

Ratchet stepped forward, medical datapad in hand. "Starscream, our scans indicate significant trauma to your neural network. Your memory circuits have been... reset." He exchanged a glance with Optimus before continuing. "What is the last date you remember?"

The Seeker's brow furrowed in concentration. "It was the third cycle of the stellar orbital. I was attending a meeting at the Science Academy in Vos regarding my latest research on space bridge technology." His expression brightened. "Actually, I was scheduled to present my findings to the High Council next week. I should really—"

"Starscream," Optimus interrupted gently, "that meeting would have been over four million stellar cycles ago."

The color drained from Starscream's faceplates, his crimson optics flickering as his processor attempted to reconcile this information. "That's... that's not possible. You're mistaken." His voice rose slightly, the first hints of his familiar screech emerging. "This is some kind of elaborate prank. Did Skywarp put you up to this? It's exactly his style of humor."

The Autobots exchanged pained glances. Arcee stepped back, her arms crossing defensively over her chassis. She couldn't bring herself to watch what was coming next.

"Starscream," Ratchet said, his gruff voice unusually soft, "there's more you need to know. Cybertron has been through a devastating civil war. Many cities, including Vos, were destroyed. The planet itself is currently uninhabitable."

A strangled sound escaped Starscream's vocalizer. "Vos? Destroyed? No, that can't be right. It's the greatest Seeker city ever built. The aerial formations alone took thousands of years to perfect. The architecture—" His voice broke off, static crackling around the edges. "You're lying. Why are you lying to me?"

Optimus moved closer, his field extending with compassion. "I wish we were, Starscream. But what Ratchet says is true." He paused, his optics dimming slightly. "There's more. Your trinemates, Thundercracker and Skywarp... they were lost during the early days of the war."

The effect was immediate and devastating. Starscream's entire frame went rigid, his wings snapping upright before suddenly drooping to their lowest position. A keening sound rose from his vocalizer—high, thin, and piercing—the traditional Seeker cry of mourning. It was a sound none of the Autobots had ever heard from him before, raw and unguarded in its grief.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head in denial. "No, I would know. I would feel it if they were gone. The trine bond—" His hands clutched at his cockpit, fingers scraping against the glass as if trying to reach his own spark. "I would have felt them extinguish."

Ratchet moved forward, medical instincts overriding caution as Starscream's vitals began to spike dangerously on the monitors. "The severing happened millions of years ago, its long been felt."

Starscream's vents hitched, his cooling fans working overtime as his processor struggled to manage the emotional overload. "And... and I? What happened to me during this... war?" He looked down at his own frame, as if seeing the battle scars and modifications for the first time. "These alterations—they're weapons systems. Military grade." Horror dawned across his features. "What did I become?"

The silence in the medical bay was deafening. Arcee looked away, her optics focused intently on the far wall. Ratchet busied himself with the medical equipment, suddenly finding the monitors fascinating.

It was Optimus who finally answered, “I think this is enough stress for one day, you should rest”

Starscream's optics flashed with indignation. "Rest? I don't need rest! I need answers!" His voice rose sharply, edging closer to the screech they all recognized. "You can't simply tell me my entire world is gone and then expect me to just... power down!" His hands gestured wildly, wings flicking with agitation. "My trine, my city, my—my entire life!"

Optimus raised a placating hand. "I understand your distress, Starscream. But your systems are still stabilizing from extensive repairs. Emotional strain will only complicate your recovery."

Ratchet stepped forward, scanner in hand. "Your neural pathways are already showing signs of stress. Continuing this conversation risks triggering a cascade failure in your memory circuits." His voice, though gruff, carried genuine medical concern. "Whatever answers you seek will still be here after a proper recharge cycle."

Starscream's shoulders slumped, the fight visibly draining from him. "I suppose there's little point in arguing with medical expertise," he muttered, his tone carrying a hint of the academic deference he once held for scientific authority. "But I expect a full explanation when I awaken." He settled back against the berth, wings adjusting to a more comfortable position. "And I want to know everything—especially about what happened to my trine."

Optimus nodded solemnly. "You have my word." His optics lingered for a moment on Starscream's face, taking in the unguarded vulnerability that had replaced the usual scheming expression. There was something strangely captivating about this version of the Seeker—the scientist he had been before the war had twisted them all.

As Ratchet administered a mild sedative through the medical port in Starscream's arm, the Seeker's optics dimmed slowly. Optimus found himself unconsciously stepping closer, his field briefly extending toward the drowsy Decepticon in a gesture of reassurance that surprised even himself. After a moment's hesitation, he gently placed his large hand on Starscream's shoulder, the touch both cautious and comforting. The Seeker's optics flickered once at the contact before finally going dark in sedated recharge.

Chapter Text

9:00 am. The medical bay was silent save for the gentle hum of monitoring equipment when Starscream's optics flickered online. For a moment, disorientation clouded his processor as unfamiliar ceiling panels came into focus. The sedative's effects lingered, making his thoughts sluggish and unfocused.

Then, like a tidal wave, memory crashed through the fog.

Vos. Destroyed. The Science Academy. Gone. Thundercracker. Skywarp. Extinguished.

Starscream bolted upright, ventilation systems cycling rapidly as panic seized his spark. Error messages flashed across his HUD, warning of elevated energon pressure and processor strain, but he dismissed them with barely a thought.

"No," he whispered, voice scratchy with static. "No, no, no..."

His hands trembled as he disconnected monitoring cables from his frame, movements growing increasingly frantic. The world he'd known—the identity he'd possessed—had vanished. The war. The weapons systems integrated into his frame. The unfamiliar modifications that spoke of vorns of conflict.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the berth, Starscream attempted to stand, only for his knees to buckle. He caught himself against the wall, wings hitching high with distress.

"This can't be happening," he muttered, stumbling toward a reflective panel on the far wall. "This can't be real."

The face that stared back at him was simultaneously familiar and foreign. The basic structure remained—the distinctive helm, the sharp features—but subtle differences told a story of adaptation and survival. Harder angles. Optics that burned a deeper crimson. Dermal plating reinforced for combat rather than atmospheric flight. Most jarring of all was the sight of his left wing, partially immobilized by what appeared to be a section of red and blue metal—unmistakably a piece of one of these strangers own shoulder armor, repurposed as a makeshift splint.

Had they been close to one another?

Reaching up with unsteady fingers, Starscream traced the unfamiliar contours of his own face. "What did I become?" he whispered, echoing his question from earlier.

With a sudden cry of anguish, he slammed his fist into the reflective surface. It cracked but didn't shatter—military-grade materials, designed to withstand far worse than an emotional outburst.

Another punch. Then another. Each impact accompanied by a keening wail that rose in pitch and volume.

"They can't be gone!" he screamed, voice reaching that distinctive screech, though now it carried raw grief rather than the calculated malice the Autobots would have recognized. "I would have felt it! The trine bond doesn't lie!"

His cooling fans roared as he spun away from the broken reflection, optics wild as he scanned the medbay. The monitors. The tools. The Autobot insignia that somehow triggered both unfamiliarity and instinctive hostility.

Memories should be there—context for this nightmare—but his processor encountered only error messages when he tried to access them.

"Thundercracker," he called out, as if his trinemate might somehow hear him across the void. "Skywarp!"

The silence that answered was unbearable. Starscream clutched at his cockpit, fingers scraping against the glass as if he could physically reach the pain radiating from his spark chamber. In a trine bond, the loss of wingmates left phantom connections—ghost limbs of the soul that ached with absence.

He sank to his knees, wings drooping low against his back in the universal Seeker posture of absolute despair.

"We had plans," he whispered, optics fixed on nothing. "The Academy research. The orbital observations. Skywarp was going to show me that new aerial maneuver..." His voice cracked with static. "Thundercracker was writing that ridiculous scientific journal on grounder and flyer type relationships he wouldn't let anyone but us read."

A strangled laugh escaped him, quickly dissolving into a sob. "I never even told him I finished reviewing it. I was going to surprise them with annotations..." The words trailed into incoherent static as his vocalizer glitched with emotion.

The door to the medbay slid open with a soft hiss.

Optimus Prime stood in the doorway, his massive frame momentarily silhouetted against the corridor lights. For a moment, he remained still, bearing witness to a private grief he had never expected to see from the Decepticon Air Commander. The raw emotion in Starscream's keening cries spoke of a depth of feeling that had been absent in all their previous encounters.

Quietly, with a grace that belied his size, Optimus stepped into the room and let the door close behind him.

"Starscream," he called softly.

The Seeker's head snapped up, optics blazing with emotion. For a brief moment, something feral and defensive flashed across his features—an instinctive reaction that transcended memory loss. Then recognition dawned, along with the crushing weight of reality. As he shifted, a sharp wince crossed his face, the half-healed fractures in his chassis sending warning signals through his sensor net.

"Tell me it isn't true," Starscream demanded, voice raw. "Tell me this is some elaborate deception. A simulation. Anything."

Optimus approached slowly, maintaining a respectful distance. "I wish I could," he answered, his deep voice gentle. "But I cannot offer false comfort, even in the face of such pain."

Starscream's wings twitched, a vulnerable flutter that sent another jolt of pain through his sensor net. His left wing, immobilized in a medical splint that forced it into an unnaturally upright position, throbbed with each attempted movement. The improvised brace—fashioned partly from what appeared to be Optimus's own armor plating—kept the delicate mechanisms aligned but restricted the expressive mobility that was second nature to a Seeker. "Then what am I supposed to do?" he asked, the question startlingly direct and unguarded. "How am I supposed to... exist... knowing everything I was, everything I knew, is gone?"

Optimus considered the question with the gravity it deserved. "One moment at a time," he finally said. "That is how all of us have survived these long years of war."

A bitter laugh escaped Starscream's vocalizer, ending in a hiss as the movement aggravated the hairline fractures along his cockpit glass. "And what was I in this war of yours? Based on your companions' reactions, I suspect I wasn't on your side." His optics narrowed. "Was I a monster?"

The question hung heavy in the air between them. Optimus moved closer, finally kneeling to bring himself to Starscream's level—a gesture that would have been unthinkable in any other circumstance. The Prime's electromagnetic field brushed against Starscream's, carrying an unexpected warmth that made the Seeker's wings twitch slightly, the functional one fluttering while the splinted one remained rigidly upright, sending a dull throb of pain through his sensornet.

"You were..." Optimus paused, weighing his words carefully, his optics softening as they traced the elegant lines of Starscream's faceplates, "a commander of significant influence. Your scientific brilliance found different applications during wartime." He met Starscream's gaze steadily, optics lingering just a moment longer than necessary, his electromagnetic field briefly pulsing with warmth. "War changes all of us in ways we cannot predict."

Starscream's optics flashed, and he became suddenly aware of their proximity. "That's deliberately vague, new Prime," he said, voice dropping to a lower register.

"Perhaps," Optimus acknowledged, not moving away despite the charged atmosphere between them. "Some truths are better approached gradually, when one is ready to process them."

Starscream's optics narrowed, studying the Prime's face for deception. Finding none, his shoulders lowered fractionally, the movement causing him to wince as recently welded seams in his shoulder assembly protested. The medical bay's soft lighting cast gentle shadows across their frames, the quiet hum of equipment the only sound beyond their ventilation systems.

"And who decides when I'm ready?" Starscream asked, his voice softer but still carrying that distinctive edge. "You? The medic? Or do I get some say in my own recovery?"

Optimus rose to his full height, then extended a hand toward the seated Seeker. After a moment's hesitation, Starscream accepted it, allowing himself to be helped to his feet. A sharp jolt of pain from his recently repaired knee joint nearly sent him stumbling, but Optimus's steady grip kept him upright. Their fields brushed again, longer this time—the contact sending an unexpected warmth through Starscream's sensor net that momentarily eclipsed the persistent ache of his injuries.

"Come," Optimus said, "there is something I would like to show you."

They walked in silence through the Autobot base, Starscream's gait slightly uneven as self-repair systems continued their work on his damaged leg struts. Each step sent small warnings across his HUD, which he dismissed with practiced ease. The splinted wing remained an awkward presence, throwing off his balance and reminding him with every movement of his vulnerability. Despite this, Starscream found himself observing with a scientist's curiosity—noting the efficiency of their resource allocation, the practical adaptations to Earth materials.

Optimus led him to a small room dominated by a console. "This contains our historical archives," he explained, activating the system with a touch. "Including extensive documentation of pre-war Cybertron."

The screen illuminated with images of their home in its golden age—towering spires catching the light of Cybertron's moons, bustling streets filled with mechs of every frame type. Starscream stepped forward, transfixed, momentarily forgetting the dull ache radiating from his splinted wing.

"The Crystal City," he murmured as the display shifted. "I presented my doctoral thesis there, during the Science Symposium of—" He faltered, processor struggling to reconcile timelines.

"The 437th cycle," Optimus finished quietly. "I was there."

Starscream's head snapped toward him in surprise, the sudden movement sending a sharp twinge through his neural relays as his splinted wing strained against its constraints. "You?"

"As Orion Pax, archivist," Optimus clarified. "Your presentation on theoretical applications of space bridge technology was... impressive. It challenged many established principles."

Something flickered in Starscream's optics—a hint of his old pride. "It was meant to. Science doesn't advance through comfortable consensus." He shifted his weight, trying to find a position that eased the persistent ache in his frame.

Optimus's optics crinkled slightly at the corners, "I remember thinking exactly that as I archived your dissertation."

The Seeker's functional wing perked upward slightly, while its immobilized counterpart remained fixed in its splint. "You archived my work?"

"With special notation regarding its potential significance." Optimus cycled air through his vents in what might have been a sigh. "Before energon became scarce. Before the Council's restrictions. Before..." He hesitated, unsure of how far dated his companions mind was. "You joined the energon seekers."

"I joined the energon seekers?" Starscream repeated, his voice rising with disbelief. His functional wing twitched upward in confusion while the splinted one throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. "As in the military expedition teams? That's... preposterous. I'm a scientist, not a soldier." He shook his head, processor struggling to reconcile this information. "We were researching sustainable energon production at the Academy. Why would I abandon that critical work to become some sort of... energon scout?"

Optimus studied him carefully before responding. "The energon crisis changed many paths. When the Science Academy's funding was diverted to military purposes, you argued that practical field work was the only way to continue your research." He paused, considering how much to reveal. "It also gave your team unprecedented access to study dark energon properties, something the Academy had previously forbidden." His optics dimmed slightly. "You were quite... persuasive. Many of your colleagues followed you."

Starscream's expression darkened, his wings angling downward in a sharp, dismissive motion. The splinted wing couldn't move freely, creating an asymmetrical display that sent a fresh wave of discomfort through his sensor net. "Persuasive," he repeated, the word dripping with skepticism. "Is that what you call it?" He turned away from the display, arms crossing defensively over his cockpit, where half-healed welds still traced jagged patterns across the glass. Though his processor couldn't access the memories Optimus referenced, something about the Prime's carefully measured words struck him as incomplete—sanitized for his benefit.

A flash of his old defiance surfaced as he shot Optimus a sidelong glance. "You're being selective with your history lessons, Prime." The title came naturally to his vocalizer, though he couldn't recall using it before. "I may not remember who I became, but I know when information is being... curated."

Rather than pursue the matter further, however, Starscream returned his attention to the images of Cybertron, his scientific curiosity momentarily overriding his suspicion. Whatever disagreement simmered beneath the surface remained unvoiced as he focused on the familiar skyline of a world lost to him twice over.

…. 2:00 pm

The door to the observation deck slid open with a hydraulic hiss as Optimus Prime entered, followed by Ratchet and Arcee. The spacious room overlooking the desert landscape had been cleared of all non-essential personnel, leaving only Bumblebee and Bulkhead seated at the monitoring stations. The yellow scout turned immediately, his expressive optics widening at the somber expressions of the three senior Autobots.

Bulkhead, still adjusting to the team's new situation, merely glanced up from the datapad he'd been studying. "Problem?" he asked, his deep voice carrying an edge of wariness that never quite seemed to leave him.

Optimus moved to the center of the room, his commanding presence drawing both mechs' full attention. "I've gathered you here because we face an unprecedented situation that requires discretion and careful consideration."

Bumblebee emitted a series of curious beeps and whirs, his doorwings rising in a questioning stance.

"Our patient has regained consciousness," Ratchet said, crossing his arms over his chassis. "His processor has sustained significant damage to his memory banks. Based on my preliminary assessment, he has no recollection of the war or his role in it."

Bulkhead's optics narrowed. "And why exactly does that concern us? Damaged 'Cons are Knockout's problem, not ours."

Arcee's engine gave a short, harsh rev. "Because this particular 'Con happens to be Megatron's second-in-command."

A momentary silence fell over the room. Bumblebee's doorwings shot up in alarm, a rapid series of electronic sounds conveying his disbelief.

"Starscream," Bulkhead growled, rising to his feet. "You brought Starscream here? To our base?" His massive hands curled into fists. "Have your processors glitched?"

Optimus raised a hand, his calm authority dampening the rising tension. "Your concern is valid, Bulkhead. However, this situation is more complex than it appears."

"He's not faking it," Ratchet interjected, his gruff voice carrying the weight of professional certainty. "I've run every diagnostic in my arsenal. The damage to his memory circuits is extensive and genuine." The medic's expression hardened. "Believe me, I was as skeptical as you are."

Bumblebee's curious chirps filled the room as he looked between the three senior Autobots.

"No, 'Bee," Arcee responded, interpreting his electronic query. "We don't know how far back the memory loss goes. But from what we can tell, he remembers his early scientific career. Pre-war Cybertron. Nothing of the conflict or his... evolution into the Starscream we know."

Bulkhead's laugh was harsh and disbelieving. "So what, we're supposed to just forget everything he's done? The Autobots he's scrapped? The humans he's endangered?" His voice rose with each question. "He tortured Cliffjumper before terminating him. Or have you forgotten that, Arcee?"

Arcee's optics flashed dangerously. "I haven't forgotten anything."

"This isn't about forgiveness," Optimus interjected firmly. "It's about what we do now, with the mech who currently occupies our medbay." He paused briefly. "It's fortunate that Wheeljack, Smokescreen, and Ultra Magnus are away on that reconnaissance mission. This situation requires a measured approach that some of our more... impulsive team members might find challenging."

Bumblebee stepped forward, his electronic communication more measured now, a series of thoughtful tones and clicks.

"Yes, 'Bee, that's exactly the question," Ratchet nodded. "Is he the same person without his memories? Philosophically, I don't have an answer for you."

"I do," Bulkhead rumbled. "A blank slate doesn't erase the energon on his hands."

Arcee leaned against the wall, her slender frame tense with conflicting emotions. "As much as I hate to say it, we can't judge him for actions he doesn't remember committing."

"Can't we?" Bulkhead challenged. "If I murdered someone, then conveniently 'forgot' about it, would that make me innocent?"

Bumblebee's response was a soft, contemplative series of beeps.

"Bumblebee raises a valid point," Optimus translated. "This situation presents us with a rare opportunity. The Starscream in our medbay is, effectively, the scientist he was before the war corrupted his path. And with our human companions away at summer camp, the timing provides us a chance to explore this possibility without putting them at risk."

Ratchet huffed. "Let's not romanticize pre-war Starscream too much. He was still ambitious, arrogant, and manipulative. Just less... homicidal."

Bumblebee made a series of optimistic chirps, his doorwings fluttering with animation.

"Your compassion does you credit, Bumblebee," Optimus acknowledged with a gentle nod. "But we must remain vigilant. Memory loss or not, we cannot predict how he will react as he learns more about his past."

Bulkhead crossed his massive arms. "So what's the plan? Keep him here until his memory conveniently returns? Hand him back to the 'Cons? Put him in stasis indefinitely?"

"For now, we observe and protect," Optimus decided. "We will not return him to the Decepticons in his vulnerable state—we're fairly certain Megatron himself beat him to near death and abandoned him. Returning him would only complete what Megatron started."

Bumblebee's excited series of beeps and gestures drew everyone's attention.

Arcee's optics widened. "You want to be his... guide? 'Bee, that's—"

"Actually," Ratchet interrupted, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "it's not the worst idea. Bumblebee's non-threatening. Starscream might be more receptive to information from someone he perceives as less... intimidating."

Bulkhead vented heavily. "This is going to end badly. Mark my words."

"Your concerns are noted," Optimus replied. "But I believe in the possibility of redemption—even for those who have strayed furthest from the path."

Bumblebee's resolute beeping signaled his commitment to helping.

"Fine," Bulkhead conceded reluctantly. "But I'm keeping my weapons systems online. First sign of his old self coming back, and I'm not taking chances."

Arcee pushed away from the wall, her optics flickering with a storm of emotions. Her servos clenched and unclenched at her sides as memories of Cliffjumper's broken form flashed through her processor. She wanted to hate the mech in their medbay—needed to hate him—but the scientist who didn't remember becoming a killer wasn't the same Starscream who had tortured her partner. The conflict twisted inside her like a rusted blade. Bulkheads previous words had only added to the fire.

“We have the chance to make a difference.” She finally grit out.

Optimus nodded, his optics reflecting both concern and hope. "We stand at a crossroads—not just for Starscream, but for ourselves. How we treat him will reflect the very ideals we claim to uphold." He looked at each of them in turn. "This may be an opportunity to heal wounds that extend beyond a single mech."

As the meeting concluded, Bumblebee's excited chirps filled the corridor, his naturally optimistic nature already envisioning possibilities the others couldn't yet see. Bulkhead followed more slowly, skepticism etched in every movement of his bulky frame. Arcee headed straight to her quarters.

…

5:00 Pm

The med bay door slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing Bumblebee's yellow frame silhouetted against the corridor lights. The scout paused in the doorway, his doorwings twitching nervously as his optics adjusted to the dimmer lighting inside.

Ratchet glanced up from his workstation, "Primitive Earth technology," he mumbled under his breath. "Might as well be using medieval hammers and chisels to perform surgery." He merely pointed the young bot in his patients direction.

Starscream was sitting upright on the medical berth, his long legs dangling over the edge. The Seeker's optics narrowed slightly at the new arrival, his gaze sweeping over Bumblebee with assessment rather than his usual contempt. What immediately caught Bumblebee's attention, however, was the makeshift support structure bracing Starscream's damaged wing.

The scout's optics widened in recognition. The red and blue panel carefully positioned to hold the Seeker's wing at the proper healing angle was unmistakable – it was Optimus Prime's shoulder armor. Bumblebee let out a surprised series of beeps and chirps, pointing at the improvised medical equipment.

"Optimus welded it on himself during Starscreams rescue," Ratchet explained without looking up, catching the seekers attention. "He was concerned about permanently damaging your wing during transport. Said the armor would stabilize the structural integrity and reduce movement that could worsen the fractures." The medic's voice carried a mixture of exasperation and grudging respect. "It was quite the field modification, done right there in that canyon."

Starscream ran slender fingers along the edge of the Prime's armor, his expression unreadable. "Your leader is... unorthodox," he finally commented. "I've never known anyone—" he paused, a fleeting memory surfacing in his damaged processor. For just a moment, he saw a larger white and red frame, a gentle smile, a hand extended to help him after a failed experiment.

Shaking his head to clear the fragmented memory, he continued, "But I've never known a stranger to voluntarily remove their own protective plating for a..." he paused again, searching for the right designation, "...for someone in my position."

Bumblebee emitted a series of enthusiastic electronic sounds, his doorwings rising with sudden animation as he gestured toward Starscream and then toward the door.

"Oh right, our young scout is here to escort you to your quarters," Ratchet translated, finally turning to face them both. "Bumblebee has volunteered to help you... adjust."

Starscream's wings attempted to twitch upward in surprise, only for him to wince as the injured one strained against Optimus's armor. "I'm to be given actual accommodations? Not kept here under your medical supervision?" There was genuine surprise in his voice, lacking the sarcastic edge that would have normally accompanied such words.

Bumblebee nodded, offering a series of encouraging beeps as he stepped further into the room, extending a hand toward the Seeker in a gesture of assistance.

Starscream eyed the offered hand. "I am perfectly capable of walking on my own," he stated, though his tone lacked its usual bite. He carefully slid off the berth, wincing slightly as his damaged wing shifted. Standing at his full height, he towered over the scout, yet there was something less intimidating about his posture – the predatory edge that normally defined his movements was absent.

Bumblebee chirped reassuringly, motioning toward the door with an animated gesture.

"I'll be checking your wing alignment in two hours," Ratchet called after them. "Don't do anything to compromise the support structure. The Prime will need that armor back eventually."

As they stepped into the corridor, Starscream cast a final glance at the Prime's armor supporting his damaged wing, his expression thoughtful. "Your leader sacrificed his protection for my recovery," he mused quietly, more to himself than to Bumblebee. "How... illogical."

Bumblebee led Starscream through the winding corridors of the Autobot base, occasionally glancing back to ensure the Seeker was still following. The yellow scout's doorwings twitched with barely contained excitement, his electronic chirps filling the otherwise silent hallway with bursts of enthusiastic commentary that Starscream couldn't understand but could somehow sense the meaning behind.

As they walked, Starscream observed his surroundings with the keen analytical eye of a scientist rather than an enemy infiltrator. The base was utilitarian—functional without being austere, modest but not primitive. It spoke volumes about the Autobots' priorities and resources. Occasionally, they passed markers or insignias that triggered vague sensations in Starscream's damaged memory banks—not recognition, but something more ephemeral, like déjà vu without context.

"Your communications are somewhat... unique," Starscream finally commented, breaking the silence between Bumblebee's chirps. "I assume there's a reason you don't speak as the others do?"

Bumblebee's doorwings drooped slightly, his next series of beeps more somber. He gestured toward his vocal processor and made a tearing motion with his hands.

"I see," Starscream replied. "A war injury, then." Something flickered across his facial plates—discomfort, perhaps guilt—though he couldn't understand why.

They turned down another corridor, this one less traveled, with fewer signs of regular use. Bumblebee's steps became more measured as they approached a door near the end of the hallway. The scout gestured toward a small keypad beside the entrance, demonstrating a simple code sequence before inviting Starscream to try it himself.

"You're giving me the access code?" Starscream asked, genuine surprise coloring his tone. "That seems... trusting of a stranger."

Bumblebee's response was a cheerful series of beeps accompanied by a shrug that somehow conveyed both 'why not?' and 'it's just a room code' simultaneously.

Starscream carefully input the sequence, mindful of his damaged wing and the Prime's armor supporting it. The door slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing quarters that were simple but comfortable. A berth sized for a flyer frame, a small desk with a data terminal, basic amenities—all clearly arranged with consideration for his needs.

"This room is... quite pleasant," Starscream remarked, looking around with genuine appreciation. His optics took in the comfortable space with its thoughtful amenities. "I wasn't expecting such comfortable accommodations given were in war times."

Bumblebee nodded, chirping affirmatively as he pointed out various features of the room—the private washracks through a side door, the terminal with limited but not insignificant access to non-classified data, a small energon dispenser calibrated for standard medical grade.

Starscream moved to the room's single window—a reinforced skylight that offered a view of the desert sky above. He stood beneath it, his undamaged wing twitching slightly as he gazed upward at the patch of blue. Something about the open sky called to him on a level beyond conscious thought.

"A considerate touch," he murmured, "for a flyer."

Bumblebee's responding chirp carried a note of satisfaction.

Starscream turned back to face the scout, his expression uncharacteristically open, lacking the calculated masks he typically wore. "I don't understand any of this," he admitted. "Your leader's sacrifice of his armor, these accommodations, your... kindness." His voice dropped lower, tinged with confusion. "What exactly do you want from me?"

Bumblebee chirped nervously, his doorwings fluttering in a pattern that suggested uncertainty rather than his usual confidence. The scout shuffled his feet, seeming unsure how to respond to Starscream's direct question.

Before Bumblebee could attempt to communicate further, Starscream's attention suddenly shifted. The Seeker moved toward the berth with unexpected purpose, his scientific scrutiny focused on the sleeping platform. He began methodically rearranging the thermal coverings with precise movements, pulling them into a circular formation and creating a raised edge around the perimeter.

"The thermal regulation in this room is inadequate for proper recharge," Starscream muttered, more to himself than to Bumblebee. He continued his systematic arrangement, occasionally pausing to test the stability of his creation with a critical press of his servo.

Bumblebee tilted his head in confusion, his optics cycling wider as he watched the former Decepticon Air Commander meticulously constructing what appeared to be a... nest? The scout emitted a series of questioning beeps, pointing at the circular arrangement with bewilderment clear in his body language.

Starscream paused, looking up from his work with genuine surprise. "Surely you don't recharge on a flat, unstructured surface?" he asked, as if Bumblebee were the one exhibiting strange behavior. "Even the most basic Seeker coding requires proper elevation and peripheral security during recharge cycles." He gestured to his creation with an air of academic authority. "This arrangement optimizes thermal retention while providing tactile boundary recognition during deep recharge."

Bumblebee's responding chirp carried notes of both amusement and fascination. He cautiously approached, doorwings perked high with curiosity as he examined the carefully constructed nest.

Starscream's wings—or rather, wing and supported wing—twitched with what might have been embarrassment as he suddenly seemed to realize how instinctual his behavior had been. "I suppose ground-based frames don't share these particular recharge requirements," he acknowledged, his voice carrying a hint of the scientist he once was, cataloging a new observation. "Fascinating how deeply such protocols are embedded in our base coding."

Bumblebee's optics brightened with an idea. He gestured toward the nest Starscream had constructed, then mimed adjusting it, his doorwings lifting in a questioning pattern as he chirped inquisitively.

Starscream stared at the scout, his optics widening in genuine shock. "You're... offering to help me complete my recharge arrangement?" His voice contained none of its usual caustic edge, replaced instead with disbelief.

Among Seekers, nest-building was an intensely personal activity, typically shared only between trine mates or those with exceptionally close bonds. The intimacy of such an offer would have been startling even before his memory loss. Starscream began to formulate a sharp rejection, but paused, his scientific mind analyzing the situation with newfound clarity.

"Of course," he murmured, more to himself than to Bumblebee. "Ground-based frames wouldn't have the cultural subroutines regarding nest construction." His gaze shifted to the scout's youthful features, taking in the genuine earnestness there. "And you're quite young by Cybertronian standards, aren't you? Still in your final upgrade phase, I'd estimate."

Bumblebee chirped affirmatively, doorwings bobbing with enthusiasm as he waited for an answer to his offer.

The scientist in Starscream—the part that had once been more dominant before war and ambition had reshaped him—found the situation fascinating. A grounded mech wouldn't understand the social complexities of nest-sharing, and a younger one would approach it with the innocent practicality of simply helping a injured mech. There was no impropriety in accepting assistance under these circumstances.

"Very well," Starscream decided, stepping back slightly. "You may assist. The structural integrity of the outer rim requires additional reinforcement to compensate for my damaged wing. I'll need to maintain a specific recharge position until repairs are complete."

Bumblebee chirped happily, immediately moving to help. His smaller hands proved surprisingly deft at arranging the thermal coverings, following Starscream's increasingly detailed instructions with patient attention.

"No, no—the support structure must be higher on this side," Starscream directed, his scientific precision emerging as he guided the scout. "Seekers naturally cant our wings during deep recharge cycles. The damaged wing will attempt to follow these protocols despite the injury."

As they worked together, Starscream found himself relaxing incrementally. There was something oddly comfortable about the scout's presence—no judgment, no suspicion, just straightforward assistance. Bumblebee communicated with simple chirps and expressive doorwing movements that Starscream found himself beginning to interpret with surprising ease.

"You know," Starscream remarked as they put the finishing touches on the nest, "your communication methods are quite efficient in their own way. Non-verbal but remarkably nuanced. I suspect I could develop a basic translation algorithm given enough time to analyze the patterns."

Bumblebee's optics curved in what was clearly a smile, his doorwings fluttering in a pattern that somehow conveyed pleased embarrassment. He chirped questioningly, gesturing to their completed work.

Starscream surveyed the nest with critical optics. "Acceptable," he pronounced, though there was a hint of genuine approval in his voice. "Structurally sound and thermally efficient." He glanced at Bumblebee, adding with uncharacteristic sincerity, "Your assistance was... helpful."

The scout's responding series of cheerful beeps seemed to light up the room, his doorwings held high with pride at the grudging compliment

Chapter Text

The days since his awakening in the Autobot base had settled into a comfortable routine. Ratchet's thorough examinations, Bumblebee's cheerful visits, and the gradual introductions to the base personnel created a sense of normalcy. Though he hadn't yet met all the Autobots, those he encountered had been surprisingly welcoming to an outsider. He had reason to suspect they knew him prior to his amnesia but he found himself hesitant to broach the subject.

A soft knock at his door pulled him from his contemplation. The distinctive pattern identified the visitor before the door slid open: Bumblebee, right on schedule for his daily visit.

"Enter," Starscream called, straightening his posture and instinctively checking his wing supports.

The yellow scout bounced in with his characteristic energy, carrying what appeared to be a collection of datapads. His optics curved upward in greeting, doorwings fluttering in patterns that Starscream had begun cataloging in his ongoing project to understand the scout's non-verbal language. He appeared to communicate in some form of cybertronian more code with his own spin it it, leaving much to interuptation.

"I see you've brought more historical archives," Starscream observed, gesturing to the datapads. "Still determined to help get me back up to date with everything thats happened, are you?"

Bumblebee nodded enthusiastically, chirping a sequence that Starscream recognized as affirmative excitement. The scout carefully laid out the datapads on the small desk.

Over the past week, Bumblebee had taken it upon himself to help Starscream piece together their history through carefully selected archives and scientific journals. Unlike the others who withhold crucial information with flimsy excuses about "not overwhelming" him. Bumblebee, however, appeared genuinely invested in helping him recover his past, seemingly free from the calculated agenda that governed the others' interactions with him.

"Very well," Starscream sighed, moving to join Bumblebee at the desk. "What new revelations do you have for me today? More death and loss?"

Bumblebee's doorwings drooped slightly at the bitterness in Starscream's tone. He chirped softly, a sound Starscream had come to associate with apology or concern, and pushed forward a specific datapad.

Starscream activated the screen, and his ventilation systems stuttered momentarily. Instead of scientific journals or historical records, this datapad contained a classified report. The title read: "Confirmed Decepticon Casualties: Thundercracker and Skywarp."

"My... trine?" Starscream whispered, his voice barely audible.

Bumblebee nodded solemnly, his optics dimming with empathy. He pointed to the timestamp on the report, dating back to the early days of the war. Then gently tapped specific sections detailing the incident.

Starscream read with growing horror. According to the report, Thundercracker had been captured and executed by the Quintessons. The report detailed how he had been thrown into a pit and overwhelmed and devoured by a school of Pirahacons as punishment. Skywarp, however, had met his end differently—on a separate mission, setting an explosive device that Starscream was meant to plant. The bomb had detonated prematurely, and in panic, Skywarp had teleported blindly, materializing in the middle of the sea where the massive Sharkticon known as Gnaw had claimed him.

"They... died like that?" Starscream's voice contained equal parts disbelief and grief. "I wasn't there," Starscream realized, his wings drooping low. "Where was I when my trine needed me?"

Bumblebee's optics widened with unmistakable distress, his doorwings hiked up in obvious alarm.

"What are you hiding from me?" Starscream demanded, his voice barely above a whisper as his optics narrowed to crimson slits. "These 'Decepticons' mentioned in the report... What are they?" When Bumblebee's optics widened in unmistakable panic, Starscream felt his spark chamber tighten. Bumblebee's silence only fueled his growing frustration.

"I see you're not going to answer," Starscream hissed, his wings twitching with irritation. "Why am I not surprised? Everyone in this base treats me like I'm made of glass." He leaned closer, causing Bumblebee to shrink back slightly. "Tell me who they are," he pressed, desperation hardening into anger. "Tell me who I was. Or are you as useless as your broken vocalizer suggests?"

Bumblebee’s bright optics dimmed noticeably at the cruel comment, a flash of genuine hurt crossing his features. The scout's doorwings drooped so low they nearly touched his back, his entire frame radiating distress as he looked anywhere but at Starscream's face.

After a long, suffocating silence, Starscream felt something crumble inside him. His wings, sagged until they nearly brushed the berth. "I see," he whispered, his voice laced with a desolation that surprised even himself. "Another truth I'm not permitted to know." The bitterness in his words couldn't mask the underlying grief.

Something broke inside him then, a dam holding back emotions he didn't fully understand. His wings, both the injured one supported by Prime's armor and his functional one trembled as grief flooded his systems. They were gone, his trine, his Cybertron, Vos, everything he had once known and been part of. Even without specific memories, the loss carved through him with terrifying clarity.

A gentle touch on his arm startled him. Bumblebee stood beside him, optics wide with concern, doorwings drooping in empathy. The scout's field reached out tentatively, offering comfort without intrusion.

"I saw them just last week," Starscream said, his voice staticky with emotion. "In my mind, they were just here - joking, flying, planning our next hang out. The memories feel so fresh, so real. But they've been gone for years? How can that be when I can still feel their presence in my spark?" He looked down at his trembling hands. "It's so unfair to have to grieve them twice - feeling the loss all over again without even remembering how I mourned them the first time."

Bumblebee's responding series of gentle chirps and clicks required no translation. The scout carefully reached out, his smaller servo hesitantly touching Starscream's undamaged wing in a gesture that was startlingly familiar, soothing distressed plating.

Surprisingly, Starscream didn't pull away. Something about the gesture bypassed his conscious thought processes, accessing comfort protocols so deeply embedded they had survived even his memory loss. His wing relaxed incrementally under the careful touch.

"You're very young to understand such grief," Starscream observed quietly, studying the scout's face.

Bumblebee's responding chirp carried notes of sorrow beyond his years. The scout gestured to his damaged vocal processor, then made a sweeping motion that somehow conveyed the vastness of all they had lost in the war.

"I suppose none of us have been spared loss," Starscream acknowledged. He hesitated, his optics darting away momentarily before forcing himself to look back at Bumblebee. "I... apologize for what I said earlier. About your vocalizer." The words seemed to physically pain him, his pride visibly warring with his conscience. After a long pause, he added in a softer tone, "Thank you... for this." He gestured to the datapads. "For helping me find pieces of myself, even the painful ones."

Bumblebee's doorwings perked up, his field radiating a warmth clear in its protective nature. The scout chirped softly, then mimed reading and pointed toward the door, clearly offering Starscream privacy to process his discoveries.

"You may stay," Starscream found himself saying. "Your company is... not unwelcome."

The smile that lit Bumblebee's face was answer enough.

. . .

Starscream stood beneath the skylight in his quarters, wings angled toward the stars. One week had passed since his awakening in the Autobot base, and while his memory remained frustratingly incomplete, he had settled into routines that provided structure to his days.

Most mornings began with Ratchet's examinations, followed by what Starscream had begun calling "history lessons" with Bumblebee. The young scout had taken on the role of guide and companion with unexpected dedication, though Starscream couldn't help but feel frustrated by the carefully curated information he was receiving. Despite Bumblebee's efforts, there were clear gaps in what he was being told, strategic omissions that only heightened his suspicion that crucial parts of his past were being deliberately withheld.

Starscream had begun to recognize the patterns in Bumblebee's care though. The careful arrangements of energon treats from the communal supply, the datapads on subjects that might interest a scientific mind, the occasional small toy or puzzle that offered his restless processor challenges during his stay in the base. These weren't the actions of someone fulfilling an assigned duty; they were the instinctive nurturing behaviors of a caretaker.

It should have been humiliating to be the recipient of such care, particularly from one so young. Instead, Starscream found himself responding to it with an equally instinctive acceptance. Something in his coding. Perhaps the remnants of trine protocols seeking a new anchor had latched onto Bumblebee's presence as a point of stability.

A soft chime interrupted his stargazig. The door slid open to reveal not Bumblebee, but Optimus Prime himself. The Autobot leader stood in the doorway, his imposing frame silhouetted against the corridor lights.

"May I enter?" Optimus asked, his deep voice reverberating in the small space.

Starscream inclined his head, curious about this unexpected visit. "Your base, your rules, Prime."

Optimus stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind him. "This space was designated as yours during your recovery. I would not intrude without permission."

Starscream's optics narrowed slightly. "And yet here you are. To what do I owe this private audience?"

"I came to inquire about your recovery," Optimus replied, his optics briefly tracking to the armor piece still supporting Starscream's damaged wing. "And to return this."

The Prime held out a familiar object, a small stylus that Starscream had been using to record his observations and tentative memory fragments. He must have left it in the medical bay during his last examination.

"I noticed you using it to document your progress," Optimus explained, stepping closer to offer the stylus. "Ratchet mentioned your notes have been remarkably methodical, once explained. . .”

As Starscream reached to accept the stylus, their fingers brushed briefly. The contact sent an unexpected charge through Starscream's systems, his sensors registering the warmth and strength in the Prime's servo with startling clarity.

”Yes, iv’e been told my writing tends to be illegible.”

"And yet your approach to your own recovery has been... impressive," Optimus continued, his optics meeting Starscream's. There was something in that gaze, a depth of consideration that went beyond clinical observation or tactical assessment.

"Thank you," Starscream replied, stepping back slightly to create distance. "Though I'm still unclear on many details of my past."

Optimus's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "We all have chapters in our lives that are difficult to reconcile. The present moment is what matters most."

There was no judgment in his tone. For a moment, Starscream glimpsed the mech beneath the mantle of Prime, one who carried responsibilities that would crush lesser beings. For some reason it made him bristle.

"Your armor," Starscream said, gesturing to the piece supporting his wing. "Ratchet says it can be removed tomorrow. You'll have your protection back."

"It has served a better purpose supporting your recovery," Optimus replied, his optics lingering on the way the armor integrated with Starscream's sleek frame. Something flickered in his expression, a brief, quickly masked appreciation.

The air between them seemed to charge with an unexpected tension, neither entirely comfortable nor unwelcome. Starscream found himself unexpectedly aware of the Prime's presence, not as an authority figure, but simply as a mech. A powerful, intriguing mech whose field carried notes of genuine concern alongside something warmer, less definable.

"Thank you," Starscream said finally, surprising himself with his sincerity. "For the armor. For allowing me sanctuary while I recover. It's more consideration than I expected from someone I barely remember."

Optimus stepped closer, his field carefully controlled but still radiating that complex mixture of concern and something more personal. "Every sentient being deserves care when injured, Starscream. But perhaps..." He paused, seemingly choosing his words with deliberate care. "Perhaps this situation offers us all an opportunity to forge new connections." His optics traced the line where his armor connected to Starscream's frame. "The armor suits you well. It... complements your design."

Starscream blinked, processor momentarily stalling at what sounded suspiciously like flirtation. Was the Prime actually... appraising his frame? The notion was so unexpected that he found himself at a rare loss for words, wings twitching slightly in confusion.

Seeming to realize what he'd just said, Optimus's optics widened slightly. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his normally stoic features as his cooling fans activated with a soft whir. "I should let you rest," he said abruptly, already turning toward the door. "Good night, Starscream."

. . .

Starscream jerked online with a violent start, his systems activating in emergency boot sequence. The peaceful oblivion of recharge shattered as his audials registered a cacophony of sounds: distant explosions, the base's alarm system wailing, and the unmistakable high-pitched whine of weapons fire.

His optics snapped online, adjusting to the darkened room. Status warnings flashed across his HUD , his self-repair was still only at 78% completion, and the borrowed armor on his damaged wing remained firmly attached, limiting his mobility. Through the skylight above, he could see flashes of light painting the night sky in violent bursts of teal, green and gold. A wave of vertigo swept through him as his equilibrium sensors struggled to calibrate, forcing him to brace against the wall until the dizziness passed.

Another explosion rocked the base, closer this time. The vibrations traveled through the floor and up into his frame, causing his damaged wing to throb painfully. Dust and small debris fell from the ceiling as the structural integrity of the building groaned under assault. A particularly strong tremor sent a sharp jolt through his wing joint, causing his vocalizer to emit an involuntary static-laced hiss.

He moved to the door, pressing his audio receptor against it. The corridor outside was alive with the sound of heavy pedefalls as Autobots rushed to defensive positions. He could distinguish Bulkhead's thundering steps, and the lighter, quicker movements that had to be Arcee. A persistent warning in his HUD indicated his fuel levels were suboptimal for combat situations – another vulnerability he couldn't afford.

"All personnel to combat stations! Breach confirmed!" Ratchet's voice commanded over the internal comms system, which was apparently still functioning despite the attack.

Starscream stepped back from the door, his processor racing. He was trapped— no idea of where to go. Where safety may lie. An uncomfortable prickling sensation crawled along his neural net – not quite fear, but something more primal. The sensation of being cornered prey.

His claws flexed instinctively, combat protocols activating despite his injuries. He was now a warrior, a Seeker, and being caged during combat went against every line of new coding in his frame. He itched to get out, outside, but he wasn't sure how.

A particularly violent explosion shook the entire base, causing the lights to flicker momentarily. Through the skylight, Starscream caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette, a seeker formation executing a precision bombing run. The sight triggered something in his processor—not quite a memory, but an echo of familiarity, of belonging. Yet alongside it came an inexplicable sense of dread that settled like cold oil in his tanks.

The sound of approaching footsteps outside his door pulled him from his thoughts. The heavy, measured stride could only belong to one mech. The door slid open, revealing Optimus Prime, battle mask engaged and energon blade extended. Behind him, the corridor was bathed in emergency lighting, smoke drifting in lazy currents.

"The base is under attack," Optimus stated, his voice somehow remaining calm despite the chaos. His optics lingered momentarily on Starscream's frame. "We must move you to a more secure location."

Another explosion rocked the structure, this one close enough to send fine particles of desert sand cascading from the ceiling. The outer wall at the far end of the corridor collapsed, revealing the night sky beyond and the unmistakable silhouettes of Vehicon ground troops advancing across the barren landscape.

"Lead the way, Prime," Starscream conceded, stepping into the corridor.

Optimus nodded once, his battle mask concealing any further reaction, though his field briefly pulsed with something akin to satisfaction. "Stay close," he said, his voice dropping to a subtly softer register that Starscream failed to notice. "We'll use the secondary tunnels to reach the secure bunker."

They moved swiftly through the chaotic base, Optimus's massive frame providing both guidance and protection as they navigated the increasingly damaged structure. Autobots rushed past them, none sparing more than a glance for the unusual pair as they hurried to their defensive positions.

Starscream found himself analyzing the Prime's movements with curiosity. Despite his size, Optimus moved with precisiom, each step deliberate yet fluid. His background as a scientist of Vos gave him little context for warfare, yet he recognized efficiency when he saw it. The Autobot leader maintained constant awareness of Starscream's position, subtly adjusting his pace to accommodate the Seeker's injured wing, his electromagnetic field occasionally brushing against Starscream's with warmth.

"This way," Optimus directed, gesturing toward a narrow passage that branched off from the main corridor. His servo hovered near the small of Starscream's back, not quite touching but close enough that the Seeker could feel the faint heat radiating from it. "The access tunnel will lead us beneath the desert floor."

The passage was tight for Optimus's broad shoulders, forcing him to angle his frame slightly as they proceeded. For Starscream, the confined space triggered an instinctive discomfort. Seekers were creatures of open skies, not underground bunkers. His wings twitched anxiously, the damaged one sending sharp notifications of discomfort to his sensor net. The low ceiling forced him to hunch slightly, putting strain on already-taxed support struts in his back.

"How much further?" he asked, unable to keep the edge from his voice as the tunnel seemed to constrict around them. A faint tremor had begun in his hands – not from fear, he told himself, but from the extended strain on his recovering systems.

Optimus glanced back, his optics softening with understanding, "Not far," he replied, voice modulated to a gentle timbre. "There's a secondary exit ahead that will take us briefly aboveground before we reach the secure facility."

The promise of open air, even momentarily, eased Starscream's growing claustrophobia. They continued in tense silence, the sounds of battle growing more distant as they moved deeper beneath the desert's surface. With each step, Starscream felt an inexplicable apprehension growing within him. As though some part of his processor recognized a danger his conscious mind could not yet identify.

When they finally emerged onto a narrow ledge carved into a rocky outcropping, Starscream's vents cycled in relief, drawing in the cool night air. The ledge formed part of a disguised path that wound around the small mesa, hidden from ground surveillance by natural rock formations.

Optimus paused, scanning the terrain. As he turned back to Starscream, the moonlight caught the elegant planes of the Seeker's face, causing the Prime's optics to brighten momentarily before he reset his vocalizer. "We have approximately two minutes to traverse this exposed section before the next Decepticon patrol reaches this area."

They moved swiftly along the narrow path, Optimus occasionally reaching back to steady Starscream when the damaged wing affected his balance. Each time the Prime's servo steadied him, the contact lingered a fraction longer than strictly necessary, the large digits curling with a gentleness that belied their strength.

A sudden, sharp pain in his recently-repaired leg strut caused Starscream to misstep, sending a cascade of small stones tumbling down the mountainside. The noise seemed impossibly loud in the tense silence, and Starscream froze, vents stilling as he scanned for any sign their position had been compromised. The unease that had been building now crystallized into something more tangible – a creeping sensation of being watched.

They had nearly reached the end of the exposed section when a flash of movement in the sky caught Starscream's attention. He froze, optics tracking upward to where a massive silver form perched on a protruding rock against the night sky, illuminated briefly by the distant fires of battle.

High above the battlefield, Megatron's fractured processor struggled to reconcile the impossible sight before him.

Starscream. ALIVE.

The recognition triggered cascading memory files, glitching and corrupting as they played Starscream's insubordination during the energon mine operation, the subsequent "disciplinary" session that had escalated beyond all previous boundaries. Megatron recalled with disturbing delight through purple static the moment Starscream's voice box had finally shorted out from screaming, the vibrant red optics flickering before going dark as energon pooled beneath the broken frame. Graceful wings now crumpled beyond recognition.

He remembered ordering the disposal of what he believed was a deactivated shell, laughing maniacally as Vehicons tossed the colorless frame from the Nemesis's lower deck. The fall from that height should have shattered whatever components had somehow remained intact. He had watched the body tumble, counting the seconds until impact, savoring each moment.

Yet there his Second walked, damaged but functional, moving with surprising coordination alongside... Optimus Prime.

The initial surge of relief—an emotion that triggered a violent glitch in his systems—instantly transmuted into psychotic rage. His fusion cannon hummed to life automatically, targeting systems locking onto the pair below as his optics flickered between normal crimson and an unstable purple glow.

Then he noticed the strange dynamic between them. Optimus wasn't guarding a prisoner; he was... TOUCHING Starscream. The Prime's massive frame positioned itself between the Seeker and potential danger, one servo occasionally steadying Starscream when his balance faltered. The way Optimus's field extended protectively around the Seeker was INTOLERABLE, even from this distance.

And Starscream—HIS Starscream, HIS property, HIS to break and rebuild—accepted this assistance without complaint or visible resentment. Madness clawed at Megatron's neural net, corrupting his visual feed with static. Thin veins of purple pulsed beneath his silver plating, briefly visible at the seams of his armor. The sight of those elegant wings, wings he had caressed before destroying, wings he had worshipped before shattering, sheltered by his greatest enemy's protection—his former lover's protection. That cursed piece of Prime's shoulder armor visibly splinting Starscream's damaged wing ignited something primal and deranged.

"MINE!" he roared, the sound lost to the thin air high above the battlefield as coolant leaked from the corner of his optic, mingling with a faint purple residue that sizzled against his faceplates. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO WHAT IS MINE?" His processor glitched violently, feeding him disjointed memory fragments of times he had pinned those wings against walls, berths, floors, sometimes in rage, sometimes in twisted affection that had no name in Cybertronian language. These memories now intertwined with older, deeper files, of gentle touches exchanged with Orion Pax in the shadows of Kaon's gladiatorial pits, of whispered promises and shared ideals before everything shattered.

Megatron's targeting system presented multiple firing solutions, crosshairs dancing erratically across both figures below. His optics flickered between crimson and violet as the dark energon in his systems surged with his emotions. One shot could eliminate his oldest enemy—his former flame—and reclaim his property in a single action. His arm trembled with barely contained madness, causing the targeting reticle to bounce wildly between Optimus's helm and Starscream's wing. The bitter sting of betrayal felt now was just an echo of what he'd felt when Orion had emerged from the Council chambers as Optimus Prime.

Yet his digit hesitated over the trigger, caught in a loop of conflicting commands. Memory files continued their relentless, corrupted playback—Starscream's pleas for mercy now distorted into something that sounded like pleasure to his malfunctioning audio processors, the sickening sound of wing struts shattering under his fists reframed as a symphony of devotion, the moment he had consciously chosen to continue the beating long after discipline had become execution now reimagined as an act of twisted love. The remembered feel of those wings, delicate despite their strength, sensitive to his touch in ways he had exploited in violent obsession disguised as punishment reminded him of how he once traced the edges of Orion's data ports with similar reverence.

Below, Optimus had noticed the threat. The Prime pushed Starscream toward the tunnel entrance, shielding him with his own frame as they hurried the final distance. Megatron watched with unhinged fascination as Starscream disappeared into the mountain, Optimus following close behind, one servo placed protectively at the small of the Seeker's back in a gesture that mirrored how Orion once guided Megatronus through the archives. A gesture that sent Megatron into a spiraling system crash that nearly plunged him from his perch. A pulse of dark energon coursed through his spark chamber, leaving hairline fractures in his chest plating that glowed with an eerie purple light.

The targeting solution blinked insistently on his HUD, now framed with corrupted code and glitching symbols. The shot was still possible, if only for a moment longer. But what was he aiming at-

Optimus, the Prime who had once been his Orion? Or Starscream, who had become the unfortunate repository of all the rage that Orion's transformation had created?

Megatron powered down his fusion cannon, a keening sound of loss escaping his vocalizer as he transformed and accelerated back toward the main battle, his path erratic and unpredictable. The sudden maneuver sent nearby Vehicons scattering in terror, several crashing into each other rather than risk being too close to their clearly unstable leader.

As he rejoined the assault, Megatron's processor continued to spiral with contradictory imperatives. Starscream belonged to him—was part of him—an extension of his will and rage. The Seeker's presence among the Autobots represented both a tactical vulnerability and a personal betrayal that could only be punished with complete annihilation. The thought of Optimus's servos, servos that had once explored his own frame with tender curiosity when he was still Orion now touching what was rightfully his sent him into a violent tremor that caused his alt-mode to shudder. The stress triggered micro-fissures across his frame, each one seeping with a faint purple glow that matched the unnatural flicker in his optics.

Yet the memory of what he had done, the line he had crossed, generated recursive error messages that threatened complete processor failure. For perhaps the first time in eons, Megatron found himself trapped in the paradox of his own uncontrolled psychosis. Had he driven Starscream away just as his own pride had driven away Orion?

He had destroyed something that belonged to him, something he had, in the privacy of his most corrupted memory files, obsessively categorized in millions of visual captures, and in doing so, had created a scenario his damaged logic centers could not resolve. The realization corrupted his navigational systems, sending him careening through the terrain of the barren desert in a display that terrified even his most loyal followers.

The Nemesis awaited his return. There would be time to plan, to consider all possibilities, to recalibrate his rapidly deteriorating neural net. Starscream would eventually remember who—and what—he was. And when that happened, Megatron would be waiting with open arms and charged weapons, unable to distinguish between the desire to embrace or extinguish—just as he could no longer separate his hatred for Optimus Prime from the aching memory of his love for Orion Pax.

. . .

Once inside the secure facility, Optimus guided Starscream through a narrow corridor that opened into a small command center. The space felt almost claustrophobic after their tense journey across the exposed ledge, but in the soft blue glow of emergency lighting, it offered a sanctuary both needed after their narrow escape.

Optimus secured the entrance, his frame momentarily silhouetted against the control panel as he engaged encryption protocols that would mask their energy signatures from Decepticon scanners. Only then did he turn his attention to Starscream, his gaze briefly noting the elegant posture the former scientist maintained despite his injuries as Starscream braced himself against a console, wings trembling almost imperceptibly in the dim light.

"Starscream," Optimus said, his tone professional though tinged with genuine concern as he approached, careful to move within the Seeker's field of vision rather than from behind. "Are you alright?"

The question hung between them. Starscream's crimson optics flickered briefly as he straightened, meeting Optimus's gaze with uncertainty. These interactions still felt unfamiliar, his processor struggling to reconcile the fragments he’s forgotten.

"I'm functional," he replied, the response automatic. But something in Optimus's steady gaze, a patience without expectation, made him add, "Though my leg servos are still recalibrating from that misstep on the ledge," he admitted, wincing slightly as he shifted his weight.

Optimus knelt down carefully, one knee touching the ground as he positioned himself before Starscream. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the damaged leg, his servos hovering above a small welding tool he had extracted from his subspace compartment.

The request for permission momentarily confused Starscream. He gave a short nod, vents cycling.

"Let me stabilize this properly," With careful precision, he activated the small welding tool that cast a blue glow across his faceplates. "This may cause some discomfort."

Starscream involuntarily tensed as Optimus's large servos wrapped around his slender leg strut, holding it steady. The Prime's touch was unexpectedly gentle, his thumbs making small circles against the metal as he positioned the joint. Starscream's cooling fans clicked on quietly, a reaction he couldn't quite suppress as heat built unexpectedly in his systems.

"Hold still," Optimus commanded, his voice dropping to a register that sent an involuntary shiver through Starscream's frame. The Seeker's cooling fans kicked into a higher gear, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.

Starscream found himself oddly transfixed by the sight of the powerful Prime kneeling before him, those battle-worn hands now performing such delicate work with surprising tenderness. "I... sensed something out there," he admitted quietly, desperate to distract himself from the strange flutter in his spark. "A presence watching us."

Optimus paused, his optics meeting Starscream's with unexpected intensity. "As did I." The admission seemed to distract him momentarily. "The Decepticons have discovoured our base."

Starscream's wings hitched higher involuntarily, the damaged one sending sharp warnings across his sensor net. 'Decepticons.' The designation echoed through his processor, triggering cascading fragments of corrupted memory files.

//Wait. I know this term. . its the term used in Bumblebee's files, the one he wouldnt explain.... my trine were apart of this group, Thundercracker? Skywarp?//

Optimus finished welding the final components of Starscream's leg joint, his touch remaining gentle as he inspected his work. "That should hold," he said, carefully testing the connection. "The weld will integrate with your self-repair systems within the cycle." He looked up, optics meeting Starscream's. "How does it feel now?"

A scoff escaped Starscream's vocalizer as he tested the joint. "It's functional," he replied, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. "Decepticons," Starscream repeated from earlier, the word both foreign and achingly familiar on his glossa. "Who exactly are they, Prime?”

Optimus's expression grew solemn. "The Decepticons are our adversaries in this war," he explained carefully. "They were once our fellow Cybertronians who believed in change through force and conquest. They are led by Megatron, and their goal is dominion over both Cybertron and Earth."

Starscream's optics narrowed, his wings twitching slightly. "That presence watching us... was it him? This Megatron?"

Optimus paused, choosing his words carefully. His optics dimmed momentarily as he considered how much to reveal without overwhelming Starscream's fragmented memory.

"Yes," he finally admitted, his deep voice resonating in the small space. "I believe it was Megatron who observed us on the ledge. He has a... particular interest in monitoring our movements." Optimus rose to his full height, but maintained a respectful distance from the Seeker. "Megatron is dangerous, Starscream. His actions are driven by conquest and control."

Something flickered across Starscream's faceplates—confusion, perhaps fear—a shadow of recognition that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"You speak as if you know him well," Starscream observed shrewdly.

Optimus's optics dimmed as his gaze drifted to the floor, the plates around them tightening. His massive shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, tension cables visibly straining beneath his armor. For a moment, his servos curled into fists before slowly unclenching, leaving behind subtle dents where his fingers had pressed against his palms. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a static undercurrent that his vocalizer couldn't quite filter out. "Once, long ago, I did." The Prime's battle mask retracted with a soft click, "But war changes us all."

Starscream shifted uncomfortably, his wings adjusting and readjusting in small twitches. The vulnerability in Optimus's expression was unsettling.

"I... suppose war changes everyone," Starscream offered awkwardly, his usual sharp tone softening slightly. He glanced away, talons tapping anxiously against his thigh plating. "Was he... was this Megatron someone important to you? Before?"

The question hung awkwardly in the air, Starscream immediately regretting the uncharacteristic attempt at empathy. His wings flattened slightly against his back in embarrassment. "Not that it matters to me, of course," he added hastily, a reflexive shield of indifference sliding back into place. "I'm simply attempting to understand the tactical implications."

Only Skywarp, Thudercracker or, Sky- the name was to painful to say- got to ever see him so mushy.

Optimus remained still for a moment, the weight of Starscream's question settling between them.

"Megatron was once called Megatronus," he began, optics distant with memory. "Before the war, he was a champion of the oppressed, a visionary who saw the corruption in our society and dared to challenge it. We were..." Optimus paused, searching for the right words, "allies. Friends. Perhaps more."

His gaze refocused on Starscream, noting how the Seeker's wings had tensed at this revelation. Optimus's expression hardened slightly, resolve replacing reminiscence. "The Megatron who watched us today is not the mech I once knew. His methods, his goals—they've become something I cannot condone.” His voice trailed off, unwilling to trigger potentially traumatic memories.

"To answer your question directly—yes, he was important to me."He reached forward, taking Starscream's slender hand in his own larger one with unexpected gentleness, his thumb tracing a small circle on the back of the Seeker's palm. "But my duty now is to protect those under my command, including you, regardless of what once was."

What once was? Starscream has to bury a scoff. He wished he knew what once was.

Chapter Text

The base fell silent in the wake of the attack, a heavy stillness settling over the Autobots as they processed what had just occurred. Shattered equipment lay strewn across the floor of the command center, sparks still occasionally leaping from severed cables. The acrid scent of burnt circuitry lingered in the air, mixing with the distinctive tang of spilled energon that no one had yet had time to clean up.

Ratchet moved methodically through the medbay, his usual grumbling notably absent as he repaired Arcee's damaged arm servos. The blue femme sat rigid on the medical berth, her optics fixed on the wall, expression unreadable.

"He knew exactly when to hit us," she finally said, breaking the heavy silence. "Exactly when our defenses were weakest."

Ratchet's hands paused briefly before continuing their work. "Is it possible the attack had anything to do with our... guest."

"Possible!!?" Arcee's voice was cold, her optics shifting to where the silver and red seeker stood in the far corner of the medbay, wings pressed flat against his back, expression confused and frightened. "Megatron shows up the moment we bring him here? That's not coincidence."

From his position by the main console, Optimus Prime cycled a deep ventilation. "Megatron's forces have been monitoring our movements for some time. We cannot conclusively state that today's attack was directly related to Starscream's presence among us." His optics lingered on the seeker a moment longer than necessary, a subtle protective warmth in his gaze.

Bulkhead let out a derisive sound. "Come on, Prime-."

Starscream flinched, his claws curling against his palms. "I don't understand... what would that warlord have to do with me specifically? I'm just a scientist, aren't I?"

The memory files replayed in Starscream's processor. The narrow canyon walls crumbled around them as he and Optimus fled, the Prime's servo guiding him forward. Then came the shadow overhead, blotting out the sun. Megatron.

Optimus Prime stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Starscream's shoulder, his touch firm yet gentle. The seeker's wings twitched slightly at the contact, but he didn't pull away.

"Energon seekers are extremely useful." Optimus murmered in answer.

Ratchet finished his mending, stepping back to examine his work. "Regardless of Megatron's motives, our security protocols need immediate upgrading. We can't risk another breach like this."

"What we can't risk is harboring someone Megatron could want," Arcee countered, flexing her newly repaired joints with a wince.

Starscream's wings trembled faintly. "I don't even remember my time as an Energon seeker. I'm not—" He stopped himself, confusion evident in his features. "I don't remember anything. . .”

Optimus curled his fingers tighter against starscream’s plating, somehow managing to convey gentleness as he addressed the group. "We have all suffered losses today. Our base is compromised, our security breached. But we must not allow fear and suspicion to divide us further." His gaze swept across each Autobot before settling on Starscream, a subtle softness entering his expression. "Nor must we abandon those who seek refuge and protection, especially when they themselves do not understand why they need it."

The Seeker's optics widened slightly, wings hitching higher in surprise at the Prime's defense. Something in Optimus's tone, in the way those blue optics held his gaze just a moment longer than necessary, caused something to flutter in his spark chamber.

"So what now?" Bulkhead asks, "We just go back to normal with a liability bunking down the hall?"

"Starscream remains under our protection," Ratchet corrected, his tone gruff but not unkind. "And no, we implement stricter security protocols. Full sensor sweeps every hour. Enhanced ground bridge encryptions. And—" he hesitated, optics flicking to Starscream, "—temporary dampening of certain energy signatures that Megatron might be tracking."

Starscream's wings dipped lower. "You want to mask my signal?"

"For your protection as much as ours," Ratchet replied, “resources are low, troops need to eat. Energon depletes fast. I can understand the desire to obtain something that can easily seek it out.”

"I suppose that makes sense," Starscream finally said, servos crossed protectively over his cockpit. "

Optimus nodded solemnly, his optics lingering on Starscream."Then we are agreed. Ratchet will implement the signal dampeners, and we will relocate to the secondary base until repairs here are complete."

"That beaten up place?" Arcee asked, skepticism evident in her tone. "It's half the size of this place."

"It will be cramped," Optimus acknowledged, "but its location remains secure, and its shielding is actually superior to our current defenses state."

… ..

.

As the Autobots began discussing logistics, Starscream drifted toward the far wall, wings pressed tight against his back. The sensation of being an outsider—one he couldn't explain but nonetheless recognized—settled over him like a heavy cloak.

A soft beep beside him drew his attention. Bumblebee had approached, his expressive optics conveying concern that transcended the need for conventional speech. The scout extended a small energon cube, his electronic chirps hesitant but friendly.

Starscream accepted the cube, claws careful not to scratch the younger bot's finish. "Thank you," he murmured, surprise evident in his voice. "You've been kind to me since I arrived. Why?"

Bumblebee chirped again, doorwings flicking in a gesture that somehow managed to convey both protectiveness and friendship. Without conscious thought, Starscream found his own wings mirroring the movement, a silent communication that felt both foreign and deeply familiar.

If only he wasn’t lying to him.

…

Meanwhile, aboard the Nemesis, Megatron's heavy pedesteps echoed through the shadowed corridors like distant thunder. Metal flooring buckled beneath each impact, leaving shallow imprints of his rage. Vehicons pressed themselves against cold bulkheads as he passed, their electromagnetic fields contracting in terror, optics averted. The purple glow emanating from Megatron's own optics cast writhing shadows across the walls, matching the faint violet luminescence that seeped from the fractures in his armor—cracks that pulsed in rhythm with his fury.

The command bridge doors parted with a screech of protesting metal as his fist connected with the control panel. "LEAVE ME!" The roar seemed to vibrate through the very hull of the ship, sending officers scrambling from their stations, datapads clattering forgotten to the floor in their haste to escape.

Only Soundwave remained, his visor reflecting Megatron's contorted features back at him. The silent communications officer's normally rigid posture had shifted—almost imperceptibly—into a subtle defensive stance.

Megatron's talons scraped across the main console as he seized it, metal squealing in protest before giving way entirely. The crushed edge came away in his hand, and he flung the twisted scrap across the bridge. It embedded itself in the far wall with a sound like a blade entering living metal.

Behind his optics, the same image played on endless loop—Optimus Prime kneeling guiding Starscream, those blue servos—once called Orion's servos, once his—touching, tending, gentle where Megatron had only been cruel. Something inside his processor glitched, causing his vision to fragment momentarily into jagged purple shards.

"He was mine to break," Megatron hissed, vocalizer emitting a burst of static that formed distorted harmonics with his words. His fist connected with a support column, the impact sending tremors through the deck plating. "Mine to punish." Another blow, this time splitting his own knuckle plating, energon spattering across his silver finish. "Mine to rebuild." The final strike left a crater in the reinforced wall, wiring exposed and sparking.

Soundwave's visor flickered, displaying momentary fragmentary data—medical scans of Megatron's rising core temperature, stress analysis of his frame, a rapidly scrolling diagnostic of the warlord's destabilizing neural patterns—before going blank again. The communications officer took a single step closer, head tilting at a precise angle that somehow conveyed volumes of unspoken concern.

Megatron's optics flickered, focus shifting in and out as internal warnings cluttered his HUD. He ignored them all. "Yes, I saw them," he snarled, dentae bared in a rictus that barely resembled a smile. The energon from his damaged hand dripped to the floor, sizzling where it landed. "The Prime thinks he can salvage what I destroyed. As if what remains of Starscream is worth saving."

Laughter burst from his vocalizer—a sound so fractured and dissonant it caused Soundwave to take an involuntary step back. "Perhaps I should thank him for collecting my discarded parts." Megatron stalked to the viewport, servos leaving smeared energon prints on every surface he touched.

"Do you know what it is like to see your own handiwork turned against you, Soundwave?" The question emerged barely above a whisper, yet somehow more terrifying than his rage. "Everything I built, I also destroyed. The Senate. Cybertron. Orion." His voice cracked on the name, vocalizer emitting a burst of garbled machine code before resetting. "Starscream."

Soundwave's visor dimmed slightly, the mech going utterly still as if bracing against the emotional maelstrom before him. A single data cable extended cautiously toward Megatron, offering silent support, or perhaps restraint if needed. … ..

The silence stretched between them. Megatron's ventilation systems hitched irregularly, the sound of cooling fans struggling against overheating components filling the otherwise quiet bridge.

"Prepare the troops," Megatron finally commanded, straightening to his full height, armor plates resettling with an ominous series of clicks and whirs. Internal systems fought to stabilize as he forcibly brought himself under control. "If Prime wishes to play the savior, then let him try. But I will remind them both who truly holds power over them."

Soundwave nodded, visor brightening to its normal opacity. His data cable retracted, but not before hesitating near Megatron's injured hand; an offer of repair summarily ignored.

As his third-in-command turned to carry out orders, Megatron caught his own reflection in a darkened monitor. The face that stared back barely resembled the champion of Kaon—optics flickering with unstable charge, energon spattered across his faceplates, expression twisted beyond recognition. For a nanoklik, he saw not himself but a monstrous amalgamation of warlord and beast, dark energon having corrupted more than just his frame.

"And Soundwave," he added, voice dropping to a frequency that seemed to emanate from somewhere deeper than his vocalizer, a sound that made the very air molecules shiver, "monitor all communications from the Autobot base. I want to know every word exchanged between the Prime and my treacherous Second. Every. Single. Word."

Inside his processor, unbidden memory files began to play simultaneously—Orion's laughter overlapping with Starscream's rare genuine smile, corrupted data packets bleeding into one another until past and present became indistinguishable. Warning messages cascaded across his HUD, indicating neural pathway instabilities, dark energon saturation at critical levels.

Megatron paced the command bridge of the Nemesis, his heavy footfalls leaving dents in the metal flooring.

"He won't return willingly," Megatron growled. "Starscream has always been a coward. The moment he senses freedom, he will flee."

He paused, servo pressed against the viewport as lightning illuminated the clouds surrounding the warship. The dark energon pulsing through his lines seemed to whisper counterarguments.

"But he always returns," he murmured, voice softening dangerously. "No matter how many times he betrays me, no matter how severely I punish him, he crawls back. It's the nature of our dance."

Megatron's optics flared brighter, his reflection distorting. "No! Not this time. The Prime has him now. Optimus will fill his processor with Autobot propaganda, convince him he's been mistreated. He'll turn my Second against me permanently."

Behind him, Soundwaves visor dimmed slightly at the warlord's outburst. His thin frame tensed as he monitored Megatron's unstable energy signatures, data cables retracting closer to his body in an unconscious protective gesture.

"Unless..." Megatron's lip plates curved into a cruel smile, unaware of his third-in-command's presence. "Unless I remind him of his place. Starscream responds to power, to fear. He may pretend otherwise, but deep in his spark, he craves subjugation. The firm hand of a true leader."

The warlord's servo clenched, crushing a portion of the control panel. "I should go now. Tear through their defenses. Reclaim what's mine before Optimus corrupts him completely."

But uncertainty flickered across his faceplates. "If I wait... if I let him believe he's free, let him grow comfortable among the Autobots, his return to me will be all the more devastating. His hope crushed, his delusions of escape shattered... he'll never dare defy me again."

Soundwave took a tentative step forward, his visor displaying rapidly changing medical readings of Megatron's systems—all of them critical. His electromagnetic field pulsed once with rare, genuine concern.

Megatron's ventilations grew ragged, systems overheating as conflicting strategies battled within his processor. "No more waiting," he finally snarled, decision made. "I've already lost Orion. I will not lose Starscream as well. Prepare for a retrieval mission. I want him back within my possession within this week. Record all and any information possible.

He stormed toward the exit, only to halt abruptly, servo pressed to his helm as if in pain. "But what if..." his voice dropped to a whisper, "what if he doesn't want to return? What if he truly chooses Prime over me?"

The thought ignited a fresh wave of fury, dark energon surging visible beneath his plating. "Then I'll destroy them both."

…

[[The following day at the Autobot base]]

Starscream's movements were unhurried but deliberate as he slipped from medbay. His processor still felt foggy, accommodating the weight shift after Ratchet had finally removed Optimus's shoulder pad, but he'd maintained enough awareness to notice the datapad left unattended on the counter.

A simple distraction—a knocked-over tray of tools that scattered with a satisfying clatter—had given him just enough time to subspace the device before the medic turned back around.

Now, locked in the quarters they'd assigned him, he examined his prize. His fingers moved across the screen with muscle memory his conscious mind couldn't recall, bypassing firewalls and permission barriers with an ease that surprised even him.

"Show me Megatron," he whispered to the device, his voice barely audible even to his own audio receptors. The screen flickered before displaying file after file of intelligence reports, surveillance footage, and battle analyses.

The first file opened: "Megatron, formerly designated Megatronus, gladiatorial champion of Kaon, founder of the Decepticon movement." Images scrolled past of the warlord addressing crowds, energon-stained from the fighting pits, optics burning with revolutionary fervor. The sight set something Starscream’s spark chamber as he watched, his servo trembling as he moved onto mission logs-

He scrolled,

And scrolled,

There they were; the designations of his trinemates, Thundercracker and Skywarp. A strangled sound escaped his vocalizer before he could suppress it. The familiar ache that had been haunting him since he'd first heard of their fates intensified as he saw their names in the official records.

His vision blurred momentarily. Though his memories remained fragmented, the grief felt intact—a hollow, gnawing emptiness that threatened to consume his spark.

"He's responsible," Starscream hissed, claws leaving shallow scratches on the datapad's surface. "My trine. My..." He clenched his fingers into a fist. “They served them, and he led them to their deaths.

To Their Deaths

He scrolled further, searching for mentions of himself, but found the files oddly incomplete. References to "SIC" or "Air Commander" appeared frequently in mission reports, but detailed information seemed to have been redacted or segregated to secure servers he couldn't access from this device.

"Tch, the Autobots are frustratingly thorough in their deception." … .. .

Hours passed as Starscream absorbed everything he could about the Decepticon cause—their origins in the oppressive caste system of pre-war Cybertron, their early ideals of equality and freedom, their eventual descent into tyranny under Megatron's increasingly unstable leadership. So, Optimus did tell him some truths. With each file, his frown deepened. The cause itself seemed almost noble in its inception, yet the methods had become as corrupt as the system they'd sought to overthrow.

Starscream paced the small room, wings twitching with agitation. "was I... one of them with my trine?" He muttered, his reflection catching in the metallic surface of the wall. "How could I have followed someone like that? How could they?"

Yet something in the early footage of Megatron's speeches resonated with him—the call for freedom, for the right of all Cybertronians to choose their function rather than have it dictated by the Senate. Those ideals struck a chord deep within his spark.

"Perhaps I was neutral," he reasoned, processor racing to construct a narrative he could live with. "Caught between factions. A scientist, not a warrior." But the flashing battle protocols he felt during that attack, the upgrades that had to be more than an energon seeker would need. His body was built for war now, theoretically honed through countless battles his mind no longer remembered.

"I couldn't have willingly served him, if I did, he must have blackmailed us." Starscream insisted to the empty room, claws flexing. "I would not serve him by choice. Not that monster. Not the mech who led my trine to their deaths."

When the door chime sounded, Starscream nearly dropped the datapad in surprise. He subspaced it quickly, spark pulsing with a strange mixture of guilt and defiance. Whatever his past relationship with Megatron had been, one thing was becoming increasingly clear—the warlord was responsible for the deaths of the only family he'dy had. And for that, amnesia or not, Starscream knew he would never forgive. Nor could he imagine any version of himself, past or present, truly pledging loyalty to such madness.

The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing Optimus Prime's imposing silhouette. The Prime ducked slightly to enter the room, his optics immediately finding Starscream's, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

"I hope I'm not interrupting your rest cycle," Optimus said, his deep voice gentle despite its resonance, a slight warmth coloring his tone.

Starscream straightened his wings, forcing casualness into his posture despite the tremor he couldn't quite suppress in his wingtips. "Not at all, Prime. Merely... contemplating my situation." The datapad felt heavy in his subspace, its stolen contents almost burning against his plating like a brand of guilt.

"I sensed you might be troubled," Optimus replied, taking a careful step into the room but maintaining a respectful distance, though his electromagnetic field briefly reached out before he quickly reined it back. "Recent events have given you much to process."

Starscream's optics narrowed slightly, claws unconsciously digging small scratches into his own palm. "That's quite the understatement, isn't it? Waking up with no memories, finding myself among liars of omission who claim to be protectors, learning my..." His vocalizer hitched with static, optics briefly dimming "...learning about my trine."

Optimus's expression softened, "Grief is not a linear journey, Starscream. Even without clear memories, the spark remembers what the processor cannot."

"Is that why you're here? To offer platitudes about grief?" Starscream's wings flicked in irritation, but there was less venom in his tone than he'd intended. He turned slightly away, unwilling to let the Prime see how his hands had begun to shake.

"I came to offer company," Optimus replied simply, his optics briefly tracing the elegant sweep of Starscream's wings before returning to his face. "Isolation can make such burdens heavier."

A bitter laugh escaped Starscream's vocalizer, hollow and edged with static. "And what would you know of my burdens, Prime? Of waking each morning wondering what kind of monster you might have been?" His voice dropped to nearly a whisper at the end, the question escaping before he could stop it.

Something flickered across Optimus's optics-pain- that surprised Starscream with its intensity. "I have known loss, Starscream. Our war has taken much from all of us." He paused, considering his next words carefully, ventilations running just slightly warmer than normal. "I know what it is like to lose brothers and sisters in arms, slain by someone once dear to me."

Starscream's brow ridge furrowed, wings dipping low. "Megatron," he realized aloud, the name tasting like acid on his glossa. He had read the files, heard the primes confession.

Optimus nodded slowly. " As I said before. Once, he was Megatronus—a champion who fought for justice, for the freedom of all Cybertronians. We stood together, seeking to remake our world into something better."

"Until he showed his true colors," Starscream muttered, wings dipping slightly as a faint shadow of recognition passed through his processor—a flash of silver plating, of terror, of pain. His hand absently moved to his cockpit, tracing an invisible scar.

"Until power and bitterness corrupted his vision," Optimus corrected gently. "The line between conviction and tyranny can be thinner than we care to acknowledge."

Something about the Prime's words struck an uncomfortable chord. Starscream turned away, moving toward the small viewport that offered a glimpse of the desert. "Why tell me this again? Hoping I'll sympathize with your tragic origin story?"

"I tell you this because understanding our past helps us choose our future," Optimus said, his footsteps barely audible as he moved closer, perhaps a bit nearer than strictly necessary. "You stand at a crossroads, Starscream. Without memories to guide you, you have a rare opportunity that few are granted— a second chance to figure out who you are."

Starscream's claws scraped lightly against the windowsill, leaving faint marks like those he'd seen in the datapad files. "And if I discover that who I was is someone I cannot bear to have been?" The question emerged softer than he'd intended.

Optimus came to stand beside him, both mechs gazing out at the alien landscape. His frame radiated a gentle heat that bridged the small space between them. "Then you honor that revelation by becoming someone better. Our pasts inform us, Starscream. They need not define us."

The datapad in Starscream's subspace seemed to grow heavier still. He had not mentioned his clandestine research, yet something in the Prime's words suggested an awareness of his internal conflict.

"How very naive of you," Starscream said, but the sarcasm fell flat, replaced by something closer to genuine contemplation. His optics dimmed briefly, cycling through shades of red as emotions warred within him. "To believe redemption is so simple."

"I know you're frustrated," Optimus said suddenly, his voice lowering to a tone that felt almost conspiratorial. "With how much information we've withheld from you."

Starscream's optics widened slightly before narrowing with suspicion, wings hiking up defensively. "Oh? And what brought on this sudden bout of honesty, Prime?"

Optimus vented deeply, his massive frame seeming to carry an invisible weight. "I want you to understand that it's not my preference to keep you in the dark. In fact..." He paused, choosing his words with evident care, his optics briefly tracing the contours of Starscream's face. "I've advocated for being more forthcoming with you."

"Then why aren't you?" Starscream challenged, wings hiking upward as his voice took on an edge that felt simultaneously foreign and familiar. "Why the carefully curated files? The missing information? The whispered conversations that stop when I enter a room?" His voice fractured slightly on the last question, revealing just how deeply the isolation cut.

"Because some truths are weapons, Starscream," Optimus replied, his optics searching the Seeker's face with an intensity that seemed to hold more than just concern. "And in the wrong moment, they can wound rather than heal. I'm trying to find the right time—when you're strong enough to bear them without being crushed by their weight."

A bitter laugh escaped Starscream's vocalizer, his wings drawing tight against his back. "How thoughtful. And who appointed you the arbiter of when I'm 'ready' to know my own past?"

Optimus didn't flinch from the accusation. "No one. Perhaps it's wrong of me. But I've seen what happens when revelations come too quickly, before one is prepared to process them." His optics dimmed momentarily. "The damage can be... irreparable."

Something in his tone made Starscream pause, the genuine regret impossible to miss. A flash of unbidden empathy surged through his field before he could contain it. "You're speaking from experience."

"Yes," Optimus admitted quietly. "I swear to you, Starscream—I do want to tell you everything. I just..." He shook his helm slightly. "I need to find the right approach. The right time."

Starscream studied the Prime's face, searching for deception, even as his processor conjured fragmented images of warfare, "You speak as though you knew me. Before all this." He gestured vaguely to his body, wincing slightly at a phantom pain in his wing joints.

Optimus hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I did know of you, Starscream. First from the scientific archives."

Starscream's wings twitched with undisguised pride, though he quickly tried to mask it. His optics brightened momentarily before dimming again with uncertainty. "And then I supposedly became an Energon seeker." The words tasted false on his glossa.

"Yes, but that is not when our paths crossed in person," Optimus admitted, his voice growing heavier. "During the war, we... encountered each other many times."

The air between them seemed to still. Starscream's ventilations became shallow, a cold dread settling in his spark chamber.

"So, you do personally know me," he stated, more than asked, his voice barely audible as his fuel tank churned with apprehension.

Optimus met his gaze directly, his optics brightening slightly. "You were terrifying, the most beautiful fighter I had ever seen. I didn't recognize you, my two perspectives couldn't blend together, they separated into two people." He took Starscream's hand into his, his touch lingering with unexpected gentleness.

"The warrior and the scientist."

He placed Starscream's hand over the seeker's spark, "I want you to blur them, Starscream."

Starscream's wings fluttered involuntarily, a reaction he couldn't quite suppress. Something electric passed between them as his hand remained pressed against the warm metal of his own chassis. He could feel the erratic pulse of his spark beneath his fingertips, pulsing with grief and guilt he couldn't fully comprehend.

"Terrifying and beautiful?" Starscream repeated, his voice dropping to a lower register as he recovered his composure. A smirk formed on his faceplates, optics narrowing with calculated intent, though the expression didn't quite reach his optics. "My, my, Prime. Were you often distracted by my aerial maneuvers during battle?"

He pulled his hand away with deliberate slowness, using the motion to step back and regain some emotional distance, wings twitching with the effort of maintaining his facade. "Should I be flattered that the noble Optimus Prime found me aesthetically pleasing while fighting for my life, and to take others." The last words emerged with an unexpected bitterness that surprised even him, a glimpse of the self-loathing lurking beneath his arrogance.

Optimus's optics cycled wider for a moment, a flash of heat briefly visible in their depths before his battle mask slid into place, hiding whatever expression might have formed. "That was not my intended implication, Starscream."

"Oh? Then perhaps you should choose your words more carefully," Starscream replied, his tone lighter now, relieved to have shifted the conversation away from the uncomfortable intimacy of moments before. "One might get the wrong impression."

Chapter Text

[The End of Week Three.]

…

..

Starscream slunk from his quarters with practiced ease, the door sliding shut behind him with barely a whisper. His wings twitched nervously, scraping against the wall with a soft screech that seemed deafening in the silence. He froze, counting the seconds, waiting for an alarm that never came.

The central command terminal beckoned him forward from the end of the hallway, its screens dimmed to standby mode. As he stood before its weary frame, his talons clicked against the keys with meticulous precision, each movement calculated. Accessing the main database required Admin privileges—privileges he didn't have. But systems had weaknesses; they always did.

The air around him felt heavy, oppressive. Somewhere deep in his processor, fragments of memory stirred—coding sequences, firewall architecture, digital footprints. His digits moved with unexpected confidence, executing commands he didn't consciously remember learning. Four minutes and seventeen seconds later, the security protocols yielded. The screen before him illuminated his face with a pale blue glow as classified files cascaded across the display.

Optimus Prime. The name alone never failed to trigger an uncomfortable flutter in his spark chamber. Starscream's claws hovered over the console momentarily before tapping the search parameter. He needed to understand his connection to the Autobot leader, needed to fill the maddening void where his past should be. The prime had made a damning confession, they had met on the battlefield, and battles have records. With a click the data streamed before his optics— reports, historical archives, intelligence briefings—all chronicling a war he once knew.

A particular file caught his attention: "Battle of [Eradicated—Visual Documentation." His spark pulsed erratically as he opened it. /Bless Ratchet and Prime for seeing the need to preserve historical data./ The image that materialized showed Optimus Prime in combat stance, his energon axe raised against an unseen enemy, his blue and red armor scored with fresh battle damage. But it was the background that captured Starscream's attention—a blurred shape silhouetted against flame-lit smoke. Wings. A cockpit. A frame undeniably similar to his own.

Starscream's ventilation systems stuttered. He magnified the image, the pixelation increasing with each enhancement. The figure remained frustratingly indistinct, its allegiance impossible to determine. The colour certainly not that of his trines.

His claws tightened on the edge of the console, leaving faint scratches in the metal. The fact that the Autobots had spared his life, restored his broken frame, and welcomed him among them suggested a neutral position but by now that didn’t feel right.

He just didn't want to accept the alternative.

A different file caught his eye, heavily encrypted compared to the others. Starscream hesitated, something in his spark chamber constricting. He shouldn't access this, it was a personal file, saved under Optimus’s own network. Yet his talons moved of their own accord, breaking through security measures with unsettling ease.

The file opened to reveal images that struck him like a physical blow. Optimus Prime before he was Prime, still bearing the designation Orion Pax, standing beside a silver mech of imposing stature. Megatron. The name surfaced in Starscream's processor, accompanied by a wave of nameless dread. The two mechs stood close, fields visibly merged in the infrared spectrum of the image, their posture speaking of intimacy beyond mere alliance.

Starscream cycled his optics, a strange hollowness expanding in his chest. His processor struggled to identify the emotion flooding his systems. Not surprise—Optimus himself had admitted to the fact. Not disgust either—the concept of intimate connection between mechanisms held no taboo for their species.

No, what crawled through his circuits was something more insidious. Something that tasted like... loss. Like anger. Like a hunger for something he couldn't name. It was different seeing it compared to hearing it. (/Regardless of what once was\)

The prime had once loved the Mech that had marched his trine to their death. Starscream himself may have even worked for him. . .

How’d did such a brute manage to charm so many sparks?

The terminal's screen reflected his face—optics burning too bright, jaw components clenched tight enough to strain the metal. He looked haunted, a ghost trapped between worlds. The seeker stared at the image of Optimus and Megatron for a long moment, then at his own reflection superimposed over them, three phantoms sharing the same space.

A distant sound—metal on metal, perhaps a shifting pipe or settling foundation—snapped his attention back to his surroundings. Dawn approached. Soon the base would stir to life, and questions would be asked about his nocturnal wanderings. With swift, practiced movements, Starscream erased his digital footprints, closed the files, and restored the security protocols.

As he slipped back toward his quarters, the weight of what he'd seen pressed down on his spark like a physical mass. He was no closer to understanding his place in this war, or his relationship to these mechs who claimed to protect him. The only certainty was the growing suspicion that when his memories finally returned—if they returned—he would not like the mech he had been. …

.. .

[Monday Morning- Week Five]

The laboratory was quiet save for the soft hum of equipment and the occasional ping of cooling metal. Starscream's talons moved with delicate precision over a partially disassembled energy converter, his wings held high in concentration. He'd been here for hours, long before the base had stirred to life, finding solace in the familiar rhythm of his claws at work.

The laboratory door slid open with a soft hiss. Starscream's wings twitched sharply, but he didn't look up, forcing his posture to remain relaxed, unhurried.

A series of electronic beeps and whirs filled the room. Bumblebee. The yellow scout stood in the doorway, two glowing cubes of energon balanced carefully in his hands.

Starscream carefully set down a microprobe before turning. "Recharge cycles can be... elusive when one's processor is as active as mine." He gestured vaguely at the equipment spread before him. "Wheeljack's designs are fascinating, if somewhat haphazard. I've been making improvements."

Bumblebee's optics brightened with interest rather than suspicion. He crossed the room and set one of the energon cubes beside Starscream's elbow joint, emitting a cheerful series of beeps and clicks.

"Thought I missed the morning ration?" Starscream hummed. "That's... considerate."

Bumblebee shrugged, doorwings bobbing with the motion. He gestured at the converter with another string of musical tones.

"What am I working on?" Starscream interpreted. He hesitated only briefly before launching into a detailed explanation of the converter's inefficiencies and his proposed modifications. To his surprise, Bumblebee followed along, his electronic chirps asking intelligent questions and his gestures offering practical insights from field experience. The conversation flowed naturally, shifting from energy conversion to Earth's unusual electromagnetic properties, to the peculiarities of organic life forms.

After a comfortable lull, Bumblebee emitted a thoughtful series of tones, his head tilted inquisitively.

"Did I graduate from the academy or was I self taught ?" Starscream interpreted, his voice suddenly sharp. "A mix of both, I attended the academy before I was expelled for something I didn't do." His wings lowered slightly, hatred marring his tone.

Bumblebee's expression shifted to one of understanding. His next series of beeps was gentle, sympathetic.

"Like flying blind through an asteroid field," Starscream murmured in response, surprising himself with the honesty.

The scout's optics lit up suddenly. He tapped the side of his helm thoughtfully, then emitted an excited string of tones and whistles.

"Music?" Starscream arched an optical ridge, skeptical but intrigued. "Human music?"

Bumblebee nodded enthusiastically, his beeps growing more animated as he tried to convey the concept.

"Flying through sound," Starscream interpreted, understanding the scout's metaphor. "I suppose that's an intriguing metaphor…."

Before Starscream could formulate a properly dismissive response, Bumblebee was extending a data cable from his wrist. His questioning beep was clear even without words.

Starscream hesitated, eyeing the offered connection. Direct data links were intimate—a vulnerability, a potential security breach. Yet something in the scout's earnest expression disarmed his usual caution.

"Very well," he conceded, opening a port on his forearm. "But nothing with excessive percussion. My audio sensors are more refined than yours."

Bumblebee's eyes crinkled in what Starscream was learning to recognize as a smile. The cable connected with a soft click, and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then the music began.

It wasn't what Starscream expected—not the cacophonous noise he'd occasionally intercepted from Earth's broadcasting stations Bulkhead would listen too. This was something ethereal, complex harmonies flowing like cosmic radiation through a nebula. Human instruments blended with digital elements, creating patterns that reminded him of solar flares and planetary alignments.

His wings unconsciously adjusted, minute movements synchronized to the melody as if he were riding thermals. For several minutes, they sat in perfect stillness, sharing the experience through the humming data link.

As the composition reached a particular crescendo, something flickered in Starscream's memory banks—a shadowy figure, faceless yet somehow familiar, surrounded by waves of sound. Tendrils of data. Surveillance. Recordings.

The memory was accompanied by a surge of... something. Recognition? Fear? Respect? Before he could grasp it fully, the image dissolved, leaving only the music and a vague sense of disquiet.

Starscream shook his head slightly, dismissing the thought. Just another ghost from his fragmented past, meaningless without context.

As the piece concluded and the connection disengaged, Bumblebee chirped an eager question, optics bright with anticipation.

Starscream considered his response carefully, surprised to find himself reluctant to shatter the moment of genuine connection with his usual acerbity.

"It was... not entirely unpleasant," he admitted, lips curving into a slight smile. "The compositional structure has a certain elegance I hadn't anticipated from organic creators."

Bumblebee's answering series of beeps carried clear notes of delight. …

..

.

[Tuesday of Week Five.]

The desert air shimmered with heat as Optimus Prime stood sentinel at the edge of the mesa, his optics fixed on the sleek silver form of Starscream. The seeker's newly repaired wings caught the sunlight, their polished surfaces no longer marred by temporary patches or—Optimus felt a strange twinge in his spark—his own donated armor plating.

"The structural integrity tests are complete," Ratchet announced, closing his medical scanner with a decisive click. "His flight systems are operational, though I'd recommend keeping the first test brief." The medic's gaze shifted between his patient and his leader. "I assume you're still insisting on supervising this personally?"

Optimus nodded once. "I am."

Ratchet's mouth components twisted into something between amusement and exasperation before he transformed and drove back toward the base, leaving the two of them alone on the windswept plateau.

Starscream's talons flexed unconsciously, his entire frame vibrating with barely contained energy. "I've been grounded for a while now," he said, voice uncharacteristically quiet. "The prospect of flight again is... overwhelming. My damage was excessive."

Optimus approached, each step measured and deliberate. "Ratchet is the finest medical officer I've ever known, but I can attempt to settle your mind." He extended a hand. "May I?"

A flicker of something—wariness, perhaps—crossed Starscream's faceplates before he nodded, turning to present his back to the Autobot leader. The vulnerability of the position wasn't lost on either of them.

"The alignment looks sound," Optimus murmured, his large fingers surprisingly gentle as they traced the seam where wing met fuselage. "But your left elevon appears slightly tensed. Can you feel the difference?"

Starscream's ventilation system hitched almost imperceptibly. "I... yes. There's a slight resistance when I attempt to extend it fully."

Optimus's hands moved, fingers finding transformation seams and tension cables. "During your recovery, you favored your right side. The cables for the left wing may need to be adjusted." His thumb loosened a knot, applying careful pressure. "Better?"

A shudder ran through Starscream's frame, his wings trembling beneath Optimus's touch. "Yes," he admitted, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Much better."

"Your stabilization protocols appear to be functioning optimally," Optimus finally said, his deep voice carefully neutral despite the lingering charge in his circuits.

Starscream's lips curved into a hint of a smile. "As do yours, Prime. I have yet to see you stumble." He stepped back, wings spreading wide in preparation. "Shall we proceed with the test flight?"

Optimus nodded, moving to create space between them. "Maintain visual contact with the mesa. Three circuits of the perimeter, no higher than five hundred meters."

"Such restrictive parameters," Starscream remarked, but the anticipated acid was missing from his tone. Instead, there was something almost teasing in his voice. "One might think you don't trust me."

"Trust is earned incrementally," Optimus replied, though his optics held no accusation. "Just as recovery progresses in stages."

Starscream's expression sobered. He nodded once, then turned toward the cliff edge. For a moment he stood perfectly still, faceplates tilted upward toward the vast blue expanse above them. His wings adjusted minutely, sensors reading air currents, temperature gradients, barometric pressure.

Then, with a grace that belied his recent injuries, Starscream launched himself from the mesa's edge. He transformed mid-leap, the complex symphony of shifting plates and reconfiguring systems culminating in the sleek silhouette of a Cybertronian jet.

The sound that escaped his engines was almost organic in its raw emotion—a cry of pure, unbridled joy. He arced upward, silver form gleaming against the cloudless sky, then banked sharply to maintain the prescribed perimeter.

Optimus watched, a strange tightness in his spark chamber. There was something undeniably beautiful in the seeker's flight, an elegance and precision that spoke to millions of years of evolution. Yet, from his vantage point on the mesa, Optimus still didn't notice the small mechanical bird perched on a distant rock formation, its optics zooming to capture every detail of Starscream's flight patterns

.…

.

Miles away, in the shadows of the Decepticon warship, Soundwave watched the live feed with silent intensity. His visor reflected Starscream's graceful maneuvers as the seeker completed his second circuit, clearly reveling in his restored capabilities.

Most interesting, however, was not Starscream's flight, but the way Optimus Prime tracked him—the Autobot leader's optics never leaving the seeker's form, his stance alert yet somehow affectionate. When Starscream finally descended, transforming with a flourish before touching down on the mesa's surface. The seeker's faceplates were animated with genuine emotion, cooling fans working hard to disperse the heat generated by his exertion. Optimus approached him, one hand lifting briefly toward Starscream's wing before dropping back to his side.

Their lips moved in conversation too distant for Laserbeak to capture, but their body language told Soundwave everything he needed to know. The data would displease Megatron greatly.

As Optimus and Starscream walked side by side back toward the Autobot base, Laserbeak silently took flight, returning to his carrier. … ..

.

[Friday of Week Five. 6:00 Am]

The desert sun blazed overhead as Bumblebee transformed with a series of clicks and whirs, his yellow chassis gleaming against the red landscape. He revved his engine playfully, tires kicking up small clouds of dust as he spun in a tight circle around Starscream. Optimus Prime stood at a distance, his imposing silhouette watching over their interaction with careful attention.

The seeker watched with a mixture of disdain and curiosity, arms crossed over his cockpit. "I fail to see the educational value in this demonstration." His gaze briefly flickered to Optimus before returning to the scout.

Bumblebee emitted an encouraging series of beeps, gesturing toward the open expanse of desert before them.

"Racing? That's your idea of getting me used to earth?" Starscream's optic ridge rose skeptically, but there was an undeniable twitch of interest in his wings. "Very well. But don't expect me to race along the ground with you.”

With practiced grace Starscream leapt skyward, transforming mid-jump. His jet mode hovered momentarily, engines adjusting to maintain an unusually low altitude.

Bumblebee's door panels fluttered with excitement as he accelerated forward, tires finding purchase on the packed earth. Above him, Starscream banked awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the constraints of low-altitude flight but determined not to be outdone.

Optimus transformed smoothly, his alt-mode joining the impromptu race. "Consider this a tactical exercise in terrain adaptation," his deep voice rumbled over the comms as he accelerated alongside Bumblebee, powerful engine thrumming with controlled power.

They raced across the desert floor, the yellow Camaro and red semi weaving between rock formations while the silver jet struggled to maintain a consistent height, occasionally dipping too low or banking too sharply. Starscream's frustrated complaints echoed across their comms, but beneath the complaints was something else—the unmistakable hint of enjoyment.

From a distant ridge, a small metallic form tracked their movements. Laserbeak's optics zoomed, capturing every detail of Starscream's flight pattern, noting weaknesses in his maneuverability that hadn't been present before his injuries.

…

..

.

[Friday of Week Five. 9:00 Am]

Morning dew still glistened on a small patch of wildflowers as Starscream crouched beside them, slender fingers delicately lifting a bloom for closer inspection. His optics whirred, adjusting focus. Optimus knelt nearby, watching the seeker's curiosity with quiet appreciation.

"Fascinating adaptation. The ultraviolet patterning is invisible to human optics but guides their pollinators with remarkable precision." His voice had shifted into a clinical tone. "The evolutionary pressures must have been extraordinarily specific to develop such—"

He paused as Bumblebee knelt beside him, carefully plucking one of the flowers. The scout held it up, examining it with exaggerated appreciation, then made a decision. With deliberate gentleness, he placed the small purple blossom into a seam in starscream’s shoulder armor.

The seeker froze, staring at the organic material now decorating his frame. "What exactly do you think you're doing???"

Bumblebee's answering beep was cheerful, his door panels wiggling with amusement as he pointed to himself, then to the flower, then made a gesture mimicking joy.

"Is this another human custom? Adorning oneself with organic material that will inevitably decompose?" Despite his words, Starscream made no move to remove the flower. "This human species has the most illogical fixations."

Optimus's optics brightened with amusement. "Yet their customs often carry deeper meaning than what first appears to be." He reached down to select another blossom, a red snapdragon, studying it briefly before gently lifting it toward Starscream. "In many human cultures, flowers symbolize growth and new beginnings."

With careful precision, Optimus's large fingers guided the delicate bloom toward a thin seam along Starscream's helm. "May I?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. Starscream hesitated, then gave a slight nod. Optimus tucked the flower into the seam where it nestled perfectly against the silver metal. Their fingers brushed during the adjustment, a brief electrical tingle passing between them.

…

..

.

[Friday of Week Five. 8:00 pm]

The sunset painted the mesa in brilliant oranges and purples as Bumblebee, Starscream, and Optimus sat side by side on its edge, legs dangling over the precipice. The young scout gestured expansively at the horizon, his beeps and whistles animated as he explained something with passionate gestures.

Starscream tilted his head, expression puzzled. "You're saying humans deliberately pause their activities to observe this atmospheric phenomenon?”

Bumblebee's response was a gentler series of sounds, his optics dimming slightly as he gazed at the spectacular colors streaking across the sky.

"Beauty? For its own sake?" Starscream's voice held genuine confusion. He stared at the sunset, wings shifting slightly as if trying to analyze it. "I understand the scientific process—the scattering of light through particulate matter in the atmosphere. But you're suggesting the emotional response is... valuable in itself?" A flash of memory surfaced—Skyfire, optics bright with wonder, pointing up at the stars during their exploration missions. "Look, Star! Isn't it magnificent?" The scientist had always paused to appreciate such sights.

"Not everything of value serves a purpose," Optimus added, his deep voice resonant in the evening air. "The capacity to appreciate beauty is one of humanity's more admirable qualities."

Starscream's crimson optics reflected the fading sunlight, dragonsnap swaying in the wind as he considered this familiar concept. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his rigid posture relaxed, unconsciously leaning slightly toward Optimus's reassuring presence. "I suppose there is a certain... mathematical elegance to the color gradients."

… ..

.

In the silent depths of the Nemesis, Soundwave stood motionless before a wall of monitors, his expressionless visor reflecting dozens of surveillance feeds. His spindly cables moved with sharp cutting precision across the control panel, as if wielding a surgical blade, adjusting frequencies and strengthening encrypted connections.

A week now, his specialized monitoring algorithms had been capturing every conversation within the Autobot base. Each whispered confidence, each tactical discussion, each emotional outburst – all recorded and categorized for analysis. The data streamed continuously into the Decepticon intelligence network.

Of particular interest were the numerous conversations surrounding Starscream. Soundwave's head tilted almost imperceptibly as he reviewed footage of the former Air Commander moving freely among the Autobots. The incongruity was... fascinating. Logic dictated that Starscream should be a prisoner, yet the surveillance showed him accessing laboratories, engaging in what appeared to be cordial conversations, even receiving medical attention from the Autobot medic.

Most puzzling was Starscream's demeanor – subdued, lacking his characteristic swagger and scheming body language. The seeker moved through the Autobot base with the tentative motions of someone unfamiliar yet curious with his surroundings..

Soundwave's fingers paused over the console as he compiled the latest surveillance package for Megatron. The Decepticon leader had been initially skeptical of Soundwave's reports, assuming Starscream's apparent defection was yet another of the seeker's elaborate betrayals. But as weeks passed with no sign of Starscream's return, Megatron's skepticism had transformed into cold fury, then not, a swirl of emotions that began to scramble Soundwave's processor.

It confused him more so then laserbeaks recordings of starscreams almost romantic excursions with Optimus. That, at least made sense, it could be a tactical advantage, manipulation. Megatron, however, his behaviour seems to operate in a field of its own understanding.

Chapter Text

The nemesis hung suspended in Earth's upper atmosphere akin to a meteor, a dark silhouette against the blue globe below. Within its obsidian halls, tension coalesced like a gathering storm. The ship’s corridors remained unusually quiet, crew members instinctively giving wide berths to their leaders' quarters.

Soundwave approached with measured steps. His visor gleamed dully in the low light, reflecting the purple emergency strips that lined the corridor.

The door to Megatron's private sanctum hissed open, granting admission to the silent spymaster. No verbal acknowledgment announced his presence – none was needed. Soundwave's field of expertise lay in gathering information, not dispensing unnecessary words.

Megatron stood with his back to the entrance, his massive silver frame silhouetted against the viewport that dominated one wall of his quarters. The earth's swirling atmosphere casted shifting patterns of blue and white light across the warlord's polished armor. His fusion cannon humming with a low, ominous charge.

"Report," he commanded without turning, voice like gravel beneath a tank tread. A faint tremor ran through his left arm, the plating there twitching sporadically – a recent development that even Knockout had been reluctant to mention during examinations.

Soundwave's visor illuminated, projecting a holographic display that flickered to life in the center of the room. The images were crisp, high-resolution captures from Laserbeak's surveillance – evidence collected over days of patient observation.

The first piece of collected evidence showed Starscream in flight – not the practical, economical movements of a warrior on patrol, but something else entirely. The seeker banked and rolled with obvious joy, his flight pattern expressing a freedom and lightness that had no place in a Decepticon officer.

Megatron finally turned, crimson optics narrowing as he observed the display. His dental plates ground together with an audible scrape of metal on metal. A wild, unfocused look flashed briefly across his face before he regained control. "Continue," he ordered, moving closer to examine the evidence. His massive fist clenched and unclenched rhythmically, talons digging into his own palm plating until energon beaded at the punctures like pearly crescent moons.

The projection shifted to show Starscream kneeling alongside the Autobot scout, examining Earth. The genuine fascination in the seeker's expression was a far cry from his usual sneering disdain for organic life. When the Prime approached, placing a flower into a seam in Starscream's helm, the briefest flicker of something gentle crossed the seeker's face.

Megatron's fusion cannon glowed brighter, bathing the room in an ominous purple light. His field expanded sharply, pushing against the walls of his quarters with nearly physical force. That expression on Starscream's face was one he had not witnessed in millenia. A static-laden burst of noise escaped his vocalizer before he reset it with a growl.

"Audio," he demanded, voice dangerously quiet.

Soundwave nodded once, activating the sound component of his surveillance package. Starscream's voice filled the room – not the shrill, grating tone reserved for Decepticon command meetings, but something smoother, almost melodic.

More disturbing still was the recorded exchange between Prime and the seeker as they stood on the mesa watching the sunset. Their voices were low, intimate.

"Not everything of value serves a purpose," Optimus voiced, his deep voice resonating in the evening air. "The capacity to appreciate beauty is one of humanity's more admirable qualities."

Starscream's crimson optics reflected the fading sunlight, the dragonsnap nestled between the seams of his helm. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his rigid posture relaxed, unconsciously leaning slightly toward Optimus's reassuring presence. "I suppose there is a certain... mathematical elegance to the color gradients."

Megatron snatched an energon cube from his desk, crushing it in one massive fist. Glowing purple liquid sizzled as it splattered across the metal floor, eating away at the finish like acid. With a roar, he swept the remaining contents of his desk to the floor, the sound of shattering datapads barely registering in his processor.

"My treacherous second-in-command grows comfortable with the enemy," he growled, optics fixed on the frozen image of Starscream and Optimus standing side by side, their silhouettes merged in the fading light. “There is no uncertainty when it comes to his status. Starscream is not a prisoner of the Autobots."

There was something beyond rage in Megatron's expression: Optimus Prime had once been Megatronus's closest confidant, before ideology and ambition tore them apart. And Starscream... despite their volatile relationship, the seeker had been his – his to command, his to punish, his to possess.

Soundwave accessed the final segment of his report, displaying new data. Recorded conversations between Ratchet and Starscream.

"Your neural pathways show significant damage patterns," Ratchet's voice was picked up from a check-up, his voice betraying professional concern beneath the gruff exterior. "It's consistent with severe trauma sustained during the attack."

"What does that mean?" Starscream had asked, claws flexing.

"It means your memory circuits were badly damaged when we found you," Ratchet explained, gesturing to medieval graphs of an attempted circuit scan. "I can't say with any certainty when or if those memories will ever return. Your knowledge of your past remains intact, but your current history... it might be permanently fragmented."

The audio ended with a resonating click.

"Probability: Starscream experiencing selective memory failure," Soundwave intoned, his monotone voice breaking his characteristic silence. "Assessment: phenomenon similar to human Amnesia, possibly induced during ‘crash’. Retention of past knowledge and basic function. Loss of factional allegiance and personal history."

Megatron's expression shifted, rage giving way to something more calculated. He approached the holographic display, studying the medical data. His reflection was distorted across the glowing surface, the sharp angles of his face accentuated by the harsh light. He laughed – a harsh, discordant sound.

"So the Autobots have been taking advantage of his... condition." A cruel smile spread across Megatron's face, dental plates gleaming like daggers. "How fortunate that we've discovered this before they could permanently corrupt my property." His optics brightened, the circuitry beneath his facial plates visibly pulsing with dark energon.

He turned to the viewport once more. The reflected stars in his optics were cold and distant. In the chilled silence a single drop of energon leaked from the corner of his optic, tracing a luminescent path down his scarred faceplate before he wiped it away with savage impatience.

Starscream was not lost to him

"Prepare the troops, Soundwave. It's time we reminded Starscream where he belongs." His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. "And I believe it's also time I had a reunion with my old friend." The word was spoken with such venom that the air seemed to vibrate with malevolence.

Soundwave nodded silently, visor darkening as the projection disappeared. He transmitted rapid orders throughout the Nemesis, mobilizing their forces with clinical efficiency.

…

..

.

[Over at the Autobot base]

The command center of the Autobot base was silent save for the soft hum of machinery. Optimus Prime stood alone at the main console, his massive frame bathed in the gentle blue glow of the monitor. His fingers moved methodically across the keyboard as he reviewed the day's reconnaissance data, searching for any sign of Decepticon activity. The night shift had begun hours ago, and most of the team had retired to their quarters—all except for their leader.

When Arcee entered, her footsteps deliberately loud against the metal floor, Optimus didn't need to turn around to recognize her. The distinct rhythm of her gait was as familiar to him as his own spark pulse after millennia of fighting alongside her.

"We need to talk," she said, her voice cool and controlled, but with an undercurrent of tension that Optimus immediately detected.

He turned slowly, his optics adjusting to the dimmer light away from the screens. "Arcee. You've been avoiding our tactical meetings."

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed defensively across her chest plating. The blue highlights of her armor seemed darker in the shadows, matching her mood. "I've been avoiding a lot of things," she admitted, optics flashing with barely suppressed pain. "Including our new... guest." The last word was spoken with such venom it could have corroded metal.

Optimus's optics dimmed slightly as he faced her fully, recognizing the confrontation that had been brewing for days. Since they had rescued—or perhaps more accurately, salvaged—Starscream from the crash site, tensions had been building within the team. Bumblebee and Ratchet had adapted to the situation with surprising ease, but Arcee... Arcee carried wounds that ran deeper than her armor, wounds that bled afresh with every glimpse of crimson wings in their sanctuary.

"Your concerns about Starscream are noted," Optimus said, his deep voice measured and calm, though the Matrix pulsed painfully against his spark chamber.

Arcee stepped closer, her electromagnetic field bristling with barely contained emotion, lashing against his like solar flares. "Are they? Because it seems like everyone's concerns are being overshadowed by your... fascination with him."

The accusation hung in the air between them, sharp as a blade. A tense silence filled the room as Optimus's electromagnetic field flared violently before he brought it back under control with visible effort. Even with his battle mask engaged, the slight narrowing of his optics betrayed his discomfort.

"Explain yourself, soldier," he said, the words strained through gritted dental plates.

Arcee's posture stiffened, her field now blazing with righteous fury. "Don't pull rank on me, not about this." Her voice rose as years of discipline battled with raw emotion that threatened to tear her apart from within. "I've seen how you look at him. How you've given him run of our base." She gestured sharply toward the missing panel on Optimus's shoulder, the absence of armor making the mighty leader look strangely vulnerable, exposed in more ways than one. "How you literally gave him pieces of your own armor while the rest of us bleed for your cause."

Optimus glanced at his exposed shoulder joint, the raw protoform beneath gleaming dully in the low light. The makeshift wing splint had been removed days ago, yet he still hadn't replaced his own protective plating. It was an oversight he couldn't reasonably explain, even to himself, though the phantom sensation of Starscream's wing beneath his fingers haunted him still.

"We're all seeing it, Optimus," Arcee continued, her words gaining momentum like an avalanche. "Your bias. Your... attraction." The word was an accusation, a blade thrust between armor plates to the vulnerable spark beneath.

Optimus's optics refocused on her face, pain flashing behind the blue glow before he could mask it. "My judgment remains unclouded," he said quietly, but the slight hesitation before he spoke belied his certainty.

A bitter laugh escaped Arcee's vocalizer, the sound like metal tearing. "Does it? He killed Cliffjumper, defiled his corpse with dark energon." Her voice cracked on the name, static lacing the edges as grief threatened to overwhelm her vocoder. "He tried to kill all of us. Multiple times." Her optics flared brighter with emotion, coolant gathering at the corners. "And now because he's got amnesia and those pretty wings, we're supposed to forget everything? Pretend our dead don't matter?"

Optimus vented deeply, his massive frame releasing hot air with a soft hiss that sounded almost like a sob. For just a moment, his composure shattered completely, shoulders sagging under the weight of leadership and loneliness that stretched back to the fall of Iacon. The ghost of who he once was—Orion Pax, who had loved freely before the Matrix claimed him—flickered in his optics.

"I see potential for peace where others see only the past," he said, the words sounding hollow even to his own audio receptors, an echo of speeches given too many times across too many battlefields.

Arcee stepped closer, her voice lowering to a whisper that cut deeper than any shout. "This isn't about peace." Her optics searched his face, seeing beyond the mask he wore, both literal and figurative, to the mech drowning in duty and isolation. "This is personal for you. I can see it in your optics when he enters a room. They shine like they did in the early days... before we lost so much."

Optimus turned away, unable to meet her gaze, his field pulling in so tightly it hummed with the effort of containment. The silence stretched between them, filled with millions of years of war and loss and the desperate search for meaning amid endless conflict. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than Arcee had heard in centuries, fragile as thin glass.

"Perhaps there is... a personal element I have not fully acknowledged." The admission seemed torn from the depths of his spark. His optics dimmed, remembering stolen glances across battlefields, the flutter in his spark when Starscream took to the air, a dancer against the cosmos. It had been there for centuries—this forbidden fascination with an enemy whose grace and intellect called to something primal in him, something the Matrix could never suppress.

The confession seemed to drain something from Arcee's anger, replacing it with genuine concern that cut even deeper. "And that's exactly what makes this dangerous. For all of us." The fear in her voice was raw, unfiltered.

She moved to stand beside him, their fields brushing against each other.

"I respect you more than anyone, Optimus," she said, looking up at the face that had guided them through the darkest hours of their species' history, the face that had once been young and hopeful before war carved its eternal mark. "But your judgment is compromised. And in war, that gets people killed. People we love." The last words were barely audible…

Optimus met her gaze, his expression crumbling into something terrible in its vulnerability. The weight of four million years of conflict was etched into every line of his face, grief for a world he couldn't save, for friends long turned to cosmic dust. "What would you have me do? Cast him out? Return him to Megatron's brutality?" His voice broke on his enemy's name, old wounds reopening like they'd never healed.

"I'd have you see him clearly," Arcee said, her tone gentler now, though laced with the same sorrow. "Not as who you wish he could be. Not as who you need him to be to fill the void in your spark."

She placed a hand briefly on his arm, the touch conveying more than words could express—solidarity, understanding, fear. "Just... be careful. Your spark might be in the right place, but his? I'm not convinced."

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Optimus alone with his thoughts.

Optimus remembered when he first had heard of him, when Starscream had still been a scientist, before Megatron twisted that brilliant mind toward destruction. Even then, there had been a pull between them—intellectual, visceral—that neither acknowledged. War had buried it beneath duty and faction, but it had never truly died, only transformed. How many times had he held back in battle? How often had his cannon mysteriously misfired when aimed at those elegant wings?

Arcee was right. This was personal—more personal than he could admit, even to himself. The boundaries between duty and desire had never been so blurred, not in all his long existence. And for the first time in millennia, the Matrix of Leadership offered no guidance, no clarity, only the hollow echo of his own loneliness bouncing back at him from the empty chambers of his spark.

Only silence, and the image of crimson optics that seemed to look right through his carefully constructed walls, past the Prime and into the broken mech who still—despite everything—yearned for connection in a universe that had taken everything else from him.

Frag!!

…

..

.

The rec room of the Autobot base hummed with an unusual tranquility. The soft blue glow of a holographic game board cast dancing shadows across the metallic surfaces, illuminating the faces of its two players. Starscream sat with uncharacteristic ease, his sleek wings occasionally twitching with interest as he studied the three-dimensional puzzle before him. Across the table, Bumblebee's optics shone with concentration, doorwings fluttering in excitement as he contemplated his next move.

Bumblebee's hand hovered over the board, digits dancing through possible strategies before finally committing to a bold maneuver. The holographic pieces shifted, reconfiguring into a new formation that cast rippling patterns of light across Starscream's angular face.

"Not bad for a ground-pounder," Starscream remarked, arching an optic ridge with a hint of his old superiority. "Though your strategy lacks the three-dimensional thinking of a true flight frame."

Bumblebee responded with an indignant series of beeps and whirs, his doorwings hiking up defensively as he gestured animatedly at the board. Though voiceless, his body language conveyed his message with perfect clarity: a playful challenge, tinged with pride.

A smirk played at the corners of Starscream's mouth, a ghost of his former sardonic humor. "Yes, yes, I'm aware you've beaten Ratchet three times. But the good doctor's processor is occupied with more important matters than recreational strategy games."

The yellow scout's optics narrowed in determination. With deliberate precision, he rearranged several pieces, creating a complex pattern that transformed the entire board. His doorwings vibrated with barely contained excitement as he emitted a series of proud beeps, the electronic tones carrying a distinct note of triumph.

Starscream leaned forward, genuine surprise crossing his features as he studied the configuration. His wings perked up. "That's... actually rather brilliant. A variation on the Vosian Defense I haven't seen before."

For a moment, his expression softened into something almost friendly.

"Where did you learn—" Starscream began, but his words were violently cut short.

The floor beneath them shuddered as a massive explosion rocked the base. The peaceful tableau shattered instantly—game pieces scattering, lights flickering wildly before switching to emergency red. Alarms blared throughout the facility, their urgent wailing slicing through the previous calm.

Bumblebee was on his feet in an instant, battle protocols engaging with practiced efficiency. His battle mask snapped into place with a metallic click as he positioned himself protectively in front of Starscream, cannon arms whirring to life. The scout's doorwings had gone rigid, sensor panels extended to maximum range as he scanned for threats.

Ratchet's voice crackled over the base-wide communication system, tense and urgent: "We're under attack! Multiple Decepticon signatures! They've breached the eastern perimeter!"

A chill seemed to permeate Starscream's frame at those words. His optics widened, crimson light brightening with the first stirrings of fear.

The sound of heavy, purposeful footsteps echoed down the corridor outside, growing louder with each passing second. The distinctive hum of a fusion cannon powering up sent vibrations through the floor plates—a sound that triggered cascading fragments of memory in Starscream's processor before he could even consciously identify it.

Then came the voice—deep, resonant, and carrying an unmistakable edge of cruel authority that sliced through the chaos like a blade.

"Come out, Starscream. I've come to reclaim what belongs to me."

That voice hit Starscream like a physical blow. He froze, optics dilating with terror as fragmentary memories flashed through his processor—silver claws tearing at his wings, a fusion cannon pressed against his cockpit, his own voice begging for mercy. His wings trembled violently against his back, an instinctive response to a threat his conscious mind couldn't fully recall but his body remembered all too well.

"That voice..." he whispered, his own vocalization shaking with a terror that seemed to come from the very depths of his spark. "I know that voice..."

Bumblebee grabbed Starscream's arm, attempting to pull him toward an escape route at the rear of the room. His urgent beeps demanded action, but Starscream remained rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a fear so profound it overrode all motor functions. The seeker's cooling fans had kicked into overdrive, his systems responding to memory echoes of pain his conscious mind couldn't access.

With a deafening crack, the door exploded inward in a shower of metal fragments and sparks. Through the swirling smoke and debris stepped a towering silver figure, fusion cannon still glowing with residual heat. Megatron's scarred face wore a cruel smile as his red optics locked onto Starscream's trembling form. Flanking him were Soundwave, visored face emotionless as ever, and a squad of Vehicon troopers, weapons drawn and humming with deadly energy.

"Ah, there you are, my treacherous second," Megatron purred, his voice a terrible blend of mockery and possessiveness. "How touching to see you... making friends."

The word 'treacherous' echoed strangely in Starscream's processor, triggering cascades of contradictory memory fragments too fleeting to grasp. That mech before him was Megatron- he had known him, and he had torn him apart?

Bumblebee positioned himself between Starscream and Megatron, cannons fully deployed as he emitted a series of defiant, protective beeps. Despite being dwarfed by the warlord's massive frame, the scout stood his ground, electromagnetic field flaring with protective determination.

Megatron threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing coldly off the metal walls. "The scout thinks he can protect you. Amusing, isn't it, Starscream? Especially considering what you did to his friend."

At those words, Starscream's optics flickered as a memory tried to surface—claws tearing through red plating, energon spattering across his hands, a horrified pleasure at the kill. The image vanished before he could fully grasp it, leaving only confusion and a nameless dread. Bumblebee glanced back at him in concern, his optics revealing a flash of worry. The Autobots weren't ready for Starscream to learn the truth about his past yet. . .

Megatron stepped forward, floor plates groaning under his weight. "Come, Starscream. It's time to return to your rightful place. Unless you prefer I tear this base apart piece by piece to retrieve you."

The threat hung in the air like a physical presence. Without hesitation, Bumblebee fired a warning shot that singed Megatron's shoulder plating, leaving a smoking scorch mark across the polished silver. A clear message: come no closer.

Megatron's expression darkened with rage, red optics flaring bright as smelting pools. "So be it."

With a deliberate motion, Megatron raised his fusion cannon as Soundwave deployed Laserbeak from his chest compartment. The mini-con screeched as it took flight, weapons systems whirring to life. Bumblebee braced for impact, cannons charging for a fight he was severely outmatched for.

And Starscream could only watch in horror, caught between fragmentary memories and the present danger, his processor torn between fleeing to safety or standing his ground. The scout attempted to dodge the attack, but Laserbeak's targeting systems were too accurate, catching him with a barrage of laser fire that sent him crashing into the wall.

Starscream's entire frame froze. He watched in horror as Soundwave's tentacles wrapped around Bumblebee's limbs, pinning the struggling scout against the floor. Something shifted within Starscream's fractured mind— his optics darted frantically around the room, landing on a small metallic box sitting on a nearby counter. It was an unusual device he'd noticed before but hadn't questioned, a strange rectangular appliance with a lever on its side.

"Get away from him!" Starscream's voice rose with unexpected resolve, surprising even himself as he lunged for the mysterious object.

Megatron's scarred face twisted into a cruel smile. "And what do you plan to do, my treacherous second? You can barely remember your own designation."

In one fluid motion, Starscream grabbed the toaster and hurled it directly at Megatron's face. The warlord, clearly not expecting to be assaulted with Earth kitchen appliances, barely had time to flinch as the toaster connected with his helm with a satisfying clang.

"What in the Pit was that?" Megatron snarled, momentarily disoriented by the bizarre projectile.

Bumblebee's urgent series of beeps and whirs conveyed his alarm—and perhaps a hint of amusement—but Starscream stepped forward with sudden clarity. The attack had Soundwave spurring in response to aid his lord, abandoning the scout.

"Stay behind me!" he ordered the yellow scout, feeling combat protocols long dormant surging to life within his systems.

With a high-pitched whine, Starscream's null rays activated, the familiar weapons extending from his arms as his wings flared wide despite the pain that shot through his healing frame. For a moment, muscle memory overtook conscious thought, his body remembering what his mind could not.

Megatron laughed, rubbing the dent on his helm where the toaster had struck. "How touching. The coward finds his courage."

Purple energy erupted from Starscream's weapons, striking Megatron's shoulder with surprising accuracy. The warlord's expression shifted from mockery to rage in an instant.

"You'll pay for that!" Megatron snarled, lunging forward with frightening speed.

Bumblebee rolled to the side, firing a barrage at Soundwave while Starscream engaged Megatron directly. The scout's movements were precise and practiced, but Soundwave's impassive visor betrayed nothing as he methodically countered each attack.

Starscream dodged Megatron's powerful swing, his slender frame moving with unexpected grace despite his injuries. "I may not know why you're after me," he declared, optics bright with defiance, "but I do know for certain my hatred for you transcends memory"

The two circled each other in a deadly dance—predator and prey, master and servant, past and present colliding in violent motion. For precious seconds, Starscream held his own, every evasive maneuver seeming to come naturally, as though his body remembered battles his mind could not recall.

Soundwave's monotone voice cut through the chaos. "Situation: Autobot reinforcements approaching. Suggestion: Expedite retrieval."

The momentary distraction cost Starscream dearly. Megatron feinted left, drawing Starscream's attention before striking with brutal efficiency. His massive fist connected with the seeker's inky black cockpit beneath his chassis plating, shattering the glass with a sickening crack. Crystalline shards scattered across the floor as Starscream cried out in pain, his thin frame buckling under the impact.

Bumblebee's desperate beeps cut through the air as he rushed to help, but Soundwave deployed his tentacles with frightening speed. The metallic appendages wrapped around the scout's yellow frame, lifting him effortlessly before slamming him against the wall with enough force to dent the metal plating.

Megatron seized the opportunity, massive silver hand closing around Starscream's throat and lifting him until his pedes dangled uselessly above the floor. "Enough games," the warlord growled, his face inches from Starscream's. "You belong to me, Starscream. You always have."

The seeker struggled desperately, claws scraping ineffectively against Megatron's thick armor, leaving thin scratches that did nothing to loosen the crushing grip around his intake. Warning messages flooded his HUD as critical systems began to fail under the pressure.

"We have what we came for," Megatron announced to the Vehicons, not bothering to look away from his captive's frightened face. "Fall back."

With his free hand, Megatron activated his comm link. "Soundwave, open a ground bridge. And inform our resident medic his services will be required." The last words carried a threatening promise that sent cold dread through Starscream's systems.

A swirling vortex of green energy materialized at the far end of the room, casting an eerie glow across the damaged rec room. Megatron began dragging the struggling seeker toward the portal, each step deliberate and triumphant.

Panic overtook Starscream completely as fragmented memories flashed through his processor—a medical berth, restraints, pain beyond imagining. He locked optics with Bumblebee, who was struggling to rise despite his damaged systems sparking visibly.

"Don't let him take me back! Please!" Starscream's voice cracked with genuine terror, his struggling growing more desperate as they neared the ground bridge.

Bumblebee pushed himself up on trembling limbs, determination evident in his bright blue optics despite the damage he'd sustained. But it wasn't enough. The scout's systems were too compromised to launch an effective rescue.

"Too late, little scout," Megatron declared with cruel satisfaction. "He's mine again."

The warlord stepped backward through the portal, dragging Starscream with him. The seeker's voice grew more frantic, his struggles more desperate as the swirling energy began to envelop them.

"No! No! NO!"

The portal closed with a flash of light and a thunderous boom, leaving behind only scattered debris, the wounded scout, and the echoes of Starscream's terrified cries.

Chapter Text

The thunderous boom of the ground bridge closing reverberated through the base, followed immediately by a cacophony of terrified screams echoing through the corridors. In the command center, Optimus Prime was shaken from his thoughts.

Meanwhile, Arcee had been patrolling the eastern hallway when Ratchet's urgent communication burst through her comm link: "Decepticon intrusion in the rec room! All Autobots converge immediately!" Without hesitation, she transformed into her motorcycle mode. Her tires squealed against the concrete floor as she shot forward, leaving blue afterimages in her wake.

Optimus followed, his massive frame eating up the distance in powerful strides. "Autobots, be on alert! Possible Decepticon intrusion!" His commanding voice carried through the comm system, rallying any other team members scattered throughout the base.

They rounded the corner at breakneck speed, weapons systems humming to life. Optimus's battle mask snapped into place with a metallic click as he readied himself for combat. The heavy blast doors to the recreation area had been blown off their hinges, twisted metal sprawled across the floor like discarded tissue paper. Smoke billowed from the room, acrid and thick with the scent of burned circuitry and spilled energon.

"Bumblebee!" Optimus called out, his deep voice cutting through the haze. "Starscream! Report!"

The smoke parted as Optimus waved a massive hand, revealing a scene of utter devastation. The recreation room lay in ruins. Tables were overturned, energon cubes shattered, and the entertainment console sparked dangerously from several laser impacts.

But what caught Optimus's attention immediately was the crumpled yellow form against the far wall. Bumblebee lay sprawled at an unnatural angle, his chest plating dented and smoking, sparks flickering from exposed wiring. The scout's optics flickered weakly, their usual bright blue dimmed to a pale azure.

"By the AllSpark," Optimus whispered, rushing to the young scout's side. He knelt beside Bumblebee, careful hands already assessing the damage. "Arcee! Check for Starscream while I tend to Bumblebee."

Arcee's slender frame moved with lethal grace as she methodically searched the wreckage, weapons trained on every shadow. Her faceplate was set in a grim mask, optics narrowed to dangerous slits of blue light. "No sign of the Screamer," she called back, voice tight with tension. "But there's evidence of a ground bridge activation. Residual energy signatures all over the place."

Bumblebee emitted a series of pained, static-laced beeps and whirs, his damaged vocal processor struggling to form coherent sounds. His optics flared with urgency as he grabbed Optimus's forearm with surprising strength.

"Easy, young scout," Optimus soothed, supporting Bumblebee's damaged helm with gentle care that belied his massive strength. "Conserve your strength. What happened here? Where is Starscream?"

The yellow scout's electronic voice wavered painfully as he explained through a series of urgent beeps and whirs. Optimus's expression darkened with each passing second, his optic ridges drawing together in a rare display of open concern.

"Megatron," he translated grimly for Arcee's benefit. "He came for Starscream. Soundwave and a squad of Vehicons accompanied him. Bumblebee tried to protect him, but they were overwhelmed."

Arcee's expression hardened further. "So the 'Cons have their treacherous second back. Maybe that's for the best. He was never going to—"

Arcee moved deeper into the wreckage, her attention caught on something beneath an overturned table—a mangled appliance, its chrome surface now dented beyond recognition.

"No..." The word escaped her vocalizer in a horrified whisper.

Optimus's head snapped up, battle protocols reengaging instantly. "Arcee! What is it? Have you found evidence of Starscream's condition?"

The tension in the room ratcheted up to unbearable levels as Optimus gently lowered Bumblebee back to the floor, rising to his full impressive height, weapons humming to life. His battle mask snapped back into place with a metallic click as he prepared to face whatever horror had drawn such a reaction from his normally unflappable second-in-command.

"Arcee! Report!" he demanded, striding toward her position with urgency in every step.

With trembling hands, Arcee lifted the mangled object, turning to face her leader with an expression of genuine distress. "It's Jack's toaster," she said, voice oddly tight. "The one Miko painted flames on. It's completely destroyed."

Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, veteran of countless battles, and bearer of the Matrix of Leadership, stared at her for a long, silent moment. His battle mask retracted with a soft click, revealing an expression of utter bewilderment.

"The... toaster?" he repeated slowly, as though uncertain he had heard correctly.

Bumblebee's electronic laughter, though staticky and weak, broke the tension. His beeps and whirs translated roughly to an explanation that Starscream had used the kitchen appliance as an improvised weapon, hurling it directly at Megatron's face in a moment of desperate courage.

Arcee looked down at the mangled appliance with newfound respect. "So the Screamer used Jack's spare toaster to clock Megatron in the face?" A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "Maybe the seeker has more bearings than I gave him credit for."

"The humans will be disappointed," Optimus observed, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "That toaster was, as Miko put it, 'totally sick.'"

Arcee cradled the destroyed appliance with surprising gentleness. "This toaster died a warrior's death, Optimus. It deserves our respect."

As if on cue, Bumblebee raised a weak arm in a mock salute to the fallen kitchen appliance, his electronic voice mimicking a solemn trumpet call.

For just a moment, the three Autobots shared a brief laugh amidst the destruction. But reality quickly reasserted itself as Optimus knelt once more beside Bumblebee, his expression turning serious.

"Ratchet will need to tend to your injuries," he said, carefully lifting the scout. "And then we must plan our response. If Starscream truly fought against Megatron, if he truly did not wish to return..." He paused, optics distant with thought. "Then our duty is clear."

Arcee nodded, subspacing the mangled toaster. "We're going after him, aren't we?"

"Indeed," Optimus confirmed, his voice resolute.

…

..

.

[Over to Starscream]

Starscream's systems rebooted with an unpleasant jolt, error messages flooding his HUD in crimson cascades. Pain receptors fired simultaneously across his frame, eliciting a strangled gasp from his vocalizer. His optics onlined sluggishly, the world materializing in fragments of purple and silver.

"For the love of Primus and all that is shiny, would you STOP MOVING?" An exasperated voice cut through the haze of discomfort. "You're ruining my perfect welding! Do you have ANY idea how difficult it is to maintain one's finish while elbow-deep in someone else's internals?"

The red mech hovering above him had an immaculate finish now marred with energon splatters – his energon, Starscream realized. The mech's elegant hands worked with dramatic flair inside Starscream's opened chest cavity, delicate tools weaving between critical components. Behind him, a much larger blue mech handed him tools with practiced precision.

"Breakdown, darling, the micro-welder. No, not THAT one. The gold-plated one I had imported. This is delicate work on a superior officer. We can't use the standard tools like we're patching up some vehicon grunt."

The blue mech – Breakdown – rolled his single optic but handed over the requested tool without comment, a fond smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"What... happened?" Starscream managed, his voice riddled with static.

The red mech's optics narrowed, never pausing in his work. "What happened? Oh, nothing much. Lord Megatron merely decided to use your body as a demonstration of his displeasure. Again. " The medic vented sharply, extracting a twisted piece of metal from Starscream's internals with a flourish. "Your chassis is practically accordion-folded. Totally ruins your sleek profile, by the way. And your primary energon pump was milliseconds from complete failure when they dragged you in here."

"Knockout was in the middle of buffing his finish," Breakdown added with a chuckle. "You should have heard the tantrum when your energon splashed on his fresh wax job."

"It was NOT a tantrum," Knockout sniffed indignantly. "It was a perfectly reasonable response to having one's artistic perfection sullied."

Starscream attempted to rise but found himself securely restrained to the medical berth.

"The restraints are for your own good," Knockout explained, noticing his distress. "Though they do add a certain dramatic flair to the whole 'patient in peril' aesthetic. Lord Megatron insisted you be functional enough to attend his creepy cryptic meeting in three hours." The medic's voice dropped to a theatrical whisper. "Whatever you did while away scheming this time, Starscream, he's absolutely livid. Even smashed my favorite buffer when I suggested he wait until tomorrow for your punishment round two."

Breakdown placed a comforting hand on Knockout's shoulder. "I'll get you a new one, better than before."

"You always know just what to say," Knockout purred before turning his attention back to his patient.

Starscream's wings trembled against the berth. "The Autobots... I was with them for weeks. I don't... I can't remember everything clearly." The admission felt dangerous, though he wasn't sure why.

Knockout and Breakdown exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them before Knockout's optics returned to study Starscream's face with unexpected concern. "Memory issues? How dreadfully inconvenient for you. Though amnesia is quite fashionable in human entertainment, I must say."

A wave of dizziness washed over Starscream as Knockout injected something into his main energon line with a flourish. "This is my special blend. Costs a fortune to import the base compounds, but worth every credit." The red mech's silhouette blurred at the edges as the sedative took effect.

"I'm putting you under again," he explained, already returning to his repairs with dramatic gestures. "Your self-repair protocols are fighting my patches. Stubborn, just like their owner." There was an almost fond exasperation in his tone, as though this was a familiar dynamic between them that Starscream couldn't quite recall.

"They've always been like this," Breakdown commented to no one in particular as he wiped energon from Knockout's forearm, careful not to scratch the finish.

As darkness began to reclaim his consciousness, Starscream caught a glimpse of his reflection in Knockout's polished chest plate – his face was barely recognizable, one optic cracked, dental plates fractured, helm dented inward where it had connected with Megatron's fist.

"Don't worry about your finish," Knockout murmured, misinterpreting Starscream's horror. "I'll buff out the worst of it before the meeting. Perhaps even add some highlights to those cheek vents. Can't have our Air Commander looking like scrap, can we? It would reflect poorly on my reputation as the ship's premier medical artist."

"Doctor," Breakdown corrected with a smirk.

"Doctor, artist, what's the difference when you're as talented as I am?" Knockout replied with a dramatic flip of a tool.

The last thing Starscream registered before slipping back into stasis was Knockout's uncharacteristically gentle voice: "Whatever happened at the Autobot base... whatever you're not telling me... I hope it was worth this."

..

.

It was time.

Soundwave moved through the shadows of the medbay like darkness itself, his slender fingers curling around Starscream's arm with deceptive gentleness. The silent mech's touch sent an involuntary shiver through Starscream's damaged frame as he was pulled from the medical berth, his newly-welded components protesting with sharp bursts of pain.

Their bodies moved in uncomfortable proximity as they traversed the dimly lit corridors of the Nemesis, Soundwave's field pulsing against Starscream's in waves that felt almost invasive. The surveillance chief's visor reflected Starscream's battered face back at him, a silent mockery of his state.

When they reached Megatron's chambers, Soundwave's grip tightened momentarily, his thumb, or what he had that could be considered a thumb brushing against a sensitive transformation seam with what could have been either threat or peculiar tenderness.

The door hissed open, revealing the warlord's massive silhouette against the viewport's starscape.

Megatron turned slowly, crimson optics burning with an intensity that made Starscream's wings twitch involuntarily. The air between them crackled as Megatron stalked forward, his massive frame radiating heat.

"My treacherous second returns," Megatron purred, voice dropping to a dangerous register that resonated through Starscream's sensitive wing sensors. "How... convenient that your memory appears compromised."

He moved with predatory grace, invading Starscream's personal space until their chest plates were nearly touching. The warlord's ventilations washed hot air across Starscream's faceplates as he extended his servo, digits grazing Starscream's cockpit in a touch that lingered longer than necessary.

Between them appeared a handful of datapads, each illuminating Megatron's sharp features from below with an eerie glow. "Your life, Starscream," he murmured, lips curling into something between a snarl and a smile. "Every betrayal, every scheme, every... punishment. Documented in exquisite detail."

Megatron leaned closer still, his dental plates gleaming. "Perhaps this will help restore what you've... forgotten," he whispered, the words ghosting across Starscream's audio receptor. "Unless, of course, this amnesia is merely your latest... performance."

Starscream's processor spun like an overcharged turbine as he struggled to integrate this new information.

"How—" his vocalizer crackled with static before he reset it. "How could you possibly know about my memory loss?" The question emerged sharper than intended.

Megatron's smile was predatory, serrated dental plates catching the dim purple light. He leaned closer, the heat from his frame washing over Starscream's sensors.

"My dear Starscream," he purred, "there is precious little that occurs within my empire that escapes my notice." He gestured lazily toward the silent mech hovering in the shadows. "Soundwave has been monitoring your every move since your... departure."

The realization hit Starscream like a fusion cannon blast. His optics widened to their fullest aperture as he turned to stare at the faceless communications officer.

"Monitoring? You mean he's been recording—" Starscream's voice rose to a pitch that could have shattered crystal, as his processor suddenly flashed with memories of private moments in his quarters at the Autobot base. The nights he'd spent exploring his frame, fingers tracing transformation seams, wings quivering with charge as he sought release from the day's tensions.

His face plates heated instantly.

“Everything!!!!!?"

Megatron chuckled, the sound like grinding metal. "Everything, my treacherous second. Every pathetic attempt at integration. Every moment of weakness." His clawed digits tapped rhythmically against Starscream's cockpit. "Soundwave has been particularly thorough in documenting your... growing closeness to the Prime."

The warlord's face twisted with disgust. "It seems rather obvious that you've developed an attachment to him."

Starscream blinked rapidly, processor struggling to parse this unexpected accusation. "Optimus? Well, yes, he's been quite... nice, I suppose." He fidgeted, uncomfortable under Megatron's intense scrutiny. "But I wouldn't say I particularly like him. I'm not even certain I know him well enough to form such an opinion."

He straightened his posture slightly, wincing as newly repaired components protested. "If there's anyone at the Autobot base who I know certainly likes me, it would be Bumblebee."

The silence that followed was so profound that Starscream could hear the minute workings of Megatron's cooling fans. The warlord's expression shifted from menacing to utterly bewildered, his intimidating presence momentarily disrupted by genuine confusion.

"Bumblebee," Megatron repeated flatly. "The scout." His optic ridges drew together in a perplexed frown. "The young one."

Soundwave tilted his head almost imperceptibly, his visor displaying a brief question mark.

"Yes, the yellow one," Starscream confirmed, not understanding the sudden tension. "He's been quite attentive, showing me around the base, bringing me energon treats. He even made me a star map of Vos for my quarters." His wings twitched with remembered pleasure. "Quite thoughtful, really."

Megatron's faceplates underwent a fascinating transformation as realization dawned. He took a deliberate step backward, his massive frame suddenly awkward as madness gave way to concern.

"Starscream," he said slowly, as if explaining to a newly forged protoform, "the scout is barely beyond his final frame upgrade."

It took precisely 3.7 seconds for Starscream to process the implication. When understanding hit, his entire frame heated with mortification, fans whirring to life with an embarrassing whine. His wings shot up in alarm, tearing one of Knockout's perfect welds in the process.

"FRIENDSHIP!" Starscream screeched, voice cracking with indignation. "I was referring to FRIENDSHIP! What did you think I—" He stopped, horrified as the full extent of Megatron's misunderstanding became clear. "Oh, for the love of Primus and all thirteen Primes! Is that what you've been insinuating this entire time?"

A muffled sound that might have been a snort came from behind Soundwave's visor.

Megatron's expression had settled somewhere between relieved and deeply uncomfortable. "Your... proclivities have always been used to advantage, Starscream," he said stiffly.

"My procl—" Starscream sputtered, indignation temporarily overriding his fear. "This is absurd! I've been trying to survive with no memories, in a war I don’t recall being apart of. I am part of your faction, supposedly, and have been staying with our so called enemies, and you're more concerned about imagined romantic entanglements?"

His cooling fans were now running at maximum capacity, the humiliating whine filling the awkward silence. Megatron actually seemed at a loss for words.

Soundwave, ever helpful, chose that moment to display a compilation of video clips on his visor –Optimus helping Starscream stand from a fallen position, lingering perhaps a moment too long, and-

"Oh, turn that off!" Starscream hissed, mortification complete. "Context, Soundwave! CONTEXT!"

Megatron cleared his vocalizer with a sound like grinding gears. "Well. This has been... illuminating." He seemed eager to redirect the conversation. "Your loyalty, however, remains the question at hand."

Starscream buried his face in his servos, wishing desperately that primus had offlined him so that he could avoid this entire humiliating encounter.

"Friendship," he muttered again through his fingers. "Just friendship."

Megatron's massive servo tightened around the datapads he recollected, the metal creaking under his grip as he thrust them toward Starscream's chassis.

"Take them," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through Starscream's very frame.

Starscream's servos trembled slightly as he accepted the datapads. He glanced down at the top one, catching a glimpse of his own face – twisted in pain, energon leaking from a gash across his cheek – before quickly shuffling it to the bottom of the stack.

"Soundwave will escort you to your quarters," Megatron continued, already turning away as if Starscream was no longer worth his attention. "You have one cycle to... reacquaint yourself with your true nature." He paused, looking back over his massive shoulder plate. "After which, I expect my Second in Command to return to his duties – with or without his memories."

The silent communications officer moved from the shadows, his visor reflecting Starscream's nervous expression back at him in perfect, emotionless clarity. Without a word, Soundwave gestured toward the door, his movements precise and economical.

As they walked through the dark corridors of the Nemesis, Starscream clutched the datapads to his cockpit, acutely aware of the occasional Vehicon trooper who would flatten themselves against the wall as they passed. Their electromagnetic fields pulsed with what he could only interpret as fear – fear directed at him as much as at Soundwave.

"They're afraid of me," Starscream murmured, half to himself, wings twitching with uncertainty.

Soundwave's visor flickered briefly before displaying a video clip – Starscream screaming in rage as he dug his claws into the spark of a cowering Vehicon, energon spattering across his faceplates as he snarled, "It is LORD not Commander!"

Starscream nearly dropped the datapads, his ventilation systems hitching. "That... that can't be me," he whispered, but even as he denied it, something deep in his processor resonated with the image, a flicker of dark satisfaction that terrified him more than the violence itself.

They reached a door emblazoned with the Decepticon insignia alongside what appeared to be stylized wings. Soundwave keyed in a complex code, then stepped aside, gesturing for Starscream to enter.

The quarters were spacious but sparse – a berth designed for a flyer's frame, a computer terminal, and what appeared to be a small laboratory setup in one corner. The walls were adorned with tactical maps of Earth and what Starscream recognized as Cybertron, marked with cryptic notations in his own messy writing.

Soundwave extended a thin tendril from his chassis, connecting to the computer terminal. The screen flickered to life, displaying a message: "Security protocols disengaged. Access granted to personal archives." The tendril retracted, and Soundwave turned to leave.

Just before the door closed, the communications officer paused. His visor displayed a simple countdown: 11:58:43 and counting down – the time remaining in the cycle Megatron had granted.

Alone in the unfamiliar quarters that were supposedly his own, Starscream sank onto the edge of the berth, wings drooping behind him. He looked down at the stack of datapads in his servos.

With a resigned ex-vent, he activated the first datapad and began to read, searching for himself in the pages of a life he couldn't remember living.

…

..

.

The door slid open with a soft hiss. Starscream's wings twitched at the sound, but he didn't turn. He had been expecting this visit. The chronometer on the datapad in his servo showed the cycle was up.

"Your time has expired, Starscream." Megatron's voice filled the small quarters.

Starscream placed the datapad atop the others with deliberate care, arranging them in a perfect stack before finally turning to face his leader. The movement was measured, elegant despite the lingering pain in his newly repaired frame.

"Lord Megatron," he acknowledged, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm his spark. "Greetings."

Megatron's optics narrowed, scanning Starscream's face for any hint of deception. "And? Has your excursion among the Autobots been purged from your processor? Are your true memories restored?"

There's a pause.

"My memories remain fragmented," he admitted finally. "But I have... educated myself on what I had lost."

He gestured to the stack of datapads, each one filled with images and records that felt simultaneously foreign and familiar—like viewing his life through a corrupted optical feed. The atrocities. The scheming. The betrayals.

Megatron's expression darkened. He stepped closer, looming over Starscream's smaller frame. "Then you are still defective."

His ventilation systems released a hot gust of air that washed over Starscream's sensitive wings, causing them to flutter involuntarily. Starscream fought the traitorous response, acutely aware of how the small movement drew Megatron's gaze downward.

"Withy my Intellect and scientific knowledge intact," Starscream countered swiftly, voice slightly higher than intended. "My tactical abilities remain uncompromised. I can name every Decepticon officer, every Earth-based operation, every Autobot weakness documented in our databases."

Megatron circled him slowly, predatory. His massive frame radiated heat as he moved uncomfortably close, the edge of his armor occasionally brushing against Starscream's wings. "Knowledge without context is dangerous, Starscream. How can I trust you without your... unique perspective on loyalty?"

The warlord's ex-vents were deliberately controlled, his electromagnetic field pulsing with dominance that enveloped Starscream's own. The sensation was disturbingly familiar.

"You never trusted me before it appears," Starscream replied, allowing a hint of his old sarcasm to color his tone. He shifted his weight, creating space between them that Megatron immediately closed again. "Why start now?"

Unexpectedly, Megatron laughed, the sound sharp and genuine. "There he is. Perhaps not all is lost." His crimson optics lingered on Starscream's lips for a disconcerting moment.

The warlord's clawed servo landed heavily on Starscream's shoulder, then slid downward with deliberate slowness before stopping just above his cockpit, the pressure just short of damaging. "You will resume your duties as Second in Command, effective immediately. Soundwave will monitor your performance."

Starscream inclined his head, hyperaware of the heat radiating from Megatron's palm against his sensitive plating. "Am I permitted flight allowance?”

Megatron's grip tightened painfully, digits tracing a small circle that sent an unwelcome charge through Starscream's systems, "you are confined to the Nemesis until I determine your loyalty is... sufficiently recovered."

Starscream's wings lowered in submission, the gesture calculated yet burning with humiliation. Inside, beneath layers of self-preservation, a cold fury crystallized. Megatron had marched his trine to their deaths, and the Starscream in those records had known it all along.

"As you command, Lord Megatron," he said softly, the words tasting like poison as he deliberately stepped back, breaking the charged contact between them.

He would not allow himself to deny the justice of his trine no longer.

Chapter Text

Megatron's heavy footsteps receded down the corridor, the vibrations diminishing until silence settled over Starscream's quarters. The momentary reprieve lasted mere seconds before the atmosphere in the room shifted. The air seemed to compress-

Starscream's sensors detected the presence before he heard anything. A subtle change in electromagnetic frequencies, a whisper of movement where no movement should be. His wings twitched involuntarily, the sensitive panels registering the disturbance.

"Soundwave," he acknowledged without turning, his vocalizer barely above a whisper. "Lurking are we?"

Soundwave said nothing, but his presence filled the room more completely than Megatron's had.

Starscream finally turned, forcing his wings high despite the anxiety coursing through his circuits. "Come to ensure I don't escape?”

Soundwave tilted his head slightly, the gesture unnervingly birdlike. His visor flickered before displaying a simple message: "MEMORY STATUS: QUERY."

Starscream's laugh was hollow, echoing in the sparse quarters. "My memory banks remain corrupted, if that's what you're asking. Though your helpful visual aids have been... enlightening."

The slender tendrils of Soundwave's data cables uncoiled from his chassis with serpentine grace, hovering in the air between them. One extended toward Starscream, its tip glowing with interfacing capability.

Starscream recoiled, pressing his back against the wall, wings scraping painfully against the metal surface. "Stay out of my processor," he hissed, clawed servos raised defensively.

The data cable retreated, but only slightly. Soundwave's visor displayed another message: "MANDATORY MONITORING: INITIATED."

"Under whose authority?" Starscream demanded, though he already knew the answer.

The visor flickered again, replaying Megatron's words from moments ago: "Soundwave will monitor your performance."

Terror seized Starscream's spark, freezing his energon lines as the horrific realization dawned. His wings flattened against his back, the sensitive panels quivering uncontrollably.

The data cable advanced again, its tip splitting into fine, needle-like filaments designed to penetrate Starscream's neural ports. His fans clicked on at maximum capacity, the high-pitched whine filling the silence.

"I-I suppose I have no choice," he whispered, voice crackling with static. His entire frame trembled now, his legs threatening to give way as his gaze darted desperately around the room for an escape that didn't exist. The thought of Soundwave slithering through his most private memories, examining his every thought like a specimen, made his processor spin with vertigo.

Soundwave's only response was to move closer, the silent mech's electromagnetic field pressing down on Starscream's like a physical weight. The data cable hovered mere inches from his helm port, the filaments pulsing with an eerie blue light that reflected in Starscream's wide, terrified optics.

With a barely audible click, Soundwave's data cable retracted fully into his chassis. The communications officer stood motionless, visor blank for several long seconds.

Starscream's ventilation cycle stuttered with relief, though he kept his posture rigid, wings still flattened in submission. "Having second thoughts about invading my processor? How... considerate," he managed, voice still laced with static from the lingering terror.

Soundwave's visor flickered before displaying a simple message: "ALTERNATIVE MONITORING PROTOCOL: INITIATED." A small drone detached from his chassis, hovering silently in the corner of the room.

Starscream's optics tracked the drone, his expression darkening. "Surveillance instead of neural invasion. Small mercies, I suppose."

The communications officer tilted his head, studying Starscream with unnerving intensity. After a moment, another message appeared on his visor: "OBSERVATION: MEMORY LOSS GENUINE."

Starscream's wings twitched in surprise. "You... believe me?"

Soundwave turned toward the door without responding, his slender frame moving with that same unsettling fluidity. Just before exiting, his visor displayed one final message: "MEMORIES: DANGEROUS. LOYALTY: REQUIRED."

The door slid shut behind him, leaving Starscream alone with the hovering drone and the weight of Soundwave's cryptic warning.

….

..

.

Soundwave moved through the Nemesis corridors with his characteristic silence, his frame casting elongated shadows under the dim lighting. His processors cycled through encrypted files as he walked, but one memory fragment demanded attention—a recording he had archived weeks ago.

The Nemesis bridge. Dimly lit. Battle-damaged. Megatron's massive frame dominated the space. Before him, on his knees, was Starscream – wings bent at unnatural angles, energon pooling beneath him. His face was barely recognizable through the damage, but his distinctive frame was unmistakable.

"Your incompetence has cost us one too many times," Megatron's recorded voice boomed, distorted slightly by Soundwave's playback. "Your failure is complete."

The recording showed Megatron's fusion cannon powering up, the distinctive whine filling the bridge. The Starscream in the recording attempted to speak, vocalizer spitting static through shattered dental plates.

Without hesitation, Megatron fired. The blast tore through Starscream's cockpit, sending shards of glass and metal flying as his frame convulsed. The seeker collapsed forward, smoke rising from his shattered chassis.

Megatron turned to Soundwave. "He is unworthy of even being recycled for parts."

The footage showed Megatron dragging Starscream's limp frame to the airlock. With contemptuous ease, he threw the broken seeker into the small chamber. The recording captured the moment the outer doors opened – Starscream's frame, still somehow functioning enough to twitch once, tumbling out into the cold void of Earth's upper atmosphere.

The recording abruptly cut to static, then displayed an error message across Soundwave's visor: "RECORDING CORRUPTED - FILE INTEGRITY: 43.7% - SUBJECT TERMINATED"

The projection vanished. For several long minutes, Soundwave remained motionless, rewinding to pause on the image of Starscream's broken body against the blackness of space.

A subtle tremor passed through Soundwave's slender frame – so slight it would have been imperceptible to any observer. His visor displayed rapidly scrolling calculations, probabilities, and strategic projections.

After precisely 3.47 minutes of contemplation, Soundwave disconnected from the terminal. The projection vanished, leaving him in near-darkness.

The drone he had left in Starscream's quarters transmitted live footage of the seeker studying the datapads, startling at the sound of a knock. He instructs his drones to remain out of sight.

…

..

.

A soft knock echoed through Starscream's quarters, three precise taps followed by a pause, then two more.

"Enter," he called, hastily subspacing the datapads Soundwave had provided. The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

Knockout stood in the doorway, his crimson finish gleaming under the harsh lighting of the Nemesis. The medic's optics swept the room before settling on Starscream with a carefully neutral expression that didn't quite hide the calculation behind it.

"Well, well. The prodigal Second has been granted mercy once again," Knockout drawled, stepping inside and allowing the door to close behind him. He carried a small medical scanner in one hand, tapping it rhythmically against his palm. "Lord Megatron requested I verify your... condition futher than your basic repairs."

Starscream's wings twitched involuntarily. "Did he now? How considerate of our illustrious leader to concern himself with my well-being."

Knockout's lips curled into a smirk. "Indeed. Especially considering how long you've been... absent." He moved closer, activating the scanner with a flick of his wrist. "Six Earth weeks is quite the vacation, Starscream. The crew was placing bets on whether you'd gone permanently offline."

"Six weeks?" Starscream's optics widened momentarily before he could school his expression. "I... wasn't aware it had been that long."

"Mmm, convenient," Knockout murmured, circling Starscream like a predator. The scanner hummed as it passed over Starscream's helm. "Memory loss is such a... selective affliction."

Starscream stiffened. "You think I'm lying?"

"Let's just say your reputation precedes you," Knockout replied, pausing to examine the scanner's readings. His optic ridge raised slightly. "Interesting. There are indeed signs of significant processor damage and repair. Recent repair."

He leaned in closer, his face inches from Starscream's. "But then again, you've always been quite resourceful. Finding a way to trigger false readings would be child's play for you."

Starscream backed away until his wings pressed against the wall. "If you've come to accuse me of deception, just say so plainly. I grow tired of these games.”

Knockout's expression hardened. "Games? Like disappearing without a trace for six weeks, then conveniently returning with 'amnesia. 'Where were you, Starscream? We know you were among the Autobots? Were you plotting another coup?"

"I don't know!" Starscream snarled, genuine frustration bleeding into his voice. "I remember nothing between being kicked out of the academy and waking up in a canyon with half my systems offline!"

Knockout studied him for a long moment, his scanner still humming. Finally, he subspaced the device with a fluid motion. "You know what's truly fascinating? I actually believe you." His voice dropped to a near whisper.

He moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, and Starscream? Whatever happened to you out there... it wasn't pleasant. Your self-repair shows signs of catastrophic damage. The kind no one survives without... intervention."

The door slid open, but Knockout hesitated in the threshold. "Someone wanted you alive, Starscream. I'd be very curious to know who... and why."

"The Autobots," Starscream said, his voice flat as he straightened to his full height. "They found me in some canyon, barely functional." He gestured dismissively to his chassis. "Repairs were performed by their medic Ratchet. Competent work, if somewhat... primitive. They claim they discovered me with catastrophic damage to my frame and processor."

Knockout's optics narrowed. "And you just happened to crash near their base? How convenient."

"I don't recall crashing," Starscream snapped. "I don't recall anything of significance. But unlike you, they didn't accuse me of deception while I was lying helpless in their medical bay." His wings flicked with irritation. "Quite the opposite – their Prime donated his own armor to stabilize my damaged wing during transport. Barbaric technique, but..." he trailed off, momentarily lost in thought. "Effective."

Knockout studied him with clinical interest. "Fascinating. And I suppose next you'll tell me they welcomed you with open arms? The notorious Starscream?"

"They did welcome me with open arms," Starscream replied, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone. "They were kind, attentive... cautious, but not cruel. What they weren't, however, was honest."

He began pacing, wings twitching with agitation. "They never told me I was a Decepticon. Not once.”

Knockout raised an optic ridge. "So the noble Autobots were playing games with your damaged processor? How... surprisingly devious."

"I wouldn't call it a game," Starscream said, his voice dropping. "More like... selective disclosure. They treated my injuries, gave me quarters, the scout – Bumblebee – even tried to befriend me." A strange expression crossed his face. "But they carefully controlled what information I had access to.”

Knockout whistled low. "And here I thought manipulation was our specialty. So when Megatron retrieved you...?"

"Yes, thats when I learned of my true nature. Where my loyalties lie." Starscream snapped. He hesitated, then added on internally, [Though I'm beginning to wonder if either side truly deserves loyalty.]

…

..

.

The tension in the command center was palpable, hanging in the recycled air like an invisible fog. Arcee paced back and forth, her slender frame rigid with barely contained anger, while Bulkhead stood with arms crossed, his massive form blocking the exit as if physically preventing the idea from leaving the room.

"This is insane," Arcee finally snapped, whirling to face Optimus. "We're talking about Starscream. The same Decepticon who's tried to offline each of us multiple times. The same mech who..." Her voice faltered momentarily before hardening. "Who terminated Cliffjumper. REMEMBER."

Optimus Prime stood motionless, his imposing figure softened only by the thoughtful dimming of his optics. "I understand your reservations, Arcee. They are not without merit."

Ratchet looked up from the monitor displaying Starscream's faint life signal. "Merit or not, Starscream though his Amnesia still has a chance to become a different Mech, if Megatron hasnt corrupted him again already.”

Bulkhead's cooling fans kicked on with a rumble. "Good riddance. One less 'Con to worry about."

Bumblebee, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, stepped forward with a series of urgent beeps and whirs, his doorwings hitched high with emotion.

Arcee's optics widened. "What do you mean he protected you?"

More urgent beeps from Bumblebee, his hands gesturing emphatically as he recounted the last mission.

"That's impossible," Bulkhead said, but with less conviction than before. "Starscream doesn't protect anyone but himself."

Bumblebee's next series of tones came slower, more deliberate, his optics locked with Arcee's. He described how starscream had stood defensively infront of him, had even thrown a toaster at megatron.

"At the expense of his own cockpit," Ratchet translated, glancing back at the monitor. "Explains the shattered glass."

Arcee's shoulders dropped slightly, her electromagnetic field pulsing with conflicted emotions. "It could be a trick."

"To what end?" Optimus asked softly. "To lure us onto the ship? That serves no strategic purpose. They could comm us to show up and we would."

Bumblebee approached Arcee, his movements gentle but insistent. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his beeps now quieter, almost pleading.

"It’s just Cliffjumper," Arcee said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't just... forget that. But I can’t blame a mech who cant remember- expect he may as well know who he is now."

"No one is asking you to forget," Optimus replied. "Only to allow the possibility that even those we consider our enemies are capable of change, he has the choice to choose.”

Bulkhead vented heavily, the sound like distant thunder. "Or capable of more elaborate deception."

Ratchet turned from the monitor, his ancient face etched with the weariness of someone who had seen too many sparks extinguish. "Decide quickly, before I get a helmache.”

Arcee's fists clenched, then slowly relaxed. "Fine," she said, her voice tight. "But if he hesitates to return or acts shifty he’s going into statis cuffs.”

Bulkhead stepped away from the door. "I still think this is a mistake, but... I'm in. Someone needs to make sure he doesn't try anything."

Optimus nodded, his battle mask sliding into place. "Autobots, prepare for a rescue mission.”

As they moved with renewed purpose, Arcee caught Bumblebee's arm. "I hope you're right about him," she said quietly. "Because if this is a trap, we're walking right into it."

Bumblebee's response was a single, confident chirp as he transformed, ready to roll out.

The groundbridge swirled to life, its green vortex casting eerie shadows across their faces.