Summary: TF:TM Starscream. Coronation night nerves. No actual plot whatsoever.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, however much I might want to.
Author's note: This fic is currently an entry for HorseTechie's Seekershorts Competition... wish me luck... Editing may occur once the contest has been judged but for the meantime, this is strictly version 1.0.
Fool for a Lifetime
If there is one place on Cybertron or anywhere in all the universe that captures the spark, core and substance of what it means to be Decepticon, then that place is the Hall of Heroes.
The eidolons of our people's mightiest warriors and overlords tower above me as I walk up the central avenue, so huge as to dwarf even the greatest of living Decepticons. Their gilded gazes stare through me as they look down from their lofty pedestals, poised for flight or for battle, wings spread, guns raised, faces set for all eternity in expressions of haughty pride or noble triumph or simply a joyful lust for destruction. Their names are written in gold upon the plinths, as though any Decepticon worthy of the name should need to be reminded of them. I, of course, know them all, from the ancient heroes of the First War to those who were my own peers in times gone by. Novatron, leader of the first Decepticon rebellion, his starcannon raised in salute and his boot propped on the severed head of some forgotten Autobot Prime. Chainblade of the legendary Destrocon terrorists, long since dead in a blaze of glory at the heart of a newly-kindled supernova. Frostbreaker, Air Commander in my own Academy days, commemorated here for his triumph at the battle of Kalis.
And, to my right at the end of the ranks, one whose face and frame I know better than my own. Megatron, gladiator, warlord, commander and champion, standing poised with his fist raised, laughing, his great fusion cannon aimed proudly at the stars above. Perfect as life, down to the tilt of his head and the twist of his lips. The gold shines as though barely cooled from the furnaces, but in truth this statue is all of five million stellar cycles in age, placed at the height of our power before the disastrous last voyage of the Nemesis. Had it not been so, of course, there would be no statue for Megatron now. Tribute in the Hall of Heroes is paid only to those who come back alive to demand it - and Megatron, this time, won't be coming back. His battered carcass is even now floating somewhere in the void, a shattered and empty shell. Dead in space.
Dead where I left him.
I, Starscream! Once and future lord of the skies, and now supreme ruler and commander of the Decepticons! For ten million years I stood in Megatron's shadow, and my comrades-in-arms mocked me for an incompetent among traitors. Let them now beg my forgiveness for their ill-thought words! At long last Megatron's preternatural talent for survival failed him, even if only for a brief moment - and as was only right, I was there to wrench the advantage from his faltering grasp. Some might say I should feel remorse for what I have done, but I am Decepticon, and it is no shame upon me to take what is offered to me; no, nor yet to betray a dying comrade in exchange for power! The same would have befallen me, had our positions been reversed, for such is the way of things among Decepticon warriors. And if the ghost of Megatron should chance to be looking on from whatever eternity awaits our departed sparks, I know he would be proud of me.
At the head of the Hall I ascend the steps to the throne pedestal and, pausing on the topmost step, I turn to survey my domain. A thousand thousand times have I stood before on this lofty height, upon the right hand of the throne, at Megatron's shoulder - his favourite, his victim, his councillor and his slave. Never by word or gesture did he grant me the respect I deserved and yet, after his fashion, he acknowledged me; he decried my counsel but took it nonetheless, he trusted me not and yet he gave me rank and power second only to his own. He knew my worth, though he would never have admitted as much. And now, with his demise, he has accorded me the last and greatest honour of all: the Decepticon honour of dying for me, that I might take what once was his.
And thus I come to be standing here, alone before the vacant seat of gleaming metal that was hitherto his exclusive domain. My very spark soars with exultation as I settle myself in the great throne, quite literally in the seat of power, on the top of the world with the stars at my fingertips. This is my rightful place, and woe to he who seeks to unseat me!
Even so, I feel almost ill at ease. Under the surface of my pride and triumph, the exhilaration of my earned and rightful victory, ten million years of instincts still prickle with warning. The vast space of the Hall feels too quiet, too empty, its shadows huge and hollow beneath the aching black eternity of Cybertron's burned-out open sky. When Megatron ruled here, the void was always filled by his presence; by the ringing tones of his voice, the uncompromising crash of his heavy tread, the blaze of the inner energies that spilled through his silver hide and shone about him like static fire. Sitting here, I am acutely aware that for all my power and ambition, my own lighter step and subtler nature leave far less mark than he ever did. I am a Seeker, built for speed, built for flight, my rightful place not on the ground but suspended halfway between steel and sky. I may have learned much from Megatron, but I am not he. I am not he.
And I need not be, of course. It is the prerogative of every Decepticon leader to remake his followers in his own image - as Megatron did, as Straxus and Shockwave and all the rest did in their times. And now the turn is mine. If I choose to lead the Decepticons down my own path, in the shape of speed and skill and grace in place of brute strength and crude cunning, who shall gainsay me? For all that I can still hear my fallen overlord's voice echoing in the back of my mind, this space is mine now. And, as he did, I shall grow to fill it. Every Decepticon learns his duties on his feet, from the lowliest back-liner to the pride of the Cybertronian War Academy - hah! - and I know that I am equal to this challenge as to so many before.
I am Starscream, Emperor of the Decepticons, Ace of the Air, jewel in the crown of Cybertron; the swiftest, the strongest, the most ruthless, the conqueror! By right of victory, by every right we recognise, the Decepticons are mine. From the throne beneath me, to the hall, to the thousand spires and canyons of shining metal beyond - to the length and breadth and height of the universe, I have won. I shall rule, and my reign shall be the stuff of legend. I am the master. I am the victor.
I am forever.
Fin