A/N: My reviewers are awesome! I love them all! They always succeed in making my day for like, the rest of the week! I love reading their speculation on possible future events!
Starscream's problem... It's big and little all at once. And I rather hope this is nothing like what anyone is expecting. I pride myself on being able to take old and/or over-used plot ideas and putting a new spin on them. So if I did it right, this should be far from what people are thinking.
This chapter... Heheh, this chapter was fun to write. The first of the not-dead things appears, accompanied by some foreshadowing. Enjoy.
Note: this chapter also contains some Russian words that I found on a very nice online Russian dictionary that I haven't been able to find since I first wrote this bloody chapter. If you know the language, then I apologize in advance for what is likely to be improper sentence structure and possibly incorrect word-usage. I had to take an educated guess.
Disclaimer: Transformers is property of HasTak and some other companies whose names elude me.
'Til All Are One
Chapter Nine: Shadow of Victory
That sorry little maggot... Disgusting fleshing; it would die most painfully at his hands. He would be sure of that.
"Mine!" he spat, reaching for it while the maggot tried to scurry away. "AllSpark!"
Prime -- that insufferable pile of scrap -- was yelling something, but he paid no attention. All his attention was focused on the tiny cube clutched in the maggot's arms. The AllSpark would be his if it was the last thing he ever accomplished. If he couldn't have it, then no one else could. It was plain and simple.
He reached for his victory.
And then there was pain.
It was not pain he had experienced before. It was burning, molten pain that shot right to his spark; to the very core of his being. It paralyzed him for a long moment. He tried to get away, to stop it, but it didn't stop. It didn't go away either. He clutched his chassis with one hand and stared dazedly at the molten redness that gathered on his fingers.
Ooh, this isn't good.
There was enough time for that thought to cross his processor before his spark seized. Caught in the throes of death -- yes, this was his death; he knew it was coming this time -- he lurched backwards, falling against the pavement that had broken in the battle. His strength drained away from him. His spark fluttered weakly, trying desperately to cling to life, but it was no use. He knew it.
In his fading vision, he saw Prime looming over him, pity in his optics.
Pity?
No, this was not how he wanted to die. Dying in battle... That was an acceptable end, he supposed. But dying -- battle or no -- on a filthy, miserable, organic-infested world such as this was not. And most of all, he did not want his final vision to be of Optimus Prime with that damnable look of pity slapped across his face.
"You left me no choice... Brother."
No choice?... Oh, but there is always a choice, Prime.
Darkness encroached.
There is always a choice...
"Rob! Hey Rob! Getcher ass up and c'mere and take a look at th' seismographs! They're jumpin' like Gramma's crawdaddies!"
Robert Gallagher unwillingly wrenched his eyelids up and rotated his wrist so he could have a look at his watch. Like usual, it took him a full minute to recall that the long hand told the minutes and the short hand told the hours and then figure out which hand was where. Finally, he concluded that it was ten past five on the morning of June 28th and he was clutching an empty coffee thermos to his chest while trying valiantly not to vomit up his stomach.
The voice that spoke of "Gramma's crawdaddies" was William Hicks also known as "Bill", "Billy", "Billy-Bob" or occasionally just "Bob". He was a born-and-bred Southern boy with a tendency to use all sorts of expressions that didn't always make sense. A chunk of them he'd completely made up anyways. Robert had worked alongside Billy for two years; it was the only reason he remotely understood what even half those expressions meant. He was considering creating a dictionary for the others, who always got lost.
"Robby! Get Ollie and get out here! We got us a good ol' fashion case o' a plugged-up pig!"
Robert closed his eyes and buried his head underneath his meager pillow, hoping that it would be an effective buffer against Billy's exuberant voice even as it cut through the final blissful folds of sleep. He tried not to imagine what a real case of a plugged-up pig was like. He had not slept well after discovering that he was susceptible to seasickness and here on a boat, anchored somewhere near the Laurentian Abyss, was turning into absolute hell.
"Oi... Shut that bloody focker up, will you?... Decent people tryin' to sleep here..." growled a second voice; the other occupant of the small cabin and the third member of Robert's team, Oliver Macauley, also known as "that Scottish Bastard". He had an accent that suggested that he either Scottish or Welsh, but since he'd never told them either way, they continued to refer to him as "that Scottish Bastard".
"Doesn't come with an 'off' button... Sorry..." Robert groaned and swallowed back his stomach as the ship hit a sizable swell.
"Might as well go see what the bloody hell he's on about." Oliver rolled out of the bunk and slapped Robert's shoulder. "C'mon. Before Bill starts raving like a loon again."
Reluctantly, Robert heaved himself off the bunk, his stomach twisting around and around. He simply fell to his knees and groaned some more.
"Never got your sea legs, did you." Oliver tsked disapprovingly, shaking his head.
"Musta missed me when they were passing 'em out." Robert joked, gratefully taking the helping hand that pulled him to his feet. "I can't wait until I get to spend a nice quiet time on dry, unmoving land."
He staggered for the door, holding his roiling stomach with one hand and his coffee thermos with the other. The door came open on its own as the ship hit another strong swell. That latch had always been so bloody shoddy.
"She's really buckin" this mornin' ain't she?!" Billy hollered from the stern of the ship. He looked like he was having the time of his life; straddling the railing like it was horse and moving expertly with each rolling swell. Robert was relieved to see that he had had the presence of mind to tie himself on and he was wearing a life jacket. Billy was also sometimes known as "that Southern Bastard". He looked like a born-and-bred Southern boy; straw-blonde hair, blue eyes and not a single growth of facial hair. And he was in his mid-30s.
Robert ("that Seasick Bastard"), meanwhile, rubbed his five o'clock shadow and wondered where he could get himself some coffee.
"Where's the coffee?" he asked.
Oliver dragged him through another doorway where the seismographs were stationed. There were six of them, one for each of the remote sensors that had been buried around the abyss. Monitoring them was Ruslan Petrovich ("that Russian Bastard"), the fourth and final member of the team, excellent cook and boat driver and a perpetual cigar in the corner of his mouth. He just seemed to fit every stereotype of a Russian-in-America image. They didn't even know if he spoke any English, since he always shot Russian words at them, but he seemed to understand them anyways and they always managed to figure it out. Besides, he did his work to satisfaction and he hadn't let any of them down yet.
Robert only had to look at one seismograph to see that all of them were "jumpin' like Gramma's crawdaddies".
"Holy shit, what the hell is going on down there?" Robert breathed, clutching the thermos closer as though it was his lifeline.
"Кофе вчерез там." Ruslan pointed to the coffee maker set up in the corner.
"And you are a god." Robert said with a smile, moving to fill his thermos with that brown glorious liquid of the gods. He worshipped coffee. Coffee was his god.
"я охотно позволяю вам."
"Right, well what do you make of these?" Oliver asked, looking at the seismograph nearest to him. The activity had been going for the less than ten minutes, but the needles were jumping across the paper, leaving thick black lines in their wakes.
"The Laurentian Abyss isn't known for seismic quakes." Robert muttered thoughtfully. "It has barely any history for them, now that I think about it." He looked up at Oliver. "When did these start?"
"Five minutes ago." Oliver replied flatly.
"Don't be a smartass." Robert snapped, unconsciously employing the same tone he used on his boys whenever they were being smartasses. "When did the sensors start recording them? Before we got here."
Oliver thought for a moment.
"I think... The reports said that they had been happening on and off since June 9th." he said at length, rubbing his chin.
"That explains the rough ocean swells." Robert shrugged. "Ruslan, any thoughts?"
The Russian man shrugged and continued his observation.
Outside, Billy whistled loudly.
"Robby, Ollie! Getcher asses out here an' come see this!" the Southern boy shouted. "Whole place is goin' up like a cat in a cock fight!"
Making faces at the expression -- honestly, it could have been something that didn't inspire such disturbing mental images -- Robert and Oliver stepped outside and Robert nearly dropped his precious coffee.
The Labrador Sea was roiling as if in a storm; iron-gray waves crashing against each other, but there wasn't a cloud in sight and it definitely hadn't been doing that three minutes ago. The center of the disturbance was some 50 feet from their anchored position and damn was it massive. Something akin to a whirlpool was developing, but it couldn't seem to figure out which way it wanted to turn. It would spin left for several seconds before noisily reversing direction and turning right.
"What the bloody--!" Oliver shouted, lurching towards the railing. "Ruslan!" he shouted over his shoulder. "What's the Richter scale at?!"
"Шесть пункт три и вставание!"
"Did he just say six point three?" Robert asked in shock, his broken grasp of Russian not serving him any good right now.
"And rising." Oliver said grimly.
"Rising?" Robert repeated, coffee completely forgotten in his hand. Oliver nodded. "We're getting the bloody hell out of here then! Billy, bring the anchor up! Ruslan! We're leaving! And fast!"
"Хороший идея!" Ruslan said, rushing out of the seismograph room and to the helm.
Robert ran to the CB radio to place a call with the Coast Guard. This earthquake was going to get nasty fast and the right people needed to know about it. Screw that, this earthquake already was nasty and it was just getting worse.
The boat bucked under another large swell and Robert was knocked off his feet. He grabbed the microphone on his way down, jerking the radio down with him.
"Mayday! S.O.S.!" he squawked into the microphone, not caring if he was using the right terminology. "This is the scientific research vessel, the Pursuit! We've monitoring seismic activity in Laurentian Abyss and there's an earthquake measuring beyond 6.3!"
He might have gone on, but the ship listed alarmingly to the right, like it had taken on water, causing him slid back towards the door and he lost his grip on the microphone. Swearing profusely and clambering to his feet, he heaved himself at the radio long enough to send the automated S.O.S., and then scrambled out of the tiny room and back onto the deck.
Robert grabbed a hold of the railing to brace himself and stared at the ocean. The water was bubbling and swirling now; waves much higher than their ship rising all around them. Where the whirlpool had been was something more like an indent; a concave bubble in the water. Like something was pulling the water down.
And then something emerged.
The first thing Robert thought of was the old movie Clash of the Titans; particularly the scene where the mighty Kraken rose from the ocean depths to help himself to the virgin sacrifice, right before the weenie hero slaughtered him and rescued the virgin.
Except that this Kraken was a metal beast.
And there was no hero -- weenie or not -- coming to rescue their sorry asses.
Glowing, evil red eyes glared menacingly from the cover of a tarnished helmet. Robert could feel a strange sort of heat burning from the beast. And worse yet, it saw him and its entire face crinkled with intense hatred.
A mighty arm swept out of the ocean, transforming into some kind spiked Morningstar. The weapon was raised, poised to be brought down.
Here the beast paused, as though it wanted them to get a good long look at their reaper.
The Morningstar came down with deadly accuracy.
Screaming and foul language erupted around him.
Robert closed his eyes and wondered what his boys were going to eat for breakfast this morning.
There is always a choice...
It was those to words -- his own words -- that he woke up from an endless darkness that hadn't felt much like death. Death was silent and forever. That darkness hadn't been so silent. There had been a soft voice whispering in his audial, telling him of the greatness he had left undone. There was still a chance to go back, it insisted; still a chance to realize his ambition, exact revenge, claim the high throne his pride demanded.
At first, he was terribly confused. The pain was gone. The molten fire was gone. And his spark no longer struggled for life. It beat out a steady rhythm in its chamber; not skipping or fluttering or dying.
Perhaps the best part was the lack of Prime and his pitying look.
Yes, that definitely was the best part.
He stared at his surroundings for a long moment, trying to make sense of them. It was remarkably warm and the air was clouded and sort of bubbly like--
Water.
He looked left and right, seeing the mangled, semi-crushed bodies of his comrades. They were dead, destroyed by the wretched Autobots and further defiled by those worthless maggots.
He also seemed to be missing a leg. Hmm...
He spotted the detached limb a few yards away. He grabbed it and fitted it onto the jagged edge that had been left behind. He watched the edges weld themselves together. Wires reattached, feeling returned and he was whole again. There was only the faintest seam left behind.
The power of the AllSpark singing in his circuits.
He didn't know how. He certainly didn't know why. Except possibly for the words of the voice he had heard before waking up -- he had a choice. On the whole, however, he didn't particularly care. He made his way up to the surface. Something propelled him steadily upwards. His head broke through the surface and the first thing he laid his optics on was a boatful of those disgusting fleshlings. A quick death would good enough for the stupid things. They should be honored to be the only ones who wouldn't suffer when he crushed this pathetic mudball-planet between his fingers.
He brought his Morningstar out of the water and destroyed the maggots in a crushing blow. Their fragile boat shattered in an instant, but he was already turning his attention away. There were more important things he had to do.
His body twisted and warped in a familiar fashion and then he was back in a familiar form, blasting his way back to solid land. He landed on the slope of the Labrador coast and transformed back to standard mode.He stretched his arms to their full length and let loose a thunderous howl of sheer exultation. The ground beneath his feet trembled; every tree for as far as he could see belched up clouds of panicked birds. Every inch of his being was overflowing with energy from the AllSpark. Really, what that degenerate fleshbag had done had been a blessing! He had never dreamed of being so powerful (and Megatron was a mech whose dreams were ambitious indeed).
But right now, he needed to clean himself off. It wouldn't do for the up and coming destroyer of the planet Earth to be covered in its... leavings.
Kelp and seaweed hung from every conceivable (and some inconceivable) nook, there were barnacles all over the top of his head, making it look like he was wearing some sort of bizarre crown, and a now-gasping giant squid had tried to make a home on his left leg. He plucked it off and threw it carelessly over his shoulder. Fortunately for the squid, it landed in the water and sped right back for the depths from whence it had come.
"Ugh... Organics."
Scraping the rest of everything off, he felt the top of his head, wondering if he was going to need any sort of cosmetic surgery to fix the marks. Maybe it didn't look too bad, but...
Never mind.
There wasn't time for that.
This planet deserved to die.
He reached out, scanning for the presence of both his soldiers and his enemies. Both were some 9000 miles from his current location. He would find his soldiers first. He didn't know exactly how much time had passed since he was last awake, but he knew he needed information.
And then he needed revenge.
His spark gave a horrible wrench, like something had just tried to yank it out, and he staggered. He grabbed at the wall for support, but found that it failed him. He must have cried out (he didn't know, himself), because the next thing he knew, Ironhide, Ratchet, and Prowl were right there at his side; Jazz, Wheeljack, and Bumblebee were lingering in the corridor outside, wide-opticed and fearful.
"Optimus, what's wrong?" Ironhide asked, his voice heavy with uncharacteristic fear. But Optimus merely doubled over, trying desperately to keep another pained scream from escaping his vocal processor; hands pressed against his chassis as though he could keep his spark from jumping out of his chest. It felt like it was trying to do just that.
"What's going on?!"
"Optimus!"
"What's wrong?!"
"Slag! I think it's his spark!"
"WHAT?!"
"No..." Optimus wheezed out through a haze of pain, bringing the frantic shouts to silence. It was important for all of them to hear this.
"It's Megatron... He's alive..."
And then he collapsed.
The scars seared with sudden heat and Sam dropped Mojo's water dish on the floor. He dove for the sink, turning the water on as cold as it came and thrust his hands beneath the flow. He looked at his hands and under the rush of the water, saw that his AllSpark-induced scars were an angry-looking red; like they were fresh, brand new.
"What the hell?..." he asked the empty kitchen.
And then a cold feeling fell over him, like he had just been doused in cold water all over, instead of just his hands and his socks.
Sam took his hands out from underneath the faucet and shook himself vigorously, trying to chase away the cold feeling. He looked at his hands again. The burning feeling had stopped and the red had already faded to a lobster pink. As he watched, the thin, swirling scars that ran the length and breadth of his palms, curving around his fingers at random intervals, faded into the light coffee-colored shade they had healed to.
Cautiously, Sam trailed a finger over the thickest scar on the heel of his left hand, but the action elicited nothing more than a slight tickle. Experimentally, he pressed his finger into his flesh, but there was nothing other than the usual pressure. No flashes of pain, no burning feelings, nothing. The burns had healed up perfectly; the skin wasn't fragile or extra-sensitive. It was like his skin had been simply been stained.
Granted, the scars had been caused by something that had very extra-terrestrial origins. He couldn't claim to know everything.
But he couldn't figure out what could have caused them to burn like that.
"Starscream! Starscream, HELP!!"
He banked--
And jerked out of recharge before the dream could finish. Putting a hand to his aching head, Starscream rose from the-- the ground? What was he doing on the ground? How had he gotten on the ground in the first place anyways?
Primus, it felt like someone had shot him in the back...
Starscream brushed away the grit that had collected on his front and picked up the slightly squished-looking piece of machinery that had been laying a few inches from his hand. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a long moment. What had he been doing with this thing again?
Oh wait, it was a remote sensor node. He'd been building one so he could make others and set them in a perimeter around the base. It was time to turn this dump into a proper Decepticon base.
Human technology was so inferior.
It looked like he had completed it -- when you ignored the slightly crushed part. Starscream couldn't remember if he'd tested it or not. He'd have to fix that crushed part first anyways...
Starscream started to peel off the crushed metal plates, trying to ignore the inexplicable pounding in his head and his back. When in the Pit had that happened anyways? He must have passed out or-- No, no. The leader of the Decepticons simply did not pass out. That was much too undignified. He must have been shot at. Yes, that was it. Someone had shot at him. It was probably Soundwave. That fragging Seeker-wanna-be was the second-in-command. He probably thought that if he got rid of Starscream, then he would get to be the Decepticon leader.
Well, Soundwave was going to have to aim a lot better than that!
A growl escaped Starscream's vocal processors as he tore that the battered sections of metal on the sensor with increasing ferocity. Stupid, slagging squishy technology! Refining what poor metal alloys he found into something useable was such an abominable pain in the aft.
Or maybe it was Thundercracker and Skywarp...
Yes, those two had been awfully cozy as of late; spending a lot of time in dusty corners, whispering to each other and peeking over their wings at him. They always shut their gobs whenever he was in hearing range. As if that would make them look less suspicious! They thought he hadn't noticed, but oh no, he saw them. He saw the narrowed optics. The calculating looks. They were plotting his downfall. They were going to shoot him in the back and then sell his corpse off for scrap and either hand the Decepticon leadership over to someone less deserving or take it for themselves.
But they would never succeed. He'd scrap them both before they so much as laid a rifle on him.
Again.
He was Starscream and no one would ever take the mantle of leadership away from him.
"Starscream!"
He jerked around, null ray trained on Skywarp who had just appeared around the corner of the building, rapidly dragging air through his intakes to cool his internal systems; the mech equivalent of being out of breath.
"What are you doing bothering me?!" Starscream snapped angrily. "I came out here to get away from you pests!"
"Screamer, you gotta haul aft!" Skywarp said frantically. He looked frightened. Pathetic. "He's really, really mad at you and I think he's gonna shoot you again!"
"Again?" Starscream repeated, lowering his null ray a little. "Who is it?! Is it Soundwave?" he asked, shuttering his optics and slowly shaking his aching head. "Tell that pathetic excuse for a flier that if he thinks he's going to be the leader, he needs to hit a more vital spot next time!"
"I'm sure he'll keep that in mind." said a deep voice that was most assuredly NOT Skywarp.
Starscream's optics flew open in time to see the terrified black and purple Seeker warp away.
"I certainly know I will."
His optics fixed on the gleaming silver body that fairly towered over him; at the Pit-fire red optics that glared down at him; at the mouth set in a grimace of pure disgust; and most importantly, at the gaping black hole of a fusion cannon pointed directly at his spark.
"Hello Starscream."
"M-Megatron!" Starscream gulped, his voice hitching and squeaking in a most undignified manner. He reflexively scrambled away from the maw of the cannon. "F-Fancy seeing y-you again--"
"Silence, you sniveling wretch!" Megatron barked, causing Starscream to cower. "What are you still doing here?"
"Why-- C-Carrying on the work of the Decepticon army, of course." Starscream said, a little bit of his usual smarminess returning. "As you can see--"
Megatron whacked him across the face with the fusion cannon. Starscream reeled from the blow and went sprawling to the tarmac. He made no move to get up right away; the ground was looking much friendlier than it ever had before, after all... But Megatron didn't give him even a second to get more familiar with that nice friendly ground. He hauled the Seeker up by the wing and gripped Starscream's throat in one impossibly strong hand, lifting him clear off the ground.
"What are you still doing here?" Megatron repeated in a low, gravelly voice.
Starscream didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to, but more because he couldn't. The hand was compressing his vocalizer, rendering him unable to speak.
"I called for you ten minutes ago." Megatron went on, jerking him closer until those hellfire eyes were very nearly all Starscream could see. The Decepticon leader's voice reverberated in his chassis like thunder. "What are you still doing hiding back here? Oh..." He grinned; a mirthless one. "Were you hiding? Too afraid to face me? Unable to face the fact that you've lost your place yet again as the 'all-powerful leader of the Decepticons'?"
He mimicked the Seeker's sneering tone to the letter.
Ten minutes ago? I was out that long? Starscream wondered, thoughts whirling, still gripping Megatron's hand but utterly powerless to wrench it even the tiniest bit loose from his neck.
"How pathetic." the newly-returned Decepticon lord sneered. He opened his fist and Starscream fell back to the ground with an ugly crunch of metal on concrete. Then he turned and stomped back around the corner, already barking orders to Soundwave to dispatch Laserbeak so they could get a fix on the Autobots' location.
Slowly, Starscream started to drag himself up, assisted halfway by the timely arrival of his wing-mates. His earlier resentment of them was quite forgotten, though he still wouldn't admit how grateful he was to have them around than at this moment.
"Screamer, you okay?" Skywarp was asking with much concern for his wing-mate. "He didn't hurt you too badly, did he?"
"No..." Starscream replied as he tried to pull his feet under him.
"Starscream, you don't look so good." Thundercracker said with a small frown. "Are you sure--"
"I'm sure." Starscream interrupted, feeling his anger toward them spike again. The last thing he wanted right now was an interrogation. He wasn't stupid enough to think that his wing-mates were totally ignorant of the fact that he hadn't been recharging at all for the last few days, but he wasn't about to admit that there was anything else wrong besides being kicked around by Megatron. That at least was somewhat normal.
"That was not Megatron though." the Seeker added, partially to change the subject; partially because it was something that truly bothered him.
"What?" his wing-mates asked in tandem.
"You've been around him for more than a minute and you haven't noticed?" Starscream frowned at them in disbelief. "He's different. He's-- powerful."
"Of course he's powerful." Skywarp said in a "duh" tone. "Otherwise he wouldn't be the--"
"No! Not like that!" Starscream interrupted. He seemed to be doing that a lot recently. "He's..."
Primus, how could he say this? His thoughts were so scrambled; he couldn't put them straight for the life of him. The Megatron he'd just met was not the Megatron he'd known when he'd first joined the ranks of the Decepticon army; was not even the same Megatron from the time of the war. That Megatron had been ambitious, ruthless, merciless, powerful, but... within reason, somehow.
This Megatron was powerful on a level beyond that. Frighteningly powerful. The very air around him seemed to boil with it. Starscream swore he could see that aura burning around Megatron out of the corner of his optic, but it always vanished when he tried to look directly at it.
He shook his head, as if that would jolt his thoughts into the proper order.
"He shouldn't even be alive." Starscream said finally, softly, as though afraid to be overheard. "The Pit-slagging human Prime was protecting shoved the AllSpark into Megatron's chest. It burned him out from the inside. All that was left for the squishies to dump in the ocean was melted slag."
At one point, those words would have sounded damned sweet indeed, but right now, they hung like icicles in the air between the three Seekers. Thundercracker and Skywarp shared identical looks of shock and dismay. Starscream had never told them exactly how Megatron had died, nor exactly how the AllSpark had been destroyed...
"You don't think..." Thundercracker started, looking around. "Primus, Starscream, you don't think-- The AllSpark?"
"It brought him back." Starscream said in nearly a whisper. "And it turned him into something else."
"Like what?" Skywarp asked, his voice faint with undisguised fear. Even he had felt the aura of cold menace radiating from the Decepticon lord.
"I don't know." Starscream shook his head wearily, turning away from them. He didn't need this. He didn't want this. He was so tired, but he couldn't bring himself to fall into recharge. He just couldn't. He couldn't even bring himself to be upset about the fact that he had just lost his position as leader to Megatron yet again. The gross irony that even Megatron's death hadn't allowed him, Starscream, to become the undisputed leader of the Decepticons didn't even set his spark blazing. It was like... It didn't matter. He felt numb.
Something was screeching at him to not let this injustice stand; an oh-so-familiar voice demanding that he go and challenge Megatron to a final duel, winner take all, loser blasted into slag. The urge was nearly overwhelming. He felt like his whole life would be complete if he just walked around that corner and fire a few bolts at the glitchy, undead slagger.
And he just might have, had his wing-mates not taken hold his arms and gripped tightly. At first, he didn't know why they were doing that. Did they realize what he felt like doing and were they trying to hold him back or something?
And then he remembered, back in school, whenever something well and truly spooked them, they would grab his arms for reassurance and then hide behind him-- their "protector".
His wing-mates were frightened and at the moment, they were not afraid to admit it.
Starscream was too exhausted to be truly frightened by Megatron. He supposed the fear would hit him later when he was staring down that fusion cannon barrel again. He was too exhausted from his own dreams to do nothing more than simply let his wing-mates hold on.
He didn't want to go scaring them any more than they already were.
They were his best friends.
They had never said a word against his actions back then, on that day when everything had ended. They never blamed him for what had happened... Maybe they had never blamed him in the first place...
Maybe he'd been pushing them away for too long.