I honestly considered splitting this chapter in two due to its length. This is, to date, the longest chapter I have written, and there's a bunch of google-translated (pseudo-endonymic to Seekers) canon names hanging around. Collect them all and win a prize.
Warnings for Windsheer's part in this include: Seeker language, mentioned auto-abortion/miscarriage, mentioned death/suicide, implied female-on-male rape. General warnings include sexism towards males.
(In which there is a history lesson.)
"Don't bother. You know it won't move."
"Oh? Should I stare at you then?!" As snapped as the reply was, she remained seated. Wings rested easy, tips against stone as her spark pulsed deep and steady within her canopy, echoes of the enjoyable session her Trine'd had re-affirming the Trinebonds. Hopefully not with newspark; she didn't want to know what Megatron would do if she Sired here. Likely kill it.
"Like I'm a pile of metal? No!"
"But you are!" She shot back with a smirk, never mind the hike-flick-twitch of Starscream's wings or the way his em-field withdrew. "But hardly one to scribe about."
"I am not! I am-"
"Aww. Did I burst that ego? I didn't know you were Thundercracker."
She could tell she had, just from the way he held himself. And the tone of voice, of course. "I am Lord of the Skies!"
"Who is a mech!" Instrictially worth less than a Matria Sky-Lord, though Starscream was also worth less than a typical mech Sky-Lord. "One who'll wake my Trine!" Dirge ignored the spluttered denial from Starscream. Her words were true enough even without the added knowledge Ramjet and Starscream could and would snark at each other forever if allowed. Said mech stirred, only to press his face harder against her side, arms firmly around her side. Sunstorm was half atop him, a leg thrown haphazardly over his and a hand not quite fondling the Liar's chassis.
"No I won't!" Came the childish retort of a mech who knew he was outclassed. Dirge flicked him one last glance along with a dismissive flick of wings and turned her attention to the recharging mechs.
Starscream, not one to be ignored, had to poke at her. "And you call yourself a Matria."
"Well then, how about you fix that and find us a berth or two, Sky-Lord?" A big one, covered with exotic fabricweaves, metallics, and knitted caesium-based weave, the bulkier the better.
"You think they grow from crystals?"
"No, but they're up on the Nemesis." Along with other Leitandi; she was starting to think he was avoiding the bulk of their species for some 'unfathomable reason'.
"Then why don't you go and get one?"
"Who? Me?" She squinted at him, hands over Ramjet and Sunstorm's audios, as if that would keep them from hearing their Maker's increasingly screechy voice. "I'm not the one who claimed us as Eyrar, Sky-Lord!"
The look Starscream gave her was one of smouldering, childish frustration. Then, he stuck his nose in the air, turned on a thruster and stalked off to the other side of the roosting cavern.
She let him go with an exvent, though she could have done without the obscene wing flicks. To think one of her eventual vornlings from her Harem would be Sired on Starscream. That the little Matria would be an Heir of a mech who didn't know aft from helm.
Her Harem. Her vornlings. The Heir.
She, a mere clone with a spark she 'should not rightfully claim' yet did, hurtled towards the undeniable and she both loved and loathed it.
How, in all the myriad of gods of the universe, was she to care for a Harem? Instinct would only get her so far and it was easy to blame Starscream. To say it typical of a mech, yet Dirge knew he'd not been expecting a Matria. She'd still blame him, because honestly, he should have been smarter and quicker on the uptake like his intelligence suggested he be. Should have considered their 'screwed up biology'.
Then again, he was a tata - a homemaker who happened to be the Sky-Lord, but that didn't change a thing. He was a tata - a mech, one of her's and Dirge knew not to expect much out of them on a good cycle.
But she also knew exactly what most Cybertronians thought. The only 'screw-ups' worse were the Insecticons and no-one seemed to find their hives centred around swarm-queens 'weird'. But of course they wouldn't. Seekers, Warbuild, and the Veiði weren't 'originally' created via the Allspark or the Well, instead being creations of Primus themselves. Yet Warbuild's could be created via Allspark or Well; didn't happen often, but it did. Not that it stopped the Autobots vilifying them because of 'their' method of reproduction while they conveniently forgot a good number of civilian framecodes faded purely because the civilians on a whole refused to spark-kindle.
Fools. One day the pile of frozen newsparks would run out, one day the Allspark would truly be lost, not scattered into fragments and pieces. Then what? Would they be content to allow the species a slow death? Or would they allow 'the worthy' to Carry? The sooner the Senate and its powerbases were out of power, the better. Not that Megatron would be any better, given he had no breaks, but he was legitimate.
The only one they even had.
Dirge forced another exvent as if that would clear the thoughts on Megatron away.
Instinct only went so far. Seeking out Sparktide and Ionstorm to ask for help was an option. They were but two of the Sky-Lord's advisors who'd joined him on the Nemesis. Yet doing so would leave her Trinemates in Megatron's dubious care and if he thought she didn't see the small dents in Ramjet or the way Sunstorm paused when she acknowledged his praise, then the so-called Protector was far blinder than she thought. Yet-
Inhale. Exhale. Level her 'field so the exhausted mecha didn't wake. By the First kindled of Leitaað, she could do nothing, not even attempt to take the fledging Harem back to Leitaað because it'd end in trouble. Trouble that would see their Sky-Lord in an insanity-riddled death-flight. For all his many and widely varied faults, Dirge wouldn't have it. Even she knew they needed their Sky-Lord sane, and she was, at best given how she'd come online, three megacycle old. A planetary month and half. Dirge liked the sound of that better. Made her seem older.
The teal-and-black Matria groaned and pressed the heels of her hands into her optics. Age or no, any would feel helpless, alone and unprepared, out of their depth at the sheer mess coming to light. She wasn't so foolish as to think she'd done anything other than graze it- No. She was not alone. She could ask others but that didn't answer why she felt alone, as if they wouldn't understand.
It stank, roiled her tanks and caused her wings to itch. She'd have to talk to Sparktide and Ionstorm. She didn't want to; they were traitors, and she only knew because they talked freely in the labs, thinking her 'offline' between gaining a spark and Starscream 'waking them'. Idiots. To go against their Sky-Lord would cost them dearly once -if- he found out.
They'd be lucky if he only took their wings and rent the Harems unable to Carry. In all likelihood, Starscream'd follow the traditional punishments for traitors.
She wouldn't tell him though. Not when the information was needed; running blindly would endanger the Harem and that would not do. They might be brainless mechs who couldn't tell aft from helm, but they were hers. Plus, she was a Sky-Lord's Matria and hadn't yet Sired an Heir on him... Or officially claimed him but that was only a matter of time.
That brought the initial thought back to the fore.
She didn't know what being a Matria entailed outside of a Harem, soothing them, and ensparking them. Information was missing and as much as she resented Starscream and wanted to rant and rave at him for being so stupid, it wouldn't bring what was craved.
Another huff as she settled herself.
It was time to dig even deeper into the memories Starscream (and the Allspark shard, but mostly The Prince) had oh-so-generously left within them. Every single memory and she knew what he'd been trying to do. Idiot, but any snapping and growling would come later. She'd skimmed them already of course. Most were superfluous and boring, without emotional attachment and going through them was a chore for later, though the ones pertaining to the last vorn had been dealt with. Though, the sixty-seven ways of killing someone with a mere crystal were memories she'd later revisit purely for the educational value.
But it was far from useful and asked what, exactly, her oh-so-charming Sky-Lord had gotten up to if he'd logged that number of crystal kills.
What emotional responses there were had been attached to things she'd no desire to know that way, even if it would help explain how much damage the last Matria had done.
Eventually, Dirge literally felt her spark skip as it threatened to stop as a memory-thread surfaced. It was a memory given in a way she'd never know. The Heir would never know.
A memory of a memory. From Titan to Sky-Lord... and inadvertently, to her. To them. Would it hold answers?
Only one way to find out.
"Hi."
The only light in the chamber was a flickering Primus-blue and against it, all other colours muted, washed out. Even the shadows seemed pale, scattered, and chased away. Yet it was all so very real and a piece of home, of the Skohlé.
"Hello, Réttaskýin." The voice boomed and surrounded the speaker as light pulsing with each glyph and archaically ancient and formal against the speaker's, yet understood all the same.
"Gotta update again."
"You are most welcome too." Nevermind the speaker had come but breem before according to the Titan.
"... you should fly like us-"
"Réttaskýin fly the Light of the Skies and Homestar. There is no hunger of the skies I suffer, child." The booms and pulses gave a smile. Indulgent, as if forever amused by the youngling. "Come. Allow and indulge me of a Flight in the Light?"
The Sky-Lord needed no prompting to move forward and kneel before Leitaað's spark. Chestplates opened and sparkplates irised open as the faintest of faint tendrils reached out, seeking the connection as to imprint memories yet again.
For her Sky-Lord, Leitaað sang in a resonate language so ancient and ethereal its very beat swept high, in a castrato-treble that bespoke ancient freedoms and rushing wind, a hurricane of purpose and glory as it soared until it danced on the edge of space, playing over the atmosphere as it teetered on the edge of gravity.
-/-/-
The megacycle Móðir'd Flown Free was not a pleasant one.
Windsheer wished she could erase the very klik from memory, but Leitaað needed to know it however much it hurt. Móðir'd torn his sparkcasing out as he raced towards the homestar, the rest of the Harem following without question as the casing tumbled to the ground. She screamed his -their- names in denial as once colourful shells greyed and plunged, free falling and spiralling until they crashed, skidding across the ground and ending in a pile of limbs. A mockery of the life they'd once enjoyed. She was too young to Rule!
Nevermind the Titan welcomed her not even a cycle ago, or that she'd won the right of Rule in the swift, terrifyingly exuberant and challenging sky-race before that.
Why did they do this to her?!
She had Leitaað, had advisors, but she was too young, barely a megavorn with a half-handful of vorn and she could tell the advisors didn't fully trust her. She didn't blame them when she didn't trust herself (themselves. It'd been like this for so long and only grown worse over time. Windsheer was the youngest to date; only Starscream would eclipse her). She should have had more time, should have formed Trine then Harem under Sky Warp's watch while learning what it truly meant to Rule.
Not this. Not from advisors and aunts and cousins and from a Titan who simply didn't understand what it meant to watch one's creators suicide. Never mind the memories of other Sky-Lords. Leitaað would never understand. Primus' spark slept below even the Underdark, guarded by the sparks of those who'd gone before them. Devcon said a billion-trillion rung the sleeping god in rings herded by the First-Kindled. Hrugga. Ævilok, Aðlaga, Visku, Vitandi. Cēoscūa, Skaði, Iānus, Métallon, Hallinskiði, Euroclydon, and more.
Windsheer wasn't sure she believed him. Móðir was dead and grey, metal and scrap, Spark guttered and sundered under the very winds they flew. How could his Spark be there when it was a Leitaaðsti? No. His Spark hung the heavens as the light of a star, like Faðir's and Sjáum's.
Like her siblings. Aunts and cousins were not siblings, no matter how she wished them be. No. They were all dust and grey shells. Every single one of them and she wasn't sure what it meant outside no one wanted to talk about them. Even aunts refused.
She only knew she'd had them because of a memory from Sky Warp. A single memory four, one with the vaunted quicksilver optics of a Sjáandi - a Sighted-, nothing more. As if the memories had been deleted or edited out.
So, though Windsheer could force the issue, command them as Rettaskyin, she put them out of mind. Her people came first over personal desires. They had to, and she had to grow fast, into the Ruler Leitaað needed.
The hated questions burned as they lingered, never to be answered.
"You're Kaiju!" The words tumbled from her mouth, laced with a euphoric joy and delight when Devcon brought them to her.
"Sixth generation, purecoded," Gigatron said with a flash of fangs and twitch of un-aerodynamic wings.
"Sixth?!" That had been Orion - Optimus. "From the Allspark? Or the Well?"
"No, silly!" Windsheer shook her head even as she wondered if they'd had the conversation yet. Given both were mechs, likely not. "He's a pure Warbuild like I'm pure Leitandi."
She could trace her lineage back to Leitaað - to Primus themselves.
"And you, Civilian. Devcon is of Primus." Gigatron added.
She didn't hear Optimus's reply. Not when her spark raced and wings ached for the winds she would now fly. Winds outside Vos, outside her City. All because of the pair before her. She glomped them both.
"I can see the world now!"
"You never left?" Optimus asked, optics wide.
"No. But now I can." Her smile hurt to the point it might freeze as if made of metals used for the Au-Trooper shells. But she did not care. They'd given her her wings, her freedom. For them, she'd fly the homestar itself and sky-dance the corona sphere.
It was a memory second only to her first flight. To when thrusters and flight protocols had finally onlined.
She'd adored them, adored sparing with Devcon. Flying with Gigatron was exhilarating even if he had no hope of catching her; only Devcon could with sickening easy yet he was the Vörður; his Primus-given gift was speed not even the fastest Outlier could hope to match. Verbally sparring with Optimus, of watching him put mecha in their place as he slowly grew into a Prime she was proud to Fly the Light for. Of them meeting her Trine when it'd formed, of meeting the Harem.
Downburst and Jetstream. Solarflare, Horizon, Duststorm. Her beloved mechs.
"You're excited!" An obvious statement, but it was hard to miss, both in 'field and how he held himself.
"We Kindled."
She boggled. "Already?" None of her's had kindled yet, but they hadn't really been trying.
"The act is quite enjoyable," Optimus remarked slyly, hand briefly over sparkplates. It didn't hide the optic flare nor how it lingered for a good klick or three. "Though... Devcon said Decima and Nitron kindled before they Bonded."
"Who?" She leant in, as if it were some great secret being shared. In retrospect, it was. Just like the two Optimus and Gigatron kindled were. Hybrids. Mecha with valuable rare coding and rarer framecodes. Of course Prime-Protectors Kindled, just like Vörður-Réttaskýin could Kindle (it would almost always be a Phase-Sixer). Yet it meant nothing outside good status and possible Conjunx.
Or had, once.
"Our physician." The Prime said, nodding towards the mostly red mechanism fussing over Gigatron while a darker, pointer, taller, sleeker looking mech rested against the wall behind Rochet. It wasn't Sixshot- he was by the door.
Windsheer's mouth dropped open. "But he was Allspark-kindled!"
The only answer was laughter. "Like our creation shall be?"
"Do the rest know?" It was weird only Sixshot and Warmonger were the only guards in the room, with the Warrior-Priests Carnivac and Aleeta outside.
"We don't trust them," Optimus said plainly. Sadly.
Yet the look in his optics said it all: at least one Senate spy lurked in their midst and the Warrior-Priests weren't included. They were of a sect fanatically loyal to the Four. "Oh..."
They'd kindled twice in a Golden Age yet they couldn't share it- Was it really a Golden Age?
Regardless of the answer, the Golden Age hadn't lasted.
Windsheer had been finalising the contract of one of Sixstrike's many, many shiseiji to Twisterspin when the agony hit. It wrote a scorching path of loss and hate across her spark as she felt her Prime and Protector slip away despite her screams. They were there and then they weren't.
The room and the receiving hall had been upended even after official confirmation had come. Assassin, they said. Zarak, they said.
Some small part of her wondered what would happen to the youngest of the Prime and Protector. Killed most likely. Windsheer knew Huffer and Jazz should be contacted but she didn't trust them not to sell Goldbug out to save themselves. Rochet- or was it said Rotchet now?- maybe, but he was off holidaying on Paradon with Warmonger.
He wouldn't arrive in time and change was coming.
Brutal, violent change with scant precious time before they came after her and her own. She made the best of it, warned as many as she could but it was not enough. She fled and bounced around allies until she and hers were safe in Vos, away from the murderous manipulations of the Senate and its Guilds.
Zarak, it turned out, had also murdered Móðir's Protector and Prime. She would give Sky Warp the vengeance he should have had. They plotted and planned and eventually Zarak'd was caught by her own, made to watch his bastardised, worthless, traitorous Clan torn limb from limb, guts and entrails spilled in an energonbath of remorseless, gleeful abandon. His so very young twins lived because twins were rare, a possession prized. Had they been Seeker, they'd have been sacred (yet not twin Sky-Lords. Ill-omens and wretched things that brought forth the Sky-Danger.)
Yet they weren't and so, they were given, battered and terrified, into slavery to the Senix as reparations. Zarak's head still decorated the Clan's receiving chambers; she'd put it there herself while they hacked and mutilated the body then melted down to become something useful.
Overkill? Hardly. It was a drop in the bucket compared to the pain she would feel for teravorn. Nothing compared to Moonracer and Goldbug losing their creators, and they'd been lucky to rescue Moonracer at least. Jazz had taken Goldbug before they could get him.
Neither Goldbug or Moonracer knew. The Hybrids would be slaughtered if word got out.
She hated Zarak.
They had been bringing in a new Golden Age; tried to heal the rifts in the species, tried so hard because it was the right thing to do. It was not right their species should be so fractured and broken and defenceless against the Sky-Danger that lurked and threatened. A Sky-Danger that would see them all dead and grey and dust and devoured as certain as it would see Málmheim overrun by the Underdark and its monsters.
She hated them; hated the Senate and she would see them pay. She would force them to re-live each of her beloveds' pain-loss-denial as Heirs they tried so hard to bring her either self-aborted or failed to thrive. Each one guttering and dying and the fear that pervaded their sparks.
It was not fair to them and would she, she'd take it all on herself so they'd never have to suffer again.
Never fair. Why?!
All offspring were distant, shattered reflections of the Heirs lost and she knew she'd been unfair in her treatment of them, especially of the ones that came after Optimus and Gigatron's death. They were talented, fantastic creations she'd found no joy in and they'd only seen her as a distant, demanding, a perfectionist of a Sire who was their Lord of the Skies first and family a distant second.
That, as time wore on, was wrapped in pain and loss and hurt. She did her duty, ruled her people yet her pain and loss were absolute.
Would she, could she change it, she would have. She'd been blind. So blind yet so hopeful that maybe, maybe the Heir had been Sired, that something had been missed. Each had Flown against her and fallen short.
Each time she'd raged at her beloveds for what fate wrought as she flew the living suits, destroying them until spent and screaming on her knees. They destined her to never Sire her Heir yet she Sired a Sjáandi?
Fallen so short. Why?!
Nor was it the fault of the creations, but she'd blamed each of them, raged at them, destroyed their living quarters time and time again for daring to give her false hope. How dare they not live up to her desires, to be the Heir so wanted and needed. Her eldest, Twisterspin, Flew multiple times, each time a failure. Each time, she'd screamed at him, rent wings until he was a pleading mess, begging for a mercy she did not want to give.
He was not the Heir, would never be. How dare he ask for the mercy when each time he Flew, he taunted her?
But mercy came, if only because of his Carrier's pleading begging debasements and the way he threw himself at her, as if to sway the decisions about her subjects... her blasted, false hope giving progeny. Yet it didn't change there was no Heir. She could not join her Prime and Protector until she had an Heir - any Heir.
but, oh, how she wanted to-
It was said one could hear her screams across Leitaað each time one of her beloved mechs miscarried. It would be megavorn until something took with them again. Until they'd be willing.
As time wore on, consent became a non-issue; she needed the Heir.
She didn't-couldn't understand (She was a Matria, not a mech) rapes and fear put any carriage at risk.
Windsheer hated her life, her destiny.
She was a selfish, selfish Matria, yet her mechs understood. They loved her even if she forced them to carry, to suffer when the spark gutted.
She was not worthy of such of a devoted Harem. (Were they though? How long since they'd been in her berth willingly outside Downburst? Even then- No. They were. The loved and adored her.)
Duty became the pulse of her Spark.
"What?"
"It's true, Sky-Lord," the Sjáandi said as she placed the files on the desk. "It's all there."
Windsheer snatched them up, skimming the pages over. "For every Heir lost... You're telling me a Civilian-Warbuild pair died?"
"Yes. Purecoded and puresparked to the sixth, at least."
Her Spark hitched and skipped as vents closed off. Prime and Protector.
"Look into it." The order was snarled. She didn't want to accept the facts. She'd taken Downburst to berth that night, wrapped herself around her Favourite in an attempt to drown out the horror and rage. She'd almost had an Heir seven times over-
The data came back true.
It was always the same. Even if they found them, they were always too late. The Senate found them first. The Magnus found them. Left only bodies to find.
Oh how she loathed that title; loathed how they'd lost or sundered the Matrix; she'd like to think it was lost, not sundered because if it was sundered, then she'd never find peace. She hated them and the glee her Spark danced to with three she'd ordered assassinated had happened in broad daylight was unparalleled. It served them right.
Málmheim needed its Protector and Prime and Sky-Lord and the Guard, yet the blind, ignorant fools could not See what they Saw.
It was coming back - It would return, and she wished, wished she could leave Leitaað and scream in their faces until her vocaliser was gone and turbines little more squeaks. Wished she had twin Heirs to shove it in their faces even though she knew she'd loathe the Heirs for being twins, for being proof of what her people knew.
Duty amongst the Skies as a Vanguard.
Yet leaving meant death; they hunted her still because she had her own out hunting, taking care of those who'd dare plot to take her- a Prime and Protector away. They'd made so many vanish in the madness following Optimus and Gigatron's deaths. Had declared a silent war on Warbuilds because how dare they not come from the Allspark or the Well. Idiots.
Yet she - they - could not get all of them. They hid well and deep, cloaked in layers and layers and they used Things - ancient, old relics bathed in Its energon- to mask from the Sight, and so she had to trust her Ambassadors, her people and the Veiði, knew how to find every last one who'd dared-
She wanted to be there, to lead the vengeance. To make the slaughters stop. She had to stay so they would have Flock Leader that would always lead them to Skohlé.
Duty, her Spark pulsed. Duty before selfish desire.
Creating an Heir was not a selfish desire. One was needed to take up the reins and Fly True and straight and Light the Skies so that if - when - It came back, because It would and It was long overdue- Leitandi were there, waiting in the clouds, the skies, and the heavens to be the Vanguard against It.
They were the first -and sadly last- defence of a defenceless, blind, stupid people that thought she and hers were relics, unneeded. That Warbuilds were outdated. That Veiði were the monsters they protected against. And they wondered why none would venture deeper than they did, even off Cybertron. It wasn't respect. The Underdark was a very real thing.
Blind fools-! Just because it had been over an age and a half- Blind fools would doom them all as surely as they'd dug in the fractures that would see Warbuilds yoked to a life they weren't intended for, while slowly slaughtering them because they were obsolete, unneeded in an 'age of peace'.
Why...? Did they not see this was no peace but a silent genocide? A condemnation of the species to a whimpering death?
And then the day came when Sjáandi rushed the news, quicksiver optics bright, desperate. Windsheer scrambled, praying to Primus they had not yet found each other, that they hadn't suffered the same fate as the last twenty-one pairs.
No- She couldn't do it again, didn't want to-
My name is Windsheer, Lord of the Skies and from Leitaað herself, I beg you, remained hidden! Please! Don't reveal yourselves! Purecoded of the Lines you are precious! Hide from the Falseness! she screamed into the void even as her Spark broke, knowing she was probably too late to save lives even as she sent out her people yet again.
She hated this. Hated it so much. Why did they suffer so? Did It have agents within?
Nearly eight gigavorn passed before her Heir emerged, whole and strong - her precious, fragile Heir whose Spark beat as her own and shared her optics. Windsheer knew this was the Heir.
The prayer true.
Réttaskýin Windsheer wept that day, wept in front of her people as wings trembled and shook, her hands locked in place as she presented the tiny, fragile Heir to them as she knelt, knowing they'd suffered as much as she had if not more because she was a selfish, temperamental creature who'd done everything to get her Heir. Her little Starscream would grow and live. He would thrive and fly and learn. He would be her legacy. The best Sky-Lord she could fashion him into. The Heir and one day he'd Fly True and Fly the Light for his Prime and Protector.
She would ensure it. His siblings would protect him, would guard him. (She missed the flashes of resentment, the jealousy, the hatred. Yet none moved against the Heir.) And she would be there when he met this Megatron and Nova. They'd go to the Crystali and be Recognised and the future would be bright as the homestar they circled in the heavens. She had plans to make, to see to it this destiny happened.
It was their destiny.
Yet...
He would never know the Vörður. Devcon had been Lost to them in the murderous madness of the Senate's seizure of power after Gigatron and Orion's deaths, Sixshot nearly killed himself as he tried to cover the Vörður's crippled flight from Iacon, but...
She did not wish to think of the horrors the young Knight -former Knight, he was a former Knight- had seen that eve as those he was with were cut down, slaughtered and massacred, and had it not been for the newly bonded Great Sword enhancing already formidable Phase-Six armour, they'd have lost him too.
It was fitting he'd been given Zarak's brats to do with as he pleased, and rumours from her cousin's Harem spoke of the screams even now. She wished she could hear them. But she could not leave Vos, could not leave her Heir.
Why were they made to suffer?
Her Spark twisted, stabbed with regret and pain. Devcon should be here. He'd have loved Starscream, would have indulged him, and she wept for him every Festival of the Lost, praying one of her Sjáandi would find him or one of his own would, and they'd free him and they could make the Senate pay.
They had to pay.
Pay in energon.
But maybe there'd be another Vörður. One her little Star would come to know and stand beside proudly as they walked in front of and behind the Protector and Prime. It was a bright future, and she'd accept nothing less. She would teach him, teach him of the Rights he had, of the old tales Devcon had told. They couldn't strip them, they'd never be able to take them away.
Her Starscream would know her, know his Line. Know his Destiny.
"I was everything," Starscream said, crouched beside Dirge as she surfaced with a blink and a headshake, wings twitching against rock as she pulled her 'field back in. A memory turned deluge. Just her luck but it hadn't woken her mechs, and it had been enlightening. "Everything. Spoiled and protected worse than a Prime, according to Twisterspin."
"Such a cute vornling too." Dirge smirked a little, shifting so not only she was comfortable, but there was room for yet another mech at her side. Starscream hesitated.
"What now?" Dirge snapped. "I don't have a berth."
"It's not that."
She cocked an opticridge. This again? "Am I or am I not a Matria?"
"He's on the right side and you expect me to take the left?!"
"Then work on getting the favour. Unless you plan to be on the legs."
"That's Skywarp's place!" The magenta-black sneered, never mind Starscream had zero say in who took the traditional place of the Harem's lowest. Ideally she'd put Thundercracker there, or Starscream himself; Twistwind had spoiled him. "But I suppose I'll play second fiddle to him."
The balefully malevolent glare shot Ramjet's way as the Sky-Lord made himself comfortable bespoke the coming mech-politics of a Harem establishing itself. But the white clone only muttered something as a hand found Starscream's wrist, coming out on top after a brief struggle.
She chose not to comment. Let Starscream stew on what it meant. "Cousins, aunts, sisters. Will I have that?"
"No." It was final, deafeningly so even with the sulking undertones. She didn't like it. "They died. But you will have my advisors."
All of which were, naturally, Matria from at least the Third Circle of Influence.
"How?" It wasn't really a question when she knew the answer. While she was positive Starscream had sort her out because of some misplaced possessiveness and missing his Trinemates, she wasn't about to pass up hearing things in his own words. Not if he was just giving them away so easily in a vain attempt to get into her good graces.
"Murdered," Starscream muttered, face almost flush against the Matria's shoulder armour. "He'd an eight-mc to ready the attacks, to plant what he needed. It marred what should have been my day. Marred the Skohlé. Trailfire and Flux..."
A pair of younglings crossed her vision as Starscream's voice hitched, glyphs catching in the vocaliser. One was red-white with optics the palest of crimson, the other magenta-red with optics of the deepest gold. They couldn't have been more than an eight-vorn as they danced in the air before a pure magenta jet, ecstatic grins offset by the adult's smile that seemed more sad than happy. Aside from colours, the younglings were eerily identical. "Twins?"
"Twin Matria," Starscream corrected, voice little more than a whisper. "Ættingja. The only ones after me."
She took a klick to translate. Sparks of the same Carrier. "He killed them."
" Downburst - our Carrier, Sire's favoured!- came to their defence, and-and the-the Skivari tore his wings off and made him eat them while he killed them!" Even though the EM-field had pulled in, almost unreadable, she could feel the tremors of hate, of rage, of spark-deep loss. Uncertain of what to do, but trusting instinct, her turbines kicked in at a low, soothing hum. Starscream didn't seem to notice or care. "Now these. How dare the Autobots-"
"Yes yes, we all know how offended you are, but they are Leitandi and if even if I didn't Sire then, they're-"
"Of the wrong coding," he snapped. "They can't be Heirs anyway. They're twins."
"But they are vulnerable younglings who'll be expected to Trine to the dirtmuncher-" Harems could conceivably have such a giant gap, but not Trines. Not unless the mecha were desperate.
"Jazz," Starscream sneered. "I could think of better Autobot grounders for them. Huffer, or Ratchet, though Warmonger would pitch fit."
Dirge snorted. "Warmonger didn't seem like much."
"Sire never saw him on the field," Starscream said. "The Battle of the Horn. Look it up sometime."
There was more he wasn't telling him and that wasn't a Great Wars battle. "Oh?"
"Look. It. Up."
"I shall," she growled. "But how old is Ratchet?"
"Decima and Nitron. Fourth Gigavorn of the Rule."
"That old?" That was over forty teravorn ago.
"Do try and keep up, Matria." Starscream shot her a winning smile, turning it into a smirk at her glower.
"Well excuse me for not going through all your memories just yet!"
The glare Starscream gave her could have melted a star. "Says the one who proclaimed to have gone through all my memories!"
"The dry and boring? So I skimmed them to amplify what the Allspark gave me!"
"You- I-" His face contorted, but she noted, with no small glee, he didn't follow it. "Warmonger's more than capable of rending our wonderful Lord Protector and making everything more of a screw up than it already is! Though, Ratchet is quite skilled. He convinced everyone Moonracer and Goldbug were Commissioned on Velocitron."
An optic ridged arched yet she didn't follow the bait. "Then why is he here and not in some high-end hospital on Cybertron?"
Starscream's wings twitched in a shrug Dirge took to mean 'I don't actually know'. "He's an Autobot."
"Obviously." He had the brand for one.
"I'd still have him over Jazz."
"Because he'd be loyal to Warmonger?" To us.
"Exactly. Jazz is loyal to the Magnus Office, meaning Ratchet was either demoted or-..." he trailed off, optics narrowing. "Dirge."
"Yes, Sky-Lord?"
He ignored the barb. "Who's on this Spacebridge repair team."
He couldn't be serious. Even Drag Strip knew that that by now. "Really? You have to ask?"
"Oh answer the question already."
"Optimus, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Bulkhead, and Prowl, but Lockdown claimed him." She said, trailing off as a jolt of memory hit the processor. "That's not random."
"No. One's named for the Last Prime but with a different meaning. One's named after a Wrecker -different glyphs but the meaning's the same. One's named after Jazz's former Conjunx; common glyphs and meaning. And one, if Swindle's correct, is Goldbug in all but name." Starscream said, ticking each name off via fingers.
"In all but name?"
"Sometimes," Starscream started as if talking to a sparkling, "the Allspark likes to bring Sparks back and put them in new bodies. It also locks the original away. From what we know, massive trauma brings it back."
"Like Ratchet then?" Dirge said, using the (newest) common reading of a positively ancient name. "He doesn't look like the one in your Sire's memory."
Starscream snorted. "He's an annoyance who changes frames on the regular. At least the name-glyphs remained the same despite the reading changes."
"So he's either babysitting or on the team to keep him away from Cybertron. Or- none of the Autobots know about his illustrious past." Dirge mused, all too willing to hedge her bets they only knew what Ratchet wanted them to know. "The Kindlings?
Starscream nodded. "I believe Moonracer was Conjunxed to one of the minor houses on Velocitron. She may have a line, I couldn't tell you. Goldbug, as far as we know-"
"Was taken by Jazz, trained for Special Ops, and eventually killed in the Great Wars."
"Did you know," Starscream started even as he nuzzled her. "That we only know that much because Ratchet told Warmonger who then passed it onto the History Archives. History, as they say, is written by the victors. Or re-written because it doesn't fit with what they want."
"Because they wanted to enforce an era when the Allspark was the only source of life?"
Starscream nodded. "It's but one way and not meant for what they demanded of it. It's like asking the Well to spit out sparks on the regular instead of the forty-eight every other gigavorn."
"Or the coldspots to ignite after eons."
"Exactly."
Dirge nodded. "And the jetlings?"
"I'll think on it later," Starscream said, snuggled against her side and now gripping Ramjet's wrist. Dirge sighed. Some cycles, it was not worth being a Matria without a good berth. Her back was going to kill her when recharge was over.
"As you wish." Dirge nodded, face unreadable even as the new information made itself known in the data. She wasn't so sure Starscream was right. They flew like him in the air, they had the speed. Yet they were Twins and the wrong coding. If they were Sky-Lords, then did they have a Prime? a Protector? a Guard?
Unless they didn't have them but - No. It wasn't possible to circumnavigate biology. Sky-Lords could not exist without a Prime and Protector.
It wasn't possible.
"Starscream?"
"What?" Came the grumpy reply.
She smiled down at him. "Why do they call us Seekers?"
"Xenonym. A stupid one at that! Now be silent so I can nap."
...Ratchet is very, very Old (and Tired(TM)). I will come out and say Starscream has a several still living brothers outside of Twisterspin, but no sisters.
Next Chapter: Spiders. And more history but mostly Spiders.
Thanks for any feedback you have.