Title: Backstage: Just Act Natural

Warnings: Drunken Stunticons, implied violence, mental torture; looking "behind the scenes" of G1's funny Decepticon villains.

Rating: G

Continuity: G1

Characters: Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Stunticons, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Starscream

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

Motivation (Prompt): Running out of time

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"I don't envy you," Thrust said to Thundercracker, and the blue Seeker shot him a murderous glare in return. The Conehead raised his hands defensively but couldn't wipe the smirk off his face. "Hey, just sayin'. Starscream's going to pound Skywarp into bitty pieces, and you're going to be the one stuck picking him up with a magnet."

Ramjet kicked his wing as Thundercracker's lips twisted unhappily. "You really think we're going to get off that easy ourselves?" Ramjet hissed at him when Thrust turned to retaliate. "None of us lifted a finger to help Screamer. You know he's going to remember that!" At Ramjet's side, Dirge shifted uneasily and glanced around the office as if searching for something. Reassurance, maybe, but that was in low supply. Tacky decorations, on the other wing, were running rampant. Skywarp's room décor ran toward tasteless.

Not that Thrust needed any - reassurance or interior design tips. "Give me a break!" he laughed. "Nobody was stupid enough to help him! We all knew Megatron would win, and not even Starscream could expect us to go into exile for him." Except that their temporarily-deposed Air Commander really could expect that, stuck-up dumbaft that he was. But Thrust wasn't thinking about that, nope. "He'll yell at us for a while, probably make an example of Skywarp, and by next week things'll be back to normal." He cocked an optic toward Thundercracker, who'd paced halfway across the office to stand at attention in front of the desk. "Like I said: I don't envy you trying to find where Skywarp's nose ends up. I'll check my thrusters before I leave, but - "

"Shove it out your turbines," Thundercracker snarled, not budging an iota. Someone could take a picture of him to show new recruits: How To Stand At Attention In Front of An Empty Desk. "If any of us walk out of this room, it's going to be by the direct intervention of Primus."

There was a beat of startled silence, but then Dirge rumbled, "Swindle's been taking bets on that."

They looked at him, surprised all over again. The Combaticons, so far as any of them knew, were still in pieces on Cybertron. "Shockwave hasn't even finished reprogramming them!" Thrust sputtered. "How in the smelter is Swindle collecting bets already?"

"He really is that good," Thundercracker muttered, expression caught somewhere between anxiety and admiration.

"Timed message drop into the comm. network," Dirge said. "Check the queue." All communications from Cybertron went through four layers of encoding. It ensured that only the right mechs got the messages, but that kind of data scramble caused a message back-up on the Earth side every time the space bridge opened and allowed the Cybertron network to dump information over the connection to Earth side. If the Decepticons were busy, they pushed aside checking their messages until later. In this case, the jets had been more concerned with Bruticus - and then Starscream's triumphant return - to take the time to check comm. updates. "Apparently Starscream was quite…vocal…about what he thought about us before he took off from the asteroid," Dirge summed up for them as they accessed Swindle's all-personnel message. "Swindle set up everything before he even knew for sure Starscream made it."

Meaning that Swindle had assumed Starscream would make it no matter what. Which wasn't all that surprising. If anyone could make it through Bruticus, Megatron, Shockwave, and the Autobots, it would be Starscream.

That would be kind of funny and even a source of twisted pride in their fellow Seeker if not for Starscream's apparent deadly intentions toward them. Those intentions were spelled out in every vicious syllable by Swindle's best impartial business voice. Dirge's wings slowly fanned back as the message played, and Ramjet's locked into place. Thundercracker just stood straighter, stiffening with every sick word. Swindle had obviously not needed to elaborate; Starscream had a turn of phrase all his own that came through quite clearly.

Starscream, who had blazed out of exile and back into Megatron's favor in the course of an hour. It had given them no time to make their own plans or even process what was happening until they'd been standing back on Earth saluting the restored Air Commander. The order to assemble in his office had come like toothed jaws of a trap closing around their wings, holding them down and tearing away any hope of escape. Disobey and face Megatron's fusion cannon as traitors. Obey, and…well, really, what could he do? Really.

Thrust reached for bluster, pulling it over what definitely was not fear even as he strode over to join Thundercracker in front of the empty desk. His trine clicked into place at his heels, and they weren't clustering together like frightening birds. They were in formation. This was a formality, not an execution!

"He needs us too much to kill us," he assured Ramjet, glancing back to check that the other Conehead was in position, military regulation distance between them and no visible flaws as he snapped to attention. Looks good. Dirge was on his other side, stance technically correct but optics dim and sulky, lowered to stare at the floor. Looks miserable. "It's not the first time he's beaten us down," he said, voice louder than necessary but still sounding like a bad attempt at comfort. "Hurts like the slagging pit, but repairs fix all. We'll fly again. Don't let it get to you!"

Thundercracker threw a sidelong look at him. "And what exactly are you going to do to stop him before it's too late for repairs?"

"Well, yes, I, um." All the confidence he projected couldn't come up with a coherent answer for that. Not thinking about it, not thinking about it.

Behind him, Thrust could hear the quiet rattle as Dirge gave a convulsive shake. His spark sank. That sound signaled the situation officially dropping out of their control. Dirge could only hold up under pressure when he had control, and Starscream specialized in taking that control away. The Air Commander held their leashes again, and they'd been very, very bad dogs. The kind of disloyal wardogs that turned on their owner. Had turned on him indeed, all their past pledges of fealty just so many broken promises when opposed by Megatron. A smart owner would put such bad hounds down before they turned on him again. After all, who kept wardogs who fought and killed and obeyed another owner? Starscream would never know what side of the battlefield such mutts stood on.

What could the Air Commander's hounds offer him in return for their lives? He held their leashes, hounds let out of the kennel to fight under his orders, and no one knew better how easily those orders could twist battleplans into death traps for bad dogs.

That was power. That was control, and Dirge shook because they had none. Thrust wouldn't show it, but he felt that lack as acutely. Time didn't trickle away from them; it ran. Frag, it sprinted. The four jets standing rigidly at attention in the Air Commander's empty office felt it in the liquid coolant racing through their systems. Control stole the strength from the loose joints they shored up, and Thrust clamped his hands to his sides to keep them from trembling. Out of the corner of his optic, he could see panic slowly seeping into Thundercracker's face.

A moment later, panic hid behind a stoic mask as the door beeped and opened.

Skywarp stood in the opening, resignation written large across him and arms hanging limp at his sides. Blue fingers on his right wing tightened and relaxed, and the black-and-purple ex-Air Commander winced, just slightly. He walked into the room, stiff-limbed puppet with taunt strings, and behind him stood the puppetmaster. Starscream gave the wing in his grip a little push before letting go, and Skywarp hesitated.

"Take a seat, commander," the restored Air Commander invited, steel order hard beneath fake joviality, and Skywarp winced again.

Starscream stood at the entrance to what had been his office only six weeks ago, optics taking in every missing personal knick-knack, every scuff on the floor, every addition and subtraction. The desk Skywarp shuffled toward had been moved, as had the shelving units. The four Seekers who should have had their backs to him were instead standing side-on to the door. It gave him an interesting angle to study them at. They stood at perfect attention, wings and shoulders at precise angles and spacing absolutely spot-on. They stared unwaveringly at the wall above Skywarp's head as he sank into the sole chair in the office, and none of them dared to look at commander or ex-commander until ordered at ease.

Skywarp shifted about in the seat, unable to get comfortable. He studiously arranged his hands in his lap, looking down at them. A few seconds later his optics widened, and he jerked his hands up onto the desk, apparently realizing that holding them out of sight could be construed as a threat. He didn't raise his optics, choosing instead to watch his hands intently. The scrape of his fingers against each other sounded inordinately loud in the silence, but he couldn't seem to stop fidgeting, arranging and rearranging his hands over and over again.

Stop it! Thrust urged silently, but even his normal need to speak out had been pushed down by the threat looming on the threshold. It disappeared completely when Starscream left the door and crossed the room in three swift steps. The Air Commander stopped short behind Skywarp with the predatory change from stillness to action and back that characterized raptors. The four Decepticons standing at attention in front of the desk were already motionless; the moment Starscream moved, even air intake halted. Thrust's fuel pump stuttered, afraid that faint whisper of internal systems could be heard.

Starscream stood in that unnatural stillness, letting it fray their nerves until the silence broke on the sound of another involuntary shiver from Dirge. He stayed unmoving for one more agonizingly long minute, standing sidelong to them but head turned oddly away so they couldn't see his expression. Skywarp's downturned face seemed frozen, dread and defeat battling for supremacy across it. Finally, almost mercifully, Starscream moved.

His head turned first, sweeping his gaze through the four jets before the desk like an axe through toothpicks. The rage there burned them, but it had been caged and condensed by weeks of thought. It wasn't a Seeker standing behind Skywarp; it was a container for purest rage, distilled by time. Thrust couldn't help but recall Swindle's voice reciting the vindictive list of threats and plans secondhand. If his joints hadn't been locked into position, he'd have shuddered.

Starscream's angry gaze snapped to him anyway, catching some telltale sign and nailing him where he stood. It took actual effort, but Thrust managed to tear his optics away from those burning pits of hate and back to the wall. Behind him, however, there came the soft scrape of movement, the tiniest step taken in retreat, and the Air Commander's optics narrowed into laserbeams of censure. Thrust almost flinched. No, Ramjet, you idiot…

"You're before your commander, soldier," Starscream said, harsh voice quiet enough to make them strain to hear, and there was a sick fear in that. Starscream was never quiet. "I don't care how lax things have become in my absence," Skywarp's head ducked down further, "I am here now. You will stand at attention until ordered otherwise, or you will not stand at all. Do I make myself clear?"

Behind Thrust, Ramjet forced himself back into position. "Yessir."

Crimson optics glared, sharp and cutting as any knife. "I said, do I make myself clear??"

They somehow managed to pull themselves even straighter, optics pinned to an invisible point above his head. "Yessir!"

He looked down at last, down to where Skywarp's hands had tensed into claws digging into the desk. He reached over the black-and-purple wing and gently picked up one hand in order to stroke it, caressing the joints with soothing fingers until, at last, the tension seeped away. When the hand lay limp within his own, Starscream placed it flat on the desk with a tender pat and shifted to reach over the other wing for the other hand. He repeated the process while Skywarp stared helplessly at the desktop and the other jets struggled with building terror. Their Air Commander did not touch them like a lover. To see him knead the stress out of Skywarp's hand so solicitously set off warnings lights in every corner of their minds.

Survival instincts wailed alarm, shouting at them to get out, get away, but they had to stand there. They had to watch out of the corner of their optics, unable to look away or openly watch unless permitted. They were trapped by regulation and rulebook as effectively as if he'd forced them to the floor with a foot on their backs and a gun to their helms.

Every line of the purple and black Seeker's body strained for escape, anticipating the blow soon to fall, yet he sat docile under his master's hand. The touch would turn painful at any moment, and this gentleness only made the wait more sinister. Their commander pet Skywarp with sweet insincerity, good dog, and they all knew it wasn't true. They'd been bad – bad wardogs, shame shame – and knowing it made this all the worse. It made them that much more aware that the power he wielded over them let him toy with them this way.

"Shockwave," Starscream drew out, ostentatiously more interested in Skywarp's hand than what he was saying, "has tried to replace me." Megatron did replace me, the soft touch said, with you. Skywarp's shoulders hunched, optics fixed downward as he braced for the blow. But Starscream couldn't strike out against the ruler of the Empire. Not so obviously, not when he'd barely earned back his return from exile by Megatron's good grace.

So he placed Skywarp's hand back on the desk, smoothing it flat on the surface and leaning casually on his replacement's wing to look at the four jets who hadn't followed him. "Having an officer that powerful outside the Elite divides the flight ranks. This is…unacceptable." My air ranks, my followers, betrayed me for another outside the flyers. Megatron is Supreme Commander, but you pledged your lives to me. Where were you when Megatron threw me down? "He either needs to join the Elite," blue fingers slid behind Skywarp's air intake and under his helm, and Skywarp bit back a whimper as they slowly stole forward around his throat, "or somehow be, hmm, neutralized." Fingertips grazed the vulnerable, tender spot below Skywarp's chin, and a high-pitched whine came from the powerless Seeker. Unforgivable, whispered the intimate touch, and Skywarp's desperate optics sought futile contact with Thundercracker, then Thrust's trine.

They couldn't meet his gaze. Their own lives were on the line. The pathetic, silent beggar at the edge of their vision was on his own. Starscream had just laid down his demand in everything he hadn't said, and it was up to them to make the decision. Either bring Shockwave's candidate back to Earth, where Starscream would…make room…in his personal trine for a new wingmate, or kill the mech somehow. An assassination of a high-profile officer in the air ranks back on Cybertron, where Shockwave had spent the last 4 million years building his powerbase. Killing a mech Shockwave had spent the last 6 weeks promoting as his candidate for Air Commander wouldn't have been an easy task if they had a battalion. Four jets, even Elite Decepticon Seekers, didn't stand a chance.

They didn't stand a chance, anyway. They'd have to risk life and limb to assassinate this heavily supported, heavily protected mech, hoping frantically all the while not to be caught and executed for treason. And hoping that this trial would be enough to satisfy Starscream. Hoping that he would lighten their personal punishments enough to be bearable.

The easy choice would be to just extend the promise of promotion. No flyer, no matter how controlled by Shockwave, would turn down an invitation to join the Air Commander's wing. That fulfilled ambition, if not satisfied it, and Skywarp's trembling hands on the desk spelled out graphic warning against too much ambition. He knew what the easy choice - the safe choice - was, too.

Thundercracker broke ranks enough to risk a shallow bow. "As you command, sir," he said, deep voice hoarse.

Starscream dipped his chin, smiling benevolently down at the ex-Air Commander quaking under his hand. "Command?" He bent to rest his forearm across the top of Skywarp's intake, other hand still occupied teasing the other jet's throat until Skywarp shook with suppressed fear. "I gave no command." Gloating crimson optics lifted to incinerate whatever illusion of comfort they'd managed to deceive themselves into believing. No official orders. Nothing to help them get through the spacebridge, no excuse to give or assignment to cite to Shockwave or Soundwave. Nothing at all to protect them from Megatron's wrath if they failed.

You're on your own.

It effective crushed what little hope they'd scraped together. Defeated, even resigned, Skywarp lifted his chin in weak surrender and mewled as the fingers slowly, viciously clenched. The tiny, hopeless sound was clearly audible in the dead silence of the office, and Starscream's smile was so kind. "You are dismissed," he said, voice rasping layers of warm silken fury and satin sadist pleasure over cold revenge.

Thrust jolted in place, pent-up panic jerking him like a marionette through a salute. Behind him, his wingmates whirled in perfect time to match steps, marching retreat from the office. Skywarp didn't move, optics staring straight forward and hands laid flat on the desk. The last sight Thrust had of him was a picture of stark despair.

The Air Commander had let slip his dogs of war, and Thrust knew down to his ailerons that they'd come creeping back, proffering the spoils of battle and groveling like eager pups for the privilege of wearing his leash again. And maybe, just maybe, Starscream would let them serve again. If they could survive that long.

"I'd have preferred a beating," Thrust said, and for once it wasn't bluster.