Disclaimer: Transformers is still not mine. Yet.
XXVI: ii
Praxus continued to burn. I was getting bored with its supposed beauty.
Every city looked the same under the fire of war, and the explosions, while spectacular, were starting to become terribly repetitive.
I steered my wandering processors back on track. My fliers were still waiting for further instructions.
The only problem I currently faced was getting rid of the civilians inside the Helix Gardens without damaging the dome and the artworks. Frustration reaching its peak, I hissed out a curse, and sliced through the air as though it were grounder plating. There was no plausible way of preserving the dome. Any structural damage, however small, would break the delicate balance supporting the architectural miracle, hence causing a collapse. This left only one option: slag the civilians, forget about the dome, and save as many artworks as possible in the process.
I was not deluded as to think I had any other choice. If I were to ignore a direct order, not only would Megatron find an undoubtedly humiliating way to punish me, he would blast the whole garden to ashes without a second thought. Such avoidable loss would be too great and unnecessary. Just because Lord Slagger did not hold appreciation for our planet's artistic accomplishments did not make them any less valuable. He perceived them as a reflection of decadence, but I saw them as cultural artifacts.
:Bladeflight, Stormstrike, Ramjet, do you receive?: I tapped into the Vosian military line, and sent out a ping.
My generals responded in an instance, each hailing my designation.
:I have new orders, and I expect them to be fulfilled without any hindrance, understood?: I addressed them with a firm voice that allowed no room for argument. I was not pleased in the slightest about civilians entering the garden, and every bit of that frustration bled through my words.
:Affirmative, Sire.: Bladeflight replied in place for my generals. :I apologize for our previous blunder. It will not happen again.:
:Good,: I snapped, :Because if you fail again, it'll be my wings bearing the consequences.: A distant explosion rippled through the air, signaling the end of a temporary pause in battle. :Dispatch a team to the Helix Gardens.: I commanded. :Shoot down all civilians, and recover any undamaged artwork.:
:What of the dome, your Highness?: Stormstrike asked.
:Bring it down if you must,: I would have grimaced if I were in base-mode. :Ensure no civilian is left alive.:
My generals responded with "affirmatives", Ramjet's being the most enthusiastic.
:The same encompasses the rest of the city. No Praxian is to survive the night cycle.: I added, and started to scan for a quieter sector of the city to land. :Our glorious and mighty leader has demanded that the Autobots understand the full extent of our wrath.: I hissed, syllables biting and cold. :All civilians must die. Give chase immediately to those who have escaped the city. Fall upon them without mercy. Shoot them down, and make sure there is plenty of carnage left for Autobot optics to feast upon.:
:Oh this will be fun!: Ramjet cackled.
:What of you, your Majesty?: Bladeflight inquired. :Will you be joining us to oversee our progress?:
:Negative, I have my own objective to fulfill.: I answered. Just as I was about to explain, something peculiar caught my attention, several buildings away on the ground. Deciding to check it out, I deactivated my thrusters, and started to glide to silence my descent. :Ping me when the Helix Garden is free of functioning civilian units. Otherwise, do not contact me unless an emergency occurs.: I told my generals to cut the conversation short. :Starscream, out.: I ended our call.
During my exchange with my generals, I had entered a dead zone. It was quiet here, drenched in darkness. The electric generators powering Praxus were one of the first targets heralding the coming of battle, and their demise left the city shrouded in shadow. Explosions and flames were the only light source now, and sector here no longer burned. Fire and bombings had already done their work. The air was cold here, heat drawn away by the utter lack of life. Silence was thicker than the lingering smoke, a tangible pressure hovering like fog over the pit of debris.
This was the precursor of what would ultimately be left of Praxus, of Cybertron, after our war.
Flying so low between the crumbled buildings and their overhanging gloom was a little unnerving. Gray frames and detached limbs stuck out of windows. They cluttered the streets. Gaping, dark optics from faceplates contorted in horror followed my frame as I passed by, tingling my flight sensors. The only light source this dead zone had was the faint glimmer of drying energon, splattered over the walls and the ground. They glowed weaker than embers, illuminating outlines of dead bodies and empty spark chambers.
I lost sight of that peculiarity I had caught a little while ago. It was a tiny blur of movement, partially hidden around a corner. I'd first assumed that I was imagining it, and I would have been convinced had it not kept happening. It was as an arm, hand flopping on a loose joint. I knew I had been instructed to find a survivor, but the situation was so bizarre that I had to see what it was, to find out who or what was making that gesture toward me.
Without any consideration, I decided to dip my nosecone into the dark, ominous hole of the city. Only afterwards did I realize what a bad idea that was, and started to regret flying alone.
The air was heavy, laden with dust. The sector was quiet, undisturbed.
Who could be possibly alive there? No civilian could have escaped the first fire of battle.
I transformed, and engaged my thrusters to hover. I looked around, stalling on all the alleyways, wings tense on my back. I knew the arm had been around the area, but I couldn't find it. I floated about for a moment, and contemplated giving up, when a small noise, a tiny tick of sound, reached my audials.
It was a quiet tapping, coming from behind me, on the right. I turned. With a startle, I spotted the arm, sticking out of an alley. It was flopping again. Only this time, its attached hand was hitting the side wall, fingers slapping against its scorched surface. My optics narrowed, and I activated my null rays. Someone was trying to get my attention, though the purpose of doing so escaped me.
Regardless, I was trying to find a survivor. It simply never occurred to me that I would be led straight to one. Somewhat amused by the thought, I floated closer, and lifted my arms in standard battle position. However, before I could peer into the alley, the arm disappeared, retreating into the shadows. I cursed, and shot forward with a surge of speed. I'd hoped to catch a glimpse of the mech connected to the arm, but all I saw was inky darkness.
That was odd. I did not even hear the quite patters of peds running away to hide.
The situation was too bizarre for my comfort. My wings shivered on my back, and I clenched my fists tighter. I was certain someone was watching me, but it did not come from within the shadow. I could not tell where the mech was, only that his gaze prickled against my sensory grid. My optics glowed brighter as I dialed up their sensitivity. I swept my vision over the street. A clatter behind me. I swirled around. All I saw was a blur whipping through the air before pain struck my right bed, and a thick cable snapped around my ankle, cinching around my limb.
I yelped, and tried to jerk away. However, the cable had caught on its hook, and no matter how hard I pulled, it refused to budge. I sent a boost to my thrusters, to light up my surroundings to locate the perpetrator. Before I could, the cable yanked down, and pulled me toward the ground.
I cried out, dropping several wingspans. Igniting my thrusters to full capacity, I tried to regain my altitude, only to falter and cringe at the ache in my joint against the strain. The cable tightened. It dug into my plating. A sudden, hard yank tore me out of the air, cursing and shrieking. I fell, balance lost, in a straight plummet to the ground.
Dust puffed upon the dull thud of my impact. I gritted back the sting of rubble against my wings, and sprung upright, arms swinging up to shoot at the other end of the cable. My null ray hummed. Shots sailed through the air. There was a flash of white. A pair of arms. I did not have much time to take aim. Another curt heave wrenched me onto my back, and I screeched out a curse, derma chafing against the ground as the cable dragged me toward my captor.
I slid into a dark alley, kicking and screaming. I charged my compact cannons, and shot into the shadows, thrusters sputtering to take me back to the sky. I scraped the tip of my ped against the lasso, desperate to loosen its grip. Before I could even think to grab onto something, the cable went slack, and a hand came down, shoving me down with a grip around my neck cables.
Hollering in threats, I thrashed and beat at the white arm, folding my knees to push the mech back with my peds. A growl answered my efforts, and the hand squeezed, slamming me down against the ground. I winced, spitting curses. Something cold and hard battered against my canopy. I froze, recognizing the following whirr.
It was a blaster.
Its barrel was growing warm.
I gasped, and held up my hands, settling down and tensing into stillness.
I had to adjust the settings of my visual sensors to bring my captor into view. I jumped when he did, as he was much closer than I had anticipated. He loomed over me, lips pursed, without a sound. He was a ground pounder, dark blue with white arms, and big, very big, armor thick with dim optics on a silver faceplate.
The optics, icy blue, glared down at me, before flickering to the Decepticon insignias on my wings.
Was this an Autobot?
I gave the mech a quick once-over.
He did not wear red.
This was…a civilian?
I frowned, and gaped up at him in disbelief.
How could a civilian pluck me out of the air?!
The mech did not speak. He kept a close watch on me, blaster never straying from my canopy. He took off the cable from my ankle, and grabbed my wrists to tie them together. He was swift, and his knots were strong. He ignored me when I complained about the makeshift cuffs cutting into my plating, and raveled the other end of the cable into a fist, optics never leaving mine for even a split klik.
He stood up, and gave the cable a yank.
"Get up." He spoke at last, though it was little more than a grunt. I scrambled onto my peds, happy to be back on my thrusters. I glanced up, and swallowed a bubble of nervousness. The grounder was tall, and intimidating. He stared down at me, and waved his blaster at the other end of the alley.
I sneered, wings rising. If he thought he could just order me around, he was about to receive a lashing of his miserable lifetime. I parted my lips, chassis bristling upward. He gave me a push on the back, and pressed the blaster right against my spinal strut, digging the barrel right under my wings.
My intakes hitched. My fuel pump skidded.
This mech, he knew exactly where to aim, exactly how to angle a shot to pierce a flier straight in the spark.
"Move." He snarled, and I bit back a retort, grumbling as I started to walk. I knew I stood no chance against a ground pounder, especially when he had me on a leash. Despite the lack of an Autobot badge, this was no ordinary civilian. The ease with which he handled weapons, his knowledge of flier anatomy – they all implied a military background, one I knew to not underestimate or overlook. For now, I obeyed him, if only to feign docility and to keep him from injuring me further.
He took us through alleyways and narrow streets. I could not keep up to map our location, but that mattered little. As soon as I found an opportunity, I would give him a pair of nice hole in the helm, and take off. Finding the way was easy in the air. Every mech dropped their guard the longer their prisoner exhibited passivity. That moment of distraction was all I needed to spin around and blast him in the faceplate. If my prediction was correct, he was leading me to his hiding spot, the place that shielded him from battle. It was possible that there were other survivors there, which meant his attention would be divided. This increased my chance of escape. My odds were good. I would do as I was told for now. There was no reason to alert my generals and Megatron of my capture.
I would much rather not ask for aid. That would be downright embarrassing.
I made my wings tremble to appear frightened. I stumbled, as though clumsy, and yelped in fear each time he caught me from falling on my aft. I sent him pleading glances, and whimpered every time the barrel of his blaster hit my back, right between my wing joints. He hasn't reacted so far, but that did not mean he wouldn't. He kept leading us through the dead streets of Praxus. Several breems later, we reached a half demolished building, and walked into what was left of a novelty shop.
The grounder gave me a hard shove. I fell forward, squeaking and stumbling until I caught myself against a broken counter. With a painful grip on my wrists, he yanked me further into the shop, and strode toward the back. There was wall, with a large hole, separating the front of the shop from its storage space. Upon reaching it, my captor pushed me into a kneeling position, and tied me to an exposed support beam of the building.
He pulled on the cable, and nodded to himself. Deeming me effectively subdued, he turned away. I struggled with my binds. However, as I'd expected, they did not budge in the slightest. I blasted out a sigh, and flopped down on my aft with a sulky grimace. The mech did not leave the store. Instead, he appeared to be looking for something, getting more agitated by the klik.
"Bluestreak?" He called out, peering behind planks of metal propped up against the side wall.
I jumped when a voice came ringing out behind me.
"I'm here!" The voice said, and quiet rustling followed. I swirled around, and, through the hole in the wall, I could see a frame, climbing onto its peds. It limped, trudging toward a door leading to the front of the shop. My captor tossed his helm aside in a sigh, and hurried to the bot's side, moments later emerging with a smaller grounder in his arms.
"I'm okay, really!" The smaller grounder, assuming Bluestreak, tried to brush off his caretaker's concern. However, just from one glance alone, anyone could tell he was badly injured, edging close to critical system stasis-lock. He was black and white with the occasional red, though a large portion of his paintjob was covered by a thick layer of congealing energon. He was missing an arm, a ped completely crushed, and his optics flickered, one dimmer than the other, spitting signals at irregular intervals. The only reason he was still alive was the crude weld marks sealing his wounds, keeping him from bleeding to deactivation. A pair of panels jutted from his back, high in the air. They were door-wings, I recognized, with a brief widening of optics.
Bluestreak was native to Praxus.
"You are not okay. You shouldn't move." The larger mech grumbled as he set Bluestreak down into a sitting position by the side wall. "You have to conserve your energy."
"I know," Bluestreak smiled at his companion, gaze apologetic, and glanced toward me. "It's just that I heard someone scream, so I thought I should hide."
My captor cast me a look over his shoulder.
"You could hear him all the way here?" He asked, sounding a little surprised, and I felt the urge to snarl a snide remark.
"Yeah, it was really loud." Bluestreak answered, and I sent him a glare. "Do you think others heard?" The Praxian did not sound cautious, but rather hopeful.
The larger mech shook his helm.
"No," He replied, voice low and quiet, "Everyone is dead."
Bluestreak froze. His door-wings started to shake, and I thought he was going to cry, but he only looked away, and wilted into a curl around his torso. He nodded after a moment, and fiddled with his fingers as though trying to distract himself.
The larger grounder sighed. He reached forward, and gave Bluestreak's shoulder a gentle squeeze before heaving onto his peds.
"I have to look around for more tools," My captor said, "so I have to leave you with him." He threw another look toward me. "Don't go anywhere near him." He warned his charge, a digit pointed my way. "He's tied up so he can't use his weapons, but that doesn't mean he's not dangerous."
The bigger grounder paused. He turned in my direction, this time to pin me with a glare.
"He's a Decepticon." He hissed, voice quiet but jagged with hate. "And you've seen what they can do."
Bluestreak peeked toward me, wary but clearly curious. He nodded, and promised his protector that he would stay far away. However, I was certain our time alone would not pass in silence. His optics, weak lit as they were, flashed with interest as he studied my form.
The larger mech left the shop, after checking that the cable was tight around my wrists. He glared at me in threat, and I cowered closer to the wall, letting out terror-filled whines, wings pointed down. This apparently appeased him, as he'd turned and walked out without a word. His pedfalls went further and further away. As soon as he was out of audial range, I started examining my binds, to see if there were any weak points.
There was none. I sighed, and pulled at them out of frustration. Perhaps there was something I could use around me, to cut myself loose. I had just begun looking when the smaller grounder broke our silence, affirming my suspicion that he had wanted to talk to me.
"Hi," He blurted out, tone light and friendly, "I'm Bluestreak."
I know, I wanted to drawl while giving him a flat stare, but I only froze still, as though he frightened me.
"What's your designation?" He asked, and waited for me to answer. I remained still, and kept my pretense of fear.
"Don't be scared." He chirped. "Clash might seem mean and tough, but he's really a big softie once you get to know him. He's just really protective of me. That's why he keeps glaring at you. Sometimes I think he still sees me as a sparkling. It's not easy, I guess, for a creator to realize his sparkling's all grown up." He laughed, acting as if we were chatting over cubes of energon instead of sitting on the floor in a dying city. "But I'm old enough to take care of myself, you know. I guess you wouldn't believe me since I resemble a scrapheap right now, but I live by myself and everything. Well, before my place got blown up, that is."
I sent him a tiny glance, and scooted closer to the wall, pulling my knees toward my canopy.
"Wow, you're a real timid one, aren't you?" The Praxian shifted a little, trying to peer at my faceplate. "If you're worried that Clash is gonna hurt you, don't be. He might've been a little rough, but that's only because he doesn't know his own strength sometimes. We're just gonna use you as a hostage so we can get out of here. That's all."
I was not sure if that was supposed to comfort me, so I remained silent.
"Well, get out of here as soon as he finds me some energon, I guess." Bluestreak prattled on, regardless of my lack of response. "My tank's pretty much empty, and it's not a nice feeling. Not a nice feeling at all."
I wondered how a mech could talk so much while running low on energon, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
"Maybe I can tell you about my life. Would that make you feel better?" He asked, and I had to bite my glossa to stop myself from tossing him a nasty comment.
Why the frag would hearing about his life make me feel better?
"I was sparked in Praxus, and I've lived here all my life." Without my protest, he chattered on. "It's a really beautiful city, you know, so I saw no reason to ever leave. I was sure I was gonna find a mate here, settle down, and have my own sparklings. But then, well…" His voice dropped. "…I guess no one can really live here anymore…" He trailed off. I peeked over my arm, and saw him staring out at the empty streets with a pained expression on his faceplate. However, as quickly as it came, he shook himself out of it, and talked on.
"I've always wanted to be an artist, but then again, who doesn't wanna be an artist in Praxus?" He laughed. "I've been told I paint pretty well, by a lot of mechs too, so I like to think I have some talent. I never entered the art academy though. My family unit didn't have the vault, so I went to study business. If I can make a lot of credits, then I can pay for my own schooling. Good thing the art academy accepts all ages. Did you know that Sunstreaker was a runt in Kaon before he got discovered? I heard he almost got himself deactivated in the pit-fights! By the time he got his sibling unit out of the rehabilitation centers, he was already a fully-matured mech, but look at where he is now!"
I did not know Sunstreaker was a gladiator before he became an artist. Based on the rumours about how vain he was, I had assumed he was sparked in high society, possibly related to a Senator or a mech of wealth. Apparently, I was wrong.
"So my point is, it's never too late to pursue your dreams, you know?" Bluestreak quirked his helm to the side, and gave me a look. I had realized my mistake too late. I'd forgotten to keep curled up, and consequently let him catch sight of my faceplate. Now I could not look away. He had the widest, roundest optics I have ever seen on a mature frame. I didn't know what had him so captivated, but he was actually speechless for a while.
"…Wow…" He whispered, staring at me without the slightest clue that it was rude. "You have a really pretty faceplate…!"
My wings perked up at the compliment by instinct.
"Are all fliers pretty like you?" Bluestreak asked, and scooted forward, voice full of wonder. "They can't all be as pretty as you, right? Not that I've ever seen a flier, but you must be a pretty one even amongst you guys!"
My wings flicked twice. I decided, right at that klik, that this little grounder was going to survive this night cycle.
"I've always wondered what Vos is like. It's so mysterious, you know. Vos." He beamed at me with a big smile, optics blinking unevenly. "A city without any streets, and only towers…I've seen sketches and stuff, but they're all from the beginning of the Golden Age, before Vos got closed off, so I'm guessing things look different now, not that I'd ever find out, I guess." He leaned back against the wall, systems groaning under the strain of his posture. "So…What's your designation?" He tilted his helm, and waited for an answer.
I contemplated keeping silent, but this time, Bluestreak seemed pit-bent on finding out what my designation was. Deciding to humour him, I put on the most innocent expression I could muster, and whispered:
"…S-Star—…Starsparkle."
Despite my overall shudder toward the name, the horrid fake designation Skywarp had once given me fell seamlessly through my lips. Bluestreak's optics flashed, and his smile grew to a grin.
"Starsparkle, wow! That's a beautiful name!"
Really? I arched a brow ridge, but did not reply.
"What kind of a flier are you?" Encouraged, Bluestreak continued to ask, hoping to prompt more answers from me. "I heard you guys have different frame types just like us ground pounders, but I never learnt what they are. You look like a small flier. Are you a Jet or something?"
Close.
I shook my helm.
"I'm a Seeker." I murmured, nibbling on my lips, and watched him fall for my act without a second thought. Bluestreak was a trusting idiot. I could easily manipulate him to my advantage, and as soon as he was on my side, I could get Clash to release me under some farce about obeying his orders. No creator could resist pleas from his sparkling, after all.
"Wow, that's wonderful!" Bluestreak exclaimed, and I wondered what he could possibly know about how wonderful being a Seeker was. "You must be really fast if you're in the army, which reminds me, why are you in the army? You look so small. So light-plated. Your wings look even more fragile than the rest of you. How can you fight like that?"
I wanted to sneer and tell him that I could slag his aft faster than he could transform into his alt-mode if I so wished, but his expression held no offense, merely curiosity. Besides, I had to play my part in convincing him I was harmless.
"I-I'm not… small…!" I squeaked, pretending to be flustered and embarrassed. "Just because I'm not—…big like the other Decepticons doesn't mean I'm not s-strong!" I plastered on a wavering expression of indignation, and wiggled as though in great discomfort. He fell easily for my pretense, and frowned in concern.
"Are you okay?" He asked, just as I expected.
"I'm fine!" I averted my optics, and curled into a tight ball, wings visibly quivering.
"You don't look fine…" He mumbled.
How well observed, I wanted to huff.
"I—I said I'm fine…!" My vents spluttered, and I bit down hard on my glossa until coolant gathered under my optics. "…It's just—…M-My wrists…They really hurt…" I whimpered in misery, and sent him a teary glance. I made sure my wings were sagging downward, trembling as though in terrible agony.
"Do they?" Bluestreak sat up higher, and studied my frame with great worry. "I didn't know Clash tied them so tightly." His frown deepened. "I can ask him to loosen it a bit when he comes back if you want."
"Can you…?" My voice was a mere whimper as I looked at him in plea over my arm. "They really hurt…"
Before the Praxian could reply, distant pedfalls came within audial range. Bluestreak must have heard as well. He turned toward the front of the shop, and peered out at the street, lips pursed. Clash was coming back. I only had a little more time to play up my act.
With a frightened whine, I curled up tighter, and pressed myself against the wall as though it could hide me from Clash's wrath. I peeked over my arm once again, and gaped at Bluestreak in terror, coolant blurring my vision.
"P-Please don't let him h—hurt me…!" I made the saddest little sounds, until the smaller grounder practically broke apart under my optics. He nodded, and promised that he would get me out of my binds as soon as possible, that Clash was not going to hurt me no matter what happened.
Clash came into view, walking toward the shop. Bluestreak rounded on him as soon as he appeared.
"Clash, what did you do to him?!" The Praxian actually sounded angry, berating his creator. "Poor Starsparkle's terrified of you! His wrists are really hurting too, so untie him! Quickly!"
"Starsparkle?" Clash frowned, and tilted toward me, a shroud of confusion on his faceplate. I whimpered in fear, and hid my faceplate at his inquiring gaze.
"That's his designation, and he's a Seeker," Bluestreak announced. "He's really harmless, Clash, and he's been keeping me company." The smaller mech paused, and his voice gained a hard, pointed edge as he continued. "I don't know what you did to him, but I don't like what I see. Just look at him! He's fearful for his life! I know it's hard for you to restrain yourself, old habits and leftover protocols and all, but did you have to be so rough with him? He's practically still a youngling, so tiny and scared! For Primus's sakes, at least loosen his binds. He's hurting and I don't like it. You know I don't like seeing anyone hurt, especially such a young and fragile one…"
I had no idea where Bluestreak got the idea that I was a youngling, but I was not about to stop him from thinking more of a victim out of me. Something he mentioned about Clash made me cautious, however. My suspicions about the large grounder have pretty much been confirmed. He has had military training, which meant I had to be careful. Bluestreak's creator would not be so easy to fool.
"A youngling?" Clash let out a grunt. "He's no youngling. Seekers don't grow up to be big. Have to be small and light to fly fast." His words grumbled. "This one's mature as they go, so don't worry yourself. He's as tough as a Seeker's ever going to get." His voice got louder as he approached me from behind. I was genuinely startled when he clapped a large hand on the leading edge of my right wing, and started to squeeze. I cried out in protest. His fingers dug light grooves, and they throbbed. However, they did not hurt nearly as much as I made it seem to. Bluestreak was horrified, though, gasping so loud that the sound echoed inside the tattered shop.
"Clash! What in the pits are you doing?!"
"Testing his wing durability," My captor murmured, "And he's definitely no youngling. Hasn't been for at least a couple of vorns." He knelt down behind me, and dropped something heavy on the floor next to my peds. "Stop worrying about him. He's a soldier. He's trained to take whatever's handed to him."
There was a pause. I glanced over my arm, and caught the larger mech looking at his creation.
"Remember, Bluestreak," Clash stressed with a hard glottal, "we are in the middle of battle, and this seemingly defenseless little flier here?" He gave my back a slap, and I jolted. "He'll kill you without a second thought."
Bluestreak did not speak. His lips pressed together, and his optics shone, one flickering at odd intervals. Clash tore his gaze away, and moved to fiddle with whatever slag he brought back from the ruins. I watched as he unwound a hose. I hadn't the faintest clue what the device was, or what purpose it served. However, its closeness suggested that Clash was possibly planning on using it on me, and that did not sit well with my spark at all.
"…Wh-What are you…going to do with that?" I whispered, only partially faking my fear. I was nervous, processors reeling with questions for the small machine. It was dirty, covered in dents and dust. No matter what it did, I had high suspicion that I was not going to like it.
"Stop pretending like you don't know. Your acting's terrible." Clash gave me a glance as he spread out the hose. "A few tears might fool Bluestreak, but I didn't survive the Great War to be deceived by the likes of you."
I almost dropped my act just to give him a swift kick in the helm. He was close enough. However, I kept my mouth shut, and remained cowering against the wall. Despite what he said, I was certain I could trick him into dropping his guard. He has already done so when he'd exposed his origin to me. Any information could be used to one's advantage.
Clash had apparently been a soldier during the Great Quint War, which meant he knew more about fliers than the average ground pounder. He had obviously survived the battle for Praxus so far due to his old training, and kept his sparkling from deactivation with general field repairs. However, he must have stayed a civilian since the beginning of the Golden Age, which meant he was not as trained or quick as he had once been. He was resourceful, as all veterans of the Great Quint War were, and, like many of them, he was a little arrogant.
I knew I was not programmed for theater, but if I could beg my way out of death from my ruthless, unforgiving lord, I could do it to any other mech on Cybertron.
Clash took out a bucket from subspace, and set it beside the device. He fiddled with a few buttons, and the machine hummed to life, tiny bulbs blinking rapidly. Satisfied with its high-pitched beeping, the large grounder tugged another hose out of the machine, this one shorter. He put it inside the bucket, and grabbed the longer hose, turning toward me before holding it to my faceplate, expectation clear in his demeanor.
"Open." He said.
I only stared, shivering, and curled into a ball.
"I don't want to force you, Seeker. Open." He gritted out, pressing the hose closer.
I had no idea what he wanted me to do. After a long, strained moment of silence, he heaved a loud sigh from his vents, and dropped his arm to a folded knee.
"It won't hurt if you cooperate. You must've done this in training." He tried to sound diplomatic, to convince me to open whatever it was he wanted access to. "You know it's safe. It's standard field medic procedures. I know this doesn't look like the ones you fliers carry, but I found it in a med bay, so I can assure you it's just a tank pump."
Just a tank pump.
I gaped at my captor, lips hanging apart from horror.
This time, nothing was feigned. I plastered my frame as flat against the wall as I could, and stretched my optics to their limits, ventilation stalling to a full stop.
From my peripheral vision, I spotted Bluestreak doing the same, staring at his creator. I shook out of my stupor, and snapped my mouth shut. I clamped my lips tight, and no one, medic or otherwise, was ever going to stick a Primus-damned hose down my throat to drain my tank of pre-processed energon.
"I know it's uncomfortable, but you're a soldier. You'll bear it." Clash grabbed me by a shoulder vent, and tried to pry me away from the wall. "I'm not giving you an option, Seeker." He scowled. "If you don't open your mouth, I'm not above beating you to slag until you do, especially if it means saving my sparkling." His gaze narrowed to a steely glint, and fear, its genuine prickle, frosted the insides of my spark chamber.
"Y-You're crazy!" I squeaked, struggling against his grip and my binds.
"You have no other option." Clash was not deterred in the slightest, fingers tightening around my plating. "You are grounded, tied down, and your weapons are ineffective. I'm not trying to make this painful for you, but it will be painful if you don't comply." He loomed closer, and stuck the hose right into my faceplate. "Open." He bit out, and I snarled in retaliation.
"Smelt in the pits!" I snapped at him, jaw-joints clenched, voice trembling.
"C'mon, Clash, you-…you won't do it!" Shuffling noises came from Bluestreak's direction. He must've been trying to get onto his peds, but a toppling thud interrupted the scraping. Clash glanced to the side. I did the same. Bluestreak was sprawled on the floor, groaning as he tried to push himself up with his only arm. His optics were flashing on and off, and his limbs shook with strain under his weight. He was on the verge of an emergency system shut down. He needed energon, but that did not mean I was willing to let his creator stick a hose into my mouth.
"I don't have time to be civil with you, Seeker." Clash swirled around. His words hissed. "Will you or will you not comply?"
I kept my mouth clamped shut, and glared at him in defiance. He waited a moment longer, before nodding in understanding. To my surprise, he actually stood up, and backed away. Before I could figure out why he had relented without protest, he reached to his side, and unclipped his blaster.
He shot one of my wings.
The laser blast burned straight through the plating of my limb. I screamed, agony searing through my neural lines. The shot melted my inner circuitry, and left a hole in its path. Bluestreak was shouting. I could not care enough to decipher his babbled words. I gritted my dentae, and squeezed my optical shutters. Pained cries wheezed through my vocalizer. My frame jerked a violent spasm, and I curled up further, vents spluttering and intakes hitching. Energon oozed from my wound, dripping to the floor. I buried my faceplate into my forearms, and refused to utter compliance even as my sensors scalded with feedback.
Clash knelt on one knee, and pinched my chin with his fingers. He yanked me to face him, optics ablaze, and asked again, vents spitting hot air.
"Will you comply, Seeker?"
I tried to pull my chin out of his fingers, and onlined my optics just to give him the most hateful glare I could muster. His gaze dimmed. He released me without a word. Standing back, he took aim once again, and shot my left wing.
"-Ahhhh—!"
My back arched as another wave of agony slammed into my neural network. However, this time, the torture did not stop. Clash continued to shoot. Two more blasts, each on one of my wings. I shrieked, helm tossing back. Every joint in my frame grew rigid as my flight sensors dissolved into a molten pool by the laser. My wings scorched, each tremble giving way to a new assault of agony. Coolant streamed down my cheek plates, and I hid my features against my arms, choking back a sob.
I refused to give the slagger the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
"C-Clash, stop—…!" Bluestreak pleaded, but his creator paid him no mind. My captor walked closer, and the warm barrel of the blaster smacked against my back.
"Last offer, Seeker. Yes, or no." His voice was as though blades of ice. "I can pull your tank from your deactivated body if it needs to be done."
I did not believe him. He needed me as a hostage to ensure his escape with Bluestreak.
I clenched my jaw, and did not speak.
To my utter terror, the blaster began to charge.
My optics widened, and I swirled back, staring up at the grounder with dawning panic. His digit was on the trigger. He began to pull.
"Wait! Wait! Don't shoot!" I cried out, grinding my chassis against the wall, trying to get away from the heating barrel. "I—I'll do it! I'll do it!" I shouted, voice shrill and frantic. My spark shivered inside my spark chamber even as he lowered his blaster.
Clash knelt down next to me. He held up the hose, and, with several frightened glances, I relented, lips quivering as I parted them.
The hose was hard. It was cold, and dirty. The rubber was firm. It tasted disgusting. It entered my mouth, and I almost gagged, its tubing coarse and stale against my glossa. It hit the back of my oral cavity, and kept on pushing. It scratched the lining of my throat, and I retched, vocalizer emitting a high-pitched squeal of alarm.
"Tilt back your helm." Clash grunted. I took gulps of air through my intakes, and, carefully, followed his instruction. I lifted my chin, ignoring the nausea threatening to upturn my tank, and held as still as I could. My captor guided more of the hose into my mouth. He was watching me, concentrated on his task, and I offlined my optics, shame burning in my cheek plates. My wings stung with agony at any flick of movement, but I could not stop shivering. The hose entered my throat, and started inching into my primary fuel intake, stretching its flexible, moist wall.
I whimpered, feeling extremely violated. Did all soldiers go through this perversity in their training? It made sense to some extent, and it would not be as bad if it meant saving a friend's life. However, was there really no better way of preserving a comrade's spark? Weren't field medics required to carry emergency rations at all times?
"The hose will be reaching your tank valve soon. It will be uncomfortable." Clash murmured, optics an intent glow under the cowl of his helm. "Stay still to avoid internal damage." He explained, and I started to shake, a wave of helplessness drenching my spark. "Your fuel intake system will try to repel the procedure." He instructed, "You must cancel the warnings, or it'll get messy."
Clash has probably figured out by now that I have never had any training in this grotesque medical procedure. However, I did not have the time to dwell on such thought. The hose slid further in, and bumped into something solid. A throb lurched deep inside me, and a massive wave of warnings flooded into my processors. My fuel tank heaved. Energon beat against the opening to my primary intake.
I squeezed out a thin whine, frame cinching taut. The high, piercing noise was muffled by the hose, and, desperate to make my discomfort known, I started to struggle. My arms pulled against their restraints, trying to grapple on the hose and pull it out. My wings jerked on my back, splattering spots of pain against my sensory grid. Primus, this was horrid. Coolant tears stung my optics. My fuel tank twisted and thrashed inside me. I wanted to scream at the slagger to stop, but every syllable came out an unrecognizable splutter. Amidst the chaos, a thought fleeted across my processors. I remembered that I had a small cube of energon right in my subspace. I wanted to throttle myself for forgetting about it, but it was too late. The large grounder would not understand me even if I tried to tell him that I had a ration right on my person.
Clash wrapped an arm around me, and kept me still.
"Cancel the warnings." He yelled into my right audial, and held the hose firmly in place inside my mouth. "Cycle air through your intakes. Relax."
Relax? How in the pits did he expect me to relax?!
"It'll be more bearable that way." He tightened his grip around my shoulders.
After much fight, I managed to cancel the warnings, and calmed down my systems. I could not stop shaking, optics gaping and unseeing as Clash guided more of the hose inside me.
Frag me to the pits, Megatron's fists were nothing compared to this ordeal.
The hose pressed against my fuel intake valve, and squirmed into my tank with a wet, slimy squelch. It was finally in place. Clash eased his grip around me, and turned to the machine.
I onlined my optics, and watched my captor fiddle with the buttons. I had no idea what to expect, and remained completely still in case any small movement jolted the hose and inspired another tidal wave of warnings. Over Clash's shoulder, I caught Bluestreak staring at me, looking like he was about to be sick. The little slagger had better felt like he was about to be sick. Even better yet, I hoped his systems rejected flier fuel and poisoned him to death.
Clash pressed one of the bigger buttons, and the machine started humming louder. The hose jolted into vibration, and I squealed, alarmed by the buzzing traveling down my intake. Clash pressed me against the wall, and, much to my surprise, started to rub my wing joints. The gesture, while calming, disgusted me further. It was intimate. How Clash had even learned it was beyond me.
Mouth stuffed, I was unable to voice my repulsion to his gesture. The hose jolted again, and began sucking pre-processed energon from my tank. Kliks later, a thick, wet squelch splattered from the other hose of the machine. Energon, glowing still, started to dribble into the bucket.
I could not stop whimpering, biting down on the hose and unable to stop the grounder from molesting me. My wings continued to shake, but my attention was so fixated on the thing down my throat that I could not even register the pain from my injuries anymore. There was no way I would contact my generals for help now. I would rather deactivate than allow any of my flier to see me in such a disgracing situation.
Several breems passed. My jaw hinges were throbbing. Finally, Clash turned off the machine. I checked my fuel level, and found it to be just a little over thirty percent. There was enough left for me to avoid immediate danger, but I would have to be careful of lengthy air battles. Aerobatics required a full tank. I would not be able to fight for long.
Clash checked the bucket. Apparently satisfied with the result, he nodded to himself, and decided my torture was over. He reached for the hose in my mouth, and, with another hand around the back of my helm, started guiding it out. There was a most nauseous clench inside me as the rubbery tube slid past my tank valve. I almost gagged, but I managed to keep my system in check, optics pinched in a grimace. The hose leaked energon. A pool gathered in my mouth as it slid past my lips. There was no way I was going to swallow it. Just the mere thought of it repulsed me. Suddenly, as though lightning, an idea hit my processors. My optics flashed, and my helm perked.
I knew how to overturn my capture.
Clash rewound the hose. He turned toward me, and leaned forward as though to check if I was alright. He was close. I scooted back to lure him closer. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words left them.
I chose that moment to strike.
I spat the energon right into his faceplate, aiming for his optics. He jumped back with a cry of shock, fumbling to stand. However, before he could, I lifted one of my peds, and activated my thruster.
A surge of heat shot out of my heel. The splatter of energon caught fire. It combusted right on Clash's faceplate, and the large grounder stumbled back, cursing in pain. He tripped over the bucket of energon. It tipped over, and he fell, right into the puddle.
Just as I'd thought.
I smiled, and dabbed my thruster into the energon. It ignited in an instance, and I watched, glee stretching the upward tilt of my lips. Clash was engulfed in flames, bellowing in agony as he tried in vain to stop the fire. Bluestreak screamed. I laughed. Whatever Pristinus had done to the energon, it made the fuel even more potent than normal. It burned, melting my captor's optics. I took in the veteran's frantic dance in the flames, and I laughed, spark reeling in vengeful delight and amusement.
Clash tumbled out of the shop, no longer aware of where he was going. He clutched his melting faceplate, and fell to the ground, thrashing in the debris. With him out of my immediate range, I started looking around for anything that could help me get out of the makeshift cuffs. I couldn't spot anything sharp enough to cut through the cables, but Clash's blaster was lying on the floor. I stuck out one of my peds, and managed to scoop it toward me. After much awkward maneuvering, I squeezed it between my thighs, and pointed the barrel of the blaster at the beam my wrists were tied to.
"You-You—…monster!" Bluestreak's static-filled cry caught my attention, and I turned toward him with a glance. "You—…fiend!" The small grounder yelled, vocalizer glitching midway through his words. He was crying, coolant washing down his faceplate. He gaped at me, expression full of hurt and betrayal. How dramatic. I scoffed, and scrunched my nose bridge with a bark of laughter.
"He got what he deserved for daring to stick a hose down my throat." I hissed, and wiggled my hands until the cuffs slid down along the beam. Getting my thumbs on the trigger took many tries. When I finally reached it, I steered the barrel toward the beam, and pressed down, jolting as a shot slammed straight through the wall.
It missed.
"He was going to let you go!" Bluestreak continued to sob, shouting at me until his voice rasped. "You killed my creator!"
"No, I did not." I sang with a lilt, and aimed the blaster again. "Not yet I haven't." I flashed the Praxian a smirk, and fired the blaster once more, wings flicking when the shot grazed the beam, and melted its side.
"T-To think that I'd felt…sorry for you…that I was going to—…going to help you…!" Bluestreak clawed at the floor. His intakes hitched. "I even tried to convince Clash to let you go!"
"A lot of good that did," I snapped, and huffed through my vents. Not sparing him a glance, I adjusted the aim of the blaster, and hit my target at last. The beam broke in the middle. I smiled in triumph, and tossed the blaster aside. I stood up, and yanked at my binds until they popped free from the beam. Finally, I was free, no longer restrained to the wall.
Despite the fact that my wrists were still tied together, I could now aim my null rays. First things first, I walked to the front of the shop, and spotted Clash still grabbing at his faceplate, though most of the flames had already gone down. He was a couple of wingspans away, frame quavering in pain. Too lazy to go after him, I pointed null rays at Bluestreak, and shouted after the larger ground pounder.
"Clash!" I called out. "I have something of yours." I pointed my null rays straight at Bluestreak's faceplate, and my smirk widened when his round, blue optics stretched with terror.
Clash stiffened. He whipped around on his peds.
"I think your sparkling's helm would look nicely hung up on my wall back home." I taunted, talking loudly to direct him my way, since his vision no longer functioned. "But worry not, he will not be alone." I allowed a note of hilarity to trickle into my voice. "I think many of his fellow Praxians will compliment him most beautifully, wouldn't you say?"
With a roar of fury, Clash charged in my direction, swiping his arms. "Where are you? Where are you, you little glitch?!" He bellowed, stumbling off track, and I blew out a sigh, giving away my location.
"Always the name-calling with you ground pounders. How quaint." I teased, syllables lilting. Clash tripped over the rubble scattered over the street, and finally crawled back into the shop. I was a little impressed by how desperately he tried to protect his sparkling, who was, in no shape or form, a sparkling any longer.
"Leave him alone, you hear me?!" The large grounder shouted. "Leave him alone!"
Fear laced the angry spitting of his words. He obviously suffered serious injuries, and he had been thoroughly disfigured, energon streaming down his faceplate like coolant tears. However, regardless, he pushed onwards, blindly punching at the air in attempts to save his creation. Bluestreak was still crying. He screamed at his creator to run away, to leave him behind, but he only guided Clash toward us, closer and closer to his inevitable deactivation.
"No! Stop it! Get away! Get away!" Bluestreak cried out. His insistent yelling gutted to silence when I lifted my arms, null rays pointed at his creator. The Praxian started to tremble, gawking at me and shaking his helm.
"No…! N-No, p—please! Please, Starsparkle—P-Please don't. Please don't!" He begged me, voice cracking between his pleas. "I—I'll do anything! P-Please just—…Please don't kill my creator! Please don't kill my creator!"
I rounded on him with a grind of my vents, a sneer on my lips.
"My designation is not Starsparkle, you imbecile." I spat out. "It is Starscream." I announced with pride, wings stretched high even as they burned with pain, and shot the wounded veteran.
Bluestreak's scream echoed in my audials for breems.
"Oh, shut up! He's not dead yet." I hissed down at the wailing grounder, and shoved him back with a kick to the helm. There was no way a mech as thick-plated as Clash could deactivate with only one set of shots. The ex-soldier did plop down to the floor as though he'd died, but I knew he was only paralyzed. Bluestreak continued to cry, however, and reached with his only functioning arm, trying to grapple for his creator.
"His vents are still working, you idiot." I grew irritated at his persistence, and stomped down on his fingers.
The Praxian squealed, yanking at his arm. I ground the tip of my ped just a little harder before letting go, and he sprung back, whimpering in pain. He held his hand close to his chassis, and peered up at me, cheeks soaked and lips quivering. I huffed, and thought about wiping my ped clean.
What a pathetic slag-heap of a mech.
"Don't worry, Blue." I cooed, and skipped toward Clash's prone form. "I'll take good care of your creator, so don't you overheat that tiny processor of yours." I nudged the veteran to roll onto his back, and grimaced upon seeing his mess of a faceplate. "I'm going to do your creator a big favour, little Praxian." I glanced over at the smaller grounder. "He'd be much better off deactivated than trying to live on looking like hideous slag," My lips spread, "Not that he'd been any better." I broke into giggles, catching the civilian's pleading, wet optics with a mischievous smirk.
"…N-No…No…! Please…Please don't…!" Bluestreak choked, vents in hiccups. He sprawled out on the floor, and his frame shuddered with every heavy sob. Not bothering to acknowledge him, I sauntered to the tank pump, and scooped it up. Just as I thought, there was still a small amount of energon left inside the hose. Humming in pleasure, I strutted back to Clash, and sprinkled his faceplate with the residue fuel.
Bluestreak took one look at what I was doing, and he screamed, voice scratched with ribbons of static. He was so horrified and hysterical that his pleas morphed into a big muddle of incomprehensible syllables and terrified shrieks. He tried to crawl forward, but a kick from my ped stopped him for good.
"Do you want me to step on your hand again?" I drawled. When he simply lied there and cried, I let out a burst of a huff, and turned back to adorning Clash's helm with energon.
By the time I was done, the large grounder's faceplate was coated with energon. Satisfied, I tossed the machine aside, and took a full step back. I lifted one of my peds, and pointed my thruster heel right at the veteran's face. Bluestreak heaved off the floor. He looked up at me, and croaked out one last plea for his creator's life.
"P-Please, Starscream, please don't…!" He begged, cheek plates glistening with coolant even in the dark. "My creators are the only ones I have left. Everyone I know, they're—they're all k—killed in the attack, a-and I—…I d-don't want to be—to be left a-alone…! …Please…! I'm begging you!" His intakes hitched, and he beat the front of his helm against the dirty floor. "I don't want to be left alone!"
My ventilation stalled.
My joints stiffened.
I watched the kneeling Praxian, and my lips fell apart, a soundless utterance of surprise slipping silent from my vocalizer.
Bluestreak trembled. His helm has yet left the floor, smeared in dust.
I studied the low bow of his back, the cracks in his digits budding energon, and felt a deep-rooted shudder fleet across the center of my spark, where an ache awoke, one I had not remembered for vorns.
Loneliness…
I huffed a laugh.
That was a concept I understood too well.
I looked down.
I took a quiet, slow cycle of air.
I stared at the mutilated features of my captor, at my thruster hanging over his faceplate, and closed my lips, chin lowering in a slight dip.
The taste of the hose lingered on my glossa. My wings still stung with flares of agony over my sensor net.
No mercy, I had told my fliers, and I would give none.
With a blast of ignition from my thruster, Clash's faceplate burst into flames. He did not cry out in pain. He did not twitch even one digit. He simply lay there, still and silent, as the fire melted through the plating of his helm, and corroded into his processors.
With central command down, it was only a matter of time before a mech's spark gave out. With Clash out of the way, I turned to Bluestreak, and saw him looking at his creator. The Praxian did not scream this time, gaze aloof, expression free of agony. He only sat there, coolant falling from his optics, dripping dark spots on the floor.
The last Praxian left.
He wouldn't be staring for long.
He was low on energy, and I needed to keep him alive by Megatron's orders.
Bluestreak didn't even flinch when I gave him a shot on stun. He was paralyzed in an instance, and I knelt down, taking the small cube of energon out of my subspace. Setting it aside, I pulled him into a sitting position, and pried open his lips. Ripping off the lid of the cube, I tilted back the Praxian's helm, and poured the energon into his mouth.
Little by little, the glowing fuel flowed into his tank. His optics started to shine brighter as his systems became more stabilized. He did not seem to notice any of that, however, staring still at the dying frame of his creator. Coolant kept spilling from his optics. It was as though he had a reservoir that never ran out.
This was boring. I tipped the cube, and dumped the remainder of energon into Bluestreak's fuel intake. Throwing the empty container aside, I closed his mouth with a smack against his chin, and dragged him into a dark corner, hiding him behind pieces of fallen furniture. I had to make sure he had plenty of cover, to ensure his survival of this night cycle's battle. Pleased with my efforts, I swirled on my thruster heels, and pranced out of the shop.
Along the way, I gifted Clash one last kick as a gesture of revenge. His helm, mutilated and corroded by fire, lopped to the side, and I snickered. Hadn't I told him he would smelt in the pits? Suit him right for shooting my wings. Tickled by the thought, I hummed another laugh, and bounded for the exit of the shop.
Just as I was about leave, a prickling sensation swept down my wing joints. I paused, brow ridges dipping in a slight frown. It felt strangely like unease, and, despite knowing that I was safe, I could not stop myself from turning around, to check my surroundings. I took one look behind me, and froze with a hitch in my intakes. A pair of bright, blue optics penetrated the gloom shrouding the shop, and pinned me right to the floor.
Bluestreak was staring at me.
His optics bore into mine, glowing like icy flames, piercing from the darkest pit of the city, his home.
Murderous rage smoldered in the points of cold light, fueled by pain spark-deep. I have never received a look more hateful, and it struck me right in the canopy, clutching the essence of my being in a freezing, clawed grip.
There was something extremely unnerving about the way he looked at me, as though he did not simply wish me harm, or wish me dead.
He wanted me to suffer, and I knew, right at that instance, that he was going to enjoy every moment when it happens.
Forcing back a shudder, I flashed him a haughty smirk, and turned around before striding out of the shop. I ignored the weight of his glare on my back, and focused on the throbbing ache still plaguing my frame, from my various injuries. I walked out into the street. Without another glance at the Praxian, I took off in root mode, my tied wrists rendering me unable to transform. The air felt like hot blades against the raw edges of my wounds, so I slowed my ascend, wincing every klik of the way.
A small ping popped up from my comm.-link. I actually startled, hissing out a curse. Muttering about how stupid I was, I accessed the request, and tapped into the frequency.
:Bladeflight reporting, Sire.: My Fighter Jet general came through. :All hail Prince Starscream.:
:What is it?: I asked, stifling a sigh when I broke out of the darkness of the dead zone. I floated toward the direction of the explosions, no longer able to reach full speed.
:The Helix Gardens has been cleansed of Praxian civilians, your Highness.: There was something about Bladeflight's wording I felt I should be uncomfortable with, but I only brushed it aside.
:Good,: I commended my general, :What of Praxus?:
:General Ramjet is leading the pursuit for escapees, Sire,: Bladeflight answered,:and general Stormstrike has been focusing his forces on city center. Scouring the city will take the remainder of the night cycle, but I am confident that no enemy spark will be left alight by the time we are done.:
:I'm glad.: I heaved a cycle of air through my vents, and flinched as my wings gave another protest of pain. :Bladeflight, what's your current location?:
:I am leaving the Helix Gardens, your Majesty. I will be assisting general Stormstrike.: Bladeflight paused for a split moment, and his voice gained a worried note. :May I ask if something is the matter?:
:I think I see you.: In the distance, in the direction of the crystal domes, was Bladeflight, who had transformed back into base-mode and started looking around. :I have been injured,: I explained, :And I would like an escort to a location where I can converge with Pristinus.:
:Affirmative, Sire. I will escort you.: Bladeflight took another sweep, and stopped when his optics caught my approach. He did not say a word, though I was sure he has, by now, noticed how wobbly my flight was. He was careful to conceal his shock, however, because I was his sovereign, and he must never suggest anything that might insinuate that I was weak. He only transformed into alt., and flew toward me. I hovered, and waited for him to reach my location.
My general changed back to bipedal mode, and made to bow. However, before he could, I closed our distance, and latched onto his shoulders as well as I could, wrists still tied. I did not understand why I was in such a sudden need for physical contact, but the urge was overwhelming. I did not have the time to even be surprised by my own behaviour before I'd acted on it.
Bladeflight startled. I could not blame him. I have never been close with him, and he has always placed me at a respectful wingspan away. However, I did not want that right now. I needed the assurance of an older flier, something not even my trine mates could offer.
He took care of me once, my Fighter Jet general. I was still a sparkling at that time, so my memory files were fuzzy, but I could still recall his arms, his voice, and the low vibrations of his engine. My youth had been a cloud of fear, of abandonment from my creators. They were King and Consort. They had duties. They were off-world, and they'd entrusted my care to a pair of weathered wings that didn't understand how to be soft.
However, just his presence alone had comforted me. We'd been familiar once, I think, until my parental units returned to Vos for good. Bladeflight had consoled my tantrums. He'd stayed at the Royal Tower every waking breem to be by my side. He made me feel safe, a sentiment that has lingered since. Now, above the roar of battle, keeping afloat by air that reeked of blood and fume, I leaned close to him, chin dipped down, and waited for a response, canopy still hovering apart from his.
Bladeflight has yet embraced me back. I worried he simply would not. I hadn't the faintest clue how much the Fighter actually cared about me outside of my post as Crown, so I was hesitant. I didn't want to impose. A surge of wind, heated with specks of debris, blew past us. It seared my injuries with a tide of pain, and I winced, frame trembling as I let out a strangled whimper, wings pointed down.
I must have looked extremely pathetic, for Bladeflight finally conceded. With a sigh, he wrapped an arm around my waist, and pulled me forward until our canopies clinked together. The instinct to nestle my helm against his neck cables like a frightened sparkling almost overcame my processors. However, I managed to catch myself. I was not willing to throw that much of my pride to the wind.
Bladeflight slid his other arm around my back, and started to rub my wing joints. He did not ask who had injured me, or what had me spooked. He simply held me, because he was not my trine mate, or a close companion, so it was not his place to ask. I was still his Crown Prince. I knew that was all I would ever be to him, because he was not one to fathom otherwise.
Sometimes, I wished he'd see me as more than just a throne. However, he gave me his complete devotion, and that was enough for a general.
After a while, he suggested for us to move to a safer location, and I nodded, allowing him to steer us toward a building. Landing on the roof, he held me for a few moments longer, and excused himself to contact Pristinus and the other generals to alert them of the situation. With much reluctance, I agreed, and pulled away, keeping my faceplate hidden. He offered to untie my wrists, which I allowed. My plating had been slightly dented, and I tried to rub the throbbing away.
Bladeflight stood before me. He was still, and I knew he was looking at me. Maybe he'd wanted to say something. However, after a few kliks, he only sighed again, and patted me on the shoulder before turning away to comm. my fliers.
I found a place sit down, and pulled my knees close to my chassis. The disgusting taste of the hose stayed in my mouth, and I made a face, wishing I had some refined energon to wash it away with. Trying to distract myself, I looked around, and watched Bladeflight speak on his comm. His frame was a silhouette of shadow against the bright flaring light below us. The roof felt far from the battle waging on the ground, and I wondered where Megatron was, at that moment, fighting his war.
My wings gave a tiny flick, and another wave of pain crashed over my neural network. I bit back a grimace, and offlined my optics, burying my helm against my knees.
Where in the pits was Pristinus? He should be here already.
I counted the cycling of air through my systems, and focused on my thoughts.
I was relieved Clash had not shot my Decepticon insignias.
That would have been an unforgivable offense, though I did not know why.
Notes: Hopefully, this chapter has given a little more insight into Starscream and what makes him tick. Anyone who remembers seeing Clash from somewhere else gets special props, and my eternal admiration. Bladeflight's dynamic with Starscream is something I'd like to delve more into, though I'm not sure if such opportunities will happen a whole lot. Doesn't help that the POV is heavily biased with Star's personal opinions, but that's the charm of first-person, I suppose. ;)
Poor Bluestreak, though. That's gotta leave a mark.
Special thank-yous time to my wonderful reviewers silverflame, starscream fan, Random523, TammyCat, Kira michi, avisshadow26939, Koluno1986, Ashcola17, Confuzzled-Neko, tiedwithribbons, Cannonade, Eiswolf-Zero, Guest, Devlinn Reiko, The-writing-Mew, Sneer, Angelica, and Rosedrop13. As always, your support means the world. Hearing from you always makes me smile.
For anyone interested, I've drawn designs of Pri and Blade. You can find them by going on my profile page and accessing the links.
Until next time, my dears, where there will be more Megatron.
Feedback would be lovely, of course. :)