The Winglord could only watch helplessly as the forest burned.
Alright, perhaps he'd gotten ahead of himself. He didn't expect Earth…to be so delicate.
"Sunstorm, you idiot." Starscream's comment was surprisingly acceptable. The Winglord felt inclined to agree.
His embarrassed purple blush was hidden by his own internal fire.
"I didn't see you caring about the matter when we were scaling the mountain looking for Thundercracker earlier." He said, unable to look away from the ecological-trainwreck he'd conjured.
"You were melting the rocks together, not the trees. Then you stepped on the grass, idiot!"
The birds were the worst to witness. The little carbon-fluff fliers withered like yesteryear's fruit – dropping from trees. – and the clouds – and the clouds – blackened and charred -- as they breathed in too much smoke.
Poor things.
Poor poor things.
He could only do one thing, to make himself feel better – to ease his bludgeoning guilt as he admitted responsibility for the hellish remains.
And that was to preach.
To build his church.
The surviving Decepticons had been left to die.
'Well, I'm not exactly surprised. Good sportsman-ship and camaraderie always seemed more like an 'Autobot' shtick.' Sunstorm coolly noted.
He examined just how many mechs had died in the crash. Random decapitated heads were plucked out of the wreckage, like berries off of a bush.
Soon he ended up with a gruesome pile of heads and their respective crushed pieces.
The Winglord wasn't a sadistic or cruel mech. He was just old and indifferent to the horrors of existence.
He'd seen it all.
And to the Winglord, it was an acceptable method to guess-tismate just how many had perished…
…
…
…
Though his counting became interrupted, as drones began to rudely swarm by his talons. They didn't attack him, or anything so nonsensical – the drones just took a respective mech-helm each into their grubby ugly claws, and rolled the heads away like a dung beetle would a chunk of scat.
Sunstorm let them.
There wasn't a need for him to fret nor to fuss. Ultimately, he didn't want to toy with dirty decapitated heads. He was happy to watch the drones clean up the mess.
…
…
…
But as Sunstorm watched, he grew worried.
'W-what are they doing?'
…
…
…
Vehicons and drones poured out from the very same escape-hatch Shockwave had dropped down earlier.
They didn't attack him, per say, but it didn't mean he couldn't.
A massive clawed hand ripped into the desert sand and lifted up a festering handful of drones.
He didn't crush them.
Simply, he threw them away, a couple miles or so from the wreckage – and he watched as the rest skittered around his talons like roaches, now keeping a respectful distance.
His neck craned back in disgust as the drones promptly chewed apart anything of use – including, most vigorously, the splattered corpses, which were the first things wrestled apart.
The drones basically behaved the same as a pack of scraplets.
Or sparkeaters.
Sunstorm snarled. He really really didn't like to be reminded of such creatures.
The vehicons were worse – going so far as to vacuum up every drop of liquid: energon, waste-fluids, oil, grease-lubricants, everything.
'By the one, what does Starscream see in t-these t-things?! Decepticons are…gross.''
No doubt the collected fluids would be recycled into an edible fuel.
And eventually drunk by some sorry sucker down in New Kaon.
Sunstorm would've barfed.
But he'd seen it all.
Long ago.
Like so many times before on a battlefield.
New Kaon, the Decepticons, had took it all.
Not a drop of energon remained.
On the surface.
'For the survivors, there's nothing left.' He sighed. 'They'll starve to death.'
Once it was over, the vehicons and drones quickly retreated into their respective holes.
The Winglord was soberly reminded that Shockwave wasn't some sympathetic Senator of Iacon any longer .
Before in the Golden Age, the name Shockwave had been synonymous with generosity.
As a sparkling Sunstorm had looked up to Shockwave. He'd been the coolest junk-cle anyone could've asked for.
But now.
Sunstorm shook his head, mirthless as he shooed away tiny wayward drones, lingering much too close to him.
No doubt Shockwave was keeping a close optic on him.
That monster wasn't a bleeding-spark, not anymore, not ever.
And so he vowed to destroy Shockwave, at the surest opportunity. As lingering drones squatted amongst the wreckage, studying his person – he knew that Shockwave most likely knew – about his dangerous intentions.
Sunstorm carefully studied the surface-levels of New Kaon. From the reports and holo-images he'd been sent once-upon-a-time by Starscream, the structure had reached far into the sky like a vosnian-palace.
Though any beauty would've been thoroughly trashed by its garish coating of Decepticon-purple. Sunstorm tisked as he beheld the shattered ruins; at least the native wildlife would now be spared such an eyesore.
If they survived the fire he started...
Thankfully, much of New Kaon was gone. The Nemesis had belly flopped out of the sky and had crash landed right on top of the blasted thing.
Such imagery was almost enough to make Sunstorm smile.
But he couldn't.
Not yet.
He would've been amused, if the incident hadn't taken so many lives.
'How dare I laugh during a time of crisis.' He grimly observed the cowering forms of the survivors. Now that the vehicons and drones had retreated, a few in-tact mechs picked through the scrap-remains – much too late to the scavenging party.
He shook his head. His expression lingered between pity and admonishment.
"Right, I ought to do something about all these…unfortunates." He muttered to himself, as he turned his attention towards the scant few survivors.
…
…
…
He smoothed out his features. He would have to look his best when he talked to the dying mechs.
Carefully, he approached the most intact structure.
The Nemesis clinic.
Sunstorm blinked, zooming-in his optics to observe what was inside. It looked… strangely adorable, like a rab-bit's warren with so many mechs huddled inside – the many hallways which served as entrances and exits to the structure had given the clinic the strength necessary to survive the fall.
And he figured the soundproofed walls, reinforced with extra titanium common in medbay-construction, helped cement the odds of survival.
'Why are modern cybertronians so blastedly small!?' and he couldn't help but to privately seethe about the matter – that he couldn't sit amongst such miniature souls.
'I'm bigger than every hallway in existence, and then Starscream would always berate me for never showing up to any of the fraggin' parties. Geee, I wonder why, ma-ker.' He mused as he bent down and narrowed one optic down a hallway – as if he was looking through a telescope – and he addressed the disheveled crowd.
It would be hard to coax the survivors closer – close enough for him to heal them.
To save their lives.
As he did, well, "could" look terribly scary. He held no delusions about the matter. Even Starscream, his own mother, was scared of him – though it was more or less a natural reaction for a sparkeater – towards fire.
The Winglord hummed thoughtly about the matter, cradling a flame within his servo.
To convince Decepticons, he would have to surpass Megatron's charisma.
And so, out of habit, without a thought.
The Winglord blasted out a jet of fire from his hand.
As a show of power, he'd done it on so many worlds before.
The flames mercilessly engulfed the surrounding organic matter of the desert: cacti, impossibly dry grass, and the occasional unlucky tree caught a flame.
And most importantly, the display had caught everyone's attention.
The Decepticons looked up at him, awed.
So he bellowed out a speech, one short and easy to understand.
"Greetings, Decepticon waywards, and scoundrels alike. Know I come in peace! I am a neutral amongst your war here on Earth, and I offer you all amnesty!" He slammed an austere fist against his chest for emphasis. "All I ask is for your cooperation. Come forward so I may heal you, as Winglord of Vos!"
Eventually, the survivors which could walk, inched closer, seemingly enamored with the Winglord.
Their red optics glittered like garnets – and dare, a bit of hope.
Cut off from the New Kaon base, they were left to fester beneath the scarce shade of the Nemesis.
The injured mechs were strangely tender under Jasper, Nevada's alien-sun.
They withered away, like an illegally dumped pile of junk.
Their paint peeled and chipped at random intervals – as if a sort of festering illness had taken hold.
And the Winglord's appearance as a burning relic, did little to put anyone's nerves at ease.
This the Winglord recognized – he wasn't a newspark – and the dying Decepticons looked at him with such…fear…and loathing.
Poor things.
Left to die.
On some alien planet.
'Poor things don't know any better.' Sunstorm, naturally, was the light of Primus. 'All they've known is a harsh hand for the longest time.'
"Come forth, and I shall heal you!"
His servo reached down to caress a dying mech atop the helm.
The mech was practically gone, comatose and in the last spinning breaths of death. His companions, perhaps his friends, had been kind enough to present him to the Winglord – treating him as a sort of animal sacrifice, dragging him forward, hogtied in chains.
Sunstorm tisked. 'What little savages.'
But it also meant the mech couldn't flee from Sunstorm's touch. An ignition of light twirled from ancient burning claws – a healing spell, more or less.
But it wasn't painless.
The Winglord felt the mech's spark burst through his petting fingertips. The little soul lasted but a second before it snapped awake – safe from Unicron's grasp.
The mech screamed and writhed, shaking off the no doubt overwhelming grip of death.
The mech's spark had almost gone out, like a puff of smoke.
But now his entire body was on fire.
Screaming.
Burning.
But alive.
"What on Unicron did you do to him, Sunstorm?" asked Starscream, perched atop his shoulder, long forgotten until that very moment.
"I made a follower."
And as soon as he'd answered.
The mech, the sacrifice.
Dropped down to his knees.
In agony, in worship.
"Deceptions, hear me! You are dying – perhaps ALL very soon – but I shall save you – I shall bring you ALL justice!"
No one answered him.
"Feel the touch of Primus – and be HEALED!" Sunstorm tapped a coded sequence across his breastplate gemstones.
Suddenly.
A tremble.
A roar.
A gust of wind.
Sunstorm screeched, his voice supersonic and the blast radius pelted over the injured mechs.
Starscream, witnessing the spectacle atop a shoulder, rolled his optics – unimpressed.
The Decepticons now glimmered with fire – with light – and health.
Ancient coding activated within their frames front and center.
They stood to follow orders.
But Sunstorm simply smiled.
"Rest darlings, and be born anew. Await my return – rethink your loyalties – embrace the light of Primus – and FORGE AHEAD!" Another healing sonic scream engulfed the crowd.
Many couldn't yet speak – too startled for words. Surprisingly, the healed vehicons were the most responsive, communicating amongst themselves in a series of clicks, whistles, beeps, and the occasional punctuating honk.
They were the first to line up in front of the Winglord – bowing and pressing low against his feet – instinctively knowing he wouldn't hurt them.
The Winglord smiled again, perhaps the tenth time within a minute, as he felt the hopeful rise of his followers.
"Now, as soon as you all cool down, so as not to burn the delicate wildlife…" He paused, gesturing to the ongoing forest fire for emphasis. "Do we have any volunteers to go find Thundercracker?"