Shockwave watched through his countless cameras and drones, itching underneath where his mouth used to be with his singular servo, warring with his decision on what to do.
Did he leave Jetfire to die?
Jetfire's aggression was proving to be tenfold, compared to the average mech's.
It could…become a problem.
That broiling anger.
Of his.
Jetfire had chosen to fight the Autobots, alone, instead of smartly lounging around within the wreckage, along with the rest of the surviving Deceptions.
Warrior-mechs had to mender their wounds, after all.
Really, what did Jetfire expect?
A rescue mission?
The mere idea of witnessing such a heroic deed caused Shockwave to entertain a bittersweet hum, a strange tickling sensation, which lurched like a biting snake beneath his frigid plating.
"Why doesn't he just run away?" Shockwave asked, to no one in particular.
No mech was prepared to help Jetfire.
Even if he was "technically" the only remaining "medic" the Deceptions had.
'Ridiculous.' Shockwave thought. 'What does he expect to achieve?' Fighting the Autobots all at once was a suicide mission, yet there Jetfire was, trying to stupidly chew apart Arcee's leg.
'Some medic he is.' Shockwave shook his head, certain the mechling turned groveling mongrel, was about to cannibalize Arcee alive.
He had her pinned to the ground.
But then Optimus Prime stepped in, brandishing the Star Saber.
He looked like a heroic warrior of old, and Shockwave's optic soaked up every detail.
What happened next would burn into his databanks.
Forever.
Jetfire's agonized screams.
With a quick professional maneuver, the hilt of the sword pierced Jetfire's skull, and the wormy sparkeater howled his agony – face and limbs contorted into uncoordinated twitching. Jetfire backpedaled away from Arcee and Optimus, snarling.
His small, undeveloped wings pumped desperately, as if he was trying to flap away into the air.
But there would be no escape.
Not now, not ever.
Jetfire was too heavy, an adult-mech wearing a mechling's cursed flesh.
Yet.
Yet
He wasn't dead.
Not…yet.
'That hit should've killed him.' Shockwave cooly observed, while fending off a slew of panicked agonized screaming from Starscream.
It was clear the Prime was conflicted about hurting Jetfire, as the stubborn-dumb mechling survived his initial blow to the head.
Were it any other mech, they'd have already been decapitated.
There would be no hesitation.
Optimus waved the sword in warning, pushing Jetfire ever closer towards the precipice of a cliff, the very same he'd climbed up to confront "Jack the human," sometime earlier.
And through it all – Starscream kept screaming.
The broken-bird wouldn't shut up.
Trapped in Trypticon's rotting-shell, the once proud Air Commander…Starscream…had been reduced to nothing more than a dignified pile of scrapper's delight, which decorated the Nevada desert.
:"By the One, help him Shockwave!":
:"Look, he's going to die!":
:"Help him! Do something!":
:"Shockwave! Shockwave! This-this isn't logical!":
If Shockwave had a face he would've toyed with the idea of smiling, regardless of how fake the expression would've been.
Contrary to Starscream's last comment, allowing Jetfire to die could be perfectly logical.
Jetfire was becoming…unpredictable…potentially dangerous towards his person and sibling-comrades, Shockwave reasoned.
Troublesome sparklings…were always terminated.
'Why change such a rule now?'
"Jetfire! Jetfire! Jetfire!" Starscream grew hysterical as he began to chant his mechling's name throughout the remaining intact hallways, as if the mere mention of his name could turn the tides of Jetfire's pending demise.
Shockwave walked away from the monitor, decision made.
Jetfire – he'd die a martyr to his siblings on Vox, and perhaps Winglord Sunstorm would see fit – to finally step in – and to end the war himself, as unofficial leader to a third neutral-faction.
It frustrated Shockwave to no end, that Winglord Sunstorm, a King he was, was content to watch.
To simply watch.
As the war burned Cybertron.
Into a empty useless shell.
Shockwave would spit on that throne, if he could.
So he did the next best thing.
He turned around towards Megatron, his hand and arm cannon clasped neatly behind him, as he observed the sleeping warlord. Countless wires protruded from that gigantic grey frame, like puppet strings.
The wires attached into a huge shimmering specimen of Unicron's blood, a purple crystal, much too beautiful for the terrible thing it was.
Megatron wouldn't become a sparkeater. Unicron's power would purge that disease from his system.
But at a cost, not for free.
Megatron was slatted to become something worse.
Soon.
Soon.
Shockwave would announce Megatron's death, and assume leadership of the Deceptions.
'All hail Shockwave.' He liked the sound of it.
Jetfire was covered in blood.
Black.
Rotten.
All his.
His cranium was bleeding, cracked open like a geode from where Arcee had gotten a good kick in.
Oh, he was going to die.
He knew that.
But it didn't make the process any easier.
"Please, Optimus, don't."
He hadn't expected his pleading to work, but then he felt the blade across his neck pull away.
A fresh bout of blood, half an inch deep, poured unevenly from his throat.
"Don't." The small word was agony to speak, his jaw broken in two places, from Arcee's stamping well-aimed kicks.
He was grateful his spine hadn't been severed. He was able to look Optimus in the optics, as he held the blade stiffly above his head.
'What are you waiting for?' he thought, but didn't dare speak his words aloud, least the sad gurgling noise of his voice, would spur Optimus Prime into dark merciful action.
Prime.
Jetfire never really understood the title until that very moment, when Optimus's boot-peds threatened to crush the remaining pustules of life within him.
"Don't."
"Don't."
"Kill me."
His words blubbered together, as pathetically as the untold voices of victims he had killed, once-upon-a-time.
Soon, he would pay for his crimes.
Jetfire had never shown mercy.
He scarcely knew the definition.
And the sword swung downwards, just outside of Jetfire's peripheral vision.
"Kill him." Someone shouted, most likely Arcee.
"Kill him!" Or perhaps it was Smokescreen, stamping down a ped so very close to his neck.
A puddle splashed, and he felt droplets burn his skin.
It was then, Jetfire realized, he was covered in energon.
Energon.
And energon was flammable.
A sparkeater's blood was no different, just a tad more acidic.
He'd drag down the Autobots with him.
He'd go out on his own terms.
Jetfire roared, fire engulfed his broken jaw. His spine had been left unbroken…allowing him the luxury of bending, twisting out of Optimus's crushing hold.
And so, Jetfire flung himself upwards like a popping, crackling spring – a predacon in his own right as he bellowed flames.
At.
At.
Aimed right for.
The perfect target.
Arcee's face.
Both of them screamed as a flamethrower met its mark, then Jetfire toppled over a cliffside.
His wings remained useless in a freefall.
But he was a sparkeater.
He wasn't helpless.
His claws and talons pushed outwards with the force of telekinesis, slowing his velocity significantly, preventing him from snapping his neck.
Like a cat, he met the ground on all fours.
And the rageful ire of the Autobots rained down upon him.
He smelled – it was far too fast to see – as Smokescreen "the rookie," crashed into him. He would've been crushed to death if his armor, his hide, wasn't currently engulfed in fire.
Energon burned crisply, smoothly, like dry campfire wood.
Apparently, Smokescreen had forgotten that he could be burned. He pulled himself away from Jetfire's scalding hot plating, stamping the flames racing across his legs – up to his knees – into the dirt.
Precious seconds wasted.
And it was just the distraction Jetfire needed.
He pounced.
His claws sunk impossibly deep.
The Star Saber hummed above his head, but this time he was prepared.
The blade hummed with the song of an already dead sun.
But Jetfire was alive.
And he didn't need wings to fly.
Fire and telekinesis united into one, and Jetfire finally realized his purpose, his potential, his perfection.
He roared.
A lion, with a mane of flames.
Smokescreen was already dead when he made his declaration of war. Optimus Prime swung his sword, the blue flame melting into Jetfire's hellish burn.
Smokescreen was dead, and he smelled good.