"Our new home, New Kaon." Megatron had announced the name of the newly constructed Darkmount base on planet Earth some hours ago. Since that moment, Starscream had been unable to move from his secluded berth.
He had relocated his living quarters from the Nemesis to an undisclosed Darkmount storage unit, all the way down on basement level. It had taken forever to discreetly outfit his new recharge station, as he had to sneak in large and strangely shaped parts underneath Soundwave's ever watchful gaze. It was the main reason he had chosen to live on the basement level, instead of closer to the flight deck, as would be expected of an "Air Commander."
The basement level was the only level undergoing constant reconstruction and maintenance. Starscream, if ever questioned, held the pretense that he was helping the vehicons by overseeing their construction.
And another reason being that Starscream wanted more privacy, which was the truth. Surely, nobot could fault him for that...it was just a shame his reputation preceded him. That, and he could potentially eat as much vehicon spark-chambers as he pleased. Staying healthy as a sparkeater was hard to keep discreet.
"New Kaon he calls it?" He scoffed, drawing a greasy line of wax across the surface of where his reflection was supposed to be. The mirror hanging in front of him was a shining, clear crystal - one of his few beautiful possessions. Starscream refused to believe that his precious mirror was now useless after becoming a sparkeater - it was still beautiful - it was still his oldest treasure. In contrast, the walls of his room were black and smooth as polished obsidian, but it was also distinctly ugly, devoted to a pure utilitarian-use.
He stared at his mirror, stubbornly imagining that his reflection was in front of him, showing his complete, full-spark splendor - before Shockwave had chopped him up into three miserable bots.
Before he had to play the part of Skywarp and Thundercracker.
He'd been beautiful.
His optics has been a rich amber, denoting one old and wise.
Full of pride he'd been, but joy also.
With armor of blue-gold, orange-red, and silver, each color mingled together like a pile of treasure.
Starscream kneaded a golden residue against his claws, beginning the process of polishing his wings and innermost metal - anything to distract from the humiliating sting of the recent loss on Cybertron...
The Omega Keys he had worked so hard to collect...
The Omega Lock too...
Each relic had been destroyed...
And Cybertron remained a rusted, corroded mess - the doomed corpse-husk of Primus himself.
It was a disgusting thought.
In one fell swoop, everything Starscream had ever given the Decepticon-cause had been unceremoniously washed away, as if his achievements had simply never existed. Megatron certainty saw Starscream through such a lens...and he grimaced at the idea of having to continue to answer to such a slag-brained lump of leadership.
So he wouldn't.
He'd leave Megatron in the pit he'd dug himself in.
But he was flying out.
Simple as.
He smiled as his imagined-reflection showed his disgust of Megatron - his only constant companion on the miserable dirt-ball called Earth - himself.
Starscream continued to polish his wings, caking on the wax thicker to almost wasteful proportions.
But perhaps, he rationalized, "It might be my last proper shine, in a while." He muttered, his clawtips twitching as he applied the wax.
Starscream had made the final-decision to leave the Decepticons.
Finally.
He would be free.
Not right away - the time wasn't right.
Of course.
It never was.
Unfortunately.
Starscream had learned from his debut as a rogue, the reality of living alone, solo on planet Earth. It had been an experience as miserable as a funeral-smelter, and one he would do anything to avoid repeating.
Even if he did have "allies," now.
The whole concept felt wrong.
Somehow.
He polished deep under a wing towards his side, and a twinge of pain caught his attention. Megatron had crushed him under a vicious stomping-boot once, and the area had never healed right. It was the type of pain too tame to ever point out to the medical staff, least his reputation suffered; yet it was too elusive to fix on his own - it was perhaps a pinched nerve-wiring or his nano-repair system had malfunctioned in the wrong direction - whatever it was, Starscream was still waiting for the pain to go away, even after centuries.
His cleaning mesh-rag came back predictably filthy and he couldn't help but compare the tarnished stains to Megatron's hide. How often did that brute clean? Megatron's armor used to be a glittering silver, but now he walked around with a coat of disgusting soot. Did he think no one would notice his tarnish, that he, Megatron, was caked in filth from floating in space and rolling down mine shafts?
No one would ever have the bolts to tell Megatron directly, that his fashionable decision to change from silver to black didn't suit him - not even Starscream himself; for fear he would wipe a mesh-rag against that armor to prove his point, and it would remain black as ever - stained - and it would reveal Megatron to be permanently tarnished.
Just like the Decepticon-cause.
The pitiful battle on Cybertron had been the most embarrassing defeat to date.
Four millions years of war, or had it been six million?
Either way, the last battle had been their most important battle.
The one that would end the Cybertronian Civil War.
It was supposed to be the battle of battles, the grand finale to their glimmering finish!
What a joke!
Starscream scratched a nick into his freshly-waxed chassis with a careless claw. He could only stare, his work again...undone.
No.
It was the start of the same old struggle.
The same old cycle.
And Starscream wasn't foolish enough to fall in line.
Not again.
That's what he told himself.
Each time.
But now it was different ; now he had allies on Earth he could count on.
It was about time New Vos decided to support his efforts.
Too bad they had sent bots only from Vox the moon.
Fraggin' sparkeaters!
Bots he didn't want anywhere near the war!
Starscream tossed away his empty wax container with a careless clatter. But it was funny, the irony was palpable - after so long of pining after the concept, he finally did have an army - that he didn't want on Earth! New Vos sent him his children from Vox - bots he couldn't just throw away, to fight a pitifully fake Civil War...
Cybertron was dead.
And it wasn't coming back.
There was nothing left to fight over.
Primus was dead.
Why couldn't anyone see that!?
Starscream clasped his servos against his face, dragging them not-so-gently down to his chin, leaving two huge, cloudy smears across his face.
He would have to restart his waxing session again.
No.
Starscream didn't have allies - just more burdens.